[3K+] Us Valley-Folk

The wheels struck against cobble as the carriage rumbled over the path's uneven and sloped terrain. Arthur, a duo of mercenaries, and his personal bodyguard were its passengers, and their destination was the Ursula Hall. It had not been a quiet ride as Arthur had many questions regarding a certain someone.

"Is there anything else you can tell me of what you saw? What would you describe their relationship as? Are they close?" asked Arthur.

"Well, old man, the thing is that nobody really quite knows Soran that well: he's alone most of the time, I hear. Besides, even if we did fight the man, I can't tell you what came of their meeting," said one of the mercenaries while adjusting his magic-restraining gloves. At their wrist shone a light blue.

"He gave something to Soran though," said the other. "Something of gold. An ornament or something. Point is: it seemed valuable."

"What do you suspect?" asked Arthur.

"I'm thinking that he was hired. If you ask me, I say there's is no other reason why a famed mercenary would be handed gleaming gold other than for service."

Arthur hoped that their relationship ended at that: that they were just client and hiree. A business contract that could be ripped to pieces as easily as it was signed. Some say that hope is a virtue for fools, but Arthur held onto hope for dear life. You could say he respected it. However, what he hoped for was not as related to current matters as it was to his fear of the diamond commissioner—unchained as she was—who had the freedom to do as she pleased. Whether that meant reaching her hand out to help the burdened in need or to 'dispose' of individuals she considered detrimental to her plans; well, it was within no one's power to stop her. And, unfortunately, the latter action seemed to be far more common that the prior. Either way, he'd wanted nothing to do with her, so if he could do his duty properly, she might just keep her nose out of his business. He cared for Soran as his old friend but had no relation to the so-called 'economical terrorist', and that is why he hoped that their relationship was as shallow as an early morn' puddle after nightly rainfall.

The carriage stopped sloping and became parallel to flat ground. They had arrived at the highest elevation of River Valley. The uneven cobble had evened out so the carriage hardly rumbled at all now.

"Well, I thank you for your information, nonetheless," said Arthur as he took off his top hat, which he wore specifically for finer occasions, revealing his balding head.

"I guess we couldn't tell you what you wanted to know," said one of the mercenaries almost apologetically.

"You've told me enough son," answered Arthur, smiling more so out of respect than gratitude.

They chattered something further before the carriage finally came to a halt. The coachman's voice called out from the front, "we've arrived", and Arthur's bodyguard: a tall, muscular fellow, promptly coughed and edged the door open just enough to let in a faint breeze.

"Let us go," he said in a deep voice as if he was trying to seem intimidating to the mercenaries before them.

"Very well," said Arthur as he pushed himself off his seat and stepped out, his bodyguard flanking his side.

The mercenaries followed suit, and waiting for them by the wrought iron gates was none other than Mr. Hennes and his gathering aristocratic allies—each one of them dressed in either frilled puffy dresses or hand-tailored suits.

"Well, well, well. By the frozen shores, if it isn't Arthur Bettlebook," said Hennes. "Never in my days did I think to see riff-raff strolling about the Quarters, but I guess they don't call you 'dog tamer' for nothing, do they now?"

Hennes gestured at Arthur's company as his own company seemed to raise their chins just slightly.

"Dogs are most loyal, Mr. Hennes. Though, I wouldn't quite liken my friends here to dogs," said Arthur.

"Are you saying such a title is ill-earned by your reckoning?"

"I wouldn't say so exactly," said Arthur as he smirked, tapping on his bulbous nose.

Hennes hoarsely chuckled. His lungs could not conceal his habit of smoking.

"We mercenaries can be richer and more valorous than the eye may spy!" insisted the mercenary with ice blue hands.

"If one's skill and quality proceed the norm, possibly. But what would you know," snarked Hennes, who had no fondness in his heart for rugged types who were keen at concealing truth.

"Please don't insult my associates, now. Let us keep this as civil as possible," said Arthur.

"Could we take a stroll please, Hennes Sir? My legs ache after standing still and upright for so long," pleaded one of the aristocratic types.

"Very well, I think it is high time to let ourselves in. Our late arrival should not be made any later, I suppose," answered Hennes who beckoned for Arthur's company to follow along.

Thus they trained along toward the mansion of stone where they would pass by a long-since dead garden of weeds.

"They could at least have watered the flowers once in a while, don't you think?" said Hennes as he touched dry and crumbling flora that hung over basins without water.

"We don't really have the liberty to water decorative plants here in the Valley," said Arthur. "You may not have grown up here, but you should at least know this much."

"Oh please, I was jesting. You needn't take it so seriously," said Hennes as he brushed the air with his hand, dismissing Arthur's correction.

After being let in through the dark-wood doors that closed with an unexpectedly loud thud, they marched toward the entrance to the foyer from where they could hear audible festivity. Much of the company seemed excited and all of them had a comfortable grin planted upon their faces, except for Arthur who had other thoughts occupying his mind.

They swung the door open to reveal what each of them had expected—almost. The foyer was expansive and clearly designed by craftsmen who had been paid lucratively. White marble vases with red patterns and statues of old people who seemed to be of some importance were meticulously placed around. Large and small paintings alike and magically lit torches lined the walls, and in the middle was a great fountain; for now, dry, as expected. A great many aristocratic individuals were gathered. It was certainly packed, yet it seemed as if the invitation list had been shorter than usual for an event like this. The loudest section of the foyer was inhabited by one man who stood out from the rest. The infamous man that people only had seen with their ears and their imagination stood there in the crowd: it was Monkey! He seemed to be influenced to say the least, and the culprit became clear as a butler approached their company with a tray of refreshments.

Monkey flew around the room haphazardly, speaking loud and laughing even louder. His rowdiness was more fit for a tavern than a fine gathering like this, and in that contrast, it seemed less merry and more like he was causing havoc. However, a few people seemed to have become enamored with his unusual charm: some stood close and asked him far too personal questions, some felt his powerful arms, and there were even some that tried to enlist him in their businesses.

"So that's the fellow, then," said Hennes in a gruff voice. "Quite intimidating. Even I can see that he's no push-over."

"No battle scars to be seen, though," said Arthur as he squinted his eyes to get a better look.

"The weak carry no scars. The strong carry some. The experienced warriors carry many. But the strongest of all, hell, who could have given him scars in the first place?" monologued one of the mercenaries.

"That would be us, my fellow riff-raff," smirked Hennes, his voice slow and dark.

Most people in this gathering had no inkling of an idea of what would occur tonight. Some did. The mercenaries knew. Hennes knew. Arthur knew. Soran, who could be seen sulking in the corner of the foyer, sipping from an almost empty glass—not popular with the crowd—had a suspicion.

"Well, let's make ourselves at home before the climax of tonight, shall we?" winked Hennes toward Arthur before taking his company of giggling aristocrats along with him.

"We'll, uh, make ourselves at 'home' too," said one of the mercenaries, before disappearing into the crowd.

Arthur sighed a deep sigh. His bodyguard who had stood silent and hawk-eyed the whole time loosened up for but a moment as he handed Arthur a glass of sparkling orange liquid. He then held his own glass up toward Arthur.

"For the Valley?" he said with anticipation.

"For the Valley," said Arthur in an almost defeated, yet contempt tone before toasting to a brighter future.

Arthur drank for a future with hope, for there was nothing brighter than the courage to have hope.

Over in the corner, Soran was slowly inspecting the room with his eyes, looking for something that might have been even slightly off. Every time, however, he would think he noticed something, it would turn out to be a false alarm, and for each time that happened, his paranoia grew. Gragas was nowhere to be seen. He did not know if this was good or bad.

Approaching him was Arthur who called out his name, which startled Soran in his paranoid haze, before relaxing his shoulders and smiling at the much-welcomed realization.

"Soran! How good to see you, my friend!"

"I'll be damned, it is as if my eyes deceive me! If it isn't Arthur!"

They embraced each other like brothers and patted each other's backs before Arthur took a hold of Soran's arms and looked him up and down.

"Oh, what a coincidence! And what you have grown!" said Arthur, raising one of his eyebrows before breaking into laughter.

"Come now, Arthur, I'm knocking on thirty's door already. I couldn't have grown that much in five years, could I now," said Soran as he too broke into laughter. "And who is this, I wonder?"

"Oh! This here is my bodyguard, but foremost he is one of my oldest and dearest friends."

"The name's Tok. Nice to meet you. I've heard lots of you and your stories," said the bodyguard, Tok, as he firmly shook Soran's hand.

"I try to keep those stories as few as possible, but word travels quickly I suppose. If only one could guard information as easily as one guards people," said Soran as he firmly grasped Tok's hand.

"I try to keep my ears sealed for the most part, but Arthur has a habit of spilling the beans with his most trusted."

Arthur muttered awkwardly as Tok laughed, and Soran too laughed.

"If you're one of Arthur's most trusted then you're one of my most trusted," reassured Soran as his hand returned to his side.

"Trust truly is built on time, isn't it," noted Arthur, and Soran nodded in agreement.

"Who is that lad over there, do you think?" asked Arthur out of the blue, pointing toward Monkey.

"Come now, Arthur, you know that I know that you know who that is. You needn't be so eluding. What's this about trust, too? I can tell there's something on your mind."

"Oh, well, you got me there. No use in beating around the bush with you, old friend," sighed Arthur. He crossed his arms before continuing. "Did you get hired by that fellow, as the rumors say? And I can't help but wonder what your relationship with him is. Are you on good terms? He doesn't seem like the type of clientele of which you'd usually work with. I mean, he's quite the interesting one." He glanced back to see Monkey juggling three pairs of shoes whose owners seemed frantic to retrieve them.

Soran paused for a moment as he looked up at the ceiling where a large candelabra hung low. His eyes seemed to glimmer for a moment in the light.

"He is my hope, Arthur. You know of hope. It is important to us valley-folk. I look at him and I feel as if I've been restored, somehow. I've been a lone wolf only because I've been lost without purpose. I've wandered around aimlessly, you know—ever since that time ten years ago. I didn't mean-, I was-, it was my-"

"I know, Soran, I know," interrupted Arthur. "You needn't open old wounds for the sake of my understanding. I know."

Soran's eyes now hung low and troubled. He rubbed his forehead before looking back up at Arthur.

"I'm glad someone knows, at least."

"I guess that's why you don't want any stories to circulate around, ay?" said Tok.

"Yeah, I guess so," said Soran as a heavy-hearted chuckle escaped his lungs. "Say, Arthur, I've gotten wind of something suspicious being in play here tonight. Sorry if it seems sudden, but I have to know."

Suddenly Arthur started sweating. He had forgotten how perceptive Soran was, even if he was often aloof at times. Arthur coughed and cringed, and Soran quickly caught on.

"You know, don't you."

"I-" was the only thing Arthur could say before Soran continued.

"You must tell me, Arthur. It is of vital importance. Please." He inched closer to Arthur but Tok took an advancing step forward.

"Wait, Tok," said Arthur putting his hand out to stop Tok's advance. "I'll tell you, Soran. I'll tell you."

Arthur began breathing hard. He knew he went against the wishes of Jeana, and he knew very well the potential dangers that came with such conduct.

"We valley-folk have to stick together, and trust me on this, Soran, it does me no good in telling you this past my keeping my honor intact. I think it'd be best to give you some context on how this started, but-"

Arthur leaned in closer and was about to start whispering when the doors leading into the dining hall swung open and the sound of an erratic bell echoed throughout the foyer. There stood Jeana and her personal guard dressed in expansive fabrics and metals with thin cold swords at their sides.

Immediately, Arthur halted his speech and stood tall to face the commissioner. She began speaking to the crowd, welcoming them to this event.

"It is certainly no bad evening when such fine folk gathers here in River Valley's grandest of establishments. I wish all of you the warmest welcome I can offer, and I also offer my deepest gratitude. Unfortunately, busy as I am, I have other matters to attend to tonight, so I won't be joining you all, but I, as the diamond commissioner, promise you that you will certainly be most pleased with tonight's banquet."

She kept chattering on and on about tonight's events and main courses and such things. Meanwhile, Soran leaned in toward Arthur and spoke in a hushed tone.

"What was it you were trying to tell me?"

"Let's take it later," whispered Arthur without looking at Soran.

"Please, I need to know-"

"Not now, Soran! Keep it silent for now, not in front of-" Arthur could not even finish his sentence as he whispered distraughtly. His pale face turned to look Soran deep in his eyes, before slowly turning to look at Jeana. Soran followed his gaze and saw Jeana there as well. Long, ashen white hair. Red eyes that pierced. A sharp and smug grin. Her dress was dark and expensive and flowing. As he inspected her, he thought he recognized her from somewhere, but before he could remember where, their eyes met, and Soran knew, nay, felt that it was not by chance. Her eyes looked deep into his own, and suddenly his heart pumped harder and faster. He immediately averted his gaze but was surprised that he did. He was a hardened warrior. His fists had crossed with Monkey's and remained intact. He had seen fire and brimstone and trudged through darkness all alone. Yet, for some reason, he felt powerless when his eyes met hers. There was more to Jeana than meets the eye; that was certain. For now, he silently nodded to Arthur who tried to sigh in relief but had none to spare—his breath quivering on its way out.

She finished up her speech before inviting all guests inside the dining hall. Monkey stumbled along in his drunken stupor but Soran kept his eyes wide open. He had been looking for something that was off, and he found it in Jeana's eyes. She did not mean him well: her eyes told him everything he needed to know.

There were two long tables draped in crimson cloth and adorned with silverware. They were promptly led to these tables by a handful of butlers and maids, and eventually, everyone found themselves seated. Monkey sat next to Soran, and Soran next to Arthur.

Jeana seemed to have slipped out of there via a door at the far end of the hall, and some aristocrat stood up and clinked a metal spoon against his glass to garner attention. As he started chattering about things alike to what Jeana had said, Soran took his chance.

"She left. Now is the time!" he whispered.

"Time for what?" asked Monkey as he flung his arm around Soran's shoulders and tugged at him, oblivious to his own rowdiness. "Come now, Soran, no secrets!"

Soran could smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Hush, it's about you know what!"

"What do you know that I know what?" slurred Monkey.

Arthur intervened as he leaned over to whisper into Soran's ear, but as if fate moved against their resolve, a maid leaned in between them and spoke.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but it seems you are required to inspect the quality of food. As an executive of trade, it seems to be your duty, Mr. Arthur."

"Oh, darn it all, the heavens and the planes alike!" cursed Arthur, before turning to Soran. "I'll be back in just a moment. It is courtesy for us goods trading executives to carry out proper inspection. We are in charge of fare and foodstuff, after all. It would actually be beneficial to tell you when I come back. Trust me."

Soran tried to stop him from leaving but was shaken around by Monkey who had begun singing chanties to himself. Arthur, with Tok by his side, stood up from his chair and left for the hall. The pen of fate began writing its next chapter.