Collecting Legends
by Shadowy Star
Legend three
The owner of the little inn with the poetic name 'The Fourth Moon' in one of the northern districts of Sheva cursed loudly and fiercely.
Dusk had fallen and all too soon Domina also would set. Only Casca would shine until Prima's late rise – not enough light at all. Not quite the same as a True Night but still… They would come again. That damned fae constructs that were no more to Banish or to Ward against – not since the fae had become unWorkable. They killed a man just within reach of her front door yesterday night. No, just 'killed' didn't match it completely. 'Devoured' would be far more fitting.
"Damn the Patriarch!" she said. "And his Church! Damn, damn and damn again!" Joanna Lorn was a pagan. She used to pray to a dozen of gods and goddesses when she needed their help and to forget them otherwise. Of course, she was glad about the successful end of the Second Crusade and the destroying of the Forest –who would not?– but … had it been really necessary to 'tame' the fae? That was a fact she wasn't glad about, not in the slightest. Because now there were no way to deal with all the demonlings still inhabiting the night – not if you weren't a warrior or something of the sort. She hadn't been a sorceress, not really –no sane human being living that near the Forest would have dared– but she knew one or other Warding key or a simple–
A knocking on the tavern's front door cut off her train of thoughts. One more stupid tourist who came to watch the Forest burn, like all the others sitting in the common room and filling the air with the sharp stink of their fear, she thought darkly, walking over and opening the door.
The heat of a late summer evening swept over the doorstep, along with a tall, slender shape of a man. For a second she couldn't help but stare. Traveling alone? At night? With all the demonlings out there? Was he completely foolish or simply suicidal?
The man was young, maybe twenty-five or a couple of years more or less, and handsome, even pretty, though she'd never thought of a man as pretty before. His jade-green eyes scanned the tavern's common room with the constant attention of someone used to traveling. His shoulder-long, vividly auburn hair was tied to something of an attempt on a short ponytail at the back of his neck; his clothes were covered with dust that, again, spoke of days of traveling but beneath it obviously spanking new. So were the two pistols on a leather belt around his hips. Someone at least considerably armed, she thought, and most definitely not a tourist. Even if I would prefer an old-fashioned sword and a Knight of the damn Church to wield it. They at least knew what they did.
She offered a nod and her 'business smile' –superficially friendly but holding no meaning– that would go for welcome.
The young man greeted her with a rough politeness of someone who had traveled for too long without company, but his eyes were warm and full of kindness, and her voice softened a little as she muttered a 'Hello' in return. Politeness was something most people seemed to forget –or not to need– in a town like Sheva.
"Those wouldn't suffice," he said without further explanations, pointing toward a lot of wards burned into the wood above the entrance in and outside. "Not against more than a dozen of very hungry fae constructs, most likely high-level ghouls. What price would you pay to someone who frees you from that horde outside?"
"How… how do you know?" Joanna Lorn asked.
"I saw them awake," the man shrugged carelessly. "How much, then?"
"What does that concern you? You–"
"I need the money," he said shortly, and something flickered briefly in his eyes that had nothing to do with an empty purse, something she couldn't quite place. His tone however unmistakably indicated this was the only answer she would get.
Politeness for politeness, Joanna thought and didn't ask again though she began to feel a bit concerned. Another attack and another corpse in front of her inn wouldn't exactly improve the reputation.
The man smiled again as if sensing her thoughts and she frowned. That perceptiveness was almost weird but what was more weirdness to one's life on Erna?
"If you think you can do something against that plague outside…" she shrugged, trying also to shrug off her misgivings, somehow becoming worried for this youth. There was something about him that awakened her mother instinct. Since her own children were grown-up and lived in Faraday and Jaggonath, she had no one to take care of. This young man bore himself with an air of self-assurance that clearly indicated he was perfectly capable of looking after himself but yet… Something about him, maybe that fleeting expression in his eyes before, spoke of despair and pain and experience much beyond his years…
She shook her head. What you need is a bunch of grandchildren of your own, she thought. Maybe it's time. Carla has been inviting you to move to Faraday for months now.
She told a price twice as high as she'd been contemplating paying first.
"Agreed," he nodded shortly in the way of a warrior receiving orders.
With that he turned around and disappeared into the twilight, closing the door firmly behind him. After a short while she heard shots from a pistol, then nothing, then again shots.
Nearly half an hour later –Casca in zenith and Prima finally rising– he returned. His shirt was ripped over the shoulder though the honey-golden skin underneath was smooth and without a scratch.
"Done," he said, with a clearly satisfied smile as if he'd proven something important to himself. "A big nest," he explained, trying to tie his disheveled hair together again and failing because some strands were simply too short for that. "They can't be replaced, you know? Of course other constructs will come –there are enough in the neighborhood– but … never again the fae can create something out of our fears."
She nodded, still unconvinced. That was worth a lot, yes, but she was a pragmatist at heart. Not the necessity to get rid of the demonlings frightened her –she'd done it her lifetime– but the necessity to do it with weapons she wasn't used to. She simply didn't trust in pistols – or in other technology for that matter.
"Wanting a room for the night?" she asked. "And something to eat, maybe?"
"Yes, thank you," he said, a broad smile lightening his face.
She paid then, and thanked again, and showed him a room. And later on, she would send a waitress with her legendary potato soup for that guest who might have saved her and her other guests lives tonight.
And the next morning he left, and she shook her head again as he walked out of the door. Something was definitely strange about that young man – maybe the way he walked, so full of living energy, or his self-confidence so much unusual in someone this young.
It was a couple of days later after she'd talked to two other inn-keepers up the road to the North when she truly began to wonder about the whole matter … because they told her exactly the same tale. It was as if that young man had appeared just in time to answer her need for help. And she wondered again who that man may be – because only after he'd left she'd realized he hadn't given her his name…
TBC…