Walter Thornley

Walter Thornley

'None Shall Overcome'
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As daylight slowly softened from the pale platinum into the bronze that streamed through the elm trees, he'd ridden off the main tract and down a narrow path into the woods. There, by the river, he'd built a small towerling of branches in a fire pit, dusted the drake blanket off and put his cloak on top for a quick-made bedding. Then, put down the bottles and clay jars and skins of rum, dandelion wine, cider and something or other else all around - whatever he could get enroute to the decided mission of getting hammered and wasted right out of his world.

*

He pulled a long red feather out of the belt pouch, and held it above the amber flames. It curled, sizzled just a little bit, scorched and went so fast that he could barely blink. A swig of rum, and he could swear that he could hear a seagull somewhere in the far-off distance.

A first song carried through the woods. One of those ballads where someone was allowed to enjoy love, but only once they've carried out some tasks truly impossible. His voice rang, pleasant, but uneven, not always hitting the notes, but it didn't matter. Wasn't singing for an audience.

A piece of a round wooden medallion followed into the crackling little flame. Whole thing used to be carved like an oak. It popped loudly in the heat, like a divination bone.
Another swig. "Ah, to the void with it... I'm late anyway." And nobody was to drag him home by the scruff, either.

He was far enough, and when it felt like there was naught but sorrow in life - singing helped pour the pain out.

"Where once was valley lush and green -
A barren twine of thorn;
Our tree still weathers early springs
And dreads the coming fall.

My love, you've yearned for blooms and leaves
With seasons green and gone
Yet not for roots that burrowed deep
Nor for the swallow's song.

Carry me, brother wind, to where the briar blooms,
Run red, oh wine of mine, until the lips are blue."

Another swig of... whatever he was drinking, tasted a little sweet. Didn't matter much.

A shuffle in the grass came. Were he sober, he'd get jumpy over how close he'd let whoever this was get without being noticed.
The baron's bleary gaze turned there, and he called out, voice uneven and slur quite evident,
"Whoever you are, come out! We're singing here!"
 
Geist raised the long, heavy-jawed head from the bushes. The drake was lounging unsaddled in the grass, not too far off from the hunting camp, happy to scratch the keratinous crest at the top of its head. The paws, folded in the air, would not quite make biscuits - but splayed out with claws out on a stretch, then curled back in, long tail swiping and curling, occasionally hitting the shrubs or getting stuck against a tree. On recognizing a human figure, the mount offered a low rumble, rolled onto the side and curled its tail closer over the stretched out paws, the string-like mane sliding over the smooth-furred neck that was beginning to gain an antique-grey sheen with hints of patina, darker for the changing seasons. The head came down, though, to rub the hard-scaled nose bridge against a tree.

Beside a fire too weak to issue any proper warmth or illumination, Walter Thornley splayed with his back against a log, arms wide and a wineskin clasped in one. The sword seemed to take second priority to drinking, out of view when bottles, jars and other vessels were all well in reach.
His head tilted up, not as much to measure who was approaching, but to catch the golden warmth of the scattered sunlight travelling through the trees, eyelids falling closed for one beat, two, three with a slow sigh.

He could smell the earth and a foreign touch of wormwood carried by the breeze from the edge of the forest, wolfsbane and a somewhat dog-like, charred bark-like scent of drakehorse fur. A faraway fox, a closer patch of moss in the shadow. Wild sourwisp, like persimmon and pepper in the last stage of bloom. He caught the scent of horse and leather and other, too, but those took time to register when every bit of senses was just a dust speck floating in the sun rays, in no hurry to anchor itself to the ground.

His gaze traveled down the branches of the elm tree, dark lines breaking up the canopy and glimpses of the sky like stained glass, a picture different in every season. Stopped on the horse's crimson head. A light hint of frown, for a fleeting moment, on the features far too relaxed. But the darkness in his head was lulled by alcohol, the sharpness hid. It would not mistake the color of the coat for blood.

Then, finally, attention drifted from the horse to its rider.
"Me and my ghosts, of course. Don't worry, you don't know them. However, the Law of Hospitality dictates I offer," he lifted the wineskin slightly, to indicate, "part of the spoils in good will to be shared, s'long as I occupy this spot here for my own means." The slur was accent-tinged, very slightly warbling the 'r's and sharpening the 's'.

A hiccup crept up on him, belatedly covered with the right hand still gloved, before the arm splayed along the log. Holding something small loosely.
"And I intend to drink, and sing, and drink some more until the dawn breaks. And burn some things."

He tossed the second shard of carved medallion into the fire, keeping the largest one for last. It crackled moments after landing, the sound akin to snapping bone.
A thumb passed over the carved canopy and the surviving outline of the oval edge ornament. A long inhale, pale face flushed, and he propped the curled grasp on the last bit - against the heavy head. Not quite as leaden yet, he had far more to drink before becoming truly sloshed. Falling asleep without dreams.

"I have no quarrel with you, Laric Delirien." A lazy shrug. The loosened shirt collar shifted, opening a ripped bitemark from two fangs, at the base of the man's neck. He didn't bother to fix it. Or relocate the ladybug struggling between the folds of the lantern sleeve. "Sit down and share the flame, fuck off into the bushes, do what suits... the weather's too nice for most things besides, don't you think?"
 
The wound wasn't bleeding, but old and peculiar. The oldest, faded layer had the terse ridges of a vicious ambush attack, where the attacker was shaken off, and their fangs dragged and ripped through the skin before exiting. But the newer, perhaps years old, perhaps less - were much more precise puncture marks in the middle of that wound, to conceal them. Repeated, smaller, visible mostly for the pattern.

There were, it seemed, many more old tracks and marks of violence usually hid by the long sleeves and the tied collar. And all of them - looking barely as paler traces, as if decades old. Fainter than they could have been, with Walter only being in his thirties.
That said, the sleeve still held over the glove on the right hand, the black fabric going up the forearm and under the cuff. That thing was important to keep hidden, not for anyone else's sake but his own.

"I - am burning tokens of my failure," Walter uttered, the last piece of the carving rotated slightly in the gloved fingers. "Poor choices. Failed loyalties." People I won't see again. "Add to the fuel if you like. This fire's not for warmth."

And, as if to make a point about what he intended to warm up with, Walter pulled the wineskin close and held it a touch above the lips, wine pouring into the open mouth in a shiny ruby ribbon. The pour ceased, and Walter closed the skin, shifting a bit closer to seated.

A side glance as he'd noticed, quite belatedly, the stare. Jet brow perked up, stood at a pointed angle. "What?" Still didn't bother to adjust the shirt.
 
"A drinking game?" Walter's shoulder hitched as he rose on the elbow against the log, finally pulling on the shirt at the chest to adjust the collar, and surveyed the bottles in thought. "The goods most certainly invite. Yes." A faint chuckle. "I think I'd like too play a drinking game. We'd have to share the drink, however - I didn't bring any..." A word suddenly escaping him, a slow, mellow inhale. "...cups- glasses." A small perk up, victorious in his search. "I have some deer jerky and hazelnuts... ah..."

He rested the wineskin against the log to his left, glanced to Laric at his right, and leaned back to reach to a travel pouch that used to be attached to the saddle. A relatively modest bag emerged, and its string loosened as the contents were proffered between.
Not the best time to ask how the cuts were healing, he supposed.

"So, I have dandelion wine, red, rum, cherry wine, I think that small cask is ale. What do you want to start with?"
 
"It's in the narrow bottle with wicker lattice," Walter pointed out. "Next to xeres."
He also grabbed a couple dried meat strips, trying to take the edge off muffling intoxication. There was a saying, good wine makes your head clear, your tongue loose and your legs weak, but he could wager he could still stand up straight without too much trouble. Just that he didn't want to.

The golden hour was passing, cooling down with the birdsongs and the shuffling of the trees and grass under the breeze. Good weather, a warm night. All but sick beasts would give the campsite a wide berth, taught by the hunters and driven off by whatever it was that made the dogs nervous around Walter.

The dark eyes narrowed, a long blink followed. A nod.
"I've heard things of the woods that have parties around campfires like games. Feats or Fables it is. You offered, you pick the first one, hm?" A nod at the bottle already at Laric's hand.
 
Most people sought comfort in the orange warmth of the fire when they camped, where things were clear and seemed safe in that clarity. Walter felt soothed by the darkness gathering outside the pale glow. It would envelop and hide him from the world, and for a while, nobody needed to see him.

He did not have to be an obscurata seeking out the grim harvest. He did not have to be the lord, collared and chained to duty. For good or ill, he could just be Walter. Just for today. Then it would all come rushing back.

"Very well, Laric, tell me, then..." He thought, intently making the lazy thoughts move, for almost half a minute.
"Have you ever had a moment where only choosing to have faith in better outcome got you through, and then there was one?"
He didn't play often, it was easy to tell.

A slight twitch to the fingers. It was a bit harder not to drink. Gloved hand's phalanxes straightened, then curled up, thumb pressed on each finger near the base, as if pressuring away a sudden bit of joint pain. He listened, though, amber flame reflections flickering in the dark, slightly fogged up gaze.
 
"How sad," It was hard to read the tone, but most of all it resembled a simple acknowledgement.
He wrapped his fingers around the bottom of the bottle, then clasped it by the middle with good hand.
A fox stirred in the underbrush, chasing mice. Geist was settling in to sleep.

Walter stared at the bottle, then turned his gaze to the flames.
"Fable."
 
The head tilted to the side, but the attention did not take off from the flames to the drinking partner. A long inhale followed, the man's chest slowly rising. An exhale left through parting lips, he leaned the bottle to the ground by the bottom, rolled his fingers against the surface in thought.

The eyes closed for a slow blink. His good hand dove for the last, largest piece of the carved oak medallion. Nudged it upward, and in flew in an arc, landing into the embers.
Crack. Pop.

"Loved someone. Thought I was loved back, there's a certain... allure, when someone is kind... nice to you, and you aren't used to it."

He swallowed. Gloved fingertips pressed lightly against the glass, then rocked forward, clawing lightly, straightened. Palm wrapped against the bottle flat.

"I failed to see it for what it was. Some people are in love with the idea of being in love. They see it as a trophy to win. And from that point on - it's done, the novelty's worn off. I've... given too much to one such person. The craven silence is worse than biting words, and I've been too scared to let go when I should have. Hoped the comfort would last, I guess, even as I saw the rift form. Closed my eyes not to see. Chased. A starved man will eat anything."

Walter offered the bottle, extending a hand to his side.
"That's about it. I'll take a fable next. Your turn. Which is it?"
 
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