Brawlers: Part 1

Somehow, taking a knife to her hair and hacking it all off had seemed like an excellent idea last night. After she'd done it, it had looked amazing. 

She wasn't sure what had happened to it in the night. It didn't look amazing when she woke up this morning. It looked like a porcupine made of rusty nails...and the raw eggs and pepper powder she'd had for breakfast didn't make it look any better. But she felt better, and she supposed that was the important thing. And her day had gone pretty well, so she didn't even care that Barliaman, the proprietor of The Prancing Pony, had watered down the stew a bit at suppertime. 

But what she did care about was the fact that Cricketsongs was not playing that night out by the fountain. She had spent most of the day very much looking forward to unwinding out by the fountain listening to some music. But the rain had driven everyone away and she found herself sitting in The Prancing Pony with a sparse and mostly bedraggled handful of other patrons. 

Listening to some Elven fop tune his lute over by the fireplace after having broken a string.

And eating watered-down stew.

She took a deep pull off her mug, feeling the Blind Troll Stout burn all the way down. 

"Hey Pretty Boy," she called over to the minstrel. "You know anything from Dunland?" 

"Maybe one or two," he said, glancing up and looking quickly around to see who had addressed him. His pale gray eyes met hers and he smiled.

He looks familiar, she thought, wondering where she knew him from. "I'd settle for something from the Shire. They have the best reels."

"Indeed, they do," he nodded, looking down again and drawing his thumb across the strings to test the tone. Satisfied, he stood up and launched into Bullroarer's Favorite, a jaunty reel he'd picked up in Brockingborings.

She narrowed her eyes, taking stock of him. Tall and slender in the way of elves, with long black hair and an aloof demeanor. His long nose had an aquiline curve to it, lending his face a scholarly profile.  

A sudden realization hit her. I know where I know that ratbag from. That's the idiot that ruined my chances with the other one last time I was in here.

She took another hit of the Blind Troll and scowled, glaring at him. Last time she was in here she had been having a good time, well into her cups, and talking to an extremely handsome Sindarian who had approached her. He had been surprisingly personable for an elf and the two of them seemed to be hitting it off.

And then this bent-nosed, cock-blocking minstrel had come in, said something to him in Elvish, and her new friend had excused himself and left with him.

She spent the rest of the night wondering what that orc turd of an elf had said about her. Her anger flared again, fresh heat flooding her face.

The serving girl had come around again and she took another mug off the tray and tossed it back. The minstrel had launched into some dry Elven ballad. The room shifted, wavering in the firelight as the ale burned its way down her throat. 

Definitely him. Absolutely him. I recognize the voice. 

There was a dark-haired young woman about her age at the bar, exchanging pleasantries with another patron there.

"Yeah watch out," she said, jerking a thumb back at the singer. "That one will swoop in on whoever you're trying to talk to."

The woman glanced over at the elf. "Oh?"

"And he'll bad mouth you in Elvish while he's doing it."

The woman took a hearty gulp of her ale. "He's pretty light to be bad mouthing anybody, yeah?"

The singer looked startled, his pale eyes darting between the two conversing women. A furrow of worry flitted briefly across his brow.

"Yeah he is."

The woman paid for a second mug, walked over to the table, and pushed the drink toward her. "Aubren."

"Thanks. Molly Rhust."  She stuck out her hand. "Next round's on me."

Aubren's fingers closed around hers with a satisfying, bone-bending shake. "This town is full of horses' asses," she said. "I like your dress."

"I like yours, too." She nodded. I wouldn't have come here if I'd known this pile of dung would be here. I wanted to hear Cricketsongs."

"Same. Hey," Aubren called out to the hapless bard. "My friend here says you like to run your mouth."

The minstrel looked genuinely perplexed. Ever the professional, he somehow managed to not miss a beat. He kept playing.

"Yeah, I imagine you're used to people heckling you while you play," Rhusty said helpfully. "I bet it happens a lot. Yeah see?" she said to Aubren. "He likes to ignore people, too."

"Men, am I right?" Aubren said, sloshing her tankard as she held it up toward Rhusty.

"You are right. Oh so very right." She raised her voice so that there was no way the minstrel would miss it. "Especially ones that think that they're too good to talk to you but not too good to ruin a nice evening!" Rusty clanked her mug into Aubren's. Ale erupted across the table. Aubren bent over laughing and this seemed to be the funniest thing Rhusty had ever seen. She took a deep gulp. Foam bubbled out of her nose, making her laugh even harder.

"So, Pretty Boy, you want to come over here and try to make off with my new friend here?" She hooted at him. "Isn't that what you like to do?"

The musician finished up his current song and exchanged his lute for a fiddle. "My Lady, I think you have confused me with someone else." He had a look of bemused tolerance on his face.

"No mistake. You saying I don't know what I'm seeing?"

"I'm not saying that," he said calmly, his fingers deftly finding the next melody on his fiddle. 

"Yeah, and you better not say that either,"  Aubren jeered at him. "Why don't you play something that doesn't sound like a troll farting?"

The room was soft and fuzzy, wavering and shifting through the warm haze of ale, but one thing, one tiny detail, was in crystal clear, singular focus. And that singular thing was the minstrel's cool grey eyes as he barely, almost imperceptibly, rolled them. 

Molly Rhust didn't realize the tankard had left her hand until she saw it wheeling in slow motion across the table toward the fireplace, twirling out galaxies of stout in golden ribbons and Shire fireworks, spinning its inevitable path toward the minstrel's face.

The door opened. An Elven man stood in the doorway, beads glinting in his honey-colored hair and a look of open-mouthed shock on his face.

Oh, she thought. That's the guy I was trying to pick up last time. 

-By Gina