Such Harmonious Madness [Montaine|Victor Lark]

[Montaine]

Such Harmonious Madness Summer 89 512 AV The glow of the lights of Montaine Redsun’s local bar, the Councillor’s Head, were a very welcome sight after the long day he had suffered through. Both Mory and Banden, his co-workers, had been struck down by whatever contagion it was that had been slowly spreading across the city throughout the summer. Their prognosis was good but that didn’t stop them from taking the opportunity to have a few days off work. Fogle’s parents had become increasingly wary of letting their precious son go into the city proper of late and though he had managed to escape for work in the morning Compton, his family’s loyal if privately disrespectful butler, had come to retrieve him come midday. As such he and old Calbert had been the sole workers in the shop all afternoon. The boss’ company was pleasant enough, in moderation. Across any great length of time, however, his manner tended to grate and the increased personal workload caused by his colleague’s absence just served to make the man nigh intolerable. Nevertheless, work was work and he needed to get paid if he wanted to eat, and he needed to eat if he wanted to work. It was the unhappy fact that his life essentially boiled down to this simple cycle, but at the very least he could yet afford to drink to his fellows’ health, and his own. The bar was not as full as often it was, sickness and fear of sickness confining many to their homes, but enough were present to make it feel like home. He sat down at the bar and nodded to Gadger. The giant bartender looked miserable. No doubt the talk of blights and plagues brought his sales down. Or perhaps it was because, as Montaine noticed looking around the place, old Gertrude was sitting in the far corner, nursing a pint that before her squat stature looked frankly enormous and with a set of panpipes lying on the table next to it. The woman’s inability to play any instrument was infamous amongst the regular patrons of the Head, if unmentioned, for fear of calling down her formidable wrath. Gertrude’s presence, as opposed to her veritable virtuoso of a daughter, suggested she had it in her mind to attempt a performance. Monty didn’t mind. Her cacophonous caterwauling was humorous enough for a time. He dropped a few coins onto the bar and slid them across. There was no need to make a request for any particular beverage. It was kelp beer. It was always kelp beer. Green and foul smelling and arguably not legitimately portable it was the alcoholic drink of choice in Zeltiva simply because it was usually the only alcoholic drink in Zeltiva. The glassworker sniffed it, gagged, and drank as much as he could without retching too badly. He spluttered a bit, but didn’t care all that much. It did its job, after all. It got you drunk.

[Victor Lark]

The door opened faster than it should have, but the man who entered made certain to close it quietly and carefully. His attention was immediately drawn to the musician in the corner. He met her eye before her realized the exact sort of music she produced and, with an appreciative salute, the thought to join her became only a brief interlude in his path to the bar.

There were plenty of barstools to choose from, all empty but for one body. Victor decided on the one directly adjacent to him. He nodded a vague acknowledgement as he sat, pulling his sick and chafing nose through a thumb and knuckle.

Only from that proximity could one notice the distinct odor of fresh sweat on him, as well as the shining red mosaic of scratches on one side of his face. His breath came heavy behind his teeth, uncatchable, forced instead into imperfect steadiness as he waved down the man behind the bar. “Have you got anything beside the green shyke?”

Victor should have expected the scowl of confusion. “Nope.”

“Right then. Give me one of those.” Fishing a few coins out of his pocket at random, he glanced at the door. It had not opened again since he had entered, but that was less than comforting in a city like this one, where the roads were stationary and the buildings securely attached. He had gotten lazy, hiding behind illusions for so many seasons.

Then the beverage came and the barman seemed satisfied with the fingersful Victor exchanged for it. He wrapped both hands around the mug and considered its contents for a long moment. “This town is full of strange food and strange tongues,” he mentioned, trying almost too hard to seem immediately amiable. “Hasn’t anyone ever heard of barley?”

[Montaine]

‘Barley?’ Gadger raised an eyebrow. He looked over at the glassworker on the off chance that the young man might have some greater knowledge of the stuff, but Monty shook his head and shrugged. The two of them looked back with slightly vacant stares at the newcomer. He didn’t talk like a local, and certainly neither of them recognised him as a local. Montaine had been patronising the Councillor’s Head for a good ten years, well a somewhat adequate ten years, and the barman had worked there even longer than that, they knew the features and foibles of every regular that passed through the old door, and this fellow’s face was new. Gadger sucked his teeth, ‘Wait, ol’ Holly, you know, Holly Blackhurst, she took a deliv’ry once of some expensive, fancy brew made o’ that barley whatchyer. Aye, said it were brown and all, beer ain’t supposed to be brown, is it?’ he shook his head as he poured out a mug of Zeltiva’s own that could only best be described as an emerald emetic. An acquired taste, to be sure, though remarkably difficult to acquire. The hulking proprietor of the establishment looked as though he were about to say something else, perhaps something detrimental regarding the non-kelp varieties of alcoholic beverages. There would have been little point, of course, as there was not exactly any particular competition in the harbour city, it was kelp or nothing. But as the man opened his mouth to speak the musician caught his eye and beckoned him over. Like a shot he was off. Monty snorted, ‘He’s terrified of that little, old braud,’ he said, before taking a drink, ‘then again, so’s everyone else. She once punched one the big blue fellas right in the gut when he looked at her daughter the wrong way, think she were aimin’ for his head, but they’re a little on the large side, eh?’

[Victor Lark]

“That they are,” he answered through a smile, the one that had risen when the barman asserted his limited understanding of brown beer. Victor might have argued, even yelled over that woman’s most pertinent request, but he was happier to play ignorant. There was much to learn when everyone thought you had to be taught, and most people liked to feel smarter than a stranger. “I bet I could take her,” he mentioned.

Victor’s attention slipped toward the musician, as if to size her up, and then it strayed again toward the door and the intruders it may or may not reveal at any moment. It remained closed. Relieved, he continued with the pretense, wincing like he was intimidated by the sight of her. His expression faltered and fell, pushed down by the fresh pain on the one side of his face. If this place were to be his evening’s sanctuary, he decided, his best bet was to keep each of its residents an ally.

A sigh melted into a humble chuckle. At least his lungs seemed to have rediscovered their purpose. “Well, maybe not.”

He looked down at his drink, untouched and still cold. He could spend all night avoiding it, or he could drink it while it was fresh, until he could not taste it anymore. Silently toasting his own cowardice, he took a large gulp. When he cringed that time, he imagined that his face hurt a little less. “Have you ever seen one of them angry?” He mumbled to the man beside him. “It’s spectacular. Worse than any real man, though you’ve got to keep out of arm’s reach if it happens. Or don’t. Either way’s an adventure.”

[Montaine]

‘They don’t come through here often, but the one what she hit weren’t mighty pleased. Don’ think he could quite bring himself to get into a proper brawl wit’ a little, ol’ lady though,’ he smirked, but cursed his mouth. He cautiously turned his head to try and see if the mad musician was looking his way, to see if she had heard him describing her in any unkind terms. Fortunately she seemed enthralled by her pipes, nattering away with Gadger as she thrust them towards his face, to allow him a better look. Monty sighed with relief and turned back to the newcomer. The stranger had seen Akalaks. The glassworker had only seen the odd one or two himself, but his father had often described them to him. The great warriors of Riverfall, immense and brutal and so brilliantly blue. His Da had seen them plenty of times growing up on the Sea of Grass out west, seen the beautiful city cut into the cliff face, and the immense falls where the Bluevein River cascaded into the sea. The stranger had seen Akalaks, which meant he was travelled, most likely. He spoke like a foreigner and seemed so very uneasy, always looking to the door. It was most suspicious. Perhaps he was being followed, perhaps he was on the run. He could have been a criminal, looking to lay low somewhere. ‘Only seen a few o’ them actually. I mean, we’re a port town so’s we get all sorts comin’ an’ goin’ all year round, so’s you generally see most types if’n you live here long enough, learn to recognise new arrivals an’ all,’ Monty said, raising his eyebrow, ‘Where’re you in from, if you don’ mind me askin’, when’d you dock?’

[Victor Lark]

The honest answer hesitated on Victor’s tongue, recalling his home town’s less than honorable reputation. From was such a general term. It was, perhaps, truer to give the alternative answer.

“Alvadas,” Victor nodded. “We came by land, actually. Two weeks back, give or take, up from Syliras. I used to own a place up there, and we got in people from everywhere. Those akalaks aren’t the first of it.” The memory paused his lips in a short laugh, which he interrupted with a sip of drink and another wince at the taste.

Truth-telling was easy. At least, hiding behind the fragile disguise of the reckless shirk was easy, when he could fill the cracks with facts. It did not occur to Victor that he was exactly what he pretended to be, under other circumstances. Even as he forgot to turn his attention to the door he was beginning to become confident that he had lost them, and that he would spend the evening in this company out of his own comfort and volition.

He sat back as far as the bar stool would let him, tipping its balance onto two rickety hind legs. “They said it’s the trading capital of the world, and I believed it until I came here. Zeltiva has more trade, and more humans. You would think that’d make things more comfortable.” With a preemptory shrug, he added, “But I’d say it’s more boring.”

Barely a breath separated that last word from the next. “What about you? I take it you’re from around here?”

[Montaine]

The honest answer never even flickered through Montaine’s head, for though he had been born on the vast grasslands of Cyphrus he possessed no waking memories of the place. His father had been born amongst the horse people of the Sea of Grass, but his mother had been raised within the shelter of the Zastoskas and Mathews Bay and even though she was no longer around, and even though the glassworker’s memories of the woman were only marginally stronger than those of the grasslands, it was with Zeltiva that he associated himself. ‘Aye, I grew up a good fifteen chimes from here, Zeltivan raised,’ he said, taking a drink before turning back, ‘An’ she might be borin’ to you, but that ain’t her fault. Boredom’s what you make of it, an’ if you’re bored, that just means you don’ know how to make fun for yourself,’ It was a snide remark, and Montaine regretted it as soon as he said it. It rang hypocritically in his ears. He’d spent his entire childhood dreaming of leaving the city, yearning for excitement that he believed could only be had beyond the security of the harbour city’s natural defences. It couldn’t really be that surprising that someone from out there, someone who had seen that outside world, would be bored in his humble, little home. Nevertheless, what was said was said. Monty didn’t look at the man, instead burying himself in his mug. Across the room, Gadger was desperately trying to reason with Gertrude, in the politest, subtlest way possible, and get her to go home. His business was bad enough with the sicknesses, and without her caterwauling and crummy pipe playing.

[Victor Lark]

“That’s a fair point,” he replied, turning to his drink as the Zeltivan did. He did not catch the insult, and so did not think to be embarrassed by his own pretention. Instead he drank again, glad that the taste got a little better every time. He thought to continue, but before he could he was interrupted by a noise at the door. He turned a startled glance to it and saw it swinging nearly off its hinges at the hand of a large and furious man with dark blue skin.

Victor’s expression dropped with his head, which ducked behind his mug as if it would hide him. Suddenly his hair turned stark white and a matching pale poured over his face, softened on his chin and sank in his cheeks. The scratches on his face disappeared, their redness replaced in his wary eyes. Monty would recognize his new face as belonging to the man who shared the mark on his neck, the only mask he was capable of donning at a moment’s notice. He hid his unmorphed hands beneath folded arms.

The akalak peered at Victor, if only his strange response, and then turned momentarily to the fragile regular at his side. Apparently unimpressed, he angled his frustration at the bartender in the corner and the woman beside him, who was already standing heatedly. Victor saw her meet those pale green eyes like a challenge, watched as barely contained anger flared on his nostrils and fists. He did not listen to the conversation exchanged, only kept his head inexplicably low and turned his new eyes to Montaine.

A smile curled on Seven’s lips. Through fangs and a soft Lhavitian lilt, he mumbled, “Twenty gold ones on the big guy.”

[Montaine]

So much happened all at once and so swiftly that Monty struggled to register it all and sort out the thoughts in his head. An akalak had arrived, which was uncommon enough yet it had happened so quickly after they had just been talking about the bulky, blue warriors. Monty had always paid little heed to the old superstitions, but ‘Speak of the Defiler’ came to mind, the concept that stating someone’s name had the preternatural power to summon them. It was a silly old idea, but the glassworker had to admit it was awfully coincidental. Then again, perhaps Lhex was simply bored and was playing subtle games. Either way, the unlikely entrance of the akalak paled in interest to the change that had overcome his drinking partner. He knew that face. But more importantly, that face ought to have known him. Montaine had heard rumours about the sorts of bizarre things the wizards got up to at the university. He had had some of those rumours confirmed. The garrulous gadgeteer’s growing gathering of golems was a testament to the existence of animation and the djed scholar, Mister Aelius, had given him a remarkable demonstration of summoning, an art of which he had only heard whispers before. This, however, was something of which he had heard a fair bit, but only hushed tones from people whose stories were rarely trusted. He didn’t really believe that this sort of magic existed. To change one’s shape was to go anywhere. But if he was a morpher, and there was hardly any other explanation available the glassworker given the available evidence, he wasn’t necessarily what he appeared to be. If he was really who he seemed, the white haired half widower, surely he would have said something. He certainly didn’t act like Seven did. He hadn’t known Seven for very long, but he didn’t seem the sort to bet on the likelihood of an old woman getting pummelled. Whether or not this man knew the widower, or had simply seen him on the street and taken a fancy to his form, his callous disregard for Gertie’s welfare was disturbing. Monty kept his eye on the far table. Gertrude looked self assured. Gadger looked terrified. ‘Twenty gold, alright, twenty on Gertie and Gadger’ he said, and downed his drink, ‘And me, o’ course,’ Monty placed his mug down on the bar top and slipped off of his stool. Turning to the akalak, and speaking through gritted teeth and grimace he said, ‘An’ just how can we help you sir?’