Runebound

i

Raucous laughter and jeers and melodic thrums from a lute filled his ears as he shuffled his way into the bustling tavern infamously known for its name—the Drunken Duck. The splintering wooden door was propped open with a sizable stone; a warm evening breeze tailing him, Branwen’s eyes, a mossy green speckled with brown, took in the lively scene sketched out before him. Orcs and elves and dwarves occupied the empty-barrel seats strewn around the round tables, their drinks aimlessly sloshing against the sides of their tankards. Branwen’s steps were consumed by the noise—to his ears, at least, as it appeared as if he was the only human in the establishment—as he carried himself further in. He could feel pairs of eyes darting to look his way as he retreated further into his well-worn cloak, trying to shield himself from view as he walked. It was far too much for him to take in at once. There were magical and mystical creatures surrounding him on every side, even above; the smallest multi-colored glow dotted above in the rafters told him that fairies were enjoying the merriment as well. 

Branwen was there for none of them.

“Why here, of all places?” His words were a whisper that rolled off his tongue with ease, gaze shifting to meet a tavermaid’s distant call, before bouncing back to face forward once again. The candles that rested on top of the bar, one between every body to light the space, proved no comfort for Branwen as he finally came upon the very corner of the tavern. A rickety staircase welcomed him nearest the end of the bar, though he needn’t accept the invitation—his business resided on the lower, and hopelessly loud and overwhelming, floor. There were far too many bodies to cycle through. 

He finally took a seat, given up by a drunken patron who abandoned their tankard, half-full. Hopefully they would not mind. Wherever they were headed off to, it did not concern Branwen. Hunching in his newly attained seat, the feel of it uncomfortable beneath his backside, the young man intertwined his fingers. Edging his elbows against the wooden bar counter, he brushed his lips against his smooth skin decorated with dark runes, odd symbols he did not even understand. He usually paid them no mind though they crawled up his arms and met at the nape of his neck, cascading down his back as if his body was an ancient scroll which desired to be deciphered. Breathing in his own scent—pine, with the faintest hint of a rich mahogany—his eyes settled on a woman as she approached, nudging his hands further into the sleeves of his cloak to conceal his skin. It was the same tavernmaid (now known to him that she was elven, not human, upon closer inspection) that’d asked if he yearned for a drink to quench his thirst. And she asked again, her delicate voice soothing his budding anxiety that, much to his distaste, made his stomach flip about like a helpless fish marooned on a weathered pier. “I’ve no desire to drink tonight, madam, though I am in search of someone. My father directed me here, hoping that they may hear my—our—plea.” Branwen managed to sit just a bit straighter; joined fists settling against the wood, he managed to crack a ghost of a smile. “If you have a moment to spare, I would like to know if you have seen them.”

“We’re packed to the gills tonight, though I can humor you—if only for a minute.” The elven woman leaned forward, splaying her limbs against the bar. Her skin was milky-white, eyes the color of radiant amethysts, and hair a sleek, wavy brown. The tips of her ears were pointed like the blades of daggers, pierced with gold and silver hoops that caught the candlelight. The nameless elf was strikingly beautiful; her breasts full, lips stained a wine-red. “Is this soul you seek a man or woman?”

“A man. A mercenary, I believe.” He tapped his fingers against the counter, nails occasionally catching in the creases in the wood. “A sellsword for hire, so to speak. My father was not very clear appearance-wise, yet he claimed that this fellow has mismatched eyes. He said it was this man’s “most defining feature,” yet I haven’t the knowledge to place truth upon his words.” His fingers came to scratch the nook of his neck; an anxious habit, one that, over the years, has left the surrounding skin scarred from his constant fiddling. “A rare trait, indeed. Have you seen or do you perhaps know someone like that, uhm…?”