Recompense for a Lost Soul

[i] Of Merriment and Men

The Slumbering Oak was a quiet little place, situated in the middle of town, in-between a cluster of buildings and houses. The town in question was Ainston, near Ifraeygreia, in the Northern part of the Vale. It was a decent sized town, old too. Built by the Men o' Olde as the locals liked to say. But it was a good town nonetheless, and the Slumbering Oak was a good tavern. 

It played host to just about anyone, Shop owners, farmers, vagrants, adventurers and of course travelers. The ale there was praised for miles around and business was booming. It was helpful then as the storm that had been raging in the area for the past week brought in many customers. The rainy and melancholy atmosphere made people more inclined to enter into their establishment, where the fire was always warm and the ale flowed graciously from their cellars.

It was nighttime. The storm was raging ferociously. A cold draft weaved in through the tavern door, casting a chill upon the occupants. An older man in his fifties sat at a table, he wore breeches and a shirt that covered his rather plump figure. He seemed to carry himself with pride however as he slammed the tankard of ale he had been chugging onto the table with a bang. Sitting opposite him was another man, younger this time, and thinner, in his mid-thirties. He wore trousers, boots and a shirt with a scarf. His bony finger traced the rim of his tankard. Calloused and scarred were his hands. They were coated with a slight white powder. Most eye-catching was his right ear, which had a small nick cut out of it. He sighed at his drinking partner's vigor and wiped away a drop of ale that had spilled. 

"Calm yourself old dog, I'm not gonna carry you if you pass out," The thinner of the two said, narrowing his eyes at the older man. 

"Oh shut up Griesh, I'm not that drunk, I'll tell you when I get actually drunk."

"Ah how I can't wait to see that." Griesh rolled eyes and took a swig of his own tankard, sighing happily as he brought it down to the table with a gentle thud.

The fireplace was roaring heartily. There was a comforting warmth inside the tavern, lanterns and lamps hung about, illuminating the place tenfold. Up at the bar, the barkeep was cleaning glasses, humming softly under his breath. The two men were the only customers in the establishment at the moment. They felt very much at peace, life seemed to be good.

"Hey so tell me," the older man said, grunting as he repositioned his chair, "How's work been going? Didn't you get hired by that one rich, fancy sod?"

"Yeah, he wanted like five sculptures, I had to search hell and high heaven tryna find enough marble for it."

"Poor man you are," the friend belched out.

"On the contrary, I got paid buckets for it." Griesh chuckled merrily. "business is good Mansca, and I cant be happier for it."

"Hey good on you! Happy to hear that business is booming," said Mansca, "The little rascal's gonna be real proud once her father shows up at home with wagons of gold." He said with a proud smile.

"Yeah I guess you're right. . ." he contemplated, "I haven't seen her for a while. I hope she's alright."

"She'll be fine, she's a tough one. Wasn't she born in a blizzard or something?"

"yeah," Griesh replied, chuckling slightly, "my pride and joy." He stroked his stubble and took a heavy drink of his ale.

Mansca looked at his friend and smiled. "This is a far cry from the you I met nine winters ago." He took a pause to take another swig then said, "honestly its a good change, those days were. . . bad"

"My mercenary days right?" he asked, fiddling with his tankard again. "Yeah those weren't the best. I'm glad I got out when I did. . . loads of bad memories." His eyes wandered to a window as he focused on the rain lashing outside, lost in thought. He decided to change the topic.

"Did you hear about that swordsman? its been everywhere in town, every town-crier has been shouting it." 

"Yeah," Mansca replied, "he's the one who killed the mayor's eldest right? wields a pitch black sword? No one's seen his face properly and he's really short... I think that's the prevailing wisdom."

"Yes, and I heard he even slaughtered one of the roving buls in the outer wilds. They found its rotting carcass a few days back and the sword marks in it resemble the gash in the mayor's child."

"Terrifying," Mansca said with a shudder, "I don't much care for the mayor boy's death but to kill a bul is -" he shook his head, "-well frankly it's terrifying. You should see one up close."

"Don't think I will." Griesh looked over to the barkeep and signaled for him to bring more ale. "That brings back murky memories actually. About the boy I mean."

"Eh. . .?"

"Back when I was still in with them -the uh. . . mercenaries, I remember this one day when a young girl showed up and sold a baby." 

Mansca looked at his friend disgusted. 

"I know right, it was utterly horrifying, but I remember this-this boy, when he grew up a little, he would fight with the others. . . and the scary thing was he always won. He was like seven or something, I don't know, I never interacted with him much, but I remember him being kind of like an inanimate object most of the time. They used to torture him to no end, always making him alternate between fighting and serving them food. I never found out what happened to him but the news of this short swordsman brought back memories of that one little kid who could best killers at their own game."

A sudden cold draft whipped through the building again. Only this time it was because someone had actually stepped in. Griesh and Mansca both craned their necks to stare at the visitor who was slopping wet and wore a cloak. The two of them paid him no mind.

Mansca suddenly said to Griesh, "Hey what was that kid's name? from the mercenaries. . ."

"Oh. . . well as far as I remember he didn't have a name, everyone just called him Pig or Dog. It added to the cruelty."

"Oh."

The two of them fell silent, enjoying their ale in peace. The stranger ordered some food and a mug of water. They paid the newcomer no mind, though they greatly toned back their gossiping. The barkeep also went back behind the counter, beginning to wipe glasses clean again.

The night went on. Mansca and Griesh had drunk two more refills of ale. The stranger hadn't moved from his place in the corner, slowly munching on the bread that had been a part of his order. water dripped from a leak in the upper floorboards.

Suddenly Mansca said out loud, "About that swordsman -the one who killed the mayor's -not the mercenary one, why do you think he killed that boy? It seems really random. . ."

"Maybe he had some grudge against the family or something. In any case, no one really liked the mayors family, even if the mayor is liked well enough."

"I suppose. . ." Mansca said, taking a quick look at the stranger, "By the way, do you think that mercenary boy is still around? Like, alive?"

"I have no actual clue. . . But in my heart of hearts, I'd like for him to be alive and well somewhere. I never did find out what happened to that old gang, but I hope they fizzled out and that young boy found peace with a family somewhere. . . Maybe he even got into the upper crust of society, who knows. He never bothered me and I never bothered him, I wish the best for that little boy." He smiled, content with life as the night went on, the ale ran dry.

On the other side of town, in the pouring rain, a young boy buried his sword of shadow into the stomach of a man. No one heard the commotion. Indeed how would they? the rain made sure of that. The boy crouched next to the downed man.

"Do you remember me?" he asked, his voice cracking as if he hadn't used it in days.

"Yeah," the man spat out, "You're the bastard who killed the mayor's son. . ."

"Yes but you know me differently. . ." 

"No. Not really. . ." the man's eyes widened as he tried recalling, coughing and spluttering, wincing in pain. 

"No I -wait, who are you?"

"Never-mind," said the boy, pulling the sword clean out from where it had buried itself, 

"Die."