From alt.pub.dragons-inn Tue Oct 17 09:39:40 1995 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:8799 Path: netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!howland.reston.ans.net!cs.utexas.edu!uwm.edu!caen!reeve.research.aa.wl.com!WS008013F18C2D!simonj From: simonj@rh.wl.com (Jeff Simon) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [Jake Shade] Chapter One: Outlander (Repost) Date: Sun, 15 Oct 1995 03:41:09 EDT Organization: Parke-Davis Rochester Lines: 304 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: 198.205.215.16 X-Newsreader: Trumpet for Windows [Version 1.0 Rev B final beta #4] Even now in Heaven, there were angels carrying savage weapons. -- St. Paul Chapter 1: Outlander Rollo wondered which tankard he was on. It was a thought which came to him now and again, as he stood at the bar cleaning tankard after tankard. Sometimes it came to him every night for a week. Sometimes a month would pass before that question would buzz in his brain again: 'In all the years that I've tended bar, how many of these tank- ards have I washed?' It was a game he played with himself, a perverse way of marking time in a career where one night was much like any other. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he owned his own place, Rollo reflected. A place like this one, which catered to a crowd that was a little adventurous. An interesting clientele, not like those sots over at Ratty's Pub. Not the depressed and tormented soul's at Nick's Cafe Noir. The dream of opening his own tavern was a very dear one to Rollo, but ten years had passed in the business, and he was no closer to that now than he had been the day he started. Tonight was just another night filling in for the regular help. The owner of this particular establishment had taken ill with the flu. Every tavern owner in Generica knew who to call when they needed a night off. Rollo sighed as he reached for another glass. Wipe and polish, wipe and polish, over and over until each one was spotless. On a night when business was good, Rollo might have over four hundred tankards to clean. On a night when business was bad, he was lucky to get twenty. Over the ten year span of his career as a mixologist, Rollo figured he had cleaned over half a million tankards. It was a depressing thought. Tonight his reverie was interrupted as the door opened and a blast of cold air swirled across the room. Some of the lamps sputtered and went out and more than one patron turned to curse the new arrival. Rollo was astonished to see his normally acerbic patrons turn back to their drinks without uttering a word. The newcomer had an air of weariness to him, almost as if he had just walked the expanse of the world. He carried an ornately hilted greatsword across his back, and shortswords in fast-draw rigs on either hip. Beneath his tattered cloak, his armor was like nothing Rollo had seen before, some hybrid of ringmail, metal plate and hardened leather. An outlander, the bartender guessed. Rollo watched as the new arrival turned towards one of the many corner tables. It was occupied. He turned in the direction of another; it was likewise occupied. For a long moment the man stood motionless, surveying the inn's interior. Then, with what looked like a shrug, he walked over to the bar. Rollo and the man exchanged glances, each sizing the other up. Rollo understood why the patrons had clammed up,this outlander looked formidable. The man was not tall, only 5'10" or so. But he was big. His chest,arms and shoulders had the thickness that only swordsmen and blacksmiths have. He was good-looking in a rugged sort of way, with medium brown hair that had a streak of pure white running through it. He might have been as young as thirty, or as old as forty. It was the eyes that made it impossible to tell. They were bright green. Rollo didn't like those eyes. They were eyes that had witnessed a great deal of the world's wickedness. They were scary eyes. They watched him intently as the man slid onto the stool opposite him. "Lot of corners in this bar," the man stated conversa- tionally. "Yep." Rollo said by way of reply, studiously watching the tankard he was polishing. "They're all occupied," the man continued. "Yep." "All nineteen of them . . . " the outlander said in a wondering voice. "and everybody seems to be wearing a dark hooded cloak." "Yep." Rollo refused to look into those eyes again unless it became absolutely necessary. "Bartender, you are a goddamned conversational genius, did you know that?" the man asked with a grin. "I get paid to pour drinks," Rollo explained, hiding a small grin of his own. "And a quick man to arrive at the point, I see." the man said, fishing into one of his pouches. "Does this have any value here?" A coin rang as it struck the surface of the bar. Rollo picked up the coin. It was gold. Heavy. Foreign. "It's worth plenty . . . but maybe not as much as you're used to." Rollo liked to head off points of future contention before they could develop. Sometimes these outlanders thought a gold coin would buy the whole damn bar. "Bartender, I am too goddamned thirsty to argue about your exchange rate." "I like a man who's flexible." Rollo grunted. He began pouring the man a cool one, waiting for the foam to settle before adding a little more. When he was finished layering the ale, he slid it over to the newcomer. The man picked it up with a powerful looking hand. It bore a number of nasty looking scars, faded by time. The outlander noticed Rollo looking at them. "I used to be in a rough trade." the newcomer said, by way of explanation. Rollo dropped his eyes in embarrassment. It was none of his business. The newcomer let him squirm for a moment, then stretched his hand over the bar. "My name is Jake. Jake Shade." Rollo shook the hand firmly, answering the powerful grip with one of his own, strengthened from years of wrest- ling casks up out of the basement and behind the bar. "You can call me Rollo." Jake Shade settled back on his stool with a grin. "There's a lot of bartenders named Rollo where I'm from." "Oh, yeah? Where's that?" Rollo inquired curiously. Shade's grin faded, and he looked down at his drink. "It's a place called Aurauna. I doubt you've heard of it." Over the outlander's shoulder, Rollo noticed a disturbance as Bungg, the Inn's resident tough guy, made his usual noisy entrance. The tavern was protected from outbreaks of violence by a set of formidable enchantments. But that didn't mean that two angry men couldn't take their differences outside to be settled. Bungg had left more than one adventurer bleeding his or her life out on the Plaza of Glittering Steel. Without turning around, Shade undid a clasp on the sword- belt running across his chest, causing the greatsword to slide down to his hip. Warning bells began to chime in Rollo's head. You didn't tend bar for ten years without learning to recognize potential trouble when you saw it. Luckily Bungg settled in quickly with a crowd of the rabble, seemingly content to drink in peace tonight. Rollo turned his attention back to the outlander. "You're right, Jake. I've never heard of Aurauna. It must be a long way from here." "Not far enough." Shade muttered to himself. Rollo pretended not to hear. A nosy bartender wasn't good for business. Shade finished his ale with relish, setting the tankard down with a thump. "Now that was a quality ale!" the outlander exclaimed, motioning for a refill. Rollo grinned. Like any bartender, Rollo took a lot of pride in his craft. He decided he liked this guy despite the weird eyes. "I brew it myself," Rollo mentioned in an off-hand manner as he poured another. "Brought it in special, just for tonight." Shade looked interested. "You ever try to brew a lager instead of an ale?" he inquired. "What's a lah-ger?" Rollo asked, excited at the prospect of picking up an outland brewing secret. Jake smiled and settled back on his stool. His demeanor changed to that of an experienced storyteller about to regale the unwashed masses with a wondrous tale. It was at that exact point that Rollo's night changed irrevocably from a fairly pleasant one to a night that would haunt him for the rest of his life. With an explosive grunt, Bungg heaved his considerable bulk up onto the stool next to the outlander. In the process the man struck Shade's elbow, sloshing a good part of his drink onto the surface of the bar. It was not an accident. Shade's countenance did not change, nor did he react in any manner. Yet Rollo, who was directly across from him, thought that those green eyes began to burn brighter, as if fueled by an inner fire. The alarm bells began clanging in the bartender's head once again. "They got a shortage of swords where you come from, pal?" Bungg sneered, showering the outlander with boozy breath. Shade remained unperturbed. "Why do you ask?" "Because you're the only weebo I've ever met that wears three swords. One is good enough for everybody else." "I don't use the big one," the outlander replied in a quiet voice. "Then why bother carrying it all, weebo? It's a pretty big blade for a short guy like yourself." Bungg was enjoying himself immensely. "Because it's too dangerous for anybody else to have," Shade said calmly, as if explaining basic arithmetic to a child. Bungg laughed a nasty little laugh. "Oh yeah? I guess we'll see about that!" The bully lunged forward, snatching for the hilt of the sword. Rollo's view of what happened was partially blocked by the bar. Even later, after the day of relentless interviews he would soon undergo at the hands of the City Watch and the Mage's Guild, the only thing that he could swear to was that Shade's hands never left the surface of the bar. It wasn't necessary. The inn was suddenly filled by a low, evil humming. Rollo felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to crawl, as that sound filled him with a sense of horror. He could feel the protective spells that surrounded the inn straining under a mystic assault of major proportions. They were beginning to unravel. The other patrons of the inn began to shout in fear, and break for the door. Bungg remained where he was, one hand on the hilt of the outlander's sword; which he had managed to draw an inch or so from its sheath. His gaze was locked on the portion of the blade that he had exposed, his face frozen in a rictus of sheer terror. Unnoticed, a strand of drool hung from his gaping mouth. With a languor that Rollo could scarcely credit in the presence of that blade, the outlander finished his drink. He stood up slowly, and moved the sword's sheath back up so that it crossed his back once more. Completely sheathed once again, the blade quieted. As its dirge-like crooning faded, Rollo realized that he had been holding his breath from the moment Bungg had grabbed for the sword. Shakily, he let the breath out and drew in another. He locked his eyes on Shade's unnaturally bright ones. "Don't ever bring that blade in here again, Jake." Rollo said in an unsteady voice. "Sure Rollo. Whatever you say." Shade walked to the door, stopping only to thump the motionless Bungg on the shoulder. "Some things are better left alone . . . weebo." he said. Rollo watched the outlander open the door and disappear into the misery outside. He took a deep breath, and surveyed the interior of the deserted inn. It would be a slow night. With an unsteady hand, he picked up tankard number five hundred thousand and one. Methodically he began to clean it. 'Some things are better left alone.' the outlander had said. Rollo looked at Bungg's catatonic form and shook his head sadly. "You can say that again, pal. You can say that again." **************************************************************************** Jake Shade is a copyright of Jeff A. Simon, all rights reserved. Republication or reposting of this or any portion of the Outlander Chronicles is prohibited without the permission of the author. This story may be archived to A.P.D.I. and Games.FRP. Archives and can be distributed for private use to those who request it from the keepers of those Archives. Copyrighted 1995. ***************************************************************************** -- The opinions expressed in this message are mine alone. This message does not necessarily reflect the positions or opinions of my company or organization.