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"Of course," Guthlag says to Naomi, watching her leave for the barn.
Once the others have finished talking with the prisoner, Guthlag quietly approaches. "If you tell me truly, I can let you live." He has left Cann in another room. He asks his questions one by one, waiting for a response between each one.
"Did that wizard hire you to walk with him? I have heard he is unpleasant."
"What did he tell you about where you were going? What did you hope to find there?"
"Are there any other farm-people you fought on your way here?"
"Where did you sleep these past three nights?"
"How many others are in your band?"
Once the others have finished talking with the prisoner, Guthlag quietly approaches. "If you tell me truly, I can let you live." He has left Cann in another room.
"How do I know that?" - he grunts in reply to Guthlag.
"And what I was saying is that I had no part in killing the farmers" - he added to Gubble.
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Hamish turns back to face the bandit. Fury flooding across his features like a black storm. Yet he does not immediately walk over and punch the man square between the eyes like a part of him oh so wishes to do. Instead he walks back across the room slowly drawing his dagger from his belt. For several long moments, he simply stands looking down at the bound man.
"No part." He says, his voice hard, cold, not the same voice anyone among his companions has heard since they met. "Let me guess. You stood outside while their screams echoed across the fields? Or maybe even averted your eyes when that undead conjuring filth put a dagger to a child?"
"And then you were merely...what? Acting on your own, when you attacked us? Just happened along, did you?" He turns, places the dagger over the lamp flame burning on the table.
"You see, I don't think any of that is true. I think you gladly took whatever money that corpse lover paid. I think you and your friends got a thrill out of putting down those who were weaker than you or who couldn't fight back. I think...." He grabs and holds the mans eyes to stare into the dark depths of his own anger filled orbs. "I think you can die quick or die slow. Which is it, depends on you."
He steps back and looks at the dagger as he speaks. "But...my voice is only one of several. I'd suggest you do everything you can to convince these others your life is worth anything other than worm food. And right now, you've only got one currency worth anything at all."
"It was all Grenag and Slaaroc!" - the man hastily replied to Hamish, staring at the dagger wide-eyed - "We waited in the woods while them and that wizard went into the farmhouse" - he admits - "But we didn't kill anyone! The rest of us were only paid to get you..." - his voice trails - "I didn't even know what they were doing to that family, when they went in there..."
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"Oh yes, I can see you're just the gods own picture of wide-eyed innocence." Hamish says, the sarcasm dripping from his lips like snake venom.
The former Rivergaurd tilts his head toward Guthlag while his eyes focus on the dagger blade. "My friend there asked you a few other questions. I'd suggest you be quick about answering them."
"Where have you and that grave digger been squatting and how many others has he hired or have traveling with him?"
As he questions the man, Hamish turns his gaze back upon the prisoner and watches him closely to see which hand he seems to favor as he squirms around in his bonds or tries to fend off any perceived threat.
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Jalros stands with his arms crossed, staring hard at the prisoner while he listens to Hamish break the man down mentally. At one point, the brawler cracks his knuckles before re-crossing his arms, not saying a word, thinking Hamish has this one well under control.
He stood outside while they went in. And then watched as the corpses were dragged outside. Guthlag crosses his arms as he listens to Hamish. And he stuck with them. No doubts.
Guthlag quickly seizes on something the man said. "You were paid to get us what?" He demands, suddenly concerned. "What were you paid for?"
Gubble listens, nothing more. While he is not wishing to be a party to torture normally... it is not what a Band would do normally in is mind... he understands the need for justice. Or at least accountability.
So he simply stays and listens.
Elgrin stands back and watches Hamish interrogate the prisoner happy that it hasn't come to physical violence. This horrid human deserves death and Elgrin is even willing to be the one to swing the sword if we can't deliver him to the proper authorities. But torture is unacceptable, period, even for one such as this.
The former Rivergaurd tilts his head toward Guthlag while his eyes focus on the dagger blade. "My friend there asked you a few other questions. I'd suggest you be quick about answering them."
"Where have you and that grave digger been squatting and how many others has he hired or have traveling with him?"
As he questions the man, Hamish turns his gaze back upon the prisoner and watches him closely to see which hand he seems to favor as he squirms around in his bonds or tries to fend off any perceived threat.
"We spent the night in Fairhill - I think he was keeping tabs on you with that raven of his, or demon, or whatever that was" - the man replies - "There was... Huh... Four of us and the wizard" - he gave a sidelong glance at Jalros, at the sound of knuckle cracking.
Guthlag quickly seizes on something the man said. "You were paid to get us what?" He demands, suddenly concerned. "What were you paid for?"
"What..?" - the captive seems to hesitate, looking at Guthlag - "We were paid to get YOU, to attack and... To attack you, is what I was saying"
Then he takes another look around at you all - "Look I... I am not a criminal see? I... There was nothing I could do after they killed the whole family. I... I could not back out now could I? They would kill me right there and then! What was I supposed to do?!" - his voice quivers.
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Hamish's brow furrows and he takes a moment to step back. His head slowly swings from side to side as he lets a long breath seep out of puffed cheeks. For a moment the gleam of the dagger reflects off his eyes as he steadily watches the bandit.
"Not a criminal..." The words hang in the air like death lurking a battlefield. His voice grows cold, hard. It is the voice of a man who has seen the work of bandits and pirates before. Seen other good folk preyed upon by men such as the one sitting before him. Folk like those whose bones still smolder in the courtyard. Folk like those poor souls of the caravan they saved from men just like this.
"Oh my. But I do think you are very, very mistaken in your claim of innocence." Hamish says stepping back toward the man, positioning himself within easy reach of the dagger and the mans right wrist. "Attacking lawful folk come upon a murder scene..." He gestures to his still not fully healed leg. "...would be a crime. Aiding and abetting a necromancer to both raise the dead and murder women and children...would be a crime." He holds up a hand to forestall any argument from the man as he continues. "Perhaps, by your own words, even trafficking with demons, for who's to say what that raven creature really is. You took coin from this man. You did his bidding. You...committed these crimes."
Hamish looks down at the floor. For a moment stands still as a tree frozen in winter. Talking to the floor, he continues. "It will be for the sheriff to decide whether you live or die. You may throw yourself upon his mercy when we arrive in town..."
The swashbuckler moves. He moves fast. One moment he is standing over the man, staring at the floor. The next, the dagger is in one hand and the bound prisoners right hand pinky and ring fingers are in the other.
"But I will see that your bandit days are finished. You'll not be firing arrows at innocent folk. Everyone will know you for what you are and you can beg from those who have suffered at the point of your bow."
The sharp, heated steel hovers for an instant over the two fingers before Hamish brings it down to sever the digits from the man's hand.
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Elgrin sees what Hamish is about to do.
As he steps in before any fingers are chopped off, not that the guy doesn't deserve that and more.
Hey I get it. This guy deserves it and more. But we're not the Law around here. Let's just take him to Fairhill and let the authorities meet out justice.
Elgrin takes a breath and puts a friendly hand on Hamish's shoulder.
It's clear this murderer deserves punishment and one much more severe than the one you're thinking of. I get it and I feel the same way. But there's a RIGHT way to do this...OK?
Guthlag watches on quietly. Arms folded. Hired just to attack us? This seems like a lie made up by a fumbling mind. After Hamish severs the man's fingers, Guthlag approaches and touches his shoulders. "Are you awake?"
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For a moment Hamish doesn't even notice the paladin's grip on his own wrist except for the fact his arm was utterly and completely frozen in place a mere inch or two over the prisoner's fingers.
Elgrin's words echo in his ears even as his eyes take in the fear sweat pouring down the prisoners face, the vein on the man's neck jumping like a jackrabbit on a skillet. Slowly, very slowly he relaxes. Stepping backward. Away from the prisoner. Away from his own anger.
He let's out a breath and this time it really is a release of tension. Tension that had been winding itself tighter and tighter ever since stepping foot upon this forlorn, ill-fated farm.
"Right?" The word comes out as a near whisper after Elgrin speaks, calls him back from an cliff he didn't even know was there. Does the word still have meaning? Tykee, what is right? He asks himself and his goddess. No answer comes. What does Lady Luck care for right and wrong. All he sees are images. Maggie, worried about him leaving, the youth from the caravan yearning for revenge, the old woman given up so much, his old sergant firm in the law, unforgiving of those who'd break it, a child butchered in a barnyard. Finally he nods his head once. Tosses the dagger onto table.
His eyes meet Elgrin's and he nods again. Respect to the knight. Maybe even thanks, although difficult to admit or know until he's had time to collect himself. "Aye, leave it to the sheriff." He says, turning his back on the prisoner.
"I'll see to the animals..."
Elgrin watches as Hamish leaves to go take care of the animals, which he understands as the need to get away from the prisoner before any thoughts of the murdered family and their subsequent violation as undead can cause him to commit an unworthy act.
Elgrin then turns back to the prisoner with a scowl and says I did that for him, not you. He then surveys the prisoner again to make sure the that he's bound securely.
Elgrin then looks the prisoner square in the eye and says We're taking you to Fairhill regardless of whatever you say here. But if you'd like a little revenge upon those who betrayed and abandoned you, you could tell us whatever you know about them so we might stop them from ever doing anything like this to another innocent family. Or preferably you'd tell us out of remorse and maybe that'll be a small point in your favor when you meet your creator
A moment. Gubble blinks behind his glasses as the ripples of that moment is felt across the air. Probably only be himself, either because he is in tune with fate, or he is just odd, but to him that moment meant something.
The small wizard with his stuffed pack follows to help with the animals. An act he is not particularly good at, getting his foot stepped on and letting out a string of archaic crushes when it happens.
Jalros, with his arms still crossed, never moves a muscle. He simply stands there and watches the entire scene play out however it's meant to. Once Elgrin moves in and puts a stop to Hamish, Jalros cuts his eyes toward the swashbuckler, watching the man take his leave.
Turning his attention back to the prisoner, the bouncer's typical stone-like expression unwavering, Jalros stares hard at him through narrowed eyes. "You were lucky. This time."
His attention is then drawn toward Elgrin as he speaks before it returns to the bound man. "You know, you really should take his advice. He did save your fingers. I wasn't going to," he states matter-of-factly.
Guthlag says nothing, at first. Instead, he walks slowly over to the table where Hamish dropped his dagger and picks it up. He runs a finger along its edge, checking to see if it's still hot. If Jalros's voice is the scrape of steel on a whetstone, Guthlag tries to make his voice the sweet relief of a spring wind. "We cannot say what the people of Fairhill shall do to you, but we can tell them if you've helped us bring justice to the necromancer." Guthlag fingers the knife for a moment longer before storing it in his belt. "And there is something you are not telling us, this is known." He curls his lips in an uncouth frown.
The man is visibly shaken by what has just happened, beads of sweat forming in his brow as several things happen at the same time, his eyes darting wide open as Hamish prepared to cut his fingers - he whimpered and shivered, sighing in relief when Elgrin intervened.
"The sheriff?!" - his voice failed him a bit when he heard the paladin's words - "I... I... I don't know what more you want to know..." - he lowered his head with a barely audible whisper - "They will kill me..."
"I would trade every adventure we are fated to have to give them their lives back." the halfling sighed, feeling the weight of Naomi's words. "I will never forget that or them but we have to keep moving it seems." he gives the young woman a smile.
The milkcow is bawling and raising quite a fuss when Hamish steps outside. He looks down as sees her udder full as can be. When he was a boy he'd spent more than a few days going with Maggie and his mother to collect milk from Segwick's Dairy. The old man ran more than a hundred head of milkcows just south of the Stockyard's outside of West Gate. He'd watch the hands working with the animals and one of the milkmaids showed him how to do the milking. Something he got even better at when he spent a summer working at the diary before he was old enough to join his father on the docks.
"Tykee will you not give a moment's peace today." He mutters grabbing a pail and stool. Milk seeped from the poor animal's swollen teats as Hamish runs a gentle hand along the cows side as Gubble steps out into the courtyard. "Shhh...easy there. Been too long since someone took care o' that for you." He says. His voice is calm, soft, gentle. The opposite of the fierce, anger that he'd rallied inside. Seeing Gubble, he waves the wizard over.
"Hold her steady while I take care of the milking. If we don't she'll keep fussing all day and could even take sick and collapse on us." He says handing Gubble the rough rope hanging around the cow's neck. Hamish keeps running his hand along her side and talkin' mostly nonsense to her until finally he's got the stool in place and reaches a hand out only to have the cow jerk away dragging Gubble along with her.
"Easy there! Easy ole girl." Hamish says turning to Gubble and smiling at the wizard's obvious inexperience and discomfort around the big bovine. "Give her a good scratch under the chin and maybe a bit of that hay there." He says pointing out a nearby pile of dry grass and oats. "She's big and a bit nervous cause we're not her folk and she's uncomfortable, but she'll simmer down in a bit. Just hold her steady."
Soon enough the rhythmic sound of milk squirting into the pail fills the morning air and the cow is chewing contentedly on the feed as Gubble keeps handing her more from the pile after getting the occasional wet sniff from a nose the size of his own fist. The work is grounding. Basic. Simple. A comfort. Memories of his boyhood days. His first kiss with young Samantha behind Segwick's big barn. Before his father marched away with the king. Before he joined the watch. Before...so many things.
Finally Hamish steps back, grabbing the pail. "That should do her for now." He says seeing the cow, and himself, being much more relaxed. "Good work and my thanks for your help. Care for a mug of warm milk?" He says smiling at Gubble. "Fresh as you'll ever get it."
When the others finally depart the barn having dealt with the prisoner as they saw fit. Hamish nods his thanks and relief at Naomi's suggestion. "Aye, it's still acting up a bit and could use a bit of rest." He says patting his leg softly. "Though only for a while. I don't want it to stiffen up on me too much. There's fresh milk if you like." He adds pointing out the jug he'd poured the milk into and any remaining in the bucket.
Under Hamish's instructions, Gubble actually interacts with livestock without bumbling or blundering. While it was not in any way one of his life goals, it still did seem like a notable achievement. Not one that will get stitched on the flag though.
"Yes. Thank you. Experiences, no matter how odd, are to be embraced, not ran from. Most times at least." he rambles a little before accepting the mug and sipping hesitantly before the beaming smile breaks free, and he Drinks.
"Mmmm" he sounds as eloquently as the moment demanded.
What would make them kill him? Guthlag wasn't sure if that was for something the man had already done, or something he was afraid to do. "Where were you going, apart from this farm?" He asks, trying to find out if the wizard's henchmen knew about the tower. "And are there more of you than we have already seen?"
"After being paid, I was going back home - to Crimmor" - the man shrugged - "There are no more of us - just the ones who... Attacked"
With the animals prepared by Hamish, Gubble and Naomi, the group seems to be ready to depart.
Guthlag snarls some last questions and threats at their captive, but it seems most of the possible information has been extracted for now.
Speaking to the others, "I'll bind the prisoner's hands behind his back and he can walk. We'll take whatever animals we can and leave the rest. After we've decided on the animals, we can close up the barn and the house. We could lock them up but I'm not sure what good it will do since there is no one to keep any bandits from breaking in. Maybe by leaving them unlocked, that would avoid any destruction of windows or doors. I'll let you all decide that while I tie up the prisoner." Jalros proceeds to do just that.
Gubble nods to the suggestions, in his own mind he was certain they had already talked about this, but his mind does have a tendency to wander the timeline. "The band has grown by hoof and feather rather considerably." he muses, then says "Cow, I believe. Both are equally prone to ignore me, but maybe the cow would be more inclined to not step on me."
He has no objections to the other parts of the plans, it seems.
The group makes its final preparations and hits the road, leaving the scenery of the recent grizzly events behind them. As you move away, the farmhouse stands alone and cold, devoid of life but for the scattering animals - some move off into the surrounding areas, but others just seem to stand around, uncertain about where to go. Soon it is all nothing more than a dot in the distance, amidst the steady drizzle.
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The secondary road is not particularly well kept, and your travel speed is decreased compared to the distances you were able to cover on The Tradeway, made worse by the accumulated mud. Still you manage to travel at a decent speed, and a few hours later the rugged landscape begins giving way to farmlands - you must be getting close to Fairhill.
There are folk working most of the fields you pass by - they lift their heads from the farming tools and usually greet you from afar with a raised hand, but none come to you for a chat. There are also some farms you immediately realize have been abandoned - from a distance you can see the main houses closed and boarded up, while the plots are overtaken by weeds.
As you approach Fairhill itself, the smoke from fireplaces and stoves fills your nostrils - it would seem you are not the only ones feeling the early onset of a cold Autumn - the smoke rises from multiple chimneys in the distance, as the sun begins its descent to the West.
Hamish keeps the big plow horse in front of the other animals they were bringing into town. He hoped the old horse was familiar enough to keep the others following. That and the wolves closing off any escape, or likely desire to escape, to either side of the small herd. The rain is becoming less an annoyance and more of just another part of the daily routine.
When they start passing farms, Hamish waves and doffs his hat in greeting. Even attempting to engage those nearest to the dead folks home to try and learn anything about potential kin, but folk are either hard at work or nervous about approaching armed strangers. Hamish couldn't really blame them under the circumstances.
"I'll stay here with the animals, while someone else goes to get the sheriff and to see if there's a stable or stockyard hereabouts." Hamish offers as they approach the outskirts of town. "Let's tie em up along that old log." He adds pointing out a storm fallen tree.
Gubble nods "I'll go with you Naomi, if you don't mind the company." he eases his pack off next to the log, then unties the bindings on their flag. Looking at Guthrag, Elgrin, and Talros. "Would one of you stay with Hamish? In case trouble follows us unknowingly again." his bespectacled gaze scans the skies for that raven.
Guthlag wrinkles his nose at Fairhill, gladly choosing to stay with Hamish. "Trouble has as oft been before us as behind. I bid you good luck," he tells the rest of the group as they move off with the condemned man. Drawing close to Hamish, the half orc offers the man his dagger back. "I held onto this while it was still hot. Take it, and tell me if it is cool in your hand." There is little judgment in his voice, only an earnest concern.
"I will remain back with Hamish as well."
"The office is that direction, or at least it was. Should we take our prisoner there straight away?"
I see no reason to delay justice any further. Let's get this over with.
Elgrin puts a firm hand on the prisoner and waits for Naomi to show him the way.| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Hamish looks at the dagger. For a moment he isn't sure exactly what to say as his gaze drifts to Guthlag and then turns to watch Elgrin and Naomi escorting the prisoner on into town. There is still an anger in his eyes as he stares at the necromancer's mercenary, but the powerful storm that swirled through his mind that morning had long since played itself out. He reaches out and takes the knife, slipping it carefully back into its sheath.
"My thanks Guthlag." He says, his voice quiet, subdued. "It is an odd thing. I didn't know those folk back there. I've no idea if the old man was kind or a right bas$#%d. If his wife and kin were well liked or the scourge of the valley." He says pulling out a soft rag to wipe the sweat from his brow. "Yet, I still felt a kinship with them. Comes from growing up poor I suppose. Doesn't matter if you are working a farm at the mercy of the elements and the landlords or working on the docks at the mercy of the merchants, guild bosses, and the nobility. Poor is poor. Someone's always trying to stomp you down. All you got is yourself, your kin and a will to keep going because that's all you can do."
He pauses. Looks out across the fields and farms surrounding Fairhill. Breathes in the air filled with woodsmoke, cow dung, autumn leaves, and coming winter. He stuff the rag back in his pocket.
"When I was in the riverwatch, I'd seen Old Rook use that knife trick a dozen times to get a man talkin'. He'd get em wound up so tight, they'd spill the beans on their own damned mother." A soft chuckle. "But he knew...I guess he knew when to quit. Or knew when soemthing was too close. Those he'd order us to send off to the captain or the local sheriff right away. I think...I think now I understand why."
He look back at the half-orc his face thoughtful, serious. "It's too bloody easy to follow through."
Jalros stands with his arms crossed and watches the others leave with the prisoner. He listens in on Hamish as he speaks, his eyes scanning the countryside as he does. The bouncer never says a word, never cuts his attention to him, he just... listens. He does find the swashbuckler's words impactful. 'All you got is yourself, your kin, and a will to keep going because that's all you can do.' His mind replays the man's words. Or just yourself because everyone else has been taken from you. The will to keep going is all that is left.
The big guy's visage remains completely impassive at the thought, leaving himself as readable as a blank book.
"Kinship," Guthlag mutters as he listens to Hamish. Being a dock worker and a farmer is similar. The half orc has little understanding of poverty, though he has learned how to use coins.
Violence, he understands well.
"It is harder, sometimes, to hold your hand." He leans against his walking stick and calls Cann close. "Too, it can be hard to hurt someone. There were many in my tribe who could not bear the sight of torture." Guthlag's own eyes are unblinking, one black and green, the other the milky color of the moon. "I knew a warrior, proud, with scars on her face and the strips of flesh from her kills twined in her hair. Yet when another wronged her, and custom said that she must kill him, she balked. She turned away from that death." The druid fixes his eyes on Hamish. "If the law says that this man should die, would you wish another to swing the axe?"
Naomi, Gubble, Elgrin and the prisoner approach Fairhill from the Northwest. The village lies nestled in a gently sloping hill, atop of which stands a three or four-storied stone tower, overlooking the entire area.
They pass a couple more worked fields, then some sort of tavern with a signal over the door depicting three kegs. Being outsiders, and dragging a tied prisoner along, the group draws stares and hushed comments, and more than a few of the commoners point at the wolf, and pull their children indoors.
Shortly after, you are stopped by an imposing man with a grim expression. He is arrayed in well-used studded leather armor, his reddish-brown hair pulled back away from his face and his heavy green cloak swept back. A female elf in mail and two town guards holding spears and shields, wearing green surcoats with a small sliver bowl emblazoned on the left breast, accompany him. The man lifts his left hand, motioning you to stop.
You notice that his right arm ends in a cruel scar and that he has no right hand, certainly lost in some horrible manner. In a well-worn scabbard, a bastard sword, its elongated pommel sticking out prominently, rests against his hip. He calls to your party in a commanding voice, "Announce yourselves and state your purpose"