Pentigrast by Daniel Sinclair

The Meeting
    She lay quietly in the love soaked sheets, her legs gently spread reveling the remnants of love seeping from her inner thighs. Her eyes stare lifelessly at the ceiling and the bruising around her neck showed faintly against her brown skin. She was 28 years old and very beautiful; she would soon be a ghost of loves past and another trophy for the mantle in his mind.
     
    The door to the inn opened slowly in the dense winter air letting loose warm rays of light into the stark white snow drifts that lay outside the inn. Winter was in full bloom like a flower dying on a grave and this particular winter would be the worst seen in over a century. The old man limped into the inn from the cold and settled in at a table near the fireplace to warm his soul. The innkeeper brought him a ration of black rye, a bowl of hearty lamb stew and a flagon of mead to wash it down with. The innkeeper let the old man know that there were no rooms available at the inn this night but he was welcome to sleep in a chair by the fire if he wished, at no charge of course. After eating his fill the old man moved to a comfortable old wing backed chair next to the fire, from his threadbare grey woolen cloak he pulled out a supple leather bag containing the last of his tobacco and his pipe. Packing his pipe full of the moist brown aromatic leaves he struck a match and inhaled deeply the savory sweet leaf before letting lose a billowing cloud of smoke.
     
    From across the room a voice in the shadow of the alcove spoke up “And what brings a man of your age out on such a winter’s night?” The old man drew strongly at his pipe once more savoring the sweet leaf much longer this time before exhaling the smoke with his answer “I don’t believe a man of my age needs to take account to anyone of his actions on this night or any other, especially to those not known to him.” “Forgive me Father” the stranger spoke quietly while crossing the room towards the old man and the open chair next to him. “I meant no disrespect, it’s just that it is a dreadful night and not many people are want to leave the hospitality of a nice warm fire for the bone baring cold.” “My name is Talen, may I sit with you a while?” “If you wish” the old man spoke up, “but I warn you I am not much for company this evening”. The two figures sat in silence for a small while as the flames licked at the soles of their boots and the fire made their shadows dance about the ceiling. As the old man continued to enjoy his pipe he eventually offered up that his name was Father Riven Lannister from the parish of Downwater. His companion gave the old man a faint glance as a momentary smile crossed his lips. “A far way from home you are, such a journey is hard for a man of my age in this weather, what brings you to Strongshire?” “Yes, a far way indeed” the old man said with some hint of displeasure. “I would like nothing better than to be sitting by my own hearth but it was required that I come this way, so come this way I have.”
     
    As the two figures sat quietly beside the fire the innkeeper approached with 2 steaming mugs of mulled cider. “I see you have met Talen, Father Lannister, no better companion to have in these dark times. Talen is a trapper from Northridge, and no better man to be had when crossing the barrens in the dead of winter.” “Is that so.” Spat out the old man as if he had taken a bite of spoiled food.”Then it’s a good thing that my journey takes me elsewhere I would think.” Talen rose from his chair slowly contemplating his next move, he raised his mug to his lips and took a long swallow of the warm cider before speaking. “Forgive me Father, I meant no harm, only some warm words on a cold night.” The old man eyed him suspiciously before breaking his silence. “No need for forgiveness, unless there is something you would like to confess that is, otherwise I warned you that I was not much for company this night, perhaps