Post by Pyotr Alekseevich on Oct 27, 2016 14:42:01 GMT
Fyodor curled his toes as he stirred from his slumber. He was clammy, soar and feeling just a little bit beaten up. He managed to open his eyes and peered around the room. There were the two women from last night, not as pretty as he remembered, but all in all not bad. The room wasn't large, he was laying on the only piece of furniture, a small bed with a straw mattress and no pillows or blankets. Not that you needed them in this climate...
After gently prying himself away from the quietly snoring women Fyodor quickly grabbed his things from the floor and dressed. Once he was all put together he strolled over to the door and left the room. The brothel wasn't very busy, a few patrons from the previous night were leaving before they were charged again, not a bad idea really.
Fyodor wound his way through the sticky, dark and smoky corridors. The eerie silence was punctuated with the occasional sound of someone having a good morning tumble. But other than that it was like strolling through an abandoned building.
After a few wrong turns and awkward silences Fyodor managed to find his way out of the building and stepped into the mucky street. The sun was already up and the grubby little peasants were trudging to and fro. The village he was in wasn't very big, but like all conurbations in this accursed land there was a brothel, maybe that was a policy he could propose back home? He picked his way through the little pedestrian traffic there was and wound back to the inn he had started the night at. Luckily his horse was still in the stables and not looking too shaken by the previous nights antics.
After feeding and saddling his steed, Fyodor decided to pop into the inn and see if his erstwhile companions were awake yet. As he peered around the room he mate a mental note of the dozen or so locals slumped over the tables and benches. Most of them were the typical drunks and layabouts, but none of them showed any interest in the odd Westerner snooping around. Fyodor was a little perplexed at the fact that his company seemed to have vanished. He decided that some light conversation might help.
Grabbing one of the less unsavoury looking drunks by the collar Fyodor managed to ask, in his poor Chinese “Where did the soldier go?”
The man looked at him and started to fall back asleep, a sharp slap to the face remedied that particular problem “They all left hours ago! Going north I think.” Maybe this drunk hadn't had so much this morning, but there was time still to ask around.
After a fruitless hour of waking drunks and whores to ask his questions Fyodor concluded that the group had indeed ridden North. He took a quick piss and mounted his less than gallant steed, the late morning sun had begun to bake the mud dry once more as Fyodor kicked up a cloud of dust galloping from the village.