The snow storm had long passed, leaving only a vast flattened canvas or white but still cold like the expressionless face of a corpse. Gregory stood at the top edge of a jagged slope, his thick boots crunching into the hardened snow as the wind sighed with exhaustion behind him. The sky was blue now, a rare hue above these frozen winter lands.
It was as if the heavens momentarily opened a curtain to let the dead land bask in a forgotten warmth albeit temporarily. Gregory did not smile nor did he appreciate the scenery as a painter might but he merely walked without caring much about it. The silence was heavier than the snowfall that had once blanketed the corpses behind him, as though the ghosts of the slain trailed in his wake as whispering regrets he had already stopped listening to.
His breath was visible in long plumes and dissipated like the thoughts in his mind which were cold, fleeting, and meaningless. "This land bleeds in white." He murmured to no one but to himself, the golden glint in his eyes barely catching the light. "And I am done staining it with anymore redness."
Each step down the winding trail away from the north was met with the strange sensation of the ice thawing. The ice no longer bit at his skin like a thousand teeth but instead pulled away as if they were reluctantly giving him permission to leave its deathly embrace.
The snow became slush, then mud, and then packed dirt. The trees once stood tall with their pikes coated in frost and slowly began to change their appearance as he moved forward, the trees shed their icy coats to reveal the branches dotted with stubborn moss and green shoots. His greatsword fastened diagonally and clinked softly with each movement, a sound far less harsh than when it was drawn but a sound that echoed authority nonetheless.
He did not speak loudly, but did whisper to himself out of boredom "South... No, Northwest. That's where our estate is, I guess I'll go home after dealing with those bandits." By the time the snow fully receded and gave away to stretches of untouched green, the transition felt unnatural as he moved down from the north to west.
It was not spring yet and this was not a warming of the world but a line drawn by fate. One moment the frost ruled all but the next, earth claimed her breath. The trees here were thicker with their trunks old and twisting, with the bark that looked as if it had memories of the faces of those who passed by centuries ago. Ferns grew wild and bold, tickling his legs as he passed. Insects buzzed, birds sang and yet Gregory remained a phantom among the living world.
His scars and silence severed him from the vibrancy around him. "Rotrigor steel belongs in blood not blossoms." He muttered under his breath, "This peace is borrowed and temporary since it can be shattered at any moment by my enemies."
He passed a stream, its water was clean and cold, snaking through roots like silver ribbon. He knelt beside it for the first time in hours, cupping the water in his hand and watching it trickle through his fingers before he drank it to quench his thirst but a reflection stared back, white hair falling over eyes too bright for the world, golden irises gleaming with controlled fury. "You are still here." He told his reflection, "I thought you left me after the last kill but no, you watch everything and you remember everything." He then washed his face, the cold water drizzling down from his face like regrets since he was regretful about being in the body of Gregory as he felt like a thief.
He let out a short sigh, not of relief but readiness as his body bore the memories of his warfare and each scar a line in a language only warriors could read. His face remained untouched because no one was able to reach it anyways and he wore it like a crown since it showed his capabilities as a warrior.
The road narrowed the deeper he went until it was no longer paved or even properly marked, but worn by travelers who had long ceased calling themselves civilised. Footprints, broken branches, and claw marks on trees. He did not flinch at signs of danger but he welcomed them. The wind here no longer howled but it spoke in whispers, whispers of things hidden in shade of bandits nursing, old keeps repurposed as dens for the dishonoured traitors.
Gregory said nothing, he only placed a hand on the hilt of his sword as he walked forward. With each step, memories tried to climb into his skull, memories not out of this life but the other. The one before Rotrigor, the one before steel and before his scars but he forced them down and the forest didn't deserve to see that piece of him.
He focused instead on the trail as it began to show signs of settlement. A broken fence here and a wheelbarrow there with chicken prints in the mud. There was a smell of smoke which wasn't of a battle but of cooking and with it, voices. It was distant but faint and alive, he slowed down his pace not out of fear since he practically didn't fear nothing aside from his own regrets but he slowed because he knew it was a settlement so he did not need to rush in.
"Civilisation." He said like a curse, "Let's see if socialisation sucks like always or not."
The village came into view past a ridge of the pine and stone, nestled between the arms of the forest like a forgotten child. It was small and many wooden homes clustered together with thatched roofs and crooked chimneys. A single windmill stood like a sentinel, turning slow and lazy in the breeze. The road leading in was cracked with years of wagon use, mud streaked and crooked.
Gregory walked towards it like a shadow growing longer by the second. There was an escort, no banner but only the weight of his presence pressing forward. Children were playing in the dirt but they stopped and stared at him, an old man who was mending a fence paused upon seeing him. The first eyes met him, and they did not blink. "Who is he?" A voice whispered. "Look at the blade and his skin, that ain't no local." Said another.
He passed the first home, then the second, then ten more and with each step, the whispers grew. Low murmurs behind him and hissing assumptions carried on the wind. "A vagabond?" One muttered. "No... Too clean for a drifter."
"But look at his waist! That blade's no farmer's iron."
"He's shirtless, only madmen and monsters go shirtless in that forest."
"Brown skin, so a northerner?."
"No, far too tall."
"That's not a man... That is a weapon."
Gregory ignored those murmurs, his face remained as an unmoved cliff. But inside his mind pulsed since even here among the cowards and pigs, they smell the blood on him. They think he doesn't belong there but he doesn't stop them from speaking because for him in this life, words were softer than steel.
A boy no older than twelve suddenly threw a stone which struck the dirt near his boot but was not hard enough to cause any issues to him. But it was an insult since the people look down on wandering warriors as such folks can be dangerous and may cause harm so they are often not welcomed well. The boy's mother gasped and dragged the boy inside without a word, slamming the wooden door. He looked down at the stone for a moment before kicking it aside and moving onwards.
The villagers seemed scared. "He didn't even flinch." Someone whispered. "Is he dead? Or just too arrogant to care?" Another one pointed out that, "Maybe he is a professional mercenary." While someone else added, "Maybe he is a demon." For which they laughed because the assumptions got too wild to be real.
Gregory turned his head slightly enough to let them know he would be heard but he didn't speak since his gaze was speaking for him. It spoke of fire and blade, it spoke of screams buried beneath the ground which only made them envelopes in enough fear to walk away.
He finally arrived in front of a tavern, the tavern appeared like a sore in the Village's edge, a squat, stained building of cracked stone and wood with smoke curling from its crooked chimney and an old sign hanging by a single rusted chain. The word "The Boar's Leg" was painted across it in fading black ink, though it looked more like a blank board due to the ink fading. Gregory stood at the threshold for a second to get inside and a man passed behind him, eager to get inside and away from the stranger who Gregory was for them.
The door creaked open, warmth, noise and the scent of mead and meat poured out. He slowly stepped in and when he did the room did not quiet down but rather the energy shifted like prey sensing a predator. He stood under the doorway, bare chested, his skin dark as scorched bronze, crisscrossed with a gallery of battle scars. His hair white as death and his eyes golden, glowing faintly under the firelight.
"Let's see." He muttered, stepping inside, "If you know what fear tastes like."
The warmth of the tavern was deceptive while the hearth blazed near the far wall and laughter echoed from the drunkards who hadn't yet seen Gregory, the moment he stepped inside all mirth began to drain from the air like blood from slut throat. The clatter of tankards and the squeaking of chairs dulled to a hush, replaced by sidelong glances and lowered voices. A man playing a fiddle paused mid string as even the barkeep, a stout man with gray beard and an apron stained with wine, froze in place with a half filled mug still tilted.
Gregory moved without a word, his boots thudding on the wooden floorboards, his bare chest marked by old battles and fresh memories. He made no effort to hide the greatsword strapped to his belt nor the cruel aura that wrapped him like a second cloak, he walked like a reaper at a wedding.
There were no greetings, no welcome traveler to him but only eyes. Eyes that clung to his every movement with suspicion and dread. Two men near the fire leaned in to whisper to each other, one of them gripping the knife at his belt with nervous fingers. A trio of hunters near the bar stopped drinking and started staring into their mugs as if the ale might hide them.
Gregory didn't care, the moment he saw an empty table near the hearth, he made for it. A bench creaked under his weight as he sat down, his back against the wall, gaze scanning the room like a soldier waiting for the arrow that would never come. They all fear men who bleed and smile or so he thought because such thoughts can keep them from talking too much.
Moments passed, the air remained still and eventually obligation overcame fear. A girl approached him, she was barely more than twenty, dressed in a dull brown tunic and apron. Her hair was braided tightly, but strands had fallen loose from the stress of a shift. She didn't smile, she didn't bow, her eyes were dull grey and were filled with something in between disdain and caution.
She stopped a foot away from the table and didn't speak immediately but when she did, her voice was sharp but not loud. "Do you plan to order something, or just scare away the rest of the customers?" Gregory didn't look at her at first, he merely rested his legs on the table, cracked his neck slowly and then turned his head toward her.
"You speak to me like I am a dog." He said as his voice was not loud but it held some weight, a gravity that seemed to pull the air out of the room. "Are commoners no longer taught how to speak to their letters?" The girl stiffened, she tried to hide it with a roll of her eyes but the way her hand tightened into a fist in her apron gave her away. Gregory leaned backwards as resting his back against the wall, his golden eyes boring into her like augers. "I don't care what you think I look like.. I don't care if my presence ruins your mood or your night.. But let me offer you a single piece of advice, girl." He tapped the table gently, "You look at me like that again... And I'll gut you before your scream finishes echoing."
The tavern froze as every man, woman and drunkard went still, this included the girl who also didn't move while her mouth opened slightly before shutting. She couldn't find words, Gregory did not raise his voice nor did he stand but the threat hung in the air like a sword suspended by string. Slowly, methodically, he reached to his waist and pulled the sword but not from its scabbard, but the entire weapon which remained sheathed and resting heavy in his hand. With a quiet thud, he placed it at the top of the table in front of him.
The weight made the wooden boards groan, every gaze locked on the hilt. The scabbard was old, worn with time but clean, polished and maintained with religious care. But what mattered the most was what silenced the entire room, it was the insignia on the locket of the scabbard.
A golden shield, cracked down the middle with a sword and crown embedded within it. The crest of House Rotrigor, the waitress took a step back as if struck. Murmurs began to ripple through the room as a man near the fire muttered, "Rotrigor, that's Rotrigor crest." Another whispered, "But they were all at the border right... Weren't they?" Someone else added, "No, there was one.. the strongest of them, the fifth son who's known for travelling alone." All eyes turned again to Gregory, and now they did not see a mercenary or a foreigner. They saw an aristocratic warrior, a noble born of death and bred for battle.
The Tavern owner emerged from behind the counter, wiping his trembling hands on his apron as he approached. "S-sir... Please forgive us.. we didn't recognise." To ensure they won't have to suffer the rage of a nobility and their noble family which can be quite problematic.
Gregory finally stood, his greatsword still on the table and both hands planted beside it as he leaned forward slightly. "Don't speak my name unless you intend to honour it." He said flatly, "I do not need your forgiveness, you need mine." The barkeep swallowed hard. "Of course, my lord. We meant no disrespect, had we known..." Gregory suddenly cut the barkeep off. "You didn't know, because your kind never looks beyond what's in front of you. You saw a scarred man, bar chested and alone so you assumed he was a beast but not a noble, not a soldier and certainly not a human." He sat down again. "Now get me meat, the best you have. I have killed men with cleaner faces than yours and they still bled red so let's hope your kitchen's better than your manners."
There was no reply but only movements, orders were shouted to the back. Feet scrambled and the waitress vanished. One man in the corner even stood and left, muttering about curses and omens. Gregory though sat still, watching it all unfold with detached interest of a wolf among mice. His hand still rested on the hilt of his sword, he was not that hungry but food was a necessity since had to travel long distances as his body required fuel to work harder.
"Fools." He said softly to himself, "All these years... And they still think all nobility wear silks and perfumes."
It took ten minutes before the food arrived, the waitress returned but this time without much defiance in her stride. She placed the plate in front of him carefully and did her maximum best to avoid his sharp gaze. She did not speak this time because she didn't have to and Gregory looked at the steaming cut of meat before him, brisket seared over oak flame with crispy bark on its edges and juices pooling beneath. A slab of roast beside it, bone in and seasoned with what smelled like rosemary and salt. There was bread along with cheese and a mug of dark mead.
He stared at the plate, and for the first time in weeks he allowed his shoulders to drop slightly. "Finally." He muttered, "Something worth of my silence." He took a bite slowly and deliberately. The meat was tender, almost too soft for a soldier's tongue. It had been cooked with care, crusted with spice and finished over a flame hot enough to crack the outer skin without drying the inside.
Smoke, salt, blood, all things he knew well as he chewed and a memory surfaced not from the current life but another from the past where he ate a plate of cheap steak over rice and a cold beer in hand. A television buzzing in the background, he blinked and the memory vanished like how his wife left him.
He swallowed and took another bite, "This life has better seasoning." He said quietly, almost laughing. "Even if everything else tastes like ash." After eating he downed the mead in a single gulp, then slammed the mug down with a force that made the table jump. He then stood, grabbing his greatsword once more and resting it lazily across his shoulder. "I am Gregory. Son of Rurik, the fifth in line of House Rotrigor. So whisper my name if you must.. but do it with respect or don't say it at all." With that, he walked towards the door and pushed the door open as stepping back into the fading daylight. His expenses are dealt by the family accountants who receive reports and pays through the bank and he continues moving onwards.