Jon Steinke
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Chapter 13: Some Hangovers Go Hard
🕑 Added 2025-10-05 20:23:03 +0000 UTCThe dull pressure behind Caleb's eyes greeted him like an unwelcome friend. Yesterday's terror felt distant, submerged beneath a thick, numbing layer of calm that had settled over his thoughts. He sat up on his cot, movements slow and deliberate. The world was muted, every sight and sound muffled as if he were underwater.
His shoulders sagged forward, head tilted at an odd angle. His jaw hung slightly slack, eyes unfocused and staring at a point somewhere beyond the opposite wall. His breathing was too shallow, too regular, like a man sleepwalking through consciousness.
He fumbled with the laces of his trousers, missing loops he normally threaded without thought. But he made sure to get the coin pouch. Standing, his foot caught on a loose floorboard—the exact one he'd stepped over every morning for weeks. He stumbled, catching himself against the wall with a heavy thump.
His palm pressed flat against the rough wood. He stared at it for several heartbeats, as if the contact confused him. The clumsiness registered somewhere in the back of his mind, a faint signal swallowed by a singular, pulsing thought: get stronger. It was the only thing that pierced the fog—everything else was just noise.
The kitchen welcomed him with its usual complement of scents—baking bread, fresh herbs, the sharp bite of garlic being crushed. He moved to his station as if wading through molasses, picking up his knife and honing steel. The motions felt disconnected, as if his hands belonged to someone else.
The knife slipped.
It clattered against the floor, the sharp clang cracking the kitchen's meditative quiet like a fault line through stone.
"Whoops!" His voice rang out, cheerful and far too loud. The brightness in his tone was unnatural, like paint over rust.
He bent to grab the blade, oblivious to the effect he'd created. Around him, the kitchen's rhythm had stumbled to a halt. A cook's knife hovered mid-chop, its owner stock-still. The sizzle of a pan on the hearth seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden stillness. Worried glances passed between the staff like silent messages, eyebrows raised, mouths pressed into thin lines.
Caleb straightened, knife in hand. He resumed honing with the disconnected motions again, his wrist moving in mechanical circles while his eyes stared at nothing. After a long, uncertain moment, the other cooks slowly returned to their work.
The kitchen door swung open. Gareth entered, then paused mid-stride. Expert eyes swept the room, reading the disruption in his domain like a master musician hearing a sour note. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His eyes landed on Caleb for a fraction longer than anyone else, accompanied by a slow, diagnostic blink.
The sight of his boss triggered something in Caleb's altered mind. Right. His mission. He set his knife down on the block with exaggerated care, abandoning vegetables half-prepped.
He walked across the kitchen in a straight line, forcing an older cook to sidestep with a grunt of surprise. He stopped directly in front of Gareth, close enough that propriety demanded he step back. Which he didn't.
"Good morning!" The greeting burst out bright and friendly, completely at odds with kitchen protocol. His smile was too wide, showing too many teeth.
Gareth's glare could have stopped a charging bull. His shoulders squared, stance shifting into something that looked like a warning. Before he could speak, Caleb continued, his tone breezy as a spring morning. "I'm heading out for a bit. Going to the Adventurer's Hall to get my spirit stone and get Awakened."
The kitchen died.
Every single person stopped. Knives stopped chopping with audible thuds against cutting boards. Pans stopped stirring, wooden spoons suspended in mid-air. Even the fire seemed to quiet its crackling. The silence filled the kitchen like a held breath, thick and suffocating.
Seeing their stunned, wide-eyed stares, Caleb felt a surge of camaraderie. His smile grew even wider, crinkling the corners of his eyes. They were excited for him. A warmth spread through his chest at their obvious enthusiasm. He waited a beat in the heavy silence, rocking slightly on his heels, then chirped, "OK, see you later!" He gave a jaunty little wave and marched out with the confidence of a man who'd just announced good news.
The common room blurred past. Behind the bar, Corinne and Cassia were reviewing the morning's inventory, their heads bent over ledgers. He threw them a big, happy wave with both arms in passing.
Corinne stilled, the ledger slip she was holding fluttering from her slack fingers like a dying bird. Her mouth opened slightly, confusion flickering across her features. Cassia's professional smile vanished, her lips tightening with concern, her brow creasing as she watched him pass.
Caleb didn't notice. The door swung shut behind him, its little bell producing a bright, contented jingle.
Outside, morning light painted Deadfall Village in shades of gold and shadow. He strolled down the middle of the street, weaving between purposeful merchants and guards like a man without a care in the world. A tune bubbled up from somewhere in his memory, and he began to whistle—a simple, high melody that seemed perfectly natural.
A horse-drawn cart swerved to avoid him, its driver yanking hard on the reins. "Watch where you're walking, you daft—!" The curses bounced off his consciousness like rain off oiled leather.
The smell of sizzling oil caught his attention. A street vendor was frying mushrooms in a wide iron pan, their earthy aroma mixing with sharp spices. His stomach reminded him he'd skipped breakfast, a hollow pang that felt distant and unimportant.
"One, please." He handed over a silver coin without waiting for the price, his movements casual and unhurried.
The vendor's eyes widened, his weathered face creasing with surprise. "That's... that's too much, lad."
"Keep it." Caleb took the paper cone of mushrooms and continued his stroll, munching contentedly. The vendor stared after him, shaking his grizzled head.
He hummed his tune around a mouthful of mushroom, completely oblivious to the figures that had just stepped from a narrow alleyway to block his path.
An impact jarred Caleb backward, his shoulder colliding with something solid and green. A fried mushroom tumbled from his paper cone, bouncing off cobblestones before rolling into a puddle. He watched it sink with mild fascination, his head tilted to one side, the golden breading dissolving into muddy water.
"Watch where you're going, dull-ear!"
Narbok Blackbriar shoved him again, harder this time. The force sent Caleb stumbling, his back hitting the rough timber wall of a shop with a solid thud. Finn materialized on his left, that eager grin stretched across his pale face like a wound. Durk loomed on the right, knuckles already cracking with wet pops.
The alley. The blood. Cillian's knife sliding through flesh like—
No. That was yesterday. This was today. Today was different. Today, everything floated on a cushion of pleasant numbness that should have been screaming.
Caleb straightened his tunic with careful precision, brushing away imaginary dust in slow, deliberate motions. His face arranged itself into a broad, vacant smile that didn't reach his eyes. "My sincerest apologies!" The words emerged bright and formal, as if he'd bumped into a duchess at a garden party. "Entirely my fault, I assure you."
He reverently held out the paper cone in offering. "Mushroom?"
Narbok's amber eyes narrowed to slits. His hand had been reaching for Caleb's collar, but it paused mid-air, fingers still curled like claws. "What?"
"They're quite good. From Velkin's stall." Caleb selected one carefully, popped it into his mouth, and chewed with evident satisfaction, his jaw working slowly. "The breading has this delightful hint of thyme."
Finn's grin faltered, sliding off his face like melting wax. He glanced at Narbok, then back at Caleb, his watery yellow eyes searching for the script they'd rehearsed a hundred times before. The one where the half-breed cowered. Where he whimpered. Where he ran.
Durk's thick brow furrowed into deep grooves. His mouth opened, then closed with an audible click. He looked like someone had asked him to solve a particularly complex mathematical equation.
"What's wrong with you?" Narbok stepped closer, his breath hot against Caleb's face. The scent of sour milk and old meat wafted between them. "Did your drunk father finally scramble your brains?"
Drunk father. The words should have stung. Should have triggered Thal's memories of Rufan's fists, the smell of cheap brandy, the terror of footsteps on creaking floorboards.
"Oh, Rufan's not my father." Caleb's smile never wavered, serene and untouchable. He pulled the mushrooms back with a gentle, playful motion when Narbok grabbed for them, like a parent keeping sweets from an overeager child. "Common misconception. We simply share accommodations. Well, shared. Past tense now."
The grooves on Durk's forehead seemed to carve themselves deeper into his skull. His massive paws flexed at his sides, opening and closing as if grasping for something that wasn't there.
"Are you..." Narbok's voice cracked slightly, the predatory confidence shaking. He cleared his throat, tried again. "Are you mocking me?"
Caleb tilted his head like a curious bird, considering this with the pleasant detachment he might apply to discussing the weather. "I don't believe so? Though I suppose one can never be entirely certain of one's own motivations. The mind is such a fascinating labyrinth, don't you think?"
The silence stretched like a taut rope. Somewhere, a merchant hawked fresh bread, his voice cutting through the morning air. A cart rattled past in the street, wheels clattering over uneven stones. The ordinary sounds of morning in Deadfall Village, continuing as if three boys weren't standing stock still in confusion around a fourth who refused to follow the rules.
Finn's nervous laugh broke the spell, high-pitched and uncertain. His eyes darted between Narbok and Caleb like a trapped animal seeking escape. "Maybe... maybe we should just—"
"Shut up." Narbok’s fist clenched, but the motion lacked its usual conviction. The bravado in his posture deflated under the pressure of polite nonsense. He looked from Caleb to Finn, a flicker of genuine confusion in his eyes, as if searching for a rulebook that no longer applied.
"Well!" Caleb clapped his palms together, the sound sharp in the morning air like a gunshot. "This has been delightful, truly, but I have an appointment at the Adventurer's Hall. Mustn't be late."
He gave them all a small, friendly wave, the kind you'd give to acquaintances at the market after a pleasant chat with an old acquaintance. Then he stepped around Narbok with the fluid grace his [Savant of the Body] provided, even through the addled haze.
Three steps. Four. Five.
"Hey!" Narbok's voice cracked with frustration, rising to an almost plaintive whine. "Get back here! I'm not done with—"
Caleb had already rounded the corner, that easy whistle floating back on the morning breeze. The melody bounced off stone walls, growing fainter with distance, leaving three stunned bullies standing in the middle of the alley like actors who'd forgotten their lines.
The mushrooms really were quite good. A bit earthy, with a satisfying crunch. He popped another into his mouth, the simple pleasure settling him into a wonderfully uncomplicated moment.
The Adventurer's Hall rose ahead, its weathered sign creaking in the morning breeze like an old ship's mast. He pushed through the heavy door, still working on a particularly crispy mushroom.
The chaos of the hall washed over him—shouts echoing off the timbered ceiling, the clinking of mugs, the scrape of chair legs on stone. The air was thick with the smell of old ale and desperation, surprisingly warm despite the early hour. He spotted Felicity behind the counter, her half-elven features intent on tallying receipts, her pointed ears twitching slightly as she concentrated.
He walked up and plopped his coin pouch on the scarred wood with a soft thud. "One spirit stone, Fel."
Her practiced smile dissolved like sugar in rain. A wry grin surfaced, tugging at the corner of her mouth, but her eyes held genuine concern—the kind reserved for friends making questionable decisions. "Thal? Are you all right?"
He waved off her worry with the hand still holding mushrooms, crumbs scattering across the counter. "Never better. One spirit stone, please."
"F tier, I'll assume. Red or blue?"
"They come in colors?"
The grin faded completely, replaced by something harder. Exasperation crept into her voice, sharpening each word. "Thal, this isn't a game. Didn't your parents explain this to you?"
Her words cut through his act instantly.
Your parents. The haze broke. Reality snapped back in, shattering the fragile peace he’d wrapped around himself like glass. The world came back into focus—sounds too loud, lights too bright, every sensation overwhelming his unprepared senses.
[New Skill Gained: Mental Fortitude (F) - Novice]
A flood of embarrassing images assaulted him, each one a shard of mortification. The dropped knife clattering on the stone floor like an accusation. Gareth's icy stare, colder than winter morning. The stupid, carefree wave to Cassia and Corinne—oh no, what must they think? The silver wasted on mushrooms when every copper mattered. Narbok's confused frustration turning to something darker.
Then the final memory cut through the noise like a blade. His own whistling.
Cillian's tune. He had been whistling the murderer's song.
The half-eaten mushrooms turned to acid in his throat, a scalding heat that had nothing to do with spice. It was the memory, the sound of his own whistling, that poisoned him from the inside out. Cillian's tune. A violent shudder wracked his frame as every muscle locked tight. His spine bowed, pulling his head down and his shoulders inward, his body physically trying to collapse on itself to escape the shame.
He looked up at Felicity, the color drained from his face like water from a broken cup, eyes wide with dawning horror. His voice came out shaky at first, then hardened with self-directed bitterness. "My… my mother is dead. My father's alcoholism is why I have to buy my own stone, months after my sixteenth birthday."
Felicity's face transformed in an instant. All traces of exasperation vanished, washed away by a tide of quiet understanding. She held his eyes for a long moment, her expression soft but resolute, then gave a single, decisive nod.
"Jenna!" she called over her shoulder without breaking eye contact. "Take over for me!"
A young woman hurried over, wiping her hands on her apron, and Felicity led Caleb away from the busy counter. She guided him to a scarred wooden booth tucked into a quiet corner, the noise of the Hall creating a bubble of privacy around them. She sat opposite him, her expression serious but kind, arms folded on the table between them.
"You need a drink."
