Into the Darklands

by Ara-anon
=== Chapter 1 - The Proposal ===
The boards of the Taberna's floor creeked as Jerome walked inside. The Dos Espadas tavern, known by the many foreigners in Ravena as the 'Two Swords', was one of the largest establishments in the city, and located on the massive harbor that had stood there since the times of the Verani. Most of the Quay was covered in barnacles and moss, but above it, the clean-cut stonework of the old Empire was still visible, standing witness to the longevity of the city and it's port. The Taberna was built of wood on top of the old imperial cobblestones like most of the city, and while far younger than the construction it stood on, was standing there for easily a century. A haven for soldier of fortunes and mercenaries and those that wanted to hire them. Jerome had changed some of his silver for the smaller coppers used in the League, and slide a couple of them across the greasy counter to gesture for the keg he believed contained wine. There was an exchange with the innkeeper, each speaking a different language, until gesturing and some guessing concluded the transaction.
"Jerome of Faris, I presume."
The voice belonged to a well dressed man in his late fifties, behind which a bodyguard stood, iron ribbed club in his right hand and by the studs in his jacket, likely wearing a brigandine underneath.
"And you are?"  Jerome asked, touching the base of pommel of his rapier. He was a mercenary and looked like one, riding breeches and tall boots, a cream-colored padded vest over his chain shirt and a colorful checkered red and white tunic beneath it.
"You are a hard man to find." The stranger either didn't hear or didn't care to answer the question. His Sukwestku was near perfect, barely a hint of Lixwestkis accent. Mostly in how hard he hit the 'R's. If that wasn't sufficient of a tell, his dark mustache and curled hair all were very typical of the League citizens.
"You are looking for mercenaries." It was a reasonable guess in the lack of a response. A simple nod given in response prompted him to take a swig of his freshly ordered wine and turn his back. "Out of luck. The Black Dogs have a new captain. I can't help you."
"I do not want to hire the Black Dogs. I want to hire you." The man insisted and his bodyguard tensed. Jerome did not need to turn to feel him take a step closer.
"You won't conduct much of a war with a single man." Another sip of beer as the former captain tried to process this man's intentions.
"Not one. Five." Was his only response. "I have a proposal for you. My name is Vilmar Fiori-D'oro. I shall be hosting a small private dinner in my estate tonight. Come listen to my proposal, and I shall pay you a silver for your time, even if you do not want to take the job." The man spoke with the confidence of some used to conduct business, and didn't seemed willing to spend more time on it then necessary.
"I'll pass." The mercenary declares, vaguely annoyed at being interrupted while doing absolutely nothing. "You'll have better luck with the Black Dogs."
"The offer stands. Have a good day, Jerome of Faris." Vilmar said, nonplussed at the refusal as he signal for his bodyguard and they both left the Taberna. 
The Farisian swordsman didn't even wait for the mysterious man to disappear past the threshold to return to his drinking. And he wasn't disturbed for the rest of the afternoon. Two coppers at a time, and far less gesturing required after that first drink, Jerome drank until his head was heavy and his senses dull. He needed to save some of his remaining coin if he hoped to entice some ship captain to take him across the sea and back to the republic, where, he hoped, his brother would be happy to see him. He had departed his father house really young and spent the better part of the last ten years fighting in someone else's wars. Joining the Black Dogs, he had seen action in the Far Flung colonies of Belara, in Vashia, Suezi and Araxia. A few scars gained here and there, and just enough silver to last him and his comrades in arms to the next contract. He had become second in command of the hundred-men strong company and when Old Man Gioacomo died, he had been made captain. For a surprisingly brief period. He shook his head as he shambles across the harbor, stood by the edge of the quay, undid his breeches and started to piss down into the water. A few womenfolk in the distance shouted foreigns words that were no doubt an appeal to modesty, and he ignored them. He knew, deep down, his brother would not cherish to see him, but would offer him a position in the family business all the same. Out of obligation. A position he'd be ill-suited for. He'd be a burden. He could try join another mercenary company, of course. But at his age, starting from the bottom was unlikely to lead anywhere else than an untimely death, and his reputation as a Black Dogs would not doubt make his companions wary of him.
A hand touched his shoulder, and two guards screamed in Lixwestkis at him as he turned, tucking his prick back into his breeches. He shook his hand, meant to be dismissed, but the soldier grabbed his wrist aggressively. As if expecting a fight. "Big mistake." Jerome grunted. His balled fist was precise, hitting square under the jaw exposed by the open face helmet. Of course his fellow guard drew the Veranese styled short sword, and Jerome ducked under the swing, wobbling more than he meant too in account of the wine. But still manage to emerge, drawing his rapier and hitting it pommel first into the guard's helmet, the stunning effect buying the mercenary enough time for a sweeping kick to his ankle, sending him to the ground. The first one was beginning to recover, hand moving to draw his own blade when the Farisian placed his hand on the guard's own, blocking him from drawing and going for an elbow blow to the neck. He also fell, clutching his throat. "Told you it was a mis-."
There were tree guards after all, Jerome realized as something hard hit him in the back of the head and his vision went black for a second. He stumbled and fell to his knees. He would not remember the second blow.
Not all cities had prisons, Jerome knew that much. He could taste blood and his whole body was sore. As he began to realized what had happened, he was sure that the guards had taken their time kicking him down after he had fallen unconscious by the non lethal blows to the back of his head. Likely a spear shaft or a club, he reckoned, as he felt his matted hair where caked dried blood had built up. His tongue ran through his teeth and none of them seemed gone or loose, which he was glad for. His eyes found himself in a wood floor covered in straw, wearing his undershirt and breeches, but everything else was gone. Sword, armor, his boots...And worse of all, his coins. Past the bars in his 'cell' he could see racks of spears on the walls, Kite shields with the three black crows over a white field. The Cities' sigil. The cramped space around him seemed to have a disproportionately high ceiling. "A tower." he grunted to himself. He had been imprisioned in one of the many towers in the great walls that surrounded Ravena since it was called Veran. They now served as  barracks for the thugs of the city guard. A man sat on a chair, busy retying leather bands to the hilt of swords. The young la turned at Jerome's words, and suddenly left in a rush, leaving the door open. The prisoner didn't had to wonder about that for long, as soon a much older man wearing a plume helm that mimicked that of the Verani legions walked in, thumbs into his belt as if to prevent it from pushing to tight against his stomach. So rotund that even behind the splint mail cuirass, Jerome could see his corpulence. He spoke in his native tongue and the former soldier merely shook his head as he stood and walked towards the bars, to be face to face with the man. He them spoke in a very broken Sukwestku:
"You are trouble, scum."
"I am in trouble." Jerome corrected, with a grin. The man spat through the bars.
"Attack the guard is very bad, yes? I transfer you to the galleys for five years maybe."
It was painful to talk to him. But his meaning was clear. A sentence an a oarsmen for five years for hitting the city militia. At least they had pardoned his public urination, it seemed. Jerome smirked to himself.
"Not funny joke, scum. Oars break your hand and make the blood." The captain of the guard insisted. 
The mercenary captain pondered on that. Why the fat commander would bother to come personally to inform him of his fate? There was something more to it.
"Unless...Friend wants to pay for you. Family, maybe. Have them pay fine and you go free." 
There we are, Jerome thought.
"Just take the fine from my purse, there should be eighty coppers there yet."
"Your purse? You arrested with not a purse." It was the captain turn to smirk. Fat bastard.
"I see." Jerome was able to say, closing his eyes. His options were very limited. He could have words sent to his brother to pay his ransom. Would mean months in Jail until the word arrived, and sour what he expected would not be a good relationship. Normally the company captain would deal with this sort of thing when a mercenary got in trouble, but he was no longer in the Black Dogs, and even if he was, he doubted the new captain would pay a single farthing to see him free.
"Friend pay for you, or galley owner pay for you. Makes no difference to me." The captain responded to Jerome's silence.
It was a profitable business, for the guards. Arresting disorderly drunks and extorting them for ransom, or selling them to merchants to man their galleys for the duration of the sentence. No wonder he had gotten so fat. Could he really appeal to his brother? Would this man even bother sending a letter?
"No more time. Now I go." Captain grunted, upset with Jerome's apparent poverty. No doubt expecting someone with such a fancy sword to be able to pay something for their freedom.
He watch the glorified thug-leader turn and walk towards the tower's door, where two other guards waited, no doubt eager to hear if they would be getting paid some commission for their find or not. By Gloria's Cunt, Jerome thought, fuck it.
"Wait." He shouted through the bars, clutching them. "I have a friend. He will pay."
The guard stopped but didn't turn.
"Silver." Jerome said, and the magic word got the commander to halt, remove his helmet to reveal a face red with heat, flushed chubby cheeks covered by a short yet ungroomed dark beard and oily black hair matted by the helmet's interior. He could smell the men's sweat across the five paces that separated them.
"Yes? Who is friend?"
"Vilmar...Fior D'oro". Jerome jogged his memory. The guard seemed skeptical, but also something else. Afraid, perhaps.
"Lies."
"Vilmar Fior-D'oro. This tall, mustache. He'll be very angry if I miss dinner tonight."
Okay, Jerome thought, die is cast. Let's see how it falls. There was a long pause where the two men just starred into each other eyes, both full of their own doubts and consideration. And then the guard shrug, and fumbled on his belt for his keys.
"Vilmar pays." He mumbled.
"Vilmar pays." Jerome echoed.
Villa Fior-D'oro was something else. Like most Villas, it was located on the northern most district of the city, which also happens to be the highest part of Ravena, offering anyone traveling there a view of the sprawling grey metropolis beneath, where the Veranus River met the Westrasi Sea. At night, the city was drawn by the torches of the trading carts that choose to transport goods at night to move faster and avoid crowds that cluttered the narrow streets during the day, and the braziers of the temples and public buildings, as well as the much fainter lights of the town's windows and balconies. The Harbor was a large octagon of void-black where no light would touch. Normally it would mirror the starred sky but the night was cloudy and dark. Jerome hoped he'd get a chance to see this view during the day, it ought to be something special. But right now, the red-canvas covered cart that had been sent for him had stopped in front a wrought iron gate built between two marble pillars. A stylized flower that seemed like it was made of gold was emblazoned in the center of it, and through the bars, a large garden with cypresses trees and low hedges circling fountains led to the villa's main building. Red clay rooftiles and marble columns. A limestone wall little taller than Jerome circled around the grounds, and ahead of him, Jerome could see many other entrances to similar places. This is where the patricians of Ravena lived. First among the citizenry. Since the time of the Old Empire.
Two man-servants in puffed sleeves tunics approached the gate, holding lanterns, to open it and welcome the cart, which then took Jerome to the front of the palace itself. There was even a small channel mimicking a river, with a stone bridge built over it. Jerome thought he knew what 'rich' looked like, but he was reconsidering that position. His sword and armor had been returned, and he was offered a bucket of water to wash off the blood of his hair, but he had not been given back his coinpurse, and he was ravenous. And as such, part of him wondered what would be served for dinner. After all, the silver he was promised to listen to the proposal would likely have already been spent paying for his ransom. And he did not intent to take into more mercenary work. He was done fighting other people's battles for them. So dinner, and perhaps of he was charming enough - Fat chance, he interject to his own thoughts - comfortable lodgings.
The door to Villa Fior-D'Oro were older than the Dos Espadas Taberna. Older than Jerome's family name perhaps. Two lions carved in Verani style into the dark mahogany wood, holding a bronze handle used to knock. But the doors opened as he approached the entrance, and another pair of servants appeared from behind them to lead him further into the house, until they reached an courtyard, open to the night sky, where a table was set, with roasted birds, honey-glazed pork, berries and things Jerome couldn't even identify. Vilmar was sat at the head of the table, drinking from a silver goblet.
"Welcome, Jerome." He spoke with a smile. It was strange, as the mercenary expected him to be at least partially upset with the fuss that must have been to extract him from the city-gauard's grasp. 
"I...Well, yes. Good evening, Signore."
"No need for that here. We are equals in Ravena. Just like in your republic."
Jeroma glanced around the feast and the highly decorated courtyard with skepticism at the words but he knew better than to question it.
"Come sit. You are the first to arrive."
"There are others coming?"
"Yes...I told you, Jerome. I need five of you."
Category:Writefaggotry