The first Wontarian the Dark Lord Ghirmak spoke to was Thill, and it occurred the night after Khamene and Ron dined at The Food Tavern, two days before the kidnapping of King Heralla.
It neared nine in the evening, the tavern peaceful and only had four customers. It had been an unusually slow night, and as Thill was wiping glasses and setting them upside down in the wooden cupboard, he wondered why this was so.
Closing the cupboard, he turned around. There was only one customer at the bar sitting directly from him on the other side of the counter: Mystic Chura, a woman in her late sixties that frequented the tavern to order nothing else but a glass of red wine and a bowl of peanuts.
The mystic had long gray hair that fell down to the small of her back, her pale face wrinkled, cheeks sunken, her face skull-like with stretched skin. Her long fingers picked up a peanut and crunched on it with her molars.
"How's the wine?" Thill asked her, as he'd always done the past four times she'd come to the tavern since he'd started working here.
"Bitter," Mystic Chura replied, as she'd always done. Her voice was raspy, more a croak than a natural human voice.
Thill looked over her shoulder. On the far side of the tavern was a couple, two half-tiger and half-human hybrids. The lady covered her mouth as she laughed at her boyfriend's joke, then her laughter ended in a growl. Half-tigers couldn't help it; it was in their nature to growl.
Beside their table, a bald man was seated and was using his mech-com, the plate of fries that Thill had served him fifteen minutes ago seemingly forgotten, now cold and soggy.
"Slow night, huh?" Mystic Chura said in front of him.
Thill looked at her, green eyes ever blank. "It's just one of those nights."
He eyed the bottle of wine on the counter. Sighing, he took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with the wine half-full. Bert wouldn't know--he barely stepped foot on this side of the bar, and he never cooked, anyway.
The wine was sweet with a bitter aftertaste, similar to the flavor of burnt dark chocolate. Thill closed his eyes as he took another sip, letting his tongue be coated with the wine. Wines like this were usually made with wonberries, a Wontarian fruit similar to grapes in our world, but colored a brighter violet, oval-shaped, and usually two to three inches long.
Mystic Chura went back to her peanuts. Thill got lost in his thoughts. He was mostly thinking of Khamene, really. He had known about King Heralla's son, of course--everyone did--but he hadn't known that the boy studied at Witcher Price.
Hadn't known that he was this close.
Without him knowing, his fingers tightened around the glass, suddenly angry. If he couldn't get to the king, perhaps he could get to his son. And if Thill had gotten to Khamene? What next?
Certainly he wouldn't kill him; Thill was no killer, despite what some people from his home territory believed. Maybe he would question Khamene, take him hostage to get the king's attention?
He shook his head, as if having a mental conversation with himself. He was not that kind of person--he was not what people back in Doorham were saying he was.
But he still had to do something. Whatever that was, he had yet to know. The only thing he knew was that the king should see him, should look at Thill's face and remember what he had done.
Apart from the rumors about him that circulated in his territory of Doorham, the other things most Doorhamians agreed on was that King Heralla was not a good king. Thill agreed with this, not just because of his personal grievances, but also because it was true. It was apparent that Heralla favored the territory of Oraphim over the others, and his genuineness with his smiles and speeches and things he'd done for Wontaria was still up for debate.
Heralla was not a good man, Thill believed. Thill knew. Only his most devoted followers and fanatics believed otherwise, turning a blind eye on what really mattered.
Then, the loud thump of a glass hitting down on the marble countertop. "Just a little more wine," Mystic Chura said.
Thill, brought back to the present, took the bottle before his senses had caught up with him. He was about to pour on the mystic's glass when he stopped. "You've gotten enough wine."
"I'm the customer, boy," she said.
He poured, just two inches deep. The velvet liquid swirled in the glass. Mystic Chura brought the glass to her lips, but stopped. Her head whipped to look at the door, as quick as a lightning strike.
Just then, a man in a wide-brimmed hat and a navy blue cloak entered. He kept his head down as he took a seat beside the old woman. Thill just watched him the whole time, astonished.
"What can I get you?" Thill asked the man. The hairs on his arms prickled for a reason he did not know.
Beside the man, Mystic Chura leaned away from him as if he had a bad odor. This man that Thill had never seen before had an aura of mystery and intrigue about him.
"I need to speak with Bert," the man said with a deep bellowing voice, his head still down. He placed his hands on the table. Thill noticed that he was wearing black latex gloves, his fingers long.
Thill rolled the sleeves of his tunic to his elbows and placed his hands on the counter. He could only hope that he looked like he wasn't up to playing games. "He's not here."
"I need to speak with Bert," the man repeated.
"Look, man, if you're not going to order anything, I suggest you just leave." Thill's jawline clenched.
The man did not reply, and the trio at the counter fell in a heavy silence. Thill and Mystic Chura looked at each other, the woman's eyes now wide and scared.
"He's asking you nicely to leave," she told the man.
"Next time, it might not be so nice," Thill quipped.
A second, two, three, then the man stood up. He stalked to the door and left without another word.
Thill set his arms on his side, shoulders relaxing, a weight lifting from his chest. The man had uneased him, probably even scared him.
"He's an evil man," Mystic Chura said.
Thill looked at her, but her eyes seemed to be staring somewhere very far away. "I could sense something about him."
"Sense what?" Thill asked.
The woman finally looked at her, straight into his eyes. "Do not let him in here ever again. I don't know who he is. I don't know what he is, but he is not a good man. He is not from here."
"From Oraphim?"
"From Wontaria."
Thill wanted to ask her how she knew that, or how she was coming up with those ideas, but then he remembered that she was a mystic. They had abilities that the average human or hybrid couldn't fully understand. It was kind of close to having a third eye or a sixth sense.
"Something will happen," Mystic Chura was now saying, then she shook her head and jumped down from her stool. "Something wrong. Something evil."
"What do you mean?"
"Go home, Thill. Lock your doors." And then Mystic Chura was out, her shoulders drooping down and her back hunched.
Two things worried Thill next: the warning from a mystic--they were unfortunately very reliable--and that he didn't have a home.
She's had a lot to drink, Thill thought, but did not believe it.