The Beginning

I like a nice drink, you know? Always have. Ale, beer, mead. Bread too, I like bready things a lot. Not as a main dish, savvy, but a uh... Accoutrement. It's a Milanese word and I don't really get what the fuck they're talking about half the time, but I like the folk, good people. Their wine I could do without, though. Leaves you with the worst hangover, I'll tell you. One moment you're two glasses in and the next you're blackout drunk and end up doing something you regret... I like the lighter beverages. Just for the taste and the buzz, the heavy stuff never really got me excited. A man's game to see who's tongue or stomach fails faster. It's not what I'd call a challenge. Drink 'til your drunk, that's my motto. Everyone has a tolerance and I accept that, never go too far and embarrass yourself. Never force your friends to drink more than they should either, that makes you a bad friend.

You know, for most of my life I never had friends. Couldn't find them either, but they found me. I'm real thankful for that and I always make sure that they never drink too much. Some of them can't, but... We pour one out for them. That's what Brenn says, some old Krieg custom of wasting good alcohol as part of symbolic ritual. At first it sounded dumb, but you know... I'm doing it right now. For them, for you, for this whole fucked up universe I'm doing it.

Anyways... I'm supposed to *reflect* here. That's what they said. This story isn't about booze, or bread. I like food though! I really do, it's almost my most defining feature. But they said I need to provide some reflection that might serve as an appropriate lead-in after that botched synopsis. Guess I messed up again. See, in my later years I loosened up a lot... Maybe. Alright, alright, I'll try. Putting my dramatic, edgy face on. They said I'm 'not allowed to ramble about alcohol and shit nobody understands'. Personally? Fuck em, honestly, but uh... I guess it all has to come to some kind of 'point'. I'm bad at that, I really am. I'm not usually talkative either, trust me, but the uh... Well, we've been talking about alcohol so I guess you can make the...

–

If I were to write a story about myself, I'd most assuredly be the villain. Coming to that realization was slow, but I came to it. I saw myself for what I was, tried to resist it too. I'm certainly not perfect, but I'd like to think I tried my best. The cards just fell where they needed to. It's better this way, and the others accept me for what I am. Accepted me before I had learned to accept myself.

–

Hot bread and beer. That bread right out of the ovens that flaked into tiny bits as you pulled it apart and crunched when you bit into it, with a cold fizzy beverage to wash it down. 'Beer' they called it. It seemed an appropriate name, but it was rare. Around these parts, ale and mead were common, wine too was fairly accessible even to the common-folk. 'Beer' was new, a product of barley or wheat introduced via one successor state or another. Well, not new – it had existed for many years, it was the method of serving it chilled that was foreign to these lands. Warm, it tasted like piss, but cold? The gods would surely agree it was the greatest beverage of all.

An ice mage, or some such magical artifact was necessary to chill and keep cool the liquid to give the drinker the desired sensation of refreshment. To keep it nice, crisp, and 'carbonated', whatever that meant. By the gods, it really was good – with a mellow drunk to it too. Nothing like the bellyache brought on by the lukewarm Harani ale that left you feeling sticky after consuming too much of it. He was proud of his country, in his way – proud of their achievements. Or perhaps too damned arrogant in his own self to allow any other country to claim themselves superior to the one that had birthed him.

Bread. Some of that bubbling 'beer'. Perhaps some meat. Yes, meat sounded good right now. A nice filet - thick and juicy, running with melted fat and butter. Seared on both ends and pink in the center, they call that a medium rare. That was what he wanted after a long day of training. Then again, every day was training. It was all he knew, not that it seemed to help much. Tyr had a fair hand at the blade, quick with it too.

But he was no primus. That much was obvious, and yet another problem that had bridged a divide between... Well, him. His father, his wives. Wives! In the plural. Any man would croon for this life but he was left feeling endless disdain for it. To answer the aforementioned question, the one we breezed past, it had left a divide between him and everyone else. Except for a few chosen individuals, his 'brothers' – but they were required to act a certain way.

Tyr was the supreme disappointment, to match the legendary empire he'd been born, the greatest at this particular thing in the world. They let him know, too, those who were 'aware', which were few indeed. The court that called him dog, mutt, halfbreed.

Once, this city had been called Fahl. Back then it had just been a trading town, a stop on the way toward the river down Arendal way that served as a beacon to merchants plying the seas. Now, as with many other kingdoms, it was just 'Haran', or 'the Capital'. Nobody called it Fahl anymore, few knew it had even held such a name in the past. Clean, orderly, perfect. That was the idea, in any case. Moving west to the sea basin to carve out the greatest defensive edifice likely known to man. Now it was just the capital and the appropriately named Northwind on the northern coast.

Tyr walked through the neat but decently populated city streets. It was nearing dusk, and yet merchants still remained on the thoroughfare hawking their various wares. Haran was like that, the capital being one of the wealthiest and busiest cities in the known world. Normal things you'd expect were being sold at this time in the evening. Mostly food, the lot of it fried. There was even a dwarf calling out about a 'fried salad', which even to the most enterprising mind must've sounded beyond ghastly.

Women of the flesh called out from shadowed eaves at Tyr and his companion – but they ignored them. No need for that, there were always women willing to offer themselves if only they knew who he was. Who they were. Not tonight though, not any night for the virgin prince himself. This was not a night for whoring, it was a night for fighting. Drinking until they were dizzy, and finding the first man to beat into a pulp that looked wrong in their direction.

That was fun. Most of them enjoyed it for what it was, a good scrap and sleeping off the bruises in a heap of garbage. Waking up the next day and regretting it all. The drinking foremost, never the fight. They all loved the fight, that's why they were chosen.

Not Tiberius, though. The famed Raven. He'd just stand there. Silent and brooding, as he was wont to do. Tyr wasn't a killer unless they deserved it. Killing came easy enough, to be sure, but the men who described the horrors of murder were all wrong. At least that's what he told himself, he was still two dozen deep, probably more – he'd stopped keeping count.

'Killing a man is hard...' They said, all those pompous 'philosophers'. A joke, that. Killing a man was as easy as thrusting a knife in their neck. No difficulty in it. None at all. Letting them live to suffer under the yoke of their own inadequacy was far more rewarding in some cases. To grip the neck of your enemy and press your weight both real and immaterial against them, screaming until your lungs gave out, spit flying from the lips until they experienced a fat dose of reality.

The 'law of the forest' some called it.

'I am the king. Here, in this place. Your superior in the only way that matters.'

I am better than you.

I win.

Here, have a boot for your troubles, right to your crooked and yellowed teeth.

It was a source of satisfaction, but not his identity. Tyr liked beating a man here or there, but not unless, again, they deserved it. A lot did, though. No shortage of those dumb louts who spoke too loud and too often for their own good. He didn't hate them before, during, or afterward. It was simply his way. The way that had seen him punished many a time by his father. Sometimes Tiber, which seemed problematic when one considered that he'd been made what he was through a combined efforts of both men.

Why weren't they simply... Proud of him?

'You should only fight when no other option is available to you. Violence only begets violence, when will you learn?'

As if he could talk... Another joke. Tyr's father was a brutal man. Kind, in his way – noble, even, in the way men were expected to be, but not to his son. Chivalrous in deed, or something, that's how the people regarded him.

To Tyr, he was just 'father'. A real poor excuse for one, as well. Cold, distant, and calculating.

Such things are better thought of in the earlier hours of day... Tyr thought to himself, shaking his head free of frustrating thoughts. The goal here wasn't lambasting his father, it was to enjoy himself. To allow Tiber to enjoy himself as well – if he could. Tyr cared not how the old man felt, not truly, only that he was fed and healthy. A strong, reliable sword was what he needed, and what he'd get. Then again, Tiber was still family, maybe he did care. But considering whether he did or not... That was complicated.

The prince was decidedly not like the others.

Some bread, a cold beer, and something... Meat, perhaps the edible kind. If not, the women. Not to sleep with, not to embrace, not to touch overmuch. Just to feel, sometimes, but those times were rare. Tyr remained a virgin, and would remain one until the end of his days – it was forbidden for a primus to see flesh out of wedlock. Sometimes he just liked the warmth, how they would ding to him, comforting him if only for the coin he offered.

There were always women that would throw themselves on his lap what with his looks. High cheekbones, a strong jawline, the snow white hue of his long hair. Unique, they said – but in the castle they just called him 'mutt'. Always behind his back though, not many men brave enough to say it to his face. He wasn't a primus, but few would care to stand his opposite in a test of honor.

Honor.. Tyr almost laughed, before he once again shook his head free of thought. He was brooding this night after a particularly fierce reproach. Not from his father this time, but his step mother. She was a kind girl, but... She wasn't his mother. That fact remained. She tried her best, and all things told – he hated her for it. It seemed strange, to hate her for that. Even he could understand how bizarre of an action that was.

But hate her he did. That kind, beautiful young woman no more than two years his senior. She tried... And that was... Wrong? Why bother him? Why interrupt his way of living? That was a problem for Tyr, and he couldn't help but feel the way he did. Charlotte wanted him to lay with one of his wives, to begin the process of bearing a son, a grandson to the Great Lion of Haran, perhaps one with actual powers.

I need to stop... Bread and beer, bread and beer. I think it's about time that I got it over with, lay with a woman. Eventually.

He wasn't one for whoring, nor for worse things, consent was the law in both the old dusty books and his heart. Tyr would get away with it too, things like that were excusable here – with the right circumstances, laws be damned. It made the bile rise in his throat, spitting on the well fit slabs of the street at the thought of it.

Tyr was a scoundrel, perhaps. A rogue, most certainly. A profligate? He wasn't that far gone, and he wasn't so desperate as to spend his hard earned coin on the flesh either. Not yet, perhaps in the years when he grew long in the tooth he could stomach it. If only to bait his father into another rage. For now, it was a matter of pride. Pride and respect for the women that offered him body and soul based on nothing but their consideration of his heritage. That made him sick, too, but at least it'd be consensual.

There were a lot of things wrong with the world. Women were not one of them. Maybe they were, maybe that's why he was forbidden to touch any but his wives. And they... Tyr sincerely doubted any of the three would have him. Not now, not ever. He was not loved, nor even liked, by them or any other person on this gods forsaken earth.

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“Your--” Tiberius tried to call out to him, stalking his every step as he did so often. Always hounding him, always lecturing, posturing... All sorts of unpleasant things.

But, he wasn't an unpleasant person. Loyal to a fault, dogged even. He was a handsome man despite his advancing age, with thick black hair combed back in gentle waves – a shock of gray around the temples to announce his middling age to all observers. Wiry, but powerful, he was tall too. Not quite as tall as Tyr, but well built as a man of the plate so commonly was. A good knight, his knight. Or at least the captain of his late mothers household guard. Close enough, Tyr supposed. The man had no master to return to, and his father had – in his grace – allowed Tiberius Scarr to continue in Tyr's service.

This time, as the bodyguard of the prince. Something like an uncle after all this time.

But only him, the others had left. Sobbing and weeping as the men who had met his mother would often do. A magical woman. Kind, soft, and wise. Stern, though. Capable of making the cheeks of men sting by either hand or simple word. Scathing, at times. It didn't matter, she'd just had a way about her. She'd died three years ago, and Tyr still missed her. Ever since, he rarely spoke to his father. Only when he wanted to shout at the 'boy' would Jartor Faeron call on his son. A 'boy' of seventeen winters, one year beyond the entry into manhood, but still just a 'boy' in his father's eyes.

“Not the time, Tiber.” Tyr didn't even turn to his escort, waving him off. Lost in his thoughts, dark and brooding just like the man in pursuit of him. 'Tiber' as he was called by his charge, allowed the young man such informality. He had known Tyr since the days when he was swaddled in cloth and capable of naught but an unsteady mewl. Always smiling, back then. Not now, unless there was a pint in his hand or a sword at the throat of an opponent. Not the way of a knight, not here – in these... Slums. But Tiber had not always been so shining a knight himself, all men had an origin. A past, what had come to define them. Most of his life had been spent holding the blade of an aggressor. All for material gain, in service to perhaps the darkest god of them all.

'Slums'... What a bizarre term. Haran was rich, one of the wealthiest empires on the continent, and even the slums displayed this wealth. Not wholly, you'll understand – the buildings therein were about as downtrodden as the people. That is to say... Not much. There was always work in the country, and fair sovereigns to earn for an enterprising individual. Poverty was uncommon, very uncommon, especially here in the capital city. It was the posturing and pompous arrogance of the nobles that had named it such.

'Slums' – as if they couldn't have called it the 'common district' or some such. It was where the unlanded commoners permitted to live within the city resided. 'Old Town', once upon a time – though few referred to it as that anymore. It wasn't clean, but it wasn't particularly dirty either. If one were so inclined to make a mess of the streets, the kingsguard would be on you. Men loyal only to the crown, sworn to silence until their first three oaths were completed, regardless of their difficulty. Many of them were soundless, like hawks, eager to beat any man or woman brave enough to break the law of the capital down into the dirt.

Of course, who wouldn't? Once given a sword, a blade, an axe, a spear... It was meant to be used. Just... It was hard to understand why the hand was so heavy when dealing with the lower classes – often for such simple 'crimes'. Thus, the city was almost impeccable in its orderliness, the crime rates were low, and people behaved. Perhaps there was a point behind it all. Or to be found between the well shaped, white stone, laid in near perfect lines to form their well maintained streets.

Tyr knew it was different elsewhere in the Harani Empire, but he hadn't traveled much. Not after the first few incidents of him sneaking out of the city to hunt some quarry before being clubbed on the head and dragged back into the palace by Tiber. There was a comedy to that. The man wasn't a servant, not truly – more like a warden, Tyr enjoyed his company nonetheless. That was a devil with the blade, superior to near all men in the keep.

“Fine.” Tiber sighed. “But no fights. Please, I implore you, your father--”

“Ah, ah. I know.” Tyr groaned. “My father, my father. I get it, I'll try not to cause you any trouble.” He didn't believe his own words, and neither did old Tiberius.

It was good though. The bread, that is, well worth the prospect of trouble. Hood held low over his face, Tyr was hard to make out from the crowd – remaining as inconspicuous as possible. Not such a strange thing in a place like this. Picking at the flaky loaf and enjoying the sensation of it melting on his tongue.

The ale... Ah, no – the beer! It was good, too. The meat? Not so much. The 'Dancing Lady' wasn't much for meat dishes. Nothing like the castle, but the rest of the menu was palatable enough. It was a dimly lit place, a 'hole in the wall' if he'd ever seen one - resting in the bowels of another brothel. A 'tax free' establishment of paneled oak and grimy glasses, not strictly legal in these parts, but coin in the right hands could make any constable lax in their duty.

Corruption was rare in Haran. Always had been, even more so under the rule of the current 'emperor' – some two centuries long. But it happened. It'd always happen. The greed of men knew no fear of the noose so long as they felt secure. Heavy in the pockets. Much good it did them, hanging from the gallows as limp as the rapist or the murderer. All equal in the eyes of justice.

“So good...” Tyr struggled through a mouthful of this, and a mouthful of that. The place was packed and brimming with patrons of all kinds. Humans, beastkin, even a few dwarves. It was a rowdy lot, but honest in all the right ways. Men who lived by copper, silver, or steel if the red was on them. His crowd, the 'rogue' that he fancied himself.

The mutt prince vagabond, consorter of whores, scoundrels, and other ilk of lesser repute than what would be preferred of him.

“As you say.” Tiber's lips were pursed, nursing the drink that Tyr had foisted upon him time and time again, never allowing the man to go dry when in 'good company'. He didn't find it 'good' at all. These people were strangers. He didn't mind commoners, but beastkin allowed to dine in the capital? It was near to bursting – that vein on that forehead of his. “May I speak freely, prince?”

“You'd do it even if I refused you the privilege, old man.” Tyr tilted his head in confusion, a vague raising of his brows to indicate an exaggerated surprise. Tiber was like that – always had been. So respectful even in his reproach.

Tyr was not. He expected honesty, not a duty-bound sense of respect or fawning praise. These, in both his fathers opinion as well as his own, were the signs of a weak man. Tiber wasn't weak, but he was traditional. A bit too traditional, truth be told. And he hadn't always been this way, Tyr missed the man Tiber had once been, the one who would quip with his mouth and slap with his hand. Those were better days, though, when his mother had been alive. Replacing Rufus as Tyr's caregiver, but try as he might – the prince remembered no man going by the name 'Rufus'. He just knew that he'd been important, once, a memory lost to match the others.

The din and clamor of the subterranean inn nearly drowned his words, but Tyr heard them well enough.

“Why do you insist that we come here?”

Tyr nearly laughed at the old man, repeating himself time and time again. Every time one of these underground speakeasies were closed – he'd find the next through various connections. The 'rogue' side of him that the knights spat on and the powdered nobles in the capital snickered at behind his back.

'The mutt.' Haran was anything but accepting. Not of beastkin, not of his foreign mother – and not of their prince. He was, perhaps, the first heir ever not of pure Harani blood. Oresundian heritage ran through his veins, the 'oldblood' as they called it. He never took much insult to the offense they glared at him with, learning to deal with it after a time. Tyr loved his mother, always had, even in death. And he always would. His heritage was a source of pride, nothing more and nothing less.

“Uncle Tiber, do you not like your bread? I can have the barkeep fetch another loaf if the freshness is not to your liking.” Tyr used his court voice, though it seemed anything of the sort as he barely suppressed the wry chuckle rising in his throat. Tiber was a serious sort, cutting through the matter and glaring at him beneath his sharp black eyebrows. Courteous in voice and tone, always, but the looks the man was capable of giving... Those were something else entirely.

Tiber shook his head. He'd get nowhere with the lad, and he knew it. 'Uncle', indeed. Tiber himself was of Milanese stock, near full blooded. They called him 'mutt', too, despite that. Foreigner, even.

Yet each and every noble in the court would chomp at the bit to claim him in their service. That was the way. Haran was a meritocracy, after all – and skilled retainers that could raise ones position were not so easy to come by. In a court run by vipers, barely tended to by the aging emperor.

'Aging', as if a 'primus' could age. They couldn't, they were immortal and invincible personages – living demi-gods if ever there was a word that could describe the power they possessed.

Tyr was lucky to have Tiber. He knew it, but that didn't mean he wouldn't tease the man a bit. Well, not a bit. Quite a lot. Always, even. But Tiber gave as he was given – and Tyr loved him for that. Even when the strike of Tiber's backhand struck the boys jaw there was love in that too, though it was rare these days. A fatherly, or perhaps 'unclely' love. Something. Tyr couldn't say if he understood the emotion at all. He lived for himself, always, as his father often observed. Self possessed. Arrogant. Prideful. Irresponsible. Blah, blah, blah.

They ate for a while, while the light outside grew ever dimmer. It was hard to tell the time down there beneath the earth, with only slits for windows to let the dense cloud of pipe smoke out. Perhaps that was a strategy in and of itself, a business sense to it. Customers would drink, unhurried, incapable of telling the time. Only hastening home in the waking hours to be hounded by their wives or sons or daughters. Maybe employers. Tyr understood that last one well, to some extent.

Many a time had he woken up with a mouth full of cotton and a haze upon him when Tiber's boot struck his ribs. 'It's time to wake up.' That was a familiar 'good morning' greeting for him. Nearly every day. Tyr liked his drink. He'd said that he liked to relax, but in all reality – he wanted to forget. To forget... Well, a lot of things. The blood, the screams, the looks – observing how much the 'mutt' he'd actually become beneath the scorn – hating the idea of being the beaten dog.

“It's good, right?” Tyr asked.

“It's very good.” Tiber picked at his loaf of bread, having barely touched the steamed fish before him. It was a shame. This city was a port city, and fresh fish were in abundance, some of the best in the entire world they said.

Thus, Tyr helped himself to the plate of it. Tiber, on his part, offered no complaint in response. That was another good thing about the man. If anything, he fed Tyr a bit too much, not that you could tell from the young man's athletic frame. It took a lot of effort to reach that state, primus or not. He'd be damned if he gave his father the self satisfaction of declaring him fit for the crown, whether by mind or body. And yet he found the act of putting on the pounds a task of great difficulty.

“Watch where you're going.” A voice, a very drunk voice growled down at them. Both men cloaked, glaring daggers at the stranger who had bumped into their table. Tyr turned his head to the side, features indistinct under the shadow of the hood.

“...The table was just standing here. Your legendary oafness chose to stumble into it yourself, and you blame us?” Tyr spat, hand lowering to the knife at his belt and wondering if he should open this man up and see if there were diamonds inside. “Why don't you go nurse that oncoming hangover of yours before I beat it out of you, yeah?”

Tiber groaned again. The young man was like that. Not quick to take offense. If so, he wouldn't have lasted all these years in the fine robes of court when he did deign to attend – and that was rare.

No, it wasn't an ill or brutal temper. It was... An almost all encompassing wish to be challenged. Win or lose, the boy would enjoy both conclusions to a matter – but he would never back down. Even when his father beat him into the flagstone of the castle floor in an attempt to tame him. Tyr would laugh. Even when the blood came to his lips, he would laugh – and laugh – and laugh. His father would stop then, sighing as Tiber often did – with a shake of his head and a purse to his lips.

Something was wrong with the boy, but accepting all challenges was it's own sort of honor – and he was a man now. Technically. Men had a right to do as they pleased, and an equally important right to accept the consequences of their actions.

“What'd you just call me?” The drunk man slurred. Not drunk – the man, more like obscenely intoxicated. Didn't know his limits, and like so many others, was completely unaware of his place on the food chain.

He leaned down over them with a revolting belch. He was the rough sort, a dockworker by the looks of him. Huge, thick in the shoulder and limb. Big hands, like the splayed legs of the crab he was likely to find himself fetching from fishing trawlers, and well muscled by the labors therein. His face, though... He had strange features, a thick blunt nose. And strangest of all, almost ebony black skin. That was not at all common in these parts, Agoron was about as far from Haran as you could get.

Tyr looked confused. He did that, most of the time on purpose. Probably all the times on purpose – he was a hard individual to read, despite his claims that he was too 'simple' for court. He stared up at the man, a single eyebrow raise. “Didn't you just answer that question yourself? You stupid ass of an oaf. Whoreson? Bastard? Lazy eyed pig of a ma--”

Before the princes words had left his mouth, the rage was already on the target of his ire. Slow, but so was Tyr – heavy with drink as he was. Neither man was immune to the poison. The drunk mans fist, near the size of a castle brick came crashing down, splitting the table clean in two.

“My fish!” Tyr cried incredulously. “Oi! If you were going to punch a man in the face, then do it you cunt! But my food!?”

The big man from the docks didn't respond, punching the young man straight in the face as he'd been asked. He had huge fists, and they hurt, too – Tyr would declare. Strong as he looked, that one. A real 'brick house' – so to speak, this dock man.

Tiber watched dispassionately as the youth was swept from his place on the bench. Normally, one would expect a knight to be a bit more concerned with their charge – but they'd both been through this before. He merely sat, waiting for the conclusion of the bout. Anything for his prince, who'd want it no other way.