Nothing is true...everything is permitted.

[Psycho Chef]

(Open to one. PM first please.)

His first day in this world. He’d been here maybe a few hours. How could he already have the blood of someone on his hands? How could he have died so easily…but stand here now, at the steps of the Citadel. It’s great, ominous doors behind him, his death so vividly fresh in his mind’s eye.

Vincent reached to his cheek where rain drops had been only moments before, and yet here he stood, dry under the waning orange glow of the setting sun. Is that what they called it here? What if he mentioned it as the sun and they instantly recognized him for what he was? An outsider. Easy prey. Clearly life and death did not live perched on familiar scales in this universe. He needed answers to his predicament. Answers would soothe his raising thoughts. But where…?

A tavern or bar!

The thought sprung wildly from the depths of his days playing RPGs when sick in bed. Information and knowledge could always be tapped from your local barkeep and they would always been too happy to share information…unless you asked the wrong question. Which then would incite the entire population of said establishment to quietly, but murderously, observe your actions for the next ten minutes or until you cracked a suitable joke. Which if not suitable would immediately lead to the alpha male issuing a challenge to the would be jester of the tavern.

FOCUS! He snapped at himself as the sun fell to a level that beamed a pure concentration of radiation into his retinas. First things first: he needed a place to stay. This wouldn’t be like camping in the woods. For all he knew, trees ate people at dusk. And the owls sang love songs. Hell, maybe the snakes bit with anti-venom. Everything he thought he knew about life was seriously being reconsidered. Hopefully food still worked the same. That would be his biggest straw to burden. If he couldn’t roast a chicken or at least bake some cookies…

Vincent pushed the thought depressing notions from his head as he doggedly moved forward. He was forcing a body that was slowly losing its will to live. Although greenery and life was abundant around his path into the nearby town and/or village, he was feeling dead inside. This wasn’t home. He wasn’t going back from his job as a chef. There were no muffins waiting for him expectantly on the countertop. How would he ever back to those days? Could such a feat even be done from this side of the portal?

The portal. Before he’d realized it, the young man found himself at an aging window for The Spittiling Cow. His reflection was grim, even after the grime had been taken into consideration. His short, midnight hair looked even darker against the background of the total darkness that followed him into town. His features seemed to decay before his eyes; which were cloudy. He smiled inwardly at the idea that he had not changed at least. His naturally changing irises were almost like a mood ring. He shrugged his backpack up a bit and inhaled the dusty air of this new place.

Cloudy. It was a good sign. Cloudy was his way of saying “There’s still hope”. One of his skills in life had always been to think without actually thinking. Just like the way cells divide inside the human body. It’s not a conscious effort. Or like breathing or blinking. People are highly unaware of these actions until reminded of the body’s unconscious efforts to survive. Vincent’s brain acted in the same fashion as his lungs. Although he was directly able to control his breathing, they would continue to work without his approval. The cloudy eyes told him that his unconscious mind was already hard at work on a plan to get home, piecing events to together, remembering essential data and analyzing this world as fast it possibly could under the stress he was being subjected to; a beer would help him relax and let his mind get to work properly.

[Psycho Chef]

The, now former, professional executive chef rested his hand lightly against the termite infested door. He took strength in his uncanny will to adapt to situations and recalled the moment when he did go through that damn portal. If only he’d been smarter about the whole event…he had no idea what was going on back in his world.

The door suddenly swung inwardly on the best oiled hinges Vincent had ever come across in his life. So silently and quickly in fact that his hand was still left in air, resting on the nothingness of the humid air that was wafting out from the tavern. Honestly, a person could chew on the stench that was emanating beyond the door frame.

And yet there he stood. Lost in a regret filled moment of what if’s and could of’s. With his digits in the face of a man half his size and four times his muscle mass, Vincent might as well have been testing the sensitivity of a newly set bear trap. A drunk, angry, and still sober enough to throw a life ending punch bear trap.

“Oiy! Ge’ the hell ouw’ ma waye!” Shouted the dwarf as he swatted the hand and shoved Vincent. The chef stumbled backwards as if someone had just casually handed him an armoire made of iron. He’d never seen such a small but powerful person before; although being smart back home got him out of trouble enough times, he wasn’t so sure he could win this dwarf’s favor with exotic recipes or his knowledge of how to make a homemade bomb with local cleaning supplies.

The sun dipped out of the way and left Vincent to the shadows. Light played before his eyes from the city that surrounded him. He’d been so lost in the troubles of his mind that he’d failed to notice…all of this; the freaking city was alive! Although the night had come to claim its temporary throne over this part of the world, the people defied its reign. Brightly lit ornate oil lamps lined the streets every few feet. Shops were still open with wares ranging from simple clothes to jewelry to weapons for practical and decorative use. While he was busy wallowing in self-pity at the surface of his mind, he’d subconsciously noticed all of this and he knew what he had been planning all along.

This world isn’t a giant dust bowl. I have no idea what it really is…but the possibilities could be endless!

Time was on his side. As long as he could feed himself, keep his brain nourished well enough to think, the chef had a chance. He dusted off his blue jeans, took in another deep, dusty breath and ignored the grumbling dwarf who was now squaring up against himself in the very same window of despair that Vincent had been captivated by.

The Spittling Cow’s odor had not improved in those few minutes of personal reflection. It had however, somehow gotten much worse. As if on cue, a man ejected fresh vomit from his mouth and nose into the cup he had been drinking from…and then eyed the contents curiously, as if wondered how it had been refilled. Vincent did not study the patron any longer for fear of what might happen next. Getting distracted was not part of his plan. A plan; it felt good to have one again.

“Hi there,” he started as he cautiously placed his pack on the beer-stained counter top. “I was wondering if I could ask you a question or two…”

The barkeep turned to face Vincent as he wiping his hands with his muddy apron. He silently hoped it was just mud as the man motioned with a quick flit of the eyes to something to the chef’s left side. A simple, but clean sign was nailed to the wall.



All questions and inquires will be answered to the best of the management staff’s ability as long as the nominal fee of one alcoholic drink is purchased. We thank you for your understanding and do hope you have a pleasant and more enjoyable day if we were of any assistance.
~Helpful Blacksmiths, Bartenders and Street Urchins~

“Oh…kay…I’ll have…” Vincent murmured as he searched for some kind of menu to go off of. “Fuck it. Beer. I’ll have a beer.”

The bartender eyed him suspiciously.

“Er, lager?” The judgmental eyes squinted at him. “Ale? A nice frothy ale?”

“What size would ya’ be likin?” He retorted dryly.

It spoke! He was afraid he’d be reading a lot of information; poorly written information. “The biggest ya have!” He said trying to match the barkeep’s accent. And as if his nightmares were all attempting to surface at once, the tavern’s unintelligible grumbles screeched to a violent halt. Rotting chair legs squeaked shrilly against the uneven floorboards as bodies shifted to take a look at the “would be upstart” of the infamous Spittling Cow.

With a cocked eye the balding bartender said, “Ya no what urr getting’ urrself into thei’ boi?”

Vincent was familiar with drinks. He’d done his fair share of blackout nights where he woke up next to the typical coyote ugly status girl. He wasn’t proud to remember…but he knew his limits thanks to those events. But when he roared yes with a fist pound, to assert his male dominance over the elements of barley and hops, that elicited a tension breaking cheer from the tavern’s customers, he was clearly not thinking the whole thing through logically.

After guessing at what the locals called a beer as ale, he was hard pressed to ask how many ounces, well, gallons, of ale he had just purchased. It was only a little smaller than the average wheel barrel but served in something that resembled a trough.

The bartender sauntered over to Vincent and patted him on the back. “Laaaaaiiiidy and gennnlemennn!” The nervous chef looked around for the supposed “lady” (he thought he’d registered every person in the room) and only saw what he had at first presumed to be a man in long hair. She looked like she belonged on the front of a Log Cabin Maple Syrup bottle with an ax in her hand and a foot on a stump a la Captain Morgan style. She winked at him and he smiled back politely and hoped that he’d stay sober enough to get out of the bar with something that could help him.

“We hav’ a challanjuur tunigh’!” Roars and pewter plinks resounded harshly. “Remambur! This is the one hundrad coin Bottem Lez Voide Baarrruul!” Vincent still stood by its trough like appearance but kept it to himself. Then the cost sunk in. He’d only won a little more than that at the citadel! He was still unsure of the economy of this place. What if food cost fifty coins? A bed was two hundred? Even as his mind raced over his financial woes and his reckless attitude over the "casual drink order", he tried to let his primary focus be the words stumbling out of the sweaty barkeep’s stubbly mouth.

“Howeva! If he con’ fenesh the whooole barrul…” he teased as the crowd waited in anticipation for the hook, “He onlay hasta pay one coin!” With cheers of encouragement and jeers being thrown at him, as bets were taking place on his odds of success, Vincent thoroughly liked the idea of only paying one gold piece. It allowed his mind to now focus on his biggest hurdle for this epic challenge.

Just exactly how many pints would be required for alcohol poisoning to take effect?



((Special thanks to Relt PeltFelter for the union above!))

[Psycho Chef]

The soft humming of words encased Vincent’s mind. A foggy mist fell over his rational senses, clouding his judgment. Was air even necessary anymore? All it did was slow him down. All that time needed to inhale and exhale. It was cumbersome. A poor design by his maker. He’d bring it up to the head honcho if he ended up dead on the floor of the tavern.

The tavern…oh that dark, humid place. The nightly inhabitants were still crowded around the main event for the evening. Cheering was the most noticeable noise, even if it did sound miles away. Lamps and candles flickered back and forth as bodies came to and fro from the establishment, hollering of The Spittling Cow’s most recent challenger. Filthy boots and dusty travelers poured into the place, buying their own drinks at a maddening pace, hopeful for the strangely dressed man’s victory.

Victory! He’d nearly gotten lost in his drowning thoughts as he himself began to lack the essential oxygen to stay alive. He hauled his head out of the trough and swallowed the nearly syrup like ale. Vomit scented air never tasted so good.

“He lives!” Someone shouted from the crowd. Roars of approval reverberated around the fairly large room. Originally, the cobbled together deadwood that passed for tables and the matching set of chairs had been somewhat neatly arranged in rows, or at least the idea of it. Now they had been shoved to the walls in such a fashion that it wouldn’t have struck anyone as a surprise if there had been claims of a recent tornado touchdown. Only the stools remained at the bars, where the shorter dwarven customers gazed on with admiration.

At least he thought it was that; his vision was blurring quick, fast and in a hurry. Exhaling air slightly better than the stench around him, he gobbled up the smells of sweaty bodies, regurgitated ale, and most likely horse manure, and dove back into the black abyss set before him.

“He’s go’ a big pair owne himmm, I tells ya!” Someone said with pride, as if they’d been friends for ages.

Vincent came back up and was unsure of how much remained in the challenge. His stomach was rapidly approaching its capacity for punishment. Soon a fire marshal would need to be called to vacate the premises of his taxed tummy. But he couldn’t lose here. Not so soon in the real world…of this world. With steady breathing to match the chants of the crowd as they urged him on the drink, he removed his button up Hawaiian shirt and dropped it to the floor. The dark blue petals against the background of black hardly seemed to make the Hawaiian pop out, but that’s what he had liked about it. It wasn’t showy. It was casual.

But now he had to put on a show. His black t-shirt was soaked in ale dripping, but he laughed out loud, partly from drunkenness, partly for entertainment’s purpose. As he lazily eyed the contents left in the trough, he quickly calculated a rough estimate of about twelve more beers to go. Beers set at sixteen ounces a bottle. That was one hundred ninety two ounces. The average human stomach could hold approximately one hundred thirty five ounces of liquid. If he was feeling near his max, that would mean he’d nearly drank ten beers in less than five minutes.

Minutes…how much time is left? IS THERE EVEN A TIME LIMIT? He couldn’t stop to think about that now. Time could be of the essence! Reckless pride had gotten him here, and it would be the skill to get him out! The drunker he became, meant more room in his stomach. He just needed to make sure he’d keep drinking past the blackout point but just before an untimely death.

Suddenly the very urgent need to pee hit him like a brick wall. It was as if his bladder filled up like a balloon attached to a garden hose. Now a dilemma was in the making. Break the seal…or test the limits of his urinary system?

As his mind blazed with possible solutions to this new and troubling issue, he went through the best possibilities as efficiently as a liquor soaked brain could and proceeded with his only option: drink all the ale.

He plunged into the trough remains, hardly registering any of his other senses, the people, or the immediate world around him. Unbeknownst to Vincent, a hushed silence fell over the crowd as he slurped and gurgled his way to a slow but somewhat steady victory. Some of them knew the risks and brought small caps and hats down from their matted heads to their chests, as if paying respects to a dead man walking.

Vincent’s eyes snapped open as the level of ale lowered dramatically, but as a consequence of his rapid alcohol imbibing, his motor functions fell just as quickly. He fell to a knee with a mere four-ish beers to go. The world spun like a top and he struggled to hold onto the wobbly table that he drank from; or was it the bar? A bar countertop could be wobble right? He closed his eyes to concentrate but even the darkness spun in swirls of shades.

“DRINK! DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!”

They were a muffled audience. Silent as mimes and twice as annoying. His despair was their enjoyment but the liquid courage that literally coursed through his veins gave him the bravado to summon strength to his arms and grasp the splintered trough by the sides with all his might. He tilted the edge toward his face or the general area at least, and opened his mouth, pouring the contents like a waterfall of runny maple syrup.

Vincent toppled backward as he cast the empty container aside and clung to the floor for fear he might slip off the world into the abyss. The cracked and aged wood under his hands vibrated violently, as if a thousand voices were screaming from the other side. Without warning he was suddenly flying above the heads of the patrons, floating around the room. Was he dead? Was this an out of body experience? He really hoped he hadn’t just thrown up and drowned in his own sick, left to haunt this bar for all eternity like some poor soul from an MMORPG that couldn’t make it out of a village in time and now had to be put to rest by some random up and coming adventurer.

It wasn’t until he’d floated back to the floor and suddenly everything was right side up that sounds came back to him. He was being shaken and patted and congratulated for his triumph over ale so strong that most would normally take shots of it. He smiled weakly as he asked for a place to “drain the snake”. The barkeep, with a smile, pointed him to the nearby facilities where Vincent let out a mighty sigh that was so loud, the crowd was still laughing with tears in their eyes when he wobbly came back to claim his stool by his backpack.

And then…the blackout.

[Psycho Chef]

His eyes shot open. Dusty light beamed through the open window to his right. His left was occupied by a small, battered nightstand. He doubted he’d find the Bible in one of its drawers. He searched anyway, hoping he’d been in some crazy dream where he was stuck in another world because a literal mad scientist was hoping to sacrifice his co-workers to some “god” in exchange for who knows what; all he found was more dust and dirt.

A groan escaped his chapped lips as he struggled to sit up. His short hair had still found a way to get messy and the state of his stubble was starting to go past that “handsome five o’clock shadow” look. A noise was bothering him and he realized it was what had roused him from his beauty sleep in the first place. A bird was tapping at the window. A cleaner window than the one that had caught his reflection, but still a bit weather worn; either way, the bird appeared to be a crow or a raven. And it may as well have been playing the drums right next to his ear. He hurled the rough canvas pillow at the pest and utterly destroyed the glass. Probably the animal as well.

I’ll be paying for that most likely… He thought bitterly as he shoved the itchy blanket off.

He held a hand to his head as the hangover claimed its rightful place. He still felt the effects of the ale a bit, but was fully capable of thinking now. It was time to take an inventory count: shoes were still on, Hawaiian shirt was missing, t-shirt still on, pants were non-soiled except from beer, his backpack was in an ancient rocking chair in the corner…and he was alive. Not a bad start so far.

Heavy thuds thundered outside the door as Vincent went to inspect the damage he’d caused. Shards of glass and splintered wood were strewn on the road below. Thankfully it was still pretty early in the morning, with random puffs of white in the endless blue sky. He sighed with relief as he saw there was no dead bird and turned back to face the small room. It was pretty bare except for the bed and nightstand. And the little chair granting generous hospitality to his things.

The heavy wooden door swung open (again, on the best oiled hinges in existence) and the barkeep stepped through half out of breath.

“Goo’ of ya ta sho’ urr tanks!” He grumbled as he motioned to mangled window.

“Yea, that’s my bad. Sorry about…that. On a positive note, you have quite the durable pillows!” Vincent said with a jest filled smile. When no laugh was given, he mumbled, “How much did that window cost?”

“Abou’ a hundre’ o’ so.” He said casually.

Vincent may have just gotten to this world yesterday, but he wasn’t born yesterday. “Really now?” He said with a stern glare. “To tell you the truth, I can’t imagine a whole lot in this place is worth ten coins.” He bluffed.

Realizing he’d push his luck too far with someone who had not only taken on the challenge and survived, but someone far more athletic than he, the barkeep offered a compromise. “How abou’ thus…werc fo’ me fo’ a day. You shoul’ be able ta do somethin’ righ’?”

Thinking he’d paid a gold coin for a drink and a bed for a night, the chef felt working with the man might prove to be more fruitful in the end.

“You got a kitchen?”


* * *

“Yea…uh…we need some things buddy.” Vincent mumbled as he opened cracked pantries, investigated some cupboards lacking proper doors and a wood fire stove that had definitely seen better days in another life. “We need a lot of things.”

“Like wha’?”

“Food. You’re a tavern that doesn’t serve any food. I have a mean ass hangover right now and some fried cheese sticks and beer battered chicken tenders would really hit the spot.” He said with a watery mouth.

“Che..eese stucks?” The barkeep asked cautiously.

Vincent’s eye twitched at the notion of such blasphemy. Sure, cheese sticks weren’t considered gourmet food, but comfort food trumped all types of eating. Every culture had a dish that was made to make you feel better…after a long night of trying to destroy your liver. When that failed, congestive heart failure in the morning was the next best thing.

“What’s your name?”

“Onbran.”

“On…bran?” Vincent said slowly as he took in the full figure of the portly and aged barkeep. Bran was clearly not associated with this man’s diet. “Ok, Onbran…you have a guy who cleans stuff right? Some poor bar back you order around for simple tasks?” The round man nodded. “Good. Have him clean this place. I’ll be your cook for a day and teach you guys a few simple things that’ll make The Spittling Cow a shining establishment to drown your sorrows in booze and fine dishes!”

“Huh?”

“People will give you more money, more often, soon.”

“Oh!” He exclaimed with a flabby clap.

“I’ll work off that window, but you’ll need to provide me with a budget for some ingredients.” Vincent said as his brain throbbed in unison with his heart. He hoped he could find half of what he needed. Otherwise he was royally screwed.


* * *

Vincent trudged down the empty morning road with an equally empty stomach. He had two fairly large burlap sacks that Onbran had graciously granted him and a budget that was more impressive than he had at first thought he’d get from the greasy ball of a person.

Five hundred gold coins. Wonder if that’ll get me enough to last them a while. Looks like curing meats and cheeses will be the majority of their menu.

As he had left the tavern, the young, skinny bar back by the name of Jenth, had warned, “Becareful goin’ out there! Radasanth is a biiiiig city! Don’t get lost now!” His vernacular was much easier to understand but still had that heavy accent that still tickled Vincent’s ears.

Forcing himself back into reality, he found that market was a fairly busy place, even this early in the day. He stood at the edge of a sea of carts, booths, and stalls. It wasn’t packed, but the locals were definitely showing up in force. Unfortunately, he’d just had the wind blown out of his sails. What was the economy? If he haggled incorrectly, they might notice him as an outsider and overcharge him. Or give him low quality ingredients.

He needed help. Vincent wasn’t a prideful man, but he was certainly a wary one in his current situation. He couldn’t just saunter up to someone and ask them to lend a hand with his grocery list.

Maybe his day wasn’t going so well after all.

[Kryja]

Today was a good day in Radasanth and by some standards, a great day because of the warm weather of the spring day. The morning had been a bit chilly, but as the sun melted away the dew, it became progressively warmer. Perhaps the only thing that blemished this flawless day were the numerous fluffy white clouds drifting lazily above.

For Nin, however, the clouds suited him just fine. They filtered the overpowering sun and turned its rays into something gentler for his sensitive eyes. And even though it was a perfect day (for him) to perform a small show to earn some coin, Nin was more than content to loaf around in the market square and take in the sights of the morning: Housewives and maids bustling about the early vendors in an effort to snatch up fresh ingredients for the day, the men and workers unloading carts and wagons strewn about, and children chasing each other and playing games of pretend soldiers.

Of course, there were real soldiers patrolling, mercenaries meandering and weary travelers from far away traveling to the Citadel.

And then there was Nin dallying on the edge of the plaza platform in his usual attire of a long skirt and peasant style clothing of his village, teaching a small group of boys how to fold a frog with a piece of paper. When he finished, the boys dashed off to occupy themselves with their new found amusement and allowed Nin to return to helping a young girl braid flowers together into a crown.

Yup, today was going to be perfect.

Even the mission he had for the week was a cinch. Sure, he didn’t have his usually helping childhood friend, Li Uura, around this time as she wanted to travel to Scara Brae for family… but it was still an easy task!

Placing the flower crown onto the head of the small brown haired girl, Nin watched the child beam at him. “Thank you miss!” she squeaked out before running to chase after the other children. Nin just waved a hand before pulling his task slip out from a hidden pocket.

The young man took a moment to eye the formally written spirit fox tongue. It was a piece of parchment no greater than the size of his hand with a small blue dot in the center. The written characters that surrounded it simply stated:


Gather information and track those of high profile and be on the lookout for persons who seem too inexperienced. Mark them as potential agents either to Ranger or Empire.

Of course, in a city like Radasanth, that was perhaps much easier said than done, now that Nin actually thought about it. Well, that and Nin had already been half way on the road from Underwood when he received the slip. With a small sigh, he tucked the piece of paper back into his pocket and continued to scan the crowds. Underwood would have been easier.

Everyone about the marketplace looked to be the regulars and no one seemed out of place. Even the travelers that came here were usually for the specific reasons of being a refugee or contender at the Citadel. A yawn passed from his lips as he muddled in his own thoughts. Agents of the Rangers could be posing at refugees, but if that was true, he’d have to gain acceptance into their camps.

That would have been a little too high risk for him at the currently moment; easier to just blend in and gather information by doing nothing productive. Another yawn drifted from Nin as a tall man moved with hesitant steps past him. He was dressed rather plainly and wouldn’t have stood out for had he not been in Radasanth. Unfortunately, in a city such as Radasanth, the only such people who dressed plainly were the beggars (who would also be dirty), and the workers loading carts or ships (who would also be dirty, but better fed).

This man, however, looked very lost as he gazed about him as if he had stepped into another world. A farm boy? An idle thought until Nin noted and spotted the jingle of a coin pouch. From the sound of it, it was rather weighty with coin. No, definitely not a farm boy. A Ranger agent then? By judging from looks alone, the man had the physique of a common recruit or a worker or a farm hand. Trouble was he had too much coin to be any of the above.

He also reeked of alcohol. No one spends that much on alcohol and still had that much coin in his purse unless he was something more, or had local connections. And why was he carrying two potato sacks? Maybe he’s… a rich farm boy who lost all his potatoes when he got drunk?

Shaking away his horrible reasoning, Nin stuck out a leg to stop the man. Not that he could actually stop him with one leg, but he hoped it would get his attention and stop him. “You’re a new face around the market. Looking for something or did someone steal whatever’s in those burlaps?” was his innocent question of curiosity.