Dungeons and Dragons
Pocket of Screws
He fell out of a cupboard after a particularly bad day, managing, in the process, not to make it any better. A scrawny little fuck of an elf, with too much silvery hair and the expression of a newly kicked puppy. Boots wouldn't have liked to guess at his age; young for an elf, though surely older than the oldest of humans. Boots hauled the kid to his feet; he came obligingly, blinking liquid black eyes behind bloodstained lashes.
There was an elven couple in the room. «Parents?» Enough Elven to get the point across.
The kid screwed up his face, trying to hear through the thick accent and heavy disuse. He glanced at the blood splattered wall, at the table, at the chair. Tears had already cut marks down his face, like the face paint of clowns. "Yes." Enough Common to get the point across; hell, the kid was probably already fluent in it and five other languages, the long-lived little shit.
The kid shakily stepped over to the wall before Boots had the sense to stop him, leant down by the eviscerated body of his mother and pulled something from the ruin. He held it up, examining it critically, found others.
Curious, Boots walked over. "What'ca got there, kid?"
The kid held out his hands. "Screws," he said. "Six screws."
Boots nodded. "Aye. The hold 'em down before they slaughter 'em, well enough."
The kid looked around. "The people who did this?"
"Aye."
A pause and then a nod. The kid turned to leave, throwing back over his shoulder. "Take the rest, I want these."
He was waiting outside when Boots was finished.
The kid never said his name, so Boots called him by the thing which marked him most, Six Screw, and trained him in the way he knew best; the young elf seeming disinclined to go anywhere else.
Six kept the screws, stringing them around his neck like a chain of harsh metal teeth. He never mentioned the incident again.
A year later he was starting knife fights with a local gang when Boots pulled him off. "I didn't train you to be a thug, you ungrateful wretch."
Six narrowed black eyes and sneered. "Strength, old man," he said.
"Strength is nothing; it is a fleeting thing those who are young flaunt like it will never leave them. Age makes weaklings of everyone – including your lot," he added, in anticipation of the boy's usual reply to any question of frailty. Six shut his mouth was a snap, scowl deepening. "Real strength," Boots continued, "is up here," he tapped Six's temple.
The elf snorted. "Bull shit. Knowledge won't win me fights. Won't fade bruises or deflect blows."
"Maybe not. But it will get help you in getting someone who will," said Boots. "Or maybe it will let you know things; weaknesses, blind spots..." he broke off, waved a hand in dismissal and turned to go. "Or maybe not. It's your choice."
Six watched him critically for a while, before scurrying after.
Boots taught him chess. Six taught Boots a similar game played by elves. He read books. Talked to random strangers about philosophy. Wondered what made birds fly and how fish could breathe underwater. Learnt to paint; albeit badly.
He still got into bar fights, but he did so with intelligence.
He learnt other things; observation, stealth, mechanics. Boots seemed happy to fill in the gaps in his knowledge, teaching him the art of the rogue. Six's second lesson, however, came after a particularly successful solo raid, when he came home with pockets full of gold. He had been keeping a stash, of sorts; bits and pieces saved up and stored away. It was nice, he thought, to have money.
Boots came in the find him counting it.
"What have you got there, boy."
Six showed him the money eagerly. "Gold," he said. "Lots of it. Look."
"Aye," Boots nodded sagely. "There must near close to a thousand there," he said.
"Nine hundred a three gold, sixty five silver and forty two copper," Six proclaimed proudly.
"Really? So, boy, what're you going to do with this newfound wealth?"
Six blinked. "Do?"
"Aye."
"Well..." Six thought. "A sword," he said eventually. "A shiny one. Magic," he added.
"Oh really? Tell me, boy, what would you do if you saw a man with such a sword? What would you think?"
"A man with a nice sword?" Six frowned.
"Aye."
"Well, er... I suppose I'd figure he had a bit of cash about him."
"A good mark then, you say?"
"Yeah..."
"See, boy, all magic swords are double edged; on the one hand, you have a magic sword. On the other, everyone sees that you have a magic sword, and some of them will try and take it away from you. Do you see what I'm getting at?"
"I... dunno..."
"Wealth and greed go hand in hand, boy. If you have things, others will want them. Your possessions own you – not the other way around, and any man who thinks otherwise is a fool. Take what you need and no more; remember, items are replaceable. You are not." Boots sighed. "Now, dinner..."
Six watched him limp off to find some food, then turned his attention to the piles of coins.
"What I need, ey, old man?"
The next day Six came home with a new set of armour, a battered but sharp sword, and a decent quality but otherwise unremarkable bow. The rest of the cash was gone; Boots never asked what the damn fool boy did with it, but he didn't really need to.
The third lesson came about on the road. It was their third city in as many months, Boots moving on with more haste than usual due to Six's unerring tendency to take over any number of local gangs with his sharp wit and stern presence. They were huddled around a small fire when Six asked, "Why do we move about so often?"
Boots looked up, it was the first time the boy had asked about it, but he supposed he shouldn't be surprised. "Anonymity, boy," he said.
Six thought for a moment. "Why?"
"Stay too long in any one place and you put down roots, and once that happens, it's hard to escape."
A scowl etched across the delicate olive brow. "But surely that's not a bad thing?" he suggested, earning himself a harsh glare.
"Oh no? Tell me boy, how good are you at obeying law?"
"Er..."
"When was the last time you reported in to a guild, or assisted the watch? How many people have you pissed off? How many want your head on a pike? How many want to marry you?"
Six screwed his face up in disgust at the last, before saying, "I... I guess..."
"Fame, boy. Everyone wants to knock the bird out of the highest branch. The best thing you can do is hope it's not you who's sitting there."
"But... surely attachment's not all bad?" Six suggested. "Friends... family..." he trailed off. Boots regarded him critically for a moment. Six had never mentioned his family; not once. Sometimes he wondered if the boy missed them.
"No," Boots admitted quietly. "Not all bad. And it can be lonely by yourself, I agree. But tell me, boy, this life you have; would you give it up? Go back to your birthplace?"
"No!"
The vehemence in the statement took Boots by surprise. It must have shown, because Six turned his face towards his hands, embarrassed. "No," he added, a little more quietly. "I like it here... with you."
For a moment there was silence. Boots coughed a bit. "Well, you're not so bad yourself, boy..." he shot a glance at Six, who was looking up at him almost shyly. He gave a smirk, and it was returned. Silence descended again, both seemingly content with it for the time being.
Finally, Six asked, "Who killed my parents?"
Boots thought a long time before answering. "Don't rightly know," he admitted. "Near as I can tell, they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Six frowned. "But why?" he asked. "They never did anything wrong... what did they do to deserve... to deserve that?"
"Most likely nothing. Not everything happens for a reason, boy. Often as not good things happen to bad people, and bad things happen to good people. It's just life."
"It's not fair."
"No. No it's not."
Another silence, then, "Is that what happened to you? You discovered life was... unfair."
Boots sat silently, and for a moment Six thought he'd overstepped some unspoken boundary. Finally, however, Boots said, "Aye, boy. Something like that." He never elaborated any further, and nor did Six ever ask.
The fourth lesson occurred not long after Boots found a plundered holy symbol amongst Six's things. He'd sent the boy out for food money, and the damn fool elf had come back with a pouch of silver and a golden symbol. Boots had looked at it with horror. "Where'd you get this, boy?" he asked, breathless with dread.
"Off some priest," Six replied, rather flippantly. "Why?" He cocked an eyebrow.
"Damn fool boy, you never steal from the Church, you hear me. Never."
"Why the fuck not? I steal from everybody else. Those damn fool pious bastards practically give the stuff away, anyway."
"Watch your mouth, boy. Have I taught you nothing? Keep a healthy respect for the gods, boy. All the gods; because they're watching, and it is by their hand and often their hand alone that you can come to either rise or ruin. And the churches, boy, the churches are the keepers of the Law of the gods; and it is a law that demands respect."
Six processed this. "I have no god," he finally said.
"Then I think it's about time you chose one, don't you?"
"Very well. What is your god?"
"None of your damn business." Boots glared briefly at the boy, before sighing. "Come boy, pack your things. We're going on a pilgrimage."
The money and holy symbol were returned to their rightful owner the next day.
Boots took Six to all the places he knew the gods had touched the earth, and taught the damn fool elf everything he knew. About righteous Heironeous and cruel Hextor. Strong Kord and secretive Vecna. They visited temples and monasters, shrines and ruins and places that you would never know to be holy lest you had been their prior. Finally, head swimming with choices, Six asked in desperation; "Yes, but which one is the right god?"
Boots scratched his head. "Ain't no such thing, boy. People'll tell you y'need to worship this god or that god, make this gesture, say these words... But me, y'see, I figures it just doesn't matter. So long as yer true to yer god where it counts, here" – he pointed to his heart – "then it don't matter what you do. Know yourself, know your god. No beliefs are the wrong ones, boy. Just remember to mind your manners, be good at church and never, ever start a fight on holy ground. More importantly, you might not devote your entire life to a god, but that don't mean y'can go 'round stealing from those who do, y'hear me?"
Six nodded.
"Now, tell me boy, you think yer ready to turn yer heart towards a higher purpose?"
Another nod. "Yes. I believe I do."
"Well, then. What is it?"
"Entropy," said Six, gesturing around. "All these things around us, everything we can see or touch or feel and even most things we can't will always eventually come to and end. This is the underlying principle of the universe; all things must die. Therefore, I choose to dedicate myself to Nerull and accept the Death of All Things."
Boots just regarded Six critically for a long time, before letting out an amazed whistle. "Whew, boy. Y'certainly don't like to take the easy road, do you? Now Nerull, y'see, Nerull has a lot of... unpopular followers. They do a lot of things; nasty things, with the killing and all."
Six nodded. "Yes. The fools who presume to know the mind of God and bring about His will without His consent. I presume no such things. I will do only as Nerull directs, no more, no less. I will shy not away from death or decay, nor will I seek to upend the balance in its favour. All things will end, though they will do so in their own time."
"Well, boy, sounds like you got yer head screwed on the right way – even if y'are facing in a slightly different direction. No matter; you've made yer choice. Now let's see you live by it."
A brief narrowing of the eyes was all the response he got.
"One last thing, boy. Miracles are the province of the Divine, and the Devine alone. There're some who don't see it that way, and seek to keep this power for themselves."
"Mages, you mean?"
"Aye, boy. Mages; wizards and sorcerers and the like. Even some of the common folk dabble occasionally. Be wary of these people, boy, beholden as they are to no-one. Too much power in the hands of mere mortals is always a dangerous thing."
"I will remember," Six promised.
"Aye," Boots replied. "Ye will."
He died a little after Six's 90th birthday, almost 40 years to the day since they'd first met. The burial was a simple, almost non-existent affair as Six offered Boot's lifeless body up to nature, offering a prayer to whichever gods had marked the man's passing – if, indeed, any at all had done so. He spent a short time in contemplation of his life, thinking on all the things which had brought him up to this point, all the things he had seen and done and learnt.
By the time the sun went down, Six had come to the conclusion that dwelling got him no-where and was unhealthy besides. So he rose carefully to his feet, his few possessions slipped neatly into his backpack, pointed himself in a direction, and began walking...