Every fiber of his leather jeans and overalls were torn apart. His belt carried as many gadgets and weapons as Narniff's did, as well as a rifle. He toted a gun, some blades, and arrogance.
His skin was dry, and wrinkly, and very pale. His eyes were weary and his hands were sweaty, as were his shoeless feet. He spoke with a wet, exhausted voice. The man said, "Keshin De Brosse— Pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"I've never heard the surname De Brosse," said Narniff. "So I'll presume not from here— Where are you from?"
Keshin relented to his demanding voice, and spoke. "I'm from somewhether unexplainable where you like it or not. An analogy unexplainable and a splinter in the glass-thin walls between our mind-construct of existence brought me. Fate crossed our intellects, once hindered by only a thin-sheet of glass stained a reddest rose, then broken by the willpower constructed in our minds, and it brought us to this moment."
"I wouldn't take a step forward," said Narniff. "The perimeter is booby-trapped."
Keshin replied with scorn in his voice, "Pitiful, Narniff, sirrah, man of no patience, harmeth me, should you— I give you curses. People hath forthing on, past your simpler time. We dawn power thrice of thine, turning the strong— weak, and giving thou whom mercy holds most very endear'st— mercy to holdeth dearest to themself no longer."
Narniff retorted swiftly, "Speak clearly."
"'Tis what you say, you wrought— insolent toe-scrubber, who doth speaketh truly of the slaughtered lamb, yet when father calls, bringeth none to thine table for thine dear'st father, a word spoken true, but alas, thy father's neighbor says, 'Thine son Narniff— a liar.' Tis what you say, you wrought— thee who speaks of sufferings and worthiness of crowning yet has no bone scarred nor bruise wet to proveth yourself, nor inch of worth to proveth the crown's belonging. 'Tis what you say, you wrought— foul cackl'n'clown whose speakings are of respect yet none before the king's altar. May God allow repent for what mightever I sayeth, but curse you— horror from another's world, and curse your insolence, for God's creatures are all alike, yet this one, so horrid, I beseech God see'eth this and banish thee to Hades, wicked killer of men— so I beseech God— damneth his soul and let the wretched whose names doth lay unspoken gnaw and grind his flesh, Amen."
Then the storm danced with lightning, a mighty trickle, and a beaming sunlight, swept the soils with fresh dew and water. Keshin was gone, swallowed into the rough yet gentle arms of the storm.
***
The bartender slipped him some whiffey, mixed with charcoal ink from the guts of a darrint squid, doused with a pinch of monatine sugar, and topped with whipped cream from the Zaron Empire.
He eyed the new bar patron, dressed in tattered clothing like him, but yellowish and orangeish hues, swirls of indigo, and a grumpier persona, as he dressed the bar stool adjacent in okane, and said, "Hello bartender fella— my name's Token I want a kampane drink— nothing less or more, exactly or else— to me, you're a dead man, mister bartender fella.
"He's not dying today," Narniff quickly replied. "I'm his bodyguard."
Token eyed down his supposed bodyguard. "I've heard of you— you ain't a bodyguard or special for who you really say y'are— you act like you're me when y'aren't. You're a talentless and I'm ruthless. What's your business?"
"My business is making sure he doesn't end up dead," Narniff said, clutching his rifle. "My business is making sure only one of us leaves this bar. My business is bounty hunting. And frankly— my business is none of yours."
Token produced her blade. "And what makes you so special?"
Narniff replied the coldest intent. "I'm not special." I'm Narniff Jarun-Ine, son of Davao Jarun and Lizia Ine— a man-gone-savage, then turned pathetic pushover, then turned savior-of-Kirdan, then turned pathetic pushover again, and I work for Torin Haz-Balen, my fiance, daughter of lethal assassin Jol-Kirk Haz and Anza Balen. You can't tell me who I am. I deem who I am, whatever I deem myself to be is who I am."
"I can't deem who you are," Token quietly pointed his blade at Narniff's throat. "But I can deem who you will be."
"And what is that?" asked Narniff.
Token quipped back. "A dead man." He disarmed himself, then left the disenchanted bar, the thumping of his boots followed by a heavy exhale.
***
Narniff remembered Token's likeness from somewhere, but the loud noises of drunken patrons prevented him from recalling where exactly they first met, be it the dry sands of the Colami Desert, or deep within the crevices of the Vincera Empire's vast, thick walls, hollow inside. His memory fogged up whenever he thought about it: the day they first laid eyes upon each other. It was as clear as the midnight sky when the clouds arose from their homes in the caverns of Fallia, to reign over by the moonside until the Sun chose to rise again. He was confused, baffled, and bewildered. Then he got up from his bar stool.
He said to the bartender, "I'm headed outside for a fresh breath of air. I'll be back by midnight." By now the Sun was beginning to set, and the Moon peeked from behind the mountains. Following the Moon's path, Narniff climbed down the gravel roads, towards his cottage, where a cup of tea and a newspaper written on a scroll lay waiting for him.
On the newspaper it read, "FOUL. THE WILDSMOKERS' PEOPLE ARE TRAITORS."
Narniff disagreed thoroughly. "The Wildsmoker Empire's political leaders are the traitors— they're thieves and bandits, conmen and decievers. We're suffering because of their lies. They spread foolish lies to clueless outlets. I spite the media."
Behind the cup of tea were his belongings: a satchel holding his rifles, a pair of loafers, a leather briefcase holding his ammunition and a collapsed hunting-knife, some magazines from various empires: criminal and royal, and a jar of okane. Narniff gazed around with a vacuous expression, as if confused by the labyrinth of passageways and antechambers of his cricket-infested dwelling. He lumbered towards his matttress of bare-framework and tattered sheets. He sat squarly on the edge of the bedside.
Narniff clutched his rifle, stowed firmly at his belt. "Something isn't right— nothing makes sense. I feel empowered suddenly— and I feel destructive— and I feel enraged at the world— and I feel an urge I never felt— a sudden burst of dark energy— of the demonic sort— ill-natured powers surging through my blood uncontrollably—and I want more. And I want more."
***
"Sin is weakness— the devil speaks through weakness— and I am not weak— or sinful— nor do I shed tears," the bartender mumbled. "If I shed a tear, sinned a sin, or acted in cowardliness, I break my swear to the LORD."
"Your patrons have reason to like you," Keshin replied. "You're clean— you know when to back off— you're a generally a man of no ill-intentions— and you know how to run a respectable business— but some of your patrons aren't like you, unfortunately. Some of them are dirtbags."
The bartender replied in a spurt of murmurs. "You bring me what proposal— exactly?"
"I bring you this." Keshin gathered his belongings, and organized them carefully. He bestowed offerings towards the bartender. "A briefcase."
The bartender combed through its contents with a smirk. "I delight in its pleasantries."
Keshin said, "I'll triple my patronage for double the favors. And I'll pay off some of your expenses if you slide some assassins my way."
"All dirty cash is cash and all cash is dirty cash," replied the bartender. "Demands met on your time— or drinks are on me."
Keshin drew his belongings in. "You better meet my demands— Because I won't take vodrah as consolation for mishappenings."