Mason Motherfucking Stonewall.
Title: Untitled
Word Count: 3000
Characters: Mason Stonewall.
Summary: Goddamn heroic travellers.
This was, speaking in general terms, a pub. Or maybe it was a bar. Or even, at a stretch, a tavern. But the thing about taverns was, well, the thing was, that they generally had Olde Worlde Charme. The key word there being Charme. The word tavern cast up images of some small rest-stop on a dark, rarely travelled road in the backwoods. A place with a cheery fire and a barrel-armed, red-faced barkeep, possibly with some unfortunate tavern wenches, and more shadowy corners than was necessarily geometrically correct. There were usually quite a few drunken rabble-rouser patrons already littering the tables, despite the fact that the tavern had already been specified as being on a rarely-travelled road in the backwoods. This was one of the more puzzling aspects of taverns.
So perhaps this place wasn’t a tavern. For one thing, it was in a city, not a dark, rarely-travelled road in the backwoods. Second, this place was severely lacking in Olde Worlde Charme. No, no, let’s go back to pub. Pub was barely a word. It was a noise, with the sort of embarrassing nature that came with burps. Not rude, exactly, just not quite proper. This place, you didn’t need to create extra corners to shadow yourself in. There was an even smearing of gloomy candlelight all through it. This place, there weren’t drunken rabble-rousers. There were Regulars, and the unfortunates who stumbled in here by mistake. This place didn’t have unfortunate tavern wenches. This place did have the barrel-armed, red-faced barkeep, but there was a certain cheeriness to tavern barkeeps that this one lacked. Then there were some barkeeps that kept their face set on ‘scowl’ at all times. This man had the dull, glazed look of a man who led a very regular, repetitive life and liked it that way. He had the physical build of a man who knew how to keep it that way too - and it didn’t matter what type of insanely powerful quasi-demon adventurer-sort you may have been. Because there was one thing that all patrons of dingy city bars knew, and it was this: You Do Not Challenge The Barkeep. This rule may have had something to do with the sizeable club (occasionally spiked) that was kept under every countertop, but more likely it had to do with the fact that these men, they dealt with violent, heavy, dangerous drunk men for a living, and if they didn’t want you in their bar they had ways of keeping you out.
This place, it was a pub. From the rushes on the floor that covered more dirty rushes, and the rustles and startled squeaks infesting them, to the beer that was a sort of alcoholic syrup served in chipped, unwashed mugs. You didn’t complain about service like that in a pub, because you came to a pub for that service. The men in this pub, they weren’t the adventuring sort. They were all workers - labourers, builders, carpenters, coopers, movers, even muscle-for-hire. Men who were built like brick walls and had the same quiet temperament - most of the time.
There was no band in the pub. There was no source of noise, except the even, steady conversation that went on between men who are Drinking Buddies. It went something like this: one man drank and listened, while the other spoke. When the speaker decided he wanted a drink, he would stop talking, and this was a cue for the other man to take up the conversation. It was a tried and true system of non-committal male bonding, that required knowing and learning absolutely nothing about the man sitting next to you, who you had most likely been drinking with for years. Was he married? You didn’t know. What did you do for a living? You didn’t know. Hell, what was his name? You just didn’t know.
This was a pub.
There was a man who didn’t have any Drinking Buddies, but would occasionally grunt in reply to the barkeep’s steady rumblings, which signified that they were Old Friends. This was a far more significant relationship than having a beer-based friendship with a complete stranger. This marked him as not just a Regular, but as a Fixture. He knew the barkeep. They were probably on a first-name basis. This man had been here, in this bar, since it had sprang into existence, squeezed between two squashed shops, along a road whose narrowness was in direct proportion to its constant bustle, already filthy and dimly, grimly lit. This man didn’t just drink at the pub. He was the damn pub.
This man was very unfortunate, as these things went, in his parents. Most specifically, in the name chosen by his parents. He was not unfortunate in the way an underworld-type man, possibly with the name “Big Dave” or “One-Punch Barry”, who featured one eye, a permanent scowl, and a formidable collection of scars, might be pegged down in the street by his mother, by pure chance, to have her spit-polish his embarrassed features and tell him, “Oh Meredith, if your father could see you now…”
Nonetheless, there were better names in the world than Mason “Stony” Stonewall.
It was very well for Mr Stonewall, however, that he kept the company of men whose sense of humour extended to phallic euphemisms and clever rewording of old, respected ballads and hymns to have lewd double-meanings. There were some subtleties in this world that could not be enjoyed by everyone.
“Bloody kids.” The barkeep was saying through an accent that deeply impeded serious conversation. The barkeep was also built with a type of jaw that, while was excellent for setting resolutely and creating the atmosphere for Hard Looks, was not quite so well built for human speech. The rest of what he was saying was mostly incoherent, because besides his accent, he also had the speech patterns of a person who had stumbled across the spoken language by accident and hadn’t quite come to grips with how to properly use it. Words that, by all rights, should not exist were thrown heartily in mid-sentence, and the mind had to grapple with the context for a few moments to figure out the meaning. But that meant taking your concentration off the steady flow of words, leaving you far behind and completely bewildered. The closest translation would have to go something like this:
“Did you see what they did, eh, to the front of my bar? Bloody kids and their bloody graffiti. Can pick up a brush well enough to draw lewd pictures over my damn windows, but a cousin of mine, he lives over in Hops Street and you know what that place is like, my cousin, he asks one to paint the front of his house, you know, Hops Street, and he says he’ll pay the kid, and you know, you’ll never guess, the boy never shows up. Bloody kids, eh?”
Even through a hurried translation, it was one of the most painful constructions of language ever attempted by a living person. The reply succinctly went:
Grunt.
“And do you know what, eh, do you know? Them kids and their street gangs, I’ll tell you what. They had one of their territory scraps, just outside my neighbour’s brother’s sister-in-law’s daughter’s former employer’s house, and his window broke when one of them hurled a bloody big rock! Bloody kids and their bloody gangs, eh?”
It was here, before a disinterested grunt could be given, that a keen listener gave a grave nod and cut in, “Same thing happened to me old mam. Well, not exactly the same - it was just the one gang, playing one of their games, and it was an empty bottle, and it hit her wall. But there was broken glass everywhere, there was. What if she had fallen, eh, and landed on the glass?”
“Bloody kids!” The barkeep answered passionately, nodding with a balancing soberness.
Barkeeps like to gossip. That was the thing. They could pick you up bodily and toss you out the door if they wanted, but nothing made them happier than gossiping like an old fishwife. Plus, the one subject that could always appeal to a man of a certain age was Kids These Days. Combine this with a gossip, and you got a conversation of an unstoppable quality. So it was from this that soon there was a small group of men at the bar, all swapping stories of Bloody Kids and Kids These Days, until finally the barkeep announced quite suddenly, “Someone ought to do something!”
Then he peered squintily at Mason, who peered drearily back and then remembered he still had half a glass of beer left, and focused on that instead. There was a strained silence, and then one of the patrons began uneasily, “Fish prices these days, eh?”
There was a small noise of agreement, and a conversation began its unsteady, loping run through the large men.
This is a perfect opportunity to draw your attention back to Mason Stonewall, who was the epitome of Miserable Alcoholic. He stood out from the other man in the bar, not just because of his reluctance to hold a two-sided conversation, but also because if the other men in the bar could be described loosely as bears, he’d possibly be some sort of starved dog. He was all shaggy, ungroomed hair. He had a sad, droopy sort of face and a way of looking at you miserably, just waiting for the inevitable kicking. He wasn’t skinny, exactly. He was more sort of… knobbly. Not physically. He simply had an air of knobbliness. A quality of it, if you will. He actually had the subtly broad, firm, beaten look of old warriors and war veterans everywhere. Well, perhaps not quite there. Like an unwilling soldier still caught in the war. It was this, perhaps, that pinpointed him as watchman. But once the thought crossed your mind, yes, you could see him sitting there not in an old shirt and trousers, but in the standard rusted chain mail and the uniform cuirass, with that useless, tinny helmet - ha! As if it could really be called that - and the regulation pike, oh yes, it was all right there. Not just in the mind’s eye. It was there in the slump of his shoulders, not casual but weary. It was in the face, which may currently have looked tired and droopy, but could also have that blank, officer-on-duty look of guardsmen everywhere who stood around, in the same place, for hours. Guardsmen who seemed oblivious to the world around them until the moment your hand was reaching for that piece of bread you didn’t intend on paying for, and then they were right there, gleaming intent in their eyes, and oh-ho boy, you’re sprung. It was a face that could let you believe, if you really desperately wanted to, that the mind hiding away behind it was a simple, stupid, squishy grey thing. A mind that would tell its body, Go on, run right into the fray. Take down that madman swinging his sword. Never mind that he’s a psychopath who kills big things with lots of teeth for a living, and all you do is nab thieving little twerps and poke your nose into merchant’s carts. It’ll be fine…
People could believe anything, if they really try hard enough. Just look at Peter Pan. He thought he could fly.
The door was swept open suddenly in a wind that didn’t exist, and a travel-beaten figure in a black hooded cloak stood in the doorway. Despite the force of the pseudo-wind that had blown open the heavy wooden doors (and you didn’t know heavy until you tried to lift an iron-bound slab of hardened wood as thick as the arm of the type of men who frequented the pub), the stranger managed to shut it with frustrating ease. The hooded stranger strode confidently across the room, fully aware of the drunken gazes of the Regulars, and stopped at the counter, breaking the conversation over growing fish prices.
“Do you serve hot meals?” The stranger asked, casually throwing back his hood. Despite the fact that it had been a relatively clear night, perhaps a little drizzle, the stranger was soaked through. When he threw back his hood he ended up flicking water over the other patrons.
At his question, however, the barkeep peered around his pub, as if hoping to catch whatever piece of incriminating evidence could possibly lead this strange man to think he served hot meals. Nope; just dirt, grime and dust. There were some beer barrels that hadn’t been touched since they arrived, for aesthetic value, and a shelf of dusty, untouched wooden mugs. It was rare that the pub was visited by anyone except the Regulars, so he had never had a need to use these mugs.
The barkeep turned his gaze away from his pub to where the stranger was waiting impatiently. With his hood down it could be seen now, and everyone was edging away subtly, shifting the tables just a little until there was a quite clear, obvious space from the counter to the doorway, perfect for, say, someone being thrown across the room. Because this man, oh yes, this stranger, he was an adventurer.
Mason sighed to himself. Economically speaking, adventurers were the backbone of society. They bought supplies in bulk, brought in exotic treasures from their travels, and if you did something particularly impressive, there might be a ballad, and that was always good for the tourists, but… but it was also the adventurers who were the cause of most bar brawls, property damage and the reason nobody wanted to join the Imperial Guard. Because when they started causing trouble - which they always, invariably did - it was your job as a watchman to stop him, and sooner or later in the retelling you become another thwarted villain. Very few people wanted to be villains.
But this man was definitely an adventurer. There were signs. He was young and handsome, but there was a darkness in his eyes that spoke of a tragic past event. You didn’t become an adventurer unless you had a certain upbringing and found comfort in self-induced social incompetence. After all, when you spent a lifetime gallivanting across the untamed wilderness, dealing with people who had brains, personalities, and a life in general of their own was a skill that was easily overlooked. This stranger, this man, this adventurer, he was also wearing his weapons. Openly. A very large axe, some boot knives that he probably thought were cleverly hidden, and there was, of course, the Sword. You weren’t an adventurer unless you had a sword.
But it was the boot knives that always got to Mason, though. In a city, see, there were Laws. Carrying around pointy, dangerous things were, while not ever specifically outlawed, generally frowned up. Because that was a desperate request for trouble. So you learnt how to hide these things. Cutpurses could hide a fortune in knives around their body that only the oldest, most experienced watchman could find. And the only reason they could find it is because they had used most of the hiding spots themselves. This was because besides the pike, you weren’t allowed anything except the truncheon, and let’s face it, a bloody big stick with a spike at the end wasn’t going to do you much good when you’ve got a nutter right in your face, and the truncheon is all well and good, and you could break a bone with it alright, but these were men who had a carefully cultivated survival sense, and if you didn’t want to be another dead watchman in a hero’s ballad, you wanted to have all the aces up your sleeve. Possibly a knife as well - and something that stings when it hits the eyes.
Mason sighed heavily, leaned over on his stool, and poked the adventurer smartly in the ribs. Had he been in uniform and tried that, the damn boy would probably have assaulted him with self-righteous-bloody-indignation. But because he was in civilians, with his breath smelling of alcohol and his red-rimmed eyes weary and out-of-focus, he just got a self-righteous, impatient look instead. There was also a muscle in the man’s jaw that twitched slightly, and a narrowing of the eyes that spoke in volumes - you are so far below me, I can barely see you.
“Turn left on your way out and keep heading down the street until you come to Fishmonger Road - you’ll know it by the smell - and turn right. There’ll be a bloody big street after a block or two - Market Street, you can’t miss it. Turn left and right on the corner there’ll be a building called the Duke’s Head. Very impressive sign. Historically accurate too, apparently. They serve a mean shepherds pie, I understand.” He told him. Then he turned back to his beer. The adventurer looked slightly confused.
“Herring’s doubled.” A voice suddenly prompted. This completely bewildered the adventurer, who turned to stare at the source of the voice. But the drinker was looking at the barkeep, who was nodding. The adventurer came to realise he had just been dismissed, and smartly turned on his heel - to find a path cleared out quite purposefully for him already. He seemed quiet flustered over the whole scene, and quickly hurried out of the pub, the door slamming behind him.
“Ought to get a sign, I reckon.” The barkeep sniffed, looking blankly at the door. “Damn bloody nuisance, those adventurers. Did I tell you, eh, did I, of last month when one of them tore up my pub?” There was no point, really, since most of the men, being Regulars, had been there at the time, but they all gave a sympathetic silence that invited the barkeep to continue.
Mason Stonewall offered the occasional tid-bit about the street fights they started, usually when they met up with some long-lost arch rival-slash-nemesis, possibly who killed their family, and they all gave rumbles of disapproval.
“Someone ought to do something about them.” The barkeep announced, peering squintily at Mason. Mason just grunted, regarded his drink, and took a slow gulp of the thick liquid.
“Already have.” He finally mumbled.
The conversation moved on to Back When I Was A Boy, and somewhere in the city there was a grand, epic story determining the fate of the world playing out, possibly through mass destruction of public property, the wanton assault of watchmen and with Swords. But in the pub, quiet, patient, heavy-set men shared stories of gutter-sports played in their childhood and lived regular, repetitive lives that they enjoyed immensely.
Mason Stonewall, watchman of the Imperial Guard, sipped a syrupy alcoholic beverage and listened with one ear, in the direction of the Duke’s Head, for the story he had, thankfully, missed out on being a villain in.
Word Count: 3000
Characters: Mason Stonewall.
Summary: Goddamn heroic travellers.
This was, speaking in general terms, a pub. Or maybe it was a bar. Or even, at a stretch, a tavern. But the thing about taverns was, well, the thing was, that they generally had Olde Worlde Charme. The key word there being Charme. The word tavern cast up images of some small rest-stop on a dark, rarely travelled road in the backwoods. A place with a cheery fire and a barrel-armed, red-faced barkeep, possibly with some unfortunate tavern wenches, and more shadowy corners than was necessarily geometrically correct. There were usually quite a few drunken rabble-rouser patrons already littering the tables, despite the fact that the tavern had already been specified as being on a rarely-travelled road in the backwoods. This was one of the more puzzling aspects of taverns.
So perhaps this place wasn’t a tavern. For one thing, it was in a city, not a dark, rarely-travelled road in the backwoods. Second, this place was severely lacking in Olde Worlde Charme. No, no, let’s go back to pub. Pub was barely a word. It was a noise, with the sort of embarrassing nature that came with burps. Not rude, exactly, just not quite proper. This place, you didn’t need to create extra corners to shadow yourself in. There was an even smearing of gloomy candlelight all through it. This place, there weren’t drunken rabble-rousers. There were Regulars, and the unfortunates who stumbled in here by mistake. This place didn’t have unfortunate tavern wenches. This place did have the barrel-armed, red-faced barkeep, but there was a certain cheeriness to tavern barkeeps that this one lacked. Then there were some barkeeps that kept their face set on ‘scowl’ at all times. This man had the dull, glazed look of a man who led a very regular, repetitive life and liked it that way. He had the physical build of a man who knew how to keep it that way too - and it didn’t matter what type of insanely powerful quasi-demon adventurer-sort you may have been. Because there was one thing that all patrons of dingy city bars knew, and it was this: You Do Not Challenge The Barkeep. This rule may have had something to do with the sizeable club (occasionally spiked) that was kept under every countertop, but more likely it had to do with the fact that these men, they dealt with violent, heavy, dangerous drunk men for a living, and if they didn’t want you in their bar they had ways of keeping you out.
This place, it was a pub. From the rushes on the floor that covered more dirty rushes, and the rustles and startled squeaks infesting them, to the beer that was a sort of alcoholic syrup served in chipped, unwashed mugs. You didn’t complain about service like that in a pub, because you came to a pub for that service. The men in this pub, they weren’t the adventuring sort. They were all workers - labourers, builders, carpenters, coopers, movers, even muscle-for-hire. Men who were built like brick walls and had the same quiet temperament - most of the time.
There was no band in the pub. There was no source of noise, except the even, steady conversation that went on between men who are Drinking Buddies. It went something like this: one man drank and listened, while the other spoke. When the speaker decided he wanted a drink, he would stop talking, and this was a cue for the other man to take up the conversation. It was a tried and true system of non-committal male bonding, that required knowing and learning absolutely nothing about the man sitting next to you, who you had most likely been drinking with for years. Was he married? You didn’t know. What did you do for a living? You didn’t know. Hell, what was his name? You just didn’t know.
This was a pub.
There was a man who didn’t have any Drinking Buddies, but would occasionally grunt in reply to the barkeep’s steady rumblings, which signified that they were Old Friends. This was a far more significant relationship than having a beer-based friendship with a complete stranger. This marked him as not just a Regular, but as a Fixture. He knew the barkeep. They were probably on a first-name basis. This man had been here, in this bar, since it had sprang into existence, squeezed between two squashed shops, along a road whose narrowness was in direct proportion to its constant bustle, already filthy and dimly, grimly lit. This man didn’t just drink at the pub. He was the damn pub.
This man was very unfortunate, as these things went, in his parents. Most specifically, in the name chosen by his parents. He was not unfortunate in the way an underworld-type man, possibly with the name “Big Dave” or “One-Punch Barry”, who featured one eye, a permanent scowl, and a formidable collection of scars, might be pegged down in the street by his mother, by pure chance, to have her spit-polish his embarrassed features and tell him, “Oh Meredith, if your father could see you now…”
Nonetheless, there were better names in the world than Mason “Stony” Stonewall.
It was very well for Mr Stonewall, however, that he kept the company of men whose sense of humour extended to phallic euphemisms and clever rewording of old, respected ballads and hymns to have lewd double-meanings. There were some subtleties in this world that could not be enjoyed by everyone.
“Bloody kids.” The barkeep was saying through an accent that deeply impeded serious conversation. The barkeep was also built with a type of jaw that, while was excellent for setting resolutely and creating the atmosphere for Hard Looks, was not quite so well built for human speech. The rest of what he was saying was mostly incoherent, because besides his accent, he also had the speech patterns of a person who had stumbled across the spoken language by accident and hadn’t quite come to grips with how to properly use it. Words that, by all rights, should not exist were thrown heartily in mid-sentence, and the mind had to grapple with the context for a few moments to figure out the meaning. But that meant taking your concentration off the steady flow of words, leaving you far behind and completely bewildered. The closest translation would have to go something like this:
“Did you see what they did, eh, to the front of my bar? Bloody kids and their bloody graffiti. Can pick up a brush well enough to draw lewd pictures over my damn windows, but a cousin of mine, he lives over in Hops Street and you know what that place is like, my cousin, he asks one to paint the front of his house, you know, Hops Street, and he says he’ll pay the kid, and you know, you’ll never guess, the boy never shows up. Bloody kids, eh?”
Even through a hurried translation, it was one of the most painful constructions of language ever attempted by a living person. The reply succinctly went:
Grunt.
“And do you know what, eh, do you know? Them kids and their street gangs, I’ll tell you what. They had one of their territory scraps, just outside my neighbour’s brother’s sister-in-law’s daughter’s former employer’s house, and his window broke when one of them hurled a bloody big rock! Bloody kids and their bloody gangs, eh?”
It was here, before a disinterested grunt could be given, that a keen listener gave a grave nod and cut in, “Same thing happened to me old mam. Well, not exactly the same - it was just the one gang, playing one of their games, and it was an empty bottle, and it hit her wall. But there was broken glass everywhere, there was. What if she had fallen, eh, and landed on the glass?”
“Bloody kids!” The barkeep answered passionately, nodding with a balancing soberness.
Barkeeps like to gossip. That was the thing. They could pick you up bodily and toss you out the door if they wanted, but nothing made them happier than gossiping like an old fishwife. Plus, the one subject that could always appeal to a man of a certain age was Kids These Days. Combine this with a gossip, and you got a conversation of an unstoppable quality. So it was from this that soon there was a small group of men at the bar, all swapping stories of Bloody Kids and Kids These Days, until finally the barkeep announced quite suddenly, “Someone ought to do something!”
Then he peered squintily at Mason, who peered drearily back and then remembered he still had half a glass of beer left, and focused on that instead. There was a strained silence, and then one of the patrons began uneasily, “Fish prices these days, eh?”
There was a small noise of agreement, and a conversation began its unsteady, loping run through the large men.
This is a perfect opportunity to draw your attention back to Mason Stonewall, who was the epitome of Miserable Alcoholic. He stood out from the other man in the bar, not just because of his reluctance to hold a two-sided conversation, but also because if the other men in the bar could be described loosely as bears, he’d possibly be some sort of starved dog. He was all shaggy, ungroomed hair. He had a sad, droopy sort of face and a way of looking at you miserably, just waiting for the inevitable kicking. He wasn’t skinny, exactly. He was more sort of… knobbly. Not physically. He simply had an air of knobbliness. A quality of it, if you will. He actually had the subtly broad, firm, beaten look of old warriors and war veterans everywhere. Well, perhaps not quite there. Like an unwilling soldier still caught in the war. It was this, perhaps, that pinpointed him as watchman. But once the thought crossed your mind, yes, you could see him sitting there not in an old shirt and trousers, but in the standard rusted chain mail and the uniform cuirass, with that useless, tinny helmet - ha! As if it could really be called that - and the regulation pike, oh yes, it was all right there. Not just in the mind’s eye. It was there in the slump of his shoulders, not casual but weary. It was in the face, which may currently have looked tired and droopy, but could also have that blank, officer-on-duty look of guardsmen everywhere who stood around, in the same place, for hours. Guardsmen who seemed oblivious to the world around them until the moment your hand was reaching for that piece of bread you didn’t intend on paying for, and then they were right there, gleaming intent in their eyes, and oh-ho boy, you’re sprung. It was a face that could let you believe, if you really desperately wanted to, that the mind hiding away behind it was a simple, stupid, squishy grey thing. A mind that would tell its body, Go on, run right into the fray. Take down that madman swinging his sword. Never mind that he’s a psychopath who kills big things with lots of teeth for a living, and all you do is nab thieving little twerps and poke your nose into merchant’s carts. It’ll be fine…
People could believe anything, if they really try hard enough. Just look at Peter Pan. He thought he could fly.
The door was swept open suddenly in a wind that didn’t exist, and a travel-beaten figure in a black hooded cloak stood in the doorway. Despite the force of the pseudo-wind that had blown open the heavy wooden doors (and you didn’t know heavy until you tried to lift an iron-bound slab of hardened wood as thick as the arm of the type of men who frequented the pub), the stranger managed to shut it with frustrating ease. The hooded stranger strode confidently across the room, fully aware of the drunken gazes of the Regulars, and stopped at the counter, breaking the conversation over growing fish prices.
“Do you serve hot meals?” The stranger asked, casually throwing back his hood. Despite the fact that it had been a relatively clear night, perhaps a little drizzle, the stranger was soaked through. When he threw back his hood he ended up flicking water over the other patrons.
At his question, however, the barkeep peered around his pub, as if hoping to catch whatever piece of incriminating evidence could possibly lead this strange man to think he served hot meals. Nope; just dirt, grime and dust. There were some beer barrels that hadn’t been touched since they arrived, for aesthetic value, and a shelf of dusty, untouched wooden mugs. It was rare that the pub was visited by anyone except the Regulars, so he had never had a need to use these mugs.
The barkeep turned his gaze away from his pub to where the stranger was waiting impatiently. With his hood down it could be seen now, and everyone was edging away subtly, shifting the tables just a little until there was a quite clear, obvious space from the counter to the doorway, perfect for, say, someone being thrown across the room. Because this man, oh yes, this stranger, he was an adventurer.
Mason sighed to himself. Economically speaking, adventurers were the backbone of society. They bought supplies in bulk, brought in exotic treasures from their travels, and if you did something particularly impressive, there might be a ballad, and that was always good for the tourists, but… but it was also the adventurers who were the cause of most bar brawls, property damage and the reason nobody wanted to join the Imperial Guard. Because when they started causing trouble - which they always, invariably did - it was your job as a watchman to stop him, and sooner or later in the retelling you become another thwarted villain. Very few people wanted to be villains.
But this man was definitely an adventurer. There were signs. He was young and handsome, but there was a darkness in his eyes that spoke of a tragic past event. You didn’t become an adventurer unless you had a certain upbringing and found comfort in self-induced social incompetence. After all, when you spent a lifetime gallivanting across the untamed wilderness, dealing with people who had brains, personalities, and a life in general of their own was a skill that was easily overlooked. This stranger, this man, this adventurer, he was also wearing his weapons. Openly. A very large axe, some boot knives that he probably thought were cleverly hidden, and there was, of course, the Sword. You weren’t an adventurer unless you had a sword.
But it was the boot knives that always got to Mason, though. In a city, see, there were Laws. Carrying around pointy, dangerous things were, while not ever specifically outlawed, generally frowned up. Because that was a desperate request for trouble. So you learnt how to hide these things. Cutpurses could hide a fortune in knives around their body that only the oldest, most experienced watchman could find. And the only reason they could find it is because they had used most of the hiding spots themselves. This was because besides the pike, you weren’t allowed anything except the truncheon, and let’s face it, a bloody big stick with a spike at the end wasn’t going to do you much good when you’ve got a nutter right in your face, and the truncheon is all well and good, and you could break a bone with it alright, but these were men who had a carefully cultivated survival sense, and if you didn’t want to be another dead watchman in a hero’s ballad, you wanted to have all the aces up your sleeve. Possibly a knife as well - and something that stings when it hits the eyes.
Mason sighed heavily, leaned over on his stool, and poked the adventurer smartly in the ribs. Had he been in uniform and tried that, the damn boy would probably have assaulted him with self-righteous-bloody-indignation. But because he was in civilians, with his breath smelling of alcohol and his red-rimmed eyes weary and out-of-focus, he just got a self-righteous, impatient look instead. There was also a muscle in the man’s jaw that twitched slightly, and a narrowing of the eyes that spoke in volumes - you are so far below me, I can barely see you.
“Turn left on your way out and keep heading down the street until you come to Fishmonger Road - you’ll know it by the smell - and turn right. There’ll be a bloody big street after a block or two - Market Street, you can’t miss it. Turn left and right on the corner there’ll be a building called the Duke’s Head. Very impressive sign. Historically accurate too, apparently. They serve a mean shepherds pie, I understand.” He told him. Then he turned back to his beer. The adventurer looked slightly confused.
“Herring’s doubled.” A voice suddenly prompted. This completely bewildered the adventurer, who turned to stare at the source of the voice. But the drinker was looking at the barkeep, who was nodding. The adventurer came to realise he had just been dismissed, and smartly turned on his heel - to find a path cleared out quite purposefully for him already. He seemed quiet flustered over the whole scene, and quickly hurried out of the pub, the door slamming behind him.
“Ought to get a sign, I reckon.” The barkeep sniffed, looking blankly at the door. “Damn bloody nuisance, those adventurers. Did I tell you, eh, did I, of last month when one of them tore up my pub?” There was no point, really, since most of the men, being Regulars, had been there at the time, but they all gave a sympathetic silence that invited the barkeep to continue.
Mason Stonewall offered the occasional tid-bit about the street fights they started, usually when they met up with some long-lost arch rival-slash-nemesis, possibly who killed their family, and they all gave rumbles of disapproval.
“Someone ought to do something about them.” The barkeep announced, peering squintily at Mason. Mason just grunted, regarded his drink, and took a slow gulp of the thick liquid.
“Already have.” He finally mumbled.
The conversation moved on to Back When I Was A Boy, and somewhere in the city there was a grand, epic story determining the fate of the world playing out, possibly through mass destruction of public property, the wanton assault of watchmen and with Swords. But in the pub, quiet, patient, heavy-set men shared stories of gutter-sports played in their childhood and lived regular, repetitive lives that they enjoyed immensely.
Mason Stonewall, watchman of the Imperial Guard, sipped a syrupy alcoholic beverage and listened with one ear, in the direction of the Duke’s Head, for the story he had, thankfully, missed out on being a villain in.