just a bit more for fun

This part to my own admition is not as well worked out as the last bit I published but I thought I could introduce you to the main charecter :)

Chapter 1-Venturing forth

“I don’t care what he wants you to do; you will get out from behind this bar and give that man his tankard of beer.” The large man, wielding a bar rag, raged at his youngest bar maid.

“But Dealogar….”she stared in a wimper voice

“Don’t Dealogar me, I pay you to feed my customers beer, and as much of it as they want. NOW GO!!” His voice hit a climax on the final words of that sentence that the young bar maid jumped back.

“Why don’t you serve him and let him tap your ass, for a while,” She took the rag from his and slapped down on the bar, pulled off her own apron and threw it next to the rag. “I will not be treated like a whore!” she spoke so loud the bar stopped moving. The silence of that moment was so intense that it made her shiver. She started to walk away, but a hand grabbed her by the wrist.

“Verra, you will not talk to me like that,” Dealogar pulled her back.

Verra teeth were grinding now. She could feel the strength of her boss hand forming bruises in her forearm. “Let go!” She said behind those grinding teeth.

“You are on my time right now, and you will serve that man his beer or I will break your arm.” Dealorgar pulled her next to him and spoke in a soft voice, “or being treated like a whore will be the least of your problems.”

Verra had expected this threat and was not about to take it. She pulled away with every muscle she had, and twisted to face her boss. Her fist hit his jaw with such force he stumbled back, then he was hit with a tanker of beer followed by a bar rag and a bar maid apron. “If you threaten me like that ever again you will not see the next sun rise.” Then Verra walked out. Her strides were strong and with purpose until she was out the door. Once she was outside they grew weaker and weaker until down the dark street and she could no longer hear the noise of the bar. Then she allowed herself to cry.

She knew what she had done, she knew that bar had been her only salvation and she knew she had no where to go. When her strength returned she was able to gather her self up and walk back to the small hut like house she had lived in the last few years. At the end of the week they would ask her to leave. She would be a burden on the village. She had no money, she had no job and she had no husband. She would have to beg for her food and the village did not welcome beggars, most were quickly removed from the area, several had found their way to the jail and on occasion some found themselves in the clutches of the gallows.

In her hut she picked up a few belongings and all the food she could find, in the morning while the sun was still low in the sky and the streets still quiet she moved on. The days were slow and long for Verra. Her hands were always cold and her body always shaking. She walked for several hours everyday, the muddy roads winded between towns and narrowed in the depth of the forest between. Verra had very little idea where she was going she was getting as far from where she was that day as she could. She moved from one village to the next, sometimes finding work sometimes finding a generous soul who gave her food and shelter for a day or two, but she found nothing constant. Years pasted for Verra, the years where so lonely and one day she realized she was no longer the young girl who had worked at that bar, but a lonely woman, whose purpose in life was lost.

She sat on the edge of the road she traveled that day to take a bite of food, some apples she found earlier that day.

“Tears are not appropriate for a woman.” It was a man’s voice. His voice was rough and tired sounding, but comforting. “What child is missing from your heart, that you cry when the gods have provided you with food and other well known joys of life.”

Verra wanted really bad to turn around and face this man, who was either comforting her or teasing her she could not decided which. “Would you care for an apple sir?” she pulled a second apple from her sac.

“I would indeed child,” he walked in front of her. He was an elderly gentle man, dressed in long blue robes, with a long beard streaked with black and white. His hair was equally long but it was all white, not hint of the color it had once been lay on his head. “It is rare to find one so down trodden and still so generous.” He sat down next to Verra and took the apple. “I am Ranmaral.” He smiled though Verra only saw the up lift of a very grey thick beard.

“I am Verra,” she too smiled and the two sat quietly enjoying their apples together. When Verra had cleaned her apple so the only thing left was a very small core, she turned to the old man.

“Are you a priest?” She asked looking at him.

“I am a kind of priest, yes.” He replied creating the first spark of curiousity that Verra had felt in over a year. The last spark found her self surround by some very hungy baggars and nearly ended in her death.

“What king of priest are you?”

“A rare kind, I am one of the last of my order.” Ranmaral took a bit out of his apple.

Verra waited patiently for him to finish his reply.

“Once there were many of us. When I was young we were well know in this land. In my grandfathers time we were the best know order and in his grandfathers time we were the only kind.” He took yet another bit out of the apple.