Luiglin
Getting worse one day at a time
I'm attempting to evoke a certain take on this similar to Raymond Chandler and his lessers but in a fantasy setting.
I doubt if I've got anywhere near it. Yet, the an old fashioned detective novel, despite fanatsy, seems to settle nicelyt into first person.
As normal, good, bad, ugly etc
Cheers
-----------------------------------
I spied the sign outside the Barrel. It was too late for food and too early for rotgut. Whilst not believing in coincidence, I couldn’t help but give a hearty thanks to lady luck anyway.
The Barrel was the same as the rest of the drinking dens found in the Dregs. It was like a well-worn sock that hadn’t been washed for months; sticky, smelly and yet comfortable — not that I’d ever admit that to anyone.
I’d liked to say it was a safe place due to the seasoned killers and bare knuckle scrappers that drank there. That it was feared throughout the Dregs as the place to avoid unless your scarred face fit. In reality The Barrel was safe due to the fact that the criminal fraternity couldn’t be bothered with the dump. After all, they were business people. If there was no money to be made, why bother? And there certainly wasn’t any money rattling around in The Barrel.
Thinking about it, the only time you’d leave feet first was if you ate any of the pies.
It was my local and I felt right at home.
Shoving open the door and the usual suspects peered blearily up from their pints. Here and there I got a nodded greeting. You could never be sure if it was them or the drink doing the nodding. I suppose it didn’t matter. There was that ambiance again, like the scummy froth left in the bottom of a downed pint, brown and distasteful. You couldn’t bottle that.
Yanking on the leash, I headed to the bar.
Drummond, the laconic owner, stood glaring from behind the crates and barrels that made up the bar. The fat of his cheeks hung down into jolly jowls that would have been perfect for a career as a clown. The problem was that he had no funny bone — not that had stopped any proper clowns I’d ever seen that is.
He had one good trait though, in that practiced equal rights. Drummond was equally vile to anyone and everyone. It made not a jot to the man whatever race, colour, creed, sex or age you were. I found his outlook on life quite refreshing. Whenever I felt down, Drummond, through no conscious design on his part, often cheered me up.
The man wiped viciously at a glass with a cloth marked with the ale stains of his descendents, more for something to do than for any attempt at cleaning.
“I’ll take that free pint,” I said.
“I ain’t giving you a free pint,” he said.
“That’s not what your board says outside.”
“Board?” He rubbed his chin, seeming to seek inspiration from the three day stubble.
“Outside,” I prompted.
When realisation hit it was like the sun rising, all be it on a foggy day. “Idiot, you need to buy a Laxian to get a free pint.”
I grinned, saying, “It doesn’t say that on your board. Hold onto this for me.” I tossed him the leather leash.
“Hey,” shouted Drummond as I stalked away. “He ain’t dangerous is he?”
I caught my captive’s sullen glare on passing to the door. “Nah, just a bloody nightmare to catch.”
Outside, the board came off in my hands with ease, the nails holding it up about as useful as liquorice sticks. Slinging it under my arm, I returned to Drummond, who now wore a face like a troll’s mother-in-law.
“Oi, you can’t do that.”
Of all the comments he could make that was the worst. I could and had done it, dumping the board down on the bar to prove it. “Give it a good read.”
“I know what my own board says,” Drummond grumbled.
“Read it,” I gently suggested, with a condescending helpful tap on the board in the right spot.
He glanced down, face looking like he’d chewed not only a lemon but the whole tree, and read in resignation, “Free pint with every Laxian.”
My grin returned and I gave a clap. “There you go, here’s my Laxian,” said I, pulling the leash out of his grimy mitts and giving it an encouraging tug. My purple skinned captive stumbled nearer. “Now where’s my pint?” I asked again.
“But that’s not what it means. You have to buy a bowl of Laxian jhunari,” appealed Drummond.
“Ah, well that’s all down to interpretation is it not? You know us dwarves are a logical, straight talking lot with a penchant for sudden violence when annoyed,” I commented. “It says free pint with a Laxian and I have just caught me a Laxian. So, do I need to ask again?”
Defeated, he growled an expletive under his breath and pulled a murky pint. Drummond slammed it onto the bar so that the frothy head slopped everywhere. “I hate you, Short,” he said with heartfelt sentiment.
“Yeah, you and lots of others,” I replied. “Get in line.”
Drummond let loose a litany of colourful anatomical curses as I turned away to my seat. I was impressed, his vocabulary was expanding.
“What about me?” the Laxian on the end of my leash moaned.
“You can sit on the floor in the crap or stand up. I don’t care which as long as you keep quiet while I enjoy my drink.”
“You’re a right sod, Short.”
“Yea, that’s been said before and by better folk than you. Does this face,” I tapped my nose just in case he was slow on the uptake, “look like it gives a sh*t shark what you or anyone else thinks?”
The Laxian plonked himself down on the floor, all the fight gone. Not saying there was much there in the first place. He’d have had trouble even contemplating stealing a candy from a baby.
The pint went down in lumps and settled hard on my stomach. It’d do for the moment.
“Right,” I declared. “Time to get you home. I’ve got my own to go to.”
A quick stroll later and we ended up outside a door. Like most places in Allswelcome, this homr was the remnant of some old galley. I kicked the door a few times, denting the intricate carved scroll work that all carpenters seemed to find impressive.
“Ah, come on, Short, I can pay you,” whined the Laxian.
He was at the desperate stage.
“No, you can’t,” I said, keeping my eye on the door.
“Can.”
I rounded on him. “Look, Yuilk. This is the third time I’ve had to bring you back to your wife. I know Laxian society. You don’t have any money. You’re not allowed any money.” Talk about stupid.
“I know,” replied Yuilk, voice sinking to new levels of despondence. “Stupid bloody tradition.”
“Tell me about it,” I muttered.
“Well—“
“I was being rhetorical, Yuilk. Now, shut your hole like a good Laxian husband.”
The door opened and I strained my neck looking up the fleshy mountain that was Yuilk’s wife.
“Evenin’, Mrs Drubchak. Here he is,” I said, handing over the leash. A bag dropped from on high which I caught with a pleasing chink. I tapped the brim of my hat. “Ma’am, you’ve got my card if he goes missing again.”
Standing to one side, I allowed Yuilk to be dragged into the home, his face like a wet weekend. I gave a chortle as the door slammed shut. Laxian’s, the men always tried to run when they thought their wives were about to press for conjugal rights. I mean, it’s not as if the wives often ate their husbands after mating these days. Good return business though. The men never ran quite far enough.
I doubt if I've got anywhere near it. Yet, the an old fashioned detective novel, despite fanatsy, seems to settle nicelyt into first person.
As normal, good, bad, ugly etc
Cheers
-----------------------------------
I spied the sign outside the Barrel. It was too late for food and too early for rotgut. Whilst not believing in coincidence, I couldn’t help but give a hearty thanks to lady luck anyway.
The Barrel was the same as the rest of the drinking dens found in the Dregs. It was like a well-worn sock that hadn’t been washed for months; sticky, smelly and yet comfortable — not that I’d ever admit that to anyone.
I’d liked to say it was a safe place due to the seasoned killers and bare knuckle scrappers that drank there. That it was feared throughout the Dregs as the place to avoid unless your scarred face fit. In reality The Barrel was safe due to the fact that the criminal fraternity couldn’t be bothered with the dump. After all, they were business people. If there was no money to be made, why bother? And there certainly wasn’t any money rattling around in The Barrel.
Thinking about it, the only time you’d leave feet first was if you ate any of the pies.
It was my local and I felt right at home.
Shoving open the door and the usual suspects peered blearily up from their pints. Here and there I got a nodded greeting. You could never be sure if it was them or the drink doing the nodding. I suppose it didn’t matter. There was that ambiance again, like the scummy froth left in the bottom of a downed pint, brown and distasteful. You couldn’t bottle that.
Yanking on the leash, I headed to the bar.
Drummond, the laconic owner, stood glaring from behind the crates and barrels that made up the bar. The fat of his cheeks hung down into jolly jowls that would have been perfect for a career as a clown. The problem was that he had no funny bone — not that had stopped any proper clowns I’d ever seen that is.
He had one good trait though, in that practiced equal rights. Drummond was equally vile to anyone and everyone. It made not a jot to the man whatever race, colour, creed, sex or age you were. I found his outlook on life quite refreshing. Whenever I felt down, Drummond, through no conscious design on his part, often cheered me up.
The man wiped viciously at a glass with a cloth marked with the ale stains of his descendents, more for something to do than for any attempt at cleaning.
“I’ll take that free pint,” I said.
“I ain’t giving you a free pint,” he said.
“That’s not what your board says outside.”
“Board?” He rubbed his chin, seeming to seek inspiration from the three day stubble.
“Outside,” I prompted.
When realisation hit it was like the sun rising, all be it on a foggy day. “Idiot, you need to buy a Laxian to get a free pint.”
I grinned, saying, “It doesn’t say that on your board. Hold onto this for me.” I tossed him the leather leash.
“Hey,” shouted Drummond as I stalked away. “He ain’t dangerous is he?”
I caught my captive’s sullen glare on passing to the door. “Nah, just a bloody nightmare to catch.”
Outside, the board came off in my hands with ease, the nails holding it up about as useful as liquorice sticks. Slinging it under my arm, I returned to Drummond, who now wore a face like a troll’s mother-in-law.
“Oi, you can’t do that.”
Of all the comments he could make that was the worst. I could and had done it, dumping the board down on the bar to prove it. “Give it a good read.”
“I know what my own board says,” Drummond grumbled.
“Read it,” I gently suggested, with a condescending helpful tap on the board in the right spot.
He glanced down, face looking like he’d chewed not only a lemon but the whole tree, and read in resignation, “Free pint with every Laxian.”
My grin returned and I gave a clap. “There you go, here’s my Laxian,” said I, pulling the leash out of his grimy mitts and giving it an encouraging tug. My purple skinned captive stumbled nearer. “Now where’s my pint?” I asked again.
“But that’s not what it means. You have to buy a bowl of Laxian jhunari,” appealed Drummond.
“Ah, well that’s all down to interpretation is it not? You know us dwarves are a logical, straight talking lot with a penchant for sudden violence when annoyed,” I commented. “It says free pint with a Laxian and I have just caught me a Laxian. So, do I need to ask again?”
Defeated, he growled an expletive under his breath and pulled a murky pint. Drummond slammed it onto the bar so that the frothy head slopped everywhere. “I hate you, Short,” he said with heartfelt sentiment.
“Yeah, you and lots of others,” I replied. “Get in line.”
Drummond let loose a litany of colourful anatomical curses as I turned away to my seat. I was impressed, his vocabulary was expanding.
“What about me?” the Laxian on the end of my leash moaned.
“You can sit on the floor in the crap or stand up. I don’t care which as long as you keep quiet while I enjoy my drink.”
“You’re a right sod, Short.”
“Yea, that’s been said before and by better folk than you. Does this face,” I tapped my nose just in case he was slow on the uptake, “look like it gives a sh*t shark what you or anyone else thinks?”
The Laxian plonked himself down on the floor, all the fight gone. Not saying there was much there in the first place. He’d have had trouble even contemplating stealing a candy from a baby.
The pint went down in lumps and settled hard on my stomach. It’d do for the moment.
“Right,” I declared. “Time to get you home. I’ve got my own to go to.”
A quick stroll later and we ended up outside a door. Like most places in Allswelcome, this homr was the remnant of some old galley. I kicked the door a few times, denting the intricate carved scroll work that all carpenters seemed to find impressive.
“Ah, come on, Short, I can pay you,” whined the Laxian.
He was at the desperate stage.
“No, you can’t,” I said, keeping my eye on the door.
“Can.”
I rounded on him. “Look, Yuilk. This is the third time I’ve had to bring you back to your wife. I know Laxian society. You don’t have any money. You’re not allowed any money.” Talk about stupid.
“I know,” replied Yuilk, voice sinking to new levels of despondence. “Stupid bloody tradition.”
“Tell me about it,” I muttered.
“Well—“
“I was being rhetorical, Yuilk. Now, shut your hole like a good Laxian husband.”
The door opened and I strained my neck looking up the fleshy mountain that was Yuilk’s wife.
“Evenin’, Mrs Drubchak. Here he is,” I said, handing over the leash. A bag dropped from on high which I caught with a pleasing chink. I tapped the brim of my hat. “Ma’am, you’ve got my card if he goes missing again.”
Standing to one side, I allowed Yuilk to be dragged into the home, his face like a wet weekend. I gave a chortle as the door slammed shut. Laxian’s, the men always tried to run when they thought their wives were about to press for conjugal rights. I mean, it’s not as if the wives often ate their husbands after mating these days. Good return business though. The men never ran quite far enough.
