Chapter B3C8 - Factions

Chapter B3C8 - Factions

“I apologise for keeping you waiting, Venerable,” Tyron said as he bowed his head.

A wheezing cackle came from the emaciated figure sat on the large wooden throne at the back of the room.

“No you don’t,” the old man rasped. “You couldn’t give a shit. But that’s fine, I don’t think the three of them care much either.”

He waved a lazy hand up toward the three figures carved and hung on the wall above his head. The two-faced lady, the storm-eyed bird, the withered tree. Crone, Raven and Rot.

Tyron eyed the three of them, trying to conceal his distaste. He had never forgiven the Old Gods for attempting to force his submission, and had been leery of them ever since. Which had led to some... difficulties, when it came to fulfilling the terms of his advanced sub-class.

“It’s not like they can’t see what you’re up to,” the venerable said, his voice so thin it was barely above a whisper. “Despite your attempts to conceal yourself from their eyes.”

For a moment, the old man lifted his brows to reveal eyes filled with lightning. Tyron averted his gaze and shifted uncomfortably. The venerable chuckled and let his wrinkled brow sink low once again.

“Thrice-blessed venerable, I’ve come to hear the word of the Three and fulfil the terms of our agreement. What do the Old Gods have to say?”

After a short silence, the old man wheezed a shallow laugh that quickly turned into a fit of coughing. When he was done, the venerable lifted himself on shaking arms so thin he appeared almost skeletal. He reached out to take hold of his staff and leaned heavily on it as he walked.

“Come on, you little shit,” he rasped, “I want to go outside.”

“A-are you sure that’s wise?”

“I’ve been blessed by three gods as old as this damned realm. You think you can tell me what’s wise? You still stink of your mother’s tit.”

Tyron ground his teeth and reined in the flash of anger that threatened to choke him. Despite his fragility, there likely wasn’t anything he could do to this decrepit old man, and the venerable knew it.

Besides, he had no idea how old this geezer was. The venerable might be a hundred, or a thousand for all he knew. Apparently, he’d lived here on the Oldan estate since it was established, which was at least two hundred years, but despite his best efforts, he’d uncovered absolutely no information about him. As far as public records went, the man didn’t exist, nor did any rumour of his existence.

“Come and help me, disrespectful brat,” the venerable grumbled and Tyron forced himself to take him gently by the shoulder, supporting him as he made his way through the house.

“Venerable?” Rita said as she caught sight of them, her eyes widening with alarm, “are you well?”

“Just getting a little fresh air, my dear,” he replied. “Young master Steelarm will assist me, no need to worry yourself.”

She hesitated, eyes flickering to Tyron and back.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, of course,” he waved her off with a stick-thin arm. “Be at ease, girl.”

She was likely forty years old, but looking as he did, he could call her a toddler and get away with it.

When they reached the outside, the old man stepped blinking into the sunlight, raising his head to the warmth of the light. A few wisps of hair still clung to his skull, reminding Tyron of the stubborn grasses he’d seen on the Barrier mountains, rooted into the bare, unforgiving stone.

“You’re thinking disrespectfully,” the old man noted querulously. “Stop it, and help me over to that rock. That one gets the most sun.”

“Fine.”

When he finally got situated, the venerable lowered himself with a sigh and pulled his loose fitting robes a little tighter around his shoulders.

“Gets a bit too cold for my old bones this far north,” he said. “I lived close to the desert in my youth, and sometimes, I feel like I never adapted. The chill gets right through me.”

There’s not a lot it has to get through, Tyron noted, but kept his mouth shut.

“What do you think the Old Gods are?” the venerable asked suddenly, and Tyron suppressed a sigh.

Every time he came up here, he was forced into discussion about the Three that he simply had no interest in.

“Ancient creatures of immense power and malevolent nature,” he answered honestly.

The venerable chuckled.

“You aren’t all that wrong, really. The Three are pricks. You hear me up there?! Pricks!”

He raised his staff and waggled it weakly at the sky.

“Elten,” she purred, “how lovely to see you again.”

Tyron suppressed a sigh.

“The pleasure is mine,” he executed a short bow and the woman’s eyes glowed with delight.

She really was desperate for a taste of good manners.

“Another twenty of Kenmor’s finest corpses,” she said, gesturing for her men to step forward. One by one, they lay their burdens down on the grating, tightly wrapped linen bundles of two corpses each.

“Excellent,” he breathed.

The first set had proven to be extremely fruitful for his research, but had only opened his eyes to possibilities. He had so much follow up work to do before he could confirm any of it.

“I’ve never seen someone so pleased to see a corpse,” Filetta observed, a slight smile tugging at her lips. “Let alone this many.”

Tyron stepped forward and passed her the purse directly.

“Your payment.”

Even more than before, her eyes gleamed at the sight of gold.

“And I presume you want the same again next month?” she said.

“I do.”

He hesitated a moment.

“I... would also like to enquire about an additional transaction.”

“Oh?” Her eager gaze flicked to his as she wet her lips. “And what might you be looking for?”

“Bones.”

“Bones?”

She glanced down at the corpses.

“Don’t you have enough... bones, already?”

He shook his head.

“No.”

“What sort of bones would you require?” she asked, curious.

“Human. In decent condition, not crumbling, not splintered, preferably.”

“Hmmm,” she considered for a moment, eyeing him. “I believe we can do this. But I would like to have another meeting in which we discuss the price and time of delivery.”

That was reasonable.

“Shall we say, here, same time, in a week?”

She frowned.

“No, nooo. That won’t do at all. Let us say, tomorrow, at the evening bell, in the Golden Gateway.”

If he wasn’t mistaken...

“Isn’t that a restaurant in the city?”

She smiled at him, again, part predator, part play.

“Why yes, yes it is.”