The scribe hurried in through the door,
brushed himself off, and then looked around the room. Yes, it was a bar.
That was a good start. The barkeep, a solid, balding man, eyed him
up and down without comment. “Erm, excuse me. I heard that a famous
hero is to be found here. I assume that this is, in fact, the Runeforge
Inn?” A couple of the drinkers turned to look at him, but no one
responded. The barman looked back at him, then nodded once, slowly.
Carefully clutching his quill pouch closer, the scribe moved into the
room, peering at the customers as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.
Behind him, the door burst open, cracking against the wall as it swung all the way round. Framed in the light from outside stood a muscular young man, wearing fancily embossed leather armour, with a sword buckled at his belt. Could this be the hero?
The scribe’s voice quavered slightly as he addressed the man, “Excuse me, I’m looking for a hero. A famous hero?”
The youth’s mouth twisted in disdain. “Well, I’m looking for a fight. This is where the scum of the Shingles hangs out , is it not?” A couple more youths moved into the room behind him, insolent smirks on their faces. Their leader spoke loudly, “You, you puking wimp - what are you doing here?” The scribe looked behind him. The hulking youth was staring in the scribe’s direction. “What are you, some kind of adventurer fanboy?”, he said as he stepped forward. “Well, you’ll do for starters.” The scribe gulped, and started stammering. “N - N - N, Not...” A bar wench intervened, hurrying forward and stepping between him and the thug, fists on her doughty hips, as she scolded the trouble maker. “Come on, there’s no need for that.” The young noble, if that’s what he was, clenched his fist and smashed her in the mouth, knocking her to the floor, as he screamed “Shut up, slut!”. As she glared up at him, he stared around the room, breathing heavily, with an aggressive grin on his face.
A hoarse voice, grating like the lid of a tomb sliding closed, cut through the tense atmosphere. “Any of you kids don’t wanna to get hurt better head out the front, right now.” An old man, with thinning white hair, and a face lined with age and scars, spoke.
Behind him, the door burst open, cracking against the wall as it swung all the way round. Framed in the light from outside stood a muscular young man, wearing fancily embossed leather armour, with a sword buckled at his belt. Could this be the hero?
The scribe’s voice quavered slightly as he addressed the man, “Excuse me, I’m looking for a hero. A famous hero?”
The youth’s mouth twisted in disdain. “Well, I’m looking for a fight. This is where the scum of the Shingles hangs out , is it not?” A couple more youths moved into the room behind him, insolent smirks on their faces. Their leader spoke loudly, “You, you puking wimp - what are you doing here?” The scribe looked behind him. The hulking youth was staring in the scribe’s direction. “What are you, some kind of adventurer fanboy?”, he said as he stepped forward. “Well, you’ll do for starters.” The scribe gulped, and started stammering. “N - N - N, Not...” A bar wench intervened, hurrying forward and stepping between him and the thug, fists on her doughty hips, as she scolded the trouble maker. “Come on, there’s no need for that.” The young noble, if that’s what he was, clenched his fist and smashed her in the mouth, knocking her to the floor, as he screamed “Shut up, slut!”. As she glared up at him, he stared around the room, breathing heavily, with an aggressive grin on his face.
A hoarse voice, grating like the lid of a tomb sliding closed, cut through the tense atmosphere. “Any of you kids don’t wanna to get hurt better head out the front, right now.” An old man, with thinning white hair, and a face lined with age and scars, spoke.
Without a further word the bully fled from
the inn. The scribe heaved in a deep breath, and realised that he had
found a hero. As he drew breath again to speak, the old man looked
at him and asked, “What do you want a hero for, anyway?”
“Well, erm, to be honest, erm, I’m hoping to become a bard, and I thought I should find a hero’s story to tell.” he replied.
The old man sighed. “Well, I’m no hero, but I’ve a story to tell. Been bottled up inside me too long. You interested?”
The scribe nodded, and settled down at the table, spreading out parchments, quills and inks. The old man stood, revealing a tall, lean frame, and went over to the waitress. He hefted her to her feet, with unusual ease, and gave her a small bottle. “Drink this, you’ll feel better.” After a trip to the bar, he returned, with two small, strong looking drinks.
“Ever hear the tale of the Crimson Throne?. No? Well, it was before your time. Not that long ago it seems, but, anyway, it’s an interesting story nonetheless.. There’s a few different versions going around - lots of those involved put their spin on it, but I’ll try and tell it unvarnished. You can fancy it up with your long bardy words later. Hmmm. Where should I start.”
He lifted up his drink, and drank it down in one smooth gulp. ”So, I was
born here in Korvosa, a long time ago. Don’t know who my folks were.
Went to an orphanage. Luckily, it was one of the good ones - set up
by Lady Lindsay herself, I hear. Those are my first memories - food,
teachers, friends. Good memories, while they lasted. The luck
didn’t last long. I was abducted. Snatched by a piece of human
filth. Name of Gaedran Lamm. He used to run a few of us.
Pick-pocketings, market thefts, even burglaries. If we brought him
money, he’d reward us with a smack in the face. If we failed, he’d beat
us unconscious. We couldn’t fight him - he only used us young kids, and
he got rid of any who challenged him. That’s what he tried to do to me.
Either I stuffed up once too often - I was never good at stealing - or he
figured out I that I wasn’t going to put up with it much longer. Anyway,
he tortured me, and left me for dead on a pile of garbage. His mistake.
I’m tougher than I look. It’s a mistake a lot have made, and a lot
have regretted too. Anyway, I knew I had to leave Korvosa. The wily
old bastard had a long reach, and if I’d stayed, I’d have ended up crocodile
food. I ended up wandering Varisia for a while. Spent some time
with the Shoanti. They’re a crazy bunch. Some of them are real
angry. I guess a bit of it rubbed off. Anyway, I finished growing
up in Magnimar. Still on the street, but I managed to survive honestly.
I never forgot Lamm though. When I figured I’d learned enough to
take him on properly, I headed back to Korvosa. Damn, I haven’t talked
this much in years. I need to stretch my legs.”“Well, erm, to be honest, erm, I’m hoping to become a bard, and I thought I should find a hero’s story to tell.” he replied.
The old man sighed. “Well, I’m no hero, but I’ve a story to tell. Been bottled up inside me too long. You interested?”
The scribe nodded, and settled down at the table, spreading out parchments, quills and inks. The old man stood, revealing a tall, lean frame, and went over to the waitress. He hefted her to her feet, with unusual ease, and gave her a small bottle. “Drink this, you’ll feel better.” After a trip to the bar, he returned, with two small, strong looking drinks.
“Ever hear the tale of the Crimson Throne?. No? Well, it was before your time. Not that long ago it seems, but, anyway, it’s an interesting story nonetheless.. There’s a few different versions going around - lots of those involved put their spin on it, but I’ll try and tell it unvarnished. You can fancy it up with your long bardy words later. Hmmm. Where should I start.”
The old man stood again, stretched, picked up his sword and pack, and strolled towards the door. He glanced back at the scribe, and said “I’ll see you tomorrow then, if you’re still interested.”.
The scribe quickly scooped up his possessions. “Wait, I don’t even know your name.”
The old man chuckled, and, with a sardonic grin, shrugged his shoulders. “Nine Hells, I never knew my name either. But, you might as well call me Gritt like everyone else did.”