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[Dryzzid]

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(Cross-posted from Dealthagar's first writing exercise.)



The man was smiling. He had been serving spirits at the small tent that served as the tavern in Umbra for as long as he could remember, and there were few faces that he could recognize so well as the one staring at him from across the bar. He had wondered, on a few occasions, if he would ever set sight on this particular face again. In Umbra, terror kept the slaves in line; it was rare for a member of the Order of the Ebon Skull to have garnered respect. The man to whom this face belonged had accomplished that long ago, however.

The bartender took a moment to scrutinize the man. He wore long flowing mages robes in a shade of black that was worn by the first members of the Order, when they originally came to Malas. A few lines had snuck their way onto the man’s chiseled face, which was shrouded by long, straight, stark white hair.

The bartender had to maintain his composure as he spoke, fighting back a strange and unusual feeling of excitement. Remembering his place, he finally offered the man a drink.

"Yer usual, my Lor..."

The imposing figure who sat across the bar held up a gloved hand, palm facing toward the bartender, as if to stop him in the middle of his sentence.

"The usual will suffice, though I am far from your lord now."

The man rested his elbows on the bar and brought his fisted right hand into an open-palmed left, then curled his fingers of his left hand around the fist of his right. He then propped his chin on them. The bartender seemed taken aback. Although he knew this man well, the humanity in his voice was uncharacteristic. He recalled a sterner, emptier voice. Feeling courageous, the bartender hoped that his candor would still go unpunished with this individual.

"I'll call you lord as I’m instructed to do so with all of the Order. And I’d think that after all this time you'd find somethin’ better than this troll piss." It felt good to act like his normal self for once. He watched the man intently for a several moments, finally breathing a sigh a relief when a faint smile pursed the man's lips. The man sat up straight and sat his palms against the edge of the bar, stretching his fingers upwards.

"In all this time I have not found a better tasting troll piss. It must be the local trolls. Much more vibrant than the Vesper breed." The two shared a brief laugh and for a moment the bartender felt as if he were not a slave in the city of Umbra, but a free man running his own tavern in the city of Britain. He cringed with complete disgust as he uncorked a dusty bottle that he had kept in the back of his stock for just this occasion. He filled a clean glass with the opaque black liquid contained within the bottle. He wondered if the liquor was still any good. After a few seconds the swill began to bubble, fizz, and change color without provocation. A transparent, light red, effervescent drink was what remained afterwards. To the layman the drink would appear as if it was champagne, but the bartender knew better. He knew that it could put a horse to sleep.

Without delay, the man brought the glass to his nose and sniffed it slowly, breathing in deep a smell that always made the bartender nauseous. As if it were water in a desert, the man drank the glass empty in seconds. He barely flinched. ”Some things never change,” the bartender thought to himself.

”Another, my Lord?” The man held up his gloved hand again and shook his head no.

“Not today. My time in Umbra is limited. I am here to make a request of you, should you be willing.”

The bartender was once again taken aback. “Request? Yer sayin’ that I could tell you no if I wanted?"

Once again, a faint smile crept its way across the man’s lips.

“If you are so inclined to. However, I would not make a request without providing ample payment for your services. An option and a reward, something you are quite unused to, but I assure you that it is in your best interest to accept.”

The bartender was now far beyond taken aback, and left speechless, utterly succumbing to shock. “Of course then, my Lord. If it’s in my ability, I’ll do whatever it is yer askin’.”

The man smiled one last time, this time revealing his teeth, as if by accepting his offer, the bartender provided him with mirth that he had never known.

“Outstanding. Your task is simple. Ensure that this missive…” The man slid a piece of fine parchment paper, folded and sealed, across the bar. “…finds its way into the hands of my former apprentice. Do you recall him?”

The bartender nodded his head slowly. In the past, a boy would often accompany the man to the bartender’s tavern. The bartender believed that he could recognize the boy now.

“Once again, outstanding,” the man started. “Deliver my message, and once you have, merely read this aloud for your reward."

The man stood up abruptly and reached within his robes. He sat a few coins on the bar to settle his bar tab, plus a generous tip. Along with the gold, he sat a scroll on the bar as well. He started to walk away, reaching his right arm out to seemingly grasp at the air. However, when he did, an ebony staff materialized in his hand from nothing. The man paused and turned his head to the side.

“It was good seeing you, old friend."

Without further delay, the man walked off and faded into the seamy backdrop of Umbra. The bartender stood still, unable to move, eyes wide, unable to speak. He was simply amazed. He set out immediately to the north, to Charnel Hill, to complete his task, not even realizing that the bottle from which he poured the liquor he detested so much was gone.


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It did not take too long for the bartender to track down the apprentice he sought. Though various members of the Order questioned why he was not where he was supposed to be, he bluffed his way through them. He found the apprentice in quite a state of inanity and left the message on the ground at his feet before backing away slowly. Once he was done he returned to his small tent-tavern.

There were no customers as usual. Undead have no need for wines and spirits. The bartender dug in his pocket for the scroll that was given to him. Examining it, he felt confused. He did not understand. There were only ten words written on it, none of which he understood.

“How could this be a reward?” he thought. Shrugging his shoulders, he decided to test this perceived deceit. The man was a member of the Order of the Ebon Skull, after all. Deceit was high in their priorities.

“Kal Ort Sanct An Geas Kal Ort Por In Ex!”

When the bartender uttered the final word the world around him began to blur and fade from sight. For half a second he felt as if he was stuck in some unknown void, as he could see nothing but black. “Tricked!” , he thought. Then he could see. At first his surroundings were still a blur but he quickly gained his bearings. He was somewhere else. He was in a room, and from what his instincts told him it was a room at an inn. He was not in Umbra, however. No building in Umbra was made from wood. It was not the dark, ashen stone he knew his entire life.

“Where am I?” he asked himself.

He walked toward the only window in the room and looked outside. To his amazement he saw the bustle of the busiest city in Britannia; the capital city itself, Britain. He had studied the city in great depth, always dreaming to escape his slavery to the Order and open his own tavern there. Slaves were bound to serve the Order through powerful spells, though. They could not leave Umbra unless guided by members of the Order.

Then, the bartender understood. This was his reward. The scroll had broken his servitude and taken him away from Umbra. He had gained freedom after a lifetime of servitude. Tears welled up in his eyes and he took a moment to breath in the salt-laden air that blew in from the docks. After the shock subsided the bartender noticed a small box set on the bed. Thinking that it was all too good to be true, he cautiously walked to the bed and slowly opened the box. Inside were two pieces of paper; a bank check and a note. Examining the check, his breath left him. It was for more than he could ever possibly imagine. The bartender pinched his arm to assure himself that it was not a dream. When that failed he finally looked to the note that was left in the box.

Reading the short, simple letter, his disbelief subsided and the bartender flashed a wide, tooth and gum filled grin.

“I always liked you. Enjoy.”

The note was signed: Your former Lord, Tyranthraxus.