The TwiceBorn

When Things Go Wrong...Smile

 "Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian."--Herman Melville, Moby Dick

 Fetch's Tavern was nothing but a gutbucket filled with drunken men and  serving wenches who devoted more time to luring men upstairs then they did to serving  drinks.  Alora approached warily.  She  anticipated trouble.  If she weren't so hungry she'd listen to her better judgement and just go back to the Livery and a dig a piece of fish out of her saddlebag and gnaw on it.  The thought of hot food though was irresistable.

Fetch's looked more worn down than she remembered.  The broken walkway in front was riddled with holes and the men that leaned against the railing had to do a complicated polka if they decided to move around.  

Judging from their glassy eyes and too loud conversation, moving around holes big enough to snap an ankle was a minor inconvenience.  Alora figured they must drop like flies near closing time.

                      The two story building was overflowing with people from upstairs to down but that didn't bother her in the least.  One of the few advantages of being The Twiceborn was a path opened up for you in even the most crowded of buildings.  She stepped up onto the porch and ignored the ominous groan of wood underfoot.

The effect of her presence was immediate.  A large barn door of a man, arms pinwheeling for balance, disappeared off the edge of the walkway.  He landed with a loud "whump" but was not missed in the ensuing ruckus of men as they scrabbled from her path.

"Oh,piss up a rope,it's The Twiceborn!"  A florid-faced man in half-armor muttered.  He fixed her with a baleful eye as he flattened himself against the clapboard.  His companion, a bald little drink of water with a ratty kerchief tied around his pate, choked and sprayed ale from his mouth and nose as she walked by.

"How's it going,boys?" She asked as she moved easily through the chaos.  She caught an eye here and there and grinned.  Being The Twiceborn did have some perks.  She knew that, now, because she'd spoken to them they'd feel obligated to go to Church.  They'd squirm and sweat ale in the oppressive heat as they waited for a priest to scold them about having been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She pushed open the tavern doors and went inside.  The room was dimly lit by several torches mounted on the walls and covered by flimsy mantles.  The air was soupy and blue-hazed.  She breathed in a heady mixture of smoke, sweat,and grease that emanated from a tiny kitchen located behind the long oak plank that served as a bar.  She wrinkled her nose at the gamy scent.  She had just thought it crowded outside.  Inside it was wall to wall.

Several men had pushed aside some of the small wooden tables and were busy throwing dice in a game she recognized called "stickers."  Alora didn't know a lot about the rules but every time she'd seen it played the end result was usually a fight with everyone accusing the other of cheating.  She made a mental note to be in her room before that happened.

The game had drawn keen attention from the tavern patrons, thirty or so men in different types of attire and bristling with weaponry.  A few wore bits and pieces of armor and carried broadswords while others were attired in colorful caftans with shorter, oddly curved blades strapped to their sides.

Here and there she spotted the faces of farmers and merchants and, at first, the hodgepodge group confused her.  Ahh yes , the auction.  Behrin's flesh-peddling.  She gave all of them a bright, hard smile.

All of the bustle and noise wound down into an unmoving silence.  Thirty pairs of eyes settled on her.  She quickly processed the information in each stare.  Apprehension was good; fear better.  A quick look away and a mumbled prayer better yet.  The one thing she searched for and didn't find, much to her relief, was a challenge.  To kill someone just to have a bowl of Fetch's watered-down stew would be Gareth's eulogy all over again.