You consider eating the Éclair, but curiously, you haven't felt hungry - especially not for French food - since you massacred those Highwaymen back on the road.
You unbind the blades, set them down carefully beneath a bush, and tie the horse's front-right leg to its rear-left leg. You then find a spot to rest on the ground. Your
princely sensibilities are offended by sleeping on the hard, dirty surface, but considering your circumstances, you force yourself to do it.
You awaken aching and sore, as the least soft thing you've slept on before was made of feathers and velvet.
You untie your rather irritated-looking horse; it's probably thirsty, but unless you plan to get your horse drunk you have nothing for it.
Strangely, you seem to not be hungry or thirsty. You wouldn't mind some water, but the Croissant and Éclair just seem unappetizing. The potatoes and whiskey are marginally better-looking, but even so you find yourself mostly indifferent to them. How odd.
You ride onward, arriving at Edinburgh by evening.
You're sore and fatigued as all hell from riding bareback, but you stand up to it as best you can.
A gate guard commands you to stop and state your business. Considering he's not stopping anyone else, this is likely related to that you're dirty, smelly (by your standards), and have three blades strapped to you.
With the King dead, your position as Crown Prince makes you the highest-ranking in all the land, technically. Edinburgh (and Scotland) are ruled by a Duke, a direct relative of your family installed after its conquest generations ago. If you recall, the Duke here is a cousin or uncle or something of yours. You're not sure if you've met. Notably, since you haven't officially succeeded the late King, he may actually outrank you. If not, your authority is only by a small margin.
Of interest in the city, you know there are all the things a modern village would need: inns, smithies, shops, the works. In a
Major City, you can likely find anything you want to with a little work. You might even be able to find someone willing to buy these shitty blades you looted off the highwaymen. Or your horse. "... Fucking horse."
You're so sick of that goddamn horse. It snuffs at you, expressing the mutuality of your contempt.
"Excuse me?" the guard asks. He didn't seem
to be paying attention when he got distracted by fetching the status to quite hear your complaint about the horse.
Wearing:Peasant's Pants
Peasant's Shirt
Wielding:Bloody Shattered Bottle
Inventory:1 Crown
17 Silver Coins
Mount: "Donated" Thirsty Horse
Damp "Appropriated" Servant's Pants
- 1 "Liberated" Croissant (+3 French on Consumption)
- 1 Éclair (+6 French on Consumption)
- 5 "Redistributed" Potatoes
- 3 "Misplaced" Bottles of Whiskey
1 "Stumbled-Upon" Rusty, Blunt Cleaver
1 "Inherited" Rusty Dagger
1 "Willed" Poorly-Made Sword
Location: Edinburgh Gates
Mentality: So sick of riding.
█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ Charm | Intimidation █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █
█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ Agility | Might █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █
█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ Subtlety | Spectacle █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █
█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ Courage | Discretion █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █
Order █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ | █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ C͡h҉a̴o̴sLevel 2
French:
█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █-
Le Parkour,
█-
French Cooking,
█Level 1
Irish Fury: █ █ █ █ █ █ █
L͠e̴͠ve̷̢ĺ̷͟ ͝͝3 ͏C̴̨͡h҉aoş̀: █ █ █ █ █ █ █
-
Disturb, █
-
Shatter, █
Level 2 Order, █ █ █ █
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Voice of Authority, █
Author
Topic: The King Is Dead! (Read 24128 times)