Te Veo (I See You) - Dámian and Keros
Nov 2, 2024 16:49:01 GMT
Marto Copperkettle, Dámian Vasquez, and 2 more like this
Post by Tom M on Nov 2, 2024 16:49:01 GMT
Co-written with the inimitable Dámian Vasquez
Set after the events of Squaring the Root
Dámian divides the gold into equal shares and hands it out to the others. Keros' share is handed over with (another) solid handshake and a low murmur.
"You fight well. I'll buy us some drinks, si?"
Keros looks at the underage Mittens, then the two people angry at him, and shrugs before smiling and replying quietly, "Sure. I could use someone to drink with."
Dámian follows his gaze and rolls his eyes. Mittens continues to be a source of confusion and exasperation. But he claps Keros on the shoulder in response.
“Don’t we all. Don’t we all. Let’s get the fuck out of here,”
“You know a good place?” Dámian asks when they’ve landed back in Portal Plaza. “I don’t care as long as it’s not the mirror.”
“Overpriced anyway. I prefer the Dragon to the Hanged Rabbit these days if you want to get rid of some of that mercenary gold.” He smirks as they make their way to the conveniently local establishment.
The pair sit down, a little cramped in a booth clearly designed to fit four people.
Keros lifts his tankard by the rim, “To a good fight.”
Dámian lifts his in response, a dry smile on his face.
"To a good fight."
He takes a long sip. He swallows. He considers his tankard. He takes another. When he's swallowed that one he peers into the hazy middle distance of a rather busy pub.
"I don't love it," he says. "The fighting. But I'm very good at it, and not very good at anything else. So I like doing it."
He peers over at Keros.
"Violence is a complicated bedfellow."
“Well put.” Keros says as he examines the man across from him’s change of demeanour, “I do not consider myself a skilled fighter. I can just take hits others cannot. Fighting is… pain, because of that. But it is also purpose. It allows me to be who I was made to be.”
He takes another drink.
“How did you get into this complicated business?”
Dámian makes a face into his drink.
"Well. I was a bit of a.. what would you call it? A young idiot who didn't get along with my father. And like I said, I don't really have any skills besides fighting. I hopped from one group of men to another for a decade or so, and then I found the Hounds. And that was it." He tugs at his collar to show Keros the branded mark on the side of his neck. "The Restless Hounds. Best company of mercenaries in northern Faerûn."
The minotaur smiles at Dámian's pride in The Restless Hounds, but he has a pained expression as if he's trying to recall something.
"I think... I think I had a similar story. But I traded memories of my father..." He waves this off as something that he doesn't intend to go too much into. "So you are not with them now though?"
Dámian looks at Keros, weighing his words.
"It is a long story. I'd be happy to tell it, even if it is not a happy story in itself. But I would also be happy to hear yours, however incomplete."
Keros drapes his arms over the top of the booth and settles in.
"Do I look like I have somewhere better to be?"
Dámian's eyes follow Keros' movement, tracking the width of the outstretched arms almost instinctively. He grins.
"Alright. I'll go first. But then you. We can compare sad stories."
He catches a passing barmaid by a gentle hand on her elbow and asks for another round, then settles back into the booth as well.
"I must say first: this was many years ago. Probably you were not even born. How old are you?" he asks, as an aside.
"Twenty-seven." He snorts with a grin, "And what makes you think I have a sad story?"
Dámian raises an eyebrow and grins out of the corner of his mouth.
"Traded memories of a father. That's something you do because you don't care to remember them, or because you were desperate and willing to trade them. Or it's something else. You're only 27 and I've seen soldiers twice your age with less sombre eyes. Te veo, Keros."
He takes another sip from his rapidly emptying tankard, raising the other hand in a sign of defeat.
"But! I said I would go first." He rubs his mouth and beard with his free hand. "27. Por los todos dioses, I am 60 years older than you. That's plenty of time to make mistakes. And I've made a few. But joining the Hounds wasn't one of them."
Keros doesn't argue, and he finishes his first drink to keep pace with Dámian as he listens to the tale.
"It sounds so... trite, I think is the word. But they weren't just a company. I joined them and I proved myself and they became my family."
The look he gives Keros is daring him to argue.
The minotaur chuckles in response to the look, "I felt the same about the Sixth. I am sorry, carry on."
Dámian nods, a slight relief in the gesture, and carries on.
"For the first time in my life I had stability. I knew where we would go during which season, I knew when to get out of bed, when to fight, and when to go back to bed. I got to know the soldiers by my side. Got to train with them, got to learn how to survive in fights when the only conviction you had to keep you going was gold coins. No gods, no cause to fight for. Just money, and the swords on either side of you. We kept each other alive. I stayed with them for over 30 years, and almost everyone who was there when I started was still alive, if not still fighting with us. That is the sign of a good mercenary company - low turnover."
Keros listens politely, but he closes his eyes for a few beats at this with a deep exhale.
Dámian picks at a scrape on the table a little idly.
"And then one year, we went north for a promising contract. We were low on funds but our captain had found some minor vassal lord feuding with some other minor vassal lord. It would see us fed for the winter, he said. Trust me, he said, there's serious money in it."
He looks at Keros from under his lashes, eyes dark despite their odd colouration.
"He sold five years of the company's service to the lord, and left with the full payment - our payment - that same night."
Keros raises an eyebrow.
“How does that even work?”
Dámian shrugs.
"It was not a very forgiving land. The lord had paid for service. The fact that we would never see any of the wages did not matter to him. We could stay and fight for him as agreed, or we could attempt to leave and be killed."
He says it simply, with the tone of a man who has long since accepted an outcome despite the atrocity of it.
"We were a family. We decided to stay, together. And it wasn't all bad. Room and board, and a decent commander."
“I mean, that sucks. But, where you are can matter less than who you are with I guess.”
Keros offers with a sympathetic head shake as he reaches for his drink and briefly catches his horn on a wall decoration. Dámian leans over and rights the crooked painting without comment. There’s a silent nod of thanks.
"Exactly so. And for a little while, that was enough. We did what we had always done, and survived. Almost made it out as well."
He drains his tankard and reaches for the second one. He takes a breath and ploughs on with his story like any man of his calibre would; not flinching away from pain.
"The vassal lord was losing his meaningless little territory feud. The only reason he'd held on for so long was thanks to his sworn knight - our commander at arms. We were 40 days away from the end of our contract and the lord decided that if he couldn't keep his toys, no one else would get to have them either. He sent us up in the mountains to hold a pass for as long as we could. It was a suicide mission."
He looks both at Keros and through him, his one green eye almost dimming as the purple one flares up ever so slightly.
"Our commander went with us. He was a noble man. Honourable. When we reached the pass, he released us from service and said that any man who wanted to could go. But that kind of man, they are very easy to follow. We all stayed. And over the next 35 days, we died. One by one. Until there was only me and him left."
He stops and takes another drink. His free hand worries at the scar on his face for a moment.
"I fell first. I don't remember much. An axe to the head. And when I woke up, there were Giants. That is how I am what I am today. The Giants told me to go to Kantas, to wait for him here."
Keros mutters the words “An axe” under his breath as Dàmian says them. He pauses to give the other man some breathing room before raising his tankard,
“To fallen friends.”
Dámian raises his own tankard, but his face is not solemn. There is a small smile there, dangerous and burning and inviting all at once.
"To getting them back."
Keros cocks his head. Intrigued as to where Dàmian is going with this, but with more than a touch of concern.
Dámian takes a sip and makes a face known to fighting men throughout the material plane - the 'I'm going to do something stupid and reckless, and if it's dramatic enough, it'll all be fine' look.
"That's part two, amigo. Now you."
The minotaur takes a drink and snorts a brief laugh.
“Fine, but we have already established that my story is shorter than yours.“
He sighs and settles in.
“If you want the full story, I grew up in a small village near Jarvenol. My mother got stuck under farming equipment with a small cut touching the ground when I was very young. I already told you why I do not remember my father. Not much happened you would find interesting until the Legion came through fighting giants.”
He pauses; considering that Dàmian might have an issue with this. Dámian frowns, but mostly in confusion.
"Perdon, your mother - can you explain? A small cut touching the ground, what does that mean? It is a saying, or...?"
Keros claps his hand to his head, “I forgot. In K’ul Goran the ground was until recently… thirsty. It would leech the blood from your wounds if they touched it. I remember a song about it we were taught as children: ‘…and that is why we have hooves.’ You know? I find it weird that other people find that weird.”
Dámian's eyebrows climb the entire space of his forehead, and then mentally accepts this as just another thing that happens over here. Kantas has a way of desensitising people.
"Sure. Okay. I am sorry for your loss, though. Please, continue."
He waves this off, “So yeah, I saw The Legion. Their gleaming armour, mighty weapons, and most of all people from all over K’ul Goran. I had never even seen a non-minotaur before. The Legion was how I could make my world… bigger. So I joined up.”
Keros smiles nostalgically.
“You talked about jumping between mercenary companies, but The Legions… they do not work like that and I did not fit in at first. This one air genasi called Nimbus made my life hell. He just had to beat me at everything. I had to learn to love my new family. But I did.”
Dámian grins, amusement and nostalgia on his face.
"And this cloud man - did you ever find out why he hated you?"
Keros closes his eyes with a sad smile on his face.
“He did not hate me. He just wanted to be the best. I learned a lot from him.”
He shakes his head, remembering how little he understood back then.
“I had a lot to learn. I barely knew that other planes truly existed when they told us we were to march into the Hells.”
The grin slides off of Dámian's face in a small swirl of mixed emotions. After a moment he puts a hand on one of Keros' arms where it's stretched along the back of the booth. He squeezes his forearm gently. He doesn't say anything, just gives a small nod, acknowledging the grief that words won't ever properly describe.
"The hells?" he asks, finally. An offered out.
This gesture seems to throw Keros off. As if it triggers a memory of something else that distracts him. He pulls the arm away and tries to pretend that doing so was a natural movement for him.
“Umm… yes. The Hells. So, we were to hold the line against the endless hordes. The Dawnlanders took the fight to the enemy. We paid for their space to do so in blood and lives.”
The minotaur grits his teeth.
“Was going well until a pit fiend dropped on us. His axe… I was not fast enough. It passed through Nim before it got to me. I woke up in a field hospital. They buried him just outside Zot Goran.”
"Lo lamento, Keros. Truly."
Dámian's voice is quiet and genuine. He nods again, somewhat to himself, and turns around to wave to the barmaid for more drinks. When he turns back around, he's somehow sitting slightly further away than before.
"Thank you, but I have made my peace with what happened,” Keros says. “It was not... an immediate thing. When I woke up I was given a medical discharge. Quietly. It looked as if some part of the hells had come back with me. Creatures flitting in the shadows when I could not control my anger. That is... not what was happening, but it looked as if it was."
As the new round of drinks arrives Keros takes one and downs it immediately.
"And that is how I stopped being a soldier and became an adventurer. Your turn."
Dámian looks at his drinking companion carefully, weighing his words with the precision of a jewel merchant.
"I'm afraid I might upset you further with more of my story, amigo. Should you wish for me to stop, only say so, and we can drink in silence until we get kicked out."
He hesitates for another moment, and then says simply,
"The minor vassal lord sold our contract. My entire company is trapped in the Hells, along with my commander."
Keros raises an eyebrow, "Not... where I saw that story going. And that is what you were talking about before? You intend to free them?"
"Sí. I waited here in the Dawnlands for many months, waited here for him. Because the Giants said those were his orders. When I finally caught a glimpse of him, I followed him to Harnash, of all places. I saw him there, with a few of the company. He told me what he had found out, and he told me to leave. The... thing that holds the contract, it is collecting us. The Hounds. I am the last one missing from the collection. So I left. But I swore I would free them. And I will."
He takes a large gulp of his drink, possibly from hearing the madness in his own words.
"Men like him... they are easy to follow but hard to obey. Santi, he- mierda, he would fight a mountain if he thought it was in the wrong."
Keros cranes his head to catch Dámian's evasive gaze and keep his eye contact, "And you will march into the hells, not because someone ordered you to, but for love?"
Dámian meets his eyes, throws back the rest of his drink in one go, and laughs suddenly. It's a short, breathless sound, a little frightened, but hopelessly determined.
"Sí. Are you telling me you would not?"
Keros laughs.
"I would not want to lie." He leans in and his tone becomes more serious. "So is there a plan? Do you... need help?"
Another huff of laughter escapes Dámian, this one more genuine than the last. He lifts a hand like he's about to slap Keros on the shoulder but aborts it halfway and turns it into a wave for more drinks. The barmaid throws them an apprehensive look, probably calculating how much damage two men of that size could do to the interior of an establishment such as this if they go too deep into their cups.
"A plan? No, ese. I know fuck all about the Hells. Or contracts." Dámian snorts. "Keros, I cannot even read. You could show me a notice from the board at Fort Ettin and tell me it's an infernal contract - I wouldn't be able to tell the difference. Well. Possibly, in the little swirls that fancy people put on the edges of their parchment. But still."
His grin is back. A glimmer in his purple eye pierces the dim light of the pub.
"There is no plan. I am going anyway. I will probably need the help," he says in an exaggerated whisper.
"Plans are overrated. When you are ready to do this, and if you want help from someone who has done this shit before and... gets it. Let me know." Keros says with calm sincerity on his face.
Dámian raises his - now refilled - tankard in a silent toast. The minotaur matches this gesture with a grin on his face.
They both drink. Then Dámian sets his cup back down with an air of finality.
"Enough. There is grief in the past and in the future. For now, I must ask you a question about something else."
Keros reaches out to stretch his arm and back muscles as he changes gears. "Ask away."
"Tell me, honestly. What is the deal with the little cat boy? The Mittens. Do you know him?"
Keros rolls his eyes and swears under his breath as he realises that he forgot to retrieve his platinum ring and that Mittens still has it.
"Someone once asked me to protect Mittens in exchange for them helping... someone very important to me. I keep my promises. Even if others do not."
Dámian's eyebrows begin a second ascent across his brow.
"So you are stuck protecting a young boy with a fondness for cursed teeth against your will? And how old is he even? I understand not everyone can be as full of wisdom as myself," he says, grinning widely, "but surely people should be of drinking age before they go adventuring?"
"Feel free to tell him that if you want to waste some time and breath." Keros laughs, "Mittens is going to keep adventuring whether I think it is wise for him or not, but I do not see it as a burden to protect him. The boy has more potential than I ever will, and every time we cross paths he finds a new way to impress me."
He smiles with a touch of almost paternal pride.
"I know I do not often set a good example for him, but being able to help Mittens reach that potential, if only in a small way, is a gift."
Dámian waves a hand in mock dismissal.
"No. Is not allowed. You cannot sit there with more patience than me. I am the old one, remember?"
He shakes his head sadly, but the smile is still on his face.
"The only way I know how to be responsible for people is by giving them orders. Adventuring parties are the very opposite of soldiers. Chaos."
"Dámian, I saw you take those hits for Ilthuryn. You cannot tell me that you do not know how to be responsible for someone else." Keros shrugs, his smile turning to sadness as he peers for a full tankard among the mass of empties on the table. "We try to protect everyone. That is... the job. What you cannot always protect them from is themselves. I may not have your years of wisdom, but that lesson in particular, above any other, is one I have had to learn the hard way."
Mirroring his sadness, despite his best efforts, Dámian sighs and stares into his cup.
“I think I had that wisdom, but I try to forget it.”
He leans his head against the back of the booth, a hair’s breadth from Keros’ arm. Purple and green burrow through the haze.
“Are you trying to make a good man out of me, Keros?”
He chuckles gently and turns, looking directly into Dámian's piercing eyes.
"Today I watched you defy a fiend for honour, nearly die to defend someone you barely knew, and now you tell me you would march into hell to save the one you love. Dámian; I do not know who you think you are fooling when you pretend not to be a good man."
For a long moment, there is nothing but silence between them; silence, a held gaze, and the ephemeral concept of 'a good man' rotating slowly in the air around them, waiting for someone to claim them. Dámian draws a breath for resolve and opens his mouth to speak.
"That'll be 2 gold each," says the barmaid loudly, gathering up the tankards strewn across their table.
Dámian closes both his mouth and his eyes.
"And if you want a room, you'd best get one now before they're all booked up," she says, somewhat pointedly, before walking away.
Dámian knows he's at least a little bit drunk, because he can feel himself blushing.
"I must thank my lucky stars," he says, opening his eyes to look at Keros again. "I think I was about to make a fool of myself."
Keros cocks his head as he sits up and reaches for his coin purse.
"What do you mean?"
Dámian puts a hand on top of Keros' to stop him, silently pulling out his own and firmly setting five gold on the table. He shakes his head a little as he does so, smiling in mild (and slightly drunken) disbelief.
"Keros. Hombre." He leans in just a little closer, the quality of his smile unmistakable at this distance. "You are enough to make an old man forget himself."
As a native abyssal speaker, Keros takes a little while to process Dámian's turn of phrase, but once he does his eyes suddenly widen.
"Huh? OH!"
Most of Keros' face is covered in a layer of fur, but even through that his skin visibly turns bright red.
"Dámian, I really enjoy your company and, I mean," he looks him up and down, "Look at you. But..."
But Dámian shakes his head quickly.
"No, no. You do not owe me anything, least of all a reason. If I am the good man you think me to be, then simply take it as a compliment and we will speak of it no more. My mind wanders easily."
He holds his hand out again, like he had done earlier, like Keros' had done when he'd pulled Dámian off the floor in the middle of the fight.
"You are formidable. Thank you for your company, hermano."
Keros takes a deep breath and raises his hands, respecting the request not to discuss the matter further, and grasps the presented forearm in a warrior's grip.
"Again proving yourself a good man."
Keros shakes his head with a smile.
"Besides, I think you have helped me realise something tonight. If you would walk into the Hells and risk your soul for the one you love... I can walk to New Hillborrow and risk getting my heart broken. Thank you, Dámian."
The hand grasping Keros' forearm tenses oddly, and Dámian stills for a moment.
"If there is even a chance," he says softly, kindly, "then do not waste it."
Then he lets go, and stands up from his seat.
"I better go get myself a room. And if you ever need me, Keros, it would be an honour to help."
He signs off with a lazy (and slightly more drunken, now that he's standing up) salute.
"Buenas noches, señor."
Keros gives a determined smile and nods at the advice, but waves off the salute,
"Hey, come on, we killed fucking yugoloths together." he chuckles as beckons Dámian in for a hug that would cause two smaller skeletons to shatter into a thousand pieces.
"Have a good night my friend. I think I need some cold air to... clear my head."
He nods and walks out the door, setting off for Fort Ettin.
"Is that a room for one, then?" the barmaid asks from somewhere near Dámian's elbow.
He doesn't reply, but he does give her another gold piece.
Fin.
Set after the events of Squaring the Root
Dámian divides the gold into equal shares and hands it out to the others. Keros' share is handed over with (another) solid handshake and a low murmur.
"You fight well. I'll buy us some drinks, si?"
Keros looks at the underage Mittens, then the two people angry at him, and shrugs before smiling and replying quietly, "Sure. I could use someone to drink with."
Dámian follows his gaze and rolls his eyes. Mittens continues to be a source of confusion and exasperation. But he claps Keros on the shoulder in response.
“Don’t we all. Don’t we all. Let’s get the fuck out of here,”
“You know a good place?” Dámian asks when they’ve landed back in Portal Plaza. “I don’t care as long as it’s not the mirror.”
“Overpriced anyway. I prefer the Dragon to the Hanged Rabbit these days if you want to get rid of some of that mercenary gold.” He smirks as they make their way to the conveniently local establishment.
The pair sit down, a little cramped in a booth clearly designed to fit four people.
Keros lifts his tankard by the rim, “To a good fight.”
Dámian lifts his in response, a dry smile on his face.
"To a good fight."
He takes a long sip. He swallows. He considers his tankard. He takes another. When he's swallowed that one he peers into the hazy middle distance of a rather busy pub.
"I don't love it," he says. "The fighting. But I'm very good at it, and not very good at anything else. So I like doing it."
He peers over at Keros.
"Violence is a complicated bedfellow."
“Well put.” Keros says as he examines the man across from him’s change of demeanour, “I do not consider myself a skilled fighter. I can just take hits others cannot. Fighting is… pain, because of that. But it is also purpose. It allows me to be who I was made to be.”
He takes another drink.
“How did you get into this complicated business?”
Dámian makes a face into his drink.
"Well. I was a bit of a.. what would you call it? A young idiot who didn't get along with my father. And like I said, I don't really have any skills besides fighting. I hopped from one group of men to another for a decade or so, and then I found the Hounds. And that was it." He tugs at his collar to show Keros the branded mark on the side of his neck. "The Restless Hounds. Best company of mercenaries in northern Faerûn."
The minotaur smiles at Dámian's pride in The Restless Hounds, but he has a pained expression as if he's trying to recall something.
"I think... I think I had a similar story. But I traded memories of my father..." He waves this off as something that he doesn't intend to go too much into. "So you are not with them now though?"
Dámian looks at Keros, weighing his words.
"It is a long story. I'd be happy to tell it, even if it is not a happy story in itself. But I would also be happy to hear yours, however incomplete."
Keros drapes his arms over the top of the booth and settles in.
"Do I look like I have somewhere better to be?"
Dámian's eyes follow Keros' movement, tracking the width of the outstretched arms almost instinctively. He grins.
"Alright. I'll go first. But then you. We can compare sad stories."
He catches a passing barmaid by a gentle hand on her elbow and asks for another round, then settles back into the booth as well.
"I must say first: this was many years ago. Probably you were not even born. How old are you?" he asks, as an aside.
"Twenty-seven." He snorts with a grin, "And what makes you think I have a sad story?"
Dámian raises an eyebrow and grins out of the corner of his mouth.
"Traded memories of a father. That's something you do because you don't care to remember them, or because you were desperate and willing to trade them. Or it's something else. You're only 27 and I've seen soldiers twice your age with less sombre eyes. Te veo, Keros."
He takes another sip from his rapidly emptying tankard, raising the other hand in a sign of defeat.
"But! I said I would go first." He rubs his mouth and beard with his free hand. "27. Por los todos dioses, I am 60 years older than you. That's plenty of time to make mistakes. And I've made a few. But joining the Hounds wasn't one of them."
Keros doesn't argue, and he finishes his first drink to keep pace with Dámian as he listens to the tale.
"It sounds so... trite, I think is the word. But they weren't just a company. I joined them and I proved myself and they became my family."
The look he gives Keros is daring him to argue.
The minotaur chuckles in response to the look, "I felt the same about the Sixth. I am sorry, carry on."
Dámian nods, a slight relief in the gesture, and carries on.
"For the first time in my life I had stability. I knew where we would go during which season, I knew when to get out of bed, when to fight, and when to go back to bed. I got to know the soldiers by my side. Got to train with them, got to learn how to survive in fights when the only conviction you had to keep you going was gold coins. No gods, no cause to fight for. Just money, and the swords on either side of you. We kept each other alive. I stayed with them for over 30 years, and almost everyone who was there when I started was still alive, if not still fighting with us. That is the sign of a good mercenary company - low turnover."
Keros listens politely, but he closes his eyes for a few beats at this with a deep exhale.
Dámian picks at a scrape on the table a little idly.
"And then one year, we went north for a promising contract. We were low on funds but our captain had found some minor vassal lord feuding with some other minor vassal lord. It would see us fed for the winter, he said. Trust me, he said, there's serious money in it."
He looks at Keros from under his lashes, eyes dark despite their odd colouration.
"He sold five years of the company's service to the lord, and left with the full payment - our payment - that same night."
Keros raises an eyebrow.
“How does that even work?”
Dámian shrugs.
"It was not a very forgiving land. The lord had paid for service. The fact that we would never see any of the wages did not matter to him. We could stay and fight for him as agreed, or we could attempt to leave and be killed."
He says it simply, with the tone of a man who has long since accepted an outcome despite the atrocity of it.
"We were a family. We decided to stay, together. And it wasn't all bad. Room and board, and a decent commander."
“I mean, that sucks. But, where you are can matter less than who you are with I guess.”
Keros offers with a sympathetic head shake as he reaches for his drink and briefly catches his horn on a wall decoration. Dámian leans over and rights the crooked painting without comment. There’s a silent nod of thanks.
"Exactly so. And for a little while, that was enough. We did what we had always done, and survived. Almost made it out as well."
He drains his tankard and reaches for the second one. He takes a breath and ploughs on with his story like any man of his calibre would; not flinching away from pain.
"The vassal lord was losing his meaningless little territory feud. The only reason he'd held on for so long was thanks to his sworn knight - our commander at arms. We were 40 days away from the end of our contract and the lord decided that if he couldn't keep his toys, no one else would get to have them either. He sent us up in the mountains to hold a pass for as long as we could. It was a suicide mission."
He looks both at Keros and through him, his one green eye almost dimming as the purple one flares up ever so slightly.
"Our commander went with us. He was a noble man. Honourable. When we reached the pass, he released us from service and said that any man who wanted to could go. But that kind of man, they are very easy to follow. We all stayed. And over the next 35 days, we died. One by one. Until there was only me and him left."
He stops and takes another drink. His free hand worries at the scar on his face for a moment.
"I fell first. I don't remember much. An axe to the head. And when I woke up, there were Giants. That is how I am what I am today. The Giants told me to go to Kantas, to wait for him here."
Keros mutters the words “An axe” under his breath as Dàmian says them. He pauses to give the other man some breathing room before raising his tankard,
“To fallen friends.”
Dámian raises his own tankard, but his face is not solemn. There is a small smile there, dangerous and burning and inviting all at once.
"To getting them back."
Keros cocks his head. Intrigued as to where Dàmian is going with this, but with more than a touch of concern.
Dámian takes a sip and makes a face known to fighting men throughout the material plane - the 'I'm going to do something stupid and reckless, and if it's dramatic enough, it'll all be fine' look.
"That's part two, amigo. Now you."
The minotaur takes a drink and snorts a brief laugh.
“Fine, but we have already established that my story is shorter than yours.“
He sighs and settles in.
“If you want the full story, I grew up in a small village near Jarvenol. My mother got stuck under farming equipment with a small cut touching the ground when I was very young. I already told you why I do not remember my father. Not much happened you would find interesting until the Legion came through fighting giants.”
He pauses; considering that Dàmian might have an issue with this. Dámian frowns, but mostly in confusion.
"Perdon, your mother - can you explain? A small cut touching the ground, what does that mean? It is a saying, or...?"
Keros claps his hand to his head, “I forgot. In K’ul Goran the ground was until recently… thirsty. It would leech the blood from your wounds if they touched it. I remember a song about it we were taught as children: ‘…and that is why we have hooves.’ You know? I find it weird that other people find that weird.”
Dámian's eyebrows climb the entire space of his forehead, and then mentally accepts this as just another thing that happens over here. Kantas has a way of desensitising people.
"Sure. Okay. I am sorry for your loss, though. Please, continue."
He waves this off, “So yeah, I saw The Legion. Their gleaming armour, mighty weapons, and most of all people from all over K’ul Goran. I had never even seen a non-minotaur before. The Legion was how I could make my world… bigger. So I joined up.”
Keros smiles nostalgically.
“You talked about jumping between mercenary companies, but The Legions… they do not work like that and I did not fit in at first. This one air genasi called Nimbus made my life hell. He just had to beat me at everything. I had to learn to love my new family. But I did.”
Dámian grins, amusement and nostalgia on his face.
"And this cloud man - did you ever find out why he hated you?"
Keros closes his eyes with a sad smile on his face.
“He did not hate me. He just wanted to be the best. I learned a lot from him.”
He shakes his head, remembering how little he understood back then.
“I had a lot to learn. I barely knew that other planes truly existed when they told us we were to march into the Hells.”
The grin slides off of Dámian's face in a small swirl of mixed emotions. After a moment he puts a hand on one of Keros' arms where it's stretched along the back of the booth. He squeezes his forearm gently. He doesn't say anything, just gives a small nod, acknowledging the grief that words won't ever properly describe.
"The hells?" he asks, finally. An offered out.
This gesture seems to throw Keros off. As if it triggers a memory of something else that distracts him. He pulls the arm away and tries to pretend that doing so was a natural movement for him.
“Umm… yes. The Hells. So, we were to hold the line against the endless hordes. The Dawnlanders took the fight to the enemy. We paid for their space to do so in blood and lives.”
The minotaur grits his teeth.
“Was going well until a pit fiend dropped on us. His axe… I was not fast enough. It passed through Nim before it got to me. I woke up in a field hospital. They buried him just outside Zot Goran.”
"Lo lamento, Keros. Truly."
Dámian's voice is quiet and genuine. He nods again, somewhat to himself, and turns around to wave to the barmaid for more drinks. When he turns back around, he's somehow sitting slightly further away than before.
"Thank you, but I have made my peace with what happened,” Keros says. “It was not... an immediate thing. When I woke up I was given a medical discharge. Quietly. It looked as if some part of the hells had come back with me. Creatures flitting in the shadows when I could not control my anger. That is... not what was happening, but it looked as if it was."
As the new round of drinks arrives Keros takes one and downs it immediately.
"And that is how I stopped being a soldier and became an adventurer. Your turn."
Dámian looks at his drinking companion carefully, weighing his words with the precision of a jewel merchant.
"I'm afraid I might upset you further with more of my story, amigo. Should you wish for me to stop, only say so, and we can drink in silence until we get kicked out."
He hesitates for another moment, and then says simply,
"The minor vassal lord sold our contract. My entire company is trapped in the Hells, along with my commander."
Keros raises an eyebrow, "Not... where I saw that story going. And that is what you were talking about before? You intend to free them?"
"Sí. I waited here in the Dawnlands for many months, waited here for him. Because the Giants said those were his orders. When I finally caught a glimpse of him, I followed him to Harnash, of all places. I saw him there, with a few of the company. He told me what he had found out, and he told me to leave. The... thing that holds the contract, it is collecting us. The Hounds. I am the last one missing from the collection. So I left. But I swore I would free them. And I will."
He takes a large gulp of his drink, possibly from hearing the madness in his own words.
"Men like him... they are easy to follow but hard to obey. Santi, he- mierda, he would fight a mountain if he thought it was in the wrong."
Keros cranes his head to catch Dámian's evasive gaze and keep his eye contact, "And you will march into the hells, not because someone ordered you to, but for love?"
Dámian meets his eyes, throws back the rest of his drink in one go, and laughs suddenly. It's a short, breathless sound, a little frightened, but hopelessly determined.
"Sí. Are you telling me you would not?"
Keros laughs.
"I would not want to lie." He leans in and his tone becomes more serious. "So is there a plan? Do you... need help?"
Another huff of laughter escapes Dámian, this one more genuine than the last. He lifts a hand like he's about to slap Keros on the shoulder but aborts it halfway and turns it into a wave for more drinks. The barmaid throws them an apprehensive look, probably calculating how much damage two men of that size could do to the interior of an establishment such as this if they go too deep into their cups.
"A plan? No, ese. I know fuck all about the Hells. Or contracts." Dámian snorts. "Keros, I cannot even read. You could show me a notice from the board at Fort Ettin and tell me it's an infernal contract - I wouldn't be able to tell the difference. Well. Possibly, in the little swirls that fancy people put on the edges of their parchment. But still."
His grin is back. A glimmer in his purple eye pierces the dim light of the pub.
"There is no plan. I am going anyway. I will probably need the help," he says in an exaggerated whisper.
"Plans are overrated. When you are ready to do this, and if you want help from someone who has done this shit before and... gets it. Let me know." Keros says with calm sincerity on his face.
Dámian raises his - now refilled - tankard in a silent toast. The minotaur matches this gesture with a grin on his face.
They both drink. Then Dámian sets his cup back down with an air of finality.
"Enough. There is grief in the past and in the future. For now, I must ask you a question about something else."
Keros reaches out to stretch his arm and back muscles as he changes gears. "Ask away."
"Tell me, honestly. What is the deal with the little cat boy? The Mittens. Do you know him?"
Keros rolls his eyes and swears under his breath as he realises that he forgot to retrieve his platinum ring and that Mittens still has it.
"Someone once asked me to protect Mittens in exchange for them helping... someone very important to me. I keep my promises. Even if others do not."
Dámian's eyebrows begin a second ascent across his brow.
"So you are stuck protecting a young boy with a fondness for cursed teeth against your will? And how old is he even? I understand not everyone can be as full of wisdom as myself," he says, grinning widely, "but surely people should be of drinking age before they go adventuring?"
"Feel free to tell him that if you want to waste some time and breath." Keros laughs, "Mittens is going to keep adventuring whether I think it is wise for him or not, but I do not see it as a burden to protect him. The boy has more potential than I ever will, and every time we cross paths he finds a new way to impress me."
He smiles with a touch of almost paternal pride.
"I know I do not often set a good example for him, but being able to help Mittens reach that potential, if only in a small way, is a gift."
Dámian waves a hand in mock dismissal.
"No. Is not allowed. You cannot sit there with more patience than me. I am the old one, remember?"
He shakes his head sadly, but the smile is still on his face.
"The only way I know how to be responsible for people is by giving them orders. Adventuring parties are the very opposite of soldiers. Chaos."
"Dámian, I saw you take those hits for Ilthuryn. You cannot tell me that you do not know how to be responsible for someone else." Keros shrugs, his smile turning to sadness as he peers for a full tankard among the mass of empties on the table. "We try to protect everyone. That is... the job. What you cannot always protect them from is themselves. I may not have your years of wisdom, but that lesson in particular, above any other, is one I have had to learn the hard way."
Mirroring his sadness, despite his best efforts, Dámian sighs and stares into his cup.
“I think I had that wisdom, but I try to forget it.”
He leans his head against the back of the booth, a hair’s breadth from Keros’ arm. Purple and green burrow through the haze.
“Are you trying to make a good man out of me, Keros?”
He chuckles gently and turns, looking directly into Dámian's piercing eyes.
"Today I watched you defy a fiend for honour, nearly die to defend someone you barely knew, and now you tell me you would march into hell to save the one you love. Dámian; I do not know who you think you are fooling when you pretend not to be a good man."
For a long moment, there is nothing but silence between them; silence, a held gaze, and the ephemeral concept of 'a good man' rotating slowly in the air around them, waiting for someone to claim them. Dámian draws a breath for resolve and opens his mouth to speak.
"That'll be 2 gold each," says the barmaid loudly, gathering up the tankards strewn across their table.
Dámian closes both his mouth and his eyes.
"And if you want a room, you'd best get one now before they're all booked up," she says, somewhat pointedly, before walking away.
Dámian knows he's at least a little bit drunk, because he can feel himself blushing.
"I must thank my lucky stars," he says, opening his eyes to look at Keros again. "I think I was about to make a fool of myself."
Keros cocks his head as he sits up and reaches for his coin purse.
"What do you mean?"
Dámian puts a hand on top of Keros' to stop him, silently pulling out his own and firmly setting five gold on the table. He shakes his head a little as he does so, smiling in mild (and slightly drunken) disbelief.
"Keros. Hombre." He leans in just a little closer, the quality of his smile unmistakable at this distance. "You are enough to make an old man forget himself."
As a native abyssal speaker, Keros takes a little while to process Dámian's turn of phrase, but once he does his eyes suddenly widen.
"Huh? OH!"
Most of Keros' face is covered in a layer of fur, but even through that his skin visibly turns bright red.
"Dámian, I really enjoy your company and, I mean," he looks him up and down, "Look at you. But..."
But Dámian shakes his head quickly.
"No, no. You do not owe me anything, least of all a reason. If I am the good man you think me to be, then simply take it as a compliment and we will speak of it no more. My mind wanders easily."
He holds his hand out again, like he had done earlier, like Keros' had done when he'd pulled Dámian off the floor in the middle of the fight.
"You are formidable. Thank you for your company, hermano."
Keros takes a deep breath and raises his hands, respecting the request not to discuss the matter further, and grasps the presented forearm in a warrior's grip.
"Again proving yourself a good man."
Keros shakes his head with a smile.
"Besides, I think you have helped me realise something tonight. If you would walk into the Hells and risk your soul for the one you love... I can walk to New Hillborrow and risk getting my heart broken. Thank you, Dámian."
The hand grasping Keros' forearm tenses oddly, and Dámian stills for a moment.
"If there is even a chance," he says softly, kindly, "then do not waste it."
Then he lets go, and stands up from his seat.
"I better go get myself a room. And if you ever need me, Keros, it would be an honour to help."
He signs off with a lazy (and slightly more drunken, now that he's standing up) salute.
"Buenas noches, señor."
Keros gives a determined smile and nods at the advice, but waves off the salute,
"Hey, come on, we killed fucking yugoloths together." he chuckles as beckons Dámian in for a hug that would cause two smaller skeletons to shatter into a thousand pieces.
"Have a good night my friend. I think I need some cold air to... clear my head."
He nods and walks out the door, setting off for Fort Ettin.
"Is that a room for one, then?" the barmaid asks from somewhere near Dámian's elbow.
He doesn't reply, but he does give her another gold piece.
Fin.