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Old 10-28-2009, 06:28 AM   #11
Calaethis Dragonsbane
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Join Date: May 29, 2002
Location: Somewhere in between
Age: 39
Posts: 7,029
Arrow Re: Rivulets

Javid the Pitiless frowned thoughtfully, his stare reaching beyond the trees and hills where the tents were pitched. Even beyond the river passing through the land below, beyond the edge of his sight, past towns and villages, forests and fields, roads and sky.
He had been dubbed ‘Javid’ as a jape, after the champion he had slain. He must have been fifteen at the time, and the very ones he had resisted had drafted him into their ranks. Who he was before had not mattered; they had adopted him and he had left his old life behind. He barely remembered who that boy used to be; had it been a village, or town, or farmstead? He had seen so many, so many like him, all recruited, their home becoming the company. None of them really remembered who they were, only who they became – who they are.
Awarded the ‘Pitiless’ after sparing a cellar filled with frightened children, that too had been a jape. Discovering them as he hefted his halberd in one hand, and axe in the other, few who have slain them, but the imposing figure he struck had convinced all nearby that he would not. His fellows never let him forget it. That had been three years ago, and since then, he was even more scarred and potmarked than before. A common jest was he had been run over by a wagon, trampled by a horse, and then sat on by an overly large woman. In turn, he grunted and pointed out some of the lewder escapades of his companions. They all roared with laughter, and turned to pick on another. Such was life in the company.

He rose, his heavy mail more normal to him than the shirt on his back. It needed repairing again; a few links were beginning to rust. Ordinary enough, it served him well. The chausses had taken him longer to get used to, but it saved his thighs as much as the coif saved his neck. Heavily armoured soldiers did better than more lightly armoured ones – or so the company motif claimed: ‘The heavy, the riders, the storm of steel’. Swords, shields, lances, halberds, axes, maces and crossbows; the standard issue of the company. They were successful, more successful than other companies he knew of. It was their reputation that stood out the most; their loyalty remained purchased until the coin ran out, neither breaking nor defecting: they stayed until the job was done. They were dependable.
He glanced around; they were two hundred strong in this camp, and soon would meet with their fellows – who had served another job. Sometimes, they would even find themselves on opposing sides, but they would never fight each other. That was the risk that was run by any employer. The three hundred mix of foot and horse – two hundred, one hundred, respectively – would be a much needed boost. The general would issue their orders soon; this brief rest before they marched out again was welcome. Pulling on his Spangenhelm, he fixed it down mechanically. He preferred not to use a shield but understood the necessity. Looping said kite shield over one shoulder, he pulled the other arm through and secured the straps. Better to wear it on his back. The single edged axe that hung from his belt was the final addition. Any moment, he expected they would march out. All over the camp, others were doing the same.


Overseeing his men from the command tent, the general considered his next step. Three offers for their service, each carrying equal risk, and more or less the same pay. One involved storming the castle; the other defending it. There was more loot and pillage to be gained from storming, but would the invaders succeed? Both sides needed them, and both made outrageous promises. Could he trust either of them? Doubtful. His mercenary legion was only welcomed when it was needed, and even then, they were never really welcomed. Distrusted, despised – he could hardly blame them. Before the company was formed, they too had fought for a land. That had been a long time ago then, and the kingdom had since fallen. Now all they had left was their banner, the standard that had been with the few originals as they prepared to make their last stand. Fate had spared them, and those few survivors retained the banner and set out to make a new life, rather than serve under the rule of their conquerors. Unwilling to put down the sword, they had sought employment elsewhere, and somehow, the honour of their company remained. Their numbers had grown, with recruitment – voluntary and drafting, and with their successes, wealth had poured in. Not enough to make them rich, but enough to provide decent weapons and equipment. Most of their spoils went on training and gear; that was the rule. Excellence. That was what made them different, set them apart. They were a professional force, as good as any standing army. That was why they were alive; that was why they succeeded. Now they served no king; only the company.

He considered the third offer; his heavy lancers would be at a disadvantage, but horse was also pivotal to victory – even if only for morale. Their horse was feared as much as their foot; but did he choose any of them? He had no qualms about laying an ambush in a forest, but the knowledge that it might be a trap to rid a potentially ‘rogue threat’ from the lands left a bitter taste in his mouth. That was how the nearby fiefs saw them as; a threat to their power. And so they were. They could not oppose all of them, but any minor lord that hired them tipped the balance in his favour. The trouble was, they could not secure their services for long. Success and fame had made them dangerous – as much as they were needed, were used, secretly, all the lords wished them gone. He understood that. So. Did he invade, defend, or lay an ambush in a forest? Or neither. The men were spoiling for battle though; weary as they were, the promise of plunder kept them going. Their identity was in the company, and that company was steadfast. There was little point in that unless they exercised their skills though; sooner or later, they would have to stand in battle, or he risked losing them. None of them would desert him yet, but that was always the fear of any commander, any general. Soldiers needed occupying, but how to keep them alive and keep them from revolting or deserting? A tricky one. He might just lay it out before the men and see what they thought. Ultimately, it was his choice though. They followed him because he brought them victory; they trusted him to give them that. No; they trusted him to give them the opportunity: the rest was in their hands. That was the unspoken agreement between them. So far it had worked, even when they – the side they served – had suffered defeat. They trusted him to protect them, but something about this wasn’t right. The climate was optimum for war; they would grow rich, nay, fat from the profits. Their spoils would be legendary. Yet with each encounter, the risk grew. How long would it be before they were betrayed? He had been around long enough to know, survived enough battles to know when something was wrong. No, they would be betrayed soon. He could feel it coming.

The only question was when, where and who.
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Old 10-28-2009, 07:22 AM   #12
dplax
Jack Burton
 

Join Date: July 19, 2003
Location: an expat living in France
Age: 38
Posts: 5,577
Default Re: Rivulets

It was by the light of the small fire that Fuorlan finally withdrew the contents of the pouch. Two bronze coins, old, older by far than him and a small, oval-shaped vial. The vial could wait. What it represented and what it contained were not considered lightly.
The coins were of different make and era. If not for the same motif on the back they could have been considered from two different times, or two kingdoms. One of the coins was almost flawless as though it had never seen use during the centuries since it had been minted, and the other, the more recent one, barely a century old was badly worn at the edges. Both bore the mark of the empire of Derul, a kingdom destroyed by a barbaric invasion almost a century ago.
How they had gotten into the possession of a priest of Sellor was a mystery likely never to be solved. The fact that the priest had actually kept the coins was even more of a mystery. Derul had never been known of its love for Sellor and her acolytes.

The plumed full helm had been withdrawn, revealing skin the hue of ebony. A pipe rested among parched lips, basking the face in a soft orange glow. The hair and beard were equally unkempt and facial hair sprawled in every possible way. The eyes were as black as the face framing them.
More than one scar gave solemn evidence to battles in years past, the biggest of them crossing from left ear to right eye. The blow must have come close to taking the left eye with it.
It was never easy to tell the age of those from the sun-baked lands of the south, but if one were to hasard a guess the warrior's age would have been in the late forties. Few knew that he was barely past his thirtieth year. Time and his profession had not been kind to him and the years weighed heavily on him.

Fuorlan sighed and put down the pipe. His journey had been long and arduous and, it now seemed, futile. War had swept across this part of the world and held it in its grip. War was where he flourished, what he had been born to, yet it was the last thing that he desired. All he had wanted when he had set out on his journey was to find peace, an existence away from...away from a life he did not want to remember.
Yet here he was, in a world so unlike his own and humans were still the same.

His father had been the ruler of his small desert tribe, content with the pitiful existence they had lived in, raising a herd of camels in the desert, moving from oasis to oasis. Greed and betrayal had changed all that, and by the age of seven Fuorlan had been orphaned and lived in the city of Akkarta as a slave to a rich merchant.

Ever to this day he thought back to those first years, the camel dung fires he used to sit around, listening to his father's stories along with his twin sister. No...he did not want to think of the past, the past was too painful.
"So, Sandstorm, what do you think?" he asked, directing the question at the horse, who by now was sleeping a dozen feet away. "What should a man like me do with his life?"
It was a question he had asked himself many times over the last few months as he crossed mountain ranges, forests and rivers, running from a past he did not want to relive. He had no answer.
He put down the coins and lifted up the vial. On a first glance it seemed to contain nothing. Yet, even as he had gotten near to the corpse of the unfortunate priest, Fuorlan had known that there was something that was much more.
Rumour had it that upon dying and ascending to the pantheon of gods, the woman who became known as Sellor, goddess of joy and healing, had breathed a last breath that a young thief, once her lover enclosed her last breath in a vial. As all rumour and all legends, this one also had a grain of truth in it. Whether the vial actually contained a goddess' breath or not was actually irrelevant, the fact was that Sellor's Breath, as the relic was known, was one of the most powerful healing artifacts ever known.
It was supposed to heal any wounds the wearer suffered instantly. But then, how had the priest died? Something felt terribly wrong...
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Old 11-02-2009, 05:54 AM   #13
dplax
Jack Burton
 

Join Date: July 19, 2003
Location: an expat living in France
Age: 38
Posts: 5,577
Default Re: Rivulets

Portentous questions never had easy answers. Besides, he knew little of magic and magical objects. All he knew was that he now had something in his possession that many would be willing to kill for. It was not a comfortable thought. He replaced the vial and the two coins in their pouch and placed the pouch in his saddlebag.
Keeping his sword close at hand, he slowly drifted off into a fitful sleep, waking at the lightest of sounds during the night.

Inbetween periods of wakefullness he dreamt. Disjointed, disturbing dreams, that always kept coming back to that fateful night and those frenzied seconds as the raider's struck.

He woke up covered in sweat despite the chilly morning air. Cursing he threw a few twigs on the dying embers of the fire. Strips of dried meat were all he had left. He would have to hunt soon. An hour before the sun set he was already on his way, Sandstorm walking as he had done for the past months.
The poor beast was a long time past his prime. That he had kept carrying Fuorlan for so long was a miracle in itself. He was barely capable of a charge now and needed more and more breaks each day. The last faithful companion from the past the desert warrior was fleeing from would soon leave him. It was another subject he did not want to think about. He let the aged horse drink long from the waters of the river as he refilled his waterskins.
There was an army camped on the other side of the river, he could see that from the cookfires and the sentries on the far side of the river. A river that had countless corpses floating on its surface as gruesome evidence to some past battle.
The sentries had seen him of course and were excitedly discussing, pointing often at him. He gave them no heed. The river was too wide for a bowshot and they visibly had no boats. Besides, from the way the bodies sped past, the current seemed treacherous. This army would need to find a passable ford or bridge if it wanted to cross the river.

Sandstorm finished drinking and his master's familiar hands and legs guided him away from the river and into the forest again. The ground rose ever so slightly under his hooves as they made their way upstream.
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Old 11-10-2009, 09:38 PM   #14
Calaethis Dragonsbane
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Join Date: May 29, 2002
Location: Somewhere in between
Age: 39
Posts: 7,029
Arrow Re: Rivulets

Elsewhere, a robed figure stood over a burial mound; upon it lay a stone slab, a stone slab that carried a bloody carcass. Animal or man was unimportant; what was important was its lifeblood - lifeblood that ran in rivulets into the mound. Around the burial chamber stood a copse, scattered trees sprouting their leafy buds here and there. Their fragrance filled the air, mingling with the scent of fresh blood and the air's breath brought by rain. Life. Life was what was important; life that could only be bought from death. Death was a constant reminder of what it meant to have life, to live. Only fools would discard death's warning so causally. Those that lay here had not; but others? Yes, they were callous. It was their undoing, their folly. Damned by their own fate. Such was the doom of the ignorant.

Even as the rain fell, in this idyllic, serene place, spoilt only by blood, the figure chanted. There was no bitterness within it; those within the cities had all but forgotten the ancient lore, bar for a few. Warlock, druid; magi; the titles were meaningless. Man, woman; it did not matter. The coming storm did not care; nor did it await mankind's pleasure. Such distinctions mattered only on a base level; for reproduction, cycles, life. Variety, strength, weakness, characteristics; all these seemed muted before the passage of time, the passing of aeons stretching endlessly into the ether. What man, what woman, could stand before such and gaze into the depths? Who could stand and not be fogged, their vision clouded by the eternal mists? Who could portray the future, or comprehend the past? Only the twin constants remained: life, and death. Time marched on. But here, in this age, this time, would the currents of life ebb and flow? Would death grip the age, gorging on life before its time? There was no balance, not truly; perhaps in the most abstract sense, but never were the twin forces equal. Who could say if death had claimed more than life would spawn. 'Had' and 'would', past and future; it was the present that mattered. This present. This age. But for a glimpse; a glimpse of the past, the present, the future. What had come might come again; assuming another guise, another host. Would it be different, or something new entirely? When life met death, those with knowledge, knowledge lost to time, might know but a glimpse. Life and Death; neither were truly master, yet both ruled the world. Primordial forces, stronger than the sun itself. Life and Death, the truths of this world... if one was creator, the other was destroyer: both as destructive, as creative as the other. If there was a master greater than these, the figure had yet to know it. For what could be greater than these, these twin forces that drove all. Nothing could be greater, surely? If there was meaning to be had... it was found in blood: the river of life, contained; the channel of death, shed.

The blood flowed, soaking into the mound.
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Old 11-13-2009, 06:53 AM   #15
dplax
Jack Burton
 

Join Date: July 19, 2003
Location: an expat living in France
Age: 38
Posts: 5,577
Default Re: Rivulets

The early morning mist had been late to lift its secretive veil from the hills around the fortress of Three Hills and the sun had climbed already high by that time. It had been raining on and off for the past two weeks and to finally have the rain stop and the sun creep out from behind the clouds gave the lone traveller a moment's pause. He lifted his head towards the skies, allowing the sunlight to bathe his features.

He had left the ruins behind a day ago. Blackened walls and tumbled towers were all that was left of the once proud fortress. Scavengers, both human and non-human had been through the ruins, stripping the corpses of valuables and of rotting flesh. The Shatal Guild building in the fort had suffered the same fate as the fort itself, gutted and ransacked it had been burnt to the ground.

Filth urged his horse ahead, eager to get as far away from the massacre as possible. The attackers had even found the hidden storage rooms beneath the guild and some of the worst scenes had been in there. He shuddered at the vivid images creeping back in his mind and tried thinking happier thoughts. None came.



The band of makeshift bandits, preying on the survivors of Three Hills had been following the lone traveller for the best part of a day. And now the trap was set. Another corpse would be added to the list of dead at Three Hills and they would be a few coins richer.
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Old 01-06-2010, 08:02 PM   #16
Calaethis Dragonsbane
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Join Date: May 29, 2002
Location: Somewhere in between
Age: 39
Posts: 7,029
Arrow Re: Rivulets

The whirling blade came to a halt, just short of splitting his brow in twain. Sweat beaded, forming rivulets as it ran down his temples. Already on his knees, he stared up at her, his clear, blue eyes unwavering. His thighs trembled, and his hands clutched the dirt, but he met her gaze. She loomed over him, then just as suddenly relaxed, laughing as she set her boardsword aside and held out her hand.
His own lay several feet away, and begrudgingly, he accepted, letting her pull him to his feet, but away wary of her sword. It wouldn't be the first time she had swatted him with it.

Sighing, he tried not to study his feet - unsuccessfully. "I know, I know," he began, before she could speak, "I misstepped again. I should keep my footing, focus on what you're doing, and not let you disarm me."
"Well, if you know," she smiled and reached to pat his cheek with a leather-clad hand, "then you should do it."
"I try!"
"Try harder," her smile remained, but her eyes were serious, "we may not get time to practice again, and when the war reaches us... I want you as ready as you can be. We can't run forever, you know. We've retreated too far already."
"Yes..." Reaching for his blade, he muted her lecture as fast as he could. "You're right."
"Then let's go again."

This time, he blocked six times, and even caused her to block twice before she tripped him. Forgetting to slap the ground as he fell, the wind went out of him and he found her blade at his throat. She was not at all impressed. They had stopped using practice blades some time ago; now they used actual steel, sharpened for war. She had told him that the time for playing was over; that he had to grow up. His senior by seven years, she was in her second-and-a-half decade. He might as well be militia, 'citizen levy', given how she treated him - that, or a brat brother. He was no longer sure. It didn't matter. They had been thrust together and she had saved his life more then once. Blushing more to do with his thoughts than his failure, he watched her tuck her golden hair back in its tail. Mostly, the tie kept it out of her eyes, but not always.
Pulling him to his feet, she met his eyes and said firmly that he'd done better this time, and they'd practice more later. It was always the same; at least six drills a day, sometimes more if she could manage it. He was sick of it, but appreciated it anyway. Not many had one-to-one tuition. Maybe it was because of his father? He didn't think so; he wasn't sure if his father was alive or dead. Wealthy merchant more than landowner, his family had some small ancestral holdings, but not much. The family 'keep' was more a pile of loose stones held thinly together by mortar. Cold, damp, it was outdated. It didn't even have a motte-and-bailey, nor a gatehouse. At least, it had been. That was before he was sent away. His mother and sisters had left also, but they were sent on a different caravan towards his uncle. His father was supposed to meet him at the last town, but never did. Why he was separated from his mother and sisters... he suspected but couldn't confirm. He shrugged mentally. Since his father hadn't shown, they had moved on to the next designated meeting place; if that failed, they would go to the port town several days ride from here, unless it was hit.

He examined his guardian-cum-tutor. In a leather jerkin, the same riverbank-brown as her gloves and boots, she certainly looked the part of a militia sergeant, even if she was a woman. She had soon proved that she could hold her own, disavowing him of any comments about her sex. Blade, knife, staff or even a crossbow she could use with ease. There were six others who had travelled with them, but two of them had fallen to bandits, another in a tavern brawl, and somehow, he was left only with her. He suspected that one might have quit, deserting that 'bastard whelp [...] after Gojornk bit it' if his ears had heard correctly, but he knew better than to ask. She had given him a look that warned him not to, and since she was all he had left between him, his blade and the world, he wasn't about to cross her. He strongly suspected she wouldn't hesitate to cuff him if he stepped even a toe over the line, and he didn't intend to give her any reason to. As to the last one - he didn't know. Everyone seemed in a panic at the last town, and this town, while being a little better, a little more out of the way; barely more than a large village, hardly what he would class as a 'market town', but he wasn't complaining. Not really. The ale was good - the mead was even better, and the beer was awful, but at least they had beer. The wine wasn't bad either. There were less wagons around then he would have liked, but there was a war going on. It seemed distant here, but every day he heard news, whispers and gossip, that armies were converging on cities, strongholds, and sooner or later, even this quiet, out of the way, backwater 'town' would be ravaged. If not by armies, then by bandits. He wasn't sure that some of the townsfolk - those not merchants or militia - hadn't turned bandit.
He glanced at his tutor again. He wasn't even sure why she was still here. Gold? The promise of more? He would have to ask - before it was too late, even if she did cuff him for it. He certainly deserved it after today's performance. He was so clad they were away from the town's centre; to be seen this way would be something he'd find hard to live down. Of course, she also gave lessons to the militia youth, when the others were on patrol - it was how they earned their keep, in part - so he wasn't the only one. She insisted he join in with some of those lessons too. Sometimes he did. One day, she might even tell him her name.

Following her steady stare, he looked up and felt his heart sink; was that a column of smoke from the village they had passed through only days earlier? Silently, she placed a hand on his shoulder. Both knew it was time to move on.
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Old 01-07-2010, 05:15 AM   #17
dplax
Jack Burton
 

Join Date: July 19, 2003
Location: an expat living in France
Age: 38
Posts: 5,577
Default Re: Rivulets

Raindrops lazily trickling down in rivulets from the scorched farm house utterly failed to catch Finger's attention. He only had eyes for the young boy making his slow way up the winding path on the hillside. So young and so... he heard nothing and saw nothing of the blade which slipped down between his shoulderblades, ending his life before he even knew it. He joined his seven companions in the afterlife.

Three hundred feet away the youth still climbed along the road, unaware of his life ever having been in danger. Another pair of eyes now tracked him, dark eyes from underneath a hood, raised against the drumming rain. The figure turned and disappeared behind the farm house.

Filth reached the ruins an hour later, after a climb that had taken four hours up the slippery slopes of one of the hills after which Three Hills had been named. Its name had been long lost and for as long as anyone remembered, it had always been called West Hill. It was the tallest of the three hills and offered a commanding view of the surrounding plains. The myriad of burial chambers dozens of feet under its surface had lain undisturbed for milennia.

The rain slowly evened off and the sun even decided to leave the cover of clouds and come out for a peek. Filth shook the rain from his hair and put down his pack. A pair of eyes still tracked him half an hour later when, having finished his meal, he set off down the other side of the hill.
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