CLOK BBS

I've been playing with the idea of writing some short stories to flex my fiction muscles. I've been playing Jasan for almost five years now, and really enjoy his character.

Would there be any interest in a few little tales showing the origins of the man in the suit and the Stetson?

YES.

I think you posted in the wrong board and topic. The For Humor thread isn't here.

Though but seriously, I want to see some stories from that guy. It's been a bit since stuff has populated this board and it would be nice to read a few tales.

Absolutely, yes please!
I would love to read it if you want to write it!

Eh. Sure.

I mean yes!

1220, shortly after Solstice, Shadgard

The pale Desumbar sunlight crept its way over the overcrowded table, along the oak floorboards, and onto the slender hands of the man. The hands were folded, one inside the other, over a faded gray blanket thrown haphazardly over the end of a long, low sofa.

“Bout time you got here,” said the man on the sofa.

The late afternoon light was blocked out temporarily by a pair of short shadows, before the sturdy oak door was closed and darkness returned to the room.

“Sorry sir,” piped one of the shadows, “but Barette forgot to rent the handcart!”

A good-natured elbow was thrown into a set of ribs and was met almost instinctively by the intentional application of an open palm to the back of a tousled head.

“Come on now,” said the man on the couch. “Knock it off before there’s a full-on brawl. What you got for me?”

“Freshest flour they had,” said the shadow named Barette. “And I didn’t forget to get the handcart! I had it, but someone went and took it.”

“Yeah,” said the man on the couch. “That’ll happen when your attention’s turned.”

“They had bananas,” said the first shadow. “You like bananas, right?”

“I hate ‘em,” said Barett. “You know that, Darbi.”

“I hate ‘em, too!”

“It’s a good thing,” sighed the man on the couch, “that neither of you are invited for supper. Now, I’m paying for the delivery lads, not for the horse and pony show.”

The light came and went, and after some time the deliveries were set. Flour and fruit was stacked near kindling and cloth. Packets of coffee and tea were packed away next to salt and herbs. All the while, the man stayed on the couch, hands folded together, watching with a calm eye.

“Three hundred riln,” called Barette. “If you don’t mind, sir.”

The man on the couch flicked something towards the boy, who caught it.

“Do we look stupid?”

“You shouldn’t be particularly hopeful that I answer that,” said the man on the couch.

“This in’t riln,” complained Darbi. “It’s a rock!”

“You said riln,” added Barette. “Not rocks.”

The man on the couch sighed. “It’s a sapphire, loveable idiots. Good cut, nice blue-green color. Sell it out at market and you’ll make more than the three hundred riln.”

Barette and Darbi shook their tousled heads. “You said riln.”

The man on the couch sighed and flicked a purse their way. “Where’s your sense of adventure? Where’s your wonder?”

“Da says that adventure is just what you do when you got nothing better to fill your day.”

The light flooded in again. The shadows left. As the door closed, the final sliver of early evening reflected harshly against the gleaming blades of two shortswords hung above the empty fireplace.

The man on the couch shook his head, once. Resolutely. And then went back to sitting, hands folded in one another on the faded gray blanket, his eyes lost in the gloom.

1216, fall, Shadgard Plains

It was two bells pre-zenith on a cold Octum morning, and Jasan DeTure was in trouble again.

The boards of the square ebonwood table were smooth and worn, stained here and there with the remnants of drinks. Jasan could feel the grooves in between the planks through the ragged wool elbows of his coat.

“S’my friends,” Jasan grumbled to himself. He sat hunched, his jaw wedged into the palm of an upturned hand. “This table, friend. This beer? Friend.”

“You,” he slurred, craning his head to look up at the enormous woman towering over him. “friend? Maybe?”

“Gartura,” said the well-dressed man sitting across from Jasan, “we don’t need to make a scene here.”

“See,” interjected Jasan. “Thas the spirit, in’t? Issa friends havin fun.”

The behemoth did not move.

“You smell like ham,” muttered Jasan.

“Where,” asked the well-dressed man with the tone of a question painstakingly repeated, “is my die?”

His overcoat was a mocha brown, his tailcoat and trousers a warm tan. His cravat was a deep blood red, perfectly matching the glittering diamond in his ear.

“Dunno whatchya mean, Misser Fetaricci,” said Jasan. “Ya got a dice in your hand there.” He guffawed and looked up at the behemoth. “Eeeeeee’s been drinkin, don’tchya think, lady Ham?”

The behemoth was unamused.

“My die,” said Mr. Fetaricci, “is a custom-tooled diamond piece with amethyst pips.”

“You’re an amethyst pip,” muttered Jasan. He snorted to himself.

“This,” said Fetaricci, tapping on the item in his hand, “is a rock. With numbers written on it in chalk.”

“And you think I dun took your die,” asked Jasan? “I am offended!” He began gesticulating wildly with his free hand and upending a near-by tankard. “Oh, bison pie.” He lunged to try to catch the tankard and, as he did, something glittering fell out of the cuff of his sleeve.

The purple and pale cream object dropped onto the floor with a click. The room, already quiet, seemed to stand perfectly still.

“Well,” muttered Jasan as he pushed himself to his feet, “I think it’s time for me to get a good sleep. Busy day in the mornin. Lots of… uh… foxes.”

Jasan shuffled through the room, feeling the two sets of eyes boring into his back. He lurched past the bar, tossing a bag of riln as he went, and made his way laboriously up the stairs.

“Rest well, sir,” called the attendant at the front desk.

“Jolly good,” Jasan called back.

After tripping over the top step, he lumbered down the dimly lit hallway, wheezing to himself. “Ham,” he muttered, giggling.

Pain exploded on the back of his skull. The next moment, Jasan found himself sprawled on the floor, while kicks like storm waves rained on his ribs. He did his best to fight back, but given his state he could only flail and twitch. After what felt like hours, he was hoisted up and held, his arms curled behind his back.

“I don’t appreciate jokes,” said Mr. Fetaricci, his face inches from Jasan’s, skin pale in the torchlight rising up from the lobby below.

“Coulda fooled me, what with that overcoat,” Jasan snorted. One of his teeth was loose.

Jasan felt one of his arms let free for a moment before thundering pain exploded in his kidney.

“You attempted to steal from me,” said the pale face. “You were disrespectful.”

“Your breath smells like a wet coydog took a nap in a pile of dwaedn’s socks.”

The behemoth released Jasan’s arm again, and Jasan took the opportunity. He hauled off and placed a punch directly into Fetaricci’s nose. And, missed. His hand flailed near the man’s ear, scrabbling ineffectively at his cheek and eye.

Floor and ceiling spun and Jasan’s breath exploded out of his lungs. He squinted up to see Fetaricci and the behemoth looming over him. As he watched, the behemoth produced a gnarled weighted length of wood.

Jasan tried to roll and made a half turn before his miserable muscles seized and left him half-curled on his side, looking up at his attackers. They stood menacing at the top of the stairs, backlit by the chandelier below. Jasan could hear a roar of conversation below as what sounded like the rowdiest group at the bar made their way through the foyer. The cudgel rose.

Jasan looked up, blinked blood out of his eye, and gave the soft wool rug under the two a hard yank. Mr. Fetaricci flailed for balance, accidentally throwing an elbow into the behemoth’s gut. The two toppled down the stairs with a whale, bone thumping on every step. Cries sounded from below, along with the desk clerk’s cry of “Oh, Serafina’s light, call a healer!”

Everyone was focused on the pile of limbs and bruises at the bottom of the stairs, so nobody caught the shadow drop from above and roll to its feet. Nobody caught the open double doors twitch wide.

Jasan smirked as he ambled down the center of the road. The moonlight reflected on his smile, the blood on the side of his face, and on the perfect crimson red diamond in the ear-stud. Looking proud, Jasan jabbed it into his own ear and paused to admire his reflection in the lake. “Worth it,” he muttered, adjusting his coat.

As he turned back to home, he saw a rider making its way towards him. Jasan pulled the brim of his hat lower over his eyes and slunk to one side, making plenty of room for the rider to pass. But the rider stopped his horse and waited perfectly still in the middle of the road.

“How’s it goin,” called Jasan, making his voice light and breezy. He twitched his wrist just so, allowing the hilt of a kukri to drop into his waiting palm, blocked from view by the long sleeves of his jacket.

The rider was enveloped in a long cloak, the face lost in shadow in a round-looking greathelm. The shadow said nothing.

“There some sorta cost for this road, because I’m happy to pay.”

The shadow lifted two long arms to its helm and removed it. Jasan saw the broad shoulders, the flowing cloak, and where the helm had been removed, nothing but moonlight. The shadow reached to the saddle before it and began to draw a long, wicked-looking scythe.

Jasan’s heart sunk. His jaw dropped.

It was three bells pre-zenith on a cold Octum morning, and Jasan DeTure was in trouble again.

Love this.

It seems trouble finds Jasan faster than a Viali can say "Serafina's torch." ;) Very beautifully written as always; I particularly love the hints to the specific location without it being directly stated, and the ominous suggestion of lore to the glimpse of the nameless final character. Thank you for sharing!