Here''s my first attempt at writing something other than critical essays for school >.< hopefully, I didn''t do too bad. Now that I look at it, it''s rather short.  This is NOT a light novel style fiction, nor will it have any MMO elements. It will be VERY slow paced, compared to some other fics on here, Expect long descriptive passages, and chapters where nothing will happen at all. This is western fantasy, pure and simple. I''m aiming for a grimdark kind of feel, but who knows where it''ll go from here. Cheers!


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    The fire crackled gently.


    The Hanged Horse was the only tavern in miles, and was a frequent stop for travelers going through Crusal. Tables and stools were spread out unevenly across the main hall. The place was dimly lit by haphazardly dispersed candles. The Horse was by no means large, but it was cozy, and had the reputation of carrying the best apple cider in the county. Its notoriety attracted many alcohol lovers from the surrounding towns.  Someone had set up a circular arrangement of logs near the fireplace, and a pair of damp socks and leather boots laid near the flames, drying. The inn was empty, save for a lone man, sitting at the counter.


    “Here’s your meal!” said the innkeeper, a plump, red faced man in his forties. He set the food in front on the customer. “Sorry we don’t have anything better. Winter’s rough this year. Barely any hunters goin’ ‘round in this cold, so we’ve got no fresh meat. You’ll have to settle for vegetable stew and terrales jerky. The bread is freshly baked though, so eat it before it gets cold.”


    “Thank you,” replied the customer, “I don’t wish to come off as rude, but…would you happen to have to ale, perchance? I’ve come from afar, and some good brew would go a long way in relieving my weariness.” Pulling his hand out from underneath his cloak, he gently put down a gold coin onto the counter.


    The customer was a tall and almost scrawny man. His face was covered by dirt and grime, an unwanted gift from the rough roads. His traits were nearly indistinguishable under the filth. Barefoot and wearing nothing but rags save for his thick fur cloak, he could have been mistaken for a tramp had he been begging on a city corner.


    “Ale? HA! Of course we have ale, you’re in an inn for Viher’s sake, what do you think we serve, milk and apple juice? FALKA!” the innkeeper called loudly after pocketing the coin, “Go in the back room and fetch this man some ale! And be quick about it! You’re not here to sit around looking pretty!”


    The sound of frantic scrambling and footsteps came from the room behind the counter. Finally, a young woman unceremoniously kicked the door open and stepped out, carrying a foaming mug of ale. She walked briskly, her long black curls bouncing behind her, help up by a leaf green headband. Modestly dressed, she wore a white blouse underneath a crimson bustier. Unlike a typical tavern wench however, she donned a pair of khaki green trousers, a garment usually reserved for men, along with studded leather boots. A cloth pouch laid atop her generous bosom, attached to a long and narrow piece of leather tied around her neck. The girl had a rectangular face riddled with freckles, a strong jawline, high cheekbones and a pointed chin.


    "Tanned skin, a fine round button nose and dark lips...a foreigner?" a fleeting thought ran through the customer''s mind, "no...a relative?"


    Her bright green eyes, set beneath thick eyebrows, scanned the room as Falka moved towards the only occupied seat in the inn.


    “Here you go sir! Our finest brew for a most treasured patron! Now that my oh so important task is accomplished, dear Ohsmald, may I please go back to my oh so useless effort of practicing magic?” she implored to the innkeeper, with a fake smile. Her voice bled of sarcasm.


    “Yeah yeah, you go and do that”, groaned the big man while Falka was returning to whatever task she had been doing before being interrupted, “I swear, someday I’ll kick that that spoiled brat out of here for good…”


    “Is she your daughter?” inquired the patron, “she seems like a nice child.”


    “Hmm? Yeah, she’s my daughter all right. How’d you guess? We don’t look alike at all. Takes after her mother, especially her attitude, heh. Wants to study magic, be a big shot, see the world. Gah, I keep telling her to stop dreaming, and that her place is here, beside me. Dukor is a dangerous place. She wouldn’t last a day out there. What if she doesn’t come back? What if she dies? Who will I give my inn to? Ahh, if only her mother was still alive. She’d convince Falka to stay…if only…”


    “You’re…similar, in some aspects. Now, please excuse me as I indulge myself in your wonderful cooking before it cools.”


    “Ah, you’re right, I shouldn’t be running off my mouth. I’ll leave you to your eating. Ha, keeping you with conversation when I’m the one who said to eat your food before it gets cold…” muttered Ohsmald, walking towards the back room while wiping his hands on his apron.


    “Magic, eh?” the cloaked man chuckled to himself, scooping a spoonful of stew into his mouth, “damm, its gone cold…”


    It was the middle of winter in Dukor – the coldest winter anyone has seen in years. Even worse, it had struck early, and many of the farmers had not harvested all their crops, their livestock and fields freezing over before they could act. Water supplies turned solid – to drink, one had to melt snow or ice over a fire, and timber was scarce. Logs, usually carried by water, had to be transported by hand. Lumber mills, powered by the flow of rivers, could not be operated, and cutting the wood using manual saws only resulted in shattered blades, the metal having turned brittle by the cold. During a usual winter, gatherers would wander, collecting stray twigs and deadwood and reselling them to the populace. However, no soul was brave enough to voluntarily go out this season. And so, the towns and cities started destroying homeless shelters, telling the tramps and beggars to go out and collect firewood in exchange for temporary lodging and a warm meal. There is only so much wood one can collect before it runs out, and those who could not bring back anything were stuck outside, to the mercy of the weather. Deprived of shelter from the elements, the homeless died in droves. Their corpses had to be carted out of city hubs – usually by other homeless – and hastily dumped on the side of the streets. Only the most imprudent of merchants or foolhardy travellers would take to the road in these times.


    It was snowing. The wind blew relentlessly, whistling into the poorly insulated inn. An empty inn, save for a lone soul enjoying a meal at the counter.


    Suddenly, the door slammed open with a resounding crash, and heavy steps reverberated throughout the tavern, as a burly man walked in. He was so tall he had to bow down to enter, lest he hit the door frame with his forehead. His hair was a deep chestnut brown, and was tied into a ponytail underneath his iron helm. A deep scar ran down his left eye and past his chin, cutting through his lip, giving the impression of a permanent snarl. An unevenly shaved beard garnished his square jaw, a beard that had turned white from the snowstorm. He wore a rusted chest plate that hung loosely on his shoulders by some most likely improved hemp cords, contrasting with his beige cloth pants. A thick fur cloak laid on his wide back, and a plain steel sword was sheathed at his waist. He tapped his greaves near the entrance, removing the ice, and walked into the inn, shaking the snow off himself with a pass of his gauntleted hands.


    “Oi innkeep! Get out here! Me an’ my men are needing some food and wine! And women if ye’ have any!” he roared, seating himself at a table near the fire, “come on boys, get in ‘ere and close the damned door, my fingers are gonna fall off!”


    “Yeah, yeah, we heard you Rumlar, now pipe down, I think my eardrums are frozen,” replied one of the men entering the inn, “man this place is tiny. Y’think we can all fit in ‘ere?”


    “If it don’t fit we’ll make it fit. Oi! Inkeep, where you at? I’m tired of waitin’ ‘ere!” Rumlar called again.


    “Coming, coming!” Ohsmald yelled back while stepping out from behind the door, rubbing his hands together. Visitors were rare during winter, and customers ever rarer, “what can I get you gentlemen….”


    His voice trailed off as he realized exactly had paid his modest establishment a visit. A mercenary band – loud, obnoxious freelance warriors who had absolutely no intention to pay for what they took.


    “I hope you can accommodate all of us, and find it in your heart to donate food and drink to us poor travelers,” urged the mercenary leader, his voice dripping with venom. He pulled a jeweled dagger out from underneath his cloak. A sleeping serpent, eating its own tail while coiled around a stack of gold coins was engraved on its blade - the coat-of-arms of House Belnar.


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    “O-o-of course, anything for friends of the Duke”


    Soon enough, around fifty men and women fully dressed in battle ready garbs covered with thick furs, filled the remaining tables. The stench of sweat and piss filled the air, as the fire melted their previously frozen body fluids. None of them had washed in weeks, due to the frozen rivers, and the long march had not been generous to them. A few were missing ears or fingers; one of the men was even missing his nose, no doubt lost to the cold. They conversed noisily about previous battles, kills and conquests – both romantic and military, while Ohsmald scrambled clumsily through the sea of swords and legs, setting food and drink onto the tables.


    “And BAM, I hit the bitch right between the eyes!” boasted one, shooting an imaginary bow.


    “Gods, poor mayor never saw that coming!” said another, sipping from his mug.


    Unceasing and unimportant banter filled the inn. It was sunset when the troop first arrived. Nearly two hours had passed, and the Sun had long since crossed below the horizon, yet the mercenaries showed no signs of leaving. Ohsmald kept bringing out supplies from his stores – if he didn’t, the consequences would be dire. The Kingdom’s law didn’t reach this far out, and backwater towns like Stagmore were often subject to the whims of whatever military force happened to cross the area.


    The cloaked man at the counter kept to himself, and silently drank his beverage.


    “Gah, if only there was a brothel in this shithole, I haven’t had a good lay in months!” Rumlar yelled loudly,”Oi! Inkeep! You got any serving girls I can escort to one of yer rooms upstairs? I’ll give ya some good coin if ye do.”


    Unhooking a leather purse from his belt, the mercenary leader turned flipped it over, and let the coins slowly trickle onto his table. Hearing the echo of money, Ohsmald could not help but turn towards the warrior.


    “I’m sorry, b-b-but we have nothing of the kind h-here,” he audibly gulped while nervously his rubbing bald scalp, “I’m the only one that works here. Nobody else.”


    “Ah, that a damned shame,” Rumlar sighed, “and all this coin I was about t-“


    The door to the storage room slammed open, and Falka stepped out, staring at the crowd with a disapproving look.


    “Hey be silent out here!” she yelled, wildly waving her arms, “I’m trying to practice and I can’t concentrate with all of you screaming like that!”


    The inn had gone silent. Surprised by the young woman’s outburst of anger, the mercenaries were at a loss for words. All eyes were on her. Their gazes slowly went from Falka towards their leader, from whom they were expecting guidance on how to react. Rumlar stared wide eyed at the girl, then slowly leaned back, closing his eyes. He started to chuckle softly. His laugh spread to the rest of his troops, and soon, the whole inn was mocking her, pointing and giggling. Falka stood, facing their insults without saying a word, her nose wrinkled in disgust from the smell. Suddenly realizing that she had just told four score armed men and women to shut up, she was paralyzed in fear.


    “Falka!” Ohsmald cried desperately, turning around to face his daughter, “I told you to stay where you were!”


    The chubby man tried to gesture towards his precious child, telling her to leave, to run, but before he could do anything, a thick arm had wrapped around the innkeeper’s shoulders.


    “Well lookie ‘ere, seems like you lied to me old man,” Rumlar smirked, running his tongue over his lips,


    “this a fine girl you got ‘ere, I hope you don’t mind I take her for a spin, do you?”


    “Please, no, don’t hurt her, anything but that!” Ohsmald pleaded, on the verge of tears, “I’ll give you more food, more wine, anything you want! Just don’t hurt her…”


    The innkeeper was pushed to the ground, falling on his backside with a loud pomf. The warrior brought his hand to his chin and stroked his beard, taking a pensive pose, smiling wolfishly.


    “Well golly, whatever I want? Well this fine lady ‘ere happens to be what I want,” the mercenary replied,


    turning towards Falka and running his grimy fingers through her hair, “and I won’t hurt her, I’ll just make her feel reaaalll good, won’t I, girl?”


    Trembling, she could only reply with an inaudible muttering.


    The lone customer at the counter, who had not spoken a word since the entrance of the troop, jerked his head towards the pair as the young woman whispered. None of the hirelings saw him subtly move his hands, his gaze fixated on the larger man, all of their attention being focused on their leader and his prey.


    “Huh? What did you say girl?” lifting her chin, Rumlar put his ear closer to her lips, “say that again?”


    Once more, she repeated the same incomprehensible murmur.


    “What? Fire what? What about fir- GAHHH”


    He was interrupted by a fire suddenly erupting on his forearms. Cries of surprise went off in the crowd. Immediately letting go of his intended victim, Rumlar staggered back, arms failing. The large man tripped over a stool, hitting his head on the corner of a table, falling straight into a pack of his own party. Shocked, many of them just watched as their boss fell at their feet. After a brief moment of bewilderment, they snapped back to their senses and quickly poured whatever mead they could grab onto their leader, extinguishing the flames. Men and women were bunched around Rumlar’s limp form, patting him down.


    Falka, whose knees had failed her, sat on the floor, leaning back on the counter, and brought a trembling hand to her lips. Tears ran down her face as she stared at the empty space above the mass of soldiers.


    “T-t-that’s never worked before,” her voice was shaking from the shock, “t-t-that was a flame. I c-c-conjured a flame…”


    Rumlar’s head was spinning. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes to a circle of faces, looking down on him.


    “You okay boss?”


    “Hey he’s coming back to his senses. Hey snap out of it vice-cap!”


    “Shit that was a spell. C’mon boss get back on your feet”


    Slowly coming back from his confusion, he recalled what had just happened, and the embarrassment made him red with rage. His forearms were blistered and bleeding, but in his anger, he could feel no pain.


    “GET YOUR DAMN HANDS OFF’A ME!” roared the mercenary leader, pushing himself back on his feet and through the crowd, “I’M GOING TO GUT THAT WHORE!”


    Storming towards a terrified Falka, he drew his sword and leaned down to grab her by the throat, so fast that she barely had the time to cover her face with her arms. He lifted her above his head. The girl could do nothing to resist. She kicked and clawed, aiming for his wounded wrists. It was futile – her blows barely fazed the man, so far was he in his fury.


    “Fi-…ga…bu-…urh,” she tried to cast her spell once again, but Rumlar’s grasp was too strong. She could barely breathe, lest chant an incantation.


    “Oh, whats that?” he teased, bringing their faces closer together, “having a hard time setting me on fire are you?


    “L-let her go!” shouted Ohsmald, running towards the large man. In the chaos, he had picked up a broomstick, and was now swinging it wildly at the mercenary, “get you filthy hands off my daught-“


    “Shut it,” With a wave of his sword, Rumlar cut off the innkeeper’s cries, as well as his right hand. A swift kick to the stomach sent him sprawling across the floor, “stay there and watch, as I choke the life out of your little girl.”


    Ohsmald tried to pick himself up, but the feeling of cold metal underneath his chin convinced him otherwise.


    “Stay put and shut up,” one of the mercenaries said, pushing the tip of his sword into his skin, “you brought this on yerself old man. Nobody to blame but you.”


    The inn was silent, except for the Falka’s tortured cries. Rumlar held her mercilessly in his grasp, making sure to not squeeze to hard, so much as to break her neck, but just enough, to asphyxiate her. The mercenary leader looked upon his troops to assess their reaction, before turning his gaze back towards his struggling victim. He smiled grimly.


    “Ah, if only you had just let accepted my affection, things could have gone so much more smoothly,”


    Falka’s face was turning purple, her lips gradually losing color. She no longer attempted to free herself, and her arms fell limply along her body. Her eyelids were heavy, and she was desperately trying to stay away; to not pass out. Tears ran down her cheeks, as her lips twitched in a desperate attempt to call for help.


    Just as she was giving in to the deep sleep of unconsciousness, a flash of silver and glimmers of red clouded her vision. She felt herself fall, and then the familiar feel of the cold wooden floor she had so many times scrubbed press against her cheek. Her world faded to black.