3. The Humble Beginnings of the Life and Times of Tyche Fortuna

The Humble Beginnings of the Life and Times of Tyche Fortuna


  • “My background? What, like . . . my history, my little life-story?” The speaker stops long enough to let out a single chortle. “Not many people ask about that.”

    The man sitting before you—whom you know as Tyche, but, more informally, he is simply Ty—is a friendly character whose been coming to your tavern for a few weeks, straight. He has a few general habits: drink, gamble, and chat; otherwise, he doesn’t seem extraordinary.

    “I don’t know. I don’t talk much ‘bout it, ‘cause it’s nothing special.” He pauses, and a sly grin grows on his lips. “But . . . You serve good ale, so, why not?”

    He’s sitting across from you at the counter, perched on a stool with his legs folded up and feet resting on the spindles of the stools; as with most days, he looks slightly haggard, but glows with a homely charm and suave debonair. Tyche looks off in the distance, momentarily, and runs his hand over his full, black goateé with the puzzling crimson sheen. His eyes flick back to your’s, sparkling with a glint like burning embers mixed with midnight stars.

    “As you prob’ly know, ‘cause I say it oft’ enough, I’m from the North.” He smirks, and scratches his nose. “And, not the direction, but the place, the country. I grew up in a tiny, nothing farming village . . . Sort of like here, I guess . . . “ He gestures to the room, as a whole, which is inhabited by grungy-looking, low-class farmers, farmhands, peddlers and the such.

    As far as you have been able to gather, Tyche seems content with the poorer folk of the bar, always shying away from the more well-to-do and wealthy; when he does interact with the merchant and higher classes, it’s usually to rob them in a game of cards, or dice. Although, as he will insist, “I’m an honest gambler. No cheating.”

    “Farmvale, that was the name of the place.” He pauses to take a sip of the mug of honey mead you poured him, earlier, before the beginning of the conversation. “My dad, his name was Genos, or Gen, for short—not like Gin, either, but like Jean—a cobbler, at this point in his life; later on, he’d move on to bigger and better things, like heavy drinking and child neglect.” Ty smirks.

    “My mom was a barmaid, which I will always maintain to be one of the most noble of practices—what better than a woman who brings you ale and looks pretty?—really, shouldn’t think that way about my mom, though . . . “ He chuckles, then sips, once more, from the mug. A strand of his hair falls out of place and into his eyes, so he lifts a hand and brushes it behind his ear.

    Tyche’s hair is a rather wild mop of black, with that same bewildering hue of deep red that you’ve noticed in certain angles of the light; to match his hair, his dress is never very neat, although it is perpetually sharp, in a sense. He seems to tend toward darker clothing, wearing a forest-green vest with a high collar over a dark, near-black red, tattered shirt. A gold-and-silver necklace hangs around his neck, and is tucked into his shirt collar—although, you’ve seen what it is, a few times: a Holy Symbol of Tymora, a coin-shaped medallion bearing the image of a blonde woman’s face with her curls of hair falling around her, surrounded by etchings of shamrocks. And, as if on cue with your own thoughs, he tugs the medallion from the front of his shirt and rubs the coin with his thumb and forefinger.

    “Then, there was Uncle Eli—not my real uncle, mind you, but a good, family friend . . . Mom’s boss, to be precise, as he owned and ran the bar in town that Sally—my mom—worked in . . . “ He stops for a moment to take another drink of honey mead, then smirks slightly as he holds a hand out and produces a deck of cards—the same worn, dog-eared, bent cards he always has on him—with a flourish of his wrist. “I spent a lot of time in that place; I think it was called the King of Hearts—no, no, it was the King of Clubs. Yeah, heh, because it doubled as a tavern and nightclub . . . And a casino.”

    Shoving the now-empty mug aside with one hand, he takes the deck of cards in his other, bending it between his thumb and fingers. Releasing the cards with one hand, they shoot across to his other hand; catching the cards, he instantaneously bends them and shoots them back across to the other hand. Switching to using both hands, he riffles the deck a couple times, bridging them and sandwiching them with an ease and perfection of a professional dealer. Finally, he taps the deck on the counter to even them up, and fans it out in front of you.

    “Pick a card,” Ty implores, with a nonchalant tone. You shrug, and make a random pick, sliding it out of the deck and looking at it: the King of Clubs. “King of Clubs.” You smile and nod, throwing the card face-up onto the bar. He smiles in a lopsided, halfway manner, the same smug way he always does when he gets a card trick right. For the duration of time he’s been frequenting your tavern, Ty’s been entertaining the occasional patron with a card trick or two, sometimes flipping a few coins around and juggling dice—a gambler and a bit of a performer, you could say describes Tyche. “Anyway . . .”

    “Eli was who taught me about the Smiling Lady, how to hold a hand of cards, roll some bones, and a few other tricks; you see, I spent a lot of time in the King, when my Mum was workin’ and my dad was busy. I was a quiet, eager-to-learn type of kid . . . “ He scratches his eyebrow, bowing his head at a slight angle, and gives you a wry grin. “Really. Things were nice, then—well, they were nice, up until I turned seven. Contrary to popular lore, seven did not prove to be a lucky number of years for me.” Ty smirks.

    “A Union moved into Farmvale. Started recruiting everybody. Holding prices up to their standard. Ousting people who didn’t sell at their prices. Got real cozy with the town council, I’m sure.” He waves a dismissive hand in the air, like shooing a fly. His eyes grow distant, for a moment, then his forehead wrinkles for a second and he snaps back into the present. “Made a real mess of Dad’s business, ‘cause he could never make money selling at their absurd prices. Wenching doesn’t bring in the gold, either.” Ty lets out a chuckle that seems to ring hollow to your ears.

    “Even I tried to make money, gambling in the King and in the streets—that’s where I really learned my habits.” Ty has gone from leaning back in his seat to resting his elbows on the bar with hunched shoulders. His deck of cards is still sitting in front of him, and he idly flips over a card to reveal the Two of Hearts. “Didn’t matter. Dad took a couple of loans from the Union, to survive.” He looks upward and then back down at the cards, and then at you; his eyes seem to have gone flat black, with no sign of any sparks of fire. He draws his mouth into a straight line, then wipes his nose with a hand and continues, speaking in a humdrum voice.

    “‘Course, he couldn’t pay ‘em back. Can’t pay back gold when you ain’t makin’ none.” Ty gathers the cards together, then cuts the deck and flips the top card of one half—a King of Spades—and the other top card, as well, which shows as the Jack of Hearts. “So, the Union had my mom offed—some halfing did it, and I know this because I was there.” Ty smirks.

    “It was just a slow night at the King, not many people at the tables playing—Winter, I think. Mom and Eli were having a heated debate—it seemed to my young eyes—at the counter, and I was pitching coppers to pass the time. I caught a few words of their discussion: Eli was attempting to pay off our family debt, and Mom was being stubborn—pride, I suppose. Never could understand turning down free coin, but I’ve never been a parent . . . “ He stops, swallows some, and sneers faintly. “Not much of one, I guess, anyway . . .”

    “A hin came in, cloaked and hooded, and stabbed her. Right in the bar, right in front of Eli . . . And me.” Ty puts the two halves of the deck together, slipping the cards together and then rifflling them. He throws the deck onto the bar, seemingly haphazardly, and the Queen of Hearts falls out, away from the rest of cards; reaching out a hand, he lifts it up and flips it around, vanishing it. He leaves the rest of the deck spread out in front of him, and goes to pick up his mug and ask for more mead—you’ve already got the bottle and are ready to pour.

    He chews on his bottom lip for half a minute, then manages a pitiful excuse for a smile. “It’s not a very fond set of memories, you know? She really was beautiful . . . Red hair down to her back, bright green eyes, full figure and all . . . “ He pulls on a handful of his own hair, and smirks his gambler smirk. “I got my Dad’s black hair and black eyes, it seems. But, there’ll always be something about redheads with green eyes . . . “ Ty looks off, detaching himself slightly and smiling in earnest. He shakes his head, as though waking from a quick daydream, and slides all of his cards together. Tapping the cards a few times, he puts them undramatically in an inside, vest pocket.

    “Dad and I left Farmvale, obviously. That’s when I ended up in Drapak . . . Which is a different story altogether.” Gripping his mug with a hand, he tilts back his head and literally pours the contents of the container down his throat; letting his head fall forward, he smacks his lips and sighs contentedly. Licking his lips, his eyes shine with small flames and he chuckles. “One to be told some other time—I did see Eli, years and years later, though. He was doing well, but died shortly after. People do that, you know? Die.” He winks at you, and rolls a few coins onto the bar as he stands up and pushes the stool in.

    “That was all nearly a century ago, now, I think. Stuff for the history texts, if you ask me. Back when Bane was dead and the Time of Troubles was on everybody’s mind. A boring, tense time—a dusty history. I should write a book or somesuch, but that fancy, eloquent shite is for the bards.”

    Ty waves a hand—one, quick, jerking motion outward from himself—and saunters away, tossing his long, vest-jacket back behind himself as he exits your bar. You watch him leave, curiously, and that was the last time you ever saw Ty.

    ((This is, of course, but a portion of Ty's backstory, but I figured it was enough to merit a post in the Historical Archives. I intend to write out more of his history, and that'll probably end up in Tales By the Fire. For this story, I felt the urge to play around with writing from a limited second-person, and desired to have Ty tell his own tale. I am not a fan of the boring yet tried-and-true, third-person omniscient perspective, personally. I hope you (the universal second-person, here) enjoyed reading this, and maybe I threw in enough forwards to make you want to read more. Maybe I didn't, but I do like how this turned out, so "Boo" on you if you didn't.))
    Edit
    Account Name: Koros Tyche
    Character Name: Tyche "Ty" Fortuna
    ((Silly me, forgot that information.))


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