Aldric Holt · human · Alliance · Northshire Valley
EU · Roleplay PvP
Northshire is one road and too many people on it. I came out of the abbey at first light with a list in my head: rats in the vineyard, wolves across the border, kobolds in the mine, and a man named Garrick who owed the law a debt.
The abbey smells of cold stone and tallow. The kobolds took the candles — that is what they do, they take candles and books and anything that shines, and they carry it down into Echo Ridge. When you find them they shout at you: You no take candle. As if I were the thief.
I went down twice. The first time I came back with a pelt, a broken claw, and the idea that I was clever. The second time two of them had me against the water. I do not remember the fight. I remember my own breathing and the taste of iron. I got out, and my hands did not stop shaking until I sat on a stone in the sun. I do not write this to be admired. I write it because it happened, and a man who does not write it down will tell it better next time.
At the mine mouth a priest was waiting. His name was Azmodel. He asked if I was going after the Defias. I said aye. He said he was not on that business yet, but he would come. I said: Follow me. I did not think about it. It is not a word I use.
We found Garrick Padfoot in the trees with his thugs around him. I put Azmodel on my left, away from the trees, and he did not argue. We worked the same way without talking about it. When it was done he said good fight and thanks, and I said safe travels, and that was the whole of it. Two men, one hour, no names kept.
Then the road south. Goldshire is a day's walk if you do not stop, and I stopped. The inn has a fire, a girl with a tray, and a man behind the bar who counts coin like he is afraid of it. I paid for a room. I asked for bread and salt. He looked at me for a moment — most people ask for ale — and brought both.
My father said a house is where the salt is. I have not had a house since I was nine years old. Tonight I have a room with a door, and the door closes.
I will leave it open a hand's width. Old habit. And the notches on the stock of my bow are not for anyone else to count.
Tomorrow: pelts to the tanner, and whatever the road gives.