Part 1 - The Druid's Dilemma - The Tavern
I sat in the loud tavern. There was too much noise. Too much noise. People's teeth bit into the flesh of animals, and every time I heard their incisors chomp through the layers of fat, I wanted to vomit into my porridge. My staff leaned on the bar beside me, and I followed some particularly loud shouting to a back room of the tavern.
"DAMON want to gamble!" Shouted the Dwarven Cleric, who may have been named Damon, an archetype of aggression and muscle, and alcoholism. The Fighter, basically the same thing, but taller, said the same to the proprietor of chance, only in a classier voice. "Gerald will gamble too." They were both of dim intellect, and struggled to follow the basic language that met their demands.
"You have two games to choose from," as the response from the woman, who was dressed smartly. "Twenty one, or Go Fish!"
"GO FISH!", the Cleric named Damon eagerly demanded loudly, drunkenly. I looked on, somewhat mortified by the unfolding scene and misuse of aquatic life in games where coin would be put down in the hopes of attracting more coin.
The woman behind the counter handed them two small fish shaped like paddles. On a cursory inspection, they looked like timber, but the intricate carvings were too detailed to be the work of a craftsman. The texture in the paddles seemed to be organic.
She explained the rules. "You each take one of these." She handed them to the participants. Damon approached it with caution, and a certain type of horror. Gerald gripped it eagerly, like a glove about to propose a duel. "And, you shall slap each other ONCE with the paddle. The winner is the one who tolerates the slap best."
Gerald grinned, slapping the fish-paddle against his palm as though to test its weight. "I love gambling!" He exclaimed. It was apparent that he also loved violence. Damon stood on his bar stool to be at eye level with Gerald, who was quite possibly double his size. They took a breath. The woman slapped her hand down on the counter. I winced.
It was no match. The Fighter had knocked The Dwarf over, smarting, grabbing his jaw, body sprawled onto the floor, fingertips clutching at unseen apparitions. He made a sickening thud upon that arrival to the floor, a whimper, and a whining sound, like a wounded dog on the floor. He was a dense man, and now it was apparent.
Gerald, the fighter, collected his coin. He still grasped the fish in the other hand, where I saw a glint in the fish-paddle thing. It had taken on some of Damon's blood, and with it - seemed alive, for a a moment, with some sort of primal rage. He hadn't noticed. As a Druid, I of course noticed the machinations of nature far earlier than others.
I wished to examine it, but he held it far too tightly. Damon stirred from his brief unconsciousness and rose to his feet, downing his pain levels with a few gulps of the ale that remained in their glass. They discarded their fish-paddle, and the woman collected it. Gerald held tightly onto his prize, and his winnings - refusing to relinquish either.
I went to the Gerald's side, not attracted to the power of the take down he had just conducted, but to, try to get a closer glimpse at the fish paddle. It had entered his quiver, after having been attached to an arrow. Before I could speak out a greeting, a great cavalcade of noise erupted from the main room of the Tavern.
Damon was the first out to join the noise, bellowing about adventure while blood ran down the side of his face in a trickle. Truly a heroic image. Gerald followed quietly, and I went in tow, considering nothing but the fish.
THE DRUID'S DILEMMA WILL CONTINUE
D R A M A T I S
P E R S O N A E
(so far)
The Druid:
A quiet protagonist-narrator, nameless, female. Lover of wild life.
The Drunken Cleric:
Damon, alcoholic, violent, full of vitriol.
The Fighter:
Gerald, loves fish, gambling, and pumping iron.