The third leg of the escort ended in Aethin Wod, one of the northernmost towns of Rilleon that bordered the destination realm of Echavin. It was a similar settlement to Sarcinel. A large but less imposing castle than their southern cousin’s stood atop the highest hill in town. Bountiful forests allowed for the town to have more numerous wooden structures than the previous two stops.
Exhausted and dirty faces followed Valentin through the streets. His visage was no different. The vigilance required during this leg to safeguard their horses and supplies from desperate and overeager beggars had left the warriors sleep deprived, hungry, and moody. Things were not helped by the grayed skies that they traveled beneath. The lack of Ortus’ nourishing blessing sapped the warriors of their strength and weighed their eyelids down.
Valentin was not exempt from such a condition. That was why he ignored the soft rumble of the mask against his leg. All of his focus was on arriving at his destination. It did not move for long, returning to an inert state after only a few seconds. Valentin could not tell if it was the mask speaking to itself or if was upset by yet further avoidance from his grandson.
Crossroads Inn would house the escort this night. The large building sat on the intersection of the two primary roads that crossed through Aethin Wod and offered enough rooms to host and group of their size. Another rowdy tavern on the first floor implied a drunken night akin to the one from ten days ago. However, this time, there was a fixture within the tavern that gathered Valentin’s interest.
Along one of the walls of the tavern sat a space to play Seren’s Strategy. Unlike many games that had simple requirements for creating play conditions, Seren’s Strategy required far more resources to prepare. The most intensive of these resources was the board itself. Like the battles that the game wished to emulate, topography and structures were required to add the strategic depth that the game needed.
This specific board offered a region that appeared much akin to the town of Aethin Wod itself. The town sat in the center of the board with some hills and forests surrounding it. Several markers were places in and around town to identify the various conquest points on the board. The only fixture missing to make a perfect miniature was the castle.
“I see you are fond of my setting,” the voice of the innkeeper remarked from behind the bar. “It took me three cycles to build that.”
“I would love to try it out for myself when you have the time,” Valentin replied with an uncharacteristic excitement that gathered the attention of a few of the warriors accompanying him.
“If you are still sober later tonight, I will be sure to show you how we play up here. No drunks are allowed near my masterpiece!” The innkeeper shouted, evoking memories of numerous near misses and small damages incurred over time.
That suited Valentin just fine. He had no great need to drink in the face of a far more interesting activity. He moved to a vacant room to kill time until he could play. This leg had been especially mentally draining for the warriors and a nap sounded alluring in his ears. He would not make the same mistake that he had with Guain. This time, his room would be for him alone.
The mask vibrated again once Valentin had separated himself from everyone else. He found it peculiar how often his ancestor was trying to reach him today. However, as soon as his back hit the straw mattress, he was helpless to do anything but sleep.
His sleep was dreamless, his mind and soul too exhausted to even provide him with visions. In his mind, his eyes opened instantly after they closed, but the grogginess that enveloped him told him that he had been down for a while. He stumbled about in the now dark room in an attempt to regain his bearings. His mind, shielded from the passage of time, suddenly felt the full effects of his rest and sent him reeling.
He stumbled out into the dimly lit hallway and heard the full force of the revelry happening below. Peering over the balcony, Valentin spotted the majority of his warriors intermingled with the rest of the guests of the Crossroads. He was baffled at how quickly color had returned to their dreary faces. Their arms locked and the voices belting the same songs as he heard before.
The young deggan slithered down the stairs, the breath of life yet to fill his lungs. His disheveled appearance was almost instantly spotted by his compatriots who hurriedly rushed over to greet him.
“Deggan Valentin,” Kerwin said with a toothy grin. “Where have you been? Have a beer!”
“Resting,” Valentin replied curtly. “I have to decline tonight. I have an important arrangement with the innkeeper and I must be sober for it. All of you can drink as much as you want as long as you wake up in the morning.”
Enthusiastic cheers rang in Valentin’s ears as the drinks poured even more freely than they had before his arrival. Whoever crafted the tables was an unsung master of their craft. Hefty bodies leapt atop them, drink overflowing from their mugs. The partiers danced clumsy jigs and belted bawdy songs from their hometowns. Those that did exceptionally well, or exceptionally poorly, would be tossed brass coins by the onlookers.
Fortunately, Valentin was not corralled into the center of the revelry and was able to drift towards the peripheries of the tavern. His stomach roared for sustenance found in a sizable meat pie. Reverberations from his stomach attempted to coax his mouth to scald itself to speed up the process.
“There you are,” the innkeeper greeted Valentin.
“Hello,” Valentin greeted in kind. “I hope you came my way to offer me a match instead of complaining about my deg.”
“While you have brought a lively bunch with you, it’s nothing that we haven’t dealt with before,” the innkeeper stated with a chuckle. “Now, how about you finish your meal and meet me over by the board.”
“You’ll see me soon,” Valentin agreed. He blew on the steaming spoonful before tentatively delivering it into his mouth.
“Good. You better be half decent or I’ll be disappointed,” the innkeeper bantered.
“I’ll try not to disappoint then.”
After finishing his meal, Valentin returned to his room to grab his pieces for his match. He stored his pieces within a small wooden crate stuffed with straw to prevent damage during transit. Any Seren’s Strategy player that did not respect their pieces was not an opponent that interested Valentin.
Valentin found the innkeeper patiently waiting at his board. He took the opposite seat. The innkeeper’s pieces were already lined up at the bottom of his board for Valentin to scout. Silver armored warriors of wood readied their little spears and gazed upon their artificial battlefield in wait of their opponent. Their stern, expressionless faces waited for the violent affair that would soon commence.
“My name is Arlen,” the innkeeper introduced himself. He reached out his arm to shake Valentin’s hand.
“Valentin,” Valentin returned the greeting.
Valentin cracked open his chest to display his own pieces. Little black armored soldiers with green capes suddenly descended onto the miniature battlefield. Their highly detailed brigandine plates shined in the candlelight. Pained and jubilant expressions alike were carved into their faces by a steady and seasoned hand. Wooden steeds with multicolored coats stood nearby; their manes made of string fell to either side of their necks.
“Those are some stunning pieces that you have there,” Arlen complimented. “Would you mind if I took a closer look?”
“Not at all,” Valentin consented. Inexplicable pride welled in his chest whenever someone truly appreciated his pieces. While he would not have regretted his decision to commission them regardless, it always felt nice to be complimented.
“Who crafted these?” Arlen inquired thoughtfully. His gentle hands and discerning eyes brought peace to Valentin’s soul.
“An artisan from Corvello named Henri made these,” Valentin explained. “He makes the pieces of many a noble from the region. I heard the High Tiarna of Martelle owns a similar set. Yours are well designed and well cared for. I can see that you are a truly player.”
Arlen looked at Valentin’s pieces with a tinge of envy. However, that did not stop him from offering a warm grin as he returned the little warrior to its owner.
“Would you like some sort of advantage?” Arlen offered. “Obviously, I will allow you to have the first turn and placement as it the first time you’ve seen this board. But, I am willing to allow you an extra piece if it means allowing for a competitive game.”
“In battle, those that defend have the advantage of mastery over terrain,” Valentin explained. “Since you are the builder of the board, there would be no game without you. Feel free to take full advantage of your efforts. Of course, if I am trounced, I may take you up on that offer. For the sake of fun.”
“You have more honor than most,” Arlen complimented. “I hope that you are able to put up some kind of fight. Please, go ahead when you are ready.”
Valentin, after a quick inspection of the board, decided to begin his setup atop the hill that lacked the castle. He rotated the table around so that the chosen terrain faced him and set down his pieces. His spearmen stood on the slope while his archers stood at the top. He left the decorated horses on the side of the board. Instead, he opted for more infantry to occupy the town more effectively.
“Hmm,” Arlen hummed to himself. Crucially, he did not reveal his emotions to Valentin.
The opponent’s pieces lined up near the tree line on the opposite side of the board. Formations were arranged in a similar way to Valentin’s outside of a small detachment of horses that stood closest to the roadway.
As a result of Arlen’s courtesy, Valentin was also able to go first. He naturally descended upon the mock Aethin Wod with his full forces and entered the periphery of the town at the end of his turn. His piece movements were sluggish and methodical as he inspected the town closely for ideal points of interest on his side of the fight. Perhaps, as a result of pride from Arlen, the strongest looking structure marked for conquest on the board was, coincidentally, his own inn.
Arlen pushed his cavalry deep into the town while his foot soldiers reached about the same depth within the town. On the next turn, the horse would likely take control of a marked barracks in the northeast of town to take an early lead.
Valentin decided not to waste any of his resources in dislodging the enemy horsemen and pushed deeper towards the center of town. His heavily armored vanguard lagged behind his quicker forces who already began setting up positions along marked area. Warriors hoisting javelins fortified themselves in a building by the well.
Arlen pushed deeper. His miniature troops finally reaching a distance that allowed him to begin his attack. With the roll of the dice, a volley of invisible projectiles whistled through the air to test Valentin’s defenses. Fortunately, he had found good positions to fortify himself inside and took minimal losses from the assault. Valentin hoped that on his turn, he would be able to pin those forces down with a volley of his own.
Valentin reached the inn on his turn with his advance troop and quickly set to work on holding it while his own ranged troops peppered his foe in return. If he could succeed in holding his position on Arlen’s turn, his superior warriors would reach the inn and secure his victory.
A terse expression was molded to Arlen’s face. He took an aggressive position and ran in with the bulk of his forces to change the banners of the inn. The sounds of dice rolling in bowls could be barely heard over the sound of drunken revelry. In this small section of the inn, a battle of life and death raged on.
Valentin’s dice did not fail him. Avoiding any disastrous rolls, Valentin easily repelled Arlen’s desperate assault, prompting his opponent to throw up his arms in frustration over the foregone conclusion to the match as well as his own misfortunes.
“I give,” Arlen spat, a baleful look crossed his face. “A frustrating round with frustrating rolls. Though I suppose the advantages I gave you were somehow too generous.”
“If a few more rolls went your way on that final battle, I would have been hard pressed to wrest victory back into control,” Valentin conceded as a showing of good sportsmanship. He reached his hand across the table to shake Arlen’s.
“Bah,” Arlen dismissed, clearly disinterested in Valentin’s sportsmanlike consolation. “We play again. This time, I will play at the level you deserve.”
This time, Valentin was able to choose his starting position but Arlen would start first. Valentin rotated the table and set his pieces along the northeastern portion of the board while Arlen set up in a position further south of the hill. Arlen also ditched any of his javelin troops in favor of more lightly armored horsemen and warriors.
Valentin decided not to change much in the ways of strategy. He figured that, regardless of what he used, he was going to lose this match. It would be more interesting to scout his opponent’s ideas and make the following match the decider.
However, there was little to learn about the underpinning of Arlen’s strategy that was not already laid bare in the first game. Using the first turn to its fullest effect, he reached the central inn long before Valentin. With his fortified units, he leveraged the structures he hid behind to overcome the armor that he sacrificed to increase his warrior’s speed.
The next several minutes of fierce fighting caused the roads to run red with blood. Both sides were hemorrhaging units at a rate that would make any self-respecting tactician faint in horror. Unfeeling rulers sent warrior after warrior to battle; their fate falling to the clattering of bone cubes in a wooden bowl. Unfortunately for Valentin, his dice conspired to remove even the smallest margins of flipping the fortunes of the battle. Even though his heavily armored vanguard managed to heroically win the inn, they found that they were the only force on their side to win their engagement. Enemy banners surrounded them from all sides, ready to tear him to pieces.
“It’s my turn to surrender,” Valentin announced. He raised his hands up in a way that his first game teacher, Jonas, sometimes did.
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“It was well played,” Arlen murmured absentmindedly.
He expected Arlen to look more pleased with his victory. Outside of the expected loss in the middle, the innkeeper dominated the game. Valentin wondered if his opponent was expecting an even more lopsided victory. Perhaps losing his establishment to the enemy wounded his pride to a strange degree.
Either way, Valentin was ready to unleash a more clever strategy than the previous two games. While the map was far more detailed than most that he had played, it was deceptively one-dimensional. However, he felt as though he were being inadvertently steered into constructing strategy that was reactive to Arlen’s. If he didn’t try something new, the game would come to a boring conclusion.
“It’s growing late,” Valentin observed.
The party that had drown the tavern in noise had died down significantly. While the population had not shrunk a noticeable amount, the energy had waned considerably. Drunks with half-full cups leaned on each other and wobbled on their feet. Only those of exceptional endurance managed to carry on as normal. Dancing, like fighting, was deceptively draining. By virtue of his nap, Valentin appeared to be the liveliest of the remaining guests.
“Let’s call the next one the decider, shall we?” Valentin offered.
“Works for me,” Arlen agreed through a sympathetic yawn. “It’d be a pity if we ended things on a draw. Do you wish to pick the location you start in or take the first turn?”
“You can take the first turn,” Valentin offered, much to Arlen’s delight.
Valentin removed all of his heavy ground units in exchange for heavy cavalry and light infantry. Choosing the southern portion of the map again, he arranged all his troops in a line along the road into the town.
“Looking to make this one a quick one then,” Arlen quipped to himself.
Arlen’s arrangement was identical to the one that carried him to victory in the last match. Valentin had to assume that this was either his primary strategy or that Valentin’s own formation looked far worse than his previous one. While Valentin hoped to see one last trick from the other side of the table, if the innkeeper held course to his previous strategy, it would increase his odds of victory substantially.
Once again, Arlen sallied his units forth. The pattern of attack was identical in spirit to the last game and he pushed deep within the town. He split his forces into several clusters and directed them towards the nearest conquest points.
Valentin’s force, headed by a small contingent of armored horses, took advantage of the main road and pushed rapidly into town. While he had made no moves of the conquest points near his starting point, he was much closer to the Crossroads Inn. He could see Arlen chewing on his nails in frustration; regret over spreading out shined brightly on his face.
As Valentin hoped, Arlen overcorrected. He whittled his outer groups’ numbers and attached them to his main force that managed to get within spitting distance of his inn. The carved spears of the warrior dared the leading horsemen to enter.
Much to their and their owner’s surprise, Valentin’s horses rode right around the inn and nestled themselves somewhere between Arlen’s front and rear guard. Since Arlen completely abandoned his javelin throwers, there was no way to safely remove the heavily armored cavalry without significant investment from his main force. In order for Arlen to amass enough troops to remove Valentin’s advance cavalry, he would forfeit his superior position over the inn to Valentin’s main force on the following turn.
Any traces of exhaustion were wiped off of Arlen’s face in light of the conundrum forced upon him. His eyes quickly shot between his rear forces, his main force, and the cavalry that embedded itself between them. Seren’s Strategy was a game with a thirty minute time limit to finish a turn and it appeared that Arlen was intent on using all of them to not only decide this turn but several turns into the future. His hand bounced between two different forces endlessly without conviction. Ultimately, his choice was an exceedingly simple one; he had to choose between his rear and his pride.
Arlen chose his pride. His main troops flooded in an around the Crossroads to make an unassailable defense around the central building. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he looked as though he had no slept in days.
“Go ahead,” Arlen invited, finished with his turn.
With a nod, Valentin scattered his main column to swarm all of the uncontested conquest points around. Color drained from Arlen’s face as Valentin’s cavalry annihilated his rear; the spirits of luck found no cause to support the innkeeper. While it was impossible for him to lose his inn, it was equally as impossible that he could win the match.
“I give,” Arlen said dejectedly. Still, he reached out his hand honorably to congratulate his opponent. “It’s not often that I lose on this board, especially when I am given the first move of the match.”
“You care for your mock establishment too much,” Valentin stated. “I’m sure if you were willing to abandon it, you’d probably not lose in the future.”
“I suppose that I should graciously take the advice of someone better than me,” Arlen replied. “I feel like a big fish within a small pond. How many are there that could best you in a serious match?”
“Many,” Valentin said without hesitation. “This world has far too many clever people within it for me to sit at the pinnacle. There are those that know the precise amount of units required for every attack, there are those that know the rules to a degree that they can bend them at their whims, and there are those that have a vision for the game that is incomprehensible to most players. In fact, I am not even the best player in my deg.”
Arlen didn’t answer Valentin. Instead, he looked forlornly at his home atop the board and pondered about the greater world. Valentin rose from his seat and left the man to wallow alone. While he did not understand the attachment, he knew better than to linger on another’s pain.
As he walked back towards his room, he noticed Médéric leaned against the wall a few paces away from the board. The warrior positioned himself in the optimal spot beneath a torch and contemplatively flipped through the pages of a new book. Valentin’s presence caused his eyes to drift up from the paper and towards his deggan.
“How is the story in this one?” Valentin asked with a short nod towards the book.
“It’s terrible,” Médéric replied with an exaggerated sigh. “I swear the author used this entire piece as an excuse to write a revenge story against a former lover. The scenarios of his initial downfall are… too specific and bizarre to be fabricated but the lover’s comeuppance is too righteous and convenient. It only uses flowery language as though they have no comprehension of other words. They have their head so far up their own ass that even the pages reek. Smell it and you’ll understand.”
“No thanks,” Valentin declined as he brushed the book to the side. “If it’s so terrible, then why are you still reading it?”
“It’s the only unread book I have and the seller I bought it from is several days to the south,” Médéric explained. “Besides, there is a certain amount of entertainment to be had through laughing at their blind arrogance.”
“Perhaps you should have joined the matches with me,” Valentin suggested. “Did you catch any of it from here?”
“I did,” Médéric confirmed.
“And? What were your impressions?”
“This innkeeper is gifted when it comes to making boards,” Médéric answered, closing his book on his thumb to maintain his page. “The level of detail and variety of terrain make me wonder whether he was simply blessed by the locale. However, he should never play on that board again. It was a dismal showing from you both. On a board with such innumerable strategies and opportunities for victory, you were led by the nose into thinking about the game through his objectives. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was such an untalented player, you would not have won any of those games.”
“I assume you won’t enlighten me on what you would have done instead,” Valentin replied.
“Of course not,” Médéric nodded.
“Médéric, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Valentin began with a curious tilt of the head. “But what was it that you did before you became a warrior?”
“If you wish for me to answer that, then you’d best be prepared to do the same thing, Master Guerros,” Médéric stated with a wily smirk.
Hairs pricked on the back of Valentin’s neck as he forced a neutral expression in response. He knew he should not be so quick to assume that Médéric had seen through things to such a degree. It was far more likely that he was interested in an explanation about his crafted backstory. Yet, he could not help but be disconcerted.
“Have a good night, Deggan Valentin.”
Valentin quickly moved past Médéric and continued to the stairs towards his room. Another vibration came from the mask at his waist. He raised his eyebrow at the repeated contacts from his ancestor. His hand hovered near the mask as he debated whether or not he should grab it. As his fingers got ever closer, the vibrations stopped. When his hand stopped, it vibrated again as if to ask why he hesitated.
“I’ll have Maeve speak to you tomorrow,” Valentin rationalized to his ancestor. He moved his hand away. There was no reason to take on such unneeded risk of wearing the mask himself nor did he believe the matter to be urgent.
It seemed that his logic was not acceptable to the spirit within the mask. His ancestor shook with indignation and violently clattered against his leg. It threatened to bruise Valentin’s skin through the fabric of his pants. The prideful personality held within raged at the unfitting treatment. Valentin could feel it screaming wordlessly to be listened to; to be worn. He found the desperation to be all the more unseemly and untrustworthy.
From further down the hall, he heard the creaking of a door opening. From the flickering darkness, the familiar figure of Maeve stepped into the hallway. She had the appearance of someone violently thrown from her bed. Her expression was sour; through half opened eyes, she scowled at her approaching friend.
“Having difficulty sleeping?” Valentin asked with tones of concern.
“You ask as though it isn’t your fault that I am here,” Maeve spat venomously. “That spirit has been screaming for minutes already. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Stop your tantrum,” Valentin ordered the spirit. He tapped his fingers on its forehead. “We can talk it over tomorrow.”
The mask only shook more angrily at Valentin’s command. Such a personality was not one to be timid or submit at authority. Maeve winced in pain and pressed her hands to her temples as the spiritual volume was ratcheted up higher and higher.
“Enough,” Maeve ordered. “You are just as much to blame for this situation as the spirit is. Have you chosen to disrespect the ancestors for petty reasons?”
The mask ceased its wailing as it waited for what Valentin said next. Its smiling face stared up at Valentin through eyeless sockets; mocking him for his inability to command control over the situation.
“What is it that it wants to show me?” Valentin asked Maeve.
“It refuses to say it to…” Maeve trailed off and stared angrily at the mask. After the mask vibrated softly, she continued. “It wants you to wear it and then you’ll know.”
“Why are you acting so petty?” Valentin asked accusatorily to his ancestor. “Why can you not just tell her?”
Tremors reemerged from the mask. A frustrated rumble reverberated in the hallway. Valentin looked over his shoulder to see a confused guest from another group watching curiously from down the hall. The create eye contact caused them to quickly slip into their room and out of sight.
“Since you still refuse to wear it, I will communicate for you,” Maeve said in an exasperated soft tone. “But it says that if what it shows you is of sufficient value, you have to wear it the next time that it calls for you. As a sign of trust. Now shut up and let’s go outside.”
Scolded into silence, Valentin released one more immature grumble under his breath and nodded reassuringly to Maeve. The mask also seemed to hum something towards Maeve that satisfied her. After the druid recovered her coat from her room, they made their way back to the tavern and towards the exit.
As they crossed the rapidly emptying tavern floor, Valentin could feel eyes following him. When he glanced towards the wall, he spotted Médéric’s eyes trailing him curiously from behind the terrible book the warrior was reading.
They stepped outside into the cold night. Chilled air bit at the exposed skin on his face, particularly his ears. He raised the hood of his cloak and warmed his face with the soft furs that lined it.
Maeve took a burning torch from one of the metal holders at the front of the inn and led Valentin down the street northwards. The mask hummed directions to her and she would move accordingly. They passed the market and turned eastward into a more residential area. Even in the darkness, Valentin could make out the shape of the stables in the distance as well as the pulley for the well that stuck up like a large wooden finger. He quietly complimented Arlen’s handiwork again as he knew where he was without ever personally setting foot in the area.
“Have you been here in the past?” Valentin asked the mask.
“It refuses to elaborate until the deal is complete,” Maeve interpreted the masks buzzing.
“Do you think that something bad will happen if I wear it?” Valentin asked. While Aunt Yvonne seemed relatively confident that the guardian spirit would not act hostilely towards its own clan, her lack of conviction continued to put Valentin on edge.
“Such as?” Maeve prompted for further elaboration.
“You’re familiar with spirits trapped in items that try to possess their users,” Valentin explained. “The Sword of Taelor and the Jewels of Seven Maladies; stories such those. This mask gives me an ominous feeling akin to that.”
“Ah, something like that,” Maeve commented without looking over her shoulder. The mask shook but Maeve ignored it. “It doesn’t seem to be such an artifact. However, I still would not recommend wearing it too often. There are cases where even benign spirits can cause people to delve into insanity in instances where the pair become codependent on each other. As long as you don’t find yourself seeking them out to drown the silence within your head or falling in love with them, you’ll be fine.”
“I see,” Valentin replied, confident that he would not fit either of those conditions with such a being. The mask also seemed satisfied with the answer as it returned to only buzzing for directions.
However, it seemed that there was no further need for directions. The roads began to slope upwards towards the massive hill on the east side of town. They were fast approaching the end of the streets of handsome wooden houses and up the hill that housed the Aethin Wod’s fortress. Torches revealed the silhouettes of the night guards that likely watched the sole torch with some interest.
“It wants you to look at the banners by the gate,” Maeve informed.
Valentin’s eyes shifted to the black banners that flanked the gate. They rippled gently in the frigid northern breeze. He could not make out the pattern from where they were. Taking the torch from Maeve’s hand, he tentatively pushed closer to the fortifications. Step after step, he inched closer to banner. He felt keen eyes watching him; threatening him to turn away. He could not obey his better judgment to walk away; his curiosity had gotten the better of him.
The crest became clear and his blood went icy.
Two silver spears crossed the black banner. Impaled pheasants spewed their final drops of life into the world in brilliant spatters of crimson. The hunters who used those weapons to hunt for his own life found their home here.
He clenched his fists and his throat tightened under the hide tide of emotion. Hot rage boiled through his veins and caused trace sparks to dance across his skin. The injustice that all humanity felt filled his heart. These were no different than the Novesse that butchered their mother and hunted them down. Such agents of tyranny were not permitted to exist under the same sky as him; to share the same warmth under Ortus as him.
“Bothair,” Valentin spat corrosively.
He turned around to see the uncertain silhouette of Maeve. As he got closer, her face was illuminated in the glow of the torch. Shadows danced up her face, showing the grave expression that made its home upon her face.
“Are these the people?” Maeve asked without asking directly.
“They are,” Valentin confirmed tersely before turning his attention towards his ancestor. “Why had you not mentioned this when we first met?”
“It’s refusing to speak until you wear it as it has fulfilled its end of the deal,” Maeve translated for the inert relic. “Let’s go back now Valentin, there is nothing that can be done tonight.”
Valentin turned to stare antagonistically at the fortress for a while longer. He did not wish to leave this place without doing anything in response, no matter how trivial or insignificant it may appear to be. Emotions of self-hatred towards his own weakness combined with his rage over the Bothair’s violence had blended together to become and inextricable concoction of woe. He could not think of one without being forced to think of the other, leaving him with only continued bitterness.
They must suffer too. They must suffer has he had, perhaps more. Only through that pain would they truly feel remorse for what they had done to him. Only then would he feel as though he had repaid his debt to Gilles. Only then would he feel free.
“Valentin,” Maeve pleaded.
Valentin reached down and picked up a rock. He wound himself up and hurled the stone towards the wall at speed. A small boom echoed off of his fingers and the rock immediately reached the destination to make a satisfying thud of rock upon rock. Only through this pointless and foolish lashing out could he move on from this place. He turned from the fortress and faced his apprehensive friend.
“I’m ready,” he replied to squash Maeve’s apprehension.
Valentin’s mind was not present as they silently walked back towards the inn together. His thoughts were dominated with an internal dialogue about what he would do next to inflict the pain that he sought. An aggressive part of his mind wished to storm the fortress head on and annihilate all that he came across. However, that was quickly squashed by his ever present sensibilities. His circular logic and internal thoughts did not navigate him towards satisfying punishment. Every idea came with a unique set of questions and limitations that seemingly set him back to a frustrating beginning.
He lacked information.
His opponents seemingly knew much about him when they sprung their attack. Whether that was through a seer’s premonition or their own efforts, it was irrelevant. All that mattered was that he was similarly prepared for his own plan, whatever form that would eventually take.
Their reentrance into the inn offered Valentin the piece that he needed to get the information that he sought after. His revelation was one of but a handful of people that still lingered within the tavern. He stood beneath the dimming torchlight, face buried within the pages of a book penned by a resentful author. However, his eyes were detached from the page. Instead, the peered directly at his leader.
“Did something good happen to you, Deggan Valentin?” Médéric inquired behind his paper mask.
“I have a mission for you and your brother.”