23rd of Hailfrost, 4A:2506
"Gobshite!"
A strong bellow reached ears far across the shabby establishment, as had the thud of a tankard slamming on riven wood.
The delight of silence found that it could never fall within such a place. Built upon squalor, pestilence within a battered beer barrel; a layering of diseased froth atop the brimming of piss and shit. How else would one describe the Braggin' Prince? An alehouse on the cusp of collapse. Home to wretches and wenches alike.
"Are you trying to take me for a bleedin' fool? I might be a tad pissfooted, but I ain't falling for it, Jorge!" He said, followed by a scoff.
The heaviness of a clumsy hand had a current of amber spill from its vessel, and Alasdair began shaking off the drops before lapping up the rest from his fingers. He came rugged and unkempt, with ruffled hair of burnt oak still damp from the snowfall, and stubble of whiskered rust, uneven in its patches. A somewhat burly man who appeared older than his twenty-seventh winter; an arduous life had gone and branded its mark upon his hide without shame.
"Meridia won't fall to slaves! Creator's sake!" His playful voice danced with disbelief as he eyed the dark-haired man sitting before him. To imagine slaves razing Meridia, the capital of Kyssia's city-states, was ludicrous and tinkered far beyond idiocy.
"Even Storm-Blood Han and his pirate fleet can't fell The Trident's Armada, and you're telling me you reckon a bunch of unversed slaves will?" A scarred eyebrow quirked mockingly, and although he was being drunkenly coltish, Alasdair felt irritation beginning its swell. His glossy grey gaze, filled with a night of drink, fostered his seriousness.
"You see Al," Jorge Wermert, his dearest friend, began. "You don't really know a thing of wars or how they're truly won, do you?" And there it arrived, just as Alasdair had preempted, Jorge's demeaning retort.
"Do us all a favour and stop pretending to," said Jorge, his eyes rolling in their brownness.
"blah, blah, bloody blah... You do really enjoy the sound of your own voice," came Jorge's exasperation, his hand flapping to imitate the other man's moving mouth.
Alasdair chuckled out in a drunken stupor, "ah, and I s'pose you do, Jorggy?" An unflattering belch followed his slurring, causing Jorge to wince from disgust.
"You always chose the gaping end of whores and never listened to a single word Guardian Viktur spoke to us, nor did you master any of the lessons he taught us. I remember how you would fall asleep during Quintessence Theory, or how you would dream in a daytime daze during our lectures in Speechcraft and Numerics. You are nothing but a muttonheaded oaf." Jorge poked at Alasdair's forehead with his sheathed sword.
"Alright! Alright! Leave it out!" The rugged man whined as he swatted the pestering weapon away. Alasdair had to admit the truth in Jorge's words; and yet, chosen was Alasdair, to be Guardian Viktur's successor, even though Jorge outmatched him in many things.
"That's hardly bloody fair, is it?! Of course I listened to our ol' grump of a master!" He stole a gulp of his ale and sniggered to himself, "Just not very often." It was true, he never had the aptitude for being studious. It was Jorge who enjoyed falling into books, whereas he enjoyed falling into women.
A withering book couldn't suck his cock like the whores in Wal Gerrig, and all those fancy words never turned into coin the more he learnt. He never read much, but by no means was he an imbecile without the fundamental awareness to understand the world around him.
Jorge signed. "Your stupidity is a permanent reminder that you are most certainly not Elynirish, and that it is Resviric blood clogging your veins…"
"Aye, along with all this ale, Lord Wermert," the man with the silver eyes said, before grinning in his own foolishness.
"Besides the point. Slaves will bring the Free-Citizens to their knees, and anywhere below the south of Daar will be next. I would bet my life on it. Wal Gerrig almost fell four years ago, and this city has stood for about five-thousand years, since even before the old Korogan Empire's birth. A martyr can incite a thing a king cannot… as can a fool."
As can a fool... Alasdair thought to himself, and with arms folded, he leered inwardly.
Alasdair shook his head and pondered upon Jorge's words. The man was hardly ever wrong. Jorge had an inherent ability to understand most folk and the complex machinations behind the inner workings of their hearts and minds. True vigilance had always existed in his stare; an illusionary absence had always lingered behind his unfaltering gaze. Jorge Wermert was aware of all things; being present within each passing moment. Their ages were bridged by merely two winters, with Jorge being slightly older, but it felt to Alasdair like lifetimes in most moments they shared.
Perhaps it was the reading that had served Jorge well? All of that youth sacrificed in the Kirk's dust-ridden library.
But truth be told, Alasdair was envious of his dear friend, for he had many things that he would never have.
"Well, Al…" Jorge swigged the last of his ale and drummed his fingers on the table's edge.
"I would love to stay and keep chatting about the vacancy of your brain and the slave revolt in Kyssia. Both matters are very dear to my heart. But I promised Giselle I would be home before midnight," he said, earning himself a boo from Alasdair.
"Just what is the time, anyway?" Asked Jorge.
Alasdair looked beyond his friend and squinted his sight; the clock he gazed upon kept swaying and the numbers merged, becoming tangled and incomprehensible.
"Sorry mate, no bleedin' clue!" He chuckled wildly.
"I'm far too bladdered to be of any use!"
"Nothing new then?" Jorge raised an eyebrow at Alasdair and twisted his head to place his sights on the clock's old face.
"Creator! She's going to kill me!" He scrambled to his legs, almost knocking over all of the empty tankards atop the table.
"I best be off!" He announced, plucking his sword from resting by the table before bowing the drawstrings to his cloak.
"I'll see you tomorrow then. We have a hunt in Brynwood. No later than noon," instructed Jorge. Alasdair simply waved his hand towards Jorge, as if he had heard it a hundred times over.
"You know me," Alasdair said sourly before chugging down a mouthful of ale.
"And that's why I'm forced to remind you of these things. You're such a tardy man, you'd probably arrive late to your own burial."
"Pyre, actually. I'm from Resviland, as you like to remind me of so often. We prefer to be placed on a little ship with swords and gold, sung Sky Dance verse 4:1 of the Bright Songs and have our corpses set alight, but only after our beards have been braided!" He corrected his friend.
"And you dare call yourself my nearest and dearest? The cheek." Alasdair started laughing at Jorge's annoyance, but his bemusement came to a sorrowful end as Jorge stole the half-drank drink from his hand.
"Oi!" Yelled Alasdair, "you bloody twat! Give it back!" He demanded.
"It's late. Not another drink! No more talking about slaves, whores or Resviric burials! Enough!"
"Pyres!" Alasdair exclaimed.
"Go home! Get some kip," Jorge ignored Alasdair's protests and walked towards the door to the tavern. Alasdair watched Jorge speak to Jarn, the old barkeep, knowing that their broken words were to keep him from another mouthful of ale. He was to be barred from the bar, just like most nights.
"Where's my goodbye kiss?!" Alasdair shouted through cupped hands, and many in the tavern whistled. Jorge turned to him before leaving and gave the long finger as he left.
A moment or so passed and Alasdair scoffed to himself.
"You're my best mate… and after everything I've done to your heart… you still find a place for me within it. You're a friend I'm truly undeserving of…" He whispered, eyeing the empty tankards on the table with his dancing vision.
"And I make you right. I should probably stop this, shouldn't I? The drinking… the whoring… and the blood…" The blood would never stop. It couldn't stop.
Alasdair leaned back in the creaky oak and raked callous fingers through his hair; the brown tussles still damp in their unruliness.
Alasdair chewed at his bottom lip and flittered his rat-arsed eyes between the varieties of chaos seething around him. The Braggin' Prince was an alehouse built within Squalor Town, home to the wen's dregs and diseased, the scummiest quarter of Wal Gerrig.
Wal Gerrig was a relic of mankind's monumental past, a city forged like a crown of stone to sit upon the jagged peaks of Mt. Urthan. Many would claim it to be the jewel of Elynire, an influential country of the Rimelands, known for its wrought iron smithing, crabapple pies and tone-deaf minstrels.
His love for the kingland had grown into repulse over time, waning much like the Braggin' Prince had over the years.
The splintering of mould-ridden joists came to barely hold a ceiling from collapse. Dust-layered magnolia paint had long cracked its visage from the eroding brick walls, and the windows of bevelled glass dulled from their once vibrant, reddish glare. But despite that, it was home to him, as it had been since his days as a young vagabond.
The tavern's belly was filled with the howling of the gormless, and from the bard came jovial melodies to accompany their moments of madness. Great brawls would break already broken things, and the barkeep refused to scrub the blood from the scuffled floorboards, leaving the alehouse speckled in crimson blotches. The free-sword chuckled to himself. He wasn't the only mad fool, after all.
Deep within the mayhem and noise, past the seductive whisperings of whores and through the sour odour of pork pottage on the turn; one would always find Alasdair sitting at his table by midnight, somehow undisturbed by the lunacy surrounding him. His chosen perch was at the centre of the alehouse, between twin timber pillars and in front of the winding pastoral staircase that led to the upstairs lodgings. It was once to be his favourite place. At the heart of the Braggin' Prince was the faintly sweet scent of the elderberry brewed into its famous ale; it would swim under his nose to mask the stench of the punters. And the fire also came, flickering a warmth to lick at his shivering joints.
The voices all about granted the phantom of company long after his friends had ventured home, and a whore might drape herself over him, begging to dispel his loneliness for a share of his day's gildings.
Alasdair stole a deep breath through his nose and let it escape past his lips. The air was sweet with elderberry, but within that sweetness also stained the staleness of blood and death. The man could near enough taste it. He turned his eyes and with drunken sight he looked upon his sword, resting by one of the rounded pillars. By the time of noon he had killed at least seven men with it. They were murderous thieves who had been preying on travelling merchants and deserved nothing more than death. Their blood, dried in crimson flakes under the crook of broken, dirty fingernails, stained not only flesh but also clothes. Blood and earth splattered in a dried collage to soil his tunic and cloak. It stank, as did he.
"The life of a free-sword…" he whispered to himself. "Isn't it a pretty one?"
Creator, how far will you let me fall? He thought.
"Wuldric?" His name was called, fetching him from obscure pondering, and his exhausted gaze turned to the one who had whispered his name.
"Come on, it's time to head home, lad," said Jarn, as he laid his wilted hand upon the broadness of Alasdair's shoulder.
"Aye, I'm knackered." Alasdair had always known Jarn the Hoary to be the Braggin' Prince's landlord; his ancient visage of greying age unchanged in all the years that had come and gone.
The free-sword gave out a mighty yawn. The day had been a long one.
"Come on, up we get then." Jarn pushed at the slouching man, and Alasdair took a deep breath before heaving himself from his chair. The blood rushed to his crown and had him regretting his haste. He blinked himself back into the tavern and reached for his weapon once the dizziness had dispelled.
Jarn watched Alasdair fasten the sword around his waist with a wrought-iron strap, his dreamy gaze causing Alasdair to smirk.
"No matter how many times a man sees this sword, he always looks upon it as if it has tits." Alasdair's jape had Jarn chuckle.
"Youse got another hunt, 'aven't ya?" The elder asked.
As free-swords, Alasdair and his companions purged the world of fiends; both of beasts and of men. It wasn't quite worth the petty coin, but it quenched his bloodlust, and depending on who you asked, it was a somewhat honest way to live. Jarn gave Alasdair's shoulder a squeeze before shaking his head.
"I can't, for the sake of the Creator, understand why such a skilled man like yourself bothers with all that shite. You're young and foolish." All knew the frail man for his honesty, a thing Alasdair admired, for men were not as honest as they once were.
Jarn collected the tankards from Alasdair's table; they rattled in his shaky hold threatening to fall, but Alasdair had taken a few to restore the balance. Jarn took a moment to examine Alasdair's loathsome expression and gave the younger man a nearly toothless smile.
"You're a gooden you are. You're still a little shit. But you're a gooden," Jarn had told him.
"I hope one day you realise, lad. I think you've made yourself suffer long enough. What you had to do all those years ago had to be done. You were left with little to no choice…" He sighed, gesturing his eyes towards the folk. "We all know it."
"You think I deserve forgiveness after all that I've done?" The free-sword grimaced, shifting for a split moment; his eyes grew static and sullen, fighting the urge to correct his elder. It was too late for him to become a good person. Alasdair could never be like his brother.
"Not only do you deserve it. I truly believe you've earned it. I didn't name this shithole after you for no reason, Alasdair."
Alasdair laughed instead and turned from pain to jape.
"You old fool, Jarn. Age has turned you soft, hasn't it? Alasdair said, chuckling at the old man's scowling brow.
"Ya little bastard! "Go on, piss off!" said Jarn with a wheezy chortle.
Jarn walked beside Alasdair as he headed towards the door, and together they placed the stacked tankards atop the bar.
"G'night Al."
"Night, old man," the free-sword said, pushing the door to enter winter.