Hit the Road Jack
- Location
- boundless optimism
"That's weird," she replies. Her tone is perfectly flat and level. You could use it to level floors. "And what's worse, it's weird in a boring way."
"I-"
"I don't want to talk with you anymore. Uninteresting peasant. Came all the way down from Ultima Thule for the light of learning and all you can do is talk about if you can win in a fight. Even twelve year olds have more interesting discourse! Insects are interesting. Snakes are interesting! Fighting? What rot!" She stands up with a harsh squealing sound. "However many years in the Academie, and you're still a boor," she shoots like a carcole, retreating behind verbal venom.
She leaves you, door squeaking on its hinges, to a full table and to stew.
Damn. The table creaks under your new weight. You kinda fumbled that one, to own the truth.
Maybe you should just disappear. It would be extremely embarrassing to show up to the hunt tomorrow in front of her, and it would be extremely fatal to return to Fleur, a beaten dog.
Except here's the rub. If you vanish, anonymous and unnamed in history, without even doing the very basics of turning Hieronymus Delt into a stiff corpse, you don't think you could stand to live in the same skin. Actually, you can clearly envision a future where you've done nothing but take odd jobs throughout the continent and blowing off your own head at age forty, so--
"Uh, sir…?"
The innkeeper creeping up on you like the earth shadow of a cloud. "Your… ah, companion. Is she going to pay?"
You make yourself smile. It is not a very pretty sight, more of a threat display than a genuine smile. "Absolutely. You can send her the bill."
After that you find a reason to skedaddle: you don't want to pay money.
In time, you've made a clean drift around the village. In the end, as the sun dips slowly beneath the mountains and paints the sky red, you sit down on a low wall, listening to the cows low. Overlooking the same road you came here from Fleur on. Here, alone with nothing but your thoughts.
That's weird.
You scream an impolite slur, very loud, scattering starlings from the trees, following up with a frustrated punch to your thigh.
I don't want to talk to you anymore. Uninteresting peasant!
Remove yourself or be removed. Do I look like a failure?
You screw your eyes shut and fold up double. You're not a failure. Primo, even getting to the Academie means you're not a moron. You've just… you've just made some mistakes. Seconduo… and nothing. You don't have anything other than the vague idea that you are saved from mediocrity by your former association with the Academie dei Rei.
Unless you can kill a dragon.
(Or Aimee, something whispers. Wouldn't it be fun, being a mobster? Look at Eochuer. He's having such a blast.)
"That's in the cards."
Night falls, and when morning comes, you've had a good night's rest in a rut on the road and what's more, saved yourself the expense of a night's rest, at the expense of utterly ruining your stole. But what's done is done, you have more pressing matters, such as figuring out exactly what to do.
Depressingly, all you can do is return to the town square and attach yourself to a likely group.
"Let's see here," you mumble, "I've completely ballsed my relationship with the knights, so that's a no go." A cart rumbles past you. The driver doesn't yell at you or threaten you with his whip. You catch the smell of something acrid and burnt. "There's my countrymen, I guess, but do I really want that? What's wrong with going with them? I mean, I don't hate Craglorn, do I?
"But did I sail all the way here just to go back? No, didn't I? Wait, why am I thinking they'll go back?" So taken up with your monologue that you don't realize that you're in the town square again. But, to be fair, it's taken on a completely separate atmosphere. Gone is the festive mood, replacing it is the tense air of a campaign about to launch.
Leading men from three of the groups represented in the inn last night are standing around a table, arguing loudly. You can hear brief snatches of the conversation, and it appears they're arguing over the pay.
"Three companies, three by three! What's there to argue about?" shouts a moustachio'd easterner.
The knight in charge, a fairly young brown haired fellow, points at the same fisherman who spoke up in your defense last night. "There's only four of them. Twelve of you, and nine of us. Do your math, cannoneer, does this seem equitable at all?"
"So? It's a dragon, sir, they're rare as hens teeth this south! We'll beat the tariffs and recoup any of our losses."
"Besides," the fisherman cuts in with an ugly smile, "who's to say we'll all be standing here after the hunt? It's dangerous work, sir, and there's always losses…"
The knight waves his hand. You're not paying attention to the conversation anymore. Look around-- yes, there's Aimee D'Agevine, not looking at you, there's that squire, taking care of his master's horse, and there's a bunch of dead bodies lying off to the side, covered in various rags and still faintly steaming.
Professional interest prompts your interest. You walk by the table, squatting near the deaders.
Fire's a bad way to go. It's never the flame itself that kills you, it's the smoke, or heatstroke. The old saw about wizards throwing fireballs is fake, as kill spells go, fire's a no go. A man can live for quite some time after having most of their flesh charred and singed, especially with enchantments and mystic bloodlines. Unless you pack enough power to instantly turn flesh to ash, but that's just overkill when a lightning bolt will stop a man's heart snicker-snack.
Dragon's don't know that. They stick to the ol' flaming breath, all the way. Even now, some of them are hot to the touch, although you'd diagnose the majority of them dead by toxic inhalation, like some miners and cavers you've seen. Age… range of anywhere from adolescence to middle aged. You note with some regret that their gold jewlery has melted into their flesh, no fast way to cut it out, more's the pity.
So, put it all together, what do you know? Well, the great big fire breathing lizard does indeed, breath fire.
Man, your education is useless.
"I don't trust any of the wizards here. More frauds and charlatans, but nary a drop of learning. At best we have someone who's stolen a grimoire from a second hand shop and learned a cantrip or two."
"Aye, but what's to do? We go to war with the army we have, not-- hey, you! Get away from the corpses, you disrespectful sod!"
Ah, that's you. You repress every instinct to leap up and obey, for the speaker's got a voice like army brass. Instead, you stand up slow. "Not to worry. I'm trained."
You can see the knight, the easterner, and your countryman look at each other, and at once you know that you've finally hit your lucky break.
Things proceed quickly after that. They've been arguing over which road to take, and at the end, they've agreed to each go their own way and regroup at a predetermined spot.
You have..
The Choice of Three Roads
[]- The Coast
The mercenaries propose to travel via boat to the northern end of the mountain range, closest to the rendezvous point. The seas are treacherous, the shoals are sharp, and infesting the shores are an outbreak of migratory Stymphalian birds. At the very least, that should be all of it. No humping across jagged mountain.
[]- The Valley
In the south, there's a rich river valley full of shepherds and small farming villages. Flush with ancestral cash, the knights propose to ride up there, find guides, and meet up at the rendezvous with the benefits of civilization. Pros: it's very safe. Cons: you will be travelling near the squire you nearly killed and Aimee, who you have fumbled epochally.
[]- The Mountain
Your countrymen have climbing gear. They propose to travel straight through the mountains, even as the dragon circles overhead. There's a lot of nooks and crannies to hide in, although what you carry is what you get-- forage is scarce, but there's always the option of eating a cave troll or something.
"I-"
"I don't want to talk with you anymore. Uninteresting peasant. Came all the way down from Ultima Thule for the light of learning and all you can do is talk about if you can win in a fight. Even twelve year olds have more interesting discourse! Insects are interesting. Snakes are interesting! Fighting? What rot!" She stands up with a harsh squealing sound. "However many years in the Academie, and you're still a boor," she shoots like a carcole, retreating behind verbal venom.
She leaves you, door squeaking on its hinges, to a full table and to stew.
Damn. The table creaks under your new weight. You kinda fumbled that one, to own the truth.
Maybe you should just disappear. It would be extremely embarrassing to show up to the hunt tomorrow in front of her, and it would be extremely fatal to return to Fleur, a beaten dog.
Except here's the rub. If you vanish, anonymous and unnamed in history, without even doing the very basics of turning Hieronymus Delt into a stiff corpse, you don't think you could stand to live in the same skin. Actually, you can clearly envision a future where you've done nothing but take odd jobs throughout the continent and blowing off your own head at age forty, so--
"Uh, sir…?"
The innkeeper creeping up on you like the earth shadow of a cloud. "Your… ah, companion. Is she going to pay?"
You make yourself smile. It is not a very pretty sight, more of a threat display than a genuine smile. "Absolutely. You can send her the bill."
After that you find a reason to skedaddle: you don't want to pay money.
In time, you've made a clean drift around the village. In the end, as the sun dips slowly beneath the mountains and paints the sky red, you sit down on a low wall, listening to the cows low. Overlooking the same road you came here from Fleur on. Here, alone with nothing but your thoughts.
That's weird.
You scream an impolite slur, very loud, scattering starlings from the trees, following up with a frustrated punch to your thigh.
I don't want to talk to you anymore. Uninteresting peasant!
Remove yourself or be removed. Do I look like a failure?
You screw your eyes shut and fold up double. You're not a failure. Primo, even getting to the Academie means you're not a moron. You've just… you've just made some mistakes. Seconduo… and nothing. You don't have anything other than the vague idea that you are saved from mediocrity by your former association with the Academie dei Rei.
Unless you can kill a dragon.
(Or Aimee, something whispers. Wouldn't it be fun, being a mobster? Look at Eochuer. He's having such a blast.)
"That's in the cards."
Night falls, and when morning comes, you've had a good night's rest in a rut on the road and what's more, saved yourself the expense of a night's rest, at the expense of utterly ruining your stole. But what's done is done, you have more pressing matters, such as figuring out exactly what to do.
Depressingly, all you can do is return to the town square and attach yourself to a likely group.
"Let's see here," you mumble, "I've completely ballsed my relationship with the knights, so that's a no go." A cart rumbles past you. The driver doesn't yell at you or threaten you with his whip. You catch the smell of something acrid and burnt. "There's my countrymen, I guess, but do I really want that? What's wrong with going with them? I mean, I don't hate Craglorn, do I?
"But did I sail all the way here just to go back? No, didn't I? Wait, why am I thinking they'll go back?" So taken up with your monologue that you don't realize that you're in the town square again. But, to be fair, it's taken on a completely separate atmosphere. Gone is the festive mood, replacing it is the tense air of a campaign about to launch.
Leading men from three of the groups represented in the inn last night are standing around a table, arguing loudly. You can hear brief snatches of the conversation, and it appears they're arguing over the pay.
"Three companies, three by three! What's there to argue about?" shouts a moustachio'd easterner.
The knight in charge, a fairly young brown haired fellow, points at the same fisherman who spoke up in your defense last night. "There's only four of them. Twelve of you, and nine of us. Do your math, cannoneer, does this seem equitable at all?"
"So? It's a dragon, sir, they're rare as hens teeth this south! We'll beat the tariffs and recoup any of our losses."
"Besides," the fisherman cuts in with an ugly smile, "who's to say we'll all be standing here after the hunt? It's dangerous work, sir, and there's always losses…"
The knight waves his hand. You're not paying attention to the conversation anymore. Look around-- yes, there's Aimee D'Agevine, not looking at you, there's that squire, taking care of his master's horse, and there's a bunch of dead bodies lying off to the side, covered in various rags and still faintly steaming.
Professional interest prompts your interest. You walk by the table, squatting near the deaders.
Fire's a bad way to go. It's never the flame itself that kills you, it's the smoke, or heatstroke. The old saw about wizards throwing fireballs is fake, as kill spells go, fire's a no go. A man can live for quite some time after having most of their flesh charred and singed, especially with enchantments and mystic bloodlines. Unless you pack enough power to instantly turn flesh to ash, but that's just overkill when a lightning bolt will stop a man's heart snicker-snack.
Dragon's don't know that. They stick to the ol' flaming breath, all the way. Even now, some of them are hot to the touch, although you'd diagnose the majority of them dead by toxic inhalation, like some miners and cavers you've seen. Age… range of anywhere from adolescence to middle aged. You note with some regret that their gold jewlery has melted into their flesh, no fast way to cut it out, more's the pity.
So, put it all together, what do you know? Well, the great big fire breathing lizard does indeed, breath fire.
Man, your education is useless.
"I don't trust any of the wizards here. More frauds and charlatans, but nary a drop of learning. At best we have someone who's stolen a grimoire from a second hand shop and learned a cantrip or two."
"Aye, but what's to do? We go to war with the army we have, not-- hey, you! Get away from the corpses, you disrespectful sod!"
Ah, that's you. You repress every instinct to leap up and obey, for the speaker's got a voice like army brass. Instead, you stand up slow. "Not to worry. I'm trained."
You can see the knight, the easterner, and your countryman look at each other, and at once you know that you've finally hit your lucky break.
Things proceed quickly after that. They've been arguing over which road to take, and at the end, they've agreed to each go their own way and regroup at a predetermined spot.
You have..
The Choice of Three Roads
[]- The Coast
The mercenaries propose to travel via boat to the northern end of the mountain range, closest to the rendezvous point. The seas are treacherous, the shoals are sharp, and infesting the shores are an outbreak of migratory Stymphalian birds. At the very least, that should be all of it. No humping across jagged mountain.
[]- The Valley
In the south, there's a rich river valley full of shepherds and small farming villages. Flush with ancestral cash, the knights propose to ride up there, find guides, and meet up at the rendezvous with the benefits of civilization. Pros: it's very safe. Cons: you will be travelling near the squire you nearly killed and Aimee, who you have fumbled epochally.
[]- The Mountain
Your countrymen have climbing gear. They propose to travel straight through the mountains, even as the dragon circles overhead. There's a lot of nooks and crannies to hide in, although what you carry is what you get-- forage is scarce, but there's always the option of eating a cave troll or something.
