With the handwriting of a serial killer, John quickly scrawled along the small sheets of paper in his notebook. He turned the page every few seconds, as his dark eyes flitted from sight to sight in the small tavern.
Everything he'd never seen deserved a page. Every thought and musing he cared to remember went down. Gentlemen and ladies who observed him with cautious curiosity. The old bartender. The middle aged man who tinked away at the piano across from him.
This was the first town he'd been in for a full year. It warranted his utmost attention. He smiled as he wrote a biting remark about the piano player's mustache.
A shadow passed him, constantly moving due to the candlelit room. John's expression darkened to an unwelcome, low browed gaze as he watched the man pass. He turned his attention to his belongings. His sword, most importantly, hadn't been touched since he sat down.
John lightened up, and continued writing. He was perfectly happy to let his journal be his only friend tonight, as he waited for the waitress to deliver his food to the table.
"Hi."
John looked up, giving the caller his attention. It was a she, and a remarkable one. Her smile lightened the plain atmosphere as she sat on the other side of the booth, the wood creaking underneath the healthy youth.
"That's a nice sword." She looked at it. The jewel in the sword's pommel caught her eye.
"Yes. It is." His wording was careful, lest he accidentally make her aware of what he wanted to say.
I don't generally like thieves. Stop looking at my shit.
She leaned across the table, staring at his things. John watched her, placing his notebook on the table and watching her carefully. Her slender fingers could shoot forward and snatch his bag at any second. He didn't trust easily, and was always prepared for the worst.
"Do you use it often?" She pointed to his sword.
John shook his head "yes," giving her a wistful look. "More than I'd like to."
"Tell me about it." She leaned forward, her chin resting in the palm of her hand, her sleeve drooping to her elbow, as she awaited some explanation.
"Tell you about what? Using a sword?" John rested his back on the booth. This wasn't a thief. Just a curious, pretty girl who wanted to know what it was like to be out of her element. "You swing it, and hopefully, you kill the thing on the sharp end."
"I mean, tell me a story." She fixed her bright eyes on John. He sighed, and folded his arms on the table.
"I used to be a soldier. There was a HUGE battle. Just outside of the mainlands."
The girl smiled, her eyelids settling to a pleased, half open medium. She smiled as she envisioned the story in her mind's eye.
"It gets gruesome here." John noted. She nodded, as he continued. "My army wanted to give the people on the mainlands a chance to escape the enemy, so we attacked them from behind. We were winning. I swung my sword, and every swing seemed to clear out ten mutants."
"Mutants?"
"Tireless, ugly creatures that used to be human. They lumber towards you, grab you, and bite you. Even if you smash their skulls or cut them, they keep coming until they can't anymore. They never stop trying, unless you burn them into dust."
"And you managed to kill ten at a time?"
"I may be exaggerating." John smiled and shrugged. "But I was winning. I know how to make them stay down."
"So, what happened?"
"The Lich, the one who makes the Slow Mutants, was waiting for us to attack. He never wanted to destroy the Mainlands. He wanted us, the only people who would fight him, to all be in one place at one time. He sent something new he created."
"What?" She now realized that this had all happened to John. The story directly influenced him. Depending on the ending, he must be either praised, or pitied.
"He molded Slow Mutants into new shapes. Combined some. They were bigger and tougher. We fought back hard, and knocked down as many as we could. But then, he made creatures that explode. Green skin, hissing beasts who get too close and burst hard enough to crater the ground."
Picturing the creatures, her eyes shut and opened as she envisioned each one.
"I got close to the Lich. I cut him with my sword, and he knocked me down by shaking the earth. He sent one of the exploding creatures at me while I was getting up. I didn't know what it was, so I cut it down. It detonated in my face, and nearly killed me."
The woman leaned forward, looking at him hard. "Is that why you have that scar on your neck?"
"I'm lucky it didn't blow my head off. It split my neck pretty badly." John yawned. The story was old news to him. "After that, the Lich used the last of his power to summon a massive creature. Phalanx. It was a mile long, and spat hard, sandy winds. Those of us who weren't injured or dying were buried and blown away. The Lich nearly killed himself, but he'd won. We were decimated."
"I'm sorry it ended that way. I hoped you would win." She put her hands in her lap. "I hate sad stories."
"Eh. I'm still here." John yawned and stretched. He was tired, but still, he had to wait for his food. This woman was still staring expectantly at him.
"...Do you have a name?" John asked.
"Yes."
John waited patiently. Neither said anything for a moment.
"What IS your name."
"Lucy."
"Well, Lucy, do you have any friends?"
"Tell another story."
"...You've said very little about yourself. Maybe YOU should tell ME something."
"...No, not really."
The Waitress stepped forward, and placed a small plate of rice and spiced vegetables on the table. John started eating, scooping a tomato slice into his mouth.
She continued staring at him. At times, she'd smile, but for the most part, she simply watched him eat with a blank, interested expression. John swallowed, meeting her gaze.
"Do you want any?" John asked, searching frantically for a way to divert her attention.
"Allergic to tomatoes."
"Ah. Well, I'm going to leave now." John slid the plate away, knocked on the wooden table, and stood, throwing his bag over his shoulder.
He failed to notice how light his scabbard felt, or the absence of his sword.
Lucy smiled, holding the handle of his sword as he walked out the door.