“Ive never liked this religion mumbo-jumbo. Causes more problems than it fixes you know?”
“Too right old man”
The official Vicetina book-club had been tentatively restarted after the tension and drama of the preceding days. Tonight, the entire bookclub were in attendance, and both men were reading a dark, heavily malted ale, with just a hint of chocolatey bitterness. It was a good read they had decided, a real page turner.
“Now then,” Belched Conan, wiping the foam from his moustache.
“Take this Namthar fellow and his accursed inbred god brother. Once upon a time, everyone was fucking happy, worshiping their favourite locally sourced organic spirit or wishy-washy gluten free deity, right? Then Namthar and his blasted brother Alastor come along and ruined everything!”
“Aye, The city of his, Kossos, is a real shit-hole I’ve heard. Really deserved the name “Salt in wounds,” chimed the blacksmith, eager to fuel Conan’s emerging rant.
Conan, stared at the blacksmith coolly, wondering if the man had ever been further than Caville. Probably not, these half-forged blunted peasant swords weren’t going to ruin themselves. He guessed the little fellow would likely have run all the way home if he knew what lay at the heart of Salt in Wounds. He cleared his throat.
“As I was saying, they come along, “bully” all the other wassits… deities, and insist everyone worship them instead. And if that wasn’t enough, they then decide they don’t like each other anymore, and go to bloody war! And who dies, we do! Not them, us! Brothers eh?!”
“Aye.. but that was hundreds of years ago right? Whats that got to do with this fine ale we got now, or the recent departure of young Lorenzo?”
They men clinked their glasses together at a mention of Lorenzo and downed the amber liquid with due respect. Conan refilled both vessels.
“Well.. hic.. you see my simple hammer wielding metal thumper.. its all happening again isn’t it? The church going around meddling in things, trying to raise its profile here, and puppeting this fine city, armies forming to soak the fields in each other’s blood. For what? For nothing! They will invent some reasons, but really there’s no point!”
“Well they say Kossos was being aggressive and burned down some settlements eh? And those risen that were killing everyone, they probably came from there, on account of them ghouls they have working for em and such”
“Dragonshit”
The blacksmiths blood rose. His courage was up, fuelled by ale.. his ale… wait, yeah! This was his ale they were drinking ale after all, and those Judges were good for business(Conan never seemed to buy the ale, only supplied the books!) He wasn’t going to just sit here and let Conan talk ill about his business, drink his booze and ruin his chances of making some coin.
“Look Librarian, You’re just bitter because you used to work for the church, and now you’re like a jilted lover, a maiden who’s lover has ran off after sowing the proverbial oats,” he chuckled.
Conans face darkened in an instant. The old man straightened as he rose from the chair, unfolding to his full, impressive height. The Blacksmith shrank back in his chair, trying to hide in the soft yielding cushion but finding no shelter from the burrowing stare of the librarian. Conan’s eyes flashed as he advanced heavily, each step seemed increasingly firm and deliberate, more sure and balanced, and the blacksmith could almost hear the old man wind up like a spring, humming with barely contained fury that boiled beneath the surface. His form seemed to grow beneath his robe the Blacksmith swore he could see those tattoos glowing with a malignant orange light, fizzing with a brutal, violent intent. Conan leaned in close, holding the Blacksmith in place with his gaze, pinning him to the chair like a brittle, breakable, miniscule insect. His face just inches away now he spoke slowly and deliberately.
“Your glass is empty friend, allow me”
Conan snatched the glass away and began to refill it, slowly this time. The ritual of pulling on the ale tap seemed to calm him somewhat, and his shoulders dropped. After a while, he spoke again, more softly now.
“I did a lot of traveling, I was something of a campaigner back in the day. A good one too. We were subcontracted out by the church during the “Days of the Risen”, it was before your time, but there was a bit of a problem with the dead walking about, eating babies and generally being a nuisance. That sort of thing.
Turned out to be the work of a rather impressive specimen, a higher vampire, perhaps the last of his kind. With a bit of luck and careful planning, we managed to best him and dragged him back to Namburg be executed. The Church had other ideas and locked him up, gave no explanation to us. I was pretty dumbfounded to be honest with you, but I was just a boy back then, had a bit more meat on the bones and in the head, so I presumed they knew what they were doing.”
“You must have plenty of adventures to share” asked the blacksmith, desperate to change the subject, the sticky sweat pooling uncomfortably around his lower back.
“A few… we parted ways soon after. Fundamental difference of opinions on role of a campaigner and the value of religion and so on. Also, some … some … erm… racial infighting and ill-advised romantic decisions were made.”
“Oh ho!! Ha, you old dog you! Now I’d like to hear about all them maidens you were bedding back in the day man!” chuckled the blacksmith.
“Oh, not me, I was married to the work. No, the others. Anyway…” he trailed off, staring thoughtfully out the window.
“My point is that this religion business ruins everything, and it’s almost certainly going to lead us to war and ruin, yet again, all because two Brothers can’t just bloody well get along”
“Aye…” mumbled the blacksmith.
The two glasses clumsily clinked once more, the foam sloshing over the sides like a storm wave, cascading onto the floor and joining the sticky puddles forming beneath the unopened books.
“What do they even want from us eh? Its fucking dragonshit”
“Who cares. Fuck em both, Its fucking dragonshit”