Clarke nodded, smiled, as he closed up the book and strapped it to his back.
It had taken a couple of days but everything about the trip was cataloged and written down just as it happened. All facts set in stone, at least in his version. His boss would change some details, rewrite parts of it to satisfy those left behind that the customer had been a hero. It was a bad business in his mind but he just worked for the Scribe Society. At least he didn't have to rewrite it himself.
His boss often said Clarke lacked the gift of creative truth telling and that didn't bother Clarke at all.
The wagon rattled along the dirt road, deep tracks filled in with fresh dirt by the merchant's guild. Taking care of the roads cost less than damaged goods overall and improved general comfort that made the travelers want to pay into the guild.
Open fields gave way to wooden buildings and people as they came into one of the first small towns in the center of the continent. All sorts of small communities gave way to cities the closer you got to the center, the outer edges being wilder and dangerous. Sometimes towns would push out, there would be growth but then a war would come and kingdoms would falter.
People seemed incapable of playing nice.
Swampbelly walked up beside the cart, stretching his arms above his head until something popped in his back. The scavengers had all been walking the whole way leaving plenty of room in the cart for more found baubles and less weight for the horses to pull. It was unusual to see Lizardfolk with so much stamina but Swampbelly was an unusual man.
“End of the road. We have to go see a blacksmith around here to see about selling this scrap then we're gonna go check out a battlefield we got a tip about. Can you make it to Deraforda alright?”
The cart stopped in front of a large building, already loud and raucous with the day nearing its end and farmers coming into town for a little refreshment. More family gathering place than bar. Clarke jumped down.
“I'll catch another ride. Thanks for bringing me this far.”
He pushed several copper coins into Swampsbelly's hand to a brief meeting of eyes and a brief shake of his head. He put them back in Clarke's hand.
“Nah, you're a good guy. Don't worry about it.”
“Oh, take this.”
Valerie handed him a small sack, smelling faintly of spider soup. He nodded, managing a smile this time as he waved, walking towards the inn to get a place for the night.
There was no name out front, just a placard of a setting sun and a man lying on top of a bed. Inside was just as chaotic as the noise from outside would have had you believe. Farmers talking, laughing, some arm wrestling. Children ran between the tables and servers dodged around them with practiced twirls.
Clarke stepped to the bar, rapping his knuckles on the counter to get the busy tender's attention. After a few more drinks passed into patrons hands he stopped.
“What can I get you?”
“Just a room.”
“Anything to eat?”
“No need and you look a bit busy for another mouth to feed. What's going on?”
He stopped long enough to fill several mugs from a large barrel behind the counter and hand them to a waitress.
“Almost harvest time. There's going to be a big festival and people are coming into town from the city early. The smaller farms are done for the year so they got a lot of free time.”
Light guitar strumming wiggled its way through the noise to Clarke's ear and he look to see a bard sitting on a barrel in an approximation of a stage, trying to get any attention he could for a performance.
He caught the bartender's sleeve before he could turn.
“Just a drink. Anything sweet.”
The tender nodded and Clarke made his way through the energetic sea to a table close to the bard. He liked a good story. It was part of what he did and he saw the wandering storyteller as a sort of professional cousin. Maybe he didn't have as much training in making things seem wondrous and fanciful (his mother had been very insistent that scribes be faithful to reality) but still...some relation there.
He nodded and the bard nodded back. Before he could even speak Clarke tossed a couple of copper coins into a little hat he had sitting on the barrel beside him.
“Heard anything about Alouella Lawfer? You know, the elf adventuress?”
He plucked the guitar a few times, then several more until a floating string of melody hushed those immediately around.
“Who doesn't know the Lady of Lightning? The Electric Elf? The Sorceress of Shock?”
The strings slowed and he turned to see who was listening. A few eyes were on him, enough to expend the energy for a show. He spoke more than he talked, playing to set the mood.
“Through some of my brother and sister travelers, I heard she became a fisher of deadly Scyllites off the coast of Bleuton, the port city only a few days ago. Such is the speed of the talkative road.”
He played softly, slowly, building up to only slightly faster picks of the strings.
“For those who don't know there's a young adventuress elf by the name of Alouella Lawfer. Small, fair skinned, long blonde hair like spun sunshine and eyes a crackling blue. A body I'm sure you'd all be familiar with. Flat as the fields here.”
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Clarke's eyes narrowed. He didn't feel that was necessary to mention, no matter how accurate.
“She boarded a ship to confront the fish men, the deep ones. The smell was atrocious, a hot summer fish market invading their nostrils as bandits slopped up the side of the vessels, fin over fin.”
Clarke's drink was set before him and the bard played faster, looking round to his little group of listeners with theatrical worry in his eyes, big and darting from person to person.
“One young elf backed only by a handful of sell swords against some tw-thirty odd vagrants of the ocean? Waves buffeted the boat, clouds gathering grey overhead, the sailors cowering below deck as outnumbered as they were.”
The notes pulled them in and Clarke leaned closer. He knew the outcome through faith in the girl but needed to hear it as one needs air.
“She raised her staff and the clouds darkened, her robe billowing about her-”
He stopped abruptly as his seat rocked and he fell off the barrel in a flailing sweep of limbs, his fingers jagging across the strings in an off key twang.
“Sorry 'bout that.”
One of the men at a nearby table stood, helping him up and unnecessarily dusting off the bard's shirt. His grip tightened on his guitar as he looked up at the man, older, face like cracked leather and fists like hams. He looked the bandit part.
“But as long as you're finished, why not let me give you a tip?”
Clarke recognized him. A dodgy writer from the Scribe's Society, often bringing in stories only barely believable from those with more grease in their palm than mettle in their hearts. He swept his arm out to the people who had lost interest or didn't care to be involved.
“These here humans...they don't want to hear stories about elves or wizards. These are farmers. Farmers like to hear about powerful warriors and strength. It's closer to their everyday. Something to aspire to.”
Clarke's jaw clenched. He'd heard that line a lot growing up.
“They want to hear about humans doing amazing things.”
His hand came up, holding a few loose pages for the bard to see covered over in sloppy writing.
“Which I have for sale, right here. Fresh stories, hot off the adventure circuit. Warriors and monsters, danger and treasures. What do you say?”
The bard made to grab the pages but Clarke cleared his throat, waving at his guild brother.
“I'm fairly certain that even you know how against the rules what you're doing is. Did you get those cleared through Bog?”
For the first time the other scribe seemed to notice Clarke and shot a glare his way.
“Why do you care? The stories get sold anyway, why shouldn't I get a little extra before the boss bind's 'em up and sell's 'em or has his wandering minstrels teach it to others?”
“For one, I was listening to that story you interrupted. Paid for it too.”
“What, picking your next victim? Can't say I disapprove, world could always use one less elf.”
Clarke's fingers curled into a fist, scratch marks dug over the soft wood of the table. The other scribe smiled, standing up a little straighter and talking down on Clarke, raising his voice a little higher until some were turning to look in case they had to get out of the way of a fight.
“For as many people as you lead to their deaths I'm amazed you keep getting work. The Bloody Pen of the Reaper's Book, isn't that what they call you?”
Clarke didn't say a word. His teeth clenched tighter.
The rough scribe spoke louder, bring his voice up from his diaphragm to catch nearby ears.
“Imagine this. One day, a scrawny man comes to the Scribe Society. All bones and leg, skinny as a bird and quiet as a rat. Asks the head man for a job and shows beautiful, nearly deific handwriting like from an angel plucked quill.”
He leaned in and Clarke sat back, unable to stand and only allowing his body to wind tighter and tighter until his knuckles turned white.
“I remember that day nine years ago. I was there, saw the little mouse like he'd popped out of some unholy ratling burrow without his fur. The boss gives him a job. Very simple, just take some fresh adventurers outside the city to some ruins. Just babe adventurers, same as the young man. Wanting to feel their way into the world and make names for themselves by hauling up lost treasures. Simple as you please.”
Clarke glanced side to side, inching his hand inside his coat. Something in this man's voice, perhaps through his senior position as a storyteller over Clarke, compelled people to listen to his deep story weaving.
“The young man comes back two days later.”
His fingers popped up and panned across those watching.
“No adventurers with him and a little shaken up. He hands over his log, written beautifully like something the god of writing might spit up, of what happened in probably the safest dangerous place around.”
“So what happened?”
The bard, now a curious audience member and likely memorizing every detail to wow future patrons, asked.
“All dead. Some long dormant earth elemental, big, bulky hunk of rock tore them limb from limb, crushed some, batting them around like rag dolls fulla meat. The boy got away and came home. Bad luck for your first job, right?”
The scribe shrugged, eyes closed in the classic, 'what can you do?' pose.
“Except he got another job. Sent out with a group, this one a bit more seasoned.”
He slammed his fist down on the table, the mug jumping and some spilling down the side. Clarke palmed a small bottle, popping the cork onto the table and sweeping it up in his other hand unseen.
“All dead. Ratling bandits. Next group?”
He slammed his hand down again.
“Dead. Carnivorous plant in the deep swamps. Then the next? Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.”
Outside of his sphere of influence the world still turned but all those listening were quiet and those outside were very far away.
“Was the boy killing them? A weak little rat killing cats? Unlikely and, after so many times, impossible. He was just eternally linked to death.”
He straightened, looking around at his audience, the immediate tables all listening intently. The old man pointed at Clarke, his finger a little crooked but still on point.
“No angelic quill but The Bloody Pen of the Reaper's Book. A greater threat to adventurers than any vicious monster, ancient ruin or devious trap. Clarke Script.”
The listener's eyes turned to him, some staring at the book on his back and recoiling as though it might pull them into the afterlife long before their time. The old scribe took the opportunity to pass around his hat, collecting a few coins for trying to scare the pants off the good patrons. He raised his fist to the bard, whispering a few words about paying for a perfectly good story he could retell and getting a few more coins.
Clarke sat back and felt the warmth drain out of the room around him as the belief he was some sort of god of death took hold. He pulled his drink closer, putting his hand over it and letting several splashes drip in and dilute throughout.
“Well would you look at that!”
The old man had a seat, his hat rustling with coins.
“I should follow you around more often. Seems there's some good coin in it.”
The bottle was corked and back in his coat. Even distilled through his drink the potency would still be enough for what he wanted.
“Afraid I don't have any extra money for you. Have my drink though, I don't think I want it any more.”
He pushed it over as he got up, the old man licking his lips. It clearly wouldn't be his first of the night or last but free was free.
It wasn't the story about him that he had minded. He didn't work very closely with people anyway so it hardly mattered if the common folk were afraid of him. No, it was the barest hint of threat to Alouella that made him quietly furious.
“Don't mind if I do.”
The old man took a drink.
Clarke only looked back once as he went out the door to the many shacks set up around the back like little personal cabins. The old man was white knuckling his seat, sucking air through his teeth as he jerked back. A little something to paralyze the body mixed with a certain other hallucinogen, well known for tickling the part of the brain that produces nightmares. It wouldn't inconvenience anyone around the old man so he could enjoy his personal horror trip for an hour or so.
Clarke went to bed.