You know that apprehensive feeling you get when you’re about to do something stupid? Alright, I guess it doesn’t have to be stupid, maybe just something you wouldn't normally do. In some situations you might call it “brave,” or “courageous,”... “gutsy?” I like that one.
But generally the feeling is accompanied with a stupid decision.
It feels like a lifetime ago but I used to know the feeling well.
I blamed my upbringing. I mean if you grow up in a sheltered home, then some things might seem a bit more intimidating than to someone who does it everyday. Like talking to someone managing a store, or asking for directions on the street, or leaving your home on a regular basis. What, not that last one? Well shame on you you inconsiderate buffoon. You see, that can be just as anxiety inducing when put into perspective.
If your parents, the people you likely trust mostly unconditionally all your life, were to tell you that everyone outside your home wanted to hurt you very badly; physically, and emotionally if they were to get an iota of leverage on your pitiful, helpless, feckless existence you call a life; then going outside would seem a bit more daunting now wouldn’t it?
The point is moot, however, because my parents never did that.
I learned that on my own.
My parents did shelter me though, until they died. It was a few years ago… Or was it just last year? I’m ashamed to say i don’t remember. The latest chapter in my life being a long blur of sleep depriving hunger-pangs and, mostly, unprovoked debilitating beatings given for various flimsy reasons. “Paupers ‘ook more loyke thiys.” or ‘‘id you jus’ give me an eye, boy?” or my personal favorite “I wan’ed to detstroy sumphin’ beautiful.” Being a guy, the last one was a little weird, but with all the blood rushing to my head at the time who's to say i wasn't blushing? Me. I wasnt.
At least a smashed face helped with the bills a bit, you know? People's conscience being a driving force in society and all. “I’m sure my spare change will turn that bloody, broken, crying heap of a beggars’ life around.”
Still though, I would take a beating six days out of the week in comparison to running into this one girl I am certain follows evil god Akulum. Somehow she tracks me down evertime she wants to watch someone squirm, and forces me to eat muck she gets from gods-know-where as 'thanks for saving her' one time. I didn't even do anything. Pigs feet, various testicles, intestines, fish eyes. Those are just a few, and she gives such a sickly-sweet smile everytime i eat them. I of course tried refusing before but she practically shoved the 'food' down my throat, I have not made that mistake again. Why was she so damn strong? At least I learned you can not trust a face just because its a bit cute.
Whatever, such is the life of a vagabond. But a good haul seems to be even rarer lately and between the disgusted looks and pinched noses it’s not too hard to guess why.
A good bath would be gods-sent right now, and while they’re at it a nice pay day would be appreciated. Bah, might as well pray for a gorgeous, shapely amazon-queen to decend from the clouds riding an orc-wizard and whisk me away to her floating castle that takes routine trips to the moons and back, where we could spend the next week… Ahem. My point is i smell… err, well i don’t actually remember my point, but whatever, th-
“Hey! Kid.”
Look at this guy, interrupting someone in the middle of an internal monologue, how rude. My amazon-queen wouldn’t stand for it if she were here, together we would rid the wo-
“Hey! SNAP OUTTA IT!”
“Wha’, wha’sit, whadd’ya wan’?” slurring also seems to help a bit when you beg for money, I can’t say for sure why… maybe that conscience i guess, either that or people see cheap clowns from drunks on the street. Not that i drink, “It’s immoral” says my phantom mother to my shamed, sideways looking father phantom. Plus i cant afford it.
“Have you see a man, about my height, light colored short cut hair, and a scar that looks like he split his head in two to get?”
“...S'nds like Ol’ Geffey, righ'? He shows ‘is mug ‘round ‘ere cou*hic*couple ssshimes a week but I ‘ain’t too sure ‘ight now.”
The man im talking to is huge: about 6’3” and muscle enough to spare. He's wearing tightish fitting clothing, a dark tan shirt and black hide pants, and a red and black cloak that only seemed to hide whatever was on his back, which judging by the straps and laces fastened all over the man could be a lot, of what i assume are weapons. I assume weapons because his shirt seems to have plates of metal sewn into it to cover vital areas, well most of them. He also carried a sword on his left hip a large kriegsmesser, as well as some sort of halberd hung on his back. What's to say he’s not hiding more implements of war? He has short black hair, about 3 cm all around, and a sharp nose and chin, he looks to be about in his early to mid 30s, but looks aren't always the closest thing to the truth. Clean shaven except for a, might i say magnificent, set of sideburns, and thick eyebrows above a pair of light hazel eyes… which seem to be showing the tale tell sign of anger; hopefully not directed at me and instead focused on that asshole Gefford Shesen.
“Where. Is. he?”
“Oh, I might’ve ‘ad an inclin’ where t’e man ‘ould be, but ye see me tummy’s been rummblin’ sumthin’ fierce an’ it makes ‘membrin’ awful ‘ard.” turning away from the wall o’ meat i start bellowing, ”ALMS FOR THE POOR! DO YER GOOD DEED FER T’E DAY!” I know ignoring a perturbed, well armed, beef… person, isn’t the smartest thing to do, but like i said, i haven’t been bringing in good hauls lately and a little bribe probably won't put such a well armed, macho… guy out of commision so i think a little gamble is worth it, all things considering.
“ALMS TO H-.” clink.
Looking down into my little wooden collection bowl i see one of the most beautiful little things i am likely to ever come across again in my entire life.
A single blood-stained silver coin.
If i don’t get killed over it, it could feed me for months if used sparingly, and i have forgotten any other way.
Quickly, hopefully before too many people catch a glimpse i grab the coin and stow it in a hidden pocket in the chest of my rags i call a shirt; hand me downs from a sort of mentor vagabond, though the day when they held such value was probably never dreamed by him, as i certainly never expected such.
“The shit-stain known as Gefford meets with his shit-stain boss, Esmond Frounde, at the ‘Bloody Boar Tavern’ precisely three times a week it’s down a few alleys but not too far. I can take you if you would like.”
...
The look on this guys face is comical. No one ever expects a street urchin to get through a full sentence without a slur, hiccup, or... some other interruption, especially when they play the part so well… and the smell likely helped sell it too, as no able or willing person would stay in this state unless put through some strenuous circumstances. Although i probably should avoid making such drastic changes in personality to people who show such generosity in the future; he probably feels cheated. Shit.
“Err… sir? You should know: when you come to me you get what you pay for, and you paid for first-class.”
As i finish what i'm saying i start leading the way down the closest alley. Despite being from a low-ranked noble family, we never had any servants, but i try to emulate one as best i can. To be honest I’m not sure if i’m doing it as an apology, or just to break the monotony of my crummy existence.
“Kid.”
Shit, he knows he overpaid. Well, imagining not having to worry about starving to death was fun while it lasted. I should have kept my mouth shut past telling him what he wanted. I shouldn’t have embellished to him. Well, maybe bruised face will get some of these people to take pity on me and i can still make it to the end of the week.pfft.
“Walk downwind.”
… well… not as bad as i feared but still kinda hurt my feelings. Whatever, no one cares about those.
Shifting my position in compliance i lead the man through a few alleys and across a couple streets, all the while people either ignore me, or looking at me like they would a walking refuse heap. Not that i mind too much, i would likely do the same where the roles reversed. I can see it in my minds eye, “Why is this eyesore on the same street as me? How dare he be poor in front of me. Grrr.” I would make a good rich person.
I wonder what this guy wants with that dastardly duo? ooh another good one, i think i’ll use that one again sometime.
Anyway my grudge goes back a bit to when they kicked me off my primo spot, right next to the market, with particularly brutal beatings every few days for a couple weeks. At the time, if they were feeling particularly scummy, they would also steal my haul for the day, saying ‘we’re the ones giving you that pitiful look so we deserve a cut of the profits.’ I still can't breathe too deeply or a get a stabbing pain in my chest, i think it’s because a rib didn’t set properly. Aside from the slightly more generous people near that spot, it also had a beautiful view, especially at sunset. Damn, this town has nice sunsets, err… city? Capital?... it’s where the bloody king lives so i’m fairly certain it’s the capital. Remember, last chapter and all.
Either way i’m sure it’s gods forsaken, even with the view, there’s no way they would look fondly at a place that holds so many shitty people and injustices, right? Bah, who am i kidding it’s entirely possible this is their favorite place, i mean they get a show, and a view, when it gets a bit too distasteful. Well, at least i’m not a sodding slave, they have to follow around the people who beat them, however they do get fed regularly… most of the time, well depending on the owner i guess, but i don’t think people like to spent money on something just to watch it wither away and die… most people.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Oh, I almost passed the place.
“Here we are kind sir: ‘The Bloody Boar Tavern.’ Is there anything else i can assist you with sir?”
“Just call me Wottman, kid. You seem to have a bit o’ animosity toward Shesen… you might wanna come in an’ see this. Oh, by the way you got a name, or is ‘kid’ good enough for ye?” As he was talking he took his weapons from their respective resting places, put his sword on some kind of hook on his back and simply held his halberd in his hands.
“Mr. Wottman? My name is Crey Pestion.” He grimaced a bit at the Mr. then his eyes widened slightly at my surname, but he quickly put his focus to adjusting the sword on his back. When he finished positioning his fighting implements he turned and walked into the tavern with all the confidence of a cat on a farm, or a man on a mission, if you want to be boring about it.
Now i see myself as a cynic, who is prone to bouts of optimism. These bouts tend to be accompanied by that feeling of apprehension i was talking about earlier, and right now i'm feeling a little gutsy. I don’t know if it’s because the man paid so well, or if the possibility of seeing those jerk bags hurt is that enticing of an idea, but i elect going in is the thing to do here.
Following Wottman, with noticeably less confidence, head held down and shoulders slumped, because i’ve been kicked out of here before and when i was i got a gift: a complimentary, you guessed it, beating, and at the time my presence was reasonably less offencive to the nose, so i think being a little timid here is justified.
The Bloody Boar Tavern has a deceptively large interior, which oddly enough seems even larger when there’s a crowd than when not. Everything seems to be made from either an unknown rough looking dark hardwood, cast iron, or a combination of both. The wood seems to be poorly sanded and polished, the bare minimum to keep splinters out of the patrons arms and asses, and there are animal corpses hung haphazardly on the walls throughout the place; likely to commemorate the owners successful hunts, as well as a few poorly painted portraits and landscapes to fill in the gaps. There seems to be a festive mood throughout the tavern, and with all the bodies moving about the air has gotten humid, and there is a perpetual smell of B.O. that seems to be having a contest with my own to see which can force a nose to commit suicide fastest. At least i don't have to worry about me getting kicked out because of my odor, probably. There’s a bar lining the left side of the entrance, and a stairwell opposing it that goes up to a balcony and down to a cellar, from which loud cheers can be heard a few times a minute. The balcony is holding even more rowdy guests who seem to be having a good time drinking copious amounts of liquor… hmm maybe i should change my stance on drinking.
Wottman made his way to the bar, deftly side-stepping swings, swipes and bumps the other occupants unknowingly send in his path, and ordered a drink once he got there, still cradling his halberd in the crux of his arm. I make my way over, with remarkably less success than him, i don’t think he got through with a welt on the side of his head and a sore shoulder, but i made it. I noticed on my harrowing journey from the front door that Wottman picked a spot two people over from the pair he came for, but he seems content to sip his drink and hold his halberd tenderly, in fact he looks about ready to start hushing and cooing the thing, he’d also probably letting it suck on his pectorals if it was able, and qualified as care rather than a kink. Why did that disturbing image make me hungry?...oh yea i haven’t eaten in a few days and inbetween the lulls of the great battle of the smells i get a hint of something… soupy. Well if Wotty has these strong maternal instincts, he might be willing to buy a withering 15ish year old beggar a meal, even if he just paid said beggar. I mean i would pay for it myself but this isn’t exactly the place someone should just pull out a silver coin, even were they able to fend for themselves. So i put on my best ‘pity me’ face and look up to the man, while rubbing my stomach, and luckily my benevolent patron caught my meaning and ordered two bowls of whatever was being sold, albeit begrudgingly. Best meal i've had in weeks though stringy...and too little of whatever it was, but i would rather not push my luck any more than this , between the whole silver, a meal, and being let inside i’m on an unprecedented roll, and with the stakes being what they are, along with my track record in the luck department, i'm already overdrawn so pushing it anymore would be akin to punching a bear cub in the face while the mother is within earshot.
After a few minutes of slowly slurping from his bowl Wottman finished his soup, straightened to his full height and turned, looking over one pair of drunkards and straight at another.
“Excuse me, but would you happen to be snivelin’ Shesen an’ fearful Frounde?”
Like a stone thrown into a tranquil pond a hush fell over the tavern and festive mood was snuffed. Everything got quiet, and all eyes turned to the man standing next to me. The previously jovial pair between the three quickly finished their drinks and made their way through the crowd and down the stairs, where the occasional cheers and jeers from whatever is going on down there continued uninterrupted. The tension in the air seemed thick enough to have to wade through, and that only made it harder for me to keep the grin on my face from turning into a snicker, i mean those nicknames fit well enough that it irks me to have not thought of them before, the sniveling cowards, always picking on those who can't help themselves.
“Its Surly Shesen, and Fearsome Frounde, and if you don’t ‘pologize with a bit of coin we’ll show ye how surly and fearsome we can be by painting the floor with yer blood.” The shorter yet more imposing of the two, Frounde, spoke, well snarled, to Wottman and both of them moved their hands to rest above the short swords on their hips Shesen was standing to the left and behind Frounde and both struck an imposing figure, one that seemed to lapse with a image i have in my head of them: tall, imposing, mean. Wottman took the threats in stride, but he did seem to take a wider stance when their hands moved from the bar to their hips.
“I’d sooner slit my own throat than kowtow to a pair of fuckin' cowardly vultures like you. In fact I think everyone here is entitled to see you both as i know you, and i'm rearing to show ‘em who you truly are”
“Well then, ye better drag that blade from one ear to the next beac- HEY Y- ARRRHHH!”
As the pair started drawing their swords Wottman brought his halberd down on Shesens right wrist, likely cutting deep into the bone, then quickly pulled back, then thrust hard into Froundes right shoulder and pushed until the halberd slammed with a dull thud into the wall of the tavern, pinning Frounde onto the wall like one of the animals that are hung about. He then unhooked the sword from his back and used the momentum from the large swing to finish the cut on Shesens arm, cleanly severing his wrist from his forearm, and leaving a pulsing bloody stump, spurting red liquid in time with its owners quickening heartbeat, and leaving the closest patrons with stained clothing, mine and Wottmans included.
“YOU FUCK! DO KNOW WHO WE ARE!? I’LL HAVE YOU CASTRATED AND QUARTERED!” Frounde seemed mad enough to pop a blood vessel and if it weren’t for the fact that the halberd holding him was hardly even moving, despite his surprisingly vigorous thrashing, I would have bolted to the front door.
“That’d be mighty difficult given the state you’re about to be in.”
“Wai-wai-WAIT! What's your name Fucker? I wanna tell my god that i was killed by someone with a reputation rather than some nobody who got lucky, judging by your skill you gotta be somewhat known right?” He said this with a mischievous smile on his face, so i’m guessing he has cronies in the crowd that’ll try to help him while Wottman's distracted.Or get revenge if it comes to it. Well it's pretty obvious so i'm sure Wotty has had the same train of thought.
“I’m Wottman, of the Vindicta Mercenaries.” or not.
Actually hold up.
Froundes eyes widened in a way similar to how Wottmans did when i told him my name, then quickly changed from surprise to fear, and his previously red face and bulging arteries flushed leaving him pale. Normally i would say it's from the blood loss but i'm not so sure this time. In fact, the crowd seems to have taken a step back and i see a few people leaving, the racket downstairs also seems to have tapered down.
Hmm, i guess we know which being holds the superior smell; win for me, yay.
“You Wott mate?” the Question came from Gefford who, as predicted, fit his nickname as well as a child with a pulled tooth: sniveling. I don't think it was a real question because he passed out shortly after asking.
“Wai-wai-WAIT! I’m sorry! We didn’t want to! it's just how it played out! I swear! It’s jus- AAAAHHHRR! Wait! I’m sorry! Please I ca-”
Ignoring the question from Shesen, and now the screams from Frounde; Wottman, placing his sword back in its original position on his hip, walked up to his halberd and effortlessly ripped it from the wall causing a wail of agony from its former captive who slid to the ground; without the strength to stand. Then ignoring the begging and pleas lunged the sharp steel through Froundes throat, causing incomprehensible gurgles and choking until the light, however dim, left his shock filled eyes. He then turned to the unconscious partner and did the same, his death was easier, and harder to watch for different reasons. Wottman then put his halberd in its place on his back and turned to me.
“Kid, err, i mean Crey, you should come with me, we need to talk.”
He said that then left the, now half empty, tavern without so much as a glance back.
How ominous, well he probably won't kill me for being a witness because then he’d have to take on a lot of other people for the same reason, but he might still kill me for the coin he paid me with so... ah, fuck it that was a fast enough death, as opposed to a week of starving, and he did feed me so i even had a final meal, a luxury and comfort most people don't think about: to die on an empty stomach is worse than being stabbed in the throat, maybe. Well i did hear that being stabbed in the stomach while full is excruciating, but that doesn't seem to be my potential executioners style.
Lets see how this goes.
Ha… i’m feeling ‘gutsy’ again… get it?
I catch up and we walk in silence for what seems like a long while. Long enough to notice one of those beautiful sunsets, bright burning orange turning light to dark blue then black the higher up you look with a few small clouds contrasting the wide, empty background, and casting shadows onto themselves sitting nicely between the setting sun and myself.
I also noticed the occasional looks of disgust i get are also shared with my silent partner, along with a new look to me: shock. The blood stains seem to be a new sight to a lot of these people, well at least this much blood, but as soon as the wandering eyes meet my stained associate they all turn away, finally minding their own business. The man doesn’t seem to be looking for a place to dump a body so that's a good sign. Ugh the anticipation is killing me because he isn’t, i’m not even suicidal so it’s a little weird i’m so resigned to my death, whatever i have to break this silence or i’ll go mad.
“So… Uh… That was something a ‘kid’ ‘might wanna come in an’ see’ eh?”
He stopped for a second. then continued as if he didn’t.
“I’m certain you’ve seen worse.”
This caused me to pause, just like him. He is not wrong.
“Ok. i’ll bite where are we going?”
“No more manservant act? Pity, i was hoping i could get you to do my laundry.”
“It would take a gold coin to even get me to consider the prospect.”
“A stingy beggar, HA! no wonder you seem to be in such a pitiable state.”
“You forget, beggars don't work for our purse, we beg. Anyway where are we going?”
“To my camp.”
“Why?”
“I want to make you a Vindicta mercenary.”
Odd, between the fact i’m sure he figured i’ve never lifted a blade larger than a steak knife, and my, as he said, pitiable state, i wouldn't say i'm mercenary stock. Hmmm, to me, this seems more like a death sentence than a job offer, not that my current prospects are much better, this proverbial fork in the road leads to me dying at some point in the, more likely than not near, future, by either the pity and generosity of the cities inhabitants drying up, and me starving to death after a few weeks, or freezing to death when winter comes around, or both. Or being hacked, stabbed, beaten, or burned to death on a battlefield, or also maybe freezing to death. I’m not a fan of winter.
Well at least one way offers the possibility of a quick death, and maybe regular meals… okay, i’ll take that option, seems like the best i could hope for, yay for lucky streaks.
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you later. we’re almost there.”
The life of a mercenary. gutsy.
How exciting.