Rhian

Rhian

Postby Serrus » Mon Jun 16, 2014 5:21 am

He was looking back at her.

Upon the slated step of a cottage door the girl stood, black eyes peering out to him from the shadows within. Eyes welled with tears, tears that would not fall upon eyes that would not blink. He wanted to look away. He could have looked away, looked ahead. Snow was falling in white mists, dusting her face where it shone form the darkness.

Turn your back. Forward, look forward. She's nothing to you now. Never was.

He wanted to look ahead, to turn his back. One simple turn of the hip, a mere glance to the left. But he couldn't look ahead. He could only keep looking back. Horse hooves thumped against winter snow and mud, each hoof a heartbeat.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

The palfrey ambled along, a painstaking slow walk. The cottage grew smaller as he moved away, distant, but when he blinked, she was there again, as was the cottage, because he had never left.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

Hooves ambled through snow and stone. The cottage grew distant. Then it grew close again.

"It ambles, Daddy. Tha' horsey. It don't trot, it ambles. That's what Deyton says. "

"Does 'ee now?"

"Too weak t'be a 'orse of war, Deyton says. Not a destrier, no. That Ser knight wanted to end it, but Deyton bought it instead for mother."

"Why you always talk about him? He's not your bloody father."

"I know."

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

Blood on the saddle. Not my blood. Blood on his scabbard. No, not my blood. Not her blood, either. His.

The cottage moved away, then it grew close again. Her black eyes stared at him through the doorway. She said nothing, only looked through welled tears, tears that would not fall and eyes that would not blink. A body trembling in the darkness.

"Tania... Tania... gods gra'mercy.. I'm sorry..."

Dark eyes looked to him. Last winter they had been bright as the stars, eyes that laughed and sang when he looked into them. Now they were dark, dark as the winter cold. She wailed at him, a banshee's scream.

"Fuck ye' t' the hells! Bastard! Devil-spawn! I curse you! Every breath, I curse you and your pissant breath. You ain't my blood, an' ye can't 'ave her, neither. Feck off an' leave us! Go!"

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

The cottage grew smaller, distant, but then it was close again.

Forget her, she's nothing to you now. Never was.

The cottage became dark, wood splintering into charred ash, the roof opening up into a great chasm where smoke billowed out. Thatched straw and wood blazed into cinder, the sun blotted out to a crimson red. From the doorway, she stood, eyes welled with tears. Tears that would not fall upon eyes that would not blink.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

Off within the trees, a hurdy-gurdy droned. Drunkards laughed and bellowed while glass tinkered and smashed. Two voices spoke among the din.

"Jus' say the word, Belcaw. We''ll come all the way north wit' ye. Me an' Graff. Don't care how many of those hoarde bastards we gotta cut our way through t'get there. We'll find her."

"We ain't bloody going."

"She's your daughter, ain't she? Gods above and below, man, she's your own flesh and blood--"

"She ain't no flesh an' blood of mine, y'stupid bastard! I won't be liftin' a bloody finger t'save 'er! Her and that stupid whore she's got a for a mother!"

Forget her, she's nothing to you now. Never was.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.


She still stood in the doorway, charred walls crumbling, wood splitting and snapping in the heat. It came from the south, a hot wind that sucked the air dry and suffocated man and beast alike. Trees shook and trembled, leaves stripped and bark torn bare as it came rumbling from the shadows, orange, red, white, it stormed and flowed, a wave of heat, and everything it touched became nothing. With violent disregard it struck the cottage, smashing it to pieces, a thistle in a thunderstorm, a blazing ball of flame to wrought wood and stone asunder.

She stood on the stone step that remained, aflame and blistering, tearing, skin to muscle, muscle to flesh, flesh to bone. Eyes looked back at him, eyes that were empty as bone. Eyes that would not blink.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

"Rhian..."

He didn't know if it had been his own voice speaking out that awoke him, or whether it had been the dream itself, or merely or the summer heat, stabbing through the room's diamond windows like a deity's sword. Sweat ran down his face in a torrent, soaking the pillows and sheets.

He sat up with a grunt, legs swinging to the side, eyes scanning about. An empty bottle lay on the floor, empty with the faintest smell of bourbon. When he got lost, he thought about her, then he turned to drink. He'd asked for more drink the night before, and the tender had been most obliging. Problem was, the drink only brought the dreams, harsh distorted memories made worse tenfold by mindless nightmares.

Idiot. You stupid, bloody idiot.

He somehow found a way to drag himself over to the small dresser, kicking it's wooden leg and rattling the murky mirror with a clatter of pottery that sat on its stop. He spat an obscenity, hands reaching to brush away the dream that now clouded his thoughts, a muggy, distant fog that was slowly clearing.

Soon you'll forget her face. Aye, then she'll just be a name. Just some stupid bloody name of a stupid bloody dead girl.

Sweat caked his beard, the black hairs a mop of dirt and grime. He ran his fingers through them, scowling in the golden dusty hue. His black eys narrowed, a scowl forming across scarred cheekbones.

"Glove," he mused, voice hoarse and dry. "A feckin' glove, she says."

Teeth gashed together, and he found his dirk on the dresser's table. The leather hissed as he released it from the scabbard. A soft, harsh hiss, the hiss of death so many knew all too well. The morning sun gleamed from the steel, and he ran his finger softly along the edge, the whetted edges tickling the fingers. Not as sharp as he'd have liked, but it'd do.

He found the washbasin with fresh water, a luxury he hadn't been afforded for quite some time. The blade swished through it, small stained lenghts of blood peeling off, only to liquify and murk the water like blossoms in the spring. Leaning towards the mirror, he began a long, careful cut along his chin.

"Don't even make bloody sense, man wearin' a glove on 'is face," he muttered, before falling silent in his concentration.

He felt little hands for a moment. Or at least remembered them, small hands that ran along his stubble, her little voice cackling with glee as she hugged him. Tickles. It tickles, daddy. She never liked the beard. Only the stubble.

It was noon before he'd finally gathered his wits and his gear to make his way downstairs, leaving the tavern to head into town. Time would tell if the day benefit to his restless night, as the stifling heat wasn't doing any good for his raging hangover.
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Re: Rhian

Postby Rance » Mon Jun 16, 2014 11:41 am

It was just a continuation of his luck -- or misfortune -- that a figure on the dusty road coming from Myrkentown was hers.

The Glass Sun was a blinding pendant in the midday sky. She'd awaited these days for nearly a year, and the winter had dragged on anyway, a perpetual annoyance that had eventually shattered to invite the melt and the following planting-season. The air was heavy with the acrid of dung scattered on distant fields. A hot, beating wind brought the smell over distant hillocks and expanses.

She almost passed him. But when she recognized him, her dusty boots scraped to a halt and her skirts nearly carried right along without her, sweeping across the loose dirt of the rocky path. In her capable hand was a small burlap sack containing her purchases from a morning jaunt in the Marketplace bazaar. On her other arm, the one devoid of anything beyond her wrist, a gaudy sock of blue and white striping hid her stump away from view.

"You shortened it," Gloria Wynsee said, a greeting that came without salutation. Underneath the bill of her dingy bonnet, her face was a brown-skinned dollop, her smile full of unhealthy teeth. "But other than your beard, you look quite like you might have spent the night getting dragged behind a horse. Did you sleep at all?"

Whether or not his permission was granted, she pivoted and marched along the road beside him.
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Re: Rhian

Postby Serrus » Mon Jun 16, 2014 11:54 pm

He'd spent a good quarter-hour merely walking the streets, observing quietly the day to day humdrum. The noises of the nearby markets were a battering assault, the noon sun a blinding fury. He tried to avoid benders for reasons like this one -- dulled the senses and clouded his judgement, something he thought valuable, since his line of work often meant he wasn't the most popular man around in cities. Injure, maim or kill for whatever sum, it didn't matter -- someone, somewhere was connected and surely at some point wanton to seek their foolish endeavour of retribution. He didn't know Myrkentown all too well, either, which meant keeping his wits was all the more a painstaking task.

Someone was talking about shortening something. A rolled up rug from a peddler, maybe. Two fishwives gossiping about another's length of hair. Though it was neither of these things. Had sobriety gotten the better of him, her finding him here in the middle of the busy crowds might have aroused his own hostile suspicions. As it was, he was too dry and sore of mind to make any such assumptions, biased or no.

"Aye," the man affirms to her, keeping his eyes forward. A hardened line of stubble, it was. Black and coarse, like a razed forest after a firestorm. Though his newfound stubble was indeed an improvement, his chin-length hair hadn't faired so well, knotted about in clumps over his shoulders.

She asked him about his condition, and he took a brief moment of reflection. It wouldn't pay for him to start getting sloppy again. How many wasted nights had he woken up in Crossroads, lying in some gutter full of human refuse, his leather curaiss drowned in piss and vomit? Too many times. But never again.

"I slept some," he remarked, as they passed through a bunched crowd of hagglers. "Ain't ever taken much t' 'likin' them soft beds. Hard floor an' a blanket's often good enough."

He was clearly in no hurry, his attentions turning briefly toward a pair of armed militia types walking their way, burly and loud, lost within the confines of their own arrogant bravado. His hand found its way to relax loosely on the pommel of his blade, other arm crossed in front. An autonomous movement that did not bear so much a thought. But they paid him as little heed as they paid everyone else, lost in their own little world. Whatever young, strapping soldierly men with weapons lost themselves into, he supposed. Drinking and whoring. These days for him, it was more the whoring and much less the drinking.

"How'd y'lose your hand?" he asked her, intoning with the same careless disregard he'd used during their previous conversation. As good a topic starter as any, he supposed.
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Re: Rhian

Postby Rance » Tue Jun 17, 2014 12:43 am

"Wolf," she said, the single word her only offering. Her gaze hesitated on him, prying, nettling, as if asking, Don't you remember? "I didn't feel it. Not when it happened. I screamed. I thought it was someone else."

The responses were staccato, declarative bursts. Her shoulders rolled, trying to shrug discomfort away from them. She marched through the crowds and passers-by at his side by twisting and turning, an occasional figure passing between them. Merchants sometimes leaned out from their booths, dangling bundles of beeswax candles tied at their overlong wicks or netted bundles of cloves and onions.

Past one crowd and into another, she surveyed him again. His attention flitted toward a small group of men who had swords at their hips and loud, obnoxious, carefree stories -- likely all lies, fake conquests and confidences -- on their lips. There was something, she realized, about swords. Their magnetism, their distraction, their empowerment. Serrus's fingers reflexively reached for the pommel at his hip. In the midst of the crowd, the girl gingerly reached out with the uneven nub of her arm and gave his knuckles a tap.

"They're just boys," she reminded him. "They speak loudly and don't see much beyond themselves. I bet if they saw a wolf like the one that took my hand, they'd wet themselves."

She glanced again at his face. A streak of old dirt was visible on her left cheek. Gloria was no mind-meddler, had no talents to dabble amid thoughts. But there were dark crescents under his eyes and a tension in Serrus Belcaw's composure that was all too familiar. She knew what it was like to sleep without rest, to feel old memories and new fears slice and flicker behind one's eyelids. So, her voice softening, she said:

"What did you dream about?"
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Re: Rhian

Postby Serrus » Tue Jun 17, 2014 2:35 am

She might have made the reasons behind the loss of her hand clear the night before, though that was a bottle of bourbon ago, and he had been tired form the night's journey. Oft times he chose to listen when he deemed it necessary. Now the reason was clear, however, as were her possible motivations in asking for his assistance.

He did little to hide his irritation at her physical scolding with regard to the recent soldiers, though he says nothing, and its quickly forgotten with her question, to which he actually glances her way quizzically. Then his eyes are forward again, and his mind wanders. It was a foggy mess now, most of his dreams tended to be, when long forgotten after arousal. A dull visage of a cottage appeared in his mind's eye, along with the soft patter of horse hooves.

" 'Orse ridin'," he replies to her, rather deadpan. "' 'Orse ridin' 'through some forest, or summat. I don't always have the most interestin' dreams. Who bloody does?"

His pace continued as it had been, though his eyes looked keen now, quick to find a new thought to ponder on. The woman was asking him odd questions, and this irked him somewhat, and he felt irritated enough with the dry fatigue carried from his hangover.

"Since you're here, s'pose we may as well talk shop," he says. He figured it wasn't particularly a matter that required either of them to be surreptitious, after all, it wasn't like she'd asked him to bump off some official or murder a rich merchant. Werewolves.. wolves... whatever they were. This was something else.

"We can talk 'ere, or we can go some place private, as like. Don't bother me either which ways. What does bother me is why y'askin' me t' help ye knock off some feral werefolk that could jus' as' well be dispatched by them town milita, what, with all these bloody soldiers hangin' 'bout town with fook all else t'do, from what I can see."

He glances back to her again, this time stopping. "For one, they won't charge ye as much as I will, considerin' it's their bloody job an' all."
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Re: Rhian

Postby Rance » Tue Jun 17, 2014 4:38 am

"Horse riding through some forest," she repeated, "or summat. I read in a book that dreams are sometimes the little underlying part of your brain whispering secrets to you. Perhaps it's symbolism, like in those long poems."

Gloria did not press much more upon it. He was stoic, deflective; sometimes, she knew when to ease her inquiries.

As for talking shop, she led them to a corner of the sprawling Marketplace where a patch of grass invited other commoners to sit in the light of the Sun and absorb the welcome heat of the day, as though they were shaking free the ice from their bones. At one of the booths -- a holdover from the Crown's announcement festivities -- she purchased two tin mugs full of a frothy sassy-fras beer and managed to offer Serrus one where it dangled precariously from her pinky.

With her burlap sack discarded to the ground, she started to peel the heel of one boot off her foot with the tip of the other. When her feet were freed, she brushed them across the soft grass.

"The Militia," she informed him, "are no better at killing beasts than I am. The Marshall has done a commendable job training them, but their talents are likely better suited against other men. As for the soldiers, I imagine they're busy picking up last summer's broken pieces. A few wolves don't rank too highly on their list. I'd rather avoid involving councilors and -- and established authorities."

Gloria drank. Warm foam bristled on the faint hairs that darkened her upper lip. She leaned back to savor the beverage, her stomach pressing against the fabric of her waistless dress. The girl was round, perhaps too round; even through her loose clothing, her abdomen bore a weight that would soon enough to be too great to obscure.

"It may be their job," she said over the rim of her battered mug, "but to me, it's a personal matter. They mauled my little brother, they put their teeth into one of my dearest friends, and they took from me the only fraction of talent I have.

"My coin is sparse, but my promises are iron. I would see you rewarded however I could, Messa Belcaw."
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Re: Rhian

Postby Serrus » Wed Jun 18, 2014 12:10 am

He followed along at her guidance, glancing about the common grounds where he'd been led, blinking in the bright sun. The heat wasn't so stifling now, even in his kit and fabrics, the leather coat of plates over hauberk not the best choice of summer wear, but out of habit he rarely went outdoors without it, rain hail or shine. Too much of a risk to ditch protection in favour of comfort, in his line of work.

Ahh, beer. He was partial to it, though moreso ale for the most part. Nonetheless, he was at least polite enough to nod to her offer, taking the cup and drinking it a lot more generously than her own sip. A good opportunity to listen to her while he drank. It was at her final sentence, or rather, four notable words at the start of it that immediately seemed to have him swing back to the dour mood she'd met him with on the street. The words she spoke were words that often ended most offers before they'd even begun, though the fact she'd bought him a beer led him to the decision that he should perhaps entertain the notion. He wasn't going to be tactful about his doubts, however, and this is evident in how his reply starts with a notable, heavy sigh.

"If I had two bob for every man an' woman who said t'same thing to me, I'd have quit this line of work years ago and bought an estate somewhere, along with a fat patch o' land t'live in, since I'd have enough coin to do it. I appreciate your honesty an' all, I do. But..."

He took another drink, less the gulp this time, more a tentative sip, his eyes askance, avoiding contact with hers. Distancing himself from her pleas, he supposed, was the best way he could stay on the defensive side of the debate.

"I ain't some kind hearted soul, or some honourable knight errant, lady. I don't do jobs because they're honourable, an' I don't 'elp folks jus' for the sake of pity. I work because I get paid t'do it, an' only if the pay's right. Moment I start takin' concessions is the moment I get every Tom, Dick an' Harry from Dauntless to Trae Kelsa wantin' in for a penny an' askin' me for favours. I sell my services, I don't lend 'em out as small favours t'folks in need."

He tipped out the dregs of his beer onto the grass, finally turning his attentions toward her, meeting her gaze with impassive scrutiny.

"I don't care 'bout promises, an' if you're lookin' for a loyal subject, you've found' the wrong man. So I guess y'best tell me how y'think you could offer me some reward, since I doubt very much you've got yourself enough coin to meet demand."

He spoke plainly and on what he thought was level terms. Crass it may have been, but as far as he saw it, it would be best to meet her honesty with his own.
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Re: Rhian

Postby Rance » Wed Jun 18, 2014 9:34 am

"If we're airing out the truth of the matter out like a bad fart from underneath a noblewoman's skirts," the girl said, "then we ought to slice away the lace from the conversation and manage it for what it is: a business proposition."

She scraped her knuckle along the inside of the battered mug, gathering up a lather of foam, sediment, and grain-husk. Her smile was hard, unapologetic; when she was invited to be as truthful as possible, Gloria Wynsee could scarcely ever resist.

"I've known you for a collective hour, Messa Belcaw. You pores still reek of last night's refreshments. Your professionalism is suspect. You've not named an advance or a price for your services, but if you had named one, and had I the coin on me to -- to pay it, what would keep you from spending it on warm thighs and stale booze, and taking me for what little I own? I may be young, but do you think me a complete idiot? No money changes hands in our association until you've either performed the task at hand, or -- or you've displayed significant interest enough to merit payment.

"Just because you have steel at your hip and leather on your chest, how could I be sure you're worth whatever you'll ask until I have a bloody pelt on display in front of me? You could be a hack. Could. But--"

She puckered her lips and raised her thumb-knuckle to her mouth. On her thick finger gleamed the only hint of metal she wore. Though her clothes were crisp, starched, and altogether new -- a coarse, burgundy dress that hadn't yet suffered too much of her oily sweat -- the ring had been clearly reserved for someone more valuable than she. It was of thick silver, scrawled with a number of gold inlays. Amid the arabesques veining the band, there was a black, hard-cut jewel the size of a dilated pupil fixed at its crest. The girl worked it off with her lips, spit it into her palm, and tossed Governor Glenn Burnie's ring at Serrus.

He'd emptied the dregs from his mug, and were he still standing as he had been, the hunk of jewelry might have landed with a resonant plunk into the mouth of his tin cup. Her aim was fine; tossing buttons into ale from the Broken Dagger's balcony had been a game of hers, after all.

"I'm willing to extend my trust. I imagine that should serve well enough to guarantee my reliability for whatever price you name."

How she would acquire his demand, she didn't know. But she would certainly find ways.
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Re: Rhian

Postby Serrus » Thu Jun 19, 2014 12:29 am

He thought it impressive, to see the woman answer his blunt callousness with such boldness and clarity. Woman's got a spine, I'll give 'er that. But in a place like Myrken where, if legends were to be believed, men died every day, where monsters and creatures of the dark rose and wrought destruction, where many fought tooth and nail just to get by... he supposed it was a requirement for survival. Despite his internal respect for her forthrightness, he still held the same brazen look of overconfidence, now exemplified by a wry smile. Reaching down, he procured the well-tossed ring from his cup, holding it up to the sunlight and squinting as he inspected it for authenticity.

"No," he replied to her, calmly, turning the ring over. "Y'don't know if I can 'andle m'self. For all you know, I could be some up-jumped whoreson of a cutthroat, who jus' so 'appened t'get this blade by slittin' the throat of some poor man-at-arms n his sleep, who's 'bout as useless with a hand-and-half sword as a harpy with a pair o' man-sacks."

He turned away from the sun, the ring resting between index and middle finger. With small intricate movements, he turned it over and over between each digit, back and forth, the ring rolling over each finger like a caterpillar between leaves. He watched it, noting the gleam of the fine metal, his overtones measured.

"Y'don't know if I'll jus' shit m'pants at the first sign of them werewolves crawlin' out of some dark hollow. And no, ye don't know whether I'll jus' drink an' whore an' fuck every last coin I'd make from fencin' this ring the moment we part ways." Holding it between thumb and forefinger, he glanced back to her.

"But y'don't look like some daft drover's wife from them hills, neither. You're a smart girl, an' if y'felt I wasn't the right bloke fer the job, or if I would've jus' taken your money an' pissed it all away without so much as a fook-ye-very-much, well, y'nary would've asked in the first place."

He glanced askew, watching the city's humdrum. "Most us freelancin' mercenaries ask for a tithe, or down payment, 'fore they start a job. If we didn't, we'd all be takin' for fools an' end up broke every second job. Me, I usually ask for a fifth in advance." He gestured to the ring. "I'd say this gem is likely a little over that, so..." He closed his fist around it.

"I'll keep this as a retainer. That way, it works out for the both of us. If I decide the deal's off, if I don't finish it proper, or I end up gettin' me brains chewed out by one o'them werewolf bastards, well, y'getchya ring back, don't ye?" Pocketing the ring in some hidden spot behind his plated coat, he shrugged lazily. "If I get the job done, well... we can sort out all that owin' business at the end of it all, as like."
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Re: Rhian

Postby Rance » Thu Jun 19, 2014 3:04 pm

There were endearing qualities about him: his coarseness, his brash tongue, that tilt of dialect that mismanaged the clarity of his voice. He, like Murrukh, had intrigued her because of his peculiarities -- and now, her barter a success, he took up the ring. A tithe. A retainer. One-fifth.

"Then we're agreed," Gloria said. "It unsettles me to -- to ask someone else to shed blood, even that of beasts, on my behalf or that of others. But that my personal matters have become your business means -- means you ought to approach the situation with skepticism and caution. Fight no battles you can't win. I would prefer not to pry my ring off your mutilated knuckles."

She watched the people too. They sauntered by in an unending line, lofting baskets or pushing carts. Common women corralled children as if they were cattle. Her eyes could not help but find themselves magnetized toward these miniature people, their fat limbs and disproportionate hands, their sticky palms and their listless, perpetual smiles. Their every need seemed alien and foreign, and they tugged like little lords and ladies at the hems of their mother's skirts, seeking guidance, happiness, and safety.

With her mug tucked between her elbow and ribs, she reached for his with her only hand. The fingertips trembled, an upturned palm seeking to accept his tin cup.

"I would like one less thing to threaten the life of my child when I usher it into this world, Messa Belcaw. I would pay handsomely for that comfort."

Silence. Several moments spent listening to the crunch of wooden heels against cobbles, the bustle and bubbling of an active Marketplace. Then, unbidden:

"Tell me about your Grange."
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Re: Rhian

Postby Serrus » Fri Jun 20, 2014 2:06 pm

After returning the woman her cup, he found himself walking again, perhaps to get out of the summer heat, or perhaps to keep moving along. He moved leisurely, much in the same way most of his demeanour was: carefree, lazy, and perhaps a little smug. At the mention of his home province, he doesn't appear to look reminiscent or thoughtful, more an look of nonchalant disinterest.

"Well, s'just farmland, innit?" he replied, as if the answer were obvious. "Miles an' miles an' miles o'bloody farmland. Crossroads is all right, I s'pose, though some places got themselves all tight-arsed an' old fashioned since all that religious bollocks came outta Sullibon." He turned a corner, continuing in the same relaxed overtones.

"Still, s'pose't has it's moments. Like at dawn or dusk in the spring, out near them granges north o'Gilead, y'get t'sun comin' up jus' short o'them Wekslo Ranges, an' it lights up all them crops like they's gold or summat. Then it sets over them Lothley Mountains. Looks right nice, it does. Man could spend a lifetime there, y'know, jus' watchin' it all go by." He offers a lazy shrug. "Course, tha'd be good an' all, If't weren't for them bloody hill thieves, or them 'ungry beasts creepin' out Mythago Wood in t'bloody winter, butcherin' up young women an' kids. Or y'get some fire drake spittin' sulphur an' brimstone, blazin' up them crops all because some fat rich lord got too bold for his bloody trews an' cleared away some more of t'forest for 'is barley." He sighed, momentarily discontent. "An' it gets fookin' freezin' in t' winter, too. 'Nough to freeze t'balls off a ice wraith, as like."

He ambled along a bit more, thoughts clear as he watched folks going about their business.

"How 'bout yourself? Y'grew up in this town, or summat? Guess this place can be right dangerous at times, if them tales are t'be believed."
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Re: Rhian

Postby Rance » Sat Jun 21, 2014 4:06 pm

She listened to him, found herself mentally staggering around names without visible identity: Gilead, Wekslo, Ranges, Lothley Mountains, all places that came into vivid life inside the bland recesses of her mind. But there, these locations that were Serrus's home were foggy, sparkling, beautiful, deadly, wild, bestial, and altogether exotic; she'd no tangible measurements of their beauty, but because she'd never visited, saw them through all the bluster and wonder of her imagination.

Man could spend a lifetime there, y'know, jus' watchin' it all go by.

She returned the mugs to the boothman. Her remaining hand rested on her beer-bloated belly. She stifled a belch with the knotted sleeve of her stump. He walked and so did she, keeping pace with long strides that kicked through the embroidered mass of her skirts. "Isn't it always the case," Gloria said, waxing philosophical as the warm haze of the sassy-fras beer came over her, "that lands are beautiful, even simple farmland, but that it's men and the beasts that inhabit them that turn them ugly? I might like, one day, to visit. Had I the means, I'd journey. But I don't.

"This place, I've made my home. It's dangerous and violent and -- and full of arrogant people, but it suits me. It's not Jernoah," the seamstress added, with a considerate tilt of her chin, "and never should be. I was born across the sea, but the things I love live here."

She laughed a little too loudly and a little too late at his ice wraith's balls; the mirth dissolved into an eventual giggle, spread into a brown-toothed grin.

But it vanished.

"You wouldn't talk so highly -- so poetically -- of your Grange if you didn't adore it. So then why would you choose to replace your bloody hill thieves and fire drakes," the girl asked, "with ours?"
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Re: Rhian

Postby Serrus » Sun Jun 22, 2014 2:09 am

"Jeromah, eh?" His words hung in the air between sentences, more a general statement than an enquiry. She'd come quite the distance. He knew little of that world, apart from the fact that their people supposedly worshipped a god of death or somesuch nonsense, and that it was probably not the sort of place a man like Serrus could make much out of a dishonest trade.

He had to think a little about her comment regarding Xanth Grange. Adore it? He didn't think his words were poetic, just honest. Honest and true to the best of his knowledge. It still didn't take from the fact that most of the Grange was just that - granges. Farmland, granaries, crops. True, it did indeed have the strong walled bastion that was Darras, with a formidable army to match it, though these days he remembered it for agriculture, and little else.

Her words seemed to hang about him for a brief moment, and he was not as quick to come up with a quick retort or jape as he usually was. He'd been to Myrkentown once before, for a brief stint. Now he was here again. Replace? It seemed a word out of place, of sorts. Not quite... right, was it?

It's men and the beasts that inhabit them that turn them ugly.

He was still walking, but for a moment he wasn't looking at the busy street anymore, but winding between trees on horseback through the fringes of a forest, snow so thick it mounded up the trunks in thick drifts. The girl watched him on the slate step of the small cottage, eyes glistened with tears, small lip trembling. A fleeting memory, a glimpse, and it was gone. Think of something else.

"I was doin' fine at first, like," he answered her calmly. "Things got rough one wintertime though. Work was short an' I fell into some coin troubles, usual stuff." He walked in the same pace, but when he blinked, he saw the forest in the back of his mind again. Not now. Look over there.

He glanced right, eyes briefly mulling over a tailor shop, clothes draped and hung in the windows and outdoors. Bright satin fabrics glittered in the sun. Green, gold, blue, and red. Crimson red. Crimson red with grey pipings. A golden griffon embroidered on a surcoat. Silver badges and pins.

"Tried t'go elsewhere for coin, y'know, scout 'round, see other places, since folks back home weren't too keen to do business some a bloke in debt, as like."

She'd cut her hair short that winter. He'd always liked it long, much as the girl liked his beard short, but she'd cut it short after he left. It draped over her neck, clammy, covered in muck and snow. She leant over a man wearing a crimson jacket and surcoat, her hands tearing at the fabric, yelling, screaming, sobbing... Then she looked at him with cold eyes. Years ago the same eyes had smiled and laughed when he came home for the summer, but now they were cold as the winter's snow, and she had bitten her lower lip so hard that it bled. The dying man was bleeding too, but his crimson surcoat and jacket hid most of it.

It's men and the beasts that inhabit them that turn them ugly.

"Basically, I made meself too many enemies," he explained, calm as a cucumber, his feet pacing lightly. "Too many enemies an' not a pot t'piss in. Figured t'was time fer me to seek me fortunes elsewhere. Y'know how it goes, aye?"
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Re: Rhian

Postby Rance » Tue Jun 24, 2014 12:11 am

"I know how it goes," she said.

But she didn't.

The girl also didn't know the depths of his recollections, the breadth of them. He fell quiet at random intervals as they watched and examined the people passing by. At the tailor's shop, she saw entirely different things in the window than he did -- she saw the poor stitches, the loops sticking like tongues out from between individual seams, the lack of time taken to marry shoulder-cuff to breast.

"I know how it goes," Gloria repeated, never turning her head away from the display of clothes, "when you're afraid to admit even to yourself why you had to leave a place that, however foul, however twisted and displeasing, you could at least call home."

Sometimes his eyes weren't here. They were elsewhere, maybe back in Xanth Grange amid the yellowed farmlands or the bitter, blowing cold. Maybe in some place he didn't want to be, a veil in front of his face, memories that were impossible to escape even in waking--

The girl pivoted on her heel, turning to stand in front of him. Even for her height, she had to tilt up her chin to look at him, the sweat-stained folds of her bonnet snapping listlessly, trying to break the knotted ribbon on her chin that held them at bay.

"And here," she asked him, "are you doin' fine, Serrus Belcaw? Were fortunes and pots to piss in worth leaving for?"
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Re: Rhian

Postby Serrus » Tue Jun 24, 2014 1:37 am

It's easy to bury your troubles, another thing to bury your regrets. The dream the night before in this case had been harsh to remind him the things he'd lost, even though the decade and a half or so that had passed since then made his recollections clouded in clarity and judgement. It was the way some people dealt with things - bury them in the past until you were certain they were no longer a concern. Every so often they'd crop up again, an old complaint surfacing like an old wound, but you just buried them all again, each time with a larger shovel of denial on top. By tomorrow, he'd forget again, though right now he didn't have the luxury of drinking himself blind until he couldn't think about it anymore. Most of the time the drink made it worse, and though the man enjoyed drinking, he rarely enjoyed anything in excess.

Standing before her, the man was hardly a giant. A smidgen short of a fathom, or six feet. Taller, but it was hardly the significant margin compared to her and the simpleton he'd come across the night before.

"Bloody hells, woman," he replied amusedly, eyebrows raising upwards. "I only been 'ere near a day or so. Bit early t'be callin' them watches, innit?" True, he'd visited Myrkentown before, but that had been a short stay with prospects leading him elsewhere. "Ask me that question later, when our contract's over." He pushed off at an angle to turn and walk at her aside, where a narrower Sawyer Lane ran west towards The Hollows.

"I'm goin' this way," he announced, inclining his head toward the narrow street that would take them toward the slums. He didn't know the woman's disposition, she sure wasn't a noble as far as he could tell, but he supposed the seedier areas of Myrkentown were possibly not to her tastes, correct or no.

"I'll send you a messenger later, or summat," he farewells. "If we're plannin' t'be out an' about killin' them werefolk, I'll need t'get meself organized. I'll also be needin' some specifics 'bout this werewolf lot from you later, as I don't intend t'find meself stumblin' 'bout them woods like some Priestess lost in a brothel."

With that, he offered her a smug grin and turned away, walking in the direction indicated. As far as he saw it, this was the practical end to their conversation.
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