My Kingdom for a Tavern
Or
A Silly Tale That Almost Certainly Didn’t Happen Because There’s No Way I Accurately Guessed All the Lore & World Building I’ve Referenced
By Hydromancer
~-~
Chapter 1: Inn Media Res
~Dramatis Personae~
(In Order of Appearance)
Bramalamb “Bram” Son-Enkor Clan-Durahl (Dwarf)
Played by Benoit Blanc
Bartholomule the Daystrider
Played by Alan Tyduk
A Shadow upon the Precipice (Tulnar)
Played By Summer Glau
Bellicose Fade of Chevalion (Elf)
Played By Daniel Ratcliffe on Stilts
Overly Tallish Patron 1 (Human after a fashion)
Played By Emma Stone wearing a fake beard
Overly Tallish Patron 2 (Human after a fashion)
Played By Jess Bush
~-~
“Bartholomule, get yor ass
ovah ‘ere!'' The frost mantled dwarf roared through the dark.
A brindled daystrider carefully picked each step with its long slender legs, retorting with a musical series of high pitched squeaks and squawks. The softly falling snow slid off to either side of its narrow form, save for the bundled packs belted to its back, to pile further around the creature. There was no path to be seen, if indeed there even was one. Only the trench formed in its master wake broke up the surrounding landscape, and even that much merely marked the immediate path to follow. The daystrider was in no hurry.
When the impatient traveler’s command failed to increase the beast of burden’s speed, he turned to trot back, with a particularly colorful curse not heard on Verra’s surface since time immemorial. A staff carved from a singular vein of peppered granite towered over his form as he hunched against the face of the frigid, yet merciful gentle, northern wind. Atop the staff a jade mere spread out, a fan shaped blade of sorts, and he tilted the staff so that the mere might shield the falling snow from his face. A shock of dirty blonde hair, a lional mane truly, burst from a thick cloak’s hood that struggled to contain it all, and with a heavily gloved and insulated hand he brushed the offending hair from his vision. The strength of his icy blue stare, cold still than the air as it was, failed to inspire Bartholomule much as his call had. So with a huff, he powered his way back through the snowfall, less with physical prowess and more through sheer force of will. The dwarf grabbed the daystrider, carefully yet firmly, by its rope-like trunk so that his large squarish eyes could peer directly into the creature’s beady little orbs.
“Move like ya got ah purpose in life,” he growled through frozen and chapped lips. “Ya got eyes in yor ‘ead. Use ‘em!” The dwarf jerked his head back towards the path he’d been forging. “That light ah ‘ead at the edge of the treeline? That’s us! That’s the goal!” Grabbing the daystrider’s bicep (he only needed to reach above his head slightly) he pulled the beast forward along with him. “Now let’s ‘ustle! Ah want ah fire for ma bones and ah fire for ma belly, and if ya want that ant ball that ah promised ya then get us there ‘fore the damn night ends, alright!?” The promise of a delicious treat of crunchy ants pasted together didn’t inspire additional speed for the poor creature, but it clearly caught the gist of the dwarf’s pleading. With a squee, its snout snaked up from where it’d been licking the snow to probe the traveler’s face, as if its master was hiding an ant ball in his mouth. With another huff, truly more a defeated sigh, the dwarf trudged onward.
Eventually the traveler’s hood gave up attempting to contain his voluminous hair, and cold as he was he declined to take up the fight on its behalf. An observer from afar could be forgiven for thinking a giant frost-bitten dandelion had pulled its roots up and was slowly being chased by an anteater capable of walking atop the snow. Which of course was patently ridiculous; the carnivorous dandelions weren’t native to this side of the Tradewind Sea.
Ever so slowly, the various moons rising helped pierce the dark, and through the sporadic cloud cover new sights were gleamed. The vine and snow cloaked remains of what was likely once the stone body of a windmill or watchtower. A ghostly parade of some sort of furred herd animal, pale yellow eyes glittering even at such a distance. A free standing frozen waterfall, whose origins remained shrouded in the low hanging clouds. Finally, as the treeline ahead grew in size and detail, the snow slicked roots of a mountain rose just passed the evergreen canopy. More importantly, just under the growing forest wall, the bright lights of a freehold blazed ever brightly.
The dwarf knew what he’d find; an odd holdout of civilization, where traditional dünzenkellian architecture surprisingly grew into a more py’raian style around the second stories. The last he’d been here, only the construction shed and stables had been properly finished. There was however, only one building he was looking forward to seeing completed. One with a welcoming fire and a well stocked bar, where he could finally be off his feet and freshen his spirits in the top shelf of spirits.
The Bubble & Hearth Tavern.
~---~
The night did not in fact end before the distant lights resolved into a charming snowbound collection of tightly grouped buildings, though the better part of an hour did. The winter blanket laid heavy upon the tall peaked roofs and piling again the windward sidings, softening edges and blending worked wood to natural; had the buildings not been so brightly lit the dwarf doubted he’d found the location even had there been no snow to obfuscate the not yet well-worn path. The central building was the largest and most welcoming, twin chimneys hinting at the comforts to be found within. Tall posts carved from pine trunks were mounted with iron braziers, forming a short colonnade from the edge of the freehold’s claim. They ran right up to the principal building’s broad double doors, mammoth oak portals gilded with copper that caught the light of every flame’s flicker. The doubly illuminated posts (cleverly carved and gilded shapes seemed to dance in the firelight) towered like silent sentinels beckoning the weary traveler’s forward. So tall were they that the heat failed to reach the earthbound snow. It was a picturesque view set against the dark of an old growth forest, stolen straight from a fairy tale. It was warm in a way that had nothing to do with heat. And it’d been too long since one Bramahlamb ‘Bram’ Son-Enkor Clan-Durahl, formerly of Sanctus -now of Verra- had laid eyes on it.
The freehold had been well maintained despite the weather, and the path to the stables was cleared, likely that very day, by its inhabitants. A menagerie of exotic mounts and mules already slept tightly snuggled in small but cozy stalls, and Bram eyed the lot. He sized them up each in turn, evaluating the dangers they might present to his daystrider upon waking. He recognized less than half by sight, and fewer still through word of mouth. Verra seemed to be an ever-churning sea of new bewildering creatures to discover and tame. Unfortunately, there were precious few stalls left available to choose from, and naturally they bordered creatures he knew the least about. He made a snap decision to house Bartholomule next to a blackened fox with twin cinder tipped tails large enough to ride (he strongly suspected he should know the creature’s kind, but his exhausted mind could not recall). The fiendish fox looked no less threatening than the rest, but he figured that should it come to it the fox looked capable of delivering a quick death; in the end that’s all anyone could ask for. Slightly less important in his mental calculus was the idea that the owner probably had good coin to compensate the dwarf if the worst came to pass. To his studious eye, the beast had a style he’d bet many overly tall elfish types would fawn over, dropping clean n’ gleam gold to own one. Hmm. Mayhaps Bram could pick out the owner if they were still awake in the tap room, and start working on a down payment in good dwarven glowein. Voidal hells, he’d settle for one of the odd Tulnari variants he knew Belli kept for customers with more… unusual tastes. Packs unloaded and an ant ball firmly wrapped in the daystrider’s trunk, he patted Bartholomule’s shoulder which elected a very content sounding squawk.
“Try nah to get eaten ya strung out goose,” Bram suggested warmly, “but iffy can’t be ‘elped, get ah good kick or tree in. You might be the weirdest mule ah’ve evah owned, but yor clan Durahl now. Act like it!” With the packs slung over his shoulders, Bram made for the tap room side door closest to the stables.
A Shadow Upon the Precipice he hadn’t noted caught his attention, perched as it was on the tavern roof’s above him. Specifically, a long thin tail of some sort caught casually flopped over the lip of the roof and started swaying about. It was likely an intentional act to draw the dwarf’s eyes, for as they followed the tail up to the rest of the darkened form it tipped a hat towards Bram. The figure had been crouched there long enough to accumulate its own cloak of snow, suggesting an impressive tolerance for the weather, pose, and vertigo. The thin shadowed form of a long spear laid across its lap suggested a night watch. How well it was handling the plunging temperatures despite the thinness of its form suggested a Tulnar. A new hire then, given there weren’t any Tulnar on the payroll last time he’d paid a visit to the freehold, and a quiet one at that.
Without breaking stride, the dwarf offered a curt nod of acknowledgement in return, and when he wasn’t struck down by a spear through the chest, pushed his way into the blazing bosom of the freehold.
There wasn’t enough stone for it to be home, though there was drink. There weren’t enough dwarves for it to be family, though there was comradery. The beds would be too soft, the mugs too small, and the music too… well not to his taste. Tallish folk music. But in the heart of winter on a world both so old as to be unknowable and too new to be tamed, there were precious few taverns Bram favored. The Golden Feather had better regulars, the Brew Dragon better drinks. But. But! If in all the ale houses in all the freeholds in all the world he had to walk into this one… then, well, he could sleep soundly knowing it was the safest tavern around. It was, after all, run by the (secretly) scariest herbalist a dwarf could ever ask for as a friend.
~---~
A startingly tall elf glanced up from the bar where he was entertaining a couple of nighthawks as Bram entered the taproom, and a gentle smile blossomed from ear to ear across a plain face.
“Welcome back, Brambalamb Son-Enkor!” called Bellicose Fade, barkeep and proprietor of the Bubble & Hearth Tavern.
Upon their first meeting, Bram had assumed Bellicose was Vek, given his blue skin. It didn’t help that at the time Bellicose had been wearing a wooden mask, and it’d been an easy mistake to assume the thin branchlers that marked him as a py’rai elf were part of the decor. He’d never gotten a straight answer from the elf about his unusual coloration, and to his knowledge Bellicose was the only blue elf to be found. Even his raven black hair could have been a mark of orcish heritage as much as elven. How he kept himself was as well markedly out of the norm for his people. A thin red stripe of leather was strung across his branchlers, two or three inches from their base, allowing Bellicose to hang his bangs up and out of his face as opposed to the more traditional method of around the sides of the tree-like appendages. His dress too was a hodgepodge of various cultures’ garbs, niküan sashes and empyrean stitched patterns. Even his barkeep apron was a repurposed dwarven smith’s, a parting gift from Bram himself last season. He was eccentric, yes, though in an open, friendly fashion. Nothing in the elf's kindly appearance betrayed that he'd ever been much more than a humble tavern keeper. Bram naturally knew better; he had the scars to prove it.
“Copper for your thoughts, silver for your troubles?” asked the hobbyist gardener who’d moved heaven and Verra, faced and occasionally defaced the region’s most dedicated warriors, for the sole sake of building a tavern of his own where he could serve others. Though Bellicose was no mage, he conjured Bram's favorite drink before the dwarf crossed the room to his favorite, low set corner table.
A few moments later, with his staff, backpack, and saddle packs leaning against the wall, a warm smile of his own finally defrosted Bram’s face as he collapsed into a stout chair with a stouter stein of glowein (thankfully a dwarven based strain). He inhaled the sweet yet pungent aroma of his drink, carefully swirling the stein to activate the bioluminescent fungus at ale’s heart. A green-red glow softly lit his face as the dwarf heartedly drained half the stein in a single go, and he regarded the deceptively lithe elf he once foolishly thought he’d break with ease in his own pursuit of power. “Wit’ ya Belli, ah coppah’s nevah bettah spent.” He raised the stein in salute. “And if ya keep hirin’ new hands to mind the place then as yor friend ah need ordah more ales so’s ya can keep ‘em happy!” he jabbed a stubby finger towards the ceiling. “Ah met ya new shadow up on the eaves on ma way in by the way.”
The elf whistled an amused jingle. “They must like you, if they let you see them. That, or they figured you for no threat to me or mine.” The softest verbal jab accented ‘no threat,’ which in turn earned a derisive snort.
Suddenly recalling some of his manners, the dwarf produced twin coppers and slid them across the tabletop. The coins slid mayhaps faster than was polite, and mayhaps Bram had put more force between them than he would at any other bar; it mannered little. Without looking, long blue fingers swept the coppers and flipped them through the air back to Bram.
“Please, too much by half and the first drink is on me,” the barkeep protested.
Bram snatched them both from the air, and flicked one with his thumb in return. “For ya drink then ma friend.”
“Nay I say, I know the owner,” Bellicose jested as he batted the coin away, “I drink for free.”
Even as the coin rolled into Bram’s waiting hand, he flicked the second copper back. “Were that we all should be so lucky to keep such friends! For ma second drink then.”
Clink! Went the coin as the elf flicked it back with his nail. “I apologize, but you must finish your first drink first before receiving a second. House rules.”
Clink! Went the coin as the dwarf returned the favor. “Ah nevah ‘eard such ah outrageous rule!”
Clink! “You have now.”
Clink! “Fine. Then ah accept yor original offah.”
Clink! “Indeed? Which was?”
Clink! “Coppah for ma thoughts.”
Clink! “Indeed. I should think two in this case.”
Clink! “Two coppah for ah thought? Outrageous!”
Clink! “That’s not… fine, what’s on your mind?”
Thud! An emptied stein crashed down on the copper as it sped back yet again to Bram, and he slid both stein and coin beneath back across the table with a smile. “Ah think Ima have an udd’ah glowein.”
Bellicose’s smile widened as he accepted the empty drink and full tender. “Then
the pact is sealed.” He intoned the words of power as he clapped his hands together once. The ancient rites of hospitality thus invoked, invisible strings of essence passed between them. “Allow me to refill your stein good sir.” He rose and returned to the bar.
With a sharp dwarven nose, Bram inhaled the lingering aroma of his ale appreciatively. “Ah detected ah hint of some’em new in that first glowein, spiciah even.”
Bellicose’s brow arched happily at Bram’s observation from behind the bar where he'd returned to fill a tray of drinks. “I was part of a fresh expedition to the next vale over,” he called out, “the one we were struggling to push into last summer due to the Corruption.” Bram could hear the capital ‘C’ even though the bartender said it as casually as pouring a drink, which he did as he spoke. “Well the Calico Harts, new guild in the area, lovely group and sweethearts all, organized working parties and escorts to clear out the worst of it.” One of the patrons sitting at the bar politely flagged Bellicose. He shrugged an apology to Bram, and turned to help his other customers.
While he waited, Bram studied the two figures at the bar. They were humans after a fashion; at least he didn’t think they were intentionally hiding pointy ears with their floppy hats. His eyes narrowed. They also, male and female both, wore their hair long and wild enough that either or both could still have shivears tucked hidden away. There was precious little other that distinguished humans and elves to his mind. Privately, he’d always suspected they interbred, or tried to anyway. He’d certainly read a few… questionable tales of entertainment involving such sexcapades. Not intentionally of course, oh no, or at least he didn’t pick them before any other options on hand he hadn’t read thrice over. Unfortunately most literature that had made the trip from Sanctus was still educational and/or business related, and to his knowledge no print houses had yet to be re-established in Verra in lieu of more foundational pursuits. More was the pity. For scholarly pursuits, of course.
Bellicose returned to the table, placing a tray of steins and selecting one for himself. He swirled his own glowein, too forcefully for Bram’s cultured tastes, and oblivious to the dwarf's wrinkling nose continued on. “We found a treasure trove of new flora, including some delightful peppers that you detect now amongst the more traditional spices.” He sampled his own concoction, added a dusting of more pepper grains from a shaker he pulled from one of his many apron pockets, and swirled it some more.
Bram's slow drawl slowed even more as the alcohol soaked his taste buds and soothed his soul, "Nevah heard of 'em, but if Chevalion was willin' to work wit’ these
Harts, assumin' of course ya weren't freelancin', well then Ima sure they'rah nah completely useless."
"No no," the elf confirmed,"it was a sanctioned venture. The guild didn't co-organize the trip as we've got... more local concerns of late to attend to," he hinted, "but it wasn't difficult for those of us with a green thumb to convince the higher ups of the benefits of our participation.” Bellicose reclined in his chair, nursing his drink as he reminisced. “All in all we mapped the better part of the vale, collected a cornucopia of resources, and forged a fresh relationship with a very exploratively minded guild. All of which has been, in a word, refreshing.” he sighed lightly and wet his whistle before carrying on. “Chevalion has really been tied down this year as we’ve continued to develop our assets in Whet’s Edge. The town has also had to deal with a few forceful, and might I say rather rude, highwaymen groups that passed through the barony for a time.” He grimaced. “The bandits were quite the annoyance. They didn’t exactly pose a tremendous threat to our operations or the town in general, but harassed enough caravans heading in and out of town that they forced us to divert time and manpower to deal with their ilk. And with our numbers we had a devil of a time running them down, burning out their rat nests.” He sighed more heavily and drained his own drink. “Honestly we only succeeded in encouraging them to leave for greener pastures, and even that much was quite the effort.”
The second stein thumped onto the table, and Bram harrumphed as he traded a third from the tray for the first copper. “Oh Belli, really? Ah dwar-
ah-elf of yor talents? Ima surprised at ya ma friend. Sounds like ya might be startin’ to lose ya edge, if yor strugglin’ to deal wit’ such uncouth types. There was ah time when ya would ‘ave culled such chaff wit’ ya
gardening tool wit’out ah second thought.” Bellicose’s eyes casually met Bram’s, flickered to the pair of patrons at the bar entertaining each other with colorful insults in their own little world, before returning back to the dwarf. As mild a reproach as they came, but for the bartender it was a polite but firm reminder they weren’t alone. The dwarf smiled and shrugged an apology.
“I am but one soul Bramalamb,” Bellicose pointed out. “I can’t be everywhere at once, and my interests these days are focused on my patrons and my garden, as you well know.” His eyes lifted to a guild crest over the bar, a helmed lion wielding a sword like a walking cane and a second resting over its shoulder. “Chevalion has been very generous in supporting my botany studies. I am indebted to them, and happily count myself amongst their numbers. Through steady herbalism and clever application, I’ve provided far more value to the community than I ever could have through… more forceful methods. The Calico Hart expedition for example.”
“Still,” Bram observed over the lip of his drink, “if the ne'ah do wells weren’t much morah than nuisances, Ima surprised it took yor whole guild to run ‘em out of town.”
Bellicose nodded. “Insightful as ever my friend. What they lacked in skill and organization they made up for with dogged persistence.” He dipped a finger into his drink and began tracing something on the table between them. “If rumor is to be believed, they seemed to think they’d been brought together by a particularly notorious and capable individual with a… history in the area.”
As he finished tracing, Bram sat up and leaned further in to make it out. He could not hide the surprise on his face if he’d tried. Not quite a question mark and almost a seven. It was simple as far as symbols go, though the faint glow of the biolumen gave it the impression of a magical sigil. It was the personal sigil of they who’d been only known by the same name, who’d cut a bloody swath through Whet’s Edge in its earliest days and forever altered its path.
Scythe.
“I suppose it gave them someone to rally behind and keep the faith. That is until Chevalion’s efforts became too much for their petty theft to be worth the trouble.” Bellicose’s eyes met Brams once more, and they were the eyes of a troubled man who’d seen too much. A man who was afraid he might see trouble again. He wiped the glowvein from the table with an apron rag.
Despite his friend’s serious, Bram barked a laugh. “Belli Belli Belli. Yor face is longah than Bartholomule’s!” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Ma friend, Scythe is
dead. Ya saw to that well enough. Dashed ‘em against the rocks of Crown Bluff yor self.”
A rueful smile over took Bellicose. Just because the past had finality, didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. “I know Scythe is gone,” he said quietly. “And I know they were no one’s martyr. But they were an idea.” He cocked his head to the side as he regarded the surface of his drink, as if trying to divine answers. “Ideas can be tricky things to ever truly kill. And if they inspire the wrong types, well… I worry who or what could rise from such aspirations. Likely as not, they won’t show Scythe’s… restraint.”
Well, that was a bit of a mood killer.
For a few moments the two friends sat quietly, with only the crackling of the pair of fireplaces that flanked the main hall and the background conversation of the last patrons at the bar filling the silence. Bram tried not to let the same concerns for the future weigh him down as they had his friend. Instead, he allowed the warmth of the ambient air and ale both to sink into his marrow, focusing on enjoying the moment, the company, on just comfortably existing. He idly wondered how long the rooftop sentinel planned to stay out in the cold. Would they still be there, still as a statue save the occasional tail flick, when he went back out to check on Bartholomule in the morning?
The faintest pull of an extra sensory alert, like the softest plucking of a single harp’s string, brought Bram’s thoughts back to his friend. A tether of Obligation tied him to Bellicose through their pact of host and guest; normally this would grant the host a sixth sense about responding to his customer’s needs. Bram’s sensitivity to Essence, however, allowed him some measure of access to Bellicose as well. Right now his friend needed reassurance, or at least a distraction, lest he trip down a spiraling staircase of depression and guilt.
“Ya certainly traded ya swords for plowshares,” Bram offered slowly as his thoughts reoriented on Bellicose, “but Ima sure ya’ve kept ah few knives up ya sleeves. It's still ah dangerous, brave new world out there aftah all.” It was his turn to slew to the pair at the bar and back. Even in their casual evening attire both wore arming swords, as if to conveniently punctuate his point. The way their insults, body language, and faces were heating up, Bram realized that his point might not be the only thing getting punctuated soon.
“I look after me and mine,” Bellicose suggested neutrally, drawing Bram’s attention back to his own conversation.
When Bellicose didn’t elaborate further, a snort escaped the dwarf. “Oh yes, and Ima sure its ah trowel ya wave about all willa nilla to keep the locals and the odd corrupted crittah at bay.” He winked. “C’mon, don’t look so down. Ah new Scythe rises up, and ya’ll cut ‘em down again.
By the Seven, if Ima not around, call ma back and ah’ll help!” He vowed.
Bellicose was quiet for a moment more as he stared into the drifting crimson and verdant hues of his drink, the glow casting a sharp purplish relief of his lower face. “There’s more than one way to defend what you cherish, Bramalamb. A little diplomacy goes a long way.”
“Diplomacy,” Bram parroted flatly.
Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Bellicose tried to organize his thoughts as they spilled out. “We have a certain… set of skills that has helped us excel over the years. Skill with blade and bow was useful on Sanctus, and the Seven know how useful in reclaiming what we have so far of Verra. And yes, it will continue to be useful still,” he conceded Bram’s point of combating another Scythe, “but here’s the thing; as we reclaim more and the more we rebuild, it feels like relying on our combat forms is counterproductive.” He raised a hand to cut off Bram’s protest. “I know. Whet’s Edge was, and still is to a large extent, a place that respects strength above all else. But, there’s more than one way to move a mountain.”
It was an old saying from the early days of Sanctus, when the early refugees had to contend with a frightened and inhospitable landscape. It spoke to the strength of unity, where a thousand stonecutters could achieve what one could not. The implication wasn’t lost on Bram, and he quietly observed his friend who grew increasingly animated.
Placing his drink down and away so that he did not accidentally knock it askew as he began to talk more with his hands, Bellicose continued to unspool his chain of thoughts. “Look at what we’ve built here.” his hands stretched out to take in the room, but clearly indicated more. “Sword arms won us the breathing space, but it was the axes that chipped wood not bone, picks that bit into stone not flesh, that made this a world worth fighting for in the first place. A thousand stonecutters Bram, that’s who built Whet’s Edge. And a thousand, thousand stonecutters will raise it to staggering heights, but only if we support them!”
“Fine, let’s support ‘em so’s they can ‘raise us to staggerin’ ‘eights,” Bram said charitably, “case closed.”
“No,” Bellicose replied sharply, “no… you aren't seeing it. Or rather, I’m not doing it justice.”
“Well, just whut is ‘it’ anyway?”
“Look… the strength of the blade will defend our borders. But, it won’t change anything within them. First of all, short of a surprise upset no one is ending Dart’s mayoral run.” He referred to of course the current anonymous mayor, who hid their identity behind a mask with a frog carved into it. “Fully eight lion masks entered the last electoral combat, and Dart finished off the last 3 single handedly to defend their rule. In melee combat.
With a shortbow.”
Bram grunted but said nothing. He wasn’t supposed to know of course, but one of clan Durahl’s favored daughters had worn a lional mask that election. Her guild still seethed that eight of their best fighting back-to-back hadn’t earned a masked nom de guerre.
“Secondly,” Bellicose continued, “every hand that holds a sword is one that doesn’t hold a hoe or a saw. But it's more than just simple numbers.” His excitement did not lower, but he chose his words more carefully now. “You once mentioned your matriarch taught you that when all you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.” Bram nodded. “Well, I think there’s something similar when you’ve trained your whole life to fight to reclaim your ancestral lands, but it's more… subtle. Sinister almost. We’ve poisoned our minds without realizing it.”
With a flourish, a slim dagger appeared in his hand. “Behold, a weapon.”
“Yes, very impressive,” the dwarf allowed.
“Yes, shut up.” the elf commanded. “I hold in my hand a tool… with which to slice your jugular clean open.” The latter part of the proclamation was delivered with an uncharacteristic chill.
Bram couldn’t stop his eyes from going wide. His staff where it lay against the wall almost imperceptibly shifted a hair’s breadth towards the table. It wasn’t that he thought Bellicose would do it; he simply knew that in this moment, caught unawares as he was and against the dagger’s master, he would die if this came to blows. He slightly sobered at the thought. Very carefully and deliberately, he took a deep swig of his glowein, though he did not drop his eyes from the dagger for a second as he did so.
Dark purple eyes studied Bram. “You feel it, yes? Mayhaps ever so slightly, but it's there nonetheless.” Bellicose’s eyes broke away to make sure the nighthawks hadn’t noticed his bit of legerdemain, and just as quickly the weapon vanished. “Fight or flight, the thrill of the promise of violence.” his voice softened. “This instinct has seen us through so much danger…. But I worry it's become too natural, too quick to pounce. A weapon in hand, or before you? All the much swifter the quicksilver rushes through our veins, steel ready to flow. We can’t think beyond tomorrow’s horizon when all we see is the setting of the sun on a life, ours or theirs. It doesn’t matter who ‘they’ even are. It's us versus them,” he spoke bitterly now. He spoke of experience.
“We lost months, Bramalamb,” Bellicose spoke more plainly, tiredly. ‘The bandits? We lost months dividing our time between plus-ing up our caravan guards, scouting every dell between here and Connor’s Crook for their dens, and maintaining our smithies. Chevalion added nothing during that time to our footprint here; we added nothing to Whet’s Edge.” His eyes drifted to the flames of the nearest fireplace, though it wasn’t fire he perceived. “What if we hadn’t lost that time? What could we have gained, for ourselves and our neighbors? What if…,” he paused, and looked seriously to Bram, “... what if we’d negotiated with the brigands, false Scythe or not? What if we convinced them to settle the hinterlands, or even in the vale over hill with the Calico Harts? How much more could we all be together, How much stronger? How much could we have accomplished in those otherwise lost months? An alliance founded not on convenience, but community?” He turned back to the flames to ponder his own words.
‘Um…” Bram was taken back. “Well that is to say… whut? The wannabe scythian ne'ah do wells? Seriously Belli?” This was wild talk, even for Bellicose. As far as Bram knew, everything the elf had ever won was by violence. Even the tavern.
Especially the tavern.
“Ma friend, look here… ah understand whut yor gettin’ at, ah really do.” He put as much empathy into his voice as he could. “Workin’ togethah, of course we’ll get furthah that way. But we hafta exercise some sense ‘ere. The udd’ah guilds in the Whet, they’d slit yor throat the moment ya opened yor arms to ‘em, let alone some ne’ah do wells from outside the claim.” He tried to think how he could put it simpler than that. “Whose gonna trust ya? When yor at each udd’ahs throats one moment, and proposin’ friendship the next?”
“You did.” Bellicose observed without hesitation, never drawing his attention from the flames.
Well. Shit. That was a good point.
“So, yes,” the elf concluded, “A little diplomacy goes a long way.”
The dwarf remained unimpressed.
“Arrows goes ah long ways furth’ah.”
“You know what I-”
“Voidal Hells,” Bram suddenly announced, rather loudly, as memory and tongue alike were similarly loosened, “Ah once saw ya lob yor torch ovah someone’s ‘ead into the next fella’s face.”
“Bramalamb-”.
“Who were we fightin’? Ah ‘member it being a bloody mess. Ya diplomacy didn’t reach furthah than the length of ya sword arm that day, HA!”
“
Bramala-!”
The table thundered as a meaty squared fist slammed into it. “WAIT! Weren’t ya fightin’ me!?”
“SON-
ENKOR!” Bellicose finally snapped, his eyes wide over a nervous smile as he half stood and awkwardly side stepped between Bram and the two most-likely-humans at the bar that had turned their bodies and attention towards their table. “Oh
hohohohaha,” he continued through a smile full of clenched teeth, “finish your ale and allow me to shepherd my guests to their room.” His eyes sharpened for just a brief moment as he added, “and then I’ll be back to deal with you.”
Bram blinked and Bellicose's face was all apologetic smile, though he doubted he was the intended audience. The elf fully righted himself and hurried to the bar to offer what excuses he may for Bram’s outburst, but the dwarf didn’t hear what was said. Instead, as he stared at nothing in particular, and all he could hear was a ringing in his ears. It was an echo of a memory when last Bellicose had spoken words of a very similar nature to him, albeit from behind a facade. His left temple briefly ached from the blow that had rung against his helm that once upon a bind, muddlingly his wits like so much crystal snuff and dropping him to the ground.
‘Stay down Herald of Durahl,’ the masked figure hunched over the dwarf had hissed, though the voice seemed to his ears to originate impossibly behind him on the blood slicked stones, ‘or I’ll be back to deal with
you.’
He finished his glowein, then Bellicose’s drink for good measure, and neither for the first time nor the last thought to himself that he wished he’d heeded the warning.
~---~
