The not-immortal Blacksmith

Western Continent

“I’m sorry little miss, but I find it hard to believe that the three people you are seeking are the young ones who helped out all the farms around here for so little money!” the blacksmith said, looking at the small girl who seemed to be no more than ten years old. “I think you and your brother and grandpa need to move along.”

The small girl walked the short distance back to the road where her companions waited, and sighed. “They don’t believe us either.”

“Did you find anything new out, Misty?” The old asked the weary girl.

“No. Just more garbage about them being full of good deeds; just like everywhere else.” Misty spat on the ground. Her younger brother, Matt, imitated her.

Matt looked up from the road where he had been eying a long dead worm that was drying out in the sun, “Are they still heading west?”

“Yes.” Misty said.

“Can we burn this town for being wrong about them?” Matt asked.

“No.” The old man replied, then sighed. “Matt, we can’t just burn down every town that disagrees with us. It isn’t the right thing to do.”

“Those Heroes that everyone loves so much,” Matt put a huge emphasis on heroes, “burned down our village. So why can’t we burn down the ones that are actually wrong?”

Misty frowned at her brother, her once innocent little brother, “Because we ARE the real heroes here. REAL heroes don’t go around torching places for disagreeing with them. Real heroes do the right thing and bring evil people to justice.”

“Fine Misty. Fine.” Matt kicked the dead worm, “I just want to do something.”

“I know Matt, I know.” Misty smiled at Matt. “We will find those turds. Find them and expose them for the frauds they are.”

The three hefted their bags onto their shoulders, bags that held the magical items they had found in the woods near where their small village had once stood, at the place where the fire had started, and followed the road towards the west.

-

Isle of Golstran

53rd of Kusha, the month of Harvest.

2290 Years since the New gods came.

From the journal of Aaron Fish

The harvest is all but, in the bag, and if things go as I hypothesize, so will this investigation. My trip to Jimmy’s place was fruitful, but unfulfilling…

-

Aaron walked the few miles to Jockie Jim’s former home. The road was mostly level, and almost devoid of turns, just a couple of slight arcs. He wore his normal clothing, but with the slight addition of walking boots instead of his normal soft soled shoes.

As he stepped from the road towards the former residence, he took in what he saw, without judgment.

The house is old, and in disrepair. The yard is unmown by any form of implement or animal. The window shutters are open, and the windows themselves have no glass of oiled cloth or paper in them. No one can be seen through the windows. The front door is off its top hinge, and is half open. The tree in the front yard is mostly dead, and only has a handful of leaves on its one surviving branch.

Aaron stepped slowly towards the house, eyes darting back and forth, taking in any extra bits of information. When a younger man jumped out at him from around the corner of the house, he wasn’t surprised as he had already noted the man’s shadow.

“I am Aaron Fish, in service to Lord Smithson, the Heretic.” Aaron identified himself by rote. “What can you tell me about the previous occupant of this dwelling?”

With eyes wide, the man who had just jumped out, took a half step back from Aaron, “Umm…Say again?”

Aaron repeated himself.

“S…Sorry sir, I thought you was one of the young-uns, trying to play their silly games here.” The man ran a hand over his face, which had started to sweat. I don’t know what all I can tell you, just that Jimmy used to be a good man, then he got hurt and became a mean sort. Always blaming everyone else for anything bad that happened to him after the accident. He even stopped going and seeing Miss Gregory.”

Aaron raised an eyebrow, “He was “seeing” miss Gregory? In what fashion?”

“Well, it wasn’t common knowledge, but he and Johnson were in a bit of a competition for her hand. Weren’t common knowledge at all. I only got wind of it because they both asked me to be their second if they had a duel.” The man replied, as he removed a pipe and a pouch of herbs from his belt. “It was the darndest thing too, she was older than both of them, but, well, love finds a way, I guess?”

“That it does.” Aaron said, eyeing the man up and down. “May I look around the premises’ as long as I don’t play silly games?”

“Certainly sir.” The man replied, “Just do a man a favor? Don’t mention to them that I told you about them and Gregory? I wouldn’t want to hurt their confidence in me.”

“I think I can promise that.” Aaron replied, as he stepped into the house.

-

From the journal of Aaron Fish, continued.

Mr. Johnson’s house was empty of personal effects. No money, no papers, no knickknacks. There were only a couple of tools missing from his shed, namely a shovel, a pickaxe, and a saw. His riding gear was also missing.

On the other hand, the house had only been empty for a scant few days as dust hadn’t accumulated anywhere, and the coals in the fireplace weren’t damp or destroyed from the rain on the night of the murder.

On the other hand, there were no crumbs on the table, the beds were stripped, and I found a mouse poo on the counter next to the wash basin. I believe four days is the right amount of time to have passed since occupation. That would indicate the day I found the body.

The trail is growing colder, but I think I know what has happened, and tomorrow I should have things wrapped up. Two more days at most.