It had been at least four decades since the first time I’d dined at the Greedy Groon. And in all that time I still couldn’t fathom why he’d named this place after such a vicious species of waterfowl. Despite a plain exterior done up in chipped and cracking clay bricks the interior of the Groon was nothing short of warm and inviting.
It was staged like a country cabin, only one that was a lot more dining room than would make sense for somebody’s home. A humble fire crackled warmly in the hearth against the back wall near a set of stairs leading up to the second floor. Upstairs were four small rooms that could be rented by the hour or by the moon as well as a small closet containing the only public toilet in the building. Homely was a word that almost suited it if not for my fellow patrons and the occasional loud thunk of a knife slicing through bones and meat coming from just beyond the kitchen’s thin door.
A brief glance around the scattered dozen or so other patrons, mostly sitting alone, told tales of people whose lives had begun to stagnate and rot. Much the same as my own. People with blood on their hands that refused to be scrubbed clean. The weight of our wrong choices binding us to spots like this where at least one familiar comfort remained.
I took a seat in the corner by the kitchen, doing what little I could to hasten the arrival of my meal. The young looking barmaid had her back to me and was taking payment for a bill. Her head had turned slightly at the sound of the heavy main door slamming shut behind me when I’d first walked in. While she finished I waited patiently, trying to decide which drink I’d start with.
Thanks to that unexpected fight I was running the risk of a mana burn if I used my magic much further so I was going to need something with a little extra kick. Instead of more pressing matters I found myself drifting back to thoughts of a pickpocket so smooth she’d apparently even robbed me of my mind. Another kind of thirst refusing to let me stay focused. Almost feeling annoyed, but perplexingly unwilling to give into the feeling, I decided to focus elsewhere instead.
The young server girl was wearing a long linen dress made from fabric dyed hunters green. A popular colour worn across the realm thanks to the seeds sown by Marinclay and her devoted followers over one thousand years into the past. She wore a tidy white apron that was tied into a neat bow around her back. All along the trim were short, uneven frills. Her blonde hair was tied into a tight bun with a green ribbon that matched with her dress. Her pale skin still held a light tan that had persisted on since last Summer.
She finished her transaction with a customer then turned away from them and started walking over to me. A round faced teen with freckles dotted along from ear to ear. She smiled at me with dimpled cheeks. And so I doused my thoughts in cold water. At my age thinking in certain ways about someone that young was simply not a thing I cared to do.
“And what can I get for you today, mister?” she asked with a cautious smile as she took in the sorry state of me, “maybe a damp cloth or a heated shot of Goddess Kiss?”
“Both please, if you could be so kind,” I responded, “and I’ll take that with whatever the day’s special is along with a mug of the master’s home cider.”
“Oh! It’s usually only the older folk that even know we serve that. You must be well informed! Would you like the blue or the red?”
“We’ll start red and then see how I’m feeling.”
“You’ve got it, mister. Now let me get this order sorted with the cook and I’ll be right on back with something to wash that dirty face of yours.”
And with that she was gone and away, vanishing through the kitchen door.
I had only waited for what felt like a minute before the barmaid was back.
She’d brought me a small bowl filled partway with cold water and two mostly clean looking cloths. One was wet and warm while the other waited patiently to dry me after I’d finished with washing. I began eagerly rubbing the warm cloth up and down my face, wishing that I could run it over my ears as well. While my eyes were covered I heard a light clink as the shot of Goddess Kiss was placed before me.
“I’ll be back with your cider and salad in just a moment,” she said while presumably watching me scrub grime from my face, “As for your stew, the cook will be needing a while longer to finish preparing it.”
To punctuate that point another loud thunk came from somewhere back in the kitchen. This one I’d almost swear had been followed by a shrill squeal. I thought it best to simply ignore it and pulled the now significantly less clean hand towel from my face. Seeing that the barmaid was gone again made me glad that I hadn’t responded to the last thing she’d said.
I finished up my washing by wringing the cloth over my filthy hands until they were both a few shades less dirty before rubbing them together in the water from the bowl. It was so soothing on my chapped skin that it almost burned. Once I was satisfied that that was as clean as I was getting I set the bowl and dirty cloth off to the side and began running the dry cloth over all the dampness on my hands and face. It came back fairly grubby, much to my dismay. I heaped it on the wet cloth and turned my attention to the slim glass of crystal clear liquid sitting in front of me.
A light trail of steam drifted off lazily from the top as tiny bubbles rolled up the sides of the glass. Every time I’d seen the stuff I’d always wondered how they got it to fizz the way that it did. Infusing liquids with mana didn’t create any such effect. If not for all of those tiny bubbles and the steam you could barely tell that there was anything inside of that slim glass vial at all.
I took the shot glass in between my fingers and raised it up to my lips. Warm was the best way to taste Goddess Kiss and anyone who’d say otherwise was a fool as far as I cared to think. Tilting my head back, I poured the drink down my throat and swallowed. A taste of the sky only barely touching down on my tongue before a hot Summer day blasted into every fibre of my being. My body cooling down only just before breaking out in sweat. Mana burn would hopefully no longer be an immediate threat looming over me.
It hadn’t been long after I’d sat the glass down, basking in the sensation of a minor mana restorative, that the barmaid had come back to my table again. She’d placed a wooden bowl filled with greens on the spot in front of me, followed by a tall clay mug filled nearly to the brim with a ruby red liquid that sparkled as it sloshed around before settling.
After handing me a fork and a spoon rolled in a cloth napkin she’d cleared my used clutter to a tray and carried on to do the same at the next occupied table.
The bowl was topped full of fresh leafy vegetables in vibrant purples and greens. Tossed with ripe red tormas with their sour fruit cut into wedges, roasted yellow dandelion heads lightly coated in butter, thinly sliced white wheepingroot and some of the orange root of a carroleaf plant that had been finely grated. A mixture of oil and vinegar that had sweet hints of Spring berries dressed the whole thing. Beyond eager to dine, I stabbed into the bowl with my fork and then crammed my mouth full of crisp bites of salad.
Flavours tasting fresher than if I’d picked the produce myself overcame me.
I rose my right hand to wipe dressing from the corner of my mouth onto my sleeve. Then I settled my palm against my cheek and dropped my elbow to the table. Chewing and swallowing and only pausing to sip from my cider. The flavours from the surrounding farmland taking me away to a simpler life. Picking fruit and planting seeds.
I gulped down another mouthful of the ruby liquid. My fork now sitting inside an empty bowl. It tasted of bittersweet orchard fruit and mixed red berries. A pleasant and sour aftertastes lingering on my breath. The spell carved into this batch’s aging barrel working its secret magic. The lingering pain in my gut from getting punched was finally receding. I rubbed a hand over my belly feeling the tenderness of a fresh bruise. By the time I’d drained the mug I knew that it would be entirely faded. Moons worth of healing managed in next to no time at all.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
I’d known the master before he’d set up shop here. A defected potion maker from the enemy’s side of the frontier’s war torn and wild borderlands. He’d been captured and was being held for execution before managing to strike up a deal with Boss. In the end we’d managed to smuggle him out from the stockades inside the fortress at False Hope Ridge. Getting him to the capitol had been a walk in the park compared to setting him free from that place.
He’d lived here quietly, serving up powerful restorative brews, ever since. Though I’d heard through the vines during the last Winter that he’d died peacefully in his sleep a year or so ago. Soon enough another thing that I’d grown to know would be permanently relegated to the past.
During my sombre musing I’d been presented with my stew as well as a palm sized loaf of grainy bread that had been rolled and fired by hand. Before the barmaid had left I thought to ordered another cider, this time in blue.
A savoury scent filled my nose, pushing my woes aside. Before diving into my steaming bowl of red prairie sprog stew I knocked back the last gulp of my first mug of cider. The last droplets tasting more bitter than sweet. I set the clay mug down and sunk my spoon into the stew. The scoop I fished out had a rough cut cube of dark red meat sitting right there in the middle to entice me. Of all the different kinds of sprog that I knew the red ones from the southern prairies were some of the best when it came to flavour. Rich and meaty and next to no trace of game. The sprog meat practically melted on my tongue, joining in a beautiful union with the thick broth. Even the soup witch would be hard pressed to make something taste this good naturally.
I gulped down every last mouthful in between broth soaked pieces of the fresh palmroll and nearly licked the bowl clean before taking my second cider into consideration.
“Can I get you anything else while you finish your drink?” asked the barmaid while clearing my table.
“Just a rolled smoke and the bill, please,” I breathed out on a contented sigh.
She brought me a thin paper tube of rolled smoking leaf and an ashtray, then walked away before I’d have any chance to light it. I knew the habit had been slowly growing out of fashion but I was fairly set in my ways by that point and so paid her no mind.
Placing the smoke in my mouth, I snapped my middle finger against my thumb, pressing my thumb against my index finger immediately after. A small flame produced by my mana sprouted from between their tips. It flickered as I raised it toward my mouth and went out once I separated my finger and thumb after my smoke was lit. For the next few minutes I was perfectly at peace. Refreshing cider soothing my mouth whenever it became too parched from the smoke.
My bill had totalled seven copper wholes and five and a half irons round. Each round of irons consisting of a full eight bits. On top of a more than kind tip for my server, I found myself wincing as I tallied up the coins needed to pay the girl before placing them on the small tray in her hands. Still, with the master gone it meant that the final batch of his cider would likely be drained before my next time returning here. Now I could live on making my peace with that knowledge.
I thanked the girl sincerely and made for the door, then departed. Another piece of my life now nothing more than a memory.
The eastern Commons had become a little less active since the last time I was out on the street. I looked around cautiously, just in case a certain adventurer was on the prowl. Fortune was thankfully on my side and the coast was clear. As I walked I absently patted at my stuffed belly and enjoyed the light buzz in my head from two mugs of strong mana infused cider and the smoking leaf. The main street leading down into Fallengate was only a short walk away so I did still need to keep my wits about me, but at least for the time it took to get there I could enjoy myself a little.
------
Down in the rubble and clutter of the slum streets things looked mostly empty. Even so I could feel unseen eyes watching me from the safety of the shadows and sensed countless auras lurking within crumbling walls.
Off in the distance I saw the shapes of two little kids before they ran off around a corner. From inside one of the ruined buildings I heard a decrepit voice demanding the thieving little whelps returned at once. I made my way further east, occasionally taking twisting side streets and turns down dark alleys. The place I was looking for was tucked far away, close to the outer walls of the city. A literal hole in a wall at the back of a building serving as the main point of entry.
I pushed aside the heavy black curtain that the curseling shopkeeper used as a door and made my way inside.
It was a small square room without any windows, lit by a single candle on the desk at the back. Folded and rolled fabric objects of all sorts lined the densely packed shelves while others were heaped into sorted bins. An old creature that looked more like a mushroom than a man sat behind the desk, facing into the room. The spectacle covered eyes settled beneath his bulbous crown never moving from the sewing being done by all four of his rapidly working hands. He wouldn’t speak unless you needed spoken to and hated people that came to idly stand on his shop floor. Knowing this I quickly turned to a shelf crammed full of rolled up goods.
The mushroom man was a real pro at fabric mending. This served him well as one of the many black market merchants dealing in dead peoples’ property that ran their businesses through the slums. After all it was common knowledge that lots of adventurers ended up dying inside of the Fool Lord’s Tomb. So why wouldn’t scavengers take everything that they could sell? Guild regulations be damned when all it took was bribing the guards stationed by the dungeon’s entrance and then having the right connections in east Fellorne to earn a tidy profit off the misfortunes of the dead.
A pair of decent bedrolls would run me at least three irons round, and likely more if I didn’t want ones previously soiled by blood. I settled on a pair that didn’t smell that strongly of iron then went about digging through a bin full of assorted pouches and packs.
At first I settled on two decent sized canvas packs, one with an over-the-shoulder strap that was large and cylindrical and another with two straps to sit flat against the back. Then it occurred to me that Boss Strise had said the brother was at least a decade younger than the girl I’d seen and thought better of my choices. I kept the canvas knapsack and dug deeper through the pile until I found another one that was similar to it in style, only a touch smaller just to be safe.
It wasn’t much but I knew that the nights would still be cold and relentless for some time. At least with this they’d be better able to survive. I took my chosen items up to the mushroom man’s desk and sat them down on a cleared space. He poked the needle clutched in one of his hands into a pincushion and placed the spool of thread from another down beside it. All while the other pair continued their meticulous work.
“Is that everything that you will need?” he asked without looking up in a dry voice that almost seemed to be flaking off of him.
I looked down at my chapped and battered hands a moment and made a snap decision.
“Actually, I need a good pair of gloves as well. Preferably something durable like leather. Though nothing too stylish.”
“Mm yes, durable gloves for a durable lady. Very well. I will give you what you need.”
His free set of hands shot forward and grabbed me by the wrists. One of his beady black eyes turned up to survey what they held. The other eye never left his work.
It took him some time to finish measuring while muttering nonsense to himself. Then, in a surprise to me, he pulled a third set of arms from behind his back and presented me with a pair of plain looking black leather gloves. They fit my hands perfectly like a second skin.
“Yes. You see. This is everything I have that you need,” said the mushroom man, “And now it is time you must pay and leave.”
One of his hands still held me by the wrist.
“Of course,” I said, “Now what do I owe you?”
“Two bedrolls, and two packs. For this I will need one whole and two round.”
“And for the gloves?” my voice sounding nervous to my own ears, “How much for them?”
“One Gold even.”
“What? You can’t be serious!”
I used my free hand to try and remove the glove from the hand he was holding prisoner. He made no move to stop me and I made no progress in pulling the thing away from my skin.
“That will be one whole, two round and one Gold even,” said the mushroom man, his grip growing tighter around my wrist.
I knew when I was beaten and so relented, agreeing to pay him.
It was easy enough to give him his copper and bits but the Gold coin had proven more difficult. I hopped around on one foot while wrestling a boot off with my free hand. The mushroom man neither offered to help me or released his grip. I had to tuck my boot under my held arm so that I could reach inside and fish his payment out. Once I’d placed the Gold down for him to see he let me go and told me to be on my way.
I shoved my foot back into its boot and stormed off into the alley I’d entered his shop from, my newly bought ill gotten goods crammed into the larger pack and slung onto my back. Feeling furious and cheated I started stomping my way back toward the main street, alternating which hand I used to pick at the other’s glove.
No matter how much I tugged it seemed like they wouldn’t be coming off of me any time soon. That meant that they were most likely cursed but there wasn’t much that I could do about it here. The sky had become cast in an orange haze, signaling that the day and my time in town were both nearing their end. Foolishly I considered that at least my day probably couldn’t get much worse. And foolishly I’d stopped paying attention to my surroundings.
“Well now,” growled a gruff yet extremely nasally voice from in front of me, “Look what we hab hewr.”
“Oh come on,” I groaned, “You have got to be kidding me.”
Standing just a handful of paces ahead of me, and blocking my way to the road, was a well armoured man who stood just a little taller than I did. His crooked nose was swollen and bruised and looked like it had just recently been reset after a bad break.
Oh yeah, the gloves were definitely cursed.