Ayden

When Ayden came to, it was well into the evening, with the sun having set some hours before. The headache was mercifully gone, but he felt a bit groggy, and it took some effort to get himself out of bed. Outside the shop windows, lamplight flickered in from several lampposts out front, and across the street, the Ploughman's Pint was alive with after-work revelry. Even in his bedroom, he could heard the sound of fiddles and pipes filtering faintly to his ears through the front windows. He stretched lazily, and slid off the bed. He'd slept since mid-morning, which meant he was going to be up all night again. Oh well. Might as well get a decent breakfast first.

He slid on his workman's shoes, and grabbed his belt and purse. On the work table, one single candle still burned, guttering at the very bottom of its depth in the candle holder. It really was a shame to have let them go to waste. He was going to have to go get more now. He blew the candle out with a little puff and grabbed the shop key off the hook by the door before letting himself out and locking the door behind him.

The air outside was cool, bordering on cold, and it sent a faint shudder up Ayden's spine as he placed his fingers underneath his armpits and ran across the cobblestone street to the tavern. Outside, several women stood shouting and laughing with each other, and when he got close, one of them called out to him.

"Clocksmith! Oh, clocksmith! Do you have a moment?" She called loudly after him.

He grimaced inwardly. Generally the only time people referred to him by his work title was when they needed something related to his work. He turned his attention towards the direction of the voice. It belonged to a large, warm-faced woman he recognized as Hamut's wife. Seeing him notice her, she broadly motioned him over with a sweep of her arm and a smile.

Knowing ignoring her at this point would be impolite, he walked over and greeted her.

"Good evening, Mrs. Zarga." He said, with a nod. "Do you need something?"

"Nothing pressing dear. Just wanted to extend my gratitude for helping my husband and I with that matter this morning. I told the old boy it just needed to be wound, but he was adamant that only the brilliant Ayden Lorrike could fix it for him. I do appreciate you obliging him so. Know that while he does not recognize the efforts you go to for him, they do not go unobserved or unappreciated." She said, smiling widely enough at him that her eyes seemed to disappear inside her cheeks.

"It was nothing." Ayden said, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. "Happy to help, really."

Bessen Zarga looked him, her smile softening gently into a look of concern.

"He mentioned you had another one of your headaches this morning... Are you feeling any better dear? Horace Whitwell told me your shop was locked up when he went to stop by this afternoon." She said.

Ayden nodded, feeling even more awkward.

"Yes, I'm much better now, thank you. Nothing a long sleep can't get rid of, thankfully." He said.

"Good! Well, don't work yourself too hard. It would be no good for those of us in the capital if you decided to not be able to work anymore." She said.

Ayden stood there awkwardly for a short moment, uncertain of how to reply, until he finally cleared his throat.

"Well, I'm going to go get some food. It was nice to see you." He said, turning to walk into the pub.

"You too!" She called after him.

Ayden stepped through the door, and into the busy interior, grateful to be surrounded by the din of music and chatter and the smells of cooked meat and freshly poured ale. He looked around, hoping to find an empty table somewhere away from most of the crowd. While he liked the atmosphere of being around people in theory, most of the time it honestly made him feel uncomfortable to actually interact with people outside of the shop. Communicating to them, in a lot of ways, felt absolutely alien, and he couldn't help but feel awkward and like he wanted to get away as quickly as possible. It didn't help that, despite his best efforts, understanding the general niceties of social behavior eluded him. He saw no value in small talk, and every time he tried to make it, he felt like a dog walking on its hind legs.

It wasn't that he didn't care. He did. It just felt like there was some part of him that was missing when it came to human connection, and the looks he tended to get from those around him when he tried to talk about what actually interested him told him that he wasn't picking appropriate conversation topics for small talk. So he much preferred to keep to himself when outside of an environment where people had to come to him on his terms. It made things much easier that way. He didn't have to feel like a freak, and other people didn't have to exert themselves to try and follow his trains of thought.

To his good fortune, a couple were just leaving from a secluded table near the back, the mostly-eaten remains of roast chicken and carrots sitting scattered on two wooden plates. Without waiting for the table to be cleared, he went ahead and sat with his back against the corner of the room. Careful not to touch anything on the plates with his hands, he slid both of them to the far end of the table away from him. Once one of the barmaids finally came to clear them away, he ordered meat pie and a pint of ale.

Looking around from his vantage point in the corner of the room, he saw few familiar faces. The capital being as large as it was, he had only met a tiny fraction of the residents even within his own district, and likely none from the other nine besides. And if he was honest, of the faces he recognized, he couldn't place a single name, despite remembering encountering them on more than one occasion.

He took that as a point of self-criticism. He was going to have to try and do better with that at some point.

The second thing he noticed was a disproportinate number of soldiers and mercenaries. Nearly two thirds of the assembled customers wore armor and bore weapons, both of which were never really seen outside of those who made their living engaging in combat. Outside of city guards, seeing such a thing was not a typical sight, and yet, here they were. He frowned. Was there a tournament happening that he wasn't aware of, or was something more serious at play?

When the barmaid arrived with his food, he gently motioned her to come closer and asked, "is there a tournament happening somewhere in the city?"

The girl looked at him, puzzled.

"Whatdya mean?" She asked.

Ayden motioned discreetly out ot the rest of the room.

"All of the soldiers and mercenaries. That's not normal. Are the Federal Council holding a contest or something?"

The girl glanced over her shoulder, then turned back to him even more confused.

"Oh no, no tournament. 'Ems headin' north to the frontlines." She said.

Ayden choked mid-swallow as she said this, and once he regaine his composuere from the coughing he said, "I'm sorry, did you say the frontlines? What, are we at war now?"

"Ain't you heard? The dead have crossed the norther border. Thems the fighters whats been called up to stop 'em." The girl said, picking up the finished plates from the last occupants of his table. He went to ask another question, but she made a point of turning and walking away before he could get it out of his mouth. Lacking another idea of what to do, he set about tucking into his food.

So, the Legion had made it as far south as Adelrest. That meant they'd either suddenly started using ships, or the nations to the north had all fallen or given up trying to stop them. If he wasn't so impossibly hungry, the thought would have likely put him off his appetite.

It seemed like no matter how far he fled from them, they always seemed to make their way to him again. First as a child when his family fled the Free Cities, then again when the Duchies collapsed. When that happened, he was the last one left. So he fled as far south as south could get. At least, as far as one could get without crossing an ocean into the unknown.

He had enough of a hard time sleeping at it was, with the nightmares and the headaches. The last thing he needed was an impending army of undead on his mind.

If he were the fighting type, he might have been excited by the prospect.

But he wasn't. Violence didn't sit well with him, even if it was against an unspeaking, unyielding undead horror. He refused to believe that even something like the Legion couldn't be reasoned with. After all, weren't there rumors that they were lead by an Emperor? As far as he was concerned, anything capable of leadership and tactics was capable of ngeotiation. Perhaps the Legion had a legitimate grievance that mankind and the other races could address. Perhaps not. But it seemed only just to try and talk things out, even if it ended up fruitless. Anything less than that effort would ultimately make the living no different than the dead.

Out of his own curiosity, he'd kept track of the hordes movements based on the calls from the local criers, and timed their travel rate based on how far they'd gotten by when. Adelrest was not a large nation. If the Legion crossed the border and weren't stopped, there would only be a couple of weeks before the capital was under siege, maybe a month at most.

In a month, for the third time, he'd be fleeing for his life.

That is, of course, if the oncoming force wasn't stopped in the field. And the odds were not in the favor of that happening if this approaching army were any of the larger forces. Adelrest was not a fighting nation. Not really. They specialized in trade, and the majority of their fighting forces were typically mercenaries who fought for profit rather than survival. And, if the stereotype were to be believed, routinely placed the value of their own lives above the money and lives of those who hired them.

He sighed in frustration, and drained rest of his ale.

This was going to complicate things a bit.