by David Greer
Chapter 3
The sun had long ago set, the labors for the day had been completed, and many sought to unwind at the White Rock Tavern located at the center of town. Ale flowed freely, laughs came easily, and a local folk band was readying their pipes and fiddles for the night's performance. Clyde, with a mug full of ale, took a long drink ending with a satisfied ahhh. His brown hair matched the color of his drink and nearly fell into it. He swept his hair, which he had been letting grow out, back behind his shoulder and took another drink. A dagger, sheathed in an unadorned brown leather scabbard, hung from his belt as it was custom for hunters to be armed at all times. Carrying a weapon was the mark of a hunter. It identified his profession but more importantly hunters remained armed because a monster could attack at any given moment.
Clyde often laughed easily and often while making light conversation with the people in the tavern. However, tonight he chose to sit alone at a table near the bar and listen to the conversations around him. Some joked about their wives' cooking, others joked about the size of the bellies criticizing their wives' cooking. But mostly people commented on Rocky and came up with creative ways to spite Quarry's wealthiest citizen. Rocky ran the largest farm in town located at the south-east region of Quarry. He came from a long line of farmers who, long ago, turned their crops from a means of support and survival to a business and trade, which led to large profits. This was only possible because the family was fortunate enough to settle on a very fertile patch of land. They didn't hesitate to ensure that the land stayed within the family's control. Private trading routes were built and maintained throughout the generations and it was Rocky's turn to run the business.
The way the folk of Quarry saw it, Rocky's family was simply lucky to have settled in the right spot and selfish for keeping it for themselves. It was family tradition to not employ anybody from Quarry. All of the farm's workers came from other towns to do hard labor and security on the farm. Rocky was able to enjoy the spoils of their labor without lifting a finger and without sharing it with the rest of the town. It stirred the emotions of Quarry folk, who believed in the traditional work ethic that folk should earn what they work for themselves. Not many people liked Rocky.
Clyde listened in on a table scheming about raiding Rocky's farm at night so that it'll look like banshees got to it. Clyde knew the men would never follow through. Rocky's hired security guards would keep watch on his farm at all times. The farmer claimed it was security against banshees but many believed it was security against envious townspeople, a belief that Clyde felt was justified.
As Clyde continued to muse about the relations between local farmers and Rocky the tavern doors burst open and a large man entered. His boots fell heavy on the floor as he made his way to the bar and called for a mug of ale. Clyde sat up straighter, recognizing the newcomer.
“There's the Scot!” Clyde yelled.
“Why must you insist on using my real name.” The man said as he wiped dribbles of ale from his beard. “You're the only one who does.”
“Do you feel I should use that dreaded nickname? It's just a reminder of how dirty you are.” Clyde said.
“Hey I like it.” The man took another drink, emptied his mug and turned to face Clyde. “And do we really have to have this conversation every time we have a drink?”
“What can I say Grimey? I just think a man should be properly addressed by his true name.”
“Oh save it Clyde. I'm not telling you my full name. You got the last half of it. Be happy with that much. And as far as I'm concerned my true name is Grimey.”
Grimey set his empty mug onto the bar and was quickly supplied with a full one. He took a seat with his fellow hunter.
“We have a hunt.” Grimey said. He went on to explain what he saw in the eastern woods, but not before he told Clyde how he killed a banshee with a punch to the face. Clyde smiled at the image of the bearded hunter clocking a low-flying banshee. Not just anybody can kill a banshee with a single punch. Not just anybody would try to either.
Grimey described how he eliminated the banshees scattered in the woods. Then he told Clyde about the sentries, which perplexed both hunters. Banshees are not known to post guards. Usually they're not so organized, although both hunters know what it means when the flying nuisances do get organized. Clyde's eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“There's another kingpin.” Grimey announced, confirming Clyde's suspicion. The bearded hunter took another long drink from his mug and told his story.
After killing the sentries Grimey continued cautiously through the woods. No banshees were in the area. He moved through the dense woods until he reached a small clearing with a single large tree at the center. However, the tree was covered in purple, leathery beasts with yellow eyes. The banshees had clustered to form a cocoon over the tree. Grimey, keeping low and hidden from view, spotted an anomaly among the beasts: a single pair of large menacing green eyes.
Grimey instantly knew a kingpin, a larger and cunning version of a banshee, had spawned. The banshees had formed a protective cocoon around their leader. A kingpin is capable of organizing and coordinating banshees to launch effective strategies to attack Quarry. If a kingpin were to go unchecked the banshees would wreck havoc on the town. With the sun setting and darkness creeping into the woods, Grimey stealthily backtracked away from the kingpin and back to Quarry.
Even with a new kingpin, Grimey and Clyde found it odd that there were banshees serving as lookouts. While it's true that banshees become more organized when a kingpin comes along, they're not that organized. Not ever.
No matter though, the issue would be dealt with in the morning. This was a time to relax and have a drink. Or several as Grimey emptied another mug. The tavern doors swung open and two men dressed in black entered. The one on the left was large, a bit larger than Grimey, and muscular. He had short black hair, a stern face which held no hint of humor, and a short sword hung from his waist belt. The one on the right was shorter than his companion though he was not a short man. He was slim with an athletic build. His straight black hair was tied back in a tail which hung down between his shoulders. This one wore an easy smile that matched well with his childlike face. A dagger in a black sheath with silver patterns resembling winding vines was strapped to his belt.
Both men had dark skin, dark eyes, and clean shaven faces but the most striking feature about them were the black markings on their skin. The large man's shirt had no sleeves revealing large, well defined muscles along with markings that resembled thorns wrapped around each bicep with a single thorny pattern leading up to his shoulders and then disappearing underneath his shirt. The shorter man had one marking winding up the side of his neck like a vine. It curved along his jaw and ended at a point just below his right eye. Another black mark crept out of his sleeve along his left forearm. It ran along the inside of his elbow and curved around his forearm until it ended in a point at the base of his thumb joint. The curvature reminded Grimey of a knife blade.
The bearded hunter eyed the markings suspiciously. He figured there was more to them than what could be seen. What were these marks for anyway, he wondered to himself. They looked like fake scars. Why would anybody want a fake scar when real ones, like the one across his own right eye, carry their own story? Real scars have a history.
The larger of the two men got a mug of ale from the bar and went straight to an empty table in the back corner of the tavern. The other man stood at the bar savoring his drink, a refreshing glass of ginger ale. Grimey stood and approached him.
“Hey Leo! Good to see you again lad!” Grimey's voice boomed. “Where are you and your traveling buddy off to now?”
Leo passed through Quarry from time to time. Nobody really knew what business he and his companion were on. Nobody really bothered to ask either. Some guessed they were traveling traders but they never traded goods in Quarry. Others guessed they were mercenaries for hire on account of the weapons they carried, while others ventured the two were simply wandering nom
ads. All anybody knew for sure about them is that they came from an island off the western coast known as Southern Isle, and the two always traveled together. The muscular one kept to himself while Leo would talk and get acquainted with those at the tavern.
“Hello Grimey. We're heading to Thurn.” Leo said. His voice was calm and smooth as though very little could bother him. His eyes carried certain playfulness in them whenever he spoke of his travels. His features were soft which gave him a very youthful look. At times, Leo looked as though he could be a teenager. But he couldn't be a teenager because young people don't handle themselves so well in taverns. At least that's what Grimey figured.
Leo and his companion – Grimey, along with everyone else in Quarry, had never learned his name – were just passing through like always. They arrived in Quarry after sailing in a canoe from Southern Isle to the coast, then they hiked through woods and through the Ursa mountain pass. Once through the mountains, which rose along the western coast of Arlynd, they were free to travel across the continent and Quarry was the first sizable town they came across. Thurn was north-east of Quarry and it would take several days to reach. Thurn was home to the archives, which held collections of historical documents and artworks, and was usually a scholar's destination.
“What takes the two of you there? Didn't pick you as the academic type.” Grimey said.
“What type do you pick us for?” Leo asked with an eyebrow raised. Grimey shrugged. “Our quest is to discover a mystery of the seas. Things are not well in the oceans and I hope to find some answers in the archives.”
“What's not well on your island?” Grimey asked.
“Southern is fine. It's Northern that isn't well.”
“What's wrong with Northern?”
“The villages are all destroyed. The boats have all been sunk. And the people are all dead.”
-** --*
