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| >> Campfire Creative >> Fiction >> Fantasy >> ID #1615764 |   |
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| [Introduction]
That's "Namia," not "Narnia." With an "m". No talking animals. Before I get into it, let me explain my intention here. For a while now, I've been a bit burnt-out by the deep, serious stories I've been working with. What is needed now, I think, is something simpler and easier, more free-flowing. That's what this campfire is: a new writing excercise to rekindle the fires of creativity. This is a typical-ish fantasy RPG, not really meant to be taken too seriously. Let's use this to bounce ideas around, and possibly inspire each other. This takes place in the fantasy kingdom of Namia, which is rather isolated from the rest of the world but has it's fair share of problems. Vengeful dragons, brutal ogres, and scheming wizards all threaten to shatter the peace of this idyllic realm. Will you come as a hero or a villain? |
 neohuman  Here we go. As stated above, the primary intention of this campfire is for practice and inspiration for fantasy writers. Use it to practice character development, setting, mood, plot, or whatever it is you feel you need to work on. This story will be set in Namia, which is more or less a typical fantasy kingdom. For flavor, I am very loosely modeling it after medieval France. So feel free to use the word ”bonjour” here and there, or refer to castles as ”chateaus”. You will write from the perspective of a character, or if you choose, more than one. I would prefer it if you write in third person, just to stay consistent. You are free to make your character or characters be anything you choose, so long as they could conceivably fit into a medieval fantasy setting, and so long as they aren’t so powerful as to be omnipotent. In fact, character flaws are a good thing; they make your characters more believable and realistic. Your character can be a hero or a villain, or just a person trying to do the best they can with whatever hand they’ve been dealt. Really, your characters can be motivated by whatever you choose: helping others out of kindness and charity, acquiring fame and fortune, gaining power to lord over others, etc. Don’t think too much. Just write. Do your best, but don’t worry too much about whether your writing is good enough. We’re not going for a bestselling novel here; this is just practice for those who need it, and for those who need a break from the serious stuff. Lastly, we’re going to make up the plot as we go along. I generally will try to keep this as a fantasy adventure role-play type story, and keep it directed as such, but anything beyond that is open. This can be a silly comedy, a heartbreaking tragedy, a morbid gothic horror story or a touching romance. It’s up to you, the writers, where we want to take it. I’ll start us off with a basic setting and introduction, just to get the ball rolling: The kingdom of Namia has been sheltered from the conflicts and intrigues of the outside world for decades, by the insurmountable Chartasseus Mountains in the north and the Far Ocean in the south. Its capitol city, Jindel, is a thriving center of trade, and its harbor is constantly bustling with seafaring merchants from the farthest reaches of the world. For nearly a century, Namia has been at peace, protected by the legendary Silver Dragon Knights and watched over by its benevolent king, Reynald IV. But trouble lurks in the shadows, threatening to break the calm. The ogres of the northern mountains, which generally keep to themselves, have attacked Namia’s iron mines and taken them over. As iron is one of Namia’s chief exports, this could be debilitating to the economy if the ogres aren’t driven out soon. That ogres would specifically only attack iron mines is strange enough, but the ogres were also armed with expertly-forged steel weapons, rather than the crude clubs and axes they usually wield. This implies that the ogres were supplied by a third party that somehow stands to profit from depriving Namia of iron. No one is officially suspected of sponsoring the ogres, but there are rumors among the peasants that the kingdom of Serdia, to the northeast, is somehow involved. King Hans von Drakenhof III of Serdia has so far chosen to ignore such allegations. For the purposes of this story, I’m choosing to dispense of the typical campfire bio format, and instead just ask for a short description of your characters. Here are mine: Autumn Fay: Autumn is the identical twin of Sonnet, and the two of them couldn’t be less alike. She is a bright and cheery girl of only seventeen, ever optimistic and good-humored. She loves music, and her most prized possession is her beautifully-crafted oak harp. Unlike her more violent sister, she makes her living as a street performer, moving from place to place. She juggles, plays her harp, and dances in the streets for spare coin. Recently, though, this profession has been much more difficult for her. Almost two weeks ago, she encountered her sister, who attacked her for seemingly no reason. Sonnet cut off Autumn’s left hand with her sword, and would have killed her if Autumn hadn’t stabbed out Sonnet’s eye with her dagger. Sonnet fled, leaving Autumn to bandage her wrist and try to stay as positive as usual. Sonnet Fay: Sonnet is the identical twin of Autumn, and the two of them couldn’t be less alike. She is a bitter and dark-humored teenage girl who sees life as a joke, and herself as the butt of it. Unlike her more frivolous sister she has chosen the life of a thief, and occasionally, assassin. She is a skilled swordswoman, but also has a fond affinity for stealth, lies, poison arrows, and booby-traps. Her most recent mark was her own sister, who an anonymous employer hired her to kill for unknown reasons. The pay he offered was more than Sonnet was likely to make in an entire year, so she didn’t hesitate in accepting the job. Sonnet caught up with Autumn nearly two weeks ago, and attacked her in open daylight with her sword, thinking that her sister would be unarmed and easily dispatched. On the contrary, Autumn drew a dagger and wielded it better than she could have expected. Sonnet managed to cut off her twin sister’s hand, and was about to finish the job, but Autumn stabbed Sonnet in the eye out of desperate self-defense. Sonnet was overwhelmed with pain and forced to flee. Since then, she has been trying to get used to wearing an eye patch, and has been planning revenge against her sister. Quaddy Remy Gabriel St. Michel:Remy is a troubadour, a traveling musician whose primary customers are the nobles and royals of Namia, including even the King himself. Handsome, talented, and oh-so-charming (as well as young and vital, at only twenty-three), Remy is very much en vogue with the women of court, who dote upon him constantly. He is a rogue and a prankster with an uncommon talent for both the pipe and fiddle, as well as a wonderful singer and teller-of-tales. No one seems to notice, however, that Remy is uncommonly well outfitted and wears clothing the likes of which most troubadours would never see, even the most successful. Or that he is extraordinarily educated, which would suggest learning at the hands of the monks of St. Jacques Delacroix. In fact, only the most observant would even notice the slightest accenting of his Namian speech, which betrays him for a Serdian by birth, even if anyone can tell he is of Serdian descent. There is a dark past to Remy, however, that even the casual observer cannot help but notice in a quiet moment. His extraordinary eyes, golden-green like the leaves of an oak in high summer, darken and cloud and Remy chews on his lower lip, lost in thought. And his hands, though calloused and bruised like any musicians, have scars and marks that bespeak of torture in his past. If he were to shave the hair from his head completely, his scalp has rune-like shapes carved into it, which no Namian could read, but any Serdian would understand: a criminal's tattoo. He keeps these things hidden behind a charming smile and booming laugh, but everyone in Namia knows that there is a story that Remy isn't telling. No one is willing to ask him, however, lest he reveal something they'd rather not hear. neohuman Sonnet walked leisurely through the bustling streets of Jenais, a large village some eighteen miles east of the capitol. Her black cloak brushed softly across the cobblestones, and her footfalls were nearly inaudible. Her dark hood shadowed her features- hauntingly beautiful, fair-skinned, her bright green eye shining as though by eldritch power. Excepting her eye patch, she looked indistinguishable from her sister.She had failed; her sister yet lived, and the fortune she may have earned had been snatched right out of her grasp by the cruelties of fate. Rather than reclining in a bed of silk and savoring the spoils of bloody victory, she was yet still resigned to stalk the shadowed streets as a petty cutpurse. In the crowded marketplace, she so happened to trip and collide with a rotund, bearded man. She pulled herself away from him at once. “Oh, I pray thee sir, please forgive my clumsiness.” “Be more careful, woman,” the man snapped. “You’re lucky you didn’t hurt me, or I’d slap you so hard…” “I beg your forgiveness, good sir,” Sonnet pleaded with feigned sincerity. The man waved her away dismissively, and continued on his way. As Sonnet turned a corner, leaving the marketplace and its busy crowds, she weighed the bearded man’s coin pouch in her palm. “Hmph, a few lousy coppers…” she murmured to herself, annoyed. “Why do I even bother with these fools?” A procession of praying monks in humble robes crossed the street about a block in front of her. A brief memory flashed through Sonnet’s mind: her and Autumn as children, standing naked and afraid in the confession booth. Father Geoffry, one of the priests, stood over them. “Don’t be afraid, girls,” he said soothingly. “You’re doing a good thing for God. You do want to do good things, don’t you?” Sonnet shook the memory away. She clenched her fists in anger, and gritted her teeth. If she had her way, every one of those self-righteous fakers would pay. Her target was just ahead. Sonnet took a furtive look around to make sure that she wasn’t being watched, and then knocked on the door of a humble cottage. A homely peasant woman with a dirty scarf tied over her head answered the door. Sonnet made her best effort to appear timid and afraid. “I… I’m sorry to bother you, m-madam, but I… well, I’m lost and alone. My family and I wanted to c-come to Jenais to st-start a new life, and leave the iron m-mines behind, but we were am-ambushed by bandits on the road. They k-killed everyone and only I got away.” “Oh, my!” the woman exclaimed, concerned. “You poor dear…” “Please, madam, no one else will help me. I’m scared and hungry, and I don’t know what to do…” with a slight amount of effort, a few tears streamed down her cheeks. “You poor dear,” the woman said again. “Please, come in. There’s some porridge on the stove. It isn’t much, but it will at least keep the cold at bay.” Sonnet let herself be led into the meager dwelling. It was a foul place, just like any peasant home of mud and straw. Two small children lay curled up next to a sleeping goat for warmth, and animal droppings littered the floor, which was merely a crusty wool rug thrown over the dirt. Who would pay to have this woman dead? What was her life worth, when sickness or hunger was just as likely to take her anyway? It made no sense. But, business is business, Sonnet thought to herself. “You are a very kind woman,” Sonnet said. “I appreciate your hospitality, truly I do.” The woman turned towards Sonnet and smiled warmly. “Such a sweet girl.” Sonnet gracefully slid towards her, so that their faces almost touched. “I’m very sorry to have to do this, madam, but I must survive on more than mere porridge.” Just as she planned. No time for hesitation, no time for doubt, nor mercy or kindness. There was only the moment, the kill, the rush of death that led ultimately to the jingle of coins. Yet, for some reason, Sonnet almost hesitated. She almost didn’t want to kill this kindly old woman. Almost. Sonnet’s left hand went over the woman’s mouth, stopping her from screaming as her eyes went wide with terror. The small, sharp knife in her right hand came up, and across the woman’s throat, cutting easily through the skin and muscle to let the blood flow freely. The woman flailed helplessly, gasping desperately. Sonnet put a hand behind her head and laid her down gently in a bed of hay. She stood back up, bowed her head, and crossed herself. Looking over at the two children, she saw that they were sound asleep. What a surprise they would have when they awoke. How horrific the sight would be, how fearful their fate. How cruel the world must be, how unloving God must be, to do such a thing to mere children. Guilt stabbed Sonnet through the heart, chastising her with powerful pangs of regret. She shook them away. There was no room for kindness or mercy. Not in this world. The strong would always prey upon the weak, and she would rather be strong. Sighing deeply at what she had done, Sonnet strode out of the cottage, shutting the door behind her, and walked away. “I’ve done as you asked,” Sonnet spoke softly into the ear of the dirty, gruff man sitting in the corner of the tavern. He reeked of much worse things than alcohol as he clutched the empty bottle in his hand. He looked up at Sonnet, swaying and trying to focus on her, and smiled. “Say it,” he drawled. “I wanna hear you say what you did.” Sonnet looked around the tavern. It was mostly empty, but that meant it was quiet, and those few who sat nursing bottles at their tables were likely to overhear anything odd. “Here? Where we might be overheard?” “Say what you did,” the man said again, more persistently, his hazy eyes narrowing. “I want you… to realize… the evil thing you did. No delusions, and no excuses. Say what you did.” “I did what you told me to do,” Sonnet said through gritted teeth. “I did exactly what you hired me to do. Why are you asking this, drunkard?” The man leaned in close, and Sonnet could smell his rancid breath past his rotten teeth. “I may be drunk, but you’re a murderer,” he smiled broadly. “I can choose to be sober. But you’ll always be a murderer, like it or not. You killed a good and honest woman, living in poverty with two children.” “Is that why you hired me, fool?” Sonnet asked, trying to keep her voice from shaking at the strangeness of this. “To test my character? Is this some sick question of morality?” “Ha! Nah…” the man’s head slumped forward, and he stared down at the floor. “Tha woman what you killed was my wife. She said I couldn’t see my children anymore, until I stopped drinking. Well, I sure showed her, didn’t I? Haha!” “She was hardly worth the effort,” Sonnet replied grimly. “Just pay me what you owe, so that I can leave this festering pit. That is, if you haven’t already spent it on ale…” “I have your money right here,” the man held up a bulging pouch of softly clinking coins. “Worth every copper. Yep, well worth it, to rid myself of that nagging witch.” The man tossed the pouch aimlessly into the air. Sonnet caught it deftly and, just as quickly, hid it away in her cloak. “You’re disgusting, old man. I hope you rot in hell.” The man gave her a rotten-toothed grin in return. “Oh, I look forward to seeing you there, beautiful. Ha!” Leaving the tavern, Sonnet rubbed her temples and closed her eyes, thinking. Too much seemed wrong to her. Too much seemed out of place, and it made her uneasy. Opening her eyes with resolution, she strode purposefully down the street, until after a few blocks she came to the cathedral at the center of town. She pushed open its heavy wooden doors and crept quietly inside. The smells reminded her of her childhood. Horrible, sick memories, but childhood memories nonetheless, and she couldn’t help but feel a little fondness towards them. She crossed the smooth tiled floor under the gaze of stained-glass saints, and sat down in the confession booth. “Welcome, child,” said the priest. “Tell me, what’s on your mind?” “Forgive me, father,” she said, “for I have sinned.” --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Pain. There’s no other word that could suffice. It seared through Autumn’s arm, wracking her with violent spasms of agony. She cried out, tears running down her cheeks as she held the bandaged stump where her left hand used to be. “Why… won’t it stop hurting?” she asked aloud. It was strange, as well as painful, to try to move a hand that was no longer there. So many times, now, she had tried to grab something with her left hand, only to simply bump her scabbed wrist into it and feel shocks of pain course through her. “Okay… okay… deep breaths, Autumn.” She rocked back and forth on her tailbone, trying to compose herself, as she sat cross-legged among a copse of trees in the woods near the village of Rouneirs. “You can do this. You can bear this.” For a long, quiet moment, she did nothing but focus on her breathing, eyes closed. The pain was still there, still crashing over her like ocean waves. Little by little, however, it became smaller, less important, as she found a place of peace inside herself, beneath the pain and beyond it. She opened her eyes and looked at her beautiful, polished harp, its strings gleaming in the sunlight like fresh spider silk. She would try again. She wouldn’t give up. She reached out for the harp and, gingerly, lifted it and brought it to her lap. She rested it against her body, enjoying the way it felt close to her, a companion more dear and valued than any living, breathing person had ever been. “Algernon,” she whispered the harp’s name, a secret name which no one had ever heard but her. She whispered it the way a mother would whisper to a sleeping child, or the way a woman would whisper to a lover. Adjusting herself to feel comfortable with the instrument, holding it delicately with her hand and her still-hurting wrist, she took one last deep breath, and began to play. Playing a harp became very different with only one hand. It was slower, and everything she played sounded incomplete, like a puzzle with half of the pieces missing. It was eerily discordant, and it made her shiver. Yet, it was still beautiful. As it ever was, playing Algernon was still an act of bright joy and tender love. As she ran her fingers adroitly across his strings, he in return breathed his music into her soul. The song that she played was slow and vague, like a meandering daydream of a man half-asleep. It was the pleasant peace of the forest. It was the throbbing pain of her arm. It was the deep, sorrowful hurt she felt towards her sister. It was everything she felt, everything she was, at that moment beneath the shade of the cork and crab-apple trees that surrounded her. And then, it was nothing. Algernon slipped from her grasp, sliding along her wounded arm, and she was surprised to find that she couldn’t catch it with a hand that simply wasn’t there. In the attempt, Algernon’s body bumped against her tender wrist and sent a horrible torrent of pain washing over her all over again. “NO!!” she cried out, both with the pain and the loss, as Algernon tumbled down the sloping hill and landed hard against the rocks, splintering in two. “Algernon! No!! No…” Weeping with sharp, panicked breaths, Autumn jumped and skidded down the hill, and was in the next second kneeling beside Algernon. “No… God, please…” She lifted the broken harp with her hand and her agonized wrist, ignoring the physical pain, as it was a small speck next to the enormity of the loss she now felt. She held Algernon tightly to her breast, bawling, as her salty tears fell softly upon the beautifully-carved, polished oak. Quaddy "Remy, oh Remy! Do come and play!" To this day Remy could not ignore the softness of his name spoken through a pair of Namian lips. Perhaps it was the way the 'R' rolled just slightly or the accentuation of the 'me', a reminder that yes, Remy, it is you to whom we wish to speak. And in all the years, in all of his travels, he had yet to meet women who could compare to the jewels of King Reynald's court. There were others, oh yes, in far off palaces whose lustiness far outshone and out glittered these blooming flowers, but none, in all of Remy's years, were as obliging with their gifts. He had tasted most of them and now found himself addicted to their musk and sweat. No other meal would do so much again."Ah, m'lady Tremain, you are looking most becoming this morning." Without further ado, Remy slipped his silver pipe to his lips and trilled out a simple tune, beautiful and enticing, much like the woman to whom it was dedicated. As a finishing flourish, Remy suddenly reached out a graceful hand and squeezed one substantial breast, pleased as ever that Namia had not taken to the restricting fashions of other, more prudish, courts. Obliging as always, the Lady giggled and slapped at his wrist, but made no other move to remove his hand. No doubt her mind flashed to their last encounter, before her husband had returned to court from the latest attempt to reacquire the mines. The bruises and scratches along her delicate skin had healed by now if Remy's were any indication, but the memory of them would linger. The sound of cards slapping on the table startled Remy just slightly, though he careful concealed this behind a charming smile. "Remy! You are quite distracting Amie from our game, you rogue! It is her turn and she can barely concentrate. You must pay all of us such attention so as to remind her that she is our equal in experiencing your lusts." Seventeen-year-old Adele Agemois had been a virgin when she'd come to Reynald's court four years earlier. Said obstacle had been removed within a week of accepting Remy's attentions, and had become an almost weekly occurrence since then, provided of course that Remy was in attendance. Troubadours did not stay put long, Remy reminded them all, despite the pretty pouts of charming women. "I daresay, that tongue of his is good for much more than wit and song." Golden-green eyes sparked as Remy thought of Adele's head tossed back, mouth open in unsounded pleasure, skirts swirling about Remy's back and hips as his head delved into the treasure troves. Adele had, in the three years he'd known her, become something of a raging beast that Remy could not, for all his tricks and stamina, silence. Not that he minded, of course; she was very much a delicious beast. Beyond that, Remy had discovered, was a voracious mind and equally sharp wit. And, for all his womanizing, Remy St. Michel loved only one woman and that was his untamed Adele. It was dangerous, Remy knew, for a troubadour to truly fall in love, but he had. And most fervently. Worst of all, it seemed that the lady Adele returned his amorous affections in her own, feminine manner. That she had not yet been married off to some balding old man was due, in large part, to her own efforts. To remain at court and the man she loved. Remy St. Michel. Whose real name she didn't even know. Such memories were dangerous, as well, Remy reminded himself. Wulf Hanson, first son of King Hans of Serdia, was dead, marked and hanged as a criminal, given to the gods in sacrifice. Remy St. Michel, unknown troubadour, had emerged from the hangman's noose barely alive, spared by the gods for some unknown reason. And while Wulf Hanson might have bargained for Adele's hand, Remy St. Michel could taste her and hold her love, but he could never truly claim her as his own. "Remy, you really mustn't allow yourself such guilty thoughts," Amie Tremain declared. Remy started and smiled, as was his wont, and shrugged. "I was merely guilt-ridden on Adele's behalf, for I have ruined your game most abominably, and thought it would be best to be silent so that you two may continue. I am most happy to simply watch and take an occasional peek." With that, Remy reached over and pushed aside Adele's skirts, revealing two perfectly rounded calves. In court, such sights were scandalous, though Remy had seen much more than these ladies' calf muscles. As intended, both women giggled charmingly, though Remy noticed that Adele did so more for Amie's benefit than out of true enjoyment. Another danger of falling in love and being fallen in love with, Remy thought, was that you began to understand the other person far too deeply to ever be safe from them. And Adele's eyes, the color of the sky at midnight, showed far too much understanding for Remy's taste. She did not know the particulars--only one other person in this palace did and he would not share it--but she definitely felt the enormity of such a story. If only it were a different one, Remy thought; I might turn it into a tale, then, and tell them my story without their knowing it. It could make for some interesting repartee in the future. "Well, ladies, as much as your beauty as only whetted my appetite for pulchritude, I must be off. The king has summoned me into his chambers and one cannot ignore the king." Bowing, Remy took each woman's hand and kissed it deeply, enjoying the lust in Amie's and the simpler pleasure in Adele's. Then, with one last glance at Adele, he was off down the corridor. It was time for business. And it was a business that Remy did not much enjoy. The door to the council chamber stood shut as Remy approached, but the guards on duty opened it as soon as they recognized his personage. As such, by the time he reached the entryway, it stood fully opened and Remy could see that Reynald was alone within, hands absently tugging at a beard that seemed to have turned ten shades grayer since Remy had last seen him. "Enter," Reynald called out. Bowing deeply, Remy obliged, and bowed again as he crossed the threshold, maintaining that position until he heard the doors behind him close. "So, Wulf, what have you learned from Caledon? Are they involved in our mine disaster?" Taiah Tihana VesnaTihana is one of fallen nobility. The Vesna family was once one of the most prominent families in Namia. Tihana's father served as an adviser to the king. No one really knows what happened, but one day the king ordered him to be executed and his family along with him. Tihana wasn't home when the guards invaded her home. It wasn't known that the family had a daughter, so she wasn't hunted. Since then she has been living the life of a mercenary.As with all noble families, Tihana was taught how to use a sword. She thought about cutting her long, brown hair but she couldn't bring herself to do it so now it rests in a low pony tail, out of the way. She has the blue-almost violet eyes of her family, a fact she tries to hide with a black hooded cloak. As with all nobles, she is very prideful and it is not beneath her to insult someone she feels is lower than her, which happens to be most people. Sometimes she may hold her tongue in order to finish a job or if she has a little respect for that person. _____________ "Welcome back to the guild, little one. Here for a while or are you just passing through?" The guard at the entrance of the mercenary guild in Jenais always called Tihana 'little one' despite her efforts to get him to stop. Soon enough, she stopped caring, then she began to take a liking to it. He is the only one she allows to call her something other than her name. He was one of the few that had her affection, however little it was. The guild was a fairly large building on the outskirts of Jenais. It was the only mercenary guild located east of the capitol so it got many jobs at it's many branches in Namia. "Passing through," Tihana replied in a quiet, yet menacing voice. Everything she said always seemed to hold a threat. It has always been like that, after her family was taken and killed. It seemed like it was an eternity ago, even though only three years had passed. At first, Tihana didn't know what to do, but an old man took her in and once he saw her skill with a sword, suggested she join the guild he once lead. Her first job was supposed to be an easy one; a simple arrest of a thief. The thief, however, had some friends with him. Tihana was searching outside some unnamed village for a small hut her source told her the thief would be. It wasn't hard to find, the smell of meat cooking lead her straight to it. She expected to find him resting, tired after the job he had done. What she didn't expect was the three other men resting with him. She had no chance of surprising them when the birds were spooked and they were alerted to her presence. Tihana smiled at the memory, those men were easy opponents. They had no idea how to fight with weapons they carried. She was skeptical when she first accepted the job, but the fight made her realize that she enjoyed fighting. As a mercenary, she had an easy time searching for worthy opponents. The guild building doubled as a bar and tavern. The jobs were posted on a bulletin board in the back of the building next to the bar. That was always the first place Tihana went, even if she wasn't looking for a job. A new one caught her eye: Wanted: Dead Female Assassin, Unknown Name Recently Seen Traveling East Of The Capitol Reward 500 500? That was all this person's life was worth? Most of her jobs were from lowly people and they paid 100 or more for smaller tasks than killing someone. This interested her, yet she didn't want to take such a job. Despite her love of fighting, Tihana had never killed an opponent. She looked at the bartender, he was a fat, perverted man; one that Tihana despised. One could not fault his information though. She caught his attention with a wave of her hand and pointed to the paper. "Ah, that un, wouldn' think you ta be int'rested in a job like that," the bartender smiled a yellow, crooked smile, "Well, the un that brought tha' job in was a priest." Tihana's eyes widened. A priest? A priest wanted a person dead? "Surprisin' in'it? Said he had people watchin' 'er, watchin' 'er acts 'n all. Says she got a scar on 'er eye now. Damn shame if ya ask me, a shame ta damage a girly's face. Ah can think of sumthin' else ah'd rather 'ave on 'er face." Tihana stopped listening and looked back at the paper. It wasn't a job she wanted, but she was curious. She tore the paper off the bulletin board, she didn't plan on actually killing the target, she now just wanted to know who this person was. If it was really a priest requesting the job, there was only one place to find them in Jenais. The cathedral at the center of town. Wenston Harlan Vaughn:Harlan is a retired sell-sword. In his prime, he was a mighty swordsman - able to conquer any foe that came his way. He's faught in many battles, some commissioned but most because he happened to stumble upon them. He was a hired mercenary for years, pleasing nobles by battling their opponents or chasing off bandits, whatever would give him enough coin to live off of. But he was moral and honest. He settled down with a woman named Dialesca, a noble's daughter whom he saved from kidnappers. He doesn't know if the two had been truly in love, more it was a relationship of convenience. But they had a son together and for a while they lived a normal life. But when Harlan refused to take on a job offered to him by a malevolent noble, his wife and son were murdered. Harlan barely escaped with his life. Since the loss of his family, he has killed the man who murdered them and taken his revenge. He is growing old now, his bones growing weary, his muscles leaning, his hair graying. Harlan feels he is at the end of his story and is now just passing time, training aspiring swordsmen with little interest in their successes, waiting for death. Riordan Sandfree: Riordan is the young son of a noble who was sold to the priesthood at a young age. Growing up learning the ways of the priests, Riordan found it trite, rotten, and altogether not the way he had pictured a priesthood to be. He soon ran away from that and found Harlan, who agreed to teach him how to use a sword in the hopes that he can become a mercenary. To both their surprises, Riordan has an innate talent for swordsmanship, but he is lacking the personality of a mercenary. He is trusting, loyal, and naive. So he continues to study with Harlan, growing fond of the old man and eager to learn everything he can. Stilavon-BackFromTheAshes Kemma Tassin YseultKemma is the daughter of a nobleman and knight. She is very intellectual in her thinking and is usually found in her fathers study reading one of his many books. She has a bit of a quick temper however and finds incompetence unacceptable. Her opinions will be heard regardless of who she speaks to and it is quite clear once you meet her that a pampered life of a noble is not for Kemma. Her sharp tongue is the closest thing she can get to a sword but she will try to kill you with it non-the-less. Recently Kemma has been sneaking out of her fathers home. Her mood has been sour lately since her father has sent many suitors to attempt to tame her. None have succeeded so far and none shall. One is due to arrive soon- a persistent nobleman who refuses to take a hint. Kerrich Kerrich wears dark clothing and is hardly ever found anywhere where a shady arrangement isn't being made. Every job he's done has earned him a reputation as the person to go to when you're up to no good. He's not a part of any guild or group of mercenaries. He cuts his own path in the world, leaving a jagged scar on any life he comes across. Kerrich keeps a hood hiding his face and rarely speaks- always in low whispers so that no one other than the ones he wants to hear him can. He knows all too well about the Ogre problems- seeing as he was approached by a hooded figure with enough weapons to arm each and everyone of them. Kerrich was the one who delivered these weapons to the ogre's. ... Kemma sat curled up on the windowsill, light shining through her blond hair. She turned another page in the book she'd begun earlier that morning before the sun even rose. The chapter was nearly finished. She'd have to stop and resume her duties at her fathers desk. While he was off she was in charge of his estate. There was much to do and she rather liked being the one in charge- though not when it came to the servants. The maids were constantly coming to her in search of a task. She did not enjoy the duties of the lady of the house. That she would gladly give to her lazy step mother. The door suddenly opened, interrupting her thoughts. "Ah, there you are Kemma. Waisting your time with those silly little books are you?" "Step mother, and here I hoped this day would be pleasant. Alas, you've found me. And to what do I owe this most unpleasant intrusion? As for my books- Philosophy and science is not 'silly'. I doubt that over sized bobble you call 'hair' would allow any sort of intellect to seep into its silky uselessness." she said as she glanced up at the ridiculous wig her step mother insisted on wearing to fit into the baboon masses of high society. The woman's laughter was like ice. Kemma smirked. No doubt she was imagining strangling her step daughter with the very silk that made up her prized wig. "Why step daughter- you're rather cut throat today? It must be expected though- who could be in a pleasant mood when their looks rivaled that of a weathered old hag?" Kemma snapped her book shut and rose from her seat. "I don't know step mother, but father doesn't seem to mind your looks so much. Perhaps if your mood lightened he'll finally come home, but perhaps he's frightened of your withered body sleeping in that dusty marriage bed of his." The woman had been twiddling with a glass bobble sitting on one of the many book shelves. The tiny trinket broke under the grip of the older woman as she glared at Kemma. "At least I'm married. You're nearly twenty Kemma, and still unmarried. No man will want you soon. You're too old." "Good. Then perhaps finally I can do what I want for a change. I won't always be cooped up in this rotten cage of a castle." "How my heart aches for the day." "I'm sure. No doubt months after my departure my father will be found dead in his sleep. Will you try to kill him with poison or will you try pushing him down the stairs so his treasure room can finally belong to you and you alone?" "Why you little-" "My lady?" a servant called, poking his head through the door with much reluctance?" "What is it?" "Monsieur Vetemonde has arrived and seeks council with the young lady Kemma." At the sound of his name Kemma rolled her eyes. Her step mother actually laughed. "Wonderful. Bring him in." She gave Kemma a dirty look. "I'll leave you two alone." her tone was a little too triumphant and Kemma's mood was quickly turning foul. As soon as he entered and her step mother left, Kemma slid the book back into its place on its bookshelf. "What do you want Vetemonde?" she half growled. "My Kemma, your beauty seems to have blossomed even further since I last saw you a few months ago." Kemma shot him a cold look, her bright blue eyes sparkling like icy daggers. "Your persistence is not appreciated Vetemonde. The answer is no. I will not marry you or any other man who follows after you." He chuckled, coming closer. He went so far as to place his hands on her shoulders. She twitched to grab one of his wrists and fling him over her shoulder onto the floor. "My dear, I have never known such a word. I am a nobleman- a knight. Anything I have ever wanted has either come willingly or fallen by my sword- its will becoming my own." Kemma clenched her hands into fists, shrugging off his touch. "Then I am the first. Learn this lesson well for I doubt I'll be the last." "My how your tongue is sharp. You are a wild mare. I am eager to break you in and tame you like the rest." Slap! His cheek was red. He stared baffled at the woman standing in front of him. Shock turned into anger. "You should learn respect. Women do not raise their hands towards men. It is the other way around!" he said, gripping her wrists tight enough to bruise them. He doubled over a second later as soon as Kemma's foot came in contact with his loins. "Let's get this straight you pompous lout- in no way- not if Hell freezes over will I marry you. I am not a horse for you to tame." she said, bringing his face into her knee. "You will not lay your filthy hands on me again." As he staggered back she grabbed his hair and smashed his face into the hard wood of her fathers desk. "Nor will you return and if you even think so much as to lay a hand on me I will show you again what will come from that. Do you understand?" she asked, lifting his face up. His nose was broken. She saw him twitch and the anger in his eyes and didn't hesitate in slamming his face into the desk again. "Understood?" "Yes." "Good." She pushed him towards the door. "Get out." he did. ... Kerrich tightened the straps on his vambrance. No one could tell his features, and that was the way he liked it. All they could pick out was his height- somewhere around 5"6' or 5"7'. His hood even managed to hide that. His sword remained at his side. He was fully armed tonight wearing his black tunic, the black leather belt, and the black boots that came up to the middle of his thigh not to mention his armor. A black leather gorget protected his neck along with other pieces of armor- all made light to keep him quick. His long coat trailed along the forest floor as he made his way to the mine. He saw the fires lit and heard the loud noises of the ogre's. The one he was looking for was not hard to find. His stench was foulest of them all and he seemed the largest of the group. Scourge's fangs dug into the large piece of meat. Juice from the half cooked meat coated over half his face a sickly shade of moss that grew in the still, leech infested waters of a moat. The large ogre paused and sniffed the air. "I smell human." he growled, standing up, pulling out his iron axe. Kerrich quickly walked forward, making his presence known. If they attacked him in the shadows of the night he knew the blundering idiots would kill him and only Scourge would half realize what a mistake that would be. "Ah, it is only that human. What do you want? Do you bring us more weapons?" Kerrich shook his head and sat next to the ogre, leaning in. "I'm to give you this." he said, slipping the creature a piece of paper. The seal remained unbroken on it. It was not that of a king. Whatever order communed with the ogre's was not so foolish to use a recognized seal. It was a sword with a crowned skull through it. Kerrich had been more than tempted to read what it said- only through curiosity. He really didn't care what happened to the lazy overstuffed bellies of the nobles in high court. The orgre's could take down of of Namia for all he cared. So long as he was paid and allowed to continue his dealings undisturbed they could skin the royals themselves and he wouldn't budge. War and peace were of no relevance to him. He was master of his own kingdom and that was all there was to it. The ogre took the letter and opened it. Kerrich held his tongue at the savage way the the ogre. He read it and laughed, shoving the letter at Kerrich. "There are more weapons for us, human Kerrich. It seems we get to spread our legs once more. Too bad you won't be coming to help us. You're a great warrior- I can sense it. If you were to fall in battle, your blood would become a great treat." Kerrich stood, holding out his hand. "My payment." Scourge tossed him a bag of coins and laughed. "You're one human I like. We're a lot a like you and I." "We're not anything alike." Kerrich replied in a low whisper as he walked away. He would pay a visit to the church tomorrow. It had been a while since he'd gone to confession. Bumble Bee Josephine Maria:As the Preist's unknown daughter, she is harsh and cruel. Not because she wants to, but because she has to. She was raised up in the orphanage by the church, and was often harshly punished for being a demon child. She just turned eighteen, and is getting desprate for marriage. She wants to excape from the harsh world of the orphanage, but can't pull herself away. She's unaturally skinny, with light blue eyes and angel blond hair that flows to her waist. ________ Jacob: Jacob has lived on the streets all of his life. He does whatever he can to earn money. He is typically good-humored, and always sees the silver lining in the cloud. He thinks he's around 23, but he's not really sure. neohuman Autumn meandered aimlessly through the dirt roads of the small village of Rouneirs. She had a vague feeling that she was searching for something that had been lost, yet had no idea what it was. She still held the broken pieces of her harp in one arm as she walked. Rouneirs was a farming village, identical to countless others that existed throughout Namia, and the whole of the Heklosian continent. At its center was the lord’s manor, and beside that a small church (yet another reminder of the equality of the King and the Archbishop of Jindel). There was a central windmill owned by the lord, a few granaries and storehouses, some stables, a smithy, a tanner, and a small marketplace. The village was surrounded on all sides by farms and animal pastures, which stretched on for acres and acres across verdant fields and rolling hills, before finally stopping short at the edge of untamed forest. Within the village, clustered closely together, were a couple-dozen simple, crude wattle-and-daub houses with straw roofs. Smoke arose pleasantly from hearths, and Autumn could hear the sounds of playing children with their mothers calling after them. There was something about the simplicity of village life that always set Autumn at ease and reminded her of home. She disliked cities; she found them pretentious, just like the people who lived in them, pretending that their money and frivolous finery actually mattered for something in the real world. Plague took noble and peasant alike, and ogres tended not to care if their victim wore a dirty wool tunic or a fine silk chemise. As Autumn wandered through the dirty pathways, passing by farmers, craftsmen, goats, and chickens, she came across a curious piece of paper nailed to a fencepost. It was a wanted poster, with an artist’s sketching that bore a striking resemblance to her twin, eye-patch and all. There was a five-hundred gold coin reward for her capture… or her death. “Five-hundred gold coins…” Autumn mused to herself. “That’s quite a large sum of money in these parts. Enough to buy a farm, and the farmer too, I would suppose. Oh, my dear sister, what trouble have you gotten yourself into?” Her next thought was to do her best to keep her face hidden wherever she went from now on. It wouldn’t be the first time that she would have gotten in trouble for being mistaken for her twin, and this time, it could prove fatal. She found herself wishing that she had a hooded cloak, yet was afraid to go to the marketplace and buy one, for fear that someone might recognize her for who she wasn’t. “Assassin” the poster had said. So, Sonnet had now become not merely a thief, but also a hired murderer. Autumn hung her head somberly at the cheerless thought, leaning against the wall of a meager cottage, idly running her fingertips along the simple iron chain she wore as a necklace. Had someone hired Sonnet to kill her? Is that why Sonnet had attacked her? That seemed to be the only explanation, yet who would want her dead? “Oh, Sonnet,” Autumn groaned aloud. She wanted to cry for her sister. How lost and hopelessly confused she must be, to have turned to such a dangerous and doomed life. “I should have done more for you. I should have been better to you. I tired. I really tried…” There was only one thing she could think to do. She would travel to the rural countryside outside of Jindel, to go to her parents’ home and tell them what had happened. They would know what to do. With what little money she had, Autumn bought a hooded traveling cloak, a gardening spade, and some dry rations for the road. With what was left, she bought a meal of fresh bread, cheese, and an apple. These she ate with eyes downcast and an uncharacteristic frown. It wasn’t like her to be so unhappy, but she couldn’t help it; for now, she found it rather hard to see the bright side of things. Once her stomach was full and her coin-purse empty, Autumn took the spade she had bought and dug a small hole beside the road outside of town. Here, she buried Algernon, and made a small cairn of stones to mark the grave. “Goodbye, my dear friend,” she said, shedding a single tear. “Your music shall always play in my heart.” By the time the early afternoon sun illuminated the Namian countryside brilliantly, and the vibrantly-colored flowers stretched out their petals to receive their buzzing suitors, and the calling songs of birds filled the air with a symphony more lovely than could be heard in any music hall, Autumn was well on her way on the road to Jindel. Not long had she traveled, however, before she came across a man, a dwarf, and a goblin standing together beside the road next to the burnt ashes of a campfire, watching her approach. “Hail and hold, fair maiden!” called the man, sweeping off his wide-brimmed hat with a flourish, yet keeping his other hand upon the handle of his rapier. “Stay your course awhile, to indulge us in your company.” Autumn stopped before the three strange companions. She waved her left stump (again forgetting it was but a stump), yet she too kept her right hand near her dagger. “Hello, good sirs,” she said in return. “To what do I owe the rare privilege of such a polite greeting from travelers upon the road?” “I am Velmeir le Voleur, and these are my two friends Nord le Nain and Lammer le Lutin. We are bandits upon the road, here to relieve travelers of their wealth and valuables. We see no need to lie to you about that fact, nor do we see any need for any sort of hostility or rudeness about the matter. So, if you would be so kind, hand over all of your coins or any other valuables you may have with you, and we will let you go on your way without another word." “Ah, but I’m afraid that’s impossible, gentle sir,” Autumn replied. “I haven’t a single copper coin on my person, having spent the last of my money on bread and cheese in Rouneirs. Here, see for yourself.” She untied her empty coin pouch from her belt and threw it down in the grass before Velmeir’s feet. The dwarf stepped forward from behind Velmeir, picked it up, peeked inside it, and then dropped it to the ground again. “Well, that’s a shame, then,” said Velmeir. “In that case, we will take any iron you may have- your dagger and that chain around your neck will do nicely.” Autumn brought her hand up to her iron chain, touching it delicately. “What do you want iron for?” “Simple,” said the dwarf. “What with th’ recent ogre problems, iron’s become as valuable as gold, it has.” “My short accomplice is correct,” Velmeir nodded. “Blacksmiths throughout Namia, having no iron to work with, are losing their shops and becoming poor paupers. They would pay handsomely for any bit of iron they can get. So, if you please, hand over your chain and your dagger.” “No, I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Autumn said, taking a few tentative steps back. “This chain was a gift from my mother, and I need my dagger to survive upon the road, what with less friendly bandits than yourself about.” “Well, there must be some way you can pay us,” said Velmeir. “Otherwise, we simply could not let you leave, either upon the road ahead or back the way you came. I have a reputation to keep, you understand.” “Of course,” Autumn nodded, glad that things had not yet come to violence. She couldn’t help but feel some fondness towards this charming man, and would hate to have to cross blades with him. “If I had my harp, I would play you a song, if that would please you to let me pass.” “It would,” Velmeir agreed, “but since you have no harp, then your simple company must suffice.” “My company I can give, though perhaps not in the way you might be thinking,” Autumn said quickly. “I am an entertainer by habit if not by trade, and I have many tales to tell, if you would like to hear one.” “Yes, a tale may be just the thing to lift our spirits,” said he. “But if anyone asks later on, I robbed you of all you owned and left you for dead upon the road. I have a reputation to keep, remember. Come then, sit with us a while and if your tale stirs our hearts, then we shall let you go on your way.” So, Autumn sat down with the three of them. They started a fire and brought out a rabbit they had killed and skinned earlier that day, tied it to a branch set above the fire, and left it to roast. “Have either of you three heard of the legendary Namian knight named Sir Telmrande?” Autumn asked. “Yes, I used to hear tales of him when I was just a child,” said Velmeir. “He was the bravest of the Silver Dragon Knights in his day, was he not?” “That he was,” Autumn nodded. “And have you heard the tale of how he befriended a troll in the Fée Forest?” “No, I have not. Please, tell away; that sounds sure to be an interesting story.” As the four of them sat eating roasted rabbit and drinking dwarvish mead that Nord the dwarf had produced from his pack, Autumn told the tale of Sir Telmrande and the Troll. Sir Telmrande, it was often told, was known amongst the Silver Dragon Knights for his exceptional sense of mercy and compassion. Whereas most of his peers would ride forth to smite such creatures as orcs and ogres, Sir Telmrande would first seek to parley with them, and if he decided that he had no quarrel with them, he would let them go in peace. Furthermore, he never harmed an enemy who had willfully surrendered, and flatly refused to strike an unarmed man. This had often gotten him in trouble with the Church, of course, since he never could bring himself to hurt those accused of heresy or witchcraft. By his word rather than his sword, dozens of heretics and witches went free that otherwise would have been doomed to the gallows. One day, while traveling through the Faerie Forest to meet with the Duke de Chervois, Sir Telmrande happened upon a huge, brutish troll sitting atop the fallen trunk of a lightning-felled oak tree. The troll was a hideous creature with bumpy green skin, like that of a toad, covered in warts and bulging pustules. He had long, shaggy black hair entwined with twigs and leaves, a similar beard, and patches of black hair on his chest, arms, and legs. His arms were twice again the size of the knight’s thighs, knotted with muscles, and ended in calloused hands with clawed fingers. He had a long crooked nose and big brownish-yellow eyes the color of earwax. He smelt pungent, of profuse sweat and rotting moss, with undertones of the foulest swamp odors. “Stop, human, or me smash you!” accosted the troll, holding his club aloft. But Sir Telmrande noted that, despite the troll’s threat, he didn’t seem all that threatening. He still sat there upon the fallen tree and made no move to get up, and so seemed in no mood to fight. “Hold your hand, sir troll,” Sir Telmrande said in the most calming, disarming tone he could muster. “I don’t want to fight you.” So, the troll lowered his club and said “Me no want fight neither. Me name Garl. Me sad.” “Well met, Garl the Troll,” said Sir Telmrande, walking closer. “I am Sir Telmrande. Tell me, why are you sad?” “Me found a dryad, four moons ago, but me no want eat her. Me think she beautiful, and me love her, so me keep her. Other trolls come in night and take her! They think me weak for wanting keep her, and they want eat her. Me want go to fight and take her back, but other trolls too strong for me.” Now, as I said before, Sir Telmrande was known for his exceptionally kind heart, and he was stirred by the troll’s story. He decided that he had to help the troll get his dryad back. He didn’t know much about trolls, except for the old legend that they turned to stone in the sunlight- which he now knew to be false, as here he was talking to one in the open afternoon air. He did know, however, that although they were much stronger and fiercer than any human, they were also dumber than all but the dullest simpletons. So, he set about thinking of a way to trick them. Seeing how rocky and mountainous the surrounding area was becoming further east, it wasn’t long before he had conceived a plan. He took out two wooden bowls and a drinking horn from his pack. He handed the wooden bowls to Garl, and then with his sword, cut off the bottom of his drinking horn so it could be seen through from top to bottom. With these items prepared, he mounted his horse and galloped off towards the cave of the other trolls, Garl following close behind with his long, swift strides. When Sir Telmrande reached the cave, he trotted right up to the entrance still on horseback while Garl hid in the bushes nearby. Just inside the cave, three large trolls had a beautiful dryad gagged and tied to spit, ready to be roasted above a nearby cooking fire. Hearing the hoofbeats of Sir Telmrande's horse, all three trolls stood at once, lifting their clubs into their hands. “Stop, human, who be you?” said one of the trolls. “Maybe it here so we can cook it, too?” another suggested. “Stupid human, how we cook you when you covered in metal? Take it off and come here so we tie you up with pretty girl,” said the third. “I am Sir Telmrande, a Silver Dragon Knight of Namia,” the knight replied, showing no fear of the trolls. “I have come to parley with you trolls. I have a company of several-dozen mounted knights waiting in the forest behind me, ready to attack if I but blow my war horn.” “What you want, human, if no fight?” the trolls asked. “I want the dryad you trolls have there with you. Give her to me, and my knights and I shall leave you in peace.” “No,” the trolls said. “We found dryad first. You find you own dryad to eat!” “Very well, trolls, I see you leave me no choice,” Sir Telmrande said. He blew on the bottom of his drinking horn, so that it sounded very much like a Namian war horn used to signal an army to charge. “Attack!” he yelled as loud as he could, raising his sword above him. Behind him, Garl the Troll banged the wooden bowls together with his strong arms, so that they sounded like the hoof-beats of a warhorse. The sound of it echoed off of the cliff walls and through the cave, and it sounded like the hoofbeats of many horses at once, at full gallop. The sound of it frightened the trolls so much that they left the dryad behind and ran from the cave, fleeing into the nearby forest. Afterwards, Sir Telmrande and Garl the Troll freed the dryad. Garl said he wanted to keep the dryad forever and ever, but Sir Telmrande tried to explain to Garl that the dryad didn’t belong to him. She should be free to come and go as she wished, and if he loved her as he said he had, he would understand that. Garl said that Sir Telmrande was right, and he would let the dryad free only on the condition that she come back to visit him every springtime as his guest. The dryad, who had grown fond of the troll’s sincerity and nobleness of spirit, agreed. Sure enough, the dryad remained true to her promise, and in fact stayed with the troll just this past spring. As for Sir Telmrande, Garl the Troll gifted him with a magical ring. The ring, he said, could be used to turn his own skin to stone or back again as he wished. The knight found it to be a very useful item, and it has saved his life on many of his adventures since then. By the time Autumn had finished her story, the sun had begun its descent in the west, golden and glorious as the sky flaunted its brilliant oranges and yellows. The air was growing cooler, and so the fire felt warmer and cozier as Autumn huddled nearer to it, bundled in her new cloak. “An excellent tale!” Velmeir exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “You have more than earned your way through our part of the woods.” “Ah, but can’t she stay a bit longer?” asked Nord the dwarf in his gruff northern accent. “Come, we could have a song!” “Yes, a song! Oh it would be grand to have a song!” said Lammer the goblin excitedly in his high-pitched voice. “Only if Lady Autumn wishes it,” Velmeir replied to them, and then turned back to her. “What do you say? We will no longer keep you from your travels, but you are welcome to stay the night with us if you wish. I happen to have some pan-pipes with me, which I am decent enough at playing. We can have some music for awhile, and perhaps tell another story.” Autumn felt that she really should be on her way, but looking around at the encroaching darkness of the night, she felt it would be unwise to travel through the woods at such a late hour. The road northeast to Jindel was yet a long one, besides, and she would definitely benefit from a good night’s rest before then. “Bring out your pan-pipes, good sir, and let’s have some music before we turn in for the night!” “Ha! Very good,” said Velmeir, taking out his pan-pipes. “But remember, if anyone asks, we held you hostage all night and had our way with you. I have a reputation to keep!” So they sang a song accompanied by Velmeir’s pan-pipes, a dwarvish drinking song that Nord knew, which was boisterous and comical. Velmeir played well, and although Autumn yet again wished she had Algernon with her, such thoughts did nothing to diminish her revelry. She danced, poorly and clumsily, yet it was fun anyway, and Velmeir and his friends all clapped for to the rhythm of her dancing. They drank and talked and laughed and sang well into the night, and when they all grew tired, Autumn unpacked her things and laid her bedroll beside their tents. When she fell asleep that night, huddling for warmth near the embers that still glowed in the campfire, she dreamed such wonderful dreams. She dreamt of creatures both magical and fantastic- dryads, trolls, fairies, and dragons. She dreamt of a brave and handsome knight, like Sir Telmrande, who would kneel down and recite poetry to her, and then whisk her away upon a white horse. The next morning, she awoke early, when the sun had just barely broken free of the eastern forests. The air was fresh and cool, and a light fog hung in the air, yet it was no real obstruction to vision. Autumn lied awake for awhile still in her bedroll, thinking of her pleasant dreams. When she got up, she found Velmeir and Nord both sitting beside a newly-made fire, over which a breakfast of freshly-caught river trout was frying in a copper pan. Lammer was out keeping watch further down the road for travelers to rob, or guards to hide from. “I really must be off after breakfast,” said Autumn, beginning to pack up her things in her pack. “Well, we will wish you well then, and have enjoyed your company,” said Velmeir. “And remember: if anyone asks, we robbed you, had our way with you, and you barely escaped with your life. I have a reputation to keep.” “Of course,” Autumn smiled. They ate fish and drank some odd, bitter-tasting tea that Lammer had brought (saying it was a favorite tea of the cave goblins). Afterwards, Autumn got up and slung her pack over her shoulder, ready to resume her journey. “There’s still some dwarvish mead left,” said Nord. “I want ye to have it, lass, as a gift for the road.” He handed her the half-full bottle of sweet mead. “Oh, I can’t accept that,” Autumn protested, holding up her hands. “It’s yours to keep.” “Now, don’t you be rejecting this token of dwarvish friendship, my lady,” Nord insisted, pressing the bottle into her arms. “I’ve been glad for your company, and wish ye to have a gift to remember us by!” “Best to just take it, Lady,” Velmeir advised in a quiet, aside voice to her. “Dwarves are notorious for their stubbornness, especially when it comes to their hospitality.” “Well than I’d be honored to accept your gift, good dwarf,” said Autumn, taking the mead. “Thank you.” “You have lifted our spirits greatly this past night,” said Velmeir, giving Autumn a light hug with a pat on the back. “I am glad to have done so, and glad as well for your friendship. Now, I really should be on my way. Goodbye!” With that, Autumn disengaged from her newfound friends and started down the road again towards Jindel. Not long had she gone, though, that Velmier called after her. “Remember!” he called. “If anyone asks, Velmeir le Voleur is the most dastardly, cruelest highwayman to ever plague Namia’s countryside! I have-“ “I know, I know! You have a reputation to keep!” “Promise it! Promise, if anyone asks!” “I will, I promise!” Autumn called back, almost out of hearing distance now. ”Au revoir!” Autumn had been walking for what felt like a long time- perhaps an hour or so- with the mountains pale in the north, the wild grasslands rolling lush and verdant in the west, and the forest dark and teeming at her back. It was then that she came upon two armored swordsmen, one an old man and the other a young boy, standing upon a low hill. They both seemed troubled, discussing some difficult problem or obstacle. As she got nearer, she could tell that the two almost seemed to be arguing, unable to come to a decision about what should be done. As Autumn came to stand at the bottom of the hill, looking up at them curiously, they both turned to her and smiled in half-hearted greeting with barely a wave between them. ”Bonjour! Autumn called up to them. “My name is Autumn Fay. What seems to be the trouble, good sirs?” “I am Harlan Vaughn,” replied the older man (and he was old indeed, such that one wondered how he could even hold his sword, let alone wield it). “This is my student, Riordan Sandfree. You’ve come along this road at a bad time, mademoiselle, much like us. We were traveling to Jindel, but there is a tribe of orcs ahead, blocking our path. We haven’t yet decided what we should do.” “It’s as I said,” the younger man, Riordan, seemed to persist in his previous argument. “You have trained me well, and we are both competent swordsmen. We can fight them!” “Now, don’t be foolish, boy,” Harlan chastised. “Such overconfidence will get you killed. There is no way the two of us could battle an entire tribe of orcs. We must find another way around them to Jindel.” “But that could take days! We don’t have that sort of time.” “Maybe I can help,” Autumn offered, walking up the hill towards the two men. “I’ve never met an orc before, so maybe you could tell me about them.” “Well,” Harlan started, clearing his throat. “Let’s see… To begin with, they are stronger and faster than most humans, so there are few men that can fight an orc on equal terms. Contrary to common belief, they are also every bit as intelligent as humans. They prefer to live as nomadic tribes rather than build permanent settlements, though, so it’s falsely assumed that they are dumber than we are. The old legends say that they used to be elves that were transformed by evil magic, but you couldn’t tell that by looking at them. That’s likely just another fabricated myth.” “So you can’t fight them, and you can’t trick them…” Autumn said thoughtfully, tapping the iron chain around her neck with her fingertips. “What else can you tell me about them? What do they like, and dislike? What are their personalities like?” “Well, they are incredibly irritable,” Harlan replied. “They love battle, and will attack with almost no provocation. As far as I know, their favorite things are raw, bloody meat and strong drink.” “Strong drink?” Autumn asked, getting an idea. “Well, I have some dwarvish mead with me. Trust me, the dwarves like their alcohol very strong.” She wasn’t about to tell them about last night’s revelry, and why she still couldn’t remember most of it, and still had a slight headache even now in the late morning. “We could offer it to their leader as a gift, in exchange for letting us pass through.” “I… doubt that would work,” Harlan said hesitantly. “Orcs don’t like humans much, not even those bearing gifts.” “But they sound like reasoning and intelligent beings, so I’m sure we could talk things over with them,” Autumn persisted, taking the bottle of mead in her hand and starting back down the hill. “Come on!” “Maybe she’s right,” Riordan said, starting after her. “It’s the best idea so far, anyway.” “No, Riordan, stop!” said Harlan, stretching out his arm to block the younger man’s way. “It’s too dangerous.” “You two can follow me if you’d like,” said Autumn, “but I intend to pass this way to Jindel, orcs or no orcs.” Sonnet didn’t want to kill the priest… “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned,” she had said. “Go ahead, my child, I am listening,” the priest had replied. “I have sinned, and I will sin again.” “It is often difficult to break away from harmful habits, my child, but with God’s help the snares of the Devil may be overcome. What is this sin that you keep repeating?” “A grievous sin, Father,” Sonnet said gravely. “A horrendous mortal sin. The sin of murder. I have killed, Father, and I will soon kill again. The next man I kill will be a priest. What should be my assigned penance for this?” Though his face was concealed by the lattice, Sonnet could imagine the priest’s eyes widen in terror. “Guards!” he shouted, bursting from the confessional and setting to run. Sonnet was quicker, however, and her reflexes keener. She matched the priest’s movements, dashing from her side of the confessional at exactly the same time. She gripped the priest by his vestments, swung his body directly around with the momentum of his own panicked dash, and slammed him face-first back into the confessional wall, breaking his nose with an unwholesome crunch. “Wanted posters, Father?!” Sonnet yelled in a sudden rage, fueled by adrenaline, burning hot in her veins. “A reward for my death? I confessed to you in confidence!” She grasped the priest by the scalp and slammed him against the confessional again. “How dare you betray my trust, when I knelt before you penitent?!” “I could not… in good conscience… let your deeds go unpunished!” sputtered the struggling priest, his lips slick with his own blood. “And I was right! Now you assault a priest! May God have mercy on your soul…” “I’m not counting on it,” Sonnet spoke softly into his ear, and then drove the thin blade of her stiletto into the base of his spine. By the time the guards arrived, Sonnet was already gone; some gave chase, but had little hope of catching her. Those that stayed found the priest’s dead body, still twitching in the occasional spasm, leaning against the outside of the confessional. Sonnet didn’t want to kill the priest, but he had given her little choice in the matter. She had trusted him with her darkest secrets, and in return, he had apparently told everything he knew to the city guards. Wanted posters, bearing sketches of her face, had gone up all over Namia. Trusting a priest… she really should have known better. “I’m going to Hell,” she said to herself, pensive and vexed, as she knelt upon a quiet rooftop, contemplating the severity of her actions. “There’s no way out of it now. There’s no going back from the things I’ve done. I am, with absolute certainty, going to Hell. Well then… so be it.” She laughed bitterly and joylessly. “If Hell is my destination either way now, well, then I might as well ride hard and fast to get there, having as much fun as I can at the expense of those who deserve it more than I.” And it wasn’t as though Sonnet didn’t feel remorse for her actions; far from it. The guilt of her unforgivable actions haunted her at every moment like a relentless specter. Yet she also knew that there was no hope of taking any of it back nor of making penance. Further, the world was every bit as cold and cruel as she was. Those who weren’t strong, quick, or ruthless wouldn’t have a chance. Bishops hired assassins to silence their rivals. Kings made war upon anyone they saw reason to dislike, for as little reason as jealousy or slight annoyance. Tax-men robbed from the poor and starving. Any man who didn’t get exactly what he wanted from a woman needed only call her a witch, and within days he would watch her burn in a public square. Any man who seemed honest was simply a very good liar. “I’m going to Hell,” she said, “but may I get there riding a rushing torrent of blood. This country, and this world, deserves no better than that.” She stood up straight and proud, watching the oblivious peasants go about their business in the streets beneath her. “My only regret is that I have the blood of only one priest on my blade. If it became habit, it may be a move towards improving this world.” Leaving her perch, Sonnet strode out into the open street. Walking through the winding, dirty roads, she made her way to her tiny cottage made from sticks, straw, and clay. There, tacked to its simple wooden door, was a small folded note. Sonnet took the note and read it. I have another job for you. Double pay, but doubly dangerous and difficult. Meet me by nightfall at my favored leisure place in Jindel, or this offer will pass to another. -le Noir So, it would appear that although Sonnet had failed to murder her whore of a sister, she now had a second chance- and a chance for even greater reward. She couldn’t pass up such a chance, no matter what the job was, no matter what the risks were. This may be her last chance to lift herself up from poverty and gain the hope of having a real future. Without another thought, she stepped into her cottage and began packing her few belongings into a leather bag to sling over her shoulder. Jindel: With an estimated population of over 250,000 people, it was one of the largest cities in the realms, easily surpassing Drachtenstein in Serdia and even rivaling the faraway city of Cassy’s Star. The sprawling metropolis’ borders yawned to swallow every inch of land between the Moongloom Marsh in the northeast to the Far Ocean in the south and west. Its grand, flamboyant palaces and cathedrals cast their subjugating shadows over the sprawling and dilapidated peasant slums, where the common people struggled daily to feed their families what little they could. Bustling marketplaces teemed with masses of people that ebbed and flowed like ocean tide at different parts of the day. Sometimes they flooded many surrounding city blocks with frantic hawkers and hagglers, and sometimes they receded to a bare trickle of idle shoppers. A constant train of wagons and caravans could be seen on their route back and forth between the docks and the market district, like a line of ants between a food source and their hive. Jindel Harbor was a teeming forest of masts, alive with the trading vessels of faraway lands: even, occasionally, the batten-sailed merchant junks of the Utter East. It was into this incredible city that Sonnet strode, face shadowed by her black hood, and now set to begin the next stage of her macabre career. The setting sun illumined the western sea, making the waters shine with bright red and golden colors. The placid gloom of evening fell over the great city, and the flickering lights of torches shone like stars in a dark sky. Such darkness made Autumn feel at ease. Sticking to the shadows, walking casually and acting nondescript, she could be nearly invisible to passers-by. Making her way through the quiet streets, navigating her way by memory, Sonnet made her way to the more slummy and ramshackle districts of the city. Here, the streets were dirty and broken, its gutters overrun with filth and littered with refuse. A stench of decay hung in the air, and buzzing clouds of flies seemed to favor this area. Grubby peasants milled about, gaunt and dejected, wearing torn, poorly-fitting, simple clothes and mostly barefoot. “Spare a coin, Madame?” one very thin young man asked Sonnet as she passed. She brushed by him without even a glance in his direction, thinking to herself, anyone unwilling to take what they wanted by skill, strength, or guile deserved nothing. As she walked, she breathed through her mouth and tried not to think about what made the air here so stuffy. At long last, she came to the half-rotted door of a shady tavern. Candlelight flickered from within, but there was no sound of conversation or song, or any sign of the revelry that characterized most Namian ale-houses. Instead, the shadows of men moved within, black-cloaked and lithe. The entire countenance of this place felt crooked and unwholesome. It was obvious what kind of men frequented a tavern such as this. Scheming men, crowded close around tables, whispering furtively with suspicious glances over their shoulders. There were no drunken brawls here, no loud arguments. Instead, disagreements were solved with a hidden knife and a shallow grave. Men could disappear in a place such as this, never to be seen again by the waking world. “Halt, fiend, in the name of the King!” a shout from somewhere behind broke the evening silence. Sonnet spun around, instantly alert, and her rapier and stiletto appeared in her hands in a flash of glinting steel. Several Namian soldiers appeared from the shadows, wearing padded leather in place of steel for discretion’s sake. Their blue tabards bore the white Fleur de Lis of the Namian royalty. “Sonnet Fay, you are wanted for foulest murder on multiple counts,” the guard captain accused, striding forward with a white-gloved hand on the handle of his long-sword. “Lay down your weapons and stay where you are, and your sentence will be lenient.” “Sneaky bastards…” Sonnet muttered. She couldn’t help but be impressed by the guards’ ability to trail her undetected. It was known that Namian soldiers were trained in subtler skills than battle, for over the past century, open war has been the least of the kingdom’s worries; the army was really more of a police agency than a military force. “You’re surrounded, Sonnet,” the guard said, as he and his men closed in around her. “There’s nowhere to run. Make the right choice.” “Go to hell, guards!” Sonnet exclaimed, sending her stiletto spinning through the air with a flick of her wrist. It streaked like lightning towards its target, embedding itself deep in the guard captain’s throat. With a sharp gasp, he dropped to his knees, and clutched at his neck in a vain attempt to stem the flow of blood. The other guards rushed at her all at once. Sonnet clashed blades with the first one, feinted to the right, and managed to slash a deep gash in the left side of his chest. After that, a guard behind her slammed the hilt of his sword hard into the back of her neck. She stumbled forward, her balance completely lost as the world seemed to spin wildly around her. Then, it was as though the shadows themselves came to life all around her. The guards tried to call out, but their screams were muffled by the black-gloved hands clamped tight over their mouths. Black-cloaked men moved with flawless speed and silence, nearly invisible in the evening shade. The guards were gently lowered to the ground as they died. The shadowed men then stood, cleaned the blood from their knives with handkerchiefs, and sheathed them. “Excellent work, my fellows,” said a middle-aged man with greasy hair and a lazy eye. This was Jean le Noir, the man who had previously hired Sonnet to murder her own twin sister. He was as lean and lithe as a stray cat, with a demeanor as unsavory as it was frightening. Everything about him was a mystery, except for a strong gut feeling that he was a very dangerous man. “Now hurry- take the bodies to the usual place and bury them.” The cloaked men complied, dragging each body into a large burlap sack, which they then hoisted over their shoulders and carried off into the night. In the midst of this grim work, Jean turned to Sonnet- one eye looking directly at her, while the other stared off somewhere to the left. “Idiot girl, how many times have I told you to make sure you aren’t followed!” he chastised her. “Now get inside, before this commotion draws more unwanted attention.” Inside the Snake Pit, as the tavern was called, Sonnet and Jean pulled up chairs to a small table near a stone fireplace, in which a dim fire burned steadily, miserly of its light and heat. As Sonnet hadn’t eaten since leaving Jenais, so she thought to buy herself a meager dinner. The porridge was cold and lumpy, however, and the ale (in a rather spotty glass) tasted like muddy water that someone had pissed in and then glared at hatefully for several hours. So she set them both aside and instead focused upon the underhanded business before her. “You asked for me, le Noir, and I answered,” Sonnet initiated the conversation. “I tried to kill my own sister, and I failed. So what is it you want of me now? Is there some newborn infant you wish silenced?” “Clever, but no,” said Jean, and as he talked, she couldn’t help but stare at his left eye, wondering what it could be looking at. “Though I am a bit interested in that matter, for my own sake.” He stroked his thick, bushy goatee as his right eye regarded her inquisitively, and his left eye examined an unsightly vomit stain on the floor. “Aren’t you even the least bit curious why your sister was marked for death?” Sonnet shrugged. “Autumn is a common street-walking harlot. I just figured that she had angered one of her customers, or was late paying her panderer.” Jean snorted, as if Sonnet had said something incredibly stupid. “Are you so jaded that you are incapable of assuming anything but the worst about a person? This might surprise you, but your sister is not a prostitute. From what I’ve learned, she is almost certainly a virgin. Besides that, why in the hell would I pay you a dragon’s horde of gold to put down a whore? I could pay any canny thug a few measly coppers to do that, if I could ever conceive of having a reason to.” “But… that doesn’t make any sense,” Sonnet stuttered, surprised by the contradiction to the belief she held about her sister for most of her adult life. “If she isn’t a prostitute, then why wouldn’t my parents ever want to tell me where she went at night?” It seemed so odd. Sonnet mostly remembered Autumn disappearing in the evening, and she wouldn’t come back home until very early in the next morning, while everyone was still asleep. Whenever she asked her parents about where Autumn went, they became very quiet, and refused to talk to her about it, as if they were ashamed. “If you don’t know that by now, I would think that there’s a good reason for it,” Jean said, in the rather cryptic way he would sometimes say such things. “I will tell you more than I ought to, by telling you that Autumn- and those she represents- may soon become a threat to the business interests of my employers. Frankly, I didn’t expect you to be able to handle your sister on your own. She is more quick and clever than she appears." He took another swig of ale and smirked. "She is of no further consequence, though; I have already hired others to deal with her. As for you, I have a more important purpose in mind for you now.” Quickly, yet with momentous effort, Sonnet forced these puzzling thoughts about her sister out of her mind, and made herself focus on the current matter, the reason she had come here. “What do you want of me, le Noir? Who is the mark this time? What is the job, and what does it pay?” “Always succinct in your dealings, Sonnet. I like that,” le Noir said, smiling wryly. “An assassination, however, is not what I need from you now. Instead, I would prefer it if you remained as discrete as possible, and refrained from harming anyone, as in this case bloodshed would be a terrible compromise to my goals. Here is the background: there is a nobleman living in the docks district by the name of Pierrick d’Tanyon. He is a very minor noble, of virtually no influence. However, he happens to also be the most trusted vassal of the esteemed Count de Leon. Because of this trust, d’Tanyon has been charged with protecting a vital set of documents. These documents spell out the details of a massive iron supply being bought by King Reynald from the kingdom of Ibera. The ship from Ibera is due to arrive at the docks in three days. Before then, you are to discretely enter d’Tanyon’s manor, steal the documents, and return them to me. If you are identified, or if I or any of my associates are blamed, or if the documents are opened or tampered with in any way, or if anyone is physically injured during the endeavor, then your payment will be forfeit and you need not bother returning.” Sonnet’s green eye narrowed suspiciously as she studied le Noir. “An iron shipment, le Noir? Who, exactly, are your employers?” “That is not for you to know,” le Noir shot back, suddenly agitated. “Such information is not necessary for your cooperation. You need only do as you are told, and you will grow as wealthy as a queen. If this isn’t good enough for you, then you can simply leave, and it will be easy enough to find someone else eager to seize such an opportunity.” “Easy, relax,” Sonnet said calmly. “I was simply curious, is all. I’m not such a fool to pass up such a unique prospect.” “Good,” le Noir smiled, showing his grimy, decayed teeth. “A wise choice. As stated in my brief letter, the pay is double what I offered for the last job. Two-thousand gold pieces in your coin purse once the documents are in my hand. Don’t ask for more than that; I’m not some simple-minded merchant to be haggled with. My terms are on the table; take them or leave.” “Then I take them,” said Sonnet without hesitating (and in truth, she was relieved the job didn’t involve killing anyone this time). “Is there anything else you can tell me?” He passed her a small, folded scrap of paper. “Here, this address is where you can usually find a man by the name of Kerrich. He knows this sort of business well, and if you have any questions, he’ll have the answers. You would do well to speak to him before you begin.” “That’s all I need to know,” Sonnet said, pocketing the scrap and rising from her seat. “I’ll meet you back here in three days’ time, with your documents in hand.” “Oh, and Sonnet, one more thing before you go. At this point, I think it goes without saying, but don’t even think of going to the authorities about anything we’ve discussed here. If you breathe a word of this to anyone, then I can assure you that no one will ever find your body.” Sonnet shivered in spite of herself, but kept her voice steady as she said “I understand. That will not be a problem.” Jean le Noir just smiled, took another gulp of the tavern’s foul brew, and said “Yes, I know it won’t.” Quaddy The lady Adele Agemois excused herself, rising from the table and leaving Lady Tremain to a solitary game of cards. Her skirts swished along the floor as she followed Remy, keeping the handsome troubadour some dozen paces ahead in the corridor. The man sidled toward the throne room, his fiddle case slung across his broad-shouldered back. Watching the muscles ripple beneath the snowy silk of his sleeves--Remy never wore sleeves attached to his doublet, preferring the freedom of movement the billowy shirt allowed--Adele felt warmth rushing through her, building in her core and spreading in waves throughout her extremities. It was a familiar feeling where Remy was concerned, Adele thought. That she lusted for him was doubtless; that her father didn't yet know of their affair was due to the affection so many court ladies harbored for Remy and his...attentions. In the beginning, she had not begrudged Remy his dalliances with other women--no doubt they were what kept him clothed in such finery--but recently...well, recently, Adele had felt the stirrings of jealously in the catch of her breath as he disappeared into the darkness with another. She wasn't quite sure what to make of the tumult in her heart that left her with feelings of such despair and exultation. Adele wasn't even sure she liked it.But she did like Remy. He was handsome, young (unlike so many of the suitors father had paraded before her eyes), talented, and witty. And, most of all, he listened. Even to ladies, which was something of a scandal to the political busybodies, who were all male and all desperate to keep their women silent. Adele had heard of kingdoms that kept their women swathed in fabric, hidden away from the world, kept ignorant of everything; compared to them, Namia was a paradise, and Adele knew better than to complain. But Remy was a diamond among pearls and Adele was not idiot enough to disregard how special that was. And, oh, was he a mystery. That was the best part of Remy St.Michel. Adele had enough resources at her disposal to know that he hadn't been born with that name, and certainly not in the tiny village of Yvesse, near to the Serdian border (no doubt chosen to cover the obvious Serdian nature of his features). She'd sent inquiries out almost as soon as she'd gotten to court, attracted to the beautiful young man who hadn't even reached his twentieth year and yet stood as the King's Minstrel. Almost as soon as she'd arrived, she'd given herself to the man; that, too, was a mystery to her. Never before had she been so attracted so someone, so willing to give herself over to a man, to throw away the lessons of her childhood that demanded virginity until marriage lest she bring dishonor to herself and her family. Adele was not fool enough to think herself the only recipient of Remy’s flattery and flirtation, but some small part of her heart could not help but believe that Remy felt something special for her, that his attentions to her were unique and absolutely more heartfelt than those given to the other ladies of the court, no matter that the outcome was the same. She knew he respected her—he’d told her as much, once, after the requisite bedsport of their weekly meetings—and her intelligence, but did he admire her in any special way? Adele, in her heart of hearts, hoped so, if only to be the first among the hordes of women to have attained such feelings. Adele stopped when she saw that Remy had entered the throne room. She wasn’t stupid enough to think that the king wanted music from the troubadour, especially at this hour of the morning. This was the time of day for kingly business, the business of running an entire nation besieged. Their mineral resources disappearing in the middle of the night—no one, not even Adele, suspected that the Ogres would act out of their own volition—and no one quite sure who to blame for the incident. Quick ears and a propensity to breathe through her nose had earned Adele the privilege of learning that the peasants, simple creatures though they were, believed that it was Serdia behind the night raids. A surge of rage flowed through Adele at the very mention of that heinous country—nothing good could some from those heretics—but her rational mind remembered that Serdia had no need for the raw materials. As much as her soul wished it to be Serdia, Adele’s mind thought that it could not be so. The Agemois family chateau was only little more than a day’s ride from the Serdian border. Because of this, Adele had grown up more-than-familiar with the evils of that particular nation. Boasting of their attachment to the New Faith—the true faith, Adele amended in her head—the Serdian royals instead wrapped chains around their priests and used them as political puppets, using faith as a cattle prod against their peasantry and even their nobles. Adele knew for certain that the eldest boy—Wulf—had been given as sacrifice to the old gods as punishment for whatever crimes the Serdians acknowledged amongst themselves. No doubt the boy deserved it and rotted in the fires of the Pit for all eternity as penance for his many, and egregious, sins. It had been Wulf Hanson who’d led the raid into Agemois lands that had killed her brothers and lost her father his left arm. It had been Wulf Hanson who’d nearly bankrupted the Agemois family, thus necessitating this odious trip to court in order to procure a rich husband and secure the family line. Oh, but Remy had been her savior. Without him, Adele thought, she could not have borne this torment of suitors passing before her, not a one of them the man she wanted. Not a one of them the man she craved, tingling with anticipation even as she stared at the closed doors of the throne room. Somewhere, the logical part of her mind whispered that the doors of the throne room never closed for anyone less than the most powerful noble or the most trusted advisor. Certainly not a troubadour. Adele sighed and turned away, heading for the gardens and some much needed time to think. Her Remy was an enigma. And Adele meant to figure him out, even if she had to do something reckless to do it. ***** “How goes Caledon, then?” Reynald lifted his head from his hand and stared out at Remy, who lifted from his bow upon hearing the informal nature of the King’s speech. “Peaceful. The Picti are not behind the Ogre attacks. It is too close to their most sacred holiday. All tribal wars have ceased and the chieftans gather for the sacrifice to their Nameless Deity. They are rather mum about the actual details of the sacrifice, but I gather it involves humans.” Remy’s lips twisted at that. Reynald did not force the young man to continue. The King of Namia knew well enough what Remy thought of human sacrifice, having been the sacrifice himself for committing supposed crimes against the Royal Family. Wulf Hanson was a good boy and had always been a good boy. While still young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, he’d led a few raids into Namian land, but even that had been with the best of intentions. King Hans, the boy’s father, had never much appreciated his eldest son, who was quick of mind and passionate with it. Wulf had never taken to the notion that Serdia deserved the best because they were Serdian and therefore Gods (or God, depending upon the Serdian) blessed. He’d appreciated the knowledge to be obtained by allying with other countries and creating networks throughout the world based on trade and mutual respect rather than conquest and dominion. But Wulf, more than anything, had loved his father and wanted nothing more than Hans’ respect and love. So he’d raided into Agemois lands and robbed the family there of much of their wealth and their heirs. If only Adele knew that the man she made eyes at was the man who’d ruined her family. Reynald smiled at the thought. God worked in mysterious ways, bringing those two together. “I’ve also traveled through Trirania. They, too, are quiet. Their Tree Priests say they have no need to rob the earth of her bones, or something along those lines. I’m guessing that means they don’t need iron. And their witches—and believe me, sire, there are a multitude of those—have given you warning. They say that the answer to our problems is shrouded in mists and yet sits in plain sight, if we but have the wisdom to look in the right places.” Remy had an idea of what that meant; Reynald could tell from the glint in the boy’s peculiar eyes, so like his mother’s. Queen Frigg had been a wonderfully kind-hearted woman. Wulf had been much more her son than Hans’. No doubt this more than anything that transpired following the raids was what led to Wulf’s conviction. The middle son, Erik, was much more to Hans’ liking and much less to Reynald’s. Erik Hanson would be a problem for Reynald’s heir, who bore his name as the fifth in the line to do so. But for now, Reynald had Hans and Ogres to deal with. “You have some idea of what this prophesy means, Hans?” Reynald referred to the boy by his real name for only one reason. It was not to hurt him, or to remind him of his crimes against Namia (or, more precisely, against his own soul), but to show that Namia still acknowledged the boy as heir to the Serdian throne. And a rightful member of his family. Wulf Hanson had not died though he should have. God clearly had something in store for him. That he was here in the Namian court was God’s will, and Reynald could but serve the almighty in whatever way he could. Remy nodded. “I think, your majesty, that the witches indicate that there are two answers to our problem. The obvious and the mysterious. The obvious, I should think, is that the Ogres are the first problem to solve. We have to stop the raids before we can worry about finding out who’s perpetrating them. Maybe, if we take out the Ogres, they will reveal their employers.” “Not likely, Wulf.” Reynald was always impressed with Wulf’s understanding of politics. If Remy St.Michel, the troubadour, was a little silly for his tastes, Wulf was what he had always wanted in a son. Reynald V was capable, but would rely heavily upon the creative minds of others to make his decisions. Wulf could make due for himself. If Reynald didn’t have plans for Wulf already, he’d see to his becoming an advisor. As it stood, Wulf already owed Reynald a price. And the King of Namia did not plan on making it a small one. Sacrifices would be made to see Namia’s plan done, and they were almost exclusively Wulf’s to bear. “The Ogres probably don’t even know who hired them. If they’re as insidious as we think they are, it is unlikely that they have revealed themselves to the footmen.” “True. Well then, we shall have to find the middleman and follow the silver. Where the money goes, so shall we. This does have a taste of my father, though. I would not be surprised to learn that Serdia had a hand in this, or knew who did and simply looked the other way. Either plan is suitably…dishonorable for my father.” Remy’s mouth continued to twist, an expression that had not come off of his face since the talk of human sacrifice. That he despised his family for their treatment of him was undoubted; whether he would act against them and Serdia for Namia was not entirely certain. And until Reynald could know for sure, Wulf Hanson would remain hidden within the guise of a troubadour, though an admittedly successful one. “Indeed. For now, though, I have an assignment for you. There has been an assassination. Several of my guards were murdered last night while attempting to apprehend a known criminal. I need you to go down into the stews of Jindel and investigate. Go as Remy, of course. Play a few songs, listen to the whispers, and report back to me. I’m sure these assassinations are connected to the iron thieves in some way.” Remy bowed, acknowledging the dismissal, and backed out of the room. Somehow, as always, the guards knew just when to open the doors. It was a mystery to Remy, who’d never gotten around to asking them. One day, when he wasn’t so busy, he would. Until then, it would remain a mystery to him. ***** “Remy!” Remy stopped at the sound of his name and turned, teeth flashing in a grin. So Adele had decided to follow him, hmm? Opening his arms, Remy caught the woman as she flew through the air toward him, laying kisses all over his face. They had not been able to do this in front of Lady Tremain, who would discern a special affection and wag her tongue all over the court. Something neither of them could afford. “Ah, my monster. Did you win at cards?” Remy put the girl down and stared into her dark eyes. So like her elder brother’s, who’d met his end at the edge of Wulf Hanson’s sword. Remy knew full well Adele’s hatred for the throne of Serdia, and no doubt for Wulf, as well. Would that he had never agreed to those raids! How things might be different for him. He could now be prepping for the throne of Serdia, and bidding for the hand of the beautiful Agemois daughter. Their property was on the edge of Serdian territory and the family was rich. He would not now be separated from his love by the appearance of inferior blood. But then, would she have accepted the “heathen prince of Serdia”, as the people of Agemois called Wulf, and now Erik? The Agemois clan was very devoted to the new faith of the One God. Remy felt a sort of distaste regarding the Church and their worldly clergy who professed to be beyond such considerations. The idea of one God, encompassing everything, suited Remy. He liked the balance in it, the simplicity of it. Mostly, though, he liked the One God because, when his own gods had tried to take him, it was the Father that had kept him alive and allowed him to escape. Of that, Remy was sure. But he did not like the Church. And Adele, bless her naivety, believed firmly in the tenets of that hypocritical beast. No, Remy thought. The only way he could have felt this, known this, was to have followed the path he chose. Wulf Hanson was dead. It was Remy St.Michel and no other who loved this beautiful girl, and Remy St.Michel who held her heart in like. No matter the sins of Wulf. It was the troubadour that had won the girl and not the doomed Prince. And Remy liked that well enough. “I did. And then I left Lady Tremain to her own devices, to go walking. I was just on my way to the gardens. You were not in the throne room long.” Remy smiled. Ah, Adele, he thought. I am beyond glad that court has not yet turned you to cunning. “It is a formality. When I travel, I can see the lay of the land. The King trusts my word and, as such, I report the happenings of Namia whenever I go afar. It is far easier than courier, for I have seen it myself.” “Not much to report, then?” Remy shook his head. “Ah, little monster. Just the Ogres. Always just another Ogre to scare the children with.” And a war brewing, of course. But that is up to the King. “Well then…” Adele’s smile turned wicked and she leaned in to bite the muscle at the base of Remy’s neck. “Shall we to bed, then?” “Ah, but my lady is truly a little monster. Yes, Adele, to bed. But then I must needs be away again. I am to perform in the city proper. And my first performance is this very evening.” Stilavon-BackFromTheAshes Kerrich sat at the back with his feet propped up upon the wooden table as he let the chaos before him unfold as if he'd been gazing for hours at a warm fire. He leaned back, rocking on hind legs of the chair.The ruffians smashed tables, chairs, and bottles against each others heads. All over one man's ego being attacked. It was pathetic and boring at the same same. The one in green would loose an eye in a moment after he broke a chair over the one in blue who's leg would be broken by the one in dark green missing when he tried to hit the one in red. Kerrich yawned and stretched, taking a sip of his drink. He was not as low as these men to get drunk and let his senses go. "I'm looking for a man named Kerrich..." hearing his name, Kerrich looked up to see a woman asking the barman for him. The man nodded his head towards where he was sitting and the woman turned, trying to look past all the fighters to the dark corner where Kerrich resided. He landed on all four legs of the chair and took his feet off the table as he stared at the woman. She looked dreary and bothersome. "Kerrich?" she asked, attempting to catch a glimpse of his face which was still hidden by the shadows of his hood. He shrugged his shoulders and instantly saw the impatience of the woman as she glared down at him. She plopped a heavy bag down on his table and sat across from him. "I was sent to find you. I need your help." Although she couldn't see them, he looked up at her, his eyes gleaming. "Why?" "I was told you know how to do your job and could assist me." "I don't 'assist'. I work alone. Whoever referred you to me obviously didn't remember to tell you I don't help anyone but myself. Get lost." She glared at him ever more as he returned to his lounging position that he'd been in moments before, kicking his feet back up onto the table. She pulled out a danger and slammed in into the wood of the table right next to him. "Now you listen here, I've got three days to gain access the d’Tanyon Manor and steal certain documents without leaving any trace of my being there. I was told to get help from you so I expect it." "Was that supposed to frighten me?" he asked, ignoring her small little fit. If she could have seen his face she'd have probably gotten angrier from the smirk on his face. He pulled her dagger out and tossed it onto the table bringing his arms up behind his head. "You could always go in disguise. Take out a maid if you need to and create some sort of distraction so no one notices you. Or study the building and find a way to sneak into the house. There's always a perfect time and place for that." the way he said it showed just how much thought he was giving it. He still wasn't taking her very seriously. ... (earlier that night) Kemma snuck down the ivory, silently thanking her lucky stars that she didn't try doing it with a dress on. Her hair was tied up and kept out of her way. She climbed down quietly enough and landed alongside the cloak she'd tossed out for herself and put it on. She would have her fun tonight, one way or another. She wore mostly black but had a dark blue jacket on. If all went well no one would bother her and think her a man. If not she had protection and they would learn just how dangerous a pretty little flower could be if it dug its thorns into ones flesh. She got her horse and quickly made her way away from her home in search for somewhere more exciting. Perhaps a tavern or something... as long as it wasn't as boring as tiring as her fathers home. neohuman The orcs were indeed fearsome creatures to behold. They stood a full head taller than a man, with broad shoulders and rippling muscles. Their skin was a deep shade of green, so dark it would appear black in the dimness of night. Their eyes ranged in color from bright yellow through fiery orange to blood red. Their teeth were fearsome yellow fangs, and most of them had large jaws, resulting in a drastic underbite. They dressed in thick animal furs that looked like they could repel the cold of all but the most chilling winter, and many of them were armored in spiked spaulders and horned helmets. Uncultured and brutish though they seemed, they also possessed a kind of savage handsomeness, with eyes that gleamed with dangerous cleverness and fierce defiance. The orcs all busied themselves with the tasks of their camp. Some cooked stew in black kettles hung over their fire pit, others worked in teams to erect their wooden pole and leather hide tents. Some counted and organized their weapons, hanging them carefully on makeshift weapon racks assembled from branches and ropes. Others sat about on logs and stumps, sharpening and polishing their swords and axes. Observing their appearance and activities, one would assume that they were a very warlike society, and a very efficient one at that. Assuming such a thing, one would be entirely correct. “Maybe… maybe I was a bit too hasty,” Autumn wondered aloud, peering down at the orc camp from her hiding place upon a gently-sloping wooded hill. “I warned you. Maybe next time you’ll listen to the wisdom of your elders,” Harlan reprimanded. “Both of you.” “Well, at least I got us moving, didn’t I? How long would you two have stood there arguing before I showed up?” Harlan went silent, having no reply. “All we need is a good plan,” Autumn continued. “As daunting as it may sound, there must be a way to reason with these creatures. We just need to find common ground with them, and gain their trust, if not their friendship.” She again held up the bottle of dwarven mead and looked at it thoughtfully. “Friendship? With orcs?!” Riordan exclaimed. “I should have known you were mad, when I saw you wandering the road alone.” “And why not?” Autumn asked, facing the young man. “Yes, they have a reputation as monsters, but maybe they feel the same way about humans. Just because they’re different, and scary looking, doesn’t mean we can’t give them a chance.” Autumn crouched a few moments longer, watching the fearsome, handsome creatures, and then sprung to her feet and started purposefully down the hill. The two men hesitated for several moments, and then followed her. Sonnet gritted her teeth. “Look, I didn’t come here just to be dismissed by some cocky, selfish asshole. Le Noir sent me to get your help, and I intend to get it, even if I have to beat it out of you.” (Edit: This addition was longer, but I deleted a big part of it. I feared that I would be misrepresenting Kerrich. I don't know how Stilavon wants to play him, so I decided to play it safe and let him speak for himself.) Quaddy Jindel was loud, teeming with voices and the noises of life, and dirty. Dangerous, too, for those unwary souls whose ignorance or arrogance led them to be less-than-careful when dealing with the cobblestone streets of Namia's capitol city. But it was most certainly lively, especially in its center, where the marketplace dwelled. It had grown over the years from a series of dilapidated tents and stalls to encompass the entire beating heart of Jindel. It was here that everything--if it was going to be--happened. And Remy loved it.Carefully dodging a deluge of human filth--the women here still insisted upon dumping their chamber pots out of an upstairs window--Remy made certain that the strap to his fiddle was secure and, more discreetly, that he had not managed to dislodge any of the weapons secreted about his person. It would not due to be unarmed here, as vibrant as the city was. Vibrancy led to some exceptionally unsavory folk. And a troubadour was just the sort of person they might decide to prey upon. The marked was alive today, beneath a setting sun and amongst a warm breeze that set pennants and standards flying, and the ale-house crowd to abstaining just until it became true dark. That was good. Remy might get to see a few of them sober if they started their drink later in the day. More information to be had. Even in the dimming light of near-dusk, Remy could see the colors, and the breeze wafted smell after intoxicating smell to his nose. Though the vendors were already in the process of shutting down, one or two of them stopped their work to shout out to him, to ask him where they might see him perform that night. Everyone knew Remy St. Michel, the King's Troubadour, and knew it was a treat to hear him. Remy had timed his arrival for just that moment, so that all may see him and all may remember just who would be at the Chateau d'Or Alehouse that night. The guards nodded, some of them smiling as they realized their shift would end in time for them to come back, others just wishing they'd been stationed closer to the alehouse. Remy smiled at each of them. "Don't worry, boys, I'll come do a show for you when you're off duty, as well." It was always good to have the guards on your side, especially when one's persona was not supposed to be particularly adept at more than small arms. And they heard more than just about anyone excepting the servants. And, of course, Remy was friends with the servants. Most of them knew he had the ear of Reynald and, further, that he actually listened to them. To gain their favor (and also because he had genuinely come to like them), he'd successfully petitioned for the servants to have half-shifts on the high holidays, each servant (in order of seniority) choosing which shift he or she would like to work on those days. It had worked as nothing else could to open the servants' ordinarily tight-lipped mouths. Remy always picked one of the better class of alehouses. It limited him, somewhat, because the unsavory types almost always favored the houses that matched their character, but Remy St. Michel had an image to protect that was worth more than any information. He harbored no doubt that Reynald would not be so lenient should Remy botch the assignment in any way; Wulf Hanson had not been popular among the Namians, if for no other reason than he had been the heir to hated Serdia. When he'd escaped the noose, Wulf had run straight for the Namian border to seek harbor at one of their guardhouses. Apparently, and in just another show of God's meddling, the King, too, had been in residence. He'd been touring his nation, inspecting the wholesomeness of its buildings, its land, and most of all its people. Reynald had taken one look at Wulf and guessed who he was. Remy St. Michel owed his existence to those few days at a guardhouse near Yvesse. Wulf had wondered, once, whether the Namian people wouldn't hate him for looking Serdian. Reynald had chuckled and shook his head. "We've a fairly large refugee population in these parts. Walk, talk, and breathe Namia and everyone will assume you are Namian, no matter that you look Serdian." And so a Serdian prince walked among the Namian people as a Namian troubadour. And they loved him for it. The Chateau D'Or was a good alehouse, possibly the best in all of Jindel. It served good mead, good ale, and good food, as well as providing good-looking women to serve it. Further, it was one of the few alehouses that allowed women as patrons, and possibly the only respectable one. Its proprietor was one Jacques d'Or, who'd been a warrior in his day, and a celebrated one at that. When he'd retired, he'd asked a boon of Reynald, who'd given it gladly. That boon was this: a place, a respectable place, for the people of Namia to gather together for drink, food, and song. That it not be the nobles alone who could sup in such a fashion, but that everyone get to enjoy the fruits of Namia's success. That place became the Chateau d'Or. Older now, and reaching infirmity, Jacques had handed over the alehouse to his son, who'd run it admirably. It was the cleanest, the most sanitary, and the brightest of all the alehouses, for the sake of the women who came as often as the men. Occasionally, even a noble or two had been known to seek the place out, especially those who wanted to seem a voice for the people. And occasionally, the King sent his beloved troubadour down to share with them a song. "A drink for the troudabour!" Came the expected, and traditional cry, as Remy entered the front door. He'd taken a rather circular path, so several of the people he'd passed were already there. Grinning, Remy set about kissing every lady and gallantly bowing to every gentleman in the place. Quickly, with barely a glance, he assessed the back corners and near-hidden booths. Jacques d'Or had been a soldier, after all, so nothing was entirely hidden from his view. There. And there. One table, two people, a man and a woman. The man was hooded, but Remy could feel that he was watching, and the woman--girl, really--did her best to ignore the commotion, but could not quite hide the impatience and near-anger from her face. She moved like a fighter, Remy had noticed--no, a killer--as the man with her moved like a man with something to hide. The other, the third, was a woman. And Remy recognized her. She was the beautiful and passionate daughter of the Yseult clan. Kemma, Remy remembered. And she flushed most becomingly when he turned his head to her and gave a most flamboyant bow. But Remy knew not to touch this one; she wouldn't allow it, no matter his charms. There were plenty of beautiful women to seduce this evening, and one who did not need seducing waiting his return. "A song for the crowd in recompense," he called as soon as his feet reached the stage. It was the toast of troubadours, and it stretched back for nearly two-hundred years. The crowd cheered, waiting as Remy unhitched his fiddle and set about tuning it to the perfect pitch. "Now, I have recently come across a song in my travels. And I have traveled far to find new songs and new music, as it is the duty of the troubadour to find new songs and new music. I shall sing my own songs this night, but first this one. It is from the lands of the witches, Trirania, though I have translated it to Namian. It is called "Man in the Moon"..." The crowd quieted so that only the barest whisper could be heard and Remy began. In Trirania, there had been no fiddle. There had been naught but the voice of the woman singing it, and she hadn't even finished it at that. Other things had distracted her that evening, but he'd gotten the words and tune out of her the following morning. And he'd composed a simple fiddle line on counter to the lyrics themselves. Once the crowd was really listening, he began to sing. "Man in the moon stands and strides; On his boatfork his burden he beareth. It is a great wonder that he down does not slide; For fear, lest he fall, he shuddereth and veereth. When the frost freezeth, much chill he bides. There's no-one in the world who knows when he sits, Unless it be the hedge, what clothes he weareth. Whither, think you, hath this man gone? He hath set one foot in front of the other, In any height he's reached, I have never seen him shaken; He is the slowest man that ever was born." A simple flourish and the song was done. Smiling broadly, Remy bowed and accepted the calls for another song. "So, the witches know their music. Different from the usual tales of love lost and courtly knights, is it not? But don't fear, I have battle songs and love songs galore!" Fiddle in hand, Remy jumped off the stage danced around the alehouse, playing a foot-stomping song that had the crowd dancing in moments. Eventually, he approached the table with the two strangers. "Requests of the bard this evening, lady? Song you'd like to hear, gentleman?" "We'd like to be left in peace, if you will," spoke the man from his hood. "We have business." Remy laughed. "Ah, but the time for business is done, my friend. Now is the time to enjoy one's self!" And, quick as a flash, before either of them had realized it, Remy broke the music, flipped the man's hood back, and started the song again. "There, you see. Enjoyment! And you, lady, would have have something? A sonnet, perhaps, in your honor?" The woman started, eyes flashing, and Remy knew he'd hit on something. "What did you call me?" "I called you lady because that is what you are. You are a girl, a woman, a female, a lady. I merely asked if you should like me to write a sonnet in your name. What, pray tell, is your name, beautiful lady?" Remy pushed, prodding, knowing that the crowd would protect him and Bertran d'Or would remove them if they attacked. Not that Remy couldn't protect himself, but he did have his character to keep in mind. "None of your business, bard. Now go away!" "Tsk tsk, no need to be rude. Alright then, lady. I shall call you Sonnet and write a sonnet for Sonnet!" Remy laughed heartily, taking note of the recognition that had flashed in the girl's eyes. She feared him, feared something he had said. But what? Unless her name really were Sonnet, of course, which was not unlikely. It was not a common name in Namia, but in Trirania...and she did have the look. "And you, gentleman, I see you have put your hood back up. Most unfortunate. Bertran might think you're trying to hide and he doesn't much care for that in his establishment." Quickly, before moving on, Remy memorized the girl's face. "Good evening, Sonnet." "Do not call me that!" she growled suddenly, standing. Remy stopped playing, calling attention directly to himself and the girl. She should have stopped there. "You do not have permission to call me that." "Apologies, lady. I seem to have guessed more than I ought. But sit down before Bertran calls the guard. This is a night of fun, lady, not of anger." Remy made to play again, but the girl stepped forward, clearly against the wishes of the man she was with. But he shrugged and then stepped away, distancing himself from Remy and Sonnet both. Wise move, but then, he specialized in not getting caught. "I am not afraid of the guard," she hissed. "Well then, lady, you should perhaps be aware that there are more of them here tonight than there were last night." Remy took a chance, guessing. He was rewarded with a shudder from the girl and a quick transformation of character. "You are correct. I apologize, good sir. It has been a bad day for me," she spoke, loudly enough for everyone to hear. "I shall be going now." And, quick as a flash, she was gone and into the night. But no matter, Remy thought, he had her name and he had her face. The guards--with perhaps some professional soldiers--would track her down. "Well," he said, turning to the crowd. "That was most interesting. Now, on with the night!" © Copyright 2009 neohuman, Quaddy, Taiah, Wenston, Stilavon-BackFromTheAshes, Bumble Bee, (known as GROUP). All rights reserved. GROUP has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
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