1st of Ymiden, 721
The Hot Cycle had begun, which meant the Rebirth Cycle was over and Peake had little to show for it. A lingering sense of self-disgust and a creeping note of failure had slowly been spreading over his subconscious over the previous season. By now, he was unable to rest at night, his mood was permanently sour, and he had fallen deeper into his smoking habit. His clothes were stained with ash, his home office was littered with cigar stubs, packed and compressed into filled ashtrays and, eventually, taking over a whole drawer which he was slowly filling up. All this smoking gave him a permanent headache, muted his sense of taste, and gave him a dry cough that was only getting drier.
The task at hand remained the one he had proposed to Glynt in Cylus; turn the Mountain Pride Reserves, a long-lasting mercenary company, into rich men. This was to be done though a proper accounting of wealth, income and expenses, and a proper administration of the Reserves’ wealth. It wasn’t a fantastical goal like growing a bigger cock through visualization exercises. It was tangible, realistic, and something which happened to be Peake’s purpose. All day, and all night, he stood in his office, sorting through old records, transcribing transactions into different books that looked the same save for their title. ‘Company Expenses A-G’, some read. ‘Company Expenses G-Z’, read others. For all the time it took to fill out and keep updated, all that data was then transcribed into a third book which collected the sum totals of the first two, three, or four books it mentioned, like a summary of their contents. These summaries then went into a third collection, wherein the accounting was even further abstracted and further observed over a longer time break— It was, basically, an endless task.
Glynt wasn’t complaining, and neither were the Reserves. Peake had freed a lot of wealth for them by simple mathematics, got their salaries increased, Glynt’s empire was now properly appraised, and even Peake got a substantial bonus for his services. By all accounts – pun intended -, save Peake’s, the former nobleman had done excellent work. However, the Dragon was yet to be sated, and the more he tasted his fantastical projections the more he salivated with ambition. Thus, he hid in his office, working day and night, neglecting his role in the family, neglecting his health and, in part, neglecting his calling. Obsession was his vice, be it with wealth, power or resentfulness.
This was the status update on Peake’s doings.
He lit a fresh cigar and drained what remained of his milk. His throat felt dry and spongy, as if having swallowed a cacti. Trying to swallow this away always brought forth a coughing fit – coughing which felt like his eyes would pop out of his skull – and so he disciplined himself to remain stoic over this sensation. The candlelight over which he worked was growing dimmer, the candle barely a wick with a puddle of wax spreading over the ashen desk. He procured another, lit it and replaced the old one. This one was discarded into the drawer full of studs, drawer whose smell was so potent it could’ve been used to drug a woman unconscious. For Peake, it served like those smelling salts he used in Andaris to lift big weights – motivation. Through the window, and despite the storm shutters neatly closed, he felt the heat from the sunlight filtering its way inside. Whenever he stopped scribbling or puffing on his cigar, he could hear the singing of the birds and the sounds of his children playing somewhere outside. He disliked that sound; it distracted him, and he felt like opening the window and throwing a chair out to shut the noise.
Can’t this damned world be quiet for five fucking bits?
Deep inside him, there was a voice telling him to give up. It wasn’t that coddling voice, that momma’s voice telling him everything would be alright, that all is well and good and that he deserved a break. That voice he had killed long ago. It was, instead, the voice he didn’t want to hear, the one that kept him up at night and stating the obvious: this wasn’t about mathematics anymore. It was his instinct, his soul or something so vaguely similar Peake had, somehow, cowered from the power and precision of its message. Like a honed blade, it cut through his feeble attempts to micromanage everything.
“I’m fucking doing this,” he told himself, out loud. “I’m doing this this way. You can’t stop me, damn it. I can do it like so.”
He transcribed a couple of transactions, the quill rasping the paper with a satisfying scrape.
“See?” he told himself. “One more step to go. Fucking easy work. Who’s the fucking boss? I am.” He kept transcribing, making similarly bombastic comments with every action he took. “Peake Maxos, a real fucking boss. There isn’t a better accountant to be found this side of the Sea, you know. These fucking simpletons can’t even read and write what I’d fart in my sleep. Fucking savages. Fucking stupid savages. Fucking Melrathi cunts, heretic savages. That’s what they are—”
There was more dialogue, of course, albeit those were some examples and highlights of an otherwise unsubstantially demented speech pattern. Talking to himself was common. In fact, it seemed to be quite common for anyone too submerged into the world of accounting. Delirium must’ve been a side effect of the work or mathematics, if not both. Peake nabbed his cigar, placed it in his maws, and leaned back on his wooden chair for a little puffing break. He couldn’t even feel the cigar anymore. All he felt was his throat getting drier and drier, and his need to start coughing increase dramatically. He was about to give into coughing, to get it out of the way, when the chair gave way. The backrest gave, the chair collapsed, and the Dragon fell back into his ass in a matter quite dishonorable and quite loud.
Lying on the floor, Peake’s fat body didn’t budge in his feeble, fish-like attempts to flop himself up to his feet. He grunted, straining himself to get up, when the coughing fit caught up to him, and his dry cough began trying to cork his eyes out of their sockets. Everything hurt. A lactose-heavy fart ripped through his fat ass, Peake still unable to get up, thinking he’d need to be rescued by his woman, finally saw reason.
He needed help. This had to end.