The
cruel heat of the twin suns bleeds further into his back, seeping inside his
ribs. Stupid place for a bar, out in the open where cool-season temperatures
average at about standard optimum plus fifty, and a frelling fahrbot place for
anyone with even a drop of Sebacean blood.
A
lifetime in the mines has hardened him against extremes, against disease and
hunger and air that can barely be classified as breathable, but sunlight is
something new. Each morning, he feels sweat beading along his jaw as the
smaller sun's first rays pierce the horizon; the shakes always begin before
noonday, muscles protesting their very existence, vision slowly collapsing
into itself as his lungs wheeze and his hearts stutter.
And
yet he goes out every day, does heavy labour in the blood-boiling heat for a
pittance of brandar tiles. Old vows – never work like that again –
are moot, made in another life. During breaks, he stands at the sunny end of
the bar instead of taking a shaded table, his only concession to sanity the
filthy dur'bah he drapes around his head. It covers the tankas, anyhow.
He
hunches over further, the bar's surface almost blistering his arms. Even
through the dull fuzz of inebriation, his skin feels like it's been burnt
clean through. Why he does it to himself, he is unsure; and he is more than
happy for things to remain that way.
Ghelltan
stretches around him in an endless sprawl, green and bleak and unforgiving. A
person can lose himself here, scoured away by hezmana-driven winds until all
that remains is a blasted husk. There is no reason beyond this for anyone to
remain.
The
barmaid slaps his sixth drink down with one indifferent tentacle, never even
bothering to look at him. He raises the cup of prowsa wine with a hand that
doesn't tremble too much, all things considered, and downs it all in one go.
It tastes as bitter as ever.
He
fixes his tired, rapidly blurring eyes on the wall in front of him, and calls
for another.
--The
End--