Another Maelstrom vignette
Edward strode into the bar, stormy-faced and angry. Tonight was not going to go well, but Edward didn’t care. There was a burning hole in his soul, and its cayse lay ill and near death but a hundred yards from where he stood. Tonight, he was going to get drunk. Tonight, he was going to forget.
A familiar figure sat near the bar. Olrich von Skorzeny of the Bakhana - not a man with whom he wished to speak right then, but he could hardly drink alone.
“How is Izza?”
Not a question Edward wanted to answer, not something on which he wanted to think.
“She lies still, on the brink of death, she may not yet live.” Try as he might, there was venom in those words - sadness too, but venom over all. “She has drunk of dragon’s blood, and now she lies sleeping. We won’t know until the morning if she lives or dies. Right now, I’m getting pissed enough to forget.”
Turning to the barlady, casting a look of resigned anger at her undead form, he thrust a few coins onto the table.
“Three pints.”
Turning back to Olrich with his beers, downing most of the first without a pause for breath, Edward staggered into a seat. The bulky mercenary gestured to the dark-skinned, striking wemic to his left.
“This is whisper, a wemic who spends a lot of time with mill-en.”
Edward visibly hackled at that. “So, a fucking royalist, then?” Now there was real venom in the air, and both parties looked to be prepared for a fight. “Want your face crushed in?” Let none fault the Tritoni for playing about with words.
“Let’s not start arguments for no cause here, let’s just drink and forget”.
It was Olrich who broke in, clearly in jovial humour but given the size and reputation of the man, let alone the force at his command, the words could not be taken lightly. Somehow he seemed to defuse the situation with but a few words and a calming presence, although neither party looked happy about the other. Insult had been made here, and it would not be forgotten. Part of the Freiboden soldier had wanted a fight.
Edward took another gulp of his pint. Tonight was going to be a long night.
A familiar figure sat near the bar. Olrich von Skorzeny of the Bakhana - not a man with whom he wished to speak right then, but he could hardly drink alone.
“How is Izza?”
Not a question Edward wanted to answer, not something on which he wanted to think.
“She lies still, on the brink of death, she may not yet live.” Try as he might, there was venom in those words - sadness too, but venom over all. “She has drunk of dragon’s blood, and now she lies sleeping. We won’t know until the morning if she lives or dies. Right now, I’m getting pissed enough to forget.”
Turning to the barlady, casting a look of resigned anger at her undead form, he thrust a few coins onto the table.
“Three pints.”
Turning back to Olrich with his beers, downing most of the first without a pause for breath, Edward staggered into a seat. The bulky mercenary gestured to the dark-skinned, striking wemic to his left.
“This is whisper, a wemic who spends a lot of time with mill-en.”
Edward visibly hackled at that. “So, a fucking royalist, then?” Now there was real venom in the air, and both parties looked to be prepared for a fight. “Want your face crushed in?” Let none fault the Tritoni for playing about with words.
“Let’s not start arguments for no cause here, let’s just drink and forget”.
It was Olrich who broke in, clearly in jovial humour but given the size and reputation of the man, let alone the force at his command, the words could not be taken lightly. Somehow he seemed to defuse the situation with but a few words and a calming presence, although neither party looked happy about the other. Insult had been made here, and it would not be forgotten. Part of the Freiboden soldier had wanted a fight.
Edward took another gulp of his pint. Tonight was going to be a long night.