The Azimar Archives Book One- The Book of Death

Ferrand

Ferrand grimaced at the noise of the bar, eyeing the farmers and other common filth around him with distaste. Somewhere close by, a pair of drunks were belting out a funeral dirge for the fallen king, but had made the tune lively and spirited. The song, both the words and the tune, made Ferrand's teeth grind together. It was hard to like a rowdy bar filled with poor degenerates, but Mothlenor had given him a job to do, and this would be as good a place as any other filth hole in the city. And besides, there were reasons to be drinking, though it wasn't the upcoming harvest or Great Ones only knew what that the farmers were laughing and spilling ale on themselves for.

Ferrand had better reasons to celebrate than the vermin of the fields and sewers.

There were drinks, there were several of his men, now members of the King's Guard, and there were plenty of women. There was one woman in particular that Ferrand was keeping his eye on, and he sipped lightly at his watery ale as he watched her weave her way through tables and around drunk men to fill and refill mugs of beer. One fat farmer slipped his hand up her skirt to her thigh, and she let him for a moment, casually chatting up the whole table while he wrapped his meaty fingers around her thin leg and looked her up and down hungrily. But she walked away, giving the man a smile and a wink as she did so.

Finally, she started walking his way. As she grew closer, Ferrand noticed that her breasts were larger than he would have liked. Her hair was stringy and a shade too dark, and her faceheld onto the last remains of youthful roundness. Her eyes were brown instead of the icy blue he wanted. But from far away, she looked exactly like what he needed. She approached his table, a pitcher of ale in her hand, hips swaying seductively. "Can I top you off, darlin'?" She paused, leaning slightly to reach for his mug. Her corset was loose at the top, leaving just enough covered to not seem intentionally immodest, but to still leave a man eager to see more. Her voice was high pitched and a little grating, but he could ignore it for now.

He smiled, sliding his mug towards her. She promptly refilled it and came around the table to hand it back to him. As she set it down on the table in front of him, he wrapped his hand around hers. "Won't you sit with me, lovely? I haven't had much company all night, and I have some celebrating to do." He slid his chair away from the table a bit and pulled her towards his lap.

She obediently sat, straddling him, her skirt bunched up to her thighs. "Some celebratin'? What are you celebratin' tonight?" She put the mug to his lips, and Ferrand took a small sip. She had a bit of a drawl to her voice, a pretty common thing found among the filthy vermin of the city, but he could ignore that too. Besides, a voice like hers couldn't be heard through a gag.

"I was made Commander of the King's Guard today." She probably thinks I'm quite the catch. I'm not falling down drunk, and I'm not some sweaty overweight bastard trying to catch a peek at her underclothes. He slipped a hand under her skirt and felt his way up her thigh.

She smiled. "Commander? Well, that is a reason to celebrate." She took a long sip from the mug and quickly refilled it from the pitcher. She giggled as his hand wandered further up her thigh. "And how do you plan on celebratin' Commander?"

"I'd like to celebrate with you." He tucked her hair behind her ear and stroked her cheek. "You are very beautiful. What's your name?"

"Lisbeth. And what's your name, Commander?"

"Ferrand." He fingered the lacing on her corset. It tied in the front, and the knot was at the top, all the easier to quickly take off. He pulled slowly at the string, undoing the knot. "Aren't you a little young to be running around in a tavern like this? Where is your family?" She was young, Ferrand realized, not even a woman fully grown. That might be a problem, but he was sure it could be ignored, too.