Night time over Annalow was soft and
warm like a blanket in cool wind. All inviting nights, as every
paradise should be for the city under the Living Goddess, except on
this particular night when it rains like it does on this particular
night. When it rains, the Mumes resist their natural love of dancing
in the tumbling water, instead choosing to hide in their homes and
pubs due to the Marfs disturbing play in the storms.
There are 21 pubs in Annalow, most of
them distributed even yet randomly along the inside of the round
dwelling. At the edge, one of them, The Rusty Goblet, sits brooding
this night. A typical pub-sounding-name for a typical pub. There
were no doors, only curtains enclosing one entire side fo the
building from the downpour and vission of outside interfearence. At
one corner was an empty stage yearning for performers of music or
poetry on this night. Opposite that, along the closed curtains, was
the bar and bar stools filled with patrons who really wanted the
slopping sounds outside to stop. In between were tables filled with
workers of all races, except Marf and the elusive Felfs. Even Ixxar
huddle at an exclusive table, shuddering from the thoughts of the
outside celebration.
"It ain't natural, what they do."
Said a Mume at the bar. "Why do we have ta' hide like this
from those lousy Marfs." He slammed down his pint and marched
outside. The pub looked on with interest, watching him leave,
waiting, and watching him shudder back to his stool and finish his
pint. "Merygold, Another." He called to the womume behind
the bar.
"Ya' fool, Tumic Mousenose.
Tain't none'a us wild enough to stand the likes out there while the
Marf play." Merygold put a bitter in front of the shooken Mume.
"Ya' wait, like the rest of us, till the small-folk are
finished."
A soft pat came from an old and bearded
borc at Tumic's left. "S'aright, I think." Oh no, thought
Tumic. Baren's going to reminisce. "This reminds me of my
company up north when we happens [sic] to take shelter from a
blizzard in an old Marf-hole."
"Baren, No!" Merygold
begged.
Baren the Borc spun around, ignoring
her, and addressed the pub. "They all had bent noses and chubby
cheeks an not a lick of hair, 'cept maybe a whisp on the elder's
head. Bald and white like blind worms, but it weren't rain'n up
there, cuz it don't rain. It snows, see?"
And Ixxar yells from their table "Borc,
I'm willing to give you 20 horns to shut up!"
Baren ignored him, too. "Well,
they still celebrate, don't they? The water's fall'n from the sky
and they still gotta thing for that. It's just softer."
Tumic planted his head in his hands.
"Goddess save us."
And she did.
