Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 54

Laughing at the foolhardiness of the God of Despair was all fun and games until the real question arose: "Why are you associated with this evil deity in the first place, Clearstrike?"

Farren's grin froze.

This was when the actual despair struck, as the many curious-- even suspicious-- faces stared at her, of an old captain, of an alchemist, of twin mercenaries and a flamboyant bard, and the most worrying of them all--the forsaken God whose lover's immortal soul she had trapped within herself.

The captain looked skeptical of the acquaintance between Farren and Xenro, who she believed to be the happy-go-lucky son of a former member of the company. Nevertheless, she moved onto the more pressing concern.

"What's Lord Atruer's deal with you, exactly?" asked Captain Walric. Xenro's eyes reflected the same question, even if he did not voice it.

Farren had no answers to offer. Not easy ones, at the least.

How would she tell Xenro she willingly trapped Dresius in herself without him going into a vicious rage? Or Ryffin, that the wards in his house did not work because she was a Vasaen by definition-- immortal soul in a mortal vessel.

She realised she'd been baring her teeth for an entire minute and thus, busied herself with a flagon full of spiced mead, eyes travelling over the crystal bladed swords, daggers and axes suspended from the baldrics of the mercenaries. Sacred Blades-- which would cleanse her soon, if they knew what she was.

Farren chuckled. I'm as good as dead.

This time, it was no petty brawl at an inn that she could slither away from with her sorcerous wiles.

The captain folded her hands over the table. Taut, cord-like veins lined her rich, brown skin. When she spoke, her voice was measured and calm. "How did you know Lord Atruer is the one who has been mistaken for you? Last time I checked, he was this pale bloke in a cloak, not some red-haired Midaelian lass."

Farren leapt at the opportunity of a diversion, eyes flashing. "Sounds like you know him better than me. Meet him often?"

The woman, however, was not one to be swayed. "That is irrelevant. My question is-- why of all the people of this land, he chose to masquerade as you?"

Trust me, lady, it'll take all night to explain, and will likely end in manslaughter.

"No clue," said Farren. "But...all this mess right now-- it explains why I came across this sorcerous conflict when I was wandering the forest."

Xenro placed his tankard down. "What did you witness?"

"Didn't see it directly, but I sensed the magic. It seemed as though Atruer was fighting a mage... and he lost."

His eyebrows rose. "To a mere mortal mage?"

"Apparently," said Farren. Then it clicked. "Remember him hollering about the Countess kicking his arse?"

Captain Walric's frowned. "First, Atruer, now the Countess? My, is there any questionable character you are not associated with?"

Hilda came over, wrapping an arm over Farren's shoulder and taking a huge swig from a bottle of Goldcrest Whiskey as though it were water. "Bold words coming from you, Cap'n. Your whole company is questionable, ain't it?"

--"And you're the cherry on top, love!" cheered the mercenaries, to which the bard answered with a strum of her lute and a swift bow-- the motions converged into one, graceful movement.

Raucous laughter rose from the company, as well as its leader. But Xenro seemed to pay no heed to the rowdiness that engulfed the hall as cups emptied and spirits ran amok in warrior blood.