Victor Valentine: Life and times in Archen

[Good for Nothing Captain]

OOC: This is a closed Solo.


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A winter storm blotted out the sky and sun. Steady crunching sounds echoed, then drowned in the wind. The brilliant snow danced through a tundra at the whim of some unseen conductor. Blood marked a trail where the wind covered a set of tracks. The white plane seemed endless; stretching out farther than the eye could see. Imposing himself on the dark white nothing walked a lone soldier. His body did not shiver or shudder, it only swayed. Trees and rocks alike were frozen, final proof that nothing but ice could thrive in the cold north. Tattered clothes hung off his body, having long since lost their sheen and integrity. Gusts lifted snow off the ground, sending twirling forms dancing into the white void. Dark bruises riddled his body, like blotches of paint on a canvas. Ice tipped the end of jet-black hair which stood out against an all-white backdrop. Out of the white, like a mirage, a dark gray monolith took shape.

His scarred feet, stained red, moved instinctively towards the stone walls. The wind called like a siren, leading the wanderer towards his fate. Starving face and sunken eyes showed no emotion. As the cold froze more than skin and bone, even his heart began to frost over, and the fire in his soul began to die.

A hard thump signaled a stop. Blood quickly froze on the old gray stone where he collided with it. Without looking up, he slumped one shoulder against the wall, to use it as a guide.

As the wind died down, the rumbling of his stomach rose. It never stopped but had merely been muffled by the north's endless roar. Now his roaring belly reached his ears. The sound caused a stir. It was faint at first; Salvar's cold took a long time to thaw. But it came again, the rumbling from his core. Hunger had been eating away at him for days.

When one wanders, life passes like a blur. A man without a place can be any place. Overlooking a man without a presence is easy. He could get into the very heart of a city, passed the modest timber houses and mead halls. Around the old castle standing lonely in the center of the city, no more than a memory of the past. He could avoid a great old church, a history of pain and oppression reflected in its ornate windows. He could find a resting place. He could reach the end of his journey like so many before him. Snow made way when the man hit the ground. His feet could no longer support him. He struggled up, propping himself against the back of a relatively new tombstone. Surrounded by the dead, brothers and sisters in arms, most likely from the War of Flesh.

Clouds of white rose slowly from his chapped lips with his heavy breaths. Time passed by and a blanket of snow formed precariously atop him. He lacked the strength to open his eyes. The clouds rose slower and slower with each breath. It became impossible to tell where snow stopped and skin began. He could almost hear death calling.

Maybe Richard'll get to write my name in his book, after all, the thought came, with a wave of nostalgia and bitter regret.

Thick winter boots carved through snow, slowly climbing a narrow ascent. Heaps of snow shifted little by little on the old cobblestone stairs which led to the graveyard. An old woman, tall and thin strode through the snow with the grace of someone much younger. Traversing snow capped hills was an easy feat for those born and raised in the Salvaran north. A long black coat sheathed her, thick enough to keep out even the strongest wind. White fur encircled the collar, like a crown of silver. She held a sack tenderly in her hands as she walked. A soft stare moved from grave to grave, with distinct sadness in her eye, as she evoked a different face on each tombstone.

With a repeating, crisp crunching sound she made her way through old friends and loved ones. Stopping at a black headstone, she set to work cleaning it. With a considerate hand, she swept snow off its top and face, revealing a name: Roland Freeborn. The old woman set a candle atop the stone. In moments it was lit, despite the wind.

The sight was almost laughable. A tiny yellow flame, barely a whisper of a thing, burned weakly. But despite its size, neither wind nor snow could snuff it out. All the terrible cold and storms of Salvar could not take the candle's light, it seemed. Standing alone in stark defiance, a faint beacon of hope.

The snow fell slower now; as though the storm had met defeat at the hands of a tiny candle. The old lady unwrapped the sack and laid out offerings of food and mead on a plate, at the foot of the grave. She knelt, closing her eyes and reminisced. As she thought of the one, she'd lost a faint smile crossed her face. Drinking nostalgia in like a sweet dessert, she straightened her back and reached into her coat. She removed a long thin cigarette and lit it using the candle.

"Hey, old lady," a harsh but quiet voice called from behind the tombstone. The woman might have been surprised, but her face did not show it. "I think I'm starving to death," the voice continued, although the man's body stayed, the shroud of snow undisturbed. "Can I have some of that?"

"I don't know," the old woman answered with the voice of a seasoned smoker, but a gentle tone. "It belongs to my husband; you will have to ask him."

Without another word, the man began to move. The snow fell from his shoulders and back as he turned and crawled around the grave. The man devoured the home cooked dumplings and bread in moments; mead swallowed in gulps between bites. The moment seemed to freeze in time like the cold winter wished it preserved. An exposed forearm set to work wiping smears of grease and crumbs from his face.

The widow waited patiently, the amber glow of her cigarette sinking dangerously close to her fingertips. His body resembled a field of black and purple flowers, poking out from beneath a blanket of snow. Straightening his back, he met the gaze of the old woman for the first time. Their eyes locked, her dark violet stare evaluated the sunken features of the strange man. His eyes, the color of a crimson rose, held more tales of woe and pain than his body could ever show.

"Well?" the widow asked, finally, "what did he say?"

Silence fell with the last snowflake, and the woman had already made up her mind. A final wind roared, a defiant cry against an oncoming peace. His words drowned, so only those two could make them out. She recognized a soldier. A man of loyalty and honor. A man any town would be lucky to call citizen. And she knew, a man like this would hardly be accepted by a city as mistrusting as Archen.

[Good for Nothing Captain]

“You awake yet, Ungrateful?” a voice called out. The man had been awake for several moments before that. He made no movements since waking up, yet still, the woman managed to sense his stirring.

"I'm not ungrateful, I'm Victor," he shouted in response. ”Dammit! Now Petey's got me doing it," Victor cursed under his breath. Pain gripped his side as he yelled. He placed his hand on the spot, but instead of bare skin found bandages. It was only then that he realized how much like a patched up old coat he'd looked.

Victor climbed out of his bed, breathing a heavy sigh and moving towards the only door in the small room. He turned a polished wooden handle and opened the door to a large living room area. A large wooden desk stood before a large window. A subtle orange light made dust dance between the desk and window. No chair was ready for the bureau, leaving ample room to stand by the window. The sill, located just below his waist made it easy to sit. Fantastic patterns emerged out of the frost creasing the edges of each of the four window panes. Victor looked out onto a street, in a busy district. People crisscrossed professionally, like a choreographed dance.

The black-haired man sat on the window sill, his body resting easily against the side. His red eyes, reflected in the glass pane, stared thoughtfully at the scene before him. The sun sank towards the horizon. Streaks of orange and yellow light painted a sky between rows of massive white clouds. From behind the window, he could feel all of Salvar stretch out before him. From mountain tops to river beds, and all the steppes of the Sulgorans. A chill ran down his spine, responding to the cold on the other side of the portal.

Victor turned, taking a few steps into the room, and a wave of warmth ran over him. Like all Salvar homes, this room was designed to retain heat. Thick animal furs made up rugs and blankets which were scattered tastefully around the chamber. The hardwood floor made no noise as he walked over it. Victor went over the bandages wrapped around his body. From the top of his head to the pads of his feet; someone took great care to treat his every wound.

He fell into one of the two couches that stood opposite each other with a small knee-high table between them. The green cushion took his shape well and quickly. A quiet creak sounded out from the couch frame. He closed his eyes and let his head fall backward over the top of the sofa. Rest at last.

"I laid out some clothes on the bed," the voice called out again from the floor below, but the man remained motionless, "come see me when you're decent."

Victor lifted his head, looking around for the parcel above. Two of the four adjoining rooms had closed doors. All of them were heavy, dark wood with simple, matching designs in the frame. He tried the door furthest from the couch first, finding a relatively large closet. The door directly adjacent to the closet revealed a modest bathroom. Victor looked around and wiped a tear from his eye. The man never felt so at peace to see a civilized toilet. A soft looking wooden seat with a hole in it, fixed above a bucket inside a box with a latched opening. He let the ragged pants he was wearing fall to the floor and let peace wash over him as the soft seat warmed his bottom. It was the first time, in a long time, he felt so comfortable while he relieved himself.

After pouring the waste out of the window, into the waste management system, Victor looked reborn. From the bathroom entrance, he looked into the room he had woken. The ruffled sheets half-covered a small set of folded clothes. Light filled the bedroom from a window behind the head of the bed.

Thick black pants lined with wool clung tightly to his legs, his body warmed immediately. His feet stuck out, the bottoms covered with bandages. Victor eased a gray shirt over his head, careful not to irritate his injuries. His dressing stuck out from under the sleeves which ended just above the forearms. Victor made his way past the two couches and table to the door opposite the window. He found himself outside, standing on a balcony. The snow had been swept off the stairs making his decent easy. People walked the streets, but with the setting sun, most just looked for a place to drink and escape the cold.

Victor walked under a wafting curtain, which read: "Nova's Rest." He pushed open the wooden door from behind the fabric sign and felt a torrent of warm air. The bar was empty, with many round tables scattered through the room. The room seemed bigger than it looked from the outside, with a fully stocked bar and doorway leading to a kitchen. Just past the bar, a crackling fire burned in an open brick oven. The subtle flame served to both heat the room and boiled the pots of water that stood atop a metal grate.

The old lady stood behind the bar, a lit cigarette resting in an ashtray within arm's reach. Without speaking, she took a glass from a holder above her head and filled it with a dark liquor. Victor sat down as the glass slid to a stop in front of him.

"Warm your bones," the lady said.

"Don't mind if I do," Victor whistled, lifting the bottom of the glass up. The liquor burned on the way down, much more than the red-eyed man expected. Victor erupted in a fit of coughing and wheezing. The widow laughed, taking the glass and filling it once more.

"Warm my bones or melt my insides!?" Victor coughed, tearing up.

"I'm sorry, I thought you would like a man's drink. Would you prefer some milk?"

"As long as you promise it won't hurt. . ." Victor said, squinting suspiciously.

"Alla," the woman said, taking the cigarette up and breathing out a thin line of smoke.

"All of what?" Victor asked, taking a decidedly smaller sample of the liquid.

"No, brat, 'Ah-la,'" she said slowly, emphasizing both syllables, "it's my name."

"Ms. Alla then," Victor coughed through the last of his drink, "is there anything a little less like acid I can have?"

"I suppose," she sighed, putting her smoke down. Alla reached over to the pot, steam slowly filtering out of the spout. She moved with expert care. Pouring the hot liquid into two cups, each with an elegant design.

The piping hot cups of tea stood before them like insurmountable obstacles. An unseen race began between the two drinkers. Each waited until the very last moment, until the very last second, where the weak hesitated, and the shallow convictions of the faint of heart faltered. Tea was the final trial, the testament that separated the stalwart from the feeble. They took the appropriate steps. They waited. They smelled. They let a harmony of the senses come over them.

In moments the drink was gone. Two exhales of appreciation went out in tandem, the empty cups found a cozy home on the sturdy bar.

"That's the stuff," the old lady sighed, taking up her cigarette once more. The last rays of sunlight flowed through from the crack under the door. Dark curtains veiled all of the three windows. Still, the intense light pushed its amber glow through any crack it could find.

"We're going to start taking customers soon," Alla said, putting out her smoke in a dark stone ashtray. "I'm going to need you on serving duty," she sighed, moving from behind the bar to shift some glasses.

"Well I guess it's the least I can-" Victor began but was interrupted by the bar owner.

"Cleaning, cooking, pouring, bar-back, bar-front, noise control, violence control and the occasional cigarette light," she finished, holding out a long stick for him to light. Victor stared at the dying light as though he did not hear a word. The man rested his head in his hand, which he propped against the bar using his elbow. A neutral face and blank stare hid a building rage.

From outside the bar, people made their way through town. Each tired after a long day, dreading the next but anticipating the night's end. The destinations varied, but the causes were the same: finding a place to unwind. The town of almost two hundred thousand bustled with life. Which was disturbed all of a sudden by a deafening scream; "WHAT IN HADIA, ARE YOU SOME KIND OF DEMON SLAVE-DRIVER?! YOU OLD HAG!!"

[Good for Nothing Captain]

Time passed slowly in the cold city of Archen as Winter turned to spring. Most of the snow remained untouched by the intent of nature. The nights grew shorter than the sun's time in the sky, as the season changed. Animals returned to Archen, finding refuge from the cold weather in the usual places. Atop roofs and chimneys, nests began to spring up; in cellars and alleys, raccoons and other four-legged creatures made homes. Everyone and everything seemed to be falling into a natural flow and finding their place.

Victor looked for a flow of his own but was hard-pressed for acceptance. Every bar and brothel he visited gave him looks of disapproval and retained an air of intolerance. It did not take longer than one drink for someone to suggest he find another place to drink. Victor traded insult for fist and fist for insult. But that made it hard to make friends. The only place he found acceptance was a place all people felt at home: Nova's Rest. For a long time, Victor observed the hostess and her customers. He saw first-hand the respect she garnered from her grateful patrons. She didn't solve problems or give money, the woman only listened. She gave her open and honest opinions, and above all, she cared. Her earnest desire to help people could be felt and was the only thing that people wanted from her.

Victor understood the importance the bar held. He began to see the importance of her four rules for life in Archen. People found a massive comfort in a place they could share their tales of woe. A place where someone listened was a rare treat in Archen. Where one could drink and forget, or find the words and support to move on. For broken hearts and drooping spirits, Nova's was a place to rest.

In the long nights, Victor sat alone in the corner of the bar, hidden from sight and scorn.

When customers grew particularly rowdy, the red-eyed man stepped in and ended the conflicts. Nova started letting Victor help behind the bar when the patrons were more inebriated. Slowly, his presence became a constant and tolerated one.

[Good for Nothing Captain]

"Keep your voice down!" Alla yelled, slapping Victor's hand with a soup ladle.

"It's hot gods-dammit!" the man shouted back, receiving another slap in response. Victor fell back, hitting his head against the wall of the kitchen. The room was short but wide. A fire pit roared over a group of hanging pots, each storing a different colored broth. Mixed vegetables, cut up potatoes and meats floated at the top with a roiling froth. Next to the pit stood a large stove, with many black pans filled with assorted meats.

"It's supposed to be hot," Alla sighed, shaking her head at Victor's ineptitude, "it is a process of love and patience. You must often sample to ensure all the flavor has remained in the broth and ingredients."

"I know. You said that already. And I'm telling you. It's hot!" Victor growled, standing up and rubbing the back of his head.

"Ugh, very well, leave the cooking to me," Alla moved through to the back of the kitchen, to an iron door. She shifted the door forward after unlocking it, letting light into the dark pantry. In stark contrast to the kitchen, the room was cold. A short wooden staircase led down to a black stone floor, damp from the cold and reflected the soft amber light which flowed in from the kitchen. Crates of products appropriate for conservation hugged the walls. Sacks of rice and flower lay sprawled out miscellaneously along the floor and against the crates.

Potatoes and spices peeked out of sacks, but a majority of the space held different bottles and barrels of alcohol.

Victor let out a quiet whistle, running his hand over the nearest barrel. Another slap landed and sent pain through Victor's side.

"Staff can only relax when the last customers have left," the old lady hissed, before taking an abrupt leave. Victor struggled to keep up, having to avoid many different appliances and hanging utensils in the kitchen narrowly. He found his new boss sitting at the bar, her back to the door with an empty glass in her hands.

The employee walked around the bar and opened a bottle of liquor. His pour was slow, steady, with a flat twist at the end to avoid any spillage. The lady removed a cigarette from a thin metal case in her coat and set a box of matches in front of Victor.

Victor removed a thin stick and struck it ablaze. He protected the weak fire from the light breeze coming in from the door with his hand. Alla exhaled after a long pause, respectfully away from her bartender.

"There are rules," she began, finishing her drink and asking for another by tapping the rim of her glass, "if you are going to work here. Nova's rules. Archen's rules."

"I meant to ask," Victor asked while Alla inhaled smoke, "who's Nova?"

"Me," Nova said with a thin line of smoke, "it's my work name, my professional name so-to-speak. I took it when I went into business for myself. . . A lifetime ago." Victor poured the drink and leaned forward, letting the warmth of the hearth soothe his body.

"This city is old. And I don't want to hear any 'what, older than you?' jokes, because I know you were thinking it," Nova's fierce gaze made Victor shudder.

"In one way or another, it has always existed. On this side of the great gate, there is peace and safety; although we don't always maintain it very well. On the other side is chaos. Nothing but beasts and madness. Although the wall did not always stand, the division had never been clearer." Nova took a last drag from her cigarette and let the butt fell into the ash. She moved to the other side of the bar, switching places with Victor who took her seat.

"Before the Church of Ethereal Sway, before cities and towns, before there were castles of stone and people sought shelter in caves, there was a line. A line that someone drew in the dirt. They said 'I have had enough,' and gathered others. Like moths attracted to a flame. And at the time it was weak, just a tiny fluttering hope against a looming darkness. But it survived. Right here, the grass grew greener, and those who survived the chaos long enough found a home. That is what Archen is. Most outsiders think it's just a place where civility meets savagery, but they miss the truth. The truth of Archen is hope. It is the joining of brothers in arms. It is the line drawn in the sand. And I drew that line years ago, where that door stands."

Nova pointed a thumb at the old door without looking back at it.

"But above all," Nova growled, "the first rule of this bar is customers stay on that side of the bar. Rule two is; don’t promise something you can’t deliver on. Rule three is; respect what isn’t yours. Rule four; appreciate the efforts of others. And if you break any of these rules, there’s no place for you here. Neither this town and especially not this bar."

"It doesn't matter who comes through that door. Your job is to give everyone hope and a haven they can call home. Everyone in this city yearns to feel hope, that weak light, which flickers helplessly but still warms the soul."

“So,” Victor sighed after a short silence. He finished his drink and still looking out at the door. “You’re saying you’re older than the city?”

A crash and thud filled the silence of the town streets. The moon hung playfully in the sky, while clouds dance around it. The city finally slept, its people tired and warm. Gradually, the sounds of Victor’s pain began to be an expected addition to the midnight melody to which the city fell asleep.

[Good for Nothing Captain]

The hostess club was a place where women gave company to men. Any man who entered was brought food, poured a drink and given pleasant conversation. Victor would never admit to being lonely, but the company of a woman was always welcome. Even here he found distrusting eyes, but money had a way of winning people over.

"Can I get you anything?" a woman cooed, as Victor stood with his back to the club. He stared at the empty streets and wondered if it was too late to run. An arm locked with his, pulling him into the warmth of the club. The heavy smell of perfume and warm food stole his desire to move. His presence quickly drew faint whispers and looks of contempt. Victor followed the woman's lead and wondered if this wasn’t a brothel after all.

He fell into his seat, hunched over, and sighed. He waited for the woman to realize who he was and send him packing as well. But instead of scorn or hate, all that greeted him was a smile; seemingly sincere, and affectionate.

Victor watched her pour tea masterfully, unrestrained by her tight fitting dress. Not a movement was misplaced, nothing wasted. None of the liquid splashed or spilled and eagerly found it's home in the ceramic cup.

"Would you like dessert, or perhaps something stronger?" her voice graced Victor's ears; kind and inviting. She did not strike Victor as a citizen of Archen. Maybe that's why she didn't have a problem hosting the drifter.

"I guess something stronger might be good," Victor smiled, removing his long coat. He ran his fingers through his black hair, combing it slightly backward. His hair had a somewhat wavy quality when brushed back. The black-haired man unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, airing out. He watched the woman walk back, trying to gauge her character.

She sat down and did most of the talking. Once Victor finished his tea, she poured a clear liquor from a ceramic urn. It was sweet and cold, something Victor had not sampled himself but had seen others drink in Nova's place. He could not help but notice a softness to her words, and a melody to her movements.

"Alexandra," the woman smiled.

"Sorry," Victor stirred, giving a short bow, " I'm Victor Valentine."

"I take it you're not from here?" Victor asked, finishing his clear liquor with one movement.

"And I take it you didn't hear it when I said that earlier," she laughed.

"I guess not," Victor smiled back. The red eyed man felt at ease next to the woman. There was a developing kinship between them. Perhaps it was just because they were strangers in a strange city. Maybe it was something else, like a shared trouble. Whatever it was, Victor smelled trouble.

"If you'd like, we offer sheesha," the woman smiled, pointing to the other tables with strange looking instruments. Long hoses stretched from a glass bowl, filled halfway with water. An intricate pipe which held a marble bowl plugged the top of the basin. Flavored tobacco filled the bowl, burning lightly, under a couple of lit pieces of coal.

Victor nodded, and when the device appeared before him, he took the end of the hose between his teeth. He watched the other patrons and tried to mimic their technique. It was surprisingly pleasant. Victor let out a long thick stream of white smoke. At the end of his breath, he shaped his mouth in an 'O' and pumped his jaw. Rings floated up from his lips, through each other and finally dissolved into thin, shapeless lines.

"Very impressive," she clapped, "have you done this before?"


"Not really," Victor smiled, passing the hose to the Alexandra. The water in the pipe bubbled aggressively, and the woman let out a thin stream of smoke. Substantially less than before, but the smoke held its shape longer. Victor enjoyed watching the smoke dance in the air, swirling and evolving. He laid back, kicking his feet up on the table and let the soft cushions embrace him.

A calm fell over him, as the pipe passed back to him. Victor let the smoke lift slowly from his open mouth after he took a deep pull from the sheesha. He let all the stares and whispers disappear and fade into oblivion. Like a lethargic white flame, the smoke moved with the flow of air, shifting left and right but always upwards.

"How about a game?" Alexandra smiled, taking an ornate deck of cards from somewhere off her person. She shuffled the deck expertly and dealt a hand to Victor and herself.

"What game would that be?" Victor asked, turning to face her and taking up his cards.

"Poker, of course," she set the deck down, "shall we set stakes?"

"Sure, what did you have in mind?" Victor eyed her from behind his cards.

"Let's start with two copper pieces and go from there?" she cooed, placing two gleaming coins on the table.

"So what's your story?" Victor asked, sending another thick cloud of smoke up and watching it dance.

"Well, I was born in the far east," she began, and Victor placed his coins on the table, "on a farm, in a land most people have never heard of. . ."

[Good for Nothing Captain]

Hours passed, and the large room quieted. Quiet conversations drowned against a lively melody from a band of musicians that had recently started playing. Victor’s smile waned as the last song finished, and he looked at the pile of coins he was losing.

"Not listening again?" Alexandra asked, pouring another drink and offering it to the black-haired man. Victor stood up, placing the shisha pipe on the table and lifting his cup.

"I always listen," Victor tilted his glass to the musicians, all of whom ignored the gesture, "but whether I believe is a whole other story."

"How's that now?" Alexandra replied, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't believe for a second that you've ever been outside of Archen," Victor said, finishing his drink, "and I don't think you've ever worked a farm, but I do believe you know what hard work is."

Alexandra's face was serene," well, maybe you're right. I guess I will just get you your bill, then."

"I guess so," Victor sighed, reaching for the coins on the table when a fierce grip caught his arm.

"You can leave the coins, however," Alexandra said, with a pleasant smile.

"What do you mean, 'leave the coins'?!" Victor yelled, trying to free his arm from her grip, "what in Hadia is with this grip of yours, you have the strength of a bear!"

"I grew up in a blacksmith's forge," Alexandra smiled innocently.

As Victor struggled to free himself, he kicked the table. The sheesha device fell onto the floor. The lit pieces of coal rolled onto the rug, quickly burning little holes in it. Small fires started, and staff scrambled to put them out.

Victor broke free and quickly put his coat on. "Anyway, you spent this whole night lying to me and cheating at Poker, and I thought I was pretty good about it!"

"I w-wasn't cheating!" she stammered, feigning confusion.

"I don't believe this," Victor growled, sidestepping the table and moving closer to the door.

"Oh no you don't, you owe me money!" Ashley growled back, moving to intercept.

"Keep dreaming! You cheated!" the man yelled.

"And you kept playing and losing you cheap scumbag!" the woman shouted back.

"That's it, I'm done here," Victor made for the door, but stopped before bumping into a well-dressed man in silk robes.

"I believe your business is not yet complete," the man said, a slight lisp perverted each word as it formed. Thin white hair lay atop his head tied in a ponytail. With long wrinkled fingers, he placed a pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose. His gray eyes looked almost silver in the light.

"If I am not mistaken," the man continued, removing a slip of paper from another pocket, "there is still the matter of your outstanding bill and damage to the establishment."

Victor stared at the man, bewildered. "Bu-I-wha-sh-I-we-wha-who in Hadia are you now!?"

"Why," the older man bowed, "how utterly rude of me. I am but the humble purveyor of fine wine, good company, and lovely ambiance. My name is William De L'argent; the owner of this modest establishment."

"Then you should know that I had nothing to do with any of this!" Victor argued side stepping to get out from between the owner and the vixen. "This crazy woman is violently unstable!"

"I'm sure that you may think so," the man began, his soft voice like a purr, "but I'm afraid that as the aggressor of this unfortunate situation, by indulging in her whimsy and then there is the matter of you kicking the table over."

"Wh-what in Hadia kind of nonsense is this?!" Victor objected, "Is this just some sort of crappy plot device? Are you a plot device? Are you Mr. McGuffin? I'm not falling for this!"

Victor moved passed De L'argent and made for the door when two men blocked his path.

"Don' think ya can jus' come 'in 'er an' not pay yer tab," the first man slurred, either drunk or missing too many teeth. “Yeah,” the second added, looking very pleased with himself.

"Now, now boys," Victor said, letting out a low growl, "I wouldn't be so hasty to get a beating if I were you."

"I respectfully beg forgiveness," William interrupted, "my men have a propensity to resort, too fervently, to such insalubrious methods." Four more people made their presences known around the room. Victor took note and started running his odds. Alexandra took several steps back, shocked.

"As you can see, it is sometimes quite difficult to control the fiery spirits one might find in Archen. I do try my best, but. . . Well, you understand. I would take pleasure in nothing more than letting you depart and let bygones be bygones. But, one must have a status if one hopes to survive in a place like this. Once that reputation forms, one must maintain it. And I don't know how long you've been here, but mine is quite consolidated. I would be remiss if I let things start to slip now."

"I'm not quite as good with words as you," Victor said, turning to address the white-haired man, "but that sounds a lot like a threat."

If De L'argent had been maintaining his composure, something he saw in Victor's red eyes made him take a step back.

"Well, I guess I'm on my way to that reputation thing you were talking about," Victor smiled at De L'argent's hesitation.

"Now would be a good time to leave," a harsh voice called out from the entrance. Nova stood in the doorway, arms crossed across a thick black coat. "Sorry for the trouble my brat caused. I'm sure we can forget that business three years ago if we forget this too."

"I suppose that would be agreeable," De L'argent smiled, regaining his composure and turning away. With a wave of his hand, all his henchmen dispersed.

"Let's go, pup," Nova growled, turning her back to the place and disappearing into the night.

Victor turned to Alexandra, hoping to solidify his animosity. But something he saw on her face made him forget all about it. All he saw was a mixture of sadness, regret, and worry.

With a sigh and an apologetic bow, he followed his benefactor into the night. The streets of Archen were cold; the last breaths of winter showed no restraint. The cobbled streets echoed with an oddly pleasant vibrato as the pair walked. A dark sky, cloudless and bursting with stars, spoke of hope. Endless possibilities for the future spread out above the world. Victor walked behind Nova, hands behind his head, staring up at the infinite expanse.

"Archen is not a town to be taken lightly," Nova's voice broke the red-eyed man's reverie. "You could have gotten yourself killed in there."

"I'm pretty sure I could have handled it myself," Victor argued, cleaning wax out of his ear with a pinky.

"De L'argent is not the kind of man you take lightly," Nova turned sharply, the stare she shot Victor stopped him in his tracks.

"You may think you are imposing where you're from; you might think your experience counts for something. But proving yourself here will be unlike anything you've ever done. The people here have been through more than most during the war. We were prisoners in our homes and in our streets. Our faith subjugated us, then abandoned by the sister states we helped. No one here is ready to trust outsiders. The wounds are still fresh. The pain for most is unbearable. This city is not willing to forgive. And its people are looking for someone to blame."

Victor stood speechless. Nova looked to the stars.

"People like De L'argent would use that to get ahead. If you let them, they will make you a victim for their cause and not lose a wink of sleep for it."

"But not you," Victor half asked.

"No," Alla sighed, lighting a cigarette and letting out a thin line of smoke, "not me. The people here have forgotten themselves. They have forgotten what it meant to be Northerners. What it means to survive in Archen. They forgot what it meant to be on the frontlines between chaos and order."

"What if they forgot the path they walked along the way?" Victor asked, following her gaze up to the magnificent expanse of stars above.

"Then they simply carve out a new one," the woman sighed out another line of smoke, "using the tools they have, or their bare hands if need be. I know this city will rise and take command of its future. All it needs is a wake-up call. But it’s the role of those of us that can, to help those that can’t. We must do what we can to serve as beacons, as lights in the dark for them."

Victor’s expression remained confidently disinterested, but something in his eyes caught the widow's attention. She took his look as an affirmation from the young man she had managed to save. She guessed that it was not her light that drew him, but the other way around. This moment reminded her of the cold winter day, in the strongest blizzard of the season. It reminded her of the chance meeting with the man with red eyes in the graveyard. And the words he said to her then.

The pair walked off into the night, neither questioning the path they were on.

[Good for Nothing Captain]

The man with red eyes was seen, but not heard. He kept his head down and moved quickly. Food and drink had quickly discolored his work apron. A white bandana held back his hair, which fell to the sides of his head.

“Why is he even here,” a voice whispered between laughs and shouts, “this is no place for outsiders. What in Hadia is the old woman thinking?”

“Shut up!” another cried, “don’t let her hear you! What does it matter why? She did, and no one’s gonna say anything about it! You know what she’ll do!”

Nova had left to walk an old friend home. All night, the red-eyed man received sneers and looks of disdain. It was as though the whole bar wanted him gone. But he worked for Nova, and everyone knew it. Even though this was his first night, wearing Nova's apron demanded respect. Time passed quickly, and the crowd thinned.

"Oi!" a voice yelled from the last table with people around it. Victor moved over to a raised hand, head down and ear up. "Get tha' black mop-a-yers inta the back an' get me an'uder plate!" he slurred.

Victor left for the kitchen, but a glass full of mead shattered against his back. The man did not straighten; he bent to pick up the shards of broken glass. The group's silent leader stood, casting a dark shadow over Victor. Wood groaned under him with every step, crying under his raw might.

Being the only one without facial hair, he stood out amongst his comrades. The light accented the sharp features of his face. Hardly an ounce of fat could be seen to move on the man's imposing frame. Salt and Pepper hair, cut to shoulder length and wildly unkempt, shook as he walked.

"Hey, boy," his graveled voice rasped, "it's rude ta turn your back on your guests."

The bar went silent, as the two men stared each other down. There were very few reasons to throw a bottle of liquor wastefully. Victor could smell the bloodlust. He could see the twinkle of violence in the eyes of a soldier gone off the edge. Under a bushy black brow two gleaming gray eyes, almost to the point of being white, called for blood.

“Sorry about that,” Victor sighed, “so, what? Another drink?”

A single punch was all it took. Victor moved across the room in an instant; his feet lifted from the ground. He crashed into the wall opposite the entrance, knocking a table over on his flight. Victor sat against the wall, his head limp and chin pressed into his chest. Black hair fell over his white headband, while blood began to roll down the side of his face.

Laughter rang out through the bar as the large man turned back. With an arm in the air, he laughed, “this is Archen! The outside does not care for us, and we care not for outsiders!”

The group joined in song, finishing drinks and plates of food. A man almost twice the size of Victor's assailant stood. He seemed to encompass the entire room with his girth. Old battle scars covered his body but jiggled as he walked.

"Oaf!" a small bald man yelled, "I'm sure Nova won't mind a missing bottle or two! Let's not let the night end here!"

"Oh yah!!" the drunkest man yelled, "An' get something for the rest of you guys too!"

"Alik, I think you should eat some more," Oaf chortled, "maybe we killed the tiny man too soon! Mr. Stienhardt, would you like anything?" The leader of the group retired to an armchair close to the door. He closed his eyes while he lit a thick cigar and propped open the door with his foot. Oaf reached behind the bar and let his thick fingers wiggle around. His eyes locked onto the chosen drink when a vicious grip locked around his wrist. Sweat trickled down his brow as he turned to see a pair of red eyes.

"Customers," Victor growled through a sharp toothed grin, "stay on this side of the bar!" he yelled, tossing the large man backward with little effort. Oaf crashed onto the group’s table, spilling empty plates and glasses. All of them men quickly recovered and prepared to brawl.

Shouts of rage and discontent filled the space between the volatile group and the lone waiter.

"We're gonna skin ya alive!!" one yelled, "we're gonna grind yer bones 'ta dust!" yelled another. Muddled curses and vows of pain and torment mingled together and became incoherent. Wood cracked and groaned under his weight as Oaf rose to his feet, using the table as leverage.

"Oaf is the stonges' guy 'er" Alik yelled, slurring and nearly falling over, "ness' ta da boss o'course."

Darkness crept down the large man's face, and a throbbing vein emerged above a thick eyebrow. His grinding teeth were audible. His body tensed, muscles flexed under fat and prepared for battle.

"E's gonna break yer. . . Everything! An' e's going to pound ya into oblivion!"

With a bellowing roar, he lurched forward. The busboy stood unflinchingly.

"Now now boys, let's not forget rule two," Victor smiled, "don't make any promises you can't keep."

"He's gonna squeeze the last breath of life outta ya! Rip out your heart and eat yer soul!!!" Alik yelled.

"Whoa man," one turned to the last who spoke, "that was a little intense. . . I mean. . . He is a human being, and works for Nova. . . There are rules and laws about that kind of stuff. . . I mean. . . Most likely we would just rough him up a little and leave. . ."

"Wow. . ." the drunk said, reflectively, "I have no idea where that came from. . . I think I might have a problem with Alcohol. . . Whenever I drink I become a different person and only seem to hurt the people closest to me; it takes me to a dark pla-" he stopped short when Oaf, launched into the air, crashed into him and stopped his one-man-intervention.

"Rule three," Victor growled, stalking forward, "respect the things that don't belong to you. And if you don't, there'll be a devil to pay."

With every step the red-eyed man took forward, the hostile crowd moved back, until the farthest of them pressed up against Oaf's dormant form. The men hesitated, looking to each other for support. When enough courage gathered between them, they prepared to engage.

"Ready?" Victor asked as a wicked smile danced across his face.

With a shout, the group rushed forward, and the brawl began. The group of drunks lets loose a flurry of uncoordinated attacks, hoping to halt Victor's advance. But the new hire moved through them like they were standing still. His attacks were precise and calculated: duck, weave, hit. Weave, parry, hit. Hit. Hit. Hit. The group surrounded him, but it was like gazelle surrounding a lion. In the end, they were just prey.

"Rule four," Victor yelled between blows, "respect the efforts of others!" He caught a misguided punch and used the assailant's momentum to launch him at another opponent. Victor stopped, as the men around him realized the folly of their plan. He stared at the man silently smoking a cigar by the open door. He looked past a terrified adversary who prayed he was forgotten, "and even if they are just a group of rowdy, disorganized, belligerent drunks. . ." With a kick, Victor sent the man in front of him flying to the door. His body landed at Steinhardt's feet. Instead of checking on his man, the leader crossed his feet and dropped ash from his cigar onto the unconscious man's back.

"Meet it with your best effort." And with that, he set off. The men fell one by one. Before they hit the ground, Victor sent each one tumbling, flying and rolling towards their boss. Within moments, the bar was silent once more. The lone waiter stood in the center of the severely damaged bar. Broken chairs, unconscious men, and turned over tables sprawled the distance between him and the leader of the defeated group.

Steinhardt sighed, breathing out a thick line of smoke. Uncrossing his legs, the man stood. The leader stepped over his people, with no particular care for his allies.

"And if you break any of these rules," Victor began, his eyes locked with Steinhardt's.

"There's no place for you here," Steinhardt finished the fourth edict. Victor knew that the man standing before him was no pushover. It would take his full effort to best this foe. Steinhardt showed no fear and no apprehension over the laughable defeat of his entire crew. The two paused, stealing their bodies and their minds.

They lunged forward; the first blow won by Stein. Victor took the hit to the face, but reflected in Steinhardt's eyes was not victory, but surprise. Blood trickled down the bridge of Victor's nose from his forehead, which he used to catch Steinhardt’s sizable fist. Beneath black hair, red eyes and flowing blood, Victor grinned. He twisted Stein’s fist with his left hand and forced the large man down to a knee. With his right, Victor put his full force into a punch heavy enough to kill an unprepared man.

But Stein was ready. He took the hit but stayed in the fight. Although his arm was locked, Stein knew his way around a grapple. Flipping himself over, he broke the arm lock and freed his main hand. On his back, he took hold of Victor and flipped the smaller man over, forcing him to the ground. Victor used the momentum to his advantage and continued the roll, breaking Stein’s hold over him. The two were on their feet in a flash.

"Ready for round two?" Stein mocked, his back to the door. But Victor's mouth dropped, fear filling his eyes and blood draining from his face. Steinhardt thought the man to be playing a trick, but Victor only straightened, took a step back and dropped his gaze to his feet. Reluctantly, Stein turned around.

Nova stood in the doorway, a cigarette burning between her lips and an empty look in her eyes. The proud leader straightened immediately, turned to face her and dropped his gaze to the floor as well.

"I must have come to the wrong place," Nova sighed, breathing out a cloud of smoke. "I thought the sign above the door said 'Nova's Rest,' but when I left, it still looked like a bar." The thin woman moved passed the men laying on the ground, but they were no longer unconscious; instead, they were playing dead.

"I know," she said once she cleared the grounded men, stopping before the two standing fighters, "this must be a dream. If I close my eyes, this place will be spotless and tidy, and no one will have to get hurt. . ." And with that, she shut her eyes. In the darkness, she could hear scrambling and grunting. She took one deep breath, and with her exhale she opened her eyes.

The entire room was entirely unchanged. Broken bottles and plates, scattered chairs and tables, food and spilled drinks still littered the once clean bar. But no one stood before her. Behind her, a mass of bodies and flailing fists crammed into the small doorway. Whispers and curses of Oaf's mass and inability to fit were all that echoed. Victor and Steinhardt stood at the back, their faces flush, and veins were pulsing trying to push forward.

"Oh?" Nova sighed, letting out another line of smoke, "having trouble? LET ME HELP" she yelled as she kicked the two men at the back until the rest fell forward. The dark streets of Archen once more were filled with screams and cries. The sound of violence and fear. A sound to which the city was no stranger.

"NOW CLEAN YOURSELVES UP AND CLEAN MY SHOP!!"

[Good for Nothing Captain]

"You weren't half bad in there," Stein said through a bloody nose, plugged up by two bloody pieces of cloth. With a broom in hand, he collected broken glass and shattered dishes.

"You did pretty well yourself," Victor nodded under a bandaged forehead and a black eye, "for a fat old man." A once whole plate broke over Victor's head, but he swept up those pieces with his broom. The two worked in silence from then on, putting right what they had destroyed. With the job finished, they shared a drink on the steps which led to Victor's home. The bottle Oaf had tried to take now passed between the two men who had just traded blows.

"They'll get theirs," Stein sighed, breathing out harshly after a long drink of hard liquor. "We have. . . an extracurricular activity we host in an abandoned church."

"If you tell me this involves a circle and wigs I'll kill you," Victor groaned, while Stien handed him the bottle.

"No. Don't be a virgin pup," Steinhardt stood, keeping his back to the younger man. "If you want, there may be a place for you there. . . We might not like strangers here. . . But we respect strength," Steinhardt started to walk away, lighting another cigar.

Victor watched the proud man walk away, thick smoke leaving the trail of his passage. Victor took another swig, letting the burn of the alcohol clean the cut on his lip. Finally, he stood and lumbered up the stairs to his home.

"What the fuck is wrong with this place. . ." Victor sighed, looking out on the quiet city from the balcony that led to his door. He opened the door and entered his dark apartment with the bottle in his hand. The hard bed curved as he sat on its edge. The tired man hunched over, and hair fell over his eyes. He stared at the floor, into the past. Images of war and friends who no longer walked among the living ran through his mind; until he settled on a pair of orange eyes under chestnut hair. The memory was still fresh, and the pain still stung deeply. Victor finished the remainder of the bottle and let the empty vessel fall to the ground. He turned to lay atop the blankets in his clothes, keeping his blank stare fixed on the ceiling. His eyes began to close as his consciousness faded.

"What the fuck is wrong with me. . . ?" he asked the orange eyed girl and let himself fall asleep.

[Good for Nothing Captain]

"Oh no," an old man corrected, "the nobles were quite against the idea of it! The church kept their bellies fat and coffers full; they had no intention of changing sides."

Victor sat on the bench outside the small pastry shop, beside its owner. He swallowed the remains of his treat and wiped the corners of his mouth. Taking up a clay cup filled with warm tea, the younger man took a deep gulp. The warm liquid flowed smoothly, washing down the remains of dessert. Victor turned once more to the owner.

"So what, the people just up-and-rebelled?" he asked, taking another treat from the old man.

"Well, they had a leader, but it wasn't just his efforts." The old man moved around his stand to join Victor on the bench resting against the wall of his open shop. The sun peaked out from behind a line of thin clouds, warming the pair. The two men lifted their hands in unison to shade their eyes from the harsh rays. "We were all beaten dogs. No one had the courage to be the first to stand. Then someone with the courage to fight stood, and everyone saw someone they could follow. Someone who shared their pain and their hopes. Someone who gave them a reason to fight."

"And what reason was that? Bloody combat?" Victor asked halfheartedly.

"Freedom." The old man sighed, taking a sip of his tea. "It was the first time someone stood for more than another faction; more than just another hand to hold the leash."

"That sounds real nice," Victor enjoyed another bite of his crème filled snack, "so how'd it all go to shit?"

"Ah. . . Well after the church took back the city, some of the nobility was executed. It was only after the peace talks began, and the church gave up Archen as a bastion that we gained our freedom. Still, there are odd balances of power in Archen, under the young princess' new regime," the old man finished, closing his eyes, he leaned back against the wall of his small shop, to enjoy the warm light of the sun.

"Odd how?" Victor asked, finishing his tea.

"Well, De L'argent was an outsider, but with his help, the city began to dig its way out of poverty. After that, he took over South Archen; the merchants, the pubs and inns, and even the caravans all answer to him. Most coins seem to pass over, or under, his table. Some look up to Mr. Epirus, a trainer from the city guard, who appears to share their goals. He's an old soul who fought every fight Archen has ever seen."

"And in the East resides a demon," Victor shuddered, making the old man laugh.

"Yes, you're benefactor has quite the reputation. Nova is beloved and respected by all, and rightly so; she not only set the fires under the people before the rebellion took hold, but fought with them when the church was pushed out."

"Is it bad that I can so easily imagine that old battle-axe wielding an actual battle axe?" Victor asked.

"It might surprise you, but she never held a blade a day in her life. She didn't think about entering the fray bare handed because for her it wasn't about killing or winning a battle. For her, it was about standing up for those who couldn't stand for themselves."

"No. . . Her fists are lethal weapons. . . It surprises me that any church members made it out alive. . ." Victor stood, leaving his empty cup and plate on the counter. "Well, thanks for the stories old man," he stood and started walking into the street away from the pastry chef.

"Wait- Mr. Victor, what about your bill?" the old man called out, rising to his feet.

"Just put it on my tab," Victor yelled back, without turning to face the man.

"It's not a tab if you never pay it! Just once, would you pay for something you eat!?" the chef cried.

"If I don't come around to eat for free, who would ever listen to all your old stories?" Victor called, just barely within earshot; the noise from the crowds beginning to drown out his words, "It's thanks to me you haven't gone crazy and spend your days talking to yourself!"

And so his morning began, as most usually did. Victor had made something of a name for himself, being the resident at the apartment above Nova's bar. Working at the restaurant was becoming more and more intolerable, so the man began looking for new work. He started going door to door, taking on odd-jobs to try to pay for his lodgings. Victor took many small jobs all throughout Archen; each went horribly, horribly wrong. In five months, he had yet to pay his rent.

But today would be different.

[Good for Nothing Captain]

Victor made his way towards the center of Archen where a visiting dignitary had taken up lodgings. A friend of Nova's had asked if she knew anyone who could help him clean his home, and she recommended Victor. The red-eyed man walked through the crowd, murmuring to himself. He had every intention to make it to his job on time. He had every intention to do the job to the best of his abilities. He had every intention of making Nova and his new employer proud. Right up until he found anything else to do.

Victor stepped into the very first bar he found on his way to 'work.' The sunlit room was entirely empty when Victor walked in. Dust hung in the air, suspended in the rays of sunlight which flowed through the windows. A mustached man stood behind the bar, cleaning a glass and nodded to his new customer with a hint of disdain in his face. Victor made his way to the end of the bar and sat at an empty table. Light colored wood made up the entire bar and reflected light like a mirror.

"What would you like, good sir," the bartender asked, not even trying to hide his contempt.

"Something sweet," Victor groaned, "for my diabetes. . . And my hangover."

"We're trying to get rid of the rest of our ice cream; strawberry sundae okay?" the bartender asked, already moving towards the kitchen at the end of the room. He disappeared before Victor could say a word, not that the man with red eyes even noticed. Because Victor loved a strawberry sundae.

Time passed, and eventually, a majestic glass bowl arrived before him. The bowl filled above the brim with a soft pink colored ice-cream, the sundae almost glowed with deliciousness. Victor looked forward to the first bite, imagining a slow satisfaction and profound gratitude. A taste of the frozen treat would fill his mouth with an explosion of bright flavors. The chilling sensation would fight against the natural warmth of his body in a playful tug-of-war where he was always the winner. He brought the spoon up. Detouring to eye-level so he could admire the dessert for a moment before enjoying it. The smell gently wafted past his nose, and he breathed deeply. Strawberry, cream and other ingredients he could never hope to identify formed a carefree militia that washed over Victor’s senses. The army demanded indulgence at every step, from sight, taste, smell, the feeling of the ice-cream on his tongue, and even the sound of the spoon against his teeth.

Carnal desire filled the room like perfume. For ice-cream.

From behind the man with red eyes, a hunched figure softly swept.