PART OF THE SEVENTY RAVENS CHRONICLES, THE SHORT THE GENTLEMAN OF THE SHORESIDE INN TELLS THE STORY OF WOLFE, A SALESMAN WHO USED TO HAVE A DIFFERENT OCCUPATION THAN SELLING GOODS. ENJOYING HIS ONCE-EVERY-SPAN HALF GLASS OF HONEY-NECTAR, TWO WARDENS MAKE THEIR WAY INTO THE SECLUDED VILLAGE. AS THEY ENTER THE INN, WOLFE DISCOVERS THAT SOME WOUNDS OF HIS PAST HAVE NOT YET HEALED.
People called him The Gentleman, but that was not his name. True, of all the people that hogged the Shoreside Inn, where the merchants and adventurers changed names on at least once a span that was not a big surprise. With fame came names, and the same happened to those counting only their losses. But with his ever half empty glass of honey-nectar sat The Gentleman once every span, looking over the new and known faces in the Shoreside Inn, in order to celebrate his most recent deliveries. The reason most people called him The Gentleman was partly unknown to the salesman, but he figured it had something to with his ever present smile. - and the fact that he took good care of his customers purses. He could get kings to buy sand, and commoners to purchase gold armor. The Gentleman was an emotional manipulator with a kind smile and aloof appearance that drew in maidens for all classes, even if they had been told not to fall. As the wolf The Gentleman could be hunted, but he could hunt also.
Wolfe was the name he had never used. For Wolfe was his own, and a name that was known for all the wrong reasons.
The salesman ran a hand through his soft jade-colored hair, feeling that the braid on the right side of his head had started coming loose. With a sigh, he toyed with the content of his glass, the amber colored liquid swiveling around, before untying the small braid with his long delicate fingers. Movement caught his eye from his spot near the bar of the small Inn. Two of the city’s wardens had come through the door of the Shoreside, looking pale and out of breath. Along the sound of their light armor clinking around, heading to where the barkeeper was cleaning empty glasses, the salesman managed to follow at least part of their conversation.
- “I can’t believe he escaped.”
- “He was bound too, the lass.”
- “I heard he took the priestess as a hostage!”
The Gentleman cracked a small smile as the men looked over in his direction. They were spooked, at the very least. It was evident. The youngest of them was as pale as the queen’s dress. Soon enough the elder of the two wardens started speaking to the barkeeper in a hushed tone. It seemed they had lost a man, then. Someone that was kept in one of the neighboring towns, perhaps. They had taken a hostage. Smart guy.
Taking a hostage was very clever, especially if they were willing - and female. Wolfe knew this from experience.
Yet, the salesman recognized the tone of the barkeeper, Cass, who would not speak of any of his customers. This was something the younger wardens knew and respected, handing him iron ochres to settle the disputes and to gain information he would otherwise keep to himself. The regulars cost silver. The elders of the wardens did no such thing, earning themselves the silent hatred of the barkeeper and his clients, showing itself only in the increasing costs of drink with each passing gulp. The only reason they left the place at all was because Cass would not let ‘them drunken asses occupy his clean floor’. The discussion heated until Wolfe could hear what the elder warden was saying to Cass, whose eyes had narrowed to a stare underlined by the small smile that was ever present on the barkeeper’s face. It would not take long before the barkeeper would turn into the bandit he was before coming to this town.
- “We know he was here one span ago. You will tell us where he went.”
- “I will not tell you of any of my clients. Never have, lass.”
- “There are witnesses that tell us they stayed the night. Tell us where he traveled to!”
- “I’ve had twenty travelers spend the night in the last span. The Shoreside Inn is the only inn in town. So even if I did want to tell you, lass, I couldn’t!”
The salesman was prevented from hearing any further as the younger of the two moved to his table and fell down into his chair, a loud screech accompanying his arrival as the wood scraped over the wooden flooring. He nearly tumbled on it out of fright, as the muscles in his legs suddenly locked themselves in place so that he was only half sitting and half standing up. He was an unshaven youth, with long unruly locks that seemed to be embers falling down the shovel to stir. He was pale with fright, but should he be looking at the fire his face would be slightly tanned, as if his skin was dirtied goatsmilk. The boy was not unpretty, and he could pass for a fighter’s maiden under the moonlight outside the Shoreside Inn if noticed by a drunk.
Wolfe grinned. It was a good thing they hadn’t recognized him. The gentleman used to deliver more than just simple goods.
When he was younger, and his complexion held less of the usual lines, he was stronger and better trained than most who sold and bought. Wolfe sold his services to the men that wanted their rivals dead, and the women that wished to widow themselves. He had killed and erased the lives of good men and bandits, and he had done so with ease. It paid well, and provided protection in times when the droughts struck and sales were low. Everything had gone well, until he had been discovered by the daughter of his last kill.
Wolfe did not know the woman, who had turned up one night in his hideout, where the lights were low and the sounds of outside were muffled and strange to his ears. He had not recognized the voice of the woman, who had once been the little girl of a rouge king. Even killers had a code, and Wolfe refused to kill women, no matter their age or beauty. The woman that showed up that night of rain and stormy weather was a king’s daughter, who now lived as a poor but honorable woman in the streets of Dalùn. Her hair had the color of a rampant blaze, and got her into trouble every way she went or walked. But for this reason she had not come.
The king’s daughter wished to see the face of the one who had killed her father, but spared her life.
The youth in front of the old salesman suddenly reminded him of that woman. The woman that stripped him of his pride and replaced it with the compassion he had lost in his young years. She had cursed him; cursed him to the life of a simple salesman - and left. He had her hair. Her aura of silent dignity and honor, no matter how poor or in what environment. He had her pretty face, with its in-fallen cheeks and grey eyes. Eyes that seemed like mist but were always sharp, the tendrils of water able to cut through even the soul, but never inflicting damage. Only impression, only awe. Like the black feather he found in her absence. A raven’s soul.
“Tell me, visitor, why do you always drink half a glass of honey-nectar whenever you come here to this place?”
The salesman smiled to the flame-haired youth. It was about time he found a new Inn to drink at once a span to celebrate.
Wolfe was the name he had never used. For Wolfe was his own, and a name that was known for all the wrong reasons.
The salesman ran a hand through his soft jade-colored hair, feeling that the braid on the right side of his head had started coming loose. With a sigh, he toyed with the content of his glass, the amber colored liquid swiveling around, before untying the small braid with his long delicate fingers. Movement caught his eye from his spot near the bar of the small Inn. Two of the city’s wardens had come through the door of the Shoreside, looking pale and out of breath. Along the sound of their light armor clinking around, heading to where the barkeeper was cleaning empty glasses, the salesman managed to follow at least part of their conversation.
- “I can’t believe he escaped.”
- “He was bound too, the lass.”
- “I heard he took the priestess as a hostage!”
The Gentleman cracked a small smile as the men looked over in his direction. They were spooked, at the very least. It was evident. The youngest of them was as pale as the queen’s dress. Soon enough the elder of the two wardens started speaking to the barkeeper in a hushed tone. It seemed they had lost a man, then. Someone that was kept in one of the neighboring towns, perhaps. They had taken a hostage. Smart guy.
Taking a hostage was very clever, especially if they were willing - and female. Wolfe knew this from experience.
Yet, the salesman recognized the tone of the barkeeper, Cass, who would not speak of any of his customers. This was something the younger wardens knew and respected, handing him iron ochres to settle the disputes and to gain information he would otherwise keep to himself. The regulars cost silver. The elders of the wardens did no such thing, earning themselves the silent hatred of the barkeeper and his clients, showing itself only in the increasing costs of drink with each passing gulp. The only reason they left the place at all was because Cass would not let ‘them drunken asses occupy his clean floor’. The discussion heated until Wolfe could hear what the elder warden was saying to Cass, whose eyes had narrowed to a stare underlined by the small smile that was ever present on the barkeeper’s face. It would not take long before the barkeeper would turn into the bandit he was before coming to this town.
- “We know he was here one span ago. You will tell us where he went.”
- “I will not tell you of any of my clients. Never have, lass.”
- “There are witnesses that tell us they stayed the night. Tell us where he traveled to!”
- “I’ve had twenty travelers spend the night in the last span. The Shoreside Inn is the only inn in town. So even if I did want to tell you, lass, I couldn’t!”
The salesman was prevented from hearing any further as the younger of the two moved to his table and fell down into his chair, a loud screech accompanying his arrival as the wood scraped over the wooden flooring. He nearly tumbled on it out of fright, as the muscles in his legs suddenly locked themselves in place so that he was only half sitting and half standing up. He was an unshaven youth, with long unruly locks that seemed to be embers falling down the shovel to stir. He was pale with fright, but should he be looking at the fire his face would be slightly tanned, as if his skin was dirtied goatsmilk. The boy was not unpretty, and he could pass for a fighter’s maiden under the moonlight outside the Shoreside Inn if noticed by a drunk.
Wolfe grinned. It was a good thing they hadn’t recognized him. The gentleman used to deliver more than just simple goods.
When he was younger, and his complexion held less of the usual lines, he was stronger and better trained than most who sold and bought. Wolfe sold his services to the men that wanted their rivals dead, and the women that wished to widow themselves. He had killed and erased the lives of good men and bandits, and he had done so with ease. It paid well, and provided protection in times when the droughts struck and sales were low. Everything had gone well, until he had been discovered by the daughter of his last kill.
Wolfe did not know the woman, who had turned up one night in his hideout, where the lights were low and the sounds of outside were muffled and strange to his ears. He had not recognized the voice of the woman, who had once been the little girl of a rouge king. Even killers had a code, and Wolfe refused to kill women, no matter their age or beauty. The woman that showed up that night of rain and stormy weather was a king’s daughter, who now lived as a poor but honorable woman in the streets of Dalùn. Her hair had the color of a rampant blaze, and got her into trouble every way she went or walked. But for this reason she had not come.
The king’s daughter wished to see the face of the one who had killed her father, but spared her life.
The youth in front of the old salesman suddenly reminded him of that woman. The woman that stripped him of his pride and replaced it with the compassion he had lost in his young years. She had cursed him; cursed him to the life of a simple salesman - and left. He had her hair. Her aura of silent dignity and honor, no matter how poor or in what environment. He had her pretty face, with its in-fallen cheeks and grey eyes. Eyes that seemed like mist but were always sharp, the tendrils of water able to cut through even the soul, but never inflicting damage. Only impression, only awe. Like the black feather he found in her absence. A raven’s soul.
“Tell me, visitor, why do you always drink half a glass of honey-nectar whenever you come here to this place?”
The salesman smiled to the flame-haired youth. It was about time he found a new Inn to drink at once a span to celebrate.
Hey girls & guys, this finishes the second short of the seventy ravens chronicles! tell me what you think in the comment section!