Young Writers Society

Miles slipped between the stable and a rundown, two-story common house next door. He could hear some singing and clanging of pots and pans from the swinging door down the alley to the right. There was a large metal tub full of scraps from the kitchen. The swinging door made it easy to enter and exit when carrying large quantities of supplies or hot food. Miles kept an eye on the swinging door as he slipped off his right boot and pulled the sole back, revealing a hidden compartment that stayed shut via a small nail buried into the heel. He produced a set of papers tied off with a red ribbon and a maroon wax seal. He also pulled out a leather book, just a few inches tall and wide. Inside, the browned and frayed papers showed his status in the Royal Circle, with the King's Seal and a signature from the Royal Treasurer. This allowed Miles access to just about any military and royal base of operations.

He hurriedly shut the secret compartment and yanked his boot on as he leaned against the stable wall for balance. He stamped the boot twice for good measure and tucked his pant legs back inside. Slipping the papers and book into his jacket pocket, he pushed himself off the wall and began to make the trek up the city to the keep. The wind was now quite violent, whipping at any loose piece of clothing, flag, or shutter that wasn't firmly bolted down. Snow flurried up in small vortexes, and it was hard to tell what was new snowfall and what was raining down from rooves stirred up from the ground. Miles tucked his arms and buried his head in his coat collar.

This is all moving too fast.

There was scarce a soul out in the streets, save for those hurrying to find shelter in inns and houses. Even so, it felt like there were eyes on Miles. It always felt this way, he supposed. He hadn't been to Atheron since the war started, but could it ever feel different while under occupation? Soldiers were never going to trust the city folk, and vice versa. The storm forced them into their respective cubbies and coves, but the mood never shifted. If anything, it felt more dangerous to be out in the streets. There was low visibility, and a shout would scarcely be heard from fifty feet away, not that there were any guards to be alerted anyway.

He hurried up the streets that winded like a river. He wasn't sure he would ever have wanted to live here with the amount of hill-climbing it apparently required to get anywhere above the palisades. Luckily, The Smith's Inn was not much farther. When he reached the door he barged through it, leading with his shoulder. He slammed the door shut against the wind with a grunt. A myriad of eyes were upon him as he turned around. He gave a wide smile to the customers at the tables and the bartender at the back.

"Quite the storm for this time of year, no?" he said.

"Aye!" hollered the bartender. "Best to stay indoors when those winds blow off the peaks. Care for a drink, Entertainer?"

"Yes, please, good sir!" Miles snaked between the round tables, noticing that many were still watching him, perhaps because of the title he had just been given. He rubbed his hands together and took a seat at the bar. "Something hot, yes? I'm afraid I've got to head back out into that ghastly weather in a moment."

The bartender, an older gentleman with a salt-and-pepper beard and thinning black hair shook his head as he turned to a pot on a stove at the back. He grabbed a jar from a cubby above, and a small metal filter. "Tea sound alright?" he asked as he placed the filter over a mug and doled out a spoonful of herbs and flowers into it.

A bit late to say no, now, isn't it.

"Of course. Give me your finest herbs and spices." Miles looked around the room, dim as it was with a few lanterns hanging on posts, and a fireplace against the left wall where a fire had mostly died down to a pile of smoldering ashes. Everyone inside the inn seemed content to stay bundled anyway. Hands wrapped in linen, thick wool hoods, and cloaks being the popular combination. Nothing fancy, and some looking barely practical against such cold and wind.

The bartender slid a steaming hot mug in front of Miles. He grabbed a rag from a shelf beneath the bar and wiped his hands off. "So, you going to play us a song tonight?" He said it with a cautious curiosity, almost like he wanted to appear indifferent.

Miles wrapped his hands around the hot mug, taking in a waft of the steaming herbs. There was something minty and a hint of citrus. "I thought I might play more than just the one," he smirked.

The bartender didn't smile, but almost too quickly asked: "What time?"

Miles, still smirking, shook the filter of herbs, letting it drip the last of the flavors before he set it aside on the bar. "What's your name?"

The bartender took the filter, wiped the bar, and slapped the rag over the shoulder of his sweat-stained shirt. He stuck his thumbs in his suspenders and stood tall. "Name's Joff. Joff Hooper."

Miles shook his head slowly. "Well, Joff Hooper, I will perform as many songs as you would like." He leaned in.

Joff nodded. Apparently, that was a good answer. He leaned in, resting his elbows on the bar. "I'll tell you. I've spread the word. The more folks, the more drink and food I sell. I'd be obliged that you played as late as ya can. Until those Bloodcoats shut it down, anyway." He said the last part with a bit of venom.

Miles raised an eyebrow. "Have they shut your inn down before?"

"Mine, no. But I've never had an entertainer such as yourself. Had a jester come through once near the beginning of the occupation. Had some scuffles here and there." Joff tapped the bar with both hands, then jabbed a finger at Miles. "I'd like to stick it to 'em. Anything to make them have to crawl out of their warm beds."

Miles leaned in, taking a swig of tea. "Now, Joff, that last thing I want to do is bring down the guards on your establishment."

Joff waved a hand. "Ah. This war will be over soon, or haven't you heard? Ormen and his Hawks are set to crush us when spring comes, and that won't be long now. And after that, what does it matter? Either they'll leave this place or they'll kill us all."

Miles looked behind, making sure the other patrons were sufficiently occupied. "I've heard other things. An end to the war, yes, but not at the hands of Ormen."

Joff cocked his head to one side. "What do ya mean by that?"

"Haven't you heard? The Black Bull has risen," Miles whispered in sharp tones.

Joff said nothing for a moment. He looked up this time, towards the second story in the direction of Miles' and Gwyn's rooms. "What makes you say that?" he said, taking a step back, relaxing his shoulders, and going back to wiping out mugs.

Miles shrugged. "Just a rumor."

Joff laughed. It was a deep belly laugh, guttural and full. "That isn't the type of rumor to toss about in the wind, lad. That'll land you in the keep dungeons if you aren't careful. What would make ya say such a foolish thing?"

Miles stood, tossing a coin from his pocket and taking his mug of tea. "Just a feeling."

Miles headed for the staircase, even as heard heard Joff thumping towards him. The man was shorter than Miles, but he covered the ground around the bar and passed two tables fast enough to grab Miles's arm before he took a step up the stairs. A hush fell over the room at the sudden rush.

"Just because you can play a funky instrument doesn't mean you don't pay the same as the rest, he blustered.

Miles's eyes flitted from the crowd to Joff. "I'm sorry. I ju-"

"Agh!" Joff interrupted, squeezing Mile's arm with his left hand and wagging a finger in his face with the other. "Pay now, or I'll throw you out on your heels."

"As you wish," Miles said slowly, his heart beating much faster than it had been moments before. What was Joff playing at?

Joff turned his back completely to the room and gave a wink to Miles.

What the...

Miles dug into his pockets and produced a second coin. He yanked his arm away. "Here ya go, you old curmudgeon. I'll let the Secretary of Commerce and Travel know of this, though!"

Joff waved him away with a scoff. "I've got bigger issues than that, lad, now be off with ya, before I change my mind about you performing tonight."

With that he was striding back to the bar, tossing the coin in the air and catching it. Miles looked over the room and noticed that several people were hiding grins, while a few had blatantly laughed. Perhaps Joff's outbursts were something of a familiar sight. A woman at the closest table spoke up.

"Off with you child. Best get those fingers warmed up if you plan on tickling our eyes this night. And don't think about turning one over on Joff again, or it'll be the cleaver for you and your friends." She laughed, well it was more of a shriek in Miles's opinion, and was met with a light chorus of agreement. Then everyone went back to their meals and conversation, leaving Miles to skip up the stairs, unsure of what had just transpired in the last two minutes.

I guess that's what happens under confinement. You go mad.

Miles shook his head. Best to forget about it. The faster he could get to the keep, the better. He grabbed the room key from his pocket and grabbed the latch. It moved by itself.

Unlocked.

Miles slowly let go of the handle, looking down both sides of the hall. He noticed the background noise of the room below go fuzzy and he could hear his heart beating. His palms were sweaty in an instant, and his limbs shook with energy. With no weapon, there was no good option but to leave. Perhaps he could convince Joff that he lost his key. although, with no signs of forced entry on the door, Joff may have let someone in.

Miles turned back to the stairs.

He heard a creak of a door, and before he could turn to investigate a pair of hands were on his shoulders. He was yanked back toward his room. Someone threw something rough over his face. Miles swung in desperation as hands grabbed his arms from both sides. As he began to shout a hand the size of a bear paw crushed his windpipe, wrapping his whole neck in a rough vice. He couldn't even cough, as his feet drug across the wood boards. His back crashed into something hard and wide, dropping him to his knees. Barely breathing, he was lifted back up to his feet by rough hands, completely blind and at a loss for all senses save the pain coursing down his spine and the tightness growing in his chest. Hand still crushing his throat, he heard a low voice whispering. At first, still thrashing back and forth, connecting an elbow with someone, he didn't realize, that they were speaking to him. In a louder voice, they barked: "Entertainer!"

Miles tried to stand upright, his knees weak with adrenaline. He paused, and so did the assault. The voice came from his right. There was heavy breathing and wheezing. Perhaps this ruffian had been the recipient of Miles's elbow. "Listen, lad. Are you listening?"

Miles tried to breathe in, failed, and in fear that he would suffocate to death as he already felt warmth creeping in on the sides of his head, he nodded vigorously.

"Good, good. Now, We're going to let you breathe, but if you so much as whimper I will personally rip your throat out. Understood."

Miles nodded again. The only thing on his mind was breathing. The hand came off his neck, his arms were released, and he crumpled to his knees. His hands went for the blindfold, but something hard rapped on his knuckles and he yelped as pain shot down his fingers.

"I said, we're going to let you breathe. Not see. Understand?"

Miles coughed, sucking in as much air as he could through the thick blindfold. It didn't feel like enough, but at least he was breathing. He put a hand up in a weak attempt to signal surrender. After several deep wheezes, he was able to pitifully say, "I understand."

Sweat was pouring down his neck and face, and his whole body ached and felt like it was on fire.

The voice got closer and the floor creaked as if weight was added to it. "Good. Now, we can talk." The voice was familiar. It sounded frustrated like it had earlier that day at the clothes store. Miles frowned.

"Keeper?"

There was a shuffling of feet all around Miles. There were definitely more than the three people that had assaulted him.

"Keen ear you have. I s'pose you have to when strumming a lute."

"What are you doing, Keep?"

"I'd ask you the same question. What's this talk of fairy tales you've been spouting about?" Keeper said.

Miles shook his head, still trying to wrap it around what was going on. "You mean the Black Bull?"

"Aye, that's the one. You know how foolish, nay, how dangerous it is to be speaking of that in this town?" He kept his voice low, but it was harsh and raspy.

Miles put both hands on the wood floor and pushed himself to his feet, putting his hands back for balance, knowing the bedframe was somewhere nearby. He surmised, now, that it had probably been what he had crashed on. His hands felt the rough, cold wood, and leaned back onto it to steady himself.

"Do you know how foolish you are to believe it to be a fairy tale? What is the meaning of this?" Miles gathered his voice now, speaking as clearly as he could through the muffling sack on his head. " If you don't believe in his return, then so be it. But do not interfere with my endeavors."

There was silence for a moment. They must not have expected such an outburst. They have no idea who I am. "Well?" Miles pressed. "What is the meaning of this?"

Keeper shuffled his feet. "You truly believe he's real? A mythic legend, in the flesh, bringing powers not of this world?"

Miles gritted his teeth. "You don't?" Silence, again. "There should have been forerunners. You were supposed to plan for this. To be prepared to receive him and drive out these Bloodcoats. Have you done nothing but shirk and dawdle your thumbs, hiding in your hovels and averting your eyes from these oppressors?" Miles demanded, his voice rising in tone and volume.

"There is a token of his followers," Keeper spoke again. "Do you know of what I speak?"

Miles jammed a thumb in the direction he believed the small nightstand sat. "In the top drawer."

There was the sound of footsteps and the slide of a drawer. A new voice spoke now. "Well, I'll be."

"Satisfied?" Miles asked in annoyance, knowing that they had found the bull carving. He reached for the sack on his head, pulling it off with a tug. His eyes began to adjust in the darkness. Keeper was to the left of the door. There were two cloaked figures next to him, and two other men, dressed in simple civilian attire by the nightstand. One was holding the carving.

No one made an attempt to stop Miles this time. He eyed the cloaked figures up and down. One was significantly taller than the other, and wider as well.

You devil.

A twisted smile spread across Miles's face. "Jacoby? Is that you?"

The man removed his hood to reveal Eridan's second-in-command. He let a smirk spill across his face and he crossed his arms. "Sorry, son. They needed proof you're on our side." his gaze crossed over the whole room. "and now that you've shown loyalty in the face of harm, perhaps we can get on with what needs to be done?"

Miles shook his head and pointed a finger at Jacoby. "You're ahead of schedule by a week. I hadn't even made it to Hoden's Pass. You're lucky that I'm even here!" he snapped.

Jacoby spread his arms out wide. "I know, and I'm sorry. But when Eridan hears his destiny speak, he does not wait for us mortal men. But the mission has never changed, and unlike these fine people, I never doubted your fealty to our homeland. " He stepped forward and laid an arm on Miles's shoulder. "And tonight, Atheron is reclaimed."