Author's Note: This could be classified as two chapters, but the first part seemed too short, so they've been combined. Sorry for the huge word count.
PS: I have never drank any alcohol in my life; I had to look up all the information for the bar scene.
"Don't move or you're a dead man," the cloaked thief declared, pointing a dagger at Gangrel's chest.
Being a dead man sounds good right now, the former king thought bitterly. Oh, wait! I'm already dead! This dastard just doesn't know it!
All that walking-across both the Pegian desert and miles of fields-only to have a less-than-inadequate thief want money that Ganrel did not have. The gods did have a sense of humor: a cruel one.
"I have nothing," Gangrel snarled. "Be on your way, and forget you ever saw me."
"I want gold, not threats," the thief. "If you have no gold, then it's time you joined the dust, where you belong!"
Gangrel almost told him to go ahead and strike before he remembered that he did actually have two things of value on his person: his crown and a golden pendant, both of which he never, ever took off. The thief could not be allowed to have them; they were too precious to himself and his lineage. Rather than confront the would-be robber, Gagrel tried to push past him. The thief then attempted to grab his pendant.
Gangrel seized the thief's wrist, and was promptly at knifepoint again.
"I will have that gold one way or another," the thief warned, wrenching his arm free of Gangrel's grip. When there was no response, the knife sliced through the air, aimed at the same spot where Falchion's cut crossed his chest.
What happened next was so bizarrely out of his control, it was like Gangrel had momentarily give up control of his body to some other force: with one deliberate sidestep, the knife passed by his body without even brushing him. As the thief stumbled, Gargel took a step forward and pushed him to ground. The knife clattered to the ground.
As the thief struggled to breathe, Gangrel picked up the fallen weapon and stood over his attacker.
"Now," he said calmly. "either you're going to tell me where the nearest town is, or you're feeding the vultures tonight."
The thief swallowed visibly and proceeded to give the former king directions as to the nearest friendly village, even warning him of a bandit camp that was along the way. Gangrel let him go, but only after relieving the thief of one of the full money pouches hanging from his belt.
Slipping the knife into his belt, Gangrel left the thief sprawled on the road, walking towards the rising sun.
It was evening by the time Gangrel reached a town. He barely evaded being crushed by the heavy gate, and being questioned by the guards patrolling the perimeter. Wishing he had a longer cloak to keep him warm-preferably one with a hood, to hide his identity-the shamed monarch slipped past the townsfolk hurrying to their homes.
The very persons who pushed and shoved by him had once been his faithful subjects, he came to realize. Now he was not only among them, but beneath them, the lowest in the kingdom.
Looking up, he noticed the sky darkening not only with sunset, but with storm clouds. As lighting passed from one cloud to the next, he came to the conclusion that he needed to take shelter. And fast.
It took some searching, but Gangrel found what he was looking for: the local Tavern. His whole body ached from his travels and fighting with thieves along the way and he needed relief. Ducking inside, he heard loud laughter of half-drunken men.
As he looked at the small, candlelit room, he noticed that a majority of tables had been pulled together for a large, rowdy group of ruffians. Sidestepping them, Gangrel pulled up a stool at the bar. The bartender approached, and Gangrel ordered a flagon of ale, placing his payment on the bar.
While he waited for his drink, he saw-for the first time since fighting the Ylisseans-his reflection in a shield hanging on the wall.
He looked terrible: his red hair overgrown and shaggy, his face smeared with dust and other filth, and the rough stubble of a forming beard showing all along his jawline. No one would have recognized him as king, or even a noble for that matter; his cloak, books, and pants were all heavily worn and faded in color. He didn't even had a shirt to cover the long, smooth, white scar where Falchion had traced its deadly path.
When the tankard of ale arrived, Gangrel prepared himself mentally for the experience; being no stranger to strong drink, the mad king knew that the ale would not only numb his pain-both physical and mental-but loosen his tongue and cost him his balance. Bracing himself, he took a long swallow.
The faintly bitter aftertaste hadn't yet faded when he felt the alcohol do it's work, relaxing every tense muscle in his body. It was at this point that a burly man from the loud tables approached him, holding a drink himself. Gangrel took notice of a long scar tracing his face, and was struck by a sense of uneasy familiarity, which he could not place.
"Evenin' friend," the man slurred. "Find difficulty on your travels?"
Keeping his tongue under careful control, Gangrel responded, "None that wasn't expected. That's quite a mark you have there."
Gangrel swiped his thumb across his face in a rough estimation of the scar's position. The man found this funny and guffawed in response as Gangrel took another swig of ale.
"Not unlike yours, traveller," the man pointed out when he stopped laughing. "So what brings ye here? Don' see many men wandering about shirtless. Well, shirtless but with their gold intact!"
Before he could stop himself, the words flew from him: "I'm wandering. Took this gold from the thief who tried to accost me. Hope to put it to good use, before I die."
Even in his drink-ridden stupor, the large, burly man understood the strange phrasing.
"On the run, are ye?"
Gangrel bit his tongue to stop himself from answering right away, choosing what words he could with the faint, hazy sense blanketing his mind. He finally settled on vagueness:
"I've done my share. Who's asking?"
"No one of consequence," the man answered. "Just a man of commerce."
With that, he stumbled back to his table, still clutching his tankard. Gangrel finished his drink, his body almost completely numb, and feeling slightly sleepy. He stood, and struggled to walk in a straight line out the tavern door. Upon exiting, he was drenched in heavy rainfall. The thunder that rumbled through the sky made his head hurt, and he staggered across the road, dizziness temporarily overtaking his senses.
The nearest place he found was a stable; nearly falling over, Gangrel left the warm storm and leaned against the nearest stall, wishing the world would stop spinning. He heard a horse snort and found himself face-to-face with a young stallion. Surprised by the sudden encounter, he stumbled away, and fell into an open stall.
His head would ache tomorrow, he was certain. Blearily, he pulled himself into a standing position, clinging to the side of the stall for balance. Figuring that the stable floor was a good space as any to sleep, Gangrel took off his shoes and cloak, propping his boots against the wall and folding the wet cloth into something of a pillow. He didn't even mind the dirt that was slowly turning to mud under his drenched body. No, his thoughts were on the man with the scarred face.
Gangrel didn't expect himself to remember names, but he knew that particular brigand: it was a hard face to forget. In his days as king, he'd hired droves of ruffians, thieves, and assassins to incite violence in Ylisse. The man he'd met in the bar was memorable because of his amazing feat of sacking six villages without losing a single man, and then surviving a direct encounter with the shepherds. Gangrel wasn't sure what that man had been up to since, but he looked like he was living well.
I am never going to get the taste of iron out of my mouth, he thought, laying on his side. Before he passed out, he imagined Falchion hovering over his chest, patiently waiting for someone to pick it up and finish what had been started.