The Village

An attempt at writing third person
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It was a serene day in the village. At last, the long winter had finally broken, sunlight streamed through the freshly budding leaves in the orchard, and children ran amuck in the streets. Well-worn dirt paths held deep grooves on their sides from merchant wagons that passed through. The village itself had grown since the previous year. It seemed every so often a passer-by would decide to stay and a family would sprout up around them.

The robed man walked into this saccharine scene full of relief. It had been a long journey, and his feet were killing him. A gentle breeze picked up and carried the smell of wildflower blossoms to him, his grayed beard trailing along outside his hood. “Yes, yes…” he muttered to himself, lifting one foot in front of the other in an almost zombified state of mind, he made his way to the largest building in town, the inn.

The inn itself was perhaps the finest building in the village. It had long stood as the community center, town hall, and celebration space for everyone who lived there. They cherished the oaken counters, the hardwood chairs, and the large stone hearth that sat on the far end of the common room. The stone floors were worn smooth with age and use, and freshly woven thatch rugs were placed at the entrance to keep everything tidy.

Brindol Copperpot was not by any means a clean and tidy man, but he understood his business needed to be, if he was to keep customers. The townsfolk were used to a good amount of dirt, he suspected, but the out-of-towners were likely expecting a pigsty. It was best to assume the worst from visitors, but if he could leave them with a good impression, it would make the town look good, as well as bring in some coin. He was proud of what he helped build, but he knew as well as anyone else that their town needed a better source of income than cattle and woven things. This is why spring was always so exciting: it meant fresh supplies, and travelers.

The first merchant of the season had only just arrived days prior to offload some goods in preparation for his journey north, and with him came supplies for the town. Seeds for the farmers, an ox or three to drag the ploughs, kegs of ale for the innkeep, and of course sweet treats for the children. The merchant charged a fair price for everything, he knew his customers well and personally. He did not expect, nor want, to make a profit off them, they had done him more than enough favors over the years to warrant his goodwill. Just as such, his true profit came not from the simple townsfolk and their simple things. Beneath his standard wares and frivolities for simple folk, he carried weapons and armor. His true destination was north to supply the armies, and to fortify the soldiers of the realm against the coming threat. Everyone knew of this threat, so none would speak of it, as though naming it gave it power. In a way, it did, the same way naming a child gave them permanence, and a sense of self. However, avoiding the threat gave it power as well, cementing that fear into everyone’s hearts. The merchant had peddled his simple things to the simple folk of the village, and when his cart moved on, it carried a jingle that sounded like steel on steel. The older folk of the village understood, and the children carried on their games.

When the robed man made his way through the door of the Copperpot Inn, he did not stop to look around, nor did he make his way to the bar. He found the nearest table that was away from a window and took a seat with his back to the hearth.

“Good day to you, kind sir! What brings you in on such a fine day?” Brindol put on his warmest smile, throwing his arms out wide in what locals called the “Copperpot Welcome”, his large frame rippled with the sudden motion, and his joints pulsed a dull ache. Just the long winter, he thought distantly to himself, but a part of his mind knew it was rain in the distance. He could smell it on the flower-tinted air already. “Get you something to drink? Perhaps some food?”

“Mead, if you please,” the man said after a long pause. His hood remained up, the tip of his pointed nose emerged as he looked up towards the Innkeep. His soft voice continued, “perhaps some stew if possible.” His voice rasped towards the end, falling into a dry cough as he choked the words out.

“Jus’ as quick as ye walked in, sir! Though, I’m afraid the day-stew only just started, not much more than broth quite yet…” Brindol rubbed the back of his head and gave the man a sheepish grin.

“Broth is fine,” the robed figure coughed again. The air was full of pollen and dust from the roads, and the open windows of the Inn allowed it all to flow freely at him.

Brindol grabbed a mug from underneath the bar, and a bowl from a shelf behind him. Both items were made of wood, sealed from the elements with years of care, oil, and wax. He set the bowl down next to the earthen cooking pot that stood 4 feet tall. It was built as part of the countertop and served as a communal soup pot for the village. People would bring ingredients to throw in throughout the day, and temperature was kept steady thanks to a brick lined hearth beneath it. Brindol had spoken true and today’s stew had only started that morning, having just emptied and cleaned the previous 40-day marathon the night before. That soup had been rich and filling, but with the weather finally warming up it was time for a fresh start, and lighter fare. As it stood, the pot contained basic stock ingredients: some chicken bones, a few onions, carrots, celery stalks chopped rough and tossed in, and a few cloves of garlic that had survived the winter thanks to some clever rationing. Brindol was quite proud of that hoarding, and hoped his sacrifice would bring out the flavor of the chicken in this fresh batch. A fun surprise for all of the townsfolk to welcome them back in after the long winter, and a hearty welcome to the new visitors they would receive.

He pulled the tap on his only remaining keg of mead. It flowed out slowly, splashing noiselessly into the mug. The mead itself was a darker brew, made for the winter months to light a fire in the stomach and ward off the chill. Once that keg had run dry, it would also be replaced with lighter fare: simple ale, fresh from the nearby capital and recently purchased from the merchant. He walked over to the table the man had sat himself at and placed the mug down in front of him.

“Tell ye what, that mead’s about empty and I don’t have much more than flavored water for stew right now. If ye’re looking to stay the night, I’ll knock a bit off the price there, if ye’re passin’ through, I’ll throw in some food for the road too.” Brindol beamed down at him, clapping a hand to the man’s back. Through the thick robes he could feel the hard edge of shoulder blades and ribs, and Brindol’s smile faded some. “Yeesh there.. Eat up and I’ll see what I can do about something filling for ya.” 

The man took a hold of the mug in front of him, a wrinkled hand appearing from beneath the folds of the robe. He took a sip, and cleared his throat. “A room would be fine, but I can wait for the stew at least,” he croaked out. He took another sip of his drink and dipped a hand into the canvas bag he wore on his hip.

Brindol returned to the bar, fetching the bowl he had set out and grabbing the heavy copper ladle he always used for the stew. Something about the metal gave a particular earthy tang to the soup. It was a flavor he personally enjoyed, and the townsfolk had never said anything ill about it. He spooned out a hefty portion, avoiding the ingredients that would eventually be taken out after they had imparted all of their flavor. He grabbed a heel of bread that was laying nearby, and came back to the hooded man.

“There ye go, bread’s on the house. Do ye a sight more than just the fluids will,” he smiled again, finally noticing the gleam of silver the man had placed on the table.

“There you are, for your hospitality.”

“Oh, please sir. I haven’t got change for that, certainly not this time o’ year,” Brindol was flustered, he could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks.

“I insist. For the room and board it’s more than fair. I have been on the road for many weeks now, and I’d like to rest for a few days,” he picked up the bread and broke off a piece, dipping it into the broth before popping it into his mouth.

“Well, if ye’re sure.. “ Brindol swallowed hard. For a simple innkeep that shiny piece of silver was more money than he’d make all season, perhaps all year even! But here this stranger was offering it like it was nothing. His mother had once told him, “Money brings trouble,” and he believed that, inasmuch that he had never seen enough money to make trouble appear, but among the simple folk there had never been much drama. He took the coin slowly from the counter, paranoid that it would disappear, or that he was just imagining it’s presence. To his relief, it was solid and heavy. It bore the mark of the Imperium on one side, and the minting month on the other. He stared at it in wonder for a moment before he noticed the man looking up at him.

“What? Is it not enough?” The robed man’s verdant eyes were easy to get lost in, flecked with gold as they were. His well manicured beard lay flat against his face, the white contrasting with his tanned skin. He smiled for the first time since he walked in. It was a delicate thing, a world-weary grin that carried his eyes with it, a knowing face from a wizened elder.

Brindol shook himself out of his stupor, “No… no, no! This is plenty! More than enough, in fact. The room is your’s as long as ye want it, sir. Many thanks, this will do me and mine lots of good!” He returned the old man’s smile with one of his own, a toothy grin that erupted into jolly laughter. “Lots of good indeed, enjoy what ye’ve got and let me know if ye need anything else, ye’ve more’n paid for it! Oh, can I get your name? I’ve got a logbook, helps me keep track of who’s got what where, ye understand?”

The robed man paused for a moment. He pulled down his hood, revealing a bald head, save for a wisp of hair budding from peak of his crown. He raised a hand to his chin, rubbing it in consideration. “Call me… Riloy. Yes, that will do fine.”

“Sir Riloy, understood,” Brindol grabbed his leather bound book and quill from beneath the bar.

The robed man laughed, “Just Riloy. No nobility here, I’m afraid.”

Brindol smiled as he finished his entry, Sir Riloy. “No problem, sir. Let me know if ye need anything.”

Riloy knew he had written down more than just the name he gave, but that was alright. He was used to telling people one thing, and then watching them do something else entirely. He let out a bit of a sigh and sipped at his mead some more. The innkeep had wandered off into the back to do whatever it was they did on a daily basis. That type of nuance he never cared for, it was what drove him away from civilization in the first place. But he was back now, not because he wanted to be, but because IT had demanded he do so.

“This is but the beginning of my plans, you see?” the voice dripped through his skull like salt on a slug, bubbling, burning, and unavoidable. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to will the voice away. It worked to move the voice from within his own skull down to the skull he carried in his canvas bag. “You cannot escape me, nor your role in all of this, Old Man. The time will come when I will release you, but until then you will do as I say.” Riloy felt his stomach lurch as energy flowed into him. It was common anymore, but IT was forcing him to stay alive. IT would force-feed Riloy’s body, something he did not want, but his flesh eagerly accepted. The process was… disturbing to say the least. He had come to hate IT and everything about IT and even himself as a host to IT. But there was nothing he could do, nothing but obey.

The artifact thrummed in his bag, he could feel the waves of power that it let off. He knew something was coming, some dog of the underworld always obeyed the call of this master. Which dog was always the surprise. Back west from where he came it was something as simple as beggars turned thieves, but up north… up north it had changed people. Had altered them to IT’s will, and they had come in force. Riloy hadn’t started the war, but he had certainly led the armies to the Imperium’s doorstep. He wasn’t even sure if those… things could rightly be called human anymore. But, he supposed, that is why the people would not speak of such things. To do so would admit that once they were human. That once they might have been their own.