2
Alastyn
(ah-LASS-tin)
The slick black pants fit her well, melted over her curves. Her tailored coat was just long enough to touch the tops of her booted thighs. Those long golden locks hung over her shoulders and down her back, bouncing along to her womanly sway. Not exactly the look you should be going for if you wanted to remain unnoticed. But the shopping had been so much better on her last mission, she just couldn’t help herself. She was already looking forward to the next time she could make her way back to the place they called New York.
Yet, it was this particular job that truly made her mouth water. She savored the bittersweet delicious taste of satisfaction. This was what she lived for now. The much anticipated end to her weary quest was finally at hand. And it painted a lethally cold expression across her porcelain face.
A gust of stale smoke and the sour scent of ale filled her nostrils as she pushed open the battered wooden doors.
Ahh, and I have been told there is no heaven in Ashgard , she thought.
Picking a table in the corner—closest to the main door—she sat with her back against the wall, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. Old habits die hard. She scanned the dingy room, carefully surveying the dusty interior. Her sharp eyes meticulously catalogued everything.
She hadn’t been back to this tiny village for well over ten years now. Much had changed, but much had remained the same.
The tavern was shabby and dark, severely unkempt. The walls were without paint. Floors, covered with dirt and grime. What little light there was came from the huge fireplace all but covering the wall opposite the bar. Every table had a candle burning openly, dripping hot wax onto the worn, wooden planks. There were several oil lanterns hanging from the ceiling and a few dusty rays of sunlight tried desperately to sneak through the filthy windowpanes. At its best, the tavern was grimy, gloomy, and reeked with the stench of the unwashed masses huddled within.
At the round table nearest the bar sat some local hunters gambling away what little money they had and arguing incessantly. The long table in front of the fireplace was occupied by obvious newcomers brandishing loud accented voices much too jovial for such a dank place. All the other mundane tables were sprinkled about with loners or drifters. Some she may have even known once upon a time. Others she only recalled in passing.
The barkeep’s young son brought over her first pint. She watched as a slow trickle of foam slid down the chipped mug, disappearing into the dry, thirsty planks. Still staring at the fast-fading wet spot, she ordered some warm bread with honey.
Aye, the bread will keep ye from getting too tipsy on the ale, Lass. An’ the honey will help keep some fight in yer gut. Cannae be getting drunk whilst on a summons, tiny warrior. She remembered her lessons well.
Her black-clad form sank further into the shadows as she made another quick scan of the tavern occupants. She was anxious to finally face the man she had spent her entire adult life hating. The secretly received cryptic word of his whereabouts had caused her to return to the very birth place of her immense pain. An infinite quest was finally coming to its deserved end. She relished the thought.
As the ale warmed her body, easing her built-up tension, she allowed herself the luxury of spending a few precious moments in quiet remembrance. She tried hard to recall her childhood, her friends, her loved ones. That joy-filled life had been sadistically stolen the day she was forced upon the path she now trod. Sadly, no matter how hard she tried, Jenevier had long ago purged even the fondest memories of her forgotten life. The happiness she had once known here would have mixed too bitterly with the person she had been forced to become.
The boy soon returned with the warm bread and another pint.
So many things had irrevocably changed. Her dearest childhood friend was now
Alastyn
(ah-LASS-tin)
The slick black pants fit her well, melted over her curves. Her tailored coat was just long enough to touch the tops of her booted thighs. Those long golden locks hung over her shoulders and down her back, bouncing along to her womanly sway. Not exactly the look you should be going for if you wanted to remain unnoticed. But the shopping had been so much better on her last mission, she just couldn’t help herself. She was already looking forward to the next time she could make her way back to the place they called New York.
Yet, it was this particular job that truly made her mouth water. She savored the bittersweet delicious taste of satisfaction. This was what she lived for now. The much anticipated end to her weary quest was finally at hand. And it painted a lethally cold expression across her porcelain face.
A gust of stale smoke and the sour scent of ale filled her nostrils as she pushed open the battered wooden doors.
Ahh, and I have been told there is no heaven in Ashgard , she thought.
Picking a table in the corner—closest to the main door—she sat with her back against the wall, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. Old habits die hard. She scanned the dingy room, carefully surveying the dusty interior. Her sharp eyes meticulously catalogued everything.
She hadn’t been back to this tiny village for well over ten years now. Much had changed, but much had remained the same.
The tavern was shabby and dark, severely unkempt. The walls were without paint. Floors, covered with dirt and grime. What little light there was came from the huge fireplace all but covering the wall opposite the bar. Every table had a candle burning openly, dripping hot wax onto the worn, wooden planks. There were several oil lanterns hanging from the ceiling and a few dusty rays of sunlight tried desperately to sneak through the filthy windowpanes. At its best, the tavern was grimy, gloomy, and reeked with the stench of the unwashed masses huddled within.
At the round table nearest the bar sat some local hunters gambling away what little money they had and arguing incessantly. The long table in front of the fireplace was occupied by obvious newcomers brandishing loud accented voices much too jovial for such a dank place. All the other mundane tables were sprinkled about with loners or drifters. Some she may have even known once upon a time. Others she only recalled in passing.
The barkeep’s young son brought over her first pint. She watched as a slow trickle of foam slid down the chipped mug, disappearing into the dry, thirsty planks. Still staring at the fast-fading wet spot, she ordered some warm bread with honey.
Aye, the bread will keep ye from getting too tipsy on the ale, Lass. An’ the honey will help keep some fight in yer gut. Cannae be getting drunk whilst on a summons, tiny warrior. She remembered her lessons well.
Her black-clad form sank further into the shadows as she made another quick scan of the tavern occupants. She was anxious to finally face the man she had spent her entire adult life hating. The secretly received cryptic word of his whereabouts had caused her to return to the very birth place of her immense pain. An infinite quest was finally coming to its deserved end. She relished the thought.
As the ale warmed her body, easing her built-up tension, she allowed herself the luxury of spending a few precious moments in quiet remembrance. She tried hard to recall her childhood, her friends, her loved ones. That joy-filled life had been sadistically stolen the day she was forced upon the path she now trod. Sadly, no matter how hard she tried, Jenevier had long ago purged even the fondest memories of her forgotten life. The happiness she had once known here would have mixed too bitterly with the person she had been forced to become.
The boy soon returned with the warm bread and another pint.
So many things had irrevocably changed. Her dearest childhood friend was now
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