Chapter IX: The Last Temptation of Liam
By Eric Greer
The inn was a welcoming place. Situated near the docks, it had become
the central hub of the settlement. As Eric approached it, he couldn’t help but
feel humbled by the sight of it: its wooden sides were grey and white, having
been battered by years of vigilance next to the rough South Sea. A sign reading
“IN” (the second N having been a victim of the wind) hung over the porch by moldy
ropes creaked in the breeze, and the warm light of a fire inside illuminated
its steely window panes.
As he reached for the door, all thought of good food, a warm bed and
much needed rest were momentarily pushed from his mind as the sound of yelling
and crashing emanated from inside. Before he could wonder what was going on,
the door opened and a tall, heavy-set man came crashing out, landing squarely
upon him. Another man, bald, beardy and gangly-toothed followed him, yelling at
the top of his lungs, swinging a broom about.
“You get yer bastard ass outta my inn, you damn adventurer! Money!
Money! We need money! Yer songs an’ tales’ll get you nothing here, you
do-nothin’!”
“Oi! That’s not the proper way to treat your customers!” said the other
man, pushing himself up, leaving Eric crumpled on the ground.
“Customer? Customer?! You call yerself a customer?! You ain’t bought
nothin’!”
“Technicalities, my friend!” he said, brushing his robes off. “All I
asked for was some left-overs, simple scraps! In exchange, I would play you a
few tunes on my harp and serenade you with my tales-“ He stopped suddenly as he
reached his arms behind him.
The inn keeper let out a bellowing bark of a laugh as the robed man twisted a harp around from
behind him, now mangled and broken from the fall.
“Oh, bother,” he said, looking down at his precious instrument.
“At least you’ve still got your tales!” barked the inn keeper, laughing
as he slammed the door shut.
“What terrible luck!” he sighed as he unstrapped the harp, his arms
falling glumly to his sides.
“Ow…” moaned Eric, still on the ground.
“Oh, my poor fellow! My sincerest apologies!” cried the man, rushing to
Eric’s side, helping him up. “I scarcely had time to discern my surroundings as
I escaped from that brute inside!”
“It’s alright,” sighed Eric as he felt his sides, checking for any
broken bones. When he was satisfied that nothing was broken, he looked up at
the man: he was rather tall, standing well over six feet. He wore a thick,
light brown robe, under which he could see large, dirty boots. His hair wasn’t
short, but it wasn’t long either, and his beard was a mess after the scuffle. A
pair of small spectacles sat upon his nose. Despite his size, he didn’t look to
be a fighter. To the contrary, he had a vulnerable look to him that quite
reminded Eric of a monk or scholar. He noted his accent. “You’re not from
around here, are you?”
“What gave me away?” he said with a chuckle. “No, I’m originally from
Usier, far to the North,” he said, pointing North. “West.” He repositioned his
arm slightly to the left. “North West. That’s right.”
“Usier? That’s a long ways away. How’d you end up on Saros?” Eric had
lived in Usier for a few months, whilst on one of his grand schemes for glory
and riches (mostly riches).
“I’m apprenticing as an adventurer, my friend. The name’s Liam! Liam
Reginald Baldwick the Third! Of the house Baldwick, of course!” he said proudly.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance...?”
“Oh, uh, Eric. Just Eric,” he said. “Apprenticing as an adventurer?
I’ve never heard of that.”
“Well, um, it’s, uh- wow, it sure is nippy out here isn’t it?” he
asked, veering away from the topic. “Surely that bloke in there has calmed down
by now. What do you say we meander back indoors and chat over some ale, eh?”
“Uh, sure,” replied Eric, begrudgingly accepting that “chatting over
some ale” would require payment on his part.
As they entered the inn, all of the hopes and expectations the exterior
had planted in his mind were dashed away. While he could tell that the
establishment had once been quite something, those days were far behind it. The
large tables were now grimy and scarred by the uncaring hands of
countless sailors. The floor was slick with questionable liquids and what
looked to be rat feces. Even the unused chandelier above them had boots and stained pants
hanging from it. Behind the bar to their left Eric could see the innkeeper
glaring at Liam. He made note to keep at least three feet between himself and
the Baldwick child at all times.
The patronage was your usual rabble of sailors:
greasy-haired men of different ages and skin colors, all with weather-beaten faces. In the
corner, surrounded by gaffawing sailors, were three women: one was quite plump
with brown hair, her face greased by the large chicken leg she had in her right
paw; the second was painfully thin, with whispy blonde hair and dark
bruised-looking eyes; the third (possibly the eldest?) was a combination of her
sisters: not overweight, but not overly thin, with a very well-proportioned
chest and flowing blonde hair.
At the sight of new customers the trio leapt up and, pushing their
breasts up, began to push their trade. The eldest sister was obviously the
brains of the operation, as she immediately did all of the talking, only
allowing her sisters the occasional supposedly-sexy moan or giggle.
“3 gold pieces per turn; 15 for the night and all you can muster. What
do you say, loves? 20 for the both of you,” she said with a seductive smile.
Liam instantly turned a very violent shade of red.
“I’m good,” said Eric, trying not to laugh - he wasn't particularly in the mood for a whore (he still wasn't even sure if his goods had survived the trek through the snow).
“Well, sweety?” she said, turning to Liam, batting her eyes as she playfully
ran her finger across his chin, down his neck and onto his chest.
“Have at it, Liam!” laughed Eric, pushing the lad towards the trio. “Think
of it as an adventure!”
Liam somehow managed to turn an even darker shade of red as the women
pulled him into their room (next to the bar; no doubt the establishment's owner got a cut from their "business" dealings); as they closed the door, Eric could have sworn his
face was about to pop.
Still laughing, he walked to the bar.
“I hope you have actual money, and not a song an’ a tale, like yer
friend thur,” said the innkeeper, glaring at him.
“Plenty, my good man,” he said with a smile, pulling out the gold he
had stolen from Tom.
“What’ll it be, then?” growled the innkeeper.
“A mug of ale, a room and some information on the two ships docked
outside, if you would be so kind,” he answered, putting a few gold coins on the
counter.
“Hmm,” he growled as he sloppily poured some ale into a dirty looking
mug.
“Thank you, my good man,” he said. Looking at the mug, he instinctively
started to rub the rim with his shirt. The innkeeper glared at him. “And the
ships?” he asked, quickly putting the mug down.
“Hmm,” he growled. “Thur both leavin’ tomorree afternoon; as far as I
know, thur both headin’ to Steven’s Town.”
“Ah, good,” he said. He always had an easier time worming onto peoples’
good sides when he was well-rested. “And the room?”
“Hmm, Martha, honey! You got yerself a customer!” And with this the man
stomped his way to the other end of the bar, where he stood, scrubbing a very
clean mug (Eric was fairly confident that it was the only clean mug in the building).
“Ah, wonderful! A customer!” cried a female voice from the kitchen. When
she revealed herself, Eric found himself face to face with a devastatingly
attractive redhead. “A room?” she asked, a bright smile on her face.
“Um, yes, please,” he fumbled, trying not to look at her chest (which
was literally popping out of her top).
“Good! Good! One second, deary!” she said, wiping her hands on her
blouse (pulling her top down further). She then began to rummage through her
apron pockets. “There! Room 2, deary!” she said cheerfully, pulling out a key.
At that moment they heard yelling from the three sisters’ room. Turning
around, Eric saw Liam, face down on the floor, flailing his arms about.
“This man’s a cheat! We gave him a Slippery Jack, expecting well and due
compensation! Songs an’ tales aren’t good around here, you bastard!” The eldest
sister appeared to be very, very angry. “Get him girls!”
Eric didn’t wait to see what happened next. Laughing, he took the key
from Martha and handed her a few more gold coins. As he walked up the stairs he
could hear Liam down below trying to string together some sort of tune before
he was drowned out by the sisters. Looking down at the key, he noticed that it
had a stitch-worked butterfly attached it. Weird.
The room was absolutely pitiful. In one corner stood a pot with some
dirt in it, with what looked like a tree limb sticking out of it; next to it sat a
bucket for his business. Inspecting his bed, he found that it was nothing more
than a burlap sack stuffed with hay, flattened out to give it semi-bedlike
appearance. It hadn’t dawned on him that the inn’s main source of revenue would
be, not from lodgings, but from food and alcohol (why would the average sailor
pay to sleep at an inn when they could sleep on their ship?).
Resigning himself to his surroundings, Eric sunk onto the “bed” and
quickly drifted to sleep.
Copyright 2012 by Eric Greer. All rights reserved.
No comments:
Post a Comment