A Champion of Gods & Rogues (Warhammer Fantasy/Exalted)
- Thread starter Slamu
- Start date
[X] Herdbreaker, emphasize his opposition to Old Night in general and the Children of Chaos specifically.
KnightofTempest
The Man who would be King
- Location
- Chicago
[X] Stonelaurel. A man who commanded few and defeated many, little more needs be said. Emphasis on his tactical and strategic abilities, especially as a defender.
Armies are the thing that change the world in WHFB, not individuals
Armies are the thing that change the world in WHFB, not individuals
Alexander89
Pet the pretty kitty? Y/N
- Location
- Italy
[X] Stonelaurel. A man who commanded few and defeated many, little more needs be said. Emphasis on his tactical and strategic abilities, especially as a defender.
- Location
- Virginia
[X] Godstouched, imply a connection to the divine that may or may not exist.
Salvadore has an older brother, who is a guardsman of a senior clergywoman in Magritta. His personality is somewhere between Souske Sagara from Full Metal Panic and Big Mac from MLP, sharing Salvadore's instruction in swordsmanship and benefitting from Mateo's piety where Salvadore learned more courtly skills from his mother. He's married, no children last Salvadore has heard, and his wife initiated their courtship by tying a letter to a knife she stabbed him with (as less overt signals were obviously not getting through). The next oldest is a sister who he saw last before he went to study at the Academy in Magritta when she and Gabriella got into the sort of hot blooded screaming bouts that you can hear outside and find a lot of broken pottery afterwards, and when he returned home mami insisted she didn't know who he was talking about and was grooming Izzy to be 'eldest daughter' while Mateo quietly let him know that there was an owlet studying in a library somewhere that write Baltasar's home every so often and some of those letters are...quietly shared when the family matriarch isn't around to find out. We've already met Izzy, but he also had a little brother until a cholera outbreak swept through Ronda, and now he doesn't.
Both Mateo and Gabriella are young enough they could probably have some more kids (and have the sort of passionate relationship Estalians are famous for), but if he's got another family member on the way he hasn't heard anything about it.
- Location
- New York
[X] Stonelaurel. A man who commanded few and defeated many, little more needs be said. Emphasis on his tactical and strategic abilities, especially as a defender.
- Location
- Europe
[X] Godstouched, imply a connection to the divine that may or may not exist.
[X] Godstouched, imply a connection to the divine that may or may not exist.
- Location
- United States
[X] Godstouched, imply a connection to the divine that may or may not exist.
Just because I think that this is the option that will have some neat long term effects. Especially with those in positions of power.
Just because I think that this is the option that will have some neat long term effects. Especially with those in positions of power.
Alright, update is at ~5.5k words and will probably get into the low 6k words when it's done. I'm trying to get everything good to go within the next few days and most of the stuff has made it through at least some editing, so if you're so inclined you may act like Pavlov's dogs and whet your appetites.
Arc I: Nothing ever happens in Mousillon (Troubles so far away)
Salvadore felt like trembling, post-battle jitters mixing with the sort of release he'd only felt a few times before, times he'd blacked out and awoken to...carnage. He had mentioned the last to Papi, but had glossed over the scene of destruction he found when dawn's light fell on a thousand and a half men and beasts. Elves he'd told his father, and elves the survivors agreed. But...none had seen an elf, and uncertainty gnawed at him. Monsters slew that army, and here he found another army slain and black blood near to his shoulder this time.
There was a time for self-reflection however, and this wasn't it. "Make sure the villagers are set to travel with us." He didn't have to see Morfran to know the knight would be close by. Whether it was to keep an eye on the daemonhost or to be near at hand for Salvadore to speak with was more than the Estalian cared to say at this time, but the result was the same. "The war herd will splinter and it won't take much to overrun these defenses. The peasants' best bet is to act as our baggage train until they can be relocated somewhere...." what was he going to say? 'Safer'? He was beginning to suspect that Sir Balin would scoff and remind him that not even the grave was safe in Mousillon. Shallya's tears, what a living tragedy. "Somewhere else." He finished lamely. "See to the wounded, I'll find Renart."
Ignoring the verbal but non-linguistic sounds that conveyed Morfran's estimation of the worth of that task, Salvadore began walking towards the blood woods before a thought occurred to him. Detouring near where his littlest banner maiden was sleeping fitfully under a guard of frightened peasant men who were quietly murmuring to one another, he heard snatches of conversation much like their noble betters concerning the proper dispensation of witches and methods for helping them along. Their mouths snapped shut like dwarf coffers on payday when they heard Salvadore coming, and grew tighter still when they realized who it was. Instead of snapping at them like he wanted to at Sir Balin or his uncle, or dressing them down like Professora de Espada dealing with truculent students, he made a small show of being relieved to see them. "Ah, good! I am happy to see that you are here."
The peasants looked startled at that. Quite aside from being an unexpected thing to hear in its own right under the circumstances, Salvadore doubted that they ever expected to hear something like that coming from someone of his station speaking to one of theirs. Normally what interaction they would have with nobility would happen through a bailiff or reeve, if it happened at all. Good, keeping them off balance was going to be important. "Oh yes. Given how helpful she was defending your village from evil spirits, that someone thought to organize a guard for her in case some of the beasts attempted to send some evil deviltry her way is just smart."
That seemed to tap into some part of the conversation Salvadore hadn't caught onto, and judging by the amount of sidelong glances the peasants were giving one another for all the thought of the witch bringing ill fortune upon the village none had considered the thought of it being directed at her by someone, something, else. "Oh yes. One of the beast-witches may seek favor from their dark masters for killing someone as important as she is going to be." Pausing a second to let that thought rattle in their heads, Salvadore pressed on. "Don't worry, if anything gets past you I'm sure Verena herself would punish the beast that tried attacking her." Which was true, the Owl had rather strong opinions about vigilante justice and whatever Morfran's thoughts about sending the girl off into the woods to die finding her killed in her sleep wouldn't make him terribly delighted, Salvadore thought. What justice there would be to salvage from the situation wouldn't be long in coming.
The peasants gathered looked much less unsure about killing the girl in her sleep now. Deliberately pretending to misunderstand their apprehension Salvadore continued. "Don't worry, I will be sure to explain it to her that you're here to make sure she's kept safe. It won't be long, and I'll be there to look after her when I get back." With that Salvadore let himself into the shack the girl was kept prisoner in.
She was obviously sleeping fitfully, if at all, and whatever sleep she did get was not restful for all that she clung to his morion like a lifeline. She woke with a start and began to strike at something that had plagued her in her dreams. Whether it was because she was unused to punching people, was still half asleep when she made the attempt or was thrown off balance from her missing arm didn't matter. Fortunately Salvadore was able to twist enough in time so that she didn't break her remaining hand on his cuirass, and when she woke up enough to realize what she had done she grew horrified and fearful. Not embarrassed like Isabella might have, but trembling. Salvadore put on a reassuring smile. "Don't fret about it, I've woken like that myself before." He turned his back to her, ostensibly to study the signum solis propped like a shovel against the wall of the shack. It was an ignoble method of storing it, but for a one eyed girl who'd lost her arm and hadn't trained to handle a standard he could find little fault.
Judging that she had had time to present herself however she wished, Salvadore turned back around. "I'm proud of you, you know. I told you to act with courage and honor and you did not disappoint." Some of the shadows on her face lightened at that, which made her look younger. Still far older than she ought to look, but...better, by the Dove. What a terrible thing to say about a girl who just got mutilated body and soul. "You should know sooner rather than later that I discussed your fate with the knights of Mousillon with us. The hammer priest knows of a place in the Empire where such as you can go and learn. Until you get there, I suggest you stay close to either he or I." Salvadore wasn't sure why he included himself with Baasch, but for all that Baasch would be better prepared to handle witching it was evident that he had little talent for comforting frightened children, and perhaps that would be at least as important going forward.
A dozen emotions flashed across her face then. Fear of something warring with fear of something else, hope being strangled by something that with time would become cynicism, curiosity being tempered by pain. A small childlike joy and wonder was in there somewhere, the sole emotion a young girl her age should have felt from that bitter brew and it was the one that seemed the most out of place. "I understand, lord." She tried to bow again, but Salvadore waved her down.
"There's a time for such bowing girl, and now isn't it." He sat down carefully where she didn't have to crane her neck to look at him. "You've been brave, but it's okay to be scared. Now it's okay to be scared without being brave, at least for a bit, and I know you're hurting. So I'm here for you for now, and if there's anything you wanted to say I'll listen."
-
When Salvadore stepped outside the shack he found Baasch kneeling there, seemingly in prayer. One eye was closed and the other hidden under a bandage, but as Salvadore moved quietly past so as to not disturb the man the priest spoke. "Do not let sympathy for the girl blind you to the danger she poses."
Not looking at the Sigmarite, Salvadore responded in the same calm tone as the priest. "She is at least as much a victim in this as any other, and perhaps more."
"One who carries pestilence is a victim too, but it is foolish to embrace them all the same."
--
Renart was supposed to hold the crossing upstream, but it was difficult to follow the water's banks through briar and bramble and thorned tree so Salvadore followed the route he thought a pack of rampaging minotaur would have. They must move less gracefully than he in such close quarters surely, and they crossed at some point. He was aware that this did not mean he would encounter the woodsmen, but it was the best he could think of.
The forest was quiet. At first he thought this would be an aid, as any noise would travel and he could pick out any noise such men might make and they him, but it didn't take long before he realized that the forest smothered sound in addition to its hemovoric tendencies. If he could see star and sunrise he was confident that he could have found his way back to the village at least, but it wasn't long before stubbornness was what kept him from despairing of accomplishing his task, much less rejoining the column. So it was that with as much sense of curiosity as purpose that he approached the flash of white that he saw reflected among the trees.
It was a young woman wearing a simple peasant's dress, rough and torn but clean. A sunbeam had probably broken through the clouds for a moment, and as he watched she knelt down over something. Stepping closer, and making sure to create enough noise she didn't think he was trying to sneak up on her. As he did he heard the sound of sobbing, of pain no longer raw enough to scream to. Finally he heard the woman make wordless sounds of comfort, humming what was probably the same sounds of soothing that every mother crooned to their children to fend off nightmares and nightspooks.
"He was ever a gentle boy." The woman said as she reached into a pouch and drew out herbs and a poultice. "Even when they beat him, he would have grown to be a kind man." Deft hands applied the poultice to the wound on the wounded figure's abdomen where an arrow sprouted. "But then...." Salvadore realized then what he was seeing. The young woman was comforting a boy not yet old enough to shave that was sure to die by the end of the day. One of the boy's legs was normal enough for all that the other twisted to resemble that of a hind, reddish fawn fur covered his face, chest and arms and a single stubby horn protruded from his brow. If the ungor was flipped over Salvadore fully expected to see spots on his back, and yet what stuck out to him was entirely human eyes filled with fear and pain and a desperate loneliness.
Salvadore was already tired of seeing people in pain today. A number of half-formed notions too unformed to be called thoughts flashed through his head, a combination of alarm and doctrine and confusion and several inches of steel were bared for reasons he hadn't decided yet before the woman's stern glance of Don't. made him pause long enough for thought to catch up to reflex. Awkwardly, bashfully, he returned his sword to its scabbard before circling to face her properly, keeping his hands where she could see them. It was a bit absurd, he knew, as she was apparently the least skittish person here and yet.... He sighed. "It looks like a gut wound. Shallya herself might save him, but I don't know that anyone else can." Salvadore also thought a number of additional things, mostly to the tune of 'why are you trying to help a monster' but kept them to himself. Not so much from a fear of being rude but because there was a reason hidden behind the answer that asking that question would obscure.
It may have been his imagination, but she seemed to have flinched at the mention of the goddess. The poultice applied the woman tore a strip from her dress and dressed the wound, careful to not disturb the arrow. It was done in a confident fashion that bespoke more practice than anyone should have, and she didn't slow down at all when she responded. "He need not spend his final day in fear and agony, though."
Salvadore had difficulty arguing that. He could point out that others were in pain not so far away that could also use her aid but were human, that it would be easier and safer to finish the ungor off and put it out of its misery, that she put her soul at risk to aid even this pitiful agent of Old Night, and each of them were true but none would refute her claim. Moreover, he didn't see so much as a beltknife on her, and even had she a poison in her pouch what would kill the boy faster than his existing wound? So he sat quietly, thinking and observing as she comforted the monster that was a victim and the boy sobbed and whimpered and slowly fell asleep.
Eventually she set his head down gently and rose, her face pained but unsurprised, looking like she wanted to cry but had long since lost her tears. "Do you hear it?" She asked Salvadore. "There are gods who saw what happened to Little Tumas here, and they are laughing." The last words were spoken with a venom that Salvadore realized that no other word or action she had had countenanced.
Some thought in the back of his mind was shouting at him to pay attention to something, but he didn't let that distract him from responding. "May they choke on that laughter." Then, because his mother didn't raise him to be ill-mannered, he gave a little bow to what can only be a very pious Shallyan. "Little Sister, would you care to travel with us for a time? We can offer some degree of safety, and-" But she was already shaking her head.
"No. I have much more I need to do, and much of it in places you cannot take me. I thank you for your offer, but I must decline."
Salvadore caught her arm before she could leave. "Sister, please. I..." A Shallyan wouldn't act in her own interest, but that wasn't to say they couldn't be manipulated if you weren't afraid to be a bit of a bastard about it. "There is a girl who is hurt, she lost her arm and I worry about one of the many diseases here infecting her wound."
The woman frowned, and Salvadore fought to keep a look of victory off his face. Now she was going to come back with him and not be wandering the woods out here alone when there were monsters around and- "Here." She reached into her pouch again, and a simple wooden carving of a dove in flight wrapped in string was pressed in his hand. Wait, that was the hand that had been holding her arm. How had that happened? "Have her wear this, and change bandages on her arm regularly. Make sure they are boiled when applied as well, mind you. Now I really must go."
Wondering for a second how he had erred, he stared after where the woman had stood a second ago. She may have had a point about not going where he could take her, given that her woodcraft was apparently excellent while his own was...well, not as great as his seamanship. "Ought to build a boat that goes on land." He muttered. "Be civilized about this." Then his gaze landed on the dead ungor. One more thing left to do.
--
"What the hell is that." Baltasar told him. Which may be a good sign, if he was willing to talk to his nephew again. Salvadore added another corpse to those awaiting cremation. It had died of a gut wound not too long ago, but it wasn't a large body.
Salvadore feigned ignorance of his uncle's lack of a question. "A soul for Morr to judge that could use what rites we can give, uncle." The older man's face soured at that but didn't rebuke him, so Salvadore counted that as a win.
Baasch was watching as Chaglyn wrapped bandages around Amalie's stump of an arm. It was too distant to make out the words the priest was saying but to Salvadore it had the look of prayer. Healing a wound caused by witchery, or warding off evil from a witch? Would the Sigmarite's master condone such action or condemn it? Salvadore would not have thought the hammer priest would be able to do much for the girl, but he seemed to think he was able to perform some good where he was. Provided it wasn't filling the girl's head with empty prattle about worshiping some shirtless barbarian who let his hammer do his thinking Salvadore would let the priest have his say.
He passed where Alonsico was trying to organize the second group of peasants into a semblance of marching order with the help of the first. He probably would have been better off working alone, going by the sullen glares the two groups were shooting at one another, and without the looming threat of the beastmen Salvadore would expect blows to land soon even with his cousin there trying inexpertly to keep the peace. His favorite cousin, he reminded himself. Denying the urge to involve himself and fix the developing problem in such a way as to embarrass and undermine Alonsico, he resolved to keep an eye on it and if something unworkable developed he would make mention of it to the young man. Learning by doing was better than not learning at all, but learning a poor way did few any good.
It was Morfran he sought, and the knight he found. "I found neither hide nor hair of Renart. Were it not for a single arrow I would have thought they'd never been in that forest."
Morfran didn't respond with words, but the silence spoken covered some breadth of feeling, mostly concerning fools errands, the expected reliability of men of Renart's character and the wisdom of not lingering hoping to find them. Eventually what he chose to speak to concerned something Salvadore had given little thought since waking. "Do you still seek to command us?"
Salvadore blinked but quickly gathered his considerable wits to him. "The threat still lingers, but I'll not command a man who does not seek to heed me. We cannot progress sitting here, and I know not the way. You, sir knight, should set our path. If you will it I will command should steel be drawn, but if we are swift enough we should be able to escape the foe in their confusion."
--
The party, newly enlarged by the next round of peasants if not richer for their presence, was painfully slow and mulish to the Estalians' sensibilities. The peasants woke before dawn but took time gathering themselves and their meager supplies together to march. The frogwives were the worst, being slowest to get around, having to wrangle children and still finding time to quarrel among themselves. Which was not to say the men and children were much better, but where the swampers muttered and children taunted the frogwives denounced. When it was simply a matter of the first village's worth of peasants they knuckled quietly and made due, but with the second it seemed any source of friction between the two groups could be demonstrated between the frogwives. When children fought, their parents stepped in and escalated the quarrel. When some trinket was lost each was quick to accuse the other, and when it was found inncently by the side of the road it was clearly planted there by the jealousy of the harridens of that other village.
On the third day out of the village a fistfight between two of the frogwives broke out and Alonsico was there to break it up. He was able to take the frogknives from their hands but, due to his still rudimentary grasp of Bretonnian, could do little to disarm the situation. Salvadore, with his greater grasp of the language, explained their situation to them; if they were so full of energy they could waste it on pointless fights, they could waste that energy on pointless work. They would find a stone, hold it above their heads and run circles around the column singing "I am an idiot who wants to kill us all" until Salvadore thought they'd learned their lessons. While this did little to endear him to the women the fights ceased impeding their ability to move through the bogs, marshes and swamps of Mousillon, and the weight of their loads being borne by their fellow villagers did little to make either seem like a martyr for her cause.
It wasn't long before they encountered fragments of the warherd. Some of them charged, and were met by braced spears and a steady stream of stones cast by hand or sling. Those broke quickly and were not seen for some time. More shadowed and lurked, either too unsure or too patient to commit to a direct attack. Some of those were dispatched by a sally by Sir Morfran leading Baltasar and Alonsico, causing them to scatter. Each night though Salvadore stayed awake, letting a trickle of light escape that reservoir inside him, enough to be sure any of the Forest Men knew he was there, he was awake and he was armed. They didn't have any night attacks.
Amalie was awake and always seemed to know where he was during these patrols, which concerned Friedrich. "A strong will is crucial." He confided in Salvadore when the girl finally drifted to sleep. "In any who must face witchcraft, but especially amongst those who are submerged in it. She tires herself keeping watch of you, and that will not last." Salvadore was too fatigued himself to give a good answer, but hoped that they'd escape the mass of beastmen before too long.
--
There was a beaten track that appeared in the wilderness after a time. It looked more like a goat path than a road, but after so long in the wilds of Mousillon it was as though a grand thoroughfare. Morfran remounted as soon as there was space for his head above his horse, and it wasn't long before Baltasar followed suit. Salvadore decided to walk his horse further, entirely to spare the nag his weight and not at all as an excuse not to endure his uncle's suspicious glowers and pointed jibes during the trek, which meant he was eye level when he saw the owl on a branch. It was a fair specimen, sleek feathers and regal dignity that surveyed the party as it passed. For a moment Salvadore was going to offer his arm to it as a gesture of good will to Verena, until a magpie screamed by and knocked it from its branch, revealing that as fair as its front was, the back of the owl was covered in maggots and bared bone. Cursing, Salvadore jumped back from it before crushing the abomination under his boot.
"What was it?" Alonsico asked, sword half-drawn. "An attack?"
Doing what he could to wipe bird skull from his boot Salvadore sneered. He carefully did not respond to Alonsico with his first thought, "an omen", but after noticing that everyone else was looking at him and most were at least as on edge as his cousin he gestured them all to calm down. "It startled me, that's all." He said, half-true. "Probably nothing."
--
After almost a full week of, Salvadore was sure, being lost in Mousillon the party seemed to have escaped the beastman threat. Well, their threat went from 'imminent' to 'lurking' at least.
The party seemed to be leaving the godsbenighted marsh, and while the stony hills that began to replace them were no less inhospitable the change from sodden miserable slogging to uphill miserable trudging at least bore the virtue of novelty. Of course sharp pebbles found their way into boots, what trees there were universally seemed dead regardless of any environmental factor and the rain came and went in spurts, like jinete. The description was apt, he felt, as one minute the party was in the clear and then thundering up from some unexpected quarter came a torrent of rain that struck not with raindrop arrows but javelins for but a few minutes before retreating for a time. The inability to keep dry would have been distressing enough, but oft times flash floods would sweep down a gully and threatened to sweep the unwary away, be it man or horse.
When there was a break in the 'forest' canopy Salvadore was able to periodically readings of the sky. What he saw was...disconcerting, as though the heavens were maddened by something. The small momentary storms seemed as though they were meant to be part of a greater whole but were disorganized, fragmented. Upon discussing the weather with Sir Morfran the knight claimed that storms like such had appeared for as long as living memory, and perhaps a bit longer. Amalie asked why the sky couldn't decide if it should laugh like it should cry or cry like it should laugh. No one wanted to answer that question, though the priest's frown at her question was not entirely directed at her.
The day before they were to enter Clovis' holdings they killed, or re-killed or however the grammar worked with such, a pack of zombies wandering the countryside. It was hardly the only such pack, and the only reason to mention it was that three of them bore markings that Sir Morfran considered noteworthy. One, a man whose pudge was only partially brought about by postmortem bloat, bore the remains of a tattoo on his face, a black fleur d'lys. Upon discovering that the knight swore softly and insisted the rest of the bodies be stripped and checked. Two more such were found, brands this time. One upon a strong man's chest, the other upon the inner thigh of a peasant that had to be local.
Upon being pressed Sir Morfran informed Salvadore that the first man had been an Innocent, one of Maleagent's personal agents and the other two presumably indentured parts of his retinue. "I knew him only by sight and reputation. A Talebeclander in origin, his skill in bridge-building drew him to Artois where his employer found that he chiseled more than stone masonry. That and his sadism drove him to Mousillon, where his literacy and desperation caught the lord Maleagnt's eye. The big one" he gestured to the twice-dead man beside him being prepared for an impromptu funerary service "I saw in his company, providing strength of arm to compensate for the other's lack. A footpad who took the brand rather than the noose, I expect. The last is unknown to me."
"Any idea what they were doing out here?"
A shrug. "Were I to guess? The same as I, see what foolishness Clovis was getting himself up to. The man is too clever to fall for the simpler pitfalls of Mousillon politics, but either too stupid or too ambitious to fall in line with someone. He has a number of...not friends per se, call them like-minded lords who he does the heavy thinking for. If it's the typical foolishness it's something Lord Maleagent will need to respond forcefully to because it threatens everyone else in the duchy. If fortune smiles on us it kills the lot of them and the realm is made the better for their loss."
Salvadore waited a dramatically appropriate time before prompting the other man with the question he was clearly waiting for. "And if fortune shits in our stew?"
A grim silence before he answered. "Then it brings trouble from beyond the Cordon Sanitaire. Bordeleux is generally content to let us ferment in our own filth as they ferment in their grapes, and the lords of Lyonesse have enough trouble chewing the gristle of Mousillon's land they already stole from us while Artois couldn't agree on a course of action leading men into a whorehouse, but Bastonne is usually itching for an excuse to 'quell the brewing trouble of the Cursed Duchy', and Gervaisot has a grudge of some sort against Lord Maleagent. If he has the justification to raise his March into Mousillon, and it needn't be a sturdy one, he'll do it and that would be the end of my lord's tenure as the proper Duke." As ever the helmet covered his face, but Salvadore suspected there was a smile that had more in common with a wolf bearing teeth than a man expressing humor. "Well, perhaps."
Salvadore thought on that. The city of Mousillon would take a day to fall if both sides broke for lunch, and finding it wouldn't be difficult if the invaders simply followed the Grismarie. The river likewise would make supplies easy to transport, so invaders could march quickly if they had a mind and the discipline. Holes in the walls meant no need for a siege train, and given the likelihood of support from local nobles for the invaders an accurate read of force dispositions, so few chances for ambush. That said, while the knights would likely defeat the various horrors of the night more often than not, without the rites of blood and fire Morfran worked every night who knows what would face the invaders, not simply once and again but picking off peasant and paladin alike one at a time. Without a damsel it seems unlikely that the invaders would avoid such entirely, and a damsel's presence seemed to offer the sort of legitimacy that Morfran was implying the venture would lack.
So, defending the city would be committing to a lost cause. Fabian tactics perhaps, keeping the Bastonne knights in the field where Mousillon itself could weigh in. Even if they were able to keep knights from dying to Red Pox or the like, a knight didn't fight his best when his bowels turned to water. That would hinge on Maleagent's ability to keep the trust of his retainers, which seemed strained already. Would the ambitious seek to take advantage of the invasion to topple him, or would Morfran's distaste for foreigners be shared that they united in the face of a common foe? Salvadore wasn't sure, but he hoped Morfran wasn't slyly insinuating that he'd have a force of necromancers obedient to him, because that would be very disappointing to Salvadore.
"Well, we'll just have to ask this Lord Clovis nicely not to do something stupid." He said with slightly forced optimism. "I'm sure he'll be reasonable."
-
Clovis did not strike Salvadore as a reasonable man. His castle, called Drekmore by Morfran, seems to have been a grand affair once. Rough palisade patched holes in cut stone that in turn seems to have been built upon bones of elven fortifications long, long ago. The ancient halls might have been grand to see, and Salvadore might not have thought poorly of Drekmore had he seen only the modern fortifications, but as they picked their way through rubble that had clearly been something better to find a keep in keeping of the style of a bandit lord more than a chivalrous flower Salvadore felt...not cheapened per se, but lessened, perhaps robbed by the experience. This was no shelter for people to weather the spears of bandits or the jaws of monsters, it was a pitiful pile of stones a petty despot would cling to. "Like a once proud lily pad upon which the wartiest toad sits." he murmured.
Morfran silently seemed to agree with him, and Baltasar's frown shifted from annoyance at Salvadore in general to an annoyed but thoughtful one as he took a new look at the place. If you were quick and sly you could see creatures shifting about and hiding in the rubble. Salvadore was about to shout a warning cry of goblin ambush when he spotted a discarded hoe made of chicken bones lashed to a stick that lay abandoned near where a figure was cowering so as not to be seen. "Disgusting." Salvadore didn't try to hide the sneer from his face.
"The least unsightly are taken inside to serve as attendants." Morfran supplied. "You'll not need to endure their appearance for long."
"I fault not the peasants their misfortune. It is no fault of a sword that it is rusted and dull as it is the duty of its bearer to tend it, and so it is the duty of a leader, be it baron or bandit to see to the wellbeing of their followers." He nodded towards a pile of rubble where two figures were cowering behind. "What good reason is there to hide from a party small as ours in the light of day and with peaceable intent? Only that such brings ill-tidings for those seen, that I can see." Salvadore spat in disgust, despite the dryness of the air here making him yearn for a drink.
He could hear in Morfran's tone not disagreement but simply reluctance to take to the field of debate. "What virtuous and just lord do you think rules here? The Lady isn't in Mousillon this time of year. These lords keep the area free of wild and rot, which is more than most do and so my lord tolerates them." By the tone of his voice Salvadore suspected the knight caught himself before he said 'and their excesses'. "I do ask that you not quarrel with him as I understand you did with Lady Elaine. Not here."
That made sense, even if it stuck in Salvadore's craw. He made a face. "I will not turn away from insult he offers me, but nor will I seek it." Then he spat to clear the taste of those words.
The portcullis opened upon their approach, and a man with a build that would seem powerful outside of Bretonnia waved gaily for them to enter. Light glittered on the rings on his fingers and he even had a silk scarf around his neck, but Salvadore could see some scars on his neck and arms that he didn't get from a pie eating contest. Well, not one outside of those Halfling ones he'd heard stories about. His colors were yellow and brown, with a rampant creature Salvadore didn't recognize but seemed akin to a bear over his left breast. "Welcome, welcome! So, the old pauper's finally gotten reasonable, eh? And what's this? A new face, and with so many in tow. Are you looking to buy or sell?"
It took Salvadore a moment of thought to puzzle over Clovis' comment. A slaver, he realized. Salvadore did his best to keep his rising contempt out of his voice, mostly by putting it in his facial expression. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean." He considered dismounting but decided looking down on this creature might be productively misconstrued if it thought it was merely a height difference. "These peasants have been victim to a shocking laxity on the part of their protectors and are being relocated to more suitable place." He bared his teeth in what was technically a smile. "I do hope we can avoid misunderstandings on that point."
Rather than being intimidated Clovis laughed. "Of course, of course! My mistake. I hope you'll allow me to show my sincerity by inviting you to dinner tonight!"
Salvadore suspects this man is going to do something that strains the Estalian's sense of decency. How to respond to it?
[ ] [MANNERS] Swallow the bitter embers of outrage and indignity, they are in his seat of power and Morfran asked him not to rock the boat.
[ ] [MANNERS] Answer insults as they are due, with sharp tongue and if necessary sharp steel. There is a limit to his tolerance.
After being wined and dined, Salvadore expects to be allowed to inspect Drekmore. What catches his eye? CHOOSE TWO
[ ] [DREKMORE] The lands hidden from the road but visible from the castle, if you know where to look
[ ] [DREKMORE] The teetering old tower that seems uninhabitable, but for the lights on at its zenith.
[ ] [DREKMORE] The dungeons, always interesting to see what behaviors a lord punishes.
[ ] [DREKMORE] The seneshal's cupboard. A holding does not work without records, and Clovis does not seem a man to keep his own books.
[ ] [DREKMORE] The man himself. Get him talking, and try to keep from reducing the number of teeth he has.
There was a time for self-reflection however, and this wasn't it. "Make sure the villagers are set to travel with us." He didn't have to see Morfran to know the knight would be close by. Whether it was to keep an eye on the daemonhost or to be near at hand for Salvadore to speak with was more than the Estalian cared to say at this time, but the result was the same. "The war herd will splinter and it won't take much to overrun these defenses. The peasants' best bet is to act as our baggage train until they can be relocated somewhere...." what was he going to say? 'Safer'? He was beginning to suspect that Sir Balin would scoff and remind him that not even the grave was safe in Mousillon. Shallya's tears, what a living tragedy. "Somewhere else." He finished lamely. "See to the wounded, I'll find Renart."
Ignoring the verbal but non-linguistic sounds that conveyed Morfran's estimation of the worth of that task, Salvadore began walking towards the blood woods before a thought occurred to him. Detouring near where his littlest banner maiden was sleeping fitfully under a guard of frightened peasant men who were quietly murmuring to one another, he heard snatches of conversation much like their noble betters concerning the proper dispensation of witches and methods for helping them along. Their mouths snapped shut like dwarf coffers on payday when they heard Salvadore coming, and grew tighter still when they realized who it was. Instead of snapping at them like he wanted to at Sir Balin or his uncle, or dressing them down like Professora de Espada dealing with truculent students, he made a small show of being relieved to see them. "Ah, good! I am happy to see that you are here."
The peasants looked startled at that. Quite aside from being an unexpected thing to hear in its own right under the circumstances, Salvadore doubted that they ever expected to hear something like that coming from someone of his station speaking to one of theirs. Normally what interaction they would have with nobility would happen through a bailiff or reeve, if it happened at all. Good, keeping them off balance was going to be important. "Oh yes. Given how helpful she was defending your village from evil spirits, that someone thought to organize a guard for her in case some of the beasts attempted to send some evil deviltry her way is just smart."
That seemed to tap into some part of the conversation Salvadore hadn't caught onto, and judging by the amount of sidelong glances the peasants were giving one another for all the thought of the witch bringing ill fortune upon the village none had considered the thought of it being directed at her by someone, something, else. "Oh yes. One of the beast-witches may seek favor from their dark masters for killing someone as important as she is going to be." Pausing a second to let that thought rattle in their heads, Salvadore pressed on. "Don't worry, if anything gets past you I'm sure Verena herself would punish the beast that tried attacking her." Which was true, the Owl had rather strong opinions about vigilante justice and whatever Morfran's thoughts about sending the girl off into the woods to die finding her killed in her sleep wouldn't make him terribly delighted, Salvadore thought. What justice there would be to salvage from the situation wouldn't be long in coming.
The peasants gathered looked much less unsure about killing the girl in her sleep now. Deliberately pretending to misunderstand their apprehension Salvadore continued. "Don't worry, I will be sure to explain it to her that you're here to make sure she's kept safe. It won't be long, and I'll be there to look after her when I get back." With that Salvadore let himself into the shack the girl was kept prisoner in.
She was obviously sleeping fitfully, if at all, and whatever sleep she did get was not restful for all that she clung to his morion like a lifeline. She woke with a start and began to strike at something that had plagued her in her dreams. Whether it was because she was unused to punching people, was still half asleep when she made the attempt or was thrown off balance from her missing arm didn't matter. Fortunately Salvadore was able to twist enough in time so that she didn't break her remaining hand on his cuirass, and when she woke up enough to realize what she had done she grew horrified and fearful. Not embarrassed like Isabella might have, but trembling. Salvadore put on a reassuring smile. "Don't fret about it, I've woken like that myself before." He turned his back to her, ostensibly to study the signum solis propped like a shovel against the wall of the shack. It was an ignoble method of storing it, but for a one eyed girl who'd lost her arm and hadn't trained to handle a standard he could find little fault.
Judging that she had had time to present herself however she wished, Salvadore turned back around. "I'm proud of you, you know. I told you to act with courage and honor and you did not disappoint." Some of the shadows on her face lightened at that, which made her look younger. Still far older than she ought to look, but...better, by the Dove. What a terrible thing to say about a girl who just got mutilated body and soul. "You should know sooner rather than later that I discussed your fate with the knights of Mousillon with us. The hammer priest knows of a place in the Empire where such as you can go and learn. Until you get there, I suggest you stay close to either he or I." Salvadore wasn't sure why he included himself with Baasch, but for all that Baasch would be better prepared to handle witching it was evident that he had little talent for comforting frightened children, and perhaps that would be at least as important going forward.
A dozen emotions flashed across her face then. Fear of something warring with fear of something else, hope being strangled by something that with time would become cynicism, curiosity being tempered by pain. A small childlike joy and wonder was in there somewhere, the sole emotion a young girl her age should have felt from that bitter brew and it was the one that seemed the most out of place. "I understand, lord." She tried to bow again, but Salvadore waved her down.
"There's a time for such bowing girl, and now isn't it." He sat down carefully where she didn't have to crane her neck to look at him. "You've been brave, but it's okay to be scared. Now it's okay to be scared without being brave, at least for a bit, and I know you're hurting. So I'm here for you for now, and if there's anything you wanted to say I'll listen."
-
When Salvadore stepped outside the shack he found Baasch kneeling there, seemingly in prayer. One eye was closed and the other hidden under a bandage, but as Salvadore moved quietly past so as to not disturb the man the priest spoke. "Do not let sympathy for the girl blind you to the danger she poses."
Not looking at the Sigmarite, Salvadore responded in the same calm tone as the priest. "She is at least as much a victim in this as any other, and perhaps more."
"One who carries pestilence is a victim too, but it is foolish to embrace them all the same."
--
Renart was supposed to hold the crossing upstream, but it was difficult to follow the water's banks through briar and bramble and thorned tree so Salvadore followed the route he thought a pack of rampaging minotaur would have. They must move less gracefully than he in such close quarters surely, and they crossed at some point. He was aware that this did not mean he would encounter the woodsmen, but it was the best he could think of.
The forest was quiet. At first he thought this would be an aid, as any noise would travel and he could pick out any noise such men might make and they him, but it didn't take long before he realized that the forest smothered sound in addition to its hemovoric tendencies. If he could see star and sunrise he was confident that he could have found his way back to the village at least, but it wasn't long before stubbornness was what kept him from despairing of accomplishing his task, much less rejoining the column. So it was that with as much sense of curiosity as purpose that he approached the flash of white that he saw reflected among the trees.
It was a young woman wearing a simple peasant's dress, rough and torn but clean. A sunbeam had probably broken through the clouds for a moment, and as he watched she knelt down over something. Stepping closer, and making sure to create enough noise she didn't think he was trying to sneak up on her. As he did he heard the sound of sobbing, of pain no longer raw enough to scream to. Finally he heard the woman make wordless sounds of comfort, humming what was probably the same sounds of soothing that every mother crooned to their children to fend off nightmares and nightspooks.
"He was ever a gentle boy." The woman said as she reached into a pouch and drew out herbs and a poultice. "Even when they beat him, he would have grown to be a kind man." Deft hands applied the poultice to the wound on the wounded figure's abdomen where an arrow sprouted. "But then...." Salvadore realized then what he was seeing. The young woman was comforting a boy not yet old enough to shave that was sure to die by the end of the day. One of the boy's legs was normal enough for all that the other twisted to resemble that of a hind, reddish fawn fur covered his face, chest and arms and a single stubby horn protruded from his brow. If the ungor was flipped over Salvadore fully expected to see spots on his back, and yet what stuck out to him was entirely human eyes filled with fear and pain and a desperate loneliness.
Salvadore was already tired of seeing people in pain today. A number of half-formed notions too unformed to be called thoughts flashed through his head, a combination of alarm and doctrine and confusion and several inches of steel were bared for reasons he hadn't decided yet before the woman's stern glance of Don't. made him pause long enough for thought to catch up to reflex. Awkwardly, bashfully, he returned his sword to its scabbard before circling to face her properly, keeping his hands where she could see them. It was a bit absurd, he knew, as she was apparently the least skittish person here and yet.... He sighed. "It looks like a gut wound. Shallya herself might save him, but I don't know that anyone else can." Salvadore also thought a number of additional things, mostly to the tune of 'why are you trying to help a monster' but kept them to himself. Not so much from a fear of being rude but because there was a reason hidden behind the answer that asking that question would obscure.
It may have been his imagination, but she seemed to have flinched at the mention of the goddess. The poultice applied the woman tore a strip from her dress and dressed the wound, careful to not disturb the arrow. It was done in a confident fashion that bespoke more practice than anyone should have, and she didn't slow down at all when she responded. "He need not spend his final day in fear and agony, though."
Salvadore had difficulty arguing that. He could point out that others were in pain not so far away that could also use her aid but were human, that it would be easier and safer to finish the ungor off and put it out of its misery, that she put her soul at risk to aid even this pitiful agent of Old Night, and each of them were true but none would refute her claim. Moreover, he didn't see so much as a beltknife on her, and even had she a poison in her pouch what would kill the boy faster than his existing wound? So he sat quietly, thinking and observing as she comforted the monster that was a victim and the boy sobbed and whimpered and slowly fell asleep.
Eventually she set his head down gently and rose, her face pained but unsurprised, looking like she wanted to cry but had long since lost her tears. "Do you hear it?" She asked Salvadore. "There are gods who saw what happened to Little Tumas here, and they are laughing." The last words were spoken with a venom that Salvadore realized that no other word or action she had had countenanced.
Some thought in the back of his mind was shouting at him to pay attention to something, but he didn't let that distract him from responding. "May they choke on that laughter." Then, because his mother didn't raise him to be ill-mannered, he gave a little bow to what can only be a very pious Shallyan. "Little Sister, would you care to travel with us for a time? We can offer some degree of safety, and-" But she was already shaking her head.
"No. I have much more I need to do, and much of it in places you cannot take me. I thank you for your offer, but I must decline."
Salvadore caught her arm before she could leave. "Sister, please. I..." A Shallyan wouldn't act in her own interest, but that wasn't to say they couldn't be manipulated if you weren't afraid to be a bit of a bastard about it. "There is a girl who is hurt, she lost her arm and I worry about one of the many diseases here infecting her wound."
The woman frowned, and Salvadore fought to keep a look of victory off his face. Now she was going to come back with him and not be wandering the woods out here alone when there were monsters around and- "Here." She reached into her pouch again, and a simple wooden carving of a dove in flight wrapped in string was pressed in his hand. Wait, that was the hand that had been holding her arm. How had that happened? "Have her wear this, and change bandages on her arm regularly. Make sure they are boiled when applied as well, mind you. Now I really must go."
Wondering for a second how he had erred, he stared after where the woman had stood a second ago. She may have had a point about not going where he could take her, given that her woodcraft was apparently excellent while his own was...well, not as great as his seamanship. "Ought to build a boat that goes on land." He muttered. "Be civilized about this." Then his gaze landed on the dead ungor. One more thing left to do.
--
"What the hell is that." Baltasar told him. Which may be a good sign, if he was willing to talk to his nephew again. Salvadore added another corpse to those awaiting cremation. It had died of a gut wound not too long ago, but it wasn't a large body.
Salvadore feigned ignorance of his uncle's lack of a question. "A soul for Morr to judge that could use what rites we can give, uncle." The older man's face soured at that but didn't rebuke him, so Salvadore counted that as a win.
Baasch was watching as Chaglyn wrapped bandages around Amalie's stump of an arm. It was too distant to make out the words the priest was saying but to Salvadore it had the look of prayer. Healing a wound caused by witchery, or warding off evil from a witch? Would the Sigmarite's master condone such action or condemn it? Salvadore would not have thought the hammer priest would be able to do much for the girl, but he seemed to think he was able to perform some good where he was. Provided it wasn't filling the girl's head with empty prattle about worshiping some shirtless barbarian who let his hammer do his thinking Salvadore would let the priest have his say.
He passed where Alonsico was trying to organize the second group of peasants into a semblance of marching order with the help of the first. He probably would have been better off working alone, going by the sullen glares the two groups were shooting at one another, and without the looming threat of the beastmen Salvadore would expect blows to land soon even with his cousin there trying inexpertly to keep the peace. His favorite cousin, he reminded himself. Denying the urge to involve himself and fix the developing problem in such a way as to embarrass and undermine Alonsico, he resolved to keep an eye on it and if something unworkable developed he would make mention of it to the young man. Learning by doing was better than not learning at all, but learning a poor way did few any good.
It was Morfran he sought, and the knight he found. "I found neither hide nor hair of Renart. Were it not for a single arrow I would have thought they'd never been in that forest."
Morfran didn't respond with words, but the silence spoken covered some breadth of feeling, mostly concerning fools errands, the expected reliability of men of Renart's character and the wisdom of not lingering hoping to find them. Eventually what he chose to speak to concerned something Salvadore had given little thought since waking. "Do you still seek to command us?"
Salvadore blinked but quickly gathered his considerable wits to him. "The threat still lingers, but I'll not command a man who does not seek to heed me. We cannot progress sitting here, and I know not the way. You, sir knight, should set our path. If you will it I will command should steel be drawn, but if we are swift enough we should be able to escape the foe in their confusion."
--
The party, newly enlarged by the next round of peasants if not richer for their presence, was painfully slow and mulish to the Estalians' sensibilities. The peasants woke before dawn but took time gathering themselves and their meager supplies together to march. The frogwives were the worst, being slowest to get around, having to wrangle children and still finding time to quarrel among themselves. Which was not to say the men and children were much better, but where the swampers muttered and children taunted the frogwives denounced. When it was simply a matter of the first village's worth of peasants they knuckled quietly and made due, but with the second it seemed any source of friction between the two groups could be demonstrated between the frogwives. When children fought, their parents stepped in and escalated the quarrel. When some trinket was lost each was quick to accuse the other, and when it was found inncently by the side of the road it was clearly planted there by the jealousy of the harridens of that other village.
On the third day out of the village a fistfight between two of the frogwives broke out and Alonsico was there to break it up. He was able to take the frogknives from their hands but, due to his still rudimentary grasp of Bretonnian, could do little to disarm the situation. Salvadore, with his greater grasp of the language, explained their situation to them; if they were so full of energy they could waste it on pointless fights, they could waste that energy on pointless work. They would find a stone, hold it above their heads and run circles around the column singing "I am an idiot who wants to kill us all" until Salvadore thought they'd learned their lessons. While this did little to endear him to the women the fights ceased impeding their ability to move through the bogs, marshes and swamps of Mousillon, and the weight of their loads being borne by their fellow villagers did little to make either seem like a martyr for her cause.
It wasn't long before they encountered fragments of the warherd. Some of them charged, and were met by braced spears and a steady stream of stones cast by hand or sling. Those broke quickly and were not seen for some time. More shadowed and lurked, either too unsure or too patient to commit to a direct attack. Some of those were dispatched by a sally by Sir Morfran leading Baltasar and Alonsico, causing them to scatter. Each night though Salvadore stayed awake, letting a trickle of light escape that reservoir inside him, enough to be sure any of the Forest Men knew he was there, he was awake and he was armed. They didn't have any night attacks.
Amalie was awake and always seemed to know where he was during these patrols, which concerned Friedrich. "A strong will is crucial." He confided in Salvadore when the girl finally drifted to sleep. "In any who must face witchcraft, but especially amongst those who are submerged in it. She tires herself keeping watch of you, and that will not last." Salvadore was too fatigued himself to give a good answer, but hoped that they'd escape the mass of beastmen before too long.
--
There was a beaten track that appeared in the wilderness after a time. It looked more like a goat path than a road, but after so long in the wilds of Mousillon it was as though a grand thoroughfare. Morfran remounted as soon as there was space for his head above his horse, and it wasn't long before Baltasar followed suit. Salvadore decided to walk his horse further, entirely to spare the nag his weight and not at all as an excuse not to endure his uncle's suspicious glowers and pointed jibes during the trek, which meant he was eye level when he saw the owl on a branch. It was a fair specimen, sleek feathers and regal dignity that surveyed the party as it passed. For a moment Salvadore was going to offer his arm to it as a gesture of good will to Verena, until a magpie screamed by and knocked it from its branch, revealing that as fair as its front was, the back of the owl was covered in maggots and bared bone. Cursing, Salvadore jumped back from it before crushing the abomination under his boot.
"What was it?" Alonsico asked, sword half-drawn. "An attack?"
Doing what he could to wipe bird skull from his boot Salvadore sneered. He carefully did not respond to Alonsico with his first thought, "an omen", but after noticing that everyone else was looking at him and most were at least as on edge as his cousin he gestured them all to calm down. "It startled me, that's all." He said, half-true. "Probably nothing."
--
After almost a full week of, Salvadore was sure, being lost in Mousillon the party seemed to have escaped the beastman threat. Well, their threat went from 'imminent' to 'lurking' at least.
The party seemed to be leaving the godsbenighted marsh, and while the stony hills that began to replace them were no less inhospitable the change from sodden miserable slogging to uphill miserable trudging at least bore the virtue of novelty. Of course sharp pebbles found their way into boots, what trees there were universally seemed dead regardless of any environmental factor and the rain came and went in spurts, like jinete. The description was apt, he felt, as one minute the party was in the clear and then thundering up from some unexpected quarter came a torrent of rain that struck not with raindrop arrows but javelins for but a few minutes before retreating for a time. The inability to keep dry would have been distressing enough, but oft times flash floods would sweep down a gully and threatened to sweep the unwary away, be it man or horse.
When there was a break in the 'forest' canopy Salvadore was able to periodically readings of the sky. What he saw was...disconcerting, as though the heavens were maddened by something. The small momentary storms seemed as though they were meant to be part of a greater whole but were disorganized, fragmented. Upon discussing the weather with Sir Morfran the knight claimed that storms like such had appeared for as long as living memory, and perhaps a bit longer. Amalie asked why the sky couldn't decide if it should laugh like it should cry or cry like it should laugh. No one wanted to answer that question, though the priest's frown at her question was not entirely directed at her.
The day before they were to enter Clovis' holdings they killed, or re-killed or however the grammar worked with such, a pack of zombies wandering the countryside. It was hardly the only such pack, and the only reason to mention it was that three of them bore markings that Sir Morfran considered noteworthy. One, a man whose pudge was only partially brought about by postmortem bloat, bore the remains of a tattoo on his face, a black fleur d'lys. Upon discovering that the knight swore softly and insisted the rest of the bodies be stripped and checked. Two more such were found, brands this time. One upon a strong man's chest, the other upon the inner thigh of a peasant that had to be local.
Upon being pressed Sir Morfran informed Salvadore that the first man had been an Innocent, one of Maleagent's personal agents and the other two presumably indentured parts of his retinue. "I knew him only by sight and reputation. A Talebeclander in origin, his skill in bridge-building drew him to Artois where his employer found that he chiseled more than stone masonry. That and his sadism drove him to Mousillon, where his literacy and desperation caught the lord Maleagnt's eye. The big one" he gestured to the twice-dead man beside him being prepared for an impromptu funerary service "I saw in his company, providing strength of arm to compensate for the other's lack. A footpad who took the brand rather than the noose, I expect. The last is unknown to me."
"Any idea what they were doing out here?"
A shrug. "Were I to guess? The same as I, see what foolishness Clovis was getting himself up to. The man is too clever to fall for the simpler pitfalls of Mousillon politics, but either too stupid or too ambitious to fall in line with someone. He has a number of...not friends per se, call them like-minded lords who he does the heavy thinking for. If it's the typical foolishness it's something Lord Maleagent will need to respond forcefully to because it threatens everyone else in the duchy. If fortune smiles on us it kills the lot of them and the realm is made the better for their loss."
Salvadore waited a dramatically appropriate time before prompting the other man with the question he was clearly waiting for. "And if fortune shits in our stew?"
A grim silence before he answered. "Then it brings trouble from beyond the Cordon Sanitaire. Bordeleux is generally content to let us ferment in our own filth as they ferment in their grapes, and the lords of Lyonesse have enough trouble chewing the gristle of Mousillon's land they already stole from us while Artois couldn't agree on a course of action leading men into a whorehouse, but Bastonne is usually itching for an excuse to 'quell the brewing trouble of the Cursed Duchy', and Gervaisot has a grudge of some sort against Lord Maleagent. If he has the justification to raise his March into Mousillon, and it needn't be a sturdy one, he'll do it and that would be the end of my lord's tenure as the proper Duke." As ever the helmet covered his face, but Salvadore suspected there was a smile that had more in common with a wolf bearing teeth than a man expressing humor. "Well, perhaps."
Salvadore thought on that. The city of Mousillon would take a day to fall if both sides broke for lunch, and finding it wouldn't be difficult if the invaders simply followed the Grismarie. The river likewise would make supplies easy to transport, so invaders could march quickly if they had a mind and the discipline. Holes in the walls meant no need for a siege train, and given the likelihood of support from local nobles for the invaders an accurate read of force dispositions, so few chances for ambush. That said, while the knights would likely defeat the various horrors of the night more often than not, without the rites of blood and fire Morfran worked every night who knows what would face the invaders, not simply once and again but picking off peasant and paladin alike one at a time. Without a damsel it seems unlikely that the invaders would avoid such entirely, and a damsel's presence seemed to offer the sort of legitimacy that Morfran was implying the venture would lack.
So, defending the city would be committing to a lost cause. Fabian tactics perhaps, keeping the Bastonne knights in the field where Mousillon itself could weigh in. Even if they were able to keep knights from dying to Red Pox or the like, a knight didn't fight his best when his bowels turned to water. That would hinge on Maleagent's ability to keep the trust of his retainers, which seemed strained already. Would the ambitious seek to take advantage of the invasion to topple him, or would Morfran's distaste for foreigners be shared that they united in the face of a common foe? Salvadore wasn't sure, but he hoped Morfran wasn't slyly insinuating that he'd have a force of necromancers obedient to him, because that would be very disappointing to Salvadore.
"Well, we'll just have to ask this Lord Clovis nicely not to do something stupid." He said with slightly forced optimism. "I'm sure he'll be reasonable."
-
Clovis did not strike Salvadore as a reasonable man. His castle, called Drekmore by Morfran, seems to have been a grand affair once. Rough palisade patched holes in cut stone that in turn seems to have been built upon bones of elven fortifications long, long ago. The ancient halls might have been grand to see, and Salvadore might not have thought poorly of Drekmore had he seen only the modern fortifications, but as they picked their way through rubble that had clearly been something better to find a keep in keeping of the style of a bandit lord more than a chivalrous flower Salvadore felt...not cheapened per se, but lessened, perhaps robbed by the experience. This was no shelter for people to weather the spears of bandits or the jaws of monsters, it was a pitiful pile of stones a petty despot would cling to. "Like a once proud lily pad upon which the wartiest toad sits." he murmured.
Morfran silently seemed to agree with him, and Baltasar's frown shifted from annoyance at Salvadore in general to an annoyed but thoughtful one as he took a new look at the place. If you were quick and sly you could see creatures shifting about and hiding in the rubble. Salvadore was about to shout a warning cry of goblin ambush when he spotted a discarded hoe made of chicken bones lashed to a stick that lay abandoned near where a figure was cowering so as not to be seen. "Disgusting." Salvadore didn't try to hide the sneer from his face.
"The least unsightly are taken inside to serve as attendants." Morfran supplied. "You'll not need to endure their appearance for long."
"I fault not the peasants their misfortune. It is no fault of a sword that it is rusted and dull as it is the duty of its bearer to tend it, and so it is the duty of a leader, be it baron or bandit to see to the wellbeing of their followers." He nodded towards a pile of rubble where two figures were cowering behind. "What good reason is there to hide from a party small as ours in the light of day and with peaceable intent? Only that such brings ill-tidings for those seen, that I can see." Salvadore spat in disgust, despite the dryness of the air here making him yearn for a drink.
He could hear in Morfran's tone not disagreement but simply reluctance to take to the field of debate. "What virtuous and just lord do you think rules here? The Lady isn't in Mousillon this time of year. These lords keep the area free of wild and rot, which is more than most do and so my lord tolerates them." By the tone of his voice Salvadore suspected the knight caught himself before he said 'and their excesses'. "I do ask that you not quarrel with him as I understand you did with Lady Elaine. Not here."
That made sense, even if it stuck in Salvadore's craw. He made a face. "I will not turn away from insult he offers me, but nor will I seek it." Then he spat to clear the taste of those words.
The portcullis opened upon their approach, and a man with a build that would seem powerful outside of Bretonnia waved gaily for them to enter. Light glittered on the rings on his fingers and he even had a silk scarf around his neck, but Salvadore could see some scars on his neck and arms that he didn't get from a pie eating contest. Well, not one outside of those Halfling ones he'd heard stories about. His colors were yellow and brown, with a rampant creature Salvadore didn't recognize but seemed akin to a bear over his left breast. "Welcome, welcome! So, the old pauper's finally gotten reasonable, eh? And what's this? A new face, and with so many in tow. Are you looking to buy or sell?"
It took Salvadore a moment of thought to puzzle over Clovis' comment. A slaver, he realized. Salvadore did his best to keep his rising contempt out of his voice, mostly by putting it in his facial expression. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean." He considered dismounting but decided looking down on this creature might be productively misconstrued if it thought it was merely a height difference. "These peasants have been victim to a shocking laxity on the part of their protectors and are being relocated to more suitable place." He bared his teeth in what was technically a smile. "I do hope we can avoid misunderstandings on that point."
Rather than being intimidated Clovis laughed. "Of course, of course! My mistake. I hope you'll allow me to show my sincerity by inviting you to dinner tonight!"
Salvadore suspects this man is going to do something that strains the Estalian's sense of decency. How to respond to it?
[ ] [MANNERS] Swallow the bitter embers of outrage and indignity, they are in his seat of power and Morfran asked him not to rock the boat.
[ ] [MANNERS] Answer insults as they are due, with sharp tongue and if necessary sharp steel. There is a limit to his tolerance.
After being wined and dined, Salvadore expects to be allowed to inspect Drekmore. What catches his eye? CHOOSE TWO
[ ] [DREKMORE] The lands hidden from the road but visible from the castle, if you know where to look
[ ] [DREKMORE] The teetering old tower that seems uninhabitable, but for the lights on at its zenith.
[ ] [DREKMORE] The dungeons, always interesting to see what behaviors a lord punishes.
[ ] [DREKMORE] The seneshal's cupboard. A holding does not work without records, and Clovis does not seem a man to keep his own books.
[ ] [DREKMORE] The man himself. Get him talking, and try to keep from reducing the number of teeth he has.
Clovis took that line as meaning "I already have a buyer, and they're paying more than you," didn't he.
- Location
- Ireland
[X] [MANNERS] Swallow the bitter embers of outrage and indignity, they are in his seat of power and Morfran asked him not to rock the boat.
[X] [DREKMORE] The teetering old tower that seems uninhabitable, but for the lights on at its zenith.
[X] [DREKMORE] The seneshal's cupboard. A holding does not work without records, and Clovis does not seem a man to keep his own books.
[X] [DREKMORE] The teetering old tower that seems uninhabitable, but for the lights on at its zenith.
[X] [DREKMORE] The seneshal's cupboard. A holding does not work without records, and Clovis does not seem a man to keep his own books.
[X] [MANNERS] Answer insults as they are due, with sharp tongue and if necessary sharp steel. There is a limit to his tolerance.
[X] [DREKMORE] The seneshal's cupboard. A holding does not work without records, and Clovis does not seem a man to keep his own books.
[X] [DREKMORE] The lands hidden from the road but visible from the castle, if you know where to look
There is a Limit to patience, lest something Breaks
[X] [DREKMORE] The seneshal's cupboard. A holding does not work without records, and Clovis does not seem a man to keep his own books.
[X] [DREKMORE] The lands hidden from the road but visible from the castle, if you know where to look
There is a Limit to patience, lest something Breaks
DkArthas
CAPITAL IS TO BLAME
- Location
- Earth
- Pronouns
- They
[X] [MANNERS] Answer insults as they are due, with sharp tongue and if necessary sharp steel. There is a limit to his tolerance.
[X] [DREKMORE] The seneshal's cupboard. A holding does not work without records, and Clovis does not seem a man to keep his own books.
[X] [DREKMORE] The lands hidden from the road but visible from the castle, if you know where to look
[X] [DREKMORE] The seneshal's cupboard. A holding does not work without records, and Clovis does not seem a man to keep his own books.
[X] [DREKMORE] The lands hidden from the road but visible from the castle, if you know where to look
[X] [MANNERS] Answer insults as they are due, with sharp tongue and if necessary sharp steel. There is a limit to his tolerance.
[X] [DREKMORE] The seneshal's cupboard. A holding does not work without records, and Clovis does not seem a man to keep his own books.
[X] [DREKMORE] The lands hidden from the road but visible from the castle, if you know where to look
[X] [DREKMORE] The seneshal's cupboard. A holding does not work without records, and Clovis does not seem a man to keep his own books.
[X] [DREKMORE] The lands hidden from the road but visible from the castle, if you know where to look
Alexander89
Pet the pretty kitty? Y/N
- Location
- Italy
[X] [MANNERS] Answer insults as they are due, with sharp tongue and if necessary sharp steel. There is a limit to his tolerance.
[X] [DREKMORE] The lands hidden from the road but visible from the castle, if you know where to look
[X] [DREKMORE] The teetering old tower that seems uninhabitable, but for the lights on at its zenith.
[X] [DREKMORE] The lands hidden from the road but visible from the castle, if you know where to look
[X] [DREKMORE] The teetering old tower that seems uninhabitable, but for the lights on at its zenith.