Open Chronicles Crossroads

Arnor's venture to the tundra was short-lived. After all, he was a nomad and a mercenary by trade. That and what he wanted- he couldn't really have. At least, not to himself. His people's ways be damned.

He put aside such thoughts for the task at hand- namely, riding into Ierin. Rhi, well fed and well-behaved for once, trotted along towards the town. Normally, he'd find the nearest guardshack, ask about what needed to be done. A nest of ghouls, a necromancer, or a monster that needed handling. Above the line work for guards, and below their level of security, but enough of a nuisance. Lords and Ladies of places were always looking to appear caring, and sometimes even were, and solving a monster problem or a bandit problem was always welcome to the poorest of poor in the world.

He came to the crossroads, before Rhi- normally, a steadfast horse in his resolve, reared and screamed. Something spooked him. Arnor soothed him, or at least tried, dismounting and grabbing his reins and rubbing his long mane. Shushing and offering words of comfort, he tried to see what spooked the horse. A snake, or a large spider perhaps.

Nothing, however, was there.

And Arnor meant- nothing.

Not a soul. Not a scent.

He looked down at his feet. Candles, sulfur, salt. In a particular pattern. Five points, it seemed, based on where the candles and piles of salt were. Salt and... He crouched down. Flakes of gold and silver. Peculiar. Very peculiar- The ground around him was cracked, leaves disturbed, grass flattened. Also odd. Then, without footsteps, without any hint of appearance or stalking up on him- a voice from behind. A man's.

"Arnor, son of Skuld. A man no more fitting for a task."

Arnor's blood froze, slowly rising to a stand. He turned to face the voice, finding a handsome man, smartly clad in a black doublet, with fine shoes and rings on his fingers on his fingers.

" I mean you no more harm than you mean me, son of the Tundra."

He must have sensed the silver on his back, or at least, saw it. Not many hunters carried two blades. One for the nasty creatures of the living, and one for the unsavory types of the unholy nature. He paced backwards, gaining distance in case of a fight. It was an odd proposition, or at least- an introduction.

"The town ahead of you- bustles with new energy. A man has found a fortune in his field, could you believe it? Not many could have. But sure enough, the man found a vein of gold running through his property. The lord took his share- but the man is flush with gold, more gold than many have seen in their lives.. seems odd doesn't it?" The man in black said, his hands folded behind his back. Arnor didn't say anything, his eyes dancing over him, before he replied.

"Sounds about as odd as you knowing who I am." The man in black laughed, looking towards the town.

"I'm owed a debt, Arnor. I was... unfortunately bound here, before you and your beer-drinking horse trotted along. But now, I see our paths intertwined." Arnor turned his head.

"I don't deal in contracts of the other worldly sort." Not that he ever had. He just didn't want to make it seem like it was on the table.

"There isn't much of a choice for you now, Son of Skuld." He reached out his hand, and Arnor felt his body be seized by an invisible hand, as if he was grabbed all at once by dozens of strong, unflinching hands. "You will find Ranir, and claim the debt that he owes me for his good fortune. Do this and you are free- fail or deny me, his debt will become yours. I intend collect my soul. If it's yours or his.... I'm sure I'll be fine."

Arnor was thrown back onto the ground, looking up at the night sky. Groaning as he rose to a stand, Rhi came trotting over, prodding him with his nose.

"I'm fine. But I think this Ranir character and I need to have a word."

Nothing in his travels prepared him for a demon. Sure, he had his share of ghouls, otherworldly experiences, ghosts and the risen dead- but nothing quite like the cold, calculated nature of the man- demon, devil. He wondered if it was one of the devils he heard of in stories, serving a higher master- or perhaps, the one himself. Or herself. Itself. He heard of it taking many forms, many voices, many times.

His people usually had a more.... cold version than this. A trickster, not a deal-maker. Only in the summer lands did he hear of such a things. But he thought them only stories. An amusing theory to himself was a changeling or a mischief making creature of sorts- he wasn't sure of the existence of demons and devils himself.

But now, he was.

He entered the village, weary eyes looking up at the large stranger on the larger horse. Rhi and Arnor towered over most in the village, from the structures to the people in them. He found a stable, handing over a handful of coins silently and dismounting Rhi. With hushed tones in his native tongue- scarcely spoken in these lands, he narrowed eyes, glancing to and fro.

Ranir was bound to be around somewhere. But where else to go firstly to find something in a small peasant village? The inn, of course- taverns and inns were the hub of social life. Not everyone went to them, but everyone knew someone who went to them.

The tavern wasn't fair from the stable, and he barely fit through the doorframe, lumbering inside, glancing around. Nordenfiir were not popular here- mercenaries and vagabonds mostly in the summer lands. That and Arnor, the Axe of Knottington, had a reputation for being loose with the women he was near.

Which, wasn't all too much of a lie or an exaggeration.

Everyone dealt with their pain differently. He found it in women and ales. He looked around, before making his way to the bar- although, tentatively. He'd been treated like an outsider most of his life-

But even the townsfolk were more than usually weary of him. As if they knew something was amiss with him. He couldn't quite place it however...

He took an ale, and took a seat at one of the many long tables- and caused a stir, causing many to displace from around him.

Interesting, to say the least. Annoying at the worst.

The townsfolk nearly went silent after a while. They couldn't pretend to be curious, or afraid, or hateful anymore. Arnor hadn't even gotten halfway through his drink when the bartender approached him. Everyone was on edge, and the bartender seemed apprehensive about it.

"You're not the first one he sent, sir."

Arnor looked up at him, narrowing his eyes.

"The man in black came here. But they banished him. The Templars came, they... banished him from this place- they said. He can't enter the town. But we can't leave either- the ones that tried.... they... There's nothing left of them. Nothing to bury- they're just gone. Turned to ash."

Arnor turned his head, towards the scared townsfolk. Whatever debt this Ranir owed to the man in black, well. It wasn't exactly a light debt, or just Ranir himself. Ranir gave the man in black something else- something more than just his soul, if the man in black was blocking the town itself.

He grimaced, rising to a stand.

"Where is he?"

They pointed to the lord's castle, or at least in the direction. A man opened the door, and further pointed at it.

How fitting.

How perfectly, fucking, fitting.

The Devil sent Arnor to collect his debt, and the man who he owed the debt to.... was hold up in the castle. How fascinating.

And annoying. Grimacing, Arnor resolved to finish up his drink before venturing to face, find, or confront Ranir. Not that anyone in the town seemed keen on helping him.