Division [Inactive]

Charles sat wearing a long grey cloak int he darkest table of a tavern that sat at the very edge of the town of Gilt. This town was known to be under strict Regency rule, and so he kept his hood up and his cloak closed in order to hide his identity. He took a swig from the watered down ale they had given him and a bite from the greasy pork on his plate. He kept having to force himself to swallow his hunger almost being overtaken by his disgust at the taste of the meat. Is this what I have been reduced to? An outlaw dining on greasy pork and watered down ale while the Regency tries to kill me and the Tempest, well hell knows what they want with me. He sighed and took another drink wiping his mustache and goatee of the grease and ale that lingered on them. Suddenly a hard hand fell on his shoulder. It was heavy and cold obviously armored and the voice that came next wasn't exactly friendly. "Are you the famous blacksmith Charles Wardith?" His heart skipped a beat and he put his fork down on his plate taking in a deep breath. How on Sal had they found him here? He had taken pains to take back streets and only to stop for breath in the slums where the powerless lived. Charles thought for a moment and then the hand's grip tightened. "I don't know who you are talking about. I am just a traveling performer." It was a bad lie and if he was asked any more questions such as why he was wearing the hood he would be done for. To his surprise the hand let go of his shoulder but the relief lasted only a few seconds. Two sets of laughter rang through the tavern and the sound of swords sliding from their sheaths was followed by that of fleeing footsteps. "We have a report that somebody saw you entering the slums Wardith, and the governor of this town would like to see you. He said that if you begin to make swords for all the soldiers you will be pardoned your war crimes." There was no hiding anymore, so with one last swig of his watered down Ale he stood up. His hammer was in his hands before he turned and as he turned he swung the hammer glowing red hot and leaving a trail of sparks behind it as it traveled. He didn't aim for the guards but their swords. His hammer's hot head struck the swords and both bent down at the strike point red hot to the touch. The guards were in a state of shock for a second and Charles took that moment to begin running bursting out of the Tavern window and jetting off into the nearby forest hoping to lose them.
 
"And off he goes," Lilja said, perched at the edge of the tavern roof "I told them he would run." Lilja sighed and began making her way towards the stables. Her job was simply to find the man, and that she did, so Lilja was going to make sure her horse, Scathach, was cared for, then she would make her way to the upper-class district for some food of her own. At around noon, she would send a messenger pigeon to the capitol with a mission update. The king would likely request she track the smith down again, and she would, but she refused to apprehend that man. He was renowned for his work, and his war crimes were of negligible import. Lilja saw no justification for arresting him, so she would do no more than she was asked. She wondered why Wardith refused to aid the Crown, he had no alliance to speak of with the rebellion, and he would make a considerably better living. Morals are morals, I suppose, they can't be changed, Lilja thought, as she reached the town stables. Her dark brown mare was happily whinnying with a white colt running around her. Seeing as her steed was happy, Lilya began her walk through the streets towards the government building to inquire about the local eateries. Maybe they have a confectionery somewhere in this dusty old town...
 
Romulus didn't like the way the people at the other table in the tavern looked at him. He frowned back at them as they kept stealing glances at him over their shoulder. He got angry way too easily when he was drunk. It was a dangerous trait for a slave, but also the one which often convinced people that he wasn't one. He took a draft from his beer and looked seething into his mug, trying to ignore them. He could still feel their eyes upon him and clutched his mug. Then he heard footsteps and knew he had made a mistake: he'd given them the impression of submitting. He looked up and saw the three people from the table swaggering before them, and straightened up in his chair. He was too drunk to observe them closely enough to guess who they were. They could be merchants, or craftsmen, or something else. But he could see they weren't nobles. He could fight them without getting in deep trouble.


"I've seen you before," one of them said. "You work for the blacksmith on Virton Square."


They were onto him. He clutched his mug in his fist and sneered at them. He swayed a little from the drink.


The other slammed his palms on the table, bending over him.


“That’s a pretty big blacksmith you’re working for. From what I gather, he’s doing such big business that he lets all the crude work be done by…” He paused, then articulated with a snarl, “slaves.”


“You’re not welcome here.” the other said. The other two closed in around him. “Where did you get this?” he said, as he picked up his purse. “Stole it?” That’s right, Romulus thought.


Romulus chuckled. He wasn’t in the mood for games. “Are you trying to belittle me? What, is it because you think your power is stronger than mine? I’ll bet you mine against yours will get you scurrying off like a child crying for its mother.”


The other raised his hand and bent it into a claw before his nose, where the air started to glow between his fingers.


“Oh really? What kind of power do you have, then, slave? Booze?” The others chuckled. “Show me your power, and I’ll let you live.”


The glow became blinding now and Romulus squinted. His nose started to burn, but he didn’t budge. He clenched his teeth as the glow became a fireball, his knuckles whitening around the mug.


He stood up and threw the beer over his hand, lighting it on fire. His bully danced around the tavern as the fire spreads over his clothes.


“That’s one of them,” he said. “And some strong booze it is.”


The other two were too stunned to react.


“You want to know another power?” he said, as he grabbed their heads. “Fisticuffs!” He knocked their heads together, then rammed his fists into both their stomachs and slammed them into their table, which collapsed under them. He kicked his boot into the chest of one of them.


“Wait!” the other said. “Your master is in trouble!”


So that’s what this was about. He sobered up enough to see that the leather they were wearing wasn’t just supposed to be stylish. It was armor. They were militia. Them again. They must have closed down the smithy again and followed him when he snuck out, perhaps thinking he was alerting his master.


Now he really was in trouble.


(OOC: DarkAncient, let me know if it's OK if my character works for you, otherwise I can just delete the last few sentences.)
 
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Aventus sat impatiently in the back of his wagon, tirelessly tapping his fingers against the embossed woodwork as the wagon shook its way along the cobblestone road. A gust of wind suddenly brushed through the air, tasseling the nobleman's hair and forcing him to tuck his emerald robes closer to his narrow frame. Aventus sat directly opposite a heavily armored guard with a crossbow resting casually in his lap. Another guard flanked the caravan on foot, pike and shield in hand. A watercolor of purple and dark grays painted the sky, giving the appearance of an oncoming storm. Though, as far as Aventus was concerned, that was merely an irritating hindrance rather than a genuine danger.


"How much longer until we reach Gilt?" the nobleman inquired to the driver.


"Nary a few more minutes, me lord. I think I see it just over the hill, in fact!" he replied, trying to maintain formality in his tone.


"Excellent. Thank you," Aventus said, trying to relay a false sense of gratitude. People like being appreciated. People like people who appreciate them. But most importantly, people are loyal to people they like and Aventus knew how to turn loyalty into subservience, even if it was subtly, bit by little bit at a time. While perhaps he didn't need to the loyalty of his carriage driver, he derived his own sick sort of pleasure from controlling people, from manipulating people. Besides, it was just as important to win the hearts and minds of the people as it is the trust of the various political powers. Perhaps that's what made him nervous about the count of Gilt: He wouldn't be pocketed quite so easily as the weak-willed, supposed masters of other estates. But then, the count wouldn't be where he is without some instinctual pulse for the political climate.


The gray, stone walls of the sizable city were just coming into view, its mighty towers peering down upon the river valley below. It was about time to start playing the game.
 
Charles stood in the forest leaning against a tree and catching his breath. The soldiers seemed to have given up but he had something else on his mind now. where was the bumbling drunk of his? He took the boy in because he didn't like the way most people treated powerless but now the boy had gone and probably gotten himself into another bar fight. It was bad for a person trying to hide from the government to have a slave that got into a fight every time he was drunk. He couldn't exactly pay any guards because they would try to take him to the crown, and breaking him out of jail would just lead to him being an actual criminal. He sighed and sat down, it was hard enough to set up shop every once in a while to make money but with both sides of a war hunting you down for your work it became almost impossible. "Where is that fool!" He jumped up hitting a nearby tree with his hammer causing a burnt dent in its trunk. He didn't have time to go back into town and he was hoping to make it to the next village by nightfall. He liked setting up small shops in villages far from battle zones so that he could make a few blades sell them to whoever would buy them and then run when a buyer realized who he was and wanted him on their side of the war. Damned boy if I wasn't so nice I would have left him behind. Charles looked around and ran back to the city and into the tavern they had been at. Sure enough there was Romulus in the middle of a bar fight. "You idiot come on!" He ran over and grabbed the boy pulling him out of the tavern and into the forest. "You're lucky I didn't leave you behind this time." He looked around him checking if the guards had noticed but most of them were now trying to figure out what had caused the tavern to start burning. "Lets get to the next village."
 
Romulus didn't bother to inquire further and smacked the soldier unconscious. If his master was in trouble, he had to find him and get out of here, that was all he needed to know.


Most of the other people in the bar stood back. He must have seemed dangerous, especially for the guards to have a good reason to attack him. But realizing what he'd done, Romulus' anger waned, and slowly a few of the men inched closer, wielding chairs and pitchers. He didn't have time for this, not now. Romulus grabbed one of the soldiers' daggers, and the others backed off.


Then the door opened.


"You idiot! Come on!"


"Talk of the devil," said Romulus. "I heard you got yourself in trouble again."


"You're one to talk!"


Romulus stumbled as his master dragged him by the arm, so he pried it loose. Passersby laughed at them. "You're lucky I didn't leave you behind this time."


Romulus was stunned the master had found him. One of the other slaves must have seen him come back when he was too drunk to stay unseen and blabbed. But if so, why had he allowed him to keep going to the tavern?


"What were you doing here anyway?" He said. He had about a dozen other slaves at the smithy, though perhaps he hadn't singled him out and just didn't want to lose his asset. While his master had always been kind to the slaves, this just made Romulus take especial care to keep his distance. Kindness made him suspicious. It reminded him of his brothers. They had seemed kind to him when he was disavowed too, until they no longer had any use for him. He never made eye contact, and until today, which was the first time he'd seen him drunk in person, he'd never spoken to him at all unless asked a question, and only evasively if it wasn't about business.


"I can take care of myself." He wondered if perhaps the blacksmith knew something about his other life. If he did, he might be hoping to rely on his skills. But how could he have known, if he had been so careful to give nothing away of himself?
 
Ulysses sat at his stall, bored, waiting for someone to seek some sort of remedy. A raven perched atop his 'Apothecary' sign, examining Ulysses curiously. Ulysses returned the action until a couple of guards stumbled up, supporting a badly burned man in officer's gear. "Fix him," One of the men said, plopping a rather large coinpurse on the stand. The guard captain slumped against the table, breath labored and wheezy. Ulysses waved the other men away and pulled a salve from the cabinet under his stall, applying it to the captain's exposed skin to soothe the pain. He focused his energy, mending the charred insides, and expunging the soot from his lungs. He didn't like the town guard, but the gold in the coinpurse was enough to stay fed and stocked for weeks, if Ulysses' skill at judging weight was accurate, and it usually was. He finished patching the man up, healed enough to live to die of another cause on another day, but not healed to the best of Ulysses' ability. He gave the man some poppy seed extract to ease the pain and sent him on his way with the other guards. Satisfied with the day's profit, he closed up shop and went out to the woods to collect herbs.
 
Approaching the city's south gate, Aventus was stopped by two guards flanking him on either side. They both wore the same, standardized uniforms and armor, each branded with the crest of Gilt. He disembarked from the carriage and was immediately approached by a dignitary clad in rather expensive-looking orange attire.


"Lord Aventus Vivaldi?" crowed the dignitary in a pompous tone.


"Yes," replied Aventus without much inflection.


"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, most esteemed Lord Vivaldi. My name is Allister Durham and I serve as the chaplain here in Gilt," he proclaimed in a stiff and formal tone, "I will be representing the count during your stay here, as he currently has more pressing matters to be dealing with, and if I may, I offer a formal apology."


"Well, mister Durham, I did not come here to talk to a dignitary. I came here to talk to a count, but if you will not show me even that minimal respect, then clearly I'm wasting my time here," said Aventus, venomously berating the official who stared back with visible irritation.


"In the meantime then, you will be staying in guest's quarters in the castle until I am able to work something out with his most esteemed lordship," Durham resolved after a moment's hesitation.


"Excellent," Aventus concluded the conversation, making the irony in his tone quite clear.
 
"Well Romulus you are the only slave I've actually kept with me in my travels, the rest usually get left behind when I have to skip town!" He smacked the boy on the backside of the head and forcefully pushed him into the forest. "You are also the one who gets in the most trouble, and you really stand out in a bar! It wasn't hard to realize that you had left the tavern I was in, and it was even easier to find the one with your mark of destruction on it. For a powerless you cause too much destruction for your own good but you are too good with a hammer for me to let go." He pulled Romulus' ear quickly before hitting him on the backside of the head again. "One of these days you are going to end up a burnt shriveled corpse and even I won't be able to bury your body boy. Why don't you go join the Tempest? They could use a man like you, hot headed and ready to kill for no good reason when he could just talk." He sighed and leaned against a tree coughing a bit. "You could have a better life than running around with a smithy going from village to village opening and closing shop." He coughed again and doubled over for a moment. "The Tempest has the right idea, just the wrong way of doing it, it might be a better life for you." He smiled a bit and sighed. "And hey maybe you might finally meet a woman who won't look at you and vomit."
 
Ulysses was attempting to determine whether a root he had plucked was a powerful anesthetic, or a very similar-looking paralytic poison when he heard the coughing. He went to investigate and saw the infamous blacksmith and his apprentice in a clearing. He dug around in his bag and found a small bundle of leaves. He took one of the leaves, snapped it in two and squeezed the resin into a dish, replacing the other leaves in his bag. He revealed himself from behind the trees, tipped his hat in greeting, and handed the dish to the old smith, making a rubbing motion on his chest with his other hand.
 
Christopher looked at the strange man as he held out the poultice and shook his head. Two things kept him from accepting the medicine. One was his pride, and the other was his fear that this strange person was going to poison him. "I'm fine I don't need medicine from a stranger." He coughed again but tried to hide it looking at the strange man. "Who are you and why do you wreak of herbs and death?" He had his hand on the handle of his hammer. He looked the man up and down, his reputation always preceded him in large towns and there was always a psycho or two. Extremists existed for each side, and he was currently an "enemy" of both. His hand tightened around the handle of his hammer and he looked down at the dish and then back to the man. His mask was the most terrifying thing about him, making him seem like a crow.
 
Ashley stood in her offense stance as four assailants surrounded her in the makeshift arena. She studied her situation, she lacked armor wearing basic cotton shirt and pants making her use of sword and shield crucial. So she stood in a sideways stance, shield raised and sword extended horizontally next to it. Two came at her first, one bearing a his horizontal sweep towards her with a bastard sword and the other went with a stabbing motion with a short sword. She used her shield to block aside the large sword and the classed her sword with the other sword. She than span shield bashing the one assailant aside and making a low sweep with her sword tripping the other. The third one came forward and her and him clashed swords several times, neither seeming to gain the advantage forcing Ashley resort to an amplified scream to create an opening for a kick. However before she can capitalize, a pommel struck her back knocking her to the ground. She groaned and turned on her back to to see the first assailant standing over her sword ready at her throat.


"I didn't see that coming, well done Elisar."She smiled raising her hands to be helped up. The man was a powerless slave, one of a few used essentially as a training dummy to the knights in her army when not acting as arrow fodder in battle. A better swordsman as most of the knights he trained with his role changed to more as an unofficial combat instructor. In another world, she would be happy to have him as her second with full knighthood but such was illegal.


"Thank you, my lady."Elisar said seriously bowing his head slightly. "I recommend you work on your wider awareness, you have tunnel vision when you fight at times."


"Noted. Need to set up time some one on one less.eh..Training to....


"Commander?"A voice called her from outside the arena. She sighed as she recognized the man as her actual second. She dismissed Elisar before walking up to her second." I...I...have report on the blacksmith hunt. I am afraid we lost him when our forces tried to intercept. Also tempest forces have targeted the area, rebels element have torched a local tavern in the same area."


"You will reprimanded for that breach of my orders, going after that damned blacksmith but first we need to deal we have other problem."She said letting her look show her displeaser more then her word."The area has a critical road to contested territory. Securing the area is vital. Order the men to break camp, were are moving."
 
After hours of stifling through bureaucrats, advisers, and an assortment of other officials, Aventus was mere moments away from meeting the count. It ceaselessly perturbed him that all these lapdog dignitaries could even entertain the notion that their time was as valuable as his. Nonetheless, he was willing to jump through their hoops for an appointment with the count. What's taking so long? he stilled pondered impatiently, his fingers dancing along a dully, gray stone bench. Suddenly, a door creaked open, its woodwork clearly crafted by an artisan and installed rather recently, perhaps as to embellish the affluence of its owner. Yet, much to Aventus' disappointment, out strutted Durham, full of his usual pompousness.


"I've been waiting for hours, mister Durham. My time is not such a luxury as yours," he began on a bitter note.


"Well, Lord Vivaldi, I would recom--" Durham began before being stopped mid sentence by Aventus.


"Patience? You would recommend I be patient? The question here isn't whether I am a patient man or not -- which I am not, as chance would so have -- the question here is whether or not I should forgive this immense waste of my time, which is by all means the greatest show of disrespect you could possibly show me. I'm speaking to the count now or never. However, do not think I will forget this incompetent little display."


The dignitary sighed before releasing a reluctant "Very well," and returning back to the vast chamber that laid behind the embellished wooden door.
 
Ulysses shrugged at the refusal of the salve, putting a lid on the dish, and dropping it in his bag. He whistled beneath his mask, calling forth a small pigeon with a paper curled around its leg, which perched itself on the head of the smith's hammer. Ulysses made a courteous bow and walked off again to collect more herbs. He would be keeping an eye on these two, they seemed to be the type that would lead Ulysses to trouble, and therefore to fun. The paper read 'Hi, my name is Maddy, and if you toss me in the air, I can take a note to Ulysses, apothecary extraordinaire.' The tone was overly cheerful for the purpose of the bird, as someone needing the help of Ulysses was probably in a bad way, but it made him seem less threatening. Ulysses knew he could be very intimidating, with the tall stature and dark dress, not to mention the mask and the mysterious silence, but the purpose of remaining this way was twofold: It kept the rabble at bay, because even violent outlaws were at least uneasy in his presence, and he had simply forgotten. He spent so much time in nature or in his tomes that he had never grown accustomed to speaking. Even when he was apprenticed to other apothecaries, Ulysses stayed silent, and the masters of the trade preferred it that way. Besides, the last word he spoke was 'goodbye' to his family, and he wanted to keep it that way.
 
Christopher looked at the pigeon and took the note from its foot. He read it over a few times and then picked the bird up placing him on his shoulder to rest there. "I guess that I will have to keep hold of you for now won't I Maddy." He coughed again but managed to suppress a fit. "Apothecary eh? Doesn't matter its on to the next village. Think about what I said Romulus, you could have a new life with the Tempest. They would treat you as an equal, and maybe once enough blood has been shed you will find peace and equality." He chuckled a bit to himself and turned to begin walking pulling out his hammer and twirling it by the rough leather strap on its end that kept it from falling off his arm. He hummed as he walked and occasionally a few falling leaves would burst into flames as they neared his hammer, the fast spinning of the tool causing a small wheel of fire to appear in the air. "I wonder where I should try this time. There is a nice sized village a few miles east that has a low guard count due to its proximity to the war zone, perhaps I will start there." He sighed and began walking in the right direction. After all war was horrible but it was good for business.


Timothy stood over a bloody battlefield. In one hand he held his favorite battleaxe a rough steel blade that he kept sharp and ready at all times. Runes carved into the blade gave it the power to cut through the air. In his other hand he held a short sword, one of his weapons that he chose on a battle by battle basis with nothing special to it. Both blades were soaked in blood and his face and chest were splattered with crimson. He stood in the middle of a burning town, a loyalist stronghold that had stood against the Tempest in the center of the war zone for a year had finally fallen at the hands of the storm himself. He smiled as he looked at the destruction his vacant blood thirsty eyes dancing with joy in the flames of the burning corpses. A young man dressed in leather armor suddenly ran up to him and bowed down coughing lightly to gain his attention. "Yes what is it boy?" His voice was rough and terrified even his allies leading the boy to shudder. He did not dare speak but simply handed a paper over to Timothy and ran away quickly leaving the range of the mans cutting force. It was a simple letter containing a single sentence. "Joker has moved to the crown city, he can only get minor information now."
 
They came by a road at the edge of the village, where the land was too steep to be farmed and the village suddenly made place for woods. In surprise Romulus resisted when his master pushed him from the road, almost causing him to roll down the hill.


Romulus was too drunk to catch most of what his master told him, but he heard him when he asked him why he didn’t join the Tempest. He’d heard him mention the Tempest before, always in jest, but this time there was no sarcasm in his voice when he told him that the Tempest could use someone like him. Perhaps his earlier mockery of the Tempest was just a way of bringing up the subject to his slaves without divulging what side he was on. Now, he seemed to have dropped his disguise.


He was on their side, Romulus thought, and he was going to involve him in them. So that was why he disobeyed the Regency. When his master spoke to a man in a clearing wearing a bird mask, in his befuddled state Romulus was certain it was some sort of code, and that he was a member of the Tempest. Christopher was up to something, he thought. He must have connections with the Tempest in the village they were moving to. Romulus wasn’t sure if he liked the thought of being dragged into this. He’d have preferred to observe them from a distance first. Were they to be trusted?


It was only because of this that Romulus dared to say:


“Alright, tell me more about this Tempest. How can they fight the Regency?” Romulus had heard the Tempest had found some other source of magic, but he didn’t know if this was anything more than hearsay.
 
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