Chapter 7: -7- “The Drunken Black Cat”

“The office. Stay close, though; the last thing we want to do right now is get in a fight.” Damaris confirms their destination, leading Deacon through Merek. Everyone they passed by was armed, from long spears to small knives, all with a leering look in their eyes both towards Damaris and the stuff they were carrying. But, four armed ‘men’ blocked their path from robbing these travelers in broad daylight, their weapons unknown to them. Of course, no one was stupid enough (for now, at least) to learn what these weapons could do, but there is bound to be someone at some point. 

The streets were filthy and unkempt, with dried horse dung on the ground and garbage blowing along the roads as they walked. Not to mention the smell, Deacon had to plug his nose and wish he had created a gas mask to hide the scent as they traveled. But too late for that now; he had to face the music.

Then came a running bald woman towards them, gasping and choking for help. “Help me! Someone, please help me!” 

She makes towards Damaris and Deacon in her blind sprint, probably thinking she would find safety with these strangers. But just short of reaching their group, a pair of bolas fly through the air and trap her by her legs, causing her to fall forward. 

The girl looks up, dirt and tears staining her face as she continues to cry and plead for help. Deacon takes a step forward, his instincts and good nature kicking in to help. But Damaris, on the other hand, stops him by holding her hand out, eyes telling him no as she shakes her head. 

Two men, a burly Orc with green skin and carrying a large axe alongside a thinner human wearing leathers while carrying more bolas, approached the crying woman. She tries to scramble away but the smaller man drags her by the ankle back.

 The smaller of the two dug his heel into her side, “Filthy fucking whore, you really think anyone will help you in this shithole?! Should’ve tossed you when I had the chance! Drog, grab her!” 

Deacon grits his teeth, fingers clenching into fists, but Damaris keeps holding him back. He wanted to raise his hands, to signal his squad to kill the two as they lifted the poor girl and started to haul her away. That whole time, Deacon stares into her terrified eyes as she does the same. His fingers twitch onto the holster of his 1911, but Damaris’ other hand clamps down on his fingers as she hisses.

“I know you want to help, but we can’t, Deacon! We’re outnumbered here and need to move now!” She grabs his hand and drags him along quickly. He nearly trips over himself to keep pace with her while the skeletons follow with no problem. “Keep running, and do not stop until we are there.” 

“We can’t just leave her like that-!” 

“Shut up, will you! If those scum had the gall to do such a thing in broad daylight, do you think there are reputable authorities?! You saw the wall, Deacon, now run!” 

Deacon has no choice but to obey, trusting Damaris. Buildings pass by in a blur, taking random turns down winding paths, decrepit alleys, and slants as they traverse the town. With how many they took, Deacon’s sense of direction was all but shaken. The settlement didn’t seem that large on the outside, yet they ran around what was a veritable maze. Most of the buildings looked occupied by squatters, and none of them were cared for since they served more as mere shelters than permanent homes. Unfortunately, he can’t reveal any finer details due to their running.

Damaris slows her run down to a walk, sweat beading her face as the duo reaches a straighter road. Around them, the skeletons take up defensive formations with guns at the ready, but Deacon raises his hand and orders them to lower their weapons. Having them with muzzles up would draw even more attention than they likely already have. It’s also likely that a group of people running through the streets like fleeing animals already caused a stir.

“How… could criminals take over this town? Banditry isn’t foreign where I’m from, but I’ve never heard of them subjugating whole cities!” Deacon leans against a wall to catch his breath. 

“My guess? The people left, probably from inaction by their Lord…or something else. But that’s my best guess.” Then, wiping her brow with the sleeve of her coat, she grabs his hand again and resumes leading him through Merek. 

He is about to ask her where they are going when they come across a tall building with a slate roof and walls of dark gray brick. A small wooden awning hung over the double doors, Damaris leaning against the wall while resuming to catch her breath. Deacon also leans back, air filling his lungs as he leans against one of the awning supports. 

On the other wall, not occupied by the two out-of-breath companions, Deacon notices a plaque while still getting his breath back. It was in the shape of a shield, silver rimming the outline, while a spear and musket crossed a deer’s head, all made of the same silvery material. 

“Damaris…what is that?” He asks, pointing to the plaque. Damaris pushes herself off the wall, looking at it before explaining with a thumb jab. 

“The place is under the protection of the Lodge…neutral ground. Good, this was the only town place with decent food and board. Come on.” She pushes into the doors and slides inside. Deacon looks up at the hanging sign of a black cat around a tipped-over tankard, small z’s above the animal’s head. Beneath this logo, black letters painted the words The Drunken Black Cat.

“Put your guns away and act natural; unless I am under attack, no sudden movements.” Deacon orders his squad. They all comply and shoulder their long guns, awaiting the following command. “Inside, go.” 

Following inside after Damaris, his boots thump along naturally worn-out floorboards, still holding firm. Mostly, the room was dominated by mortar and brick, with wood used for the furniture and flooring. Lamps and several high windows illuminated the place as simple chairs, and round tables were arranged around, a horn sconce on each table. At the far back, a typical bar with stools on the front stood, various colored bottles of what Deacon assumed to be alcohol filled and stacked on the shelves. A winding staircase to the right leads to a landing and balcony on the second floor, likely the bedrooms. 

Even though it was around morning, patrons of various shapes, colors, and sizes were already sitting and talking. A few turned their heads, as five uniformed individuals walking in wasn’t something to easily ignore. Blending into his squad and hopefully avoiding the stares of others, Deacon walks up to the bar. A man, well, an elf since he had darker skin and pointed ears, sat behind the bar polishing glasses. Damaris was currently talking to him, Deacon catching snippets of conversation as he approached. 

“By the Gods, how much did you shell out to even have your bar marked Jay?” She asks, while the elf sighs and sets down the cup he was polishing. 

“Nearly a year’s worth of profit, but in the long run, it will help since it keeps the riff-raff from bothering my family and me.” ‘Jay’ then turns to Deacon. “Something I can help you with, young man?”

Before Deacon speaks, Damaris does it for him, a gloved hand on his shoulder. 

“Jay, this is my companion, Deacon. Deacon, this is Den’Jay, the owner of the Drunken Black Cat.” She introduces both of them. The elf snorts and throws his rag over his shoulder before offering his hand to Deacon. 

The two shake hands, “Well met; anyone who is a friend of Damaris is welcome in my bar.” 

“Nice place you got here; what’s with the name?” Deacon asks to break the ice. 

“My wife had a black cat that would always sit on our table and drink itself stupidly until it passed out. Then it died from, go figure, alcohol poisoning.” He simply explains, noticing the four other individuals behind Deacon. “You a sellsword captain or something?” 

“Could say that these four are my bodyguards.” Taking a seat at the bar next to Damaris, he takes off the campaign hat and sets his BAR against the bar. Den’Jay gives him an odd look, prompting him to turn and see that his squad has turned their backs, covering the flanks. “Oh, for-. Come on, you four, don’t be rude.” 

Turning back to their master, the skeletons wordlessly follow the order, two sitting next to Deacon and the others next to Damaris. Den’Jay sets down five small glasses on the bar and makes to pour drinks, but Deacon stops him. 

“I think you should only pour for me, a company policy that I can’t let the others drink while on the job.” He gives his best professional smile, lying through his teeth to hide the fact that they are undead. 

“Attentive to your rules, I can somewhat respect that. But don’t ball your fist too tight, Deacon.” Pulling a brown bottle from the shelf, the elf pours a drink and slides it over to him. “First one is on the house when they visit the Black Cat, especially if they’re good people.” 

Deacon picks up the glass, raising it to him. Damaris then presents hers and clinks it against his, a light smile on her lips. Raising the drink, Deacon pours its contents into his mouth. The burning but nutty flavor of the alcohol clashed against his troubled thoughts, pushing them away as he set the glass down with a light cough.

“Not much of a drinker, but after what she and I have been through, we need it.” He jokes while chuckling, Den’Jay raising his brow. 

“Run into trouble on the way here, Damaris?” He asks the rogue as she finishes her drink with a satisfied sigh. 

“Yeah, we did. A few Bark Ghouls were covering the western road, waiting for an ambush. If not for this one and his soldiers, I would’ve run out of ammo and had to retreat.” She slaps Deacon on the chest, nearly making him spill his drink as she had some force behind it. “The day before, the caravan of goods I was protecting got ambushed, and all those useless morons from Bulwark Company died. I was alone against the bandits, but like a knight in dull green, he came out and saved me.” 

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Jay refills both of their cups, smiling as he patiently waits for her to finish her stories. “There never is a shortage of excitement here in the West Marches, but I’m still glad that you’re at least still alive. You did good helping this one out, but can I ask why Deacon?” 

Deacon picks up his glass and sips it before answering, “I mean, I just did what anyone would do, right?” 

A light frown came to the elf and woman, with the former saying, “I can tell you aren’t from around here. But, if she hasn’t told you already, then I will; many Mercs only serve the interests of themselves and their employer. Unless there is something in it for them, they don’t do any selfless acts; those times are a distant memory.” 

“Well, she did mention that I was the best company she has had as of late; I just assumed that anyone else would’ve helped her.” 

“Maybe, but it is infrequent for some to act out of the kindness of their hearts. But, of course, you can expect that not even the Lodge will do anything generously unless it makes them money. Still, thank you for helping her. She is a sweet girl and one of my favorite patrons.” 

“Oh, come on, Jay, you’re gonna make me blush over here.” Damaris’ smile grows as she empties her drink and slides her glass over for another refill. 

“Is it flattery when it’s true? If you didn’t do that job to get the medicine for my sickness, I would’ve never been able to get out of bed.” He laughs as the doors to the bar open up. Then, looking up to see the new guests, Den’Jay’s demeanor falls entirely. “Damnit, poor timing.” 

Deacon turns around, spotting a group of four individuals walking into the bar, all sporting the same emblem: a barking dog head. Deacon takes a quick stock of all four males and two females: humans, an orc, and a halfling…at least, Deacon thinks he’s a halfling. The human man stomps in and instantly looks over to the duo sitting at the bar, a big toothy grin coming to his face. 

“Damaris! Damn girl, I have not seen you in what’s felt like years!” He approaches with his party following behind. “Haven’t seen you since the Ruins of Fendvol. So why’d you run off on me like that?” 

Damaris grimaces as her gloved hands creak while clenching her glass. “Piss off, Garold; I am not your friend. Never in a million fucking years.” 

“You say that, but that night at camp, I proved the opposite. I even offered you a sweet deal so long as you stayed with us, but you left me hanging.” He laughs as his fingers hook into the collar of his dark metal breastplate. “Say, why don’t we finish up that business we started there tonight? You know you’ll always have a place in the Mad Dogs, and my bed.” 

“You don’t know when to quit, do you?” Damaris’ teeth ground together, her fingers twitching into her coat. “I don’t need you or your lackeys; I have someone else now.” 

Garold then looks at Deacon, snorting indignantly while jabbing his thumb at him. “What? This nobody? Bet he can’t beat me in a brawl.” He smashes an armored fist into his palm. 

In a flash, Damaris whips out one of her pistols, pulling back the hammer while aiming it at his head. Her eyes were sharp and ready, her face devoid of expression and prepared to kill. “You touch him, Garold, and I guarantee he will be the last person you ever touch.” 

The Mad Dogs party all draw their weapons except their leader, ready for a fight. With a thought, Deacon’s squad grabs theirs and immediately points it at the party while he draws his 1911 and points it at Garold. Everyone else in the bar is scrambling away, outside or upstairs, to their room’s safety. 

A flash of anger crosses Garold’s face, but he remains smiling as he clicks his tongue. Holding up his hands, he laughs softly. “Well, color me surprised. You finally got yourself a boyfriend, Damaris? I never would’ve guessed the hard bitch Damaris Flashfire actually had the capacity to love someone. Now, put the gun down and let us talk like adults.” 

“I don’t think so.” Deacon is the one to speak up, pulling back the slide on his handgun. “If she doesn’t like you, then I don’t. Neither do my men, so I’ll give you a choice to leave, and there won’t be trouble.” 

“Tch. You got some stones, wimp. But let me tell you a little tip, spilling blood on Lodge grounds is forbidden. So unless you want me to gain a reason to kill you, drop your weapon first.” Garold confidently states, the grin he has is one that Deacon wishes he could punch. It was the visage of someone who got away with a lot because of an inflated ego. 

“No, he won’t be in trouble, Garold,” Den’Jay spoke up, the elf’s hands on the countertop of his bar as he stared down at the large man. “You’ve already caused trouble in my bar in the past, and I’ve warned you about causing more. If you start a fight here, I will report that Damaris and Deacon fought in self-defense. Now unless you’re here to drink or get rooms, get out.” 

Garold is visibly stunned, likely being rare that someone would speak to him like that. To hammer his point, Den’Jay reaches under the counter and places a curved sword in its sheath on the counter. The tall man relents, motioning for his party to put down their weapons. Deacon does the same, lowering his handgun while his skeletons disarm. On the other hand, Damaris still has her pistol pointed at Garold, and Deacon has to push her hand down to snap her out of her murderous gaze. She blinks and looks at her companion, putting away her pistol with a low nod as she turns back and picks up her drink. 

“Didn’t mean to cause you more trouble, Den’Jay. Let’s go, Mad Dogs; maybe there’s a job we can take at the office.” Garold turns to leave, not before sparing one last glance at Damaris. Deacon growls under his breath but puts away his gun and turns back to the bar. That man was a complete asshole! He had met his fair share of them back home, but something about Garold rubbed him the wrong way. 

“Good fucking riddance…” Damaris mumbles as she throws her drink back, holding her head in her hand while holding out her glass for a third round. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Jay.” 

“Think nothing of it, my girl. I’ve been around long enough to know when someone is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I wish I could do more, but those days are long behind me.” Rather than refill her glass, he nudges the entire bottle over to Damaris. “I’ll have Kona set up your regular room. How about you, Deacon? Will you need accommodations for you and your men?” 

“He’ll stay with me….” Damaris quietly says as she grabs the bottle, drinking from its lip directly. Den’Jay nods but still needs an answer. 

“Uh…if you have a double bedroom for them, that works. They’re used to sleeping together.” He awkwardly says, looking down at an empty glass. Damaris fills it for him, gesturing for him to drink. 

“Alright. I’ll get your rooms set up. If you need anything else, just shout.” With that, the elf walks away and pushes past some bar doors into what is presumed to be the kitchen. 

The two companions sit in silence, Deacon awkwardly swirling his drink while taking light sips of it. Damaris, on the other hand, is hitting the bottle hard, taking long swigs of the alcohol. 

“That man…seems like he’s a royal pain in the ass.” Deacon comments, referring to Garold. 

“Because he is. To make matters worse, he is a very skilled swordsman and commander. Otherwise, I would’ve wished for his death long ago.” Damaris’ voice was quiet, but he could still hear the hatred in her words. 

“I assume you two have history?” He puts a hand on her shoulder, and she shakes her head, breathing angrily. 

“I wish I had never met him. But I was young and desperate. I needed the money-.” Deacon would stop her, moving his arm to wrap around her shoulders. He also needed to scoot his stool to avoid sitting in an awkward position. 

“You don’t have to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable, Damaris. Think you’ll be alright?” 

“I…think I’m probably going to cry the first real tears I’ve had in years. Do you…do you think you can be with me when that happens?” Her brown eyes focus on him, a touch of pleading behind them. 

“Of course, Damaris.” She sighs, raising the bottle and continuing to drown her sorrows. 

Looking down at his glass, Deacon raises it to her. Then, once more, they rattle and drink on into the day.

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