A Slip of the Tongue

Episode 1 - The World Stone

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Tasol was a gentle man on the inside, but the outside didn’t match. A scowl forged permanently on his face from a less than ideal childhood, but then who really has an ideal childhood these days, the days of the Desiccation. Aside from his scowl, there was the smell, omnipresent and overbearing. It was difficult to justify the use of water for bathing, and if you did, one had to be ever watchful. Other than the salted water of the great seas, water was scarce, especially fresh water. There was little of it left on the island of Waterfell, and what there was either fell from the sky or was called up from the depths by Waterweirds. Given its rarity, water was the currency of the land now, and it traded like coin used to years ago. As for bathing in it, only the water barons could afford such a luxury, and people would line up for blocks for the chance of being given some of their soiled bath water. Water was water, soiled or not. Still, if one were persistent, one could find enough water to survive. That’s what Tasol had done, and so far, he’d kept his secret, cloaking it in his own stench, being careful not to catch anyone’s attention.

Keeping it secret was his only real option. Although he’d been taught to fight, he wasn’t a fighter, he wasn’t even a yeller, preferring to keep in the shadows. He had no wife, no children, and only one sister, Myra, who had long ago abandoned him, telling him he was weak–too weak to protect her and their mother. So, when Myra married, they moved away with her husband, Getty, to the slums of Bannion, a small settlement on the southern edge of the Great Forest of the Ancient Ones in the shadows of the Silvermoon Mountains. The last Tasol had heard, Myra was doing fine, scrapping by on Getty’s meager earnings as a sewer rat. City life, especially in the slums with its crime and seediness, was not the life for Tasol. He enjoyed the freedom of the forest, but still appreciated the conveniences of living near a town. As for his secret, he was lucky to have found it, a spring buried deep in a nondescript cave hidden by the foliage of the forest a few miles outside Bannion. He kept it modest, hidden, and was careful to make certain the surrounding forest didn’t look lived in, as that would’ve been a sure sign to the water hunters that scoured the forest for springs just like his.

Tasol settled down by a small fire, sitting on a rocking chair he’d built from a fallen cypress tree, his hand resting on the smoothed arm of the chair. He gently rocked as the fire crackled and spit. Watching the flames dance about, he leaned closer to the sooty, black iron kettle hanging above it, filling it with just enough water for a cup of sage tea. The sage he had harvested himself on his way back from Bannion, where he’d traded a small amount of his water earlier. He always tried to trade with different vendors to not arouse their suspicions, but something about the trade today bothered him deeply.

It was just a simple slip up on his part really, but mistakes were not something someone in his position could afford. Well, truth be told, it was stupid, and that’s what had him concerned. He’d simply made the mistake of saying he had some spring water to sell, rather than his usual options of stolen or subsidy water. The theft of water was commonplace, and many of the poor in Bannion were often given water by the rich as a form of charity or payment, so neither would raise an eyebrow. He’d quickly corrected himself, but not before a wry eye was cast upon him by the water trader, Saul. Tasol had done his best to cover the mistake, but the damage had been done. That one word, the difference between keeping his secret and not. He’d made a mental note to avoid trading with Saul for a good spell, or anyone within a short distance, as news, especially news about poor water traders, spread like wildfire in Bannion. He kicked himself all the way home, and had a good deal of extra time to do so along the way. Weaving his way through the streets and back alleys of Bannion, he frequently checked to make sure he wasn’t being tailed. Once convinced he wasn’t, he’d made his way back to his cave where he now sat, brooding over his mistake, staring into the fire, waiting.

The whistling of the kettle startled him, and he reached forward, taking a rag in his hand, lifting the kettle with ease. He turned, pouring it slowly in the cup sitting on the side table by his rocking chair, careful not to spill a single drop. Turning back to the fire, there was an equally sooty black iron cook-pot, and he lifted the lid to the fragrant smell of wild onion and rosemary. Sliding the lid aside, he quickly emptied the remaining water from the kettle to the pot, careful not to allow the heat of the fire to steal even the smallest amount of water by turning it to steam. He quickly covered the pot with the heavy iron lid and settled back into the rocking chair for a moment longer as his tea steeped, filling the room with the smell of summer sage. Finally able to relax, he leaned back, blowing on the surface of the tea to cool it. Taking a small swig, he thoughtfully moved it around in his mouth, swallowing it with the release of a great breath as his shoulders drooped.

Just then, a small silver bell over the fireplace let out a series of dings. Tasol froze in his chair and his eyes narrowed, moving slowly up to the bell with a resigned acceptance. He’d half expected it, but he’d still held out hope he’d covered his tracks well enough. Guess not.

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