Meet Me in Montenegro

Oleksandr gets dressed, leaves his room and enters the hallway, the soft glow of dusk filtering through the windows and casting long shadows across the corridor. He notices the hustle of servants preparing final touches for the evening's feast. The sound of voices and clattering dishes filters down the hall, and the air is thick with the aroma of roasted meats and sweets. The feast, being held to celebrate the success of the recent battle, is clearly about to commence. As he enters the dining hall, he finds himself surrounded by a whirlwind of activity. The room is filled with soldiers and guests, their voices and laughter creating a jovial atmosphere. He scans the room, looking for Prince Vlad, and eventually spots him at the far end, deep in conversation with a group of noblemen. He hesitates for a moment, watching as Vlad's eyes light up and he beckons for him to come over. With a nod, Oleksandr weaves his way through the bustling crowd and approaches Vlad. As he stands before the prince, the noblemen around him glance in his direction, clearly intrigued. Vlad grins and addresses the group with a prideful air.

"Friends, this here is my champion. I'm sure you've heard rumors about one Flaxen Reaper?" Oleksandr stands silent, his expression stoic as the group of nobles turn their attention to him with a mix of curiosity and awe. The noblemen murmur amongst themselves, clearly impressed by Vlad's announcement. One of them leans forward and addresses Oleksandr, his tone a mix of respect and curiosity.

"You're the legendary 'Flaxen Reaper'? We've heard tales of your exploits on the battlefield.”

“Aye, that's me.” He responds modestly. The nobleman regards Oleksandr thoughtfully, his expression tinged with admiration.

"We've heard stories of your remarkable stamina on the battlefield… They say that you can fight for days on end without succumbing to fatigue."

Oleksandr offers a reserved nod in response, "aye, that's true. I’ve been known to have unnatural endurance in battle.” Another man chimes in, his voice filled with a hint of doubt.

"That's quite a claim. Have you ever been defeated in battle?”

“Yes… Once.” The nobleman raises an eyebrow at Oleksandr's response.

"Just once? You've faced countless adversaries on the field, and yet you claim to have been defeated only once? Care to elaborate?”

“The twenty-ninth of May, 1453.” The noblemen fall silent for a moment, the significance of the date sinking in, the day that changed everything.

"Constantinople… fell on that day," one of them mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. Oleksandr's words hang in the air, the weight of their meaning heavy upon the group. The silence stretches on for a moment before the nobleman clears his throat, his voice laced with interest.

“You were there? Fighting at the fall of Constantinople?”

“Da. I served there for four years, as a Varangian Guard.” The nobleman nods, clearly impressed by Oleksandr's admission.

"That's quite a feat. You must have witnessed quite a battle then…”

Oleksandr takes a slow sip of his wine, his gaze distant as he relives the memories and repeats softly, "quite the battle indeed..."

"What was it like? The fall of Constantinople.”

"It was the worst week of my life. I lost everything. It was a brutal, relentless fight. We held strong, and fought with all we had, but they just kept coming until they absolutely exhausted us. It was practically a ghost town by the time they breached and took over." He describes stoically, with a hint of bitterness in his tone as he stares into his wine glass. "They did not win due to skill, no,” he continues, “No, the Turks never have won a battle through besting their foes. They win by grinding their enemies down. They are relentless, they never stop hammering down, with their sheer numbers, they just keep coming and coming... Nobody can keep up against the infinite biomass. That's how you get these numerous stories of great Ottomans failures despite always outnumbering their enemies close to five to one, if not more. The cat is not a bad hunter because the grain keeps getting eaten by mice... The mice just wont stop breeding." Oleksandr's analogy hangs in the air, the group of noblemen silent for a moment, contemplating his words. Finally, one of them clears his throat.

"You speak with the wisdom of a true warrior and a true survivor. It's clear the fall of Constantinople was a traumatic event for you…”

"Even the strongest empires rise and fall. I admit I am bitter about the blood that was spilt,” he responds in a cold tone. “We all fought so hard, sacrificed everything, and for what? For it all to end in ruin?” He breaks his gaze from the men and glances around the room, his expression distant and stoic. "Excuse me."

Oleksandr steps away from the group, weaving his way through the crowded dining hall as he wanders through the feast, the sounds of merrymaking and chatter fading into background noise. He finds some doors that lead to a kitchen area, and he strides in. He looks at the few cooks, confused by his presence.

"Is there meat back here?" One of them regards him, surprised by his unexpected question.

"Aye. The roasted venison is almost done. Why?”

“Fresh.” The cook raises an eyebrow at Oleksandr's request, a bit confused, but nods nonetheless.

"You want it... fresh? Like, cut straight from the carcass? As in, raw?”

“Where's it at?” The cook stares at him for a moment, his expression skeptical, but shrugs and points to a door at the end of the kitchen.

"In the cold chamber. But... Are you sure you want it raw? It's still bloody…” Oleksandr doesn't respond as he pushes through the door and draws his dagger, carving off a few large, good cuts. He gathers some meat cloths and wraps them up. Then, he exits the kitchen and finds himself back in the dining hall. The room is still bustling with activity, the noblemen and their families engaged in lively conversations and partaking in the feast. Oleksandr, still carrying the wrapped meat under his arm, glances around and makes his way towards some wine pitchers, and he takes one. He holds the pitcher and meat in one arm and weaves his way through the throngs of people, going towards the exit. He leaves without being noticed, and exits the castle, working his way over to a nearby dimly lit tavern. He once again weaves his way through the crowded establishment, avoiding the glances of the patrons as he finds a secluded booth in the corner. He slumps down in the seat and places the meat and pitcher of wine on the table before him.

Oleksandr straightens up and unwraps the meat, the scent of fresh venison wafting through the air. He picks up one of the large, uncut steaks and brings it to his mouth, tearing into it with a primal voracity. The rawness of the meat, coupled with the strong taste of iron, does not deter him. His teeth tear into the meat, the bloody juice dripping down his chin. He's used to this, he's always done it, and he much prefers having his food in a raw and ‘unprocessed’ state, as he'd call it. Perhaps a hint of his barbarian origins, or perhaps just a peculiar way to satisfy his appetites.

A young bar wench with curly red hair approaches Oleksandr's table, her smile wide and welcoming. She leans forward, her expression one of coyness and interest.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" She remarks, her voice sultry and sweet. "I don't believe I've seen you here before. A new face in our humble establishment. You're quite a tall one, aren't you?” Oleksandr grunts and continues tearing into his steak, washing it down with a large swig of the wine. The bar wench's expression falters slightly at his gruff response, but she doesn't seem deterred. She purses her lips, watching him chew through the steak with fervor.

"You know, darling," she starts, her voice soft, "most people prefer to have their meat cooked when they go out to eat. Especially if they're dining with the likes of me.”

"I didn't ask you to dine with me." He says through chews, not looking over at her. The bar wench's smile slips a bit more, now replaced by slight annoyance. She leans back in her seat and looks at him with a hint of disdain.

"You know, most men would be grateful to have a pretty young lass like myself offering them a bit of company. Yet, you don't seem to find me nearly as interesting as your... raw meat.” He drops the steak on the table and looks at her with a blank expression.

"What do you want from me? You want to fuck?" The bar wench's eyes widen slightly at his blunt question, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink. She stares at him for a moment, clearly caught off guard before clearing her throat.

"Well... I was just trying to offer you a bit of company, is all. Most men don't come here alone. They like having a woman to talk with, or... or share other things with.”

"Why would I want to talk to a woman?" The bar wench's eyebrows furrow at his question, clearly somewhat offended. She crosses her arms and levels a glare at him.

"And why wouldn't you want to talk to a woman? We're not just for one thing, y'know. Most men enjoy good conversation just as much as the other... physical aspects.”

"Most men. Not all. Meet me in my room later or piss off." He states coldly, going back to his steak. The bar wench's expression tightens, her annoyance now replaced by a mixture of anger and curiosity. She studies him for a moment, trying to determine if he's serious.

"Meet you in your room later? Why would you want a woman to go to your room if you don't even want to talk to us?”

He scoffs. "Oh, please. Don't pretend like any of your whoremongers give a shit about talking to you. They just do it to be polite, possibly to get lower rates." Oleksandr's words cut deep, hitting a nerve in the woman. She looks at him with a mixture of embarrassment and anger before she leans forward.

"It's not just about the... the physical, you know. Some men actually enjoy talking. Some men actually like a woman's company.”

"I like the company of women, not whores." She stands up suddenly, nearly knocking over the chair, and stares down at him with a mixture of anger and hurt.

"I will have you know, sir, that I am no whore. I give my affections to those who pay well enough, but that does not make me a whore.” Oleksandr grins without his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah. So, my room later?” The bar wench hesitates for a moment, her anger warring with her curiosity and the small but undeniable attraction she feels toward him. She glances around the tavern, noticing the other patrons are paying them no mind. She straightens up and regains her composure, her expression more defiant than before, her tone hushed with defeat and mild shame.

"Fine, your room later.” He says nothing and resumes his steak. The woman watches him for a moment, her anger partially subsided. She takes a moment to compose herself and smooths out her dress. "I'll see you later then, big boy." She says, her voice slightly bitter as she leaves his table. Oleksandr continues to eat his meal and drink his wine, his mind mostly on the meat and less on the conversation. As time goes by, the tavern steadily becomes more boisterous and noisy, the smell of ale and mead wafts through the room. He eventually gets up, and pays off the tavernkeep for a room with the wench for the night.