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DRAGONMOUNT

A WHEEL OF TIME COMMUNITY

Sam

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  1. As Vincent was contemplating how best to insinuate his chatty nature, Mr. Sweeper was contemplating how many uses there actually were for a tongue, and how few of them were necessary on board the Captain’s ship. Wind and water; the creaking of the boat and luffing of the sails, these were ocean sounds. John experienced a terrible vision of those sounds replaced by the sound of ceaseless gum flapping. No. This just wouldn’t do.

     

    Mr. Sweeper wished he did not have to tell the Captain what had occurred and why they would have to leave the port with all haste. If there were someway he could talk Jak into doing it … with a glance at Jak he discarded that idea. Jak looked as though he had been whipped and not the boy. Even the thought of the Captain’s displeasure was not enough to completely dismiss with the entire situation … save bringing the boy with them, but maybe the Captain would let John keelhaul, that was always fun.

     

     

    Bobby sighed, rubbed his forehead and stepped away from his desk. There was no need for a lecturing or even scolding; John knew he was annoyed, every angle of his manner reflected it. As always the Captain carried his cup of tea with him as he emerged from the hatch. The message had been sent out that shore-leave was prematurely cut short. The sailors would understand the importance of the announcement and return quickly, but even so some may be left behind: Irritating.

     

    Bobby looked at the newest member of his crew, for the lad could not leave The Merry Pauper intact. Jak had, through his act of mercy, stolen the boy’s free will. He was of a slight build, but would no doubt be useful around the vessel; if it came time to slit his throat, Bobby knew that his first mate would relish the opportunity. Seeing that the boy was about to speak, the Captain frowned slightly and moved on toward Jak, then decided against it. His senior officers did not need downdressing no matter how appropriate it felt.

     

    Instead, he turned back to the boy and commanded him to speak his name.

     

     

     

     

  2. The unnatural gaudiness of the outfit made Talon grimace, such frivolous misuse of resources was not a thing the assassin would find tolerable in any other situation. But then and there the necessity of the objective at hand made it excusable. He looked every part the gleemen, were the gleemen orating a sombre tale of tragedy. Talon felt it the wiser to resist the temptation of secreting weaponry about his person, such an act could only predispose him toward using them. It was in his nature to do so.

     

    Passing himself off as a gleeman would by far be his most challenging assignment to date.  Seldom was there a need for deception. The “cut and thrust” of his specialty was—in most cases—self explanatory.  To fool an Aiel he would have to lower his guard completely, to appear even mildly alert would invite death.

     

    Talon had arrived early, as was his way. A man who stuck to a routine soon found himself anticipated, which in his line of work was never good. It only needed to happen once to “end” a career.  Talon had found it useful to always be early, even if no one knew how truly early you were. On this occasion he believed that enough strife existed in the city to distract anyone who may wish him harm.

     

    Aran arrived first.

     

    Talon Sneered.

     

    The ‘prodigal son’ returned, undeserving as all prodigal sons and just as unforgiven by Talon as by all younger “brothers.” The mere thought of “Jester” caused his pulse to quicken. Upon hearing that Aran had returned, Talon believed he could be remain objective ... but upon seeing him again—after  so long—all that he believed drowned within a riptide of jealousy and hatred.

    Talon had seen—yes he had seen!—Aran and the other members of the guild, had watched from afar their camaraderie and kinship. He had felt the joy and excitement, a faint breeze upon his skin. But Talon had never been among them, been one of them. Never invited to join, but always ostracised, criticized: his sole companion the last breath, the spilled blood of the slain.

     

    Talon had worked in Jester’s absence, worked for the guild, for Aventari; and here, he who betrayed his kin and family returns and what grim fait awaited him: execution? No. Pain? No. Open arms and the warm embrace of family! And there was Talon, still at the sideline despite all his hard work, all his effort. What made Aran so much better than he? What did Talon lack that was so important? His feelings toward “Jester” could be construed as nothing other than unadulterated malice.

    Aventari came.

     

    Aventari, second father, leader of the Rogues: he who not only offered Talon a life, but furthered his education in the “arts.” Through him, Talon had achieved a mastery he may otherwise not have survive to know.

     

    His previous mistress, Courseia, had held strange views on the master servant relationship. Almost impossible to consider, but the agony of her rewards often outweighed those reserved for objects of her displeasure.

     

    Talon had 'left' her command with the larger portion of his sanity, even if at times he could feel it escaping his grasp, and the Guild had found him. He was competent, and desperate to find a way to make ends meet. The Great Lord of the dark would always hold sway over his heart and over his allegiance. But there had been room for others, to a lesser extent, especially when tempered by need.

     

     

    OOC:  Sorry, that's about where my brain fizzed. I will add more up tomorrow if you think it needs it.

     

     

  3. Rory masked her surprise well, or so she believed. There was nothing in her narrow scope of experience to explain what had just occurred, or why despite all logic she was unable to pull her hands apart. She experimented, but only a little. It was a little hard to accept that she had just about been attacked with a fistful of glass—a rather risky idea—without even contemplating the invisible ... whatever it was that had just happened.

     

    She recognized her rescuer although she would not admit to having needed it. It wouldn’t be the first time she had encountered sharp objects. How the girl had managed to hold the glass without cutting herself was a feat, and at some point Rory would ask about that.  It had the makings of a swell party trick.

     

    No, still unable to separate wrists. How very peculiar. For a moment she had believed the accepted had been glowing—for that is what she was, an accepted. The stupid ring said so. The woman she had punched in the eye had been wearing one just like it—glowing. What a preposterous notion. Rory had expended too much energy and was now paying for it with acute hallucinations. Yes. That was it. She just needed to lie down for a few minutes and everything would be better in the morning....

     

    Rory glared at Lillian when the accepted sat down on the bed and posed her question:  a glare of defiance with a stubborn set to the jaw. She had spent the day alternating between fear and anger at that moment settled somewhere in between the two, a nice healthy sprinkling of rebellion for flavour.

     

    “I be trying to escape. Yeah. You be hearing right. Escape. You no be keeping me here. I be trying for the window, but she”—pointing her thumb in the direction of Badriyah—“no be giving up her sheets.” With that she lapsed into stubborn silence.

     

  4. Rory wanted to scream, she wanted to throw a fit; she wanted to hit the other woman over the head with her chair; yell at her; degrade her. Hit. Bite. Scratch, anything to vent the impotent fury osmotically forcing its way into every cell of her body.  Why was no one coming, why were they allowed to treat her like this? Take her from her home, take away her decisions. It wasn’t fair. No. It wasn’t just unfair; it went so far beyond unfair that it became ridiculously unrealistic.

     

    There was no expressing it, no ratifying, no “coming to grips” with the level of pure lack of choice she felt. She could do nothing. They would not let her leave; they would merely escort her farther down the halls to the next woman with even more degrading patronisation. If she resisted the guards would come. If she yelled no one would hear her. She was trapped. Trapped, alone and in a place frightening, foreign, it looked as those abducting women was something those people did routinely, none of them even batted an eye at her plight. Monsters.

     

    She felt drained, tired and weak, as though her heart had stopped beating and her blood flow had slowed to a crawl. Unconsciously her eyes closed and she left the room, the terrible room within the horrible tower within the evil city. She was home again, with her father and mother who loved her. Dancing, laughing....

     

  5. There, a man almost to the top of the shrouds, dropping his belaying pin. There a man slipping from the ratlines; Rat lurching forward with dynamic movements of his hands to cast a web of saidin and stifle the fall. As Bobby expected, the trainees—as a rule—held the pins in one hand till it tired, and then switched. One enterprising recruit had used a corded lanyard from around his neck to lash the belaying pin to his hand, using it as a mountain climber would a pick-axe, lodged through the netting.  "You know what, you're right. I should just have you cut down the shrouds with them on it, and then we can throw their copses into the sea."

     

    Jak brightened considerably at the prospect, dead men didn't need their rations after all.  They weren't underfoot either, or nauseating him with their incompetence.  His tune progressed to a sharper key to reflect his enthusiasm for the Captain's suggestion.  "Permission to retrieve a hatchet from below deck and make your idea a reality, Captain?"

     

    “For all your talents, Jak, you couldn’t pick up on sarcasm if your life hung in the balance, and just between you and me, if you weren’t so light-accursedly good with that guitar, it probably would.

     

    “With a few minor exceptions, this round of trainees seems more inadequate than usual. I would almost think a joke were being played on me if those who sent them were aware of humour’s existence. Mark me: you will have plenty of opportunity to bloody the decks before we are through.

     

    “As for that particular concern. Wait and see. The problem may correct itself. If not, by all means smooth the hull. It is you, after all, who have the most experience in requirements of th—"

     

    Bobby paused. With a slow, deliberate movement he pivoted, looking behind him. There lay one of his new ‘trainees,’ belaying pin in hand, lying awkwardly on the deck. His eyes were fixed towards the skies, and before the blood began to seep from beneath his head, the Captain already knew he was dead. Rat gave an apologetic gesture.

     

    Bobby turned back to Jak and gave him a look more telling than words.

     

     

    Following the Captain's gaze, it seemed to Jak that the Captain had been right after all, the problem would solve itself.  Laughing darkly as he caught the look that the Captain gave him, Jak leaned forward to him.  "I bow to your wisdom as always, Captain."

     

    Walking over to his fulfilled wish, Jak knelt down next to the corpse and got to work.  Taking the man's belt knife, he used it to cut the man's purse strings.  Claiming the sheath next, he replaced the knife and slipped it into his red sash along with the man's pouch.  Noticing the quality of the man's boots, he took those too and tossed them clear of the body.  Someone else could use them when they got to shore and they were necessary.

     

    While he wasn't a monster like Mr Sweeper, Jak was still perfectly capable of lifting the corpse by its shirt and belt, carrying it over to the rail and tossing it overboard.  Spinning as it fell, it hit the water only to disappear in the undertow of the ship's passage.

     

    Cheerful about the entire incident, Jak ordered a couple of unoccupied sailors to swab the deck where the blood was beginning to congeal before walking back over to the Captain.  Strumming a happy tune, Jak looked up at the remaining recruits as he stopped next to the Captain.  They were only halfway and struggling, with the ratlines and with each other.  "Dead man's coin says that we get another pair of boots before they're done."

     

     

    Jak was a mystery as far as Bobby was concerned. The man had experience, efficacy and efficiency. Where these came from ... Bobby was wise enough not to enquire. If a man wished to keep his past a secret, there was a good reason, and it was not worth losing a fine sailor over.  Who, or what Jak may have been was unimportant: that he followed orders was important. That he knew the design of The Merry Pauper upside down and backwards—that was important.

     

    The first few experiences with Jak had been interesting. It had given Bobby a good excuse to rid his vessel of various distasteful corporal punishments. It was not as though Mr. Sweeper required the cat to inflict pain: his arms were as hard as the brass monkey and his fists struck like cannonballs. Bobby almost pitied the trainee who had been on the receiving end. Almost, but not quite.

    In response to Jak’s wager, he snorted. “Why not just ask me to wager against my having eight fingers and ten toes?”

     

     

    It might have been cliche to say that Jak chuckled evilly, but that was the best way to describe the way that Jak expressed his amusement.  At the rate the recruits were going, there was going to be another happy sailor who was going to get an early Bel Tine.  As for the coin, he'd end up putting up a game of cards or dice or some other form of competition for it, it was good for morale.  It had been worth inviting the Captain to increase the pot nevertheless, maybe one last try.  "I could go and bring August up on deck, just to make it sporting."

     

    Bobby laughed. There was something about Jak, he was so ... he was just ... Jak. Shaking his head with laughter the Captain walked past his lieutenant in search of a cup of tea. Sporting indeed!

     

     

  6. My . . . but her boots were soft. A small piece of paradise in each step she took, padding unobtrusively behind Sera. The warmth in her eyes intensified, as though they eyes would light fires. In secret she watched, and the secret watching filled her with pleasure. Every movement, nuance and breath of Sera was recorded; Emelia only wished she could see more clearly, but the caress of saidar would bring her downfall. She would have to be cautious . . . for a time.

     

    Several times she froze, only to have shifting gazes betray a lack of espial. Her first move had been to change clothing, and she now wore a bright, embroidered cloak: by virtue of being conspicuous, she became innocent. One could not help but feel clever, when pursuers moved through the throng, unaware that danger had chosen to follow instead of lead. Already the three were separating, drifting further and farther apart. The prospect of the future began to stir the fire within; once more she would offer herself up the flames. Herself, and others.

     

    At last . . . Sera turned moving to a less populated area. Why she would do so was unclear, and Emelia moved cautiously. It would not do well to be ensnared by a well prepared trap. Bravado and blasé aside, Sera had surprised her before and the reinforcements hinted at alluded to a new determination.

     

    Her fingers brushed absently against stone buildings as she came close, enjoying the sensation. Sera was alert and tense, but her awareness was focused ahead and not behind. That was her folly. Silently as possible, Emelia pulled a long knife from the waist of her trousers. It was time for the game to end.

     

    Too late Sera heard the sound coming from behind her. Emelia pushed her into the stone side of a building, satisfied with the thump of a head colliding. No serious damage, but enough to stun her momentarily. Sera only had to grasp at the source once and the advantage would be gone. Emelia forced her into an almost intimate embrace, slipping the knife between them and aiming it at the other woman’s chest. That was better.

     

    “If I even think you are considering drawing, I will stab you. No. Don’t speak. Please. Just remain silent. I prefer it that way.” Her tone was one of gentle humour; her composed softness had returned, and she was happy enough to keep the exchange genial for as small a time as it would be. “You have been chasing me for some time now, and I have decided to give you something. Yes. I will take you from here, to where no one can stop me, and I will show you the beauty of the fire.”

     

    Her mouth opened as if to speak, when she heard a footfall to her left. Instinctively she pressed harder into Sera, grabbing her hair and pressing their mouths together. Her eyes blazed and she began to feel her skin temperature rise. The passerby must have become uncomfortable for the footsteps hastened.

     

    Sera was warm, and Emelia felt as though she was standing before the inferno. Her flesh burned and her heart began to race. In her mind she stood embraced by the fire, its touch: intimate and loving. She reached out a hand to the flames, but her against her palm she felt a pulse, softness and a yielding so unlike the fire that consumed her. It was repulsive and enticing and she began to lose herself. The air came alive with saidar; every fibre, and every cell in her body awakened. Steam began to rise from her hands and face as she surrendered to her passion.

     

    With a gasp and a mental wrenching, Emelia forced herself at arms length. She stared at Sera incredulous and panting. She had never lost herself in such a way before, and a small part of her feared, for it was the second time in one day that she had been unable to control it. She released saidar but knew the damage had already been done. They would come, and she would be overwhelmed.

     

    Her features shifted into a rare expression, and she forced the point of her knife into Sera’s stomach. The other woman gasped, and her hands latched onto Emelia’s. Emelia crooned softly as Sera began to sway and then slump, stroking her hair and face; making sure she did not simply fall. She deserved more than the cold earth. Emelia removed her newly purchased cloak and spread it out over the stunned woman, to cover the wound. Without a second glance she moved quickly away and disappeared into the city.

     

    OOC: Finally finished. Going to sleep now. I've been waiting to stick you for *years* James, who ever thought this would be how it'd turn out? :P

  7. The flame would guide her: mother, brother, sister, father . . . lover. The heat would cherish, nurture, clothe; feed. A wind of warmth tantalised: rising from the ground, engulfing her; flowing through her with each rhythmic breath . . . her lungs imbibed with fiery communion. She felt it against her neck, sensual and seductive; whispering in her ears; cradling her body in a tender embrace. Her body was stained pink with flush, limbs encased by a film of sweat.

     

    A squall: lighting flashed, thunder boomed; a violent surge of wind swept; rain fell. The fire extinguished leaving only ruin to comfort her. The bitter wind stole the heat from her body and tossed ash into the air; causing her teeth to chatter and her eyes to sting. Icy rivulets of water ran in small streams down her body and she whimpered with the cold. Her hair was soaked, splayed across her bare shoulders. She looked around for succour but she could not see for the brilliant outbreaks of light. A pathetic moan escaped her quivering body as she attempted to bury herself with the muddy ash to find release from the cold . . . release from the cold.

     

    Emelia gasped. For a moment she looked lost and afraid as the vestiges of hallucination faded from her mind. She squared her shoulders, eyes narrowing; hardening, and panted while trying to regain her composure. The strain of her self-control was displayed by the curled fingers biting into the wooden table. She remained seated, motionless but for the rapid rise and fall of her chest until her lungs had returned to their natural rhythm. When finally she spoke her voice was strangled, and the exposed veins at her throat evinced grand effort.

     

    "I am leaving. Do not follow me."

  8. Last time on Basic Training

     

    Bert struggles with demanding fitness regimen, especially on an empty stomach. Ramai and Zoe show up in this unearthly early hour, the latter bemused about her roommate’s unkempt appearance. Dram catches up to Evelyn, who advises him not to let his emotions (hatred) be the motivation that drives him to be a CoL. He loses respect for her, thinking the officer as weak as his soft-hearted peers. After several loops around the grounds, the Inquisitor leads the group to a set of push-ups before calling formation once more – this time after the shuffle is over she tells the lance-group to stand in the heat, letting those who have not pushed themselves hard enough to sweat to swelter, and to compose a paragraph on the reason they want to be CoL and report to her office after lunch. She pulls on her gloves and goes to her favorite tree.

     

    Evelyn wakes, refreshed from a nap under the shade. She goes to the classroom and is surprised by Dram, who seems eager to prove his worth. The Inquisitor crumples up his essay and deposits it in the iron basket situated in the centre. Bert gives her a small parchment, piquing her curiosity – she sees Because written and orders him back into his seat as they waited for the rest of the class to clock in. Some recruits in the lance-group decide to keep their papers, but she does not call them down for it, thinking the reasons should be best kept private to the individual.

     

    Once her students gathered, Evelyn opens with the basics of questioning the self and co-operation in assisting others. She then listed a few rules concerning taking excellent care of one’s weapons, and respecting each other. Making sure that she was understood, she went and dragged a seemingly random Child from their midst. Leading them out of the classroom despite some sort of dislike that the others harbor for her unfairness she bothered making no explanation of the penance for the entire lance-group, until after she made the boy run in front.

    --

    “This recruit has exhibited behavior unworthy of a Child. A Child always respects the fellow Child, regardless of whether s/he is of another background – differences in opinion will either be conducted in a quiet respectful manner, or not at all. Again, let not your emotions make your decisions, for that is not only folly, but dangerous. The most dire time one would need to stand strong and remain calm, collected, enlightened is when the Child strays from the Light, and presents a danger to others in the community, as well as himself.” Evelyn boded. It was almost sun-down, and she had trained this batch roughly – exerting both physical and mental pressures to antagonize them. She should help them a little now. They should change for the ceremony soon. “As his lance-mates you have the responsibility to watch out for places he could be led easily, be tempted to go wrong. You have the duty to report another Child if s/he exhibits this sort of troublemaking conduct. We are no stronger than the weakest link, and right now as the recruits you can either start helping each other out, or offer praises for the fish-food together. For punishment, another set of push-ups, then report to the Hand for your induction Oath, those of you who want to continue. And best luck – I’ll be seeing you soon.”

     

    “Count on it.” The Inquisitor assured them with a smile.

     

    OOC: If this is alright, then you can continue, Ekeziel.

  9. Emelia smiled. She was safe here. Patrons were her defence, and she had the advantage. Subduing her in the open would be their last resort; there was no desire to induce that scenario. She would be shielded; the patrons would burn. Emelia wrested her mind from the image before . . . her hands came together on the table top, and she bit her lip in a rare moment of shyness. She raised her eyes, the genuine smile encompassing her guests the first outward acknowledgement of their presence.

     

    "Sera--unexpected--and you brought guests! Please. How rude of me. My name is Emelia," she rose unthreateningly and offered a fevered hand. "No? Ah." Sitting: "Sera: how have you been?--Had I known, I would have dressed proper." Silence was the response. "After all we've been through, you won't even introduce your friends? Not even a hello?" Feigned hurt followed by pleasant laughter. "Forgive my poor taste. Allow me to buy a round of ale, it is the least I can offer."

     

    She signaled a serving girl. Presently three large mugs of ale were set before the trio. "Please. Share a drink with me." Emelia raised her own drink to her lips, replacing it when not a whisper of moment came from the other end of the table. "You will not even drink with me?" Sigh. "Then . . . ? Oh. That." Pleasant voice reflecting a sour note. "We have spoken about thi--Mercenary band? I don't know what you're talking about." Face colouring slightly. "You cannot prove I had anyth--don't you accuse me! I only wanted some ale!"

  10. Talon did not seem to be gaining quite as much momentum as he thought he should by now. True, he could stay on his horse, true he could bring it to a swift gait with little to no effort, and true he could happily survive first contact . . . still couldn't win. He needed to re-think his tactics. How do you defeat an opponent who is bigger, stronger, swifter and more experienced? Normally you find someone else to do it for you but that wasn't viable here. Suddenly he had it.

     

    As the two horses raced towards collision and Talon set himself in position, he looked to the side swifty and yelled, "beer!" The desired effect was that the fond drinker's gaze was momentarily draw in that direction, enough time for Talon to strike with his own weapon . . . almost. His aim was true, yet the edge of the shield came up at the last moment partially obscuring the blow. All told it seemed nothing more than a sally. For his trouble he took two shots, one to either wrist and a rap on the knee. Ouch

     

    Three more runs and the results bore a certain strain of similarity. Defeat. The ante had been upped, such as it were. Brandeis was closing the openings sooner than Talon could percieve them. Attack and defence in one bi-lateral movement: stunning. Talon was truly impressed. To earn ones salt as a warrior you had to do such things, Talon knew, as he himself could--on the ground, and on his feet. To guide a horse, and split your attention between both stone-wall defence and still offend . . . fascinating.

     

    Talon believed such a thing to be within the scope of his own capabilities, but it would demand patient endurance. The glimpse he saw now would better prepare him in future, if such a battle were to present itself. A light fool teaching a dark friend. Tragic. He would leave with more respect for the Children of the light, if nothing else, especially if encountered while on horseback. Perhaps it made him hypocritical to be enjoying himself . . . but he doubted his lord would hold it against him if he brought with him something useful.

  11. Talon groaned. It was fun, in the same way the riding a bull, or untamed horse was a pass-time entertained by meaning during the summers. It hurt, but he flattered himself that he was learning better each and every time. He was not winning, far from it, he was not even stale-mating, but what didn't kill you only made you stronger; excluding debilitating injuries, poisons and a whole host of diseases. Talon's horse was taking the entire proceedings well, and he guessed that Brandeis had much experience in dealing with equitation.

     

    Picking up his shield and sword and hauling himself back into the hard military saddle was becoming harder and harder each time he was thrown. He would have to do something about that. Getting back into position he clamped his legs onto the saddle with all the strong in his possession. There was going to be no spill this time. He would not fall, he would not swallow dirt and flip sideways off the horse's flank.

     

    He survived the initial charge, and the crucial melee trade-off went surprisingly well. He would not dare to think he was "getting the hang of it" that would be a prelude for something dire. Rather he was beginning to handle the exchanges with more of an ease, and began to actively strike and counter-strike, instead of hiding behind his shield, which was admittedly a safer option. He was not entirely certain how much alcohol had been effused by the Inquisitor, but he suspected quite a lot.

     

    Thrust. Duck. Cover. Counter. Parry. Smack. Parry. Thump. Parry. Thump. Parry. Quit. Talon was not so much bleeding, as his skin had turned a rather strange looking shade of red. Still, of all the ways he could learn, this drunken hands on approach was proving quite effective. He was an assassin first and foremost. Some, he knew, did not learn the art of swordplay, or the military uses of weapons. They learned to kill with a skill and precision unmatched, the finish on their work breath-taking and beautiful, but if something went wrong, that lack of battle-readiness proved to be a weakness, one Talon could not afford. Failure was not an option.

     

    "Again?" He asked.

  12. Talon felt momentary pleasure as he remained seated. His balance was tenuous, but he was still holding on, they traded cursory blows before Talon took the flat of the blade to the forehead, which was an unpleasant feeling. No one in their right mind would sparr with edged weapons, probably not even steel unless they were really enthusiastic, but Brandeis was drunk, and Talon respected his own restraint, and the restraint of his opponent cum teacher enough that he felt secure with it.

     

    It was strange to be in the apprentice seat once more, although by now he should have been more than comfortable with it. Better to learn than teach, anyway, not that he was so sure he would be as free with knowledge as the Inquisitor was now being. A strange sort of Child, that one, not at all given to many of the characteristics Talon had witnessed in them before. He was interested in seeing how well her performed out of the saddle, but he had to admit that this was an experience.

     

    Talon jammed his heels into the ribs of his horse, and it crossed from stationary straight into a canter, Talon had thought himself fairly smug when he had decided to do it, but now that he was terribly off balance and new precisely what was about to happen, he was a little more conservative in his smugness. There was a loud clang, and he was once more sitting on mud instead of horse, the smiling figure of on horse-back looking down at him.

     

    "Harder than it looks, that." Talon brushed himself off and swung back into the saddle. This time listening to Brandeis when he told him how to sit. Heels down, toes forward, and holding on from the new up. Talon's legs shook quickly from the new and awkward position, but he felt himself more securey in place. With a deep breath he spurred his horse forward, gently this time, his eye always on Brandeis' sword.

  13. Talon squeezed his mount tighter than necessary, while Brandeis went through the basics of mounted combat. The assassin had never had much cause for such fighting techniques, nor for riding horses in general--it was even a borrowed horse. Two men had met at an ale house, had a few drinks, and were now outside Brandeis' hinterland home, the faint outline of his well kept gardens just visible in the dark.

     

    Talon had displayed an interest in cavalry tactics and ones ability to use a horse as a weapon of war. It was intruiging, and he never denied an opportunity to learn. So here he was, on a nervous little destrier, shield in one hand, sword in the other. Facing off against a seasoned campaigner. The irony that a dark friend was recieving instruction from one who would normally be torturing him for information did not escape Talon. Thank the Great Lord for strong drink and wagging tongues.

     

    The other man, the Inquisitor started toward him at a slow lope, Talon forgot that he was intended to spur his horse forward with his legs and intercept, so Brandeis gave a shrill whistle and Talon's mount came forward. A most well trained horse indeed. Sadly the assassin upon its back was not so well trained, and before he managed to regain his upset balance, his shield caught the edge of a sword and he was breathing mud.

     

    "Try again?" Brandeis offered.

    "Does it normally happen as fast as that?"

    "Faster."

    "Reassuring. See if you can keep up next time."

     

    Brandeis laughed and helped the assassin back to his feet. Brandeis trotted back to his position, and Talon to his . . . with less aplomb. There was always time for good natured sparring as far he was concerned. Especially when it involved learning something new.

  14. "Fenton . . . could you 'please' pass the salt?' Luis.

    Giggle.

    " Thank you, Fen--blood and bloody ashes!"

    "Fenton, did you loosen the lid on the salt shaker?" Soft disapproval. Rayenne.

    "He-he-he."

    There was a thump under the table. Gared signaled a fierce imprecation. There was another thump.

    "Ow! Gared, I didn't mean to."

    A gesture that would certainly break the PG13 barrier.

    "Gentleman, can we not share a quiet meal for once?" Rayenne again, soft and mollifying.

    "He-he-he."

     

    They had evaded pursuit easily despite Fenton attempting to leave a bread crumb trail. Luis had queried this act and Fenton had replied innocently that it wasn't what it looked like: he was leaving a bread crumb-trail. He then asked kindly if flying-otters liked bread-crumbs, and if he shouldn't stop to do some pond-fishing instead, as he was not interested in attracting that sort of flying-otter at all. Luis enquired no further.

     

    They were now holed up in a Tavern that, while close to where they did not wish to be, had been "secured" with a great deal of coin. It comprehended several less noticeable exits and as much privacy as anyone could reasonably expect. The hearth was warm, the ale was cold and--as Luis eloquently pronounced--'"not as watered down as the slop normally served by inns and eateries in this neck of the woods."

     

    "Give it back!"

    "Mine!"

    "I'm warning you!"

    "Mine-mine-mine-mine-mine!"

    "Look you little. . . !" Luis raised his hand to give Fenton a cuff around the ear.

    Fenton screamed the kind of scream that shattered crystal.

    "Fine. Fine! Take it. Just take it." Luis groaned.

    "Oh, thank you, thank you! I'll love it and care for it and treasure it and love it and care for it and--"

    "Fenton, please." Rayenne sighed.

    "Wooo . . . wooo!" Fenton quietened.

    "I need ale." Luis exclaimed.

    Gared seconded.

     

    Rayenne leaned forward and placed her elbows on the table. She massaged her temples in an effort to relieve a growing ache behind her eyes. Fenton squeezed one of her hands affectionately, bringing a warm smile to her face, a smile reflected in Fenton's eyes. Gared looked on in the same way he did everything: silently. Luis returned shortly with two healthy and robust jugs of ale, set them down with a loud thump and aimed meaningful glances at Gared.

     

    "Well, gentlemen, it is late, and I am feeling less than my usual self. Fenton: escort me to my room?" Fenton plopped down from his chair; took Rayenne by hand. They walked up the staircase disappearing from view.

    Luis scoffed. "Spurned for that crazy little bastard," muttering into his beer, "I don't know why she lets him tag along."

    Gared leaned back in his chair and smiled.

     

    ***

     

    Luis took a long draught from his ale. On an all-expenses-paid inn stay, one did well to sample the fringe-benefits. Both Gared and Luis had been drinking late into the night; both were still sober and both were watching the bustle of patronage around them. It was unusual for this time of night. That had been the first clue. Another was that almost-military precision could not be masked by the clothes of a commoner. Luis wanted to warn Rayenne, but giving any indication that something was amiss could be disasterous. Instead he was forced to bide his time and "play it cool."

     

    See? Luis covered the message in his hands by tapping out a drunken sounding rhythm.

    Yes. Came the deft response. Number?

    Dozen.In the half light no one would comprehend the silent exchange.

    Practiced. Good--Gared observed--.

    --Dangerous. They signaled in unison.

     

    ***

     

    Rayenne turned in her sleep, restless and worn even in her dreams. Fenton sat in a chair, watching the moon cast silhouettes upon the wall of their small room. He gave the uncanny impression of guarding her as she dozed. It was quiet. Nothing strange there. Something was in the air, a tension, a feeling of unease. It creeped into Fenton's mind, as it affected his sleeping care-giver. Fenton's nerves twitched. Too late he saw the source of his disquiet, as his mind became awash with red pain. Then. Nothing . . .

     

    ***

    Bang.

     

    A man, suspicious avised, dropped into a seat opposite the two compansions. While he made no overt gestures his manner was threatening. Luis did not know who had tracked them or what they wanted per se, but it was clear that this meeting was not half as friendly as it appeared, which was not a whit. The man stared, nothing else. Luis thought that perhaps it was in an effort to unnerve him . . . Frightening maybe not, but definitely annoying.

     

    "Drink, friend?" He offered politely. The man leaned forward in that menacing way that encouraged others to shrink upon themselves. Luis did not shrink, and Gared was about as small as he would ever get.

    "We have the girl. Come quietly and you 'may' live. Resist, and things will get most unpleasant." His voice was pregnant with malignance, and Luis didn't much like it. When he was a lad you didn't need to dress up fancy and speak in grave keys to be feared, it was all strength-of-will then. More genuine.

    "Here I was thinking that perhaps you simply wanted to share a drink, more's the fool me, eh?" Luis took another deep draw of his ale. Gared did the same.

    "Think car--" the stranger began to speak again, his voice clipped. Rehearsed dire and prelated.

    Gared snorted. The stranger's face coloured in anger. He was used to others cowing, Luis decided; neither he nor Gared were in the mood.

     

    A gauntleted fist swung through the gloomy inn, collected Gared's ale as he was reaching his mouth. It spun along the surface of the table, splashing foamy ale; went off the edge and hit the ground with a clatter.

    "Awww . . . mate." Luis was honestly shocked. "You shouldn't a'done that."

    The stranger flashed a well prepared smirk, right up until the world arose like a monolith and crashed down upon his head.

    Luis scratched his head. "Was the table absolutely necessary?"

     

    Every pair of eyes in the tavern zeroed in on the almost unbelievable scene of Gared, looking rather sheepish, holding in his hands the solid table that had just levelled, if not killed, some poor sod. The moment of confusion was gone in an eyeblink, anyone not participating in the coming free-for-all quickly made scarce. The odds were not in their favour.

    "Counter?" Luis mouthed. "Counter."

     

    ***

    Fenton moaned softly. His hand travelled to the bloodied knot on the side of his head. His mouth worked soundlessly as he gripped a bed post and dragged himself back to his feet. His vision dimmed, and he wobbled uncertainly. After a few moments of ragged breathing the scene before his his eyes cleared. With a grunt of effort, he staggered out the door and down the hallway.

     

    ***

     

    Luis and Gared did not make the comparative safety of the counter. Instead they were pinned side-by-side against a wall. As it turns out a table is an effective . . . anything, really, providing you're several hundred pounds of raw muscle and maintain a healthy imagination. Gared had found moderate success holding the table firmly by it's legs and using it to deflect sword thrusts. There was no effective riposte that he could see, so when the opening came he buffeted anyone within range by way of corner or edge.

     

    Luis however, was managing quite well for himself. So well that he found numerous occasions to complain about all and sundry having fought back to back, and couldn't they try something a little different for a change. "Can't we just try it? Gared? If you don't like it we'll stop. Promise." For all his whining, Luis was an accomplished swordsman. He was in no hurry, did not need to be . . . yet. He would afford to be patient. Eventually frustration caused a mistake, and Luis was able to make a quick thrust or slash that would hopefully stop whomever it hit. Two sword wielder's were already wounded in such a fashion, and he was now working on one cheeky beggar using what looked to be a crudely made spear.

     

    Gared was now finding himself in a tugging match; a few of the more intellectual sort considered the feasibility of pulling the table away from him to make him easier to hit. They had not figured on the resistance they might face while attempting to do so. Gared pulled with his arms and shoved with a piston leg, shattering the table and catching someone in what he thought was the face, who went down like a sack of horse feed. He only managed to pull one table leg free before he was once again pressed by the crush. Had the battle taken place in a not so dark and cramped environment, it would have been over already. The only thing forestalling a rush was the fear of striking a friend.

     

    Luis was not gaining against the spear. He could not move forward for fear of being skewered sideways by someone else, but neither could the spearman close the gap for compromised manoeuvrability. "Switch!" Luis called, loud enough for Gared to hear. The two men switched places deftly. Gared's hand closed on the spear haft like like an iron cast. With one arm he lifted the surprised man right off his feet and then struck him soundly on the forehead with the table leg. Luis scoffed and rolled his eyes, "I didn't think of that."

     

    ***

     

    The traditional metaphor for a fatigued warrior seems to be fire; the burning of limbs. Neither Luis, nor Gared felt this. Instead, it was a cold numbness spreading from their chests and radiating outwards. Their hands felt thick and clumbsy. Their parries and riposte's slowed, as did their defence. Their feet did not move quite so fast. As their movements slowed, the damage they took increased. The frozen osculation of swords chilled that little bit further, spears bit deeper. Maces made that little more contact with malleable flesh.

     

    Luis faced his approaching death with gusto and aplomb. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. The single act of trying to keep himself alive created a corral that protected him from dispair or self-pity. Besides, at least if he went, Gared would go to. He could gain some peace from that. Dying alone made you a fool; dying with company made you a hero.

     

    ***

     

    Fenton had taken a very discreet route to the foray. In truth he had not been prepared to see anyone, least of all Gared and Luis, his mind was far too preoccupied with more urgent quarry. Some part of him was touched by her, and he could not abandon them. For her sake. One of his small hands reached into his tunic reverently, drawing forth a spherical rock, upon which was drawn a smiling face. They wouldn't see him coming.

     

    He came from the darkness, his normally cherubic features a stone carved allegory. His first victim was caught from behind, the rock collecting the side of head at the same time that Fenton wrapped an arm around his chest and dragged him backward. The crack was not even audible amidst the battle. Once. Twice. A third time for measure and he was moving forward.

     

    The second saw him out of the corner of his eye, turned on his heel and let fly his sword. Fenton's smiled. One step backward. The iron whined as it passed ineffective. There would be no second swing. Fenton was already gone when the dagger in the man's throat began to flower.

     

    ***

     

    They felt the wind of battle change. It was a tangible thing. A disturbance from behind was spreading infectious confusion. They were getting sloppy. Luis had suplimented his long sword with a mace. The combination had proven formidable and the last memory of their legs that handful of his opponents would remember was going to be their agonizing drop to the floor. Gared's tactic of striking with anything available was also working. At times he used whole people as flails against their allies. One flighty lad had actually stabbed and killed one of his own.

     

    Luis suddenly felt as though a jungle had parted before him, and he stood on the crest of a flat plain. The crush had simply disappeared. The last three men standing were not even paying attention to the duo, their focus was on a much smaller adversary darting in and out among them. Luis and Gared watched with lurid compulsion as Fenton engaged the remaining enemies.

     

    Wherever a blade swung, he was not. Whenever an effective parry or riposte could be made he was positioned elsewhere. Luis began to feel giddy. One opponent dropped. Followed by the second, followed by the last. The first had a crossbow quarrel masterfully placed into his armpit, the tip of which surfaced out beside his collarbone, scraping against the side of his neck. Wisely he stopped fighting. The second recieved a quarrel behind the knee, an elbow along the bridge of the nose and a fierce impact to the temple with a smiling rock. The third recieved a clean slash along the throat from a knife that's presence lasted no more than heartbeat. As he fell a piece of cloth was pressed into the wound to slow the bleeding. That was for her.

     

    "Light," breathed Luis. Quite certain that his heart had stopped beating. Fenton looked up suddenly. He whooped several times, ran two or three tight circles, then ran out the inn door. Moments later Luis and Gared would follow. For now they were trapped in a state of torpid animation, the only words to escape Luis' mouth were: "bugger that."

  15. Braxton smiled. Why? Why not? It had taken calisthenics—much calisthenics—to recover from Aran’s last little joke, but now he was feeling better than ever, and more than ready to resume his training at as rapid a pace as he could set. For this reason he was up extra early on this particular morning and making his way to the Yard for additional weapons practice.

     

    Aran, did, of course have malicious payback coming, as soon as Braxton shaped his evil intent into a solid idea. It was difficult to fault anyone totally when he had created such an opportunity. How many people would resist the fresh baked pie on the open window sill? Not Braxton, who was a very big fan of pie, and maybe not anyone else who knew they’d get away with it.

     

    Braxton was the sort foolish enough to think “sparring” was defined by the use of actual weapons. He had stabbed himself in the foot when he first picked up a sword, but how long ago had that been now? It did not occur to him that a stave would carry, on a whole, less lethality than an edged weapon. Braxton would have disagreed, and could have proven his claim; was probably about to.

     

    A brisk walk and the Yards were in sight. His sparring . . . partner was already waiting, as he had expected. It was easier this way, arriving before his betters would have been somewhat uncomfortable. A hail and salute did by way of introduction, if something more was required, he could count on military rigmarole to make him “aware” of the situation. Braxton was ready.

     

    OOC: First time sparring with an actual person in *ages.*

  16. "As a man and the bearer of children, I swear to carry my children to term and defend them from all harm. Swear i--I swear!"

     

     

    ***

     

    Something smelled. Bad. Somewhere between rotten eggs and the kind of thing salvaged from the stomach of a crocodile. Braxton's nose wrinkled a few times then he smiled and relaxed. It was the smell of manliness. One eyebrow popped open with the sound of sandpaper, and lolled lazily. The Mess Hall. He must have dozed. He met eyes with other trainees, noticing their looks of envy and disgust. Manly!

     

    His arms moved forward, snaking around his ample stomach, to latch onto . . . it looked like meat, anyway. Like a conveyor belt his arms retracted, slowly, inexorably, the clicking of catepillar tread was almost audible. His mouth opened wide and a green smelling vapour caused his eyes to water. If anything had previously lived on whatever it was about to be swallowed, it no longer mattered. You could end civilisations with that sort of fume, or at least put a match to it.

     

    Grease lolled from his hands and splattered the pink, flabby flesh his too-small tunic no longer covered. Braxton spared a cursory second to smear a meaty hand across his abdomen, the grease was already being eaten by something. Good to keep the tenants happy, he had always heard. Braxton's teeth closed as a bear trap might, he shook his head and gave a growl and then swallowed without chewing. He relied on the bacteria behind his lips to break it down . . . was easier that way.

     

    His jowls wobbled, each individual chin fighting for a piece of run off that dribbled down his neck and into the hidden recesses of his tunic. He finished eating and wiped the excess with the collar of his shirt. Leaning back in his chair, Braxton rubbed his stomach chest vigourously (Aran said it would help)--his nipples had been so sensitive lately, and the twins weren't even born yet--then released a very long sigh. It would not be long now. He could feel them kicking.

     

    "It's a good [belch] thing Aran that you told me to eat all this butter and things. I mean, look how fast they're growing. [some other strange noise that I don't even want to think about.] Why, I don't know what I would do without you, Aran. You've been a life sav--."

     

    Braxton groaned, his legs twisting together under the table. Both eyes popped open and rolled weirdly. It's happening! It is finally happening!

     

    "Aran!" Despite the stressed exclamation it was a whisper. "I think it's time!"

     

    Spots of light appeared in front of his eyes and he leaned forward, his forehead resting on the edge of the table. Too much grunting and groaning occured for me to right it down. He truly felt as though he was going to die. Die or come apart at the seams or the nearest escape hatch. and I don't need to tell you where . . . the pain and the pressure kept rising until he was unable to breath. His face was flushed, fingers suffering spasms. He truly believed his body would stand for no more.

     

    The sound that followed could only be defined as vibration. The chair strained, the table buckled, and the cutlery rattled like the chains of a very large and unfriendly ghost. Then there was silence. The silence of a vacuum. The silence of space.

    "False alarm." Said Braxton, cheerfully. More seriously, "I don't feel too well though . . . say, did someone bring something in on their shoes?"

  17. Braxton sniffed. Wiped his nose. Sniffed again. Repeated. His nose had been running like an allergy, when he began to consider the wider implications of possible pregnancy. Aran was being swell about the whole thing, helpful and nice. Not like Aran at all, really. A bright mind would have stopped right there and considered more seriously. Braxton was not one of those minds.

     

    Instead he followed like an abused pet dog, shamelessly obeying commands, consistently oblivious to the goad; oak branch, or rolled up newspaper that would at some point fall with intuitive precision . . . straight for the heart. Even then, he would be quick to forget the incident and wag his tail once more.

     

    Here he was, spinning around in ridiculous little circles, looking very riduclous, and feeling rather happy that he had not yet eaten. It was not that there was anything wrong with spinning in circles. Some would consider it very fun, and Braxton didn't intend any offence to them, he just felt as though perhaps circle spinning was not the right activity for him. But you go ahead and enjoy yourself.

     

    Braxton was not sure why he had a mouthful of grass and soil, but it did not taste pleasant on his tongue. He supposed he must have stopped spinning, although it did not feel as though he had. He sniffled some more, and looked to Aran with watery eyes. "I'm sorry, Aran. I didn't mean to fall over."

     

    "How am I feeling? Well, I feel like I have a mouth ful of grass, Aran. I feel like my eyes should be somewhere in the back of my head, and I have a strange sinking feeling like my stomach is leaking out through my shoes. Other than that, I feel pretty good. Thanks. Can I stand up now?"

  18. Lachlan was scared. Scared of the active mantle he had suddenly taken upon himself in a revolution that had previously only used him as a figure head. Scared of the acts of murder he was about to authorise. Treason or execution, the difference came down to semantics, and a thin veil of rationalisation to spare guilt. Most of all he feared that he would feel nothing of the blood that would stain his hands. He believed in his cause, but who was he to consign the deaths of others? He was the Bandit King.

     

    His face was pale, and the circles beneath his eyes spoke of restless nights, but he was resolved. He felt somewhat dizzy, and his hands were hard against the table. It had the quality of a dream, but he knew this moment to have the cord of reality. What would he say to these people who had raised him from nothing and asked only blind obedience to their cause? Were his actions any less selfish than theirs? He desired freedom, they desired wealth, equally as willing to sacrifice life.

     

    He felt very small surrounded by all these people. He had hoped Aran would take this decision out of his hands. Aran had been adament that the rolewas his alone. Lachlan inspected his own hands, inspected the table, sighed; sipped a goblet of wine. Anything to put off the inevitable. No where to run, no where to hide, and no way to further stall his obligation. His voice was shakey, his tone strangled, and his eyes shifting nervously as he spoke:

     

    "I . . . have reached a . . . decision. A decision concerning the role I am to play in . . . my revolution." Deep breath. "It is clear that to you I am a puppet, and in the end there will be nothing for me but to sit on a throne and wave to the crowd. That is not . . . not what I wish to happen. That is not what will happen." Bolder now. "I . . . am reclaiming my own future. Your scheming . . . your scheming is at an end. You . . . you . . . you are to be sentenced to execution for treason!" Lachlan was trembling now, his hands knotted together. He hoped no one would notice his tears.

     

    His eyes were closed, but he heard the intakes of breath, the sudden outbursts of disbelieve and rage. He heard, too, the scraping of chairs, the singular sound of swords half-drawn from their sheaths. He opened his eyes long enough to nod once at Aran before doing his best not to meet the eyes of the condemned, or take notice of their pleas. Professionally, resisters were subdued--brutally in cases--and the others were roughly pulled to their feet.

     

    They were led out of the tent and into the camp. After taking several moments to collect himself, and make sure his legs would obey, Lachlan the Bandit King followed to preside over his judgement.

     

     

    OOC: You're next, Daemon.

  19. Emelia adored the softness of her boots. They had come at a heavy expense, but they had been worth each and every steel piece. They felt good against her feet, and were one of the few luxuries she allowed. They were piceous, not for any fashion predilection, but for the sway of economy. Anything could be obtained in such a colour, and at any quality for any price. At a distance fashion was irrelevant and all garments looked the same. On this particular occasion her ensemble consisted of; simple leggings, tunic, a heavy leather jerkin, pigskin gloves and a riding cloak--all black.

     

    Today she had dressed up a little, to celebrate the closure of her latest expedition. Mercenary work was fetching. All that freedom. All that opportunity. All that heat . . . . The weather was not cool; her forehead was damp with sweat, but she did not mind the temperature, for stray breeze felt terrific against her skin. It was good to be in the city once more. She sighed and murmured to herself. There was no time to dally . . . but ale would be nice.

     

    Emelia seated herself as close to the hearth as she could. Easy enough for that time of day. It was not busy, so much as steady. The ale was watery, average at best, but she could bear it. There was no time to venture for replacements. The impulse to raze the ale house in retaliation was strong, and she placed her gloved hands against her cheeks to hide the mounting blush. Regaining her composure, Emelia removed her gloves, and imagined the flames of the hearth were nestled against her finger-tips.

     

    It had been a master ploy: align herself with a group of sellswords, strike a merchant train and divide the spoils. Turning on the sellswords afterward had been a whim: a richly rewarding whim. There had been too much wealth for her to shoulder alone, so concealing the rest beneath the ground had seemed the wisest choice. Later she would return, or not. A hidden trove was useful. If someone by chance discovered it she would only find more.

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