As I have written in this journal before, amongst my tribe (and particularly amongst those who work as scouts) I am the most comfortable in crowds, and in the company of the folk of the Soft Lands. And it is probable that I am the most personable. But I must also remember that being the most personable amongst the scouts of the Eglain is like being the tallest gorse-flower, or the tastiest mug of Anlaf's swill, or the loudest lynx on the prowl. It is a low bar I am set before. Compared to the people of Bree, I am coarse, clumsy, and unskilled in the most basic rules of etiquette. I'm simply slightly less those things than, say, Leofwenna, who would rather sit atop a hill with a fire and no sight of another person in miles, or Northrim, whose most cheerful utterance is probably the word "hello" but who says it in so low and gruff a voice that, even after years, I'm still not totally sure that's what he's saying.
And so I shouldn’t be surprised that my efforts to find brewing equipment ran afoul of a fumbling misstep on my part which I at first took as not as serious as, to the Bree-landers, it apparently is. After delivering dye herbs to Marnewyn and buying cakes from Pansyblossom (who gave me some leftover sausages for my dinner; very tasty and quite unexpected), I visited another stall, where one man was examining a bow being sold by another man, and without waiting for the sale to be completed, I asked the merchant if he also worked in metal, and if so, made the sorts of things I needed. I only thought to save a long wait if the answer was "no" and to wait my turn if it wasn't, eager as I was to get to the Scholar's Stair Archives (I had much to copy and only that afternoon to do it in). When the buyer asked if I'd heard of waiting my turn, he was apparently a lot more angry than I realized, and I brushed off the anger and answered in a joking (but honest) way, about how that's a city thing I can't keep straight. (It's true, I can't. Back home, where I am bound even as I write this, one asks one's questions, and then accepts whatever order the person being asked chooses to give answers in. That means the person who is giving aid gets to choose which aid is most urgent to give, based on his own priorities, rather than letting the people asking for aid decide based on who happened to arrive first. I suppose either way works; when there are many people, and they are not of a tribe but each pursuing his own aims, letting the timing of arrival decide is perhaps the most fair.)
As a result, I got the cold shoulder from both of them, and received no further answers (though I assume even if the fellow does make such things, he wouldn't sell one to me now), not even after giving a heartfelt (and perhaps too flowery, as I was trying to affect the style of the Bree-landers) apology to the buyer. In fact, the fellow who'd ignored me at the Prancing Pony the previous night, who was also present, continued to ignore me after this incident (though given he'd already done so once before, that may be unrelated). Still, I made my way to the Archives feeling like a heel (and quite a bit frustrated besides, at yet again being stymied in finding the materials I've been seeking for more than a month now; Gafford was not at the market again). Returning to the Lone-lands felt (and feels) more and more welcome.
Nevertheless I decided to risk a brief stop at the Pony before returning to my camp, as it may be a while before I can taste beer again. A quite pretty and very friendly lass named Briony (who would also turn out to be unreasonably brave for a bar-maid) served my beer, along with some reassurance. "Worry not," she told me, "most folks hereabout are the forgiving sort." She was so pleasant I chose not to disagree, and why should I? That I had encountered three of the other sort in quick succession did not disprove her claim. Not long after, a fourth chanced to be present in the inn, and determined to, with clarity and focus of intent, outdo all the others, and everyone else in town combined, in boorishness. If he had come out and said "I wish to have a fight for no reason!" at the top of his lungs, his intent would have been less, not more, clear, if only because people who wish to have a fight for no reason are generally not inclined to announce it. He didn't just step far too close to some hapless fellow while insulting the man's choice of hat (admittedly, it was an odd hat), he started messing with the hat, daring the man, or anyone else present, to stop him with a fist or knife, thus providing him with the pretext he so eagerly wanted to return blows in kind.
To her credit, Briony did not cede one step as she called the man out for his behavior and encouraged him, quite properly, that if he found the Pony so unpleasant (the man compared it to a barn, which seems an odd insult; barns are warm and comfortable places, though admittedly they lack something when it comes to scent), he was more than welcome to leave it. I know that in Bree-town, while some women take up arms, one cannot expect a bar-maid to be prepared for a fist-fight, and Briony showed no sign that she was ready for an exchange of blows, let alone of steel; so I stepped closer in case things went the wrong way and I could try to intercede. (I was not the only one to do so.) Eventually, another woman and the lout exchanged words in a language I do not know, and whatever was said convinced the man to find a barn whose stink was better suited to him. Thankfully; as I still wear a half-dozen bandages, I would not wish to tell Strangsig I needed new ones because of, of all things, a bar-fight. Imagine how long before I'd live that one down.
The inn breathed a collective sigh of relief, and in the quiet to follow, I met a most helpful woman named Clarador Briarwool who, it turns out, thinks she knows where a pot like what I'll need for a fermenting vessel can be found in some ruins (clearly Bree's ruins are much younger than those of the Lone-lands). If she can find it, and it turns out the rust can be scrubbed off (the fermenting tub must be perfectly clean) she will leave it with Briony for me to collect on my next visit for a few copper pennies. This leaves me no closer to finding the tun (a bucket with spigot) nor air-locker, but still, with cheese-cloth secured (purchased on the High Stair, as Sareva had suggested) and a fermenting bucket maybe on its way, I am closer and closer.
Even more so, with a dozen pages of hastily copied notes and passages on the art of brewing now littering my journal! I wrote as quickly as I could, as I had but half a day, so I didn't even read what I was writing (it is quite an unusual experience for me, reading in my own hand things I do not recall). I now know I need to purchase some hops from Staddle, as that's the difference between ale and beer, but luckily a small amount will serve, far smaller than the barley malt.
If I ever do get some brewing working, those fellows I unwittingly insulted at the market will probably not wish to taste it (unless Briony is right and more people are the forgiving sort than it seems), but at least I will be able to share some with Clarador, and perhaps even with Briony. That's a better end to the day than its start.
