As I exited the house, I made my way towards the tavern, wanting to question someone who I knew could be a reliable—if somewhat difficult to convince—person to ask questions. Entering the small, dank tavern in Losthome, I felt a wave of nostalgia for my younger years of life. Trying to brush past it, I made my way to the counter and faced the man whom I wanted to answer my questions: Alketas Morter.
“Al,” I called as I sat at the bar, not seeing him behind it. Quickly, I heard a somewhat confused grunt come from a door behind the counter and watched as it was hastily shoved open. Staring at me angrily, Alketas moved so that he was stood directly across from me and gave me a look-over.
“So, you are back in town,” he said, grunting irritably. He was a tall man with a wider form than myself yet not far off in age, perhaps older by a few years at best. I had always wondered why he had never taken a wife, what with his piercing green eyes, quite fine brown hair, and well-groomed beard. “You’re certainly the only one brazen enough to call me that, after all. Hmph, all that time of travel and you still haven’t really filled out much, have you? Oh, and is it also true you made an ass of yourself at the procession after all that time gone?”
However, once I had gotten to know Al’s personality, the reason why had quickly become apparent.
“A simple hello would have been nice,” I replied sarcastically, to which he simply grunted. Pulling out an iron coin and gesturing for a drink, I returned back to my point of being there. “I need your help.”
Pouring me a drink after having checked my coin with a magnetic rock and his teeth, Al began pouring me a drink.
“What are you expecting the poor, humble bartender to do?”
“I’m trying to find out how my mother died.”
Al laughed a singular, loud laugh before catching himself upon seeing my gaze turn hostile.
“Look,” he said, his expression growing somewhat softer, “She died of the old plague. Fits just about everything.”
“The old plague?” I asked, sharply leaning inwards, “You can’t be serious—and what ‘everything’ are you talking about?”
Leaning backwards with his hands on the back counter, Alketas shook his head, “Laere, just about everyone was talking about one or another of her symptoms. I just happen to have heard all of them, and all of them match the old plague.”
“If that’s true, how did she get it?” I shook my head in denial, finally downing my drink, “And why didn’t anyone else get sick?”
“I,” Al paused, looked around, and leaned closely to me in a hushed tone, “By the time the Overseer started showing any symptoms, just about everyone avoided her like…well, the plague.”
“That can’t be it. If it is the old plague then we have an entirely different problem on our hand—”
“Not anymore we don’t,” Al interrupted.
“What?”
“There’s a reason why we had the funeral when we did. When Jelma passed, the priest said something about keeping the body for you to see it. Something about her last wishes, but the village families refused.”
“What!” I exclaimed as I stood from my chair.
“Listen,” he replied, gripping my shoulder and pushing me back into my chair, “For just a minute, listen. If it was the old plague, burning it was the only way to make certain nothing could spread.”
“And if it wasn’t, now I can’t find out what actually killed her.”
“What do you mean?” Al looked at me, confused.
“I mean what I said,” I said, slumping down in my chair as Al withdrew his hand, “Now there’s no way for me to check her body and confirm it was the plague.”
With his eyes gazing into mine, Al quickly replied with a question, “Have you not asked the priest?”
“My father?” I asked, confused of the question, “Of course, I’ve asked him.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What did he say, you dolt!”
“He said he didn’t think it was the plague!” I erupted, flinging my hands into the air, “It didn’t make sense for her condition and it didn’t make sense why no one else got sick.”
“Did he tell you he examined her body after her death?” Al asked, his expression cloaked in an awful seriousness.
“N- no. He didn’t. But why would that matter?”
“Because after he examined her, he talked to the heads of the houses. Told them something, something which had some of the heads of house shook.”
“What did he say?”
“Don’t know.”
“But aren’t you the head of your house?”
Al chuckled, “A house of one? You’re joking.”
“Have you at least heard something?” I leaned into the bar, nearly falling out of my seat until Al pushed me back into it, “Anything.”
“No, nothing. That’s what’s had me concerned. And he said nothing to you?”
“Nothing except that he didn’t think it was the plague and that he couldn’t tell what it was,” I slumped back in my chair, groaning, “So I am back to square one. Damn.”
As I sat there smoldering, my mind started to race trying to connect as many dots together before I felt myself begin to slowly smirk. Then, I began to chuckle. Finally, I began to fully laugh until Al stopped me.
[Compel
Challenge Dice: 2, 4; Action Die: 3 +2 heart, +1 asset
Strong Hit: Success, +2 Momentum]
“What is wrong with you?” he asked with quite genuine concern.
“It’s just that,” I began to smile uncontrollably, pleasant memories becoming fresh in my mind, “This reminds me of a tale I read—on one of the parchments I’ve found, that is. It’s an old tale and I don’t really have the main body of it, but I do have one part where the gods of the world—”
“Our gods?” Al interrupted.
“No, and shh—I’m not finished. The gods of the world cursed this man who had wronged them or so to, for eternity, push a boulder up a steep hill and, once he reached or nearly reached the top, his grip would slip or he’d grow tired and the boulder would roll all the way back down the hill. So then, he would go down the hill and try all over again.”
“Why wouldn’t he simply stop pushing?”
“Because,” I said, my eyes glimmering with humor, “He couldn’t. And I don’t think I can either, not yet.”
“Hmm,” Al hummed, looking at me like I was mad, and began to walk towards the door behind the bar, calling back, “Then do tell me what happens when you finally push the boulder all the way. I’m certain it’ll be a fine tale.”
“Wait!” I said, grabbing his wrist before he could leave entirely.
“What?” he replied angrily as he gave me a half-stare.
“Help me,” I spoke in a plain way such that it nearly sounded like a normal utterance to ask of someone I barely knew. Yet, perhaps in my sincerity, Al was captured, “What the man in the story didn’t have was help. Please, help me discover what happened to my mother.”
“Laere,” Al whispered sadly, “You know she’s not your—”
“She was. And I have to know how she died. If it was the plague, then we can consider it a miracle she didn’t infect anyone else.”
“And if it wasn’t?”
I paused, briefly considering my reply before it dawned on me, “Then at least that will be a different boulder then I’m currently pushing.”
I moved to grip his hand with both of mine, staring him in the eyes pleadingly as I did.
“Please.”
Quickly, Al looked away and towards the distant wall of the bar, whispering a singular, “Fine,” to which I released his hand from my grip. Shaking off the pain in the hand I had had in a tight grip, he muttered begrudgingly, “At least your grip clearly improved in your travels,” as he exited.
* * *
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