ALL NOVEL 66 – Fruit Right Hook
The room was somewhat of a donut design, with an outer floor-level layer and a large pit in the center, as well as a domed ceiling, and another side portion in the back whose depth could not be ascertained, as it seemed to have been repurposed to serve as a hybrid bar and kitchen. In the pit, a pale-skinned, scarred old man and an equally-scarred tan youngster were busy beating the daylights out of one another, their chests bared and their fists wrapped by linen. On the ceiling was a flaking-off mural depicting two pitch-black humanoid figures locked in a grapple and surrounded by red-orange flames. Portions of the room had chairs and tables, while others near what remained of the murals that had once covered the walls were sectioned off and had small shrines built.
It was partly filled by some two and a half dozen people, yet it felt like many more for the sheer variance. Ikesian, Grekurian, Kargarian, well-dressed, ragged, long-haired, bald, tattooed, armored, bearing guns or blades or maces… One had a stone right arm twice the size of his left covered in purple-glowing runes, another was entirely covered in grayish-beige clothing and had knives strapped all over his body, on belts, in his boots, and so forth. Even his face was covered by a bare wooden mask with eye holes, nose holes, and a cutout for the mouth. A few were praying at the shrines, each kneeling one one leg, making strange gestures, and murmuring a variety of prayers. Of course, the Old Man’s compatriots from the bridge were among these people, one sat at the edge of the pit while two others could be seen arguing with whoever stood behind the bar counter. A strange atmosphere of reverence filled this place, despite the fact one could see people playing dice at two tables.
“This was a church, once,” said the old man with reverence as he watched Zel and Zef take in their surroundings. “A shrine to the Third King, Kama’tok of Blazing Fires, he who hath supped of a dead sun’s bones. Here, in this holiest of places, we temper the blades with which the Empire shall be cut down.”
“By drinking and playing dice while you watch pit-fights that you bet on?” smirked Zel at the old one. He groaned as he looked at one of the tables with the dice-players, then took off walking along the chamber’s outer perimeter, gesturing for them to follow as he responded.
“Aye, this was also a gamblin’ ‘ouse after ‘twas a church. No bettin’ on anythin’ but fights with foreign money, ‘cause loads o’ the fighters were foreigners lookin’ to make some coin. That rule got turned on its head when those buffoons in the central bank killed our money. I’d love t’get my hands on that whoreson’s neck, wring from him the name of the zipperhead what put ‘im up to it...
By the many tables they walked, reaching the bar. Just behind the counter was a criss-crossing wall of bars, with a door to the right aligned with the counter’s own half-door, a large window in the center, and a metal loudener cone overhead. Zel had to fight herself to not look at them, to only take them in with her peripheral vision. None of them looked anything nearing wealthy, each wearing and carrying armor and weapons that had clearly seen heavy use. There was one she deigned to give a direct look, to outright stare and grin at him - that man from the speakeasy, with his broad sabre and boisterous aura, which instantly shrunk to nothing the moment his eyes met hers.
He had them sit down at the bar, his compatriots who also sat there nodding at them and raising their drinks. The first had a flagon of dark ale, the second a large glass of deep-red something with fruit floating in it. The latter looked considerably more drunk, and seemed considerably more eager to sip from his drink.
The barkeep came over, a cheerful-looking tan man with short black hair, sideburns, and blue eyes. Zel had to double-take, briefly seeing Quincy in his face, and when he spoke, he certainly sounded familiar. He nodded greetings to them, asking Zelsys with a nod towards the old man who had invited them here: “You old Berga’s substitute?”
Zel nodded and the barkeep smiled, nodding at her again, “So that’s a fight-brew for you, and…” That sealed in her mind the certainty that he was somehow related to Quincy. He looked over to Zef to finish his sentence, “...what’d the pretty lady’s pretty lady like?”
With an ever-so-slight blush, the markswoman leaned over and pointed at the red drink with fruit in it, “What’s that?”
“I call it the Fruit Right Hook. Two-fifths black cherry kompot, one-fifth strawberry juice, one-fifth water, one-fifth unbound alchemic ethanol by volume. It’ll get you sloshed faster than most ales n’ you won’t even notice,” the barkeep explained with audible love for the drink. Despite never having heard the term, Zelsys somehow remembered that unbound alchemic ethanol specifically referred to specially-treated pure alchemic ethanol, used in a manner that deprived it of an essentia to act as a vehicle for, thereby causing the ethanol itself to be metabolized far faster than its mundane counterpart.
Berga interrupted, cutting in with, “Hold off on the fight-brew, just get ‘er somethin’ normal. The other guy’s gonna be late, as he always is. Y’know how long it takes ‘im to draw that dumb fuckin’ sigil on ‘is chest...”
“...And he always refuses to admit it took him that long, yeah,” agreed Not-Quincy before once more turning his attention to Zel with a glowing smile. “Alright, you want something else? Just don’t get drunk before a fight, please.”
Zel smiled, “Sure, I’ll have a Fruit Right Hook.”
“It’ll be on you if you get drunk,” he sighed. “Can’t let you fight if you’re drunk.”
“The last time I tried to get drunk I went through half a barrel of ale without feeling anything,” she smugged. “If you’re that worried, just make one without the alcohol.”
Not-Quincy had already turned around by then and walked over to a large barrel set on a table, opening up the tap to release a red liquid into a glass. “No can do, we have the liquid portion pre-mixed and chilled with Gelum!” he yelled, scooping a couple cherries out of an already-opened kompot jar and dropping them into the drink. He then repeated the process for a second glass, and served them forth. The glasses were already frosty and radiated a tangible aura of cold, despite the absence of any ice. Gelum must’ve been the essentia of ice then, or some coincidentally-named cooling system.
“Four gelt,” he stated. “You can either pay now, have it subtracted from your winnings, or work it off.”
