Echoes in the Ale

Rovy insisted on what she termed a 'proper meal'. My own assessment concluded that the nutritional content of the bread we had consumed was adequate for short-term energy requirements. Her logic, however, was not based on efficiency, but on a flawed, emotional concept she called 'morale'. A pointless ritual.

She led us to an establishment named 'The Tipsy Griffin'. The name was illogical. Griffins, being mythological avian predators, would likely have a high metabolism, making intoxication an inefficient state for survival. The inn itself was a chaotic system of elevated body temperatures and high-decibel vocalizations. The air was thick with the particulate matter of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and spilled ale—an inefficiently ventilated space that assaulted the senses.

"Best stew in Raven!" Rovy announced with a grin, sliding onto a rough-hewn wooden bench. Bane followed, his large frame settling with a quiet groan, his presence a silent, solid anchor in the sea of noise. I remained standing for a moment, my eyes scanning the room, cataloging the variables. Drunk adventurers boasting of fabricated exploits. A merchant in the corner, his eyes darting, calculating. A serving girl, her smile practiced and weary. Predictable patterns. Human behavior, in any dimension, was a depressingly simple algorithm.

"Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to sit?" Rovy's voice cut through my analysis.

I took a seat opposite them. The wood of the table was sticky. A film of grime, sugar, and who-knew-what else. A breeding ground for bacteria.

The stew arrived. A thick, brown concoction in a clay bowl. I watched as Rovy and Bane ate with a gusto that suggested genuine pleasure. An emotional response to basic sustenance. Curious.

"So? What do you think?" Rovy asked me, her mouth full.

I took a spoonful, my senses analyzing the input. "The root vegetables provide necessary carbohydrates. The meat, while of questionable origin, offers adequate protein. The broth's high sodium content is a potential long-term health risk, but acceptable for immediate rehydration."

Rovy stared at me, her chewing slowing to a halt. Bane grunted, a sound that might have been a laugh, and took another large bite.

"Right," Rovy finally said, swallowing. "So... you like it, then?"

"It is functional," I replied.

She sighed, a sound of profound exasperation, and turned her attention back to her food. The conversation, or her attempt at one, was over. The silence that followed was filled by the din of the tavern. I found my gaze drifting again, my mind returning to its preferred state of detached observation. I categorized the adventurers by their gear and posture. The ones with pristine, flashy armor and loud voices—low probability of survival. Their focus was on appearance, not function. The quiet ones in the corner, their leather armor worn and patched, their eyes constantly moving—higher probability. They understood that survival was a game of observation, not proclamation.

Bane, I noticed, had taken a small block of wood and a knife from his pouch. His large, calloused hands, which had seemed so clumsy with a sword, moved with a surprising, quiet grace. He began to carve, long, smooth strokes peeling away the wood to reveal a shape within.

"What's that you're making?" Rovy asked, her good humor restored.

"Nothing," Bane grunted, not looking up. "Just... wood."

But it wasn't 'just wood'. Under his knife, the shape of a small, elegant bird was emerging. The contrast between the man's brutish exterior and the delicate act was a new data point. An anomaly. Humans were full of such inefficient, illogical contradictions.

"You're a strange one, Einar," Rovy said, her eyes now on me again. She had a persistent, almost irritating, desire to understand. "You don't talk much about yourself. You don't seem to want anything. Money, fame, a good meal. None of it seems to matter to you. What do you want?"

The question was a direct probe, bypassing my defenses. What do you want?

To have some fun! To watch it all burn! V’s voice, a gleeful, venomous sneer in my mind.

To rest, Nora whispered, his voice an ache of profound weariness. To just... stop.

The internal cacophony was a brief, violent storm. I suppressed it. My external expression remained a blank canvas. "Want is an illusion," I stated, my voice a flat monotone. "A chemical impulse designed to ensure the propagation of the species and the acquisition of resources. It is a biological imperative, not a philosophy. I have no such... imperatives."

Rovy looked at me, and for the first time, her cheerful, teasing expression was gone. In its place was something else. A flicker of genuine sadness. A look of pity. It was an expression I had seen before, in another life, and it was intolerable.

"That's..." she started, then shook her head. "That must be a lonely way to live."

Before I could formulate a reply to that illogical, emotional assessment, Bane placed his finished carving on the table. It was a perfect, small swallow, its wings poised for flight. He slid it across the table not to me, or to Rovy, but to the serving girl as she came to clear our bowls. She looked at it, then at him, and a genuine, unpracticed smile lit up her weary face. A simple transaction of kindness. An act of utter, pointless inefficiency.

Bane simply grunted, paid for our meal with a few of the coins we had earned, and stood up. "Time to rest," he said. "Big day tomorrow."

Rovy nodded, her earlier melancholy replaced by a pragmatic resolve. She gave me one last, long look, an unreadable expression in her eyes, before following him towards the stairs to the rented rooms. I was left alone at the table for a moment, a solitary island in the noisy, living sea of the inn.

Lonely. Her word echoed in the quiet, empty spaces of my mind. It was an inaccurate diagnosis. I was not lonely. I was simply… separate. An observer, watching a play whose script was both profoundly complex and utterly, predictably pointless. And the performance, I concluded as I rose to follow them, was exhausting.