M
Mance
Guest
Jotun
The dark shines of a midnight moon radiated down upon the world, embracing it with a light too soft and beautiful to be sunlight, yet too undefined and mysterious to be either dawn or dusk. It was ethereal, and it was beautiful. The light was a catalyst, erupting rich, poignant thoughts in the minds of those watching the pale lunar rays, not necessarily engendering as much as vivifying imagination.
And it was also a harbinger.
Somewhere, a man steps out of the lustral moonlight and into the dark, begrimed atmosphere of the King's Head Tavern and, his sight barely penetrating air so permeated with smoke and drinking songs that his eyes both strain to see and tear up in response to the filthy setting, proceeds to the bar and orders a drink. No one really notices him as he goes about his business; why should they? He's below average height, wearing archaic clothing, and, most importantly, not singing bawdy, crude verses about large chested buxom wenches.
They don't know it yet, but, regardless of the drunken boasts, he's the most dangerous man in the room.
He's waiting for something. Someone. As the sands of time drain slowly towards the end of the guards' night shift, he has become something like the wall; his patience is infinite, his resolve is final. His anonymity is calculated; he hasn't touched his drink, because while a person without a drink in a place like this is something worth noticing, the last thing he needs is clouded judgment. And so he sits, passive... and pensive.
He remembers why he's waiting. He remembers the screams of the helpless and the silence of the ones beyond helpless and the smell of burning flesh that arose from both... he remembers the waking dreams of torture scenes, the desperate sense of lose bestirred by the thought that reality had finally slipped from his fingers, made slick by a thick coat of blood, and he was trapped, forever, in a nightmare delirium... he remembers the numb sensation of knowledge after ever day was through, and he remembers when he saw his reflection after it was all over; the livid, emotionless look in his eyes that would have scared him if he still knew what fear was, would have chilled him to the core if his heart had not been chiseled out of ice...
And then he remembers his name, his real name, not the one given to him by his parents, the one he earned...
By the time his target shows up he has a white-knuckled grip on his tankard and his jaw is jutting out with anger. He grabs his dirk with his free hand and tries, vainly, to calm himself. The simple fact that his target was here, now sitting at the bar, is relaxing; yet five liters of fury and hate and guilt are burning up his veins and he is not soothed. Despite his emotions only three things are on his mind:
Target. Weapon. Plan.
His target is a captain of Midlands' Watch, veteran of the Six Year Rebellion. The captain is taller and stronger, and a better fighter as well, but the waiting man still has the element of surprise and a determination fueled by unwavering antipathy. His weapon was an Assassin's Blade; he knew because he had taken it from an Assassin's corpse.
As for the plan...
He released both tankard and weapon and strode towards the bar, where he sat beside his target. Silent.
The captain, to his benefit, stared forward stoically, even as he heard the soft
murmur of steel on leather, knowing his killer was sliding his knife free from the confines of it's sheath. "I'm not so sure how," he said, breathing in deeply, relishing his last breath. "But I knew you would come. Good night, friend."
"Good night," said his killer.
He thrust the blade into the man's heart and left it there, sheathed in carrion. His aim was good and death was instant, and the captain slumped forward against the bar like a blacked out drunk.
No one noticed. No one cared.
The killer took a bag of coins from his pocket and motioned to the bar keep, who was cleaning tankards in the corner.
"My name is Jotun," he said, and handed the bag to the perplexed bartender.
No one remember him leaving. For that matter, no one had remembered him coming. But everyone remembered the silver hint of a knife sticking out of the captain's chest like a bizarre sort of weathervane and the look on his face- calm as a dead sea, which turned out to somehow be more disturbing than the rest of his bloody corpse. And somehow everyone remembered the name.
Jotun, they would all say, his name was Jotun.
O comfort-killing night, image of Hell, dim register and notary of shame, black stage for tragedies and murders fell, vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame!
~William Shakespeare
~William Shakespeare
A Prologue: Artifacts of the Black Rain
The dark shines of a midnight moon radiated down upon the world, embracing it with a light too soft and beautiful to be sunlight, yet too undefined and mysterious to be either dawn or dusk. It was ethereal, and it was beautiful. The light was a catalyst, erupting rich, poignant thoughts in the minds of those watching the pale lunar rays, not necessarily engendering as much as vivifying imagination.
And it was also a harbinger.
Somewhere, a man steps out of the lustral moonlight and into the dark, begrimed atmosphere of the King's Head Tavern and, his sight barely penetrating air so permeated with smoke and drinking songs that his eyes both strain to see and tear up in response to the filthy setting, proceeds to the bar and orders a drink. No one really notices him as he goes about his business; why should they? He's below average height, wearing archaic clothing, and, most importantly, not singing bawdy, crude verses about large chested buxom wenches.
They don't know it yet, but, regardless of the drunken boasts, he's the most dangerous man in the room.
He's waiting for something. Someone. As the sands of time drain slowly towards the end of the guards' night shift, he has become something like the wall; his patience is infinite, his resolve is final. His anonymity is calculated; he hasn't touched his drink, because while a person without a drink in a place like this is something worth noticing, the last thing he needs is clouded judgment. And so he sits, passive... and pensive.
He remembers why he's waiting. He remembers the screams of the helpless and the silence of the ones beyond helpless and the smell of burning flesh that arose from both... he remembers the waking dreams of torture scenes, the desperate sense of lose bestirred by the thought that reality had finally slipped from his fingers, made slick by a thick coat of blood, and he was trapped, forever, in a nightmare delirium... he remembers the numb sensation of knowledge after ever day was through, and he remembers when he saw his reflection after it was all over; the livid, emotionless look in his eyes that would have scared him if he still knew what fear was, would have chilled him to the core if his heart had not been chiseled out of ice...
And then he remembers his name, his real name, not the one given to him by his parents, the one he earned...
By the time his target shows up he has a white-knuckled grip on his tankard and his jaw is jutting out with anger. He grabs his dirk with his free hand and tries, vainly, to calm himself. The simple fact that his target was here, now sitting at the bar, is relaxing; yet five liters of fury and hate and guilt are burning up his veins and he is not soothed. Despite his emotions only three things are on his mind:
Target. Weapon. Plan.
His target is a captain of Midlands' Watch, veteran of the Six Year Rebellion. The captain is taller and stronger, and a better fighter as well, but the waiting man still has the element of surprise and a determination fueled by unwavering antipathy. His weapon was an Assassin's Blade; he knew because he had taken it from an Assassin's corpse.
As for the plan...
He released both tankard and weapon and strode towards the bar, where he sat beside his target. Silent.
The captain, to his benefit, stared forward stoically, even as he heard the soft
murmur of steel on leather, knowing his killer was sliding his knife free from the confines of it's sheath. "I'm not so sure how," he said, breathing in deeply, relishing his last breath. "But I knew you would come. Good night, friend."
"Good night," said his killer.
He thrust the blade into the man's heart and left it there, sheathed in carrion. His aim was good and death was instant, and the captain slumped forward against the bar like a blacked out drunk.
No one noticed. No one cared.
The killer took a bag of coins from his pocket and motioned to the bar keep, who was cleaning tankards in the corner.
"My name is Jotun," he said, and handed the bag to the perplexed bartender.
No one remember him leaving. For that matter, no one had remembered him coming. But everyone remembered the silver hint of a knife sticking out of the captain's chest like a bizarre sort of weathervane and the look on his face- calm as a dead sea, which turned out to somehow be more disturbing than the rest of his bloody corpse. And somehow everyone remembered the name.
Jotun, they would all say, his name was Jotun.
