Poor Unfortunate Soul

The tavern was packed. Swarthy seafarers from across Tauber congregated in the cramped space to swap news, boast of tales of derring-do, and, most importantly, drink. Crowded tables heaved beneath the weight of tankards full, empty, and everything in between amongst glistening patches of spilled ale. Serving girls pushed their way amongst the throng, bearing empty vessels back to the bar and full ones to those who demanded them. Voices competed with one another to be heard, escalating until the noise merged into a singular wall of sound with a presence all of its own.

And yet, despite the fact that room was a premium, around two figures at the bar a space had been left, as if my some unspoken agreement. The smaller of the two was a slight figure in a ragged dress. Huge wings fluttered anxiously at her back and fingers caressed the handle of the pistol at her waist, reassured by its presence.

Brigid was not naturally at home in such environments. Despite being a pirate, she had no interest in ale or rum. No interest in the braggadocious behaviours or cumulative clamour that surrounded them. But Barnakelle had wanted to try and partake and Brigid, like the good friend she was, had agreed to accompany her.

The faerie looked up at her hulking companion. The troll’s looming form was festooned with seaweed. Pale yellow eyes stared unblinking out of a gaunt face. Tattered clothes clung to her body. Next to her, resting against the bar, the huge rusted anchor the troll carried in lieu of the traditional piratical accoutrements of pistol and cutlass only added to the amount of premium space she was taking up.

As Brigid looked on, one of Barnakelle’s massive hands enveloped the tankard before her and raised it to her lips.

“How can you drink that stuff?” the faerie asked.

The troll’s brow wrinkled. “I put it in my mouth and I swallow. It’s easy.”

Brigid shook her head. “It’s foul.”

Barnakelle swirled the liquid as she looked down into it. “No birds in there,” she announced.

Now it was Brigid’s turn to frown. Sometimes it was hard to tell if her friend really was as dim as she made out or if she was playing up to the stereotype. Linking “foul” and “fowl” felt like too advanced a connection for someone who was truly stupid.

“It tastes disgusting,” the faerie announced.

Barnakelle shrugged. “You get used to it.”

Brigid barked a short laugh. “If you have to get used to it, surely it’s not worth starting in the first place. Why bother?”

“Helps me forget.”

Brigid cocked her head. “What are you trying to forget?”

Barnakelle smiled. “Can’t remember.”

Brigid echoed the grin and shook her head. Her troll friend was trolling her. She cast her gaze around the tavern. The sea of sound was punctuated by the occasional crash of tankards and raucous laugh. Over to one side, an argument was breaking out. It was unclear what the disagreement was over but the participants were highly upset about something. A short scuffle ensued, culminating in the bark of a pistol. The silence that ensued was punctuated by the thud of a body hitting the floor. Brigid, being so in tune with the spiritual realm, felt the man’s soul depart.

The silence was brief and soon the tide of sound rushed to fill it as conversations resumed. Fatalities were not uncommon amongst the lawless throngs that frequented this particular establishment and served as mild entertainment rather than any notable event. Brigid watched as the man’s body was hauled out of the back door by his companions, who soon returned to their table and continued as if nothing untoward had occurred to one of their number.

“Such a waste,” the faerie muttered.

Barnakelle deposited her empty tankard on the bar and smacked her drawn lips. “What is?”

“That man died over some petty squabble and everyone is carrying on as if it’s nothing.”

The troll nodded. “Very pirate thing to do.”

She held up a hand to try and attract the attention of the harangued innkeeper, who was busy serving further down the bar.

“It’s still a waste,” Brigid insisted.

“Fact of life. People die all the time.” The troll raised her voice. “One more down here!”

The innkeeper took no notice of the troll. Barnakelle grunted her frustration, stood and scooped up her huge, rusted anchor. Casually she rested it on one shoulder and pushed her way down the bar, leaving grumbling patrols in her wake. When she reached the innkeeper, she casually pushed the man he was serving out of the way by his face.

“Another drink, barkeep,” the troll demanded.

“Hey!” the man protested, “wait your turn!”

Brigid watched as the troll span around slowly to face the displaced drinker. “What did you say to me?”

The man drew his pistol and pointed it at Barnakelle’s head. “I said that you can wait your turn!”

His hand was shaking, which Brigid considered to be a sensible reaction when facing the troll. Still, even with the involuntary movement, from such short range he could barely fail to miss the hulking frame. Barnakelle reached up to grasp the weapon. The man squeezed the trigger. The pistol spat lead and the troll staggered back against the bar.

The room fell silent. All eyes were on the confrontation. Some looked on with horrified fascination. Others watched in gleeful anticipation, hungry for the conflict to unfold.

Even for a faerie, Brigid was no fighter. She was more likely to do herself an injury if she tried to attack anyone. But, like most faeries, she was highly in tune with the arcane. Without giving any outward sign, she reached out with her consciousness and pulled power towards herself.

“You poor unfortunate soul,” she muttered.

And with that she thrust the gathered power in her friend’s direction.

Along the bar, the gaping wound the pistol shot had put in Barnakelle’s shoulder began to close. The troll’s assailant could only look on in horror as the damage he had caused repaired itself.

“Alright,” said the innkeeper, holding up his hands in the universal sign of a keeper of the peace, “you’ve both had a go. Can we just-”

His sentence was cut short by several things happening simultaneously. Barnakelle raised her anchor. Rusty though it was, the huge weight of metal was more than capable of causing serious damage to whomever it struck, especially when propelled by the troll’s massive strength. Such a fact was not lost on the tavern’s clientele, many of whom were friends, or at least vague acquaintances, of the shooter. Their natural edginess, which is the standard state of anyone drinking in a pirate tavern, had only been heightened by the conflict with the troll. As Barnakelle raised her weapon, that natural edginess was pushed, for want of a better word, over the edge.

Pistols were drawn. Some were quicker than others. The innkeeper, veteran of many tavern brawls, ducked behind his bar. What followed was a staccato percussion as pistols were fired in quick succession. Most of the explosions resulted in an accompanying lurch from Barnakelle as the projectiles found a home.

In truth it was overkill. When the din had subsided, the only reason Barnakelle was even vaguely upright was because she was partially propped up by the bar, which itself had suffered significant damage from those whose aim couldn’t even hit a target as large as a troll at close range.

“Was it with you?”

Brigid’s eyes snapped towards the speaker, a swarthy looking man with an eyepatch, bandana and numerous hoops dangling from his ears. She hadn’t liked the “it”.

“I-” Brigid began.

“They were together,” another supplied, cutting across her. “I saw them come in.”

Suddenly a pistol was levelled in Brigid’s direction. She didn’t hesitate. One flap of her great wings had her airborne and then she was on the move as pistol shots and cutlass swings were sent in her direction. But what Brigid lacked in melee she more than made up for in evasion. The same could not be said of those trying to hit her and their wayward attempts invariably struck other clientele, who duly retaliated.

By the time Brigid reached the door, the whole place had erupted into one all-encompassing brawl. The last thing she saw before she stepped outside was the face of the innkeeper, looking on from behind his bar with an expression of resigned helplessness on his features.

It took a while for the tavern to restore what constituted for order within its boundaries. Brigid whiled away the time sat on the tavern’s roof. The chaos from within was a stark contrast to the sun setting over the serene sea, on which a multitude of vessels bobbed at anchor in the port.

Slowly the clientele filtered away into the night and still Brigid remained. Only when she heard the back door open did she stir, creeping to the roof’s edge to peer down onto the scene below.

“It’s a heavy one,” a man grunted.

“Took a fair few shots to take it down,” another groaned.

“Still,” growled a third, “down it went in the end. Nothing could have stood up to that.”

There were further grunts and a thud, followed by a clank of heavy metal. Only when Brigid heard the back door to the tavern swing shut again did she move, spreading her wings and gliding down to the sorry scene below.

There lay Barnakelle, still and lifeless beside her rusted anchor and the bodies of two humans who had suffered similar fates from the night’s festivities. From the casual way in which they had been removed, clearly this was something that happened often.

“Silly thing,” Brigid muttered. “Still, we can’t stay lying around all night, can we?”

Once more she allowed her consciousness to pull power to herself but this time, rather than thrust that power towards her friend, she channelled it into the Deadlands. Of all the faeries, only Brigid had a connection to the spirit world. More specifically, she had a unique ability to interact with the spirits of the fallen and utilise the traits they had possessed in life.

She found Barnakelle’s spirit easily enough. Those who had most recently passed over were always the easiest to find and, as in life, the troll was hardly inconspicuous. Fortunately for her, in life she had possessed the ability to reanimate and it was but the work of a moment for Brigid to call on that skill and use it as her own.

It wasn’t the first time Brigid had brought the troll back. She never ceased to find it amusing, however, that she used her deceased friend’s own capability to bring her back from that same state.

When the deed was done, Barnakelle sat up and stared around blearily.

“They killed me!” she protested.

Brigid smiled. “And what was it you were going to do to them if they hadn’t?”

Barnakelle shrugged. “Fair enough.”

“How do you feel?”

Barnakelle stood and stretched before reaching down and hefting her rusted anchor, which she rested against one huge shoulder.

“Sober,” she announced. “Let’s find another tavern.”