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| The Golden Fleece; [GRP] [P: Rorek] | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Mon Nov 19, 2012 2:40 am (437 Views) | |
| Hakon | Mon Nov 19, 2012 2:40 am Post #1 |
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Hakon was at a crossroads. Literally. The heavily traveled road split in a lazy 'T' - one aiming northwards and another toward the Debon Plains and hinterlands of Imythess. Fatigue clung to him like a wet blanket, and so for a brief moment, he considered lounging in the dappled shade of one of the great ironwoods along the dusty path. But the northman was not one for idleness. His companion Rorek clearly did not share these values and took full advantage of the cool shadows. "Well, my friend, it looks as if we are to part ways once more," Hakon said stiffly, hoping the spaces between his words communicated the brotherhood the two of them had forged. He looked away a little awkwardly, down the eastbound track, and saw an approaching wagon rumbled toward them. It sat squatly over narrow wheels and was painted a garish crimson and violet, with edges gilded brightly. Hakon spat in distaste. Merchant scum. A quick glance at his supine friend did not reveal any acknowledgement. Lazy southron! he grumbled to himself. Another stolen peek at the wagon revealed how quickly it was nearing. It bounced hectically down the path, and lone mare pulling it was foaming at the mouth, a sweaty sheen wetting her gray-brown coat. "Fool southrons," he murmured, more loudly this time. They'll kill that poor beast before they make it another mile... The man driving the vehicle was standing and raised an arm at them. Hakon did not reply. The driver slowed as he drew near, alternately muttering, "Whoa!" and "Aye, lassie!" until the exhausted animal stopped. Her breath came in ragged gasps, but the man paid her no heed. He was dressed much like his wagon - gaudy and tasteless and a bit too-large about the frame. And he wore a short cape. It was bright gold. The man scrambled down from his post and approached Hakon, offering a pudgy hand in greeting. "Ho, traveler! I can see by the cut of your jib you're a mercenary! I was sent to Cascadia to find just your type! I've a job for you, and one that will reward you handsomely!" A bit put-off by the bold statements and foolish offer of friendship, and a little unsure of what exactly a jib was, Hakon merely stared back at the man. He ignored the outstretched hand until it withdrew cautiously. Fool southrons, he uttered again in his mind, for all he knows I could slit his throat and sing merrily all the way home, my pockets stuffed with his heavy purse. "And a paladin, no less!" the fat man grinned, gesturing at Hakon's tabard. Damnit... I really need to stop wearing this all the time... "What can a humble monk of the Dead God provide for a man (whale he thought silently) such as yourself?" "Oh, it's right terrible, Sir-?" the man whined questioningly. "Hakon," the palladion growled. "Sir Hakon, it's just awful! Those damn thieves are stealing all our grain! The peasants are financing them to steal the grain from the cabal - that's our merchant-farmer council that presides over Heberden - and piss it all away! And those greedy fools are going to summon a demon to kill all of us unless we turn over all of our food!" "Slow down," Hakon put up his hands, silencing the blubbering idiot. "Let me get this straight. The peasants who work your fields are stealing from your stores and are going to summon a demon to kill you all. Peasants are going to do this," he stared down his nose at the man. "The commoners who live with their goats and chickens have scraped together enough money to employ a highly trained order to thieves to rob you, and then they are going to summon a powerful fiend to kill you..." He tried to let the implication hang in the air to draw out the obvious implausibility. The man's head bobbed stupidly up and down like a... bobber. "I'm sorry, sir, but you'll excuse me if I have a difficult time believing that story." The merchant turned red with anger, his gelatinous jowls trembling under barely suppressed rage. "You fool, they're going to summon the Forgotten Harvest! These peasants are aided by mages of the highest order, druids and witches and all manner of unholy evils! I've ridden three days with little rest to get to Cascadia, and bless the earth I even found a paladin! But if you're going to mock me, sir," he spat, "Then I will take my plentiful coins elsewhere!" With a flourish of his short golden cape, the heavyset merchant scrambled back to the board of his wagon. |
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| Rorek | Sun Nov 25, 2012 4:02 am Post #2 |
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"Coins? You really should lead with that," Rorek interjected, still reclining against one of the great trees. "You see, most mercenaries tend to be more willing to help a fellow out with the promise of gold. Plus, groveling. Groveling is another thing we wandering warriors really like to see, it really tugs at our egos. We tend to be an insecure bunch and need others to remind us how amazing we really are. Finally, women. Promise that there will be many a thankful young doe hanging off our arm and we tend to do anything you ask. That, my merchant friend, that is how you woo a warrior." The man looked strangely at Rorek, as if noticing him for the first time. "Oh, I see," Rorek sighed as he stood, wiping the grass from his heavy cloak. "You only have eyes for the Paladin. Figures, they're always drawn to the tabard." His green eyes sparkled and he gave Hakon a wink. "C'mon. If these men truly are being robbed we should help them, even if they don't know their way around a warrior." "Well, hop on in," grinned the fat merchant, his demeanor quickly swinging back to pleasant as his eyes rested on the black rapier hanging at Rorek. "I was hoping to get some warriors for tomorrow night, but with luck we can make it back by dinner. M'uh name's Mercator by the way." As the man waved the warriors towards his wagon, Rorek could not help but stare as the man's loose jowls jiggled like figgy pudding with every grandeous movement of his arm. "I know, I know," Rorek whispered, responding to the harsh glare from his friend. "My little side projects always end badly. This time will be different, no repeats of the frozen tower incident." After another encouraging nod from Rorek, the two men climbed into the back of the merchant's wagon. The inside of the painted wagon was as spotless as the outside. Not a single speck of soil or a rogue crop ear could be seen. The wealthy merchant had either just purchased the wagon, or had meticulously washed and waxed the wagon bed. More likely, he had one of his servants do it. Despite the luxurious appearance of the wagon, the ride was as bumpy as every other wagon. The merchant's small village of Heberen was several hours away, giving the men a chance to watch the scenery. Traveling by wagon beat walking, or even traveling by dogsled, every time. The grasslands of the Debon Plains slowly turned into wide fields of grain and corn. Rorek watched as peasants tirelessly worked to harvest the life sustaining food. He could tell that this summer's drought had been hard on this region of the plains, large areas of crops had clearly turned to dust without the much needed water. Those areas that had not fallen prey to the drought seemed to be producing vastly fewer crops than a normal yield. No wonder the peasants have turned to crime, Rorek thought. There isn't much to lose when you have nothing to begin with. Still, crime is crime and it can't be allowed to continue. Being down on you luck doesn't give you free reign to drag others down with you. This cabal needs to feed their families too. "With the drought, many of the peasants have resurrected the old wives' tales of the Forgotten Harvest," Mercador spoke up as they passed an entire field that had shriveled up. "Silly if you ask me, just seems t'be a way to explain away their crimes." "What is this Forgotten Harvest?" Rorek asked. "It sounds like the name of one of those fancy minstrel bands." "Not too sure m'self," the merchant replied. "I never paid them rumors much heed. Something to do about a demon that attacks the greedy. The only way to placate the beast is to hand out the crops to everyone. Do we live in some commune? No! Our cabal spent time to grow our crops and paid good money to irrigate our fields. Why should we suffer just because others do, no way. We plan on not only riding out this famine with enough food for our families, but sell the excess and make a tidy little profit. It's good business." Edited by Rorek, Wed Dec 5, 2012 3:01 am.
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| Hakon | Thu Nov 29, 2012 2:09 am Post #3 |
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Hakon grunted and spat into the rush of browns and yellows that swept past. Merchant scum... I don't know why I let Rorek drag me into this mess... Though the gaudy trader complained of drought, it still seemed an endless expanse of farmland to the northman. But the Debon Plains were the breadbasket of Imythess, and wheat and barley the main exports. Significant shortages would certainly cripple the economy here and could have continent-wide repercussions. With such dependency on the fickle moods of the weather, Hakon was glad he was no farmer. A quick glance at Mercador beside him made him glad he was no merchant, either. The oblivious lard-pile kept the switch on the mare, despite the poor beast's obvious fatigue, from the moment Hakon and Rorek and climbed aboard. Even from his perch on the wagon's box, Hakon could hear her ragged gasps and see her wet flanks heave with every step. Mercador noticed too. "Aye, faster you lazy slog!" he cursed, relentlessly flailing the mare's rump with the leather thong. Each crack made Hakon wince. He knew all too well how a few stripes across the back felt. Somewhere deep in the yellow ocean of grains, the flamboyant vehicle finally slowed to a crawl and the horse, defeated, sagged heavily in her harness. Mecador's knuckles whitened around the whip, but as he flicked his wrist to strike again Hakon grabbed hold of the fleshy limb. "You fool! You'll kill her if we continue this pace!" he snarled at the merchant. With a huff and frightened wiggle of greasy neckfat, the man blubbered some idiot excuse. "Give her some water!" "I-I don't have any, Sir Hakon! There was no time to waste on trivialties!" "Triv- you fool merchant! This mare'll never make it to Heberden, let alone another five steps! And don't call me 'Sir!' Do I look like a damn flowery southron knight?" he growled. "Now get off the wagon. We're walking the rest of the way... We'll have to leave this showy pile of boards here." The merchant looked aghast at the suggestion and started to protest, but Hakon was already in motion. He eased himself down to the ground and approached the exhausted mare; the smell of her sweat and blood stung his nostrils. Her eyes were wide and white and rolled dizzily, seeing nothing. He unhitched the poor horse and watched helplessly as she stumbled a few steps. The mare breathed out an almost human-like sigh, then fell heavily to the dusty road. She would not stand again. Hakon closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to cool the onrush of familiar anger. He repeated a few of the Dead God'ss words in his mind to calm himself, suppress the anger, and think. The wise abbot's words also echoed in his head. Only by mastering the self can we free ourselves from the slavery of our passions... "How far away is Heberden?" he asked, trying to sieve the anger from his voice. "Twelve miles, Sir Ha- I mean, Hakon." Twelve miles. This oaf won't make it two. The glutton beamed suddenly, "I'll requisition transportation for us. Don't you worry, my friends!" A broad smile split the two chubby cheeks. He pointed to a dense cluster of hovels just off the main road, connected by a narrow dirt path. "There's peasants just yonder," he pointed across the golden sea, "and we can obtain a vehicle there." The merchant waddled into the tall grass and waved for Hakon and Rorek to follow. Hakon's lip curled. He looked back at the dead horse and spat again. The trader did not even seem to care. Fool southrons... The shacks were haphazard, rickety skeletons cobbled together from sun-bleached planks. Wood was a rare commodity in the Debon Plains, and it was clear that time and weather had been cruel to the dwelling. Many of the boards had fallen away, striping the walls in alternating patterns of shade and sun. As they stepped into the clearing in the center of the ring of hovels, Hakon noticed gaunt faces with hungry eyes peer out from cracks and doorways. Children. Starving children. A rod-thin woman in gray homespun creaked out from the shack on Hakon's left. Her face was deeply wrinkled and tanned, like leather that had been left too long to the sun. The grimace that passed for her smile only strengthened the comparison. "Whatdya want, piggy?" she crowed at Mercador. "We'll need to requisition a horse, madam," the fat merchant responded, ignoring the slight. "'Fraid our horse ain't fer sale, piggy." Mercador's countenance darkened. "As a citizen of Heberden, you know the law. We share our homes and our hearths to those in need. I am in need, peasant!" The woman's eyes narrowed as she shifted her gaze between the men in front of her. A sickly child with a swollen belly appeared from behind her, tugging insistently at the hem of her dress. The girl's hands and face were grimy, her eyes circled with dark shadows. "I'm hungry," she cried. Tears traced muddy trails down her hollow cheeks. "Yes child, we all are, now go back inside. Elsa will rock you back to sleep." Turning back to the men, the old crone inclined her head. She was a proud woman, Hakon surmised, since she did not ask for food or help. Or perhaps she had already asked - loudly even - and been refused. There was much about this employment that left him uncomfortable. Much about it that did not sit right at all. These peasants can't even feed themselves... how could they employ thieves and mages? "Now I ain't want no troubles, piggy, so y'can have our horse. But she's all we got, and we ain't got no wagon, so you two'll have to walk anyhows," she gestured at Hakon and Rorek. "She's in the back shed." The merchant lumbered past her, grumbling angrily about having to ride the beast instead of a wagon. Hakon let him go, then pressed a handful of gold crowns into the woman's bony hand. He nodded curtly to her before following his employer. The horse was in much the same shape as her owners - gray, hungry, and with too many angles. It was already fitted with a rough saddle and bridle, and with little ceremony or agility the great merchant climbed atop the seat. "Come now, we must hurry to make it before nightfall. It's a new moon on the morrow, and these peasant filth are planning to rob us! You'll have to stand guard even tonight." With a snap of his switch and flourish of his short gold cape, Mercador urged his mount forward and out of the shed. The peasants were gone when they emerged. *** It was nightfall when they reached Heberden proper. Despite the nearly darkened moon, Hakon could see the village was much more prosperous that the shanties in the fields. Great oak dwellings towered like wooden islands above the amber seas, their stoneworked chimneys breathing purple smoke upon the blackened sky. Rows of sharpened stakes garrisoned the town's entrances, and torches demarcated a great wooden gate. "Ho! Who goes there?" a strong voice called out from behind the walls. "It is I, Mercador dan Villa, of the Cabal of Heberden!" the portly man announced from his precarious perch. The gate creaked open in response, and Mercador led them inside. They were met by a small party of guards and a gaudily dressed woman whose face was brightened by macabre paint. A thick spotted fur wrapped around her shoulders to stave off the night's chill. "Husband! I'm glad you've returned with some help, these peasant scum are liable to murder us in our own beds!" she exclaimed. She turned an eye at Hakon and Rorek, sweaping her gaze up and down. Something about her satisfied smirk made Hakon's skin crawl. "Such... masculinity! Let's see them try to summon a demon now!" she smiled a wolfish grin and offered her hand to be kissed. Her plump fingers were bedecked in silver and gold. "My name is Kruelle dan Villa," she purred. "A pleasure." Hakon grunted and spat. Merchant scum... |
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| Rorek | Sun Dec 2, 2012 12:20 am Post #4 |
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"Come, come," the gaudy, apple shaped woman gestured. "You two strapping young men must be hungry after your journey. Geoffrey will take care of you, but you will want to eat fast to get to the storehouse while there is still some light." A tall, snobbish looking steward appeared at Kruelle's clap. He was dressed in a fine black doublet and tight black pants. Gold and crimson embroidery lined the expensive outfit give the man some visual flair. He looked down his beak-like nose at the two dusty warriors, as if measuring them for some future competition. "Follow me," he finally nodded and turned down one of the hallways. The food was mediocre, but that made it quicker to inhale. The fat merchant entered the room just as Rorek was swallowing his last bite of beef and lentil soup. The merchant's butler was about to offer more wine from a large earthen vessel, but backed away after a stern glare from Mercador. "The hour of darkness is near," called out the fat man, bidding the sellswords to follow him. "We must get to the storehouse before we are attacked again!" With another glare at the butler, the merchant led Rorek and Hakon out a rear door. The storehouse was few blocks away from the dan Villa residence. The large warehouse was nestled within a walled off compound on the outskirts of Heberden. A long stone drive encircled the rural acropolis's courtyard and allowed the cabal to transport great amounts of grains and crops directly to and form the huge warehouse, where it could be stored for future use or sale. The compound was already illuminated by a sea of oil lanterns and sconces, though the dancing shadows would make guard duty an intense experience. The constant motion of light and dark would make seeing motion within the walls nearly impossible. A lone armed man saluted the procession at the heavy gate that stood guard over the single entrance. "I'm 'fraid we have few men ta spare," the short, bearded man sighed as the two warriors gazed around at the building they had promised to protect. "The rest of the cabal's guard been 'wake for several days now 'nd were given a'night off." "This is Alain," introduced Mercador. "One of the guard - though how he managed to get that honor is beyond me. He's as trashy as any man I've seen. But he will show you around the premises. I must get back to my home before the chill night air affects me. I shall see you in the morning, preferable with a few of the thieves' heads on your swords. Good night." With a nod of his head and a flourish of his short cape, the fat merchant retreated from the flickering lights of the compound. "That man be the shriveled roight nut of a cow," grumbled the bearded guard. "Good ta meet you though. With any luck, tonight should be quiet. Anyways, I'll show you 'round the place 'n let you decide the plan. We found tha' with only a couple guards, our efforts were best focused onna warehouse. Too many ways the peasants can scale the wall without us noticin'." Alain brought them inside the great structure. The crops and grains were each stored separately in huge oaken bins that reached high into the rafters. At the bottom of each of the storage bins was a valve like structure that their contents could be emptied through. A small platform was building at the top of each bin and catwalks connected each of the platforms. "There are doors on each of those platforms," pointed Alain. "During the harvest, the grains are hauled up from the wagons outside by a pulley system and dumped into the bins. The thieves can come in through any o' those doors, of the by half-dozen here on the ground floor." The place wasn't designed to be guarded, Rorek thought. Only to store the harvest. "What are your thoughts about the thieves and the drought," he asked the guard. Perhaps this man could shed some light on this strange situation. "It's a damn shame wha's goin' on. Plenty o' hardworkin' families are srugglin' ta get by. Winter will be even harder. Heck, this storehouse is only a quarter capacity - last year grain was fallin' out the tops. But stealin' ain't the answer, especially from the cabal. Who do they think pays for the town guard, hires the workers tha' keep the roads in trav'lin' shape, heck they were the ones who built the church in town. If the peasants steal this, the cabal can't sell the grain and make money. If they go under, so does everything they bring to Heberden, including my income. 'Course, it don't help none that some o' the cabal treat the rest o' us like the turds from a cow. Others - like ole man Jean-Henri de Castille - are good men, but the peasants only focus on men like Mercador and tha' dog eatin' wife o' his. Not tha' I blame 'em." Alain shrugged. "What about this Forgotten Harvest claim?" "Some o' the peasants say that it is an ancient demon drawn to greed, the cabal calls a folktale. Seems odd that a creature would be drawn by emotion, but I've seen too much in my life to dismiss it," he shrugged again. "Others think that some of the peasants are tying to summon it. Other 'n that, your guess is as good as mine." "Returning to the situation at hand, I think that your plan is probably the best for now," Rorek spoke after pondering the whole situation for a few moments. "The courtyard is too big to effectively barricade and the fires only make it worse. In here we can at least monitor whether the thieves attempting to take the grain." The other men nodded their agreement. They quickly devised the best routes to walk and keep and keep an eye on each of the potential break-in points. With that, the guarding begun. *** The night was a quiet one and there was no sign of the thieves. A few hours after the sun had broken through the horizon, the fat merchant reappeared. Though Rorek had thought the man's appearance ridiculous the day before, his current outfit made yesterday's look bland. A rainbow of colors and fabics wrapped the chubby body of the merchant as he posed at the gate. Rorek snorted as he saw the puffy arms and shoulder fabrics ruffle in the slight breeze. "How many of the bandits did you slay?" Mercador called out. "Twenty? Thirty?" "The thieves did not make an appearance," Rorek responded. The fat man's face sagged with a frown, though his eyes betrayed a cold fury. Without another word, he spun and marched away with the fancy cape fiercely flowing in the breeze. |
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| Hakon | Tue Dec 4, 2012 3:29 am Post #5 |
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Hakon rubbed his eyes. His lids hung heavy with exhaustion, his eyes rimmed with red from lack of sleep. It was truly remarkable how doing nothing all night could be so tiring. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the reason I conquered my passions and trained as a palladion... to guard gluttonous merchants and their paranoid notions of jealous, thieving peasants... He let out a groaning yawn and stretched his arms wide. At least I'll sleep well today for the boring night ahead of me... Hakon ambled over to one of the other unfortunate lackeys from the night before. He was a tall fellow with a crooked grin and a few loose teeth, but he was friendly enough. An oversized war helm hung jauntily on his head. Jaren, or Jarrell? Jarek? His mind clawed at the fuzzy introduction, unable to seize hold of it. Hakon shrugged. Better go with a generic greeting... "Heyyyyyy..." he drawled, getting the other man's attention and offering his hand in greeting. "So, my friend, is there an inn to rest until our next shift tonight?" The guard gave him a quizzical expression. "Yeh fergot m'name again, din't yeh?" "Uhh... no..." Hakon mumbled. Crap. "Yes. I'm sorry, but I'll be damned if that wasn't the dullest night of my life. I'm surprised I remember my own name after that!" That brought the white crack of a smile from the guard's teeth. A crack of yellow, at least. "Well, yeh ain't been here but a day! I been here for three weeks now!" He gave Hakon a good-natured cuff on the shoulder. "I'd tell yeh it gits easier, but it don't! We was made to sleep at night and break bread during the day, like all the Creator's good beasts!" He leaned in conspiratorially and gave a quick wink. "'M startin' t'think the Cabal's all done and got excited fer nothin'! The name's Jarrell, my friend. And don't bother sayin' yers - I remember a paladin when I sees one... Hakon!" he smiled, revealing a mismatch of yellow and brown tobacco-stained teeth. He grabbed Hakon's forearm and shook heartily. I knew it was Jarrell! "A man like you is good for my self esteem, Jarrell! Now, where can I get a bit of rest?" "Naw, I ain't puttin' yeh up at the inn! Yeh can come an' stay with me'n my girls! It's settled, then." He put an arm around Hakon's shoulder and led him away from the granary. Jarrell's modest home was far to the outskirts of Heberden. While he was certainly faring better than the peasants starving in the fields, the man was clearly not living in the luxury of the dan Villas. His home was a small thatched cottage with wooden supports. The boards alternated with tightly woven grass mats that bridged the gap while sparing the expensive tree-dependent resource. "She ain't much, but she's home!" Jarrell smiled. He opened the rough-cut door and bowed grandly, motioning for Hakon to enter first. Hakon ducked under the narrow doorway and into the hut. It was a dusky shade of light, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Inside was a single room with a low, grass wall divider through the middle. On one end, three small children sat quietly atop a lumpy straw mattress. Their big brown eyes looked up at Hakon's imposing figure with awe and fear, and one wimpered softly. "Now, now, chil'un, there's nought t'be feared from big ol' Hakon here. He's a paladin!" Jarrell grinned at his children. "Maren, Suzelle, and little Bo, come on over 'ere and give 'em a big smile!" The children rose obediently and walked over to Hakon. As the northman's eyes adjusted to the light, his heart cringed with pain. They had hungry eyes, just like the girl from the shanties in the fields. Perhaps not with the same resigned glassy look, but hungry nonetheless. He tried to give them his friendliest smile, but the three young girls only looked to the floor. After a silent moment, little Bo sneaked a quick peak. "Sorry, m'friend. They're shy, is all," Jarrell offered up the weak excuse with a sad smile. He unlatched the dented breastplate and hung his helmet on a stand near the door. Hakon glanced over at the guard. With Jarrell's armor removed, the northman realized just how undernourished the man was. Too many sharp angles. Looks like the peasant farmers aren't the only ones who are starving in Heberden... "Jarrell, my friend, how is it that the Cabal pays you?" Jarrell stiffened, then turned back to Hakon. "Well, much as it pains me t'say it, but they give me but food. An' I tell yeh only because yer a paladin and I trust yeh to be discreet..." He shook off Hakon's rebuttal. "I'm a proud man, Hakon, and I don't want yer help. I took th' job watchin' the grain because I ain't got alternatives. Yeh can't farm what ain't there. And we'll git by," he looked on his daughters with pride. "We always have." Little Bo looked up at Hakon defiantly. She stuck out a pink stub of a tongue then snapped her gaze to the floor with a self-satisfied smirk. It brought a broad smile to the northman's face. "When will mommy come back?" asked Suzelle, the skinny blonde who was halfway between her sisters in height. "Now Suzie..." began Jarrell as he choked over the words, "You know mommy's with th' Creator now." He turned back to Hakon, "The famine's been hard on all of us, even the Cabal. And as sad as it is, we need 'em. They're jus' tryin' to ration it so's everyone's got enough to last the season." He broke out a crust of bread and handed it reverentially to Maren. "Divide it up good an' proper now, Maren. An' give ol' Hakon a piece, too. He needs to keep up his strength with all them muscles!" Hakon waved it away with a smile. "I'm not hungry, but thank you Maren." "Now Hakon, my friend, I know yer tired, even if yeh ain't hungry. Get some rest," he smiled through teary eyes as he motioned to the cot in the corner of the room. "Please, I insist!" Seeing little alternative, Hakon carefully removed his armor and blade and reclined on the lumpy straw. As he closed his eyes, images of the starving villagers flashed over and over in his mind. Somehow he knew the sleep would not be a restful one. |
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| Rorek | Thu Dec 6, 2012 3:28 am Post #6 |
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Rorek chuckled to himself as watched as his friend stumbled away with one of the cabal's guard. Hakan was clearly exhausted. From his stumbling gait, the northman appeared in danger of falling asleep if he stood still for too long. Rorek didn't feel any better. He knew that he would need to crash into a warm bed for a few hours or risk falling asleep during guard duty the next night. Despite feeling exhausted, there were a couple of things he wanted to take care of first. "Alain," Rorek called out. "I need to arrange a meeting with the cabal. How would I do that?" "Can't say m'self," the guard responded. "But 'm pretty sure there's a meeting later this morn. The rest 'o us guards are on duty 'n that usually means a big town-hall meeting. The meetings are 'n the big building in the center of town. Can't miss it. " "Thanks. I have some things I need to ask them." "In the me'time, you should head over ta Sylvie's Tavern fer her hotcakes. Best breakfast 'n the plains!" "I think I'll have to check that out," Rorek replied, suddenly aware of just how hungry he was. *** After a stack of Sylvie's hotcakes, drenched in her special sugary syrup, Rorek trudged towards the town-hall meeting thrown by the cabal. The walk through town provided him a new perspective. His first trek through the small town had been at twilight, masking the unique sights from the dying light. The town was smaller than the spellblade had thought. On one side of the town were a dozen large homes, presumably those belonged to members of the cabal. The other side of the town was dominated by low, two story homes. The town's shops occupied the bottom floor while the residents and shopkeepers lived in the apartments above. Despite the disparity in the size, all of the homes were constructed with the same stucco walls with exposed wooden frames. The uniformity of the buildings gave the community a planned out feel. It was as if a single person had sat down and designed the entire town before construction had begun. The town hall was located at the center of the town. The four story building's distinguishing feature was the brown brick construction that clothed the ground story of the great building. Outside, a small group of people had gathered. Rorek immediately identified the men and women as a combination of field hands that labored in the hot sun and the poorer villagers that struggled to feed their families. "You there," called out one of the bolder men as Rorek approached. "You're one of the guards the cabal hired. Why are you working for those horse turds?" The venom dripped from the man's words. "They're criminals and thieves and cow sharts! We deserve that food, I deserve that food! Just because I don't work in the fields or the town or at all, for that matter, doesn't mean that I don't deserve to eat. I deserve it! I am entitled to it! How dare they not give it to us, how dare you help them, you piece of worthless slime." The man gathered a large ball of snot and saliva from deep in his throat and spit a green wad onto Rorek's cloak, the cloak that had been so lovingly sewn by his mother. "Stop it Giles," yelled one of the women. "Sorry about that," she apologized to Rorek as he stared at the thick saliva as it dripped down the dark fabric of his cloak. "We're all hurting, Giles too. We just hope to convince the cabal to share what they have with those of us who have nothing. And it doesn't help when you go spitting on people!" she yelled as she turned to face Giles. The words went in one of Rorek's ears and out the other as he stared at the wad of spit, his anger exploding like a cask of dwarven fire. This cloak was the last physical reminder of his beloved mother and this fool had literally spit on her memory. He began to calculate how many pieces he could cut the man's face into before it hit ground. It was only the calming comfort of Arbitor's leather wrapped hilt that tempered the hard fury. With great effort and a deep breath, he spun on his heals and walked towards the building. *** The council room was packed with the farmers and merchants of the cabal, arguing about various problems mostly related the ongoing drought. An older, well dressed man slowly made his way to the front of the chamber. His purple robes were tied with a gold and crimson sash and a thick, expensive necklace hung from his neck. He gingerly placed both heavily ringed hands on the broad wooden podium and cleared his throat. "Attention," he called out, trying to bring everyone's attention to the front of the room. "We will get to all your concerns. Please, sit down and we can get this meeting started." Rorek looked around the room, noticing the angst and worry that permeated the expressions of every man and woman. They were worried about their livelihood and future, worried about losing so much of what they had worked for, worried that other would steal what they had sacrificed so much for. That fear resonated within Rorek's heart. "If I may," Rorek called out as the room quieted down. "You may not all know me, but I have been hired to help protect the storehouse from thieves." "You mean those fargen villagers, takin' our livelihood!" yelled a man somewhere in the back of the room. Shouts of agreement echoed off the beige walls of the chamber. "Yeah," another man spoke up. "We work hard too! I spent months away from my family to take care of my fields. Why should we have to give up our hard earned property? I haven't done anything wrong!" The room erupted as the other members added their thoughts and threats. "Quiet, QUIET!" The old man struggled to bring order back to the room. "Make sure you kill any them villagers good!" Rorek saw the fat Mercador yelling, his chubby fists waving high in the air. "Son, now may not be the best time," the old murmured, turning to Rorek. "We seem to be too worked up for rational conversation." "I am just looking for more information on the villagers. What sort of force can they bring against the storehouse, what equipment do they have..." "Son, we are no army. We don't have that sort of information. Those sorts of questions are best asked of the town guard. They are mostly stationed at the storehouse, though a few are still stationed throughout the town. Now, please, let me try to calm these folks down and get to our meeting." Rorek nodded. With another glance around the room, he confirmed just how angry and scared the rowdy crowd really was. Even if they were able to answer his questions, he knew he would get nowhere while they were in this argumentative state. With a sigh of resignation, Rorek admitted defeat and retreated from the increasing loud council chamber. Besides, he was so tired and could feel a warm mattress calling his name. Edited by Rorek, Sat Dec 8, 2012 3:15 pm.
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| Hakon | Sat Dec 8, 2012 4:38 am Post #7 |
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Hakon shifted uncomfortably, easing his weight from the balls of his feet to his heels. He looked over the edge of the narrow platform. Into the creeping shadows of the granary, the gray darkness punctuated only by the yellow brands of the other guards below. It looked a long way down. He knitted his brow in frustration, pinched his eyes into a dour glare. Stupid platform! Stupid greedy merchant scum! My back hurts, my feet are sore, and my damn head feels like it's trapped between hammer and anvil... Stupid Rorek! Why did I ever get myself into this mess? The northman took another restless glance at the darkness below him. Tonight was the new moon. It would be the darkest night in a cycle, the only light from the diamond carpet of stars above. No pale eye of the moon gazing reproachfully downward. The perfect night for thieves to rob the storehouse. And why wouldn't they? Now that I've seen the victims of this Cabal, seen their starving hollow eyes and their sharp hungry faces, I know of their desperation. Know that they'll come, not because they want to, but because they've no alternative. Some of them won't last until the next new moon. They'll come tonight, and I'll be the one to finally feed them. Feed them cold steel. Damn it all! How did I get into this mess? And how can I get out of it without breaking my word? Damn this palladion code! Hakon flicked his eyes up to the door at the edge of the platform. He had drawn the lucky straw to take watch on the catwalk tonight. It wasn't that the height scared him per se, only that he was... more comfortable... with both feet planted firmly on the ground. With no danger of falling through empty space and welcomed earthward with an inconveniently, unequivocally final crack through his head. The platform below him was narrow, though it seemed stable enough. Its planks were roughly-cut wood, young splinters angling hungrily about the edges, their grasping claws not yet dulled by time and friction. Each platform was perched on the edge of a bin with half of its surface crowded by a series of cranks, huge disc-shaped pulleys, and thick cords of braided rope. It was a contraption to raise heavy loads of grain up and into the bins, where they would be stored for use later in the season. Catwalks connected the four platforms and the four bins and were precisely that - a narrow series of beams scarcely two handbreadths wide that would offer a perfect stroll for a cat. It was his job tonight to pace between them all, slowly, and check each door, thoroughly, to make sure they were secure. And he was no cat. Stupid catwalks... The northman looked down into the bin behind him. It was a long way down too. This late in the year, so soon after the harvest, he would have expected it to be near full, bursting at its wooden seams with the crops that would sustain life here in Heberden and throughout Imythess. But as it was he could only just make out a pitifully small, shapeless mound far below. It seemed the draught had been hard on everyone, even the Cabal. A soft scratch caught his attention. It was from the platform to his left - one long, narrow catwalk away. Probably nothing, but... He shrugged, securing a few buckles and Durenthal in his scabbard, then edged out toward the beam. It wasn't so much the narrowness that made him queasy, nor even the bowel-loosening drop that yawned out beneath his feet. It was the shifting, sagging wood that really made the breath catch in his throat and the food grow sour in his stomach. The northman placed an apprehensive step onto the beam, set his face in a savage growl, then clambered out over the drop. Better to strike quickly than hesitate... He scurried across the empty space with the grace of a maimed sow, all the while praying to the Dead God to still the beam and steady the wobbling of his legs, themselves as dire a threat as the narrow wood. He was perhaps halfway across when the scratching repeated itself, tentatively, faintly, but unmistakably present. Hakon cursed softly to himself, unable to look up for fear of losing his balance. Careful... He stole a quick glance ahead, watching the wooden door to Heberden crack open and the blackness of the new moon smile in like a dark, knowing grin. A shadow passed swiftly through the darkness, barely discernible. Hakon narrowed his eyes. Another wraith followed the first, and another. The shapes paused, their forms swallowed by the clinging gloom. So there are three of you... But how can I force you to flee without killing one of you? The northman heard the scrape of steel on leather, the faint creak of a bowstring drawn tautly. Crap... With barely enough room to walk in tandem, Hakon did not have the maneuverability to draw his shield. He would have to move quickly, without thought, and pray the Dead God would secure him from a painful arrow through the neck. The bowman was silent. Taking his aim. Taking his time. Better to strike quickly than hesitate... With a savage howl, Hakon surged forward toward the thieves. One foot slammed down in front of the other, the northman barely conscious of the narrowness of the catwalk beneath him, of the precipitous drop below him. Of the certainty of death that awaited him with one misstep. The arrow lanced across the gap, striking Hakon in the shoulder. The impact was not so much painful as... unavoidable. Though the tight mithril links prevented the arrowhead's penetration into his flesh, its momentum twisted his shoulders, his hips, his legs. His foot struck the edge of the beam, then fell into empty space. Before he even sensed the slip, before the gut-wrenching sensation of weightless falling gripped him, the beam slammed mercilessly into his stomach. It stole his breath and tore the blinding blood-rage from his veins. He croaked out an unintelligible moan. Somehow he wrapped his arm around the catwalk to catch himself. Thieving peasant scum! "Thieves!" Hakon roared, grabbing hold of the beam with his other arm. "Thieves, on the north platform!" Hakon struggled vainly to pull himself upward, onto the beam, but the weight of his armor and narrow width of the catwalk frustrated his efforts. He hung suspended over space. Helpless. The northman glanced up at the thieves. One padded out of the darkness of the platform, dull glint of metal in his gloved hand. He was cloaked in gray homespun, his face blackened from soot and dust but for the white of his eyes and cruel yellow smile. |
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| Rorek | Mon Dec 10, 2012 4:09 am Post #8 |
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Rorek whirled his head upwards as his friend's warning cry echoed around the huge storehouse. He flinched as an arrow bounced off the Hakon's shoulder. A few inches to the right and the barbed point would have found the supple skin of the northman's neck. The spellsword did not have time to worry about his friend. Movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention away from the sky high drama. Several more thieves were entering from one of the many doors on the ground floor. "You two," Rorek called out to two of the cabal's guards. "Get up there. We'll take the thieves down here." Rorek motioned to the remaining two guards to follow him. Rorek gripped the familiar leather-wrapped hilt of his rapier and smoothly slid it out of its scabbard. The magic coursing through his veins bridged the gap into the blade, which seemed to shimmer and come alive in his grip. As he swung the black blade, he felt it pulse and hum with an arcane power as his raw magic coursed through the weapon. The thieves, now aware their presence was known, quickly gave up their futile attempts at stealth. The guards were dressed in a hodgepodge of dark, mismatched clothing. Dark hoods were pulled up over their heads and they had wrapped dark cloth over their feet to try to muffle their movements. Two of the would be thieves dropped to a knee and pulled out short hunting bows, while two more charged Rorek and the guards with short swords drawn. Rorek grasped the totem he wore around his neck. He called upon the magic imbued in the totem to encase Arbiter in frost[1], fortifying the enchantment with his own powers[2]. The archers unleashed their arrows just before their sword bearing companions reached Rorek and the guards. Rorek heard the guard to his right gurgle as one of the barbed arrows punctured his throat. The spellsword stepped forward and parried the first thief's attack with ease. He stepped to his side and raised the rapier, allowing the attacker's momentum to carve a long, frostbitten gash across the man's chest. Another pair of arrows dropped the other guard as Rorek danced around the second sword wielding thief. Between the accuracy of the arrows and the incompetency of the swardsmen, it was clear to the spellsword where the talent lay with these thieves. He quickly dove behind one of the huge bin as the archers took aim at his lightly armored chest. Only his lightning reflexes[3] saved him as a pair of arrows peppered the bin he had been standing next to just moments before. Crap, he thought while he stood with his back to the bin. Now what? His quick reaction had saved his life, but he was now trapped behind the grain silo by the pair of surprisingly accurate archers. [1] Nomadic Totem [2] Adept Imbuement [3] Lightning Reflexes Feat Edited by Rorek, Mon Dec 10, 2012 4:16 am.
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| Hakon | Mon Dec 10, 2012 4:25 am Post #9 |
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The peasant thief was taking his time, edging slowly out along the beam with practiced ease. Hakon glared up at him. He was hanging precariously, his right arm wrapped tightly around the beam, the other dangling free. And lucky if it isn't my sword arm that's occupied... The assassin was only three strides away. He moved confidently, as if he had spent his life on the narrow width of wood. Hakon grabbed Durenthal by the hilt with his left hand. He tried pulling it out of its scabbard, but the angle was all wrong and the blade slid out only a handbreadth. Beads of sweat were forming on the northman's face and coalescing on his back, part exertion, part fear. Now only two strides. Hakon fumbled for his shield. It seemed so easy to remove when he was standing on firm earth, but hanging from such height made his well-practiced hand feel like a leaden club. As he twisted awkwardly, the words of Abbott Caspot echoed in his head. A palladion is a paragon of sacrifice, willing to take an arrow for his charge and fall on his blade if the Dead God demands it... To hell with that... A pace away now, the dagger glistening hungrily. Finally! Hakon recovered Augan in his hand and swung the heavy shield at his enemy. The thief leapt backwards, landing both feet solidly upon the catwalk's narrow length as the northman's shield bit into the wood. It left a sizable gouge and rattled Hakon's fleeting grasp. That's just peachy... it's Heberden's greatest gymnast... As the thief slunk forward again, more cautiously, Hakon was lit with a mad idea. He slammed the shield into the beam again, into the depression left by the first hit, and was rewarded with an alarming crack that shot lengthwise from platform to platform. Again, and the split widened. His opponent paused, knowing another step could bring both of them to the floor of the granary far below. "I have you now, you-" Hakon growled. Another crack reported in the gloom of the storehouse. Suddenly, Hakon felt himself sliding downward. The broken beam twisted upon itself, one sharp end rocketing skyward, the other surging to the earth with the northman clinging desperately. With a sickening crunch, the last fingers of wood released themselves, and the catwalk swung toward the bin where Hakon had been standing only minutes before. The curved wall rushed at him impossibly fast, and before he had time even to yelp it hit him full force. He crumpled against the unyielding boards and fell backward, a broken length of the catwalk still in his grasp. The fall seemed to last an eternity. Who is right? The peasants? The Cabal? Neither? Both light and dark merge to ugly shades of gray the closer I become... Suddenly he slammed into an armored body and bounced away, losing his grip on the wrecked wooden fragment with a clash of clattering steel and mail and then sprawled out on the granary's floor. His breath stolen by the impact, he lay still and waited for the pain to embrace him. It squeezed abruptly and he screamed, but all that came out was a garbled moan. He rolled over slowly and staggered to his knees, hands sifting about the wreckage aimlessly. Augan was gone, lost somewhere in the patchwork light and dark from the other guard's torches. Their steely cries and clashing arms rang in his ears, confusing him. He dragged his gaze upward, at the poor corpse who had broken his fall. Gray homespun, charcoal-darkened face, and a gruesome spit poking out through a ruined tangle of limbs. It was still. Dead, then. Hakon rose to his feet unsteadily and brushed away the cobwebs in his mind. He drew Durenthal. The blade's leather grip seamed to ground him in the present and he surveyed the scene around him. Apparently the three thieves in the rafters were not the only guests this evening. The northman shuffled backward a step to engage the battle, nearly losing his balance on an outstretched limb. It was bent backwards at the knee, a spear of bone jutting out from mid-shin. It too lay still. At least I got that dagger-wielding gymnast... An arrow snapped against the bin beside his head. Hakon ducked out of instinct and looked to the source. Two archers were pulling their bows taut for a second volley. Keeping low to the ground, he scuttled to the cover provided by another bin. |
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| Rorek | Wed Dec 12, 2012 3:29 am Post #10 |
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Rorek was deep in thought, pondering his next move as he stood pinned behind one of the great bins of grain when the sounds of breaking wood echoes throughout the open storehouse. Only a moment later, a series of crashes shook the building. Gambling that the sudden noise had distracted the archers, the spellblade peered around the side of his bin. He was unable to see exactly what had collapsed due to his position by the bin, but the archers had turned and were unleashing arrow after arrow in another direction. Hakon, Rorek thought. What in your dead deity's name are you doing over there? Well, at least you gave me an opening. Without another thought, he dashed from behind the storage bin and sprinted towards the nearest archer. His rapier appeared in his hand and his magic flowed into the cold, sharpened steel. The pounding of his feet on the hard wooden floor alerted the archers of his approach, who spun and released a pair of arrows. Rorek was lucky. The archers did not have time to fully aim their shots and both arrows missed their mark. A thrust from the icy Arbiter eliminated the threat from one of the archers. As Rorek turned slay the second, his head collided with the stout wooden arms of a bow being swung like a club. Rorek's eyesight was temporarily lost in the back of his eyelids. Relying on his training and aim, he followed through with his attack. The rapier bit into flesh and Rorek heard a groan from his enemy. When the darkness receded from the edges from his vision, he noted his sword had skewered the heart of the remaining archer. Placing his leg on the dead man's chest for leverage, he slid the black rapier back through the ribcage and wiped off the gore with the sleeve of the deceased. Leaving his blade unsheathed, he sunk into a wide stance and surveyed the wreckage on the far side of the room. The mangled remains of another man lay on the floor by the long, broken beams that had fallen from one of the catwalks. Rorek's eyes panned back and forth, looking both for further threats as well as the fate of his friend Hakon. |
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| Hakon | Sat Dec 15, 2012 5:29 am Post #11 |
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Hakon edged cautiously around the bin. As usual, Rorek had stepped in and skewered the remaining enemies with a dazzling flourish of the blade and foot. His wiry companion seemed to float across the battlefield, a very image of sublime grace. Hakon snorted. It seems I owe my life to that Southron yet again... If Rorek was a rapier, Hakon was a club. Dull, slow, clumsy. But resilient, and damn effective when swung properly. He shrugged. No use trying to change what he was - he could try to change his purpose in life, suppress his rage and desire for revenge, but all of the fancy fighting stances in the world seemed to fall from his mind the minute his steel crossed an enemy. No sense trying to do everything at once anyhow. A man can move a mountain, one pebble at a time, given enough days. A few grunts from above drew the northman's attention upward. A pair of Cabal guards were struggling with the remaining two peasant thieves and maneuvering them close to the precipitous drop from the platform. Jarrell was one, a seeping stain of dark fabric spreading across on his unprotected shoulder, visible even in the twilight darkness above. Hakon moved toward the ladder to assist his comrades, but before he'd taken a stride Jarrell barreled into the thieves with a shout. The northman watched grimly as the three men's legs knotted together, intertwined tighter than braided rope. They seemed to pause, outstretched over the edge for a moment, each abandoning their slashes and slowly realizing that there could be no turning back, no regaining of balance. And then they fell. There was nothing to be done but watch. Nothing to do but hope his comrade survived the drop. It seemed to end so much quicker than Hakon's own descent, but the three shared screams echoed in the northman's ears long after the sickening muffled crunch of impact. Hakon curled his lip. Considerably less blood than one would expect. What am I doing here? Peasant slaughtering his peasant brother... Sickening... Hakon approached the tangled bodies warily, ears still echoing their terror. Somehow Jarrell was still breathing, raggedly, his eyes pleading but his crushed windpipe unable to draw enough air to speak. A palladion must never refuse those who seek aid and provide it willingly and with a glad heart, never demanding payment for good deeds deserved... The kind-hearted peasant warrior was dead, he just didn't know it yet. No reason to make him suffer. Hakon grimaced, raised Durenthal, and relieved his friend's burden. It wasn't a pleasant thing to do, but the things that need doing rarely are. |
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| Rorek | Mon Dec 24, 2012 4:07 am Post #12 |
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The golden sun was peeking over the horizon as it awoke from its nightly slumber. The golden plains were basked in the sweet morning light, as if to promise better things to come. On any other day, Rorek would have taken a moment to admire the beauty of the world. Instead, all he saw were the shadows of night. He was tired of the fighting, tired of brothers killing brothers and tired of his role in it all. I suppose that is the only universal constant, battle. At first light, Rorek had stormed out of the storehouse with Hakon and the remaining guards close on his heels. "That's it," he had stated, anger boiling just beneath his surface. "Let's go tell Mercador the thieves are dead. They shouldn't be bothering the cabal again. The fat man can give us our payment and we can get out of here!" He could tell he would get no argument from his friend. *** Despite the early hour, the dan Ville residence was teeming with activity. Two wagons were pulled close to the estate house and pairs of men were working feverishly to unload their contents. What struck Rorek as odd was how quiet the men were being. From his experience, manual labor was usually accompanied by a chorus of laughter and swearing. This was not the case. From the street, on the other side of the estate's high gates, a passerby would have been unaware of the activity. The little, fat man was standing haughtily on the stool, his back turned to the approaching men, silently directing his workers down a flight of stairs into what appeared to be a wine cellar. It was only as the small force came nearer that Rorek was able to make out what cargo they were unloading, grain. "Wha' is goin' on here," roared Alain once they were within earshot of the cape wearing man. "Where is all this grain from?" The fat man startled and fell from the stool into a colorful heap on the dew covered grass. For a man of normal stature the fall would not have been far, but for a man such as Mercador he may as well have fallen from his horse. "I … um … this is a delivery from ... my brother," he stammered as he desperately tried to regain both his dignity and a standing position. "You lie," snorted the guard. "You have been holding out on the cabal and taking these shipments of grain for yourself! We'll see what de Castille has to say about this! Without waiting for a response, the guard spun towards Rorek and Hakon, "Secure this grain and any you find in the basement while I summon Jean-Henri de Castille. He will know how to fix this." "I think someone just grew a pair of-" started Rorek. "You dirty serf," spat Mercador, puffing out his round chest at Alain. He had found his feet at last. "This is all rightfully mine. I need this food for my family. We can't starve like a bunch of peasants." "Save it for de Castille." Alain spun and nearly ran from he estate. "I'd best follow my orders," Rorek shrugged. He casually threw back his cloak, revealing the wicked rapier on his wait. The men unloaded merely shrugged when told to step aside. The food was not theirs and they were in no rush to defend it with their lives. For a moment Rorek thought that the unarmed Mercador would attack him, but the fat man wisely kept his anger in check. Rorek nodded to Hakon to bind the red-faced merchant. He looked around and slowly descended into the cellar. He had expected the fat man to have stowed away several wagons worth of grain, but he was not prepared for the sheer size of the room. It was at least the size of the mansion above it. Thousands of square feet of storage space, filled with the stolen grain. Also tucked into the cellar were several rows of aging wines and oaken casks of whiskey. He whistled. By the time Alain returned with Jean-Henry de Castille, the commander of the cabal, Rorek and Hakon and the cellar and wagons firmly in their control. "Dan Ville, explain yourself," asked the purple robed de Castille. "Please tell me you aren't fleecing this grain for your own profit." "I've broken no law. I was in need of this grain. According to our law, I am entitled to receive that of which I need. "That is a gross misinterpretation of our law. Our law does not allow you take from others also in need. It is the cabal's responsibility to redistribute the grain and other necessities so we can all survive. By taking these actions, you have forfeited your position within the cabal, as well as your right to own property here in Hebereden. When you get out of jail, you will be landless. "No," Mercador choked as he sunk to his knees, tears streaming down his face. "You can't take away my land. I'll, I'll be a peasant. You can't do this to a man such as me." But de Castillo had already turned away. I was wrong, Rorek thought. The true human constant is greed. Edited by Rorek, Mon Dec 24, 2012 5:23 pm.
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| Hakon | Fri Dec 28, 2012 4:12 am Post #13 |
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Hakon looked at the blubbering merchant with disgust. Greedy merchant scum! Is there no end to their scheming? "Well my friend, it would seem only fitting that we, the very sword-arms hired to keep this grain from the peasants, should be the ones to give it back to them," Hakon motion broadly at the vast stores to Rorek. Inside he felt sick. Mercador still lay on his knees, weeping, and the northman felt his lip curl involuntarily. "Save your tears for those who deserve them, Mercador." *** De Castille made short work of the fleecing merchant and his equally guilty wife, and in mere hours they were in irons, bound for Kellen. Using the guards hired to protect the warehouses as muscle, he ordered the golden grains to fill the mighty warehouse stores to their very brims. A few men were sent out into the fields to gather the peasants, while others spread the word in Heberden proper. The grain would be distributed, equitably, though Hakon wondered if it was too little too late. The northman found himself outside of the simple home of Jarrell as the dawn broke. He paced uneasily back and forth, back and forth, near that rough-cut wooden door. Unable to knock but unable to walk away. The kind-hearted guardsman had stirred something inside him, tugged at heartstrings he thought had long ago snapped. When a good man dies, what consolation can a man such as myself offer? It would seem the warming of a cold heart is too great a price for such a life as Jarrell's. And his three beautiful daughters, now orphaned, what of them? Will my oaths to honor their father provide them food in their belly or shelter from the elements? The door cracked open, and the golden-framed face of Little Bo poked out into the street. She looked up at Hakon with uncertainty and fear, and the pain of it nearly made him gasp. "Where's Papa?" she asked, the edge of terror held back defiantly by brows fiercely knit. "I-I'm sorry, my child..." Hakon stammered. He strode forward purposefully before Little Bo could slam the door in his face and pressed the coins he'd been paid with into her startled fist. Blood-money. In a whirl, he spun and hustled away from the home as fast as he could. Before she could cry out in alarm. Before she could cry at all. A pitiful gesture... The northman cursed himself for his cowardice even as Jarrell's home faded into the morning mist. But he didn't turn back. |
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| Rorek | Sun Dec 30, 2012 7:16 pm Post #14 |
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With the stolen grain set to be distributed amongst the peasants and stored for the future with the cabal, the future looked bright for the small town of Heberden. At least as bright as a town suffering from an extreme drought can be, Rorek thought, as he surveyed the guards packing up another wagon. Hakon had disappeared shortly after de Castille had arrived. Rorek couldn't blame him. Emotions were running hot, so many men had been killed because of one man's greed. I guess that proves that a single man can change the fate of the world." Already, more men were arriving to seize the home of Mercador. The sale of the property would benefit the families of the slain guards. They were the true victims here. Their only crime was taking a dangerous job to provide for their families. The attacking peasants had broken the Old Law, their attempts to kill the guards had earned them a place in the underworld. Of course, Mercador had gotten what he deserved too. Well, not much else for me to do but find Hakon and get out of this pit. He turned and began to head away from the busy activities at the estate, rolling a small disk of pure yellow electricity around his knuckles. A slight whistle emerged from his lips as he walked towards the rising sun. |
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2:38 PM Jul 11

