Some OOC Notes...
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Strange Dinner Guests
The tavern smelled like a mixture of spices, burnt food, and a plethora of different varieties of alcohol. All of which it contained, in addition to its humble assortment of patrons mostly in the process of gorging themselves on one or more of the aforementioned items.
All in all it should have made for a foul-smelling, raucous, den of unpleasantness. However it was the very fact that this particular tavern was always just the opposite which made it her favorite haunt whenever she came to town.
Perhaps it was the unique flavor of the regular patrons, who were unfailingly well-mannered. (For when they weren't the otherwise kindly cook, who was coincidentally the most burly giant of a man she had ever met, was quick to show them where the door was.)
Or it might have been the unique wood-cabin decor throughout with odd little touches like the lanterns hanging off the rafters which looked like they were taken from sailing vessels somewhere. Things that just didn't quite make sense together but which gave the place its unique and cozy feel. She liked places that had personality to them.
Her only lament was that the good-natured cook, for all that he kept the undesirables away, well... he just couldn't cook a good dish to save his life. Oh sure, it wasn't awful (when he avoided burning it.) However it was never exceptional.
Then again she sometimes chided herself for being unfair in her criticism. Her mother had been an incredible cook and Anacai missed her meals terribly. Unfortunately an illness of some kind had taken hold of the woman that no healer seemed able to remedy. 'An illness of the mind,' they kept telling her. In truth she knew; the woman's spirit was broken. She could see it in the eyes so dim which once flared with such passion and life.
Anacai sat at a table near the door sipping at her ale, trying not to focus on problems for which she had no solution, but rather on enjoying the atmosphere. She had done well at market, selling her entire wagon of hay and grains. The resulting coin, she hoped, would be enough to last them through the coming season.
"Always nice seeing a pretty face," said a slurred voice from over her shoulder.
She turned around to see a blond-haired, square-jawed man she didn't recognize smiling stupidly at her.
"Next time you use that line," she replied as she turned back around,
"you might want to be looking at the person's face when you say it."The man only laughed, then came around to fall into the chair opposite her (nearly continuing onto the floor.)
"Now that's what I like in a woman... A little brass!"She stared at him.
"Sass?"He hiccuped back.
"Pardon?""You meant 'A little sass,' right?"He blinked.
"That's what I said isn't it?"With a resigned sigh she started going over her strategy in her mind. Play sick? No, she didn't feel like retiring to her room this early. She could flag down the burly cook, make a fuss. She did so hate to disturb the man when he was working though, and there was smoke plus the aroma of a freshly burning meal coming from the kitchen...
"You know," she tried instead,
"I don't mean to be rude but I'm actually waiting for someone...""Oh really?" The man said as though playing along with a twelve-year-old.
"Like who?"She let out another exasperated sigh.
That never works. "Well, like...""Like me," cut in a deep gravelly voice. Suddenly there was a tall figure in a black cloak looming over the drunken man's shoulder. A white beard drifted out the front of the figure's hood and partway down his chest.
Now the first man seemed irritated.
"Hey the lady and I are talkin' here pal why don't you just-"The next thing she knew the cloaked man had grabbed the drunk by the shoulders, sent him stumbling out the front door, then come back and taken his seat, all in the space of a few breaths.
"...take a seat?" The man finished in that same deep gravelly voice.
"Don't mind if I do." He pulled off his hood and Anacai was surprised to see the face of a kindly looking elderly man. Hardly someone who looked like a bouncer in his off-time.
"Umm... Thanks." She looked around, wondering how many more unusual strangers were going to invite themselves to her table before the night was through, but the man appeared to be alone and there were no others present but the tavern's regulars.
"Don't mention it," the man replied pleasantly.
"All part of the job."She rotated her head slightly to the left as she leaned forward.
"And what 'job' would that be may I ask? Not to be ungrateful..."He smiled broadly.
"Not at all! And to answer your question, in this case the job would be a delivery." From somewhere beneath the folds of his cloak he pulled out a thin object perhaps five feet in length, wrapped in cloth. Placing it on the table between them with a flourish he all but beamed as he declared proudly
"Your delivery, on time as promised."Immediately he held up a hand palm-out as if to forestall an objection.
"And worry not, payment was made in advance so we're even on the books!"She stared at him for what must have been a full minute waiting for the punch-line, but he revealed no further information. In fact the pleasant smile on his face never once wavered during her scrutiny.
"Listen, I hate to be the one to break the bad news but I'm afraid this particular delivery is going to be late after all." She pushed the object towards his side of the table.
"Because you've got the wrong person."He chucked.
"Oh no, quite impossible." He pushed the object back towards her.
Irritation was beginning to slip into her voice.
"Look, I'm telling you: I would know if this was for me. It isn't. Now thank you kindly but please go back to wherever you came from and take this with you." Once more the object slid back to his side of the table.
"Oh would you now?" He leaned back, smiling ruefully as if she had said something both amusing and interesting.
"Would you indeed? Can you be so sure of the course of fate, young Anacai? Can any of us?"She felt as if she'd been slapped.
"How do you know my name?""The answer is simple. I recognized your face the moment I saw you. Of course last time we met you were too young to remember I suspect. Actually I came here looking for your father. I was disheartened to learn of his death, but running into you the very same day can only be fate giving me a helping hand."Suddenly there was fire in her eyes, conviction in her voice.
"If you've come looking for my father then I *know* you've made an error," she shot back.
"All of that man that was inside of me died the day he didn't come back from fighting someone else's war and left my Mother alone." She began to thump a pointed finger against the table with each sentence.
"I want nothing to do with his friends. I want nothing to do with his 'deliveries.' I want nothing to do with his wars." She leaned closer.
"I want nothing to do with you. Clear enough?"
He didn't flinch, didn't seem put off at all, instead he only smiled ruefully.
"So like your father..." He sighed before continuing, as if trying to figure out how to explain a complicated subject to a child.
"Perhaps I should back up, as I can see you weren't told of a few things that I had assumed you would have been... This has nothing to do with that unfortunate Connlaothian civil war business your father was involved in. It is simply that the previous owner of this object is dead. I was charged to bring said object, upon his death, to your father. Being his eldest child it now comes to you instead whether you wish for it or not. If you want to throw it away after our meeting is concluded it will be none of my concern -much as I think you would be a fool to do so. At this point my part in this is ended either way, it's that simple.
"I find myself lingering only out of a selfish desire to talk with you. You see I considered your father a friend, I'm guilty of that charge I'll not deny. I'm sad to hear you speak of him in such a sad light for he was always so proud of you."He said you inherited his... gift. That you were quite talented with it in fact. Tell me, do you still practice?"She bit back another angry reply after processing the man's rather numerous words.
"No, I haven't practiced in several years. Look, I don't mean to be rude but you're right, I don't remember you. So why don't you tell me how you knew my father and just what I'm supposed to do with this... delivery of his?"This time his smile seemed sad.
"As for your first question, I'm afraid that's a long story and we don't have the time. In answer to your second..." His smile vanished altogether.
"...I would suggest you begin by simply staying alive."A shiver went down her spine but she refused to let herself be so easily cowed.
"Sounds pretty straight-forward. That it?"He nodded and made a carefree gesture, his smile returning.
"That's it! Oh, and I probably should mention that I'm being followed. I've managed to lose my pursuers for now but men such as these are not so easily foiled for long. When they finally catch up to me I must be far away from you and your new possession. It will buy you time at the very least, perhaps an escape if you're cleaver. I wish that I could give you more, but I'm afraid my part in this is done. May fate favor you, and I'm glad we had the chance to meet Anacai."Before she could formulate a reply he had already rose from his chair and was heading towards the door in his unnaturally swift way.
"Wait!"He stopped.
She struggled to come up with what she wanted to say next, feeling somewhat bewildered by the whole conversation.
"Did you really know my father?"The smile returned to his weathered face, and for a moment he looked at her with an intensity that disturbed her more than his talk of death.
"'A selfish flower blooms amid the dim stars. Mute, it sees only the coming sunlight...'" Then he was gone.
"'While all around it grow the weeds,'" she recited in his wake, recalling the next few lines of her father's favorite poem.
"'They know not to bloom having never seen the day. Silently it keeps its secret...'"
Later, resting in a small room on the building's upper floor which she had cajoled the cook into renting her for the night, Anacai sipped at another ale as she sat in a rickety old chair. Along with a plain dresser and the bed it comprised the room's only furniture. The wooden roof above her seemed to creek in response to every gust of wind that hit the building, and the compartment had only one small window.
It had gone dark outside, and the lamplight threw violently changing shadows across the walls with the passing of every invisible breeze that passed through the drafty room.
Another time she might have left that same night, pushing the last of daylight to make it back to the farm, but not on that night. She found herself mulling over the events of the evening.
Her eyes landed on the mysterious 'delivery' which sat on top of the dresser. The stranger had been telling at least part of the truth it seemed, or he had somehow learned some remarkably convincing details about her family in order to fake it.
Curiosity finally got the better of her and she went and retrieved the object, setting it on her bed before unwrapping it. As she did so she found a small note attached to the strings holding the cloth closed.
"Power cannot corrupt one true of heart," she read aloud,
"but can the heart stay true?"She tore off the note, crinkled it, and tossed it to the floor.
"Crazy old codger. Still trying to play mind games?" After removing the rest of the cloth and string she was half expecting the man to have slipped her an umbrella or something equally absurd. Instead she found the most beautifully decorated sword she had ever seen. (Not that she had seen a great many, but this one was clearly special.)
The hilt was ornately carved with symbols and figures, large enough that someone with hands considerably larger than her own could have held it in a two-handed grip. The guards were dark and curving, simple and yet elegant in their form. As for the sheath (for the blade itself was still sheathed,) it was even more decorated than the hilt and made out of a material she didn't recognize. It was solid and almost metallic but not quite...
For several moments she could only marvel at it. The sword would fetch a handsome pile of coin, she realized, but if it really was such a precious family heirloom did she really want to sell it? The answer came immediately: Yes. If there was anything the strange conversation with the old man had made clear it was that whatever this sword was it came with trouble attached, and she wanted none of it. There was a simple life waiting for her back home. A family who needed her – space she could breathe. Simplicity. What possible use would she have for a sword anyway?
Wondering what the blade itself looked like beneath its sheath, she reached out and gripped the hilt.
Suddenly a shock ran through her that was almost physical and yet something else. She would have sworn she could visually perceive it: a wave, traveling outward in all directions from the point of contact – a dark ring. Even the shadows were turned a darker shade of black by its passing. Though she had little experience with such things she felt immediately certain it was some strange kind of magic.
She flinched at the sensation, dropping the sword.
Shuddering, she tentatively reached out her hand again. A moment later she released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, having felt nothing.
"Who's crazy now," she scolded herself.
That old man's mind games must have gotten to me...