The Butchers of Tindrem, Jewel of the Empire (Local Grey: The Best Butcher’s License in Myrland!)

[WeAreAllMortal]

The Tarnished Jewel​

The proud jewel of the Empire basked leisurely in the midday sun, its marble walls gleaming like polished ivory, its towering spires reaching toward the heavens as though in silent prayer. The city’s grandeur was undeniable, a testament to the Empire’s might and the order it imposed upon the world. Yet, beneath the surface, hairline fractures crept along the polished stone of the great avenues, whispers of imperfection in the Empire’s perfect visage. A handful of blackened ruins, burned-out shells of once-proud buildings, stood as silent reminders of the city’s mortality. Beyond the city’s borders, the mountains loomed—ancient and unshaken—cradling the city within their sunlit embrace, as if shielding it from the untamed wilds beyond. A beacon of order in a world of chaos—or so the Empire liked to believe.

From the ramparts, the proud sentinels of the Emperor’s Guard stood watch, clad in ornate steel, polished to a mirror sheen, their faceless helms reflecting the peaceful bustle below. Far beneath them, the sounds of hooves clattering on cobbles, traders calling their wares, and bursts of carefree laughter drifted up, carried by a gentle breeze.

At its heart, the city pulsed with life. The bustling marketplace on the eastern square ringing with the calls of merchants hawking their wares—golden fruit from the orchards of Morin Khur, fine silks from the distant shores of Sarducaa, gleaming blades forged by the master smiths of Fabernum.

The air was rich with the fragrance of fresh bread and roasting meat from open stalls. Beneath the grand colonnade, a bard strummed his lute, weaving a song of honor, valor, and the unbroken will of Tindrem’s mighty defenders.

And yet, not all was untouched by time.

A handful of blackened ruins, burned-out shells of once-proud buildings, stood as silent reminders of the city’s mortality. Hairline fractures crept along the polished stone of the great avenues, whispers of imperfection in the Empire’s perfect visage.

At the city gates, a commotion could be heard. A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd as heads turned toward the sound—harried footsteps, labored breaths, the scrape of a boot dragging across the cobblestones. A lone traveler staggered forward, his tattered cloak hanging from his shoulders, the fabric darkened with dust and blood.

A merchant paused mid-haggle, his hand still clutching a string of weighed coins. A scribe setting up his stall hesitated, quill hovering over parchment. Even the bard beneath the grand colonnade faltered, his fingers stilling on the lute strings, the last note hanging unfinished in the warm air.

The traveler swayed, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. His left arm clutched at his side, a makeshift bandage of torn cloth wrapped tightly around what must have been a grievous wound. The crowd watched in uneasy silence, their initial pity giving way to a creeping sense of dread. The healer’s hands, usually so steady, trembled as he reached for a vial of tincture. The apothecary’s reassurances faltered, his voice trailing off as he noticed the traveler’s eyes—wide, pleading, but with a glint of something darker lurking beneath.

"Please... help me."

The healer was the first to reach him, a man of soft eyes and steady hands, his worn satchel brimming with the tools of his trade. With practiced ease, he unfastened the leather flap, fingers already searching for a vial. An apothecary, his belt heavy with fragrant herbs and powdered remedies, knelt beside him, murmuring reassurances as he reached for a clean poultice.

Nearby, a kindly woman dipped a cloth into a waterskin and pressed it gently to the man’s brow, wiping away the crusted blood.

And then she paused. Something was wrong.

She dabbed again, more firmly this time, clearing the streaks of red. Her brows furrowed. Where there should have been torn flesh, a deep and grievous wound, there was… nothing. A shallow scrape, perhaps. A scratch at best.

A chill curled through her chest, creeping up the back of her neck. Her fingers trembled against the cloth. Slowly, the adventurer turned his head toward her. His lips parted, revealing teeth just slightly too white in the midday sun.

And he smiled.

It was not the weary smile of a man relieved to be saved, nor the grateful grin of one pulled from the brink. It was something else entirely—cruel, slow, knowing.

Her breath caught in her throat.

From beyond the square, a sound rose.

Hoofbeats. Fast. Rhythmic. The staccato of iron striking stone, growing louder, closer.

The ground trembled beneath them.

She turned, heart pounding, just as a group of riders burst through the gates, their dark silhouettes backlit against the afternoon sun.

And in that moment, as the first of the townsfolk turned to see, as murmurs of confusion rippled through the gathered crowd, the man in the dust—so frail, so helpless just a breath before—rose smoothly to his feet.

And he laughed.

 

[WeAreAllMortal]

The Butchery

They stormed through the gate like a summer squall—three riders, cloaked in dust and menace, their shadows stretching long against the sunlit streets.

The crowd barely had time to react before the riders thundered toward the kneeling healers, their weapons already bared for slaughter.

Steel flashed. Blood sprayed.

The woman tried to stumble back—tried to cry out a warning, but her voice died in her throat as the first blade struck.

The reds fell upon them with terrifying efficiency, hacking through cloth, flesh, and bone.

The grey darted between them, like a shadow cast by the carnage itself, snatching coin purses and valuables as the bodies fell, moving with practice.

And the blue—the very man they had healed, comforted, and trusted—watched in silent amusement as the healer who had so earnestly rushed to his aid was cut down.

The guards stood still.
They saw.
They watched.
And they did nothing.

For in the eyes of the law, no crime had been committed.
The healers were not aiding a criminal.
They were aiding a man who, mere moments ago, had “attacked” his attackers first.
And by healing him, they too had chosen a side—so the law abandoned them.

A grotesque twist of the law. A failing of justice.
A perverse loophole so wide that butchers walked through it laughing.

The Spoils​

The killing done, the bodies cooling, it was time to divide the winnings.

The reds wiped bloodied blades on their cloaks, laughing as they stripped the fallen of coin, weapons, and armor.

The grey sifted through the spoils—coin purses, weapons, pieces of armor—selecting the choicest bits before whistling his way toward the marketplace, where he handed the blood-streaked items to the traders, who, after a perfunctory wipe, placed the merchandise on the racks for resale.

The grey lingered a moment, watching the trader inspect a blade still damp at the hilt. A smirk curled his lips.

"Only lightly used," he added, his smile widening into a mocking grin.

The trader glanced up but said nothing. He merely nodded and set the weapon neatly beside the others.

The merchants took the bloodied coin without question. The guards, statuesque at their posts, did not so much as glance their way. The banker thanked them for their custom and assured them that their gold would be safe. A chuckle passed between the butchers. It always was.

The laws of the city had been observed, and so the city itself remained silent.

But among the living, the true inhabitants of Tindrem—the smiths at their forges, the tailors at their benches, the adventurers lingering by the task-givers, weighing their next journey—there was no laughter, no jesting. Conversations died as the Butchers passed. Eyes turned away, feet shuffled back, shoulders tensed. They did not speak of it. They would not speak of it.

The brigands, business taken care of, headed for the local tavern—not just to quench their thirst, but to remind all that they moved through this bastion of the empire as freely as the emperor himself… were there an emperor.

The barkeep, his hands trembling as he pours, dares not meet their eyes. His fingers fumble at the bottle’s neck, a single drop of whisky splashing onto the counter—a tiny, insignificant spill, yet to him, it feels like a death sentence. He knows better than to let the glass tremble too much, lest the wrong man take offense and decide to collect payment in blood instead of coin.

The four villains drink leisurely, savoring not just the whisky but the moment—the knowledge that they own this town, that they have bent its spine so far backward that it snaps under their boots.

One of them—the blue, the smiling Judas—toasts to the fallen, with a wink to the barkeep. The two reds roar with laughter, while the grey swirls his drink thoughtfully, as though contemplating whether mercy is an entertaining concept.

The butchers lifted their drinks, the amber liquid catching the dim light of the tavern. “To justice,” added the red leader, his voice thick with irony, his eyes gleaming with malice. The others roared with laughter, the sound echoing off the walls like the howl of a pack of wolves. The barkeep, his hands trembling as he poured another round, dared not meet their eyes. The townsfolk, huddled in the corners, exchanged furtive glances, their silence a testament to the Butchers’ unspoken rule. In that moment, the tavern felt less like a refuge and more like a prison, its walls closing in with every laugh, every clink of glass, every drop of spilled whisky.

And then, as smoothly as they came, they rise. A few coins clink onto the bar, as if to remind the barkeep of his place. Payment, after all, must be made—not because they respect the law, but because it is beneath them to drink for free.

They exit the tavern as they entered—untouched, unchallenged, undefeated. The townsfolk avert their gaze, returning to their conversations, pretending that this never happened.

The streets remain silent as they ride out through the gates, their laughter echoing in the crisp evening air.

The guards, posted at either side of the road, don’t even glance at them. They see nothing. They hear nothing. They do nothing.

And so the outlaws ride into the dusk, their laughter fading into the crisp evening air. The townsfolk, their faces pale and drawn, watch from the shadows, their relief tempered by the knowledge that this is not the end. The Butchers will return, as they always do, and the city will once again bend to their will. As the last rays of sunlight disappear behind the hills, the streets of Tindrem fall silent, the only sound the distant echo of hoofbeats—a grim reminder that even the proudest jewel of the Empire is not immune to the rot that festers within.