It certainly has been awhile since I posted on this blog.
It has been an even longer time since I was able to play in a Dungeons & Dragons game instead of running one. It will be my first time playing in the Eberron setting so I was tasked with some lore bingeing.
Know that Eberron is a setting of high magic in which most people can do minor magic and utilize magic to assist menial tasks. High technology exists but is powered by magic; a high speed rail train exists and is powered by bound lightening elementals, airships exist and are powered by bound air elementals. There appears to be harsh class stratification with international politics dominated by twelve hereditary “apolitical” houses with members having genetic predispositions to magic birthmarks (Dragonmarks). Each house has almost monopolistic control over the industry in their purview, be it medicine, hospitality, or transportation. I defer my judgement of the setting’s themes for a much later time.
This short story introduces my character, an alcoholic barber who lives in a barrel by the docks; his magic scissors do the work while he drinks and encourages the scissors to do a good job.
An evening storm blew in eastward from across Lake Galifar. The lake’s warm breath spittled its way past the docks and through the still bustling Old City of Passage, up the hills to the towering stone and glass construction of Journey’s Home, the seat of House Orien. As the disrespectful rain spattered at the windows, a scarlet dressed man caressed a carefully shaped eyebrow and regarded the rain with equal disrespect.
The short melodic whinny of a unicorn made him turn away from the window and across a magnificently appointed office. His soft wide eyes looked toward the pair of carved Eldeen mahogany doors.
“Enter”
One door silently pivoted open and a lithe woman in silver evening gown gave a facetious curtsy, then slid into the room.
“So formal sister.”
He gave a wry smile as the woman walked her way past the large leather chairs and around the meeting table which filled the center of the room.
“Brother Baron sulking here in his dark office atop the hill. Stranded, despite his empire of travel, because the elements wish to take their revenge.”
She sat on the corner of the desk which stood at the head of the meeting table; from a decanter set on silver tray beside her she poured a glass of wine and extended it within reach of the Baron d’Orien. As he reached, the glass was gracefully pulled away and sipped through the familiar wry smile which ran through the family more frequently than the Dragonmark.
“I am happy to see you Elvera.” He said as he poured himself a glass and took a measured sip.
“When did we get so busy?” She asked, “Our paths cross so rarely these days. It is nice to see you in the Home Office, regardless of the circumstances of rail maintenance.”
The two clinked their glasses over the desk and took a sip.
“Did you have this wine decanted, Vera? I do not remember doing so.”
“That is what happens when you leave for too long Kwanti, you forget what is left out.”
The Baron creased his forehead and looked down with narrowed eyes.
“I am sorry. You know I have been trying to secure support for the rail rebuilding – and those House Lyrandar squirts, they are out to ruin us Vera, I know it.”
Elvera gave a gentle shake of her finger.
“You are letting the pressure get to you.”
As the storm grew in anger over Lake Galifar, the Baron turned back toward the window, lit by increasingly frequent lightning strikes. The low glow of the flameless torches and the bright flashes of lightning highlighted the dark chestnut fuzz obscuring the Baron’s normally shaved and oiled scalp.
“Brother”
The Baron turned back to look at the hard eyes and wide soft face of his sister.
“Stay as long as you can. You have not been taking care of yourself, leave the office and get your head shaved. You look like shit.” She stood up, downed the rest of the wine, and placed her empty glass back on the silver tray.
“Orders of the Chief Executive of Journey’s Home, Home Office of House Orien.”
Kwanti smiled and Elvera stuck her tongue out, then turned, walked out of the room and shut the door behind her.
The Baron turned back to the window and looked down at the wet and wide streets of The City of Passage, which sloped gently toward Old Town and the docks on Lake Galifar. He took a sip of wine and creased his scalp in thought once again.
—
The spray of the lake whipped the docks. Sailors cussed and brothel keepers shut their doors and windows against the stinging waters. Rocking slightly in the wind was a large wine cask, lashed to a dock post just across from an Inn of Intimate Company. Painted on the side in rough letters of black pitch read “Barber.” Laying on his back inside the barrel a lanky man in tattered robes woke abruptly from a noisy sleep with an uncomfortable groan. He unstopped a clay jug and inverted it over his mouth, letting out another uncomfortable groan when the jug provided not a drop. The man sat up. Despite his disheveled clothing his dark brown hair and beard were perfectly trimmed, his skin clean, and his eyebrows pointed in the currently popular style of Khorvaire’s lofty persons. He scooted out of the barrel feet first into the rain and wind. He stood and immediately walked, grumbling, across the street and knocked on the door of the Inn.
“Ayy ayy. I’m out here. I’m out here.” He croaked.
The door was flung inward by The Matron, a large woman of strong and handsome features stood in the way.
“Scissor Wizard I told you that we ain’t your Inn. You can’t stay in here.”
“Ayy ayyy I juss want a drink. Fill my jug and I’ll…I’ll style for free, any a the crew. Yus name it, any style free colors.”
The man held out the wood-stoppered clay jug.
“Ya couldn’t look more pitiful if ya tried in this rain. Come on I’ll fill your jug.” The Matron grabbed the jug from his hand and walked inside, followed by the dripping barber.
“Not any further than the rugs Wizard,” the Matron called from behind the bar. The Inn was warm and busy inside. Sailors and the Inn’s Intimate Caretakers paid little attention to the raggedy dripping man on the rug beside the door. The matron approached and handed the barber his jug, stoppered and heavy with wine. She drew close to his face.
“Now you’re coming in tomorrow and styling all of my caretakers before the lumber ships arrive at the end of the week. You got that Scissor Wizard?”
The barber unstoppered the jug and took a swig of wine. Dark red liquid dribbled on his lips.
“Thank you Mam, I got it ya got it style the whole crew got it.”
The barber stumbled back out into the rain as the Inn door closed hard behind him. He took another swig from the jug and turned around to look upward into the hills. The glass and stone structure of Journey’s Home glowed in scarlett and lightning blue in the fog through the rain. He took another swig of wine, turned around, walked across the road and crawled back into the barrel.
Dispatches From The Decided Apocalypse 