The man came from the south, from Cooper Gate. He was on foot, leading his laden mare by the bridle. The sun was lowering from its peak, and the ring surrounding it had grown faint, signifying the advent of winter. It was late afternoon; the streets were deserted with nary a child or dame on the streets, the merchants had closed up their stalls, and the only sounds heard nearby were from taverns and inns. The weather was still warm, but the man had a dark cloak on his shoulders, already drawing attention in this weather, but it was his hair of gold that truly made him seem beyond a simple hunter or merchant.
The man led his horse to the closest inn. A sign at the door read, The Old Corneal Tavern. He paused below the steps, listening to the hubbub of voices inside as if contemplating whether or not to enter. After a few seconds, he led his black mare to the side of the building and hitched her to a pole beside the other horses.
The innkeeper raised his brow at the oddly dressed man who had just entered the tavern. That wasn’t the only pair of eyes he drew. The previously loud clamor of conversation dropped to a lull as only a few drunks continued unbothered. Whether it was the thick cloak draped over the man, his bulky frame, the head of gold hair, or the sword strapped to his back like one would do for a bow or quiver, the man was far from inconspicuous.
The stranger stood stiffly in front of the innkeeper, his blue eyes scanning the shelf behind him for something better than random non-descript bottles.
“What?” The Innkeeper said with a rough accent.
“Beer.” The man seemed to have the weight of immeasurable disappointment on his shoulders as he spoke.
“You too lowly to have the common folks’ drinks, yer majesty?” A man sitting at the bar snarled.
“Something like that, I guess,” the outsider responded, taking off his cloak before sitting beside the man. Suddenly, the silence in the tavern grew far more oppressive when the insignia on the back of the man’s leather tunic was revealed. While slightly obscured by the sheath of his sword, the intricate embroidery of the curled-up dragon was clear as day.
“You little shit …” The man beside him was the only person who didn’t see the insignia and got offended.
The innkeeper immediately swopped in, unwilling to antagonize the man any further. He quickly grabbed a mug and scooped beer from a tankard behind his counter.
“Here’s your beer, sir. My apologies that our drinks are not to your taste,” he placed the mug before the outsider.
“Hm,” the outsider grunted faintly in response.
“You think you can —“ the man beside him was unable to continue speaking as someone came up behind him and grabbed his mouth to shut him up. Another bulky man approached them and helped drag the man out of the tavern.
Everyone was tense, scared to even breathe loudly, while the innkeeper seemed to be standing on broken glass as he waited for the outsider’s next command.
“I want a room for the night,” he said. “Do you have a stableboy? Make sure my mare is cleaned and groomed for the morn.”
“W-we don’t have a stable boy …” The innkeeper spoke apprehensively.
The man simply looked at him with an impassive expression.
“I-I’ll take care of your mare myself,” he said. “N-no need to worry.”
“And the room?”
“We don’t have any vacancies …” he gulped fearfully as if the sword on the man’s back would instantly decapitate him.
“Then make sure that when I come back here, I have an empty room and a hot bath prepared. Do you understand?”
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“Y-yes …” He nodded.
“Good,” the man left half of the beer in the mug before standing up and turning to leave, draping his cloak over his shoulder once again on the way.
As the man stepped out, closing the door behind him, the conversations not only resumed but intensified significantly. He noticed some people on the streets, hurriedly moving away from the tavern, no doubt to spread the word of his presence in the town.
The sun was close to setting, and the man silently looked at the sky as if contemplating something. His focus was broken by the sound of hooves striking the ground when he noticed two armored men on horseback approaching him.
They stopped some ways away from him before dismounting their horses and getting down on one knee before him.
“Greetings, Ser Hallowed,” both of them spoke in unison. “The Castellan of Lausanne invites you to the castle for a drink.”
“Let me get my horse.”
…
“Greetings.” The Castellan was clean-shaven with a full head of graying hair. He wore silken robes and held an ornate staff in his hand. “I am Louis Septimius, the Castellan of Lausanne.”
“Septimius … How are you related to the Marquis?”
“Naturally, I am a subject. However, by blood, he is my nephew. How may I address you, Ser Hallowed?”
“Xander,” the Hallowed responded.
“Xander … A name fit for a Hallowed such as yourself. Suppose you don’t mind me asking about your accent. It is southern. Phoenicia, maybe?”
“Solomon,” Xander responded.
“Ah, my apologies, Xander of Solomon, I always get the western and eastern accents messed up.” The Castellan seemed all too excited by the man’s succinct responses. “Marvelous. Tell me, Ser Xander. Would you like to come into my abode for a drink?”
“I have time to kill.”
“Then please …” The man invited Xander through the castle doors as the procession of a squad of knights who had come along with him dispersed. “I do hope you can forgive the gaudy nature of my invitation, Ser Xander.”
“Just Xander is fine, Castellan.”
“Then you must address me as Louis as well, Xander.”
Amidst the small talk, the two walked up a flight of stairs as the Castellan led his guest to his study.
“Tell me, Xander,” Louis was enthusiastic as he moved to the bar and picked up two cups made of clear glass, a luxury only afforded to the noble. “What kind of drink would you like? I have the finest wines from Avalon if that suits your taste. Or whiskey from Perusia if you want something harder.”
“Alexander might be a namesake of mine, Louis, but that’s all. My heritage has nothing to do with either Alexander from those kingdoms.”
“My apologies for assuming,” the man apologized immediately. “Then how about the royal wine straight from the heart of Antonine, the capitael?”
Xander grunted in response, which the Castellan could only consider a positive response.
“This truly is a once-in-a-lifetime drink, Xander. You must try it.” The man sat opposite Xander and placed the filled cup on the table in front of the man. “I promise that this wine will leave you slavering for its taste once you have it, dulling the flavor of all other drinks in comparison. Drinking them in these cups of clear glass only makes the experience bewitching.”
Xander showed an amused smile on his face, making the castellan smile widely, believing that Xander had taken his flattery to heart.
The blonde man picked up the glass in front of him and gently swirled it, moving its contents around before bringing it close to his face to take a sniff.
“Let me tell you, these cups aren’t something easy to acquire. Only the most prestigious among the nobles even know whom to talk to for these items. And the cost is enough to bankrupt the coffers of a baron or count.”
Xander continued examining the wine, leaving the Castellan with a budding impatience that he needed to quench with a drink.
“To Xander of Solomon, the Hallowed.” Louis raised his glass gleefully, toasting the man in front of him before taking a sip from his glass as Xander continued sniffing the wine. “Truly, heavenly wine.”
A chuckle escaped the blonde man, making the Castellan pause in his actions as he noticed the man’s full glass.
“Do you look down on my finest wine, Hallowed?” He snarled.
“Bear in mind your audience, Castellan,” Xander spoke in a measured tone. “You wouldn’t want an unfortunate incident to befall this fine castle, would you?”
The aging man felt the Hallowed’s piercing blue eyes sear into his soul and froze in place, unable to even muster an apology.
“I was going to tell you that you were duped. This,” he raised the glass in his hand, ”is the same as the piss water that the tavern calls wine.”
“Preposterous!” The Castellan exclaimed as the intensity of the Hallowed’s gaze lowered. “I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you want, Castellan.”
“You speak with such confidence as if you have drank with King Julian himself …” The Castellan slowly lost his boldness as he looked at the indifferent eyes of Xander.
“Let us move on to business.” Xander didn’t bother to take a single sip from the so-called clear glass cup. “What do you need from me? I plan to leave tomorrow at the break of dawn. I will help you as long as it does not interfere with my timeline.”
“I believe you will be more than willing to push back your plans, Ser Hallowed.” The Castellan’s tone became completely formal. “For my request involves,” he leaned forward, looking to his sides as if about to speak of a taboo topic, “a fallen mage.”