Private Tales Hate or Glory

[Marcia]

"We're losing light," came the quiet observation from Euan Cawdor.

He was an unassuming boy, cursed with a youthful face, narrow frame, and the thick eyelashes of a particularly bashful cow. From a single glance, you wouldn't have guessed that he was a Dreadlord Initiate, trained to be the arcane hand of Vel Anir's military might.

"No shit, Cawdor," Limont quipped in return, making a face at the boy as if to suggest he was an idiot. From the back of the horse, the lanky Initiate made a sweeping gesture to the horizon where the setting sun was nestling behind the trees. "We've all got peepers, y'know."

"O-oh, sorry, I was going to suggest that we stop for the day."

Marcia frowned. Initiate Cawdor's suggestion was perfectly valid, but their assignment was time-sensitive. They had been sent out to locate a pair of their missing peers, who had been sent out on a fact-finding mission on the road between Vel Anir and Vel Stratholm on the back of reports of 'suspicious activity'. With Anirian focus settling on Cortos, and the vague and dubious nature of the reports, they had sent Initiates in place of Dreadlords or the Guard. However, when the pair did not return it warranted the dispatch of double the Initiates.

"I feel like we're close," she muttered, narrowing her eyes in the hope that she was going to spot their missing peers in the next five seconds, which didn't happen.

"Well, I'm starving," Catrina Bletzin chimed in, clearly irked by Marcia's intention to carry on searching into the night.

Limont was prepared, looking back at the martial artist with a lop-sided grin that suggested he was prepared for this eventuality, and he was; he had the map. "You're in luck, sweet cheeks, we should be coming up on an inn shortly. A hot meal, a few rounds of ale, real beds. The whole damn dream."

"I didn't say we were fucking stopping."

It wasn't the first argument that had sprung up on this venture, and it likely wouldn't be the last.

"Marcia, I don't mean to offend, b-but who put you in charge?" Euan chimed in, his tone nervous as he challenged the authority she had inflicted on the rest of them, immediately sending Limont into a frenzy of cheers, fist-pumping dramatically at the other boy's stand.

"Wowee, Euan's got a pair! Standing up to tyranny! Hope you're wearin' a cup, she might kick you in the dick," He grinned, reaching over to awkwardly fist bump the shy Initiate from across horses, a gesture which was not reciprocated. It didn't hinder Limont's stride. "Didn't you know, Marshall Marci? We're in a dem-o-cracy now! Thought you were all well-read and shit."

"Right. Hands up for stopping," Catrina announced, her well-toned arm immediately shooting into the air, followed by both of Limont's arms and then a tentative hand up from Euan. "Then it's settled. We're stopping."

Marcia wasn't going to take it lying down, shaking her head and gritting her teeth at the other three out of sheer frustration. People were missing, and when people went missing, everything became dictated by time. The time that wasn't spent searching was time that the two missing Initiates could have been moving further away from them. A long rest could have been the difference between life and death. Yeah, she was hungry and tired too, and the thought of fumbling in the dark looking for them wasn't an attractive prospect, but there were things more fucking important than their comfort.

"How would you feel if one of us went missing and the search party was more excited to eat, drink and get fucking merry?" The short Initiate seethed, making sure to look at every single one of them in the eye as she lectured them. Cawdor couldn't meet her gaze, Limont shrugged but looked away at the challenge, but Bletzin held her stare.

"If you went missing, Marcia? I wouldn't even fucking look."

 

[Marcia]

Limont’s claim that they were 'coming up' on the inn had not been the entire truth, much to Marcia's frustration, as they left the open main road and down a branching path leading into the forest. Mercifully, for the scoundrel, the conversation had evaporated into terse silence following Bletzin's biting comment, so he escaped a further tongue-lashing for the time being.

The light fled as they moved deeper into the woods, the setting sun a memory for another day. It spurred Bletzin to increase the pace, riding ahead of the group at a canter before Limont joined her. They seemed to be engaged in a hushed conversation, but Marcia remained too angry to give a single shit, quietly hoping that the martial artist fell off her horse instead.

"I'm sorry about earlier, Marcia. I didn't mean for things to get heated," Cawdor piped up at her side, his big, tragic eyes apologetic, "but maybe they stopped here?"

"Maybe," she replied stiffly, in a manner that made the boy recoil somewhat.

"W-well, there's no harm in asking around."

The Aching Hooves Inn was an unassuming place. Its function was evident as a point for weary travellers to rest before continuing their journey—nothing more, nothing less. It nestled into the trees on a bend in the road, the branches having begun the gradual reclamation of the roof over time like creeping hands. A lone lit lantern outside the door was the only indication that it was occupied.

Joining the other two at the small unattended stable, Marcia quickly leapt from her mount and made a beeline for the door. "Take care of the hoses," she announced, waving a dismissive hand back at them, "I'll go ahead and get us a room."

Limont's squealing protest did not evade her ears as she walked away.

"A room?!"

 

[Marcia]

"I don't understand," Euan said, perplexed and showing himself to be the most enormous virgin going since, well, ever. "What's wrong with a room?"

"Oh, my sweet boy," Limont remarked, shaking his head as a slippery smile reached his lips. His hands clasped down on the shorter Initiate's shoulders. It was time for a father-son chat, no, the father-son chat, and who better than to impart such wisdom than he? "You see when a man and a woman-"

"Fucking hells," remarked Bletzin in the background, the only person making an effort to put their horses into the stables.

"Please stop," Euan practically begged, looking up at Limont with great pleading eyes, like a sad calf missing its mother, "I understand now. You want multiple rooms, so you can..."

"Uh-huh."

"...sleep with..."

"Mmmhm."

"...ah, I don't want to know, Limont," Cawdor finally finished, his features screwing up in revulsion as he delicately picked up the scoundrel's hands and freed them from his shoulders. Even if he didn't want to know, he could see the boy's brows twitching, no doubt trying to fathom which one of them he was going to attempt to shag. Limont leaned backwards, trying to catch a glimpse of Catrina's arse as she faffed about with the horse tack before looking back and waggling his brows at Euan.

There were few visions of the female form that didn't appeal to the taller Initiate, but Bletzin had that muscle mother physique. The type where you wanted to put your head bet-

"I said I don't want to know!" Euan squawked loudly, clearly reading Limont's mind from the look on his face, the boy's hands gesticulating wildly in a rare animated moment from the support mage.

"He's just chatting shit, Cawdor," Catrina bellowed from within the small stable, a hint of mischief in her voice, "Limont's dick hasn't worked since Marcia booted it."

 

[Marcia]

"It doesn't matter anyway," Limont remarked sulkily, his pride wounded by Catrina, "Marshall Marci's probably got us bloody bunkbeds or something."

"Do inns even have bunkbeds?" Cawdor inquired, scurrying into the stable to offer the woman inside doing all the work a helping hand (although, really, it was to escape lecherous Limont). Judging from the scowl she offered him, he arrived precisely when she had just finished.

"Prolly not, but I bet she's building them as we speak!"

"Can we talk about any-fucking-thing else other than that nasty little dwarf?" Catrina asked, although, upon closer inspection, Euan found it more of a demand.

The boy's face turned sullen, the healer's mind drifting back to the argument they'd had on the road prior. Cawdor couldn't help but exude wounded puppy dog energy, both a curse and a boon, depending on the scenario. Bletzin caught the expression and sighed. "Go on, spit it out."

"I'm worried about Gosia and Beckeln," he admitted, his gaze cast downward at the dirt, Marcia's words having hung a noose of guilt around his conscience. "What if they're really in trouble, and they need us? M-maybe we shouldn't have stopped..."

"We're hungry, and we're tired. If they're really in trouble, it's best we're at full strength."

"I suppose..."

"Good," Catrina said with a resolute clap onto Euan's back, which was more like a thud. "Now let's fucking eat."

 

[Marcia]

Catrina strode past the boys with the unflinching will of a titan, the desire for a hot meal triumphant over all other needs and wants.

At least on the surface.

The young woman would have been lying if she claimed not to be troubled by the disappearance of the others. Gosia and Beckeln were no slouches, more than capable of handling themselves when the need arose, the former having her shit together more than most of the Initiates combined and the latter a shoo-in for the Anirian Rangers. What didn't sit well with Catrina was that their mission brief had been horrendously vague; suspicious activity could have been anything. It reeked of piss-poor information.

Entering the inn, she was immediately greeted with the sight of a tavern almost entirely devoid of life. A lone man pottered behind the bar, his head snapping to look at the three Initiates.

"Jeezy peeps, talk about a ghost town," commented Limont under his breath before he loosened a low whistle.

Given the lack of patrons, it wasn't challenging to locate the stunted arsehole with delusions of leadership sitting in a booth wearing her usual constipated expression, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. Bletzin took a deep breath in preparation for another arduous, stilted conversation with the prickly Initiate before approaching and sliding into the opposite side of the booth. Limont was fast to sidle in next to Catrina, leaving Cawdor stuck next to Saint Marcia the Miserable.

"Did you get us rooms?" Bletzin asked curtly.

Marcia looked up from her no doubt furious considerations regarding the fighter with little more than frustration. "Yeah, and a meal. It's on the way."

"Good."

 

[Marcia]

There was something disconcerting about an empty tavern.

When Marcia first entered, nobody was there. Just layers of dust soon to be disturbed by their presence. The only indications of life in this place were the lit candles along the walls and the fireplace that softly crackled in greeting.

Her entrance did summon the proprietor, who rushed through to the bar at the sound of the heavy slam of the front door closing behind her. There was an innate sense of relief at the sight of him, half-dispelling the instant unease that the desolation had placed in the back of her mind. The man himself was a haggard creature, gaunt and wiry, likely from the stress and lack of income from owning an inn without patrons.

Marcia skipped pleasantries and went straight to business, describing the missing Initiates and asking if he had seen them at all in the last month.

He had not.

She then asked if he had any rooms available for the night.

He did (obviously).

Once that had been settled, the girl set about ordering their supper, the menu restricted to a single stew due to the lack of business. It would do. Naturally, in place of ale, no doubt gone sour in its barrel, Marcia opted to order them water. The Aching Hooves didn't have much but it did have a well, as the man was sure to assure her.

The act of paying was half arduous as the inn owner kept filling the empty air with all the excuses of why his inn was empty. 'It was off the beaten track' and 'Nobody travelled that road anymore' before launching into a tirade about people becoming self-sufficient enough to make camp instead. Marcia practically had to force the coins into his hand to get him to stop talking.

Eventually, she escaped to a booth and awaited the arrival of her peers.

Bletzin was clearly still sore about what happened at evaluation, her curt words and caustic attitude painting her as petulant to Marcia, who managed to keep her temper merely simmering.

"Limont, get the map out," she ordered, "I've spoken to the barkeeper, and he's not seen them, so we should take stock and go over what we know so far."

"Maybe there's something we're missing," Cawdor agreed, showing himself to at least somewhat care as Limont reached into his pack, pulled out the map, and unfurled it onto the dust-covered table. "Yeah, two Initiates..." the lanky scoundrel mumbled.

 

[Marcia]

Limont's comment hadn't met the greatest of reception, with Euan's mouth drawing into an awkward line, Catrina rolling her eyes in irritation, and, well, he didn't look at Marcia but could feel the burning ire of her stare on the side of his face.

"We've been to Darren," Cawdor finally interjected, pointing a finger to the town on the map, "and the guards at the outpost confirmed that they left."

He recalled the grain town as a shithole, having stopped off at the Shambling Willow for a hot meal the night before they left. They'd been receiving a lot of dirty looks from the locals, who had apparent hostilities lingering from their previous Dreadlord occupant, who had holed up in the former mayor's manor as Garrison Commander before it burned to the ground with the guy still inside.

Had happened about a year and a half ago.

Shady shit by Limont's reckoning, but there was no conclusion to be found. The locals got a good grilling with no solid answers, and the posted guard got swapped out for the current lot. At the end of the day, it was ruled an accident, and the ashes were swept under the rug.

"They were seen in Kinlet too," Euan continued as he mapped out their path of investigation further before being interrupted by the barman, who appeared brandishing four pewter tankards, which he haphazardly placed down on top of their map.

"Fresh from the well," he announced with a nod, seemingly oblivious to what he was interrupting. "Just got the stew heating up. I'll get it with you all real soon."

"Thank you."

Limont peered at the drinks, having briefly begun to grin in anticipation before being let down by the words 'fresh from the well', which, unless this place had a magical ale well, meant that Marcia had taken the liberty of ordering them...

"...water," he bemoaned, his brown eyes peering at the Marshall with despair. "Fuck me sideways, Marci, you're a real fuckin' joy killer."

 

[Marcia]

"Fucking grow up, Limont," Marcia had snapped back without hesitation.

Euan didn't particularly mind that Marcia had taken the liberty of eliminating any chance of fun or relaxation slipping into their evening. Really, Limont should have tempered his expectations the moment he knew who he would be on the mission with.

"You grow up!" He replied childishly, willing to stand up for his right to... party. "People drink, Marci. Dreadlords drink, Guards drink, Initiates drink!"

Did it even matter? The lanky troublemaker had been not-so-sneakily sipping from a flask for the entire duration of the assignment. Cawdor wondered if there was a difference between a round of ale at a tavern and whatever rotgut was in his flask. The healer eventually came to the silent conclusion that the difference was that Limont wanted to enjoy himself on the Academy's sovereigns rather than his own pocket.

"You should be focused on your fucking duty!" The girl bit back, an accusatory finger levelled at him. Catrina leaned back, perfectly content to watch the scene continue to devolve.

As if it offered an escape, Ewan buried his face into the tankard and glugged several large mouthfuls of water. The boy cringed as a metallic aftertaste clung to his tongue. Suddenly, the state of the well was called into question in the state of his mind, making him fearful about the state of the forthcoming stew. The barkeep said it was 'heating up', didn't he?

"And you should untwist your little fuckin' knickers and learn how to relax!"

Deep joy.

 

[Marcia]

"Do you want to fucking step outside, you lackadaisical shit!?" Marcia announced, standing up in the booth's corner with her arms out in a direct challenge.

It was an embarrassment.

From an objective standpoint, it was hard to pinpoint who was being more of an obstinant prick. Was it Limont and his tantrum at not getting an ale (which, let's face it, had probably gone sour with the state of this place) with his supper? Or was it Marcia? Who was so entirely rigid and unflexible that she couldn't pull the stick out of her ass for one poxy meal?

"OoOOoh, we can't have one drink, but we can fight and get injured instead! Good thinking, Marshall! Very fuckin' duty focused!" Limont sneered, rolling his eyes but perhaps smartly remaining seated.

Thankfully, Catrina wasn't objective. It was Marcia; it was always Marcia—sanctimonious, underhanded little prick. Limont had hardly showered himself in roses, fuck, he'd almost talked (begged) her into sharing a bed tonight. That was definitely off the cards.

She took a sip and immediately pulled a face similar to Cawdor's.

"Fucking hells. That tastes like ass," she commented, staring at her tankard and noticing the dust that had gathered around the rim and handle.

"Y-yeah! I think the well's seen better days," Euan immediately chimed in, attempting to steer their conversation to the forefront and away from the bickering. He was such a nervous lamb of an Initiate; Bletzin had no idea how he had made it this far.

"Eh, we've had worse, and we'll have worse."

"Fuck this!" Limont announced, suddenly standing and picking up his mug by the rim and slamming it down in front of Marcia, spilling its contents onto the map. "You can have all the ass water you want! I'm going to go and have a real fuckin' drink!" Without another seething word, he pulled out his flask and stormed out of the inn.

 

[Marcia]

The fucking nerve of that lanky cunt!

Marcia was ready to leap out of the booth and follow Limont outside so she could wrap her hands around his stupid, fucking long neck and throttle him until the rage subsided.

Unfortunately, Cawdor was sat directly in her path, looking up at her with those tragic saucers that he had the audacity to call eyes, and the girl wasn't so apoplectic with rage that she was prepared to leap across the table to go after the workshy fucking cretin. She stared down at the boy as if her eyes alone could move him, but Euan sat firm.

"Marcia, please. J-just let him go and cool down," he pleaded before gesturing to the now water-stained map with one hand, "and I think it'd be a better use of our downtime tuh-to go over the map."

She didn't disagree, but she also considered the merit of beating a sense of responsibility into Limont's face to be just as worthwhile as a pursuit. If it weren't for the fucking Revolution, then gutter rats like him wouldn't have even made it this far. Her jaw became rigid under the strain of gritted teeth; her hands balled into white-knuckled fists by her side.

"Yeah, how about you focus on your duty rather than embarrassing yourself any further?" Bletzin chimed in, unhelpfully, her words perfectly goading to highlight Marcia's hypocrisy.

Her response came in a stiff grunt from the bottom of her soul and a snarl of the upper lip before, finally, the short Initiate managed to find some semblance of sense and sat back down again. She didn't quite appreciate Catrina's tone, but the martial artist had a point. "Fine."

"Right. G-good!" Cawdor squeaked, trying to pull the reigns on the runaway horse that they called their assignment. He delicately picked up Limont's tankard and placed it to the side, frowning slightly at the wet ring on their map. Marcia seethed into her water, her mind still reverberating with rage and loathing that she barely registered that it, indeed, tasted like ass.

"So we know that they were in Kinlet," Bletzin offered, nodding to Cawdor to encourage him to keep going from where he left off before the great ale war began.

 

[Marcia]

The chill of the night air was a poor salve for the frustration built up from weeks on the road with that joyless midget.

Limont stood still, one hand clutching his flask and the other running down his face, pulling the skin taut before resting over his mouth. In the lingering heat of the moment, the Initiate yelled into his hand as the urge to let off steam overcame him.

If only Naser or Norah were here, they might have been able to make a night out of it. Three hipflasks and the camaraderie of gallows humour, something that only the Gutters could teach, and far above the heads of sheltered Academy twats. He raised his flask to them, hoping that whatever they were doing was infinitely less painful than this.

Hopefully, they were rinsing the marks on another poker night.

He let his feet wander, feet trailing lazily as he meandered around the perimeter of the inn, taking brief swigs of pilfered brandy in the silence of the night. It might have been eerie were it not for the remnants of irritation that lingered in Limont's perception.

Passing by the windows, he could see the rest of the party through the layers of grime on the glass across the room, heads buried in the map and suffering through their stagnant water. Limont sucked the air between his front teeth and offered them the universal hand gesture for wankers. Thankfully, it went unnoticed; he didn't need to blow his chances with Catrina any more than he had already done.

As his stroll continued, Limont couldn't help but turn to morose thoughts of man's mortality, mainly because his flask was growing empty. His dark brows furrowed before dancing in mischievous contemplation as the solution came to him after a few short moments.

If the inn had a bar, then the bar would have liquor. Liquor that was left untouched by a distinct lack of business.

They wouldn't miss a bottle.

 

[Marcia]

"The Guards confirmed that they left Kinlet too," Euan spoke, his voice somewhat unsure as his mouth pulled into a slight frown. Something hadn't sat quite right with him, but the healer wasn't sure whether it was unnecessary detail that would only detract from their search. "But I..."

"The locals weren't fans of us," Catrina interjected, giving him cause for relief as the fighter shared his thoughts while completing his sentence.

It was hard to miss.

"Exactly!"

To say that the people of Kinlet were unfriendly would have been an understatement. Were it not for the Anirian Guards stationed in the small town, Cawdor doubted they would have gotten much information from the people. Hushed mutters of discontent followed their investigation, suspicious eyes constantly glancing in their wake but averted whenever confronted by a gaze.

Not to mention the stilted conversations, like getting blood from a stone.

"I don't think we've been particularly well-received in any town so far," Euan added, bolstered by Bletzin's confirmation of his thoughts. "Could it... do you think it could be related?"

"Can't rule it out."

Marcia lowered her tankard from her lips, clearly having settled down enough to acknowledge the sour, metallic tang with a perturbed expression. "It's not entirely uncommon for civilians to dislike Dreadlords; I wouldn't leap to conspiracy immediately."