Obsidian and Flame

Chapter 1: Jesters Mask

The room spun.

Marcus was hoping to avoid this. The mug of ale had become heavy in his hand, and the thick amber brew splashed over the rim and on to his sleeve. Marcus set it down with a heavy thud and fixed his glare on the greasy black wood of the table, willing his mind to steady, his vision blurred and he nodded off, just for a second, and had to jerk his head back to keep it from it hitting the table. Marcus sighed, he seemed to find himself in this state more often than not. He was in a tavern, one that was damp, hot, and smelled of musty rain-soaked coats and pipe smoke. The tavern was not well lit, there were lanterns on the perimeter and a beastly iron stove at the back which glowed a molten red through its vents. The Jesters Mask was decidedly morose compared to the other lively taverns. Any of the other establishment in the town held a better reputation. Marcus, however, could never find solace amidst merriment; he found the dull haze of the Jesters Mask comforting, even the nauseating heat was well suited for the purpose of drinking and being left alone. Since arriving in Hosmoth Marcus had done a lot of drinking, alone.

He tried again to focus and swept his eyes lazily around the room at the motley assortment of patrons who had also taken refuge at the tavern, a rough crew and Marcus pondered their morals, vaguely wondering if any gave a toss where they were going in life. Their days were long, cold and hardened, as was true for most of the laboring men that called Hosmoth home.

The town had originated in the days of the realms expansion, it was built to harvest the many resources of the region and thrived with industry based on coal, timber, quarry stone, and agriculture from the surrounding farms. In truth, there was so much enterprise that jobs were always available for men, skilled or not, as long as they were willing to do back-breaking work. Most could make good coin this way and that attracted the strong, the desperate, the displaced, the stupid and the greedy to Hosmoth and helped to earn the city its reputation as the most hostile and inhospitable in the region.

The actual buildings in the city represented a collision of styles; most of the town was built for the blue collar populace, constructed as the industry and population grew, Hosmoth consisted mainly of quarters, shops and halls of the working classes. However, the original architecture had been fashioned after the palatial style of the capital. Some of these buildings were occupied by the few upper-class citizens, the plant owners, and trade magnates, but most abandoned, being too opulent for the common class. Hosmoth was not the type of place in which one settled down to raise a family, only a few of the wealthy actually brought their wives to reside in town, thus most of the women in the city were there to make money off the men who appreciated their assets- employed as barmaids, chamber wenches and, most profitable of all, the prostitutes. The pick of ladies at the Jesters Mask was generally less savory, but on slow nights prettier ones might venture in for an easy sell or to hustle money out of the drunks and the gamblers.

Marcus learned early to avoid the prostitutes but found he was unable to dodge the attention of brawlers. When he was just seventeen he was already taller than most fully grown men. Now, at twenty and four years he had grown into his size: streamlined and, deceptively strong; a combination that enticed the seasoned fighters. Marcus looked like he could put up enough of a fight to draw bets (or at least entertain a crowd) but could be easily beat by the experienced burley men who made their fortune with their fists. Marcus, however, had been taught to fight, and he was quick: Physically and mentally more agile than most of his opponents (at least when he wasn't drunk). Marcus was also no stranger to weapons, his sword was turned over to the bartender as the laws of Hosmoth declared, but he still carried his knives which were cleverly concealed within the lining of his coat, and which he could expertly wield.

Wind howled through the streets- so piercing that it seemed to ring directly in Marcus's ears. The storm that had begun earlier in the day now sat directly overhead. Marcus covered his ears, his head had become heavy again and he labored to lift his chin and muster some strength over his own stupor. Marcus saw that the tavern door was open, and the wind was, in fact, gusting through the room. The door had been caught by the storm and swung heavily on its hinges. None of the help had yet bothered to pull the door closed, so the wind intruded, rushing in on either side of a strikingly beautiful woman. She stood, cloak and skirts flapping wildly, in the threshold. The lady was obviously lost; one glance at her clothing and her posture proved she was a high-bred stock. "Probably got lost passing through town." Marcus thought to himself "Certainly took a wrong turn into this shit hole". He watched, amused, as every man took a bold look, appraising her openly as she made her way to the bar bench. Even the wenches darted jealous glances toward the pretty stranger. One of the more confident men made a gentlemanly production of paying for the lady's drink. Gradually the audience of patrons turned back to their cups and their own business. Marcus lost interest as well. Once the tavern door was shut, the wind screaming in his ears lessened, the hard oak table felt inviting and comfortable, his head dropped, and he let it rest on the sticky wood. He could no longer resist his intoxicated need to rest and found himself slipping into a troubled dream.

The sun was going down in a fiery golden brilliance, rimmed with a bloody pink that faded into the deep violet of twilight. He knew this sky. It haunted him. Struggling and suddenly short of breath, Marcus felt panic crawl into his limbs. He wanted to turn away, he wanted to scream. The rhythm of hooves could be heard carried on the wind louder and louder until they filled Marcus' head with chaos.

"Mother!" he screamed in terror, turning to see Jill, standing like an apparition- blood, black as oil bubbled from her mouth.

"No" he began to scream "Noooooooooooooooooooo! Noooooooooooooo! Nooooooooooooo!" Over and over the cry filled his mind.

Then the feeling of his father's hands on his shoulders, shaking him.

"Marcus..." Ty's voice was like an anchor and Marcus clung to it.

"Marcus..."

Marcus looked up into his father's face, Ty's jaw was shifted grotesquely, his expression full of infinite sadness.

"Why?" asked Marcus, staring into his father's eyes.

"Marcus..." Ty slipped something into his pocket and the weight of it pulled Marcus to the ground, then through the ground and into darkness. From within that black place, he heard an other-worldly hum, a high pitched flywheel spinning in and out of his brain. Then a new voice ancient, inhuman, menacing called his name "MARCUS!!"

He bolted awake, a silent scream choking him as he gasped for breath. He was cold with sweat and his heart was racing, his eyes stung and a sob caught in his throat. The terror had slowed time, and he gradually became aware of himself again. He was standing, both hands planted on the table, chair tipped over, panting. A few people were staring at him. Somewhere close by a man began to sing, badly, a rough and drunken version of Hosmoth's anthem. A few other voices joined in. Marcus tried to calm himself. "It was only the dream again". He inhaled slowly and exhaled. "It was just the dream". He breathed again, then checked his pants to make sure he hadn't pissed himself. "It was just the dream"

Marcus felt exhausted and dead inside, he looked around with empty bloodshot eyes and was disappointed to find he'd sobered up. The Jesters Mask had lost its appeal, he felt sick in the sticky roiling stink of it all. He reached into his pocket and felt the small obsidian stone there. The object his father had given him. He took it out of his pocket, it looked entirely unremarkable, curious, but inane. "Just a dull ball of rock." he thought with disappointment. He rolled it in his palm then clutched his fingers tightly around it. He needed air. Marcus staggered to his feet, and took up his cloak. He approached the bartender he threw a few coins on the counter.

"Goodnight Clint" he muttered as he pointed at a bottle of whiskey and nodded toward his sword.

The man took one look at his dark eyes and shuddered, handing Marcus the liquor but withholding his weapon. "Easy Lad, find ye some rest tonight, yon blade shall be waiting upon the morrow." He advised, but Marcus had already turned and with long strides thrust his way through the wretched crowd and into the wet night.