Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn From: hutch@ibeam.intel.com (Steve Hutchison) Subject: [INN] Getting Drunk . . . . Message-ID: References: <1993Oct6.110717.7822@wkuvx1> Date: Wed, 6 Oct 1993 22:26:19 GMT She looks too young to be in this place. In a world where people keep their children too young for too long, she'd have been stopped at the door by a bouncer or turned away politely by the barmaid. She's about fifteen, and she dresses in a hodge-podge of gypsy clothing, and her hair is dishevveled and has streaks of carnival coloring in it, and she's very distracted. The table where Zebron Twilight sits, along with the growing boisterous crowd of bibbers and winesots and hopeful drunkards, that's where she is drawn. Somehow she goes unnoticed at first. She shyly accepts a bowl of soup left by the barmaid, and starts floating crackers on it. But they don't sog up and sink to the bottom. They're ships, and they have miniature naval battles, and the pirates come and steal the treasure of salt from the losers and scuttle all the other crackers. One of the more drunken of the louts hanging on the edge of the great drinking contest notices that she's playing with her food, and starts to ask her about it, but when he meets her mismatched eyes she just giggles and kisses his forehead, and he passes out. Nobody really notices, because they're being wowed by the latest ode to the alcohols, a fine elvish wine. Quicksilver, her mood changes, as the wine goes unappreciated by most, and a single tear runs down her cheek and into the glass of water that stands before her. She ignores it. A hand on her shoulder -- the beautiful young man there is hiding his nature, drawn as she was by the contest and its nature. She smiles and three of the men at the table fall in love. LittleFair at the bar looks up, pales, and walks to the table. He is extremely polite to the man, asking him if there is anything he would like. The young man only smiles and takes his own cup from inside his shirt, and toasts the barkeep's health and the health of his patrons. Somewhat in awe, LittleFair returns to his post, continuing to prepare the exorbitant selection of drinks requested by the sponsors of the contest. "Mistress," the young man says, "This place is too fragile to support your presence. Your sister and brother send me to bring you away." "Dio? Am I dreaming about frogs again?" "No, mistress, that was a while ago." "Oh, too bad. I liked the frog dream. I think I'll make some ... oooh, what's this?" She stroked the head of a curious beast that sat on the shoulder of one of the patrons, who didn't deign to notice her. "It's a night lizard," the young man says, seriously. "I remember when we made them. I'm sleepy, Dio, can you take me home? It's too dark in these corners." The darkest corners began to change subtly, with hints of things that don't bear looking at, looking out. "This way, Mistress." The young man led her towards the door and away from the party. They faded from sight, if anyone had been looking, before they reached the door. Back at the drink contest, the bowl of soup was experiencing some foul weather, and miniature storms lashed the brave pirates as they fought to keep their cracker-boats afloat in the heavy soup seas. But it must have been an hallucination brought on by the delirium that comes of drinking so much in so short a time, because when the storm is noticed, and the half-coherent slurred declaration brings other people's attention to the bowl, there's nothing at all unusual, just a bowl of soup with crackers sunk to the bottom. And at the table, Mitchell, momentarily between drinks, spots the untouched glass of water, and reaches for it, intending to wash his palate clean for the next drink. [ADMIN] More apologies to Neil Gaiman. Mitchell, be careful if you do drink that glass of water.