Vortas 8, 2713
Somehow, the Crow’s Foot Tavern was impervious to the cold of Vortas. Autumn himself came and sat at the bar, but he left his boots of frost and cold and death at the door. While the tavern was never necessarily peaceful, it was high in spirits. Tonight, like every night, laugher was the hottest order. Like every night, Benton sat in the third bar still from the wall, a stool worn smooth by the asses of a hundred drunks over hundreds of weeks. Olin Halpine, a pale beast of a man with bright blue eyes and dark brown hair smiled on his left, dressed lightly despite the brisk air outside the doors. On Benton’s right, Grin Mulligan, resident lightweight, was already hammered, his hand raises to ask the hideous barmaid for another three.
“Lightweight,,” Benton muttered with an eye roll, barely even feeling tipsy, yet, he smiled.
“If I was as light as you, I’d afford the alcoholic’s dream,” Olin mused, nursing a glad that looked tiny in his large hands.
“You jackasses are just jealous,” Grif snorted into his beer, but the J caught in his teeth, stretching jealous out like taffy in the air. Grif’s red curls refracted in the kind of empty glasses before the three of them, and the passive’s cheeks were bright pink beneath heavily-lidded brown eyes. Benton glances back at Olin with a brow cocked high, and Olin wrapped an arm warmly around his shoulders as he leaned over Benton to speak to the drunk over the din of the bar.
“Grif, bud,” he started, and Grif looked up at him, his disoriented eyes struggling to find Olin’s in the amber light. “S’Time to go home.”
“I just put in m’drinks,” Grif whined, but, like every night, Olin and Benton were already whirring into motion. Like every night, Olin dropped some coins on the counter and, like every night, Benton tucked his flail, which he had merely sat on the counter to show off, under his arm and an arm around Grif, a man a good eight inches shorter than him, and lifted him easily off of the stool and onto the ground beneath his dangling feet.
“Benny,” he pleaded, but, despite his half-hearted protests, Benton and Olin, like every night, drug the passive out of the bar. Grif planted his feet to slow Benton and Olin, and Benton, knowing the routine, let him stop. Grif turned his head to call over his shoulder in his boyish voice.
“Gladys,” he sang, and the barmaid looked up. “I love you, darling. I’ll be back tomorrow.” Baring her underbite, the barmaid grinned, then continued scrubbing the counter. Benton and Olin pulled Grif onto the street where he forgot about his abandoned drinks and instead complained of the cold that shocked them in the darkness beyond the bar as the sounds of the bar became muffled memories.
“Well, if you’d button your coat,” Olin groaned in exasperation as they stopped at a familiar phosphor street lamp and shivered in its white-blue light. Olin hunched over to button the passive’s coat as he leaned into Benton, making them seem rather like a worrisome couple and their whiny, too-tired-to-function child. Finished, Olin looped his arms around Grif and coaxed him away from Benton. Like every night, Olin waves goodbye and Grif mumbles something incoherent, leaving Benton alone as he watched their height difference of nearly 16-inches faze into one limping shadow before turning a corner.
And, as he had the night before and a hundred before that, the warmth of the bar that had gathered in his belly slipped away into the night. His smile faded, and, checking over his shoulder, armed himself with the flail and turned briskly down a dum side street. He stayed near the center, afraid of what monsters leered at him from the nooks of the houses, especially as the street lamps grew dimmer, grew sparser. He was cocky, sure, but even Benton knew he had to be careful, especially with an eight-year-Old target attached to his face.
At every turn, Benton glanced back. He wasn’t going home, not yet, but rather to one of his several “supply houses.” He was a man of favors, and he kept his supply spread across Old Rose with the few people he trusted. Between Olin and his mother, Grif, Aziza, and a handful of others, Benton was satisfied with the cheap security of his supply. Tonight, he headed to a seamstress’s tiny shop, abandoned this time of night, for Drake’s Tongue. Twice, he turned and saw the same figure behind him, and twice he turned again to find it gone.
Easy, Benton, he cooled himself under his breath as he fumbled a key out of his jacket pocket at an unsuspecting door. There was no way to be at ease in the darkness of Old Rose, even as a grown man with enough scrap to make up for his average build and a flail in his hand. His instinct said fight, and he tightened his grip on the weapon. He wasn’t in danger, at least, not yet, not for sure. If the shadow that had followed him these few blocks was innocent, it would pass by as he unlocked the door. He waited for it to do just that, watching it move through his peripherals.
But it didn’t, and the shadow stopped and spoke amiably. Benton turned, his flail swinging to hit his calf as if to remind him that it had his back, like a dog rising to growl protectively at his side. The figure was taller than Benton— significantly so. He hulled beneath a great black coat, and his dark hair flowed as a continuation of it. Dark eyes peered down at Benton seriously, down a nose that had been broken beyond repair several times. And Benton, a man not known for his visual intimidation, felt small as he looked up at the beast.
Benton stepped as far back as the buildings would allow, giving himself time to react. The stranger smiled at him with his teeth, but his eyes did not join in, instead setting Benton’s nerve slight. Benton scrutinized the man, but he was much more adept at the fake smile. He grinned, cocking his head to display the lonely simple below his short scruff. And he watched the man’s hands, his body language, through smiling eyes.
“Hallo, sir,” he nodded, and he flung his flail up to rest on his shoulder as the other hand moved to his hip, pushing back his jacket to reveal a knife beneath and redepositing the unused key in one fluid motion. He smiled with welcome, daring any foul play with a single invitation: I’m armed.
“Selling if you’re buying— goods and services,” he lifted a brow playfully, biting his lip before returning to his grin. The sheer size of this man— and his eyes— made Benton nervous, but, gods, any customer was a customer he’d take these days.
“So, whatcha looking for, Mister—?” he prompted for a name, knowing that, if this man was a trouble maker, Benton may’ve heard about him from the bar. “Some goods aren’t the easiest to nab this time of night, but, hells, I can try for you. May cost a little extra, but, hey, sometimes you need it,” he shrugged slightly in the dark, then waited for the man to display his business.