Wrathgate Wednesday: Bangers and Mash

Tarquin by *chrismcfann on deviantART

If asked, neither Tarquin, Ceil or Bricu could tell you with any degree of accuracy how they actually met.    It involved alcohol, mocking someone who had their nose in the air and shouting across Stormwind.  All three were probably far too drunk to remember anything more than that.  Specifically, I can remember /yelling after the “Pretty boy with the golden hair.” As players, we were all introduced to each other by Uthas, who brought us all together with his now legendary (at least on Feathermoon) sermons.

In continuity, this post occurs immediately after this post.

Deal,” he said, and turned his grip into a handshake. “Now piss off. I’m bringin’ breakfast ta yer sister.”

She went, and he leaned back to the cookfire. There was something almost poetic in the image of Bricu Bittertongue, in the small hours before dawn, stirring a pot. Poetic, if one went in for puns, which Tarquin ap Danwyrith regrettably did.

Snow had been falling fitfully all night, and a few desperate flakes found purchase on the Boss’s thin shoulders as he approached his friend’s small fire. Bricu didn’t seem particularly surprised to see him, though the latter could only have been visible from a few yards off. Tarquin eased himself into the space just vacated by Annalea, peering at the pot. “Bangers an’ mash, mate? At this hour?”

“Fer Threnny.” Bricu looked up, a glint of grinning teeth at the corner of his mouth. “With her medicines in. Yeh fancy takin’ yer life in yer hands, Tarq, be me guest.”

Tarquin’s eyes flicked over to the glowing coal of Bricu’s half-smoked cigarette. “Tell yeh, I’m near fuckin’ tempted. I’ll settle fir a smoke, if yeh kin spare.” There was a pause, as both men observed the proper reverent silence that was due Bittertongue’s quick rolling and lighting of another smoke. “Barry,” grunted Tarquin as he took the dogend. “She awake, then?”

“Sort o’. Not much fer sleepin’ at all last night, neither o’ us.” Bricu sniffed the pot and dipped his ladle in, reaching for something that was either a priceless alchemical compound to balance the humors, or thyme. “Few o’ the lot were, really.”

“My luck, then. Bell an’ Fel set up tent no’ far fra’ mine.” Tarquin made an exaggerated noise in the back of his throat, something like the echo of a violent argument between mountains. “Like a bloody church organ, Bittertongue, an’ all the pipes packed solid wi’ snot.” The red-haired man laughed – not quite a full-bore chortle, but the real humor was obvious. “The noise chased Ceil out. She’s oan watch the now, an’ I pissed oan the entire concept ay sleep hours ago.”

“That kind o’ night.”

“Ayeh.”

They smoked in companionable silence, both well acquainted with the limited capabilities and usefulness of small talk. Eventually, the fair head tilted towards the red one, in a movement so obviously calculated to appear casual that it had a strange honesty, and Tarquin spoke in tones to match. “Yeh looked o’er the ground, then?”

“Bit.” Another sprinkling of herbs. Bricu Bittertongue was a very conscientious cook, even for the circumstances.

“Jolly’n I had a guid walkabout. We’ve eno’ fir a proper line down the west slope, ’bout twenty end ta end, an’ a wee handful in reserve behind. Ought cover the lot.” Tarquin gestured up the hill behind them. “An’ I’ll take the artillery up oan the hill. A skeleton crew, couple ay guns, an’ the witches.”

“Stonemantle here yet?”

“Late in the eve. Yva let me kennit. They’ll both be up wi’ Geny, an’ I’ll have thit Balthasar oan guard fir ‘em.” He took a long drag on his cigarette, watching Bricu with a canny eye. The older man said nothing as he sniffed the simmering pot again, nodding approvingly, and removed it from the fire. Tarquin finally continued. “Yirself, too.”

Bricu waited before looking up. It was almost possible to see him counting to five in his head, but his voice was calm and steady. A bit too much so. “Tell me why.”

“Need a free hand wi’ the ballistae so Beltar an’ Kaidos kin stick ta thir guns,” Tarquin answered, too quickly. “An’ the black-blade, Sir Jakob if yeh please, maun be a solid sword as he claims, but thir’s only yin ay the lad. Yeh ken s’well as I do a few ay the fuckers’ll get ’round.” He paused, and when no response came, continued. “An’ I ken my way ’round a fracas aright, but I’m na soldier. We need a pair ay eyes up thir thit’ll -”

“Fuckin’ spare me,” growled Bricu, looking up from his cooking narrow-eyed and white about the nostrils. “When yeh start in praisin’ me good qualities, Tarq, I know yer full o’ shite. So fuckin’ tell me why I’m out the fight, in yer regard, or else shut it.”

Tarquin let a long, unruffled stream of smoke escape his mouth, holding Bricu’s stare. “Threnny,” he said finally. “Yeh gang ta the front, she’ll follow yeh. We kinna ha’ thit, auld boy, an’ yir well aware.”

“Aye, I’m well aware.” Bricu’s sneer was a well-practiced expression, a curl of the lip with scorn unmatched by mortal flesh. “Think we’ve not talked on it aready? She’s not takin’ that risk. We’re neither o’ us bloody stupid.”

“An’ thit I ken aright. But I also ken yeh are wha’ yeh are, both. Twined t’gether like rope. Grown like shoots.” Even in his sullen anger, Bricu raised an eyebrow. One didn’t often hear Tarquin ap Danwyrith with words like this in his mouth. “She came with yeh, across the Bitter Sea, wi’ the bairn in her belly. What’s anither quarter-mile ta thit, Bric’?”

Bittertongue held his gaze for another black moment, his knuckles pale where they clenched the ladle. Then he let the breath hiss from his mouth, a weary admission in his eyes that was answer enough for both of them. He didn’t drop his eyes, but his voice was soft and hoarse. “Yeh ken how I got the land in the Hills so cheap?” Tarquin shook his head. “Stoutmantle brought it down low after I told him where we were goin’. Called it the Dead Man Walkin’ Discount.” His quiet laughter had a faint echo of the raven’s gallows croak.

Tarquin wasn’t laughing, and the row of teeth bared pale in the dawning light had nothing to do with smiling. “Thit whoreson. Ta say sich oan the eve ay this? I’ll have his fuckin’ teeth. First thing outay this fight, I’m fir the Westfall Brigade wi’some pliers an’ a -”

“Fuck off it, Tarq.” A calloused hand thumped down on the lanky rogue’s shoulder, Bricu grinning that familiar grin. “Man’s got a right to be a cynic, aye? Asides, he gave me the discount so he kin

“Piss oan ‘im anyhow. Haverin’ at yeh like thon, with a bairn oan yir wey. It deserves a fuckin’ batterin’, an’ na mistake.” Tarquin settled back into a glowering hunch, flicking ash off the guttering remnants of his smoke. “Man wants ta talk shite, oughta take mair care where it’s landin’.”

At that, Bricu’s smile lit up further with a familiar bartering gleam. “Tell yeh what, then. Do me a wee favor and yeh can practice all the dentistry yeh care ta, an’ I’ll not raise a bloody finger.” Tarquin looked over at him, his mock-eager grin tinged with a touch of deadly intent. Whatever else he was, Tarquin ap Danwyrith was not a man to suffer slights to his family. But Bricu’s next words wiped the smile from his face. “If they kill me, get Threnny out o’ here.”

The blond-curtained head was already shaking in negation after four words. “Get ta fuck, Bittertongue.”

“I mean it, Tarq, aright?” Bricu’s own smile was gone, replaced by the five or ten years that good humor always shed from his weathered face. “Don’t fuckin’ talk to me ’bout how we’re all gettin’ out o’ this alive. Don’t yeh fuck this off.” His eyes bored into his friend, possessed of a calm gravity that rarely made itself known on his features. “Any fuckin’ one o’ us could die, an’ if it’s me, I wanna be sure Threnny’s not right behind me. Drag her off, knock her out, do whatever yeh gotta do. Just get her out and get her safe.”

Tarquin’s lips compressed into a thin white line, and he stared at Bricu for a blank-faced moment before nodding. “Aright.”

“Swear it. On yer life, yeh’ll get her out.”

“Aw, fir fuck’s sake-!”

“Swear it.” Bricu’s voice was like granite, none of the anger one might have expected. Tarquin licked his lips, met Bricu’s stare, and then sank back, sighing.

“Fuck off yir oaths, aright?” He passed a hand over his brow, looking suddenly very tired. “I’ll do it, Bricu. Fir her s’much as yeh, an’ fir masel’ even mair’n thit.” He paused, and then said in a quieter voice, “I could’na lose yeh both.”

It was Bricu’s turn to watch, and weigh, and then nod. He reached over and clasped Tarquin’s wrist. “Cheers,” he said, and that was really all there was to it. They sat in silence for a moment, until Bricu pushed himself up from his makeshift seat with a grunt. “Kept Threnny waitin’ long enough on her breakfast, then. All yeh arseholes comin’ ta whinge at me when I’m jus’ tryin’ ta cook.”

“Aye, an’ nivir wis a man so put-upon.” Tarquin rolled his eyes, snorting back laughter. “Fuckin’ oan with yeh, then, or else I’ll hafta save yir arse from a hungry wife afore this even starts.” Bricu made his smirking exit, gently steaming pot in hand, and Tarquin remained, not even looking up when footsteps came out of the gray distance of the watch-point.

“‘Twas interesting, that,” observed Ceil as she approached the dwindling fire, settling onto her haunches next to her husband, the movement of her lips barely visible under a fur-trimmed hood. “And I wonder what Threnn would think on it.”

Tarquin finally looked over then, and reached over to brush the hood back from Ceil’s face, and observe the tightness around her eyes and lips. It had been a few months since that awful day in the Tundra, but Bricu’s words had left their scars. As they were likely meant to do. He pushed that from his mind. “She prolly kens it some. Made her ain plans, I’d expect, as I’m no’ privy ta.” He wound a tangle of green hair around his finger and smiled. “But I’m an optimist, a’course. Ask aynin.”

“An optimist.” Ceil’s eye slid over suspiciously, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Has there been a sudden change to the meaning of that word, or are you just completely full of shite?”

“Shite, or s’prises,” said Tarquin, smiling lazily. “Take yir pick, love.”

Ceil studied her husband for a moment. There was something to be said for the idea that even now, after years together, they could be a mystery to each other. Maybe that was their secret. “I’m not so sure there’s much difference,” she said finally, smiling back. Around them, the early risers were coming out of their tents, and even the lacksadasical were starting to stir. The ap Danwyriths sat in a comfortable silence, watching the fire flicker and dim against the growing sunlight.

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