>>5785795>>5785768>>5785743>>5785732>>5785697>>5785696“So,” you began, “you’re… An adventurer?”
“I appreciate you not saying ‘were’ and adventurer,” your father says with a tilt of the head and a doff of his cap.
“Did you stop?” Pearce interjected.
“Because of your dotage?” asked Izirina.
You glared at them both, but if your father had any inclination to take offence, it was stymied by your placing of the order for beer—at which his eyes lit up.
“That’s right, you really ARE the issue of my loins, wot!” he said with a toast, before beginning to swig. “Got that van Houtzmann spirit!”
“What?” you asked, sipping your own ale.
“That’s our last name,” he said, and then with a crooked, wistful half-smile. “Mine, at least. You can use it, if you’d like. You’ve earned it!”
You blinked a couple times, trying to take all this in as the old man ran a mile a minute with his mouth, all unfocused exuberance.
“So,” you began again, “you’re an adventurer.”
“I am!” he said with a boisterous laugh, and drew his rapier.
Muffins’ six eyes all focused upon him, but you quickly held out a palm and rested your hand upon the goat-head, channeling a bit of <calm? Into the chimera—and, by proxy, the suddenly-quite-alert bartender. Your father, none-the-wiser, swishes his thin baked in wobbly figure eights through the air, staring into the middle-distance.
“I travel the world, from place to place, over hill and dale, seeking out the uncharted adventure—YES, adventure!—and putting an end to that vilest of vermin as needs ending, wot ho!”
“But you’re poor,” Izirina noted, not in any ACCUSATORY or MEAN tone of voice, but matter-of-factly as she always did.
Pearce nearly spat out his drink, choking back a laugh. Your father’s face dropped a little, and his rapier listed and its sircles slowed. You cringed a little, but… Well, was he? Was he LIVING at this inn, running up a tab he couldn’t pay? HOW? Weren’t adventurers—real ones, anyway—wealthy from tomb-raiding and dungeon-delving, fat with golden rewards from rescued monster-victims?
“Well,” Adolfo van Houtzmann admitted, “times have been… Peaceful. More organized.”
He said the words like curses, you noted, as he sat back down, replaced his sword upon his belt, and finished his drink.
“The lute gets more use than the sword these days, ey wot. But don’t they say that the ballad is mightier than the sword?”
“That’s the pen, I think,” Pearce suggested.
“Well… The music travels furthers and faster than any marching soldier!” your father gamely rallied.
“…Soundwaves do move quickly, through medium like air,” Izirina Henzler suggested levelly, and your father grinned.
“So,” you said, “quite poor then.”
Your father cleared his throat, and looked away.
