Writing Prompt Wednesday: "The First Crosswalker", a very short short story.

A new short story has been brewing in my head for the past few days.  So, for today’s Wednesday Prompt, I decided to just jot down a random something in the universe of this new short story, featuring one of the main characters (the First Crosswalker).  Below is the result.  This is meant to be a type of backstory, I suppose, or maybe even a lead-in to what will be the actual story eventually.  Not entirely sure yet.  But I had a lot of fun with this, and I’m really looking forward to getting on with the whole thing soon.  It’s not meant to give a whole lot of info at the moment, but let me know what you think.  Hope you enjoy!  – JRF

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The Book was chained to her hip, the cracked leather spine just visible beneath the shadowy bulk of the heavy black coat draped across her armored shoulders.  Its shiny brass buttons reflected the hearth fire’s flames like a vertical row of demons’ eyes as she shifted on her barstool and turned to look at us, hard amber stare glowering.  The wide-brimmed hat hid most of the long, auburn hair, the shelf of black plate protecting her neck jutting outward and upward like a false jaw, so that when she spoke, no part of her face actually seemed to move.  Her voice was low and rich, drawing all eyes in her direction.

Men stopped their drinking.  Women stopped their talking.  The bartender forgot to stop the tap on the drink he poured, frothy beer spilling over the lip of the schooner and over his hand and he didn’t even notice.

The fingers of her right hand, snug inside the supple, black leather glove, turned her shot of whiskey in absent circles, while her left, also gloved, rested casually atop the haft of the spiked mace holstered at her belt.

“You couldn’t always bring people back, you know,” she said into the suffocating hush.  “It didn’t always used to be like this.”  She downed the shot of whiskey in one smooth motion, head thrown back, the liquid disappearing behind the enormous ledge of metal hiding half her face.  The empty glass went back down onto the mahogany bar with the softest of taps.

Armor and leather creaked as she stood, the sigh no more than the barest whisper of sound.  “I was the first to Crosswalk,” she said.  “And someday, I suppose I’ll be the last.”  She nodded toward the bartender, beer still trickling over his hand, and touched a finger to the brim of her hat.  “Thanks for the whiskey.  It helps.  Just a little, but a little is just good enough.”

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