It was the second year of men, several years after the end of the celestial war. The world had begun to rebuild, though scars of conflict still marked the land.

A battered wooden door, barely held together by rusted strips of iron, flew open with a thunderous crash, slamming against the stone walls of the Kyneshed Inn. The impact sent chunks of stone flying through the air, the once solid wall crumbling under the force. The door itself sagged, barely hanging onto its hinges.

Beyond the threshold lay a void of the deepest black—a doorway to nothing but darkness. A cold wind howled through the opening, biting with the icy grip of a winter’s night. The frigid breeze swept through the inn, touching the necks of those inside, sending shivers down their spines.

The room, once filled with the warmth of conversation and the crackling of the hearth, was abruptly silenced. The familiar clinking of tankards, rustling of papers, and even the comforting roar of the fire ceased all at once, replaced by an oppressive sense of foreboding. Something unseen had disturbed the equilibrium, and the patrons felt it deeply—a sense of dread, an ominous force had entered their midst.

All eyes turned toward the now-open door, squinting as they tried to pierce the blackness. Gradually, a shadow took shape in the light of the inn—a massive figure, one that seemed to fill the entire doorway. The silhouette of a man emerged, his size rivaling that of a Trakonas horse. At seven feet tall, his immense frame creaked and groaned under his own weight as he stepped inside.

He was a mountain of a man, even by the standards of the Trakonas. As he sniffed the warm air of the inn, the smell of mead and bread brought the faintest smile to his lips. Clad in battle-worn leather armor—its varying shades a testament to years of repair—this man had seen more than his fair share of war. Draped over his broad shoulders was a bison hide, the massive fur trailing behind him. The sheer size of the beast it had come from suggested that it would have taken many men to bring it down.

Another man followed him in, still impressive in size but more human in scale—over six feet tall with arms like anvils. He was clad in polished Argon plate, the green metal gleaming with a fine patina, revealing hints of the deep purple beneath. Such armor was more of a status symbol than practical protection—its polish and craftsmanship spoke of wealth, though its effectiveness in battle was questionable.

The patrons quickly turned their gazes away, the quiet murmur of conversations resuming, though noticeably more subdued. None dared provoke these newcomers. Wealth and power, especially when combined, were dangerous to cross. In places like this, the rich took what they wanted, and the powerful took what they needed, leaving nothing but misery in their wake.

Removing his Argon helm, Lord Victus placed it tentatively on the well-oiled bar and slowly adjusted the collar of his leather gambeson. His eyes darted around the room, scanning it as if he had only a moment to find what he was looking for. Then, his gaze stopped, locking onto a small man hunched over a table, nursing a tankard of mead. A black cloak obscured the man's features, blending him into the shadows, but Victus knew he had found his target.

“There you are, old-timer. You weren’t the easiest washed-up has-been to find," Victus sneered, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his freshly shaven face. His skin was as smooth as a Trilos egg, a stark contrast to the worn armor he wore. "Hiding in a dump like this—typical. Aren’t you going to turn around when your Lord Victus addresses you?”

A small redheaded girl tending the bar moved toward the visitor, trying to prevent any trouble. “My lord, we don’t want any trouble here tonight. Shall I set a table for you and your companion?”

“We have some Sprite nectar in storage that I’m sure you’ll enjoy.” The barkeep interrupted. “Shenna, fetch the good stuff for our esteemed guests,” The girl ran out behind the bar, as the barkeep walked to welcome the new patrons..

Victus glanced at his hulking companion, Calgar—a man built like a Trakonas horse, with shoulders broad enough to fill doorways. “Calgar, be a good man and thank our generous host for his hospitality.”

Calgar rolled his massive shoulders, each one the size of a tracker's thighs. He turned and strode toward the barkeep, a broad grin spreading across his face. Stretching out his hand, Calgar gripped the barkeep’s hand—and his forearm along with it. The poor man’s eyes widened in fear as Calgar’s powerful grip tightened.

With frightening ease, Calgar pulled the barkeep into a crushing embrace, his arms wrapping around the man like a vice. The barkeep struggled to breathe as the pressure mounted, a desperate scream dying in his throat as the sound of cracking bones echoed through the room. With a final squeeze, the barkeep’s head lolled backward, his spine snapping under the strain. Calgar released him, and the limp body crumpled to the floor in a heap.

“No!” Shenna shrieked, returning from the back with two bottles of Sprite nectar. Dropping the bottles, she quickly formed a ball of red and orange light between her hands, sparks of blue and white flickering at the edges. With a whispered word, “Sear,” she flung the fireball at Calgar’s head.

The flames engulfed his face, but Calgar merely shook his head, grinning as the fire died down. His black and yellow teeth gleamed in the dim light. As Shenna leapt over the bar, dagger drawn, Calgar backhanded her with a casual swipe. The force of the blow sent her flying across the room, crashing into the back wall. Glass and bottles shattered, embedding themselves in the shelves as Shenna slumped motionless to the floor.

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“Now that was entertaining,” Victus said, laughing as he poured himself a drink. “Calgar, you’re always so rough. When I said thank the barkeep, I didn’t mean thank him to death.”

!Hay you!” Lord Victus continued turning his attention to a young man now visibly shaking at the other end of the bar. “Young man, would you mind ever so gratefully. I think I will have a glass of that Sprite nectar after all. Bring that bottle over here.”

The young lad did as he was asked, placing the bottle with two tankards on the bar next to Lord Victus and backing away as fast as he could. Deciding to head out of the back and away from the mayhem that was unfolding.

Filling his tankard to the top and taking a long slow drink, sighing with pleasure as the warm fluid filled his inside, Lord Vitus turned his attention back to the old man sitting alone at the table. The old man had not moved an inch while all the commotion had happened apart from taking several sips of his mead.

“Old man, I’m talking to you! Are you deaf as well as stupid? I’ve come all this way, through this wretched weather, just to speak with you, and this is the welcome I receive?” Victus’ voice was rising, his temper flaring.

The old man took another sip of his mead, watching the tankard wobble slightly as he set it down, still ignoring the enraged lord.

Victus swiped a nearby tankard off the bar in frustration, sending it clattering against Calgar’s leg. He took a step forward, nostrils flaring. “Did you think you could let my workers go without consequence? Did you think I wouldn’t come for you? You owe me, old man, and I’m here to collect.”

Without turning around, the old man finally spoke, his voice soft and gruff. “Owe you? I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong man. Be off with you—your presence is chilling my mead, and your words are spoiling my peace.” He slowly took another drink from his tankard.

Calgar, not needing further instruction, grabbed a large wooden stool and hurled it toward the back of the room. The stool exploded on impact, splinters flying in all directions. Glasses shattered, and one patron yelped as a shard cut his cheek. Everyone instinctively moved away towards the back of the room and away from the old man and the approaching Calgar.

“Wait,” Victus ordered, holding up a hand to stop Calgar’s advance. “Don’t toy with me, old man. You let them go—those workers. You nearly killed Caret in the process. Four workers, five gold each, and one gold for Caret’s wages. That’s twenty-one gold, Smoke. I know who you are.”

The old man, Smoke, finally turned around, revealing a weathered face framed by an unkempt greying beard. His eyes were slightly clouded, as if veiled by a milky mist. "Caret was a brute. He beat those women for his own pleasure. And workers—workers are paid for their labor. Those women were slaves. Be grateful I didn’t kill the runt. You’ll get no gold from me. Now leave, before I add your names to the tally of the dead." Smoke answered as his hand dropped to the side.

Lord Victus and his companion shared a puzzled look for a moment, fleeting as their intelligence. "Old man you have either had too much milk of the mother or are a few whores short of a brothel. But I will be getting my payment from you one way or another. Calgar, I grow tired, get that old fool and bring him to me. "Lord Victus ordered.

Calgar, sniffed again this time not for pleasure but as a ritual before a fight, he clicked his neck one way then another and rolled his shoulders back. He clasped his hands, cracked his knuckles and took one step forward before crumbling to the floor in a heap, a dagger protruding from his left eye socket.

Smoke had watched Calgar perform his little ritual, never taking his eyes off from the man. He had loosened the strap to a small dagger tied to his ankle and just as Calgar had stepped forward launched it with such accuracy and force the man was dead before his foot touched the ground on his first and last step.

Smoke rose from his chair and picked his now empty tankard up off the table. "Now look what you have made me do, you've made me leave my chair," Smoke said to a now confused looking Lord Victus. Leave now and you can take your companion with you or stay and join him but be quick my tankard is empty." Smoke twirled the tankard around in his hand to show his disappointment of an empty vessel

The bewilderment of what had just happened turned to rage as Lord Victus turned his attention from the fallen Calgar to Smoke. He roared with anger and charged at the old man.

Smoke sighed, spun around and in one sweet movement tossed the empty tankard forward into the path of the charging Calgar, he kicked the leg of the table he was just sat at. The leg snapping off at a jagged angle. Smoke caught the broken leg with his free hand and kneeled on the floor, head down and pointing the spear-like wooden leg in the direction of Lord Victus

Smoke's movements were so fast and fluid Lord Victus didn't have time to respond, let alone understand what was happening to him. The tankard bounced lightly on the floor and came to a rest on the same spot Calgar’s foot was just about to land. Lord Victus tripped, his legs gave way and he fell face forward, onto the sharp spike Smoke was now holding.

The forward momentum worked against Lord Victus, the speed he hit the spike pierced the underside of his chin and impeded itself right up to the roof of his skull. The realization of what had just happened to him cleared in his mind at the same time the life drained from his body.

Smoke stood up, looked around at the destruction in the room and sighed. He lifted his hood over his head and casually walked out of the Kyneshed, disappearing into the blackness of the night that the two men had just come from.

“Ragson, shall we now talk, Villas may have endorsed you, but I have my people to care for, humans can not know where we live, never mind come here.” Elbis said, diverting my attention from Elbar’s story. I sighed internally, I wanted to hear more, more about the the girl with red hair, and how she created fire from her hands with just a word. But I had more pressing things that needed my attention.

“Yes, sure. Let's go for a walk or fly and we can resolve any issues you might have.”

Next Chapter 19/09/2024 12:00 GMT