Tavern Talk
By TeamGastlyMore Info / Reviews
Chapter 1: Flurry
The dark man walked through a division in the crowded tavern.
He moved in such a motion that it could be questioned whether he was walking toward the bar or the bar was moving toward him. The creaking floorbords rose up to meet his scarred feet, protected only by a thin slice of leather with a meager string stretching itself over and around so selflessly to provide a slot for his worn toes to enter and rest. They were his pallbearers.
His legs moved slowly, softly - as would a man out of breath after running a marathon. His cold hands were shriveled and worn, looking much like the those of an elderly man. His poor fingers struggled for movement. They were scratched and battered and had certainly been working on something that had tired them so. The hands fell from his arms like a dead man from a noose - they swayed to and fro yet were still in their swaying. His left hand was clenched into a fist, firmly grasping an end of a stained grey pillowcase weighed down by the mysterious objects inside. As exhausted as his hands were, that fist gripped the pillowcase as if it was the one last strand left of his unraveling soul.
The sleeves of his ragged brown shirt reached about three inches from the wrists - the ends were shredded and there were definite blood stains on the left cuff. His clothes looked to have been on his body for at least three days straight. They were wrinkled, stained, and feeling the wear-and-tear of physical labor.
The man walked with a hunch though it was more of a forced hunch as opposed to simple bad posture. It was a tired bend at the shoulders and neck, a tired bend for a tired body. His movements were made in fatigue and a sharp tingle could be sensed moving through his bones. This man certainly had not slept for several days.
His face was gaunt and well-chiseled. His facial hair was unshaved and grew like weeds in the Garden of Eden. His eyes were sunken and dark but a second glance revealed the palest eyes one could ever see. The black in the pupils burned like the fires of hell and the blue of his irises was a desolate one, void of life and only waiting for the final plunge into nonexistence. His hair hanged in front of his face like serpents trying to disorient him. His weariness was a top-heavy one. He needed to sit down and quickly.
There was a path in the middle of that room with a sea of people arranged at the sides. He stared down the aisle and saw the vanishing point - a barstool, the only one empty. Whether he moved to the stool or the stool moved to him, one may never know but the reality is he made it to the stool and laid his head upon his dying arms.
The lone candlesticks up in the wooden chandelier feebly tried to give the room light but their strength was limited and the room was subjected to a constant state of flickering with periods of darkness. The room looked like more like a funeral parlor than a tavern. The scene was disturbing and unreal - no one wanted to believe it and even if they did, they couldn't and wouldn't. The world shook but he stayed still, his head motionless. He was not dead, not hardly. He was not asleep or unconscious. He was not even in thought. His head just lay there - there was nothing. There was nothing.
There was something. There were voices.
Look at the poor guy. Yeah, he lost everything didn't he? He always loved this town. Such a shame it had to happen to a man like he. Look, he doesn't even wear his uniform anymore. I wonder what happened to his armor. His life is ruined. This has ruined a lot for us. Why would the gods do this? How could Din rain destruction upon us, upon him? What did you lose? Poor man. I lost almost all of it. He lived so close to the outbreak. What was salvaged? By the time his place went up, the whole town was already ablaze. The chickens survived, at least. Isn't that...? My house barely made it. Is Herbal okay? What caused all this? Yes. What do we do now? No. Who caused all this? Do you know if the windmill is okay? What do we do now? His life is over. What can we do now? That tree outside used to bear the prettiest blossoms. Where will you go? Its always dark out there. The way the Castle Town has become, there is nowhere else. Is it finally out? Are our neighbors still there? This is the apocalypse, is it not? No. Yes. No. Yes. What do we do now? I hate our home.
It was a flurry of voices. A dozen or so conversations revolving and reverberating through the small tavern located safely at the edge of town. The room was warm with life, the only place in the town where the teeming evil couldn't freeze a spark. Hope had become a myth. The future was a weak flame on an icy wick. There was nothing. But there were voices. He heard them in his motionless state.
Look at him. Poor man. Is he giving up? Poor man. Is he weak? His will is gone. He was a solider, a guardian. He is only a man. He was a protector. Who was there to protect him? The dead could rise up from the graveyard and I wouldn't notice. Is this what we must depend on? What has become of Impa? Perhaps we could depend on ourselves? She has not turned up. Look where that got us. Look what we have become. What do we do now? Why are we here? Why are we not dead? Can there be hope in such a hopeless place? Can there be hope now that my shop is in ashes? Who can help us? The dark lord will come for us. Do we rebuild? Could we rebuild what we have lost? It is still out there.
His head rose. It was still out there, the spirit, the entity. The catalyst of all the woes in the town. It was out there still and no one could protect from it. Nobody knew what it was but everyone knew its destruction. His head quivered. He was suddenly cold, and his actions diplayed this to the room. Everyone was staring but nobody was paying attention. The room was dark and the people were dark and the town was dark.
The door opened and in came a young man everyone had seen numerous times. He was a teenaged youth, around seventeen years old. He was not from around the village - he dressed like a forest child but forest children never aged. He looked awkward but there was a fresh feeling to him - it was this feeling that seemed to bring a warm aura into the tavern. For one moment, the room was bright. Nobody looked at the youth but they were all watching him. He looked around and quickly turned and left. The shine of the green tunic he wore escaped beyond the wooden door and it was cold and dark once again.
The man at the barstool had been the only one in the tavern to watch the youth for the entire ten seconds he was inside the room. There was something familiar about the young man. It was a whim of some sort but it brought his mind back nearly a decade and he remembered better times.
He needed to return. He had sat down and that really was all he hoped to accomplish in the tavern. As he rose from the chair, the pillowcase slipped from his sweaty grip and fell to the floor. A keaton mask slipped from the case. Nobody stared but everyone was watching. The shocked man grabbed the mask and returned it to the case. He rushed to the door, or the door rushed to him, and he made his exit.
He moved in such a motion that it could be questioned whether he was walking toward the bar or the bar was moving toward him. The creaking floorbords rose up to meet his scarred feet, protected only by a thin slice of leather with a meager string stretching itself over and around so selflessly to provide a slot for his worn toes to enter and rest. They were his pallbearers.
His legs moved slowly, softly - as would a man out of breath after running a marathon. His cold hands were shriveled and worn, looking much like the those of an elderly man. His poor fingers struggled for movement. They were scratched and battered and had certainly been working on something that had tired them so. The hands fell from his arms like a dead man from a noose - they swayed to and fro yet were still in their swaying. His left hand was clenched into a fist, firmly grasping an end of a stained grey pillowcase weighed down by the mysterious objects inside. As exhausted as his hands were, that fist gripped the pillowcase as if it was the one last strand left of his unraveling soul.
The sleeves of his ragged brown shirt reached about three inches from the wrists - the ends were shredded and there were definite blood stains on the left cuff. His clothes looked to have been on his body for at least three days straight. They were wrinkled, stained, and feeling the wear-and-tear of physical labor.
The man walked with a hunch though it was more of a forced hunch as opposed to simple bad posture. It was a tired bend at the shoulders and neck, a tired bend for a tired body. His movements were made in fatigue and a sharp tingle could be sensed moving through his bones. This man certainly had not slept for several days.
His face was gaunt and well-chiseled. His facial hair was unshaved and grew like weeds in the Garden of Eden. His eyes were sunken and dark but a second glance revealed the palest eyes one could ever see. The black in the pupils burned like the fires of hell and the blue of his irises was a desolate one, void of life and only waiting for the final plunge into nonexistence. His hair hanged in front of his face like serpents trying to disorient him. His weariness was a top-heavy one. He needed to sit down and quickly.
There was a path in the middle of that room with a sea of people arranged at the sides. He stared down the aisle and saw the vanishing point - a barstool, the only one empty. Whether he moved to the stool or the stool moved to him, one may never know but the reality is he made it to the stool and laid his head upon his dying arms.
The lone candlesticks up in the wooden chandelier feebly tried to give the room light but their strength was limited and the room was subjected to a constant state of flickering with periods of darkness. The room looked like more like a funeral parlor than a tavern. The scene was disturbing and unreal - no one wanted to believe it and even if they did, they couldn't and wouldn't. The world shook but he stayed still, his head motionless. He was not dead, not hardly. He was not asleep or unconscious. He was not even in thought. His head just lay there - there was nothing. There was nothing.
There was something. There were voices.
Look at the poor guy. Yeah, he lost everything didn't he? He always loved this town. Such a shame it had to happen to a man like he. Look, he doesn't even wear his uniform anymore. I wonder what happened to his armor. His life is ruined. This has ruined a lot for us. Why would the gods do this? How could Din rain destruction upon us, upon him? What did you lose? Poor man. I lost almost all of it. He lived so close to the outbreak. What was salvaged? By the time his place went up, the whole town was already ablaze. The chickens survived, at least. Isn't that...? My house barely made it. Is Herbal okay? What caused all this? Yes. What do we do now? No. Who caused all this? Do you know if the windmill is okay? What do we do now? His life is over. What can we do now? That tree outside used to bear the prettiest blossoms. Where will you go? Its always dark out there. The way the Castle Town has become, there is nowhere else. Is it finally out? Are our neighbors still there? This is the apocalypse, is it not? No. Yes. No. Yes. What do we do now? I hate our home.
It was a flurry of voices. A dozen or so conversations revolving and reverberating through the small tavern located safely at the edge of town. The room was warm with life, the only place in the town where the teeming evil couldn't freeze a spark. Hope had become a myth. The future was a weak flame on an icy wick. There was nothing. But there were voices. He heard them in his motionless state.
Look at him. Poor man. Is he giving up? Poor man. Is he weak? His will is gone. He was a solider, a guardian. He is only a man. He was a protector. Who was there to protect him? The dead could rise up from the graveyard and I wouldn't notice. Is this what we must depend on? What has become of Impa? Perhaps we could depend on ourselves? She has not turned up. Look where that got us. Look what we have become. What do we do now? Why are we here? Why are we not dead? Can there be hope in such a hopeless place? Can there be hope now that my shop is in ashes? Who can help us? The dark lord will come for us. Do we rebuild? Could we rebuild what we have lost? It is still out there.
His head rose. It was still out there, the spirit, the entity. The catalyst of all the woes in the town. It was out there still and no one could protect from it. Nobody knew what it was but everyone knew its destruction. His head quivered. He was suddenly cold, and his actions diplayed this to the room. Everyone was staring but nobody was paying attention. The room was dark and the people were dark and the town was dark.
The door opened and in came a young man everyone had seen numerous times. He was a teenaged youth, around seventeen years old. He was not from around the village - he dressed like a forest child but forest children never aged. He looked awkward but there was a fresh feeling to him - it was this feeling that seemed to bring a warm aura into the tavern. For one moment, the room was bright. Nobody looked at the youth but they were all watching him. He looked around and quickly turned and left. The shine of the green tunic he wore escaped beyond the wooden door and it was cold and dark once again.
The man at the barstool had been the only one in the tavern to watch the youth for the entire ten seconds he was inside the room. There was something familiar about the young man. It was a whim of some sort but it brought his mind back nearly a decade and he remembered better times.
He needed to return. He had sat down and that really was all he hoped to accomplish in the tavern. As he rose from the chair, the pillowcase slipped from his sweaty grip and fell to the floor. A keaton mask slipped from the case. Nobody stared but everyone was watching. The shocked man grabbed the mask and returned it to the case. He rushed to the door, or the door rushed to him, and he made his exit.
Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
- Chapter 1: Flurry
- Chapter 2: The Neglected One
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Comments on this chapter
star_breaker says:
TeamGastly says:
Adlez47 says:
shieklord says:
For example:
He was a rather tall man with rather shakey hands. he face was rather scarred with age. a rather strange man altogether.
This is just an example, but you get my point. the over use of the word "rather." But not just "rather" it's best to watch out for over use of words like that. It's hard to notice when your writing though. So the best solution is reading it out loud to yourself a couple of times to see how it sounds. It really helps!
Keep up the good work!