Roald shakes his head. "No, Atli will get his share of the loot, but I'm keeping the barge. Not because I need it, but because it will embarrass Carlion." Roald lays a hand on Torthur's shoulder. "Think about it, Torthur. If an up-jumped bastard of a sellsword like myself can take Duke Carlion's boat right out of his capitol city without his approval, then how do you think that'll make him look? Weak. That's how it will make him look. And a weak duke is a defeated duke."
Torthur nods, then shrugs. "Ah, political mumbo jumbo. I kin leave that ter you n everybody else. I wants ter talk ter ya bout this Lora. I dunno whuts yer thoughts on slavery or whutnot. I gots me a mind ter git ter Alamie n teach tha Duke's bruther a little lesson. I knows yer maybe not one ter care bout that, but I wants ter go do that. I won't think yer any different if you don't wants ter come wit me, Roald."
He looks at the lights in Tuor, then smiles. "Seems ter me yer makin a name fer yeself an makin the Duke Carlion yer best pal. Maybe that Duke whustsiname, Devlin? Mebbe he'll knight ya yet or make yer a lord or somethin. I knows I is gonna be looking forward to gittin to tha tavern n settin up me workshop fer makin me ale and settlin in tha lass Lora."
Torthur nods, then shrugs. "Ah, political mumbo jumbo. I kin leave that ter you n everybody else. I wants ter talk ter ya bout this Lora. I dunno whuts yer thoughts on slavery or whutnot. I gots me a mind ter git ter Alamie n teach tha Duke's bruther a little lesson. I knows yer maybe not one ter care bout that, but I wants ter go do that. I won't think yer any different if you don't wants ter come wit me, Roald."
He looks at the lights in Tuor, then smiles. "Seems ter me yer makin a name fer yeself an makin the Duke Carlion yer best pal. Maybe that Duke whustsiname, Devlin? Mebbe he'll knight ya yet or make yer a lord or somethin. I knows I is gonna be looking forward to gittin to tha tavern n settin up me workshop fer makin me ale and settlin in tha lass Lora."
Roald faces the dwarf with an uncharacteristically soft expression. "Torthur, if you go off into Alamie by yourself to take on Carlion's brother, then not only would Tuornen lose a fine fighter, but I would lose also a friend. Stick with me and help me find ways to hurt House Alamie. The best way for you to show Carlion's brother your thoughts on the slave trade is to help me win this war. But you're right about Lora, you should attend to her first. I'm sure the poor girl has had a terrible experience."
"Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it."
ewan wrote:
Baron Lynwerd bellows-
“Cowards! Put a sword in my hand and I’ll show you justice! “
Count Robin turns to face Baron Lynwerd.
“Fine. Are you well enough to fight?”
Lynwerd laughs. “Not a man of you can best me in fair play. Bring it on!”
At Devlin's pronouncemnet, Renn can't help but show his surprise. To Renn's shock, it seems the Duke can be made to see reason after all. Quite the dramatic change from the reports Renn has received, but not an unwelcome one. Especially not with Lynwerd begging to be gutted.
Renn steps from the crowd, one hand on his basket-hilt broadsword. "Try me then, you Black Tower Bastard. You might find me a tougher match than peasants and unarmed women."
A soldier gives Lynwerd a warsword and then retreats.
The Baron takes a few practice swings to get the feel of the weapon, grins, and glares about at the Tuors all around him.
''Try to stop me leaving after I kill this runt and I'll kill a few of you.''
Without more ado, Baron Lynwerd rushes towards Renn!
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.
Roald faces the dwarf with an uncharacteristically soft expression. "Torthur, if you go off into Alamie by yourself to take on Carlion's brother, then not only would Tuornen lose a fine fighter, but I would lose also a friend. Stick with me and help me find ways to hurt House Alamie. The best way for you to show Carlion's brother your thoughts on the slave trade is to help me win this war. But you're right about Lora, you should attend to her first. I'm sure the poor girl has had a terrible experience."
Torthur listens a moment. "I unnerstands ya. I'll think bout yer words however. I gots me principles, an whut that brother does be wrong. Imma go tend to tha lass. Imma come up later when we arrive. I bin followin yer aroun. Imma respect yer decision as I hope yer gonna respect whuts I gonna do if I does it."
He turns and descends below, keeping an eye on Lora and thinking.
ewancummins wrote:FILBERT, EVENING AT A CROSSROADS SOUTH OF FOX RUN
The Halfling reaches a crossroads by sundown. If he turns west, he will travel into the ancient, misty mountains and vast forests that of western Tuornen and eastern Boeruine.
Seaharrow, the olden seat of the lords-paramount of Boeruine, rises above the stormy seas even further west. That’s where Filbert would likely find Archduke Aeric .
In the port there, Filbert might be able to take a ship to Avanil.
If the newly ennobled Halfling goes south, he will be headed down the length of the duchy, passing through familiar hills, plains, and farmlands. At Haes he could perhaps get on a boat to take him down the river towards Avanil, perhaps entering by way of the Imperial City. If he fears Carilon’s river pirates, he might stick to the slower but perhaps safer roads, to enter the rich principality of Avanil from the north.
The southern route, despite being longer, may prove shorter in time. No mountains or deep forests to cross, and he could go even faster if he’s willing to travel by river.
No matter which path he chooses, he can greatly speed his journeys by passing through the Shadow World.
But of course, travelling many miles in that dark dimension can be dangerous to the flesh and the soul alike…
Filbert raises his head to look up at the sun so he can orient himself then looks once south and once west. He knows that he has to hurry but in same time he doesn't want to use his innate ability to cross the Shadow Realm very often. But on the other hand if he rides alone till Seaharrow could be much more risky. He has never been there and he has to pass through forests and climb mountains where who knows what dangers he may encounters. But once at the Seaharrow he can get the boat and follow the river till Avanil. This solution sounds the most reasonable to Filbert. Shaking his head still disbelieving that he will use his innate ability one more time just to travel faster he tries to find a spot to cross the Shadow Realm.
- The first 2 Feats a wizard should take are "point blank shot" and "Precise shot"!
- W H A T ! ? !
- Or they should NEVER memorize rays!
Safana watches the scene before her with an interested smile that seems bland and unassuming. Anyone with any skill at reading people, however, will observe that she is barely suppressing her real reaction, which is a mixture of horror, amusement and contempt!
Rennault Ghonallison has never considered himself a toe-to-toe fighter. His is the way of the ambush, the knife in the dark, the unseen arrow that flies out from the shadows. By all rights, he should leave this job to Gunnar, or one of the other men who had spent their lives fighting on the front lines. But there is no way Rennault would give anybody else the satisfaction of putting Lynwerd down.
Renn unsheathes his blades as soon as Lynwerd begins his charge. The Watch Commander brings his heavy broadsword down on the hilt of the Lynwerd’s bastard sword in an attempt to disarm him, but to no avail. He lashes out with his short sword, and finds a gap in the Baron’s armor, drawing first blood. Renn flashes the Baron a grin that is more animal than man, and closes in to press the attack.
The next few moments are a blur of steel and flesh as both men test each other’s defenses, both drawing more blood from their opponents. Lynwerd takes a step back, appearing to lose his footing, and Renn takes the opportunity to lunge with both blades.
And a half a heartbeat later, Renn sees his mistake.
The Baron, having merely feinted, now rushes at Renn with two hard blows. First the broadsword, then the short sword fall from Rennault’s grasp, his fingers stinging yet nerveless at the same time. As Renn tries to recover, the Baron brings his sword down on the Watch Commander’s head. Rennault jerks back in time to avoid the full force, but the tip scores an ugly gash running from just in front of Renn’s left temple to below his jawline.
Renn bites back the pain as blood cascades down his face, threatening to blind him. Divested of his swords, he falls back, calling on his Blood Power to staunch the flow of blood from his wounds. He throws a knife, only to see it sink into the dirt well away from the baron, and then Renn is down to only his two knives. Cursing his luck, cursing his own foolishness, Renn reverses his grip on the daggers and moves in for the dirty work, the killing work.
Again and again, Renn stabs his blades through Lynwerd's armor, and again and again, Lynwerd’s blows rain down, more than few landing home to slice through flesh. At times the two men circle each other, looking for an opportunity, at times they are close as lovers, but always there is the sound of labored breathing and steel on steel. Renn is staggering now, clearly woozy from the loss of blood. He does not know how much longer he can hold out, and in the midst of the duel, he makes a queer laughing sound, choked with dirt, spittle, and blood. Tonight is the first time he’s ever willingly fought for somebody else’s honor, and now it seems he would pay Hell’s price for it.
Baron Lynwerd, himself bleeding from several small sword-and-dagger wounds, raises his heavy blade for what will surely be a killing blow. Renn, now lacking the strength to block or the speed to dodge, instead makes for a counter-thrust, hoping to kill the Alamien noble even as the bastard sword would take Renn's head off.
But the killing blow never comes. Lynwerd stands poised to strike, and then the sword falls from his hands, and the Baron sinks to his knees. For a moment, Renn looks on in disbelief, unsure how he has managed to wound Lynwerd so fiercely with such meager weapons. But Renn has never been a man to let opportunity slip past him, not even now.
“You fought well, Lynwerd,” he says between ragged breaths, blood still flowing from the gash down the side of his face. “An honorable man might let you go. An honorable man might give you mercy. But I’ll give you this.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a copper coin, already streaked crimson with his own blood. He flicks the coin at Lynwerd’s chest and it bounces off to land dully in the mud. “To pay the devils on your way to The Abyss.”
With that, Rennault Ghonallison drives his dagger into the Baron’s heart. Lynwerd’s eyes open, then roll back into his head, then glaze over, and suddenly he looks much more like a sad, helpless man than the warrior who has burned and raped his way throuh Ghonallison. There is a surge of power, one that perhaps only Renn can feel, as Lynwerd’s life essence flows out and into Rennault. The Watch Commander lets go of the knife, letting the body slump to the ground, then picks up the dead man’s bastard sword. Two good chops, and Lynwerd’s head comes rolling off his shoulders. Still staggering, Rennault raises it high for all to see.
“Let this be the fate of all who would tread on The North!” He lets the severed head fall, face down into the mud, then stumbles to the nearest tree, propping himself up to keep from passing out.
Last edited by Brock Marsh Runoff on Wed Apr 10, 2013 8:01 pm, edited 2 times in total.
"You said I killed you--haunt me, then!...Be with me always--take any form--drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!” -Wuthering Heights
"Maybe they like their shows, but I ain't exactly lookin' to watch folk get used as the dancin' bears," He shakes his head. "Maybe it's outta their system now, an' we can get back to killin' the real enemies."
"Of course," Benn mutters, "It would be a damned shame if we ever knew what the hell was actually going on."
"Maybe they like their shows, but I ain't exactly lookin' to watch folk get used as the dancin' bears," He shakes his head. "Maybe it's outta their system now, an' we can get back to killin' the real enemies."
Dietric whispers-
''Still, it was a hell of a fight. I'm glad we never had to tangle with Lynwerd.''
Last edited by ewancummins on Wed Apr 10, 2013 7:42 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.
Brock Marsh Runoff wrote:
“You fought well, Lynwerd,” he says between ragged breaths, blood still flowing from the gash down the side of his face. “An honorable man might let you go. An honorable man might give you mercy. But I’ll give you this.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a copper coin, already streaked crimson with his own blood. He flicks the coin at Lynwerd’s chest and it bounces off to land dully in the mud. “To pay the devils on your way to the abyss.”
With that, Rennault Ghonallison drives his dagger into the Baron’s heart. Lynwerd’s eyes open, then roll back into his head, then glaze over, and suddenly he looks much more like a sad, helpless man than the warrior who has burned and raped his way throughout Ghonallison. There is a surge of power, one that perhaps only Renn can feel, as Lynwerd’s life essence flows out and into Rennault. The Watch Commander lets go of the knife letting the body slump to the ground, then picks up the dead man’s bastard sword. Two good chops, and Lynwerd’s head comes rolling off his shoulders. Still staggering, Rennault raises it high for all to see.
“Let this be the fate of all who would tread on The North!” He lets the severed head fall, face down into the mud, then stumbles to the nearest tree, propping himself up to keep from passing out.
Fat raindrops splatter down on the muddy beaten ground of the dueling circle, mixing with pools of blood.
Lightning rips through the dark sky; a moment later a deep roar of thunder rolls over the camp.
Lynwerd’s headless body twitches. A shower of sparks rises from the dead man’s breast, dancing through the air towards Renn, wrapping round him, and then fading.
A titanic bolt strikes the bloody ground, blinding everyone for a moment. Thunder crashes so loud that helmets ring like bells and shield boom like drums. Blue witchfire dances along the edges of swords and leaps from the tips of spears in the host.
The stench of burning flesh and scorched linen rises from the Baron’s smoking, headless corpse.
A fighting-man of the North cries out-
"Behold! The Thunder Son blasts him into Shadow!”
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.
Having spent the night resting after getting Lora situated at the tavern, Torthur now tramps into Riverside to see his fellow dwarf, Atli.
He finds the moneylender muching rock candy in his office, reading a ledger.
Atli grins as Torthur comes into the small, dim room.
“Good job with the barge.”
He stares at Torthur a moment, golden eyes flickering in the low light.
Switching to the guttural Dwarf-speech, Atli asks,
“Something rusting your spade, cousin?”
ROALD
Having secured his floating prize with armed watchers and with his own blade close at hand, Roald gets at last chance to sleep in a Duke’s silken bed. The sound of the river streaming helps him doze off…
He’s wakened by loud shouts. Sword in hand without conscious thought, he rolls up in the soft sheets.
No screams, no clash of steel; just cheers and laughter. Sunlight glances off the rolling water outside the porthole of the ducal cabin.
Going up on the single full deck, Roald finds the waterfront thronged with hundreds of Tuors; men, women, and children. A pretty painted strumpet waves her knickers over her head, blowing kisses with carmine lips. Little children climb onto the father’s shoulders to the hero of the hour. City guards form a line to hold back the unruly but joyous mob. People cry out- ‘’ROALD! ROALD! SIEGEBREAKER!”
DEVLIN, RENN, CORMAC, GUNNAR, SAFANA
The storms pass in the deep of night, and morning comes fair and bright, with rain pools and dew glistening on the short blades of green grass that have somehow survived the trampling of so many men and horses.
A ring of toadstools, black and ugly, mark the spot where Lynwerd had fallen; none of the Ghonallison men touch those nor attempt to remove the fungal circle by any means.
“Ill luck” and “elf-poison” they say.
News goes round that a war council will be held in the command tent: all the commanders and heroes should come.
FOERDE
After a night spent crowded into an abandoned barn, Foerde, Fhylie, the Spears, and the refugees head south at first light.
Scouting ahead, Foerde notices some faint wisps of smoke in the clear, bright morning sky, coming from the opposite side of a long, low ridge not far east of the rotting corduroy road.
FILBERT
Light burns Filbert’s eyes, bringing instant hot tears. He staggers through a burning web of shadows and steps into a deep forest of budding broadleaf trees and tall evergreens, with early morning sunbeams cutting through the boughs to reveal patches of tangled brush. The land tilts west, into the fleeing twilight.
How many ‘days’ he spent in the Shadow World, he can’t say for sure; longer than ever before, maybe.
After getting his balance, the little lord finds a clear pool fed by a little stream where he can kneel to slake his thirst.
His thin, skittish pony whickers with delight and shoves its muzzle into the water beside Filbert’s face. The animal drinks deeply, raises its head to shake its wane in the cool zephyr, and runs about the woods for the sheer joy of being alive and on the right side of Shadow.
Filbert chances to see his own face in the waters; waxen skin, hollow-eyes, limp hair, and looking at least ten pound lighter than the last time he looked at his reflection.
…
Later in the morning, Filbert comes across a road leading into a small town at the edge of the great hilly forest country. Looking back the way he came, he sees the Seamist Mountains rising above the green woods, their rounded tops wreathed in low clouds. Looking ahead, beyond the settlement he sees acres of clear cut stumps interspersed with black fields where fragile wheat stalks push up from the loam.
The town guards, big men with halberds and dented breastplates, detain Filbert for a short while, but treat him with more signs of curiosity than hostility. A friendly local merchant puzzles out the flowery handwriting of the diplomatic letter Filbert carries; after that the local people hear the news and soon a small crowd has gathered to see the ‘Half-man Lord.’ Filbert is bombarded with questions about what’s going on over the eastern side of the mountains.
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.
Having secured his floating prize with armed watchers and with his own blade close at hand, Roald gets at last chance to sleep in a Duke’s silken bed. The sound of the river streaming helps him doze off…
He’s wakened by loud shouts. Sword in hand without conscious thought, he rolls up in the soft sheets.
No screams, no clash of steel; just cheers and laughter. Sunlight glances off the rolling water outside the porthole of the ducal cabin.
Going up on the single full deck, Roald finds the waterfront thronged with hundreds of Tuors; men, women, and children. A pretty painted strumpet waves her knickers over her head, blowing kisses with carmine lips. Little children climb onto the father’s shoulders to the hero of the hour. City guards form a line to hold back the unruly but joyous mob. People cry out- ‘’ROALD! ROALD! SIEGEBREAKER!”
A grin breaks out on his scared face. The adulation of the crowed stiring new and not at all unpleasant feelings in him.
I wonder if this is what it's like to be a hero. Roald walks to the top of the gang-plank, rests the point of his sword on the deck, and waves at the crowed, letting their cheers wash over him.
After taking his fill he calls out. "Good morning to you, People of Haes!" He sweeps his arm across the deck. "As you can see, I was busy last night."
"Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it."
ewancummins wrote:5th DAY OF THE MONTH (THE NEXT MORNING)
TORTHUR
Having spent the night resting after getting Lora situated at the tavern, Torthur now tramps into Riverside to see his fellow dwarf, Atli.
He finds the moneylender muching rock candy in his office, reading a ledger.
Atli grins as Torthur comes into the small, dim room.
“Good job with the barge.”
He stares at Torthur a moment, golden eyes flickering in the low light.
Switching to the guttural Dwarf-speech, Atli asks,
“Something rusting your spade, cousin?”
Torthur nods, replying in dwarf tongue as well. "Yeah, somethin grinds me gears, Atli. As yer well knowin, we were successful, n now Roald has he a barge. On tha barge, I finded a las, human. In a barrel of all tha places. She been there fer days I suspectin. She hid there from Duke Carlion's brother. DUnno 'is name. APparently he liked ter beat the lass, n good. I hear stuff, sometimes. About slavers.
You shoulda seen this woman. She was in a bad state, name of Lora. Now she is workin at the tavern an I been seein only red acuz o this Duke's brother. Treatin a woman like that, ain't right. I got it in me head ter teach him a lesson he won't forget. At tha same time I kin git imprtant infermation bout Duke Carlion."
He looks at Atli. "I be meanin ta go into, Lofton and teach this Duke's brother a lesson. I am seein yer fer this reason. I needs a few things an I figger yer the one ter see. I got me cut from the barge an the other time to pay fer it. This is what I am hopin yer kin do fer me or help me with."
He stretches. "I need to git into Lofton unnoticed. With Clyde. I want a map o Lofton, someone there ter get me around an help me. A secretive type, one you trust. A plan o Duke's castle, an his brothers itinerary and where he lives in tha castle. Some kinna equipment ter climb would be good. I also wants the guard positions an when they change. This is some serious idea I got. I figger like I done said, I kin also git some infermation at tha same time an bring it back alive if'n I make it back out alive which I plans ter do. I only askin yer one favor. Keep yer eyes out fer tha tavern while I be gone. I kinna grown ter be likin the place. I invested some a me gold in it fer me ale makin an helpin out. I figger with Mons Megs gone, someone needs ter take care o tha place. Lora gonna be good there I think, she just needed a chance from someone."
After a night spent crowded into an abandoned barn, Foerde, Fhylie, the Spears, and the refugees head south at first light.
Scouting ahead, Foerde notices some faint wisps of smoke in the clear, bright morning sky, coming from the opposite side of a long, low ridge not far east of the rotting corduroy road.
FOERDE
Riding back to the rest of the group Foerde reports his findings to Fhylie. "There is some smoke coming from the other side of a long low ridge just east of the corduroy road. I suggest we have the spears and my men stay back to guard the refugees while we investigate further."
History prefers legends to men. It prefers nobility to brutality, soaring speeches to quiet deeds. History remembers the battle and forgets the blood. What ever history remembers of me if it remembers me at all, it shall only be the fraction of the truth.
Having secured his floating prize with armed watchers and with his own blade close at hand, Roald gets at last chance to sleep in a Duke’s silken bed. The sound of the river streaming helps him doze off…
He’s wakened by loud shouts. Sword in hand without conscious thought, he rolls up in the soft sheets.
No screams, no clash of steel; just cheers and laughter. Sunlight glances off the rolling water outside the porthole of the ducal cabin.
Going up on the single full deck, Roald finds the waterfront thronged with hundreds of Tuors; men, women, and children. A pretty painted strumpet waves her knickers over her head, blowing kisses with carmine lips. Little children climb onto the father’s shoulders to the hero of the hour. City guards form a line to hold back the unruly but joyous mob. People cry out- ‘’ROALD! ROALD! SIEGEBREAKER!”
A grin breaks out on his scared face. The adulation of the crowed stiring new and not at all unpleasant feelings in him.
I wonder if this is what it's like to be a hero. Roald walks to the top of the gang-plank, rests the point of his sword on the deck, and waves at the crowed, letting their cheers wash over him.
After taking his fill he calls out. "Good morning to you, People of Haes!" He sweeps his arm across the deck. "As you can see, I was busy last night."
More cheers, clapping, and shouting.
A red-robed priestess appears in the crowd, folk scooting out of his path as he approaches the wharf.
The guards let him pass their cordon, and he walks near the open deck where Rolads stands facing the throng.
The priestess, a mousy woman with chestnut bangs and a slight overbite, speaks to Roald, her voice raised just enough to cut through the din.
“Noble Sir, His Holiness has inquired after you.”
She motions back, past the crowd to a spot on the boardwalk where a small group of temple guards in red cloaks stand with hands on rapier hilts.
“Your escort.”
Roald may recognize the female cleric from either Caer Haes or the Cathedral, but he can’t recall her name if he ever knew it.
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.
