The Plume and the Pistol (1)

I've been really into a computer game called Darkest Dungeon. It's heavily inspired by the writer H.P Lovecraft. If you play computer games on Steam, check it out. In fact I've started writing some fan-fiction for it:

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The Plume and the Pistol (1)

Chapter One

When the rumbling stagecoach eased to its final halt, the ruined manor had already eclipsed the twilight sun, throwing a long shadow over the hamlet. Pierrepont stepped onto the sodden earth, closing the carriage door behind him. The driver, in an obvious attempt to avoid conversation with a known criminal, made a display of tending to the exhausted horses. It had not been beneath the chauffer to accept an outlaw’s coin, yet the man no doubt prized his own dignity.

            Less than a dozen wretched buildings huddled beside the cliffs, crumbling and ramshackle, windows barred by planks of rotting wood, rooftops sagging and in some places lacerated beyond viable repair. The nearest had the hallmarks of a tavern, and indeed a sign hung above its front door, although the image once emblazoned on it had faded beyond recognition. He turned the iron handle and entered. There were only three tables inside, all unused except for the one farthest into the corner, where a man sat slumped on a wooden bench, clad in full plate mail. A helmet and broadsword lay discarded next to him, flecked with dried blood. The smell was repugnant even from across the room. Pierrepont ignored it and approached the bar, behind which stood the only other soul present—a bawdy, greying man who was not shaken by the entrance of a stranger.

            ‘A tall mug of ale,’ said the highwayman, then after glancing back at the forlorn figure in the corner, ‘perhaps with a chaser.’

            The barkeep nodded and prepared a pair of beverages, dark as bark and with an aroma that began to irritate Pierrepont’s eyes. Payment clattered on the counter.

            ‘What happened?’ He spoke in a lower voice, indicating the tavern’s other patron with a subtle turn of his neck.

            ‘He didn’t say. Wouldn’t.’ The man sniffed, his thick moustache momentarily ruffled. He looked away and began cleaning a used tankard.

            ‘He’s here alone? I heard that others had travelled here, in response to the estate.’

            ‘There were four of ‘em, yesterday. The woman—Theroulde I think her name was—she’s no doubt sayin’ her prayers at the abbey. Drinkin’ ain’t for a vestal.’

            ‘What about the others?’

            The sombre barkeep pointed at the tavern’s northern window, which afforded a narrow view of the hamlet’s graveyard, overcrowded with tombstones. A wild-eyed, bespectacled old gentleman was shovelling a plot. Pierrepont nodded, took a handle in each hand, and walked over to the slouched soldier in the corner. When he sat down and rested the drinks on the table top, the other man lifted his vacant gaze, one eye twitching intermittently, traumatized by some internal malady. The highwayman pushed one of the mugs across the musty board.

            ‘Whatever your affliction is, sire, a drinking partner may mitigate it.’

            ‘I’ve fought many battles. I’ve witnessed countless deaths. I… I wasn’t prepared for this.’

            ‘Prepared or no, I have it on good authority that what lies beyond offers rich reward.’

            ‘What lies beyond… offers only… madness.’

            There was silence for a time. Eventually, the poor wretch reached for the handle, shaking but successfully raising the vessel to his bloodless lips. It seemed to calm him a notch, though his stare still failed to regard the room before him.

            ‘Madness or not, it’s of no concern,’ said Pierrepont. ‘I’m ready for anything.’