To Walk a Long Mile

[Whisper]

Closed to Jericho. If anyone else is interested, send a PM to myself or Jericho and we will send you the quest details and see if your character/idea fits.
Josen laid four of his last coins on the counter and accepted the small metal tin which was passed to him. The clerk began fishing out coppers for change. "Keep it," said Josen, knowing he couldn't really afford to but above all, not caring. He wasn't sure what had made him purchase the grease in the first place other than habit, but as he sat down near the steps of the supplier, he was suddenly inspired to be grateful for that habit.

He'd forgotten how sore he was. Every inch and muscle of him ached right down to his toe bones as he pulled off first one boot, then the other. They collapsed onto the dirt in much the same manner he would like to. A small plume of dust rose to greet his kneecaps. Josen slapped it away, reminding himself that he'd just had a bath - in Niema's frigid waters, no less - and didn't need to be making a subsequent trip necessary, not that his dulled senses couldn't reuse the jarring. That had been the reason behind the last one, and already, its effects were fading swiftly. All his body wanted to do was fall over on its back into oblivion, but Josen knew what that oblivion held so he grasped his boot then the grease can, moistened his rag, and continued to do what militant breeding had taught him to do every sixth day of each week, since he'd been of age to hold his first training wand.

The cracks were few, but the patterns in the leather were many. Josen was used to see the faces in them, hearing their names buzz silently, consistently, in his head. The constant void of loss, though, was a sensation his insides were weary of. They grew tired of holding up shields, and so he did them the kind favor of intermittently closing his eyes, inviting only a different form of visions that were sometimes or sometimes not gentler than the more lucid ones of his dreams.

He must have dozed, because a rough kick, and a matching voice from above, jarred him.

"No sleeping in the streets," it said.

"I'm not." Josen flexed his hand and opened his eyes to see that he was indeed lying. Shielding his eyes from the glare of a setting sun, he focused fuzzily on a boot as it kicked his tin can down the steps.

"Right," said the boot's occupant. "And might be my name is Sally. Best get on with yourself. We ain't in need of any beggars here in this town."

Beggar?

Josen snapped his head up, retort burnt on his tongue, but he pressed the wit quick into his teeth, keeping them shut. The mass hovering over him was near twice his size, and held a blood hungry gaze punctuated by a jagged pink line trailing down weathered facial planes to disect his black beard into two.

Rethinking himself, Josen spoke slowly. "Might be a traveler just needs a few minutes before he continues...sir."

The man gleamed. His arms were bent into an ominous, lookin-for-trouble fold, one marked with an impatient, twitching thumb, but the pose held. Whatever weapon was strapped to his back remained there. After a long enough span that his gaze had chomped on his victim, chewed, and spit him out twice, he apparently decided Josen's humility was enough and stepped back.

"Make sure those minutes are short."

"Will do," promised Josen, quite sincerely, and sitting up straight for the delivery. He retrieved the grease tin as the local stalked away, spending only a second's eyesight on his shadow, flanked by two others, before returning to his task and the memories which accompanied him.

* * *

He shouldn't have, but he did so anyway. The Lizard's Belly was where he was, or so the sign said told, and on its farthest bench from the door, somewhere near the kitchen, was where Josen attempted to nurse his fifth mead. Either the harpist was grand or the conversation engaging, because the tankard he currently held possessed the same consistency of its four brothers before it: water. Momentarily wondering if that was because they watered their drink down, Josen decided the best method of finding out was to consume a thorough intake and taste.

A thump interrupted his chugging. The bench jostled, and then a heavy hand thwacked on his back. His new buddy and drinking partner, whom he couldn't currently name, was leaving. "Unlike you, I've got a missus at home-"

Josen cringed, but mastered the expression into a crinkling smile. "Never let a good conversation keep a man from his wedding bed."

"Indeed." The nameless one laid coppers on the table. "For your next round."

"My gratuities." Once, Josen would have been prideful. Tonight he just lifted his mug. First in salute, then in one long pull to counter the sobriety befalling to assault him now that he was alone.

Four days since he had left - or fled, more accurately - Radasanth's gates, and he had not yet outgained a step from the demons pursuing him. This was because they were in his own head, of course, and one could not outrun their own thoughts. They could be outdrunk, however, and he rose from the table to prove it. His tankard was empty, he'd discovered, but that was a blasphemy remedied easily enough. Forgetting nameless's copper gift, he made his semi unsteady way toward the front of the room (and more importantly, the barrels and the mugs to put them in), and was concentrating so hard on counting his money that it didn't even occur to him to apologize for the occasional strange back he brushed upon.

"Thought you was leaving."

Josen turned his head and saw a familiar scar with lips attached, pursed in dissatisfaction. "Pardon me," he said, as politely as he insincerely could, and began to continue to the all important counter with the more important, busy barkeep behind. He stopped only because there was now a foot in his path, and because he wasn't yet drunk enough to fall over it. Still, there was some disorientation as his peripheral vision slid by to focus again on the over burly local who had greeted him so friendly-like at the supplier's.

He'd had his bright moments before but this probably wasn't one of them; Josen adopted a very wide, and very stupidly engaging, false grin.

"You didn't answer me," the scar reminded him. Firmly.

"Thought I might stay for a while." It wasn't a lie. A town run more by the civilians than military would be perfect for him - if only it wasn't so near Radasanth.

Scar grunted. Even through liquor, Josen recognized the decision being made. Now would be a good time for him to make his apologies and amends, but something else spoke, a voice that said 'what the heck, anyway?', and Josen instead stepped aside, placing his hand mid on his scabbard, and made to proceed.

The foot slid back. Or rather, it began to slide back. What happened was that the leg came jutting out at the same instant a ready hand pushed reflexively down. Leather covered steel met essentially unprotected shin bone, and curses erupted, wood scraped flooring, then silmultaneous weapons hissied free of their sheaths.

Oh boy, said another voice within Josen before it slipped deep into hiding.

[Jericho]

A maelstrom of blazing watercolor whirled about the western sky. In the east, the silken indigo of evening settled, breathing a brisk sea breeze over the docks.

Awe swept through Jericho’s soul as the winds combed through his fur, and he smiled, shivering. He breathed deeply of brine and the cool scent of nightfall, soft and damp like the moments before the rain comes. There was too much wrong with the world to let moments like this slip by without touching his heart.

“Where will you go now, Crossingtree?”

Captain Wrenfield leaned against the railing beside him as the crew busied themselves tying down the ship. His slate-blue eyes betrayed great respect for the young elkin.

Jericho looked first at the Captain who had brought him safely all the way from Salvar, then to the blazing inferno erupting across the clouds from the smoldering sun. His eyes held uncertainty—uncertainty, and the deep peace of those who never doubt the existence of the path, even in the darkness of the night.

“Wherever the Voice calls me,” he answered, quietly, but with the conviction of one who knows no other truth. “I’ve never felt a call as strong as the one that pulls at me now. Someone somewhere is in desperate need—and I must go to find them.”

“Even though you have no idea who they are, or where to look?”

Jericho grinned. “As long as I listen, the next step is always clear.”

“The next step…” A tear glistened in the western fire as it slid down the Captain’s cheek. “Do…do you see that door, Jericho? The one to my cabin?” His voice was catching.

“I do.”

“I…just now, I walked from there, to this railing, to talk to you…” The man’s thick shoulders began to shake, and a second tear slid down to nestle in the netting of his graying beard. “And…and do you know, I didn’t limp, not once…” His whole torso shuddered now, with every gasping word. “Do you know how long it’s been, since I did that?”

A wide, bright smile bloomed across Jericho’s face. There was far too much wrong with the world to let a single moment like this slip by without touching his heart. It was moments like this that never failed to remind him how bright the Light could shine. He set a strong hand on the Captain’s quaking shoulder.

“I was the vessel of the One’s blessing for you, Wrenfield. And trust me when I tell you, that is only the first drop of the torrent He has in store for you.”

Wrenfield looked up at him through gleaming eyes and nodded. “When the sky is clear and the sea is calm, I will raise my thanks to heaven.”

An odd, mischievous glint caught in Jericho’s eye, like that of a child who knows a simple secret. “And when the sky is dark and the waves are high, raise them even higher—for that, my friend, is when you’ll see the inconceivable.”

Then the fires in the west fell to blue-violet ash, and he knew he yet had far to go.

The crew bid him well—their words and eyes and embraces full of the love they had found for this strange traveler, on a journey whose end he did not know—and he offered them his blessings. And so he descended to the shore and raised his head to the clouds, and smiled.

“After you.”

* * *

Only a faint glow of blue remained over the distant peaks now, and the air had turned to ice.

Jericho’s gaze flitted between the bony shadows of the wood as his hooves made their careful way over the path—it was barely more than a game trail now—and he pulled his cloak tighter against the slight but bitter wind. A thought surfaced in his mind.

You’ve gone the wrong way.

This trail was going nowhere. Soon it would probably disappear. Maybe he’d taken a wrong turn. He could be going completely the wrong way. Maybe the Voice wasn’t even leading…

Stop.

He froze. Slowly, his eyes arced around the trees, no longer flitting. He was searching in earnest, now. Something was here—a presence, like many he had felt before.

A Hinderer.

“You have no place here!” he shouted, and the empty woods swallowed his voice like the deepness of a tomb. “I act on behalf of One greater than you and your master. Stay away from me, my path, and the one I am sent to protect!”

The softest hush drifted through the blackened leaves, almost like a sneering chuckle.

Pretty brave for a lost wanderer, Jericho. A Hinderer might not have to oppose you at all if you can’t even follow the—

“ENOUGH!” he shouted. He’d dealt with Hinderers for too long for their lies to fool him, even disguised as his own thoughts. “My way is pure! Be gone in the name of the One who sends me!”

A blazing beacon of light exploded from his right palm, and he held it high, casting unearthly brilliance through the forest. The wind responded, shrieking, rushing away through the corridors of branches—and Jericho felt the presence, burned by the Light, depart.

The rays of the beacon fell upon the brush, illuminating a broken branch, a matted carpet of moss.

The way was clear.

* * *

At long last, the amber glow of firelight mingled with the argent gossamer of the stars.

Jericho’s eyes glinted in the light from the tavern’s windows, and he smiled. The Lizard’s Belly.

“Down we go, to the belly of the beast,” he chuckled.

Suddenly, the Voice spoke.

Stop.

Immediately, by instinct, he obeyed.

Wait.

All right.

Minutes slid by. Laughter and the occasional coarse joke drifted from the inn as nocturnal chills swept around its walls. Still, the elkin did not move, did not waver. He waited.

The tavern’s front door banged open, and a pale-haired human tumbled from the opening into the dust.

Him.

Jericho stepped forward to help to the man’s feet, almost emerging from the shadows of the wood.

Stop.

But I have to…

Wait.

He blinked. All right.

A colossal hulk of a man, masked with a thick mane of black hair, stomped through the doorway, flanked by several muscled cronies. Before the elkin's ward managed to get to his feet, the brute landed a hard kick to his ribs. Even from the woods, Jericho could hear the soft cracking noise, and the victim flopped back into the dirt.

“Ya best pass through, traveler,” the black-haired man growled.

For a moment, the pale-haired one looked unconscious, but suddenly he sprang up, a dagger flashing from his cloak. One of the big man’s friends was ready, though, and struck him alongside the jaw. The other caught him as he fell and punched his stomach mercilessly.

Jericho winced and stepped forward, staff in hand.

Wait.

His jaw tensed, but he stopped. He won’t last if they keep—

Wait.

The goon released him, letting the poor soul flop to the ground. Miraculously, he pushed himself up to glare at the hairy one.

“Ya tried my good will,” the brute rumbled. “I didn’ have much to begin with.” He landed a hard kick to the side of the beaten man’s head, and he fell hard and motionless into the dust.

Now.

“Stop!” He emerged from the trees, holding his staff toward the thugs in warning.

The leader looked up, surprised. “This ain’t yer business, hooves.”

“It is now. This man is under my protection. You’ve done enough—now leave here.”

The man lifted his sword and snarled. “Don’ test me, hooves. Yer the one who’d best be leaving.”

Inwardly, Jericho sighed. This would not end well.

“Do not test Heaven, sir. I will ask you once more to let him be.”

Something akin to a bear’s growl rose from the man’s throat. His cronies eyed him and pawed their scabbards.

“Ya picked the wrong man to challenge, doe!”

He saw the blade slide free, saw it glimmer in the tavern’s light. And he closed his eyes.

Take these hands and guide them, according to Your will.

Light unlike any ever shed by men’s torches whispered about his eyes, his hands, his staff. A Will unlike any ever held by men’s hearts descended on the thin frame of the wanderer.

The stars would be heard tonight.

Of their own accord, his hands took up the staff and struck, parried, struck again. Jericho had long learned not to look, not to think. He only listened, listened closely, and let the One move his arms.

He felt the blows shudder through the oak of the staff as it struck arms, hilts, bones. He heard the grunts, the cries of the men as he knocked their blows aside with impossible speed and struck back. And oak and steel and fur and hair flew before the tavern.

Less than a minute later, the Light faded, and Jericho at last opened his eyes.

The three men lay unconscious around him, dark bruises forming on their arms and temples, and his ward lay quiet, bloodied—but alive.

He lifted the poor man into his arms and carried him back into the inn, tossing a few coins to the innkeeper and making his way upstairs to an empty room. He closed and barred the door and laid the despondent on the room’s lone mattress. He had a handsome face—toned muscles, strong hands. A few scars. He had the way of a warrior about him—but at the same time, Jericho felt more. He felt the pain, grief, and suffering of a long and desperate tale…

No wonder the call had been so strong.

“Sleep now, friend,” he whispered, raising his hands over the still frame of his latest assignment. Starlight cascaded from his palms. “The healing has begun.”