Leopold
09-11-13, 04:01 PM
Berevar did not disappoint Leopold Winchester. The journey there, eventful. The journey back, not so much. As ever, it was inhospitably cold. As ever, the beleaguered merchant did his best to ignore the temperature. At the front of a long, forlorn wagon train, he whipped the reigns of tired horses, and peered through the thickening snowfall that made passage back into Salvar increasingly difficult.
“If you’re going to say I told you so, you can forget it,” he spat.
The man sat next to Leopold sighed. As ever, Wilfred Thompson, butler to the Winchester Household for forty years, was scapegoat and confident to the increasingly pressured man’s woes. He slumped, sinking further into his wolf skin cocoon than humanly possible.
“I was merely going to comment on how dire the weather has become.” He turned to look at his employer. “That was all.”
Leopold knew otherwise. He had worked with Wilfred for far too long. When the old man’s bushy eyebrows twitched and his hip flask tipped more than once a minute, something was bothering him. As usual, that something was he.
“Look,” he began. He jolted as the wagon’s wheels smashed over a half-buried rock. “I didn’t know it was going to snow this bad.”
“In Berevar?” Wilfred retorted.
The caravan continued in silence. Save for the bitter howl of the wind as it rolled south down the pass, nothing made a sound. The red and white canopy of the Winchester Rose Trading Company’s supply train was the only colour in a bleak landscape. It was the only sign of life in what had now become a whitewash; wherever Leopold looked, there was three feet of tundra, and then grey nothingness.
“Okay…,” Leopold sighed. “Say it.”
Leopold whipped the reigns, commanding the horses to come to a stop. They reared their heads, whipped their manes, and whining the six wagons to an abrupt decay of momentum. In the distance, the sound of other drivers bringing their loads to a rest whisked away on the gale.
“I told you so.”
Wilfred’s satisfaction would last for a long time. He felt warmth in his chest, and with a cocksure smile, he rose from his cocoon. Leopold touted, but watched his servant jostle with the reigns, adjust his clothing, and emerge back out into the world.
“Is something the matter?” the merchant enquired.
“Oh, no,” Wilfred began, wistful and despondent. “It’s just…”
There were two distinct memories rattling about in Leopold’s mind at that moment. The first concerned what happened last time Wilfred had said those words. A chimera was involved. Several wagons obliterated. A new suit tailored at considerable expense.
“It’s just…?” Leopold erred. Every muscle in his body tensed over his skeletal frame.
The second memory concerned a particular incident involving a band of slavers. They went by the name of the Brigade, and Leopold had little in common with them. He tried to listen to the wind, but picked out only the sounds of his caravan guard barking commands at one another in the obfuscating swirl of snow and inhospitality.
“Something just doesn’t feel right.”
Wilfred was seldom vague.
“Sit down,” Leopold snapped. Wilfred did just that. “Think, you oath, think.”
Wilfred looked up at Leopold, and contrary to employee etiquette, he snarled.
“I am fucking thinking.”
He whipped out a small piece of folded paper from the back of beyond, and opened it onto his lap. He fingered it gingerly, tired, worn digits caressing the detail with ardour. His pallid eyes examined the fading ink that marked out a map. To Leopold, it meant nothing. To Wilfred, a keen cartographer, it was the border between the old world and the new.
“What is it?” Leopold repeated, after several awkward minutes.
“We’re not in Berevar anymore…”
This revelation implied two important facts. The first was that Leopold and the caravan were in immediate danger. The second was that he had not in fact gotten them lost. He was pleased on the one hand, mortified on the other.
“That means…,” Leopold mumbled. He trailed off into his thoughts.
The shouting on the wind stopped. Leopold presumed this meant the crew were busy drinking, smoking, and stretching their legs. They had travelled for three days from the northern steppes of the Ahyark, and it would be three more before they rolled into Knife’s Edge entirely too eager to see churches and ruins.
“Oh fuck…,” the two men, robustly and with intent, shouted in unison.
The arrows embedded in the frame of the tack before the thud and echo filled the ravine. Shouts followed, and then a flash of fire in the mists ahead. From the drift emerged a terrifying edifice of the old ways. Leopold reached for his spear quicker than Wilfred could put his flask away and finger his gun. At the rear of the colonnade, he was certain he could here Jeren Silvers shouting to his men, and somewhere in the middle, Luned and Resolve were trying to get a grip.
“Slavers!” Leopold said, voice erupting into a hoarse, barren tone. He rose from his seat. He spun his pole-arm full-circle, and with newfound strength, leapt from wagon to wasteland.
“If you’re going to say I told you so, you can forget it,” he spat.
The man sat next to Leopold sighed. As ever, Wilfred Thompson, butler to the Winchester Household for forty years, was scapegoat and confident to the increasingly pressured man’s woes. He slumped, sinking further into his wolf skin cocoon than humanly possible.
“I was merely going to comment on how dire the weather has become.” He turned to look at his employer. “That was all.”
Leopold knew otherwise. He had worked with Wilfred for far too long. When the old man’s bushy eyebrows twitched and his hip flask tipped more than once a minute, something was bothering him. As usual, that something was he.
“Look,” he began. He jolted as the wagon’s wheels smashed over a half-buried rock. “I didn’t know it was going to snow this bad.”
“In Berevar?” Wilfred retorted.
The caravan continued in silence. Save for the bitter howl of the wind as it rolled south down the pass, nothing made a sound. The red and white canopy of the Winchester Rose Trading Company’s supply train was the only colour in a bleak landscape. It was the only sign of life in what had now become a whitewash; wherever Leopold looked, there was three feet of tundra, and then grey nothingness.
“Okay…,” Leopold sighed. “Say it.”
Leopold whipped the reigns, commanding the horses to come to a stop. They reared their heads, whipped their manes, and whining the six wagons to an abrupt decay of momentum. In the distance, the sound of other drivers bringing their loads to a rest whisked away on the gale.
“I told you so.”
Wilfred’s satisfaction would last for a long time. He felt warmth in his chest, and with a cocksure smile, he rose from his cocoon. Leopold touted, but watched his servant jostle with the reigns, adjust his clothing, and emerge back out into the world.
“Is something the matter?” the merchant enquired.
“Oh, no,” Wilfred began, wistful and despondent. “It’s just…”
There were two distinct memories rattling about in Leopold’s mind at that moment. The first concerned what happened last time Wilfred had said those words. A chimera was involved. Several wagons obliterated. A new suit tailored at considerable expense.
“It’s just…?” Leopold erred. Every muscle in his body tensed over his skeletal frame.
The second memory concerned a particular incident involving a band of slavers. They went by the name of the Brigade, and Leopold had little in common with them. He tried to listen to the wind, but picked out only the sounds of his caravan guard barking commands at one another in the obfuscating swirl of snow and inhospitality.
“Something just doesn’t feel right.”
Wilfred was seldom vague.
“Sit down,” Leopold snapped. Wilfred did just that. “Think, you oath, think.”
Wilfred looked up at Leopold, and contrary to employee etiquette, he snarled.
“I am fucking thinking.”
He whipped out a small piece of folded paper from the back of beyond, and opened it onto his lap. He fingered it gingerly, tired, worn digits caressing the detail with ardour. His pallid eyes examined the fading ink that marked out a map. To Leopold, it meant nothing. To Wilfred, a keen cartographer, it was the border between the old world and the new.
“What is it?” Leopold repeated, after several awkward minutes.
“We’re not in Berevar anymore…”
This revelation implied two important facts. The first was that Leopold and the caravan were in immediate danger. The second was that he had not in fact gotten them lost. He was pleased on the one hand, mortified on the other.
“That means…,” Leopold mumbled. He trailed off into his thoughts.
The shouting on the wind stopped. Leopold presumed this meant the crew were busy drinking, smoking, and stretching their legs. They had travelled for three days from the northern steppes of the Ahyark, and it would be three more before they rolled into Knife’s Edge entirely too eager to see churches and ruins.
“Oh fuck…,” the two men, robustly and with intent, shouted in unison.
The arrows embedded in the frame of the tack before the thud and echo filled the ravine. Shouts followed, and then a flash of fire in the mists ahead. From the drift emerged a terrifying edifice of the old ways. Leopold reached for his spear quicker than Wilfred could put his flask away and finger his gun. At the rear of the colonnade, he was certain he could here Jeren Silvers shouting to his men, and somewhere in the middle, Luned and Resolve were trying to get a grip.
“Slavers!” Leopold said, voice erupting into a hoarse, barren tone. He rose from his seat. He spun his pole-arm full-circle, and with newfound strength, leapt from wagon to wasteland.