2Art drew his breath. He leaned closer toward them slowly, and they disappeared with a slight shuffle of leaves. Huh? "ARRGH!" The orbs were suddenly engulfed in a mask of peach flesh hurtling towards him. Art fell backwards and yelped. He scrambled back up as Sir Rupert Englehardt crawled in through the window, fell out, and clambered back in again, laughing hysterically. The frenchman was a friend of Kroner's. He had stone-blue eyes and trimmed brown hair. Ordinarily, he was lost in his mirror, making himself look entirely too pampered.
"You're turning into a penguin lad," he gargled through his fits of laughter, "Stop it." Art stood and recovered himself, glaring at Englehardt. When a crooked grin was all that was left several moments later, he said to Art, "Why don't you come out and play, enfant?"
"That's quite all right," replied Art.
"No, I believe it would do you some good. Come on out. The water's great!"
Knowing this was leading nowhere good, Art tried to dissuade Englehardt from his rambling efforts to bring him outdoors, focusing on his drenched hair, twisted with bits of leaves and twigs.
"I… oh, monsieur! Your hair!"
"What?" He patted his wet mop, "What about it?"
"Oh, for the love of the Saints. My dear sir, have you not checked your mirror? Your hair is awful."
"What?!" And as if going out in the rain shouldn't mess up one's hair, Englehardt cursed the weather and ran past Art to find a mirror and comb.
Art sighed and closed his window. He walked to his bed, where Wendy sat looking at him with hungry eyes. He took a piece of ham from his pocket and sat next to her. He held it out to her and she gently ate out of his hand. When she finished, Art lay down and patted her head, and was about to drift off when he heard a forceful knock on his window.
"Boy, get out here! Now!" his master bellowed through the glass. Hurriedly, Art opened his window again, this time to have his ear boxed. "Don't you listen to your elders? Where's Rupert?"
"I know not of what you speak," Art sarcastically replied.
Kroner looked at him suspiciously and grunted. "Come on, boy. Out here. Out, out, out!"
"Sir…" Art protested.
"Don't 'Sir' me." and with that, Kroner grabbed a handful of Art's shirt and pulled him outside, slamming the window closed in an unhappy Wendy's face. He was soaked almost immediately, with no idea as to what was going on. Kroner lead him through puddles and debris to the front gate. Art spotted Kroner's fellow drunks in the gazebo, and as they neared, Kroner let Art walk on his own and withdrew his unsociable demeanor. "Ah, there's a good lad. Here's our fellow!" he announced.
Art surveyed the company. The first he noted was a tall, thin man, dressed in a black funeral suit and a rather dashing trench coat. His hair was dark and abnormally long for a man. The only skin Art could see was on his hands, which looked as white and as smooth as the petal of a magnolia. He would have been such the stereotypical vampire, thought Art, had he not been doubled over puking on the lawn. Several feet away from this man an attractive woman stood sober. Her skin was nearly as pale as his. Her eyes were as dark as a raven's feather, or so they seemed in comparison to her flesh. Her hair was dark and long, like the man's, and wavy, unlike the man's, whose hair was straight. She was dressed in a most magnificent ensemble, so strangely exotic. Art could not guess what culture would wear such garments as these, with her snug ebon pants and red velvet bodice and relaxed white blouse.
In nearly depressing contrast to such magnificence, two chubby men were squabbling next to the woman. One, with a thin crop of blonde hair, was a pig-like shade of pink. He faintly resembled a younger Kroner, with his fat ears and thin lips and eyebrows. The second man was slightly more intimidating. His face was harder, with fuller eyebrows and thick light brown hair creeping down into his eyes. His skin looked leathery. He had, however, the same thin lips and fat ears as the man he was arguing with. They both reeked of liquor.
"Arthur, don't stare," yelled Kroner, trying to be heard over the storm, "This here is Jack Thatcher." The tall man, no longer sick, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Now that Art could see his face, he was astonished. His face seemed to be stretched across his skull like an old man's, yet he looked only slightly older than Art. The man smiled curtly and nodded.
"These two gentlemen are Lars and Broderick Stoehr." The two husky men, entangled in their bout, abruptly stopped mid-sentence, and took a bow.
"'Ello, ol' chap," said the pink one.
"G'day," said the leather one.
They began bickering again.
"And this," Kroner hiccupped, "ravishing young woman would be…"
"We'll have none of that, Alvin, thank you," said the woman, offering a hand to Art, "Fahren. Trilese Fahren."
Her voice was strangely entrancing. It had an air of command, yet a hint of a kindness so unbelievably sincere. Art took an immediate liking to her. He extended his own hand and grasped hers. Her grip was strong. She smiled at him, and he smirked awkwardly to her. He was slightly taller than she, as it was in most cases. She glanced at Kroner with such disgust that Art almost laughed, but the mellow man was completely unaware of her displeasure.
"Alvin, don't you think it unwise to bring the child out?" she said, "Shouldn't we be heading indoors?"
"Well, I do believe he'll be all right…"
"Shouldn't we be heading indoors?" she repeated more sternly.
"But of course!"
Exiting the gazebo, entering the rain, through humiliation, frustration, and inebriation, they made their way to the house again, Art still unsure as to why he had been brought outside in the first place. Kroner slipped more than a few times, and Thatcher could barely make his way to the general direction of the dwelling. The Stoehr brothers were at each others' throats once again. Art and Trilese walked in silence behind the horrendous mob sloshing through the yard.
After having a row with the front door, Kroner opened it. The party entered the front room and was welcomed by Englehardt, bearing more booze, with his hair neatly combed. He, Kroner, and the Stoehrs cheered loudly and began drinking more. Trilese and Art settled into comfortable chairs in the next room; the study.
"So, child," began Trilese, observing the rows of unmarred books, "Are you Alvin's son? You two look nothing alike. Perhaps he is instead your uncle?"
"No, ma'am," replied Art, "No relation. I live and work here." He proceeded to tell her of how he came about working for Kroner because of his father's folly, a story even he wasn't entirely too sure of.
Trilese was more or less intrigued by his tale, and questioned how things went about the household. After explaining the irrational behaviour of Kroner, and after subtly hinting that he was, in fact, sick of it, Art became a bit more casual with his speech, as did Trilese. He told her of his damp room and pathetic bed that was torn and ripped to shreds, and she told him of her many sea travels and piracy and fascinating encounters with ninjas. He learned that her peculiar ensemble was that of a pirate's, of which he had never heard before. He told of his cat, she told of her swordsmanship. But then he mentioned a little old man who sold his wares in the Town.
"This man…" mused Trilese, "Nibaw, you say?"
Art nodded.
"Is the Town far from here?"
"It's just up the road."
"Is it, now? And what does this Nibaw look like?"
"He's… small. Hairy, too."
"I see."
From there, they chatted about the weather ("Yep, it's still there."), and the peculiarities of humans and like species, and tea. There, they decided tea would be a very nice idea. Art stood and excused himself to the kitchen. He walked through the front room, down a short corridor, and opened the kitchen door. That is where all normalcies ended.
Thatcher lay unconscious against the far wall, ale leaking from the bottle in his limp hand. Kroner nearly fell on top of him, dodging the more formidable of the two brothers, who was barreling after him, giggling like a mad school girl shot up with testosterone, and who, by his master's shrieks of "Broderick, mate, that's mine!" Art assumed to be Broderick. The presumable Lars was busying himself on the table, shuffling around and singing unintelligible lyrics to a tuneless melody.
Art stumbled through the kitchen, avoiding the squealing men and stepping over Thatcher's sprawled legs. Kroner took no notice of him as he made his way to the other side of the kitchen to the stove. The kitchen separated by a grey marble counter. On the side opposite Art was a case of China and a wooden table with a less-than-fancy chandelier overhead. This side held the gas oven and stove, and hoards of dishes. Kroner was a big fan of food. He hired several chefs for himself and paid them generously. He had a room next to the kitchen just for food storage.
Art grabbed the kettle, set some water on for tea, and watched in slight amusement the pitiful sight before him.
Trilese watched Art leave the room, then stood up and looked around the study. It looked like a miniature library. Books lined the walls, mostly untouched. She guessed that Alvin Kroner hadn't so much as read the titles of any of the books he owned. Merely for show, they seemed. She sighed. Thoughtfully, she walked along the walls, gazing over each book, occasionally thumbing through one.
After a length of time, she passed her eyes over a thick green book entitled Native Sorcery. She took a step back and eyed it. She reached for it, lightly fingering the spine. She pulled it from the shelf and held it for a moment. The title was lettered in gold calligraphy. She touched the cover and opened it. She read the first page:
Collected by Acario Theopilus
For essential fulfillment of all manner of things
For tuition of the ignorant mind of the youth
For guidance and proficiency of the reader
Love to the power of Gaia
She browsed through it, finding hand drawn illustrations of dwarves, extinct dragons, and decrepit wizards filling several pages. Her eyes glowed as she skimmed page after page, through maps and concoctions and plenty of history. It explained old spells and quirks and name origins. She grinned at this, and searched through it. Mahon, Malachi … Murdock, Nen, Nibaw. She ran her finger under "Nibaw". Meaning: 'standing tall'. Those named this or similar to such have tendency toward strange powers, often unbeknown to themselves. Her grin grew larger.