Pillory Blues

Alexandria, Lower Trades District, late afternoon

The aftermath of a good pillorying is the part that nobody really likes to talk about. Sure, it's a lot of fun watching someone be made into a spectacle for some sort of infraction against propriety. And we can all agree that throwing vegetables at a drunken lout is an amusing way to pass an evening. But after the initial burst of excitement, and after the miscreant has been left with his hands and head clapped between the boards for an entire day, what we're generally left with is just sort of a sad, boring mess.

If the signage is correct, the accused has been found guilty of using coarse language toward a shopkeeper's wife, and of keeping company with fellows as disreputable as himself. There's also a bit at the bottom about not having paid his bar tab for nearly a month. Vegetables near his feet have begun to spoil, and the accused (and convicted) looks perfectly miserable in his hunched over position. His hair has even started to fall flat, in the absence of continued management.

A dark elf, with an impeccably groomed mustache, but with bleary, bloodshot eyes. He doesn't SEEM to be the sort of person to use excessive coarse language, but one can never tell. The bailiff stands nearby, twirling the keys around with a teasing air, smirking at the pilloried elf.

"I say... surely it must be nearly eight o'clock? Couldn't you possibly just let me out a few minutes early? The local peasantry have long lost interest, after all."

The bailiff thinks for a few moments, and looks as if he's about to unlock the neck shackles. But just at the last moment, he pulls back.

"Sorry, Mister 'Of Charn.' But... the wife's been in a real mood, so I'm in no rush to get home."

Coming into the area are an unusual pair. A sleek, well-dressed half-elf, wearing a ruffled white silk shirt, black leather trousers, and polished boots, alongside a makari draped in white and gray robes. Perched on the half-elf's head is a broad-brimmed hat with a large purple feather in it, and he appears to be speaking to the makari.

"...And the good news, such as it is, is that we recovered my sister and Varyssa will not be troubling us for a while -- and probably not ever again." Telamon's eyes flash briefly. "The only loose end for now is the aging Verna suffered, and I'm researching ways to reverse that. It's not a natural process, so in theory it could be reversed... but I wanted to ask around before I start putting my hands on that kind of endeavor. Auranar's endured enough as is."

As Zeke approaches at Telamon's side (himself being the makari), his clothing does little to hide the crystal limbs on his left side which he wears proudly. "Thissss iss excellent newssss friend." Zeke rumbles. Thinking a bit about the process by which such aging might be reversed and then noticing the stocks and the man captured within them. He returns his attention swiftly to Telamon.

"Mossst ssspellsss do not allow for much. Ten yearsss perhapssss, but perhapsss with ssssome effort? Or perhapsss if you locate the one who sstole them you can free them?" Zeke rolls his right shoulder in a half shrug.

Eztli was a frequent visitor of the various markets and commercial districts of Alexandria. It was not uncommon for the small makari to be wandering out of one shop or another, though without any obvious purchases, save for the occasional time she was stuffing something or other into her satchel on the way out.

This time, she was on her way out of one of the local cobblers when she's able to see someone stuck in the pillory that was set up nearby, eliciting as much of a wince as a lizard person could manage. Telamon and Zeke get a small wave shortly afterwards.

"She's still giving you shit about running over her cat, eh? To be fair, Lemuel, I've never heard of a cat being hit by a cart before. Especially not one pulled by an ox."

The dark elf takes a chiding tone, albeit with at least a hint of bemusement. The bailiff, however, seems to get a bit defensive.

"Well it was real old-like. But that's not why she's in a mood. She's been impossible to deal with ever since I stopped drinking."

As the elf continues to lend a sympathetic ear, the skies continue to slowly darken. It won't be long before the shops start to close, and the drunks will start heading toward the various inns. But Yazlo of Charn will be getting a late start this evening.

Seeing the pair of reputable-seeming sentients, Yazlo cranes his neck as much as the pillory will allow, and calls out in a voice that's a bit raspy after going so long without any water.

"Excuse me, gentle folk! Would either of you happen to know the time? Not that I mistrust the bailiff's accuracy, mind you... but it feels as if I've been here much longer than twenty three hours."

"Most spells don't allow for any at all. But unnatural effects... those can usually be reversed. I'm hoping for the same here." Telamon follows Zeke's gaze, and blinks at the man in the pillory. "...Huh. Wonder what happened there." He ambles over to look at the placard, 'tsk'ing at the list.

"You probably could've gotten away with the coarse language and disreputable company, sir," Tel comments. "But really, not paying your bar tab? That's just lowbrow and rude." He rubs his chin. "Still... a day out in the Alexandrian summer sun is pretty effective at getting people to change their ways. Zeke, what do you think?" Catching sight of Eztli, he offers her a cheery wave in turn, his expression warm and personable.

Zeke follows in Telamon's wake politely offering a not to Eztli and shakes his head. "Thisss punisssshment issss sssstrange to thisss one. Wassste of resssourcesss. Wassste of time. Why not have him work off hissss debt?" He shakes his head again and offers the man the time though not with any pleasure behind the words.

Eztli decides against her better judgement to investigate the pillory that was set up, taking a look at the list and sighing. "I feel at some point someone should either cut off a tab that long. Then again, it's pretty bad to take advantage of someone giving you that much leeway, but I don't actually know what happened here." The small makari grumbles. "Still, seems dangerous to be keeping someone out here in this heat."

"Oh, and good day to you archmage. I take it the man next to you is Zeke, peace on your nest sir." She greets casually.

Unfortunately, it's not QUITE time for the unfortunate scallywag to be released from his captivity. The bailiff, who we've already established is called Lemuel, seems very pleased with himself.

"Tell you what, Yazlo. I'll go ahead and let you out... if you'll do the Apology Song."

The already dark complexion of the monochromatic elven figure seems to darken even further. But metaphorically, to be clear. It looks like a flash of anger is temporarily visible behind those eyes, giving way almost immediately to embarrassment.

"Oh... why... I couldn't possibly. I don't remember the words, for starters."

The bailiff starts to put his ring of keys back into the leather pouch on his belt. It's too much for Yazlo of Charn, who blurts out:

"Alright! Fine... I think the words MIGHT be coming back to me..."

"And you'll do the little jig?"

Further metaphorical darkening ensues, before the elf replies flatly in the affirmative.

Coughing a few times, and then taking a deep breath, Yazlo begins the song...

"Ohhh... I deserve my punishment

Because I am a lout

And I am very sorry now

So please Lemuel let me out?"

"You didn't do the jig right!"

Yazlo begins shuffling his feet back and forth and sort wobbling his hands up and down, causing the pillory to rock back and forth in rough time with his feet.

This causes Lemuel much amusement, and he bursts into laughter.

"Ho ho ho! Never gets old!"

It's a rather fascinating thing to watch. The congenial expression on Telamon's face begins to drain away, leaving just a blank, impersonal glare. One that isn't directed at Yazlo, but at Lemuel. For a moment, one might even think the archmage was about to do something impulsive, but he masters the impulse.

For now.

Instead, he says, very calmly and clearly, "I'd say it got old even before it started. Now, why don't you let him loose? He's probably half dried like a chunk of sirrana in the mountains." There's nothing overtly threatening in Telamon's posture, not really... but he clearly does not approve of this display.

Indeed, Zeke looks if possible even less thrilled about the display than does Telamon. He makes a rumbling noise deep in his throat, but doesn't actually say any words. Perhaps considering that the better idea here and now is not to say what is on his mind. Instead his green eyes flicker to Eztli, blinking at the other sith several times. He decides to wait on a reply to them as well. Just to be safe.

Eztli blinks, and the small makari sighs quietly. They don't deign to watch the performance, but that doesn't stop ones ability to listen. "Well then, as a man of the law, you should uphold your word right? Time to let them go like you said you would, if I'm not mistaken in what I heard?" They point out, stopping to tilt their head at the much larger blue makari.

Wiping away a tear from his eye, Lemuel fumbles around with his keys. "Just a bit of fun, Master Archmage. Yazlo here's what we call a... oh, how would you put it, Yazlo?"

Helpfully piping up, the elf provides a somewhat optimistic assessment of his character.

"I believe what you mean to say is that I'm a friend of the downtrodden, and an inspiration to the sober."

"No that's not it... TUBER! That's the word. One of them tubers like dogs get sometimes."

The rusty lock creaks, and then clicks, and the bailiff takes the heavy wooden shackle away. Immediately, Yazlo of Charn stands up much straighter, though it's not super noticeable since he's fairly short. Placing his hands behind his back, he leans backward until his back cracks so loudly that it can probably be heard in the nearby shops.

"I thank you, gentle folk. May the gods bless ye, and may they dress ye, et cetera... uh... and... henceforth... that is to say, I hope you'll believe me when I say that this is a grossly inaccurate representation of my true nature. It really says more about the state of our legal system than it does about me, I must say."

Telamon looks sternly at Lemuel. "I see." Once again, a great deal spoken with those two words. But, once Yazlo is unlocked, the icy demeanour diminishes somewhat. He shifts his starry gaze to the mul'niessa, his expression faintly amused. "Of course you are." It's clear Telamon doesn't really believe a word of it.

"Well, the gods have been kind to me over the last few years, even if they've also seen fit to challenge me as well. I am called Telamon Lupecyll-Atlon, at your service, sir." He offers a polite bow. "And you would be Yazlo... of Charn, I believe the bailiff said?" His eyebrow rises fractionally.

Zeke is frowning somewhat, but he seems at least somewhat pleased that the man is freed now. It will have to suffice. "Thisss one isss called Zeke." He offers finally, half in greeting and half in response to Eztli's earlier question. "Peassssce upon your nessst." This is warmer and genuinely meant.

His eyes flicker toward Yazlo. "You are from Charn?" There's something cautious in that question.

"Eh? Not much reason to be thanking us really, you're the one that had to do well, that, to get out. It's not like we were the ones doing anything there." The small makari shrugs after a pause. "I thought that was the case, I shouldn't be surprised Telamon is hanging out with you, so, you don't have to help him if you don't want to, but could you make sure he's not getting seriously harmed by being out in this heat? Sounds like he hasn't had much to drink after all."

By now, Lemuel is packing up the instrument of public humiliation, and muttering something about possibly having a few beers on his way home and seeing if it makes his wife more agreeable.

The elf seems somewhat touched by the note of concern. If the pile is an accurate indicator, then most of the people he's encountered the past twenty three hours have been less filled with concern, and more filled with a desire to throw vegetables.

"Yes... your ears are as sharp figuratively as mine are literally. I am indeed from Charn. Yazlo of Charn, at the service of all, but most especially of yourselves... and not to be confused with Yazlo who lives in the Theatre District, and is a horrible reprobate with bad breath. A gambler, I'm told, and a teller of bawdy anecdotes. You can easily see why I'd not wish to be confused with such a scallawag, no doubt."

"But with no surname borne, nor affiliation," Telamon points out, his expression wry. "Which suggests that despite your point of origin, you are most likely an exile or escapee from that place." The half-sil tucks his hands behind his back, thoughtfully, before reaching into his haversack and withdrawing a metal flask.

"It's tea, not brandy, but if you've been baking out here the whole day, you don't want to drink any spirits just yet." He politely offers the flask to Yazlo. "Alexandria has scalawags and scoundrels a plenty. Part and parcel of being a town littered with adventurers great and small." He rolls his eyes. "Why, some of us even become respectable."

Zeke blinks and nods at Telamon's explanation. "Thisss one underssstandsss." Not really, but he tries. "Thisss one thinksss that Telamon isss quite ressspectable. Dessspite what isss sssaid about him by othersss... and in bookssss." Wait... Has Zeke read these books?

"Could just mean nothing, too. I mean, I've got no surname, but that's less surprising for a makari, isn't it." The sorceress shrugs again. "Take him up on that, seriously though. Heatstroke can take a while to set in sometimes, and it's better to head it off before that happens, like it's better to drink more water the night before you get the hangover the next day, you know?"

"Yeah, lots of folks from all over here. And a lot of them don't take kindly to not paying for things. If you can't pay back what you're expected, then it's time to look for some work, right?"

"Ahh... well-guessed. I would accuse you of having read my memoirs, sir. But they have not been completed as yet, for the writer I've hired has turned out to be an absolute boob. My trials are meant to never end, it seems."

Gratefully, the elf accepts the flask, but seems momentarily disappointed when discovering its true contents. Still, it's hard to argue with the wisdom. He probably shouldn't start drinking alcohol until he's gotten a bit of moisture in him.

Taking a sip, the elf exercises excellent self control, and even raises his little finger.

"Truly, your concern humbles me. It's the sort of concern that I hope to show when I start doing good deeds."

Telamon smirks. "Here's a hint, friend Yazlo: the trials -never- end. They just change in intensity and direction." He pauses. "I do wish they'd let up a bit. I would like my next trials to be 'picking out a new color for the living room' as opposed to 'ejecting fiends from Ea again'."

He squares his shoulders, before giving Zeke a look. "Really, Zeke? Really? Tell me you read them because you needed a laugh or six." He heaves a sigh. "Still, Lana thinks they're amusing -- and she counsels me not to take them too seriously."

The blue-scaled sith looks at Yazlo for a long moment. "Ssstart?" The word is murmured and then he shakes his head. "Perhapsss we ssshould take him to the Tarrasssce?" Zeke motions to the man in general. "A bath and food and water would do him good." This then seems a point of wisdom though Zeke perks up a bit. "And we can resssume our sssharing of wordsss." An excellent way of getting everything taken care of in his opinion.

Green eyes turn on Telamon. "Thisss one read them to learn. Thisss one findsss booksss on ssssoft-ssskin behavior educational. Thisss one found many errorssss in thosss bookssss how-ever."

"Start doing good deeds? Well, I suppose starting is better than never doing them." The small makari relents, chuckling quietly to herself, even if it was somewhat forced. "Yeah, probably best to get rid of any residual rotten fruit. Let the cleaners or the birds take care of the stuff here, too." She nods.

"_Those_ books? Oh goodness Zeke, you're not going to learn much of value in those. Except maybe new and exciting and creative ways to compliment someone." Eztli laughs loudly. "They're funny, but I try to avoid those. No offence archmage, you're definitely a good looking guy, but, well." She finishes with a shrug.

What started as refined sipping is rapidly turning into greedy gulping. Sure enough, it seems as if the dark elf is pretty seriously dehydrated. Perhaps that is why his hair has fallen so flat?

"A change of scenery? That sounds ever so lovely. I must admit that during my recent tribulation, I have gotten quite tired of this place. That putrid shopkeeper's wife kept making faces at me through the window. One of these days I shall tell her about herself, and I shall not censor myself next time."

At least Yazlo hasn't learned any valuable lessons after his day in the pillory. That might cause some unwanted character growth.

"Very well, I accept the offer. We will go to this 'Tarrasssce', and your kindness will be repaid by putting the first few bottles of wine on my tab."

Telamon lifts his eyebrow at Yazlo again. "The tab you've been accused of not paying? No, no, the TarRaCe is a -quality- place, let's not annoy the proprietess. She has a tendency to go for the knees." Telamon waves his hand casually. "I'll cover the first couple bottles. You might even appreciate the irony; the funds came from a Charnethi noble who will not be joining us for the rest of their life."

He beckons to Eztli and Zeke. "Come along, friends. Eztli, perhaps you can help me explain to Zeke why those gods-awful books should not be treated as research material. And we can explain to Yazlo here why hardened adventurers wince when the phrase 'Crimson Pen' comes up."