For whatever reason, Steve the coconut was not waiting for them when
they came to the entrance. The four of them took it in stride, or at least
they didn’t outwardly speak of the extreme unease they felt at the supposedly
inanimate object’s spontaneous disappearance. They saw nothing else to warrant
further suspicion, aside of course from the fact that this was Xayk’s island
and he could do whatever it was that he wanted to do... and whatever happened
to pop into his mind at any given moment.
Finding himself a nice quiet area to work, Zyn sat down and started
fashioning spears alone. They needed more as the ones they had all made had
the unfortunate tendency to snap into pieces if someone so much as breathed
upon them, necessitating the fashioning of more. They of course argued over
why that was so, Pols kept grumbling it was because they had selected crappy
wood, Lum insisting that there was something wrong with the wood itself that
was causing it to be so brittle and unwieldy. Whatever the case, Zyn let them
argue amongst themselves; it was not so much the work he was doing as it was
getting away from the others, something he needed so desperately.
He had spent the past several days with these men, and truth be told he
was having a hard time dealing with them, near death experiences shared with
them notwithstanding. He could feel the animosity lurking just below the
surface; with any of them it could just burst forth at any time. Well, except
for Parn of course; he was too much of a wiener. And Lorian; he had been
through too much with the man to suspect him of losing his cool without a
deliberate reason.
Some hours passed, the sun nearing the horizon, when Lorian emerged from
the cave. “They won’t be long behind,” he said, “They’re just finishing up on
some details before they call it a night.”
“You sure you wanna trust that dragon with the mage alone?” Lum asked.
Lorian shrugged. “I figure if he wanted to do something to any of us,
whether we’re alone or not, he’d just do it. It’s not like we’re going to stop
him,” he said, repeated the now familiar excuse they all put up whenever it
came to what the dragon might do at any given moment.
As Zyn continued working, through the obscuring brush he could see his
mentor prowling about, pacing and studying the others as they worked, giving
them an inordinate amount of discreet attention before moving on to the others.
It was a subtle thing, something that could only be gleaned by knowing the
man, but there was a familiar gleam in the older man’s eyes as he watched the
others. Zyn, of course, knew what it was.
Lorian was lonely, no doubt. It had been some time since he had had
“close” companionship with anyone, and it came as no surprise that he was
probing among the sailors for it. It would be restricted to them of course;
Parn was too innocent and gullible. Lorian would never take advantage of
anyone like that in such a way, it just went against his character. The only
other choice was Xayk, and something small in the back of Zyn’s mind told him
that was somewhat out of the question.
Zyn naturally didn’t consider himself, for that question had been
resolved long ago. Not long after the one armed man had taken the young
vagrant Ainadorian under his wing, he had hinted to him in confidence that such
a relationship was possible, if it was what he wanted. Zyn, however, had told
his mentor in no uncertain terms that he would not “be anyone’s plaything.”
Their relationship was professional, a master-apprentice affiliation that was
built upon respect first and foremost, and Zyn made it clear that was only by
respect that it had any grounds at all; nothing else could possibly substitute
itself for that. Lorian was in no way offended, and never again broached the
subject. It was one reason that Zyn, despite everything, had the highest level
of respect for his mentor.
As he carried some of the newly fashioned weapons to the camp’s pile, he
saw Grumiah and Lum busy trying to procure pitch, or at least equivalent from
some of the coconut wood, no doubt to use in torches in the cave. Lum was off
in the brush relieving himself and complaining that the “damn coconuts were
giving him the runs.”
“Of course they’re giving you the runs,” a voice that could only be Xayk
declared from behind them, with the men nearly throwing themselves to the
ground spinning about to face him, “they’re evil, you know. Coconuts are evil
so they do evil things.” He was perched right there, sitting on his haunches
with an exhausted Parn stumbling forward to catch up.
“Er, I take it Steve notwithstanding?” Zyn ventured.
“Nononono, Steve’s a prime example of [i]why[i/] coconuts are evil.
Isn’t that right Steve?” He asked to his left, where in the sand sat a coconut
with a face carved into it that Zyn hadn’t seen before. “Right back at you,
you slime ridden whore.”
As night settled in they decided to sleep on the ground in their camp
rather than in Xayk’s cave as it seemed a nice enough night. They did their
best to ignore Xayk who helped somewhat by sitting in the corner and remaining
silent, though truth be told he actually seemed creepier that way. His
piercing orange eyes studied them intently, and however long Zyn watched he
never once saw him blink. Instead, they concentrated on building a fire and
just relaxing.
“No, no, I never said somethin’ like that,” Pols insisted.
“Yes, you did,” Lum insisted right back. “We never would have gotten
thrown in jail if you hadn’t gone and insulted the barkeep’s mother.”
“So?” Pols demanded, “She was ugly, and she [i]was[/i] a whore. Believe
me, I of all people would know!” he said with a hearty laugh.
“So? It still left us broke by the time we got out of there. Had to
take whatever ship and haul we could take and look where that ended us up!” Lum
declared, waving his hands on the island around him.
“Hmm,” Grumiah mused thoughtfully, “Bad circumstances. I almost wish I
had an excuse like that.”
“Why, how’d you get saddled with that piss brain captain?” Pols asked,
assessment that both he and Zyn both heartily agreed on.
Grumiah took a long drink from their crude half-cut coconut shells they
used as cups. “Bad luck, just plain bad luck. I was supposed to ship out with
someone else, someone I knew was good at the job, but I caught a sickness and
was bedridden for a week. I needed the work badly, so I had to take whatever
was available. Hence, I’m here now.”
“What did you come down with?” Zyn asked.
“Who knows,” Grumiah answered. “Something or another, the healers had
some weird name for it that I’ve never heard of before. It made for a pretty
miserable week or so, but I got over it well enough.”
“Did it involve heaving and reddish-purple spots on your arms?”
The quartermaster gave him a look. “Something like that.”
“Galigan collywobbles,” Zyn said. “That’s the simple name for it.”
“How would you know something like that?” Lum asked curiously.
Zyn smiled humorlessly. “It was spreading in the area before we left
for a while, and I had it when I was a child. Pretty rare, but pretty nasty
all the same.”
Lum nodded to himself, taking another sip. “So, the mage got here
because he’s someone’s poor errand boy,” he said. Zyn wasn’t sure how he knew
that, though it seemed likely that somewhere during the voyage the sailor had
asked some questions. “There’s us, and then there’s Grumiah there, but what
are you two doing here?”
“What, is there something unusual about two men booking passage on a ship?”
Lorian asked innocently.
“Well, no, except you seem to be the type who can tell if someone, even if
they’re in a completely different profession, is the competent sort, and I
didn’t meet anyone on that ship who didn’t think that he was a worthless sack
of piss. I didn’t meet a single person on board who was there entirely by
choice.”
Lorian chuckled. “The trip was a... spur of the moment thing, if you will,
though we have been wondering around the Southlands for some time and desired
to return north. But in any case, just how would you know what my profession
would or wouldn’t be?” he asked with a smile.
“You ain’t sailors, that’s for sure,” Lum said. “Come to think of it, I ain’t
sure what your profession is. You wouldn’t be some kind of artisan, by chance?”
“Indeed,” Lorian said as he stoked the fire. “I work principally as a
painter. A fresco painter, actually.”
Grumiah’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Fresco painter... Your last name
wouldn’t happen to be Moeb, by any chance.”
The one armed man just smiled in response.
“Are you serious?” Parn asked in awe. “You are Lorian Moeb, [i]the[/i] Lorian
Moeb?”
“Who’s that supposed to be?” Pols asked with typical ignorance.
“You never heard of him?” Lum asked. “Even [i]I’ve[/i] heard of him, Pols.
He’s only one of the most famous fresco painters of our time.” The other
sailor merely growled slightly.
“Well tickle me pink,” Grumiah mused, “Lorian Moeb on our boat. Why didn’t
you say anything? We could have at least given you some better meals or
somethin.”
“I get more than enough of that from my clients, sometimes a little too much.
And yes, there is such a thing as too much high society and politeness.
Sometimes a little jocular informality is good for the soul.”
“Amen to that!” Lum lifted up his coconut in a toast.
They all raised their coconut cups in unison and took a long swig. “Damnit,
wish this was actual beer or something else decent,” Pols muttered.
“Just pretend these shells are some wench’s tits or something,” Lum suggested.
His sailor buddy laughed. “Yeah, we’re cuttin up wenches and groping their
tits as cups!” he said as he juggled two coconut shells up and down as if he
were displaying them.
Grumiah sighed and shook his head. “You two are incorrigible.”
“So Zyn,” Lum said at long last, “How goes your painting then?”
The question had been asked of him more times than he could count, and Lorian
had had many different answers for him to give. “Halfway decent, I guess. I
do some, but that’s not what he keeps me around for.”
“That not... what?” Lum asked confused. “You’re his apprentice, right.”
The fresco painter laughed and stroked his beard. “If you count my imparting
of knowledge to him, than yes, you could very much call him that. As far as
fresco painting is concerned, no, that’s not to be Zyn’s path in life.”
“I don’t understand,” Grumiah said, “I thought you artisans had to pass stuff
on to apprentices, or else your art dies with you.”
This elicited a chuckle from the elder man. “Perhaps, though in this matter
I’m content to let it be Eli’s concern. I myself am not worried.”
“I’m worried,” Xayk suddenly cut in. “I’m worried about the coconuts.
They’re evil you know. You can’t break them open without completely smashing
them.” His massive chipper form hopped into the middle of the camp and
promptly sat himself right on top of the fire, instantly squelching it.
As they watched the fire they had worked so hard to get started smothered out
of existence into tendrils of smoke, leaving the camp dark except for the
embers and light of the slowly waxing moon. At first they did nothing lest it
provoke the dragon, but as he started droning on about coconuts and their
various evils Zyn and Pols got sick of it and started rekindling the fire as
soon as Xayk moved his massive posterior off of it. This, for whatever reason,
made his monologue switch gears to crap.
“Crap, you know, crap; the kind that comes out of your ass?” The dragon then
proceeded on an in depth description of the various ins and outs of fecal
matter, flatulence, and other unsavory body functions that left even the lewd
and crude sailors queasy and flat out lost Parn his previous meal, which Xayk
suggested he should put back in his stomach as soon as possible lest it go to
waste.
Fortunately after this the dragon ceased his endless ramblings, and the men
rebuilt the fire and slowly started building up conversation among themselves
whilst doing their best to ignore him. Unfortunately Xayk now wanted to play,
which he announced by suddenly shoving Grumiah causing him to roll for a good
ten feet. “Come on, guys, it’s a game!” the dragon insisted, “See, I shove
you, and we see how far you roll when I do!”
Xayk’s mischievous rantings began anew as he randomly shoved some of the poor
cast aways around; he started talking about lemons, ancient civilizations, and
then goat testicles. And then more about goat testicles. They were really
odd. They were extra “squishy.” And they made a great ingredient in soup.
Once again Parn upchucked what remained of his dinner, and the others tried
unsuccessfully to keep the dragon’s blithering monologue out of their heads.
Finally Xayk changed topics, though his new one was a demand that one of them
should cut off their own manlihood so that he could have it in a soup. “I
[i]need[/i] soup! If I don’t get it I explode, it happens sometimes...
There’s lots of goo when that happens, but it’s not the good kind like in
‘testy’ soup.”
“Xayk!” Grumiah, Zyn, and Pols all shouted at once, in the vain hope that the
dragon would realize how ill he was making his guests. Xayk didn’t pay
attention though, or far more likely he did but didn’t care in the slightest,
and quickly grabbed Lum and Parn and shot into the air with both his prizes
dangling precariously from his clawed hands. Screaming and yelling commenced
in quantity, to which the dragon responded with a nonchalant shrug and a casual
admonition not to let go.
Flying aimlessly around for a few more minutes, Xayk finally let down his
passengers with a plop from about six or so feet, resulting in a couple of sore
bones. “Play, Play!” the dragon insisted like a three year old.
Pols was next on the list of people to be annoyed as Xayk stood still over him
and hung his jaw agape for no apparent reason other than to let saliva drool
out of his mouth and drop square onto the top of the sailor’s head. This
proved to be the breaking point.
“Alright [i]that’s it[/i]!” Pols screamed as he launched himself onto his
feet. “I’ve had it up to [i]here[/i] with you, you crazy dope! I don’t care
[i]how[/i] nuts you are, just SHUT THE HELL UP!”
Against all odds in the universe, the dragon stopped talking. There was
[i]silence[/i], a very noticeable and very welcome silence that saw Xayk march
over to the corner of the encampment and plop himself down, pouting and
muttering to himself. This of course wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be
possible, could it? After all the grief he had dished out, was it really just
so simple?
Pols, now so full of himself that it practically oozed from his face, seemed
to think so and sat back down as the conquering hero, and of course could not
resist giving Zyn a few snobbish looks of vindication. Something told him,
though that this wasn’t quite the end, not with this dragon.
!DSPAM:4af0d740222411804284693!
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