The not-immortal Blacksmith

Rorevilia, capital of Pondge.

11th of Kusha, the month of Harvest.

2290 Years since the New gods came.

Grendel Repute was not having a good day in port. He had found the local thug hideout. He had had a drink. He had had a fight. The fight hadn’t gone well. He sat in the alley nursing his bruises, and thought back on what had happened.

The evening had started well, he had approached the dilapidated building, given the code to the guard on the inside of the iron door, and gone inside. Inside, the bar was in better condition than the outside suggested, still run down and dirty, but sturdy. The ceiling was low and covered in soot, the floor was covered in straw that wasn’t too musty and soiled. The smell of unwashed bodies wasn’t even that bad.

The clientele was as expected, rough and tumble people with scars, sores, and poorly kept clothes. Typical thugs. He had nodded politely to the obvious heads of the different groups as he saw them, as he headed to the bar itself and ordered an ale. That was where the trouble had started.

He had paid for the drink, swill as was usual for this kind of place, taken a pull at the mug, and yawned while stretching. His left hand had slightly touched someone who was, deliberately, standing to close. He turned immediately to apologize, and caught a fist to the face.

A moment later he was looking up from the floor, into the bloodshot eyes of a bearded man. “What you think you’re doin? Little scrub like you should be suckling at yer mama’s teet, not sitting here like you belongs!”

Grendel had slowly sat up, and attempted to make amends, “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t notice you there on account of having my eyes closed as I enjoyed my drink. Can I buy you a drink as an apology?”

The man had replied by picking him up by the front of his shirt, and headbutting him, breaking his nose. “He called me sir! Can y’all believe this shite?” He then threw Grendel into the crowd, “I’ve ‘alf a mind to beat you ‘thin an inch o your life, little twatwaddle!”

Having known the kind of beating that was coming next, Grendel had curled into a ball. The next few minutes had been tough to endure, the kicks and clubs impacting his arms, legs, and back. He was then unceremoniously thrown out the door. From the street, he had crawled his way to the alley next door.

As he sat in the alley, he was glad that there weren’t any broken bones. He slowly stood, and shuffled his way down the filthy alley to where he had stashed his bag behind a pile of rather noxious refuse, and removed a potion from it. He pinched his nose and took a swig of the red tinged liquid, feeling the burning as the liquid permeated his flesh healing the damage from the rather one-sided bar fight. Now it was time to plan. And get revenge.

-

Two nights and sixteen gold pieces later, Grendel’s plan was ready to be put into action. A few items pilfered from Max, a couple of “toys” from town, a stout wooden cudgel on hand, and he approached the bar again. He knocked on the door, and when the iron grating opened, smashed toy number one into the guard’s face. The guard collapsed, screaming on the other side of the door, and Grendel bolted for the alley across the street.

A minute later he started to giggle from his vantage point in the alley as thick, dark smoke began to billow from the doorway. Then openly laughed as the patrons fled the building, some of whom puked in the street as they ran. He didn’t see the man he was after, so he waited.

Half an hour later the man in question, the man who had started the beating, stumbled from the door, covered in a red rash, and scratching himself all over. Grendel smiled, and approached the man from behind. “Ya know. I coulda handled a few hits, maybe even a little smack-down, but throwing me to the wolves like that? That was too much.” He pulled the cudgel from its loop at his side.

The man, still sporting red bloodshot eyes, slowly turned at the sound of Grendel’s voice. His eyes widened at the sight of Grendel wielding the cudgel.

“Now you get to find out.” Grendel snarled at the man as he swung the cudgel into the man’s right knee with a sickening, but satisfying, crunch. The man fell to the ground, screaming.

“That’s one. You have sixteen more to go.” Grendel growled as he set to work.

-

Maxwell slowly reread the broad sheet in front of him. “A strange rash has spread through the criminal element of the city. The rash causes mild stinging and constant itching reports say.” The first headline stated.

The next headline read, “Strange rash is communicable to others! Beware!”

And still another read, “Lesions in the lungs worry city doctors!”

Max shook his head. “GRENDEL!!!!!”