Time and Tide (Solo)

[Tobias Stalt]

Hours bled together into days. The carriage ride took several stops, but each time I got out to stretch my legs, everything looked the same. Salvar is a liar that way. Everything has the same dull gray, white, and black tones. Cities, towns, long stretches of road: the only thing that sets any of them apart are random smatterings of life, the occasional home or children playing carefree, ambivalent to the struggles of the world around them. If I strained, I might see the fires burning inside, and perhaps a smith hard at work. Otherwise, the snow was blinding.

While inside the carriage, a strange warmth coats my bones. I can taste the foul flavor of magic at work- this land taught me that. It's a grim reminder and turns my stomach. "You look unwell," she tells me. "Shall I give you a tincture to soothe your gut?"

"Piss off," I wince. She'd poison me and blame it on bad food. The hurt in her face stings. This woman is a phenomenal actress. "What's your name, wench?"

She appears startled at that. It almost feels like she didn't think I was human. "Charlene," she tells me. "My sister called me Char, if you'd prefer." She loves to remind me about her sister. In many ways, this is worse than walking alone. I would rather have frozen to death.

"Charlene." I test the name, weighing it. I almost would prefer to just call her wench, or bitch, or cunt. There's a trace of displeasure in her gaze for just a moment before I speak up again. "How far are we from Archen?"

"You've been before," she says. "You would know better than I do."

There's some truth in that. I can't claim that the single trip I'd taken two and from the Northern fringes of the continent made me an authority, but I would know more than someone who had never made the journey. With a slight shrug, my boots crunch in the snow. "Where are you going?" she demands.

"The town," I gesture toward the small grouping of homes and the inn that stands just a bit taller. They all smoke fiercely, and the distinct aroma of burning pine wafts through the air. They're burning whatever wood they can find. I see that they've gone through much of the nearby wood at a glance, and there are woodsmen chopping away in the distance. "I've got to take a piss."

"I'll go with you," she tells me.

"To hold it for me?" I stare at her for a moment. Her cheeks stain red suddenly. "I'm a big boy, I can assure you that I won't wet myself, lass." She turns away, clearly flustered.

"Fine!" she crosses her arms. What is her game? When we met she was far more hostile. She's acting like a school age girl with a crush. "Just hurry back, and don't get any ideas about running away." So that's it. She wants to make sure I don't try to break away from the carriage. The Sway wants to keep eyes on me.

"You think I'm going to walk to Archen when the Church is perfectly willing to drive me there?" There's a smirk on her face now. If nothing else, this journey has been full of mirth.

"I... suppose that is true," she concedes.

I trudge through calf-deep snow toward the inn, and when the door swings open, snow spills onto the floor. Every step I take prompts a splash, small puddles blazing a trail to the bar. "What's the story on the timber?" I ask in a low voice. The winters in Salvar were bad, and other seasons weren't much better, but something was amiss. "They've been overcutting, I can see it from half a league out."

"Winter's no more brutal than normal, aye," he leans forward and continues to polish a mug. It's shinier than normal, and a second glance reveals that this bar is barren despite the late afternoon. These were prime hours for the old drunks to haunt an inn. "There's been strange goings on of late. People go out into the woods, they don't come back. We've been hacking back the tree line so that nothing lurks what we don't see."

Ill tidings.

"And nary a Witch Hunter's appeared to make an inquiry?" By now the Church should have responded. These sorts of things shake the faith.

"Not a breath from the Sway," he shakes his head. His eyes move toward the door as it swings open behind me. I look, and Charlene is there, wringing out her dress. She's clearly not dressed for a journey. He gestures toward her. "Friend of yours?" he asks.

"Not a word of what we've just discussed," I whisper. He slowly nods and moves to wipe down the counter.

"Strange place for a piss, Stalt," she announces as she takes a seat at the bar. "I'll have sweetwine." She looks down her nose at the man. This woman is nothing like Erica. She is temperamental and demanding, even sadistic. "Or were you trying to have the barkeep hold it for you? I never took you as the sort to keep the company of men."

"I was just asking where it was," I look over at the man, and he gestures off toward the left. "Now, I'll be on my way."