saythetittysareout
New Member
Nestor Cromwell humbly crossed the threshold of the ‘Skewered Manhood’ and was instantly beleaguered by the reek of opium and ‘fotch’, a local term of slang pertaining to a female’s unwashed money-maker. The tavern’s name made complete sense after one’s gaze drifted towards the bar, behind which stood a sculpture of a nude man whose marble scrotum was now the resting place of someone’s dagger. Month old rushes cracked underfoot. Each step brought Nestor passed a leering face; patrons sent ill glimpses towards the neatly dressed man. A brown coat jacket and pressed slacks of a darker color made Mr. Cromwell the proverbial sore thumb on a hand where the other four fingers were well acquainted with holding the handle of a shank.
“Oh dreary me.”
It wasn’t until he spotted the man he had come looking for that he breathed a heavenly sigh of relief. So the rumors were true. Beneath this slanted roof which bore few shingles, and amidst a jamboree of rapists, thieves, and belligerent murderers, there dwelled a diamond in the rough. Perhaps ‘diamond’ wasn’t exactly right. A piece of obsidian in a pile of shit? Nestor was always crap with metaphors.
He arrived before the seated man and cleared his throat. This miniscule act, usually performed to dispel phlegm and seamen, was now utilized as a subtle means to draw attention.
“What?”
Years had certainly changed the man who sat before Nestor. True he was still massive with shoulders seemingly chiseled from granite upon which the fabric of a dirty cloak rested in scrunched folds. The difference was the beard that lined his pronounced jaw, the way his hair hung in greasy strands veiling his eyes, eyes which now regarded Nestor with certain curiosity. Those eyes had lost their typical glint, that glossy shine which had reflected countless foes, women, victories, and failures within their dull blue depths.
“My name is Mr. Crom…”
“Be seated Mr. Crom.”
“Cromwell. Mr. Nestor Cromwell.” He uttered while he sat with haste. The thick smog of the tavern had stolen much of his tone and it was only after he cleared his throat, this time to actually vanquish phlegm, did he speak again.
“You are a hard man to find. I’d almost given up hope, thought you for dead. You do know that is the general consensus? That you perished with the fall of Ayenee, buried beneath the weight of so many crushed spirits.”
The long haired man huffed once before thrusting a spoon beneath the filmy top layer of stew steaming slightly in a pewter bowl set before him. The hand which held the simple utensil was calloused and large and was connected to a post-like forearm of sinewy muscle. Nestor found himself staring strangely at the veins upon that forearm until his idle mind was set into motion by the man’s reply.
“Heroes die. They’re the ones found amongst the bodies of the innocent, immortalized in some last ditch attempt to save others before themselves. Now villains, they be the ones getting out while the gettings good. I’m not dead. I’m not a hero. And this stew is horrible.”
“I can imagine.” Nestor eyed the spoon as it was dipped beneath the bowl’s murky surface once more. “What I can’t imagine is why you haven’t returned with the others. You know…there has been a gathering of sorts. Ayenee rebuilds itself. The mortars fresh but it’s drying nicely.”
“Ayenee rebuilt eh’?” The large man swallowed another spoonful, grimaced for the last time, and then pushed the bowl off to the side.
“Oh yes indeed.” replied Cromwell. “You’d be surprised at how many of its old inhabitants have…”
“You can have the rest of that stew if you wish.” Now it was Cromwell’s turn to grimace.
“No…that…no. Ahem. Right. My employer has asked me to extend an invitation to you. To return to this Ayenee rebuilt. He feels your presence would be a most sensational surprise.”
“Do you really talk like that?”
“Why yes, yes I do.”
“Ever lock arms with another man and skip through patches of colorful flowers?”
“No.”
“Interesting.”
“Enough!” Cromwell adjusted his bowtie and let out a sigh. “I have a document in my possession, magical in nature, and once signed it would grant you access to this newly rebuilt realm of wonders and dangers.”
“Wonders and dangers…” The man let the words roll off his tongue where they were swept away by an opium-tainted draft originating from a slightly parted shutter. “I’m not too sure of all this, Cromwell. I mean, did you know my eyes never glowed? Yes, that’s right, never. I couldn’t control space or time. I’ve got a hell of a cocky stride but I sure as shit never ran in a blur…”
“Excuse me, but what does that have to do with anything? I am well aware of your reputation; your legacy is told using all sorts of frightening adjectives. Bloody. Savage. Cunning. Need I mention that your brother has already taken up residence there?”
This last statement finally found the effect Cromwell had been searching for. The thickly muscled man leaned forward slightly, a certain glint sparking to life in the sheen of his gaze.
“Mr. Cromwell, I do believe I shall sign your papers. “
“Splendid!” Nestor had already reached into his jacket and had produced a rolled scroll and a damp quill. Both items were laid upon the table.
“I tell you now. If, by some means, this turns out to be treachery disguised as a skinny nut hugger clad in a bowtie and equally silly hat, I will find you. I will pummel you.“
Rough fingers took up the pen and etched across the paper a name which was worth its weight in bones, the countless bones of shredded corpses left in wake during years when heroes and villains clashed upon fields tended by a man named Kellindil.
It took but a moment, and by the time the ink had dried on the paper the large man had faded from sight, to reappear in a realm where all manners of people, Gods, demons, and dragons sought to rekindle flames from the past.
“Splendid indeed…” muttered Mr. Cromwell as he clutched the paper in his sweaty little hands. Beady eyes looked down upon the name scrolled there, each letter wavering and reflected in his shiny black pupils.
Lucifer Noctarus
Last edited: