Chapter Text
It’s two hours past sundown and there’s almost no light. The star-speckled sky offers a slight cover, but the moon is only a sliver and doesn’t help at all.
This edge of town is often quiet, very few people live out here and those that do know that it’s best to keep to your own business than to go poking around in other people’s. This makes it the perfect spot for a discreet exit.
“He’s not coming.” Virgil scoffs. With his slim build and dark hair, he almost disappears in his black cloak that’s pulled tight around him. The pressure is comforting but only a little. Certainly better than letting the thing billow around him. For the last hour he’s been pacing back and forth, slowly winding himself tighter and tighter.
“Be patient.”
Ironically Janus’s brown cloak matches his short dark, brown hair, and the sizeable birthmark that covers the left side of his face. His own cloak hangs looser than Virgil’s, though it’s still not flapping in the breeze. Unlike his brother, Janus has spent the last few hours in calm contemplation, intently watching the road that leads back into town.
Densleigh is a fair town; its centre is densely populated with various lucrative businesses to cater to its sizeable passing crowd. The small number of permanent residents excludes it from being a city, but there are several markets around the town where people come from far and wide to trade their wares. With such high traffic, the taverns are the life-blood of the area.
The larger taverns host the more battle-hardened adventurers, the kind who will stay a night, drink their weight in wine, and more than likely break something before continuing on in their journey. Those places can name their price and rarely have an empty room. The smaller ones are usually cheaper, offering discounts for any stay over a week and greatly appealing to traders. Then, for those really pressed for money, some of the citizens rent out a room within their own homes. A bed, a home, and one good meal a day; more than one elder adventurer has found their retirement in Densleigh this way, finding the comfort and familiarity of a home and family more appealing than chasing glory again.
It was in one of the smaller taverns where Janus found the man they’re waiting for. He wasn’t the largest, nor likely the strongest, and given where he was staying, he was probably not that well known, but that made him perfect for the job they needed him to fulfil.
“We should just-” Virgil starts.
“There!”
Janus points down the road and sure enough, a cloaked figure has appeared, swiftly making their way towards the two of them.
The cloak is grey, the hood pulled up hiding the face as he approaches. He walks with confidence, no hesitation; for anyone to see, he’s just a man walking through the night. A good choice indeed.
As the stranger approaches the last few feet, Virgil draws back, nervously pulling up his hood as the stranger lowers his own.
This isn’t the first would-be hero they’ve hired. Most of those meatheads are several feet tall, broad-shouldered, and covered in burns or scars that they wear like medals of honour. They carry large weapons half the size of themselves and chase down problems in a misguided search for honour and glory.
This guy looks nothing like that; he’s hardly short but he’s definitely smaller than your typical adventurer. While he has a rough stubble on his chin, and scuffed hands, he seems to be relatively normal looking. If Virgil didn’t know any better, this guy may well pass for a member of nobility.
“Roman of Rynwick.” The stranger offers his hand and Janus takes it, giving it a firm shake.
“Janus. This is Virgil. Do you have everything?”
Roman carefully draws back his cloak. Hidden from view is his bag, while the glint of a sword is on his belt. At least he has something. The question is does he know how to use it.
“Do you have the money?”
Of course. If it’s not about the glory, it’s about the money.
“First payment,” Janus pulls two coins from his purse and holds them out, “As promised.
The gold coins shimmer even in the low light and Roman’s breath catches. That’s more money than most adventurers will see after 100 jobs. He moves to take them but a voice in the back of his mind whispers and he hesitates.
“How far am I taking you?”
“Warkfell. If you’re good enough we might ask you to take us further.”
Roman takes the coins, swiftly putting them away. Warkfell is a cluster of villages towards the West, spread out for miles along the bottom of the mountain range. They’re fairly self-sufficient, trading amongst themselves for almost everything, occasionally sending out someone to get anything that may be running scarce. It’s not the kind of place that typically welcomes travellers but if this is where they want to go, far be it for Roman to dissuade them.
“We should get moving then.” He gestures for them to lead the way and Virgil doesn’t need telling twice, happy to put miles between him and this awful town.
None of them notice that as he walks, the ground beneath Virgil’s feet momentarily turns a deep potent purple that gradually fades, leaving nothing but crisp, withered brown grass in his wake.