The way in which the stranger spoke gave Lem some pause. Spoke like one of the nobleborn – and crossing them generally carried more trouble than opportunity. But he also sounded like he wasn't from around Havenby – and that bought some courage. There was no mark or brand of any family Lem knew to fear there.

„Forty and seven silver, pray tell.“ Lem mocked. „my supposed return on initial investment.“ His brow went up like he was expecting it to land on the floor between them. „So if Edd didn't send you to bring my money – why are you here?“

Trevor heard every word – still good as ever at drinking. Still as shit at minding his own business. Would've been more worried about Lem's relationship with witnesses had the three of them not just saved the whole damn town.
 
„Oracle?“

Lem broke in half with laughter. Just another scammed fucker. Not much to know there. Even less to learn.

Moved back to the parked tray and chugged a third.

„So he fucked you too...“ and with that, the tired man moved back to purpose. A drink to everyone, except the three fuckers in the far corner. Those had been requisitioned. His own bullshit tax, really.

Trevor flinched a bit at the mention of Bremen. Never thought of it much after Aragor. Wasn't exactly a pleasant memory. Looked at the stranger, wondering what he stood to gain from all of this. Running around the countryside to try and find long lost family of random swordhands that'd gotten lost along the way didn't seem like a very honest pursuit to him. But what the fuck did he know? He was just some guy who liked drinking a bit much.

„What were you doing in Bremen?“ Remembered the creepy fucker and the dead shroudfiend.

Unrelated, hopefully.
 
„Shame, always wanted to tell 'im to get fucked.“ Hopped into the empty mugs from the other end of the inn.

Trevor looked at the bread and wondered... it seemed strange manners to eat your own food in an establishment that served some. Kinda like going to your aunt's house and bringing a snack from home. Fuck you, Marjorie, you can't cook for shit – from one homemaker to another. Because that's what battle was for some people. All wounds, seldom blood. Pride was no liver, but that fucker still hurt.

A heavy oxenfucker hand landed on Trevor's shoulder at the question. Fucking Jerry – about to talk and make a spectacle of things again. So he spoke first:

„You don't know the story?“ Eyed the darkhaired local, brow raised as if challenging him to try and deny it. „Some Mouthless fuckers got the drop...“

„Voiceless, Sir.“ Trevor wanted to slap the snot out of the guy.

„Yes, yes – Voiceless is what I meant.“ Shrugged the hand from his shoulder as his own arms moved with the words. Animated, but slow. „So these nontalky fuckers got the drop on Havenby.“ Clapped his hands together and Jerry to attention. „Our friend right here.“ His turn to place a vice upon the other man's shoulder. No strength left in him, only the pierced forearm. That arm still didn't like armwork – it would need time to remember what it was there for. But pain was a good teacher.

„Placed bombs all around the city. Some of them went off. Others... Well, Jerry and some others stopped them. Real hero shit.“
„Sir...“ Absolutely fucking not.

„Let's go, Jerry!“ Trevor yelled out and heard it repeated and echoed across the common room.

His own mug came up too, eyes locked on Jerry.

Don't you fucking dare.
 
„We should drink to that, then!“ Called out harder than a sober man would've. Fished his pocket for some coin, but cut off.

„Non' a that.“ Slur crept into Lem's speech, somewhere between the third and fourth shot. „Your drinks're all paid up, long as the Cat stan's...“ knocked on wood right then. Fist firm upon the bar, like it he was holding it down...or it held him up instead.

A small leak came from the roof, dripdropping right into one of the empty mugs. Trevor wondered how badly the locale had been fucked, how much longer it would stand?

Lem's generosity only extended as far as ale – not even the top shelf stuff. But Trevor wasn't one to judge, cause he wasn't paying for any of it. Three mugs landing on the counter – him, Jerry, and whoever the scammed stranger was.

„To Jerry, the hero!“ Boy's cheeks flushed, but he didn't argue further. A nod exchanged between the two.

Cheers taken to yells taken to headache. So Trevor drank to numb. And Jerry drank to hide the embarrassment. Someone was yelling about other heroes in the background, but far and slurred enough. Wouldn't be today's problem.

„What's your name, stranger?“ He didn't talk of Annas yet. That was for people he knew.

Because everyone could be found – it was all just will and time.
 
Nodded at the use of 'Trevor' – who he wanted to be. Even if, right now, they needed the other guy.

„So tell me, Laric...when you find your Annas and they spit in your face.“ Felt more memory than prophecy. Suppose it was both.

„When they tell you that coin won't grow new sons, new husbands, new fathers. When they tell you it's good that they're gone.“

A drink too fast for a man well past the last port of sober.

Tipsy became topsy became turvy. But who gave a shit about balance?

„Will you still think it's worth your time?“

„I'm sorry, Laric. He's just had a long couple of days.“ Jerry looked apologetic.

Trevor kept quiet. No apology came. Because he wasn't wrong.
 
Wasn't sure if he believed a word Laric'd said. But what was the harm in fulfilling a promise?

„It isn't Anna you're looking for.“ Voice of a man who knew things he shouldn't. „It's three of them – and none so named.“

Far too drunk to know how he knew. Too tired to pretend he didn't.

„Come see me when you sober up.“ Like it wasn't Trevor who could barely keep his ass from the floor. Had to hold onto fucking Jerry not to fall over.

„I'll find your Annas.“

When he slid from chair to his feet, the right reminded him it wasn't ready to walk yet. Damn rooftile. Shingled his sorry ass like a fucking house.

And gods bless Jerry for not being mouthy. Just put a shoulder to Trevor's armpit and half carried half dragged him along.

„He'll be himself come morning.“ Trevor snorted at Jerry's words.
 
Those quick to drink were also quick to wake. And the wee hours of morning found him twiceblessed. Looked to the foot of the bed to see all his clothes neatly folded. And that's how he knew he got properly fucked up last night. An evening barely remembered, and clothes nearly folded nearby. The mess of straw and blanket told him it hadn't been a good dream. But booze also made it fuzzy enough to where he couldn't rightly feel any of it. Drinks were nice like that.

Didn't piss himself, it seemed. Thriceblessed. Wiped over the grimy cheek and tasted it. Fucker wasn't salty. Fourblesse...no, that didn't sound right. 'Sides, what kind of cunt keeps counting their blessings instead of embracing them, enjoying them?

Didn't recognize the room. Was this Jerry's house? He could hear other fuckers snoring. Fucking roosters would come soon. At least he beat those bastards. There was power in waking up on your own terms, instead of those of an evil chicken.

Grabbed the shirt from the floor. Only it wasn't his shirt. Too nice. Too smooth. Unpatched and clean. Aaah. Didn't need to touch the pants to know. He got the hint. Fucke...they could've said something. Not like he was unable to wash his ass – just rarely saw the point. Some things stayed changed no matter how much you rubbed them clean.

He'd seen an unbombed well close to the grain store. Fuck it. Might as well limp there and moon the rooster, before the avian got to dawn on him.

Was halfway done when he spotted the featherfuck strutting on a rooftop. Cleared its...er beak...all puff and purpose. The two looked at each other for a long while in quiet understanding. Because they both saw soup in the bird's future.

Trevor had time to get fully dressed before the bird felt safe enough.

Smart. Would've cockadoodled his last do. Always had a knack for languages.

People often thought his power was Luck. And she was. But his truer talent was finding drink. Free ones especially. So he made his way to whereeverthefuck the Cat was with a series of shortcuts even the locals would envy. Then again, they were still getting used to the bombways.

Lem's locked door opened for him without argument, before closing to a click behind.

So that's where morning would find him. People too, unfortunately.

When the time came, he'd wave Laric over too. No use pretending he didn't remember the promise either of them made.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom