"Our greatest pretenses are built up not to hide the evil and the ugly in us, but our emptiness. The hardest thing to hide is something that is not there."
Eric Hoffer
20th of Alturiak, 1384
He rapped the empty tankard impatiently against the battered, splintered surface of the old ash table. The tired looking serving wench did her best to pretend not to notice, and only after he sharply cleared his throat did she roll her eyes and nod curtly, snatching it from his hand to go refill it. When she returned, she slammed the full tankard in front of him, sloshing ale on the table, some of it splashing on his leathers. Crossing her arms, she stared expectantly at him. He returned her cool stare for several moments before finally flipping her a copper and waving her off. She snorted, and gave him an obscene gesture before marching back to the bar. He lifted the tankard in mock toast to her before taking a deep draw of the bitter, vile tasting stuff.
The service in here stinks as badly as the bed linens, the ranger thought dryly. Not that he would have expected much more from some backwoods roadhouse that was a good day's walk from the nearest major highway. The ale, though flat and foul, was also cheap and strong, which made the slop that passed for food here palatable after several tankards. The severe vision and judgement warping properties of the oily, sable colored beer made the bored, worn out looking whores more palatable as well. Rathole or not, the roadhouse suited his basic needs for now, and in the end, that was all he really cared about.
He gave the bar room a quick scan, looking for any new faces or activity that might warrant closer scrutiny before returning to his beer. The roadhouse, whose name he hadn't even bothered to learn, catered mostly to miners, prospectors, logger men, and others who made their living from the woods and stone of the northern Sword Mountains. During the wintertime, those who had no families or business to attend to holed up here, waiting out the worst of the season with ale, women, and gambling. The air in the room was thick and humid with their reek: a combination of stale sweat, sour ale, and greasy food interlaced with the sharp odor of woodsmoke and the cloying stink of cheap perfume. The low murmur of monotone conversation in the room was frequently broken with the staccato clacking of dice against wood. Occasionally, someone whooped or cursed, and twice since he had stayed here, fights had broken out. A few punches thrown, a ceramic mug smashed against a forehead, a table and its contents knocked over, spilling all across the floor. The bartender, with his permanently bored expression, would simply scratch something on a sheet of paper, no doubt marking who broke what so they could be charged later, before going back to his main daily duty: staring blankly at the fire that burned in the room's hearth.
Satisfied that the faces in the room were the same weather beaten, grizzled faces he had seen every day for the past three days, and that no one seemed to be paying any attention to him, he swallowed another mouthful of ale and looked through the room's main window. The pearl grey sky continued to steadily drizzle snow on the surrounding landscape as a moderate wind whipped the finer powder up from the ground and flung it around in random dervishes. The snow storm showed no signs of letting up, and he was glad he had decided to bunk up here and ride the worst of it out in relative comfort. Though more than capable of finding shelter and surviving a mountain blizzard in the wilds, the prospect of doing so with the aid of strong booze and rented women proved far more preferable, even if the fare was pretty substandard. It sure as hell beat staying in some cave, huddled over a struggling fire with only the sound of the shrieking wind and crackling of falling trees to keep him company.
He felt a warm, shifting mass against his legs, and a deep snort intruded in his thoughts. Am I not decent company? The mind-voice of the wolf at his feet broke in, indignant. He reached under the table and scratched the wolf between the ears. You're the best kind of company, he replied, then added: That is, when you're not pushing me out of my bedroll or blowing wolf-snot all over me. Karnwyr snorted, spraying Bishop's hand with said wolf-snot before curling back up to sleep. The ranger wiped his hand on the underside of the table. Thanks, flea farm, he shot back at the wolf as he drained the rest of the ale from his tankard and signalled to the bar wench for another. She did a good job of pretending to ignore him until he flung another copper at her, the coin striking her well rounded rump. She stared daggers at him, but refilled his ale and picked the coin up off the floor.
Tormenting the staff had become a form of entertainment since he had arrived, one of the few things that gave him even a shadow of pleasure. The occasional skirmish between drunken gamblers provided further amusement, especially when it resulted in nasty injuries, but those were infrequent, and the fact that he had not participated in any of them made their enjoyment factor minimal. He kept hoping that some drunk would come and mouth off or stir the shit with him, but so far, no one so much as even looked his way, and Bishop had to content himself with annoying the hells out of the few people, such as the barmaid, who took any notice of him.
He gripped the handle of his tankard tightly. Over the past month, the desire for violence had filled most of his waking moments, a desire born from the need to replace the cold, black numbness that permeated his heart and soul with something else. Feeling. Any kind of feeling, even the dark thrill of savagely killing an enemy and abusing his corpse, was preferable to the blank that his daily existence had drifted into.
But this is exactly what I wanted, he thought blandly. Freedom. Freedom from my past. From Duncan, from Neverwinter. From Luskan. Hells, freedom from feeling anything at all. I wanted "inner peace", and I got it. It's all mine now. And it only cost me her.
He thought back to that day in the Illefarn sanctum, as he stood waiting in the shadows with the Luskan bone-headed freak, Garius. The former Master of the Fifth Tower was droning on and on about the power and glories that awaited a servant of the King of Shadows, but the ranger was paying little attention. He had not joined the shadow forces for the sake of the pipe dreams Garius thought to tempt him with. If anything, as soon as his "job" was done, he planned on slipping away at the first available opportunity. He held no illusions on what happened to the servants of the Shadow King, and existing as a subservient shade or reaver held no appeal to him. Despite all of Garius' grand promises, only two things motivated the betrayal: to secure the freedom from his past he had craved for so long, and to punish her for not accepting her own liberation when he offered it.
I got one of the two, but not the one I wanted most. The look in her eyes when they made that final and brief eye contact in the inner sanctum told him flaying her alive would have been an act of mercy compared to the inner flaying his treachery had inflicted on her. It was the last time he ever saw her, and that look in her eyes haunted him like a tortured banshee ever since. Far from giving him closure and release from his own demons, he had created yet another one to ride his back until the day he died.
The subtle splashing of ale in his tankard brought his attention back to the roadhouse. He looked down to find his hand, still gripped tightly on the handle of his tankard, was shaking. He slammed the ale down on the table, grinding his teeth in rage barely held in check. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to jump out of his seat and start smashing the faces of everyone in that stinking bar until he had laid waste to everyone and everything in it, or someone put his lights out for good. At that moment, he found both prospects equally tempting, and had Karnwyr's sudden shrill whimpering not pierced his mind's ear, he probably would have tested which option could be realized first.
His sudden anger dissipated into vague bitterness by the wolf's alarmed mind-cry, he picked up his ale and continued drinking it. Karnwyr, whose mind was linked to his own in a deep mental and emotional bond, had always been a calming influence on him, and after that day in the Vale, was perhaps the only thing that stood between him and another monumental mistake. Lately, his lupine companion had grown increasingly worried by the erratic mood swings that had become the norm for his ranger master, and made it a point to start acting up or crying out when the darker impulses were starting to show. Bishop reached under the table and stroked Karnwyr, mentally reassuring his friend that the storm, for the time being, had passed.
Finishing his ale in several aggressive gulps, he scorned himself for thinking about that day, for dwelling on her. A major motivation for taking shelter in the roadhouse was the cheap distractions that the hibernating wilderness did not offer. She was just a wench, like any other, he silently berated himself. Sure, her company was far better than what I'm used to, and when she finally did let me in her bed, she didn't charge or try and chain me to it. But she was still just another wench. If she got hurt, it was her own damned fault.
Examining his empty tankard, he debated whether or not to harass the barmaid for another. He had been sitting there since the morning, draining pint after pint, and the effects were starting to become noticeable. He looked out the window again, and saw that dusk was falling rapidly. The resident whores were most likely sitting in the lounge, making themselves available for the patrons, and he decided that getting first pick would be far better than sloshing around in the sloppy seconds of some lice-ridden miner. He could always come back down later if he wanted to get really drunk. He looked over at the barmaid, and smiled. First things first.
Whistling rudely, he slammed his tankard on the table until he caught her attention. She stormed over, her large bosom bouncing in time with the swishing of her skirts. "What now?" she snapped. "If it's another ale, you can get it your damned self, you tosspot."
"Actually, it wasn't another ale I'm interested in," he said, favoring her with his slyest grin. "You know, you look awfully tired after such a long day of work, and it just so happens, I happen to have a bed that would fit your just fine." He arched his brows suggestively and jingled his coin purse. "I could make it worth your while, you know."
Her expression changed from contempt to guarded interest. Eyeing the purse, she said, "Hmph. Depends exactly how worthwhile you plan on making it. I've had to put up with your shit all day, and I can barely stand serving you ale. Let alone serving you in other ways."
"Well, let's see." He made a show of looking her over, pretending to study her assets with great interest. "For a woman of your looks and apparent talent level..." He reached in his purse, and his grin changed to a cruel smirk. "A nice shiny half-copper. Payable after you swallow, of course."
She was deceptively quick; her palm connected with his stubbly jaw with a sharp crack before the rage even registered on her face. "To the hells with you!" She shrieked. "I wouldn't bed you for all the gold in these hills, you slimy ratfuck!" As she spun on her heel and stomped off, a barrage of harsh laughter and catcalls erupted across the room.
"Alright, you win!" The ranger called after her. "One whole copper, and that's my final offer!" She grabbed a plate and flung it at him, widely missing him, and another roar of laughter filled the room. He watched the infuriated and humiliated wench skulk behind the counter, her face radish red. A feeling of grim, twisted satisfaction wormed its way through him. Smiling, he thought: And now you reap the rewards of shitty service, you stupid bitch.
With a slight stagger, he left the bar room through the garish red and violet door that led into the lounge. Four of the roadhouse's prostitutes were already in the cramped room, talking amongst themselves about one of their colleagues. They hushed as soon as he entered, and flashed the same tired, practiced smiles they gave every male that wandered in. Their faces were heavily painted into masks of cheap sensuality, and the air in the room was thick with their perfume. He heard the door swing open behind him, and the sound of Karnwyr's toenails tapping against the wooden floor followed.
Distraction. I need a good distraction. Casually, he looked them over. Though they were all reasonably attractive, none of them could be called beautiful, and he guessed that one was probably in her fourth decade of life. Still, they were the only women available for miles around, and extremely competent. That was all he cared about.
One in particular caught his attention. She was tall and leggy with a thick mane of blonde, wavy hair. Eyes like large blue saucers fluttered at him, and she leaned back to offer a better view of her lush curves. Her face was round and slightly cherubic, and dimples puckered her pleasantly chubby cheeks. As he studied her, he realized what interested him so much. Physically, the woman posing before him was the opposite in every way from the one he desired to forget. He reached in his coin pouch and handed her a few pieces of gold. Her face brightened and she tucked the money into a small purse strapped to her thigh.
"You'll do," Bishop said as he motioned towards the stairs.
**********************************************
He trekked through the ruins, eager to get out as quickly as possible. It didn't matter who won; he had openly and brazenly betrayed both sides. In either case, the victor would mercilessly hunt him down and kill him slowly. Garius and his shadowy Lord would waste no time in capturing him and making certain he joined the shadow legions, whether he wanted to or not. And if they were defeated...he had never known anyone who could hold a grudge like she could.
He turned a corner into an atrium, and immediately he could smell the chill, crisp wind from the Vale. The exit was close. Beyond it, Karnwyr would be waiting, crouched in the dead grasses, waiting for him. As he broke into a run, eager to see the dull grey sky, he felt something cold, alien, and...empty brush his mind, leaving in its wake an idea that had not been there before. He stopped, uneasy at the intrusion, and wondered if the King of Shadows had won, and was now coming to claim him as well.
The idea grew stronger, and with it, the irrational urge to execute it. His urge to flee was replaced by the urge to stay a little longer and wait for whoever emerged victorious. He stopped and opened his pack, pulling out the several very nasty trap kits she had made for him. Yes, these will do, he thought. Every part of his instinct and mind told him to stop fucking around and get the Hells out of there. Puny little traps wouldn't do shit to the Shadow King, and if it was them who came out, the two rogues, one who had just learned how to vanish in plain sight, would have the traps undone before he could spot them.
The strange idea pushed itself harder. If they stop, you can fill them full of arrows, it insisted. Even your little demon wench has to step out of the safety of shadow sometime. You can save her for last. He grimaced at the idea, and shook his head. No, not her, he protested in return. I didn't kill her back there because I couldn't, and my resolve sure as fuck hasn't grown any stronger. The others, especially that righteous fuckwit paladin, no problem. Torture her? Yeah. But kill her?
The thoughts were jarred violently from his head as he felt the ground beneath him give way, and he went tumbling down a newly created incline. He could hear the sounds of cracking, crashing stone all around him, and realized with a fatalistic certainty that his delay had cost him. As he rolled over on his back, he saw an enormous slab of granite dislodge from the ceiling. It fell in slow motion, like a feather drifting through a breeze, and he knew in the blink of an eye it would reduce him to pulp. A bitter laugh escaped his lips. After all this, after everything he had been through, the people he had killed, the people he had turned against...a big chunk of rock would avenge everyone...
He expected the velvet cloak of oblivion to embrace him, to finally free him, but instead, he felt something cold and damp biting sharply into his flesh. Horrific screams, moans, curses, and cries pierced his ears, and a stench of a million corpses choked him. He shrieked as he felt himself being pulled and stretched beyond the limits a normal body could handle, but the sensation never stopped. At the same time, he felt an immense, infinite force crushing him, suffocating his agonized groans until he was certain he could not possibly scream any more.
I'm in Luskan, at the Prisoner's Carnival, he thought. That has to be it. They finally got me, and are using me for public entertainment. I'm being drawn and quartered, and a heavy slab has been laid on me. He tried to focus on the shouts and screams he heard, but his own anguish sent a thousand painful sparks through his thoughts, and he could feel parts of his mind and memory fade. Unfortunately, his pain did not, and when he finally managed to open his eyes, the grey, empty, blasted wastelands he saw stretching into infinity told him that wherever he was, he was not, after all, in Luskan.
He tried in vain to squirm free from whatever was holding him down, but to no avail. The more he wriggled, the more he felt the excruciating sting of what felt like millions of razor-sharp maws dripping venom into raw wounds. He looked around, trying to see what was causing the pain, and to his horror, he saw what seemed like an immense chain of bodies, interwoven and stacked high on either side of him, some buried under others, others cloaked by what looked like putrid mold. All of them were crying out for release, for mercy, for reprieve. Their pleas were answered by stagnant, grey silence.
His suffering grew more intense as time seemed to pass. Days? Weeks? Months? He didn't know. He had forgotten how he had come to be here, or who had put him there. Or why. More and more memories seemed to slip his grasp and disappear, and his awareness grew dimmer. He expected the pain to diminish, but instead, it grew like the feather mold that was creeping up along him. The endless symphony of misery continued, but he refused to join it. He would not beg. Not now, not ever. He wanted to find out who did this so he could at least spit in their face.
He was not certain how long he had been where he was when something in the distance shimmered. Two figures emerged into the bleak expanse, and slowly advanced in his direction. As they grew closer, the screams that surrounded him suddenly hit a different pitch, one of excitement and anticipation. Pleas of mercy turned into shouts of triumph, praise, and hope. He felt the attention of everyone around him focused intently on the pair, and as they came close enough for him to see their faces, he could not contain his own shock and wonder. The taller figure, a blue man, he did not recognize, but the shorter of the pair, a female with two amber horns jutting from her hairline, he knew all too well.
He called out to her, his voice crackling like rotted parchment. She turned, and her eyes widened in recognition and horror. She dashed up to him, shaking her head in disbelief as she stared at him. Though there was no mistaking her, she looked different somehow, in a way that he found incredibly disturbing. Her lips were rapidly moving, yet he heard nothing but the dull hum of the voices around him. He felt his own mouth forming words of its own accord, but he did not know what he was saying, and had the impression someone else had borrowed his voice. The blue man with her studied them both with great curiosity, then began speaking to her, placing his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off absently. Despite the pain he was in, he felt the cold pangs of anger and jealousy twist in his belly.
Her expression grew more confused, more worried. She reached out to touch him, but before her hand could make contact, his body convulsed with new agony. Recoiling as if struck by leaded whips, she covered her mouth, shaking her head in disbelieving terror. Suddenly he felt a massive presence, and heard the splintering of his bones as his vision went black. Something was gnawing at him, devouring him. She was fading from him as he felt himself sliding into the maw of something horrible. Panicked, he used ever last ounce of his strength to free his left arm and reached out in a last desperate hope of touching her once more before he was ripped asunder. His arm seemed to stretch into infinity as he clawed the nothingness. And then, he felt her once more. Nimble fingers gently unfolded his taloned grip, her touch bringing both ripping pain and pleasure, and for the first time, he heard her speak. "Bishop." Her voice filled the belly of the beast. "I'm coming back. Come the Hells or high water, I will return, and pity the fuckers, gods or mortal, who get in my way. Wait for me." He cried out to her, his words making no sense. "Don't...go...the crusade...futility..." He gasped, and shook the strange, alien words from his mouth, replacing them with ones of his own making. He called out her name once more as the belly of the beast consumed him...
Bishop woke with deep gasp of thick, stale air. He lay still for a few moments, not daring to move or breathe, wondering what the hell had just happened to him. The intense agony he had suffered vanished, replaced by the dull thump of a headache and the feel of silken fingers aggressively fondling his loins. He looked down and saw a soft, delicate hand that was not his own, and reflexively, he snatched it by the wrist and twisted it. His harsh grasp elicited a squeal of annoyance from someone to his right, and her turned, seeing the face and nude form of the blonde whore he had taken to bed earlier.
"Hey, asshole!" she spat, her button cute nose wrinkling as she snatched her hand away. "What the hell is your problem?"
He sat up, and looked her over briefly. "You. Why are you still here?"
"Well, I thought I might hang around and wait 'till you woke up again for some more playtime," she said, rubbing her wrist gingerly. "But you kept on sleeping and tossing in your sleep, and I thought I'd wake you nicely." She leaned towards him, the humid reek of her cheap scent choking him. Her voice became a purr. "You kept on mumbling something about tieflings. If that's what raises the maypole for you, for a few extra gold, I can go nick the horns and tail off that stuffed mountain goat Ebrin keeps as a trophy in the cellar and play succubus for you."
For a moment, he considered it. For a few extra gold, I could have...her, one more time, he thought, intrigued. The moment passed quickly, however, as he looked at the girl next to him. She was quite attractive, one of two whores in the place that he didn't require copious amounts of alcohol to take to bed. But it would never be the same; if anything, the idea seemed more like a revolting mockery. The idea of the golden haired cherub prancing about in goat horns in an attempt to imitate her was obscene. It made his stomach turn. Besides, I hired this wench to forget about thieving dark haired demon girls from the swamp in the first place.
"Just leave," he muttered after a minute. "You're done here for the night. If you're quick, you might even be able to squeeze one more drunken cock in. By this time, everyone here is probably so shitfaced you won't even have to wash first."
"Don't sound too excited," she retorted as she got off the bed and quickly gathered her scattered clothing. Walked over to the bedroom door and opened it, but stopped and turned around briefly. "And by the way, for being such an ornery prick, next time, you're paying double. Good night." She slammed the door behind her.
In that case, I'll just bend over that good looking older redhead with the nice tits next time, he told himself. The older ones are better fucks anyway, and usually don't charge as much. They also complain less. He reached over and grabbed a waterskin full of gin that he always kept on the night table next to the bed, and eagerly took several gulps before setting it back down. He waited for the sharp, evergreen liquor to work its magic before calling Karnwyr over to him. The wolf leapt on the bed and rested his grey, furry head on Bishop's bare lap, and Bishop began scratching between the wolf's ears.
Leaning back against his propped up pillows, he wondered about the horrific dream he had just had. Since the day he left the Vale, dreams of the sanctum, of Garius, of the shadows were common enough, and he had gotten used to it. It was always the same, a replay of his memories with minor, insignificant variations. He betrayed Garius and left the sanctum, stopping long enough to catch one last glimpse of her, the Captain, as he fled down the passageway. Finding his way out of the ruins, out into dank, dark mists of the Vale, meeting up with Karnwyr, the sudden violent shaking of the ground that knocked him to his feet, turning to see the ruins crumbling, and spotting figures frantically scurrying from an opening like ants through a crack in the pavement. That was how it happened. The King of Shadows was dead, he realized, and the victorious rats were swarming out of the sinking ship before they joined him. He knew it was time he left quickly, before they got it in their heads to start hunting him down.
Tonight, however, it took on a totally different twist, one he cared for even less than the normal reminders of that day his dreams normally turned out to be. The lingering sensations the dream had left with him had faded, replaced by a vague unease. Maybe it's the ale in this shithole giving me nightmares, he mused. He decided that he would stick to spirits for the duration of his stay. Those, at least, weren't distilled here.
One aspect of the dream stood out at that moment. When she had come, she had come with the blue man, and no one else. Her normal gang was conspicuously absent. Even the dipshit paladin, who had the irritating habit of always trailing her like a lovesick shadow, was absent. He did not recognize the man with her, who was, despite being relatively handsome, was the strangest person Bishop had ever seen. He remembered back when he was holed up at the Flagon, whenever Duncan had a disturbing dream, he would ask that ponce of a wizard, Sand, to discuss it. The elf believed that imagery in dreams had a great deal of meaning and significance, and would spend hours analysing minute details. Bishop would snort derisively and make faces at the pair as they babbled on about the deeper meaning of this and that. He personally thought it was a load of bullshit, and guessed that Sand was probably just milking a few coppers out of the drunk innkeeper.
Now he wondered. He couldn't remember a dream that had shaken him this much. The setting was like something out of the twisted pipe dreams of a psychotic lotus-head. Maybe the whore had slipped him something as he slept, in the hopes of doping him to the point of getting more money out of him. It had happened once before, in Luskan, when he was a young scout in the infantry. The cunt had taken everything he had as he slept, and he woke with only his trousers left. His squad leader had him whipped in front of the entire company for being so careless. She had taken his chain shirt and sword, which, his squad leader had informed him, were worth more than his useless hide.
He pushed the thought away and drank more gin. He doubted he had been drugged, and if he had been, he'd find out and make the angel-faced bitch pay. Whatever happened, he couldn't shake away the image of her standing before him with her mystery guest. Who or whatever he was, Bishop decided wasn't important at that moment. It was, after all, just a dream. It was her face that haunted him. Her pale green eyes boring into his own, full of a horrible awareness of something he couldn't fathom, were as vivid now in his mind as they had been in the dream. She had never looked at him, or anyone like that. Even as she prepared to face Garius and the King of Shadows, as he stole one last look, her face had settled into a deadly stillness that spoke of a cynical fatalism and single-minded lust for revenge. Her dream image, however...
Bishop forced the rest of the gin down his throat, and welcomed the sharp burn it brought. He hated himself at that moment, for allowing her to occupy his thoughts once again, but he couldn't stop it. He had driven him over the edge once, and now, even with at least a hundred miles between them, she was doing it again. In trying to kill what feelings he had developed towards her, he ended up only making everything worse. Tossing the empty waterskin to the floor, he cursed Duncan for saving his life, for keeping him at the Flagon, for sheltering a wayward niece that would end up turning his whole fucked up life on its head and driving him crazy in the process.
The full force of the gin hit him suddenly, and he relaxed a bit. He knew that before long he would pass out, and hopefully this time, his dreams would be empty. Yet even as the gin burned away in his mind, her voice, those words, from the dream lingered, whispering through his soul like the herald winds before a thunderstorm. Wait for me, she had said. Though he didn't understand why she wanted him to wait, those words stirred both heaven and hell within him, and he was grateful when he felt Karnwyr's tongue licking away the stinging wetness that was gathering in his eyes.
*****************************************************
Bishop switched to drinking whiskey and gin exclusively, and in the next two nights, no dreams of any sort disturbed his sleep. Convinced he had been the victim of bad ale, he thought no more of that night, and continued drinking and whoring for a few more days without incident. Eventually, however, the roadhouse began closing in on him, and the lure of the open woodlands and trails provided more temptation than cheap liquor and cheaper women, even if there was still a couple of feet of snow on the ground. The worst of the winter storm had passed, and snow alone never proved to be much of a hindrance to living wild before.
Karnwyr, of course, was elated. The morning Bishop announced their departure, the wolf's mood had brightened considerably, and he eagerly pulled the ranger's packs out of the corner in anticipation. Bishop was hunched over the rickety washstand, using the murky reflection in the water basin to shave by. He felt Karnwyr's wet nose nudging him in the ribs, and a warm, wet tongue soon followed.
Why do you cut off face-fur? The wolf's voice broke into his thoughts. Silly thing to shed fur when it's still winter. You should leave it alone, will keep you warmer.
Bishop smiled. What? And have a place for your fleas to hide when you try and shake them off? Besides, face-fur gets annoying and itchy by itself.
My fleas would not hide in your face. They think wolf-hide much more tasty anyway. Your hide too old and tough. Makes their bellies hurt.
Bishop dropped the razor in the bowl and ruffled the fur on Karnwyr's neck. Oh, is that right? My hide is too old for them? I'll remember that, flea-farm. Especially when I make the first kill once we leave this place. You and your fleas can find your own dinner.
Karnwyr leapt onto his lap and started licking his face. But I will make first kill, not you. I will share it, though, because you do such a bad job shaving face-fur. You left a lot, very scratchy!
The wolf's elevated spirits rubbed off on Bishop, and he found his mood abnormally pleasant as he gathered his things and filled up his pack. He had his fill of booze and wenches, enough to keep him satisfied for a while. The freedom of the wilds was what he craved more than anything now. In his mind, he was already savoring the taste of wild game and the crisp, fresh smells of fir needles and frozen twigs. His heart raced at the prospect of hunting, of playing the predator/prey game once more. As he slung his pack over his shoulders, he found himself feeling alive and filled with renewed vigor.
He went downstairs into the bar room and dropped a few coins on the counter. The bartender, who was busy replacing an empty keg, nodded and set the keg down to collect the money. As the money was scraped off the counter into a leather bag, Bishop spotted a large, freshly opened jug of gin, and gave the barkeep a few more coins and an empty waterskin. The barkeep set the skin aside, and grabbed the empty keg, disappearing down the stairs to the cellar.
Fine, I'll fucking wait, he grumbled to himself. He did his customary scan of the room, and noticed a young man at the other end of the bar chatting to the barmaid. The wench was giggling away while the lad tried his best not to pay too much attention to the ample cleavage that was threatening to spill out from her corset. Bishop did not recognize him, but noticed a leather courier bag on the counter between the kid and the wench, and realized the kid was most likely the delivery boy the innkeeper hired to bring news, notices, and stories of the outside world.
He walked over and purposely pushed himself between the two, eliciting an annoyed grunt from the wench. The boy, whose pimpled, smooth face suggested he had not yet made the full acquaintance with manhood, looked as he was about to protest, but thought better of it, and looked away. A full tankard of ale sat in front of him, and Bishop guessed that if he tried to finish half of it, he would be on the floor before noon.
"Is there a problem?" the kid asked, trying to keep his voice level, but failing.
"None at all," Bishop replied, picking up the courier bag and opening it up. "Don't mind me. I just figured since you were so busy working your boyish charms on Miss Tits here, you wouldn't care if I had a look through the papers you brought, since you're obviously going to be busy for a while trying to coax her skirt up and over her head, and I'd like something to read while I'm waiting for numbnuts-behind-the-bar to get my road ration of gin." He felt a sharp whack on the back of his head, and shot the barmaid a nasty look before turning back to the courier. "Though personally, I think you're wasting time with this bitch. If she asks you for more than a half copper, tell her to fuck off. You can get better from one of the resident whores." She struck him again, but this time, he grinned.
"Um, well...." The lad looked around uncomfortably. "Uh..I guess, but don't take them far, because Ebrin will want them to hang up, and he hasn't paid me yet."
"Oh, don't worry, they will be safe with me," Bishop grinned snidely. "Trust me." He pulled the bundle of parchments out of bag and took them over to his usual corner, where he could read them in peace.
He flipped through the parchments, looking to see if there was anything of interest. The innkeeper hired the kid from a local village to act as a news courier during the wintertime, to keep the relatively remote roadhouse in touch with the outside world. Most of the parchments were notices about changes in laws, announcements of new ore finds and prospecting opportunities, calls for employment or people seeking it, and other matters of commerce related to mining, although there were other things as well, such as bits of news and the occasional non-mining related job offer. It was the latter that interested Bishop the most. There were always people who needed a guide and tracker to get them through the mountains in one piece and in the least amount of time. When he had left Crossroad Keep, he had taken his gear, but left most of his gold behind, and found that after several days of debauchery at this little dump, his coin purse was close to empty.
Tossing each parchment aside that held no interest to him, the stack was thinning quickly when he came across a bounty notice. Normally, a bounty notice was of great interest to him, because often, bounty hunters who were not very wood-wise would hire on trackers to help locate the mark, usually splitting a good portion of the reward money. He had gone on enough bounty hunts and had made decent money from them. This one, however, caught his attention because of the name on it: his own.
For All Whom It May Be of Interest,
By Decree Of Lord Nasher Alagondar,
Wanted, Be He Dead or Alive,
The Hunter and Tracker Known By the Name of Bishop
For the Crimes of High Treason and Accomplice To Multiple Murders
A Reward of 10,000 Pieces of Gold Will Be Given For His Capture, 5,000 for a Corpse
Known to Travel Through the Wilds of Luskan and Neverwinter With a Grey Wolf
Caution is Advised, Known to Be Violent and Dangerous
He stopped reading at that point and drew a deep breath. So, the chase begins. I knew that they would probably come looking for me eventually... but ten thousand gold? Ol' Baldy wants my ass a lot more than I thought. The reward amount worried him. With that amount of money on the table, every bounty hunter from Waterdeep to Icewind Dale would be combing every inch of Luskan and Neverwinter territory with the hopes of tracking him down. He felt he knew why the reward was doubled for his return alive. Neverwinterians love their big showy trials, Nasher most of all. Despite the concerns of the large reward attracting hordes of hunters, he couldn't help feel a flicker of flattered pride. Ten thousand gold for scruffy ol me? I'm touched.
His eyes scrolled over the top part of the bounty notice again, taking note of every word. He lingered at the line that held the formal charges. Treason and Mass Murder. The treason came as no surprise, but the murder made his stomach tighten. They could only be talking about Red Fallows Watch. Closing his eyes, he cursed helplessly. All those years on Duncan's leash, waiting for the debt to be called in, in the futile hope that dirty skeleton he kept in his closet would turn to dust, wasted. He might as well have left the Sunken Flagon and took his chances. The real bitch of it all, was that Red Fallows Watch would have remained a secret had he not opened his mouth before Garius, the Captain, and her crew. All that time, believing that Duncan had blabbed to her the nature of his debt, only to find out that she was utterly clueless until that point, believing the "debt" was simply an overly large bar tab. He shook his head in disbelief. For that, he had no one but himself to blame.
His thoughts turned darker. That cunt. That dirty little cunt. So, as soon as she returned to that keep she claimed to dislike so much, she blabbed to the Greycloaks about my dirty little secret. Probably even told that fluffy queer-boy Nevalle every detail like a good little hound. I deluded myself, thinking that little bitch would simply fade off into the shadows after the battle, leaving the keep and life as Nasher's pet tiefling behind. Treacherous, vindictive little swamp bitch! You fucking little whore, I wish now I had "waited for you". So I could drag you off into the Mere and kill you very slowly.
Bishop felt the black, twisted rage swell within, and he heard the quiet shriek of his teeth grinding. The bar room was turning a dull, ugly shade of red in his vision. She betrayed him as surely as he had betrayed her. When he had left the Vale, he had convinced himself that, if she survived, she would wouldn't be returning to Crossroad Keep. She had told him, told all of them, that she had no intention of remaining a "Knight Captain". The keep, the title, were forced on her. She had one ambition: revenge on the King of Shadows for destroying her whole life. Everything else was of no consequence. Or so she said.
I should have known better. Despite her protests, how could I not? The temptation of wealth, fame, glory, and status to some backwoods swamp hick turned out to be more than she could resist. That had to be it. What other motivation would drive the capricious little demon bitch? Hell, she would only need a little motivation. That fuck face of a paladin would probably even provide further encouragement, droning on about honor, duty, and a bunch of other bullshit that made holy warriors' cocks hard just thinking about.
Bishop snarled as something even more disturbing entered his train of thought. Maybe that's it. Maybe the paladin put her up to this. She kept him on a tight leash in the sanctum, but who knows what happened after. He wanted her, that I know. What better way to worm his way into her bed than to not only to make sure I was out of her life for good, but convince her to become a loyal hound of Neverwinter, thus putting her forever beyond my reach? He probably used his saintly charms to seduce her. Hells, he could be back at the keep, porking her in her bed right now, in the same bed that we had...she's probably got her legs wrapped around his back, her lips crying out his name...
His fist came down violently on the table, scattering parchment everywhere and attracting the attention of the whole taproom. A dozen pairs of eyes were fixed on him in annoyed curiosity, but he didn't care. The thought that the paladin and her were together in the keep, setting up bounties on him by day, and fucking like rabbits in heat by night, made him sick with brutal rage. Oh, you whore, you dirty little whore. You would fuck the paladin, wouldn't you? Revenge. You know I would never be able to handle you with the paladin, regardless of what happened between us. You slut, you will regret it, I swear. The walls of that precious keep of yours won't keep you safe from me. I'll hunt you down, I'll drag you from the safety of his righteous arms after I smash his skull in. I'll drag you off to the mere and throw acid all over that pretty face of yours. But not before I coat my dagger with alchemist fire and shove it up your twat. And I'll savor every scream, you treacherous whore, as you beg me to kill you. But I won't...not for days, at least.
Bishop's face contorted into a sick, perverse grin as a parade of sadistic, horrific images of her naked, tortured body passed in front of his mind's eye. His expression must have conveyed his thoughts perfectly, because the serving wench at the bar was regarding him with wide eyed fear, and the pimple faced kid next to her took his courier bag and left the room hastily. He revelled in their fear; superimposing their terrified expressions on the mental images of the Captain that burned strongly in his mind. His smile grew wider, and the serving wench fled into the kitchen.
Karnwyr's wail broke into his thoughts, and he came out of his violent reverie abruptly. The wolf's howl was not just mental, but vocal, and Bishop blinked as a torrent of jumbled, horrified cries filled his mind.
Noooooo! You think terrible things, will make you ill! Get you hurt! Please stop! It makes my head hurt! Terrible things, you think! Let's leave, quickly!
Karnwyr, Bishop growled mentally, Shut up, for once. The bitch is behind this, she has to be! She wants us to be hunted down and killed for her amusement, so she can mate with the paladin!
You do not know this. You only think this. Smelly fire-water you drink makes your head think things like this. It's no good. I want to leave. Let's hunt, think of other things, not painful things about she-goat that you once mated with. Maybe soon you find shining man and fight him and chase him away from goat-mate.
The temptation to snap at Karnwyr was strong, but Bishop instead shook his head in frustration. The wolf, no matter how much he tried to explain, couldn't understand the complexities of his rage. Nonetheless, he refrained from taking his anger out on the one friend he always could trust, no matter what. Instead, he turned his attention back to the bounty notice, his fury damped only slightly, for Karnwyr's sake.
Reading the heading again, he felt some small relief that they were accusing him of being accomplice to murder, instead of doing the deed himself. In a way, it was true. He didn't kill anyone at Red Fallows Watch, only led the Luskans to the village and set the fires. His Luskan handlers had done the job for him when they realized he planned on killing them, and not the villagers. A small distinction in the eyes of the law, and if they ever caught him, one that would not keep him from the gallows. But perhaps, a distinction that might convince the hangman to tie the noose so it broke his neck when the trapdoor was released.
He read further on. The next paragraph consisted of a fairly detailed description of him, and he wondered why the wench had not listed any scars or markings that were located on more intimate parts of his body. It was the sort of thing she would do. Maybe the final battle with the King of Shadows ended up destroying her pleasantly twisted, often lusty sense of humor.
The next paragraph gave a more in-depth accounting of his crimes. He skimmed over that part and was about to wad up the notice and stuff it in his pack when something in that paragraph forced him to do a double take. He read is slower this time, and when he finished, the vicious anger he felt earlier drained from him like wine from a skin that had been punctured.
The charges against the accused stand as follows: On the morning of the 7th of Uktar in the year 1382, the ranger known as Bishop conspired with the forces of the Shadow King and sabotaged the defensive gates of Crossroad Keep, allowing hordes of undead servants of darkness within the walls, resulting in the deaths of many brave Greycloaks. Furthermore, he conspired with Garius of Luskan to wage the War of Shadows against Neverwinter, and was involved in the circumstances that led to the tragic deaths of Ammon Jerro, former court wizard of Neverwinter, and Lady A. Tandis, honorable Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep in the Vale of the Meredelain, as well as involvement in the massacre of a small village on the edge of the Mere of Dead Men...
For several minutes, Bishop's eyes never left the parchment, and two lines rolled over and over again before him:
"the tragic deaths of Ammon Jerro, former court wizard of Neverwinter, and Lady A. Tandis, honorable Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep,"
The tragic deaths...Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep...he looked at it once more, his thoughts and emotions churning like a storm blighted sea. Get out of here, now. Don't think about it, you're a wanted man, just get the fuck out now. Quietly, he folded up the paper and slipped it in his boot. Glancing over at the bar, he saw the barkeep preparing to fill his waterskin with gin, and decided that, as a man on the run from a possible multitude of bounty hunters, gin was the last thing he needed. Whistling for Karnwyr, he grabbed his weapons and gear and left the scattered pile of parchments, the newly filled waterskin, and the thick, humid stink of the roadhouse behind.
Bishop and Karnwyr trekked deeper into the mountain woodlands, but even the crisp, fresh air and scent of frosted evergreens did little to refresh him. Karnwyr remained quiet, though he could sense the wolf's deep distress, and it added to his own. He had to push away the chaotic jumble of thoughts that swarmed through his head, and fight off a touch of nausea, so he could focus on the task at hand: finding a safe, secluded spot to camp out in so he could figure out his next move. That was the most important thing right now: surviving the hunt. Everything else...
She's dead... He tried to clear the words from his mind, but they refused to leave. Why am I even upset? I already tried to kill her once, and just this morning, I was fantasizing about several crude, painful ways to kill her. So what is the problem? She's dead, my problems are all over. I'm free and clear, free of the curse she was. It's cause for celebration, ain't it? If I wasn't on the run for my life, I'd drink a toast!
No, that's just it. I couldn't kill her in the sanctum, and I spent the morning dreaming of slowly killing her because I thought she betrayed me and blabbed about Red Fallows Watch. Because I was certain she was back at the keep fucking the paladin and plotting my demise. But she didn't, did she? Because it's pretty hard to blab about anything when you're a corpse, and unless the paladin dropped his standards and developed a taste for corpses, they sure as hell aren't screwing each other's brains out, are they? No, the wench is as dead as my mother, my brother, dead as Ember, just...dead. I thought she would have been one to escape, but she didn't...no...either the King of Shadows took her out in one final deathblow, or the roof caved in on her. Either way, she's fucking dead, and I'm getting blamed for something I wanted to do, but couldn't do.
He forced his attention back to the matters at hand. He did not know how long the bounty on him had been out, or how far the news of it had spread, but decided to assume it had began the day he left the keep. All of his old haunts were out of the question, as were any future plans of joining up with his old smuggler associates. For the amount of gold Nasher was offering, any one of them would cheerfully turn him in, and smile while doing it. Trekking through either Neverwinter or Luskan wilderness would be risky as well, since it was reasonable to assume that both places might be crawling with hunters. Where could he go, then? Icewind Dale? The Silver Marches? Waterdeep, or further down the Sword Coast?
Or maybe stick with the devils he knew? Bounty hunters might comb the areas he was known to travel in, but he knew the Neverwinter-Luskan wilds better than most, and had a good chance of evading or even ambushing anyone who was looking for him. He could vanish easily from potential predators when he was in the woods, much like the Captain once could fade into shadow. And he wasn't alone...he looked over at Karnwyr, who was stopping every so often and sniffing cautiously at the air. Good ol' Karn...the sight of his faithful, loyal wolf friend filled him with hope and resolve.
You and I...we've been through worse, ol boy, and we'll get through this as well. Don't need anyone or anything else. Just you and me, like old times.
Karnwyr stopped and regarded Bishop knowingly. Anyone who hunt you must come through my teeth and belly first. I will not let hunters taste your flesh before I taste theirs.
Don't worry, Karn. Anyone who comes for me will eat my arrows before you eat them.
Arrows don't taste very good. Maybe you remove them before I eat?
Bishop grinned and scratched Karnwyr's ears. Naturally.
After many hours on the move, the sky began to darken as evening crept in, and Bishop decided to set up camp in a rocky alcove that provided both shelter from the winds and concealment from prying eyes. Karnwyr took off into the woods for a couple hours, and returned with a moderate sized hair in his mouth. The ranger skinned and cleaned the creature before setting it to roast over the dim campfire. They shared the hare along with some road rations in silence, and after finishing his meal, Karnwyr rested his head on Bishop's lap and fell asleep.
Bishop, however, was quite awake. He stared off into the darkened woods, and muttered a few syllables that invoked the natural power of the land, of the woods. His vision became sharper, and he used his enhanced sight to scan for any movement or suspicious shapes. Everything sounded, smelled, and looked normal, like alpine woodlands should be on a lonely winter's night. He felt a twinge of disappointment. He was almost hoping that he would encounter something or someone hostile. A fight, killing...that would focus his mind and distract him from the bitter, lonely regrets that were gnawing at him.
He longed for sleep, but it refused his call. Instead, his mind returned to thoughts of...her. He thought back to that day in the Vale, of the figures he saw emerging from the collapsing temple, and finally, it sunk in. She was not amongst them. She was still inside, either dead, or soon to be. She never made it out. After everything, after all that she had endured and survived, after finally slaying her arch enemy, she did not get to enjoy the fruits of her victory. Her body was probably buried under tons of rock, rotting away, as surely as Shandra Jerro's body lay buried under her grandfather's haven of horrors.
Dead. He felt his eyes grow damp, but refused to believe it was from tears. It had to be the cold, the wind. Snarling, he said, "You bitch. You stupid bitch. You got yourself killed. After everything, you ended up fucking dead. You should have ran. Ran away with me, ran from the keep, from the Mere. If you had listened to me, you'd still be alive. Was it worth it, you crazy, obsessive little wench?"
The quiet, lonely night was closing in on him, and in defiance of the silence, of the strange sadness that was filling him, he threw his head back and howled in rage and despair. Karnwyr, who was startled out of his sleep, looked up at his human companion in sympathy, and after a moment, joined in the mournful howling.