Vanguard, Chapter 19: What The Filth Did Hide

Ramund hadn't thought himself capable of it, but he too didn't get any sleep that night. He watched Duncan disappear into his room and become silent, but he couldn't make himself do the same. Partially because this place was filthy and he feared he might contract some kind of disease from sleeping here, and partially because he could find no peace at heart. Even he, the one who was supposed to keep a cool head and a strong, focused spirit, was in a haze of worry and concern. He didn't think Rose would do it, but yes indeed, it was now dawn, and she was still not back. He had stayed up all night, expecting her to step in that door at any moment, but she just never did.

His fingers were coarse after tapping the wood of an ale-stained table for so long, and his thighs were sore after sitting down for hours on end, on a bench that seemed so hard that you could sharpen a blade on it. It wasn't exactly the most comfortable of places they had found, this one. This 'Corny Crusader', as it was called. He couldn't figure out if it was some kind of jest with that name, but he had no desire to ask either. The barkeep was a man who seemed like he didn't know jests. He was a short, stumpy little fellow, whose lips seemed to be perpetually bent in a sour frown. He was old too, not as old as Ramund, but he seemed to suffer under it far more than he did. It was no surprise, really. If Ramund had to spend his days serving the kind of people who stepped in here, the grave would seem a lot closer than it did now.

While Ramund was used to drinking being a thing of merriment, boasts, and hunting trophies, the kind of drinking he witnessed in here made him understand why Rose hated it so. It was despicable. There were, naturally, the occasional low-lives who had nothing better to do than beg for money, and wash away their sorrows in what little they earned, but there came married men in as well-—he could tell by the brooch they were wearing. He knew this Fairlandish tradition; when two became married, they would wear brooches with the same clan emblems painted on, and if they were of two separate clans, the painting would be half of one, and half of the other. It was a beautiful thing, Ramund felt, but the men that came in here seemed like they were prepared to sell the brooch for another mug of stagnated ale. He cringed every time they lumbered up to the barkeep and told him to “fill it up, ye snotbag”. Fortunately, the last one of them had gone home by now, to the wives that they either didn't deserve, or were on the same level of low as themselves.

Ramund had found silence for quite a while now, but even so, he could find no peace. Every minute that passed made him more concerned if Rose had been mugged, murdered, or worse. In a place like this, it was no unrealistic concern, after all. He had seen it before, and he so dearly wished he wouldn't see it again. It wasn't until he watched the barkeep wipe off the last stains from his table and waddle into his own room in the back, that he dared reach into his pocket and bring forth something he'd been wanting for a long time now.

It felt nice to hold it in his hands again. The music box was one of the few things that had gone untouched and untainted throughout this entire charade. His large fingers moved over the smooth mahogany, and the steel edges on the corners. It was a light little thing, but for him, it was bore more weight than anything else in this world. His fingers hesitated a little on the edge of the lid, slightly worried if he might wake up Duncan in the adjacent room, if he dared to open this box... but he doubted it. Duncan would be fast asleep at this point, he was sure, and a little music wouldn't wake him up. With that in mind, he slowly pushed up the lid, and watched as the little porcelain girl rose from the inside, and the music began.

He smiled. He could never do anything but smile when he saw the porcelain figure of his own daughter slowly pivot, while the tiny strings inside began to strum their lullaby. He knew this tune all too well. It was the lullaby that he would sing to his daughter, in the time he was still with her, and times would seem so blissfully innocent. It had taken him a while to commission this thing, and had cost him quite the sum of coin, but in the end, it was worth every day he waited and every coin he spent on it. Even now, listening to the tunes it played, he could feel the cold bite of a northern home; he could smell the wood burning on the hearth at night; he could feel his daughter's arms around him... in this world of misery and death, there truly were only a few things of beauty left to appreciate. He was a very fortunate man to be the owner of one of those things.

He slowly closed the lid. The music came to a stop, and the little porcelain girl disappeared into the woodwork of the box again. He let out a long breath... it was time he got going. Dawn had broken over the horizon, and he knew for certain that this was a place he had no intentions of lingering in. He rose from the hard seat of the bench, and stretched his old, weary back to let out a series of snaps and cracks. He grunted at each and every one of them, and let out a long sigh when he was finished. This old body of his truly wasn't what it once was. Those days of hunting were long gone, he realized, even if he tried to do so with Rose... but that didn't go very well, now did it? He shook his head, and decided to focus on the task at hand. There was a town to evacuate, and reminiscence wouldn't get him there. With a final look over his shoulder towards Duncan's room, Ramund walked out the door, and stepped into the filth and grime of Westport once more.

It was a quiet dawn, this one. The winds seemed stiller than usual, and the clamor of bells from the harbor scant and humble. The city seemed asleep, still recovering from last night's boozing and whoring, he figured. It seemed like the entire city must have been struck by an all-consuming hangover, as the streets seemed rid of all life—-except for the seagulls overhead, whose obnoxious squawking must have been a pain for all the drunkards still in bed. Ramund tried to endure the perpetual stench of sewer, which seemed near inescapable. Each time he turned around a corner, there it was, another entrance to the underground, from which these noxious white fumes spewed out like the open maw of Nox, the netherlord of disease himself. Ramund deliberately walked in long bows around the capes of steam, but the smell followed him like a shadow; a shadow that was out to stun his sense of smell and drive him into unconsciousness. He could clearly feel the fumes getting to his head, a slight dizziness taking its grip.

But even so, through the rot and grime and poverty and death, the dawn actually offered a sprinkle of beauty upon this forlorn city. It came in from the seaside, the roiling ball of fire rising from the oceans, so far away. Ramund found himself what seemed like a main road that reached all the way out to the piers, and allowed an unobstructed vision of the sunrise. He stopped up for a moment, and looked upon the colors, red and gold, splintered all over the world and the heavens too. The dozens of puddles that lay scattered around on the jagged brick roads were like extensions and hands of the ocean, glimmering in the same gilded way. The ocean was calm and quiet this morning, and seemed like a massive puddle, rather than an ocean-—no waves disrupted the colors of dawn. It was almost like looking upon a mirror of gods, reaching out all the way to distant, unknown lands beyond the horizon. Ramund took his time to appreciate this moment of beauty... but sadly, that was all it was. A moment.

“Get out! Get out! Outta my house, ye nasty skank!” Ramund's attention was torn from the ocean, as he saw a fickle little woman be thrown out an open door, landing sideways into a puddle of grime “You've gone dun' real messed up this time, ye whore! Real bad, I tell ya!”

He watched with concern as a man, rather short and stumpy and with an undershot jaw long enough to collect rain on a rainy day, stomped out the door. The woman was clad in a red corset, her face powdered and adorned with piercings, and her hair tied up in a tangle of messy hair and needles—but the man was dressed in nothing but old and sullied rags, so thick with sweat that Ramund could smell it, even from this distance.

“Please! Please! I gave it back!” the woman stumbled a little in her high heels, splashing and tumbling awkwardly in the puddle as she tried to stand “I gave it back!” she cried again.

“And now it smells o' yer filthy, powdered hands, ye hag!” his words were punctuated by the smack of his fist striking against the woman's cheek, powder flying as skin met skin. Ramund's heart jumped a little as he watched. He heard the woman yelp in pain, and saw how blood pulsed through a ripped wound on her cheek, where the man had hit her. For a split second, he caught eye-contact with the woman, and despite how much he knew this was no business of hers, there was no way he could stand idly by.

“I'll punch ye bloody, I tell ya!” he pulled his arm back and clenched his fist again “I'll punch ye fokken' DEAD!”

But just as he was about to attempt another strike, Ramund's large hand landed on his shoulder, and his deep, rumbling, and menacingly foreboding voice followed shortly after.
“Has this town not seen enough death... little man?”

The stumpy man quickly spun around to look at who dared interrupt him—at first, he looked at Ramund's chest, not realizing that he had to look a few heads higher to reach the eyes. His gaze climbed up Ramund's white beard, and it took him a few moments to look into those warning, disapproving eyes of his. When Ramund got a closer look at the little man, he could smell his breath too—-no doubt this man was as drunk as he probably was last night, and the way his pupils flickered sealed his suspicion.

“'Ey, old man, mind yer own business, or I'll put yer other foot in the grave, ye punk.” he was clearly too stupid or too drunk—-or both—-to realize that he was the weaker one in this situation, like a little terrier not realizing its size when it barks and snaps at a wolfhound.

Ramund tapped the pommels of both his axes, but it was a warning, nothing more “You may be drunk and you may be stupid, but even a measly man like yourself should know that my kind does not back down from a tussle.” Ramund's nose wrinkled, and even though he was old and weary, he could still pull off a properly threatening voice-—he actually surprised himself a little with it “And as you said, I'm already with one foot in the grave... I've got nothing to lose. Do you?”

The little man opened his mouth, but all that came out was a sickly breath of too much alcohol, and probably other substances mixed in as well. The woman beside him looked up at Ramund with a stunned look, but Ramund had to keep eye-contact with the little man to sustain his intimidation. The man's mouth opened and closed in turn... but in the end, all he could do was let out an angry huff.

“You take her, then. She's yer fokken' problem now, geezer.” determined to get the last word, he stomped his foot down in the puddle and splashed some more water on the woman, before he spun around and stomped into his house again, slamming the door behind him.
Ramund watched as the little angry man fled the scene, his eyes following him right until the door cut him off. He couldn't help but smirk a little... he still got it, it seemed, this Mjaln tough-and-buffness. He knew he would never actually have done anything to the man, but that was his little secret. He wanted to laugh... but then he realized his job wasn't quite done just yet.

His eyes fell down upon the woman. Her clothes were smothered in grime and dirt by now, and a tiny trickle of blood dripped off her chin. The man had hit her hard. Her face was somewhere between confusion and relief, but definitely leaning towards confusion. They traded gazes for a little while, before Ramund approached and offered his large hand to her.

“Are you hurt?” he asked. He knew perfectly well that she was, but he figured he would be courteous nonetheless.

The woman touched the wound a flinched a little. She looked at the blood on her fingers, and frowned “A little...” she said—-exactly how Ramund would have described it “But it's nothing bad.” she tried to smile as she accepted Ramund's hand “I've had worse.”

Helping her on her feet, Ramund could feel that her hands were sleek and powdery, thickly covered in beauty balms and ointments. His eye narrowed a little in curiosity “I am not one to advise you, madam, but perchance you had best find another man to caress your heart... it seems this man would rather caress your cheek with a clenched fist than your heart anyway.”

“Oh, you—“ she suddenly burst out laughing. Ramund seemed a little surprised by the gesture, and opened his mouth to ask, but was interrupted “Good sir, you really must be new in town.” she continued, smiling “He's not my husband. He's just a customer. I don't think a man like him would ever be wed—-most of his kind don't, hence the reason they come to people like me.”

Ramund seemed a little confused at first, before he caught the draft “Oh... oh, so you are a—-“

“—-a harlot?” she interrupted again “Sadly, yes, I fear I am.” she folded her hands behind her back, and averted her eyes slightly “Most ladies like me are. In a town like this, we don't have a lot of choices, see. All the good, safe jobs are taken, and we are left with the dirty work-—either this, or thievery.”

Ramund slowly looked over his shoulder again, at the house of angry little man. He glanced up towards the windows, and found the curtains drawn. His eyes fell back to the woman, and folded his arms across his chest “I may be wrong, but it seems as though you don't have a problem with doing both—at the same time, furthermore.”

The woman seemed quite so insulted; she opened her mouth to retort, but found herself stifled. A rather awkward silence ensued as Ramund looked down at her with judgment, slowly shaking his head as if to say 'that wasn't very clever, now was it?'.

“You heard that too, huh?” the woman was suddenly quite guilty in her voice. She knew what she had done.

Ramund slowly nodded “Indeed I did. I heard everything from when he threw you off his doorstep. Needless to say... he was not being subtle about it. And neither were you.” his eyes moved a little around, checking his surroundings as if to see if anyone was listening “Might I ask what you stole, which was so important to him?”

The woman, although with her head bowed in shame, uttered a little chuckling snort “It was quite a measly thing, really. Some heirloom of his; a copper necklace, though it can't have been worth more than a little handful of crowns. I even wondered if I would want to take the risk, just to filch a thing like that.”

“But you did...” Ramund's gaze fell to her bleeding wound “...And you learned your lesson, didn't you?”

She looked up into his eyes, and tried a little smile “I would like to say 'yes', but as kind and sweet as you are, you have to understand that women like me don't have much more to live on. Even my harlotry will only get me so far... I dream of a life outside this miserable place, away from all the sickness and poverty, like... Retby.” she smiled a little “Ever since I was a girl, I wanted to live a farm life, with cattle and sheep and all that shebang. But Retby is a long way from here, and I can't afford the carriage... so I live day by day, night by night, in this godforsaken dump.” her smile disappeared, replaced by a saddened frown and spiteful eyes that looked upon the world around her.

Ramund's eyes, however, rose to glance over the dawn-reddened hills in the horizon, away from the sea “Trust me... these days, places like Retby are not much better.” for a moment, he was quiet. He kept a gaze at the hills, at the clouds that drifted by in the dark blue sky, slowly becoming lighter as dawn aspired to become noon. However, as he looked at the woman again, he asked “Why stop at Retby, though?”

Her head cocked a little, and he gave him a puzzled, suspicious look “What do you mean?”

“Imagine me something...” Ramund said, smiling slightly “...Imagine that, in one of the next coming days, your mayor steps out to speak to all his citizens. He tells you that, like I am sure you have noticed, Aegon has faced terrible consequences, and that he is offering to pay for carriages for all of you, to take you north, to Moonby Sanctuary. If this happens... would you accept it?”

The woman smiled, but seemed utterly disbelieving “That would be wonderful, but it will never happen, I'm sorry to burst your bubble.”

“I am not so certain... but I take it that is a 'yes'?” Ramund smiled back, his face wrinkling up as it now did whenever he smiled.

“Mmm... I suppose it is.” the woman said, arms folded and hip cocked slightly.

“In that case, I would suggest you hold onto that thought, madam. Your luck might just favor you, gods be good.” he carefully slipped a few fingers down into his pouch, and picked a few coins from it. With an open palm, he handed them to her “But sadly, the gods won't give you a place to sleep and food to eat... these coins will. My friends and I are staying at 'The Corny Crusader'-—despite the silly name-—and if you wish, you may rent a room there. Last I checked, there were still a few available. It certainly is better than sleeping on the streets, or in the arms of a drunkard customer, no?”

The woman looked at the coins, and gave Ramund a smile, rather suspicious and sly, but a smile nonetheless, as she accepted the money “Good sir... if I were a gullible little girl, I would think that you were trying to court me.”

Ramund chuckled slightly, and shook his head “A mere act of kindness, madam. Besides, I am a wed man... and I am too old for that kind of thing, anyway. My body may be roughened and hardened by blizzards and battle, but I confess that I have a soft spot for kindness in my heart. My voice may have been gruff and frightening when I spoke to that customer of yours... but despite his foolishness, I would never have hurt him. It is not a way of mine, to attack an unarmed man.”

“Personally, I wouldn't have minded if you did...” she smirked a little “...But I suppose you were kind to let him off with a warning.” her fingers clenched around the coins “I'll make my way to 'The Corny Crusader', then... you have my thanks, old man. I have not much to repay you... but I am sure the gods do. Isn't that what priests and old folk say?”

“Fortune blesses the selfless, and those in need... I cannot tell you how many times I have heard these words, but if they are true, it seems we are both in line for some blessings of fortune.” he chuckled slightly, his smile lingering on his lips, before he turned a gaze towards the sun “...But it seems time is outrunning me, madam, and I have some catching up to do. Would you mind if I made a rather rude and sudden departure?”

The woman shook her head “You have done enough for me. All I can give you is my thanks, and wishes of good luck... though I suppose I'll be seeing you and your friends at the inn, yeah?”

“Odds favor it, indeed.” Ramund nodded “We shall see, once I return. It has been a pleasure speaking with you... 'till next we meet.” he performed a bow, deep and gracious, even though his back really didn't like it.

“As to you.” the woman replied, and did a bow of her own, far more elegant than Ramund could do with this old and withered body of his. With a little nod and a smile, they both went to each their way, the woman with a few extra coins in her pocket, and Ramund with a soft sensation in his heart.

It was only with the help of signs of direction that Ramund could find his way. This town of Westport had streets that all looked the same, all with winding byways and alleys, avenues that went up and down and with wooden roads built between houses... it was a maze, and Ramund would undoubtedly have lost his way by now, if it were not for these pylons of direction. For a harbor town, Westport was indeed huge. It covered a great part of the coastline, and seemed to creep further and further up the hills, like a spreading infection. Furthermore, it was not built around a single harbor, but around seven, no less. It was hell finding way, since there were a lot of roads that were simply inaccessible if you didn't take these questionable wooden roads, built a good ten meters above ground. They creaked and wobbled under Ramund's weight, and more than once he was convinced that this was how he died... but in the end, he came down safely. And before long, he found what he was looking for.

The mayor was said to be the richest man in town, and Ramund had expected some kind of noble estate like a manor, or at least something a little bigger than the rest of these wooden, stitched-together houses, covered in sea mist and lichen. But that was not what he got. The only way he could tell the difference between this house and the others, were the pair of guards outside the door, clad in rusty old armor and wielding what seemed like nothing but cheap short swords—-the kind fathers would buy to their sons, when they wanted to learn how to fight. One of the guards were sleeping, and the other one was indulging himself in a book... Ramund wouldn't be surprised if he could walk right past them, and he began to wonder how the mayor hadn't been assassinated yet. Or maybe he was. He decided to find out.

“Ho there, guardsmen.” He greeted as he approached, hands folded behind his back as he gave a little nod.

The first guard kept sleeping, but the second guard perked his head up to look at Ramund. He seemed to be quite a fit man, well and healthy, which seemed to be a rare sight in this town—his only flaw was his pale white and blind right eye, that rolled a little around in its socket as he turned to looked up the approaching Mjaln.

“Yeah, ho, big man.” the guard tried to imitate Ramund, and even though he understood it was a gesture of politeness, it sounded more like sarcasm “What's up?”

Ramund looked into the sky and considered a cheeky, over-used joke, but thought better of it “I come seeking the mayor. I assume this is his place?”

“Sure is, though he's slightly busy right now, and would rather not be disturbed.” he shrugged a little “Don't ask me about the details... I'm just paid to sit here and tell people that the mayor's busy. What's it about, if I may ask?”

Ramund's lips twisted in a little frown “I'm afraid I may have to speak to him about that myself. It is concerning the attack on Aegon, which I am certain you have all received word about by now... correct?”

“Oh yes, that demons finally overran the place and set it on fire? We were the first ones to see the smoke. You wouldn't believe the rumors of 'who dunnit' that went around the first days. But when ambassador Boyd Timothy sent out letters to Westport, Casserton, and Retby, not even the wildest of rumors could live up to the truth.” he shrugged again “But most of us aren't really afraid of it. Last I read from some occultist books, demons don't swim, and they'll have to march through The Wilderness to get to The Fairlands. And as I am sure you know, nothing gets through The Wilderness.”

Ramund smirked a little. He wanted to tell the guard that he was the exception, but figured that this wasn't really a time for boasting “I am glad to hear that you are comfortable. Even so, I would like to speak with the mayor... I assume I should leave my arms and anything particularly pointy here at the doorstep, hm?”

“Uhm... yeah, sure.” the guard seemed a little careless about the whole thing, which was a stupid thing to do, but Ramund had to get inside, and if that meant exploiting this guard's naivety, then so be it “Just leave them here, and they'll be here for you when you're done.”

Ramund smiled, and gave a grateful nod “You have my thanks, guardsman.” he unsheathed both his axes and handed them to the guard, who tried to accept them and read his book at the same time. Once fully unarmed, Ramund pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

Stepping inside, Ramund's expectations truly began to drop. Lichen had festered the outside walls, but Ramund had never thought they would fester the inside ones as well. The room beyond seemed like the kind of room that was supposed to be an office, but turned out to become the permanent home of one man instead. There were bookshelves covering most of the walls, perhaps to attempt to hide away the lichen, together with portraits and paintings, just about everything the owner could get-—but it just wasn't enough. The green speckles of lichen still caught Ramund's eye, growing like sickly infections upon the walls and floors and the ceiling too. A red carpet rolled across the single room of this place, reaching all the way over to the other end, at which a desk was placed. Thankfully, it was not gripped by lichen, but the one who sat by it, seemed like he could have been.

An old and measly little man, his hair in thin white strands, the scalp of his head clear and shining in the light of a lantern, hanging from the ceiling. His tired eyes, taken by age, moved quickly across the lines and letters of endless paperwork, stacking in great towers on his desk. Parchments innumerable reached so tall that he would have to begin new stacks, if the old ones were not to topple over. His frail and wrinkly hand, thin like was it naught but bone and skin, moved hurriedly over the papers, signature after signature after signature spilling out over the parchments. His wrinkly lips were curved in a sour frown that seemed like a smile had never taken its place, and probably never would. They uttered low grumbles, and a tongue slithered out to wet them now and then. His glasses gleamed in the dim light of the lantern overheard, which Ramund had to dodge, as he moved to approach him.

“Spirits bless, lord mayor...” Ramund bowed deeply; as deeply as his back would allow “...Assuming that would be you, of course.”

The old man stopped his scribbling for a moment as he turned his bitter gaze up at Ramund, and adjusted his glasses with a little push further up his crooked nose “Did my guards not tell you I was busy? If not, then I will: I'm busy. Go away.”

Ramund frowned a little. This wasn't going to be easy, it seemed. He cleared his throat a little and went nowhere. He stood there patiently, arms folded, head inclined, looking down at the little man with judgment in his eyes. The mayor had gone back to his scribbling, but had to look back up at Ramund when he realized that he wasn't leaving. His lips pursed 'till they were white. He pulled out a blank piece of parchment from the pile and began writing on it with big, chunky letters, before showing it to Ramund.

“Are you deaf? I said go away!”, the parchment wrote, the words 'go away' underlined twice for emphasis, but it was redundant. The mayor's sour mime said it all.

Ramund shook his head “I am not deaf. I am stubborn. The two carry a lot of similarities, but while you can make a deaf man leave, you cannot make a stubborn one do. I'm afraid you will just have to listen to what I have to say, lord Mayor.”

The mayor put down the parchment, his eye twitching a little in frustration “Stubborn and rude, more like.” he spat the words like poison, and slowly leaned back in his chair, withering eyes locked upon Ramund “Very well then, Mjaln. Say what you will.”

Ramund smiled a little, a brief one, just to be polite. He pulled out the chair on the other side of the mayor's desk and sat down in it-—it creaked and bent under his weight, but held “You are far too kind, lord Mayor.” he extended his hand over the desk, and smiled again “I am Ramund Bjornsson, sergeant and vowed soldier of The Crusade.”

The mayor accepted the handshake, but gave him a crooked and suspicious look “The Crusade? We have been free of your kind for years now. If Lucius Deum wants to recruit us, I would have expected something a little greater than a sergeant to step in my door.”

Ramund laid his hand in his lap and shook his head “Lucius Deum has no intentions of recruiting this town. Quite the opposite, in fact. He intends to let it burn.”

The mayor seemed a little puzzled, but let out a mocking snort “He means to attack us now? Sweet gods, the poor fool truly has fallen low. And, what, you're here to try and scare me into surrender?”

Again, Ramund shook his head “If only it were so. If Lucius Deum was to attack you, no doubt the elves of Lumion would come to your aid. But I fear the foe that lurks on your doorstep is a foe that not even the elves can protect you against.” his gaze wandered out the window, and he nodded his head towards the great plume of smoke in the horizon, gilded so brightly in the light of dawn “Your guardsman claimed that you do not fear the demons that have razed Aegon, but I am here to tell you that you should. I have seen what they can do-—twice now. No one thought that they could break down Camp Vanguard-—or Aegon, more significantly—-but in the end, it was our arrogance that felled us.” his gaze moved back to the mayor “And that very same arrogance will fell you, lord Mayor. Something has happened in the dunes of The Wastelands, and we don't know what, but it has made the demons amass in a force that could bring down the walls of Aegon with ease. Do you think that a jungle will hold back the force that Aegon could not? Will you rely on a patch of trees and vines to protect you from the coming destruction?”

“Yes. Yes I will.” the mayor answered quickly and sourly, his eyes narrowed “You are beginning to sound a lot like one of Deum's lackeys, come to try and scare me into his arms.” he leaned over the desk, his yellow teeth bared in an angry sneer “We have not been part of your stupid Crusade for fifty-five years. Ever since the year 1100, we have been an independent town, and that is not about to change, not in the face of demons, not in the face of anything. Go tell your 'High Commander' that he should take his union contract, fold it together, and stuff it so far up his backside that it comes out his mouth.”

Ramund cringed, but desperately tried to hide his spite “I am not... in service... of Deum.”

“And yet you introduced yourself as a sergeant and... what were the words? Oh yes: 'vowed soldier of The Crusade'.” the mayor tapped his gangly thin fingers on his armrest, his eyes so full of pride and stubbornness that even Ramund's stubbornness seemed to pale in comparison “Sergeant Bjornsson, you are testing my patience.”

“I am testing your logic!” Ramund raised his voice a little higher than he was supposed to, and the mayor wrinkled his nose “Do you not see? Westport is in peril, and you must evacuate. Please! I have seen what evil mind lurks within Deum's head, and I am dreadfully close to ripping the badge off my armor myself, but crusader or no, all I wish is to avoid more death and destruction under this coming army.” he was beginning to sound desperate, but the mayor seemed no more convinced “If you don't want to see your town in flames, please take the time to consider my warning. You could move all of your citizens to the safe walls of Moonby Sanctuary to the north, where the noble houses can protect you.”

“Extort me, you mean.” the mayor's voice dripped with loathing “Those pigs would rob me blind for every day that my people stayed behind their walls. And not to mention the costs of moving an entire town's people so far north... I would be the poorest mayor north of Aegon! And when I am at my lowest, that is when Deum will extend his hand to me, offering us shelter and wealth... my people will be too blinded by the prospect of a proper meal to see the peril that lies beyond.” he leaned forward on his desk, a bony finger pointed in accusation at Ramund “You are an excellent actor, Sergeant Bjornsson, but you do not fool me. I've seen your kind come here before, so full of tales to tell of how wonderful it is under Deum's wing, or how dreadful it is, away from it. But do you want to know what I think? I think this is all just a scam. A huge, intricate scam. I think that something happened to Aegon-—and that's dreadful, of course—-and Deum begins spinning tales about how demons have overrun the place, and how we must all seek safety in his arms. Boyd Timothy, our ambassador, is practically his lapdog at this point. Whatever comes out his mouth, is something Deum told him to say... and if he has told him to tell us that an army of demons is at our doorstep, then that is what he'll do-—and he did! If you are such a vowed soldier, Sergeant Bjornsson, you should know what I'm talking about... especially now that he has sent you down here to feed me this nonsense.” he sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest “Now... are we done, or would you like to tell more tales? If so, perhaps I should fetch my grandson. I'm sure he'd be more likely to believe them.”

Ramund said nothing. His eyes fell to the ground, as did his hopes. He sighed deeply, and realized that this was folly. Another self-righteous fool, too proud to see what is right in front of his nose. He slowly rose from his chair and scooted it back under the desk “No, lord Mayor, I have no more tales to tell.” his eyes rose to meet the mayor's “But when the demons come for you, I will be long gone, and so will all other reasonable people. I had hoped that Camp Vanguard and Aegon were the last displays of blinding arrogance I would see in people like you... it seems I was not so fortunate.”

Leaving behind the quieted mayor, Ramund took no time for farewells, as he walked out the door.

His hopes for this place had taken a dire plummet; that he could not deny. Walking down the musty wet streets, all he saw was a doomed, broken place-—he could almost already smell the fires. But maybe it was just the stench of sewer burning his nostrils. He sighed a little, and cast a few glances towards the houses around him; he saw some of the people finally waking up, young children sitting in the window sills and casting strange looks down towards this unnaturally big man walking past their homes. He stopped up by one of them, and met eyes with a little girl peeking past her curtains. She had clearly not seen a Mjaln before-—Ramund could recognize that look anywhere. He had seen it so many times. The little girl seemed a little frightened, perhaps, but Ramund tried to force out a smile for her. He raised his hand in a little wave, but then the girl was too shy to look anymore. She quickly drew the curtains... understandable, really. Ramund was certain her mothers had taught her not to talk to strangers, and especially those that seemed armed and dangerous. Looking down at his axes, Ramund realized he probably qualified as both of those things.

The streets only became filthier, the further he walked. The Corny Crusader was on the other side of the Rat District, as he found out this place was called, through the direction pylons set up here and there. It was a fitting name too. The houses loomed tall, ragged and broken like the beggars on each corner, and sometimes just as dead. They were ramshackle things, looking like some great hand had taken a bunch of houses and stacked them upon each other, only with a few rusty bolts and moldy planks to hold it all together. The curtains were always drawn... but Ramund doubted that anyone lived here in the first place.

The sun had probably begun to rise well over the sea by now, but in the shadows of these towers of tragedy, it was nowhere to be seen. It was a somewhat subtle transition into this broken place from the prettier districts, but Ramund knew for certain he had arrived when he saw packs of rats flocking around long gone beggars, squeaking and hissing over the chunks of flesh, despite that there was more than enough for everyone. He knew he had arrived when he saw no candlelight, no small girls' eyes in the windows that reminded him of his daughter, and no other footsteps than his own to disturb the silence and the puddles that lay scattered around this broken place.

He felt an eerie chill in this place, and would have gone around it, if he knew there was another way. The streets were narrow, not even with enough space for two carts to ride side by side, and Ramund felt dreadfully cramped... and worried. The Rat District was like the dark forest that the young boy had to cross to get home from school. It was a scar through the town of Westport that cut it in two, and it seemed like the place that all the sick and weary and old came to die. The road wound and bent in odd ways, and at times it began to seem more and more like a filthy, long-forgotten alley that wise men did not walk. When a familiar voice from behind broke the silence, Ramund began to understand why.

“There he is!” Ramund had so dearly hoped he wouldn't hear that voice. He stopped in his tracks and sighed deeply “Ye're buggered now, ye smelly old arseface.”

Ramund felt no fear in the face of these threats, the squeaky voice of the broken little man nothing but a mouse baring its teeth. He turned around, seeing him merely a few meters away, standing in the inky shadows of this narrow alleyway, a sour look on his undershot face. This time, however, he came accompanied with some friends, it seemed. One, a burly looking grunt, slightly taller and with a sizable belly to follow. Warts and blisters covered his face, and his clothes were gripped by mold. The other one was a man as stumpy as the first, only a few strands of hair left on his head and his left eye cloudy and blind. All three of them seemed like they had seen better days. This would not be one of those days.

“This is a mistake.” Ramund rumbled a little, nose wrinkled and his eyes inclined in hopes of putting reason into the little man's thick skull “And it is not mine.”

“Oi, keep yer tongue to yerself, before we cut it out!” he snarled, whipping a little rusty shank from his belt and edging slightly closer to Ramund, splashing through a puddle and closely followed by the two grunts at his back “Ye're the one who made a mistake back there, old man. Ye're gon' pay for making a fool of me like that.” he was like a little goblin of sorts, all wheezy-voiced and small, riddled with the filth he lived in, and had become “I would've shanked ye back there, right there on the spot, opened yer gut and spilled it on the sidewalk, but there were too many eyes... but here? Oh ye're definitely the one who made the mistake, mate, comin' here... ye're on my turf now. Hear that? I'll gut ye! I told ye I'd put that other foot of yours in the grave... I'm a man a' my word.”

“Your word is ill, and so is your soul.” Ramund's hands slowly drifted to the hilts of his axes, and despite the little man closing in, he didn't move an inch “I hate to kill a fellow man... but I am beginning to think you don't qualify as one.”

“Oi mate, ye just gon' take it like tha'?” the grunt with the blisters spoke, his tongue so thick it sounded like he had a potato in his mouth.

The little man hissed like a rat over his shoulder “Shut it!” he turned back to Ramund, getting dangerously close now “Any last words?”

“Yes...” Ramund slowly drew one of his axes, the blade gleaming in the firelight of a nearby lantern “...I'm sorry.”

With that, the little man quickly leapt forward, shank in hand and murder in his eyes. Adrenaline flushed through Ramund's veins, and though his body was old and tattered, his hand snapped out like a lashing snake, striking the little man over the nose and halting him mid-air. He came tumbling down onto the wet bricks, blood covering most of his face. The first drops of blood were already shed, and Ramund was glad they were not his own. Still, he carried no delight in shedding it. Not like this.

“Grarh!” the little man shouted, clutching his nose “It's broke! It's broke!” he squirmed around in a puddle of filth-riddled water, staggering to his feet “Kill him! Cut him open and show me his guts!”

Ramund's hand gripped tighter around his axe this time, seeing as the blistered grunt lumbered forward, his pace slow and predictable. He carried a club of old wood and rusty nails, which Ramund had no problems shattering with a single blow of his axe, right as he tried to strike with it. The splinters flew all over the narrow alleyway, and the grunt staggered backwards, surprised by the skillful retaliation. However, in the meantime, the other grunt had gotten far too close and grabbed Ramund's unarmed hand, twisting it behind his back. Ramund uttered a grunt of pain, grinding his teeth, but the soldier's soul inside of him was quick to react—-with a rapid kick of his left foot, he slammed his heavy steel sabaton into the knee of the grunt, cracking it backwards. The grunt uttered a squeal like a pig, suddenly not seeming so mighty as he fell on his back. Ramund sneered at the sound of cracking bone, and was distracted just at the wrong time; the grunt whose club he had shattered quickly came back to body slam into Ramund's chest, throwing him off balance. Caught off-guard by the blow, he toppled backwards, water splashing as he fell into a puddle himself.

“Now you die!” the little man screeched, leaping onto Ramund's stomach and raising his shank high to deal the killing blow. Ramund looked into his eyes and had hoped to see the reluctance there was so many times in weak souls like this one, but saw nothing but a mindless intent to kill. With his free arm held down by one of the grunts, Ramund had to think quick, and was left with only one option.

CHUNK!

The sound of his axe digging into the skull of the little man and breaking that undershot jaw of his was even worse than the sound of the grunt's knee cracking inwards. His little body jerked for a moment, his eyes rolling in their sockets, his shank dropping only a few seconds afterward. Blood spattered over the steel of his axe, and got in his eyes. He cringed at the sight, seeing the little man's skull split like a log in winter, but with much, much more blood. He soon slid off Ramund's chestplate as the last specks of life fled his body, and the axe was pulled from his skull.

“Oh gods!” the unharmed grunt shouted as he saw all the blood “He killed him! He fokken killed him!” his voice was ripe with fear, and Ramund felt him let go of his arm. Over the sound of the broken-kneed grunt squealing in pain, he heard the other grunt run for his life, splashing puddles all the way. Ramund couldn't stop sneering, his eyes filled with a hatred for what he had just done. He rose to his feet slowly, and looked down upon his handiwork. The paling body of the little man now lay with half of his face buried in mud, and the open wound turning upwards, slowly being filled by rain. He saw all the blood mix with the water, reddening the streets. He looked down upon the grunt who clutched his knee that bent grotesquely inwards, and felt no sympathy. His pain was righteous, even though he felt sick to inflict it. He looked down at him, and could do nothing but snarl.

“Rose was right...” he sheathed his axe “...Your kind is not worth saving.”

Leaving him there to suffer, Ramund walked away, blood on his axe and a murder on his conscience.

When he arrived back at The Corny Crusader, the heavens had begun to cry. Where this place before was locked in rot and mold, it seemed as if the rain came to wash it all away. It started as an innocent trickle, no more than a few drops here and there, but had quickly grown to become a violent downpour. The world was suddenly awash with cascades of water from above, the heavens now covered in a dark overhang of looming clouds. Ramund didn't seem to mind, though. He felt oddly empty inside; a blackened void that he hadn't felt in a long, long time. The curtains of his inner self had been drawn, and all emotion seemed to have been shuffled away and hidden in dark corners. In the face of what he had done, it was the wisest thing to do. The image of the little man's head splitting under the force of his axe repeated itself in his mind, and the way the blood got in his eyes and reddened his vision never seemed to disappear.

His hands jittered, his fingers itching, and his head bowed in shame. It wasn't before he had done it, that he realized what sin he had committed. He had slain a man. Merciless and grim, he had lodged his axe into the skull of a fellow man, and he had watched as the last traces of life seeped out through his open, bloodied mouth. He felt as if he had seen the world through Rose's eyes for a short moment there. He loathed himself for what he had done... but in the moment it happened, in the very second he heard the little man's skull crack like a coconut shell, had he enjoyed it? He wasn't sure what to answer to that question. Killing a man felt wrong on all points, yet for this man, it felt so... just. Taking his life had opened his eyes for things he would rather be blind to, as he had been for all these years. When he killed him, what he saw standing with a foot on his chest was no man at all. It was a demon. It was a demon like the one he tried to protect this city from. His axe was meant for demons, not men, and when he butchered him there and then, it felt as if it was merely doing what it had been doing for all those years in The Wastelands. Killing demons. He had hoped he could save Westport from the coming demons... but it seemed as if the demons had been here for a long, long time.

He pushed the door open. The sound of the pouring rain filled the world and drowned out the sound of tolling ship's bells. His white ponytail hung, soggy and drenched, the same going for his beard. His mail and cloth dripped as he entered the tavern again, bringing the outside rain with him. The clouds had hidden away the dawning sun, and it seemed almost as if it was night again now, so dreary and wet. Thankfully, it was pleasantly warm in here, in The Corny Crusader. The barkeep had lit a hearth at the back of the room, which now radiated out all over the main hall of the place. Some of the drunkards had returned, casting him strange glances, as if they knew what he had done. He avoided their eyes, quietly lumbering through the halls as silently as he could, meaning to make straight for his room. But he was interrupted.

“Hey! Over here!”

Ramund thought it wasn't meant for him at first, but when he looked towards the caller, he met eyes with the harlot from before. He had completely forgotten that he had lead her here, but was glad to see her healthy and well—-and dry, more importantly. She sat near a window, the rain clattering against it, and she had two mugs of steaming tea in front of her. Had she been expecting him?

“Oh, madam. Good morning.” Ramund replied and forced out a smile, trying to hide away the sin he carried. He moved over to take a seat opposite of her, the bench jumping a little as he sat his great figure down upon it. He began to unhook his pauldrons and gauntlets, letting them fall with a clang upon the table “I see you are thriving here.”

“Thriving is perhaps a bit much said.” She smirked a little, jest in her voice “I'm dry and well, though... seemingly something that can't be said about you. Sad to see you weren't quick enough to avoid the downpour. We get those now and then.”

“A streetwalker like yourself should be quite familiar with those, I take it.” Ramund pulled the leather binds from his ponytail and shook his lengthy, pale hair a little, trying to get all the water out. The piercings of the harlot woman before him glimmered in the light of a lonely lantern.

She sipped a little at her tea. She didn't seem like she had any answer to that, maybe not too fond of speaking of her profession out loud, especially not in a crowded tavern like this one. Her eyes slowly fell to the left-hand gauntlet that lay on the table before her, and she creased an eyebrow as she saw the specks of blood that the rain hadn't managed to wash off.

“...Seems like you had quite the heated debate with the mayor, good sir. I hadn't taken either you nor the mayor for a pair of pugilists.”

He looked down at the blood, his heart jumping a little—-why did she have to see this? “Oh it's...” he had to think quickly now, slowly grabbing the gauntlet and hiding it away, while desperately trying to forge up some quick excuse. But damn, he didn't have any wounds of his own, and couldn't say it was his own blood. He stuttered a little, opened his mouth to finish his sentence, all the while the harlot looked at him with a puzzled expression, curious of what it was he couldn't make himself say. However, in the end, all he could do was sigh. His eyes moved to the people around him, all the prying eyes and ears, and carefully leaned in closer over the table. He gently took her hands, holding them in both of his, and looked into her eyes, regret in his own.

“Miss... how well did you know that man? The one who threw you from his house, and the one from whom I relieved you?” his voice was lowered, almost a whisper, dripping with remorse—-and she could smell it.

Her right eye narrowed as she tried to look past Ramund's words, and see what he truly was saying “Slightly... he is some of a regular, but not someone I've known for too long. After my little trick, I don't think he'll be hiring me any further. Why do you ask?”

Ramund's eyes averted in shame. He pursed his lips a little, not wanting to open them to let out the truth. But he had put him in a place now that allowed nothing else. He looked back into her eyes, and sighed.

“I met him... on the streets. It was no coincidence. He had come for me, and wanted to punish me for how I had embarrassed him... a meager motive for manslaughter, but he was no man to see reason in it. The lust for murder had long since overtaken him....” he slowly shook his head “...you will not be seeing any more to him, madam.”

Her eyebrows raised, and she seemed a bit stifled at first. Her eyes fell to the blood, as if to say 'is that his?'. She seemed at a loss for words for a little while, until she carefully drew her hands back from Ramund's “You... you killed him.”

Ramund cringed “Not so loud, madam.”

She shook her head “Oh you foolish man...” she slumped a little together, the smile on her face but a drifting memory now “...As much... as much as I appreciate how much you care for me, I am still only a harlot. You shouldn't be giving me a place to stay, someone to talk to-—that just isn't what you do in this town. And you especially should not have killed for me...” her eyes seemed full of pity “...I would advise sleeping with one eye open, good sir, as long as you stay here in Westport. The man you killed was part of a larger gang, and if you left anyone alive, you may face bitter consequences.” Ramund thought back to the one he scared off, and the one whose knee he cracked... killing them would have been horribly wrong, but now he faced the repercussions. A frown bent itself across his face, and he sneered.

“Their kind are but rats and stray dogs. Three of them were no issue, and I shall take on as many as they send, this time with no... casualties.” he looked around to the people around him—-could any of them be his coming adversaries? His eyes then fell upon one of the adjacent rooms, and he nodded his head towards it “We will only stay here for a little while longer, whether I can accomplish what I came for or not. We will be gone soon enough, and with any luck, you will be with us. However, in the mean time, I would suggest you stay in your room, and lock the door. I may have angered the bull, but I will not have you be there for the slaughter. Do you understand?”

She rubbed her forehead, wanting to say no, wanting to object, but she seemed to understand. What could she do, anyway? She slowly nodded her head “Yes, yes I do. Very well then... I will make good use of the coin you gave me, and sit tight in my room until all this has blown over.” she reached forward and put a hand on Ramund's looking into his eyes, this time not with pity or frustration, but with worry “You stay safe, good sir... a good soul like your own does not deserve a death like this.”

Ramund smiled a little, and gave a grateful nod “If it means giving you a safer slumber, then I will not die this day, or the day afterward. I have fought demons of the south and trolls of the north for longer than you have lived... I will be damned if I die to a pack of thugs.”

She smiled in response. No words left her lips, and she only gave a little nod to confirm that she had heard what he said. With a little squeeze of his hand, she rose from the table, and went to her room. Ramund's gaze followed her right up until the door to her room closed and locked. And when it did, his smile disappeared. He slipped on his gauntlets and turned around in his seat, facing the open hall of the tavern, hands resting on his pommels. He looked at all the people in here, seeing nothing but rats and demons in people's clothing. He could smell all the booze, all soon to be drowned out by the stench of blood.

The hunt has begun... but this time, the prey will strike back. Come find me, men of filth-—this shall not be so easy.