Hollysaadi and Gralamin looked up at Tsirolf when he announced his departure, puzzled at the suddenness, as they had just entered the cafe. He made his way around the table, the two turning to see where he was headed. They noticed the man dining a few tables away, he looked familiar but they couldn't quite place his face. Adogeon Silverkin was cutting a piece of mutton with a partially eaten piece of bread and a glass of red wine. Tsirolf nonchalantly sat down across from him. Adogeon didn’t look up from his meal.
“Adi.” Tsirolf addressed him informally, nodding, trying to get him to look up from his food. “What have you heard?”
“Adogeon, if you please. I’m sure you've heard of my position now. You were always so quick to refer to someone with a hypocorism than their proper names, Tsitsi…” he teased the elf.
Tsirolf’s eyelid twitched at the mention of the sobriquet of his childhood. “And you were so concerned with your station in life that you always tried to be someone you weren’t, using big words you didn’t understand.”
Adogeon looked up now, staring him in the eye. “Well, some of us aspired to step out from the gutter and polish our boots. I see you've still preferred to roll in the mire, but now you've gotten in far over your head.”
“So answer the question, because I know you, what have you heard?” Ignoring the slight.
He set his fork and knife down with a sigh, sipped his wine and wiped his mouth. Looking up again, “Look, I don’t think you know what it is you’ve gotten yourself into…”
“Obviously I don’t, which is why I am asking you.” He cut him off.
“Fine, what ever you’ve got yourself mixed up in has some major players involved and no one is talking about it openly. Tread lightly, be careful. The council is murmuring, no one wants to get involved directly, but everyone has a hand at the table. That doesn’t bode well for you. I wouldn’t be surprised if you ended up dead. I see the paladin and the ranger you walked in here with, both nobles. I assume you realize that, that should tell you something, BUT…neither of them are big players in either of their respected families. Both houses are aligned, though. Considering you aren’t much, impresses on me. That also tells me that you've got caught in the middle without knowing what.”
Tsirolf absorbed his words as a sinking feeling grew in his stomach. His heart sped up then skipped a beat. He felt an apprehension creep into his head, should he make a break for it? No, now he felt it would be an offense if he bailed out, a personal wound he wouldn’t live down. He was knee deep with nobles and city council members, the paladins of the city guard. He had to come out ahead, he couldn’t entertain the thought of failure with such high stakes. Armed with such little knowledge he felt the weight of disadvantage. Looking back at his companions, he noticed the stress in their shoulders. He turned back to his childhood acquaintance, “is that all you have for me.”
“That's all I'm willing to divulge. We never spoke, do you understand me?”
Adogeon stuck the last piece of meat in his mouth, dipped his bread in the wine, swallowing and gulped down the rest of his cup. With a burp he left the café out the back without a good bye. Tsirolf sat for a moment taking in the fact that he didn't go out the front, then rejoined the two at his table.
“What was that about?” Gralamin asked.
“I’ll tell you in a moment,” he said as the waitress approached the table. His nonchalance made Hollysaadi and Gralamin nervous. Being left out of the conversation made them feel tentative, exchanging a look from the corner of their eyes. “I’ve heard the mutton’s good!” Tsirolf said, glancing at the menu.
After they finished their meal, the pair stared at Tsirolf expectedly. He proceeded to tell them about Adogeon. He grew up in the same slums as Tsirolf but in rival gangs, if you could call the roving groups of street kids that roamed the lower class alleyways of the city ‘gangs.’ The several groups resorted to petty crimes, stealing to eat, vandalism, some light arson and general acts that were in direct disobedience to the temper of the city guard.
Tsirolf fell in with one such group when he first arrived in the city, being an elf, he was larger than the adolescent teenagers that populated the bands. Tsirolf was still fresh from mourning the passing of his adopted father, looking for acceptance by anyone who would give it. These gangs offered an egalitarian, unbiased opportunity to the fact that he was an elf that he didn’t receive from the more upper class families that didn’t even look his way to offer a few coins. His knowledge of herbal plants was a boon to his group, being able heal the wounds of those hurt in the scuffles that would break out when one group, purposefully or not, would cross the turf boundaries of another. In exchange, his group taught him everything he needed to know, picking locks and pockets. His elf heritage made him already stealthy and his agility, in comparison to the human boys, made him invaluable. He was more adverse to direct violence and often stayed out of the group brawls, but often times would get drawn in when one of the bigger oafs would prod him by calling him Tsitsi. The epithet made him quick to anger, not because of the nickname per se, but because of the tone with which it was hurled at him. He understood the insult for what it was, despite his lack of prior interaction with unruly human children.
Adogeon and he had met often, recognizing the mental prowess the other possessed. Tsirolf couldn’t stand the way Adogeon spoke down to others. His drive to be something more didn’t bother him as much as his disdain for their position on the social ladder. He would speak to Tsirolf as if he wasn’t a poor orphan as well. It didn’t take him very long before he left behind the squabbling little boys, scrounging for scraps and pennies, joining the organized crime rings down at the docks. His knowledge that he gained from being able to read, an oddity among the orphans, made him invaluable to the bosses that occupied the abandoned warehouses of the shipping district. Adogeon stole books from the various scholarly houses and spent more time studying than engaging in tussles that his wiry frame couldn't withstand.
Adogeon worked his way up the echelons of the crime world, then went straight, as straight as politics could be in the city. Working on the accounting books for the crime lords gave him intimate information on the darker side of the council members. He was shunned at first, the nobles of the council didn’t like outsiders meddling in issues that slum dogs had no business sniffing around. That is, until he would drop a bit of information that he knew well about and a noble son or father didn’t want anyone else to know. They were quick to realize that this dog knew where all their skeleton bones were buried. Everyone on the council kept their enemies closer than their allies, and Adogeon was a wild card they couldn’t afford to let stray. He was an advisor to the council member that represented the docks and slums, controlled by the crime bosses. His work and intelligence made for the perfect middle man, but what he didn’t have was a firm grasp of the precarious position he occupied. He knew too much on either side. What he mistook for power in the knowledge he possessed, actually made him a marked man. One slip and he would find himself dumped at sea with pockets full of rocks. He didn’t possess the tact or moral compass that Tsirolf had that kept him away from the evil that crept through the underbelly of the city.
Around the time Adogeon left the street gangs of the slums, Tsirolf met Alma. Alma was a daughter of a middle class merchant. Her father owned a shop cart in the main marketplace. Her parents, occupied by their business, left Alma to venture out and mingle with the children of other shop owners. One day she spied the elf stealing some food from a vendor and followed him to an alley that lead from the market to the slums to the south. She nearly called for the guards, but stopped when she realized he was passing the bag full of stolen produce out to the grimy, rag clad children waiting for him. Once the orphans scampered away nibbling on apples and bread, she approached him.
“That’s quite noble of you.”
Tsirolf, distracted by the pleasure of the giggling children, jumped at the soft voice that floated over his right shoulder. He spun on her, “It’s not everyday someone sneaks up on me, might be more careful next time.”
“I could say the same to you about being careful. The way I see it, I should turn you over to the guard.”
“You would have already, if you were going to.”
Caught in her bluff, she was intrigued by the elf’s cool demeanor in the face of being caught off guard. An idea struck her at that moment though. Perhaps she could help. “Look, I’ve seen the poor children running around the market, I’m not blind to the plight they dwell in. Perhaps you can be of better service to your friends.”
“How’s that?” Tsirolf was becoming more annoyed at the girls insistence that she had any idea of the conditions the orphans had to deal with.
“My father owns a cart in the market, but he’s getting old and I’m afraid, sick. I could convince him to hire you, we could use the help. You can make an honest living, steady pay, and I’ll convince the other vendors to donate there left over food that they can’t sell, and would otherwise throw out, to the children. It would solve the issue of their more desirable product being stolen, while not having to deal with disposing of the old. They love me and I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to get them on board, they're always griping about their merchandise being stolen.”
Tsirolf was skeptical, “how old are you?”
“I’m fifteen, sixteen in two months!” She said proudly.
He scoffed. “Oh yeah, How old are you?” She crossed her arms tapping her foot.
She gasped. Never having met an elf before, she was certain he wasn’t a day over eighteen. Mouth open, she began to stutter. “Don’t bother,” he raised his hand to stop her, “it’s fine, I’ll take your offer.” It was her turn to be caught of guard. Alma didn’t think her proposition would be accepted, already reeling from the knowledge of how old the elf was, she couldn’t breathe and began to swoon. He caught her around the waist and smacked her on the cheek a few times. Shaking her head, she steadied herself and furrowed her brow.
“Don’t touch me like that ever again!”
“Ok, next time I’ll let you fall.”
“Not that, don’t ever hit me again!”
“Oh, sorry.” He became sheepish at the thought of offending her as she was offering him a job and to feed the orphans he held so dear.
“It’s fine, you need a little refinement in the manners department, but thank you for not letting me fall. Anyways, meet me back here tomorrow, same time, and I’ll let you know what my father says.”
She skipped away, excited at the prospect of the handsome elf working beside her. Tsirolf was perturbed at the thought of ‘refinement’ but was quite enchanted with the young human girl, despite the difference in years. He’d never really had any interaction with a female of any race, other than the old women he would deliver medicine to for his father’s apothecary. He half smiled and followed the path the children had taken when Alma arrived.
The next day she arrived to Tsirolf leaning roguishly against the wall, arms crossed. She slowed to a stop and cocked her head, placing her hands on her hips. “Drop the cool guy facade, you old softy, my father wants to meet you before he gives you the job.”
She turned, walking into the market. He dropped his arms and nimbly came to her side without her noticing. She jumped when she noticed him walking on her hip. “My father doesn’t mind you being an elf, but understands the aversion some have for your kin in this city, so he’s cautious. I explained what I saw, but he’s not too convinced until he can look you in the eye. Be straight forward and honest and there won’t be a problem.” She stopped, turning to him to make sure Tsirolf understood what she was saying. They locked eyes, and Alma’s breath caught in her throat.
“I didn’t even get your name, or you mine, for that matter.” His heart thumped in his chest, more than he expected.
“Tsirolf.” They broke their gaze, awkwardly, away from each other and resumed their path through the busy square.
Arriving at the stall, Alma and Tsirolf waited patiently for her father to finish his business with a customer. He looked up at Tsirolf, taking him in, giving him the up and down. Tsirolf extended his hand, introducing himself, said yes sirs and no sirs at the appropriate times in response to the questions Alma’s father tested him with. They laid out his duties and agreed on a wage. The next five years flew by, Tsirolf diligently did his job. Alma organized the donations for the orphan children adeptly. With a flutter of her eyelashes she was able to collect so much food over the years that they fed most of the ‘gangs’ to the point that they were able to put a stop to the silly turf wars the children had imagined existed in the first place. Alma’s father indeed was sick, fighting for five years but finally succumbing to his illness. Her mother followed soon after, presumedly from heart break. Alma inherited her parents business but soon she sold it to a friend of her father’s. He paid her much more than market price of what it was worth, knowing her ambition of opening up a tavern and inn. Tsirolf and Alma planned for the opportunity to venture out ambitiously. She had the money and Tsirolf had the connections with the work force of the lower class to get it done. Thus, the Bearded Tavern was born, and nearly ruined by Tsirolf himself, as recently as a day ago.
Tsirolf ended his story solemnly, reflecting on the trouble he may have caused Alma, in spite of the effort the two of them had put in to make a successful business of the Bearded Tavern. He wanted to make it up to her but wasn’t sure how.
He often acted cavalierly, without regard to the time and sweat they had invested to make a life for themselves. He being an elf, and she being a much younger human, made Tsirolf feel uncomfortable in the circumstance. Their feelings for each other were undeniable, but his memory was much longer than hers. He felt as if he had an unseen expectation to live up to, and she saw him for what he was: distracted from what was in front of him. He had an inkling of what was possible, but didn’t want to break her heart and thought she could do better. She couldn’t imagine better than what she saw through his hardened exterior, inside his heart when his guard was down.
Hollysaadi and Gralamin stared at Tsirolf from across the table. They couldn’t believe how candid he was, nor how much time he had just devoted to telling them his history. Their respect for him grew leaps and bounds but they didn’t verbalize it. Tsirolf raised his eyes as their jaw snapped shut. He felt his face flush with embarrassment as he stacked his spent fork and knife on top of his plate for the waitress to take away and the paladin and ranger did the same.
Hollysaadi paid the bill and the two men thanked her. “How about some research?” Gralamin broke the silence as they walked from the café. They turned right from the door of the restaurant and hung another right down the shadowed alleyway of the library. The side entrance that the cleaning crews used to enter the enormous library was humble, matching the people who used it.
“Speak low, and keep your head down. This is hallowed ground, as far as you two are concerned. I’ll lead and speak for us. Where we enter, no one will question our being there by the time anyone notices us. They’ll assume we have the proper authority to be inside.”
Tsirolf and Gralamin nodded their understanding as she turned the knob of the door. Inside was dark, a short tunnel opening up into the vaulted, domed ceiling of the massive library that housed some of the most valued manuscripts in all of the realm. They were awed into silence if they had, indeed, thought to speak at all.
