Inexorable Chaos: God Games

It was just after morning when he stumbled in, the kind of man you notice. Hair like a tangled thicket, beard full of poor choices, clothes soaked to the thigh from sweat, and an expression like he'd just watched his house burn down, then realized he left the whisky inside.

He didn't say hello. Just slammed his hands down on my counter like he was delivering a curse.

"Barkeep!" he barked, loud enough to hush the room. "Pour me somethin' strong enough to kill."

I'm not a man to argue with a storm in boots, so I poured.

He downed it in one go, wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, then let out a long, shuddering breath-part relief, part resurrection.

"Name's Cillian Wallace," he said, as if I'd asked. "An' I've just survived a horror I wouldn't wish on me worst cousin."

I topped off his glass. "Rough skies?"

He leaned in, whispering like he feared the walls might be listening. "Seven days. Seven. On a ship. And I was-" he looked around, dropped his voice further-"sober."

Someone behind him coughed. He straightened, turned, and shouted over his shoulder, "Don't laugh, ye bastards! This is a tragedy!"

He turned back to me, eyes wide, voice rising again. "I left port with five barrels of whisky-five on one ship and another three on the other! Thought I'd be swimmin in spirits the whole voyage. First night I crack one open, full of hope and anticipation, and what pours out?"

"Water," I said flatly. It has happened before, more often than is expected.

"WATER!" he screamed, arms thrown wide. "Cold! Lifeless! Like piss filtered through a sweaty sock!"

The whole tavern froze.

"I figured maybe the first barrel was a mistake. Bad luck, happens to the best. So I open the second-still water. By the third, I'm cryin'. By the fourth, I'm talkin' to the mast like it's me lover. And by the fifth?" He tapped the side of his head. "Voices. The sky speakin' to me. Whisperin' things about me childhood. Judgin' me."

He drank again, and his posture sagged.

"I was a week on that ship. A week! Not a dram to be found. The crew offered me juice. Juice. I told them I'd rather die than drink flavored piss."

He rubbed his temples. "On day four I tried to wring alcohol from me socks. On day five I made a toast to a bird named Malcolm who looked like he knew things. On day six I nearly married the cannon just to feel somethin."

By now, his words were starting to wobble.

"Ye know what it's like," he slurred, "t'have to feel your own emotions? Raw? Unfiltered? I remembered every woman what left me. Every. One. Even the ones I left first! I wrote a poem in me own blood on the sails. It was shite. The wind tore it off like it was embarrassed fer me."

Another drink disappeared.

"I saw the clouds blink at me. Blink. That's not normal. That's sober madness."

He sagged forward over the bar. "I bought them barrels from a man wi' a kind face an honest beard. Should've known. It's always the beardy ones. Filled the lot wi' water and dreams."

Then, softly, almost reverently, he raised his glass.

"To false barrels," he muttered."

As he tilts the glass over his mouth, a violent sound echoes from the entrance, shaking the hinges, attracting attention, and even frightening Cillian enough to drop his glass.

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The Spired Lilly is an old tavern of both wood and marble. An old tavern that refused to die or modernize properly, but had tried. The foundation and lower walls were hewn from dark, time-beaten wood, warped by decades of wind and rain. It creaked with every step, and the scent of smoke and ale was soaked into its bones.

Above that, someone—years later and with entirely too much money—had added marble columns and inlaid stonework, like a nobleman's villa was grafted onto a sailor's shanty. The transition wasn't subtle: rough oak beams butted awkwardly into smooth white veining; elegant archways framed crooked wooden doors. It gave the impression of a building caught mid-transformation, halfway between a pirate den and a minor palace.

The ceiling was high and heavy with old rafters, but instead of flickering lanterns or firelight, the place glowed with a strange, soft artificial light. Runed glass plates were embedded in the wood above, shining with a pale, steady radiance like trapped moonlight. At the center was a spire, arcing to the plates, powering it.

Dust hung in the beams, and the air thrummed gently with warmth from old brass pipes humming beneath the floor. A mismatched assortment of tables, stools, and upholstered benches circled a broad hearth that hadn't been lit in years-because it didn't need to be. Instead, the light above cast long, soft shadows, giving the tavern a dreamlike atmosphere, as if time moved slower beneath that ceiling.

There were carvings along the bar: initials, dates, little curses in old dialects, and crude sketches of ships, gardeners, and lovers. The bartop itself had been polished smooth by generations of elbows and spilled drinks. Behind it, a shelf of bottles stood like a stained-glass altar, every color of liquor catching the strange light and refracting it into jewels across the warped floorboards.

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It was a place where the old world and the not-quite-new world met, not gracefully—but honestly. A tavern built to last, patched by desperation and pride, glowing with the kind of warmth that didn't come from fire.

"Boriss, the table next to Cillian." Quasi raises a paw, directing his mount and ensemble. As the odd group marches in, the regulars stare judgingly, but distantly. They've been around, and they know how to act. This group, this odd group with several different species, they're not a threat so long as they're left alone.

The [Barkeep] orders a [Barmaid] to clean the shattered bottle on the floor and to give Cillian another. At the same time, he assesses the jobs of all those present, including the talking cat. A raised eyebrow is all he shows at the [Captains] job before activating his skill: [Predict Drink].

While the group filters to the table and a [Barmaid] asks for their orders, he rushes to the back where the cooling runes are active. He retrieves milk, one generally used for cooking meals. Once obtained, he moves to the kitchen and rapidly heats the liquid until it becomes something of a cream. Adding a bit more milk to cool it to a desirable temperature, he exits the kitchen and strides to the table just as the [Barmaid] finishes the order.

"Cream for the [Captain]." He places the bowl on the table. "I hope it is to your liking."

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As the bowl is placed, I can't help but feel my fur stand on end in anticipation of not only the sight, but also smell. It takes a great deal of willpower to shift my head away from the awaiting creamy goodness to the man who'd just offered me the nectar of the gods mere seconds after I gave my order.

And like that, my willpower breaks as I move to the bowl and take a lick.

Ambrosia flows down my throat, the warm cream hitting my stomach and transmitting the warmth through my body. I suppress a groan as I shift my head to the man.

"This is incredible. Marvelous. You clearly deserve your level."

Angus nods, expecting such a reaction. "I deem to please. Is there anything else I can assist you with?"

"Information." I say, pausing for another link. "But later." I add.

"Of course," He replies, turns, and then walks away.

For the next hour, I live in ecstasy. Life, death, reasoning, nothing matters as the cream flows.

Until it finally ends. When I finish licking the bowl clean, I return to the waking world to find my crew finished with their meals and are now resting and talking among themselves.

Most of my crew, that is. Auranta, Irmgard, and Julia are absent.

Shaking my head awake, I hop off the table and then climb to the counter next to a sleeping Cillian. The man's head is next to a barrel full of empty bottles.

Angus strides towards me while drying a mug with a rag. "Your [Quartermaster] is quite the drinker." He says.

I nod to the man. "He is. How'd you know he's part of my crew?"

The man finishes drying the mug, sets it down, then leans forward. "Skills improve as you level, which includes job innate ones. I not only see the jobs and levels that people carry, but also what ships they are assigned to."

The man continues leaning. He glances at my relaxing crew. "Not only ships assigned, but also those unassigned. For example, you're the [Captain] of a fleet of two: A Timbergrove and a Peregrine."

My tail slides side to side as I nod gratefully. Knowing that they can figure out not only my ship, the ships in my fleet from a glance is good information.

Just as I'm about to ask a question, he raises a finger and points at Myers.

He leans in and starts to whisper. "In that regard, I'm able to notice discrepancies. Your [Navigator], Myers, is assigned to the Timbergrove, but isn't part of any fleet that includes the Peregrine."

Oh shit!

Angus leans away with his usual relaxed smile. "Before you say anything, I've a story to tell. Long ago, far before I'd become a [Barkeep], I was a [Ship Slave] to [Pirates]. It was a hellish life, one of backbreaking labor and poor food. It was a life I'd thought impossible to escape until a [Captain], one fresh from the navy attacked the ship I was on. The [Captain] slaughtered the [Pirates] and freed me from my captivity. With my new freedom, I asked to join his crew, and I did, to the annoyance of his superiors. After decades of service and numerous levels, the [Captain] was promoted to a position that made it impossible for me to interact with him. So, I quit the navy and started a bar." Angrus releases a smile. "Now, that same [Captain] I admire is in a dangerous predicament- one where I can be of some assistance."

Myers, you lucky son of a bitch.

"Assisting me would be an assistance to him."

Angus chuckles. "I imagine so. Now, I believe you asked for information?"

I scoot closer to Cillian's unconscious body and use it as a backrest. "Yup. Let's start with the big one, what's with these Quillgrafts and are they actually safe?"

"They're risky and costly," Angus said immediately. "Quillgrafts permanently trade mana regeneration for a skill at a cost I'd argue isn't worth it, especially for those of a higher level. It's not uncommon for a single graft to remove nearly all of your regeneration for a skill that can never be improved with levels. Though, I find that the cost to be a far greater problem."

"You wouldn't be able to wear or wield Runed equipment." I exclaim the obvious problem.

Angus nods. "Runed equipment can easily surpass whatever skill is obtained."

"What about more powerful skills? Do they have activatable ones?"

The [Barkeep] grimaces. "The better the skill, the higher the cost."

"And if you can't pay the cost?"

Angus breathes out from his nose. "The morgue tends to be full on this island."

Well, I can probably pay the cost considering my regeneration.

"But, activatable skills exist." I state.

"So does the morgue." He emphasizes.

Sounds like I'm going skill shopping later.

"Point taken, I'll be cautious. Now," I glance up at a pylon sparking with electricity from the ceiling. "Whats with the pylons?"

"Those are used to transfer mana from a central facility in Sparkhold. And before you ask, I don't know how it works. It's a closely guarded secret, one only the highest levels of leadership in sparkhold possess."

So, they're using Tur to power the city.

"I'm guessing the Quils also come from that facility?"

"That is correct," Angus nods.

I cross my paws on my chest like one would with arms. "What about Fumehold? Do they have something unique?"

"They do. It's called fleshforging, where they use a type of gas to strengthen the body. It has the same problem as quilgrafting in that it costs permanent mana regeneration."

I nod thoughtfully. "I fought a [Pirate] with a pulsing purple arm that had far too much strength. Is that the same?"

"It is." He acknowledges.

For the next hour, I grill Angus for more information about not only the cities, but the political system. Apparently, both brothers have grown to hate each other's guts and are constantly trying to cause the other problems. Occasionally, this results in actual violence, with the morgue getting filled with the elites of both cities.

As we talk, something of a plan comes together, one that will require a decent bit more reconnaissance.

Once my questioning is completed, I pay for the drinks and meal, ask Boriss to pick up Cillian, and then we leave the tavern. Once outside, I tell my crew to do as they like while I jump on Yuto's shoulder. With a final farewell, me and my wolven mount make our way to the Inquisition docks.