I will more than likely edit this later but I'm drunk and impatient now
This chapter is even shorter than the last one!
I know, you anus, I just said I'm gonna beef it up l-
STILL no sex? what kind of smut peddler are you?
It doesn't have to be all sex all the time! there's only so many ways to say "and then the rubbed their junk together" so I may as well space it out!
boo!
Boo, you! See? there I fixed it, get the sand out of your vagina.
AHEM! I mean: chapter has been updated.
It had probably been two centuries since Iorveth had looked for a job that did not involve violence. He really didn't know where to start any more. When he had last searched for a job, it was mostly menial work, separating cotton from its husk, pushing mine carts, all work that was done by machinery now. There were not many jobs left that he had any experience in. So he was forced to just ask directly if anyone needed help. He was answered primarily with blank stares and the occasional hurried apology before they briskly vacated the vicinity. One or two had simply absurd suggestions, such as the woman who asked if he could watch her ten-year-old son for the day and tutor him in archery. Iorveth informed her in as few terse words as possible that he did not deal with children.
Finally he was left with the option of either talking to the miners or going back to the woman who had an apparent death wish for her children. So, he endured the open laughter of the dwarven miners when he showed up.
"Well, can't say I've ever seen an elf in a mine before," The head prospector said, wiping a tear from his eye, "But I guess there's a first time for everything. Y'ain't never worked a mine before have yeh?"
"I pushed a cart when I was a child, but that was some considerable time ago…" Iorveth answered.
"I daresay ye were considerably shorter, too."
"I shall duck when necessary."
He had truly underestimated how low the ceiling in the mines would be. There wasn't anywhere he didn't have to stoop to keep from scalping himself on the jagged rock.
He found himself distracted by trying to puzzle out exactly what had taken place the night before. The conversation about Vergen and his Scoia'tel seemed straightforward enough, though he doubted any amount of civil service would sway the opinions of the D'hoine. The part that perplexed him was where, exactly, he stood with Saskia now. realistically, they were on the same level that they were before. After all, it was an experiment and nothing more. On the other hand, she was right in her hypothesis: even the stupidest of nobles would notice when her blood became alight. And only he knew that her human form was not her original one. The muscles in his cheeks twinged but he would not allow himself to smile in such unfamiliar company.
By the time the shift was over, the sun was setting and his spine ached whenever he moved, not to mention he was dirtier than he had words for. There was grit literally everywhere, stuck in the webbing between his fingers, crunching between his teeth, dusted precariously on his eyelashes so there was always the threat of getting sharp chunks of rock stuck in his eyelid. Of course, this happened immediately as he stepped out of the mine, straightening his back for the first time in hours.
His first instinct was to try to work it out of his eye with his hands, which were also covered in rock dust, making the problem a thousand times worse.
"Rocks in yer eye?" A vaguely familiar voice asked from somewhere near his elbow, "Don' worry 'bout it. happens t' everybody their firs' day."
"True" Said an unfamiliar voice on his opposite side, "but ye'd think them pretty eyelashes would be good for sumthin'."
"Piss off, Rorj," The more familiar voice said tersely, before addressing Iorveth again, "There's a wash basin over t' yer right. Jus' follow me."
Iorveth figured it would be best not to respond to the dwarf named Rorj. He was already in a quite sour mood and it wouldn't take much to incite him to violence. Against all instinct to the contrary, he turned away and tried to distinguish a dwarven shape out of his blurry, stinging vision. Who was that? His mind placed it somewhere in Flotsam, but he couldn't quite put a face to the voice yet.
"Ah'm jes' sayin'… My wife spends an inordinate amount o' me money tryin' t' get eyelashes like that." Rorj continued, trotting along behind them. "An' even so, she don' come out lookin' near as pretty as you, Squirrel. Well… as pretty as half of yeh."
"Now Rorj," The amicable dwarf warned, his voice stern, "y'know Melinda said she'd leave yeh if ye come home with another black eye. An' frankly, ah won' defend yeh."
Zoltan Chivay! Iorveth finally recognized the voice from a memory that seemed much longer ago than it was. "yer talkin' 'bout killin' folk who ain't done you nor me no harm whatsoever. This isn't what Saskia would want, an' frankly, ah won' be part of it." The dwarf had said, chin held high, steadfastly holding Iorveth's gaze, despite having to crane his neck to do so. Most dwarves were stubborn and intense, to be sure, but usually this façade was overcompensation. Zoltan was an exception. No threats, no apologies; He simply wasn't going to be a part of his plans, and there was no alternative. Iorveth admired that, though the Dwarf's tenacity had not altered his plans in the slightest.
Which made this situation somewhat befuddling. Zoltan was never known to be a hateful man, but made it no secret that he held great disdain for most of Iorveth's opinions and actions. So why take his side against a fellow dwarf?
"Ah don' think there's much cause for concern," Iorveth could hear the smirk in Rorj's voice, " He's harmless now that Saskia's relieved him of his balls."
Iorveth stopped walking and clenched his jaw, distracting himself with the sound of silt grinding between his teeth. Still, he found himself calculating precicely how far away Rorj was…five feet, directly at 6:30, his mouth was about four feet from the ground.
"It's like a war dog, Y'only leave 'im intact for the battle then y'got two choices-"
"Rorj, yer gonna be on yer own…"
Four feet…
"Y'either put 'im down or y'neuter 'im so he can be a good boy…."
Three feet…
"An' ah'm jes' sayin'-"
Two…
"If she didn' have th' heart t' put ye down, boy, there's only th' one altern-"
There was a satisfyingly heavy resistance when Iorveth's heel struck under Rorj's chin. In order to maximize the force behind the mule kick he had just delivered, he had to lean all the way forward into a roll to continue the momentum. but it was worth it to hear two separate impacts of his boot on the dwarf's chin, and the dull thud of his limp body hitting the ground half a moment later.
He didn't turn around, as he still couldn't see. He simply stood and strode over to the well where Zoltan had been leading him. He was fully aware that this almost certainly meant he was officially out of job opportunities, but he just couldn't bring himself to care.
"I ploughing told yeh, Rorj… Y'daft bastard…" he heard Zoltan say pityingly.
When he Finally worked the grit out of his eye, Iorveth turned, fully prepared for the usual faces of horror and disdain to be plastered all over the Dwarven miners… but that was not what met him. In fact, the crowd simply walked around Rorj as he groaned and slowly regained consciousness; completely ignoring him.
"Don' look so shocked." Zoltan said as he approached, "Rorj gets his arse handed to 'im ev'ry other week." Iorveth hadn't noticed his flared nostril, which tugged his lip into a lopsided gape. He corrected his expression and turned to walk with Zoltan. "Does he always pick opponents stronger than him?" He asked, returning to a disinterested drawl.
"Almost exclusively." Zoltan nodded, "It's kind of an amazin' skill he has; to pick the most violent person in any crowd and piss 'em off."
"I suppose the natural order of things will take care of him eventually…" Iorveth shrugged, looking over his shoulder as Rorj pushed himself off the ground, but not quite to his feet. "That or the booze, poor sod." Zoltan sighed, "Ah don' think ah've ever seen 'im sober."
There was a somewhat awkward pause in conversation. "Speaking of liver damage!" Zoltan suddenly chimed in cheerfully, "I owe yeh a drink." Iorveth raised his unmangled eyebrow, "what for?"
"First day in th' mines!" Zoltan exclaimed, slapping Iorveth on the shoulderblades, as he couldn't quite reach his shoulder.
"Oh? And what do I get for my last day because I'm quite certain they are one and the same."
"bah, if we fired ev'ry one who picked a fight, the mine'd be manned by empty carts an' stationary pickaxes."
…
They had collected their pay for their shift and nobody even mentioned the incident with Rorj. The foreman told Iorveth to return the next day at the same time. Until he found something else to do, he figured it was as good a job as any, and it did pay well.
"Now, to be fair," Zoltan began, his cheeks and nose flushed with drink, "Y'are prettier than Melinda…"
"Oh I'm sorry, did you also want a beating?" Iorveth smirked, sipping on some kind of clear liquor, which was billed as vodka but tasted like something entirely cheaper. Zoltan, however, was collecting a small armada of empty shot glasses. "Don' jump t' takin' offense s'damn quickly!" Zoltan grinned, "Y'ever seen Melinda? It's no accomplishment t' be prettier than that."
Iorveth leaned back and murmured the name to himself to see if he could match a face to the name. "Melinda… Melinda… Oh! Melinda with the onions? I've seen uglier than her-"
"no,no,no, That's Melanie, Melinda runs the fish cart."
"Oh." Iorveth grimaced, remembering the snaggle-toothed and hook-nosed fish merchant.
"aye… and, t'be fair, a perfectly pleasant one…" Zoltan reminded himself, "Just… not very comely."
"We can't all be at pretty as you are, Zoltan." Iorveth said through the last of his "vodka." The, now, tomato- faced dwarf laughed heartily and slapped his knee. "Ah-ha! He does have a sense o' humor after all!"
The two men chatted and drank until the pub began to empty of its working class group and the true night owls filtered in. Iorveth had originally agreed to come only because it was easier than finding a polite way to decline (Zoltan was quite adamant) but he found himself genuinely enjoying the company. Still, he couldn't shake a certain feeling of unease. He couldn't figure out Zoltan's motives. Before today, as far as Iorveth knew, they were considered begrudging allies at best. Now, however, the dwarf laughed and talked with him like they had been friends for years. Again, he found a desire for companionship struggling against a tendency toward suspicion.
Had he always been so wary of other people? Or was that a by-product of living like an animal for so long? He couldn't really remember anything past the last century of violence. All he had were memories of memories; Like the faint lines left on paper after the words had been erased.
The thought perplexed him even after they had paid their bill and slipped out into the dark, abandoned streets.
...
...
Eventually, the two came to their crossroads and Zoltan bid Iorveth a slurred farewell, "Ah'll see yeh. Try not to let the hangover slow yeh down."
Iorveth smirked. "I doubt it'll be a concern. I'm nowhere near knackered enough to regret it." As he finished scoffing, he realized that his balance had shifted enough to prop him against the signpost. How long had he been leaning on this molding sign?
Zoltan laughed "Boy, th' way you been walkin, I thought y' were following a serpant with a gold tongue"
Iorveth didn't know what that was supposed to mean.
Zoltan shook his head and walked down his street, waving over his shoulder, "Don' hurt y'self!"
Iorveth contemplated an abandoned shop cart for a long moment before he turned to the Dwarf, "You don't like me." He called plainly.
Zoltan turned around with a cocked eyebrow and a bemused smirk. "Y'read minds, do yeh?" he answered.
Iorveth pushed himself off the signpost and walked forward a few paces, his arms folded. "You've never made it a secret. In Flotsam you found me brutish, during the war I was a necessary evil at best. Today I'm worthy of your unsolicited company. Why?"
Zoltan tilted his head back and studied the elf for just a moment before striding forward, his smile gone. "Did ye know we fought in two wars t'gether?"
Iorveth furrowed his brow, "I did not."
"aye." Zoltan nodded, "granted, only the one bein' on th' same side..." He stopped at a respectul distance but somehow it felt like an invasion of space. "It's no secret that ye wore the black sun durin' the war... but did ye know yeh've still got the accent?"
Iorveth's eyebrows bounced in genuine surprise. He thought he had completely lost his native accent, as he had worked hard to erase it over the past century.
"Northern from th' sound of it." Zoltan continued. "Y'hold vowels just a hair too long fer southern Nilfgaard."
Iorveth put his shock in check and smoothed his face of expression, "You have quite the ear for accents."
"Ah wouldn' be alive if ah didn't." Zoltan shrugged, "Half the time, it was the only way to tell friend from foe."
Iorveth nodded, still skeptical. "A fine and useful skill to be sure. What's your point?"
"Perhaps in a certain place, it's a fine and useful thing... but right after the war, it brought me nothin' but trouble. After the war, travel between the nations resumed and folk came from all over creation passin' through town. An' all of a sudden, I heard enemies everywhere ah went, not just accents. Ah didn' have th' money t' just up n' move so ah started t' feel like ah'd been locked in th' lion's den. It took me many years b'fore I was able t' hear a long vowel or dull 'T' without feelin' th' need t' deck someone... Some of me mates still feel the need and carry it out on occasion.
"Ah remember tryin t' come down from War. It ain't easy. but yer tryin... and that's more than can be said fer some."
With that, Zoltan nodded once and left Iorveth to ponder this notion as he swayed and zig-zagged home.
"Bloody hell..." He muttered as he suddenly realized. "Snakes Slither"
Iorveth fumbled through his front door. He was beginning to suspect he might have been a touch more inebriated than predicted. He had a fleeting vision of himself, a century and a half ago, disgusted by the notion of being drunk while alone.
He silently swore to stick to water for the rest of his life as he shed his leather chestpiece; it had begun to feel heavy. He looked briefly at his tub and decided against it. Instead he decided one night of filth was just going to have to happen because he was going to fall asleep in a few minutes irregardless of where he was. So he headed for bed.
Just then, he heard very faint footsteps outside the door behind him. He silently turned and waited, his hand over the doorknob, waiting to react. He heard the feet outside shuffle then heard an oddly familiar uncertain groan. He opened the door and caught Saskia just as she turned to leave.
"And I had almost gotten away, too." She sighed before entering the house. She wore the same heavy, dark cloak and what looked like men's clothes
Iorveth resisted the urge to swiftly exit the same door she had entered. There was no way he would be able to carry on meaningful conversation in this state, nor would he be able to admirably preform the task he hoped she would return for. He did everything in his power to hide this fact.
"What? What do you need of me?" he asked.
Saskia shook her head at him, "We are not coy people, Iorveth." she said as she stripped the cloak off of her shoulders.
AUGH! ending BEFORE the smut?!
RIGHT?! Like, a smut cliffhanger?
'Are they gonna totally bone?'
'Is this considered date rape?'
'Will Iorveth get whiskey dick?'
'Is THAT why she prefers dwarves?'
'FIND OUT IN NEXT WEEK'S EPISODE'
see?
Exactly. It's a stupid gimmick
laaaaaaame
LAMESAUCE!