He turned from the farmhouse, putting the older man and his sons to his back as he began to slowly limp his way down the snow-dusted road. His breath clouded in the air in front of him, despite the cloak wrapped tightly around his body. He heard the door click shut as his benefactors, and friends, returned back to the warmth of their hearth. It had been a long, and slow road to recovery, and it would be an equally difficult undertaking making it to the City in this weather. What choice did he really have, with how badly things had gotten in the last year? The Johlensmiths had sheltered him for far too long as it was, and he refused to impose himself any longer, despite the offer being made. So he would return. In the cold. To a city that thought him a traitor, and worse yet a dead one. Or, perhaps that was for the best, he mused.
On the first night, he limped his way into a waystation on the roadside. It was cramped, even for just himself, and weather-worn, letting in the breeze. Still, it was better than fending for himself outdoors. So he piled up some sticks and old logs, and stoked a small fire. The warmth did his old bones good. The stale bread and sparse beef strips were not so nurturing.
On the second night, he was not so fortunate, and had to huddle under a small outcropping of stone. His fire barely held, and judging by his state in the morning it had probably blown out hours before he awoke. He scarfed down a hard wedge of yellow cheese and the last of his bread for breakfast before moving on.
On the third night, he was met with an inn, and with his meager funds, he rented a room and feasted on luke-warm noodle stew. He didn't ask what the meat was. He didn't feel like he wanted to know really. The bed had flees and the mattress was thin to put it generously, but he slept better than he had in days.
Finally, on the fourth and last day, exhausted and limping badly, the cloaked man made his way to the gates of Regalia. The gate was shut, but seemingly unattended. So he called out. "Oi! Zhere iz fawken anyvun at ze gate!" After several moments of yelling, a tired looking guardsman popped his head out over the battlements.
"Eh? Mate, the f*ck'er you doin' out in this weather!" The man called out, gesturing behind him to someone out of sight.
" Vell I'em not goin' to vait until ze spring now am I? Fawken months off n' shite! Open ze bloody gate vill ye, s' fawken cold if ye didn'o notice!" He called back up, his throat going a bit hoarse from the yelling and the cold.
"One moment, yer name en?" The guardsman called back.
He paused for only a moment, "Aren Norson!" He lied.
The guardsman paused for a moment, "What business have you in the city then... Aren?"
"Vhat fawken business ye think? Not comin' ta fawken vecome a whore! I vant to work as ze dockhand. Fields ve all useless vith ze early snows, lost most of ze fall harvest to zhem, gotta make ze money to keep food on ze table somehow eh?"
Another long pause. "Very well, you can enter.. Aren the farmer!"
He sighed, a cloud forming in front of his mouth for a moment. About time too, his damn leg was starting to throb. He stepped through the gate, to be greeted by another guardsman- maybe the same one, though he would have had to have sprinted down the stairs to get there in time he imagined. "You have anything I should know about on you?" He asked, his eyes shifting over the cloak and to the small pack at his side.
He shook his head, "Nope. Vell, dagger, but I think zhey are still legal, yes?"
The guardsman nodded, "And the pack?"
"Ze shirt, another pair of boots, zhats about it-" he moved to pull the pack up, but the guardsman just shook his head, waving him on.
"That won't be needed, I doubt you have a claymore hidden in there or anything. Welcome to the city."
He nodded, "Aye, Spirit Bless ye. " He continued on, making his way down the streets of Regalia, so similar yet so different, changed by a years worth of time. His limp progressively worsened until he finally made his way to the old safehouse in the harbor. It looked abandoned, the windows broken and the walls in a state of disrepair. The door was stuck shut as well, and he had to kick it in. That would not have worked in the past, they had fortified while working against the Deathlings, but wood rot had eaten away at the frame, so the thick oak door broke away from the hinges with a resounding 'Clrack!' and a cloud of dust.
He wasted no time, stepping inside and pushing the door back in place, making it stay shut with one of the many large crates in the dark, dingy room. Finally, he heaved a sigh of relief. His gaze shifted around the room, taking in the sparse remnants of the Violet Resistance's supplies. A few rusting mail shirts sat on one crate. Another held a sword and some wood. Clothing was piled in the corner, covered in dirt and dust. But it was a start. It was something.
Amar Tellsam turned his head, glancing out the high window, past jagged glass, and to the sky. "Zis vill fawken do."
On the first night, he limped his way into a waystation on the roadside. It was cramped, even for just himself, and weather-worn, letting in the breeze. Still, it was better than fending for himself outdoors. So he piled up some sticks and old logs, and stoked a small fire. The warmth did his old bones good. The stale bread and sparse beef strips were not so nurturing.
On the second night, he was not so fortunate, and had to huddle under a small outcropping of stone. His fire barely held, and judging by his state in the morning it had probably blown out hours before he awoke. He scarfed down a hard wedge of yellow cheese and the last of his bread for breakfast before moving on.
On the third night, he was met with an inn, and with his meager funds, he rented a room and feasted on luke-warm noodle stew. He didn't ask what the meat was. He didn't feel like he wanted to know really. The bed had flees and the mattress was thin to put it generously, but he slept better than he had in days.
Finally, on the fourth and last day, exhausted and limping badly, the cloaked man made his way to the gates of Regalia. The gate was shut, but seemingly unattended. So he called out. "Oi! Zhere iz fawken anyvun at ze gate!" After several moments of yelling, a tired looking guardsman popped his head out over the battlements.
"Eh? Mate, the f*ck'er you doin' out in this weather!" The man called out, gesturing behind him to someone out of sight.
" Vell I'em not goin' to vait until ze spring now am I? Fawken months off n' shite! Open ze bloody gate vill ye, s' fawken cold if ye didn'o notice!" He called back up, his throat going a bit hoarse from the yelling and the cold.
"One moment, yer name en?" The guardsman called back.
He paused for only a moment, "Aren Norson!" He lied.
The guardsman paused for a moment, "What business have you in the city then... Aren?"
"Vhat fawken business ye think? Not comin' ta fawken vecome a whore! I vant to work as ze dockhand. Fields ve all useless vith ze early snows, lost most of ze fall harvest to zhem, gotta make ze money to keep food on ze table somehow eh?"
Another long pause. "Very well, you can enter.. Aren the farmer!"
He sighed, a cloud forming in front of his mouth for a moment. About time too, his damn leg was starting to throb. He stepped through the gate, to be greeted by another guardsman- maybe the same one, though he would have had to have sprinted down the stairs to get there in time he imagined. "You have anything I should know about on you?" He asked, his eyes shifting over the cloak and to the small pack at his side.
He shook his head, "Nope. Vell, dagger, but I think zhey are still legal, yes?"
The guardsman nodded, "And the pack?"
"Ze shirt, another pair of boots, zhats about it-" he moved to pull the pack up, but the guardsman just shook his head, waving him on.
"That won't be needed, I doubt you have a claymore hidden in there or anything. Welcome to the city."
He nodded, "Aye, Spirit Bless ye. " He continued on, making his way down the streets of Regalia, so similar yet so different, changed by a years worth of time. His limp progressively worsened until he finally made his way to the old safehouse in the harbor. It looked abandoned, the windows broken and the walls in a state of disrepair. The door was stuck shut as well, and he had to kick it in. That would not have worked in the past, they had fortified while working against the Deathlings, but wood rot had eaten away at the frame, so the thick oak door broke away from the hinges with a resounding 'Clrack!' and a cloud of dust.
He wasted no time, stepping inside and pushing the door back in place, making it stay shut with one of the many large crates in the dark, dingy room. Finally, he heaved a sigh of relief. His gaze shifted around the room, taking in the sparse remnants of the Violet Resistance's supplies. A few rusting mail shirts sat on one crate. Another held a sword and some wood. Clothing was piled in the corner, covered in dirt and dust. But it was a start. It was something.
Amar Tellsam turned his head, glancing out the high window, past jagged glass, and to the sky. "Zis vill fawken do."
