Andrew made his way through the wet, narrow streets. It was a typical summer’s day: a storm had whipped up overnight and was still raging away impulsively across all of Thercoup. Sheets of rain lashed the cobbled lanes; methylated spirit fell in torrents off the crude, sloping roofs of the mostly stone buildings and created little rivers that flowed downhill, joining up with others to create bigger rivers, which then merged with yet more rivers, and so on until they all converged at the lowest point in the town, which was just outside Andrew’s front door.
Cursing his bad luck, Andrew struggled through the storm. The rain was easing off, but the wind was whipping up, blowing the vile meths ever harder into his face, stinging his eyes and making it hard to breathe. He didn’t dare open his mouth, as he knew only too well the consequences of drinking pure methylated spirit. He had seen too many people suffer from the unassuming poison, greedily gulping the stuff down in the mistaken belief that they were getting a free alcoholic drink.
His feet were soaked through. In fact, his legs were wet right up to his knees thanks to the lake in front of his house. Normally he would have leapt majestically over it, but normally he wasn’t wearing a large hessian backpack stuffed to bursting with every kind of survival apparatus known to man. The luggage weighed a tremendous amount, and Andrew was struggling to stand upright. The fierce wind driving into his face was forcing him to bend nearly double to avoid toppling backwards and tumbling down the steep hill behind him.
Luggage was something he’d have done without if he could have, but he knew that he couldn’t. Sepwise had instructed him very carefully about the need for preparation. Without luggage, without provisions, they would not last a day on the Isle of Gillmar. Andrew had listened very carefully to this advice, and had started packing straight away. His backpack was now close to bursting with objects of all descriptions, some useful, some not, but all absolutely necessary (except, perhaps, for the carved wooden statue of Blowtop the Killer Whale God, guardian of the sky).
When he eventually staggered through the severely warped doors of the Book and Whistle, he swore that he would never return to this dull, wet, cold, nightmare island ever again. If Gillmar turned out to be even slightly more hospitable than this one, then there he would stay.
He looked around to see if he could find Sepwise. He wasn’t hard to spot. There was only one occupied table in the Inne. Even so, Sepwise obviously felt he had to attract Andrew’s attention, so he jumped up and down, waving his hands about in the air madly.
Andrew found it slightly amusing. It wasn’t every day you saw a small, white-haired alchemist in purple robes jumping about animatedly in an otherwise deserted pub.
The geographer dutifully made his way over to the table and put his luggage down where Sepwise indicated. He sat in the one remaining seat then looked at the other occupants. Other than Sepwise, he didn’t know or recognise any of them.
Sepwise shoved his chair back and stood up authoritatively. He slowly looked round at each member of his team, making sure he had their full attention. ‘This is an historic occasion,’ he announced hammily. ‘For the first time, the pioneering team of explorers that will become known and respected throughout the world is assembled. I know none of you are yet familiar with the others, I am aware it’s a little bit awkward at first, but I know that given time you will become the firmest of friends and the closest of comrades. I have brought you here today not only to mark the start our epic voyage, but to bond together and unite as a single brotherhood. Before we begin our quest, we shall engage in fun and festivities! Ted! The drinks please!’
Sepwise’s comrades sat still in their chairs, looking and feeling very nervous and unsure about themselves. They all wore flappy white togas with the exception of the largest man, who was wearing a much shorter tunic adorned with bits of brass finery.
Ted the barman brought over a large tray crammed with tankards and jugs and various other drinking utensils, all filled with the same thick, brown foaming liquid. ‘This’ll get ‘em in the mood,’ said Ted to Sepwise, winking slyly as he slammed the tray on the table. He dished out the solid, heavy metal tankards around the table, shoving them thoughtlessly in front of the adventurers, then returned to the bar. The table was left swimming in beer before they’d even started. Sepwise waited a moment, then took a swig of the distinctly unappetising ale, winced at the taste, reeled at the sheer power of the stuff, put the tankard gingerly back on the table and continued his speech.
He rambled at length through an introduction to the general themes and incentives of the expedition, gave some vague geographical and historical background to their destination, explained in minute detail why teamwork and trust were so important and finally introduced what he referred to as the ‘four foundations of fruition’ which bemused everybody, especially as there seemed to be actually five of them.
He then moved on to the introductions. He started with the largest man, Trussuk (a seven-foot tall, six-foot-wide, long haired brute with a babyface), explaining that he was an experienced warrior from the northern part of Thercoup and that he had taken part in many dangerous adventures during his life. After all, as Sepwise pointed out, that was his job. The rest of the introduction was primarily concerned with magical musical instruments of some sort, but nobody could really follow what Sepwise was trying to say.
Moving on, the scientist introduced the tall, slim, dark-haired, pointy-nosed Jeudd to everybody. It took him quite a while to explain that, although the man was a poet by profession, he would still be a useful member of the team as he could transcribe the events of the expedition into a journal, although Sepwise failed to then explain exactly what use this journal would be afterwards. Andrew got the impression that Sepwise was struggling to justify Jeudd’s presence even to himself, let alone to the rest of the team.
Next up was a man of unexceptional deportment. He was of average height, had unremarkable brown hair, sported no striking features and, well, seemed slightly out of place. Armoro, as his name turned out to be, was apparently a psychoanalyst (this particular word caused Sepwise some considerable difficulty). It was relayed in great depth what psychoanalysis was (or at least, what Sepwise thought it was), how it allowed Armoro to ‘see’ into people’s minds, and how he had worked out that Sepwise had been bullied as a child. Andrew was astonished at this and gazed at Armoro in some awe.
Last up was Andrew himself, who only got a very brief introduction because Sepwise didn’t like him very much (although of course he didn’t actually say that; at least, not in so many words).
Sepwise wrapped his talk up with an in-depth look into why leadership was a rare gift in men, why he’d been fortunate enough to have been blessed with it, and how the leader should always be obeyed no matter how vehemently his men might disagree with his orders. Unquestionable loyalty to the cause, he liked to call it. Apparently this was number six of the ‘four foundations of fruition’.
‘Does everybody understand?’ he finished with.
Everybody mumbled a ‘yes’. Some of them even nodded their heads. ‘Good,’ said the scientist. ‘Well, that’s the speeches over with, let’s get chatting.’
As Sepwise had feared his team were initially shy and hesitant, preferring to stare at the table or play with their tankards than talk to the person sitting next to them. He tried to start off a few conversations himself, engaging first Armoro, and then Trussuk, but they didn’t seem to be in much of a mood for chinwagging. Brief, often one word, answers were about the best he could expect.
It was all rather awkward.
<=> <=> <=>
One drink later, there was no shutting them up. The tremendously powerful ale had sent them all spinning off into advanced states of drunkenness, and they were talking, chatting, shouting, singing if necessary, about anything and everything, and perhaps even a little bit more than that. If nobody nearby happened to be listening, they would quite happily tell their story to a convenient chair. It was that sort of evening.
Sepwise, with mounting curiosity, tried to listen to Andrew explain to Jeudd the merits of studying the distribution of aged people within the town. Jeudd was having none of this, though, and was arguing vigorously with Armoro about the psychological effects of fourteen line poems.
Sepwise eventually gave in to an insistent tugging at his toga and turned to face Trussuk. ‘What?’ he snapped.
‘Tell me about the kopsheeper... shopkeeper,’ persisted Trussuk. ‘I wish to hear the tale of the magnetic shopkeeper and and and and the things. You didn’t finish the story.’
Sepwise tried to look into the bobbing eyes of the warrior but found it only made him dizzy, so he looked at a random point on the wall instead. He continued the story about the shopkeeper who had accidentally transformed himself into a powerful magnet whilst playing around with a magical sphere. The sphere had apparently been bought from a haggard old sailor who claimed to have discovered it aboard a deserted shipwreck on a rocky outcrop many miles out into the ocean. The shopkeeper had never recovered, and indeed had passed away only fairly recently when he carelessly walked into Beatman’s, a local purveyor of fine cutlery.
As Sepwise told the tale, he felt his head wavering about without his permission, and he seemed to be having some considerable difficulty controlling his fingers. Suddenly, and without any warning, he lost consciousness totally and slid gracelessly off his chair.
‘Can’t take his drink,’ said Trussuk, smirking loudly, before succumbing himself to the potent beverage.
<=> <=> <=>
Two hours later, Ted the Barman glanced in the direction of his only guests. He could see they were no longer there, so he strolled over and started to clear the dozens of tankards away.