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Sorry, ita only!
Era una sera come le altre al Maggiolino Bianco, una bettola di infima qualità al confine tra il Reame ed il Focolare sulla strada che dà verso il Sottoscala, uno di quei locali dei quali se ne conosce l’esistenza solo se ci si è mai stati almeno una volta. Si avvicinava Yule, ma tra quelle quattro pareti ammuffite senza finestre sarebbe potuto essere qualsiasi altro giorno dell’anno.
Almeno una dozzina di boccali vuoti spuntavano sul bancone e l’oste, un Boggart cieco da un occhio, sembrava stare per riempirne un tredicesimo, nonostante di fronte a lui la sala fosse vuota salvo per due singoli avventori abbarbicati sulle strette seggiole in legno scuro e scricchiolante. Il Soladino, colpevole di aver svuotato tre dei dodici boccali, allungò l’occhio verso la Fata, compagno di bevute, di fianco a lui.
“Sicuro di volerti fare un altro giro, Spar?”
“Chiudi il becco, Frisk.”
Maleducato, ondeggiante sulla sedia, le parole gli uscivano biascicando dalle labbra. Era sempre così Spartak quando esagerava: irascibile, nervoso, persino lascivo con la giusta compagnia. A Frisk affascinava, sembrava sempre così diverso da come si comportava da sobrio, un ramoscello troppo cresciuto che rischia di spezzarsi al minimo soffio di vento… no, una foglia tremante. Sempre così paranoico, con la voce più leggera del rumore del vento tra le fessure della Casa.
“Perché mi fissi. Smettila di fissarmi. Tupoy.”
E poi partiva con quella parlata a metà tra il Domestico ed il suo dialetto Fae.
“Scusa, non era mia intenzione.”
“Eh, dlya tebya luchshe…”
Il Soladino aveva smesso di cercare di imparare il Fae così come il tentare di ragionare con la Fata quando beveva. Avrebbe potuto togliergli il bicchiere dalle labbra a forza, ma la capacità combattiva del suo compagno di bevute non era una cosa sulla quale si sentiva in vena di rischiare. Dopo tutto, ognuno si salva da solo e Spartak aveva già deciso di che veleno sarebbe morto un giorno.
Eppure, non riusciva ad abbandonarlo a sé stesso. Lo accompagnava a casa sua quando non si reggeva più in piedi, vegliava su di lui se temeva che potesse sentirsi male, alle volte si era spinto persino a chiamare un medico, pagandolo di tasca propria. Non sapeva se Spartak se ne rendesse conto, però lo trovava sempre lì, il venerdì sera, ad aspettarlo al Maggiolino Bianco per una nuova nottata tra alcol e chiacchiere. Un appuntamento abitudinale.
“Mi stai ancora fissando. Smettila o ti spacco la faccia, lampadina.”
Frisk distolse lo sguardo, tornando a fissare la sfilza di boccali ai quali se ne era aggiunto uno nuovo. Sembrava che Sparkat stesse per ordinarne un altro, con quali soldi lo sa solo il Padrone, quando il Soladino si decise ad intervenire.
“Senti un po’ Spar, come ti sei fatto quelle cicatrici?”
Se non poteva fermarlo con la forza lo avrebbe fermato con l’ingegno.
Il piano sembrò andare a buon fine dato che la mano che si stava alzando per chiamare l’oste si mise ad esitare a mezz’aria, portandosi poi invece al volto di lui, accarezzando lievemente i numerosi segni che gli costellavano il volto. Lentamente, le due pallide labbra si dischiusero, cominciando a raccontare con una voce più sicura di prima.
“Eravamo andati a fare una battuta di caccia, una di quelle cosine semplici. Eravamo… credo in tre. Non molti, comunque, di sicuro Françoise e Simon. Col senno di poi, avrei dovuto capire che non mi volevano lì con loro, soprattutto dopo l’ultimo incontro a casa di Albert…
Ma lasciamo perdere. Siamo partiti all’alba per poter trovare un po’ di selvaggina tra i funghi e le muffe, ci eravamo preparati bene affrontare le distese di cera, quando a Simon è venuta la splendida idea di rubare della pappa reale.”
Frisk aveva già sentito quella storia almeno una dozzina di volte, ma fintanto che continuava a parlare non poteva ordinare altro da bere. Il Soladino lanciò una breve occhiata all’oste, dandogli il segnale di chiudere bottega per la serata.
“Siamo arrivati fino nel territorio dei calabroni, mi hanno lasciato indietro per fare da palo. Ci stavano mettendo così tanto e io ero così impaziente che mi sono subito alzato in volo per cercare di individuarli da sopra le cime dei funghi.
Non l’avessi mai fatto.”
La Fata alzò l’altra mano, cominciando a contare sulle punte delle dita di entrambi i suoi arti, facendo leggermente fatica a causa della quantità di alcol in corpo.
“Quattro… cinque… cinque calabroni. Belli aggressivi. Avevano sentito le mie ali. Hanno puntato prima a quelle. Poi la schiena… le braccia… il viso… Sai che Tristan des Larmes aveva lasciato i Tristellati a Tournuoire a morire divorati vivi dai calabroni? Ecco, dico solo che non deve essere stata una bella morte…”
Frisk deglutì. Non aveva mai studiato la storia, ma quella parte gli era rimasta impressa dalla prima volta che l’aveva sentita. Spartak aveva smesso di parlare, rimaneva in silenzio fissando il vuoto. Nei suoi occhi viola come l’uva matura trapelava il ricordo che avrebbe così tanto voluto cancellare dalla sua vita e che immancabilmente ogni giorno, guardandosi le cicatrici allo specchio, riaffiorava alla sua mente stanca.
“E poi…” Il Soladino cercò di intercedere per sviare la brutta piega che il discorso stava prendendo. “…cos’è successo?”
La Fata si riprese, scuotendo il capo.
“Non lo so di preciso, è tutto molto confuso. Un minuto prima ero sospeso a mezz’aria con le mandibole dei calabroni addosso, un minuto dopo ero sulle spalle di qualcuno. Mi ricordo solo l’odore, un profumo… floreale credo. Non me ne intendo di mode femminili… E delle gambe, delle gambe veramente lunghe. Credo fosse uno Sprigo, ma non ne sono sicuro… e poi mi sono risvegliato a La Ruelle.”
Spartak finì il suo racconto nello stesso istante in cui l’oste girò chiuse la cassa dietro al bancone per chiudere la sera. Nella bettola calò il silenzio. Frisk si dondolò un attimo sulla sedia guardandosi intorno con aria nervosa.
“Beh, almeno è finita bene, no?”
“Che cazzo vuoi tu da me, ostav' menya v pokoye.”
Spartak guardò il Soladino con occhi fuoco. Stava per dire qualcos’altro quando venne interrotto.
“Per stasera credo che abbiate bevuto abbastanza. Entrambi.” Tuonò la voce dell’oste. “Fuori o vi butto fuori a calci io.”
A malincuore, entrambi si sollevarono dai loro sgabelli, raggiungendo l’uscita del locale. Si fermarono un attimo, guardandosi alle spalle mentre le ultime luci della bettola si spegnevano sotto i loro occhi ed il Boggart girava la chiave nella serratura della porta.
“Ce la fai a tornare a casa da solo?”
Spartak non rispose, limitandosi ad incamminarsi verso la propria dimora con passo ciondolante.
“Settimana prossima stessa ora, Frisk.”
Il Soladino sorrise malinconico.
“Stessa ora.”
Era una sera come le altre al Maggiolino Bianco, una bettola di infima qualità al confine tra il Reame ed il Focolare sulla strada che dà verso il Sottoscala, uno di quei locali dei quali se ne conosce l’esistenza solo se ci si è mai stati almeno una volta. Si avvicinava Yule, ma tra quelle quattro pareti ammuffite senza finestre sarebbe potuto essere qualsiasi altro giorno dell’anno.
Almeno una dozzina di boccali vuoti spuntavano sul bancone e l’oste, un Boggart cieco da un occhio, sembrava stare per riempirne un tredicesimo, nonostante di fronte a lui la sala fosse vuota salvo per due singoli avventori abbarbicati sulle strette seggiole in legno scuro e scricchiolante. Il Soladino, colpevole di aver svuotato tre dei dodici boccali, allungò l’occhio verso la Fata, compagno di bevute, di fianco a lui.
“Sicuro di volerti fare un altro giro, Spar?”
“Chiudi il becco, Frisk.”
Maleducato, ondeggiante sulla sedia, le parole gli uscivano biascicando dalle labbra. Era sempre così Spartak quando esagerava: irascibile, nervoso, persino lascivo con la giusta compagnia. A Frisk affascinava, sembrava sempre così diverso da come si comportava da sobrio, un ramoscello troppo cresciuto che rischia di spezzarsi al minimo soffio di vento… no, una foglia tremante. Sempre così paranoico, con la voce più leggera del rumore del vento tra le fessure della Casa.
“Perché mi fissi. Smettila di fissarmi. Tupoy.”
E poi partiva con quella parlata a metà tra il Domestico ed il suo dialetto Fae.
“Scusa, non era mia intenzione.”
“Eh, dlya tebya luchshe…”
Il Soladino aveva smesso di cercare di imparare il Fae così come il tentare di ragionare con la Fata quando beveva. Avrebbe potuto togliergli il bicchiere dalle labbra a forza, ma la capacità combattiva del suo compagno di bevute non era una cosa sulla quale si sentiva in vena di rischiare. Dopo tutto, ognuno si salva da solo e Spartak aveva già deciso di che veleno sarebbe morto un giorno.
Eppure, non riusciva ad abbandonarlo a sé stesso. Lo accompagnava a casa sua quando non si reggeva più in piedi, vegliava su di lui se temeva che potesse sentirsi male, alle volte si era spinto persino a chiamare un medico, pagandolo di tasca propria. Non sapeva se Spartak se ne rendesse conto, però lo trovava sempre lì, il venerdì sera, ad aspettarlo al Maggiolino Bianco per una nuova nottata tra alcol e chiacchiere. Un appuntamento abitudinale.
“Mi stai ancora fissando. Smettila o ti spacco la faccia, lampadina.”
Frisk distolse lo sguardo, tornando a fissare la sfilza di boccali ai quali se ne era aggiunto uno nuovo. Sembrava che Sparkat stesse per ordinarne un altro, con quali soldi lo sa solo il Padrone, quando il Soladino si decise ad intervenire.
“Senti un po’ Spar, come ti sei fatto quelle cicatrici?”
Se non poteva fermarlo con la forza lo avrebbe fermato con l’ingegno.
Il piano sembrò andare a buon fine dato che la mano che si stava alzando per chiamare l’oste si mise ad esitare a mezz’aria, portandosi poi invece al volto di lui, accarezzando lievemente i numerosi segni che gli costellavano il volto. Lentamente, le due pallide labbra si dischiusero, cominciando a raccontare con una voce più sicura di prima.
“Eravamo andati a fare una battuta di caccia, una di quelle cosine semplici. Eravamo… credo in tre. Non molti, comunque, di sicuro Françoise e Simon. Col senno di poi, avrei dovuto capire che non mi volevano lì con loro, soprattutto dopo l’ultimo incontro a casa di Albert…
Ma lasciamo perdere. Siamo partiti all’alba per poter trovare un po’ di selvaggina tra i funghi e le muffe, ci eravamo preparati bene affrontare le distese di cera, quando a Simon è venuta la splendida idea di rubare della pappa reale.”
Frisk aveva già sentito quella storia almeno una dozzina di volte, ma fintanto che continuava a parlare non poteva ordinare altro da bere. Il Soladino lanciò una breve occhiata all’oste, dandogli il segnale di chiudere bottega per la serata.
“Siamo arrivati fino nel territorio dei calabroni, mi hanno lasciato indietro per fare da palo. Ci stavano mettendo così tanto e io ero così impaziente che mi sono subito alzato in volo per cercare di individuarli da sopra le cime dei funghi.
Non l’avessi mai fatto.”
La Fata alzò l’altra mano, cominciando a contare sulle punte delle dita di entrambi i suoi arti, facendo leggermente fatica a causa della quantità di alcol in corpo.
“Quattro… cinque… cinque calabroni. Belli aggressivi. Avevano sentito le mie ali. Hanno puntato prima a quelle. Poi la schiena… le braccia… il viso… Sai che Tristan des Larmes aveva lasciato i Tristellati a Tournuoire a morire divorati vivi dai calabroni? Ecco, dico solo che non deve essere stata una bella morte…”
Frisk deglutì. Non aveva mai studiato la storia, ma quella parte gli era rimasta impressa dalla prima volta che l’aveva sentita. Spartak aveva smesso di parlare, rimaneva in silenzio fissando il vuoto. Nei suoi occhi viola come l’uva matura trapelava il ricordo che avrebbe così tanto voluto cancellare dalla sua vita e che immancabilmente ogni giorno, guardandosi le cicatrici allo specchio, riaffiorava alla sua mente stanca.
“E poi…” Il Soladino cercò di intercedere per sviare la brutta piega che il discorso stava prendendo. “…cos’è successo?”
La Fata si riprese, scuotendo il capo.
“Non lo so di preciso, è tutto molto confuso. Un minuto prima ero sospeso a mezz’aria con le mandibole dei calabroni addosso, un minuto dopo ero sulle spalle di qualcuno. Mi ricordo solo l’odore, un profumo… floreale credo. Non me ne intendo di mode femminili… E delle gambe, delle gambe veramente lunghe. Credo fosse uno Sprigo, ma non ne sono sicuro… e poi mi sono risvegliato a La Ruelle.”
Spartak finì il suo racconto nello stesso istante in cui l’oste girò chiuse la cassa dietro al bancone per chiudere la sera. Nella bettola calò il silenzio. Frisk si dondolò un attimo sulla sedia guardandosi intorno con aria nervosa.
“Beh, almeno è finita bene, no?”
“Che cazzo vuoi tu da me, ostav' menya v pokoye.”
Spartak guardò il Soladino con occhi fuoco. Stava per dire qualcos’altro quando venne interrotto.
“Per stasera credo che abbiate bevuto abbastanza. Entrambi.” Tuonò la voce dell’oste. “Fuori o vi butto fuori a calci io.”
A malincuore, entrambi si sollevarono dai loro sgabelli, raggiungendo l’uscita del locale. Si fermarono un attimo, guardandosi alle spalle mentre le ultime luci della bettola si spegnevano sotto i loro occhi ed il Boggart girava la chiave nella serratura della porta.
“Ce la fai a tornare a casa da solo?”
Spartak non rispose, limitandosi ad incamminarsi verso la propria dimora con passo ciondolante.
“Settimana prossima stessa ora, Frisk.”
Il Soladino sorrise malinconico.
“Stessa ora.”
Category Artwork (Digital) / Comics
Species Exotic (Other)
Size 905 x 1280px
File Size 506 kB
Listed in Folders
Rough translation for anyone who does not read Italian. It sounds wonderful even if it’s not in the native language.
It was an evening like any other at the White Beetle, a low quality tavern on the border between the Realm and the Hearth on the road to the Sottoscala, one of those places whose existence is known only if you have ever been there at least once. Yule was approaching, but between those four moldy windowless walls it could have been any other day of the year.
At least a dozen empty mugs sprouted on the counter and the innkeeper, a blind Boggart in one eye, seemed to be about to fill a thirteenth, despite the fact that in front of him the room was empty except for two single patrons clinging to the narrow dark wooden chairs and creaking. Soladino, guilty of having emptied three of the twelve mugs, stretched his eye towards the Fairy, drinking companion, next to him.
"Are you sure you want to take another round, Spar?"
"Shut up, Frisk."
Rude, swaying in his chair, the words slurred from his lips. Spartak was always like that when he went overboard: short-tempered, nervous, even lascivious with the right company. To Frisk he fascinated, he always seemed so different from how he behaved sober, an overgrown twig that risks breaking at the slightest gust of wind… no, a trembling leaf. Always so paranoid, his voice softer than the sound of the wind in the cracks of the House.
“Why are you staring at me. Stop staring at me. Tupoy. "
And then he started with the one spoken halfway between the Domestic and his Fae dialect.
"Sorry, it wasn't my intention."
"Eh, dlya tebya luchshe ..."
The Soladin had stopped trying to learn Fae as well as trying to reason with the Fairy when he drank. She could have pulled the glass from his lips by force, but the fighting ability of her drinking partner was not something she felt in the mood to risk. After all, everyone saves himself and Spartak had already decided what poison he would die of one day.
Still, he could not leave him to himself. He accompanied him to his house when he could no longer stand up, watched over him if he feared he might feel ill, sometimes he even went so far as to call a doctor, paying him out of his own pocket. He didn't know if Spartak realized this, but he always found him there, on Friday nights, waiting for him at the White Beetle for a new night of alcohol and chatter. A routine appointment.
“You're still staring at me. Stop it or I'll break your face, light bulb. "
Frisk looked away, staring back at the string of mugs to which a new one had been added. It seemed that Sparkat was about to order another one, with what money only the Master knows, when the Soladino decided to intervene.
"Feel a little Spar, how did you get those scars?"
If he couldn't stop it by force, he would have stopped it with ingenuity.
The plan seemed to be successful since the hand that was raised to call the host began to hesitate in midair, then moving instead to his face, lightly stroking the numerous signs that dotted his face. Slowly, the two pale lips parted, beginning to tell in a more confident voice than before.
“We went on a hunting trip, one of those simple things. We were ... I think three. Not many, however, certainly Françoise and Simon. In retrospect, I should have understood that they didn't want me there with them, especially after the last meeting at Albert's house ...
But forget it. We left at dawn to be able to find some game among the mushrooms and molds, we were well prepared to face the expanses of wax, when Simon had the wonderful idea of stealing royal jelly. "
Frisk had heard that story at least a dozen times before, but as long as he kept talking he couldn't order anything else. Soladino glanced briefly at the innkeeper, giving him the signal to close the shop for the evening.
“We went all the way to hornet territory, they left me behind to act as a stake. They were taking so long and I was so impatient that I immediately flew up to try to spot them from above the mushroom tops.
I had never done that. "
The Fairy raised her other hand, starting to count on the fingertips of both of her limbs, struggling slightly due to the amount of alcohol in her body.
“Four… five… five hornets. Aggressive beautiful. They had felt my wings. They aimed for those first. Then the back ... the arms ... the face ... Do you know that Tristan des Larmes had left the Tristellati in Tournuoire to die eaten alive by hornets? Here, I just say that it must not have been a beautiful death ... "
Frisk swallowed. He had never studied history, but that part had stuck with him from the first time he heard it. Spartak had stopped talking, remained silent, staring into space. In his purple eyes like ripe grapes, the memory that he would have wanted so much to erase from his life leaked out and that invariably every day, looking at the scars in the mirror, resurfaced in his tired mind.
"And then ..." The Soladin tried to intercede to divert the ugly turn that the speech was taking. "…what happened?"
The Fairy recovered, shaking her head.
“I don't know exactly, it's all very confusing. One minute I was suspended in midair with hornets' jaws on me, a minute later I was on someone's shoulders. I only remember the smell, a perfume ... floral I think. I don't know women's fashions… And legs, really long legs. I think it was a Sprigo, but I'm not sure… and then I woke up in La Ruelle. "
Spartak finished his story at the same instant the innkeeper turned and closed the cashier behind the counter to close the evening. Silence fell in the tavern. Frisk rocked for a moment in his chair, looking around nervously.
"Well, at least it ended well, right?"
"What the fuck do you want from me, ostav 'menya v pokoye."
Spartak looked at the Soladin with fiery eyes. He was about to say something else when he was interrupted.
“I think you've drunk enough for tonight. Both." The landlord's voice thundered. "Out or I'll kick you out."
Reluctantly, they both got up from their stools, reaching the exit of the room. They paused for a moment, looking over their shoulder as the last lights of the tavern went out before their eyes and the Boggart turned the key in the door lock.
"Can you make it home alone?"
Spartak did not answer, limiting himself to walking towards his home with a dangling step.
"Same time next week, Frisk."
The Soladino smiled wistfully.
"Same time."
It was an evening like any other at the White Beetle, a low quality tavern on the border between the Realm and the Hearth on the road to the Sottoscala, one of those places whose existence is known only if you have ever been there at least once. Yule was approaching, but between those four moldy windowless walls it could have been any other day of the year.
At least a dozen empty mugs sprouted on the counter and the innkeeper, a blind Boggart in one eye, seemed to be about to fill a thirteenth, despite the fact that in front of him the room was empty except for two single patrons clinging to the narrow dark wooden chairs and creaking. Soladino, guilty of having emptied three of the twelve mugs, stretched his eye towards the Fairy, drinking companion, next to him.
"Are you sure you want to take another round, Spar?"
"Shut up, Frisk."
Rude, swaying in his chair, the words slurred from his lips. Spartak was always like that when he went overboard: short-tempered, nervous, even lascivious with the right company. To Frisk he fascinated, he always seemed so different from how he behaved sober, an overgrown twig that risks breaking at the slightest gust of wind… no, a trembling leaf. Always so paranoid, his voice softer than the sound of the wind in the cracks of the House.
“Why are you staring at me. Stop staring at me. Tupoy. "
And then he started with the one spoken halfway between the Domestic and his Fae dialect.
"Sorry, it wasn't my intention."
"Eh, dlya tebya luchshe ..."
The Soladin had stopped trying to learn Fae as well as trying to reason with the Fairy when he drank. She could have pulled the glass from his lips by force, but the fighting ability of her drinking partner was not something she felt in the mood to risk. After all, everyone saves himself and Spartak had already decided what poison he would die of one day.
Still, he could not leave him to himself. He accompanied him to his house when he could no longer stand up, watched over him if he feared he might feel ill, sometimes he even went so far as to call a doctor, paying him out of his own pocket. He didn't know if Spartak realized this, but he always found him there, on Friday nights, waiting for him at the White Beetle for a new night of alcohol and chatter. A routine appointment.
“You're still staring at me. Stop it or I'll break your face, light bulb. "
Frisk looked away, staring back at the string of mugs to which a new one had been added. It seemed that Sparkat was about to order another one, with what money only the Master knows, when the Soladino decided to intervene.
"Feel a little Spar, how did you get those scars?"
If he couldn't stop it by force, he would have stopped it with ingenuity.
The plan seemed to be successful since the hand that was raised to call the host began to hesitate in midair, then moving instead to his face, lightly stroking the numerous signs that dotted his face. Slowly, the two pale lips parted, beginning to tell in a more confident voice than before.
“We went on a hunting trip, one of those simple things. We were ... I think three. Not many, however, certainly Françoise and Simon. In retrospect, I should have understood that they didn't want me there with them, especially after the last meeting at Albert's house ...
But forget it. We left at dawn to be able to find some game among the mushrooms and molds, we were well prepared to face the expanses of wax, when Simon had the wonderful idea of stealing royal jelly. "
Frisk had heard that story at least a dozen times before, but as long as he kept talking he couldn't order anything else. Soladino glanced briefly at the innkeeper, giving him the signal to close the shop for the evening.
“We went all the way to hornet territory, they left me behind to act as a stake. They were taking so long and I was so impatient that I immediately flew up to try to spot them from above the mushroom tops.
I had never done that. "
The Fairy raised her other hand, starting to count on the fingertips of both of her limbs, struggling slightly due to the amount of alcohol in her body.
“Four… five… five hornets. Aggressive beautiful. They had felt my wings. They aimed for those first. Then the back ... the arms ... the face ... Do you know that Tristan des Larmes had left the Tristellati in Tournuoire to die eaten alive by hornets? Here, I just say that it must not have been a beautiful death ... "
Frisk swallowed. He had never studied history, but that part had stuck with him from the first time he heard it. Spartak had stopped talking, remained silent, staring into space. In his purple eyes like ripe grapes, the memory that he would have wanted so much to erase from his life leaked out and that invariably every day, looking at the scars in the mirror, resurfaced in his tired mind.
"And then ..." The Soladin tried to intercede to divert the ugly turn that the speech was taking. "…what happened?"
The Fairy recovered, shaking her head.
“I don't know exactly, it's all very confusing. One minute I was suspended in midair with hornets' jaws on me, a minute later I was on someone's shoulders. I only remember the smell, a perfume ... floral I think. I don't know women's fashions… And legs, really long legs. I think it was a Sprigo, but I'm not sure… and then I woke up in La Ruelle. "
Spartak finished his story at the same instant the innkeeper turned and closed the cashier behind the counter to close the evening. Silence fell in the tavern. Frisk rocked for a moment in his chair, looking around nervously.
"Well, at least it ended well, right?"
"What the fuck do you want from me, ostav 'menya v pokoye."
Spartak looked at the Soladin with fiery eyes. He was about to say something else when he was interrupted.
“I think you've drunk enough for tonight. Both." The landlord's voice thundered. "Out or I'll kick you out."
Reluctantly, they both got up from their stools, reaching the exit of the room. They paused for a moment, looking over their shoulder as the last lights of the tavern went out before their eyes and the Boggart turned the key in the door lock.
"Can you make it home alone?"
Spartak did not answer, limiting himself to walking towards his home with a dangling step.
"Same time next week, Frisk."
The Soladino smiled wistfully.
"Same time."
Also adding a transcript for the comic and fixing the translation!
(G)Green: Cael
(P)Purple: Spartak
(B)Blue: Odilde
PANEL ONE
(G) Stay awake, keep talking.
(P) About what...
(G) I don't know, where you come frome, who you are.
PANEL TWO
(P) Spartak... Polnareff...
(G) Nice to meet you Spartak, I'm Cael and... Hey? Hey!!! Stay awake I said!!!
PANEL THREE
(P) S-sorry, I'm not good... at talking...
(G) Then, I don't know, sing! Just keep making sounds! I don't want to have dead fairies on my conscience!
(P) Ok...
PANEL FOUR
(P) *Singing Bayu bayu bayushki bayu*
(G) I would have preferred something happier.
(G) Damn it, this tall guy is gone
(G) I just wanted to spend a vacation in peace...
PANEL SIX
(B) Finally you're back, I was starting to worry
(G) Odilde...
(B) We should have left an hour ago, not that I dislike the Realm, let that be clear
(G) ...do you have the first aid kit?
PANEL SEVEN
(B) Yes, why?
(G) We need it.
(G) Now.
It was an evening like any other at the White Beetle, a low quality tavern on the border between the Realm and the Hearth, on the road to the Understairs, one of those places whose existence is known only if you have ever been there at least once. Yule was approaching, but between those four moldy windowless walls it could have been any other day of the year.
At least a dozen empty mugs lay on the counter and the innkeeper, a Boggart blind in one eye, seemed to be about to fill a thirteenth one despite the fact that in front of him the room was empty except for two single patrons clinging to the narrow dark wooden creaking stools. The Soladine, guilty of having emptied three of the twelve mugs, glanced towards the Fairy, his drinking companion, next to him.
"Are you sure you want to have another round, Spar?"
"Shut up, Frisk."
Rude, swaying in his chair, the words slurred from his lips. Spartak was always like that when he went overboard: short-tempered, nervous, even lascivious with the right company. To Frisk he was fascinatig, he always seemed so different from how he behaved when sober, an overgrown twig that risked breaking at the slightest gust of wind… no, a trembling leaf. Always so paranoid, his voice softer than the sound of the wind drafting through the House.
“Why are you staring at me. Stop staring at me. Tupoy. "
And then he generally started speaking in a halfway manner between the Domestic language and his Fae dialect.
"Sorry, it wasn't my intention."
"Eh, dlya tebya luchshe..."
The Soladine had stopped trying to learn Fae as well as trying to reason with the Fairy when he drank. He could have pulled the glass from his lips by force, but the fighting ability of his drinking buddy was not something he felt in the mood to assest. After all, you can only save yourself and Spartak had already decided what poison he would die of one day.
Still, he could not leave him to himself. He accompanied him to his house when he could no longer stand up, watched over him if he feared he might feel ill, sometimes he even went so far as to call a doctor, paying them out of his own pocket. He didn't know if Spartak realized this, but he always found him there, on Friday nights, waiting for him at the White Beetle for a new night of alcohol and chatter. A routinely appointment.
“You're still staring at me. Stop it or I'll break your face, lightbulb. "
Frisk looked away, staring back at the string of mugs to which a new one had been added. It seemed that Spartak was about to order another one, with what money only the Master knows, when the Soladine decided to intervene.
"Say Spar, how did you get those scars?"
If he couldn't stop him by force, he would have stopped him with ingenuity.
The plan seemed to be successful since the hand that was raised to call the host began to hesitate in midair, then moved to the Fairy's face, lightly stroking the numerous signs that dotted his visage. Slowly, the two pale lips parted, beginning to tell the story in a more confident voice than before.
“We went on a hunting trip, one of those easy ones. We were ... I think three. Not many hunters, anyway, certainly Françoise and Simon. In retrospect, I should have understood that they didn't want me there with them, especially after the last meeting at Albert's house ...
But forget it. We left at dawn to be able to find some game among the mushrooms and molds, we were well prepared to face the expanses of wax, when Simon had the wonderful idea of stealing royal jelly. "
Frisk had heard that story at least a dozen times before, but as long as he kept talking he couldn't order anything else. The Soladine glanced briefly at the innkeeper, giving him the signal to close shop for the evening.
“We went all the way into the hornet territory, they left me behind to act as a stake. They were taking so long and I was so impatient that I immediately flew upwards to try spotting them above the mushroom tops.
If only I had never done that. "
The Fairy raised his other hand, starting to count on the fingertips of both of his limbs, struggling slightly due to the amount of alcohol in his body.
“Four… five… five hornets. Pretty aggressive. They had heard my wings. They aimed for those first. Then the back ... the arms ... the face ... Do you know that Tristan des Larmes had left the Threestarred in Tournuoire to die eaten alive by hornets? Look, I'll just say that it must not have been a peaceful death... "
Frisk swallowed. He had never studied history, but that part had stuck with him from the first time he had heard it. Spartak had stopped talking, silent, staring into space. In his eyes, purple like ripe grapes, the memory that he would have wanted so much to erase from his life leaked out, the same memory that invariably every day, looking at the scars in the mirror, resurfaced in his tired mind.
"And then ..." The Soladine tried to intercede to divert the bad turn the conversation was taking. "…what happened?"
The Fairy recovered, shaking his head.
“I don't know exactly, it's all very confusing. One minute I was suspended in midair with hornets' jaws on me, a minute later I was on someone's shoulders. I only remember the smell, a perfume ... floral I think. I don't know women's fashion… And legs, really long legs. I think it was a Sprigg, but I'm not sure… and then I woke up in La Ruelle. "
Spartak finished his story at the same instant the innkeeper turned and closed the register behind the counter to end the evening. Silence fell in the tavern. Frisk rocked for a moment in his chair, looking around nervously.
"Well, at least it ended well, right?"
"What the fuck do you want from me, ostav 'menya v pokoye."
Spartak looked at the Soladine with fiery eyes. He was about to say something else when he was interrupted.
“I think you've drunk enough for tonight. Both of you." The landlord's voice thundered. "Get out or I'll take care you you myself."
Reluctantly, they both got up from their stools, reaching the exit of the room. They paused for a moment, looking over their shoulder as the last lights of the tavern went out before their eyes and the Boggart turned the key locking the entrance.
"Can you make it home alone?"
Spartak did not answer, limiting himself to walking towards his home with a dangling step.
"Same time next week, Frisk."
The Soladine smiled wistfully.
"Same time."
(G)Green: Cael
(P)Purple: Spartak
(B)Blue: Odilde
PANEL ONE
(G) Stay awake, keep talking.
(P) About what...
(G) I don't know, where you come frome, who you are.
PANEL TWO
(P) Spartak... Polnareff...
(G) Nice to meet you Spartak, I'm Cael and... Hey? Hey!!! Stay awake I said!!!
PANEL THREE
(P) S-sorry, I'm not good... at talking...
(G) Then, I don't know, sing! Just keep making sounds! I don't want to have dead fairies on my conscience!
(P) Ok...
PANEL FOUR
(P) *Singing Bayu bayu bayushki bayu*
(G) I would have preferred something happier.
(G) Damn it, this tall guy is gone
(G) I just wanted to spend a vacation in peace...
PANEL SIX
(B) Finally you're back, I was starting to worry
(G) Odilde...
(B) We should have left an hour ago, not that I dislike the Realm, let that be clear
(G) ...do you have the first aid kit?
PANEL SEVEN
(B) Yes, why?
(G) We need it.
(G) Now.
It was an evening like any other at the White Beetle, a low quality tavern on the border between the Realm and the Hearth, on the road to the Understairs, one of those places whose existence is known only if you have ever been there at least once. Yule was approaching, but between those four moldy windowless walls it could have been any other day of the year.
At least a dozen empty mugs lay on the counter and the innkeeper, a Boggart blind in one eye, seemed to be about to fill a thirteenth one despite the fact that in front of him the room was empty except for two single patrons clinging to the narrow dark wooden creaking stools. The Soladine, guilty of having emptied three of the twelve mugs, glanced towards the Fairy, his drinking companion, next to him.
"Are you sure you want to have another round, Spar?"
"Shut up, Frisk."
Rude, swaying in his chair, the words slurred from his lips. Spartak was always like that when he went overboard: short-tempered, nervous, even lascivious with the right company. To Frisk he was fascinatig, he always seemed so different from how he behaved when sober, an overgrown twig that risked breaking at the slightest gust of wind… no, a trembling leaf. Always so paranoid, his voice softer than the sound of the wind drafting through the House.
“Why are you staring at me. Stop staring at me. Tupoy. "
And then he generally started speaking in a halfway manner between the Domestic language and his Fae dialect.
"Sorry, it wasn't my intention."
"Eh, dlya tebya luchshe..."
The Soladine had stopped trying to learn Fae as well as trying to reason with the Fairy when he drank. He could have pulled the glass from his lips by force, but the fighting ability of his drinking buddy was not something he felt in the mood to assest. After all, you can only save yourself and Spartak had already decided what poison he would die of one day.
Still, he could not leave him to himself. He accompanied him to his house when he could no longer stand up, watched over him if he feared he might feel ill, sometimes he even went so far as to call a doctor, paying them out of his own pocket. He didn't know if Spartak realized this, but he always found him there, on Friday nights, waiting for him at the White Beetle for a new night of alcohol and chatter. A routinely appointment.
“You're still staring at me. Stop it or I'll break your face, lightbulb. "
Frisk looked away, staring back at the string of mugs to which a new one had been added. It seemed that Spartak was about to order another one, with what money only the Master knows, when the Soladine decided to intervene.
"Say Spar, how did you get those scars?"
If he couldn't stop him by force, he would have stopped him with ingenuity.
The plan seemed to be successful since the hand that was raised to call the host began to hesitate in midair, then moved to the Fairy's face, lightly stroking the numerous signs that dotted his visage. Slowly, the two pale lips parted, beginning to tell the story in a more confident voice than before.
“We went on a hunting trip, one of those easy ones. We were ... I think three. Not many hunters, anyway, certainly Françoise and Simon. In retrospect, I should have understood that they didn't want me there with them, especially after the last meeting at Albert's house ...
But forget it. We left at dawn to be able to find some game among the mushrooms and molds, we were well prepared to face the expanses of wax, when Simon had the wonderful idea of stealing royal jelly. "
Frisk had heard that story at least a dozen times before, but as long as he kept talking he couldn't order anything else. The Soladine glanced briefly at the innkeeper, giving him the signal to close shop for the evening.
“We went all the way into the hornet territory, they left me behind to act as a stake. They were taking so long and I was so impatient that I immediately flew upwards to try spotting them above the mushroom tops.
If only I had never done that. "
The Fairy raised his other hand, starting to count on the fingertips of both of his limbs, struggling slightly due to the amount of alcohol in his body.
“Four… five… five hornets. Pretty aggressive. They had heard my wings. They aimed for those first. Then the back ... the arms ... the face ... Do you know that Tristan des Larmes had left the Threestarred in Tournuoire to die eaten alive by hornets? Look, I'll just say that it must not have been a peaceful death... "
Frisk swallowed. He had never studied history, but that part had stuck with him from the first time he had heard it. Spartak had stopped talking, silent, staring into space. In his eyes, purple like ripe grapes, the memory that he would have wanted so much to erase from his life leaked out, the same memory that invariably every day, looking at the scars in the mirror, resurfaced in his tired mind.
"And then ..." The Soladine tried to intercede to divert the bad turn the conversation was taking. "…what happened?"
The Fairy recovered, shaking his head.
“I don't know exactly, it's all very confusing. One minute I was suspended in midair with hornets' jaws on me, a minute later I was on someone's shoulders. I only remember the smell, a perfume ... floral I think. I don't know women's fashion… And legs, really long legs. I think it was a Sprigg, but I'm not sure… and then I woke up in La Ruelle. "
Spartak finished his story at the same instant the innkeeper turned and closed the register behind the counter to end the evening. Silence fell in the tavern. Frisk rocked for a moment in his chair, looking around nervously.
"Well, at least it ended well, right?"
"What the fuck do you want from me, ostav 'menya v pokoye."
Spartak looked at the Soladine with fiery eyes. He was about to say something else when he was interrupted.
“I think you've drunk enough for tonight. Both of you." The landlord's voice thundered. "Get out or I'll take care you you myself."
Reluctantly, they both got up from their stools, reaching the exit of the room. They paused for a moment, looking over their shoulder as the last lights of the tavern went out before their eyes and the Boggart turned the key locking the entrance.
"Can you make it home alone?"
Spartak did not answer, limiting himself to walking towards his home with a dangling step.
"Same time next week, Frisk."
The Soladine smiled wistfully.
"Same time."
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