Berry Mead

Once upon a time there was an elf. He wasn’t a magical elf – just a very quiet, slit-your-throat-and-leave kind of elf. He preferred the shadows. Conversations were for other people. Their drunken confessions lead to small piles of bodies. He was cunning and fearsome. And he owned a ship.

He. Owned. A. Ship.

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In the side streets near the harbour the man was finishing his latest masterpiece. He took one step back to admire his work as the candle flickered. “Looks good that Saxo,” offered the figure holding the candle. “I like how you made it look like he has a squint.” Saxo nodded. “Come on then Xtra, we have a few hundred of these to do before the day comes.”

Saxo Shated – or “Saxosh8d” if you prefer his tag; “Saxo’s hated” if you discuss the incident with his college professor; or just plain “Saxo” if his mum ever made you cream pancakes – had been busy. Across the city, parchments of the farmer from Ekrinaya, who was wanted for the murder of a watchmaker, had been undergoing a series of transformations.

Saxo loved his art and would often sketch a caricature of random people in the pub. He’d also paint when the mood took him, but since the berry harvest had failed, red and mauve were in short supply. ‘People bled red’ he mused, and perhaps that triggered the incident. Perhaps.

“Here’s one Saxo,” the other figure whispered. “What do think?” Saxo looked at Xtra, cocked his head and smiled. “I think our farmer friend needs a moustache.”

Across the days that followed, Saxo’s artwork of warts, spectacles, and other appendages on every single sketch of the farmer had created so much confusion in the streets of Veraku that numerous elves, dwarves, free folk, ladies of the upper city and even a horse had been arrested, questioned, and then released without charge. Eventually the night watch stopped responding to reports and Jean Flint was able to move freely about the city.

Mearaithe had convinced Flint to leave the union of trades and in exchange the farmer (and former soldier) had given the cats new skills in all forms of combat and how to become organized. They had moved from the sewers and now owned an impressive guild in the upper city, with a private courtyard. They also rented a safehouse in the forest at the edge of town.

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Xtra was a good host and a kind soul who lived a sheltered life. She loved animals and it was evident by the random guests of dogs, cats, skunks, racoons, deer, coyotes, foxes and birds who frequented the pond at her home. This is where she met an exhausted Saxo a few months earlier.

Saxo was a student in the renowned Veraku Moderno – a school where artists met engineers and imagined the future. Saxo loved all aspects of design and had sketched everything from new sail configurations for ships to a basket on wheels and – in his darkest hours – new weaponry.

Saxo’s professor was a harsh critical man. Some might say cruel, and that mood hadn’t improved with the failure of the berry harvest. While berry mead helped keep the inhabitants of Veraku courteous, the scholars at the Moderno also created pigments for their supplies.

In the forest, Saxo was a little vague on the details as he recounted the story to Xtra. It had been hot, the professor smelled like rotten mole meat, he’d suggested that Saxo make a career in the stables shovelling sh… no ladies of the forest didn’t use words like that. Saxo had turned to face the professor, not realising he was so close, or that he was gripping his quill so tightly. He remember the sound of the professor’s eyeball popping and the blood that flowed. He remembered the screams and gasps of everyone around him and he remembered the feeling of rage. “And the quill?” asked Xtra. “Still in his face!”

Saxo had run. And run. And run.

His life was over, and he was sobbing. He had no idea where he was heading, but reached the edge of the forest and a pool with lots of animals. And now a kind woman was listening to his tale. “Come,” she said with a smile, and offered him a glass of berry mead. “I know some people who can help.”

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