THE OLD NEW WALK
The word "Old" being struck-through with a black line of paint on the tavern's hanging sign outside was what drew
Elliot Aldmar inside. Just a small thing, but a curiosity brimming with potential. For Elliot had traveled a long way south to reach
Vel Anir, a place that he knew only sparsely about save for its most salient facts. And this very celebration, the so-called Festum Libertatis, was why he was here.
He wanted to witness the results of the Anirians' Revolution. He wanted to hear the tales from those who partook, and he wanted to hear the opinions of those who now lived under it.
And, most importantly, he wanted to judge how such methods could possibly be adapted to bring similar revolutions to
Oban and to
Dornoch.
The politics of old Vel Anir were not important to him. Even the politics of new Vel Anir, to an extent. What remained the focus of his interest was that a successful Revolution had taken place, for better or for worse for the Anirian people. Obviously, the particular circumstances of Vel Anir differed from those of Oban, which differed from those of Dornoch. But there were common tools, common ideas and common means, to achieving the same goal: change. In this, Elliot kept an open mind. Was there something that he had not thought of? Something he had not considered? He had confidence in his grand plan for the fall of the oppressive Dornite and Obanese regimes, but he did not exclude the possibility that his plan could be improved, or that, in the light of a more promising and previously unbeknownst alternative, the plan could be discarded in favor of a better one.
And so here he was. In the New Walk tavern.
Currently, he was speaking with a tipsy old man who had speckles of ale clinging to his wiry, gray beard and who had one arm holding up his tankard and the other draped over Elliot's shoulders.
"Now you listen here, you gray-skinned mothafucker," said the old man, a sloppy grin on his face. "I served in the Guard for four years.
Four years." He seemed to have forgotten his tankard, because he held up four fingers and in so doing dropped the tankard to the floor where the ale spilled everywhere. "This many."
"How many?" Elliot said, smirking. He was here with his purpose in mind, yes, but that didn't mean he couldn't have a spot of fun.
"This many!!" the old man practically shoved his four gangly fingers into Elliot's face. "Goddamn, I thought you lanky
elves had good eyesight! Buddy o' mine heard you could eat an elf's eyes and that'd cure aging, blurry vision. There any truth to that,
drow?"
"No," Elliot said. Then added,
"But drow eyes give you night-vision."
The old man let out a long, raspy laugh and slapped his free hand against his thigh. "You better watch out now, Ellium! You say that too loud 'round here you're gonna get stabbed! Somebody gone try it!" The old man poked at Elliot's side jovially with a phantom knife. Then he seemed to notice that his drink was gone. "Aw, mothafuck—! Say, Ellium, you're the swellest drow I know, why don't you buy your ol' buddy Hartim another round?"
Elliot raised a hand and snapped his fingers to catch the busy barkeep's attention. Then, to Hartim,
"Sure. Then you can tell me why you came out of retirement for the battle one year ago, yes?"
"You're goddamn right, Ellium! It was high time we showed them nobles whatfor! Lemme tell you..."
