Pay Me a Crown and I'll Sing You a Song (Open)

[Arrack Mayx]

The Sixth Day of the Month of Ioannes in the Season of Summer, of Era III of the Celestine Mandate (Current Pattern) Era XII Post Fractum, the First Era of the Reign of Empress Arabella the Just Paradigm Shift: The Kattarian Ambassadors are spotted sailing towards Prime

Arrack sat at the main bar in the center of tavern, hunched over a tankard. He wasn't quite nursing it, rather he was gulping mouthfuls of the ale, waiting for the buzzing sensation to taper off, and taking another drink. The young man was grinning, exposing his teeth, not quite straight but not terribly crooked either. Just like home. He silently compared the Crown Inn and Tavern to the Final Gate, the hellhole he had frequented back home. The Crown was cleaner than the Gate to say the least, cleaner in every sense of the word.

The Gate had been run by a retired smuggler who called himself Wallace, he either did not have a last name or never bothered to mention it. Doubtlessly, the overweight, elderly man was on the wrong side of someone, but then again, so was everyone else in town. Arrack had liked Wallace, the old sailor had given him free drinks all the time and usually let him buy a few on tab. Wallace had tried to keep the place clean, but it was nigh impossible for a man his age with bad knees to wipe off the grime that coated the Gate at the end of every night. As the years passed the filth built up until the old man no longer cared to do anything about it, not that anyone else minded much. The smugglers still came and they still bought drinks and that was enough for Wallace.

There was another side to the Gate that was dirty on a completely different level, a side that he had hated, still hated, dearly. A brothel was across the street from the "tavern" and prostitutes often came into the Gate looking to lure newly paid smugglers into their den of ill repute. They would wave to the men from the second story or pose themselves in alluring positions on the front porch. Sometimes Arrack saw his mother in one of the windows and he would scowl at her; if she noticed him she merely looked away, possibly ashamed, possibly irritated. He never went to the brothel, most of the women were hideous and he found the idea unappealing at best. Wallace deined not to go either, having lost his appetite for women altogether when a ##### had knifed him and stolen his coinpurse.

In the end, the young man wasn't sure which he liked better, the Final Gate or the Crown Inn and Tavern. He missed the rough atmosphere of the Gate, the constant swearing and frequent bar room brawls, but the Crown felt more homely, safer, and none of the girls had painted their faces to look as if they were enjoying themselves in the company of such terrible men. He began to hum to himself, quietly at first, but his voice rose as he got farther into the song.

"Tha sheep ga'tha quietly in tha pasture,
an' tha wolves ar' held a' bay by light.
Though whan tha nigh' falls thay hunt,
an' kill an' tha sheep go quietly ta thar' grave.
Blood runs deep an' stan's those tha' live,
an' that mornin' ne'er comes.
Tha sheep ga'tha quietly in tha pasture..."

Arrack kept going, not knowing what the song was about but liking the way it sounded. It had been the favorite of one of the younger brothel girls, the only one he ever spoke with. She didn't reek of men and alcohol or hide herself behind a facade of sexual appetite. She had been strangled to death, not that he had cared. At least, that's what he kept telling himself; he had not cared.

[Henry Dezrick]

Once more Dezrick found himself in this tavern. It was a pleasant place, certainly, but it was full of drunkards and slobs. Poor saps, certainly not as important and honorable as good Henry Dezrick. Now, every good man needed his own retinue of servants, and that was the real reason Henry kept coming back. Taverns were full of all sorts of unpleasant people who could be easily influenced to be cheap servants. Of course, when Dezrick's bank account started swelling again, he would cast them all aside and get a staff worth his time, but until then he was going to have to make due.

A certain melody came to his ears, and a smile came to his lips. What luck! A fanciful bard, here to sing him (and possibly one of his many mistresses) to sleep. Granted, this fellow didn't have the best voice in the world, but Dezrick was going to have to settle for the time being. He swaggered towards this man. What a shame, no instrument. Henry might deign to supply one if the man could sing a little better.

"Hello, bard," Dezrick said, producing a bag of coins from his pocket and tossing it to the table. "Sing me something worth listening to, why don'tcha? And while you're at it, tell me... Perhaps you'd be willing to get a little work in? A great oppurtunity, a chance to work for the famous, the delightful..."

Henry gave a little twirl, and sat down in a chair across from Arrack.

"Henry Dezrick the Twenty-Third." He said this with an air of regality, leaning forward over the table, and twirling a crown in his fingers. Granted, there weren't twenty-two other Henry Dezricks, but it sounded much more formal this way. And besides, the other twenty-two couldn't possibly be as important as good Mr. Dezrick.

"What's your name, my good man?" Dezrick said, flipping the crown into the air and letting it dissapear somewhere behind him. Certainly Dezrick was never the miserly sort.

[Arrack Mayx]

Arrack was not a fan of nobility, especially not those of regal birth who flaunted their wealth and status as if it were a garment. Types like this "Henry Dezrick the Twenty-Third" seated squarely in front of him and well within socking distance. The young man was suprised that the apparent nobleman had been so taken with his singing that he considered him a bard, a title Arrack was completely undeserving of.

"Ma name i' Arrack, tho' Ah'm na a bard," the human replied, secretly grateful for the accidental compliment paid to his poor vocal skills, "'Asides, Ah'm alriddy workin' far some'un any'ow an' Ah doubt she wid take ta lightla ta ma quitin'." Arrack motioned to the barkeep for another tankard and promptly gulped it down; he looked across at Henry with bloodshot eyes and sneared, an idea had struck him. "Jus' 'ow rich ar' ye, Mista' Dezrick...?"

The young man knew full well what the nobleman probably thought of him. A drunken savage, a brute, a beast, a slobbish lout; all of them technically true but Arrack did not take kindly to insult, even if percieved only in his own mind. After all, why else would someone of such class dein to speak to someone so "lowly" other than to taunt him, or perhaps he meant to use him. That was the way things were to Arrack, the rich always abused the poor because the impoverished knew now better; but he knew better, he had learned the game long ago and the trick was up. The young man lifted his mug to his lips, realized it was empty, slammed it back onto the counter, and ordered another, all the while grinning at Henry Dezrick.

[Henry Dezrick]

"Of course, my good Arrack," Henry huffed. "You'll find I am rich in knowledge, in culture, in nobility, all of that as well as in money. As to the matter of your current... employer, I think we can handle that bit of misconsumption." He had used the word improperly, true, but it was so big and so fancy he couldn't help but use it. He leaned back in his chair and pondered for a moment. This Arrack claimed to work for someone. A she?

"Well, good bard," Dezrick continued after a moment, ignoring the fact that Arrack had claimed not to be one. "What does your Lady do? I've been looking for something exciting to do, as a sort of way to pass time you see, and in my experience the rich and fancy ladies always have some sort of exciting thing to send one off to do. I'll give you a pleasant fee, perhaps... the fifty crowns you see on the table before you if she is of the exciting sort to get me employment with." He thought for a moment, wondering if his rash words hadn't completely blown the cover that he wasn't in fact rich, nor was he noble. He flipped another coin into the tavern, watching it bounce off the floor.

"I'm a bit of a risk-taker, you see," he bragged. "Danger isn't spelled with a capital 'D' for me. Perhaps on one of my fantastic adventures, though never as fantastic as I've had before, I'll be in need of a bard. Until then, do tell me your employer's name."

Of course, Dezrick had never been on any sort of fantastic adventure, nor had he ever even left Prime, but it was pleasant enough to make people believe he had. Adventurers always got all the gossip.