Finally managed to get the first part of my
turn 92 writeup done; decided to go for a bit more of a dialogue-based introduction this time.
c. 26th Hematite, 899It was early in the morning when a group of strangers came to the hamlet of Anguishrooted. They were three in number, all of them mounted on horseback, riding from the rain-lashed plains southwards of the small village.
The first of them was dressed in the manner of a noble gentleman, his clothing bearing the seal of some noble bloodline high upon the collar. His pointed beard, arched eyebrows, and broad grin lent a faintly devilish cast to his features, sharply contrasted by the marks of integrity and strength that dominated the rest of his expression. One of his ringed hands rested lightly on the handle of a finely-crafted iron longsword, while the other held a polished copper shield bearing the seal of Omon Obin’s Law-Giver.
At his side stood a tall, hooded young lady in the clerical dress of Bikda’s devotees, her pallid skin and hair contrasted by the deep sable of her roughspun robes. The gloved fingers of her left hand rested upon the leather-wrapped grip of a simple bronze shortsword, while her right clutched a small, dented copper buckler. Her robes shifted slightly as she ticked her head from side to side, amber eyes flicking warily across the snow-dusted buildings as the group advanced into the hamlet.
The other was a broken, savage reflection of her comrade. A deep scar ran from her forehead to her jaw, like a portrait crossed out in a fit of violent temper; her nose was a smashed stump, her mouth wrenched sideways into a permanent snarl, and her single eye stared out of the wreckage, as cold and grey as mountain stone. Across her broad shoulders she carried a mighty bronze axe, the head ground to a razor-sharp edge and speckled here and there with the residue of past battles, the notched haft a testament of the past battles and hardships she had endured in her travels.
Few came from their houses to greet the newcomers; those who did approached them furtively, as though fearing one of them would suddenly lash out and strike for daring to draw too close. Only one of the hamlet’s populace dared draw closer than arm’s length: a grim, grey-haired man of some sixty seasons, his skin mottled and lined with age. He looked up into the face of the group’s leader, expression tense with nerves and the effort of moving in the freezing cold.
“Greetings, sire,” The old man intoned, bowing his head toward the newly arrived group. “You… you are the Law-Giver’s soldiers?”
The inquisitor chucked lightly and responded, his voice tinged with the rich accent of Omon Obin’s old nobility.
“That they are, sir; lady Dubmith of The Feathered Creed,” He motioned toward the young, hooded woman, who responded with a slight nod. “And lady Thadar Charcoaltwists, of The Doctrines of Wax.” The axe-wielder sneered in reply, baring her teeth in a snarling, mock-friendly grin. Her fingers drummed up and down on her axe’s shaft, impatiently.
“I – I thank the gods that you have come, sir. My letter—”
“Yes, your letter did reach us.” The tall man answered his unspoken question with an almost airy gesture of the hand, liquid black eyes affixed upon the hamlet’s lord. “But it spoke only of foul occurrences and unexplained deaths, and not of the cause. So, my good man – what have we been called here for?”
“Th– there is a sorcerer within this village, sire.” The hamlet’s master mumbled, stumbling over his words in his haste to speak. “A man who has never left his house after he first came to this place. He – our milk was soured… Our animals died in the droves, by thrall attack and disease alike. His house carries the stench of poison and rot at all hours of the day. And his herbal mixtures – all who drink them, driven to maddened bloodthirst, like a thrall of the Blight! He—”
“My good sir,” The leader of the group cut the burgomaster off mid-stream, a note of hardness coming into his voice. More of the village had gathered, now, seemingly drawn in by the dialogue and the lack of an obvious threat. “As pleasant as this discourse has been, I dare hope you did not petition our aid to merely speak of malefic things. Where in this… charming place does the creature make its dwelling?”
“Here.” The master of the hamlet raised a finger, pointing to a single house’s door. It was marked with a simple ashen cross, in the manner of a house stricken by the Blight.
Gasin exchanged a glance with Thadar and Dubmith, then smiled slightly and nodded sharply toward the door. Thadar grinned, hefted her massive bronze axe upon one shoulder, and promptly delivered a strong blow to the door with base of the weapon’s shaft, accompanied by a thunderous bellow:
“Open this door, traitor!”
Several long, tense moments passed without so much as a peep from behind the weathered wooden door. The mob of villagers shifted and seethed uncertainly behind the trio, their mutters and whispers becoming a low, hissing tide in their ears. Thadar’s fingers drummed tensely on her axe’s bronze shaft; Gasin’s hand fell to the longsword at his side; Dubmith silently tightened her hold on the leather-wrapped grip of her copper-bladed sword, her entire body tensed in readiness to strike. Moments stretched out to minutes as they continued to wait, the gathering growing even more restless all the while.
Gasin was moments from ordering Thadar to bash down the door outright when it finally opened, revealing the house’s occupant: a middle-aged man in dirty, tattered clothes, reeking of dirt and herbal mixtures. Something flashed across his face at the sight of the three of them and the half-rabid mob behind them, but it was swiftly gone, replaced with a serene, welcoming expression more than likely intended to disarm their hostility toward him.
“Good day, sirs. What business brings you to my humble abode?”
“Kosoth Heatlions. By the authority of the Law-Giver, you stand accused of the practice of necromancy, and spreading the Obin Blight; of sealing a covenant with the dark Powers, and of performing diverse acts of sorcery and corruption through which you have afflicted the hamlet of Anguishrooted.”
There was a low rumble of agreement from the gathered villagers. Kosoth did his best to appear underwhelmed.
“Forgive me, sire, but I fear you and your companions have wasted a journey. I am no more than a mere herbalist. I garden; I create remedies and herbal mixtures.” He underscored his words with a gesture to the muddy ground beside the house, where a few plants’ shoots were beginning to poke up through the wet soil.
“Aye, I can believe that,” Gasin laughed, exchanging a look with the tall, hooded woman beside him. “A mixture of lies and black corruption is what you have created, and spread most subtly throughout this village.”
Kosoth resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The man antagonising him wore his smugness so plainly that Kosoth halfway expected him to take a bow. The crowd growled and muttered around him, a few shouting out half-incomprehensible accusations that were drowned out by the murmur. One of Gasin’s eyes twitched with impatience as he waited for the crowd to calm.
“I assure you, sir, that I bear no such malice toward you or any other person of this realm. Please, do come in that we might talk like civilized men.”
“Aye, we will certainly come into your house.” His liquid black eyes narrowed to slits as he moved closer, fingers dancing upon the hilt of his longsword. Dubmith and Thadar advanced with him, circling like wolves behind their master. “Though we would be fools to accept your hospitality.”
There – a tiny shift in his face, a twitch of the eyebrow and a tightening of the jaw. Kosoth’s face hardened as he spoke, but Gasin knew his words had drawn metaphorical blood. “If it is evidence of treachery and Blight you seek, you will not find it here.”
“But of course,” Gasin hissed, eyes flashing with lethal intent. His lips curled back into a shark-toothed grin. “No doubt the dark Powers with which you traffick have taught you much of how to conceal your arts.”
“Should you find whatever proof you seek, I am damned; should you fail, I am held to have concealed it and damned regardless?” Kosoth laughed aloud, cold and ringing. “And here I thought
I was the tricksy one! Your creativity does your delusions credit, sir, if nothing else.”
“You can conceal your apparatus, traitor,” Gasin’s grin was now much colder, an element of malevolence slipping into it. He was inches away from Kosoth, now, bringing with him the scent of iron and smoke. “But not your deeds.”
Gasin suddenly lunged forward, seizing Kosoth’s wrist with a gloved hand, pulling him out through the doorway and tearing the sleeve away from his arm in one smooth motion. The crowd gasped as one, staring at the markings on Kosoth’s rapidly prickling skin.
“Look upon this, gentlefolk!” Gasin crowed, jabbing a finger toward his captive’s bare arm. “The treacherous sorcerer’s mark, seal of his dark pacts! Who is to say how many vile spells he has cast upon you all already?”
Kosoth looked toward the discoloured skin a few inches down from his wrist. It still hadn’t healed after he’d spilled some boiling water on it, nearly two weeks back.
“This is madness!” Kosoth snapped. His eyes flashed across the villagers’ faces, but there was nothing upon them but hate, fear, and simple ignorance. “That’s a
burn, you fool; show me a cook or herbalist in this village without a similar mark!”
“Still he denies the truth, even with the evidence plain for all of you to see! Lies! Wicked lies!”
The mob roared at his words. Stones, mud, and animal dung began to fly, pelting Kosoth’s small cottage and spattering against his already dirtied robes. Gasin gestured grandly with a hand, his scarred compatriot stepping forward in response.
“Bind him, lady Thadar, while I search this treacherous creature’s lodgings. Whatever lies within, I fear, is to be a terrible sight indeed.” Gasin turned with those words, cloak swirling dramatically about his shoulders as he marched into Kosoth’s house. Thadar wasted no time in tightening a gauntleted hand around Kosoth’s throat, firm enough to keep him in place without cutting off his air supply. The mob seethed around them, pulsing and shifting about like a living thing.
Several long minutes passed before Gasin emerged from the house out into the wan daylight. While his grin hadn’t faded, there was now a more overtly predatory note to it, and a tightness to his features that would betray his feelings to a watchful eye as he marched toward the group again. Thadar’s grip on her prisoner’s throat tightened.
“Where is he?” Gasin asked.
Kosoth simply stared up at him, features betraying neither defiance nor panic. Gasin stepped closer, nodding sharply toward his companions. Once again, Thadar’s fingers tightened, bronze-clad fingers pressing against Kosoth’s windpipe.
“Speak,” Gasin commanded.
Kosoth merely cocked his head. Thadar let out a soft hiss of annoyance, tightening her grip once again.
“Speak.”
Kosoth did not. Thadar could feel his pulse through her fingers, now, pounding hard against the half-strangling hand wrapped around his throat.
“Perhaps, gentlefolk, this is a fool as well as a traitor!” Gasin called out to the villagers around him, seizing Kosoth by the jaw and forcing his head upright. “I will ask you again: Where. Is. He.”
It was only then that Kosoth reacted. He turned his head to stare at Thadar; his mouth opened to form words, yet not a whisper came out. She leaned in close to hear what he had to say, close enough that her breath could be felt on his impassive face. Thadar cocked her head to the side, a mocking smile coming across her face as she began to speak.
“Wh-”
Without warning the man jerked his head forward, driving a strong headbutt into the side of her head. Grunting in pain, Thadar staggered backward into Dubmith and collapsed in an ungainly tangle of limbs with an undignified yelp, head ringing like a bell from the sudden impact. Kosoth wasted no time in surging forward toward Gasin, the gleam of a wickedly sharp iron carving knife appearing in one hand as he scrambled over the debris on the floor. Gasin swore aloud and reached for his sword, fingers closing around the leather-wrapped handle the exact moment that the knife buried itself up to the handle between his ribs.
Kosoth bared his teeth in savage triumph, only for the expression to be literally wiped off his face as a hard blow from Thadar sent several teeth flying from his gums. Her features pulled into a tight mask of fury, the axewoman wasted no time in driving punches repeatedly into Kosoth’s chest and face, striking every inch of available flesh with her copper-mailed fists. Bone cracked and blood flew as the metal rings caught against exposed flesh, sending her master’s attacker sprawling to the dirt floor. She fell on him, snarling and spitting curses with every breath, rolling about in the mud as her target regained his bearings and started fighting back.
Around them, chaos reigned supreme. The villagers had been strung to the pitch of violent panic by the discovery of a Blight-making traitor in their midst; the witch-hunter’s theatrical manner and the spectacle of the whole affair had further stoked their emotions to a turbulent boil. The sudden violence was enough to pitch them wholly over the edge; within moments of Gasin’s fall the crowd devolved into a thrashing mass of bodies as people rushed this way and that, many trying to rush away from the vicious brawl and bowling one another over in their haste to get away. A few, braver citizens remained, making half-hearted motions to push through the crowd and seize Kosoth, but none truly daring to come within striking range of the thrashing pair upon the ground.
Dubmith swore aloud and pushed herself upright, shoving her way through to where Gasin was slumped on one knee. His face was fixed in a grimace of pain, jaw tightly contracted as he pressed a shred of cloth against the ragged wound in his side. Murmuring an old mantra to herself, she rapidly withdrew a medicinal poultice from one of the pockets of her robe, pressing the herb-soaked cloth gently against the weeping cut.
A few long moments passed before Gasin pushed himself upright, gritting his teeth slightly as Dubmith moved to support him with one arm. He blinked a few times, swaying unsteadily as he tried to regain his footing. “I… It will be alright. My wound is not serious.”
Dubmith seemed sceptical, but nodded her head in the affirmative nonetheless and moved with her master, helping him limp over to where Kosoth lay on the ground, pinned in a half-strangling headlock with Thadar’s armoured knee on his back. She looked up at his approach, giving him a tight nod before wrenching her captive’s head upright to stare at the towering figure of Gasin. Kosoth shot him a look of mingled defiance and hatred in reply, making sure to spit at him before Thadar let out an irascible growl and slammed his head back into the muddy ground.
“This
creature,” He announced, some of his earlier bombast returning. “Is a plague. Left alone, he will bring blight and death down on us all. And as any physic shall tell you, gentlefolk, there is only one sure way to prevent blight.” He turned to the hamlet’s population, cautiously watching on now that the sudden fight was done. Gasin felt an involuntary smile come to his face as he spoke the next words. “Fire.”
The hamlet was grey with ash and smoke. The frequent rains of Omon Obin were having little effect on the stubborn coating of ash and the cloying, acrid scent of charred flesh and burnt wood, even after an hour or two of constant downpour. It was the peasants’ own damn fault – they’d been far too enthusiastic to deliver justice to the traitor in their midst, and the bonfire had been all too large. Most had returned to the safety of their simple homes by now, exhausted by the events of the day.
Four remained behind despite the constant drizzle of half-frozen rain, standing at the edge of the ashes where the pyre had stood. Gasin was upright and moving, though his midsection was wrapped with bandages and his clothes soaked through. Dubmith and Thadar flanked him, the latter standing ready to support him if the wound in his side began to trouble him. Just behind the group was the village’s mayor, who kept coughing and spluttering as the drifting grey flakes caught in his throat and nose.
“I thank the Lady you came here, ser.” The peasant mumbled, wringing water out of his tattered cap. Gasin seemed not to hear him, his eyes fixed on the charred circle where the pyre had stood.
“Odd, wasn’t he?”
“Beg pardon, ser?”
“The traitor.” Gasin placed a hand to his chin, speaking more to himself than anything else. His brow was furrowed in open consternation and thought. “Usually, they’re raving madmen bent on dying for some imaginary glory, or cowards that break in moments. But this one…” He shook his head. “Didn’t want to give up a thing, did he?”
“No, ser. Must’ve been in thick with the wicked powers, to the very end.” The old man shuddered and touched a hand to the symbol of Otu Lovelycherished hanging around his neck, whispering a prayer as he did so.
Gasin’s clenched jaw twitched. He’d hoped that his methods would have brought his quarry out of hiding, or at least provoked Heatlions into spilling his guts. The pressure of a half-crazed mob and the grand bombast of his performance was usually enough to unnerve his quarry, to the point where most were confessing long before the first fire was lit. But this one had been too stubborn, too defiant for even the threat and deed of the pyre to open his lips.
Now he was left with nothing to interrogate but a pile of cooling ashes, and no leads of proper substance to pursue. Whatever evidence might have been in the house had been hidden so well even he couldn’t find it, and the fire that had swept through the village had reduced it to a charred shell. There was nothing more he could do here.
Gasin sighed aloud, turning carefully in place to face the village’s master.
“Well, our duty here is concluded, my good sir.” He intoned, already limping away from the ashes. His compatriots trailed behind him, Dubmith hanging back to give a more polite farewell to the man, Thadar marching beside him with her axe in her hands and a belligerent scowl on her face. Clouds of grey dust and ash drifted around them with every step they took.
Once they were out of earshot and sight of the village’s remaining inhabitants, Thadar let loose with her frustrations, hammering the heavy bronze blade of her axe into a nearby tree-trunk.
“Six weeks!” She practically exploded, levering the axe free and immediately sending a second swing into the frosty bark. Chips pinged off her armour. “Six damned weeks, and our only lead goes up in flames! Poxy, worthless sons of --!”
“Calm yourself, ‘dar.” Dubmith grumbled, setting herself down on an old tree-stump and propping her head up with one hand. She shifted uncomfortably as the hard wood dug into the bruises along the back of her legs and hips. “This is a setback, nothing more.”
Thadar swung around to face her comrade-in-arms, eyes ablaze beneath her leather cap. Her furrowed face, fixed into its usual ruined scowl, was twisted with further frustration and smeared with ash from the burned houses as Thadar marched to stand nose-to-nose with the smaller woman.
“And how,” she ground out, voice thick with sarcastic bite, “do you suggest we proceed from here, little Dubmith? Can you create a trail from thin air, that we might continue to track our quarry? Have you some hidden pouch of clues, or a scroll to magically enlighten us to where we should go next?”
Dubmith closed her eyes, breath hissing out between her teeth as she fought to restrain her temper.
“No, but your anger will do nothing but delay!” She jabbed a finger toward Thadar’s ruined, snarling face as her compatriot stepped closer to her. “If the trail is lost, we must find it again.” And then, to the nobleman leading them: “Ser Crewcanyons, surely there was some clue or evidence within the traitor’s abode?”
Gasin sighed aloud. As if putting on that theatrical performance earlier was not tiring enough, there was now growing a deep, throbbing pain behind his eyes that was about the same size, shape, and volume as one Thadar Charcoaltwists.
“Aye,” He said, firmly. “We are not off their trail yet.”
At Thadar’s incredulous look Gasin carefully reached into his pack and withdrew a thin volume, bound in tattered leather and held together with crude stitching. He tapped a finger against the cover. “We have the thread that shall lead us to the traitor’s hearts.”
“I cannot say I follow your words, sire,” Dubmith rose from her stump, peering closely at the cover. Her features creased in confusion for a few moments, before suddenly alighting in realisation. “Ah! A journal?”
“The
traitor’s journal, my comrade.” The edge of Gasin’s mouth quirked into an expression that might have been mistaken for a smile. “And in it, our very next destination.”
Author
Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05) (Read 475231 times)