Tavern Talk
Gray is from the novel Shadows of Old Town by T. Olsen. References to, or interactions with, other characters are merely interdimensional, and constitute no assumption of canon or ownership of intellectual property.
Shadows of Old Town can be purchased here: https://books2read.com/u/m27XdR
T. Olsen can be found here: https://linktr.ee/tamiolsen
Meeting the nursebot was one of the most terrifyingly awful moments in my life. I’d expected some old mystic healer, and had even prepared myself for any manner of costumed visage I’d seen here so far. What had actually happened was Clancy and Claudette half carried, half dragged me into a white and silver room with a reclining chair in the middle. They’d rolled me onto the chair, and then a spidery-looking piece of machinery with jointed metal arms had descended from the ceiling, whirring and clicking and squeaking.
I’d tried to escape, but they must get that reaction a lot, because clamps tightened around my arms to hold me to the chair. I passed out as the squeaking and clicking machine got close. When I woke up I was no longer restrained, resting under a thin white blanket, and couldn’t even tell I’d been injured.
That was yesterday.
This morning I was backing away from a sudden explosion of pink and purple light from a building called Dave’s D&D Cavern & Watering Hole when the trio found me, presented me with a set of black leather armor and a long black cloak, and dragged me into the dungeon. I was glad it was all staged, because I felt ridiculous, even if the extra armor did help when fighting the terrifying fishhead people we found in the sewers.
Hours later I walked back out on my own two feet and firmly excused myself from an invitation of an evening of revelry over the good fortune of having stumbled upon another massive battle. I was beginning to think these three came here just to fight things, and some crazy mystic they called Ed was conjuring foes out of nowhere. At least Clancy slapped a pouch of looted gold into my hand just before they walked off together. My cut, he’d said.
I now walked down the subterranean street, carefully dodging the strange people that no longer shocked me. Eventually, in my search for a decent tavern, I stumbled upon a door with a sign advertising itself as The Dripping Bucket.
Sounded less than glamorous. But maybe that was just what I needed.
I walked in and pulled the cloak off with a swirl of black fabric, tossing it over the first chair I saw as I moved deeper into the room. I fully intended to forget it there, since it was useless and just got in my way. I made for the bar, taking a deep whiff of spilled alcohol and body odor that reminded me of home. As the barkeep meandered up from the other side I pulled open the front of the leather armor so I didn’t feel wrapped up like a sausage and slapped a few of the looted coins on the wooden surface.
“Something strong and amber-colored that burns all the way down.”
He raised an eyebrow and stared at the coins. “With that?”
I sighed loudly. “Shit.” I’d forgotten they didn’t use coins here. I fumbled under the armor for the strange card I’d lifted off a man dressed in a hairy ape costume. Credit is what they called it, I think. The barkeep lazily waved my card under a red light, then went off to get my drink.
A tall, blond man in strange clothing came up beside me. He snapped a card down on the stained bar and glanced back at another man in a tophat that was just stepping out. The blond man sighed loudly and asked the barkeep for a beer.
Our drinks came at the same time and I sipped mine and made a face at the bite of the alcohol. It was a little harsher than I was used to.
The big man glanced at me with a pair of mismatched eyes, one blue and one brown. His face was fierce, and for a second I thought he might mean me harm. “This place serves no mead, but I have discovered the best whiskey comes from a place called Gulag.” He raised his beer. “Their craft honey beer is a passable substitute for mead, if you like hops.”
I frowned into the tiny glass cup I’d been given and knocked back the rest of it. “A few more and I won’t mind the taste. It’s been a long day, and I’d just as soon erase it from my memory.”
The man held out his hand, young yet knobby and calloused. “My name is Bjorn Unfrid.”
I looked at it for a moment, still finding it odd how friendly and eager to talk most of the people in this place were, then clasped his hand. “Gray.”
“Sounds like you went to the wrong panels today.”
My brow furrowed as I waved my glass at the barkeep again. I’d heard that word used quite a bit around here the last few days. I think panels were the buildings that had people teaching things in them. Most of them had signs out front with things like If You’re Not Injecting Yourself Into Your Story, Are You Even An Author? I shrugged, hoping I didn’t sound too clueless.
“No panels. I’ve been down in the dungeon with a trio of bloodthirsty people playing dress up.”
Bjorn nodded. “My roommate Kev told me about LARPers. I haven’t been down there myself. In my family, the fighting is not pretend.” He took another draft of his beer. “If it wasn’t the LARPing, what brought you here?”
I tossed him a grimace as I continued to try to catch the barkeep’s attention. “Magic.”
Bjorn side eyed me. “Magic. Why is everyone so superstitious in this place? Do I need to take out my flashlight again?”
I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what your flashlight is, but you can keep it sheathed. I try to stay as far away as possible from magic of any sort, but it seems to find me anyway.”
“Blaming magic is just a way of saying you don't understand something. Ghosts? No magic. Gods? Curses? Nothing magical about them.”
I chuckled and finally caught the gaze of the barkeep, wagging my glass in his direction. “Oh I assure you magic is real.”
“Then you’re fooling yourself as well.”
I shot him a dark look, but let the comment slide. He looked too fresh to have seen much in his life yet, and to be honest I didn’t want to dredge up old memories just to argue their existence with some strange person in an even stranger world.
The barkeep poured me another tiny glassful and walked off. I sipped at it, letting the uncomfortable silence grow. Maybe the blond man would just leave.
But no, he seemed to like uncomfortable silences.
Then the unmistakable tingle of magic raised the hair on my neck. I looked quickly at the man, but he was staring past the bar. He took another drink and wiped the foam from his lip with his thumb. “You see, the spirit world is just hard to see, like the ecosystem in a drop of pond water. Billions of tiny lives in a bit of water, but we did not learn how to see them until the 17th century. Most of humanity is still waiting for the thing that will let them see the spirit world.”
He jabbered on like that, but the sensation wasn’t coming from him. It felt more generalized. I took another drink and tried to ignore it, hoping it was just someone passing by or something behind the bar I was only now picking up on.
“Everything can be explained with science once science becomes advanced enough.”
A pulse of magic rose from the bartop my arms rested on, and I pulled them away and stared at the surface. It wasn’t the alcohol, was it? There were a lot of strange things in this place, but I figured alcohol would be relatively safe.
No. It was definitely an external source, although I couldn’t get a direction on it.
“Even this place has an explanation," said Bjorn. "At present I hope it is an hallucination.”
He was still talking, but the tingling feeling of nearby magic had risen to the point of making my teeth hurt. I cast a darting, furtive glance at the other patrons, but nobody looked any more out of place than anyone else in this Six-forsaken convention.
A wave of magic rippled up through the bottom of my feet.
I swore and staggered off the stool, taking a few quick steps toward the door and scanning the room again. Something was very off.
Bjorn had gone silent and was staring. “Is something wrong?”
Another ripple, stronger than the first. I backpedaled in the direction of the door. “I think we should step outside.”
“Why? It is no better out there than it is in here.”
I shook my head and spun on my heel, striding with desperate urgency for the door. “Suit yourself.” Another ripple, and I grimaced as I pushed through the door and onto the busy street of the underground city, where the aching sensation of magic immediately dropped away. I sighed in relief.
Bjorn stepped up beside me and scowled, then gestured back at the tavern. “What was that all about?”
I turned to look at The Dripping Bucket, and found myself facing a stone wall.
Bjorn stared at it as well, his brow creased and his blond beard wagging as he bit his lip. “Odin’s balls. That’s…”
I snorted. “Magic?”
He reddened and shook his head. “No. I was going to say 'unfortunate.' I left the rest of my beer in there.”
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