Solitude and Bread

The Creaky Mill is both aptly and purposefully named. Its owners, a humble grain farmer and his brother, are profoundly proud of the double meaning, though when asked about it they insist they stumbled upon the name accidentally. It sits upon a small tributary of the Border river which flows with just enough volume to turn a simple wheel, which in turn rotates a groaning system of gears to turn a grindstone, used in creating the Creaky Mill’s infamous Dawntonian blackbread. The constant sound of the flowing water and the grinding of old, iron cogs gives the small, warm establishment a feeling of being more well attended than it typically is. 

These are things that appeal to Mosha about the Creaky Mill, the soft hum of the waters, the ever present groan of overworked gears, the earthy, malty warmth of the blackbread, and save for a handful of other waystriders who  stumble upon this hidden gem, the vacant, question-less array of other patrons. Today he sits in the back corner of the Mill, a dark brown ale in one hand and a small loaf in the other, eyes closed as he savors the first bite. It is subtle in its flavors, sweet and rich, sour and tangy, earthy and malted. This is his favorite part of every day, sitting in this booth, in the almost quiet, reveling in the tastes of his homeland and youth.

Mosha does not open his eyes when the front door of the mill is pushed open too harshly to be accidental. He does not open his eyes when he hears the five sets of boots stomp and scrape across the warped planks of the mill’s floor. He even continues his attempts to savor his meal when the newcomers, with the raucous sounds of cheap armor scraping against worn wood, commandeer the space at the bar and loudly demand the keeper bring them Slag, immediately. A conversation occurs, Mosha tries to keep his mind to himself, focused on his food and his solitude, but it is apparent the newcomers are not thrilled. Likely the keeper has informed them this is not the kind of establishment that would keep a stock of a drink like Slag, and they seem quite frustrated by this news. Mosha squints his eyes in an attempt to block out the argument, it’s not his business, he doesn’t need the attention, all he wants is to enjoy his meal uninterrupted. 

It is the breaking of the first glass that stops Mosha mid bite. That tinkling, scattering sound of drink ware crashing to the floor, propelled by violence. He sighs heavily, swallows loudly, and opens his eyes to take in the scene around him. He was correct in his auditory accounting, there are five bruisers clad in rusted, scarred, and dented armor not worth the leather used to bind them together. Each is carrying club or bludgeon, each one greasy and snarling. Of the five, four are beginning to rough up the place. Tipping tables, smashing bar stools, bludgeoning lamps and denting wall panels. The fifth, bigger, rougher, and more heavily scarred than the rest, is standing in the center of the mill, chuckling to himself. He is Emvolorian, as signified by his bent and hoofed feet and long chin-beard. His is not braided or well kept, as is traditional for Emvolors, and though he is shorter that Mosha, he is quite tall at about feet foot, for his race. The Emvolor turns and looks as Mosha stands from his booth and begins to make his way over to the center of the room, and as he approaches, Mosha watches the calculations run through this brute’s head. Mosha is used to this, everyone looks at him and sizes him up, it is the curse of being the biggest one in the room.

The math is simple. As the Emvolor eyes Mosha up and down he takes stock of the over six foot tall Ruin, weighing no less than two hundred and twenty pounds. He is wide and strong, and despite his simple and practical attire, he gives off the air of one to be taken seriously. His prehensile tail is covered in fur the same auburn color as his shoulder length, tied back hair. And yet there are five of them, each of them hungry and desperate for something, or someone, on which to take out their boredom. The Emvolor smiles, looks up into Mosha’s face, and casually drops the glass in his hand to shatter on the floor. ““Somethin’ I can help you with, Rooj?”

Mosha returns the Emvolor’s gaze, stoic and steadfast. “Leave.” There is no question in his voice, no room for interpretation or subjectivity. The starkness of the word causes the Emvolor to blink, to hesitate. 

“Don’t reckon we’ll be leavin’. We’re here on Colban Logging Company business. So you can shove off or stay out of it—don’t matter to me.” The Emvolor smiles savagely, hauls back, and spits something foul onto Mosha’s chest.

A nod is all the response that Mosha gives. ‘No second chances, not again’ he thinks to himself as he removes his coat and sets it upon the edge of an upturned table. The Emvolor’s eyes widen as he sees what was hidden beneath the sleeves of the coat. Thick, white strands of rope wind from the crook of Mosha’s elbow to the palm of his hand, over the knuckles of his fist, and in between each of his fingers. As Mosha slams his fists together a wind begins swirl, tight, forceful, and focused solely on Mosha’s fists as he invokes his ties and their imbucation of the howling wind, and his station as a Martial of the Granite Fist. 

“Whoa now, we don’t want no trouble with any Martials. We didn’t know you was… well, you. We’ll go. Right, boys? No fuss, no fight.” The Emvolor stammers, backing away from the towering Ruiji as he continues to step closer and closer.

“It’s too late.”