“I'm stone cold sober.”

It took Farren three tries to get the words right.

Seizing the handle of her battle-axe from where it leaned against her chair, Farren clambered out of the inn and into the crisp air of dawn.

The inn was always bustling with people, no matter what time of the day it was. Kinallen was a place many people passed through on their way to and from Valston, the city of vampires up north.

“If you're done swindling folks with your sorcery, we've got work to do,” Rendarr said, leaning against the threshold.

“It was no swindle,” she said, “I didn't take the money.”

“That's not how it works, Farren,” Rendarr shook his head, grinning.

“'Twas part of my duty,” Farren said reasonably, “was out on patrol. Smelled trouble. Sorted it out. Very simple.”

“Let me rephrase it for ya,” said Rendarr with a knowing smile. “ ‘I was out on patrol because I smelled trouble.’”

“I suppose it could work like that too,” she said, flashing her signature, dimpled smile.

“Poor fellow had no idea what was going on, he played fair,” he said with mock horror, “and you dupe him like that. You have no dignity, dear friend. I'm ashamed!”

Farren did a dramatic gesture of being hurt, before tossing the package of bread to him. His face lit up. “You're the best friend I ever had!”

Rolling up her sleeves, Farren went to one of the barrels outside the Olde Weasel inn and splashed some cold water on her face. The notorious Goldcrest whiskey was strong stuff.

“Jokes aside, you really shouldn't be that reckless with magic. You know the rule. What if the Council finds out?” Rendarr came up to stand beside Farren, his grin faded.

She stood up and faced him, water dripping from her face. The wayward wind played with the rough strands of her hair, the grey sky reflected in her deep-set, brown eyes.

“If the Council finds out?” she said, the smile not leaving her face, “well, I'll get hanged. Or jailed, if they're merciful enough. Though I prefer the first one. The high gallows has a wonderful view of the capital city, I hear.” Farren laughed. Rendarr didn't.

“Is everything a joke to you?” Rendarr said.

His eyes darted to the burn scars on her arm, just as she'd expected. The scars were old, the skin puckered up and mottled.

She'd made those scars herself, with a blunt knife in a vain attempt to remove the telltale mark. But none of it had been enough to hide the thief's brand that had been so deeply engraved into her skin by red hot branding irons. The fact that she was never going to move any further up the ranks in the Midaelian army remained as permanent as the mark.

Arrived at sixteen as a recruit, she had been here in Kinallen for seven years now. No commissions, nor did it seem she'd be getting a posting someplace else anytime soon. Sometimes she thought whether Lieutenant Evander had got her enrolled just so he could stow her here in this remote outpost, away from the capital city.

Now Farren tried to muster up a weak laugh. Every time she'd make such jokes, Rendarr would get too serious and it wasn't fun anymore.

Rendarr sighed, the look in his eyes softening. “Farren, you gotta understand how your actions affect others. Think about Lieutenant Evander, who signed you up despite everyone's protest. How would he face the Commander if you get in trouble? And…”

She knew what would come next.

“...think about your family,” he finished.

Think about your family.

There it was. She knew he meant well, that her friends only wanted the best for her. Yet every time she heard this particular phrase, by the Gods, it irked her. Not that she didn't love her family — or, what was left of it. Heavens know all the reckless things she'd done to protect them. Still, Farren couldn't quite put her finger on what it was about the harmless words that irritated her.

“Right. Sorry,” she said nevertheless, giving him a tight lipped smile. “Let's have some breakfast.”

✦✧✦✧

“So what's this work we've got to do?” Farren asked through a mouthful of bread. They were sitting on the wooden fence beside the inn's signboard, the village Kinallen spread out before them.

“They ran out of water to drink at the construction site of the new watchtower,” said Rendarr, “Second Lieutenant Audryn was looking for somebody to help with that.”

“Let me guess. You were unfortunate enough to be in her line of sight at that moment?”

“Precisely.” Rendarr grimaced, and pointed his thumb at the four wooden buckets he'd brought. Farren looked from the buckets, then at Rendarr, then back at the buckets, slowly.

“So you're asking me to fill these at the waterfall, then haul them all the way up to the watchtower.”

“That about sums it up. Yeah.”

“Tell the Lieutenant I fell down the hill and broke my neck.”

“Farren.” Rendarr threw her a tired look.

“Alas, my poor soul has already passed on, into the cold clutches of Mother Draedona!”

“Even Death, forgiving as she is, would get tired of your shite. She'll return you in no time.”

“Alas!” she cried, “in that case you are doomed to the company of a foul being from beyond the grave for all eternity!” She might've even performed another theatrical gesture of an undead being grotesquely stumbling around, but decided against it to save herself from falling unceremoniously from the fence.

Once finished with her share of the bread, Farren got off the fence and gave him a wave, beginning to stride away. “I saw nothing, heard nothing. I didn't even meet you here. Got that?”

Rendarr tilted his head, and gave her a slow smile.

“Oh? Well, in that case, just know that a minimum of twenty people and the innkeeper saw you at the inn, drinking on duty. And if maybe, just maybe one of them happens to mention it to our dear Second Lieutenant—”

Farren sighed, pausing mid stride.

“I'll need an eight-wheeled wagon to carry my disappointment in you.”

✦✧✦✧

“You are so dead,” said Farren, swinging the empty buckets with a clatter on their way to the waterfall in the woods.

“Death threats lose their effect if you throw them around all the time,” Rendarr said with a smirk.

She sighed. What a simple and quiet lad this Rendarr used to be. Too bad, Farren herself had been the bad influence.

They trudged along the dirt track into the woods at the back of the village. 

The frontier village of Kinallen and the Kingdom Drisia was separated by a series of low hills that stood like a wall between them. On the top of the hills sat the encampment of the small detachment of the Midaelian army like a crown, charged with the task of keeping the border safe. People of Midaelia and Drisia were not on the friendliest of terms, despite what signed treaties might claim.

To the north was a mountain, snow capped and — as the patrollers in their regiment would say — an abode of the Winter God, from where he kept watch over them all. 

Folk said he prowled the high mountains as the ice dragon, raising blizzards with the beats of his massive, silver wings.

But Farren rather thought the Winter God would prefer the Drakhall mountain range further north, which isolated the entire Stormvale region from the rest of the Continent. It was bigger, better and all around a grand place for a God to sit menacingly on and glare. 

She was not sure why he would glare though, but from the snowstorms that ravaged the north every winter, it seemed he must be quite a foul tempered God. 

An unnamed stream flowed down the mountain, journeyed south to pour into a lake, after forming a waterfall in the woods. That was where the two were headed.

From between the canopy of the trees peeked the grey light of dawn. The steady sound of water could be heard from many paces away, increasing as they neared the place. Fine droplets of water rode the air, forming a haze around the waterfall. 

They slunk down to the edge of the waterfall. Here, the stream was shallow and fast. Jagged rocks jutted out in places, their edges cut sharp by the rushing water.

“Watch your step,” Rendarr said, rather unnecessarily. 

“Aye.” Farren always watched her step here, ever since that one night she had tried to escape. In her hurry, she'd lost her footing and fell, right here on the rocks, earning herself that scar and nearly losing an eye. A fitting punishment that I deserve.

Rendarr went ahead to fill the buckets, and Farren followed suit. When done, she looked up, eyes taking in the full glory of the view as a gust of wind cleared the haze. A flock of birds took flight from a nearby tree in its wake.

“Rhilio's mercy...”

Even after seven years she could never get tired of the otherworldly beauty. For this was no ordinary waterfall.

Rendarr looked up too, and smiled. “Ah. The Unnamed Lord looks glorious as ever, no matter how dull the day might be.”

A gigantic stone statue, carved by unknown hands from a time long forgotten, stood leaning against the waterfall, swathed in the haze rising from the pool beneath. The statue was of a warrior, with a massive, two handed sword hefted onto his shoulder, the head held low, as if in waiting. It seemed unreal how a mortal hand could have hewn from rough stone such an ethereal face.

Streams of water splashed down the statue's broad shoulders. Tall as a three storey building, the statue had stayed that way for centuries, withstanding ravages of time and the relentless flow of water. Cracks had appeared in the stone. Moss grew in them, creepers and vines clung to those strong arms; nature's sweet way of claiming it as her own.

No one knew who built it. Nor did the figure resemble any God known to the folks. 

People of Kinallen called him the Unnamed Lord. 

But the trance broke too soon as the heavy loads now settled in her hands, and she had to turn her attention from the lovely statue to the mundane task at hand. Rendarr also struggled, and spilled some water down his side.

“Serves you right,” Farren said.

“As if you're doing any better,” said Rendarr. 

“Your fault that you waltzed in just in time for Second Lieutenant Audryn to give you this extra work.”

“I didn't waltz.”

Both of their hands being occupied by buckets, there was little scope for rude, single-fingered gestures.

The grey dawn with gusts of bitter, cold wind matched her bad mood just right as Farren heaved herself up the path to the new watchtower. The joints in her finger ached with cold. The battle axe strapped to her back was not helping, either. Still, it would be too dangerous to go unarmed. 

Forest trolls didn't usually prowl these areas-- if they were not a mere legend the village folk and their old camp healer came up with.

But then again, Farren did always have astonishingly bad luck. Fantastical creatures as such springing into existence merely to make her suffer was not something she'd put past her ill-fate.

Farren glanced at Rendarr, who had gone quiet. She was wondering whether to pester him some more to pass the time, when horses neighed somewhere ahead. Next, the sound of carriage wheels bumping against the uneven road reached them.

“Watch out!” Rendarr yelled.