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The wooden doors were drawn open with only the slightest of creaking noises. The cloaked figure standing in the doorway hesitated for a moment before stepping in. Behind him, the wind gusted strongly, sending a spattering of raindrops through the doorway. A nearby patron let out a tiny snort of complaint and shifted in his seat, moving further away from the door.
The cloaked figure strode with long purposeful strides towards the till, where the bartender, an aged pandaren, stood wiping the table. Even as he strode, his eyes cast about the room. Certainly an eclectic mix – at one table sat a Tauren who was quite apparently ravenous – he was devouring several bowls full of food, and apparently not caring if anyone expressed disgust at his antics. Close to him rested a Paladin, sipping slowly from a mug. Crouched in a corner was a ghoul – noticeably larger than average – clutching something closely to the decayed remnants of his chest. A heavily bandaged warrior with a rather eye-catching shock of azure hair was just getting up from his table, bidding farewell to… well, he couldn’t tell what it was, but it looked rather like a deformed rabbit.
And on a slightly elevated platform, a man dressed rather similarly to himself strummed an aged harp softly, regaling several fascinated patrons with tales and fables of the world’s rich history.
Finally, he reached the table, just as the Pandaren turned towards the bard. “Hey, Rowan!” He called. “Try telling ‘em one of your howlers, eh?”
“Sorry ‘bout that.” The Pandaren turned back to his latest customer. “Damn, man, but you look a sight. The storm outside must be worse than I thought.”
As if to emphasize his point, thunder rumbled in the distance just as he finished speaking. The man shrugged slightly. “I’ve met worse.”
“Well, good on you. Now, what’ll it be?” Business was business, after all, and there was no sense in talking when one could get a sale.
“… The strongest stuff you’ve got.” The cloaked figure shook his head, a smile that spoke of past hurts appearing briefly on his visage. “There’s lots of things I want to forget… if only for a night.”
The Brewmaster, for that was what he was, turned away to prepare his drink while the figure dug around in his pockets for the necessary payment. A second later, both placed their respective offerings on the table and slid it across to their counterpart.
The figure downed the entire mug in a single long draught and slammed the now empty mug on the table. “Another.” He rasped.
“All right, but I feel I must inform you the establishment reserves the right to clock you across the head if you become rowdy after imbibing too much alcohol. Fair?” The Pandaren replied with a wry smile on his face. He let out a snort that might have been a chuckle and nodded his acquiescence.
“I can hold my liquor.”
Satisfied, the Pandaren refilled the mug, and the stranger resumed his drinking, though at a noticeably slower pace than before.
“…”
“What are you staring at me for?” The Brewmaster raised an eyebrow. “Ain’t never seen a Pandaren running a tavern before?”
“My apologies. I meant no disrespect.” He’s sharp, this one. Just like I thought. The stranger shifted under his cloak. “It’s just… There’s something in your eyes. It reminds me of… well, I can’t quite place it.”
“Is that so.” The way he phrased it made it abundantly clear it wasn’t a question.
The stranger hesitated, swirling what remained of his drink around in his mug. “Mind telling me about yourself?” He finally spoke up.
“Why? If you want some entertainment, Rowan’s always ready-“
“Parlor tricks, and some ballads of heroes long past aren’t exactly ‘entertainment’ in my book.” The stranger cut him off smoothly. “You’ll forgive me, but I’ve always been more interested in… stories. Of people.”
The Pandaren rolled his eyes and shook his head. “And what, pray tell, could I have to relate that would be of interest to one such as you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. What about your relation with him?” The stranger gestured towards a picture on the far side of the war. On it, a young human was shown, a confident smile on his face.
“Rather suspect that you would pick up such a detail.” The Brewmaster noted dryly.
“What can I say? I’m observant.” The cloaked man leaned back, spreading his arms in a nonchalant manner.
“All right, all right. It’s not like I got anything better to do anyway-“
“Wait.”
“Now what?”
“Before we begin,” The stranger took another long swallow, draining his mug of the last drops of ale. “Perhaps it might behoove both of us if I were informed of your name.”
“You’re a rude little snot, you know that?” The Pandaren remarked without any apparent ire. “All right, if you must know the name of the owner of this fine establishment…” He broke off and took a rather theatric bow.
I always enjoy your stories, Pureathor, and I am glad to see that you have decided to post here. So far this story seems to have a somewhat more serious feel to it than your earlier ones, but that just might be because you haven't shared much of it with us yet.
Rowan the storyteller, eh? That brings back memories...
Last edited by Inquisitor7; 13-01-2007 at 11:01 PM..
“Hey, lads! Pandaria still safe and all? Keep up the good work, huh!” The two pandaren guards completely ignored Carl’s jovial greeting as they continued their rounds around the prison block.
Well, that was hardly surprising. Guards weren’t supposed to converse with prisoners, after all.
With a sigh, Carl settled himself back onto the wall of his rather dank cell, pulling the brim of his hat lower over his head.
“Get drunk enough to kiss an Elder on the lips during a ball, and they never let you forget it.” He mumbled to himself. Pandarens were generally an easygoing race, but they still had a rather well-defined hierarchy. To add insult to injury, the… unfortunate kiss had taken place as he was about to perform a ceremony of blessing upon the latest batch of Brewmasters – one of them being Carl.
He could still remember the incident vividly. All too vividly.
*~*~*~*~*
[i]“O venerated Earth Mother, send your blessing upon this young ones. They have vigour, they have courage. Their eyes still gleam with the joy of life and-“
“Carl, maybe you should stop drinking so much.”
“Aw, come offa it!” Carl slurred. “We’re *hic* Brewmasters! We’sh gotta… we gotta live up to our namesh! Hey, why’sh there three of ya? *hic*”
There was an audible groan as Carl slammed his ale-keg onto a chair.
“They will face hardships in the new lands, o wise Earth Mother. We offer our prayers that you-“
“Hey – ish’… izzat Maya? I alwaysh thought… she hadda *hic* hadda crush on me, you knowsh? Oh yeah, no chick can reshisht these *hic* muscles, I tellsh ya.”
“Maya isn’t even in Pandaria anymore, Carl. That’s the Elder Arnken.”
“Well, she shore is *hic* a cutie-pie!”
“She’s like a hundred and two years old.”
“Who’sh ta shay… *hic* that age’sh… that age’sh any barrier ta true love… huh? HUH?!”
And before anyone could stop in, Carl was on a berserk rampage towards the centre of the stage, where the Elder Arnken stood respectfully behind the Head Shaman.
“And, finally, o great Earth Mother, we pray that you – what the [word omitted from official record due to it being unseemly for a Head Shaman to be seen speaking thus] is this – Carl?!”
While it wasn’t really necessary to go into the lurid details, suffice it to say that for the first time in a very long while, several of the Pandarens in the vicinity had trouble keeping down their drink.
*~*~*~*~*
The Pandarens had quickly slapped him in irons, and tossed him into the local jail. They hadn’t even taken the time to read him his rights.
Oh, well. At least they’d let him keep his staff and keg. Most Pandarens would never dream of restricting another’s flow of drink, least of all a Brewmaster. One of the nicer things about the Pandaren philosophy, he supposed.
“And here I was hoping you could keep yourself out of trouble for a bit while I went off to see the world.”
Carl didn’t need to turn his head to see his visitor. His voice was identification enough.
“What, you came all the way back just for me? How sweet of you, Mojo.”
Mojo Stormstout was renowned among the Pandarens as a master tactician and strategist in the ways of battle. It was said that he had traveled the world during the Third War, recording the skills and abilities used by many of the warriors that had participated in those fierce battles.
He was also a close personal friend of Carl, and the two had shared many tales (not to mention strong drinks) together in the numerous taverns of Pandaria. Even now, Carl felt slightly cheered up by his older friend’s presence.
“Yep. Truth be told, I probably needed to be heading back here regardless.” Mojo scratched at the back of his neck. “Been running a bit low on supplies.”
“What can you get in Pandaria that you can’t get elsewhere?” Carl raised an eyebrow as he settled back onto the wall, arms folded comfortably.
“Well, ale that doesn’t taste like drainwater, for one thing.” Mojo shifted the grip on his ale keg slightly. “Not to mention a Shimmerglaze Roast that’s cooked properly for once. For all their achievements in other areas, the rest of Azeroth’s races can’t seem to focus properly on cusine.”
Carl nodded. “Ah, but it’ll be a long time before I get to taste one of those beauties again.” He let out a long, slow sigh. “Guess it’s my lot. Better get used to it.”
Mojo shrugged. “Well, I’d better be going, old friend.”
“Don’t forget to write.”
*~*~*~*~*
Several days later…
“Two thousand, seven hundred and twenty-three, Two thousand, seven hundred and twenty-four, two thousand, seven hundred and twenty-five.”
Carl sat up. “In case anyone likes to know, there are exactly two thousand, seven hundred and twenty-five cracks in the ceiling.”
Complete silence greeted his pronouncement.
“Guess no one wants to know.” Carl said to the empty room.
He wasn’t sure when he’d had the epiphany, but apparently being stuck in a prison cell for the vast majority was incredibly, incredibly, boring.
He sighed and settled back once again for a nap. The longer he was unconscious, the faster time would fly by.
Now, if the sounds of rapidly approaching feet, not to mention a scuffle, would kindly go away, he’d be much obliged…
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