(I decided to say FUCK IT and post the 8th chapter in 8 days, Merry Christmas everyone!)
II-16: Trail of Blood
The retching echoed in the small room like something dying, each heave ripping through Greg's body with violent force. On his knees in the darkness, forehead pressed against the rough stone floor, Greg's whole world narrowed down to the waves of nausea tearing through his gut. The cold stone beneath him offered little comfort as another spasm wracked his frame.
What the hell? he thought dimly, black spots dancing across his vision as his stomach tried to turn itself inside out. I haven't eaten anything weird... The last time he'd felt this sick was during those first few days in Frostfall, when everything from the air to the food had seemed determined to kill him, and that had been almost a whole four months ago.
Greg narrowed his eyes. …I think. He blinked for a few seconds before retching again. Man, I gotta get better at knowing how much time it's been. Maybe write a diary… I mean, a journal.
Getting used to Northern food hadn't actually taken that long, his stomach adapting pretty quick to the heavy stews and dark bread that seemed to make up every meal. Well, aside from that time I ate those berries... He grimaced at the memory, another wave of nausea hitting him. Those were definitely not fun. His hands trembled against the stone floor, fingers scraping against rough edges as he tried to steady himself.
All he'd had for dinner before sunset was the same stuff everyone else in the inn was eating – thick stew that tasted mostly of onions, hard bread that could probably stop an arrow, and some watered-down drink that barely counted as ale. The innkeeper had said it had some berries for flavoring, but Greg had his doubts. Was the meat bad or... or something?
His stomach lurched again, bile burning up his throat. Greg scrambled for the bucket, nearly knocking it over in his haste. The contents of his stomach splattered against the metal with a sound that made him want to throw up all over again. Oh, bucket, you're so good to me, so sooo helpful. The bucket was just one of the random things in his magic pack, the bag seemingly filled with stuff he hadn't expected to need this soon.
The smell hit him next, sharp and acidic, making his eyes water. Greg winced, trying not to breathe through his nose. He wiped his mouth with his gloved hand, the leather rough against his lips and doing absolutely nothing to get rid of the taste. I need to fix this. Another deep breath, trying to get his head to stop spinning.
C'mon, Greg, you're a wizard now. You can totally do this. His hands came together in front of his face, prayer-style, and he felt the familiar warmth of magic tingling in his palms like static electricity. I really wish I could thank Greta for all the memories, you amazing battle nun. Eyes closed, he focused on the gentle buzz of power under his skin, like a phone set to vibrate.
Before he could start the healing chant, voices outside his door cut through his concentration, the sound of heavy boots stomping up wooden stairs making the floorboards creak.
"By order of the castelln, out ye come, we know what ye done—no use pretendin'!"
Through blearly, watery eyes, Greg turned toward the door, confusion mixing with the nausea in his gut. "Wha-"
The door exploded inward with a crash that felt like an ice pick through his skull, making his headache spike. Four figures burst into his room, wearing dark leather armor covered in mud. Their helmets curved around their faces, leaving only narrow slits for their eyes, and their hoods were pulled low, making them look like medieval ninjas having a really bad fashion day.
"Up ye get, lad, we ain't askin'!"
Greg blinked slowly, trying to make his swimming vision focus on each of them. The room spun slightly as he wiped vomit from his mouth with his gloved hand and he rose to his feet.
"Who..." His voice came out rough and shaky, tasting like stomach acid. "...the fuck are y-"
A hard wooden cudgel to his face sent Greg's head snapping back.
An Hour Ago
The town of Thornwell was interesting enough.
Honestly, it looked fully medieval and not simply like an oversized outpost, the whole place spread out before Greg like something from a medieval history book, all wooden buildings and stone walls rising up against the grey northern sky. The smell of smoke from cooking fires mixed with the earthier scent of horses and cattle wasn't all that different from what he remembered though, that same medieval stink he'd gotten used to over the past months.
Probably the biggest town I've been in since showing up here, Greg thought, counting the buildings he could see. Which meant the whole place probably had about as many people as Winslow High, if that. It's the middle ages, can't really blame 'em for a lack of population.
His boots crunched softly on the packed dirt of the main road as he made his way deeper into town, past houses with thatched roofs and shops with wooden signs swinging in the cool breeze. Still can blame 'em for being weird, though. What's going on here?
The blond boy couldn't help but feel a little weird with the constant side looks from the townsfolk—both curious and suspicious. The constant side-eyes from the townsfolk were starting to get under his skin. Women huddled in doorways, whispering behind rough hands and yanking their kids inside as he walked past, their eyes darting between him and Ash like they expected trouble. Not like I'm the only traveler around, seriously, what's… He turned his head on a swivel, frowning slightly. What's going on? The growing bear cub, totally unbothered by the attention, let out a huge yawn from his perch draped around Greg's shoulders like a heavy furry scarf, tiny pink tongue curling.
Still, he kept walking, trying to ignore the stares. His dark cloak fluttered with each step, hiding the bright green tunic and new blue scarf from view. The fabric was thick enough to ward off the worst of the northern chill, but right now it felt more like armor against all the looks being thrown his way.
Outside the tavern, a group of men slowed their conversation to watch him pass. One guy, built like a brick wall and leaning on a broom, stared so hard Greg thought he might burn holes through him. Greg tried a friendly nod, but all he got back was narrowed eyes and a scowl. ...Alright then.
The sound of the river mixed with rustling leaves from the Karhold forest to his left, but Greg could still catch bits of conversation floating around. Near a stone well in the town square, a group of old guys were huddled together, one of them speaking in low tones. "...Lord Snowthorn's still not back," the grizzled speaker said, his beard more grey than brown. "Left a moon ago after the… other lord left, and not a word since..."
Greg's attention drifted from the gossiping men to the massive stone structure looming over the town. Guess that's where the Lord lives. The castle rose from a hill overlooking everything, its grey walls and towers making Greg's eyes go wide. He hadn't seen anything like it since arriving in Westeros – most places he'd passed through were lucky to have a wooden palisade, let alone actual stone walls.
Making his way to a market stall where a round-faced woman was packing up her wares, Greg tried to make himself look as harmless as possible. He tugged his hood lower to hide his face a bit, keeping his voice soft and friendly. "Excuse me," he said, watching her hands pause in their work, "could you point me to a good place to stay for the night?"
The woman looked up, her eyes doing that same quick scan everyone else had done – boots to bear cub and everything in between. Her lips pressed together, then smacked apart like she was tasting something sour. "...Aye, ye'll be wantin' the Frozen Hearth," she said finally, jerking her chin toward a building halfway down the street. A wooden sign swung above its door, with a shitty painting of what looked like a blue campfire, the paint peeling at the edges. "Fair meals, too, if yer belly's achin'."
"Thanks," Greg murmured back.
The old lady hummed for a moment, her expression turning serious. "...but mind yerself, lad. Don't go on like one o' 'em daft trav'lers causin' all th' ruckus. We've done 'ad our fill o' that, an' the guards don't look kind to it, aye?"
So, travelers usually do cause trouble here. Greg blinked slowly, fighting back a yawn. "I won't, promise." The words came out tired after the long day of walking.
"Hmm," she hummed again, giving him another once-over. Her weathered face said she didn't buy it, but she waved him off anyway, her calloused old hands returning to her work. "Down th' way, then."
The weight of Ash shifted across his shoulders as Greg walked into the inn, the smell of cooking meat and fresh bread hit him as soon as he stepped inside, making his stomach growl and mixing with the sharper scents of smoke and what smelled like spiced ale.
After filling up on hot food that actually tasted decent for once and parting with more coins than he'd hoped, Greg stepped out into the evening air. The temperature had dropped while he'd been eating, his breath forming little clouds in front of his face as he walked toward the cluster of small shacks behind the inn. The main room buzzed with conversation, locals and travelers alike huddled around wooden tables that had seen better days.
After filling up on hot food that actually tasted decent for once—along with some kind of meat pie with gravy that didn't taste like dirt—and parting with more coins than he'd hoped, Greg stepped out into the evening air. The temperature had dropped while he'd been eating, his breath forming little clouds in front of his face as he walked toward the cluster of small shacks behind the inn. The sound of laughter and conversation faded behind him as the back door of the shack closed.
The setup the inn had for extra travelers was pretty smart, actually.
Behind the back of the main building were a bunch of shacks and each shack was its own little room for travelers, spaced far enough apart that you couldn't hear your neighbors snoring. They were simple structures, built from rough-hewn logs and roofed with wooden shingles that somehow managed to keep the rain out. The village had gone dark while he'd been inside, but his eyes adjusted instantly to the dim light. Everything looked as clear as noon, from the worn paths between buildings to the leaves rustling overhead in the cold breeze. At least the whole perfect night vision thing comes in handy.
The wooden steps to the nearest shack creaked under his boots as he climbed them, the old wood protesting each step. The door opened without a sound, which was kind of a surprise – someone actually maintained the hinges here. Inside was about what he'd expected: four walls that just about kept the draft out, a bed that had seen better days, and a chair that looked like it might fall apart if you looked at it wrong. A single candle sat unlit on a small table, the moonlight filtering through the single window not exactly making the place more appealing. Well, beats sleeping in the woods again. No chance of rain in here, at least.
The moment they were inside, Ash launched himself off Greg's shoulder like he'd been waiting all day for this moment. The bear cub hit the floor with a soft thump that made the floorboards vibrate, then made a beeline for the bed like he owned the place. Greg watched, amused, as his companion sniffed around, nose twitching at every new smell, before doing his usual circle-three-times routine. The little bear then flopped down on the mattress with a satisfied grunt that sounded almost human.
"Y'know, I paid for that bed, right?" Greg said, trying not to laugh at the bear's attitude. The straw mattress crackled under Ash's weight as the cub made himself comfortable.
Ash just snuggled deeper into the worn blanket, eyes closed, already halfway to dreamland. His tiny paws twitched as he settled in, probably already dreaming about chasing rabbits or whatever bears dreamed about. The little guy could fall asleep anywhere, anytime – a skill Greg kind of envied after weeks of rough traveling.
"Lazy little brat," he muttered, but there was no heat in it. His bag hit the floor with a heavy thud that made dust puff up from the floorboards, the deep contents shifting with very distant metallic clinks. His boots followed a moment later, and Greg had to admit it felt good to get them off after walking all day. The leather was good quality, but nothing beat bare feet after hours on the road.
Climbing onto the bed took some careful maneuvering—Ash might be small, but he sure knew how to take up space, sprawling out like he was twice his size. Greg finally found a spot that worked and stretched out with a deep sigh, feeling the straw mattress conform to his shape. His muscles started to relax, the tension from a day of dealing with suspicious looks and whispered comments finally draining away.
Just as his eyes were getting heavy, a weird noise filled the room. Greg's eyes snapped open at the loud gurgle from his stomach, the sound seeming extra loud in the quiet shack. "...huh?"
He shifted around, trying to get comfortable again. Probably just ate too fast.
As the young blond lay there, he felt his soul expand again, the boy's eyes widening as he suddenly realized something. "...I know kung fu."
Well… not really.
It wasn't even really martial arts, in the fancy sense. He just knew how to fight… dirty.
He blinked. I'm a street fighter now… sure, why not?
Not the weirdest thing his powers dropped on him, in the slightest.
Whatever, I'll worry about that tomorrow. With that, he closed his eyes and the quiet settled back in, broken only by Ash's soft snoring and the distant sound of someone singing badly in the main inn. Then his gut made another noise, louder this time, and definitely not the good kind of hungry sound.
Something felt... off, like his insides were doing somersaults.
"Maybe I need to use the bathroom..." he muttered, carefully rolling out of bed. Ash had somehow managed to spread out even more, taking up pretty much the whole mattress now, his dark fur a shadow against the grey blanket.
Greg stood up and immediately felt wobbly, like his legs weren't quite sure about this whole standing thing. The room seemed to tilt slightly as he took a step toward the door, and his stomach let out another angry gurgle that made his eyes go wide as he realized exactly which end that food wanted to come out of.
"Oh... oh no..."
His vision cracked and went bright white the instant the cudgel slammed into his face, jaw throbbing as the impact made his headache explode like someone had set off fireworks in his skull. The taste of copper flooded his mouth as his teeth cut into his cheek, mixing with the lingering bitterness of his own vomit. The room spun and blurred, a sudden numbness washing over the sharp sting of the hit. Pain flickered at the edges of his awareness, throbbing in time with his heartbeat, only to fade into something distant and dull as his mind went blank.
His eyes drifted, unfocused, not from the impact but from something deeper, something pulling at his very core. The wooden beams overhead seemed to swim and twist, the candlelight casting strange shadows that danced and shifted unnaturally. Even the cold floor beneath his feet felt like it was moving, rippling like waves under his bare soles.
The weight of the blow became background noise, just another muffled thump beneath such a massive pull that made everything else feel... irrelevant as his soul expanded, stretching out wide, like it was reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something just out of reach. The air felt thick and heavy, pressing in on him from all sides as that strange sensation grew stronger.
Only for everything to snap back pointlessly, leaving him standing there with a slightly bruised face and absolutely nothing to show for it.
The fresh-faced teen blinked hard, trying to clear his double vision. More blood pooled in his mouth where his teeth had split his cheek open, the metallic taste making his already queasy stomach roll. That would have been big. Another wave of nausea hit him, reminding him that he was still not at 100% percent.
Only for everything to snap back pointlessly.
Greg blinked. That would have been big.
"...awww, man."
The guards stood frozen, weapons half-raised as they stared at Greg with wide eyes visible through their helmet slits. The moonlight gleamed off their dark leather armor, making the shadows behind them seem deeper. They clearly hadn't expected him to stay standing after a hit like that. "Bloody 'ell?"
The shock didn't last long. The same guard who'd hit him stepped forward again, cudgel raised high, his leather armor creaking with the movement. The floorboards groaned under his heavy boots as he advanced. "Think yer hard, do ye? Not for long, ye won't."
Another wave of dizziness hit the boy like a truck, making the room tilt and spin around him. Everything felt wrong, like his brain was trying to float away from his skull while his stomach tried to turn itself inside out. The walls seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting in his blurred vision. Despite the sickness clouding his mind, his survival instincts kicked in as the guard's heavy footsteps came closer, each thud echoing painfully in his skull.
The man swung again, wooden cudgel cutting through the air with a sharp whistle.
Greg's usually quick reactions came slow and clumsy, his movements feeling like he was trying to swim through molasses. He barely got his hands up in time, catching the weapon with numb fingers. The impact, barely noticeable as it was, sent shockwaves up his arms and straight to his churning stomach, making stars dance at the edges of his vision.
Frowning at the weapon in his grip, he yanked it away from the guard with strength that clearly caught the man off guard, given how his eyes went wide behind his helm. "Let's... let's not do this," Greg managed to get out, voice rough and unsteady. His free hand pressed against his stomach as another wave of nausea tried to double him over, acid burning at the back of his throat.
Standing up straight despite his body's protests, the teenager tossed the cudgel over his shoulder. It hit the floor with a hollow clatter that seemed to bounce off the walls as the guard stumbled back. The blond tried to meet each man's eyes through their helmets, the metal and leather of their armor blurring together in his swimming vision. "How about we t-"
They didn't let him finish. The guards rushed him all at once, weapons raised and boots thundering against the wooden floor like a stampede. The room spun even harder around Greg, each step feeling like he was trying to walk on a ship in a storm. His usually sharp senses betrayed him, the guards' forms blurring and doubling in his vision until it seemed like he faced twice as many opponents.
A cudgel swept low toward his legs – he caught the movement just in time to stagger back, avoiding the worst of it. The dodge made his head spin even harder, forcing him to catch himself against the rough wall, splinters digging into his palm. Another guard took advantage, swinging for Greg's stomach. Pure desperation had Greg's hands moving, catching the weapon just before it could crack into his ribs. He twisted hard, yanking the guard off balance and sending him stumbling into one of his friends. They collided with a meaty thunk, cursing as they pushed away from each other, their armor scraping together.
Greg's bare feet shifted on the cold floor, searching for any kind of solid footing as a maul clipped his shoulder. Pain shot through his already aching body, making him grit his teeth against a wave of nausea that threatened to have him decorating someone's boots. As another cudgel came at him, he grabbed it with desperate strength, fingers wrapping tight around the worn wood, feeling the grain bite into his skin.
Through his blurring vision, he saw another guard coming in high, weapon whistling through the air toward his head. The scrappy blond lurched to the side, ducking under the blow, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle his hair. He felt it pass through the air where his head had been, and pushed back hard without really aiming. His shove caught the guard square in the chest, sending him flying backward into the small table, the rickety thing exploding into splinters from the impact.
One guard took advantage of Greg's distraction, lunging forward through the splinters still falling from the broken table. His reaction came out of sync, a beat too fast, his poisoned body fighting against his enhanced reflexes. The man's form blurred and doubled in his swimming vision as his open palm rose up a full second before the club came down. The impact slammed into the side of his neck like a baseball bat, the shock of the hit sending waves of nausea through his already churning stomach and nearly bringing him to his knees. FUCK!
Pure instinct kept him upright, his body moving on autopilot while his head spun.
He seized the moment, fingers wrapping around the club in a white-knuckled grip. With a savage twist that made his vision swim, he wrenched it from the guard's grasp. Before the man could react, the nauseous teenager slammed his forehead into the guard's face, feeling something crunch beneath the metal helm. The man stumbled backward with a pained grunt, tripping over his own feet and falling out of the shack's doorway into the cold night air. Using the stolen club like an extension of his arm, Greg swung it in a wide, sweeping arc that cut through his doubled vision. The weapon caught another guard square in the gut with a satisfying thud, driving the breath from the man's lungs in an explosive wheeze.
Moving on pure instinct now, Greg's hand shot out and grabbed the nearest truncheon, twisting it free from another guard's grip. His other hand struck out in the same motion, palm slamming into the man's stomach with enough force to lift him off his feet. The guard doubled over with a grunt, stumbling backward into his companions and sending them all staggering like dominos, their formation falling apart in a clash of leather and curses.
Get your head together, man.
That was easier said than done, but with the room tilting and his stomach churning, Greg forced himself to focus on the attackers' movements, reading their body language instead of trying to track their blurring forms. He caught another blow on his stolen club, the impact jarring his arms, then swept the weapon low to trip up a guard. The man went down hard, armor scraping against the wooden floor as he sprawled face-first. Greg's momentum carried him forward, stomach lurching with the movement, and he swung the club again. The weapon connected with another guard's knee with a crack that echoed in the small space. A high-pitched yelp cut through the air as the man's legs gave out, sending him crashing to the floor.
Without missing a beat, Greg's hand wrapped around the fallen man's neck, grabbing him like he would scoop up Ash. With strength that surprised even him through the fog in his head, he sent the guard flying out the shack door. The man crashed into his friend who was trying to get up, both of them going down in a tangle of limbs and curses.
A sudden pressure around his throat cut off Greg's air. His hands came up automatically as a guard's forearm tried to choke him from behind, leather armor creaking with the effort. The room spun faster, black spots dancing in his already blurred vision as his lungs burned. Working on pure instinct, Greg threw his weight backward, slamming the guard into the nearest wall hard enough to make the whole shack shake. The impact sandwiched the man between solid wood and Greg's enhanced strength, forcing a grunt of pain from the guard's lips. His grip loosened just enough and the blue-eyed boy grinned despite his nausea.
Taking advantage of the guard's shock, Greg seized the opportunity, bucking violently despite his churning stomach. The guard flew off his back, and Greg spun around, fighting through another wave of nausea. His movements came slow and clumsy, but he still managed to grab the dazed guard and hurl him bodily through the doorway. The man sailed through the air like a rag doll, landing with a meaty thump on top of the groaning pile of his friends.
The last guard standing snatched up a fallen club, desperation clear in his wide eyes visible through his helmet's slits. He swung the weapon at Greg's face with wild abandon, putting his whole body into the strike. Greg's world tilted dangerously as he ducked, one hand clamping over his mouth to keep from throwing up right there. His energy was fading fast, the poison or bad food or whatever it was making his limbs feel like lead. Gathering what strength he had left, Greg pivoted on his heel and channeled everything into one final Spartan kick.
The guard went airborne, armor rattling as he flew backward through the door. He crashed into his pile of companions with a chorus of pained yelps and muffled swearing, adding to the tangle of limbs and weapons scattered across the ground outside.
Exhaustion hit Greg like a truck. He sagged against the doorframe, gulping down the cool night air as his stomach did its best impression of a washing machine. His feet felt unsteady as he stumbled over the threshold, barely staying upright. Need to... ask them... what the hell they... want.
The words never made it out. Instead, his stomach gave one final heave, and a rush of bile spewed from his mouth. It splattered over the groaning, writhing pile of guards, adding insult to injury in the most disgusting way possible.
Greg wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing at the taste as he looked down at the sorry sight before him. "Okay... you guys might not have deserved that." But wow, do I feel better.
He shook his head, surprised to find the nausea actually mostly gone after emptying his stomach again. "Now, what the hell is this about?"
"Oi!" Greg's head snapped up at the shout, making his still-queasy stomach roll like a ship in a storm. The innkeeper hustled outside from the warm light of the inn, his thin frame moving with jerky, nervous steps.
The man's gaunt face looked even more skeletal in the flickering torchlight from the building behind him, his sparse grey mustache and patchy beard doing nothing to hide the sharp angles of his jaw. Deep-set eyes went wide as they took in the scene of guards sprawled across the muddy ground, some still groaning and trying to untangle themselves from each other in the cold night air.
The innkeeper's expression shifted like a mask being torn away when he spotted Greg standing there, calm and glaring back. Shock melted into something darker, something that made Greg's enhanced senses tingle with warning. "...Wot... wot in th' 'ells happened 'ere? Wot are ye doing, boy?" he sputtered, his reedy voice carrying across the yard where a crowd was starting to gather from the inn. Their whispers and mutters filled the night air like angry wasps, the sound of boots on wooden planks growing louder as more people pushed out to see the commotion.
Greg shot the man a glare. The taste of bile still lingered in his mouth, making each word sharper. "They burst in my room and tried to attack me is what happened." He pointed a harsh finger at the pile of guards, the men crawling on the ground as they tried to get their bearings, the smell of vomit making some of the onlookers step back.
"These be the guards. Ye can't be doin' that!" the innkeeper protested, his voice climbing higher with each word.
Greg's annoyance spiked like a fever. Oh, fuck you.
His stomach churned again, reminding him exactly why he was so pissed off. The torchlight caught the sweat beading on the innkeeper's forehead as Greg mimicked his accent, letting his words drip with mockery, "I'll tell you what 'ye can't be doin'," he snapped, tasting vomit at the back of his throat. "Serving your paying customers bad food! If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were trying to fucking poison me, man!"
The accusation cut through the crowd's murmurs like scissors through paper.
All around, faces turned to stare at the innkeeper, whose skin went from pale to ghostly under the mixed light of torch and moon. The man's whole body started shaking, his hands fluttering at his sides like dying birds. "P-poison! Me?" His voice cracked like thin ice, anger trying to cover fear as his eyes darted between faces in the growing crowd. "Ye can't be claiming that! On my honor, I'd never!"
Greg blinked slowly as the pieces suddenly clicked together in his pounding head. The strange taste in the food, the questions the innkeeper had asked about his travels, how carefully the man had watched him eat, the way the man's eyes wouldn't stay still now, how his hands trembled.
Greg's head tilted to one side as his eyes narrowed. "...you did try to poison me, didn't you?"
The innkeeper stumbled back a step, boots scraping in the dirt as his spine went rigid. He tried to look offended instead of terrified and failed miserably at both. "Ye dare s-"
"Shut up," Greg cut in, sharp as a blade, raising one hand. The crowd's whispers grew louder, some gasping in shock while others muttered darkly about poison and treachery. Somewhere in the back, a child started crying. "You did... I know what a suspicious bastard looks like. I've seen too many of them."
"Bastard?" the innkeeper echoed, his voice going thin and reedy.
Greg's eyes flashed with anger, what little patience he had left wearing dangerously thin. The poison or whatever it was made his head spin, but his words came out hard and clear, cutting through the night air. "I said. Shut. Up. Why did you do it?"
The innkeeper floundered like a fish on dry land as the crowd's voices rose into a storm of accusations and defenses. Some pointed at Greg, calling him a troublemaker, while others turned on the innkeeper, demanding answers. The noise bounced off the buildings around them, making Greg's headache spike a little.
Overwhelmed, still a little sick, and completely done with this night, Greg barked out, "Shut up!" His voice sliced through the noise, silencing almost everyone.
The innkeeper, looking more cornered by the second, kept sputtering denials as he spun back and forth between Greg and the crowd. His boots left marks in the mud as he turned, like he couldn't decide which way to run. "I would never—"
Almost.
The dull thud of hooves on cobblestone cut through his protests.
The sound grew louder, steady and ominous in the night air. The innkeeper's eyes went wide with fresh fear as he turned toward the approaching noise, the torchlight catching beads of sweat on his forehead. The crowd's attention shifted with him, their voices dying down as everyone waited to see who was coming.
Greg turned to watch a sturdy horse approach, its breath steaming in the cold air like smoke signals.
The rider sat easy in the saddle, somehow managing to look both relaxed and ready for trouble at the same time. He wore a simple tunic under a padded shirt, both showing plenty of wear and tear from hard use. A thick grey cloak hung from his shoulders, probably the only thing keeping him warm in the bitter night air. A sword hung at his side, nothing fancy but clearly well-used, its handle wrapped in worn leather that had seen better days. His iron helm was pushed back to rest on his neck, showing off a face that had seen its share of hard years.
The horse slowed from a trot to a walk as it got closer, hooves clicking against stone until it finally stopped a few feet from the mess of guards on the ground. The rider's tired but sharp eyes took everything in – the teenager standing there looking green around the gills, the guards covered in what was definitely vomit, all of it.
"Wot's all this, Norren?" The captain's voice cut through the night air with the weight of someone used to being obeyed. His eyes stayed fixed on Greg while he addressed the innkeeper, studying the teenager like he was trying to solve a puzzle. The torchlight caught the scars on his face, old marks that made it clear this was a man used to a fight or two.
Norren, the innkeep, wrung his hands so hard Greg wondered if the man might snap his own fingers. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold as he jabbed a shaking finger at Greg, his thin frame trembling. His clothes, stained with years of spilled ale and grease, rustled with each nervous movement. "This one 'ere, 'e caused all this mess. Came at the guards, he did, and accused me of... of..."
His voice dropped to barely more than a whisper as his eyes darted around the gathering crowd, their faces lit by torch and moonlight. "Dishonorable things, he did."
Greg pushed himself to stand straighter. His stomach was finally starting to settle, but everything still felt slightly off-kilter, like the world was tilted a few degrees to the left. The cold night air helped, cutting through the fog in his head. He jerked his thumb toward the heap of guards who were slowly picking themselves up, their armor scraping against stone as they tried to maintain what little dignity they had left while covered in vomit. "These your guys?"
"Aye, I be the captain o' the guard, that I am." The man's nod towards Greg was slight, just a dip of his chin, but it carried authority. His horse shifted beneath him, hooves clicking against the cobblestones.
"Well, your guys decided to attack me for no reason while I was in my room," Greg countered, standing proud and firm. The taste of bile was finally starting to fade from his mouth, replaced by the crisp night air.
The captain's frown deepened into something that looked carved from stone, his expression a controlled mask of skepticism that reminded Greg of his middle school principal. Shadows danced across his scarred face as he spoke. "Me lads don't go 'round actin' for nowt. If they say ye did summat, then ye must've done summat."
"Then, there's a problem here," Greg stated flatly, meeting the captain's gaze with a challenging look. The torchlight caught in the man's eyes, making them gleam like copper coins. "Because I ain't done summat."
The captain's nod came slow and deliberate, making Greg's enhanced senses tingle with warning. What's he going to try? Leather creaked as the man shifted in his saddle. "That there is."
Greg's fingers clenched together, muscles tensing for another fight despite his wobbly legs. His heart still hadn't quite settled from the earlier scuffle, and he could feel sweat cooling on his back beneath his tunic.
But then something impossible happened, something that went against everything he'd learned in four months of medieval shenanigans.
The captain of the guard actually behaved like a reasonable authority figure.
"You four," the captain barked, his voice sharp enough to make the vomit-covered guards snap to attention like they'd been shocked. "Off with ye, clean yerselves up. There'll be punishment for this muckin' about, mark me words. An' ye'll answer to the castellan, too."
As the guards shuffled away, leaving wet footprints in their wake, the captain turned his attention back to Greg. The horse beneath him stamped one hoof impatiently. "Grab yer things an' come along wi' me, lad."
His gaze shifted to the innkeeper, going hard as iron and twice as sharp. Norren's face drained of what little color it had left, making the torchlight cast hollow shadows across his gaunt cheeks. "An' Norren, ye too. We'll be settlin' this wi' the castellan, right quick. Idiot guards are one thing, but yer dealings are summat else altogether."
Following the captain's lead, Greg found himself walking toward the heart of Thornkeep, their path toward the keep itself.
Iron Stomach - 200 GP
10K Words - 100 GP
Roll: Fisticuffs [Arcane] {Destruction} (200 GP) - You've learned to fight the Zaunite way; rough and tumble, vicious, practical and effective. You know how to disable an opponent, how to use improvised or low-quality weapons to their best effect, and how to use distractions and dirty tricks to get the upper hand. Moreover, your practicality makes your fighting style easily-adaptable to different kinds of equipment, or the integration of new skills or supernatural abilities. Whatever you add to it, there's no movement or effort wasted in your fighting style. You're here to take down the enemy before they can take you down, and you're damn good at it.
Failed Roll: The Master Sword [Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time] {Destruction} (800 GP) - The sword of evil's bane, this holy weapon is storied for its power and the heroism it asks of its wielders - only the truly worthy may normally be capable of wielding it. The Master Sword is unbreakable and untouched by the ravages of time, its edge keeping forever...and holds a power that rightly earned it its name.
The power to repel evil, a blessed light within the weapon that can pierce the defenses of any evil being it encounters as well as overcoming magical barriers - by drawing upon its light, a wielder could break through even the near impenetrable defenses of Ganondorf at his peak. This same light also repels any malicious magic that would hope to target its wielder - giving the Master Sword's holder a strong resistance against curses and forced transformations. The final gift of this power is that even normally unkillable enemies with evil in their heart could be "sealed" if they were defeated by this blade, essentially trapping them in a state where they can no longer harm anyone. This is the sword of the hero, Jumper. Take very good care of it.
Grimoire Points: 750