Nordbotten was, by the Icarius family’s definition, not a city. The structures were rudimentary, the people simple and uncouth, the cold mountain weather harsh and uninhabitable, the terrors roaming the slopes and wilds inexcusable, the organizations and institutions laughable, the leadership informal, the food simple, and so on, and so forth.
Iggy loved it, truly.
It was the sounds that he’d decided that he loved best. Even sitting at the bar of the Dusty Sty, the faster whips of wind could be heard blowing across the mountain slopes around the town, a constant reminder that man was second to the elements. He’d yet to see a person about that hadn’t worked in some fashion, the tavernkeeper simultaneously a brewer and homemaker and cook, the smiths carving their own handles and stoking their own fires and smelting their own metals and hawking their own wares. Even the elderly, those few he’d seen, weren’t people of idle hands, knitting clothing, mending homes and stores, watching little ones below and the terrains above like hawks.
It made him stick out like a sore thumb, of course, with his book open at the bar, a treatise on the different kinds of flora and fungi one could find on the Antivan coast hardly a common topic around here. But his gold had kept coming, and so the tavernkeeper had regarded him with befuddlement, the locals eyeing him as only one of a number of interlopers recently.
Adjusting his posture as he heard the tavern door open and shut behind him, Iggy would lean more squarely on an elbow as he hung his gaze down to read, a mug in his free hand to provide sips of ale. He’d eye the tavernkeeper as she passed, then returned from another woman clearly from out of town as well, then went out with some food and drink. As she returned, he’d flag her over, pointing at her hand, coins clutched within.
”How much?”
The tavernkeeper, brow raised, would answer skeptically. ”Five coppers.” Her skepticism would double as Iggy reached into his pocket for a silver and motioned at the coppers, offering an unspoken trade. Accepting with suspicion, Iggy would reassure her with a polite smile, shoulder his book, grab his ale and an unfinished plate of bread, and meander to his fellow foreigner, offering the plate. ”Pardon me, but might you finish this? Seems a waste to let spoil, and I’ve already had my fill.”
Iggy loved it, truly.
It was the sounds that he’d decided that he loved best. Even sitting at the bar of the Dusty Sty, the faster whips of wind could be heard blowing across the mountain slopes around the town, a constant reminder that man was second to the elements. He’d yet to see a person about that hadn’t worked in some fashion, the tavernkeeper simultaneously a brewer and homemaker and cook, the smiths carving their own handles and stoking their own fires and smelting their own metals and hawking their own wares. Even the elderly, those few he’d seen, weren’t people of idle hands, knitting clothing, mending homes and stores, watching little ones below and the terrains above like hawks.
It made him stick out like a sore thumb, of course, with his book open at the bar, a treatise on the different kinds of flora and fungi one could find on the Antivan coast hardly a common topic around here. But his gold had kept coming, and so the tavernkeeper had regarded him with befuddlement, the locals eyeing him as only one of a number of interlopers recently.
Adjusting his posture as he heard the tavern door open and shut behind him, Iggy would lean more squarely on an elbow as he hung his gaze down to read, a mug in his free hand to provide sips of ale. He’d eye the tavernkeeper as she passed, then returned from another woman clearly from out of town as well, then went out with some food and drink. As she returned, he’d flag her over, pointing at her hand, coins clutched within.
”How much?”
The tavernkeeper, brow raised, would answer skeptically. ”Five coppers.” Her skepticism would double as Iggy reached into his pocket for a silver and motioned at the coppers, offering an unspoken trade. Accepting with suspicion, Iggy would reassure her with a polite smile, shoulder his book, grab his ale and an unfinished plate of bread, and meander to his fellow foreigner, offering the plate. ”Pardon me, but might you finish this? Seems a waste to let spoil, and I’ve already had my fill.”
10-31-2024, 09:19 PM
