Sound off here. :)
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So far, it's Amos.
"Around and round and round she ran, ne'er more to tarry."
Amos thinks to himself, oh great another one of those half crazed barbarians. At least they make for great stories to tell to the drunks in the taverns.
To say that the man you see is big is like saying "water is wet" or "mountains are tall"; Easily standing over 6', this older man has obvious scars from battle, the largest of which disappears under his clan tartan, where it would appear that a ax had hit him in the chest. Yellow hair that could almost be called fur ran down his back, and the boots that he wore had clearly walked a great distance.
Other than the shield, however, he carries neither weapons nor armor. Currently, he is enjoying a mug of whatever sort of beer they serve in this establishment, singing what appears to be a drinking song in Irish Gaelic, with the occasional phrase in English.
Well hello good sir. Amos Windelton is my name. Have you ever heard the story about how the clans men defeated the knights at Craigmens Hill? Its a story that I am sure you would love. Now let me think, how did that go...
"And a fine day tis to you, good ser. Brian Mac Lugh, Ui Briain, at yer service. Be ye a skald?"
Alright, I guess I can start.
The Year is 1192. The month is December. In Calais there are six adventurers awaiting transport to England. The news they have is grim, King Richard is imprisoned by the Holy Roman Emperor, first by Leopold -- Duke of Austria. And they are demanding 100,000 Marks to have him released.
Great news for Philip I Augustus of the country ye are now in.
Calais.
Where, in the next morning, you await a ship to take you to Pevensey or Dover. At long last, you can go home. You await your last hours in France, listening to the Langue of France, the Frankish tongue of langue d'oïl.
You fought in the Holy Land (most of you), and now you go home, to England. To see the White Cliffs. Without further orders from King Richard, the rest of Richard's crusading army that is with you can't wait to get home to their families. It's a cold, Christmas Eve night, and Mass has already started among good Catholics. Tomorrow will come what inevitably comes, the heathen celebrations of the Saturnalia.
"Nay, I do no think I ha'e. After you sing, I shall share the tale of me great grand uncle, Irish Emperor Brian Boru, and the battle of Clontarf. What better pastime can there be then remembering those who came before?"
"Its a shame about king Richard. I wish there was something we could do. It shall be nice to get home. Boy do I have some great stories about sea travel. What you like to hear one?"
"And who could turn down such an offer? Please, good skald, practice your craft."
Well it was Christmas Eve, just two years past. A crew and ship no much different than the one we will be sailing on was floating along on calm seas. Suddenly mermaids surrounded the ship. Oh the sailors we excited and surprised. All of a sudden spears and tridents emerged. Only one lonely sailor survived that voyage. They say he still cries out in his sleep.
The hood of a slouched warrior falls backward as frustration rears its head,
"RARGH, shut it you two! Spinnin tales of meaningless nonsense while the king's soul is being sold for a pittance. DID you fight on his behalf? In the name of another?? Yet yearn for nothing but your beds while he sleeps upon a dungeon floor?!"
His arms sweep wide to emphasis his point and his ferocity. Pale green skin rippled with muscle stretches leather armor to a point of creaking.
"Your beds be just as cold as the future of a kingdom ruled by an oppressor."
"In Eire, remembering those long lost is the best way to make sure that you don't awaken them. And my bed is always warm" he gives the serving wench a wink and then says "I've heard say that Leopold wants 100,000 marks ransom. I don't have that kind of money."
Brian sighs and says "sitting angry and yelling at strangers is no way to spend a dreary e'ening. It's much better to deal with what you can change then rage at what you can not."
Looking around the room, he finishes by saying "And now ye've ruined what good cheer thar was heer. What profits ye that?" Brian says, subconsciously slipping back into his native accent.
I was in the service of our great king, and I have many great stories about it. What do you suggest we do to get him back?
Nazskab turns to face the hairy blonde,
"Take me to this Leopold and I'll pay him a 100,000 marks upon his backside! I see no profit in the wake of those who so willingly abandon their king.
Nazskab leans in, "Tell me smooth skin, how do you propose we make change with this 'good cheer' of yours?"
Perhaps we can sail back to England and steal from the traitors. And if you get to give a few a beating in the process, well that wont be all bad either.
The man in chain mail and the red and white tabard of a Knight Templar Standard Bearer stands from a kneeling position.
"We do not abandon the king. We obey his commands, and the order of things that have gone before. Such is the way of things. Leopold is a man of faith. It must have been through God's will that he has acted thusly."
"Don't get me wrong greenskin, I'm your man in a tussle, but I don't have an army, and I don't have that much money, so what I do have is two choices. I can sit here, be miserable, and make everyone miserable around me with my cac meon. Or, I can try to help people forgot that the world outside is doing it's Christian best to tear itself apart, if only for a few hours or an evening. Which sounds more Christian to you?"
Tristan spits on the floor.
"Silence. I will not tolerate mockery of the true faith. We've had enough of that to deal with in our enemies over the past years."
"who's mocking faith? Anyone with eyes can see that the world is in a sorry shape. We have kings kidnapping kings, normans and Saxons at war, war in the land o' the Scots, and the crusades. Taking back the holy land is the duty of all Godly men. I'm not saying otherwise. But you would have to be blind not to see the suffering that is going on around you."
The door opens and a strange man comes through. He sits at the fire, his cape bearing a white cross. "Good evening."
"Enough talk! Let us take charge of our own fates. Let us be the ones to end the suffering. Be it for your faith, pointing to Sir Tristan, your family, your cac, your stories... your reasons are your own. Don't let them be your undoing."
Nazskab turns as the stranger appears...
"an a good e'ening to you as well, ser. Would you care to join us for a pint?"
Tristan nods to the newcomer, a gesture of respect, but he is perturbed by Mac Lugh's defiance of God's will.
"I see no suffering, other than what the Saracens have inflicted on us. " His teeth grind together as he mentions the hated people. He remains silent afterwards, trying to determine who the newcomer is.
"I represent the fair warrior-maiden Gwendolyn the Most Fair," he said, removing his hood revealing the ears of a fair elf. "We were trying to make it across the channel, but the coasts of Pevenesey is infested with goblins from the other side. We were forced to stop here, in Calais. We are looking for good warriors to help us defeat the goblins so that Gwendolyn the Fair can ride back to Powys unmolested."
"I do so enjoy a ruckus. And a fair maiden, to boot? What Godly man could say no to that?"
I have heard a great number of tales of Gwendolyn. I wish to see if she is as fair as they say. Count me in.
"AYE! My might is yours lest I start smashing things now!"
Easy there big guy. Save it for the ugly goblins.
"These heathen goblins have rejected the true faith for some time. I am at your side if you mean to end their heresy."
To say that the man you see is big is like saying "water is wet" or "mountains are tall"; Easily standing over 6', this older man has obvious scars from battle, the largest of which disappears under his clan tartan, where it would appear that a ax had hit him in the chest. Yellow hair that could almost be called fur ran down his back, and the boots that he wore had clearly walked a great distance.
Other than the shield, however, he carries neither weapons nor armor. Currently, he is enjoying a mug of whatever sort of beer they serve in this establishment, singing what appears to be a drinking song in Irish Gaelic, with the occasional phrase in English.
[ooc]Fortunately, the first thing to go when you're drinking is your sense of taste....also, it's better than drinking no alcohol, which a lot of Templars experienced (as quite a few places in the holy lands were anti-alcohol).
Silently sitting away from the rest of the group, a dark cloaked figure watches as the "warriors' argue among themselves.
Oi vey mear! What a place to be with such goyim. Best keep to myself and let them make fools of themselves.
Mordechai is recently back from the holy land as well, but his reasons were much different from those of these so-called crusaders.
okay. You just roll perform, and it's a charisma check.
Well it would be the same result.
Well it would be the same result.
It would. But from now on, when you're telling a story in front of an audience to entertain, use the perform skill.
No problem.
Two people put more fire on the fire wood, and soon, your food and drink is being served by two French wenches. The Frankish of these ladies were fair to look upon, and quite buxom, although one is started by your half-orc companion, Nazskab. She almost dropped his food and drink but recovered quickly enough to prevent spillage.
She then placed his pint and and his plate of food before him.
Half startled himself by the potential spilled drink Nazskab lurched to catch his due provisions when the waitress recovered...
"Quick to act! Maybe you'd be better accompaniment than some of this sorry lot," pointing over his shoulder to no one in particular, "it surprises me more that you serve them at all... PAGH"
Nazskab scoffs at the French woman as she flinches in retreat.
Wait. good gentlemen, did I hear someone say they were going to be catching a boat to England? Please, may I join you. My tale is not one of heroic deeds and marches across the holy land, no. You see I am simply lost. I sat out from Cardiff, in Wales, to try and reach London. It took nearly all of the wealth I possess to make the journey, but the ship drew up into a gale, and the captain sailed here. The captain, originally not too keen on sailing to London at all this time of year, has taken on a cargo and now sails for Spain, and I am left here desperately trying to get to London. Please, may I accompany you good knights and perhaps find some way to repay your kindness. I can cook, and I know my way with growing things and can do a small measure of healing magic. Please say you will take me with you.
"Worry not little one. I will keep you safe. I'm headed to London, but only as a waypoint on my way home. You're welcome to ride with me as far as London."
thank you, sir...I'm sorry I did not hear your name. I am Artegallio, but people call me, the Gardener.
"Mi name is Brian Mac Lugh, Ui Briain, Knight of the Emerald Isle. Tis a pleasure to make yur quaintance, Sir Gardener. Pull up a wench, grab a seat, and share a pint."
Like a good drunken lecher, he will grab the rear of one of the French wenches as they go by, then give them his most charming smile when they turn to look at him.
Tristan rolls his eyes at the abruptly uncivilized behavior of the barbarian.
"So for this healing 'magic' of yours, I hope you do not pray to any demons or devils for it. Likely, some pagan entity." His voice is bored, as though he already knows the answer.
Forgive me, sir, but, uh, no. I spoke without thinking. By magic I simply mean that I have learned something of the healing arts, but I would not be so presumptuous as to make a claim to being a doctor.I know a few spells, but they are things I was lead to believe come from a respect for the natural world and I do not worship the old pagan deities. I was raised on a farm, far removed from the services of a village priest and did not attend catechism like a knight most certainly would have. If I am anything it is a man of the world, a child of God, and a servant of the natural order. I know my place. I am humbly at your service
An empty plate clatters to the floor. Chair legs rake the ground and the whole thing topples with an exaggerated clamor. A mug crumples and splinters between green skinned hairy knuckles.
"Blessedare we for certain! Another long wind joins the fray! Certainly we'll be able to bore these goblins to death! What say you Elf?!? Does your lady intend to wait forever or will you lead us to this Pevenesey?"
"Mi name is Brian Mac Lugh, Ui Briain, Knight of the Emerald Isle. Tis a pleasure to make yur quaintance, Sir Gardener. Pull up a wench, grab a seat, and share a pint."
Like a good drunken lecher, he will grab the rear of one of the French wenches as they go by, then give them his most charming smile when they turn to look at him.
Fortunately for you, she giggles politely and then starts speaking French. She speaks in a tongue that is common to the people of Paris, so it's a dialect that is almost foreign to you.