The wall is a comfortable relief from the scarred scrub and hilly plains of the Contested Lands. I can still taste the dirt in the back of my throat but relief is coming. I can see the bouncy serving girl with the orange hair coming with my beer. It had been too long since I’ve tasted the hoppy brew from Benak’s tap. I find it sad that I can relish the slightly sour tang that his beer provides the taste buds. However, my tour through the Contested Lands has brought a new vision, an expanded horizon if you will towards Benak’s brew.
Benak’s is little more than a taproom with a central fire pit; however there are no tables at Benak’s. He gave up on them long ago. There were too many fights by too many patrons with too few coins in their pouches to cover the costs. There are pillows now. Everyone eats and drinks seated on the pillows. I could easily just slide down the wall and fall asleep, but I’ve finally found who I’m looking for – the story teller and his accomplice.
From what I’ve been told, the old man is on Benak’s payroll. He’s a shill. The story teller and the bard keep the clientele coming back to Benak’s Blue Monkey, not the defining taste of the sour beer or the over spiced (and over priced) hummus and flatbread. It is the two that I’ve come to watch and from the excitement I can see and nearly feel in the crowd, the time is close for the story teller to perform.
The human girl wears silver on her freckled ankles. Her bare feet show nearly no wear or callous. The pigment on her toes is blue with flecks of gold. Flowing pantaloons of what seem to be the lightest of linen drape her body. She is both alluring and dangerous. Benak chose his serving maidens well. He always has.
A warm smile greets me as she hands me and oversized wooden cup full of the sour beer that my throat and tongue have been craving since I sat down against the wall closest to the fire pit. The girl has freckles on her nose and face. Her soft brown eyes are inviting me to flirt with her. She is a talented serving girl. If I were another man, I would drink to my fill and follow her straight into Hell if need be. I smile back at her and place a well worn opal into her hand.
“Right, sir,” she smiles down at me, “I’ll let Benak know that you have started a tab.” She bounds away and I cannot help but watch her maneuver through the crowd. She is a soft blue angel with brown eyes and I absently wonder where the freckles meet on her body.
My oversized cup is chilled. I don’t really want to know how Benak does it; I know that there is magic involved in the process rather than some fantastic feat of engineering. I can hear the soft tones coming from the guitar near the fire pit. It is a soft and complicated melody that hits at a foreboding nature. It is a grim and serious tone coming from the expert hands flying across six strings, which is an incredible feat on its own because the story teller’s partner is a lithe little Halfer by the name of Milo.
If the look on the Halfling’s face wasn’t so serious, it would almost be comical. The guitar that bard is willing into submission is nearly twice as tall as he is and yet, the Halfling has a command of the strings and frets. The soulful tones echo throughout the room catching everyone’s attention. I lean against the wall and let the Halfer’s music take me to where he needs me to be in order to hear the story teller.
It’s a bold tune that Milo is playing. It smooth in places, taking me to a memory of a warm day in spring when the stream has that sheen of sunshine that you want to jump into in order to cool off. Under Milo’s hands, the strings then bring an image of a chill winter’s night where all you want to do is lay in the lap of your loved one and let them stroke your hair. He is masterful.
I can feel the dirt and waste from the Contested Lands wearing off of me as Milo plucks and strums. The sour beer runs down my throat and wears away another few layers of exhaustion. The smell of the people are different out in the Contested Lands. It might be from the spice that they use in their cooking, it might be from the yaks that sleep in the same round yurts that the families sleep in, it might also just be the fact that the Clans of Barbarians seem to be proud of their own musk. It doesn’t matter though. Right now I’m in the Blue Monkey sipping on sour beer listening to a master bard and waiting for a story to begin.
Life is good and Darmon be praised that little roadhouses like this exist for travelers such as myself. After all, it is as the Wayfarers of Darmon say, “Smile. Tomorrow is another day.”
Tonight, in the Blue Monkey, they are absolutely correct. Sweet music and sour beer are mixing into an intoxicating elixir that is rushing through the crowd like lightning in the sky. There is a tension in the air that is intensifying as the halfling preens the strings and creates images and feelings without words.
A murmur is passing through the crowd. I sit up and peel my eyes open and leave the images and fantasies from Milo’s playing behind. It is now that the real show beginning. Legend has it that on the varied roads, both Milo and his partner Symond were making meager money separately. It was Benak who brought them both together.
Go to Part 2
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