Things that have happened, and a funny little one shot
So, I survived a move, a hurricane, and a new job. Go me. Took about a month to settle in and get used to all those wild life changes, and start writing again. Been working on a fun little piece for my Mum for Christmas, but this got in the way. Having finished the scene, I'm well amused by the possibilities, but one thing at a time, eh?
The word had spread that Oran Hawk was starting an adventuring band, and he’d be holding interviews at the King’s Shed inn tonight. The hopeful few had searched him out, in ones and twos, charlatans, thieves, mercenaries, and hedge witches. He listened to their sordid Pasts and shared a pint, scribbled down a note or two, and sent them on their way. Starting out in a downtrodden little town had seemed like a good idea at the beginning of his venture, but if he had to do it over again, Oran swore he’d go to a bigger city, one with investors and proper companions for hire. This had been a miserable waste of time all around.
The wenches were scrubbing down the tabletops when a woman approached his table. At a glance he wasn’t sure whether to categorize her as a sorceress or merely another pretender. She was bolder than gold in skin tight red silk and elaborate cosmetics, leaning over the table towards him with a wanton smile.
“I heard you’re recruiting.”
Oran frowned, too tired and too drunk to be anything other than painfully blunt. “Yes. What’s your thing?”
She smirked at that, “my thing?”
“What are you good at? Fireballs are always welcome, so is healing. Cooking and hiking long distances are valued, too. We’re full up on camp followers, though.” Next time, he decided, he’d pick cider over ale.
The woman snorted, “You won’t find any wizards or whores worth their keep out here, mister. Woodcutters don’t have much use for blokes who throw fireballs every which way. And their wives aren’t too fond of strange ladies, neither.” She perched on the edge of the table, tapping the grimy surface with a lacquered nail. “What’s it with adventurers looking for that particular skill, anyway? It’s never ‘we want someone who can crush our enemies beneath giant rocks or curse them with demons from the nine hells’. A half penny match and five pennies worth spirits and you could cobble together your own fireball.” She cut herself off mid rant, and grinned sheepishly, “Anyway, I don’t do any of those sorts of thing. I’m a Mentalist; my name is Patrice.”
Oran scowled at the woman, wishing her to be either simpler, quieter, or somewhere else entirely. “I haven’t heard of Mentalists.” He had high hopes that this was when the charade would crumble; the woman would make claims too insane to believe, with a dearth of evidence supporting her purposed talents. Then he could send her on his way, go home, and sleep off this drunken stupor.
Patrice narrowed her eyes right back at him, sniffing disdainfully, “No? I suppose you wouldn’t. Just another fat head adventurer who sees everything as good for blowing stuff up loudly and violently, stuff for sewing your fat adventuring head back together when it gets cracked, and everything else is just circus tricks, eh? Well screw you!” She shoved herself away from him, overcome with agitation, slamming her hands on the table as swarms of tentacles shoved up through the floor boards, squirming in the confined space.
Patrice got ahold of herself, and the abominable appendages vanished as suddenly as they had come. She grinned self-consciously and wiped sweat off her face with her sleeve, “Sorry, bit of a sore spot. And calm down,” she fluttered a hand in the direction of the sword he was menacing her with. “I’m an illusionist, not a summoner of nether horrors. Look around, you stupid bastard. Don’t look at what you expect to see, look at what’s really there.”
Oran frowned, looking around the bar, and then trying to look more closely. No shattered boards on the grubby wood floor, no occult slime to be seen. He felt the accursed terror fade under his observation, and reluctantly slid the sword home in its scabbard. “Are you good for anything besides scaring the shit out of the unwary?”
Patrice helped herself to the rest of his ale, “You’d be surprised how often a good nasty surprise ends things. I haven’t ever met a soul who’d charge at a Great Dragon. Of course, if I did find such a nitwit, I could make him think he had no legs, or his sword had turned into a herring, or that his skull was shrinking and crushing his weak little brain.” She made a pinching motion with her fingers and chuckled. “Or I could make your company look like a legion of Imperial soldiers. Or big ugly barbarians, not that it would be too much of a stretch in your case.”
It seemed like a perfectly terrible idea to invite this sorceress along for the ride. She was crazy and distracting; it was ridiculous to consider it. But she would round out the thieving twins, hedge witch, watch man and mercenary. It wouldn’t be real fireballs, but maybe he could invest in some of those matches and spirits she had mentioned. “We’re meeting at the trading post on the edge of town. Bring what you have, and a good pair of boots.” They shook on it, and then a questioned occurred to him. “Is that really what you look like?”
Patrice the Mentalist smiled slyly and leaned in, “Why don’t you tell me?”
He forced himself to look, not at her prominently displayed assets, or what he knew to be there. The vision flickered, and for a moment he caught a glimpse of a rough shod girl in battered leather armor leering at him, before the vision settled and the beautiful sorceress withdrew her hand.
“Tomorrow, then, Adventurer Oran.”
The word had spread that Oran Hawk was starting an adventuring band, and he’d be holding interviews at the King’s Shed inn tonight. The hopeful few had searched him out, in ones and twos, charlatans, thieves, mercenaries, and hedge witches. He listened to their sordid Pasts and shared a pint, scribbled down a note or two, and sent them on their way. Starting out in a downtrodden little town had seemed like a good idea at the beginning of his venture, but if he had to do it over again, Oran swore he’d go to a bigger city, one with investors and proper companions for hire. This had been a miserable waste of time all around.
The wenches were scrubbing down the tabletops when a woman approached his table. At a glance he wasn’t sure whether to categorize her as a sorceress or merely another pretender. She was bolder than gold in skin tight red silk and elaborate cosmetics, leaning over the table towards him with a wanton smile.
“I heard you’re recruiting.”
Oran frowned, too tired and too drunk to be anything other than painfully blunt. “Yes. What’s your thing?”
She smirked at that, “my thing?”
“What are you good at? Fireballs are always welcome, so is healing. Cooking and hiking long distances are valued, too. We’re full up on camp followers, though.” Next time, he decided, he’d pick cider over ale.
The woman snorted, “You won’t find any wizards or whores worth their keep out here, mister. Woodcutters don’t have much use for blokes who throw fireballs every which way. And their wives aren’t too fond of strange ladies, neither.” She perched on the edge of the table, tapping the grimy surface with a lacquered nail. “What’s it with adventurers looking for that particular skill, anyway? It’s never ‘we want someone who can crush our enemies beneath giant rocks or curse them with demons from the nine hells’. A half penny match and five pennies worth spirits and you could cobble together your own fireball.” She cut herself off mid rant, and grinned sheepishly, “Anyway, I don’t do any of those sorts of thing. I’m a Mentalist; my name is Patrice.”
Oran scowled at the woman, wishing her to be either simpler, quieter, or somewhere else entirely. “I haven’t heard of Mentalists.” He had high hopes that this was when the charade would crumble; the woman would make claims too insane to believe, with a dearth of evidence supporting her purposed talents. Then he could send her on his way, go home, and sleep off this drunken stupor.
Patrice narrowed her eyes right back at him, sniffing disdainfully, “No? I suppose you wouldn’t. Just another fat head adventurer who sees everything as good for blowing stuff up loudly and violently, stuff for sewing your fat adventuring head back together when it gets cracked, and everything else is just circus tricks, eh? Well screw you!” She shoved herself away from him, overcome with agitation, slamming her hands on the table as swarms of tentacles shoved up through the floor boards, squirming in the confined space.
Patrice got ahold of herself, and the abominable appendages vanished as suddenly as they had come. She grinned self-consciously and wiped sweat off her face with her sleeve, “Sorry, bit of a sore spot. And calm down,” she fluttered a hand in the direction of the sword he was menacing her with. “I’m an illusionist, not a summoner of nether horrors. Look around, you stupid bastard. Don’t look at what you expect to see, look at what’s really there.”
Oran frowned, looking around the bar, and then trying to look more closely. No shattered boards on the grubby wood floor, no occult slime to be seen. He felt the accursed terror fade under his observation, and reluctantly slid the sword home in its scabbard. “Are you good for anything besides scaring the shit out of the unwary?”
Patrice helped herself to the rest of his ale, “You’d be surprised how often a good nasty surprise ends things. I haven’t ever met a soul who’d charge at a Great Dragon. Of course, if I did find such a nitwit, I could make him think he had no legs, or his sword had turned into a herring, or that his skull was shrinking and crushing his weak little brain.” She made a pinching motion with her fingers and chuckled. “Or I could make your company look like a legion of Imperial soldiers. Or big ugly barbarians, not that it would be too much of a stretch in your case.”
It seemed like a perfectly terrible idea to invite this sorceress along for the ride. She was crazy and distracting; it was ridiculous to consider it. But she would round out the thieving twins, hedge witch, watch man and mercenary. It wouldn’t be real fireballs, but maybe he could invest in some of those matches and spirits she had mentioned. “We’re meeting at the trading post on the edge of town. Bring what you have, and a good pair of boots.” They shook on it, and then a questioned occurred to him. “Is that really what you look like?”
Patrice the Mentalist smiled slyly and leaned in, “Why don’t you tell me?”
He forced himself to look, not at her prominently displayed assets, or what he knew to be there. The vision flickered, and for a moment he caught a glimpse of a rough shod girl in battered leather armor leering at him, before the vision settled and the beautiful sorceress withdrew her hand.
“Tomorrow, then, Adventurer Oran.”