Hello, Benjamin from Brother’s Campfire here!
It has been a while since I wrote the Ongoing Tale, now simply called Campfire Tales.
To be honest, when I wrote the first one, Northwich, Chapter 1, I had no idea that many would read it. It was kind of like a coded placeholder for thoughts. Initially, I was going to make it anonymous so I could really give it a go, but the cat is out of the bag.
I have limited knowledge in writing other than reports at work and it has been a thrill of self expression to host Brothers’s Campfire.
Several months ago, I took a steampunk-type approach to writing just to feel it out and today is a new chapter, continuing where I left off. If you are up to it, here are links to the preceding 6 chapters.
Without further ado,
Gather ‘Round and I will spin you a tale.
Location: La Longi
The Puking Peasant had a reputation for awful music, rancid and greasy grub, pernicious women, deals gone wrong, and bad company overall. There were no locals that could tell when the inn was established, but it was rumored to have been around for a long time.
Rumor had it that generations ago there was a drink so rank that few men could endure it at a table, let alone drink it. It was affectionately called Screaming Peaches.
It was all but folklore until a Lass named Stephanie Mae found a recipe tucked away in an outbuilding of her property. She was stoutly against the distribution of the brew and looked to destroy all memory of it, but not before one of Earnest Kenyon’s men acquired it during a recent raid of her property.
The method of production was easy enough to piece together and it was addictive, making Kenyon a fortune.
Once you had a sip, you would be back for more, regretting every return.
Petra, a prominent engineer and scientist had observed production and broke down the contents to ascertain the effects of the beverage.
She claimed the crushed pits in the recipe contained cyanide, and that white snakeroot should be removed from the recipe.
Petra was outspoken and adamant that it would kill someone. She had been to town halls and protests, even setting aside ballooning for a while to speak against it. It seemed Petra was barely one step ahead of an accident and it was suspected that Kenyon wanted her silent.
As it was a port city, foreigners came and went regularly, and if you stepped foot in the Puke, you were expected to try a sip of the Peaches. Many men left wishing for a quick turnaround to port on departure.
It was a typical night and a somber woman reminisced aloud as she downed a pint.
“The music is horrid, the grub greasy, the deals bad, and the women sleazy. “
The man she was with had his ballooning goggles on and thought it permitted to give second glances at the less clothed in the room. In disgust, she got up.
“Charming, you are really charming.”
“What’s wrong? “
“What’s wrong? What’s right? I purchased all the fun tonight. Now my purse is empty while you ogle in your goggles.
She stood up to leave and he grabbed her arm. ” sit down, you little wench.”
A still, quiet voice cut through the noise.
“That’s not how you treat a lady. Let her go.”
At the doorway, a tall, thin greying man stood, fiddling with a piece of paper. He wore an enormous hat and a red sash or neckerchief around his collar.
Balloon Goggles released her arm and the lady stood up and smacked him squarely on the mouth leaving in a huff.
The old man chuckled. “Serves you right.” The room was silent and someone dropped a fork. It had a clicking sort of sound when it landed and everyone heard it.
All eyes were on the eccentric-looking man who was covered in bits of straw and smelled like woodsmoke.
Ignoring them, he walked up to the bar and ordered a glass of water. Several locals came up and crowded beside him.
“That was Earnest Kenyon you just laughed at. You won’t last the night if you stick around, stranger. “
The old man sipped his water, ignoring them.