TRASH

POV -> Corian

The walk had been tireless. He had travelled without stopping all the way to Stonesong's front door. A feat that should have required rest, done without even a dull ache in his joints.

Running or jogging was his first idea. A test for ten minutes of sprinting had left him with an exhaustion that wasn't laboured breaths for air. It came from something deeper that coaxed his pace back into a walk, and left a small growl in his stomach. He was in a rush to reach Toroy Garotzch, one he could not risk detours of blind hunger for.

There was still a healthy amount of daylight when he passed through the wooden brigade, the town quiet at its entrance aside from the flap of Heroguard banners. He could see a slew of tents in the clear where his father's patrol had once camped, but instead of the sturdy white canvas and leather, these shelters were improvised with any sort of fabric thick and wide enough to blot the sun.

He scoured the town for evidence of a new Heroguard squadron first, feeling a wave of eyes on him as the few residents out in the sun eyed his dirty armour, and the strange second helmet he carried.

No one in Stonesong carried his crest, and no one had seen his face past the burlap sack that night. The obstacle of faking his allegiance was now far simpler, and banked on how fast word travelled. His father wanted him dead. But did he want his failure to kill him made a public spectacle?

Corian approached a worn panel of wood in the middle of the town, eyeing up the yellowed papers and small wooden signs that peppered it. He saw a grainy wooden placard held up by thick twine, some grandiose quest for a sword eloquently carved into it. Other signs of paper and wood showed worn requests for lost objects, sightings of drakes and other community hazards. But between the old markers, he saw an obsessive amount of fresh papers nailed to any free space, the subject matter the same. The Living Shadow.

Two bidders seemed to be battling for the hunt. The Heroguard, who wanted the strange scrawl of black lines dead, and a more generous bid, marked with a location instead of a name, who wanted the creature alive.

Corian saw no drawings to his likeness on the board. And that was all he cared about.

He eyed his next target, a log structure with a ridiculous amount of Heroguard flags mounted at the doors and draped from the eaves. Whatever treasures and supplies the Heroguard had hoarded to set a presence in Stonesong were barred to the most secured structures. A town hall, under the nose of a mayor or similar official collecting a cut was usually a preferred choice.

The wooden door struggled to open, its hinges whining with a sharp cry when Corian gave it a tiny extra nudge. He realized half way that the whine was the hinges, and pulled the obstacle outwards, trying to gracefully brush off the damage he'd done with a friendly smile.

The chatter inside went dead silent as every head turned to Corian. The handful of sooty minors closest to the door let the scrutiny screw their brows. Deeper into the strange group of people he sensed different reactions. Across the small gathering hall, the greasy haired man with a face Corian recognized looked at the door in confused defeat. But the well dressed man next to him, and the two women beside him on the small bit of elevated floor had barely registered Corian's entrance and were more struck by his garb. Hope, at seeing the Heroguard.

They had a problem, and despite his disguise, he was eager to avoid it.

Corian dipped his head in silent greeting, looking past the heads for a bannered stash or locked door. The gazes followed him as he squeezed past a few burly men, the rest of the folks making a small path when they saw the small side door he was going for.

The heated murmurs of the townsfolk returned once he reached the bannered door. With a well placed cough he disguised the sound of the lock breaking in his hand and slipped into the storage.

He was caught off guard by the small space. A few shoddy spears and swords were haphazardly dropped in a barrel, with some burlap and wooden baskets sprinkled with crumbs for rations and supplies. Corian approached a dusty desk, thumbing through the yellowed parchment on it tracking Heroguard collections. He had been praying for much more. A map that could take him to the closest landport at the very least.

Even the few bits of rations he could see were stale assortments of nuts and berries. He had seen a more bountiful stash in Toroy Garoztch's trash lots.

The door quietly opened behind him, and he turned, facing the smile of the well dressed man. His gaze wandered all over Corian's dirtied armour, prompting him to instinctively brush phantom dirt off his tailored green doublet.

Corian squeezed his brain for the type of act he should put on, thankful his helmet was hiding the panic in his eyes.

The man carefully closed the door, "you came earlier than expected."

"I'm well, thanks for asking. How are you?" Corian blurted, seeing some panic widen the man's eyes as he took Corian's nonsensical response as a jab at his manners.

"Of course! Ra'zerun's blessings be upon you." The man stammered. "Sorry, forgive me I apologize I'm just- it's been very busy. We've taken refugees from Bervolt and have hardly the supplies to go another week."

Corian took a calming breath, leaning on the man's panic to control the situation. "No need to apologize three times. Title?"

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"I represent Stonesong." He gave a short bow. "For the Heroguard." His eyes flicked to the desk Corian stood near, and he clenched his jaw. "I cannot even begin to apologize, sir. I'm sure you've already seen that we're short on the Heroguard's cut this month."

Corian eyed the papers again, pretending to care. "I don't mean to cause you stress, I'm passing through. Your collection squadron will be here in a few days, you have time."

The man cast his gaze to the ground. "Not enough. All our resources have gone towards the wounded and sick that came from Bervolt. On the White Knight's orders we are to host them as best we can."

Corian pondered the dilemma, frowning at the man's look. Hopeful, like he had some miraculous idea that could help them. He didn't even have a coin to his name right now.

A coin.

Corian looked at his armour, dirty, but expensive. He hadn't bought it. It was the only well gesture from his father to uphold his fabricated grace with the public. Why wouldn't an archon buy their son a wonderful set of armour?

An idea crept into Corian's mind, and he grabbed the quill and ink pot. "My father understands that sometimes, things just don't go as planned." Corian said, scratching his signature onto the collections form. "Tell the collections squadron House Valdrake is more than happy to eat the shortfall while your efforts are focused on helping these refugees. This one…" he continued to scribble his words onto the sheet. "And any shortfalls you may face as you continue to assist them. My father said Stonesong was a gracious host when he visited a few days ago. This is the least my family could do."

The man stammered on his words, shock and relief battling on his face. "Your father?"

"Corian Valdrake." Corian replied with a small bow. "My father would never turn his back on those in need. Ra'zerun's blessings be upon you."

Corian was sure Inprobus couldn't regenerate a hole in his coin purse like he did his pierced heart. So until he got to Toroy Garotzch and found a way to truly kill him, he was going to make his father bleed gold.

The town hall was a little emptier when he left the small room with the man. Most of the miners that had crowded the back of the room had escaped to the sunshine, leaving a dwindling supply of muttering townsfolk. Despite the clear space to walk, the heavy tension remained. Even Corian knew that Bervolt was a massive town, far too much for Stonesong to support. Their ire was simmering with each passing day the makeshift tents sat in their walls.

He made it back outside, drawn to what looked to be a tavern as his next source of hope, when a voice erupted from behind him.

"Excuse me!"

Corian flinched as he felt a hand press his shoulder, expecting something far worse than the unarmed woman that drew back in surprise when he quickly flipped around.

She brushed the golden hair out of her eyes, trying to look remotely presentable in her dirty dress. "I… you're with the Heroguard?" She sized him up, her gaze travelling over his shoulder to look for the rest of his squadron.

"I'm just walking through." Corian grimaced at his informal tone, falling right back into his training. "Ra'zerun's blessings be upon you…"

"Oh to… clean up Bervolt?" Her hands flexed nervously as she checked her shoulder, searching the townsfolk still in the hall staring daggers into her back. "I'm a refugee from there." She eyed him, hesitating on his silence as she dipped her head. "Really, I don't mean to bother you if you're in a rush."

"Sort of am. But you can bother me if you have a map."

Her face flooded with relief as she waved Corian to follow her.

They briskly passed the rows of tents, Corian catching glimpses of the lives that had been packed into each and every one. The sick and injured lay in patchy rags for sheets while children chased each other around the tightly packed shelters with sticks. Near the wooden wall they reached a tent of poorly skinned hides, where a man sat on an old log braiding a leather hold to the end of a dagger. Near his legs, there was a very young toddler trying to rub a stone sharp like the blade the man was holding, while two girls used the back of his hair for braiding practice.

Corian had seen many an exhausted parent. But this man looked as though the children had simply dropped from the sky and into his care, and sucked every ounce of joy and happiness from him in the process. He barely looked up when the woman rushed to him, only propping his chin when she tried to introduce Corian.

"My love, you are the light of my life." The man spoke, his gaze heavy on the women as he slowly motioned to Corian. "But why did you bring the town guard here?"

"It's been hours."

Corian received another judgemental look from the man. But exhaustion quickly took over as he shook his head. "We didn't mean to bother you."

"Tarson."

He rolled his eyes, turning back to his craft. "Sun's not down. That's when we told them to be back."

"But they're always around the town!" She pleaded, letting out a worried sigh when Tarson simply shook his head and went back to his activity. She turned to Corian without the assistance she was hoping for. "There's an old fairytale about some magical sword near here. Two of the children found out about it and… well they're kids."

"Nobody told them, it was a shoddy old scrap of wood on the posterboard." Tarson growled.

The fire in his eyes died as someone rose out of the tent next to him, the second woman balancing on a makeshift cane with her braced leg awkwardly resting to the side. She stared him down, not nearly as compromising as the blonde woman. "Well why did you let him touch the poster board?"

"I didn't know the little twerp could read!" Tarson bit back.

"He's thirteen." She hissed.

"So? Tavern here doesn't have a menu for a reason!" Corian took a step back as the man rose from his log, the armoured woman not backing down. "You two forgot one of them outside Bervolt for a whole night! He still came back."

The injured woman scrunched her nose. "With a giant monster!"

"Then the other one went and loosed an entire dragon on the town." The blonde woman remarked.

Tarson held their stares, searching for an argument that wasn't coming to him. He sank back onto his log reluctantly. "They probably taste like little shits anyways."

"Tarson."

"One map, for two little blonde twats." Tarson resigned, waving a loose piece of paper at a very confused Corian. "Take it or leave it - preferably the second one."

Corian thought on the trade, the contrasting emotions of the three growing by the second. He settled on his choice. He didn't know the fastest way back to Toroy Garotzch. A map would save him time. "Which way?"