Private Tales The Silence of the Gallows

[Callisto]

The Barkeep leaned forward and sighed, encumbered by a tiresome and haggard expression. His mustache, by all estimations, was spectacular by the first light of day. Waxed and curled and deep auburn, the tips extended outward and bent up to nearly touch his eyes. His cheeks were still rosy, though some might have assumed it was from drinks taken between busing, and one side of his mustache had evidently set with the sun hours ago. It gave his countenance an asymmetry that could hardly be noticed in the low ambiance of chain hung chandeliers. He ran a dirty rag across the polished counter-top and withdrew a blunt knife from his apron. Scraping the counter harshly, he excavated a puddle of wax and tossed it lazily to the floor. A divot remained and a drop of wax promptly began to refill it.​

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“Oye!” A farmhand pounded the bar-top with an empty tankard, burping what suds remained up and onto the recently cleaned wood. “Da fook is this about some...Laaaaady Carmine?” His words dragged on as he indicated towards the cup with a swirling index finger. The barkeep shook his head and grabbed the tankard. Filling it up with the turn of a spigot from a wooden barrel, he plopped it back down and offered an open palm. The farmhand placed a piece of metal there and smiled.​

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“You ain’t heard ov’her?”​

“Oh I have.” The barkeep responded, sticking the coin in his apron. “Just prefer not to meddle.”​

“It ain’t quite meddlin’, now is it? After all, wasn’t two days ago that this place was the peaceful Cast..." He belched. "Castellany of the proud Surmire.” The farmhand pressed his hand against his chest as if he truly believed it, though the Barkeep assumed it was simply to relieve indigestion. “Now look at it...oh a sordid affair is what it is. As grim as a grave I say.”​

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“Well…” The barkeep replied, turning the rag over and rubbing the wood once more. But it wasn’t something that needed cleaning. It was entirely habit. “No reason to not trust the Lord of these lands. And whatever consult he may keep.”​

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“Aye...that’s proper bullshite and you know it! Consult? I say Consort! This Laaaady Carmine…” He shook his head, downing a weighty bit of the lager. “Spread her legs and whispered a few words. Now every man from her to the strait is in her pocket. An’ ole farmer Castigane is for the gallows. Over what? He ain’t done nuffin to no one his entire life. Unless plowing fields is a crime now. Is it?” His eyes grew wild. “Is it? Best have me fettered then...with the lot of us!”​

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“Settle down.” The barkeep held out his hand. “And lower your voice. You don’t know what a Sorceress can hear or see. You put yourself in danger.”​

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“I put myself in fook all. They’re going to hang an innocent man tomorrow because that Witch said so.”​

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The Barkeep offered no reply. His silence came to the tune of catgut strings, plucked gingerly by a bard in the back of the tavern. His chittarone was of a poor fashion but it had served the night well. Happy and joyous tunes were played in an atmosphere of depressing sobriety, marked incessantly by the futile attempts of making merry to drown out the melancholy.​

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Such was the case for the Old Eagle Nest, the only standing tavern in the small village of Surmire. Planted indiscriminately between Elbion and Allira, it favored the Cairou along its southern border. It was a place of rolling foothills with fields painted in motley of various agricultural crops that served as their primary means of export. It was a sunny and pleasing place. But not tonight, not for the townsfolk. They had been informed by the Castellan, not half a day prior, that an execution would soon take place. And while public whippings were common for the occasional horse thief or adulterer, an execution had not taken place in these lands for nearly a decade. ​

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It was to be a momentous event.​

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James Lanvarok ​

 

[James Lanvarok]

Seated on a stool behind the bar, James sat on his ale with a weight as heavy as iron on his chest. He gripped the pint tightly, an ear open and taking every detail of the exchange between the barkeep and the farmhand. Breathing in, he lifted the pint to his mouth and took a long, much needed sip, as the farmhand spoke of a sorceress named Lady Carmine sentencing an innocent man to death with not so much as a wave of her finger.

It was a despicable turn of events, a man who had done nothing more than sewn crops sent to the gallows. The woman the farmhand spoke of sounded like a nasty piece of work.

A breeze blew through the tavern, disrupted only by the ale-tinged belch of the farmhand, the dust it carried strewn with whispers of seduction and magic. Setting a few coins on the bartop, James finished the remainder of his ale. He considered another, but decided against it until he got to the next town. He was large and could hold his drink, but he wanted his head to be clear for the time being. There was something afoot in the farmhand's story, something off.

The farmhand had said the man was innocent, but he must have done something to be sentenced to death, especially since there hadn't been an execution in the town for a decade. He wanted to get to the bottom of why the man was sentenced to die, and in the process, rid out the foul woman responsible.

Shoving his pint aside, James placed his coin on the bartop and pulled himself off his stool. He shuffled out the tavern, his stride clumsy and awkward, like that of a small bear, and exchanged no glance with the barkeep as he walked out the door.

 

[Callisto]

The bedroom was far brighter than it should have been, given that twilight was just now casting its gloom on the land. In less than an hour, the sun would be rising over the vineyards and the farmers would be setting about their days of toil. But in the castle, though hold was perhaps a bit more accurate, servants were moving by the guidance of the stewards, the marshals and grooms were stirring the horses in the stables, and the kitchen was coming to life as local farmhands brought in the days first offering of eggs.​

It was noisy, even in the quiet, and it was giving Chrys a splitting headache.​

The large door rebounded against the threshold as someone stood outside, knocking politely but with force. The man turned over in the bed, covered in linens that were embroidered with gold and tapestries, and flung a pillow at the door. "GO AWAY!"​

"Of course, your highness. But please remember!" The voice spoke muffled yet sharp. "We have work in the square today. Please be prompt."​

The man groaned and flopped back over in the chair. The noise died back down to the sound of a bone comb plucking. Chrys was sitting in front of a vanity in a sheer crimson robe, fluttering effortlessly in the breeze that tumbled through the bedside balcony window. She was working tirelessly at a knot in her raven locks.​

"Come back to bed, love. It's too early for preening." He propped himself up on his elbow and eyed her lazily. He seemed tired, if not overspent, but had the expression of man searching for his second wind. Chrys peered over her shoulder and smiled. It was a deceitfully warm smile, one she used to get her way. "If only I could. But a woman's day starts long before the...cock crows."​

She set the bone comb down, content with her effort, and stood up from the mahogany chair. Striding purposely over to the bed, she knelt and kissed the Duke's son. A son that would no doubt soon become Duke, given the failing health of his father. "As the Chamberlain urged, we must start the day."​

"You will sit by me, on the dais? I'm not sure I could stand the thought of being away from you."​

She groaned inwardly but stifled the reaction. "Of course, your highness. I would have it no other way." The man had been easier to deceive than she had expected. Though regarding the nature of this criminal, the need for that deception may have been wholly unnecessary. Fortunately for her, she had a budding dynasty now eating out of her manicured hands. ​

Casting the robe to the floor and leaving nothing else to the imagination, had that imagination not been suffocated from the night prior, she moved to adorn herself in her standard wares. They had time to get ready. Executions were not executions without games to proceed it. Overweight jesters playing at the gallows, dwarfs pretending to perform beheading or public tortures, and numerous games of darts and spin wheels. It would be a spectacle, she was sure.​

 

[James Lanvarok]

James woke early the next morning, earlier than usual for him. His sleep had been restless, and he hadn't been able to calm down. Thoughts of the execution that was going to take place the next day overburdened his hand. After bathing and dressing in clean clothes, he walked down the staircase of the inn where he had spent the night. Most of the guests were still asleep, save for the innkeeper's daughter, who was cleaning up in the tavern. Hand on the railing, James crept down the stairs, the wooden boards creaking beneath his heavy frame.

He stood in the doorway, his eyes falling upon the figure of the innkeeper's daughter, her backside turned to him. He watched her for a moment, before she turned around.

Startled, James swallowed a gulp.

"Allo Jimmy, 'ope yer night wasn't too bad!" She chimed. Conical stays hugged her figure, her breasts peeking out over the top.

"It was, actually," James grumbled. Reaching around, he rubbed the back of his head, his eyes fixed on the woman's cleavage.

"Aw, why's sat 'en?"

"I can't stop thinking about the guy who's going to be hanged today," James said, brow creased in regret.

"Aye, nasty business' at is," the woman nodded, then flung a rag over her shoulder. "But the law's the law, father says not to meddle." A shrug, and she tugged at her stays.

James said nothing. Lips clenched together, he handed the woman several coins and nodded, his head hung forlornly. She clicked her tongue and bid him farewell, and James walked out of the inn. A mage chanted from the local church, his voice carrying over the town, split only by the hand of a breeze, distorted and stripped of life as it scraped across the cobblestone. The town crier rang his bell, bringing news of the execution that was to occur.

Fiddling with his dusty, brown cloak, the chubby young empath strode down the middle of the town. There were few people around, mostly officials getting ready for the celebrations that were to follow, but for the most part, it was desolate.

Avoiding the gazes of the officials on the prowl, James shuffled down the side of the street with the gallows in sight. Games were being set up, and jesters were practicing their tricks, all blind to the unjustice that was about to unfold in the town. Brow creased, James watched a jester practice and turned around, to look at the sun as it rose.

Very soon, there would be one less life in the Allirian town.

 

[Callisto]

A dwarf in a jesters outfit of azure and verdant patchwork was busying himself with pulling a rope from his comrades stomach, as if he was drawing the man amidst torture, when the brass sang metallic across the rooftops of Surmire. The echo boomed and bumped as trumpets were erected from the dais, tied at the polished shaft with banners portraying the mark of the ducal hold. The dwarf, who had been playing the role of the tortured, quickly loosened his own bindings and hopped down from the cross table, scurrying down the steps and behind the gallows. His torturing companion did the same, clumsily ripping off the executioners cap as he stumbled down the wooden stairs and disappeared.​

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The gallows were of new construction. The structure was largely composed of properly hewn wood, cut into square planks, and held together by tongue and groove. It was a whimsical if not entirely ineffective method of construction, given the availability of crude iron and steel. Blacksmiths littered Surmire on every corner and the silence of the landscape meant they were in much need of work. But as all things were in this place, an ounce of elegance went a long way.​

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“Good people of Surmire! Residents, merchants, and travelers!” The Herald moved upon the gallows with fanciful whimsy, displaying the showmanship that had likely landed him his position. Or that would have been the assumption to any outsider who wasn’t aware of the bloodlines associated with even such a position as ducal Herald. This white bearded man, donned in finery of similar colors as the jester, came from a long line of royal Heralds. “Please rise to your duchy!” He waved his hand to the dais, standing at an angle to the gallows and at least six feet taller, towards the seated monarch. The monarch waved and the good people waved back, giving some attention to the woman sitting next to him.​

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She was of meager size with elegant, if not revealing, clothing. Her raven locked hair was mostly pulled back into a pony tail. A few strands formed her bangs, playfully strewn to occasionally block view of one or the other eye. Wearing a black skirt, adorned with various buckles of questionable necessity, she was topped with a shawl displayed in a fashion to reveal her shoulders and pale chest.​

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She didn’t wave. But she did look towards the growing crowd, towards where an unknown James Lanvarok would surely be. Or at the very least, within eye sight. She couldn’t properly pick him out, not quite yet. But magic was a rarity in these parts and she was certain, as time progressed, she’d sort it out.​

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“My good people! You have been asked to gather here today to witness the right and proper justice for a man accused of treason against the Duchy! Against you!” Up until this point, the gravity of the accusation was not evident for most of the community. The weight of treason drew hushed breaths with the occasional murmur. “Your silence is telling, my good people. Quite telling. I, too, was uncertain regarding the accused and this accusation.” The crowd murmured louder. “But all concerns will be set aside. The duchy has saw fit to bring in a specialist. Lady Carmine.”​

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The monarch imperceptibly nudged the woman, rubbing her elbow, and she stood in response. Approaching the balustrade, she leveled her sulfuric gaze at all who were within the crowd. “I sense distrust among you. I respect that. But I shall now inform you of this mans guilt and his treachery. And before the end, you will all understand the construction of such unfortunate, yet necessary, means of punishment.” She gestured towards the gallows as the crowd grew loud and quickly died back.​