Xeraph
08-14-07, 10:56 AM
Nightfall came quickly in the depths of winter in this new and unfamiliar land. The leaves on the trees had long since lost all their colour, and many of them lay scattered on the damp ground. The light covering of frost had coated them since before the dawn, and even now they crunched underneath the traveller’s footfalls. The path was ill-defined, even more so now, and as the darkness continued to close in on this lone figure in the desolate landscape it slowly swallowed up anything he might have recognised.
Only when the darkness was absolute did he stop to rest, leaning casually against a tree, the rough bark pressing against the bruises hidden beneath his clothing. He sighed gently, his eyes adjusting to the night, seeing almost as if it were day. He slowly became away of the sounds of the forest in which he now found himself, the sounds that one did not hear whilst traipsing through the clearings and undergrowth. Yet one sound did not belong, the gentle but steady purring that emanated from around his ankles. A tail brushed against him, and he looked down. A tortoiseshell cat was wandering back and forth in front of him, her bright green eyes looking up at him as she did so. A once warm mouse was clutched between her razor sharp teeth, and he couldn’t help but smile. Bending at the knees, he stroked one hand down the length of her spine, running it the very tip of the tail, “Well, at least one of us seems to be getting a decent meal.”
She continued to purr, and when he sat down, she took this as a sign they were staying there for sometime, lying down to tear the flesh from the mouse’s bones. It was the natural way, cats were meant to live like this. And the traveller had his own dinner in a bundle on his back, packed tightly into his sleeping roll which was carried over one shoulder, slung around the other hip. This he removed, laying it out in front of him and unfurling the tightly packed material. Inside were a dead chicken, neck quite obviously broken whilst stolen from an unattended coop earlier that day, along with tinder to start a fire, in combination with a few larger sticks to maintain it. He frowned, picking one up, ]Hmm… going to need some larger ones than this to cook on.
Glancing around, he spied some larger logs nearby, which looked to be in reasonable shape. They would do for cooking on, but for now he had other things to worry about. Setting the tinder up expertly, he lit it with a match draw from his pocket, the tiny flames struggling to survive in the biting wind. He moved slightly, shielding the flames with his own body, and proceeded to add small sticks and other such things that lay littered around him until he was satisfied the fire could survive. Only then did he reach for the chicken, beginning to pluck the feathers away and gut the bird with his knife. Nothing was wasted – even chicken feathers could be sold on in some market, to stuff bedding or whatever it was that people who stayed in one place did. Xeraph Tollan was never in any location any longer than he could help it – trouble had an uncanny knack of following him around in towns, and especially in bars.
Eventually, with the help of the nearby logs, he had a fire burning merrily away that was already warming his thoroughly chilled bones. Despite the fact he wore a minimum of three layers of clothing, he felt the wind lowering his body temperature, and was grateful for the fire. With the chicken skewered on sturdy twigs, suspended above the fire to roast, Xeraph allowed himself one luxury. Reaching into a pocket, he withdrew a finely carved pipe, and some shag tobacco. Placing the tobacco into the end of the pipe, he patted himself down, searching for another match.
“Dammit… must’ve used my last one up!”
He frowned, and then took a small stick between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. His hands had gloves of dark green wool covering them, but they were worn through in some places, primarily at the fingertips. He could see how the cold, and now the warmth, had affected his hands, and frowned slightly, resolving to try and ‘acquire’ some gloves in the next town he reached. He had no idea what the name of the town was, and nor did he care. He just knew that the old man in the last town had pointed him in this direction, saying it was about three days walk. So far, it had taken him five.
He took the stick, lighting the tip and dipping it into the tobacco. Once it ignited, he took a single deep puff, exhaling smoothly as the scent of the cherry hit him. He tossed the stick into the flames, hearing the sap contained within crackle and pop in the heat, and mused as to why it was that he was alone, in an unfamiliar and hostile land…
* * * * * *
It was two weeks earlier, and Xeraph was sat in the corner of the bar, puffing away on his pipe as he did so, his eyes fixed on the gentleman stood at the bar. He looked out of place in an establishment like this, his clothes were of such good quality, clearly tailored and the rapier at his hip spoke only of wealth and affluence. The plate armour on his chest did little to refute these claims, polished to a mirror sheen. Xeraph could practically see the stubble on his own chin, from the other side of the room, through the tobacco smoke and the haze from the open fire. He was deliberately sat in the darkest corner of the room, able to observe all without being noticed himself. Tabitha, his cat, was curled on his lap, and he stroked her soft fur with the fingertips of his free hand. The aristocratic moron, for that was what Xeraph knew them to be called in his line of work, seemed to be making enquiries, looking for someone to help him. The barman gestured towards Xeraph, and he began to silently pray… still, he reasoned, if there was a job that needed doing, and this man would pay well for any services rendered. At least, that was what he hoped.
The man did indeed make his way over towards the darkened corner where Xeraph sat, still stroking the cat belong the level of the table. However, as the gentleman got closer, Tabitha woke up, stretched, and jumped onto the table to stare at the newcomer, leaving him free to wrap one hand around the hilt of his long sword. He could never know until the man started talking what he wanted, and it was better to be safe than sorry.
Still… that armour looks pretty solid. However… weak at the shoulder. That’s what I’ll go for.
“I’m told that if one requires something doing, you are the gentleman to whom one should speak?”
The voice was cultured, deep, and reeked of natural arrogance and snobbery that came with wealth from birth. Xeraph had to fight the urge to stab the pipsqueak where he stood, so appalled was he at the way this man had managed to survive. He took another puff on his pipe, and then nodded curtly, “Aye, you need something doing, I’m your man.”
As he spoke, his foot pushed a chair out from under the table, an unmistakable gesture that spoke volumes. The newcomer looked down at it, and after a moment’s hesitation, sat down, leaning across the table, “I have a proposition I believe might interest you.”
“And what, eh, proposition, might this be?” Xeraph enquired lazily.
“We… that is to say, I, require your services in the retrieval of a family heirloom.”
Alarm bells were ringing inside Xeraph’s head already; why had the man in front of him changed from ‘we’ to ‘I’? Not only that, but now he was close, Xeraph could see the sweat on his face. He doubted they had anything to do with the warmth of the bar… no, that was fear sweat. However, he felt he should continue the conversation, just to see where it was going, “An heirloom, you say? What family is it?”
“My name is Gerald de Mimson, I assume you’ve heard of me?”
Xeraph hadn’t, but he nodded silently, lying to see where this was going.
“Well, mercenary, this heirloom is of great importance to my family, and was stolen from us recently. I did not realise it had gone missing until recently, and have only just learned who stole it. Why they want it, I am not certain, but it is, as I have already said, of great importance to my family.”
Xeraph leaned back, “I assume you want me to go get it?”
“Well, certainly. You would be well paid for this. My family is very wealthy.”
Only the insecure feel they have to state that, my friend.
“Where is the person who stole it from you?”
“I do not know who stole it, but I know were it is now. It is in the house of a man with whom my family has a long running feud. He lives in Scara Brea, his name is Anton Broughton, another wealthy landowner. He and my father have a long history, stemming from an incident over some cattle when they were both much younger. This is not his first attempt to steal from us, but it is by far the most insulting.”
Xeraph considered this information for a moment… Scara Brea… that was a minimum of three weeks travel on foot, faster if he could get some other kind of transport along the way, “What exactly does this heirloom look like?”
“You will undertake this?”
“I want to know what I’m looking for, Mr. de Mimson.”
Mr. de Mimson sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as if considering his position, and then opened them again, his deep brown eyes meeting the bright blue of the mercenary, “I have a drawing of the amulet, will that suffice?”
Amulet?
“Certainly it will. Please, hand it over.”
Digging into his pocket, Gerald dug the picture out and unfolded it, laying on the roughly-hewn oak table for Xeraph to see. In the drawing, the amulet was slung around the neck of a woman who was quite plainly beautiful. However, he was drawn more the amulet than to her face, which was beautiful but yet sad at the same time.
It hung from her neck on a heavy gold chain, a large purple amethyst set in the centre. The actual amulet looked to be solid gold, and there was a level of carving and detail so intricate that Xeraph had to look for a long time in order to fully comprehend it. Celtic knots, swirls, and weaves were all employed, but there something else… runes, carved into the very edge, and difficult to see, let alone read. In any case, Xeraph was unable to read runes, “Very nice… worth a pretty penny, no doubt.”
“That is why I am willing to pay you a large amount of money to get it back for me!” said Gerald, a note of panic edging into his voice, “I must have it back!”
Xeraph was astonished that a man who was brought up to remain composed in any situation could crack like this over something that, quite honestly, looked like little more than a trinket. An expensive trinket, to be sure, but nothing more than that, “You seem to be desperate, and for that reason I’ll do it.” That, and the large payoff at the end.
“Thank you! Thank you!” cried Gerald, seizing his hand and pumping it for a moment, before realising he had drawn unwanted attention to himself. He took a moment to compose himself, and then flipped the picture, “This is my address. When you have completed this task, mercenary, come to this address. You will paid when you arrive, not before.”
Xeraph shrugged, “It makes no difference to me, so long as I get paid in the end. I’m warning you, aristocrat, I expect payment. No double-crosses.”
A laugh, “I would never dream of such a thing, mercenary. After all, I have honour on my side.”
With that snide remark, Gerald de Mimson left the bar, stepping delicately around a pool of vomit that materialised in between his sitting down and his leaving. Xeraph leaned back, puffing away, continuing to gaze at the picture, at the quest he had just taken on…
* * * * * *
The last embers of the dying fire flickered in the now still air, a prone Xeraph Tollan lay on the cold, hard ground, and the blanket pulled over him to prevent the chill from freezing him to death as the night drew on, the dawn coming ever closer away towards the east. When the sun rose, he would continue on his journey, but for now, he would rest his weary bones.
Only when the darkness was absolute did he stop to rest, leaning casually against a tree, the rough bark pressing against the bruises hidden beneath his clothing. He sighed gently, his eyes adjusting to the night, seeing almost as if it were day. He slowly became away of the sounds of the forest in which he now found himself, the sounds that one did not hear whilst traipsing through the clearings and undergrowth. Yet one sound did not belong, the gentle but steady purring that emanated from around his ankles. A tail brushed against him, and he looked down. A tortoiseshell cat was wandering back and forth in front of him, her bright green eyes looking up at him as she did so. A once warm mouse was clutched between her razor sharp teeth, and he couldn’t help but smile. Bending at the knees, he stroked one hand down the length of her spine, running it the very tip of the tail, “Well, at least one of us seems to be getting a decent meal.”
She continued to purr, and when he sat down, she took this as a sign they were staying there for sometime, lying down to tear the flesh from the mouse’s bones. It was the natural way, cats were meant to live like this. And the traveller had his own dinner in a bundle on his back, packed tightly into his sleeping roll which was carried over one shoulder, slung around the other hip. This he removed, laying it out in front of him and unfurling the tightly packed material. Inside were a dead chicken, neck quite obviously broken whilst stolen from an unattended coop earlier that day, along with tinder to start a fire, in combination with a few larger sticks to maintain it. He frowned, picking one up, ]Hmm… going to need some larger ones than this to cook on.
Glancing around, he spied some larger logs nearby, which looked to be in reasonable shape. They would do for cooking on, but for now he had other things to worry about. Setting the tinder up expertly, he lit it with a match draw from his pocket, the tiny flames struggling to survive in the biting wind. He moved slightly, shielding the flames with his own body, and proceeded to add small sticks and other such things that lay littered around him until he was satisfied the fire could survive. Only then did he reach for the chicken, beginning to pluck the feathers away and gut the bird with his knife. Nothing was wasted – even chicken feathers could be sold on in some market, to stuff bedding or whatever it was that people who stayed in one place did. Xeraph Tollan was never in any location any longer than he could help it – trouble had an uncanny knack of following him around in towns, and especially in bars.
Eventually, with the help of the nearby logs, he had a fire burning merrily away that was already warming his thoroughly chilled bones. Despite the fact he wore a minimum of three layers of clothing, he felt the wind lowering his body temperature, and was grateful for the fire. With the chicken skewered on sturdy twigs, suspended above the fire to roast, Xeraph allowed himself one luxury. Reaching into a pocket, he withdrew a finely carved pipe, and some shag tobacco. Placing the tobacco into the end of the pipe, he patted himself down, searching for another match.
“Dammit… must’ve used my last one up!”
He frowned, and then took a small stick between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. His hands had gloves of dark green wool covering them, but they were worn through in some places, primarily at the fingertips. He could see how the cold, and now the warmth, had affected his hands, and frowned slightly, resolving to try and ‘acquire’ some gloves in the next town he reached. He had no idea what the name of the town was, and nor did he care. He just knew that the old man in the last town had pointed him in this direction, saying it was about three days walk. So far, it had taken him five.
He took the stick, lighting the tip and dipping it into the tobacco. Once it ignited, he took a single deep puff, exhaling smoothly as the scent of the cherry hit him. He tossed the stick into the flames, hearing the sap contained within crackle and pop in the heat, and mused as to why it was that he was alone, in an unfamiliar and hostile land…
* * * * * *
It was two weeks earlier, and Xeraph was sat in the corner of the bar, puffing away on his pipe as he did so, his eyes fixed on the gentleman stood at the bar. He looked out of place in an establishment like this, his clothes were of such good quality, clearly tailored and the rapier at his hip spoke only of wealth and affluence. The plate armour on his chest did little to refute these claims, polished to a mirror sheen. Xeraph could practically see the stubble on his own chin, from the other side of the room, through the tobacco smoke and the haze from the open fire. He was deliberately sat in the darkest corner of the room, able to observe all without being noticed himself. Tabitha, his cat, was curled on his lap, and he stroked her soft fur with the fingertips of his free hand. The aristocratic moron, for that was what Xeraph knew them to be called in his line of work, seemed to be making enquiries, looking for someone to help him. The barman gestured towards Xeraph, and he began to silently pray… still, he reasoned, if there was a job that needed doing, and this man would pay well for any services rendered. At least, that was what he hoped.
The man did indeed make his way over towards the darkened corner where Xeraph sat, still stroking the cat belong the level of the table. However, as the gentleman got closer, Tabitha woke up, stretched, and jumped onto the table to stare at the newcomer, leaving him free to wrap one hand around the hilt of his long sword. He could never know until the man started talking what he wanted, and it was better to be safe than sorry.
Still… that armour looks pretty solid. However… weak at the shoulder. That’s what I’ll go for.
“I’m told that if one requires something doing, you are the gentleman to whom one should speak?”
The voice was cultured, deep, and reeked of natural arrogance and snobbery that came with wealth from birth. Xeraph had to fight the urge to stab the pipsqueak where he stood, so appalled was he at the way this man had managed to survive. He took another puff on his pipe, and then nodded curtly, “Aye, you need something doing, I’m your man.”
As he spoke, his foot pushed a chair out from under the table, an unmistakable gesture that spoke volumes. The newcomer looked down at it, and after a moment’s hesitation, sat down, leaning across the table, “I have a proposition I believe might interest you.”
“And what, eh, proposition, might this be?” Xeraph enquired lazily.
“We… that is to say, I, require your services in the retrieval of a family heirloom.”
Alarm bells were ringing inside Xeraph’s head already; why had the man in front of him changed from ‘we’ to ‘I’? Not only that, but now he was close, Xeraph could see the sweat on his face. He doubted they had anything to do with the warmth of the bar… no, that was fear sweat. However, he felt he should continue the conversation, just to see where it was going, “An heirloom, you say? What family is it?”
“My name is Gerald de Mimson, I assume you’ve heard of me?”
Xeraph hadn’t, but he nodded silently, lying to see where this was going.
“Well, mercenary, this heirloom is of great importance to my family, and was stolen from us recently. I did not realise it had gone missing until recently, and have only just learned who stole it. Why they want it, I am not certain, but it is, as I have already said, of great importance to my family.”
Xeraph leaned back, “I assume you want me to go get it?”
“Well, certainly. You would be well paid for this. My family is very wealthy.”
Only the insecure feel they have to state that, my friend.
“Where is the person who stole it from you?”
“I do not know who stole it, but I know were it is now. It is in the house of a man with whom my family has a long running feud. He lives in Scara Brea, his name is Anton Broughton, another wealthy landowner. He and my father have a long history, stemming from an incident over some cattle when they were both much younger. This is not his first attempt to steal from us, but it is by far the most insulting.”
Xeraph considered this information for a moment… Scara Brea… that was a minimum of three weeks travel on foot, faster if he could get some other kind of transport along the way, “What exactly does this heirloom look like?”
“You will undertake this?”
“I want to know what I’m looking for, Mr. de Mimson.”
Mr. de Mimson sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as if considering his position, and then opened them again, his deep brown eyes meeting the bright blue of the mercenary, “I have a drawing of the amulet, will that suffice?”
Amulet?
“Certainly it will. Please, hand it over.”
Digging into his pocket, Gerald dug the picture out and unfolded it, laying on the roughly-hewn oak table for Xeraph to see. In the drawing, the amulet was slung around the neck of a woman who was quite plainly beautiful. However, he was drawn more the amulet than to her face, which was beautiful but yet sad at the same time.
It hung from her neck on a heavy gold chain, a large purple amethyst set in the centre. The actual amulet looked to be solid gold, and there was a level of carving and detail so intricate that Xeraph had to look for a long time in order to fully comprehend it. Celtic knots, swirls, and weaves were all employed, but there something else… runes, carved into the very edge, and difficult to see, let alone read. In any case, Xeraph was unable to read runes, “Very nice… worth a pretty penny, no doubt.”
“That is why I am willing to pay you a large amount of money to get it back for me!” said Gerald, a note of panic edging into his voice, “I must have it back!”
Xeraph was astonished that a man who was brought up to remain composed in any situation could crack like this over something that, quite honestly, looked like little more than a trinket. An expensive trinket, to be sure, but nothing more than that, “You seem to be desperate, and for that reason I’ll do it.” That, and the large payoff at the end.
“Thank you! Thank you!” cried Gerald, seizing his hand and pumping it for a moment, before realising he had drawn unwanted attention to himself. He took a moment to compose himself, and then flipped the picture, “This is my address. When you have completed this task, mercenary, come to this address. You will paid when you arrive, not before.”
Xeraph shrugged, “It makes no difference to me, so long as I get paid in the end. I’m warning you, aristocrat, I expect payment. No double-crosses.”
A laugh, “I would never dream of such a thing, mercenary. After all, I have honour on my side.”
With that snide remark, Gerald de Mimson left the bar, stepping delicately around a pool of vomit that materialised in between his sitting down and his leaving. Xeraph leaned back, puffing away, continuing to gaze at the picture, at the quest he had just taken on…
* * * * * *
The last embers of the dying fire flickered in the now still air, a prone Xeraph Tollan lay on the cold, hard ground, and the blanket pulled over him to prevent the chill from freezing him to death as the night drew on, the dawn coming ever closer away towards the east. When the sun rose, he would continue on his journey, but for now, he would rest his weary bones.