Wrongly in Love

16- It All Started with a Name

Let's keep our eyes open for a new ship (if you do ship it, depends on you)

Guess what it is now!

Hic! Hic!" Lesley hiccuped. She had hiccuped all the way through bottles of elf-made beer. The barman, Tom, looked quizzically as she sobbed, muttered, and drank all the way. Usually, Lesley maintained her hair, makeup, and clothes, so most times she looked intimidating as she marched down the streets in her high leather boots. But today, she looked as vulnerable as a little child with her scraggly hair, dark bags under her eyes and stained coat.

"How dare he ice me out like that!" She continued to rage, banging the bottle of beer at the table and spilling its contents everywhere. "It was as if he had never met me at all. Which I wish he didn't!" She took her last swig of the beer and in frustration, let out an angry noise and started reaching for a new bottle.

Tom looked baffled at all this. But perhaps it was the beer, he told himself. He heard that it may make your brain slightly addled. He looked at Lesley. "Dear, if you hold your temper, you wouldn't be alarming the other customers-"

"This place had been quite alarming, as you know," Lesley rolled her eyes, a little bit of beer dripping from the side of her mouth. "How many bars can say they had a royal maid and guards drunk and a princess escaped from a gang of bloodthirsty men?"

"It didn't occur here, precisely," the barman replied, annoyed. "The Princess escaped from the nearby bar, which had been closed for obvious reasons."

"Either way, didn't that Maid use to work here? What was her name? Mary? I hear she got fired and thrown into the dungeons by Leodegrance's men."

"Marian. And yes, how tragic it was for her to pay the price," Tom sniffled. "A maid of high honor, lost reputation. If Papa Ling Ping were alive today, the shock of the scandal would destroy him. Leodegrance's been petitioning for us to close. It was really embarrassing, that was."

"And why hadn't you guys closed yet?"

Tom's eyes flickered with annoyance. Apparently elf-made beer can not only make your brain addled, but make you extremely chatty too. "Because we pleaded with him. He was merciful and gracious. I, who had no other job, am striving to provide for the needs of my disabled grandfather."

Then he looked at Lesley straight in the eye. "Have this recent heartbr- er, I mean event taught you anything in life?"

Even throughout all the bottles of beer, Lesley stared with a gaze so steady it had the barman unnerved. "What lesson? Besides, that was a pretty corny question, anyway."

"Perhaps someone you remember?"

"I never knew anyone much."

"Perhaps, dear, the answer is looking from behind you."

STOMP! STOMP!
"Oh for heaven's sake! Who's making that racket?!" Lesley angrily exclaimed.

"I don't know, dear," the barman shivered shakingly, as did the other customers around them. The bar was as quiet as a ghost. "Let's hope it wasn't assassins coming to kill us right now."

Swish. The door opened to reveal a man with a long black coat walk in, boots making a soft click, click sound as the customers stared in fear. He had an emo look about him, with half white, half dark hair, flashing red eyes, and a baroque violin. However, this wasn't the sight that interested Lesley the most. It was the scar over his eye. It looked remarkably terrifying.

"Who is that?" She asked the barman, whose eyes widened in realization.

"The Death Chanter," He whispered softly, every syllable trembling in obvious admiration.