Slam my fist upon you!

Trace my pen around you..

Draw the pencil 'cross the page

Flip the cover of the book

The one about the mage

Or was it the other? Fool of a took!

I spilled some milk...

Mom! Do you have a napkin!

It was chocolate milk I'm sorry...

Can I set the table?

Forks and knives?

Where's the dog?

Shoo him away!

Put that away!

Clear the table.

What a funny and sad thing to say, ha ha ha

I miss

Having a table.

(Cross posting this from a challenge I created and entered yesterday)

The dim, smoky glow of the tavern lanterns cast wavering shadows against the wooden walls. The oaken surfaces stained from years of spilt ale and drawn blood from drunken brawls.

The warm, yeasty scent of beer mingled with the tang of sweat and the faint note of rusty blades and daggers. Patrons spoke in hushed voices, keeping one eye on their drinks and if they were lucky enough to have a second, on whoever staggered in through the battered oak door.

I sat at my usual corner, back to the wall, nursing a tankard of bitter soured ale and shuffling a deck of Gwent cards that had seen better days. Each frayed at the edges and crease marks running their surfaces.

My reputation unfortunately preceded me, a trickster with nimble fingers and the sharpness of a knife hidden in the smile. Dagnar is the name and separating patrons from their coin the game.

A ripple of unease whispered through the room as the door creaked open on its half broken hinges. The cold forced itself in on a gust of frigid wind like a wicked omen. A precursor of a bad night on the dark horizon. He walked in, tall and pale, dressed in all black and silver, with the kind of presence that sucked the air from the lungs leaving one speechless. Scars crisscrossed his face, each line a history of violence. And surely a horrid tale that went hand in hand with its presence.

His eyes, those damned eyes, glowed like embers from the depths of a dying fire. A fire that didn’t need much prodding to become adequately stoked. I didn't need a name to know who this man was. A Witcher.

The chatter died down as he strode past tables of farmers and soldiers, boots thudding with the cadence of a death march. He halted by the hearth, the flicker of flames licking at his silhouette, and let his gaze sweep the room like the precision surgeon’s blade. For a moment, I held my breath, fingers tightening on the edge of my cards.

“I’m looking for someone,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the kind of tone that could cleave stone. I caught the bartender’s eyes shifting nervously, but no one answered.

The Witcher sighed, more weary than frustrated, and turned to face me, as if he had known where I was the whole time.

“You there,” he said. My grin was automatic, masking the twist of anxiety and fear burbling in my gut. I felt the sudden rush telling me to run for the outhouse. “Aye, Witcher. What brings you to our humble corner of Novigrad?” I raised my tankard in a mocking toast.

“Yennifer. I’m told she was seen passing through,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Have you heard of her whereabouts?”

“Ah, the sorceress,” I drawled, pretending to think while I shuffled the deck. The cards slapping against the table buying me time to phrase my thoughts. “Perhaps we could make this interesting? A simple game of Gwent. I win, you share a drink, a tale, and toss me a copper. You win, and I’ll tell you what I know.” Another ploy to buy me time.

The room collectively exhaled, tension slipping from their postures and they resumed their duties and conversation. The Witcher’s lip twitched, half amusement, half disdain.

“Fine,” he said in his voice that sounded like raking stones. He pulled up a chair and sat across from me. He dropped a pouch on the table; the heavy clink of coin echoed. “Deal.”

I set the cards, fingers moving deftly, sliding in a marked one just so. A dangerous move on my part, but my hope that his hands weren’t as well versed in cards as they were with his weapons. A few rounds passed in tense silence. Outside, the wind howled like a starving wolf. Inside, soldiers whispered about Nilfgaard’s relentless push north, about the battered Redanian defenses and whispers of a rebellion brewing in Skellige. The war may be drawing to a close. Gods be praised. But here at our table, there was only the game, and the Witcher’s unsettling gaze catching every flinch, every tell.

“You’re sweating,” he noted, laying down a biting frost card that turned the tide.

“Just the heat,” I replied smoothly. But my stomach churned as I watched my carefully laid strategy fall apart. My siege troops no longer holding their position on the table they once had. I played the Mysterious Elf card and a knowing smile crossed my face.

He stared in disappointment at the layout of cards upon the table, then seeing his defeat pushed the cards into a pile for reshuffling. “Strange,” The pale Witcher said, glancing at my deck. His golden eyes met mine with a knowing glint. “Your cards … they’re heavier than they should be.”

I feigned a chuckle, a sound as thin as parchment and attempted to change the course of conversation. “You never said your name, your accent? Is it Rivian?” I tried to snatch the cards back, but his hand shot out, iron-hard fingers closing around my wrist.

“Cheaters don’t deserve mercy,” he growled.

Time slowed to a heartbeat, then splintered into chaos. I reached for the knife at my belt, but he was faster. His chair clattered to the floor as he drew his steel sword in a flash of silver. The blade caught the firelight as it swung toward me; I stumbled back, drawing my knife too late.

A roar erupted as patrons scrambled for the exits, tables overturned and tankards spilled, beer slicking the floor. He advanced upon me, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. I lunged, aiming for the gap beneath his ribs, but he sidestepped with the grace of predator on the hunt.

“Igni,” he intoned, and flames roared to life from his outstretched hand. I cried out, throwing up an arm to shield my face. The heat seared, blistering skin in an instant.

“Damn you to the nine Hells!” I spat, desperation clawing at my throat. I swung wildly, the blade catching nothing but air. His foot slammed into my chest, sending me sprawling into an upturned table. Pain shot up my spine as I crashed to the ground, the room spinning.

“You know where she is,” he said, sword tip pressing against my throat, cold as a winter's kiss. I gasped for air, vision spotting.

“Sod off,” I managed, defiance trembling in my voice.

A second of silence, then the blade sank in, swift and merciless. My world shrank to a pinpoint of pain before slipping into blackness. Over the din, I heard him mutter, half to himself, “I’ll find you, Yen.”

The last thing I saw as my eyes began to lose their focus was the Witcher’s unyielding expression as he pulled his sword free.

“One of Mitch’s boys has the door covered, and he looks nasty.”

“How nasty?” Tristan asked.

“Somewhere between a mangy dog and a freight train,” said John

“Right. There has to be another way in. Aren’t there any windows?”

“They’re all barred and look like they are hooked up to battery packs.” answered John.

“Probably fry anyone that tries.”

“Is this a nightclub or a fort?”

“Knowing Mitch, both.”

Taren spoke, “I could try to-“

“It’s not like there are other options. Let’s just force our way in. It’s just one dude,” said Tristan.

The others shared a glance.

“We’re goin’ in,” Tristan commanded.

“You ain’t on the list.”

“And I told you we’re going in.”

“Get lost.”

“Maybe this will help?” Taren rubbed her forefinger and thumb together.

“Don’t be stupid, Taren,” said Tristan.

After an uncomfortably long pause under a stoic gaze, someone whispered, “He looks mad.”

“He can look how he wants. I’ll smash his face in,” said Tristan dryly.

“Did you actually just say that?” John asked.

“Yeah.” Tristan answered.

John shook his head. “Okay guys, roll initiative.” The table exploded in an uproar with papers shuffling and dice rolling. The players readying their character sheets for combat.

“Do we have to fight?”

“Who’s asking, Taren or Corrinne?”

“Oh, I am,” Her lips tightened, “No actually, Corrinne is. Do we have to fight? The guys just doing his job. Corrinne turns to the bouncer, ‘You’re doing a great job by the way.’”

“He nods to you, but it feels more like a roll of the eyes,” said John.

“I position Corrinne between the bouncer and our party. Can I do that before the initiative roll or do we need to do that first?” Taren asked.

“It’s fine as long as you’re talking, but if anybody takes anything that could be seen as an action, then we’ll use the rolls.” Said John.

“Okay, cool, I stand between the party and the bouncer,” said Taren

“Does the movement not count as an action?”

“Dude?! Helping or hurting?”

“I think it’s more interesting to let it slide for now. Remember your initiative rolls and let’s try and keep in character for the moment. I like the tension,” said John.

“I hate it.”

“In character now.”

“Okay, so. It’s been a long night, I get that, and you are just doing as ordered, we totally understand that. Right guys?” Taren looked around the table.

“Totally.”

“Yep.”

“No.” Everyone turned sharply toward Tristan. “What?”

Pointedly ignoring his comment, Taren continued, “I get it. This is just a job, and you seem like a good guy, so let me run this by you.”

“He crosses his arms, tucking his hands into the folds of his unnaturally thick arms,” said John.

“How unnatural?”

“Extremely.”

“Stim-pack unnatural?”

“Could be.” He added.

“I want to check that out. Can I do a medicine check and use streetwise as my secondary?”

“Sure, go for it” the dice clatter.

“14. ”

“What were you rolling under?” John asked.

“17.”

“Oh, nice. You spot a faint puncture mark part way up the right side of his neck and his veins are a slightly bluer shade than they should be.” John said.

“Bluer?” A nod confirmed the answer, “I silently gesture towards his neck and mouth the word Ice towards the rest of you.” The players nod in acknowledgement.

“Here’s what I am proposing,” Taren picked up where she had left off, “I may have had one or two too many shots. You, being such an astoundingly caring fellow, are duty bound to take me to the first aid station.”

“He stares blankly,” John said.

“She continues. ‘One of my friends comes with. Two wait here and keep an eye on the door for you. Stop any of the riff raff getting ideas.’”

“’Money ain’t good enough.’ He looks over your head at a newly forming queue of patrons.”

“It ain’t bad money either, but here’s the other thing. You could easily take on little ol’ me and with those kinds of muscles, probably even my loud-mouthed friend, too.”

Tristan shot daggers across the table.

“Me?”

“Obviously.”

“'Probably even him, but all of us? I pause for dramatic effect. Maybe, big man, but is it worth it? I certainly don’t wanna fight such an upstanding gentleman as yourself.' I touch his arm carefully.” The table briefly laughed and clapped in reverie as she mirrored her character’s action with mime.

Tristan glared.

“Okay, let me ask for clarity. Are you trying to flirt with or threaten the guy?” asked John.

“Yes.” Four fifths of the table laughed again.

“I say we just kill him.” Tristan interrupted the reverie.

“Dude seriously?”

“What’s your problem?”

Tristan stood up from the table, his chair rumbled a shrill shriek, and his papers and dice flew in a mess across the table. Taren darted from her seat and stood between Tristan and the rest of the table.

“Give me the keys. We’re going.” He said flatly.

“Tris, ho-“

“KEYS!” His shout cut off all other noise in the room.

The players sat around the table looking down at their papers. Taren holding a fragile fortress between Tristan and the group.

Calmly, the heavyset John at the head of the table rose. “Taren,” he spoke quietly, “you are welcome to stay for a while.”

“Who th-“

John didn’t break his gait. “If you need a place to stay the night, you are welcome here, or we can call someone. If you prefer.” He folded his arms, “Tris, you aren’t welcome here. Doors over there,” he gestured.

The table all stood as one.

“Stay Taren.”

“Please, stay.”

Tristan looked at Taren, who flinched at the initial intensity of the gaze. She looked at the group, then back to Tristan. Silently she handed him the keys and stepped away with heat infused cheeks and swollen eyes as she held his gaze.

Tristan locked with her for a beat and then looked at the others before breaking contact and looking down at his seat. “You coming?” Taren barely shook her head, but he saw it. He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and left without another word.

“I have wondered if thee will marry,” his father said.

Elnathan looked up from his rabbit stew.

“It is a part of life,” Samuel Holm said, and he ate another bite.

They had built this house together. They had mortared the stones for the foundation, hewn the floor joists, notched the logs they stacked and chinked with rocks and straw and clay. They shared one bed. Through all of it, they had never spoken of marriage, love, or any future beyond tasks to perform. They had left their first farm five years ago, and in that time, Elnathan had heard six directives from his father for every word of conversation.

He studied the older man in the fading dusk, debating whether his father meant to test him. “The Friend says men should live in the Spirit, not in the flesh,” Elnathan said.

Samuel Holm lifted his bowl to his lips. Elnathan noticed his father’s hands trembling again, as they had since his illness the preceding year; Samuel Holm had spent less time carving or whittling since. He wiped his arm across his graying beard to erase the tell-tale drops of broth. He folded his hands on the table and watched them, as though guarding their stillness. “Thee is nineteen. If thee did not shave it, thy beard would be full by this time.”

“Men shave their beards. Thee is the only man I see to wear one.”

“Thee would think of little else beside marriage, if thee lived in any other place,” Samuel Holm continued. He lifted his eyes. “There are things important to a young man.”

Elnathan laughed. “Thee think me a young boy indeed, if thee think to explain such things.”

Samuel Holm returned his eyes to his hands. One of their cows lowed nearby.

“Thee was not so old when my mother left time,” Elnathan said, “and thee never thought to remarry.”

“That I did not discuss the matter with my son does not mean I did not of think it.”

Elnathan watched his father, awaiting further words, some sign. Samuel Holm sat quietly with hands folded on the table he had made.

The cocktail party is in full swing, with guests and hosts alike gathered in little groups. Some dance from one coterie to another, others do-si-do within their groups. All are talented in their ability to eat, drink, and talk while holding a plate of hors d'oeuvres and a glass of wine.

A table of delights stretches along the north wall. There are cheese trays, pastries savory and sweet, the finest red and white wines, and more. Three gorgeous Matisse lithographs hang above the table. A colorful gouache découpée in the middle, flanked by black and white portraits.

In the room's center, mouths chew, sip, and exchange airs as the sophisticate orgy unfolds.

"Oh I love the Matisse prints!"

"Yes, aren't they great! We just got them. You know he's totally making a comeback."

"Yes, yes."

"This one's my favorite. I love the yellow."

"Yes, yes."

In this fashion, the wall basks bright and proud as the drooling eyes stare.

Meanwhile, a centipede scurries under the table and disappears into a tiny gap in the corner. High above, where the walls meet the ceiling, a waft dislodges part of an ancient cobweb.

Twelve feet below the cobweb, the host goes on. They're originals, she's always loved Matisse, they are so expensive but she just had to have them.

The guest smiles and nods, her right hand holding a glass of wine, her left below it with palm up in a makeshift table. All in all, agreeable and interested.

On the ceiling, the cobweb filament stretches nearly a foot from the corner, thicker at its origin, a gradient black to gray, its delicate flutter a thing of austere beauty with a mastery of forms and transitions. A rearing cobra one moment, a scorpion tail the next.

The host continues. Her husband's promotion literally doubled his salary, it's so hard to keep her new jewelry organized, so glad we've had a chance to talk, we're thinking about buying....

In time, the guest raises the wine from its flesh table to her mouth. Sheltered by the glass, in the heartbeat before the inflow, the corners of her lips drop, the corners of her eyes tighten. With great effort she conceals her words, and then paints the cavity crimson.

"Right—like you know anything about Matisse. Bitch."

11/14/2024