Glimsumm had been sitting at the bar for about five drinks. The pub wasn’t empty, but for his purposes, it might as well have been. He cared nothing for any of the other customers. His had been a hard trek through the forest and there had been far too many Kliks that needed killing on the way. Of course, doing so had been the biggest point of traveling this way.
In the previous town, everyone had been yammering on about how the forest was just about infested with Kliks — four-armed, razor-clawed, blue-skinned freaks of nature that preyed on everyone who tried to get through. Trade had just about shut down as a result and the towns all along the path were starting to shrivel. The offer of coins as a reward for joining the caravan escort had been too tempting to ignore. He had pledged his arm and his sword (plus as many arrows as could be fired before they pounced) to the defense of the caravan.
So had several others at the time. They’d been good fellow men and women: Dritihi, Murnam, Kraeggand … who had been his traveling companion for many moons … and then there was Nycoendyl. Sweet, lovely Nycoendyl. She’d been so attractive, hair a fine silver sheen, eyes that saw through to his deepest currents; as quick with her tongue as she was with her blade and he couldn’t have told you which cut deeper. He’d been falling for her. Right up until the Kliks tore her apart — her and all of the others.
The final one had been a ruthlessly bloody fight and he was amazed when he realized he was still standing. Barely being upright from the loss of blood and his wounds counted, somehow, as “still standing”. Even that, though, was certainly more than he could say for the horde of Klik bodies surrounding them all.
He had seen that Nycoendyl had fallen and scrambled to her, screaming. It was far too late, though. She was swimming in the next river. He knew he would see her when it was his time to dive as well. All of the rites were performed, the chants recited. Everyone had wounds of their own to deal with. Thankfully, the merchants had understood, or had understood to not anger the only one left with a large sword — and waited until he agreed they could continue.
So here he was, at the next town, grateful he’d found the pub so quickly, attempting to forget about what had happened on the way here. His armor was scratched and torn, his blade dented and chipped, but he had won. He had beaten the blackness once again.
The door opened to the pub and the Confed Sergeant entered, his eyes adjusting almost immediately to the practically non-existent light. Such was one of the “improvements” he’d received on entering service. His transport ship had barely docked before his entire platoon was spilling out, desperate to get away and forget how much of the platoon had not made it back to the ship. Calling it a fighting retreat had been an insult to both the words “fighting” and “retreat”. Call it what it was — they had broken in the face of a brutal force and run as fast as they could.
As soon as they’d reached the ship and lifted off, all of their combat suits had been tossed in the recyclers, to be replaced when they got back to their bunks. The wounds, physical and mental, were not so easily dealt with. There had been a few cycles of “counseling” while still in-transit, but all of the soldiers knew that what they needed the most was a stiff drink … or seven … just like every other time they’d met combat and discovered that there were more of the other side than they’d brought rounds for.
Once inside, he strode over to the bar and sat down, calling to the bartender. “A very large mug of V’Narjil! And it had better be a cold mug!” His whiskers twitched in anticipation of that first chilled sip.
Whiskers, you wonder? Oh, yes… this is Sergeant S’Karn F’toth. He is a proud J’Seppian in the Confederation Defense Forces, Army branch, 723rd Infantry Regiment, 2nd Battalion, Delta Company, 3rd Platoon. His whiskers twitch, as do his pointed ears, and his long tail swishes back and forth as it hangs loosely off the bar stool.
On hearing the drink being ordered, Glimsumm turned his head slightly towards the new arrival and examined him. S’Karn’s combat suit was a mottled green and blue camouflage, a bit of a contrast to the bluish-purple fur that showed on his hands, his feet (paws?), and all over his head and tail.
“Well, look what the … no, I can’t say what the cat dragged in because you’re the one doing the dragging! What’s that you ordered? Some warm milk for a sad little kitty-cat?”
Hearing the insults being thrown at him, S’Karn turned on the stool, facing the warrior. Glimsumm was clad in ragged leather armor, torn in many places — a sharp contrast to his own pristine and undamaged combat suit. “I strongly suggest you take that back. It’s little boys like yourself who need milk to grow, not J’Seppians who are already fully grown.” Glimsumm growled at the reference to his somewhat diminutive size, certainly when compared with S’Karn, who stood more than a full head taller than he did.
“Little boy, you say? That sounds like what all of your mates would say to you … if you had ever had any, that is!”
“Gentlm … Gentlebeings!” The bartender tried to intervene. “Please, refrain from throwing insults around like this. It is unseemly for both of you!”
“Oh, I think it’s safe to say that we’re way past unseemly!” S’Karn had actually gotten riled, his ears twitching madly, and his arms at his sides, sliding to rest his feet barely on the floor. Glimsumm, sensing that this was about to get interesting, unsnapped the sword at his side and rested his hand on it.
“Blades and claws stay sheathed,” the bartender was now shouting at them. “You both are Regulars and know who I will call if there is violence!”
“Yes,” hissed S’Karn. “I’ve heard the stories of the Bouncer. Some insults, though, are too vile to let go.”
Then, without further warning, he pounced, crossing over three barstools in the process before landing on Glimsumm, knocking him off his stool and leaving both of them rolling in a heap on the floor.
After a few moments of wrestling that left S’Karn still on top Glimsumm. S’Karn yelled, “Yield!”
“Aww… such a cute little kitty-cat,” responded Glimsumm, reaching up to start scratching just behind S’Karn’s right ear. Unable to help himself, S’Karn stretched and pushed his head against the scratching fingers.
“Damn it! You know I like that, you worthless bastard, and I hate when you do it!” His lips pulled back, showing sharp teeth but in what was obviously a smile.
“Yep. But I couldn’t just come over and start scratching your ears when I realized it was you sitting there. That’s just plain weird.” Glimsumm started to laugh.
S’Karn lifted himself up off the floor, and reached out an arm to help Glimsumm get up as well. Both of them returned to the bar, lifting the stools and setting everything straight again. The mug of V’Narjil was now sitting in front of the stool right next to Glimsumm’s empty mug.
“Might as well get another drink for this useless piece of humanoid trash and put it on my tab.”
The bartender dutifully went to draw another mug for Glimsumm. “It’s a good thing for both of you that I know you pull something like this… Every. Single. Time,” he had punctuated each word. “Yes, every single time you both manage to be here together. It really does get annoying, you know?”
“Yeah,” responded Glimsumm. “But where’s the fun if we did it any differently? At least this way, you know our routine, huh?”
The bartender sighed in acceptance. It was, after all, just another day serving customers at the Nowhere Pub.
What is the Nowhere Pub? It is a multi-dimensional, cross time and space, pub. Try and conjure from the deepest recesses of your mind the darkest, seemingly most unfriendly, not-where-you-belong pub. Now magnify that several times. You might just 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. On each table is something which you would think are candles — you’d be wrong — providing barely flickering sparks of light.
There are similar lights hanging over the bar. Behind the bar are several taps for beer and ale — all of which are unlabeled, having merely blank wooden pull-levers 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’s got 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. Pick a vintage liquor, and they’ll have a bottle — open and waiting to serve you a shot. If you insist on a cocktail, hardly a favorite of the usual clientele, 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 superheroes who’ve been battered and bruised, to nomadic priests finally made it out of the desert, all the way to space pirates who have offloaded all of their ill-gotten cargo. This is where they go to have a drink, or five, and relax.
The Pub is where stories are swapped. Just don’t try to start a fight. You’ll get one warning from the bartender that behaving that way 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 they came from.
As for the One-Timers? Well — they get one chance. No one else uses that door? They’re headed back home and never finding it again. They go out through a different door, 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.
Sometimes, though, the Pub seems to be good at finding just the right One-Timers. They need a drink. They need to hear some stories. They need … something.
No matter what, the Pub is always an interesting place to visit — if all you’re doing is visiting.
Just then, the door to the pub creaked open again. Both Glimsumm and S’Karn turned their heads to see who was entering this time. The first thing they saw coming past the door was a single feather. Next was the tall hat that it was attached to, and the tip of a bayonet. That was followed by a long gun of some sort and then the rest of the entering customer.
Once fully inside, they could both see he wore what was clearly a uniform. It was a bright orange, visible even in the barely existent light of the pub, with bright buttons and stripes all over it. S’Karn mentally recognized it as some sort of standardized military uniform, although he’d never seen the like before.
Beyond the feathered hat, or the bayoneted gun, though, what really caught their attention was the tentacled lower extremities that the customer was using to move. They slithered and made all sorts of vaguely disgusting sounds. There was a bit of a “glorp, glorp” sound to them as they gained and released suction on the smooth floor. Private Uyrratse was clearly a newcomer to the pub.
“Welcome to the Nowhere Pub”, the bartender shouted. “Come on in and have a drink. Anything you want, we’ve got it, guaranteed!” Uyrattse started moving towards the bar.
Upon seeing him fully, Glimsumm jumped off his stool, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “You Vakogh slime! Have you climbed out of the depths to haunt me here too?”
Just about simultaneously, S’Karn had similarly slid off his stool, arms out and clearly ready to let his claws out for combat. “What the hell is a Wik’umt doing on this side of the universe? Broke the quarantine zone again and come to start yet another war!!!”
Uyrratse was confused on hearing the two other screaming at him. “What? No! I’ve never heard those names before! My battalion was finally taken off the line and I just wanted a drink!” He lowered his musket and started to back towards the door.
“Gentlebeings!” The bartender yelled over all of them. “I told you! Weapons away! The Bouncer will get involved if you don’t stop that this instant!”
Amazingly, that was sufficient to get everyone to settle down. S’Karn was the first to speak. “You would let this … this … Wik’umt piece of garbage in here?” He sounded amazed.
Glimsumm followed immediately, “This Ubixyll shouldn’t even be allowed to breathe the air in here, much less be served!”
“He has as much right to be here as either of you two do. And, please, take a look at him. Does he truly look like either of those species? Or is he, perhaps, just another being in search of a drink, as you two are?”
Glimsumm focused and realized that, yes, Uyrratse only had four major tentacles protruding downward, instead of the six of the Ubixyll. Likewise, S’Karn saw that the Wik’umt would never use that color uniform as it would be utterly invisible to them and they couldn’t even see it to put it on.
“Maybe … maybe you’re right, “ S’Karn resumed his place at the bar. “I acted precipitously. It has been a very tough time.”
“Yeah, whatever,” grunted Glimsumm, as he also decided that his drink was much more important than starting a fight.
Uyrratse “glorp”ed his way over to the bar and sat at a distant stool from the other two. The bartender turned to S’Karn and Glimsumm. “I think both of you owe the poor soldier over there a drink, don’t you?” He practically glared at them somewhat.
Glimsumm hung his head slightly, “Yeah, I guess I do at that. His first is on me.”
S’Karn acknowledged that he shared responsibility. “And his second is on me as well.”
On hearing this, Uyrratse quietly told the bartender his order. Of course it was on tap, so the bartender pulled two mugs’ worth, putting both of them in front of him. The private contemplated the drinks. “Thank you, kind sirs. Most of the time, a private doesn’t even get half a mug as a sign of respect.”
He turned on the stool towards the other two. “Truly, thank you. Apparently, I look like some sort of reviled enemy of both of yours. I assure you — I am not either of them. I don’t even understand what this place is. All I know is that I’ve marched several hundred k’jokks and I am tired, and thirsty, and very much looking forward to drinking this.”
After several long quiet moments of studiously avoiding looking at the newcomer, S’Karn turned to look at Glimsumm, noting the dried blood around the various slashes in his leathers, and said quietly, “Well, don’t you look a little done-in? What’ve you been up to that left you looking like that? And I hope the other guy looks a lot worse?”
Uyrratse seemed to be ignoring the other two. He started drinking from the first mug, extending several facial tentacle-like growths into it. They pulsed rhythmically, pumping liquid from the mug.
“It was …” Glimsumm took a long pull of the newly poured mug. “It was rough. Long caravan escort. Got ambushed by Kliks. I’ve told you about those, right?” S’Karn nodded in agreement.
“We got hit several times. They kept picking away at us. Night camps were the worst. We’d get up in the morning and there’d almost always be someone missing. No sounds … no signs of a struggle … just … gone.
“Finally, on the last stretch before making the next town, we got hit by a large group during daylight. Of the escort, I’m the only one who made it out. We slaughtered all of them, but it was too close. I lost … friends … and more. But once again, the blackness was beaten.”
He paused, wistfully, before taking another sip. “And what about you? You’re far from the usual … chipper J’Seppian I’ve come to know and love. Rough tour?”
S’Karn hissed and bared his teeth then grabbed his mug. It was at least twice the size of Glimsumm’s and, even so, he managed to down half of it with his first drink. “Rough doesn’t even describe what we just came out of. We were also ambushed. I lost a quarter of my soldiers before we even realized we were under attack. Another few gone while the officers tried to figure out what was happening.
“Somehow, they locked onto the comms from the officers and there were a few very well-targeted shots. After that, it was down to the sergeants and corporals to try and pull out whoever was left. It was … not well-organized. Too many scared soldiers and not nearly enough spines able to be strengthened. We broke. We scrambled, running as fast and haphazardly as we could. Eventually, we got to an extraction point and were lifted off. Half of my platoon was gone, laying in the mud on that hell-hole and never going to see home again. The losses across the rest of the battalion were about as bad. Last I heard, they were just going to start dropping asteroids on it to make it a distant memory.”
S’Karn raised his mug, indicating that Glimsumm should do likewise. “To absent friends.”
“Aye, to absent friends.” The mugs were waved towards each other and then fully drained by both of them.
After a moment of silence, the bartender turned to Uyrratse and asked him, loudly enough for all three to hear, “Hadn’t you said something about your battalion?”
“Oh, yes …” Uyrratse sounded sad. “We started at full strength. We were marching across the field, wrapped in our glory. Then the first shot landed. The officers insisted that we keep marching forward. The cannons were shredding us, but they didn’t care. After all, it wasn’t their blood being shed. Finally, when there were half of us left, they realized that there was no way we were crossing the field to take that hilltop. They were too well-fortified. We ran away as fast as we could, and lost another quarter before we got out of range.”
He started on his second mug. “Then came the hard march out. The officers never relented. We were dropping dead left and right from wounds, or exhaustion, or the effort, or just because we couldn’t keep going. Fourteen of my brothers and I were all that made it here. And now they’ll probably just split us up to other units. After all, we’re veterans. We’ve seen battle.”
Glimsumm looked a little perplexed. “Brothers?”
That was answered with a short, wry laugh. “Only in the sense that we were all bloodied together.”
“Ah, yes,” interjected S’Karn. “Brothers of the claws. The very best.” He lifted his mug and took a quick sip.
“Yes, “ added Glimsumm. “Brothers … and sisters … of the blade. I’ve lost too many to count.”
A short time passed as all three studied their drinks, remembering their experiences. Then, quietly, Uyrratse spoke, “On hearing both of you, and retelling my own story, I now realize I spent the whole time marching back asking myself — why do we do it? They throw us into the fire and care not about us. So why do we start? Why do we stay?”
Glimsumm chuckled softly, “For the coin.”
S’Karn smiled at his friend, “No, Glim’, do not sell any of us so cheaply. It is not as simple as mere payment.”
“Then why,” asked Uyrratse?
S’Karn looked at both of them before raising his mug. “We do it … for our honor.”
The others looked at him for a moment before raising their own mugs towards him, and then all three drank deeply, contemplating.
