View source for Thoughts on Jobs and Life

THOUGHTS ON JOBS AND LIFE

'''Place:''' Ox-Strength Tavern

'''Synopsis:''' A simple meal at the Ox-Strength tavern leads to a deep philosophical discussion among Oates, Halani, and Quint.


<pre>-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-<* A06: Ox-Strength Tavern *>--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

          The Ox-Strength Ale Tavern is known for being one of the most dangerous dives in the city.  Frequented by the worst sailors, mercenaries, thugs and looters, the place is hardly the prettiest nor the tidiest of taverns, though--of late, that has been changing. Locals claim the once foul-tasting food "No longer burns the stomach--as much, anyways." Plates show signs of repair instead of cracks, though the still infamous odor of old beer and stale sweat insists on hanging about the place, and the smell of brine is near-constant.

          What used to be bricked-up windows have been somewhat opened. Heavy bars let in a reluctant breeze and prevent the clanging of heads against glass (which seems nearly afraid to exist). Bloodstains adorn both the nearby walls and the bricks themselves from thrown patrons and fists.

          The lights are dim, a few oil lamps hung from hooks in the splintered ceiling beams. A smattering of tables, scratched and carved into by many a blade, dot the expanse of the floor. Most of the tables are arranged in a wide circle to give plenty of room in the center of the bar for hasty escapes or the routine bar-brawl or fight. A worn-out steam piped stove sometimes provides warmth to the tavern. Occasionally an aging dog of some mangy breed or another can be seen sleeping near the stove or by the bar itself. Overhead the fireplace is a tribute to Rada, the patron of fishermen and rivermen everywhere.

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Things are weird in the city with the imminent arrival of the Snigzof on the horizon. It's even stretched so far as to have reached the Ox-Strength. More gobbers and their kin are around tonight, and they are generally unhappy. The place is raucous and violent as usual, it's mostly the clientele that has changed. "Rich-seeming" goblins line the place, shouting and fighting and shouting and drinking and fighting and shouting. However, towards the back of the place, there is a tiny puddle of calm in the ocean of entropy. This place has one thing different than the other sets of tables and chairs. It has just one "rich"-looking gobber, sitting and drinking miserably. At his side, likely the cause of such a discrepancy of attitude, is a large Veyshanti man. His amber eyes scan the crowd while he stands there, nearly motionless, fully armored from head to neck in highly-polished metal plate with an intricate pattern engraved into the armor. His sword and shield are similarly adorned, although he wears only a simple turban on the top of his head.

Oftentimes the best way to keep up with the word on the street is to go to a place where the words are flowing fast and fiercely; hence why a certain Acanian farmboy is visiting the Ox-Strength. His chain shirt marks him as not just a simple farmer, and the alertness in his eyes betrays that he's always watching, both for trouble and for interesting tricks. He orders a simple meal and a plain beer, then idly watches the customers and listens to what they're saying. While he might not be familiar with actual Goblin Talk, the smattering of Low Common and pseudo-Gnomish combined with body language is enough for a vague idea of what's going on.

A roaming barfight seems to have broken out over some inane thing or another. It's hard to tell what Gobbers give enough of a crap about to brawl over, especially drunk ones. It roams it's way back towards the big Veyshanti man in the corner and his gobber charge. The gobber doesn't even look up as his amber-eyed bodyguard just raises a hand to the group of brawlers. They stop where they are, quieting down just long enough for them to note that their fight needs to change directions.

The farmboy raises an eyebrow as the amber-eyed bodyguard redirects the brawling gobbers with the simple gesture of one hand. Now that was an interesting trick! Of course, considering how imposing the Veyshanti man looks, it's not that much of a surprise... but it's still impressive to watch. The farmboy's food arrives, and he thanks the server before taking a drink of the beer, his free hand lightly tapping and gesturing on the bar.

Somehow, the Veyshanti man's client was not impressed. The gobber just rolls his eyes at what just transpired. "Pshaw. Don't think that was 'cuz of you, you big oaf!" He shouts. The man from Veyshan turns his head inquisitively, raising a disbelieving eyebrow. "Oh what? You don't think I could deal with that!?" Asks His Wartiness angrily. The Veyshanti seems to have already had enough of this as he just shakes his head and walks away, finding himself nearer to Oates and leaving his former client to his own devices. His client finds out, the hard way, that he should have just kept his mouth shut.

Oates chuckles. "Sounds like you could use a drink after dealing with an ingrate like that," he points out. "Have a beer, on me." Oates does wince at some of the more vicious attacks that connect with the Veyshanti's former employer, but writes it off as a learning experience for someone with more gold than brains.

"Should've just let 'em get it out of their system from the start," comes comment from a bench nearby, words touched slightly with a slurred, almost mushy accent. A girl in part dress, part robes, leans back against the bench's wall. "They were only gobbers."

"Uh..." Says Hilal, managing to summon all of his eloquence in one small utterance! His eyes thin out some as he looks at Oates suspiciously, sizing him up. Then, somehow managing to look as if he has relaxed in his armor, although he's, you know...armored. "No thank you. I don't drink." He does, however, take a seat. With the woman's words, Hilal's eyes quickly dart that way. He wasn't ready for that. "He was paying me to keep that from happening." He says, with a shake of his head.

Oates acknowledges Hilal's polite refusal with a shrug. "If'n you don't mind my saying so, it almost sounded like what he wanted was a pet gladiator," the farmboy observed. "Name's Jack Oates, although I usually go by Oates around here," he introduces himself with a smile. "Who might you be?"

Arms folded, the young woman half grins, half smirks. "And you thought taking money from a gobber was a good idea?" Words might come across as a little harsh, but her expression holds no malice. She glances over at the scuffle, then shrugs. "Came out the same in the end anyways."

"I'm still paying for this, so I thought taking money from anyone would be a good idea." When he says 'this', Hilal slams an armored fist into the armored chest area of his armored suit. Armor. "But I couldn't stand him much longer." He shakes his head, "Hilal. Is what they call me."

"Nothing wrong with taking a job that doesn't offend your sensibilities," Oates points out with a shrug. "Gold is gold, and if the reason for the job is a good one, more power to you, Hilal. Myself, I'm generally up for helping out with a worthwhile cause, and if the pay is better than usual, so much the better!" He takes a few bites out of his meal.

Hilal frowns, "Well. That damn Gobber reminds me a lot of my former own....former employer." He shakes his head at that. "I hate people like that. Think they own someone and can behave however they wish with people because they are rich." He grits his teeth a bit at that, "So I decided that his cause was definitely not worthy enough to stick around."

"Gold is gold," Halani's words ring agreement, though her tone indicates there's a but coming. "Except when it comes from goblins. Or gnomes.. but same thing." She closes her eyes once the little goblin brawl stops being interesting, putting her head back against the wall. "Gold from them is never worth it."

"Too much risk for not enough reward, eh?" chuckles Oates with a touch of sympathy. "Well, it's not like there will ever be a lack of jobs to do... or people bold or crazy enough to take them. Myself, I see nothing wrong with a measured risk. Just as long as there's no barrels of gunpowder between me and the exit, I won't complain too much while getting paid."

Stepping inside behind a stiff arm and squeeling door, Quint blinks in an attempt to adjust between the half-light outside and the slightly-less-dark half-light of the Ox. The collar of his coat is turned up against the chill outside. A small parcel peaks out of one patched pocket.

"Yeah, you could say that," Halani says, responding to Oates. "Also? Distasteful. It's like they go out of their way to make you not like them."

"Wouldn't know; I haven't had much in terms of jobs from them," Oates shrugs. "At least now I'll have at least a bit of a clue of what I might be getting into if there's ever a job offer. Thanks, miss...?"

A pause and quick look around the room confirms that-- for better or worse-- Quint won't have the quickest of visits. The first two buttons of his coat are slid open and he makes quick work of pulling a plain-gray woolen scarf out from about his neck and shoulders. He catches the barman's eye and points up, drawing a shake of the head from the other man. The Acanian issues a silent exhalation of breath and begins looking for a seat...

Halani opens one eye, regards Oates again.. and that's when she spots Quint. "Halani. Wouldn't know me. Not many do." Her other eye opens now as her gaze tracks Quint, and her brow furrows faintly as she tries to deduce what he's up to.

Oates nods to Halani, glancing over at Quint when Halani's focus shifts towards Quint. The farmboy idly munches on his meal, one eye tracking what the mysterious arrival is up to, and keeping an ear on the background noise.

Holding his scarf and looking for a seat, Quint ultimately finds himself the subject of scrutiny. Stonefaced, he notes the looks of Halani and Oates, then turns to look over his houlder and make sure there is no hulking monstrosity looming behind him. Turning back, he nods once, shallow, and takes a few steps closer. "Hello," is his simple greeting.

"Hey," Halani greets back. "Gotten yourself beat up again lately?" Apparently not one for social graces, this young woman. She gestures at Oates's table, specifically the chair vacated by Hilal. "This one seems friendly enough," she adds, referring to Oates. "Likes to offer random people drinks."

This prompts a chuckle from Oates. "Not as random as you might think. It was equal parts respect for his handling of one of the brawls and sympathy for dealing with a lousy boss," he clarified. "Name's Jack Oates, or Oates for short.

"Once. Perhaps twice." Quint answers Halani with a shallow nod, folding the scarf as neatly as one can before stuffing it into his other coat pocket. He draws back the empty chair and settles slowly. "Oates." He repeats, eyes narrowing subtly. "You have done work with the Guild of Explorers-- the disturbance in the warehouse districts. Good work." He clarifies, emphasizing the word in such a way as to have moral implications. "Quint," he adds, simply, by way of introduction.

Oates nods in acknowledgement. "Wish that things could have gone a bit smoother, but hindsight and all of that scrap. At least things got straightened out with no loss of life," he muses.

"We were fortunate in that." Quint agrees, wrapping a gloved hand around the short, steaming mug brought out from the kitchen. The bearded Acanian appears to be something of a regular-- even if he doesn't quite seem the sort. The strong aroma of spice tea begins to overtake the table. "This city is a crossroads. In every possible meaning. If such is your desire, you will have ample opportunity to do good works. Or fill your coin purses. Perhaps both."

Oates takes a drink of his beer as he contemplates Quint's words. "Good works are always a worthwhile cause," he finally agrees. "Coin isn't too much of a worry, as I suspect that there's always a need for craftsfolk around here... but I suspect that being an adventurer is a bit more lucrative, no?"

"Lucrative... until some monster puts a hole in your skull," Halani offers up, eyes still closed. Eyes which, if one looks closely enough, have lines around them that weren't there not too long ago. "Or until some demon creature eats you. Or until your friends stab you in the back."

Quint turns the mug on the table a quarter-turn, fingers pushing subtly. When Halani speaks his eyes roll to that side of the table, watching her. "You are troubled, miss." Perhaps not the most insightful of responses after such blatant cynicism.

"High risk, high reward," Oates philosophizes. "All jobs have risks to them, and the better the pay the more risks there likely will be. It's in how you face those risks that determines how well you'll do, whether you speak of farming grain or scouring lost ruins."

Halani smiles, but there's no humour in the smile. And it's not directed or aimed at anyone. "I know. And it's easy to accept the risk. And then? And then the risk doesn't pay off. And then there are people who care about you crying that you're gone. People that need you, depend on you... and you're not there for them anymore. Easy to risk that."

Oates tilts his head in acknowledgement of Halani's point. "There's always that risk, no matter what job you speak of. Most of the time, it's really small, but it's always there. You just have to take it into account when planning for your friends and family, and do your best to reduce that risk."

Halani shrugs, unconvinced. Or, at least, unmoved. "Small consolation to the kids whose uncle isn't coming home. But.. hey, we're young, we're immortal, that stuff can't really happen, right?" She frowns, opens her eyes... notices Quint is gone. Then lets a puff of air push some of the hair out of her eyes. "Where'd he go?"

A shrugs from Oates, reflecting both an acceptance of Halani's message and the response to her latter question. "I think he subtly excused himself while we were on this grim topic," he remarks. "We could probably debate this all night, but I doubt we'll change each other's minds, no matter how good our points are or the reasons behind them."

"Probably," the robed woman agrees. "The paladin said something about good work you did... what was that all about?"

Oates takes another drink before continuing. "About four days ago, there was a mob that was claiming that one of the dockside barmaids was a witch. The Explorer's Guild was asked to provide some help in breaking up the mob and getting to the bottom of the accusations. Turns out that the actual "witch" was the main rabble-rouser behind the mob, and happened to be a green-skinned crone of a monster, with very nasty claws." A shudder at the memory of getting slashed by those claws, but he continues on. "Come to think of it, Quint was another who was helping with that incident. No wonder he looked familiar!" chuckled Oates.

Halani narrows one of her eyes, then the other as she frowns. "It... was behind the mob? Why would it do that? Did you kill it?"

"Not quite sure why it was behind the mob. Maybe it wanted a scapegoat to distract folk from its activities; maybe it was jealous of the barmaid." Another shrug from Oates. "We defeated it, and it was solidly unconscious but still alive when the guards came to take it to an antimagic jail cell. Our job was to disperse the mob and get to the bottom of the accusations of witchcraft, and we did that."

Halani lets out a soft 'huh' then shrugs. A mystery, perhaps... but she decides not to pursue it. So her eyes close again. "Well, I hope all of your adventures go so well."

Oates nods. "Thank you, and may your adventures never break you," he replies with a raise of his mug in the sketch of a toast.

Halani lets out a laugh at that despite herself... again, it doesn't really sound like a happy laugh. But as it dies down, she nods her acceptance. "Yeah. One can hope."

"And that's all anyone can do, isn't it? Hope for the best and be prepared for the worst?" Oates remarks. "You might not be able to control what happens to you, but you have control over how you react to it." The observation might be corny, but it does have a kernel of truth to it.

Quint had disappeared momentarily. Not in the wizard sense, of course, but at a rumbling series of thumps from the floor above he had made half-formed excuses and stood, walking up the stairs to be gone for the interval. Now he returns, scarf still stuffed into one pocket while the other has been emptied of its parcel. The Acanian shakes his head mildly as his lips move to form silent words. 

The Elunite dodges a barmaid burdened with two fist-full of empty tankards and gives the table of questionable-looking sailors playing Dagger's Eight a wide berth. He slides back into the chair he'd occupied briefly and takes up his cooling tea. "Pardon," he says, before taking a long drink.

"Or.. join a church and have faith that everything happens for a reason, yeah?" It doesn't really look like Halani is going to run off and convert any time soon, but maybe it's her way of drawing Quint back into the conversation.

"Welcome back," Oates says to Quint with a small nod before taking a few more bites of his meal. Discussion is quite enlightening, but it does tend to pre-empt eating at times.

"You may have trouble finding such a place," Quint offers thoughtfully, his eyes considering the flecks of dark leaves floating at the bottom of the cup even as he nods in response to Oates. He speaks slowly, haltingly, and it takes a moment for him to put aside some distraction. "Would you take solace from such knowledge? Would tragedies and cruelties be made less so if a person of faith told you there was some greater cause behind them?" 

He turns in his seat, lacing his fingers around the mug resting on the table, and watches Halani without a hint of reproach in his expression. Evenly awaiting her response.

Halani wrinkles her nose. eyes still closed. "Probably not, hey? Sometimes... alot of times... bad things just happen. And nobody... not even Them... can stop it. Or care to stop it."

Oates ponders this for a moment. "Theology and the like ain't my strong suit, but... could it be that They take a hands-off approach to let each of us do the best we can?" he finally asks. "You can baby your crops to the point where you're getting summer crops in the middle of winter, but then they won't be as strong or as good as they could be if they grew in the field."

"'The greatest powers the Gods were ever given was the ability to inspire us.'" Quint intones simply, looking at Oates and offering a nod. He turns to continue watching Halani as he speaks further, "Few of us are Touched directly... this does not mean that They do not care for you. Few of us are destined-- for good or for ill-- but this does not mean that They will never smile on you. We are often given great questions without answer... but this does not mean there is no Hope." 

"We are here. We do what we will, what we can, or what we must. The Seers tell me these things when I doubt. When I am troubled. If you carry this weight with you alone the burden can be too much. But a temple is not your only answer... it is possible to find hope any where." He lifts the mug from the table, "The simplest way to find help is to ask." And he drinks.

"Pretty words," Halani admits. "Both of you, hey?" This is said without hostility, without rancor. "But they both pretty much amount to, care or not, we're on our own, yeah? If you're not touched... not 'destined'," she nods to Quint here, "then it really doesn't matter if they do care or not. Ted's not coming back. He's not getting to enjoy... or suffer through... an afterlife. He's just gone. "

"So we drink to the memories of those that we've lost, and live on to honor their lives," Oates states simply. Raising a mug, he declares a toast of "Here's to those we've left behind, and to those we have yet to meet."

"If I am ever taken unjustly-- before the time is right and my work is done-- I pray those who care for me do more than fall to bitterness and drink." Quint lifts his glass, joining Oates' toast, and then he stands and drains it dry. He nods to both in turn, expression still impassive, and then says again, "The simplest way to find help is to ask." And he finds his way out of the Ox, leaving his mug on the bartop as he passes.

Halani's eyes open to slits, her face showing its strongest emotion of the night as she glowers after Quint.. and she almost looks like she wants to go after him and punch him. The way her fists clench at her sides on the bench can't bode well. But a deep breath dispels that momentary notion, and after a moment she pushes herself off of the bench and lands softly on the floor. "Good talk, ver," she says to Oates. "I hope... things go well for you, yeah?" Then, when she's sure Quint is long gone, she, too, heads on out of the Ox. Muttering things like 'don't need no shinsing help.'

Oates nods at the departing Halani, then finishes the rest of his meal in relative quiet, pays the barkeep, and makes his way offward to bed.



[[Category:Logs]]