A river. Such a fine metaphor; such a fine place for contemplation. For so many, it is a way to describe time, a way to describe life, a way to describe perception. Every time, they focus on the water; this simple travel of a fluid from high ground to low, and somehow they miss what happens. Somehow they do not see that the river sinks, descends, that each drop of water within is lower than it was a moment ago. Somehow, they do not look to the end of the river when it, so laden with filth, drops its burden into wide piles of marsh. How dismal it would be if the poets saw this, that time sinks and gathers filth, that life sinks and gathers filth, that perception sinks and gathers filth, and that at the end, we will leave so much behind for others to deal with.
A nuzzle from a large black nose pushed on Roderick’s shoulder, pulling him only mildly from his meditation. He drew a breath in and released it, slowly, consciously, a hand drifting almost of its own accord to his horse. He told himself that it was just recognition, and that she just wanted attention, but the irony that a horse knew him well enough to remind him of the world as depression approached was not lost.
"Thank you," a soft elven voice came from behind, likely inaudible to most. It stirred in Roderick surprise, followed soon by paranoid eyes moving to identify the voice, and then by a reminder of how edgy he has been of late.
Fortunately, it was good news: Laurelin, giggling as a guilty fey while blowing on a drawing. Roderick could not see what, but he could guess; hopefully, he was not so solemn in appearance this time. A futile hope, to be sure.
"A good thing I heard you when I did. Any longer and I'd likely have started talking to Mercy." Roderick’s voice wasn’t quite perfect, but he tried to be controlled, but such did not phase the look of mischief on the guilty fey.
"I should have waited longer, then." Her words mustered a chuckle from Roderick, a shake of his head, and granted some reprieve from his thoughts before she continued, packing her drawing. "How have you fared, Roderick?"
"I am healthy." He paused, before deciding to add, "and word from Selgaunt says Sansa and Katryn did not bring the illness with them when they passed on their way there. And yourself?"
"Well enough, I suppose." She delayed, perhaps herself deciding to add, "a few days ago my shadow talked to me while I sat there... so I hope it happens again and I find her."
"Ah... she is still away, then?" The river again became interesting to Roderick.
"but near."
"At least she can be found."
Silence. He did not look to see how she responded; he hoped his words were encouraging, and beneath it baffled that he cared. "... if there is any way I could help... or a way I can be of comfort, I suppose."
"If you are near or easy to find, I will let you know." Her voice sounded of a smile, and he hoped it sincere.
"Ah... I would say I am the one in the purple and gold, but it seems more common heraldry these days." Talonites. Fortunately, she spoke too quickly for him to dwell on the notion.
"Purple, gold, warm mead and black horse." Ah, the mead. One of the better nights spent in the Old Skull. Somehow that devilish grin, that thin arm extended with a mocked bashful pose, and that cup pointed ever so slightly forward at its end formed a perfect picture in his mind. A picture as clear as his first kiss… that was just down the hall from there.
"Are you troubled? Or did I interrupt a meditative exercise?" Baffled, again. She cared, but why? It was not the time to look so morose, and Roderick produced a chuckle, hoping it didn’t sound forced.
"Ah, am I that transperant?" He waited, half-expecting to have earned laughter in response. It seemed he would not evade concern by making light of the situation. "I would not trouble with the details, if you did not want to hear them... there is often... comfort in ignorance of others' troubles."
"As there is comfort in speaking to one uninvolved." Roderick wondered a moment how she meant that. Did she think herself uninvolved? "You have my ear, if you wish it."
The river was still the metaphor of choice. Always sinking, always becoming filthier, yet somehow we think of crisp mountain streams when we think of purity.
"I attempt to decide a course of action... of a personal nature." He could feel her eyes on him. How convenient it would be if she simply didn’t want to hear. "There are three women who I think of often... often enough that I worry I've inherited my father's... wandering loyalty." The words came with difficulty, but at least they came.
"But I believe I can find a proper course of action... because I think of each differently. The difficulty is that I must decide.
"One... I love... or, I feel for her in a way that the books speak of as love. I write poetry, and it feels right. I stand in the room with her, and I cannot focus on anything else. But, that is where it stops. She does not embrace me, and I know it should bother me, but it does not."
Silence. Again. Perhaps it was approval, perhaps it was scrutiny. Roderick could not bring himself to check.
"One... one I frankly lust for. I will not give the details of the thoughts, but I suspect someone has made an offering to Sharess in my name they are so vivid. But, again, that is where it stops. We do not have very good conversation. We do not even seem to particularly like one another."
A pause. "Nothing... nothing has happened. But she is as transperant as I; I see her wandering eyes and she no doubt sees mine."
"The last" He paused, fearing discovery for a moment. "I enjoy her company very much. Sparks do not fly, there is no celestial chorus trumpeting when I see her, but I wish I was nearer when I am way from her."
His conscience was not happy with that. A half-truth. There was more, and he knew it; despite his mind crying for relief, something made him finish the thought. "I dream of her."
"You," he started again, not wanting to provide a chance to be rejected. Not yet. "Have spoken of the ways of the heart before. Is this, in your experience, at all normal?"
"All of it is normal." Her voice was soft, soothing, but the fact that she finally spoke is what made the most difference. It could have been a brutal scolding and Roderick would have been appeased. It was proof that someone heard, and someone understood. "My only question is, why must you choose now? You are so young, even for your kind. Why force a decision now?"
"Because I do not think any would appreciate the divided affection."
"Let them think for themselves. You do not strike me as a liar." Irony. He let it pass, and she continued. "Be honest, but maybe not brutally so, and make no promises yet."
"I lack... needed insight."
"Experience. You lack experience." She teased. A welcome relief. The situation could finally be light again.
"I do, in all too many senses." He chuckled.
"Are there noble rules restricting your play with the lusty one? Or pursuing other interests as they catch you?"
"Very... complicated rules." Only if one is caught, of course. He should have added that, but he moved on. "They all come down to the understanding among peers that it will happen, as many refuse to marry outside of their station."
"What will happen?"
That would depend. Of course it would, but how to explain. "That married noblemen," he started, knowing the effort was feeble, "and married noblewomen for that matter, will often have lovers outside of their marriage."
"Ah. How do you feel about that?" Perhaps she saw him struggle? A mercy question? How pitiful.
"If you had asked me but two months previous, I would have called the act a betrayal of one's spouse. A crime. But now, now I do not know what I think." Roderick waited, the many potential words moving through his mind. Mustn’t offend. "I had always assumed the decision was more intentional."
That made a silence, a long one. Some of the discomfort could be mitigated with the thoughts of the river, the sinking. Somehow, being so fallen seemed easier if it was just fate, if it was just nature.
"Not always."
"I see that now."
Again, a silence, but this time it seemed a buffer; it was the appropriate wait for her next question. "What do you fear?"
"I fear that feeling as I do will end up injuring all three."
"Be honest, then. With all three."
He sighed. Of course he wasn’t being honest because it wasn’t so simple. He could hear her laughter behind him; hard to tell what it was for. Perhaps he looked silly to her; perhaps her words sounded silly to herself.
"Easier to say than do, yes?" Her voice followed the laugh.
"Indeed, but you are right, at least in concept. But one... will be easy to tell, I suppose."
"Then your burden is one third the lighter." That was quick. She must have known. Why, then, must he say? What could she have planned? His eyes separated from the river long enough to observe her, and then returned. Less, now, for reflection and more, now, for shame.
"I enjoy your company very much... no sparks, no celestial chorus... but I wish I am nearer when I am away." He tensed, awaiting the slap upside his head he knew he deserved. Curiously, he earned a gentle hand; he could hardly tell it was there through his spaulders.
"Then I guessed right." His tension drained as she finished the statement. "That was not too hard."
"I had the benefit of saying so indirectly first." Her hand traced down the edge of his cloak until it swung back to her side. He smiled, not entirely sure whether or not he forced it. So much to think on.
"Having a true friend is important. This I learned late." A steady countenance stayed on Roderick’s expression as she said this, but his thoughts were a gauntleted fist to the back of his head. A friend? That is all? Where is the mischief? What did that grin mean? Why does she listen, does she show concern? He struggled to hide the injury, forcing a chuckle, though any fool could hear the nervousness.
"Ah... if... that is how you would prefer it." Graceful, at least in form. He would have to work on expression.
"It is how I understand what you are saying. I admit, I could be wrong. No chorus, no overwhelming distraction, but a desire to be near anyway."
He shook his head. Or, rather, his head shook itself. "I suppose I have not had extremely close friends. I was not expecting dreams."
"Well... that is different. but you are a very different creature."
"So it seems." What else can one say to being called different? She probably jested, and he aught jest back. He may yet be able to salvage his meaning in the same breath. "I imagine that one does not often dream of breakfasting with good friends?"
"Hmm. Probably depends on how hectic life is at the moment."
"It is fairly hectic, yes." He paused. Perhaps she did not understand; perhaps she chose to ignore the implication. One more effort. "It recalls many conversations I have had."
"Indeed?"
"I... am sure you have figured names out by now, so I will spare the indirection."
"Well, I'm curious who you lust after... that one I did not figure on yet."
"Have you met Katryn?" She giggled. He hoped not from the notion of the betrayal. "Unexpected, I'm sure."
"My apologies. The way she and Sansa spoke when they forgot I was near. I would not have guessed."
"Ah... as I said, we do not particularly like each other, but put the two of us in a room without witnesses. I'm amazed we stay as civilized as we do."
"Hmm. Before knowing her name, I would have said to bed her already, but perhaps that is not the best route."
"Almost did." Roderick scanned the night sky a moment. The sun had gone down while they spoke. “We got into an argument about something. It is unimportant now what. We can fight about anything.
"But something offended me, and something offended her; turned to fisticuffs. I eventually knocked her down, pinned her, and the sounds she made; the look in her eyes."
Laurelin’s sigh came from behind him, followed by the simple analysis. "Trouble."
"Quite..."
"I wonder about the health of a woman who enjoys being beat like that, turning it into lust. But that is neither here nor there."
He coughed in response, damnable honesty compelling him to explain. "I do not think she liked being struck so much as being held down. Neither of us were happy about the bruises, to be sure."
"It still seems unhealthy, but that does not help you."
"I suppose it does sound quite unhealthy." He paused, taking his moment to return to his first tangent. "Yet ask a Sharessian, or even some Sunites, how to find happiness, and they will say to look for energy like that."
"Then it is I who do not understand." Amusement was in her voice.
"Perhaps... but ask a writer, a novelist, a playwright, a troubadour. They will say that what I feel for Sansa is pure and true love, and will lead to happiness."
"If she returns the love. Otherwise it often leads one to bitterness."
"Ah... indeed."
"It could still be starmist. Which is not bad... but not lasting."
"I have read many of those novels and heard many of those songs; they do not often think that true love is forever. In fact, it is often downright star-crossed in those works, and if the lovers triumph over adversity, it oddly no longer becomes worth telling a story of."
"True love is hard to find, and hard to bear." Odd though the timing may have been, Laurelin chose that moment to do a handstand. Roderick turned to observe once he saw her feet lift to the air. This is how Katryn first seemed tempting to him, just inside those town walls. Curious.
"You are thinking too much."
"Perhaps you are right." She was, not that he could help it.
"And much as I love, well, love – in all its forms – sometimes there is nothing to do about it." A toe wiggled on her foot, disturbing her boot in a mildly comical way.
"There is always something to do about it, I'm sure. This merely stands as example of there not always being a perfect solution."
Laurelin righted herself, Roderick almost compelled to step forward and hold a hand out. Clearly, he’d dealt with too many ladies who could not take care of themselves.
"Love rarely has a perfect solution." She grinned, that tiny bit of mischief returning to her. "It is as painful as wonderful, and you've a hint of this already."
"That I do."
"Were Katryn and Sansa not friends, I'd say bed her. You deserve a bit of fun, after all."
"I thank you for saying so." The polite answer. He’d almost pressed Katryn against Sansa’s door the day they fought. He supposed it would have been fun, at least for a little bit.
"It's true!" Again, her voice brought him out of his reflections.
"I may just ask Sansa how she would feel about it." He sighed, remembering that entire mess. "She says she will not marry; perhaps she does not expect to be exclusive, or that I be exclusive."
"She is so sure so soon? How odd."
"She has seen what Sembian nobles do to their wives."
"What do they do?"
"They are essentially broodmares. They wear fineries and speak fine words, but they may as well be tied to a post in a pasture."
"What a dreadful existence."
"Indeed."
"But.. one thing." She smiled a sweet smile. "Please tell me she has maybe noticed, perhaps a little bit, that you are not Sembian?"
Roderick returned the smile. "She is all too aware."
"Good!" She laughed. It was a complication, in truth.
"If you ask the Sembians, I aught to be thinking myself lucky that I converse with her as an equal." He chuckled and shook his head, all of the pride Mistledale had taught him bubbling up for a greeting. "They forget who keeps winning when Dalesmen and Sembians cross swords, it seems."
"Strange. The whole lot of them."
There was a pause, the usual shifting and glancing when a conversation is spent. "Thank you for listening to my ramblings." He finally spoke. "It all feels much better now that I've told someone the lot of it."
"You are welcome. Thank you for giving me something to paint."
"Ah... it does not sound like an even trade. Perhaps I could offer the half of this mead I don't drink to bring it closer to even?" She grinned while he fished the bottle out. It was the spare he had that night in the Old Skull. Appropriate, he thought, before recognizing Laurelin’s expression: a mischievous fey once more.
"Ah, that is an expression that says 'yes please' if I have ever seen one." She laughed.
"It is not my fault that I find sharing mead with you a most enjoyable experience."
"Well... let us find a place to make a fire and have a seat, then, unless you would like to stay near here."
"Hmm…" She searched the distance. Elven eyes. No doubt she could see who and what was about better than he. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to go into the wood for a few hours."
"Ah... by the locks?"
"That sounds lovely."
"It does."
He turned to face the locks, and the falls beside them. He thought back to the horse nose and the nuzzle. It seemed now that she meant to turn him around. Perhaps she saw Laurelin; perhaps she really was the wiser of the two. For all of the dismal fate of each drop of water within the river, right behind him was the mist floating above the falls. Mist that, when the sunrise catches it just right, positively glows.
Of Madness and Nobility
Journal Entries, 'cuz they're fun too. 
Roderick Humphrey wrote:28 Hammer, 1375 DR
Curious that I should begin my journals as this, at a time when a second generation of Humphreys proves to be failures. It seems so very natural that I would study the arts of war and strategy for my years; how long, after all, did we struggle against the dhaerow? And before them, it was the Sembians and the Zhentarim. I finally hit my stride, and see what tactics these times bring… cultists and plagues. Perhaps it is the work of the Talonites? Perhaps the work of Sharrans? Cyricists? Perhaps it is the work of none of them; perhaps the divination is misleading, and the wrath of physiology bears down upon the people of Ashabenford.
It is absurd of me to worry on it. What use am I to my people now? What use am I to the people who have become important to me? I have only mastered the arts of death, and what is really needed is a master of the arts of life.
Curious, too, that it bothers me… how many times have I stared into the eyes of an enemy as the light faded? How many kobolds died when they took up arms against me? Two score died that day, and I watched each hit the floor of that cave, many in two parts. Crows and rats grew fat, and I felt nothing. Yet now my dreams are plagued with the light leaving those familiar, almond-shaped eyes, and I am paralyzed.
Perhaps Eyval was right, after all. But if she was, I may be on the wrong path, seeking an entirely worse path.
Roderick Humphrey wrote:1 Alturiak, 1375 DR
My progress toward Selgaunt progresses slowly: a necessity, to be sure I do not serve as a plague rat to the city. How wretched I have become; tonight, I dined upon a field mouse and a squirrel. I’ve not hunter enough in me to catch real game.
Mercy has become discontent with me. She is used to receiving oatmeal and apples when she performs admirably as a mount, and I did not pack enough of either. At least I’ve been able to find enough roughage for her. I can only imagine the foul mood an upset stomach would bring down, and I am best served to not anger such a large animal so severely.
Perhaps, this struggle will serve some purpose, and I will arrive, see to the health of Sansa and Katryn, and perhaps see the fallen half of my affection for Sansa – and hers for me – rekindled by the simple proximity. A foolish hope, I know, and one that likely only exists on stages, and only to entertain the pits, but I have little but hope to fuel me.
Roderick Humphrey wrote:Alturiak 7, 1375
Again, I write in Mistledale. Days I arrived on the second, and barely stayed long enough to greet the lady and refill on supplies. I am not needed there; I am not particularly wanted there. The only sort of use I have to my love is one of moral support, and I do not need to be present to provide it. The travel taxes my mind… I think I shall have to allow Mercy to rest for some time. A tenday on the road cannot have been kind to her.
I spoke to Laurelin tonight… confessed an odd sort of love. I do not think she understood me. I tried to bring myself to the point, that my feeling seemed the sort that lead to simple happiness and affection. Perhaps I am a fool to think so; in the end, I was caught by distraction, and brought myself to hold her for a short time – a product of the courage good mead provides.
How is it that bravery and pragmatism on the battlefield can walk hand in hand with craven shyness and complete foolishness in civilized life? Am I so one-sided? So weak? So fragmented a man?
Roderick Humphrey wrote:Alturiak 9, 1375
"You shall be a rock that I may lean on in hard times to come."
That is another woman looking to me for something. Perhaps it is a curse. Perhaps an absurdist is entirely too offensive to Sune, and my life must be increasingly complicated by the fairer sex. At least this time, I can entertain the notion that I care because she has put some sort of spell upon me. I think it just as likely that the Black Sun has seen fit to do so somehow.
At least the conversation was informative, though this does make a fifth who I shall feel compelled to look after. I cannot help but ask myself now: who am I to lean on in hard times to come? I know that my duty is strength, and I must excel at it, but I am but flesh and bone. I bruise when struck; I bleed when cut; I break when crushed. Logic tells me that there is no shame in this, but honor has a different thought – perhaps I will be lucky, and manage to withstand the coming trials.
Then again, perhaps I will die face down in Sword Creek. I imagine that I would not much care about any of this, were that to happen.
"You are so young.. so new to this. And I feel terribly old. Not by age, but in the scars on my heart. I do know, without a doubt, that I do not wish to hurt you. In any way."
A sweet, elven voice. A sincere voice, something Roderick wasn't entirely used to hearing. Perhaps it was the novelty, perhaps the wording struck him just so.
It reminded him.
Roderick was seven. His head tilted back, feeling the impressive strain of energy in his limbs, but eyes fixed upward from fear. His mother stood over him: tall by comparison, with thin limbs and ample chest. A trophy for his father, though Roderick was only mildly aware of this.
The lecture he was recieving was going on. The words each gathered in his head only enough for him to recognize that they were words, and that she was very peeved. His eyes drifted to the pair of bags that sat behind him. His life was in those bags: just enough to make him look refined, but not enough to actually be expensive.
A slap to his cheek brought his attention upwards again, and lent him focus enough to hear the words and grant them meaning.
"Pay attention, you little shit. It's bad enough that I had to have you; I'm not going to have you make me look bad, too."
"I'm sorry, mother."
"Don't be sorry. Do better. You're going to be a page, and you're going to learn to behave while you're there. Am I understood?"
"Yes, mother."
"Good. Is this everything?" She approached the bags, checking their contents. It seemed everything was satisfactory. "Then you're ready to go."
Roderick shuffled forward and tried to hug his mother, arms ready to embrace at thigh height before she backed away.
"No, none of that. I don't like you and I'm done pretending to. You're not dead and I've found a place for you to study; I'm being more than generous."
Scars... they rarely hurt, specifically. Just a streak of pale or dark skin, sometimes a bump, sometimes a pit. He supposed we only even call them all by the same word because they are unified by not being what we expect, by not being 'normal.'
Roderick had yet to meet a normal person. They were all walking scars; beaten, battered, ruined little people, with the occasional beaten, battered, ruined big person - sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively - to break the pattern. He supposed he liked those breaks. The scars that stood out; it was a sign of one who was actually alive, and a sign of one whose meaning wasn't presented on a platter, roasted with an apple in its mouth.
Such thoughts were distracting. He would have to speak a response.
"I... do have scars... just mostly not from romance."
A sincere voice, in elven, but not sweet. He tried to be, but being sweet is difficult.
A sweet, elven voice. A sincere voice, something Roderick wasn't entirely used to hearing. Perhaps it was the novelty, perhaps the wording struck him just so.
It reminded him.
Roderick was seven. His head tilted back, feeling the impressive strain of energy in his limbs, but eyes fixed upward from fear. His mother stood over him: tall by comparison, with thin limbs and ample chest. A trophy for his father, though Roderick was only mildly aware of this.
The lecture he was recieving was going on. The words each gathered in his head only enough for him to recognize that they were words, and that she was very peeved. His eyes drifted to the pair of bags that sat behind him. His life was in those bags: just enough to make him look refined, but not enough to actually be expensive.
A slap to his cheek brought his attention upwards again, and lent him focus enough to hear the words and grant them meaning.
"Pay attention, you little shit. It's bad enough that I had to have you; I'm not going to have you make me look bad, too."
"I'm sorry, mother."
"Don't be sorry. Do better. You're going to be a page, and you're going to learn to behave while you're there. Am I understood?"
"Yes, mother."
"Good. Is this everything?" She approached the bags, checking their contents. It seemed everything was satisfactory. "Then you're ready to go."
Roderick shuffled forward and tried to hug his mother, arms ready to embrace at thigh height before she backed away.
"No, none of that. I don't like you and I'm done pretending to. You're not dead and I've found a place for you to study; I'm being more than generous."
Scars... they rarely hurt, specifically. Just a streak of pale or dark skin, sometimes a bump, sometimes a pit. He supposed we only even call them all by the same word because they are unified by not being what we expect, by not being 'normal.'
Roderick had yet to meet a normal person. They were all walking scars; beaten, battered, ruined little people, with the occasional beaten, battered, ruined big person - sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively - to break the pattern. He supposed he liked those breaks. The scars that stood out; it was a sign of one who was actually alive, and a sign of one whose meaning wasn't presented on a platter, roasted with an apple in its mouth.
Such thoughts were distracting. He would have to speak a response.
"I... do have scars... just mostly not from romance."
A sincere voice, in elven, but not sweet. He tried to be, but being sweet is difficult.
"Draw steel, whoreson."
It seemed the smart thing to say. No one had expected that the encounter would end peacefully, anyway. He had might as well try to aggravate his opponent into doing something stupid.
He only asked for last words, anyway. Last words are for those who hadn't said enough in life.
Time seemed to slow down for those first few moments. Spiders, two: one left front, one right front. A shield, cyric… that can't be good. The plague monster, 'whoreson.' That was his name now, as far as Roderick was concerned. It killed a tenth of Mistledale. The frail, the children, the elderly. One could nearly chart a draw a line of the simple sources of beauty and see where they were all forever silenced by this thing.
Roderick heard something, behind him. A spider – it means to flank. The course became clearer. Bannock? He was armed, one spider taken care of. Amastacia? She brings a staff to another, two taken care of. Delawyn was casting – it didn't matter what; it would keep the shield busy. This meant Roderick had the flank.
White knuckles on his mace and a pivot, angling his shield, he thrust at the beast. It slid up, like meat scraping from a butcher's board, a pair of chitinous legs thrusting over the shield, skidding off of his backplate. Roderick felt that, but no pain. Either he was in good shape, or he was in a lot of trouble. With a stiff swing of his mace, he crushed one of the back legs and grabbed another with a flange.
It looked like this one was too heavy. A sidestep and a shrug put the spider on its feet again, it hissed and lunged; Roderick would need to fix his cuisses later. His mace struck again, solid, leaving a trickle of green … something … coming from the creature's head, and then flame poured from the ceiling. Roderick skidded back and ducked under his shield – damn good thing it was a kite.
Eyes to the room – who was left? A spider, no, dead. Shield? No, he was occupied. Whoreson – he was raising holy hell. Not so fast this time, had to think of his reach – Roderick jogged, pivoting to the side while trying to close on Whoreson. Some… things were crawling under his sabatons, biting. He grit his teeth and kept moving, and the things gnashed theirs; it was making him bleed, he was sure. A swing of the mace and Whoreson lost a few of his centipedes, but he wasn't hurt.
That couldn't be good. His head was light, and the things were biting where he had best not mention. Where was that potion? Delawyn gave him something strong. His mace hit the ground and his thumb to a cork, soon sending it crumbled to the ground in pieces. The glass came to his lips, drinking quick. It tasted like something, he was sure, but he couldn't even think to tell what it was. A bit of cork was mixed in, but the bites were better and he could move. Once the things stopped getting friends, just jogging killed them. That was going to be a mess.
Eyes to the room, again. Shield? More occupied. Whoreson? Amastacia? Hells. He jogged to the corridor – it was all green mist. Someone found the trap. Whoreson was around the corner; he could hear bottles. Sonuvabitch was drinking potions too. Roderick sucked in a breath and held it, running through the mist. Amastacia was there, waiting by the corner, so was a bear… a summon? It didn't matter; it didn't want to fight him. Roderick's shield hit the ground with a loud series of clangs, then his bow came from his shoulder.
He turned the corner and loosed an arrow. A miss – shit. Another arrow, a miss – shit. Whoreson took his sword up again; he was out of potions. Another arrow; barely worth it. He backpedaled, back in the mist; it burned. He spent another moment wondering about the bear, thinking it had better be a summon, and Whoreson rounded the corner. Another arrow, still not worth it. He it the bear, repeatedly. It bled, it roared, it pawed, it fell, and then Amastacia. Shit.
Roderick scampered back, shouting for the others. Delawyn had better still be alive; his wife had better still be alive. Whoreson swung his sword, it cut deep; it probably broke his backplate clean in half. Roderick nearly hit the ground, but he was still there… for whatever reason, he had time to take a potion: one of his. It wasn’t nearly as good, but at least he wasn't bleeding anymore.
He turned, still on his knee. Another arrow, no good, but there was silver and blue armor, and a lot of blood on it. They were in trouble, but Whoreson thought the same of himself, and he was back up the corridor, back to the room.
Roderick heard casting, and then a 'fwump.' He staggered back to the room, and there was Whoreson on the ground, beaten. Roderick’s feet were still unsteady, but it might not be over. He retrieved his mace and put his foot to Whoreson’s chest, then struck at the head until there was a dent and a puddle where there was once a misshapen head.
Eyes to the room, a last time. Spiders? Dead. Shield? Dead. Whoreson? Dead. Amastacia? Shit. He knew she was gone, but he had to try. He jogged back to where she fell and gave a feeble effort to put her insides back. Magic couldn’t fix this, and he knew it. His mind came to some focus again: where was Bannock? Shit. He got to his feet, too tired to jog now, and brought himself back. He was gone.
They had won the day, but they had lost nearly half those they brought. The thoughts would go where they would, and the words would say what they would. He knew what happened; he couldn't make a mace swing count; he couldn't put a spider on its back; he couldn't shoot an arrow down a hall; he couldn't take a hit. If he could, he might have saved an ally's life; he might have saved a friend's life.
Being insufficient was getting old, very old.
It seemed the smart thing to say. No one had expected that the encounter would end peacefully, anyway. He had might as well try to aggravate his opponent into doing something stupid.
He only asked for last words, anyway. Last words are for those who hadn't said enough in life.
Time seemed to slow down for those first few moments. Spiders, two: one left front, one right front. A shield, cyric… that can't be good. The plague monster, 'whoreson.' That was his name now, as far as Roderick was concerned. It killed a tenth of Mistledale. The frail, the children, the elderly. One could nearly chart a draw a line of the simple sources of beauty and see where they were all forever silenced by this thing.
Roderick heard something, behind him. A spider – it means to flank. The course became clearer. Bannock? He was armed, one spider taken care of. Amastacia? She brings a staff to another, two taken care of. Delawyn was casting – it didn't matter what; it would keep the shield busy. This meant Roderick had the flank.
White knuckles on his mace and a pivot, angling his shield, he thrust at the beast. It slid up, like meat scraping from a butcher's board, a pair of chitinous legs thrusting over the shield, skidding off of his backplate. Roderick felt that, but no pain. Either he was in good shape, or he was in a lot of trouble. With a stiff swing of his mace, he crushed one of the back legs and grabbed another with a flange.
It looked like this one was too heavy. A sidestep and a shrug put the spider on its feet again, it hissed and lunged; Roderick would need to fix his cuisses later. His mace struck again, solid, leaving a trickle of green … something … coming from the creature's head, and then flame poured from the ceiling. Roderick skidded back and ducked under his shield – damn good thing it was a kite.
Eyes to the room – who was left? A spider, no, dead. Shield? No, he was occupied. Whoreson – he was raising holy hell. Not so fast this time, had to think of his reach – Roderick jogged, pivoting to the side while trying to close on Whoreson. Some… things were crawling under his sabatons, biting. He grit his teeth and kept moving, and the things gnashed theirs; it was making him bleed, he was sure. A swing of the mace and Whoreson lost a few of his centipedes, but he wasn't hurt.
That couldn't be good. His head was light, and the things were biting where he had best not mention. Where was that potion? Delawyn gave him something strong. His mace hit the ground and his thumb to a cork, soon sending it crumbled to the ground in pieces. The glass came to his lips, drinking quick. It tasted like something, he was sure, but he couldn't even think to tell what it was. A bit of cork was mixed in, but the bites were better and he could move. Once the things stopped getting friends, just jogging killed them. That was going to be a mess.
Eyes to the room, again. Shield? More occupied. Whoreson? Amastacia? Hells. He jogged to the corridor – it was all green mist. Someone found the trap. Whoreson was around the corner; he could hear bottles. Sonuvabitch was drinking potions too. Roderick sucked in a breath and held it, running through the mist. Amastacia was there, waiting by the corner, so was a bear… a summon? It didn't matter; it didn't want to fight him. Roderick's shield hit the ground with a loud series of clangs, then his bow came from his shoulder.
He turned the corner and loosed an arrow. A miss – shit. Another arrow, a miss – shit. Whoreson took his sword up again; he was out of potions. Another arrow; barely worth it. He backpedaled, back in the mist; it burned. He spent another moment wondering about the bear, thinking it had better be a summon, and Whoreson rounded the corner. Another arrow, still not worth it. He it the bear, repeatedly. It bled, it roared, it pawed, it fell, and then Amastacia. Shit.
Roderick scampered back, shouting for the others. Delawyn had better still be alive; his wife had better still be alive. Whoreson swung his sword, it cut deep; it probably broke his backplate clean in half. Roderick nearly hit the ground, but he was still there… for whatever reason, he had time to take a potion: one of his. It wasn’t nearly as good, but at least he wasn't bleeding anymore.
He turned, still on his knee. Another arrow, no good, but there was silver and blue armor, and a lot of blood on it. They were in trouble, but Whoreson thought the same of himself, and he was back up the corridor, back to the room.
Roderick heard casting, and then a 'fwump.' He staggered back to the room, and there was Whoreson on the ground, beaten. Roderick’s feet were still unsteady, but it might not be over. He retrieved his mace and put his foot to Whoreson’s chest, then struck at the head until there was a dent and a puddle where there was once a misshapen head.
Eyes to the room, a last time. Spiders? Dead. Shield? Dead. Whoreson? Dead. Amastacia? Shit. He knew she was gone, but he had to try. He jogged back to where she fell and gave a feeble effort to put her insides back. Magic couldn’t fix this, and he knew it. His mind came to some focus again: where was Bannock? Shit. He got to his feet, too tired to jog now, and brought himself back. He was gone.
They had won the day, but they had lost nearly half those they brought. The thoughts would go where they would, and the words would say what they would. He knew what happened; he couldn't make a mace swing count; he couldn't put a spider on its back; he couldn't shoot an arrow down a hall; he couldn't take a hit. If he could, he might have saved an ally's life; he might have saved a friend's life.
Being insufficient was getting old, very old.
Alturiak 24, 1375
I have come to see my life as a metaphor many times. In the winter, when the chill bites hardest, it is not always a good idea to step inside and warm up, if one must spend the whole day outside. The cold seeps in, the cold dulls the senses, the cold becomes home: the simple, constant, reality of being.
On my seventh birthday, I stepped into the cold, and there I have made my home. Most would see it as unpleasant, even cruel - unconscionable! - but for me, it was just being. It was in the cold that I became a man, in the cold that I spilled my first blood, in the cold that I saved my first damsel. I saw the indoors, and I knew there was warmth within; I could even press my face 'gainst the windows until the mist overcame all but the spot where my nose touched it, but the door was barred.
It was good for me; I knew this, of course, and I lived with this understanding for twelve years, but I am a fool. I found a way in, I have warmed myself by the fire -- hells, I even prayed, and gave an offering, to make it so -- and now I sit in the cold again. No more can it be the simple, constant, reality: now the cold bites and stings, and I do not even know why I am out again.
And yet I must be strong. I am still the rock leaned upon; I am still the disposable comfort; I am still the soldier who is willing to ride to the front.
A pity. Twelve years ago, I wanted to be an artist.
"Rainy Sunrise"
The sun lazily stretched its back and rubbed its eyes, casting a bleary orange hue and long shadows over the monotonous lands of Mistledale, nudging the young Roderick from his dreams. It was his second tenday atop the new east tower; his father jested that he would surely become a mad wizard with the location and the solitude. There was a faint appreciation for his father for that; he tried to disguise the dull, throbbing agony that was his youngest two children. At least they would have their own place to rest for his waning tolerance for them, even if it was floors built atop barracks, with a nice shingled roof nailed atop.
Roderick shuffled his way off of his improvised bed; he had surrendered the feathers to Anna, so it would be straw and a sheet in a box until there was enough to make another bed. His little hand worked its way up to his eyes, rubbing them until the fog of waking broke free, and then rummaging about his head until the bowl-cut curls refrained from standing on end.
He was a slender lad then; 13 years simply wasn't enough to put bulk on him. His jaw was still smooth; his hands still soft; his arms still thin; his eyes still sparking with hope and romanticism. That shiny blue that stared at the exhausted sun as it begged for a cloudy day and said, "but there's so much to be happy for!"
There was, to be fair, excepting the short, scaly forms that scampered through the fields as his eyes and the sun had their conversation. He might have seen something then, from his perch atop the tower, but glossy optimism has a way of giving great vision and horrible sight.
There was a shriek. It sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it; Roderick just hadn't been home long enough to relearn everyone's voices. He scampered quickly to his racks, gathering his cuir boili armor into a bundle and tossing it on his 'bed,' then stepping into his boots and greaves before scampering down the stairs while pulling a studded hauberk over his head and pulling the hardened breastplate over. And the vambraces. The rest was still upstairs.
At the bottom of the tower, in the old barracks, he snagged the first thing that looked a weapon: a mace. It would become his mace after today, but he didn't know that yet. He just knew there was a shriek, and he'd best see to it.
He pushed the heavy door open and slid to a stop outside, the thick oaken handle gripped by the whitened knuckles of both his hands, bronze, horned mace head reflecting just enough of the light to be noticeable. Roderick's eyes moved about, trying to see beyond the buildings; it seems Brennig had the same idea, and just as much time to prepare: a long linen tunic, a cuirass, a heater shield, and a rapier for him. They made eye contact, enough to know what the plan was, and started stalking along the walls, eyes moving between the buildings until they reached the gate.
A glint of metal caught Roderick's eye; a pressure plate. Roderick always had a good eye for that.
"Wait," he started to say, but Brennig put his foot down for the startling interjection, and spring-powered metal jaws clamped on his leg, dropping the young knight to a knee with a shrill cry.
He squirmed. It was the first time Roderick would see that, but it would certainly not be the last; everyone squirms; everyone cries; everyone begs; poor bastard probably soiled himself. Pathetic.
"Get the damn thing off of me!" he whimpered, prying on the jaws to try to move his leg.
"Hold still, there's a lever."
"There's a damn gnomework monster eating my leg!"
"Hold still. There's a lever."
Brennig flailed until Roderick sat on his knee and pressed the levers on the trap down with his feet, leaving behind an unsightly scrape and an extra bend to Brennig's leg, and whimpers and screams enough that anything representing the element of surprise was long gone.
"Dammit… I think my leg's broken. Go to the abbey. Fetch a healer."
Roderick went to see about the shrieking. He and Brennig wouldn't be friends anymore.
The source wasn't hard to find. Others heard the shrieking, too, but they recognized it. There was a dead cow and eight kobolds. Yellow dots on their snouts and matching rings circling it up to their eyes; Sunskins. They were probably hungry, but they held a little one in a dark purple dress, topped with read curly hair. This is why the others were there, holding their pitchforks. They might have cared; they might have wanted a reputation for saving a little girl. Everyone liked to hear about saving little girls.
The kobolds had been herded around their carrion and their hostage, threateningly waving their stone-tipped spears and hissing in kobold-speak. Probably demanding the beef and insisting the girl will go free if they could have it. It must mean that the skirmishes go well, Roderick thought; they risk much to route this far for beef.
A bit of sharpened stone lunged at him; he must have been standing too close. It caught a stud and surprised young Roderick, but there was no blood. A few pitch forks lunged, and spears back, one of the kobolds had already fallen, and one of the farmers bled by the time the heavy bronze mace crashed against kobold skull, which cracked and caved under the force before leaking a soggy red sludge onto the ground.
The kobolds were still outnumbered, and they were losing theirs quickly. The farmers started their chorus of "give up!" while yapping in draconic answered fruitlessly. That was when Roderick caught a better glimpse of the hostage. It should have caught him sooner; who else here had red hair like that? The rotten scaly savages had Anna.
"That's my sister, creature." The emphasis was wrong; the heroes in bard stories always said it differently, but it made sense to him. Still, the kobolds did not care.
Roderick lurched forward, mace lagging as if its weight was unbearable. The kobolds responded with spears. Probably a stupid move, tactically. Attention on the armored one so the men in shirts with pitchforks could kill them. One of the spear tips scraped off of leather, another struck his side, but the mace was already on its course, and the scales nearest to young Anna took a mace, and took the creature to the ground, the "whuh" of the kobold's last breath being forced out by impact resounding more than the last kobolds dieing, or Roderick's second spear wound putting him to the ground.
The world faded to red that day. Like a sunset, but stinking of rust, and a voice in the distance, calling his name.
Was she crying? How silly; she barely knew him.
He would have to fix that.
But it was time for sleep, first.
Roderick shuffled his way off of his improvised bed; he had surrendered the feathers to Anna, so it would be straw and a sheet in a box until there was enough to make another bed. His little hand worked its way up to his eyes, rubbing them until the fog of waking broke free, and then rummaging about his head until the bowl-cut curls refrained from standing on end.
He was a slender lad then; 13 years simply wasn't enough to put bulk on him. His jaw was still smooth; his hands still soft; his arms still thin; his eyes still sparking with hope and romanticism. That shiny blue that stared at the exhausted sun as it begged for a cloudy day and said, "but there's so much to be happy for!"
There was, to be fair, excepting the short, scaly forms that scampered through the fields as his eyes and the sun had their conversation. He might have seen something then, from his perch atop the tower, but glossy optimism has a way of giving great vision and horrible sight.
There was a shriek. It sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it; Roderick just hadn't been home long enough to relearn everyone's voices. He scampered quickly to his racks, gathering his cuir boili armor into a bundle and tossing it on his 'bed,' then stepping into his boots and greaves before scampering down the stairs while pulling a studded hauberk over his head and pulling the hardened breastplate over. And the vambraces. The rest was still upstairs.
At the bottom of the tower, in the old barracks, he snagged the first thing that looked a weapon: a mace. It would become his mace after today, but he didn't know that yet. He just knew there was a shriek, and he'd best see to it.
He pushed the heavy door open and slid to a stop outside, the thick oaken handle gripped by the whitened knuckles of both his hands, bronze, horned mace head reflecting just enough of the light to be noticeable. Roderick's eyes moved about, trying to see beyond the buildings; it seems Brennig had the same idea, and just as much time to prepare: a long linen tunic, a cuirass, a heater shield, and a rapier for him. They made eye contact, enough to know what the plan was, and started stalking along the walls, eyes moving between the buildings until they reached the gate.
A glint of metal caught Roderick's eye; a pressure plate. Roderick always had a good eye for that.
"Wait," he started to say, but Brennig put his foot down for the startling interjection, and spring-powered metal jaws clamped on his leg, dropping the young knight to a knee with a shrill cry.
He squirmed. It was the first time Roderick would see that, but it would certainly not be the last; everyone squirms; everyone cries; everyone begs; poor bastard probably soiled himself. Pathetic.
"Get the damn thing off of me!" he whimpered, prying on the jaws to try to move his leg.
"Hold still, there's a lever."
"There's a damn gnomework monster eating my leg!"
"Hold still. There's a lever."
Brennig flailed until Roderick sat on his knee and pressed the levers on the trap down with his feet, leaving behind an unsightly scrape and an extra bend to Brennig's leg, and whimpers and screams enough that anything representing the element of surprise was long gone.
"Dammit… I think my leg's broken. Go to the abbey. Fetch a healer."
Roderick went to see about the shrieking. He and Brennig wouldn't be friends anymore.
The source wasn't hard to find. Others heard the shrieking, too, but they recognized it. There was a dead cow and eight kobolds. Yellow dots on their snouts and matching rings circling it up to their eyes; Sunskins. They were probably hungry, but they held a little one in a dark purple dress, topped with read curly hair. This is why the others were there, holding their pitchforks. They might have cared; they might have wanted a reputation for saving a little girl. Everyone liked to hear about saving little girls.
The kobolds had been herded around their carrion and their hostage, threateningly waving their stone-tipped spears and hissing in kobold-speak. Probably demanding the beef and insisting the girl will go free if they could have it. It must mean that the skirmishes go well, Roderick thought; they risk much to route this far for beef.
A bit of sharpened stone lunged at him; he must have been standing too close. It caught a stud and surprised young Roderick, but there was no blood. A few pitch forks lunged, and spears back, one of the kobolds had already fallen, and one of the farmers bled by the time the heavy bronze mace crashed against kobold skull, which cracked and caved under the force before leaking a soggy red sludge onto the ground.
The kobolds were still outnumbered, and they were losing theirs quickly. The farmers started their chorus of "give up!" while yapping in draconic answered fruitlessly. That was when Roderick caught a better glimpse of the hostage. It should have caught him sooner; who else here had red hair like that? The rotten scaly savages had Anna.
"That's my sister, creature." The emphasis was wrong; the heroes in bard stories always said it differently, but it made sense to him. Still, the kobolds did not care.
Roderick lurched forward, mace lagging as if its weight was unbearable. The kobolds responded with spears. Probably a stupid move, tactically. Attention on the armored one so the men in shirts with pitchforks could kill them. One of the spear tips scraped off of leather, another struck his side, but the mace was already on its course, and the scales nearest to young Anna took a mace, and took the creature to the ground, the "whuh" of the kobold's last breath being forced out by impact resounding more than the last kobolds dieing, or Roderick's second spear wound putting him to the ground.
The world faded to red that day. Like a sunset, but stinking of rust, and a voice in the distance, calling his name.
Was she crying? How silly; she barely knew him.
He would have to fix that.
But it was time for sleep, first.
5 Ches 1375
Once again, events seem so keen on reminding me that all I am is not good enough. One would think that the stun would weaken and abate as I became accustomed to this. Yet the world seems too certain that I am not strong enough, that I am not wise enough, that I am not relaxed enough (while not being loyal enough).
And yet I survive; and yet I progress.
I see the lies of the fell priests, and I carry their failure as a trophy. Yet I haven't enough vision; I haven't enough strength.
I learn to read those closest to me, and their thoughts become more plain with every visit. Yet I haven't enough perception; I haven't enough wisdom.
I fight and bleed for my homeland, but this is not loyal enough.
I do not scold a wrathful lover, or a flighty one, but I am not lax enough.
All of this is a reminder that Ao did not craft this world for mortals. We are at best products of happenstance, and this knowledge brings no comfort. This knowledge is a life without meaning, and it could end without impact at any time.
The question remains, a stunning, resounding, "Why?"
At best, I can answer "Why not?" and remain tired of being insufficient, again.
~Ammendum~
I dreamt of my sister and the Sunskins last night, in more vivid detail than before.
I felt the rising sun, heard the screams, struggled with the trap, pained at the spears. Anna tells me I screamed. Hers is the only concern that exists despite the company we keep.
Ironic that the truest affection is the sort I am not supposed to enjoy. Am I not supposed to fight with my sister? Call her names and hide toads in her bed?
Irony. Painful irony.
The sun lazily stretched its back and rubbed its eyes, casting a bleary orange hue and long shadows over the monotonous lands of Mistledale, scraping its warmth across Roderick's face. He was in his room, but years ago; he'd never thought about how little he'd changed it in the last six years. A boy was in his bed, curly red hair, obviously cut with the help of a bowl, and a woman sat beside it. Dark black hair in soft, glistening curls that framed a face of soft features and two, so very subtle, horns poking from the start of her hairline. Her eyes were the palest blue, her lips the brightest red… and she was nudging the boy awake.
The boy shuffled his way off of his improvised bed; improvised, Roderick recalled – it was straw then. That simple act of charity started a pattern of very favorable words between Anna and him. The boy's little hand worked its way up to his eyes, rubbing them until the fog of waking broke free, and then rummaged about his head until the bowl-cut curls refrained from standing on end. This is when Roderick realized where he was, and when he was, and why the boy did not seem to notice him. But what of the woman? Roderick growled low, a boiling rage at the back of his throat, in her direction. She could see him, but she didn't speak. She stood and approached the boy, smoothing his hair the rest of the way out.
She rested her hands – slender hands with long fingers and polished nails – on the boy's shoulders and bent down until her lips nearly touched young Roderick's ear, the elder's eyes on the scene until her words came out a soothing, musical whisper.
"Today is an auspicious day. Today you begin to be a hero. There is much to be happy for."
The elder rushed forward tried to push the woman away; the contact was most unnatural. She did not bend; she did not sway; she made no noise; his fingers didn't even depress the flesh. She smirked in his direction, leaving a gentle kiss on his cheek. She might have said something; she might have thought at him. It was hard to say; elder Roderick was trying to decide how he would do anything if his force was so futile.
There was a shriek. Anna's shriek. Roderick swore to himself while the boy scampered quickly to his racks, gathering his cuir boili armor into a bundle and tossing it on his 'bed.' Elder followed, helping the boy into his armor and trying to rearrange the haste as the boy made for the stairs.
Advice! Elder would have to give advice. He fumbled until he saw the mace. That's right!
"You wear good armor, but it doesn't cover you completely. Let them graze your chest, don't let them graze your arms. The mace is heavier than their heads; hit high and they will fall, hit low and they will crumple."
The woman followed, her restrained laughter almost lyrical. Could the boy hear?
At the bottom of the tower, in the old barracks, the boy snagged his mace. Oh, such a fine weapon; it even shone like new. It would be the heavy bit of metal that would save lives and end more. Such memory.
The boy pushed the tower door open and slid to a stop outside, flanked first by Elder and then the woman. The sun kissed the head of the mace… theatric, Elder thought. Could write this into a play. The boy's eyes moved about, trying to see beyond the buildings, and there was Brennig, in his tunic, his cuirass, his heater shield, and his rapier. Who brings a rapier with a heater shield? This kind of nonsense is why he never made it as a soldier.
It seems that thought aught not have been had; the boy and the woman already moved ahead, nearly to the southern gates.
The trap! Roderick scampered to catch the boy, shouting "There's a trap! Tell Brennig about the trap!"
The boy's head moved, eyes resting on the trap. The woman's arm rested on his shoulder, melodious voice speaking, shortly. "Wait…"
The boy did so.
"Now…"
"Wait…" the boy started to speak, just too late to spare Brennig's leg. Roderick heard the snaps as he caught up. Two snaps, one for the latch and one for Brennig's leg.
"Now free him." The woman spoke gently, encouraging. "But watch him. Watch him squirm; watch the tears in his eyes; watch him plead; smell… yes, most unpleasant. This man is a coward. This man is honored to have your assistance; you've taken time for him, so very generous, so very heroic."
"Get the damn thing off of me!" Brennig whimpered, prying on the jaws to try to move his leg and drowning the woman's next words out. The conversation about the lever continued, but Roderick didn't hear it. He had words for the woman.
"The hells are you telling him that for? That's his brother."
The same smirk came to Roderick. His brother was what he said, not my brother. What difference would it make, anyway? Everything was happening as it should.
There was the flailing again. The boy had to sit on Brennig to get him to hold still long enough to be freed. Pathetic. Did he just think that?
Hells.
"Dammit… I think my leg's broken. Go to the abbey. Fetch a healer." Brennig's voice. Ah, he was back to now. Or whenever he was.
Again the woman bent, and encouraging words followed. "He will be alright. You should see who was screaming; forget this man's petty words."
And so the boy went to see what the shrieking was.
"He will suffer for five years for that." Roderick almost mumbled. He wanted to accuse, but what would the point be? The words came as a statement, a realization. He always said that martyrs only save the day once, but there he was, making a martyr of himself.
The boy was gone, but the woman stayed. She caught Roderick's eye, as if she had to tell him. "I know. I intended this." She didn't say; she didn't have to. Those colorless eyes spoke volumes.
The two walked leisurely to where Anna was. The fight was starting; so much more sensible when standing beside it. The farmers knew the basics of maneuvering; they looked as though they surrounded, but they struck from a pincer. There was a crack; it seems the boy was the strongest of the lot. How delightful.
The farmers started demanding surrender as a soft hand rested on elder Roderick's shoulder; still no voice, but he knew what she was to say. She was why the emphasis was wrong. He was not to be a bardic hero.
"Those creatures have your sister. They have no right; they have no honor; they probably don't even have souls. Beat them; break them; drive them from your home."
"That's my sister, creature." The boy said, a vicious peak in his voice. He sounded so cruel, but so very right.
And then came the surge that would put Roderick on his back. The kobolds advance was so obvious; elder Roderick would surely have barely been scratched by the same, but the boy lay in the grass bleeding, rolled onto his back by a sobbing Anna.
Crying? How silly; she barely knew him.
The woman knelt by the boy's head and scooted forward, gently placing the red locks on her lap and stroking his head, a soothing lullaby easing the boy to his rest. Anna draped herself over the boy, and the farmers scrambled for something to stop the bleeding.
The woman had words for elder Roderick, finally.
"If not for this, you would be Brennig.
"If not for this, you would listen when your mother, and you would not be good enough.
"If not for this, you would think yourself weak as your kin.
"And here you bleed, staring at the burning sky. Here the sun sets early for you while you are baptized by blood.
"And for some reason, you have forgotten this.
"For some reason, you have rediscovered pain.
"For some reason, you have fallen in love. Three times.
"Don't bother lieing. I know you felt more for the dirty one. Clearly, you like whores.
"For some reason, you have come to accept failure.
"Why?"
And then Roderick woke up, slowly. Unshaven face buried in a pillow on a bunk. His eyes focused on grass floors. He was in the Springs again. Or it looked like he was; perhaps he was still dreaming, and he just wished he was. Perhaps he was never dreaming. Perhaps that woman had ensorcled him.
He told himself that he couldn't afford to think about that. He had supplies to fetch.
But the final question rang in his head, persistent, pressing, almost angry.
And again the answer, "Why not?"
The boy shuffled his way off of his improvised bed; improvised, Roderick recalled – it was straw then. That simple act of charity started a pattern of very favorable words between Anna and him. The boy's little hand worked its way up to his eyes, rubbing them until the fog of waking broke free, and then rummaged about his head until the bowl-cut curls refrained from standing on end. This is when Roderick realized where he was, and when he was, and why the boy did not seem to notice him. But what of the woman? Roderick growled low, a boiling rage at the back of his throat, in her direction. She could see him, but she didn't speak. She stood and approached the boy, smoothing his hair the rest of the way out.
She rested her hands – slender hands with long fingers and polished nails – on the boy's shoulders and bent down until her lips nearly touched young Roderick's ear, the elder's eyes on the scene until her words came out a soothing, musical whisper.
"Today is an auspicious day. Today you begin to be a hero. There is much to be happy for."
The elder rushed forward tried to push the woman away; the contact was most unnatural. She did not bend; she did not sway; she made no noise; his fingers didn't even depress the flesh. She smirked in his direction, leaving a gentle kiss on his cheek. She might have said something; she might have thought at him. It was hard to say; elder Roderick was trying to decide how he would do anything if his force was so futile.
There was a shriek. Anna's shriek. Roderick swore to himself while the boy scampered quickly to his racks, gathering his cuir boili armor into a bundle and tossing it on his 'bed.' Elder followed, helping the boy into his armor and trying to rearrange the haste as the boy made for the stairs.
Advice! Elder would have to give advice. He fumbled until he saw the mace. That's right!
"You wear good armor, but it doesn't cover you completely. Let them graze your chest, don't let them graze your arms. The mace is heavier than their heads; hit high and they will fall, hit low and they will crumple."
The woman followed, her restrained laughter almost lyrical. Could the boy hear?
At the bottom of the tower, in the old barracks, the boy snagged his mace. Oh, such a fine weapon; it even shone like new. It would be the heavy bit of metal that would save lives and end more. Such memory.
The boy pushed the tower door open and slid to a stop outside, flanked first by Elder and then the woman. The sun kissed the head of the mace… theatric, Elder thought. Could write this into a play. The boy's eyes moved about, trying to see beyond the buildings, and there was Brennig, in his tunic, his cuirass, his heater shield, and his rapier. Who brings a rapier with a heater shield? This kind of nonsense is why he never made it as a soldier.
It seems that thought aught not have been had; the boy and the woman already moved ahead, nearly to the southern gates.
The trap! Roderick scampered to catch the boy, shouting "There's a trap! Tell Brennig about the trap!"
The boy's head moved, eyes resting on the trap. The woman's arm rested on his shoulder, melodious voice speaking, shortly. "Wait…"
The boy did so.
"Now…"
"Wait…" the boy started to speak, just too late to spare Brennig's leg. Roderick heard the snaps as he caught up. Two snaps, one for the latch and one for Brennig's leg.
"Now free him." The woman spoke gently, encouraging. "But watch him. Watch him squirm; watch the tears in his eyes; watch him plead; smell… yes, most unpleasant. This man is a coward. This man is honored to have your assistance; you've taken time for him, so very generous, so very heroic."
"Get the damn thing off of me!" Brennig whimpered, prying on the jaws to try to move his leg and drowning the woman's next words out. The conversation about the lever continued, but Roderick didn't hear it. He had words for the woman.
"The hells are you telling him that for? That's his brother."
The same smirk came to Roderick. His brother was what he said, not my brother. What difference would it make, anyway? Everything was happening as it should.
There was the flailing again. The boy had to sit on Brennig to get him to hold still long enough to be freed. Pathetic. Did he just think that?
Hells.
"Dammit… I think my leg's broken. Go to the abbey. Fetch a healer." Brennig's voice. Ah, he was back to now. Or whenever he was.
Again the woman bent, and encouraging words followed. "He will be alright. You should see who was screaming; forget this man's petty words."
And so the boy went to see what the shrieking was.
"He will suffer for five years for that." Roderick almost mumbled. He wanted to accuse, but what would the point be? The words came as a statement, a realization. He always said that martyrs only save the day once, but there he was, making a martyr of himself.
The boy was gone, but the woman stayed. She caught Roderick's eye, as if she had to tell him. "I know. I intended this." She didn't say; she didn't have to. Those colorless eyes spoke volumes.
The two walked leisurely to where Anna was. The fight was starting; so much more sensible when standing beside it. The farmers knew the basics of maneuvering; they looked as though they surrounded, but they struck from a pincer. There was a crack; it seems the boy was the strongest of the lot. How delightful.
The farmers started demanding surrender as a soft hand rested on elder Roderick's shoulder; still no voice, but he knew what she was to say. She was why the emphasis was wrong. He was not to be a bardic hero.
"Those creatures have your sister. They have no right; they have no honor; they probably don't even have souls. Beat them; break them; drive them from your home."
"That's my sister, creature." The boy said, a vicious peak in his voice. He sounded so cruel, but so very right.
And then came the surge that would put Roderick on his back. The kobolds advance was so obvious; elder Roderick would surely have barely been scratched by the same, but the boy lay in the grass bleeding, rolled onto his back by a sobbing Anna.
Crying? How silly; she barely knew him.
The woman knelt by the boy's head and scooted forward, gently placing the red locks on her lap and stroking his head, a soothing lullaby easing the boy to his rest. Anna draped herself over the boy, and the farmers scrambled for something to stop the bleeding.
The woman had words for elder Roderick, finally.
"If not for this, you would be Brennig.
"If not for this, you would listen when your mother, and you would not be good enough.
"If not for this, you would think yourself weak as your kin.
"And here you bleed, staring at the burning sky. Here the sun sets early for you while you are baptized by blood.
"And for some reason, you have forgotten this.
"For some reason, you have rediscovered pain.
"For some reason, you have fallen in love. Three times.
"Don't bother lieing. I know you felt more for the dirty one. Clearly, you like whores.
"For some reason, you have come to accept failure.
"Why?"
And then Roderick woke up, slowly. Unshaven face buried in a pillow on a bunk. His eyes focused on grass floors. He was in the Springs again. Or it looked like he was; perhaps he was still dreaming, and he just wished he was. Perhaps he was never dreaming. Perhaps that woman had ensorcled him.
He told himself that he couldn't afford to think about that. He had supplies to fetch.
But the final question rang in his head, persistent, pressing, almost angry.
And again the answer, "Why not?"
The bench was actually dry that evening; rare, given its place. Or at least Roderick liked to think it was rare. On the days it wasn’t raining in the Dales, water dripped from the leaves. It would surely be a swamp if the water didn’t so efficiently gather into streams and caves.
He ran his thumb over the edge of his sword, lightly. Still razor sharp; magic had a way of ruining his maintenance time. It used to be that he would have a little time to think every day, while he maintained his things; that time had been reduced to feeding and grooming Oleander. A shame, that. Mercy was such a good horse: quiet, obedient, but still strong, durable. She was the picture of stoicism that he could never be. Oleander was fiery. Strong, yes; obedient, mostly; he was the picture of the brute Roderick was becoming.
Or… perhaps? No, couldn’t be. Roderick shook his head and turned his attention back to his sword. The false edge was still in good shape; the whole thing just needed a bit of cleaning. He took his rag to the blade, carefully rubbing at the last bits of blood on the blade; it wasn’t bad, just the bits that didn’t shake off before he sheathed it. It was important to keep it clean, and to keep a good polish. He told himself that, at least. It never really was clear how much the magic took care of. With a normal sword, a better polish meant the sword was less likely to stick mid cut; it saved his life at least once.
That was how this maintenance time started. Though, eyeing the sword, he began to wonder how far such maintenance was supposed to extend. He hadn’t been taking very good care of himself; he probably aught to have a warm bath and a shave. Perhaps a good night’s sleep, a full night’s sleep. That would assume that he was any good at sleeping alone these days. Funny, though, that the loneliness didn’t hurt. It made him restless, to be sure… but he would lay awake when he had company, too; he just wouldn’t move until that company woke. It was comfortable, restful.
Though, the lack of pain had become unsettling. It came physically, too. After the yugoloths at the Springs, the battle numbness lasted a day. After the Red Plumes in Essembra, it lasted nearly three. After the mercenaries, it was near a tenday. It had never gotten longer before: a few hours of freedom, and then the bitter reminder that something had been trying to kill him. The latest caused worry enough to test it, and he would be wearing long sleeves until that healed.
"Pain is illusion, anyway," he told himself, cleaning the last of the blood from his sword. He oiled the rag and took to rubbing it into the steel by reflex; it took a moment as he acknowledged the oddity that oiling a weapon didn’t require him to think, and then the irony of thinking about it, before returning to his previous thoughts. It seemed such a curious way for things to change. Perhaps it was an ascension of some sort, and the gods had seen fit to grace him with the ability to ignore pain, and function until exhaustion or injury causes a part of himself to fail. Odd, though, that it would be him; he was not a pious man. He often wondered if anyone would come to collect him when he finally went to the fugue. It would make sense, though… if he were a sword, pain would be the grime that makes him stick when he should cut clean.
Roderick finished with the sword, then eyed the inside of the scabbard; looked dry; looked clean. He sheathed the sword and decided that looking good would do. He pushed himself off of the bench and onto his feet, the first drops of coming rain hitting his forehead. A lingering thought pulled at him, asking if he had become so ill-maintained that he had somehow broken pain and numbness. He didn’t linger on that thought; he had a puzzle to mull over and plans to redraw; that would have to take priority.
He ran his thumb over the edge of his sword, lightly. Still razor sharp; magic had a way of ruining his maintenance time. It used to be that he would have a little time to think every day, while he maintained his things; that time had been reduced to feeding and grooming Oleander. A shame, that. Mercy was such a good horse: quiet, obedient, but still strong, durable. She was the picture of stoicism that he could never be. Oleander was fiery. Strong, yes; obedient, mostly; he was the picture of the brute Roderick was becoming.
Or… perhaps? No, couldn’t be. Roderick shook his head and turned his attention back to his sword. The false edge was still in good shape; the whole thing just needed a bit of cleaning. He took his rag to the blade, carefully rubbing at the last bits of blood on the blade; it wasn’t bad, just the bits that didn’t shake off before he sheathed it. It was important to keep it clean, and to keep a good polish. He told himself that, at least. It never really was clear how much the magic took care of. With a normal sword, a better polish meant the sword was less likely to stick mid cut; it saved his life at least once.
That was how this maintenance time started. Though, eyeing the sword, he began to wonder how far such maintenance was supposed to extend. He hadn’t been taking very good care of himself; he probably aught to have a warm bath and a shave. Perhaps a good night’s sleep, a full night’s sleep. That would assume that he was any good at sleeping alone these days. Funny, though, that the loneliness didn’t hurt. It made him restless, to be sure… but he would lay awake when he had company, too; he just wouldn’t move until that company woke. It was comfortable, restful.
Though, the lack of pain had become unsettling. It came physically, too. After the yugoloths at the Springs, the battle numbness lasted a day. After the Red Plumes in Essembra, it lasted nearly three. After the mercenaries, it was near a tenday. It had never gotten longer before: a few hours of freedom, and then the bitter reminder that something had been trying to kill him. The latest caused worry enough to test it, and he would be wearing long sleeves until that healed.
"Pain is illusion, anyway," he told himself, cleaning the last of the blood from his sword. He oiled the rag and took to rubbing it into the steel by reflex; it took a moment as he acknowledged the oddity that oiling a weapon didn’t require him to think, and then the irony of thinking about it, before returning to his previous thoughts. It seemed such a curious way for things to change. Perhaps it was an ascension of some sort, and the gods had seen fit to grace him with the ability to ignore pain, and function until exhaustion or injury causes a part of himself to fail. Odd, though, that it would be him; he was not a pious man. He often wondered if anyone would come to collect him when he finally went to the fugue. It would make sense, though… if he were a sword, pain would be the grime that makes him stick when he should cut clean.
Roderick finished with the sword, then eyed the inside of the scabbard; looked dry; looked clean. He sheathed the sword and decided that looking good would do. He pushed himself off of the bench and onto his feet, the first drops of coming rain hitting his forehead. A lingering thought pulled at him, asking if he had become so ill-maintained that he had somehow broken pain and numbness. He didn’t linger on that thought; he had a puzzle to mull over and plans to redraw; that would have to take priority.
Journal wrote:7 Tarsakh, 1375
I appear to have been blessed with time for contemplation and a break in the weather at the same time. One of my few blessings of late.
I sit here, somewhere in the Ride. I think the Citadel of the Raven is some twenty miles south and west of here. It is a struggle to keep my mind on the needed tasks, and confusing as to why I am here. The half-elf wizard seemed to think that a guide would be needed, but they do not seem to care. Yes, I can name five cities sacked and razed by the peoples and creatures in this land, but they are at best unconcerned. I wonder if I am not entertainment to them; a sort of fascination with my ineptitude, just as one might insist that a newborn foal is adorable in its awkwardness while it learns to walk. Such attention is fickle at best, left with commentary that it is still cute and interesting, but unaccompanied by the desire to even look at the creature. Twice now the latter has happened to me; I am told that there is love, but that I can not have any. Somehow, this statement is supposed to not be cruel. The fact that there supposedly is affection that, if shown, could give all of the comfort I ask for, but it must not be shown.
Be patient, they say. I am not so foolish; both hoped that I would leave. I shall hope that this one is not injured by it.
Something has changed about me for this, though. Right now, I sit beside a Lady Starym. I am sure she said her first name, but no one calls her by it, so it has slipped my mind. The task is familiar – make sure the noble lady gets where she is going and that she does not die – and, as luck would have it, she promptly fell ill. But as she did, I offered an arm for support. That is normal; that is my duty. She took it – that is not normal – and none of her real guards tried to take my place – that is not normal. She is not disturbed or unsettled by my presence, nor is the young Lady Miritar, and I am unsure why.
I am told that I am attractive; I do not see it, but my opinion is not the relevant one there. Perhaps that mitigates my position. Such seems an incomplete picture. Perhaps I seem more a picture of the cliché knight in shining armor now, in a red cape and brightly polished steel. Such seems silly – these are strong women; they do not need a man on a white horse to ride in and whisk them off to safety. I do hear of talk of aura – or something of the sort – that some can read. Perhaps mine says that I care. That is not normal, either. Delawyn tried to give words of consolation for it, too. The notion of caring, and being trusted to care, seems to be something that he does not think deserves consolation, though he felt the need to attempt. Quite odd; I am merely confused. I can survive being told that progress will mean that I will be expected to care more, and be cared about less. I only wish to know why, and I can answer only with theory, and I suspect that someone knows the facts.
Roderick and Delawyn walked silently down the paved river bank, eyes scanning the ships and the wharves. They were looking for a prison - allies had been put there, it seemed. There were a couple glances and a few short words. They were of little importance, as they found what Luskan called a "prison" there.
It had walls and gates, to be sure, but it was more a pit than a prison. Sand covered the majority of the bottom, save for bits near its edges where movement had exposed the stonework beneath; there were bits of equipment with little hills of sand against their bases inside. Some were meant to crucify, some were meant to flay, some were meant to dismember. The most imposing was a decapitation machine.
That was where their goals sat - or huddled, more accurately. Their hands and feet were tied together in front of them, a dirty rag to cover each pair of eyes. They'd been given mantles and ropes to keep themselves decent. They might have been robes if the maker had tried a little harder to produce sleeves. Perhaps he did, and the seams had simply opened from "use." The wide red stains with grains of sand clinging tightly on stood as testament to the garments' hard lives, and possibly to the fates of their previous wearers.
Delawyn was keeping his composure, mostly. Perhaps he could not identify all of the objects in the pit. Perhaps the event caught him on a good day.
Roderick approached the front gate. Stupid, he knew. Shined gold-tinted plate armor and a bright red cape, in the company of an elf in polished silver-tinted plate and a bright blue cape. He was sure they were both a sight. The guard didn't ask for papers to greet them; he was already doing better than at the gates.
"Good evening."
The answer was a cold stare.
"I was wondering if these ones were for sale yet."
"Depends on who's buyin'."
"I am." A sad dodge. Perhaps it would be enough. He paused his speech a moment, mind flicking through a thousand images of slave owners from a thousand stories. One would have to do- he couldn't look too respectable. Why make slaves of prisoners if you think one just wishes to buy freedom? Profit? Maybe, but no order.
There were some that were licentious; that would have to do. "I would like to buy the pretty ones." He licked his lips, mind drifting the route of his facade. He might have shared some nights with Isiola if she were interested. Ridiculous notion - the elves didn't care about him any more than they care about a cat. Pleasant company, might dangle a bit of yarn to entertain him or even pet and praise. Never more than that.
"Let me see your papers."
It seemed his sad bluff would not be enough; they probably expected him to show some kind of slave-holding rank. Roderick mumbled something to the affirmative, looking away and starting to push his way through his pack, making a bit of a show of the search and then repeating it.
"Of all the days to leave them at home."
"Then git outta here!" Roderick restrained a wince. That wouldn't be an option, but he didn't want to kill them.
"It's very late, and it's a long walk back home to get them. I don't suppose you could make an exception this time?" He knew the answer was no; the guard communicated as much immediately. The guards are never corrupt or lazy when it would be convenient.
Roderick turned to leave, and Delawyn began his permanent plan B: ironic statements about vast sums of money. It must have worked with some, it almost did with these ones, but his sum was too large. It must have smelled like a hoax. Offer two hundred, or double the price of the slaves. Seems a "magic shield ring" earned the answer that they had special orders not to sell the three they wanted.
The two of them fell back, and discussed plans. Distractions, teleportation, violence, fleeing. The usual thoughts. This time, it would be distraction, and after Delawyn's prayers and Roderick's hushed conversation with the only quasi-mobile prisoner, they were ready.
Delawyn cast a number of spells, they mixed with the ones Lady Starym had put on him before they left. So many spells that he could probably fly and debate philosophy with clouds if he wanted to. It was prudent, though; if their plan went poorly, he would likely have to fell somewhere between a dozen and a score of men.
The plan seemed to start well enough. The last thing he could hear Delawyn say was "Let's try this again!" The guards didn't like that, but he had their attention. Roderick tossed the dagger down to the mobile prisoner, and then retreated to a bit of cover. He peeked out subtly, watching the guards watch Delawyn, and listening to the sound of cutting ropes.
Delawyn's sword was out, but not in a combative stance. The familiar lashes of red energy danced from the blade, picking at curious guards' fingers, then the unnamed one came into view, he was freeing Isiola. A pair of cuts, then she started crawling toward Roderick. He stepped forward and let down a rope, suspicious eyes going to the guards before focusing on pulling her up. Their hands met near the top and he pulled her to her feet, passing his mace to her. The kobold killer.
"To the sewers. Wait by the ladder" He spoke softly, a reflexive use of the elven tongue. He retreated to cover and glanced over as she ran for the manhole; yes, fun. If only he meant anything to these ones.
Elvith was next, pulled up in a similar fashion, equipped with a crossbow, and then Rarerion, but Roderick was out of weapons by then. It occurred to him for a moment that he was in a scene that he would see in paintings; scenes painted from bards' tales. The faintest bits of moonlight that could press through the clouds giving soft reflections off of polished golden armor, complemented by the torches flickering their mark of lighting on the surroundings; a long red cape flowing down his back in bright creases, wet and weighted as his curly red hair, some parts sticking to his cheek, some parts swaying in the wind. His long, armored arm reaching down to grab onto a beaten and crusty slave to pull him out of bondage, out of servitude.
How heroic.
The last one up was the anonymous assistant; he deserved to be saved, too. That was even the promise. He pulled the man up half of the way before he lost his footing, hitting his head severely on the side of the wall.
Roderick didn't look to see if the guards saw; it was loud enough that he knew he was screwed. He and Rarerion hauled the man up quickly, thankful that he had the good sense to have the rope around his waist. Roderick put the man over his shoulder and they jogged to the manhole, dropping in with very little grace.
There were sounds above, but not sounds of violence. It sounded like Delawyn was escaping, and making life difficult on those guards, until his voice came into the sewer tunnel, without any connection to a body.
"Go!"
Seemed a logical enough order. They marched through the tunnels with few other words, Roderick at point. He'd scouted the sewers before -- horrible smell, horrible look. It stuck in his clothes, in his hair, burned his eyes, made his head light. There was something about curious tunnels under a city, especially curious tunnels that could be used for a heroic escape, that was just too alluring to not explore, even if he had to trod in steaming wet piles of shit to explore it.
Less heroic, but that was truth.
He lead them to safety, away from the guards, out of the city. The little mechanical contraption that unlatched the last door was entirely too fascinating. Probably fortunate for everyone that he'd already studied and restudied its curiosity. They agreed to go separate ways; Roderick was to fetch Lady Starym and Missus Eiravel. Beleg and Laurelin, too, if he could find them; they were in less of a need of being brought with in person. If they knew everyone was moving, they would be able to get to the new place easily enough.
They didn't just steal four people from a prison, either. Would probably make travel easier on them.
By the time Roderick had puzzled this all out, he was already halfway to the inn where the ladies were staying, in a nook shielded quite nicely from everyone's view. He shook his head and started pulling bits of armor off, waving each piece through the rain with some haste, as if the gesture would remove the sewer stink. The arming doublet came off next, smooth and pasty Dales skin did not agree with the cold; sadly, the trouble with a "pretty" absence of humanly fur meant a sharp reminder of fur's use in such circumstances.
He pulled himself into normal clothing quickly. Normal for him, at least. Black wool trousers, a linen slop, and a red wool jacket. It was already soaked, but wet wool was still warm, and soon his armor was all securely tied together and to his bags and he was on his way toward the inn, over the wall with speed and grace, then creeping past the one guard, tripping the lock on the back door, through the kitchen, and finally back through the common room with a bottle in hand. He probably looked a lush; that would be to his benefit.
Roderick finally made it to Lady Starym, pacing upstairs. She saw him and shouted his name quite excitedly before running to him. His reflex was to bow; she said she didn't care about rank, but he did and she didn't seem the sort to order him not to. The bow made her stop short -- a curiosity.
Was she happy to see him? It looked like she was going to give a charging hug.
Only one other had given him one of those, though another would have if she'd had the distance to build speed. His thoughts drifted momentarily to what would happen if he pursued; fortunately, she wished to know how her guards were doing, and how Delawyn was doing, before his thoughts drifted though the scenario to the part where it fails.
He detailed the information, he jested about the almost hug, and looked a fool for the comment. A shame, but he could soak in the futile thought for the time being; it was a pleasant change of pace.
After all, what hero doesn't have a dainty princess to protect, serve, and save?
And when do those tales end without the hero and the princess together, if only for a night?
He'd just have to hope he wasn't a sidekick; they always die alone.
And he’d have to hope he wasn’t a pet; they fade from the story once they’re no longer convenient.
It had walls and gates, to be sure, but it was more a pit than a prison. Sand covered the majority of the bottom, save for bits near its edges where movement had exposed the stonework beneath; there were bits of equipment with little hills of sand against their bases inside. Some were meant to crucify, some were meant to flay, some were meant to dismember. The most imposing was a decapitation machine.
That was where their goals sat - or huddled, more accurately. Their hands and feet were tied together in front of them, a dirty rag to cover each pair of eyes. They'd been given mantles and ropes to keep themselves decent. They might have been robes if the maker had tried a little harder to produce sleeves. Perhaps he did, and the seams had simply opened from "use." The wide red stains with grains of sand clinging tightly on stood as testament to the garments' hard lives, and possibly to the fates of their previous wearers.
Delawyn was keeping his composure, mostly. Perhaps he could not identify all of the objects in the pit. Perhaps the event caught him on a good day.
Roderick approached the front gate. Stupid, he knew. Shined gold-tinted plate armor and a bright red cape, in the company of an elf in polished silver-tinted plate and a bright blue cape. He was sure they were both a sight. The guard didn't ask for papers to greet them; he was already doing better than at the gates.
"Good evening."
The answer was a cold stare.
"I was wondering if these ones were for sale yet."
"Depends on who's buyin'."
"I am." A sad dodge. Perhaps it would be enough. He paused his speech a moment, mind flicking through a thousand images of slave owners from a thousand stories. One would have to do- he couldn't look too respectable. Why make slaves of prisoners if you think one just wishes to buy freedom? Profit? Maybe, but no order.
There were some that were licentious; that would have to do. "I would like to buy the pretty ones." He licked his lips, mind drifting the route of his facade. He might have shared some nights with Isiola if she were interested. Ridiculous notion - the elves didn't care about him any more than they care about a cat. Pleasant company, might dangle a bit of yarn to entertain him or even pet and praise. Never more than that.
"Let me see your papers."
It seemed his sad bluff would not be enough; they probably expected him to show some kind of slave-holding rank. Roderick mumbled something to the affirmative, looking away and starting to push his way through his pack, making a bit of a show of the search and then repeating it.
"Of all the days to leave them at home."
"Then git outta here!" Roderick restrained a wince. That wouldn't be an option, but he didn't want to kill them.
"It's very late, and it's a long walk back home to get them. I don't suppose you could make an exception this time?" He knew the answer was no; the guard communicated as much immediately. The guards are never corrupt or lazy when it would be convenient.
Roderick turned to leave, and Delawyn began his permanent plan B: ironic statements about vast sums of money. It must have worked with some, it almost did with these ones, but his sum was too large. It must have smelled like a hoax. Offer two hundred, or double the price of the slaves. Seems a "magic shield ring" earned the answer that they had special orders not to sell the three they wanted.
The two of them fell back, and discussed plans. Distractions, teleportation, violence, fleeing. The usual thoughts. This time, it would be distraction, and after Delawyn's prayers and Roderick's hushed conversation with the only quasi-mobile prisoner, they were ready.
Delawyn cast a number of spells, they mixed with the ones Lady Starym had put on him before they left. So many spells that he could probably fly and debate philosophy with clouds if he wanted to. It was prudent, though; if their plan went poorly, he would likely have to fell somewhere between a dozen and a score of men.
The plan seemed to start well enough. The last thing he could hear Delawyn say was "Let's try this again!" The guards didn't like that, but he had their attention. Roderick tossed the dagger down to the mobile prisoner, and then retreated to a bit of cover. He peeked out subtly, watching the guards watch Delawyn, and listening to the sound of cutting ropes.
Delawyn's sword was out, but not in a combative stance. The familiar lashes of red energy danced from the blade, picking at curious guards' fingers, then the unnamed one came into view, he was freeing Isiola. A pair of cuts, then she started crawling toward Roderick. He stepped forward and let down a rope, suspicious eyes going to the guards before focusing on pulling her up. Their hands met near the top and he pulled her to her feet, passing his mace to her. The kobold killer.
"To the sewers. Wait by the ladder" He spoke softly, a reflexive use of the elven tongue. He retreated to cover and glanced over as she ran for the manhole; yes, fun. If only he meant anything to these ones.
Elvith was next, pulled up in a similar fashion, equipped with a crossbow, and then Rarerion, but Roderick was out of weapons by then. It occurred to him for a moment that he was in a scene that he would see in paintings; scenes painted from bards' tales. The faintest bits of moonlight that could press through the clouds giving soft reflections off of polished golden armor, complemented by the torches flickering their mark of lighting on the surroundings; a long red cape flowing down his back in bright creases, wet and weighted as his curly red hair, some parts sticking to his cheek, some parts swaying in the wind. His long, armored arm reaching down to grab onto a beaten and crusty slave to pull him out of bondage, out of servitude.
How heroic.
The last one up was the anonymous assistant; he deserved to be saved, too. That was even the promise. He pulled the man up half of the way before he lost his footing, hitting his head severely on the side of the wall.
Roderick didn't look to see if the guards saw; it was loud enough that he knew he was screwed. He and Rarerion hauled the man up quickly, thankful that he had the good sense to have the rope around his waist. Roderick put the man over his shoulder and they jogged to the manhole, dropping in with very little grace.
There were sounds above, but not sounds of violence. It sounded like Delawyn was escaping, and making life difficult on those guards, until his voice came into the sewer tunnel, without any connection to a body.
"Go!"
Seemed a logical enough order. They marched through the tunnels with few other words, Roderick at point. He'd scouted the sewers before -- horrible smell, horrible look. It stuck in his clothes, in his hair, burned his eyes, made his head light. There was something about curious tunnels under a city, especially curious tunnels that could be used for a heroic escape, that was just too alluring to not explore, even if he had to trod in steaming wet piles of shit to explore it.
Less heroic, but that was truth.
He lead them to safety, away from the guards, out of the city. The little mechanical contraption that unlatched the last door was entirely too fascinating. Probably fortunate for everyone that he'd already studied and restudied its curiosity. They agreed to go separate ways; Roderick was to fetch Lady Starym and Missus Eiravel. Beleg and Laurelin, too, if he could find them; they were in less of a need of being brought with in person. If they knew everyone was moving, they would be able to get to the new place easily enough.
They didn't just steal four people from a prison, either. Would probably make travel easier on them.
By the time Roderick had puzzled this all out, he was already halfway to the inn where the ladies were staying, in a nook shielded quite nicely from everyone's view. He shook his head and started pulling bits of armor off, waving each piece through the rain with some haste, as if the gesture would remove the sewer stink. The arming doublet came off next, smooth and pasty Dales skin did not agree with the cold; sadly, the trouble with a "pretty" absence of humanly fur meant a sharp reminder of fur's use in such circumstances.
He pulled himself into normal clothing quickly. Normal for him, at least. Black wool trousers, a linen slop, and a red wool jacket. It was already soaked, but wet wool was still warm, and soon his armor was all securely tied together and to his bags and he was on his way toward the inn, over the wall with speed and grace, then creeping past the one guard, tripping the lock on the back door, through the kitchen, and finally back through the common room with a bottle in hand. He probably looked a lush; that would be to his benefit.
Roderick finally made it to Lady Starym, pacing upstairs. She saw him and shouted his name quite excitedly before running to him. His reflex was to bow; she said she didn't care about rank, but he did and she didn't seem the sort to order him not to. The bow made her stop short -- a curiosity.
Was she happy to see him? It looked like she was going to give a charging hug.
Only one other had given him one of those, though another would have if she'd had the distance to build speed. His thoughts drifted momentarily to what would happen if he pursued; fortunately, she wished to know how her guards were doing, and how Delawyn was doing, before his thoughts drifted though the scenario to the part where it fails.
He detailed the information, he jested about the almost hug, and looked a fool for the comment. A shame, but he could soak in the futile thought for the time being; it was a pleasant change of pace.
After all, what hero doesn't have a dainty princess to protect, serve, and save?
And when do those tales end without the hero and the princess together, if only for a night?
He'd just have to hope he wasn't a sidekick; they always die alone.
And he’d have to hope he wasn’t a pet; they fade from the story once they’re no longer convenient.
Roderick rushed down the stairs of the ship, shield and arming sword at the ready in an archer stance. Adellie had just screamed down here and he responded.
Responded so very quickly because...
No, no time for that. He turned the corner to a broken door, and then everything went black. He tilted his shield, immediately -- a blessing and a mistake at once. The tip touched a thigh, too short to be Adellie. He struck -- armpit, a satisfying splash on the wooden floors informed him of that. He was struck back -- armpit and throat. A longer, louder splash, much less satisfying when he was the source.
He staggered back, looking for an end to the blackness. Two more sets of feet ran by him, one clanking and one rattling, while he fished about for potions. Needed strong ones. He drank the first, bottle clanking to the ground while he fished for another, and another, and then waded back in, listening for the chaos. Again, he let his shield find his way for him and was struck, again he struck back, less accurately the first time, then solidly the second time, but an arrow from... somewhere... had finished the job for him already.
The others started talking. He wasn't paying attention, at least not paying too much attention. The first one had claws, the one he killed struck him with a sword.
Someone mentioned the Lady.
Shit, she was the target.
"Up top!" He expected that the others to follow him as he ran up the stairs. One of them did, Beleg.
Paranoid son of a bitch probably thought he was going to run Lady Starym through himself.
He felt his way for the door's handle quickly and threw open the door, stepping out of the magical darkness. The light made him wince, but there was the Lady, looking quite healthy.
And then a shadow caught the corner of his eye, moving toward her.
He might've uttered a swear, but the Lady was right there. He stepped in the way, thrust a the shadow's source, and he pierced daemonfey flesh, ribs -- must've been unpleasant.
The daemonfey tried to run by, to take its target quickly; stupid move, and it earned a strike to the armpit; the daemonfey's claw bounced from the Lady's wards, but the stroke left her surprised and eerily still, somehow. Another satisfying splash his the deck as the daemonfey tried to run, leaving himself available for a cut to the hamstring.
Not deep enough to stop it, sadly, but enough to make it beat its wings. It tried to run for the bow, but met arbalesters, another blow from Roderick, and the first from Beleg. It pivoted and scampered by, nearly on death's door, for the stern. The wings were a help up the stairs, and it started becoming clear that this one would get away.
And then the daemonfey jumped, air barely holding it up as its wings started beating in earnest. Roderick couldn't see its expression, but he knew it was yearning for escape.
Roderick fumbled, dropping his sword and pulling a wand from his cloak, pointing it and concentrating. A bolt of lightning reached out from it, striking the daemonfey's back.
It swayed and drooped a bit, but recovered.
Roderick swore and tried again, lightning reaching out and striking the air behind it -- not quite enough.
Another swear, and this time it would be a crossbow; a long shot, but he could try. He loaded it with practiced hands - quietly glad that he had trained so hard at just that - and stacked an envenomed bolt on the shelf, taking careful aim. It was a long shot, but he squeezed the trigger and the bolt sailed.
But the daemonfey swayed, and the bolt struck water. Roderick sighed and retrieved his sword to sheathe it, looking back to the Lady on the deck.
Right, now everyone was up top.
Roderick reloaded his bow and marched sullenly below decks. There were probably traps to take apart.
Responded so very quickly because...
No, no time for that. He turned the corner to a broken door, and then everything went black. He tilted his shield, immediately -- a blessing and a mistake at once. The tip touched a thigh, too short to be Adellie. He struck -- armpit, a satisfying splash on the wooden floors informed him of that. He was struck back -- armpit and throat. A longer, louder splash, much less satisfying when he was the source.
He staggered back, looking for an end to the blackness. Two more sets of feet ran by him, one clanking and one rattling, while he fished about for potions. Needed strong ones. He drank the first, bottle clanking to the ground while he fished for another, and another, and then waded back in, listening for the chaos. Again, he let his shield find his way for him and was struck, again he struck back, less accurately the first time, then solidly the second time, but an arrow from... somewhere... had finished the job for him already.
The others started talking. He wasn't paying attention, at least not paying too much attention. The first one had claws, the one he killed struck him with a sword.
Someone mentioned the Lady.
Shit, she was the target.
"Up top!" He expected that the others to follow him as he ran up the stairs. One of them did, Beleg.
Paranoid son of a bitch probably thought he was going to run Lady Starym through himself.
He felt his way for the door's handle quickly and threw open the door, stepping out of the magical darkness. The light made him wince, but there was the Lady, looking quite healthy.
And then a shadow caught the corner of his eye, moving toward her.
He might've uttered a swear, but the Lady was right there. He stepped in the way, thrust a the shadow's source, and he pierced daemonfey flesh, ribs -- must've been unpleasant.
The daemonfey tried to run by, to take its target quickly; stupid move, and it earned a strike to the armpit; the daemonfey's claw bounced from the Lady's wards, but the stroke left her surprised and eerily still, somehow. Another satisfying splash his the deck as the daemonfey tried to run, leaving himself available for a cut to the hamstring.
Not deep enough to stop it, sadly, but enough to make it beat its wings. It tried to run for the bow, but met arbalesters, another blow from Roderick, and the first from Beleg. It pivoted and scampered by, nearly on death's door, for the stern. The wings were a help up the stairs, and it started becoming clear that this one would get away.
And then the daemonfey jumped, air barely holding it up as its wings started beating in earnest. Roderick couldn't see its expression, but he knew it was yearning for escape.
Roderick fumbled, dropping his sword and pulling a wand from his cloak, pointing it and concentrating. A bolt of lightning reached out from it, striking the daemonfey's back.
It swayed and drooped a bit, but recovered.
Roderick swore and tried again, lightning reaching out and striking the air behind it -- not quite enough.
Another swear, and this time it would be a crossbow; a long shot, but he could try. He loaded it with practiced hands - quietly glad that he had trained so hard at just that - and stacked an envenomed bolt on the shelf, taking careful aim. It was a long shot, but he squeezed the trigger and the bolt sailed.
But the daemonfey swayed, and the bolt struck water. Roderick sighed and retrieved his sword to sheathe it, looking back to the Lady on the deck.
Right, now everyone was up top.
Roderick reloaded his bow and marched sullenly below decks. There were probably traps to take apart.
Journal wrote:4 Mirtul, 1375
- "Roderick, you have shown me the true strength of the human race. You
have guided me, protected me, and watched over me ... Do not think that
I had not noticed. I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, and wish
there was some way I could have repaid your generosity and caring. Do
not dwell on the sorrow for what has happened, Roderick. Live on. Protect
your family, your friends, and your home. Do what you have always done
- find light in the darkest of circumstances. Please. For me. I leave you
with this ring - May you carry its memory forth."
I had to write the words down before I forgot them. Lady Starym - I dare call her by her first name after her words - Isania left these words for me. The ring I wear on a bit of leather around my neck as I write this; I wager it will stay there until I can fashion a chain to put it on; the jewellers do not stop in these Dales these days. It is a signet, made from gold, with the mark of House Starym carved into the surface.
I am not sure what to think of it.
Lady Starym did not die, as she suspected she would when she penned this, but the health of her body is meaningless, as the incomplete spell robbed the body of its spirit, and so I am crushed.
Somehow, I am still full of an irrational hope. This time, I even recognize it as irrational. A soul must be freed from four gems, and even handling any one of them could unmake me. We've three scholars privy to the situation. One risks as I would; one admits his lack of expertise; and one is unreliable and shows poor judgment on his best days.
And I still tell myself that it will be alright, that we will separate soul from gem, and the act will not kill Isania. I wonder if I am just a fool, or if I am doing as she said, "finding the light in the darkest of circumstances."
I also find the circumstance curious. Isania is the third woman whose safety I have begged Sune for, despite all probabilities, and she is the third woman to live. Sansa was not put to a Cyricist's sword; Laurelin was not bled dry by spiders; Isania's spell, though it was designed to kill her, merely has her sleeping and imprisoned. It is not wholesome, but it is not death. However, with the third prayer comes the third offering, and I cannot go any longer without writing my sorrow. Sansa will never see her drawings; Laurelin will never have her sonnets read to her; Isania will never hear her song; I created each with naught but hope and affection in my mind.
Perhaps I am wrong to wish for so much. Life is obviously more valuable, but I do not think myself unreasonable to wish I could preserve both.
26 Mirtul, 1375
1 tiny beholderkin slain, killed by crossbow bolt
45 Daemonfey Soldiers slain4 Daemonfey Officers slain
- 1 by concussive magic
19 by bleeding
2 by decapitation
6 by head wounding
7 by strike to heart
10 by strike to liverIt has been a long time since I've recorded my kills like this. Since times when we brought the all the farmers inside the freehold's walls and lock the gates at night, because the drow would just walk into their houses. I still have those numbers -- most of them only contained record of assists, or perhaps single foes that I'd dealt the final blow to. This time, the numbers are large enough that I lost track for a moment... I had to retrace my steps after the battle and look at bodies to see what I had done. Fifty that I can remember. Four wore officer's colors; all slender, all almond eyes, all high cheek bones; black wings instead of black skin, but the eyes - bright red. That is the same.
- 1 killed by crossbow bolt through the eye
1 killed by dismemberment
1 killed by bleeding
1 killed by concussive magic
Here, though, is the question I find myself asking: did this make a difference, truly? What use was I? The demons were the only ones strong enough to break units, and Delawyn killed all of them. The elves and the ravens together certainly outnumbered the daemonfey, and the walls were hardly worth calling a defensive position. The demons, in their infinite wisdom, didn't see fit to mend the massive breeches in the walls. The city would have been ours in any case. All I've done is earned just enough notoriety for Lady Miritar to ask me to forsake another of my dreams.
And once again, the villain is slain, and once again I do not ride off to live out my days happily, and once again I was fool enough to hope it would be an option.
And now I lay, about to rest, and I am not sure if I wish to wake tomorrow.
A silly thought, to be sure; I haven't a choice in the matter.