2.10 - Ester & Dwyn
Derrune 13th, 3401 Teraina’s Law/\3505 Ofrick’s Law-
A finespun tune echoed out from the teetering, half rotten two story inn in the center of the sprawling Elpirian Fields. A few trees that held their form through the harshest winters dotted the landscape around a spiraling stream that wiggled southward, managing to touch nearly every square of the fields. Tshks, the only creature native to the area, splashed in and out of the stream like frogs. Their bushy red and white tails, stained a permanent muddy brown from their riverside antics, bobbed up and down behind the hillocks. Their name came from the “Tshk” sound they would make as they warmed the poison glands behind their fangs. Positioned in the very center of Elpirian Fields, the only sign of civilization in the grasslands, stood Ramshackle. An inn on the best of days and a hovel on the worst of them, Ramshackle was many things but dishonest wasn’t one of them. The building itself was plagued with mice and wood spiders bold enough to untie a traveler’s boots. The ale was unsettlingly warm, the bread was cold and hard, and the bedrolls, while oddly comfortable, would cause rashes if laid on for more than one night. Visitors were never turned away, and never quite welcomed until they ingratiated themselves to the few permanent residents. For most, a nod and an exchange of coin was enough. The poor few who arrived overdressed would find the prices quite exorbitant, but unavoidable considering the lack of options and the unshakable gaze of the proprietor, Old Fedgy.
The innkeeper was known to move food out from under the hungry mouths of patrons just to wipe the bar down with her old blackened rag smelling of mildew. She was older than the fields themselves, and she didn’t hide it well. Her right shoulder was lower and sunken in, most likely from years of slapping the wet, dirt stained rag across it. When she walked it was difficult to tell if she had a bad leg, or even legs at all beneath her pale pink nightgown, the only piece of clothing she owned. It almost seemed as if her body was precariously perched on some sort of wheel that unsteadily rolled back and forth and rocked side to side. One of her ears was folded in on itself like a half baked muffin and the other twitched incessantly. She blamed her long since deceased husband, claiming that he spoke so shrilly and often that one ear had curled up to protect itself after seeing the other begin to spasm. She spoke in a mixture of common speech and the language of the Old Lands, a language so archaic and unintelligible the librarians of Corvan would be hard pressed to find a reference guide for it. Even her common speech was a chore to decipher as she seemed to have gained teeth in her old age as opposed to losing them, her mouth a mess of curved, cramped yellowing gnashers, each one fighting for their plot of land.
Ramshackle was the kind of place Ester and Dwyn had become all too familiar with in their travels. In fact, this happened to be their third stay since last spring. It was becoming somewhat of a home for the two travelers. The perennial inhabitants were quite well-informed, some clearly coming from positions of great influence, and were all happy to part with their knowledge in exchange for various goods. Coin, herbs, delicacies unknown to the grasslands, every so often even another’s conversation would suffice. It helped that they had developed a fondness for the two travelers, mostly due to Dwyn’s songs and his adaptable disposition. He never fancied himself an artist, only performing in backwoods watering holes like Ramshackle despite Ester’s insistence that his talent was being wasted. A handful of patrons sat around him, watching him pluck away at the fittingly poor instrument in his hands. A wolf’s skull was secured to an old rusting plate, and to that, a fishing pole, strung with cord from top to bottom. When Ester played the rickety thing, the reverberation from the cord would bounce through the empty eye sockets of the wolf skull like a bird lost in a cave, crashing into the walls. Dwyn however, could wrangle a tune from the depths of the bone that was rhythmic and soothing to the ear, an unteachable magic to be sure.
“This one is called ‘A Baron & His Blade’” He said wistfully. One of the more inebriated listeners around him gave a nod of acknowledgement as if he knew the story, then glancing at the rest of the motionless audience, coughed and finished what was left in his tankard.
The baron knew love
Like winter’s first snow
Pure and white as a dove
A chilling sweet blow
And like the winter it came
And soon it would go
Leaving only the baron in old ragged robes
He knew it so well
The cold sting of night
It came and it went nearly every moonlight
His lover could not bear
To see him this way
The baron cared not
And went for his blade
The two were a pair
All steel, flesh and famished
The blade in the air
The baron diminished
His lover through tears asked
‘My dear what do you want?’
The baron held fast
The blade at his chest
‘Nothing my dear, just winter at last.’
The drunkard dropped a few coins into the mug at Dwyn’s feet. Dwyn nodded to him before beginning ‘Traveler’s Plight.’ Ester glanced about the room, taking in the small crowd. Sitting closest to Dwyn were Ahti Jasper and Ogrey of Knockstead. Ahti could talk for hours without taking a single breath. He was short and thin, and younger than one would think. Age spots dotted his head beneath wisps of black hair, despite the past winter only being his twenty-ninth. He insists that a witch cursed him with old age after she found him asleep on her roof in Taern Valley. ‘Just a sweet young lad I was, dreamin’ under the stars.’ He would say defensively in his quiet, quick way of speaking. ‘She must’a been the most spiteful creature I ever did meet, that old hag.’ Stories of witches and curses grew like weeds in Ramshackle, but Ahti was one of the few whose word could be trusted. Should he ever be confronted with a question he didn’t know the answer to, he would stop and stare for a moment before slowly shaking his head and saying ‘Beyond me. Just plain beyond me that one is.’ Only Old Fedgy knew why Ahti was there. Old Fedgy always knew. Ahti would only say that he came to Ramshackle ‘looking for something a bit simpler. Just a roof and a fire, and a bit a company, that’s all.’
Ogrey of Knockstead was another story. A broom shrub of a man, he stood not an inch above Ahti, but bulged at the sides enough for children to play hide and seek around him. He wore his golden hair cropped and straight up, and his beard tangled and long. Golden arm hair curled out from the sleeves of his tunic like a scarecrow. His right hand was missing three fingers, and the back of his neck was scarred tremendously, a wedge of skin missing entirely. He was a harsh man of harsher descent. He wouldn’t speak of the lost fingers, but the scar on his neck he freely explained. ‘My old man gave me that. The bloodless bastard. He only ever loved my brother you see, since I killed my mother on the way out. He didn’t take kindly to that. Neither did my brother. He used to tease me about it. Any time we’d head into town he would call out ‘watch out for this one, he’s a real ladykiller.’ The beatings started when they knew I could fight back. It was pointless of course. They were both bigger and stronger than I was, and they never fought me squarely. One day my brother went missing and my father, sick with grief, tried to cut my head off with a dull farm ax. Told me I was the reason he ran off. Lucky for me, the ax was dull enough to get lodged in my thick skin. I knew it was my best chance, even with the blood pouring down my back, so I tackled the old man to the ground and choked the life from him. I ended up on trial of course, after they closed up my neck as best they could. Would’ve been hanged too if it weren’t for one of those Lugrete. Damn thing crashed right into my cell, fire and all. It smelled like a dead horse, and looked like a man’s insides, but it got me out from under death. I turned tail and ran. I didn’t stop for years at a time, and when I would, it was never for long. Not until I found my way here.’
During their last visit to Ramshackle, Ester asked Ogrey if he knew what happened to his brother and the man snorted, saying ‘Course I do. I buried him. Well I killed him first. Then I buried him. Didn’t think the old man would react quite like he did, but I’d do it again.’
A few others that Ester didn’t recognize sat listening to Dwyn, as well as an old noblewoman named Bellona Ovia (she would only answer to Bell) and a purveyor of poisons (what he called ‘poultices for the sick of mind’) named Helsun Poule.
“Hello there Ester. What’s it been, seven months?” said a raspy voice to her left. Turning she saw Savish of Delgamoor, one of the oldest residents of Ramshackle behind only Old Fedgy herself. He, like many who came through the inn, had abandoned his family name long ago, choosing instead to carry the name of his place of birth. Delgamoor was far to the Northwest, a brutal place if the stories were to be believed. The streets were lined with the bones of the deceased, some dug up before the meat could rot from them. A green smoke hung in the air, biting the lungs and stinging the eyes. Wolves roamed the alleys instead of cats, and crows with bloodied beaks screeched from the rooftops where songbirds should be. Some even said if the time was right, you could hear the city moan in distaste of itself, If the stories were to be believed. Savish would only speak of it in the early hours of the morning, when empty casks cast their shadow upon the sleeping frames of the weary. Even then, he was removed from his words as if he were merely relaying them from another man.
“Eight months.” Ester said, smiling at the silver haired man. “How have they treated you?”
He eased himself onto a stool next to Ester, eyeing the group around Dwyn.
“Can’t rightly complain.” He said. “Winter was easy on us, praise Asha. The fall harvest kept us warm and fat. What brings you two back here? If I’m not mistaken, which I quite often am these days, you were headed for Bristlefall Forest. Some such about a Barkfiend you were interested in.”
“You shouldn’t speak ill of your memory, it serves you well.” Ester said. “We found what we were looking for in Bristlefall Forest. We’re headed to Clotho with the Barkfiend in tow.”
Old Fedgy swayed past them nearly burning Savish with the lit candle in her hand.
“Surry dear!” She spouted.
Every day at sundown she would careen through the inn lighting dozens of candles precariously placed throughout, a few slanted and melted between planks of wood on the walls. The flickering flames transformed Ramshackle beyond what it was in the daylight. Proud shadows pirouetted upon the mantle, and across the table, and through the eyes of the saturnalian crowd with whom nothing but wildness and hopeless freedom could be found. Savish would slam down casks of ale upon the bar with the deep laughter of a man lived twice while the guest of the week would prepare a song or a dance or a story. In a place so overrun with regret, the embrace of night was like an island amongst the crashing waves.
“Watch it!” he barked back to Old Fedgy. “That’s no way to treat a man you’re courting!”
Old Fedgy let out a howling laugh from across the room. Romance was in her past and she was happy to keep it there, but Savish teased her nonetheless.
“Clotho huh?” He said, turning his attention back to Ester.
“Clotho.” She nodded. “After that, the Orphan Tunnels.”
Savish’s face, hardened and chiseled like stone, wrinkled a bit at the mention of the tunnels. He would never be mistaken for a young man but his age suited him well, like an oak nearing its midnight years. His well fed belly partially hidden beneath his gray jerkin complimented his rugged and muscled arms, capable of tossing a fully grown man like an acorn.
“Why the Tunnels?” He asked. “That’s pillager territory. Even if you manage to avoid them, there’s nothing down there but worms and Frenzies.”
“Dwyn can handle a few Frenzies, I’m not worried about that.” Ester said. “The pillagers are a bit concerning, but if we find what we’re looking for, it’ll be more than worth it.”
“What are you looking for?”
Ester slowly took a large swig of ale as Dwyn stepped over to the two of them, a wiry old woman having taken his place at the head of the small crowd. She crooned softly as if to a child, but the song was crass and sharp, the kind of song that was often banned from more reputable establishments.
“Savish!” Dwyn said, slapping his back. “Didn’t think you’d make it through the winter with those old bones of yours.”
“I can still break you over my knee with these old bones, boy.” he said. He quickly feigned a jab to Dwyn’s side, making the young man flinch.
“Peace! Peace!” He yelled, putting his hands up. “I’d die of humiliation if I was beaten by a man old enough to have seen the Revenants.”
“Ay lover!” Old Fedgy called out across the inn. “Rapscal the ale, rund barrels’ll do!”
“Anything for you dear!” Savish called back. “You’re voice is proof alone that the Revenants exist. Only a celestial hand could craft such a melodious sound.”
He winked at Ester and Dwyn, then headed for the stairs to the cellar only to be hit in the side of the head with a wooden ladle hurled by the old innkeeper.
A maniacal laughter echoed across the room followed by a shout of “Berung on you damnable sufrin!”
Dwyn took a seat next to Ester and let out a wide, long yawn. Both wore dark leather cuirasses beneath sand colored cloaks, pinned to their shoulders with wooden pauldrons crafted by Dwyn himself. Ester’s hair, the color of dark syrup, loosely framed her unquestionably beautiful and stern face, while Dwyn’s thick black braids were tied back in a tangled knot out of his handsome face, a soft counter to Ester’s.
“Did you have to sing that one?” Ester said, staring at the chipped floorboards.
“No, I didn’t.” he responded with a low, earnest tone. “But it’s important to me.”
“More than it should be, maybe.” she said, turning to face him.
They sat for a moment in their shared silence, the stirring of the inn fading around them like breath on a winter breeze. Ester could see it in him still, as clear as if it were written on his skin. He reached into a pocket of his cloak and withdrew a pinecone covered in red wax, carefully fingering it. He would often boast of the good luck it brought, but Ester knew the truth of it. It was an anchor for him when his surroundings splashed over the bow. She was often surprised by what he felt to be rough waters, but wasn’t one to question another’s comfort.
“How much do you reckon Barthelemy will give us for the little one?” he asked, rolling the pinecone back and forth along the bar.
“More than what he gave us for the Underfin.” she said. “Even with his ‘convenience tax’ it should still be worth three or four bolts. The old miser.”
“Three or four bolts!” Dwyn gasped under his breath. “We can recanvas the wagon and get Ard and Ord a good cleaning with that. What’s left we can use to-”
What’s left after that, we save.” Ester interrupted. “We’ve been drinking too much. Besides, the barleywine in Clotho is as much swamp water as it is barleywine.”
“You’re right, you’re right.” he said, a slight twinkle leaving his eye. “I suppose I’ll make the most of the old Ramshackle brew before we hit the long road of sobriety. Old Fedgy! What’s a struggling artist have to do to get a mug of ale around here!”
“Oh soddin off!” She shouted back, wobbling towards the bar. “You’ll git oon ale erindi, once I git oon tersure in Legea!”
“Sounds like a deal!” he slipped the pinecone back into his pocket and placed a few copper thirds on the bar just in time for Old Fedgy to splash ale on them as she slid the drink over.
Ester smiled and clinked mugs with her companion, knowing full well that they would get a later start in the morning than she would like. An inevitable side effect of staying in Ramshackle, the best worst inn in Illusia.