The Stranger
#1 of Traveller's Tales
This is my first story so I would really appreciate feedback and comments. Yiff will be appearing, but not in the first few chapters. Unless stated otherwise all characters are human.
The Stranger
The stranger's presence was announced only by the tiny metallic chink of mail, yet it sliced through the communal hubbub of the sparsely populated Inn, causing all to stare at him. The few patrons, who had not retired for the evening, stared at the woollen robes the stranger wore. Robes that engulfed his form, masking any and all signs as to whom he might be. Robes that were patched by an unskilled hand in many a place. Robes that wore the dust of the road like a earthen blanket. The stranger was large, easily a head taller than the tallest man thereabouts, and broad of the shoulder. His head was bowed like that of a pilgrim and perhaps a pilgrim he might have been, but the chink of mail - not prayer - announced his presence.
Osric peered over his warm beer at the stranger and then looked to his drinking companion, Avonis. Another gulp of the House's finest - sarcastic thoughts for the watered down swill on offer - washed away the lingering thoughts of Mary, his wife, who would by now be putting young Peter to bed and yet again mourning the loss of her husband to the drink.
"Times being what they are," began Osric, "Ain't a job for none less than three weeks travel."
"That be true, that be true," agreed Avonis nodding solemnly into his beer. Rubbing a gnarled hand across his chin and watching the Stranger.
"How can a man be a father, and a husband, in dark times as this?"
"A man can't." agreed Avonis once again.
"It's a disgrace is what it is." Osric was beginning to get angry, he had been out of work for more than a year now, ever since noble infighting had caused the old stone fort to be abandoned. "The noble-blood care nought for us! All I want to do is be a good husband and father, ain't so much to ask, is it?"
"Ain't so much to ask, it ain't."
Avonis and Osric continued their drunken conversation whilst the stranger crossed the Inn floor. His head still bowed towards the straw covered ground, the smell of vomiting, piss and stale ale filling his sensitive nostrils.
"I would like ale, food and a room." The stranger's words were heavily accented, each spoken slowly and with purpose - as if the stranger had trouble speaking them.
"Ain't no rooms." The barkeep countered, eyeing the stranger carefully. The man put him ill at ease, it was not the man's great girth or the manner in which he stood stock-still: like a statue. There was something wrong about this stranger, something the barkeep could not shake. It was like the tension before a breaking storm, something one could not describe, but something certainly felt. Something palpable.
"I would like ale, food and a room." The stranger repeated, repeating the words, as if the barkeep might not have heard them originally.
"An' I said ain't no rooms." The barkeep was sweating now, rubbing his hands together and subtly eyeing the kitchen doorway.
"I have come from the Fiefdoms, good silver have I. Copper and tin too, if you would prefer." The stranger's voice was certainly accented and there was definitely a hint of the northern-fiefdoms in it, but only a hint: this stranger was not a native there either.
"No traveller. No rooms here."
Osric was the first to note Eric, the barkeep, through his drunken haze. He had seen this before: a traveller would come in from the road and try to intimidate Eric into giving free food, ale and lodging.
"Here, you see that there stranger roughing up poor Eric?"
"Roughing him up, too sure," Avonis agreed, hiccuping.
"We should do something. Eric is good to us, good bloke is he. Ain't right, ain't right at all."
Avonis looked from his companion to Eric, who was still talking with the stranger and visible nervous. Avonis was not sure such a stranger would be willing to leave peacefully.
"Go down the highway, to Menonis, there be other Inns there: just a small walk it is, less than a day."
"I am tired, good sir, many days have I travelled. I have good coin from the fiefdoms."
"But we have no rooms."
The man was afraid and lying, this was going to end ill, the stranger sensed.
"On the floor, I could sleep and would still pay you."
"Please stranger, just go."
The stranger saw the barkeeper's eyes move past him and so, he turned. Two rough looking commoners were approaching. The stranger noted the ale in their gaze and the cheap-iron daggers at their belt.
"We think you should leave stranger." Leered one, the taller. The stranger judged, by the looks the other kept passing to the speaker, that he was the leader.
"Yeah, clear-off!" Barked the shorter thug.
"I will go on my way." The stranger turned his back to the two men, a mistake he would later note, and headed towards the Inn door.
It was all a misunderstanding really, that would later be asserted by the stranger, one big misunderstanding. The taller thug drew his dagger and was about to shout a passing threat - masculine insurance that the stranger would not dare return - when somebody jostled him from behind. He fell forward, dagger held firm in his hand, right into the back of the stranger. His world then exploded.
Everything happened so fast, the barkeep could not later account it all to the sheriff. The stranger roared out like a bear in pain and turned about, ducking low as he did. The stranger thrust forward, with a claw hidden inside the folds of his robes and slashed, brutally, across the throat of the taller thug.
Then a well placed kick, from a clawed foot, spilled the guts of the shorter and sent him toppling backwards. Another farmer stepped forth, either finding a reserve of courage or being too afraid to move, regardless the stranger saw only enemies and felt only the dagger in his back. He stumbled forward and backhanded the poor farmer across the face. Finally, he retreated the tavern.
Osric could not feel the jagged gash across his throat, all he could feel was coldness. His eyes gazed about until he spied Eric, the barkeep was safe: he and Avonis had saved him, they were heroes. Osric then thought of Mary and Peter and was sad. Tears trickled down blood splattered cheeks, his own blood, as Osric became very cold, then very sad and then died.
Less than a step away, Avonis was screaming and grabbing at his spilled guts, beside him lay a motionless old farmer. Avonis recognised the man, it was his own father: his head twisted all the way around. Avonis only stopped screaming when he died. Eric, the barkeep, fainted.