Chapter 4: Gifts

Dane Wrickon started down at the piece of parchment on his table.

Apart from the solitary ink drop that had splattered from his stylus, steadily perched above, the parchment was bare.

A candle was burning in front of him, almost hungrily.

Dane wasn't sure what was going to happen first: the candle burning out, or him getting a few sentences down on this blasted piece of paper.

As a follower of Aer, the Crone at the Cliffs, he was expected to write down joyful memories and thrilling exploits since the last full moon, and then burn them on Gift Day. He wasn't exactly sure why the Plucky Mother desired her followers to live life to the fullest and satisfy their own wants, but he had never really been curious enough to ask any priests, either. Was she incapable of having fun anymore, and lived vicariously through her followers? Or did she have so much fun that she wanted everyone to join the party?

What would 'fun' look like to a god anyway? Messing with struggling followers like him? Recruiting more followers than the other gods? Arguing with the Lady of the Soil every chance that she had? Dane recalled that Aer and Fiach were polar opposites, in the same way that Uisce and Dotean were.

Whatever the reason for the Crone's requested offerings, Dane hated Gift Day. As far as he could recall, he only ever had a few good offerings, right after he joined her following. It was difficult to join the followers of the Plucky Mother: she would only accept someone after they had done something extraordinarily joyful, which tended to also be extraordinarily stupid and reckless.

How could one tell when the Plucky Mother had accepted them as a follower? The ways of the gods were subtle and inscrutable at best, and was hard to discern whether favor was granted or not. As a result, the initiative act was encouraged to be practically suicidal. Just in case.

For his initiation, Dane had swam in the ocean from one end of the Wall to the other, desperately trying to stay away from the drainage holes that would cast him down the waterfall on the other side, a plunge of hundreds of feet. He had also been drunk at the time.

Writing about his drinking again would certainly be boring to the Plucky Mother, as followers were supposed to be constantly learning and trying new wonderful things. And Dane doubted it counted anyway, the good drinking times always turned into bad drinking times after the addition of a few more drinks. It was always so hard to tell which drinks were going to cause the turning though. If nothing else, Dane had gained a miraculously accurate sense of hindsight.

But what else in his life was good?

It was for this reason that Dane had been hovering over the paper, unwilling to set anything in ink.

Dane put the stylus down suddenly. He wasn't going to try to lie on his offering, because, as far as he could tell, he was already in deep enough water with the Crone at the Cliffs. No, the answer was simple. He just had to figure out a way to stop his drinking at the point when it was still enjoyable, and he had to figure this out before the end of the Gift Day. Again.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

As Dane walked through the streets of Cael Proper, he recalled the last time he had tried to implement a foolproof system.

The issue was that the system itself had to be defensible to poor judgment. A good method should work just as well sober as it would with a few drinks under his belt.

He had devised an elaborate hand-drawn symbol, that was challenging to write under normal circumstances and impossible to write while he was drunk. When he went out, he decided to bring a small notebook along with him.

Every time he wanted to make a decision, especially a decision such as whether to get an additional drink or not, he had to write his intentions in the book and make the symbol to prove that he was still operating under sound principles. If the symbol was more or less crisp and well formed, he could follow his own instructions. If it was sloppy, he was not allowed to.

The evening had gone like this. When he sat down, he wrote, 'Drink your first drink' in his book, crowned with the elegant symbol. Later, he wrote, 'Drink the second drink'. The symbol beside the instructions was still crisp.

By the command 'drink four', the symbol was recognizable, but getting sloppy. Then disaster had struck.

He had written 'drink again', and crowned it with a barely passable version of his mark. Dane had followed the instructions, and soon after tried to write 'drink again', again, in his journal-- but could not make the mark properly to seal the command.

Panicked, he scanned down the journal to see what he should do-- he had already had a first and second drink, so that didn't help him-- when he saw the helpful and friendly advice, alongside the proper mark: 'drink again.'

He continued to confidently refer to this same instruction as the night wore on, and thus descended from a buzzed bliss to painful drunkenness.

Dane hadn't tried that method again. Then again, he never repeated any of his methods for controlling his problem. To do so would feel like a violation of Aer's mandates-- and besides, if something didn't work, he couldn't think of a good reason to give it another chance.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Dane walked into the shop with a wide smile on his face. It was hard not to when one approached Callador's Curiosities.

Callador's Curiosities was a well known shop on the north side of Cael Proper. He did steady business with the travelers moving in and out of the city along the main road, which followed the Rush, from its starting at Caeledonia, through the Autumn Rush by Invercard, and down to the Winter Rush and the Drain. Travelers often looked to buy gifts for their friends and family, especially gifts with a Caeledonian flair-- which Callahan possessed in abundance.

Callador himself was a follower of Dotean, the Master with his Forge, and delighted in making trinkets, toys, and all manner of odd requests.

Cloth puppets and automated metal machinery danced and whirred in the display windows of the Curiosities shop. Paper birds soared amidst a giant enclosed glass sphere, propelled by some wind that Dane couldn't see. Sparkling liquid was poured into an opaque metal container which transmuted the fluid into snowflakes on the other end. These lazily drifted down, only to be melted by a pair of clockwork metal dragons who blew angry, dark red fire upwards.

He entered the shop. Callador greeted him with a booming voice.

“Wrickon, my boy! Come on in, you are always welcome.”

“Thanks Callador. Are those dragons new?”

Callador stroked his fiery beard thoughtfully, and walked over to where Dane was pointing.

“Aye, they're new. Took me a good long while to figure out how to keep them from melting themselves, I'll tell you.”

Dane knelt down and examined the dragons from the other side of the glass, feeling a strange sense of longing. “Did you temper the metal in a specific way? I've heard that if you take this new steel mixture from Invercard and coat it in a certain substance, you can make it flame resistant.”

“That'd do it.” Callador admitted. “But I sell toys, Wrickon. What kind of toy dragon would this be if the flame could melt a child's hand, regardless of its own? Am I right?”

“So... you somehow cooled down the fire? That's exceedingly impressive. And, also, unless I’m mistaken, that’s impossible?”

Callador responded with a knowing wink. “Impossible is a matter of will and skill, boy. You should come and work with me sometime. Stop being a soldier for a bit.”

Dane smiled thinly. “I would love to,” he said, “but you know that's not possible.”

A dark look came over Callador's otherwise jolly face. “Aye,” he said.

Dane stood up, and broke the silence. “I came to you with an odd request today, friend.”

“Don't you always?” Callador grinned.

They walked over to a stone work bench, away from most of the display cases. It was full with half-cast metal objects, and various spools of cloth and thread. Customers who wanted something specific and new would work with Callador in creating a simple prototype-- Callador was exceedingly good at quick, rough mock ups. Fortunately, Dane's desires were quite simple.

“I need a set of dice.” Dane explained.

“I have plenty of dice.” Callador mused. “But you might find them cheaper elsewhere. I have dice within dice, dice containing swirling mists and clouds.” He broke into a wide smile. “I have dice of a less reputable sort too. You want dice that will always land on snake eyes? I can make some for you. Sunken hells, I can even make you dice that will alternate like clockwork: one roll will be authentically random; the other roll will always be a pre-set number. On, then off, on, then off. Simple and smart. If you play it right, who would even notice?”

Callador fingered his beard. “But why do you need dice, Dane? Unless you cheat, there's no profit in it. And if you do cheat… well, you know that the law is extra hard on soldiers. But you're too smart to have fun in such a pursuit, for very long. Look, I can do it, but I'd feel bad selling you some. Unless, say, you were to set up your own dice establishment-- you could make good money that way.” He frowned. “But you can't, can you? You're a soldier.”

“I can't, and that's not my intention. Here's what I'm thinking.”

Other customers entered the Curiosities shop and started to look around as Dane explained his plan to Callador. Callador's smile grew wide indeed as their conversation went on.

“And you'd need this by tonight, I'm guessing?”

“I was hoping to walk out of the Curiosities shop with this, yes.” Dane admitted.

“That shouldn't be a problem. Let me assist these fine ladies and come back to you. While I do that, you need to decide— um, what did you call it?”

“Probability ratios.” Dane couldn’t help but smile.

“Aye. That. You need to decide that for each of the, ah, levels that you're considering-- it will help my side of things tremendously. How's your arithmetic?”

“A little rusty. I haven't been able to use it much since I was called to be a soldier.”

Callador eyed his new patrons under his bushy eyebrows. “Farmer's wives from Glen-Clachan, I'd say, based on their clothing. They won't make up their minds about anything in a hurry, Dane: they’ll have a small budget, but elaborate desires.” He chuckled. “You have time to muddle with the figures for a bit, fear not.”

“I appreciate it,” Dane said. “Can I borrow some parchment and a stylus? A lot of parchment, I mean.”

“Your wish is my mandate.” The big man clasped Dane on the shoulder. “This is why I like you, Dane. You never stop trying.”

Chapter 4: 1,882 | 10,255/50,000

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