A Meditation on the Sins of Ale (solo)

[Guido Faragas]

Timestamp: 10th day Fall 510AV

He slowly opened his eyes and promptly shut them again. It appeared that his eyes were determined to avoid anything to do with the morning light, screwing themselves up tightly to avoid even the faintest pinprick of dawn creeping through. They were eminently sensible eyes, he reflected - as well as being a rather fetching shade of emerald. Unfortunately, his brain didn’t have the equivalent of eyelids and it pounded away chime after chime. It felt as if someone was bashing his head with a metal bucket, stopping for a breather every few chimes and then starting again. Some gadgeteer needed to invent a cure: some clever device that insulated the brain from the after effects of too much ale. That man would make a fortune. Or, perhaps there was a branch of the reimancer’s art that specialised in such matters. Wizards liked ale – well, the only one he knew did. It made the old fellow snore the loudest snore the city had ever heard but he had never complained about a hangover. Perhaps he had a drawer of anti-hangover scrolls that he used for such occasions? He’d search the old man’s study next time he was over there – you never knew your luck.

His throat was dry and rough, as if some small, furry creature had curled up there for the night and was refusing to leave. The creature was also excreting foul mucus that lined his throat and fouled his nasal passages. Water, he needed water! There was a half-filled water bottle on the other side of the room. Perhaps, he could reach there without opening his eyes. Drink down the blessed liquid and douse his head at the same time. It might help. It was worth a try.

He levered himself up on his elbows, keeping his eyes firmly shut. A rather unnerving spinning sensation added itself to the thundering, incessant beat in his head and burrowed down into his stomach. He barely stopped himself depositing the contents of his stomach on his bed. With a determined effort, he swung his legs round and over the side of the bed until he was sitting perched on its edge. His left foot plopped itself down into a pool of sticky liquid that was congealed to the floor. He groaned. He obviously hadn’t stopped himself emptying his stomach before he had fallen into his bed the previous night. In fact, he recalled it very clearly – the vomit had been quite spectacular in terms of distance, colour and smell. Unfortunately, a portion of it was now attached to his foot.

Standing was an interesting experience. Well, standing was not a fully accurate description of what occurred: he swayed, from side to side as if he were on the deck of some poor boat caught in a storm. Tentatively, he stretched one foot forwards. Fortunately, it did not locate any more of the vomit floor-covering – instead it landed on something mushy and squidgy. He had no idea what it was but he did vaguely remember purchasing some strange looking food from a street vendor on his way home from the Stallion. Why he always did such a thing when he was drunk, he had never fathomed out. Still, it kept the man and his suppliers in business. He suspected they were in league with the tavern-owners, sending a messenger out that a drunk was on his way home. It was easy pickings for the street vendor – they could sell anything that smelt and looked vaguely edible to someone who had spent all night in the Stallion.

Every step a new experience. What will my feet encounter next? He took another step forwards...

[Guido Faragas]

Remarkably, Guido’s remaining journey across the room was uneventful, at least as far as his feet were concerned. His head was another matter, for he contrived to head butt the far wall of his room, as he overbalanced on his final step. Still, on the bright side, he had eliminated head-butting a wall as a cure for a hangover.

He rubbed his head – it was sore – very sore. He peeked out of one eye. The light was still painful but he caught sight of the water bottle and retrieved it with a grateful grab of his hand. He emptied half the bottle down his throat and the remainder he threw over his hair and face. These actions gave a blissful, momentary relief from his symptoms and he staggered back to his bed, throwing himself face down on the cot. The small, furry creature in his throat had gratefully downed the water and was now in the process of marching up and down cutting incisions in the throat with a small, sharp dagger – or at least that was how it felt. And, perhaps, a distant relative had procured a hammer with which they were banging gleefully on the inside of his head. On a scale of 1 to 10, he reflected, the water had improved matters by the number that was the closest possible to zero.

There had to be some way of curing the hangover. He thought for a chime: in truth more like many chimes, for his brain processes were working slowly, as if the great cogs inside his head were covered in oozing, muddy goo. Still, he did come up with an idea: relaxation and meditation! It worked to assist him in preparing for reimancy, clearing his head and sharpening his wits. Perhaps, it might also assist him overcome the hangover. After all, head-butting had failed and another journey across the room before he could open his eyes was out of the question.

In the dim fog of his brain, a little voice cried out – breath control – that’s the first step. Relax, control your breath...

[Guido Faragas]

Guido reflected that lying flat on one's face on a hard bed wasn’t entirely the best position in which to attempt to conduct relaxing breathing exercises. As he tried to inflate his lungs, the bed protested, preferring to remain hard and unyielding rather than participate in the early stages of meditation. The bedraggled reimancer realised that he was going to have to turn over on to his back. This was normally a relatively easy matter: however, with an aching head, queasy stomach and glued-together eyes, it presented a more difficult challenge. After due consideration, he decided upon a sideways roll, which he accomplished with some skill – apart from the small matter of crashing his head against the wall which the bed was pushed against whilst completing the manoeuvre. The one consolation was that his head already hurt so much that this blow had no additional effect.

He lay still. One hand resting on his stomach, the other on his chest. He took a deep breath through his nose, locating the source of the breath deep within the pit of his abdomen. He felt his stomach rise as he inhaled the air. For a fleeting moment, his sense of smell ascertained that the air smelt putrid – congealed vomit had a habit of giving off noxious odours – but with considerable effort he ignored the smell and slowly exhaled. As he breathed out, he contracted the muscles in his stomach, feeling the hand on his stomach fall as the air was expelled.

He felt rather pleased with his first effort. The only adverse effect was a slight feeling of nausea, followed by a strong feeling of nausea. His mouth filled with the remaining contents of his stomach but, valiantly, he repelled it, refusing to open his mouth and re-swallowing the slimy liquid. It wasn’t a pleasant experience but the nausea subsided after a few moments and he was able to repeat his breathing exercise without any more adverse effects. It helped a little – the pounding in his head was just as loud but he felt a smidgeon less tense about it.

He had another bright idea. Muscle relaxation. That’s the key.

[Guido Faragas]

He had only observed muscle relaxation once before, under the instruction of Master Silven, who claimed it was a good way to wind down and de-stress. The old wizard had lowered himself down onto his so-called thinking bed. This was a luxurious couch he kept in his study. He claimed that lying on the couch helped him think but, as far as Guido could ascertain, its main function was to help the reimancer sleep during the day yet claim he wasn’t sleeping. After a bout of deep-breathing, the old fellow had conducted a monologue on the progressive relaxation of every muscle in his body. It certainly had an effect on Guido, who had nodded off whilst merely sitting in a chair observing the old man, without any need for muscle relaxation. Still, he understood the principle and it appeared to be effective, for after relaxing an interminable number of parts of his body, Silven had fallen asleep. It was the inevitable snoring that awoke Guido with a start and he tiptoed out of the study before being required to observe any more relaxing. The main lesson of the event was the certainty that muscle relaxation would never qualify as an exciting spectator sport.

Guido concentrated first on his left foot. He knew it was there for it was still covered in sticky vomit. Then, he slowly tensed the foot and counted to ten whilst holding the foot tense before relaxing. He envisaged the tension drifting away from the foot as he relaxed. It felt good, although he wished that he could also envisage the vomit seeping away – sadly this was not an activity that muscle relaxation was equipped to deal with. He repeated the exercise for his left foot, concluding that it was a moderately relaxing experience. At least, thinking about his foot made him less aware of his pounding head.

Tense, hold, relax. He repeated the exercise for his left calf. Tense, hold, relax. He repeated the exercise for his right calf. Tense, hold, relax. He repeated the exercise for his left thigh. Tense, hold, relax. He repeated the exercise for his right thigh. Tense, hold, relax. He repeated the exercise for his hips. Tense, hold, relax. He repeated the exercise for his left buttock. Tense, hold, relax. He repeated the exercise for his right buttock. I’m getting bored. Perhaps that’s the object - to bore one into relaxation. Tense... He began to repeat the exercise for his stomach. His stomach wasn’t happy. It was ill and full of re-digested vomit. Relaxing was not on its agenda. He rapidly forgot about the stomach and moved on... Tense, hold, relax. He repeated the exercise for his chest, back, right arm, left arm, right hand, left hand, neck, shoulders, chin, cheeks, eyes, forehead and top of his skull. Apart from the incident with the stomach, the exercise was moderately successful: he felt a little more relaxed and he had introduced himself to parts of his body that he usually paid little attention to.

[Guido Faragas]

Guido reflected on his various attempts to cure the hangover. He’d tried dousing his head in water, engaging in deep-breathing and muscle relaxation. All these techniques had helped a little but he still had a raging headache. Perhaps he should attempt the visualisation technique that he used prior to practicing reimancy? He had developed an effective way of focusing on a block of colour and allowing to it to sooth his senses, covering his mind in a curtain of soft, flowing silk. Whether it was appropriate for excess alcohol consumption was another matter entirely – and there was only one way to find out....

He allowed his eyes to peep open. Quite naturally, as he was lying on his back, he saw the ceiling. It was not the ideal subject for focus - it was a grimy, grey colour – but it did have the advantage that Guido would not need to move his head and risk setting off an even more intense bout of pounding. He had never investigated the ceiling in any depth. This was perhaps just as well for it appeared to be covered with cracks, cobwebs and dirt. With an effort of imagination, he re-invented it as a soft, grey blanket made from the finest delicate weaves. He moved it slowly across his mind, envisaging that if felt just as a similar cloth would feel drawn across his cheek. It was a familiar feeling and immediately triggered a sensation of relaxation – he was drifting in a sea of the fine cloth, the delicate material moulding itself to his body, caressing every nerve. Then, he envisaged the cloth moving across the source of the pounding within his head – wrapping the ends of the hammers that assailed his skull wall – dampening their beats, assuaging the echoing sounds that clattered around his head. He built a pile of the grey cloth between the skull wall and the imaginary hammers, removing the force of their pounding, dulling their attack.

One up for visualisation. His headache had abated considerably – it was still there but was just about bearable. It just felt as if someone was politely rapping on a door inside his brain and repeating the knocking continually. He invited them to open the door and leave but they weren’t in any mood to obey his command. The knocking was annoying, very annoying, but tolerable.

[Guido Faragas]

It was mid-afternoon before he roused himself from his bed and felt sufficiently recovered to clear up the debris that lay around his room. He stuffed a piece of cloth up his nostrils whilst he attended to the noxious mess on the floor and left his door wide open to allow the smell to dissipate. Guido attracted a rather strange look from a young boy who passed by the open door – presumably at his tender age he was unaware of the benefits of nostril-blocking – still, there was time for him to learn.

Guido had promised himself that he would write out some glyphs that afternoon but he felt too fragile to concentrate. He picked up the quill and paper that he had brought home from his master’s study and grimaced. Glyphing was out for the day – possibly for the rest of the season given his shaking hand. Perhaps, I should use the paper to compose some ode to the dangers of drink, he mused to himself. It might be remind me in future when I consider spending the night down the Stallion. Maybe my friend Iasc would set it to music, so it might be broadcast throughout the city, so that others might avoid a day such as I have had.

After a few chimes, Guido managed to scribe a few words.

OOCWith apologies to Ben Johnson (1661 Song to Celia)

Drink to me only with mine eyes,
Not with a barrel of ale;
Just put some water in my mug
Or, I will ne’er prevail.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth crave a foaming brew;
But, if I chance the Stallion now,
My insides I will spew.

He grabbed the paper and pinned it to the wall with a sharp knife.

The writing and cleaning had made him a little thirsty. He found his water bottle and lifted it to his mouth but it was empty save a few drops that barely touched his lips. Discarding the bottle, he shrugged and grabbed his warm woollen coat. The barmaid had said that they would have a new brew tonight and it would be rude not to try it: it should be fine, after all he had drunk a lot of water...As an afterthought, he tore down the poem from the wall, folded it up and put it inside a deep pocket in his coat.

[Hatter]

Awards for You! Character: Guido Awarded XP: +3 Meditation, +1 Writing, +1 Philosophy, +1 Body Building, +2 Drinking (After Effects) Awarded Lores: Guido The Pain of Alcohol 101 Ways to Deal with a Hangover Writing from Experience Breeds Wit Observations of a Mad Man: I feel Guido's pain. I did not enjoy reading about the main in his stupor, for I know too how the head doth ache! As I always say, if you think I missed something or are unsatisfied with these results let me know in Pm and we can hash it out.