Castle Mroczna - Travelling Prey
George Ruddock still wasn't sure why he decided to take this route of all routes to get to where he wanted to go. Sure, as the crow flies, going through this isolated and rather unknown county was a logical shortcut. But the terrain was rough, and the chill was always lurking, held only at bay by his brown overcoat, splashed with mud and bits of grass.
And there was only one town on the way to where he was going. He barely knew anything about the place outside of rumours and the occasional gossip; people ventured through there, offered trade, but it wasn't an oft frequented locale for outsiders. Just enough to keep the place alive.
Though news had reached him that the near-forgotten noble family who presided over the county was looking to gain some relevance. Not that it mattered to him.
Perhaps, he just wanted a change of pace from us usual routes. To get somewhere through more scenic environments, though so far the hard environment of the mountain-flanked valley he was traversing offered little in the way of breathtaking sights.
Oh well, it was at least different. But the sun set quickly in this little valley, and it was starting to get dark, long shadows cast by the trees and the mountain peaks.
He picked up the pace just slightly, and soon, he was standing on a slope overlooking most of the valley, and whistled appreciatively at the castle he saw in the distance, surprisingly large for such an inconsequential locale. And in good condition, at least at a distance.
But said castle was not his destination, instead overlooking the small town near the floor of the valley; Dolina Mroku.
He could see wisps of smoke from the chimneys, so that put those silly little thoughts about the place being abandoned out of his head. Of course he knew it wasn't, people had passed through there, traded there, but it just got into his head that it was. Something about the gossip gave it that impression.
Well, as long as they had an inn or a tavern to get a drink and a place to sleep for the night, he was okay spending time in a 'ghost town'.
He trudged down the path, his brown boots crunching into the soil. Ahead, he spied someone hitching a mule to a post outside a hut on the outskirts of the village.
The old man spotted George, and stared frostily. He did not say a word as George passed, but George got the impression that outsiders weren't that welcome here. Not a hostile response, but a lack of hospitality wasn't uncommon for some of these isolated villages.
He wandered further, until he came to the town proper; the place was a little grungy, and the wood-walled structures were weather-beaten, the shingle and thatch roofs showing signs of patchwork repair and snow damage.
It wasn't dilapidated, nothing was falling apart, but the place felt old, and worn. And the people seemed similar, even the younger villagers looking tired and hard, though some of them seemed oddly nervous, and not necessarily about him.
He did his best to ignore them; if he wasn't exactly welcome, he didn't need to give them any reason to be angry with him. They had their own problems, and he didn't need to know.
He looked around, until he found the local inn. He couldn't make out the name on the sign, the written language was not his to understand, though he could speak a little of it. The sign also sported what looked like a hog's head bursting from a barrel of ale. That was clear enough.
He looked up and down the two story structure, the windows along the top floor covered by curtains. The angled roof sheltered the upper floor windows, further leaving their interiors obscured in shade.
There was a small fenced porch along the front of the building, but the entrance was only a single door with a circular window in it, though it was rather badly smudged, so all he could make out was a flickering candle within.
He scraped his boots on a piece of wood left by the door, and then entered, a small piece of metal rattling against another serving as a bell.
It was a small place, and there was only a handful of people inside at the moment. The layout was simple enough, the bar directly ahead with a few small casks of alcohol arrayed along a table directly against the back wall with spigots at the ready, a handful of wine and whiskey bottles sitting on a set of shelves just right of them. A cupboard on the left held all the wooden flagons.
An old, wizened man with thinning white hair and one grey eye, the other too sullen to make out a colour, was busy wiping down the counter, working out a splinter with a knife between sweeps of his rag. He looked up at George, and made an expression that George couldn't quite tell was a sneer or begrudging acknowledgement before he went back to what he was doing.
There were stools at the bar, and the rest of the floor was filled with round tables with wooden seats. At the far left of the room, in the corner, was a set of stairs running behind the bar area, going upstairs to where George hoped there was lodging available.
Candles burning in their holders mounted to the wooden pillars provided the lighting inside, but as the sun set, it got darker inside, so the bartender lit a fireplace just right of the bar area itself.
The handful of other patrons gave George suspicious glances, before returning to their drinks.
He did not entertain their brief stares, and instead headed over to the bar, taking a seat and taking off his overcoat, laying it across his lap.
It felt nice to take the heavy thing off, his regular beige shirt and grey pants far more comfortable to wear. Simple, uncomplicated, easy. If he was to live in them day in and day out, he didn't want to make it more complex than necessary. He could save the adventurous spirit for more entertaining things.
He politely got the bartenders attention, hoping to get a mug of ale.
"Co chcesz mieć?"
the old man asked bluntly.
George paused for a moment, trying to parse the man's accent and rural dialect, as well as his terse, upfront tone. Eventually he just asked for an ale, and the bartender obliged without much more than a quick nod, grabbing a flagon from the cupboard, filling it with an ale, and placing it down in front of George.
George nodded his head politely, and took the flagon in hand and brought it to his lips. The barkeeper didn't respond, subtly shaking his head and moving over to attend to other parts of the counter.
George heard the old man muttering something under their breath.
"Osoby z zewnÄ…trz..."
George opted not to pay it any mind, he didn't want to aggravate these people. Clearly they didn't get many visitors and they didn't trust them. Again, something George was not unused to.
So he sipped his beer in quiet, occasionally casting surreptitious glances around the bar to check if the other patrons seemed like considering a violent eviction of his person. Or at least, trying to drive him out.
But they were content to whisper amongst themselves and drink their beer, and George was fine with that. He sighed softly, and looked up at a shelf above the table with the casks on it; there was a mirror there, and he could see his pale face staring back, the slightly crooked nose of his the only thing really dragging down his looks, at least according to this one woman he knew.
Handsome, but not chiselled, and a little bit on the rounder side. He sported some stubble from the last time he shaved, but he did not grow facial hair quickly, or all that well. It was better left shaved, though it did make the blotchy birthmark beneath the left side of his lower lip more noticeable.
Blue eyes seemed sullen from time on the road, but there was a twinkle of adventurous spirit in them, George not one to pass up the occasional experience of note. His short brown hair needed reigning in though, the fringes wild and strands sticking out, fussed by the hood of his overcoat.
Well, he could tidy himself up at his ultimate destination. This place was just a little stop on the way.
As he drank quietly, he heard the door open, and idly turned to see who it was before turning back without much notice... and did a double take when he realised the woman who had just entered felt rather out of place, if it weren't for her dusty black dress, the colour unusual but the design simple and rugged.
But her face, deathly pale but beautiful in an almost otherworldly way. She was gorgeous, her slender frame possessing hints of curves beneath that dress of hers, simple boots tapping on the floor with a light gait. She had a hood on, obscuring her hair.
He turned away from her to keep himself from staring. He just hadn't expected someone looking like that to be in a place like this, least of all to pop into a tavern. If it weren't for her clothes, she would've been the perfect fit for the kind of nobility whose lives were just so out of reach of the common folk, it was almost impossible to comprehend them.
But she sauntered up to the bar, and spoke in a voice that dripped with a surprising amount of sensual grace. She asked for a drink, and the bartender obliged. Though oddly, he seemed quietly tense to George, when he wasn't before.
Was this woman perhaps more than she seemed?
He'd have ample opportunity to ponder, because she sat down next to him with her flagon, and sipped slowly. She sat with a regal grace, making George wonder if she might have actually been a noble in disguise. But why any noble would do that outside of avoiding unfriendly sorts looking to take their head, George didn't know.
He did his best to ignore her, to drink quietly and not cause a fuss, but it was she that spoke first.
"You are not from here, yes?" she asked; even accented, her voice in his language was soft and rich.
"Yeah, I come from Saxony originally, but I have been living in the neighbouring duchy for a while now. I make a trip every now and then for business and family to the country on the
other
side. Normally I go north, but decided to go through this time. A change of pace, you could say. And a surprising guess of the language I speak."
He really shouldn't have divulged too much to a stranger, but what did it matter, really? He had nothing valuable on him save his coin.
"Ah, a traveller!" the woman exclaimed softly, as if it were exciting news. "We do not get many of them in Dolina Mroku. There is not much around here but for Castle Mroczna. The family there rules over this place, and is responsible for the town's wine exports. If you did not come for that, then you must learn of it. The wines from this valley are some of the finest in the world. As for my guess, consider it intuition. Many travellers know that language."
She then got the bartender's attention again, and called for a bottle of wine, though the name eluded George, the word in the local tongue not familiar to him.
The bartender obliged, bringing out a bottle with a simple but stylish silver frame around the neck. The dark green bottle obscured its contents, but when the cork was popped, George detected the smell immediately. Strong, pleasant, fruity, but curious in a way.
The bartender produced two simple glasses, and poured out two serves of the deep red liquid. The woman exchanged some coin, and the bartender handed a glass to the both of them, and then quickly got back to what he was doing, leaving George and the woman to converse.
They exchanged a nod, and both took a sip, and George felt that his nose had given him a hint of the quality wine he now tasted. Fruity, with a rich, deep taste, strong, but not overbearing, with an edge to it that was pleasant but curious, in that he couldn't quite describe it.
"How is it?" she asked, and he took another sip before issuing an appreciative grunt.
"This is some quality stuff," he praised. "I didn't realise County Mroczna made such fantastic wines. I had heard of it, but you'd think your home would be the talk of the wine trade. Not that I'm familiar with such things, admittedly."
