It is Sunday night the guild meeting is over. Daenyra keeps Dragon Stone ticking along. There are a lot of new faces in the guild. I can’t say I know them all by sight anymore. A victim of success. There are worse problems in the world. I nod to Chalen and Siobhan on my way out the door. I overhear Siobhan say the word “Cheese” just as the door shut. Yeah right. Cheese. Cheese and roast pigs my arse. I get on my high horse and cross the breadth of Dragon Stone towards home in a fugue.
I arrive home. The forge is silent, thank god. The loom is dead. There seems to be no one about. Although, for a second I think I see a twitching tail and the distinct grin of a fading cat. No one is about. Three pieces of mail are on the long table, and catch my eye. The first is a warrantee on the soul forge that Hammer bought. I crumple it up and throw it in the fire place. The second is a note from Herald, it says: “Gone Hunting”. Hmmm hunting what I muse. I crumple it up and throw it in the fire place as well. The third is a note on a blank page torn from a book.
I crumple it up and am about to throw it in the fire place. Trinsic ale house? Hmm a pitcher of cider sounds good. Who the hell is Jacob? Fate? Fate can kiss my arse. Knowing my fate seems counter intuitive to one who believes in free will as I do. Still… I flatten out the note and fold it. Putting it in a pouch on my belt. I consult the book on the crystal portal and with the utterance of the incantation I am wafted suddenly to Trinsic mint. What I did before the crystal portal I can’t remember, and don’t want to. Nor probably does my horse.
It’s a short walk to the ale house from the mint. But more than long enough for me to conjure a number of horrible endings. Not least of which is the image of a golden GrimmOmen turning me into a flaming match stick. Or maybe drowning at sea. Yes something heroic. Wait what if its death by poison? Or pecked to death by ducks? By turns I am devastated and humiliated in my thoughts. I pull the door open Viva Le Guerre, what the hell I think.
Trinsic ale house is not your basic den of inequity. Whatever Trinsic ale house may lack for character, in its rather banal landscape of tables and benches, it more than makes up for in the characters that inhabit it regularly. Trinsic defenders such as the rangers hang out there. I hang out there. Not that I’m a defender of anything larger than a pitcher, and only then if it’s more than half full. Scared veterans, addled children, possessed doppelgangers, fey and foul mouthed individuals, mix like a sangria. A deep blood red sangria to be sure.
I grab a pitcher of cider and a wheel of cheese from the bartender. Ha I think, no cheese for Roberto huh. Try and stop me. I plunk myself down with no ado. Sioned is on the same bench a fat person away. Chanticleer is opposite chatting her up about some scheme where she’s going to be bait. John is a fisherman of trouble. He usually pulls the fish he wants out, the bait though… I cut a wedge of cheese off with my knife. Meh I think, Sioned can take care of herself. Then again, she can probably take care of John. Should I worry about Chanticleer? Nope I don’t have a dog in that fight. I shrug and start in on the wedge, a scintillating cheddar with crystalized sugars near the rind.
I’m into my third wedge and I’m about out of cider. I hear John say to Sioned “I wish you dressed more like my mother”. I lose that quaff of cider in a spray. That one statement says more about John than I really want to know. I look over at Sioned. I look a second time. “John that’s just creepy”. The way John looks over I know that he had not thought his comment would be taken that way. I am not sure if Chanticleer is going to draw his sword or laugh.
At this moment in time blunt trauma is applied to my backside. Dagda’s foot. And a different trauma is applied to my ears. “Hello Roberto” Dagda’s voice. I turn to look at the evil imp. As I’m about to open my mouth a long shadow falls over me. The source of the shadow is a rail thin madman whose idea of a bath apparently is rubbing anchovy oil behind his ear. He’s tall but his tall straw hat makes him even taller. His robes are tattered and shredded about the feet. He leans on a rune etched staff. “I know ye” he says to Dagda “Here is your fate”.
Now to be certain I have been drinking. But still he speaks as if what he had to say is directed for her ears only. I do hear a smattering about living secluded in the woods and cannibalizing small children. Dagda is a Drow. Will she be eating Drow children? If not is it really cannibalism? Who is this joker? Ah… Jacob I finally conclude.
He then lurches over to another recipient. His tales are rather pithy and it feels like I’ve heard them somewhere before. He is no Sybil. I grab another pitcher of ale. Jacob goes from recipient to recipient always with the same opening. “I know ye” and then launches in. He makes his way to Thea and whatever he says to her pisses her off. I’m not sure what it is. I have just gotten a second wheel of cheese, this one is Camembert. Where do they get their cheeses from?
Jacob's voice at my back makes me turn around.
“I know ye” says he.
“You do? Have we met?” I ask
“Yes” says he.
“Was I drunk?” I ask.
“Your fate is easy. You will have a beautiful daughter…”
At this point in time Thea cuts in and starts on about her fate. Jacob and Thea quickly escalate their discussion. He hits her on the head with his staff. She swings a sword at him and casts a fire spell on him. They run out of the tavern squabbling and trying to do each other in.
A daughter? I haven’t even been with anyone since M… no stop. Do not say the name. Say the name and evil shall appear. Never say the name of evil.
Dagda’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “You are going to be a daddy Roberto? Hahahahha”
“Oh yeah? You’re going to eat kids in the woods Dagda better hope it’s not mine?”
At this Dadga gasps and her eyes flutter wide in surprise, before she falls on the floor laughing.
If I was in a bad mood before about the cheese, I’m in state now. What was the rest Jacob was going to say? Having a daughter isn’t fate. It’s a fate worse than a fate worse than death. I head for home contemplating why Thea didn’t whack Jacob before he even opened his mouth. I arrive home. Sober in more ways than one.
I arrive home. The forge is silent, thank god. The loom is dead. There seems to be no one about. Although, for a second I think I see a twitching tail and the distinct grin of a fading cat. No one is about. Three pieces of mail are on the long table, and catch my eye. The first is a warrantee on the soul forge that Hammer bought. I crumple it up and throw it in the fire place. The second is a note from Herald, it says: “Gone Hunting”. Hmmm hunting what I muse. I crumple it up and throw it in the fire place as well. The third is a note on a blank page torn from a book.
Know your Fate
Trinsic Ale House Tonight
Jacob
Trinsic Ale House Tonight
Jacob
I crumple it up and am about to throw it in the fire place. Trinsic ale house? Hmm a pitcher of cider sounds good. Who the hell is Jacob? Fate? Fate can kiss my arse. Knowing my fate seems counter intuitive to one who believes in free will as I do. Still… I flatten out the note and fold it. Putting it in a pouch on my belt. I consult the book on the crystal portal and with the utterance of the incantation I am wafted suddenly to Trinsic mint. What I did before the crystal portal I can’t remember, and don’t want to. Nor probably does my horse.
It’s a short walk to the ale house from the mint. But more than long enough for me to conjure a number of horrible endings. Not least of which is the image of a golden GrimmOmen turning me into a flaming match stick. Or maybe drowning at sea. Yes something heroic. Wait what if its death by poison? Or pecked to death by ducks? By turns I am devastated and humiliated in my thoughts. I pull the door open Viva Le Guerre, what the hell I think.
Trinsic ale house is not your basic den of inequity. Whatever Trinsic ale house may lack for character, in its rather banal landscape of tables and benches, it more than makes up for in the characters that inhabit it regularly. Trinsic defenders such as the rangers hang out there. I hang out there. Not that I’m a defender of anything larger than a pitcher, and only then if it’s more than half full. Scared veterans, addled children, possessed doppelgangers, fey and foul mouthed individuals, mix like a sangria. A deep blood red sangria to be sure.
I grab a pitcher of cider and a wheel of cheese from the bartender. Ha I think, no cheese for Roberto huh. Try and stop me. I plunk myself down with no ado. Sioned is on the same bench a fat person away. Chanticleer is opposite chatting her up about some scheme where she’s going to be bait. John is a fisherman of trouble. He usually pulls the fish he wants out, the bait though… I cut a wedge of cheese off with my knife. Meh I think, Sioned can take care of herself. Then again, she can probably take care of John. Should I worry about Chanticleer? Nope I don’t have a dog in that fight. I shrug and start in on the wedge, a scintillating cheddar with crystalized sugars near the rind.
I’m into my third wedge and I’m about out of cider. I hear John say to Sioned “I wish you dressed more like my mother”. I lose that quaff of cider in a spray. That one statement says more about John than I really want to know. I look over at Sioned. I look a second time. “John that’s just creepy”. The way John looks over I know that he had not thought his comment would be taken that way. I am not sure if Chanticleer is going to draw his sword or laugh.
At this moment in time blunt trauma is applied to my backside. Dagda’s foot. And a different trauma is applied to my ears. “Hello Roberto” Dagda’s voice. I turn to look at the evil imp. As I’m about to open my mouth a long shadow falls over me. The source of the shadow is a rail thin madman whose idea of a bath apparently is rubbing anchovy oil behind his ear. He’s tall but his tall straw hat makes him even taller. His robes are tattered and shredded about the feet. He leans on a rune etched staff. “I know ye” he says to Dagda “Here is your fate”.
Now to be certain I have been drinking. But still he speaks as if what he had to say is directed for her ears only. I do hear a smattering about living secluded in the woods and cannibalizing small children. Dagda is a Drow. Will she be eating Drow children? If not is it really cannibalism? Who is this joker? Ah… Jacob I finally conclude.
He then lurches over to another recipient. His tales are rather pithy and it feels like I’ve heard them somewhere before. He is no Sybil. I grab another pitcher of ale. Jacob goes from recipient to recipient always with the same opening. “I know ye” and then launches in. He makes his way to Thea and whatever he says to her pisses her off. I’m not sure what it is. I have just gotten a second wheel of cheese, this one is Camembert. Where do they get their cheeses from?
Jacob's voice at my back makes me turn around.
“I know ye” says he.
“You do? Have we met?” I ask
“Yes” says he.
“Was I drunk?” I ask.
“Your fate is easy. You will have a beautiful daughter…”
At this point in time Thea cuts in and starts on about her fate. Jacob and Thea quickly escalate their discussion. He hits her on the head with his staff. She swings a sword at him and casts a fire spell on him. They run out of the tavern squabbling and trying to do each other in.
A daughter? I haven’t even been with anyone since M… no stop. Do not say the name. Say the name and evil shall appear. Never say the name of evil.
Dagda’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “You are going to be a daddy Roberto? Hahahahha”
“Oh yeah? You’re going to eat kids in the woods Dagda better hope it’s not mine?”
At this Dadga gasps and her eyes flutter wide in surprise, before she falls on the floor laughing.
If I was in a bad mood before about the cheese, I’m in state now. What was the rest Jacob was going to say? Having a daughter isn’t fate. It’s a fate worse than a fate worse than death. I head for home contemplating why Thea didn’t whack Jacob before he even opened his mouth. I arrive home. Sober in more ways than one.