Dorian stumbled slightly, and caught himself just shy of falling on his face. The woman at his side grabbed his waist and heaved him back to his feet, grabbing a hand-full of cheek along the way. Dorian gave a show of mock-outrage, and the woman giggled. He decided he liked the sound of that, and made a point to try and make her do it more often. He also liked the way she snuggled up close to him and pulled him tight. He didn't have to try to get her to do that, though. Another man might have taken the fiery red-headed woman's advances at face value, but Dorian was not another man. He'd been to this shadowy port northwest of Occlo before, and he knew the way it worked. The woman's hands might stray to his waist line and linger at his belt, but Dorian had the sinking suspicion it wasn't his trousers she was interested in, but the knots holding his bulging purse on his belt. The woman was a pirate, through and through. Still, that didn't mean he couldn't have a good time. Even a fine dinner and an evening at a theater cost some coin, and typically was a lot less interesting. So Dorian pulled the stopper from his jug of hard cider and took a long, slow draught as they walked. When he was done, he handed it to the woman and she took it, her eyes twinkling. She tipped the jug up to her lips and made as if to drink from it. But, just shy of her mouth, she tipped the vessel and a dribble of amber liquid fell to the dirt. "I told you, I know the rules, gypsy man," the woman said, handing the jug back to Dorian, and tugging one of his long, oiled braids playfully. "Tip a glass with a man, and you're truced til the sunsets.... or rises....again. I know the old laws just like you." "That's fine, love," Dorian replied with a grin. He spit the cork to the side and took the jug of cider from her. "Can you at least tell me your name?" Dorian took another long, slow sip, making it seem like he drank more than he actually did. He lowered the jug and let a grin split his face. "I can't sing a song about you, if I don't know your name, lass." The beautiful woman batted eyelashes and looked up at him with smoldering green eyes. She opened her mouth with a reply, but just then there was a loud crash from the tavern ahead of them. A man came cartwheeling through the closed doors in a shower of splinters and curses. He stumbled at the steps, and wound up on his back in the mud. Dorian and his lovely thief of a pirate froze for a brief second, stunned. The woman's eyes suddenly turned hard as green agates, and quicker than he could follow she had a shiny dagger in her hand and she was trying to stick it between his ribs. Dorian brought the jug of cider down on her wrist, knocking the blade aside, but not really phasing her. The woman made a move, and suddenly there was a dagger in her right hand. This wasn't going to end well. Dorian brought the jug of thick clay around in a hard, sharp angle, and smashed it against the side of the woman's head. There was a low-pitched crunch as the jug shattered, and the woman collapsed to the ground in a limp heap. Dorian heaved a heavy sigh. He'd had a pleasant evening planned, and now some idiot in fine cut cotton Lord's clothes was mucking it all up. Dorian growled deep in his throat, and started stalking towards the stranger still floundering in the mud. Just as Dorian as about to reach him, though, a heavy crossbow bolt streaked out the door, and landed with a thunk in the mud next to the man. Their eyes met, and widened. Whoever was in the tavern, this wasn't a simple brawl gone wrong. This was serious. Dorian took a moment to look around him, and groaned. Five "sailors" were edging towards them with various cudgels and bladed weapons. Three more were coming out of the tavern when Dorian looked back. One was cranking a heavy crossbow back. "Friends of yours?" Dorian growled. "Who are you?" The man asked. "You first," Dorian spat, "You know you really screwed up my night. I had a working plan to get pick-pocketed by a buxom little red-headed pirate wench, then spend the rest of the night trying very convincingly to convince her to let me steal something in return. I'm not too happy about that." The man chuckled, and moved slightly closer to Dorian. "I'm Ascher Kraw," the man said with a wide grin. "Normally I'd shake your hand, but I think we have more pressing concerns to deal with at the moment." Dorian shrugged. "Well, I wanted an exciting night," he said. "I just didn't have this in mind." In a flourish and a flash, Dorian had a long, thin-bladed dagger in each hand. He held them low, and at the ready. He turned and winked at Ascher. "I'm Dorian Andrael. Now, let's dance, shall we?" Dorian spun away towards the closest two pirates, the small silver bells in his braids tinkling.
I know right! If you haven't already, you should check out all The Watch's other shorts. I have them archived in the village of Paws oral history thread in the guild section. They are great! I really appreciate the story element he brings to the shard
Ascher watched the man spin away, his knives flashing. The pirate to the right tried to skewer him, but Dorian deflected the thrust easily with the dagger in one hand. He spun quickly around the blade, his other dagger flashing in the moonlight. The pirate went down in a limp heap. Dorian eyed the other man, as he stepped smoothly over the body at his feet. There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes that was reflected in the fat emeralds dangling from his ears. Just then, there was a click in front of him, and Ascher's attention was drawn away from the dancing gypsy. The tavern keeper had finished winding his crossbow. The men on either side of the hulking man both had Viking style short swords out and ready, but they suddenly looked much less convinced. Dorian was busy off to the right, and apparently doing well judging by the music of his bells and his laughing taunts. The man had language that could curl the toes of a goat, and a vivid imagination. "Look Caleb," Ascher said, spreading his hands in front of him, "I don't want any trouble. I really didn't mean any disrespect, okay. I said I was sorry. Can't we drop this?" The massive tavern keeper shook his head slowly, and brought up the huge crossbow with ease. "You put your muddy boots up on my table. I warned you twice last week, and you did it again, Kraw. I got a reputation to keep, ya' know. I can't seem weak around here, or these blood thirsty wharf rats will tear me to pieces. Nothin personal." Ascher opened his mouth again, putting on his most winsome smile, but before he could speak, Caleb actually fired the second bolt. In a blur, Ascher drew the inky black kryss at his side. He knocked the bolt out of the air and leveled the point at Caleb's eyes all in one smooth, fluid motion. Caleb's mouth fell open. "No, Caleb," Ascher whispered softly, "It just got very personal." The two hired thugs on either side of Caleb dropped to the ground together. They came at Ascher from both sides, the stout-bladed Viking swords spinning in tight arcs. Ascher didn't wait for the men to move, and instead launched himself at the man to his left. The startled thug raised his sword and Ascher darted forward and cut him along his triceps, deep. The man cursed, and his sword fell from his hands as the runic power of the blade coursed through him. He was out of the fight, but would live.... probably. The next man was more cautious, and he was good. He feinted twice to the right, then made a tight, quick move to his left. The sword arced up at Ascher's left side fast enough to whistle through the air and he had to dive in a roll to miss it. As he rolled by the man, Ascher twisted hard, and lashed out with his kryss. The blade sliced through the back of the man's right calf, and he stumbled. Ascher rose quickly, and knocked the man's sword from his hand with a hard kick to his wrist. A sharp blow from the pommel of Ascher's kryss to the back of the man's head, and he crumpled. Ascher turned, and Caleb was still cranking his crossbow. Ascher leapt to the porch and with one quick slash, severed the string on the crossbow. There was a loud pop and the bowstring snapped backwards, slicing a deep gash across Caleb's face as the incredible tension was released all at once, and in the wrong direction. Caleb staggered back, his hand going to his cheek. Ascher grabbed the tavern keeper by the chest and slammed him against the wall of the tavern. He leveled the point of his runic kryss at Caleb's eyes and held it there steadily. "Now listen," Ascher said calmly, barely breathing hard, "I know you like your tavern, and I know you have a reputation. You tried to kill me over mud on a table. Trust me, your reputation as crazy and hard is set. Now, would you like to continue this little exercise, or shall we call this finished? I think your two men twitching in the dirt over there need a healer, and I'd really see someone about that gash. If you let something like that fester, it's gonna make a nasty scar." Caleb's one good eye glared at Ascher for a moment, but he finally nodded. Ascher wiped the blade of his kryss clean and dropped the bandage in the dirt. He sheated the blade with a practices and somber flourish, then turned and walked away. Dorian Andrael was leaning against the wood palisade that ringed the pirate port, an easy grin on his face. "Glad you enjoyed the show," Ashcer growled as he walked past. Dorian shrugged and fell into step alongside him. "You seemed to know how to handle yourself just fine," he answered in a strange, almost lyrical accent. "Besides, I didn't see you in any hurry to lend a hand to ol' Dorian." Ascher grunted. "You seemed to know how to handle yourself just fine," he replied. "Why are you following me?" "I'm looking for excitement," Dorian replied. Ascher nearly stumbled, "That wasn't exciting enough for you?" Dorian grinned and winked at him. "I told you I had an exciting evening planned. You ruined that, you cod livered sot, and now you owe me one very exciting night. Trust me, you do not want to be in my debt." Ascher arched an eyebrow. "Really? And why is that?" Dorian winked at him again, "Because I'm Dorian Andrael." Ascher shook his head, "Never heard of you." Dorian's grin deepened, "Well then, my friend, you do not know the right people. And that is something we shall have to remedy....."
Dorian woke slowly. The first thing he noticed was the shouting....the second was the splitting pain in the right side of his head. Dorian kept his eyes closed and breathed in deeply through his nose. He wanted to see if he could figure out where he was before letting anyone know he was awake. There was a hint of sage and rosemary on the air, along with the thick, warm smell of a burning beeswax candle. A faint hint of fresh dirt was covered over by the thick smell of hay straw. "Awake, eh?" Ascher asked directly behind him. Dorian's eyes popped open, his head jerked up, and he winced hard at the pain. "Yeah," Ascher said softly, "the big one with the topknot clocked you pretty good with his cudgel. I wouldn't try to move too quickly if I were you. You bled a lot." "Where are we?" Dorian asked, trying to clear his head. "In a tent," Ascher replied with a muffled groan as he shifted his weight. "After they hit you, I guess they hit me too, and I woke up here, bound hand and foot to this pole with you on the other side. The music was still going for a while, and then the shouting started. I think they're trying to decide who gets to kill you.... or rather, us." "You?" Dorian asked, confused again, "Why do they want to kill you?" Ascher chuckled a little at that. "I find it funny you're not asking the same question about yourself." "Oh, I can guess why they want me dead," Dorian replied with wry snort. "Big guy with a top knot? Doesn't narrow it down too terribly much, I'm afraid." "What could you possibly have done to make so many people want you dead?" Asher asked in mock surprise. "I'm a merchant," Dorian answered, somewhat haughtily, "There's many who think they've been cheated by me in one way or another... a handful who perhaps know they have, but can't prove it. Swindle someone out of a few thousand gold imperials, and suddenly they develop a thirst for your blood, it seems." "I heard the word 'smuggler' more than once," Ascher said with a smirk. "Smuggler indeed," Dorian growled, "That'd be like calling Jupiter a parlor magician. I'll show them a smuggler." Dorian swung his head to one side and caught a thick braid in his fingertips, though just barely. He began searching the thick chord of hair, and finally sighed in disgust. "I keep a razor thin blade in both, but I suppose they would think to look there." Just then the large man with a topknot burst into the tent, followed by three others. Dorian tried his best to flash a smile, but could just barely manage a grimace in his current state and position. "Murrock! Nice to see you again. I'd shake your hand and offer you a rhum, but as you can see I'm a bit indisposed at the moment." The large man growled deep in his throat, "You cheated me out of two chests full of rubies, and you have the gall to talk about drinks?" "No sense dying thirsty," Dorian muttered sullenly. "Oh, I'm not going to kill you, thief," Murrock rumbled darkly, "I'm going to hurt you some more first." "I'm not a thief," Dorian snapped back, "You agreed to the terms of the sale before you inspected what you were buying. I can't help it you were impulsive." The big man growled again and started to take a step forward, but one of his three companions stepped in front of him. "Not in my tent, Murrock, I told you that. If you mean to finish this business and settle your debt, then you do it outside where you won't dirty my fresh straw." "Belldan," Dorian said with another grin, "I thought I heard your voice out there, you old gypsy cur. You still make the best rhum around, Belldan. I hate we won't be able to drink more of it together." "You never should have come back, Dorian," Belldan said, shaking his head. "If I may?" Ascher said, and Dorian jumped a little as did everyone else in the tent. He'd been so quiet the rest of them had forgotten he was there. "Belldan, I believe you owe me a debt. If I understand the Old Law, you invited me to your fire and your feast, you gave me food and you gave me drink, you even shared a dance with me around the fire. You offered me guest rights, then shed my blood when I tried to step in to help my friend, whom you also offered guest rights to as well." "Now wait a minute," Belldan said, suddenly uncomfortable, "Dorian and Murrock had a public blood feud. Murrock declared it before the Council the night Dorian disappeared with his rubies and left him with barrels of rotten grapes that he called wine. I can't be responsible for a blood feud, by the Old Law, or the New." Ascher nodded, "Quite right. But I had no feud with anyone, and you still shed my blood. If I understand the Old Law correctly, that means you forfeit your blood to me in return. In essence, your life is mine, am I right?" "Well... I... well...." Belldan stumbled over his words, but couldn't get a clear thought out. Even Murrock was starting to look unsure of himself. "We need to discuss it further," Belldan said after a moment, and he stormed out of the tent with the others in tow. "What are you doing?" Dorian whispered when they were gone, "You know if you're wrong about this, they'll kill you too. You're not even a gypsy, Ascher." "No, but you are... and so is Belldan," Ascher replied, "And if I'm right, that's all that will matter, and it just might give both of us a chance out of here." "Or give both of us a trip to the executioner's block," Dorian said sullenly. Ascher chuckled softly. "You said you wanted an exciting night...." Dorian couldn't help but laugh at that. After a long while, Belldan and Murrock returned with a small, grizzled woman between them. The old woman was hunched and leaning heavily on a gnarled staff that looked nearly as ancient. Belldan pointed to the woman. "This is our Hedgewitch. Give her the accusation as you said it to me, and she will judge according to the Old Law." Ascher nodded, and related his charge to the old woman. The Hedgewitch nodded as he spoke, and continued nodded long after he had finished. Ascher began to wonder if the woman were deaf or perhaps had lost all her senses. Finally, after a long and stretching silence, the old woman leveled a gnarled and twisted finger at Ascher, "The pale-eyed man has the truth of it. Belldan shed a guest's blood of his own hand. His life is forfeit or his soul. You take what you will, pale-eyes, and go." Without another word, the old woman turned, and disappeared into the night, leaving the tent in stunned silence. "I'm betting you could use a drink of that rhum now, eh Belldan?" Dorian said, his laughter returning with a vengeance. When Dorian had finally died down, Belldan bent and used a slim stiletto to slice the bindings that held Ascher to the pole. He helped Ascher to his feet, and look deep into his eyes. "I'm a very wealthy man, Master Kraw," Belldan said seriously, "I can offer you treasures beyond your dreams in exchange for my life." Ascher simply smiled, "I have a better deal for you, Belldan," he said with a broadening grin, "An even trade. Your life for Dorian's." Suddenly, the entire tent was still as a tomb, and twice as silent. "You cod-livered sot," Dorian growled into the silence. This time, it was Belldan who laughed.
Excellent! By rights of the old law the crafty Dorian becomes indebted to Ascher! Never play games with a gypsy, but more importantly never doubt the skill of a Watchman o' the Vale. Thanks for continuing to post these! You should let us know if/when your novel is available. I bet a lot of us UOR folks would be some of your first fans.
Honestly, I thought I had posted this already.... My first book "Officer of the Watch" is currently available on Kindle or paperback on Amazon.com. Ooops.
As Belldan continued to laugh, Murrock's expression began to darken and his scowl deepened. "I don't see how this is funny, Belldan," Murrock growled at last. "Of course you don't, Murrock," Belldan gasped, wiping tears from his eyes. "You never were the brightest lantern in the mine, were you?" "Tell this addlepated fool to name his price and be done," Murrock grumbled, "Before I decide to cave in his skull for standing between me and my blood price." Suddenly Belldan was in front of Murrock with his left hand around the larger man's throat and the stiletto in his right hand leveled at Murrock's eyes. "You take one step toward my guest, and I'll gut you like a mountain trout, Murrock. You weren't invited to the Roasting Fire, you didn't share my food and my drink, and it was your sheep-brained foolishness that landed me in this mess to start with. Next time you make a deal with a bloody Grand-Mastered Merchant, inspect the flaming goods before you hand over payment!" Ascher blinked in surprise. Belldan had seemed all culture and urbane gypsy refinement up until that moment. The man moved with the speed of a Silver Serpent, and he had the teeth of a dragon. Murrock was easily twice his size, but instead of lashing out the hulking man scowled and dropped his cudgel to his side in defeat. Belldan released the larger man's throat with a hard shove, and then turned back to Ascher. That quick, and the flash of rage and violence was gone, replaced by a broad easy grin and sparkling black eyes. "I must say, Master Kraw," Belldan said with a slight bow of his head, "I'm impressed. Not many outside the tribes even know the Old Law these days, much less invoke it. You have me at a hard spot. A declared Blood Feud is a sacred rite to our people, and it carries with it powerful magic that is difficult to break. However, one of the few precepts in the Old Law that can over rule the Blood Feud is Guest Rights, but I suppose you knew that already. If this price is the one you ask, it is yours....but I would caution you to think carefully. I may seem a simple gypsy troubadour, but I assure you I am not. I hold the wealth of the mines of Minoc in my grip, and it is but yours to ask. Name your price wisely, Watchman." Ascher looked confused and frowned. "I'm not sure I understand, Belldan. The mines of Minoc are in your control?" Belldan snorted. "Of course not," he said with a chuckle, "what use has a gypsy with holes in the ground? But the wealth of the mines is mine. Whenever a miner breaks a pick axe, who do you think he asks to mend it? A gypsy tinker. Same with a pot that springs a leak, a lantern that cracks, an ore cart that throws an axle... all fixed by my gypsy tinkers here in camp. And when a lucky miner strikes a vein of gold ore....or verite....or valorite... where do you think he goes with his winnings? Sure the town has wine and ale and music, but what you'll find here in my gypsy camp is finer by far. And here you can always find a game of fates, or toss the eyes, or cards to triple your earnings, if the fates smile on your hand. And the women.... oh, Master Kraw, the women.... what miner doesn't get lonely under the mountains? So you see, while the mines may be where the riches come from, most of them eventually pass through my hands in one way or another. I could give you enough gold and gems to build a fortress for you in the mountains or a castle on the plains." "If you could afford a castle, why live in a tent?" Ascherer asked. Belldan snorted again. "What use has a gypsy with a castle?" He asked in response. "You can't roll up a fortress and ride to the next town, can you?" "Do you plan on riding to the next town any time soon, Belldan?" Ascher asked with a sly grin. "That's not the point," Belldan answered, raising his chin a touch, "It's the gypsy principle of it. This tent and this village is all the castle I need." "I understand completely," Ascher said with a nod, "And I appreciate your candor. But my price has been named. Your life for Dorian's, and I'll accept no other payment than your blood and your soul." Belldan regarded Ascher for a long moment, his expression serious. Finally, he spat in his left hand and held it out. "Then the deal is made," Belldan said formally. Ascher spat in his left hand, and clasped Belldan's. "And the price is paid," he answered just as formally. "Now just a goat-kissing second," Murrock growled suddenly. Belldan never took his eyes from Ascher's as he leveled his stiletto at the hulking gypsy. "One more word, Murrock, and I'll make a hatband out of your fool tongue." Murrock's teeth clicked as his mouth snapped shut, but he glared daggers at Asher and Dorian. "You'll have safe passage out of my camp," Belldan said calmly, "And all the way to the Minoc moongate. Once you step foot inside the stone circle, though, your protection and your claim of guest rights are done." Ascher nodded, and Belldan turned his eyes toward Dorian, "I suggest you stay clear of this place unless you're specifically and personally invited, Dorian Andrael. My hearth is cold and my tent closed to you until I say otherwise." Dorian opened his mouth, but Ascher stepped in front of him before he could speak. "I assure you, Belldan, we won't return unless we have your express invitation. That goes for Dorian here as well." Belldan chuckled again. "I must say, Master Kraw, that I find it very....amusing.... that Dorian here finds himself deep in a debt that I doubt he'll ever be able to repay. There is some fitting justice in that, at least. I think one day you and I shall have to sit down to a game of S'Yang Stones and a bottle of good rhum. I'm sure you'd prove to be an interesting opponent." Ascher bowed his head slightly, "One day, perhaps. You're always welcome in Paws and at the Siren's Call, Belldan." The gypsy lord nodded and cut Dorian's bonds. Ascher helped Dorian to his feet, and the two of them stepped outside into the night air. Dorian stretched and rubbed his wrists where the rope had cut into them. He breathed in deeply through his nose with his eyes closed. As the two of them made their way to the makeshift corral, Dorian looked over at Ascher and shook his head. "You cod-livered sot," Dorian said with a chuckle, "You could have been wealthy and rich beyond your wildest dreams. Belldan doesn't look like much but the man lays golden turds in the privy house." "That's three times you've called me that and I don't even know what it means," Ascher answered. "Cod-livered sot? You know, I'm not sure myself," Dorian admitted with a chuckle. "I heard a salty old fisherman say it during a dice game in Vesper ages ago, and it just stuck. Sounded like a good thing to call someone when nothing else would do. You still didn't answer about the gold, though." Ascher shrugged slightly. "I'm not interested in riches and wealth," he said simply. "A man without greed?" Dorian gasped, feigning shock, "I don't know if I can trust you!" Ascher snorted and grinned at Dorian. "If it makes you feel any better, I don't trust you either." Dorian threw his head back and laughed so hard his shoulder shook. "My dear Watchman," he said when he finally regained control, "That's the wisest thing you've said all night."
The tavern sign featured a sailor gripping a skull shaped bottle that ended in jagged shards where the bottom jaw should fit and faded red lettering that spelled out, The Shattered Skull. The strong winds and driving rain outside made the sign squeak loudly as it swayed on its hinges, banging occasionally into the side of the building. For such a ragged an dreary evening, the common room of the tavern was rather full, if a bit subdued. Most of the men hovering over their ales were sailors, merchants, and traders who would be grudgingly tied to shore until the storm raging out side either blew itself out or moved on. And every day spent drinking in a tavern was a day they weren't making coin on the winds and the waters. Spring storms that blew in off the waters would sometimes ravage Skara Brae for weeks at the time, and this one showed no signs of slowing. Dorian Andrael, on the other hand, was in a fine and rare mood indeed. His loud and raucous laughter filled the room from the rough hewn floorboards to the dark and ancient beams of the ceiling. More than one of the other patrons turned a grumbling eye on the dicing merchant, muttering under their breath about fools knowing their own senses. Dorian didn't mind, though. He had just dodged a certain, bloody, and painful death and he was going to celebrate being alive, grumpy sailors and raging gales not withstanding. The serving girl set down another pitcher of ale and lifted the empty one from Dorian's table. She bent perhaps a bit farther than necessary while filling the merchant's cup, but he didn't seem to mind. He winked, tossed her a fat silver mark, and thanked her for the ale. "Mister Dorian," the pretty and buxom young woman said in a lilting island accent, "You're the only fella in this hole of a tavern doesn't try to pinch my bottom or tweak my blouse when I'm servin ya." Dorian winked again and grinned. "Are you complaining about their attentions my dear," he began and leaned closer to her, "Or the lack of mine?" The serving girl giggled and blushed prettily, then turned and swayed her way back into the kitchen with Dorian watching appreciatively the whole time. "You certainly have a way with the ladies," Ascher said sarcastically. Dorian made a half bow from his seat, complete with an overly embellished flourish of his hands and his silver-belled braids. "Thank you, M'Lord Kraw," the merchant said with a formal tone. "It pleases me to know that my master has approved of his servant's antics." "Oh come off it," Ascher growled with a wave of his hand. "I've told you at least a dozen times now, I was just trying to get us out with our skin intact. You don't owe me a blood debt or whatever you called it." Dorian's face grew suddenly serious, "You're wrong, Ascher. You invoked the Old Law, and now you're bound by it as surely as I am. A life was traded for a life, and that's no light thing." "Fine," Ascher replied and took a long drink of his ale. "You can have your life back since I have more than I can manage keeping track of my own. There, the debt's settled." Dorian shook his head, "It's not that simple, I'm afraid. I'm bound by my honor and by the Old Law to see this debt through until you either collect my life, or I am able to give my life for yours. You can't simply declare it settled and walk away." "Why not?" Ascher shot back. Dorian chuckled. "You consider yourself a man of honor, Watchman?" When Ascher nodded reluctantly, Dorian continued. "Then would you allow another man to put the price on your honor? If I let you clear this debt with a word, then what would the honor of Dorian Andrael be worth? No, Watchman, I'm afraid you're stuck with me just the same as I'm stuck with you." Ascher drained the last of his ale, and set the empty tankard down hard. "In that case I think we're going to need more ale," he said with a loud burp at the end. Dorian threw his head back and shook with laughter until tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. He lifted the leather dice cup, shook it twice, and dumped the five bone cubes onto the table. The dice spun for a moment and landed showing dots in sequence from one to five. "The Dancer's Jig!" Dorian called and slapped his hand down on the table, "A tough roll to beat, Watchman. You have to get five up twice in a row, or it's my game. That'd make it what, five of mine to your one?" Ascher shook his head. "I'd call you a cheat if they weren't my dice and my cup," he muttered. "So, as long as we're on the subject of debts, just what did you do to Murrock to make him swear out a blood feud against you?" Dorian chuckled, "I told him I had ten full Dagger Island Ice Wine barrels for sale. We haggled, and settled on the price of two chests of fine cut rubies from the mines of Minoc as payment. He handed over the rubies and I delivered the ten barrels as promised." "Then what was he angry about?" Ascher asked as he poured another tankard of ale. Dorian shrugged with a feigned expression of innocence. "That's beyond me. I sold him what I said I would, and he got all twisted up about it. Accused me of being a cheat and a liar, which I never was. I told him the barrels were full, and they were." Ascher's eyes narrowed, "What were they full of?" He asked. Dorian winked at him, and tapped one finger on the side of his nose. "Now, that would be an important question, wouldn't it? But Murrok, blunt minded goat of an ox he is never thought to ask. He just assumed they were full of Ice Wine, which would have made his deal cheap at cost and a high end profit on the other end." "So what were they full of?" Ascher asked again. Dorian leaned across the table and whispered, "Two years worth of empty hulls and rotten grapes from Dagger Island's finest wineries. I sold the wine to a wealthy man... Lord of the Vale, or some such nonsense.... He had no use for the barrels, though. The man worked out some sort of stone reservoir with piping that carries the wine, chilled of course, to his kitchen where he twists a tap to fill his flagons and glasses. I didn't think it prudent to let the barrels go to waste, though, so I convinced the wineries on Dagger Island to pay me to clean out their presses and remove the leavings. Murrock never even considered inspecting the goods before he paid for them, which no self-respecting merchant would ever do. I thought it would simply teach him a lesson that he's better off digging the treasures out of the ground than he is at trading them." "I'd say he took it harder than you expected," Ascher replied with a shake of his head. "Your roll, Watchman," Dorian said, pointing to the cup and the dice, "Don't think you'll distract me from the game with your spinning tales." "All I did was ask a question," Ascher replied, donning the same feigned innocence Dorian had worn. "You're the one spinning tales." Ascher collected the dice into the cup, shook it several times, and dumped the cubes onto the table. Something strange happened, though, and as the dice tumbled across the rough wood surface, they each stood on one corner and began spinning like a top. Ascher stared at the dice for a moment, then looked up in time to see the color drain from Dorian's face. After a brief second, the gypsy slammed his hand onto the table hard enough to make the dice bounce. "Roll again," he grated in a hoarse whisper. So Ascher carefully collected the dice again, shook the cup three times, and dumped them onto the table. This time the small cubes didn't roll and bounce across the table at all, but instead landed immediately on their corners and started spinning. Dorian let out a string of what sounded like curses in a language Ascher had never heard before, "Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat. Briseadh agus brú ar do chnámha! Is this your doing?" Ascher spread his hands and shook his head. "I'm no wizard, Dorian. I can barely read off a Recall Scroll without singing all my hair off. Whatever this is, I didn't do it." Dorian grumbled more curses under his breath. He drained his ale, and stood. "I think this is a message from Fate that our dice game is over." Ascher snorted. "You can't really believe that Fate is a person....can you?" Dorian made a crossing gesture over his heart, whispered a prayer, and kissed a large gold medallion he wore next his skin before answering. "I absolutely do, and you would too if you'd met her like I have. She's not just a person, she's a .... Lady .... and the most beautiful one I've ever seen....most of the time." "You mean she can change her appearance? Like an illusion?" Ascher asked as he stood. Dorian shook his head, "I have charms to break illusions. She can actually be different from one moment to the next. And that's not all she changes. You said you don't trust me fully, well I'm a Shrine Keeping Monk compared to...her." Ascher shrugged, "If you say so." The two turned and headed for the door, pulling their cloaks tight against the whipping wind and driving rain. It wasn't the kind of night Ascher liked to travel in, but the dice had upset Dorian so much he was willing to walk away from a fresh pitcher of ale without a word of complaint. And that was enough to make the hairs on the back of Ascher's neck stand on end. They left the dice on the table, still spinning....
The blonde serving girl stood at the door to the kitchen and watched. The Gypsy Merchant and the Wandering Watchman pulled their cloaks closed against the storm, and pushed their way out into the night. As the door to the tavern slammed shut from the wind, the buxom young woman gave a twist of her fingers and shook her head lightly. In a dazzling moment, she went from a tall and curvy blonde serving maid to a lithe woman with a slim frame, fiery red hair, and sparkling green eyes. The actual serving maid would be waking up from a pleasant dream in the milk shed out back soon, so Fate had to move quickly. She waived a hand, and time seemed to suddenly stop in the Shattered Skull, though she knew that was only an illusion. In reality, the unstoppable march of time continued, just ever so slowly. If one stared at the flames in the blazing hearth for hours on end, it would become barely noticeable that they weren't, in fact, frozen but were simply creeping along in their natural pattern at a very reduced rate. In this, the space between heartbeats, Fate worked her best magic. She snapped her fingers, and the dice spinning on the table fell flat and appeared nothing more than the ordinary dice they were. For a long time, Fate stood at the towering stone hearth in the common room, staring into the slowly rippling flames. She could feel the knot in the pattern approaching, and it was one of the worst she'd ever dealt with. She couldn't see it yet, but she knew some threads were bound to it tighter than others. The two men that had just left caused waves of it to roll off them like thunder from a storm. It was hard to believe that the mortals in the tavern hadn't felt the bindings of Fate and Chance twisting tighter just from their presence together in the room. The Grey Wizard was out there too, his patient and measured hand clear on some parts of the pattern. She liked the Grey, though she'd known him only briefly. He seemed wise and more careful than most, where men were concerned. Still, he had his own designs he was working towards, and she wasn't sure yet what those designs might entail. She had checked in on the Tailor and the Tinker, though neither knew of her presence. The Betrayer was somewhere in the world, his dark and slimy touch on the pattern made her shudder. And always there was the Shadow....the Darkness.... hovering over everything and threatening to crush the pattern beneath its awful and awesome might. And then there was the Unbeliever....the Forsaken.... Fate could feel his thread clearer than any other in the pattern. She longed to go to him...to see his face and hear his voice again after so many ages. His was the last thread that had been tied directly to her own still running through the tapestry. She'd removed herself from the pattern long ago, but some ties were too strong to break. If she'd wanted, she could raise a finger and point directly to him now. He stood far to the north and east, beyond the great and ancient forests of Yew, where the Northern Seas chewed away at stony shores. She could have gone to him, taken one step through the distance between them and been at his side in his next breath. But not yet.... the time wasn't right for that yet. So instead, with a deep and heavy sigh, she stood and stepped out into the frozen storm of rain drops hanging nearly stationary in the sky. She could feel the energy of the storm pushing against her will to contain it, but what was a puny thing like a gale when compared to the will of Fate herself?
