Captain Alaric Thornwood of the Imperial Army, thrice decorated, glared at the man in front of him. “You’re a real fuck-up, aren’t you?”.
The man glared back at him contemptuously from bloodshot eyes. His jawline spoke of sparse and blunt shaving, and unkempt greasy hair hung around his shoulders.
Alaric continued “Nothing to say, you useless bastard?”
He waited, but the mirror was never going to reply. Alaric raised a hand to scrub at his rough unshaven face before pushing his shoulder length dark hair back over his scalp. Three years living in a tiny room in the slums of Archenwald, the Imperial Capital, had done him no favours, and the constant stream of cheap beer, shitty wine, and rot-gut spirits was not a positive contribution. He turned to survey the room. The unpainted walls, the grimy floor, the rattle-framed bed. Thin grey light struggled through the one filthy window.
Imperial Army Officers quarters were hardly luxurious, even in Special Operations, but they were at least clean and didn’t leak. After twenty years, Alaric had gotten used to a decent living when not in the field. After three years in this shithole, it had already worn him down - not so much accustomed to it as resigned.
A glimmering sense of resolve awakened in Alaric. He might be at the lowest point in his life, but even small things made a difference. And there was one thing he knew he could do to improve his situation.
Alaric made his bed.
Throughout all of the bullshit since the events that led to his discharge, this was the one thing he was able to control. Just one thing that he could do right, every time. Once that was done, crisp enough to pass inspection, he paused. The juxtaposition of his orderly bed with the rest of his shit life was not lost on him. The only morning chore worth doing out of the way, there were only three things left to deal with: his bladder, his belly, and his head. His bladder was easily dealt with in the communal closet at the end of the hallway, but the other two required something further afield.
Alaric emerged from his lodgings into the bustling streets of the city. His destination was The Mug, an imaginatively named tavern two streets away. It was a place that could satisfy the grumbling of his stomach and assuage the throbbing ache in his head—an opportunity to drown his sorrows in the remedy that had inflicted them upon him in the first place.
As he made his way through the dingy streets, he was encompassed by the dissonant sounds of low murmurs and strained laughter. Echoes ricocheted off the worn walls of the dilapidated slums, a reflection of the desolation that permeated this part of the city. Alaric trod heavily along the narrow, squalid street, carefully avoiding the litter-strewn alleyways and stagnant pools of water. The acrid reek of refuse hung heavily in the air, mingling with the pungent scent of cheap spirits.
The area was teeming with rough and desperate souls, their presence an unyielding reminder of the harsh realities of life. Tattered and disheveled vagrants skulked in the shadows, their gaunt eyes tracking Alaric's every movement with a mix of wariness and desperation. Street vendors, weariness etched upon their tired faces, peddled their wares with an air of resilience, offering questionable goods to anyone desperate enough to make a purchase.
For all Alaric had done for the Empire, he had hoped that life would be better, not just for him but for the people. His time in the army had been driven by a sense of duty, and it had kept him going in some darker moments - the thought that his efforts would keep people safe, and allow the Empire to look after the weak and weary. His eyes rose to the higher levels of Archenwald, where he was certain this was true. The Orcish Clans hadn’t been able to raid very deeply in decades, any magical beasts were quickly put down, and Alaric had personally put down more than one petty rebellion. Up there, the merchants and the nobles surely lived a better life due to safe roads and secure borders.
Still, he considered his own perspective. He’d found himself in the dregs here - and he knew that this wasn’t the best reflection of life in the empire. He’d seen enough cities within and without The Empire to know that there would always be slums - the human condition ensured that greed and pride would always concentrate the worst off of society. He knew that his efforts and the sacrifice of many of his friends would have no impact down here. But many people across The Empire were no doubt better off - the farmers and craftsmen who fed and clothed the cities, the villages where they lived out their lives free from raiding or predation.
After navigating the labyrinth of urban decay, Alaric finally arrived at his destination. He pushed against the aged, groaning door and crossed the threshold into a world that provided temporary respite from the dreary sights and smells outside. The familiar melody of quiet conversations and the symphony of clinking glasses filled his ears, and an instinctive smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He’d started the day morose, but some perspective had helped, and the press of people here reminded him that even in the slums there was humanity to be found.
But still, within the refuge of the tavern, the undercurrent of hopelessness remained palpable. Alaric could see it in the weary eyes of the bartenders, in the way the patrons clung desperately to their drinks as an escape from their troubles. A feeling of somber camaraderie prevailed, as if each person sought solace in the presence of others who carried the same burdens.
Alaric stepped to the bar, grateful for the temporary respite that this tavern offered. Georg, the scroungy man behind the bar, grunted and spoke quietly. “Kemp is looking for you”. Alaric froze. He’d hated the man for the last three years. His impassive face as he watched the Court hand down his sentence haunted him. Cast out, discharged with the barest pension the army would part with, he never expected to hear his name again. Alarics brief respite quickly soured. He didn’t need any more reminders of what he’d lost at Redwaters in addition to thirty good men.
“Fuck off Georg. And fuck Kemp. Don’t you fucking tell him a thing.”
“Told him you stopped here most days. Couldn't say much else”
“Yeah, that's why I never told you where I live. I guess I’ll have to risk him finding me here. I need food, and a few drinks” Alaric counted out a few coins and pushed them over. He got back a mug of ale, and a plate of what he was pretty sure was food. He eyed Georg. “This the best you can do?” He gestured at the ale. “You mention Kemp to me and you give me fucking ale? You owe me for telling him I’d be here.”
Georg looked at Alaric blankly. Alaric glared back until Georg sighed and turned to pull a bottle from the shelf. He poured a little into the ale mug. Alaric gestured. Georg frowned and poured more as Alaric kept gesturing, then pulled back. “That’s enough. I don’t owe you shit. Now fuck off and eat.”
Alaric took his sour mood to a small table against the wall, and angled the chair inwards towards the room. He took a quaff of his well spiked ale, and leaned forward over his plate, brooding. If Kemp was looking for him it couldn't be for anything good. Alaric may have escaped punishment for the failed mission and gotten out with a pension, but it had been reduced to a pittance and official displeasure had been made clear. The army didn't want him back - Kemp wanting him for something else. Anything Kemp wanted from Alaric could only be unofficial. Fuck politics.
And fuck Kemp. Two versions of the man lingered in Alaric’s memory. The one he wanted to remember was the one who splashed through shallow water, yelling at him to get up, get moving, don’t-fucking-die-on-me. But the one that stood out in his memory looked coldly at him from behind a podium as judgment was passed and Alaric went from decorated Officer to destitute veteran.
As Alaric settled onto the worn stool in a far corner of the tavern, he couldn't help but reflect on the fragility of hope in a place like this. The city, with its crumbling buildings and desolate alleyways, held a mirror to the human spirit, a reminder of how easily dreams could be dashed and souls could be worn down.
A while later, and several mugs later, Alaric was well into his cups and feeling good about it. Well, not good but he’d mellowed a little. His mind had slowed and settled, his mood evened out and lost its jagged edges, and he had enough coin to keep it that way for the rest of the afternoon, however long that was. He could choose to forget that nobility and politics had cost him his livelihood and self-respect, and the lives of most of the men who trusted him to keep them safe.
It all vanished like vapor when someone jostled his elbow making him knock over his mug, and he turned to see who’d cost him an ale. The man was obviously noble, with smooth unblemished skin and tidy hair. His clothes were not flashy, but the quality was utterly out of place.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
“Fucker. You owe me an ale” Alaric glared up at the man.
“Certainly not.” The man's disdainful look suddenly reminded reminded Alaric of the last time he saw his commanding officer, looking down at him from his podium. Kemp wasn't noble, but he acted the same as any of them.
Alaric's anger spiked irrationally. He stood up.
The injustice of his single solace being ruined bit into him. After all he’d given to the Empire - wounds, risks taken, friends lost. The betrayal, the discharge on pension, and now this. One spilled ale was all it took. Alaric stood in a quiet rage to look at the person who’d ruined his day, and at the sight of a callow youth with a look of disdain, Alaric’s last remaining reason left him.
He threw a jab at the man’s face, connecting solidly but without weight, and stepped into the gap created when he stumbled back. Alaric’s other fist swung out, powered through his legs, and with the footfall drove his fist towards the space behind the youth’s head. His head snapped back with a spray of blood.
The two rough-looking men with him were slow to act but not lacking in confidence as they surged forward. Alaric stepped forward behind one man’s leading leg and grabbed the incoming fist with one hand while the other snaked over the arm to connect with a jaw. Trapped and unbalanced he went exactly where Alaric wanted - backwards and flat onto to his back. Stunned, he was unable to move out of the way of Alaric’s descending fist.
But with that, the momentum was gone. Muscle memory ran out and Alaric now had to contend with the effects of his afternoon drunk. His head rattled as he took the first blow, and the second dropped him to hands and knees. The air was violently forced from his lungs as a foot thrust into his diaphragm. The man he'd dropped early levered himself up to join the beating, and Alaric's consciousness wavered. He felt more hands on his body as he was lifted. He struggled to regain his grounding but the blows fell and his limbs were twisted. His shoulder twisted as it was forced past the doorway, and he found himself tossed on the fetid ground outside the tavern as more blows rained down, and shouts rang out. The beating slowed and stopped, and he looked up. All he saw was a Watch uniform before a heavy mailed fist shut him down all the way.
----
Alaric woke to a thin grey light again. But the window had bars this time, and a man stood nearby with contemptuous look on his face. “You’re a real fuck-up, aren’t you?”. Alaric glared back but said nothing.
“When I heard that Captain Alaric Thornwood was in prison, I thought it must be a mistake, and yet here you are. The Hero of Redwater.”
“Don’t call me that. Fuck off” Alaric looked around the cell. Solid wood door with a small viewport. Narrow window, barred but otherwise open. A bed that was little more than two planks on blocks. And a woman leaning against the wall beside the door. The man continued as if Alaric hadn't spoken. “You have the misfortune of assaulting Count Embrice's son, broke his pretty nose. Charges will be laid, of course, and when they are, you'll be held until you pay the fine. How many gulden can a drunkard on a quarter pension afford?” The dour faced man paused. “You're going to be here a while.”
Alaric's eyes narrowed. He weighed the man's words, feeling the weight of his own predicament pressing down on him. His mind flashed back to the bar fight, the anger that had surged through him, and the resulting chaos that landed him here. Another misstep in a long line of them.
Alaric waited, examining the two people in the cell with him. The man was tall, thin, imperious. His elongated frame was clad in a simple yet well-made tunic of deep green wool, its modest cut emphasizing his lean build. Over this, he wore a plain leather jerkin, its well-worn texture speaking of frequent use. His hose, fitted to his narrow legs, were a sturdy blend of linen and wool, dyed in a muted brown. Sturdy leather boots, scuffed from regular wear, reached just below his knees, their tops turned down in a practical fashion. A plain leather belt cinched his waist. Clearly a noble, but not a courtier. He looked at Alaric expectantly, patiently.
The woman met Alaric's eyes, observing and judging. Her vibrant red hair cascading down her back in a single thick braid. Her long, elegant fingers skillfully swept a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing the delicate curve of her jawline. She wore a flowing blue skirt that reached just above her ankles. Her long-sleeved black shirt draped loosely over her form, and a sleeveless leather vest covered her torso, its supple material hugging her breasts and waist. Alaric looked appreciatively at both - her breasts rode high and firm, with a slight taper to the waist without being overly narrow. There was some power at her core, and he looked her over in more detail. She was tall, but not slim - just not an ounce of wasted space.
Alaric returned his attention to the man as he continued speaking. “I propose an alternative. I need a certain set of skills which you possess. You walk out of here, and make use of them for me. When you're done, you walk away.”
This must be why Kemp was looking for him. Alaric felt a familiar bitterness rise in his throat at the thought of the man who discarded him like a broken tool.
“Fucking Kemp. Couldn't spare the time to come himself? You tell that bastard I'm not working for him again. And certainly not if he sends lackeys, like he's too good to deal with me himself.”
The man looked momentarily perplexed. “Johannes Kemp? No, I'm not...ah, I see. You think I'm here from him? Couldn’t be further from the truth. No, I have nothing to do with the Imperial Army or Special Operations.”
Alaric's curiosity piqued despite himself. If not Kemp, then who? “So an unsanctioned operation then. No thanks, that's even more trouble than working for Kemp.”
The man looked blandly at Alaric. “Consider your situation carefully. There is no way you can pay the fine. Your pension may eventually accumulate enough if you're in prison and can't spend it, but how will you collect it from here? You’ll rot here, and no one will come for you.”
Alaric's jaw tightened. He knew the man was right. His current options were bleak at best. But he didn’t feel like just rolling over. “So maybe I’ll wait for Kemp. He came looking for me. Obviously has something along the same lines as you.”
“And what do you think Kemp will do for you? Chew you up again and spit you out? Have you do the Empire's dirty work? Or dirtier work, should I say, since it must be beyond even Special Operations. You’re only good for unsanctioned operations now - so why go with someone you know doesn’t have your back?”
“And you do?”
“Nothing I say here can prove one way or the other. But you know what you’re going to get if Kemp gets here and you’re in this cell. Take the chance with me.”
Alaric's mind raced. He had always been good at reading people, sizing up situations, but this one was a gamble. Still, the thought of rotting in this cell, wasting away, gnawed at him.
He took refuge in sarcasm. “I’ve never felt so wanted in my life. Why do you need me so badly?”
“Because you’re good at what I need you to do, and you’re available, now. I could find someone better, I’m sure. But not with your record, and not quickly.”
“So you need me as much as I need you. That’s fine. Twice my pension for three years and I’m yours for this operation.”
“I’ll give you three times your pension for this operation if you stop talking and walk out now.”
Alaric considered a moment. The man's offer was tempting, almost too good to be true. But then again, what did he have to lose? “Expenses? Gear?”
“Covered. Provided.”
“And I just walk away, after what is undoubtedly a completely illegal operation. You will understand my skepticism.”
“We never met, but I know of you. The...choices you make. I believe that if you know you're doing right by the Empire, you'll do right by me.”
Alaric felt a flicker of something he hadn’t felt in a long time: a sense of purpose. He nodded slowly, the decision made. “Fine. I’m in. But remember, if you cross me, I’ll make you regret it.”
The man smiled, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. Walk out of here with Clare and I'll tell you all you need to know. For now, it's simple: rot here for who knows how long, or compe do what you're best at: clandestine violence.” He nodded to Clare as he turned and opened the door to Alaric’s cell. Alaric expected him to turn and lay a more blatant threat but he simply closed the door behind him.
Throughout the exchange, Alaric had kept one eye on the woman who still leaned against the wall. She had watched him intently, and smiled slightly every time he pushed back
Clare pushed off the wall and Alaric was able to pay full attention to how attractive she was. She was tall for a woman, and carried herself with a natural grace and poise, each movement purposeful and fluid. The snug fit of her blouse and vest accentuated her full and well-proportioned bust, and the way her skirt draped suggested well-formed thighs and calves. Alarics eyes rose up along her body to her face. Her eyes were a mesmerizing shade of blue, framed by long, dark lashes that add to the intensity of her gaze. Her nose was straight and elegant, leading past high cheekbones to full, well-defined lips. Her body was a harmonious blend of strength and elegance, and her beauty was captivating.
While keeping one eye on her throughout the conversation, he had noticed her intent inspection of himself, and the small amused smiles when he pushed back. Now, as she moved closer, her smile widened, and she looked Alaric up and down.
“Well, that's the stick. Now for the carrot.” I’ve been looking for someone like you for a while. Someone who might be able to handle me. You'll find there's some perks traveling with me”.
"So what's the deal here” Alaric questioned “Campfire blowjobs?”
Clare giggled a snort “I'm no camp follower. I lead the recovery team, but we can enjoy each other along the way.”
“So fucking is part of your job” Alaric stated.
“It can be. Konrad suggests it when he thinks it will be useful, I suggest it when I think I might like it, but I fuck who, when, and how I want to.”
Alaric considered for a moment before realizing there wasn't much to consider. On one hand, indefinite incarceration. On the other hand, an unknown dangerous job that was certainly going to be more satisfying than his present pitiful life. “Let's go then” he said, and walked through the door with Clare.
