The sun finally breaking through the heavy branches that have surrounded me all morning. The trees breaking, rays falling down, shining upon the green forest floor. The edge is near, far away in the distance, the first noises of the city reach my ears, i can feel the mass of people closely packed together behind the thick, massive walls. I find a high rock at the edge of the forest and hop onto it. Setting my hand above my eyes, I look in the distance, smelling the ocean breeze, seeing the friable edges of the city, blurred against the light grey of the skies.
With pain in my heart I leave my beloved forests, knowing I might not return to them for a long time, not sure the city is my final destination. Yet, for now I know where to go, a contact of the brotherhood waiting for me in a tavern in the black smith’s quarter of the city. A rough place, hard work makes strong men, the fire of their forges running through their veins, easily ignited with a puff of air. Not a place to attract attention to yourself.
First task is to get past the guards. But knowing the local tongue and a pouch full of gold coins will get me through if asked to explain my coming, confidence strengthening my posture, taking on an authoritive pose as my feet lead me closer to the gates of Libidinis. Carts, pulled by oxes and horses lining up as they are thoroughly checked at the gates, the city-state on high alert since it was attacked by a neighbouring harbor, a few hundred miles away. Yet, the flow of visitors for the summer festival too numerous to check very carefully.
With a sigh and a shrug on my shoulders I step onto the road and mix in with the endless line of travelers approaching the city gates. Commoners, farmers heading for the festival markets, travelling peddlers with handcarts, seeling an array of articles, even while they are on the road to the city. With my plain face and my born ability to mix in and disappear against the background, noone notices me walking towards the gates, seen but soon forgotten as there is nothing remarkable about me to remember.
I look around with my trained eyes, looking for remarkable things, my eye caught by a figure talking to the guards. An uncommon sight, a swordswoman carrying a bastard sword. Even from the few hundred pases that I am behind her, I can tell she is a veteran. The relaxed, yet vigilant posture airing authority and experience in battle. Not a cat I’d want to stroke the wrong way. The closer to the gates I get, the slower the crowd moves towards it, the stream of people ever increasing since the opening of the festival is almost at hand.
Without a problem I pass the gates, the guards looking at me, then their eyes move on, gliding across the faces and carts, looking for something out of the ordinary. A strange voice, clothing not quite matching or a strange bulge under someone’s long coat. Yet my presence inconspicuous, my face like the ones beside me, seen and immediatly forgotten as if I never passed them. A map of the city was provided when I left on my quest and I memorised it during my travels. Burned it on my last night among the trees, the morning after watching the girl pleasure herself in the stream.
At the first crossroad inside the walls, I turn right. The houses quickly shrinking in size as I penetrate the outher burrows of the city, the main street keeping the grandeur of Trader’s houses, winding itself like a river to the heart of the city, the central square. As if I was born in the city, I turn left and right, finding short cuts I had seen on the map, making decisions on where to go automatically. Looking for and finding “The Anvil”, a dark tavern, frequented by the apprentices of the black smiths, the main occupants of this quarter of the city.
Suddenly laughter and outcries fill the narrow street and from behind I hear footsteps echo from the masoned houses. Before I can step to the side, a group of young girls pass me by, some bumping into me, one girl struggling to keep on her feet before she falls down. Against my nature and training I walk up to her and reach out my hand to help her up. As she lifts her head and her eyes meet mine, I freeze. Immobilised by the sparkling beauty in her deep brown, almost black eyes. Only the touch of her hand on mine bringing me back to the present, almost drowning myself in the depths of her cornea.
I grab her hand and pull her on her feet. My eyes still fixed on hers, not able to look away from them. Suddenly she steps in closer, takes my face into her hands and kisses my lips. She presses her full, soft mouth against mine and swiftly slides the tip of her tongue between my lips before she releases me, turns around and runs away. The rest of the group just turning the corner. I am startled, troubled, confused. Years of training, seperating physical need from mental attachment flushed away in an instant. A floodwave of beauty catching me by surprise, gnawing at the roots of my training, carefully planted by the supervisors in the monastery.
I’m fighting the urge to flee, run away and hide in the shadows to recompose myself, a hasty retreat risking discovery or a situation rememberred by someone. Realising that, I take a deep breath and slowly turn towards the door of the tavern, smelling the scent of stale beer and tobacco mixed with cloves. A mixture often found in harbors, the influence of foreign reigns incorporated in daily life. The entrance almost hidden in the shadows as the sun high lights the other side of the street. I shrug my shoulders and grab the handle of the door, not looking left or right as I pull it open.
The stench of coal and sweat, beer and food filling my nose as I step over the threshold, halting for a moment to let my eyes get used to the obscured light in the tavern. A big hearth at the back wall of the place, a bar to the left, long tables stretching over the width of the place and a few tables and chairs in nieches on the right side of the room. Only a few people present, 2 young men sitting at a long table, drinking a beer quietly. In one of the nieches an older man with, what seems to be his daughter, is eating a bowl of soup. The girl hanging against the back of her chair, clearly bored. I turn my head away from her, showing only the back of my head to her, avoiding a look to close for comfort. The bar is manned by an elderly woman, the hardship of her life printed in capitols in her face, the tattoo of the outcast on her forehead.
I walk to the left, finding the elderly woman looking at me uninterested, the hood on my head keeping eyes in the shadows. “A room, a pitcher of water and lamb stew”. Pitching my voice at just the right height, I fid her reaction to my softly spoken words and moving from behind the counter, towards the staicase in the back. I follow her up when she opens a small door to a small room. Immediatly my eyes take in the room, checking the window, access to a small alley at the back of the tavern, a 6 foot drop. No doors to neighbouring rooms, the bed facing the only entrance. I am satisfied. The tavern is off main streets but not too far from the main locations of the city. A ten minute brisk walk to the north will bring me directly to the central square, 5 minutes to the west will take me directly to the prefect’s residence.
The woman leaves the room after I approved it and I put my few belongings under the bed. I walk down the stairs and find a nieche facing the entrance, the chair I pick hidden from views by the shadows of the low beams on the ceiling. I pull the hood down further, leaving just enough room above my eyes to look at the entrance. Knowing I will have to wait a few ours before my contact will arrive, I am getting thirsty and hungry. Before I can look up to the bar, a plate and cup are placed on my table, followed by a thud as the pitcher of water is put down as well.
I look up from the door, finding two black coals, arched by pitch black, finely plucked eye brows, staring at me with a wonderous look. “Your food, my lord” A young girl taking a light bow as she steps back from the table. A mouth as red as cherries, a slight smile around it, long, straight black hair, bound by a wreath of wheat, a scent as sweet as roses. Long, slender fingers strangeld together as she sways her hips from left to right, a tight, short skirt covering her youthful hips and buttocks, her chest covered by a tight, woven corset, her full breasts pushed up and almost falling out of her cleavage. Before I can say anything, she turns around, looking back just before she steps behind the bar, giving me a wink.
Befuddled left at the table, a clash starts to unfold in my mind, the confident sexuality of the young woman arousing me as the trained celibacy is stirred and tested. Hesitantly I eat, trying to come to terms with the new experiences, the dilemma’s I am facing now. The loyalty to the Brotherhood still overwhelmingly strong, yet in a corner of my mind a small spark has been lit, the potential of setting everything ablaze already there…
