Mr Brown is a short, stocky man. His perfectly pruned auburn handlebar moustache sits atop plump red lips as though mocking the wavy receding hairline above. Downy sideburns support a spherical face and a large bulbous nose sits between two crimson cheeks. His dark, friendly eyes glint happily through slits that are pushed ever tighter closed by the aforementioned cheeks. He wears wire-framed spectacles which would sit precariously on the end of his nose if their arms were not embedded in gutters of flesh channelling them to their terminus above wee cauliflower ears—themselves adorned with impressive-looking earrings. A well-pressed, collarless shirt with pinstripes so light they barely register manages to appear roomy, billowing even beneath his tight-fitting grey woollen waistcoat. Dark purple slacks—with an immaculate crease down the front—travel immediately South from the furthest most protrusion of his ample midriff until they come to rest on expensive-looking brown leather calf-finish boots. His plump hand is outstretched, a ring on every finger and his cuff links sparkle with assorted gemstones. Mooeea reaches out and shakes it.
“You’ve been travelling, eh? Looks like you require some rest and a good bath.” notes Mr Brown. T’Reco tears his gaze from Mr Brown’s extravagant jewellery. “Yes, that would be good. Do you know of anywhere around here?”
“But of course! I know every inch of this City… well, you know… as much as anyone can…” he winks to T’Reco, taps the side of his nose and has a little chuckle to himself. T’Reco plays along and laughs, though he is unsure of the joke. “Yes, you’ll be wanting to see Miss Porridge. Her Inn is just down there, you can see the sign…” He stops mid-sentence as he gestures down the high street to one of the larger-looking buildings where a woman with a shock of bundled-up red hair, wearing a white apron is sweeping the boardwalk. “Oh…There she is now… Miss Porridge! Miss Porridge!” He shouts down the street drawing the attention of most everyone around—not that he seems to notice, or if he does, he is not in the least bit concerned. Mr Brown, with his confidence and his affluence, projects the image of a man who has discovered and lives entirely within his ideal comfort zone. A habitat he also plays his part in nurturing, cultivating and, T'Reco thinks, perhaps manipulating, daily—a true custodian of Finngarrin City.
“Morning Miss Porridge! Lovely Day!” he calls waving his arm dramatically over his head. Miss Porridge nods and gives a smile and a little wave in his direction before carrying on with her sweeping. He turns back to them, beaming, clasps his hands behind his back, raises on his tiptoes triumphantly and then lets his heels drop back down to the boardwalk. “I know her very well you see, I know most folk around these parts,” he says, proud of himself.
“Do you know how much the Inn costs?” asks T’Reco.
“Now there’s a question. Last I remember it was 3 gold a night for a room. But you’d best ask Miss Porridge, I don't have need of a room you see on account of my already having these fine lodgings.” He gestures towards the building he previously emerged from. “I do visit for Porridge mind you. Miss Porridge makes the best Porridge in the Province and that is undeniable.”
Mooeea licks her lips. T’reco fumbles in the bag and brings out a handful of items: the potato, 3 gold, the wolf fur and claw. He pokes around at the meagre assortment wearily. He makes sure to leave the gemstone in the bag as he doesn’t want to go flashing it around in a new city. You never know who’s watching. T’Reco turns to Mooeea and talks quietly, “Only 3 gold. We can afford one night, but not much more for food or supplies.” Mooeea’s shoulders drop and she huffs under her breath, annoyed that there will be no porridge. Meanwhile, Mr Brown is peering nosily over his spectacles at T’Reco’s handful. “Er, pardon me, lad… I couldn’t help noticing, is that a wolf claw?”
“Yes”
“Ah, I did suppose it to be! Splendid find! Might I enquire as to whether you’d be willing to part with it? Shall we say, 9 gold?” He raises an eyebrow expectantly, still peering over his spectacles, his eyeballs moving between T'Reco and Mooeea.
Mooeea pulls at T’Reco’s arm and nods at him persuasively.
“Er, yes, OK then. We don’t really need it. Thank you.” He hands the claw to Mr Brown who takes a coin purse from his pocket, sorts 9 pieces and hands them over.
“Pleasure!” he says and starts to inspect the claw closely. He smiles happily and stashes it away in his waistcoat pocket before turning his gaze back to them “A splendid find indeed. You come back to me if you need anything else. There’s nobody who knows more of Finngarrin than I!”
“Thank you!” says Mooeea, T’Reco nods and Mr Brown makes his way back into his shop. They set off down the street towards Miss Porridge’s Inn with Mooeea beaming now that they have money for Porridge.
The high street is more populated now, if not quite bustling. It’s still early and the pink light of the sunrise is beginning to turn orange. Carts of goods, some pulled by horses and others by large goat-like creatures—the likes of which T’Reco has never seen—are starting to filter out into the morning light, carving the impression of their tracks all over the muddy street. The sound of activity begins to fill the air as they tread the boards: shouts of workers loading wagons that then creak and rumble along the street, the cawing of crows waiting for scraps to be dropped or discarded and some gentle piano music drifts from a second story balcony window adorned by decorative iron bars. Mooeea notices some street vendors setting up food stalls. One appears to be a huge bipedal toad-like man. She raises an eyebrow as they pass. There are quite a variety of establishments over the short length of this small high street. It seems to Mooeea that most buildings have two to three businesses’ within them, despite being fairly small wooden structures. Usually one downstairs and another one or two upstairs. One place she notices is a bakery, upstairs above the bakery are a hairdressers and a milliner. At least if your haircut goes badly you can buy a hat. This cohabitation of space seems the norm and as the downstairs units are turning out their A-boards for the morning, so too are balconies and windows opening up top—displaying wears and services via flags and signs hung from wrought iron balconies or windows. All of a sudden Finngarrin City is coming to life, becoming an eclectic, bustling street humming with activity. But despite the transformation of the street, it's still just that. A street. It's far from the scale of a City.
Not far from where they left Mr Brown, on the opposite side of the street they arrive at Miss Porridge’s Inn. One of the bigger buildings on the street, it takes up two premises, upstairs and down. It is wooden—all buildings are around here—and was at some time painted a distinct shade of lilac/purple which is now peeling in most places. The boardwalk outside Miss Porridge’s Inn is wider than elsewhere along the street, big enough to accommodate four large tables with benches on either side for outdoor drinking and dining. Corrugated metal roofing covers this section of the boardwalk ensuring that the facility can be used whatever the weather—useful because it rains a lot in Finngarrin. As T’Reco and Mooeea step up onto the boardwalk they hear a grunt from under the table and notice a man asleep, still clutching last night's pitcher of ale. He lets out a little pump from his rear end as he cuddles up to his pitcher and Mooeea and T’Reco grab each other and fall about trying to stifle their laughter. The door to the Inn has glass windows, decoratively painted with gold filigrees and script-like lettering which reads ‘Miss Porridge’s Inn. Welcome, all.’, there is a small illustration of a steaming hot bowl of porridge underneath which reads ‘Porridge of the Province’. Mooeea turns to T’Reco displaying a wide smile then turns back to the door and traces a finger over the golden illustration. T’Reco chuckles and rubs two of his hands together, “I know, come on” and he swings the double doors open.
The Inn is quite remarkable inside. The downstairs space is surprisingly busy for the early hour with patrons eating breakfast, drinking hot tea and chatting. All manner of people are here. Many appear similar to Mr Brown in dress and stature but other kinds of clientele turn T’Reco's head too. A table of gnomes are taking turns to present paperwork to each other eagerly, on which appear to be floor plans. They are drinking a hot, dark liquid and nodding vigorously at each other's expositions. An elven couple is sitting eating porridge and discussing something at great length whilst gesturing to the porridge. One, wearing a shimmering almost pearlescent shirt which is immaculately tailored to the knee feeds a spoon of porridge to her partner across the table who furrows her brow and nods approvingly as she receives it. There are one or two suspicious-looking lone figures too. Sat at a table in an area shadowed by the staircase and smoking a long pipe, sits a hooded individual, clearly avoiding attention. A holstered blade is just visible, strapped to his thigh. Another, a huge figure sat at the bar leaning into his cup— back to T’Reco—is wearing heavy leather wraps up his arms and across his wide chest, back and shoulders, his long jet black hair hanging down in front of his face. The majority of the space is filled with round, table-clothed tables and the bar, to the left has a large mirror behind it, also decorated with beautifully executed golden brushwork. Shelves in front of the painted glass are racked with bottles of all shapes, sizes and colours and there is a strange machine which seems to let out loud jets of steam when staff interact with it. Beyond the tabled area a large purple-carpeted staircase leads upwards and then splits turning both to the left and to the right. There is also a small stage area, behind a partially open curtain, in the back to the right of the stairs with a piano and a few brass instruments on stands; but there is currently nobody performing.
As the pair stand marvelling a voice behind them says “Table for two?” and they turn to see Miss Porridge, picking up empty bowls and then wiping down the surface. “We’re actually looking for a room, but we would like some porridge too.” T’Reco says to her “Are you Miss Porridge?”
“That I am, for my sins! Right, follow me and we’ll get you sorted.” She heads off towards the bar area. Mooeea and T’Reco follow and stand at the end of the bar watching as Miss Porridge lifts a large heavy bound book from under the counter. She drops the book on the bar, pulls a hairpin and a quill from her apron, puts the quill between her teeth and starts fastening her hair back with the hairpin.
Miss Porridge has a substantial amount of curly red hair. Properly red. This is probably as red as hair can get naturally without using a balm or herbal concoction. Her face is pale and freckled and despite the speedy, matter-of-fact efficiency with which she runs her business she has a certain warmth to her. An air of 'no-nonsense, in a reassuring way without being at all intimidating. It’s always impressive when somebody can perform a demanding, high-stress job like this whilst remaining friendly, accommodating and likeable. “OK, one room, for how many nights?” she asks, quill still between her teeth. “Two? For now,” says T’reco, glancing at Mooeea. Mooeea nods. Miss Porridge pulls out a short blade and a pot with a lid. She chops the end off the quill, which looks to be a large goose feather, uncaps the pot and dips the quill, “No problem and your names?”
“T’Reco and Mooeea”
She scratches this down in the book. Specks of ink spray the page making Mooeea blink and recoil slightly.
“Right all sorted. Here’s a key to your room. 3 gold a night and you pay in the day for each night in advance. OK?” she smiles at them and holds out a heavy key with a wooden tag attached. The tag is painted purple and has a golden bowl of porridge bearing the number ‘7’ illustrated on it.
“OK,” they both say and T’reco hands her 3 gold.
“Thank you T’Reco, Mooeea. Anything else I can do for you now? Why don’t you go get settled in your room and then come back down in a bit and I’ll do you some porridge on the house, my gift to you.”
They thank her, agree and head towards the stairs to find their room.
The room is small with two hard beds and a small wash basin. There’s a corner window that looks out over the main street and the alleyway at the side of the Inn. They can see the entrance to Finngarrin City back where they came from earlier this morning. Mooeea lays down on her bed whilst T’Reco studies the street. It’s busier now. This is a good vantage point for people watching. He watches the toad-like street vendor selling packets of fried or boiled foods to passers-by, woks and pans steaming behind him. There’s a narrow side alley where it seems he must keep the components that make up his stall overnight, it leads down to an area of patchy muddy grass. One of the strange goat-like creatures passes pulling a two-wheeled carriage which carries two elderly, well-to-do individuals with strange gold face paint holding parasols. They visibly turn their noses up at the toad vendor as an oncoming wagon forces their carriage to pull closer than they would like. The toad man notices their faces and laughs out loud holding up what looks like a fried lizard of some kind and gesturing to them as if to say ‘Here, you want some?’. A group of kids run down the boardwalk and then spray off into the dirt street, one of them catches a man unloading fruit from a cart who nearly drops the crate before righting himself with a great deal of effort and appearing to pull his back in doing so. He shouts curses at the kids as they run off laughing and taunting him.
“Hey, Mooeea, do you know what those big goat-like things are?” T’Reco asks. When there is no reply, he turns to see that Mooeea has drifted off to sleep on her bed. “uh oh, no porridge for you” he whispers as he smiles and puts a blanket over her. He returns to the window. So many things I don’t know, T’Reco thinks to himself looking at all the different people, cultures and creatures passing up and down the street. He sits on the window sill in the frame of the bay window, one foot up, chin on knee and just watches.
—
To be continued