Chronicle 3: Catch and Release

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The alehouse was well worn, like a bench that has seen the passing of several hundreds of sitters, smoothed by their touch. In the corner sat a group of fishers. Having hauled in their catches for the day, they now threw down cards instead of nets, and reeled in petty wagers.

Uther threw down the carcass of his latest catch: the umpteenth empty beer mug, its haul of the thin draught having been thoroughly harvested. He was starting to feel better now; the frantic, careening raft-ride was now a vague memory, stored alongside other memories best forgotten from a long life of warfare.

The open water had never been a battle Uther had ever managed to win, but he could pretend victory with the fuzzy reward of quality beer.

Although the draught here suffered somewhat in quality, Uther had made up for that by consuming it in quantity. In this way, perhaps, he hoped to gather all the good elements of all of the many pints together in his own compaction brewery (his stomach) and turn them into a single, fine drink within him. If you thought about it too much, you might draw up analogies between Uther's remarkable ability to consume more bad beer and transform it (internally) to a better vintage to that of legends of holy avatars transmuting poisons into sacred water within themselves.

Fortunately, Uther was spared from all this idle thinking, and instead contented himself on pretending that what he had in front of him was significantly better than it actually was.

Rikkard, on the other hand, could not. To him, the frightful liquid was quite disgusting, a pitiful excuse for a good spirit, and he made his complaint well known to the bartender when he chanced to walk by.

"You don' like the beer, mister?" the bartender asked Rikkard.

"No, I don't!" Rikkard responded, angrily. "It takes like boiled-down roots, or watery, cold soup! Don't you have anything better to serve us?" he demanded.

The bartender's face flashed a momentary anger, and then a nasty smile crawled across his face. He regarded Rikkard fixedly: "I gots somethin' that'll serve you good," he said, turning toward the back room. "Somethin' real good," he added, under his breath.

At another table, fewer drinks and more food were being served to Abigail, Sister Isobel and Ioan. The food consisted of a thick, white fish chowder with large lumps of fish and potatoes in it, and a heavy, unleavened bread to go with it. Although at first it appeared somewhat odd, each found that it was actually quite rich and the fish tasted rather fresh.

Uther spotted Ioan eagerly eating the stew and smirked. He remarked clumsily about how it was odd to see "fish eatin' other fish".

Ioan simply shrugged that it wasn't unusual for fish to eat other fish, and besides, he wasn't a fish in the first place.

Uther remarked eloquently on that position with a grunt. Sister Isobel hid a little smile; her big friend was afraid of almost nothing in this world, she was sure, but open water always bothered him. Given that his people tended to turn into rock as they aged, she supposed it wasn't entirely an irrational response.

She was lost in thoughts about how to help her friend overcome his fears when a blunt finger poked at her shoulder. The innkeeper stood over her, nervously looking at the nimbus which shifted over her head. He was an older man, which was suggested by his short, stubby, salt-and-pepper beard and weathered face. His eyes looked haunted.

"'scuse me, miss," he began. "But you seem to be one o' dem `avatars', right?" he asked. His face looked full of worry and hope, as if dreading her answer.

Isobel nodded, uncertain as to what he was asking for. The man's manner grew more anxious, and he asked in a quick voice: "Can you do healin's? My wife is deathly ill, see, and none's been through here what could help her. Could you?"

She felt immediate sympathy for this poor, old fisherman. His anguish was sincere, and she could not refuse his request. She agreed to help him, or at least to try to help, and they arranged for her to see his wife later that evening. Even that promise seemed to lighten the older man's burdens, and he nearly skipped into the back room to fetch them some more bread.

Passing through the doors he nearly knocked over the still-sneering bartender, who returned to Rikkard and Uther's table. He set down a nearly-full green-glassed bottle of a semi-clear liquid in front of Rikkard, and plunked two heavy glasses down on the table -- one in front of Rikkard, and the other apparently for himself. Draggging a chair over, he sat down on it and poured some of the alcohol for himself and for Rikkard.

Raising his glass to Rikkard, he nodded his head to him and spoke. "'ere is the good stuff, what'll rot yer socks! You an' me, we'll drink together, and we'll see if you Northerners can handle yer drinks!"

With that, he threw back his drink and slammed the glass down onto the table with a loud thud. The noise drew attention from around the room, and Rikkard found himself suddenly the center of attention.

So, he wants a challenge, does he? he thought. Fine, I'll show him what I'm made of! Grabbing his glass, he quickly downed the drink inside and pounded his glass back on the table. He was about to say something in response when the potent liquid hit him.

It took all the will he had to maintain his straight face, but Rikkard managed to look convincingly like it had barely affected him. Instead of throwing back the challenge verbally, he nodded to the bartender, the simple gesture being all that he could manage.

The bartender looked mildly amused, but poured another round of drinks for the two of them. Again, he threw back the drink, and again slammed the glass on the table, although he seemed a little less cocksure this time.

Aha! thought Rikkard. Now I'll beat him!

Somewhat less convincingly, he also successfully imbibed this drink, and they continued this contest for several more rounds, each one becoming more of a hurdle than the last.

Rikkard was impressed; the bartender was holding his own; in fact, he seemed to be largely unaffected by nasty beverage. As for himself, Rikkard could see that he'd better win quickly or he would quickly reach his limit. In the end, his limit was far closer than he realized, and he felt himself slide out of his chair and collapse upon the floor. The bartender had won.

Taking one last drink to celebrate, the bartender uneasily made his way to his feet and, wobbling dangerously, stumbled over the table where Isobel sat.

He leaned heavily on the table, and looked (more-or-less) straight at Isobel. "'Scush me," he said, nearly incoherently, his toxic breath wafting over them. "But ish you ish an av'tar?"

Isobel nodded, slowly. The bartender grinned knowingly and pointed to his head. "I figurred sho. Can you... Can you get ridda dish--" he waved his hand vaguely around his head, "Dish cloud? I gotsh a lotta work ta do, shee..."

Obviously, the bartender had counted on this when he entered into the drinking contest, Isobel concluded. Very clever, she mused. The semi-conscious form of Rikkard lay sprawled on the floor. And, he should learn a lesson from this...

She said a quick prayer to her Ancient and touched the man's forehead. At once, the bartender straightened up, and all trace of intoxication disappeared. He thanked her, and told her that anything that they wanted was on the house, courteousy of him.

He went to collect the bottle and the glasses when he discovered that Uther had taken an interest in the glass that the bartender had been using.

"Nice glass," he remarked with a grin, handing back the glass.

The bartender smiled back, sharing the joke. "I had it 'specially made for dealing with folks like him. Comes in handy!"

Uther smiled and let out a laugh, good and strong, drawing stares from the cardplayers.

The inside of the bartender's glass swelled up from the bottom, meaning that a glassful of booze for Rikkard had been nearly twice as much as it was for the bartender.

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