He took a seat in a shadowed corner of the bar. Not a glance was spared towards him; the ratty mantle Nastasia had chosen for him and his own cloaking spell made sure of it. With a wave, he summoned a drink before him and took a sip, looking around the squalid tavern. As the day neared mid-evening, he knew his target would enter at any moment, his workday through, seeking a beverage or several to ease the guilt that haunted him.
The hamlet his general had sequestered himself in was quaint, in a kind word. Their shops and homes had been spared from the ravages of war, but the natives of this place were a bitter folk. Their farmlands were stained in blood, the crops stolen for the war. They were a starving people, and it made them resentful.
Their only saviors were the refugees that trickled in, the few survivors of the war, in individuals and groups, bringing new ideas and foods and traditions. They were the ones keeping this village afloat; yet, the natives shunned the newcomers.
They hate them, but allow them to stay, the count thought. He saw the looks of disgust that were cast whenever a foreigner entered the tavern. They let the very people they scorn stay, for without them, they would have perished long ago.
It was amusing enough to bring a smile to his face, and he hid it with a sip of his wine.
As more and more workers shuffled in, seeking to wash away the aches of the day, the count grew less and less certain that his man would show. Just as he thought to leave, an incredible shadow filled the doorway, and the room stilled.
There was no doubt of his identity, for there was no other who could be the general of legend. Hulking, muscle-bound, and with eyes that could pierce a man as surely as an arrow- reduced to this. A bent shell, his head bowed, and with the natives of this place looking at him as though they wished to spit.
The count watched as the general took a seat at the bar, holding his hand up for a drink. He drank it in a single swallow, and immediately handed it back to the bartender for a second refill, then a third. The count got to his feet, leaving his cup on the table as he maneuvered toward the general. Best to talk to him before he became too inebriated, he thought.
The general looked up as he took a seat next to him, seeming surprised. After a moment, he raised his hand, and the bartender brought them both a drink.
"Overpriced, you realize," The count said.
The general shrugged. "Only place in town." He sounded hoarse, from exhaustion or shouting one.
"Still, let me buy a round," The count said, his voice like honey. "What sorrows are you drowning, my friend?"
The count had no doubts that the general was at least tipsy, judging by the alcohol he had already consumed, but his eyes were clear as he fixed them hard on the count. "Don't recall yeh telling meh yeh name, friend."
"Count Bleck," The count said. "Charmed."
The general mulled this over, taking a modest sip from his glass. "Don' get many counts 'round 'ere. Passin' through?"
"In a sense," The count agreed.
Good," The general muttered. "I'd leave too, if I could." He knocked back the rest of his drink. "Name's O'Chunks."
"Hm," The count mused. " A sobriquet, is it not?"
O'Chunks nodded.
"I seem to recall you once going by another name, right, General?"
The general's body seemed to contract all at once; the glass shattered in his hand, and his face twisted, a lifetime's worth of loathing and anguish contained in that one expression.
The bartender hurried over, hearing the sound and keying out a cry as he saw the mess.
"Brute- you're paying for that glass," he spat.
O'Chunks didn't move. He stared straight at the wall, and didn't say a thing.
"Add it to my bill, and fetch another, if you would," The count told the man. The bartender's eyes glanced at him, saw his ratty cloak, and narrowed. Count Bleck shifted, drawing back a shoulder of the mantle, and revealing the fat purse at his side. The bartender's glare eased, and without a word he set up another glass, and left them.
There was silence between the two for a few precious moments. The cold tavern murmurs surrounded them.
"Dangerous," O'Chunks warned between gritted teeth, "showin' you 'ave gold."
"I'm well equipped to fend off any attackers, General. "
For a moment Count Bleck thought he was going to break a second glass. After a moment, the general let out a tense breath and poured the drink down his throat.
"Not a general anymo'," He mumbled. "Not much anyt'ing anymore."
A pause. "Perhaps you're right." The count said. "A general would have died with his men. A man would have long killed himself to repay that debt."
"You say t'at like I 'aven't tried." O'Chunks whispered.
"Hard enough, you mean."
O'Chunks blew a breath between his teeth.
"What do yeh want from meh?" He asked, a tired strain in his voice. "I didn't ask for yeh to sit 'ere, remind me of my failures. Leave fore I make yeh leave."
The count had no doubt the general could and would follow through on his threat. He swirled the brown liquid around his glass, then took a sip. He grimaced. It was cheap, bitter liquor, but the best they could afford, he supposed.
"You left your men behind, let their corpses rot in the sun," Count Bleck said, almost gently. Something in O'Chunks's face flinched. "Wouldn't you like to repay that debt? To make up your shortcomings?"
O'Chunks let out a hollow laugh. "Is there really any way I could?"
"I have a proposition for you. One that can erase your mistakes, allow you to begin with anew."
"Yeh lie."
"Don't accuse me of falsehoods."
"Everything yeh've said is a lie," O'Chunks spat. "Don't even try to convince me of- of-"
Cracks appeared up the side of his glass. With a sigh, the general loosened his grip.
"I'm a failure." He muttered. "Just let me rot 'ere. It's all I deserve."
The count let the words hang between them, taking a sip, then downing the rest of his drink. The bartender came, refilled his drink, and then left once more. Count Bleck drank all of this one as well, feeling the burn every inch down his throat.
"You have no choice." He murmured. "You lost any semblance of choice when you led your men to their deaths."
The glass broke in the general's hand, not in a frightening spray, but in a quiet collapse, folding inward between the general's filthy, scratched fingers. Alcohol ran in a trickle across the wooden bar, and dribbled over the edge.
"Do you understand?" The Count said. "You deserve no choice. You will join me."
A hard pause. O'Chunks stared steadfast at the wall, and nodded slowly.
The count pushed away his drink and stood. "I will return for you in the morning. If you are a coward, repay your debt the easy way. If you truly wish to repair those damages..."
He waited, but O'Chunks didn't move. His eyes didn't even twitch.
"...Goodnight, General."
He left the stinking tavern, and walked through the dark streets, by the flimsy hovels and the dirty men folk crowded around dim fires. He paused for a long moment in front of the general's hut, glancing over the broken door and thrown garbage marking its walls.
Then he warped to where Nastasia waited at their camp. To her questioning look, he nodded.
The general had two roads before him. When the morning came, they would discover which he had chosen to walk.
