Esgaulegor the Ruiner

Es was a man of efficiency. Excellence was an art, and self-inflated bluster was its opposite.

Reason and logic were the flavours of grounding and sanity. However, he did allow room for what was an important phenomenon in his life:

Es did not believe in coincidences.

Little ornamental fish in a pond, indeed.

It had been a long time since Es had been cut off from everyone he knew. His house, his family, colleagues, employees, allies, acquaintances.

The stowaway, at first distrusted, was now gaining some rapport with him. Now he knew more about her.

Nenaura looked around the home that Es had chosen.  It was well appointed, much more suited than the inn room she'd had when they first arrived.  There was a bath, which she'd already taken advantage of, thank the Valar.

The bed was large, the linens soft and fine and the cover luxurious.  A welcome change from the rigors and dirt of travel.  

He intended it to be a destructive visit to the blackjack tables. Burn the coin, watch it go up in flames like everything else had done. 

Instead, it turned into a win.

Just like that, they gained three horses. Decent ones.

Nenaura had conned some passing merchants, during his delay. He wanted to know how she'd done it, but refused to give her the satisfaction of asking.

They had coin, now. The stowaway wanted comfort, and he was obliged by custom to provide it. 

The traveling merchant had been a blessing, and Es purchased three bottles of moonshine from him. Once collected, he took his bottled treasure for some quality time by a small pond wreathed in banks of flowers.

Afternoon faded to evening. It was still warm enough to get by without retrieving extra layers of clothing, though the fresh coolness of the air sang lullabies through the foliage about impending autumn.

What blood was wrought from me and mine, I have taken back tenfold.

The quill in his always-gloved hand fell still. The light from the campfire flickered sedately, casting an evening hue well after midnight. It was the first night in fourteen months and five days he hadn't kissed the bottle.

He stared down at his own writing, lifted the nib to dip to more ink, then carried on with more fervour.