Salt and sulphur, the unmistakable pungence of the ocean’s presence, permeated the cold winds blowing above the water-facing cliffs. Howls of its vales play a coarse seasonal orchestra with the waves crashing against the rocks below, interrupted ever so rudely by the screeches of flocking gulls.
To the South, lay an endless expanse of shifting waters, covered in a sheen of silver that reflected grey skies. Laden with dense clouds in both rain and drought, it was a miracle when the Norfolk had any semblance of a sunny day in the latter end of fall. And beyond the cliffs to the North, one could faintly see the snow-capped peaks of the glorious Vaanite Mountains, pride of the Asgardian Territories.
The cliffs themselves were mostly bare, covered in a patchy network of hardy grass that lent a living touch to their jagged surface. Otherwise, there seemed to be no sign of life for miles, except for a lonely structure.
Blending in with the colourless background was this humble stone building, not much larger than a townhouse. Its walls were laid with old schist; densely layered, weeds and moss grew through what little cracks seemed to be along its surface. Its windows were arched and decorative, framed by smooth alabaster atop panes of stained gypsum glass. Its slanted roofs seemed more contemporary, clad with sheets of glistening dark green slate.
Within its walls, a humble crowd observed a sermon, one they’d routinely attended every Tuesday after sunrise.
“BUT FEAR THEE NOT,” bellowed a voice from within the temple, faintly audible through the thick windows.
Leaning onto the face, unfazed by the crescendo and oblivious to the speech held within the church, was the lone figure of a middle-aged man. Foreign to the greater Norse region, his skin wore a deep brown tone, with a cool bluish tinge in the shade. Bold features marked his visage, adorned by a set of sharp amber eyes that contrasted his rich, dark palette. His rough black beard was kept thick but short, with a thin moustache growing above a full set of lips.
For his top, he wore a dark, collared shirt, topped by a short, leather jacket that he left unbuttoned. His twill umber-toned pants were harnessed by a pair of bandoliers, bearing a pistol and sword on either side of his hips. Atop his head, a crude gunman’s hat covered the roots of his thick braids, which he tied behind his head. He wore a glove on one hand, which sat softly atop the large satchel slung across his torso; his other hand stroked his face as he waited tirelessly for the sermon to end.
Soon, his wishes would be granted, as the melancholic quiet falls to the murmurs of the church-going crowds flooding out its gates. Simple fishermen, roadworkers and townsfolk, dressed in their finest garbs, march the path winding down the cliff towards parked carriages by the road. Amongst the people, however, was an uncanny and extravagant figure. Standing only a few feet away from the chapel doors, a plump older man dressed in a long wool coat of deep purple paused to gaze upon the facade. Almost as if frozen in time, he peered through a set of thick spectacles that sat on his moustachioed, round face, with his hands crossed behind his back.
It seemed the shady figure had been waiting for this elder man, casting his sights upon him intently, as if trying to grab his attention. He was clearly visible to his contemporary, who had chosen to remain inanimate, stoically examining the structure and taking in its finer details. Left with no choice, the dark man approaches.
“Your Grace”, begins the dark figure.
“Ah! Mr.Viktor,” exclaims the nobleman, almost as if surprised to meet the man who’d long awaited him. He was still looking ahead as Viktor drew inches away from his space. Now he turns towards him, “or shall I say, Sir. Viktor?”
“Please don’t,” quickly responded Viktor, ”your grace…”
“I take it you are not a man of faith,” posits the nobleman.
Viktor shrugs and subtly raises his brows.
“Neither am I!” the nobleman chuckles.
“Your grace…” Viktor replies sternly.
“But you see this,” the nobleman gestures to the church before them, “is not just a mere icon of religious belief! No sir! This is a national treasure, a cultural paragon, an epitaph to an age long past!”
Viktor attempts to interrupt him, but the nobleman booms once more, ” The Temple-Church of O’sheanus! Originally built over 2 millennia ago in honour of the great elements, renovated and repurposed to serve the new Gods! Isn’t it marvellous, Mr.Viktor?”
“That’s… fantastic,” Viktor replies subtly, attempting to get to the matter at hand.
“Yes, yes, it is,” the nobleman casts his looks to the church once more to take in its glory. Sprays of ocean’s mist were building up specks of dew on his thick auburn moustache.
“About the job,” Viktor continued,” I believe it’s done.”
Turning towards Viktor with his head only, the nobleman sighs, ”Hmph. Yes. My men have informed me of the good work you’ve done.”
He fiddles within his coat, “and as such.”
“Your payment!” he summarizes, placing a small bag of coins into Viktor's palm.
Staring at his pitiful commission in awe and disappointment, his mouth agape and eyebrows furrowed. He asks, “ Your Grace… Excuse my language, but what in the name of Helheim is this?”
He turns his eyes to stare furiously right at the nobleman, who was taken aback by the remark.
“Oh… well… you know the…,” the nobleman stutters,” there were unforeseen circumstances because of the incident.”
“I did my job, you have your goods back,” Viktor responded firmly, “where is my money?”
“Well, the delays, good sir!,” explained the nobleman further,” the delays cost me quite the amount in losses, and I cannot pay you in full!”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Why you!” growled Viktor, his hand making its way towards the ivory handle of his blade.
“Halt, sir! No need to be rash!”, shouted the nobleman as he walked backwards and waved his open palms for mercy, “I can’t NOW! I can’t pay you in full now!”
In the distance, uniformed men standing by the noble’s carriage had noticed the ruckus up the hill and began making their way towards the two. Once Viktor had taken his hand off the handle, the nobleman signalled his men to stop.
“Listen, come by my estate in Aphsomir,” said the noble, “I should have your amount, in triple that is!”
“That's…,” Viktor pondered,” Aphsomir, that’s well over 8 weeks from here.”
“By horse, yes, but by ship, it's merely a week across the strait of Alexander and another week’s ride South,” the nobleman explained, slowly beginning to retreat, “I assure you the pay will be worth your while!”
The nobleman nodded as he turned to head towards his men. Viktor had just parted his lips to remark something, but was silenced by the ridiculous sight of the nobleman shuffling as he ran. He was halfway down the hill when he waved his arm above and yelled, “The offer stands! See you in Aphsomir, Mr.Viktor!”
Viktor could only watch, immobilized in shock, as the elderly man stopped by the carriage, gasped for breath, then hopped onto the carriage. The carriage had long parted and disappeared beyond the horizon by the time Viktor made his own way down. Broken and tired, he inhales deeply, kicking back his head to stare at the heavens before…
BANG!
Down came Viktor’s head, smashing into the hardwood surface of the bar-counter. He extended his arm, shaking a near-empty wooden stein as he begged and whimpered, “One (hiccup) One more please.”
Asgardian taverns were their busiest on Tuesday evenings, brimming with drunken banter, live music, and the occasional fight club. The Old Saffron was no exception, situated near the docks of the port town of Stuggart, it attracted all manner of seafarers and tradesmen. Patrons of the bar would gamble, drink ale and sing shanties at their respective tables. Performers seeking coin would often take up corners to play their tunes that gals and boys danced and twirled to. The echoing clangs and bangs and hoots and hollers had left Viktor’s outlandish gesture unnoticed by all except for one, Roselle, the lady of the house behind the bar.
She stood above the wailing Viktor with her fists on her hips and an incredulous look on her face.
“Look at you,” she responded,” the greatest huntsman in the North, Panther of Elysium, smelling of piss and crying like a baby. Get it together.”
She gestured towards the wood-panelled walls of her tavern, where all sorts of trophies flaunting local hunters’ signatures were hung for display. Many said trophies carried the signature “Sir Viktor von Eirick, Panther of Elysium”.
“I’m a bitch,” he muttered to himself, his breakdown muffled by the wood his face was planted in,“ the greatest bitch at Losertown.”
“Oh, you wish were the greatest bitch of any town,” snapped Roselle, gesturing with her finger towards the drunk and raising her brow, “no more drinks for you, mister.”
Roselle was quite the woman, also foreign; her warm olive skin was clear and taught across her defined bone structure. Her honey-brown almond eyes, shaded by dark, shapely brows, sat on either side of a strong and elegant nose. Beneath it was a set of plump, maroon lips, their soft curves contrasting the sharp contours of her jaw.
Her build could be described as statuesque: tall, lean and square-shouldered. She boasted a willowy waist that came to a tight junction before fanning out and extending into a pair of strong legs. Yet, her most prominent feature would be her long, reddish, frizzled mane, which she wore tied back in a white bandana.
Even in her humble attire of a checkered yellow shirt and grey trousers, sailors and townsmen alike often found themselves attracted to her exotic charms. Begging and pleading for a chance to have her hand or share a night in her presence. There were even rumours that one sailor stabbed another in drunken rage for claiming he bedded her.
Unfortunately for these folk, the only thing they had in common with Roselle is her preference for women. A little-known secret she kept to herself and her closest friends, and maybe their sisters if they fit her fancy.
“Why does everyone and everything hate me?” questioned Viktor pitifully.
“Oh, there there, sourpuss,” retorted Roselle, only half sarcastically this time. She was beginning to feel bad for the downtrodden man, “One busted job doesn’t mean life’s over, do you know how many times customers dine and dash in this establishment?”
Viktor looked up from the table directly at her as she went on.
“Now of course, I make sure to grab them by the collar and stick my foot up their ass,” she explained,” but there’s always another customer, another job, another asshole you can track down and put behind bars. It’s what you do best afterall, right?”
Unshaken and uninspired, Viktor slams his head back onto the countertop, leaving a disappointed, furious look on Roselle’s face. And right as she was about to scold him, the tavern doors swung open to the familiar cheer of an animated drifter, “VIKTOR VON EIRICK YOU LUCKY SON OF A BITCH!”
“Talking about assholes,” whispered Roselle before turning back to resume her duties, “enjoy this one.”
“Please kill me,” muttered Viktor.
The slender man, dressed in a thick grey coat and matching pants, marched towards the bar with his arms extended to either side. He paused right behind Viktor before directing his palms towards him and turning his head towards the tavern as if to make an announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this fellow right here!” he announced in his nasally voice, “ made away with 3000 whole Bezels, and in what? One fell swoop!”
There seemed to be no reaction besides a guttural “Ugh” from Rosette.
He shrugs off the awkwardness before placing his long, greasy fingers upon Viktor’s shoulder and leaning ever so closely to his buried face.
“Well? Do you owe me a drink or what?” he asks Viktor.
Shrugging the hand off, Viktor responds, “There is no fucking drink. There are no 3000 Bezels. I got duped.”
The man recoils in shock, sitting back into another chair by the counter before wondering, “ What?... but I swear he-”
Viktor cut him off. Looking up from the table, he does his best to explain the situation as he slurs his lines; the long night of drinking had rendered his tongue and mind alike silly. Fortunately, the man seemed to understand him just fine.
He empathetically takes off his matching grey hat, holding it to his chest, and revealing his thinning black hair, which he’d styled in a combover. He had subtle brows and wide brown eyes that filled the mass of his thin face. His skin was pale, and his cheeks were slight and clean-shaven. A nose, long and hooked, was the primary defining feature of his East Aegean face.
“Gee, I thought he was the real deal”, he states,” The governing Duke of Aphsomir. That’s what my sources said.”
“Well, the real deal made a real idiot out of me,” responded Viktor, staring emptily into his dry mug.
“I don’t know Viktor,” the man went on, placing one knee on the other,” guy’s got a pretty good track record. I say you take him on his offer?”
“Travel to Aphsomir? With what fucking money?”
“I mean…”
“Don’t you say it!”
“I could loa-”
The man instantly paused and cleared his throat, for Viktor had pierced into his eyes with a chilling gaze. In an instant, his irises had shifted from a dull golden brown to a bright amber, his pupils thinning and lengthening like those of a cat.
“And now you’ve made me sober,” growled the maddened Viktor.
“Oh shit!” remarked Roselle from the back, gleefully tilting her head from side to side as she dried a container with a napkin. It seemed she was secretly glad to see the man get what was coming for him.
“Listen Lenni,” explained Viktor in a threatening tone, “I have a loaded gun holstered to my belt right now. You keep up that conversation up and I will blow both our heads off!”
“HEY!” shouted Roselle, “No shooting inside!”
Lenni nodded and pointed at her as if to drive her point home to Viktor.
“Take him outside and shoot him!”
“Nevermind,” whimpered Lenni.
“Ok, listen,” Lenni went on, as Viktor stared right through him,” What if it’s not a loan? What if you give me that horse?”
“OH, YOU REALLY WANT TO DIE NOW,” exclaims Viktor, grabbing Lenni by the collar and drawing him closer to his snarling face.
“TO RENT! TO RENT!” explains a flustered Lenni.
After Viktor pushes him back, he straightens his coat and continues, “ I’ll just ride her around town by the time you get the money and come back! Then we’re both winners!”
“You’re a piece of shit, Lenni”, claimed Viktor, “Five weeks going and coming? I know I’d never see that horse again! Also, what do you mean by we’re both”
“Calm, Viktor,” responds Lenni, gesturing with his palms, “Think about how much money he’s offering, 9000 bezels, you can buy a farm!”
“But..”
“Besides, I know I am an piece of shit,” interrupted Lenni,” But we are all a bunch of pieces of shit here. Me, you, even Roselle!”
He gestured towards Roselle, who responded with a middle finger while her back was turned.
“If I double-cross you, I know you’d have my head mounted on the wall next to the Griphons there“, he continued. This was the first thing Viktor had agreed with him about today.
“Think about it, brother,” he insisted,” what other option do you really have?”
Viktor sighed, briefly marinating the thought in his head, before being rudely interrupted by a shady presence standing behind him.
“Viktor Von Eirick,” the hulking figure whispered in a deep raspy tone, before dumping an untied bag atop the counter. The loud thud caught the conversing men offguard as the contents of the bag spilled out onto the wooden surface. Casting their gaze upon them, they both exclaimed in unison.
“What the fuck?!”
