The Peculiar Tales of Cecil Oxenfurt: Prologue

An opening from a novella I have planned. It's intended purpose is to introduce key players, as well as build upon the world that the story takes place in.

Old Habits Die Hard

I

“It’s a nice night.”

     The tall grass swayed in excitement as the men rode past, leaving a gust behind them and unsettling the cold stones and torrid leaves at the quake of their steeds feet. The tranquil beasts rode on in unison, and what little moonlight escaped from the dense tree tops exposed their powerful figures. “We’ll be there in no time.” The man chortled and ran his fingers along the brim of his flared green hat. “Gods, I could use a drink.” His emerald cloak kicked in the wind, its golden gild winking out to the shadows. It was the month of Amberfall, the leaves of the wood a fiery collection of vibrant reds and bold oranges. The night was as warm as they came in the fall, and a gentle breeze brushing through the tree forks accompanied the riders with a soft weeping, as if the plants were lamenting for their coming struggle during the month of ice and snow.

      The emerald clad man rode forward on a pale white stallion, it’s strength in it’s stride shaking the earth with every step. Despite the dark night and lack of moonlight, the man’s ostentatious attire made him stand out with great flare. Layers upon layers of emerald robe and cloth fluttered heavily, and a lengthy, orange silk tasset kicked from his hips. The rider to his left however, seemed one with the night, with layers upon layers of fine silken robes lining his thin body. This collage of red, black, and blue fluttered violently as they strode past, yet did not once upset the calmness of the rider. His sanguine cowl drawn forward, the mans face was well hidden from sight, exposed only slightly by a spurious light of alchemical flame atop the wooden palisade the two riders slowly approached. Alchemical flame was a common substitute for torches upon the walls of cities and outposts, as they required much less maintenance and care. With one alchemist working within city walls, light and heat could be provided to most stations for only a slight price increase. It’s often the nobility that order such projects to be undertaken by these mathematicians of magic, for the common folk find a certain lack of trust in anything as unnatural as a flame that is not the common colour nature conspired it to be.  

   “I wonder if they’ll have that Dwarven Fire Ale which we had in Lufia last summer.” The emerald rider pulled up on the reigns of his horse as the two approached the oaken gates. The palisade was constructed of wooden logs sharpened at their points, standing roughly twelve feet in height at the exit of the woods. The man in black scoffed and gave a wry smile. “Let’s hope that for your sake they don’t. You made a fool of yourself right in front of the town guard captain the last time you partook in such a beverage.” The sanguine clad mans voice was unpleasant, as if he had swallowed a fist full of gravel and asked for seconds.

  “I’d like to think they missed a great opportunity! I would have been an admirable asset in their work force.”

 “You were f*****g his daughter. I fail to see the job opportunity.” The emerald rider gave a cocky smile as the two entered the gates.

       The streets were quiet as the two men shuffled through them, accompanied by the distant murmurs of the local pub while they led their horses by the bridles. Removing his wide brimmed hat, the emerald rider brushed back his long, ash blonde hair. His face was sharp, with calming green eyes positioned above an aquiline nose. A small mouth with tight, thin lips rest inside the grounds of a well grown goatee which hugged the edges of his strong, square jaw tightly. His skin was tanned by the sun, a mark of men from the Ryveran highlands. He gave a motion to his companion, a look of concern. The sanguine clad man was hunched over, his pale face was hidden by the mask of shadow provided by his hood, and acting as if to sense the riders intentions, the shrouded man adjusted his hood, pulling it forward and submerging his head further into the suffocating shadows. Still, the riders face was left unchanged. “Vavakri, take care to keep that hood forward. We don’t need the entire town knowing of your condition.” The sanguine one sighed deeply and produced a patronizing glare. “Please, I have been hiding myself prior to your birth, I do not require instruction.” The emerald rider laughed and placed his hat with his other belongings. “Fair enough my friend, fair enough. But when they break out the pitchforks and holy water, I don’t know your cold a*s. Got it?”

 “Always have my back, right Cecil?”

II

      They stopped in front of the old Shattered Shield Inn, and took a deep breath, relieved that their journey was over. “In we go!” As the door swung open the explosive sound of shouting and music poured out into the night, and the roaring fire of the hearth glazed the black streets with a golden light. The Inn was of a dark wooden working, although the floor was of cobblestone masonry. Solid stones, rounded and placed in an unorganized fashion amidst the salmon colored grout, a mosaic by a child at first glance. An old cloth rug was draped along the length of the entire tavern, dyed a filthy dull brown by the years of abuse. Globes of glass lined the wooden walls, socketed into place and surrounded by steel borders as flames encased within shifted color and scintillated. The pride of the tavern was it’s namesake, the Shattered Shield of Braev Ironsides, a famed hero who served the people of Lufia well. It seemed the entire tavern was built upon trinkets and riches, even the dirty rug sharing a richer history than most of the patrons.

   The two riders shoved past the crowds of gathering customers, tables full of drunken maidens and soldiers, parting through the chaos before taking a seat at the stone counter. Cecil struggled to maintain a balanced sitting position as the young adult was pushed and shoved by drunken men trundling past, yet none seemed to approach his companion. The two always seemed to give off these auras, Cecil one of naivety rooted in confidence, and Vavakri, an apathy to those around him.

     A stubby dark skinned man stood atop a small stool, peeking his head over the countertop whilst rubbing down a chipped earthenware tankard. His hair was bushy, like a lion’s mane, and countless rough marks about the face surely gave look of an experienced bar fighter. “What'll it be then lads?”

“Two ales, the darker the better.” Cecil removed his green cloak and rested it atop his seat back, exposing a leather cuirass dented by sword blows and arrow fire.  His arms were long, muscular. A grizzly tattoo poked its head out of the cuirass’ short sleeves. The head of a drake, a young dragon creature, seemed almost carved into the skin, with a dark green ink lining  the cuts.

     “Here you are then lads, drink up! First round is on the house.” The stubby man hopped off his stool and trundled off into the back room, creating a commotion upon his arrival. Cecil drew from his tankard and shouted to the back room. “Would you happen to have any rooms available for the night?”

  “I’m ‘fraid not mate!” The deep voice rumbled through the walls. “We’re all booked up fer’ the night! But ye’ could give the Drunken Peasant a look! She’s just down the street from ‘ere and she might have a few beds available to you!” The fellow rounded the corner and came back into view behind the counter, his red mane of hair popping up like a wild flame. “The bloke who runs the joint is named Coen, just tell em ol’ Brodock sent ye’ and he be sure to give you a place to sleep.” The tavern keeper scratched his thick head of hair, struggling to surmount his own shoulder build, and ran down the length of the counter, as other patrons began to roar for further service. Vavakri placed his tankard atop the counter with a hard thud. “I suppose we ought to be on our way to the Drunken Peasant then.” Cecil slid his tankard down the counter length and rose to his feet, throwing his cloak over his back. “Yes, I suppose we shall. Ladies first Vavakri.” The two men gave a joking glare before leaving the Inn.

     The Drunken Peasant was lacking a pulse in comparison to the Shattered Shield Inn. Not enjoying the poor reputation, the tavern was almost empty, and the patrons who did spend their time within seemed much too occupied with their drink to converse amongst each other. The two strode towards the counter through the dimly lit ale house, as the innkeeper measured them with a cold glare. Cecil rocked in place, Vavakri stood still.

  “What’ll it be?” The innkeepers face was slightly touched by the dim true-light of the tavern, exposing his pockmarked face and ugly, angry expression as the flames of the torch spit out away from it’s sconce. The sanguine rider stepped forward.

“Two rooms, Brodock said you would be able to provide. You must be Coen, yes?”

“Yeah, thats me.” Coen scoffed and dipped his head down, as a metallic chime stung their ears. Keys. “Right this way then.” The innkeepers breath smelt of cheap ales and aged cheeses, and he hobbled away with a limp, his massive body swinging with great weight at each step. “That’ll be a Quarter Cameo for each room.” The riders produced the proper compensation and Coen gave a deep breath, punching the two of them in the face with a gust of foul odours. “You’ll have these two rooms then, and you’re free to sit out here by the fire whenever you like. Just don’t go makin’ any loud noises, you hear? Don’t wanna be waking the patrons.” He wiped his mouth of spittle and proceeded to hobble back to the counter, digging his hand into the barrel of pickles.

     The inn was cold and silent as the last patron cleared out in an unbalanced fit of drunken coordination. The stone hearth grumbled softly as embers danced above the split yew logs, and the lights limped weakly into the inn. Cecil, now changed out of his armor into more common clothing, a cloth tunic and leather trousers, sat legs crossed by the hearth, a long smoking pipe nestled in between his lips, a thick white smoke bellowing from the bowl. Vavakri remained clad in sanguine robes, motionless beside the flames, idle, as if painted by another. His hood was drawn down, revealing  shoulder length, jet black hair, reflecting the fire in it’s marvelous sheen. His face, covered in cuts, bruises and scars each carried a story of its own. Chapped, purple lips, and blood shot, icey eyes sat imbalanced above and below a crooked, hooked nose. He looked as if a tailor had attempted to sew the faulty pieces back in place.

 “What exactly is the order of business, then?” Vavakri leaned forward, his sanguine eyes peering across the knee-height, oaken table towards Cecil. “Crack open the seal on the letter and lets go over the details. Last time we had been hired for something, it was Might and their god damn police business.” He gritted his teeth at the memory.

 “This isn’t gonna be another Might Inc. Vavs, from what I gathered from it so far, it’s not exactly...a lawful line of work.” Vavakri gave a wild grin, his teeth a discolored combination of ivory and rose red. “Thats more like it.”

III

The highlands of the Ryveran province roll for what feels like an eternity, with lush expanses spanning across the cool earth, and stones and shales of all colours; red, blue, and orange hues of minerals to bring colour to the highlands; up hills and across the rocky ways for hundreds of kilometres, ceasing only at the Jagged Expanse. Ryveran, comprised mostly of these highlands, is known for it’s strange and sudden change of terrain at it’s extreme poles. Situated in the center of The Grey Ebb, a massive oceanic body of pale waters, the continent is fully under control of his majesty, Emperor Avan Ter'Leshvan Lande, and his many cities, governed by their dukes and their duchesses, spread out over this massive landmass. In the center of the continent, the highlands of Ryveran are home to some of the most humble folk in the realm. Fair haired, hardy, and wise, the Ryvan people house the small towns and outposts of the highlands, living farmers lives upon the peaks of cliffs. With the cold winds blowing all year round, the view of the grey waters to the east, the common folk work the fields and till the lands in Wynd, Horiz, and Katach, towns of cobblestone and straw filled with culture and peaceful folk. Exporting fish, crop goods, and various simple commodities to the rest of the realm, there is a certain unspoken agreement that these tall, strong, and fair skinned men and women are to be left in their peace, away from the hardships of modernity, and with the barriers of hundred-meter tall peaks surrounding their habitats, they often find it easy to be kept out of those affairs. With one trade route passing through the Stone Wall, nature’s barrier for the Ryvan people, safety is rarely a concern, with only the wild animals and weather a struggle to be beared through.

   These lands must end, however, and to their north the grass begins to die, shifting from healthy tones of green to torrid pale blades sprouting from firm, cold dirt and stone. Permafrost. The tall grass begins to die, and the land looks more akin to the head of a balding man than the beauty of the highlands. Ryveran’s northern lands begin as chilly fields of thinning vegetation and stone, the tundras spanning in stark contrast to the highlands as mostly flat plains, the only view of the mountains off in the distance, shielding the sun from view for most of the morning, and providing a consistent, and often remarked upon red hue to the sky. Clouds roll over head, refracting the light of the furtive sun and painting pastel colours among the open canvas above. These lands house one stronghold, a city of towering walls made from iron and stone, castles and homes of carved oak with mastercraft embroidery. Tales of heroes and songs of times not forgotten are immortalized in these carvings, with even the keels of their longships telling the tales of ancestors and legends, myths and tales. The stronghold of Marfas overlooks the entirety of the Ryveran tundra, the sights of mammoths and elk, herds of bison by day and packs of wolves as the moon spreads it’s gaze all present.

  North of the Marfas people, the ice begins to form, and the cold becomes so unbearable that those who venture to it’s chilling grasp rarely return. Early expedition resulted in failure and explorers never returned to the capitol. Slowly, rumours of giant folk and beasts of ice began to spread, and even the Emperor found himself worried at the unknown expanse of the Ice Blightlands north of Marfas. Walls were erected, linked between towering azure icicles, to not only to keep people out, but to keep the Ice Blightlands in. What little is known of it however, is that a pale blue ice composes the land, with sheets upon sheets of the blisteringly cold glass like ground running rigid for as long as the eye can see. Towering structures of eternal ice, stalagmites of blue and silver, shoot from the cobalt ice. The sky is bleak, clouds filling the view of above until only a foggy white can be seen. Yet it is never dark, the sun seems to be eternal in it’s presence, shining weakly through the choking ash-like surface above the Ice Blightlands, a flame through smoke, all visible from the tops of Serried Wall.

  South of the highlands, is a different story. The chill of the sea becomes a warm breeze, and the mountains soften their peaks into rounded, pleasant hilltops. The trade route through the Stone Wall splits soon after its departure from  central Ryveran, connecting to the various cities throughout the south of the continent. The fingers of this hand like network of roads continue south, as plains and clear skies shift to deciduous forests, colouring the southern lands in a warming hue during the months of fall. At the very tip of the continent, it’s southernmost point, lies the city of Lufia, south-west of the Great Wood, a forest of gigantic trees ten meters wide, and south-east of the Ashen Plains, a land of unknown origins with a dark heritage, filled with tales of ill omens. Lufian life is simple, for the port cities dwellers. By day, the waters of the ocean are worked for fish, whale, just about any and all things aquatic. The lands outside the walls are used to raise crops, cattle, sheep, and pigs, and workers tend to these resources with great caution. Lawmen line the wooden walls and city corners, their blue tabards and chainmail a common point of identification for the armed forces. The rules are simple really, the workers provide for the city, the blueskins keep everyone in check, the poor beg from both the workers and the blueskins, and the nobility laugh from their tower tops and grand homes, safe from all worry as they acquire their coin from the rest of the cities denizens. By night, the workers eat, drink, and enjoy the famous night scene of Lufia. With a tavern on every street corner, it’s difficult to be bored when the cobblestone streets are often broken up in their monotony with washed up drunks laughing at their own humour in the dark. On the surface, the city is a wondrous place, and in the Irontop district, where we find our mysterious riders, all seems at peace, in order. Safe.

   Yet a seedy underbelly plagues the streets of Lufia, and the blueskins have their hands full. The kind of activity that doesn't get overlooked. This is crime and ill action from the kind of folk that don’t pay their wages.

IV

  “What exactly is it then?”

The last of the smoke plumed from his lips. The moon had ducked it's head above the Inn, it's white spotlight beaming down through the skylight, outlining the filthy glass and stained, rotting wood holding the pane in place.The cracked wax seal was torn from it's parchment surface, and within the envelope, a long and dull brown piece of paper was drawn, and folded out of its compressed shape to droop down to the floor, held in the hands of one Cecil Oxenfurt.

  “Vavakri, it’s far from simple I can assure you. This is one of those jobs that we’re gonna be remembered for, and not in a good kind of way either, if we blow it.” Rising from the creaking seat, he tossed the letter to his companion. Pacing over to the window he gazed out to the streets. They were quiet, only scarcely noticeable were the outlines of blueskins making their nightly patrols.

  “The f**k?” Cecil turned to the source of the dark voice, flinching as it scratched his ears. When would he ever get used to it? Vavakri seemed to stomach a laugh, his shaggy hair falling over his shoulder as he slouched in place. “Whilst any sum of coin is welcome for work, I must say there are several things that alarm me with this Cecil. Speaking without the flowery bullshit, this smells like the s**t beneath the streets.” Scoffing, he folded the letter and placed it upon the table in front of them. “A letter from Blackwater? A crew of thieves?” He lowered his voice. “Casing the Duchess’ tower?”

  “Im aware it’s not exactly a reputable source, but a job is a job, and if we’re going to provide for ourselves and get ourselves out of our mess-” Vavakri stood swiftly, sharply.

 “Our mess? That hex upon your life has nothing to do with me does it not? If I don't know who I’m working with, I don’t play the game. Inquisition rats hound me Cecil! You know this!” Sensing the harsh tone of his exclamation, he sighed and sat back down. “ I’m willing to help you, friend,” said Vavakri. “but if we get screwed along the way, not only will you die when the clock is out, I’ll be hanged for my condition. Two misfits like us need to choose our battles wisely, and a mysterious letter from the Blackwater district of the city is far from wise.”

 “I think it’s just what we need, Vavakri! No blueskins hounding us, and certainly no Inquisition to look for you there either. No skin but the ones we watch, our own, and our employers. Simple. We need the coin, friend.”

 “The coin? Another funny thing to moan about, that. Who pays in Quarter Cameo anyway?”

  Cecil smirked knowingly. “Criminals Vavakri, men who can’t get their hands on the Full Cameos. You think pickpockets shove their hands down the purses of passersby looking for Emblems and Signets? As if rational people carried that kind of currency on them? Tags my friend, Tags! Two to three Quarter Cameos is better than breaking into the land of the nobility looking for Half and Full pieces.”

 Vavakri groaned in an annoyed tone. “Fair enough, point made. We work with criminals, and ones that have average levels of skill I suppose. But what then? We let those thugs work us to the bone for Quarter Cameo? We’d be better off elsewhere if we need coin.”

 “I thought as much too, until I saw the name of the bloke who signed the letter. You missed it, correct?” Reaching for the letter with furtive curiosity, Vavakri scanned his eyes to the bottom of the page. A concealed signature, only legible if the very pulp and texture of the paper were viewed at the correct angle. This was an alchemists work, a Translucent Trademark.

 “F**k me in the a*s and call me a courtesan…”

V

In Lufia, there are three kinds of individuals: the poor crooks, the rich crooks, and the lawful victims of both.   While Irontop could steer clear of much of this, or at least claim ignorance to the mistreatment, Blackwater was a whole other level of wicked. The cities streets began from the central gate, and running through Irontop would lead to the western walls, towards the noble's aptly named quarter, The Signet's Stop, a name literally referring to the Full Cameo, the highest of value coin in Ryveran. Men would retire with stores of fifty Signets, and still have money left over after death. The nobility naturally flooded their chests with the coin of Lufia, and while most worked an entire month for an Emblem, the Nobility had been set in safety by accident of birth, and the entitlement that comes with such fortune.

 In the opposing direction is the path to The Chimneys. Here the workload of Lufia is processed via simple machinery ran by complex alchemical machinations. Factories line the district, processing everything from fish to cloth, and creating everything between alchemical flame and aphrodisiacs for the following district, The Crimson Flower, the district so famous for it's exotic imports of drinks, w****s, and drugs. To avoid spoiling the area, The Chimneys are kept to a small size, tucked away in the corner of Lufia as this district of vulgar pleasure empties the pockets of tourists and husbands alike. In appearance, Lufia was a grand city of all trades, with a place for the working, the social, and the solitary. The arts were well pursued and studies in science were often explored through the order of alchemists in the city.

  Naturally, to protect this image, Blackwater was formed. A landfill for the sick, ugly, and nasty, Blackwater sits far outside the center of the city. As the water is approached, towards the southern side of Lufia, a small burrow cuts through the woodwork and into an underground passage. This mossy, damp road of stone and mud extends outside the walls and towards the grey waters, an underground exodus to the Blackwater district. Here, run down shanty homes line up single file, facing the quay which looks out to sea, and street gangs run rampant. This district is the turf of the truands, the downtrodden, and their always itching for a little more Cameo. The most influential, ambitious, and blood thirsty of these thugs, is none other than Emon Coburn.

VI

"Emon Coburn. The last person I expected." The letter fell through his hands, fluttering down to the floor. Vavakri paused, as Cecil stepped forward into the moonlight from above, smiling. "Now do you see why I'm interested in the job?"

"I suppose that is my answer to the inquiry of a ‘reputable source.’" Vavakri muttered. "Emon is a thief, no, the king of thieves, the thief. B*****d once made off with an entire merchants cart. We're really going to work with him?"

 Emon was famous in the city, with his heists not only netting riches, but being humorous, and often sending messages. He would make his coin off of the rich, the nobility, the most bold move ever made by a thief, for two reasons. The first was the risk, nobles are highly protected by blueskins and their alchemical contraptions alike. One wrong step on the roof of a tower would lead to death at the hands of Spider Dogs, Scorpions, and various bastardized experiments upon animal life. The second was a problem on home turf, other thieves looking to cut you for a bounty, and keep your take. Emon very quickly caught on to the politics of Lufia, and formed a small, reliable gang, hidden somewhere in Blackwater. You do not find them. They find you.

   Clasping his hands, Cecil sat beside Vavakri. "He needs people like us for a job, and while this job begins with a small wage of Tags, it'll soon spark with riches. We'll be drowning in Cameo's by the months end. It’s an honour, do you not see?"

"I suppose it would be if we were robbing the gods damned Duchess.” Vavakri rose and threw his hood back on.

"Vavs, you were once a thief, and I still am! This is our main line of work! Enough of the side stuff, the sell swording and delving for relics in the dark corners of Ryveran. Let's strike it big. With Emon, we can make it!”

"Was a thief..." Vavakri turned his head over his left shoulder and gave a wry smile. "I suppose it's true what they say then Cecil." Cecil began to suppress laughter, before turning his gaze back to the window.

  "Old habits die hard, no?"

Author's Note

Any reviews help. Grammar, the quality of world building. Too wordy or not enough detail? Stuff like that. :D