Obsidian Sweets

“Who sent you?”

A single sphere of hand carven ice swims in a sweat of dark rum.

“My king, you have-”

“Please restrain from disposing my title." They murmur amongst themselves. "Our sir names will suffice.”

“My apologies your- Kukoh.”

“Thank you, Hunce.”

The men grin under the fur veil of opposing hue sheepskin. Their desaturation becoming their commonality. The sporadic patters, opposing in values. As black strays on the Hunce’s weighted pelt share their waving in the winds of white and sand, Kukoh submits under pounds of sand and dirt colored fur. Straggling white strays shimmer in the cross breeze within the crowded tavern house. The waitresses scurrying by create a subtle wind.

Kukoh’s glass clanks, growing more still as he absorbs its potency. A grimace strikes as he began to sip. The wrinkles of his bronze skin, a kinky clump of salted pepper facial hair, lax as they both sit, observing, speaking with empty content, sporadically. The ice walks the inside of the short dingy crystal. Hunce sips collected rain water from a sister glass.

“How long?” Kukoh asks. The ruckus of their immediate surroundings seem to quiet as they engage deeply. Leaning in to rebuttal.

“A fortnight from the brightest lunar showers.”

“Its light cowers. Have you been able to track the sky? The whiteness hasn’t subsided in Goddess knows how long.”

“I must as well my lord. Cower that is. She has given me a way out, I’ve seen it.” Hunce exhales deeply. “The empire has become loosened from stressed stitching. Gluttony.” Hunce divulges with nervous rasps against the descripted wooden table. Both chairs creek with weight adjustment. They halt conversation as poorly dressed waitresses bear a curious eye as they trek by. Some approach who speak the westerns kings English with a broken tone. Foreigners, they assume. The women think the same of them. The both of them are tended to, only when gestured over or with an empty vessel present on the table will the women stop at their wall ridden small table.

The wafting crowd, the contents of rambling lunatics banging against the exterior of the establishment in a confusing or angered huff, passing through nomads, residents down on their luck or positivity, trifling affairs, stolen good exchanges, hit man, prostitutes, drunks. They all have seen the inside of these uncared for walls. This Victorian tavern embraces the likes of the ones to not be questions or criticized. Only served, fed, bathed or hosted overnight if their currency or wager is up to par. This is where you come if you need something, even if you have nothing to offer but yourself.

The air stank of sour liquor soaked cherry wood, smoke, regurgitation, decaying dried hay lining the floor and lingering aromas of the mysterious kind. Kukoh and Hunce sat and debated the falling empire, controversies of loyalty, disbanding guards in a rebel movement, disheveling tactics from opposing empires for domination, assassinations of messengers and death of ravens left with counterfeit notes on window sills. Some notes edged with threats of repercussions. The same memo circled the castle walls. Appearing on every ranking officials quarters. But on the King’s plush red velvet, hand crafted throne, not a piece of parchment occupied the cushioned seat. But the head of his mistress.

And finally, the Hunce's faux exile and the Kings near escape of death.

It was at this moment, tracing their steps back, when they have traced their information to a single person. A boy adopted by the under ruled, a child of the Coca islands, the butchers boy. It was the-

“A gesture, from the chef himself.” The waitress interrupts their snappy debate. The tavern, unknown to them, has become subtle with interior conversation. As they quiet, they notice a stillness.

“I say-“ Hunce peers curiously at the plate of mammoth sized decadence. “whom may the chef be madam?”

“Only one of the top tier cooks denounced from the royal kitchens.”

Their eyebrows cock, heads tilt, a glance between them is thrown back towards the ditsy woman swaying in what seems to be slight intoxication.

“Why do you suppose this is?”

“I haven’t a clue.” She slurs with a pirate like wince. “I do not frequent inquiries. I do as I am told within the limits of currency I am gifted in exchange.”

“Well-“ Kukoh spins a gold dime betwixt his burly, damaged brown digits. “miss I will have a fortune for you. A debt. Except, there’s one questions you must answer.”

As she stares at the wobbling piece of paradise appearing and hiding within his fingers, she perpetrates, moistening her lips with a damaged, discolored tongue. Her blackened mouth enveloped in cracked skin. Dragging out a procrastination to move, she grasps her hair, rolling the red clay formed dread behind her ear.

“Speak his sir name.” Kukoh adds.

She looks towards Kukoh with troubling confusion. Gnawing the tips of her overgrown nails. Her leg twitching at the question.

“Sir I do not know of-“ She begins to reply.

“Leave us as you may but you will not leave this sweet you have provided. I can justify its lavishness to hold usefulness outside the walls of my gullet. There is no mound of chocolate that should be affordable in territory as the likes of this. If I were you, I would heed my inquiry.” The coin is convinced to lay face down on the table, underneath a single finger pressing its head, sliding to the edge of the table. “Once more madam, whom-“

“Obsidian.” She barks in a whisper. Her hands attacking her mouth, sealing her ability to disclose any further.

Kukoh's finger releases the coin. He passes a look of terror to Hunce. A precaution, an act of understanding, a cry to escape this chamber. Through his eyes, a blank stare within the white of his eyes stood in surrender. The darkness of his hazel center projected flashing moments of battle, terror, triumph, victory and defeat all in one quick glance before his eyes cut closed, and then open shockingly.

“Quickly-“ Kukoh advises. But as soon as they rose to exit, thorns stuck into their felt siding. A sharp tip pressed both their obliques as their veils ripped from hindering their face.

“Where you boys- royals going?” The man behind Kukoh grumbles in a deep tone.

“It seems to be that we have overstayed our welcome.” Hunce attempts to side steps from the chair, only to be coached to stand still. Him and Kukoh lock glares.

“Try the Obsidian Sweet. It’s to die for.” A hearty laugh begins to rumble through surrounding occupants. They rise from corners, behind the serving bar, from within and without. They’re surrounded. Hunce notices the mans pulled over fabric, a damaged and stain apron of sorts, marked with mysterious stains, a patch of leather reading “Chocolate Child” in brail. They stand lightly trembling. Pressed between a half circle of men and women with hunger screaming from their eyes. Caught between both Kukoh and Hunce, a chocolate slice of cake mocking their freedom. A decrepit fork is forced into the splinting wooded table by the burly man gripping the extent of Kukoh's coat. “Eat.”