Cider House Rules (closed to The Mongrel)

[Erirag the Poet]

The events you are about to read are based on a true story. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, and while a chill wind blew gently now and again, the autumn air was surprisingly warm. Erirag was leaning against the cracked bark of an apple tree. The leaves were still holding their green and fruit filled the branches. Pieces were strewn around her, a few beginning to smell sickly sweet as time and death worked their magics. From the orchard, the orc could see the barn she’d erected that morning, fresh paint beginning to stripe along the wood as it was painted.

She was flecked with wounds from Podë, but somehow she still felt at home here. Before she’d lurched forward to adventure in Raiaera, she’d been building barns across Corone, helping humans heal from the war they’d waged against each other. Today she was working her way around the edges of Concordia, and her reward for single-handedly hoisting the walls of the barn was a quiet afternoon in the orchard with as many apples as she wanted.

The fruit in her hand was red, freckled and streaked with gold. She held it in her fingers like a Christmas bobble. After a moment admiring the simplicity of a sweet apple and a pretty day, Erirag brought the fruit to her mouth to bite. She was confused for a moment when the apple that had been in her hand was suddenly not there.

On her shoulder there was light pressure, and a crisp crunch.

[The Mongrel]

I had business about thirty miles away from Oakcreek, and usually I would have just gone straight. But it was the time of year when apple cider came to my tiny little refuge by the woods. I rarely had occasion to go, but it was only thirty miles. I wasn't expected for a whole day yet, and it was only a two hour walk at speed. Maybe less; sometimes it seemed that my feet were fleeter by the day, especially since my venture into the Red Witch's domain. Why would I pass up this opportunity, when it only came one day a year and was such a short walk?

I cut through an apple orchard on the way to the sleepy little town where I went to unwind, and caught a glimpse of someone familiar. I'd only spent a few hours in the company of mighty Erirag, but they were hours neither of us would ever forget. We both bore branding from the days after those hours. We'd both learned things in those hours. She'd survived, which surprised me. I'd heard reports of her death.

Those reports might well have been true. Well, true or not, we were both alive, and it was cider season.

Sneaking up on the contently snacking orc was so easy I couldn't even try calling it sneaking. I could have bolted up to her and snatched her next apple and she wouldn't have noticed. I was surprised she even noticed me sitting on her shoulder.

This was an eating apple, plump, sweet, and crispy. Its flesh yielded easily to my teeth, crunching beautifully. I love a good apple. In the next orchard over were baking apples, and beyond that... the cider apples.

"Ashdautas vrasublatat, Erirag. But until then, there's apple cider in town. Want to go?"

[Erirag the Poet]

Annoyance immediately gave way to a wave of relief and sorority. The elf of two homes sat on her shoulder, and Erirag could not be more gleeful. They had faced death and battled together. They were practically kin.

“Kon!” Erirag cried. Her voice rang through the trees as she clasped her friend’s much smaller forearm and rose to her feet. She towered over Illara, but it didn’t seem to matter. There was a familiarity in the greeting. “Nar Udautas.”

“Cider? Ambor? Erirag love ambor….” The bard’s cheerful musing gave way to a song as she began to strum lute. An orcish drinking song started to spill from her lips as they made their way towards Oakcreek. It told the story of an orc that fell in love with meade, and his dramatic rise and fall. Erirag’s footsteps were the percussion, and she was nearly dancing when they strolled into town. The local tavern was easy enough to find and a table in the corner seemed to be waiting just for them.

The chair creaked under Erirag, crackling ominously when she slumped into it. One mighty fist pounded the table, rattling the candleholder sitting on it, as well as the plate and silver on the table next to them. From the back, a mousy girl came forward. Everything from her steps to the slump of her shoulder suggested she was nervous to approach the orc, but when she saw Illara her face lit up.

“Laura Green, you’re back!”

“Laura?” Deep ruts spread between the orc’s brows as she looked from the little barmaid to her friend. “Kon name Laura?”

All eyes were on them as her raucous laughter rolled through the tavern.

[The Mongrel]

"Close enough." It was what the locals of Oakcreek had called me for the past forty-two years, and very few non-elves could master the delicate intonations in Illara. "It's my name here, anyway."

I fell easily into the other chair at the table, looking over at Elsie, the innkeeper's daughter. She had to be at least twelve now, from the looks of her, but hadn't she just been seven? Had half a decade passed so quickly? It seems like I breathe and another year has passed lately. Time doesn't matter so much to my people, but humans live and die like leaves in the autumn: brilliant, colorful, then dead.

"Four tasting trays, Elsie, please. And pour Erirag's three tastings into mugs. Ordinary tasting cups wouldn't withstand her." My friend's powerful, huge paws were not meant for delicate glass tumblers.

The tavern was more crowded than I'd ever seen it, packed with people despite the early hour. The din of dozens of conversations rose and fell, a band blasted music from the corner, and anyone who wasn't inside hurried around outside. Cider Fest was a big deal here.

Order placed, I turned back to the orc who sprawled across from me. "What Erirag do here?"

[Erirag the Poet]

“Work,” she answered easily as she watched the patrons of the bar. Most of them were watching her, but she was used to it by now. “Erirag make farms. Push up walls on barn. Get gold, food, place to sleep. It good work, keep muscles good for war.”

Her chest was puffed up, her pride showing through. At the bar, the girl was putting together the first tray. A delicate cup, flared at the bottom and coming in at the top like a flower bud, was filled hardly halfway of cider. In a larger stein, another such proportion was prepared. Erirag’s face turned stern. When Elsie turned, she hesitated.

When the tray was placed on the table, the child hurried away to a man who beckoned her from another table. The door to the tavern opened and the brisk air intruded for a moment before the heat of the fire brought warmth once again.

Erirag lifted the mug and peered inside.

“Kon…” she started, puzzled, before putting away the tasting serving as if it had been a single drop in the cup, “Where all the ambor go? This not much.”

[The Mongrel]

"This for tasting, Erirag." I picked up my little glass, cradling it delicately in my palm. "We'll try anywhere between six and twelve different kinds of cider from all over Corone. Trust me, it adds up. Then we can remember what we liked best and get a lot of that. This first one is from up near the Comb Mountains."

I raised my glass to my lips and took a sip, rolling the drink around my tongue. The cider had no body; as far as texture went, it could have been water. Its undertaste cut through the flavor like a brutally bitter knife, and though it had been made with blackberries and raspberries, giving it a rich red color, the flavor of any fruit was barely apparent. Overall, it was more like a poor excuse for wine.

If I'd wanted to drink wine, I would have stayed in Raiaera. I stifled a sigh, choking down an actual mouthful. The first taste was disappointing, but that was fine. There were lots of good ciders around Corone, surely one of them would find its way to our table. And this one wasn't even utterly horrible, it was just...

... not good.

"What do you think?"

[Erirag the Poet]

Erirag looked mournfully down at her mug. There were a few frothy dregs of the cider left, but not enough to really taste it. And she hadn’t exactly been paying attention when she quaffed her first mouthful down.

“Erirag not know…. But need more alcohol.”

The next tray wasn’t far behind. This time it was the barkeep that brought it, and it was filled with more cups and mugs than the child could have handled. With an array before her, Erirag eagerly posed her hands. She had nearly begun to down them when she remembered what Illara had said. They were for tasting.

Gently, she lifted a mug up and laid her tongue on the inside rim while she let the cider slosh against it. For a second there was a familiar taste and then… Erirag’s face screwed up in displeasure. She’d never tried to drink the oil that kept lanterns burning along the streets of Radasanth before, but she imagined that’s what it tasted like. Cooly, she set the mug down before her, turned her attention to Illara and frowned.

“Erirag know apple. This not apple.”

[The Mongrel]

"Thank you, Preston. It's good to be here for the big festival, for once." I smiled at the man I'd known since his early childhood, rubbing at my eye, where my contacts itched. Erirag's grimace gave me pause; orcs weren't particularly picky in their sense of taste, so if it was nasty to HER, this particular little glass boded badly for me.

I took a sip of the second cider and nearly spat it out. Elves know how to do terrible things to alcohol, but we aren't nearly as practiced at it as humans. That race is incredibly creative with ways to make good things into terrible things. Music. Art. Poetry. Dancing (Stars, how they ruin dancing!). Alcohol. This was stronger than the last one, and over the taste of paint thinner, there was a different flavor. Almost... olives?

Was this some toxic experiment gone awry? I determined that I would never, EVER, go to Crossroads for cider. Or anything, if I could help it.

I didn't even finish that glass, just moved on to the next one. It was darker, and instead of sloshing like water in the glass, it actually clung a bit. This one had an actual mouthfeel, some body and texture. Its flavor was less overwhelmingly bitter, not appley, but not vile. "Try the dark one, Erirag. This is actually pretty good."