The Serpents Tongue

The descent from the mountains was a terrible ballet of survival. The bitter wind, a merciless foe, blasted at my bare flesh, each gust a chilling reminder of my failure. The ice ground, dangerous and cruel, threatened to claim me with every misstep. Yet, I pressed on, propelled by a heady cocktail of shame, wrath, and a yearning for redemption. I have been getting complacent, thinking that I could take on such high level stakes. This recent failure obviously proved the opposite. 

Time to get back to my temporary base it seems. As I staggered back into the familiar filth of the town, the first tendrils of dusk were beginning to creep across the sky, casting long, eerie shadows that danced and writhed like terrible ghosts. The air hung heavy with the fragrance of woodsmoke and rotting garbage, a symphony of ruin that reflected the tumult swirling within me.

The ordinary folks, who were mostly peasants, had their facial features distorted with suffering and distrust. Some fled indoors as I approached, their eyes darting fearfully towards my blood-stained garments and the shambling body of my undead slave. The creature, its flesh rotting and its eyes blazing with an odd light, was a terrible parody of life, a macabre monument to my rising power.

"We need to blend in," I mumbled to the thrall, my voice scarcely heard above the screaming wind. "Find some clothes, something less... conspicuous."

As usual, my will was transmitted via my connection to the thrall and it went on its to obey.

The thrall, its motions slow and uncoordinated, moved along towards a neighbouring clothes line, its bony fingers snatching at the garments that flapped in the breeze. I observed for a time, a glimmer of amusement lighting in my eyes. Even in death, the creature preserved a semblance of obedience, a distorted echo of its former life.

I switched my attention to the business at hand. I needed information, a method to restore my foothold in this weird, merciless world. The bar, the Bleeding Boar, beckoned like a siren's lure, promising warmth, friendship, and perhaps, a few whispered secrets.

As I pulled open the tavern's thick wooden door, a flood of boisterous laughter and the pungent perfume of alcohol washed over me. The Bleeding Boar was a shelter for the poor and the desperate, a place where fortunes were won and lost on the toss of a dice and where secrets were traded like common currency.

I made my way to the bar, my eyes scanning the dimly lighted area. The regular collection of guests was present: grizzled mercenaries, weathered travelers, and a few dubious individuals hiding in the shadows. The barkeep, a big man with a face like a weathered gravestone, greeted me with a grunt.

"What'll it be, stranger?" he inquired, his voice rough and gravelly.

"Ale," I said, sliding a couple coins across the bar. "And any news you've heard about the battle at Blackthorn Ridge."

The barkeep's eyes sharpened, a glimmer of recognition going over his face. "Ah, the blood mage," he muttered, his voice scarcely a whisper. "Word on the street is you didn't fare too well up in the mountains."

I raised an eyebrow at his bold statement.

"Who said that I failed in my goal?" I asked him.

"No one." the flustered man hurriedly said. Then he decided to be silent and avoid my gaze getting back into his bar tending routine.

A wise choice on his part. People do not make it the habit of chasing death after all. Still, I could n't alienate everyone. He is still very useful to my cause. I could still remember the man who effortlessly suppressed my undead minion. I wouldn't want any trouble if I can help it. This world is not free of top tier predators. And unfortunately, I could not say that I was anywhere near the top of the food chain yet.

Even Shadowsong, the lady assassin I went chalice hunting with, could be a serious threat to me if she wanted to be. And she doesn't even appear to be a person who has overwhelming strength. But what do I know? It's not like I am an expert in the things of this world… yet. I could not keep counting on this body's fuzzy memories.

I shrugged, pretending indifference. "The mountains are unforgiving," I added. "Even for those with a taste for blood."

The barkeep nervously chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that echoed around the tavern. "That they are, stranger," he said. "That they are."

He leaned forward, his breath hot and stale against my face. "But there's more to the story, isn't there? Something you're not telling us."

Aren't this guy's acting skills terrible? I think to myself. He pretends to fear me and yet he's not deterred from saying this.

Still, I met his stare, my eyes frigid and harsh. "What I do or don't tell is my business," I said. "But if you have information for me, I'm all ears."

The barkeep paused, his gaze darting towards the shadowy shadows lurking in the corners of the room. "There's been talk," he added, his voice barely audible. "Rumors of a hidden power, a weapon that could change the course of the war."

He hesitated, his eyes scanning mine for any hint of weakness. "They say it's in the hands of a woman, a sorceress with a heart as black as night."

A woman? A sorceress? My thoughts raced, fitting together the shards of information. Could this be the key to my redemption, a means to recover the authority and respect I had so carelessly squandered?

"Tell me more," I urged, my voice scarcely a whisper.

The barkeep leaned in, his eyes sparkling with a predatory brightness. "They call her the Serpent's Tongue," he continued. "A master of manipulation, a spinner of lies. She's supposed to have the ear of kings and the loyalty of assassins."

He hesitated, a devious grin creeping across his face. "And she's always looking for talented individuals to join her cause."

A spark of enthusiasm flared within me. This was my moment, my opportunity to rise from the ashes of my failure and establish a new route to dominance.

"It seems she's just my type of person," I remarked, my voice infused with newfound determination. "I have a feeling we have much to discuss."

The sun had nearly sunk below the horizon, colouring the sky with shades of blood orange and bruised purple. The Bleeding Boar was much more noisy than before, the drinkers fuelled by cheap ale and the thrill of impending bloodshed. I sought a remote nook, away from the prying eyes and wagging tongues. The thrall, now dressed in a torn cloak and hood, stood silently behind me, its presence a comfortable weight in the tumult.

I reached into my battered leather pouch and counted the remaining coins. A few gold royals, a handful of silver stags, and a smattering of copper pennies. Not a fortune, but enough to secure a hotel for the night and a few basic meals. A sour smile pulled at my lips as I recalled the barkeep's sneaky grin. It seems I hadn't been cheated. Good for him.

The memories of the original Ash, the blood mage whose body I now occupied, were a tangled mess, pieces of a life lived on the verge of darkness. But one thing was clear: he had a predisposition for gambling, a taste for danger that resembled my own. And he had been unexpectedly successful, earning a tiny fortune through a combination of cunning and brutality.

I leaned back against the rough stone wall, my eyes scouring the room. The Serpent's Tongue, the mystery sorceress the barkeep had mentioned, was an intriguing proposition. But I knew I wasn't ready to play in her league, not yet. I needed to hone my skills, to test my boundaries in lesser, less serious battles.

I rose from my seat, a sense of purpose sweeping over me. "Come," I muttered to the thrall, my voice a low snarl. "We have work to do."

As I made my way through the crowded tavern, I projected an air of disinterest, a mask of indifference that concealed the anguish screaming within. I was a predator on the prowl, searching for prey that would challenge me, push me to my limits.

The Bleeding Boar's proprietor, a wizened woman with a countenance like a crumpled parchment, watched me with a mixture of distrust and humour. "Looking for a room, stranger?" she inquired, her voice hoarse and smoke-stained.

"Indeed," I said, my voice smooth and measured. "A quiet one, if you have it."

She nodded, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "I have just the thing," she remarked, bringing me up a rickety staircase to a small, barely furnished room. "Sleep well, blood mage," she replied with a wink. "And try not to raise too much hell."

I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, a sigh departing my lips. The apartment was cold and damp, the air thick with the fragrance of mildew. But it was a refuge, a place where I could recuperate and plot my next move.

I peeled off my blood-soaked clothes and collapsed into the lumpy mattress, the weight of the day crushing down on me. As I drifted off to sleep, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched, that unseen eyes were watching my every move.

But I wasn't afraid. I was Ash Blackwood, the blood mage. And I was just getting started. Yes, I wasn't truly the Blackwood of this world. But I'm not weak. I will be a better version of the man this world knows.

This is nothing compared to building a successful tech company in the cutthroat world of earth. 

Isn't rIght? I mentally project to my bodyguard, the undead servant. Of course, it was no longer capable of words, considering the current state of its body. But in a world of magic, you never know.

Still, I got no answer. Other than a moan.

"Alright," I said "stand guard over me as I sleep. You are free to go berserker mode if anyone is stupid enough to bother me."

And with that, I went to sleep.