Cursed Heart Cpt. 1

The tavern was grungy, old, and dimly lit. Then again they all were, and Ferreus had no right to talk, being rather grungy and old himself. Of course, he didn't look particularly old; in fact, most people's guess would place him around twenty, definitely no more than thirty. They were very, very off.

He sat hunched over the bar, nursing his drink and listening to the babble of pub talk around him. Despite it being his third tankard of ale in the last hour his dark eyes were still as bright and sharp as ever. In the corner a group of drunks were arguing over a woman, on the side a mercenary deal was going down. Ferreus downed the rest of his drink in one go, unable to feel irritated or even bored by the monotony. He had learned a long time ago that everywhere was just the same, no matter who or when it was. The worst part was that he couldn't even feel frustration at not being able to be irritated with it. Such was his life.

"Thirty pieces of silver. Not a copper less," the tall fellow said, voice quiet and cold and low as the ancient north wind. He had an iciness about him, skin pale and eyes the greyish color of old frost, sharp and cold. He was the mercenary, of course, though the deal that was happening was rather... problematic.

"I'm telling you," the other said, fidgeting a bit--the traveler's presence often had this effect, making people just a bit uncomfortable--as he looked down at the calfskin pouch in his hand, "I've only got twenty-five."

The traveler was silent, not a single shred of emotion crossing his features. If anything, he looked rather tired--or bored. Either expression might have fit him well. He was a young man, though nearing middle age by the definition along his shaven jaw and the slight shadows under his eyes, doubtless from living an... interesting life. The traveler reached one graceful hand for his drink and took a sip, effectively ending the conversation, and his potential client sighed and got up and trudged off to find a cheaper sellsword.

"Unfriendly today, aren't you?" asked the girl sitting beside him, sandwiched between him and the wall. She came halfway up to his shoulder and she looked about the age to be his daughter, sharing some of his features--pale skin, though her hair was black and her eyes were violet. "You'd take that job if we were somewhere else."

The man's lips compressed momentarily, and he tilted his hat further over his eyes with two fingers on the brim. "Hush," he murmured, which Violet took to mean that she should be quiet because there were unfriendly folk about and he didn't want to have to fight. Of course, it really just meant that he was tired and didn't want to deal with her sassing him. Either way, an odd feeling had been nagging at Slav for a while now... a feeling that emanated from some worn-looking fellow hunched over his drink not far away.

The deal had been an interesting one to listen in on, different than the usual. For one thing, most mercenaries would have leapt at a job paying twenty-five silver pieces; for another, most mercenaries didn’t go around with young girls, at least not ones as pure as she seemed to be. Though he hadn’t seen his face Ferreus had heard his voice; cold and low, with the tone of an age that struck a chord somewhere deep within Ferreus. Certainly different than the usual riff-raff, those who would kill anyone and anything just because they could. Yes, most interesting indeed.

Ferreus ordered another drink, pretending as if he couldn’t sense the other man’s attention on him. It was an unfortunate knack of his, to draw the attention of others. Perhaps they could sense there was something not quite right about him, or perhaps it was because he almost exclusively spent his time in the shadier parts of the world. Whatever it was, it often led to violence; still, he maintained that he never went looking for trouble, trouble always came looking for him.

As it looked like it was about to now. Motioning to the bartender he ordered another ale, and a cider for the girl. If he was reading the atmosphere correctly (and he almost always did), then he would be getting company very soon indeed. It would be a way to pass the time, at the very least.

Violet followed Slav's eyes to the man at the counter, her eyebrows rising on her forehead. Well now, perhaps Slav had scented a rival. That would certainly present an interesting scene to watch! ...Or perhaps not, because Slav's expression was curious, or as curious as it ever really got. He seemed uncertain, or at least intrigued at something he didn't find very often at all. He'd smelled another immortal.

Slav stood when he finished his drink, picking up his sword--an ancient, plain one of the bastard variety, with a black leather grip--and moving for the bar. Violet followed him, unsure of just what he was up to. Slav was a solitary animal, a predator that barely cared to protect a cub in his journeys. He didn't approach people! What was he up to?

He sat, taking the seat next to Ferreus--at a respectful distance, but close enough to facilitate quiet conversation. Violet went beside him. That way, he'd said, if the person he was speaking to became hostile, Violet wouldn't become an immediate target. They would have to go through Slav. Violet had heard that was all but impossible.

"A tavern full of cutthroats," murmured Slav, referencing his earlier dealings with the Man who'd wanted a mercenary. "You'd be hard-pressed to find an honest man in the bunch." Not exactly a normal greeting, but then again neither of them were exactly normal men.

“That said, is anybody really honest these days?” Ferreus replied, sliding the extra ale and cider across the bar. His voice was difficult to describe, full of contradictions: not low but not high either, youthful and yet weighted with age, raspy and smooth at the same time. His dark eyes glanced at Slav and appraised him. Certainly not the standard mercenary type, and there was something in his demeanor that seemed familiar. The tension in the shoulders that carried the weight of hundreds of years, and deep eyes that had seen all too much. No, he was of a different kind entirely. The girl, too, was unique. She peered out from behind the man, bright violet eyes contrasting with her dark hair. An unusual pair indeed; which was saying something, considering all that Ferreus had seen in his extended lifetime.

"Only the children who call ugly men ugly," Slav murmured, taking the ale with a slight incline of his head. The cider he passed to Violet, who stared at it before cupping her hands around it. Evidently unused to having such a thing, because she sniffed at it before taking a tiny sip. Slav turned his head to watch her a moment, making sure she wasn't going to be sick from it, before he turned his full attention back to Ferreus.

Glancing away again Ferreus took another sip of his ale, his eyes fixed on some far away point in front of him. “You’re not from around here,” he commented. It wasn’t a question but a fact. “Nor are you looking for work, judging by that deal you just turned down. What’s so interesting in this poor excuse for a village that would bring a man like you here?” Ferreus was not curious, per se; he didn’t have the capability to be. He was, though, mildly interested, and the question was as much testing the man’s disposition as gathering information.

Slav listened, looking at the same point Ferreus' eyes were fixed on, considering something he couldn't quite put a finger on. "You're right," he answered, voice never deviating from the low, cold murmur it always was. Not exactly disinterested, but extremely calculating, as if there was quite a bit on his mind. "The girl and I were just passing through. I'd heard rumors of something that interested me, an old tale that needed telling."

He looked into the ale as he spoke, considering his words carefully. Obviously an exceedingly patient man, speaking carefully and without much of an accent--the only accent to really be heard was a hint of age, the way he pronounced some words with the cadence of the language that the modern one had evolved from.

There was something in his tone that said this would be a tale worth listening to. “The gods know I’ve enough time to listen to such a story,” Ferreus said, and he took a hearty swig of his drink. He chuckled humorlessly at the overabundant truth of the statement. As the scar on his chest reminded him, he had all the time in the world. The man next to him seemed to as well; they carried the cross of immortality in similar ways if he was not mistaken. Though he doubted the circumstances under which the other man had obtained such a burden were like to his.

He took another drink and stared Slav in the eyes. “So if this tale of yours does need telling, consider me to be a receptive audience.” It was partially and invitation and partially a challenge, part of the fine dance of intellect the both of them had begun. Ferreus might have enjoyed it, had he been able to. As it was he felt an obligatory kind of excitement at the unusual stimulation.

Slav inclined his head a fraction of an inch in answer to the challenge, the ghost of a smile curving his mouth. He was not a man to smile at all, let alone to smile at a challenge. Perhaps he was sensing a sort of camaraderie with this other cursed creature; perhaps he was enjoying the idea of playing at a young man's game and was getting competitive. Either way, Slav seemed to be enjoying the impromptu company.

"It's a tale of Gabriel Valse, an ill-blood king who ruled a millennium past," he said, not breaking eye contact. He had a dead sort of stare, sharp and unnerving to those unaccustomed to it, placid like the still surface of a lake. After a moment he turned his eyes back to his drink, not so competitive as to start something--not unconfident in his abilities, but not stupid either. Rather like an old dog, actually. "Most of the tales are testaments to his cruelty, understand, but this one is quite unique."

He sat with his hands folded around his tankard, looking into it as if it was a window into the story. "Valse was an evil man, it is said," he began, "and as a king he had a great many servants of various races--it is said that he even kept demons in his employ, such was his power. These servants were treated as filth, as he had no respect for life or dignity. One of these servants, his name lost to the flow of time, harbored such a grudge against his master that he set out to destroy the man. Monster, I should say, not man--ill-bloods are hardly people, after all."

Violet, who had been listening intently, looked up at his face a bit at this statement. It appeared to rouse something in her, not exactly anger but some sort of mild protest that appeared in her eyes, though he was only stating this "fact" sarcastically. She was an ill-blood, a vampire, though she hardly seemed like the type to go about making use of it. Just a child, after all.

"This servant grew so angry with his master that he decided to attack Valse," Slav continued. "An unwise choice. The king cursed him to eternal life, a fate which many consider to be worse than death. So this servant has wandered, or so it has said, searching for revenge. But Valse was killed by a paladin a thousand years ago, and what kind of revenge can one get on a dead man?"

“Depends on the man,” Ferreus replied. The story had been of great interest, as promised, and had made the storyteller even more of an enigma. Most bards would not have told such a story with as much personal inflection as he had. Ferreus could tell the difference between a tale repeated from grandfathers long since past and one that the teller had been present for. “That was a curious tale indeed,” he said, finishing his drink and looking over at Slav. “I have heard many stories of Valse, though he was before my time. Yours, however, was certainly unique.”

"You could call me a collector of Valse stories, in a sense," Slav nodded a bit, glancing over to the girl for a moment. She was still looking at him, though one eyebrow was arched slightly as if she didn't quite believe all that he'd said. There was a spark in her eyes, some little piece of information that she had latched onto, and she smiled a little when Slav met her eye. Slav turned his gaze back to his drink with a mildly pleased expression. At least this man had heard of Valse.

Then, setting his eyes on Violet, Ferreus added, “But I do not think you meant all of what you said. Not all ill-bloods, I have found, are monsters.” He then returned his gaze to Slav, his dark, emotionless eyes meeting the calm of the other’s. The man was hard, near impossible to read, but Ferreus felt confident in the truth of what he was saying. The facts of Slav’s story had been true, but the lens they had been told through was warped. “And who are men like we to judge others?”

"Perhaps," he answered, not even bothering to look at Violet. He knew the expression she'd have at Ferreus' comment, the brightening of her expression and the surprise that he'd seen through her masquerade as the naturally-pale bounty hunter's daughter. Violet almost blushed, almost, and she smiled a little at the stranger. Slav set his hand on her shoulder for a brief moment in a rare instance of fatherly pride. Definitely not a monster, that child.

"I doubt I have the right to judge anyone," Slav conceded, setting his hand back on the side of his tankard. "Especially those who have no way of defending themselves or rebuking accusations."

Ferreus nodded slightly; the man had morals, that was good. He had been correct about the child as well, as her reaction had proven. They were certainly a strange pairing, those two. It had been a very long time indeed since he had met people so interesting. Much too long. “The name’s Ferreus,” he introduced himself, turning on his stool to face Slav properly for the first time. “Ferreus of Al-Hallón.” He stuck out his hand, a hand youthful but rough with the telltale callouses of a swordsman. Though his manner was pleasant he didn’t smile; he had learnt a while ago that a smile without an emotion behind it was often taken as an offense rather than a gesture of goodwill, and so he usually stuck to a rather stoic expression. It suited him better, and didn’t put people on edge- well, more on edge than they usually were around him.

Slav watched, finishing his drink in the moments before Ferreus turned. He was still guarded, as anyone seasoned enough to know the often-corrupt natures of people might expect, but he seemed at least at ease enough to take his time with things. He turned slightly, as much as was comfortable, and gripped Ferreus' hand--not a hearty shake, not an annoying flail like someone trying to wring water from an old pump, but a firm and understated squeeze that pegged him as someone not too worried about coming off as friendly. His hand was cool and calloused just enough to tell of a blue-collar profession.

"E. Slav," he said, inclining his head slightly, "and the girl is..."

"Violet Mortenson," she chimed in before Slav was quite finished, peeking around his shoulder and smiling. Both of these men were too dour, tiptoeing around what they wanted to say with stories and carefully-chosen words! Not her, though; she was about as straightforward as they came. "Nice to meet you."