A Day in the Life of Francesco Caravello
As a simple series of small shafts and metal mirrors allowed the first scraps of morning light to enter his chamber, Francesco Caravello stirred in his bed. After reluctantly throwing off his sheets, he walked over to the armor and equipment rack next to his desk and stripped his smallclothes. Though he ran from his flight before he was even a man, some traditions of the temple stayed with him. Slowly he girded himself in the cloth padding, and then the sturdy mail shirt, which had seen to his protection ever since his first successful cloth shipment to Myrmidens over 20 years ago. Layered atop, from the legs up, the finely wrought pieces of dwarfish plate, for which he was still making payments to the good Master Smith. He carefully picked up the master crafted blade of gromril, a gift of his king and a sign of his men's favor, and reverently strapped it to his side. The blade deserved a name, but...not yet, something deep in his heart told him. There needed to be more time. Lastly, Francesco hesitated, his hand hovering over the lid of the lead lined box on the desk. He steeled himself; Francesco Caravello was no Imperial stooge, frozen with superstition. Even these energies had their place within the structure of war. He unclasped the lid of the box to reveal the simple torc within, and placed it around his neck. He felt the energies seep into his countenance, filling it with the fire which inspired his men and which promised the immolation of his enemies. He takes a few moments to reflect on the battles ahead, metaphorical and possibly literal, before quickly putting the torc back in its box and removing some of the armor, though the blade and breastplate remained. He was no longer a simple merchantman or guard captain, but Dokazi Francesco Caravello, The Watcher of Death Pass, leader of the Undumgi and loyal servant of King Belegar.
At the side of his desk sat a simple meal of pie and ale, courtesy of his faithful aide, Rosie. Sitting down, he ate the meal quickly and got back to work looking over the written reports of his watch captains. Traffic had been increasing steadily as more and more caravans became willing to risk the journey, now that the beginning and end of it were as safe as his men and the might of dwarfs could make it. For the moment, personel requirements were not an issue, so increasing patrols was simply a matter of marking a couple of squads for additional patrols and less drills, but it was something to keep an eye on.
A small chime from the clock on his wall let him know that it was already mid-morning. Leaving a note thanking Rosie for the meal, Francesco threw on his cloak and made his way up the stairs to the eastern artillery platform. Living at the base kept him in touch with the men, and trying to use altitude as a form of authority was a lost cause as soon as the wizard claimed the peak. As he exited into the fresh air, he took in the sight of multiple weapons teams, each practicing their wheeling and calibrations with mock-up cannons of wood and rock, all under the supervision of the new Chief Bombardier, who currently was-
"Emmett, you slack-jawed ninny! That cannon ain't your sheepwife back home, you don't lead it! Throw that rope over your shoulder and HAUL!"
...providing moral support.
Catching the man's eye, Francesco waved him over. Oswald jogged over, slapping his back with a giant grin. "Franz, good man, glad you could join us! I was just making sure the lads were going through their proper paces."
"The drills are proceeding well?"
"Like a dream. Had some artillerists from Lhune drop by yesterday, offered some pointers. Ha! Those boys may not be able to grab the powder off the top shelf, but they sure know their way around a can- Luc, damn you, you'll snap your spine in two before you budge that thing!" He runs over and grabs the young man off the wooden cannon. "Get low, back straight, dig in and shove with your legs!" Demonstrating as he instructed, he threw his weight behind the artillery piece as the entire piece began to shift. In the same way, the two went by each squad, Oswald providing instruction in his own way as he filled Francesco in on progress and plans for the future.
"I'll have these boys slavering at the mouth by the time those pieces get in from Nuln! Speaking of pieces from Nuln, Franz, you're still in the market, right? I've got a cousin that was still single last I heard! Maybe I can send a letter up, you two can jump the broom, eh?" he said, ribbing his superior in the breastplate.
"I'll...give it some thought, Oswald. For now, I've got to be off."
"Well, if it's getting off you're worried on-"
"Goodbye, Oswald."
With that, Francesco quickly left the firing platforms and began descending the mountain steps. He managed to make it on time to his meeting with Magda Knochenbrecher, the local manager of the EIC. Magda, a portly woman in the beginning of her twilight years, quickly ushered him into her office.
"Mr. Caravello, so wonderful to have you in. Biscuit?" After he politely declined, she continued. "The input you had on our integration policies in our last meeting have been a godsend. Things have been much smoother ever since. I think we can easily expect an increase in growth from last season, and honestly I think we should start some long term planning for expansion, or we could end up the victims of our own success."
"Excellent foresight, Mrs. Knochenbrecher." Francesco said. "If you'll grab the maps of the interior chambers, I think we can start planning things properly." With that, the two sat down and hammered out a rough idea for economic zoning and planning that should help maintain both order and profit. With a hearty handshake, the two parted, and Francesco made his way back down the grand staircase to the base level.
It was already past midday, so the main mess hall was largely empty, but he still managed to find a stone bench with a few of his men and sat down to enjoy his stew with them. Most of the men were used to his presence by now, so they joined him in between mouthfuls in idle chit chat about patrols and the universal trials of filing reports. With a few laughs and waves, he returned his bowl and made his way back to work.
Francesco made his way through the grand and winding tunnels of Karak Nar, eventually coming to a large cave with several flumes to allow for the ingress and egress of air. There, a large man was bringing a hammer down in mighty swings, and slowly a sword came to life.
Antonio Marino, Francesco's old friend and current unofficial head of the Blacksmith's Guild. He quickly quenched the blade and wiped his hands on his apron, coming over to Francesco.
"My Dokazi, you grace my humble forge. How might I aid the Eight Peaks?"
"Well, first, Antonio, you can stop the formalities," Francesco said with a smile. "Then, you can tell me how our little project is going."
"Well enough, Francesco," Antonio said, returning his own smile. "The EIC has pulled in a lot thanks to the benefits they offer to members, but plenty of people have their own reason to avoid Imperial entanglements. They're more than happy to accept an offer to subsidize their dues."
"Good, keep things discreet, and help me feel out the other Guilds to expand the program." They spoke a bit more on those that refused affiliation with the EIC, as well as simple small talk, before Francesco said his goodbyes and went on his way. Though the EIC was a powerful ally, and a fairly honest one as well, the only eternal ally was Myrmidia. All others fell or turned upon you, and the only ones who didn't prepare for such an event are fools.
From there, he traveled along the halls and up the stairs to the mid levels, where the shrines had been set up. At the hall of Grimnir, he bowed his head and prayed that he and his warriors continue to have the strength to defend this ancient dwarfen home. At the shrine of Ulric, he prayed for the bravery and ferocity to strike down the foes before him. Finally, at the shrine of Myrmidia, he prayed for the wisdom to lead his men to victory, and to form his realm into one of culture and beauty. And if he lingered here a bit longer than the other shrines, who could say?"
"You're praying wrong," an obnoxious voice called from the entrance to the shrine.
Francesco sighed. "Prayer is a relationship between the Lady of War and the petitioner. There is no 'praying wrong'."
"And yet still you manage it. Honestly, I'm astounded." The voice dripped with smugness, and Francesco turned to see exactly who he expected. Salvatore, with a great deal of names after, an Estalian that had vexed him since the beginning of the now legendary campaign. He claimed nobility in his far-off homeland, though Francesco had yet to meet an Estalian who didn't. "I hope you didn't just come here to critique my religious practices?"
"No, that is merely a bonus," Salvatore responded as his smirk widened. "You see, I've picked up some very interesting news today." Despite all logic and reason, Salvatore had proved indispensable to Francesco due to a unique ability to wile out even the deepest held secrets from merchants traveling along the Spice Road. Apparently being an obnoxious ass was an entirely voluntary decision. "You are aware that the ogres of the eastern mountains have been more active in the past months, of course. But I spoke with a large man from Ind who managed to pick up a civilized tongue. He said that he was accosted by a large band of them, and some of their giant mounts. Demanded large portions of his caravan in tribute, but stayed true to their deal. Said he heard some of them grumbling to their leader, and the leader chastised them about a tyrante grande. Shut them right up. Could be that someone or something has started organizing the Ogres. Depending on their level of control in the area and tariffs, could be good for trade, could be bad. Time, and more loose tongues, will have to tell."
Francesco smiled. "Keep up the good work, Salvatore, and I won't have to have you tied up and sent on the next caravan east as food for them. Save you the trouble of doing honest work."
"Ah, but then you would be bereft of any decent conversation!" Salvatore said with a laugh. With a wave and an 'adios', he was gone.
Checking a clock for the time, Francesco quickly made his way to the outer edge of the mountain, exiting a small cave mouth and down a flight of steps to the stables. He brushed and tacked his warhorse, Sirroco, and managed to mount him just as Soizic arrived on her own steed.
"My Dokazi, a pleasure as always," she called with a smile. "Come, we will continue our lessons on the northern fields." She led the way to the battleground, and picked up where she left off on ensuring that the leader of all men of the mountain didn't embarass himself on a horse.
"You must remain ready to respond with the shield!" she cried out as she continued to probe his defenses. "It must defend not only you, but your horse as well." True to her words, she swiped low to cut at Sirocco, but he was able to intercept. "Good, good! You and your mount fight as one. He is your legs and you are his arms. Each must see to the other to be victorious."
The back and forth of combat went on for quite some time, and soon the sun was beginning to dip into the western peaks. They paused for a moment, he panting heavily and she only mildly winded. He looked over to her, and nodded. "...Thank you, for...seeing to this."
She looked surprise for only a moment, then composed herself. "It is your duty as a ruler to lead and inspire the men. It's my duty as your subordinate to see you don't kill yourself doing so. This is only a part of that." Looking over at him with a playful gleam in her eye, she smiled. "Another part of one's duty is to see to the security of those who come after us. Tell me, with so much work you've done to bring in companions from the Empire and the broken lands, why do you remain alone?"
"Well, one must be prudent and look for a proper match," Francesco said, as a wicked thought sprouted in his head. "For you, for instance. A man of great valor, and martial strength, but also with kindness and a gentle side. One who might understand what it is to try and reconcile their culture with the circumstances of their birth." Soizic's expression became distressed as she realized where this was going. "Why, you'd have to be very lucky indeed to run into such a man."
She glared at him, and before he could react, her wooden greatsword ducked under his idle guard and slammed into his chest with enough force to knock him out of his saddle and onto the ground. He struggled to a sitting position as Soizic dismounted. "I thought we were finished for the day," he said, wheezing through the pain.
"You are the Dokazi. You should have been more watchful," she said simply, extending a hand and helping him to his feet. Then she smiled. "But thank you." With that, they rode together back to their home mountain.
Rubbing his bruises, Francesco made his way back to his quarters, finding his evening meal on the table. After dinner, he spent the rest of his time at his desk, going over a small pile of paperwork and slowly compiling his monthly report. That montella had yet to respond to any of his reports, and he wasn't entirely sure if she even read them, but still he prepared them every month. Then, as the clock chimed 10, he killed the lanterns and knelt beside his bed, hands clasped to his heart in the form of eagle's wings. Quietly, he thanked his goddess for her protection along the long and winding road that led him to this land, and this opportunity. He swore again that he would not waste any of it.
Had this idea for quite a while, but then you guys go on and vote to have him in a social vote, and utterly tank my ability to procrastinate. I hope you're all proud of yourselves.
