Blood pooled in the age beneath Môdhryd's eyes before moving downward, across the ridge of his cheekbones; warm, it flowed with the haste of life, trickling below to the cool, damp earth of the riverside camp. Some of it, he knew, was his own. Opening his eyes, he was immediately met with a brown pair so close in proximity the man's lashes nearly tickled his skin; they'd crossed and were rapidly dulling, twitching slightly off-center in either direction. For a moment, Môdhryd contemplated the man: his features were soft, his spasmodic eyes were set deep beyond the cheeks of his moon-shaped face, and his lip was recently torn – bleeding. Some noise, neither quite a gurgle nor a rattle, forced its way free from his throat. His skin felt as cool, damp, and malleable as clay in Môdhryd's grip.
Slowly, he allowed his arms to extend forward; holding the man aloft by his face, Môdhryd continued his pondering observation. His name was “Evhar” or “Eivhar,” though it truly didn't matter. His brow was caved and horrific; Môdhryd's own stung yet still from the impact. No, whatever name the man had once held, Môdhryd doubted he could recite it – not in this state. Rigid, he'd gone decerebrate; somewhere behind the cracked scramble of tissue that was his forehead, wet meat and fat hemorrhaged and pulsed with the final thoughts of a former comrade. The notion reminded Môdhryd that he still had three eggs saved, as well as a fair cut of salt pork; that would do him well for breakfast, plus whatever morsels the piggy he yet still held had managed to stow-away in their brief travels together.
A familiar scent wafted across Môdhryd's nostrils; a quick glance ruined the man's modesty. It was commonplace, and he had grown accustomed in his years. Regardless, it wouldn't do well to linger, he knew. Affording only one further glance, inwardly remarking on how stiff the man's body had managed to become – like an oak in a gale – Môdhryd abruptly twisted his grip; a resounding, albeit wet, “crack” filled the narrow copse. Losing its rigidity, the now-deceased body twisted as its neck snapped, twirling almost comically – as if it were attempting to catch-up with its head. The deed was done, and to the earth he was consigned, slumped and rotund.
Another sound, uncannily similar to an actual word, roused him. Turning, Môdhryd saw two men: one crawled toward the nearly-snuffed campfire, while the other laid face-up, a sword rooted through his sternum. The vocalization was from the crawler: his leg had been broken just above the knee, giving his movements all the semblance of a raggedy children's doll, the limb flopping grotesquely for as much as it was limp and useless. A few strides and the heaving-free of his knightly sword from the impromptu scabbard, and Môdhryd was standing over the crawler, watching.
With a shift of his foot, unkind and swift, Môdhryd forced the man onto his back despite his protests. Even through the swelling distention of his crudely dislocated jaw, he could tell the man – the boy – was quite young. Not yet beyond his twentieth year, he surmised; the pig, beneath his corpulent facade, had looked all the part of his mid-thirties, with the scabbard much the same. The boy, though, no; this was perhaps his first time in a bandit camp, certainly his first time on the rough end of a beating.
“What is your name, boy?” Môdhryd's enunciation was fluid, if pronounced, in the Common Tongue; it was twinged with the hint of an accent, not hidden but slumbering. Deep, like water rushing river rock; his inquisitorial twang was nearly as melodic as it was growled.
The boy did not answer; at least, the boy did not answer to Môdhryd's discerning standards. What vocalization crossed his lips were clearly pained, muffled by inflammation and the occasional instance of blood-tinged sputum. To persuade the young bandit into compliance, he pressed his foot down upon the boy's shattered limb.
“Ghwa-shie!” the boy yowled, “Guh-shwi!” It was difficult to discern, but there: Gethi. Allirian, perhaps.
“How old are you, boy?” Môdhryd didn't bother using the name he'd so painfully coerced Gethi into providing. Kindness truly didn't matter in this particular interrogation; the whole charade was conducted more for the part of his own curiosity.
“Nih-pehn,” Gethi attempted. His hands, having been raised to defend his face, slowly relaxed; his fingers followed suit until nine, trembling, were displayed. Nineteen.
“Nineteen,” Môdhryd mulled the word in his mouth, looking up and aloft. It would be dawn soon. He was caked in the early morning festivities; he'd need a chance to bathe in the river, and a few moments to toss away his spent quarry before then. All chores of necessity before he could settle in for his breakfast. Yet, there was still the boy.
Looking down, he tilted his head. The boy – Gethi – looked far from the part of the life he'd chosen for himself. He was no brigand. He had played brigand. Of the quartet, only Môdhryd himself had been quieter; this boy had said little else than that he'd once been a cut-purse on the streets of a city Môdhryd did not recognize. He wondered, in fact, whether it existed at all. No, this boy came from money: the way he had improperly handled a dagger told as much. And the smell – or, rightly, the lack of it – told the rest. He'd never seen, much less touched dirt before these past weeks. No, Gethi was from blue-blooded stock, through-and-through.
“Nhe mø ladhse.”[1]
“Wa—“ As Gethi tried to question, Môdhryd plunged the tip of his blade until it hit resistance in the earth. Dark, arterial flow pressed up from his bruised lips as readily as it dribbled from his throat. All the while, Môdhryd watched, his eyes glaring down into Gethi's own. Inside of a minute, they had lost their luster; the hazel-amber tones became muddied, dull, and fading in feature. His blood was not blue.
The campfire popped its shallow inferno as the cast iron sizzled. Shirtless and still damp from the river, Môdhryd carefully flipped a rasher of his salted pork with the tip of his knife, causing the pan to once more roar. The smell was almost intoxicating, almost; sweet notes of the pork contrasted with the astringency of the salt. Thinking well of it, he quickly cracked and dispersed the contents of his eggs adjacent the rasher; almost instantly, the quail eggs curdled. Môdhryd pushed aside the skillet from the bulk of the renewed campfire, leaving his rashers and eggs to finish.
The camp had been cleaned, for the most part. Somewhere downriver, catfish and gar would be having their own feast; what items the pig, the scabbard, and the boy no longer required that Môdhryd didn't find of use had been equally tossed, scattered periodically on his way back to camp. The most useful of their supplies had been the coin, which he had already deposited in his pack; the skillet was useful, as was the simple antler-handled knife; the pig had possessed a fairly luxurious bedroll, as well. Beyond that, their use was in his enjoyment of their moments spent together, no matter how fleeting.
The Coast Road called his name. Southward, beyond the Spine and to the Allirian Reaches. But first, it was breakfast that called loudest.
Reaching down, Môdhryd pulled free the small tin of tea he'd left to steep at the corner of the fire. It was plain, black, and how he preferred. His breakfast had lost its sizzling intensity, and would do well enough for fare. Dispensing with his meal onto a plain, pine shard, he took it and his tea to a small stump at the river's edge, and began eating, watching as the first rays of dawn dazzled over the edge of the wood.
They had been together but only briefly, the four of them. In their tenure, they had managed to way-lay only a handful of travelers further up the Coast Road. Not much from any of them, in truth, and the pig was prone to fighting over luxuries the others had cared little to keep. Môdhryd hadn't even complained when he knew the pig and the scabbard had slighted him his cut; of course, neither had he told the three that he had never planned on leaving without their shares as well. 'All-is-fair,' he said inwardly to himself between mouthfuls of pork and egg.
The tea had been the greatest boon, truly. A merchant had carried it, and it'd been nearly a year since he'd had such a taste. The other three didn't care for the stuff, all more to Môdhryd's liking. While a bit of ale would do in a pinch, on campaign years hence, he'd grown fond of it. The others had found his morning rituals perplexing: tea, breakfast, followed by some coltsfoot in his pipe. They at least didn't complain on the days that the lots had decided was his to cook.
No matter, now.
Slowly, he allowed his arms to extend forward; holding the man aloft by his face, Môdhryd continued his pondering observation. His name was “Evhar” or “Eivhar,” though it truly didn't matter. His brow was caved and horrific; Môdhryd's own stung yet still from the impact. No, whatever name the man had once held, Môdhryd doubted he could recite it – not in this state. Rigid, he'd gone decerebrate; somewhere behind the cracked scramble of tissue that was his forehead, wet meat and fat hemorrhaged and pulsed with the final thoughts of a former comrade. The notion reminded Môdhryd that he still had three eggs saved, as well as a fair cut of salt pork; that would do him well for breakfast, plus whatever morsels the piggy he yet still held had managed to stow-away in their brief travels together.
A familiar scent wafted across Môdhryd's nostrils; a quick glance ruined the man's modesty. It was commonplace, and he had grown accustomed in his years. Regardless, it wouldn't do well to linger, he knew. Affording only one further glance, inwardly remarking on how stiff the man's body had managed to become – like an oak in a gale – Môdhryd abruptly twisted his grip; a resounding, albeit wet, “crack” filled the narrow copse. Losing its rigidity, the now-deceased body twisted as its neck snapped, twirling almost comically – as if it were attempting to catch-up with its head. The deed was done, and to the earth he was consigned, slumped and rotund.
Another sound, uncannily similar to an actual word, roused him. Turning, Môdhryd saw two men: one crawled toward the nearly-snuffed campfire, while the other laid face-up, a sword rooted through his sternum. The vocalization was from the crawler: his leg had been broken just above the knee, giving his movements all the semblance of a raggedy children's doll, the limb flopping grotesquely for as much as it was limp and useless. A few strides and the heaving-free of his knightly sword from the impromptu scabbard, and Môdhryd was standing over the crawler, watching.
With a shift of his foot, unkind and swift, Môdhryd forced the man onto his back despite his protests. Even through the swelling distention of his crudely dislocated jaw, he could tell the man – the boy – was quite young. Not yet beyond his twentieth year, he surmised; the pig, beneath his corpulent facade, had looked all the part of his mid-thirties, with the scabbard much the same. The boy, though, no; this was perhaps his first time in a bandit camp, certainly his first time on the rough end of a beating.
“What is your name, boy?” Môdhryd's enunciation was fluid, if pronounced, in the Common Tongue; it was twinged with the hint of an accent, not hidden but slumbering. Deep, like water rushing river rock; his inquisitorial twang was nearly as melodic as it was growled.
The boy did not answer; at least, the boy did not answer to Môdhryd's discerning standards. What vocalization crossed his lips were clearly pained, muffled by inflammation and the occasional instance of blood-tinged sputum. To persuade the young bandit into compliance, he pressed his foot down upon the boy's shattered limb.
“Ghwa-shie!” the boy yowled, “Guh-shwi!” It was difficult to discern, but there: Gethi. Allirian, perhaps.
“How old are you, boy?” Môdhryd didn't bother using the name he'd so painfully coerced Gethi into providing. Kindness truly didn't matter in this particular interrogation; the whole charade was conducted more for the part of his own curiosity.
“Nih-pehn,” Gethi attempted. His hands, having been raised to defend his face, slowly relaxed; his fingers followed suit until nine, trembling, were displayed. Nineteen.
“Nineteen,” Môdhryd mulled the word in his mouth, looking up and aloft. It would be dawn soon. He was caked in the early morning festivities; he'd need a chance to bathe in the river, and a few moments to toss away his spent quarry before then. All chores of necessity before he could settle in for his breakfast. Yet, there was still the boy.
Looking down, he tilted his head. The boy – Gethi – looked far from the part of the life he'd chosen for himself. He was no brigand. He had played brigand. Of the quartet, only Môdhryd himself had been quieter; this boy had said little else than that he'd once been a cut-purse on the streets of a city Môdhryd did not recognize. He wondered, in fact, whether it existed at all. No, this boy came from money: the way he had improperly handled a dagger told as much. And the smell – or, rightly, the lack of it – told the rest. He'd never seen, much less touched dirt before these past weeks. No, Gethi was from blue-blooded stock, through-and-through.
“Nhe mø ladhse.”[1]
“Wa—“ As Gethi tried to question, Môdhryd plunged the tip of his blade until it hit resistance in the earth. Dark, arterial flow pressed up from his bruised lips as readily as it dribbled from his throat. All the while, Môdhryd watched, his eyes glaring down into Gethi's own. Inside of a minute, they had lost their luster; the hazel-amber tones became muddied, dull, and fading in feature. His blood was not blue.
The campfire popped its shallow inferno as the cast iron sizzled. Shirtless and still damp from the river, Môdhryd carefully flipped a rasher of his salted pork with the tip of his knife, causing the pan to once more roar. The smell was almost intoxicating, almost; sweet notes of the pork contrasted with the astringency of the salt. Thinking well of it, he quickly cracked and dispersed the contents of his eggs adjacent the rasher; almost instantly, the quail eggs curdled. Môdhryd pushed aside the skillet from the bulk of the renewed campfire, leaving his rashers and eggs to finish.
The camp had been cleaned, for the most part. Somewhere downriver, catfish and gar would be having their own feast; what items the pig, the scabbard, and the boy no longer required that Môdhryd didn't find of use had been equally tossed, scattered periodically on his way back to camp. The most useful of their supplies had been the coin, which he had already deposited in his pack; the skillet was useful, as was the simple antler-handled knife; the pig had possessed a fairly luxurious bedroll, as well. Beyond that, their use was in his enjoyment of their moments spent together, no matter how fleeting.
The Coast Road called his name. Southward, beyond the Spine and to the Allirian Reaches. But first, it was breakfast that called loudest.
Reaching down, Môdhryd pulled free the small tin of tea he'd left to steep at the corner of the fire. It was plain, black, and how he preferred. His breakfast had lost its sizzling intensity, and would do well enough for fare. Dispensing with his meal onto a plain, pine shard, he took it and his tea to a small stump at the river's edge, and began eating, watching as the first rays of dawn dazzled over the edge of the wood.
They had been together but only briefly, the four of them. In their tenure, they had managed to way-lay only a handful of travelers further up the Coast Road. Not much from any of them, in truth, and the pig was prone to fighting over luxuries the others had cared little to keep. Môdhryd hadn't even complained when he knew the pig and the scabbard had slighted him his cut; of course, neither had he told the three that he had never planned on leaving without their shares as well. 'All-is-fair,' he said inwardly to himself between mouthfuls of pork and egg.
The tea had been the greatest boon, truly. A merchant had carried it, and it'd been nearly a year since he'd had such a taste. The other three didn't care for the stuff, all more to Môdhryd's liking. While a bit of ale would do in a pinch, on campaign years hence, he'd grown fond of it. The others had found his morning rituals perplexing: tea, breakfast, followed by some coltsfoot in his pipe. They at least didn't complain on the days that the lots had decided was his to cook.
No matter, now.
Coast Road, South of the Spine. Smaragd. Early Morning, Annenday.
The saddlehorse's hooves made little noise against the ground hard-pan of the Coast Road as Môdhryd went. In the distance, not quite within sight, he could hear the waves of the Asherah Ocean lapping against the sand and polished stone of the shore. The Coast Road occasionally meandered within sight of it, but for this stretch, low pines and distance made sea-gazing impossible. A long-stemmed, wooden pipe dangled gently from his mouth, smoldering with mullein and coltsfoot. As he rode, he imbibed, leaving a gentle, herbal aroma in his wake.
He had dressed comfortably, in leathers and cloth, supported only by a bout of mail. His cloak was rolled and packed away; summer had arrived, and for his travels, the night was comfortable enough. At his hip sat one sword, slung across his back one far greater was held – diagonal and comfortable, as to not disturb his horse's gait. Môdhryd looked all the part of what he was: a traveling sellsword, recently paid. The pre-dawn ruckus at camp was little more than a fading fiction – a dream washed red.
By his memory, the road would turn north, then toward a small settlement in about a league's worth of travel. Not long at all. Môdhryd was unsurprised when his memory proved true, and the road did turn more northward in its meander. In the distance, there were tiny wisps of smoke on the horizon: townsfolk cooking breakfasts of their own, either in earthen kitchen hovels or over open flame, much like himself. The name of the settlement escaped him, but they were a copper-a-crock along the Coast Road, and the Gold Road beyond it. He needed to resupply; the pig had kept less stowed-away than he'd hoped.
As Môdhryd rode, he was passed by the occasional traveler – fewer in number traveling the way he'd came. A caravan hawking pottery and other earthenware briefly paused; he'd chosen to peruse largely on a whim, but had found nothing to his liking. Certainly nothing worth unsheathing a blade to acquire. Beyond such, few travelers spoke, most giving a curt nod; one asked from where he'd came and to where he was headed, leaving Môdhryd to lie on both accounts. He wasn't one for idle chatter, at least not with the circumstances of an idly nosey and gossipy traveler. He'd become accustomed to such along the road, however, especially as the winding paths of Epressa led ever-closer to more hardened and deeply-rooted civilization.
Town began as a smudge in the distance, but quickly clarified into solid shapes and designs – for Môdhryd, slightly before most. Memories flooded back to him as the skyline took more concrete form, and he remembered this settlement's quaint bridge and inn, just his side of the bulk of the dwellings. As expected, his memory proved true: a stone masonry bridge stretched across a shallow brook sat at the basin of a sharp depression in the soil; it was built more for convenience of traversing either embankment than for fear of the stream. But there was something amiss.
Just outside of the inn and before several of the village's homes, some of the townsfolk had gathered. Their voices elevated, there was some confrontation taking place; of the source, Môdhryd knew nothing, and while the raised volume of the group did not foretell precisely of violence, he would need to pass them into town regardless. It never hurt to stop and observe, in the least, when so-called civilization chose to dispense with social nicety.
He had dressed comfortably, in leathers and cloth, supported only by a bout of mail. His cloak was rolled and packed away; summer had arrived, and for his travels, the night was comfortable enough. At his hip sat one sword, slung across his back one far greater was held – diagonal and comfortable, as to not disturb his horse's gait. Môdhryd looked all the part of what he was: a traveling sellsword, recently paid. The pre-dawn ruckus at camp was little more than a fading fiction – a dream washed red.
By his memory, the road would turn north, then toward a small settlement in about a league's worth of travel. Not long at all. Môdhryd was unsurprised when his memory proved true, and the road did turn more northward in its meander. In the distance, there were tiny wisps of smoke on the horizon: townsfolk cooking breakfasts of their own, either in earthen kitchen hovels or over open flame, much like himself. The name of the settlement escaped him, but they were a copper-a-crock along the Coast Road, and the Gold Road beyond it. He needed to resupply; the pig had kept less stowed-away than he'd hoped.
As Môdhryd rode, he was passed by the occasional traveler – fewer in number traveling the way he'd came. A caravan hawking pottery and other earthenware briefly paused; he'd chosen to peruse largely on a whim, but had found nothing to his liking. Certainly nothing worth unsheathing a blade to acquire. Beyond such, few travelers spoke, most giving a curt nod; one asked from where he'd came and to where he was headed, leaving Môdhryd to lie on both accounts. He wasn't one for idle chatter, at least not with the circumstances of an idly nosey and gossipy traveler. He'd become accustomed to such along the road, however, especially as the winding paths of Epressa led ever-closer to more hardened and deeply-rooted civilization.
Town began as a smudge in the distance, but quickly clarified into solid shapes and designs – for Môdhryd, slightly before most. Memories flooded back to him as the skyline took more concrete form, and he remembered this settlement's quaint bridge and inn, just his side of the bulk of the dwellings. As expected, his memory proved true: a stone masonry bridge stretched across a shallow brook sat at the basin of a sharp depression in the soil; it was built more for convenience of traversing either embankment than for fear of the stream. But there was something amiss.
Just outside of the inn and before several of the village's homes, some of the townsfolk had gathered. Their voices elevated, there was some confrontation taking place; of the source, Môdhryd knew nothing, and while the raised volume of the group did not foretell precisely of violence, he would need to pass them into town regardless. It never hurt to stop and observe, in the least, when so-called civilization chose to dispense with social nicety.
- ^”Not my youngest,” in Fjállvaric.
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