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.