ROHDAR

Pilot

~I~

Tall. Wirey. Swift. He strode through the night’s heavy downpour with the hood of his dark cloak over his head, obscuring his features. The crashing thunder grew more violent. The gritty water of the city’s cobblestone streets was splashing almost to the tops of his tall, black boots. Without giving his actions much thought, the young man entered a pub, neglecting to note the establishment’s name. He had been there once, about three or four years ago, but he did not remember much because he had been sick for the duration of his stay. He stood inside the doorway and set his pale hand on the wooden boards of the wall to steady himself while he panted. The inside of the pub was warm and dry, and he could catch the scent of biscuits over the smell of alcohol. It was also quite noisy inside.

“Eskooz me,” said a friendly, though inherently gruff voice from behind the counter.

He straightened his stance and turned to face the greying old man. Probably the owner.

“Yis you,” the old man said, “Yih goin’ tuh stand dare awl noight or does yih wont a room?”

He took his wet hood off his head during the moment it took him to register the odd pronunciation of these words. When he nodded, his thick, bright brown waves of hair fell into his slate-grey eyes. “Sure,” answered his bouncy, attractive young voice, “How much is a room?”

“Tiz copporz a noight,” was the answer.

“Ten?” the young man quickly guessed.

“Yis, tin copporz. Wot’s yih name?”

“Rohdar,” he answered as he loosened the sack of coins at his belt.

“Woh-dar,” the accented pub owner repeated as he wrote the name down in the apparent log.

At least he had the general pronunciation accurate, even if he missed the first “R,” thought the handsome young man as he placed 10 small, copper coins on the counter.

“Noh iv yih could joss soyn ‘ere,” the old man said and pointed to a blank line on the yellowish paper.

Rohdar picked up the old, stiff feather, dipped the tip in the jar of ink, and scratched his name into the paper in all capitals, with the “R”s on either end of the name drawn larger.

“‘Ere’s yih key. Room’z awp stors.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Thank you,” said Rohdar. He picked up the cold bit of metal and walked towards the rickety stairs. The old key warmed in his hand. It had the number 13 on it, so when Rohdar reached the dim hallway at the top of the stairs, he found a door marked with a 13 and tried the key. It fit. He turned the key to the utterly satisfying sound of the lock unlocking, then opened the door. His bright eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, and he was able to locate a box of matches and a lamp on an unimpressive wooden dresser. The rest of the room was as unimpressive as the wooden dresser, but it was warm and he had a bed for the night. In fact, the fluffiness of the pillows and blankets suggested their being stuffed with down, which was a rare luxury for Rohdar. He unclipped the copper clasp at his throat and flung his thick, wet cloak over the stool in the corner and rushed towards the bed. Hesitantly, hopefully, he poked the pillow, then grinned.

“Ah, feathers!” he almost giggled as he dove into the bed like an excited little boy. Rohdar rested on his back for a few moments before he remembered that he was not, in fact, a little boy, but a 22-year old man. He stood, removed his pack of things from the right side of his belt, and found the lighter version of his stiff, black cloak. He put it over his broad shoulders, blew out the lamp, and went back down the stairs into the noisy, cramped pub. Rohdar did not see the supposed pub owner, but when he went to the counter, he found a pretty young lady there. She was modestly dressed in a blue frock, but Rohdar was able to note what a nice figure she had despite that. Her skin was light tan and her probably long, dark brown hair done up in a sloppy, accidentally attractive way.

“Do you have much to eat this late at night?” Rohdar asked, leaning against the counter. He guessed the time to be about an hour after midnight.

“You’ll have to wait till morning if you want anything better than a biscuit,” said the girl’s sweet, mellifluous voice.

Rohdar smiled softly, but intentionally bit his lip and looked down at his hands, “Is anything better than a biscuit on a cold, stormy night?”

“Hm, I can’t imagine,” she said and hurried to a shelf behind her. She quickly returned with a plate of six biscuits and placed it before Rohdar.

“Thank you,” he said and lifted his hand to take one.

“Two coppers,” the girl chirped with a smirk.

Rohdar lifted his dark eyes toward her brown with his lips pursed. Something about her tone and timing amused him and caught his attention. He placed two small coins on the counter and did not break eye contact with her until she had picked up the money. He rolled his eyes thoughtfully to himself and took a bite from one of the biscuits.

“Would you like a beer?” she offered.

“No thank you,” Rohdar answered, “I’ll never wake up if I do.”

“That’s understandable,” the girl giggled, then said, “So I believe your name is Rohdar, are you from around here?”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other uneasily and said, “I’m kinda from all over the place.”

“Are you a soldier?”

“No.”

“But you have the same boots as a soldier,” she pointed out.

True, he wore a soldier’s boots, but what business of hers was that? His thick brows lowered over his deep, dark eyes. “That doesn’t make me a soldier.”

“Well then what do you do?” she asked rather innocently.

“I survive,” snapped Rohdar’s rolling voice in a lower tone than usual. He picked up his remaining five biscuits and left the counter.