Dialogue Prompt: By the Gods! You love her.... don't you?
They walked the road, a dirt path wide enough for a cart though there were none. The hills waved on for miles in every direction, coated in green grasses and purple flowers. In the distance the hills rose and were covered in more and more trees.
Behind them was a town that they would see again some day. They didn't bother planing when. Planning wasn't something they did on a regular basis, not men like them.
"Did you snatch any more of those biscuits?" Soren asked wishfully.
"You ate the last one an hour ago, Remember: Oh gaaaawd! These biscuits are ambrosia of the Gods, stolen away by a nymph and passed off as bread." Mellan fawned over an imaginary biscuit and began licking at his fingers. "I would do anything for another one of those except what the woman did to me last night."
"Aye, I remember," Soren scoffed and kicked the ground. "Those biscuits were heavenly and that woman was a devil."
"She looked about like one too, but after the dozen ales you drank I can see why you didn't notice," his companion laughed. "I still can't see how you missed the wart on her face. The size of a crab apple!"
"Hush it!" Soren scowled.
"You wouldn't be as hungry as you are if we hadn't had to run out of that tavern," Mellan shook his head. He glanced up at the soft sky above. "Lovely day it's making out to be, huh?"
"Yeah, as lovely as that wart-faced whore," Soren mumbled. He kicked a pebble and sent it skipping up the path. "That's all I do, ya think? Drink too much ale, eat too many biscuits, and sleep with too many women!"
"Oh, hey! You're not that angry, are you? Let me see if there ain't one more biscuit hiding in me bag," Mellan sighed. He stopped, kneeling to dig in the pockets of his satchel. Soren walked on, leaving his friend to stare at the bend in the path ahead. The trees shaded the road kindly. He was glad for it. They had only been under the sun for a few hours, but the day was growing warm. That was probably why he was upset. That and he was hungry again.
"M'sorry, Mel," Soren called out, turning around. The road was empty. Mellan was not kneeling a few yards behind. His sack lay open on the road, a biscuit beside it in the soil. "Mellan?"
Soren peered around in search of his friend. There wasn't much cover on the hilltops. From his right he heard a shout. Without thought Soren took off toward the noise. He charged through a clump of bushes to see his companion lying on the ground. His shirt was torn; his face was bloodied.
"What happened?" Soren inquired.
"Always quick to rush in," Mellan groaned, leaning up on an elbow. "It's bandits."
"Right you are!" A greasy voice snickered. Several scrawny men sauntered out from what little cover they had found. "We's bandits and we come to band from you. Now, give us what you got and you won't get roughed up no more."
"Band from us, huh. Exactly how do you plan to do that? I see no instruments?" Soren spoke clearly, holding back his laugh. Mellan shook his head in disbelief. His comrade always took the lighter side before a fight.
"In-stree-ments? We's bandits, not music men!"
"You did say band, correct? He said band, right?" Soren questioned.
"He did," Mellan nodded.
"Anyone could be confused by that. Now, if you mean to say you're going to steal from us.. well then, I'd like to see you try," he proposed. Mellan was now standing up alongside Soren. They surveyed the grimy burglars. The men laughed obnoxious, gruff laughs.
"We ain't gon' try. We's gon' do it," the leader stepped forward. His band moved in, half a dozen men circled the two companions.
"Mellan, do you remember Port Au Calley?" Soren asked over his shoulder.
"I do, my friend," Mellan smiled. "That was a beautiful day. After the fight, of course."
Just then, one of the scrappy bandits lunged at them and the fight broke out. Soren quickly side stepped, letting the man bury his own face in the grass. A swift kick to the gut and the man doubled over in pain, howling at his now cracked rib. Two more fellows came at them. They did not know that Mellan was known to knock a man out in one hit. In two punches he had as many of the bandits seeing stars. The last two followers looked at their leader nervously.
"What're ya waitin' fer? Get 'em!" He hollered. The men charged. One was able to catch Soren in the jaw twice before he was tripped and shoved into a thorn bush. The other fell to the ground gripping his arm and crying.
"Did you displace his shoulder?" Soren whined.
"I only helped him do it himself," Mellan grinned.
They turned to the leader of the now bruised bandits, but the man was gone. With a chuckle they walked back toward the road where Mellan's satchel still lay. Grabbing up the pack quickly Mellan searched the front pocket and pulled out a picture. He nodded and made to replace it in the pocket.
"What's that?" Soren asked, swinging his own bag onto his back.
"Nah," was all the reply.
"Nah? What's 'nah'? What is it?" Soren furrowed his brow. Mellan closed the pocket quickly, ignoring the question. "No secrets, remember. We don't hold back. Remember the other time at Port Au Calley?"
"Yeah, yeah, I remember," Mellan grumbled. Soren waited, but there was still no explanation.
"Fine then, don't say," he snapped. They walked on in silence for several minutes. Finally, Soren could bare it no longer. "What was that? Let me see."
Soren reached over and flipped the pocket open. Before he could get his hand in Mellan had pulled away. They wrestled, moving this way and that, until they both fell to the ground.
"Get off!" Mellan yelled, kicking at his friend. "I'll show you then. Just get off."
Sitting back Soren panted and waited. Mellan stared at the ground, the trees in the distance, at nothing for a moment before he pulled the picture from its pocket. Soren took it carefully. He could tell that this thing was special. Mellan was more than particular about things close to him. Soren had learned the hard way about rough handling of Mellan's treasures.
He surveyed the picture: a sketch of a woman leaning against a fence. Whoever had drawn it was either talented or intimate with the woman. They had paid much attention to her eyes and mouth.
"She's pretty," Soren said finally, handing the sketch back.
"Arianthe," Mellan replied slowly. The name flowed off his tongue like honey. He felt warm when he spoke it.
"Where is she?" Soren asked.
"Safe," Mellan quipped before rising from the hillside. "Let's keep moving."
Soren rose as well. He walked quietly beside Mellan, watching a bird drift on the thermals. Soren waited.
"In Filius County, that's where she lived. It was before you and I met," Mellan began. "I was trying to stay straight. I was working at a mill. We left, went together as far as Cape Highland."
"What happened at Cape Highland?" Soren asked softly.
"And then I had to go," Mellan hesitated. "She stayed safe."
"By the Gods," Soren whispered. "You love her, don't you?"
"By the Gods," Mellan promised. They had reached the tree cover. The shadows made his face harder to read. Soren knew Mellan's face well. They had know each other for years, nearly two decades. The downcast eyes and flat brow meant Mellan was lost in reverie. Now was not the time to press him.
They continued on, dried blood on their knuckles and dirt on their shoes.
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