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All four adventurers were exhausted when the heir called for a stop. The underground tunnels that constituted the pigmen’s lair was not the finest of camping spots, but it would have to do. In an intersection between two tunnels, the hunter found a nice dry patch, with clear sightlines both ways. He busied himself clearing away the random trash and detritus that always seemed to accumulate in such places, while the footman set down the wagon and began to complain about his aching back, the vestal kept her head buried in her holy book, and the jester idly plucked at his lute.
All typical behaviours, really.
Without complaint, Rocque finished clearing the area and began to put together a campfire. He pulled a bundle of kindling from the wagon, silently noting their dwindling supplies. Moving back to the space he brushed past the vestal, who looked up. Shaking her head, she set down the book and got to work, setting out the remainder of their victuals. A risky decision, but the past several hours had been difficult, and the party was in need of cheering up. A warm fire and a full belly would suffice. She began unwrapping the various bundles: smoked meats, freshly baked bread, dried fruits and flasks of purified water. A king’s feast in their present surroundings.
The old soldier slumped on to the floor in a jangle of chainmail and clanking plates. He stretched enormously, and slowly cracked each knuckle on his large, gnarled hands. The procedure complete, he leaned forward and watched with interest as the bounty hunter neatly finished piecing together an ideal campfire. Rummaging in his knapsack, the soldier brought out a tinderbox, to which the hunter responded with a silent thumbs-up. Getting on to his hands and knees, the veteran snapped open the box and withdrew a pinch of tinder, a flint and a stone. In a delicate manner not matching his enormous size, he placed the tinder underneath the twigs the hunter had arranged and struck flint against stone. He gaped in surprise when the resulting spark immediately set the tinder ablaze, in seconds turning into a merry flame.
“Finally, a stroke of good luck”. Bohun leaned back against the wall and slapped his hands together in satisfaction. His smile broadened as the nun placed his portion of food in front of him. “Thank you, Mack.“
Machault smiled softly. “You need to keep your strength up, old man. That piglet almost finished you.”
He groaned in disgust. “Bah. The day I die to a wretch like that, my entire company would rise from the grave and piss on my ashes”. The vestal made a disgusted face.
“I see your brush with death hasn’t improved your manners.” The footman’s hearty laughter echoed off the tunnel walls.
Meanwhile, the hunter had finished warming his hands and sat back on his haunches. He searched through his pack and dug out the map the previous expedition had made. Thankfully, their quest was almost done. They had destroyed two of the swine-men’s animalistic shrines, and there was only one left to contend with. Similarly, their party had explored most of the mapped-out sewer system. One way or another, their journey would be at an end.
Throughout the entire group’s work, the jester continued to casually play, leaning against a wall.
The hunter glared at him. He would not deny that the jester had proved to be an essential component to their group: his discordant strumming had stunned and disoriented their foes, and his sickle had carved a bloody furrow into man, swine and beast alike. But his frivolity, his humour, it all rubbed the hunter up the wrong way something fierce. He was used to professionalism, to entering combat with a cool mind and a plan for every occasion. Not to manic laughter and rude songs. He shook his head. To be fair, he wasn’t used to fighting hulking swinetaurs either. Perhaps employment in this particular estate demanded a more open mind.
The party now huddled together by the fire, enjoying a small degree of comfort. The soldier chewed on a strip of spiced sausage, polishing his mace. The vestal, content that everyone had been taken care of, returned to her book. The jester played on. And the hunter had just finished his meal and began to go looking for his pipe when the heir spoke to him.
“No rest yet, Rocque. I need to you scout the surrounding area. Find our foes, and what we have come here to destroy. Ensure that our quest ends smoothly.”
The hunter nodded, and stood up. He spoke for the first time since they had arrived in the crossroads.
“I will survey our surroundings.” He turned, placed his axe in its holster and the map in his pouch, and walked away. His three companions watched him go.
According to the map the previous team had made, the crossroads led to either a solitary room, or a small sprawl of interconnected chambers. With the question of time in mind, the hunter turned towards the northern cluster of rooms. He moved quietly, checking each step before he made it. Though the surroundings were different, he made manoeuvres he had made a thousand times before. Common criminals, bandits, warlords, pigmen.. Their features might change, but their habits did not.
This is how he found the first group. He could hear the quiet grumbling and squeals echoing down the sodden corridors, and followed them to their source: a group of swine gathered around one of the ancient stone pillars that decorated the tunnels. They were asleep, huddled in a grotesque pile of mutated flesh. A drummer leaned against the pillar, head bowed, sticks held loosely in its fists. Next to it a brutish warrior lay on its side, chains jangling as its hooves kicked in its sleep. Beneath them both, two wretches tossed and turned, letting out quiet squealing snores. Rocque watched this all with a small smile. If the group moved quickly, and quietly, the slumbering beasts would make for easy prey. He made a mental note, and moved on.
He walked in the darkness. Alone, he felt safer, even saner. With the group he could not control their pace, the noises they made, the possibility that some distant threat had been alerted and was rapidly approaching. Alone, he was in complete control. He walked slowly, carefully examining each stone, each sewer grate, each patch of muddy earth. He delicately made notches on branching paths with a small stick of chalk, marking out explored territory. He walked on, and he felt at peace.
Since the events that had led him to his occupation of choice, Rocque had always been alone. Unless you counted his targets and the authorities he would hand them over to, he spent most of his existence in solitude, and he had grown to enjoy it. Being alone meant not having to care about others, or worry about others. Being alone meant only needing to rely on yourself to survive, and only being able to blame yourself when things went wrong. Rocque trusted himself to act as he needed, and the addition of other characters to his daily work irked him. He understood their value: Bohun’s shield had protected him from many a vicious blow, and Machault’s talents had healed his wounds when he was at his lowest. But it was only now, in these dark, stinking tunnels, with no support or protection, that he truly felt like himself.
Stepping down another corridor, he finally saw what they had been looking for: one of the shrines the pigmen valued so much. It stood in the middle of a surprisingly clean cave, seemingly unguarded. But the bounty hunter knew better. He inched closer and closer, step by step, until he saw the creature coiled around the shrine’s basis. He couldn’t tell if the corpse-eater was awake or not. Its many eyes glimmered wetly in the darkness, and it was still, except for the slight movement of its breathing. He thought better than to risk it, and stood still, observing the room. What he had mistook for part of the beast’s tail was two juveniles: overgrown worms with fanged maws, curled into rings. It would be a hard fight, but their goal was in reach. He nodded to himself, and turned back.
Rocque was just as cautious on his way back to the fire. He would not put it past one of the monsters to awaken and decide to patrol the tunnel, and it would not do to get caught out now. He moved with care and patience, avoiding anything that could disturb the tomb-like stillness all around him. This was no easy task: puddles of water, broken glass and old bones all cooperated to form a field of traps on every path. He inched around the hazards, placing his leather boots carefully in between each potential alarm. He had just reached the end of one particularly long tunnel when he heard a sound so alien, he froze and reached for his axe.
Singing.
“I feel alright, I found a place that fits tight, it feels small but I won’t get sad about it.”
Rocque relaxed, and replaced the axe in his belt. He stepped past a small, chewed skull and continued walking forward. As he approached the campfire, the quiet singing became clearer, and he could hear the soft strings of a lute accompanying it.
“The softest voice said to me, all through last night, I forget but I won’t feel bad about it.”
He slowed his steps as the flicker of the firelight started to play on the tunnel walls. Placing one hand against the wall, he leaned forward, peaking around the corner.
The jester sat cross-legged by the fire, the lute in his lap, slowly rocking from side to side as he quietly sang. On the other side, Bohun leaned back against a wall, the firelight glimmering on his one remaining eye. He had removed some of his armour plates, and was absent-mindedly polishing it with an old, stained rag. Machault was fast asleep, leaning against the old soldier for support. Her book was held tight her arms, and gentle snores occasionally drifted from her direction. While the jester continued to play, Bohun finished his last piece of armour and set it down in the pile next to him. He looked at the sleeping vestal and shook his head, smiling sadly. Finally he put one gnarled hand behind his head and leaned back, closing his eye, as his other hand stayed close to his mace.
Rocque stood still and watched, taking in the peaceful image as he would a crime scene. The veteran and the nun, quietly resting from the day’s work. And the jester, seemingly wide awake, playing the night away. Watching his companions, the hunter began to feel something strange. He knew that he needed the other adventurers to succeed today, to finish the job that had been given to him. He knew that they were necessary, that they were essential components to the expedition. But he’d never think he’d care whether they lived or died. Now, watching them together, he wasn’t so sure.
He heard a furtive noise from the other corridor, and turned. A small and scrawny pigman sat there, similarly watching the campfire and the companions arranged around it. It began to quietly move away, to alert its fellows. Steel entered the hunter’s heart, and he strode forward, past the fire and his companions. As he walked he unwrapped the hook and rope from his belt, uncoiling it and swinging the hook from side to side. As the swine began to crawl faster in a desperate attempt to escape, Rocque hurled the hook and struck its shoulder, the sharpened edge biting into the wretch’s flesh. It squealed in frustration, and Rocque yanked it backwards, sending it sprawling at his feet. As it whined in rage and fear, he pulled out his axe in one smooth motion and buried it in the creature’s head. Its shrieks immediately ceased.
All the while, the jester played on.
With a grunt of effort, Rocque pulled out the axeblade. He walked back to the fire, carefully cleaning his weapon with a cloth from his belt. Once he was satisfied, he threw the disgustingly stained cloth into the fire, where it hissed. The jester cocked his head to one side, then nodded, as his fingers danced over the lute strings. His work done, the hunter sat down heavily, holding up his hands to the fire.
“Be me, be mine. I might have not have reminded you to feel. Be me, be mine…”
Rocque patted at his pockets for his pipe, then reconsidered. There was work to be done tomorrow, and sleep would perhaps be the best preparation. He lay down, shifting one arm and leaning his head on it.
In the morning, he and his companions would move out. They’d complete the job , and head back to the hamlet. And maybe, just maybe, he would get used to working with others. They had their uses, after all.
He watched the firelight shine off the jester’s mask, and slowly drifted away to sleep.
“I found a face that fit’s tight. It feels small, but I won’t get sad about it…”