If you know what you’re looking for it’s not hard to find him. The alley behind the town hall, they say. A young scholar, his coat’s collar trimmed with fox fur.
Elsenreiter puts quill and paper in order on his tiny table and waits. Danube’s early morning fog is stubbornly clinging to the cobblestones; sighing, he blows into his fists. He should have brought some mulled wine along, alas, he’ll just send an errant boy for some soon.
There, a pair of heels approaches, their measured steps echoing coldly in an alley that is otherwise empty and silent. A shadow peels itself out of the dampness, as if put together of some slower shadows left by dawn. It’s a man, expensively clad; yet later, Elsenreiter wouldn’t be able to tell you what exactly he was wearing. But his eyes—
"I bid you good day, Christian," the man says, and the way he hisses the ’S’ is dipping a bucket of ice water over Elsenreiter’s head.
"Same to you," he hears himself answer, trying to fumble his coat closer around his neck. Squinting, he asks: "Excuse me, but do we know each other?"
"You would think so." The man smiles, his teeth glinting like silver. "Come on, write me one of your slips."
Sweat is beginning to pool at the small of Elsenreiter’s back, dripping down his brow, and stinking in his arm-pits. "Right, sir. What is it you desire?"
"Oh," the man drawls, leaning forward. "The usual, please. Obscene riches, highest renown." He pins down a scrap of paper with a way too long fingernail. "Protection from any imaginable injuries, afflicted by bullet, lance, or sword."
Elsenreiter swallows. "Do— do you have coin?" Considering the way the stranger is dressed, it’s a ridiculous thing to ask, but he has met many a smooth-talking man.
The other’s expression is unfazed and maybe even a bit bored. He upturns his hand lingering on the paper, and there, in his palm, are three pieces of silver, foreign-looking, but bright. Elsenreiter definitely won’t haggle with this one; he’ll make it quick, no discussion.
"Excellent," he says, dipping the quill into the ink. Quickly writing the usual sentence with his steady hand, just another minute or two until the script has dried. His throat feels dry.
The stranger is staring at him, at the slip of paper, and back at him. "You don’t think this actually works, do you?"
Elsenreiter huffs, "Did the bishop send you?" That old fart likes to threaten him with vague threats via lackeys, and until now he had been able to ignore them— but this man is something else.
An unhinged laugh rackets from of the stranger’s lungs. "You’re a funny one," he wheezes, wiping away a stray tear, and spewing a glob of snot to the side. He snatches the paper from the table, reading loudly, "Devil, help me. Body and soul I’m owing you." He snorts. "That’s a nice one, really. A catchy sentence, easy to keep in mind. You’re clearly a very literate scholar, what a blessing for this place!"
Then, lightning-quick, his hand, freezingly cold like a dead man’s, shoots up, snatching Elsenreiter’s jaw, drawing him up from his seat, without any effort at all, across the table, knocking over the inkwell and soiling the uneven stones. Floundering, Elsenreiter pants, but the man just drags him a few steps along, pushing him up against the nearest wall.
He procures the slip from out of nothing it seems, and shoves it deep into Elsenreiter’s mouth, making him gag, and his eyes water.
"You may continue doing so," the man bellows, close to his ear, a roaring whisper that’s crawling along Elsenreiter’s spine, seeping into his marrow. "Just don’t forget you’ll be paying the same bill eventually."
Elsenreiter coughs, finds that he has wet himself, and fumbles for some balance when the stranger loosens his vice-like grip, letting him curl up into a retching ball.
"No, swallow," the man orders him, the tip of his boots poking into his kidney.
no subject
If you know what you’re looking for it’s not hard to find him. The alley behind the town hall, they say. A young scholar, his coat’s collar trimmed with fox fur.
Elsenreiter puts quill and paper in order on his tiny table and waits. Danube’s early morning fog is stubbornly clinging to the cobblestones; sighing, he blows into his fists. He should have brought some mulled wine along, alas, he’ll just send an errant boy for some soon.
There, a pair of heels approaches, their measured steps echoing coldly in an alley that is otherwise empty and silent. A shadow peels itself out of the dampness, as if put together of some slower shadows left by dawn. It’s a man, expensively clad; yet later, Elsenreiter wouldn’t be able to tell you what exactly he was wearing. But his eyes—
"I bid you good day, Christian," the man says, and the way he hisses the ’S’ is dipping a bucket of ice water over Elsenreiter’s head.
"Same to you," he hears himself answer, trying to fumble his coat closer around his neck. Squinting, he asks: "Excuse me, but do we know each other?"
"You would think so." The man smiles, his teeth glinting like silver. "Come on, write me one of your slips."
Sweat is beginning to pool at the small of Elsenreiter’s back, dripping down his brow, and stinking in his arm-pits. "Right, sir. What is it you desire?"
"Oh," the man drawls, leaning forward. "The usual, please. Obscene riches, highest renown." He pins down a scrap of paper with a way too long fingernail. "Protection from any imaginable injuries, afflicted by bullet, lance, or sword."
Elsenreiter swallows. "Do— do you have coin?" Considering the way the stranger is dressed, it’s a ridiculous thing to ask, but he has met many a smooth-talking man.
The other’s expression is unfazed and maybe even a bit bored. He upturns his hand lingering on the paper, and there, in his palm, are three pieces of silver, foreign-looking, but bright. Elsenreiter definitely won’t haggle with this one; he’ll make it quick, no discussion.
"Excellent," he says, dipping the quill into the ink. Quickly writing the usual sentence with his steady hand, just another minute or two until the script has dried. His throat feels dry.
The stranger is staring at him, at the slip of paper, and back at him. "You don’t think this actually works, do you?"
Elsenreiter huffs, "Did the bishop send you?" That old fart likes to threaten him with vague threats via lackeys, and until now he had been able to ignore them— but this man is something else.
An unhinged laugh rackets from of the stranger’s lungs. "You’re a funny one," he wheezes, wiping away a stray tear, and spewing a glob of snot to the side. He snatches the paper from the table, reading loudly, "Devil, help me. Body and soul I’m owing you." He snorts. "That’s a nice one, really. A catchy sentence, easy to keep in mind. You’re clearly a very literate scholar, what a blessing for this place!"
Then, lightning-quick, his hand, freezingly cold like a dead man’s, shoots up, snatching Elsenreiter’s jaw, drawing him up from his seat, without any effort at all, across the table, knocking over the inkwell and soiling the uneven stones. Floundering, Elsenreiter pants, but the man just drags him a few steps along, pushing him up against the nearest wall.
He procures the slip from out of nothing it seems, and shoves it deep into Elsenreiter’s mouth, making him gag, and his eyes water.
"You may continue doing so," the man bellows, close to his ear, a roaring whisper that’s crawling along Elsenreiter’s spine, seeping into his marrow. "Just don’t forget you’ll be paying the same bill eventually."
Elsenreiter coughs, finds that he has wet himself, and fumbles for some balance when the stranger loosens his vice-like grip, letting him curl up into a retching ball.
"No, swallow," the man orders him, the tip of his boots poking into his kidney.
And Elsenreiter swallows.