Post by The Stranger on May 2, 2008 20:49:56 GMT -5
“Milord… All ‘em others told me t’give yerself this’n list o’names we’ve been commin’ up wiff…” muttered a weathered crannogman with greying brown hair that hung in knotted tangles down to his shoulders. He might have been handsome once, outstandingly so even, but the years had been cruel. His lordling nodded quietly, and with haste the old-boned man handed over a crumpled piece of ale-stained parchment.
Olander Reed unfolded the parchment and wiped most of the ale on the tablecloth before continuing. In a combination of three equally dubious sets of penmanship was written a series of names and occupations.
Morten Korp, a baker.
Little Jor, a blacksmith.
Lommy the Finger, a pot shop cook.
Alan Petor, a carpenter.
Kannok Snow, a city guard.
Kirke Snow, a city guard.
Boyen Jense, a kennelmaster
Old Orran, a beggar at the docks.
Beth Botlyn, a serving girl in the Silver Flipper.
Hesor Stone, a warehouse foreman.
The lordling from the neck folded the note and tossed it into the fire with a flick of his wrist. “You’ve done well Roben,” he said, turning an aloof eye to the age worn crannogman. “You are dismissed.”
“Beggin’ yer pardons milord, but I ain’t gone an’ given y’all the word. There’s more, milord,” Roben said running bony fingers through his snow-and-mud hair. “Y’see, allus men y’sent out milord, we been hearin’ ‘em word of that lot, y’see? Word is they’re aimin’ t’meet this eve, at th’ ware’ouse that Hesor Stone manages, over on th’ dock front, milord…”
Olander paused and considered the words, weighing them carefully in his mind. After digging through his pockets, the lordling Reed pressed a silver stag into each of the man’s withered hands. “There will be more for you your men if you continue to prove valuable.” With a three-toothed grin, the man nodded rapidly as he left.
Once he was alone, Olander took a moment to pour a cup full of wine, the red liquid roiling as it hit the bottom of the vessel. It was a bitter wine that smoothed away to something sweet afterwards on the tongue. With a half-shrug to himself, Olander set the unfinished glass down on the table. That’s how life was: bitter before the sweet.
//////////
The warehouse was easy enough to find: it wasn’t the flickering of lights inside, no, but rather the absence of light for no other warehouse had reason to hide the lights with curtains and shutters closed tighter than a highborn maid’s thighs. A silent nod from a cloaked passerby told Olander his men were in position, bows ready, arrows notched, and blades sharpened, unseen in the shadows of the surrounding buildings.
Then it was time.
There were no cries in the name of lords and kings, no calls for surrender or threats of death. The butt of Olander Reed’s trident knocked three pounding times against the warehouse door, and after a few hushed minutes the door was opened by a fat, severe looking man with a blotchy winestain mark on his nose and a ratty apron tied about his thick stomach.
“By the Lord of the Light, what is this r-” he began to say, but was unfortunately interrupted by the five inches of steel protruding from the back of his throat. With a gurgle the rotund man slid off the point of Olander’s trident, and crashed to the floor.
“Lommy, who is it?” a high feminine voice called. The crumbled man on the floor reached for a dagger at his belt even as the red waves poured out of him, but the crannogman’s booted foot kept his stubby hand in place.
Olander’s gaze snapped up at the ear splitting shriek. A comely looking girl had come around the corner to see the grizzly work done at the door, and raised the alarm. Within seconds two burly looking men who had the looks of brothers rounded the corner, each as pig-nosed and ugly as the other, with blades drawn in their hands. The hallway was cramped, and while one pressed forward the other hung back and brought up the cry as well. From within the warehouse echoed shouts and the pounding of feet.
The swordsman bared his teeth, and with a snarl lunged low. Quick as the wind Olander trapped the notched iron blade to the floor with the prongs of his trident, and dealt a pounding blow with the butt of his spear into the nose of his foeman. Abandoning his blade, the man bellowed and charged the tiny crannogman. Olander snapped backwards and lifted his trident to meet the charging guard, piercing through his woolen tunic and goring deep into his belly.
“Kirke, NO!” cried the second swordsman, watching his brother fall. “YOU SON OF A WHORE!” he shouted at the crannogman, spittle flying. A furious rage overtook him and he let fly his axe. It was no weighted thing, clearly designed for chopping rather than throwing, and the blade clumsily smashed into Olander’s shoulder. He would have a beastly bruise come morning, but no lasting damage was done. With three savage jabs, the second guard sank to his knees and slumped against the wall, his shirtfront blossomed with angry red holes.
The crannogman raised his reed whistle to his lips and blew sharply over the shouts inside. Within seconds twenty and five of his men spilled into the warehouse with swords and spears at the ready. The only other man to take up a weapon was the blacksmith, and at the sight of the force he threw down his hammer resentfully. Seven of the ten on his list were captured and taken, lead to the cells of the castle at White Harbor. Olander imagined his liege lord would have an interest in speaking to at least a few, and if not that, then they would serve as headless examples for any other of the followers of the Red God.
The heir to the neck wiped clean the blood from his trident silently as his captives were lead away. Now that the bitter be done, Olander could only fathom what his sweet would be.
==========
The remnants of the followers of Pylos the Apostate are eliminated in White Harbor.
Olander Reed increases to Spearfighting Expert+
Olander Reed increases to Intrigue Apprentice
Olander Reed unfolded the parchment and wiped most of the ale on the tablecloth before continuing. In a combination of three equally dubious sets of penmanship was written a series of names and occupations.
Morten Korp, a baker.
Little Jor, a blacksmith.
Lommy the Finger, a pot shop cook.
Alan Petor, a carpenter.
Kannok Snow, a city guard.
Kirke Snow, a city guard.
Boyen Jense, a kennelmaster
Old Orran, a beggar at the docks.
Beth Botlyn, a serving girl in the Silver Flipper.
Hesor Stone, a warehouse foreman.
The lordling from the neck folded the note and tossed it into the fire with a flick of his wrist. “You’ve done well Roben,” he said, turning an aloof eye to the age worn crannogman. “You are dismissed.”
“Beggin’ yer pardons milord, but I ain’t gone an’ given y’all the word. There’s more, milord,” Roben said running bony fingers through his snow-and-mud hair. “Y’see, allus men y’sent out milord, we been hearin’ ‘em word of that lot, y’see? Word is they’re aimin’ t’meet this eve, at th’ ware’ouse that Hesor Stone manages, over on th’ dock front, milord…”
Olander paused and considered the words, weighing them carefully in his mind. After digging through his pockets, the lordling Reed pressed a silver stag into each of the man’s withered hands. “There will be more for you your men if you continue to prove valuable.” With a three-toothed grin, the man nodded rapidly as he left.
Once he was alone, Olander took a moment to pour a cup full of wine, the red liquid roiling as it hit the bottom of the vessel. It was a bitter wine that smoothed away to something sweet afterwards on the tongue. With a half-shrug to himself, Olander set the unfinished glass down on the table. That’s how life was: bitter before the sweet.
//////////
The warehouse was easy enough to find: it wasn’t the flickering of lights inside, no, but rather the absence of light for no other warehouse had reason to hide the lights with curtains and shutters closed tighter than a highborn maid’s thighs. A silent nod from a cloaked passerby told Olander his men were in position, bows ready, arrows notched, and blades sharpened, unseen in the shadows of the surrounding buildings.
Then it was time.
There were no cries in the name of lords and kings, no calls for surrender or threats of death. The butt of Olander Reed’s trident knocked three pounding times against the warehouse door, and after a few hushed minutes the door was opened by a fat, severe looking man with a blotchy winestain mark on his nose and a ratty apron tied about his thick stomach.
“By the Lord of the Light, what is this r-” he began to say, but was unfortunately interrupted by the five inches of steel protruding from the back of his throat. With a gurgle the rotund man slid off the point of Olander’s trident, and crashed to the floor.
“Lommy, who is it?” a high feminine voice called. The crumbled man on the floor reached for a dagger at his belt even as the red waves poured out of him, but the crannogman’s booted foot kept his stubby hand in place.
Olander’s gaze snapped up at the ear splitting shriek. A comely looking girl had come around the corner to see the grizzly work done at the door, and raised the alarm. Within seconds two burly looking men who had the looks of brothers rounded the corner, each as pig-nosed and ugly as the other, with blades drawn in their hands. The hallway was cramped, and while one pressed forward the other hung back and brought up the cry as well. From within the warehouse echoed shouts and the pounding of feet.
The swordsman bared his teeth, and with a snarl lunged low. Quick as the wind Olander trapped the notched iron blade to the floor with the prongs of his trident, and dealt a pounding blow with the butt of his spear into the nose of his foeman. Abandoning his blade, the man bellowed and charged the tiny crannogman. Olander snapped backwards and lifted his trident to meet the charging guard, piercing through his woolen tunic and goring deep into his belly.
“Kirke, NO!” cried the second swordsman, watching his brother fall. “YOU SON OF A WHORE!” he shouted at the crannogman, spittle flying. A furious rage overtook him and he let fly his axe. It was no weighted thing, clearly designed for chopping rather than throwing, and the blade clumsily smashed into Olander’s shoulder. He would have a beastly bruise come morning, but no lasting damage was done. With three savage jabs, the second guard sank to his knees and slumped against the wall, his shirtfront blossomed with angry red holes.
The crannogman raised his reed whistle to his lips and blew sharply over the shouts inside. Within seconds twenty and five of his men spilled into the warehouse with swords and spears at the ready. The only other man to take up a weapon was the blacksmith, and at the sight of the force he threw down his hammer resentfully. Seven of the ten on his list were captured and taken, lead to the cells of the castle at White Harbor. Olander imagined his liege lord would have an interest in speaking to at least a few, and if not that, then they would serve as headless examples for any other of the followers of the Red God.
The heir to the neck wiped clean the blood from his trident silently as his captives were lead away. Now that the bitter be done, Olander could only fathom what his sweet would be.
==========
The remnants of the followers of Pylos the Apostate are eliminated in White Harbor.
Olander Reed increases to Spearfighting Expert+
Olander Reed increases to Intrigue Apprentice