Oneiroscope on 1/11/2003 at 05:39

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{OOC: Feeling guilty about so many long posts today!:o Anyway, here's another.:sweat: }

Oliver sat in the Dead Burrick and downed a flagon of the barkeeps “best” ale in a single swallow. Pathetic stuff. Tasted more of urine than hops. Oliver’s face screwed up as he fought the urge to vomit. He sent a small prayer to the Builder that the steak at least would be from a cow, and the eggs from a chicken.

“Hey fatso!” came a loud voice. “HEY FATSO!” One of the men, a farmhand by the look, had obviously been drinking more of the beer than was advisable, especially this early in the morning, and apparently his brain had rotted. “I’m talkin to YOU, fat man!” The man erupted into laughter, he was joined by his friends. All of them equally impaired and spoiling for a fight. Oliver pretended they did not exist. He had been having a bad enough time in the countryside without adding to it by spoiling his breakfast. Dark mutterings came from the bar.

Finally the barkeep appeared with Oliver’s steak and eggs. It smelled heavenly. Quite divine. By the Builder, he had found a decent meal in these cursed wilderlands after all! Offered the man his flagon back. “Brandy, good sir? I…assume you do have such?” The barkeeps eyes widened slightly.

“Yes milord, but it do cost a pretty penny. Keep it special for the son of Lord Bagmoor, I do.” Oliver allowed a look of slight distaste to cross his corpulent features, instantly endearing the barkeep, who‘s daughter had repeatedly been on the unwanted receiving end of Drivid‘s attentions.

“Well, perhaps it will prove acceptable despite that.” This phrase convinced the barkeep that Sir Oliver must be an angel of the Builder himself. The barkeep disappeared down to the cellar to fetch a golden bottle for his now beloved friend. Oliver turned back to his meal, but found the table knife too dull to do much damage to the beef.

A huge boot, encrusted with all manner of mud, manure, and even bits of straw slammed onto his table. Oliver looked up. This was growing very tiresome. The farm boy had one boot on the table, and was leaning toward Oliver in a most familiar manner. On his stupid face was a look of utter joy mixed with seething hatred.

“What’s a matter, fatso? You deaf? Got fat in your ears, do you?” At this the man looked to his compatriots with a grin. “You scared, piggy?”

The steak was indeed a bit tougher than Oliver had hoped. The knife simply refused to cut! Setting down his utensils, and with a studied look of bored indifference at the idiot, Oliver reached under the table and produced his sword. It was no average blade. It was a flamberge.

The serpentine blade was five feet long, with a huge purpleheart handle stained with many years of use and big enough for three hands, studs encrusted the hilt and pommel. This was a machine of death. Oliver casually slid the blade along the tough meat, slicing it effortlessly into thin strips as the farm boy watched goggle-eyed. Slowly the antagonist realized that the man who so easily lifted a blade that size in one hand, and could deftly slice meat so thinly without a single wasted motion, might be more than the fat merchant he appeared to be.

“S-s-sir Oliver?” The man was trembling.

“Why, yes! And who might you be, good sir?” Oliver’s voice was cheery, his eyes sparkled with friendship and warmth. As the man stuttered apologies and tried to back away from the table without turning his back to Oliver, a grizzled man in the uniform of the Bagmoor guard appeared at the door. And what portent might this perchance be? The man looked longingly at the bar, seeming to wrestle with himself. Oliver was not certain whether the man would enter or turn and run.

The knight waved the farm boy away, much more interested in his meal and the guard. The face was familiar, somehow. Where had he seen him? He associated the face with some unpleasantness. In Oliver’s mind he saw darkened streets, rain, the docks. Ah, the Downwinders. That time I arrested the assassin Fardin. This man‘s name was…. Denny. No, no. Benny, that was it. The chap looked a bit worse for wear. Suddenly a Hammer entered and caught Benny’s arm.

“Benny, if you still want to come with us you must come now.” Benny gave a sad nod, and with a last look around the bar, turned and left with the Hammer. Oliver shrugged.

The steak might have been tough, but the seasoning the barkeep used was wonderful! Just the thing to cheer him up after the long days of futility. He was hunting the murderer that stalked the fens. Apparently whoever… or whatever…it was had been active for many years in these parts. Many folk just disappeared without a trace. A few were found in quite grisly condition. The past two weeks had been fruitless. No leads, no clues. Only stories about an old Lord of the Keep called Harden.

Acorn on 1/11/2003 at 09:09

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{Thanks!:cheeky:}

Four figures were approaching the West Gate on horseback, and Corporal Grud stood--dusting his knees and straightening his uniform--from his crap game with the traveling salesman, "That's enough!" he said gruffly, tossing the dice at the man and pocketing the money he had left. It was just as well that he got back to work anyway. He was loosing his ass to this chizler. The dice were probably loaded anyway, he glanced steely eyed at the skinny man who fidgeted nervously then collected his case of merchandise, tipping his hat in farewell to the scowling city bull and striding quickly to a nearby tavern for friendlier play.

The travelers arrived at the gate looking worn out and dusty and Grud stepped out before them, blocking the open gateway and shaking out his log scroll. He wet the tip of a pencil on his tongue and surveyed the small group and their pack animals with a discerning eye. The other guards looked on without interest from the adjoining guard station, busily discussing the dates they would have later with supposedly beautiful women.
"Harumpf! Welcome to Waterfield city." Corporal Grud stated boredly,"I am required to record all your names and the reason for your visit by order of his lordship the Baron Fitz-Caplin." He stepped up to the front rider, a strikingly attractive woman in a gold embroidered red dress of noble cut perched astride a tall dun stallion, and bowed his head to her touching his forehead with one hand in the manner of the local commoners. "Your name your Ladyship, if you please?"
Acorn's smile was sunny as she gazed down on the man. This would be even easier than she had thought. She reached into her purse and drew out a few shining gold coins, working a bit of magic into them as she passed them over to the poppeyed guard who took them reverently. More pay than he'd see in a month. The spell on the coins would cause him to forget they had passed that way before it wore out.
"Thank you kind sir." she purred, capturing all of his attention. "My name is Lady Orwell of the Orwells of Goldstein wood. I and my entourage have journeyed a great distance to visit Lord Breckenstaff, a very old and dear friend of the family who lives within this fine city."
"Ah, good. Good." The soldier scribbled at his list.
"And these are my men, sirs Kestril, Celtic, and Garrett." Acorn continued helpfully.
Garrett winced at the mention of his name. Perhaps he should have coached the noblewoman with a few lies before they reached the town, he would remember that the next time. Honest folk never knew just what it was best to lie about.
The scribbling guard looked up into the unremarkable face of the black clad man sitting tall upon the big black charger, with a dim light of recognition in his eyes, "Garrett... Haven't I heard of you...? Maybe we've met somewhere in town...."
"I doubt it." Garrett replied hautily, "And the name is SIR Garrett. Of Nightshades..dale....ton. And I never hang out with "guards"." he sneered looking away disinterestedly and fiddling with the hilt of the sword that hung beside a large black purse affixed to his belt.
The corporal colored slightly and frowned, but concluded his duty quickly inspecting the pack horses for proscribed fruits, vegetables and illegal drugs finding none, and with a salute to the Lady waved the party forward into the city.
"Whew!" Celtic wiped his sleeve across his forehead in relief, "you were playing things a bit heavy there weren't you SIR Garrett?"
"The guy clued in to my name" He replied irritably glancing over at Acorn who now wore a fixed smug expression but stared strait ahead focusing on guiding her horse through the crowded streets. No doubt considering his trouble at the gate to be the just deserts of the criminal class. Garrett resolved to clean her out as soon as this mission was over with. "I've noticed from observing the mannerisms of the upper class over the years, that servicemen will deal most quickly with the ones who are the snottiest, figuring that if they can't punch the bastard in the teeth like he deserves, they can at least pass their problem quickly on to someone else and be done with it."
Acorn chuckled drawing a vindictive glare from Garrett.
"This way." Celtic interjected, turning his mount down a side street toward the center of town.
"Aren't we going the wrong way for the park entrance?" Garrett asked, looking back the other way.
"Not in daylight." Kestril replied. "There are other entrances to our halls than the ones you know of Garrett. Perhaps if you were to rejoin the order, you might become privy to all our secrets..."
"No thanks, pal." Garrett smiled, "Work may occasionally be lean, but atleast I can say I'm a free agent."
"No one is." Celtic replied solemnly, "My brother, I should think that you understood that by now..."
"I just 'understand' one thing-" Garrett began.
"We are here." Kestril announced and rode up ahead of them. He dismounted and lead his horse to the caretakers of a stable right across from the big city Library, handing a tall lad a small purse of coins. The rest dismounted and handed off their mounts in silence lifting what they needed from the backs of the packhorses. Then following Kestril and Celtic who strode purposfuly in the direction of the Library building.
"Hey, I broke into this place once.." Garrett remarked as they scaled the stone steps to the front entrance of the great hall that was the city's center of knowledge.
"We know." The two keepers replied flatly in unison.
"Is there any place you haven't broken into yet?" Acorn asked, still much amused and curious at the activities and apparently large reputation of this very determined thief.
"Yeah," Garrett grinned, "The Bernard Daily Insurance Society, and Waterfield First City Bank. Well, the bank no more than once. And that was quite a while ago..." he trailed off as if considering pulling a new job right that minute.
Acorn coughed covering her alarm, and resolved to avoid the wisecracks for the time being.

yubetcha on 1/11/2003 at 09:41

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The drunk farmhand staggered back to his friends. "Ah well (hic). I didn wanna hur himf anywaysh (hic)".
Dake replied, " Aw, yer nod (hic) foolink ush aanyyy. Put yer dresh bag ond! Ah'll tag care ovv thish ".
Dake staggered over to the man who was using what seemed to be overkill on his meat. Oliver didn't need to turn around to know that someone was standing next to him. The smell emanating from his breath was enough to announce his presence. Without turning around, Oliver calmly said, "Ya know, I really get tired of wiping the blood off of this flamberge. I have had to do it at least three times in the last two days. But it sure does give the meat a flavor all of its own, if I don't clean it well".
With that, the drunk vomited on the floor. He passed out, falling to the floor with a thud.
Yui watched with amusement from a shadowed table in the corner. He always picked such a table so that he could keep an eye on the room, and he liked the comfort of shadows. The last time that he had placed his back to the crowd, a flying half full bottle during a brawl knocked him unconscious. He also preferred to keep the other eye on the door, in case a familiar guard entered who might recognize him. He wanted as much advance warning as possible.
Dake's friend at the other table was also watching, but not with amusement, Yui surmised. Yui could see the scowl on his face. The friend brought out a throwing dagger and prepared to throw it in Oliver's direction. Yui reached over to the nearby table and hit him with his blackjack, which he nicknamed Fluffy. The man sprawled across the table, and then fell to the floor. Oliver, hearing the commotion, looked over to Yui, and then to the man lying on the floor, unconscious. He then saw the dagger, still in the man's hand. Putting two and two together, Oliver swallowed his last bite of meat, and then walked over to Yui, stepping over the passed out Dake. Yui didn't know what to expect, and placed an unseen hand on his dagger. He liked to be prepared for anything whenever possible. When he saw Oliver's outstretched open hand, Yui released the grip on the dagger, and shook his hand. Oliver spoke first.
"Thanks, fella, but you didn't need to do that. This one was so drunk that he probably couldn't hit anything he aimed at."
Yui replied with a grin, "Yeah, I figured as much, but the dagger probably would have bounced off of a wall. I hate to see a perfectly good throwing dagger go to waste". Yui's grin became wider.
Yui suddenly felt eyes in the room piercing him, which made him feel uncomfortable. He gestured to a chair. "Sit down and take a load off."
Oliver walked back to his empty plate, and grabbed his glass of ale. He then walked back to Yui, sitting down. They talked about many things, including the weather, and the local burrick races. They were soon joined by the barkeep, nicknamed Peek. Peek was going to ask how Oliver liked his meal, but hearing the men talk about the races, he joined in. Peek brought out a picture from his pocket. It was of a burrick. "I used to own a racing burrick. This picture was taken after winning the Wimbeldon Downs." To a look of surprise from the other two, he continued. "His skeleton is outside in my buggy. See, I was out of town for three weeks. My uncle was caring for the burrick and this establishment, when he became sick and died. The burrick, not my uncle." Peek could see that Yui was in disbelief. "Come. I'll show you. It's nothing out of the ordinary, really. I was taking the skeleton to bury it." They went outside, where Peek held up the skull in the morning light. "Poor burrick. I knew him well".

yubetcha on 2/11/2003 at 00:56

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{{OOC: Thanks for the welcome. I appreciate it. Everyone here is fantastic at writing, BTW. Did that part about the poor burrick sound like Shakespeare? :D }}


Yui enjoyed exploring, adventure, and the feeling... the pump of adrenalin... that one gets from generally being where they shouldn't be, but he didn't want to seem too anxious. Besides, everyone, it seemed, has secrets, and Yui was no exception. What are Oliver's secrets, pray tell?
"Well.... tsk... I dunno. Can I think about it?"
"Sorry, I need to know now. Another person could die at any time".
Yui, seeing passersby, waited for them to disappear into the Dead Burrick, before continuing. It would also give him the seconds to mull over the question.
"What would be my duties?"
"Finding information any way you can. That's all. You interested?"
"Well, I guess I could give it a shot. Where do I start?"
At that point, Yui thought he saw someone in a shadow around the corner of a nearby building, but when he looked more intently, he could see no one. He wondered if he was becoming too paranoid, or if someone was really there.

Oneiroscope on 2/11/2003 at 03:05

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{OOC: Welcome to the thread yubetcha! Meant to say so in my earlier post.}

Nathaniel opened the Lord’s chamber door with his eyes darting into the corners, examining every shadow. Nathaniel was a small man. Slight. His eyes were black, as was his boyishly unkempt hair, he wore thick black robes, and the few who knew him often said his heart matched the color scheme. A thick sweat covered his painfully thin body mostly due to the exertion of his long run from the village, but also because of terror. The terror was nothing new to Nathaniel. Since he had been a child, fear had been his constant companion. But fear often made one capable of things that others might blanch at. Seeing no one, the frail-looking man gingerly entered. It took him some moments to find the courage to speak.

“Master?” The word disappeared into the thick tapestries that covered the walls and divided the huge room into smaller segments. The Lord liked tapestries. Unfortunately he also liked darkness, at least in his bedchamber. Only two candles lit the room, leaving vast swaths of darkness that always gave Nathaniel the shivers. And what the tapestries depicted! Every vice and degradation possible. All priceless examples of the art, but perhaps only the Lord would display them so openly.

Nathaniel went further into the room. Perhaps the Lord was out? Then maybe a note would convey all that was necessary. The idea was so inviting that Nathaniel decided it had to be the case. He made his way through the labyrinth and found the master’s desk. The desk was of ancient oak, glossy dark red and black bearing the scars of many years use. On the leather blotter lay a sheaf of blank vellum, nect to many pages that bore the Lord’s cryptic writing. A gigantic black quill protruded from an inkpot. Nathaniel sighed, a small smile touching his girlish lips. Relief flooded in. A note. Much easier than actually having to adress the Lord directly.

“Hello, Nathaniel.” The voice of the Lord was soft and burbled like one of the countless small streams that networked the fens. The stench of rot hit Nathaniel like a sledgehammer. Also the rusty smell of blood. Nathaniel could not bring himself to turn and face Lord Harden.

“Milord. I have…I have seen someone in the village. A knight. He is hunting us.” Nathaniel was amazed. Somehow despite the abject fear of being in the Lord’s presence, he was capable of speech. He had not even wetted himself yet.

“How… interesting. He is from the City, yes? An outlander? Of course he is. How silly of me. Sometimes I think my brain must be rotting.” At this the Lord broke into a slow chuckle that sent a trickle down Nathaniel’s leg. Nathaniel closed his eyes and sobbed.

“Oh, Nat. I am so disappointed in you. You’ve wet my carpet again. I suppose I must refresh your training. Or perhaps further modification is in order.” At those words Nathaniel whimpered pitifully, but he knew better than to beg. A clammy, bloody hand more maggot than meat caressed Nathaniel‘s cheek from behind. “It saddens me so that to work in the village you must conceal my improvements with these robes. You are a unique work of art, Nat. All my subjects are. But it seems you are not yet finished.” The hand left Nathaniel’s cheek, leaving a bloody smear that mixed with his freely flowing tears. “But first, go tell the others. Tell them I wish to speak to them."