* * *
The night
was dark; cold and wet, a typical weather during the Snows. He was hungry; not
yet a potential threat for passerby, not even blinded yet to the world
surrounding him. There was time, still, to enjoy the beauty of the stars and
wonder why their sight warmed his heart. Was it just misplaced sensibility? Or
was it these lights, these tiny speckles of light lost amid vast seas of
darkness, that stirred memory and sorrow?
I'm sorry.
He shook
his head as memories surfaced and forced them back into the depths. Then he
took a look around, his eyes narrow in the dying light of nearby lanternposts,
and spotted a weathered signpost. He could barely make out the fading lettering
beneath a damaged carving of a mug:
The Divine Intruder
The door to
the Divine Intruder creaked open as he entered the wide, dimly lit tavern.
Immediately he scrutinized his surroundings, determining potential threads from
the get-go (always look, she had told
him, they look, you look back). He
was relieved to see but a few patrons drinking and smoking, each of them to
their own table; only the bartender, a tall, thin moustached man with short
black hair, seemed rather displeased by Devon 's sudden entry.
"No
vagrants," he spat, and a few heads lulled in Devon 's general direction, "No coin,
no table."
"What
makes you think I am a vagrant?"
The
bartender's lips flared, as did his temper. "We don't need your sort here,
boy! We got problems of our own here, business's dead – DEAD I tells ya! – and
you think you can barge in here
and—"
All ears,
twitching to the sound of rustling metal, forced their owners to turn their
attention towards the vagrant who held in his hand a small pouch filled with
what sounded like a small fortune.
"I'm
sorry, you were saying?"
The
bartender's eyes twitched. "Sit where you want."
Devon gave
the man a fleeting, polite flat smile, took a look around, and chose a table a
certain distance away from all men present, away from the door, and away from
the room's major corners (corners are bad,
she had told him, good view, safe, but
they see you, and catch you later). He sat down with the exit at his back,
arms placed on the table as support, and took a deep breath. Behind closed
eyelids, memories surfaced once again, and stared back at him with icy
fierceness.
"What'll
it be?"
"Don't
have that."
"What do you have, then?"
"Booze."
"I
don't drink."
The
bartender's nostrils flared. Devon was certain the man wanted nothing better than
to lash out and kick him out of his delapidated establishment, but the promise
of a potentially substantial remuneration was all that reigned the bartender's
frustration in.
"What
does his majesty desire, then?"
Slowly, Devon 's brow furrowed. It wasn't merely
the bartender's contempt that struck a nerve; a quick glance about revealed careful
motion and, potentially, threat. Wait for
last chance, she had told him, then,
break – and how often she had done so, resulting in devastated places and,
every now and again, imprisonment. He did not have her power, nor did he thrive
on destruction; however, he possessed one attribute that was sure to end the
situation immediately. So, Devon
dropped his head briefly and smiled.
"I
suggest you desist," he said, and he raised his fierce brown gaze towards
the man heheard take a step towards him, "or this will not end well for
you."
The man, an
elderly drunk with clearly nothing left in his life and his veins, let out a
sharp choking cry. A blade clanked onto the floorboards. "V-V-V-"
Then, when
the old man had exited the tavern, Devon looked back up at the ashen bartender.
"Now,
if I may: have you anything other than booze to offer me?"
* * *
The night
was cold; dark and uninviting, save for the light of a crescent moon. Devon pulled down his hood and the snow
amassed on top, and looked up at a neat, clearly well-kept signpost. In the
light of a nearby lantern, the lettering was clear and left no doubt:
The Wairing Hole
This is the place. He glanced about, casually, while taking in
every detail of his dark surroundings: footsteps partially filled in by
drifting snow, specks of dried old blood on opposite walls, the smell of
rotting meat likely devoured by rodents and the occasional stray Wair. And,
above all, the smell of old, musty death lingering on the air. He knew that
scent too well.
He pushed
the door to the Wairing Hole open and was immediately assaulted by a barrage of
smoke and the stink of days-long sweat and burned meat, and a cacophony of
laughter and drunken arguments that led even as he entered to a brief fistfight
that ended abruptly, one man bleeding on the floor. No one truly seemed to
notice him, and he took this advantage to slither his way towards one of few
vacant tables – which, unfortunately, was located too near the center of
turbulence. He sat down, took a deep calming breath, and slowly looked around.
Most
patrons, he suspected the longer he observed them, were clearly drunk. A few
were about to pass out or be sick –or both–, several were getting overly
friendly with what he expected to be waitresses or women of leisure –poor girls
with no other talent but their physique–; some he suspected were taking
advantage of those far more drunk than themselves to rob them without their
knowing. And, in one dim corner, Devon found what he was looking for: his prey.
There were
three of them, all dressed in simple hooded cloaks with little trimmings and no
defining attributes. One of them spoke with ample gestures –whether out of
habit, or to blend in with the surroundings, Devon did not know, nor did he care. The
night would be as long as they made it. When opportunity arose, Devon ordered a drink of ale, and started
waiting.
Before the
group of three rose from their seats about an hour later, Devon had been rudely
knocked aside by one surprisingly large patron, been harassed twice by drunk,
sweat-drenched women, had to defend his drink and his spot several times, and
repressed with every minute that had passed the urge to kill every single
person present to finally get some peace. It would have defeated the purpose of
blending in, but it sure as hell would have felt good.
Focus. Focus.
Memories
flashed before his eyes, of times not long enough passed, of a makeshift home
where he'd lost his heart and his sanity. Fangs bared, Devon let out a small growling sound.
He hated
them; he hated them all; time willing, he would kill them all.
