For Moryn and The Lost King

Ryn walked the walls. The evil Djinn still prowled outside, and their numbers had grown. Now the hills around the city were black with them, and as he watched, another company came in, their white skull on black waving in the breeze like a herald of doom. And there was still no news of the traitor. He sighed, and turned his thoughts back to the defense of Moryn.

A cough made him turn. Dassa, the dryad, stood behind him in women's form, stunning, but with a dangerous light in her eyes. "So," she said, "I expected to find you here, friend of the magic folk. The appyre has found the traitor. He is being interrogated now, but his secrets do not come easily. Perhaps more...persuasion...must be used."

The smile Ryn gave her was villainous. "Lead on, shepherd of the forest," he said. "We will see what can be done about him."

Four guards surrounded the prisoner. His shirt hung in tatters off of him, and scars rippled up and down his body, but his eyes were serene. "I am a loyal soldier of Lord Taggart!" he said. "I swear it on any name you name."

"And this?" Taggart said, holding a scroll. "Can you explain why this was in your possession?" He unrolled it and read slowly, his voice thick with anger. "'Whoever holds this parchment acts with my authority.' It is signed with the seal of the king of Tsai."

"I got it off another soldier, and I was on my way to give it to you," the man said, his eyes still serene. Ryn gave him no more time to talk. In two long steps he stood beside the prisoner, looming over him. In the hlaf-light of the dungeon, he was an intimidating figure. "And the fact you were on the wall, with the bowmen who enabled the near destruction of this city?"

(I apologize in advance, this post has a lot of talking in it.)

Yet again Youta found himself on the tavern roof. The scent of ale and meats and sweat and most likely feces wafted through the air up towards the dashing young appyre. He inhaled deeply taking it all in. The various offerings of meat smelled rather delicious. He dangled himself from the tavern’s sign, hanging from the post with his knees. He smiled as all the blood rushed to his head and flushed his face. A gust of wind pushed the tavern sign into his head. He turned to view the tavern’s namesake staring at him in the face, The Drunken Bear. He laughed deeply, what a silly concept. Bears don’t normally drink on a regular basis let alone become intoxicated.

He dropped from the sign post, flipping in midair to allow for a foot landing. He made said landing with finesse. No one was impressed. What was wrong with this town? In the desert, such a feat would have gotten him a maiden on each arm, 2 chickens, and a round of drinks… He stood and brushed the dirt off of his dark trousers. He walked into The Drunken Bear and looked around. A few locals, a couple soldiers of arguable valor, a cleric was giving a speech at the end of the bar, a mage of some type sat alone at a table coated with nothing but books and papers save for a short candle. A very rotund man with a thick red beard and ruddy cheeks stood behind the bar cleaning mugs.

“Aye, you!” the rotund man shouted, “what can I do ya for?” Youta was not entirely sure how to respond to this query.

“Uhm. Well, what do you have to eat here?” The man let loose a hearty guffaw.

“Well, laddie, we’ve got food!” Youta wasn’t sure if he believed that.

“Well, I am hungry… I suppose I will have some of your food.”

The plate brought to him featured some form of red meat cooked to a char, red cabbage, and a potato.

“Could I get some drink as well?”

“Well, sonny, I’d love to but seeing as how the wife don’t care for me servin’ kids with stuff like that, I dun believe you can.”

“Really?” Youta frowned a bit, “I’m 47…”

“No you ain’t laddie you don’t look a day o’er 17 to me,” said the barkeep in his thick accent.

“I was 17 when I died,” Youta smiled viciously bearing his fangs to the old man. The barkeep, frightened, dropped the mug he was polishing and gasped.

“This boy is a demon!” The rotund man shouted. The crowd rushed instantly and stared at the odd, pale man. The cleric raised his relic and began chanting to his god, in some vain attempt to protect himself from the coming typhoon of rage. Youta twitched a sign of the boiling in his soul.

“I am no demon!” he bellowed at the crowd. He pulled his cloak and tunic off of his body, bearing the scars that crawled up his body, “Can a demon be burnt like this?”

“How better to fit in, cursed one!” The cleric shouted.

“How better to fit in?!” he pounded both of his fists against his chest and arched his back like someone ready to kill, “These scars are so I don’t fit in you fool! I am no demon!”

“They are the marks of the underworld!” The cleric was within striking distance of Youta now.

“The marks are keeping me from the underworld!” Youta took a step closer; the cleric’s relic touched his chest.

“What? It doesn’t burn?!” The cleric recoiled in shock.

“I am an Appyre, One of the many Appyri. I was doomed to an eternal suffering as a drinker of blood and through a sacrifice made blessed. How dare you put me in the ranks of my filthy disgusting cousins? I was one of them and now I walk the day! How dare you. Do you wish to die cleric for I am beginning to feel a life as a vampyre would be preferable to my current one because of fools like you?”

The rotund barkeep pushed himself in between the two.

“Laddie, you don’t have to prove yourself here. I apologize for what I said.”

“Where’s my drink…”