Several hundred miles north of the Emerald Steppes, around three months riding if travelled to on horseback, and nearer to the lusher greener, center of the Harta continent, was Einrode.

One of the richer duchies of Palmas, which was in turn one of the richer kingdoms in the land.

It sat on the delta of one of the continent’s largest and longest rivers, serving as a hub for trade. As time passed, it grew bigger and bloated. With light and shadow intermingling in its eaves and darkest crevasses.

Becoming a place where demons and spirits were known to gather. Chief amongst its cities was Vignale. A city that sat on the duchies outer edge, bordering the Otmar duchy and one other lorded region. Serving as the contact point between the three lands.

It was in this place that one Wallace vis-Oddmund, who now went by the handle of Wally the Cutter had set up stakes.

He currently sat at the Night-Rose tavern, a drinking house and bordello, where he and his friends generally came to play.

At the moment he was being accompanied by a young Jotun by the name of Frazier, with sunflower yellow skin and horns like that of a ram’s. As well as few other folks he tended to pal around with.

“Drink up, kid. You did good out there.” said Wallace.

The younger man took the glass that was proffered, and downed its contents. Grimacing, his eyes watering as the liquor burned its way down into his gullet.

Wallace pat the boy's back as he began to cough and sputter. The other’s who sat at the table, hooted and hollered, while giving good humored, half mocking applause.

They made a lot of noise, but since this was the kind of place where people came to make and hear noise, no one really paid the group any mind.

Loud twanging music played in the background, accompanied by cymbals and drums. Ironically enough the song the bard on stage was singing, was about how country was better than big city living.

A sentiment that few who were in attendance would ever publicly agree with.

Wallace and his crew did what they usually did on the weekend drinking and drinking and drinking some more. Till they were all red in the face regardless of essence alignment and drunk enough to make some regrettable decisions.

A few of the fellows would go home with each other, pairing off male with male, male with female, female with female. Whatever their preference, joining together for some mostly enjoyable, slightly regrettable, moonlit interactions they’d never undertake were they sober.

A few of the more cautious ones, who didn’t want to put friendships and the integrity of the group at risk, would stumble their way upstairs to pay for a roll in the sheets.

Wallace would usually be amongst those who stayed downstairs, hanging around till another group that they were familiar with came in so, that he and his cohorts could talk smack and buy themselves a fight, and a bit of healthy “exercise” to work off the liquor in their systems.

Sex was good yes, but there was nothing more satisfying to him than a good rumble on the streets of Vignale, making hay to the guards came to scare off all the troublemakers.

*****

This evening’s fight was with a jotun by the name of Paxton. Paxton was the kind of funny man, who was overly serious and easy to get to. It only took Wallace three barbs and a single insinuation that the man’s mother had been intimate with goats to make this particular fight come into being.

Now Paxton’s boys and Wallace’s boys and Wallace and Paxton themselves were throwing down on the street outside the tavern.

Careful to keep their weapons sheathed, lest blood be spilled and the situation become something serious and less enjoyable.

Feeling the ache in one’s knuckles as they kissed the other fellow’s bones. Feeling one’s bones creak as they were graced by a rain of kicks and punches.

For Wallace, sly, clever, violent Wallace, it was ecstasy. As if he were living out all the martial ambitions that his father had been forced to leave behind.

There were almost never any clear winners or losers when Wallace fought, he was too good to be beaten and too smart to push things to far.

So this time, just like always the fight only lasted for as long as took for the city guardsmen to arrive with Wallace and his boy’s having already scattered by the time the first man in Vignale-marked leathers showed up on the scene.

“Did you fucking see that guy’s face, man?” said one of his pals.

“I know right?” said another.

“How about when Olly knocked that fat one on his ass?…” said a third

“Bloody hilarious. How about that one with extra horns growing in along the side of his...the one who went all mental and started trying to bite everyone?” said a fourth. Patricia, who’d always been somewhat closer to Wallace than the rest.

Her’s had been the face that greeted him when his parents and their clan first sent him to this city. Her hands were the one’s that guided him as he tried to get settled, and adjust to the faster pacing of the Einrode duchy, after having spent move of his life, out in the sticks.

They got to their side of town, the section of the city run by their people. There, their faces were familiar, and the people gave honest smiles when they saw them pass.

“Hey Wally.”

“Wallace, my man.”

“Patricia, say hi to your ma for me.”

“Otto, you still owe me fifty silver, you dead beat!”

Stopping intermittently to chat with the people they met on the road, the ten minute walk back to the lodging house that they all roomed at lasted three times as long.

Patricia’s mom ran the place, looking like an older duplicate of her daughter. Same stalwart build. Same orange coloring, same bull-like horns and sharp, mischievous eyes.

“Heya, evening, Missus Patterson, how goes it.” said Wallace. Sobering up as he saw the woman.

“Hi, mom!” said Patricia, who was still a bit drunk and too high of the adrenaline rush she’d gotten from the fight to notice that her mother was staring daggers at them.

“Hmph...hi, kids. I don’t suppose it’d be worth it to say I hope you’ve not been getting into any trouble out there?” said Cecile Patterson. Mother of Patricia Patterson and owner of the Winking Calf Lodging House.

This got a snort from somewhere in the back of the group, which got whoever had started to laugh a smack on the back of the head from his fellows.

“Shut the fuck up, Otto!”

“Ow! What the hell?!”

“Language children!” chided Cecile.

“Sorry, Ms.Patterson.” said the group of young adults.

Cecile nodded and stepped aside to let the group of rogues pass, just as Wallace was about to enter she placed a hand on his shoulder and pulled him aside.

“Ma’am?” said Wallace.

“You have some visitors here to see you, Wally?”

Wallace frowned wondering who that might be. Even when he’d been just another of Otmar’s bored little hell raisers, he’d been smart enough to know when to tow the lines, so he couldn’t imagine any authorities coming for him.

Besides that, all the friends he had were in the lodging house and even if it were one of their lot who lived elsewhere, Missus Patterson wouldn’t have called them visitors.

Cecile pointed her chin towards the portion of the lodging house that served as a coffee house during the day time. The room now sitting dark with all its chairs upturned and stacked on their adjoining tables.

Wallace entered the room and saw one table with its chair placed back on the ground. And seated at the table was a young Jotnar couple. A man with green hair, and blue-silver eyes, and a woman with skin like the sky and hair like the clouds.

Wallace’s brow furrowed because while he’d been sent word to expect the woman at some point in the future he had expected to see her for at least few more months.

As for the young man, the reasons while he was present didn’t matter though Wallace was sure he could make a few educated guesses. All that mattered was that he was someone sporting the distinctive vis-Oddmund unicorn horn.

“Well, as I live and breathe, little bro and baby sis, or should I say little Eddy and Sister ’-in-law’ Vanessa. I totally wasn’t expecting to see you here, but fuck it...Come and give your big bro a hug, anyway.”