The first thing he noticed was the smell. A putrid stench of rotting fish; slimy and bloody. Below it, subtle hints of salt and grain, a sharpness of dried sweat. Tying it all together, swimming around his eyes and cheeks, the hot, deep stench of alcohol. He carefully levered open one eye a crack and was inundated with a blast of light- a hot ray of sun directly into the retina. He squeezed the eye shut again but not fast enough. Now he was aware of the sun on his face, lighting his eyelids, bathing his pupils in red. Now the slow-motion, faraway hum of blood in his veins gave way to a buzz of industry. The noise of the marketplace, buyers haggling with sellers, carts and bells, children laughing and dogs barking rose steadily in his ears, reaching after a minute a terrible cacophony that reached inside his head and held his throbbing brain, scratching and pounding like the hooves of a warhorse.
Fighting the urge to scream, he raised his right hand to his face. Pressing his eyes, then shielding them with his filthy palm, he cracked open his eyes again, bracing against the light.
A tuft of grass. A small pile of vomit. An empty tankard lying on its side. Above him, three sturdy steps of hardwood leading up to a large bolted door. At his feet sat a dog and as his eyes began to focus, they followed a piece of string from the dogs neck, up to (or rather, across to) the hand of a Halfling boy, maybe 9 years old. Both the boy and the dog, he realized, were staring quite intently at him. He gasped and sat up suddenly, lashing his head off the wood.
‘Are you awake, mister?’
The boy, without much sense of irony it seemed. Alistair groaned and rubbed his crown, the dull ache joining the scratchy throat, pounding headache, aching shoulders and burning forearm. He was in pretty bad shape.
‘What time is it?’
His voice surprised him. Huskier than usual. He sounded like a sexy Throkk.
‘Time for you to pay up, mister. 5 gold pieces, as you promised. My Papa told me to come and get you’.
That mage was powerful, it seemed. To transport him to another dimension in the middle of a battle was one thing. To inflict this much damage was another but to make him pay for the privilege?
Alastair crawled inelegantly out from under the steps and swaying, got to his feet. He peered imperiously down at the Halfling boy, who stared back with a strange mixture of curiosity and impatience. The dog barked.
‘He told me you might need this’, said the boy, holding out a brown, weathered wineskin. ‘It’s water’, he added, sympathetically.
Alistair took the carafe and after a quick sniff, drank deeply, feeling a sense of relief in his throat and shoulders (although his head still throbbed and his arm still burned). Looking around he became aware of the hustle and bustle of the market. The townsfolk ambled easily by, casting their eyes over the vegetables, pots and pans, barrels and tools. From the sheer amounts of fresh fish and meats, the patter of the merchants and the way the sun hit the fluttering pendants above the stalls, he judged it was still early in the morning and the market was but a few hours old.
‘Did you find your goat?’ The boy seemed to be getting restless now. Alistair sensed that he thought he might have better things to be doing on a market day than delivering water to a strange half-elf.
‘My Goat?’ Alistair revved his brain for a second but nothing clicked and the effort seemed to increase his headache so he relaxed again. ‘My goat. No, I didn’t unfortunately but I’m sure he’ll show up. Thank you for the water. Now, What did you say, two gold pieces, is it?’
‘Five.’ The Halfling boy, not missing a beat. He shifted the string in his hand and the dog barked again.
The dog, on further inspection, did not look like the sort of dog that liked to be petted. Alistair sighed internally. It was an unusually discombobulating and annoying start to the day.
‘My dad said to come get you now because you still have time to get to the ship before she leaves if you need to get the fee off your friend’.
‘My friend?’
‘The drunk guy with the hat’
‘The hat, right.’
‘The one who makes the beer you like. The one you got the job on the big galleon. I don’t know how you did that by the way. Captain Ashakina has never hired a brewer before. You’d think that having someone in a 31 man crew whose only job is to brew a beer is a wast-‘
‘Hold that thought, lad’. Alistair’s mind, usually so tuned, was beginning to float to the top of a pool of booze. He revved it again and it spluttered. He rubbed his forearm and winced.
‘Was my friend with me when I met your father last night?’
The boy shrugged, ‘I don’t know mister, It was pretty late. My papa doesn’t usually do drunk people but you were pretty insistent. And between the five gold and you waking up mum with your goat shout, I think he pretty much thought it would be easier to just do it. ‘
Alistair’s stomach flipped and he glanced again at the vomit and the tankard on the ground.
‘Lad, what does you father do?
The Halfling boy looked confused and tightened his grip on the dog again. He looked questioningly at Alastair, the look that sane people give mad people, pity and incomprehension. Then he looked at Alistair’s sleeve.
With a splutter, the half-elf’s mind roared into action and instantly flooded with images. Clinking tankards in a dimly lit bar, the slap of gold on a counter, a hearty handshake with a swarthy sea captain (a genuine wooden leg! You don’t see that too often). Winey slumped over a table, drooling grog into his red beard. Dancing on top of a table. THE BEER IN HERE IS THE BEST DAMN BEER, THE NEAREST BEER COMES NOWHERE NEAR. Down to the docks with a bottle of rum. A Halfling laughing his head off. I’M FUCKING SERIOUS MAN! Down the alley, sun rising. Flowers in the little garden. Mind your head. MY APOLOGIES MRS PRINTWELL, I MADE YOUR HUSBAND AN OFFER HE COULDN’T REFUSE. The solid oak table. Probably won’t feel it anyway. The Halfling woman, baby crying in her arms. GREATEST OF ALL TIME! Her eyes flashing with anger, Get him out of here, Martin! You can collect the money in the morning if he has any, you fucking drunken fool!. The end of the tankard. Don’t feel so well. Under the steps. Sleep it off.
The Dog barked. Alistair winced and looked at the boy, then down at his burning forearm.
‘Have you got the money, mister? My papa told me not to come back without it.’
‘Yeah, I have the money, lad, let me just check the work’.
Wincing, Alistair rolled up his sleeve and look at his new tattoo. A quick job, sure, and the artist was certainly inebriated. But you could certainly tell it was a bottle of beer and though it was hard to see with all the caked-on blood, it definitely said ‘Red Setter’ on the label. Well, ‘Red Seter’.
Not the worst tattoo, not the best tattoo. Unless you counted the large, gothic text underneath the bottle.
G.O.A.T.
Alistair counted out 5 gold in silver and handed it to the boy.
‘Are the rest of the band are staying nearby?’
‘It’s on the way mister, but do you not want to say goodbye to your friend? The Whooping Carp is heading for TamsHaven and she won’t be back for a half year.’
Alistair smiled wistfully. ‘Lad, you make a lot of friends in a port town. You see them when you see them. You don’t have to say goodbye.’
The Halfling boy looked up at him and Alistair realized that he was a bit thick.
‘Never mind, kid. Let’s go get some eggs. Hoohah!
’
- Alastair