Hollow Plague IC

[Sir Basil]

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Rhisiart found himself twitching at the white-haired magus' comments. The way that the man had phrased his words just settled queasily in the guard-captain's stomach. It was either the magus' words or the egg from this morning's meal had been contaminated. He found himself strangely comforted by the notion of succumbing to a prolonged death from infection and disease. Perhaps Griffith would sit at his side, and wipe the sweat from his brow as he shook and dreamt fever-dream nightmares. Perhaps the ghost of his father would be the one who came to him in the night, the one who strangled out his death-rattle. And that would be that - the end of a long line of Aneurin Guard-Captains. He shook the thought from his head, a subtle shaking of his head from side to side, the slight bounce of his curls from side to side. The magus didn't know what he was talking about. It was plain enough to see. Rhisiart didn't introduce the waterways, where water flowed in the caverns of his landlocked city, for the fear that the enemy had moved through them - it seemed unlikely that the rotting and mutated would be able to navigate the winding corridors without trouble. Even if they did, they would emerge from the waterways into the crowded slums of the city- somebody was sure to see them. No, Rhisiart had brought up the waterways because if worse came to worse, he did not want to be cutoff from the rest of the world, doomed to a starving, suffocation. The waterways and caverns emptied out into sinkholes in the hills, and to wet-caverns in the surrounding wood. They were well hidden, if not well guarded. His great-grandfather, Egil Aneurin, had been the last of the Guard-Captains that had actually utilized the waterways as a means for moving his guardforce. Rhisiart's father would not touch them.

Perhaps that was because of the new prevelance of the Merchant's Guild and their thugs. They moved through the waterways, cutting shady operations in the Undercity. Not too long ago, Rhisiart had broken up rings of the Merchant's Guild less scrupulous providers - it had been a boyhood act of heroics that in retrospect Rhisiart only felt remorse for. His father had beat him bloody when he had come with the head of a slaver. Rhisiart remembered the day well. He had been in his prime - hair had been kept, smile proud. He was certain that this action would earn the approval of his father. He slung the slaver's head by the long, rust-coloured beard, onto the very desk that now occupied space in Rhisiart's office, the same desk that they were all clustered around. The blood had stained his father's documents. Geraint had looked up from his accounts, as a red-smear dribbled down the number of rations he needed to allocate, the number of beds that were available in his barracks. His eyes had never looked colder to Rhisiart. It was then that he realized that he had made a terrible mistake. His father was not happy. Geraint stood up from the desk, and pushed in his chair neatly. Rhisiart never understood how his father always managed to make the movement of pushing in a chair threatening, but in retrospect, it could have been because it was perfectly silent. Everything about Geraint carried with it an aura of fatalistic calm. It was so quiet, but so damning at the same time. Geraint's cold eyes flickered over Rhisiart's face. "Did you do this because you hoped there would be songs sung of you?" His words were ice. The head dripped quietly on the desk, the metronome of blood hitting hardwood measuring the syllables of his father's words. Rhisiart felt his face flush. He had blushed then too - in shame. In embarrassment. In fear. His father slipped from around the desk, trailing his fingers in the sticky mess that Rhisiart had deposited on his table. "There are tales of me, Rhisiart. I did not seek them out. I did my duty - and no more." He rubbed the side of his thumb against the slaver's severed neck. It was a lover's caress, with more tenderness and care than Rhisiart had ever seen his father show him, or his sisters. Mayhaps he had treated his mother like that. "Your amusements are yours. But your amusement has cost us our relations with the Merchant's Guild." His voice turned brittle then, like hard old iron. "Take off your shirt and face the wall."

Then came the lashes. There were thirty. Ten for bravado, ten for ignorance, ten for negligence. He had bleed for a week afterwards, and then the wounds had turned to welts, and then they had turned to scars. Now, they were faded white lines along his back that only Griffith ever touched. His lover had asked him how he had earned them - a scuffle with thieves and brigands? Maybe an exotic animal had gotten loose in the market? Rhisiart dared not answer then. The memory ebbed away in his head, a faint pulsing in his temples. He rubbed his eyes weakly, and then pressed the palm of his hand against the side of his desk. He opened a drawer, and inside were any folds and scraps of parchments - some of them were receipts, others were orders. He was looking for a map, however. Without taking his eyes off of the white-haired Magus - Orin? - he groped blindly in the drawer until his fingers closed around a particularly old piece of vellum. He closed his hand around the rolled bit of paper, and rose from the chair with the shifting of brocade and cloth, his expression carefully neutral. He set the piece of vellum across his desk - a desk that still bore stains from where a slaver's head had once been. The map depicted many spiraling and labyrinthine passages, each labelled with a corresponding section of the town in a red-ink overlay. The handwriting was spindly - rather than being wood-block printed or done by a professional scribe, this map was handmade. Certain tunnels were filled in solidly - with a note that this portion of the Undercity had collapsed in on itself, and certain others were crossed out entirely with no explaination whatsoever. This was the map of Egil Aneurin - Rhisiart's great-grandfather.

"The guild and I are at odds." Rhisiart said, his tone quiet and measured just as his father had taught him. A quiet land, with quiet people and a quiet lord. That was how you ruled. "They have largely been driven to the Undercity - the guild keeps to themselves, these days." He brushed a hand against the surface of the map, "However, this," He tapped a section of the map, "May aid us in procuring another, or at least provide us with a place to begin scouting." He cleared his throat, lowering himself back down into his chair. The chair squeaked loudly as he sat down. He cringed, slightly, and his next words came out muttered, "I'll send some men down."
​

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[Namora]

​

Clarice Eryn Deveraux
Huntress of the Wilds; Rumored Witch

She drew back yet another arrow, now aiming for the open visor, she was forced to stop herself in mid draw by the sound of a rather muffled, alarmed voice.
"Heyheyhey!" The shopkeeper called through the glass, her eyes glanced toward him and she lowered her bow cussing under her breath. Now he would probably go on a rant and demand compensation for the damaged over-sized doll and what not, she would most likely end up being forced from the shop with a lightened wallet and no arrows, but for once things took a turn of events she wasn't expecting.
"Let me get the merchandise off of there first!"
"Before you snap, the cloth surface was already-- wait what...?"
She blinked, watching him with an odd expression as he moved past her and replaced the nice, polish armor plates with a more damaged set. Once he'd set the pieces aside he quietly signaled for her to continue as if nothing had happened. She realized just what he was doing, ensuring the safety of his merchandise, and the girl didn't take offense to his precaution, she understood his position, he'd probably seen a few bad shots in his day and the likeliness he'd seen an accurate female archer was all but impossible.

The stereotypical role of women was a part of their society after all, and it had been drilled into the heads of most that women stayed home, made the meals, cared for the children, etc, while men went out to work, fight and all the like. Unsure of what to do for a moment she gave him the oddest expression, shifting her weight before turning back to the dummy. Now that is had such a poorly kempt set she was tempted to take the arrow she'd been saving for last and aim to hit the dummy's 'heart' and see if it truly would pierce armor, however she didn't want to try her luck. The girl drew back the arrow and sent it flying, three more shots and she'd fired all her testable arrows. The pale blonde walked over to retrieve the arrows, examining the heads for notable damage and checking to see how far they'd pierced, there didn't seem to be a scratch on them, they were truly great quality. She twirled one particular arrow between her finger tips before looking at the man
"This one.... I'll take a full quiver of thirty, and another ten of your special armor piercing ones"
She said as she retrieved her quiver full of arrows to be replaced and carried on over to the desk to pay.​

 

[Tanstin]

The constant denial and passive-aggressiveness almost sent Wallace out of the top, he moved to speak as Ison chimed in, his already perturbed state grew more grim as he finished speaking.
"B-but Ison, you..you" He found himself stuttering, flabbergasted almost by this sudden turnover and betrayal of one who he considered reliable in these times.

At this point the little mouse-like guard captain spoke up. Exemplifying the use of some of the passage ways in which he opposed of. The fact that there was potential hostility to be met down there was even more unappealing, and he could see no use even utilizing this, it was to be a simple battle, but to be carried out justly.

He cringed, slightly, and his next words came out muttered, "I'll send some men down." Was what he ended with
He snapped there, it was obvious his council was not required, but he would not stand to take this slander like a dog. These people, at this rate would lead this coming battle to assured defeat. Wasting resources on scouting tunnels when the battle is less than a day ahead was preposterous. His mind wandered to Gismere's vile comeback at him believing that the walls will go untouched. In all his years of traveling, it would be common sense to fight something only if you knew that you could break it, and he was sure that they were bringing war-machines of some sort, and this flimsy wall crafted by peasants and street chaff would do little. Suddenly he came to his realization of why Gismere was so interested in such trifle that even the mage had the common sense to agree on.

She intended to flee, abandon the battle.
"Bah!...." He enunciated in disgust and ire "HAVE IT YOUR WAY™" He began walking towards the door, as he opened it he turned and pointed back at the main group who had denigrated him, mostly Gismere, however. "We will see in the coming battle, yours and all the other's actions here will lead us to no benefit here." With that he slammed the door and left, muttering under his breath. He pushed a peasant in his way merely seconds after he stepped out into the side of the road and into the mud "Out of my way, peasant!" and he stormed off. Of course it was unlike him, an imperial knight to do something so tempestuously, but he refused to associate himself in a battle with great losses as it would reflect on him as well. If he were commanding this, all forces would be rallied towards the front, walls fortified, and all entrances, especially those to the undercity, sealed.

 

[Freedom]

Orin just nodded at Grismere's comments. He was beginning to speak up, but Wallace just started exploding. He just watched in bored silence as he barely listened to the man's rant, choosing to tune him out. He finally looked back and snapped back to reality when he heard the door slam. "Are you serious? Is none other appalled by his behavior? Is this the behaviour and attiude to be expected of the Imperials? Not only is that improper whilst considering his position, 'twas completely innaproprate. Such manner of speaking only proves either insecurity and/or immaturity.

He seems to believe that this battle can be won with simplistic strenghts such as our own. I'm sure you all can agree as to the point I make when I say that battles, no matter the kind, be it a small squabble or a war that faces us at our doorstep, requires as much brain as they do brawn. Dastardly Imperials... Thinking as though all can be solved through brute strength. If such warriors weren't so hardheaded and listen to reason, he and I, and he and the rest of you, would make a good team. But, be that as those possibilities may, does nerry a thing to change the simple fact of the matter." He explained.

"Rhisihart, as i said, 'twas merely the ramblings of a Magus such as myself. You are, indeed, our main commander along with Lady Grismere. I know when to listen to such authority, and I will stand by your decisions. I may be stubborn, but I'll be damned if one of anyone consideres me indingant... Well, at least not at every moment.

 

[Buio]

Ison's eyes narrowed with a venomous glare in response to Wallace's outburst. Though he remained silent throughout the affair, the look in his eyes was more murderously cold than any he had yet given even Gismere. To disagree with his commander was one thing, but to fly in such outrage when not being given his way, even when an imperial general was present to vouch for said commander's judgements; it was clear not to Ison that his nephew had been spoiled by his years left to wander the lands however he pleased. Imperial knights were taught loyalty to crown above all, and just as a peasant was to take a knight's word as the king's own, so too were knights to respect the authority of their commanders. Evidently, his nephew had grown very proficient in giving orders, but his inability to take them with grace was a shame not only to the imperial knights but to even their own Daegran family name. In this regards, Wallace had proven his inferiority to the female commander. Infantile as her ambitions were, she had still fought towards them while maintaining proper decorum and respect for her superiors at every turn. Ison would ensure that his brother would hear of Wallace's misdeeds, and see that he received adequate disciplining, but for now it was more important to save imperial face before the mage and guard captain, lest it become talk within their circles that all knights behave in such a manner.

"I apologize for his outburst." retorted Ison calmly after the mage had finished speaking. "My nephew has recently spent several years away from the capital, traveling the lands in a bid to increase his martial experience by immersing himself in different cultures and examining their techniques. It had been his father's hopes that such a journey would lead him to heightened maturity, but rather it seems that Wallace's time away from authority has left him to forget the code of conduct that is expected of those of his stature. I will see to it that he cools his head before the battle come the morrow." He turned his attention towards teh female commander and gave her a short nod of the head "Captain-Commander Gismere, If i may have your leave."

The woman sighed lightly. There was little purpose in keeping this meeting going wit the representative of the knights having stormed off in such a manner. She had intended to further press the issue of obtaining a reliable map from the guild, but the last thing the group needed was more squabbling now. "Yes, I suppose that it is only correct to declare this meeting adjourned. May favor shine upon us all tomorrow, and may we all wash away this unpleasant memory with a flagon of ale come the battle pass."

Ison nodded at this and left the room quickly, marching after his nephew with a hastened pace. He managed to catch up with him just before the younger knight was able to leave the guard tower and thankfully for him there were none others present in the stairwell leading to the exit. Given the situation, Ison barked out wallace's name sharply, stopping the ignoramus in his tracks. Ison was old now, he had seen over sixty summers come and pass and he knew perfectly well that his prime had come and gone. But his eyes showed none of that as he slowly made his way down the spiral steps, gaze locked on his young protege the entire time. His eyes showed the fires of countless wars, spoke of the last of the great campaigns carried out by the Atlusian crown to solidify the empire's hold on the north of the continent, showed in their reflection the heads of every bandit and enemy soldier who had ever fallen to Ison's blade. Ison was old, but his title of general was not one wasted on him, and his demeanor let Wallace know exactly what kind of wrath he had incurred upon himself.

As Ison reached the steps Wallace was now occupying, the younger knight went to attempt to explain himself, but with a quick, precise movement, Ison drew the thin short sword he hid in eh shaft of his cane and held it to Wallace's throat, silencing him and making him instinctively press his back against the wall.

"Do not speak," whispered the older man through gritted teeth, furious glare burning away at his nephew's eyes, "do not even let a single, solitary, putrid breath pass those whore loving lips. You've said enough today, and now you will listen."

He came in closer, bringing his face only inches away from Wallace's now. "If you ever again forget the weight your words and actions have on our family name, let me make it abundantly clear that I will personally see to it that you will be flogged within an inch of your miserable life, and buried amongst a pit of lepers and hollowmen, so you may fell their teeth and disease seep into your flesh as the last of your life is snuffed out in utter darkness. Do not, shame me, again."

With this done, Ison removed his blade from the knight's throat and sheathed it back within his cane, not sparring his nephew another glance before continuing his march down the tower staircase and coming out to the reception chamber, making his way out of the building. His duty as overseer had now reached its end and it would be left to Gismere and Wallace to command the oncoming battle. He would make preparations to ride back to the capital and make sure that after tomorrow, both of them would receive their rightful comeuppance.

 

[Vexor]

"This one.... I'll take a full quiver of thirty, and another ten of your special armor piercing ones"

Skjalar looked at the woman in moderate surprise. He hadn't expected her to make the decision so quickly and without even testing one of the arrow types she was going to purchase. "You're sure? You haven't even tested the piercers…" He said to her, really just stalling for time so he could calculate the necessary payment and any work that would do in it's stead when he heard shouting and the slam of a door closed in rage coming from the tower just a couple buildings down.

"Times like this are when I hate living so near Captain Rhisiart's office," he thought to himself as he did the math for the huntress's payment on his fingers, then finally gave up and tried counting it out with a piece of charcoal on parchment.

 

[Tanstin]

He stood there shocked, standing almost as if he were stuck in time if not for the fact that the hustle and bustle of daily activity was still going on around him, but he cared naught. Never had he been so abased in his entire life, it took some time for him to absorb what had happened. He sat down, his back leaning on a wall, he took this time to try and comprehend what he must do next.

[Ison has threatened me...Yes that is what happened..and surely consequence would follow, rumors will circulate and my reputation damaged, the only thing that seperates me from a broken down soldier..]
He rubbed his temples in frusturation
"I must...I must focus now, there is no use mulling over that which I cannot control anymore."
He had never encountered something that he could not best with authority or blade if it had come to such things. The best thing to do right now was to simply continue on with the day, and prepare. He stood up from the sidewalk and began walking before pausing again. He recalled sending a courier to take his tower shield over to a smithy to have his tower shield refurbished, but the courier had forgotten to tell him which one he sent it to. Luckily he had spotted a nearby smith's shop in which he could begin his search. He would really get someone else to do this, but at the moment he felt queasy..and something to take his mind off the incident would be greatly appreciated at this point.

He entered the shop, a bleak, and tasteless one in his terms, but all smithy's would look like this if you had seen a king's arsenal. He strolled towards the counter where the clerk was scrawling on a piece of parchment and a girl stood on the counter, waiting.

He cleared his throat awkwardly

"You there, er..smith..did a courier swing by recently, bearing a tower shield that required some work?"

 

[Sir Basil]

Rhisiart let out a low sigh at the way that matters had proceeded within his office. He rubbed a hand across his face, dark curls slipping over his eyes. The magus tried to assure him that his ramblings were merely something that he would have to endure, that they meant nothing. His words seemed to cement Rhisiart's authroity, but the Guard-Captain felt less powerful than ever. He didn't know what was to be done - he mentioned the tunnels as a suggestion for the way to ferry in goods, if the city was to fall under siege, and now he was wasting resources exploring them. It was unnecessary. The guild and he may have been at odds, but ultimately, they would not fight government mandated rations. Not during a siege, during the years of this pestilence. The magus blamed the imperials. Rhisiart found himself disagreeing. It was not Imperial rule that caused pride and arrogance - or this desperate need for hysterical heroics. That was what Rhisiart saw from the Imperial Knight. Perhaps this need for heroism had come on the day that the man was knighted. It was possible. Knights may have fought monsters, but often, the knights were the monsters. And that was a sad truth of the world - one that Rhisiart had longed to disbelieve, but had ultimately been proven true. As a child, he had liked to dream of gallant knights. Now, the gallant knight that had been in his office was gone - and he had left because he had not been cast in the heroic light that he believed he deserved to be in. He had not been listened to. And there was nothing a Knight liked better than the sound of their own voice.

He didn't like what the magus said. He wasn't comfortable with the idea that he was the foremost commander. When the gates of his city were hacked down with crude hatchets and axes, the people would look to him, and they would find a monument of fear and uncertainty. Rhisiart's mind drifted. He found himself recalling a morning twenty years ago. He had been seven years old. Skinned knees and aflush with tears, he had fallen from the back of his pony. Rhisiart had been riding her through the streets, and when she had gone down a flight of stairs, she had jumped at the sudden shouting of vendors from the market ; she had thrown her rider. Rhisiart slammed into the cobbled patch, ripping holes in his new breeches and bloodying his knees. A baker's wife had found him weeping on the corridor's stairs, and she had rushed off to retrieve her husband, who in turn, went to retrieve Geraint. Rhisiart wept more fiercely for that, and begged them not to call his father. But bloody knees and a lost pony resulted in Geraint's arrival not an hour later. The Guard-Captain had rode into the alleyway on the back of his broad-shouldered black stallion. The horse's name was Umber, and fearsome to a fault. As his father approached on Umber's back, Rhisiart had shrunk away, slinking back. His father said nothing. He did not even dismount. Geraint Aneurin scooped up his son in his arms, and situated him on Umber's back. He threw down a purse to the baker and his wife, and then they rode off into the streets. Geraint said nothing, until they arrived back at home. Then, he slapped Rhisiart hard, once, across the face. His ears rung.

Geraint's chiding spun in his head now, in this moment. The exact nature of what Geraint had said was long lost to his son, but he recalled the meaning of it; what people saw first was what people would always see. And what they had seen, when he was seven years old, was his failure. They saw a child that could not even ride a pony. Failures were to be hidden, saved for private occasions. Appearances had to be maintained. And the first thing that Rhisiart had seen of this Imperial Knight - Wallace? - was a violent outburst. When Ison left the room, he could not help but think of his own father, trailing after him and trying to pick up the pieces of Rhisiart's latest disaster. It was too close to home, for the Guard-Captain. He opened his mouth to speak - to command Ison to stay in the room, but the Knight's uncle was already gone. And now, Gismere was going to leave too. Rhisiart cursed himself for mentioning the tunnels at all. This was all falling apart before his eyes. He cleared his throat once. No words escaped from his lips, and thus, he tried again, managing a small strangled sound. Everything was collapsing around him, and now his tongue was betraying him. His father's words crept into his head. "Words are wind, Rhisiart." He stared down at the map of the tunnels on the surface of his desk, for a moment. He brushed his fingertips against one of the bordered up passages, feeling the indentations in the vellum where the pen had pressed hard.

Rhisart tried again, and this time his tongue behaved. "Captain-Commander." He rose to his feet, and the chair made a loud squeak as he did. He cringed. How had his father always managed silence? "I don't want the fate of my city to hinge on the ego of one Knight. Perhaps there are additional preperations that you would have me make. I defer to your judgement."

 

[Namora]

​

Clarice Eryn Deveraux
Huntress of the Wilds; Rumored Witch

At her words the man looked at her in surprise, she looked back with her usual cold eyes as if to ask 'yes? problem?', perhaps she didn't seem like one to make decisions without being certain of her purchases and whatnot, and in truth usually she wasn't, however this was the only logical course of action. It wasn't as if she could go and try to put dents, gouges etc in any of his forged armor, no matter how beaten. If it became something that would permanently damage the piece that would prove to be far more costly than ten arrows that, if they didn't work to their purpose, could be used as regular arrows.
"You're sure? You haven't even tested the piercers…" Her trailing off, she nodded "Yes I'm sure, certain in everything I do. Their test will occur in the near future, and if they're not up to my standard you'll see me again."
She warned, not with a threatening tone, but simply as if she were stating a fact. Down the way there was an amount of shouting, she thoughts she heard the cry of a lady just before the commotion, but paid it no heed. That's what knights and such were for, yes? Taking care of the problems of the masses. She observed silently as he counted out the amount he was due with his fingers before letting out a sigh and turning to a spare piece of parchment and charcoal to write it out.

Eryn waited, pulling out her coin purse and placing it on the wooden surface, waiting in patient silence as she leaned against the counter. Not even five minutes after the commotion another entered, but as she heard the hinges of the door creak she didn't bother turning to look, his footfalls against the flooring were heavy but not enough to tell her he was by any means over or under grown, nor was he wearing armor, it suggested a male or a decently heavy woman and the latter was more likely. He cleared his throat awkwardly to announce his presence and catch their attention, her eyes flickered from her coin pouch in his direction but she didn't turn to face him.
"You there, er..smith..did a courier swing by recently, bearing a tower shield that required some work?"
He said, addressing the metal-worker with a gruff voice. She glanced over at the man, he was taller than her, as were most men, his features were broad and his body muscled and well built.

The man bore a tunic that, though rather dirty didn't state he was a commoner of any kind. He bore a rugged face with cold eyes holding tightly to arrogance and pride, one glance at his posture told her this man was a noble, even without his crest or exuberant clothes on display for all to see. Noblemen were obvious, they stood out like sore thumbs and carried themselves differently, shoulders back, head held high and eyes gleaming with various emotions... most of them anyway. Eryn had stumbled across a few in her days that were different, they saw things in a manner that to most of their kind would be considered flawed, but they were about as common as a blue moon.
"The man is in the middle of something, it's impolite to interrupt"
She said plainly, no malice in her voice or eyes, just something along the lines of boredom. She looked back to the blacksmith, quietly picking up her quiver and emptying the contents of a dozen slightly damaged and previously used arrows for the trade he'd suggested.

​

 

[Vexor]

Skjalar looked up when he heard the same voice as the outburst, seeing a man of a large stature, but who was still somewhat dwarfed compared to himself, and a noble to top it off.

He sneered at the man with enviable disdain, clearly thinking of various things he could say or do to him, but he contented himself with stating, "It's right behind you, you thrice-damned son-of-a-goat." His voice was eerily calm. The kind of calm one would associate with the quiet before a storm, or the watchful gaze of Death. "Take it, leave the payment, and get out."

He turned back to the woman and gathered up the arrows she dumped out. "Let's see, forty arrows… twenty ounces for each piercer, eight for the normal…" he mulled things over in his head a moment. "Plus the discount comes to about… Ninety-three ounces." He told the woman, not seeming to realize he'd lowered the actual price by a little less than twenty.

 

[Tanstin]

He was taken aback by the calm reprimanding of one of the customers, and even more so by the insult thrown in by the smith. Not less than minutes ago was a blade held at his throat for his actions leaving him befuddled. He wanted to retaliate, to punish him for such slander. However, he was not seeking a fight, and he fought against the urge to do so. His hand slowly went to a satchel of coins, maintaining eye contact with the smith, almost glare-like, but collected. He picked up a fistful of coins, holding them in his hand in the form of a vice grip. He stood there for some time, inspecting the shop and the smith, simply trying to construe how this would play out. The man had some sort of beef with him, that much was true, but the motive seemed all but known to him, perhaps his courier had been saying things behind his back, he would have a word with him later.

Wallace, being how he was now, would simply leave the money, take the shield and go. His agenda was indeed pressing, and he would like nothing more than to retire in his quarters. But he couldn't, his pride would not allow it. He could feel the heavy tension in the air and see that the man was a few notches bigger than him, but his mouth had opened, trying to remain as precise as he dared.
"So, the son of a goat am I?" His eyes wandered from object to object in the store. "Surely I am entitled to know why you think so."

He cared naught for the girl thinking she was more deserving than she should be, the way she spoke seemed to remind her of Gismere, only making him more bold, but all she was, was a child with a twig and a string tied to it in his eyes.

 

[Vexor]

Skjalar put a hand to his chin in a mock form of thought at the man's, most likely knight's, question. "Hmm… let's see… Noble blood, evidently, so you most likely had life handed to you on a silver platter, doing hardly anything, if not nothing at all, to earn the honors and privileges that you currently hold. Standard attitude of the higher class: Pompous, arrogant, ill-tempered, spoiled… Need I go on?" He asked, turning back to the knight, hoping he didn't ask. He didn't want to have to tell his whole life story but, he had to be somewhat gracious. The man was, after all, a technical guest in his home.

"Ah, and that outburst in Captain Aneurin's office certainly didn't improve my thoughts about you…"

 

[Tanstin]

He raised his hand as if ordering him to stop. He was contemplating quietly, however he seemed to have a smirk on his face. The room became unsettled before he started chuckling at him, which turned into plain laughter. After a moment, he stopped as if it ran on a pressing schedule, and he rose his hands by his side in a shrug like manner. "My friend, you know absolutely nil of what happened there, and you know zilch of the responsibility I carry. He stopped, letting that set in before he rose up like a storm

"Now tell me...why, why, Why the FUCK. WOULD I COME TO THIS SHITHOLE!? You think I came here to play chess with Aenurin?? Is that it? It's not like theres a horde of hollowmen coming to besiege this city, I apologize for following the king's orders, for surely you of all people know how to govern the kingdom. You talk about hard work, and your ascetic beliefs, yet I don't see you with the other militia and volunteers, maybe even donate some of your arms to the soldiers to assist the cause, but you are nothing more than a hypocrite. You think you would be more happy as a noble? When whatever settlements you govern turn to dust, people will look at you, and you alone, a weight that rests on your shoulders your entire life."

"Let me guess, you came from hard times, you're father was also a smith and he taught you what you know, I've traveled many leagues in my time, and I've seen many people like you. They, however..knew the role in which they were given."

 

[Vexor]

Skjalar glared at the stranger, doing his best to remain calm in spite of whispers starting to come forth from the corner he'd forced them into.

"Well, at least those others had the pleasure of knowing their respective fathers. My own? He ran off before I was born, leaving nothing but the sword in the corner over there. I've no idea if he was a noble or vagabond. And they, more likely than not, weren't spurred by everyone they came across, not just nobles either, although their kicks were much harder. And they didn't have to start their profession with naught but a knife and a tree stump. Nor did they have to suffer being called a coward as they were pelted with stones because they knew they could too easily kill the person if they fought back. Or be run out of town with a crossbow bolt in their calf when their ill mother died in their arms after taking care of her for three years, all because there were beginner's books on base magic and alchemy gathering dust on the shelf, and a nobleman, who thinks two plus two equals twenty-two is the one who thought that to be proof of guilt!" he didn't realize his voice was quickly escalating to a shout. "So, you tell me… Is it not reasonable for me to have some hatred toward your social class!? And I have donated my weapons to the cause! As well as myself! I will put myself on the frontline to defend these people! I would jump into the arms of one of those things if it would save even one of them! I'm still going to fight even though there is absolute zero chance that this battle will turn out in our favor!"

The whispers in the smith's head had grown to a loud roaring.

DON'T TAKE THIS DOG'S TRASH! RIP HIM APART! MAKE YOUR RAGE-FILLED FORM THE LAST THING HE EVER SEES!

 

[Freedom]

Orin let out a slow sigh, closing his eyes as if an atempt to calm himself. "I apologize. Such a reaction as 'twas mine should be deemed as innapropriate." He began. "One should not place the blame on all of such congregation due to the matters of one simpleto- ah, that is to say... member of an organization of such prestige as the Royal Guards." He said. He bowed a little as he addressed the two others in the room. "My sincerest apologies for my behavior." He said.

He rightened himself and looked out the window. "Now, if I may have your leave, I feel as thought I should get back to the rest of the ranks of the Magi. Final preparations had best be complete and if they aren't, the other magi will havequite the irritated Magus on their hands." He explained. "Are there any matters that either of you would wish for me to attend too?" He asked out calmly.

 

[Tanstin]

Oh, boo-hoo! I am so sorry for your losses and struggles, but I suppose every noble has to lick the bottom of your boot because you feel like you're entitled to our equity!? In my eyes, you are naught but a lost child looking for someone to blame. And it is ever more clear that someone has to teach you a lesson about what you are...

His hand almost went to his sword, to challenge him to a duel, but his mind shifted, flashing back to the rather unsettling scene of Ison and his warning, the weight of his actions represented his family, of course...Though he would regret this action, it would serve him better for now.

He stood silent for a moment.

"But that will not be me. a horde of monsters come by morning, and there is more pressing matters than to deal with the likes of you.

He tossed a pouch of coins onto the counter, grabbed his shield and left, only leaving a stain of ire that hung in the air.

On his mind, he had a small plan laid out for the rest of the day. He intended to head back to his quarters, have a small meal, rest, prepare and drill for the coming battle.

He will not fail when the time comes, He will not allow it.

 

[Buio]

Gismere noticed the quiet panic behind Rhisiart's eyes and offered him a small smile. The man was weak, but she did not hold this against him. Those who were born strong ended up like wallace, arrogant, boastful, and incapable of empathy for those of lower stature. It was weak men who rose to greatness, those who fought against their own inability and rose to the challenge because they had to, not because they simply could. They were the men who grew to be loved by the people beneath them, because their own weakness never let them forget how they needed to rely on others for strength, and never let them forget the suffering of those born less fortunate. A string man may rise to be a great warrior and hero, but a weak man could rise to become a king. She saw in the guard captain the resolve to show strength and determination even despite his own weakness, and she respected him all the more for it. The court could have used more men like him among their ranks.

"You've no need to worry yourself over Knight Daegran, ser Aenurin. I know General Ison's methods well, and just about now he should be putting the fear of the god emperor himself in our esteemed Lieutenant-Commander. I assure you that his ego will be well deflated come the battle. The preparations we have made thus far are entirely sufficient, if anything they are superfluous. All that you should concern yourself with now is giving your wearied mind some rest. We will need it at full attention come the battle tomorrow."

She then turned her attention to the young magus, who also requested her leave. "No, your duties have been fulfilled Ser Sylvari. If there is one things I would request, it is that you delegate some mages to join the guards on the overnight watch. Just a few should be fine, it is only a precaution to be put in place so we may have a warning if the enemy's magic reaches us before the enemy itself does. Beyond that the mages are free to rest and relax just as with everyone else so they may be fresh for the battle tomorrow morning."

 

[Namora]

​

Clarice Eryn Deveraux
Huntress of the Wilds; Rumored Witch

At the arrival of the noble, the blacksmith's demeanor changed in an instant. He'd stuck her as a quiet men, patient to a point and a bit on the slow side, but nice enough that she could overlook his lacking wit long enough to finish her business, however at the appearance of the other man he'd sneered, looking almost revolted. He was suddenly irritable and rude, she tried to ignore the look directed at the man behind her but at the remark he'd spewed her attention was caught. Such commentary, such a shift in how he acted and carried himself meant he'd taken a personal blow, most likely at the man's sudden appearance, for his words had seemed unaggressive to her. She with held a sigh of annoyance, men were men, she knew how this would play out, the two would continue to throw remarks they deemed clever or points that were valid in their minds at one another. She wouldn't bother coming between the two, she had better ways to spend her time rather than getting between some kind of pathetic means to prove superiority. She listened to the man grip a handful of coins, and then she counted down quietly, mouthing the numbers 'three', 'two', 'one'... on the final number the other man spoke and Eryn glanced back at him, irritated that she'd been right
"So, the son of a goat am I?" His eyes wandered about, falling on the girl herself for a moment, he gave her a look of indifference, shrugging her off as if she were not even present "Surely I am entitled to know why you think so."

They were off, and Eryn found her stomach knotted in annoyance, the girl should have been used to being treated as a wallflower or a decorative piece in a room rather than a person, she was a woman after all, however it irked her to be looked over and she couldn't fathom why... perhaps his nobility was the trigger, but on any normal occasion she wouldn't be able to give less of a damn of what he thought of her, she would shrug him off as he did her. She'd lived with being treated in such a manner, though it had always bothered her to be seen as lesser being she knew how society worked, and yet she had to force herself to remain quiet... Perhaps these last few days in town had forced her to adapt to the attention she drew to herself, with her appearance, clothing and all the like...This conclusion bothered her further, she had no wish to become accustomed to the stares and whispers, she simply wanted to return to her forest. The blacksmith turned his attention back to her, gathering the arrows and ignoring the noble for a short while in order to finish the business transaction she'd started, she was grateful for that much
"Let's see, forty arrows… twenty ounces for each piercer, eight for the normal…" She waited silently, trying to resist the urge to go about arguing the price with him "Plus the discount comes to about… Ninety-three ounces."
He stated calmly, turning back to the noble now while she gathered up payment. The price was higher than she would have though for such a small time shop, and so she made sure to check the calculations on her own while the two fought nearby.

She blocked out their voices, piecing together the information shortly and coming to the conclusion that his answer was flawed, however due to the price and her money-saving nature she didn't bother correcting his arithmetic... there was also the fact that wanted nothing to do with their bothersome issues and the arguments those arguments entailed, and correcting him would require further time here. She went about placing six piles of fifteen ounces on the counter and counting them out quickly as three coins per pile, she put the last three ounces on the side and then collected the arrows in her quiver. Leaving the men to bicker amongst themselves.
"Those piercers better work damn well to be twenty a piece"
She murmured as she left the shop, sounding almost tired. Hard as she'd tried not to hear she'd picked up quite a bit of what they'd said and now she was contemplating it much to her annoyance. She hadn't asked for anyone's life's story, she didn't give a damn and if she didn't the noble certainly wouldn't. People told their stories to get pity and pull on heartstrings, it made not sense to bring such a thing into a heated argument against one who would certainly show you no pity and display not a shred of empathy. Men... no... humans. They made no sense to her.




​

 

[Vexor]

Skjalar sighed in exasperation and took a moment to calm himself. "Once again, Skjalar, you let your past get the best of you," he muttered to himself. "And this time you throw it out there for anyone to hear, you foolish, foolish man…"

He moved to don his hood again, the voice still crying out for pain and bloodshed.

"Calm down!" he spoke aloud to it. "You'll have your fill soon enough." He removed his apron and tunic and reached for his axe, then thought better of it and grabbed the large, decorative-looking, yet highly functional greatsword that he'd pointed out to the knight, as well as the heavy decadent dagger he'd come in with, and walked out his door, on his way to first the captain's office, then the torture chamber to satisfy the beast within.

 

[Freedom]

Orin nodded. "Good. Thank you, Lady Grismere. I tend to get... frustrated when things aren't finished when they should be. " He said. "At your request, a few of the camerada of the Mages will join the watch. Ones personally delegated by me, of course. Only those trustworthy may help you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must finish with final preparations that are mine own and elect a couple Mages to your lines. You will hear from them within the hour." He gave a light bow to the both of them as he made his way to the door. "Lady Grismere, Ser Risihart, by your leave, I bid the two of you adieu. I shall see the both of you on the early morrow." He said as he closed the door behind him, making his way to wher he and the rest of the Mages and Magi were staying.