Butterfly escapades through broken windows

Ethan Switch - Sunday, 7 February 2010 - 06:05:01 - print it raw

"Arum," he whispers. Blood and saliva drooling from the left side of his face. Dirt and a pebble stuck on his cheek, green for the moss rolling down the edge of his chin.

"Say again, dear. Your words don't match your face." The maid at the bar only looking to help.

"Hurm." He tries again. "Haroomh," a bead of sweat flicks off the end of his mouth and lands near the maid's left pinkie.

"A room? Would you like a room?"

Nodding, the man, days gone from a trek along the Carpathian Mountains, pitches himself along the counter, much too much effort already in such a simple request.

Miguel Manuel. Traitorous of the peoples. Quite the dashing man all the same. Leaving a wake of bodies and empty wallets in his travels. The last sight of him was on a sloop belonging to a magistrate's second mistress (bought to keep her quiet (but really only stage one in silencing her completely)).

No gentleman. And certainly no scholar.

And bastard son of Luis Quintero.

Taking in his unknowing father's footsteps, on a path of vengeance paved with escapable truths.

Here now, seeping blood in a blue-wood inn. His face seeing the end of one too many boots and sausage fists. Of the people, from the people, anywhere away from the people.

Moss on his chin thanks to the weight of running into the treillage at the back of the livery stables. Residents within huffing and shuffling about the hay, unperturbed by the commotion outside.

Throwing a pouch of dented złoty on a fade away, Manuel takes a rest. Involuntarily. The stool gives way from underneath.

thou dost see a great enemy

"Never paid enough," remarks the maid, rolling the night's tenant into the corner of the bar floor.