Aibel | 26 Leafbloom, 1723 CE
The city streets of Mistwick were completely devoid of life. Not even rats scurried across the rough cobblestones. It was nights like this that even Aibel felt on edge. The slightest sounds seemed like thunderous beats from the heavens. He crept forward through the deserted city street, checking the shadows of the alleys that he passed. Something else was here, and the fact that he couldn’t sense it was mildly unnerving. His vision, notable by the soft glowing aura around his green irises, was unparalleled in the dark. The shadows seemed lighter, and the contrast increased. The downside was the glare of the firelight from wall-mounted sconces and lantern posts that he frequently encountered.
He gripped the handle of his glaive tightly in his gloved hand. Anyone who dared look out their window would have seen little more than a black-clad figure carrying a sheen of silvery metal in his hand. In the firelight however, the shadows gave every inch of his body and accessories an ominous aura. His gear consisted of a fitted breastplate and a brown shirt. Overlaying this was a thick black trench coat that came down to the back of his shins, with a collar that encircled his neck. His hair was a nearly translucent white, and strung from his back was a leather scabbard with a thick bastard sword sheathed inside.
The glaive in his hand was weighted perfectly, balanced in one hand as Aibel turned right down an alleyway that was only faintly illuminated by the street lanterns. The alleyway narrowed slightly as he kept moving, and he calculated that he still had enough room for a fight if needed. The blade of the glaive was ornately decorated. The base of the blade was cast in the form of a screaming skull, and the wisping trail coming from the back formed the ridge of the blade. The handle was a mixture of hardwood with silver gilding that took the shape of skeletal figures wrapping around the haft. Cryptbane, he called it. It had been a hard-won prize some years back. Now, he trusted it with his life on nearly a daily basis.
The alley gave way to a small town square. The lanterns were circling the main fountain in the center. Despite being somewhat removed from the larger confines of civilization, he had to admit that the town itself was aesthetically elegant. There were guards stationed in front of a large wooden constabulary. He had instructed everyone inside for the night, but he knew that it was wishful thinking that everyone would listen. After all, who was he but the expert they’d hired. He scanned the rooftops, looking for his mark, and stopped. He moved slowly to the shadows to his right, crouching low behind a pile of crates beside one of the shops in the square.
A pair of small winged figures glided silently through the misty night, their bony toes dangling inches from the rooftops. Their faces were a strange oblong shape, with enormous mouths filled with thick vice-like teeth. Their bodies looked frail, gangly, and emaciated. They wore makeshift hide clothing, crafted no doubt from the furs of creatures whose insides they had consumed. In their hands were small clubs, fashioned from bone splinters and skulls, wrapped together hastily from twine and leather scraps. The two creatures were obviously communicating, but to the untrained ear, it sounded like animals chittering in the night.
The creatures were obviously uninterested in the two armor-laden guards but instead were fixated on something on the other side of the roof ridge. The building they floated over was across the courtyard, and Aibel calculated his chances of getting across without being seen by the two faeries. The guards would likely see him and call out, and would likely scare away his chance at closing the distance to beasts he’d been hired to kill. He began to skirt the outside edge of the square, making his way behind troughs and carts, ever watchful of the two creatures. As he neared the other side of the square, they had taken up positions at the ridge of the roof, crawling along the wood shingles, intently watching something beyond. A small itch in his mind told Aibel that something unfavorable was coming, so he picked up the pace, losing sight of the faeries as he rounded the corner of the building.
He ducked his head into view of the back alley, and saw two young men, not much younger than himself, sitting on a pile of boxes, drinking from a ceramic jug. He looked up, and the fairies were beginning their descent, stealthily crawling forward towards the gutter. Aibel gripped the haft of his glaive a little tighter, flexing the muscles in his other hand, and began sprinting around the corner. At that moment, the faeries leapt from the roof, one colliding with the young man fathers from the gutter, the other stopping mid-leap to turn towards Aibel.
He braced, as his body connected with the creatures. Each had charged the other, colliding in a moment where body masses tried to stop the other. Simply weighing more than the three-and-a-half-foot creature, Aibel’s mass won, sending them both to the cobblestones. He could hear behind him and to the left the cries of the young man who’d been knocked over. His frantic movements like a symphony of fear, as the creature tried to bludgeon him with the club, while taking small chunks off his skin with its blunt teeth. The creature now pinned under Aibel writhed and squirmed, looking for any advantage to break his grapple. Aibel struggled to get Cryptbane in position across the creature's throat. The fairy’s thrashing knocked away the haft as he struggled to simultaneously pin it, and maneuver the weapon with one hand. Finally, he locked it into position, and slammed his palm down on the blunted back edge of the blade. This shoved the razor sharp metal deep into the creature's throat. Pounding it a few more times into the creature’s neck, he heard the sound of chitin breaking, like a shellfish being torn apart. After one or two more hits, the creature stopped thrashing and went limp, the light behind its beady black eyes going out permanently.
In a second, he lifted himself from the ground, and swung sharply at the creature attacking the drunken boy. It dodged, and Aibel’s glaive narrowly avoided clipping the boy’s flailing arms. He maneuvered to the boy’s side, and gripped one of the fluttering wings of the fairy, pulling the creature off of the young man.
“Get out of here. Now!” That was all he had to say for the boy to high-tail it away. The fairy, given only a moment’s reprieve from Aibel’s attention, smashed the club it was holding into his arm. The barbs of bone fragments dug into the leather of his jacket, punching little holes into the sleeve. One of the small barbs also managed to break the top layer of skin, and Aibel could feel a trickle of blood beginning to run down the underside of his arm. Most painful though was the blunt-force of the club striking his arm directly, and he let go of the creature’s wing instinctively.
The fairy dropped a foot to the ground, and immediately was up again, this time flying in an almost drunken gait. It swung a few times at Aibel with the club, which he either dodged or parried with the glaive. Seeing the ineffectiveness of a head-on assault, the fairy darted upwards toward the rooftop, and out of Aibel’s reach. It flitted around for a moment, before spotting something outside the alley, and buzzing off towards it at full speed.
Aibel was in pursuit seconds later. Rushing around the corner, he nearly collided with a large stack of crates and barrels set up in the alleyway behind one of the shops. The echoing footsteps of his boots on the cobblestone broke their consistent stride, and he worked to regain his momentum. Dashing down to an intersection where the alley again met the main townscape, he burst into the moon and torchlight again. He scanned the sky, looking for the little beast. The sky was cloudy, the lingering blanket of winter in the new spring sky. The mixture of moonlight and torchlight disrupted his vision, but he could hear the faint flutter of fast-moving wings. Aibel sprinted forward, and as he neared the center of the square, he could see the faint blur of movement across the sky. He leapt up onto a pile of crates, using the momentum of his sprint to carry him up and over. Without breaking stride, he leapt onto the top of a wooden market stall canopy, and leapt into the air.
He grasped the fairy by the arm and right leg, and pulled it down with him. The fairy was only about half his height, and lanky. The mass it carried was small, and the pair flopped to the cobblestone in a loud heap. The creature struggled under his weight, as he rolled over top of the creature, and began slamming his fist into the creature’s skull. Were it not for the metal plating at the knuckles of his leather gloves, his fist would have been as bloody as the creature’s victims, slammed as it was against what felt like solid rock. He slammed his fist into its skull again and again until eventually, the creature went limp.
“Goodnight, you little bastard.” He paused at the end of a long flurry of blows, gave one more decisive strike, and rolled off of the creature, content that it was unconscious.
It didn’t take him long to bind the creature’s legs and arms. For good measure, he also wrapped a thick piece of cord around the creature’s wings. He pulled the creature up from the ground, and threw it over his shoulder.
***
The Twisted Menagerie was positioned in one of the poorer areas of the village, taking its interior aesthetic from the outside clutter and grime. On nearly every wall of the shop, glass jars, crates of random herbs and alchemical components, and random oddities were stacked ceiling high and several deep across creaky shelves. The amount of clutter made finding anything quickly seem like a near-impossible task. The interior was lit by a series of oil lanterns spaced unevenly from the ceilings, further compounding the feeling of being closed in. A single long countertop, open for access at either end, was crunched near the back wall, across from the main entry door. The countertop was made of a combination of glass and wood, showing off several pieces which Aibel guessed had more significant value than the other objects in the shop. An older man with white course whiskers and long, thinning salt and pepper hair, was busy scribbling notes in a large tome with an obviously overused quill.
“I was getting tired of waiting, Mr. Hunter.” Harrick, the shopkeeper of the Twisted Menagerie didn’t even look up from the ledger in front of him as Aibel carried in the unconscious fairy in a canvas sack.
Aibel threw the faerie on the countertop and watched as a sifter of dusk jumped from the glass countertop. The edges of the glass had not seen a good polishing in some time, judging by the layer of acrid yellow soot that crept out from every seam and edge.
“I got one that’s alive, and one that’s dead,” said Aibel, ignoring the old man’s antagonism.
“Shame, I’d have liked to get my hands on two living ones.”
“Well, this is what you have.” Aibel had spoken with the man several times in taking the contract for the faeries, turning down the measly coin offered by the guards, who still saw the increasing number of attacks as child’s play. Each time, he’d grown less patient with Harrick, who seemed to adopt a constant stream of complaints as his preferred form of communication.
The old man slid a small pouch of coins toward Aibel, far smaller than their agreed upon price.
“Yeah, that’s not going to cut it.”
Harrick looked up from his ledger with an expression of annoyance and patronizing intent.
“Listen, son, that’s what I’m willing to pay.”
Aibel smiled. There was something disconcerting in the expression. “You must think I’m not very intelligent. The job is done. Considering the profits, I expect you’ll make off of the Bonecraft and Vitality elixirs you’re likely to make, I do expect the agreed upon compensation. Alternatively, I leave here and you’ll get neither of the faeries.”
The old man continued to look down at his ledger, unconvinced of Aibel’s significance, “Half the fee.”
Aibel's gaze hardened, his eyes narrowing as he leaned in closer to Harrick. The annoyance of dealing with the old man's attempts to cheat him had reached its limit. He needed the coin, both he and Harrick knew that, which is why he’d agreed to do the job for less than a going rate. But he wouldn’t be swindled like this.
Harrick's brows furrowed as he squirmed under Aibel's unwavering gaze. The mercenary's words carried an air of authority that he hadn't expected. A sense of unease crept over Harrick as he realized that Aibel wasn't someone to be trifled with.
Aibel continued, his voice low and threatening, "You may think you can swindle me with your petty tactics, but let me remind you of the consequences of breaking our deal. Those faeries? They won't be yours to exploit. I know a thing or two about spreading the word in this village, and trust me, no one will come to your shop if they find out you're a cheat."
Harrick's face paled, and he glanced nervously at the glass and wood countertop, aware of the potential losses he would incur if his reputation was tarnished.
Aibel leaned even closer, his tone dripping with venom, "So, Harrick, I suggest you reconsider. Pay me what we agreed upon, or prepare to lose more than just a couple of faeries. The choice is yours."
Silence hung heavily in the dimly lit shop, broken only by the sound of the quill scratching against the parchment as Harrick contemplated his options. Aibel's threat loomed over him, and he begrudgingly admitted defeat. With a begrudging nod, Harrick pushed a second pouch of coins across the countertop, toward Aibel. It wasn't the full amount, but it was a compromise, an acknowledgment of the mercenary's unwavering determination.
Aibel toyed with the top of the cloth pouch for a few second, weighing how much of a conflict he wanted to start over the still obvious lack of respect. He settled on an answer within a few moments. He placed the two sacks of coin into the pouch hanging from his left hip, and slid behind the counter, dodging precariously stacked wicker baskets. Harrick was immediately angry.
“What do you think you’re doing!?” He moved closer to Aibel, trying to get in front of the man to stop him. It didn’t work.
Aibel stopped, raising to his full height and glowering straight into the man’s eyes. There was something unnatural in his eyes, swirling behind the icy gray irises, and he knew Harrick could see it too. The icy gray took on a subtle glow. The colors in his eye began to swirl, but not hypnotically. No, this particular effect was meant to intimidate; to unsettle the soul. It worked.
“I am collecting my fee.” Without looking away from Harrick, Aibel reached underneath the counter, and collected a small green pendant that hung from a thick leather cord on a display. He palmed the pendant, still making eye contact with Harrick, and placed it in his hip pouch.
He eased up on the effect with his eyes. Harrick who had been transfixed with a feeling of intense anxiety noticeably eased the tension in his shoulders and upper back. His face smoothed a little, as he realized Aibel’s display was over. He was still in a state of unease, but less gripped by it.
“Thank you for your business. Consider the contract closed.”
Harrick hastily nodded his agreement and Aibel turned towards the door.
***
Sitting back in the wooden chair of the Midnight Hearth’s main commons, Aibel let his fingers dance over the pendant. His elbow leaned against the table, and the pendant rested in the palm of his hand. The leather cord dangled between his fingers, and tickled the back of his hand. There was something off about the pendant, he knew that as soon as he had seen it. Upon closer inspection of the series of tiny ornate runes, he suspected a magical property to the piece, but was unaware of its exact purpose. The language of the runes was a variant of Sildarin—a language of the elves—but he couldn’t quite piece the meaning together.
His food had gone cold, not that he much cared. The Hearth’s menu was the usual staples, roast meat, watery ale, and something that was supposed to pass for stewed vegetables but looked more like steaming mush. The food itself may have been fine, but the pungent aroma that came from it was less than appealing.
The great room was dimly lit by flicking candles scattered throughout the room. They cast long, dancing shadows on the worn, wooden floorboards. The air hung heavy with the smell of aged wood, damp stone, and a hint of lingering smoke from old soot. It was warm, the greatest light coming from the fireplace located in the center of the room. The fireplace was unusual in its design. A large basin made of piled stone formed a neat rectangle in the center of the room. At each corner, and at the midpoint of each edge, stones had been piled to form an arched roof, like that of a cathedral ceiling. The base of the fire pit stood roughly three feet off the floor, and the roof covered another three feet. At the peak, the stones formed a chimney column that pushed through to the roof. It certainly wasn’t the most beautiful sight, but it kept the place warm from the core of the room.
Aibel set the pendant back in his pocket, and looked at the room around him, shoveling an unappetizing bite of food into his mouth. In each corner of the room, some sort of statuette or momento stood, positioned towards the center of the room at an angle. The walls were adorned with heads of slain animals, and cheap tapestries that sort of resembled ancient battles. However, with the dust and soot that covered their fronts, it was hard to tell at times which battle was being represented. The combination of tapestries, the low ceiling, and the low number of windows gave the room a claustrophobic atmosphere.
The furniture was weathered and worn, displaying the signs of countless patrons who had passed through over the years. Rough-hewn tables and chairs provide seating for travelers, their surfaces etched with the marks of knives and mugs. The upholstery on the few cushioned seats was showing distinct signs of fraying, often with enough emphasis to reveal the wool stuffing within.
Aibel had sat in the back of the room, at a small corner table. His back was against the wall. The musty smell of old fabric nearly overshadowed the smell of his food. Beside him, Cryptbane rested with its pommel against the floor, and the blade resting lightly against the aged wood. Closer still was his hand-and-a-half sword, which was still sheathed in its leather scabbard. He pushed aside the stale food, placed the amulet back in his bag, and leafed through a thick stack of parchment.
Each piece of paper contained a mis-match of images and scribbled notes. The price was right for many of them, considering the folly in the writer’s interpretation of the problem. He chuckled at one paper which described a flock of missing chickens, associating the disappearances with a species that hadn’t been found near Mistwick since after the War of One Hundred Kingdoms. What little these people knew about the monsters of the world had often been passed down through verbal story telling. It often left a lot to the annals of history, with a populous unable to read their own name. Mistakes, funny as they were to Aibel, were to be expected.
It was the last leaflet that caught Aibel’s attention. The piece of paper was overall uninspired, the first thing that struck him. Unlike the others, which were like small novels of information, or so inflated in terms of grandeur or immediacy that they ceased to be worth his time. The nondescript nature of this final flyer was what gave it a feeling of authenticity at its face. The simplicity of the writing, in a hand obviously untrained in higher education, provided more questions than answers, which also added to the realism of the plea.
Help! Missing children from local orphanage. Fifteen children. Need to find them. Suspect foul magic or monsters. Inquire with Mother Nanine Meikan at Saint Banera’s Orphanage. Offering modest coin to be determined upon agreement.
Aibel tossed the other leaflets to the side and folded the note from Mother Meikan, stuffing it into the fold of his backpack on the seat next to him. He pulled the cold lump of vegetable slosh back towards him and took three quick spoonfuls in an attempt to choke it down quickly.
