Chronicles of The Life-Taker, pt 8!
Breakfast with The Life-Taker
Hello out there, I hope everyone is doing well! Thanks for being here for my news straight outta Wisconsin, USA.
Last time I mentioned getting finished artwork for my comic, The Bill Collectors, and moving on to the less-glamorous work of putting in the words.
Boy it is going slooooooowwwwww.
The main problem is that I’m on the wordy side, I like my characters to be saying a whole buncha stuff on each page.
Well sometimes the laws of physics work against me, and there just isn’t enough room for all the clever little dialogue I had written down in the script.
What you write in the script may look brief, but it doesn’t always appear that way once it gets onto the comic page, surrounded by a bubble that itself takes up space.
So then I have to decide ”is my dialogue so important that I should cover up the art?”
99% of the time the answer is “no”, and that means some text has to be cut or re-written. Very painful.
And this is a best-case situation. I’m the writer and the letterer.
Imagine in a traditional comic setup if the letterer has to go back to the writer and say “sorry man, I’ve got to cut your beautiful words.”
Well, in that case an argument will likely ensue.
In comics, for the most part people are there for the art. They don’t want to turn the page and see a wall of text balloons.
So that’s what I’m mostly dealing with these days, I’m hoping I can get through it with most of my original text intact. Keeping my fingers crossed!
The Life-Taker continues…!
Oh boy, last time someone was charged with cooking breakfast.
Not a traditional fantasy storyline I know, but even angry, violent axe-wielding barbarians have gotta eat.
So now… here is Part 8 of Kurzhon's adventures (part 7 seen here).
CHAPTER 8
“The way to man’s heart is through his stomach. Unless that man has no heart.”
~ Kurzhon the Life-Taker
* * *
Long moments of silence drew out after Kurzhon’s proclamation.
The waitstaff of the tavern made no move, just watched the party of three before them, likely hoping that someone else would make this situation go away.
Lady Monidale, wet and bedraggled, hair plastered over her pale white skin, stared up at Kurzhon with her mouth agape.
Wakely stepped forward to address the noblewoman.
“You heard my friend,” he told her, “we are hungry and we desire breakfast. Off with you!”
Wakely had not been expecting this, but now that Kurzhon had brought it up, he could not imagine another time coming when a noblewoman might serve him for once. He was truly looking forward to it.
Snapping his fingers at the waitstaff, he shouted.
“One of you take the Lady and get her started on our breakfast! Hurry now, we are famished!”
Still, no one moved. Then a meek voice spoke, this from an older woman carrying a tray of dirty glasses.
“B-but… she is a Lady!” the woman exclaimed, her tremulous voice high pitched and breathy. “We cannot make her work!”
Kurzhon, once again, was disgusted. He would never understand how these fools deferred to nobility, how they allowed themselves to be taken advantage of by worthless, freeloading, mincing fops.
He stepped forward, and everyone in the room stepped back, even those who were not close to him.
“Hear me,” he spoke. He did not shout, but all in the room were riveted by his low, rumbling voice.
He gestured at Lady Monidale.
“This woman is moments away from death. The only thing separating her from that death is my good will.”
Wakely had thought Lady Monidale was pale before, he smiled as he watched the blood drain from her face.
“My good will is not infinite. It grows less as my hunger grows more. If I do not receive sustenance soon, she will be the first to pay…”
Everyone tensed, hoping he would not say what was coming next.
“… but she will not be the last.”
Hopes dashed, the woman holding the tray of glasses quickly set them down and ambled over to Lady Monidale. Grabbing her by the wrist she pulled the noblewoman along harshly.
“Come on, now! I’ll help you but you’ll not forfeit my life!”
They were almost out of the room when Kurzhon spoke again, much louder.
“Do not help her too much, old woman. And if she should happen to escape, I will become most unpleasant.”
Wakely saw the look of fear on the old woman’s face and assumed that was what Kurzhon was looking for. Although he found it hard to imagine his new companion becoming even more unpleasant than he already was.
Just then, a young man who looked looked to be a coach driver burst through the door, backed by small group of dour-faced older women.
He marched up to Kurzhon, showing no fear on his face.
Wakely thought that in any other company the man might considered big, but compared to Kurzhon he appeared as if he had shrunk in the wash.
The young man cleared his throat and squared up against Kurzhon, who looked on with interest.
“The Drake is coming! You’d best be on your way or else—”
Kurzhon’s backhand happened almost too fast to see. There was a blur of motion, the sickening slap of meat on meat, and then the young man fell to the ground, unfortunately landing on his face. He did not move after that.
The women who had come in with him now tried to back out, as they had clearly put the young man up to it.
Alas, curious crowd members who had followed Kurzhon up from the dock were just now gaining the courage to enter, and forced the group of women even further into the tavern.
Kurzhon paid the women no attention. Instead he moved to a table and sat down. He had his back against a wall and a clear view of the entrance. Wakely sat down with him, also picking a seat with a view of the door.
No one moved to pick up the now unconscious man from the floor.
More and more people from outside were now gathering just to the inside of the doorway, murmuring among themselves and eyeing Kurzhon sideways, none willing to make direct eye contact.
Wakely noticed that they did not have a problem eyeing his bag, though. It had only been a matter of time before people started noticing their missing belongings and suspecting what had happened to them.
He surreptitiously slid the bag off the table and onto the floor next to him. He was enjoying himself immensely.
Normally, he did not receive much respect in his travels.
It was usual for the local law enforcement to suggest that he move on to another place, that is if they could not prove he was a thief. In times when he had made mistakes, he had been chased out of towns by dogs and torch-wielding mobs.
This was a much better experience. He thought he could get used to it.
A young serving girl appeared before them, eyes wide.
“D-drinks, my Lords?”
Wakely spoke first. “Do you have any milk?” he asked, excitedly.
Kurzhon shot a look of confusion and disgust at him. Wakely cleared his throat.
“I mean ALE, we’ll have your best ale, please.” Wakely looked to Kurzhon for approval, and Kurzhon nodded his head shortly to give it.
“And it had better not be piss-water,” Kurzhon growled.
The waitress nodded emphatically and then was gone in a flash, eager to be away from the two men. Wakely felt a charge from the girl’s fear.
“So, my friend,” Wakely began, “the tales say you are the last Vultaikan. What happened to the rest of them?”
Kurzhon answered quickly.
“Gone,” he said.
“Yes,” Wakely said, “but gone where? Surely of an entire nation there must be some others around somewh—”
“I said… they are GONE.” Kurzhon snapped. Wakely found the baleful eyes trained on him, and realized he had made mistake.
“Ahh, yes, gone! That is good enough for me! Who needs to know where they are, anyway? We can get along without them! Good riddance, I say!”
Kurzhon gave him another hard glance, and Wakely decided to change the subject.
***
Unnoticed by Kurzhon and Wakely, three men had entered the tavern along with the rest of the gathered onlookers.
They appeared to be fighting men, youthful, with well-made weapons, yet they had not lifted a finger in the day’s earlier action.
One of them, a bit shorter than the others, with a mop of wispy brown hair falling into his eyes, had lead his two companions to the back of the tavern, and from there they kept a steady eye on Kurzhon.
“So we’re not leaving, Hossy?” asked one of the men, a tall and lean man who carried a longbow. His dark hair and dark eyes made his sharply cast face appear to be hawkish in some ways.
The short man, named Hossy, responded cooly.
“No, Kavel, we’re not going anywhere just yet. I think this big man could be the muscle we need for the band.”
Then the last of the three men spoke. He was larger than the other two, but it was more fat than muscle. He was balding and carried a thick cudgel with him.
“But Hossy,” he blurted, “I’m th’ muscle of this group!”
The two other men laughed.
“Hey, Lundy,” Kavel said, “where are you keeping that muscle? Is it in here?”
With that, Kavel grabbed a fistful of Lundy’s prodigious belly fat and shook it, causing a procession of jiggling around the big man’s body.
“Aw, stop it!” shouted Lundy, pushing Kavel’s hands away.
“You two cut it out!” Hossy turned and hissed at them.
“Bottom line is we need a fourth for the kind of business I have planned, and somebody like that won’t work cheap. You’ll both have to take half-pay until we make some scores.”
There was a lot of grumbling from the other two, but Hossy was the leader, so they eventually gave up.
Hossy wasn’t listening anyway. He kept staring at Kurzhon, already dreaming about the kind of loot they could take from people with a man like that working for him.
***
A lot of time passed, and business in the tavern area of the inn became almost normal again. Regular conversation and the clinking of glass and silverware you might expect to hear in such a place was now in evidence.
The smell of food cooking began wafting out of the back of the tavern.
There had been some loud exclamations from the kitchen, and then outright shouting, but it was obvious that food was being prepared.
It could not come a moment too soon, as far as Wakely was concerned. He simply could not engage his large companion in any sort of decent conversation.
All he could get out of the man were one-word answers and hard stares.
The most Kurzhon had said at one time was “piss-water”, after he had taken a draft of the ale brought to them.
Wakely thought it was a bit rude, and after all he had done for the man, too.
Oh, well, he thought, at least I have breakfast to look forward to.
Even though the conversation was bad, he still enjoyed the feeling of power that came with attaching himself to such a feared personage.
As Kurzhon was not talking, Wakely began listening in on the chatter around him. Some of the women were chastising the menfolk for not standing up and taking care of the “ruffian” in their midst.
Wakely stifled a laugh. Ruffian. Anyone who had seen any sort of fighting would know that this man beside him was nothing less than a one-man army. These men weren’t stupid enough to engage him.
That’s why they’re waiting on the Drake, he thought.
Then his mood darkened. The Drake. There was one coming.
Wakely had seen a lot in his travels. He had seen Drakes. They were not like the guards here. Their abilities were storied, many times exaggerated, but Wakely had seen what they could do in real life. They were not to be trifled with.
But are they good enough to stop The Life-Taker? He thought.
So far, as the man was still at large, the answer seemed to be “no”.
But there was a first time for everything.
Wakely’s thoughts were interrupted when the serving girl appeared with a large tray of hot food.
Kurzhon smiled.
“Good,” he barked at the terrified girl, “what do you recommend I try first?”
“U-um, uh…” she stammered. Wakely took a moment to look over everything.
There was a lot of food on the plates, but he couldn’t determine what it was all supposed to be.
He identified some chunks of burnt bacon, and some lumpy, doughy things that he suspected were supposed to be biscuits. Then there were other lumpy, doughy piles that he guessed were potatoes of some kind.
There was a disgusting blob of something he determined must be eggs, and burnt bread that he thought was supposed to be toasted.
As the serving girl didn’t answer, Wakely reached over and plucked up one of the biscuits.
“If this goes wrong,” he told Kurzhon, “avenge me!”
Then he popped it into his mouth and began chewing.
Kurzhon looked on expectantly.
Wakely spit the blob of dough out from his mouth, launching it with violent force. It landed on the table and then fell onto the floor. The serving girl jumped back in alarm.
Kurzhon threw back his head and laughed.
Wakely was no longer in a good mood.
“I don’t see what’s so funny! This was your idea! I’m hungry and Lady Monidale can’t cook to save her—”
Even as he said the words, he realized exactly what was so funny to Kurzhon.
“—life.”
Lady Monidale is a dead woman, thought Wakely.
Then, before anyone could move, the door to the tavern opened again, but it was no regular townsperson or traveler.
It was a Drake.
The man was tall, and even though Wakely could not see much of his body under the long gray cloak he wore, the man appear to be fit.
He had straight dark hair and tanned skin. There was generous stubble across his face but no true beard.
The man looked hard. Wakely didn’t like his look at all.
“Now you’ve done it!” shouted someone who Wakely couldn’t see. “Now you’ll get what’s coming to you!”
The crowd parted and the path between the Drake and The Life-Taker became clear.
Without acknowledging the person who spoke, the Drake stepped forward, exuding grace and supreme confidence as he moved toward Kurzhon.
As he grew closer, Wakely began to regret the day’s choices more and more. This Drake looked strong. Capable. He looked angry.
Finally, as the room grew more and more quiet, the Drake came to stand directly in front of Kurzhon’s table.
Now there was supreme silence. No one spoke or moved. Kurzhon and the Drake stared at one another, with Kurzhon smiling and the Drake scowling.
Finally, Kurzhon spoke, contempt infusing his voice.
“It’s about time, Drake.”
***
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT TIME
Thanks for reading and make sure to let me know what you thought of Chapter 8 of Kurzhon’s adventures!
