of moonless nights. The tide was low. Being a fisherman Renir knew the catch would be sparse this week. He had never been a great fisherman, but even he knew not to waste time on the seas on the moonless weeks. The fish would be sluggish and low in the ocean.
The fishermen he saw in the distance were finishing for the day. No doubt tending their nets. Renir could barely imagine what kind of man would row these freezing seas. Surely, were one to fall overboard, they would turn to ice as soon as they hit the water.
As night fell, in its slow, graceful way, it seemed that against all possibility it was actually getting colder. He pulled open the door to the Grumbling Sprout, after stabling his horse with Harlot (Wen’s horse was named Warlock, and had a temperament to match his master’s. He was stabled on his own, and the stable hand refused to go near him after receiv ing a nasty nip to the shoulder ) and Drun and Bourninund’s horses, who refused to name their animals. The horse would be able to take the cold. Renir wasn’t sure he could.
He stepped inside, and growled to himself to find within the Grumbling Sprout, the town’s strangely named Inn, it was almost as cold as it was outside. The wind sliced through the wooden walls and taunted the fire glowing in the hearth.
He took a seat with the others, and ordered drinks. He grumbled some more, and thought the place aptly named. There was no ale. They were reduced to drinking a local brew (brewed, perhaps, from sprouts). It was potent enough. After a few tiny glasses of the drink Renir felt some welcome warmth seeping into his bones. Each sip burnt the gullet, like a ball of fire slipping down a man’s throat.
People adapted to their situation, Renir thought in a brief moment of clarity brought on by a spiteful draft on his spine. He took another sip of the liquid, and put his small glass down carefully.
The proprietor smiled in a f riendly way to the men as he laid their food on the table. Renir thought anyone that smiled that way as they put foul smelling fish stew on the table could be up to no good. He prodded the soup suspiciously. It was no doubt something the locals saved for weary travellers, so they could all have a good laugh at the fools eating slops they wouldn’t give to a pig. Renir pushed the bowl away. As he did so a blank eyed fish head floated to the surface.
He put his spoon down careful, and slid the bowl toward Bourninund. The bear nodded his gratitude and pulled Renir’s bowl closer to his. The old mercenary was slurping happily at his stew. Shorn and Drun were eating theirs too. Renir looked up.
He was not surprised to see the owner of the inn looking at them with that suspicious smile on his face.
“It’s strange, don’t you think, how people adapt to their situations?” he said, gulping down the remainder of his drink and holding up a hand for another. “In the south we drink ale all year round, and even in the snows of winter it’s not cold enough to drink a brew such as this. Yet here in the north, where the wind is more evil than I could imagine, they have invented a drink to negate the ill effects of the weather.”
Bourninund grunted around a fish tail which was protruding from between his lips. He sucked the flesh from the bones, and spat the rest back into his bowl. “Keep your divagations to a minimum, Renir. Us old men tend toward befuddlement.”
Renir, feeling quite drunk already, said, “I don’t know what divigilation’s are, but it’s a potent brew.”
“It certainly is, and we should take it easy now, and head to bed. We must be off early in the morning. We’ve many miles to make up yet,” said Shorn, who together with Drun was taking only sips of the drink between mouthfuls of the noxious smelling stew.
“I think I’ll take that advice,” agreed Drun. “I’ll see you at sun rise.” With a nod to his companions, he finished his drink and headed toward the rooms.
Renir watched him go. “I
The fishermen he saw in the distance were finishing for the day. No doubt tending their nets. Renir could barely imagine what kind of man would row these freezing seas. Surely, were one to fall overboard, they would turn to ice as soon as they hit the water.
As night fell, in its slow, graceful way, it seemed that against all possibility it was actually getting colder. He pulled open the door to the Grumbling Sprout, after stabling his horse with Harlot (Wen’s horse was named Warlock, and had a temperament to match his master’s. He was stabled on his own, and the stable hand refused to go near him after receiv ing a nasty nip to the shoulder ) and Drun and Bourninund’s horses, who refused to name their animals. The horse would be able to take the cold. Renir wasn’t sure he could.
He stepped inside, and growled to himself to find within the Grumbling Sprout, the town’s strangely named Inn, it was almost as cold as it was outside. The wind sliced through the wooden walls and taunted the fire glowing in the hearth.
He took a seat with the others, and ordered drinks. He grumbled some more, and thought the place aptly named. There was no ale. They were reduced to drinking a local brew (brewed, perhaps, from sprouts). It was potent enough. After a few tiny glasses of the drink Renir felt some welcome warmth seeping into his bones. Each sip burnt the gullet, like a ball of fire slipping down a man’s throat.
People adapted to their situation, Renir thought in a brief moment of clarity brought on by a spiteful draft on his spine. He took another sip of the liquid, and put his small glass down carefully.
The proprietor smiled in a f riendly way to the men as he laid their food on the table. Renir thought anyone that smiled that way as they put foul smelling fish stew on the table could be up to no good. He prodded the soup suspiciously. It was no doubt something the locals saved for weary travellers, so they could all have a good laugh at the fools eating slops they wouldn’t give to a pig. Renir pushed the bowl away. As he did so a blank eyed fish head floated to the surface.
He put his spoon down careful, and slid the bowl toward Bourninund. The bear nodded his gratitude and pulled Renir’s bowl closer to his. The old mercenary was slurping happily at his stew. Shorn and Drun were eating theirs too. Renir looked up.
He was not surprised to see the owner of the inn looking at them with that suspicious smile on his face.
“It’s strange, don’t you think, how people adapt to their situations?” he said, gulping down the remainder of his drink and holding up a hand for another. “In the south we drink ale all year round, and even in the snows of winter it’s not cold enough to drink a brew such as this. Yet here in the north, where the wind is more evil than I could imagine, they have invented a drink to negate the ill effects of the weather.”
Bourninund grunted around a fish tail which was protruding from between his lips. He sucked the flesh from the bones, and spat the rest back into his bowl. “Keep your divagations to a minimum, Renir. Us old men tend toward befuddlement.”
Renir, feeling quite drunk already, said, “I don’t know what divigilation’s are, but it’s a potent brew.”
“It certainly is, and we should take it easy now, and head to bed. We must be off early in the morning. We’ve many miles to make up yet,” said Shorn, who together with Drun was taking only sips of the drink between mouthfuls of the noxious smelling stew.
“I think I’ll take that advice,” agreed Drun. “I’ll see you at sun rise.” With a nod to his companions, he finished his drink and headed toward the rooms.
Renir watched him go. “I
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