The Hunter & The Peddler

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Nogyseo, Jun 27, 2016.

Thread Status:
Not open for further replies.
  1. The castle walls were formidable, but for one hunter cloaked in green, the call of duty lead him to one particular barred window set low in the structure and leading to the dungeons underneath. Not to just any cell however, but the cell of an acquaintance of his; one who he knew to be innocent of the crimes they'd been blamed for. But, he couldn't get close, else the castle guard grow wary. He ducked backward toward the woods nearby and into the cover of the underbrush, nocked an arrow and let it fly. As it whistled through the air, the note in its charge fluttered in the wind. The arrow wedged itself between the window's bars, embedding its head in the space between the rocks of the wall. A mere few moments passed before a hand reached up to pry it from its spot.

    "I will prove your innocence," the note would be found to read. "I know just who to turn to. You are in good hands."

    Seconds later, the parchment and arrow were torn apart, thrown through the bars and swept away by the wind, no evidence left behind of their presence. The hunter was already gone, well on his way to the heart of town. He wore his bow 'round his shoulder to free up his hands, finally lowering his hood to reveal his short brown locks and golden eyes. He was rather short, himself--svelte and light on his feet--built perfectly for the stealth required of a hunter. Along the length of his leather quiver, etched in elegant characters was his name: Orwing.

    Where was he headed? To the town's port, where many a merchant had set up their stalls. He was looking for one very particular such peddler whose skills he would need to save the life of his prisoner friend. He'd heard of the magical armors sold at that stall, and knew the merchant had the skill to craft a relic with the power to prove his acquaintance's innocence. He only hoped he could be convincing enough to elicit the help, otherwise things would not be quite so cut and dry as he had lead the prisoner to believe. And that... would be a problem, indeed.
     
  2. Things in the port city of Westhollow were seldom quiet. As taverns quietened down in the early hours to clean up the messes of merriment and excessive mead from the night before, market stalls opened up, and in the evenings when the markets wound down, the taverns swelled with songs and stories and excessive quantities of mead. Inns were open all hours of course and seldom silent. Port Westhollow was the trading hub of the world, things going East or West usually came or went through the port and it had a thriving economy. Despite the discord taking hold elsewhere in the region, Westhollow seemed to escape largely unscathed, it did however, produce bountiful supplies for soldiers marching off to fight elsewhere.

    War greatly troubled Kevven Krey, the aged merchant who'd settled in Westhollow long, long ago. The sharp salty-sea air kept his lungs clear and the temperate climate eased the aches in his old bones. It was the perfect place for him to live out his old age, at least thats what he'd told himself 20 years ago when he suddenly realised he was old. In hindsight, perhaps he'd not been that old after all. Still, 20 years on, he started each day the same as the last, crafting up armours, repairing armour, he mended plenty of shoes as well of course, leather working was much the same whether it was a cuirass or a pair of worn shoes. He spent a lot of time experimenting and writing up ledgers of his tricks.

    The most recent war had been a long and bloody one indeed and Kevven was pleased to be well and truly removed from it. He started his day the same as any other, graoning and moaning as he shook his achey bones out of bed. The smell of a hearty breakfast in the kitchen seeped in to his room and he pulled himself up, using his cane to wobble down the short hall to find his apprentice humming over a cookfire with a heavy skillet filled with generous portions of meat and eggs.
    "Morning uncle Kevven" the young girl smiled, manipulating the food in the pan out onto some clay plates and setting them down onto the table.
    "Hope you haven't burned these again like last time" Kevven grumbled, prodding at the rubbery eggs cautiously. "I don't have enough teeth left to chew eggs made of leather!" he waved a fork at her.
    "Well I'll not get any better if I don't keep trying, besides, you said you were sick to the back teeth, if you had any, of having oatmeal." Kevven's apprentice stabbed at her own eggs and bacon with a brow furrowed in concentration.
    Kevven couldn't help being a crochety old fellow at his age, but it never seemed to dissuade his young apprentice, Laila of Northscar, a girl from the faraway northern city of Northscar, the northmost settled region in the world.

    It was impossible to mistake her for anything other than a northern girl, she was tall as a horse, pale as snow and about as hardy as a stone wall. Kevven didn't admit it in words, but the awkward but enthusiastic young woman brought a great deal of joy into what would otherwise be a very lonely life for him. He didn't know how someone so sunny could come from such a harsh, frigid region, but she seemed to find new ways to surprise him each day.

    With the eggs and bacon polished off, Kevven creaked his way back to his room to get dressed for the day, pulling on a thick leather apron over his clothes. Laila had already cleared away the dishes and opened up the shop.
    "Ready to work Uncle?" she asked with a smile, though Kevven wasn't her uncle, she'd called him nothing but Uncle and he'd happily taken her in as if she were his daughter. He didn't have one for himself, so he'd grown rather fond of her since she'd appeared in his life as a child many years ago.
    "Right, stoke up the forge, we'll continue where we last left off" Kevven instructed, easing into his chair. His old bones weren't what they used to be, fortunately Laila did most of the work, it wasn't easy work by any means, but she didn't complain. Most smithies took on young men as their apprentices, and the other crafters had mocked Kevven when he'd started teaching Laila how to tan leather as a young one, but she'd turned out to be a better man at the forge than all the other apprentice boys.
    Unlike other girls her age, she wore leather britches and a roughspun tunic, a far cry from embroidered gowns and chemises, but it didn't seem to make her any less beautiful. Her hair twisted in a long black braid down her back swayed like a tail as she shovelled coals into the forge, wiping sweat off her brow.

    Kevven watched her with the kind of pride a father had for his daughter, stroking a hand through his wispy grey beard, despite his age, his thinned out hair and beard managed to retain some flecks of brown from his youth. He had clearly been very handsome in his youth, and age had been rather kind to him, but he was very old indeed.
     
Thread Status:
Not open for further replies.