Tale from the waste-basket

1

“Fuck” He cursed with sharp surprise. Pausing briefly to allow his racing heart to calm; as he examined the tangle of branches that had snagged on the crimson fabric of his worn frock coat. His fierce blue eyes taking a quick analyzing glimpse over his shoulder. His ears focused intently on every sound; and struggling to hear beyond the buzzing melody of insects and the croaking of frogs that infested the seemingly endless god forsaken swamp. Then with a snort of hot air through his nose, he was off again; trumpeted on with the crackling of sticks and the rhythmic splashing of water.
The swamp was hot and humid, even by the dying light of the sun; which scarcely managed to poke even the faintest rays of light through the dense foliage that shaped this stinking soupy asshole that was the marsh.
The dull gray leather of the cavalier boots upon is feet were rejuvenated to their former inky blackness, as they sopped up the marsh water. The buckles there of sparkled like new; while the smoky hue of his breaches was likewise darkened and bunching defiantly about his knees. A bowler hat of felt perched upon his head, it was black and dusty with flecks of dry mud spattering its surface. Oily hairs as white as winter snow protruded from out its brim, cascading down to frame the corners of his likewise chalky beard. Yet he was still a young man, slender and smooth skinned, albeit pale (Apart from the sun-scorched blotches of red upon his nose, cheeks and ears.
A rapier hung at his hip. It was elegant and light with a swirling hilt of tarnished silver. Even so, he preferred the simplicity of the revolver he wore holstered along his ribs, bound with cracked belts of leather, just next to his heart. There it was safely tucked away, beneath the gold buttons of his crimson frock coat and just above his vest of swirling blue and black silk.
Abruptly a slight pinch of an insect bite pained the back of his neck, to which he responded with a snappy slap to the clammy flesh there of. Grumbling miserably as he pressed on, wondering what rotten disease he was likely to contract as a result. Though he knew the swamp was prone to host more immediate perils than the contagions of mosquitoes.
Furthermore the hope of escaping the wetland in any reasonable stretch of time was diminishing as dusk approached. Though perhaps he could take comfort in the fact that the rabble, that had driven him from town would think twice about pursuing him through the swamp at dark. Bumbling through the woodland muskeg at night without means of navigation could be fatal; and the creatures there in could likely withstand more than a bullet, even from the larger caliber of his forty-five revolver (of which he had little remaining ammunition following the shootout in the company town of Bayview).
It would likely be necessary to spend the night in a tree. There he could perhaps limit his dangers to venomous snakes, rather than braving a black swamp infested with alligators and gods only knew what other horrors.
So he stopped, huffing for breath as his muscles ached with fatigue. He searched the dimming landscape for a suitable place to rest. It didn’t take long before he spotted a tree he felt he could climb. If he was the type of man who knew about tree’s, he would have recognized it as a bald cypress, but he was not that kind of man; so to him it was simply a tree. It was tall and brown with few low lying branches, but sporting a long twisted trunk that seemed common in this region. It just seemed to be the way of this place, that things should grow warped and ugly. Although he was grateful for the ease with which he could climb it. The tree splayed out at the top, providing him with ample room to sit and possibly sleep without fear of slipping out and tumbling down to some shit water grave as he rested.
He moved steadily upward with graceful ease, until at last he reached the plateau. Here he rested, his eyes scanning the southern trail he’d blazed. He waited. Expecting to catch a glimpse of torches or hear the cry of of hounds; but there was nothing. Soon darkness overcame him and without realizing, sleep overtook him.

2

He awoke in a depressing state sometime in the early morning, but still caught in the inky black of night. His sleep had been anything but restful. He awoke frequently, plagued with a terrible shiver induced by the soaking wet clothes he was adorned in; such was that even the slightest breeze seemed to cut right through them with ease. Also the swamp seemed to come alive at night, howling, splashing and the screams of creatures were carried to his ears on the back of the wind.
By the time he awoke he was more exhausted than before, and those extremities which had not gone numb now ached terribly. He lay in that state, shivering, hungry, sore and tired for what seemed like an eternity. Cursing his fortune, the sun and the gods; until light finally broke, and he could find his way down from his treetop prison. The angle of descent was gentle and he had few issues on the way down (excluding a few moments, when the brittle coffee colored bark broke free from its rotted host, revealing its sticky sallow core). The ground was now close enough that he could slide the remaining distance and landed with a spectacular splash.
He then paused, allowing himself a moment to yawn and stretch his weary limbs, which he did with a blissful ecstasy that was of the equal of felines; nearly losing his hat and toppling over as blood rushed to his head. He wished bitterly that he could have some tea or even some wine to slick his thirst and clear away the morning cobwebs from his mind. It had been perhaps a day since he had eaten as well, and his stomach was beginning to grumble with that miserable hollow feeling. He was of noble blood and unaccustomed to hunger, and thirst, and aching bones. It didn’t suit him at all, and yet, his predicament wasn’t negotiable. It was do or die, so he did.
He had fled north from Bayview due to a deluge of hot lead and unkind words in regard to his character. He was however no longer merely attempting to outpace a mob, and he felt he should go east towards the rising sun. To the east (somewhere) lay the Imperial Railroad, which ran north, north west from the Crescent Kingdom in the south to Yellow-seed on the southern edge of the Cur Forrest (where the Imperial Railroad ran west-east from there).
He concluded if he followed the sun east he would find the tracks, and from there he could follow them north to a town, or perhaps even catch a train. He reached into his side-pocket, the row of rings adorning his fingers catching the lip of the fabric as he did. From inside his fingers plucked the shiny metal case that held his tobacco. The case was smooth and reflective, but the image it mirrored was merely a haze of red and black hues. He snapped it open and helped himself to a pinch of leaf, which he proceeded to cram into his lower lip before snapping the case shut and shoving it back into his pocket. He was pleased as his mouth began to gush with saliva, and he swallowed the first wave, which burned its way down his throat, but helped to relieve his dehydration. With that, he set his gaze east, and proceeded once more into the cattails.

3

The swamp grew deeper as he moved east. The vegetation was thicker and the cattails grew taller. The water was now nearly at his chest and he now wore his tobacco tin in the band of his hat. He had drawn his revolver as well and carried it in his left hand the best he could, but the exercise was exhausting, so he rested the barrel on his shoulder as he forged ahead. There was something else, a growing paranoia of alligators that had inflated nearly to the point of hysteria. So he now to carried his rapier with his right and proceeded to poke and prod and slash at the water in all directions. At one point even spending one of his precious few remaining rounds, by shooting at a floating log that had lazily bobbed towards him with a little too much menacing intent for his liking.
It was almost noon now (he felt), but didn’t dare remove his eyes from the waters surface for even a moment to check, not even to confirm his direction. He was already in the grip of terror when he heard the sickening snap of branches from somewhere not far ahead. His stomach churned and his hairs stood on end. For a moment he froze, his eyes searching frantically as he struggled to listen over the beating of his own heart. Then it came again. CRACKA-TSHHH
His blood ran cold, but with a sudden burst of adrenaline he bolted for the nearest tree (Although bolting wasn’t quite the right word. The water hugged him and lowed his movements, it was more of a frantic saunter). His flesh did not know the water, and the water offered little in the way of pity. He was prey, splashing wildly in terror with little of his usual dignity remaining. It would have been pathetically comical to witness this poor water snail floundering helplessly to safety as rows of hungry white teeth expertly bore down upon him like bullets from a gun.
His mouth opened wide, jamming the revolver between his teeth and sheathing his sword as he reached the evergreen. Upwards he scrambled, clawing at branches and tearing out handfuls of sticky pine needles; losing his hat as he ascended. He didn’t stop until he had nearly scaled the tree (which proceeded to rock back and forth from the generated momentum.
His heart was pounding as he holstered the pistol, able to feel each throbbing beat in his fingertips as he clung to the evergreen for dear life. Peering perilously downward into the murky water he saw nothing. Suddenly though, he heard the noise again; a rustling and the snapping of branches. Soon his gaze turned from water to grass as finally he was able to make out the banks of the swamp.
There was also a whispy trail of smoke billowing up into the afternoon sky from somewhere behind the treeline. There along the banks of the swamp lay the construct of his anxiety. There lay the magistrate of the marsh, resting upon his muddy throne, greedily baring down upon his regal banquet. It was an alligator; much longer than a man and nearly the same greasy shade of green as the swamp that was his kingdom. Rows of thick bumps armored his anatomy from head to toe. The monster had positioned himself directly in the mans path to shore, where it lay and feast. It’s powerful jaws clamped tight around the shell of the turtle.
The man watched as the alligator squeezed, producing the sickening cracking sounds that had alerted him to danger. The beast then reared it’s massive head and with another loud crackling pop the shell collapsed between the creatures jaws; crimson blood gushed from the corners of its dripping chops.
The man glanced further to the east, considering the plume of smoke and what kind of settlement or camp he might find there. His stomach grumbled with misery and his mouth was still hopelessly dry from thirst. His desperation was growing with each passing moment; pushing his fear and better judgment deep down within his empty guts as he drew his revolver and dropped from the tree down into the water with a magnificent spray of silvery green water. His bowler was here (bobbing helplessly on the waters surface like a child's boat). He grabbed his hat as he passed on the way to shore, forging forward with the obsessive fury of a madman. The alligator snapped its ugly head back immediately, it’s narrow golden eyes met with his own for a brief moment. Then there was a thunderous BANG that sent screeching birds into the air, as the alligator’s brains were scattered on the dirt and a crimson spray painted the grass. The man emerged from the swamp with water draining from every pore of his apparel like a rung out sponge. He holstered his pistol and drew his sword while approaching the carcass. The man stood over the creatures broken body for a moment as he examined the kill. Then in a blur of steel he pierced the creatures hide with the point of his blade. The creature was truly slain. He carried on in the direction of the smoke beyond the waterfront he had left stained red with victory.

4

“Get out-a here you fucking mutt! Get!” he shouted hurling a stone at the small hazel mongrel that had belly crawled up to the fire (drawn by the maddening aroma of sizzling bacon). The pup only flinched as the stone kicked up a plume of dust next to him, missing its mark.
“I said get! So help me...” He was a heavy set man, thick boned and bulbous, with bunching rolls of fat. He was not easy on the eyes in any regard. His furious shouting had turned his face cherry red; the features of which were pock marked and comically over sized, riddled with bumps and moles that could not be hidden even beneath the graying mutton-chops that adored it. He sat shirtless and cross legged next to the fire, with only a pair of brown suspenders to contain his sagging hairy man breasts.
“If I gotta come over there!” he threatened, throwing another stone that missed once more, but succeeded in chasing the pooch off to a more respectful distance (where it remained, though with vigilant brown eyes fixed upon the frying pan).
The man reached a plump arm out and grasped a ladle that lay propped up on a rock next to his fire. He then proceeded to stir a boiling pot of beans, his large hairy sausage like fingers stirring leisurely with the ladle as steam rose into the air.
“Bill!” He shouted without looking. “Bill! Get your arse over here! Beans are ready!” There was a rustling of leaves nearby and a voice replied.
“Fuck you Otis! Don’t go talking to me like I'm some mutt. I’ll eat when I'm good and fucking ready!”
Otis’s face twisted into a scowl as he pulled the ladle from the bubbling brew and pointed it with threatening intent towards the bushes, flicking droplets of brown clumps of beans through the air as he did.
“Listen here you little cock sniffer, get out here and EAT! Or I am coming back there and corking that asshole with this ladle!”
Laughter erupted from the direction of the bushes as Bill called back. “Damnit Otis! Don’t make me laugh, I got the runs!”
“You’ll run if I gotta spend another night in this fuckin swamp!”
Suddenly a gunshot rang out nearby, shattering the relative silence of the swamp trail; sending a flock of shrieking fowl skyward. The dog, which until now had been solely focused on the roasting strips of meat, leaped up in surprise and began barking wildly at the tree’s with reckless enthusiasm.
“Shut up!” Otis Pleaded with hushed urgency as he scrambled to his feet.
“Shut up, shut up!” He repeated again, wiping a sweaty palm on the thigh of his bean stained trousers before snatching the antique flintlock musket that lay in the splayed grass at his side.
Just then Bill came crashing through the tree’s, hopping on one foot as he struggled to pull a boot onto his foot. Surprised again, the dog turned now to face Bill, assaulting him with a series of panicked barks (that may have said, “You! Asshole! You scared me!”).
Bill was a bone thin aging man with thinning blonde hair that poked out wildly in all directions. He wore a button-less gray vest (that seemed as worn and ancient as his own wrinkled face). Bill limped to a nearby tree, against which his affects were lain.
“You see anything?” Bill asked without reply; fumbling to buckle his belt about his waist as he did. Otis’s eyes were unblinking as they concentrated on the treeline.
“Otis...”- “Otis!...” Bill repeated, attempting to have his shrill whispers heard above the relentless droning woofing of the dog.
“You some bitch!” Otis growled with an enraged kick to the dog’s ribs when it got close, producing a final yelp from the frightened animal (which immediately bolted for the shelter of the mule drawn freight wagon).
“Hunters?” Bill asked, now similarly armed with a flintlock musket and a saber belted to his hip. Now taking cover behind the trunk of a large oak. Otis shook his head, twisting folds in the fat of his chubby neck.
“What am I Bill? Some fuckin Seer?” Otis snarled. Bill scowled his wrinkled face at him, but made no reply. Merely watching as Otis made his way to the back of the wagon, where he intended to make his stand.
Following several tense moments, during which time Bill had belly crawled next to the fire, in order to remove the smoking pan (that now held blackened bacon); a flash of red appeared in the foliage to the west.
“Otis!-” Bill nearly squealed “-over there!” Otis nodded slightly as he drew back the hammer of his firearm.
“Hold!-” Otis bellowed “-speak your piece, or be blown to pieces!”
“Woah!” a thirst parched voice called back, “I mean no harm stranger. I’ve been lost in the swamp all night, without provisions.” The voice ceased for a moment to clear it’s throat with a familiar, “ahem”. The voice cleared some as it continued, “I smell bacon, and require clean drink.-” he paused touching his hand to his throat, following a break in his voice, “I can pay.”
There was a tense moment of silence that followed as Bill and Otis exchanged suspicious, yet considering glances. “Yer.-” Otis replied, “-We’ll do business. Leave your ordinance over there though. Better believe I’m gonna check and you don’t wanna die for beans. That ain’t impressin’ your ancestors none.”

5

They sat together, the three of them were lounging around the fire. Bill fetched a water skin, once the stranger produced the paper coin he promised (crimson notes of the ‘Crown Bank of Industria’, amounting to twenty coin. A generous sum that could purchase eight pounds of bacon, or two hundred pounds of flour); the notes were soaking wet, but the exchange was made and guzzled the cool leather flavored water greedily. He lacked in any class or self awareness as clear streams of aqua ran down his face from the corners of his mouth.
“Feed the man Bill.” Otis ordered while carefully watching the strange albino in the blood hued coat devour his drink; the musket resting in his lap still gripped tight.
“What’s your name stranger?” Otis asked with suspicion, not batting an eye or twitching a muscle. The stranger lowered the water-skin, nearly choking with a slight gasp for air as he did.
“Samuel-” he coughed “-Roycechile, the sixth; but my friends call me Royce.” Bill who had just returned with a plate of bread, and some cheese, chimed in.
“… Holy shit...-” Bill exclaimed quietly with shocked amazement. “- a white lord. Just look at his ring.” Gesturing to a gold signet ring adorning Royce’s index finger. Otis however remained unimpressed, his face had curled into a disapproving sneer, the kind a person might make at the scent of shit in the air.
“Aye.” Otis noted simply while Bill dished up the beans onto the worn tin plate, served with three slices of steaming bacon, some bread and some cheese.
“I’m Bill and that sour puss is Otis... Don’t mind him, he likes the color of your money fine.” Otis nodded in agreement to this. “And we ain’t the type of men to pry into a mans personal affairs, but… What in the hell were doing out in that fuckin swamp boy?-” Bill added with a grin and a chuckle.
“Hmm, well..-” Royce said with a look of consideration upon his face, whilst chewing and swallowing a spoonful of beans. “-It’s complicated...-” he muttered as he helped himself to another bite. “-I was exiled… Temporarily.-” pausing again as he chewed. “-but, that’s done with. Mm, now I can go home.”
“To Tristram?” Bill inquired with growing interest.
“Yer...-” Royce agreed whilst attempting to lick a chunk of bacon out of his teeth, “-For now.-” he was interrupted as he crammed a wad of bean soaked bread down his gullet and chewed. “-Then… On to Citadel.”
Bill raised an eyebrow at this as he responded, “Really? Why? There ain’t nothing up Citadel way.” Royce shook his head and replied with a smile.
“No… Not yet, but there will be.” It was at this time Otis interjected.
“That doesn’t explain what the fuck yer doing out in the swamp.”
“Well...-” Royce said, considering the question. “- I don’t weigh much… You gentlemen give me a place to sit up on that wagon, and let me ride as far as the next town. I’ll tell you all about it on the way.” Otis scowled at Bill, who reciprocated with a gesture that could be read as saying “C’mon.”, to which Otis replied in turn with a look of distrust, but giving his reluctant nod of approval.
“Well alright gentlemen.-” Royce said with a smile. “-It’s been five years, that was my sentence. Five years I've spent aboard the riverboat Clarion.”

6

The Clarion was a massive three tier riverboat, a steam powered guardian of the Industrian water ways. It had beautiful hand carved cherry oak furnishing, three bars, a gambling parlor, a lounge, a small army of servers and hostesses, a diner, spa, a dentist, ladies of the evening, or anything else a wealthy man of the flesh could desire. For these reasons it wasn’t appropriate to refer to the Clarion as a prison ship. Contrary, as in time it had become a home, the staff and patrons were like a second family. Though a prison is what it had become to Royce. It had been five year since he had been exiled from the capitol. Five years since he had stepped foot on the soil of his homeland. Countless nights he had spent on the many decks and balconies of the Clarion; Brandy or whisky and wine mingling with his blood as he watched the shoreline slip passed in the darkness. Morose and sick for home, he would pacify his senses with spirits until finally passing out beneath the black star stippled tapestry that was the eternal sky.
There was good times as well, women and wine, duels to the death, duels to the blood; there was cards and dice, bandits, and tales from all corners of the world. The Clarion had been his home and it had done alright by him. When his exile had ended, the captain and proprietor (as well as his dear friend) Lawrence Sodwig demanded Royce remain with the Clarion until the ship could return him to the Capitol. Though Royce had a lot of lost time to make up for and politely declined and said his farewells. He hit the docks running the first berth the Clarion made. A modest logging town by name of Bayview. Located in one of the southern most provinces of Industria, the Crescent Kingdom.
It was a simple place, he felt it was a relic that remained of simpler times. There was the lumber mill of course, an insatiable beast that devoured tree’s by day and shat boards by night. Heaping mounds of sawdust were piled like roving hills all around its vicinity. Logs were floated down river, and strips of timber traveled north by rail to the capitol of Tristram.
The scent of rain had fragranced the air and the sawdust mountains melted and streamed into the muddy streets like rivers of vomit. The people of the town hurried about the sidewalks, rushing in and out from under the lips of storefront balconies, patios and terraces as they attempted to stay dry and clean.
Royce found himself on one such street fighting off the damp and cold beneath the open concept gallery of the Bayview train station.
“What do you mean there’s no train? I have tickets.” A well dressed young lady in an aqua bustle dress with a cream floral pattern complained.
“I’m sorry ma’am.-” the ticket-master explained in an even sincere tone as she attempted to poof her drooping rain soaked bonnet into place. “-I’m afraid there’s been a mudslide across the tracks north of here and there will be no train service today. Crews will be working through the night to...” Royce didn’t catch the last bit, he was already gone. Slogging off in the mud in search of a saloon (and possibly some sport). He might have been upset, but he wasn’t. Five years lost looking upon the same walls, the same paintings, the same damn blasted faces day after blasted day; it had the effect of filling a man with gratitude for any change of scenery, no matter how bleak or uninspired.
The saloon wasn’t a hard place to find; not because of the miniature nature of the town, but because of the familiar raucous discord of drunken revelry and lively piano tunes that polluted the air and gushed out into the streets like a river of wine. The Silver Oak saloon was a bi-level building with cracked yellow paint, whose entrance lay beneath the upper balcony; facing the street corner, the doorway to which appeared in a peculiar 45 degree nook (much like a corner piece that had been removed at an angle from a square cake). There was a dim light that radiated out of its shutter style doors (which had been pinned open against the arbitrary whims of the drifting breeze).
Royce went unnoticed as he crossed the threshold and entered the saloon. It was a simple layout, mainly tables and chairs laid out around a husky bar that stretched the breadth of the room. The walls were adorned with antlers and trophy heads of all manner of beast. The majority of the patrons gathered ‘round the piano player, swaying and staggering into one another as they sang, laughed or shouted requests above the deafening roar.
Royce made his way to the bar and found himself a stool where he could sit. In the background a little man hurried about serving drinks, clearing glasses and lighting candles and lanterns in a routine that had obviously been practiced and perfected through years of trial and error.
From behind the bar a door slowly opened and a bald headed man, with an impressive waxed mustache that curled at the edges, appeared. He was buttoning his trousers and restoring his suspenders over the shoulders of his pinstriped cotton shirt; when a woman hustled out behind him, wiping her mouth with a lacy handkerchief as she went. The man was healthy and strong, perhaps a retired member of the lumber yard workforce and carried himself with a confidence that perhaps indicated him as the owner. The man smiled a wide tobacco stained grin as he approached Royce.
“Well howdy stranger, welcome to the Silver Oak, where the wine is sweeter and the women prettier. Especially after you’ve tried the wine.” He laughed, “What can I get you?”
“Whatever is strongest.-” Royce said with a smile, slapping a one coin note on the counter. “-and a room if you have one.”
“Sure sure-.” the barkeep nodded in agreement, dropping a large leather bound ledger and an ink with quill in front of Royce. “-Just sign the register. Chase!” The man bellowed sharply as he reached for an empty glass. “Chase! Where are you, yah little orange bastard?”
“Here sir! Here!” Came a high toned voice that seemed almost pleading. Accompanied by a miniature redheaded man who quickly appeared.
“Chase make ready mister...-” the barkeep flipped the register so it could be read. “-Roycechile’s room and be quick about it.” The bartenders brow furrowed briefly and his one eye squinted as he struggled to place the name, but almost could not. “Moonshine is the strongest we have mister.” he said pouring the clear liquid into as shot glass and then placing it before Royce. “Tread lightly”. Giving his friendly warning with a grin. “The name Malakai by the way...” he trailed off as his gaze was drawn to the entrance where it remained fixed. “Sorry.” He apologized “I have to deal with something.” Royce threw the shot back.
“Gods!” His eye’s watered and his face twisted into a wrinkled wince as the burning liquor scorched his soft pink innards. He exhaled slowly, the liquor still prominent on his breath as he did. The fiery exhaust rose from his lungs like dragon’s fire, and in that moment he remarked to himself that dragon’s fire or devil’s breath would be a more appropriate title than moonshine. Still recoiling in temporary agony, Royce peeked over his shoulder to see where Malakai had run off to.

7

There she was, standing between the shutter doors like an angel. The rain clouds were passing and the sun had broken through. Now dusty rays of light twinkled and danced around her figure as it cascaded in through the plain wooden threshold. Long raven curls flowed down her back; framing the delicate features of her cream colored face, save for the ruby lipstick adorning her mouth and the black make-up that lined her hazel ‘take what I want’ eyes; which glittered with a beauty that rivaled even the precious stones adorning her silver earrings. Her body was sex, thin yet curvy, her breasts seemed ready to explode out of the low V cut beige blouse that crowned her under-bust corset (which was constructed of black lace with red accents). A short black U shaped skirt drooped from the tops of her hips and only barely covering her privates; leaving the milky flesh of her thighs exposed. Black stockings and garters garnished her legs from the knee’s down (accentuating the exposed area), to a pair of matching leather high heel boots (that contained an almost uncountable number of laces).
Royce was feeling hot and flush, now realizing there was something in this town that burned more fiercely than their moonshine. He was captivated by this woman and found it impossible to look away. She had Royce as well, and her beautiful red lips curled into a wicked knowing smile.
“Damnit Lily!” Malakai scolded in a hushed tone, trying not to draw any attention to the pair. “You can’t come in here! Not like this! Don’t you remember what happened last time?”
“Aww sugar.-” Lily said with a pouting frown that was neither genuine nor convincing “-you wouldn’t throw little old me out in the cold,-” her voice was smoky and seductive as she gazed back at him, fluttering her long lashes over those brown saucer eye’s. “-would you?” Malakai shook his head, seeming slightly ashamed that her female charms had actually worked on him. “Gooood.” she said dragging out the word as she brushed passed him with a gingerly pat on his chest.
“Just one drink, then you go!” Malakai called after her, to which she replied with a kind of ‘yeah yeah’ gesture over her shoulder with a finger-less lace gloved hand. In the background the music and revelry hadn’t skipped a beat, but Royce hadn’t noticed. His gaze had been captivated by the lovely lady Lily and hers the same of him. Royce could tell she was a huntress of sorts, a man hunter, who delighted in feasting on the hearts of young men. A spider that would devour anything juicy caught in her silk web, but Royce figured he could afford to lose a pint of blood or so (if he had considered the peril at all).
“My my, you must be new.” Lily said as she floated up to the bar.
“Lily.” Malakai warned with scolding decension.
“Oh!-” Lily squeaked as she placed a hand on the red fabric shoulder of Royce’s frock coat. “-am I bothering you sir?”
“No not at all.” Royce professed with a smirk and a glimmer in his eye.
“Gooood.” she spoke in a way that was not unlike the purring of a cat. She took the seat next to Royce, revealing her garters that were quite plain below the heinous high slits accenting the sides of her dress. Something about Malakai’s raised eyebrow signaled Royce to future troubles, but song birds in his heart drowned out the warning bells in his head.
“Infact i’d like to buy you a drink, barkeep, open us a bottle of your finest wine.” Royce said with a sly smile that refused to be contained
“Gold Vine.” Lily suggested.
“Gold Vine.” Royce nodded in agreement. Malakai frowned as he stooped to retrieve the bottle, but pausing to interject as his eyes met with Royce.
“That’s twenty coin a bottle.” Malakai noted.
“Than we’ll be needing two, start a tab, whatever the lady wants and a round for the house” Royce said as he slapped a hundred coin note on the bar. To which Malakai’s eye’s widened astonishment.
“Hoo, yes sir!” The gesture had a warming affect on Lily as well, she moved in close and placed a hand on Royce’s leg while whispering in his ear,
“I like a man with money.-” she had a sultry way of enunciating each word with sexual fervor. “-Better yet, I like a man who knows how to have fun.” Lily’s hand slid further up Royce’s leg, where it remained, even after Malakai had returned with the wine and fresh glasses.
“Malakai,-” she cooed “-two cigars as well.”
“Yes Misses Winthrope.” The misses was emphasized and altogether spoken with a tone of disapproval. That was the first time that Royce perceived any visible ugliness in the girl, her face reddened with a mixture of embarrassment and dread at the prospect of her fun being spoiled. Royce lay a reassuring hand on hers, where it lay on his lap; and with a devilish grin that had been practiced since birth he interjected,
“It is my greatest pleasure that I should meet you Misses Winthrope,-” Then adding as he gazed deep into her eyes. “-but I prefer Lily. Very suitable, very beautiful.”
“Oh you.-” she said adding a dramatic flicking gesture with her wrist that said ‘get out’, though meant anything but. “-and might I be equally honored with your name kind sir?”
Royce smiled back as he announced in his ‘as a matter of fact’ way that he was “Lord Samuel Isaac Roycechile the sixth, but you may call me Royce; and the honor is of course mine.” Lily was slightly taken aback at this and rendered speechless. Malakai however dropped a glass he was preparing for the round Royce had purchased, which shattered upon impact in typical spectacular fashion. Malakai’s throat made an audible gulping sound and his face turned off white before he could speak his next words, which were. “You’re, You’re a… A White-Lord.”
“Oh my...-” Lily said simply with twinkling lustful eyes. “- A prince.”