Year 1, Month 1, Week 2, 10th day of the week

Eden

Eden washed another mug clean. No one was ordering anything at the moment and she had topped everyone off. Apparently Larry didn’t feel like doing the dishes. Larry hadn’t shown up, today, and her job was that much harder for it. Ah, such is life, where the dishwasher gets a day off and the boss doesn’t say anything about it. Not that she was bitter about it or anything. It’s just that Larry was late every day and he still got his share of the tips, whereas if Eden was late, her pay would be a little less, and pointedly so. Larry never got in trouble an– Eden noticed her skin turning deep orange with red lines. She sighed and closed her eyes. Breathe. There is a time for summer, and that time is not now. Maybe when Larry returns and she can give him a proper punch in the f– no, no, focus. Spring, pleasantries, happiness. Bunnies. Something.

“‘Ey, Eden! Yer doin’ it again!” she heard from one of the center tables. Rhentim, one of her usual patrons, a particularly round dwarf with the stereotypical love of ale. Talkative and merry, Eden was unsurprised that he had taken notice. She took a look around. She recognized everyone in the Parlor, and everyone there was harmless.

“Washing dishes? Yeah, that’s because that lout, Larry, is useless!’

“Nay, yer doin’ tha’ angry color change thing-a-do yeh do. Yer mad at Larry?”

Grateful for the distraction, she shot back, “Oh, no, Rhentim, I’m angry with you for not having ordered a drink in half an hour.” she dramatically put her hand on her sternum, touching her collarbones with her thumb and forefinger. “And here I thought you could put away some alcohol.” She shot a look at her hand. Yep, back to green.

“Aye, Eden, yer right! Let’s see if we can remedy that! Pour me another beer; this mug is a bit light.” The rest of the table, three other dwarves in all, started clamoring for another drink. Weren’t dwarves supposed to have a distaste for elves? Yet give them some attention, and they will whip themselves into a frenzy to get more of it.

She gave her best customer service smile. “That’s the spirit!” She grabbed an empty pitcher, filled it from a keg, and marched over to the table. She eyed Tefnum, an older human at the adjacent table staring at the dwarves and frowning in thought, as if he had just thought the same thing she did. He was a relatively new patron, having only been showing up for the past two weeks. He was slender, silver-haired, and had a tattoo of an eye that looked a little heavy on the winged eyeliner on the back of his right hand.

“Tefnum, darling?” Eden said sweetly. Tefnum’s head snapped up. “Are you ready to try some real brew yet, or is ale going to be your signature drink?” He sat back and thought for a few moments and said,

“Ask me again at the end of the night. For now, I will stick with ale.”

“I won’t let you forget that!” She promised. The rest of the Parlor seemed to regain their thirst and every table, plus the three patrons at the bar were calling for drinks, probably thirty in all.

Five orcs lumbered in. They were tall and muscle-bound, definitely smaller than the anakim who always accompanied Sael, which were all around nine feet tall; the orcs looked about at the seven-foot mark. Their skin was a light green, and they had a bottom set of canines that were functionally tusks. Everything about them screamed “don’t mess with me”. They wore light blue clothing that had a depiction of an elephant on the shoulder of their shirts. They also each had drums strapped to their hips. What in the–oh right, there was a percussion competition taking place this weekend, and the reigning champions were a group of Thor worshippers known simply as “The Mallets”. They won last time by literally summoning a storm with their drumwork; it was kind of hard to follow that kind of a performance. She continued to pour drinks, but called out to the orcs,

“Hey, guys, find a table and get comfortable; I’ll be right with y’all!” The lead orc grunted in acknowledgement, glanced at his compatriots, jerked his head to an empty table, and they all strode to it, removed their drums, and sat in the chairs, causing the chairs to collectively give an audible creak. Eden finished up passing out new drinks and recording the debts, and approached the table of orcs, notepad in hand. “What can I get for you, gentlemen?”

“Whiskey,” the lead orc grunted with a clenched jaw, “and not in those tiny glasses meant for children, either. We want the large glass mugs. Make sure you don’t give us the stuff that tastes like horse piss.” Eden raised her eyebrows, momentarily wondering if they were going to be trouble.

“Well, I can assure you that we have nothing here tasting that poorly. Five mugs of whiskey, then, coming right up.” The lead orc reached out and grabbed Eden’s thigh, faster than she could react. She realized with increasing alarm that the orc’s index finger and thumb were touching each other; her thigh wasn’t as big around as his wrist.

“And she-elf, “he said, smiling, as if he were boasting about something good or impressive, “I’m not gentle.” Eden heard chairs all over the Parlor scrape as people got up. All the orcs stood up, too, and Eden found herself hanging upside-down by her leg, flailing around with winter-blue arms; she felt frost set into her hair. Fortunately for Eden, she was in direct line of sight with the table of dwarves. She stopped struggling, focused on the table, and found herself standing upright on it, facing the orcs, ten feet away; the lead orc looked positively dumbfounded. While it initially looked like the orcs were ready to fight, their stances changed when they realized that everyone else in the Parlor had drawn their weapons.

“Hey,” The lead orc complained, “That’s not right! We didn’t draw our weapons! We come here for grevschuk, for debauchery, violent and pure!”

“Ye’ll not touch tha’ she-elf!” One of the dwarves shouted, his words only slightly slurred. The orc squinted at the dwarf and asked,

“Why?” It sounded, strangely enough, like a sincere question.

“Now, hold on, everybody. Just stay put; orcs included!” Eden called out as one of the dwarves stepped forward, axe in hand. Her voice was squeakier than she would have liked. Tefnum spoke up, baring his teeth, not moving his jaw, which bothered Eden a little. What a strange thing for a human to do.

“You’re from the Griffin’s Pinnacle region, far to the north, aren’t you?”

The orc spoke, also through clenched teeth. “Yes. Answer my question, hew-mann. Why is the server off limits? She disappeared and reappeared, so clearly she can fend for herself!”

“Just bear with me, so I can explain the weapons to you, and explain your behavior to them!” Tefnum pleaded. The orc opened his lips, as if to say something, but then refrained, closed his lips and nodded. Tefnum addressed everyone, but spoke to Eden. “These orcs are from a rough-and-tumble area up north, called Griffin’s Pinnacle, which has a mining town and some moldering ruins close by, but also a population of orcs who worship Indra, god of storms, instead of Ghaum, native god of orcs. They’re rural, not really tribal, led by half-orcs-half-humans.” He turned to look at the orcs. “And you have orc taverns up there, don’t you?” The lead orc nodded. “And I’m willing to bet that the servers fight back, and bar fights are a well-loved event in those taverns. Am I right?” The orc’s eyebrows slowly climbed to the top of his forehead.

“You don't… do bar fights…?” The orc stated in a voice of pure surprise.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Rentim blurted out. “Most o' them don't! Do yeh mean tah tell me yeh haven’t stopped at a single tavern along tha’ way from Griffin’s Pinnacle an' run intah this issue? I find tha’ hard tah believe!”

“We… didn’t have time… we set out late and made haste here. There were no stops for alcohol.” The orc sounded ashamed, and his fellow orcs looked uncomfortable.

“You’re surprised that we don't do bar fights? Isn't every establishment different?” Eden asked.

“No… Well, yes, but no… We were told that there would be different customs, but we thought that meant attire and ruling class things. Not taverns or bars. I thought taverns were universal.”

“There are rules here. Very different ones, apparently, but we expect you to abide by them, nonetheless.” Eden said, softly, but firmly.

“No touching the server?” the orc offered. She smiled.

“No touching the server. No bar fights or violence of any sort, either. These people work hard and come here to relax, not to be rough.” She motioned for everybody to sit down. No one did, but most of them put their weapons down onto the tables where they could quickly reach them.

“We didn’t mean any real offense, did we boys?” The other orcs all shook their heads in a comical manner. “We will go to another bar and try to re-start there, where we haven’t caused trouble.”

“That’s not necessary. Just no violence and no running out on your bill, and we’ll all tolerate each others’ presence. Does that sound acceptable to everyone?” She looked around at all the patrons as she said this. The orcs all muttered their assent and sat back down. Slowly, so did everyone else. “Whiskeys, was that right?” she asked the orcs. They all nodded, silently, and she went to work. The orcs didn’t try anything else, and, after about an hour, the Parlor was abuzz again. The orcs, though, were silent, drinking the whiskey in ginger sips like it was acid. Eden frowned. She didn’t feel like the orcs had initially meant any harm, and she didn’t think they intended to behave poorly again, so why should they be miserable? As she was pouring Tefnum’s drink, her thoughts were interrupted.

“You did good, handling the orcs, like you did.” he stated, smiling at her.

“That was mostly you.” she replied. “So thank you for that.”

“Little bit of advice for the future,” he said, “speak to the orcs with your jaw shut, unless you know they are from a large city. Using their jaw and moving their tusks when they speak is a sign of disrespect, so you tend to get farther with them if you do the same unless they tell you that you don’t have to.”

“I’ll remember that, for sure. Ale?”

“I think I’ll take something a mite stronger, now.”

“Are you about to leave?” she asked, remembering his earlier statement.

“Soon.” he replied, not elaborating.

“Well, you’ve got a few drinks to choose from. What’ll you have?”

“Server’s choice. Something that’ll knock me on my rear end.”

“What’s your price limit?” Eden asked. He produced five gold coins and laid them on the table. “I have just the thing. Give me a second.” She left from the table, went to the bar, and pulled a small bottle out from the “expensive” cabinet. It was a six-ounce bottle, the liquid inside a volatile shade of purple. She brought the bottle over to Tefnum.

“So what did you pick”? He asked.

“I don’t know. A mechanist sold this to the owner, and told him it was used to power his inventions, but that it was also suitable for drink, but anyone who did would, in short order, be incapacitated for quite some time.”

“That sounds fantastic.” He said, grinning from ear to ear. She withdrew the bottle.

“Are you okay?” she asked, a little concerned.

“Hm? Oh, yes, I’m alright. I… have a problem, of sorts.”

“Acid reflux?” Eden ventured. “I know a healer that can fix that right up!” Tefnum chuckled at this.

“No, no, nothing like that. I’ve been trying to build up some courage, and, being in a place that serves liquid courage, you’d think that it’d be easy, right?”

“Not necessarily. Alcohol will often amplify what’s already there. You don’t strike me as a coward, though. So, go ahead, what are you afraid of, and what seems to be the problem?”

“I’m wanting to go visit my daughter in Valekenport, to the north.”

“The one where they found cave-like docking bays underwater at the docks? Like deep, deep underwater?”

“That’s the one. It’s been years, and I don’t know how well she’ll take my return. Or my death.”

“Your death?” she asked. “Are you having some sort of existential crisis?”

“No crisis. But, yes, my death. I’m going to die soon. I can feel it marching towards me, and it’s only a matter of time. But that’s not the problem. The problem is that alcohol has very little effect on me, if any. So, liquid courage doesn't do much to encourage me.”

“Come on, now, I’ve heard that plenty of times before. Many a would-be macho-man has found themselves passed out only a couple hours after saying that alcohol ‘just doesn’t affect them’.” She handed him the bottle. “Drink your medicine and we’ll see just how ‘little effect’ it has on you.” He smiled wryly, uncorked the bottle, and tilted the contents down his throat.

“That,” he said, looking Eden in the eye, “was truly awful-tasting. So now we wait.”

“So now we wait.” Eden agreed. “While we wait, though, I’ll attend to some of my other customers.” With that, she turned and headed towards the orcs.

“Honored misters!” Eden called to them, careful not to call them gentlemen and careful to address them with her teeth clenched, “You’ve hardly touched your whiskey! Don’t tell me it actually does taste like horse piss!” The orcs all smiled, turning up the corners of their mouth without revealing their teeth, save for their tusks.

“Not at all.” the lead orc assured her. “It is just…” he searched for a word. “...awkward? We are all aware of our mistake and we are aware that everyone else in this room is aware of our mistake. It’s not comfortable. These borgekyu here,” he said, jerking his thumb at his companions, “are probably fine, but they won’t do anything I don’t set an example for, so while I taste my drink, not… draining… it, they’ll follow suit.”

“May I have your names?”

“I am Gragyak. These lumps are Expendable Orcs numbers One, Two-” he was interrupted by shouts of protest from the other orcs. Laughing, he corrected himself, “I mean Turakku, Marshak, Gontsyk, and Jug-Jug.” They all jerked their heads up in acknowledgment as their names were called. Eden felt with some satisfaction a bit of power spark and consolidate in the center of her being. Since she wasn't a particularly powerful fae, she wouldn't be able to do much with it, but she hoped it would be enough to influence the orcs in their next decision.

“Well, Gragyak, might I borrow…” She expended the small spark of power that she had obtained. all the orcs looked up, excitedly, “Um… Marshak?” There was a small wail of disappointment from Jug-Jug. Gragyak cocked his head.

“What for?”

“I want to make some music and I’ll need some drumwork, but not five sets. Just one.” As soon as she said this, their eyes all lit up. The orcs all conversed with each other in their native tongue briefly and turned back to look at her.

“That is fine.”

“Great! Stay right there, I’ll be right back.” She went back to the bar, grabbed her lute from underneath, and made her way back to the table.

“What sort of beat were you looking for?” Marshak asked, hesitantly. Eden thought for a few seconds.

“Do you know any songs about beauty?” This time it was Marshak’s turn to think for a few seconds. He turned and conversed with Gragyak briefly, then turned back to Eden and asked,

“The beauty of war, the beauty of muscles, the beauty of an honorable death, or the beauty of enmity?” Eden had to consciously refrain from rolling her eyes.

“Do you use common music theory or do you use a native theory?”

“We typically use our theory, but we’ve learned common.” he replied.

“Good, common, then; anything with three-four time.”

“Four beats in a phrase, emphasis at the beginning of every set of three beats?”

“Sounds right, or at least close enough to adapt to. Keep it at about sixty beats per minute, no faster than a clock ticks. Start whenever you’re ready, but muffle the drum, somewhat, as my lute doesn’t produce a huge sound, by any means.” And Marshak did. He didn’t use mallets, but instead used his hands, shaping the beats by the position his hands fell on the drum itself. Eden was aware that she and the orcs had everyone’s attention.

She plucked the strings of her lute on the off-beat, and started to sing. The song she sang was in the tongue of the fae, and so flowed like water in contrast to the halting beat that Marshak gave, which gave a more solid and almost earthy feel to the music. All noise and chatter in the Parlor had ceased, and every eye was transfixed on the duo making the music. She sang of the mist in the morning, fleeting and thin, and the red glow of the sunset, the sun giving its farewell, she sang of the humidity of an incoming storm and the clear skies just after, not that her patrons could tell. Regardless, her words had the effect on the music she desired, and of course it would; this was the first song her mother taught her. It was one she knew with her whole being.

After a few verses, she stopped singing and playing the lute at the same time; the drum continued a few beats afterwards and ceased as well, creating the desired effect. The patrons all cheered. She thanked them and bid them to leave hefty tips.

After that, the awkwardness involving the orcs evaporated, almost like it had never been there to begin with. One of the dwarves had even wound up at the orc’s table and engaged in a lively conversation, the subject of which was lost in the racket of everyone else’s conversation. Eden smiled, admiring her workplace. Where else would she be able to have this much fun?

Suddenly, she remembered that she needed to check up on Tefnum. She glanced at his table, expecting to see him passed out, and instead saw an empty seat. When did he leave? Eden walked over to the table and found a hefty bag of coins sitting atop a scrawled note. Eden didn’t see the five gold coins Tefnum had laid on the table and briefly wondered if he had decided to pay in smaller denominations instead. That thought disappeared, however, when she opened the bag and saw that they were all gold coins. Her eyes widened, and she picked up the note, which read, “Looks like the drink didn’t quite do the trick. Thanks for trying, anyway. Keep the change”. She dropped the bag into her pocket; she would count it later. More concerning to her, was the situation at hand. Was he a spirit of some sort? Was this a test? What had just happened?

She didn’t get very far in her confusion, because at that moment, Sael came through the doorway, accompanied by Dexian and Frintak. Her hair was slightly disheveled, and more than a little frizzy, and she had some books under her arm. The elavis looked around with her big golden eyes until she spotted Eden and marched over. Judging by the dark circles under the golden orbs, it didn’t look like she had gotten much sleep.

“Eden, we need to talk.”