The Phoenix and the Serpent

 

The Rider came down first from the bar, crossing to the sturdy horse tied to a post near the Pawn Shop. Walter steadied himself in the door way. He looked down upon the rider, fire in his eyes from the Rider’s insult. He glared down with a thousand swords, blind to the shadow climbing up the stairs. The Rider looked up to Sir Walter and gave a final nod, mounting the Warhorse. Walter took one step down, and a bang rang out across the town of Brightwall.

                “BALLS.” Walter went down, the stair he was stepping on, abruptly shot off by Reaver, who now fled the bottom of the stairs towards the Rider. The Rider however was taunt to action, and swiftly rode towards Reaver. However Reaver is a clever and agile man, and was able to gracefully jump out of the Warhorses’ way.

                “Ah Rider! At last, we meet. Can I ask you the pleasure to talk, face to face?” Reaver bowed, but no trace of respect could be found. The warhorse however turned and pawed, as if to charge at Reaver. Reaver nonetheless found this display of aggression not in the least bit daunting.

                “Rider? Just a civil chat?” The Rider said nothing. “Very well.” As Reaver sighed his gun went up, and a bullet with the intention of making contact with the Rider’s head, met hard iron resistance in the form of a arrow head.  The Rider’s arm lowered slowly.

                “Ah, I see you are not without your own tricks! Very well, another time then?” The Rider was impassive, the slight slack in the Rider’s form conveyed a possible lack of interest and lack of Reaver being a threat. Reaver however hid his irritation to being ignored, but not his disappointment.

                “Have it your way Rider, tatty bye!” He disappeared into the darkness of the Brightwall Bridge.

                The Rider got off the Warhorse, and helped the heavy form of Sir Walter off the ground.

                “I’m getting too old for this…” Shifting Walter’s weight from one shoulder to the other, the Rider moved inside the bar. A passing whore made going inside difficult as she sauntered past, taking up the whole doorway, clearly inebriated, and very irate, probably about not getting paid.

                The barman was, on a better day, a better, nicer man, but despite his sour attitude he allowed the Rider and the, now, passed out form of Sir Walter take refuge for the night. The Rider pushed Walter into a chair, on the brighter side of the freshly blazing fireplace. The Rider skeptically analyzed Walter, not because he was hurt, anyone that new the old man knew he had taken much worse, but to see, more clearly, what was on the Rider’s hands. A large sword, and old, and most likely faithful Rifle. Both were classic, royal make, from the time of the Old Hero Queen, Sparrow.

 The Rider’s childhood came to mind. Just as the Hero-Queen had been a Hero, the Rider remembered seeing her passing the hovel the Rider called home. The Rider had always remembered being in the shadow of the Coliseum. Whispers in the ‘town’ of the Hero’s mission, exploded years later into confirmed facts and joyous calls to the Hero herself.  The Rider was an adult by the time Sparrow the Hero of Bowerstone had come back. Reminiscing on the awe the Rider had felt, the Rider now felt it looking upon Sir Walter Beck’s weapons.

                He groaned and slouched into a new position. As Walter opened his eyes he found the bright fire hurt his eyes, and his ankle was defiantly going to be a problem traveling.