The Way of All Flesh

Chapter One

Every lantern was burning differently. There were exactly five in the building's main room. Two near the back, resting on the bar's stone countertop, and one hanging on each of the other walls. Some, like that by the bar, glowed with a brightness that bled throughout each crack of the small tavern, giving an illusion that perhaps the sun was alive outside. It was the harsh music of the rain that broke the mystery. With each swell the orchestral storm reminded each patron exactly why they had shortened their travels that night and found themselves in a tavern and inn sitting halfway buried in the western midland forest. And so the room lay silent, barely a conversation being had. The bard had turned in for the night, the fireplace down to it's last fading embers, and each traveler at the bar appeared no more than strangers.

The lantern by the girl seemed the dimmest, swinging gently on it's hook in the back corner barely reached by the rest of the tavern's lively light. The girl's young face was obstructed by shadow despite the way she gazed blankly into the fire inside the small iron cage. It danced as if it were alive. Long fingers of light reaching across the bars that held it, howling like an animal desperate for freedom.

The girl was a stranger to the tavern, and the village beyond it.

A shock of wind shook the tavern walls once again. Each lantern creaked on its metal hinges, so old and rusted they may have hung there for a century. The girl's eyes moved across the room, catching on the faces of lone travelers and their half dranken glasses of mead and wine. She caught a glimpse of the barmaid, a young woman deeply entranced in conversation with an elderly man who spoke with a deep and welcoming tone. He appeared to be telling a story, but the harsh noise of the weather made it impossible for the girl to make out. Still, the sweetness in his voice carried through the damp air.

The tavern was not made for a storm. One could tell by the way water soaked through the wooden walls and trickled between the window panes. The upstairs rooms had been closed off by order of the innkeeper's wife, who had long since left to sleep in her own chambers. The girl suspected that the roof had not been enough to hold back the elements, and the rooms were now thick with rain water. She didn't mind though, she hadn't planned on sleeping. If exhaustion decided to catch up with her, so be it, but as soon as the storm weakened enough that she could trust her horse to stay upright she would be back on the road. Until then, she waited. And she watched.

A young man sitting near the door repeatedly caught her eye. His gaze was stuck blankly in the bottom of his glass, as if he believed he could refill it with his mind. The man was tall and broad, his hair a muted orange and his skin so pale he seemed transparent in the lantern's light. Certainly a native, and plain enough that he could be any village boy from any western kingdom. Yet no one sat near him, no one else even looked at him. It was his clothes that made the others turn, and the emblem branded deeply into the chestpiece of his light armor. The young man, barely less than a boy, was a King's Knight. The girl wondered how long he had sat staring at that empty glass, waiting for the barmaid to ask him if he wished for more. The truth was that no one wanted to speak with him, to make pleasant conversation, or ask why in the name of the gods he had wandered so far from the capitol. Instead they let him sit, let him stare. In a village like this, a King's Knight had no special authority. He was at most a man with a weapon. And still they averted their gaze. Even the girl felt her heart lurch every time he shifted in his seat.

The barmaids laugh cut through her thoughts, giving an excuse to turn from her paralyzed staring at the lonely knight. She was young, far younger than the innkeeper's wife, who was a pudgy old woman. The innkeeper himself had never made an appearance. No one bothered to ask if he ever would. It was noticeable when she had been present that the innkeeper's wife was not fond of the young barmaid. She had spoken with a harsh, demanding tone, thrusting utensils into the poor woman's face and at times raising a hand as if to hit her. After she left for her chambers, the barmaid seemed far less tense. She had pulled her long, cherry red hair into a loose bun and moved around the bar in a way akin to a hummingbird. And now she sat with a large smile as the old man, dressed in the rugged clothes of a hunter complete with a long silver beard, spoke emphatically towards her with his hands emphasizing every flourished tale. Again she giggled softly.