Thom Rainier ran his hand over his face, his beard, almost fully formed was scraggy and unkempt. The sweat from his exertions bled into his eyes.
Chopping wood was the only thing that could clear his mind. Granted, it was 4 am in the morning but he knew sleep would have come fitfully, the dreams that started a week after the incident meant the only way he could forget was to drown his ‘justifications’ in a barrel. Preferably one with high alcohol content.
The axe swung above his head and the wood creaked when the dull blade made contact.
He swung again. This time the wood splintered and cracked, its cut unclean.
“Bloody blade.” He swore and staggered to grab another log.
He readied it and swung, this time he missed and instead it hit the supporting log underneath. The unsharpened blade was now deeply embedded into its well-worn surface. He tried to pry it away but the sweat on his hands loosened his grip on the axes hilt and he stumbled backwards stopping only once he hit the woodshed. He hit the ground with a thud.
He started laughing, raucous, loud, unforgiving and unrepentant.
He felt the torment of the last 8 months wash away with that laugh and he was once again dashing Thom, cunning, arrogant and master of the game. He was also the best damn dancer in the whole Orlesian army who’d made many a pompous noble turn their head before he’d landed their fair lady in bed.
“That’s one mighty laugh you have.”
Thom, startled, fumbled for his sword but it wasn’t within his grasp.
“No need, lad. I’m not here to fight you. Or rob you.”
Thom squinted. “You’re the man from the tavern. The one sitting in the corner with your back to the wall.”
“And you sat with your back to the other corner.” He replied.
“Who are you?” Thom rubbed his eyes.
The man bent down and grabbed Thom’s sword but ignored the question. “You bested 3 of those mercenaries in a fist fight.”
Thom snorted and rubbed his bruised temple. “I still had the **** kicked out of me.”
“You could have easily run them through. Why didn’t you?”
“I just wanted another drink. I’m not ready to kill for a drink… just yet.”
“Good.” The man passed Thom’s sword back to him. “Here.”
“Who are you?” Thom asked again.
“Someone who knows who you are, what you are and what you are willing to do.”
Thom kneeled using his sword to stumble to standing. “You do, do you?” He looked the older man over. Bearded and greying with flecks of blood vessels streaking the man's pale cheeks. He looked ancient, but had barely any wrinkles and his eyes were clear as a mountain pond.
“I was you. A long time ago.”
“You poor bugger. Why aren’t you dead then? I think I might have a few months left, if my gut can take the liquor or I get on the wrong side of my own sword.”
The man gave a grim smile “It won’t be long and I’ll hear the calling. I won’t live to see another blight.”
It was only then Thom noticed the man’s helm. “You’re a grey warden then?”
“Aye, son, I am.”
Thom sniffed loudly and exhaled. A warden. He knew them to be men and women of honour. He also knew they took many of their recruits from the lowest of the low. He was at that point now. Would they take him?
“Will you have me?” he blurted.
The man laughed.
“I… I…” Thom began to explain but the man waved his hand at him.
“I don’t need excuses, explanations or confessions. I can’t promise anything but I’ve seen your hand and I need someone to accompany me back to Weisshaupt. Will you agree to do that?”
Thom nodded enthusiastically.
The man laughed again and shook his head. “Let’s just wait until morning shall we? Sleep it off a little. You might feel differently come sun up.”
Thom knew he wouldn’t. He knew he wasn’t going to let another chance slip out of reach.
“What is your name?” Thom asked.
“Just call me Blackwall.”
)
Retour en haut
