Tavern Tales The Fiddlers Pride

Note: This is an entirely casual series of fantastical, erotic "fairy tales", with the framing device being a group of late-night taverngoers with little else to do. The previous installments are, in order, "The Riddling Sprite" and "The Queen's Lesson".

~~~~ ~~~~

The doorbell of the Grim Harvest Inn gave that tinny, rusted clang it had taken to giving of late as the saloon doors swung open. Adelsia looked up. Her face broke into a grin. "Misty!"

Two women had entered. One was of Eastern descent, with gray hair, straight shoulders, and a slightly hunched back, though this was due to the immense pack she bore. She hefted the pack off, showing remarkable strength for one of her age, and cast it onto a nearby table. The old adventurer shot Adelsia a recently gaptoothed grin. "An ale and a water, Adel!"

The other woman was much younger—a year Adelsia's junior, in fact, and about as different-looking as one could manage. Adelsia's skin was the color of fallen chestnuts, while this woman's was ash gray, and where Adelsia was curvy, this woman was as thin as a heron. Her long, wavy hair was a bizarrely brilliant shade of hot pink, and her eyes were a glinting green. She had on a much smaller backpack, as well as a hemp sack hoisted in one arm. There was a curious spottiness on her arms that reminded Adelsia of gravel. Misty beamed back. "Adel!"

Adelsia set the tray of drinks in front of Errol and rushed over to embrace her old friend. Misty hugged her tight. "It's been too long," Adelsia said, smelling that sweet carrot smell in Misty's hair. Noticing a strange sensation against her arms, she pulled back, still holding Misty's hands. "What's this?"

Now that she looked closer, she could see that the "spottiness" on Misty's arms was actually a mass of tiny little dark mushroom caps. She blinked at Misty.

"Uh, yeah." Misty gave a nervous laugh. "That, uh...that was a mistake."

"I told you not to open that chest so quick!" the older woman said, sitting down at the table. "Never assume the first trap you spring was the only one."

"What do you mean, Molekicker?" Adelsia asked.

Molekicker turned to her. "It's a Midgard Curse. Bit of an unpleasant subject. Basically, she's lost the ability to consume anything except her own flesh."

"That's ..." It took Adel's mind a moment to fully process this. "Holy shit."

"Uh-huh." Molekicker nodded gravely. "Brutal method. Even the Cairnfolk usually shied away from that sort of thing. Once afflicted, the victim slowly starves to death until they're forced to start eating themselves. Of course, that has its own problems, and they eventually die after that." She gestured to Misty. "I'm afraid she activated it a week or so ago after opening a chest too early. It's already taken hold."

Adelsia stared into Molekicker's hard hickory-brown eyes. There was no sign Molekicker was joking.

Molekicker almost never joked.

"Wh ... you ..." Adelsia felt like she couldn't quite breathe out; like all the air inside her was trapped. It started to come out in hoarse hisses. She'd known Misty since they were ten. She remembered trading carved wooden animals outside the Grim Harvest, remembered her first kiss...

"We have a way around it," Misty said, looking at her nervously. "I'm not

actually

going to die, Adel."

Adelsia let the breath out. "... Oh."

"I just have to grow these little mushrooms on myself. That tricks the curse. We cut them off and, well, eat them when they're big enough." Misty sounded sheepish. "They're totally harmless. They don't even itch, and I figured they would itch. It's like...I mean, it's sort of hard to explain, but it's sort of like having a cat in your lap?" She grimaced. "Oh, that's a terrible simile. I mean that it's not supposed to be there, and your body knows that, but it's not really painful or anything. It's more like a guest than a parasite."

"Oh." Adelsia blinked. "Is that...permanent?"

"Nah." Molekicker tapped the table in front of her, as if willing an ale to appear there. "Just until we find this gal I know and get the curse stripped. After that, she drinks this potion, the mushrooms get flushed out, and she goes back to barely eating anything anyways."

Adelsia giggled.

Adventurers.

"So, is that why you're gray?" she asked. "And...pink?"

"A sprite's practical joke." Misty pulled a face. "I know, I know, I got off easy. Apparently my rack wasn't big enough to get her interested, so she just made me look like a Unicorn Mystic."

"Really!" Adelsia found this a much more charming adventuring anecdote. "She did a good job. You look adorable!"

"Yeah. Then she got interested anyways and Molekicker showed up and got violent."

"Sprites clearly have terrible taste, if there was any sort of delay." The two turned to see Horasen coming in from the kitchen, bearing a tray full of drinks. He deposited them at the table of Emekis, who was currently engaged in spirited discussion with a man nobody recognized who would never be seen in town again. Minstrel Alack, the town's bard, a mage with a knack for shapeshifting and about as much of a solid gender identity as an ice cream cone. Horasen grinned and gave a short bow. "Misty. Molekicker. It's been, what, a month?"

"Hi, Horasen." Misty giggled. "Thirty-four days, actually."

"Travesty." He walked over and took Misty's hand, checking it for stray fungi first before kissing it. It was all very gentlemanly, and total bullshit, Adel knew. He grinned. "I get off work in twenty minutes. Then it's a night shift." He glanced at Adel. "I think it's time for the next round, don't you?"

~~~~

"So, who starts this time?" Urg asked. The bartender was sitting in his special reinforced chair, hands folded together in his lap. "Molekicker, you always have some great stories. Why not you for startin' this out?"

Molekicker snorted. "I remember this game. Back when we played it, it went well into morning, and the winner had to pay for everyone else's drinks."

"Good times." Urg raised his glass. "Better times."

"I shall begin this," Emekis said. The blond half-elf librarian adjusted her neat bun and sat forward in her chair. "I did promise to introduce a strong submission to this game of yours, after all. But I was thinking: Why not make this a bit more interesting?"

She gave a rare little half-smile, but it was tinged with malice as she eyed Horasen. The town librarian and the town nuisance had never exactly gotten along. "Molekicker's notion of a 'gamble' could be fun, after all. How about this: If my story is deemed the strongest, Horasen must read through the entire Treatise of the Fallen Academies collection. All three tomes."

"What?"

Horasen's eyes widened. "I didn't—that's—"

"If mine loses to Horasen's," she went on, "I will give him back those 'special' catgirl illustrations he brought into my library last winter."

Horasen went silent.

"'Special'?" Misty looked at Horasen, arching her eyebrows.

"They had Emekis's face on them," Adelsia said, shuddering. "Really kind of gross, Horasen. Don't take that bet. I can't believe she hasn't burned them yet, anyways."

"But..." Horasen frowned. "I was really proud of those."

"Did you draw them?" Misty asked.

"Yes! I worked hard on them."

"Aw, poor Sen." Misty reached forward and patted his hand consolingly. "I can't believe she would object to you sexually harassing her in her own library!"

"I know!"

"I don't care much about the illustrations," Emekis said calmly. "If they were accurate, it would be another matter, but drawing my face and a pair of feline ears atop some teenager's idea of what a woman's body looks like does not bother me."

"I'm twenty, actually," Horasen said.

"But I am confident that I will win," she went on. "So? Have we a bet?"

Horasen bit his lip. Misty could tell the ditzy server's mind was searching desperately for a better option. After a moment, he clearly decided he'd found one, because he turned and looked over at

her

with those wide, pleading eyes.

She bit her own lip.

Damn him,

she thought.

"Not so fast," Misty said. "How about I contribute a story in Horasen's place? You guys said he and Adel already told one each, after all. It seems like someone else should take a turn. Plus, I don't know how long we'll be around. I may as well take a shot at this."

"Sure!" Adel said. "I want to hear what you come out with, Misty."

"I support the motion!" declared Alack, ignoring a pointed glare from Emekis. The bard raised their glass high. "Anything to keep Horasen from telling another story! Frankly, from what I've heard, his previous composition rates a four-out-of-five at

best

."

There was a general rumbling of agreement from everyone in the common room, except Errol, who had evidently not been listening. Misty smirked at Emekis. "Still confident you'll win, Emmie?"

'Emmie' looked a lot less comfortable now, and rightly so. Horasen was a barely-literate server who would be lucky to make it through the first ten lines of an actual written fairy tale, much less one of Emekis's rare tomes. Misty had spent most of her adolescence sleeping in the town library. It was a very different sort of challenge for the icy librarian.

But she clearly did not want to be the one to back down, because she nodded. "Very well. It's a bet."

Horasen was still looking uncomfortable, but when Emekis reached out a hand, he shook it.

"I'll go first," Misty said, smiling. "This is a

real

folk tale—we heard it from some sailors on the Wraithstream. I'll just ... embellish it a little bit." The apprentice adventurer winked. "Make it more appropriate for the game, right? I give you:"

~~~~

THE TALE OF

THE FIDDLER'S PRIDE

Long ago, back when the gods still reigned and the baker's bread never blackened, there was a brave young fiddler traveling in search of her fortune. This fiddler was very bold, and very clever, and very, very kind, but perhaps a little too eager to be good, and to be seen

as good.

One day, this fiddler was walking along when she saw a hooded figure struggling over a cart with a broken wheel. What-ho, t'was so, as she drew close she realized it was an old woman, and the two of them were as alone on the trail as a tern in the clouds.

Now, this fiddler could see that the woman needed help, and she was eager to provide it. So she rushed up, quick as a cricket, and lent her strength in lifting the cart up out of the muck. As it happened, she didn't have the tools to help with fixing the wheel, but she played a merry tune on her fiddle as the old woman worked, and shared her lunch, giving the old woman the strength and good cheer to finish the job. When it was done, the fiddler bowed to the old woman and turned to go, knowing there would be no reward save a grateful smile for her kindness. But the woman caught her arm.

"You're a good, kindly lass," said that crone, at a whisper, "and you deserve a reward befitting the kindness you bring to me. Let me see that pretty instrument of yours."

So the fiddler reluctantly handed over her prized violin. "It was passed down by my father," she said, though she knew not why she said it. "He would play it to help me fall asleep at nights when the Great Storms raged high overhead."

The old woman gave a gap-toothed grin. "Then by the sun's setting behind mountains blue, by your blood, and his in you, let this fiddle lull others, too." And magic filled her hands and passed into the violin, filling it with a strange glow from inside. "But you must remember the gods," the old woman warned, "and respect their holy places. Else I cannot say what will become of you."

The fiddler thanked the old woman politely and continued off into town. This town held very low regard for bards—yes, Alack, a bunch of utter heathens—and the fiddler was having trouble getting anyone to listen to her as she played in the town square. Despair crept into her heart. She was held in contempt, and would not eat tonight.

But as the sun began to set behind the distant Azure Peaks—for this was back when the great Peaks still stood, of course—she remembered the old woman's words. And lo, the fiddle's music began to shift in tone and tune. People began to gather around, their eyes clouded, swaying about to the rhythm. After a minute of this, the fiddler realized that the people were asleep—standing, but asleep all the same, as though hypnotized.

She stopped playing. The people remained still.

To test, she waved a hand in front of one woman's face. She spoke a greeting to a man. She poked another man in the chest. But it was not until the sun fully set below the peaks that the crowd snapped out of it.

And when they recovered, they were in awe! Oh, coins showered into the fiddler's hat at the "spectacular" performance. Men and women offered her free places to stay—and implied that there would be additional time for "performances" back at their homes that night.

Yes, Errol, like sex.

The fiddler was very nearly overwhelmed by the offers, but she managed to refuse all but three. First, she did accept a free room at the inn, and free meals, too—she was held in great esteem, and she planned to eat tonight. Second, she accepted a single chaste kiss from one of her prettier admirers.

And third, she agreed she would play in front of the church tomorrow afternoon. A most presumptuous thing, but the priest had been as hypnotized as the rest of the town, and how could she say no?

Now, the next morning, this fiddler was walking along when she saw a hooded figure struggling with a bucking horse. What-ho, t'was so, as she drew close she realized it was a middle-aged woman, and they were as alone on the street as a tern in the clouds.

Now, this fiddler could see that the woman needed help, and she knew she ought to provide it. But this time, she hesitated. The street was empty. No one would see her act of kindness, and after the adoration from the day before, she thought that seemed a bit unfair. And why shouldn't she deserve some acknowledgment? She could not stop thinking of the love the townsfolk had shown her last night. After a lifetime of thrown tomatoes and subtler slights, it rankled to think that she could be so kind and go unappreciated in anything.

Oh, but how selfish I am,

she thought to herself.

If I cannot content myself with this woman's gratitude, surely I deserve no one's.

Bu then a strange voice settled into her mind, and it whispered some words that just twisted so fine, Wait a few seconds, just a few, precious one. The townsfolk will love you all the more if you wait. Wait a few seconds, just a few, and have some fun when the townsfolk see your good deeds to date.

The fiddler hesitated. There was no harm in waiting a few seconds, was there? She remembered how wonderful it had been to be held in such high regard for a change. Surely she'd earned a few seconds of selfishness to be shown the praise she deserved.

A few seconds later, a nearby door opened, and a band of villagers poured out into the street. With her audience now before her, the fiddler rushed forward, quick as a grasshopper. She was already feeling guilty. She did not have the skill to calm the horse, but she gave it her apple to keep it happy while the middle-aged woman fixed the saddle, and helped the woman into the saddle afterwards. All the while, the small group of villagers watched with respect and awe at her generosity, remembering this stranger's gorgeous performance from the other night. Oh, they had all dreamed of her, every one.

"You're an alright lass," said that woman, with a groan, "and you deserve a reward befitting the kindness you bring to me. Let me see that pretty instrument of yours."

Now, the fiddler was reluctant, but the woman insisted. The fiddler looked around at the crowds, who were waiting to see what she would do, and handed over the fiddle with a carefree grin. "I've been playing it all my life," she said. "It has always given me cheer when I've felt poorly."

The middle-aged woman smiled at her, but her smile was tinged with skepticism this time. The fiddler had the strange sense that she was being measured in some way. "Then by the afternoon sun in its field of blue, by your pretty smile, and mine for you, let this fiddle bring cheer to others, too." And magic filled her hands and passed into the violin, imbuing it with a strange glow from inside. "But remember to look to the gods and their places," the woman warned, "and respect them, if nothing else."

The fiddler thanked the woman, realizing she had again been given a great gift. She continued on her way, followed by the group of villagers. They couldn't stop praising her for what she had done, and this little fiddler, oh, she started to let it go to her head.

"Play us a tune!" they begged her."A tune! Your last was so lovely, and now it is noon." And she couldn't resist. As she stood before the church's doors, behind the midday sun, she began to play.

Again, the fiddle's music took on a different pitch, making the listeners' eyes dreamy and distant. But this time, the fiddler realized, they were not just sleepy. Big, vacant smiles had formed on their faces. Some among them were letting out faint moans.

She stopped playing and watched, beginning to smile herself. What a remarkable gift indeed! Exactly what she deserved after her hard life.

To test, she leaned forward and kissed a pale young woman on the cheek. The woman cried out faintly, a cry cracked by pleasure and yearning. She whispered a dirty promise in a man's ear, enjoying his whimpers. She went up to a third man and, unable to help herself, felt his growing erection in his trousers. She almost wanted to start stroking it. She knew she could.

But the fiddler pulled herself away. What was she doing? She forced herself to just watch for the rest of the day, torturous as it was for her. Guilt wracked her all the while. She had not felt like herself. Or had she?

It was not until the sun began to set that the spell wore off, and the crowd snapped out of it. They were in rapture. Nobody could run out of good things to say about the fiddler, and she basked in their praise. Coin flowed like wine, and wine flowed like water. Men and woman promised her extra-special 'payments' if she followed them home.

The admiration showered upon her, and the drink that she freely imbibed that night, dulled the fiddler's sense of guilt. What had

she done wrong? The woman had cried out in joy at the kiss. The man's whimpers had been in pleasure. She had only given them what they had wanted. They loved her.

The fiddler was very nearly overwhelmed by the offers, and decided to accept a few more. Where was the harm? First, she accepted a bag of gold and a new change of clothes. Second, she promised to attend church the following morning and play a few chords. A most presumptuous thing, but the priest had been as hypnotized as the rest of the town, and how could she say no? It was a simple request and a simple kindness, she told herself.

And it was a good way to make up for her distraction, she supposed, for the entire village had missed worship because of her.

They worship you instead,

said that voice in her head, and she wasn't sure if it was pride or shamed dread,

and you are beloved, oh, hear them applaud. So little a price you can pay to be god.

She had no time for church, anyways, for third, she took two men and two women home with her that night and made them fuck her holes until she passed out. They loved her. They all loved her. This fiddler, who had always been treated with scorn, was loved. And she was getting off on it. She had never known pleasure so pure.

In the morning, she set out again for the church, to make good her promise. She was walking along when she saw a hooded figure struggling with a spilled basket of vegetables. What-ho, t'was so, as she drew close she realized it was a beautiful young woman, with flowing dark hair, skin the color of madrone bark, and an enticing hourglass figure. And they were as alone on the street as a tern in the clouds.