A Drink to Pietro
The bar was raucous with business, laughter, and boisterious conversations. Some drunk was assaulting the piano, playing an aggressive off key melody that earned him generous amount of space around him. And space was at a premium in the Hidden Stag at the moment. Every table was full and drenched with spilled drink, the air rancid from too many cheap cigars and not enough fresh air. Not that fresh air would have helped as it was heavy with the typical Eisen moisture.
Sitting at the bar, Talen idly looked into his drink, something amber and clear. Charese had set it in front of him hours ago, and he had rarely moved from that spot. He smiled at the occasional drunk that had wanted his attention from time to time, exchanged a few pleasantries with the more sober ones, and nodded to the others. "So?" Charese had picked up the glass, and wiped a surprisingly clean towel across the surface in front of him, and replaced the glass. Talen looked up, his head tilted questioningly. "Don't tell me you haven't even tasted it yet... I've seen some drink nursing in my time, Talen, but you take the cake. Most at least drink the first before nursing the second..." Talen shrugged, "How much did you give me? I honestly can't remember. It's half full, now... Did you give me a full glass?" "Since when have I ever given you a full shot?" Talen shrugged again. Annoyed, she tossed her dark hair to a side, "I'd lose money, having you stare your drinks away like you do. And you do it every time..." She looked up and past Talen's shoulder, "Isn't one of your new friends a Castillian?" "Yeesss..." Talen said suspiciously. "...dark hair, sorta handsome, dark eyes..." "That's a pretty general description, Charese. Now that I've been to Castille, most of them fit that description." She winked, "Then I've got to move to Castille." Before he could respond she busied herself at the other end of the bar. He shook his head. Then a strong hand shook him from behind. "TALEN!" Enrique Montoya de Soldano del Castille. Slightly inebrieated, the Castillian nearly shoved him off his stool and over the bar. Talen just barely caught the drink before it would have slid over the opposite edge. "Sorry," Enrique said in Castille, patting Talen a little more gently. "Excuse me, sir," Enrique bumped the unconscious drunk to the right of Talen off his stool. The drunk remained blissful throughout and stayed so on the floor. "It's a better place to take a nap, anyway, don't you agree?" Talen frowned as another patron stepped on the drunk. "Sure." Talen said in Castille. His mind was particularly cloudy and the transition from Eisen to Castille took no small effort. "You're Vodacce, isn't that right?" The young thief nodded. "Hmmm...." Enrique nodded to himself. "You may be a thieving one, but you speak my language and that is a saving grace..." Talen raised an eyebrow. "I've known a few Vodacce in my time," The tone was far from flattering. Enrique took out his hand and began counting off. "Reynaldo, Patrice, Sabine, and...." The Castillian's face turned away for a moment's thought. Talen watched as it passed from carefree amusement to anger, and then to compassion and mourning. "Pierto." He said quietly. "Pierto wasn't so bad." He paused. "He wasn't that bad at all..." "I will have a drink for Pierto." He looked at his hands setting on the bar. "I haven't in sometime..." "Bar wench!" he shouted down the bar. Charese looked up, and if there were any objection to the Castillian's call, it didn't show. Although, Talen nearly choked. She came quickly. "Sir?" Looking into her classic features, Enrique remembered himself. His face flushed slightly. "Ma'am, a drink, if you would..." "Ale or liquor, sir?" "Something for remembering a friend." She nodded and reached under the bar. That's all she had ever had to do. In the years he had known her, Talen had noticed that wherever she was, at any time, she could produce just what was needed by simply reaching under the bar. A clean glass appeared and she poured a full shot into it. She placed the bottle in front of Enrique. Enrique raised his glass and gestured for Talen to do the same. Their glasses clinked. "Talen..." Charese said. Talen cast a curious glance at her. "For Pierto Savino, may Theus rest his soul." And they drank to it. Enrique coughed and set the glass back down. "Excellent, madam..." Charese ignored the complement, her attention fixed on Talen. He also placed the glass down, but far more gingerly. He blinked at Charese. "Talen?" He nodded quickly. "Fine," he said raspily. But his face flushed and continued to do so until he was nearly maroon. "He'll be fine, madam." Enrique interjected and he threw a brotherly arm around Talen. "I'm sure he can hold a bit of liquor from time to time..." Talen stared to the bottom of the glass, noticing a slight etching of the cheap glass at its previous level. The level that it had sat at for hours. He caught Charese's eye, "What was..." She rolled her eyes and mouthed a word: 'Later.' She then returned to the other side of the bar. "You never met Pierto, well, let me tell you, Talen, he was a bit young, like you, well, maybe not that young, but..." And Enrique went on and told story after story about young Pierto. He smiled often in rememberence even though his eyes remained mournful. Never did the arm drift from Talen's shoulders, and he refilled his glass every so often with the other hand. Try as he could, Talen was not completely paying attention. He understood the Castillian, but he found its cadence lulling, nearly putting him asleep. As he wondered if it was the questionable liquor or a comforting memory that made him so. If it was the liquor, Talen could do little to keep his concentration, and if it was the memory, he could do even less. The memory was of his tutor, who would often tell him stories in Castillian, both to teach the little Vodacce his language and to wind down the boy after a typical day. It really wasn't that long ago, Talen reflected. But it seemed so far and away from now... A embering fire in the small fireplace. A large bed with enveloping bedsheets and covers, with fluffy, overstuffed pillows... A large figure sitting beside him, holding and reading from a massive leather bound book. Every once in a while, the figure would show the open book's pages, impeccably scripted and lavishly illustrated. Sleep. The perception of a paternal kiss on the head or a pat on the hand. It was his dearest memory. And he relived the it throughout Enrique's stories. Until the stories became dark and foreboding. Talen looked to the mask of hate that Enrique's face had become. "...it was Pierto, on his horse, with no head, with a note pinned to his chest. A note addressed to Reynaldo..." Another drink. And silence. "Do you have a story, Talen?" Enrique picked up the half full bottle and showed it to him. "Something to help me finish this bottle off?" "Something, perhaps." Talen paused a moment. "But it is only a memory..." "Something, indeed. That will be fine, Talen. Tell me your memory..." And Talen did.Return to Uncommon Valor