Saga of Eaner Pantalon I

Indeed, let it begin! Just a VERY brief little explanation before I get cracking here. Any time you see text in italics, that’s me explaining some game mechanic or what not. I don’t intend to do it often, or at all if it can be avoided. For this entire project, regardless of how long it runs for, I’ll be writing as within the world of Eaner Pantalon…think of it as a game of D&D. When you play, you play as that character on the sheets in front of you, and that’s what I’ll be doing here. Some of the choices that will be made are likely the opposite of what I’d so, but they’re right in Eaner’s wheelhouse. The year is 1400, the place is a small little ville on the outskirts of London, England. The game is The Guild, and I’ll be playing a free game as opposed to having an overall mission objective. And that’s pretty much it. So, hopefully you will enjoy…

It was another cold early morning within the stone walls of God’s edifice, and Waryn was worried. Father Eaner had not been seen yet, and the boy that had sent to his home had returned without him. Nobody seemed to know where he was! Nobody except Waryn. He had experienced these ‘disappearances’ before and knew where he was most likely to find ‘the good father’. No, Waryn’s worries were entirely that he would not be the first to reach him. And if the new Head of the Parish, the humourless killjoy called Father Bernard (and called much worse things when he left the room) was to discover Father Eaner’s tendencies this early, it could spell disaster for him.

He rounded the front most pews and could hear the affirmation that he was correct before he even reached the confessional…the low, rumble of a snore that indicated that Father Eaner had indeed spent a fair portion of the night now coming to an end communing with the…errr…holy spirits.

Upon opening the confessional, there was Eaner in all the splendour that the morning light poking cautiously through the stained glass could afford him. Slumped over in his robes, amply stained in the dark red of the communion wine. He was the only man whom Waryn had ever encountered before who managed to be one hundred percent dishevelled on a nearly constant basis, though that might have had something to do with his upbringing were the rumours around town to be believed.

“Father…” Waryn whispered as he lightly shook the slumbering priest, “Father Eaner.” It didn’t seem to be working. Yes indeed, the good father had gotten well in to the cups of his reverence last night!

“Waryn, have you found him yet?!” the shrill voice of Father Bernard assaulted his ear drums as he walked in behind Waryn. That did the trick!

“I didn’t touch NO girl, you lying…what the…where in the name of St. Peter am I?” Eaner asked as he awoke with a start before starting to leap up and smashing his head in to the heavy wooden roof of the small structure, “Blasted this infernal thing!” The shouting would have continued, and likely in a much more…coarse tone, if he had not at that moment spotted the visage of Father Bernard staring down upon him.

“Father Eaner! Are you all right? What…what are you doing here?” Bernard demanded.

“I…uhh…well…I couldn’t…I couldn’t sleep last night, sir, so I arrived here quite early this morning, hoping to perhaps be able to help some early rising lost soul with their problem. I must have dozed off.” Eaner stammered. In fact, he often hid in the confessional to escape the blathering idiocy of the twits and subhuman waste that filled  the pews of this tiny backwater. Sure, he would occasionally have to listen to one of them babble on about every little thing he needed forgiveness for, not caring in the slightest. There were the benefits of an occasional saucy tale of a young village boy who had returned from his first trek to the big city with a shame faced description of laying down with a woman if ill repute and a burning sensation when he went to relieve himself as a result, but all in all it was a life of drudgery and boredom

“I see. Well…I suppose that’s alright. Hmmm.” Bernard replied, and Eaner could scarcely miss the senior official’s long stare at the wine stains down the front of his clothing. Still, he simply shook his head and left.

“I cannot stand that repugnant illegitimate son of hyenas.” he muttered to himself as Waryn helped him up and out of the booth. Aaaah, Waryn…a kind sort, but not born with the good sense God gave a plugged nickel. Eaner had been told upon his arrival at this church many (FAR too many) years ago that Waryn had been left on the church’s doorstep by some poor unfortunates who couldn’t or didn’t want to raise him. Eaner had long suspected those potential parents were likely to be rabid wild dogs, or perhaps a couple of mongoloids who had escaped from a London Sanitarium for a wild night of passionate grunting and idiocy.

“At least none of the damn townspeople are here.” Earner murmured, glad to be able to shirk the tending of his flock. Were they an actual flock he would not only have left them alone and unguarded but would have unfurled a long carpet leading directly from the nearest wolf’s den straight to the enclosure holding these sheep. “I suppose I’d better head home and change then. I’ll be back, Waryn.”

And he was off through the town, still waking on this hideous morning. Luckily it wasn’t a long walk…well, stumble, really…to his home.

Once more he grumbled about the stupid town council and their idiotic plan to attach cutesy ‘titles’ to everything. This was their best idea for how to personalize the town and make everyone friendly…attaching meaningless titles to structures. He had more sense in his left testicle than that entire group of wonks and quill pushers contained in their collective skulls. And ‘Evening Peace’? Really? Sure, it was better than Mrs. Nightstone’s home being named “Beauty & Reason”, seeing as she was an obstinate whale of a woman, but it still wasn’t sensible in any way. Reaching his front door, Eaner tried the key and met with absolutely no success.

“Oh for the love of…I swear, if you don’t function properly this time I will find a way to have you cast in to Hell itself!” he muttered at the chunk of shaped metal before trying it again. Nothing. Flying in to a furious rage, Eaner hurled the offending object to the ground and delivered a vigorous stomping upon it, stopping only when something fell out of his left pocket. Stooping to pick it up, he quickly realized that it was, in fact, the key to the padlock on his front door. Sheepishly he retrieved what must have been the church key that he had been assaulting and quickly opened the door and ducked inside before anyone else could notice. Besides, he had given himself a frightful headache.

Aaaaah, home. Eaner hurled his wine stained clothing on to the heap of items he had…’procured’ over the last while in games of chance down at the Tavern. Nobody in town ever suspected what a masterful card player he truly was, assuming a man of the cloth must have spent his youth reading the bible and being beaten by older boys for constantly telling them that their actions were evil. Perhaps that was the case for those poor unfortunates who had always PLANNED to join the church, and Eaner couldn’t imagine any self respecting human being would actually CHOOSE such a path. Sure, it was fine and good for a pious dullard like Bernard, but even Waryn, who in any respectfully sized town that actually possessed intelligent human beings would certainly have worn the title ‘Village Idiot’, was not in the religion peddling game by choice.

Of course, this had never been Eaner’s path…not the one he wanted, anyway. No, he’d seen a course of aimless drifting ahead of him, casually wandering from town to town and from caper to caper until he no doubt caught some vile disease and died an agonizing death in a road ditch somewhere in Sussex County. Now THAT’S a life. All taken away because that damned Sarah Hattix decided to play the ‘oh, he attacked me!’ card when her father caught them introducing one another to adulthood in the horse stable behind the house. Nobody seemed calmed by his reasoning that they couldn’t expect much from someone who resulted from a chance meeting in the night of a mercenary with a professional thief who had a side business as a ‘self employed nude painting model’. He’d been forced to flee the gallows and take on a new identity as some sort of town crier for God.

His brooding having reached its’ pinnacle, Eaner redressed in clean…well, cleanER…clothing and headed back to the church to get work started in the Scriptorium. It was hardly a surprise to find Waryn simply standing there like a cow awaiting whatever it is that cows seem to be eternally waiting for. All he was missing was a mouthful of cud to complete the picture.

“Well, what are you waiting for, Waryn? Let’s get started!” Eaner shouted, spurring Waryn in to a flurry of activity. Sure, he tripped over his robe and fell to the ground before dragging himself back to his feet, but it all seemed fairly active to Eaner. And once he was done with the usual tomfoolery, he finally sat at one of the writing desks with his quill pen and some paper, prepared to begin spewing out some of the execrable vomit he dared refer to as ‘poetry’. Luckily, every numb fool in this town as an illiterate ass who purchased these works regardless of the content…something Eaner had proven by spending a few days when Waryn was sick writing nothing but dirty limericks about the wives of various townspeople with nobody ever noticing.

“Uhhh…Father Eaner…” Waryn started.

“Yes, what is it, Waryn?”

“I can’t think of anything to write…”

Eaner sighed. This happened from time to time. Truth be told, Eaner was surprised Waryn was ever able to assemble two actual words of the English language together without having his brain explode from over-exertion.

“Okay Waryn, just transcribe what I tell you to write. Ready? Good. There once was a man from Nantucket…”

Later That Evening

Father Eaner groaned tiredly as he dropped himself in to the seat under him. The work on his house was going well…soon, he would have a chimney, and hopefully a warming fire would preclude a repeat of last year’s horrible bout of fits of coughing intermingled with shivering and spitting gobs of phlegm in to a bedpan that had filled the winter. And hey, the church could definitely afford it…after all, without him there, who would do all of the various tasks that he was supposed to do but hid from as frequently as possible?

“Father…usual, sir?” the barkeep asked.

“Of course. May as well bring the second round at the same time.” Eaner replied, and the serving wench brought two massive mugs of frothy ale to his table. Unfortunately there were no other patrons there at the moment, which precluded games of chance to increase his wealth. That left time to peruse the happenings with the blasted fools on the town council for the moment.

Ugh. Both of these twits could sod off and pleasure themselves with a pitchfork so far as Eaner was concerned. The Fencing Master was an insufferable fusspot who spent any time NOT busy instructing others in how to run a man through with a sword (something Eaner considered quite basic…put the pointy end of the sword through the other guy) spreading the most ridiculous rumours anyone had ever concocted. And the Nobleman was noble in title only, if the descriptions of various penile growths by the Town Physician were to be believed.

“I should be running this blasted town myself.” Eaner grumbled to any who cared to listen…basically, himself and the table his beer rested on. Sadly, until he attained citizenship in the town, THAT was but a dream.

The next day, Eaner again consulted the news down at the Town Office.

Jeanne Woodward…the woman seemed permanently befouled with the odour of long-rotting sea beasts on a hot beach, and now she had deigned to remove any hope the rest of the town had for covering her foul musk if only for a few moments. In a way he was impressed…she had ACTUALLY found a way to become MORE offensive to those around her, and didn’t even need to open her mouth this time. Were Eaner to attain his deserved status in this town she would be one of the first he would have removed from the council. He’d love to have had her drawn and quartered, of course, but was that within his purview if he attained a seat on a municipal affairs board?

Another visit to the Office of the Registrar brought the same news as always…he was still unable to even attain basic standing as a citizen in this place! And…where was the Registrar, anyway? He had never once actually been SEEN in his office. That was a mystery for another time. For now, Eaner needed cash. Well, to be more clear, the church needed cash, having just spent 300 gold pieces on ensuring that his home had its’ front approach graced with a lawn of grass. Hey, a servant of God most look the part of the chosen! Eaner had the helper at the church gather up Waryn’s barely legible scribblings and take them to market for a new infusion of funds. Half of what was made was poured back in to resources for more paper, while Eaner took the other half to the Tavern with him where he met with certain shadowy figures.

Getrud Goldfier. He had despised the woman’s very existence since his arrival in this godforsaken place. Her haughty disposition seemed ill matched with the hideous visage she described as a ‘face’. Anyone that ugly and stupid could not possibly have attained any rank in even a down as pathetic as this one without some skeletons in her closet…if he was lucky, perhaps literal skeletons. These nefarious bastards would root it out, giving Eaner leverage over one of the people on the council here. And that could only help down the road…

That seems like a good place to pause for now. Just to explain one thing, every ‘day’ of playing time is actually a year in the game. So I’ve actually advanced until almost halfway through 1401. So the next post is actually going to occur sometime in the future from this ending, though I likely won’t follow the timeline of the game to the letter.