The Jester Race (ONC 2021)

The Offer

ONC: The Jester Race

#22 On occasion, an accusation of witchcraft has the power to set one on a wonderful, dangerous path.

My mother always held true to the sea. Her thirst bequench a wave off the Dyrnwall Landing, yet her heart would still sing all the same that she would swim again. She was a chitlin bug jumping shoulders to partake in adventurous men. Those rugged peoples rampaging ships, pillagin', ploughin' to remind themselves they're alive. She would hum shanties to me, swaddled so I couldn't escape their juvenile tune. Lull me once with whore tunes, shame on thee. Twice, it's a maggot in my ear and I'll naught be free ever again. One wiggles 'neath my lobes and a cadent possession soon sparks with it a conjuring: a lullaby.

Waters be, fathoms deep

Still we vessel t'wards harmon-y.

One in thine, st-i-ll sleepin'

Till morn thee arrive, thine Ghalihide

Till I see thee mornin' t-ime.

She had adopted the tune from Troubadours out to sea to greet King Ghalihide's newborn. They spoke it be the most dangerous of tunes to attempt, but O, did she enjoy bartering with reapers. Taken me for a fool, she decreed the tune's powers lies in the -i break and that slipping the que would bring "One thousand years' stubbed toes and buboes upon the family!"

On occasions like this, I ride up mine robing just to see if finally, one day a blackened abscess begins to rot my flesh. Nothing yet.

I'll not the same fate for my kin. Mother, so sick in the head to tie mine fate to fucking water ballads. To dance with the waves is to offer quite cordially thy body to the Ancients beneath. Let this tome of twine and of thine own blood be account enough that I, Marqee of the Coven Hawk, hate the sea.

Still, in surveying the port town I'iandra of all its drunkards and salty air, I can't help but wonder where I've done wrong. And as though this book did ear, my quill runs dry. I shut my tome to catch a better glimpse of the bar top. Its surface is smattered with ash and bread crumbs. Three burly men are bartering who will catch "That litt'l guppy eyein' us."

They must be referring to me.

I've not eaten for some time, and my thin arms are starting to wither. One tries to catch me by his hooking, scarred gaze. 'Least with his good eye. His smile produces a steam; I wager he be partial to crawdads on account of the shelled tail bit caught between his teeth. Once more, I wish for buboes; the sea laughs at me when none show, a howl erupting from the tavern from many different mouths. Crawdad eater's ploughin' me behind the tavern, I can tell in the way he be smirking. My fingers succumb to habit; I catch my hand contort an arachnid form, and with it, I see a glimmer overtake one of the many crawdad's on their platter. Just one bite, I swear. One bit of nibble would be all I need. Something left of my conscience snaps to a hungry beggar manifest through my hand. I retract my incantation, force lashing my hand as punishment.

"Not the place," I mutter, pangs shooting my hand to close. Their eyes, now only the crawdad eater sought thy company again. "Alright." I feign a smile back, flutter my eyes. He courts me, swayin' his Demijohn and taking a hardy tug of his mead.

Moron.

Men die during this dance, have you no idea? Mother mightn't have taught much but whore tunes and fables. She passed onto me, her blunder 'neath Lochmaw Ridge, the art of eating men alive.

I squeeze through his troupe of merry maggots, placed precariously near his lap and his caste-iron plate of crawdads. Ancient's know which one peaks thee most. Before I've my go at the food, the crawdad eater speaks.