“Another one dead!” laughed Ignatius, looking at the shrine of Mordo Ogg. The red light in the skull’s eyes flared a little brighter for a moment. The crooked old priest squinted at the glow, as though reading something in the pattern of flashes. “Oh. A star-crossed lover. Well, good luck to you,” he added somberly as the light faded.
As a priest of the god of death, Ignatius supported people’s right to die however they chose, and also their right to die even when they didn’t choose. Mordo Ogg’s clergy were mostly concerned that death kept happening; the who and how and why, if there could be a why at all, were extraneous details. Usually.
Yet something about the idea of young lovers killing themselves never sat well with the old priest. He’d seen enough couples go off to the next life to know that when people who truly loved each other died, there was grief and longing and pain, but also a notable absence of mutual death wishes. You had to pity any soul whose greatest hope in the afterlife was to continue an obsessive, self-destructive relationship. Ignatius sighed and shook his head.
Then the old priest’s moment of reflection was gone in a literal flash. Ignatius’ glee returned as the pulsing light in the shrine’s eyes resumed. “There goes another! Ha! And you too! Lots of deaths recently! Usually means more on the way! Like that one now! And three at once! Guess you really should have fixed that leak in the boat! Ha! And two more! Ha ha!”
“So eight in total then?” asked the host.
“Yes. We are eight,” said Asherzu Guz’Varda, glancing back at her party. Most of Warg Inc.’s senior leadership team waited in a small lobby at the front of the Treant’s Taproot.
“Thank you,” added Feista Hrurk as the Elf hurried away.
“And he will bring us food?” Pogrit of the Fub’Fazar muttered.
“Not yet,” said Burt. “First we have to tell him what we want.”
“Well, obviously we want food,” said Izek Li’Balgar. “Otherwise we would not have come!”
“Right,” said Mrs. Hrurk, unsure of what to say. She glanced at the Kobold for help, but Burt only shrugged. “Uh, but we have to tell them what kind of food.”
“Why must we plan the meal?” demanded Guglug. “Is that not what the cooks are for?”
“Patience,” said Asherzu.
Feista sighed. Warg Inc. was led by some of the most brilliant figures among the Shadowkin. She’d heard legends of Pogrit the Black-Maned and Wise Freggi back when she was a pup on her father’s knee. Yet most of the board knew little of the city; war and hardship had forged their legends in the deadly wilderness or on Arth’s battlefields. Even though they lived in Andarun now, they rarely ventured outside the Shadowkin communities.
As a city Gnoll, Feista was beginning to appreciate why.
“I will demand the food, and he will bring it,” said Darak.
“That’s not how a Lightling restaurant works,” said Burt.
“It is how Garruck’s Ham Hut works,” grumbled Darak sullenly.
“Look, I know Lightlings have some strange customs, but trust me,” said Burt. “I used to eat here all the time in a prior job. It’s top-tier dining for Seventh Tier prices. And so swanky, the staff have h’s in their ums.”
“They have what?” said Feista.
“Ahm,” said the host as he reappeared. “If you would follow me, I will take you to your, ahm, table.”
“See?” said Burt, rubbing his paws together. “This is gonna be good.”
The host led them into a dining room furnished with oak and brass tables and chairs. The walls were covered with a small armory’s worth of weapons, shields, and plate mail, with a few monster heads and other trophies interspersed among them. Feista noticed more than a few Goblin totems and Orcish Gaists up on the wall, but she put it out of her mind. She had seen nicer restaurants, but only from the back alleys when she was picking through their trash. It was a rare opportunity to eat at such an establishment.
They were directed to a large table near the back. A few couples and groups were spread across the handful of tables; closest to Asherzu’s party sat a group of several Dwarves who had clearly been enjoying the wine list.
Feista sat and picked up the menu. Her tail wagged as she read over the list of river fish, mollusks, chicken, and lamb.
“Why is the writing so hard to read?” Freggi of the Water Horse Clan turned the menu on its side, and then upside down, in an attempt to decipher the script.
“It’s calligraphy,” said Burt.
“It is confusing and hard to see.” Izek squinted at the menu. “I cannot tell what letter this begins with!”
“Why would anyone write in such a way?” Guglug demanded of Mrs. Hrurk.
Feista sighed. As a younger person and a lifelong city-dweller, she was often called upon to defend the customs of the city. “It’s cultured.”
“It’s sophisticated,” offered Burt.
“Sophisticated?” snorted Pogrit. “A repeating crossbow is sophisticated. A permanent shapeshifting hex is sophisticated. This is silly writing that cannot be read.”
“Right, but people can read it, right?” said Burt. “If you’re in the know, you know how to read it. It’s like fashion or trends. If you’ve got enough status, you’ll know how to follow along.”
“So it is an otherwise useless skill that gives you status?” asked Izek.
“That’s…” Burt paused. “Well, yeah, that’s a pretty good description of sophistication, actually.”
“Seems foolish to an old dog like me.” Pogrit scoffed at the idea.
Still, Feista noticed that the old Gnoll and the other board members began to study the menus with renewed interest. And their collective opinion of Lightling food seemed to brighten considerably when a Scribkin waiter brought the first round of ale and wine, along with another curiosity.
“You said that we must ask for food,” Darak said, pointing an accusing finger at the basket.
Burt didn’t look up from the menu. “We do. Just give it a minute.”
