"He's harmless. He's been in a state ever since his sister Reyda disappeared over a year ago."
Time and again, Wilhelm would leave his inn and go out to the other side of the river to give Narfi something filling to eat—and some company.
Narfi had never been the most stable of men, but as he had also never done anything to hurt anyone, Wilhelm felt only pity for him. He'd only got worse after Reyda vanished, and Wilhelm couldn't help but wonder what being told the truth would do to him. He shuddered to think. That was only all the more reason for him to do something for the poor man.
He'd prepared a filling stew for today. It was one Narfi liked. The inn was slow, and Lynly could manage it on her own for an hour or so. With that in mind, he'd slipped out, and now he was preparing to wade through the fairly deep river that was still cold in the early morning light.
With a shudder, Wilhelm held the stew up fairly high, stepped into the river, and began to wade across, grimacing at the cold. More than once, he nearly lost his footing, but he'd been doing this for some years and he knew how to keep his balance. Soon enough, he was across, and heading towards the entrance—if it could be called that—to Narfi's ruin of a house.
"Narfi! Narfi!" he called, as gently as he could. Narfi required the gentle touch and tended to panic when it wasn't given to him. But this morning, there was no response.
Cautiously, with the feel of an intruder, Wilhelm began to move through the ruined house. There was the scent of something in the air, and he couldn't quite identify it, but it gave him a bad feeling. Swallowing nervously, he craned his neck and peered into the little area where Narfi slept.
And saw, at once, the source of the foul smell, and the silence.
The shock ripped through his brain with the speed of an arrow fired from a bow. Stumbling backwards, gasping, Wilhelm hastily put the stew aside and then stepped over the threshold, heading over to Narfi and kneeling down next to him. There was little blood, but what blood there was had trickled down from the open wound in his throat, staining his chest and clothes. He bore an expression of one in a deep sleep. Killed in his sleep? There were worse fates. He did not die screaming.
Perhaps he died peacefully, dreaming of his sister. Perhaps he died happy. Perhaps there was peace for him in what lay beyond.
But still, Wilhelm recoiled, gagging, hand going to his throat. "Gods above, Narfi, no…" The words were spoken softly, and he was only vaguely aware of them, the horror of what he saw before him and the shock of seeing it having driven all else from his mind. He stared, helplessness descending on him; the thought of calling the guards was only at the back of his mind. What else was he to do?
It was some time, indeed, before he managed to stumble away, to leave the house, to head down to the river, to shout for a guard. The shock was settling—the questions were coming. Mainly—
What sort of coward murdered a harmless beggar in cold blood?