Inamorata (Inamorata Ch. 1)

“How do you think she got that scar?” asked the man with the handlebar moustache, motioning with a fingertip across his eyelid.  Then he threw back his second shot of absinthe since the woman had all but ignored his poorly conceived pickup line.  His tall and gangly companion sat across the table, nursing the one ale he could afford for the evening.

“Maybe she turned down the wrong guy!” laughed the tall one, and held up his glass.  A sneer crept across his face.  The men clinked their glasses; a solute to solidarity.  

They continued their speculations about others in the room, but their eyes often returned to the small table where the woman in question sat very still.  She stared only at her carefully laid out maps.  Occasionally she made notes in a worn leather journal, shuffled the maps about a bit, pushed a dark strand of hair back from her eyes, and the cycle would start again.  There was no drink upon her table.  The only words they’d heard her say so far were the explicit (and frustrated) instructions to the flirtatious barmaid to not bother her anymore.

“Another absinthe?” asked their barmaid, tilting her now-empty tray towards the man with the moustache.  It smelled of old hops.  He assessed her face for a moment, thought her less inviting than the other barmaid, and certainly more stupid if her tray was in such a state already at this early hour of the evening.

“YES! And an ale for my friend...” he said, with an exuberant gesture towards his companion.  He leaned close to her ear and in an exaggerated drunken whisper said “And there’s extra coin in it for you if you tell us what you know of that woman over there - with the scar.”

The barmaid groaned and rolled her eyes.  “She’s one of our worst customers.”

“Could you be... more specific?” asked the man, squinting one eye and twisting his mustache.

“It’s just - she never orders anything.  Probably for fear of sullying her precious maps.  Takes up a table for hours at a time, and has more than once engaged in violence with our reliable patrons.”

“I see, and... does she have a name?  An occupation?  A reason for that impressive scar?” He brandished a golden coin between his fingers, then flipped it between each knuckle of his right hand.  The barmaid’s eyes grew wider.  She set her tray upon the table and sat down across from the man with the moustache.  She bumped the tall man with her elbow to encourage him to make room.

“Something de Guerre...” she said.   “In... Inamorata?  Something old and unusual like that.  She stinks of militia.  I’ve never seen her here with anyone else, and I reckon she’s been kicked OUT of the service, considering her temper...”

“A fighter?”

“A finisher more like.  Never seen her take more than a scratch in a brawl.  The other guy usually doesn’t come back for days, and even then they’re nursing wounds.”

“That doesn’t much explain the scar, does it?” he started to close his fist around the gold piece, bringing it closer to his pocket.  The barmaid licked her lips, and hesitated.  She glanced back at the dark haired woman, and then began again.

“Okay, see, there’s a story going ‘round about that, but it’s only rumor, ya know?  Heard by some of the brothel girls, told to some of the ex-soldiers passing through... I don’t want to be responsible for bad information.”

“Noted,” said the man with the moustache, turning a critical eye towards the barmaid.

She leaned in closer.  “Well.  Word is she’s the daughter of a well known Madam, but ran away from home when she was young.  Must’a learned some things, because I’ve heard the men call her ‘Dame’.  And you know that’s not an easy title to come by these days what with the fall of the Monarchy some years ago...”

“And the scar?”

“Right, the scar.  So. They say it was a lover’s quarrel.  Apparently the two lovebirds belonged to opposing sides!  Ha!  Must’a caught up with them eventually.  Like I said, never seen her here with anyone.”

The man flipped the coin across the table into the open palm of the barmaid.

With a nod, she stood, picked up her tray, and asked  “Can I get you two gentlemen a round on the house?”

***

Hours later, the bar was empty, save for two women.  Inamorata the Warlord stood to fold her maps.

“Danielle,” she called across the bar, “what happened to the new girl?”

The barmaid ceased her floor sweeping, and came to a stop by the Warlord.  “Oh, she went home early.  Crying on about how some half-elf stole her new copper ring.”

“Ha.  Yes, I noted him.  Quite sly.  And what did you learn from the two goons in the corner?”

“Ex-Military,” said the barmaid.  “I’d wager the moustache was once an officer, and the hands of the tall one looked as if he’d been working fields more recently.  They mostly wanted to know about you.  Lifted this paper off the tall one, though I’m sure anyone can tell the bounty hunter is actually Mr. Moustache...” She handed Inamorata a folded piece of paper.

“Awww, they always get my bad side,” said the Warlord, flicking the profile of the scarred eye with her finger.  She crumpled the wanted poster into a ball and threw it the sweepings.  “What did you tell them?”

“Just repeated the stuff that goes around town anyway.  All is well.”

“Well done,” said Inamorata as she pulled on her pack.  “Guess I’ll be going out the back door tonight.  Don’t feel like cleaning my blade again so soon.”

“No need,” shrugged Danielle.  “I gave them a round on the house... with a little extra something.  Saw them both pass out on the front porch waiting for your exit.  They’ll be too busy with their headaches in the morning to care much for where you’ve gone.”

“That was mighty kind of you, Danielle.  I owe you one,” said the warlord, laying 10 gold pieces on the counter.  She made her way to the front swinging doors.

Danielle called to her friend’s back, “Not yet.  Even now, I still owe you...”