[Nishinoya's] Skål

[Straken]

Osaka
Nishinoya's Pub
One Month before Siege

The day had been a long one, and it had been a hot one. Summer in Japan was at full tilt, and Ruarc had decided today was a good one to need some earthwork done; all while that convenient magical badger was off helping someone else. So of course the worst of the backbreaking labor had been handled by Skarnir; who had whiled away the day chopping down expendable timbers from the hillside across the river, hauled them down, crossed the river, and then lugged them back up the otherside. Ten times. Now however the work day was over. Ruarc had finished his project before returning to his soft little cottage, while Skarnir had elected to lounge in the river for a time.

Braced by cool waters and relieved of the feeling of stale sweat, the Norseman left the river, dressed, and began making his way back up to the school grounds. Despite how relatively cool the forest air was, he and his damp clothes had completely dried by the time he topped the hill. Smacking his lips together he found himself desiring a refreshing drink. Collecting his gear from Ruarc’s shed, Skarnir found his tankard and figured he could just down a few pints on the way home; but where was the fun in that. After a day like the one he’d had, it was best to drink and chat with someone. The question was who. A look through the window showed Ruarc chatting with his protege and her roommate; so the druid was out. Brenya was likely already home with her family, and likely not interested in shooting the shit with a random staff member; and the same could be said about most all of the staff of Safeholme. He worked here, at least technically, but they still mostly avoided him; a matter for which he didn’t fault them. It still got lonely, the whole drinking alone thing. Since it was frowned upon to drink around the students, he had few people in the area with whom he actually seemed to get along. So with a traveling hefted upon his shoulder, rough tunic and belted trousers billowing slightly in the gentle breeze, Skarnir set out.

It was a mild walk compared to travels he had endured in the past; the walk from Safeholme to the bar, Nishinoya's. Ignoring the pretty standard amount of stares he usually received when walking around a city, the Nord entered the establishment and immediately paused to revel in the stark contrast in the air. The hot and humid air outside gave way to the conditioned air inside that immediately left his skin feeling momentarily chilled and clammy. It felt marvelous. Making eye contact with the bartender, he gave a polite nod of greeting before moving to sit at a corner booth. While yes, he usually preferred to sit at the rail, today he felt like pampering himself and sitting with some back support. A young elf server came to welcome him and ask if he wanted anything to eat or drink.

“Øl, and I brought my own cup,” Skarnir responded with a broad smile as he planted his three pint tankard onto the table. The server looked about to say something before sighing and taking the tankard. Content with the atmosphere, Skarnir settled in for some proper relaxation.

[Kokuten]

It had been a month or so since Eryl started to come to Nishinoya’s before going back home to G’dansk. After a particularly difficult visit to a friend, she found herself unable to immediately return to the odor of acrid, menthol cigarettes; unctuous, unwashed sweat; and the raw energy of primal soldiery that took place in Jadwiga’s bar at the Motława River Lodge. Every visit since, she had started to punctuate her stays in Japan at Nishinoya's. She didn’t want to go back to reality just yet; her escapes weren’t the same kind of escapes they had been before. There was a mild tension now that she couldn’t scrub out of her mind. Thankfully, you could always count on Nishinoya's.

“Eryl,” greeted Yu, and gave the triclops a big, warm grin as she stepped in through the door. She had jumped, realizing that she had become quite the regular now. “How is Jane?”

“Mr. Nishi— Er Nishinoya-san,” the triclops stumbled mentally and physically as she made her way to a stool. She set a small back-pack at her feet, and let her fine boots sway gently as she considered her response. “Jane is… fine... She seems distracted… lately…”

“Ever thought about a change of pace?”

“Such as?”

“She comes to visit you.”

Eryl’s head thunked against the bar, and Yu laughed as she hid her reddening face in her arms. The orc began to pull down a narrow glass from the hangers and started with a bottle of gin. “The usual?”

“Yes…” answered Eryl from her folded arms.

“You could work at that school, the teachers frequent this place. Might make your trips shorter.”

“My credentials might make me… incompatible.”

A gimlet was slid over just enough to brush on one of the triclops’ fingers, and she lifted her head enough to steal a glance with her top eye. The orc smiled again at her.

“Safeholme takes all kinds. You know that,” Yu shot a glance in Skarnir’s direction, before going back to other customers.

[Straken]

The return of his tankard was a glorious thing. Three pints of beer with the perfect amount of foam. Placing his hand under the handle and around the mug, he hefted the vessel and began to drink happily at it. It was a crisp Japanese beer, but he didn’t particularly mind. It was still tasty, and the bottom of the tankard gradually began to angle away from the tabletop before Skarnir felt eyes on him. Looking over the metal lip of carved wooden tankard he could see Yu speaking to a woman. A familiar woman. Or maybe she just seemed familiar. This was going to bother him something fierce, but thankfully he had a solution.

Never one to be bashful or shy, the burly Nord stood up from his seat, beer in hand, and walked over to the bar.With a heavy thunk he sat the tankard down on the bar next to Eryl. Visibly squinting as he unabashedly looked like he was trying to recognize her, Skarnir remembered his manners.

“Pardon,” Skarnir’s voice was a heavy bass that rumbled out of his chest. “I thought I recognized you. Not many triclops around.”

[Kokuten]

Eryl had been in the process of taking her first sip when Skarnir had impressed his will upon the bar. With a shuddering stillness that spoke of fight or flight, Eryl snapped to a frozen posture with the glass to her mouth. First, her three eyes trailed down to the tankard, then up to the man’s chest, and then up, up, up into his eyes. Skarnir did not know her, probably, but the Lodge Witch knew him, by account only. Percival had told her to avoid a viking for the time being until she had worked up a better reputation with Ruarc and the school.

She had been told he was a beast of a man, but the words didn’t do justice for the sheer way her heart fluttered. Was it admiration? Fear? A little bit of both? The coupe glass was still pressed to her lips, and she looked around the lounge to see if anyone else could see him.

The elven waitress went by, giving him a passing glance before moving on.

He’s real.

Skarnir found Eryl’s three, unnaturally blue eyes staring up at him again.

I should probably say something.

Finally, she pulled her drink from her lips. She blinked her eyes, and in a flutter, he could’ve sworn that they were gold for a moment between flashes. There were no spells past that he could sense, but she suddenly looked more at ease.

“You don’t know me, I don’t think, but I know you,” the words came out in a soft, small way, “Skarnir Far-field. You work at Safeholme, or at least you did today.”

[Straken]

Skarnir cocked an eyebrow as Eryl's eyes charged. For as brief as it was, Skarnir was seasoned at dealing with mages, and considering he had approached this woman out of the blue it was understandable that she would take her own precautions. A quick mental checklist helped him confirm he hadn't been charmed, so it was likely something on her end. Then she spoke his name which caused his other eyebrow to rise.

"Now I feel I should apologize for not knowing," Skarnir reached up with his free hand and scratched at his beard self-consciously.

[Kokuten]

Oh damn, I've gone and made it awkward.

Eryl turned, leaned against the bar, and crossed her legs. It was a pose that radiated confidence illegitimately. Her body needed to move to think of a way to fix this, without explicitly admiting she just gleaned his mind. It had been so long since she had needed to use her true-sight that it just happened.

"Certainly not!" laughed the triclops, nervously, "I don't... It's not your fault. I'm... I--... You're very... Large... Haaahmmm..."

Spindly fingers drummed along the surface of the table and Eryl's smile slowly drained away. Her lounging posture became stilted, and her shoulders slumped. Dishonesty only fed the nagging guilt and made the feeling worse.

"I'm sorry. I'm not very good at this, Mr. Far-Field. I glimpsed your mind for a familiar memory and I saw Mr. Flynn. Er... Ruarc. You were both working on something, and shirtless," Eryl's eyes slowly began to trail aside, "Not that that's important for this conversation."

The triclops slowly rotated herself to face the man squarely, "Let's start over, I'm Eryl Maelgwyn. Hexer Lodge Witch, Associate of Safeholme, and very, terribly bad at introductions."

[Straken]

A hearty belly laugh came from Skarnir as he listened to Eryl.

"I am indeed very large," the Nord spoke almost wistfully, sounding as though it wasn't the first time that had been said during introductions. "Flynn has me on height, but I have him on brawn."

The man relaxed as he leaned his back against the bar with his elbows resting on the rail. For as imposing as Skarnir appeared, he was rather similar to Alva, Ruarc's mastiff pup; kind of intimidating, but otherwise warm, friendly, and entirely to much hair. In the back his mind he did make note of the comment glimpsed your mind, along with her name. She had been a one time enemy, now reformed, and capable of looking into one's mind. So that had been the thing with her eyes. So long as all she'd gotten out of it was an image of him and Flynn without shirts on, then it was harmless enough. Considering her full introduction, Skarnir turned partway to return the greeting.

"Pleasure, ma'am. I'm Skarnir, handyman and warrior of legend," Skarnir boasted with a broad smile that showed it was more for fun than for bragging. "Now, if you're interested, I have a booth over that way. You are welcome to join me, Miss Maelgwyn. Its cozier, and I always welcome drinking companions."

[Kokuten]

That familiar repulsion arose when the idea of consumption with others came up. If Eryl could only count the number of times a gaggle of babushkas had peer-pressured her into drinking games. Then, there were the late nights where Jadwiga would coax her into polishing off a couple of bottles after hours. She would even get drinks pressed into her hands by grateful hexers celebrating life and victory. It never started quietly, and it always devolved into a competition she would inevitably lose with her weak constitution.

Yet, Skarnir's invitation felt more warm and welcoming, a little like a friend tugging you off the wall at a dance. His warm demeanor was encouraging, and, after all, Eryl always wanted more friends. She had found herself wordlessly gathering her backpack and drink and following this vikingr back to his table.

After all, he was terribly polite after her rude introduction, but something about the exchange stood out to her.

"You know, your name is very interesting," piped Eryl, planting herself on the side opposite of him. "I could swear that I've heard my fathers mention it before, but they are both very old. Did you have a grandfather in the second world war? Perhaps an ancestor who fought in Crimea?"

[Straken]

Lounging back in his own part of the booth, Skarnir casually lifted the tankard and looked as though he were remembering days gone. Slightly distant and unfocused, his amber eyes looked off into the distance as though they could see straight through the walls of Nishinoya’s. A range of emotions crossed his face in that time; pride, severity, and remorse showing most clearly. Finally after a handful of moments the large man leaned forward and rested his arms on the table.

“Nasty business, those two,” Skarnir said, his voice sounding rough. “So many unnecessary dead. Ineptitude in the command. I remember Sevastopol, how bitter the winds were when the news of Balaclava reached the Siege lines, and how much colder that Winter became as that siege drug on. That Lord Tennyson never wrote about the frozen dead in the trenches, didn’t have the same flair as the Noble Six Hundred. Now, World War Two, that was grim business too. The battlefield, so much opportunity for glory. To stand defiant in the face of such unrestrained evil, to stand up for those who could not stand themselves. Never saw Normandy or the Beaches, but just the thought of charging those lines…”

Skarnir closed his eyes and took a deep breath, not continuing until after he exhaled.

“I was in Norway for most of it; the War. Had to go home. Helped with the Motstandsbevegelsen; the Resistance. That one was personal, not for glory.”

Taking a swig of his beer, Skarnir refocused on Eryl.

“Apologies, I can ramble. Tell me of your father… er… fathers. What wars were they in? Crimea? You don’t look old enough to have had a father in Crimea.”

[Kokuten]

As soon as Eryl had asked, she immediately regretted it. What a silly question to ask. Who in the world would be tracking their genealogy back to the 1800s? Much less care to reminisce of it in a night lounge like this? She took his silence and melancholy as boredom, and began to fidget.

That is, until he started to speak.

Her eyes began to blink as the realness of his experience echoed memories of her own. She remembered reading letters from her father, assuring her little heart that the horrors of war weren’t real, at least not where he was. He wrote of place names and battles that he claimed he was far from, but knew too much about.

”You don’t look old enough to have had a father in Crimea.”

“And you don’t look old enough to sound like you’ve lived through Crimea first-hand, but appearances can be deceiving, it seems,” Eryl straightened herself as the somber man regarded her. It didn’t look like Skarnir wanted to remember the things he was seeing in his mind, but the triclops didn’t know how to change the subject. If anything, she wanted to know more.

And, moreover, she loved talking about her father.

“If we’re being forthright, you are correct, I am only twenty-six,” Eryl puffed her hair daintly with a gentle hand and a coy smile, “but I was actually born in 1846. I suffer from a condition known as Temporal Dissonance. Due to… ah… uhm… certain circumstances, I live in this era now. So, yes, my father, Colonel, then Captain, Theobald Maelgwyn of the 3rd Dragoon Guards, rode in Crimea under a different regiment’s banner.”

It was then that she chose that moment to take a sip from her drink.

“He rode, chasing glory, but always fell behind the regiments that bled into legends as heroes. It was his unfortunate, perhaps fortunate, character trait; being placed in reserve for his reliable, yet calculating mentality. He always knew when to rush to a bad situation, but never had that foolhardy brashness that made him a forward commander. Better for strategy, not for tactics, he’d always say.”

Eryl laughed, taking another sip from her coupe, “That would be his excuse, though! ‘They’d take Evans, but not I, if only I had less of a brain and more of a heart I’d be bleeding with the best of them!’ Ha ha ha! What a silly man, wishing he were more stupid just to be in danger. How glad I was that he was so smart. I read he lived to be eighty-five.”

It was then she realized she had been talking for a while and the self-consciousness in her began to grow. She looked at her hand, reddening with embarrassment, “I–... You probably don’t care about that. You probably never knew my father, he was so mild-mannered, he–… he… Wait…”

She looked at him, wondering, “How would you know my father, and fight in the Second World War?”