Guns and Ammunition

[House of Cards]

Phyr turned as he entered the sawdusty confines of the disheveled tavern. He moved between the tables and chairs in a purposeful zig-zag, keeping his left shoulder angled forward so the barkeep might not notice his missing arm.

There was no barkeep, and no patrons either. For a moment Phyr considered curling up in a ball in the corner and drawing the shadows there around him to hide away. The shadows called to him like sirens, offering their security and protection. He shook his head forcefully and expelled air through his long, crooked nose. The old dark elf had spent years on the run, and had built up a bundle of useful instincts along the way.

An aching sensation in his gut told him to keep moving; this was not the place to settle and hide.

He approached the bar, which bore a number of tankards, some still half full, others tipped on their sides. A voice came out of the kitchen, barging through the door behind the counter.

“Gingitsu’s great waxed whiskers!” A man swore. “I can’t get this Thaynes-damned sink to drain! Ma, pass me the other wrench - no, the big one.”

“Breathe easy now, Pa.” A woman’s voice replied. “We don’t want you to have another of your stammering spells.”

Phyr rubbed his thumb and forefinger together rapidly. He could still choose to hide in one of the corners or under a table and hope for the best. But his instincts told him to make himself useful, to make an ally. One never knew when a friend or two might come in handy, even if they were an old married couple.

“Excuse me,” the silver-haired elf called, his tone firm but polite. “I don’t mean to bother, but I couldn’t help but overhear.”

There was a bustling commotion from the kitchen, and then the door banged open and the elderly nekojin couple poured out. The male had white tufts of fur on his ears and wore thick half-moon crystal spectacles. Phyr had owned a similar pair, when he lived in Underwood and spent his days poring over deputy reports. The catman picked up a cloth from the back counter and wiped a little grease from his hands, and then dusted off his leather vest.

“Hullo,” he said with a quick bow, which his wife emulated. She was still in sleepwear, a flowery shift stretching down to her ankles and a matching bonnet containing her grey ears. They both had amber eyes, but the man’s were hard while his wife’s softened immediately.

“Hullo indeed!” She exclaimed. “It’s rare we see a new face around here, especially this early in the day. Most of our customers are old friends who come ‘round for drinks after their dinner.”

“Don’t talk the poor elf’s ears off, Ma,” the man complained, “offer the poor fellow a drink, that’s why he came in here!”

“I did come for a drink,” Phyr lied with a nod, “but, I seem to have overheard that you’re having problems with a sink. My apologies for eavesdropping.”

“What of it?” The husband asked, crossing his arms and scratching at the pale fur on his neck. “Think you can fix it when I can’t, huh? Just like an Alerian.”

“I’m sure your skills rival my own,” Phyr fibbed again with a delicate nod, “but I do possess certain advantages. I know a little magic.”

“Magic?” They repeated together. The man lifted a bushy eyebrow, and his wife’s mouth opened wide. "I thought I saw a glimmer beneath the layers." She said, and her husband nodded.

“A little.” Phyr smiled, uncertain what they meant by layers. He picked up a steel tankard from the counter and concentrated on it. The lip of the cup softened and then bent outward like the petals of a flower, before reforming back as straight as it had ever been. “I can move metal with my mind,” he explained. “Not enough for any great purposes… but enough to make unclogging a drain a simple task.”

They looked at one another. Ma had an excited smile on her face, while Pa looked as though someone had offered him a lifetime of free labor.

“All I ask in return,” Phyr said, “is your friendship, and perhaps a cup of your best whisky.”