Fable - Ask On the Run

[Jack Thacker]

Bum. Bum. Bum. Bumm.​

The beat of the leather skin drum kept the oarsmen on The Leapin’ Lizard on rhythm and in tandem, though Jack Thacker had grown weary of it in recent weeks. He heard it in his sleep; at his meals; even on deck. The thumping echoed in Jack’s head like a permanent headache, threatening his sanity at any moment.

Between that and the hardtack and gruel he’d been eating, which had done a number on his already sore and decaying teeth…a spreading bout of dysentery on the ship, and all the bloody rainfall, the trip up the Allirian strait had been nothing short of miserable.

Jack had lost count of the days since he’d first fled Alliria. It had all happened so fast. That miserable Willem had pushed him to the brink and then some. What choice did Jack have but to kill him?

He slit the bastard’s throat in his sleep and watched him drown frantically in his own blood. Afterward he’d stolen what little value Willem had to his name; then his horse, then passageway on the first ship out of Alliria. That happened to be an exotic little trading cog called The Leapin' Lizard. Thacker bought his way on as an oarsman and had been regretting it ever since. He preferred a horse to a boat…a sword to an oar, and it showed in his efforts.

Captain Balthas called him half useless. Despite Thacker keeping to himself on the ship, the Captain seemed particularly suspicious of his origins.

“You’re not an oarsman, landlubber. So what are you doing on my ship?”

“Passage to Grayshore,” Jack had mumbled between sweaty grunts. The Captain had stopped to observe Thacker during one of his rowing shifts. Jack remembered Balthas had been thoroughly unimpressed.

“And what’s in Grayshore?” the Captain pressed.

“Me gettin’ offa this fookin’ ship.” That had been enough to end the conversation, though from then on it felt like Balthas was always watching him. Nosy bastard. Mind yer fookin’ matters, ya half-elf prick.

Jack could’ve cried when the town of Grayshore first came into view. It was another soggy day of black storm clouds and summer rain when the thatched roofs began to appear. A new life awaited Thacker on those riverbanks. Who knew what the future could bring.

Perhaps he’d stay in town a couple days. There was no way news of his misdeeds had traveled this far North yet. While murder certainly wasn’t ignored by the Allerian justice system, Willem Stroud was nobody. A sentry boss on a wall. Jack could use the little money he had left over to enjoy an inn for a few nights while he figured out his next move.

My next move, he thought as the Lizard anchored and the crew began to unload her. Thacker wished he knew what that was.

Without sparing a goodbye for the good captain, Thacker disembarked with the barebones belongings that he had; a dirty blue tunic that was getting a good wash in the rain, black armor, a tankard and a bastard sword. He trudged through the muddy town dutifully as the storm rinsed the lice from his greasy brown hair, until he came upon the town’s only inn.

Thacker didn’t even catch the place’s name. He was more worried about getting crowded out of a place at the fire. The place was jam-packed when Thacker walked in, dripping wet from his tunic to his socks.

Good, he grunted to himself. I’m joost another ugly mug in a sea uh mugs. Nobody’ll be lookin’ fer me here. The long, lanky swordsman took a seat at the end of the bench closest to the fireplace. He spied a serving wench making her rounds and a clothesline filled with roast chickens. But when Thacker jangled the silver in his coin purse, he frowned. Porridge and stale bread it is, mate he concluded grimly. Maybe I can sell my sword.

“Be a good lass and fill me tankard,” Thacker barked at the serving girl, a heavyset woman with a hefty bosom, though at first she didn’t hear him over all the din.

A sharp whistle through his yellow broken teeth later and he’d captured the wench’s attention. Thacker rudely thumped his tankard on the table. “Hot porridge and bread too.”

His hairy fist came out of his coin purse with silver in it. “And a warm bed fer a couple o’ nights.”

“Rooms all booked up, dearie. This squall’s been good fer business. Got room in the barn if yer desperate.”

“Do I look like a fookin’ donkey to ya?” Thacker grumbled. “I got a sword to spare. Get me a room, it’ll be worth it. I promise.”

“Barn or the street,” the serving girl scowled at Jack. “Got more swingin’ swords ‘round these parts than we know wot to do with.”

“Joost fill me tankard then and point me to the fookin’ pigs already,” Thacker cursed, his hair dripping down his face. He scooted himself up to the fire, trying not be irritated while he basked in its warmth.

 

[Vaezhasar Drakspae]

Jack Thacker
The tap-room of the Gull & Gudgeon was scarcely large enough to hold the noise inside it, let alone the patrons. Fishmongers in tar-stained boots clattered tankards while rain rattled the shutters, and the whole place smelt of brine, beer-slops, and wet wool—not unlike the harbour town of Grayshore itself.

At a scarred corner table hunched “Whistlin’” Jack Thacker—all lank jaws, wind-blown hair, and the unmistakeable bouquet of a man who had recently exchanged rowing benches for dry land.

A few paces off, half-lost in the gloaming of the hearth, rose a figure altogether less rustic. Vaezhasar—panoplied in cerulean plate chased with gold, emerald cabochons glinting like bottled witch-light—sat with a weather-worn folio spread across gauntleted knees. The sorcerer’s helm, its ram-horns sweeping upward in brazen crescents, made the rafters look positively provincial. Now and then a lazy spark crawled across his fingers as if the very air were tinder.

Presently the tome snapped shut with a noise like a coffin-lid. Vaezhasar inclined his helm by a degree—just enough to let the green eye-gems upon the brow catch the lantern-light—then addressed the serving girl in a voice that rippled with distant thunder:

“Tell me, girl — would a handful of gold convince you to prepare my friend a proper bed in that ramshackle barn of yours?”


Coins chimed as he let a few iridescent disks—whose mint no local smith could name—spill onto the tabletop. Suddenly, the tap-room’s chatter dwindled to a curious murmur; even the resident concertina surrendered a flatulent wheeze and fell silent.

 

[Jack Thacker]

The serving woman muttered and grumbled to herself, in a low enough murmur to be seen not heard. She slapped Jack’s tankard on the bench table in front of him alongside a basket of hard bread, then marched over to where the conspicuous sorcerer sat–swiping his currency from his paw and swiftly biting down on one to ensure legitimacy. While she didn’t immediately recognize the strange monies, they were certainly real. Rather than second-guess herself, she curtsied at the sorcerer, and the din of the tavern resumed.

“As ye wish, Guvnuh,” she said with a pained smile of courtesy.

Jack watched the entire scenario unfold with a weary frown. He’d figured Grayshore a squalid fishing town far North enough for his existence to be forgotten. He most definitely hadn’t intended on making any friends, especially not one as queer as this one. Thacker eyed the sorcerer with the unease of a man who didn’t know whether to run or say thank you. I dun like the look o’ this one, not one bit.

But truth be told, every muscle in his body ached. He’d spent weeks at sea drinking piss-swill grog and sleeping on a tattered hammock. The physical exhaustion had taken its toll on him, and so against his better judgement Thacker let his guard down and managed a toothy smirk, raising his tankard to the sorcerer in a cheers.

“Here’s to those who wish us well,” he toasted, touching the bottom of his tankard to the bench’s table ceremoniously. “And those who don’t, to seven hells.” He took a long-awaited, much deserved gulp and savored it. Ah, real ale, he thought elatedly. Now maybe this creep’ll bugger off and let a bloke nurse a buzz in peace.

Of course Jack Thacker would have no such luck.

 

[Vaezhasar Drakspae]

Vaezhasar hefted his tankard in a mock–benediction. “To the stubborn persistence of your heartbeat—whoever you happen to be," he intoned, voice echoing in the helm like a sermon in a bronze cathedral.


He never troubled to raise his helm. Instead, he inclined the cup just so; from its brim, amber ale uncoiled in slender, obedient ribbons, slipping through the narrow slits of his visor like well-trained vipers.

The performance drew a collective blink from the nearest patrons, whose own tankards remained stubbornly earth-bound, beholden to gravity and lesser talents.

Presently the cup lay hollow and bereft, and Vaezhasar loosed a belch of such robust sincerity that the rafters took not

“By no means the vilest draught I’ve endured,” he allowed, giving the woodwork a judicial rap with his gauntle. “I am Vaezhasar—Vaezhasar Drakspae, for those keeping ledgers.”

With that, he reclined against the rough table’s edge, helm canted as if to survey the room through half-lidded amusement, waiting for the stranger’s reply—or, failing that, for the next round of ale to begin its slow, dignified ascent.

 

[Jack Thacker]

“Me friends call me Whistler;” Jack lied, taking another swig. He didn’t have any friends to speak of and nobody in Alliria had called him anything other than Thacker. But Vaezhasar didn’t have to know that.

The dirty fugitive’s dark eyes observed his benefactor coolly. The man, if there was a man underneath all that armor, was of a girth and size comparable to Jack’s, if not bigger. That alone was enough to keep Thacker on edge, nevermind the thunderous voice and fearsome helm. But Jack liked to play his cards close to the chest. If he was uneasy he wasn’t about to let this curious creature know that.

“An’ that’s a fine parlour trick mate,” Jack said, gesturing at the contents of Vaezhasar’s cup. “Ye piss it out like that too?” he asked wryly, trying to disarm his host with some distasteful gallows humor. The casual congeniality was a poor mask for Thacker’s true aura. He had the air of a man prone to flashes of impulsive violence.

 

[Vaezhasar Drakspae]

Vaezhasar gave a dry chuckle at Jack’s jest, the sound rattling about his helm like dice in a cup. He angled his head, considering his drinking companion as one might examine a curious beetle pinned to velvet.

“Stifle the laughter, good Whistler,” he said, tapping a gauntleted knuckle against his cuirass. “This suit boasts its own waste-disposal enchantment. Should terror—or a bad batch of tavern stew—betray my lower anatomy, the offending fluids vanish into some obliging pocket of elsewhere. A marvel of modern thaumaturgy, though the fragrance is reputedly hellish on the other side.”

He let the claim linger long enough. Jack was hiding his unease well, but Vaezhasar knew better, not because he was a particularly good judge of character, but because magic tended to act a certain way around certain emotions and the aura Jack gave off in that moment practically yelled 'I'M UNCOMFORTABLE'.

“Peace, man, peace. I’m no midnight vivisector out to flense you for spare parts, nor am I shopping for fresh souls to pickle in my larder. My credentials are entirely respectable—signed, stamped, and grudgingly funded by the College of Elbion itself. The faculty, in their celestial wisdom, dispatched me to nose about Alliria’s current entanglements. Fascinating business—plots within plots, each greased by an improbable quantity of coin and sorcery.”

He set his empty tankard down with the care due an experiment in unstable alchemy, the visor slits narrowing in what passed for a cordial smile.

 

[Jack Thacker]

A bowl of hot porridge suddenly rattled in front of Thacker, dropped off by the heavy-set server woman before Jack could even ask for a spoon. The would-be sailor eyed the white paste hungrily but made no motion for it–not until Vaezhasar made his peaceful intentions clear.

With the air settling, Thacker grabbed up his stale bread and dipped it voraciously into his porridge, attacking the meal like he hadn’t eaten in days while the sorcerer made his pitch.

I know this tune, Jack figured, ravaging his dinner. At this point the fire was roaring and Thacker was actually beginning to dry. Slowly he found himself more and more comfortable, albeit still highly suspicious.

“An wots any o’ that got the fook to do with me?” Jack asked, cutting through the bullshit and meeting Vaezhasar at the crux of it all; between obnoxious open mouthfuls of course. Thacker didn’t know what to make of Vaezhasar’s wit. If Jack didn’t know any better he’d say the wizard was trying to be cute. “Dun get me wrong, mate, the warm bed’s mooch appreciated, but I dun suppose ya got a set o’ teets under all o’ that armor.”

“So if ye ain’t tryna fook me and ye ain’t tryna fight me, quite frankly, I’m not quite sure wot kind o’ business we got here, eh. Maybe ye could spell it out fer me more clear like, me mother always said I was a big lunk.”

 

[Vaezhasar Drakspae]

Vaezhasar idly rapped a taloned gauntlet against one of the sweeping horns crowning his helm, as though testing a tuning fork. “Alas, no tits for you today, my good fellow,” he intoned. “Yet, because you strike me as the sort prone to volatile outbursts, I’ll indulge in a small act of civic charity.”

He leaned in, voice dropping to the confidential hush of a conspirator in a crowded bazaar. “Word from my conveniently talkative informants is that the Merchant Council has installed a brand-new Lord Commander—bright, brash, and, for reasons known only to the gods of poor judgment, flanked by an honor guard of vampires. Yes, genuine bloodsucking chevaliers, all capes, fangs, and an appetite for inconvenient necks. He’s unleashed them upon the Reach to prune away bandits, mutinous lordlings, and any other pest that refuses to kneel on cue.”

Vaezhasar straightened, helm canting as if he considered the rafters worth addressing. “Now, as luck—or comedic timing—would have it, I require a second pair of moderately dexterous hands for an undertaking of… ah, flexible legality and questionable moral cologne. You help me navigate this little enterprise, and I’ll see to it those sanguine knights view you as something other than a portable wineskin.”

He tapped the horn once more, the metallic chime almost playful. “Consider it a two-fold blessing: profit for your purse and continued integrity for your arteries. Think it over before the next patrol of night-eyed philanthropists decides you’d pair nicely with a decanter of claret.”