Okay, big news. No more applications. Whilst the multi-author thing is awesome, I just can't support any more sub-plots, nor characters. I've got everyone else's worked out and I have an idea of how to tie them together, but I can't support any more characters and so don't bother trying to ask for one. Sorry. If the people who requested characters but haven't had them turn up yet are freaking out, fear not:
The Golden Arrow
“What?” said Oldbeard angrily. “You’re only sending me, Humaan and Forrest to go after those bastards? Why?”
“Well,” said Barbarossa, sitting in front of Oldbeard. “They’re all I can spare, really. You said yourself that the reason those people attacked us was because we were shortlisted by this warlord. What’s his name, by the way?” he asked, turning to Bjorn, who was standing behind him.
“No-one knows. He likes to keep it a secret. Call him warlord, anyway,” he replied.
“Okay. Well, me, Workerdrone, Kogan, Bromrek and Bardbeard are heading over there in ten minutes, before his herald gets here. I hate heralds. I wouldn’t even be letting you go were it not you that made the damn thing. From what you told me, it’s loud, dangerous and prone to mishaps. But, then, you made it, so I trust you when you say that it’ll help us. Go, and if you’re looking for us, hopefully we’ll be in audience with the warlord,” said Barbarossa. He turned and began to climb the stairs to the rooms above. Oldbeard watched him go.
“It’s not that I don’t respect the lad,” he said after a while. “It’s just that I think him a bloody fool.”
Both Humaan and Forrest came down the stairs and looked at him.
“Gear up lads, we’re headed for a fight,” he said. Both dwarves turned and went to get their weapons.
Barbarossa’s room
Barbarossa sat on his head and ran his hands over his face, sighing heavily. It had been quite a night. Hell, it was almost dawn. He looked up, thinking about how he’d present himself and jumped back in shock. Bromrek was standing right in front of him.
“Sir!” he said, saluting.
“What the – how the hell did you get in here, Bromrek?” asked Barbarossa, returning the salute.
“Window sir!” said Bromrek. He dropped his salute. “Uh, I’ve got something to tell you sir.”
“Yes?” asked Barbarossa.
“I’m an assassin. For the king sir. I was attached to your squad to snoop out rebels,” Bromrek looked awkward. Barbarossa grabbed the hilt of his sword, but Bromrek put a hand out.
“Sir, I’m a deserter. The king was mad and after I learned he was dead, I cut all ties with him. He… knew about this place, you know,” he said.
“He what?” said Barbarossa, in shock.
“He occasionally exchanged messages with the leaders here. He didn’t reveal the existence to the council because they would have pushed for war and the king was terrified of war. Listen, I’m telling you this because I have contacts here. I need to reach them soon. So here,” he said, taking his axe out of his backpack. “I call him Reaper. And it is a him. It’ll be disconcerting at first, but you’ll get used to it. I won’t be needing him. Consider this my resignation, sir.”
With that, he saluted and jumped out the window. Rushing over, Barbarossa looked out but didn’t see a shape on the ground below him. Turning, he looked up and saw a shadow disappearing over the edge of the roof, outlined against the rising sun. He shook his head, threw ‘Reaper’ into the corner and went downstairs. Oldbeard had left, but there was a man and a dwarf downstairs who hadn’t been there before.
“You’d be Barbarossa?” said one.
“Yes?” he said, carefully.
“We’ve come seeking employment,” said the other.
Barbarossa sighed. Was he ever going to get to this warlord? He slumped into a chair.
“Alright,” he said. “Backstory. Weapons proficiencies. Names.”
The first man introduced himself as Galdon Mezoran. Barbarossa listen with, he had to admit, fascination as Galdon spun his tale. He told of his time as a sailor on his families ship, smugglers the lot of them, this being a rather common profession, where he learn the importance of relying on others and rather more importantly, how to crush another person skull with a mace. Of how came into his home port to find it beset by invaders, how his family and friends were cut down and he and the survivors given a small, leaky ship and sent on their way. Of how he became captain and, eleven years later, at the age of 28, came back to his home with a mercenary fleet and army that he purchased through eleven years hard work, killing the invaders and setting the survivors off to sea in a small, leaky boat, in a moment of poetic justice. How he denied becoming mayor and instead left to pursue the life of a mercenary. When he finished, Barbarossa shook him by the hand and welcomed him to the group. He smiled, and headed upstairs. Barbarossa turned to the dwarf and raised an eyebrow.
“I’d assume you’re a native?” he asked.
“Native to what?” said the dwarf.
“This land,” replied Barbarossa.
“There aren’t any other lands, are there?” said the dwarf, looking confused for a moment. “Is that a trick question?”
“Ah. Right, tell me your story,” said Barbarossa.
“Well, name’s Urist name’s Urist Erithshorast. Left my home mine at age 15, took my fathers axe. The crotchety old bastard didn’t have much use for it and I’m pretty damn good with an axe, if I do say so myself. I figured I’d make more money as a merc, instead of some kid working in the mines. I’ve kinda lost track of time since then, but I’ve been drifting from company to company. I thought, maybe it’s time to pick on and stick with it, and here I am. You fellas are making a name for yourselves.”
“Well, that all sounds pretty good. But how are you with an axe?” asked Barbarossa.
“I’ll show you,” replied Urist. He unslung his axe and held it at the ready.
“Hey, what the hell are you planning now, you little bastard?” called the barkeeper.
“Just a friendly thing, no need to worry,” called Barbarossa.
“Well when dawn comes I’m getting my boss in here. You little buggers aren’t staying here again if I have anything to say about it!”
“Pillock,” muttered Barbarossa under his breath. He drew his sword.
Urist moved towards him, slowly. Barbarossa jumped towards him, and twisted the sword upwards, to knock the axe out of the way. Urist moved to the side and swung, an attack that Barbarossa blocked. It continued in this way, advance, attack, block, counterattack, until Barbarossa called him off and declared him a worthy opponent.
“Upstairs, get aquatinted, if anyone’s awake,” he said. “And tell Olon, Kogan and Bardbeard to get down here. Ask around, you’ll find them.”
The city streets
Both Humaan and Forrest were annoyed. They hadn’t had much sleep. First, Workerdrone’s place had exploded, then there had been some sort of bar brawl and then Oldbeard had started blazing away with the very thing they were trying to reacquire, not one block away from where they were sleeping.
“Why is this crazy bastard tagging along?” complained Humaan. Behind them, Crazyface giggled softly to himself.
“I like him, he shows respect. Also, he just followed and I didn't have the heart to tell him to leave,” said Oldbeard. He had a fair idea of where the Godly Swords were based. He had a plan. It was a simple one, all good plans were. Blow the door in, kill everyone and take back the pistol. Yes, a simple plan. They turned a corner, into a small street, half of it cast into darkness as the sun continued to lurk near the horizon. He walked along the length, passing several doors, before stopping in front of one with
The Godly Swords
carved into the stone above it. From what he’d picked up from passers-by he’d scared into giving information, buying a ‘company house’ was a big thing in some of the larger mercenary groups. He raised his hotshot and aimed it at the door. Behind him Humaan drew his sword and Forrest aimed his crossbow. Crazyface gibbered, and mumbled something about elderberries in relation to Forrest’s father. They ignored him.
“Knock. Knock.” muttered Oldbeard.
An inn
A man, dressed in drab, forgettable colours, sat alongside another man dressed in a similar way.
“The target killed the delivery boy,” the first man muttered.
“Well, we’ll have to be a bit more direct about it then, won’t we?” said the second. “He… does not tolerate failure.”
The first man nodded, then stood suddenly and left. Several men followed him. The way they moved was… unnatural.
Poll
Author
Topic: To venture north, into Hell: Othtar Noloc, world at war (Read 106616 times)