Gonath headed back into the jovial town in a daze.  He was struck again by the urge to stop
and join the ongoing celebration.   The smiling faces he encountered were a step back into something he was
more accustomed.  Young men his age  danced together and created an unmistakable contrast from his experience at the  tournament grounds.  The wafting  smell of the roasted boar he passed earlier brought him back. 
He now longed for something familiar and the comforting thought of ale  was the first thing that came to mind.
             
Why not? He thought, I haven't seen Alasdair in weeks  anyway.
             
On the outside, the Loose Plug Inn was run down and even a bit  dirty.  He opened the door and was
reminded that the inside was no better off.  Alasdair, the proprietor, greeted  him.  Originally born in Tholand,
Alasdair abandoned his birthplace and settled here in this village.  Gonath was curious to know the reasons why, but Alasdair was always able  to avoid the subject and let the curiosity pass once the ale began to  flow.

            
"Gonath!  Yours be the last  face I thought I would see this day!" Alasdair belted  out.

           
It was apparent the Thol had been "sampling" his ale again for his accent  was heavier now than when sober, and his volume was to the point of  irritation.


           
"I couldn't just come all the way into town and ignore the hospitality  and ale of the Loose Plug Inn could I?" Gonath
replied.


           
"That be good to hear Gonath. I'd begin to think they'd make a monk of you  yet."
             
Alasdair grabbed an oversized wooden cup from a shelf beneath the  saturated barrels of ale stacked against a nearby wall.   He filled the cup with the warm brew to the point of overflowing and  passed it to his young customer. 
Gonath held the cup for a moment and watched the thick block of foam at  the surface dissolve into a dark heavy solution.  Once the ale's head disappeared, he  raised the cup and half of its contents vanished.   He raised the cup again and drained what was left.   The taste of the ale and how it warmed him from inside out reminded him
of the first time he was introduced to the drink usually reserved for the older  men in the village.  Gonath
remembered the bitter aftertaste, the quick intoxicating effect, and the  consequences of partaking too much of the potent drink.   Alasdair told him it was his rite of passage.   The monks made him do the wash.
             
The large Thol slammed another cup down in front of Gonath and filled it  as he did with the one before.  The  noise abruptly ended his thoughts and brought him back to the dark hall and  Alasdair's silly Tholish grin.   Gonath took his time and nursed the  drink.
             
"The way you finished off the last, it would seem you either have a  terrible thirst or the Tournament has withered our nerves.  Which would it be?" asked the Thol.
             
Gonath smiled, "A little of both.   But honestly, I only missed the company of a friend and his terrible  ale."

What did happen back there?   Gonath thought. Am I really that much of a  coward?

 Alasdair sensed Gonath's distraction and removed the cup  sitting between them.
         
"Terrible or not, too much ale is no good with the curious folk wandering our streets.  Stay, but no more drink for you.  We can fill our cups again in good spirit when the town clears."

           
They looked at one another and Alasdair saw the concern in Gonath's  gaze.  He was about to question his  troubled friend when a heavy hand grasped Gonath's shoulder and twisted him  around.  Gonath reached for the  dagger attached to his belt and regretted to find an empty sheath.   He left hurried this morning and left his knife behind. 
An image of Ilbert and Lludd flashed through his mind to suggest his  stupidity. 

Gonath returned to his cottage instantly excited and left  the brothers alone to solve their petty disagreement. 
Traditionally, the tournament was scheduled to be held two weeks from the  end of the Frost, which was still months away.  Regardless, the Tournament always  brought excitement when it came to the small town located just South of the  abbey.  Gonath wasted no time and  finished dressing on his way to town.   At seventeen, his life at the abbey had grown stale.   He had no desire to devote his life to living in the woods as a monk and though he was never expected to join the cloister of religious men, he always  carried the sense of indebtedness to the men who saved his life and virtually  raised him without hesitation.  

Over the years, while living at the abbey, he felt the world pass him by  like the clouds that dashed across the open sky and wanted to live the  experiences he could only dream about between studies and routine  responsibilities.  This is the year  of change, he thought, and planned to compete in the Tournament.  However, the likelihood of him besting any of the qualified men was  laughable, but he felt there was no harm in trying.  Besides, he thought, what was there to lose?   There was plenty to gain, maybe even a place among the ranks of the  King's Army.  What better place for
adventure?

          
Each morning the village was normally full of life.   However, word of the Tournament spread fast and the preparation of  countless festivities were well underway.   The goods and food for sale brought with them a variety of people from
the neighboring villages and in some cases neighboring countries, and the  streets were unusually swollen with visitors.  Even the seams of the town itself were  tested as merchants from all over the province were strewn about the  streets.  There was even rumor that  the reclusive band from Narcania was seen lurking among the shadows in
  town.  Trader's voices barked and  bellowed down the staggered line of tents as they sold their goods.   The smell of cured game roasting over open flame wove its way in and out  of the various tents that packed the street like a flock of
sheep.

             
Gonath was both thrilled and apprehensive with the gathering of so many  people in the small town.  He  suddenly scolded himself for being so naive to think only a handful of  spectators and prospective recruits would be attending the trials.   Gonath dodged carefree pedestrians, stray animals and loose children as  he made his way into the heart of Cantlow.  He was amazed at the transformation of  what he considered a modest town.  Although the farthest he ever traveled from the abbey was Cantlow, he  figured this was how a big city would be.   The familiar buildings were covered with bright banners that whipped  through air like tethered rainbows.   Music that mimicked talking birds tugged the senses and came, what  seemed, from every direction.  Gonath was tempted to stop and join the frolic but reminded himself that  there would be time enough later, once he placed his name on the list of  prospective soldiers.

           
Just on the opposite side of town, a clearing was set aside to  accommodate the large number of men intending to compete in the Tournament.  Gonath felt a shift in the atmosphere  as he neared the assortment of men. 
The music was gone and there were no children underfoot.   In their absence were hundreds of men bearing weapons of every sort.  He had only read about the curved  blades carried by the Far Southerners and wondered at their savagery.  There was also a seriousness that  Gonath did not recognize.  The  feeling made his palms moist and quickened his heart with something attached to  fear.  This was not the Tournament  he had visited in the past.  The  people here were hardened fighters.   The young, anxious men he expected to see were not a part of this  brooding crowd.  An upsurge of wind  threw dirt in the air.  Gonath  choked on the grime that coated his mouth.  He knew he had no place among these
men.

                                                                                                        ***
             
It was Brother Pell's turn to carry the large heap of robes to the river for their weekly washing.  The  "wash" taxed his vow of patience more than any other chores shared among the men  of the abbey.  However, the  egg-shaped monk dreaded the long walk to the river rather than the actual act of  laundry.  His rather feckless  physical state and the frequent points of incline in the path caused his need to  breathe to multiply shortly after starting the trek. 
The only solace he found was in breathing through his mouth, a somewhat  futile attempt to avoid inhaling the fetid mix of man and beast that rose from  the dirty garments.
             
“If I swore, I'd swear they roll in the muck only when I have to carry  the awful things for wash.”  Pell  grunted.  “Next week is Brother  Lenere's turn.  I'm sure a pocket  full of horse dung will settle the score.”  He stopped and looked up past the  canopy of trees.  "An eye for an  eye Father."  He opened his mouth,  took a deep breath, and continued on to his favorite spot at the river's  edge.
             
He had nearly finished the wash when a large robe from his own pile of  clothes was caught by the current and yanked from his pudgy  hand.
             
"My best robe!" he yelled as he fell over trying to get to his feet.

        
The fleeting garment made its way downstream and was soon out of  sight.  With devout faith in  finding it, Pell continued the chase after his only earthly prize.   He was reduced to a slow stumble by the time he found the robe washed up  on shore.
             
"Old Pell's not so slow for you, now is he?" he gasped at the soaked  garb.
             
He stooped enough for his short arms to reach a tuft of cloth and  pulled.  The robe tore and sent him flailing back until he tripped over an inconveniently placed stone. The wet piece of fabric smacked his face as he blindly fell to the
ground.  He was about to break his  vow of self-restraint with a few carefully chosen imprecations when he saw the
child and what looked to be his dead mother.

                                                                                                     ***


                                             (Gonath’s childhood is still under  development and will go here)


                                                                                                     ***
             
While Gonath prepared for the day he was distracted by the sounds of an  argument coming from outside his small cottage near the abbey.   He could hear foul cursing coming from the men outside and immediately  knew who it was.  Gonath stormed  out his door and found Lludd and Ilbert, twin brothers who recently decided to  join the brotherhood after their father booted them from their home.  “Twenty years of hand holding is enough.  It’s time you fend for yourselves”,  were the last words they heard before the door slammed behind them.   The  problem with the two lay in their profound ability to take each and every  instruction literally.  A more  recent episode occurred after being asked to “milk the cow.”   Their father was dumbfounded to find them bathing the family cow in its  own milk.  However, the act of  genius that broke their father’s fortitude and caused their expulsion from home  was one that even their mother could not defend.  Once a month the family rode into town  to purchase necessities they could not provide on the farm.   This particular day, the twin’s mother was slow in starting and their  father sent them after her to “set a fire under her.”   Unfortunately, the fire they set caught the hem of their mother’s  frock. Flames fluttered behind her  like the tail of a racing horse as she burst out the door and plunged herself  into the rain barrel outside.


If that weren’t enough, the twins had another fault. Regardless  how petty or important, Lludd and Ilbert applied a competition to most  everything in their lives.  It seemed to Gonath, as he stood and watched them quarrel, that this time the  argument was over who would be the one to knock on Gonath's door and tell him  the news.

             
"What could be so important that you must start my day by making me watch  the two of you and your fracas?" Gonath asked.

             
Lludd couldn't contain himself and yelped out, "The tournament has been  announced!  It will be here in  three days, and the Army too!”

             
Ilbert became furious.  He  intended to be the one to deliver the news, and once Lludd finished his announcement, Ilbert struck his face square, instigating yet another fight. From the look of their robes it was  apparent there had been others earlier on in the  day.