Story The Lie He Tells Himself

[KaiserIncorporated]

The Lie He Tells Himself: Part 1

The chill of a frosty glass envelops his palm. The weight of liquor weighing it down as he lifts it to his mouth, tipping it slightly. A burning sensation passes his lips and down his throat. He releases a small and involuntary sigh. An action accompanied by the sound of an empty glass hitting the wooden countertop. Letting his wide-brimmed hat droop over his face, he peered around the room. A Stale, musky smell of wet wood and ale fills the air. A woman sits in the corner of the room, sliding her fingers across the strings of a harp. Her hands moving with the effortless precision of a trained professional. The bartender leans against an open window at the far end of the counter. Smoke from his pipe weaved trails of gray into the dim light of the street outside. The torches mounted throughout the room flicker with life, filling the room with a warm orange glow. For a moment, the peaceful tavern was still in time as if nothing outside its interior ever existed. But then, as the novelty wore off, a sound of muffled, hearty laughter could be heard. The front entrance was thrown open as a man, only described as a walking wine barrel, stepped across the threshold.
"I'll have a boot of wildflower mead if you would kind sir!"
Patting his large stomach with both hands, he stumbled across the room, Narrowly dodged a few of the still decor before slumping into a barstool. The large man looked around, taking note of the only other patron a few seats away from him. Then, he looked up with his glazed brown eyes and bellowed "If you'll be quick about it my good man, my buzz is begging to fade from me!" If the bartender was at all agitated by the fellow's presence, he hid it well. Tapping his pipe against the windowsill, he watched the ashes drop to the street below. After a moment, he turned toward the interior of the tavern and stared blankly at the man. Sliding his pipe into his pocket in one flawless, practiced motion. "Right away sir." he replied with the tone of a man that's been doing this job for far too long. He began the steps required to fulfill his task, His body and hands flowed through the motions as if this pattern was all he knew. Both patrons watched the man with a varied intensity before the large man spoke again. He directed his inquiry to the figure seated near him. "What's the matta with you boy? You have the look of death about ya." His right arm gesturing in wide arcs as he spoke, it finally resting on his leg. He placed his other hand on the counter before leaning towards the smaller man as if expecting a response. A moment passed in silence, the sound of liquids being poured into a large glass filled the air. The reclusive man peered sidelong at the other from beneath his hat and grinned slightly. "If it is another day in the land of the wicked, then I shall tempt the wheel of fate with song." the man murmured. "Did your troubles scramble your mind into ramblings lad?" The larger man asked. "It's a phrase from my homeland. It means that nothing is so bad that it cannot be remedied with small acts of kindness," he replied. The bartender slid his sweet-smelling concoction across the counter toward the barrel stomached fellow. With a smile, he grabbed the glass and eagerly began slurping at its contents. Drinking with the fervor of a man lost amongst the sandy dunes for days before salvation."What is your name fine sir?" The smaller man interjected. Only after half the large container was emptied, did his companion release the cup from his lips. "Earlheart Mangrayvious, but my friends call me Earl." replied the large man between heaving breaths. "Well Earl, would you care to hear a poor man's tale this night? I'll even repay such kindness, starting with that mug your holding." A mighty chuckle erupted from Earl's chest as he slapped the countertop. "Aye lad! If your paying for drinks ill do whatever you damn well please!"
"Then drink on my friend, for this story begins with two men of equal standing, but different ideals."​

 

[KaiserIncorporated]

The Lie He Tells Himself: Part 2

"In every war, there are two different types of people." He continued. "You have the ones who were dragged into it all, farmers, merchants, housewives, and children. In war, their objective is to survive. They have a simple desire to expend as little effort as possible without losing too much in the process. They fear that their time is limited and curse their fate for how unfair it all was. These are the people that are usually the first to die." He tapped his fingers against the table, signaling the bartender for another drink. He turned his body in his seat to face Earl, leaning to the side, heavily resting his left arm on the counter. "Then, you have the other kind, the people who live for the fight. To them, there could be no better end than that which is found at the tip of a blade." he continued. Peering over, he watched as an empty glass was filled to the brim, the liquid sloshing around its container till it almost poured over. "Now, we have two men. One is of the first type, and the other the latter. Their names are Joseph and Kain, both warriors that fight for different reasons. You see, Kain was a spinster's kid. He lived his life in abject poverty. Even amongst the street rats and urchins, he fell below even their standards. Always one to look toward the sky, hoping for sunshine, and yet, he only ever saw rain. Eventually, after living out his life of eating trash scraps and his pleads for charity ignored, he realized something. That to achieve greatness, to finally acquire the life he so longed for, that he would need to fight for it. But, to Kain, his world only contained the small sphere around himself." His sentence trailed off as The sound of glass scraping along wood rang out. He reached out his hand and stopped his new cup from sliding past him. He took a small sip before continuing. "He did not blame the king for his willful ignorance of the lower class's struggles. He did not blame the east for invading his homeland, which caused levies to be raised along with its people's taxes. He did not even blame a god or devil for their acts, for he was but a fish inside a small bucket. To him, he did not understand the fisherman, but he did understand the other fish. He cursed their name and soul until the day he gained the strength to act on his impulse. He took to killing others for their possessions and became rather good at it too. He made a big enough name for himself that he was eventually caught and threw in prison. After some time inside, he was approached with an offer he couldn't refuse. He was to become a soldier in the king's army, sent to the front lines to die for his name." He quietly tapped his glass rhythmically with his fingers while he spoke, "Kain cared not for the king, nor even knew who he was. But, a chance to fight was a chance to survive, a chance to eat again. He accepted this offer almost immediately." he exclaimed.

At first, Earl was only slightly paying attention to the man's words. The drink in front of him was the only thing that mattered to him for a time. As his cup began to run dry, as the man continued to speak, he found himself listening more intently as the seconds passed. He placed his cup onto the counter next to him as the man continued. "So, Joseph, in comparison to Kain, lived a life of luxuries and pampering. He had servants that catered to his every need, all manner of chefs to cook him any meal he wanted at any time. He wanted for nothing, and due to that, he took a multitude of varying different hobbies. He painted, picked up an instrument, sang, and even started to apprentice under a tailor. But, one day, his father tells him to uphold his family duty. A war with the West has started, and he is to represent their house on the battlefield. Suddenly, his world is turned upside down. Unlike Kain, he knew all about the world. He was taught how to play the Great Game from a young age. He knew tensions were high, that armies were mobilizing, yet chose to ignore them. The problems of others seemed so distant to him then. He felt he was too far removed from it all for it to matter. But now, Long gone were the days of hot meals and warm beds, now are the times for cold stew and dirt piles. He was sent out to the front lines." He stopped for a moment. He took a second to notice that both Earl and the bartender were paying close attention to each word he spoke. The barkeep was attempting to hide his inherent interest, leaning back against the wall with a cloth and empty glass in either hand. Making the motions of cleaning without any soap or polish, not accomplishing much outside of lightly dusting the rim. Earl, on the other hand, was leaning in closer than before. His tall empty glass sitting in front of him, rather untouched for some time now. The story-teller dropped his face a bit, as a vain attempt to mask his slightly amused expression in the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. He slid his glass over to earl with a small gesture, signaling him to take it. Earl, blinking a few times as if coming out of a trance, obliged the man and proceeded to empty its contents into his waiting mouth. Unknown to either of the other bar residents, the story-tellers expression darkened. He spoke once more, loud enough for both to hear, "So, eventually, after some time, they both meet. After a gruesome and hard-fought battle, they find themselves standing before one another. They stand there, amongst a sea of corpses, in the courtyard of some fort in the middle of nowhere. This fort would probably change hands multiple times over the course of the war, but to them, that didn't matter. Breathing heavy, battered, and bruised, they stare into each other's eyes. Their feet move without them thinking, and their blades clash." He suddenly looks up, his eyes passing between the two, their eager awaiting gaze meeting his own. "Which one do you think dies?" he asked in an emotionless tone.

Earl was the first to speak, "well..." he began, placing his hand on his chin and lifting his head. "If I was to say, based on what you told me, probably the urchin boy," he exclaimed. "why do you say that?" asked the bartender. Earl glanced between the other two men before resting his gaze on the storyteller. "A man forged in blood knows the taste of iron." He unfurled a grin before continuing. "A saying from my homeland, meaning to be the best at something, you must first experience the worst it has to offer." The bartender looked upon the two with confusion, feeling as if he had missed something important. "Besides-" Early continued, "the other lad never knew battle before the war. He wouldn't have the experience or willpower to overcome such a challenge." he proposed. The barkeep set down the glass and rag he was holding before speaking, "See, with all due respect, sir, I disagree." Both the other men glanced at him as he continued. "If I were to choose a victor, I would have to side with the noblemen's boy. While it is true that the other has been through a lot, the noblemen would have the most to lose if he was to fail. All that he strived to gain would be lost in a moment. I cannot see how a boy with nothing could outclass a man with everything." he explained. It seemed as though they both were about to continue when, all of a sudden, a gust of wind blew in from the open window. The torch nearest to them fluttered a bit before burning out. The corner in which the three resided became dimly lit, the other torches struggling to reach their warm glow to their distant side of the room. "damn." the bartender muttered. He turned and began rummaging through a nearby drawer. "It's supposed to storm later this evening-" began Earl, "Ya may want to close the window before you invite in the night." The barkeep then pulled out a flint and steel set, closed the drawer, and turned slightly. "I suppose your right. My apologies, if you'll only allow me a moment." He said with a slight bow. He walked off toward the window and pulled the shutters shut. He seemed to struggle a little against the wind that seemed to grow more violent as time passed, before eventually locking it shut. He then made his way to the unlit torch and started to strike the flint and steel, a clacking sound ringing out as sparks began to flutter about him.

Earl smiled a bit as he watched his attempts to light the torch. Though, his expression faded into that of slight confusion. "Are you feeling alright?" asked the story-teller. "I suppose the drinks hit me a bit too hard here, lad. I suddenly feel as though the room is beginning to tilt. My stomach is beginning to respond to that." He said with an exasperated sigh. "I think I should take my leave before the storm hits, wouldn't want to be stuck keeled over in an ally as the wrath of god sweeps through," he said. "It was very nice to meet you, uh -" Without a moment's hesitation, the storyteller spoke, "Artheus, Artheus Mordekin." he proclaimed, as to answer an unspoken question. He gave a brief yet somewhat pained grinned, "but my friends call me Arthur." Earl stood up from his chair, brushed himself off before raising his hand toward Arthur. "Then it was a pleasure to meet you, Arthur Mordekin. May your life be plentiful and that your booze never runs dry." the two clasped hands for a moment before Earl turned and left through the front door.

After a bit of fiddling, the barkeep managed to relight the torch. He took a moment to admire his handiwork before turning toward the bar. "Again, my apologies, now gentlemen where were w-" He was about to continue when he noticed the row of empty barstools. The two men he was speaking with had apparently disappeared, and in their stead was a small pile of a few gold coins that lay placed on the counter.

The storm began to pick up. Rain began to pour throughout the city streets, washing away anything smaller than a house cat. Thunder rang out and shook the shutters of nearby buildings. Earl sat against a brick wall in an alleyway, his breathing ragged and forced. His head lay in between his raised legs, gasping for air. The storm around him was muffling his violent coughing. The rain washing the blood in his palms away, trickling down his arms. A pained groan escaped him as a figure stood at the entrance of the alleyway. He could feel the world begin to blur, but he willed himself to speak, to yell loud enough that his voice could be heard over the roaring echoes surrounding him, "Are you here to tell me how your story ends?"