As I watch townsfolk and traveling merchants gossip and haggle and scurry about, the feeling I used to come to these places for is noticeably absent. I would enjoy seeing their trite existences and letting it hone the blade of my mind. I let it bring the truth of reality into harsher and crisper relief. Today, disappointingly, I feel only the sensation of wasting. Wasting time waiting for money. Wasting time waiting for underlings. Wasting time waiting for power and influence and control on a massive scale.
I know Ner Ngal chose me. I felt His touch when He gave me new life and new purpose. I know I am His agent and I accept that His Will cannot be understood by me. I am not discouraged in not knowing the destiny He has chosen me for, nor having to walk the path in darkness. He is the End. He is the Destination. Everything flows to Him, nothing from Him, according to His design. I should not expect that He will reverse His flow merely to answer my questions; that He will give instead of receive. He receives all. Whatever I deliver will be His, and I am comforted in believing that the one intervention He made when He chose me was enough for Him to receive the outcome He desires. My free will is the destiny He demands.
It is not for me to decide when the Apocalypse will arrive and devour all creation, but I can be certain it lies in the future. Whether I am the harbinger of the End or not, it seems obvious that my duty, the purpose He chose me for, is to prepare all creation for Him.
I must be able to affect the entire world if I am to serve my purpose. I must seek power across all facets of existence. I must control all men, possess all knowledge, master all magic, and direct the future to a worthy end!
My heartbeat increases and I feel my face flush. I am severely deficient in all aspects that I must master, and here I wait for a lowly group of inept mercenaries to work through their personal issues so that I can get back to work earning enough money to move to a better place with which to build an empire that will prepare the world for Everlasting Darkness. I am a fool.
I rise to my feet and leave the square with no particular destination in mind. My thoughts blur together and time passes without witness.
When my mind clears, it is dark and I am in the lower commons. Lurking in a narrow alleyway, I am watching a group of people still plying their trade after dark, hunched over sewing and carving by firelight.
Sad, desperate people.
I step out into the street and glance up and down the narrow, dirt lane whose deep cart ruts create distinct tracks which force people walk outside of, despite there being no cart traffic at the moment.
I am tired. I look for lodging and find it a couple blocks away, closer to the southern gate road. The rectangular sign is unreadable, having collected a film of moss and grime over countless years that even an occupation by orcs and subsequent siege warfare dared not strip away.
Inside is equally grimy, as is the proprietor.
“A private room for the night,” I say in clear Elysian.
He stares at me like I’ve spoken Elvish and goes, “Huh?”
“A private room. One night,” I enunciate, repeating my request.
The greasy, thick-necked man simply spits.
I see. He speaks only one language, and it isn’t Elysian.
Reaching into my pocket, I feel for a two pence coin. Just like with the street urchin I hired to spy on the owner of the pawn shop, I place the coin firmly under my finger on the counter. This gets his attention.
He coughs and says in a brusque, gravely voice, “Ain’t got private rooms but there’ll be one end with a curtain for yer sensibilities. Dinner’s in the bucket there and we don’t serve no breakfast.” Unlike the street urchin, he makes no move toward the coin under my finger. He’s apparently got some dignity.
Good. In fact, there is much about this man’s behavior that I can respect. I decide to stay.
I lift my finger and walk past him. I don’t bother looking into the dinner bucket, but I take a pail and fill it from a barrel of water after smelling it to ensure it is fresh. As I walk through the curtain to the back room, I hear the coin scrape across the counter at last.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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