Dusk fell upon the town of Ivarstead, and to the Vilemyr Inn the men went. Little travel ever crossed the little hamlet, the occasional pilgrim hoping to climb the Seven Thousand Steps was the only exception, - but in all fairness, those few travelers that come to climb those Steps rarely tend to come back. Then came a day where an Imperial by the name of Marion came to town. A mercenary, he claimed to have been, although it's been years since he has lent his sword to a client and it showed. The young man of twenty-nine years was of a haggard appearance; his leather armor was so crusted that pieces of the wilted hide would mark his wake, he had a beard as unkempt as a Greybeard's – some would argue that at least the Greybeards had a minimum of grooming knowledge however, - but most but not least, he had a face pockmarked, blemished and scarred like non other. Almost as if an artist brandishing a dagger had painted on a canvas of flesh.
His personality was little to be desired as well. On the day of his arrival at Ivarstead he proved himself an equal to Ragnar the Red, as the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade, as he spoke of bold battles and gold he once made. To the dismay of the town there was no shield-maiden to silence him. It wasn't all too bad however, sometimes, when the mead made the Imperial awfully drunk, he would spout the best of the tales of the bold and unimaginable adventures of his youth: the battles he had fought for the Legion during the Great War - at the mere age of nine, no less -, his days of piracy along the coasts of Hammerfell and High Rock, his encounters with Velehk Sain the Pirate King of the Abecean, the debacle that was the Battle of Redoran Field in which he fought for both the Empire and the Stormcloak rebels, just to name a few. The tale this night was one of those good ones. Similar to how many of his tales start, Marion walked into the inn that dusk, ordered a drink, then two, then so on, until all were settled in their cups, upon which he started blurting out slurs and grunts into words then into one of his tales.
Then it would go off into a little anecdote:
"Take a look at this meat right here, "rabbit" is what you call it? I remember the last time I ate rabbit – or was it a lizard? I can't remember, but anyway, back then I thought that it was going to be the last time I ate rabbit. You see, back wh- Ohhh, wait a second, it was a Nord that I ate, not a "rabbit" or "lizard", it was a Nord! Silly me."
"You've eaten people, Marion?" asked Wilhelm, the inn's barkeep.
"Aye, Wilhelm, many a-times. Back when we were up against the great Argonian warlord Kneels-and-Sneaks - but he was more of a Slashes-and-Smashes, if you were to ask me - in the city of Gideon. Actually, when I mean "up against", I mean we were cornered like rats and slaughtered and starved. We were besieged, you see, and it was a gruesome ordeal. Starved corpses of my fellow mercenary buddies trapped in that damned cesspool as far as the eye can see. The dead littered the streets, so much so that they became the street; it smelled of ass too. We were surrounded, so retreat was impossible and we were obliged to suffer alongside our clients, much to our dismay. It lasted for months; near its end, we were forced to eat our own. You can imagine our desperation at that point, having to butcher our brothers-in-arm as to eat hearty and let ourselves live for another day. And if you were asking yourself 'Well why didn't ya just eat the dead, ya daft bastards?', then you'd be well to know they were all too rotten to consume at that point in time. But we weren't savages, no. We had a way of doing things; once in a while, when we had enough sense to cooperate, we'd band together, find the plumpest of our own and gut him like a pig as he slept." Marion slid one of his hooked and crooked fingers across his neck and tried to imitate a tearing, scratching sound.
Wilhelm looked at Marion with intent. The other patrons, busy with their drinks, continued eavesdropping.
The Vilemyr fell silent for a second. The former soldier-of-fortune, noting their piqued interest, looked down at his drink, darted his eyes around the room and twisted his mouth into a childish smirk:
"Can you imagine that, Wilhelm? Having to eat people you know. It was amazing, I tell you. Gutting them like pigs as they awaken, squealing. Bodies twisting in a sudden pain. Blood and innards pouring out as we carved them belly to gullet. Lungs bursting to catch breath, only to be flooded by blood. Eyes wide open, panic in their eyes - the kind of eyes you'd see on a man who's just struck down another for the first time, the kind of look no man would want to die with; a look of pure terror. Can you imagine that Wilhelm? Can you!?" he wheezed in laughter, drunkenly slamming his fist onto the counter in such a softly manner that only a faint thunk was heard. Everyone was now looking at him.
"Can you imagine... Wilhelm? Who did they think I was, some butcher? I was a mercenary for Divines' sake, go prepare your own meat! Well, it wasn't all that bad; all in all that was quite some decent cuisine I had back there!" he blurted, letting a maniacal laugh out again, spilling his drink onto and all over his crotch. Not like he'd have to worry about the fact that he looks like he just pissed himself, no, his hysterics already took care of that.
"How many drinks have you had, Imperial? You've been here for far too long that I've lost count." Wilhelm asked.
"A little more than what the healers and apothecaries would prefer. About a dozen, if it were to be doubled in its number... and counted by pairs of tankards to add to that." Marion pointed to a long discarded mug on the floor.
"Forty eight mugs? You should go get some sleep then, you've had too much. Come, I'll show you to your room."
Wilhelm latched on to the drunkard's arm, only to be met by a violent push:
"Don't you dare touch me you filthy, fucking Nord!" the Imperial shouted from the top of his lungs, water in his eyes.
Again, the entire inn was staring at Marion.
Wilhelm, with a blank expression in his face, approached the drunk belligerent:
"I'd appreciate it if you were to go to bed. I've heard that men lacking of sleep tend to hurt themselves in a lot of accidents. Same goes for drunk ones." the barkeep calmly said as he pointed at the sheathed dagger on his belt. His head soon turned to two guardsmen at the far end of the tavern, one of them nodded.
Marion noticed the nod too. He stared Wilhelm down, realizing his mistake, and looked around the room; all of the townsfolk and guards of Ivarstead were present.
Shit, too many witnesses.
Redressing himself, Marion cracked a smile and dusted Wilhelm's right shoulder with his hand.
"Alright then, Wilhelm, I'll heed your advice, dear friend."
The inn soon turned back to their drinks.
"Glad to hear that, dear friend. Now please, I'll show you to your room."
Author's note: I made this little thing while under the influence of sleep-deprivation and an excessive amounts of caffeine and other stuff. Amazing feeling, if you ask me. I may or may not write another chapter of this if the conditions are right and my mood dictates so. So I may or may not update this in an inconsistent manner, if at all.
Either way, comments and criticisms are welcomed, and I hope you enjoyed reading the ballad of some fictional deadbeat. Ciao.