Icarus's blog: "Augurs, Martyrs, and Agnostics"

Perhaps we should start in the middle.

A tale already in progress, of a middle-aged irregular, and a very worn coin.

He was certain it was mostly silver, but from months of fiddling, and worrying his exotic queen's face had been completely erased. Now there was just a faceless hump where stamped caricature, and ivy had set.

There was no real guarantee that the nation that had minted this mark even existed today.

Such was the nature of pay for a border-scraping mercenary, he preferred to receive something universal, something of value to any trader. This whole notion of faces, kings, and coin unsettled him. Things were simpler in his youth. A handful of salt, a kernel of gold, and suddenly you had new boots and a hot bowl of stew.

Coin...

Coin won't keep warm and dry. It just jingles impotence, idleness. These bits of metal had no more worth in trade than a burlap doll. And having them changed incurred more penalty and charge than it took to smelt, stamp and distribute them.

They were just blank symbols of pride, and avarice. Other men's avarice, no less.

And he did need a new sword.

Though, he'd much rather he didn't.

Not for sentiment, but for weariness.

He contemplated the snaggletoothed, waves, jags, and breaks to his old blade. Parts had snapped, chipped, shattered, like he had been hammering away at the unflinching foundations of the earth in a blind rage.

Perhaps he had been.

But a forged, reforged, flattened, and crooked sword was better than no sword whatsoever.

What was a broken guard, frayed grip, and off-kilter swing if not memories, even victories?

But it did little for his countenance, not many ways to mistake a twisted saw on your back, and patches of tied down armor. Kept the toll collectors and bandits away, did very little for haggling. He was lucky to get a pile of hay or a flearidden cot in a commons, or a damp spot in a flophouse if he was allowed into town at all.

On this particular night, he was kindly asked to bathe, check his blade, and scratch together some real clothes before entry. The town seemed nice enough, had a magistrate, guards that didn't just hold their knows and tell him to piss off, ducts and plumbing and homely little fires in homely little homes burning homely little roasts, but Byron felt no particular inclination to bathe, abandon blade, and still be denied entry for wearing nothing but a ripped cloak and bloodstained boots.

He was glad for the fires dying down, cooler winds had settled, gentler glows had lingered in a few of the houses. The smell of cooked meat and fire only reminded him of warm, and full, but they would extinguish before he fell asleep.

No flophouse tonight.

No pile of hay, just campfire, sweatstained bedroll, threadbare blanket.

He'd trade a few flea bites and piss-stink if it meant a roof, but a scuffle with the guards could've spelled a misadventure, and he was far too old, far too grumpy, far too hungry to outrun any flatfooted pikemen in these woods.

Not that he couldn't, he just simply was in no mood.

He'd make it a point in the morning to have someone call someone to have some sweaty, pockmarked simpleton take his measures and get him a loosefitting shirt, and some hole-less trousers so he could eat something besides these wretched gravel and flour biscuits he found in the bottom of his pack from gods-know how many weeks back.

The tiny brickcakes were of a unique fortitude. Even mold and maggots wouldn't touch them.

They probably cured all manner of pox plague and vapors, but the trick was to get them down your throat and digested.

And you might be thinking "oh just soak them, just drink lots of water" but you'd be wrong. That just makes a frothy, binding glue, especially if you use boiling water.

Byron wasn't completely convinced the tack wasn't just sitting in the back of his gut like an ever mounting dam of stone and plaster. But such concerns would be left for whatever sword or dagger that dared to pierce him. They'd probably just get past his skin and snap against a solid wall of brick and mortar. That was a reassuring thought before bed.

With a begrudgingly full stomach, and an increasing hatred for the twisted bastard that invented trailtack, Byron rolled to his side, placed his hand gently on cold silver, and colder steel.

No bandits.

No monsters.

No nightmares.

He murmored moments before sleep claimed him.