Two corpses were crucified against the dead tree to the side of the path. The rogue rode by them at a slow pace—one was a man, partially flayed below his hips, the other a boy, his torso torn by scourge marks. Their flesh had already begun to blacken, and their ribs were now partially exposed through their stretched and rotting skin. Around the neck of the boy hung a wooden sign, the words 'grain thieves' crudely painted on the splintered planks.
The wretched pastimes of a complacent lord, thought the rogue. He was riding to Etka, a large village that was once graced by the rigorous leadership of its prior lord, Ramaul II—a war-hardened individual, an honorable man, and a competent ruler. Under him Etka flourished as well as a farming village could in the harsh terrain of the Far Country—a land of thorns and thistles. Ramaul II tamed the wild earth and brought forth copious amounts of grain and meat through Etka. Its folk were a proud people—laboring under the virtuous reign of Ramaul II instilled in those toiling villagers a sense of exceptionalism, a pride in their birthland. But things changed after Ramaul's untimely death. His son Osto took over and with it the village decayed. He no longer provided aid to fellow castellans or funded the war front with blessings of dried meat and bread. He was a drunkard bored of the responsibilities and trivialities of lording over the humble folk of Etka. So Etka descended into the sleepy and ruinous pastoral colony it is today, its lord no longer willing nor capable of managing the tired village. Its people grew gloomy and exhausted.
In this vacuum of leadership festered a sickening complacency. A complacency which produces the evils and sins of tyrants. Osto became a drunk with a temper, a vengeful and emotionally-unstable barbarian, willing to sever off the hands of children for pulling his dog’s tail or crucifying starving farmers for swindling a couple handfuls of grain.
The rogue passed the festering corpses without concern, and taking a smaller trail leading off the main road he approached a tavern-and-inn. The last few beams of sunlight settled into a red haze as the moon dawned above the wild pines. The main path in these parts was treacherous at night—bandits, wild wolves, even rumors of hell hounds. The tavern was a sure haven from such threats. The decrepit establishment was nestled between a collection of birch trees, wild tufts of wheat scattered in front of it—like every man-made structure in the Far Country it looked as if it had sprung directly from the untamed earth, thought the rogue. Tying his horse to a post outside the tavern he glanced at the warm ambiance through the muddied windows. Fire, music, food, ale, and refuge.
The tavernkeep finished polishing a tankard before looking up to see the rogue enter. He walked through the door frame, his figure silhouetted by the dying sun.
“Come in Sir knight—ale, mead?”
“Ale,” said the rogue as he glanced around the interior. It was small, nearly empty save for a group of men in leather armor, a ranger in the corner, and a couple of field workers scattered about. A pale and thin female bard was playing a wooden flute by the fireplace, and a beautiful wench with dark skin and black hair was sauntering around, exchanging empty tankards for full ones. The place smelled of must, sawdust, and sweat.
“What brings a knight to the outskirts of Lord Osto’s personal shit hole?” said the tavernkeep with an exhausted sigh, sliding a tankard of frothed ale to the rogue. “Bet you a handful of copper marks I know why you’re brandishing that blade at your side.”
“Rather not make bets with a tavernkeep,” replied the rogue. “Also, I’m no knight.”
“Mercenary work then?” The tavernkeep rested an elbow against the counter, gazing at the rogue who remained silent, glints of firelight caught in his eyes from the smoldering red flames in the cobble fireplace at the far end of the room. “Just curious, stranger. If you’re a mercenary, so be it—I’m not going to judge. By the Gods, mercenaries are some of the kinder folk in these parts. The other day I met a farmer who sold his child to some devil witch in exchange for some horse shit about everlasting youth, and the day before I met a knight who butchered an unarmed peasant right on my porch for insulting ‘his dignity with the vulgarities of drunken stupor.’ Took two hours to soak out the stains. They’re still there faintly.”
The tavernkeep pointed to a reddish stain by the door.
"Insulting his dignity, huh?"
"The fool went berserk, fucking berserk," said the tavernkeep with a furious look. "What sort of man holds himself in such high esteem that drunken blabber compells him to dispense knightly justice?"
“Sounds like a knight alright,” said the rogue as he began to sip his ale. “Feigned dignity, the stupidity of an ox—a glorified idiot.”
“So not a knight, then what are you?”
“A priest, in a way." The rogue took a large gulp of ale and wiped his mouth with his forearm.
The tavernkeep had never seen a priest like this before. He was rugged and well-built. He had raven-black hair, disheveled, a few greasy strands hanging down in front of his sapphire eyes. A deep scar trailed down his left temple, tapering off under his chin. He had some sort of glistening prayer chain on his belt, but the rest of his attire was a patchwork of battle-worn steel armor from the Old Guard and blackened leather traditionally worn by professional mercenaries and assassins. At his side was a blade encased in an ornate black sheath.
“Priest? Fuck me you are!”
“I’m not going to bless you with some saint’s relic or cleanse you of your sins,” the rogue said with a smirk. “I’m not that kind of priest.”
"A shame," said the tavernkeep with a smile. "I was gonna entertain your holiness with a charming tale of how I once smuggled thirteen Essolian whores to the Far Country and—bless her heart—married one of the beautiful devils." The tavernkeep glanced over at the black-haired wench who flashed him a small smile.
"Please do, ale tastes better with a story."
"No, I affear you'd cast your miraculous judgement upon me!" said the taverkeep with a jovial yet sarcastic tone. "Please, Father, don't send the Inquisitor—I didn't mean to fall for a gal of ill repute, please Father, tis only love!"
"I curse you to the Inferno you heathen," replied the rogue playfully. "Sorry to disappoint, but like I said, I'm not that kind of priest. I don't do 'priestly' things"
“Tell me then priest, what do you do?”
“Kill aberrations, unholy things, things that shouldn’t be amongst the living.”
“You sound like a knight to me—”
—“I’m not a knight,” said the rogue as he looked over to the door which had just swung open. A man in the doorway was standing tall in steel armor, locks of golden hair falling gently below his chin, and a red cape draped over his right shoulder.
“Tavernkeep look,” said the rogue, gazing at the intimidating figure. "That's a knight."
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The knight made his way towards the counter.
“By the gods, by the fucking gods, that’s the knight that butchered the drunk the other night,” said the tavernkeep in a hushed tone.
“Good owner of the tavern! I request mead!” said the knight with unduly bravado to his voice . He stood at the counter a few feet apart from the rogue, his armor plates scraping and clanking with every adjustment of his body. The armor was overly decorous, thought the rogue. Lions were engraved into the pauldrons, the chestplate had indents at the pectorals, and the whole ensemble glowed with an embarrassing sheen—he had obviously spent hours meticulously polishing it. It was pathetic, the rogue thought. Half of the gear seemed encumbering, unnecessary, and impractical.
“Yes, Sir knight, right away,” said the tavernkeep as he rushed to fill a tankard of mead.
“You there, mercenary, vagabond!” said the knight, turning his head to the rogue.
“Stop shouting, I’m an arm’s length from you,” replied the rogue with a frustrated look.
“What brings you to such a sorrowful and wretched land? The nights here are long, the trails descend into ancient darknesses; shadows, phantoms, ungodly things linger within the far reaches of this cursed earth. Such bravery, such confidence, such brash virtue one must possess to forsake his home, brandish iron, and march forth to this realm of dust and shadow!”
The rogue glared at him for a moment. He knew these types of knights—knight errants. They were cocky, flashy, and chivalrous to a fault.
“Tell me knight what do you know of the ungodly things here?” said the rogue as the tavernkeep delicately offered the knight his tankard of ale.
“They are to be vanquished!” said the knight as he, in a seemingly choreographed manner, slammed his fist on the counter and puffed out his chest. “I hear talks of dragons, leviathan beasts, and witches haunting these once sacred grounds. I won’t have it! I will restore order to this forsaken breadth of godless country!”
“Dragons aren’t this far north, leviathans are a myth conjured up by old Essolian prophets who also predicted that the world would be hurled out into the void of the cosmos three centuries ago. And the witches that ‘haunt’ the swamps down here don’t give a damn about civilians. They are loners and hermits, preferring to not stray far from their roiling mud pools. These stories of children being eaten by them are the result of kids poking around where they shouldn’t have been. I don’t walk into bear caves, nor do I probe the waters for colossal eels.”
“Ah, not merely some stray vagabond? You must be a scholar of sorts, a learned man from the old academies!”
“No, I kill things that need to be killed,” the rogue said tersley as he looked down at his sheathed black iron blade. “Things that knights don’t dare to kill.”
“Ha! Naive, very naive of you—I once trekked through the Alguin Cliffs, scoured the dungeons of the Barda-Eirin ruins, and, with my blade here,” the knight gestured to his thick steel greatsword which obnoxiously hung at his side in an oversized sheath, “I vanquished the soulless, the legendary, the devilish beast of a spider Marakusil!”
“Marakusil? Impressive.”
“Was merely my duty to vanquish such a foe for the weary folk of that hellish region!”
“Stop shouting,” said the rogue as he turned his body towards the knight. “That spider must have a knack for resurrection because I’ve heard that story a half dozen times over the past few years. I’m surprised you didn’t go with the lesser-known ones like the three-headed hydra at the ruins of Elsdyre, or the vampire king of the ancient Darudul fortress. Convenient that these monsters tend to only appear in the places men don’t dare go—no witnesses, no one to falsify the story. And that’s what you knight errants want isn’t it? A story, some fucking story you can have resound through the ages, some feat of heroism to immortalize you in the chronicles of some elderly monk’s archive. Doesn't matter if the story is true or not, as long as it's there, penned down on dusted parchment for some gullible commoners to salivate over—at the end of the day that's your profession, being a liar, a charlatan.”
The knight was silent, avoiding eye contact with the rogue, anxiously glancing down at his earthenware tankard.
“What monsters have you slain knight? Perhaps your father helped you shoot a stag once? Maybe you even slingshotted a few squirrels with pebbles in your youth. Judging by the state of your armor—pristine, smooth—you care more about cosmetics than actual battle. Of course, I suppose you have some experience with slaying some things.”
“Wha-what things do you think I've slain? Have the bards reached your ear about how I once slew a—”
“—innocent peasants on the doorstep of run-down waterholes. ”
Another stretch of silence ensued. The knight darted his eyes at the rogue's.
“You looking to fight vagabond?” said the knight in a serious tone, his feigned poetic cadence completely absent. The knight rested his right hand on the pommel of his blade. The rogue leaned in closer to him.
“No, but I suspect you don’t leave much room for disagreement—the stains on the porch, the unarmed butchered peasant, I wonder how much of a choice you gave him.”
“Priest!” interrupted the tavernkeep from behind the counter. “I don’t want your fucking blades clattering in here.”
“I’m not here to fight," said the rogue in an almost casual manner. "I’m just here for ale and a room.”
“And we’ll do that for you but I can’t, I just can’t have you and this fine knight here exchanging blows.”
“But this vagabond insults my dignity with his stupor!” said the knight, as he dramatically swung his arm across the counter knocking over his tankard, a flood of mead streaming over the edge of its surface. His face grew visibly red as he glared at the rogue, his brow bent, his squinting eyes twitched with rage. The tavern fell silent, the bard ceased her flute playing, and the wench rushed behind the counter, holding the forearm of the tavernkeep who put his arm around her.
“Well fuck me,” said the tavernkeep. “He’s going to go berserk, fucking beserk.”