A Feast for Men [Ulric]

[Lyner]

Day 50, Winter 511 AV Evening - Some Tavern Now this was a ray of sunshine to the Syliran. A feast in the dead of winter's night! A contest of will and intestinal fortitude... A grand eating contest! For a nominal price a man could have his fill and if he was fortunate, he could do more than sate his hunger. A pool of money from the participants amounted to the first prize, an entrance fee to join the competition of five gold mizas had been allocated to the cost of ingredients, the fee for arranging the event and finally the prize money. This was truly a man's romance, free food and money. There were already many contestants and Lyner was the newest entry at number 25. He wore the sash proudly, waiting for the rest of the entrees to fill the tables. This was a contest he had prepared for... he had refused to eat, relying only on water and soy for nutrition these last few days. Now he could reap the rewards of gluttony without suffering for it. But the contest was not as simple as people were led to believe, nothing was ever ordinary in Alvadas. They would not serve delicious looking food... the taste wouldn't be bad but the texture and appearance might offend. The first meal was roasted duck fetus, a Taloban delicacy, the recipe that put off many contestants... Lyner was a pit fighter though. He lived in a world where the next meal was never guaranteed, no matter the form or flavor a gladiator's food was food. If it filled the stomach and was cooked, then it was fair game. Disgusting was not a word in his vocabulary, there was only acquired taste. "Last five contestants before we start this challenge of the manliest men!" Lyner looked around him. Men of all sizes and shapes sat on their tables, all of them looked at their empty bowls waiting to be filled. In their wooden mugs was water or mead and in their hands, an iron fork and knife. "Five miza a head, step right up and join this contest of fortitude."

[Ulric]

And then, the flap of crows.

Wryly, he brushed at the fire ant, hurling it from his thigh, and reached for the vinegary skin of red. Empty. He knelt by a heap of gray planks, enclosed by dingy, cracking plaster, and waited. But the crows didn’t appear. They were always there, madly raving at his back, discord in their dark, tawdry wings. He nearly missed their sordid presence. He heaved a sigh, kept thinking of cruel beaks tearing at his flesh, pecking out his organs, rending him to a thing of bare, mocking bone.

And now, it’s just the rats, Ulric frowned, using gloved forefinger to pinion down a stray, ruddy ant. Got you. He watched it wriggle for a hanging instant, pincers snapping at the empty air, then reached for his curving knife, used the edge to pry away the pincers. Not so tough now, are you? That didn’t make him feel any better. He sundered the spiny, bulbous head from a ridge of carapace, with a vague crunch of chitin, a meager laugh.

Then he left.

Rest eluded him, as ever. He couldn’t keep from wandering the winding, chimerical lanes, pushing through empty squares, his dark, smoldering eyes scrying the shingled roofs, the trundle of a shoddy cart. Even the couple having a wet, furtive petch in the gloom of an alley. Keep it down, he scowled, trudging down a tapering sprawl of steps, tufts of pale grass erupting from between the rocks, mortar crumbling away, and out into a yard of sorts, with a few, desultory gates clad with bands of tarnished copper, nearly lost in withering, squat hedges.

Ulric kept on, with a grunt. He was drowning in a squalid fog of purpose, caught up the throes of a fever dream. He ran splaying fingers over the ridge of his cheek, nearly expecting it to slough away. The crows have left me, too.

By chance, he found his way to the close, heady swelter of a winesink, seeking a measure of solace in the greasy, sepia smears on the rush-laden floor, the sucking press of warm, pungent flesh, the clamor. There was something wrong, though. They cloyed his wavering perception, and presently there was a harsh, dismal clank of coins, a furl of cloth around his neck. “Get away,” he snarled, tearing it away. He flung the garish, offending ribbon into the roaring hearth, then took a hasty seat on the bench, leaning over the rough trestle. What the shyke is this? He gave a snort, took a gulp from the jar of liquor he cradled in his burly arms, and began to force down the brown, slimy slop with the edge of his knife, scarcely regarding his trencher. “Ugh, it goes down harder than a fresh-plucked virgin,” he grunted, reaching for the jar.

[Lyner]

That was bloody impressive, Lyner thought quietly and it looked like he wasn't the only one who thought that way. Most of the other people on the table stared at the man who hadn't even seemed slightly discouraged by the odd selection of their food. He did not enjoy it, he didn't make a show of his displeasure but he looked like he would've eating anything so long as it was cooked and wasn't made to taste horrible. The Syliran decided to follow the man's example and he spooned the delicacy before grinding it carefully in his mouth. He blinked, there was a sheen of surprise that registered in those irises. It didn't taste half-bad, this thing, whatever it was actually tasted alright. It was just the texture that was off-putting, an acquired taste perhaps? He chewed the meat over and over and didn't rush for the water. The key in eating competitions was pacing and ingesting as less water as you could. It did help food go down, but you wanted to make space there for the rest of the nightmares about to come. Only a couple of lads dropped out on this leg of the contest and the next dish came in a steaming pot... a skull, chiseled into a bowl and placed upon it's crown. Inside there was brown stew that wafted off steam and a gritty oily aroma... Cow's brain. Boiled and served with spices. Some contestants started chewing into the meat but many of them were actually waiting for Ulric to see how he tackled this new challenge before him.

[Ulric]

Food was food, usually. The black, juicy char of a hunk of goat, a wedge of hard, palely pungent cheese, grease wiped by bread, the usual. There were times when acorns were food, and even grass. They never made for good eating, but they were finer than chewing your shoe leather. The pangs of hunger didn’t care, they just gnawed away at the knot of your gut, making you hunch over in agony.

Nasty, inky bile surging up in your chest. Maybe spewing, maybe just choking you. Hunger was strange that way.

Ulric didn’t enjoy food, he enjoyed not dying of hunger. He’d just licked up the juices covering his fingers, vaguely frowning at the slimy stir at the back of his throat, the roil in his gust. Maybe it’s just the wine, he grunted uneasily, but then the cloudy jigsaw of a grin crept over his face, and he barked a laugh. No, can’t be that. Eagerly, he took a gulp.

Idly, he began to hum. He clutched at a bowl, taking up a wooden spoon, and with a shrug, began to slurp up the brown, greasy stew. He didn’t enjoy the chunks, though. They were like chewing raw fish with the scales on, which he’d done plenty of by the dark, turgid waters of Ravok. Nearby, a pale, sweaty man in a leather jerkin flung away from the trestle, heading for the door. There was a sound of retching, swiftly vanishing under the clamor of laughs and yarns, the clank and scrape of eating, and a skirl of pipes. “Why’re they serving this slop?” Ulric grimaced, gazing across the warped slab of timber, at a youthful face set on high, blocky shoulders. “I’ve seen finer food in a privy.”

By now he was slowing. Forcing the rest down, he let the bowl clatter on the table, but by then they were coming out with a sooty kettle. He held out his bowl, arching a purple scarred brow at the brown, lumpy chunks of oats. They’re giving us gruel?

“Bring back the stew,” he growled, making to stir the gooey, steaming bowl, but he swiftly resigned himself to suffering yet another indignity. He probed the spoon in his mouth, scowled. Eel? There’s eel in the gruel?