Ollie went back over and popped the top on a fresh bottle of his 'special blend', a mishmash of chunky, sloppy still-leavings of various home-grown spirits and old beer. He returned, his wife cursing him, saying something clearly unladylike under her breath as he passed, and filled the glass with what seemed to be an even ranker concoction. Every bottle was a little different, and this one seemed to be very potent.
“In times like this, I'll not ask you why you seem to be intent on dying so young, but I will ask why you still seem dour despite the…festivities?”
Johan looked at him, money in one hand and drink in the other. “I’m from Tan Torna Qu-ay.” He put the money down and slugged back the blend, this time with little reaction. Unfortunately, the horrid taste wasn’t strong enough to force away the memory of his hometown’s mentioned name.
All at once, Ollie understood. The memory of this one and one other he seemed to recall came back to him. Yes, they'd been here a few days ago, sitting in the same place. They ordered a few beers each, drank, spoke briefly to the barman about the last year (a familiar tale), and were on their way home, south of here. Although they never mentioned their home by name (at least as far as he could remember), south by foot was exactly where Tan Torna Qu-ay was. Or at least had been.
The passers-by to this little den of the drink had relayed to Ollie the possibility of safety in the picturesque village in the valley. Some said they thought about staying but continued for prudence’s sake. Others were certain the people there had made a deal with the devil and were to be avoided. Either way, the result now was well-documented.
It had been the farthest north town to be destroyed. Farthest by a good margin too. If this terrible army could strike so far so fast, it was generally believed that nowhere was safe. Then the mass exodus had begun.
“I'm sorry, fella. Sorry like you wouldn't believe.” Ollie felt at a loss for words, albeit only momentarily. For a bartender, that could be a lifetime. “Whatever you want, let me know. I'm sorry to say that I haven’t seen anyone else from there yet. I pray you aren't the only one I meet.” Johan slumped. That meant Aryu hadn’t been here.
He left the bottle of brain-killing sludge behind and let him be. Others here had been through a lot, but something about this one gave him pause. As such, was entitled to a few rounds on the house. Money was no object now.
He returned to the rest of the crowd, his wife giving him an earful the whole way, and began filling orders once more. The kegs were near-dry, each evil little spigot either yellow or flashing red. It seemed that despite their technological relation to the Army of the Old, people could overcome their trepidation enough to suck them dry. Fear apparently did not know hypocrisy.
Another momentary glance revealed Johan taking another round down the gullet, and with that, Ollie returned to the task at hand.
-----------------------
It was obvious by the middle of the night that the party was not about to die. The old and drunk were replaced by the new and sober in a never-ending cycle.
Johan could barely see straight after so much special blend. Without saying a word to anyone, he got up and staggered out the door, his spot at the bar being promptly filled.
He really didn’t have a hope in hell of finding his lodgings while in his current state, but he had a rough idea of the direction, and so he followed his sloshed senses in the way that felt the most correct. Johan found a street he swore (for the umpteenth time that night) was the one with the inn on it. Halfway down the road he passed several buildings and alleys, clearly pillaged and ransacked by anyone with the mind to do so in these times, and he was instantly shadowed by three men of ample size and nasty disposition.
By the time the men passed him, taking off down an alley of pure blackness, even in a drunken state he knew something was wrong. Part of him was afraid, but a larger part had an air of not caring, the malaise and drink mixing into a form of total apathy.
When one appeared before him, knife in hand with the other two flanking to the rear, Johan had already admitted to himself the truth of the situation and the likely outcome. He was a strong and skilled fighter, but only when sober. He also knew the likely reaction when it was revealed that he possessed not a single thing of value save for a few coins and the dagger. Indeed, the whole scenario had been played out in his head long before the lead thug first spoke, and frankly, he didn’t care much by that point.
“Dangerous times to be wanderin’ ‘round, boy.” He moved closer, face hidden.
“Yep. But here I am.” Johan had no need for false bravado or posturing at this time. Their intentions were obvious, and he had no desire to bait them or run. Johan had the gift of strategy but was too far from caring to use it.
Silence for a moment. Johan had hoped his answer had tipped them off to his knowledge of their intentions. Perhaps he’d missed the mark?
“You seem out of place? Perhaps for a small fee, we could point you to your destination?”
“Perhaps.” Tired of the confrontation before it had even started, he was too drunk to pretend anymore. “But perhaps I’ll just keep wandering for free.”
He made no motion to proceed, yet the dark man moved to stop him anyway. “Well then, that’s not going to be as simpl…”
“Look, you either have
