Ire
The Dwarven Brewmaster
It was raining. The downpour mixed with the dirt of the road, creating a muddy concoction that the horses struggled to trudge through. Their hooves dug up the mud continuously, and the howling winds only made the chill of the rain that much worse.
The road was bordered by forest on either side, and the branches of the trees whipped to and fro under the power of the gusts. The leaves rustled. Combined with the overwhelming sound of the descending rain, the three cleansers could barely hear themselves think let alone have any conversation. Not that anyone would ever choose to talk in such weather―they were too involved with keeping a tight grip on the reins of their steeds and watching their hot breath release itself from their lungs into the cold air.
Kaemon, the Sentinel of the cleanser group and therefore the highest in command, led the trio. His horse’s brown coat shined in the moisture of the atmosphere, and his Sentinel armor rattled with every movement of the stallion beneath him. His greatsword was strapped to his broad, armored back, and his helmet was hooked to the left side of his horse, along with various traveling supplies. Kaemon’s blue hood was pulled over his countenance to protect his eyes from the falling droplets, allowing his steel-gray orbs to scan along the path.
Thick clouds hung overhead, darkening the skies and letting the lights of the city ahead of them shine that much more prominently. The grand gatehouse of the city of Garser loomed three hundred yards ahead, and the towering ramparts on either side of the brilliant structure were adorned with flame-aglow lanterns.
The three cleansers had just finished slaying another sorcerer who had taken up residence in a hovel about six miles out from Garser. Local villagers had complained to the guards, and the guards relayed the message to the Cleanser Order, and the rest was history.
The sorcerer had been living in a state of denial of his unlucky circumstances of being born with the Essence of Erebus flowing through his veins. He thought himself a normal citizen, even though he could force almost anything to freeze with a touch of a hand. He could not control the gift unrightfully given to him by the demise of Erebus, and as the Book of Twins stated, he was to be slain. As such, Kaemon had no remorse when he struck him down with his mighty blade.
Upon reaching the gatehouse of Garser, the troupe of six guards approached the cleanser trio. The captain of the company led them, his full-plate armor slickened by the rain. The droplets poured down upon them, the water echoing off their metal helmets and pauldrons. A hand on the hilt of the sheathed blade at his left side, the captain examined the trio.
Kaemon narrowed his eyes at the captain and pulled his reins to the right, so his left side was facing the guardsmen. “We have finished slaying a sorcerer on the outskirts of Garser. We planned to head for the Holy City after the ordeal, but the weather has set us back. We must enter the city to stay at a tavern for the evening,” Kaemon explained, gripping the reins of his steed a bit tighter, making the metal of his gauntlets crunch.
“‘at’s Sentinel armor, sir. He’s one o’ dem master swordsmen o’ somethin’,” one of the lower-ranking guardsmen said to his captain. The statement drew a belated glance over the captain’s right shoulder to eye his guardsman, looking at him for a long while before his eyes returned to Kaemon.
“Let ‘em through!” The captain ordered, turning around and waving his arms at the archers positioned on the parapet-defended summit of the gatehouse. With that, the captain beckoned his men to move out of the way, and Kaemon snapped his reins back to the left, straightening his horse toward the gate.
For standing still for so long in the mud, when the horses’ hooves lifted, a suction sound echoed. The horses neighed and shook as the iron-barred gate lifted, causing a great deal of noise to mix with the falling rain and the rustling leaves. When the gate was finally lifted, the cleansers passed through, the horses having to take a step upward onto the cobblestone of the main street.
Mud filled the spaces between the stones of the road, and the muddy hooves of the steeds only made the paths worse. Even at this time of night, with such weather, traffic still made the streets clustered. Most of the those who walked the streets, however, were on foot, making the cleansers atop their mighty steeds tower over them.
Lanterns hung from nearly every shop, house, and guard post, allowing some light to shine on the dark streets. After one hundred yards or so down the main road of Garser―which felt more like three hundred with the throngs of people clogging the street―the cleansers came upon the Crumbled Stone Tavern.
The structure was three-stories tall, and had a stable built on its left side. Kaemon led his two other cleansers to the stables and proceeded to dismount, hooking the reins of the horses to the wooden posts designated in the shadowy rear of the stables.
Now on foot, Kaemon entered the residence with his cleansers tailing him. The door creaked as he opened it, and as he did so, light poured out onto the opaque street. Laughter and the slamming of mugs on tables quickly replaced the sound of the rain. Entering the establishment fully, Kaemon’s cloak dripped water onto the wooden floorboards as he approached the bar.
A portly man donning a thick black beard and a long black mane that hung between his shoulder blades manned the bar. He cleaned the mugs, tankards, and glasses with a thick cloth as his brown eyes stared at Kaemon and his comrades. “Whatcha need dere sir?” The bartender asked, continuing his scrubbing.
“We need a private room with three beds. I must put emphasis on the ‘private’ as well. If anyone disturbs us, they will leave this place with broken bones or not at all,” Kaemon demanded, his eyebrows closing in on his abridged nose.
“Alright there laddie, no need to throw threats onta shadow men,” the bartender retorted, placing the glass on the bar and throwing the cloth over his left shoulder. “The room’s free as always for you cleanser types, but the ale ain’t! If ye want somethin’ to drink, ye need to pay like e’eryone else!”
“We don’t need your ale, citizen. All we need is the food you serve, and that’s free as well,” Kaemon exclaimed with a snarl, eyeing the bartender as he made his way toward the back of the tavern, to a round table placed against the far wall.
Kaemon and his two cleansers sat at the table quickly, not lounging in their seats like the common riff-raff that attended such establishments at this time of night. Many of the patrons of the Crumbled Stone eyed the cleansers from their very sides of their vision, wanting to observe them but never desiring to make eye contact.
Awaiting their meal, Kaemon’s eyes wandered throughout the inn, examining and analyzing every single individual present. He was a Sentinel for a reason, and that meant he was always on alert, no matter if he was safe within the walls of Garser or out in the darkness of the forests.
The road was bordered by forest on either side, and the branches of the trees whipped to and fro under the power of the gusts. The leaves rustled. Combined with the overwhelming sound of the descending rain, the three cleansers could barely hear themselves think let alone have any conversation. Not that anyone would ever choose to talk in such weather―they were too involved with keeping a tight grip on the reins of their steeds and watching their hot breath release itself from their lungs into the cold air.
Kaemon, the Sentinel of the cleanser group and therefore the highest in command, led the trio. His horse’s brown coat shined in the moisture of the atmosphere, and his Sentinel armor rattled with every movement of the stallion beneath him. His greatsword was strapped to his broad, armored back, and his helmet was hooked to the left side of his horse, along with various traveling supplies. Kaemon’s blue hood was pulled over his countenance to protect his eyes from the falling droplets, allowing his steel-gray orbs to scan along the path.
Thick clouds hung overhead, darkening the skies and letting the lights of the city ahead of them shine that much more prominently. The grand gatehouse of the city of Garser loomed three hundred yards ahead, and the towering ramparts on either side of the brilliant structure were adorned with flame-aglow lanterns.
The three cleansers had just finished slaying another sorcerer who had taken up residence in a hovel about six miles out from Garser. Local villagers had complained to the guards, and the guards relayed the message to the Cleanser Order, and the rest was history.
The sorcerer had been living in a state of denial of his unlucky circumstances of being born with the Essence of Erebus flowing through his veins. He thought himself a normal citizen, even though he could force almost anything to freeze with a touch of a hand. He could not control the gift unrightfully given to him by the demise of Erebus, and as the Book of Twins stated, he was to be slain. As such, Kaemon had no remorse when he struck him down with his mighty blade.
Upon reaching the gatehouse of Garser, the troupe of six guards approached the cleanser trio. The captain of the company led them, his full-plate armor slickened by the rain. The droplets poured down upon them, the water echoing off their metal helmets and pauldrons. A hand on the hilt of the sheathed blade at his left side, the captain examined the trio.
Kaemon narrowed his eyes at the captain and pulled his reins to the right, so his left side was facing the guardsmen. “We have finished slaying a sorcerer on the outskirts of Garser. We planned to head for the Holy City after the ordeal, but the weather has set us back. We must enter the city to stay at a tavern for the evening,” Kaemon explained, gripping the reins of his steed a bit tighter, making the metal of his gauntlets crunch.
“‘at’s Sentinel armor, sir. He’s one o’ dem master swordsmen o’ somethin’,” one of the lower-ranking guardsmen said to his captain. The statement drew a belated glance over the captain’s right shoulder to eye his guardsman, looking at him for a long while before his eyes returned to Kaemon.
“Let ‘em through!” The captain ordered, turning around and waving his arms at the archers positioned on the parapet-defended summit of the gatehouse. With that, the captain beckoned his men to move out of the way, and Kaemon snapped his reins back to the left, straightening his horse toward the gate.
For standing still for so long in the mud, when the horses’ hooves lifted, a suction sound echoed. The horses neighed and shook as the iron-barred gate lifted, causing a great deal of noise to mix with the falling rain and the rustling leaves. When the gate was finally lifted, the cleansers passed through, the horses having to take a step upward onto the cobblestone of the main street.
Mud filled the spaces between the stones of the road, and the muddy hooves of the steeds only made the paths worse. Even at this time of night, with such weather, traffic still made the streets clustered. Most of the those who walked the streets, however, were on foot, making the cleansers atop their mighty steeds tower over them.
Lanterns hung from nearly every shop, house, and guard post, allowing some light to shine on the dark streets. After one hundred yards or so down the main road of Garser―which felt more like three hundred with the throngs of people clogging the street―the cleansers came upon the Crumbled Stone Tavern.
The structure was three-stories tall, and had a stable built on its left side. Kaemon led his two other cleansers to the stables and proceeded to dismount, hooking the reins of the horses to the wooden posts designated in the shadowy rear of the stables.
Now on foot, Kaemon entered the residence with his cleansers tailing him. The door creaked as he opened it, and as he did so, light poured out onto the opaque street. Laughter and the slamming of mugs on tables quickly replaced the sound of the rain. Entering the establishment fully, Kaemon’s cloak dripped water onto the wooden floorboards as he approached the bar.
A portly man donning a thick black beard and a long black mane that hung between his shoulder blades manned the bar. He cleaned the mugs, tankards, and glasses with a thick cloth as his brown eyes stared at Kaemon and his comrades. “Whatcha need dere sir?” The bartender asked, continuing his scrubbing.
“We need a private room with three beds. I must put emphasis on the ‘private’ as well. If anyone disturbs us, they will leave this place with broken bones or not at all,” Kaemon demanded, his eyebrows closing in on his abridged nose.
“Alright there laddie, no need to throw threats onta shadow men,” the bartender retorted, placing the glass on the bar and throwing the cloth over his left shoulder. “The room’s free as always for you cleanser types, but the ale ain’t! If ye want somethin’ to drink, ye need to pay like e’eryone else!”
“We don’t need your ale, citizen. All we need is the food you serve, and that’s free as well,” Kaemon exclaimed with a snarl, eyeing the bartender as he made his way toward the back of the tavern, to a round table placed against the far wall.
Kaemon and his two cleansers sat at the table quickly, not lounging in their seats like the common riff-raff that attended such establishments at this time of night. Many of the patrons of the Crumbled Stone eyed the cleansers from their very sides of their vision, wanting to observe them but never desiring to make eye contact.
Awaiting their meal, Kaemon’s eyes wandered throughout the inn, examining and analyzing every single individual present. He was a Sentinel for a reason, and that meant he was always on alert, no matter if he was safe within the walls of Garser or out in the darkness of the forests.
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