First Few Steps

@Grey, @PixelWitch, @Hellkite, @Stickdom, @Teh Frixz, @Bardiel


It's a hard night.


Well, more than that, it's been a hard couple of weeks, but tonight seems to be the peak of it.


It seemed like easy money at the time. Come in, provide some muscle for some airheaded nobles playing at war, and collect a nice fat wage, or at the very least, not starve. Unfortunately, one of the lords on the opposite side didn't quite understand the concept of "playing at war", and instead took it at face value, and treated it like an actual war. Convenient, especially since his men were the larger, better equipped force.


Your companies were shattered. Now there's only the fragments left of a half a dozen different mercenary companies, scavenging around the battlefield like vultures. Those companies whose chain of command were decimated were left bereft, the deals of service conveniently only standing with those in charge. The nobles only laughed at you when you came for pay, looking down their noses at you all the while.


"Why should we pay landless freemen, who can't even win a battle to save their lives?" they mocked, sending you away with the threat of further force.


Now there's a little over half a dozen of you gathered together, huddled around a campfire in a small, wooded copse. Outside, the wind howls, whatever shards of those gales can force their way into your camp yanks at your cloaks, roughly nipping at any exposed extremities. Snow falls, bringing with it a sharp chill, one that brings a painful numbness to your bones.


There's a single caravan, a small thing owned by some gnarled old woman, and each of you were lucky enough to pull a horse after the battle. They snort and harrumph quietly from where they're tied up, irritated by the cold and the poor food, but they seem healthy for the most part.


The woman just watches you all, a single frigid blue eye, much like the frost of winter itself. She chews some jerky noisily, but says nothing.

Funds: 3 Gold


Equipment and Supplies:

  • 7 Horses, battle trained.
  • 1 Caravan, Small
  • Personal Equipment
  • 1 Month of Rations for 7 people.
  • 30 Arrows


Additional Combatants: None


Current Contracts: None
 
The awkward silence is broken by a hacking spit from Lyke. The glob landing off to the side to freeze in a clear puddle later that night.


She looks downright furious. Eyes darting this way and that, trying to read the faces of her fellows and gauging the chances she had with them. Whenever a contract broke apart, the next two days were vital to your career. Word spreads at your inefficiencies? You lose bargaining power. Sit around too long? Balance of power starts to shift and suddenly you are an enemy of the state. No. Lyke wouldn't let that happen. Not again at least.


Sticking her hands out above the flames, she starts gesturing at the horses, waggling her fingers in the 'movement' motion and jabs at the last known location of their ex-contract holders with her thumb before sliding a finger across her throat.
 
Ealhstan sat and stared into the flames of the campfire, one knee tucked under his chin and his wooden leg stretched out flat on the ground in front of him. His crutch lay beside him, his hand resting upon it in case he needed to move quickly. As quickly as the one-legged Inquisitor could, anyway. Ealhstan glanced up as Lyke spat, watching her eyes shifting from face to face before she made a series of hand gestures. He didn't try to answer, waiting for someone else to translate what the woman was trying to say. Instead he rubbed the dark stubble that had formed on his chin and tried to think, his thoughts languid from fatigue.


I suppose we have a chance. He thought. We've horses, food, and our gear. That's enough to carve a living.





Ealhstan considered the sword that lay in its scabbard beside the crutch. The Inquisition insignia was visible on the pommel by the flickering light of the fire.


And failing that, there's always work for someone with my experience. Monsters will always need killing, and they're not going to kill themselves.





He considered the remnants of the company gathered around the fire. There were some faces there that he knew well, some less so. His eyes flicked beyond the figures sat around him, over to the old woman standing beside her caravan. Nodding towards her, Ealhstan spoke.


"Anyone know where we found the crone? I don't recognize her."
 
"Ye don't recognize me, 'cause I wasn' out doin' any a tha' fightin'," snapped the woman, glaring at Ealhstan from beneath her broad brimmed hat with that single frosty eye. The other, or its lack, was hidden behind a dirty strip of leather.


"I was wi' Morgan's lot, 'leas' before th' fat pig got 'imself gutted for 'is troubles,"


"And I'm not a crone, ye bollocks!" she added indignantly. "I jus' got a lot a... experience,"
 
Osric Silkhand


The dark is a comfort, in its way. Osric returns to the fire only after a few minutes to centre himself, espying the mute's frantic gestures in the same moment a cripple raises the caravaner's ire. He settles on a log opposite the mute, black-painted armour discoloured by dust, cloak rent from arrows.


"Good way to get killed, Quiet," he says with a refined accent. "Sweet revenge for all of a day, and then their sons and bannermen come after us. Mercenary work is hard enough without turning to banditry."


He pauses.


"Again."
 
Lyke


Ignoring the caterwauling of the crone, She throws a fig up, thumb between fingers, at Osric before waving the 'again' off quite literally. She stands, leaning in and poking at the fire to stoke the weakening flames. Their little pile of wood was starting to vanish and they'd need it.


She looks back at the fop with the accent like he was trying to cover shite in honey. She points herself, scowling and mimes with her hand out, fingers wriggling like one receiving a purse full of coin. Her best attempt at saying at least banditry pays.


She spits again, deciding to swallow the next batch off pooling fluid in her mouth. The snow around here not thick enough to chew nor did she trust not catching some sort of illness that seemed to befall used battlefields.


She falls back on the mound of rolled up banner cloth scavenged to make a seat and looks over the group. She circles them with her pointer and pulls at one of the banner, making the money gesture again.
 
Osric Silkhand


"Well, obviously," Osric says, arms open as if in defeat as he addresses the one he now thinks of as Quiet. "A week's ride east and I'm sure some border baron would be willing to pay."
 
Lyke


Eyes narrow questioningly, hands coming up to shrug with palms skyward.


The borders were a constant source of income for merc groups. Constant skirmishes made for light casualties, lots of small hamlets with shifting allegiances and barons more than willing to pay to bolster the numbers in their forces.


Problem was there was only six of them. Hardly the impressive Mercenary company that Barons were looking for. The border was a good place for coin but she didn't want to end up being turned into an errand boy for one gold coin a week. The seasons were changing too, for the colder.


She makes the money gesture again, pointing south this time.
 
Ealhstan rolled his eyes at the caravaner, and a wry grin curled his mouth.


"Experience, huh? Is that what you call it?"


He shrugged.


"I was just curious, that's all. Apologies for any offence I've caused you."


Ealhstan tapped his eyes, and raised an eyebrow at the woman.


"What happened there?" He asked. "Were you a fighting woman, once?"


Ealhstan's eyes flicked back to Lyke for a moment, watching the mute gesticulating, trying to interpret what she was saying. It took him a few moments to understand what she meant, where the Inquisitor narrowed his eyes and scratched his chin.


"South? Maybe... but the real work's up here, I think." Ealhstan paused for a moment, then continued. "Why not see if one of the villages will pay for guards, or for people to train their militias? With the fighting around here there are bound to be looters and extortionists preying on the weak; and the weak usually want to fight back."


Ealhstan looked around the group, then added as an afterthought; "Besides, the villagers will give us somewhere decent to sleep and hot food on our plates. Must be better than camping and rations."
 
Sam


He was used to the cold. Many years of sleeping rough and even before that, the straw for mattress and only body warmth of his slave fellows in the depths of winter had hammered that home. Didn't mean he had to like it. The strange furs and cloak were pulled around him so tight he was barely visible in amongst the shadows.


He was as quiet as their mute companion, but in an entirely different way. She was an angry, viscous thing, like an animal that had been starved and kept in a cage too long, spitting like a feral cat.


His Kelenite was a little slow, but he was catching the gist of what was being said. Or more correctly, argued.


Eventually, he speaks up, his accent thick with tradestongue, "I agree of him, Sir,"


Ealhstan is the one he nods to, dark amber eyes lowered in submissive gesture, can never be too careful around Inquistion, even 'retired' ones, "There many village on boarder. Bandit and Monster. Militia. Town Guard,"


He hoped those were the right words.


He keeps his head low and his hands visible.
 
Osric Silkhand


"Don't be ridiculous," Osric says. "We're in the heart of mother Kelen, here - no one is going to hire us to train militia when there are anointed knights around ever corner." He gestures to the Laman and, not for the first time, curses his decision not to learn their language when we was still in Mistcloak. "This fellow has the right idea. Not sure I want to fight monsters, mind you, but there are always skirmishes out East and never enough troops to go around."
 



  • "Aye," replies the woman flatly. A wizened hand snakes out from beneath her layers of leather to rub at her other shoulder.


    "Once,"


    She turns to the others speaking, adding her own advice.


    "Aye, there's always a fight in the east. Land 's filled wi' poxy little bastards who'd sell kin fer profit, exiled nobles who embarrass their lords, every thief, murderer, and heretic, that managed to escape th' "civilised" lands, and that ain't countin' all a' nasty shite tha's lookin' t' make a meal of th' peasantry,"


    The thought of this elicits a wide grin from the woman, a gaptoothed thing missing far too many teeth.


    "Folk's always lookin' t' kill somethin' 'r someone, and always wind up willin' t' pay fer it,"


 
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Lyke


She throws her hands up, clapping once and pointing at Osric. That man understood what they were, hired blades, not messengers, trainers, or monster hunters. As a matter of principle, Lyke made sure to actively avoid being in conflict with monsters. She hadn't seen one yet but on certain nights out in the frontier, you could hear them. Howling and hissing, sometimes people screaming. Those nights her group would risk running into royal patrols rather than tangle with some beast in the dark of the night.


She puts up fingers on either side of her head, making horns and an awful face before shaking her head no. She won't be hunting monsters.


Giving Ealhstan a look she shrugs, unsure of how to really express the concept of the weak being weak because they were weak and nothing would change that. Lyke pauses her motions to point at the horizon, circling the group and 'walking' her fingers east.


It was a strange group. Other than the Bard, she didn't know much of them. The quiet one bundled up in furs, the limbless man displaying his Inquisition garb, the one talking and giving off the vibe of someone below his station. All of them didn't seem to mesh yet and she wasn't sure she trusted them yet.


The crone with the wagon was a different story. Lyke avoided eye contact with her but would sneak glances at various opportunities. Eyeing up the value of the wagon and the cost of a mouth to feed, the bandit inside her was grappling with the now ruined contract she signed. Were they not sharing a fire right now, the woman was as good as dead, her goods sold off in the nearest town.


Lyke swallows, draining her mouth and ending her little internal rant.
 
Ealhstan smiled slightly at Lyke and Osric, nodding once.


"Mhm, we don't need come up against any monsters unless we can avoid it. If we do, then its my job. I'll handle it". Then his smile started to fade, and with a hand resting on his wooden leg he glanced at Sam. "But we're nowhere near well enough equipped to handle even a ghoul, let alone the most junior Vampire or Fae."


He was quiet for a moment,


"East, though," He began, "I could do. It's been a while since I've visited the border, and Osric's right." The Inquisitor cast them man a glance. "There's plenty of business out there."
 
Abram


The night was just as painful as the day had been, trading heat and blood for wind and snow. Tiny flakes brushed across the face of a haggard man, bent over in his saddle as his mount tirelessly plodded forward through the freezing slush. Blood and smoke stained his armor, and his hair hung in a sweaty mass upon his brow. The battle had long since passed, yet he had not stopped moving since the order to charge had been given. He had fought until his arms were numb and his legs shook in protest, barely keeping himself and his trusty steed alive in the slaughter that followed. He had escaped with his life, only to return later to seek out the bodies of those he called 'brother'. He found their still forms gathering snow in the evening sun, and had spent hours digging a shallow grave with a discarded axe. He placed them inside, said a prayer for any that might hear, and covered them in crimson mud. He struck their weapons in the ground above their heads, the only headstones they would know. And then the man left, his work complete and his arms screaming in pain. He mounted his horse and rode silently into the night, never once looking back at the field of death he had so narrowly avoided.


And now, as the moon began it's nightly vigil, a spark of light shone in the dark. A flicker of hope that others had survived, and a chance to rest his weary body from the day's labours. The man urged his mount forward, noting the tired snort escaping his great muzzle. The destrier moved forward, keeping the same steady pace it had since the battle's end. Eventually the man came within sight of the makeshift camp, and soon recognized the patchwork gathering of souls and steel that preceeded a mercenary band. He walked slowly to the edge of their vision, doing his best to make no sudden moves.


The man alone was large, well over six feet tall when standing at full height. Even crouched, the mighty destrier he rode made him seem a giant to all those sitting around the fire. His armor, soiled as it was, still gleamed in patches from the firelight. His helm hung at his side with his gauntlets, and his hands bore remnants of blood and soil. Drips of sweat fell from his hair, threatening to freeze before they hit the ground below. A long, bloodied poleaxe was held in the crook of his arm, gifting a modicum of support to the weary hedge knight. The horse shook it's head and grunted lowly in exhertion, clearly hoping that now would be a time of rest.


The man looked around at those gathered and immediately saw an old woman sitting at a cart. She looked wizened, surly, and the least haggard of the group. He spoke to the woman in a calm, ragged tone that betrayed his fatigue. "Ho there, room for one more?"
 
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The woman smiled a smile that was more empty mouth than tooth.


"S'long as yer not here t' try kill us,"


A frown momentarily flickers across her lined features.


"...yer not here' to try n' kill us, or some noble fop tellin' us to piss off, are ya?" she asks, eye narrowing with suspicion.
 
Abram


The man merely shook his head twice, the only response he could muster at this point. In one trained motion he swung his leg from his saddle and dismounted, causing the ground to shake slightly from his weight alone. He leaned heavily against his poleaxe, using it to leverage himself up until he was at eye level with his steed. He walked the beast over towards the other horses and tied him up like he'd been taught. He found a nose bag and poured some feed into it, allowing his friend to regain some of his lost strength. He patted his muzzle twice, then hobbled over to where the others sat around the fire. He found an empty tree close to the fire and leaned his back against it, slowly lowering his bulk down until his rear made contact with the ground. He exhaled loudly, setting the poleaxe down and finally allowing his arms to lay limp at his sides. He stared silently into the flames, allowing his mind to finally slow down and process all that had occured this day.


And it had been a long, long day.
 
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Bavric





He entered the ring of the firelight once again, the crystals of ice and snow collected in his beard and on his well-worn leather coat, very nearly piercing its thin layers with cold. He retook his place by the fireside, lowering one medium log from his shoulder and seating himself on it as a stool, while the second one on his other shoulder he set in front of his and began peeling off the damp layers of outer bark to make it suitable for their fire. He had come in on the tail end of the previous conversation, just enough to hear talk of monsters and militias, as well as see his mute companion making their travel arrangements with walking fingers, and a newcomer, some wandering knight by his look, though Bavric could not tell if he was more or less than that.


"Monsters ah've seen, had me fair share of 'em," his guttural, heavily accented Kelene spoke to none in particular, simply seeking an in to the talk, "they dinnae give me a fright, fer certain, but I'd as soon take a post as a wet nurse. Or mebbe 'twas th' other way 'round." He chuckled at his poor joke, he had no particular love for infants or monsters, both were terrible scourges to the land in his eyes, only one was more domestic than the other. "At least 'untin' monsters gives pay, yes? I'd wager we could do it iffen we set our hand to it."


Bavric finished removing the wet portions off of the log at his feet, tossing the strips of useless bark to the edge of the fire to dry, they'd make for good kindling come the morning. The knight who had just made his appearance interested him, always eager for a good tale. He gestured across the campfire with a good-natured smile, "Hallo, stranger, and what brings sich a knight as ye to sit at our humble council ring?" He lifted the newly-shaved dry log with both of his hands and offered it to the man, "have ye a seat and tell us yer tale, that's the fee fer warmth and bed here." He laughed aloud, knowing full well that whether the man gave his story or kept it to himself, or even spun a lie to them all, Bavric was ever welcome of the extra company.


@KamiKahzy
 
Abram


The hedge knight held up a hand in polite refusal of the offered log, his current seat was sufficient for his weary bones. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the first long breath he'd taken since just before the battle started. He controlled his exhale as much as he could to steady his nerves and his mind, collecting his resolve to find strength enough to speak. "Abram... Name's Abram." He slowly brought his left hand up and jerked a thumb in the direction he had rode, back towards the bloodied field. "Jus' another survivor o' that slaughter, same as you lot. ...Near as I can tell, anyway." He let his hand drop as he took a few more deep breaths, trying to force his body to release the day's tension.


Abram grunted as he brought his left leg up and rubbed at his calf, his fingers working their way beneath a noticeable dent in his greaves. He'd taken a glancing blow from a mace that swept his feet out from under him, but thankfully Athos had trampled the man before he could make the killing blow. He looked up from his bruised leg and glanced at those gathered around the fire. He loosely swept his hand over everyone and asked aloud, "Any o' ye know a Captain Lysander? Ran a mounted company in the fight, lost track o' him after the charge broke."


@Stickdom
 
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Osric Silkhand





"Glad you see reason-" Osric begins, when a pair of newcomer arrives followed by the bard. The bard is unmistakable, familiar. What was his name? Baldric? Bolstic? Very inspiring songs during the skirmish, whoever he is.


He shrugs to himself and eyes the knight - looking for heraldry, some indicator of the knights's rank and affiliation.


"Well met, Sir."
 
Abram


Abram nodded his head once in the direction of the man who greeted him, not having the energy to properly reply right now. As he waited for his own answer the firelight flickered across his armor, glinting off the portions unmarred by battle grime. His curiass was strangely bare of standard heraldry markings, yet it was certainly of proper make for a standard knight. The only real indicator of his rank and skill was the fact that both he and his steed had survived the one-sided battle, though battered and bloodied from the ordeal. Beyond that the man was an enigma, and he was in no state to offer such knowledge without prompting.


@Grey
 
Ealhstan broke from the conversation for a moment, eyeing the armoured man warily as he approached the warmth of the fire. One could never be certain of the types that might be drawn to fire and company during the night. Most were harmless, but some where definately not. The knight moved clumsily from fatigue, and after attending to his horse slumped by the fire with a sigh. Ealhstan studied the man for a moment longer; the dents in his armour and his lack of heraldry, before he shifted his gaze away again, satisfied. No Vampire would take the time to feed his horse if he himself was so tired. Ealhstan's gaze was drawn fleetingly to Bavric as the man returned with wood.


"Monsters do pay well, but we need the right gear." Ealhstan leaned forwards, glad for an opportunity to offer what he knew. "If you want to keep all your limbs attached then we'd need specialist kit. That's unless you plan on taking the brute-force approach of hacking it apart and burning the corpse. I was always taught that silver was good for most things, but..."


Ealhstan shrugged.


"Silver's expensive, y'know? As we are I wouldn't back us against anything much tougher than a ghoul. Against a half-decent vampire, mage, or something worse? We wouldn't stand a chance."


Ealhstan's eyes were downcast for a moment and he scratched his wooden leg. Then he looked up at the knight.


"I know Lysander," he began, "But I wasn't in the thick of the thick of the fighting, so I don't know if he got out. Lot of riderless horses, though."


There was a sombre pause. Then Ealhstan raised his eyebrow at the man.


"But what's your name?" He asked. "Mine's Ealhstan. I was my company's doctor, so if you're still carrying any wounds I could give treating them a shot."


Ealhstan waited for the knights response. As he saw it, the man was likely one of the best fighters the group had. A good person to keep on side.
 
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Sam


Upon the knights first appearance, his hand instinctively moves for his bow, mind quickly jumping to danger, but at the warm welcome from the others, he relaxes.... somewhat. A hesitant bow is his acknowledgement to his arrival.


The bard he found hard to understand, the accent throwing off what little of Kelenite he knew. The old woman was completely incomprehensible. Polite nodding and smiling would have to do for now.


Timidly, he raises a finger to draw attention, "We... For go eating? Hunt or Inside bags?"


He motions first to his bow, then to ration packs.
 
Osric Silkhand





"I think introductions are in order," he says, acknowledging Eahlstan before glancing at the former slave. "And then something to eat, certainly. Talk about next moves."


He looks around the circle, at the faces in the firelight.


"And who is going to lead us from here."
 
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