Eghart took his job seriously enough to wake up fairly early. Despite the heavy drinking just hours ago, before his being booted by Nathan from the inn, Egg was up and out of his hovel to do his duties. Mostly ceremony.

His hovel was smaller than the adjacent town storehouse but was solid and warm, and the storehouse key was in his possession. The work of town guard was an easy one, despite the roaming undead – they tended to keep to the woods – and the storehouse meant he’d never go hungry, barring catastrophe. 

If catastrophe was imminent, however, he’d be long gone. He was no stranger to life on the road, and inevitably he knew that he would be back to his old ways. For now, life was easy and relatively certain, especially in this region of Aluan. And especially, especially given the town’s proximity to the great woodlands south of the fallen kingdom.

It really was a marvel that things had gone so damn smoothly for Eghart over the past few years. He wasn’t the only town guard, nor was he actually a town guard. It was a special arrangement that worked in his favor.

With the exception of the current headache and nausea.

Eghart placed his massive, pale hand on the wall, sliding it down as he bent over, sick to his stomach. He hung there for a moment, waiting for vomit, but there was none; just the persistent, acidic tickle. Perhaps he’d overdone it last night.

He steadied himself – which was a process. His gigantic frame did not carry well and his back frequently ached. As he righted himself, he glanced toward the storehouse door and saw the morning basket. He grunted and cleared the distance in two steps, stooped down, painfully, and picked up the goods for the collection.

He took his share. He always did. Basket in one hand, he drew the heavy iron key from under his shirt. The key was on a loop of hempen cord around his neck. The key free from his body, he opened the storehouse and dropped the basket to the cool stone ground.

He stooped again – he was already done with stooping for the day – and drew a couple of apples from the basket. As he dug for his third apple, he felt a silky wetness on his fingertips and withdrew them; it was a single egg that had cracked in the basket.

Egg.

That is what they called him.

How could they not? Pale and round. He understood it. But nobody called him that to his face. He was larger than most. People had learned.

Most people at least. The single egg was a slight he would not forgive. He would ask around the inn tonight and find out who placed it in the basket.

Nobody in town actually respected him, but they were intimidated, and that was good enough for Eghart. It was good to be imposing and it had served him well.

He finished wiping the egg off on his trousers and took a fourth apple for emphasis. He kicked the basket toward the wall and food tumbled out. He’d leave that for the workers to manage.

He stepped back into the morning air outside and locked the door behind them, placing the heavy black key back around his neck. His other hand held the four apples with little trouble.

For now, it was time to patrol. Funny thing, that was.

One day he was robbing folks along the road with a small band of opportunists until the opportunity arose for a different path. The fall of the old town presented a chance to be a hero as the refugees flooded the road toward Nathan’s inn.

Eghart saw the change, beat his two accomplices to death, and presented their bodies to the mayor. They had intended to rob the survivors, but he had stumbled upon their scheme and offered to help protect the evacuation. He could help defend the survivors from Gordhurst.

After all, he’d just stopped a robbery.

It wasn’t until he had a chat with the mayor a few days later about what was going on, and what the sudden presence of dozens of folks on the road meant, that Eghart was sure he’d made the right choice. But even before, as the procession from Gordhurst made their way west, he threw himself into the back of the procession and caved in a few more skulls. This time those of the living dead.

By the time the survivors of Old Gordhurst had arrived at the inn, the mayor decided to take Eghart under his employ. That was about a decade ago. Life had been good for him since. Whatever had caused the undead to raze the old town didn’t motivate them to travel much further than that – they barely approached the New Gordhurst a few dozen miles away. All Eghart had to do was kill a periodic shambler. Most of the time he’d leave that to the other guards. Occasionally, the mayor would have him send a message to “keep the peace.”

Eghart knew what that meant. The storehouse duty was his payment for that work. Eghart was a town guard in the sense that it was his title and he would throw his weight around here and there – but really, he was meant to “keep the peace” by whatever means were most prudent. Eghart didn’t question. Eghart didn’t care. Years in the woods, ransoming and robbing had been his teacher.

He wandered toward the town square – more of the space in front of the inn. He felt a bit dizzy and paused for a moment, taking a few bites from an apple. He rubbed his eyelid with his heavy thumb, trying to soothe the pounding in his skull, but to no avail. After another couple of bites, the second apple was done. He flicked his wrist and slung the core into the side of a home where it made a wet thud.

Kanaeth and Sott stumbled past, toward the inn. “Sir” they muttered in unison. They didn’t look at him. He wondered if one of them had left the egg in the basket. He stared at them until they disappeared inside the inn.

He leaned against one of the houses and heard a series of noises inside – the widow, Elspeth, he thought, preparing food for her children. Eghart had her pleasures. The storehouse key had seen to that. He didn’t know where she lived, she’d only ever seen the inside of his hovel or the storehouse. He didn’t know the names of her children, or how many there were. He wasn’t sure who their father was, either.

He thought about what he knew, which was little. He wondered if his peacekeeping had been the reason she was a widow. He didn’t care to remember names and faces – for all he knew, maybe it was the case.

There was a momentary pang of discomfort as his mind wandered. He rubbed at his forehead with his thumb again and the feeling subsided.

After a few moments, Eghart finished the third apple and tossed the core at his feet. He glanced at the fourth apple in his giant palm. If it was Elspeth’s place she could feed it to the children. He didn’t bother to place the apple – he dropped it on the dirt in front of her door.

Eghart turned his attention to the town square and took notice of two people he did not recognize. The first figure was a tall, lean man. His hair was bushy and straw-colored. His scraggly beard indicated he was a traveler – or at least had been on the road for a while. He wore a green tunic, tan leggings, and decent boots. His yellow cloak was stained with dirt from travel. On his hip, he wielded a rapier and a dagger. Slung over his shoulders was a bag.

Eghart would have marked the man for a robbery a decade ago, were it not for his companion.

The companion was gigantic, maybe as tall as Eghart himself. The figure wore a heavy green-grey traveler’s cloak with a deep hood. The effect was more like a tent than road clothing, and Eghart wondered what there was to hide under so much linen. There was a noticeable pitch at the shoulders beneath the fabric. There was a large sword beneath the cloak. A very large sword.

He watched the two of them discuss something and go their separate ways. Eghart made his way back to his home; it seemed that maybe today he’d need his spear.