Ariston, a medieval & feudalistic continent plagued by the power struggles of 4 large kingdoms(and two small island nations), tensions are higher than ever before as the nations of Lindengaffe, Salanu, and Hoodlenbourg lay claim to the Iron Mountains that border each of the nations who lay claim. The nation of Odenworf prepares to intervene as always, ready to jump at the slightest opportunity with their immense military might. At this troublesome time, with threat of yet another war to ruin the grand Ariston again, what will your character do in this Lifetime of War? A master of thievery, famous mercenary, legendary warrior, a Baron ruling with an Iron Fist, or a simple peasant inconveniently thrown into the harsh problems of Ariston? Many paths and opportunities now lie in front of you, and you have the power to change the course of history in Ariston.
Good luck, traveler. Ariston is an absolute hellhole nowadays.
Please create a post introducing your character,. Of course, message me if you have any questions/problems/etc.
Sabaton - Lifetime of War [image: imageshack.com]There are also many villages and towns scattered throughout the world, they weren't important enough to be put on the map, feel free to add on names of villages and such as you please, it would greatly help the RP.
DESCRIPTION OF THE KINGDOMS AND ISLAND NATIONS:
Lindengaffe(Light blue border): A northern nation mostly covered in snow, it's main source of food lies in hunting in all regions and farming in the southernmost parts of the Kingdom, where weather conditions can house some crops such as corn. Lindengaffe is known for it's hardy people and the best armor in the known world. Warriors from Lindengaffe are usually seen with heavy weapons and such heavy armor. Most of Lindengaffe is covered in hilly terrain, commonly regarded as a mostly impassable nation to those who are not used to such terrain. The capital of Lindengaffe is Snowbound, a heavily industrialized(for the era) city where the Keep(where the King resides) rests upon a mountain.
Odenworf(Orange border): Covered in large plains and forests, Odenworf is accompanied by a very bountiful growing season. Odenworf is a very militaristic nation, with an extensive government and regulated people. Despite this, the people live in relative ease, as the government is not overly harsh. Such a government comes easily to these people, as they have a culture based upon Honor and Discipline. Odenworf has been known to be aggressive towards it's neighbors with a heavy Interventionalist foreign policy should such events come up. Warriors from Odenworf are heavily adaptable to any weapon, as they are no large producer of any specific sort of weaponry. The capital of Odenworf is Millston, a heavily fortified city built next to a river.
Salanu(Red border): Covered in desert, Salanu has built itself upon farming the river that flows through its southern region. The recent discoveries of large gold deposits in the deserts of Salanu has quickly lead it to be the economic superpower, with the government profiting greatly off of taxes on such valuable minerals. Great quantities of petroleum are found along the rivers of Salanu, and the petroleum has been used in many Salanu incendiary weapons used on land and sea. The people of Salanu enjoy a relatively easy government and are commonly dark skinned(middle eastern look), with a large resilience to hot weather. The merchants of Salanu are also known to be masters of bartering and nearly all of Salanu's foreign policy lies in the profit motive. Salanu is the producer of the best swords of the known world. The capital of Salanu is Esul, a city built upon the great river of Salanu. Salanu is also a hub for mercenaries who have participated in many conflicts across the known world.
Hoodlenbourg(Green border): Hoodlenbourg is almost completely covered in forest, and is home to the best horsemen and archers in the known world. Hoodlenbourg's government is small and is followed by a culture of respect and pursuit of happiness. Hoodlenbourg and Odenworf have clashed in many political and physical battles over such difference in ideology, with Hoodlenbourg almost always at a loss of military strength. Hoodlenbourg, accompanied by the best horsemen and archers in the known world, also create the best bows and breed the best horses. The people of Hoodlenbourg are very kind, and Hoodlenbourg is a common tourist attraction due to the kind people and beautiful architecture. However, Hoodlenbourg is a common place for thieves, spies, and the like due to such a small government role.
Svitzjald(Eastern island nation, borders would be Grey): A very hardy people and harsh land, the people of Svitzjald have developed a culture similar to the Nordic Vikings, mainly raiding their fellow clans and neighbors to survive. However, they are quick to unify if another kingdom is to fight back, with Odenworf learning the hard way through their grand military defeat over the failed invasion of Svitzjald. The people of Svitzjald are excellent raiders and fighters overall, they make the best mercenaries money can buy.
Yahtzjid(Southwestern island nation, borders would be purple): Believed to be descendants of Svitzjald raiders who settled on the islands, their relative seclusion has led them to be suspicious of outsiders. They are the best seafarers in the known world, with the best ships and most skilled navy at sea. Yahtzjid is also known for it's spies, who the government uses effectively to meddle in other nation's business. The government of Yahtzjid is similar to Odenworf, but they make their presence known on the seas and back alleys instead of the battlefield.
Creating a character is simple, all I ask is that you be fairly descriptive and creative.
I also ask that your characters be similar to the attitude of the nation they are from, but it doesn't matter much on how you create them.
Reserved for things that might pop up
*The view was not so bad. From the small panes of the window one could see across Osul. Well, this neighborhood of Osul anyways. The mixed mud brick and stone houses stretched for a short way before being cut off by the city wall. Outside the wall, gentle smoke came from the fires of the brick bakers. Past that, irrigated fields and date plantations. Past even those, the horizon. On the Horizon, the much discussed Iron Mountains.
To Strange, they didn't much look like something worth fighting over. He turned away from the window to survey his small room at the Low Lantern Inn. He gave a small smile to the spartan room as he reflected to himself that men of his pay grade didn't really get to make decisions about what was worth fighting for.
Well, that wasn't entirely true, he mused internally as he poured a measure of watered down wine from a stoneware jug into a pale wooden cup. he got to pick what was worth fighting to him in the sense that he only took jobs where the pay was worth the risk of a knife in the gut. He sipped from the cup. The contents pleased him, so he had another sip. Strange reflected on the names that people of his line of work adopted. Mercenary was a scummy one. He objected to that, his services were worth more than some peasant with a cudgel in his hands and leather on his shoulders. Strange had been born to a good family back in Yahtzijd. The only problem was he was the 13th child of that family, and the 8th son. Guard was alright. Strange did not object to guard. Man-At-Arms was almost a knight, and to the uninformed Strange though he must look knightly, so that was alright.
The one he had always liked the most though was Ronin. A trader from across the sea had called him that, said it meant something like a knight with no master. Another gulp of wine passed his lips. He could afford to take it easy for a few days here in Osul. He'd been a caravan guard on a silk train across the desert when he rolled into town a few days ago. That'd been a horrible march, but it filled his pockets with silver. Silver made his world go round sure, but he was still shaking sand out of his chainmail several days later.
The wine cup was refilled, and Strange looked to his equipment. He had spread it across his bed. A chain hauberk which came to mid thigh, boots with iron caps and buckles, a pauldron for his right shoulder, and a red half cape for his left. A simple iron nasal helmet hung askew on his bed post. A long dirk sat on the bed next to a stiletto, though both of these looked slightly inadequate next to the Svitzjaldian broadsword in its plain leather scabbard. Against the bed post was a boar spear, certainly more of a stabber than a thrower, Strange.
Strange moved back to the window. It was only mid afternoon, and here he was clad only in a linen tunic, drinking wine like it was water. His face contorted as he took a slightly too large sip of wine, then returned to its normal resting position. He was one of those unfortunate souls who always looked kind of angry. His heavy black brows and the angular cheek and jawbones of his homeland made him look something like a hawk. His hair was close cut, just a sort of heavy chestnut stubble, though it was getting very heavy on his cheeks and chin, indicating he probably had not shaved in at least five or six days.
He finished his cup, and gazed down with an intense sort of look at the wet but decidedly empty cup. He had a choice to make today. He knew the lord of Osul, whatever his forsaken title might be, was looking to hire men. Everyone could smell war coming. War meant plunder and silver in his pockets. However, it also meant holding a shield as crossbow bolts fall about you and big men on horses try to drive a lance through your chest. It'd be simple enough to get another caravan job and put distance between himself and the war. Maybe go all the way to Portston and then hop on a ship home.
He hadn't been home in years. That was a thought that made him pour another cup of wine. He'd left a boy, and hadn't been back since. Now he was a man, a man who'd been gone a long time. Would his father recognize him? He'd never been a favored son to begin with. What had become of his dear older sister Freya? Died in childbirth? The pox? He feared that returning might shatter his rose tinted goggles...*
Torin looked out amongst the tavern, his battle axe gleaming in the dim light. Yet another drunken brawl had taken place, with both of the brawlers escorted out as usual, though it didn't help much. Anybody could hear the fighting outside the door.
Winterhall was a rather bleak place in these times, with the controversial Iron Mountains looming over the distant skies. The only place where voices were heard was from the marketplace, and even then, not many were there. Another wave of cold had taken Winterhall by the throat, and people were constantly on the rooftops scraping snow to prevent their ceilings from collapsing.
Even then, thieves and the like continued their foul business even if only few were there, they'd be continuously caught again and again, it was disgraceful.
Sometimes, Torin wondered if it had been the right decision to stop raiding with his Comrades back at Svitzjald, the people in these lands are just as much monsters as the berserkers from across the sea, just in more devious ways. At that, he took a deep swig of ale.
Sometimes, there were lessons that needed to be learned.
Deep within the mainland of Yahtzjid there was a fortress, a mighty collision of buttresses, battlements and towers, that had, for a long time, appeared to be uninhabited, yet now bustled with life. It was the residence of the mighty Deadman, one of the kingdom's most prominent mercenaries, who had returned to his keep after a long campaign of murder. The tendrils of his influence were felt far across Ariston, from the mighty warlords who ended up hanging from the battlements of their own lairs, to the farmers and peasants who were found deep within their own fields, strung up like scarecrows. Since his return, Deadman had made a name for himself, pillaging from the members of other nations to make the economy of his own country thrive. There was also, of course, the things that the people never saw, from the torture of political enemies to the slew of innocent women and children who had, during these pillaging parties, been taken by Deadman and his men and had been killed, along with many worse ordeals.
Now, though, Deadman lounged in his thrown, a longbow strung across his back, a sword limp at his belt. When a courier ran into his chamber, warning him of a coming bandits raid, he laughed. Standing up, he made his way to the battlements.
"M'lord, should we fire upon them?"
Deadman shook his head, ever so slightly, and brought himself to his full height. He could see the bandits approaching, runts, from the look of them, and they stopped for a moment, seeing a grand figure, clad fully in black, standing atop the keep, seemingly blotting out the sun.
Soon enough, though, they advanced once more, giving Deadman the perfect opportunity to show his prowess to his forces. He took his bow from his back and then drew, from a pouch hidden within his quiver, an arrow dipped in tar. He brought the string back and gave his captain-of-the-guard a nod. The spark of a flint and steel glinted off his sword before the tar ignited, it's blazing shape soon released from the bow. It spiralled through the air, hitting it's mark, and one of the bandits began to scream as his flesh melted away from his skull, the tar sticking to his skin and preventing relief. Deadman turned and walked into his throne room, telling the captain:
"Rally The Group of Shadows (the name for his team of assassins). Hunt these insolent fools down, find their families, and make an example of them."
The captain hurried off and Deadman sank down, his black armour glinting in the torchlight. Tensions throughout the land may be rising, but Deadman's forces had been slowly growing in number and strength, and he felt confident...
*Strange awoke the next morning, bleary eyed and sore. He'd had too much wine, and had likely gone down to the tavern portion of the Inn to get more when his jug had run dry.
He had to get out of Osul. He could feel the town seeping into him, making him soft. He couldn't become soft, not without dying the next time he went for work. So, how to get out of it? He didn't feel much like working for the lord of Osul. Dying to some ass with a crossbow in the mountains held no appeal to him. So, he fell back on what he normally did in these situations. He gathered up his possessions from their haphazard locations throughout the room and began pulling on his armor. This was a practiced action, and did not take too long. Spear in hand, he settled his room bill, and hit the dusty streets of Osul.
He wandered towards the market, occasionally leaning on his spear to let a cart full of god-knows-what roll past. When he arrived, he looked for the caravan embark. This was not hard to find. Look for a lot of carts, oxen, horses, camels, and men doing nothing in particular or looking very angry. The next move was to stand near this, and look capable. This came easily to strange, as his armor was well maintained and he was capable.
Sure enough, strange felt a poke into his arm after only ten or fifteen minutes. He turned, and a child spoke to him. *
"My master wishes to speak with you, he run that caravan." *A gesture was made at a man thin as a board standing next to an ox.
Strange did what was expected of a caravan guard. He gave the boy a grunt, and set off, boots making an impactful sound against the ground. He approach the thin man. His shirt was silk and the ox seemed to be his. That seemed convincing enough that he was a merchant. Strange spoke.
You asked for me?
*This negotiation was a dance both had play many times before.*
"I need guards for a trip to Asul. Those lands are ripe with bandits. You are here looking for work, is that right Outlander?"
*Strange nodded* For enough silver, I'll brave your deserts and see to your bandits, yes. But this is not my first guard job, so my price is not the same as a peasant with a pitchfork.
*A bag of silver was produced. Strange felt its weight. He didn't show it, but he was impressed. This merchant wanted to get out of here promptly, and was willing to fund his haste. He took the bag, and the merchant spoke approvingly, *
"Good, see my clerk to fill in the register and meet the other guards. We have ten carts, and you all will have to make a plan to keep them safe. You'll find a horse over there as well. What was your name again, Guard?"
Strange *Strange intoned. * Strange Von Kohlson.
"A Yahtzjidi name eh? A spy on a long mission I suppose?" *The merchant said with a joking smile.*
I wish boss, sometimes I really do.
Torin set out early in the morning, he had a long trek ahead to the Hilltop; a small town built upon a hill, also bordering the Iron Mountains. He was supposed to meet a merchant of sorts, who offered him a hefty sum of money to help him deliver undisclosed cargo, no questions asked. He was to be given more details when he got to he merchant and took the job.
As he set out the tavern, shouts, screams, and the like emanated from the street to his left. Worried, Torin swiftly jogged towards the origin of the noise.
He was met with a horrific sight when he emerged from the dark corridors of the street; A large mob had surrounded a few poor souls, brazenly showing Odenworf flags in the town square. They were being pelted with rocks, balls of ice, and anything small that the mob could get ahold of. The mob was slowly closing in, and guards stood idly by, watching with amusement showings obviously on their faces.
Soon, the mob had enveloped the Odenworf nationalists, and soon enough, their limp bodies had been discarded to the side of the street, mutilated beyond belief
Bloody monsters, no better than the people they hate. Torin thought to himself, he was mortified by the actions of these people, and quickly made his exit to the countryside. Only looking back once before trudging on into the snow.
It'll all come back for them one day, and they'll regret every horrible thing they've done.
"Have we heard yet from any of our spying parties? I want to know if there's anyone, or anything, that I should be worried about."
"Only one thing, my liege."
"Go on."
"A group of Odenworf nationalists, parading their own patriotism, beaten to death on the mainlands, near the mountains."
"Interesting. It seems the situation on the mainland becomes more strenuous with every day. Are we in a position to make a move yet?"
"Not quite, m'lord, our forces are still building strength. Remember, sir, our men are mercenaries and assassins, not brawlers."
"But training is going well?"
"Yes. And, m'lord, the plans are complete. The first prototypes of the new weapons are complete. And they work."
"Good. Very good. What was it you had said about... I can never remember what we called it."
"We don't have a name yet, my liege, but it can launch 90kg projectiles over 300m."
"I am pleased, Hadrian. You could see a promotion if you keep this up. More land. Better pay. That girl you've had your eye on. The one from the tavern."
"Well... Thank you, sir."
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Hadrian. I said you could, not would. Now, the boats. Are the crews ready to mobilise?"
"Yes. The defences around the island are also being built up, and the blockades are nearly complete."
"Perfect. Hadrian, you are dismissed. Tell Ulric to send one of the captives from his last raiding party in, the redhead seemed feisty."
"Of course."
Hadrian scurried off. His master, Deadman, was strange, it seemed. His methods for peacekeeping were unconventional, but effective. He treated the people of his own land well, but was merciless against foreigners. He was a tyrant, an aristocrat, a warrior, a leader and a kind man all in one. It made him unpredictable. And that made him dangerous.
Since Deadman had arrived, the people of Yahtzjid had seen their government killed, though not everyone agreed that that was necessarily a bad thing. They had seen their wealth and their security prosper, but the number of executions had grown equally. While the islanders, the peasants and the workers, the common man, had lived in relative happiness, the foreigners had seen persecution, and the lawbreakers had looked into the eyes of death. Though some confused that sight with Deadman's mask.
It seemed the rest of the continent was unaware of the shift in power on Yahtzjid, too busy wrapped up in their own political turmoil, no doubt, but the tendrils of suspicion were creeping into the minds and hearts of the other nation's leaders.
Deadman slumped in his throne, having already given his scribe orders to note what Hadrian had told him, and had spoken with the leaders of his various military forces, telling them to invite the men to Deadman's own banqueting hall, a little away from his keep, to feast and be merry. Morale had to be kept high, especially with the rather grim situation with the bandits.
As he sat, he thought about his nation, how he cared for the people encapsulated within it as he cared for his own kin. He still wished for a bride, and a son, to share his vision with, but for now he would simply secure Yahtzjid's future himself.
As he took off his cloak and his armour, and made his way to the bath, he removed his mask, setting it on it's pedestal, and looked in the mirror, before turning away, wondering if he would ever be able to look at himself without remembering... The incident. As the redhead walked in, scared and shaking like a doe, Deadman began to contemplate what lay ahead for him and his people. Soon, however, he was distracted by the sight of his guest, and all of those thoughts were dissipated.
The sun set over Yahtzjid with the sound of merriment from the banquet hall, the crashing of waves against the see, and the noises of construction...
*The sun beat down. The sands of Salanu were not forgiving to pale foreigners like Strange. The caravan plodded ever southwards, and his horse went along, knowing as strange did that the only water they would get was on one of those carts. He was riding along the right side of the second cart which was hauling aqua regis in large ceramic jugs. Strange knew it to be a burning, acrid fluid used in the gold mines. He knew it was worth a great deal, but not something that people were likely to steal. That would probably be the cart behind him, which was filled with silks.
He braced his spear against his knee, and pulled his water skin from his side. A small sip passed his lips. He returned it to his side, and popped a date into his mouth to suck on more than actually eat. It helped a great deal with the thirst.
Strange then heard a thunk, followed by a tinkling noise. He looked over, and saw aqua regis flowing freely out of the cart and onto the sand. Smoking, twisting, and dissolving the cart began to buckle, as did a long arrow which had shattered a jar. Strange allowed instinct to take over, and he shouted at the top of his breath as he threw himself from his horse. *
To arms! To arms! We are under attack! *He bellowed are arrows whipped through the space he had occupied, and several thunked into his horse with a sickening noise. The poor beast let our a cry and heeled over as the desert came alive. Somewhat stunned by the fall, it took strange a minute to hoist himself to his feet. A ragged band of deserters armed with stolen weapons and nomads with their sharp scimitars surrounded the caravan and clashed with the guards. As soon as strange was up, he found himself dodging the thrust of a spear, and countering with his own. He missed with the point, but did not miss with the shaft when he followed through, clocking the man in the side of the head and driving him to the ground. As soon as this was over there was another, and another.
No one can fight forever. Strange was good with a spear and better with a sword. But armor is heavy, and nomads are fierce. The caravan never really stood a chance at all. It was overwhelmed by a large number of men who were frankly very good at raiding caravans. Eventually, it was just strange and a few other guards and drivers, backs against each other, surrounded by nomads. This fight continued, but slowly men fell. Eventually it was just Strange. Spear long lost, armor torn, sword nicked and dull, blood seeping from a dozen small cuts. He held his sword with a shaking hand and awaited the end.
But it didn't come. The nomads still had him back against a tipped cart, but no more did the press him. They could have slain him with ease, but they did not. Instead, one approached him, sabre firmly in its scabbard. He spoke to strange in a melodic voice.*
"You fight hard for a dead merchant, and suffer many wounds for his gold. Put away your sword, there is nothing left to fight over."
*Strange knew this was true. If he was about to die, continuing to fight would not change that, and not fighting may allow him to leave. He sheathed his sword, and waited for his fate to be revealed to him. *
"Some men are favored by the desert" *The nomad stated* "You are favored enough that you have felled many of our friends, and outlasted all of yours. I speak the truth, all your companions are carrion for the jackals now. "
*Strange shrugged, his faced bloodied and tired.* They weren't my friends, I signed on with them not three days ago.
"So you are a jackal then, working with dogs to feed yourself? I do not believe that. I believe you are an eagle eating with vultures, but serving something better. I can smell a purpose on you eagle. Do you know what it is? "
*Strange wanted to quip, but he was too afraid and exhausted, so he merely shook his head.*
"It is in your heart, even if it isn't in your head, Eagle. Know me, I am the Sun in the Desert, lord of all dunes. I believe that you have a purpose, but you will have to find yourself to find it. I also believe we will meet again someday. "
*The caravan had been looted now. The goods were being carried away out into the intractable desert. The Sun in the Desert looked to the bedraggled want-to-be-knight, and spoke again. *
"Fly south eagle. The river is not too far. You will discover if the desert truly favors you in the line between life and death. "
*And with that, strange shortly found himself alone, only the sounds of wind and his own heartbeat echoing off the sand. *
It was a long and rather boring trek along the path. Torin always had his mind to accompany him, but that isn't the best of ways to accompany oneself.
As he travelled, he passed a family passing by, heading back to Snowbound. A father, mother, and young boy. It held some significance to Torn, and he thought on it for some time afterwards, and the meaning came to him.
In the harsh lands of Svitzjald, lied a village named Horönsgood. It was a relatively peaceful place, and was home to the more peaceful inhabitants of Svitzjald.
It was a fine morning, and Torin awoke early to complete his daily chores. It was nearly noon when he had finished, and he set out to find his friends.
He went down a narrow dirt path, next to the steep cliffs of Horönsgood, while trekking, he saw many large ships flying a brazen orange flag, but he paid them no mind. They were probably just more traders coming in to Horönsgood. There were always merchants passing through.
He soon found his friends in their favorite hideout; a small clearing surrounded by trees in which they would fight with sticks through the day.
However, today would be different.
Torin saw smoke arising from the tops of the trees, and told his friends he would check it out. They all promptly followed Torin to the origin of the smoke, and soon realized where it was coming from.
Horönsgood.
They took off at a dead sprint at that, coming over a hill to see nothing but fire. They all ran to town to find their parents, but all they found was destruction. Armor-clad men with large, orange emblems were running around the village, dragging children and women alike away from their homes. Torin saw his own mother dragged down to a ship, and ran to stop them, but was quickly knocked down.
On his side, Torin could make out through his own teary eyes; his father being slain by one of the invaders, his father had only been armed with a pitchfork, many other men fell after him, merely wielding farming tools to fend off the monsters.
At that, a soldier came by and picked up Torin, then threw him to the ground. Torin's world went black.
Torin never forgave those men with the orange flag, nor any man for that matter. They were all the same, and would do it again in he blink of an eye. Torin was always pleased to know that the Odenworf invasion of Svitzjald had been repelled, but the town of Horönsgood is still gone, his family too, and none of it will ever come back. Torin was never sure what happened to his friends, he hoped they found raiding bands like he had, they were the type. He also hoped they had come to the same realizations he had, but that was unlikely.
Eventually, Torin came to the Hilltop. It was a nice place, full of nice people and nice houses.
It reminded him of Horönsgood.
The man he was searching for was easy to make out, he was a foreigner to everyone there, and stood out amongst the crowd. He looked to be Salanu. Of course, he was found in the tavern.
"Greetings, Torin! I've been expecting you! And you're a damn day early! Well done, lad! Now take a seat, we have business to discuss!"
Torin grunted and joined the Salanu man at his table.
"I apologize for the informal meeting, my name is Abbas, and you're here to help me transport my goods, yes?"
The tavern keeper came by and placed two mugs of cider, accompanied by rabbit stew and a slice of bread. It was pre-paid by Abbas.
"I wouldn't be here if I was doing anything else" Torin replied.
"Straight to the point, are we? Well then, the other guards are scattered around, a bunch of pathetic souls, those are. Cheap to buy though, but that's why I have you, somebody who knows what they're doing, because it's gonna be a long way. Our destination is Hoodlow, a town nearly in the center of Hoodlenbourg. I have a client there who wants the cargo in the wagons, and no, you may not know what's in em"
Torin looked at him sternly, he didn't care what was in the wagon, nor did he even care where they were going.
"What's the pay?"
"Once again, straight to the point! I like it!"
Abbas handed him a hefty sack of coins, the biggest payout he'd ever gotten for a caravan escort.
Torin raised his eyebrow, impressed by the payment.
"I forgot to mention, this caravan was never here, and you were never escorting a caravan, alright?"
"Understood"
At that, Torin finished his meal and rented a room for the night. The caravan headed out tomorrow.
Deadman was woken by a furious banging on the door to his chamber. He stood, noticing the redhead from last night somehow continued to slumber, and donned his mask and armour. He stepped through the oak doors to the sight of the captain of The Group Of Shadows. He handed Deadman a note, the words little more than a scrawl, but still legible:
"Master Salanu,
We headed into the depths of Yahtzjid, as you told us to, but things were far more dire than we could have expected. We were no further than the outermost edge of the forest when we were fired upon by a figure, cloaked all in black, with arrows tipped with flame. Myself, Theobald and Renwald managed to flee, but we soon heard horses. I have managed to hide in a farmhouse, but I fear I will be found, so I shall try to get this letter to you. It seems Yahtzjid has fallen under a new monarchy, and I am unsure as to what we will do now. I think the figure believes us to be bandits, so you should still be safe. Take care of my family in Hilltop, and, if there is one thing I pray for now, it is that you keep our land safe."
"Interesting... Captain, send word to Rimwold, up in Lindengaffe. I want this Salanu man, or one of his associates, brought here to Yahtzjid. Tell him he may use the services of any of the other spies out on the mainland, but that I want it made very clear that I am not to be messed with. If no-one is found, tell them to burn as many villages as they must until someone comes forward. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, m'lord."
"And the writer of this letter, is he dead?"
"No, my liege, although we were forced to remove his legs, due to his efforts to escape."
"Send him to The Room. I shall be down shortly to greet him properly. Tell Grimwood to set out my chisel, hammer, screws and the coals."
"Of course."
"Very good. You are dismissed, Captain, and I do not want to see you again until someone has been found."
Deadman walked back over to his bed, planting a kiss on his new companion's cheek. She stirred momentarily, seeming confused, and glared when she saw him. She knew she had to remain compliant, for now, lest she become a problem for her captor, and kept quiet as he left the room. She heard the key turn in the door and only when she tried to stand did she notice the chains around her ankles.
Deadman descended the stone steps, eager to experiment with the physical and mental limits of a captive, feeling optimistic about the mission he had set for his men...
*It was amazing how long a day could be. Earlier this day, Strange had been on a horse, riding south. Now he was hunched over a small fire cooking horse meat. Night came swiftly in the desert. After the raid had ended, strange had picked over the field of battle. He'd found a few silver, some water, a little food, a non-descript spear, and enough silks to fashion of sort of crude toga and good to keep the sun off his skin. The day had been hotter than anything he'd ever felt, now the night was growing colder. He had been keeping to the caravan trail, so there was no shortage of dung to burn. That was small consolation now.
It seemed clear to strange that his term as a guard was over. Or at least put on hold. This time had been too close, and the Sun in the Desert bounced around inside his head. He wanted to go home, back to his family's estate in Yahtzjid. As he threw more dried dung on the fire and laid down beside it to try and rest, he reflected on the grim fact that in order to do this, he'd have to cross the remainder of the desert on foot. He was not sure of his odds of succeeding at this. *
"Freya! Hello!"
The girl started, looking around for the source of the voice. Having come to the gate to speak with Deadman, she was surprised to see his face beaming at her from behind. Mounted atop his stallion, Nightsbane, he looked imposing, his profile blocking out the sun behind and shrouding him in darkness.
Freya had known Deadman long before he established himself as ruler, as they had grown up together, before he left for the mainland with his father, only to return years later. Since he had taken over, it was a habit of Freya's to come to his keep, both to chat with her friend of old, and to ask a question she always dreaded.
"My liege... You haven't heard-"
"No. I'm sorry, Freya, but he's been gone for years. I doubt he's ever coming back."
"Is there anything you can do?"
"I put out word to taverns in every corner of Ariston. The man who finds Strange for us shall be rewarded with gold, and you with your brother. If he ever writes, or we ever hear word of him, you will know.
Now, let us not dwell on friends lost, for today is a good day!"
"Really? How so?"
"Someone I was looking for, by the name Salanu, has been found with some strangers, planning a caravan escort. It helps to have ears across the kingdoms, and as such he should soon be arriving here, along with his companions, and with them will come answers."
"Answers?"
"As to why men were sent to storm this very keep. Even better than that, however, is that I have invited the heads of all the provinces to join me for a banquet, so that I may properly introduce myself. I doubt, however, that they will all come but any alliances that can be made will be for the better. Especially with the current situation."
By this time Deadman had dismounted and led Freya through the gates with a nod from a guard. He sat her at a table and offered her a drink. As he poured into a goblet, an anguished, animal cry rang out from somewhere deep within the bowels of the castle.
"I'm sorry, my dear, but you must excuse me. I have some unresolved business to attend to. I would be honoured if you would grace me with your presence at the banquet, two days from now. Gaston will show you out, when you are ready, but feel free to peruse and borrow from my stores in the library."
He swept away and, once through the door, he sprinted into the cellar. There lay his prisoner, a mess of blood, bruises and burns, wallowing in his own filth. Ground up bits of his own limbs resided in a bowl in front of him, untouched, and he moaned.
Deadman had had his fun with the man, and had no use for him. In fact, his groaning was becoming rather tiresome. Deadman gently picked a coal from the brazier using a pair of tongs and brought them to the prisoner's lips, forcing them open. Once the burning hot piece of carbon was in the throat, Deadman stepped away, watching the person writhe in front of him. With one final motion he brought the man's head up and smashed it down onto the flagstones, stilling him.
He exited, and ordered a passing chamber boy to clean out the cell, and to grind up the remains for the pigs.
That night he fretted. He really hoped, for her sake, that Freya's brother, Strange, would return, or at least make contact...
*It was morning. By strange's estimates, sometime around nine. He'd already been walking for five or six hours. He'd awoken rudely to the uncomfortable feeling that he was freezing to death. He quickly learned two things. The first was that his fire had died. The second was that he was freezing to death. He'd left his spear pointing south when he'd gone to sleep, so when he awoke he grabbed it, pulled it stolen silks and linens around him tightly, and started walking. There was nothing else for it. Now it was morning, and how in the hell was it already so hot?
The sun no longer beat down on strange, it pulverized him, crushed him. He had water still, thank the gods for that, but his lips cracked moments after he drank.
Night fell, strange kept walking. He'd stopped around noon to hide in the shade of a rock, and had a nap. He'd walk all night if he could manage it.
Morning came again. Every fiber of strange's body hurt. He was scaling another dune, supporting himself on his spear. He pushed with all his might, or whatever was left of it, and clambered to the top. From the top he could only see more dunes, desert stretching off into forever. He squinted at the horizon in all directions, praying to spot something, anything that might give him a goal, something to work for, just some hope.
And there it was. His eyes adjusted, and he blinked sand out of them. He could see water. Lots of it. It was the sea. The ocean. It wasn't even that far away. It seemed he had veered from his southwards course a bit at some point. If he made it to the coast, he could follow it down to where the river met the sea. That area was littered with villages. He would be saved then. With renewed energy, he fell down the side of the dune he was standing on. Brushing himself off, he marched.
We find strange in the evening of the next day. His water had near run out, his food ran low. He had left his battered and torn armor to the desert miles behind him. It did nothing but weigh him down. He was clad in dirty silks and linens, belted about the middle by his sword belt. He stood at the edge of the beach, and came to a crushing realization. He was still in the desert. This was no respite. There was no water, no food on this desert coast. There was nothing for it but to pray he was farther south that he believed he was, and carry on. He walked, and walked, and walked. Around 3 am he started a fire of driftwood and fell asleep beneath an overhang of stone.
He opened his tired eyes a little after dawn, not because of the sunlight, but because of the sound of crunching stone. There was, down the beach a ways, a small wooden boat. With excitement, strange levered himself to his feet. He immediately wished that he had not done so. From the boat came many tall blonde men, clad in chain mail. The held round shields at their sides, swords and axes at their belts. Some held spears in their hands, some long axes. Svitzjaldian raiders, it was plain to see. Most likely they had seen the smoke of his fire and decided to investigate.
Death seemed a grim inevitability now, so strange stood and waited for it. He puffed out his chest as best he could, and adopted a wide stance, offhand resting on the pommel of his sword. Soon the jeers and cries of disappointment came. No one wanted to waste time going ashore for a desert beggar. The raiders approached him, and there was not even an attempt to speak. one slashed at him with a broad axe, and a most curious thing happened. Strange did not think at all, he merely moved out of the way, drew his battered sword, and plunged it into the man's chest. Another swing came, this time from a hand ax, and again strange dodged it as though it were slower than a grinding wheel. He swung his bloodied sword and cut open the guts of the aggressor. A spear came next, tearing through his loose silks. For his trouble, the spearman received a cut to the throat. A heavy ax was swung, and it was deflected by the broadsword, cracking the battered blade in half in the process. The jagged broken implement was still sharp enough to be plunged into the armpit of another raider though.
Strange was surprised it was going this well. He was also surprised when a heavy blow to the back of his head brought blackness to his eyes.
It was additionally surprising to strange that he woke up on a boat and not in hell. This was perhaps the biggest surprise at all. His hands and feet ached, and he soon realized that this was due to the iron manacles placed upon them. With bleary eyes he looked around. The small boat was heavily laden with chest and boxes and a few other people chained as he was. There were all women though. Strange knew why the raiders had taken them. It was one of the worst things about the raiders, the habit of taking battle-wives. Strange did not speak, but his awakeness was noticed. An old woman appeared from nowhere, a bowl in her hand. She produced a spoon with some sort of thick gruel in it, and began forcing this into Strange's mouth. It tasted wonderful, but this likely had a lot more to do with strange being hungry than anything else. He did not try to speak, but as soon as the bowl was empty he wished he had. The world expanded in his eyes, spun about two or three times, then contracted, and strange fell back to sleep.
He dreamed of eagles. *
2 1/2 weeks prior to Strange finding himself captive on the Svitzjaldian boat
"Ya comin' wit me, lass."
Seraphina Callow resisted the urge to narrow her expressive, dark gray eyes with any trace of visible annoyance. Instead, she maintained her position leaning casually against the rickety wooden trough SwiftSorrow was inhaling water from. They had been two days hard and heavy on the trail alongside the river from Fort Dawn arriving in Tradeston not more than an hour before. The unpopular but busy Odenworf trading town was teeming with its usual lot of trouble. The dirt thoroughfare through town was wide and lined with every good from fresh food to rare golden horseshoes. Locals and travelers bartered and argued with a mixture of raised and hushed voices culminating in a jarringly raucous affair. And when the northern winds were drifting through town heading south, the comforting aroma of unleavened apple bread occasionally filled the air coming from the Dufour family bakery.
She responded with, "Do you want 'im?"
Her voice was smooth and unhurried as she lifted her loosely covered head purposefully in the direction of the haughty, black courser tethered a few feet away. Sera had already decided the two were made for one another. Cursed (pronounced with two syllables) had been a thorn in her side since the moment he'd been born to her favorite breeding mare, Whisperingfoot. It had been her first attempt at imprinting a foal and the bloody animal had resisted her every effort despite her fathers coaching. She'd be glad to be rid of him.
Momentarily distracted, the foreign raider admired the horse considering his options. "He gots a name?"
"No. We ne'er got around to namin' 'im. He'll answer to whatere ye call 'im," she lied.
"How much ye askin lass?"
With the way his eyes began to gleam before he finished asking the question she could tell that Cursed had once again lost the burly blondes attention, and even further that the man had no intention of paying any amount of gold.
*********
Orrin was dead set on taking the horse and the dark-haired woman for himself before making haste back down south to a rendezvous with his clansmen where the river meets the sea. He was after all entitled to whatever he might want and used to taking. He had news to deliver but his baser needs were too great to ignore. His entire body was tense with an awareness that this particular woman wasn't afraid of him and would take longer than one pleasurable night to break in.
The fact that she was obviously unafraid should have been a clue for the dense Svitzjaldian raider but it wasn't. He assumed she didn't believe he'd harm her in the middle of a busy market. His approach was swift as he roughly placed his thick, dirty hand around her surprisingly muscular arm. No sooner had he done so than he heard and felt the swish of three arrows coming from three different directions. One of them landed true and lodged painfully in the hand that was no longer gripping her arm.
"The offer 'as been rescinded," he heard her say as she and her two horses turned and walked away into the fray of commoners.
Orrin didn't hang around to see more evidence of her hidden defenders. As blood spilled profusely from his hand after he'd broken the arrow, he quickly made his way out of Tradeston empty-handed, and would not soon be back. He wasn't eager to tell the tale.
*********
On the Svitzjaldian raider boat
"It wus I what's seen 'im an' stopt you fools from killin' 'im," one of the drunken raiders retorted.
It had been a choppy, slow-moving morning sailing toward the Yahtzjid islands. The boat was hardly big enough for the load it was carrying but the greedy raiders hadn't been interested in leaving any of their loot or prisoners ashore. And one prisoner, in particular, they were intent on fetching gold for. Low-hanging clouds obscured the horizon and the threat of rain hung thick in the humid air on deck. They were still a few hours out from reaching land.
"None of yas is cap'ble of negotiatin' wit tis unknown ruler. Ya don' even know sure if tha man be tha one we kin get gold fa." Orrin had already made up his mind that he would be doing the talking and that the finder's reward would be his.
Before long he was making his way down to the hold where unwashed bodies and darkness agitated his nose and eyes. Strange had only barely taken in sustenance since the trip began so he was weak and didn't see the man with the bandaged right hand approaching.
"Eh...wake up scumbag. Wats ye name an' where's ye from!"
Orrin's heavy boot landed squarely into Strange's side. He wasn't keen to be risking his life for a man he wasn't sure was worth a hare's whisker.
No sooner had Strange been stirred than Orrin heard shouts:
"Halt! You have entered Yahtzjidian waters without the protection of one of our own vessels. It is due to that reason that we are aware that you are either fools or enemies of our land. Offer up your weapons and crew for questioning, or face the full wrath of our mighty ruler!"
"Ruler? I f'ought Yahtzjid were a government place?"
"The political state of our land is not your concern, until you meet he who rules us, at least. Now, prepare your vessel for boarding!"
"Or what?"
Orrin and his men began to draw their weapons, unaware of the danger they were in. A volley of arrows arced through the air, tips ablaze, coated in now burning tar, and struck all over the bow, stern and sail of Orrin's ship. The flames soon caught and began to devour the ship's timbers, and the attacking Yahtzjidians cast their grappling hooks into the vessel. Soon Orrin and Strange found themselves shrouded in darkness, having had their heads forced into cloth sacks (that smelt faintly of some kind of grog) and their hands bound. Orrin heard a number of shouts and assumed some of his men were struggling against their captors, before the sound of screams followed by splashes brought silence upon the scene once more. All that could be heard was the splashing of the waves and the whispers of the Yahtzjidian men.
At some point, both Orrin and Strange drifted to sleep, perhaps calmed by the gentle rocking of the boat, and they woke deep within the stone bowels of Deadman's fortress, though they were, as of yet, unaware of this fact. Their hands were chained to pegs in the floor, and cast-iron bars made up the cell walls around them and a few of Orrin's other men.
"Yes, m'liege, we found them in the western quadrant, off the coast. It seems that the small-ish one was their captive."
"Interesting. Have you gleaned any information from them yet?"
"Not yet, Lord, for they have not awoken. All we have learned is that the ones we were forced to... dispatch of- bleed like any other man."
"Hmm. You may leave me now. Tell Freya to come down here. I fear there is still no news of her brother, Strange, but perhaps a woman's presence will mean I can find out what their purpose was in my waters."
Hearing that name, Strange snapped to attention, as the soldier scurried off...
*It seemed there was to be no peace for Strange. Battered and chained, he found himself in a deep dungeon. He preferred the hallucinatory gruel the raiders used rather than the sack-and-beating method of his new captors. He knew not how long he had been out for, how long he had been on the boat, how long he had been in the desert. His hair fell in front of his eyes as he leaned forward against his manacles. His arms ached, and his sun burnt skin cracked and blistered. The linens he had once worn in the desert were now tattered, and hung loosely around his wiry body. His hawkish features were augmented by the lack of water thinning his face.
In short, he was not pleasant to look at, and a far cry from the crimson caped man we met in a Tavern. Voices bounced around him, and Strange heard them, but comprehension was no longer within his grasp. Names, places, and faces bounced around inside his skull. The Sun in the Desert, his father, the raider whose throat he had cut with a broken sword, they all echoed in his mind.
There was nothing to do now. There was nothing to do but wait for his captors to do what they willed with him. The eagle was caged by earth, and there could be no hope in this hell, no hope at all. *