Brian the
Chief Tithing Man of Acerii was hung-over; he was very hung-over, very very hung-over. He would have thought of some better synonyms
but his head was too sore and he was sure that if he looked left or right at
any stage he would throw up immediately.
Last night had been the feast of Mabon (celebrating harvest,
death of the Sun God, a day of magic due to the rare balance of light and dark,
a time for thanks and learning) and the adults of the village, those over
the age of twelve, had really tied one on.
The night previous had been the feast of Naloc which celebrated the
washing of old people against their will, Tuesday had been the Holy Day of
Turnips and the Sunday through Monday before was the fifth cataract of the Little God of Drunks. It had been a tough week, thought Brian, and
this is the off-season, wait ‘til the winter festivities kick in.
Brian’s hangover
detected a noise somewhere outside the circular wall of the amphitheatre; the
children were wide awake and up to no good as usual. With a normal hangover he would chase after
them and get them back to their odd-jobs, a lash of a soft ash stick across the
hamstrings or a fling of a small turnip (not on the holy day of course) would usually do the trick, but today he didn’t care
what they did. Brian just wanted to live
through the next second … and the next one … concentrate now … here comes the
next one …
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