Our Benefactor - Rivan Nikea [Crucible: Dark Age of Imeria]

When you arrive in the kitchen, it's rather bustling. All manner of staff scurry to and fro, the smells of cooking food assail you - roast pork, fragrant duck, spices, and other scents you cannot begin to recognise. Looks like the evening meal for the manor is being prepared.


A small girl carrying a bowl of peeled potatoes glances at you as she passes, freezes, stares, and damn near drops the bowl as she runs on her way as though pursued by the Princes themselves. How odd.
 
Rivan pauses for a moment, about to chase after the girl and ask her just what was going on. But the rumbling of his stomach convinces him otherwise, and he tries to approach one of the cooks.


"Any chance I could grab a bite around here? By the way, I'm Rivan, the new gamekeeper."
 
The cook turns, almost jumping when he sees you, then he calms down. A burly, red-faced man designed by nature to be a butcher or a cook if ever there was one.


"'ere lad, you frightened the life out of me. Not used to seeing 'is lordship's... people, below stairs. Anyway, a bite you says? Surely, you'd ahm, prefer the 'ladies' on the second floor?"


The man peers at you more closely, the room being dimly lit mostly by fires, and seems surprised yet again.


"Oh, beggin' yer pardon. Thought you was... Anyway, up for grub? Well, dinner's in about twenty minutes, if you can hang on. Or there's some bread 'n' cheese o'er there, if you want a bit to tide you over."
 
Rivan snags the bread and cheese, greedily tearing off large hunks and eating them as fast as he can chew. In between mouthfuls, he tries to engage the cook in conversation, glad to be able to at last talk to someone of his same social level.


"So, do we have to do anything fancy for dinner? I'm new around here and I don't know much. Who did you think I was anyway?"
 
"Nah, lad." The cook goes back to slicing generous slices of meat from a side of beef. "Just us staff at the table, so you needn't worry. I thought mebbe you was one of 'is lordships hirelings or a new ward, but it's good to know you're one of us. 'is lordship takes good care of the people, but some of us do shiver a bit to be among 'im and 'is... circle."
 
Rivan looks up curiously.


"Really? I never know how to handle myself around the lords and ladies, but the ones here don't seem so bad though, and there was this guy... Thomas? He looks pretty scary from afar, but he's quite easy to talk to."


"Is there anything about them I should know?[
 
The cook seems to hesitate, briefly, before speaking.


"No, lad. Nothing you should know, as such. As his lordship wills, you'll be told all you need to know."


He continues cutting, the motions easy and automatic from years of practice.


"Thomas is that darkie, no? Amazin', the things you learn working for his lordship. Church and other nobles call them foreigners less than human, but that Thomas is a good bloke. Works the garden. Even has an honest, Kelenite name."
 
"Never had much to do with the church myself. Sure, I pray like everyone else, and I'll give priests the respect they deserve - but sometimes gods seem kind of distant when you live through horrors first hand."


Nodding, Rivan continues, finishing off his food.


"He seems alright, whatever the church says."
 
"Lucky you're here, lad. That kind of talk could get you hanged in the wider world."


He sets the knife down, and moves to collect the sliced meat.


"Here, I've got more work to do than I have time to talk at the moment. Best be on your way, eh lad? You'll hear the bell for dinner."
 
Smiling amicably, Rivan wanders out of the cooks way, looking for somewhere to amuse himself till dinner.


Perhaps I'll check out the armory and see what tools I have for the gamekeeper's job
 
You find your way to the armory easily enough, recognising the adjacent forge out in the grounds.


There's quite an impressive selection inside. A number of cavalry sabers, spears, a couple of jousting lances, plenty of shields, quite a few dirks, a small selection of bows and a sizeable stock of arrows.


There's also a large, muscular, dark haired man stripped the waist in here, holding a quill pen and some parchment, glancing from a rack of swords, to his sheet, and back, his brow furrowed. The parchment is blank.
 
Rivan inspects the collection of weapons the armory contains, whistling in awe, admiring the craftmanship and their deadly form and function. It almost seems like one of his fantasies leaping off the page and into reality, an assortment of weapons fit for gallant princes or battle-hardened warriors.


Collecting himself, Rivan remembers his manners. Approaching the man, Rivan introduces himself.


"I hope I didn't disturb you! I'm Rivan, the new gamekeeper."
 
The man jumps slightly, apparently so absorbed in his work he hadn't noticed you at all.


"Oh! I... I'm Duvnar. Smith and... and quartermaster." He seems rather shy. For a moment, at least, before drawing himself up to his full and rather impressive height.


"How can I help?" he says, with far more confidence.
 
"I was just wondering if I could take a look at the equipment I'll be using for my job," Rivan says, more than a little intimidated by Dunvar's towering height.
 
Duvnar seems mildly perplexed.


"Well... your pick of bows and whatever weapons you need? And I think there are traps in the Gamekeeper's shed."
 
"Really? You mean I can just take whatever I like?"


"Wow!"


Excitedly, Rivan begins to search the room for bows he likes the look of, almost like a child in a candy store. If he finds any bow that catches his eye, he'll test them for draw strength, and maybe even practice a few shots.
 
"Well, what you need." Watching you for a moment, apparently appreciating your enthusiasm, Duvnar turns back to his work with an audible sigh.


As you search, you find a composite bow that stands out from the rest - at least by virtue of being newer than most of the others.
 
Picking up the bow, Rivan draws it, testing how the pull matches his arm strength.


Satisfied (OOC: I'm just going to assume here), Rivan walks over to Duvar.


"Could I trouble you for some arrows? Of course, I'll make my own once I get enough time, but right now I'd like to see how well this beauty shoots. "
 
Duvnar glances up, apparently increasingly annoyed by his task - or by you. That said, the parchment is still blank...


"Hmwhat? Oh, there should be a few quivers over in the back there..."


Sure enough, three quivers of arrows - one of them broadheads - are hanging on the wall.
 
Meh, I guess I'd best leave him to his work.


Collecting a quiver of broadheads, Rivan wanders out of the armory, looking for a clearing and a target with which he can practice his art.
 
There is a target standing conveniently by the manor's outer wall, opposite the smithy, and the area seems purposely set aside for practice.
 
As he picks up the bow, Rivan recalls his long-neglected training.


I am the bow - I sight with my eye.


He peers at the target, narrowing his gaze to a single slit. Focusing on the bullseye, he breathes deeply and regularly. The rest of the world seems to fade into silence as the bullseye lurches forward to fill his vision.


I am the drawstring - I aim with my mind.


Raising his bow suddenly, Rivan pulls its bowstring taut against his cheek. Pouring his thoughts, emotions and feelings into the mental image of the bullseye, Rivan empties his mind of distraction. There is only his bow and the bullseye, and the silent thumping of his heart.


BA-DUM


BA-DUM


I am the arrow - I kill with my heart.


With a sudden exhalation of breath, Rivan releases his arrow. Before he can see the result of his shot, Rivan nocks another arrow and fires again, and again, and again, loosing arrows as fast as his hands can move, immersed in his sublime state of concentration. Only once he has loosed his entire quiver will he stop and examine the results of his shots.
 
Take 4 Bonus XP, nicely done.
Click to expand...
The arrows cluster around the centre of the target - you can't tell which were just wide of the mark, and which were fired later into what space was left. You can hear applause, from somewhere...
 
Thank you. I've always maintained that no shooting scene is complete without a Dark Tower reference.
Click to expand...
Rivan glances around, vaguely embarrassed that someone had seen him practicing, yet exulting in the applause.


"Who's there?"
 
The applause is coming from the roof of the manor, behind you. Turning, you see a striking young man, perhaps a little older than you, with pale skin and silver-white hair. Naked to the waist, in leather breeches, he's criss-crossed with scars and wears a shortsword at his hip.


"Nice shooting, kid."


With easy, catlike grace he steps down the roof, to the roof of the smithy, and drops to the ground in front of you. He's smiling, and that smile is unsettling in the deep twilight. You hadn't noticed the onset of nightfall quite so quickly.
 
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