Post by En1gma on Aug 29, 2015 14:19:18 GMT -5
Few dared venture outside the war camps outside the city walls, for fear of the Krete who guarded the passes of the Darkmoss. The town of Riven Field had learned a hard lesson at the end of the crude clubs wielded by their most fearsome warriors, and had come to fear the sharp ends of the Krete archers’ broadheads. So many lives had been lost, so many children orphaned in the ceaseless struggle for resources, the constant back and forth battles that had raged quietly for years.
Reeve Cora Ghenkharn had become desperate, trade had come to a standstill between Riven Field and Brunehorn; the ore mined in the town to the west was vital to the blacksmiths of Riven Field, but none had entered the city for months. The once blazing forges by the River Torrent had grown quiet, and Riven Field had been forced to melt down old weapons and armor so that fresh gear could be made for the troops. The re-forged equipment was notoriously brittle, and many weapons would not keep an edge, risking the soldier’s lives every time a skirmish was underway.
What money was left from the trading with Red Hill went to the mercenaries known as Vladin’s Hand, but even they were not capable of opening the long sealed trade routes, despite their well equipped forces. Red Hill was able to keep at least some food and luxuries flowing into the massive population center, which measurably helped raise the spirits of those within. Time was growing short, however, and the city knew it. Humanity itself had been counting its days since the Shattering, with no hope in sight that they might ever break the bonds around them.
************
We turn to a seedy tavern, full of raucous men and women drinking themselves to excess. A fight had just ended, and the losing party was cast into the street by an annoyed bouncer who was secretly happy to not be dragging a corpse. As the stocky man propped the offending brawler up against a neighboring building, he couldn’t help but notice a trio of newcomers headed into the tavern. He stood, straightened his ruffled shirt, and cleared his throat, intending to warn them of the rowdy patronage within.
“Don’t mind this chap, bit off more than ‘e could chew in there,” he said casually, “I’d be careful if I was you.” He finished with a nod. The closest of the three peeled back his hood, revealing a man with a thin face, his smile flashing a crisp white back at him.
“Thanks for the warning,” said the newcomer, “we’ll keep an eye out.” The man returned his hood, turned to his companions, and entered the tavern. Immediately they were met by a wall of sound. A shanty of sorts had just begun, and the patrons were loudly slurring the words as best they could, hindered by the poor tempo being kept by dozens of empty mugs banging off tables. The newcomers wove their way through the crowd, motioning to the barkeep as they caught his attention. The short and balding man behind the counter winked at them, and held three polished mugs high, to which the man returned a beaming smile. The barkeep pointed to the corner, up a flight of stairs occupied by the newly drunken patrons who could no longer stay upright.
The three gingerly picked their way through the tangle of limbs resting on the steps, and made their way to a table overlooking the floor below. Finally away from the peering gazes of the drunken rabble, they removed their hoods, unstrapped their packs, and rested their three longbows against the railings. They watched the men and women below as they caterwauled about, glad to be away from the chaos. The one sitting opposite the other two looked to the bar, her quiet voice barely audible over the clapping below as the song ended.
“Here comes our drinks,” she said, praying the man make it without spilling too much, “by the Faithful, it has been a long journey.” The other, a man with a short beard, and a much thicker face than his companions, sighed and stretched back in his seat.
“Aye, Tabbs,” he replied, Tabitha’s hackles raising at the mention of her hated nickname, “It feels like months since we have had a proper place to sit and have a drink.”
“Now Rolph, you know she hates that name, why must you get under her skin like that?” Adrian asked of him, his teeth flashing bright once again-- he knew Rolph meant well, but social graces either eluded the burly man, or he outright ignored them. Honestly he could never tell, but the three of them had made it through hell and back, fighting their way through Korvain’s Trench past the Ratkin tribes stationed there. The three had made it through the fires of war, and emerged victorious.
“Ahh, barkeep! We’re so happy you made it, and with so little spilled from our mugs to boot!” Rolph boomed, motioning the sweaty little man closer. “And is that fresh bread as well?”
“Aye travelers. Welcome to my inn, whatever my son or I can bring for you, please let us know,” he said wearily, pointing to the man who had greeted them outside.
“Actually,” Tabitha leaned in closer to the man, “we are looking for work as well. Who in this city can we speak to about… short-term employment?” she motioned to the bows lined up against the railing, then to her companions again.
“Can’t we have a drink first, Tabbs? Why you gotta always rush into things?” Rolph jabbed lightly, as he drank of his ale, his beard coming back white with its foamy head. The barkeep produced a kerchief from his pocket, dabbing his forehead.
“You’d need to talk to the Knight about that, unless you want to be over-qualified bouncers here?” This caused the three to burst out in laughter, raising a few eyebrows below.
“No thank you, my good man,” Adrian said through bouts of laughter, reaching deep into the folds of his shirt and producing a small pouch of silver. “This is for your troubles earlier, we saw the poor drunk as we came in. I hope he didn’t cause too much damage.” The barkeep pocketed it quickly, by its weight he knew the pouch contained more than he would make in a week’s profit. “We would surely appreciate a hot meal and a room for the night, should you have one available?”
“Thank you kindly, strangers! Give me an hour and I’ll clear out a room for ye. Half the time all I get are squatters anyway. Enjoy yer drinks, and I’ll have plates brought up as soon as they’re ready.”
The three raised their mugs in appreciation, then went back to their conversation, musing over the Ratkin tribes who never saw what killed them, each felled by an expertly placed arrow or two. It had been ages since any of them had a proper place to sleep, and already Adrian was beginning to drowse just thinking of resting his head. They had heard rumors of the Krete tribes closing off the trade, and thought it would be worth the trip to see if they could lend their aid to the struggling city.
Some time passed, and finally Tabitha spotted the barkeep balancing their three plates, heaped high with food, making his way as best he could with the revelry underway. A pair of drunken upstarts smelled the food as it passed them, and they turned at once, demanding the little man set the plates down on their table. Tabitha stood up, reaching for her bow should she need it, and the others did the same. The barkeep refused, turning away from the drunkards, but did not see the knives unsheathed from the waists of the young men.
The three above did, however, and without any warning whatsoever, three arrows thudded into the table between the sweaty little man and the upstarts. The entire room fell silent, all eyes followed the line drawn from the bows above to the offending drunks below. Their knives clanged on the floor, and the drunken pair gathered their belongings and made a hasty exit. As soon as they left, the party resumed anew, as if nothing had just happened. The barkeep brought their meals up the stairs with no further incident. As he set the plates on the table, he offered his sincerest thanks for their assistance, leaving them to their meal after clearing and locking a room nearby.
The three ate their meals in relative silence, exchanging amused glances as they heard the patrons below attempt to remove their barbed arrows from the table. They liked it here.
Reeve Cora Ghenkharn had become desperate, trade had come to a standstill between Riven Field and Brunehorn; the ore mined in the town to the west was vital to the blacksmiths of Riven Field, but none had entered the city for months. The once blazing forges by the River Torrent had grown quiet, and Riven Field had been forced to melt down old weapons and armor so that fresh gear could be made for the troops. The re-forged equipment was notoriously brittle, and many weapons would not keep an edge, risking the soldier’s lives every time a skirmish was underway.
What money was left from the trading with Red Hill went to the mercenaries known as Vladin’s Hand, but even they were not capable of opening the long sealed trade routes, despite their well equipped forces. Red Hill was able to keep at least some food and luxuries flowing into the massive population center, which measurably helped raise the spirits of those within. Time was growing short, however, and the city knew it. Humanity itself had been counting its days since the Shattering, with no hope in sight that they might ever break the bonds around them.
************
We turn to a seedy tavern, full of raucous men and women drinking themselves to excess. A fight had just ended, and the losing party was cast into the street by an annoyed bouncer who was secretly happy to not be dragging a corpse. As the stocky man propped the offending brawler up against a neighboring building, he couldn’t help but notice a trio of newcomers headed into the tavern. He stood, straightened his ruffled shirt, and cleared his throat, intending to warn them of the rowdy patronage within.
“Don’t mind this chap, bit off more than ‘e could chew in there,” he said casually, “I’d be careful if I was you.” He finished with a nod. The closest of the three peeled back his hood, revealing a man with a thin face, his smile flashing a crisp white back at him.
“Thanks for the warning,” said the newcomer, “we’ll keep an eye out.” The man returned his hood, turned to his companions, and entered the tavern. Immediately they were met by a wall of sound. A shanty of sorts had just begun, and the patrons were loudly slurring the words as best they could, hindered by the poor tempo being kept by dozens of empty mugs banging off tables. The newcomers wove their way through the crowd, motioning to the barkeep as they caught his attention. The short and balding man behind the counter winked at them, and held three polished mugs high, to which the man returned a beaming smile. The barkeep pointed to the corner, up a flight of stairs occupied by the newly drunken patrons who could no longer stay upright.
The three gingerly picked their way through the tangle of limbs resting on the steps, and made their way to a table overlooking the floor below. Finally away from the peering gazes of the drunken rabble, they removed their hoods, unstrapped their packs, and rested their three longbows against the railings. They watched the men and women below as they caterwauled about, glad to be away from the chaos. The one sitting opposite the other two looked to the bar, her quiet voice barely audible over the clapping below as the song ended.
“Here comes our drinks,” she said, praying the man make it without spilling too much, “by the Faithful, it has been a long journey.” The other, a man with a short beard, and a much thicker face than his companions, sighed and stretched back in his seat.
“Aye, Tabbs,” he replied, Tabitha’s hackles raising at the mention of her hated nickname, “It feels like months since we have had a proper place to sit and have a drink.”
“Now Rolph, you know she hates that name, why must you get under her skin like that?” Adrian asked of him, his teeth flashing bright once again-- he knew Rolph meant well, but social graces either eluded the burly man, or he outright ignored them. Honestly he could never tell, but the three of them had made it through hell and back, fighting their way through Korvain’s Trench past the Ratkin tribes stationed there. The three had made it through the fires of war, and emerged victorious.
“Ahh, barkeep! We’re so happy you made it, and with so little spilled from our mugs to boot!” Rolph boomed, motioning the sweaty little man closer. “And is that fresh bread as well?”
“Aye travelers. Welcome to my inn, whatever my son or I can bring for you, please let us know,” he said wearily, pointing to the man who had greeted them outside.
“Actually,” Tabitha leaned in closer to the man, “we are looking for work as well. Who in this city can we speak to about… short-term employment?” she motioned to the bows lined up against the railing, then to her companions again.
“Can’t we have a drink first, Tabbs? Why you gotta always rush into things?” Rolph jabbed lightly, as he drank of his ale, his beard coming back white with its foamy head. The barkeep produced a kerchief from his pocket, dabbing his forehead.
“You’d need to talk to the Knight about that, unless you want to be over-qualified bouncers here?” This caused the three to burst out in laughter, raising a few eyebrows below.
“No thank you, my good man,” Adrian said through bouts of laughter, reaching deep into the folds of his shirt and producing a small pouch of silver. “This is for your troubles earlier, we saw the poor drunk as we came in. I hope he didn’t cause too much damage.” The barkeep pocketed it quickly, by its weight he knew the pouch contained more than he would make in a week’s profit. “We would surely appreciate a hot meal and a room for the night, should you have one available?”
“Thank you kindly, strangers! Give me an hour and I’ll clear out a room for ye. Half the time all I get are squatters anyway. Enjoy yer drinks, and I’ll have plates brought up as soon as they’re ready.”
The three raised their mugs in appreciation, then went back to their conversation, musing over the Ratkin tribes who never saw what killed them, each felled by an expertly placed arrow or two. It had been ages since any of them had a proper place to sleep, and already Adrian was beginning to drowse just thinking of resting his head. They had heard rumors of the Krete tribes closing off the trade, and thought it would be worth the trip to see if they could lend their aid to the struggling city.
Some time passed, and finally Tabitha spotted the barkeep balancing their three plates, heaped high with food, making his way as best he could with the revelry underway. A pair of drunken upstarts smelled the food as it passed them, and they turned at once, demanding the little man set the plates down on their table. Tabitha stood up, reaching for her bow should she need it, and the others did the same. The barkeep refused, turning away from the drunkards, but did not see the knives unsheathed from the waists of the young men.
The three above did, however, and without any warning whatsoever, three arrows thudded into the table between the sweaty little man and the upstarts. The entire room fell silent, all eyes followed the line drawn from the bows above to the offending drunks below. Their knives clanged on the floor, and the drunken pair gathered their belongings and made a hasty exit. As soon as they left, the party resumed anew, as if nothing had just happened. The barkeep brought their meals up the stairs with no further incident. As he set the plates on the table, he offered his sincerest thanks for their assistance, leaving them to their meal after clearing and locking a room nearby.
The three ate their meals in relative silence, exchanging amused glances as they heard the patrons below attempt to remove their barbed arrows from the table. They liked it here.