K
King of Pain
Guest
Pounding on the door made it strain on its weathered hinges. The sound echoed within the old watchtower into which the door was set, but no echo returned across the drear, fog embanked moor that surrounded it. Dragging on the stone stoop, the door was forced outward by a thin, taught muscled man wearing a woolen gray cloak and tunic. His quick, thin eyes opened in momentary shock as he registered the towering figure that had produced the racket. His eyes darted to the base of the hillock that the tower was situated atop, and saw the muddied warhorse that this stranger had obviously ridden. The lithe doorman stepped aside and curtly motioned for the tall man to enter.
The brooding hulk of a man crouched as he entered the door of the dilapidated tower, nearly knocking the smaller man off his feet as he brushed against him. The giant cast him a baneful glance, suggesting that it was the smaller man’s own fault for the contact. He in turn cast him a wry smile, and lead the giant through a room stacked with mildewed crates and barrels, stinking of a slow and moist decay. They proceeded up a flight of lichen encrusted stone stairs anchored in the tower wall, to the first story above.
The giant cast a leery look around as he mounted the stairs into the room. It was well appointed, though the moisture of the place was having its way with the more delicate accommodations. An ornate woven rug spotted with ember scars and mildew stains covered the wooden floor, damping the echo on the steps to a hush. The humid warmth of the room was coming from a cast iron stove set atop a large paving stone. The smell of a thin broth tinged the air, coming from a kettle set to a slow boil on the stove. An ornately carved table sat centered in the room, with a fine doilied spread atop it. A set of two matching armchairs flanked the table, with a gaunt white-haired man sitting in the one nearer the stove, facing the stairs. The lines of his face were brought to sharp contrast by the yellow light cast from the candelabra centered on the table.
He took a sip of broth from an earthenware mug, wiped his scraggly beard with the sleeve of his oily embroidered robe, and then motioned for the stranger to sit at the table.
The bearish man propped an axe and bow against the table and sat down. His postured revealed a man of action, coiled and ready to spring. The old man chuckled, then coughed gently.
“You are in no threat,” the old man rasped, “now relax and tell me your name and what you seek.”
The large man fixed him with cool steel eyes and let his frame relax a notch. He laid a medallion engraved with geometric symbols on the table, still holding the old man with his gaze.
“Ah, the strong silent type,” the old man chortled as he reached out and picked up the medallion. After examining it, he set it back on the table and measured the giant with careful scan. “So you are from the guild house of Fraekryss, the vanished necromancer… but no name or title is on the token. Your identity shall remain a mystery, then?”
The stranger nodded, still holding the old man in his determined gaze as he retrieved his token.
“Very well, it shan’t make the task easier, but it should not make much difference. I assume you are seeking the old wizard? No,” he added contemplatively, “then someone else, and you have brought some affects of theirs… and of course, payment?”, he added with a smile.
The giant reached into his tunic, produced a bag and sat it on the table. The old man took the bag and emptied the contents on the table. A handkerchief, a balled up nightshirt, a worn stylus, a seal, an well-used wooden puzzle made of intersecting disks, a pair of scissors, a brass sextant, and a small metal bound and locked book. Sorting through the items, the wizened man mumbled and clucked to himself. After some time spent is this evaluation, he looked up into the gray eyes of the giant.
“You know, the payment is going to run high. This mage you seek, he is no longer on this sphere.”
The brooding hulk of a man crouched as he entered the door of the dilapidated tower, nearly knocking the smaller man off his feet as he brushed against him. The giant cast him a baneful glance, suggesting that it was the smaller man’s own fault for the contact. He in turn cast him a wry smile, and lead the giant through a room stacked with mildewed crates and barrels, stinking of a slow and moist decay. They proceeded up a flight of lichen encrusted stone stairs anchored in the tower wall, to the first story above.
The giant cast a leery look around as he mounted the stairs into the room. It was well appointed, though the moisture of the place was having its way with the more delicate accommodations. An ornate woven rug spotted with ember scars and mildew stains covered the wooden floor, damping the echo on the steps to a hush. The humid warmth of the room was coming from a cast iron stove set atop a large paving stone. The smell of a thin broth tinged the air, coming from a kettle set to a slow boil on the stove. An ornately carved table sat centered in the room, with a fine doilied spread atop it. A set of two matching armchairs flanked the table, with a gaunt white-haired man sitting in the one nearer the stove, facing the stairs. The lines of his face were brought to sharp contrast by the yellow light cast from the candelabra centered on the table.
He took a sip of broth from an earthenware mug, wiped his scraggly beard with the sleeve of his oily embroidered robe, and then motioned for the stranger to sit at the table.
The bearish man propped an axe and bow against the table and sat down. His postured revealed a man of action, coiled and ready to spring. The old man chuckled, then coughed gently.
“You are in no threat,” the old man rasped, “now relax and tell me your name and what you seek.”
The large man fixed him with cool steel eyes and let his frame relax a notch. He laid a medallion engraved with geometric symbols on the table, still holding the old man with his gaze.
“Ah, the strong silent type,” the old man chortled as he reached out and picked up the medallion. After examining it, he set it back on the table and measured the giant with careful scan. “So you are from the guild house of Fraekryss, the vanished necromancer… but no name or title is on the token. Your identity shall remain a mystery, then?”
The stranger nodded, still holding the old man in his determined gaze as he retrieved his token.
“Very well, it shan’t make the task easier, but it should not make much difference. I assume you are seeking the old wizard? No,” he added contemplatively, “then someone else, and you have brought some affects of theirs… and of course, payment?”, he added with a smile.
The giant reached into his tunic, produced a bag and sat it on the table. The old man took the bag and emptied the contents on the table. A handkerchief, a balled up nightshirt, a worn stylus, a seal, an well-used wooden puzzle made of intersecting disks, a pair of scissors, a brass sextant, and a small metal bound and locked book. Sorting through the items, the wizened man mumbled and clucked to himself. After some time spent is this evaluation, he looked up into the gray eyes of the giant.
“You know, the payment is going to run high. This mage you seek, he is no longer on this sphere.”
