Fantasy Earth: Dark Ages - Cam Lire - Ethona - The Desolate Plains
Illumine - The Slums - Unknown Avenue
Autumn - Saturday - 9:45:00 P.M.
Caspian Sterling, Silver-Tongue
The smelly, smoke-filled rooms of the Fine Flagon wasn't the best place to hold secretive, alluring conversations, especially since it was so difficult to find a table distant enough from the drunken roars—but if you were Silver-Tongue, whom owned a quaint little hovel in the back, it was the best place. Flattening the creases of the weathered map between his thumb and forefingers, the rogue couldn't suppress the pleased grin from stretching across his sharp features. Like a feline who'd just chanced upon saucer of fresh milk, Caspian slouched back against the comfortable pillows and cradled a busty woman on his knee. The woman purred nonsensical things into his ear—things that would've lit flames in his stomach, but now they only seemed to annoy him. When he'd had enough, his deft fingers caught her chin, and he planted a soft kiss on her cheek before dismissing her. She scooted away, giggling into her dainty palm, and disappeared behind the bar. No doubts seeking more desperate men who'd be willing to part from their purses. Bar wenches always sought him out; though, Sevia, the barman's frivolous daughter, seemed particularly interested in him. Whether or not he should be flattered or offended, he wasn't sure.
Sweat, laughter, scantily-clad barmaids, and the musky smell of alcohol assaulted the senses as soon as one entered the renowned tavern. Bold drunkards swung tankards of ale—piss, more like—and sang songs of the God King's victory against the previous King; how he slaughtered him in cold blood, and proceeded to bend Cam Lire to his will. Illumine
really was a wondrous place, if you knew where to look. However, if anyone wanted anything done properly, they sought out certain shady individuals in the slums. Every slum, in his opinion, was the same. Swollen-bellied children scampered down the streets, swinging wooden swords and played at war, pretending to be knights instead of poverty-ridden urchins. The God Kings' personal councillors all played political games with each other; while their spiders and rats hissed secrets far more dangerous than the wars they continuously waged. Who could trust whom? Thankfully, Silver-Tongue had never been properly interested in such games. His fingers were dipped into everyone's' pie, he knew things a simple serf should not know. A man needed to know where opportunities lurked, and he made sure he knew
everything he could.
The rogue rose from his seat, and strode across the tavern, barely missing clumsy fists and splashes of ale as tankards sloshed above heads. He merely clicked his tongue in mere disappointment. How could so many blindly follow such a cruel man? And one who contended to be a God. Disappointing, indeed. He slapped three coppers on the sticky table and eyed the barman, nodding his head in quick succession. “Yaren, I shall be back before nightfall,” He purred, a rhythmic melody that betrayed his exotic origin. “Do make sure this place is still standing by the time I come back.” The barman snorted, retrieving the coins and resolved to shrug his broad shoulders. Hectic times were sure to come; it was the week of celebration in honour of the God King. Whoever wasn't whoring in brothels was piss drunk in respectable taverns, laughing as gaudily as the bar wenches. He smirked, step jaunty as he fanned happier thoughts into fuller flame. Perhaps, he'd manage to see something interesting. He never had a taste for executions, so thought it best to avoid attending the God King's annual speech; not to mention those horrific bird-whispers he'd heard about Empress Shar sitting at the God King's right hand. Such things would have to be avoided. He swore that hellish woman could smell him out like a hungry bloodhound. The thought was disconcerting. Stepping out of the Fine Flagon's steamy clutches, fresh air whipped through his blonde hair and he welcomed the cool seasons' breath. Illumine seemed to erupt with noise; drunken couples pressed tightly in the shadows, children whipping by wearing tattered masks, and families hunched over silly games—everything seemed magical, and rightly named, illuminated.
Such celebrations were wasted on Elves. Caspian had little love for the God King, and all of his followers. If they rotted beneath his feet, he could care less. His mouth tightened as he passed hungry beggars, tucked tightly in doorways and alleyways—they did not celebrate, they did nothing but stare with empty eyes. With hare-footed reflexes, the weary man flipped a single coin at an old man's feet and hurriedly swept by to avoid awkward, obligated gratitude. His conscious was a fickle enemy, and friend; often leaving him bewildered and confused, since he regarded himself as a diplomatic wayfarer. Sometimes, he didn't need a reason for helping people. Music caught his twitching knife-ears, and roused jovial merriment in his heart. Constant fretfulness kept him on his toes, so he would not celebrate in the slums, neither would be celebrate anywhere. His breath stunk of strong liquors, though he still kept his wits about him; a drunk man was more likely to have steel buried in his belly. Just enough to warm his belly; not enough to make him drunk, but just enough to make him tired. Not enough to make him awful towards the ones he sought company with, just enough to enjoy companionship whereas he wouldn't. Humans repulsed him, and noble elves held their noses so far up their arses that he couldn't bother with them. Dwarves were a completely different story. If ever the nonplussed rogue got along with
anyone, it was with a clever dwarf. Hence why he frequented taverns.
His long ears flattened against his skull, indicating discontent. The smell of tattered leathers and cloth reached his nostrils—rightly named, reek of the slums. Several ample-faced men with twisted expressions squatted around each other, holding dice in their sweaty, meaty hands. Likely, the expressions clearly indicated who was winning. Some wore their losses like angry welts, scowling like kicked dogs. Honestly, it was the slender-figured woman huddled between two slavishly-dressed men who caught his attention, standing out sorely; a dwarf amidst elves, one might've compared. For the time being, the opportunistic serf leaned heavily against one of the buildings, watching with wry amusement as the mystery woman's hands swayed against all odds and clutched chance's fortunate fingers. A pock-faced man seemed particularly affronted, his ugly face churning an unseemly red, he suddenly lurched forward, and grabbed the woman's shoulder with his sausage fingers. Caspian's mirthful expression eased into a tight frown, and he waited—wondering what she might do, and how she might deal with the situation at hand. Anyone who lived in the slums knew that woman weren't treated equally; those who preyed on the weak were ignored, and forgotten. The God King's knights did not care about anything they didn't see; out of mind, out of sight.
The hideous man's fingers tightened against the woman's shoulder, causing her to wince. Whatever she'd been trying to say had been rudely discounted. Caspian weighed his options, seemingly ignoring the annoying buzz that implored him to intervene and stay the repugnant man's hand. What was even more puzzling, was the fact that the woman seemed deep in thought; weighing her own options, instead of attempting to flee. Had he just imagined her glancing towards the lute nestled at her side? Perhaps not. Without another moment to decide whether or not it was truly a good idea, the rogue elbowed his way through the gathered crowd, earning more than a few incoherent hisses and unfathomable swears, and unsheathed his glimmering scimitar. It caught the torch light's glow and blossomed with it's own radiance; powerful, beautiful and dangerous. It would've been surprising to know that someone had seen his sprightly actions; his weapons were extensions of his arms, used as cleverly as he wagged his silver tongue.
“Ser,” His accent rolled heavily, without refinement, and with no kindness it's word meant. “I think it would be best, if you gave this lady her leave.” The scimitar's point rested just below the man's Adam's apple, which was bobbing in terrified jolts. Several watchers wandered away, or stepped back a safe distance from the strange man who dared interfere.
“Don't
you think?”
