Bovos is alerted to Svelhal’s presence by the sweeping gust air blown throughout the miniscule room by the half-intact plank door. Bovos turns to his friend, who stands tall in the doorway while carrying a massive tan sack that strangles and slices their shoulder to a bright red. Suddenly, Svelhal collapses in the doorframe and begins gasping for air like a freshly beached traveler following a chaotic shipwreck. Seeing his struggle, his friend rushes to his side and takes hold of his arm.
Bovos: “Are you alright?”
Svelhal remains utterly silent except for his endless gasps for air, an act Bovos has gained familiarity with over the years. Svelhal gestures to Bovos for more time to catch his breath, and many seconds pass before Svelhal’s nod instructs Bovos to aid him to his feet and off the hard stone floor. Even after regaining full stature, Svelhal realises himself too fatigued to stand. With a drunk-looking stumble, he topples against the door frame to prevent breaking his jaw or teeth with a fall, giving him a firm knock on the side of his head while his friend hovers near. Bovos backs away to give Svelhal sufficient room to navigate along the inside of the room, but decides against it only seconds after seeing him struggle with the bag still strung over his raw shoulder. Bovos snatches the satchel from the grip his less healthy friend, hauling the bag of solid wood to the other side of the room with relative ease as Svelhal watches in envy at his friend’s lack of effort. Svelhal’s torment isn’t numb to Bovos, who’s worry is far deeper than his voice would suggest.
Bovos: “How about I handle the wood, and you deal with the food from now on?”
Svelhal: “I just need to get stronger, and then I can do it without issue.”
Bovos: “You’re ill. You’ve been so for years.”
Svelhal locks his teeth together and remains silent, as both he and Bovos have given up any further chatter on the subject. Such a conversation often repeats itself without any progress to be made, a fact that has been proven time and time again. To Svelhal, Bovos is simply a worrisome man. Soon, the two are finally able to continue the task at hand, taking seat at opposite sides of a rough workbench that rests just above their knees. The satisfying sound of lumber being filed down to shape fills the air as tiny specks of wooden sand flutter down onto the table. As night begins to fall, the overworked forearms of both the two begin to give, and as their forearms begin to give, the steel file in both their hands fall to the table like Teyos and its cherished light. Bovos brushes over his kempt obsidian hair while leaning back in his rickety seat, before begging a question not far from common in these times.
Bovos: “Tavern?”
Svelhal mirrors his friend’s actions, leaning back in his chair to stretch his shoulders and straighten his hunching back. He glances through the massive cracks in the plank door that act as a window to the realm outside the room. The darkness is near pitch, though much lighter than the usual during this time of day -- almost a moist, saturated darkness reminiscent of a misty dusk. Few sounds from the world that lies beyond the wooden barrier are to be heard; not even an insect dares make a noise, though, oddly, the world doesn’t seem to be teemless of sound. The indifference of tonight induces boredom, and, naturally, boredom calls for action to take its place. With his arms limber, and his back aligned, Svelhal pushes himself from his seat and stretches his legs with a slow waddle towards the doorway. Bovos follows, gradually passing Svelhal as the two initiate travel to the more favorable side of town where the tavern is located. It’s on mystical nights like these that a being knows whether their world is true or false, and it’s when it passes that they either forget their experience or begin an undying doubt of such until the night repeats itself. Upon reaching a majority of the way from their home to the safety of the maintained side of town, the two stop dead in their tracks as an eerie voice sweeps through the hidden streets.
???: “Drop your silver, or face my steel!”
Remaining nearly as motionless as iron statues, the two glance at each other in their complete silence. The voice appears to have been made by someone on the border between apprenticeship age and tavern age -- likely the same age as Svelhal, if not a bit more ripen. Upon catching sight of Svelhal drawing his handmade sword from his side, Bovos reluctantly begins to raise his axe from its holster in preparation for the inevitable. Not soon after, the two are harshly greeted by an unknown number of lightly armored warriors charging in with flailing weapons. Svelhal, nimble and quick despite being quick to fatigue, rushes in before he is pinned to his friend’s back, slashing at the faceless duo his wooden backsword. Upon seeing their ally being stricken at the base of their neck, the other takes their opportunity to attack, lunging at their victim with their blade. Svelhal swerves his own to counter, and the two weapons collide. However, the collision doesn’t produce the faint nipping, crashing sound one would expect from a wood on steel collision. No, this is nothing short of a gnarly crack. Despite his health, Svelhal is far from weak and frail. He grabs the forearm of the attacker, and pulls them both towards his body and sideways. As would be expected in the darkness of night, the thug remains without time to prepare, and is tossed back first onto the indestructible stone road. From the shadows behind Svelhal leap a trio of additional ruffians, all of which are nearly toppled by Bovos’ great stature as he charges forth with the might of a Hevaltan Elite. The ribs of those who dare stand in the way find themselves broken into pieces at either the swing of Bovos’ wooden axe or the flurries of strongman punches being thrown their way. The two allies soon find themselves taking common places in the battle, with Svelhal watching his friend’s back and acting with either grapples or counters, and Bovos striking the enemies down one by one like bugs. Just as the endurance of Svelhal begins to reach it's limit, the ruffians disappear into the soaking shadows from where they came. Svelhal places his hands on his knees and begins to gasp for air, and Bovos also begins doing so to a lesser extreme.
Bovos: “They didn’t get your silver, did they?”
Svelhal: “What silver?”
The two share a dry laugh underneath their gasps, one that quickly turns sour as they realize the depth of their own poverty. However, Bovos interrupts before their giggles can cross over into the realm of awkwardness.
Bovos: “Those bastards were using wooden weapons -- of our creation too I’d bet!”
Svelhal: “‘Face my steel!’... You aren’t hurt, are you?”
Bovos: “Ah’of course not! But they won’t be bothering anyone else for weeks, especially not us.”
Svelhal: “I don’t think they’ll try at all. From the voices and yelps, they couldn’t have been older than us. I think they’ve learned otherwise.”
Bovos: “You sound like you’re talking down to them.”
Svelhal: “How so?”
Bovos: “Like an old man to some thugs, but I shouldn’t hassle you. Let us continue to the tavern, it’s been a long night.”
And so, the two continue on through the unlit streets of the vicious side of Vannael and to their destination. The sharp pain in their eyes begins to ease as they adjust to the everbright interior of the candlelit tavern. As would be expected, the defensive stone architecture domes overhead, ready to protect those who take rest within its walls. The stained wooden bar stretches parallel to the longest side of the building, and cuts through the room at about one third of the way through it’s width, separating the shelves on the tavern keeper’s side with the shoddy tables opposite. The tavern is far from its maximum capacity as of current, although much greater than one would expect given its location and the time of day. However, such could be reasoned knowing that this is the only tavern in this half of town. The two find seats in a space of three, and unavoidably, one of the duo must be forced to sit next to a complete stranger. The two choices: A thick-browed man wearing a mine worker's attire, or an obviously foreign warrior donning composite plant armor and carrying a javelin on his back. For the unknown reason of why many enjoy inconveniencing their best mates, Bovos enters the center seat of the three, and turns to look at his friend with a sly smirk. With neither choice seeming any more appealing than the other, Svelhal makes his decision shortly after hearing the thick-browed man unleash a foul hacking cough. The tavern keeper, who had previously had his back turned to his audience while polishing mugs, rotates towards the new arrivals, revealing himself to be a tall and sturdy bald-headed man with a massive, yet short black beard. He begins speaking to the two in a gruff, yet gentle voice, and tosses the rag in his hands to underneath the bar.
The tavern keeper: “What can I get’cha two?”
Bovos: “Ale.”
For a few moments, the tavern keeper blankly stares at Svelhal, waiting for any response from the lad while questioning whether or not someone of his age is truly there for such a drink. In the Hevaltan Empire, it’s commonplace for parents to keep their young from drinking until they reach independence -- which is strange, given the nature of their emperor. Soon, the tavern keeper makes his decision, reaching under the counter with two mugs and filling them to the brim from the spigoted keg of ale beneath.
The tavern keeper: “Eh, if it was rum you’d said, I’d deny ya.”
The tavern keeper’s experience can be realised by how swiftly he plops down the two mugs, and how little splash or stir he casts upon the liquid inside when doing so. Before long, the tavern keeper returns to his duties, leaving the two undisturbed with their drinks. While Bovos downs his ale with unneeded haste, Svelhal takes his time with a consistent stream of large sips. Svelhal swears to himself that, during a comparatively hearty swig, he narrowly saw the warrior take a hidden glance at him, until Bovos’ draw his attention. Their chatter fills the room for the few people without a conversation of their own.
Bovos: “I’d half expected you to have gotten juice again.”
Svelhal: “And I expected you to go for the mead, you drunkard.”
Bovos: “Ha!... Should’ve…”
Svelhal: “I swear, this town has too many thugs. They keep getting on my nerves.”
Bovos: “It’s the experienced ones you have to worry about. Vannael doesn’t have many of those.”
Svelhal: “I suppose, but Yoir was safe to roam around even in the bad parts of town.”
As Svelhal delves into another sip of his ale, the unknown warrior’s ears begin to open.
Bovos: “Let’s not talk about that.”
Svelhal: “Yeah… but Bovos, I think we need to go back.”
Bovos: “Why would that be?”
Svelhal: “I think I need to go back, just to see it one last time.”
Bovos: “If it’ll help, we can go as soon as possible.”
Svelhal: “Thank you, Bovos.”
After a few short moments, both of the two have already begun to work their way back into their drinks, and after a few more, Svelhal receives an unexpected conversation from the warrior to his side, prompting him to turn and face him while Bovos watches in silence. The stranger’s sharp face and smooth Lowlands accented voice tell that he’s just before his prime, and possibly hasn’t seen true bloodshed yet. When talking to this mysterious warrior, Svelhal begins to feel somewhat exposed, as if someone already knows the answers to what he’s saying.
???: “I’m sorry to intrude, but you lived in the town of Yoir before the attack?”
Svelhal: “I did… why?”
???: “What happened in Yoir is important to me, and I’m very sorry to intrude, truly, but you also said that you wanted to go there soon, correct?”
Svelhal: “Uh… yes? Why do you ask, did you lose someone?”
???: “Me? No. But… M- How are you with magic?”
Svelhal: “I practice aeromancy every now and again.”
???: “Sorry, but I think I must clarify: How are you with non-elemental magic?”
Svelhal: “N-necromancy?”
???: “I suppose not… Let me ask you a question.”
Svelhal: “Okay…”
???: “Many years ago, back in the late parts of the First Siege, how did Emperor Glavi and his army went from slaying only a few dragons each week to suddenly being able to slay that many in a day?”
Svelhal: “I’ve heard about this before from an old man years ago, he said there was some monk that was able to move them in and out of battle instantly.”
???: “Exactly. Now, I don’t know about you, but if I told anyone on the street that there are forms of magic far different than both necromancy and elemental magic, they would most likely call me a fool.”
Svelhal: “Why are you asking me about magic?”
???: “Well… let me ask you another question first, and then I’ll promise to answer yours.”
Svelhal: “Okay.”
???: “What if I told you these forms of magic are not only responsible for Glavi’s success, but for the existence for the dragon that destroyed Yoir?”
Svelhal: “I’d say… I don’t know...”
???: “Well, as to your question, I am asking because I wish to accompany you to Yoir. It‘s important to me and my... master, and I know that it’s important to you as well.”
Svelhal: “What does that have to do with magic? Something to do with that dragon?”
???: “Whether or not you receive the answers you seek will be determined by the choices you make.”
Svelhal: “What does that mean? If I let you come with me to Yoir, you’ll tell me about this magic?”
???: “I can’t guarantee that, but it’s possible… likely, even.”
Svelhal: “I don’t know you.”
???: “My name is Veren. I promise you, nothing bad can come of this.”
Svelhal closes his lips, turning to Bovos in his search for quick advice. A quick shrug of the shoulders tell him that his friend has no wisdom to offer, and Svelhal returns to the mysterious magic man.
Svelhal: “I suppose you can come along, but I can’t offer you a date as of yet.”
Veren: “That would be splendid. Thank you. I will allow you to return to your drink.”
Veren returns back to his previous position, facing forwards and keeping to himself in a contemplative blank stare. For the rest of their short while in the tavern after the strange encounter, the two do nothing but continue their drinks at their regular pace. Unsurprisingly, the first to finish is Bovos, followed by Svelhal about a dozen minutes later. Shortly after Svelhal gets to the bottom of his mug, the two pay for their drinks before silently rising from their seats and continuing on for the night. Taking one last glance at Veren, Svelhal makes his way out the door… but, wait… A mysterious figure - one not noticed before - sits directly next to Veren, wearing the same type of armor as him, with the addition of an unmarked mask. A screaming spark shoots down Svelhal’s spine as he makes the mistake of looking the stranger directly in the eyes through the slits in their mask, before the feeling suddenly shifts to an surreal emptiness. Svelhal wastes no time rushing outside the tavern to catch up with his friend and get away from this terrifying figure. The walk home is filled with chatter between Svelhal and Bovos about the nature of these individual.
Bovos: “He seems like he’s hiding something.”
Svelhal: “I have to say, I’m intrigued. But that other one terrifies me.”
Bovos: “What other one?”
Svelhal: “You didn’t see them? They were sitting next to Veren. I looked in their eyes on the way out of the tavern, and it’s like I felt my entire body scream.”
Bovos: “Was it a shade?”
Svelhal: “No. This is different, like the feeling you get when you have night terrors.”
Bovos: “Well, I can’t say I know what you mean. I, however, am interested in that magic.”
Svelhal: “I can’t argue with that. But they talked about the dragon… I want to know more about it.”
The two silence their speak on the final stretch home, and it is until they have reached the doorstep of their own single room shack that Bovos lets Svelhal know his concern.
Bovos: “Now, I know it’s not my place to determine what’s best for you, but I feel like, if you aren’t careful, this will reopen a wound best left sealed.”
Svelhal: “Frankly, this is too important to me. If what I see opens that wound, then so be it.”
Bovos takes a short sigh before the two pass through the shoddy wooden door one by one, and take seat on their beds at opposite sides of the room.
Bovos: “When should we be leaving?”
Svelhal: “As soon as we have the supplies, I suppose. I’ll head to the markets tomorrow.”
