It was not a normal day for Laki.

This day had seen him struggle to find any coin for his keep, even at this makeshift town where they did not look sourly at passing folk to the east... well they did. He was a "mountain man". An enemy. But he kept his wits about him and his face as well. And he was going west.

Even at this tavern while digging into his watery porridge, it was exiting, a new way of doing things. A way to say "fuck you" to the past.

The weather was bad and the roads had been soggy for weeks and it looked like it was not getting any better soon. Autumn in the east was always shitty.

 

Laki had walked the only street on this suddenly important town. By the looks of it, it was a staging ground for a battle with many stern looking men at the nearby camp.

He'd tipped his hat at the few armoured men that were lounging at the porch of the local inn. "Talor's"

"Look at that nanny fancy mountain boy."  One of had remarked.

 

He left their fuckery to themselves and sidled by the fire to keep warm. Wishing for something to quell his growling stomach.

Laki unbuckled his weapon belts, and shoes; then pointedly stared at the small room. Turned his back to it and put his boots on the hearth to dry.

The were about 20 tables, half of them nothing but makeshift split-log things made to accommodate the rising clientéle that was quickly drinking, eating and possibly fucking itself into a battle. They were boisterous. But the look had made it sure that none supped at his table. They left him alone. The smell of death 

It was not a good place to be. It made Laki feel a bit... restricted. But man has to sleep sometimes.

 

The innkeeper approached him first.

"What ya be wanting?"

"Place to sleep, bread, butter and whatever you've got in that pot will be enough."

He dropped a few silver coins on the table, pointedly.

"Much obliged, sir. We... I'll send a girl to you with you food."

 

Fuck it all. Tired. This march from the mountains, the memories. And not even 19 years old yet. 

I could have been in a warrior cult. I should've been.

 

A man approaches. He's a noble, doesn't got mud all over his boots and his cohorts hold back with their silver buckles and shiny emblems. Money. And a lady cowering behind them. 

*ka-chink* a pouch on the table.

"We need you. You look like a killer."

"What's it to you?", Laki palms the pouch. "You've earned my ear, but I'll hear it from her lips... please be a good lackey." He continues smiling.

The man hesitates enough for the waitress to come and put a bowl of steaming slop with some bread and a slab of cheese on the table.

"Be respectful.", the armsman growls while getting up. Laki burbs.

 

 

(väijytys)

A sudden steer, just a little bit of the flesh

A spoon-fed bite, knife edge full of caress

Tear it down, tear it in, swivel

Take it out, from side to side, shiver


A yard of mud and bones becomes the stage.

Some like it dangerous, some like something else,

So silver coin are promised to set the.... wheels running.


The first cut releases a ghost.

Eager, yearning eyes. Desperetaly gnawing at me
roll, parry, thurst to end the point

Finally the flesh decides what it hates the most.

Eager, yearning eyes. Lovingly praying for me
toll, bleary, unready soon out of sight.

He checks the kill. Draws an arrow out of his shoulder.
Shudder.
Snatches all of its money. All the concoctions from the belts.
Better.

Not relishing, there is always another hill.

Just to be born anew."

 

Laki remembers, as if startled from a dream. The assassin's mark! A burning spider between the flesh of its thumb and forefinger. Ready to be shown. Always hidden.

And now again. On this field, the same mark, on a coin hidden in a dead man's boot.