The Burden of Conviction (Darian)

Aodhfin might have become defensive at the look on the guard’s face at discovering where he was staying if he had been anyone else. As it was, the bard had to resist the grin that threatened to blossom over his face at the obvious disdain Alistair held for the inn. Aodhfin did not have anything against the man in particular, save for the fact that he was currently relying on his judgment for his continued freedom and anything he may count as a victory he would do so, albeit silently. Naturally the only victory that mattered was winning his approval in the sense that he was no threat, that he discovered nothing of merit in his disastrous trip north and he would get off with a firm warning not to speak about the Plagued ever again. Aodfhin could honor that, he was far better at expressing himself through writing and though he may catch an audience’s attention with a story created on whim every now and then, Aodhfin preferred to let his pen tell the tale.

“I assure you, they are there,” he said. He was silent a moment before his wretch tongue could not stand it any longer. “Some of the ladies treat you like royalty if that’s your sort of thing so I suppose it is like being in a palace.” Sometimes, Aodhfin had to wonder if he was caught in a vicious cycle of self-sabotage. He cleared his throat and decided he would be far better off just scrutinizing those writings in his mind as they headed to the inn. He was certain he never mentioned Hunter’s name, not once because he was still unsure what to do with the knowledge of stumbling across an entire village of the Plagued. Yes, he knew the metaphor of a wolf was used but wolves were not so uncommon in the dense forests and though this particular wolf had the characteristics of a lonely human adapted to the wild he could only hope Alistair would take that as the flourishing imagination of an artist rather than anything worth investigating.

Aodhfin frowned, immediately affronted at the dismissal and thoroughly forgetting the wise idea to keep his mouth shut. “Here I thought you may have been more than the loyal soldier,” he sighed. “How disappoint…well, you know, nevermind, we cannot all be great artists.” He shrugged. “I suppose I simply let my excitement intrude in the matter at hand,” he amended. He could not agree more with leaving the horrid dungeons behind and he followed after the guard, grumbling about his quick pace. He considered the evening and let it play in his mind like a wonderful production. Of course it was more a tragedy that he was held in the first place, but it did present itself as a cautionary tale. Had Aodhfin not been dragged to prison this evening he might have continued on his noble quest of presenting another side to the Scourge. What would happen if the wrong guards found him, one with the same disposition as Alistair in terms of their stubborn refusal to accept them as more than monsters but without Alistair’s patience? He could very well be dead in a gutter somewhere if things played out differently.

It was near enough to make him forget the crusade altogether. Aodhfin was not a brave man, it was something he had no qualms admitting even to a rapt audience, trying to convince the king and the rest of the kingdom that the Plagued were more human than they might believe was something only a hero could do, or a fool. The bard frowned, oddly pensive as the guard led the way from the castle. This was either some sign to let it alone or a sign of why he needed to get the message to Escar. The glory was strong enough that his stomach churned at letting such an opportunity escape but the danger was now firmly in mind and it frightened him greatly.

But he remembered Hunter too. He remembered thinking he might very well die in those deep forests, cut off from the path to safety and how a Plagued offered a hand in seeing him home. No judgments, no threats, no scorn that he was human…just kindness. Aodhfin knew such people deserved a better lot than what they received but even if he knew this it was quite another thing to make it happen. The bard was selfish after all, and though it would indeed make his name immortal if pulled off correctly it would more than likely lead to seeing life in prison or being exiled. He wanted to tear at his hair as the conflict crashed about his head. Two paths lay before him and he wanted to take both and knew he could not. Either one would change his destiny forever.
Aodhfin hugged himself against the chill as they walked the city streets. He barely looked where they were going and he desperately ignored the whispers from curious onlookers. So much for his reputation in Byzantir…it was no doubt utterly destroyed. When he heard the familiar sounds that accompanied the Red Rose Inn he finally looked up from the street before him. He smiled at the sight of it and took the lead. “If we do this quickly enough I may have time for a pleasant evening,” he said, flashing Alistair a wolfish grin.

The inn was loud yet contained. Though most of the patrons were far gone in ale there were no arguments, no brawls as the Madame of the place was strict on that sort of thing. Boorish laughs filled the space, mingling with the sweet bell-like giggles of pretty women as they flitted about with more drinks and sly winks. Aodhfin sorely wished to join in the fun but he knew he could do nothing until Alistair saw the writings. “I’m right at the top of the stairs, come on,” he said. One of the women all but danced over to them and grinned.

“You brought a friend…fancy one at that,” she said. “May I steal him?”

“In a moment dear, I’ve agreed to share some of my writing with him to see if he’ll be a patron. I am sure he’ll be more than happy to find you when we’re done,” Aodhfin snickered, shooing her away. He glanced at the guard as he made his way to the stairs. “And you looked disappointed when I mentioned I was staying here. You’re popular already.” He continued chuckling to himself as he led the way into his rather plain room, leaving the door open as he went to the bed and reached under it to pull forth his traveling satchel. He pulled out the writings from his time in the north and had to will himself not to quickly scan them and instead just held them out for the other.