People keep recommending Interview With A Vampire to me. And I get it...I get why, I do. But I lived through a lot of Lestat-based fuckery, Anne Rice was an absolute clusterfuck of a writer and I just....I can't let that IP back into my life. I have heard it is genuinely good.
But you don't know how much of my teen personality was based on the movie (and soundtrack) for Queen of The Damned, and how much of an absolute shitshow that all was.
Like if I had never seen that movie I would probably be a normal human being, probably employed in a normal job, almost certainly without a terrible self-attempted "tattoo" of a pentagram very visibly botched onto my arm.
Also, you try reading the Mayfair Witches book and being a normal human being. Only....don't. Don't read it.
I am so glad y'all have a better version of Lestat than some. But...respectfully....I can't do it.
My mild face blindness means that for at least 3 whole seasons I actually had no idea that the guy in those black and white scenes at the start of every season of bcs was also bob odenkirk which means that the ol' disguise trick of putting on a fake moustache would completely work on me
Summary: All his life, Braig dreamed of the honor and prestige that came along with being a hero from the stories of old. So when an opportunity to find a legendary weapon falls right into his lap, how can he say no? But if those stories are anything to go by, things never turn out quite as expected. Part one of (?) in a series. For Day 6 of @apprenticeweek : AU.
Characters/Pairings: Braig, Dilan, Aeleus, bg Dilan/Aeleus. More to come in the next part 👀
Rating: T; some alcohol and swears
Word Count: ~2.1k
Author’s Note: Will be posting part 2 tomorrow for the free day! I started writing this as a one shot but it quickly spiraled out of control. You know what they say: once you start using fantasy name generators for your towns and mountain ranges it’s all downhill from there.
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Glory Is A Whisper
“I just don’t get it,” Braig pondered aloud, kicking his feet up on the rough-hewn tavern table as he tipped back precariously in his chair. “What do all of those legendary heroes have that I don’t?”
The fairy-tales always made it sound so easy. Sure, there was usually a dragon guarding the princess or some ancient necromancer with an army of undead to protect a magical artifact, but the hero's path always seemed to lay out nicely before them. Sometimes it appeared in the form of a magical mentor, sending the hero on a quest or guiding them to great power. Other times it was a prophecy, a pre-destined event that one was born and molded for their entire lives. Braig had neither of these going for him. So what then was an aspiring glory seeker to do?
Dilan, one of Braig’s only friends in the village, sighed and sloshed the liquid in his tankard around. How many times had they had this conversation before? He didn’t look up from his ale as he responded sharply.
“Manners, for starters. Feet off the table, Braig.”
The smaller man gave a dramatic groan, but obeyed. “I’m serious! I’ve got charisma-”
“Debatable.”
“-good looks-”
“Don’t make me laugh.”
“-and my skill with a bow.”
Dilan grumbled; he unfortunately couldn’t refute that. If there was anything that could be said about Braig’s potential for greatness, it would be attributed to his keen marksmanship. He was also quick and far more clever than most would give him credit for, but he often acted carelessly on impulse. His personality, boisterous and cocksure, left much to be desired.
He was a man through and through - by all accounts, the least remarkable race in the realm. And if one asked any of the villagers of Dunstead that knew Braig, he in particular was even less so.
“All I’m saying,” Braig continued, “is that there’s gotta be something more to life than… This.” He gestured to the rest of the tavern and its rowdy, drunken patrons. The irony that he was one of them went completely over his head.
Dilan scowled. “You’re the one who wanted to come here in the first place.”
“You know what I mean! Yeah, I like to come here because sometimes people come through with stories. Stories of places and treasures far away from here. But if this is all I have to look forward to for the rest of my life? What’s the point?”
“I think you’ve had too much ale and it’s muddling what little sense you have left.” He shook his head. “Perhaps it’s time we leave. I have to be at the blacksmith’s first thing tomorrow morning.”
Braig waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not nearly as drunk as you think. You can go if you want, but I’m going to stay a while longer.”
“If you say so.” Dilan stood up with a grunt, digging around in his pocket for a few silver pieces. He set them on the table. “Give these to the barkeep before you leave. Do not pocket them.”
“Give ‘em to him yourself then. Aeleus likes you better anyway.”
He watched his companion leave the tavern, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aeleus doing the same. Braig rolled his eyes. Their mutual infatuation was so obvious to everyone but each other, yet Dilan called him the simpleton. He kicked his feet back up on the table and closed his eyes, listening for any threads of conversation that might be mildly interesting.
“They’re not so much from me as they are an apology for him having to put up with you,” he quipped, with a quick glance at the ginger man behind the counter. “Besides. He’s busy right now and doesn’t need me distracting him.”
Braig shrugged. “Whatever you say, Dil. Have a good night.”
He had spent many a night like this in Dunstead’s tavern, listening to rangers and travelers and peddlers exchange stories in hopes of finding a legend to follow. Preferably something that required his skill with a bow to slay a dangerous beast or defeat a great foe. His fingers itched for a more challenging opponent than the rabbit he hunted for dinner last night.
But these were not the sorts of stories he heard. Most of them were boring and none were even close to anything he would consider legendary. Sure, killing a rabid wolf that had been slowly picking off members of a nearby village was worth some bragging rights, but where were the riches? The grandeur? He wanted recognition and reward for his efforts, but he was beginning to think the opportunity would never come.
And then the tavern door creaked open and the din of the crowd quieted ever so slightly. Braig cracked an eye open and glanced toward the newcomer. It appeared to be an older man judging by his gait, but a heavy cloak obscured his face. He wasn’t a Dunstead local, that much was for certain. More than a few pairs of eyes followed him to the bar where he seated himself. There was a heavy and distinct air of otherness about him that Braig couldn’t put his finger on. He seemed… Powerful. Important.
Maybe he’d had too much ale after all, because he didn’t even think before he stood from his own table and swiped up the money left by Dilan, making his way to the bar. He seated himself next to the stranger and beckoned Aeleus over.
“A pint of your finest for myself and this gentleman here.” Braig handed him a silver piece with a flourish. “You can keep the change.”
Aeleus nodded and set about pouring their drinks. Braig turned to the old man, who had watched the exchange passively. It was strange; even up close, he couldn’t make out any distinguishing features beneath the cowl.
“I appreciate the kindness, stranger.” The newcomer's voice came as a deep and gravely rasp. “Do you often buy drinks for weary travelers?”
“I guess you could say I’m in charge of hospitality here,” he grinned. “The name’s Braig.”
The man dipped his head in acknowledgement. “A pleasure.”
“Your drinks, gentlemen,” Aeleus interrupted, shooting Braig a brief ‘I know you’re bullshitting this man but I’m going to stay out of it’ glance before setting their tankards down and leaving to serve another patron.
Braig lifted his drink in a toast, bumping it with the stranger’s. “Welcome to Dunstead, my friend!”
As they drank, Braig got the feeling that this reclusive stranger was privy to some secret knowledge or power. He just had a feeling. And so he found himself crafting a very elaborate and very false story about how he was a famed archer in the region and basically the hero of Dunstead. He recounted a tale in which he single-handedly defended a young prince who’d been attacked by bandits while passing through the hills on the east end of the village, and was rewarded handsomely for his valor. Most of the money was donated to widows and poor families in town, of course. He peppered in other small, more believable acts of kindness as well, and the stranger listened with rapt attention.
“A shame your deeds are not known elsewhere,” the gentleman hummed at the end of it all. “It is to be expected, of course. Such heroic men are usually only acknowledged in the pages of history. But it would appear I’ve found a legend in the making.”
“Eh, maybe so,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “But helping others is a reward all its own.”
“Me? A living legend?” Braig laughed, playing up his modesty. “As if. I’m just a guy who does the right thing, regardless of reward.”
“Oh, but that selflessness is what qualifies you to be a hero,” the stranger continued. “You’ve risked your life for others with little regard for your own safety. Don’t you think that’s deserving of something more than just the respect of your fellow man?”
“But what if I told you that it doesn’t have to be?”
Braig’s façade almost cracked as whatever he’d been about to say died on his lips. His shock, however, was quickly covered up with an easy grin. He knew his act was working as intended, but he hadn’t expected to get to this point so quickly.
The man dug around in his robe for a moment before procuring a rolled parchment. He laid it on the bar to reveal a map of the realm. Braig had seen one like it once before, a traveling peddler’s map marked with safe trade routes and profitable towns. But this map… There was only one destination marked on it. An inconspicuous spot at the foot of the Skarnfell mountain range.
“Tell me, Braig, have you heard tales of Whisperwind?”
His jaw nearly hit the floor. Of course he knew of Whisperwind, as did every other child who’d ever heard a bedtime story. It was a legendary elven bow, enchanted so that as long as the target was in sight, its wielder would aim true every time. He hadn’t allowed himself to believe it was real since he was a boy that dreamed of discovering it. Most dismissed it as a legend.
The stranger gave a low chuckle. “I can tell by your expression that you have. Now, don’t you think such a weapon would be fitting for a hero such as yourself?”
“But… I thought the elves left this region long ago.”
“That is what history has told us, yes. But their last settlement before moving on, a city inside the mountain, still stands. And inside, they left behind one of their greatest artifacts.” The man pointed to the spot on the map to reinforce his point. “I’ve searched for it myself, but lack the wits I’d had in my youth. Perhaps you’d fare better?”
“I-I don’t know what to say.” They were the first honest words he’d spoken to the stranger so far, a sure sign of his shock. “I appreciate it, I do, but… Why entrust something like this to me?”
The stranger laid a hand on his shoulder, eyes beneath the cowl silently penetrating his very soul. Was that a flash of gold he saw?
“You are a great man in word and deed, Braig. As I said before, I believe you are worthy of more than just praise alone. This is your opportunity to become something more. A true legend.”
Maybe it was just Braig’s imagination, but was the man’s grip on his shoulder tighter? Or was he just nervous, already imagining the journey ahead? This was what he’d always dreamed of, after all. A legend to chase after. His chance for glory.
His destiny.
“Take this map home with you and think on what I’ve said.” He let go of Braig’s shoulder and rolled the parchment up once more. “A gift, for entertaining this weary old man with tales of valor and generosity.”
Braig stood up, tucking the map into his pocket and shaking the stranger’s hand. “Thank you, mister…” He chuckled awkwardly. “Y’know, this whole time we were talking, I never did catch your name.”
“My name is hardly important. But I’ve affixed the corner of the map with my symbol. If you discover Whisperwind and make it into the pages of history, I would like to be named in your story. My symbol will suffice for such a purpose.”
Braig nodded dumbly, head still reeling from the revelations of the past few minutes. “Yeah, of course. I’ll never forget your kindness, sir. Truly.” He turned to walk away, but stopped short. “Wait, do you have a place to stay tonight? If you don’t, it’s the least I could do to offer you mine.”
The man laughed, deep and rich. “You needn’t put yourself out on my account. I have money for a room at the inn tonight. I’ll be moving on tomorrow morning.”
“Alright, well. I bid you a good night then. And safe travels.”
“Likewise, young man.”
As Braig left the tavern, he nodded to Aeleus, who was doing his best not to make eye contact with Braig. Bless the man, he really did mind his business… Oh right, he almost forgot the tip! Braig stopped just outside the door and dug in his pocket for the silver coins Dilan left, but his fingers found nothing. Huh, maybe he’d dropped them on the way to the bar. They were probably long gone, swept up by some vulture. Not that it mattered, anyway. What was a few pieces of silver to a great weapon from the age of elves?
Braig hardly got a wink of sleep that night. The stranger told him to think it over, but he’d already made up his mind. He packed a bag and was ready to leave at sunrise. The journey would only take a week, so he really had nothing to lose. The most difficult part would be the day spent navigating through Willowmire forest at the northern border of Dunstead. But as long as he stuck to the path, he’d be fine. He had to be, for his destiny awaited him.
