sparrow and lion

Interim 1: the tiny toadstool home

The stranger entered the town without silence or fanfare.

Leather reins were shoved into a stableboy's hands and the child's startled cry was ignored as equine teeth closed around his unsuspecting fingertips.

The room was nothing special, though it was the finest in the inn: A small bed shoved into a corner, a large window overlooking alley and countryside, a tiny desk next to the door. But it would do. The stranger was only passing through after all. In a few days, this town would be nothing but a smudge on the horizon, hardly worth a memory.

But the stranger had something to do first.

The stranger waited until several nights had passed, so as not to rouse suspicion, and then strode carelessly through the inn and out of the dining room. The street outside was busy for a nowhere town, but the stranger still stood out. It was of no concern, though. The stranger was used to standing out.

The stranger was searching for someone. Someone in a tiny house at the edge of the town. The location was ideal. Walking distance. But far enough away that it was unlikely anyone would be able to hear or interfere. Not that the stranger minded interference. One person's inconvenience was this person's entertainment.

The house was ugly and squat. Kind of like a toad. The stranger smirked. The doorknob felt loose to the touch. The stranger frowned. Not locked. That took some of the fun out of it.

The stranger considered kicking the door down anyway, of course. But would that be more interesting than the occupant awakening to the stranger standing over them in bed? It was a hard decision to make, but the stranger was used to making hard decisions. It was all about choosing the more satisfying option. It was very important to think things through before making a decision. Otherwise, you might miss out on the fun.

And what could be more fun than this?

The occupant awoke to the press of blade to throat. The stranger was cloaked in shadow, but the occupant recognized it just the same. They opened their mouth to speak but thought better of it. The stranger was unpredictable.

"Where is that cousin you're so proud of?" the stranger asked.

"I don't know." The occupant could hardly breathe. Truly an unpredictable person. To have traveled all this way after all this time seeking a bandit mentioned in passing years ago. The occupant, of course, had no address to provide. Bandits rarely send Christmas cards or housewarming invitations.

"If you don't tell me, I'll slit your throat," the stranger said.

The occupant believed the threat. "I haven't seen him in years. I don't know where he is!"

The stranger smiled warmly. The knife stabbed through skin. The occupant screamed.

The stranger frowned. This was much too fast. They were always getting ahead of themselves. Killing too quickly. Maiming too excessively. It was best to take one's time.

But the knife in the throat was all the convincing the occupant needed. "I don't know where he is," they rasped. "But I've heard he roams the valley on the other side of the mountains. You might be able to find him there. Please just go."

"Okay," the stranger said pleasantly. The length of the blade was pressed across the broad expanse of tender skin at the occupant's throat.

The occupant's eyes widened. "Wait!"

The stranger waited. It was best not to be unreasonable. It was just as untoward as being too hasty.

"We used to be friends." The occupant spoke as if mercy was something that could be gained from this person.

"Not really." The stranger spoke the truth. The knife broke the skin.

"But I told you what you wanted to know!"

"You did not. I asked where he is. You said he might be somewhere. But that is not the same thing. Perhaps he is in the third room of a fine inn or in the kitchen of a tiny cottage or shitting in the woods between two distinctive trees. I do not know. You did not tell me."

"How was I supposed to know any of that?"

The stranger smiled gently. "Oh, you never possibly could have, of course."

The occupant's eyes widened. "Why are you doing this?"

"You left your door unlocked," the stranger replied.

A few moments later, the occupant was dead, the house was empty, and the door was open to the midnight darkness. The stranger felt no shame in the actions taken tonight. The most important thing in the world was, of course, to keep your word. And they had done so beautifully, openly, and honestly.

The dining room was still busy when the stranger strode back through to return to their room. They had a night or two, at most, left in this shit town. And then they would move on. Over the mountains and to the valley below.

As it turned out, only one night.

The next morning it was time to go.

But something caught the stranger's eye and they crossed the street instead of leaving it to stand in front of a small table covered in scarves. "This is very lovely," the stranger told the girl. The knife flashed in the sunlight, still streaked with the occupant's blood. But the girl who manned the stall didn't react. Her lips stayed curved upwards at the corners in a tiny smile. Her eyes were white. She was blind.

The stranger rolled their own eyes and slid the knife back into its sheathe.

Oh, well. The stranger left the town then. Off, next, to kill a bandit cousin. It was sure to be a most interesting adventure.