[Flashback] Long Spring Nights (Millie)

[Wikus]

14th - Spring - 513 AV

The Fool's Errand

It was a bizarre spring in the Mithryn Outpost. Luck seems to have split in two sides, a good one that had filled the inhabitants with hope and joy, and it’s counterpart that somewhat waned their strengths to keep fighting for another day. And clearly, such diverse events had somewhat affected the patrons that were gathered in the only tavern of the town, and either had their dinner or their last drinks before another odd day began once the sun raised. Of course, alcoholic beverages eased the moods, and enhanced either the angst felt by some or the joy felt by most.

Winter refused to let go of its reign of terror. The cold was still quite around, and while the snows were far gone, the fields remained frozen making it almost impossible to work in proper conditions. Very few worked against the climate, yet the need to produce crops was present on every single farmer in the zone, as their income depended heavily on the results of the harvests. Others, refusing to waste resources in a still dead field focused their efforts on lumberjacking, as keeping a home warm was always a priority, besides the export value that could be cashed in Syliras’ industry. But the bad luck did not end there: there was still the problem with the plagues.

They began manifesting themselves on winters, in the form of rats that quickly spoiled the saved goods and called for a town-wide extermination that, thankfully, eradicated most of them. Now that spring had come, the plague was different. Centipedes bred in the cold walls and spread through the homes and businesses across the small settlement. Hundreds and thousands of them invaded the human territory, quickly overthrowing the populace in numbers and immediately beginning their annoying attacks on the much larger beings. Some began to call these centipedes ‘Dire’, as they showed no fear of attempting to bite the settlers again and again until their life was ended with a sole. The problem became so big that even a small establishment such as the Fool’s Errand Inn had to take measures. Due to the increasing discoveries of centipedes flooding the patron’s meal, their pottery plates and mugs had to be replaced with metallic ones – for its silver color was easier to discern from the centipedes reddish hue. Metal was not cheap, so instead of buying brand new materials, the local blacksmith melted old reused horseshoes and with them forged some cutlery. The poor amount of metal and the large amount of cutlery resulted in plates thin like paper, most of them causing wounds to its user’s lips in the case of mugs, or spilled soup in the case of plates.

But of course, not all of it was bad news. Spring had come, and this year there was no Djed Storm to terrorize the settlement with news of dead relatives or ruined houses. Last year’s damages were fixed, the dead had been buried, and their memories were kept with those whom survived the catastrophe to instead laugh and cherish the life they kept.

On this very cold night, where patrons laughed loudly as they ate their dinner wrapped in thick clothing to preserve heat, and where hands and feet constantly smashed the tables or floor in order to claim yet another centipede victim, Wikus sat in the table on the right side of the hearth. Unlike others, he was quite lightly dressed as if cold meant nothing to him or, if it did, didn’t seem to cause him any fear of falling sick. Instead, he seemed to be dressing only the various colorful tattoos that wrapped almost his entire visible body. While tattoos were not uncommon in the Mithryn Outpost, as most boors whom had ever visited Syliras always came back with a tattoo to show off their sojourn into civilization, it certainly was uncommon to be almost fully inked in colorful hues that drew flowers and beasts across his flesh. With muddy feet leaking beneath his table’s floor, as he wore nothing but some simple wooden soled sandals that one couldn’t find any different from walking barefoot, his silver plate was long finished as he now instead distractedly ate through a cup of dried plumes.

Truth was, he did not belong by these simpletons even if he himself worked in the fields to allow his lifestyle. Anyone could see it just by looking at him, how he steamed healthiness while others coughed and gazed at him enviously. And he knew that, indeed, as instead he always returned a smile to those whom wished to have what he had.

[Millie]

Flashback

Millie's visit to the Mithryn Outpost had long been overdue. A friend from childhood had died last spring in the Djed Storm, and although she hadn't spoken to them in ages, she felt the need to visit the place they had gone to live and work, the outpost outside of Syliras.

It was strange, she thought, that she felt no actual sadness over their death. They'd spent their childhood together after all. But the friend, her name had been Lucille she remembered, was a far-removed memory. In fact, all she felt was a vague remorse that she'd not kept in touch with many of her playmates.

So, with a sense of duty, Millie had made her solitary way to the outpost, only to find that Lucille's family had moved away, and that her partner didn't want to talk to anyone, especially old childhood friends of the woman he'd loved and lost, bringing painful memories of what couldn't be.

The rest of Millie's day had been aimless, as she felt like the journey had been a bit of a waste. In fact, the outpost didn't hold many things for a visitor to do, it's streets were quiet as most, if not all of the residents were working out in the frosted-cold fields. Thankfully, as the night drew in, the inn became a place that beckoned its ale-dipped finger, and the dark-haired woman withdrew to the comforts she knew best.

It was turning out to be a very, very cold day, and indeed evening. Millie shivered a little and drew her coat further around her shoulders, surveying the place through the doorway with dark eyes. She hadn't had the misfortune to stumble across the blight that seemed to be cursing the Mithryn Outpost recently, but as her foot stepped over the entrance, the squeeeelch of a dying centipede heralded the state of the inn.

Her first thought was one of disgust, naturally. The second thought which tumbled over the first to claim precedence in her mind was a question as to why the patrons weren't all running out of the door at the obvious problem. But, as she settled herself down next to the fire, all of those thoughts exited her mind.

It wasn't that she didn't care about the answer, it was more to do with a sense of sleepiness which settled over her like a blanket, probably due to the comforting warmth of the fire, and her long, footsore and fruitless day. A couple of chimes passed as the woman crossed her arms around herself, in a contented daydream about nothing in particular.

It wasn't until another patron got up nearby to her that she decided to follow suit, and order a drink. Another few chimes later, and the woman was nursing her first flagon of ale. Although she wasn't drinking as heavily as she had done in the past, she still occasionally had a drink if she felt like it, and tonight she did feel like it, hoping that the drink would warm her up in a way the fire never could.

Over the rim of the drink she idly people-watched as was her custom, noticing irritated smashing of fists and feet, curiously thin plates and cups, and one man who sat amongst it all, a smile on his face and arms so brightly inked that the woman had to blink several times to make sure she was seeing correctly. It was almost without thinking that she stared at him, admiring the pretty shapes and flowers and art drawn on his skin. She'd seen tattoos before, but never ones as vibrant and artistic as the ones decorating the stranger. So, with a curious but friendly smile on her face, the woman extended her hand over the table and offered it to the man. "Hi there, I'm Millie. What are you doing in the outpost?"

[Wikus]

It was way more fun than he imagined, laughing in the face of the two boars that watched him from afar. There they were, frowning and muttering as they stared at the stranger that had somehow managed to survive this long only to sit in the tavern they frequented and mock them in their own home. Wikus could almost see the hatred itself manifest in their eyes as much as he saw the centipedes crawling through their clothes. Their own inactivity had incited the pests to find courage to swarm them, for whomever lacked aggression towards the insects quickly became victims. The situation was certainly hopeless, yet none of the customers were proud enough to recognize the truth, instead clinging to the false hope that a good filled mug would erase both the cold and the pests. Wikus, however, wasn’t there to cling to the false hope as much as he was to fill his stomach before returning to his kitchen-less home and falling in the arms of placid and serene sleep.

His silent stare was quickly halted as, instead, his attention was capture by a nearby female whom had, almost recklessly, approached him. Perhaps for the female it meant nothing to approach a stranger, yet for him it was clearly something unusual as his whole body tensed as if startled. Looking up with somewhat innocent and lightly spooked eyes, it took a tick for them to finally regain the same mildness he owned moments before, and that was now once again layering his whole attitude. Having heard her words even when he panicked, that same urge to reply manifested itself in his motion of taking her hand, yet not quite giving her a handshake nor a ceremonious kiss in her palm, but instead an somewhat bizarre and quite awkward mixture of both, in which his hand lays below hers and is somewhat brought close to his features, yet instead of a kiss he delivered a gentle squeeze. While his palm was extremely smooth to the touch, the gesture itself gave off an air of unrefined politeness proper of those whom didn’t meet others frequently.

“I Wikus. I work on farm.” He said somewhat hesitantly, his voice being somewhat faltering at first yet quickly regained confidence as it ended. Truly, he was surprised by her boldness, but he felt in control of the situation nonetheless. Now that he had spent some time between these people, his common had improved drastically while still keeping itself on a quite poor level, dragging an accent with him along with strange inflections that quickly made his foreign nature stand out. Still, he was able to maintain a basic level of conversation on occasions, and complexly able to express his basic needs with words. Slipping his hand away, he’d instead use a foot to gently kick one of the legs of the chair that faced his on the other side of the table, while using the same hand that greeted the female to signal towards the chair. While the crowd was large this evening, none had shared Wikus’ table with him. Who knew why, since his table was fairly clear of any of the centipedes that flooded all around. It couldn’t be said the same about the chair he offered, which was in fact a refuge for many of the reddish insects.

As an incentive for her company, he’d slide his cup of dried plumes as a snack for the female to leech on if she was interested, being the only thing he had left from his meal. Between the thick blond beard would shine his white teeth, the smile being regular and charming as much as it was attractive – perhaps the only benefit gained in exchange of being surrounded by the aggressive centipedes. “Woman, what do here?”

[Millie]

The man's confused and startled look clearly indicated that he wasn't expecting company for the evening, but if Millie noticed then she didn't pay it any heed. The handshake, if you could call it that, was certainly interesting, but again, Millie wasn't paying much attention. The man was an interesting one, and as soon as he opened his mouth, she realised a part of the reason why.

"Oh! You're not from around here, Wikus?" Interesting name, she thought to herself. The chair he slyly offered was covered in insects, which made the woman's stomach curl, so for a little while she knocked them off, one by one, cursing under her breath before re-emerging. "Sorry about that, but there's insects covering everything at the moment."

With a little sigh, the woman placed herself down on the seat, depositing her mug on the table in front of her and regarding the plumes warily. Instantly pausing to brush a centipede off her sleeve in an agitated manner, only to grimace in disgust as it landed in what remained of her drink. "Yay", she complained under her breath. To Wikus, she said, "I'm just visiting for the day, I live up in Syliras. In Syliras proper that is." Without stopping, she plummeted on. "So, where are you from? You seem very..." But here she trailed off, as she didn't really know what to say.

The man was... unusual, to say the least. The funny looks he'd been sharing with a group of patrons in the inn, paired with the unusual lack of insects surrounding him gave her a feeling that something was not quite off, but not quite right either, with this man.

But, she couldn't quite place her finger on it, and anyway, she was much too interested in those colourful tattoos. "The tattoos are certainly interesting!" A bright, if somewhat forced, or perhaps unnatural smile spread across her face as she stomped her foot on a passing centipede-y-insect-thing.

Now that she'd sat down, she couldn't really think what to say, and a fleeting moment of panic settled in her stomach, until she latched aggressively onto the subject which was most intriguing her. "So, where are you from, and what are the tattoos for?" The woman was a firm believer in signs, and for someone to have so many signs painted on their skin, they must be a firm believer in something, right?

[Wikus]

The ink that decorated his flesh was, as he expected, enough to bring the attention of the females to him – the woman who sat before him being not an exception. It was sad for the ink to be of enough significance to bring forth all kinds of curious gazes yet not being enough to reach a long lost goal he had chased every day in his long life. Many would perish several winters before reaching a count of 30, as he somewhat suspected his undocumented life had reached by now. It was this notion what made him doubt the answer he was to give to the woman. Those marks meant nothing without his horse, and were mere extinct medals in the eyes of his people. Nonetheless, after a couple of ticks of ponder, he decided to share his own meaning for the achievements he had never quite valued.

“They be prizes for duty and glory.”He said, offering a gentle smile under his bearded features that was trying to somewhat mask his own frustration – for being so decorated and glorious did not quite match being lost somewhere working with soil. Still, finally he shoved his negative thoughts aside in order to bring life and enthusiasm to the conversation, hoping the female would also manage to overlook the disaster that was swirling all around them. “I come from… ehm… down, in place with lot of green. Many horses there and beasts… yes.”

His speech, although deficient and partially stuttered, was slowed down to the point of it vanishing in thin air just as the man realized a somewhat scary notion: he didn’t quite know where he came from. He recalled the horses, the green moors, the hunting trips and the forests of tents that decorated the fields, yet he couldn’t quite explain those memories with precision. He didn’t have a name for the roaming city, for the vast green nothingness he had roamed his entire life, for the part of the world that so abruptly changed as one kept advancing south.“South! Not down. Hah."

His thoughts had saved him, once again.

Instead of threading on the matter of the centipedes, which was certainly a cause of his ‘condition’, he’d dismiss the topic of conversation by chasing away a lonesome insect that was approaching him as it ran forth across the surface of the table, shoving it away with the palm of his hand and instead attempt to distract the female from the dire situation that was experienced by every patron now and for the immediate future. The distraction was to be his right arm, which was laid on the table closer to the female as the left arm pointed to different shapes and colors that dotted his flesh. “See.”

The right arm’s skin was almost collapsed with flowers, which were the general theme of the tattoos of said limb and perhaps his biggest pride despite the different themes he hid below his simple garment. The tattoos were chaotic to a point, as if the few spots that didn’t display any color but that of his skin were left unfinished, the design being still incomplete or perhaps that being the notion after he had chosen to so thoroughly congest his flesh with marks. It was strange for a Drykas to choose windmarks that didn’t invoke the wind as eyes laid on the marks, yet he had long ago decided to halt the belief of deaf and unseen Gods roaming this world. After a few ticks pointing to different flowers, he’d withdraw his arm and once again lay back against the rest of the chair. “Maybe I show rest later.”

And with that, he’d wink as he once again regained his confident smirk.

Taking some of the dried plumes with the tips of his fingers, he’d limit himself to stare blatantly at the female, eyebrows lightly arched as the female almost succumbed to madness in this insect-filled nightmare. Once again, he couldn’t let her get away – company was rare, and was to be kept at all cost. “Never walked Syliras. How it looks?”
He inquired once his plumes were finished – now inserting his fingers in the cup to retrieve a few more. Now, as he directed his full attention to the female, he pondered about the possibility of abruptly inviting the female over at his cottage – without any other intention than taking her away from the dire pest that was to engulf them all. But it wasn’t that simple, as he had found people in this harsh place were much too suspicious to accept even the slightest favor. At the risk of interrupting her, he finally exploded. “You stay for night?”

[Millie]

"Prizes for duty and glory, eh?" The woman smiled at the stranger, and contemplated his slightly stilted words. "And from a place down south? You mean..." Here, Millie thought long and hard. She truly was a Syliras girl, the concept of other places was a difficult one to conceive, but of course she had heard about them. A place down south which was green and filled with horses sounded completely alien, though. "Sorry, I don't know where you mean, but you should tell me more about it!"

The look of intrigue at the man's arm showed beautiful flowing patterns, flowers and other shapes the woman couldn't properly conceive. It made her happy to know that the man had received them for brave acts, or glory. The fact that they represented something was important, she felt. "they're tattoos, right? Maybe I should get some..." She said it as if it was like buying an item from a shop, something flippant and trivial, and immediately as the words left her mouth, she winced.

"I mean, once I've found something significant to me, then maybe I should signify that, what do you think Wikus?" As he asked about Syliras in the detached manner of someone who doesn't quite know the language, the woman let a smile colour her cheeks. "Syliras is a good place to live. It's basically a castle, so lots of stone. Maybe if you're used to the green then it wouldn't be so nice, but I find it suits me". But before she'd quite finished, the man's interjection, "You stay for night?" broke through her sentence.

She found she didn't mind too much. There was still something a little.. off, about this man, this Wikus. And as for his question, "Well, I haven't actually thought about it! I suppose it is getting quite late, maybe it wouldn't be safe to head home tonight..." She trailed off doubtfully. If there wasn't any space at the tavern to sleep, where was she supposed to go?

"Where are you staying Wikus?" The woman steepled her fingers together, and gazed at Wikus over them.

[Wikus]

Although rarely he planned ahead, this once he had made an exception as the naïve yet amicable female offered a scarce friendliness he hadn’t found anywhere in this hub. There was a reason for his somewhat abrupt query, apart from hidden intentions or most welcomed chatter, and that reason was walking through the door every few chimes. The work around the farmlands would never end, and sometimes even the day falls short to perform all tasks men and women alike had to complete before the night. Some finished early; aided by good luck or simple weariness, leaving tasks half done before retiring, yet not all could afford such indifference. Instead, most only returned when the night was about to engulf the fields and the light of the moon was no longer enough to guide their rough hands in repetitive tasks. Work is what most of this folk knew, few ever leaving the countryside and instead growing old and perishing into the very soil they reap throughout their life. It was somewhat ironic that most of those folks would indeed end up as fertilizer for the same ground that feeds them from birth. And of course, after a long and cold day, in an unforgiving spring that submits joy with layers of frost, the only destination the simpletons wished to visit was the tavern.

There will always be men whom hid from their wives or kids behind a tankard, as there will be men like him who simply sought some solace from the lack of those, but what will always prevail is the need to complain to one another about their misfortune. The cold that whipped their flesh, the fields that wouldn’t grow, the pest that kept overthrowing them, the coughs that required medicines… It was on everyone’s mind. The need to complain about it was taking them one by one through the tavern’s door, and the same monotonous tirades repeated in different voices a hundred times until nothing rang in their heads but the troubles they believed were swallowing their beings. Yet these days they found no relief, as the majority of the public for their whine were problems themselves, the bugs listening and comforting them with a swift death from those whom still refused to give up, and instead kept banging palms and feet against diverse surfaces. And they would keep coming until the tavern’s patrons became even more congested, slowly transforming the populace into an angry mob – one that would surely meet his eyes and lay layers of blame until they made him directly responsible for their hysteria, or would simply find a reason to claim his table, one which only housed two individuals instead of the six or seven members that surrounded the others.

Wikus ate his plums as he laid back and inspected the female. Despite his relaxed stance, there was some anxiousness present whenever his eyes flew back towards the entrance, or whenever angry and accusing eyes aimed to meet his, reason why most of his focus was given to the female’s features. He wasn't teasing nor defying as before, for now the number of patrons was increasing considerably, and their anger could quickly present itself in his direction. Staring at her was not a problem to his somewhat shameless psyche, which had disposed of awkwardness the action of carefully inspecting one’s eyes or features blatantly. The brown hue of her globes weren’t daunting enough to break the somewhat stoic inspection he performed from his perch, and the words were carefully picked from the limited collection he had acquired during the last season. “Small house where is… uhg … the water mouth.” His skill in the language wasn’t well developed enough to find confidence in the possible conversations they might share, yet he didn’t mind speaking with a somewhat boisterous and boasting tone that might reveal his actual joy of being able to speak. “I have cot even. You come, no problem.”

The occasional stutter in his speech didn’t match the fluidity of his motions, scoffing as he arched forward and rested on top of the supporting elbows as a wide open palm ran across the outline of his bushy blond beard, almost is if combing it without wishing for it to gain a rough and unpolished fashion. As he did so, he tapped a finger on the rose that laid in the opposite side of the hand’s palm. “Look this.” Inked in his flesh stood a red geranium above a few leaves, and an omnipresent eye stood in the middle, watching. “First there was only frond. Later there was frond and eye. Petals came after. Order does not matter. Meaning does not matter. They buy meaning with time.” As they had only just met, he abstained from asking about possible designs the female might be interested in adding to her flesh, as such questions were personal and, therefore, discarded. “Maybe stone Syliras-proper has good… ugh… tattoo planters.” He couldn’t help himself, and he looked away in a despaired sigh. Specific words for concrete things were clearly a grave weakness he should fix as soon as possible. Who knows what his words meant in the ears of these people. Still, he wouldn’t allow any corrections nor calm pondering over his grammatical and verbal flaws, and instead would continue his speech in order to pressure the female into talking instead of thinking. “Planting tattoo hurts, do you know? Closer to bone – big pain! Days after, tattoo flows everywhere, skin burns like fire!” He’d chuckle now, not really realizing he could be quite easily scaring the female off the idea. “You be calm and all good. All end quick.”

For once, he felt a bit inappropriate by somewhat ignoring the female’s conversation points, and even his own curiosity was somewhat extinguished by his will force. This must have been the longest conversation he had in the whole season, and there was still much to be learned about proper language and form in speech, besides the erected walls that stood between him and the populace from this part of the unknown world. He wouldn't mind sharing about the Glasslands, and neither he would mind knowing some more about Syliras, yet he wouldn't ask nor answer for the time being. Still, presenting himself as stoic as he was in the beginning (despite the few moments of awkwardness he displays every now and then), he’d offer a partially covert smile to the female, in a sign of gratitude towards her friendly attitude that perhaps may not reach her as his beard’s shape often gave his face a somewhat serious appearance.

[Millie]

As the man replied, he seemed to relax into the chair, but there was an air of discomfort about him that set Millie on edge too. The visible circle of space around their table was being eyed by the various patrons whose voices were raised in conversation. Millie on her part was glad that the two had space, but she could easily see the need to offer up space for others. She, however, wasn't as selfless as that, and made it as clear as she could with her body language that the entire table was to be kept free.

The sheer amount of people kept growing however as the two talked, and even Millie, unaware of Wikus's state could feel the simmering, vague anger of the townsfolk. She couldn't quite understand it, and so to her it was the same as not knowing the reason for the thunder that sometimes echoed in the skies, but she still could feel it. The man spoke, telling her about his abode.

She was a little wary, about this offer. He was clearly a foreigner, and in some ways she would consider going with him simply because of that, because of the powerful curiosity she felt. Another reason to take him up was because of the ever-jostling people about, a few times now she'd been accidentally elbowed in the back, but never once gaining an apology. The man went on, describing the tattoos again.

He mentioned the pain of planting the tattoo, something which made her giggle a little as she connected the word 'planting' with the botanical imagery of his tattoos. She giggled only until she realised what he'd actually said, and then burst out with a hurried question. "It hurts? How so? I just thought it was, y'know, like a painting?" Worriedly she ghosted her fingers over her forearm, as if anticipating the pain.

"Also.. your offer of coming over..." She looked around the tavern once more, and saw glares at the two strangers sat on their table, saw the ale flowing, and the place crawling with insects, and the ire building and made her decision. "If it's... okay? I think it'd be good to get away from this crowd." She lowered her voice a little. She couldn't quite understand how or why there was such anger coursing around the room, but as long as she was here, she wouldn't be able to sleep in a room, even if there was one to stay in.

With a blush she added quickly, "I can sleep on your floor though." She didn't want to seem to forward, and with an abashed smile, she said, "Also, I can give you some miza's for the stay, same as I would give to the inn here. And I won't take up too much space."

Secret :

I am so sorry for the long wait! it's pretty terrible of me, but I should be more on top of things now.

[Wikus]

"It is irk, believe." Replied Wikus after a scoff, having to raise his voice in order to make himself heard in the congested establishment, eyes fixed on the female in a unnaturally still stare born of the fear he had slowly began feeling of the patrons. He would have left long ago if it wasn’t for the female, already hiding below the blankets and trembling as he listened to every single creak, terrified of the footsteps that may wander in with the wind towards him. He tried to act unmoved from the crowds and their ever-growing numbers, of the smell of wet armpits filtering through multiple thick layers of clothes and mixing with the heat of the hearth that roared behind him. Through his peripherals he could see the sharp eyes that looked again and again towards him, but he felt no need to actually see them as even with eyes closed he’d feel the burning stares. They didn’t know that he was behind this, but their racism and closed minds hid the need of proof and even replaced it, Wikus convinced that they knew. Thankfully, the Knights were there to keep order.

While their presence was minimal in this region, they still halted from anyone going out of the law. It was a reassuring fact for him, while also a motive of worry as none of them were present in the inn. It was in these moments that the ferocity of the farmers was unveiled, their prejudice being unmatched for anyone not born between the walls that surrounded them. The knights often presented themselves as hostile as the inhabitants, but restrained in the sense of actual violence. They tried, at least.

Wikus began gesturing with his hands some kind of hammer simulation hitting something similar to a nail on his arm, making the consequent sound effect with his tongue, similar to an impersonation of a horses’ hooves. “See. Dot, dot, dot… All until tattoo completely planted. Other families have breaks to stop pain, but mine is not other family. Mine was best.” He leaned forward, using a hand to pull down the shirt by the collar, hoping to show the left eagle wing that opened on his upper chest. “See half-bird? Almost full day to complete. I cry and turn every second, even rope around me couldn’t stop me. Cried like little boy. First tattoo I won.” Despite what she could think, he was certainly not trying to scare her off the idea. But the chance to share a memory with someone was well used, and it was actually well appreciated as those kind of situations were new in his life. “After many bells of planting I fall to sleep, rest of tattoo done while I not awake. Seasons later I had earn enough for other half of bird. Common for tattoos of my people to have no shape or be not complete. Many are simple marks.” Bobbing his head lightly as to prove his point, he’d finish his speech with a forced smile that wanted to break the tense environment. “They buy meaning with time.”

He’d return his hands and the shirt to its place, but now he’d rest his elbows on the table, both for an easier hearing and also to somewhat hide his features from the natives. His fingers had unconsciously started to rub themselves, having finally lost their relaxed stance. He’d frown at the female’s disrespect. “Never!” he’d say. “You sleep on bed because you visitor. And no coin for me – I be happy to have visitor. I have little to give, but you stay just like you stay at home.” He took a small pause, raising a brow as he sighed. “I no fit in bed – people here be too small.” His loud words and his notoriety in the hub immediately caused his words be heard by the nearby tables, a tick of gruesomely awkward silence coming from those tables before the dreaded whispering began. Wikus wasn’t aware of this, up until one of the angriest and least satisfied farmers stood up and spoke what everyone’s mind wished to say. “Oi! Whaddaya’ mean we’re small, ye big brute? Why dontcha’ take yer’ shyke and o’on outta here befor’ we showya how petchin’ small YE’ar?”

Said voice, coming from the famed Pabatch, struck the tavern like sudden thunder. Most of the remaining conversations were halted midway, and instead a small shy reply of approval came from the remaining patrons. Pabatch, one of the few Inarta that left their homeland in search of fortune, was locally recognized as one of the best falconers and also an elite amongst the farmers. His birds were the only ones that benefitted from the centipede horde that had disrupted life, and actually served to control the plague to some extent – it was his birds the ones that lasted longer than any kind of bug poison. His birds also served as hunters, while his daughters worked the field, excelling in farming and gardening alike and bringing profit and reputation to the single father. He was, also, the leader of the hatred campaign thrown against Wikus despite also being the one whose Wikus’ cottage belonged to in the past. The relationship between Wikus and Pabatch’s youngest daughter was also an incentive, despite said relationship being nothing more than friendship as said daughter was only 11 winters old.

Wikus saw Pabatch’s fleckled face and lost whatever act he was trying to perform, instead returning his eyes to Millie and almost begging her, he’d say. “Can we go, please?” As he said this, the defamation campaign of Pabatch only sprouted new voices, ones that complained about Wikus in general, others that blamed him for undisclosed reasons, and some even about the freedom of movement he possessed in his poorly congested table. Somebody tossed a centipede against Wikus, which landed on his hair, before the witnesses copied said idea and imitated the action with much poorer results, adding a yell into the unintelligible chaos that had been just unleashed.

Wikus was a proud man despite his defeats, and would have never doubted to stand up and fight for said pride, yet he was at a loss against such large crowd, and his will to remain in the hub only served him as an incentive to just take the abuse either directly or indirectly. He only feared the next thing that would fly was a tankard, or a chair which would be even worse. The Knights would take a while to come calm things down.

“Please.” He’d beg the female again, still prideful enough to display courtesy.

Secret :

I've really gotta trim the post template - It's ugly as hell, and I apologize.

[Millie]

They buy meaning with time, the man said. Well, Millie could certainly appreciate the man now, and his courage. The tattoos he wore were obviously a symbol of pride, and great meaning. The fact that it made this hardy man pass out from pain clearly showed how much it meant, if it caused that amount of pain. She marvelled at the bird on his skin, and nodded as he explained, admiration clear on her features.
"I'm not sure that I would have one myself, but... I can see they mean a great deal to you." She nodded firmly, and reached forward to gently squeeze his hand, affection and friendliness coming easy to her, even as that prickle at the back of her neck told her it might not be such a good idea with this particular man.

However, that thought quickly passed out of her mind as she drew back, startled at his frown, and then even more so as an unnatural silence settled on the inn. The man's words grew loud in that silence, and Millie stopped still, animal-like instincts coming to the fore as she minimised herself against the onslaught of evil looks and rude retorts. And then, they grew louder and more outspoken, and the woman's face grew red with embarrassment, and also concern. But Wikus opposite simply offered a polite plea to leave the place, to which Millie nodded, half-fearfully.

She was glad that he didn't fight. Many a man would have done, in his situation, and she was sure that he could take them on. But the quiet manner in which he asked them to leave surprised her, and she found herself warming further to the man, who was polite and seemingly lost in a foreign land.

So, with a determined expression, she stood up, and pushed her chair underneath the table, squelching some centipedes along the way. It didn't take long for the residents of the inn to associate Millie with Wikus, and soon enough they started their hurling of centipedes and other crawling insects in their direction. Some landed a long way off, but others found their mark, and Millie winced as their surprisingly hard bodies hit her hair and glanced off her cheek.

If she was any stronger or braver, she would stand up to the bullies. But she was weak, and her voice quiet, and emotionally she was fragile, so she didn't say anything. She simply looked back to see that Wikus was following as she pushed her way through the jostling crowds, and made herself as small as possible to fit past shoulders and angry faces.
"Yer, that's righ'! Run off yer cowards!" An unknown voice piped up, and Millie bit down on her lip, trying not to let the nasty abuse affect her.

With a creak, she pushed open the door onto the cool evening, and kicked some insects away from the door as she stood, shivering not from cold but from the experience in the inn. Her expression was careful, and she didn't want to offend the man, but she desperately wanted to know if he was okay. Although, it seemed like he was used to it, so she cautiously asked, "W..- Wikus, what was all that about?" With an afterthought she added, "And which way do we go now?"