Valeros

Brett Rowan's page

482 posts. Alias of dain120475.


About Brett Rowan

A quick story.

Introduction to Brett’s Personality:

The warming glow of a roaring fire danced over the smiling faces of the patrons of the tavern who were stomping their feet and clapping their hands together in a mad rhythm accompanying the song lifted by lusty throats, filled with high spirits and cheer. It was about slaver’s who would try to take the life of those who refused to submit, and was recently voiced by the new guest in the town who had arrived shortly after dusk.

The singer, delighted with his audience, had hopped upon a table and made a gross spectacle of himself, capering about as he belted out the verses with reckless abandon, coming then to the chorus, which by now, all of the patrons new and sang along.

…and we lifted our blade as he stood in the glade and this is what we said

Well my good lord, we’ll lift our sword and slice your fleshy chin
But should ye still come, well then by gum, we’ll slice you at the shin
And if that don’t freeze your charge at we’s who’s cut you so damn bad
We’ll doff our hats to you, my lord, for you be quite a lad!

“For you be quite the lad!” he added with a final shout and raised a tall pint of ale, drinking it to the bottom and nearly drowning in the froth, much to the delight of the other guests who laughed at the display.

A loud cheer rang out, and shouts for another verse or a repeat performance were called for, even as our little minstrel leapt from the table and found his chair with a breathless gasp of delight at his own performance.

“Hey there, peaches,” he called to a passing barmaid “singing be thirsty work, eh? Why not fetch me another pint, and drinks all around?” and tossed a small pouch on the table which thulunked on the surface as the coins collided with each other. The request was largely praised by more clapping and cheering as the lad waved his empty tankard in a tipsy salute at any and all who would encourage him.

A sudden thud from the main door stirred the laughing crowd, and in moments there was a rippling of silence making its way through the tavern. Voices were hushed, and people turned their faces and suddenly huddled in tight groups around their tables.

Four men had entered the tavern. Three of them were dressed in ring mail that had been darkened to a sooty black. Red trim colored their mail near the fringe of their armor and cloaks. They wore long, wicked curved knives and scimitars. One of them had a whip at his side, and all of them had grim faces.

The forth man was the strangest of them all, for his face was cold and pale, and his eyes gleamed of malice. He was smaller then the others, and had an almost reptilian look to his features; sly and searching. He had a foul air to him, and reeked of cruelty.

He made his way forward, while the others fanned out behind, and he seemed to take a pleasure and a delight in the way the patrons of the tavern flinched under his gaze, or avoided it entirely. As he watched he noticed the lusty singer, now alone at his table when all who might call him mate had turned their back on him.

He alone seemed unmoved by the appearance of the new men, and was tending to the business of lighting the tobacco in a clay pipe. When it was finally lit he leaned back and took a deep inhale and watched the men approach him, as if they marked him for trouble, and looked on with a suddenly clear and fearless eye that belied his previous capering and tipsy revelry. As the three man fanned out behind their chief, the young lad blew out a magnificent smoke ring which drifted up toward the leader’s eyes. The leader waved it away with a sudden batting of his hand and an almost effeminate cough.

Pulling out a chair that sat opposite from the now silent singer he helped himself to a seat and slid black calfskin gloves from his thin fingers, then pressed them into a steep point as he examined the smoking gentleman in front of him, who seemed unmoved by his presence.

One of the guards moved slightly behind the sitting captain and rested his hand on the hilt of a dagger, while the other two guards spread out slowly, keeping a keen eye on the patrons, who did their best to remain innocuous.

“That is a dangerous habit my sweet one,” the evil one said with a shrill whisper, watching the lad under lidded eyes.

“Eh, what’s that? Sorry mate, I can’t quite make out what you’re saying, with all that hissing and such,” the lad responded amiably. “But if you intend to break up a party, and help yourself to a chair at that, well, why not invite your lads to a rest and we’ll all have a pint or more, if you’ve a mind.”

“Do you know who I am, boy?” the evil sounding one said, his voice growing cold.

“Can’t say that I do, for I don’t think I’d forget one such as YOU! No sir!”

“I am a priest, boy. I serve the Great One, our patron, Prince of Devils, Lord of Darkness, the great and powerful Asmodeus. I’m sure you know who THAT is,” the man added somewhat flatly.

“No,” the lad added after letting out another smoke ring “can’t say that I’ve met him neither, no-how,” he added with a shrug.

“But hey, mate,” he said with a seemingly unaffected joviality “this is a night for drinking and merrymaking, not for whispered words and dark secrets. Drink a piece, have a bit of mutton, or a join me in a smoke, for that’s what a place like this be for, eh? Or mayhap you’ve found yourself in the wrong place. If so, maybe you should gather your lads there and find better lodgings. We here like a good song, not trouble.”

“Do you now,” the evil looking man asked with a growl to his throat.

“Sure enough we do,” the lad said a sudden thump of his hand on the table “why, we were just singing a nice little ditty I picked up on the travels back west. You may have heard of it, as you look like western folk as well,” he said leaning back in his chair and removed his pipe with his left hand to gesture at the ceiling aimlessly with the stem.

“Oh?”

“Yes indeed… it was about a bunch of nasty Cheliax scum stepping on the rights of the free-folk that don’t do nobody no harm, no-how.”

“A Chelish lord may treat such words as treason, and bring death to any that would act in such treasonous ways,” the priest said leaning in suddenly, the whites of his eyes noticeably yellow in such close lighting.

“Why, I suppose you’re right on that count, mate,” the lad said with a chuckle, knocking out the bowl of his pipe on the table, then sliding it into his tunic.

“Bastard!” the priest barked out suddenly. “Even now, you sneer at royalty and priestly power. Therefore, under the authority of his most royal…”

The explosion that thundered across the stone bricks of the wall in such a close proximity was nearly deafening. The table itself was splintered, and a six inch splinter of wood spun up from the now shattered surface to stab into the eye of the priest, even as his hands tore open his vestments where the lead ball had smashed through his ribs and pulped his heart.

The lad jumped to stand atop his chair, a smoking pistol clutched in his hand, and examined the priest who stared ahead for a moment before his body crashed forward and crushed the remains of the table into matchwood.

The tavern was now suddenly silent as the guards and patrons gaped at him alike with equal shock.

“What?” he asked them all in a somewhat baffled and confused tone.

“You mean none of you saw that coming?” he added after looking around with a somewhat hurt look on his face as he stuffed the pistol into the leather holster at his belt.

He reached across his chest suddenly and plucked another pistol from a holster resting under his left arm and jerked the matchlock hammer back and slid the tip of the barrel back and forth between the three guards, who stared at him with malicious fury, but said nothing.

“Now lads, your boss had a foul way about him, so I killed him, as you saw. But don’t fret overmuch, as he’s a priest and we can all only hope is on the way to entering into the… very warm embrace… of his patron, Asmodeus, as we speak.”

“Blasphemy,” hissed one of them.

“Now then,” the lad said brusquely with the first dark look on his face the entire evening “we’re all in a bit of a predicament. I don’t want to kill you, and you don’t want to be dead. Meantime, you might want to think of better accommodations as I myself ordered a round for the house several minutes ago and not one lad or lass is drinking or fetching the drink when I’ve good coin. That and a dead boss doesn’t speak well for you staying here.”

The largest of the three remaining spoke sidelong to his mates.

“He has only one shot, and there are three of us. He can’t kill us all if we rush him now,” he added as he suddenly flicked his hand to the hilt of his scimitar.

The crash of the flintlock exploded as the rear of the speaker’s head exploded into bloody chunks and he slammed down into the stone floor.

“Your boss be right,” the lad said quite coolly. “But now the odds be two to one, and I already killed your best lads. You sure you want this?”

The two of the remaining guards looked at each, and they moved slowly in a wide arc to flank the lad, each of them drawing their blades and an exasperated sigh from the lad who still stood on the chair.

He feinted to the left and suddenly pivoted and flung his pistol at the guard on the right with a swift an accurate fury.

“By the gods, my face,” the guard screamed, the heavy stock crushing his nose and temporary blinding him.

“Trust me, it’s an improvement,” the lad called out as he jerked out a long curved blade from his belt and rocked his chair forward, using the momentum to leap off at the man on the left. Landing on the floor in a summersault he dodged under a sweep of the scimitar while he twisted his own weapon and scored a slash on the man’s hamstring, causing him to pitch forward to land on his knees, then careening to the ground, grabbing for the back of his leg and screaming in pain.

The lad rolled up and kicked the scimitar from the fallen man and looked at the other guard across the tavern floor still grasping his broken nose and sauntered quite casually to him, collected his pistol and booted the weapons away from the wounded guard, then, after moment, he made a quick scratch on the writhing man’s chin, just enough to bleed it.

“You simply can’t find good help these days,” he muttered to himself as he took the coin purse dangling from the belt of the wounded guard, then walked to the bartender and plunked the purse on the bar.

“Hey peaches,” he called again, glancing around for the serving girl, who suddenly hurried up at his command “these lads had a rough time of it just now, but don’t be too hard of them. They just got mixed up in the wrong crowd,” he added.

“Why don’t ye fix them a drink right quick, and don’t worry about them ratting you out to whoever they work for back west.”

“Why,” he added with a voice loud enough so that even the wounded guards could hear from their prone positions “they’d look like the worst type of traitors if word got about that a single lad killed their captain and their priest while they got away with naught but a few cuts and bruises. Seem downright… traitorly… of them, eh?” he added with a wink.

“Nay, I think they’ll be smart, have their drink and head east fast, not home west, so as they don’t get caught derelicting their duties and such, which might be hard on their necks, as is the saying. As for ye all, let’s have that last round on the house, as promised, and I’ll be one my way; oh, and feel free to blame the whole thing on me completely,” he added cheerfully.

A nervous chuckle broke out among a few of the patrons, then it turned into sudden sporadic laughter which gave way to loud guffaws by all that only come from a sudden releases of high stress.

“Now that’s more like it!” the lad said with a wide grin and a quick pinch of the hindquarters of the barmaid who brought him another tankard. To lighten the mood further he flipped up a gold piece over his fingers, then tossed it into the air so that it landed neatly in the cleavage nestled in her bodice, causing a blush and scattered laughter at his deft fingers and their excellent aim.

“Don’t give me too much praise,” he said with wave at the crowd “that’s the biggest target I’ve had all night,” he added with a laugh, roundly joined by the others.

He turned and took a bold drink from his brew, looking quickly beyond the ruined corpses to the remaining groaning guards, he suddenly smiled at the ends of these Chelish slavers who looked for easy prey and found him instead. So, taking another sip from the tankard, he lifted his voice again.

Well my good lord, we’ll lift our sword and slice your fleshy chin
But should ye still come, well then by gum, we’ll slice you at the shin
And if that don’t freeze your charge at we’s who’s cut you so damn bad
We’ll doff our hats to you, my lord, for you be quite a lad!

And the patrons, after a moment, raised their mugs and joined his song.

A quick photo of Brett?

Not bad - but where's his hat?