NOVEL NEXT Chapter 11: On the Hunt
Chapter 11: On the Hunt
The night outside the West Pitoa tavern was filled with raucous laughter and spirited cheers. The gambling table, a hub of activity, remained as lively as ever. Grizzled faces leaned in close, betting coins and stories alike, with gossip weaving through the air like smoke.
"Did you hear about that lad who strolled in earlier? Called himself the 'Wind of the West,' can you believe it?" One of the gamblers, his words slurring from the drink, spoke loud enough to catch everyone's attention. "Silliest thing I've heard. Who even gave him that name? Must've been some cruel joke."
The table erupted into laughter, save for a bearded man sitting in the corner, a tankard in hand. He wore a face of seriousness, but the stench of liquor on his clothes betrayed his composure.
"Better be quiet, or the 'Wind of the West' might come for ya," he warned, his tone grave at least for a moment. His face cracked, and soon he joined the others in fits of laughter, his own joke getting the best of him.
"Oh no, the Wind might be listening!" another chimed in, barely keeping his drink steady as the tavern filled with mocking echoes. For a brief moment, the mysterious "Wind of the West" was the night's entertainment, a forgotten face turned into a joke until the tavern finally ran dry of alcohol.
Outside, away from the laughter and jeers, Brawn Knuckles staggered through the dimly lit streets. His broad shoulders swayed with the weight of the coin purse he carried a reward for a night well spent. He walked crooked, his steps uneven as the smell of cheap ale clung to his breath.
His stomach lurched from the spoiled food he'd devoured earlier, and he fought back the urge to vomit. But even through his drunken haze, the satisfaction of a pocket full of coins kept him moving.
When he reached his home by the river, Brawn fumbled with the keys. His hand missed the lock twice before the door slid open with ease. He paused, furrowing his brow. The door shouldn't have opened so easily. Had he forgotten to lock it? Maybe. The alcohol muddled his thoughts, and for a moment, he shrugged it off. What did it matter? Tonight, he was rich.
But as he entered, the air inside was different. Stale. Cold. Something wasn't right.His bloodshot eyes scanned the dimly lit room, and his drunken grin faded into a frown. His belongings were scattered across the floor plates smashed to pieces, clothes thrown about like rags, utensils strewn over the sink. He swore under his breath, a sliver of panic cutting through the haze of his inebriation. Someone had been here.
His fury flared instantly. Brawn punched the wall, his fist crashing through the brittle wood, leaving a jagged hole behind. The pain sobered him, his drunkenness peeling away, replaced by a hot rage that coiled in his chest.
He recklessly ran out of the hut. "That bastard must still be here," he snarled, his voice echoing in the empty night. His eyes darted to the nearby bushes, the trees, searching for any sign of the intruder.
Silence.
Brawn kicked over a pile of leaves, rummaging through the undergrowth like a madman. But there was no one there, only the quiet rustling of the wind, it was only him.
"Fucking son of a bitch!" His voice cracked with frustration, echoing into the void. "I'll fucking find you!"
With each heavy breath, Brawn Knuckles gripped a branch of a tree and tear it out in frustration.
Whoever had ransacked his home wouldn't get away. Not this time.
….
The following day, the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over West Pitoa.
Normally, Brawn Knuckles would've spent his morning lounging at the tavern, tempting fate with his notorious luck at the gambling table. But today, he had a different plan. After last night's break-in, he wasn't in the mood for games. His anger simmered beneath the surface, driving him toward a place he hadn't visited in years a secluded spot known only to a select few.
He reached the hidden stairway, tucked away between crumbling alleyways, and descended to a steel door. Brawn Knuckles knocked three times, the sound echoing down the narrow passage. Moments passed before the deck slid open, revealing a pair of suspicious eyes.
"I'm here to see Demitra," Brawn Knuckles whispered.
The silence that followed was long enough for him to wonder if he had the wrong place. Then, with a smooth creak, the steel door opened, and Brawn Knuckles stepped inside.
The dimly lit room was vast, far bigger than it appeared from the outside. The place smelled of damp stone and iron, with the faintest trace of incense attempting and failing to mask the stench of desperation. It was a black market of the darkest kind. Shadowy figures manned booths selling everything from enchanted weapons to forbidden substances. In one corner, people wearing rags and dirt were being sold like cattle. The sight made even Brawn Knuckles feel unsettled, and he had seen his share of horrors during his time as an adventurer.
That was all before gambling took over his life, turning him from a seasoned adventurer to a washed-up man spending his days at the tavern. But last night had stirred something in him—a sense of urgency he hadn't felt in years.
Back in his adventuring days, Brawn's main source of income was selling weapons and armor from treasure hunts. Most of the loot came from scavenged caravans and the remains of fallen knights and adventurers. This black market had always been the perfect spot to offload his spoils, either selling them to shady merchants or auctioning off the rarest finds. It was also a hub for information-bounties, rumors, and tracking down wanted individuals.
That was why he had come today. He needed information, and he needed it fast.
Brawn leaned against a wall at the edge of the market, waiting. Across from him, a man with a bandana covering most of his face approached.
"Where's Demitra?" Brawn asked without preamble. His voice was low, barely more than a growl. "I need to speak with him."
"He's not here," the man replied in a whisper. "But I can deliver a message. What do you need?"
Brawn glanced around before lowering his voice even further. "There's a lad who calls himself [Wind of the West], I want Demitra to track him down and bring him to me."
The man with the bandana tilted his head, eyes narrowing beneath the cloth. "That will be 500 coins?, the man paused, trying to signify the Brawn's capability to pay, "Do you even have enough coins?"
Brawn hesitated. His coin purse was lighter than he'd have liked, especially after his spree last night. He thought fast. "The lad's got weapons on him. Good ones. They'd fetch a decent price at the auction booth."
The bandana-wearing man studied him for a long moment, and then sighed. "I hope you're right about that. If those weapons don't cover the cost, you'll have to settle the debt another way."
Brawn's fists clenched, his knuckles turning white. He was being scammed— that monstrous amount of coins just to track down a lad?
The man continued his tone almost casual. "You could always sell one of your organs on the market. Alchemists pay well for those. Or you could try your luck hunting one of those Dark Crawling Creatures. Their hides are worth more than your organs, but given your current state..." He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.
Brawn's teeth ground together, but he forced himself to stay calm. "I'll take my chances with the lad's weapons." He didn't want to make an enemy out of Gallighar, he was an Awakened who had mystical abilities, while he was just a mundane human.
The man gave a curt nod before turning on his heel, disappearing into the maze of stalls and shadows without another word.
Brawn watched him go, his hands trembling with barely restrained anger. He didn't like being mocked, didn't like people questioning his ability to handle himself. But for now, he had to be patient. This arrogant lad "Wind of the West", was his key to getting even, and once he had the lad in his grasp, he'd make sure the tables turned in his favor.
….
As Brawn Knuckles trudged back to his hut, his mind raced with thoughts of how to cover the costs of hiring Galighar Demitra. The implications of his reckless gamble hung over him like a storm cloud. He'd initially assumed that the arrogant "Wind of the West" had ransacked his home out of revenge, stealing his hard-earned gold. No one else could have done it— the evidence pointed firmly in that direction, even if he tried to rationalize otherwise.
The more he considered his options, the darker they became. Selling his organs seemed increasingly like the only way out, but the thought of venturing into the woods alone was a gamble he couldn't afford to take. Not without an awakened companion at his side. His desperation gnawed at him as he turned toward the familiar Pitoa Tavern, hoping that perhaps a drink would provide some clarity.
Stepping inside, he found the tavern nearly empty, the usual throngs of patrons absent in the midday lull. Instead of heading to the gambling table, he decided to grab a drink to calm his nerves.
"I'll take the beer this time, Wyatt," he called out, his voice a mixture of fatigue and irritation.
"The boss ain't here," replied a stranger with tan skin and a youthful face, his hairstyle unconventional but intriguing. An earring dangled from his left ear, giving him a carefree look.
"He just left to pick up more alcohol from the brewery."
Brawn raised an eyebrow. "You look weird, lad, and you talk weird. Are you new around Pitoa?"
The lad smiled softly. "Yeah, just got out of the village and first thought of getting here. Heard this place runs day and night. Figured I might as well try to earn some gold while I'm here." He poured Brawn's drink. "Also, just needed to get away from my family. They can be a bit too much."
Brawn regarded him, his somber gaze settling on the frothy beer. "I get what you feel, lad. Sometimes running away is the best option."
He took a long gulp, some of the liquid dribbling onto his clothes. "So, when did you arrive here?"
"Just yesterday," the lad replied, leaning against the bar. "I saw the place was busy, so I thought I'd try my luck here."
"You and me both. I've got a little financial problem myself." Brawn paused, then asked, "Do you know someone named 'Wind of the West'?"
The lad shook his head. "That name doesn't ring a bell."
Brawn huffed, "he's nothing more than a phony. Last night, someone ransacked my home, and I think it was that Wind of the West."
The lad's brow furrowed in confusion. "What makes you say that?"
"I beat him in a card game, and I guess he took revenge by robbing me," Brawn replied, his frustration boiling over.
The lad raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you're just assuming it was him. It could have been someone else."
"How could it not be him? He was acting menacing from the start!" Brawn shot back, his temper flaring.
"How can you be so sure?" the lad pressed, annoyance creeping into his voice.
Brawn stood, leaning over the bar and grabbing the lad by his collar, lifting him slightly off the ground. "What are you so angry about? Don't tell me you're him."
The lad's eyes widened in alarm, his expression shifting from annoyance to fear.
"I-"
Brawn slammed him against the wall, tightening his grip. "Tell me! Are you the Wind of the West?"
The lad gasped for air, sweat beading on his forehead as he struggled against Brawn's grip. With one last surge of defiance, he spat in Brawn's face.
"Fuck off, motherfucker.."
Brawn, infuriated, threw the lad across the tavern. Patrons scrambled to leave, one tripping over his own feet in a frantic escape.
The lad groaned, rubbing his swollen neck as he tried to regain his composure.
"Damn…" he mumbled trying to get his bearings right, "I didn't even rob your house, dawg?!"
Brawn grabbed a chair, dragging it behind him as he approached the lad. "Fucking lying son of a bitch. I don't want to hear any more excuses!"
He swung the chair at the lad, who ducked beneath a nearby table to evade the blow. "Man, I don't even know where you live!" the lad protested, panic evident in his voice.
"Hearing you talk makes me want to strangle you more," Brawn growled, his frustration mounting.
The lad continued to evade Brawn's attacks until, spotting an opening, he bolted for the door. Brawn's shout echoed behind him as he sprinted into the street, desperate to escape the fury of a man consumed by suspicion and rage.