Post by The Smith on Jun 5, 2009 1:09:39 GMT -5
“I know a secret.”
That's how he always began.
“I know a secret,” he would smile. “And you know, it's about you.”
//////////
He had seen a knight in his tent, late one evening. A young lordling in fact, noble born and third in line for a lordship. He has seen a knight in his tent late one evening, bent double over a cot with his squire thrusting away earnestly behind him.
That was the problem with camp life. No matter how quiet you thought you were, and no matter how tightly you thought you shut the flaps, there was always someone there. There was always someone listening. Always someone watching. Always someone.
That was Warren.
//////////
Five suits of mail had cracked within a fortnight. So too had eleven swords shattered, and sixteen helms crumpled. Each incident had resulted in a man slain. Conventional wisdom spoke of their unnaturally powerful foe as the source of the ruined equipment.
Warren knew otherwise.
A blacksmith has been forging shoddy arms and armor for weeks. And Warren knew -- he had seen the man dozing more often than not, and when he did work, he was more like to grumble at a mistake than fix it. If the fault lay in an indolent disposition, an overwhelming workload, or a simple lack of skill, Warren could not say.
What he could say, however, is how quick the smith was willing to comply. That had made Warren smile. Rather than be given up to a commander in the Army of the Ever-Night and lashed, or worse, for his incompetence, the smith had pleaded. Pleaded, pleaded Warren to keep his secret.
“Keep your secret?” he would ask, then quirk his head. “Keep your secret? Why, that's all I want to do, friend. I want to keep your secret.”
And they would sob, or beg, or curse at Warren to do so. And he would. He would, he reassured them.
“I want to keep your secret, friend. But first, I want to hear all the others.”
//////////
And they would tell him.
The baker he caught mixing sawdust into his dough to save on flour had told Warren how much a certain lord's daughter seemed to enjoy having her ankles in the air with a number of hedge knights. The singer he had caught with a fistful of silver stags straight from a tailor's coffers had been more than eager to tell Warren the name of the Septon he had seen wandering into the woods with a sheep and a crock of lard.
It had been most heartbreaking when the maester from the Reach had groveled and begged Warren to keep his secret. The way he had cried was terrible, and how many times he had said he loved those little girls like a father, or how he had only been treating them for illness. Warren was never quite sure which was the case, but that poor maester had been happy to divulge which camp followers had the red pox, and which had warts, and which had both, and just to whom they had spread it to.
Soldiers, merchants, followers, squires, commanders, and even a minor lord or two, Warren had spoken to them all. He was always listening, always watching, and above all else, always quiet. It was amazing the things one can gather from a single marching army. It was even more amazing what people were willing to tell him in order to keep those things secret... and what they were willing to do.
Warren had spoken to many. He had spied on more. He had collected secrets from all. And when he spoke to them, Warren always began, “I know a secret.”
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Warren Marbrand earns Legendary Stealth
Warren Marbrand establishes a spy network in the Army of the Ever-Night.
That's how he always began.
“I know a secret,” he would smile. “And you know, it's about you.”
//////////
He had seen a knight in his tent, late one evening. A young lordling in fact, noble born and third in line for a lordship. He has seen a knight in his tent late one evening, bent double over a cot with his squire thrusting away earnestly behind him.
That was the problem with camp life. No matter how quiet you thought you were, and no matter how tightly you thought you shut the flaps, there was always someone there. There was always someone listening. Always someone watching. Always someone.
That was Warren.
//////////
Five suits of mail had cracked within a fortnight. So too had eleven swords shattered, and sixteen helms crumpled. Each incident had resulted in a man slain. Conventional wisdom spoke of their unnaturally powerful foe as the source of the ruined equipment.
Warren knew otherwise.
A blacksmith has been forging shoddy arms and armor for weeks. And Warren knew -- he had seen the man dozing more often than not, and when he did work, he was more like to grumble at a mistake than fix it. If the fault lay in an indolent disposition, an overwhelming workload, or a simple lack of skill, Warren could not say.
What he could say, however, is how quick the smith was willing to comply. That had made Warren smile. Rather than be given up to a commander in the Army of the Ever-Night and lashed, or worse, for his incompetence, the smith had pleaded. Pleaded, pleaded Warren to keep his secret.
“Keep your secret?” he would ask, then quirk his head. “Keep your secret? Why, that's all I want to do, friend. I want to keep your secret.”
And they would sob, or beg, or curse at Warren to do so. And he would. He would, he reassured them.
“I want to keep your secret, friend. But first, I want to hear all the others.”
//////////
And they would tell him.
The baker he caught mixing sawdust into his dough to save on flour had told Warren how much a certain lord's daughter seemed to enjoy having her ankles in the air with a number of hedge knights. The singer he had caught with a fistful of silver stags straight from a tailor's coffers had been more than eager to tell Warren the name of the Septon he had seen wandering into the woods with a sheep and a crock of lard.
It had been most heartbreaking when the maester from the Reach had groveled and begged Warren to keep his secret. The way he had cried was terrible, and how many times he had said he loved those little girls like a father, or how he had only been treating them for illness. Warren was never quite sure which was the case, but that poor maester had been happy to divulge which camp followers had the red pox, and which had warts, and which had both, and just to whom they had spread it to.
Soldiers, merchants, followers, squires, commanders, and even a minor lord or two, Warren had spoken to them all. He was always listening, always watching, and above all else, always quiet. It was amazing the things one can gather from a single marching army. It was even more amazing what people were willing to tell him in order to keep those things secret... and what they were willing to do.
Warren had spoken to many. He had spied on more. He had collected secrets from all. And when he spoke to them, Warren always began, “I know a secret.”
==========
Warren Marbrand earns Legendary Stealth
Warren Marbrand establishes a spy network in the Army of the Ever-Night.