RichGreen
Adventurer
A Parsantium Tale
A very short story
Glyn Merryfield shook the wyvernbone dice together, bouncing them around in his pudgy, sweaty hand. He was one throw away, just one throw, from solving all his problems. For months Sarla had been talking about owning a “proper” tavern, somewhere on dry land, in the Makers Ward perhaps. Even the Poor Ward would be better than a floating hulk in the middle of the boat-town of Flotsam. The Fat Grouper wasn’t good enough for her. She deserved better. They both did. He'd spent enough time serving drinks to the fishermen, dockworkers and other losers that lived in Flotsam, and renting out his leaky houseboats to those who couldn't afford a proper roof over their heads. He was standing at the threshold of a bright new future.
He rattled the dice again. The twinkling magical lights inside Fahil’s made the faces of the other players glow in strange colours – giving them a greenish, reddish or purple tinge. Just one throw and his shrewish wife would be happy. Well, maybe not truly happy he supposed, but he would have some brief respite from the constant nagging as she planned where they would move to. How about The Blue Wolf? It was a lot better than the Grouper.
“Get on with it, halfling! Make your bloody throw!” slurred a nearby sailor. Glyn shook again and then let go. The dice tumbled on to the dark blue baize, rolling over and over, before striking the back of the table and settling into place.
“Naga’s Eyes!” called the stickman as his wooden rake gathered in all the coins on the table and swept away Glyn’s hopes and dreams. This can’t be happening, he thought, as he trudged away from the table, down the gangplank of Fahil’s Floating Palace and into the cold night air. I’ve lost everything. How in Anwyn’s name do I stop my wife finding out?
A very short story
Glyn Merryfield shook the wyvernbone dice together, bouncing them around in his pudgy, sweaty hand. He was one throw away, just one throw, from solving all his problems. For months Sarla had been talking about owning a “proper” tavern, somewhere on dry land, in the Makers Ward perhaps. Even the Poor Ward would be better than a floating hulk in the middle of the boat-town of Flotsam. The Fat Grouper wasn’t good enough for her. She deserved better. They both did. He'd spent enough time serving drinks to the fishermen, dockworkers and other losers that lived in Flotsam, and renting out his leaky houseboats to those who couldn't afford a proper roof over their heads. He was standing at the threshold of a bright new future.
He rattled the dice again. The twinkling magical lights inside Fahil’s made the faces of the other players glow in strange colours – giving them a greenish, reddish or purple tinge. Just one throw and his shrewish wife would be happy. Well, maybe not truly happy he supposed, but he would have some brief respite from the constant nagging as she planned where they would move to. How about The Blue Wolf? It was a lot better than the Grouper.
“Get on with it, halfling! Make your bloody throw!” slurred a nearby sailor. Glyn shook again and then let go. The dice tumbled on to the dark blue baize, rolling over and over, before striking the back of the table and settling into place.
“Naga’s Eyes!” called the stickman as his wooden rake gathered in all the coins on the table and swept away Glyn’s hopes and dreams. This can’t be happening, he thought, as he trudged away from the table, down the gangplank of Fahil’s Floating Palace and into the cold night air. I’ve lost everything. How in Anwyn’s name do I stop my wife finding out?