Τετάρτη, 16 Δεκεμβρίου 2009

Κοντό πατζούρι

The dark room of the Manor was faintly illuminated by the moonlight, creating eerie shadows through the fine furniture. The curtains were tightly shut to prevent inner exposure to the curious ones, yet the full moon managed to pierce the thick cloth covering the windows. The Rodb Manor, belonging to one of the members of the city council stood proud atop of a series of crests that adorned the east side of Pryburn. Tiaban was sitting in front of the library room window that allowed him to have full view over the city. He sipped ceremoniously of a fine crafted glass that contained a red liquid, more like a wine than anything else. Yet the fragrance swimming through the room reminded him of his early days in his family Manor with his father, beside this very window.
                The city beneath him lay unmoving, drifting through the cold night, making its way towards the sunny but cold day where life would overflow the cobbled streets and alleys once more. The harsh and unforgiving weather was hard to anyone who chose to travel in the city’s streets by the night for he would eventually stagger his way to the closest inn, claiming shelter from the night. Yet one short and slender figure moved past the buildings in a fast moving manner. His movements showed agility surpassing that of a simple man; he seemed like dancing amidst an icy cold town, a dancer that none would pay to see. He reached a halt suddenly, as if recalculating his steps and reached out for his backpack. He was standing next to a low, squat building that would probably give him easy access to the rooftops. His gauntleted hands gripped tightly a rope with a hook attached to its end that shot its way through the stone walls, reaching the rooftops, anchoring itself there. Biadar gripped tightly the silk rope and began his ascend to the rooftop, padding lightly on the stone wall of the squat stone building.
                His ascend was easy and granted him view of the east crest of the city, Mallowcliff as the locals called it. The Rodb Manor was the first building to the left. Biadar began his walk on the rooftops, the harsh weather piercing his skin all the way through the bones, making him shiver from jump to jump as the icy air shortened his breath. He stopped over a flat roof a two story building that was a size greater than the previous ones he had stepped on. A wooden tablet hung from the north-west corner reading “The Pilgrim’s Estate”. The short guy stepped carefully over one edge and watched silently behind his mask the dark shadows of people inside the inn move uneasily on the cobbled pavement.
                “I might as well need a place to hide. This ain’t a bad choice” he whispered to himself and marked the location of the inn. He left the crowded place and its mingled voices to fade away feeling once again alone in this world, every time an icy breath froze another bit of his lungs.
                Moments later, a strange pair of two large bellied figures staggered their way to the inn’s door. They were long past drunk and sought desperately for a shelter. A rough voice thundered through the cold alley
                “Bastards! Them gods you know. We are free- freezing out here!”
                “Oh shut your trap, I reckon this is an inn for newcomers.”
                “Watch that sign dear sir. May be for us.”
They both brought their red noses towards the wooden door, carefully observing a notice. The smell of roasted meet and good quality wine hastened their entrance to the warm inn. Their last words echoed through the dark alley as they entered the inn together, holding each other’s backs.
                “It ain’t for us anyway.”
                “Yeah some stupid assassin or what… I would teach him some fatal tricks if he’d like!”
                “Or you should kill him and get the reward! It’s a high one I tell you!”
Their cheerful loud laughter joined the company of travelers that resided inside the inn, leaving the notice exposed to the cold once again, so everyone could see the pale face with a short beard on his chin bearing the name Biadar Rhenand smile viciously, a short dagger between his teeth, droplets of blood falling from it. “Ten thousand gold pieces if brought alive on the Guards’ station. Claimed the lives of more than a thousand people.”

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