Not an interlude, but a story which has been mostly done for a couple of months...

 

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Blood poured down his side, the wet crimson staining his skin. Paul rubbed his shoulder, wincing from the various sharp stings which struck him with every breath.

Iromin had been particularly brutal during the duel, bringing Paul inches from death. He doubted that the Iyrman chief would kill him, he had yet to do so. Paul’s heart still ached, but the duel had done much to heal it.

It had been like any other day at the guild, drinking his worries away, when he had heard another Iyrman had died nearby. They had brought the Iyrman to him, and had entrusted Paul to return the body back to the Iyr.

This was a quest set by the guild, a quest from times of old, before he was even born. When an Iyrman showed up dead near Red Oak, they would be handed over to the guild. The guild would then return the bodies. It didn’t cost a fortune to send the bodies back, and the favour they received from the Iyrmen would have been worth the price tenfold.

Paul and four guards would often make the journey, usually with a donkey and a cart, and they would travel along the road, and then the village path. Two gold a day, this was the wage, and the guards were more than happy to accept the deal. It was an officer’s pay, more than enough to buy drinks for a full tavern for the entire day.

“You fought well,” Uruban said. Uruban had been an old confidant of his, a paternal figure. Paul and Uruban’s daughter had been sweet with one another, but that had long past.

Every time he would fight Iromin, the scene would continually play within his mind. He could smell her still, feel her cold body in his hands, hear her final breath, the tiny gasp of life fading.

Uruban slapped Paul out of his stupor, roaring with laughter. “I know that look,” he said. “You need a drink.”

Paul chose to head to the little home the Iyrmen allowed him to stay in, though Uruban barged in with various bottles. The purple bottle and the white cork. The fat Iyrman had brought Purple Worm wine. Paul hadn’t realised the Iyrman knew about it. It was fifty gold a bottle, and was made far in the east.

‘This guy,’ Paul thought.

Uruban poured the pair some wine into their glasses, which was quite rare for an Iyrman. They normally used clap pots, plates, and such. Paul sipped the wine slow, following the Iyrman’s lead. If an Iyrman was going slow with a drink, it was for a reason.

The wine was sweet, sweeter than almost any wine he had ever tasted. At the end there was a little fire which kicked his throat, and he was glad he didn’t chug it down. One glass later and his body felt like it was on fire, though it passed after a moment. A gentle hum filled him, as though he had reached a level of content with his life.

Uruban sighed, smacking his lips together. He remained silent for a moment. “You should spar with Amaban before you go,” he said. “She could use the experience.”

Amaban was Uruban’s daughter. The last three letters of an Iyrman’s name was dedicated to their family. Ama, of the Ban family. Paul had a name the Iyrmen had given him too, of the Steel, which was how one ranked usually referred to an outsider when they were ranked by the guild. That, or by their greatest story, though the rank was more common.

“I’ll think about it,” Paul said. “I shouldn’t spend too much time in the Iyr. I don’t want to get in the guild’s black book.” They were being paid by the day, though it would be rude if they remained for too long. It was a generous quest, allowing them a month to complete it, though they would typically take two weeks.

“You have time,” the fat Iyrman said. “Tomorrow. Rest, and then spar, and then rest. You may leave after.”

“I will return to the guild tomorrow, but I’ll pay a visit another time.” Paul sipped down the wine, swallowing the fire. “Without a dead body in tow.”

“It is as you say,” Uruban said, smiling, accepting Paul’s statement.

He left Paul, who wallowed in his own thoughts. He’d think only of Aizaban this night, he always did when he stayed in the Iyr.

The journey back to the Iyr was sombre. They passed by the various villages and the town before they were welcomed by the familiar sight of Red Oak.

“Afternoon, Paul,” the guard said.

“Good to see you, Rob. Had a nice day?” Paul asked.

“Nice enough.” The guard nodded. “Guild Master’s back in town.”

Paul raised his brows. “Really? It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, and the Vice Master just retired.”

“What?” Paul was unable to help himself. “Really?”

“Yeah, Margh got sick of it. She’s going to be the keep now.”

Paul remained silent, thinking about it. Margh, a keep?

The guard tipped his helmet towards Paul and let him in without taking the fee. Paul made his way to the guild, and as he stepped through the doors, he bumped into a woman.

“Hey watc-, oh! Hey Paul,” she said.

“Angelina,” Paul said, surprised. He hugged the woman tight. “Good to see your pretty face around here,” he said, pulling away to pat her head.

Angelina was a Shaman, and was currently a bronze ranked adventurer. She was his cousin’s kid, and she had been making her name in Red Oak for a little while now, though she was heading to the city soon.

She fixed her hair. “I’m heading North soon,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Pa said he’s gathered some of his old crew.”

“What for?” Paul asked, raising his brow.

“Ogre hunting,” she said. “They say the giants and Northmen are at it again, and the Northmen are offering quite the prize for certain giants. Pa said there was an ogre camp spotted near Cesar Hall, so he’s going to deal with them.”

“You’re not going alone, are you?” Paul raised his brow, placing his hands on his waist. He stared down at her like a mother about to give her child a talking to.

“No, no. Mirot said she’s take me. She’s off gathering supplies.”

“Alright. You take care.” He pat her head again and leaned down to kiss her forehead. He waved as she left, fixing her hair, though he waved her off with a chuckle.

He sighed and walked over to Margh, who was wiping a mug down with a rag. She was a powerfully build woman, someone who had earned a great deal of respect during her time as the Vice Master. He pitied whoever dared try to fill her shoes.

“Hey Margh,” he said.

“Hey kiddo,” she replied, smiling at him. Though Paul was only a few years younger, Margh had joined the adventuring life when she was twelve. She had grown up quick in the world, and acted many years older than she actually was.

“Heard you retired.”

“My time’s done. I can’t do much out on the field any more. I have to let the new blood in.”

“Right,” Paul said, smiling. “What are you packing under the bar?”

Margh revealed her light crossbow, and then a sword. The light crossbow seemed fairly normal, but it shot out bolts of magic. The sword was pure black, of Incin design. A fairly typical flaming sword, though the fire leapt from the target to another nearby.

Paul nodded his head, having expected that level of weapon. Margh had been an accomplished adventurer in her own day, and she retired young. Some retired right before the end of their peak, like Margh. Many called them stupid, even more called them smart.

Paul had gone on for a couple of years too long. He had been someone who once enjoyed adventuring, perhaps a little too much. If he had stopped earlier, his life would have been so different. He would have been a married man, with a wife, children, a small hut and garden.

Margh noted the dour look on his face, so she slid him over a drink. He drunk it down, slowly losing himself into his drink, trying to stop his thoughts. He’d get right back to doing what he always did, drinking himself unconscious until another dead Iyrman showed up.

“You’re always trying to stop yourself from thinking, aren’t you?” came a familiar voice from behind him, sweet and sultry, the voice of the devil.

 

 

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