Private Tales From Rot, The Cursed Beast Trots

[Míriel Fëanorna]

Miriel sighed and sat back down in the booth. His words made sense and she knew humans were more likely to get sick wandering about in the rain which would do her no good if she needed his help in a fight. She didn't look happy about it though. Her mind kept going back to Maecey in her stable and how little time if any the young horse had left. If it spread much further at speed it might even been in Alliria before too long. Her fingers drummed on the tabletop as she thought about what she would do if that were the case. She had foals in her fields, there was no way she could move them as a herd quickly.

"Apologies," she said after a while taking another breath and trying to wrench her mind back. "I breed horses, one I hand reared and sold to a lady not far from here is already sick and it is... akin to watching ones own child writhing in pain and being unable to do anything about it," she pressed her hands flat against the table top to stop the nervous drumming of her fingers. Her eyes were on the window as she watched the rain grow steadily worse. She was glad someone had taken the horses into the stable, Thorlion would have been in a foul mood if she had stayed sat in the warm and he outside.

"If the storm gets worse the fishing might be called off entirely for the day," which would mean a lot of the town sitting around drinking in here. Exactly what he was looking for most likely.

 

[Lazarus of Minaris]

He hadn't expected that and the expression on his face, if only for a moment, betrayed that revelation. Miriel seemed to be, from his initial impression, fairly strong willed and forward facing. Though she receded from her bearing with relative ease.

"They're not serving crow here, luv, so there's no point in eating it." He gestured for the keep to come on over. As the man approached, Lazarus held up two fingers and smiled. Despite his haggard and weather beaten look, his smile was one that spoke of hygiene and self care. "Two orders of roasted spud and a bit of meat. Maybe some bread, nothing hardtack."

"I took ya fer orf chump, lad."
"Couldn't risk threatening conversations with a bit of flotsam in the pearls."

The keep chuckled and nodded as if he understood. "Two orders?"

Lazarus replied with a slow nod. Turning back to Miriel as the man walked off, Lazarus leaned back and rested one arm on the table.

"Lot o' care goes into horse keeping, I imagine. Not much to me but four legs and some leather..." His hand opened, clearly not bothered by a bit of legs and leather. "No offense meant. Not much use for a boatman that ain't encumbered with sheets and lashing. And truthfully, horses are hard to contain as cargo. They're boisterous at sea, frenzy easy when riled, and make for good targets for privateers."

Or meat during the long voyage when rations run low.

 

[Míriel Fëanorna]

"No offence taken," Miri said in a detached sort of way, she was watching a group of men coming up the pathway towards the pub. Her Elvish eyes faired well in picking out the details of their faces pulled down in scowls. They looked miserable. Soaked to the skin and they were clearly in the middle of some sort of disagreement. Perhaps they hadn't quite agreed on whether they should have left their boat already, they couldn't have been out for longer than a few hours. As they drew closer she turned her gaze away and back towards the man opposite her.

"I feel the same about boats. Just a bunch of wood and canvas," it was hard to tell whether or not she was joking until the ghost of a smile twisted at the corner of her lips. "And they're not too hard to contain if you have the right handler, a lot of people beat them silly when they're scared. You need one horse who has done the journey before and thus is calm, the rest will get their confidence from them," she shrugged. It was a simple technique really but not one many breeders or soldiers seeking to transport their animals actually bothered to do though. Instead they paid someone to sit beneath the deck with nervous animals getting progressively more drunk and irate that horses were indeed being... horses.

"Here comes company," she picked up her mug and took a sip as the door opened.

 

[Lazarus of Minaris]

He allowed the hint of a smile to follow the woman's comment, regarding wood and canvas. As for the matter of horses, he didn't have much more to say on the subject and if he were being honest, it wouldn't have amounted to anything more than salt and air. He was a boatsman but even more so, he was something else. And that something else would always take the path of least resistance.​

​

Hiring a handler for horses was simple, but manifesting mental control through magic was even easier. And easier still was simply not bothering at all. There were far more profitable forms of export that didn't threaten hull integrity at the first sight of something frightful.​

​

Craning his arm over the bench of the seat behind him, he picked up the drink with the other arm and feigned sipping. Eyes watching, he spotted a couple fisherman knocking off the rain and inclement cold.​

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"Roger me sideways boys...it's pissing buckets out there!" One exclaimed, smacking his round and deflated hat against an open palm.​

"Gods must have taken a plug to the port, eh!" Another one returned, running thin fingers through his grey beard and flicking water across a round table.​

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Lazarus chuckled softly at the comment and returned to the woman across from him.​

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"Bitter old men make for poor company, luv. Especially waterlogged birds like 'at. But..." This time, the sip from the drink was legitimate. "Seems they got humors to ballast it off."​

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"What'll be lads?" The barkeep looked them up and down. "Oh come on now, watch your boots 'fore you drag the whole lake in!"​

"Breakfast stout for a promised debit on some shovels?" The one with the beard replied as the other kicked his boots against the door frame.​

"Must be going blind. Don't hear any catfish fins scuttering on my decks."​

"I said debit. Debit! A good rain brings 'em out, you know its true!"​

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Lazarus lifted his drink. "Aye, I'll throw bones to that. Channels swell, mudcats fell...That's what they say. Rain is good for the barbs."​

​

"See." The bearded fisherman replied, throwing a hand towards Lazarus. His pleads were overstretched in desperation which spoke to the comical and playful relationship shared between local fisherman and the tavern owner. "The gentlemen knows. He's got a sense of our melancholy. Understands the dire needs for warming the soul!"​

​

The barkeep waved with both hands. "Enough enough. Just take a seat already."​

 

[Míriel Fëanorna]

Miriel's hazel eyes followed the little band as they trudged into the tavern dragging the storm in behind them. Her ears gave a slight twitch when they began speaking and she returned to to her drink as if she couldn't hear everything they said as easily as if they were sat at their table. Sometimes it was a little annoying her hearing was so sensitive but if they were looking for information then maybe it would be valuable this time around. As her companion spoke she smiled faintly.

"You seem to forget old and bitter is most elves," she took another sip of her drink and glanced to the group by the bar then back to him. "Not that either groups would ever admit such similarities," humans and elves in her experience were far more alike than not alike. She shifted in her seat slightly and then subtly moved her weapons out of sight to under the table - men also didn't take too kindly to people bringing weapons into their local in her experience.

"Why don't you tell me a bit more about why you're tracking this thing. You've been touched but that doesn't mean it's your responsibility."

 

[Lazarus of Minaris]

It was an interesting question, largely because he had long ago stopped asking himself 'why.' The gut reaction autonomous response of his body, to assume responsibility for this pestilence or whatever other damage it may cause, was just something he assumed within his purview.​

But he wasn't sure he was quite prepared to delve deeply into that story. And just as he pondered on the way to navigate the question dutifully, the barkeep landed with a metal plate. Just as he requested, it was a couple bits of potato, some various cuts of smoked and peppered meat, and a few pieces of bread that seemed to be on the better side of stale.​

"Its begs a question, don't it, luv?" He took the two pronged fork and cut a gash in the side of one of the potatoes. "Imagine, if you will, a proper dredging...hmm? Man cuts out a bit of land for himself but ain't one for foresight. A few passing fancies later...that pit is a pond. A pond where a flatland should have been. Doesn't do much for protection, doesn't put up no signage or indicators of danger. People are likely to die in that pond cause the man didn't taper off the ledges, hmm? And low and behold, someone decided to stock that pool with pike who, when given the option, would just as likely bite of a finger and giblets as take a lure."

He took a bit of the meat, investigating the peppering, before taking a bite and eyeing the older men who shared unspoken familiarities with elven people. "A man doesn't end at his feet but at the shadow that springs loose. We can't go about opening doors, even unknowingly, and kill the canary once the whistle blows or cow bell thrums. Hmm?"

"Oye..." The bearded man yelped at the barkeep as their breakfast stouts were delivered. "You hear 'bout dat new lad down the causeway?"
"No causeways in these parts, you idiot." The other codger responded.
"You know what I mean, you know what I mean." The bearded one tapped his heel against the creaky floor boards. "Got a lazy eye, he does. Fresh as the wet cut grass with the looks of a haggard munga, left too long in the sun. Somethings fishy about him, is all I reckon."
"Gorblimy, drink up your damned meal and quit spreading gammon. Gods as my witness, you're worse than a church-bell after a proper sermon."

The clacker thumped dully once more as the door opened and a young couple appeared, shaking off the rain.