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Varvyren fell on the makeshift bed on the floor and rested his back against the wall. Blood was still draining through the bandages but it obviously didn't bother him at all. He sipped his beer and watched the priestess attending to another patient. Mikel made his spot in the corner and kept writing frantically in his book, probably taking notes of the expenses and lost profits caused by Varvyren's defeat in a fight with the Imperial Guard. He also watched the young priestesses walk around, glad Varvyren was so noisy and overall a bad patient so the girls had to come closer.
There was some priest preaching very loudly for an hour already and it started to get on everyone's nerves, most of all Varvyren's. He growled and put the wooden mug next to Mikel and climbed on his feet.
"No no no, get down and rest, immediately," a cleric of Mother Magic stopped him. "We must stop your bleeding, look at-"
Varvyren gently pushed her aside and went straight towards the rambling bastard who went on and on about The Emperor and his glorious deeds or the Mother Magic's watchful eye. Apart from it being absolutely annoying, it was also painfully untrue.
"Shut up, you pompous prick!" Varvyren shouted a bit too loud so he got the attention of most of the people in the big room they called a hospital.
"How vexing! Have you lost your respect for His Majesty?" The priest clothed in an Imperial tabard with a symbol of half golden mask the Emperor hid his face behind pointed his finger at the injured fighter. Varvyren made a step forward and just pushed the preacher on the ground without a hint of struggle.
"Just shut up and let us sleep," Varvyren growled and then slowly went back to his bed.
"You are not sleeping anyway!" the priest protested. "And don't you think we don't know about the smuggled beer!"
"Take my beer away and I will smash your face in, are we clear?"
"You are a lost soul! Threatening to beat a servant of The Goddess."
"Serve silently."
One of the clerics rushed towards the noisy priest and helped him get up while another sister ran after Varvyren to tend to his injuries. He protested and wished that everyone would let him be, drink his beer and shut up for the night.
Mikel raised his eyes from his calculations and seemed as if he didn't notice the ruckus his mate caused.
"When will you be able to fight?" he asked. Varvyren shrugged and fell on the improvised bed again. If he could he would've gotten absolutely wasted, but the damn nuns weren't too tolerant about alcohol in the Goddess's house so letting him drink his one guilty mug in peace was definitely an act of goodwill.
Or fear.
Varvyren soon became notorious around the town as an easily triggered madman who never hesitated to throw a punch, swing his mace or invoke a spark to ignite someone's clothes. The guards let him be out of fear but were forced to confront him that afternoon because they caught Mikel selling Tarmanian salt underhand around the town which meant his partner had to act. And he fought with joy and unsettling brutality. Sometimes even Mikel got a little surprised by his mate's abilities, as he would call the mindless madness.
It was one of the priestesses that saved the two from prison. As much as Varvyren could throw a punch, being locked up in an Imperial Guard prison cell didn't give him much space for defense.
Varvyren stretched his legs and closed his eyes, relaxing for a few minutes until he heard the annoying shouting again.
"Preaching prick," he growled.
"Don't," Mikel put a hand on Varvyren's shoulder.
"I'm sick of this boring blabbering!"
His loud remark yet again got the attention of everyone including the priest. Just before Varvyren stood on his feet he saw a group of four heavy armed guards. Immediately after noticing the criminals, they headed right to Varvyren and Mikel. Both of them looked at each other and Mikel hid his face in his hands.
"Bastards," Varvyren growled. While hypnotizing his enemies, he grabbed his weapon and prepared to strike, causing the wound on his right upper arm to gush more blood.
Just before the Imperial Guards got closer, the annoying preacher stood between them and the suspicious duo.
"What was the crime of these poor souls?" he asked in a sweet, sycophantic tone.
The guards watched him for a while and when they noticed the insignias and holy symbols on the preacher's robe, they slightly lowered their eyes.
"These gits are guilty of almost every crime possible,," answered the apparent leader of the patrol, seemingly pissed he couldn't have just pushed the holy person to the side.
"Are they now? We are all servants of His Highness and I believe these poor souls do not need to be condemned. As they are in Mother's house now, leave them in my hands and if we're unsuccessful, you might perform the adequate actions."
Varvyren stood up, put his mace on his shoulder and stepped towards the guards. "I'd rather be in prison than trapped here with this bag of dirt."
Guardsmen looked at each other, smiled and nodded at the preacher. "As you wish, servant of Mother Magic."
With these words, all four of them left.
"So," the priest turned to Varvyren and rubbed his palms against one another, "that's that, young man." He smiled at Varvyren who slapped his head. Not too strongly but enough to cause him some discomfort.
"Hey! I just saved you!"
"No, you condemned us to a much worse punishment," Varvyren noted and shook his head.
"Hey!"
"So can we leave?'
"No! Firstly, you are supposed to stay here and listen to the words of Mother and His Highness. Secondly, you, young man, are not fully healed, so…"
Varvyren just pushed the preacher aside and simply went on his way until he hit a faint yellow sparkling barrier. Growling, he turned around and looked at the pathetic priest that held the impatient warrior back with the lingering yellow light. As always, it didn't take Varvyren long to throw a punch into the priest's face.
"You bastard!" the preacher exclaimed and flailed his arms around. "That's thankfulness for you! After saving you from prison?!"
"Enough!" they heard a voice and a light blue light flashed between the two. One of the clerics went to fetch the high priestess who had her mind to stop these men from causing ruckus. "You," she pointed at Varvyren, "sit down this instant! And you, hold on, precious. You have no authority here and no right to order our patients around. Sit down and wait for a cleric to tend to your injury." The archpriestess pointed her wrinkled finger at the preacher's bleeding nose. He bent his head and made an apologizing, shameful face. Varvyren laughed quietly but obeyed as well.
Bleeding preacher fell on the bed next to the pair of smugglers and held the root of his nose with two fingers until a cleric brought him a piece of linen cloth to put in his nostrils. He didn't realize how lucky he was that the punch wasn't Varvyren's strongest, otherwise he'd have ended up with a broken nose.
After a while of his whining and Varvyren's grumpy snarling, another injured patient crawled closer to them. His eyes were bloody and his hands and arms seemed burned. His clothes were soaked in blood and sweat. All three guys watched him without the slightest movement or attempt to help him in any way.
"Ey, lads," he struggled to speak, "I understand you're smugglers of a kind, right?"
Mikel nodded and got immediately very interested. He moved a little closer to the burnt guy.
"We're anything money can buy," he replied.
"We should have this conversation when this piece of dragon poo is gone," Varvyren noted. The stranger nervously moved his eyes around and then sighed.
"Sure…"
"No, wait! Speak!" The preacher whispered insistently. "I am not an enemy!"
"Neither is the Imperial Guard, right?" Mikel noted. He became visibly bitter and annoyed.
"I can...I will… I can go with you! You'd keep an eye on me!"
Varvyren made a bitter face and then hid it between his knees. Mikel, on the other hand, nodded and smiled. Someone to blame and sacrifice in need.
"So?" the chief smuggler asked their potential buyer.
"It's a... delicate issue," he whispered. "It's dangerous and it involves the...Otajwaz-"
"The who?!" the preacher exclaimed. "You mean the people who promote freedom of cult worship? The enlightened society?"
Varvyren lifted himself up and slapped the babbling bastard on the back of his head.
"Yes, that one," the patient agreed. "There's something very precious we need to get to Otajwaz and more importantly as far away from the Emperor as possible."
Mikel nodded. "That is?"
"Pieces of a shattered stoneborn called Zephyr."
"The what?!" Varvyren shouted and widened his eyes. Mikel held him back.
"That is a very valuable piece of jewelry, hm?"
"It is," their commissioner agreed. "You will be rewarded accordingly, just do not let it fall into the hands of the Empire."
"Okay, okay, sure thing. Where is it, the pile of diamonds?"
"Behind the inn there is a small door, as if for a dog. Everything you need to know you will find there."
Then he crawled back to his bed, turned around and fell asleep. He seemed and talked half-dead, maybe after an interrogation of some kind administered by the Imperial Guard.