Anniversary
“A toast!”, said Isador, raising his glass.
“To the Shades.", said Carbon, doing the same.
“To the Shades’ first anniversary,” replied him.
The sound of breaking glass filled the room as both rogues slammed the fragile cups into each other with excessive force, spilling wine everywhere.
Both of them laughed. Carbon and Isador, leaders of the Shades of Sosaria were at the topmost, floor of the Shades’ headquarters, sitting on the floor over a makeshift table. All around them, some of the finest spoils of the guild hung like trophies; gilded decorations, stolen from travelling noblemen, boxes of the finest wine and ale that could be acquired in Vesper, and even ragged battle standards and tabards of the many arrogant, self-righteous groups that sought to wipe them from existence. Everything shone eerily as the single window in the room flooded everything with moonlight. The early days were all but forgotten; the Shades had grown to a respectable reputation and size, to the dismay of the petty law-enforcers of the region.
“You know”, said Carbon “This isn’t actually the anniversary of the Shades.”
“Is it not?”, asked Isador, eyes wide.
“No, or else we’d be at the tavern, surrounded by everyone else, don’t you think? This is actually the anniversary of it’s founders’ first meeting.”
Isador didn’t seem to understand, but then he grinned.
“I see.”, he said, taking two bottles of wine from a box. “It’s been a whole year since we met in these same woods, then? Here, have one”, said him, offering her one of the wine bottles.
“Thanks. And yes, that’s it, it’s been a full year since we almost killed each other.”
Isador laughed, and took a swig from the wine.
“Wow, that’s good. Anyway, what were you doing in the woods in the first place?”
“That was my favourite ambush spot. You won’t imagine how many people were caught unaware in that clearing!”, she said.
“Oh, I can tell, right?”, replied Isador, grinning and pointing to his neck, where, exactly a year before, her dagger had almost delivered him a mortal blow.
“What about you?”, asked the female rogue “Were you preying on some innocent noblemen? Tracking down some fearsome beast? Fleeing from pursuit?”
Suddenly, Isador’s face went from joyful and drunk to serious and grim. He broke eye contact and looked down at the table.
And then he blushed.
“I was..”
Carbon noticed the change on his voice, and leaned closer, slightly worried.
“You were..? Come on, you can tell me anything.”
“I was downright lost, that is.”
Both of them laughed their lungs off.
“Another toast!”, said Carbon. “To health, fortune, prosperity!”
“And many a good spoil to come!”
They rose their bottles and proceeded to empty them.
Isador woke up.
His face ached. It had been leaning against the makeshift table for the gold knew how long. His every muscle refused to obey him, so crushing was the hangover. How many bottles had he greedily emptied? He didn’t reckon there were many, until he realised it was already morning, probably midday by the way the harsh sunlight punished his eyes; there were at least half a dozen bottles lying around the table. His stomach groaned, and he suddenly sniffed something. An aroma filled the morning breeze, and he realised that there was something, something hot, not distant from his head.
Then he saw it.
Before his very eyes, at the very center of the table, stood not a pie, but the pie. It’s every inch was heated with precision and was at least as golden as the precious metal his guild always hungered for. What was that metal’s name? He couldn’t remember, all his existence was focused upon the earthly manifestation of utter divinity before him. The smell made his mouth water like crazy, and there was little he could do to prevent drooling. The very sunlight and heat that filled the room seemed to radiate not from the sun outside, but from the pie inside. He felt more attracted by it than by anything or anyone ever before in his life. This was it, the single finest moment in his entire, pitiful existence.
For a single moment, his eyes dared to go beyond the pie and to the other side of the table. Carbon was there, looking as battered as he was, looking at the pie the same way he was.
“MINE!”, yelled both of them, reaching out for their prize.
Carbon and Isador were both face-down on the table, hands locked with each other at the center of the pie’s now empty plate, longing for a last sensation of it’s warmth, a last hint of it’s aroma.
“That...”, muttered Isador under his breath.
“Was the best pie. Ever. Ever.”, completed Carbon.
“I wonder who made it?”
Both of them looked up at each other.
“Does it really matter?”, asked Carbon.
“Not really.”, said Isador, smiling “Wait... there’s something at the corner of your lip...”
“What?”
“Here, let me...” Isador carefully picked a tiny slice of something buttery and ate it.”Mmm, it’s just a bit of... pie.”
“You filthy cheater!” Yelled Carbon, checking her own face with her hands to ensure not a single droplet of the succulent sauce was in it.
Isador was about to laugh, but then both his and Carbon’s expressions went blank.
And then the pain started.
Horrible pain, as if they had eaten something that rebelled against their internal organs, as if trying to break free.
Both of them went crashing to the ground. The pain was so intense they couldn’t even scream.
Calm footsteps were heard.
“Good morning, lady Carbon, lord Isador”, said Masquerade.
No reply but tortured groans came.
“Ah yes, don’t worry, the poison isn’t meant to be fatal or do any permanent damage. You’ll be well in half an hour or so. That aside, did you enjoy the pie?”
The masked man saw hatred in his victim’s eyes.
“No hard feelings, right? Do you want to know why I did it?” Asked him, grabbing both Carbon and Isador by the collars and hanging them like coats at the coat-hanger.
“The Shades do not need irresponsible leaders, leaders that drink themselves to death and leave everything behind. What if we were attacked in the middle of the night? Who would rally the members and organize a counter-attack? Not this pitiful couple of drunkards, I know for sure.
Consider this a lesson, Lady and Lord. Have a good day.”
“I can’t believe... that bastard...”, said Isador while he washed his face in a basin.
“Well, he does have a point, Isador. We got a guild to run, and all...”, replied Carbon, combing her hair before a mirror.
“I know. Just remind me never to drink again. In fact, remind me never to eat anything I didn’t cook myself.”
“Either that, or we could hire someone to taste our food before us.”, mused Carbon.
Both of them grinned.
“A toast!”, said Isador, raising his glass.
“To the Shades.", said Carbon, doing the same.
“To the Shades’ first anniversary,” replied him.
The sound of breaking glass filled the room as both rogues slammed the fragile cups into each other with excessive force, spilling wine everywhere.
Both of them laughed. Carbon and Isador, leaders of the Shades of Sosaria were at the topmost, floor of the Shades’ headquarters, sitting on the floor over a makeshift table. All around them, some of the finest spoils of the guild hung like trophies; gilded decorations, stolen from travelling noblemen, boxes of the finest wine and ale that could be acquired in Vesper, and even ragged battle standards and tabards of the many arrogant, self-righteous groups that sought to wipe them from existence. Everything shone eerily as the single window in the room flooded everything with moonlight. The early days were all but forgotten; the Shades had grown to a respectable reputation and size, to the dismay of the petty law-enforcers of the region.
“You know”, said Carbon “This isn’t actually the anniversary of the Shades.”
“Is it not?”, asked Isador, eyes wide.
“No, or else we’d be at the tavern, surrounded by everyone else, don’t you think? This is actually the anniversary of it’s founders’ first meeting.”
Isador didn’t seem to understand, but then he grinned.
“I see.”, he said, taking two bottles of wine from a box. “It’s been a whole year since we met in these same woods, then? Here, have one”, said him, offering her one of the wine bottles.
“Thanks. And yes, that’s it, it’s been a full year since we almost killed each other.”
Isador laughed, and took a swig from the wine.
“Wow, that’s good. Anyway, what were you doing in the woods in the first place?”
“That was my favourite ambush spot. You won’t imagine how many people were caught unaware in that clearing!”, she said.
“Oh, I can tell, right?”, replied Isador, grinning and pointing to his neck, where, exactly a year before, her dagger had almost delivered him a mortal blow.
“What about you?”, asked the female rogue “Were you preying on some innocent noblemen? Tracking down some fearsome beast? Fleeing from pursuit?”
Suddenly, Isador’s face went from joyful and drunk to serious and grim. He broke eye contact and looked down at the table.
And then he blushed.
“I was..”
Carbon noticed the change on his voice, and leaned closer, slightly worried.
“You were..? Come on, you can tell me anything.”
“I was downright lost, that is.”
Both of them laughed their lungs off.
“Another toast!”, said Carbon. “To health, fortune, prosperity!”
“And many a good spoil to come!”
They rose their bottles and proceeded to empty them.
Isador woke up.
His face ached. It had been leaning against the makeshift table for the gold knew how long. His every muscle refused to obey him, so crushing was the hangover. How many bottles had he greedily emptied? He didn’t reckon there were many, until he realised it was already morning, probably midday by the way the harsh sunlight punished his eyes; there were at least half a dozen bottles lying around the table. His stomach groaned, and he suddenly sniffed something. An aroma filled the morning breeze, and he realised that there was something, something hot, not distant from his head.
Then he saw it.
Before his very eyes, at the very center of the table, stood not a pie, but the pie. It’s every inch was heated with precision and was at least as golden as the precious metal his guild always hungered for. What was that metal’s name? He couldn’t remember, all his existence was focused upon the earthly manifestation of utter divinity before him. The smell made his mouth water like crazy, and there was little he could do to prevent drooling. The very sunlight and heat that filled the room seemed to radiate not from the sun outside, but from the pie inside. He felt more attracted by it than by anything or anyone ever before in his life. This was it, the single finest moment in his entire, pitiful existence.
For a single moment, his eyes dared to go beyond the pie and to the other side of the table. Carbon was there, looking as battered as he was, looking at the pie the same way he was.
“MINE!”, yelled both of them, reaching out for their prize.
Carbon and Isador were both face-down on the table, hands locked with each other at the center of the pie’s now empty plate, longing for a last sensation of it’s warmth, a last hint of it’s aroma.
“That...”, muttered Isador under his breath.
“Was the best pie. Ever. Ever.”, completed Carbon.
“I wonder who made it?”
Both of them looked up at each other.
“Does it really matter?”, asked Carbon.
“Not really.”, said Isador, smiling “Wait... there’s something at the corner of your lip...”
“What?”
“Here, let me...” Isador carefully picked a tiny slice of something buttery and ate it.”Mmm, it’s just a bit of... pie.”
“You filthy cheater!” Yelled Carbon, checking her own face with her hands to ensure not a single droplet of the succulent sauce was in it.
Isador was about to laugh, but then both his and Carbon’s expressions went blank.
And then the pain started.
Horrible pain, as if they had eaten something that rebelled against their internal organs, as if trying to break free.
Both of them went crashing to the ground. The pain was so intense they couldn’t even scream.
Calm footsteps were heard.
“Good morning, lady Carbon, lord Isador”, said Masquerade.
No reply but tortured groans came.
“Ah yes, don’t worry, the poison isn’t meant to be fatal or do any permanent damage. You’ll be well in half an hour or so. That aside, did you enjoy the pie?”
The masked man saw hatred in his victim’s eyes.
“No hard feelings, right? Do you want to know why I did it?” Asked him, grabbing both Carbon and Isador by the collars and hanging them like coats at the coat-hanger.
“The Shades do not need irresponsible leaders, leaders that drink themselves to death and leave everything behind. What if we were attacked in the middle of the night? Who would rally the members and organize a counter-attack? Not this pitiful couple of drunkards, I know for sure.
Consider this a lesson, Lady and Lord. Have a good day.”
“I can’t believe... that bastard...”, said Isador while he washed his face in a basin.
“Well, he does have a point, Isador. We got a guild to run, and all...”, replied Carbon, combing her hair before a mirror.
“I know. Just remind me never to drink again. In fact, remind me never to eat anything I didn’t cook myself.”
“Either that, or we could hire someone to taste our food before us.”, mused Carbon.
Both of them grinned.
