Now this is interesting- a three-parter.
Haven't undertaken anything this long since Pariah's Wasteland.
This first chapter won't be anything too special; it's just the simple intro to the whole bit.
The Advent chapter will prolly have the meat of the story, so try to bear with this pitiful little pilot.
As always, here's a nice little disclaimer at the beginning of the piece…: I do not, have not, and shall not own Blizzard's fantastic mind child. I may do whatever to imagine the various settings that they do not explore terribly well, but I feel that it is necessary to clearly state that I do not profit in any way, shape, or form from this beyond the meager attention of some interested individuals, and even that is not guaranteed. Thusly, I am but a storyteller making a new tale for something pretty old...
And on with the show, me buckos!
~P~
Five steins slam down onto the table, a good amount of ale flying out of them and onto the already stained surface of the tavern floor.
"Drink, drink, drink it down
`Til the bawd comes running!
Drum the table with the hand to hail the land
Chug down the brew and forgo the stew
Until the bawd comes running!"
The merry quintet of howling miners do what they do as second nature. Somehow, they don't take up as much space as one would assume- perhaps due to the fact that the rest of the tavern is just like this. If anything, the rest of the tavern is louder and even less tidy.
This proves to be the case as a half eaten leg of mutton flies through the air within a hair's breadth of the barmaid scuttles through the cramped spaces around the islands of drunken foolery and stale beer gas. The maid manages to wade through without batting an eye at anything, including the three or so more drunkards piling off from the table onto the floor, apparently wrestling over a copper buzz whistle. The lackey behind her did a little less gracefully and stumbled a bit, but that probably had something to do with the lazy swats at various choice areas, a few of which seeming to be aimed at his rear. He manages to avoid about all of them and comes out from the thickest part of the huddled masses unscathed.
"Gillian, I think we need to start watering down the fare now; the old boys seem to be having difficulty timing their gropes," the lad says, checking his clothes briefly for greasy handprints.
"I don't know, boy," the barmaid replies, turning around with a graceful ease, a playful quirk on her lips, "I saw a wink or two in your direction."
Chagrined, the lackey grimaces. "Please tell me you jest in earnest."
"No, no, I see a couple with eyes for you," Gillian nodded in the direction of a table back in the middle of the congregated mess, and the youth turns to try and get a glimpse of the offending patrons. Fortunately, but mostly unfortunately, he didn't have to look far.
What he gets is an eyeful of what looked to be the gaudiest crossdressers he had ever even begun to conceive as humanly possible. The creepy group of customers seem also pretty hairy as well, though the hair seem to be confined to the long manes of fluffy, wavy hair held back with cloth bands on their brows and their half bare chests. Their clean shaven faces are currently being occupied with the most garish layers of paint this side of a cheap mummer's troupe.
"I see the great bargains of Tristram's winter trading festival have brought all kinds. Excuse me as I make an exit stage right…"
Gillian catches the lad by the ear just as he is at the edge of her reach. "Agrius, you have your duty as my helper to take care of serving the food and recovering the used dishes. If not you're not here to help me, my strong, handsome assistant, then who?"
"Why not use Farnham? He looks somewhat sober."
The town drunk, only a few paces away, takes the chance to burble as if already deep in the bottle. Gillian looks at Agrius pointedly.
The lad takes a slow step back, so saying "There's always Wirt…"
"Wirt's getting his peg repaired, you know that."
"He's got one good leg, doesn't he?"
The maid glares a little more deeply.
"Oh, look, a snowflake; gotta dust off the yard!"
With that, the lackey slips out of Gillian's grip and makes his getaway, leaving his half empty tray balanced on a passed-out patron's head.
The hoodwinked maid huff, stamping her dainty foot in mild irritation. Farnham burbles again in discomfort, although whether it is from the tray on his head or the anticipation of hard work is uncertain.
~C~
"Lessee… thornbloom, thornbloom… Good sir, could you show me where you've stocked your dried Kurasti thornbloom, I can't seem to find it…"
The stall attendant of the apothecary wares section of the festival market looks up from his portable desk, squinting through thick spectacles. "It should be placed in a small jar next to the cured candle orchids. Up there, on the left, son."
Agrius follows the old cleric's indication, his hand coming to rest on a small corked vial a finger's breadth in size. "That's the one. One hundred forty nine ments, if you would."
The pale youth fetches a small silver coin from his pocket. "All I have on hand that big is this dram. Here." He tosses it into the elderly man's hand. "Keep the short change, your service was indispensable."
The old man blinks and smiles, nodding in thanks and quickly returning to his recording of the day's trades.
The lad sticks the bottled herb in his large hip-pouch and mosies down the square, looking now for some decent buns to go with tonight's supper.
Passing by an alley, he notices two children in rags running to keep up with a dodgy-looking man. The waifs looked pretty tired, but the leader didn't seem to notice, proceeding down the dark path, away from the unseen witness.
The lad shakes his head, and decides to follow them, if for a little while.
~P~
Yeah, it's a crappy way to end the beginning. It ain't even a good cliffhanger.
Oh well.
Stay poised for sometime in early December for the next chapter of the Christmas special.
Happy Holidays, everybody!