Act 1. The Question Of Violence

Act 1. Prologue

“Will ye quit making friends wi’ our prisoner, wench?” says the man sitting by the table across the room. He wears a scraggly beard and his face is scarred with acne. “His hair alone should frighten ye.”

The tall woman brings a bucket and a bundle of hay as she peers into the dark nook where he is confined. He is aware of what he looks like to her: blindfolded and wearing tattered clothes made of hemp and nettles. The unmistakable color of his hair precedes his reputation. He observes her beyond his blindfold. She wears a long-sleeved outer kirtle over a smock that is fastened at the waist with a belt. A thin veil covers her head. Her brows are furrowed, her eyes slightly squinted. She brushes a lock of her hair over her ear as she kneels down, adjusting the chains shackled to his feet before removing them.

“Worry not, brother. He’s got no hands. Ye saw me chop off his hands meself,” mocks the pockmarked beanpole of a man, washing down his supper with mead. “Ou’ master cursed his iron shackles. His magic dun work wi’ those shackles. Master says his kind are al’ bastards, cruel an’ violent, they are. They dye their hair an’ ink their eyes wi’ the blood o’ their victims.” The beanpole man stands from the bench, taking a tankard and a roll of sweet from the table as he makes his way to the door.

“That man…his kin’re the very cause why our gods are dead. Dead!” The tall man spits as he pushes the door outward, revealing the setting sun.

“Nay, you are wrong,” the tall woman says, her cheeks the color of peach. She takes his arm and places it around her waist.

Both men’s eyes widen as she leads him slowly to their table, laden with delicacies and dishes of oriental origin. He hears the table creaking from the weight.

“His kind fought with our gods.” The woman helps him sit, then turns her head. “Show a bit of respect.”

He observes the tall, thin pockmarked man noticing the woman’s eyes. Her eyes are the color of hazel. He hears the beanpole of a man’s heart thudding loudly. The man’s legs weaken, his mouth hangs open, and his cheeks flush as she stands with her hands on her hips, towering over the man. “By the dead gods,” the man says as his cheeks burn red. He throws his tankard onto the rush-strewn floor.

That’s exactly why I permitted them to blindfold me. I might faint if I were him against those eyes.

“Simmer down, brother. Lest we forget we’re guests here. The lands all scorched, near barren, we’ve seen nawt but ruined villages the last ten leagues,” the bearded man says, lowering his voice as he pauses for breath. The man shakes his head, observing his brother’s reddening face before leaving the hut in heavy steps.

The man with the beard sighs. “Forgive me brother. He…” He takes a bite on one of the grub. “Yer a good cook, wench. Did the dwarven folk teach ya? And mind sitting anywhere instead of next to our prisoner?”

“My da taught me,” says their hostess as she sits beside him. “May I?”

The bearded man denies her request, swatting her hands away from the shackled stumps of his arms.

“He was an apprentice to the dwarves for many years.” He feels her soft hands playing with his ears, attempting to remove his blindfold.

“No, no, no!” says the scarred-faced man, his voice shaking. “His eyes are pure wicked, vengeful an’ evil. Evil. Just leave it be, wench, should ye not fancy in joinin’ the gods.”

Even when seated beside him, she still seems to tower over him. The man across the table observes them both. Her hazel-caramel hair flows smoothly beneath her thin veil. She pulls a plate closer to her, picks up a piece of ground pork and minced vegetables folded in a thin, crispy skin, pressing it to his lips.

The thin, blistered, golden-brown wrapper creates a loud crunch between his teeth. The rich, tender filling explodes above his tongue, contrasting with the sharp tang of sweet-and-sour spiced sauce. He hears himself moaning and the woman giggling.

Tastes just like what her father used to make. I dare say better.

“Say, man, I will permit you lot to stay for the night. The wind whispers softly, for now. Another storm approaches,” the woman declares before she is interrupted. “I only ask you to permit your prisoner to weave me a tale.”

“Ye mad, wenc.” The acne-scarred man grumbles. “Me brother an’ I are a tad bit knackered, our horses are too, but his kind brought our world to an end and murdered the gods, they did.” The man scratches the chin hidden beneath his beard, pausing. “He’s worth a fortune, ‘nuff for us to rebuild our town.” The man tilts his head back, crossing his arms. “Wha’s the harm in knowin’ how the world came to its end before they hang him? Unless they fancy severed heads on spikes.”

“Where to?” asks their hostess, wiping a crumb off his lips with her thumb.

“To Mistress Pizzolato,” hushes the bearded man, his voice growing low and soft as he utters the name.

“The Queenpin of Murrica?” The veiled woman giggles, stifling a laugh. “Men are easily bewitched by her oh-so-great beauty.” She shakes her head. “She will pay you nought, you crippled her bounty.”

The bearded man frowns. “But…”

“You have papers?” Their cook blows the steam off the spoonful of stewed meat. “Pirates have blockaded the key ports along the western coast. You need official passes.”

His captor’s brows furrow.

“If you all stay till the storm passes, I can spare an official document.” Their hostess presses a spoonful of rice to his lips. “You shan’t give me that look. My da knows people.”

The bearded man makes no comment and instead digs his spoon into the sizzling diced pork, steaming hot, mixed with liver, onions, and chilies. “Wench, ’tis some strange crop. What is this?”

“Rice,” she responds, “from the far east.”

He hears the bearded man grumbling about bread yet moaning with every spoonful of her cooking.

“Say, what do they call you, man?” she asks, tipping a tankard of mead to his lips. He shakes his head slowly.

“Do you have any milk?” he asks. He hears his own voice, low and rough.

“The soldiers requisitioned the cows, sheep, and goats a week past. Only the hogs and fowl remain,” their cook responds, wiping another crumb from his lips.

He pauses before asking, “What does your father call you?”

The hazel-haired woman brushes her exposed lock of hair underneath her veil. “Raschel. It is my uncle who gave me my name.”

“What tale do you wish to hear?” he asks. “My tales are long and tedious, mind you.”

The tall veiled woman moves closer to him. “I wish to hear how the moon earned its green hue.”

She does not notice the bearded man sitting across from them, blushing as he watches them both.

“We, the common folk, know nawt why the purple moon now has a bit of green.” She leans forward, her shoulder touching his. He forces his own racing heart to calm itself as the scent of wine and roses draws closer.

“Are you well, man?” she asks, her fingers touching his chin and gently turning his face toward hers, her thumb caressing his cheek. “Your cheeks are…red. Do you have a fever?” Her hand touches his forehead.

He clears his throat, swallowing, and trying not to make a face. He shakes the shackled stumps of his arms, severed at the wrists. “It’s a harrowing tale.”

“We have all night.” The woman takes and raises a tankard of ale. She tips it to her smiling lips.

He sighs. “Where to start?”