Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

The horses swerved to the side in time and dodged Sunday’s struggling form. They passed a hair away from him while kicking up dust under the various colorful curses of whoever was holding their reins.

Sunday himself was fuming as he rolled barely dodging a cart’s wheel. He scrambled up making sure his bag was on him. His bullshit talent had once again decided to screw him up. Where was he now? Whose mess did he need to clean up? Was it so hard to let him follow his plan for once?

A voice reached him but his ears were still ringing. He surveyed the surroundings. His eyes widened in surprise at the sight, as it looked like he was still on the plain he had just seen. The beginnings of a tree line looked oddly familiar far in the distance. Was it the same one he had just walked out of? Where was the chief and had he seen him disappear into thin air? It was too far to notice if anyone was moving, but the plain and the road certainly didn’t look much different now that he was standing on them than they had from afar.

Is it possible I’m not fucked beyond reason? Was I spared another swamp experience?

All signs pointed toward a positive answer to that.

“Oi, are you deaf, ya sonofabitch?”

Sunday turned and for the first time paid attention to the one who had almost run him over. Not that the person had been given much choice, considering everything. It was a short old man with a straw hat looking at him with a scowl. He was biting down on a pipe that had seen better days. Thick smoke rose from it, and occasionally escaped the man’s nostrils.

On the back of the surprisingly large cart dragged by two equally large horses, was another person. A young fellow, leisurely lying in the straw and leaning on the barrels taking most of the space. A sheathed sword was resting next to him. Both were human, which made Sunday worry for a moment as he remembered Jishu’s hate toward them. How’s racism outside of the swamp these days I wonder.

“No. I hear fine. Just shook from… the experience.” Sunday responded.

“Speak up, boy. Whatcha doin’ laying on the road? You got a death wish? You a bandit?” the old man yelled. There was a fire poker in his hand and he held it menacingly.

“He seems to be already dead, bossman,” the man in the back shouted. He hadn’t moved.

“Ay, I see. I heard youngins who go to the other side suffer… head problems. You one of ‘em? You need a ride?”

Sunday almost screamed with joy, ignoring the fact that they possibly thought him suicidal. He held it in and put on a hesitant face. “If I may be so rude, where are you headed?” He raised his voice, as the old man seemed to be hard of hearing.

“The city. Got booze to unload. Fine ale, not for yer kind, I’m ‘fraid. I can see your thirst.”

Sunday swallowed. He was thirsty all right. He couldn’t remember ever craving alcohol like that before. And the thirst was growing by the day. Did being undead come with built-in alcoholism or something?

“You can swing tha’ sword?” the old man asked. His manner of speaking hadn’t softened at all and it still sounded like he was scolding Sunday, even when he was offering help and asking reasonable questions. The pipe made him slur some of the words as he threw it around in his mouth.

“A bit.”

“Tell ya, help this boy ‘ere protect the cart, and you can ride fo’ free. If yer not a bandit that is. Haven’t seen shoeless bandits...”

That’s practically a steal. Good people, I’ve run into some good people! Thank you chaotic fuckery!

“It will be my honor, sir. And I’m not a bandit.” Yet. Maybe never, who knows?

The old man threw another mean glance and turned around, muttering under his nose. Sunday only made out the words ‘touched’ and ‘head’ repeated a few times. He didn’t mind.

“If he’s a bandit I’ll reduce your pay!” the old man yelled at the one lying behind the barrels. He responded with a wave of his hand and a smile.

There was something else that demanded Sunday’s attention like a kitchen fire would. Both men were wearing shoes. Boots to be precise. Boots that were well-traveled and marked by heavy use, but still held up well. He felt his toes curl on the dirt road beneath. This was it. This was his true rebirth. The swamp was history.

With as much grace as he could, he jumped next to the man on the back of the cart and sighed with pleasure as the somewhat soft straw hugged him. Seconds later the cart moved, and the bumpy journey toward civilization began.

The man next to him shuffled to make room and extended a hand, “Name’s Vyn, and friends call me the same,” he said. He was slender in build, and the sword next to him was thinner and longer than Jishu’s. His hair was similar in color to the straw, if a bit darker, and reached past his ears. Thin hairs adorned his upper lip and chin. There was a friendly smile playing on his face, and a somewhat fancy pipe resting on his belt. Fancier than the old man’s at least.

Sunday took the hand with a smile. I hope you’re useful. “Sunday, and I want to thank you and your…”

“Bossman. We met a few days ago,” Vyn winked for some reason. “His name’s Emiel. He sells liquor and can’t hear us unless we shout.”

“Well, I wanted to thank you for picking me up. I’ve been quite removed from civilization for a while…”

“I don’t think the method you chose is proper,” Vyn said.

“What?”

“You laid on the road ‘cause you want to die, right? Well, there are better ways, even for an undead. Not that I’m trying to give you ideas or anything, I’m all for living, and living well…”

“I wasn’t trying to die, I… tripped.”

Vyn looked at him with a side eye and took his pipe in one hand and a small pouch in the other. “Tripped? Must’ve been a hell of a trip.”

“You can say that…”

“It’s fine. I don’t judge. Tell me… you got your heart broken? She doesn’t want you now that you’re dead?” Vyn’s voice turned softer, wistful.

Had he ever suffered heartache? Sunday couldn’t exactly recall. He had been around the block, but heartbreak was far removed from someone like him. It was impractical and didn’t help with survival. Maybe the scars made one tougher, but Sunday’s heart had many other scars he deemed much more useful than those of unrequited love.

“No, I don’t think so,” he finally said. Vyn let out a deep sigh that came from the bottom of his chest and seemingly carried untold hurts. Sunday hoped they would remain untold, but it was a small price to pay for finding a city. And alcohol.

“I loved. Once,” Vyn said. There was a flicker as he used a piece of flint stone with red edges to light a piece of straw on fire. He used his thumb’s nail and dragged it on the surface, which made quite a few sparks come out. It didn’t seem he needed much effort to do so. He then used the straw to light up whatever he had stuffed in his pipe. “I loved her a lot. And she didn’t even know I existed. Well, she did but she didn’t enjoy that knowledge, you know? Then she got with some handsome bastard, and I was left on my own, wishing for warmth.” He took a long drag from the pipe and exhaled. There was a whole lot of smoke, much more than any cigar or cigarette Sunday had seen. He tried to focus on that, rather than the forced sense of dramatism.

“Of course,” Vyn continued in a more upbeat tone, “After the hurt, I decided that love’s not for me but I still wanted to taste it, so I found a brothel, and paid to become a man. Have you ever been with a whore, Sunday?”

“No.” He had known whores. No one cheated on cards like them. They took care of the younger orphans when Old Rud was too drunk or too broke. Sunday held great respect for whores and he couldn’t fathom using their services. Plus, with all they taught him, he was pretty sure he could do well with women. Not that there was ever a time to try and charm his way into a girl’s heart. He had thought things might change after he found a good job. But then he went and died.

Vyn shuddered and took out a murky bottle from a sack lying in the straw next to him. After two long gulps, he offered it to Sunday, who didn’t refuse. It tasted like spicy water. He drank quite a bit and decided to consider it as payment for having to listen to this bullshit, even if it didn’t satisfy the cravings. Why was this person saying all of this anyway?

“It was an interesting experience, I tell you. Nice and all, but a bit confusing. Sweaty. There were many squishy parts I didn’t know how to handle. She knew what to do, don’t get me wrong. Threw me around like an angry horse. Had bruises for days after. In the end, she even cuddled me, free of charge. Let me cry in her bosom and stroked my hair, then slapped my arse on the way out. Told me love is like that, but more expensive, and that she wasn’t talking about the money.” Vyn paused and wrestled the bottle away from Sunday without looking. He drank long, then inhaled from his pipe, then drank some more.

The smoke was heavy and remained in the air behind the cart for a while like a trail of little storm clouds. Sunday tried to focus on them, rather than the story. Whatever good feelings there had been blossoming toward the man were gone with the shit drink.

‘When someone talks, you listen!’ Old Rud had taught the orphans. The man never listened to them, or anyone, but that was one of the more useful lessons remaining as a reminder of the old man’s influence on Sunday. Listening, as it turned out, was a skill few had. Sometimes Sunday regretted acquiring it, but he had heard worse things from worse people. Then again, there had been good strong alcohol in the mix back then, not chili water.

“Point is Sunday,” Vyn burped, “It’s not worth killing yourself over love.”

Oh, my fucking—, is that what he thinks I— no. Just no.

“I said I tripped!” Sunday protested. His voice sounded weaker. Defeated. As if the story had taken away something. But what?

“I hear you. Won’t mention it again. Just take it from me. I’ve lived… well, many long years in this world, maybe more than I think, and I’ve seen a lot,” Vyn continued. “There are things worth living for, even for loveless undead such as yourself. Like booze and gambling! Plus, you look quite good for a dead bastard, eh? Relatively speaking. Dying young has its charms.”

My purpose is to stumble upon insane people. I understand now.

“How far is the city? Which city is it?” Sunday asked, subtly trying to change the topic.

“Five or six hours away with our pace. Are you not from around? You’ll love it. It rests on the edge of Blooming Lake, hence the name, known for the ever-fresh flowers growing around its banks. Something in the water – harmless spells if you ask me, makes it happen. It’s a nice place, got lots of pubs and you will find quite a few undead there. Some drowners too, but not as many as in other places. There are canals, bringing the lake’s aroma to the landlocked parts. And the waters smell amazing… It’s called Blumwin.”

Sunday listened closely, staring at the clear blue sky and letting himself get excited for what awaited. He hadn’t thought much about his previous life. At least not in depth. The swamp had a certain quality to it that made everything less interesting. A lot had happened in a short time too. Days had blended and he wasn’t sure how much had passed. Weeks? A month? He had lost a few days here and there to practice of the arts and awakening.

He missed what it could’ve been, but it certainly sounded like there would be a place in this world for someone like him. He was a mage now, and while he was certain peaceful times wouldn’t last, that didn’t mean he couldn’t make some here and there. This would be his first time in a different city than the one he had lived his whole life in. It sounded positively wonderful.

Vyn continued unaware of Sunday’s thoughts, captured in his tale as he took puff after puff of his strangely shaped pipe.

“It’s famous for the flower wines and liquors. What we’re transporting is harder ale. It’s popular among some crowds who scoff at the ‘womanly’ scents. Bunch of fools if you ask me. Why not have both? Life’s too short for some of us, we have to enjoy simple pleasures whenever we can…”

Sunday nodded, “That I can agree with. Simple times are fleeting and we often neglect enjoying them to worry about bullshit that doesn’t matter…”

Vyn slapped his knee and laughed. “I think we’re going to be great friends. Cheers to that. How about a song, then?”

The man pulled out a leather case from behind his back and sat up straighter, fluffing the soft straw behind his back and leaning on a barrel of ale. Sunday’s eyes grew wide as Vyn took something like a rusty flute out of it. “My girl’s seen better days, and I’m still a beginner, but I think I got a tune or three in me.”

Vyn started playing, and to Sunday’s surprise, it sounded nice. It was not jazz, or rock, or anything of the sort. It was a simple melody. The notes flowed like a calm river whose waters brought along melancholy and wonder. Like the rolling hills that hid the horizon from view and like the clouds above ever marching to the tune of the world.

Simple times truly are the best. Sunday thought and closed his eyes with a smile.