What kind of liquor do these people take? A rather important question, Merrin felt, except staying here with his body curled on the stinking, moldy floor, the smell was like a hammer on all sides. Then there was the laughter—a weaker man alone by that would die from the shame.
Was he?
He gritted, palm slapping hard over the warm, moldy grounds. The sense of it burned, but was it right to fall in such a place? To show weakness in such a land? Weakness was a horrible thing, regardless of the situation.
His head struck back, eyes wide, staring up at the black ceilings above. There were bugs there—not the black ones, but browner ones dimly radiated by the burning orange-brown lamps across the rooms. His eyes lowered, watery still from the sheer pungency of this space. But he would survive.
He had to.
Slowly, his senses adapted to the scent. A trait shared amongst humans; the recursive stimuli that are often forgotten or obscured away. He breathed, hated it, and wiped the spittle off his face.
Ah, the shame of this moment. For others, this could become a moment forgotten to never again be remembered, but not him, never him. Thus was the curse of the Caster: to always remember. Always. With perfect detail.
Merrin sighed, floundering just for a moment. He rose to his feet eventually, panting, gasping for some measure of unstained breath—there was none, only the constant itchy wheeze that flowed down his throat and presented with a mild spinning of the head.
How did these people live here? He wondered, eyes regarding the square, elastic wooden chairs scattered mostly on the left side of the tavern. Men were seated on those. Women, too, all laughing, giggling, and pounding liquids from queer waterhusks. There was a certain bleakness to their nature. The faint lights spilling off the flame lamps—not the glass-encased white ones, but a simplicity. Fire.
This brought a warmness to the space. And coupled with the nauseating scent of mashed bodies, that alone could provide a constant ache in the side of the head.
Again, he wondered: How did these people live here?
On the right was a long desk, black with bottles, cups, and husks dispersed over it. Serving, yes, that was the accurate word for what he saw. The men and women on the other side of the desk poured fluids into what he assumed were users or drinkers. And a few... very few wandered through the tavern in rather... revealing clothes.
His eyes lowered.
Why did I even bring myself here? That was a wonderment all on its own. How exactly did one stumble from a sea of monsters into a tavern of drunken madness? He cringed, noting still the few eyes that remained locked on him. Specifically, the elder woman with a black apron around her waist.
Ah, what a word, Merrin mused: Apron. Yet another phrase learned from the symbolic knowledge acquired from constant casting. Regardless, the woman in particular existed with a certain uniqueness to her.
Something of a territorial power.
Merrin frowned. The woman edged forward, left arm pressed against her waist as her fat body wobbled towards him. Strange, she was, with that belly, large legs, and flappy arms. What a woman: dressed in a white gown, with the black apron tied around the waist. She... smelt.
"So who you now, lad?" Yellow teeth grinned on her face.
"Nothing." Merrin glanced away, taking in more of the surroundings. Data within data.
She leaned closer. "You hear me?" A slight frown grew. "Answer me, boy!"
A silence came upon the room—unnerving.
She's dangerous.
Merrin bowed, as was the courtesy to these people. "I'm sorry, just got here."
Her eyes beamed in response. "A newbie, eh..." Waist wobbling. "Then you saw it, right?"
Saw what?
She smiled. "The light from the ocean... the light that calmed the storm? Or at least, that's what everyone is saying."
Words spread like fire here. There was a trepidation to it—such an enclosed space. Data passing from mouth to mouth, often growing distorted with each utterance made. In comparison, the supposed Eiyas used by the brightCrowns were expert in method.
Perhaps that was the point... the difference.
She regarded him, lingering. "So did you see it?"
The words returned his awareness—hence came a glance from him to her, pondering. Observably from the attentive look present in the woman's eyes to the slight smile edged on her lips, lying was likely to accomplish nothing now. If anything, it would be but a catalyst for danger. She seemed powerful, and power did not endure deception.
"Yes," he replied, watching then for the effects it had on her. Such things help in the accurate creation of mental rendition.
There was only a curled lip. "Oh," she mouthed. "What else did you see?"
"What?" Merrin paused. She was pressing now... he did not like that.
"You deaf, boy?" The white cloth around her armpits wrinkled. "I think this one is thick... don't you think so?" She addressed the crowd; the collective mass of drunken, stinking men, all of whom had half a mind for the proper formation of thought. However, in response to her voice came a loud bout of insipid laughter, one Merrin visualized as rocking the wooden tavern.
Then, as quickly, came silence. Unnerving, warning silence.
"Answer me, boy." Came her menacing voice. "I doubt you would want to learn about the camps in such an unfavorable way."
She threatens me! Merrin did not like that. Not, of course, because of the damage she could inflict upon him. No, not that. It was the other. The effect that was attention. That, here, no. That was the thing to reel against.
He sighed again... this time she saw it and frowned.
"I have told you all that I know..." Merrin said, "I saw the storms, the fallen within the seas, and then the light that burned the heavens. I don't know where it came from, who brought it." His tone turned meek. "Or how it even happened? Maybe it was one of the things firing from the wall."
"WhiteTrumpets," she said, smacking her lips. "Hmm, that's useless information, boy."
"Sorry." Merrin lowered his head—what use was there to show power to such people? It would only breed attention. That was an unwanted thing.
The woman sighed and shrugged. "Word of advice, boy... have better information next time. Here in the camps, some good old data can fetch a full belly."
Despite certain beliefs, the Scholae share no relation to the Aspirants—Eastorian culture.
Madam Buns... Merrin repeated in his thoughts while staring at the transparent husk planted on the table before him. There was a swirling liquid inside it—that and bits of white smudges. Moss, most likely. Not good.
He pushed the drink an inch with his fingers, head resting atop the left elbow. The table reeked of old fluids. Spittle and the rest. Rather nauseating. But endurable, now at the very least. Which was good on its own.
Nonetheless, Merrin had soon learned of the name of the woman: Madam Buns, and just as was suspected, she maintained some level of power within these camps. What that meant was unclear to him, but likely the control over liquor had some relation to it.
Well, not that he cared. There was no reason to. But here now, listening to the tales shared amongst these people—about the black seas, the crack they were supposedly to find, the old island further north: The Driftpoint islands. These reminded him of the rather outrageous scale of the unknown world.
He issued a breath, taking a stomach full of liquor-scented air. It spun his faculties, and accompanied with the growing pang of hunger within, everything echoed with a certain annoyance. Days now, it has been since he had tasted food—amazing really that one could have survived that long.
Perks of the Caster, likely. However, in the end, viands were a requirement for life. Thus, he needed it, wanted it, desired it. But then came the wall against that want: Money.
No cells were paid after the work in the mines, as was expected. But the NightSailers endured a greater severity than that: No food, no payment for time spent within those dangerous waters. Nothing.
He groaned. How then was one to survive?
"You not drinking that?" A voice gushed into his awareness—brutish. Who was it?
Merrin canted his head, propping his fist against his jaw, resting. He saw then a man, red lines around his eyes, nose dripping with mucus, and reddened hair dirt-stained by mud.
An Odium?
That and the square jaw.
Merrin was stunned for a moment.
"What, you deaf now?"
Everyone keeps asking that! Merrin drowned that quip, frowning. "What do you want?"
The man burped, yellow teeth grinding within the mouth—disgusting. "Didn't you hear me?" His head slumped, arm slapping against the table. "Aren't you drinking that?" Pointing at the liquor husk.
Merrin regarded him—quite a contrast from Ron. "No," he replied.
"Oh?" A demented smile curled up his face. "So... so can I have it?"
"I won't be paying for it."
"Oh that's okay..." The man grinned. "I was the one who found where that girl was hiding..."
"Girl?"
"Come on." He took the husk, emptying its contents into his mouth, liquid dripping onto the worn clothes. "You know, Chula, yes... Chula. I'm the one who found out where she was hiding."
Merrin recoiled. Mist this!
Terror.
Even when I'm doing nothing, some mistsense still finds me...
"You see," the man continued. "I have enough money to pay for anything I want. I collected the bount—" The man gurgled as Merrin's hands cupped around his lips.
"Don't you speak another word," he said. "I don't want to hear it."
"Bah!" The man spat, "Don't shush me..."
"Just shut up!"
"I won't." The man drank another fill. "After here, I'm gonna go find the guy that's going around killing people."
Mist!
It felt like a tide... Merrin staring as this man mouthed words after words, each locking within that constant Caster mentation. He could not stop himself from hearing them.
This is going to kill me!