03-12-2017, 03:08 AM
Following my display of force, Violent Angus and Cutter pick themselves up off the floor and do their very best to look irritated and dangerous, not uncertain and afraid.
"I think," says Chatterly, all of the tension draining from his body, "That perhaps we should continue this outdoors."
I'm satisfied enough by the lackeys' fear to agree to their master's suggestion.
We spend the rest of the evening walking and talking. For hours we walk in circles through the village streets discussing the caravan Chatterly wants me to destroy - its defenses, its cargo and crew. All the while, I watch the village of Holmwood go through the motions of its evening rituals. The people vanish from the streets, retreating indoors or filtering out to the surrounding farms. Very soon the four of us are alone, lit by the dim glow of tame fires as we roam between the red-stone buildings and duck around trees: light from the windows of the town.
Many times I stop beside those shining portals, and watch the goings-on inside while my well-dressed shadow continues to talk. I watch people eating their dinners, or sitting with their families. I observe a tinkerer at his bench and a smith working late in his shop, sweating by the light of the forge. At every stop, I interrupt Chatterly's ongoing briefing to demand an explanation.
He provides me with every detail I ask for, so long as I don't inquire any further about him, or the reason (that is, his reason) why I'm going to ruin the caravan.
By the time the lights of Holmwood have all gone out, there's little more left to say about my task. However my gray-haired employer (which is a term with a cloying whininess that, while horrible, captures its meaning well) isn't entirely convinced I've been listening. He insists on going over the details one more time.
"It's critical that you understand," he says, standing beside an old stone well on the southern edge of town. Above our heads, tree branches moan in the midnight breeze. His cloak flaps, snapping sharply, and his henchman do their very best to loom menacingly in the dark - a power they don't actually (in my estimation) possess.
"I do understand," I tell him, annoyed. I cross my arms over my chest and glare. "I walk north for a day, following the road out of Harnburg valley until I reach a crossroads with a large burned building nearby, and a signpost indicating Harnburg, Minis Tirith, and Shatterdun. Then I wait until the caravan arrives, and I destroy it utterly. After that, I come back here and you pay me what I'm owed. It's a not a complicated idea"
"Yes," says Chatterly, irritatingly calm. "Capital. You might be surprised how many Primes have problems following basic instructions. Just remember - no survivors. And if you implicate me or my employer in any way, you'll get nothing."
I grin. I would have burned the caravan for free had I run into it in the course of events, but the lure of currency, and thus Omnilium makes it a more urgent matter. The fact that he thinks he could keep me from my due reward is almost funny. If this well-dressed fool attempts to renege on this arrangement, nothing will stop me from finding him, taking what I'm owed and destroying him. Of course, that was his fate since the moment I set foot in this vibrant little world. But if he betrays me (and what an odd idea that is. The only creature that's ever been a position to betray me before is Gigan, and he was far too scared of me to try) it will happen faster.
"In order to reveal something," I say, " I would have to know something. You still haven't told me anything about yourself, Chatterly. It's very frustrating. How am I supposed to properly appreciate you if I don't know anything about you?"
Violent Angus frowns. "Hey. Wuzzat supposed to mean? Sounded like a threat. 'm an expert in threats, and I'm pretty sure that was a threat."
Chatterly ignores him, putting up the hood of his cloak and pulling it tighter against the breeze.
"I'll make you a proposal, King Ghidorah. If you complete your task to my satisfaction, I'll tell you more about the reason for this arrangement. Perhaps you'll even get to meet my employer. Do we have a deal?"
My grin widens. Looking into his eyes, I fancy that I can see my fangs flashing in the moonlight.
"We certainly do."
The sun is setting again by the time I reach the crossroads. In the middle of a broad field full of tall, dry grass and large, red boulders two dirt roads meet. A signpost stands beside it, and the blackened stone skeleton of a three-story building looms in the meadow nearby. It reeks of bygone tragedy, and as I explore the area, my scales gleaming like fire in the molten dusk, I keep tripping over old bones.
"I think," says Chatterly, all of the tension draining from his body, "That perhaps we should continue this outdoors."
I'm satisfied enough by the lackeys' fear to agree to their master's suggestion.
We spend the rest of the evening walking and talking. For hours we walk in circles through the village streets discussing the caravan Chatterly wants me to destroy - its defenses, its cargo and crew. All the while, I watch the village of Holmwood go through the motions of its evening rituals. The people vanish from the streets, retreating indoors or filtering out to the surrounding farms. Very soon the four of us are alone, lit by the dim glow of tame fires as we roam between the red-stone buildings and duck around trees: light from the windows of the town.
Many times I stop beside those shining portals, and watch the goings-on inside while my well-dressed shadow continues to talk. I watch people eating their dinners, or sitting with their families. I observe a tinkerer at his bench and a smith working late in his shop, sweating by the light of the forge. At every stop, I interrupt Chatterly's ongoing briefing to demand an explanation.
He provides me with every detail I ask for, so long as I don't inquire any further about him, or the reason (that is, his reason) why I'm going to ruin the caravan.
By the time the lights of Holmwood have all gone out, there's little more left to say about my task. However my gray-haired employer (which is a term with a cloying whininess that, while horrible, captures its meaning well) isn't entirely convinced I've been listening. He insists on going over the details one more time.
"It's critical that you understand," he says, standing beside an old stone well on the southern edge of town. Above our heads, tree branches moan in the midnight breeze. His cloak flaps, snapping sharply, and his henchman do their very best to loom menacingly in the dark - a power they don't actually (in my estimation) possess.
"I do understand," I tell him, annoyed. I cross my arms over my chest and glare. "I walk north for a day, following the road out of Harnburg valley until I reach a crossroads with a large burned building nearby, and a signpost indicating Harnburg, Minis Tirith, and Shatterdun. Then I wait until the caravan arrives, and I destroy it utterly. After that, I come back here and you pay me what I'm owed. It's a not a complicated idea"
"Yes," says Chatterly, irritatingly calm. "Capital. You might be surprised how many Primes have problems following basic instructions. Just remember - no survivors. And if you implicate me or my employer in any way, you'll get nothing."
I grin. I would have burned the caravan for free had I run into it in the course of events, but the lure of currency, and thus Omnilium makes it a more urgent matter. The fact that he thinks he could keep me from my due reward is almost funny. If this well-dressed fool attempts to renege on this arrangement, nothing will stop me from finding him, taking what I'm owed and destroying him. Of course, that was his fate since the moment I set foot in this vibrant little world. But if he betrays me (and what an odd idea that is. The only creature that's ever been a position to betray me before is Gigan, and he was far too scared of me to try) it will happen faster.
"In order to reveal something," I say, " I would have to know something. You still haven't told me anything about yourself, Chatterly. It's very frustrating. How am I supposed to properly appreciate you if I don't know anything about you?"
Violent Angus frowns. "Hey. Wuzzat supposed to mean? Sounded like a threat. 'm an expert in threats, and I'm pretty sure that was a threat."
Chatterly ignores him, putting up the hood of his cloak and pulling it tighter against the breeze.
"I'll make you a proposal, King Ghidorah. If you complete your task to my satisfaction, I'll tell you more about the reason for this arrangement. Perhaps you'll even get to meet my employer. Do we have a deal?"
My grin widens. Looking into his eyes, I fancy that I can see my fangs flashing in the moonlight.
"We certainly do."
***
I leave Holmwood in the early hours of the morning following a wide dirt road marred by hoofprints and the tracks of wooden carts, and walk for the rest of the night and most of the following day. North of the valley the landscape opens up into grassland and hills, speckled with sparse forests and sparser farms. The countryside is teeming with life - birds and insects (so many different kinds!), and four-legged beasts. I keep myself entertained as I travel by subjecting them to the cosmic fury of my golden lightning. I miss more often than not, but the successes make up for the failures, and I leave a trail of charred and broken bodies in my wake - small winged forms burning by the roadside and mammalian carcasses steaming in the grass as they cool.
I meet few people on the road, and the rare travelers I do encounter do their best to avoid me. The first two I chase down. I drag them behind me by their legs as I march towards my goal, asking them questions until I feel informed enough to properly appreciate what they bring to the world.
One is a farmer's son, traveling with the intention of finding something to do with his life that's more interesting than his father's business. He tells me about his childhood, the summoning of his family by a Prime in need of serfs, and the slow drudgery of his days. He talks of nights spent reading a book he bought for a handful of cheese from a traveling peddler, and his ill-defined romantic ambitions. He is a fairly simple young man, but his dreams are colorful and grand. He burns beautifully.
The other is a fledgling wizard, though his meager powers prove to be no match for my own. Balls of fire and shards of ice are unable to overcome my effulgent natural armor, and mystic bindings prove futile in the face of my overwhelming strength. After I break his hands he tells me all kinds of things. I learn about the flying city of Dalaran, and the political structure of this place. I learn more about Minis Tirith, and its ongoing conflict with the great city of Coruscant, and about the little pocket-realities - so called 'verses' - which make up the world I now inhabit. The mage tells me about his training under the masters of Dalaran, his research, and the quiet dignity of academia.
I smash his body against a tree and leave him crumpled in the grass. The ruin of such a unique font of knowledge leaves me tingling.
The sun is setting again by the time I reach the crossroads. In the middle of a broad field full of tall, dry grass and large, red boulders two dirt roads meet. A signpost stands beside it, and the blackened stone skeleton of a three-story building looms in the meadow nearby. It reeks of bygone tragedy, and as I explore the area, my scales gleaming like fire in the molten dusk, I keep tripping over old bones.
Investigating the ruins yields little new information. They remind me of the inn in Holmwood, and I'd assume they were once a similar establishment.
I wish I could have been here to see it burn.
Satisfied for the time being, I settle down in the middle of the road to wait for morning, and the arrival of the caravan.
Quote:1307 words according to wordcounter.net
5327 words total out of 5000 words minimum.
-travel to a human duchy: accomplished
-find a post soliciting for the services of a 'rakish individual': accomplished.