Severance: Sword and Fang

Sword and Fang

"I have never understood the controversy surrounding the use of blood magic. The concepts of 'good' and 'evil' are subjective perceptions determined by the hierarcy, and all attempts to explain these credences have been hypocritical at best. The aristocrats that deem the practice of blood magic 'immoral' also claim the same regarding war, but do not hesitate to deploy innocent young men into battle to fulfill a personal vendetta."

- Adelline Iváneth, Grand Sorceress and Arcane Advisor to the Duchess of Cilenthia

✹

"You're either unbelievably stupid or foolishly brave."

The Teyrn declared rudely, clenching his meaty hands into taut fists. His voice was an aggravated croak, like an old frog that had long forgotten how to use its throat. He gave the mercenary standing defiantly silent before him another look from head to boot. The man was lean in build, almost an entire head taller than every one of his guards and adorned himself in nothing but a black gambeson. A bed of hair, deep sable in shade, lay flat, the lengthy strands brushed back along his head, sides cut short. His only armament, a sleek longsword, rest across his back in a mahogany sheath. The Teyrn could not recall the last time he'd seen a weapon carried in that fashion.

"Or both."

The mercenary said nothing still, which infuriated the Teyrn. Here, in his own sparsely furnished office, this man made the nobleman uneasy. The mercenary refused to exhibit any emotion or clear reaction in response to the insult. Every man before had pointlessly protested their skills and capabilities and boasted of previous exploits, but this one simply did not dispute, did not boast his own capabilities. He only stared at the Teyrn with empty eyes, grey as clouds.

They were indifferent. Devoid of emotion.

They were the eyes of a killer.

"Besides, you would need to travel through the Koviri Forest."
The Teyrn continued, realizing he wasn't going to incite a response out of the sellsword, who might as well have been mute.
"Those woods harbor some of the most dangerous monsters in Mavieren. Welths, Sylvians, and the like."
The mercenary said nothing.
"And vendeers. You ever seen a vendeer? They're twice the size of deer with antlers to match, belligerent, and prey on men. I've lost squads of men to a single vendeer. Nothing but blood and bones left to identify them, tore straight through their armor."

The Teyrn waited, seeing if his words were having any effect on the mercenary's demeanor. They were not. Why did he even bother with the poor sod?

"But worse than them are the Ha'shil'ir. Too many clans around here whose borders are too near our own. Those damned elves make travelling outside of Glesh a pain. If the vendeer or sylvians don't get to you first, then you're 'ought to find an arrow sticking from your neck ten paces out."

This time the mercenary did respond. Unfolding the sheet of flaxen parchment that he held in his hand, he confidently stepped forward and flattened the paper out on the desk so that the Teyrn could clearly see its contents.

It was the help wanted notice, calling for any man with a sharp weapon, and the right sized man parts, to take up arms against the monster poorly illustrated on the paper.

"I'm not here for vendeer."
The mercenary's voice was unusually straightforward and toneless. It made the Teyrn irritatingly uncomfortable, but he didn't show it. At least that's what he believed.
"Nor welths, sylvians, or elves. I'm here for the werewolf."

The werewolf. The beast that, by all accounts, was the cause of significant distress and death for the denizens of Glesh, much more so than any of the other threats the Teyrn appeared so concerned about.

It was also the the most dangerous known monster that lurked in the Koviri Forest.

The Teyrn exploded into a hoarse fit of laughter, which evolved from a deep bellow to high pitched wheezing and back again. He slammed his fist onto the table several times in display of exactly just how humorous he found the proposition.

The mercenary was not laughing.

Once the nobleman had regained what composure he could he snorted and cleared his throat and said
"You want to go after and fight the werewolf by yourself in the forest, the beast's own home?"
"Yes." Was the indifferent reply.
"With nothing but that sword on your back and cloth to defend yourself with against it's claws? It's teeth that can tear through plate?"
"Yes."

This time the Teyrn did not laugh. The mercenary was serious, he knew, more serious than any man he had ever seen.

"Listen, son. I admire your audacity, I truly do. I wish my men possesed the balls you do. But you have a death wish if you think you can face that beast yourself, where a dozen others failed. The werewolf has been the bane of my existence for nearly two years now: stealing people from their homes in the dead of night, right under our noses, never to be seen again. I've seen countless warriors better equipped come before you, a collection of the meanest looking savages, all armed and armored to the teeth in steel. None of them have returned. Why, just two moons ago a couple of nasty looking dwarves, one with a hefty sized battleaxe too large for his size and the other swinging around a crossbow like she owned the place, set off to find the beast as well. Guess what happened to them."

"The disappearance of dwarves doesn't concern me, Your Lordship. I only care for the werewolf."
"Then why are you speaking to me, and not wandering the forest looking for it? Where is it's head?"
"I want the reward raised."
"𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵? Fifty silvers is not enough?"
"I want one and a half seels."

The Teyrn leaned forward on his desk and glowered straight into the eyes of the mercenary. His face bore the expression of a man no longer in the mood for follies.

"You do not get to bargain with me, boy. Fifty silvers."

The mercenary did not back down, did not avert his apathetic gaze.

"Then I shall take my leave, and you will have to find someone else unbelievably stupid or foolishly brave to kill the beast, it which slaughters dozens of armed men. And the world is running out of people like us, Your Lordship."

The Teyrn leaned back into his seat, rubbing his unkempt stubble with his hand as if in deep thought. He tried to conceal the look of trepidation splayed across his rough features beneath that hand. It didn't work.

Finally, after a drawn out minute of contemplation and weighing supply and demand, the Teryn spoke once more.

"One and a quarter and not a copper more. That's final."

The mercenary bowed his head, accepting the proffer without hesitation, muttered "Your Lordship", and turned on his heel to leave.

"Wait."
The Teyrn called out just as he was opening the door.
"What is your name, foolish mercenary?"

"Saaryn. The Unburned, if you believe the stories."