MxF A desperate plea to a hooded man.

[Kaldor]

We begin our story in a dark wood at a tavern on the edge of town. Inside, a hearty and merry gathering of people drink the local ale and enjoy the music of a traveling bard hard at work by the roaring flame. In the back of the tavern, a man sits with his hood up and face in shadow. Before him is a half-full tankard of ale and a block of cheese with a modest chunk of bread. The man is an adventurer from a land far to the north. He does not speak of it but only says that most ship captains would never travel there because the cost is too high. As with the last fortnight, the man sits with several sheets of paper before him, job requests from nearby forts and villages. Though his garb is rough, it is of high quality and he has become known as a more than qualified swordsman. Occasionally, he takes jobs with groups, but more often than not, he goes out alone and returns alone. It is almost a pattern his coming and going, returning for one week before going out again. This time, though, he does not look pleased with the choices that sit before him, and those nearby could swear he talks to himself and even argues with himself over the contracts. None seems to fit him, and the bartender begins to wonder if he will break his habit and stay for another day or two. A storm has buffeted the tavern for several hours, but the gathering is unaware as people laugh and dance till the door crashes open and the bartender yells to close the door, or the warmth is escaping. A woman stands in the doorway, drenched in her dress, clinging to her body the color, once vibrant, is now muted and muddy. Out of breath, she declares, "I need to see him, the swordsman of this tavern, the man in black and steel." the tavern now silent and growing cold, looks from the lady to the back, where steel eyes look out from the shadowed hood. A deep, grave voice is heard from the man. "I am he."

 

[Miss December]

The woman stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling with each labored breath, rainwater pooling at her feet. The firelight caught in her eyes—wild, uncertain—but her gaze did not waver.

She took one step forward, then another, until the door groaned shut behind her. The warmth of the tavern did little to stop the shivers running through her limbs, though whether from the storm or something else, none could say.

"The swordsman," she repeated, softer now.

At the back of the room, the man in black and steel did not move. He regarded her from beneath his hood, the flickering light catching a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. A moment passed in weighted silence, the hum of the storm outside pressing against the walls.

Then, slowly, he set his tankard down.

"I am he."

The murmurs in the tavern did not resume. The air held that moment in its grasp, as if waiting for her next words to decide whether the night would continue in merriment or shift toward something else entirely.

She swallowed, composing herself, though her hands clenched at the fabric of her ruined dress. "I have need of your blade," she said, quiet enough that those listening would have to strain to hear. "There are men on the road behind me. If I stay here, they will find me. If I leave alone, they will take me."

She hesitated, then pressed on. "I can pay. And I can lead you to something worth more than any coin."

Now the murmurs began—light, uncertain, a few cautious glances exchanged across the room. The swordsman exhaled through his nose, slow and measured.

At last, he leaned forward, one gloved hand pushing the papers before him into a neat stack.

"Sit," he said, voice low, unreadable. "Eat, if you must. Then tell me who hunts you."

The woman did not move at first, her shoulders drawn tight, as though she expected him to say something else—or expected him to refuse.

But then, with a nod of understanding, she stepped forward. A path cleared for her between the tables, the storm still whispering at the edges of the night.

She did not yet know if she had found salvation.

Only that she had run out of other choices.