The harsh blizzard was still blasting, even after returning to the valley from the summit of the mountain. Another flag planted and another story to share over brandy and cigars back in the Adventurers’ Club once he’d returned home. The blurry photographs of indistinct shaggy man-like shapes, garbed in mere fabric, hidden through the swirling snow would add to the mystery of the story he’d spin.
Of course, he could never – and would never – reveal how it was one of the guides hauling his own pack into camp through the storm. After all, that might merely incite others from the Club to inquire further into exactly which mountain he’d scaled and how could they follow suit. And that would never do. Some achievements needed to be personal and shared solely with those on the same trek, not some other riff-raff, regardless of their own titles and lineages, who might seek to emulate his great accomplishments.
And great they were, indeed. He had been the one who just now scaled Mount Tahdet, the mountain where one could seemingly touch the stars … explored the luminous caves of the rocky areas of Neihnes, in its orbit around its star Kuegrush … plumbed the depths of the Chelboro Deep … watched attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion … seen C-beams glittering in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. And all those precious moments were documented in his journals.
The income from the publication of those journals were trifling as compared with the wealth he possessed based on the proceeds from his Earldom, but it served as a measure of how much others appreciated the tales of his exploits. The fact they were labeled as “fiction” was a carefully-crafted facade, specifically intended to dissuade others from contemplating research into his sources.
Regardless, this particular journey was complete and he was chilled to his very soul. Dwarfed as he was by the others, all of them at least a head taller, he turned to those who he’d accompanied: the two monks on whose behalf this trek had been done, the guide – who made this journey twice a year, and the two haulers – those stalwart individuals responsible for carrying the additional supplies for survival part of the way up – the tents, food, and such – for the five-week trek.
“Gentlemen, and, indeed, regardless of your standing, in my eyes, you are all truly gentlemen worthy of the title … I, Earl Fumeus Lunustemenos, thank you for allowing me to accompany you,” a brief nod to the monks, “and providing guidance and assistance,” nod again to the others, “during this exciting adventure.”
He stepped closer to the two monks and briefly tugged down his face-covering, exposing his mouth which immediately felt as if it would freeze in an instant.
“Reltar … Satajian … I hope, for you both, this rite of passage has been successfully completed and you have mastered the self-discipline you sought.” He bowed deeply before both of them.
As one, they clapped him on the back. “Fumeus! You have shown yourself to be as worthy as any within the monastery! Know you will always be welcome, and welcomed, whenever you choose to visit!”
“Ah, if only, Satajian. It was only the luck of a draw that enabled me to be here for this. I regret to say it is highly unlikely I shall ever return. Please convey my gratitude to your master, Lungpo, for granting me this, and providing the extra equipment necessary to enable me to do so. But for you two, also know your hospitality and kindness has been recorded and will be discussed until eternity, I promise you that.” With that, he could feel his lips cracking and quickly pulled the padded face-cover back into place.
The two monks bowed in return and then went back to helping reorganize the few remaining supplies for whomever might next make the trip.
With the formalities of ending the journey complete, Earl Lunustemenos knew the path home had only one possible place to start … finding the nearest pub.
Fumeus trudged through shin-height snow, bulky personal pack still weighing heavily on his shoulders. The short buildings, while sturdily built against the harsh weather, seemed to do nothing to block the icy blasts and almost complete lack of visibility. Yet he knew, as the man he was, he had a knack for finding just the right spot for a drink when he needed one.
Suddenly, he felt a twitch, as if the very tip of one end of his handlebar mustache was tugged, showing him where he needed to go. He turned his head to the side – narrowly escaping a blast of chill air that would have threatened to knock his goggles away – and saw a door. As it always seemed to be, it was a generally unremarkable door, paneled and stained a dark brown, and it would have been home in any normal environment. Here, however, it was quite abnormal and very much stood out against the otherwise dull walls and doorways. In the center, where a peephole would otherwise reside, a small circle – about a hand-span in diameter – rested. The circle was pure black, the lack of color absorbing even the glistening white of the snow swirling all around.
A few more slow steps through the snow and he was there, hand on the latch and pulling it open. The interior warmth blasted out at him, fogging his goggles utterly, as he smiled, knowing he had found the right door yet again.
From inside, he could barely hear a shout, “Earl Fumeus? Is that you through all that snow and padding?” Another indistinct shout sounded vaguely like it said, “Come in and shut the damned door! You’ll freeze the entire place!”
Stepping in, he shuffled to turn and pull the door closed behind him, leaving the wintry ledge close to the bottom of Mount Tahdet behind – never to return or see it again.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he struggled to say through the thick and padded face-covering. Loosening the straps on his pack and undoing the belt – a now well-practiced task, even with his gloves on, he shrugged and unslung it, placing it ahead of him and leaning against the wall. There would still be room for the door to open for others and it wasn’t blocking anything, so it would be safe there.
In the continued mindset of not taking too large a stride, lest he tumble and fall – with the only stopping point being the base of a mountain far below – he shuffled over to the bar. What followed was a slow and laborious process of multiple layers being untied, unhooked, and otherwise un-done before pushing back the final hood which had sheltered his hair against the vicious weather. The last step was removing his goggles, which he placed gently on the countertop.
Waving at the collection of outerwear, he asked, “Mind if I dump this on the next stool over? I’ll take it all with me when I leave.”
The Bartender polishing a seemingly spotless glass, smiled and said, “Go right ahead. No one’s using it, and I don’t have an issue with you taking up an extra. Been a while since you were last here. You ventured out with … who was it? Big shaggy fellow, fur all over, wearing a robe of some sort … what did he call it? … a kasaya? He said he was a monk, right? Haven’t seen him back since, but he seemed more likely a One-Timer, I thought.”
With all of his winter gear removed and heaped on another stool, Fumeus was revealed to be a tall and generally handsome man. His pale skin tone was set against the deep reddish-brown curls of hair, seemingly undisturbed by any of his headwear. Somehow, he had even retained the perfect twists to his elaborate handlebar mustache and the short, pointed goatee adorning his chin.
Hoisting himself onto the adjacent empty stool, he felt able to answer the question he’d been posed. Twirling one end of his mustache between his fingers, he responded, “Yeah, that was Lungpo. He was a grand fellow. Glad I bought him that drink and persuaded him to let me see him back home, given how he could barely walk. He kept chanting the whole way.” A pause to twirl the other mustache tip before he continued, “Turned out, the monastery he was the head of had a ritual for completion of their monk training – climbing to the peak of the highest mountain in their world … Mount Tahdet. Had to wait around for a bit until the next couple of monks were ready to undertake it, but I was able to convince Lungpo to let me tag along. Was an amazing trip. Up and back down took about five weeks … felt cold enough to freeze an active volcano the entire time. But a heck of an adventure now it’s done.”
He gazed around at the interior of the Pub, pondering the possible selection of drinks. The various intriguing tap handles weren’t speaking to him, nor were any of the other wine vintages or liquors he’d ever sampled here. He was warming up now, but the memory of temperatures which would have resulted in almost instant death was just a touch too recent and visceral for him to feel comfortable with anything which might have a hint of chilliness about it.
“I know it’s not something you usually do, but I really could use something a bit warmer than the typical selections. Any chance you might be willing to work your magic for me and make me some sort of hot cocktail? I won’t insult you … or the Pub itself … by asking about a hot coffee or cocoa.”
Both chuckled softly at that and the Bartender set down the glass he had been polishing, looked at Fumeus and said, “A warm cocktail, eh?” He was answered with a firm and definite nod.
“Since you did just come in from the cold,” he glanced at the pile of outerwear and the large pack close to the door, “I think I’ve got just the thing for you, but as part of the price, you’ll have to tell me about this trek,” as he tossed the towel over his shoulder, and cinching his sleeves to tuck them into his arm garters in preparation.
Proving it was, even if a non-standard request, just another day for the Bartender, serving drinks in the Nowhere Pub.
What is the Nowhere Pub, you might wonder? It is a multi-dimensional, cross-time and space, pub. To visualize it, first attempt to conjure from the deepest recesses of your mind the darkest, seemingly most unfriendly, pub which exudes a sense that you do not belong here. Now magnify that several times. You might just begin to come close to the interior of the Pub. There are tables scattered across the floor and around the edges of the room — which is barely visible. Centered on each table is a small flickering light which, at a cursory glance, might seem to be a candle — but is not.
Similarly, there are lights suspended over the bar. As you’ve already seen, behind the bar are several taps for beer and ale — all unlabeled and having merely blank pull-levers, made of wood or some other odd material, attached to them. There’s a multitude of bottles against the back wall, either similarly unlabeled or with labels that are impossible to see or read. Of course, the Pub has a bartender. He’s usually a cheerful sort and, when not serving drinks, spends most of his time polishing the glasses and mugs.
What’s the allure of the Pub? It has quite a few.
For one thing, any drink that exists — somewhere or somewhen — is available to you. Name a beer, and they’ve not only got it, but it’s on tap. Care for some wine instead? There’s a multitude of bottles available — only the very best years, of course. Pick a vintage liquor, and they’ll have a bottle — open and waiting to serve you a shot. If you insist on a cocktail, while not generally a favorite of the usual clientele, they’re still available … the Bartender will have just the perfect ingredients for the absolutely best version of it you’ve ever tasted.
And the clientele — Ah, you’ll find all sorts here; ranging from an interstellar master thief to a werewolf hiding from a full moon, to a barbarian warrior fresh off a rough escort mission for a traveling merchant. This is where they go to have a drink, or five, and relax.
The Pub is where a wide variety of customers meet and stories are swapped. Just don’t try to start a fight. You’ll get one warning from the Bartender that behaving in such a manner will require him to call the Bouncer to put an end to it. That always settles the point.
Oh, and the other distinction about the Pub? It’s got two kinds of customers. The Regulars and the One-Timers. You don’t know which one you are until you try and find the Pub again. The Regulars can always find their way back. The door they open to leave the pub will always be the same door they used to enter it — returning them back to wherever, and whenever, they came from.
As for the One-Timers? Well — they get one chance. No one else goes out the front door? They’re headed back home and never finding it again. They go out through the front door after someone else has opened it, though, and who knows where they’re headed or if they’re ever coming back.
How do you figure out which type of customer you are? You walk out the door and see what happens. Or, you discover you can find the Pub again.
No matter what, though, the Pub is where the very best drinks, available anywhere, are served and there’s always an interesting story for someone being there.
Regardless of what the Bartender had asked for, Fumeus had always been pleased to share the story of his most recent adventure whenever he returned to the Pub. Somehow, he understood this was not just a request from the Bartender, but a fundamental part of why he was a Regular at the Pub – here to tell tales and share his adventures. After all, his most recent ones – which were the most extraordinary and beyond anything he’d ever imagined previously – were only possible thanks to his having access to the Pub.
Fumeus nodded in approval and with appreciation and waited for the Bartender to begin.
As if he were performing for an audience – which in a certain sense, he was – the Bartender proceeded to narrate the process he was following to construct the drink.
“First, we take one of these fine earthenware mugs, perfect for retaining the heat of the contents, and we place it into the small kiln I have under the counter. This tempers the mug, you see, allowing it to better retain the heat of the drink and not immediately sapping it away. Next some water, delivered fresh daily from the Crystal River of the Slumbering Plains, which goes into a small kettle here to warm up.
“Now, I take a small mortar and put in a very nice helping of butter made from the milk of a perfectly middle-aged yak which has already mothered many calves and, therefore, the cream is thick and heavy and especially flavorful. But, butter is not enough. Not at all! What would this be without the necessary spices, of course!
“Thus, I now add some ground cinnafire from the bark of the Fire Trees of the Preying Tropics, as well as a touch of nutmeg from your own home locale. Finally, I wave a hint of ground, dried oduriac on top of the mixture. With all of the spices added, it is time to mix this well, with my pestle, swirling them together and melding them into a spiced butter – the second most necessary component for this drink.
“Ah, and the mug should be sufficiently warm by now.” He reached under the counter and drew forth the mug, the interior glowing every so slightly. “Into the mug goes the butter … already beginning to melt from the heat of the mug – just as it should be. However, that is not yet a drink!”
Turning to grab a bottle from behind him, he softly cracked the cork out with a barely audible pop. “For here we have the star of this cocktail … Motionless Desert Rum, which, contrary to its name, is produced from the cane fields of the Jagged Isles, famous for their rainstorms and bright, hot sunlight – just the mixture necessary for the production of the finest of rums. A healthy pour into the mug, followed by filling half of the mug with the heated water … a quick stir with a stick of cinnafire, and…”
The Bartender placed the steaming mug in front of Fumeus. “A hot buttered rum cocktail, certain to melt the chill and frost from you.” With his drink now sitting right in front of him, Fumeus wrapped his hands around it, letting the heat penetrate through his fingers. This was more external heat than he’d felt for the past five weeks on the mountain, aside from the very meager fires to warm up some food, and even those had felt cold due to the constant sub-freezing atmosphere.
He lifted the mug for a sip and, indeed, as the Bartender had suggested, he felt the seemingly never-ending chill of the past weeks disappear into the far reaches of his memory. He shuddered slightly in reaction and took another drink, deeper this time, allowing the soft blend of spices, cream, and alcohol begin to permeate through his body.
“Now that you’ve started to warm up, what’s this about climbing the highest mountain in the world? How’d walking out of here with a furry monk turn into that?” The Bartender pulled the towel off his shoulder, picked up another mug and began polishing it.
“So … after I persuaded Lungpo to let me see him home – which was a story in itself, but I’ll save that one for another time – we got back to his monastery. The monks there were right happy to see him back, they’d been concerned he’d been moping about the place. Something about him ‘losing the light’ or some such.” He took another sip, letting the heat of the drink continue to fill him.
“They let me have a spare mat to sleep on that night, which was interesting as they slept communally. Was like being surrounded by all the northern bears in the world, let me tell you. I was so small compared to them, and furless. I think their instincts kicked in like they was watching over a just-born cub or something. They kept huddling up to me. I’m not too ashamed to admit it was quite comfortable, though.
“The next morning, Lungpo was up and about, feeling better about the world than he’d been, and showed me around the monastery, telling me what their practices were. Then, he got to telling me about how part of their final ordination rite was to climb this mountain. Now, you know me – at the hint of an adventure, I’m already interested. Took a bit of convincing, but he finally agreed to let me go with the next group, which would be leaving in another half-moon or so.
“The tricky part would be getting me equipped for the trek. I mean, they’re practically walking rugs, right? They’re padded and comfortable in all sorts of cold weather. I swear,” Fumeus reminisced for a moment, “I saw a few of the monks jump into a nearby lake, with chunks of ice floating around, just so they could relax. Near froze my teeth when I saw that, it did.
“Thankfully, I had my goggles packed away in my bag, and whenever I’m here, you know I’m wearing my boots, but that didn’t help for a pack,” he nodded over at the one by the door, “or any of the other layers I’d need to keep from freezing to death.
“The pack was solved by finding a child’s pack from one of the nearby villages, since that just about fit me, once we shortened the straps a bit – no matter how broad my shoulders are, even their children are built big. That left the outerwear. We were able to craft some loose jackets and such, but without any sort of padding, I might as well be out there in my undergarments.
“It just so happened, though, one of the regular monks had needed some chastising. So, as a punishment …”, Fumeus took a moment to stifle a chuckle. “They shaved most of his backside! He had to walk around, skin showing, in atonement. Needless to say, this provided more than enough material to pad my jacket and such.”
The Bartender paused his polishing. “Wait? That jacket there is padded with …?”
“That’s right! Monk fur!” With this, Fumeus could not help but start laughing uproariously. “The poor guy looked so pitiful, but his sacrifice kept me warm the whole time!”
“After that, the three of us went to the base of the mountain, met the guide. He gathered the haulers who would help carry the rest of the supplies and equipment, and we were off. It was a rough go, risk of falling off the whole time.
“Ah … after we reached the tip, though? That made it all worth the struggle. I could see the edges of the world. The ground below was shrouded with barely any lights showing through – and the ones that did were small and flickering, even though they were cities down there. And above? Absolutely majestic and breathtaking. There was nothing between me and the stars, which were twinkling diamonds and gems, placed just so in that infinite inky void. And so bright, as to sear into my soul.
“I’ve seen stars before, even if not those stars – on viewscreens, and through the porthole windows of starships. But nothing like this. Not while standing on top of a world …” Fumeus’ voice trailed off as his eyes unfocused, remembering the moment.
While Fumeus gazed deeply into his drink, the Bartender mused to himself how Fumeus had found an interesting trick to his continued patronage as a Regular of the Pub. Or, perhaps, this was the Pub selecting Fumeus because he understood this trick existed? While it was understood any Regular opening the door to return home would always find themselves doing just that, nothing prevented someone from exiting through “someone else’s door”. After all, there were many One-Timers who did just that – finding a new life somewhere else.
Thus, Fumeus had a knack of being there, or entering, at just the right time. Whether it was when another Regular was already there, or entering just before a One-Timer came in. No matter the circumstances of the encounter, he would chat them up and pay the tab for both of them. Then, he would ask about accompanying them home – either to see them safely there, or by way of explaining his own love of exploration and adventure. He had yet to be refused.
As they would be about to leave, he would always declare he was off on “A Grand Adventure! Yet another for the journals!”, waiting for them to open the door. His eyes would light up on seeing the other patron’s world, sparkling in anticipation of what wonders or marvels awaited him.
Over time, he had, indeed, traveled many worlds and many realities – realms where those whom others might call beasts or monsters spoke and built civilizations; or lands where magic existed and was practiced without being disdained as evil witchcraft or sorcery; or finding himself in a space station, filled with ships charting their journeys across the stars and between worlds.
Eventually, he would finish whatever adventure awaited him and find a door back to the Pub, to tell the tale to the Bartender, any other patrons who were present, and, of course, the Pub itself. Then, after finishing a drink, he would open the door to return home once more.
After his moments of reverential reflection had passed, Fumeus shook his head briefly, returning to himself as he took a deeper drink from the still-steaming mug.
“So now it’s back home, to share this latest tale with the other adventurers?”
“Indeed. I need to grab all my gear and then I’m out the door. I expect I’ll catch quite a few perplexed stares as I attempt to hail a carriage. But, most of the drivers in the city are aware of me – ‘The Crazed Earl’, I’m known as, always showing up out of nowhere, dressed outlandishly, and needing a ride back to the mansion. They know I tip well and they share the stories amongst themselves of how I looked this time.
“Then, once I’m truly home, the first hot bath I’ve had in far too long. After that, it’s off to the Adventurers’ Club to tell the others of this journey, leaving the pack and the blurry photograph as proof of where I’ve been. At least I know all of my trophies are authentic – unlike the trash the others bring in. ‘Tusk of a mammoth you hunted’, indeed!” He harrumphed with disdain.
With that said, he lifted the mug to down the remaining amount and returned it to the bar top. Reaching into his vest, he pulled out a slim leather wallet, extracting a couple of notes for payment and tossed those down as well. “My thanks, as always, for just what I needed to make the trip complete.”
The Bartender nodded slightly in appreciation and whisked the empty mug and the payment away, gently brushing the bar where both had been.
Meanwhile, Fumeus hopped down and began the laborious process of re-donning his jacket and other layers – not closing and sealing them this time. Having remembered how to walk that wasn’t just endless slogging through snow, he strode towards the door to grab his pack.
Slinging it over his shoulders, he settled the weight and cinched the straps to keep it from falling off, then grabbed the handle of the door.
“Good day, Bartender. I expect I’ll be back once the next adventure calls me.”
He opened the door, revealing, beyond, a fog-laden urban atmosphere with a noisy and bustling street, filled with people, horse-drawn carriages, and buildings standing everywhere. As he stepped through, allowing the door to close behind him, he waved an arm, shouting, “Hackney!”
