[14 / 1 / 8]
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You down the last of your flat, watery ale, grimacing, knowing that you’ll need another to get through Perry’s set. You’re not worried about the quality of the entertainment; Lord Peregrine and his Swingin’ Serfs were the hottest bards playing the Shipwreck Coast, but the Serfs had been drinking heavily since the early afternoon, and you knew from long experience that a barroom brawl was not unlikely.
Not like you’re much good in a brawl, anyway. You’re at your happiest when you’re at home, brewing, or at the university, brewing, or at the Perverted Parrot, brewing. You like brewing, and you’re rather good at it. You grew up in a joyless village on the Greymoor, and were the first person in your community to realize that the ceremonial teas prepared to placate the storm goddesses didn’t have to taste like the inside of a cow’s anus. You left the day you were old enough to study alchemy properly in the big city, and not just in the old wise woman’s hut. The old wise woman, due to the lack of old wise women in your village, was not old, not wise, and nobody cared enough to find out whether or not she was a woman, but she knew which mushrooms tasted good and which mushrooms made meditating over bowls of bison milk entertaining. She’s the only one you think about from back home.
One of the Serfs was detuning his lute, which you took as a bad sign, because it meant the Serfs would open with “Fuck the Duke,” probably their most divisive number. You make your way over to the bar, trying not to count just how many of the punters are wearing the green, gold and maroon of House Estragon. You wish you were back at the Perv, experimenting with fermented kelp and squid beaks, listening to Perry’s mother sing ballads from the old country. You like Perry’s mother, even though she thinks you’re a good influence on her son just because you went to university. She doesn’t know what the two of you get up to.
You order your drink as Perry and the boys walk on stage. You pay, then move discreetly towards the front door, as far away as possible from the stage. Three big geezers in the Estraguese tricolore move onto the straw covered dancefloor, stomping territorially. A drunk woman spills her mead on your shoes, then doesn’t apologize. Her boyfriend scowls at you. The sound wizard raises his wand, and the Serfs start fiddling with their instruments. The sound wizard checks his mixing rune, gives a thumbs up, and Perry takes off his cape. Perry doesn’t play an instrument live; he needs his hands free for his stage magic. Perry stretches his arms out at his sides, and begins to levitate, while Barthez the Berserker counts the band in.
ONE! TWO! ONE TWO THREE FOUR!
Not like you’re much good in a brawl, anyway. You’re at your happiest when you’re at home, brewing, or at the university, brewing, or at the Perverted Parrot, brewing. You like brewing, and you’re rather good at it. You grew up in a joyless village on the Greymoor, and were the first person in your community to realize that the ceremonial teas prepared to placate the storm goddesses didn’t have to taste like the inside of a cow’s anus. You left the day you were old enough to study alchemy properly in the big city, and not just in the old wise woman’s hut. The old wise woman, due to the lack of old wise women in your village, was not old, not wise, and nobody cared enough to find out whether or not she was a woman, but she knew which mushrooms tasted good and which mushrooms made meditating over bowls of bison milk entertaining. She’s the only one you think about from back home.
One of the Serfs was detuning his lute, which you took as a bad sign, because it meant the Serfs would open with “Fuck the Duke,” probably their most divisive number. You make your way over to the bar, trying not to count just how many of the punters are wearing the green, gold and maroon of House Estragon. You wish you were back at the Perv, experimenting with fermented kelp and squid beaks, listening to Perry’s mother sing ballads from the old country. You like Perry’s mother, even though she thinks you’re a good influence on her son just because you went to university. She doesn’t know what the two of you get up to.
You order your drink as Perry and the boys walk on stage. You pay, then move discreetly towards the front door, as far away as possible from the stage. Three big geezers in the Estraguese tricolore move onto the straw covered dancefloor, stomping territorially. A drunk woman spills her mead on your shoes, then doesn’t apologize. Her boyfriend scowls at you. The sound wizard raises his wand, and the Serfs start fiddling with their instruments. The sound wizard checks his mixing rune, gives a thumbs up, and Perry takes off his cape. Perry doesn’t play an instrument live; he needs his hands free for his stage magic. Perry stretches his arms out at his sides, and begins to levitate, while Barthez the Berserker counts the band in.
ONE! TWO! ONE TWO THREE FOUR!
