A Night on the Town

Writing Excuses S01E33 – Side Characters

Bring a side character from the future, bring them back to the past and write a story about them.

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Larsik had always been good at getting himself into scraps, growing up. He’d been even better at finding ways to get out of them. Usually.

Moving to the Academy had been intimidating at first, mostly because of the weight of familial expectations that he felt like an itch across his shoulders. Perhaps in other families, being a fourth son would be simpler, but Dothlurians are not like most tribes.

There I go again, calling these people tribes…
he thought ruefully as he crept across the darkened corridor.

Two days at the Academy had been enough for it to sink in; how different he was from the rest of the students. He’d discounted his older brothers’ accounts of how hard he would find it, but after two days of receiving nothing but barely concealed scorn and haughty, upturned noses from the others in his class, he admitted that learning to cast wouldn’t be as simple as he’d thought.

Faced with unending boredom from not making any friends so far, he’d ventured out on his own after curfew. It had been the simplest of tasks to open the lavatory window, and the four stories from it to the courtyard hadn’t fazed him in the slightest. Growing up in the Vans, he’d been climbing trees and rocks since he could walk, and there was a terribly convenient drainage pipe a foot from the hinges of the window that he’d used to shimmy down.

Once he’d reached the bottom, he’d been itching to take his boots off, but that was yet another thing that was frowned upon, here. Luckily, he’d asked another Dothlurian in a higher level he’d met at the common room, before giving in to his impulses and going barefoot.

“They don’t like that here, guslav.” Even though they were of different tribes, the boy’s and Larsik’s had never been at war, so the rules of cordiality applied. “Keep your boots on your feet, and the wall at your back, and think before you attack.” He’d grinned sheepishly at the unexpected rhyme, and Larsik had smiled with him.

He would have been happy to spend more time with his kinsman, but the older boy’s schedule was hectic and filled to bursting, actually gobbling down his dinner inside of a minute before heading to the library for an all-night studying session. Larsik had felt sad from that glimpse into his future, but he’d steeled his resolve. He was there to learn how to use magic, not to make friends.

The family business required him to become a wizard, but a very specific type of wizard. A warrior. Once he was done, he would join his father and brothers in the Crogs. In the meantime, he had to make the best of this place, learn as much as he could, which could only be achieved by adopting customs outside of the Dothi.

He felt so disconnected from the earth, though. The soft clapping of his boots upon the paving stones created a distance, a sense of separation from his surroundings that he couldn’t quite shake. He blamed that unease for making him so distracted that he almost stumbled into a group of hall monitors.

They’d been gathered in a hallway, conversing quietly before continuing on their rounds and Larsik almost turned the corner and ran straight into them. Luckily, he’d heard their hushed tones with just enough time to flatten himself against the stone wall, pressing himself into the shadows as much as possible.

With his small size, even though he was stocky, he could usually manage to blend into the background. Usually, of course, meaning in a forest, wearing his greens and browns, barefoot with an axe across his back, bow in his hand. Even though his sparse whiskers still marked him out as a young man, he was willing to bet that his tracking and woodsman skills would be the envy of many a city lad who found himself alone, surrounded by more than a dozen trees within earshot of a road.

The monitors had eventually disbanded and gone their own ways. To Larsik’s relief none had gone the way he’d been walking from, since it would’ve been impossible to hide in the cold, hard stone of the keep, no matter that he’d outfitted himself with the darkest colors he owned. When their lights faded away, he’d relaxed and continued making his way to the outer walls of the Academy.

The day he’d arrived at Rewinsbar, as he made his way across the bustling town towards the promontory where the Academy overlooked the bay, he’d noticed the western side of the keep had several large trees all but growing next to the walls. He’d immediately selected this as his escape route, if he should ever need one. He wouldn’t have guessed he’d need it to escape from boredom within a week.

He crept more carefully now, making the effort to be more aware of his surroundings. The distant sounds of the city were the only things that cut through the oppressive silence, though. Here and there he’d hear the scuff of boots from hall monitors making their rounds, so he easily avoided them.

When he’d finally made his way to the western side of the outer wall, he noticed as he peered through an arrow slit that the trees were not as close as he’d thought. Still, he had to see for himself, so he continued creeping along carefully until he was at the top of the wall.

The view, he admitted, was quite breathtaking. Growing up on the road, the whole world -with certain limitations- in front of you, you tended to not get attached to places and things. Attending the Academy would make this Larsik’s home for the better part of a decade, so he was glad that the location was one of the prettiest he’d seen.

The bay where the Rewin river met the northern ocean was a deep blue green that couldn’t be appreciated at night. Hundreds of shallow pools were made by the natural breakwaters of stone scattered around for miles. It was said that one of the highest paying jobs was to be a member of Rewinsbar’s pilot’s guild, since the safe passages through the rocks that made up the Dragon Coast shifted year round as sandbars moved with the river’s flow.

The Academy perched at the northern tip of the bay, a mile outside the city proper. Hundreds of years earlier it had been part of the defenses for its placement atop the bluffs, but with the establishment of the Free Cities and the Covenant, it had been ceded to the Battou-jim as a center for learning magic in the north.

His appreciation of the moonlit scene was cut short when he heard one of the doors at the bottom of the stairs open with a groan. He himself had been careful so it wouldn’t make a sound, but whomever was climbing showed no concern for sneakiness.

Muffling an oath his mother would have cuffed his ear for even knowing, he measured the distance from the parapet to the trees as one he could easily vault with enough of a running leap. He took off his boots as quickly as he could, tying their straps in a hasty knot, slung them around his neck and shoulders and before he could think about it too much, ran and leaped.

Truly, it was a simple jump, the thick branches of the trees were more than strong enough to take his weight, and even with only one hand free he caught himself easily. The branch only made a slightly louder creak as he walked on it towards the trunk, his bare feet finding comforting and easy traction on the wood.

He pressed himself against the trunk and looked back at the keep. A flickering light bobbed and weaved along the parapets, taking its slow time getting to the place where the unseen leap had been taken from.

A sour feeling in his stomach made the young Dothlurian frown as he realized that the leap back would not be nearly as simple.

I might need a grapple of some kind…


Saving those worries for the Larsik who would have to face them a couple of hours later, he climbed down from the large tree, some thirty or forty feet, using the wide branches that afforded him ample perch as he leapt from one to the other.

He estimated that it was not quite midnight, and figured a walk around the city at night would be just the excitement he needed. Grumbling, he put his boots back on, not wanting to stand out any more than he would anyway.

He walked the mile into town at a brisk pace, and had no trouble walking in as there were plenty of people still entering and leaving the city at that time. Merchant caravans full of goods left towards the north, most likely headed to the Havens. Others headed west looked much less encumbered, since they wouldn’t have to be dealing with the harsh northern weather.

For a moment he felt a pulling heartache in his chest. There was a Dothlurian Van headed west. He could easily pick it out despite the distance because of all the flickering torches and the way they were arranged, marking them as fur traders from the south. They were not his tribe, but they followed the Dothi, and he had the wild impulse of leaving it all behind and running after them.

He discarded such ideas, though, of course. It would be a terrible dishonor on his family and tribe if he were to quit his studies. There were few enough Dothlurians accepted into learning because of the Covenant, without him giving the other nations reasons to cut them out.

He shook himself and looked way from the fading caravan, facing instead the center of the city, near the river. He was sure he would find some entertainment that way.

He managed to get inside the third inn he visited along the waterfront.

The first one had an unkempt look about it, although raucous noises came from inside, meaning that it had a lot of patronage, but the doorman had spit on his boot and called him a ‘midget bastard’ before showing him his cudgel.

Larsik had forced a grin onto his face and bowed to the man, if only to keep himself from taking that cudgel away from him and beating him with it.

It was inevitable that he would run into people who hated Dothlurians. At the Academy it was forced politeness and his peers mostly ignoring him that made him grind his teeth. Out in the real world, it was more familiar things, but he’d been brought up smart and being by himself in a strange city, he wouldn’t be picking any fights if he could help it.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that things don’t break, all by themselves. For example, the corroded rain gutter that lined the patchy roof of the inn. If it had been properly maintained, then surely it wouldn’t have given way all of a sudden, sending months’ or years’ worth of accumulated goop slopping all over the doorman’s head just as he was tilting his tankard back for a drink.

Larsik wiped his boot on a small patch of grass next to a tree and wiped his hands on the back of his trousers.

“Poor, shoddy construction…” he muttered lightly as he gave the irate, soaked and stinking doorman a wide berth. “Can’t even take twelve kicks…”

The second inn was a fancy looking establishment, with string and trumpet music coming from the inside, and the thumping that normally accompanied dancing. He was hopeful of getting in unnoticed, but the doorman at this place spied him just as he was about to enter behind a group of sailors.

“Ho, there!” He placed a hand in front of Larsik’s face, but not in a threatening way. He was smiling and shaking his head softly. “Aren’t you meant to be in bed, Academ?”

For a moment, Larsik was afraid that the man worked at the Academy and had recognized him, but then he realized that it was an easy assumption to make. It was after nine bells, he was certainly young, and a Dothlurian by himself in this city was probably attending school.

Larsik smiled at the man, shrugged. “I thought I would grab a bite to eat, maybe a drink… I have the coin.”

The doorman herded him away from the door with a light touch, still grinning.

“Ah, but then the headmasters would send a citation to the city council and close us for a week if you were found here, guslav.”

Larsik knew that the man meant well, using the term kinsmen use, but it still irked him that an outsider would place himself in such a position of confidence. He didn’t press the point, though. It was better than dealing with the other doorman. He nodded and shrugged again, turning.

Oi, lad.” The doorman walked a few paces alongside him and whispered. “Try two streets down, hang a left. And next time, at least wear a costume or something.” He clapped a hand softly on Larsik’s shoulder and resumed his post.

Not knowing whether to be aggrieved or mollified, he nodded and kept walking in the direction he was pointed to.

The third inn was a little more run down than the second, but much nicer looking than the first. There seemed to be a lone fiddler and through the windows he could see dancing couples swinging about. There wasn’t a doorman in sight, so he approached slowly, peeking inside.

There was sawdust on the floor, and guttering candles, but the place had a certain charm that appealed to him. There was a large hearth on the opposite side of a long bar, and animal pelts and fishing nets hung from the rafters. The fiddler seemed to know her business, as the half dozen couples dancing happily attested to. Most of the patrons were tapping their plates or mugs to a beat, following the song.

As he stepped inside fully he saw that indeed there was a doorman, a massive bear of a man, scarred and grizzled, that looked like he chewed up rocks into his stew, but he was leaning against the inside of the doorpost, looking at the dancers and tapping an iron ring against his tankard. The man’s eyes flicked briefly towards Larsik, met the young Dothlurian’s for a second and went back to watch the dancers. Larsik gulped, as that blue eyed glance had been laden with enough meaning to choke a dragon.

Come in, but no trouble… or else…

He found an empty table in the back, caught a barmaid’s attention and ordered a plate of food with an ale. She looked at him with a frown until he grinned sheepishly and asked for watered wine. She sniffed at him and went into the kitchen.

The food was quite good, and even the soft wine went to his head after the third cup. Dancers came and went, the fiddler’s energy seeming to be inexhaustible. She kept tapping her foot between songs, while she stretched her hands and arms, humming a tune, which the patrons kept following happily. He noticed that the huge doorman’s eyes were actually glued to the fiddler, instead of the dancers, as he’d originally thought.

Looking closer at the fiddler, he saw that she was quite pretty. It was difficult to tell, though, because she had a long lock of black hair that constantly fell over half of her face as she played. She had a nice figure, well rounded in all the places that Larsik thought should be. He understood why the doorman seemed to be infatuated with her.

A commotion in the back caught his attention, and he shifted in his seat.

There seemed to be a card game going on in one of the back tables, and voices were being raised. The fiddler kept playing, but the doorman shifted, edging to the side to get a look. Larsik noticed that one man, an air of highbrow confidence about him matched by his ruffled lace at sleeves and neck, had stood up at the table, pointing with a shaking fist at another who was seated with his back to him.

The other three men joined the one standing, gesturing rudely at the remaining seated one and banging on the table. The man at last stood up slowly and began picking up the coins that were in front of him without a word, shaking his head with what appeared to be mirth when the loudest one grabbed his arm.

“You cheating swine!” He upended his wine cup over the counting man’s head.

Suddenly the fiddle stopped and all became quiet in the common room.

As if on cue, the doorman’s heavy boots thudded from the door, and all the chairs around the loud men scraped away. Larsik watched with curiosity as the four men, clearly inebriated, shuffled their feet as the mountain of a man stood next to the soaking gambler.

“Problem, gents?” The deep thundering growl seemed to fit the large man perfectly. Larsik couldn’t help but bend an ear.

The one who’d done the grabbing and the soaking shifted nervously, but the drink gave him courage.

“This cheat thought he could get away with swindling us!” His drunkenness was more evident by his voice than by his demeanor. The pompous way he looked down his nose at the accused immediately predisposed Larsik in favor of the latter.

The doorman sighed heavily and turned towards the man who was wiping his face with his sleeve.

“That be true, then?” Thunder boomed again.

Larsik heard a slight shrug. “They’re sauced, and can’t tell their ass from a hole in the ground. I wasn’t cheating. Not my fault they can’t keep track of their cards.”

The others started to protest, blustering about their honor and several other irrelevant things that the doorman should take into account but all soon fell silent under his heavy gaze.

“Game’s over, anyhow. I think you lads have had enough. There’s the door.” He pointed back above his shoulder.

The grabber, clearly the leader of the bunch, puffed up and his face got beet red.

“Do you have any idea-?”

His slurred drawl was cut off by the doorman cracking his knuckles.

“I’ll have you know…” he continued but his companions were already making their way around the table and the walking mountain. Seeing as he was soon to be left facing the precipice alone, he muttered an oath, reached for the coins on the table.

“Uh, Uh.” Soft thunder, again from the doorman.

The man cast a hateful glance at the one he’d accused of cheating, then shuffled past, passing right by Larsik and jostling his table, causing the cup of wine to tip over. Only a quick reaction, jumping back from the chair, saved him from the mess.

“Hey!” he called after the pompous windbag. The man turned back and sneered at him.

“Get out of here, you midget swine… you’re lucky we’re not in my lands, otherwise I’d have you whipped!”

Not very original… Larsik thought as the man turned in a huff and stumbled away and out the door. Reusing insults is a sure sign of a feeble mind.

Larsik felt a presence by his side, and looked up to find the gambler next to him.

He was not, as it turned out, much older than Larsik, perhaps even younger. It was simply difficult to tell sometimes with regular-sized folk. The young man looked down and shook his head.

“Pay no attention to him, he’s a sore loser, that’s all.” The young lad’s voice was a little slurred as well, but seemed to be handling it better, or at least as well as Larsik was himself.

He made a dismissive gesture. “Eh, now I’m glad that you took their money.”

A quick grin flashed across the young man’s face and he extended his hand. He seemed to be about to introduce himself when what could only be described as a human looking paw landed on his shoulder, making him wince. Scarred knuckles at eye level cut off what he was about to say.

The doorman stood behind both of them and stared seriously down into their faces. It was a little more distance for Larsik, but he doubted the weight of it was affected much.

“It true? You cheat?” A slight squeeze on the shoulder.

Wincing, the young man shook his head. “No, sir. Not at all, I would never dare to bring disrepute to this fine establishment.”

That ice cold gaze examined him for a couple of breathless seconds, then a small smile twisted a corner of his lips. It was like watching an anvil smile.

“Get out of here, Academ. Leave the tips.” He gave a small shove that nearly sent the young man sprawling, but Larsik figured that it was about as nice a dismissal as he was likely to get.

The young man rubbed his shoulder where the weight of the world had rested for some moments, as the doorman headed to his post. The music started up again and by the time he was leaning against the doorpost once more it was as if nothing had happened.

The young man cast a glance at the coins on the table, then towards the door. He met Larsik’s eyes and grinned, motioning towards the exit.

“You going to leave that there?” Larsik motioned with a thumb.

A nod from the gambler. “Yes, definitely. Price of annoying Grigo.”

He moved towards the exit and Larsik found himself falling in next to him. The doorman, Grigo, had seemed to only be talking to him when he said to get out, but the young Dothlurian wasn’t about to take any chances. As well get a volcano mad at you.

As they passed out the door into the night, nodding politely in Grigo’s direction, another rumble sounded from the talking mountain.

“Watch yourselves. Laefitte doesn’t like to be made a fool of.”

Larsik assumed that Laefitte was the pompous peacock and his friends. He suddenly had misgivings about stepping out next to the source of their grievance.

The young man pointed towards Larsik. “No worries, I’ve got Slithoson here with me. Everyone knows Dothis can handle themselves in a scrap.”

Larsik jumped.

How did he know my family name?

A grunt from the leaning mountain. Another curt dismissal.

Larsik joined his apparent companion on the street. He was about to form the question when the young man forestalled him.

“I was in your introductory class, mate. Sorry about putting you on the spot, though. You don’t really know me, but I wouldn’t put it past a turd of Laefitte’s caliber to jump you just because you saw him get kicked out. How about we head back together, watch each other’s back?”

A slight breeze brought a chill off from the river as it slowly flowed by. Shivering, Larsik thought that it might not be such a bad idea to have a companion. The streets looked differently when there might be someone looking for you. He nodded and they set out towards the main road that would take them to the Academy.

They kept quiet most of the way until they reached the edge of the city, heads swiveling at every sound, which now seemed sinister and macabre to Larsik’s ears.

They almost made it all the way outside the city gates without incident and started to relax, when Larsik heard voices that made him grab his companion’s sleeve, pulling him back around the building they’d just passed.

His consequential friend made an inquiring gesture, and Larsik realized that he hadn’t heard anything.

City boy…

The voices were faint, but after a moment of straining, the young man nodded. Larsik’s senses were still attuned to his environment. They had to be when you were hunting, so that you never became the hunted.

They peeked around the side and saw Laefitte and his three friends, bottles in hand, grumbling and gesturing. They had laid a neat ambush, knowing that the young man would most likely exit through the north gate, and had clearly been encouraged in their vengeance by copious amounts of alcohol.

“Listen, I’m sure you can probably take some of them, and I’m not too bad in a fight, but we’ll be caught for sure and put on reprimand if the city watch finds us. It’s only our first week here.” He was grim faced.

Larsik looked around until he saw something that made him smile.

“I’ve got an idea.” He pointed. “Grab that and follow me.”

The young man grabbed the discarded bucket that was next to some crates and followed after the Dothlurian. They crept to the opposite side of the building where the ambush was waiting for them and proceeded to fill the bucket with gravel.

The handle was broken, so when Larsik climbed up the tree that he’d noticed next to the building, he had his companion climb up beside him so he could hold it for him. Slowly and shakily, clearly without much experience climbing trees, the young man eventually reached Larsik, muttering an oath when the limbs swayed.

“What are we doing here?” He whispered.

“Just watch.”

Larsik grabbed a fistful of gravel and began tossing pebbles up above and over the two-storied building. He heard the sounds as they hit the paving stones where their antagonists awaited them, and the growling, drunken comments as they began to bluster.

“What’s that?”

“Who’s there?”

“Come out, peasant swine!”

Larsik shared a look of contempt with his partner, both thinking the same thing.

He began lofting the stones farther away, from the echoes in the still night, they were reaching the other side of the street.

“He’s trying to sneak past us!” That came out as an ussshhhh.

“Go and bring him here!”

The sounds of men shuffling off were clear. The young man made as if to climb down, but Larsik stopped him.

“You know this guy well?”

“Not really, I heard he’s a bastard who takes people’s money, though.”

“So you did cheat him?”

The young man made a noncommittal gesture. “I don’t know if counting cards counts as cheating, really.”

Larsik couldn’t help but smile, but he felt it turn into a grimace. “I’m not looking to make enemies here, to be honest.”

The young man put a hand on Larsik’s shoulder. “Hey, no worries. I think I should be fine taking it from here. I appreciate the help in drawing the rest of them off.” He held out his hand and Larsik shook it.

He passed the bucket to Larsik before he started to climb down. “I’ll see you around in class, right?” He grinned a cheeky smile and then climbed all the way down and crept around the side of the building.

Larsik watched him go and felt bad. Really bad. He didn’t know the young man very well, but he’d seemed a good sort, despite picking fights intentionally.

What would my father think if he knew that Larsik Slithoson left a comrade to face his enemies alone?

Larsik wasn’t there to make enemies. Or friends. But despite his better judgement, he thought he’d already failed that last one.

Hurriedly he leapt from branch to branch, bucket in the crook of his arm, feeling the rush that usually accompanied him when he was hunting. His feet were swift as they stepped skillfully like a dancer all the way down.

Turning the corner at a full sprint, he saw that things hadn’t gone to plan as his friend had hoped. Laefitte was on the ground, nursing what appeared to be a broken nose. However, one other of his companions had returned, and had drawn an ornate dagger, waving it in circles in front of him.

The dagger had a red stain on it.

Larsik saw his friend holding up his hands, but favoring his left side, where a red bloom was spreading across his coat. This made him incredibly mad, he realized. This was no fair fight. It seemed to have started as one, with only fists, but things had escalated.

The Dothlurian spun and threw the bucket and its contents at the armed attacker, who only managed an affronted squawk before the wooden staves slammed into his forehead, gravel spilling all around him. He dropped his dagger and then promptly fell limply in a heap.

Larsik came to a stop next to his friend, who leaned on him.

“Man, am I glad to see you! Took your sweet time, no?”

“Why’d you pick a fight with these imbeciles in the first place?”

“Oh come on, the others are coming back and I’m sure they’ve all got those prissy little daggers, too.”

“Seems like it sliced a nice chunk out of you…”

“Eh… just a flesh wound. I’ve had worse.”

“You lie.”

“Yeah… I do.”

“Are they coming?”

“I think so, I heard them shouting. Let’s hope they kept drinking.”

“Well I suppose I could always just leave you here if they catch up, you being so heavy and all.”

“Oh, don’t make me pick you up…”

And so they went back and forth until they were outside the city. There didn’t seem to be any signs of pursuit, which suited them just fine.

“How are we going to get back inside? You can’t climb worth a damn, and I never got a chance to scrounge up a grapple.”

His friend made a flourish with one hand while he reached into his blood soaked coat with the other.

“It helps when you have a key, genius.” He winced in pain, diminishing the insult’s effect, though.

“I’m not the one who got stabbed by a drunk tonight.”

“Oh, shut up. Come on, this opens a gate on the cliff side.”

Larsik helped his friend hobble along, the faint traces of dawn showing far away across the ocean to the east.

“By the way… the name’s Tomas.”



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PS Notes: I'm ridiculously excited about this writing prompt because it was a great exercise for the fantasy series I'm working on. Larsik is an important second character in that series, and I'm glad to have taken the time to have discovery written his back story today.