As Rigwald enters the tavern he sees Belym and approaches her. "I forgot to thank you back at the gate. Without your help that brute would've ended me."
He takes a seat, leans back and closes his eyes to rest for a bit.
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Rigwald waves Garin away with a forced smile and says: "I'll try my luck at the tavern for now. If I'm still shelterless by sunset I'll take you up on that offer!"
Rigwald turns to Thaddeus and says, clutching at his bloody bandages: "Honestly, I think I'll be fine. I'll heal up pretty quick, it's only a flesh would after all, haha! Just need some rest. The non-fighting folk, though, could definitely use the help of a man aided by a god". He says those last words with a mix of slight disbelief and maybe even mild envy on his face.
As you pass through the gates, you are stopped by a scarred veteran (You may recognize him as Garin, the commander of the watch). "That was some damn good fighting. What is your name?" he asks. What do you do? Rigwald raises his chin proudly at this and declares "I am Rigwald, son of Hurik, warrior and skald from the Green Valley in the Cold Places! You have witnessed my deeds and you would do well to spread word of them wide for all to hear!". He then starts coughing and clutching at his bandaged wound. "I regret having to leave like this, but I really need to get some rest" he rasps at Garin and resumes his hobbling walk towards the tavern.
Rigwald is leaning bodily on the hilt of his sword, the blade plunged into the earth. He is breathing deeply, but carefully, trying not to disturb his wounds. With a grateful nod he says to Ron: "My guts won't spill out now, and for that I am thankful. And I don't believe I had the pleasure of fighting a bastard so big, or so ugly, in my life." He spits at the corpse of the brute and smiles. "I could use a drink now. And some rest. I think I'll join you at that tavern later." Rigwald cleans his greatsword, retrieves the things he dropped before the fight and heads towards the tavern, hoping his deeds today are enough to buy some food, drink and bed, because he's got no other currency to speak of.
Rigwald sees the small stones flying at the brute and decides to take the chance that is offered. He lays into the brute with the bloody greatsword, hoping the barrage of pebbles distracts the opponent enough to give Rigwald an oppening.
Rigwald feels the blade strike true! With a wordless snarl he pushes the sword deeper into the brute's flesh, then twists and wrenches it out.
Rigwald stands on shaky legs with a bleeding gash on his front. One Ravager's blade is red with Rigwald's blood and the brute with the hammer is coming closer. He thinks of running, but the fall had done something with his legs and he doubts he'd make it far. Besides, they don't sing songs of cowards either. Through gritted teeth he growls "However short my song will be, it'll end with me fighting! Bring it on, you bastards!" Rigwald charges the smaller Ravager trying to keep him between himself and the brute. If Fate decides to give favour to the Ravager again Rigwald hopes that the brute would at least have the bare minimum of difficulty smashing him with the hammer.
"Your death comes!" [dice = Damage (+1 from my sword, +2 from getting 10 on "What are you waiting for?")] 1d10 + 1 + 2[/dice] The sword traces a red arc, relieving the unfortunate Ravager of his head and painting the brute with a spray of blood.
With a snarl Rigwald swings the mighty greatsword, aiming to behead the foul creature!
Ha! A worthy foe! Rigwald thinks. He would have said it too, but all the air was expelled out of his chest from the force of the blow.
Doubts start to flood into Rigwalds mind as he fails to land on his feet. Starting to look like a rather short song. With a will he banishes the thought, there will be time to think later, now is time to act!
As the Ravagers charge Rigwald sees one of them take an arrow and drop. He charges to close the distance and lays into the brute with his greatsword: "You're mine!"
As Rigwald takes in the fighting at the gate a huge smile spreads across his face. He tosses his pack under a tree where he can find it later, removes the sheath from his sword and throws that down as well. Killing the brute is surely a deed worthy of songs Rigwald thinks to himself. He walks out into the open, greatsword's blade reflecting the light of the fire, and with a laugh calls out in a deep voice "Hey, you massive ugly f$@%! You just earned yourself a place in my legend!" [dice= "What are you waiting for?" move, +CON]1d6 + 1d8 + 1[/dice]
As Rigwald is following the tracks he feels a growing feeling of urgency. He considers going slowly and quietly to examine the situation a plan a careful approach, but then dismisses the idea. They don't sing songs of those that skulk in the shadows, avoiding a good fight! he thinks to himself and breaks into a full run.
Rigwald is aware of a bandit problem around town and doesn't think a medium sized group of respectable people would be sneaking around outside the town's walls in the darkness before dawn. When Fate gives you a chance you don't let it pass. Rigwald loosens his greatsword in it's sheathe and decides to follow the tracks and take a closer look. If they're friendly they'll have a chat and be on their respective ways, but some deep animal instinct tells him that these people might be quite hostile indeed.
Rigwald has spent the night outside the town's walls sleeping under the stars. Having woken up he gathers his meager possessions (a pack containing his traveling gear and his massive greatsword sheathed in a modest leather and wood scabbard) and starts making his way back towards town. He figures he'll be inside the walls around dawn.
Can't wait!
The good thing about Norwich is that as a trading town it has all sorts of people from all corners of the world with all their stories. The bad thing is that the large trade is attracting criminal interest and the roads to and from the town are sometimes quite dangerous. The best story I've heard while in Norwich was that of Arrel Cattel, a warrior who, after most of his phalanx was killed, held a gatehouse alone for three days and three nights against an army of Braxos killing countless soldiers and their commander, routing them. As the first light of the sun touches his unconquered gate he succumbs to his wounds regretting only that he couldn't pursue the enemy back across the border.
The unique thing about the word is that countless centuries ago, maybe even millennia, it was home to an advanced civilization that disappeared. The only trace that remains of them are the extremely scarce artifacts of either magical or sufficiently advanced technological origin.
I don't see Rigwald as a chants and rituals type of guy, more of a songs and boasts type. But with that said, I'm thinking Norwich has quite a bit more people than Rigwald is used to seeing in one place and so he would occasionally leave the town find some peace in the countryside, whittle something out of wood and be in a general state of awe at all the plants that other life that prospers here. Maybe Rigwald and Scath would trade a words if they meet, connected by both of them being outsiders to a certain dergee. In return I think I'll take this bond: "Scath is always getting into trouble—I must protect them from themselves." Rigwald comes from a society that needs to band together to survive and sees intentionally distancing oneself from society as an extremely self-destructive behaviour.
It works for me. "Belym's culture has similar values to my own. I should learn more about it" is my proposed bond for you. Belym is looking for her kin after what appears to be a great tragedy and that tugs at Rigwald's empathy strings, underdeveloped as they may be. Loyalty to family is probably the most important value for Rigwald's people and he sees Belym as an outsider here similar to himself.
Maybe he will. This works.
We already agreed that that bond works, but I needed a good visual page break, so I used a quote :) "Ron shares my hunger for glory; the earth will tremble at our passing!" Ron is a great warrior, and in Rigwald's mind all warriors hunger for glory. Maybe he's wrong, maybe he's right, only time will tell.
I'm cool with that, except for one minor detail: I'm imagining my home to be this gods-forsaken frozen wasteland with rare pockets of farmable land, and I'm imagining it being really really far away. But I also don't think that I'm the first person to leave my home in search of fame, glory or just a good life. So maybe my tribesmen that you've fought weren't fighting for my tribe, but rather as mercenaries. Not that it would be much of a difference to people on the other side. In turn I'll say that my first bond could be "Thaddeus’ ways are strange and confusing." I used the term gods-forsaken before and that's what I think my people consider themselves. The gods have forsaken us, and in return we don't bother with the whole worship thing. Seeing a man devoted to a god seems unusual at the least. Also displaying charity towards those who are not family is extremely weird for a man raised in a place where everything must be earned through hard labour or bloodshed.
is Norwhich a days stop, a brief stay, a semi-permenent residence? I came to Norwich some time ago, with a merchant who paid me to keep him safe on the roads. I did. It was a trip with no honour or glory to be won. Worst yet, it committed the worst sin a journey could commit - it was boring. The man knew no stories and couldn't sing worth a damn. I declined to go further with him. If you ask how I think of Norwich, I'll tell you that it isn't home - that's far away. It is another verse in the song of my life, and it will last for as long as it will, and no longer. For now I stay here, doing odd jobs to earn my food and bed. Someday Fate will show me the way and then I will leave until I stop for a time again.
"Close the damn door, you're letting the cold in!" someone called from the inn's common room. The locals thought this a chilly morning, if you can believe that. Back home in the Cold Places this would have been the height of summer. The night before he spoke to these people, ate and drank with them, listened to their stories and songs, and shared his own. They had good stories here, if only because they were different. Back home most tales were about taking what little fertile land was available in the summer from the other clans. As great as that was, one soon discovers that all those tales are pretty much the same. But here they sang of rich treasure, of devious foes, of great flying beasts slain by mighty heroes, and beauty and flowers and love. And maybe in time they would sing of him. And maybe today will go down as the first verse of his song. With a smile Rigwald, son of Hurik, skald from the Cold Places, closed the inn's door behind him and stepped into the morning, one step closer to glory.
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