''A man who wastes no time, you ain't changed Hans Snake-Eye.'' Thalrick realised then where his name had been born. His left eye was a dull green, though his right was a gritty yellow, with the thin pupil of a snake, ''Me words involve the horse, the one I came on. Fine beast, mind ya, got it from a knight – a dead knight's wife to be honest – but a knight all the same. It served Syliras, so it'll serve you just as good. It carried my fat arse here without a trouble, as well as all me provisions and belongings.'' Jon seemed eager as he spoke, like the sale had already been made. Hans continued to stir his stew, never shifting his eyes from it. It had begun to create the gorgeous aroma that cooked chicken often did, mixed with peas and carrots and potatoes and herbs. Thalricks stomach growled loudly.
''Your boy is hungry.'' Hans said bluntly. Jon looked confused, he had ignored all he had just said. He shot Thalrick a glare as if his stomach's cravings had just ruined everything, a glare that suggested he would be flogged later. Whip me, slap me, beat me. . . It only makes me want to end you more. ''Aye, seems he is. I fed him though, he's a greedy one, always eatin', takin' all me bloody food, Rhysol damn him.'' He lied, then shot Thalrick another twisted glance. It was very much the opposite; he ate all the good food himself and left his slave pup with nothing but scraps. Lately, he'd begun to see the bones jut out of his skin where his ribs were. Thalrick doubted Jon could even feel his ribs through all his layers.
''It doesn't look so, he looks underfed. Mayhap you need to feed him more.'' Hans said bluntly again, though this time had turned around to size up the boy. Jon looked offended, as if the lie he had told had actually been a lie. Which it was. His angry stare burned the back of the bear-sized man's head.
''I don't have enough to feed him, lest I wanna bloody starve meself. The boy gets what he's given and he doesn't say a word about it, so I'd wager he's okay with it. Now, how about that horse?'' His tone slowly grew in both annoyance and volume, though Hans did not seem phased in the slightest. He was a very. . . drab man, all brawn with little brain, or maybe he just did not care what the plump slaver had to offer him, in the form of both lies and horses. Thalrick smiled at the thought, though only in his head. He dared not curve his lips before his masters anger.
''What about it? It's a knights horse, and a dead knight at that. There is no honor in taking a dead man's things from the clutches of his widow. Especially when winter has just begun, and horses are likely to die from frostbite, and cold. I need dry wood for my hearth more than I need another horse.'' His voice was plain, but there was a certain anger to it that could not be denied. He did not want the horse, that much was clear. Jon went red again, and his sausage fingers curled up into a thick pork steak of a fist. He had been seated upon a wooden chair, but was now standing, breathing so heavily that grey clouds of air wisped from his mouth with each one, even inside the house. I hope he attacks the big man, and gets himself killed. Maybe Hans will let me free. . .
''The horse is as good as any, if not better. It got us 'ere, from the other bloody side o' the evergreens, it's strong an' sturdy and obeys like a good beast should. I thought o' you when I took it, I did, and that be why I'm here now, before you.'' Jon spoke slowly and angrily, trying to maintain his composure. Thalrick prayed he would lose it. Hans turned back around, but he did not even so much as glance at the fat slaver. Instead he approached Thalrick with a clay bowl full of stew, and placed it in his hands. ''Eat, boy. You look starved.'' he said in his drab tone, and then his lips twisted into what Thalrick only assumed was a smile. Jon looked infuriated, but he let Thalrick sit, and he let Thalrick sip on the hot stew until his stomach became warm and content. The chicken was not as cooked as he would've liked, but he would not complain; it was better than rations. ''Th-thankyou, Hans Snake-Eye.'' Thalrick said quietly as he wiped his lips of the last mouthful. The yellow-eyed man took the bowl back from him, and placed it down upon his shoddy wooden table beside the pot.
Jon opened his mouth to ensue his brewing rage, but Hans cut him off, all the while he continued to stir his stew. ''Lord of Whores, you told me earlier. Tell me, Jon, where are all these wenches that you lord over? I see only a boy who is underfed and worked to the bone. You claimed a master thief, too, did you not? Mmm. I ask you what you've stolen that makes you so.'' His tone was duller than ever, but so condescending that Jon nearly pulled his dirk out in rage. The fat man somehow managed to keep his cool, perhaps it was the winter winds that crept through the open window.
''I am a lord when I attend them in their brothels, and a thief of horses and cattle. Do not speak down to me like ya have honor, almighty informant, you're a thief and a crook just as wrong as me. You have no honor left, not a shred, and don't act like ya do, because it'd be a bloody lie. The boy is underfed on account o' not workin' hard enough, maybe if he put his heart into his duty I'd give him more rations, y'see. You once told me that your kind were always in need o' good horse, and that's why I came, not so you can lecture me and feed my property your bloody stew.'' By the end it, Jon was breathing so loudly that each one competed with the whistling winds in volume. He panted as if he were about to pass out from a heart attack, and his fists were clenched so tight that his sausage fingers were turning purple. Hans stood before him, still as stone.
''No, I have no honor. You speak true. But I have a moral compass, maybe a broken one, but I keep it all the same. Boys need to be fed, if you want them to survive. You don't expect a fortnights meat from starved sheep, so why expect years of service from a starved child,'' he paused for a moment, scooped out some stew and handed Jon a bowl, and Thalrick a second, ''any man is a lord when he enters a brothel, as long as his coin is many. I have been a lord many times myself, more than I can count on all fingers and toes. Maybe we are brothers then, lords of whores together.'' He stopped entirely for a minute, as he poured himself a bowl of stew, drank it down all at once, and then served himself another. Jon's mouth was open, revealing his ugly crooked teeth, but no words came out. The bear-sized man continued by saying, ''It's true my brothers are in need of good horses, but I doubt any would make it to Sunberth from my humble cottage in such weather, so it'd be a wasted cause. The snow will only get thicker, the wind colder and more fearsome. I'd be a fool to haggle the horse from you now.'' He sat then, blunt as a mace, slurping loudly from his bowl. Jon wiped a growing bead of sweat from atop his brow.
''Then what, Hans? I come 'ere for what, a bowl o' petchin' stew? To listen to ya mockery? You take me a fool, brother, I see it, clear as day.'' He stood up again, this time launching his half-emptied bowl at the wooden floor. It bounced across the squeaky boards, spilling chicken and potato and carrot across an old dusty rug. Hans took one more loud slurp from his own bowl, and then placed it calmly on the table beside him. He used the back of one hand to wipe the blonde and grey hair from his face, and for a second Thalrick thought he would react. But he remained as stern as a stone gargoyle. ''Do you come into my home to mock me, Jon Lavick? Rhysol burn you, you have soiled my home, when I have been generous enough to let you into it. We may have fought in the Ebonstryfe as comrades, but that life is behind us both. I'd take no regrets in skinning you alive.'' The words hissed from his mouth like a viper, and he stood up, towering over Jon by at least two feet. The threat was real; and for the first time since they'd arrived, Thalrick saw expression in the giant man: anger. Both of his boulder-like fists were clenched at his hips.
''I came here to make an offer, and ya've refused me, it seems. I got no more business here, so I'm takin' me boy and I'm goin'.'' Jon made for the door, scared for his life, but Hans took two strides and blocked it, his thick blonde and grey brows furrowed in anger. ''It is one thing to deny a man manners beneath his roof, but to scorn the good supper he has given you – Rhysol burn you, fat Jon.''
Kill him, Hans Snake-Eye, kill him and be done with it. Let me free, let me free of his wroth. . .
The events that followed all blurred before him like a time-warped dream. He remembered Jon drawing his dirk, and lunging at the huge man. Hans had then thrown his former comrade across the room like a small pup, brandishing a wound at his hip. Jon had shouted profanities as the giant of a man came upon him again, and then it all diverged into a state of panic and chaos. Splintered wood flew across the room, and either man swore prayers to Rhysol as they beat at each other, hot stew spilling across the room as the pot swayed back and forth violently. Thalrick did not care to see the victor; he had no time.
Now is my only chance, my only chance to be free again.
He rushed for the door, and though his wrists were chained to one another, he opened it quick enough. His initial thoughts led him to the courser in the stable, but that would only take time, time he could have spent running. And so run he did. The wind had picked up, louder and stronger, screaming and clawing at his ears as he tried to push through it. It pounded at his side, trying to topple him over, trying to take his balance from beneath him. The snow made the run harder than he first thought, his feet getting lost in the milky white snow with every step that he took. He had to be as light as a feather, but the furs that covered him only made him heavier. I cannot remove them, or I'll freeze to a slow death, He remembered thinking as he pushed on, tripping and falling every few steps. Yet every time he fell, he pulled himself up quicker. He was wolf clothed as pup, with the will to survive.
After what felt like an eternity of running, falling, running, and falling again, he managed to stumble into a forest, heavy-set with soldier pines that were covered in sheets of thick, crusty snow. The air was warmer here, the wind less violent. He pressed his body up beside the trunk of a tree and allowed himself to slide down, until his back side was nestled into the ridge at the bottom of the trunk. He was tired and worn, but he was alone, and had escaped the clutches of his cruel master. Still, for all his effort, he did not feel free. Something was amiss. |
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