Arthurian Cultivation

Yolanda took us on a good twenty minute walk, through a rapidly quietening town. The sun had set and businesses were closed, but we soon arrived at an oasis of light and sound. The streets around us bustled with gaudy, vibrant buildings. Some were rough bars, simple tables and benches spilling out of plain public houses. Mixed between them were buildings decorated with gold leaf and fitted with brass, from which delicious smells wafted. We even passed a few establishments where beautiful men and women rested on balconies, calling out to passers-by, trying to interest them in a 'good time', most wearing even less than Tristan.

Whenever any of us got distracted, Yolanda would prod and poke us, promising that no place was quite as good as where we were headed. She did not disappoint.

Our final destination was a sprawling white-painted building in a city of grey. Laughter and warmth spilled out of the windows, and there was a sense in my cultivation that this place had weight to it. It was named The Fox and Harp, if the sign hanging over the entrance – bearing the delightful image of a fox asleep atop a stylised harp – was to be believed.

This place had a power all its own. Not threatening, but promising hospitality with the strength to enforce it if it came to that. That was surprising enough, but the last thing I expected was to see both cultivators and mortals coming and going through the door, seemingly at ease with each other.

I was a little surprised. Mortals and cultivators getting drunk together was a recipe for disaster. It didn't take much for a drunken fool to say something problematic, and while the average cultivator would restrain themselves to merely throwing the offending party out, a drunk cultivator might forget how delicate the average mortal was.

My confusion only grew when we entered, stepping into a lively, high-ceilinged room where raucous groups made merry round polished oak tables beneath broad chandeliers holding scores of candles. The place, while lively and full of life, still felt tidy and clean in a way that taverns never normally did. It even smelt clean – not that sour reek of beer and overindulgence that often permeated mortal establishments.

Yolanda wove us through the tables towards the bar. That's where the final surprise lay. As we emerged, the gaze of a powerful Iron cultivator swept over us – the closest to Steel I'd felt of anyone in that tier since gaining my Iron senses. More developed even than the Warden who'd welcomed us at the ritual at the gates.

His eyes narrowed at the unfamiliar arrivals, and I was glad we'd convinced Gring to wait well outside. Yolanda broke the ice for us, running up to the man with a smile.

"Fash! It's good to see you, brought you a bard and a couple of patrons!" Yolanda greeted the man warmly.

Fash looked different to most tavern keepers I'd seen. His cultivator's body meant he lacked the pot belly that was practically their badge of office. He had dark wavy hair streaked with grey that reminded me of the peoples of the Thousand City Sea, and his skin held the same olive complexion. A scar over one eye and some heavy golden earrings gave him the look of a retired pirate captain.

"Yolanda, I thought you said you weren't coming here anymore." The man's voice was hearty and hale – it slapped you on the back and put a drink in your hand just hearing it.

"That was because Arvald kept coming round. That cur makes my blood boil. We'd just end up fighting and I know your rules."

"Do your friends know them too?" he rumbled, looking us over. Lance, Bors, Maeve and I did our best to look like upstanding patrons. We were in decent but not eccentric clothing, and as Yolanda had suggested, all our weapons were stored.

"Why bother telling them? You're just going to insist on saying them again!" Yolanda grinned as the man finished pouring a drink and placed it in her hand. Then his focus turned fully towards us.

"None of them get the tone right. The rules are simple. If something happens and you want a fight, you take it down the street to the arena. If you start a fight, escalate a fight even if you didn't start it, break my stuff, or generally threaten or act the fool in front of my customers, you're banned. I don't care what level of cultivator you are, what power you've got, I don't care if a mortal tells you to lick their boots. You start anything in here, you're done. Am I clear?"

"Understood." We all replied. As I said it, I could feel the power of the place seeping into me. Hospitality was a magic unto itself – something even the fae respected. It was connected to glamour but little understood, yet all knew that breaking the rules tended to end in disaster.

"Good. Let's wet your throats. The entertainment will be starting soon, and I don't like too many people fussing at the bar when others are playing."

"Koko is here, right?" Yolanda asked.

"Korina? Yeah, she's playing in a few. She's in one of the back rooms, sorting out her harp."

"I'll go see her quickly, let her know not to disappear after she plays."

"Good luck with that. You know how she can be."

"Ah, but I have a genuine cultivation bard here! You know how she is for music." Yolanda grabbed me by the shoulder and thrust me forward.

"You're not just a Knight or Witch who picked up a lute, then?" Fash looked at me, his eyes not even glancing down as his hands effortlessly danced around preparing our drinks.

"Knew you'd want to speak with him. And he was looking forward to playing for mortals as well as cultivators. Thought you two might get along."

"Hmm. More interesting than I thought. I'm a Brewer." Fash put extra emphasis on the last word, and I could feel the capital letter drop into place.

"You cultivate through the art of brewing?" I raised an eyebrow. I'd heard of such cultivators, but they were vanishingly rare.

"Indeed. Was a Witch when I started out, but found I didn't get along with it. Liked potions, and used to get stuck doing the brewing as 'punishment'. Turned out to be the best thing for me."

"Fash here makes a good portion of the beer we drink in the Order, but he refuses to be exclusive. Says it isn't his path. Ahh, this is good! Is this new?" Yolanda asked, sipping her beer. Fash grinned at the compliment.

"I can understand avoiding being pinned down. I think playing for the same audience every night would be the end of me." I nodded in agreement, and he slapped the bar and laughed.

"This guy gets it! A drink on the house. I would love to trade notes. It's rare to find someone on their own path these days. Good to hear we share an interest. I live for new experiences with taste, diverse patrons to serve, and foreign palates to critique and inspire." His words were casual, but I could sense the weight of knowledge behind them. I gave him another look over and noted the grey streaks in his hair and the creases round his eyes. How old was this man? Iron ranks could live for centuries, though time always caught up with them eventually.

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"We might have a rare challenge for you then. How do you feel about a pegasus drinking in your establishment?" I got the sense this man was a kindred spirit as his eyes lit up at the idea of the challenge.

"That'd be quite the thing. I've not had to consider a pegasus's palate in a decade or more. Hmmm. He'd have to lean through a window round back. Would he mind being an opening act?" Fash asked, stroking the stubble on his chin.

"Gring would never turn down the chance to have an audience," Lance laughed, and the deal was set. We were all given an excellent beer, the master brewer picking a perfect drink for each of us. It left us speechless for a good while as we savoured the cool drinks.

The others headed off. They agreed to meet this 'Princess Koko' and badger her for intel – I mean, ask her for stories in my stead – so I could talk with Fash. Lance, in particular, practically vibrated with excitement, muttering about her list of 'Knightly' achievements.

A few minutes later, the night's entertainment began. A mortal with a voice and patter so enchanting I felt a bit of envy drew everyone's attention to the opening act – a drinks tasting with Gring taking centre stage. Fash spoke about the drinks he was serving and their ingredients, things like "Lunar hops, planted under a blood moon, harvested by silver sickle at twilight" and "Briar honey harvested from hives nestled in cursed rose thickets."

The drinks were apparently so good that the pegasus was still in a daze when the speaker made a joke about leading a horse to water. The group laughed good-naturedly at the dopey biped and cheered Fash as he left the stage, joining me off to one side of the bar and calling out to one of his staff.

"Douglas, watch the bar for a bit. Let's sit here." Fash navigated us to an empty table that waited for us in the middle of the room. Sitting down, I heard the conversation around me dull, as some manner of ward shielded us.

"Table is warded so no one will overhear us. Also makes it a bit quieter so we can speak. People can't really see us either, their attention just slips off us."

"Clever work. I imagine this is your favourite place to sit."

"That it is. Though I prefer standing at the bar. That's where my power is. This is my place to relax."

"So you get it too. The sense of connection."

"Skipping right to the personal questions, kid?" Fash grinned as I tried to apologise. "I'm just yanking your chain. I wanted to talk with you. I'd be a total knave if I didn't offer up some information of my own. Tell you what – you tell me a bit about your path, however much you feel like sharing, and I'll share some of my insights. Especially around that 'connection' as you call it." Fash offered, sliding a fresh drink across to me.

Taking the drink, I told a heavily redacted version of my story. I couldn't lie, but I tried to tell enough to cover my art – the development of my power, finding a resonance in battle, but also in how I connected with people when I performed. How cultivators and mortals alike, their attention flowed into me. Fash was a good listener, as any good barman is, and with only a handful of questions, he managed to pull out more detail from me than I'd planned on sharing. Though nothing I truly regretted speaking of.

"So that's my story."

"An interesting path you take. I would love to hear more of your adventures in a decade, after you properly start to explore your power." Fash's casual mention of a decade confirmed my sense that the man was far older than he looked.

"Well, it's time for a bit about me. To your earlier question, I do get that sense of connection. The witches call it 'resonance', but I prefer 'connection' as a name. For me, it's strongest here in my tavern, but everywhere my drinks touch, there's a faint connection."

"Even from distant mortals?"

"Very little. Your observation that cultivators give more is accurate, yet I'm pleased to hear it doesn't sound like you've fallen into the trap that many end up following."

"Targeting only cultivators?" I replied, and the man nodded, a warm smile playing across his lips.

"It's a common mistake. I noticed it early on, just like you did, and focused my efforts on them to my detriment. See, not only are there far more mortals than cultivators, but mortals tend to be less reserved, more free. They try new things readily, love things more dearly, and hold memories tighter."

"You get power from people who just think about your drink?" I blurted out.

"When I started out, I couldn't sense it. But anyone my art is connected with, as long as they held onto that memory – the tighter they held on to it, the more power trickled through to me. It is a trickle, mind. That pegasus's awe was worth a solid dram of power. A mortal's wonder at my craft might be worth a splash of spilt drink. While their memories over an entire year might be worth no more than a drop of dew on a blade of grass."

"But with hundreds passing through, you have fields and fields of grass out there."

"Exactly. It's also more fun. Mortals change. Their tastes and trends shift all the time. Cultivator trends last decades. I remember when everyone wanted the kind of stout that's so thick it clings to the glass, and that took fifty blood years to pass. Mortals are where creativity lies."

"Well, this is a pleasant surprise. I wasn't expecting to talk with a fellow artist today." I sipped the drink, quietly wondering how much my enjoyment was worth to his cultivation.

"We don't tend to spread knowledge around too much. Not because it's particularly secret, but because some cultivators get all twisted up at the idea of aiding another's cultivation. We aren't an alliance like the Knights or Witches, but we informally try and keep a lookout for each other, show each other the ropes."

"Are there any other bards around?"

"You're not the first of your kind I've met, but perhaps the purest in terms of focus. Most are like Koko – I mean Knight Kovax. She's got a touch of the art in her cultivation, but it's only a part, a subtle undertone to the bold nature of a Knight that dominates. You'll see her play soon."

"Any bards you might recommend I speak with?"

"A few names – most I haven't seen in a decade or more. But they tend to come by now and again. They tend to die a lot less than full Knights do. Speaking of which, I've got another warning for you. Be careful travelling with your companions. We aren't made for the front lines."

"I mostly stick back with the horses." I muttered, feeling my throat squirm at the half-truth. It was technically true. In a fight I did stay to the back, even if I was still key to us acting as bait.

"Will you stay there if your friends are in danger?"

"No, but I'm not helpless," I replied. Looking at Fash, I couldn't believe he would be weak either. The man's muscles were clear, and there was the casual ease in which he'd threatened us when we entered.

"Of that I'm sure. But you're still not a Knight, and there are things out there that make even them quake in their sabatons."

"Any other sage advice apart from don't die?" I asked, looking over my mug. On the stage, there was clapping as a mortal poet took the stage and began to recite some shockingly well-written poetry.

"Nope, that's about it." Fash grinned, then paused before his brows came down and his aura shifted, taking on a hard edge. "Also, be wary of the Smiths and other 'Masters'."

"Can I ask why?" The poetry was drowned out as I felt his aura flicker around me.

"They follow a different path. One of perfection. Their cultivation is about crafting the most perfect thing for each individual. Perfection is the enemy of greatness. Don't let them twist you up with their obsessions." His otherwise easy-going face creased with the weight of uncomfortable memories.

"Something that happened to you?" I asked, a dark cloud passed over Fash's face, a bitter mixture of anger and loss marring his features.

"I made the mistake of asking a Smith how to progress, and lost a decade perfecting a beer. It wasn't worth it, and set me back more than just the lost time. If you want to progress through Iron, you need a solid foundation or it'll take you years at the end before you're ready to move forward."

"Well, thank you for the warning. I aimed for quantity over quality so far."

"If Yolanda is suggesting you play, you've got to be pretty decent. She might act the uncultured lout at times, but she's a savvy woman."

"Well, we'll see, won't we. When am I on?"

"You'll be seeing us out. There's just Koko left with her harp – she's up next. Enjoys the art of the music, but isn't always the best at understanding what the crowd wants. I warned you about the Smiths because I fear I've lost her to their stupid wittering. I'm hoping you have the talent to set her straight. Still, she's good enough to be mesmerising."