• Solo • I'm lookin' for the one they call "The Cassion Kid"

[Oram Mednix]

20 Ashan, Arc 721

Wreathed with a cloud of trail dust, the mule and rider paused before the curious saloon known as the “Lemon Messy”. The stranger pushed back his light-colored straw hat to squint at the building in the bright sunlight. He turned briefly to one side to spit out a mouthful of dust, then spurred forward his mount, the mule known as “Mule”, to stalk slowly towards the saloon until he was nearly upon it.

A man in a broad-brimmed hat, much like the stranger’s own, only darker, sat against the arching inverted hull that framed the ‘Messy’s entrance. His head was lowered so that his face was hidden, as he hunched over a guitar on which he strummed random snatches of tune. From time to time, puffs of smoke billowed out from beneath the hat, suggesting the man was smoking. He paid the mule and rider no heed even after they loomed close enough to cast their shadow over him.

The rider waited a while for acknowledgment, but the other man continued to play his instrument until the rider spoke. ”Excuse me,” he said, his voice still hoarse from the trail dust, ”you Tarnborg? Because I’m looking for Tarnborg.”

The guitarist ceased his playing and slowly raised his head to reveal a tanned, lined face with a thin mustache and cold, gray, slitted eyes. With a languid calm he removed a cigarette from his unsmiling mouth to regard the stranger looming over him on his mule. If he was intimidated, or even curious, his expression gave no indication. After blowing out a puff of smoke at length, he asked in a cool, level voice: ”Who wants to know?”

The rider touched the brim of his hat. ”Name’s Mednix. Oram Mednix, from Scalvoris,” he answered.

Without taking his gaze off Oram, the guitarist leaned back with smooth deliberation against the archway behind him. ”Mednix. Oram Mednix, from Scalvoris,” he repeated in a dry drawl. ”Can’t say I’ve heard of you, and I know lots of people from those parts.”

”So, are you Tarnborg? I asked you before,” the rider repeated.

The guitarist’s expression hardened, and his gaze froze to an icy glare. A pregnant silence grew, as neither man spoke nor stirred, steadily holding each other’s eyes. From somewhere far overhead came the pealing cry of an eagle.

Suddenly, after several trills, the guitarist barked out a laugh. ”Heh! Do I look like the proprietor of this place to you? Nah, I’m not Tarnborg. Name’s Klepe. Leevan Klepe.” He jerked a thumb towards the saloon. ”Tarnborg’s inside, like he usually is. Gettin’ the place ready for tonight. Or cleaning up the mess from last night, more like. Go on in. I’m sure he’ll talk to you, whatever your business is, Oram Mednix from Scalvoris.”

His manner suddenly relaxed, the man leaned back forward as he resumed strumming his guitar. ”’You Tarnborg?’” he repeated with a chuckle, shaking his head. With a scowl, Oram dismounted and hitched Mule to a post in front of the saloon, then stepped inside to the unconcerned accompaniment of Leevan’s guitar.

[Oram Mednix]

A mysterious stranger walked into a bar…

Gloom closed over the stranger as he stalked into the Lemon Messy, and the sunlight that had born down on him as he rode now slanted in wan shafts through the smoky air to form isolated pools on the dark-planked floor. Oram stood for a while at the entrance, his shadow stretching across the floor at least twice the length of his body; he let his eyes adjust to the new light until he could better see his surroundings.

This front area formed a patio of sorts; the arch behind Oram was open to the elements, and slats had been removed from the inverted boat’s hull on either hand at various heights to admit light and air. For all that, it was noticeably dimmer here than just a few paces back, and the space collected smoke and smells and sounds given off by the patrons, a number of whom were drinking, eating, and talking here even now.

Farther back stood a bulkhead, separating the patio from the rest of the saloon. Batwing doors hung in a dark entranceway, from which issued even more-concentrated smoke and -raucous sounds. Some of the patrons stopped talking to watch Oram as he stalked across the patio towards this door. His boots thudded on the wooden planks with a dull, steady rhythm, free of the tell-tale chime of spurs; he didn’t use those when he rode Mule. He paused several trills just outside the batwing doors, resting his left hand on one of them, peering into the even gloomier, smokier back room.

The room was cramped and crowded. In spite of this, the patrons within were much more lively than those on the patio; someone in the back played a fiddle while a few people danced a jig in the middle of floor. Other patrons lined the walls, mostly watching the dancers, laughing, commenting, cheering. Some clapped in time with the music. Some others clapped not so in-time with the music. None of them paid the stranger outside the doorway any attention. At length, Oram swung the batwings apart and stepped within. No one paid the stranger inside the doorway any attention, either.

With a sigh, Oram approached a heavy-set man slouching in a corner. The man turned from watching the dancers to eye him curiously. Oram stood in front of him motionlessly for several trills, his spear held upright in one hand. Then, slowly, he lowered it level, pointing it in the general direction of the patron, who eyed it apprehensively. ”Who’s the fella owns this shithole?” he asked coldly. ”You, fat man, speak up!”

The patron scowled and opened his mouth, but before he could speak a gruff voice behind Oram announced: ”I own this establishment. And I’ll not have you insulting nor threatening my customers, stranger.” Startled, Oram jerked his spear upright and whirled around to look at a large, scarred and tattooed man standing between him and the swinging doors he had just entered. Behind him, those doors were living up to their name, swinging back and forth. The man must have been in the front room and followed Oram in. Abashed, Oram realized he must have walked right past him, boots thudding on the wooden planks with a dull steady rhythm, free of the -oh, dammit!

”Sorry about that,” he said. ”I didn’t mean to threaten anybody, I was just trying to find you.”

The proprietor gazed appraisingly at him for several trills, then a grin of recognition wriggled across his scarred and tattoed face.

”You be Oram Mednix!” he declared. ”Hunted hares and martens in the Sweetvine.”

”That’s right,” responded Oram. ”I’ve hunted hares and martens. I’ve hunted just about everything that walks or crawls on this island at one time or another. And now I’m here to hunt you down, Tarnborg, to ask you about rumors I’ve heard about you.”

”That so?” drawled the proprietor. ”Well, first you’ll need to put aside that weapon.”

Oram glanced up at his spear with a start. ”What, oh! Of course, sorry.”

As he slunk out to stow his spear, the stranger’s boots thudded on the wooden planks with a dull, steady rhythm.

[Oram Mednix]

Scalveen Standoff at High Mid-trial

Bright sunlight and road dust awaited Oram as he emerged from the smoke-filled bar. Leevan Klepe, who had not stirred from his seat by the entrance, touched the brim of his hat in greeting.

”You find what you were lookin’ for?” the guitarist asked as Oram went over to Mule to stow his spear.

The traveler pursed his lips wryly. ”Not yet. Still lookin’” he answered laconically.

”Well, you shouldn’t have to look too much farther, stranger,” came a voice behind him.

Oram turned slowly to regard the hulking, tatooed saloonkeeper, who lounged against the archway with his arms crossed, regarding him coolly. The traveler had not heard Tarnborg following him out.

”You said you wanted to talk to me. Let’s talk. Settle this man to man, out here in the street.”

He strode down from his porch onto the dusty road, stopping to stand facing Oram square, hands held out to his side.

Oram turned slowly to face him likewise. For several trills, they stood thus. Bystanders scrambled to give them a wide birth, to make their way into the safety of their homes and businesses. Up and down the vacated street, all of Egilrun held its breath, as anxious yet curious townsfolk peered through ajar windows at the two men outside. All except Leevan, who continued to sit on the patio with his guitar, watching the standoff with a wry, amused expression.

The traveler spoke first. ”Rumor has it you’re a mortal born,” he said, eyes narrowing. ”Son of Cassion, to be specific. That true, Tarnborg?”

The saloonkeeper returned Oram’s gaze unflinchingly. ”Yeah, that’s the rumor. Maybe it’s true. You sayin’ it ain’t so?”

The traveler spat to one side without taking his eyes off of Tarnborg. ”Well, I ain’t saying anything yet. But I reckon I could find out. I’ve met him, you see.”

”Cassion? That so?”

”Yeah. Crossed paths more than once, in fact. And last time, he gave me this.” Slowly, Oram held up his forearms and pulled back one of his sleeves to reveal a long, jagged scar on the right one. The saloonkeeper’s eyes bulged as he watched. A tense silence followed, punctuated by a strummed guitar chord, and another eagle’s cry.

”I reckon I might see him again, soon enough,” Oram continued, still displaying the mark. ”Maybe I’ll ask him about you. About your mom. What’s her name?”

Tarnborg’s eyes snapped up from Oram’s forearm to his face, flashing with anger. ”You leave my mother out of this! She’s got nothing to do with it!”

The stranger eyed the saloonkeeper appraisingly, then gave a knowing grin. ”No, I reckon she hasn’t. Because you’re no son of the Wanderer, I’ll wager. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Tarnborg’s expression shifted from anger to worry. Darting a quick glance from side to side, he stepped in closer to Oram. ”Put that thing away!” he hissed. ”You want the whole town to hear? I can’t have everyone knowing, okay?”

Oram rolled his sleeve back up. ”Why you tellin’ people you are, if you ain’t?” he asked.

The saloonkeeper scoffed. ”Why do you think? It brings in business. Brought you in, didn’t it? All the way from Scalvoris!” A hint of pride started to seep into Tarnborg’s tone.

Oram shrugged. ”Well, you’re secret’s safe with me. You want to go around saying you’re Cassion’s son, that’ on you. I reckon the Man of Roads won’t care. If anything he’ll think it’s funny.”

”So, we square?” Tarnborg demanded. ”Did you want money or something?”

Oram shook his head. ”I just said, your secret’s safe with me. Wouldn’t mind some of your lemon beer, though. Wandering the roads is thirsty work.”

A relieved grin wormed its way across Tarnborgs scar-and-tatoo-lined face. ”Deal,” he said with sudden brightness. ”Let’s get you that drink.”

As the two men filed back into the Lemon Messy, townsfolk slowly and tentatively emerged from their refuges and gradually resumed their normal activities. Quietly, Leevan Klepe strummed his guitar and sang his sad, sad song.

[Oram Mednix]

How I met your (alleged) father

The mug landed on the counter before the stranger with a hearty clunk. ”Thank you,” he said, peering up at the saloonkeeper for a trill before picking up and examining the famed lemon beer. After a moment, he took a draught, then set the mug down with a pleased expression. ”That’s good.” He leaned back and regarded Tarnborg. ”So, what’s the story with you and Cassion? How’d he come to be your father?”

The question drew some awkward guffaws from around the bar, but Tarnborg met them with a knowing smirk. ”Same way anybody becomes a father, I imagine,” he replied, which drew more chortles from the other patrons. ”Maybe you’d like me to explain it to you?”

Oram sighed and shook his head, partly at disgust at himself for walking so awkwardly into an obvious trap, and partly because, well, Tarnborg’s story just would not do. ”See, that’s no good,” he responded. ”Cassion would *not* be pleased with hearing a son of his talking like that. You gotta tell a *story*, man, set the stage, spin it out.”

Tarnborg eyed him steadily. He had regained pretty much all his former assurance since he had stepped back into the bar. Apparently he sensed that Oram meant to keep his word about keeping his secret. The taverner leaned on the bar. ”You reckon you can show me how I should do that?” he challenged. ”You claim that you met the Wanderer. How about you tell me that story.” The bar patrons within earshot fell silent, though much of the Lemon Messy continued with its wonted revelry.

Oram took another pull of his lemon beer, then sat back, collecting his thoughts a moment. When he spoke, to his own surprise, the story came out smoothly, as if he’d practiced telling it before: ”It was Vhalar of 719, and I was on Faldrass,” he began, spreading his hands out as if opening up the panels on a marionette theater. ”I was traveling by foot with my mule and pack goats to the north of the island, looking for the famous Baron von Smooglenuff.”

Tarnborg nodded. ”I heard of him. Keep goin’.” Oram continued:

”I’d been walking around the foot of that volcano for two trials; I’d searched high and low and had yet to find a route to the northeast. The roots of Faldrass go all the way into the water there, so you can’t just follow the beach up north from there, apparently. Now, I know how to take care of myself in the wilderness, so I wasn’t worried about having food or water or shelter. And I knew how to get back to where I’d started, so I wasn’t truly lost. But I *was* stymied, couldn’t find any way forward. I told myself I’d try for one more trial, then I’d go back home.

“That evening I’m sitting at the campfire, and I’m bored, so I start telling a story, the only audience I had was my animals: a mule and a goat.”

”You told stories to a goat?” someone at the bar asked incredulously. Oram nodded.

”No one else to talk to, nothin’ else to pass the time. Anyway, I tell my goats an old family legend about a haunted bumble bear pelt my great grandfather used to have, and how that story had something to do with where my family got its name.”

”And how did the goat like it?” the same patron asked.

”About like you’d expect. Stood there and blinked at me while he chewed on somethin’. But as soon as I finish the story, suddenly from the edge of my campfire comes this deep, loud laughter. I practically jump out of my skin and turn and look. There stood the biggest, scruffiest looking man I ever saw, like he’d always been there. He steps forward and says: ‘It is a good story,’ in this really deep voice and then just sits and makes himself at home at my campfire. Tells me his name is Si and sometimes he comes to the island to visit the Baron, same one I was looking for. Says he’ll show me the way the next trial.

“Well, needless to say, I’m quite thankful to Si, and ask if he wants food or shelter for that night, but when I look, he’s gone, vanished just as suddenly as he appeared. Next morning I get up, and there’s this path right outside my camp that I’m sure hadn’t been there the trial before, leading north. I follow it and within half a break, I was in front of the Baron von Smooglenuff’s manor. The big man never actually said he was Cassion, but a wise woman in my travelers’ camp that I told the story to later said that it could have been no other than the Man of Roads himself.”

Oram stopped, surprised at himself. That wasn’t exactly what had happened, although it resembled the actual events closely enough. The patrons who had been listening murmured, seemingly impressed. Awkwardly, Oram cleared his throat and looked back up at Tarnborg. ”Anyway, you gotta tell a story like that. Who knows? Your dad might come by and listen to it himself.” Oram took one more swig of his lemon beer and then got up. Without a word, he swept out of the Lemon Messy. Within a few bits, all anyone could see of the stranger was the silhouette of him and his mule, riding off into the sunset

[Shl'Drei]

Review Rewards

Character: Oram

Points Awarded: 10
Magic Applicable: Nah

Renown: +5

Knowledges:

• Detection x1
• Investigation x2
• Mount: Mule x1
• Storytelling x2

Skillplay:
✓ | Appropriate to level

Notes: Oh, Oram... It'd be easier to get answers if you don't start with threats. LOL That said, this was a nice and easy flow read. Oram felt a bit different from his CS descriptions, but no so much that it threw me off- kudos to you! I don't believe I mentioned it, but I always get a kick out of the headings just before the posts, though I'm sure others have. The two different standoffs in thread were different but no less eye catching- Leevan acting indifferent before finally the façade broke and he couldn't help but smile and Tamborg's intensity- *chefs kiss* One thing I need to touch on though; your CS thread list. That needs to be updated asap, we can't really process things correctly if it isn't. And if you have any questions or concerns don't hesitate to reach out