03-06-2017, 11:15 PM
(This post was last modified: 03-07-2017, 12:41 PM by King Ghidorah.
Edit Reason: Transforming word-salad into a delicious word-smoothie.
)
For the second time today - the second time ever - I find myself indoors. It feels strange, moving through such limited spaces, separated from the sky. Even stranger though is the sensation of seeing the inside of a piece of architecture. In my previous life I'd never dedicated much time to wondering what the interiors of the hives and habitats I destroyed were like, and now that I'm getting the chance to find out it's adding an entirely new layer to the memories.
The barn where I interrogated those oafs was fairly simple, with nothing inside it but masonry, piles of hay (yet another word for grass!) and racks of arcane metal implements. The inn, however, is a delight.
I'm standing in a large room with a high ceiling, occupying much of the first and second floors. Several iron chandeliers, five-spoked wheels hung with lanterns, dangle from heavy wooden cross-beams. A thick layer of sawdust crunches beneath my feet, and scattered formations of tables and chairs cluster at random across the floor. There's a low bartop with a man behind it to my right, and a shelf on the wall behind him holding several tapped kegs. An assortment of drinking-glasses and wooden mugs hang from hooks. A tattered sheet is draped across a door-frame near the end of the bar, and a stairway against the far wall leads up to a second-story balcony which encircles the room. All of the interior walls are wooden, and a fire burns merrily in a hearth at the end of the floor, far to my left.
In spite of its stone construction, on the inside this place is a tinderbox. When the time comes, it's going to burn wonderfully.
There aren't many patrons yet, so early in the evening, and those few ambitious drinkers who've already begun their slow slide to inebriation get up and leave when they see me coming, granting me a wide berth in their rush to the doors.
I let them. It's not as though they're going to run far, and I have other business.
I 'belly up' to bar (an expression gleaned from one of my erstwhile informants, although in truth the bartop only comes up to my thighs), and lay the flyer on the counter. I look toward the barkeep, stating my intent.
"Bring me Chatterly."
The barkeep is a stout, bald, dark-skinned man in a stained apron. His face is so wrinkled with disapproval and general world-weariness that it resembles an asteroid I once boiled, and his eyebrows are like a a scattering of ash atop the ridge of his brow. The man stays silent for a moment, looking me up and down, from the crown of horns protruding from my hair to my embarrassing (and by now quite dirty) trousers.
"That guy is in the back," he says, jerking his thumb in the direction of the raggedy sheet.
I stare at him. The barkeep returns my glare with eyes like blackened pits, apparently unfazed. Suddenly, inexplicably, I'm reminded of the Anomaly: the mighty saurian warrior who took my head in another place and time. Unsettled, unsure, and quietly furious about both, I choose to overlook the man's impudence.
I grunt my understanding a proceed around the end of the bar, brushing the curtain aside as I step through the doorway. The fabric has a surprisingly strong scent, tangy and dry, tickling my nose.
The back room is small, and crowded. The floorboards are piled high with crates, barrels, and untapped kegs, and it stinks of spoilage and old meat. A black-gloved hand beckons me from an even-more-ragged curtain-hung door-frame on the opposite wall.
"Oi. Biggun. In here."
I stride across the room and thrust the curtain aside - and for the first time ever I set foot in a kitchen. The floor is dirt, cool and hard, but there's a merrily blazing hearth, and an iron stove. The stone walls are lined with shelves that groan beneath the weight of jars and cans. Pots, cauldrons, knives and pans are stacked in the corners, and on every remaining available service.
The idea of having to prepare food, let alone creating an environment this elaborate to do it in, is nearly completely alien to me. The context it adds to these farmlands, and to the lives of the farmers, fills in a number of small-but-satisfying details.
In the center of the room is a square, rough-hewn table, its surface chipped and scarred. Sitting at it are three men. All of them wear dark clothes, more finely crafted than the garments of the villagers I've seen - leather cloaks, puffed-out shirts, red scarves and oiled black gloves. Such extravagance likely reflects social status, though it seems backwards to me that a person with privilege should want to wear more clothes.
One of them is big and bald, almost as tall as I and even more broad, with a face like a crater. Opposite him sits his lesser doppelganger - less tall, less bulky, less bald, and marginally less ugly (although in the case of these soft little bipeds such things are strictly relative). Both of them are playing with knives.
The third man is seated at the head of the table, between the two hulks. He's short and solidly compact, with slicked-back gray hair. His hands are steepled calmly beneath his chin, and his thin, almost blade-like face reminds me of my own.
"Which one of you is Chatterly?" I demand.
The gray-haired man folds his hands and sets them upon the table.
"That," he rasps, calm and confident, "would be me. My associates are Cutter" - he points to the man with the caved-in face - "and Violent Angus. And you, I have to assume, are King Ghidorah. You've caused quite a stir. The townspeople are talking about sending a rider to Harnburg Castle."
Violent Angus's knife slips mid-twirl and he cuts his finger, stifling a yelp. I hold up the crumpled flyer.
"Tell me what this is about."
"Hm. You aren't terribly concerned what other people think, are you? Very well. It's simple. I want you destroy something for me, and kill a whole gaggle of people in the process. In return, I'll give you a great big burlap sack full of gold - and maybe put the word around that you're not such a terribly bad person after all. Interested?"
"Extremely," I hiss, referring to Chatterly's offer, his motivations, and everything else about him and his associates. "Tell me more."
He stands and speaks, his tone almost jovial. "There's a trade caravan that's going to be passing through the moors fifty kilometers north of here the day after tomorrow. I want it destroyed - preferably burned. No survivors."
"Why?"
Cutter snorts a laugh, wheezing through the scarred ruins of his nose. "Why 'e says... hrnk-nk-nk-hnk!"
"Thank you Cutter," intones his master, dripping with patience, before turning back to me.
"As far as you're concerned, treasure." says the gray-haired man. "I'll pay you for your discretion as well as your... expertise."
I smile, showing my teeth. Violent Angus's face turns pale. " If you know who I am, and what I've been doing, then you know I'm far too curious a creature for that."
Chatterly studies me for a long moment before seeming to come to a decision. "Very well," he says. "The caravan I want you to destroy is transporting vital supplies to the County of Shatterdun. My employer doesn't much care for Shatterdun, and wouldn't mind seeing them put through some well-deserved hardship. Without those supplies, they're going to have a difficult summer. Does that satisfy your vaunted curiosity?"
I spend a second trying to decide whether or not I've just been mocked. I'm not sure, so I smash the table, just in case - and for my own satisfaction. My fists descend in a mighty two-handed blow which splits it in two! A cloud of splinters fills the air. Cutter and Violent Angus both fall over backwards in their chairs. Chatterly takes a quick step back, reaching for something beneath his cloak.
There's a brief period where nothing moves - three well-dressed men in a kitchen, a broken table, and me, shining like liquid bronze in the light of the fire.
"I'm satisfied for the time being," I tell them, basking in the afterglow of a well-used thing's destruction. "But I'll want to know more about it later. Now tell me where and when, exactly, I can find this doomed caravan."
The barn where I interrogated those oafs was fairly simple, with nothing inside it but masonry, piles of hay (yet another word for grass!) and racks of arcane metal implements. The inn, however, is a delight.
I'm standing in a large room with a high ceiling, occupying much of the first and second floors. Several iron chandeliers, five-spoked wheels hung with lanterns, dangle from heavy wooden cross-beams. A thick layer of sawdust crunches beneath my feet, and scattered formations of tables and chairs cluster at random across the floor. There's a low bartop with a man behind it to my right, and a shelf on the wall behind him holding several tapped kegs. An assortment of drinking-glasses and wooden mugs hang from hooks. A tattered sheet is draped across a door-frame near the end of the bar, and a stairway against the far wall leads up to a second-story balcony which encircles the room. All of the interior walls are wooden, and a fire burns merrily in a hearth at the end of the floor, far to my left.
In spite of its stone construction, on the inside this place is a tinderbox. When the time comes, it's going to burn wonderfully.
There aren't many patrons yet, so early in the evening, and those few ambitious drinkers who've already begun their slow slide to inebriation get up and leave when they see me coming, granting me a wide berth in their rush to the doors.
I let them. It's not as though they're going to run far, and I have other business.
I 'belly up' to bar (an expression gleaned from one of my erstwhile informants, although in truth the bartop only comes up to my thighs), and lay the flyer on the counter. I look toward the barkeep, stating my intent.
"Bring me Chatterly."
The barkeep is a stout, bald, dark-skinned man in a stained apron. His face is so wrinkled with disapproval and general world-weariness that it resembles an asteroid I once boiled, and his eyebrows are like a a scattering of ash atop the ridge of his brow. The man stays silent for a moment, looking me up and down, from the crown of horns protruding from my hair to my embarrassing (and by now quite dirty) trousers.
"That guy is in the back," he says, jerking his thumb in the direction of the raggedy sheet.
I stare at him. The barkeep returns my glare with eyes like blackened pits, apparently unfazed. Suddenly, inexplicably, I'm reminded of the Anomaly: the mighty saurian warrior who took my head in another place and time. Unsettled, unsure, and quietly furious about both, I choose to overlook the man's impudence.
I grunt my understanding a proceed around the end of the bar, brushing the curtain aside as I step through the doorway. The fabric has a surprisingly strong scent, tangy and dry, tickling my nose.
The back room is small, and crowded. The floorboards are piled high with crates, barrels, and untapped kegs, and it stinks of spoilage and old meat. A black-gloved hand beckons me from an even-more-ragged curtain-hung door-frame on the opposite wall.
"Oi. Biggun. In here."
I stride across the room and thrust the curtain aside - and for the first time ever I set foot in a kitchen. The floor is dirt, cool and hard, but there's a merrily blazing hearth, and an iron stove. The stone walls are lined with shelves that groan beneath the weight of jars and cans. Pots, cauldrons, knives and pans are stacked in the corners, and on every remaining available service.
The idea of having to prepare food, let alone creating an environment this elaborate to do it in, is nearly completely alien to me. The context it adds to these farmlands, and to the lives of the farmers, fills in a number of small-but-satisfying details.
In the center of the room is a square, rough-hewn table, its surface chipped and scarred. Sitting at it are three men. All of them wear dark clothes, more finely crafted than the garments of the villagers I've seen - leather cloaks, puffed-out shirts, red scarves and oiled black gloves. Such extravagance likely reflects social status, though it seems backwards to me that a person with privilege should want to wear more clothes.
One of them is big and bald, almost as tall as I and even more broad, with a face like a crater. Opposite him sits his lesser doppelganger - less tall, less bulky, less bald, and marginally less ugly (although in the case of these soft little bipeds such things are strictly relative). Both of them are playing with knives.
The third man is seated at the head of the table, between the two hulks. He's short and solidly compact, with slicked-back gray hair. His hands are steepled calmly beneath his chin, and his thin, almost blade-like face reminds me of my own.
"Which one of you is Chatterly?" I demand.
The gray-haired man folds his hands and sets them upon the table.
"That," he rasps, calm and confident, "would be me. My associates are Cutter" - he points to the man with the caved-in face - "and Violent Angus. And you, I have to assume, are King Ghidorah. You've caused quite a stir. The townspeople are talking about sending a rider to Harnburg Castle."
Violent Angus's knife slips mid-twirl and he cuts his finger, stifling a yelp. I hold up the crumpled flyer.
"Tell me what this is about."
"Hm. You aren't terribly concerned what other people think, are you? Very well. It's simple. I want you destroy something for me, and kill a whole gaggle of people in the process. In return, I'll give you a great big burlap sack full of gold - and maybe put the word around that you're not such a terribly bad person after all. Interested?"
"Extremely," I hiss, referring to Chatterly's offer, his motivations, and everything else about him and his associates. "Tell me more."
He stands and speaks, his tone almost jovial. "There's a trade caravan that's going to be passing through the moors fifty kilometers north of here the day after tomorrow. I want it destroyed - preferably burned. No survivors."
"Why?"
Cutter snorts a laugh, wheezing through the scarred ruins of his nose. "Why 'e says... hrnk-nk-nk-hnk!"
"Thank you Cutter," intones his master, dripping with patience, before turning back to me.
"As far as you're concerned, treasure." says the gray-haired man. "I'll pay you for your discretion as well as your... expertise."
I smile, showing my teeth. Violent Angus's face turns pale. " If you know who I am, and what I've been doing, then you know I'm far too curious a creature for that."
Chatterly studies me for a long moment before seeming to come to a decision. "Very well," he says. "The caravan I want you to destroy is transporting vital supplies to the County of Shatterdun. My employer doesn't much care for Shatterdun, and wouldn't mind seeing them put through some well-deserved hardship. Without those supplies, they're going to have a difficult summer. Does that satisfy your vaunted curiosity?"
I spend a second trying to decide whether or not I've just been mocked. I'm not sure, so I smash the table, just in case - and for my own satisfaction. My fists descend in a mighty two-handed blow which splits it in two! A cloud of splinters fills the air. Cutter and Violent Angus both fall over backwards in their chairs. Chatterly takes a quick step back, reaching for something beneath his cloak.
There's a brief period where nothing moves - three well-dressed men in a kitchen, a broken table, and me, shining like liquid bronze in the light of the fire.
"I'm satisfied for the time being," I tell them, basking in the afterglow of a well-used thing's destruction. "But I'll want to know more about it later. Now tell me where and when, exactly, I can find this doomed caravan."
Quote:1396 words according to wordcounter.net.
4020 words total
-travel to a human duchy: accomplished
-find a post soliciting for the services of a 'rakish individual': accomplished.