MetalJon
Sword and Sauce-ery
This story is a bit older than the `Water of Life' excerpt that I posted a few weeks ago. It hasn't got a title yet, and represents my first attempt at `proper story writing'!
Anyway, here is a chunk of Chapter 1:
Theoric entered the tavern, wiping rain from his face and wringing it from his hair and clothes. Those already warm and dry inside were afforded a brief glimpse of the angry black and grey skies outside, pouring down their misery on the sodden earth. The brief opening of the door let in a vicious chill wind, signalling that summer had definitely ended for this year.
Quickly glancing around the dimly lit tavern, Theoric nodded at a few familiar faces turned his way. He stealthily made his way across the crowded room to his favourite shady corner. The tavern’s patrons briefly eyed the slim-built, sandy haired young man as he walked, still dripping, to the dark corner. After a suspicious lull in conversation, the hubbub soon rose again to fill the room with talk of war, crops, taxes, politics and other matters on the minds of the ale-filled patrons.
Removing the wet outer garments and placing them on the bench next to him, Theoric sat back into the shadows and relaxed. He rested his back against the solid wooden beams and regarded the clientele unobtrusively. Through the dim candlelight and thick pipe smoke, he could make out the faces of a few that knew him by other names, as well as a select few who knew his real identity.
He made fleeting eye contact with a few of those familiar faces, without speaking or gesturing – those that knew him, also knew that when ever Theoric sat in the shadows it was best to leave him be.. From his regular shady corner he could almost sink into the fabric of the building and observe all that went on around him without others paying much heed to him. A serving girl moved over to the table quietly and deftly with a flagon of ale for him. With a mere nod, he handed over a few small coins and she left him to his own devices.
He focussed in on a conversation between two red-faced men on a table near him. They were both fairly drunk and as a result were talking quite loudly:
“It is true I tell you Wendic! What we need in this land is a good shake-up, something to get the blood flowing again!”
“But we are all content here! Why stir things up now? There have been no sons lost to wars in this land for generations! My little fishing enterprise will see me happy into my dotage, gods willing, and that is the way I wish to keep it”
“Pah – the contentment of the already dead! Tsanigor can be great again like in the old stories, if only it wasn’t run by people like you – idle and complacent!”
Wendic scoffed “Ha – too much ale makes you hot-headed and in search of an argument! I’ll not rise to your bait Aesun, I know you only too well!”
Aesun waved his leather flagon at his drinking partner vaguely, sloshing some of the ale onto the table “Whether you agree with me or not, the mood of the land is changing. I have heard stories from my distant cousins up in the north, of unrest and a desire for greatness for Tsanigor”
“Clearly the sun has fried their brains for too long in the north!”
The two men continued to talk loudly and boisterously, barely managing to avoid a full-blown argument. Theoric had also heard these rumours, concerning certain city-states in the north and the discontent there. There was something about the growing frequency with which he picked up such stories that left him with an anxious feeling at the bottom of his stomach. However, that was not the reason he was here tonight, he was after something much more specific than rumours or gossip. All Theoric needed to do was be patient, like the spider waiting for the fly to enter his sticky trap…
He did not have to wait too long. A man in a large hooded grey cloak suddenly entered the tavern, bringing in the cold and damp once again. Underneath his soaked hood, a pair of furtive eyes glanced around at the patrons, before the man scuttled quickly over to a bench in the far corner of the tavern, already occupied by three men talking in low voices. Theoric leaned forward slightly and focussed in on the group, mentally blocking out the general hubbub. The man in the grey cloak leant forward and spoke softly to the man next to him, a tall figure with a shock of black hair, clearly from the northern part of Tsanigor.
A rather badly acted scene followed – the black-haired man pretended to look at something fascinating on the ceiling while the grey-cloaked figure slipped a hand into the deep folds of his cloak and produced something small, round and with a golden glint to it. He then quickly stuffed it into the second man’s hands. The black-haired man then proceeded to pass the grey-robed figure a great deal of coins under the table while all the time having a perfectly innocent conversation about the dreadful weather outside.
Quietly, Theoric got up from his bench in the corner and walked slowly, almost nonchalantly over to the table where the group of men were sitting. Their conversation stopped as he approached, and the general noise inside the tavern lowered to a tense murmur. He stopped at the table, placing one hand flat on the table itself while the other drew back his suede waistcoat to reveal a short sword in its scabbard. He leant over and looked meaningfully into the eyes of the tall, dark haired man, and spoke with a measured tone;
“Sir, you have something that doesn’t belong to you. I suggest you hand it over immediately or suffer the consequences.”
Anyway, here is a chunk of Chapter 1:
Theoric entered the tavern, wiping rain from his face and wringing it from his hair and clothes. Those already warm and dry inside were afforded a brief glimpse of the angry black and grey skies outside, pouring down their misery on the sodden earth. The brief opening of the door let in a vicious chill wind, signalling that summer had definitely ended for this year.
Quickly glancing around the dimly lit tavern, Theoric nodded at a few familiar faces turned his way. He stealthily made his way across the crowded room to his favourite shady corner. The tavern’s patrons briefly eyed the slim-built, sandy haired young man as he walked, still dripping, to the dark corner. After a suspicious lull in conversation, the hubbub soon rose again to fill the room with talk of war, crops, taxes, politics and other matters on the minds of the ale-filled patrons.
Removing the wet outer garments and placing them on the bench next to him, Theoric sat back into the shadows and relaxed. He rested his back against the solid wooden beams and regarded the clientele unobtrusively. Through the dim candlelight and thick pipe smoke, he could make out the faces of a few that knew him by other names, as well as a select few who knew his real identity.
He made fleeting eye contact with a few of those familiar faces, without speaking or gesturing – those that knew him, also knew that when ever Theoric sat in the shadows it was best to leave him be.. From his regular shady corner he could almost sink into the fabric of the building and observe all that went on around him without others paying much heed to him. A serving girl moved over to the table quietly and deftly with a flagon of ale for him. With a mere nod, he handed over a few small coins and she left him to his own devices.
He focussed in on a conversation between two red-faced men on a table near him. They were both fairly drunk and as a result were talking quite loudly:
“It is true I tell you Wendic! What we need in this land is a good shake-up, something to get the blood flowing again!”
“But we are all content here! Why stir things up now? There have been no sons lost to wars in this land for generations! My little fishing enterprise will see me happy into my dotage, gods willing, and that is the way I wish to keep it”
“Pah – the contentment of the already dead! Tsanigor can be great again like in the old stories, if only it wasn’t run by people like you – idle and complacent!”
Wendic scoffed “Ha – too much ale makes you hot-headed and in search of an argument! I’ll not rise to your bait Aesun, I know you only too well!”
Aesun waved his leather flagon at his drinking partner vaguely, sloshing some of the ale onto the table “Whether you agree with me or not, the mood of the land is changing. I have heard stories from my distant cousins up in the north, of unrest and a desire for greatness for Tsanigor”
“Clearly the sun has fried their brains for too long in the north!”
The two men continued to talk loudly and boisterously, barely managing to avoid a full-blown argument. Theoric had also heard these rumours, concerning certain city-states in the north and the discontent there. There was something about the growing frequency with which he picked up such stories that left him with an anxious feeling at the bottom of his stomach. However, that was not the reason he was here tonight, he was after something much more specific than rumours or gossip. All Theoric needed to do was be patient, like the spider waiting for the fly to enter his sticky trap…
He did not have to wait too long. A man in a large hooded grey cloak suddenly entered the tavern, bringing in the cold and damp once again. Underneath his soaked hood, a pair of furtive eyes glanced around at the patrons, before the man scuttled quickly over to a bench in the far corner of the tavern, already occupied by three men talking in low voices. Theoric leaned forward slightly and focussed in on the group, mentally blocking out the general hubbub. The man in the grey cloak leant forward and spoke softly to the man next to him, a tall figure with a shock of black hair, clearly from the northern part of Tsanigor.
A rather badly acted scene followed – the black-haired man pretended to look at something fascinating on the ceiling while the grey-cloaked figure slipped a hand into the deep folds of his cloak and produced something small, round and with a golden glint to it. He then quickly stuffed it into the second man’s hands. The black-haired man then proceeded to pass the grey-robed figure a great deal of coins under the table while all the time having a perfectly innocent conversation about the dreadful weather outside.
Quietly, Theoric got up from his bench in the corner and walked slowly, almost nonchalantly over to the table where the group of men were sitting. Their conversation stopped as he approached, and the general noise inside the tavern lowered to a tense murmur. He stopped at the table, placing one hand flat on the table itself while the other drew back his suede waistcoat to reveal a short sword in its scabbard. He leant over and looked meaningfully into the eyes of the tall, dark haired man, and spoke with a measured tone;
“Sir, you have something that doesn’t belong to you. I suggest you hand it over immediately or suffer the consequences.”
