The Krian

The tavern was a shithole, and that was saying something, given the location and the generally shitty nature of the bars in said location, and the fact that he ‘d been in some scary taverns the world over. In a long list of shitty taverns, this one took the prize.

“I wish we could just find the fucking rogue and go home,” Jarl muttered, taking a cautious sip of his watered-down beer. He shuddered in revulsion, and fought an urge to gag, hastily shoving the beer away. “Sweet Lady, I fucking hate hunting down rogues.”

Rogues being ‘servants’ of the crown like themselves, who had turned traitor. Unfortunately the one they were hunting, Vanley, was the third most powerful mage in the country. He’d already killed too many men. Their team was the best in the country, but none of them could come close to Vanley’s power.

“So far as I’m concerned, the bastard can take his time,” replied Markus. “I am not looking forward to dealing with him; he’ll kick our asses up one side of these mountains and down the other.”

Jarl shrugged and left Markus to his bitching, knowing actually listening to him was not required—Markus just liked to ramble, he took no real offense to being ignored most of the time. He cast his eyes around the bar for anything half-way interesting. Hopefully their rogue, so they could pack up and go home and get a decent…

Hullo, Sweet Lady. Who or what was that? He tried not to stare outright, but he’d never seen a man so worth staring at. Ostensibly there was nothing that remarkable about him—he looked to be just one more merc or other denizen of low society, dressed in leathers and wearing a sword, carrying a general air of threat about his person.

But he was striking as anything. Shaggy black hair, rough but handsome features, the sort of mouth made for doing wicked things. It was more than that, though…there was just something about the stranger that made it impossible to look away. His skin gave Jarl the impression of being heavily tanned by the sun, and he had the look of one who knew his way through any fight.

Though, part of that was the sword. A larger one, and if Jarl was not mistaken that was an emerald set in the pommel. That was incredibly stupid. What sort of man, as good as he might be, so carelessly let a jewel like that catch the eye of anyone who might be looking? He’d find his throat slit in an alleyway somewhere, for a gem like that.

Except there was also a matching dagger in the boot propped on an empty chair, and the man’s entire manner was one of lazy boredom—yet no one approached him, no one so much as looked at him for longer than a second.

So he obviously had no reason whatsoever to fear someone slitting his throat for a couple of emeralds. Jarl went from somewhat curious to deeply intrigue. He wondered if the man had magic of a caliber to match that blade. If he did, that would certainly explain why he was confident enough not to bother hiding the jewels in the blades.

If he did not have magic, the man was a fucking fool after all. A pity it was too crowded in the tavern for him to feel the man out; too much magic at the moment to sort out who had what. But, the man had to have magic. The Delega Mountains were hard and brutal, and that was only the weather. Add in the sorts of people who inhabited the ‘criminal capital’ of the world and only a fucking fool would come here without magic.

He glanced surreptitiously at the man again—and barely kept from jerking in surprise when he found himself being stared at. Jarl turned away, but not before he noted one last thing about the man—a pendant. Around the man’s throat was a short gold chain of moderate thickness, from which hung a pendant of three leaves, arranged to form a triangle. One leaf was made of gold, one of silver, and one of copper. They made him think of autumn.

“Hey, Jak,” Jarl asked, turning to his brother and the team Captain. He knew every symbol, emblem, and mascot in the world. “What’s that symbol? The one that man is wearing.”

Jak looked up from where he’d been talking to Dane, the fourth member of their band. He frowned thoughtfully. “No idea. Never seen it. Religious, though, or sentimental, I’d wager. His money obviously goes to his weapons. That’s a hell of a damned sword,” he added, clearly jealous. “I’d love to know where he got it.”

“Never seen him,” Markus said thoughtfully. “I mean, one like him. Got a presence like a wild animal only on a chain because it’s not bothering him yet.”

“Everyone’s scared of him,” Dane added. “That entire corner is empty, even though there’s enough people here they could use those empty chairs, and the owner himself takes the man his beer. I’d bet the last of my coin his ain’t watered down. No one here dares to fuck with him, even though emeralds like that would have the rest of us waking up dead.”

Jarl glanced toward the man again, and found he was still being stared at. Watched. Then the man’s mouth curved in the most arrogant smirk Karl had ever seen.

It should not have gone straight to his cock, but Sweet Lady, he did like his men excessively cocky. There was nothing like a man who knew who he was, what he was, and had no interest in modesty. Returning the smirk with a look of his own, Jarl decided the rogue could go fuck himself for a time. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Markus rolled his eyes. “We’re working. I know you like your men insufferable, but you can’t just wander off to have your dick taken care of by the first insufferable ass you see and leave us to do the work.”

“Like you’d say no if that wench changed her mind and asked you to the back room instead of that blonde muscular thing over there,” Jarl retorted. “Fuck the rogue. He’s not likely to show, anyway. Too fucking obvious for him to come here. We’ve done nothing but work since his Highness kicked us out of the palace with a parting go beat up someone who actually deserves or else. I’ll be back in a few minutes; don’t get your drawers in a knot.”

So saying, he stood up and strode outside, slipping into the alleyway between the tavern and the closed up shop next door. A few seconds later, he was joined by the intriguing, arrogant stranger—who did not waste words or time, but shoved Jarl up against the wall of the tavern and kissed him hard.

Jarl grunted, pleased, and reached out to take firm hold of the man’s very fine ass, digging his fingers into it, definitely pleased. The stranger pressed closer, grinding their cocks together, biting and sucking at Jarl’s bottom lip.

“How do you want?” the stranger asked, and Jarl shivered, completely distracted and taken by his voice and accent. A deep, rough voice, and the accent was nothing he’d ever heard—nothing even remotely close to the hundreds he must know. It was gruff, with an odd cadence, the words themselves almost biting, but with a rough edge to them that was not the smooth, easy tones Jarl himself used to speak the local language. He wondered what the man’s native language was—but there were more important matters first.

He writhed and thrust as the man shoved a hand into his trousers, grabbing his cock and stroking hard, making Jarl gasp for more. “Fuck me,” Jarl demanded.

The man made a low, growly, pleased noise, and muttered something that had to be his native language and suddenly the rough, odd cadence and voice sounded even better. He really wanted the man to keep speaking whatever the hell he was speaking.

“Do you have anything?” the man rumbled.

Jarl moaned as the hand on his cock ruined any ability to think or speak, but eventually he did manage to get out the oil he always kept on him just because it was so miserably rare he actually got to have any fun and he never wanted to miss an opportunity.

Taking it, the man kissed him again, stroked his cock one last time, then turned Jarl around and yanked his pants down and well out of the way. Teeth scraped the back of Jarl’s neck, making him shudder, and he cried out as they bit down hard at the same time the man pushed one slick finger inside him.

Whimpering, hungry and greedy, Jarl shamelessly begged for more, as one finger became two, became three. He rode them eagerly, pleading with sounds and the occasional coherent for more, until finally the fingers were gone and he could the man lining up—

–and then he thrust inside, hard and deep and sure. Jarl shouted in surprise, scrabbling at the wall for purchase, moaning long and deep as the man gripped tightly and rode him hard and mercilessly, pounding into him as though their lives depended on it.

When Jarl finally came, it was hard and dizzying and probably the entire village had heard him but he really did not give a damn.

The man lingered inside him for a moment, but Jarl had no problems with it. Sweet Lady, he wished there was a chance for a few more rounds. He whimpered as the man finally withdrew, and thought absently that he would feel this fuck for days—but oh would he enjoy the memories. He hadn’t been fucked that well in longer than he cared to think about.

He expected the man to leave, or perhaps ask about a repeat—and was completely astonished when instead the man righted Jarl’s clothes, smoothed his hair, and kissed him long and slow.

“Sweet Lady, Jarl!” Jak snarled, “Stop getting reamed, that fucking rogue ducked in and ducked back out again and if you do not come help us now I’ll cut you’re fucking dick off.” He ran off, still swearing in a way that would have once had their mother beating the ever loving shit out of him.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it,” Jarl muttered. “Don’t go anywhere, sexy,” he told the stranger, then reluctantly bolted off after his brother and teammates. Goddess damned rogue. He was going to gut the man. There were days he really hated his job.

But, he was damned good at it. In all the country, he was ranked number eight for wind magic. Catching up with the rest of the team, Jarl overtook his usual point position as they managed to run the rogue to ground in what the man had clearly not expected to be a dead end. Served the backstabbing bastard right.

On point, it was Jarl’s to make the first strike and so he did, throwing out an assault of wind—

That the rogue countered even before he could finish casting, throwing Jarl hard into a wall, where he promptly crashed down onto a stack of crates and bags.

After that, it all became a mess of screaming and shouting, blood and magic—

Then it suddenly stopped, and he wiped blood out of his eyes to better see what was happening. The rogue had stopped and was watching something with derisive amusement. Jarl turned in the direction of his gaze, and stared in surprise to see the stranger. He stood there as casually and easily as he’d appeared in the tavern.

The only sign he knew there was a threat was the fact he had drawn his sword. Unsheathed, it was more than impressive—the damned thing was a masterpiece of craftsmanship. The only thing more compelling was the way the stranger held it, the way he moved lightly but so aware, the way the sword moved with him.

Story books abounded with asinine stories of Noble Warriors whose swords were graceful extensions of their arms, veritable poetry in motion and other flowery claptrap, all the while glossing over the fact that swords were tools intended explicitly for killing.

But this man…maybe Jarl was bleeding to death and turning delirious, because his stranger reminded him of those stories and not in a sneering, mocking way.

The rogue laughed. “I don’t know who you are, stranger, but if I can defeat four Master Mages, I sure as hell can kill some magic-less fool.”

Jarl’s jaw dropped as he suddenly realized the rogue was correct. Free of the crowded tavern, he could pick out the magic and power levels of everyone currently present. All people had some level of magical energy in them; in most people it was simply too low to do much of anything with it. Never in his twenty eight years had he encountered someone completely, totally, and unequivocally free of magical power.

In reply, the man only laughed at the rogue. “I’ve killed worse than you. Magic is the weapon of cowards and fools.”

The rogue sneered and renewed his attacks. Jarl stood to throw himself back into the fray—but stopped short again as he watched his stranger. The man just…didn’t stop. He fought through the magic, with the magic, at times it almost seemed like some of it didn’t even affect him, just died as it struck him and that wasn’t fucking possible nobody was immune or inured against magic like that. It was impossible but the bastard just went ruthlessly, relentlessly on.

As he drew closer and closer, taking every hit, unperturbed by cuts and painful blows, the rogue began truly to panic, and threw everything he had—but all in vain. As suddenly as that, the man was dead, and the moment after he hit the ground his head was parted from his shoulders.

“Pathetic,” the stranger sneered, cleaning his sword and sheathing it.

“How in the name of the Sweet fucking Lady did you do that?” Jak demanded, holding his injured right arm as he limped towards the stranger, the others gathering slowly. “We’ve been tracking him for two fucking months, and nearly a dozen damned men have died fighting him, and you made it look like a fucking amateur job!”

The stranger turned his sneer on them. “There will never be a day that a pathetic magic user gets the best of a sword of Kria.”

Kria? Jarl stared at him in shock. This was a Krian? He’d only ever heard about them, and those tales had been third and fourth hand at best. Krians didn’t leave their continent, everyone knew that. The tales had always spoken of how Krians stayed in their own land because they feared magic.

There was no trace of fear anywhere on the man; Jarl was beginning to think the man didn’t know what fear was. The only thing he seemed to feel for magic was contempt. “What are you doing here?” he finally asked.

The Krian rolled his broad shoulders in a mild shrug. “You seemed headed for an interesting fight. Wasn’t that interesting in the end, but few are I’ve found. Magic users are never good for a fight, in the end.”

“Why are you so far from home?” Markus asked. “Krians never leave Kria, everyone knows that.”

The Krian laughed. “We don’t? I shall have to inform the Kaiser of that; he sends us out all the time, if only to get us out of his hair and spend time with his new consort.” His eyes flicked to Jarl, and he smirked, conveying precisely what the Kaiser did with his consort, and what the Krian obviously would not mind doing again with Jarl.

It went straight to Jarl’s cock, even if he was fucking exhausted and sore and covered in blood. What blood he had left, he tried to keep in his head. But he smiled back, letting the man know he was definitely interested as well.

Jak made a disgusted noise and demanded, “What’s your name?”

The Krian only lifted one brow. “What’s yours?”

Jarl laughed. “He’s Jak. That’s Markus, that one is Dane. I’m Jarl, Jarl Baptist.”

“Ansgar von Lothen.”

“Thank you for killing the rogue and probably saving our lives, von Lothen,” Jarl replied. Sheathing his own sword, wiping away more blood from his face, he strode closer and said, “The least I can do is buy you a decent beer at a decent tavern. You’ll have to give me time to clean up, first…”

Ansgar smirked, and it was obvious he knew just how much Jarl liked his smirks. Honestly, the man probably was insufferable and Jarl really should not like that so much—but he did, and that was that. “I’ll take that drink,” Ansgar replied, “and any other thanks you’d like to offer.”

Jarl smiled, hot and slow and promising that his ass was definitely on offer, in gratitude or just because. He was shameless and quite happy to admit that.

Throwing his hands up in disgust and exasperation, Jak then jabbed a finger at Jarl’s chest and said, “On that note, I am going to find a drink and something pretty to spend my evening with. You are obviously going to be quite useless the rest of the night. Someone bag that head, and we’ll reconvene in the morning to start making plans to get home again.”

Turning sharply on his heel, Jak departed, dignified and impressive despite his limp. The other two trailed away shortly thereafter, leaving Jarl alone with Ansgar.

“You fought rather well, for a magic user,” Ansgar said thoughtfully.

Jarl decided to take that as the high compliment it was obviously intended to be. “Thanks. I’m not going to bother stating the obvious where you’re concerned. Do you know the Green Maiden? Excellent tavern.”

“I know it,” Ansgar replied, and matched his stride to Jarl’s s they began walking. “You don’t look up to any more fucking tonight, as much as I would enjoy it.”

“Hey, a man can try,” Jarl said, “and I doubt I’ll get another chance.”

“One never knows,” Ansgar said thoughtfully, expression suddenly, oddly pensive.

Jarl’s brows drew down. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Ansgar only smirked. “It means that even I know better than to refuse what the gods offer. Do not think you have seen the last of me, Jarl Baptist.”

The seriousness of the words, the unexpectedness of them, said in that sure tone and growling voice—they should have driven Jarl off, should have repulsed him, but he only found himself drawing closer.

“You have the greenest eyes I have ever seen,” Ansgar rumbled, voice low and husky, before he yanked Jarl close and kissed him hard.

What that meant, Jarl did not know, but he had learned a long time ago to simply go with things and see how they played out—life was too fucking short to fight with it. Breaking away, he drew a needed breath and said, “Let’s get to the Green Maiden. That’s all that concerns me for now.”

Ansgar nodded, but as they continued walking, he did not entirely draw away the hand he still had wrapped around Jarl’s arm.

Jarl did not feel inclined to break away.