Chapter 5

Chapter 5 (S1P5)

        Garreth watched the mornings events through a fog. A thick haze obscured everything, he watched a tall dark eyed man walk into his home. He wore dark armor and spoke softly in a cold expressionless baritone. Everything seemed to happen in frozen images, skipping from one moment to the next with unrecorded gaps in between, yet permanently etched upon his soul.

        His mother pleaded and cried. His father stood stoically silent and pointed to the children's room with a horribly impassive face. The tall man walked into the bedroom, glanced once at the small stove in the corner, whatever he saw eliciting a barely perceptible grin. It was so fast Garreth wondered if he had imagined it, another aspect of this horrible living nightmare sliding across his vision. The face returned immediately to featureless stone, cold and emotionless. The dark stranger spoke again and his father started yelling. His mother held Teia tightly as she cried with renewed vigor, finding fresh tears in a well previously run dry. Both his parents seemed to be trying very hard not to look at him. The tall man simply glanced at him and shook his head as if deciding whether a piece of fruit was past its prime. Did he speak? Everything seemed silent, the world devoid of color and the air lacking sound as if ash had filled his senses.

        Garreth then watched his tiny sister calmly detach herself from their mother and gently place her hand in that of the tall man, and walk out the door. His mother's tears stopped momentarily as shock consumed her senses for a span of moments or minutes, Garreth knew not which until she frantically found the keening wail of misery once more whilst she stumbled out the door in search of her daughter.

        He simply stood dumbfounded as he watched it all numbly as if they were someone else's family, someone else's eyes, someone else's world crashing down around him. He was a stone, he felt nothing. His father spoke, but Garreth heard nothing. He only stared at the door, reliving the memory of his sister's departure again and again.

        The day continued, he ate food, he drank water, but the world was choked with ash. His father spoke, and sometimes wept. At other times he yelled and beat him with a wooden ladle, but he felt nothing, heard nothing. At dusk that evening the tall man returned with his mother limply strewn across a shoulder as if she were a feather, her slight form caused no change in his stance or gait. He laid her with astonishing gentleness and care upon her bed, pulling the covers across her dirty scantily clad form. He then did something decidedly odd that stood out strangely in Garreth's mind. He could have sworn that when the stranger laid his mother to rest, he smelled her hair. Her short shift was torn and filthy. Her eyes were open, but there was no life left in them. She stared vacantly at some unseen vision beyond Garreth's sight.

        He heard the distinct baritone tell his father that she had fainted. He heard his fathers mumbled thanks as the man left. Like a tower built of sand with the final support removed, he crumbled. Reality struck hard and without mercy, his walls fell and Garreth crashed hard to his knees upon the floor. He clutched her limp clammy hand and cried, letting the river flow across his form as if it could scour clean the events of the day. How long he continued he didn't know. At some point exhaustion consumed him and sweet oblivion devoured the agony.

        Garreth and Beorg continued existing, but it was most definitely little more than that. They worked and met the needs of their bodies. Sometimes they spoke when the situation demanded it, but their was no room for anything save grief in their world. They suffered silently together in their stoic fashion, twin paragons of misery enduring the pain of living. Carmen remained silent with them. She ate when prompted, using a chamber pot as necessary, but otherwise she simply stared unblinking into the distance.

        No one ever mentioned Jax, or his conspicuous absence on that fateful morning.

        Phineas didn't really care for the atmosphere of lottery day. Too much doom and gloom for a person of his optimistic nature. He firmly believed that every day was like any other, if one put special meaning into this day or that, they allowed themselves to make it a negative day. He preferred that every day be thought of as a blessing, so long as it ended at a fine tavern with a full belly. Then again, if it ended at a dirty tavern that was just as good, as they tended to be much cheaper after all. Unfortunately the ale was often a bit watered down, but such was the price one paid. After all, he went to taverns for their lively atmosphere, not the ale. Well, not only for the ale anyway, it certainly helped improve the atmosphere though.

        It was on this particularly gloomy evening that he found himself with a common dilemma, which tavern to frequent. He could stay in the merchant quarter, where his daily deliveries had only recently concluded. However, remaining in said quarter left him with a great deal of depressing individuals. He was never quite sure if the husbands and fathers of the quarter drank to celebrate not being chosen or to forget the fact that someone was chosen. Regardless, he had a far more important decision to choose this particular evening.

        “Where to drink? Where to drink?” Phineas mumbled aloud as he trundled through the warren of neighborhoods, following his usual meandering policy of “I'll get somewhere eventually.” In time he definitely arrived somewhere and after some careful observations he decided it wasn't the where he wanted to be. The not quite so noble of the nobles were the worst of drinking companions. They thought they were noble, but couldn't afford to live on nobles row. And so here they placed their slightly above average income families, a place he preferred to call the lesser row. The name was popular among commoners, but the minor noble families despised it, creating various names amongst themselves to call this neighborhood and that. While he thought Wilfordshire was a fine name for a town, it was certainly a silly name for a street. It just so happened to be the street he was on at the moment in fact. He examined the small overly gilt sign placed at the front of the street. Rather than normal orderly black stone of most street signs in Valenoch, this one was clearly some fools attempt at displaying his wealth. Phineas decided to place a little of his own touches on the sign and asked the stone for a little help. After a few hours he had managed to improve on the accuracy of the street sign in question. It now had a slightly permanent addendum beneath it elucidating the true location of said street. It now read, first in silvery gold script and then in his own block lettered stone carving, Wilfordshire also known as Wilford's street, to be found in the lesser row.

        Said matter of importance having been aptly accomplished, he decided the hour of drinking was upon him. Or perhaps he had happened upon the hour of drinking. Regardless, he really needed a drink.

        Deliverance appeared slowly, for first he must traverse the dead calm of the great square. It was beautiful in the typical Valerian fashion of Gothic gloom. The massive expanse was ringed on two sides by heavily gilt shops filled with all manner of overpriced noble fodder. Trinkets and such he loved, but for their magnificent machinery, not because they were dipped in gold or platinum. Here there were few trinkets to be investigated, rather this place was filled with hoards of overpriced jewelry. While occasionally pretty or clever in design, for the most part Valerian fashion dictated wearing enough shiny metal to cause bruising on most womens necks. The problem had become so common that jewelry often had pads on the topmost part of the chain, allowing for reduced chance of lacerations due to overt display of wealth.

        This phenomenon had of course resulted in a whole host of insult opportunities at the expense of the nobles and it was this particularly important line of logic that his honed intellect was following at the moment. He considered which animals had arched necks, considering cranes and king fishers as well as a host of other waterfowl. Unfortunately the clearest correlation he could find was most unfortunately in that of the Nargs. Their trademarked hunch to their neck seemed most fitting to the current contemplation. Not only that Narg and noble both started with the same letter. It was as if the gods were speaking to him, now if only he could find the proper combination of said novelty.

        Whilst his mind was heavily occupied with combining n words together in the most amusing fashion possible he found his way into the northern section of Valenoch. The odor of the upcoming fish market denoted his exit from the well to do portion of the city. He wondered how many lower nobles wished they were commoners so they could move to the merchant quarter. The smell alone had been the basis for an obscene amount of jokes he had concocted at the nobles expense. Then again, the nobles claimed that the fish market provided a fine incentive for advancement. Only the lowest of the low lived near enough to smell it and it was often said the great houses purposely owned a multitude of houses in the odorous quarter to be used when a family member caused great shame upon the house. Such failures were quite often, usually a failed assassination attempt or a great loss of money on some economic gamble. As such the greatest business in the area was that of movers. The burly fellows operated quite a profitable business carting in this recently shamed noble with his head in his hands only to turn around and cart out another proud noble beaming happily as somehow they had found their way into their particular houses good graces.

        Phineas had often helped out in the area whenever the game of houses heated up, as increased activity in the game always resulted in a great deal of positional exchanges. He thought the system rather silly, as rather than investing their wealth in making more wealth they generally preferred investing it in any number of schemes to vi for position in their own house. The particularly dangerous schemes however, were when one house attempted to exchange positions with another house. They were often bloody and extremely messy. Fortunately there were strict consequences for any noble involving a commoner, both for the noble and the commoner. As such the commoners were always involved, but in extremely discrete ways that never allowed for direct involvement. It was simply easier to find a noble than to pay a commoner enough that they would attempt anything.

        He did like that aspect of Valerian law anyway, it kept him free of the game, yet still able to profit from it in any number of ways. In fact, the great game kept a good portion of the city employed, forging documents, treating injuries, digging graves, moving furniture between the lesser row and the odorous quarter. All in all he figured the great game wasn't so bad after all. In fact, he decided that would be the subject of his nightly rant! Yes, he would find a place to drink and discuss how glorious the great game was tonight. That aught to get a reaction, either laughter or a brawl, preferably both.

        This of course caused him to recall the original problem of the night, where to drink. He had arrived at the fish market and saw before him a glorious sight. Here the sailors drank, due to the immediate proximity of their vessels as well as the less expensive of the bordellos being conveniently located near the docks. As a result of their nightly binges, the fish market was equally composed of fish mongers, pubs, and brothels. Naturally it was one of his favorite locations in the city. Despite being all composed of the usual Valerian stone, each building was beautifully painted to denote its purpose. The fish mongers loved painting all kinds of fantastical scenes on their shops that they claimed kept the demons of the deep that lived in the dark river at bay. He wondered if they truly existed as he trundled up to one of his favorite depictions. This one showed a glorious depiction of the southern isles, palm trees blowing in the wind as they provided shade for three topless mermaids singing their siren's song. It was truly a beautiful sight and he decided that if he ever got over his deep dislike for boats he would have to travel south to see them someday.

        Supposedly the mermaids used their beauty to lure sailors into the water, only to subsequently devour them with razor sharp teeth. He didn't hold that against them, if the mural was any indication of their endowments, he decided a fellow could find far worse ways to die than staring at a topless mermaid up close. He chuckled at the thought and added it to his mental list of things that required further consideration. He smiled as he looked at the odd mishmash of canvas arcing over the stone structure. Erected for protection from the winter rains it looked more like the huts of shanty town outside the walls. Regardless he supposed no one really bothered looking at the canvas protection above the mural when the mural itself was so unbelievably appetizing and far kinder to the eye.

        Phineas then allowed his mind to follow the new tangent, as usual a slave to the whim of his mind as it found some new mental delight to sample and consider. The tarps themselves only worked for light rains, often resulting in a great deal of necessary restoration work on the many murals of the fish market. He decided this wasn't such a bad thing though, as it employed a whole host of would be artists and served as the artistic proving ground for the city. Those skilled enough were often snatched up by the noble houses to paint the insides of their ever expanding domiciles. This of course was also quite necessary as the nobles tendency to attempt “burnouts” was frighteningly common. He pondered the subject of sealing all doors to a house and starting fires in the basement for all of three seconds. It was far too gruesome a subject to be considered on such a gloomy day.

        Regardless, it did produce a burgeoning artist community. The pay for artists wasn't so good, as fish mongers couldn't really afford quality. As such the trade was more often in kind, the fish sellers would offer fresh fish in exchange for artwork or touch ups as needed. As most artists held day jobs it was quite a nice arrangement for all parties involved. And of course all the artists harbored a secret hope that some noble would see their work and offer to be their patron. In a way, this was yet another form of lottery, a sliver a hope to escape the smell of the fish market. Then again, he had grown up in close proximity to a fish monger and as such had long since developed an immunity to said odor. Then again, he despised the sulfurous odor of the Narg quarter and assumed that to the unacclimatized nose the fish market must be quite similar in abhorrence.

        By now Phineas had passed a good number of brothels covered in various exaggerations of the human form. While he could appreciate the occasionally fantastic craftsmanship, the human body just didn't quite do it for him. They were always too tall. He wondered if someone would ever decide to paint something more of a Dwarven or Gnomish stature. He quickly dismissed the idea, humans just couldn't seem to understand the beauty of a beard on a woman. In fact, they often mistook them for men, which generally resulted in said humans massive headache as Dwarven women were well renowned for their bar fighting skills.

        Speaking of bars, one of his favorites was rapidly approaching and its mural was magnificent. The fourteenth tankard was a legendary establishment owned and operated by a wonderful dwarf by the name of Ichabod Stoutstone, said to be an honorary name due to his inherent ability to drink an entire keg without vomiting. As such his stomach was often referred to as “stout as stone”. This had also resulted in an ale of the same name which contained mythical proportions of alcohol within it. Thus, any who claimed to be able to “drink anything” were presented with said vile brew. Oddly enough it had become a favorite of sailors who generally brewed their own version of ale at sea. Since grog was a byproduct of seaweed and unbelievably foul and alcoholic, they loved stoutstone ale and constantly tried to replicate it themselves.

        Naturally none could compare with the dwarf's fabled brewing abilities, then again he had had several centuries of practice while the short lived humans generally only had a few decades at best. Ichabod was always good natured about it, never offering advice but always willing to test any ale presented to him. As such it was always a fine place to start or finish an evening. He considered the mural before him and sighed at its glory.

        Labeled simply as “the pub crawl”, it showed the legendary exodus of the stone callers on the first day of the Dwarven new year. Nearest to Phineas it began with a host of dwarfs entering the Dwarven pub nearest to the Stonecaller clan hall. It showed several more scenes in which the crowd got smaller and smaller as those too drunk to carry on found the nearest gutter to sleep in or attempted to crawl home. Finally the glorious masterpiece ended with a few brave souls staggering up to the door of “The Fourteenth Tankard”. The brave fellows were of course dwarfs of legend. One of the three was Darius Stonecaller himself, the founder of the clan. The second was Ichabod Stonecaller, namesake of the pubs proprietor and supposedly his great great great great great great grand uncle thrice removed. He also supposedly was the first to brew beer in Valenoch, a fine accolade to place by any individuals name if ever there was one. The third was Dante Stonecaller, the first admiral of the Stonecaller armada and supposedly the founder of piracy in the eastern sea. All in all they cut a fine image, stumbling upon the door of the tavern both in the mural and in reality, for the mural ended in the actual door of the tavern.

        He preferred the dwarfs method of glorifying heroes far more than the humans, using humor and reality to display the glory of the past rather than depicting stern marble deities they chose to show their heroes as glorious drinking companions. Naturally he held the later in far higher regard than some gold embossed nameplate beneath a flawless marble statue. He preferred to remember people as they lived, rather than to think of them as some flawless ideal.

        Speaking of flawless ideals, there she was, finest gnomish lass in the land. Bessy's beard was the longest of any he had ever seen, wispy and shot with a fiery red that matched her disposition she was the sassiest bar maid he had ever met. Someday he would find the courage to do more than ask for another pint, someday. Regardless he had important matters to attend to. He turned his cart down a small alley and instructed his faithful donkey to watch the cart, not that anyone could actually make Matilda move short of bodily lifting her with a crane. If nothing else, she was loyal to a fault. He supposed it came from being stuck with him for the last century or so. He couldn't imagine replacing her with anyone, he imagined she would be his companion to the end, knowing her penchant for mischief she would probably outlive him just to spite him.

        Regardless, his mighty steed was now safely in place near someones drying laundry. He knew she wouldn't leave so long as she had something to chew on nearby. With said task accomplished he found his way into the pub and observed the surroundings. Inside it was a somber night, as to be expected with it being lottery day. Naturally he decided to stir things up and live up to his nickname as, “the instigator”. He began by deciding who was the drunkest and then promptly informing them that someone nearby had called them a low born, fish munching, no good, son of a Narg. The intoxicated individual naturally promptly stumbled over to the entirely innocent and hopelessly drunk individual and asked him why he had been thusly called. As to be expected a fantastic discussion between their respective drunken fists ensued followed by a general livening of spirits. Ichabod came out of the kitchen to see what the ruckus was about and noting Phineas's arrival simply laughed, stating that “You always know how to cheer a fellow up you old sod, one on the house for the finest hauler in hell.”

        This was of course followed by a cheer as two burly dwarfs bodily lifted the two brawlers up and threw them in the street, after relieving them of the cumbersome weight of their coin purses naturally. After the brawl the mood lightened visibly and Phineas lost himself in a fine evening of drinking, debauchery, and of course, lively discussions.

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