480-2 Stained
It had been a long, insufferable night for Hendrik De Witte – there were disappointing cock fights and raucous women and casks of rancid wine. He'd lost his bets, was pinched and prodded by money-eyed whores, and had downed gallons of rotten drink without foresight. He was sore with empty pockets, and that soggy rag flavor still lingered on his breath as he trudged through sodden dirt streets in the heavy light of dawn.
Wenfel, by far the homeliest province in Wenth, was just starting to rouse from her beauty sleep - not that it had done her much good. In the first hours of day she was always a monotone, musky sort of orange; Wenfel needed more than a night's rest to improve upon her perpetually muddy roads and questionable architecture. But she was good natured, colorful by midday, and bustling with character; much like a sweet gran with too much heart and little sense.
The peddlers were the first to stir. They were busy stocking their carts with their wares: from mounds of vibrant spices to piled high crates of panicky, squawking birds. Working men with sleep in their eyes were starting to migrate to the fields when Hendrik stepped up on The Row, the only province other than Wense that was rich enough to cobble their streets. He reveled in the solidity for a moment, before kicking and scraping off as much mud as he could from his boots. The mud in Wenfel was more like clay - it would rather mold to your fingers than slip through them. If you didn't scrape it from your hide before it dried, you'd never be rid of its red stain.
Most laborers in Wenfel, regardless of their darkness or pallor, sported rust-red palms.
When his boots were mostly black again, he dusted his hands and straightened his attire: a knee-length leather coat draped over a thin cotton tunic - stained down the middle thanks to his sloppy drinking. His trousers hadn't been able to avoid the wine either but it was no matter, he never felt under-dressed. He zeroed in on the closest stone-built house and advanced on it. At its door he made a fist and pounded on the wood without hesitation. He couldn't hear the happenings behind it, but he imagined there was a dramatic pulling on of clothes and under breath cursing.
After a fair amount of raps the door swung open and a scrawny, pale, beardless twig of a man leaned over the threshold. A fluid transition from anger to confusion swept across his face and he opened his mouth to speak, but Hendrik always had the first word. "Waylon! D'you always open yor door for complete strangers who, 'pparently, only have to knock to gut you?" teased Hendrik, impishly shoving his fist into Waylon's stomach.
Young Waylon seemed to have anticipated more than just a playful blow; he overreacted, doubling over. He tried, but failed, to brush it off with half a grin. He had lost whatever words he'd had for Hendrik, so he straightened and scoffed instead. "You're no stranger, De Witte."
"Mm." Hendrik shrugged his shoulders and pushed past Waylon, into his home. "I was before you opened yor door."
Waylon's already thin lips all but disappeared, swallowed by his distaste. "I suppose you're right," he mumbled, clearly annoyed. He shut the door behind them with more pull than necessary.
Hendrik disregarded his begrudged host; he was too busy basking in the grandeur of the large room that was Waylon's new home. It was richly furnished, with tall, portrait laden walls built of neatly laid stone. Stairs that led only halfway up the wall were stacked on one side of the room, and at the top of them a gaunt woman peered from a doorway, her collarbone taking a breath from beneath her nightdress. Hendrik, never one to miss an opportunity in the unease of others, gave her a small wave and his most playful, close-lipped smile. A wink.
With a mortified huff she reclaimed her modesty and disappeared behind the corner, then screeched, "Waylon! Who is that at such an hour?"
"Just business, my lady! Gather yourself some rest!" Waylon gestured with an outstretched arm for his surprise guest to enter a hall on their right. Hendrik, pleased with himself, complied, striding through the archway with Waylon close behind him, hurrying him inside.
It was a short walk before they were in what Hendrik assumed was Waylon's workspace. The focal point was a rather barren desk surrounded by a few uncomfortable looking chairs. The rest of the room was spattered with old relics: outdated armor and weapons, odd trinkets, disheveled books and piles of unhung paintings. The room doubled as a glorified cupboard where the missus could hide her husbands belongings, probably with hopes of them being forgot.
Hendrik waltzed over to what was obviously Waylon's chair and all but threw himself in it, swinging his feet up to rest on the desk. "Love the new place. I'm guessin' it came with the ugly, new wife?" he remarked, pulling his pipe from its place inside his coat. He struck the match he kept in its chamber, lit the snuff, and inhaled, letting the vapor explore his nose and mouth before letting it go. Through ribbons of smoke he watched the newlywed fidget across from him.
Waylon's palms were unstained and soft; Hendrik wondered how he'd managed to snivel his way up to Chief. He didn't seem to know what to do with himself while Hendrik reclined in his seat. "Hah, yes, that it did," he muttered after a swollen pause. "I can fetch you some wine, if you'd like?"
Hendrik wrinkled his nose, "Don' trouble yerself, I'm still gaggin' on the piss I drunk last night." He took another, longer breath from his pipe, savoring the earthy sweetness.
A line had, apparently, been crossed. Waylon ceased all twitching and stormed right over to Hendrik. He seized his boots and threw them off his desk. He slammed his soft palms on the wood and barked, "Dammit, De Witte, you are here for a reason, are you not! I was expecting a letter! You can't just come into my home - my wife is here!"
Hendrik, with his feet suddenly back on the floor and pipe still clenched firmly between his teeth, gave Waylon a genuine grin, "Oho! Straight to business then? Seems you are more man than boy! I was beginnin' to wonder if yor balls had ev'r dropped!"
"De Wi-"
"'Course I'm here for a reason! Y'think I like lookin' at yor excuse for a face?"
"Hendri-"
"Oy! Yor not on a first name basis, boy."
"De Witte, please. You're here about Lu-"
Hendrik withdrew his pipe and pointed its stem at Waylon, a fists width from his face, "Aye, dear Lula! Gotten a tad fat, hasn' she?"
"For fucks sake, De Witte, the baby!"
Waylon's last words clung to the walls longer than they should have, and they left the room quiet. Hendrik, bringing his pipe back into his mouth, rested a finger on his lips. "Shhh." He pointed out toward the hall where Waylon's brand new wife was sure to be eavesdropping.
Waylon grimaced and sat down, sinking deep into a chair. "The baby," he murmured, cupping his forehead, "Just - tell me about the baby, my baby. You cannot imagine the amount of hair and sanity I've lost over all of this."
Hendrik lifted his brow and drew on his pipe, watching Waylon grind his palms into his eyes, as if he were the victim. His stomach knotted. Suddenly, all of the self-pity in the room was suffocating and any respect he might have had for Waylon burnt away, like the ash in his pipe. Hendrik let the smoke seep from his nose and mouth. He cleared his throat. "It's taken care of Waylon. It died."
In an instant the boy looked up from his hands, his face alit as if he'd just been named sole heir to a dead, rich, childless uncle. He was tall in his chair now; he clapped his hands once and cried, "Thank the Gods!" He ran his fingers through his hair and leaned backward, a foolish smile stretched from ear to ear.
Smug bastard, Hendrick thought with a sneer. He locked eyes with Waylon, he felt his face darken. He took his pipe from his teeth and dug a naked thumb into its chamber, crushing the smolder, oblivious to the burn. Waylon's smile faded into a cautious curve, a crease forming between his eyes, "Wha-?"
"No need to thank yor Gods, boy," Hendrik interjected, glowering earnestly at Waylon. They stayed that way for a lengthy moment, unmoving; Hendrik waiting for it to sink in.
Waylon gawked at him and then shot out of his seat like a ball from a cannon. He started to speak, but stopped mid-breath before pacing out into the hall.
"A moment!" he called back, out of sight.
Hendrik rolled his eyes and stood. He slid his pipe back into his coat and waited for Waylon with his hands clasped behind his back.
And he didn't have to wait long before he came stumbling back in through the archway, a leather pouch in tow. He tossed it onto the desk; it hit with a rattle. Hendrik picked it up with two fingers, then jostled it from one hand to the other. It was obviously quite a bit of coin. "What's this?" he asked with a glib tongue.
A lump had formed in Waylon's gullet, he had trouble talking around it, but he managed to croak out, "For your, ah, troubles…"
Hendrik let out a breathless laugh and stuffed the pouch into an inner coat sleeve. He strode to Waylon then stood in front of him, nearly nose to nose. He was intimidating: a head taller than and three times as built as the so-called soldier, but Waylon held his ground with uneasy gumption.
"I've no need for more wealth, Waylon. This -" he patted the bulge on his chest, "- is an insult," he snarled, tilting his head to one side.
"But you just t-"
"It's for the whore you ruined! Boy!" he bellowed. Waylon cringed, shrinking into the meek child Hendrik knew him to be. "No, boy. I want a favor."
Waylon staggered a few distressed steps back. "Wh-what favor?"
Hendrik was incredulous. "Well, I don't know yet! But you'll be sure as fat on'a hog that I'll call on you when I need it."
"If you think I'll just-"
"Oh, I know you will - just!" Hendrik spat back at him, leaning in his direction.
Waylon conceded with his shoulders at his ears. "Alright! One, eventual favor…"
Hendrik reasserted his posture and reached his hand out, snatching Waylon's; he shook it once, hard, before throwing it back at his side. "Like shakin' hands with a fish," he muttered. "I never want to see yor face at my establishment. You've no place there. Do us all a favor and keep yor cock in yor lovely new wife, that way you can have all the pasty, twiggy little shits y'want." Hendrik turned to leave. "Aye?"
Waylon, who had been staring at his toes like a scolded child, stammered and replied, "Yes," he paused, "Aye."
"Good. I'll show m'self out. Off to console yor consort," he added as he marched out through the hall and back into the great room. He'd been anticipating, hoping really, for the Lady Waylon to be crouched just outside, but it seemed she wasn't as nosy as he'd expected.
Outside the sun was glaring, fully awake. The Row was crowded with bodies selling and buying, some of them entertaining with card tricks and simple magics. Near the end of the cobbled street, where the stepping stones grew sparse and sank into the dirt, Hendrik paused at a bony, scant-clothed beggar whose only trick was holding out his empty, rust stained palm. He was a different breed of pathetic, the kind Hendrik knew well and pitied: that type of man didn't have a soul in the world wishing him well.
Hendrik fished out the coin purse he'd taken from Waylon and dropped it into the beggar's hand, thinking for a moment that such a frail wrist might snap under the weight.
It held strong; the vagrant gaped at the pouch now clutched in his stick fingers, with wide eyes and an open mouth, and then at Hendrik, who was already slogging back through the mud streets of Wenfel.