Relt PeltFelter
09-05-11, 07:34 PM
It was a stormy morning when Relt discovered that her reservoir of marijuana was totally empty.
She had been wandering along the coast of Corone, crashing nightly in the tiny port towns that dotted the whole area like barnacles. One morning she awoke, went to wake and bake, and discovered that her previously bulging packet of weed was reduced to nothing. Blearily, the girl stared at the depleted supply; she scratched her head, trying to remember when she had smoked it all. True, she had been getting stoned basically every day since a Chinese food delivery gone wrong resulted in her being sucked through the space between universes by some kind of horrible invisible space monster, but Relt had thought she'd paced herself better than this.
Relt had known that her supply was finite since shortly after she arrived on Althanas, and so at each town she visited, she had stopped in at the apothecary or the druggist or whatever they called themselves and asked if they had any weed; this had earned her a bushel of confused looks and several varieties of herb which, when smoked, made her feel as if someone had forced a camel down her throat and punched her in the tits.
So it was that after weeks of fruitless search and, now, a morning of unwanted sobriety, Relt was in this strange little coastal town wandering around yet another salt-sprayed boardwalk. The sea was a sullen and turgid grey, mirroring the gathering clouds above. It had rained ferociously for a few hours before Relt left her lodgings, but now it only issued the kind of insidious drizzle that makes perfectly rational people decide they don't need an umbrella, only to arrive at work looking like a waterlogged opossum.
Only a few shingles swung in the breeze on a day like that; most business owners in towns this small took one look at the weather and decided that they'd take the day off with their feet up in front of the fire, good fiscal practice be blowed. One of few signs hanging that morning, fortunately enough, appeared to have a mushroom and a cauldron on it.
Relt pushed the door open; it creaked eerily. There was a low, carved driftwood counter, behind which a row of cauldrons bubbled. High wooden shelves held all kinds of knobbly roots and dried leaves. The only light in the place was what little grey sunlight came through a couple of high, grubby windows. A taxidermy alligator hung from the ceiling, grinning emptily at a long-dead joke. Relt rolled her eyes; what was it about these people that precluded subtlety? Still, she knew what was expected. "Hey, is there anyone here?" she shouted.
"Good morn' to you, child!" A cracked voice remarked as its owner shuffled out of the back room. An old woman, bent nearly double and clad in rags, with milky, blind eyes and teeth like a jack o'lantern, rapped her bony knuckles on the counter, grinning as Relt approached. "And how can these old bones aid you on a stormy day like this?"
"Okay, seriously," Relt said, rubbing the bridge of her nose, "I've been to like twenty little shops like this and every single one has been run by a crazy, blind old woman. I feel like I'm trapped in an RPG from 1995. Do you guys have a union or something?"
The old woman straightened up, and her eyes seemed to lose their glazed emptiness. "Well, yes, if you must know," she sniffed, her voice now significantly more normal, "There's certain expectations for shopkeepers, in this industry,"
"Alright, fair enough," Relt relented, "Look, I just need to know if you've ever seen a plant like this, okay?" The San Franciscan girl slid a rough drawing of a pot leaf across the counter. "You smoke it, like tobacco. It makes you feel lazy and hungry, and everything's fucking hilarious,"
"Well, fair girly, I may have the knowin' of-" The old woman stopped when she saw Relt's expression, "Sorry. Force of habit. Yes, I've seen this before, but only once,"
"Seriously? Where?"
"Clutched in the hand of a dying sailor as his ruined ship washed into the harbor, when I was a little girl,"
"Fu-uck. Encouraging."
"He'd been sailing the uncharted seas far to the south; found an island chain and set to exploring them with his crew, and he was the only one to make it back alive. My grandmother ran this shop in those days; she tended to him as he lay dying, and with his last breath, he spoke of an island with a cliff carved in the likeness of a great and terrible eel. That was where he found the plant with leaves like this,"
"Shit. Really? Aw man, now I guess I've gotta go there, huh?"
"Well, if you want this plant, yes," Relt turned to leave, but halted as the old woman's withered claw grasped her shirt sleeve, "But be ye warn'ed! That sailor spoke of a terrible curse on the island, a curse fit t'chill yer blood with the hearin' of't! If'n you go to that accursed isle, ye'll ne'er return to fair Corone again! Ye'll meet yer death in a sea of blood!" The old woman cackled crazily, the wind howling against the walls.
"Your, uh, cauldron's boiling over," Relt said.
"Eh? Oh, bloody hell, that's me dinner," the old woman released Relt and began fussing over the spilled stew. Relt slunk out before the proprietor tried any more portentous pronouncements.
It was just so fucking dramatic.
- - -
Armed with the information provided by a not-really-blind-or-mad old soothsayer and member in good standing of Crones and Witches Local 408, Relt proceeded to the one place most likely to yield some practical assistance; the weatherbeaten, sea-louse-eaten sailor's pub. The kind with fish nets and those green glass floats hanging everywhere, with a low ceiling and rope wrapped around every piece of timber. Relt half expected to be able to choose her own lobster out of a tank by the door.
As it was, she simply made her way to a table and sat down. Okay, so, now she had a plan. She needed a boat, which meant she also needed a crew, and she needed a map, which might be hard since the whole damn island chain was uncharted, which generally meant there was a marked dearth of maps. Relt slumped in her chair a bit. She could also use some help, but since her reasonable acquaintances on this bumfuck planet included one guy with a tiny dragon friend and one big stomparounder dude with a name like Romanian metal band, neither of whom she could just send a text asking for sum help plz, she felt a bit out of her depth. And the first guy wouldn't be much help anyway.
Relt figured she might as well try that long-successful tactic of asking the bartender. She sauntered up to the near-deserted bar, behind which a stocky bald man was cleaning a glass nonchalantly. "Hey," Relt asked, "Are you the kind of bartender who, like, tells people useful information casually whenever they need it?"
"That I am, missus," the man said, not taking his eyes off the glass he was scrubbing.
"Let me guess," Relt replied, "Union?"
"Helpful Blacksmiths, Bartenders and Street Urchins, ma'am, that's right," The bartender looked up and smiled genuinely, "Payscale's shite, but we get great benefits,"
"Cool. Unions. Huh. Okay, sure. So, like, if I gave you a person's name, you could find out where they've been and maybe tell 'em I'm looking for 'em?"
"S'right, miss. Got some bloody magical thingummy in the back, standard union requirement. If any union brothers or sisters've seen this bloke, I'll be able to give you a vague pointer in the right direction. If you buy a drink, o'course,"
"Sure, fuck, whatever," Relt slapped some coins down on the counter, "Just give me a beer I guess," The bartender nodded and began pouring her a pint.
"So," the man said, plunking the drink down heavily on the counter, "Who're you looking for, then?"
"Uh, okay," Relt opened her phone; she had been taking notes. "Okay, all I know about him is that he's this real big motherfucker, all muscles and beard. I think his name is like...Lego...Lethmo...Crowballs? Ravenguts? I dunno, I was kind of distracted at the time. I'm not great with names,"
"Right miss, I s'pose it's enough to work off, I'll go see what gossip I's can scrounge up fer ya,"
"Oh, hey," Relt said, "Do you do this for anybody who asks?"
"Nobody ever asks, missus," the bartender responded solemnly, "The union's advertising budget is right dismal; I tell you, the state of public knowledge of this industry is just shameful. People think it's all about serving drinks, but really our business is information; connectin' people and spreadin' knowledge, to the ben'fit of the gen'ral public. I tell ya, it warms me heart that a gel as young as yourself even takes an interest. Back in a mo',"
"Shit," Relt murmured, turning around on her bar stool and slurping at her beer, "This place has their labor rights biz on lockdown,"
She had been wandering along the coast of Corone, crashing nightly in the tiny port towns that dotted the whole area like barnacles. One morning she awoke, went to wake and bake, and discovered that her previously bulging packet of weed was reduced to nothing. Blearily, the girl stared at the depleted supply; she scratched her head, trying to remember when she had smoked it all. True, she had been getting stoned basically every day since a Chinese food delivery gone wrong resulted in her being sucked through the space between universes by some kind of horrible invisible space monster, but Relt had thought she'd paced herself better than this.
Relt had known that her supply was finite since shortly after she arrived on Althanas, and so at each town she visited, she had stopped in at the apothecary or the druggist or whatever they called themselves and asked if they had any weed; this had earned her a bushel of confused looks and several varieties of herb which, when smoked, made her feel as if someone had forced a camel down her throat and punched her in the tits.
So it was that after weeks of fruitless search and, now, a morning of unwanted sobriety, Relt was in this strange little coastal town wandering around yet another salt-sprayed boardwalk. The sea was a sullen and turgid grey, mirroring the gathering clouds above. It had rained ferociously for a few hours before Relt left her lodgings, but now it only issued the kind of insidious drizzle that makes perfectly rational people decide they don't need an umbrella, only to arrive at work looking like a waterlogged opossum.
Only a few shingles swung in the breeze on a day like that; most business owners in towns this small took one look at the weather and decided that they'd take the day off with their feet up in front of the fire, good fiscal practice be blowed. One of few signs hanging that morning, fortunately enough, appeared to have a mushroom and a cauldron on it.
Relt pushed the door open; it creaked eerily. There was a low, carved driftwood counter, behind which a row of cauldrons bubbled. High wooden shelves held all kinds of knobbly roots and dried leaves. The only light in the place was what little grey sunlight came through a couple of high, grubby windows. A taxidermy alligator hung from the ceiling, grinning emptily at a long-dead joke. Relt rolled her eyes; what was it about these people that precluded subtlety? Still, she knew what was expected. "Hey, is there anyone here?" she shouted.
"Good morn' to you, child!" A cracked voice remarked as its owner shuffled out of the back room. An old woman, bent nearly double and clad in rags, with milky, blind eyes and teeth like a jack o'lantern, rapped her bony knuckles on the counter, grinning as Relt approached. "And how can these old bones aid you on a stormy day like this?"
"Okay, seriously," Relt said, rubbing the bridge of her nose, "I've been to like twenty little shops like this and every single one has been run by a crazy, blind old woman. I feel like I'm trapped in an RPG from 1995. Do you guys have a union or something?"
The old woman straightened up, and her eyes seemed to lose their glazed emptiness. "Well, yes, if you must know," she sniffed, her voice now significantly more normal, "There's certain expectations for shopkeepers, in this industry,"
"Alright, fair enough," Relt relented, "Look, I just need to know if you've ever seen a plant like this, okay?" The San Franciscan girl slid a rough drawing of a pot leaf across the counter. "You smoke it, like tobacco. It makes you feel lazy and hungry, and everything's fucking hilarious,"
"Well, fair girly, I may have the knowin' of-" The old woman stopped when she saw Relt's expression, "Sorry. Force of habit. Yes, I've seen this before, but only once,"
"Seriously? Where?"
"Clutched in the hand of a dying sailor as his ruined ship washed into the harbor, when I was a little girl,"
"Fu-uck. Encouraging."
"He'd been sailing the uncharted seas far to the south; found an island chain and set to exploring them with his crew, and he was the only one to make it back alive. My grandmother ran this shop in those days; she tended to him as he lay dying, and with his last breath, he spoke of an island with a cliff carved in the likeness of a great and terrible eel. That was where he found the plant with leaves like this,"
"Shit. Really? Aw man, now I guess I've gotta go there, huh?"
"Well, if you want this plant, yes," Relt turned to leave, but halted as the old woman's withered claw grasped her shirt sleeve, "But be ye warn'ed! That sailor spoke of a terrible curse on the island, a curse fit t'chill yer blood with the hearin' of't! If'n you go to that accursed isle, ye'll ne'er return to fair Corone again! Ye'll meet yer death in a sea of blood!" The old woman cackled crazily, the wind howling against the walls.
"Your, uh, cauldron's boiling over," Relt said.
"Eh? Oh, bloody hell, that's me dinner," the old woman released Relt and began fussing over the spilled stew. Relt slunk out before the proprietor tried any more portentous pronouncements.
It was just so fucking dramatic.
- - -
Armed with the information provided by a not-really-blind-or-mad old soothsayer and member in good standing of Crones and Witches Local 408, Relt proceeded to the one place most likely to yield some practical assistance; the weatherbeaten, sea-louse-eaten sailor's pub. The kind with fish nets and those green glass floats hanging everywhere, with a low ceiling and rope wrapped around every piece of timber. Relt half expected to be able to choose her own lobster out of a tank by the door.
As it was, she simply made her way to a table and sat down. Okay, so, now she had a plan. She needed a boat, which meant she also needed a crew, and she needed a map, which might be hard since the whole damn island chain was uncharted, which generally meant there was a marked dearth of maps. Relt slumped in her chair a bit. She could also use some help, but since her reasonable acquaintances on this bumfuck planet included one guy with a tiny dragon friend and one big stomparounder dude with a name like Romanian metal band, neither of whom she could just send a text asking for sum help plz, she felt a bit out of her depth. And the first guy wouldn't be much help anyway.
Relt figured she might as well try that long-successful tactic of asking the bartender. She sauntered up to the near-deserted bar, behind which a stocky bald man was cleaning a glass nonchalantly. "Hey," Relt asked, "Are you the kind of bartender who, like, tells people useful information casually whenever they need it?"
"That I am, missus," the man said, not taking his eyes off the glass he was scrubbing.
"Let me guess," Relt replied, "Union?"
"Helpful Blacksmiths, Bartenders and Street Urchins, ma'am, that's right," The bartender looked up and smiled genuinely, "Payscale's shite, but we get great benefits,"
"Cool. Unions. Huh. Okay, sure. So, like, if I gave you a person's name, you could find out where they've been and maybe tell 'em I'm looking for 'em?"
"S'right, miss. Got some bloody magical thingummy in the back, standard union requirement. If any union brothers or sisters've seen this bloke, I'll be able to give you a vague pointer in the right direction. If you buy a drink, o'course,"
"Sure, fuck, whatever," Relt slapped some coins down on the counter, "Just give me a beer I guess," The bartender nodded and began pouring her a pint.
"So," the man said, plunking the drink down heavily on the counter, "Who're you looking for, then?"
"Uh, okay," Relt opened her phone; she had been taking notes. "Okay, all I know about him is that he's this real big motherfucker, all muscles and beard. I think his name is like...Lego...Lethmo...Crowballs? Ravenguts? I dunno, I was kind of distracted at the time. I'm not great with names,"
"Right miss, I s'pose it's enough to work off, I'll go see what gossip I's can scrounge up fer ya,"
"Oh, hey," Relt said, "Do you do this for anybody who asks?"
"Nobody ever asks, missus," the bartender responded solemnly, "The union's advertising budget is right dismal; I tell you, the state of public knowledge of this industry is just shameful. People think it's all about serving drinks, but really our business is information; connectin' people and spreadin' knowledge, to the ben'fit of the gen'ral public. I tell ya, it warms me heart that a gel as young as yourself even takes an interest. Back in a mo',"
"Shit," Relt murmured, turning around on her bar stool and slurping at her beer, "This place has their labor rights biz on lockdown,"