Bear was, as his name promised, a large man. As a warrior, he had been known for his considerable strength and prowess with blades, hammers and his fists. He had never been one for the rifle nor the miraculists’ tricks. He was a fighter, through-and-true. He was one of few in their humble town who could tell tales of battling the hordes of Hellspawn walking the lowlands, though it was unlikely he ever would. For all his preferences in battle, he had his reservations when it came to gossip and to the dismay of his apprentices, the gritty details were his own to suffer.
Despite his long career of victories on the frontlines, he still feared the long, thin, black-coated, porcelain-masked man seated across from him in his office.
The facility had once been used to house the local guard, back when recruitment - and the city of Anza, had been far more lively. Now, it stood as an oversized barrack to house Bear, Bear’s paperwork, Isaac and their three orphaned wards. The dusty, wooden room was adorned with stuffed heads of all manner of beasts and blades with a history to rival that of Anza, yet the visitor hadn’t cared for any of it. Instead, he had stridden into the office and immediately taken Bear’s seat by the desk to read the mountain of papers in complete silence.
Well, not complete silence. The black coat creaked as his head turned to follow the text and Bear wished to nothing more than to tear that mask off so that he might see the face of the silent stranger… not that he’d live long enough to see it. These were Behemoth-killers, the Governor's finest men. Monsters of body, mind and soul - decrepit bastards only a madman would dare turn his back to… and now, right in front of him, sat one of those freaks.
“Disappointing, disappointing, disappointing…” The white porcelain mask shook back and forth. Bear remained silent, expecting the Ghast to understand that he had little to say to his defense. But the unnerving figure never looked up from the paper, not even as he continued: “The entirety of Cradle is undergoing a renaissance - our population is booming, we’re reclaiming lands and beating back the Hellspawn like never before… yet this town of yours.” He spoke of Anza with such disgust - as if it pained him to even mention it.
“There are hardly any young, your tax collection is next to nill and you cannot even deliver your wares to the Governor. He is far from pleased - nor am I.” He spoke with a nasal voice, but then again, what was Bear expecting? A normal warrior?
In comparison to the Ghast’s harsh, splitting voice and tone, Bear sounded like his namesake, booming with dark scruff: “I can’t force our people to fuck. They don’t have time for it, especially now that the grid’s suffering. I’m told they’ve laid three new cables, but they keep getting cut.”
For the first time, he was glad he could not see the Ghast’s face. He dropped the papers on the desk, straightened his back and folded his hands, stating: “You will watch your language in the presence of a servant of the Governor. Your lack of leadership and inability to solve everyday problems is why I’ve been sent here. As it stands now, you - and the rest of this town is a waste of precious space. If it were up to me, I would have you all executed and replaced by the good citizens of the Citadel. Perhaps I’d even keep you alive so you could learn from the experience…”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Bear knew what he was doing. Goading him, as if it would provoke him to strike. But he knew, better than anyone, what happened to those who would raise a hand of these servants of the Governor; if they were lucky, they’d lose the hand. If they had chosen a bad day for it, they’d find themselves losing a lot more than an appendage. That is not to say Bear was not greatly offended, but he kept his cool and folded his arms, leaning back on the chair to breathe deeply and gather the strength to go on with the pointless conversation. But he would be damned if he did not speak his piece.
“I’ve requested assistance from the Citadel and the Governor several times now. We need men to patrol those lines until we’ve strengthened our numbers - some immigrants wouldn’t be too much to ask. From what I hear, it’s crowded there these days.” The Ghast’s gloves crackled as they formed tight fists - apparently unused to people responding in kind. The old warrior knew that Officers usually responded in one of two ways to a challenge, either with great insult or with bemusement - the latter one being preferable… but from the icy cold in the nasal retort, the former sounded more likely.
“You make do with what you’ve got, Bear. What your town needs is not power nor people, you need efficiency. Your farmers need to work smarter, not harder - then they would have more time on their hands to produce young. The Order needs all its men for the push on the frontier and to keep these lands free of the Spawn… or have you mountaindwellers forgotten about the Spawn?”
This time, it would be Bear’s hands that tightened into fists. He sat up on the chair, narrowed his eyes and warned the administrator: “We’ve not forgotten. We’ve all lost family - we continue to do so to this day. You think those caravans we send aren’t staffed with our own? You think we forget about them as soon as they get down the Long Path? No - we’re widows and widowers… Orphans, all of us. If you gave a shit about us, you’d send us people who know how to handle guns and spears, not paper-pushing cun-”
The Ghast slammed the table and raised an accusatory finger at the aged warrior, warning: “Watch your mouth, mountaindweller! You are treading on my sword’s edge, balancing on heresy! I am one of the Governor’s people - a representative of his will. Are you criticizing His Eminence?” Bear leaned back on his chair, but maintained the fury in his stare. If he were to die, he’d do so in battle - not at the hands of a glorified letter-opener.
“Of course not. But I need you to understand we’re facing problems of practicality, not efficiency. We’re already busting our asses trying to deliver on the taxes. We’re sending all our food on caravans that are getting slaughtered as soon as they reach the lowlands.” The Ghast began to rhythmically drum the desk. He rose and strode towards the dead fireplace, finally beholding the bristlewolf skull mounted on the old bricks.
“Yes, you’ve fed our enemy well… but it stops now. Until further notice, Anza is under the administration of the Order of the Ghast. I will get this town into shape - a shape even a washed-up warrior cannot muck up. You may leave my office, but send your apprentices to me.
I wish to have words with them. Alone.”
Bear rose from his own seat and with his still skeptical glare, questioned: “Why? They are my apprentices - under my care as orph-”
“If you continue to question my orders, you will soon find yourself without apprentices altogether. Injuries or not - the next caravan will need guards… Do you understand?” Bear had to resist throwing the old, wooden chair at the stranger - the usurper. But the threat struck true; he could hardly do battle with a Ghast, especially in the seat of the Administrator. After measuring his foe, he despised himself for nodding agreeingly, but made certain not to signal any form of respect as he departed.
“Cunt.”