It was harvesting season soon and the people of Cottondale had been rather festive, fight clubs were packed with fighters and spectators, town square were filled with socialites and the streets were roamed by merchants from all over the kingdom, there were even some foreign merchants selling rare goods among the crowd. The nights at Cottondale were usually different from the nights in the gates of the castle. There were still music heard around and people still danced, sang and performed as they would before. Although life in Cottondale might seemed undistinguishable by untrained eyes, the ones who had lived long enough in the town could tell the difference in every livelihood they had put into scene.
The days in Cottondale were quite contrary from the nights, some days the streets would be scarce as the people would all be tending to their farms, mills and churn chills. The other days, the people would be flooding the market of Cottondale, a sight that would be a boast to a ball that could ever be thrown by the Kings and Queens since the downfall. One could say, whatever left of Bourengard's broken heart; its beating rhythm remained only because Cottondale had not lost its trades and prosperity, and that the people of Cottondale were fair enough to share their fare throughout the kingdom. They had not been able to offer much, only the basic grains and the best cottons and wools to keep the kingdom warm through long, cold and harsh winter.
Yet, as ordinary as it might be, Cottondale had its own lore to offer to any visiting merchants and hunting parties or even a simple peasant on an errand; the Rogue of Cottondale. The tradition of passing on the tales of the Rogue of Cottondale began less than two decades ago, when the fight club was joined by a hooded fighter and knocked down Gellert, the long standing fighter, the Bull of Cottondale. Gellert had never been beaten down in any fights before, he was among the forsaken warriors of Cottondale that sought refuge amidst the fight clubs, travelling from town to town to quench his thirst for fights and rushes of adrenalines, earning himself the title the Bull of Cottondale, with a fury of a bull rampaging through its way. Hence it was when he was defeated, the first uproar was heard after so many years and quickly made its way throughout Bourengard and royal guards were sent to make sure it was not a threat to the already militarily paralyzed kingdom. There was no one else able to topple Gellert like that, only the Rogue, who was named so because nobody knew of the true identity, not even the booker and the owner of the fight clubs when they paid the Rogue the prize. Perhaps, maybe Gellert knew but even if he did, he kept it to himself; a fighter’s honour, as he would have it.
That night, fight arena of Cottondale was especially loud and festive as almost everyone from the town came to witness Gellert sparring against the Rogue. Both of them gave the people another earth shattering fight, with blades sending sparks when they hit each other, nerve wrecking strikes when tips hit the skins and quick reflexes whenever a fighter was disarmed by another. By the end, the Rogue won again and collected the prize and when the arena was deserted, both of the Rogue and the Bull would indulge in a little ritual of theirs; a drink to the victor in utter silence, sometimes accompanied by small talk.
‘You’ve gotten better, little girl,’ Gellert said before he sipped his drink and continued his longing stare into the mid distance which was the fireplace that night. The warmth offered by the roaring fire tantalized with the coldness he felt against his skin, ‘The harvesting season is going to be short this time ‘round,’ he thought to himself. ‘Your strikes have gotten more precise and accurate, they were no longer aimless and pitiful,’
‘And you have gotten sloppy, old man,’ the Rogue retorted. ‘Aimless and pitiful as my strikes and swings were, I’ve beaten you down many times in a spar,’ she said crisply.
‘Aye, but don’t you be boasting your skills on me, now, little girl,’ he rumbled a low chuckle. ‘I see you got new token,’ he pointed his glass to the embroidered silk that adorned the brim of her hood. ‘You know, one of these days, the folks are going to tell that you’re a little girl, with that thing on your hood,’ he let a throaty laugh that time, winking at the butterfly shaped embroidery.
‘Then, let them be and see if I care,’ she slammed down her glass with just the right amount of harshness that it would not break.
‘Alice,’ Gellert said with such smooth voice that had sent chills to the Rogue’s entire being and even the roars of the fire were then turned to meek whisperings of burnt coals. ‘It won’t do to harbour such hatred and anger like so. Out of the terrible things I have committed, raw hatred and anger like that were the most terrifying motivation I’ve had, it simply won’t do,’ he uttered simply like reciting the Rights of Felons.
‘Says the Bull of Cottondale, a legit weapon of mass destruction of all Bourengard,’ another retort escaped her lips.
‘Yes, but I fight only for the thrill of it!’ he exclaimed in attempt to mock her retort. ‘I’ve fought many fights with you now to tell apart your drives and motivations, your passion and your anger, your distress and your consent.’ his voice turned somber and he took her hands into his, small and delicate despite of the years spent handling such sword in contrast against his massive and calloused hardened by the years of wielding his axes. ‘Alice,’ was all he needed to say before dry sobs were heard from underneath the hood.
‘I have been told about your death,’ she whispered. Her eyes shot angry looks when she heard laughter came out from the Bull of Cottondale. ‘I despise you for being so hearty about it. Don’t you ever take anything seriously?’ she spat as she snatched her hands away from his and started to throw him sloppy punches instead.
‘Oh, come on, now, little girl,’ Gellert regained his composure and searched for her eyes. He never had much luck in seeing the Rogue’s eyes, the girl hid herself pretty well, but he could tell by the gleam at the corner of her eyes that the Rogue had beautiful eyes and it was a loss to the world that she chose to hide them. ‘I take all of our sparring seriously,’ he said and he dug into his pocket to fish out a little carved sabre tooth he had kept with him for a while and thrusted it into her hands. ‘I take you seriously,’
‘Gellert, you old bull,’ she sent the stool he was sitting on a kick before turning her attention to the item she just got. ‘An amulet?’ she asked when she found that the tooth was hanging to a pendant.
‘Only if you wanted it to be,’ he said. ‘Now, enough of all these whimsical matters and whatnot. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do,’ he got up and collected his belongings that had been scattered on the tables since the moment he got there and gave Alice his signature reassuring beam and making his already heavily scarred face seemed like he just grew some new scars.
‘You mean, eat?’ she mocked him half-heartedly.
‘Aye, you’ll never have a good fight if you don’t have a good meal before, little lady,’ he said with ever the same no-worries manner before making his way to the exit. He stopped after a few steps and glanced back to the Rogue, bearing a gleam in his eyes that had haunted her for many years after that and said to her, ‘Memento mori,’ before he walked out of the inn and apparently, from her life as well when she failed to fight for his life against a demon the next time their paths crossed.
That was not the only lore Cottondale had to offer to its willing listener about the Rogue of Cottondale. The tale of the undefeated Bull of Cottondale finally defeated was only the preface of the tales of the Rogue of Cottondale that the people of Cottondale grown to treasure. Alice of Cottondale had yet to claim the title the Rogue of Cottondale throughout her spar with Gellert although she had been given the mantle the first round she defeated him. The moment she truly became the Rogue of Cottondale was the moment she chose Broink over the people of Cottondale. People turned their ghastly eyes upon them whenever they saw Alice with what they call the crime against nature walked down the streets. Alice, however, being the Rogue, had never paid attention to them and had never bothered to explain her rational to lewd perceptions of the people.
‘Folks are naturally mean, Broink,’ she said as she passed him a bag full of grain for him to carry up the wren. Broink could only give her a rough grunt as a reply before he went down again. They were called the Rogue of Cottondale and the Demon that day when they were crossing a bridge to the outskirts of town, not even entering the marketplace yet. ‘They are a whole lot of insulting, impetuous beings and will think you as beneath them and grotesque if you aren’t in any way like them,’ she ranted on as she sharpened the edge of her Earthbreaker’s blade. Broink gave her a nasty huff at the comment ‘grotesque’ and noisily showed her his disapproval of using such temper.
‘You are very temperamental, little lady. It does not do for one to dwell on such temper, you know?’
‘Oh, come now, Broink. You’re a bull!’ she incredulously exclaimed at the cursed beast’s attempt at linguistic chivalry. ‘Well, granted that you are no ordinary bull, you’ve got intimidating height and built and you walk on two hooves like a Minotaur, but you’re a bull nonetheless. Supposedly you have a more questionable range of temper than I do,’ she said which in turn earned her another disapproving huff. ‘Oh, do stop that blubbering noise, you mangy beast. I get your point,’ she pushed away Broink by the head when he was leaning against her, almost crushing her with his weight. ‘And get off, you’re not a bag of sugar and salt being soaked in the pond,’ she complained and was replied by only snorty laughter from the hairy beast as he made his way and settled in his room in the big hole in the tree trunk.
‘Good night, Broink,’ Alice called from her room in the wren. ‘Sleep tight, we’ve got a long way ahead of us tomorrow,’
‘Sleep well and dream brightly, little lady,’
Albeit the night was peaceful and the breeze was comfortably cool, both Alice and Broink were woken up from their slumber by the shrill howls of the wolves and distance neighs of horses. ‘There’s someone out there about to be eaten by the wolves,’ she whispered to herself. Alice was quick to reach for her Earthbreaker and scouted the nearby trees and grounds for any signs of danger that might be approaching their way. The rustlings of the bushes in the direction of the wolves’ howling made her lowered the Earthbreaker, but as quickly as another howl came, she made her way as stealthily as possible when she recognized the distant mischievous cackling accompanying the rustlings.
‘Alice,’
‘Stay, Broink,’ she hissed.
‘Those are bandits, Alice,’
‘I’m not stupid, I won’t be fighting them off,’ she said and went on ahead and witnessed a battlefield between the bandits and the wolves. Thick and rich coats shone through the moonlight and ivory teeth gleamed against daggers were everywhere as if they were adorning the rather dull night. ‘Ethereal wolves, no wonder the bandits rushed over,’ she thought to herself. Ethereal wolves could make good for nothing bandits like them very rich by miles. But something else caught her attention as she scanned the ground for any horses and that was when the golden locks was spotted. She got in the way just in time as the rider with golden hair launched himself into his death to stop it. ‘What was he thinking? Does he not know these are crude and heartless bandits? Does he not know these barbaric crime against nature would most probably treat them much like the wolves when they were done with the beasts?’
Alice managed to tell the rider as his company off as quietly as possible and she returned to her tree before any bandits could notice her involvement. She spent her time thinking how peculiar that such person existed, whoever travelled into woods with so much rob-worthy belongings and strolled about on a stallion worth hundreds of gold coins if stolen and sold to the black market? It was as if they had some sort of peculiar death wishes they wish to cash out. ‘Fools,’ she scoffed and before she could finish her thought, she felt her arms being roughly pulled into a tree. She was about to ply her pocketknife backwards into the flesh of her assailant when she noticed the hairy arms that were confining her. ‘Broink?’ and was received by an all familiar low grunt that she learned to mean, ‘Trouble at home,’
‘They were looking for the tooth, you still have it with you, don’t you, little lady?’
Alice traced her fingers around her neck to make sure that the pendant was indeed still hang around her neck and let out a sigh of relief. She searched her mind for anybody that she could trust enough to confide into in the middle of the night. ‘It won’t do if I barge into Robinson’s Hut with her having company over and all, would it?’ she asked Broink and pushed the thought to the back of her mind when he gave her a disapproving snort. ‘What do you suppose I do now, Broink? Do you suppose we could start moving right this moment and ask for Lucinda’s help?’ she asked and another snort was all that she received.
‘But I think Lucinda will be a decent help, Broink. She used to hang out with Gellert,’ another snort.
‘Well, you’re not helping so much, you beast,’ she snapped and earning her a glare for such language and tone. ‘And I think your disliking Lucinda is just immature and bias,’ she hissed as she got up turned to Broink, gesturing him to do the same. Broink puffed at her. ‘Come now, I’m sorry, Broink. But she’s all I’ve got at the moment,’ she asked as politely as possible.
It took Alice and Broink five days to reach Lucinda and it had not been the easiest journey either. It boggled Alice how Lucinda managed to live among the sorry-looking slums of Morgendaire, the most affected part of Bourengard since the kingdom’s downfall. Most part of the town had been reduced to slums and hideouts for felons, there were still some decent parts of the town, but those had been recently left to be small places for people to sell whatever they could gather from the slums and merchants to sell their goods and cottages the people run as inns to fend for themselves and keep the town running and stopping from falling into deeper depth of despair. ‘Old soul Lucinda, still hopelessly waiting for the day Morgendaire will return to its triumphant splendor and trees and flowers and birds adorning the air,’ she thought to herself as she rang the bell hung by the door.
‘Alice of Cottondale, the Rogue and her Bull!’ Lucinda greeted them with a shrill enthusiasm that was followed by Broink’s temperamental huff. ‘Oh, you silly old bull! To what do I owe this pleasure?’ she asked as she pushed both of them in her cottage. ‘I must say you caught me by surprise, I haven’t even got the time to brew any tea,’ she added.
‘Oh, don’t bother yet, Lucinda,’ Alice said. ‘Fixing us some mean meals would do,’ she added casually which caught Lucinda’s attention.
‘Your treehouse is ambushed again?’ she stopped in her track and pulled a seat across Alice, signaling her full engagement to the soon to be serious conversation, ignoring all at once the ever so obvious dislike of Broink towards her. ‘Have you seen who they were?’ she asked Broink as soon as Alice finished filling her in.
‘I am certain they were the Looters. Those despicable vermin—‘
‘Come now, there’s simply no reason to be all crude and temperamental.’ she cut off and Broink gave her a noise that annoyed Alice but seemingly did not affect Lucinda. ‘You do know that I live in slums, don’t you, Broink? Your disgusting noises do not appall me,’ she primly stated. ‘Well, if you’ve been ambushed again, it seems that it no longer made sense for me to stay here,’ she said. ‘It’ll be any day from now before they come bursting from that sickly door of mine,’ she got up and went to rummage through her chest underneath her bed.
‘How can you tell?’ Alice asked, trying to put the pieces together to no avail.
‘Because that pendant you wear around your neck…’ she paused as she finally found what she was looking for. ‘I have it too,’ she showed them her long hidden sword, with the chain draped over the grip and the tooth was encased in the pommel neatly designed as to purposely flash the presence of the tooth and the pendant as in to mock whomever tried to sneak their way to the pendant.
‘You kept it in Phoenix? Doesn’t that scream stealing hazard to you?’ Alice could not fight off a hearty laughter at Lucinda’s way of doing things.
‘Only if they know I have a Phoenix to begin with,’ Lucinda winked as she unsheathed Phoenix to give it a quick polish. ‘We’ll set out after dinner, it’ll be less conspicuous that way,’ she as she made her way to her kitchen before stopping in her tracks. ‘Or, perhaps it was better for us to just set out now and have our dinner outside,’ she turned her heels and ushered Alice and Broink out of the cottage after she put on her travelling cloak. She locked her gate and gave her cottage one last look before turning to them with a smile too bright.
‘Why are you so gleeful to be leaving your beloved town?’ Alice asked.
‘Oh, we’re not leaving, we’re going on our way and saving it,’ she replied simply.
The days in Cottondale were quite contrary from the nights, some days the streets would be scarce as the people would all be tending to their farms, mills and churn chills. The other days, the people would be flooding the market of Cottondale, a sight that would be a boast to a ball that could ever be thrown by the Kings and Queens since the downfall. One could say, whatever left of Bourengard's broken heart; its beating rhythm remained only because Cottondale had not lost its trades and prosperity, and that the people of Cottondale were fair enough to share their fare throughout the kingdom. They had not been able to offer much, only the basic grains and the best cottons and wools to keep the kingdom warm through long, cold and harsh winter.
Yet, as ordinary as it might be, Cottondale had its own lore to offer to any visiting merchants and hunting parties or even a simple peasant on an errand; the Rogue of Cottondale. The tradition of passing on the tales of the Rogue of Cottondale began less than two decades ago, when the fight club was joined by a hooded fighter and knocked down Gellert, the long standing fighter, the Bull of Cottondale. Gellert had never been beaten down in any fights before, he was among the forsaken warriors of Cottondale that sought refuge amidst the fight clubs, travelling from town to town to quench his thirst for fights and rushes of adrenalines, earning himself the title the Bull of Cottondale, with a fury of a bull rampaging through its way. Hence it was when he was defeated, the first uproar was heard after so many years and quickly made its way throughout Bourengard and royal guards were sent to make sure it was not a threat to the already militarily paralyzed kingdom. There was no one else able to topple Gellert like that, only the Rogue, who was named so because nobody knew of the true identity, not even the booker and the owner of the fight clubs when they paid the Rogue the prize. Perhaps, maybe Gellert knew but even if he did, he kept it to himself; a fighter’s honour, as he would have it.
That night, fight arena of Cottondale was especially loud and festive as almost everyone from the town came to witness Gellert sparring against the Rogue. Both of them gave the people another earth shattering fight, with blades sending sparks when they hit each other, nerve wrecking strikes when tips hit the skins and quick reflexes whenever a fighter was disarmed by another. By the end, the Rogue won again and collected the prize and when the arena was deserted, both of the Rogue and the Bull would indulge in a little ritual of theirs; a drink to the victor in utter silence, sometimes accompanied by small talk.
‘You’ve gotten better, little girl,’ Gellert said before he sipped his drink and continued his longing stare into the mid distance which was the fireplace that night. The warmth offered by the roaring fire tantalized with the coldness he felt against his skin, ‘The harvesting season is going to be short this time ‘round,’ he thought to himself. ‘Your strikes have gotten more precise and accurate, they were no longer aimless and pitiful,’
‘And you have gotten sloppy, old man,’ the Rogue retorted. ‘Aimless and pitiful as my strikes and swings were, I’ve beaten you down many times in a spar,’ she said crisply.
‘Aye, but don’t you be boasting your skills on me, now, little girl,’ he rumbled a low chuckle. ‘I see you got new token,’ he pointed his glass to the embroidered silk that adorned the brim of her hood. ‘You know, one of these days, the folks are going to tell that you’re a little girl, with that thing on your hood,’ he let a throaty laugh that time, winking at the butterfly shaped embroidery.
‘Then, let them be and see if I care,’ she slammed down her glass with just the right amount of harshness that it would not break.
‘Alice,’ Gellert said with such smooth voice that had sent chills to the Rogue’s entire being and even the roars of the fire were then turned to meek whisperings of burnt coals. ‘It won’t do to harbour such hatred and anger like so. Out of the terrible things I have committed, raw hatred and anger like that were the most terrifying motivation I’ve had, it simply won’t do,’ he uttered simply like reciting the Rights of Felons.
‘Says the Bull of Cottondale, a legit weapon of mass destruction of all Bourengard,’ another retort escaped her lips.
‘Yes, but I fight only for the thrill of it!’ he exclaimed in attempt to mock her retort. ‘I’ve fought many fights with you now to tell apart your drives and motivations, your passion and your anger, your distress and your consent.’ his voice turned somber and he took her hands into his, small and delicate despite of the years spent handling such sword in contrast against his massive and calloused hardened by the years of wielding his axes. ‘Alice,’ was all he needed to say before dry sobs were heard from underneath the hood.
‘I have been told about your death,’ she whispered. Her eyes shot angry looks when she heard laughter came out from the Bull of Cottondale. ‘I despise you for being so hearty about it. Don’t you ever take anything seriously?’ she spat as she snatched her hands away from his and started to throw him sloppy punches instead.
‘Oh, come on, now, little girl,’ Gellert regained his composure and searched for her eyes. He never had much luck in seeing the Rogue’s eyes, the girl hid herself pretty well, but he could tell by the gleam at the corner of her eyes that the Rogue had beautiful eyes and it was a loss to the world that she chose to hide them. ‘I take all of our sparring seriously,’ he said and he dug into his pocket to fish out a little carved sabre tooth he had kept with him for a while and thrusted it into her hands. ‘I take you seriously,’
‘Gellert, you old bull,’ she sent the stool he was sitting on a kick before turning her attention to the item she just got. ‘An amulet?’ she asked when she found that the tooth was hanging to a pendant.
‘Only if you wanted it to be,’ he said. ‘Now, enough of all these whimsical matters and whatnot. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do,’ he got up and collected his belongings that had been scattered on the tables since the moment he got there and gave Alice his signature reassuring beam and making his already heavily scarred face seemed like he just grew some new scars.
‘You mean, eat?’ she mocked him half-heartedly.
‘Aye, you’ll never have a good fight if you don’t have a good meal before, little lady,’ he said with ever the same no-worries manner before making his way to the exit. He stopped after a few steps and glanced back to the Rogue, bearing a gleam in his eyes that had haunted her for many years after that and said to her, ‘Memento mori,’ before he walked out of the inn and apparently, from her life as well when she failed to fight for his life against a demon the next time their paths crossed.
***
That was not the only lore Cottondale had to offer to its willing listener about the Rogue of Cottondale. The tale of the undefeated Bull of Cottondale finally defeated was only the preface of the tales of the Rogue of Cottondale that the people of Cottondale grown to treasure. Alice of Cottondale had yet to claim the title the Rogue of Cottondale throughout her spar with Gellert although she had been given the mantle the first round she defeated him. The moment she truly became the Rogue of Cottondale was the moment she chose Broink over the people of Cottondale. People turned their ghastly eyes upon them whenever they saw Alice with what they call the crime against nature walked down the streets. Alice, however, being the Rogue, had never paid attention to them and had never bothered to explain her rational to lewd perceptions of the people.
‘Folks are naturally mean, Broink,’ she said as she passed him a bag full of grain for him to carry up the wren. Broink could only give her a rough grunt as a reply before he went down again. They were called the Rogue of Cottondale and the Demon that day when they were crossing a bridge to the outskirts of town, not even entering the marketplace yet. ‘They are a whole lot of insulting, impetuous beings and will think you as beneath them and grotesque if you aren’t in any way like them,’ she ranted on as she sharpened the edge of her Earthbreaker’s blade. Broink gave her a nasty huff at the comment ‘grotesque’ and noisily showed her his disapproval of using such temper.
‘You are very temperamental, little lady. It does not do for one to dwell on such temper, you know?’
‘Oh, come now, Broink. You’re a bull!’ she incredulously exclaimed at the cursed beast’s attempt at linguistic chivalry. ‘Well, granted that you are no ordinary bull, you’ve got intimidating height and built and you walk on two hooves like a Minotaur, but you’re a bull nonetheless. Supposedly you have a more questionable range of temper than I do,’ she said which in turn earned her another disapproving huff. ‘Oh, do stop that blubbering noise, you mangy beast. I get your point,’ she pushed away Broink by the head when he was leaning against her, almost crushing her with his weight. ‘And get off, you’re not a bag of sugar and salt being soaked in the pond,’ she complained and was replied by only snorty laughter from the hairy beast as he made his way and settled in his room in the big hole in the tree trunk.
‘Good night, Broink,’ Alice called from her room in the wren. ‘Sleep tight, we’ve got a long way ahead of us tomorrow,’
‘Sleep well and dream brightly, little lady,’
***
Albeit the night was peaceful and the breeze was comfortably cool, both Alice and Broink were woken up from their slumber by the shrill howls of the wolves and distance neighs of horses. ‘There’s someone out there about to be eaten by the wolves,’ she whispered to herself. Alice was quick to reach for her Earthbreaker and scouted the nearby trees and grounds for any signs of danger that might be approaching their way. The rustlings of the bushes in the direction of the wolves’ howling made her lowered the Earthbreaker, but as quickly as another howl came, she made her way as stealthily as possible when she recognized the distant mischievous cackling accompanying the rustlings.
‘Alice,’
‘Stay, Broink,’ she hissed.
‘Those are bandits, Alice,’
‘I’m not stupid, I won’t be fighting them off,’ she said and went on ahead and witnessed a battlefield between the bandits and the wolves. Thick and rich coats shone through the moonlight and ivory teeth gleamed against daggers were everywhere as if they were adorning the rather dull night. ‘Ethereal wolves, no wonder the bandits rushed over,’ she thought to herself. Ethereal wolves could make good for nothing bandits like them very rich by miles. But something else caught her attention as she scanned the ground for any horses and that was when the golden locks was spotted. She got in the way just in time as the rider with golden hair launched himself into his death to stop it. ‘What was he thinking? Does he not know these are crude and heartless bandits? Does he not know these barbaric crime against nature would most probably treat them much like the wolves when they were done with the beasts?’
Alice managed to tell the rider as his company off as quietly as possible and she returned to her tree before any bandits could notice her involvement. She spent her time thinking how peculiar that such person existed, whoever travelled into woods with so much rob-worthy belongings and strolled about on a stallion worth hundreds of gold coins if stolen and sold to the black market? It was as if they had some sort of peculiar death wishes they wish to cash out. ‘Fools,’ she scoffed and before she could finish her thought, she felt her arms being roughly pulled into a tree. She was about to ply her pocketknife backwards into the flesh of her assailant when she noticed the hairy arms that were confining her. ‘Broink?’ and was received by an all familiar low grunt that she learned to mean, ‘Trouble at home,’
‘They were looking for the tooth, you still have it with you, don’t you, little lady?’
Alice traced her fingers around her neck to make sure that the pendant was indeed still hang around her neck and let out a sigh of relief. She searched her mind for anybody that she could trust enough to confide into in the middle of the night. ‘It won’t do if I barge into Robinson’s Hut with her having company over and all, would it?’ she asked Broink and pushed the thought to the back of her mind when he gave her a disapproving snort. ‘What do you suppose I do now, Broink? Do you suppose we could start moving right this moment and ask for Lucinda’s help?’ she asked and another snort was all that she received.
‘But I think Lucinda will be a decent help, Broink. She used to hang out with Gellert,’ another snort.
‘Well, you’re not helping so much, you beast,’ she snapped and earning her a glare for such language and tone. ‘And I think your disliking Lucinda is just immature and bias,’ she hissed as she got up turned to Broink, gesturing him to do the same. Broink puffed at her. ‘Come now, I’m sorry, Broink. But she’s all I’ve got at the moment,’ she asked as politely as possible.
***
It took Alice and Broink five days to reach Lucinda and it had not been the easiest journey either. It boggled Alice how Lucinda managed to live among the sorry-looking slums of Morgendaire, the most affected part of Bourengard since the kingdom’s downfall. Most part of the town had been reduced to slums and hideouts for felons, there were still some decent parts of the town, but those had been recently left to be small places for people to sell whatever they could gather from the slums and merchants to sell their goods and cottages the people run as inns to fend for themselves and keep the town running and stopping from falling into deeper depth of despair. ‘Old soul Lucinda, still hopelessly waiting for the day Morgendaire will return to its triumphant splendor and trees and flowers and birds adorning the air,’ she thought to herself as she rang the bell hung by the door.
‘Alice of Cottondale, the Rogue and her Bull!’ Lucinda greeted them with a shrill enthusiasm that was followed by Broink’s temperamental huff. ‘Oh, you silly old bull! To what do I owe this pleasure?’ she asked as she pushed both of them in her cottage. ‘I must say you caught me by surprise, I haven’t even got the time to brew any tea,’ she added.
‘Oh, don’t bother yet, Lucinda,’ Alice said. ‘Fixing us some mean meals would do,’ she added casually which caught Lucinda’s attention.
‘Your treehouse is ambushed again?’ she stopped in her track and pulled a seat across Alice, signaling her full engagement to the soon to be serious conversation, ignoring all at once the ever so obvious dislike of Broink towards her. ‘Have you seen who they were?’ she asked Broink as soon as Alice finished filling her in.
‘I am certain they were the Looters. Those despicable vermin—‘
‘Come now, there’s simply no reason to be all crude and temperamental.’ she cut off and Broink gave her a noise that annoyed Alice but seemingly did not affect Lucinda. ‘You do know that I live in slums, don’t you, Broink? Your disgusting noises do not appall me,’ she primly stated. ‘Well, if you’ve been ambushed again, it seems that it no longer made sense for me to stay here,’ she said. ‘It’ll be any day from now before they come bursting from that sickly door of mine,’ she got up and went to rummage through her chest underneath her bed.
‘How can you tell?’ Alice asked, trying to put the pieces together to no avail.
‘Because that pendant you wear around your neck…’ she paused as she finally found what she was looking for. ‘I have it too,’ she showed them her long hidden sword, with the chain draped over the grip and the tooth was encased in the pommel neatly designed as to purposely flash the presence of the tooth and the pendant as in to mock whomever tried to sneak their way to the pendant.
‘You kept it in Phoenix? Doesn’t that scream stealing hazard to you?’ Alice could not fight off a hearty laughter at Lucinda’s way of doing things.
‘Only if they know I have a Phoenix to begin with,’ Lucinda winked as she unsheathed Phoenix to give it a quick polish. ‘We’ll set out after dinner, it’ll be less conspicuous that way,’ she as she made her way to her kitchen before stopping in her tracks. ‘Or, perhaps it was better for us to just set out now and have our dinner outside,’ she turned her heels and ushered Alice and Broink out of the cottage after she put on her travelling cloak. She locked her gate and gave her cottage one last look before turning to them with a smile too bright.
‘Why are you so gleeful to be leaving your beloved town?’ Alice asked.
‘Oh, we’re not leaving, we’re going on our way and saving it,’ she replied simply.
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