The Prince and the Serpent

Laharas

The heavy iron tankard hit the polished bar with a dull thud. Some stray drops of beer spotted the clean surface, shaken loose by the force of the impact. Kawaki lifted his soot-stained fingers, signaling for another. The barkeep barley looked up as he dutifully filled another tankard and slid it down the bar. Kawaki caught it smoothly by the handle and chugged its contents. He wiped his mouth with his bare, soot-streaked forearm and the new empty tankard joined its brother.

Kawaki could feel the alcohol working but it was still short of the comfortable buzz he was aiming for. He signaled for a third without looking up, knowing that his request would be honored without question. A third tankard joined the other two and he downed it just as quickly. He breathed contentedly through his nose as the last of the burning fluid flowed down his throat. That one hit the spot.

He rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand as he felt the warmth spread through his core, relaxing his muscles. He hardly glanced at the dark lines of his tattooed left arm as it fell to the bar. Eleven years he's had them now and they never got any easier to look at. Ghost pains traced the lines in his skin that ran from his left hand up his arm, across his chest and up the left half of his neck.

His tattoos were nightmares; old memories he'd do anything to forget. He had never told a soul of their secrets. Anyone bold enough to ask after them got a curt "fuck you" and nothing more. Only the Old Hag knew and he preferred not to think about that. He ran a hand through his naturally blonde hair. It was a nervous habit he'd never been able to break.

He despised the color of his hair. It was too bright and sunny for his liking. Plus, the color combined with the steel blue of his eyes gave far too many people reason to compare him to Prince Boruto. Soot from many an hour standing in front of his coal forge often stained his hair black. The first time it happened, he decided that he liked the look. From then on, he kept the top long and dyed black. The sides, he kept closely shaved and natural, giving him a two-tone look.

He liked it because it both distracted from and complimented this tattoos as well as his double eyebrow piercing. His edgy look didn't make him stand out much. In this city, most people had a wild look to them. Compared to the Old Hag, though, his look could be described as 'vanilla' at best. However, it did stop any and all comparisons of him with the Prince.

He dug in his pocket, set a piece of silver on the bar and turned to leave. The cool evening air caressed his face as he stepped out into the evening. The sun was beginning to dip below the jagged black peaks. The dying light sent spectacular red god rays across the forever grey sky that hung over the black roofs of Laharas. Grey, red and black, they were the colors that defined the stone city of smiths and dragons.

The city sprawled along a ridge perched in the middle of a cluster of active volcanoes. Their rumblings were commonplace, practically constant and Kawaki hardly heard them anymore. His steely eyes passed over the old familiar buildings formed from pale grey stones. Short, square towers stood at regular intervals and were adorned with deep claw marks, worked deep into the hard stones by the talons of their constant inhabitants.

Great black drakes and red dragons lounged on the towers, watching the human inhabitants come and go with lazy yellow eyes. The dragons served the city as guardians by convenience. The lizard-like creatures flocked to the city because they enjoyed the volcanoes and the city's location. The citizens kept them well cared for and the dragons watched over the city in exchange, or so that was the story. Most of the time, they looked indifferent at best to Kawaki.

The windows of the buildings glowed orange and the mouths of the great volcanoes glowed red in the gathering darkness. Ash drifted gently like snow over the city's winding streets. Despite his buzz, Kawaki's steps were steady on the smooth cobblestones. He knew these streets by heart and could make his way home blindfolded if he had to. He had spent the last ten of his twenty one years in Laharas. It was as close to home as anything would be for him now.