A Good Hallow's Eve

Rattik gruffly pulled his paw through slightly over-sized shoulder guard, securing it precariously on his slim arm. It looked ridiculous, he knew, but there was some private smile he gave as the outfit came together. He let out a deep breath, his work completed for the moment. Soft footfalls brought him to his small dining table. The inn had no mirror to gaze into, so the warped silver platter they had brought refreshments would have to suffice. He brought the plate up, laughing at the way his snout seemed to elongate with the changing angle.

It paid, he thought, to have been brought up in Tashik. He had broken leaf with a tailor a town back. They smoked together, he and the tailor and Ikarat. It wasn’t until the moon had barely touched the horizon and the earliest blush of day kissed the sky that they had retired. They had all been in such good spirits that Rattik deigned to ask a whispered favor of the man, his face serious and scowling in intense thought as the animated rate waxed rhapsodic about the clothing he would need.

The man was a prodigy. Silks breezily hung from his waist, caressing his body like a lover. There was some part of him that craved such a thing, that felt that perhaps when he reached Illarya he would relax in clothes like these. He cast a forlorn glance at the rugged scout’s wraps that he had discarded in the inn’s trunk. Those were who he was. It was those wraps tightly bound against his body, struggling against a chill they weren’t made for.

He turned away and marched to the door. Sandals were easily slipped into, small wooden protrusions on the bottom that would ordinarily give shocking traction on soft earth now made them unwieldy on the smooth oaken floors of the tavern. In silence the rat slipped out the door, bare chest beset by the cool air of the hallway. His fur was meant for the desert warmth, or for clothes besides, not the temperate chill of these northern climes.

Raucous sounds drifted from below, their contours amalgamating until it became a solid wall of noise, indecipherable and ringing against his skull. He bit his cheek and steeled himself. This is fun, he said pointedly to himself, you’re not to be a surly fuck tonight. A step down the stairway brought an increase in volume, and again with another step.

Out into the wider room was a swathe of music and cheers and the thudding of footsteps and stomps and meaty punches. In essence, it was exactly what he had escaped when he deserted. He edged around the room, keeping away from the large gatherings until he spotted his target. It wasn’t exactly easy to miss Bastian. He stood far too tall and was far too broad to be anything other than the center of gravity for everyone around him. A menacing energy wafted off of him, apparently unbeknown to the radiantly beautiful woman standing next to him.

They were dressed naturally. Bastian still had not donned a shirt, yet for the outfit of a privateer, it still worked remarkably well. He had switched his silk trousers for loose-fitting canvas. Thread stockings adorned his legs and feet, though notably he was barefoot besides. A cloth adorned his head, keeping his hair from his eyes. Hana, for her part, broke with her husband’s tradition and wore a similar outfit, but added a cotton open-necked shirt. On her head sat a tricorn emblazoned with a threatening skull. A smile dawned on him; their matching get-up was remarkably heartwarming.

He ghosted closer to them, silent against the backdrop of unerring noise coming from every corner of the tavern. It wasn’t long before he was standing just behind the tigrine man. So close, it was shockingly apparent how different the two were. Bastian towered over him. Every inch of his skin was pulled taut over rippling muscle. Rattik paused for a moment, holding his breath as he realized that Bastian reminded him of his jezail. The way that it seemed imbued with violence, that its purpose was to be brandished against an opposition, how it seemed to hum after a victory.

The smell of alcohol reached his nose, carried on the stale breeze the wafted through the tavern. The mug Bastian was holding, dwarfed by his hand, matched Hana’s. Suddenly they were holding them aloft, they and their compatriots. They all shouted something indiscernible to the rat. They gulped greedily from the ale, from what must be ale by the crooked sign advertising their seasonal drink. He frowned, suddenly worried that he looked rather stupid as he was. An old, old exhaustion ran through him, one that he recognized so immediately and so fondly that it seemed to take him from that place.

He shook his head, and drew in a breath. “My friend!” Rattik yelled, his deep voice seeming to pierce the cacophonous noise and drawing the couple’s attention. He gave a wide smile, one that he didn’t truly feel for the weariness inside him, but one that he genuinely wanted to feel. “Bastian my friend, happy Hallow’s Eve!”
His smile grew wider as he signaled the barkeep for a mug of ale to join on the festivities. Bastian’s confused scowl followed him as he scampered up on a barstool to reach closer to the same height as the giant. Bastian’s response was notably clipped, “Why are you wearing that?” His tigrine eyes glanced over Rattik’s silk trousers, the strip of fabric tied at the top of the trousers to secure them in place, the oversized piece of metal on his shoulder, and the finicky horns attached to his head.

Rattik’s smile faltered for a moment before mumbling, “Well, I dressed up as the scariest thing I could think of.” He looked away from the man, Bastian’s expression unreadable, “You.” He shrugged and laughed lightly, though if he were honest with himself, he was still worried that the other man would take it poorly. He raised his newly acquired mug from the table and hesitantly asked, “To a good Hallow’s Eve?”