Oracus: The Lavorian Rider

Three - The Storyteller

The wind swept through Oracus's hair as he walked towards the Old Mill Inn. It was cooler now, and dusk was settling over Thessley as he stepped through the shadows of the shops around him. In the daytime, the village was bustling with people, but at night it appeared abandoned. The only sign of life was the faint sound of music coming from the inn and the light than shone out of its windows.

As Oracus neared, the volume of the music increased, and the loud, drunken talk of men became audible from inside. The inn looked particularly old and haunting in the evening; the ivy growing on its face appeared black in the darkness and the windows were smeared dirt and grime.

When Oracus reached the door, the wind rattled the sign above and made him look up; it was swinging on its rusty metal arm and creaking. It was so filthy that The Old Mill was barely legible, and the picture of what Oracus knew to be a white windmill was lost behind the dry moss.

Without waiting, Oracus pushed open the wooden door and stepped inside. He stood in the entryway momentarily and looked around. The bar was directly opposite him and almost the length of the room, and to its left was a staircase that led to the upper floors. In front of the bar, tables and chairs occupied by men and women and their tankards were scattered about the room. And in the corner, almost hidden from view, a jolly fat man wearing a purple gown was playing a lute, the origin of the music that Oracus had heard from outside.

It appeared that Garrin had not yet arrived so Oracus ordered two tankards of ale from the barmaid and found a table near the door. At the table next to him, he realised a group of drunken men were sitting around an older man who was telling them a story. The old man's name was Elnir, and he was known as the village crackpot who told tales to earn the coin that would pay for his ale. Whenever Oracus heard mention of his name, it was usually followed by laughs and insults, but Oracus had always been interested in farfetched stories and never quite understood what was so terrible about an old man's vivid imagination. For what it was worth, he wished he could properly hear the story Elnir was telling now, but even when he leaned back in his chair, he only heard something about Riders and the icy lands in the south.

Oracus was just wondering how far to the south the icy lands might be, or if they even existed, when Garrin entered the inn. When he spotted Oracus, he made his way over and lowered himself into a vacant chair. Oracus pushed a tankard towards him and he took a quick sip. "Thank you," he said. "I've needed a drink all day."

Oracus took a gulp of his own ale and wiped the froth from his upper lip with his sleeve. "I hope you're not hurting too much from practise earlier," he teased.

"A few scratches and bruises but nothing too painful," Garrin answered. "I should be able to get out of bed in the morning, at least."

"What time are you leaving tomorrow?"

"Before daylight," Garrin groaned. "It'll take over a day to reach the first destination, so I need to set off as early as possible."

"And where is your first destination?" Oracus asked.

Garrin frowned, "I've only just got here and you're asking me about work already? You know I can't say anything."

"I just don't understand why trading is so secretive. And the less you tell me, the more I want to know!"

"It isn't the trading I can't tell you about, it's the places I go to and the people I meet. Pharia is a big place and Thessley is a very little village within it. Being secretive is what keeps it safe, you know that."

"I've wanted to know about the rest of Pharia my whole life, but nobody will say anything. I honestly don't know who knows about it and who doesn't." Oracus rolled his eyes impatiently. "Now my best friend is a tradesman and I still don't get told anything!"