The inside of the bar was dimly lit, making Black Moor feel a little better. The air hung thick with the mingled scents of stale ale, roasted meat, and a bit of wood smoke that seemed stuck to the rough-shaped blocks on the marble walls. He sat at a small, scarred wooden table tucked away in a shadowed corner, the warmth of a steaming bowl of thick vegetable soup radiating through his chilled fingers.
A week had passed since his arrival at the valley settlement Kojo had left him at. The journey, though relatively short in distance, had been agonizing. The seven-kilometer trek to the town's physician had exacerbated his injuries, the jolting movement in the cold weather had reopened wounds he thought were beginning to heal. The local healer, though well-meaning, had recognized the severity of his condition and had arranged for his immediate transfer to a more specialized doctor in Eldrida via the arcane convenience of a Gateway. The instantaneous travel had been jarring, but the advanced medical care had been a godsend.
He had only left the doctor's care the day before. Black Moor was still weak, and every move he made reminded him of the pain that was still there. His job – get rid of the Unseen, find a thing called the Metatron Cube, and take it if he could – felt like something for a stronger version of himself. But he had a strong belief: you should always give your best in everything you do. So, even though he was weak, he wasn't just sitting around; he was being careful and waiting for the right time.
Eldrida, the capital of the Holy Land of Ezkanur, had a surprisingly tolerant atmosphere due to its large population. This made it a good place to hide. He was resting, trying to get his strength back, and listening to what people said in the bars and markets. A few days before, while he was still being looked after by the doctor, he had heard quiet talk about Kojo. It seemed his quick-witted friend had been caught for a very public and violent fight with some of the city's knights. The details were unclear, just rumors, but the important thing was that Kojo was in jail.
Black Moor made a tight-lipped face as he ate his soup. Another conviction warred within him, a principle as deeply ingrained as the first: you pay back what you get, good or bad. Kojo had saved his lifeback in that cave , and Black Moor felt he owed him a lot. Leaving him now just because it was hard or dangerous went against who he was. Eldrida was right in the middle of the country. For Black Moor, who was an agent from Adonis, going into the heart of a foreign nation while he was still weak in order to do something that'd draw attention was basically suicide. Yet, if things got really bad for Kojo, if his "friend" was in real danger, Black Moor knew he would act, no matter the risk to his own recovery or their overall mission.Just like he was going to pay back the bitch who killed his brother Ricci,in blood and tears.
However ,the situation with Kojo had ended a week ago, and surprisingly, his helper had turned out okay because the Pope himself had interfered.
He lifted his rough hand, the scars on his knuckles standing out against his pale skin. "Another bowl of soup, please," he said in a low, rough voice that was almost lost in the noise of the bar.
The waitress, a young woman who looked tired but had a kind smile, nodded and quickly took his empty bowl. She came back a few moments later with more hot soup that smelled good. He just nodded thanks as she put it down in front of him.
Even though he was still hurt and his Mission was being stalled,Black Moor felt a little satisfied with the information he had learned while in Eldrida. The quiet talks he had heard and the conversations he had carefully guided had given him a better idea of how things worked in Ezkanur. He now knew the names of some important people in the city's power structure and how they operated. He had also found a few people who worked in secret and might be helpful later. He would need to build these connections when the time was right.
A group of loud people at the table behind him started to get up, their laughter echoing through the bar. Black Moor focused on his soup. The last person from the group to leave, a fat man with a loud voice, slapped some coins on the table and walked towards the exit. As he passed Black Moor's corner, a person seemed to appear out of nowhere next to him on the table.
"Oh, my dearest Black! How terribly long it has been!"
Gran Pierrot materialized as if plucked from a whimsical dream, his presence a stark contrast to the tavern's earthy grit. His painted smile stretched wide, revealing teeth that seemed a touch too sharp for comfort, and his eyes, bright and mischievous, twinkled with an almost manic glee.
"Blacky, my brooding darling!" Gran crooned, his singsong voice cutting through the tavern's low hum. He leaned forward, arms outstretched in a gesture that promised a full-bodied, possibly bone-crushing, embrace. "Have you missed your old Gran as much as I have missed you?"
Before Gran's bejeweled fingers could make contact, Black Moor reacted with the speed of a startled viper. One calloused hand shot out, firmly planting itself in the center of Gran's elaborately embroidered chest, halting the advance with surprising force. Gran Pierrot sat back, his painted smile faltering for a fleeting moment, like a poorly drawn line smudged by a careless finger.
"Woah there, my little thundercloud!" Gran exclaimed, his voice laced with mock surprise, though a flicker of something else – perhaps genuine surprise, perhaps something akin to disappointment – crossed his bright eyes. He playfully patted the hand on his chest. "A bit touchy today, are we? Though… hmm." He tilted his head. "You feel… less substantial than I recall. Have you been skipping your protein shakes, my dear?"
Black Moor's gaze remained fixed, his expression a study in stony indifference. "I'm not 'your brooding darling,' Gran. And you shouldn't be here."
Gran Pierrot clutched a hand to his painted heart, feigning offense. "Not be here? But where else would your dearest, most flamboyant confidante be? Besides, someone has to make sure you don't get lost in all that… grimness." He fluttered his eyelashes dramatically. "And I do so worry about you, my dear. All alone in this… rather beige establishment."
Black Moor sighed, the sound like air escaping a punctured bellows. Gran Pierrot waved a dismissive hand, his bright eyes widened innocently. "What are you doing here?" Gran asked them him himself on the head as if suddenly remembering.
"Ah, yes! The rather urgent matter of… eliminating the nasty Unseen and fetching that shiny cube! Terribly important, terribly… cube-y. You really should hurry along with that, you know." He shuddered dramatically.
"Should a 'Spectator' really be talking like this?" Black said.
"Oh, how I loathe those temporal busybodies! Always with their 'predetermined outcomes' and 'causal inevitabilities.' Such a bore!"
Black Moor's patience, never a boundless resource, was wearing thin. "Anyway, mind your own business, Gran."
Gran Pierrot gasped, his painted smile widening again, this time with theatrical hurt. "My own business? But my dearest Black, your business is my business! We're a team, a duo of delightful… well, you're delightful in your own darkly handsome way, and I'm just delightful, full stop." He winked. "Besides, someone needs to remind you of the finer things in life. Like the exquisite agony of a perfectly timed prank, or the sheer joy of a truly scandalous rumour!"
Black Moor ignored the theatrics. "Why are you really here, Gran?"
Gran Pierrot's playful demeanor shifted slightly, a flicker of something more serious – though still overlaid with a layer of whimsicality – entering his bright eyes. He reached into a hidden pocket within his voluminous sleeves and produced a deck of black cards, each emblazoned with stark red symbols of hearts, spades, and aces. He began to idly shuffle them, the sharp edges clicking softly in the quiet corner.
"Oh, just checking in on my favourite shade of midnight, of course! Making sure you haven't succumbed entirely to the gloom. And perhaps," he laid down a card, the red symbol a stylized Queen, "offering a gentle nudge in the right direction." He laid down another, this one a Joker. "Things are… stirring, my dear. The tapestry of fate, as those tedious seers are always bleating, is getting rather tangled."
He flipped over a third card, a tarot card portraying a Hanged Man. "Well, my dear, duty calls! Or rather, mischief beckons! I simply must go and… well, you wouldn't understand. Suffice to say, there are certain individuals in need of a little… unexpected sparkle in their otherwise dreary existence." He winked again, the effect both unsettling and strangely endearing.
"So, chin up, my gloomy gus! Time's a-wasting, and the universe adores a hero who isn't perpetually scowling. Though, I must admit, it is rather your signature look." With a final, airy wave and a burst of lavender-scented air, Gran Pierrot winked out of existence as suddenly as he had appeared, leaving Black Moor alone once more in the dimly lit corner, the scent of sugar and lavender lingering faintly in the air, a bizarre punctuation mark on a decidedly strange conversation. Black Moor stared at the empty space, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
The jester has said nothing sensible and had managed to annoy him through with his antics.
Black Moor looked at the soup,his appetite now lost.
"The universe adores a hero who isn't perpetually scowling? Easy for a spectral jester to say."