Chapter 1: Chapter 1: Collared by Scars

Book I: Rest-Bringer

Chapter 1- Collared by Scars

“A Homunculus is an artificial body of flesh and blood constructed by arcane means. They are by definition inert husks, lacking intelligence, will, and a soul. However there has been one exception to that general rule. The infamous Homunculus Knight” - Excerpt from the text “Alchemical Abominations” authored by, Aureolus Bombastus, Master Alchemist of the Salted Citadel

It was a dark and stormy night when the stranger came to Glockmire. In truth, most nights in the secluded town were dark and stormy. Nestled between ancient mountains, deep in the wilds of Zaubervold, Sixth Blood Duchy of the Broken Empire. The town was not used to strangers, few dared the wilderness around the town without proper escort. So the sight of the lone traveler on foot, arriving close to midnight, was an event of note. 

The stranger walked across drenched gravel, having followed the nearly washed away road leading to Glockmire. Like the road, the walls of the town were in poor shape, leftovers from a better era, barely maintained but still usable. Glockmire sat in the middle of a mountain pass, guarding safe passage through this part of the Dragon-Tail Mountains. A squat gatehouse, better suited to collecting tolls than defending the town, sat where walls and road met. The stranger approached the stone structure, knocking on the sturdy oaken gate, closed for the night, keeping out trouble and keeping the citizenry within its walls.

The drunk gate guard was falling asleep, something not unusual for the place and time. A balding man with a ruddy complexion and protruding belly. Losing the prior night's game of cards, landing him with the last watch.  This change had done nothing to stop his usual nightcap of cheap drink. It mattered little, walls of old stone, touched by older Magic, protected the town. Few of the things that lurked in the dark woods beyond the town’s walls could pass through the gate uninvited. Those that could either feared the local Lord or served him. In truth, the guards' presence was more of a formality, collecting tolls and alerting other more capable guardians in case of a true threat. 

So it came as a slight annoyance when a steady rhythm of knocks roused the guard from his stupor. Pulling himself up from the rickety chair barely supporting his weight, he shuffled to the small window and peered down on the gatehouse's exterior. Clad in a black traveling cloak, hood drawn from the driving rain stood the stranger. The Guard couldn’t get a good look at the hooded figure out on the road. All he could tell was that the stranger was tall, broad, and carried a large pack. Which meant little in these troubled times. Could be anything from a huntsman to a mercenary looking for bloody work. Well if he could pay the toll and pass the test then he was welcome in Glockmire.

Loudly, to be heard over the rain and through the thick glass, the guard yelled, “Two silver toll, put your bare hand on the Gate. Be quick about it. Far too late to have the Gate open for long.

Through glass fogged by his sour breath, the Guard watched the stranger pull off a glove and rummage through a coin purse. A flash of lightning illuminated the metal studs inlaid into the gate’s wood, each capped with a pure silver head. Expensive but important. Without complaint, or any words at all the Stranger spread the palm of his large gloveless hand on the Gate, making sure he touched a number of the silver studs. 

“Good,” thought the guard, “most anything that goes bump in the night can’t stand the touch of silver.”

After a moment the stranger pulled his bare hand away and dropped two silver coins into his open palm. Holding them out for the Guard to see. Nodding to himself and giving a grunt of relief, the guard went to open the wicket gate. It took nearly a minute of fumbling with keys. A lantern and years of doing this as his only guide. But the Guard succeeded, the smaller door built into the gate swung open and the Stranger entered Glockmire. This close and without a pane of glass to separate them, the Guard realized exactly how big the stranger was, nearly two meters by the looks of it. A moment of worry passed through the inebriated guard's mind but it soon passed as silver fell into his hand. The toll was actually one silver but he deserved the extra for answering at this late hour.

Shutting the wicket gate and locking it. The guard called after the already walking stranger, “The Silly Goat is just up the road and to the left. Decent food and bed for a price. Welcome to Glockmire, don’t cause any trouble or the Lord will get ya.” 

Nodding in confirmation, the stranger set out for the town's sole tavern and inn. What passed for a main street stretched out into the distance, lit by scattered lanterns, and a few candles tucked behind unshuttered windows. Lightning cracked and a peal of thunder echoed through the narrow streets of Glockmire. Another cloud spilled its guts, spurring the stranger forward to the tavern. 

Hanging over the entrance of a well-kept stone and timber building was a painted sign, depicting a Goat prancing. It was visible in the dark, illuminated by the flickering light filtering through the windows. Even through rain fogged windows the dancing flames of a fireplace were visible. A welcome sight to any weary traveler. The stranger expected the door to be locked, but it was not. Creaking open under his gentle push, no bell or other alarm marked the stranger's entrance. Just the groan of wood and a soft click of the latch.

Glancing around the tavern, the Stranger drank it in, the Silly Goat was well furnished, with tables and benches scattered around the main room. In the dim light, it was hard to see but much of the furniture was artfully crafted, carrying small artistic flourishes. An uncharacteristic level of decoration and homespun beauty marked the Silly Goat different from the gaunt and often crumbling structures that made up most of Glockmire. 

A slight movement from the far side of the bar caught the Stranger’s attention, only then did he notice another’s presence.

At the bar there sat a young woman, in her early twenties with long black hair held tight in a braid. She was beautiful, the last bits of adolescence fading into womanhood. High cheekbones and a heart-shaped face, with amber-brown eyes the color of honey. Her focus was firmly on the piece of wood in her hand. Making tiny intricate cuts into the wood, with a well-worn carving knife. It was an unfinished figurine of some sort, maybe of an animal. An annoyed yowl from the nearby floor caught both the stranger and the artist's attention. The cat, who had been lying peacefully on the floor, modeling for its owner, suddenly sprung up and stared at the stranger. 

Finally noticing that someone had entered the tavern the carver gave a startled yelp and nearly dropped her unfinished piece. She had been so focused on carving a model of that damned cat she hadn’t even noticed the new guest. Which was honestly an accomplishment since he filled the doorway with his bulk and large pack. Slipping into the well-practiced role of host, bartender, and anything else her father needed her to do. Natalie set down her figurine and addressed the stranger.

“Hello and welcome to the Silly Goat. I’m Natalie, can I get you a room for the night?” 

She did not put down the small carving knife. It had been years since someone tried to rob her, but in Glockmire, Hells, all of Zaubervold, paranoia is a virtue. If this big bastard tried anything he’d find out how sharp the blade was. The stranger pulled down his hood and took off his remaining glove. Natalie had seen much in her twenty years, much of it ugly, but few rivaled the stranger's face. 

He should have been handsome, with blue eyes, aristocratic features, and the type of pale skin some Nobles would kill for. The mess of scars made sure he would not be turning heads in anything other than fear or morbid fascination. It was like a child playing with a dagger had been let loose on the carved bust of a Lord. Crisscrossing marks made by blade or claw fought for space with the mottled skin of healed burns. One particularly deep scar led from the left corner of his mouth up to his cheek and nearly to his ear. Natalie imagined if he opened his mouth too wide or laughed too hard his face would split open. Not that he looked like a man who laughed much. 

Natalie suppressed a shudder, the things that could do that to a person were myriad, but the people who could survive it were few. Had he been tortured? Survived some calamitous accident, maybe he was a warrior of some kind. The odd axe buckled to his belt indicated the last option, if all three weren’t true. Taking one of his hands, which Nat noticed was equally covered in scars and callus, the stranger ran it through his hair. It was short, so blond it was practically white, with patches of scalp visible thanks to his many wounds. Speaking at last, in a voice deep but strangely melodic the stranger responded.

“Yes, that will do nicely. Maybe some food if you have any available. But please don’t trouble yourself if nothing is made. “How much will I owe you?”

A warm smile crossed the stranger's face, or at least something resembling one. Nat had expected him to be gruff and standoffish. Not polite and well-spoken. She did not recognize his accent, but its clipped articulate tones spoke of some aristocratic polish. Which could mean countless things, further adding to the mystery. Natalie’s wary interest and healthy apprehension quickly hid behind long learned routines. She had been helping in the Inn since she could walk and it came second nature to her. Leaving her place at the bar she started to bustle about as she said  “Oh, we always have good food and tidy rooms here at the “Silly Goat.It will be one silver coin for the room and five Bronze for a meal. I have some leftover mutton stew. If it’s not warm enough let me know. “

Coin changed hands and she headed for the kitchen. There she grabbed a clean bowl from a stack in the back. Ladelling some of the thick broth into it from the pot in which that night's dinner still simmered. One of the few positives of living out in the mountains was that goat meat is cheap and plentiful. Shepherds tended large flocks of both goat and sheep around Glockmire. 

Returning to the bar, Natalie found her new guest in a staring contest with the cat. Neither blinking or turning away, just man and feline staring at each other. Her footsteps pulled both of their attention back to her and she spoke. “Sorry if Stockings gets underfoot. She’s a good cat, but can be mercurial like all those furballs.” 

Again the stranger attempted to form the rictus that passed for a smile and responded. “Not a problem, I like cats, they are interesting souls.”

Handing the bowl and a spoon to the stranger, Natalie went back to the bar, discreetly dropping the payment into a hidden lockbox and picking up her knife and carving. 

“So what am I supposed to call you?”

The stranger looked momentarily put out like he was not used to the question. After a second of reflection, he spoke: “You can call me Cole. My apologies, been on the road for too long, forgot the most basic of manners.”

Cocking an eyebrow at that, Natalie rolled the name around in her mouth. “Cole, so what brings you to Glockmire in the middle of this stormy autumn night?” 

In between mouthfuls of soup, he answered “Oh this is good! Your cooking?”

Dodging the question, interesting. “Oh not mine, my Father is the cook, I can manage but not my favorite chore. So are you heading somewhere else or have business here?”

Cole took his spoon and bowl, set them down at a nearby table, and took a seat. “I don’t entirely know, truth be told. I think my purpose is here, but I'm not certain. And I’m here on a matter of faith, not business.”

That got both of Natalie’s eyebrows raised. He was on a pilgrimage? Why is this a question mark? Not what she would have guessed. What in the Gods’ name would a man of faith be seeking in Glockmire? They had a Temple, with proper shrines to the Sky Father and Earth Mother, but nothing to attract pilgrims. 

“Oh what God do you serve then? I didn’t take you as a Priest? I’m not the most ardent believer but I favor Uncle Maker, for fairly obvious reasons.” As she said this Natalie gestured with her knife and went back to carving her figurine.

As he ate Cole absentmindedly touched the  pendant dangling from his neck before speaking. “I am no priest, just a man with a God.”

He pulled the pendant up to show her. It was a beautifully crafted miniature hourglass, kept in a ring of dark metal with black sand trickling through its neck. “Master Time is my chosen God, or more accurately he chose me.”

A heavy silence filled the tavern, only the faint rumble of thunder and the fireplace’s crackle interrupted it. Master Time, the most powerful God humanity reveres, but the least worshipped. God of Time and more importantly, death. His priests tend the dead, keep track of the seasons and years. The most devout among them are gifted with terrible power over life and death. Ghost-Whisperers, Life-Cutters, Grave-Keepers, a myriad of grim nicknames for Master Time’s priests. But that was not why Natalie fell silent and shivered. Master Time is not an evil god, his followers are typically kind, if dour. Even so, his worship was all but illegal in Zaubervold or any other of the Blood Duchies for that matter. The Aristocracy did not look favorably on Master Time or his servants. The rulers of the Blood Duchies afterall defied this God’s will by their very existence.  

Natalie spoke quietly but tensely as if she feared the shadows might be listening. Who knows? Maybe they are. “You do know who rules Glockmire right? Who Lord Glockmire is? I have no problem with your chosen God, but I would not tell many others. It could be dangerous.”

This time Cole’s smile was sad. “I know what Lord Glockmire is and your concern is appreciated.”  Cole tucked the pendant away, then looked up at Natalie, “If you don’t mind me asking what are you doing up at this late hour? Surely you cannot get guests often at this time of night.?” 

Natalie Accepted the change in conversation and let the corner of her mouth twitch in the flicker of a smile. “Well not to be rude but I take this shift exactly because nobody usually arrives. My Dad takes the early morning, I take the late evenings. He deals with ornery shepherds and tradesmen looking for food and drink. I get a few hours by myself to carve and not be bothered. Normally I get the better part of the bargain I think.”

Cole chuckled at her gentle humor and set down his finished stew. “I apologize then for intruding on your solitude. The artistry in here is lovely, your work?”

The smile on Nat’s face turned fragile for a moment. “Maybe half of it, the older pieces are my Mother’s.”

Cole just nodded at that and stood up, shouldering his pack. “I’m sorry for your loss. Art is a wonderful way to honor her memory and yourself.”

Nat was momentarily taken aback, she had not mentioned her mother’s death, and how the wound it had torn open three years ago was just barely starting to heal. She felt exposed until it clicked into place. He was a devout follower of the God of Death. This Cole could probably read the signs of grief like a book. 

“It’s getting late. Your room is on the second floor, right hallway, third door. The washroom is at the end of the hall. Would you like me to knock on your door tomorrow? Make sure you are awake?”

Natalie Found herself falling into the laconic curtness she adopted when in pain. It was rude, and Cole had been well-meaning, but he had still poked a fresh wound. Cole seemed to register this, nodding softly, and went to place his bowl and spoon on the bartop. He passed close by her, moving with a grace not expected for such a large man. As he approached the staircase he turned back and said, “Thank you, Natalie, I will not require you to wake me. You have been a wonderful host, sleep well when you do.”

With that he went up the staircase, one scarred hand gripping the banister Natalie and her mother had carved together. When the creaking of his steps on the stairs stopped, Natalie felt herself relax. Untensing muscles she had not realized had been taught; since her guests' arrival. Sighing to herself, Natalie went to put away the dishes and her carving. Her artistic mood was spoiled by the interruption. Hells it was time to sleep anyway. 

As she did her final chores, something occurred to Nat. Cole had not been the first weary traveler to pull himself into the  Silly Goat late at night, they were rare but it did happen. They had all been haggard, stinking, and unkempt. Anyone who had been on the road for a few days and traveled even as night fell would be. Except for Cole, strangely he did not smell at all. Years of working in an inn had given Nat a good nose for the various odors of life. None of which lingered in Cole’s wake, or even clung to him. Nothing except the faint scent of damp leather and the stew he ate. Strange, but definitely not the strangest thing about this guest. 

By the next morning, the storm had passed. Weak autumn sunlight streamed  through grey clouds and dried Glockmire. Slowly the mountain town rose from its slumber, tradesfolk opening up shop, farmers bringing the last harvest to market, the usual affairs of life. Shortly after the Dawn Bell, Wilhelm Striga awoke to start his day. An middle aged older man, nearing fifty, with a growing bald spot and gentle humor. Wilhelm was the proud owner and sole proprietor of the Silly Goat. After getting washed and dressed he set about on his morning chores. The first of his usual clients would be arriving soon. Dishes were washed, beds made and the first pot of tea set boiling. 

Soon the rich scent of mountain-root tea filled the tavern. A warm brew with stimulating effects, perfect for the morning crowd and Wilhelm himself. He was not as young as he used to be and it took a good cup of the stuff to get him really moving. Still, there are worse vices to have. Only when the Tavern-keeper got to work preparing that morning's breakfast did he notice the small note scrawled on a piece of scrap paper, stuck under a familiar carving knife. The looping style of his daughter's handwriting was visible on the note. A strange mix of noble cursive and common scratches Natalie had somehow picked up. 

“Father, we had a new guest arrive last night around midnight. He paid and was polite. No wake-up call, in room three. Love you.”

Reading the note, Wilhelm felt himself smile then got to work. Within ten minutes the first of the Silly Goats’ usual clientele had arrived. Grumbling as he pushed open the tavern doors, a wiry old man tottered inside. This was Barnabas, a local merchant and one of Wilhelm’s friends. Days when the old coin-catcher did not come to the Goat demanding tea and food first thing in the morning were rare. Cranky, miserly, and with a bit of a temper, Barnabas’s husband had died around the time Wilhelms' own wife had been killed. A shared pain that bonded the widowers together.
Already moaning about something under his breath, Barnabas extinguished his pipe and shuffled up to the bartop. The Silly Goat had a strict no-smoking rule, Wilhelm hated how the stink of pipe-grass clung to everything and made cooking a hassle. Barnabas had claimed the only reason he followed such a silly rule was he didn’t want to interfere with what he claimed was Wilhelm’s sole redeeming feature, his cooking. 

Seeing his old friend slump into a stool. Wilhelm went to join him, cups of tea in both hands. “So what's got you in a lively mood this morning Barnabas?” 

Taking the tea with a grumbling thanks, the merchant growled: “Bloody rats! I lost twenty kilograms of supplies last night thanks to the skittery little bastards! One of the worm-tailed shits somehow found his way into my storeroom and brought his friends. Every year there are more of them I swear!” 

Wincing at his friend's distress, Wilhelm went to grab some porridge for the both of them. “Next time Stockings gets her claws on a Tom, I’ll make sure to reserve you a kitten. Damn useful to have around, cats. Kills both rats and mice. They can see Magic too, you know?” 

Barnabas brushed off the suggestion and continued his well-practiced habit of complaining. “Maybe, I don't much like cats either. Things give me the creeps. Anyway, got any news from the south? I’ve heard Duke Drakovich passed the Iskari Gates recently, repulsed the Sultan’s offense, and is going to bloody that fire-worshipper!” 

At this Wilhelm just rolled his eyes. “The Duke and his kin have been doing this back and forth with the Sultan for years. One pushes, the other pushes back. The Sultan lacks the power to push past the Gate and into the Blood Duchies proper. Even if he did, and somehow managed to get as far as Elha. The Holy League would send aid, they don’t like us but they dislike the Sultanate more.”

Shrugging his shoulders Barnabas continued, “Oh you are no fun. A little bit of harmless speculation never hurt anyone. Anyway, where is that daughter of yours? Did you manage to get her married yet?”

Wilhelm ideally wondered if the sheer amount of eye-rolling his friend provoked might eventually injure his sight. 

“She is still asleep, we had a guest arrive late last night. And no, I don’t think she’s even courting someone. Not since that whole thing with Raddick’s kid. Still can’t tell who was doing the heartbreaking in that whole ordeal.”

Barnabas raised an eyebrow “Oh which one of the Stable-masters' children was she with, Catlyn or Colt? Neither is a bad catch, shame that didn’t work out.”

A flicker of a smile crossed Wilhelm’s lips. He didn’t know if he should be proud or embarrassed about the matter. “Both actually, Colt first, Catlyn once it soured.” 

For a moment Barnabas looked dumbfounded then burst out laughing. Amused by young Natalie’s antics. “Blessed by Sister Sun and Brother Moon that one is! I see she takes after you, Wilhelm. Before you and Iona took up with each other I was certain an angry husband, father or brother would be your death!”

In response, Wilhelm flicked a drop of porridge at his friend. Soon they fell into the usual pattern of banter and bickering. Other customers streamed in as well. A tired shepherd looking for a warm meal before trekking after a missing flock. Gurni, the only Dwarf in town, looking for Barnabas, hoping to discuss some dealings. An exhausted-looking Footman from the Lord’s castle, hoping to catch his equivalent of Dinner before sleep. Barnabas eventually left to open up his own shop close to the Nine O'clock, the codger attempting to skirt out on paying. Something that earned him a few choice words from Wilhelm.

The steady murmur of Glockmire going about its business and the Temple Bell ringing woke Natalie. It was Ten in the morning and she was surprised by how much she had slept. Slowly rising from a messy pile of blankets and furs, Nat stretched and blinked sleep from her eyes. Adjusting her nightgown she went over to her mirror and inspected herself. As usual, her hair had a mind of its own, sticking up in a remarkably undignified fashion. Physically she felt okay, it was always hard waking up after oversleeping. 

Glancing down at her body, she suppressed a yawn. Muscle tone formed by countless odd-jobs required to run an inn mixed with lovely curves that earned her extra tips from inebriated tavern goers. Stretching again and rubbing her hands through her hair, Natalie prepared to start her day. After washing and dressing, she tidied up her room. She worked in an Inn, and some things came naturally. It took a while, but after some convincing, her hair took a civilized shape and Nat bound it up with an ornate hair clip. 

Another gift from her mother. Given to her when she exited childhood proper, and the first hints of her beauty started to become clear. The hair clip had come with a warning of how beauty attracts attention, and sometimes the wrong kind. Natalie’s mother Iona had wanted to ensure her daughter would be safe, but not live in fear. The barrette could unfold into a small but very sharp silver-coated knife. More than one handsy patron of the tavern had tried to force a kiss from her. Getting one from the hidden Stiletto instead. 

She traced her fingers along the hair-clip, feeling the shape of the stylized bird. Sighing to herself, Natalie started to go about her day. She was thinking about her mother too much. She blamed the pilgrim Cole, his faith and words had broken open an emotional scab. It was not fair to blame the large man, Nat knew that, but couldn’t help it. All those scars, and the way he talked… Like a stranger at a funeral offering heartfelt but distant condolences. 

Bustling downstairs to help her Father prepare for the lunch crowd. Nat tried to get a handle on what she felt. It was not rational and Cole had been nothing but polite. Inwardly she promised that she’d get over this lump of ill-will by the time the pilgrim awoke. 

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Wilhelm waved to his daughter as she scampered over towards the bartop. “You slept late today Nattie. I hear we have a new guest. Did he give you any trouble?”

Shaking her head in the negative. Natalie grabbed the last of the morning's toast and started her chores. “No trouble, he was polite and retired shortly after he arrived. Big bloke though, wouldn’t be surprised if his feet stick off the edge of the bed.”

Chiddingly Wilhelm responded “Nattie! Why didn’t you put him in the third room then? It's got our largest bed, even that Werebear we had a while back found it comfortable.”

Giving a slightly indignant huff, Natalie snapped back. “I did! Reread the note Dad, he’s just huge. Nearly two meters I think.”

They were alone in the Tavern, they were in between meals and it was a workday. Turning away from the food he was preparing, Wilhelm let out a whistle. “Wow, that big? You sure he was human? Maybe some Orc blood or similar. What’s he look like? Don’t want to go testing my heart if I run into a quarter-giant during my day”

A little grimace crossed Natalie’s face as she finished cleaning tables. “I think he’s human but it was hard with the…. Scars. He’s covered in them. I'm honestly surprised he can move about, let alone travel by himself.”

Pausing in her labors, Natalie went over to her father’s side and whispered. “He said his name is Cole, and he told me he’s a pilgrim. One serving Master Time.” 

Pregnant silence filled the Silly Goat for a few seconds before Wilhelm responded. Speaking only a little louder than his daughter had. “If he does not cause any trouble and pays us then it shouldn’t be a problem. Don’t tell anyone, I hope he will be discreet about his faith. For his sake more than anything else.”

With those words, they both went back to work. Natalie left the inn shortly after to purchase some groceries from the market. It didn’t take long. Soon she had a few sacks filled with needed ingredients and was headed back to the Silly Goat. Suddenly shouts of a commotion crashed through  the air. Followed by the crack of breaking stoneware and a pained yell. 

Nat glanced in the direction of the sound. Seeing Petre the Potter on the ground, a large gash across his head. Probably sourced from the large urn shattered on the ground. Nearby stood Felix the Laborer, a shocked and guilty look on his face. Felix had a reputation for being a bullheaded man. Arrogant and bullying, he had been thrown out of the Silly Goat on more than one occasion. An argument with Petre had escalated out of control and blood was shed. 

Horrified, Natalie ducked around the corner. She did not want to be around for what happened next. Felix had spilled blood in violence without the Lord's permission. The Castle Guards would be arriving soon. Felix would be dead or worse by this time tomorrow. Shivering slightly Nat looked up towards the western side of town. Glockmire sat in the middle of the mountain pass that shared its name. surrounded by peaks on two sides. With the western half of the town pressing up against the mountains. Naturally defensible and not too far from the main roads, it had once been home to a Fortress. 

Back in the days of the Old Empire that fortress had guarded the region and the pass from invaders. During the chaos of the Dark Centuries, when the Old Empire fell. People had gathered around the fortress, relying on its strong walls to protect them from invaders, monsters, and demons. Glockmire had a different name back then, one few if anybody remembered. When the Blood Duchies rose from this part of the Old Empire’s ashes, the town attracted the attention of a minor aristocrat known as Glockmire. He claimed the town as his own, renaming it after himself. 

Under Lord Glockmire’s influence, the town expanded and became what it is now. With the old Fortress’s keep at its heart. It was carved into the western mountain side, clinging to it like some overgrown stoney bat. Now renamed Castle Glockmire, where the Lord held court and plotted against his distant kin. Lord Glockmire had little reason to leave his repurposed fortress and enforced his rulership through his Castle Guards. Even in the far distance, Natalie could see one of the Castle’s gates open. A squad of heavily armored warriors exited the pitch-black interior. Marching down the switchback that connected the Castle and town-proper. The Castle Guards would find Felix and bring him back to the Castle for judgment. If he was lucky then the fool would resist them enough to just be killed.

Rushing away from the confrontation, Natalie headed for the Goat as fast as she could. Hoping her flight would not arouse suspicion or interest. Just another villager going about her errands, no need to investigate or follow her. Consciously Natalie knew she had done nothing wrong, but that meant little to the Castle Guards. They would drag anyone they found suspicious off to the Lord’s dungeon. She had a friend from school who’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Taking a shortcut home and finding herself in the middle of a drunken brawl. Natalie had seen her friend Carla only once after the Lord’s soldiers hauled her away. When one of the Lord’s vassals toured Glockmire a year ago, the vassal had been followed by a trail of servants. Including Carla, whose gaunt complexion and drugged stupor revealed her status as a Blood-Maiden. 

Some of the more foolish youths in Glockmire aspired to such a role. The life of luxury, relative safety, and debauched pleasures of the Aristocracy appeals to many. Natalie had always considered it a fate worse than death. To be reduced from a living, thinking person to a favorite meal or toy. Even thinking about it sent shivers down her spine. Felix’s fate would be worse. He was not attractive or talented in anything other than crude work. His last days would be spent feeding Vassals and servants.

 The dungeon of Castle Glockmire had a nickname, one rarely used due to its sinister accuracy. “The Larder” where the Blood-Slaves of the Aristocrats languished between feedings. A terrible fate that befell any who defied Lord Glockmire and his fellow nobles. Feeding the Nocturnal Nobility of the Blood Duchies, or as the old stories called them, Vampires.

Arriving at the Silly Goat, Natalie rushed inside. Slipping back towards the kitchen and pantry she started putting away the groceries she had bought. Wilhelm poked his head into the pantry, seeing the hurried focus of his daughter's movements. 

“Nattie what's wrong? You look like a cat that just got its tail stepped on?”

Wincing, annoyed that she had not better hid her obvious distress, Natalie turned to her father. “Petre and Felix got into some manner of fight. Blood was shed, I saw the Castle gates open.”

The color drained from Wilhelm’s face, he let out a stuttering breath and opened his arms. Giving his daughter the hug she needed. “I’m sorry Nattie, how close were you to it?” 

Letting herself relax a little into her father’s embrace, but quickly recovering, Natalie went back to stocking the pantry and said “Not too close, I don’t think either of them even saw me. I just saw Felix’s eyes. He knew what he had done and what was going to happen next. It brought back memories''

Memories of three years ago, of the events that led to Iona, Natalie’s mother’s death. It went unsaid but both father and daughter knew what was meant. Grief had nearly destroyed both of them, but they had each other. Something many other grieving townsfolk had not. Three years ago; a two-fold calamity struck Glockmire. A plague that resisted all but the strongest healing Magic came first. It struck livestock and people with equal ferocity. Leaving a trail of corpses wherever it spread. Corpses that fed and emboldened the dark things hiding in the Dragon-Tail mountains. Worse things than Vampires stalk the shadows of the world. One of those horrors had taken Iona’s life before one of the Lord’s Knights could chase it back into the wilderness.

A sobering silence filled the pantry and Wilhelm gave his daughter an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder before going back to preparing food. Finishing up her duties, Natalie left the pantry and started to head upstairs to do some basic housekeeping. A thought struck her before she made it too far and she turned back to her father.

“Hey Dad, did the new guest get up yet? I want to clean rooms, did he leave while I was out.”

Shrugging slightly, Wilhelm responded: “I haven’t seen him, and the door to room three was closed last time I checked. You said his name is Cole right? I Bet he needs sleep after traveling. Lunch will be up soon so maybe go knock on his door and let him know.”

With that, Natalie went about her business. It was not difficult work, she’d perfected the routines years ago. The usual flow she entered into when doing this type of work however did not come. Her mind continuously pulled back to the disturbances within the last day. The arrival of this strange pilgrim of a virtually illegal god, and the likely exsanguination of an unlucky fool. In between tasks she stopped in front of room three and knocked. 

“Mister Cole, lunch will be starting in about half an hour. We serve it till half-past One. Just wanted to let you know”

No response, not even the grumbling she learned to expect from people awoken from long needed sleep. Odd, but what wasn’t about this scared man? If he was a man at all. Remote as Glockmire is, Natalie had little experience with the other peoples of the world. The Broken Empire was human land by population and history. With only a few scattered Dwarven Holds, nomadic Werefolk clans, and of course the Vampire aristocrats living nearby. As an innkeeper’s daughter, she had some exposure to strange cultures and peoples. Providing food and bed for merchants, explorers, scholars, and other wandering types passing through the region. Just not enough experience to say for certain if this Cole was human, a hybrid, or something more exotic. 

Eventually, Natalie returned downstairs to help her father with the trickling- in lunch crowd. Old Barnabas, ever ready with good advice and harsh commentary, was of course at the bar. He refused to sit at the tables and always found a way to arrive early to claim his spot. The wiry old merchant was something of an adopted Uncle for Natalie. She knew he could be a razor-tongued bastard, but that he cared for her and her Father in his own strange way. Natalie didn’t have much of an extended family, her father was an only child. While her mother came from the south and didn’t talk much about her family. Natalie had been curious in her youth but quickly figured out it was a verboten subject and a source of much pain for her mother.

The hustle and bustle of serving food for whatever townsfolk came to the Silly Goat filled up Natalie’s time. She ferried food and empty dishes around the tavern with practiced ease. Father and daughter falling into a seasoned rhythm. Working as a coordinated team to do what really should be three or four people's work. After maybe an hour of work, Natalie got a moment of break and decided to do something nice by. gGoing upstairs to knock on Cole’s door again. It was a little thing but  this act of kindness was an attempt to get over her angst related to the Death-worshipper. Again no response and Natalie didn’t know if she should be worried or annoyed.

Annoyance won out at first. She would not be able to clean the room in good time at this rate and would probably have to deal with a hungry customer refusing to listen to reason. It would not be the first time someone slept through a meal at the Silly Goat and decided it was Nat’s fault. Strong-willed, confident, and clever, all words that describe Natalie., yYet such strengths come with natural pitfalls, holding grudges being chief among them. Grudges that hadn’t even really manifested to boot.

Already Natalie found herself practicing her argument with this Cole character. Defending herself from accusations of incompetence, with a series of fiery retorts. Of course, he hadn’t really done anything to offend her yet but she was used to this kind of thing. Natalie found it best to prepare for every fight and possible grievance beforehand. In her mind, she had hoped to extend an olive branch byin waking Cole for lunch and move past her irrational feelings rooted in grief. With that avenue shut she let her natural tendency to spite blend with anger born of grief, resulting in thea fierce concoction of aggrievement simmering in her heart. 

Natalie was at least somewhat aware of this bad habit of hers. Both her mother and father had tried to correct it but with little success. Old Barnabas was similar to her in this regard and before she died Iona had blamed her husband's friend for the cantankerous streak of their daughter. To the accusation, Barnabas had simply laughed and responded “Nobodys perfect, not even the Gods. There are a lot worse flaws to have in this world than remembering an enemy and being prepared for them.” 

The day went on and eventually news of Felix’s capture filtered in. He had attempted to steal a horse and flee town. An act that added an additional layer of doom to his already sealed fate. The Castle Guards had tracked him down, with the  eyasily. The Magical scent of spilled blood calling to them like hounds after an injured rabbit. Clad  head to toe in ominous black plate armor with the visors of their helmets locked in place, head to toe, the Castle Guards had marched through the streets in pairs. The heavy clanking of their boots on the cobblestones always foretold of dread and terror for someone.  Today that person was Felix. They cornered him not far from the stable  and They surrounded the horse.. One guard , one reached up with his armor plated gauntlet and yanked easily  grabed Felix to the ground knocking both the wind and the fight out of this once belligerent man. The guard closed ranks  and they dragged him bodily back to the Castle all without saying a word. The temple was already preparing for the funeral. It wouldn’t be held until Felix’s fate was certain, but no one had any doubt of what that fate would be.

As lunch continued and customers came and went, the tension became palpable. Everyone was worried, the Lord’s justice was rare but always swift, far-reaching, and brutal. To a centuries-old Vampire, the day-to-day concerns of mortals were inconsequential. Easier to rip out a problem root and stem, never mind those caught up in said removal. Natalie was justifiably nervous, as a witness, she might get pulled into the ordeal. Ideally, she found herself murmuring prayers to the Ten Gods. Prayer was putting it politely. The ditty she half sang under her breath was meant to teach children about the Pantheon of humanity. 

“Praise Father Sky and Mother Earth. They keep us safe through gifts and guidance. 

Embrace Sister Sun and Brother Moon. Who gives us passion and the turning of the day. 

Learn from Uncle Maker and Uncle Trickster. Providers of tools and trials to help us survive.

Watch Aunt Huntress and Aunt Seeress. Teachers of secrets, both Magical and mundane.

Respect Mistress Void, and …. Master Time”

She couldn’t finish the last verse, it caught in Natalie’s throat. A shiver worked its way up her spine, and for a moment time slowed. It felt like something traced itself along her soul, a spiritual finger teasing at the edge of her being. The sensation passed as soon as it came and Natalie found herself leaning against the wall. Sucking in deep breaths she tried to ground herself. After a moment she realized someone was calling her name.

Marku, a mason, was looking at her with concern. Nearly thirty and built strong from his occupation, he glanced over her with dark eyes colored with mild worry. Shaking the last of the strange feeling off, Natalie forced on a partial smile and responded. 

“Yes, Marku? Can I get you anything?”

Shaking his head in the negative. “No, just saw you stumble and turn pale. Well paler than you normally are. Can’t have the only Bar-maid in Glockmire passing out on us can we?” 

The smile on Nat’s face became a bit more sincere and she tried to brush off the oddness. “I was up far too late last night working on a carving. Sleep loss must be getting to me, I’ll be fine.”

Marku simply nodded and went back to his meal. In anyone else, she might have taken the attention and kind words as flirting. Not Marku, recently married to his childhood sweetheart and unfailingly polite, the man was just being nice. He was another regular at the Silly Goat and sometimes offered artistic advice to Nat. Most of Marku’s time was spent being a glorified quarry foreman, but he did enjoy the more artistic side of being a mason. The granite and rare deposits of precious metals hidden in the surrounding mountains were one of Glockmire’s few exports. An ever-expanding series of tunnels and mine-shafts wormed their way through the peaks nearest the town.

Natalie tried to put on a brave face but she was unnerved. A presence had brushed up against her being and it disturbed her. She was no stranger to Magic; a few spellweavers live in Glockmire and the Aristocracy wield powerful Magics born of darkness and blood. Nor Neither was divine intervention something unheard of. The Gods had answered some prayers during the Plague and of course, Natalie had faced the Gods during her Rite of Youth. Where childhood ends with an oath to the Gods, and where they grant their blessing. A covenant between mortal and divine that has been honored since the Gates Beyond were shut millennia ago. What Natalie experienced felt similar to the Gods’ influence but colder, more alien. The momentary attention of something beyond her ken. 

Natelie shuttered and got back to work. It took some effort but she pushed through the strange disorientation and creeping sense of being exposed brought on by her encounter. A few other customers commented on her unusually silent and standoffish demeanor. Natalie waved them off and pushed  through the shift, which was felt thrice as long. She knew if she spoke with her father he’d have her take a break. But never one to shirk work, Natalie refused to do so . Stubborn defiance powering her through the next hour and a half.

With the shift over, she finally told her dad she felt under the weather and was going upstairs to recoup. Wilhelm had noticed his daughter's distress earlier but said nothing. He would respect Natalie’s decision even if he thought it was foolish. His little girl was now a woman and if she wanted to push against whatever had hurt her, that was her call. Wilhelm assumed it was about the whole ordeal with Felix. Knowing what the Lord’s justice is and seeing it are two very different things. 

Thoroughly exhausted, Nat dragged herself up the stairs and to her room. Once there she absently grabbed her carving knife and the unfinished sculpture of Stockings the Cat. Looking at it for a moment, Nat let out a deep sigh and set her artform back down. Much to her annoyance, she was too tired to even relax. Shutting the door, she collapsed into bed, not even bothering to change clothes or take off the little bit of makeup she’d put on earlier. 

Lying on top of the covers Natalie stared up at the ceiling, barely illuminated by the room's windows were the carvings of constellations. A project her parents had worked on together before she was born. They had been so excited, wanting their child to sleep beneath starry skies while being kept safe from the elements. Natalie traced the constellations with her mind, seeing the Wyrm with the East Star in its left claw, and the She-Wolf followed by her two pups. 

Gods she had been so small, looking up at this, asking her parents what each constellation was and meant. Feeling her eyes tear up, a flash of annoyance filled Natalie. It had been three years, three bloody years. Now she was back to staring off into space wrapped up in grief. The day so far has not been a good one... She watched a man realize he was already dead. An encounter with an unknown  spiritual power had thrown her off-kilter by just a side-ways glance, and the bloody pilgrim had brought up her mother’s death. 

Ennui, sadness, and a vague feeling of disorientation quickly gave way to anger. Anger is easier, it burns hot and chokes out all other emotions. With an indignant huff, Natalie got out of bed. Straightened herself out in the mirror and decided to channel that anger. Marching down towards the guest rooms, Natalie felt vindicated when she saw Cole’s door was still shut. It was nearly two in the afternoon! What sort of man lazed about in bed like an overfed cat? 

Filled with what Barnabas would call “Piss and Vinegar”, Nat marched up to the pilgrim’s room and wailed on the door. Still no response. That did it, she was going to wake this stupid death-worshipping bastard up and tell him what-for. 

Pulling up the master key she kept, Natalie unlocked the door. Mentally practicing two  separate speeches depending on Cole’s reaction. If he tried to give her more of that polite and gentle mourner crap she would tear him up. Emphatically getting across a message that could be roughly summarized as “don’t you dare pity me.” Alternatively, she could backpedal and claim she was worried that Cole was not out of bed yet, while making sure to fit in some subtle but heavy disapproval and judgment. On some level, Natalie knew this was an overreaction and her father would be furious at her. That didn’t matter, she wanted to be angry at someone and this stupid worshipper of Entropy and all its evil was a damn good target.

Flinging the door open, Natalie burst into the room already preparing her tried and true wake-up call. Years of getting the most exhausted customers out of bed (at their request) had taught her to disrupt sleep in a way even the proudest rooster would be impressed by. As the light from the hallway spilled into the darkened room, the first syllable died in her throat. It took a moment for her mind to process exactly what she was looking at. 

Cole was sprawled out on the floor, with his torso propped up on the bed frame. He was half-naked. Normally Natalie might have taken a moment to appreciate the sculpted muscles she saw. Physically Cole should have looked like some carved adonis, almost too perfect. Unlike the natural muscle of hard labor she knew well, this seemed unreal, sculpted in someone's image of male perfection. Though stange, the seeming artificialness of his musculature is not what shocked her, it was the scars. His face was not alone in the mutilation. Cole’s skin was a patchwork of horrible marks of torment. 

Natalie was no expert on scars or injuries but she wagered maybe half of them looked natural, products of battle and life, the other half was clearly the results of torture. Shuddering, Natalie looked at Cole's face and received another shock. The man was clearly unconscious and paler than he had been last night. But what caught  her eye was the pattern of scars around his neck. They were so thick that it was impossible to see unblemished skin. These scars were different, tiny puncture marks that overlapped and surrounded his neck, forming a ring of discolored and mottled skin. Almost a necklace of tiny circular wounds. 

“A Collar of Scars” That was what went through Natalie’s mind as she took in the sight. It looked like Cole had been stabbed hundreds of times in the neck, stabbed by small sharp points. The truth clicked when she saw where the worst concentration of scars was located. Right overtop where the key veins and arteries feed through the neck. Cole had been fed upon by a Vampire, more likely multiple Vampires for Gods’ know how long. He’d been a blood-slave, livestock for the life-drinkers. A fate of certain death, for all it seemed except him. 

Anger rapidly faded and was replaced by shock, worry, and curiosity. Natalie held still for a moment, regrouping. Then she approached the unconscious pilgrim. He still did not wake, nor even stir. Coughing loudly and creeping closer, Natalie started to become concerned. Was he ill? He hadn’t reacted to her presence and seemed dead to the world. A chilling thought crossed Natalie’s mind. What if he was in fact dead? The trials of travel using up the final reserves of a broken body. 

Gingerly, Natalie got closer and reached out to poke him. Thankfully she saw the subtle rise and fall of his chest. He was alive but his breath was slow and shallow, more so than any sleeping man should be. She’d come this far, might as well take the next step, finding a spot on his shoulder that looked relatively unblemished by healed wounds; Natalie poked him. The moment the tip of her finger touched surprisingly soft skin he awoke. Startling blue eyes flashed open and focused on her face.

With an undignified yelp, Natalie lept back as Cole rose up. Quickly backpedaling towards the entrance. Natalie forgot all the carefully planned responses she’d  planned out. Stammering, she tried to talk, as surprise robbed her of any eloquence.

“I...I...I wanted t-to check on y-you. It’s n-nearly two in the-”

She trailed off as Cole slowly rose and she saw what was clasped in his left hand, Which  had been hidden behind his body and the bed.  It was a skull, a pale humanoid skull, unmarked by time or damage, lacking its jaw but otherwise complete. Natalie stared agog at this physical reminder of mortality as Cole stood up, placed it on the bed like it was nothing special,  He then turned and looked down at her. 

Despite having his privacy violated and his sleep interrupted Cole still held that gentle smile of his. He showed none of the discombobulation or confusion one might experience upon being rudely awakened. 

“I take it I overslept considerably to incur such a reaction, Ms. Natalie. Thank you for your concern. Now, If you don’t mind,  I’d like to get dressed and prepare for what little of the day remains.” 

Blushing slightly ats  the realization she ’dhad  barged in on  an almost unclothed stranger hit her. Natalie left the room holding her head in her hands, embarrassed at her rash actions as  a dozen more questions about this Cole fellow entered her mind. Cursing under her breath and swearing she’d not let her hot-headedness get the better of her again. Natalie went downstairs to try and find something to do and forget this whole calamity.

Sighing to himself, Cole went to shut the door the young woman had left open in her rush to leave. He still felt a bit lightheaded, but that was to be expected. Grabbing a washcloth and basin he started to clean himself up. If it was already nearly two in the afternoon, then recovering had taken longer than he expected. His traveling companion was hungry and had drunk her fill and then some it seemed. Pulling on his shirt Cole walked over towards the skull sitting on the bed. Its hollow sockets peering out, a constant reminder of his task. 

Picking it up gently Cole brushed the skull's cheekbone absently. He hoped Natalie’s surprise and shock were enough to keep her from noticing the skull's abnormalities. Its canines were long and sharp, more like a snake's fangs than anything human. The tips of the eye-teeth were stained reddish-brown. With the skull still held carefully in one hand, Cole went back to the washbasin and grabbed a clean cloth. He cleaned the stained fangs and watched the cloth turn slightly reddish with blood, his blood. 

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