Story by Charles Hawkmoon. Translation VictorX.
This short story is part of the Fantasy Storm series. All stories in this series are inspired by randomized prompts, ensuring that each tale is unpredictable and utterly unique. Here are the random seeds for this story:
Cross – spun – revenge – headline – possible – hero – charismatic – outside – design.
One of the headlines on the single-page newspaper posted on the bulletin boards of the city’s taverns and public buildings read: “HERO OF THE CROSS SAVES THE PIGSTY.” Alongside the text a simple and monochromatic illustration depicted the outline of a man in armor, bearing a cross emblazoned on his chest and at the center of his shield.
Nearby, amidst dice games, card games, heavy drinking, and the smoke of pipes and cigars, the only topic of conversation was the mysterious knight of the cross.
“If more crazies like that knight of the cross start showing up, they’ll ruin our business,” said Jock, the one-eyed mercenary, after downing a shot of namespedium.
“Whoever heard of such a thing, Jock? Helping people and not charging for it? Who does this guy think he is?” retorted the thin mercenary with the pointed nose.
“Yeah,” the third man, a bald giant with long blond mustaches named Jurten, slammed his fist on the table. “If that bastard showed up here, I’d gut him!”
Suddenly, the entire tavern fell silent. Jurten assumed they were paying attention to him, and he pounded the table again to emphasize his point. “Yeah, that’s right! I’ll gut the bastard!”
The skinny, nervous, pointed-nosed man stared at Jurten, while Jock, with his mouth open, let a string of drool dribble down his poorly shaven chin.
“What’s with the faces, guys?” Jurten frowned and noticed his friend’s bony finger pointing over his shoulder.
He turned slowly, feeling a sudden chill run down his spine. How could someone have entered, fully armored, without making a sound? He tried to maintain his composure, but those watching closely could see his hands trembling slightly as he laid eyes on the Knight of the Cross. His plate armor was spattered with mud and perhaps dried blood mixed in. His yellow cape was filthy, darkened to a deep brown halfway down. Through the slit of his helmet, his eyes were invisible—only a disturbing stripe of darkness could be seen.
Jock stood up. Though not handsome, he had a charismatic smile. “Hey, Sir of the Cross! My friend didn’t mean it… It was just a joke, right, Jurten?”
The Knight of the Cross stood still, saying nothing, but seemed to stare deep into Jurten’s eyes.
“Of course, it was just a joke… I mean, look at that,” he pointed to the newspaper. “It says: Hero of the Cross Saves the Pigsty!” He gestured around the room. “Folks, folks, seriously! A round of applause for our hero!”
A dozen drunkards clapped for the knight, including Jock and the skinny man.
But then, in a swift movement, the knight grabbed Jurten by the throat and lifted him, knocking over his chair and all the bottles and glasses on the table.
“Hey, hey, wait! You’re not going to kill someone just because he said something stupid…” the knight paused, staring with his visor’s darkness at the now pale and nervously gesturing skinny man. “Or will you?”
With superhuman strength, the Knight of the Cross hurled Jurten across the tavern, sending him crashing violently into the bulletin board. Jurten fell to the ground, groaning, and the board tilted, then spun and fell on top of the mercenary.
Everyone shrank back in their seats at the sight. More than one drunk drained the entire contents of their glass.
Jock stood up, stumbling back, saying, “Look, I barely know him… And also… I didn’t say anything, no offense, Sir Knight… Siiiiir… Lady! Lady!” he quickly corrected himself as she removed her helmet and placed it on the table.
She had red lips that expressed disdain. Her very pale skin was like the color of a glass of milk, her large, deep eyes appeared glazed, the color of a glacier, and they stared fixedly without ever blinking. Her black hair had a large lock covering her forehead and one ear, while the other side was shaved, forming the design of a cross.
“I’m not offended, but…” her voice was like a whispering breeze. “SIT DOWN!” she commanded in a sharp tone that hit Jock’s ears like the explosion of a siege cannon.
And Jock sat, feeling cold sweat drip down his temples.
She smiled charmingly, her face now transformed, almost human, but hypnotically beautiful. She picked up the overturned bottle, which still had some of its contents unspilled.
“What is this you were drinking?” she filled Jock’s mug, placing herself beside him. Then, with her left hand, covered by a black leather glove, she touched his shoulder. It was as cold as marble.
“Nas… naspemedium.”
“Hmm, I love that drink.”
Jock held the trembling mug out to her. “Please, take it, my lady.”
“No, no, you drink it. If possible, I prefer to wait until it warms up a bit.”
“Furco! Hey, Furco?” Jock called the innkeeper. “Did you hear the lady? Get her a hot dose of naspemedium…”
She raised her hand to the innkeeper and said, “No need, I’m not thirsty… yet.”
Jock swallowed hard, and the skinny man began to quietly slip away. In no time, he had hurried to the door and was outside the tavern.
Jock sipped the snakeskin liquor and asked, “Do you come here often, my lady? I mean… to Sad Hill?”
She sat beside him and placed her cold hand on Jock’s thigh.
“I was born here, but I haven’t visited in a long time.”
“Really? And why did you come back?”
“For a project.”
“A project? What do you mean? Did you come to build something?”
She leaned closer to him, the tip of her upturned nose nearly touching Jock’s left ear.
“On the contrary. I’m very thirsty, you see?”
“Yeah?” he nervously gulped down the rest of the drink. His throat burned, and his eyes watered.
“Thirsty for revenge…”
“Phew,” Jock laughed with relief. “I thought you were going to say you were thirsty for blood. What a silly thought, right?”
She wrapped her right hand around his neck, gripping the nape tightly. Her crimson lips now floated a millimeter from Jock’s ear.
“Oh, my dear, and for that too.”
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