A Birthday of Sorts

“...I will skip talk about the training. Suffice to say, I fell into a predictable routine that year. I began each morning, with the except of Sundays, trying to not get my bones broken by Annoying Mute, who never did grow eyes or, gods forbid, communicational skills, and spent the remainder of the day being tutored inside Sir Pelican’s library. As you can imagine, I was less than fulfilled, and I became more and more aware of just how much I missed nights out on the town. Sir Pelican would promptly end any attempted debates on my part in regards to returning to the type of errands that got me in his service in the first place.

“That, of course, left me with no choice but to sneak out in the middle of the night from time to time. I would tail old hustles just to see what became of them. I was less than impressed usually. Other times, I would sneak into local watering holes and wrangle up some impromptu entertainment. I remembered to dig out my old clothes after my first visit to my old stomping grounds ended with some drunken sea merchants mistaking my good natured humor with elitist snobbery due to my new wardrobe. I had become so accustomed to my new threads and my addiction to cladding myself with pieces ordained with shiny metals that I completely forgot just how different I must have looked.

“Never, however, did I wrap my knuckles upon The Choking Giant for a reunion with Philip the Fool. I couldn’t place the feeling exactly, but I still felt some rawness with how I was “sold” to Sir Pelican.

“My boredom finally came to an end on the anniversary of the start of my stay with Sir Pelican. I was sitting in my usual chair at the table dead center of the library and thinking that it was going to be hard to fake my way through that day’s lessons considering I hadn’t read the assigned material when Sir Pelican walked into the room.

“‘Relax, Garland. We are suspending our studies for the day,’ he said as he stood behind his chair across the table from me.

“‘I have renewed belief in the power of prayer,’ I sighed.

“‘Shush,’ Sir Pelican said not the least bit annoyed. ‘Do you know what is special about today?’

“‘It’s not because of the lack of lessons?’ I asked.

“‘Ha! No, no, my good boy. From what I understand, you aren’t accustomed to celebrating birthdays,’ he said.

“‘It is pretty hard to when I don’t know when or where I was born,’ I said while trying to keep a stir of new hope from entering my voice. Was I going to finally learn something about my past? Was today my birthday?

“‘True enough. True enough, Garland. Everyone deserves to celebrate a day of being. Today is the anniversary of the first day you entered my services. It only makes sense to mark that day as a day to celebrate your birthday since no other one has been previously established.’

Overstaying a Welcome

Treu stiffened at Frost’s reproach. “It isn’t that I doubt my pool playing ability,” said Treu, “it is just that I don’t believe our most sacred object of our pack should be used as a gambling chip regardless of the odds.”

“Must I remind you,” reminded Frost, “that the war between us and the Reische Family could finally end if we held both objects?”

“And if we lost them to a stupid kid, our only hope would be that the vampires never recover their heirloom, either,” Treu said.

Frost, wearing the ceremonial red loin cloth that signified he was pack leader, stepped from the partial shadows of the corner of the bar and back into the flickering light illuminating the game at hand. “Listen, Treu. If it was not for some cunning gambles through out the years, both under my watch and the daring strides of our ancestors, our people would not be alive today. I appreciate your concerns, but part of being a good leader for your brothers is to know which gambles are worth taking.”

“This one is not worth it,” Treu said a bit louder than Frost. He was eager to let all his brothers know his official stance.

“I believe it is,” said Frost mildly, “and by order of your pack leader, we will accept the wager from the Blue Boy.” Frost, in a tone as even as the eye contact he was making with Treu, added, “Even if I must finish the game myself.”

I could practically hear Treu’s teeth grind under Frost’s glare from where I stood. Breaking the eye contact between the two alpha males, Treu, muttered, “Fine,” and pointed his pool stick at me. “You’re up, kid, and I promise you this will be your last turn. Wrap up your story while you shoot because you will not be allowed to talk during mine.”

I nodded. There was going to be no argument from me. Keeping my head attached to my body a little bit longer was a good deal as far as I saw it. I had no illusions in that, regardless if I should win or lose, these werewolves were going to kill me. I just had to pray that I was reading the power struggle between Treu and Frost correctly.

Leaning my pool stick against the table, I cracked my knuckles while reviewing my possible shots. He had none of his balls on the table, while all mine still remained to be knocked in. I picked back up the stick, and aimed at the cue ball from above at a sharp angle. I could feel whole drunken pack of dogs watching me.

For whomever is reading this little journal of mine, I would just like to point out that I don’t necessarily feel good about what I was about to relate in my past tales with Sir Pelican or with what was going to happen next with the werewolves. I don’t feel bad, either. My only defense is this: living on the edge is the only life worth living, and saving one’s own neck is the only item of ethics worth considering.

“I thank you all for being patient with me as I tell my story. We are nearing the end of it,” I said and struck down on the cue ball with my aimed pool stick. The angle of the shot sent the ball flying up in the air, nearly tapping the bottom of the candle mantle hanging above the pool table, and back down on the opposite side. At the same time it landed back on the table, it, with great force, hit and sank the striped 13 ball into the left corner pocket.

As I lined up my next shot, I said, “Little did I know that I would soon never see Sir Pelican, Philip the Fool, or the Annoying Mute ever again…”

To Be Out-Smarted by a Dog

A new problem quickly arouse with the introduction of a growing population of werewolves and vampires in the area. The supposed murders rumored to be done by these supernatural races in nearby towns grew in numbers, even if the claims were largely false, were predictable. There was, however, a turf war between the new blood and the dark hermit sorcerer by the name Vater Sterbefall. Normally, Sterbefall was content with separating himself from the rest of the countrymen in a fortified castle built in the heart of the Armbrust Forest, far from the boundaries of villages, but the dabbler in black magic started to feel threatened by the empowered vampires and werewolves. Instead of challenging the groups directly, he, in his shrewd manner, found a way to heighten the conflict between the werewolves and vampires; thus, guaranteeing that the war would forever keep both parties of creatures solely focused on each other. These heirlooms---these enchanted devices---were given to them. The werewolves originally possessed the crystal to spy on the vampires, and the vampires originally wielded the necklace, which could entrap the soul of the werewolves’ pack leader as long as they could get it in contact with him.

It has already been a little over two generations since each respective faction swapped the heirlooms. The wolf leader could now heighten his own strength, and the vampires could better coordinate their race’s social and political functions. The trade was not mutually agreed upon. Rather, it came about through a battle, the Battle of Abend, that resulted in a swap and no real gain in territory or power. The fallout, instead, caused a decade of peace in which both parties proverbially licked their wounds. Well, not so proverbial in the case of the werewolves.

And there I was in a dank and musky tavern offering the Armbrust Forest Werewolves the chance to be the first of the two sides of a demonic war to ever possess both heirlooms at the same time. Whoever said that pool playing was a waste of time?

“If it my decision,” Treu said in a slow and careful manner, “then I must decline the wager.” The tavern became loud with shouts not necessarily for or against his decision, but more as a release of tension. “Which is bad news for you, Blue Boy,” he smirked, “Because I have found a flaw in your logic. It may be true that, if we should decide to kill you, we risk the chance of never finding the second half of the Vampire Crystal, but we would have a half of it. Meaning, even if the Reische Family should know or discover the hiding spot of the second half of crystal, they will still need to defeat us for this half if they ever wish to have their enchantment working again.”

I blinked. “Oh. I guess I didn’t think of that,” I said. Great. Just Freakin’ great. It was bad news indeed. It is never a good sign when you defeated in logic by an animal that lifts its leg to urinate on shrubbery. “I suppose we couldn’t talk about this, right?’

Treu, for the second time that evening, started to walk towards me with a maliciously wide grin etched across his muzzle. I was enjoying flashes of the abridged version of my life when Frost spoke, saving my life.

“Treu. Wait. Have you completely lost your sense of adventure? Take a look at the pool table. You are an eight ball away from winning the game. Do you doubt your ability to sink that ball before this boy can catch up? You were right the first time. He may not be making up his story---at least, not all of it----, but he was buying himself with enough time to think of a way to get out of here. Let him have his life if it means that our people can finally be rid of those blood suckers.”

“Yeah, and he doesn’t mean lawyers,” I broke in.

The Origins of the Armbrust Werewolves and the Reische Family Vampires

Treu knew there was a catch. “What do you want as a counter wager?”

I pointed at Frost, or, to be more accurate, I pointed at the necklace draped around his head. “That,” I said. This turn of events sent the wolf pack in an uproar but of a different sort then before. This time, there was no howls and laughter. There were barks of anger and worries. The general consensus was that I should be killed for even daring to propose such a deal.

Treu cleared his throat, and the crowd’s desire to hear the lines of the drama playing out before them won a silence over the bar. “What do you think, Frost?”

Frost shook his head. “This is your pool game, Treu.”

It was time for Treu to think it over again, but I didn’t hear murmurs from the wolf pack this time. I looked over at Frost, their ancient leader, and he was looking intently at Treu, who, by all accounts, will take over his role when the time was right. It was almost unfair for Frost to have him make this decision, even if it was obvious that it was a test. The necklace was the most valuable possession that the Armbrust Forest Werewolves possessed, and Frost was making him decide if it was worth putting it up against a crystal that could be their most powerful weapon against the vampires. Maybe he was doing it as part of the process of handing off the proverbial torch, or he could just be an incredibly selfish bastard who would rather have one of his pups take the fall for a bad decision than make the decision himself. Either way, it appeared Treu was elected to answer my wager.

The leather necklace with a thin, milky stone smoothed by a lake bed hanging from it was the Armbrust Forest Werewolves’ heirloom worn by every generation’s pack leader. My memory of the lessons about the matter may be a little rusty (mainly because I never actually paid attention during Pelican’s dry tutoring), but I remember this much. Of this general region of O’Dia, there is a common thread of folklore that ties together the origins of the local werewolves and vampires. Oscar Paul, an Eastern hemisphere merchant and self fashioned explorer famous more for his brazen boasts, led a band of his men into miles of dense forest located at the base of the then named Superstition Mountains and captured a small family of werewolves and vampires. He later set his sails west and spent the next decade hosting the equivalent to a supernatural version of cock fights. The only reason it made the history books was that the eye witness accounts of seeing these caged werewolves and vampires pass through villages on their way to his cargo ship were the first recorded “evidence’ for the existence of the creatures out side of folklore. These events transpired roughly ten generations ago.

After a decade, old Oscar got restless, sold his stake to a local crime family, and sailed towards whatever was his next grand idea of fame and fortune. It turns out that the new owners of the cock fighters were not as apt at keeping the power of the growing population of fighting slaves in check, and, through a combined effort, the vampires and werewolves revolted and killed the ruling family. One would think that such a singular origin and plight would have formed an undying sense of brotherhood between the two groups, but it didn’t happen. The direct reason for the split doesn’t really matter, and probably far too trivial to have ever been recorded in any culture’s annuals, but the underlying source of the feud is probably far simpler yet swiping. Werewolves and vampires have always been at odds with each other. It isn’t even that they are cut from different clothes. It is more like one group craps in the woods, and the other has its head up its own ass.

Upping the Stakes

Treu had finally scratched the cue ball in a side pocket, which ended his turn with only the 8-ball remaining on the pool table. I would say that the rest of the Armbrust Forest Werewolves were already celebrating his dominate victory with rounds of ale if it wasn’t for the feeling that they were determined to empty the tavern’s kegs either way.

“Do you hear this, hounds? Frost asked him to tell us about how he got himself mixed up with the Reische vampire family, and he launches into his whole life story!” Treu yelled at the wolf pack surrounding the pool table, and the pack answered back in equal volume with howls and drunken laughter.

“All of this is related to the Reische, trust me,” I said, chalking my pool stick.

“Really?” asked Treu. “It sounds to me like you are stalling in a couple ways. You are trying to get out of losing your twenty shillings by keeping this game going endlessly by your rambling, and I am starting to get the sense,” Treu lowered his voice into a growl, “you are making up the story as you go along. You never met the Reische Family, did you?”

I took a step back if for nothing else to avoid his savage smelling breath. Not surprisingly, werewolves don’t brush their teeth.

“I can prove it,” I said.

“You best do it quick,” chimed in Frost. His warning had no inflection, and it didn’t sound like a threat.

“Okay. Fair enough. But my proof came to me at a great cost, so let’s up the wager on the game,” I said.

Treu gave a laugh. “I don’t know if you have been awake through the game, and we certainly didn’t through your story, but, Blue Boy, you aren’t exactly in the position to up the stakes.

“Well, I am no position at all, am I? You won’t believe me without physical proof, yet I must produce it if I wish to see the end of this game. If I produce it now, the nature of the proof will lead you to kill me for it, which is the same fate for me if I don’t produce it at all. By transforming the proof into a wager, I, at least, have a very small chance of getting out of this alive.”

Treu seemed to be thinking it over. By the way he would try to catch Frost in the corner of his eye without actually turning his head towards him, it was clear that he was unsure. He wanted council from his aging pack leader, but pride with a full bar of his brothers watching stopped him from doing it. “Fine. What’s your new wager in addition to the twenty shillings you have already staked?”

I opened the draw strings of a leather pouch I had tied to my belt, and pulled out a shard of a crystal globe. “This,” I said loudly and held it above my head so the whole wolf pack could take a gander. The shard of the globe was nearly half of the entire piece. This fraction resembled a half moon. “You know what this is.”

Treu was openly shocked. “It, it, do you see it, Frost? It is the Reische Family heirloom.”

“That’s right,” I said. “And, if completed with the other piece, a person can view the location of any vampire in the world.”

This revelation, a revelation that they surely already knew, caused Treu to remain silent for some time. Around us, I could hear murmurs from the rest of the werewolves. Finally, Treu broke his silence with more laughter.

“You are forgetting one thing, Blue Boy. Just because you have presented it as a wager, doesn’t mean we can’t take it from you now, anyway,” reasoned Treu.

“True, Treu,” I said while lowering the broken globe back into the pouch. “That is why I hid the other half of the crystal before walking into the tavern. You can kill me and take this half, but it will mean nothing without its mate. You will never find its hiding spot, I promise you.”

Treu began to say something. I had a pretty good idea what it was, so I interrupted. “You may be thinking that I am lying about possessing the other half. I don’t care. Believe what you want, but here is the deal. You kill me now, and you get one half of the vampire crystal without ever the chance of recovering the second piece, which would render it powerless for the rest of eternity, and you would be forfeiting an unique opportunity to finally having some power over your enemies. Or, you can match my wager with something of my choice, win the game of pool, and I will produce the second half.”

“What stops you from refusing to give us the second half after I win?” asked Treu.

“The innate desire to not have dismemberment as the cause of my death,” I said.

My (Non)Eye is On You

“A childish part of me was hoping that seeing my swollen nose plugged by strips of cotton to stop the bleeding would have sent Sir Pelican into a rage, but my inner child was going to be denied that candy shop. During tutoring and introduction of learning to decipher the twists of strange tongues, he never once asked about the origin of my injuries. I couldn’t even find a raised eyebrow or a worried glance. I was left instead to silently sulk while pretending to care whether or not I guessed the correct verb tenses of an idiotic forest language.

“I had decided I was not going to let Annoying Mute get away with it, eye balls or not, and I could hardly sleep in anticipation of the next morning’s second round.

“Annoying Mute had found me that next morning pacing a line of courtyard grass into a dead patch. When I saw him approaching, I pointed at him and said, ‘Okay, let’s get a few things straight before you start disguising your need to beat up people as a method of teaching. One, talking is generally considered a skill. Some would even reason it as an essential skill in teaching. Two, I am not stupid. I know exactly what you are doing. You have gauged me as some snot nosed child who will have to be made to care about fighting, so you have decided that beating me up would be the quickest way to channel my energy into these lessons. Wow. You are so clever.’

“If he had planned to start the training with another ass kicking, he didn’t show it. Instead, he stood there with his arms cross and waited for me to finish. ‘Lastly, and I am probably going to be killed in effort to keep the following item secret, but why don’t you have eyes?’ I paused. ‘I saw.’

“Annoying Mute raised his left arm up in front of him with his forearm facing me while he arched his right arm back with his fist clenched near his face. It was time to fight. Fight I did. I still spent most of the time on the defense and dodging his swift and powerful jabs with his feet and arms. There would be times, probably by his design, when I would launch an offensive combination. I never during that morning’s training or the subsequent sessions afterwards pondered why I was able to move so fast and with such an agile body (certainly no more than I had during my time running scams for Philip the Fool), but that was made quite easy when all my attacks were either blocked or dodged, and my own dodging always concluded with him landing at least one ear ringing connection.

“Most likely, Annoying Mute had thought he had outsmarted me and his motivational introductory abuse succeeded in angering me into a commitment to beat the tar out of him, but that wasn’t the case. The truth is I had lost my nerve that I had built up the evening before and terror kept my body moving with the utmost desire to not have him touch me. He couldn’t have been human. He had no eyes. I don’t wish you to think that detail erased itself from my consciousness so easily. It was always in the back of my mind when I would show up for those duels. I was not about to believe that a man could fight so efficiently without sight. He probably didn’t even have a mouth. It seemed more and more likely the more I thought about it. I can’t remember when exactly I thought the phrase first, but it stuck with me until I later learned the truth. It made the most sense at the time. Annoying Mute was an unfinished doll, some madman’s play thing that escaped before his details could be carved.”

Muted Ass Kicking

“As it turns out, my training began at five in the morning, and I met my trainer in the central court yard of Sir Pelican’s complex. He didn’t offer a name. In fact, it became clear early on that he didn’t speak at all. Perhaps, he didn’t wish to disturb the still slumbering roosters.

“I first attempted the formal approach, and bowed to my trainer. ‘Good morning. My name is Garland. Sir Pelican has requested that I begin my physical training with you.’

“I stayed frozen in the bowing position and waited for him to respond. Nothing. I chanced a peak up at him. ‘You know, saying something wouldn’t kil---‘

“Before I knew it (let alone react), I was sent sprawling on the ground with a new found pain to the left side of my jaw. The bastard hit me! He actually socked me within the first five minutes of meeting him. ‘Good grief, man!’ I yelled. ‘What is your dysfunction?’

“Naturally, my question didn’t elicit a verbal response, but, to my relief, it didn’t immediately result in another blow. Rather than tempt the fate of fists any further, I remained sprawled out on the grassy knoll of the courtyard. One of us had to make the next move, and I was going to make damned sure it wasn’t me.

“The silence gave me time to properly examine my abuser. The tall figure, perhaps six and a half feet in stature, was shrouded in a simple black costume. The fabric appeared thin and loose fitting. Of the same color and apparent quality, a hood covered his head and successfully maintained a shadow across the upper half of his face. His mouth and nose was covered by a red mask, which very well could have been some sort of red scarf wrapped around his head. If you chaps are the type that are interested in men’s footwear, you will be pleased know I noted that he wore a set of boots that utterly offset the sense of weightlessness of the rest of his garb. The boots may have been black, too, but they looked heavy due to a great amount of outer sole ridged by cleats.

“I had decided to call him Annoying Mute, but not to his face. What I found most annoying—even more so than his tongueless disposition or his painful habit of hitting me----was that my hopes of convincing him to reveal the secrets of my past and identity was foiled. Sir Pelican may be a nice old man (who had ambitions of assassinating the King), but he knew what would keep me under his thumb.

“I don’t know how much time passed in silence, but it certainly felt like eternity. I just couldn’t take it. It would have been different if I was able to at least see the annoyance in his eyes or something. Then, I could try to outlast my own boredom in hopes that his annoyance would fester. Besides, I don’t think I have ever passed more than a waking hour without talking in my whole life. It was time for Plan B.

“‘I got to say, this is an amazing workout I am getting. I mean, the way we are just staring at each other is really tapping into my inner warrior. Oh. Wait. Is this meditation? I am summoning the spirit of the red drag—‘



“One of those heavy boots came crashing down at the spot I was just sprawled upon. Annoying Mute was fast, but I had enough time to back flip more space between him and me. Before I could even land my heels on the ground, he was already forcing me to dodge more punches. None of those full swing sort of punching, either. They came from straight in front of him like fencing jabs, and I had no time to use the movement of his shoulders to give away his next move. One-two-three-four strikes I was able to elude until the fifth one caught me square in the nose. While stunned, he grabbed my throat and lifted me off the ground.

“It was the first time I was in an elevated position, which forced Annoying Mute to look up at me; hence, removing the natural shadow drop on the upper part of his face. I had a mere second to take notice, but it was enough. He let go of his grip on my neck and intercepted my drop to the ground with a hard knee to my stomach.

“He turned his back to me and walked away, giving the silent proclamation that my first physical training session was at an end, while I wrestled with taming a nose bleed and getting my wind back. The combination of the loss of blood and the loss of regular oxygen intake caused my recovery to be done within the drumbeat thump of a head throb. Between each pound of the headache, was the chant of the same thought.

“He had no eyes.

He had no eyes.

My Confession to Sir Pelican

“I stood in front of a full length mirror suspended by a gold platted swivel stand marked with rosary casting and admired the fine pressed petticoat and slacks I was wearing. The mirror was in the corner of my new bedroom. Hammock not included.

“‘Not bad at all,’ I said as I hooked my thumbs into the front pockets of the navy petticoat and lifted the heel of my new rider boots to get a gander at them in the mirror. ‘Of course, I have never ridden a horse, but, although there may be a proverb about a horse and a cart, there is nothing noted about the riding boots, now is there?’

“Not to sound elitist, but this get-up felt right. I know that, often, those who have been raised first in poverty or a rat infested orphanage like yours truly tend to carry their bitterness towards the rich throughout the rest of their lives, but not me. As I had touched upon before, I was always curious rather than resentful of the privileged. Sure, I had to smirk at the spoiled little brats that would lift their already upturned nose as they strolled through the market square, but I saw it as an opportunity. If there was one thing I have learned during my street hustling days, it was that people who took their possessions for granted made for the easiest marks. Deep down, I had the feeling that I would someday make their privilege my plunder.

“Such thoughts did remind me of a certain amount of lingering uneasiness that I had felt during my introduction to Sir Pelican and his shiny hallway. I had never felt such, well, loss of control before. When I thought about it some more, I realized that, before that moment in the hallway, I had never seen such shiny and polished riches up close. Even the coins in my pocket, which was often stolen from the purses of merchants, were never truly shiny. I had felt an urge---an overwhelming impulse---to pluck those silver buttons from Sir Pelican’s person. It was hard enough to repress my physical shaking.

“True to my cynical nature, one uneasy thought lead to a darker one still. Dandelion. Sir Pelican had to be told that there was a good chance that she saw me intercept the message.

“‘First thing’s first,’ I said and slipped the dagger out from my left sleeve. Using its blade, I dug out the diamond set at the apex of the mirror frame. ‘This,’ I continued as I slid it into my pocket, ‘is going to have to tide me over.’



“I found Sir Pelican reading from some dusty book in his personal library. That is not to say that the library was small by any means. I had never seen so many books in one place my entire life, but, then again, Philip the Fool was never much for reading.

“‘Sir Pelican, may I have a word with you?’ I asked and bowed. I was not told to bow but, somehow, it seemed appropriate.

“‘Why certainly, Garland,’ he said, closing his book. He took off his bifocals and laid them upon the table between him and an open chair. Again. Shiny. ‘Have a seat, my dear boy.’

“I complied and tried to not look at the glasses. ‘I have something to confess, and I think it is important, perhaps even necessary to your safety. I think I was observed while intercepting your message from Knight Di ‘Lando.’ I waited for him to interrupt me and wave off my concerns like Philip the Fool repeatedly did. Sir Pelican said nothing and continued to wait for me to finish with an attentive look. ‘Well, I believe I was observed by a female apprentice of Di ‘Lando by the name of Dandelion. She had claimed to tail me all the way back to his residence.’

“‘That is interesting news, indeed,’ Sir Pelican said while pulling at his gray, short beard in thought. ‘It would mean that Knight Di ‘Lando knows that a third party is involved. Yes, it was good of you to bring this to my attention.’

“‘I can start by tailing Dandelion immediately,’ I said.

“‘No, no, we must not let folly be delivered through haste,’ he said, and I could have sworn I saw a shadow of a smile beneath his hand. ‘Before I send you back into harms way, you must train. Garland, you are a smart lad---far more articulate than other children with your background. But you have much to learn, and much to practice in regards to the skill of sword and fisticuffs. Tomorrow, you will begin your daily regiment of intellectual study and physical training.’

“I waited for him to continue. He didn’t, but he did put back on his oh-so-shiny bifocals and reopened his ancient novel. Taking the hint, I stood up, bowed, and left feeling a little confused.

Shiny Predictions By A Fool

“I stood before the honorable Sir Pelican, in all his creaking and frail greatness, sporting the sour face in which Philip the Fool had prophesied. Sir Pelican crossed my eye daggers with a strange look of unsettlement from behind bushy white eyebrows while reading the communication I had handed him.

“Now, I know what you are thinking. Why on O’Dia would I fulfill my duty and even show up to Sir Pelican’s home? I wasn’t Philip the Fool’s actual slave or anything. He never bought my freedom. He never rubbed his fingers together to remind me that I had a debt to him to pay. He certainly did not have an article of blackmail on me. One cannot blackmail a person with no past, after all. My relationship with Philip the Fool was a business deal and nothing more.

“You may stand there in wonderment at me just as I stood before Sir Pelican and marveled at my surroundings. A spotty life in a run down orphanage in the industrial district of the city and a hammock in the back of a mildew infested tavern had not prepared me for Sir Pelican’s elegance. Sure, the old man was no more than a collection of dust, but he knew how to decorate. He dressed himself in fine blue silk, and he dressed his walls with fine oil paintings of nightscapes, landscapes, and seascapes. Between each hung painting, stood marble pedestals, which had vines and flowers carved in a wrapping fashion, that peaked around pelvis height. Upon these marble pieces, rested pure silver and gold vases. They were shiny. So shiny. Not only could I fully see my body reflected on its surface better then any of the cloudy scraps of mirror I was accustomed, but the vases’ ability to harness the light offered by the wall torches of this hall made them sources of light themselves.

“Come to think of it, Sir Pelican’s wardrobe even had its tailoring fastened on the cuffs and the chest with shining buttons. I forgot my sour stance, and fixed my sight on those shiny objects. I couldn’t explain the feeling that was coming over me even if someone had a dagger to my throat at that moment. I trembled at the sight of them. I needed all that shined. Even the coins I pulled from the pockets from the street were never shiny, and the realization that I had never actually seen anything truly shiny in my whole roguish life came to me in an incredible and instantaneous force. It felt as if Sir Pelican would never finish that damned letter.

“He did, of course, and, when he did, he neatly folded it and handed it to a servant, who used a wall torch to burn the contents to ash. Sir Pelican sat upon his oak chair, which was turned to face the messenger instead of the fireplace, and stared at me. He kept rubbing his white whiskered chin.

“I felt frantic. A part of me, and keep in mind that I am not normally prone to random acts of violence, wanted to drive my dagger into his skull and make off with everything that could hold my reflection. Maybe that was how alcoholics felt when they were a few pints behind their normal fix.

“If so, then I was an angry drunk because I was down right furious with Philip the Fool. He knew this fixation about me before I did. Somehow. I don’t know how, but he did. What else would explain his arrogant presumption that I would deliver the message? He even ventured that my curiosity of the rich was enough to get me through the front doors. Suddenly, I hated Philip the Fool for not being a fool. He gauged his gamble and knew well his mark.

“Despite my rage and eagerness to prove Philip the Fool wrong, my answer to Sir Pelican’s forthcoming question was already upon my lips.

“‘Hello, my very special boy. I am Sir Pelican. As I have just entered into a deal with Philip the Fool, I will propose one to you. Serve me, and I can not only offer you luxury, but I can tell you what you are. What is your answer, Garland?’

Delivering Your Own Damnation

“I said nothing in response. I couldn’t believe Philip the Fool. Was he supposed to be the guy who makes me a master at the street hustling game? I can still remember how proud (and stupid) he looked. He was not in his typical stage clothes. For the Knave Meetings, he always sported a flamboyantly red cape in the fashion of the King’s. To add to the satire, he crowned his curly red hair with a broken jug. He had found his ticket to immortality via being a footnote in royal history, and he wasn’t going to scalp it.

“‘Look, Philip, there is something I need to tell you. I think I was followed to---’

“He served me a dismissive wave and edited the ending to my confession. ‘It doesn’t matter, Garland. What I need you to do is put on that suit you were going to use to deliver the notice of extortion and, instead, deliver Sir Pelican this letter,’ Philip the Fool said and pulled out the written message in question.

“I slipped him a frown and picked the letter, which was stamped with his own wax seal, out of his hand. I had only one thing to say to him about the matter. ‘When?’



“The next day I headed towards Sir Pelican’s residence clad in my black blackmail suit for my noon meeting. I did, of course, side-step into an alleyway to open the letter before completing the delivery. Philip the Fool’s note to Sir Pelican stated the following communication:

“‘Dear Sir Pelican,

The honorable yet bloated scholars once mused that the only things outnumbering the ears on the walls are the mouths upon the streets. I have been informed through venues, which are optioned by my own devices and must be left unexplored in this polite introduction, that there is an apostate amiss.

I believe, for a quaint retribution on your part, I can provide you with an able body that will distort what the walls hear and sew shut what the streets boom. The recommended servant of whom I suggest is the very messenger before you. His name is Garland, and you have probably already started to ponder his origins by his unique yet dog-eared appearance. Your assumptions relating to that pondering are not incorrect, and, because of such validation, you will no doubt come to the same conclusion that I also wield: your conspiracy cannot be better served.

The fore mentioned retribution I request is not to be counted by the clinks of coins or by land markers staked out. I believe you to be wise along with being educated, and, by default, you are well aware of the grave difference between the two possessions. That said, a night, particularly a night willing to betray the golden moon, should not be trusted. By issuing me payment of the information Garland reaps for you, protection of a thousand cloaked daggers against lines of rusting armor will safeguard your nightly watch.

I thank you in advance for your consideration and for the attention you have already lent this letter. If you should find this proposition promising, send back a confirming reply using your routine messenger, not Garland.

Sincerely at your service,

Philip the Fool


P.S.: You, no doubt, have noted the sour look upon the face of Garland. Being of value of which I have boasted in this letter, he has secretly read this communication before delivering it to you and has resealed the message with a mock seal.’

“And just like that, Philip the Fool had sold me to Sir Pelican.

Dandelion Is No Forgotten Princess

“I didn’t sleep well that night and tossed and turned as much as a person possibly could in a hammock. Who was that girl? I had been doing street hustles and high birth extortions for two years at that point, and, surely, Dandelion and I had never crossed paths. One would think that if she was running the same types of street games, she would have attempted to pick the same pocket as me at some point. She had to have been new to the city, but where did she come from? She certainly was nothing like the girls in the orphanage whom busied themselves with delusions of being forgotten princesses.

“Another question kept sleep elusive. What exactly did she know? She had bragged that, supposedly, she was able to tail me all evening without my detection. If that would have been true, that would mean she would have witnessed the drunken rounds with the intended messenger, picking up the coded letter of assassination, and, most importantly, she would seen me step into Philip the Fool’s carriage. It wouldn’t have taken a genius to guess that the message was read, and if she was truly playing the same sorts of scams, she would already be wise to counterfeit wax seals.

“Who was that Dandelion, besides being extraordinarily irritating, I mean? Who giggles besides six year old children? I am sure her pixie-like figure and all-so-adorable (you know what other adjective starts with the letter ‘a’? Try ‘annoying’.) mannerisms win her points with less experienced guys, but not me. She got lucky with that drop on me, and that is all there is to that story.”

A young werewolf with bright white teeth elbowed Treu, who was just a number two ball away from having the eight ball his sole pool target. They shared a chuckle.

“Oh, shut up,” I said.

“As I was saying, I had a gut feeling that the partnership with Philip the Fool had stumbled unto numbered days, and his talk with me a week after that night of the intercepted letter confirmed my feelings.

“‘Feel free to climb up after you have locked the front door, Garland,’ Philip the Fool said to me between puffs of smoke. A knave meeting had adjourned, which is something always relative when committee members consist of beggars pretending to be lepers, and Philip the Fool was enjoying a hand rolled cigarette while perched upon the rafters of the dining area of the Choking Giant Bar. Seeing that everyone had already been ushered out and that the door was, in fact, already locked and bolted, I jumped up and seating myself across from him in one fluid motion.

“‘What’s on your mind?’ I asked.

“‘Tell me, Garland. What do you think of last week’s midnight message?’

“‘I think that we should stay out of it. I don’t see any direct profit for us. Only headaches.’

“‘You have so much to learn,’ said Philip the Fool. ‘Sometimes the richest profits, the greatest cons, are not the direct ones.’

The Talking Statue and the Giggling Dandelion

“A heel was buried between my shoulder blades and my left arm was pulled behind me before I even had a chance to twist out of the way from a possible second assault. I was in middle of getting the dagger that was literary hidden up my right sleeve when a voice above my attacker and me bellowed.

“‘Dandelion! Enough! This young man has a message for our master.’

“‘That’s right, pal,’ I said, “and I must say that “Dandelion” isn’t the most manly name I have heard today.’

“I felt my left arm be released from its uncomfortable pin, and I spun around ready to fend off a boot to the face from this guy.

“This guy, however, turned out to be this girl: a slander girl of my age with a self satisfied smile spread across her face. The hood to her blue cloak was thrown back, revealing her wild, shoulder length blonde hair. She had green eyes, and she winked down at me.

“Ending her taunt, she pouted her lips and whined, ‘Aw, come on, Sturm. It was so fun chasing him across town. He took forever to catch on that I was even there.’

“I realized she was performing to the statue, or, what I had first mistaken as a statue. The macabre seven foot giant with a war helmet in the shape of a skull wore a silver chest plate, arm, wrist, and shin guards. Both the arm and shin armor had short but menacing spikes spouting along their surfaces. The toes of his heavy boots were horned, and a black Count’s cape ruffled in the night wind. I had never seen a creature like the behemoth that was towering over me, and I had told myself that I would fain courage with a clever pun. I gulped instead.

“‘Do you possess Knight Di’Lando’s letter?’ the monster named Sturm flatly asked me. It was disconcerting to not be able to see his (its) facial expressions, but the always pronounced timing of a lightening strike that lit up the sky behind him made him more frightening.

“I gave a weak nod and handed him the letter.

“I heard laughter behind me. ‘I think he is afraid of you, Sturm!’ Dandelion exclaimed.

“‘You may go now,’ commanded Sturm without looking at me, but, then again, how would I know?

“I stood up and pretended to dust myself off. ‘You know, I could have lost you, Dandelion.’

“‘Oh, I am sure you could have, but you didn’t.’ Dandelion said and waved at me. ‘Ta-ta for now, blue boy,’ she said and giggled her way through Knight Di’ Lando’s front doors. Sturm resumed his stance to the left side of the gate entrance, silent and still.

“I was left with no choice but to return back to my hammock nailed to the pantry walls of the Choking Giant Bar. It was prearranged that Philip the Fool and I would not meet again at the carriage. There was too much risk of drawing suspicion to keep it parked in the middle of market square at night.

“I could have lost her, may I point out. Sure, I will fully admit that I got a little overconfident. But, come on. Usually, the people attempting to follow me couldn’t sneak up on a dead horse, let alone catch me. I admit that Dandelion was good, but not that good.

“After kicking off my boots, I began to dose off in my hammock. Just when I was about to get comfortable enough to dream, I snapped awake in dread. I could see my breath in the cold air when I spoke the poisoned fruit born from my mental revisiting of that night’s events.

“‘She knows I intercepted the message.’

Whatever You Can Do, I Can Do Better

“I didn’t like what Philip the Fool was thinking. He has had shadow ties to many national scandals that were presumed bigger than his social stature, no doubt, but I didn’t think it wise to get mixed up in a royal assassination. People tend to lose their heads in that sort of business, and here I was hunching down as I ran in the rain to deliver a coded message that was to get the heads rolling.

“What did Sir Pelican have against the King, anyway? It is one thing to boast the skill of ink scrolling, but it was entirely a different matter to be, perhaps, the main conspirator behind an unsheathed sword. I wanted nothing to do with this business. It was no fun.

“These thoughts were distracting me as I traveled to Knight Di’Lando’s residence, and I would have figured out that I was being followed earlier if it wasn’t for them.

“The guy was decent at the art of tailing, but he slipped up once by getting too close to his target and letting a pebble skip through a puddle next to me, and that is all I needed. In mid walk, I stopped short and spun around. The guy was within shadows, which wasn’t a hard feat considering there was not even a trace of the moon in the night sky, before I could catch sight of him. There was Pete’s Market wagon, with its serving bar swung up and bolted to cover its windows, to my right about five yards behind me. I was pretty sure he was crouched underneath it.

“I had a decision to make. I was only five minutes away from delivering that message to Knight Di'Lando, but an awful amount of hurt can be done in five minutes. A mad dash could be suicide, so it was best to use my speed to lose him. I started to sprint as if I had decided upon my former plans of dashing, but, after two strides, I brought my flight into the shape of a right angle and bolted in an alleyway.

“It worked. As I made my sharp turn, I caught a glimpse of the guy. Thin. Cloaked.

“Wasting no time in adding another dimension to my flight, I jumped at the wall. All I needed was a split second of traction to propel me to the opposite wall that made up the alley, and I bounded my way upwards. Once I was able to grab hold of a ledge, I hoisted myself up and over the top of Oscar’s Blacksmith Shop. I may be young, but I can tell you how people hinder themselves when trying to lose someone. They look back, which is a lost of valuable time, so I didn’t look back and, instead, continued to jump from rooftop to rooftop.

“When I had finally reached Knight Di’Lando’s residence, a stone structure built into the southwest side of the fortress wall, which divided the King’s castle from the kingdom’s market square, I risked a look behind me. Nobody. Sucker.

“I felt exhilarated as I looked for the bell that I would ring to draw the attention of Knight Di’Lando’s night-watch. As fun as it was to practice my stealth abilities through pick-pocketing and conducting my own tailing of individuals, nothing was as exciting as out maneuvering people trying to catch me. All of the King’s Men, despite their years of training, could never catch me.

“Where is that bell, I thought. There was none. How long has Knight Di’Lando not had a bell? I was positive that he had one the last time I delivered a message to him. Instead, there was a seven foot statue of a guard wearing a skull shaped battle helmet. There must be a way to get the real guard’s attention.

"Before I could investigate any further, I was hit from above.

An Apostate Within a Midnight Carriage

“I showed up in front of Sir Pelican’s front gates a half of an hour before midnight. I would have made it a solid hour, but I had to introduce the intended messenger, a thirteen year old boy with a puffy face somewhere behind a pallet of acne, to the fine yet painful world of drinking. Light weight.

“Little did I know that, by switching places with the boy, I had saved his life.”

I put down my pool stick. Turning to the werewolves, I said, “Whoooo!” while wiggling my fingers.

Frost chuckled the hardest, but Treu just seemed annoyed. “Hey. Kid. Take your shot,” he said instead. I did, and missed a bounce shot into the left side pocket. Treu finally laughed, but probably for different reasons. I continued my tale.

“The night-watch guard, a portly man with a shaggy blonde mustache, labored down the ladder from his post. ‘Wacha’ ya don’ here?’ he croaked at me in a voice stripped from many years of smoking.

“‘I am to pick up a message from Sir Pelican tonight.’

“He gave me a long look of distrust. ‘Wai’ here jus’ one momen’,’ he said and shuffled away from my view. Fifteen minutes went by before he returned. ‘The Master said da’ you have a password for me.’

“‘The password is “apostate”.’

“The guard just glared at me. I made a shooing gesture with my hands. He grumbled, and disappeared for another quarter of an hour. It was just enough time to reflect on what I would do to the Acne Wonder if it turned out he lied about the password. I’ll kill him, I thought, if he hasn’t already choked on his own vomit.

“The night-watch huff and puffed his way back to the front gates for a final time and handed an envelope to me through the bars with a sour look on his face. I left without thanking him.

“I made a detour back into Philip the Fool’s carriage. Philip the Fool was disguised as a Count: complete with a fine black cloak, a hat, and a gentleman’s walking cane with a brass handle shaped as a roaring lion’s head. He had a thin moustache penciled on his face and leather dress gloves covering his hands.

“‘Nice look,’ I said and handed him the message. He broke the wax seal and started reading. ‘What does it say?’

“‘Shh’ was his only response as he kept reading. I gave up and looked out the carriage window, noting that the weather had turned into rain. When I heard him fold back up the letter, I posed my question again. ‘Apparently, Sir Pelican is a radical. A high brow radical, but a radical nevertheless,’ Philip the Fool told me while I was busy resealing the message with my own counterfeit wax seal. Philip the Fool continued, ‘For some deeded estate out in the country, Knight Di' Lando has agreed to chronicle the daily routine of the King.’

“‘Smells like an assassination. The letter says all that?’ I asked.

“‘In code, yes.’

“‘Code? Great. It is going to be awfully hard to use the communication as blackmail, then. Pelican is stupid to trust the Di’Lando with this plot. That is the problem with these armchair political types. They are great at trading veiled barbs in Parliament, but brain dead when it comes to any action. I give Pelican a year. By then, Di’Lando will milk everything he can get from the old man without getting his own innocence in the matter muddled. Anyway. Can we get anything out of this?’

“It was Philip the Fool’s turn to ponder at the rain from the carriage window. ‘Without a doubt.’

Philip the Fool, A Choking Giant, and the Deceptive Pair of Slacks

“Philip the Fool, still hunched over and his left arm twisted in a rather uncomfortable way from his street routine, came into my boarding room, a mice infested walk-in pantry located in the back of the bar where he would conduct his knave meetings. See? No rats. I was already moving on up in the world.

“‘A message is being hand delivered by a foot messenger at midnight tonight. Do you have a seal of Duke Pelican?’

“I flipped close my pocket knife blade and blew the wax shavings from the bottom of a scarlet candle. ‘Just finished. Duke Pelican, huh? He seems pretty clean. So that begs the next question. What well tailored slimeball is supposed to be receiving the message?’

“Philip the Fool straightened up to an upright position and rubbed at an ache in his lower back that didn’t seem fake. ‘Knight Di’ Lando.’

“‘That would explain it. Sort of.’ I said. I swung my legs down from my hammock so I was in a sitting position and slid the carved candle into a draw string pouch slumped on the floor that housed various assortments of counterfeit wax seals. ‘It doesn’t explain what Pelican would possibly want with Di’ Lando.’

“‘Maybe he doesn’t wash his wrinkled hands as much as we think. Either way, just make sure you get that letter from the messenger before it reaches Di’ Lando’s place.’

“‘Consider it done.’ Philip the Fool had started to remove himself from my doorway when I added, ‘I think you are forgetting something.’

“‘Oh? And what’s that?’ he said, half turned.

“I gestured a thumb at a pair of black slacks covered in dried mud that hung from a stretch of rafter. ‘I need a few coins to get them cleaned.’

“Philip the Fool thinned his lips in annoyance for a moment before removing two copper coins hidden behind a soiled head bandage and flicked them at me. As I caught them, he said, ‘Be more careful this time,’ and left.

“With the coins in hand, I listened to floorboards creak as he practiced his stagger until he was safely gone from The Choking Giant Bar. I counted to ten in my head before getting up, walking to the opposite wall that was hidden in shadow by the slanted angle of ceiling, and removing a perfectly pressed pair of black slacks. I hooked the clothes hanger the clean pants were hanging from on the rafter next to the suit and pulled away the mud covered pair. What looked like old slacks were actually a deceptively folded torn piece of black fabric I had gotten from a disregarded commoner's cloak.

“I held up the prop and smiled to myself.

‘The Fool falls for it every time.’

Extortion with a Street Smile

It suddenly came to my attention that I had the whole bar of furry patrons for an audience. With their respective drinks in their paws, Frost’s pack of werewolves had moved from their barstools or creaking table chairs to surround the pool table. No. Scratch that. They were surrounding me.

They were all wearing wolfish grins, which, in my humble opinion, werewolves rely on that expression a little too often. Oh, and there was a rather strong musk in the air.

“It’s your turn, Garland,” said Frost while Treu rested his head on his folded hands, which were resting upon his pool stick. He was already enjoying the afterglow of his near future win. “But take your time, and feel free to share your story first.”

“Okay, don’t get your tails in a bunch, guys,” I quipped.

I forewarn all of you readers that what I told those werewolves that night may be a little embellished, but, then again, so is all of what I have to say.

“As probably all of you have already guessed, the dense forests and fields of cattle manure are typically not my party scene. I was raised in an orphanage within Belfry, the industrial sector of the largest city of O’Dia, until two years ago. That was around the time I had decided to myself that mopping five levels of hardwood floors and bashing in heads of rats with the rest of the parentless lice carriers while a staff of five fat women who cackled their way through a day of sipping tea and sharing moronic gossip just wasn’t my scene, either.

“I snuck out of a window one night after lifting some cash from the head nurse’s purse and continued to practice my pick pocketing craft on the streets for a couple months. I almost got arrested and returned back to the orphanage several times due to my pension for gravitating to the wealthy Hilltop district of the city. Authorities seem to have no problem leaving a fifteen year old boy among the company of gypsies, prostitutes, and murderers on the lamp as long as it is hidden from sensitive eyes of the privileged.

“It wasn’t long before I found out that running unsavory errands for people got me more money. It also marked my ascent up the social ladder.

“Philip the Fool, a middle aged man who pretended to be suffering from a severe case of bone-twist (he actually was taking full advantage of being double jointed) by day and oversaw an underground thief guild by night, employed my errand services on a regular bases. Everyone, like those tea bag dipping hogs back at the orphanage, would gossip about the elite’s sex life, but the aristocrats would truly become undone by the amount of evidence Philip the Fool possessed in regards to their scandalous affairs and his willingness to use it for profit. Most of these inspirations of hush money came about through intercepted messages, and that is where I came in. I would swipe the letters, and Philip the Fool would provide me with a suit to deliver the extortion to their doorsteps the next day with a well dressed smile.”

Betting on a Pissing Contest

Treu, who towered at nearly six and a half feet and a good head taller than me, was lanky, and had a permanent smirk etched upon his muzzle that suggested that he knew more than anyone else in the room, or, at least, he thought himself mighty clever for thinking himself so.

“Hey there, Treu,” I said with a quick nod---the international handshake guys use when attempting to be cool with each other.

“You think you can beat our new friend Garland here?” Frost extended his pool stick out to Treu.

Pretending to not notice his chief’s gesture, Treu selected a slightly longer stick that was leaning against a cedar wall next to the skeletonal remains of a long deceased pool stick rack.

With his back still turned towards the wall, Treu said, “Who knows. With all the defeats we have had at the fangs of the Reische Family,” he turned around to match cunning eyes with Frost, “maybe it’s my turn to slip up.”

“I don’t think your pride can let you lose, despite your mediocre playing.”

I gave a cough. When that didn’t break the tension or end the uncomfortable silence between the two, I slapped down a handful of irregular sized coins. “Twenty shillings says you can’t do what Frost just did.”

It worked. The appearance of money always does. Not that I didn’t find their little pissing contest fascinating. I was mulling over how much of the conflict and the choosing of Treu to play me for money were acts in the hustle, and how much of it was actual conflict. If much of it was the latter, I could use it for my own amusement.

“Twenty, huh? Has the drinking already made you that loose with your money?” Treu said while returning the attention of both his gaze and smirk to me. “You are on, kid. You can put down the bet anytime, Frost.”

The leader of the werewolf pack opened a leather pouch tied around his waist just above his long tailed loincloth, and, in a neat single stack, placed his bet on the railing next to my own coinage while saying, “You aren’t bad, city kid. This is truly a gamble.”

The whole “kid” routine was really getting on my nerves. Besides, Frost paid far too much attention to dropping that bet on the table, and now I had made their con. Treu was good. He was fan-freakin’-tastic, most likely. Hoping I would play and bet loosely with new found determination due to hurt pride, Frost was attempting to sell the idea that he, in sporting nature, had handed the bet down to a lesser player while, in truth, he had played me to gauge my skill level and then pick Treu, his ringer, to secure the win. I wasn’t sure if the conflict between them was part of it. Perhaps, he was aware of the possibility that I would suspect the hustle so he was faking doubt over whether or not his ringer would purposely lose the match to embarrass his leader, yet rival. There was only one way to find out, but I needed to buy a little more time.

“Go ahead and break, Treu.”

Not arguing, Treu walked himself and his stick to the kitchen end of the pool table, ducking his head beneath a candle stick hanging from the ceiling along the way. Bending his lean body over to take aim at the cue ball, he said, “So, tell us, kid. What racket did you cause with Reische nest?”

He broke. Two solid balls---the two and the six---sank into the same pocket.

Bastard.

Werewolves Are Poor Pool Players

I don't understand how a pack of humanoid wolves are not able to laugh at themselves. Guys, you are completely covered by hair and are prone to embarrassing bouts of hacking up fur balls.

Last Saturday night, I really thought things were going well with my new friends, the Armbrust Forest Werewolves. We did have a common enemy, after all. Even prior to the second pint of root ale being poured in a shabby shack pretending to be a tavern, which, in turn, was within a petite clearing of a forest trying its best to mime a town, I was pronouncing my own distain for the ever social elite vampires with confidence only lent by spiked merriment.

"At least you chums travel in packs," I said to Frost. Frost appeared to be the leader of the pack. He was significantly older, or, at least, his watchful eyes peering out from a skull of gray fur suggested wisdom earned only through experience of age. A leather necklace of teeth hung around his neck, and, while his pack sported short loincloths of muted colors, Frost's hung all the way to his ankles and was bright red in tone. He was long in the tooth, and it was yellow.

“You may have a point there,” Frost said as he leaned into his shot with his pool stick’s tip hovering behind the chipped cue ball, “but what were you doing mingling with the likes of the Reische Family, anyway? Dying to lend them some blood?” He sank the eight ball into the right corner pocket and gave me, of course, a wolfish grin. .

“Good game. If you are done warming up, maybe we could get to some real playing. You got anything to wager, kid?” Frost had a habit of pretending to be too preoccupied with whatever he was doing to make eye contact with whomever he was attempting to hustle. In this case, he was looking down at his pool stick as he rechalked the tip. Good. Detail noted.

“Oh, I got away with a chunk of their change. I don’t know, though, Frost,” I said. “After the skill you just displayed? Why on O’Dia would I bet against you?”

He chuckles. “No, no, no. Not me. Where would be the sport in that? How about Treu over there?” Looking over his right shoulder, he yells across the bar to a beast having his drink poured by one trembling bartender. “Hey! Treu! Want to devour a human?” Looking back at me with a wink, he adds, “in a game of pool.”

“Sure, Frost, I’ll take the blue kid’s money,” Treu answered as he swaggered over to the pool table as he passed splintered oak tables surrounded by hooting pack animals. He gulped down the poison in a single swallow, threw the empty glass over his back, which shattered against the head of one of his brothers to the growing amusement of the other werewolves, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Let’s see what the lad can do.”

I have violently blue hair. I should’ve told you that before. Yes, the unnatural color is natural in my case. I don’t know why, but I will get to all that later. Probably.