Asyrdar — Roleplayer Guild

It was not long before one of Rook's new companions leaned forward and grabbed the white-clay jug, a dwarf who had previously introduced himself as Ghas. Rook was somewhat reassured by their presence; as a people who could work hard and party hard, they were well-respected in his book. He leaned back, stretched, and once again began twisting the dice between his fingers, passing them from left hand, to right, and back again at a whim.

Ghas remarked on the strength of the brew, to which Rook could only smirk and shrug. "Eh, its a home-brew from around my parts. We call it winter-whiskey, used to go up the Parsacid mountains up a ways, gather snow and herbs and the like. Its a lot stronger than it tastes, thats part of the beauty." Rook's dice-tossing became a bit slower as he talked; he stopped passing the dice between his hands, and began to tap them together in his left hand. "Those gulps I took earlier? Yeah I'll be sleeping like the dead in about an hour. Now, I dont have the gut for liquor like you dwarves do, but I can hold my fair share." Liquid courage, one simple serving.

That was when she joined them. An alabaster statue of a goddess given life, or at least that's the cliche the alcohol was screaming in his head at the moment. She introduced herself as Celine, a Godswife, and the words came unbidden from him. "Yeah, I knew a Godswife once...wasn't too faithful to her marriage though, if you know what I mean." He chuckled at his own joke, not sure if that statement even made sense but pleased at himself all the same, in a way only the drunk can be. It didnt take too long, however, to realize that she might be the last person he'd want to offend. Everyone tells stories, and most are bullshit, but when you hear that someone has the power to shrivel your meat-and-berries with a curse, you dont take chances. At least, not sober.

He stood up suddenly, aware of his lack of sobriety and what little time he had to finish the tasks at hand. Here goes nothing.

"Well, I wish I could sit and chat, but I'm working by the hourglass and the sands are almost all fallen. Enjoy the winter-whiskey, and Ill see you folk in the morning." He trotted his way to the door of the inn, nodding to those he passed on the way out. He threw the door open, but stopped under the door-frame and leaned back in. "And ladies....I sleep with my door unlocked, so if you're chilly in the night..."

Rook's laughter followed him outside, even penetrating the thick wooden door closed behind him.

*****

It didn't take long to find the hovel; at the edge of town, built up against the largest oak Rook had seen in a decade. The whole way here, his inner-voice shouted that this was a stupid idea, that he should turn back and go find some tavern slut to distract him with until the winter-whiskey kicked in fully. But he kept walking. There was a golden light shining from between the hut's gap-riddled plank walls, and the scent of roasting hog and burned pipe-weed permeated the area. Before he knew it, Rook was standing in front of the door, and had hardly put his knuckles to the thin wood when it swung open forcefully. What stood in the doorway could easily be described as a bear wearing a man as a suit, his giant wiry black beard streaked with grey and white. He carried a hatchet and glowered down at Rook.

"I should cleave your skull right here." The man's voice was surprisingly flat, tuneless. Not how Rook remembered it.

"It's good to see you too, old man." The pause afterward dragged on for far too long, but Rook dared not break it. He let the man size him up, waiting for some kind of answer.

"Come in. Got leftovers if you're hungry." The bear-man-thing turned and lumbered into a hovel that, in retrospect, was far too small for a man that size. Rook followed and quietly closed the door behind. Inside was nothing but a firepit, a filthy, worn mattress, some food and jars in a corner, and piles of iron tools and weapons. The large man took a seat on his mattress, bare dirty feet sitting next to the open fire, and Rook stood where he was. "So, out with it. Why does the Great Cheat himself deign to visit old Morien?"

Rook's head was swimming; the crude fire-pit filled the room with a meaty, greasy smoke, and did nothing to keep his head clear as the whiskey pounded on, relentless.

"Truth be told, I just wanted to say hi. Im going with some people..." He paused, not sure how to word the recent developments in his life. "A Watchful. Apparently there's some trouble with orcs we're going to sort out. They're....getting closer." He shifted his weight uneasily from foot to foot. "You should come with us."

That drew a bark of laughter, but a hollow one; there was a smile under Morien's beard, but it didnt reach his eyes. "Sorry. No-can-do. Got enough on my plate as it is."

Rook somehow doubted that, but he wasn't going to argue. He just shrugged. "So there's no way I can convince you?"

"None."

Another pause lasting far too long.

"....How is she?" Rook dared to ask. That brought some light to Morien's eyes; a flicker of actual anger and misery, too, and the man roughly rolled to his feet, shuffling through what looked like a pile of refuse.

"Dont ask. Not now." But, as if sensing Rook's drunken insistence before it could even come, Morien stopped rifling through junk, took a deep breath and clenched a fist. "A fever. Not two weeks past. Right after her third child. Fever spread to the baby. Spread to the kids. Spread to the father. Not much more to tell." He stood up, turned, and tossed a brown burlap sack at Rook, who only barely caught it (and almost lost his balance doing so.) "Take this. Go." And Rook was brusquely shuffled out of Morien's hut, almost tossed into the wet night.

Well, yeah I guess, I am lucky you didn't cleave my head in, old goat. Ill look through the sack later, I can barely fucking stand. Oh gods, Summer...

When Rook was further down the road, a howl rent the night sky. The grief in it was almost too much for Rook, and he almost ran all the way back to the Galvanizing Spirit.

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The Ferryman

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