Shattered Line

Chapter 0: Unnamed

The inn's door banged open, the cold night air colliding with the roaring fireplace's heat. The musky aroma of rain swept inside, accompanied by its unmuffled racket. She spied the intruders, their plump bodies melding into one hulking blob. Weapons peeked from beneath their clocks, identifying them as better than average hunters. They strutted in, boots squeaking against the hardwood floor, cloaks flapping, and mouths blathering.

"Cassie my girl, bring the booze!" the lead man slurred as he deposited himself at a bench near the bar. His two compatriots joined his location, sprawling across the table from him.

The dirty-blond bearded man scoured the bar, his eyes meeting hers. He grinned, yellow-tinted and crooked. "Oh, lookie here, boys. A li'l lass," he tooted, drawing his comrades' attention.

They followed his direction, their mouths grinning and nostrils flaring.

Isla watched the lead man jump up and strut towards her. His belly-flopped and he rubbed the extrusion with both hands. "Why don' we ha' some fun, huh, lass?"

"Buzz off, pest." Isla glared.

"Oh ho, scary." He leaned forward with a sardonic smile. "And if I don't?" His hand shot out, flicking her hood off. The man's jaw dropped, then he licked his fat lips. "Look what we ha' here. Where ya from, lass?"

Isla jerked her hood back, covering her hair. She rolled the map up, tucking the damp parchment inside her cloak's pocket, and stood. She ignored the man, steering towards the exit.

He clasped her shoulder, halting her retreat. "Where ya goin'? The fun's just startin'."

She glanced at his grime, sweat-covered hand, and wriggled her nose. On instinct, her fingers inched inside her cloak, gripping her dagger. "Hands off."

He chuckled. "Feisty, aren't ye, gaile."

Isla drew the dagger, spun the handle and pierced his hand.

The man howled, staggering backward into an open bench. He gripped his wound, whimpering like a broken and beaten dog.

"Next time, hands off." She shoved the door open, stepping into the night.

Isla slammed the door shut behind her and tucked the dagger into its sheath. She scanned the lifeless muddied street, the seams loaded with garbage. The stench whirled alongside the rain, coating Maron with disease. Head one street over, and the scene would mimic the smell—death—a common sight. Add the hole-littered walls, thatched roofs, rat-infested burrows, and Maron became the stereotype of Detra's out-of-touch villages.

Isla slowed her breathing and lengthened her stride. Her path headed east towards the village gate. She paused at the notice board, checking the news, requests, and wanted pages. Her gaze latched onto a fresh pamphlet tacked in the center. She chuckled, finding the Human's modern tongue:

Wanted—Dead

A young woman with light-blue hair and matching eyes, pale white skin, and quick to fight.

She squinted, reading the fine print. The reward would come from Maron's chief.

Isla smirked. What were the chances he knew the real source? Her sword burned against her leg, the bloodlust calling. She ripped the paper from the board, pocketing the abomination.

Thumbing the last gold piece in her pocket, her feet trod the side street north as she skimmed the inner passages. She stopped before a sleeping man blocking her path. A paper-thin rain-soaked cloth draped his body; his gray beard was speckled with mud.

Isla nudged his body. She waited, but no twitch of movement came.

Her search continued another street over. Between a narrow gap created by two houses, a pair of children huddled together. Brown hair peeked out beneath their tattered cloaks. The soft rain showered their bodies, and they shivered from a wanton gust.