Fantasy (Closed) Retough IC

[0stinato]

•••
For a time, it was the fashion amongst those who practiced Prehlaam to give their children one-syllable names, with the argument being that addressing someone with a sound so short would save time. This fell out of fashion quickly when clans began to run out of one-syllable names.
•••​

While Sohrab wasn’t looking to take the guard’s head off, he found himself disappointed that the man gave up so easily. Though, maybe that was to do with the various approaches made by the others after he rushed the guy. While Sohrab waited for the others to catch up – electing to swing back onto his horse as it passed him rather than backing off – he considered where the darkness in his mind was welling from. He had been readied for his past vocation with the knowledge that he would always look towards death, but in no way did that death need to be married to violence. He used to prepare a corpse: did he now just want to put men down instead?

No, no. His life was upset from his norm. It was bound to create the odd rush of desire for an adrenaline spike, and what would bring that on more than wanton violence? He decided he would let the feeling dissipate without further self-interrogation: he had other things to focus on: Wexem was unknown territory to him and, while Lera may know what lay ahead, he had to view his progress into the place as information gathering.

When he was on his horse, ten or twenty paces after the guards who were reluctant in their allowance of movement, Sohrab decided to doff the mask from his face, and to only wear one arm-blade. Maybe that was the problem: having perfect steel so readily at hand would inspire anyone’s mind towards possibilities, no matter how theoretical.

His skin was grateful for the air. He even took a thumb and began to rub the war-paint off his cheekbones. An attempt should be made to appear presentable, especially because…

Sohrab navigated his horse nearer to Lera, who was so much more confident in the saddle than he was. The sooner he got off this beast the better.

‘Lera,’ Sohrab said, voice low. ‘I’m not certain how far my reputation has got, but I know Praetum has its posters about me. What do you advise I do if I am recognised in Wexem when we arrive? I’m not keen to make trouble.’

--
Interactions: Solar Daddy

 

[Dragongal]

Danny watched the interaction before him with a smirk before climbing back up into Hickroy's saddle. There was always a particular glee he got from scaring bullies. It was even more fun with a group of like-minded people on his side, especially a mage, and especially one with a sense of humor. Danny had to bite back a laugh at Maldorn's comment about frogs, but he did a very poor job of hiding it.

It's no place for travelers and spellers alike nowadays. You'll all hang by morrow-week.

Danny winked and tipped his head to the side with a, "that was what they said last time, too," as he rode past. But this point, he had lost track of how many fake "guard stations" and "toll roads" he had passed on his travels. They didn't seem to be common in any one particular country either, just anywhere the road was long enough and merchants came through. For as many as he had seen, though, he had yet to find one that couldn't be handled with a little planning, rope, pine tar, and flint struck against his bracer.

These men were more legitimate than most, though that bar was closer to the ground than a mouse's stomach. Most often, Danny just dealt with bandits, these men actually answered to a higher power. There was a formality in it. Strange. Almost foreboding. But not something that was going to stop this team.

 

[Solar Daddy]

"Why, thank you kind sir. I wouldn't worry too much if I were you though, we won't be troubling you again." . . . "Lest I'd urgently require some frogs."

Gurt took another step back from the Syndicate as they passed, his grip on the polearm tightening out of fear. Wexem was filled to the brim with superstitious types; threats and idle imagination would take them far should they choose to wield it against future opponents. Even one of the soldiers that hadn't heard most of the conversation, the scrawniest of the bunch with a helmet three times the size of his head, fumbled his weapon to the ground with a loud clatter. He scooped up the polearm quickly, quick enough to reveal his jittery nerves, and nearly lost his helmet when bending over. He pressed himself back against the wall wordlessly, wide eyed, scraping his toes against the soles of his boots as if enjoying the last few moments he'd have with them before turning into a frog.

‘Lera,’ Sohrab said, voice low. ‘I’m not certain how far my reputation has got, but I know Praetum has its posters about me. What do you advise I do if I am recognised in Wexem when we arrive? I’m not keen to make trouble.’

Lera looked over to the orc beside her with a raised eyebrow. She hadn't so much as given the passing soldiers another glance; she knew common thugs such as these weren't the type to try their luck after the balance of power was tipped so heavily against them. Hell, they could probably raid their little camp for supplies without so much as a yelp. But Lera wasn't a thief, and if no one else felt the need to hoard, she was sure they'd make do. She tried not to visibly notice the musk of Sohrab's pungent paint. She couldn't even place the kind of smell she was picking up. Sohrab's ways were entirely foreign to her, not in practice, but in execution.

"There's few who wander Wexem of Orc descent. Too risky, with all the pogroms these isolated towns like to practice. We'll likely encounter resistance no matter your current standing with Praetum, but we'll deal with it as it comes. I hope you're good at coming up with aliases," Lera left a pause to ensure Sohrab knew the importance of that hint at advice. "Maybe stow the mask and the paints for now, if they're a part of your profile posted around Praetum. We could pass you off as some other Orc passing through. People'll want you dead no matter what, but we can make sure they don't have another reason to bring on a riot. If your identity is discovered, we'll..." She paused before encouraging herself with a nod. "We'll stick by your side. We won't let anyone pry you from the Syndicate." She tried giving a smile to ease the topic, but it felt disingenuous. She knew many Praetians were stuck in their old ways, where Orc raiding parties long past used to threaten the stability of almost everyone. Few escaped the horrors of the third Orcish-Human war untouched. Many of those scars still last today, even if the conflicts have long since passed.

"that was what they said last time, too,"

Sargash didn't respond, idly watching as Danny passed atop his horse, waving him through the checkpoint with the blade of his weapon, the pommel of his polearm stuck in the mud. When they all had passed, Sargash spat on the ground in their direction. "Fuckin' mages... Bartash, get word to Alwyn. They's meanin' to cause trouble, they are."

"We don't have any messenger birds," Bartash said after a pause, holding his hands up as if to prove he wasn't hiding any behind his back.

Sargash groaned. "You, Bartash. You warn Alwyn. Run on, try and get ahead of 'em 'fore they reach Crim."

"But they's on horses! How'm I to outrun horses?"

"Take one of the fuckin' horse we have," Sargash said through gritted teeth, about to sock Bartash if he were close enough. He pointed over his shoulder, through the ruins of the checkpoint, where two mounts were tied out of sight. "And ride through the swamps. Don't run across 'em. Now go. 'Fore I decide I need someone competent to deliver the news."

 

[kaito9049]

Dahlia waited until the group was a relatively safe distance from the guards before urging her horse closer to Lera. The captain had been discussing something with Sohrab, though Dal couldn't make out what the two were saying, even if she'd wanted to know (she did).

She had to keep herself from wrinkling her nose at the heavy, musty scent that seemed to cling to her skin like saliva to a dog's tongue. Dahlia had heard of Wexem's reputation, of course — why anyone had decided to build a province in the middle of a bog was something she'd never understand no matter how many treatises on environmental defenses she read. But it was another thing entirely to hear the squelching of her horse's hooves in the mud and see the swarms of mosquitos that buzzed in the air. All things considered, the near-shakedown her companions had blustered their way through was just another grape in this cornucopia of nuisance, though she did write a line or two in her journal to chronicle the encounter.

"Captain," she whispered, not bothering to check whether Lera and Sohrab were finished speaking. "May I ask, what exactly is our plan here? Do you intend to demand Alwyn's surrender, or cut off the head of the rooster? And how do you expect to get close enough to him to do either? I expect the presence of a Praetum officer could be received with a certain suspicion. Oh, and are you assuming that Praetum will reestablish control over Wexem once Alwyn is no longer a concern? How would you rank your confidence in the success of this mission, from a scale of one to ten?"

Dahlia had to take a break before she could speak again. "You do have a plan, correct?"

 

[Solar Daddy]

Lera looked down at Bellum's trek through the barely maintained road. The murky, still waters often creeped into the path and snaked through the terrain, making it difficult to determine if they were even still on a road at times. When Dahlia approached, Lera happily took her eyes off the disgusting surroundings. She raised her brow as the historian's words just keep going. She even attempted to speak once or twice, assuming she was done, but Dahlia continued a monolog with a plethora of questions.

"Worry not, child of Ykrum. We're marching for a town not far from here, called Birch. First thing's first is to meet our contact, a dwarf named Luden. He'll give us info on how to cripple Alwyn's support in the region. This'll be the way we get his attention. Once he realizes how unstable his rule is, we bring him swift justice. Either by chains or by sword. But that's up to him."

Lera then moved on to trying to answer Dahlia's other questions. "Once Alwyn's disposed of, the rest of his rebellion will crumble and Wexem's rightfully appointed Archon will take over. As for my confidence, I'd give it a... Maybe a nine? Alwyn'll see sense once we're there. My guess is, we'll be finished by the Harvest Festival."

kaito9049

---

Chapter One: The Despot

Ambiance​

Another few hours of riding and the Syndicate reached Birch with little hassle. The sun hung lazily above the tops of the trees as dusk approached, painting the grey brick of the city's walls in a vibrant red. Entrance to the city was uncontested; no guards were posted at the gates they passed through, nor did there appear to be anyone manning the battlements above. It seemed their initial reports were correct; Alwyn's forces were stretched thin as it was, even despite how unprofessional his soldiers were. Resistance to just about any of their actions here would be minimal.

Once inside the walls of Birch, the stink of the swamp was immediately replaced by the stink of waste, as the normal city operations had ceased weeks ago overnight. The buildings inside were dilapidated, rotting wood carcasses of once proud structures. The remnants of architecture barely shone through the film of decay engrossing everything in sight. The streets were crowded by beggars and ill-maintained civilians barely surviving the corruption and misallocation of resources under Alwyn's rule, even after such a short time in office. Wexem would never be considered a rich province, but it was infinitely better under the true Archon's rule.

Many looked up at the Syndicate atop their horses as they passed into town. The winding streets they rode through seemed to avoid the low ground where possible, with most of the city's infrastructure residing where the rot was least likely to creep up to.

Lera brought her group to a set of empty stables by the main tavern in town. Almost all the windows were cracked and battered from unruly patrons throughout it's lifetime. The Sable's Nook, as denoted by the hanging metal sign creaking by the front door, was rather reputable in Wexem as relatively safe to the hostile swamps, though the guests found inside might cause some concern. The lack of horses in the stable gave Lera pause; they were likely to be robbed of their mounts, but they couldn't afford to keep anyone around to guard them.

"Looks like it's time to get our hands dirty," Lera spoke as she dismounted and hitched Bellum within the shack. "We have a few leads to work on before we get to any disrupting. First up on the list is finding Luden. He works down at the docks by the edge of the lake. I want you all heading there to search for him." Lera removed her sheathed sword from Bellum's side and strapped it back to her waist. She left her shield propped against the wall of the barn for now. "I need to visit the aviary and check on any word from the Bishop, see if he's learned anything in his time at court. Good luck. Try not to get bitten by a stray."

 

[Viper Actual]

Birch was- unlike the type of tree it was presumably named after- neither sprawling nor filled with life but rather rotten, sick and waiting for an act of mercy. Maldorn frowned as the party entered upon the city premises.

Between the empty battlements, non-existing trade traffic and the abundance of the sick and poor littering its ill-maintained streets it was clear that any semblance of hope had left Birch long, long ago. It was a tragic sight- as well as a cautionary tale of what followed in the wake of lasting greed and corruption.

For Maldorn this was however not the first time he had seen something of such depravity and the hermit was quick to pass along fresh apples from his satchel as the party passed by a large crowd of beggars. It wasn't much but hopefully it would ease the gnawing hunger, albeit temporarily.

Once the group arrived at the tavern Maldorn inspected the stables with an expression of deep skepticism. He glanced towards Lera and bowed his head slightly;
"My Lady, with your permission I will attempt to establish a simple yet effective ward on our mounts. It will not harm anyone- though any unsavory type may experience sudden and very strong discomfort upon approaching our steeds."

He glanced at the others. "Assuming each and every one of you agree to the casting of the spell as well."

 

[0stinato]

•••
A human practitioner of Prehlaami once invented a short-lived sport that involved rolling a large boulder up a hill, for no reward. It was not the various boulder-related injuries that had it fall out of fashion a few years later, but the age-old question that was asked of it: how will this skill prove useful in day-to-day life?
•••​

Birch. Praetum liked its simple naming conventions like that. Sohrab had quickly become accustomed to the colour of the names Praetum’s settlements had. They were very different from Amkaor; whether orcish or dwarvern, he couldn’t think of an equivalent place name. As for Ykrum, Sohrab had only passed through there so he couldn’t rightly say, but the hue of those names was different again.

It partially came with the language, he supposed. Arkish had plenty of words that were like thumped bruises in the mouth, somehow blunt-ended despite their pronunciation taking place at the forefront of the lips, Praetian wasn’t far behind. It could be as musical as it could be guttural, as alliterative as it could be clumsy.

These thoughts occupied Sohrab as he rode on slowly. The other point of consideration was whether his horse was, in fact, too big for him. Was that possible? He did feel rather dwarfed by it, and Sohrab never liked to feel like a dwarf in any way.

The stink of Birch didn’t bother him. Unlike the nasal passages of the others, Sohrab’s had been polluted by things more heinous than what came out of a living creature; he would always argue that what could ooze from the dead was so much worse, and argue it with enough voluminous passion that it put his tablemates off their meals.

He followed Lera’s lead, hitching his horse inside the shack. After that, he spent a bit of time taking off the most vital parts of the tack. It wouldn’t do to be caught out without a rope-like material, and, in addition, if any would-be thief such as himself was passing by, they would not take a naked horse. At least, Sohrab wouldn’t. Not again – it was uncomfortable enough the first time. Even if he took off the saddle and laid it under some of the moulding straw, that would likely deter a band of thieves from wanting to spend time dealing with equipping the horse.

Preventing theft was easier if you thought like one.

He joined Lera and the others soon enough, in time to hear Maldorn offer a solution to the thievery issue.

‘I’d object to the idea of casting on th’ mount itself, but it sounds as though you would make th’ ward affect an area. If that is the case, I have no objections, though, I do think there are simpler methods of deterring thieves,’ Sohrab replied to Maldorn and shrugged. He decided not to explain those methods: his horse stood a better chance at being here when they returned if the others didn’t remove the tack from theirs.

With his agreement spoken, he looked at Lera. ‘Be happy to search, though I’m surprised you think it’s safe to go alone. Doesn’t seem like the safest course of action. I’d offer myself as backup, if you’d like.’