|
Grass blades bow in the wake of the wind. The cairn gapes: a great black maw leading into the ground. In truth, the opening is not larger then the frame of a man, but it's presence suggests deep secrets in the empty, isolated place.
Grand Sergeant Bartholomew shifts irritatedly in his saddle. "Now look here! This land belongs to the soverign nation of Aldoria and your claims to this cairn, to be perfectly frank, are galling at best: at worst, a cause for war."
Swordlord Phinehas Dento scofff openly, "Come now! Everyone know you have no true country here. Had it not been for Brevoy and the Swordlords of Restov, this space would never have been discovered. The rights are ours, and we will fight for them if we must."
Both men draw weapons. Their entourages likewise arm themselves. The slide of steel is punctuated by a resounding explosion.
The doorway to the cairn blows apart in all directions with violent force, and where before men would have entered single file, the hole would easily accommodate two wagons to enter abreast.
Despite the expanded space for traffic, a lone man stands in the center of the crater, an oddly sophisticated musket resting on his shoulder.
The two commanders exchange glances, and the Grand Sergeant speaks up. "And who, by the gods, are you then!?"
Striking a bold pose, the man pulls himself upright and bellows out, "I am the great and mi-" The dust from the exposion interrupts his loud cry, and he spends a few moments coughing the dust out of his lungs.
"Ahem. I'm no one of consequence. What's going on here?" He stretches out slightly, his back popping audibly as he does. He runs a hand through his bright copper hair, looking over the assembled forces.
Hm. Looks like I may have interrupted a scuffle. I wonder what fun could be had here? A small smile quirks the edge of his mouth, as he ponders over the possibilities.
Szilard's brow furrows. "Wight? I am no wight. Do I look wight-ish to you?" Szilard shakes his head. "Mad men, all of them." He mutters under his breath. "Now then. What exactly is this legal dispute, and what does each party stand to gain?"
"My name is Szilard. I am no justice of the peace, simply a curious onlooker. As to my presence in that dingy whole in the ground, that has me somewhat baffled as well. I'm not particularly pleased at being stuck down there, either. As to what my business is... I am a craftsman. This," he raises his gun, "is my craft. Both in production and deployment." He looks down at the rifle, and a rather fatherly smile spreads across his face.
"Judging by how stiff I feel, I suspect I may have been been down in that hole for at least a few millenia, if not longer. Egads." He rolls his shoulders, adjusting and stretching to restore mobility in his limbs.
"And weaponmonger... I've never much liked that term, it's so limited. I'm an inventor, a creator. And my creations are rather unique. If you'd like, I'd be happy to provide a demonstration."
"That's very rude, you know. I recommend being a little more polite in the future." He turns to the men of Aldori and smiles. "Gentlemen, I think you stand in the right. If you'll pardon me a brief moment..." Szilard steps back into the shadows, out of sight. He pauses for a moment to giggle to himself, then takes a close look at his soon-to-be foe.
Having studied his enemy, he mutters a quick incantation for accuracy, then lines up his shot on his foe.
|
|
Two thunderous shots pelt the clear air and Dento is left with a hole in his gut and one in his leg.
Clenching his teeth against the pain he stares incredilously into the cairn. "The bastard shot me! Kill him!"
With no hesitation, the Swordlord's men rush the cairn and attack!
...but Szliard is too quick and dances out of reach. Still the battle looks very one sided at present.
Grand Sergeant Bartholomew seems unsure what to make of the engagement and keeps his men out of the fray, clearly reaching for a decision.
Szilard winks out of existance, appearing ten feet farther into the Cairn. "Come now, gentlemen of Aldori. Fight while you have an ally to stand with you! Let it not be said of you that a stranger had to stand and fight in your stead. Show them your mettle!" With his final words, he points to Dento and shouts an incatation, a pair of missiles darting out of his fingertip to his foe.
He giggles as he continues backward, eventually coming to a stop and firing another shot at the mounted man.
"Eh. Do with him what you will. I think I've already proven my point." A grin dances across his face, as he waits for a gap in the fray to emerge from the Cairn again. "I'm glad we could bring this dispute to a... swift resolution." Szilard moves toward the commanders and cocks his head to the side.
"This seems like a small skirmish in a larger conflict. Would you mind sharing the story? Perhaps not right this moment, but when things are a bit more settled." Szilard smiles pleasantly, doing his best to convey a friendly, non-threatening posture.
"Aye, it would be my pleasure." Szilard pauses a brief moment to size up Bartholomew, and then swings his gun back, slinging it across his shoulders. "Are your men well, do any need healing?"
|
|
Szilard, in company with the Aldorians, passes the gates to the capital of Aldoria.
Surtova sits a a large lake and the dominating structure of the keep shadows the entire city.
Bartholomew dismisses his men and leads Szilard to the keep. "The council will see you shortly, please be here in an hour."
Szilard spends his hour time exploring the streets, and getting familiar with the tone and character of the city. Once he nears the end of the hour, he hurries back toward to council, ensuring that he leaves at least 5 minutes to tidy up and look as presentable is he is able.
|
|
"May I present Szilard." the seneschal proclaims in the council chamber."[/b]
I MEAN IT!
Szilard enters and sees a large arching table with an open area in fron where the supplicant may see and be seen by all.
Eleven seats ring the table, each of them filled. The council of Aldoria is hugely diverse: a kobold, an orc-kin, and elf, a few humans.
A halfling sits in the center of the table address the newcomer.
"Speak your business. We hear you have aided in settling a border dispute, but you have injured a commander from Brevoy. Why do you take our part, and more importantly, why do you appear to be seeking ward between these nations?"
Minding his courtesies and manners, Szilard bows first, then begins speaking. "Aye, words were exchanged and good Bartholomew persuaded me that his cause was more just than that of Brevoy. They seemed closed to new ideas, and unwilling to move forward. My intention wasn't to create a war, but to solve a dispute. I believe in progress, moving forward rather than being trappen in the past. Your land seems to much better represent those ideals." With a polite smile, Szilard waits for a response.
"I see three possible courses of action. The first is to sue for peace. Disavow my actions, claim I am unaffiliated, and they should leave you be. If they are thirsty for war though, then nothing would change that - they would likely strike even if I had not acted.
The second course is to prepare for war on your own land. Familiar territory grants you an advantage, but you risk harm to your people and crops. Siege is a nasty business, but with good fortification victory is likely.
The third course of action is to strike preemptively. Before they can muster forces and prepare defenses, take the battle to them. Harass and weaken their flanks, sow disarray, and create distractions so their forces are spread thin. A quick strike can cripple them, and make further conquest simple." Szilard pauses and thinks for a moment.
"I suppose there is a fourth option. I could strike out ahead and... cause trouble in their lands to delay and weaken them. I do not love war, but I do not fear it. I defer to your wisdom in these matters, as I am no general." With another bow, Szilard waits for their reply.
Szilard shrugs. "I had an hour to think on what may come. And I have presented both peaceful and aggressive solutions. However, I am a craftsman. I produce weapons which grant an army a powerful advantage over their foes. Were it my intent to profit from this war, I would have led with an offer to supply arms to this nation. You asked for my thoughts on how your nation could move forward, and I offered four possible solutions."
Szilard shrugs once again. "If you wish, I would be happy to offer my services as a gunsmith, and help supply your nation to ensure it is best protected. If not, then I'll stay out of it, you have my word that I will not make weapons for Brevoy."
|
|
Eyebrows raise around the table and eveyone exchanges meaningful glances.
After a moment, the halfling speaks again. "We will consider your offer to supply weapons and will have an answer for you within a turning of the moon. In the meantime, if your own, personal affairs were to take you into Brevoy..." He shrugs. "We would certainly grieve to hear of any accidents befalling or northern neighbors."
If you were to go to Brevoy and start trouble...
Szilard nods and bows. "Aye, I may wander north to see if I can come to understand our neighbors better. I will be certain to return before the next moon's turn." He bows again, leaving the hall.
Hmmmm. A little mischief and mayhem couldn't hurt. He wanders through the crowds, admiring the many wares of the local craftsmen, and seeking out the novel and unique.
Szilard stops to appraise the weapon, and take measure of hte man. "Hail, sir. It's rare to find another with similar equipment to my own."
|
|
The man turns and eyes Szilard's gun. "That thing cannot be classifed as a firearm compared to this." He says disdainfully. He flips the gun out of its holster and spins it: gold and silver glint in the light and Szilard notes to polished ivory grips and the arcane sigils running the length of the barrel.
Szilard smiles. "A beautiful weapon, but beauty doesn't help a weapon shoot true. Still, it seems to have good craftsmanship, and I'm sure would be effective." He smiles politely, unslinging his own rifle, the barrel shimmering and glowing slightly as he runs a finger down it's length. "I've always preferred a longer barrel. The ability to punch through armor at hundreds of meters makes me smile."
Szilard bursts out laughing. "That's all well and good, and I believe in facing my foe head on as well. I don't let pride interfere with success though, and if I face a dozen foes then I may as well fell a few before the reach me. Once they get closer I'll sort them out and disassemble them piece by piece. Or chunk by chunk, as the case tends to be." Still chuckling to himself, Szilard turn to go as well.
Szilard waits a few moments for the man to start to create a gap, then looks him over again, studying his movement closely. After a few more moments, he moves to stealthily follow the man.
Szilard moves toward the door, then pauses. Before he moves in, he rests his palm on his chest, muttering an incantation.
Properly disguised as a simple traveller, he slips in the door, moving to follow the man.
Strolling past the doorway, Szilard glances inside, taking a quick look before continuing down the hall, trying to look like he belongs. I wonder if he's travelling alone or with companions...
After a few moments though, Szilard decides to head back downstairs. He checks for alternate exits, to see if there is any other way the gunslinger could leave the building, then takes a look for a vantage point which covers the most likely ways in and out, waiting for the man to leave.
Waiting a few hours until the gunslinger leaves, Szilard slips back into the structure, carefully making his way back upstairs, pausing at the doorway to detect magic in the room, checking for magical wards or warnings.
Szilard makes a careful mental note of where things are before he begins to sort through them. He rifles through the gunslinger's possessions, looking for anything of interest or value that he might pocket, or any clues as to the man's identity.
|
|
The man's rucksack clearly belongs to someone used to travel and is packed with military efficiency, yet nothing about the man suggested a military life.
Inside, Szilard finds a number of useful mundane items: socks, a warm scarf, needle and thread, a leather poncho, a fine whiddled pipe, etc.
However, a pair of smoked goggles catches his eye as they have a fear moving parts.
Perhaps the most interesting thing though is a sealed letter.
The seal is that of the Dragonscale Throne of Brevoy.
Szilard picks up both goggles and letters with a cloth, pocketing them, then quickly leaves the room and the building, heading to the nearest high, isolated vantage point he can find. Once he is certain he is alone, takes more time to examine the letter, trying to determine if there is any harm in opening it.
After a thorough inspection, he breaks the seal and begins to read the letter.