#ruin19

Robbet Macasser, Tavern-Lurker and Gossiper.

Netagin of South, the home of repentance, lies on the Approfond border. The most acceptable way to arrive is via train, for which they carved a tunnel through the sturdy cliffs. I still remember the first time I stepped foot off the cabin, the soft crunch of western cress greeting me immediately. The orange and greens of it blended beautifully with the dry, near-sand soil and the wooden path leading into the city. The deep wood covered both in the dust and by some overlapping boulders, tan and porous. The narrow passageway, albeit abysmal for traffic, was an ideal way to lead the eye towards the rest of the city.

Wooden beams braced imposing stone walls. Sturdy and thick things, but perhaps too strong for the city’s own good. Many sun-bleached and water-stained buildings still remain, the walls crumbling down to the dust below. So ubiquitous, in fact, more people seemed to lurk in those places rather than the streets. However, it did not feel like a messy city. Most every abandoned building was out of the way. Each one had a brand-new one accompanying it. Proud citizens keep their houses astonishingly well., each part of the stone being soften by daily cleaning. However, the proud homeowners still seemed to have problems with the stone coons.

The chattering, scavenging creatures climbed atop the simple stone roofs and casually crawled with the other citizens of the town. Countless seemed to be apathetic of their presence, seeing them as just another pedestrian at this point. The black, chitinous backs lightly drifted upstairs towards the plaza, where most of the food remained. Stones and shiny coin from the trade routes and the sandy wastes hung from their mouth, prepared to trade with the merchants.

The center of town was a large, circular plaza. A radial pattern of bricks hailed from a waist-height wall at the far end. Surrounding the more than generous space were many buildings, woven barley cloaking sellers right outside them from the sun. However, this place was never meant to be a bazaar.

The wall overlooked a calm stream. It had many a hole bore out, serving to keep those who sinned against the nation bound. Indeed, this was the city of repentance. Any major criminal within the borders of this land are sent here to receive the Lashings Two Thousand, Five Hundred and Twenty. Some die on the first day, the first 360, others die the seventh day. As cruel as it might be, there are survivors. Once god-forsaken souls, rotting within their own twisted mind, near every one has become a champion of good. As of now, the last one to receive the Lashings was three months ago. Despite the twisted methods, one might argue that a single major crime committed in the past three months is quite an achievement.

As stomach twisting as it might be to southerners like myself, and likely to the northerners too, it’s viewed in quite a positive light here. They see it as necessary, but terrible. It is releasing the devils from the souls of the men forcefully. The commoners, instead of jeering them and heckling the punished, will try to sooth them. In fact, many flock to the square in the morning just to give the soul a nice, homey feast.

Survivors have described the event as a journey. The mind can only process a finite amount of pain, so eventually they all merely stare into the waters. The moon’s reflection is always there, a reminder of their national god, the mighty Unborn. Some see it as a curse, as if that stone had something to do with their actions and their consequences. Others see it as a judgement, even before their god has arrived. Yet more see it as a sign of their own future. Just as they are a reflection of the Unborn God, perhaps they were a reflection of the moon. Barren, strong, and dark, but with the potential for the grandest of light. Let us pray you shall think the same.

As much as I would hate to admit it, we were drunk. It was late into the night and the three of us decided to head down to the soup kitchen. We were greeted by a stale, but warm air. It smelled of watered-down ram broth. The fat was lazily trimmed from the meat in the soup, leading to a foul smell lingering in the air. Even a grey smoke could be spotted from the kitchen itself, the few workers there coughing. Danlead, the tallest of our group, recoiled from the mixing of smells, already displeased with where we found ourselves. I was right along with him, seeing the signs of tale-tell amateur work. Utensils left lying about, imprecise measuring, and god knows how many bubbling messes left splattered across the cold, stone walls and floor. All the workers there seemed to stand far distances from each other, backs turned in an unholy lack of friendship and teamwork. I even caught a few muttering beneath their breath. However, Geseul, a rather thick fellow, stated that we should reserve judgement. After all, it was the taste that would truly matter. I mostly agree, but shouldn’t a great soup be judged on all aspects?

We stepped forth, the tapping of our cloth boots announcing our presence. A few of the workers looked towards us, false smiles hiding grimaces. Yet another customer, they likely thought, when will the night end? We found ourselves at the counter soon. Danlead seemed more and more weary of this whole event, the smells rotting inside his mind. Musky, filthy lamb pounded against the sides of his nose. They were aided by the weak, steamy, and watered-down butter smell into the royal chambers of his head. There, Danlead’s mind threw out his most powerful guards, the Holy Knights of Absolute Disgust and Repulsion. The echo of their blades clashing could be heard for miles out of the palace as a meek moan.

Taking charge, Geseul stopped looking at the bizarre reactions of his companion. He turned towards the cooks, asking in his slurred voice, “Hey, we’re here for soup. Give us three of your finest bowls, alright?”

The kitchen mumbled collectively. Their gears switched to those of cooking instead of idle cleaning. It was a mess, the workers not only tripping on others, but stumbling on themselves. The lack of grace and efficiency would make a business-owner’s stomach turn. Orange-toned splatters quickly lined the floors and counters, a fresh coat of foul paint. Yelps from burns were quite common, and so was the violent recoil into yet another accident. As they finally managed to get ahold of themselves, a single man brought out all three bowls on a tray. He lined them up in front of us, saying, “Alright, enjoy. Gotta pay up first.”

Oh, how I didn’t want to. I prayed that the food might look better than the people behind them, but that was certainly not the case. It was dull, first and foremost. A shiny layer of buttery film partially held back a bizarre, grey liquid. It looked mostly like flour and water, but the greyish lamb pieces stuck inside promised there would be a much worse flavor. The most proper way to describe it was grey, ashoddy stone bowl, a pasty looking liquid, and a most unappetizing meat. Even the spoons were bent, crude things. Geseul somehow managed to look past this, however, sampling some as soon as we forked over our iron trusts. I know I’m just bickering at this point, but such a shoddy soup should not have costed as much as it did.

Geseul brushed back his hair out of his face, that near-nonexistent ponytail hardly doing him any good. He let the substance slide down into his maw, where it remained for a second. His brow quickly rose, fortifications breaking first to the bizarre, grainy and slop-like consistency. It was almost as if every time one moved their tongue with it, either a pocket of pure grease or musky water would erupt. The goat got to him next. It was tough, quite a few bites being needed in the process of slaying the beastly chunks. Even when sliced into, the mouth was met with a denser grain, along with a new, cold temperature. It was likely that they had cooked the meat long beforehand. The aftertaste was a dreadful moment too. A buttery film lined all parts of the mouth, trapping a damp smell and taste within the mouth for a ridiculous amount of time.

We sat there for around five seconds after we all took a bite. Danlead took a deep breath in, allowing himself to better analyse what he just tasted. I spaced out, looking off into soup with fear. Geseul coughed a few times, clearing his throat. We shared a moment of silence before announcing our thoughts.

“Foul,” Danlead started.

“Hideous,” I continued.

“And just plain terrible,” Geseul finished. He turned his attention away from the rest of the kitchen, saying, “There’s no good soup in this town.”

“Agreed,” I spoke, a drunken fist slamming against the counter to further demonstrate my support, “Maybe there’s a soup that’ll please all three of us, but we damn sure won’t find it here.”

Danlead, in a moment of ‘drunken brilliance,’ said, “Why don’t we go and find it then?”

Our faces lit up with excitement, surprise, and eagerness. It would be a terrific idea to grab a ticket across the land on the finest train tracks, spending all our savings. It would be wonderful if we neglected packing much anything either, likely leading to us working briefly at wherever we found ourselves. Nothing terrible could possibly come from this idea. And so it began. Around a day later, that’s why I’m here on this train, hungover and bitter.

I still have a terrible taste in my mouth too. Damn the lamb.

I pulled up a chair next to the fellow, the rickety, heavy thing sending a shriek across the otherwise quiet tavern. The barkeep kept his steady gaze out the open window, my seat only catching the attention of the man I decided to speak with. His short stature easily gave away that he was of northern decent. I’d go as far as saying he came from the capital up there, the Grand Palace Neich, what with his aura of a warrior-like pride. Despite him sharpening away at his hefty blade, I could tell he appreciated some attention. “‘Scuse my curiosity,” I spoke, “But those don’t look like any typical northern garb. I don’t quite know how to ask this without sounding blunt, but what is it you do?”

His baggy, shoddy clothes rustled roughly as he turned, a subtle chain clinking beneath. Now with a better view, I could see a small emblem on his open tunic, one of a striking cloud partially captured within a metal square. He shot me a grin, a set of rather mangled teeth revealing themselves. The young man responded, “Why, I’m a student of combat. More specifically, The Strike itself.”

I knew it, he was the warrior type all along. My friends and I quite like meeting those types of strangers. They had a certain cloying passion that was both inspiring and great joke material for nights of drinking. I do stay careful to not let them know of course. Naturally, I had to pry a little deeper to get to the true gold. I raised my eyebrows as if I were interested, saying, “The Strike? Go on then, tell me more. I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with it.”

The barkeep’s eyes cut towards me as he noticed my intentions. Instead of interrupting, he quietly exhaled an annoyed breath through his nose, looking back towards the night sky. The stranger hadn’t a clue, however. It’s not like it would change his words if he did though. He continued on, saying, “It’s just that, the single most important hit, the magnum opus of our careers. We train day in and day out, yet never throw a single blow. Never a mere slash. Never a crumbling of bones beneath our hammers.”

He began to trail on for quite some time about his little training exercises and philosophies, mentioning vague terms and places I wouldn’t even know of if I were partially listening. I know it was rude, reaping the petty benefits of this conversation without sewing the fundamental seeds, but I had grown quite numb to the guilt. I’m sure the warrior felt nice to have got that off his chest, even to an unresponsive partner, right? Weaseling my way into the conversation once more, I had to be careful of what I chose to speak of. The more sentimental potential, the more amusing it’ll be in hindsight, I told myself. “But why’d you start doing this? It seems like an awful lot of work just for a single thing.”

“It is, trust me,” he says, “But I’d say it was worth it in the long run. I was a boy when I learned of The Strike. I had been juggled between the lines of typical, clientless craftsman and bandit far too many times. I knew that I would one day I’d pay for my devilish acts, but I had no clue it would come so soon. With the click of seven bizarre, royal blades, guards had me within arm’s length. They stared me down with their shadowed eyes, speaking their script of law as they prepared my arrest. I was trembling, the jewels I had stolen shimmering to the ground one by one. Then, in a moment of serendipity, an odd-looking woman stepped into view. She saw me, her blade by her side, and she claimed she recognized me. Two of the guards turned, one asking if I was of The Strike. She lied through her teeth, stating that I was and that The Strike would manage my punishment for them.”

I spewed out a mixture of a scoff and a chuckle, interrupting on instinct rather than strategy, “How is a punishment from an obscure faction ‘better in the long run,’ as you put it?”

He responded well to this. He might have noted that it seemed like a more genuine question, not just one to keep things moving, and he responded, “Because I haven’t got into a single fight since. My mind and soul are bonded to my future like a strange marriage. I know that no matter what, I could likely strike with more importance tomorrow. Even if the opportunity seems unforgettable, I know I’d regret it. I’d like to live on without the guilt of self-disappointment, as I’m sure most would.”

Like a beast in the bushes, his words could have be some sort of ravenous beast or a just plucky little bird. It didn’t help that in my little mental campsite that the barkeep’s smug smile wove a bit more tension in the scene. A bit flustered, I continue, instinctively throwing sticks and pebbles at the spoken creature, “So you’re a warrior that never strikes, is that right? Sounds a little confused if you ask me.”

I had immediately recoiled at my own words, wishing I had chosen something a bit more polite to say. Even if my intentions were not so, I would like to keep a positive face. I knew the damned boy would throw my words back at my face with a howling laughter, and I reddened by the moment with anger and dread. However, he paused.

The room went mostly silent. My nervous tapping of my foot lightly echoed across those paneled walls, and the wiping of glass brought me back to the quiet start of this whole conversation. Beetles clicked and flittered in the air, tapping against branches clumsily. Moths too flew about, but gathered near the flickering flames. Despite their tiny frame, their graceful, dusty movements cast far more shadow than the other insects, stumbling around in the dark. One such beetle flew into the room, slamming into the table with a light click. After a brief lapse in concentration and tension, I brought my eyes back to the slowly-rising brow of the warrior. He appeared more and more amused, a quiet smile creeping across his face. He opened his mouth, and I braced myself to control my anger. He tilted his head ever-so-slightly, saying with a subtle shrug, “You know, maybe I am confused.”

Damn him and his devilish grin, the barkeep’s too while I’m at it. Of course the witness made sure to bring up my failings that night to my colleagues. They managed to milk the moment of as much teasing as they could. Good riddance to the warrior, wherever he trailed off to.