mitch dharma

 

14th of Snow's Maiden, 1638

The County of Bar, Imperial Crownlands

 

The night felt warm - very near humid, even - in the depths of the bygone estate. Pepin de Bar had spent countless hours alone at the cluttered, oaken desk that furnished his room, tapping dry quill against drier parchment, squinting amongst the pale candlelight, trying fiercely to think of the right words - something, anything that would put his prism-like mind to ease. As the night went on, steadily did he add to his disorderly menagerie of chimerical thoughts, lips pressed into a thin line, restless fingers tapping, thicks brows furrowed in thought.

 

Only then did he discern amongst the chaos of his arrangement the half-empty bottle of Savoyard Fireball Whisky, which, by its lonesome at the edge of his desk, coincidentally appeared in dire need of some company. He took it by the neck at once, popping the cork off with a deft flick of the thumb and up-ending it. Stray amber liquid missed his lips and trickled down the coarse, unshaven bends of his throat; some droplets even made their way down so far as to seep into the rich ebony of his finery, though he didn’t care. He had a story to write, a tale to pass on, and the whiskey seemed to do the trick in helping unearth it, he thought.

 

It was then that, resisting the compulsion of a curl of the lips, he steeped his quill in the black of an inkwell thrice, setting tip to parchment, his inebriated mind running wild in the dead of night.

 

---

 

 

8th of The Amber Cold, 1518

The Sleeping Bear Tavern, Petrus, Orenian Crownlands

 

Autumn’s gentle hand had descended slowly upon the realm - gradually at first, and then with terrible vengeance. Even during the warm spell of the breaking day, the fog was so thick and damp that it was strenuous to venture to make out anything a few yards away from one’s person. Wistful days in the tender sun had finally puttered out to their last. To the south, amidst noble rivalries between the banners of de Sola and Vladov, the well-oiled machine of war began to rouse from its slumber, threatening to shred the very fabric of the nascent, newly-reformed Kingdom. After all, it was Vydra who reestablished the supreme reign of Humanity on the continent, not the green de Savoie who sat on the throne now, despite all his ambition. In the north of Athera, at the outermost reaches of His Majesty’s power, from the once-Dwarven hold of Eastpoint to the Ebunad river, the snow had begun to fall. Slowly in the beginning, though only in such a way that nature affronts so brusquely a cruel winter to come. Warm, domestic havens and late nights by the fireplace were simply ways to divert people's attention, to put off the reality of what’s to come a little while longer. Though all knew it would not stay away forever, nor would the promise of peace - not for any man, woman, or child. Grey clouds and smoke were the people’s canopy; a deep, impenetrable fog their shroud.

 

He walked along the sunken cobble quite like a drunken man, jostling against passer-by, refusing to lift his gaze. The airlessness in the street was insufferable. The bustle and construction, the omnipresent dust, and the all-too-familiar Orenian stench, more likely than not the product of the armed soldiery which had just returned to the city after repelling bandits at a nearby village. All of this worked dreadfully on the young man’s already overwrought nerves, casting a most sickened expression on his elegant physiognomy. He was, by the way, devilishly handsome, standing at a balanced height, slim, well-built, with catty emerald eyes, dark brown hair, and hollow cheeks. In fact, much to his discomfort, this young man looked quite like the one on the promulgations around town, which advertised a bounty of some five-thousand. He was so badly dressed, however, and with his cloak swathed so tight around him that he dare thought it to be a marvel were someone to recognize him - let alone cast him a stray glance. After much walking he found himself standing close to a tavern, with plumes of smoke billowing from the chimney and plenty pleasant chatter inside. With little hesitation did Sammy descend the few steps inside, his mouth longing to be sated with the cold taste of ale. He removed his hood at once, and, still with his downcast gaze, exchanged brief words with the tender, set a handful of coins upon the counter, and eagerly drank his first glassful. Almost at once his nerves came to soothe.

 

Once he took the time to look around, he noticed that there were indeed some few people in the tavern. A group of two frisky maids and a burgher, dressed all up in fine silks and jewelry, conversed very near to the counter at a low-set table, and two terribly drunken and boisterous men sat playing cards not too far off. As his eyes lingered still, he caught sight of another man, seated in the corner - one he thought he recognized, even. He was older, broad-shouldered and deep-chested with brawny hands, a shaved head, fiery, beady grey eyes, an unruly beard, and a well-scored line of flesh memory that ran from the top of his forehead to one of his eyes, searing it shut.

 

“‘Ey,” Sammy said.

 

“Hey.” Replied the beast of a man which sat before him, a near-empty tankard in hand.

 

“I’ve seen you with that sword. You’re pretty fuckin’ ****, pal.”

 

“**** off.”

 

“Now, now, moody - what’s with the attitude, eh?”

 

Wem let out a frustrated grumble, and Sammy took it as an invitation to sit. He knew where he recognized the man from now, memories of the mercenaries clad in blue steel coming to the surface - Dunamis, did they call themselves? Surely he, too, was unwelcome in this town.

 

“You got that tankard all t’ yourself then?” The younger of the two men was reluctant to meet the gaze of the sellsword, exhibiting some sort of odd bashfulness despite the bravado which carried in his words.

 

“Damn right I do,” The one-eyed man replied. The tone of his voice suggested he meant to go on after a pause, though instead his articulations hung in the air like mist, vicious and stiff as the storm which threatened to brew outside.

 

For a moment or two that was all - the silence, the crackling of the fire, the familiar airlessness. Wem held his breath for a moment; and with it Sammy’s lips parted as to speak to break the uncomfortableness, though Wem hastily waved him off, his eyes trained over the younger man’s shoulder. Sammy’s brow couldn’t help but loft in silent inquisition, and suddenly Wem’s expression seemed all the more pinched - at least, more than usual for a man who is missing an eye.

 

The master of the establishment came down from the upper room, apparently on purpose to tend to a new crowd of customers - a particularly rowdy bunch, too, from what Sammy could hear. Though upon spraining about, he suddenly understood the doom in the larger man’s eye. They were guards, half-a-dozen perhaps, looking fresh from the field, clad in the black and white of the Ashford Sun - the very sigil of the newly-crowned King Olivier. They ordered their rounds amidst jovial chatter and shouting, boasting of the number of rogues’ heads they amassed on their most recent raid.

 

“Follow my lead.” Said the older man in a low, surreptitious tone, and Sammy’s jaw couldn’t help but clench. The whole world seemed to crawl slowly through time in such an instance, ensnared in the thick nectar of peril. They left their drinks and stood carefully and with a certain nonchalance that conveyed they wished to be unseen. Then, feigning small talk, they made for the door, walking in accord, each footstep heavier than the next, until something caught Sammy’s eye.

 

He had seen her, and he was certain that she had seen him. Silence roared, ushering in the familiar insufferable airlessness; and then, the sharp rasp of a sword unsheathed.

 

“You two!” The guardswoman shouted to the pair, gaining the attention of her compatriots who had been caught up drinking. “I know you - the both of you have pretty little prices on your heads, huh? Go on, tell me I’m wrong.”

 

Without stopping to think, the brazen bandits moved with the pent-up aggression of a tiger, drawing cold steel in response. A muscle in Sammy’s jaw flickered.

 

“You lot have no clue what you’re getting into.” Wem sneered resentfully, his lips twitching with excitement. He did not stop to look at the younger man, squinting while he gave a perfunctory glance over the throng of guardsmen.

 

The tavern-goers, full of laughter and mirth just moments before, were now rushing for the exit, overcome with an insuppressible fear. The boy behind the counter, however, who was no more than twelve summers old, stayed to watch - not out of some paralyzing fear, but a morbid curiosity.

 

Suddenly the whole tavern lit up in the bittersweet song of steel, and in the shock of battle the outlaws appeared as a tide that could not be trounced. Firmly they stood, backs against one another, cutting wicked wounds into the aching flesh of the guardsmen and drawing deep blood. The hideous cries of faltering battle grew into one with the screaming of citizens, the tireless hands of the bandits striking down opponent after opponent until, finally, the last was felled.

 

They licked their wounds with haste, treading over the still-warm bodies of the dead to ascend the steps in search of an escape. Everywhere they looked townsfolk wept and howled for help, some taken to kneel and pray to the Lord God above for their life to be spared. An elderly woman, even, lifted her skirt to amble over to a nearby patrol of regulars, shouting and pointing at the duo. Wasting no time, Sammy and Wem unraveled the reins of two nearby coursers, swinging a leg over as to mount them in a single, smooth motion before digging their heels into the horses’ sides. The amalgamating traffic cleared like geese before a hungry fox, and the duo tore off beyond the reaches of the Kingdom’s gate.

 

They never claimed to be good men.

 

Restless with adrenaline, the two fled and fled until their horses could take no more, rounding a bend in the road and slowing to a trot. They had made sure they weren’t followed and took a moment to catch their breath.

 

Sammy broke the silence. “I take it back - y’know, the whole **** with a sword thing.”

 

Wem didn’t care to respond, instead moving to procure a leather flask from his horse’s satchel. “You know, where I’m from custom dictates a toast for every battle won,” He said, thin lips pressed into an cocksure, ironical smile. “Tell you what, this one’s on me; for friendship newly found.” He offered.

 

The flask eclipsed Sammy’s pouty lips, and some brandy dribbled onto his chin - it tasted crisp, clean, and sweet - like a sunburst over a cloudy sky. Like gold.

 

Raucous, jovial barks of laughter followed the pair as they ventured on, dark horses shedding steam as they pounded their way into the coming twilight.