A Wanderer's Counsel
Twenty-Seventh Day of the Fifth Month 293 AC
The mummery begins in earnest, though there is truth at its core. You greet the Lord of Gulltown with the sort of nervous diffidence of smallfolk before seeking audience, another subtler layer even hinting that perhaps 'Dywen' wasn't one for talking to other folk at all in the usual run of thing, a loner or a hermit long away from civilization: "The trap you suffered in, milord, was one aimed on both sides I fear," you motion to his tightly-wrapped shoulder before letting your eyes fall to the ground once more, as though cowed by the surprise and suspicion suddenly fallen upon you.
"And how do you know of such doings?" the lord snaps. Then moderating his tone he adds, "I am not one to strike the messenger's head from his shoulders for ill news."
"It was a ruse, my lord, an attempt to make you lash out blindly against your neighbors to the ruin of all." These words you speak with far more confidence than any you had before, subtly strengthening the notion that you speak truth, at least as you know it. So saying you hand him a coin pouch heavy with tainted coins, taken from the devils. Many are worn and old tarnished silver, brass turned green from age, but upon each one a leering devil's face can be seen. "Do not touch them with your bare hands," you warn, though you are quite certain it is safe. Fear is a flower that must be carefully tended, at least if one wishes to push a man to act a certain way rather than lash out blindly.
"Where did you get this?" Lord Grafton pales like a man confronted with a ghost... or foresight made flesh.
"I took them from among those responsible for the attack..." you begin.
"You stole them?" he asks, gratifyingly surprised.
"I have no intention of spending
that on any earthly goods, and neither would any man of good sense," you reply fervently, but truthfully. "One cannot steal such a coin save in the way one might be said to steal a goblet filed with poison from a drinker's lips."
"Go on," the Lord of Gulltown continues, unconsciously leaning forward in his seat, far too hungry for answers,
any answers, to bother with picking apart your rather broad tale.
"Lord, I am not a warrior..." you motion ruefully to the coarse brown robes you appear to be wearing. "I do not live by the sword, though I have perhaps foolishly risked dying by it all too many times. Before I speak on, I would ask of one thing of you."
Silence is your only answer, growing impatient but not so much as to interrupt with another question, and so you continue meeting the lord's sea-green gaze squarely with your own. Again you speak honestly in the midst of deception. "Lord, I ask for mercy for those you have taken captive or at least for their kin. I have walked among them in their villages and I have seen how they live. They try to survive in the barren mountains, for these inhospitable ranges are the only place where they are not hunted down like beasts. I will not,
cannot defend their deeds, but neither can I find it in my heart to damn them for what desperation has driven them to."
"You have lived a charmed life, brother, to have come away from the wildling's holds still able to pity them," the lord snorts. "Were they truly so desperate they might come down from the mountains and work the land or herd goats like decent folk. Some have done so before, breeding with the people of the Vale until the wildness has gone from their blood."
Hearing the answer you hide a grimace. Men are not horses or donkeys to be spoken of so, like unruly beasts fit for culling and keeping at a lord's pleasure. Mad as the clansmen's notion of never kneeling may be, you begin to have an inkling from what seeds it must have sprung. Still, you have a task and a role to play. "The Maiden calls for mercy upon all, but these people were never shown any. Instead we reward those who are said to do the Father's and the Warrior's work by slaying them wherever they are found. And now, in these dark days, vile things walk among us, their hearts forged from hatred and their will bent only on ruin. The true enemy walks among us unseen, fanning the flames of senseless hatred, and the Seven watch silently as we tear each other apart," you finish, contrite but not wavering.
"So then you would hide the truth from me, against a promise of mercy?" The question is almost disbelieving. "Do you know how many ways I know to loosen a man's tongue?"
You lower your head, taking note of how the threat wavered on his lips. This is not a man who put many to the torturer's attentions, and it is clear to you at least that he has no real desire to start with a holy man.
"'We all must do as our spirit guides us, for in that spirit one can hear the still, small voice of the Gods whispering wisdom'," you answer softly.
"That is not an oft spoken verse, yet you speak it with great confidence," Lord Grafton replies after a long while. "Tell me then, what manner of man you are and how you came to live among the savages in the hills in peace, that I may judge the weight of your words by their proper measure."
What do you reply?
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OOC: Things have been working out so far but this is a real hard sell. You are going against millennia of hatred and distrust reinforced by constant low level warfare.