Shining Armor

The Temple armiger drops the coin into the merc’s hand.  Tarnished silver brushes ragged leather.

“Never knew your lot to be afraid of some dirty work.”

“The Archons forbid turning our blades against the faithful.”

The mercenary laughs, flashing rotted teeth. “So you kill them with coin instead.”

Wages of Sin (Royce’s Burden)

The mercenary seeks to drown himself in drink, lungs filled with stale smoke. Tries in vain to forget the faces and the cries. He seeks peace at the bottom of his cup, peace he knows will never come.

No escape from this cycle. Such is its design.

He steps outside. Cold rain washes down his face, a worthless baptism. His guts spill. Alienated by the sounds of revelry around.  None of them know, none need to know. Let them have their cards and their songs, and he his silver and his guilt.

He curses that Temple armiger, that Akalaean foul and fair. Half the day’s coin spent, and for what?

The merc spits and goes back inside. With bloodshot eyes and slurred speech he hails the barkeep for yet another drink, and more to smoke, too. “Pour it strong, and do it fast. My coin’s the same as theirs.”

But in his heart he knows it is not the same – blood money, every last copper.

The rest goes to one of the women who warm the beds. Her face, too, reminds him of the day’s deeds and he does not lay eyes upon her until she leaves. His purse is empty again by the time he loses consciousness.

Darkness gives way to dawn. He downs the half-drunk flagon left from the night before, takes up sword and brigandine and tattered bloodstained gloves.

Morning mists shroud the empty streets as he goes out once again. In search of his employer, he roams those arcolith alleys of Ald Amanai.