Cursing and swearing with imagination and gusto, Tanerit forces his horse through the writhing thorns and bears down on Pellius. The magus strides forwards in kind, his blade gleaming with icy fire, and the two unleash their attacks at the same moment. Tanerit’s enchanted glaive strikes Pellius’ rune-covered sword with a bizarre noise, a chime that seems almost wooden in its timbre. This sound clearly confuses Tanerit, who looks puzzled for the brief moment before remembering to turn aside his opponent’s riposte.
Meanwhile, the archer struggles back on his feet, the broken shaft of one of Bonegrit’s arrows protruding from his shoulder, and launches his response with careful repose. The arrow arcs high in the air narrowly missing Khozin as it falls back to earth.
Commor’s horse, desperate to escape the thorns that have entangled its rider, bolts away, leaving Commor to fall heavily. Maxal’s horse does exactly the same thing, and whilst he manages a little more grace than his companion, both men are cursing as the struggle back to their feet, enveloped in thorns.
"Hug yer horse's mane and stay back,"
Agtharda takes the advice to heart and bends low over her mount, but deep within her cowl her eyes flicker as she watches the battle playing itself out.
Indarl takes another wild and useless swing, this time at Pyotr as the paladin launches Torshen’s Hammer forwards. Pyotr drives his lance into, through, and out the other side of Alagor’s attacker, and thus dies Tarkh, no longer the strongest man in the Freedom Town.
Initiative Order - Round 2
Bonegrit
Indarl
Khozin
Alagor
Delkaneth
Jerath
Pellius & Tanerit
Blaeth
Commor
Agtharda
Pyotr
Maxal
Slightly surprised by the sound of his sword, Pellius shook his head at his mounted assailant.
Still with the sword covered in icy magic, the magus pressed his attack. He willed a bit of his arcane might to his sword swing.
Deep in the back of his mind, Pyotr has a horrifying, glorious image of the true devastation of a full charge of shining knights, riding down an army like a silver wave of death.
Pyotr wheels Hammer, shaking the suddenly inert Tarkh off of the end of his lance. Before he can drop his lance to summon healing power for Alagor, the warrior steps back and swallows a healing potion.
Pyotr refocuses and spurs his mount at the wild-eyed Indarl where he attack Khozin.
Seeing strongest man in Freedom Town completelly skewered by Pyotr's lance, Alagor feels almost rejuvenated. True, he still had a huge gash along his left side, where Tarkh's vicked weapon found it's mark, but he understood that he was still in the battle, and his friends were still in danger. He steps aside and takes a quick look around. Seeing Pelius engage in combat with the man wielding enchanted glaive, Alagor moves towards Tanerit and lands a cruel blow on him.
Pyotr took my opponent, so you're gonna pay for your stupidity. Die, bastard, die! - passes through Alagor's head as he is slowly consumed by bloodlust.
Having found the range, Bonegrit eschews the swan-fletched arrows in favour of simpler shafts, and launches another two at his opposing number in quick succession. Once again, both arrows find their mark, and this time the archer falls and does not rise.
Quick on his feet, Indarl dances around Khozin, swinging his battle axe viciously and denying a clear line of charge for Pyotr. The victim of his ire continues trying to fight back with his small, yet razor-sharp dagger, scoring a hit whilst avoiding the out of control axe swipes.
Despite his deep wound, Alagor completes the magnificent sword drill that has turned this desolate stretch of moor into a killing field. To see this young warrior striding fearlessly towards Tanerit unconcerned by the deep wound in his torso would most certainly be enough, but with the mighty Tarkh slain so easily and the very grass spontaneously erupting to grapple them, it’s clear that events have shaken a number of the Freedom Town thugs.
To make matters worse, a single swing of Alagor’s verdigris encrusted sword is all it takes to cut Tanerit from his horse, the old warrior’s glaive embedding itself in the loam as its wielder crumples to the dirt beside it.
Meanwhile, across the field Delkaneth’s hurled axe clips his opponent, whose darting hands go not for his twin kukris, but instead a potion at his belt, which he downs in a single quaff. The just opened axe wound closes as if it had never been there.
Initiative Order
Bonegrit
Indarl
Khozin
Alagor
Delkaneth
Jerath
===================================================
Pellius
Blaeth
Commor
Agtharda
Pyotr
Maxal
The magus grunts as his assailant falls from his horse and nods his thanks to Alagor. He then moves towards one of the two attackers still left standing, the one fighting with Khozin.
With his magically enchanted blade still bristling with deadly ice, he calls out, "Stop this! Now! There's only two of you left. There's no need for you to die! Can we talk about this?"
[dice=fumble "confirm"]1d20+6[/dice]
Bonegrit lends his own voice to Pellius' plea, with the added weight of an arrow drawn and pointed directly at Indarl for good measure. "Best listen! Might be time to save some o' yer friends before they bleed their last."
Though, probably not the bowman, Bonegrit grimaces to himself, recalling where the last couple of arrows he let loose ended up buried. His eyes remain trained on his next target while he silently hopes they see reason. Seems a shame to die face down in the dirt so close to home over a ring.
______________________________
>
"Stop this! Now! There's only two of you left. There's no need for you to die! Can we talk about this?"
Seeing the magus’ glittering ice sword pointed at him and Pyotr casting around for another opponent, Indarl curses with short, sharp fervour, shrugs and releases his grip on his battle axe, which dangles from his wrist on a leather strap.
Behind Pyotr, Yevender’s squire forces his way out of the clutching thorns and swings a mace at the half-orc. Unfortunately, though Commor has escaped the entanglement, his weapon has not, and a twisted strand of knotted grass prevents his attack from following through.
Pyotr twists about to confront this new attacker, striking Commor dead in the forehead with the butt of his lance. The hapless squire is wearing no helm, and falls back senseless into the thorns, blood gushing from his crushed temple.
Seeing his companions falling on all sides, Maxal struggles to raise his arms above his head as the snaggly undergrowth resists him.
“I surrender,” he calls out.
Some distance away, Delkaneth and his foe face each other down, a few feet separating them. His adversary fixes his green eyes on Del’s dark ones as his hands drift towards the hilts of his kukris.
“Come for me and I’ll defend myself,” he mutters quietly, “Otherwise, let’s come to an accord. I think my comrades in arms are done here.”
Just to clarify in regards to the active quiver, I restocked (and subtracted) from the excess quivers Bonegrit keeps on Amiro. Did so when the need for bludgeons were mentioned given the pending trip into undead lands.
Delkaneth 16 hp
Pyotr 20 hp
Bonegrit 20 hp
Pellius 24 hp
Alagor just 2 hp
As the still armed assailants gather in a small group, Pellius nods to imposing figure of Pyotr on his horse.
"As my friend stated a few moments ago, we have custody of both the criminal and the evidence and we still intend to see them both handed over to the proper authority."
The magus looks at Khozin and shakes his head, "However, Khozin here has agreed to help us. Once this is done, we will return to Freedom Town, with Khozin and what he stole."
With his blade still menacingly high he waited for the thugs to answer. When no answer came forth, he quickly adds, "That's it. You either go back and tell your boss of our plans or you die right here and now. Do you really want to join your comrades?"
Pyotr turns Hammer, searching for the next opponent, when Commor struggles free of the thorns. He takes a swing with his mace. In the suddenness of the attack, Pyotr cannot level his lance, and instead drives the butt into Commor's skull. Pyotr hisses a curse as he realizes the fight is over, and Commor's last second swing was the pinnacle of foolish acts in this foolish fight.
he shouts. "You have no hope of prevailing here, and I already have too much of your blood on my hands!"
“Come for me and I’ll defend myself,” he mutters quietly.
"You would fail. Mount your horse, and be over the horizon before we finish tending our wounds. We will allow you to return to Freedom Town in disgrace and failure. That is the accord."
"You would fail. Mount your horse, and be over the horizon before we finish tending our wounds. We will allow you to return to Freedom Town in disgrace and failure. That is the accord."
All of a sudden silence descends upon the lonely moor, and the warrior’s muttered comment sounds unnaturally loud, even reaching the ears of Pyotr dozens of yards away. The man in question looks past Delkaneth to the mounted half-orc, perhaps surprised by his preternatural hearing, but offers no answer. Instead, he turns and stalks away, heading towards his horse.
"As my friend stated a few moments ago, we have custody of both the criminal and the evidence and we still intend to see them both handed over to the proper authority."
“The proper authority may not see it your way,” suggests Indarl as he backs away. “If you want my advice, either go and see Skaraben with his precious ring and this one’s head (he jerks a thumb towards Khozin) on a platter, or keep a very low profile indeed.”
Indarl’s horse remains entangled in the spontaneous growth of thorns, so the thug backs away towards Commor’s steed.As these two retreat towards their mounts, Maxal remains helpless amidst the thorns that bind him.
“And what of me?” he asks. “I’d willingly obey your instructions, Ser Knight, but your sorcery prevents it.”
Meanwhile, Khozin leaps down from his horse and hurries over to Alagor.
“A grievous wound my friend. A lesser man would have fallen.” The half-elf offers Alagor a small vial of almond-scented liquid. “Drink this. It will cure some of your injury.”
Khozin gives him a conspirator’s smile. “It looks like we chose our companions well. They fight well, and they’ve proven they won’t abandon us in a tight spot, despite the bluster. Strange to say it, but the Hold of Belkzen might prove to be rather fun.”
Bonegrit lets the knightly sorts deal with the fallout of the decidedly and thankfully short battle. Instead, he wanders about the moor making his way from one fallen man to the next, checking to see if any yet live. Not that the fools didn't deserve it for their shortsighted missteps, of which Bonegrit has no doubt is but one of many. Rather, he's hoping a token or two of goodwill here will count down the road—serve to dissuade earning any more lifelong enemies if it can at all be avoided.
"Take hold," Pyotr turns his lance over, both ends now wet with blood, and places the hilt near Maxal's hands. After allowing the trapped man to take hold, he and Torshen's Hammer pull the man free.
As the man rips free of the thorns, Pyotr pulls the lance away. "I will give you a few more moments' grace, due to your late start. Do not tarry. And you," Pyotr levels his lance at Indarl, "your steed is there." He nods to Tanerit's wayward, but nearby horse.
Clutching the blood-smeared haft of Pyotr’s lance, Maxal is dragged from the resisting thorns, yelping all the way as the barbs scratch new lines over patches of exposed skin.
"I will give you a few more moments' grace, due to your late start. Do not tarry."
The defeated thug nods obsequiously at the paladin’s instructions, his hands still raised ridiculously above his head as he scurries for the horse. Indarl, still clearly in fear of the half-orc, immediately obeys Pyotr’s command, his eyes drawn to the inert corpse of Tarkh as he moves past it.
The last warrior is already astride his horse, which he spurs into a gallop. Indarl and Maxal will not be far behind.
Meanwhile, Bonegrit makes a quick assessment of the fallen. Tanerit is still alive, despite the great rent Alagor put through his gut. Bonegrits cuts the grimy red tunic Tanerit wears off the mercenary’s body and quarters the garment, then uses it to tie a crude bandage around the man’s midriff. The material soon turns a darker, fresher hue of red, but it will keep Tanerit alive for now.
Besides the magical glaive embedded in the ground beside the prostrate, unconscious mercenary, Tanerit carries a dagger and wears a breastplate. A money pouch at his belt contains forty-six copper pieces, eight silver pieces and just three gold, but the large hoop earring through his left ear is probably worth a few gold more.
The mighty Tarkh is as dead as they come. He’s clad in a suit of chain mail that now features a circular puncture through the front and back of the hauberk and a nice matching set of bronze wrist torcs. He’s equipped with a heavy, circular metal shield with the faded emblem of four star bursts at each point of the compass interwoven with crossed short swords, as well as a short sword of his own now stained with Alagor’s blood. His purse contains ten gold pieces, eleven silver pieces and fourteen copper pieces.
Commor is senseless, but the occasional incoherent mutter shows death has yet to claim him. Plucking some long thorns from the surrounding entanglement of brambles, Bonegrit crudely pins the torn flap of flesh back over an exposed patch of Commor’s skull. The squire’s light mace is still clutched in his hand, and is clearly a superior piece of work (), and the Commor also carries a longsword as a back-up weapon. His lance is lies abandoned some paces further into the monstrous vegetation, which slowly seems to be retreating, diminishing back to its normal size. Commor is protected by poorly maintained splint mail, and a large steel shield, roughly triangular in shape but with flowing edges. The shield’s heraldry is etched onto its surface and illuminated in fading paint; a fat, friendly looking red dragon cradling a massive candle in its arms, the smoke rising over its horns and then tracing a circle around the creature.
Tucked inside Commor’s armour is a steel hip flask.
The squire has no obvious money belt, but Bonegrit can’t help noticing the tin codpiece Commor wears sits awkwardly in its spot. Perhaps it conceals something, or perhaps its owner is just overly blessed.
Bonegrit, after setting wounds, begins piling the spoils in a convenient mound on the edge of where the explosion of bramble and vine occurred. Frowning deeply as he turns over Commor's person, he ultimately decides on what might be the most foolish course, unsheathing his skinning knife to pry the lad's codpiece away. He prays to any Power listening that the bulge is a result of hidden wealth and not the alternative.
Pyotr relaxes as the three attackers move quickly to vanish over the horizon. Bonegrit moves from one of the fallen to another, though Tharkh is clearly beyond anything short of miraculous aid. He looks out to the far ridge, where Bonegrit cut down the archer, suspecting that at least one more was beyond aid.
He props the lance back up in a ready position, and watches Agtharda and Khozin closely. The orc witch watches events from horseback, while the cleric is quick to aid his friend Alagor. Pyotr tries to guess which of the two summoned the thorn bramble.
"I will collect the horses," he says as he turns Hammer's head towards Commor's wandering steed. Pyotr manages to wrangle the reins of the wayward horses, throwing the body of the fallen archer prone over his horse and walking him back to the crowd.
Once satisfied the thugs are leaving, the magus goes around helping Bonegrit checking on the dead and gathering whatever they left behind.
He looks at Del, "Are you OK? You know there is some stuff that could use your appraising eye here. Can you cast your spell to detect magical auras?"
He then checks on Signior and veers away from Khozin trying to speak to as many of his companions as possible.
"You know this may look like a victory but we haven't heard the last of this. Now we are committed to bringing back Khozin. What if he escapes us? Are we going to treat him as a prisoner and tie him up at night? I think we should at least take the stolen goods from him."
Pellius moves his head side to side, "We need to make sure we bring back Khozin or his head."
Bonegrit’s suspicion proves correct. Nestling between the codpiece and Commor’s ludicrous bright purple bloomers is a musty little pouch of tanned leather. As Bonegrit lifts the purse free, Commor momentarily regains consciousness, sees a half-orc with a knife in one hand and the other on his nethers, and abruptly passes out again. Shaking out the pouch’s contents, Bonegrit finds two gold coins, three silver and eleven copper pieces.
Meanwhile, Pyotr rides out to the archer. As he suspected, Bonegrit’s marksmanship has wrought doom on the man, who lies dead with arrows in his shoulder, heart and throat, plus a long slash across his flank where a fourth arrow winged him. He’s the youngest of the band to have attacked them, barely old enough to be called a man. His studded leather armour did nothing to protect him, nor did the whatever the potion tied between his two quivers contains.
Much like Bonegrit, the archer carries a variety of arrows. Nine are of masterwork quality, ten are blunt, one is a whistling arrow and the remaining nineteen are normal. The longbow itself is a powerful piece of work, a composite of woods capable of transmitting considerable strength into a shot. The archer also carries a dagger and a morningstar, and the deep pockets of his jerkin contain six gold pieces, four silver pieces and eleven copper pieces.
Pytor also rounds up the four horses unclaimed by their dead or grievously injured owners. A quick assessment by Bonegrit shows that two are combat-trained (those of Commor and Tarkh respectively), and furthermore, Commor’s horse, a chestnut with four white socks, is also girded with scale barding and sports a worn old military saddle.
"You know this may look like a victory but we haven't heard the last of this. Now we are committed to bringing back Khozin."
Pyotr gives the Vigilant soldier a curious look. "We always were."
"What if he escapes us?"
Pyotr looks to the Hungry Mountains to the east. "Bonegrit has his scent. He would not make it far. Besides," Pyotr looks to the wastelands of Belkzen in the west and shrugs, "where could he go?"
"I'm fine...whatever that was just took a lot out of me."
Pyotr's eyes are wide as he approaches. "That was your doing?!" He cannot help but look back to the ring where the thorn bramble had receded, its borders now marked in blood. "I assumed..." he glances at the silent Agtharda. "I mean, I was not aware you had such powers."
As he looks over the loot he cannot help but shake his head. "If we were heading anywhere else, this much gear and that many horses could be sold for a tidy profit. Probably not the wisest plan to try and sell Sharpe gear in Freedomtown, though."
"It must be Freedom Town, or it must be buried. Both Master Ironcoffer and I have sworn that no weapons or armor will be traded to the orcs of Belkzen. But, these are not Sharpe's men. At best, these are mercenaries or fortune hunters who have befriended Skaraben. If they wished to keep this safe and sound, then they should have stayed at home. They chose to track us, and attack us, after we warned them off. This is ours by right of victory."
Khozin’s sharp ears catch a little of the others’ muttered conversation. Leaning closer to Alagor, he whispers “They might still betray us should we return to the Freedom Town, something I’d rather avoid if we can help it. Let’s see how things play out in the mountains. By the sounds of it, this won’t be the only battle we’ll fight on this journey, and perhaps these guys will discover a little more loyalty to their blood brothers once we’ve fought for our lives together.
Delkaneth investigates the piled loot for magical traces. Aside from the powerful emanations of Tanerit’s glaive, both the contents of the potion bottle and the hip flask indicate as magical, possessing very similar conjuration auras in Del’s glowing eyes.
Out towards the Hungry Mountains, distant thunder rumbles.
The magus looks at the spoils pile and smiles, "Not bad for a quick bit of blade work."
Poking around, the only thing that catches his attention is the well made light mace but seeing that Del is also looking at the weapon, the magus makes no mention of it.
He shrugs his shoulder, "Not really interested in anything except maybe the potions but not until we figure out what they do. Of course, we can always try and sell the items. How about we pack it all up and load to one of the horses."
He then looks at Bonegrit, "Do you think we can take the animals with us? I'll be happy to help and carry one along behind Signior."
Scanning the horizon and the distant thunder he says, "Let's try and make some headway into the mountains but stop before the rain gets to us. I hate making camp under the rain."
Bonegrit shakes his head briefly. "Where we're headed, strappin' all our new-gotten gains to a new horse might be as good as settin' it loose to begin with. They'll be extra mouths to feed and slow us down keepin' em on a tether behind us. Looks like a couple of em have been broken in proper, but The Hungries ain't exactly horse country either. Might be Deramil can keep an eye on em while we're gone. Matter of fact, maybe keepin' some o' this jink secure at the laager is the best way not to lose it on the trail. No tellin' what we're gonna find up there."
Bonegrit reins Amiro around to cast his gaze in the direction of the caravan encampment. "Assumin' I've earned some trust, I could gopher anything we don't wanner carry back to the caravan and catch up. Most of ya already know how fast I can ride, and pickin' up trails is the entire reason I'm hired on in the first place."
Not doubting your riding skills, but I don't think this is a good idea. What if they are waiting for us? I'm sure the Sharpes are looking out for their thugs to return and it wouldn't surprise me if our caravan is being watched. You would be alone."
The magus again circles the pile, "We either take this with us or hide it."
He looks at the wounded, "What about them? Should we give them a horse and tell them get back?"
Pyotr approaches the silent Agtharda. "I am sorry that you had to be witness to that. Freedom Town seems to breed a great deal of bravado, but very little discretion. I hope you are well after that vulgar and bloody display."
Pyotr considers Bonegrit's recommendation. "You have earned my trust, for one. But, that is not my concern. We should make camp here. I should be able to bring these two back to conciousness. They can each share a horse with one of their fallen, and ride back to Freedom Town on their own. We can load this gear on the other two horses, and carry it with us."
Meanwhile, Khozin leaps down from his horse and hurries over to Alagor.
“A grievous wound my friend. A lesser man would have fallen.” The half-elf offers Alagor a small vial of almond-scented liquid. “Drink this. It will cure some of your injury.”
Warrior takes the proferred vial and gulps itt down without thinking too much. He listens to Khozin's chatter and sways his head a couple of times, his gaze locked on Pyotr. "I would not bet on your chances with sir knight there. Seems his mind is set on honourable solution Khozin, whatever that means in Freedom Town. But you do have a point, prove yourself valuable, and you might have a chance."
As Pyotr returns with the body of the archer, Alagor approaches and lifts dead man's head to see if he can recognize him.
He looks over to Alagor. "Do you think the Sharpes will also agree to our 'right of victory' for all this? Sounds right to me, until a Freedomtown horsetrader refuses to pay us what the beasts are worth because of where they came from."
At that moment Delkaneth addresses him, and Alagor replies quickly: "Well, if the Sharpes would send word specifically, than we could not sell even a dirty goat hoof, let alone something more. But I reckon they will not even think of it, and there are more than plenty of traders in Freedom Town who will buy anything for the right price. After all, in there possesion is eleven tenths of the law, no one asks too many questions."
Turning to Bonegrit, he continues: "That's why I actually like your idea. I count your proposal as a sound one, and it may get us some money. 'fcourse, I'll not go over the head of the obvious boss in'ere..." - noding his head towards Pyotr - "...but as I said - Bonegrit 'ere has a good idea. He could ride back, deliver the goods and catch up with us rather soon."
"it might be a good idea but I remember what happened last time we split up .... Besides, don't most spooky campfire tales go badly once someone ventures off alone?"
Pellius nods, "I agree and have made my position clear. However, I can't make him stay."
With slow deliberate movements he climbs back down from the saddle and approached the collected loot. He picks up the mace and gives it a few swings, each more awkward than the last. With a disgusted look he tosses it back on the pile.
"whatever we're going to do we should do it fast."
The magus reaches over, picks up the discarded weapon, and slowly appreciates its craftsmanship. A couple of swings confirms his first impression of the well-made mace. "Del, if you don't want it and no one else wants, I'll gladly take the weapon."
Since it seems that they would camp here and now, the magus starts to unpack his saddle bags trying to make Signior as comfortable as possible.
Bonegrit nods to Alagor, briefly saying "Uh... thanks" awkwardly. It is not a slight on the swordsman, rather the speech of one not accustomed to receiving praises.
"The gear and beasts ain't what's on my mind the most. I worry about Dierik and his lot. They ain't got a hint 'bout what's just happened here—not a clue that one of the made boys in Freedom Town's out fer blood with a score to settle. I reckon a heads up fer Santrian and gettin' the ring back to the Sharpe runt might tide things over til we get back and Dierik's on the mend."
Alagor does not recognise the slain archer, but Khozin’s draft restores him somewhat.
"I am sorry that you had to be witness to that. Freedom Town seems to breed a great deal of bravado, but very little discretion. I hope you are well after that vulgar and bloody display."
Agtharda merely shrugs at the fellow half-orc; she appears unmoved by the bloodshed. Her face no longer sits so deep in her cowl, and Pyotr has a better view of her unflattering features. She offers him something like a crooked smile.
"I count your proposal as a sound one, and it may get us some money. 'fcourse, I'll not go over the head of the obvious boss in'ere..." - noding his head towards Pyotr -
Pyotr's turns a wounded look towards the group. Alagor's rebuke caught him by surprise. "I did not mean to... I mean, if it were not... only, I dislike the idea of Bonegrit going off alone, and I thought... but if you think...?" Pyotr shuffles his feet slightly, for the first time in a long while breaking through his sanctimonious shell, and showing his youth. The whole display borders on the comical as the half-orc is armed and armored all the way up to the enormous tusks that point out from beneath his helm.
He walks over to Torshen's Hammer, taking his reins and walking him through the area of the vanished thorn bramble, collecting Commor's lance. He makes a show of brushing Hammer down, but he is clearly abashed.
Pellius is restless and wants to make a decision and act on it.
He ponders the situation and suggests the following, "Listen, time's wasting here. I don't think it's a good idea for Bonegrit to ride by himself so I volunteer to accompany him. I may not be as fast a rider but I've been scouting these places for a while. The two of us should be back here before nightfall."
He looks at the loot pile one more time, "I'll keep the light mace and the potions until we can identify them. Everyone take what you will. In the next 10 minutes, we'll ride back to camp with whatever is left."
He calls over the young half-orc, "Pyotr, come here and do what you can to keep these two alive but don't let them leave camp just yet. They will only slow Bonegrit and I down. We'll release them in the morning."
Satisfied with his impromptu decision-making, the magus looks around, "Any questions or better ideas? If so, let's hear them. If not, we leave in 10."
With one of the captured horses carefully loaded with the assorted loot claimed from the battle, Bonegrit and Pellius mount up and head west at a stiff canter, leaving their companions alone on the desolate moor.
They begin setting up camp, erecting their newly purchased tents and unsaddling the horses.
Whilst Tanerit remains unconscious, Commor eyes open about an hour after Pyotr’s blow dispatched him. He tries to futilely to wipe the dried blood from his face, and slowly raises his head to regard himself with confusion; having been stripped of his armour, he wears nothing but his purple undergarments and a vest.
“Where am I?” he asks no one in particular.
Agtharda settles herself a short distance from the others. From her bag she plucks a small book bound in red leather and begins to study the mysterious sigils written within.
Khozin wanders over to Delkaneth and Pyotr when they are out of earshot of Alagor. “You’re display on the field was very impressive, Ser Pyotr. You’ve the mark of a leader by my judgement, and one day I’m sure you’ll be the pride of Lastwall. Don’t let my friend Alagor’s comments bother you overly, sometimes he likes to be the only hero in the tale. I’ve no doubt he recognises your quality.”
The half-elf glances at the sun, which is rapidly heading for the stormy peaks of the Hungry Mountains. Thankfully the rain has yet to reach them. He then turns his attention to the exhausted Delkaneth.
“Our Chelaxian colleague here looks dead on his feet. You must all be weary. I’d be happy to take first watch as twilight approaches, and allow you some time to recuperate.”
A pair of heavy butcher ravens spot the two corpses lying on the bloodstained ground and interrupt their flight home to their roost in the mountains. They circle the camp a couple of times then land lightly on a rock about a dozen yards from the camp.
Pellius and Bonegrit make good time as their swift horses carry them across the moorlands. The stocky grey, once the archer’s horse, which they have chosen to bear the trophies of battle, can’t quite match the pace of Amiro and Signior, but doesn’t slow them unduly. Soon the Freedom Town’s insalubrious outline is once again in sight.
Making a wide circuit of the settlement’s palisade, the pair come back to the encircled wagons of Dierik’s encampment. Despite their encounter with Skaraben’s lackeys, all within the laager looks as it should be. As they ride into camp, Second Master Santrian hurries towards them.
he shouts in horror to see only two of the party return so soon.
“Fear not Santrian,” calls out First Master Deramil, as he too moves to greet them, the half-elf pointing towards the third horse and its cargo. “Your conclusions need not be so grim. That beast’s not one of ours. Why have you returned?” he asks Bonegrit.
After nodding agreement with Pellius' proposal, Bonegrit plods his way towards Khozin, the air of sternness returning with each step towards the half-elf. Stopping but a pace away from the Desnan, he extends his right hand as if ready to accept something, then grates out in his guttural speech "I'll be takin' that ring now. If we're lucky, it'll buy us enough good will to keep the Sharpes from our throats until our caravan can move on. And after you hand me the ring, I want you to take a good look at the deaders over there. Look at 'em and realize that men bled and died today over a bauble, pride, and your damned foolishness. Pray to that soddin' Butterfly of yers that they didn't have kids or kin. If they did, might be you can tell em why dad or bubba didn't come home one night."
Bonegrit slows Amiro and their new horse to a leisurely gait as the worried yell of Santrian greets them. He raises a hand in a calm gesture to disarm the man's worry, and nods to Deramil at the First Master's own words. "One of the new-hires is a damned fool is why we've returned."
Vaulting off of Amiro in his usual fashion, Bonegrit fetches up the reins of the extra horse and hands it off to Deramil. "Khozin decided he wanted to steal the Sharpe younger's signet ring—Skaraven, or Skaraben I believe his name was. He wasn't too pleased, and sent over a half dozen local strongarms to collect Khozin and the ring to bring back to the Sharpe kid. Couple of em are worm food now; the horse and everythin' on it are the spoils we claimed in the wake of the thugs and their poor choices."
quote=Bonegrit]
After nodding agreement with Pellius' proposal, Bonegrit plods his way towards Khozin, the air of sternness returning with each step towards the half-elf. Stopping but a pace away from the Desnan, he extends his right hand as if ready to accept something, then grates out in his guttural speech "I'll be takin' that ring now. If we're lucky, it'll buy us enough good will to keep the Sharpes from our throats until our caravan can move on. And after you hand me the ring, I want you to take a good look at the deaders over there. Look at 'em and realize that men bled and died today over a bauble, pride, and your damned foolishness. Pray to that soddin' Butterfly of yers that they didn't have kids or kin. If they did, might be you can tell em why dad or bubba didn't come home one night."
Assuming he obliges, Bonegrit will take the ring with an angry swipe and stomp off to go about his business. If not, another enraged scenario will take place in a follow up post—muwahaha!
All well and good, except Pyotr's had the ring for quite a while now! :-)
Plus Khozin follows Alseta, not Desna!
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After nodding agreement with Pellius' proposal, Bonegrit plods his way towards Pyotr with a relaxed gait. He spares a dirty glance in Khozin's direction before coming to a stop but a pace away from the other half-orc among their number. "I'd like to take the ring, if ya don't mind. I intend on givin' it to Santrian so he can maybe see to getting the thing back into the hands that rightfully own it. Between that and sparin' the goons that ought be left dead in the dirt, maybe they won't pursue retribution against our caravan in our absence."
It takes a few moments to unburden the horse of his armor and reload them with the majority of the equipment stripped from Skaraben's thugs. As he sorts through the arms and armor, Pyotr picks up the glaive. "It is a beautiful weapon. I trained with similar polearms, though I have hardly mastered them. You said it had a magical aura?" he asks Delkaneth. Then he turns to Alagor, "and you mentioned that it chimed, like a bell, at each strike?"
"I wonder if it has a name...?" he muses as he spins it through a few practice strikes.
Commor eyes open about an hour after... “Where am I?” he asks no one in particular.
Pyotr takes a knee beside the young squire, and lays the longsword across his shoulder, the naked blade against Commor's neck. "You are in our camp. You are alive, but vanquished. In the morning, you will be set at your liberty, and given a horse to ride home. Do not stir. You took quite a blow to the head."
"When you return, you must tell Ser Yevender that you have not yet learned the first lesson. You must learn the weight of your sword. More importantly, learn when not to draw it." Pyotr stands, lifting the blade. "Do you understand?"
Khozin wanders over to Delkaneth and Pyotr when they are out of earshot of Alagor. “You’re display on the field was very impressive, Ser Pyotr. You’ve the mark of a leader by my judgement, and one day I’m sure you’ll be the pride of Lastwall. Don’t let my friend Alagor’s comments bother you overly, sometimes he likes to be the only hero in the tale. I’ve no doubt he recognises your quality.”
Pyotr frowns. A thief and a flatterer? "Thank you, Khozin. Do not trouble yourself taking a watch. Three of us should be able to handle the watches." Pyotr indicates himself, Delkaneth, and Alagor.