Intermezzo VIII - Falling

Reviewer's Comment (Rue - Official Intermezzo Reviewer)

'Bitter and cheerless.'

Intermezzo

The night had come swiftly over the ‘train as it arrived in a small village. The village had no significance other than a largish inn for weary merchants and travellers. The group had stopped there, and right now, everyone was sleeping.

Everyone, that is, except Faelnon Trovo’kren. Sleep could not find him tonight. He stared out of the window in his room for at least ten minutes before he turned towards his bed. He would attempt to hunt down sleep again. But first, he thought, throat whining, a drink. He slid over to his door and opened it, the hall outside was dark, except at the end where the door into the bar had been left open, and the fire continued. He thought of the hour and wondered who would still be up. Slowly, as not to wake anyone, he crept along the corridor and entered the bar, no-one was there. On the bar was a quill, some ink, a piece of parchment and a half-drunken bottle of whisky. Faelnon slipped over to it, he reached behind the bar to find a slightly weaker drink when he noticed what was written on the parchment:



They are here, the ones you wanted. There’s one I don’t recognise, but the others are as you described them. They will only be here ‘til morning.



Faelnon read and re-read the parchment, there could be no doubt as to who this letter is for. Faelnon disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.

The barkeeper returned about ten minutes later. His jolly façade had been dropped and replaced with a look of nervous worry. He sat down at the bar and took a swig of the whiskey bottle before looking at the parchment again, he wrote something quickly before finishing up.

‘Interesting letter.’ A voice stated. The barkeep nearly leapt out of his skin, his eyes darting about the room as his stubby, fat fingers clawed at the parchment, trying to get it out of sight.

Faelnon, who had been sitting on a high-backed, comfortable, armchair with its back facing the bar, looking at the fire, stood up and turned to the barkeep.

‘Oh-er, hello mister Faelnon, sir, I was just-‘

‘Spare it, I read that letter.’ Faelnon continued before the barkeep could interject with more babbling, ‘I know who you are going to send it to. Because of your actions, you will kill the only people that could keep you alive.’

The barkeep looked pleadingly at Faelnon, ‘You don’t understand-‘

‘Don’t I? This inn is normally bustling, but it is empty tonight. I think that trade has started to disappear and you needed to get your stubby little fingers on some more gold.’

The barkeeper shook his head vehemently, ‘No, sir, no. You *don’t* understand. He’s got ‘em.’ He looked at Faelnon as if that explanation would be enough, seeing Faelnon’s face, he continued, ‘Me kids, sir, and me wife. Got all three. He said, if I wouldn’t squeal on you folks, he’d kill ‘em, so I got-ou tell him.’

‘I can’t let you.’

The barkeep looked at Faelnon desperately, ‘But I’ve got-ou, sir. Please!’

Faelnon took a step towards the barkeeper, causing him to flinch and move behind his bar.

‘You would have us revealed? We would be killed, and do you know what would happen then? No-one would be able to fight, all would be lost, and this world will crumble.’

The barkeeper looked at him, tears beginning to form in his eyes, ‘Me little’un’s only two...’

Faelnon reached behind him and grabbed the thing he had returned to his room for his staff. The barkeeper looked at it in horror and shuffled to the end of his bar. Faelnon cornered him, ‘Give me the letter.’

The barkeeper’s head practically shook off its neck, ‘I can’t!’

Faelnon looked at the barkeep, part of him screamed at him to strike. The other part, infinitely smaller now (although, it was not always so), pleaded for Faelnon to stop. In the past, he probably would have. Back in the days of the old group, Shandor, Ariea, Foilae, the Dwarves, and him, they would’ve found a way to get past something like this. Ariea was dead. Shandor was gone. And Foilae, because of Faelnon, lay crippled. He could not turn to them, and the Dwarves were barely here. He was alone. He never fully trusted the new group, and he probably never will - because he wont get the chance to. He had been friends with Shandor for ten years before they trusted each other enough to go on his first adventure. He continued to stare at the barkeeper, who was pale, his hands fidgeting, but the body not daring to move. Faelnon could strike. That thought brought back the memories of his first real murder. If he had had to kill anything in the past, it had been in self defence. But that night at another inn, had changed it all. It now seemed like a distant memory - where everything was slightly better. They had been sleeping peacefully when they had been attacked by assassins, sent by ‘Death’. Faelnon fought his attacker, but it was more than self defence, it was an insatiable urge to kill, to destroy. While Faelnon was distracted by these thoughts, the barkeepers hands seemed to move towards the bottle of whisky. Faelnon snapped to his senses and saw this 'movement'. The choice had been made for him. Before the barkeep’s hand had gone anywhere near the bottle, Faelnon had swung the staff. It cracked him around his jaw and he was sent crashing into the back wall. Faelnon swung again, catching the barkeeper from below, breaking his nose, he was sure. The attacker continued on the innocent man. The man could not choke out a cry for help as blood flowed as freely as the whisky he had been drinking. Faelnon swung down a final time, his features cold and expressionless, it struck the barkeeper just above his forehead. He stopped still, eyes wide and pained. With a final gasp, the innocent barkeeper, loving father of two and husband, slumped to the ground. Faelnon took the letter from the barkeeper’s pocket. Faelnon stepped away from the corpse, taking out a handkerchief to wipe the blood around staff away. He threw the letter into the now-dying fire. Silently, he returned to his room and slipped into sleep.