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Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
A merchant caravan halts in a dusty settlement. Thirty-two horse- and oxen-drawn wagons carting apples and gemstones, building materials, slaves, royalty and everything in between are guided off the packed earthen road.
The journey has been long, but will be longer still and though Brisken has naught to offer, here they would stay, and rest a few days. The watering holes, two humble taverns, and the sizeable inn had seen many a traveller over the years and now stood worn and crooked upon the dry and infertile soil. There were two names to this place, as there were to its grander counterpart on the other side. Trepidation, and Relief. For the traders who now moved among the hired guards, ensuring the finest protection of their valuable wares, for those men and women who would soon be retiring to those real and soft beds long longed for, Relief lay on that other side. Not a thousand thousand soldiers could guarantee the days and miles between here and there would be free of peril. It will be no surprise, then, that while their men recover their strength, they will recover their wine casks, and perform that too familiar rite. We'll be starting out with some low fantasy. There are wondrous creatures, magical realms, foul warlocks performing forbidden witchcraft and shining objects invested with potent enchantments - but thanks no doubt to your protective charms and warding rituals they come no closer than that friend of a friend who swears to have seen something spooky. Being the obvious source of fortunes and misfortunes, these rumours of unearthly forces are what passes for religion, and many a man has a personal imp or related creature to beg for aid or mercy. It is an age of metal blades and links of chain, oaken shields and wagon wheels, and great stone buildings - though the only stones erected in Brisken are found in the graveyard, unmarked but not forgotten by the seven families who occupy the humble homes and tend to those passing through. The caravan itself is best described as a travelling city, migrating along predictable patterns for the better part of each year. You're free to choose your own role, whether that of a caged labourer, a mercenary guard, merchant's daughter or journeying prince. A local lad looking for adventure, or a lucky survivor of the last group to brave this dangerous stretch of land. Play one of the horses if you must. We'll try to bring all or some of you together before long and make it an adventure. When submitting characters, I'm mainly interested in the following: - A physical description on age, appearance, fitness and the like. - A mental description on what they hope to get out of life etc.. - Personal history, what have they been doing the past few years, which skills did they hone, how did they end up where they are? - Family history, who are the relatives, what did they do, how did they get along. Also, who's your family now? We won't be using anything like statistics; instead, success in any venture depends mainly on your experience with such matters. Please PM your character details, and inform the other players of what they need to know in an introductory post. I can imagine you'd like to know a little more about the lands you're in first, and the perils you're about to face, but since most people couldn't care less about who rules where and what nasties approach so long as they have more important things to worry about (such as finding the next meal and saving up some riches for a cow) I'll leave you to discover most of that over time. You're in a kingdom and equality's hard to find. If, however, you want to play one from the upper classes, I'll be happy to let you (re)invent some of the noble houses and even lord over all the other travellers and locals. Until they stone your pompous bottom, of course. |
Casquinto's entrance - a grandeur has never graced thy presence
The wagon rolled. A simple observation, for a simple wagon. This wagon was not grand, nor vast, but rather, it was small and intricate. Intricate was a good word. Painted black, with exotic designs of silver knots covering it, every so often studded with a circle with a cross through it, it was somewhat unremarkable compared to the highly decorated gypsy wagon behind it. And it was small. It really was more of a trap than a wagon, truth be told, for it had a covering of wood. Wood with holes in. Lots of holes. Four screens made up its walls, with a roof covering it. Of course, these holes were tiny; having been delicately carved by some master craftsman or other. Fine wood. Sturdy wood. Wood, covered by curtains from the inside. Curtains of black silk.
Of course, who knew what lay inside the wagon? It seemed big enough to hold a man, with a bit of wiggle room. Perhaps two ladies at most, if the ladies were petite. On the outside of the wagon, the driver's seat, sat a nondescript man. He was decked out in black; rather smartly, as one might see if one was to pay attention. Shiny boots, polished enough to reflect one's face upon inspect; tidy breeches and a doublet-cum-jerkin as a jacket. His brown hair was cropped, and he wore a sharp beard, trimmed to a neat point. This was accompanied by a moustache, and a sardonic smile. Not quite oily, but almost greasy; the sort you might see on a used-cart merchant, except for that sparkle in his eye at some sort of jest no one but he knew of. At his belt, he wore a dagger and purse, and in his gloved hands - leather, naturally - he causally held the reins to the horse in front. A rather large black horse. As he lounged in the seat, while managing to keep his back straight and adorn a rather bored expression, the hero of our tale rode past. Mounted on an almost identical, but somewhat larger steed of his own, our dashing young man cut a rather striking image. Rapier at his side; long dagger at the other, he held the reins of his horse almost in disdain; it was more for show as he used his knees to guide the beast. His black sable cloak swept dramatically behind him as a gust of wind picked it up and carried it along with his mane of raven hair. His eyes were grey and as piercing as a hawk's; his finely chiselled face fair with just the right trim of triangular moustache and beard - much like his driver's - and his white silk shirt fell open at the neck. Cuffs and collar alike were adorned with swirls, and his breeches were black with just the right amount of snugness - to show off that wiry, toned acrobatic-fencer's body of his. And his wide rimmed riding boots, of course, were good proper leather, cut right to the knee. He cast that slight knowing smile that had broken more than five hundred girls' hearts as he swept his glance around, those deep, deep eyes taking in everything at once. In his right hand, he twirled a white rose, and took a deep sniff of its illustrious scent. On his finger dangled his signet ring; the crested basilisk upon the crossed sabres. Studded with diamonds, it dazzled like fresh dewdrops in the sunlight. Oh, the romance! What young, susceptible farmer's daughter/tavern wench/young noblewoman/bored (or married) middle-aged woman could resist? His driver gave a silent chuckle-snort. They would soon be on their way, as soon as they got from behind the flower cart and the gipsy wagon. The rider exchanged a sardonic look of his own with him. How many would buy his image this time? |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
*Rattle. Rattle.*
Unkempt black hair. Beard touching his waist. Spit mixing with the remnants of last night's stew for the choicest spots of the beard. *Rattle. Rattle.* Piercing black eyes staring into nothingness. Black eyes in a very pale face. *Rattle. Rattle.* Rags clinging to pale skin. Skin scarred by more wounds than one sees in a lifetime. *Rattle. Rattle.* A hungry grin. A tasty rather large black horse. What a feast it would make. Something different than- *Rattle. Rattle.* than the crap they usually fed- *Rattle. Rattle.* him. *Rattle. Rattle.* "Oi, won't you bloody-" *Rattle. Rattle.* "stop" *Rattle. Rattle.* "THAT!" one of his caretakers growls. Its a fierce growl, but can not be taken seriously, coming from the other side of the bars. *Rattle. Rattle.* "You'd better stop that, you-" *Rattle. Rattle.* "One of these days, I'll kill-" *Rattle. Rattle.* "That's it, I'm gonna-" *Rattle. Rattle.* *Rattle. Rattle.* *Rattle. Rattle.* Hours of fun were to be had with this loose iron bar. It made such a nice sound as it rattled in its socket. Mmmm, tasty horse. Who could the rider be, shining such a brilliant light from that ring on his finger? |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
It takes the better part of an hour to organize the wagons and carts, abandoning the dun road for use by the nightly traffic which would not pass through in a village like this. Even now, as most of the trekkers have reached their spot, there is a lot of settling ahead. Camp fires are lit, using the dried waste of pack animals for want of proper wood. Pots are mended, bedrolls unfurled. The first scents of dinner fill the dusty air in this least unwelcome of unwelcome places.
The prisoner's wagon is drawn up at the edge of camp, away from what light the settlement provides at this hour. It is no accident the cage rests next to a cart laden with manure, though surely this was not his guards' idea as their noses wrinkle and their hatred for the man grows each time the wind picks up. Their spite was displayed in different ways; harsh words, spilled dinner or else their own special recipes they spiced with spit and hoped to make him beg for. This night, they would simply leave the prisoner to starve a while before feeding him his grub. If they should remember to feed him. One unpacks the dice. Elsewhere in the caravan, in a place smelling more of roses, a young boy in a commoner's rags approaches an expensive looking carriage, tugging at the pants of its smartly dressed driver. "'scuse me, mister," he says. "Me ma says yer lord's welcome to stay at our place, if he likes. We got room an' it's not all liced up like Grysson's inn." The child points out his home, a modest construction near the centre of Brisken - in so far as there was one. "She's boiling chicken an' everything," the youngster adds, surprised and delighted, before running back home. The cage itself is cramped. Thick metal bars rising up from the wagon bed, with equally thick bars wrapped around them. The holes between allow the air in, along with a pattern of light during the hours of day. It is no place for a man, but none would argue their content on this trip isn't beastly indeed. Like every night before it, a group of the righteous and concerned gathers around to catch a glimpse of the thing inside, that man who is no man. Some carry sticks, and try to fit them through the gaps. Laughter rises every time a noise emerges from within. The guards continue their game. He should arrive alive, but nothing more had been asked for. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
*Rattle.*
The sudden sound causes the fearsome to fall back a pace or two, but soon enough they and their sticks come back and rattling the loose bar in its socket will no longer cause them to shy away from the caged animal. They are only brave because they are outside and he is inside. Because they have sticks and he has only half-torn rags to cover his bruised body. Because there are two dozen of them and he is alone. Crowds were always easy to control. Cow the strongest, the most vocal and the rest would shy away. The most vocal here are the women, bravely egging on their husbands from a dozen paces back. "Hit him!" one shouts, "In the privates!" another adds. He moans and groans only because if he did not the men would just poke harder with their sharp sticks. One of these days, he would shove a stick up someone's... He had tried that a week back, when they had camped in the middle of nowhere. He had snatched a stick from a boy of about ten and had smacked him hard in the ribs with it. It had been the only time that the guards had intervened in the mobs' favorite pastime. He has so many plans for when he escaped from this cage. None of them goes farther than slaughtering all the guards and his pitiful torturers, but they are the only thoughts that filled his heart with joy these days. Imagining the stupid peasants and the cruel guards frozen in their own blood, expressions of horror still frozen on their faces. It is beautiful. He just needs to get out of the cage. He would do the rest with his bare hands if he needs to, but not even his bare hands can release him from his prison, however much he rattled at the only loose bar. The constant poking does not bother him. It would die down when the women were hungry and dragged their sons off, the men soon stopping without their brave wives urging them on. And besides, it almost feels good in comparison to what awaits him at the end of the journey. He had been given a taste of it before leaving the prison that had served as his home for the last three years; a good long torture session, at the end of which he had been assured that he was being taken to much better equipped facilities. "The fat bastard has two sixes," he shouts over the heads of the departing crowd after he spies the guard who had his back to him carefully hiding his dice from the other players. That sentence makes the fat guard accidentally step into the bowl of food that had been prepared for the prisoner. A pity, but he would have to stay without his food for the night. It had totally been worth it though. *Rattle. Rattle. Rattle. Rattle.* He will keep at it for the whole night if no one stops him. *Rattle. Rattle. Rattle. Rattle.* The bar was getting looser everyday, but as he shakes it with all his force it is not freedom he is thinking about, but about the sweet ringing monotone sound that it makes. The blunt end of the patrolling guard's spear into his stomach stops the rattling and the prisoner curls up on the floor of the cage. He knows that he wouldn't sleep for more than fifteen minutes before a studded boot or the flat of a sword woke him. He is used to falling asleep in just a few seconds, giving himself to dreams of blood, murder and madness. |
Casquinto's dilemma
"Hold!" The rider called at the boy, "Wait one moment, child! Be still!"
Seeing the boy had already run off, the rider sighed. Well, he should check it out. But first, he had something else to do; so, he rode alongside his trap, and murmured at the wall, "My dear, come out and join me. We have a dinner invitation and it would simply be dreadful not to have you along as my escort. Do come along and join me." ... (OOC:) Who could he be talking to? For the next instalment, please check with your DM. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
A green eye peers out from betwixt the black silken curtains before the trap door opens. Feminine hand in the lead, begging Casquinto's gallant assistance, his companion emerges from the perfumed confines of the carriage.
These common scents of the out of doors never fail to offend her, and she looks down upon the expensive white gown as though it is already dirtied beyond salvation. "Why must my lord parade me at every halt," she complains with an indignant toss of her copper crowned head. The accusation seems mild, however, and like as not she is as pleased with the opportunity to stretch her legs as anything. The night darkens and those with the unfortunate chore of keeping an open eye on this, the first real halt after a lengthy journey, find little threat in the presence of these locals. Brisken has ever made a living off traders like their masters, and could ill afford to lose its hospitable, if humble reputation. With the few families keeping their offspring in check, the only threat lies in the greedy hands of fellow travellers. Travellers who even now sleep in beds and on tavern floors, or else down one chilled ale after the other, all for the first night in weeks. Even with a murderer to torment, what could make for a duller watch? The faintest jumble of his cart is enough to waken the caged man once more. A guard strolls up, rapping on the cage and growling insults before returning to his post - righteous duty done for now. But he is not the hooded figure which crept onto the cart only seconds before, crouched in what shadows can be found in the dark, almost close enough to grab. The hood and its accompanying cloak seem black, or darkest purple perhaps. If there is purpose or reason to this visit, it is not voiced, and indeed the visitor's gaze is directed down and away from its host, where it remains. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
He can feel his heart beating through the rags, sleep having deserted him after being woken for the ninth time that night. He can also hear the furtive footsteps and hushed breathing from but a few feet away. Dark garb more often that not betrays dark intents and the prisoner can not know who those intents would be directed at. Has someone come for revenge? Is he finally being released from his torments? Or is it a different kind of release that is awaiting him?
The intruder does not look at the prisoner, doesn't even seem to acknowledge his existence. Whether that is good or bad he does not, can not know. He wonders about the stranger. He wants release. He wants it badly. Even if it is death. But then again, there is still some fun to have in life. *RATTLE* |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
Rohan reined in his pure blooded stallion, slowing it to a very slow walk. He adjusted the hood of his dark green cloak so that a passerby could only see his eyes, then he moved his sword so it could be easily drawn. His black boots and black leather gloves shined as if new, he smiled to himself as he watched the people interact. Maybe here he would find what he was looking for. Maybe here his search was over and he could finalize his training and finish his fight.
He held the reins with one hand and patted his sword hilt with the other. It had been a curiously long time since he'd seen any trouble, not since that last battle almost a year ago......... the memories bubbled... "Rohan no!!!" Nickoli shoved him out of the arrows path. it thudded into his back and he staggerd. "Nickoli...." rage boiled inside him, he unsheathed his sword and attacked in a blind rage, cutting down the man with the bow before he could draw his own sword........ "Our dream will be relized my old friend." he whisped to himself, blinking away tears and resuming his exspresionless stare. |
Casquinto's Grievance
"Because, my dear" he sighed in exasperation - mock-exasperation; it was all for show anyway, such was the duty of the nobility, he inwardly sighed - "niceties have to be maintained, and besides, it will do you good to get out of that stuffy cart for a while. Come, ride with me."
...And that really was that. So the night darkened and guards went around doing whatever it was those useless layabout loafs did - probably wenching, drinking and pissing all over hedgerows, too drunk to find the latrine; such filthy creatures these peasants, he commented to his lady, as was expected. Appearances and all that. So they had rushed off and dined, had a simply marvellous meal with the old woman who had been more than delighted to cook for them; after all, it was an honour to have such esteemed guests, and to hear tales of faraway lands, daring exploits, dashing heroes and hapless heroines, not to mention ruthless cut throat brigand scum and those tragic, but suitably trying-to-be-noble dark figures who invariably have suffered some great loss and wind up on a quest of revenge only to get themselves killed in a most unheroic fashion since death, no matter how dramatised and trumped up is never pretty, and to glorify it really is the height of stupidity and ignorance that only a fool peasant would believe, but since there were no fool peasants around - peasants, yes, but not fool ones - at least here, in the wagon-caravan-whatever the old woman called her travelling home - they all laughed when the dark, tragic hero got himself castrated after trying to charm the wrong heroine with his wily ways and not-so-silver tongued wit. Then she'd stilled his heart using some sort of herb and tricked the rest of his companions (who didn't like him anyway) into believing that it was a 'mercy killing' and nothing else could be done. She later became known as the 'Wicked Witch of the East', and was said that there were no fairer maidens than she. Except she wasn't technically a maiden, but eh, details. So while entertaining his hosts and sending the boy into squeals of delighted laughter, and no doubt earning more than a few indulgent smiles from his lady, the nobleman eventually took his leave, dropping a small amount of coins into the boy's hand as he left; leaving the child wide eyed. His way of saying 'thank you'; word would get around that he was a most generous man, and not only would this win the approval of the ladies, - and older women - but also of the peasants. Which meant that hopefully the grumbling would be reduced and there would be not spitting in his food, sabotaging of his wagon and the commonfolk would go out of their way to earn his favour. On the flipside, it meant that some might try to raid his cart while he slept, but that's what his wagonmaster-cum-driver was for. They slept in shifts, after all. Besides, he had little to fear since he had already befriended most of the convoy. A flash of a smile here, a benevolent gesture there - oh yes, all that was expected of a handsome, young, successful upcoming noble. He was the perfect image of a man destined for great things. So it came to pass that on the way out, with his lady, as they rode gently beneath the starry sky - as one was want to do, to increase the illusion of enchanting romance and make the women weep as they recounted the soppy tale - that they came upon the prison cage. *RATTLE* There was that damned noise again! It had been disturbing him all afternoon! *RATTLE* Always *RATTLE*. By the sky and sun above, what the blazes did those useless guards think they were doing? Poking the poor fellow with sticks? So it was he came upon him; not the Caged One, but the rider. Awfully suspicious fellow; what was he doing out here at this time of night, and one to toy with his sword too. ...And then he saw it. The hooded cloak, revealing only the eyes. Great Spires and Steeples of the Seventh Realm! Could it be? No... surely not! Not a dark hero?! "You there! Halt! I would speak with you a moment;" Called our hero; silently reassuring the lady with a hug. Daintily perched on his horse in classic fashion, both her legs leaning out to one side, he was in no real position to charge the strange fellow. "What are you doing dressed up like that?" He continued, "Someone might mistake you for a bandit, or worse, a figure out of a ballad! I would ask you identify yourself." Of course, our hero was well in control of his horse which he guided by his knees, and his hand supporting the small of his lady's back, and his other hand causally resting on his hip, he struck a dramatic pose as his own sable cloak (of black, of course; what other colour would a sable be to match his raven hair?) rippled gently in the breeze, he waited. These things had to be done with a certain about of style. The guards would be talking of this to the teammasters who in turn would tell their women... the only thing worse for gossip than a woman was a teammaster, or a man down the tavern. *RATTLE* There was that damnable noise again. Someone really ought to thrash that fellow. The Caged One. Sigh. Tonight was only going to get longer... at least for a while. Our hero ran his gloved hand through his lady's hair as it trailed down her back in a silken waterfall of rusty-red, (well, given the light, it was hardly its usual coppery hue due to the various torches that lay scattered around) and smiled. Time for that... later. First, deal with the strange cloaked fellow who seemed intent on drawing attention to himself in the worst possible way, and then Caged One - quickly becoming known as 'the Rattler', or perhaps 'Rattle Man'. That'd make a terrible novel: 'Rattle Man Strikes Back'. *RATTLE* Our hero gritted his teeth. These little trials were to be endured; they built character. (OOC - DAM, my character is of course, addressing yours. Also, @ Dplax, "stealing" your rattle for the post. Hope you don't mind too much ;)) |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
"So it seems we have a moment."
The words are spoken, but sound no louder than a whisper. "Madness indeed, this life you live. Now how did that happen?" The hooded figure lounging near the cage continues to look casually away, as though to keep even the glint of its eyes a mystery. A strange, airy amusement carries with the words. "Shipped from one torture to the other. Doubt me they care for answers." Tapping the cart bed idly, the visitor considers, then laughs lightly in a fair disturbing manner. "Let me give you an answer instead." And at those words, the visitor falls silent. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
His head lifts maybe a full inch as he raises it from the floor of his cage to glance at the strange hooded figure. He coughs at first as he tries to speak and it takes a couple of seconds to order his tortured muscles to stop and allow him to reply.
"They don't even care for questions," he replies in a soft, but cold voice, "and even if they cared they have preconceived answers." He chuckles softly, the laughter simply seeming absurd in his current situation. "As to how I got here...if you know I'm being shipped from one torture to another then you already know the answer to that. Strange, isn't it, that madness is the only thing that can give my life meaning?" He doesn't add that the clear moments are only suffering caged as he is. He doesn't add his wishes for murder should he be freed either. Some things are best left unspoken. Even to the friendliest person he has met in years. Someone who hasn't cursed or struck him within five minutes of first meeting him. "So tell me, what answer do you have?" |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
Again comes the laughter, free of malice but hinting at an unhealthy degree of insanity which lends a chilling cheer to the visitor's words.
"And is that truly what you'd have me answer? I expect better than that." |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
The prisoner can't help but grin himself, but whether it is a grin at the current situation or a facial expression inspired by insanity is hard to tell.
"All right. A question that interests me rather more in my current situation then. Does your being here have anything to do with a possible future escape by yours truly?" |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
"Oh," and the volume drops to less than a whisper, felt almost more than heard.
"But you cannot escape. Madness thrives inside you. With the hounds baying in your mind, chasing after your thoughts, growling at your reason, what hope is there for you?" A luxuriously gloved hand brushes gently down one of the vertical bars. "And yet... Can you know more freedom than this?" After a moment's contemplation, the creature's hood bobs down and up in a decisive nod. "You are free already, you are hunted already. You are caught already. Why am I here? Because you called for me. Never mind about these bars. Never mind about.. them." The gesture towards distant guards turns the prisoner's eye, and as if to answer the glance one of his tormentors just swings his own head around. The silence is broken by a relieved sigh from the cart at shedding excess weight. The night grows slowly colder. |
The Rattler finally gets a name
Free? Hunted? Caught? Confusing terms for one who is grasping and rattling a loose iron bar with all his strength. He is told never to mind about the bars. But the rattling sound calmed him. It also earns him a very hard rap on the knuckles when the sentry arrives next to the bars. That stops the rattling, but not the confusing thoughts.
Free. Hunted. Caught. Hounds baying. Madness thriving. Is he really mad? Is he really free? Or is the shadowy figure just fooling with him? Sleep does not come and the guards pokes only bring discomfort and not sudden waking. His thoughts are churning, his mind does not stop thinking about what he has been told. Already free. Could that mean...? Two hands grab a loose iron bar. Two hands pull with all their strength. The metal strains, but does not snap. The hands pull, pull and pull, but all in vain. At least the guards see nothing. Questions. He has hundreds of questions. The shadowy figure did not bring answers, but questions. Questions with no easily available answers. A sigh leaves his lips. But he now has hope. He pulls the loose bar with all his strength once again, this time planting his feet on adjacent bars and putting even all of his back muscles in the effort. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
Rohan smiled slowly, his eyes shining in the dim light.
<font color=silver> Me? A man out of a ballad? Ha. I am just a man. </font> He tried to sound happy, but it came out in his usual tone. He swiftly dismounted and moved the hand not on his sword up to his face, from which he removed his hood. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his silver earings shone brightly. He slowly rode toward the fellow, and smiled. There was a lady on his horse so he wasnt going to attack, but even so he kept his right hand free in case he need to draw. <font color=silver> You wouldnt happen to know of healers would you? Im afraid that I may have an infection in this cut here on my leg, i was trying to find one myself before i disturbed anyone. Guess that didnt go as planned. ooc: imagine his voice being like Vin Desiel. Thats how i hear it in my heaad. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
Placed before her lord, sitting side saddle upon the too tall horse, the curly-haired lady reaches for a perfumed kerchief. 'tis a gasp that's called for and a gasp she gives, as the conversation of the men turns to injury and infection.
Boldly, she glances down. The horse is tall indeed. Best not to faint.. It is on the far side of the village that a man and his mule are found, forever marked by the strong odours of the many herbs they carry and deal in. His colleague and rival is nowhere in sight, possibly practising healing arts elsewhere in the caravan or village. Possibly but resting. But here before the tinker's wagon works one of the few physicians with a care for the poor whilst a concerned father paces nearby. But that is nowhere near those wanderers within our focus. For all the straining of ill-fed and worse treated man's muscle, he manages no more than to set his cart ashaking. A squeak of the axle sounds like a banshee's moaning in the night, but 'tis a spirit being long caught in traffic if it only delivers its death warning now. One of the guards rises, grumbling, and slams the cage twice before wandering off. "You two!" An angry snarl from the darkness, and the figure marching behind the words leaves no doubt he just addressed the two mounted men. "Take your bloody business elsewhere, you're upsetting the prison-" Doubt. "Pardons my lords, lady. Go where you please, of course." The guard retreats several steps. Best not to offend any nobleborn. At attention then. A fine dame. Try not to stare. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
Rohan's head snapped toward the man and his stare was cold. Quickly he rememberd himself and relaxed a little.
<font color=silver> Hmph. You A gaurd? No of course you are, what other kind of fool would adress two armed men as if we were incompetent punks that would cut off our own toe with a blade. </font> He moved down from his horse swiftly and silently, though appearing to favor his left leg to land on. His dark green cloak seemed to blend in here and there, making it hard to distinguish where he was as a whole. He moved to the man slowly enough, his eyes shining in the light, a cold grey. <font color=silver> What's your name merc? |
Casquinto's Revenge
Such insolence! How dare this fool place himself in the same category as our hero?! Who did he think he was, comparing him to our hero? Such presumption! It could not go unpunished! What sort of word was 'punk'? Wicked, vile heathen tongue!
Our hero was aghast with righteous anger; cold fury brimming through his veins. And this cloak - what mystical device was this? Could it be that this 'dark hero' was no 'hero' at all, but rather... some evil spirit? Our hero had a lady to protect! No, it had to be done. No mere mortal could possibly blend in like that with the shadows unless he was bewitched... or worse, some foul enchanter... a warlock! Our hero could not stand for it, and squeezing his lady gently, a touch all but hidden by the darkness (and by the fact the 'dark hero' was at the wrong angle to see it, and our hero was concealed by his own black sable cloak, his movement so slight it barely showed, thus being all but invisible to all but the most powerful of uber mary-sues - or someone watching from the right angle), he charged his horse towards the 'dark hero' using just his knees. He would ride him down; as he did so, he drew his sword. The foul villain would not escape this! No evil spirit could be allowed to exist! Of course, if he really was an evil spirit, he would pre-empt this and move out of the way, thus proving he was evil. If he was only mortal, the horse would connect with him, and our hero may consider sparing him the blade. Trampled by a horse would be punishment enough for insulting the innocent speaker the 'dark hero' had so unjustly addressed as 'merc'... ;) |
The Rattler is tired
"Yes, do take your business elsewhere. You're robbing my dear guards of the pleasure of being able to wake me," he retorts from a lying position.
The mention of the word "merc" brings him to an upright position as he rattles the bars, while laughing almost like a maniac. "You...hear...that?" he manages to utter between bouts of frantic laughter. "He called you a merc. I wonder what that is." He is oblivious to the two men being close to blows, taunting his guards being way more fun. "Merchant? Mercer? Merciful?" He laughs even harder and has to double over, for his stomach muscles can't take this much merriment. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
Rohan sighed and claped the fellow on the shoulder.
<font color=silver> My appologies. I meant no offense. My journey has made me weary. Allow me to buy you a drink or something sometime. I really didnt mean anything by calling you a mercenary. In fact a few of the best men i ever knew were mercs. </font> He turned back to the man and woman on the horse. <font color=silver> Sorry for my rough manner my lady, </font> he said with a slight bow. <font color=silver> My lord. If i may converse with you after you so kindly point to a healer of some sort, i would be happy to exchange stories. My name, by the way, is Rohan Nagarian. |
Casquinto's Surprise
Well it seemed the 'dark hero' was not phased by a charging horse, or even acknowledged its existence, but at his rather human speaking, our hero concluded that even though he appeared to have absolutely no perception or wits to the world around him, he seemed human enough, so he stopped his horse from charging. Instead, he kissed his lady (on the cheek), and wheeled around, disdain replacing righteous anger. “After I do what now?” He inquired haughtily, “You seem to have me mistaken for a signpost.” He refrained from saying 'my good man', for such a thing was only reserved for good men. “You are entirely too familiar with your betters, sir.” He sniffed, “Nay, thou shalt not be conversing with one such as I in the foreseeable future or indeed otherwise. Begone, peasant.”
With that, he took his horse and lady off into the night, leaving the Caged One to rattle away. Tapping his heels to his gallant steed's flanks, they charged off into the moonlight... ...and returned to our hero's private trap - after a rather roundabout ride. Along the way, he sighed to his fairest of all fair ladies everywhere, “Why must they haunt me so? These fools who think themselves as great as I?” His sigh was overly dramatic and his eyes twinkled with the sardonic; he did not mean a word of it; simply playing to a part. “Alas,” He raised her white-gloved hand to his lips, “Where would I be without you, fairest of all fair gems, envy of maidens everywhere?” |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
Rohan gave the man a look that had stopped murderers cold in their tracks. He tightend his grip on his sword hilt. his free hand curled into a fist. Peasant? He was the son of a powerful man, and if this "hero" wanted to show off for his lady, then so be it. He would put that pup through his paces once he found a battle circle. If such a thing exsisted out here.
Rohan addmitted to himself he should have drawn when the horse charged, but being ever confident......., being confident was going to get him into trouble. There was something wrong with that guy. He didnt like him at all. A signpost? Ha. Rohan shook his head and headed toward his horse, drawing his hood back up. He wasn't hurt badly, a mere scratch was all really. He knew how to grind roots well enough. His mother wasnt ignorant of everything after all. He started humming something called 'To Dance With Demons' to himself as he unpacked his armor, he quickly put on his breastplate, chainmail, vembraces and gauntlets. The Red Hand shone brightly in the dim. His family's crest. He would ride the parimeter tonight, and in the morning he would find out who that arrogant popinjay was. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
Not far from the rattling cage, Merc the guardsman looks after the young lords with a mixture of relief and wonder. Had he been insulted, imperilled and saved by the conflict between these men, or was he insulted, offered a drink in posh company and cheated of it by a rash stag's charge?
As the hoots of the prisoner muddy any effort to think this through, he simply spits on the ground and grumbles. Pampered nobility, causing nothing but trouble. What use do hirelings have for their honour and scheming anyway? He grabs hold of his spear, ramming the bottom in between the bars. "Fun's over, scum. Keep grinning and you'll get a little something for the tooth spirits tonight." The envy of maidens everywhere weaves her fingers through the horse's mane, steadying herself to look back upon the rider. The lady's emeralds narrow in deliberate study, then she smirks. "'tis for the weavers of Fate to tell, truly my lord. Yet handless and shamed in the ducal gaols perchance?" She blinks, and her smile widens modestly. "Has his lordship ne'er heard mention of Nagarian? What pleasant days he must have spent with sports in the stead of courtly matters." "It's a big one." The rider prods the corpse. "Pack animals, you know? Best we ride on a ways before making camp." The men nod meekly. It's a cursed foul task for lousy pay, and not a bone of good fortune's been thrown their way since Fern found that campsite all those days ago. But for all the miles between themselves and the big caravan, they would all of them die before giving up. Just not to wolves, if he can get his way. "Move then." |
The Rattler is annoyed
He grunts as the butt of the spear slams into his stomach. He can't help but double over, hating to show so much weakness to these men. But he grits his teeth and has to endure.
There is no point in harbouring false hopes, yet the appearance of that mysterious man next to his cage earlier was a manifestation of hope. Sleep comes. It won't last long. The guards will make sure of that. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
Rohan's horse stood off a little ways, tied to a tree. He knew he should be patrolling, but he figured that there were enough gaurds to take care of anything that might come.
His armor and clothes lay aside in a pile along with his belt and scabbard. Sweat gleamed on his chest as he went through his sword forms, slowly at first, then he gained speed. One form melded into another as he entered a state of complete concentration and calm. As he moved he thought of nothing. Only the sword, only that they were one. And when battle was joined they were as one then too. Rohan smoothly came to a halt. he shook his head and stared at his sword blade. When was it going to end? How many more years? Its not as if he was an old man. He would just like to get married and have a child or two to carry on his name. Who knew, he may even go home one day, but that was a way off. Rohan snapped himself out of it and continued with his forms. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
The days of rest pass swiftly in the village. Men regain their strength and work up their courage in the relative safety of humble Brisken. There is but minor exchange of goods and services beyond the ale, and few are the restless who await their hire here. Matters of the sort are swiftly settled - a full twenty-one armed riders now see to the safety of the wagons, a force to rival the warband of any barony.
One by one the pieces of the train pull themselves in line, raising a cloud of dust and dirt thick enough to blot out the rising sun. At the head, scarce audible over the noise of animals, gear and men, the two big men sort out the final points of the perilous journey to come. Tom Brinks, the merchant owning a full sixth of the carts in the train and showing his wealth with a long and laboriously oiled black moustache and brightly coloured attire if not his pouch, and Selgrid of Vasted, the Weasel only behind the mercenary captain's back. And well should they make these arrangements. Sizeable as the escort is, the next days they will risk both ambush and raid. It is whispered that a host of fearless robbers dens in the region, but also that there are hostile spirits. Perhaps they are spirit bandits, or raiders with those otherworldly allies at their beck and call. Tall monsters lurk hidden beside the road, waiting to pounce. A fog of insanity and death will fall over all those who lack the proper wards and charms. It is where the Firanhide run. Ahead, the earthen road winds off into the distance, looking no different from the path the wheels took into the village. Vegetation rarely spring up over waist height here, and stands devoid of colour where it has. The winds are dry, and while it is no true wasteland it takes little imagination to think of finer climes. Still the caravan is trying to get ready. Dust and broken hills await. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
Rohan rode on his tall horse like a man who knew his business, there was a good reason for this though, as he did really know his business. His mind empty and his face blank, Rohan stayed slightly apart from everyone else, observing and staying silent. Once and a while a man or woman said something about the weather or asked him if he was looking for something. Rohan smiled and replied politley, though his smile looked force and his polite replies sounded a little gruff.
It wasnt their fault of course, he was just getting a little restless, he had been on the move for a long time, and now that he was in one place for a few days his mind felt foggy. At night he would put himself through the sword forms to keep his mind off his idleness. He'd seen a cute lady or two, but hadnt managed to steal a kiss or even a dance, these women were a little weary of big men with swords. He sighed and continued to obseve, hopefully they would be off soon. |
The Rattler is impatient
All this waiting, while normal folk go about whatever business normal folk have to do in a provincial dust bowl like this. It makes one terribly impatient. He had never been known as a patient person, but worse than before, here nothing could help him, apart from rattling the bars, pretending to be the madman everyone thought him to be.
Of course it isn't simply an act, but then again, every good performance has a grain of truth in it. Once again he rattles his bars, trying to pass the time as best as he can. The future has something to look forward to. Whether it is escape, execution or some new form of torture, the future does hold something for him. The present does not. The sooner they leave this dung hole, the better. He wants to know what the future holds. In the meantime he rattles his bars, causing less annoyance to his guards than he thinks he does. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
Rohan had often seen mad men being held, but the man in the cage didnt seem dangerous. Looks could be decieving however, so he approached with caution. He simply ignored the gaurds and dismounted when he got close enough to look into the cage.
<font color=silver> Hey, you in there. Quit with the rattle and speak with me for a moment. You seem to have something to say, but no one to listen to it. </font> he reached for his canteen. <font color=silver> Drink? |
The Rattler is curious
He glances curiously at the figure standing outside of his cage, a canteen halfway between them. Is this an honest gesture to help a half-starving prisoner or is it some trick and what is in that canteen is something other than simple water. He doesn't and cannot know. But then one of his guards decides for him, stepping next to Rohan and knocking the canteen forcefully from his hands.
"No food or drink is to be given to the prisoner, except by his guards!" Of course the guard has dual reasons. He doesn't want the prisoner to enjoy the comfort of a simple drink out of the spite he feels for him. And he does not want to see the prisoner poisoned either, for that would mean failure in his mission. The prisoner just keeps looking at Rohan, curiosity still written on his face. But he does not speak, not while the guard is just next to him. He wonders whether this man is the one, who had crouched next to his cage and spoke to him earlier. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
Rohan sighed and turned his head to look at the gaurd.
<font color=silver> I hope you plan on picking that up. It was a gift from one of my uncles, see the Red Hand on the cap? </font> he kept his voice neutral if not a little cold. <font color=silver> And if you dont plan on picking it up, well, lets just say that your going to wish there was someone here with enough authority to put me in a cage. </font> The last was said coldy enough that the gaurd should have had ice coming from his nose, Rohan's hand was ready to draw his sword in an instant, there wasnt a chance in any hell that this man would beat him. Years of hard training under grizzled vetrans, plus honing his skills on bandits, had put him on top. <font color=silver> So, have you made your choice? |
The Rattler's guards are annoyed
The guard defiantly glared back at Rohan, trying to quickly remember whether this was some young noble that he shouldn't insult, or whether it was someone that he could. He decided on the latter.
"We only take orders from our own lord. You are clearly not him." He made no move for the canteen, but motioned for one of his companions to be alert, in case this man tried something foolish. "My orders are to take this piece of scum," he motioned at the prisoner, "to our destination...alive. Interfering with that would be a sure way for you to find out whether I actually have the authority to give him a cell mate or not." He put his hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword, ready for any trouble. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
Rohan's stern face slowly broke into a smile. So, this man had some tough to him eh? Maybe this gaurd would be interested in a real job if he survived the trip.
<font color=silver> "Well,i certainly am not your lord. My Uncles always told me that sometimes a nice gesture now may earn you an ally later. Prisoners sometimes make their destinations in better health when the gaurds dont act like sons of goats. But i guess that's how you were taught to do it here......?" </font>He ended it as a question, as if asking for a name. Rohan never took his eyes off the gaurd, but felt subconsiously for the empty space he found when in battle,just in case. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
"It is unwise to call armed people names. It is also unwise to try to tell people how to do their job, when you have shown no proof of knowing how to do it better." The guard was obviously annoyed at Rohan.
"As to your question. No one needs this piece of filth as an ally. Once we arrive at our destination, he is going to spend the rest of his days in a dungeon, with no hope of release." He turned and walked back towards his companions, voluntarily ending the conversation. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
<font color=silver> Rest of his days eh? </font>He mused to himself. <font color=silver> You must have done something pretty bad then eh?
</font> Rohan picked up his canteen and fastend it back to his belt. If the guards were so set that this man shouldnt be treated humanly, then he wasnt going to get into a rub with them over it. He was more about respect than anything, and obviously these guards had no respect except for their Lord, which was fine except that it meant they disrespected him, which was not alright with him. <font color=silver>Sorry to cause you more trouble.</font>He said to the prisoner. <font color=silver> Have faith. </font> With that, he returned to his horse. |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
The droning of a quarter thousand hooves leads the dirt in its day-long dance. Accompanied by the creaking of the wheels and the axles driven through their hearts, it is a walz to whirl the moisture from the air, and mask the very colour of that old brown road.
Men grow mesmerized by the eternal repetition, the ghost-world where a lone and stunted tree becomes the most exceptional of landmarks, a totem of change in a world no different with every turning of the spokes. The two lame mounts towards the back, keeping the thudding hoof tally below the quarter thousand and two, amble along with lowered heads. Then, their ears perk up. Five carts to the fore the shrill voice of a young man cries out in alarm. He rides a wagon laden with carefully carved and oiled furniture, tables and chairs from a region where timber was plentiful enough to waste on the feeding of flames. His father at the reins scowls, demanding he keep quiet, but the youth keeps glancing back and about, certain of something in the mists. |
Interesting things start to happen around the Rattler
Well-trained guards are among the first to realise that the young man might be right in his fears. Ears used to the sounds before a battle pick up the familiar noises of steel against steel, noises which can hardly come from a caravan of merchants, unless the blacksmith were to practice his trade in a moving wagon.
Weapons are loosened in scabbards and a few tense orders given. Three of the Rattler's guards mount their horses and set off to the left of the caravan from where the noises come. In his cage the Rattler slowly gets interested and gives the slightly loose bar a strong shove. It rattles in its socket, the sound echoing for a long time among the surroundings. When one of the guards gives him a stern look, he flashes him a wicked, almost knowing smile. Inwardly he hopes that the number of those guarding him would at least be halved before nightfall. One can always hope... |
Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels
Rohan watched as the Rattler's gaurds rode off toward his right, their left. He adjusted the hood of his cloak, its multi-colors shifting in the stale wind.
He thought about riding after them, maybe just to look after them, just in case there was something there. He slowly started foreward, then thought better of it and stopped. Instead he rode slowly toward the nearest caravan, which incidently, was the Rattler's cage. He looked at the remaining gaurds with a face of perfect calm, like he was made of stone, no not stone stone could break, a face like steel. He slowly raised an eyebrow and pointed toward what was now his left. <font color=silver> You only sent three? |
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