I'll be keeping the story posts here, for ease. If you would like to submit a character sheet or nag me to update, you can still do so in the Interest Check thread.
I'll be working on the next update in the hopes of getting them up on Fridays from now on. If you've submitted a sheet but are not in here yet, rest assured you will be soon.
I'll be working on the next update in the hopes of getting them up on Fridays from now on. If you've submitted a sheet but are not in here yet, rest assured you will be soon.
In the pre-dawn bleakness, the world felt like it was residing in the first lines of a creation myth. At first, there was nothing, until suddenly, there was a cacophonous blast and absolutely everything hurled into being. One moment, Aza’s face was pressed against sheets, sticky with saliva and sweat, and the next, a torrent of freezing rain pelted his bare back. His head snapped upwards, treating his neck like a coiled spring rather than the sturdy column of bone that it rightfully was. It took a moment to remember exactly where he was, but a quick sweep of his hand against the thin bedding reminded him that he was far from home.
His dark locks struggled to return to their curled form under the weight of the soapy, frigid water. Spitting out a few bubbles, he scanned the room to find the source of the disturbance leaning against the doorframe, the offending washbasin still gripped in his hands. The knight grimaced, disappointed in not finding a fair maiden reclining beside him, and decided to address the smug shadow, “Who’re you?”
“We’ve met,” came his curt reply. The voice sounded familiar, but didn’t come close to stirring the vat of his memory. Aza angrily groped for his tunic, finding it bunched in with the discarded sheepskin top covering, and used it to dry off his head and shoulders before sticking his face and arms through it.
“I’ve met my fair share of travelers, so be straight with me. Do I owe you money? Have I just despoiled your sister?” It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the very faint lighting within the humble cottage, but after staring at the vague outline of the stranger, he began to recognize the face, “Aren’t you that sod I ditched in the woods?”
The man came closer, dropping the wooden bucket and letting it roll against the dirt floor for a few seconds, leaving a faint trace of moisture behind. He was dressed in well-weathered leather armor and a bladed polearm was strapped around him, its hilt worn and nicked from use, and its blade darkened by several deep strikes. Clearing his throat, he continued, “I’ve always had a knack for navigation. I told you that I’d keep my eye on you because I didn’t trust you half as far as I could throw you. You keep quite busy for a man of the cloth.” His note was accompanied by a twitch of a thin eyebrow and a suspicious shift.
“I never said I was a friar,” Aza contested, “Just that I travel around with them. Look, friend…” He still couldn’t quite grasp the fellow’s name, although it existed right at the edge of his awareness. It wasn’t important enough to store away, but just annoying enough for it to stick around.
“Koka Reseinder,” the warrior spoke up, “And believe it or not, my own distrust isn’t all that’s sent me dogging after you. Sir Jorick Harrow has sent word out that he’d like all of his knights to return to New Harrowton. I know nothing of you Pauvroi, but when men on horses start telling tales in the woods around here, I tend to take note.”
Aza ran a finger along the stubble on his chin, sighing. Jorick had let them have their free reign for about three months now, to hunt down leads and recruit others to join them on their quest. He’d admittedly strayed from that path, but for Jorick to be reigning them all in was quite the surprise. The wily bastard had to have caught a scent that he couldn’t ignore, and Aza kept that prospect in mind as he crouched down and searched the hovel for his pants, under Koka’s judging eye.
The sun had barely risen over the walls of Avalon when Aydelle felt her midsection being crushed by a handful of taut, thick, snakes of fabric. Letting out a few desperate gasps, she kept herself steady by pressing a palm against the imposing bureau, as faint voices behind her reminded her not to move an inch. Admittedly, the voices might have actually been thunderous, but the young woman realized that with the blood rushing in her dangerously light head, sounds were bound to get distorted. Squeezing into a tight bodice was something of a rare activity for her, seeing as she spent most of her days out riding, but today, being a particularly hellish day, required the extra step of supporting her assets, as her handmaidens called them in jest, so that she would present the absolute ideal picture from early morn until her head hit the pillow.
Today, as opposite as could be from the hailstorm that she had prayed for, was Aydelle Manus Latorbelli’s wedding day. Every inch of her shook, from the cold of the early morning, from the sharpness of her inhalations, right down to the fact that she was to be expected to put her life on pause for a spoiled brat that her brother had somehow found fit to be the first and only exception to the promise he had made her all those years ago. Pressing her tongue against her cheek until it protruded in a decidedly bulbous tent of flesh, she tried to let it all go as the final knot was tied.
Much to her relief, though more to her surprise, the warm hands of her servants pulled away abruptly and they skittered to their respective sides of the room with only the sound of their scuffling scullery-boots. Aydelle spun around, chest covered up enough to preserve her dignity, expecting to hurl invectives at her feral-toothed older brother who had undoubtedly showed up to poke fun at the lot he’d dealt her. When the face that greeted her was not jovial and lightly dusted with beard, and instead squared, clean-shaven, and red with the blush of a dozen ladies of the court, she let out whatever oxygen she could muster in a paroxysm of coughs.
“I’m… so sorry, Lady Latorbelli. I was looking for—” he sounded as though he had just swallowed his tongue whole, and that the organ was thrashing against his throat with the ferocity of a fished-up trout. The sentence was beyond salvage, and both parties seemed aware.
“Are you Prince David Tripton, then?” her dark hair fell into her face, having just nearly escaped being bound up and gagged. Funny, she quipped, I didn’t expect the boy to be so old. She ran her eyes along his tall frame, clicking her tongue against the tops of her teeth at the ivory-hued shirt with the intricate, golden designs that looped over his sleeves and lapels. It reeked of Börsegeld.
“I am. I apologize for my delay. I know we were supposed to arrive nights ago,” when he calmed himself down, he actually had a pleasant voice, now that she was able to hear it. He enunciated, allowing the vowels to fully form before cutting them off with harsher consonants. If she didn’t know any better, she’d have sworn he was speaking clearly for the countryside he perceived around them, but he just seemed to be the type who prided himself on his diction. She suppressed a snort when she realized that he was actually waiting on her reply.
Straightening herself to her full height, which she was frustrated to find did not quite match his own, she laughed, “You will not endure this marriage if you expect your petty apologies to move me to play your game of manners.”
Morning was finally underway in the banquet hall at Avalon, and two old friends raised frothy glasses to each other’s health to celebrate the oncoming tide of breakfast foods that were steaming fresh from the kitchen. Hot, salty meats, warm breads, assorted jams, and milk-rich pastries arrived, stacked up on plates, and were evenly distributed along the long table.
Toellus and Hellios took long draughts in silence, taking in the sights of the festivities, and noticing who had yet arrived of the invited few to this momentous occasion. Scribz Latorbelli had wanted to keep it small, sweet, and simple, but a marriage of such import was not to go on without the catching the ear of some of the more curious nobility. Naturally, Ensis’s clan leaders had arrived to butter up their king, and those generals who pledged loyalty to him would be hard-pressed not to wish his darling sister well, but the presence of a few nobles from Börsegeld only served to prick their heckles. Efrain, that stout dragon of a man, lived close enough to the border that a single cough from the palace could travel to his lofty tower, so he brought a rich offering from his hoard and gained entry. Alongside him danced a lanky man, violin pressed constantly under his cheek, who seemed to move himself to tears with every note that his bow produced. The odd couple was rounded out with a knobby-legged goat that chased every lady’s skirt as if it was a rollicking wave of grass to ingest.
Snickering, Toellus placed his glass upon the table, “Foreigners.”
“Efrain has always been strange, even for a Börsegeldean,” Hellios remarked, eyes roving over the room, “But it’s still good that he’s come. It means that the north will know of this arrangement the moment he crosses the border.” Hellios had trouble turning off his analytical mind, and the well-dressed general who sat beside him owed life and limb to that gift, but sometimes found it verging on insufferable, especially over meals.
From across the table, Sir Dervish Dervington feigned disinterest, but couldn’t keep his ears closed. Years ago, when he served under the Great Cunctator, he never would have bet a single coin on seeing his commander at a formal event, let alone a wedding. The rumors had never slowed, even when Dervish was lucky enough to have won the good graces of the late Sir Dervington before him, and gained control of his army. The grey old man had been impressed by the young soldier’s frequent pilgrimages to his sickbed and decided to leave his entire hold and fledgling to Dervish. That had been a few years ago, and it only seemed like Toellus was getting more ruthless with age.
When he made eye contact with the older warriors, he gave a respectful nod in greeting, but soon realized he couldn’t stay in the stuffy hall all morning. His arms were growing impatient without some task set out before him, and he honestly could not bear to sit in the presence of vainglorious buffoons any longer. The fresh air, even if it still bore its early morning cold and dew, would be a welcome relief.
As best as anyone could tell, Zaluganu was built on the remains of a lookout fortress of some sort, erected years ago to monitor Ensis and toppled nearly immediately once that blood conflict ensued. Ashra-el had discovered the unassuming skeleton of stones, with its curious wooden beams and collapsing staircase, right after one of her most lucrative raids. She and her men had ducked under its shadow, arms burdened with sacks of valuables, and hid out until the coast was clear. It only seemed natural to stay for awhile longer in order to figure out their newly-acquired fortune, and once they began to unloading the gold, they began to warm up to the idea of settling down. Ashra-el had always been the type to think on her feet; she did best under pressure, and a mobile lifestyle made it harder for them to get caught. The moment a thief rests, complacency sets in, and that’s when they make mistakes.
After a month of slowly parsing through strings of pearls and gems on gold-linked bands, selling small batches far and wide to avoid suspicion, Ashra-el came across an ornate, silver chalice. Its rubies glinted up from the bottom of a dusty sack, and the intricate carvings along the rim of the glass went far beyond any handiwork she had seen. The thing must have been ancient, that detail seeming that much more obvious when none of the remaining piles of treasure showed dining ware anywhere near as skillfully crafted. She smirked, lifted the chalice in the air to the surprise of her men, and declared, “For years, we’ve run around Alspmar, trying to save our own hides from those who’d hunt us down like rats. We’ve had to leave behind good friends, people who had been with us through the thick and thin, and their sacrifices have led us to this place. We always said that we stole to live, so isn’t it time we stole to live well?”
The speech was simple, but it was exactly what they had wanted to hear. Sometimes, that was all that was needed. Deep down, she wanted nothing to do with the dictatorial sort that usually made up the ranks of great leaders. Keep her people happy, keep them running around for her, and there’d be no problems. She didn’t foresee anything changing once they christened the relic of an antebellum age as their headquarters, and truth be told, it might not have, if it hadn’t been for that goblet.
The lightheaded feeling that followed soon after was far from normal, but she and her cohorts said nothing of it. The fact that she slept for nearly two days straight after fainting was never mentioned. The mystery of the malaise was to remain just that for just a few days longer. Rumors circulated that the indomitable Ashra-el had been poisoned, and none in the keep quite yet understood that there was a modicum of truth to that completely mundane assumption.
It was an easy mistake to subscribe to the common yet erroneous belief, predominantly propagated by Ensis, that information was currency in Börsegeld. Every building in Börsegeld, palaces, taverns, schools, monasteries, brothels, teemed with secrets, plans, and bargains. Everyone in the kingdom had information. They gleaned it from looks, from silences, from food left behind at a feast, from charcoal on a man’s hand. These facts and stories, no matter how accurate, were useless on their own. Information in Börsegeld was worth less than dirt, as even the holiest of holy spaces was a surfeit of rumors, allegations, and condemnations. Just like the rest of Alspmar, even the mysterious north was run by petty coin alone.
That was the only reason why news of David Tripton and Aydelle Latorbelli hadn’t spread like flames over an oily sea. Börsegeld would not profit from such a union, and any lasting engagement with Ensis beyond superficial trade agreements still brought bile to the recesses of most citizen’s throats. Extasis was far from sure that he understood the news he had picked up in garbled bits along the street on this drizzly morning, but he knew it would be suicide to reveal that much to the indomitable Holmi.
As an orator, it was his job to be informed. If he didn’t know every detail, he had to sell what he was certain of, and spin the vagueness into a colorful tapestry of ideals that even a simple sheep-shearer would want to buy. Being caught unawares was his greatest fear. Holmi, of all people, was the person who put him at the greatest risk. Nobody quite understood how and where the unassuming man got his stories, as the morning-bright eyes and glorified flaxen locks above his brows suggested nothing of the spider that he had become over the years. His web was immense, tangling up thousands of nobles, merchants, warriors, and barmaidens. Because of Holmi, if the Duke of Hither sneezed, all of Vorvelade muttered, “Bless you”.
“You are making a speech today?” the silence was broken by the broker, hands clasped, looking as sweet and innocent as a lamb in a puddle of fresh milk and honey. It was almost hard to take the man seriously.
“I am,” Extasis confirmed. No harm in that, he thought, seeing as it’s my job. He’d rather say no more, but he knew that was not the name of the game.
“Efrain’s been enjoying the drier weather in the south for too long. I hope you’ll entreat him to return,” Holmi joked, though his words landed like a dirty blow to the orator’s gut. He had had no idea that the Archduke was not currently in Tihr, but with that piece of news, he could begin to believe in that cockamamie wedding story after all. Extasis couldn’t shake the fact that he felt he was being mocked by his companion, but he bit his tongue for the time being. Whatever you can tease out of him will make for a better platform this afternoon.
At the other end of the tavern, head down on his folded arms, sat a swordsman. He seemed not to notice the voluptuous wench who hovered above him, until she cleared her throat. Looking up quickly, he raised a single finger, “It’d best be water f’r me.”
She made a face, unsure of why a man who already looked like hell would want to risk a glass of water when he could just down a mug of beer, but she obliged, returning a few moments later with the unsavory beverage and a ton of questions. “You look like shit,” was her starting line, as she felt the rest would come to light in time.
“Feel a mite worse’n that, ‘f you can ‘magine it,” the stranger slurred. The bags under his eyes didn’t speak of a man who drank himself stupid and slept for a few solid hours after every binge, “Wouldja believe me ‘f I said I wake up e’ry afternoon” (he stumbled over those syllables like an overzealous child down stairs) “after clearly wakin’ up’t dawn like a fine fellow should, only to r’ember nothin’ of my morn?”
Taaj began to regret taking an interest in his life story, and she hoped that turning away to polish a glass into oblivion would save her from entertaining the man any further. She turned back, briefly, only to find that he had apparently blacked out. He was an odd fellow, but she shrugged and filed him under the ever-expanding list of things that weren’t her problem. A good friend of hers in Tilrive had written about a traveler who sounded just like this guy, a peculiar name, Broby Gangritch, prone to blackouts and full of unsettling tales. For her own sanity, she decided to let him sleep it off, but sincerely hoped he’d pay up soon and find an inn to call his lodging if he intended to nod off like this all throughout the day.
Sir Shy scampered through the gleaming halls, doing his damnedest not to stray from the sporadic expanses of luxury rugs that peppered the immense palace. He wasn’t the clumsy sort, but he needed to be at the king’s throne and he was in terrible danger of being late. This king was far more lenient than the last in that respect. The previous monarchs of Tilrive were so terrified of fouling up Tamsin’s plan for peace, gods rest her sainted soul, that punctuality, charm, niceities, all manner of courtly virtues were stressed almost above the laws themselves. It had been a land of peacekeepers ever since its hasty inception and its people were not above feeling the crushing weight that came with such a goal.
But all of that had changed with the crowning of this monarch, the son of a cadet branch to the Tamsinian royalty. He cared about results above all. Tangible accomplishments, too, and not just the propagation of a sad sack of leftover wishes and fears.
The throne room door loomed large ahead of him as the adviser straightened the accoutrements that dangled omnipresent on his chest. Entering at the king’s order, he took in the sight of the fair-haired ruler on his high-backed throne. He never seemed at ease, not like his predecessors. Something within him kicked and rollicked at even the slightest movement across the map. He barely turned his crowned head to address his guest, “I’m glad to see you’ve shown up. I hear that you have a nasty habit of vanishing.” The tone was playful, but Shy winced nonetheless.
“No, Your Majesty, those days are behind me,” he laughed, and awaited whatever order was about to come his way.
“Fetch my generals to the main hall. I feel I must discuss this most recent development with them," the monarch grumbled.
Sir Shy took a deep bow, although he wondered what good could come from gathering his brightest commanders on such a tranquil afternoon, "Of course, King Hank. It would be my pleasure."
His dark locks struggled to return to their curled form under the weight of the soapy, frigid water. Spitting out a few bubbles, he scanned the room to find the source of the disturbance leaning against the doorframe, the offending washbasin still gripped in his hands. The knight grimaced, disappointed in not finding a fair maiden reclining beside him, and decided to address the smug shadow, “Who’re you?”
“We’ve met,” came his curt reply. The voice sounded familiar, but didn’t come close to stirring the vat of his memory. Aza angrily groped for his tunic, finding it bunched in with the discarded sheepskin top covering, and used it to dry off his head and shoulders before sticking his face and arms through it.
“I’ve met my fair share of travelers, so be straight with me. Do I owe you money? Have I just despoiled your sister?” It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the very faint lighting within the humble cottage, but after staring at the vague outline of the stranger, he began to recognize the face, “Aren’t you that sod I ditched in the woods?”
The man came closer, dropping the wooden bucket and letting it roll against the dirt floor for a few seconds, leaving a faint trace of moisture behind. He was dressed in well-weathered leather armor and a bladed polearm was strapped around him, its hilt worn and nicked from use, and its blade darkened by several deep strikes. Clearing his throat, he continued, “I’ve always had a knack for navigation. I told you that I’d keep my eye on you because I didn’t trust you half as far as I could throw you. You keep quite busy for a man of the cloth.” His note was accompanied by a twitch of a thin eyebrow and a suspicious shift.
“I never said I was a friar,” Aza contested, “Just that I travel around with them. Look, friend…” He still couldn’t quite grasp the fellow’s name, although it existed right at the edge of his awareness. It wasn’t important enough to store away, but just annoying enough for it to stick around.
“Koka Reseinder,” the warrior spoke up, “And believe it or not, my own distrust isn’t all that’s sent me dogging after you. Sir Jorick Harrow has sent word out that he’d like all of his knights to return to New Harrowton. I know nothing of you Pauvroi, but when men on horses start telling tales in the woods around here, I tend to take note.”
Aza ran a finger along the stubble on his chin, sighing. Jorick had let them have their free reign for about three months now, to hunt down leads and recruit others to join them on their quest. He’d admittedly strayed from that path, but for Jorick to be reigning them all in was quite the surprise. The wily bastard had to have caught a scent that he couldn’t ignore, and Aza kept that prospect in mind as he crouched down and searched the hovel for his pants, under Koka’s judging eye.
The sun had barely risen over the walls of Avalon when Aydelle felt her midsection being crushed by a handful of taut, thick, snakes of fabric. Letting out a few desperate gasps, she kept herself steady by pressing a palm against the imposing bureau, as faint voices behind her reminded her not to move an inch. Admittedly, the voices might have actually been thunderous, but the young woman realized that with the blood rushing in her dangerously light head, sounds were bound to get distorted. Squeezing into a tight bodice was something of a rare activity for her, seeing as she spent most of her days out riding, but today, being a particularly hellish day, required the extra step of supporting her assets, as her handmaidens called them in jest, so that she would present the absolute ideal picture from early morn until her head hit the pillow.
Today, as opposite as could be from the hailstorm that she had prayed for, was Aydelle Manus Latorbelli’s wedding day. Every inch of her shook, from the cold of the early morning, from the sharpness of her inhalations, right down to the fact that she was to be expected to put her life on pause for a spoiled brat that her brother had somehow found fit to be the first and only exception to the promise he had made her all those years ago. Pressing her tongue against her cheek until it protruded in a decidedly bulbous tent of flesh, she tried to let it all go as the final knot was tied.
Much to her relief, though more to her surprise, the warm hands of her servants pulled away abruptly and they skittered to their respective sides of the room with only the sound of their scuffling scullery-boots. Aydelle spun around, chest covered up enough to preserve her dignity, expecting to hurl invectives at her feral-toothed older brother who had undoubtedly showed up to poke fun at the lot he’d dealt her. When the face that greeted her was not jovial and lightly dusted with beard, and instead squared, clean-shaven, and red with the blush of a dozen ladies of the court, she let out whatever oxygen she could muster in a paroxysm of coughs.
“I’m… so sorry, Lady Latorbelli. I was looking for—” he sounded as though he had just swallowed his tongue whole, and that the organ was thrashing against his throat with the ferocity of a fished-up trout. The sentence was beyond salvage, and both parties seemed aware.
“Are you Prince David Tripton, then?” her dark hair fell into her face, having just nearly escaped being bound up and gagged. Funny, she quipped, I didn’t expect the boy to be so old. She ran her eyes along his tall frame, clicking her tongue against the tops of her teeth at the ivory-hued shirt with the intricate, golden designs that looped over his sleeves and lapels. It reeked of Börsegeld.
“I am. I apologize for my delay. I know we were supposed to arrive nights ago,” when he calmed himself down, he actually had a pleasant voice, now that she was able to hear it. He enunciated, allowing the vowels to fully form before cutting them off with harsher consonants. If she didn’t know any better, she’d have sworn he was speaking clearly for the countryside he perceived around them, but he just seemed to be the type who prided himself on his diction. She suppressed a snort when she realized that he was actually waiting on her reply.
Straightening herself to her full height, which she was frustrated to find did not quite match his own, she laughed, “You will not endure this marriage if you expect your petty apologies to move me to play your game of manners.”
Morning was finally underway in the banquet hall at Avalon, and two old friends raised frothy glasses to each other’s health to celebrate the oncoming tide of breakfast foods that were steaming fresh from the kitchen. Hot, salty meats, warm breads, assorted jams, and milk-rich pastries arrived, stacked up on plates, and were evenly distributed along the long table.
Toellus and Hellios took long draughts in silence, taking in the sights of the festivities, and noticing who had yet arrived of the invited few to this momentous occasion. Scribz Latorbelli had wanted to keep it small, sweet, and simple, but a marriage of such import was not to go on without the catching the ear of some of the more curious nobility. Naturally, Ensis’s clan leaders had arrived to butter up their king, and those generals who pledged loyalty to him would be hard-pressed not to wish his darling sister well, but the presence of a few nobles from Börsegeld only served to prick their heckles. Efrain, that stout dragon of a man, lived close enough to the border that a single cough from the palace could travel to his lofty tower, so he brought a rich offering from his hoard and gained entry. Alongside him danced a lanky man, violin pressed constantly under his cheek, who seemed to move himself to tears with every note that his bow produced. The odd couple was rounded out with a knobby-legged goat that chased every lady’s skirt as if it was a rollicking wave of grass to ingest.
Snickering, Toellus placed his glass upon the table, “Foreigners.”
“Efrain has always been strange, even for a Börsegeldean,” Hellios remarked, eyes roving over the room, “But it’s still good that he’s come. It means that the north will know of this arrangement the moment he crosses the border.” Hellios had trouble turning off his analytical mind, and the well-dressed general who sat beside him owed life and limb to that gift, but sometimes found it verging on insufferable, especially over meals.
From across the table, Sir Dervish Dervington feigned disinterest, but couldn’t keep his ears closed. Years ago, when he served under the Great Cunctator, he never would have bet a single coin on seeing his commander at a formal event, let alone a wedding. The rumors had never slowed, even when Dervish was lucky enough to have won the good graces of the late Sir Dervington before him, and gained control of his army. The grey old man had been impressed by the young soldier’s frequent pilgrimages to his sickbed and decided to leave his entire hold and fledgling to Dervish. That had been a few years ago, and it only seemed like Toellus was getting more ruthless with age.
When he made eye contact with the older warriors, he gave a respectful nod in greeting, but soon realized he couldn’t stay in the stuffy hall all morning. His arms were growing impatient without some task set out before him, and he honestly could not bear to sit in the presence of vainglorious buffoons any longer. The fresh air, even if it still bore its early morning cold and dew, would be a welcome relief.
As best as anyone could tell, Zaluganu was built on the remains of a lookout fortress of some sort, erected years ago to monitor Ensis and toppled nearly immediately once that blood conflict ensued. Ashra-el had discovered the unassuming skeleton of stones, with its curious wooden beams and collapsing staircase, right after one of her most lucrative raids. She and her men had ducked under its shadow, arms burdened with sacks of valuables, and hid out until the coast was clear. It only seemed natural to stay for awhile longer in order to figure out their newly-acquired fortune, and once they began to unloading the gold, they began to warm up to the idea of settling down. Ashra-el had always been the type to think on her feet; she did best under pressure, and a mobile lifestyle made it harder for them to get caught. The moment a thief rests, complacency sets in, and that’s when they make mistakes.
After a month of slowly parsing through strings of pearls and gems on gold-linked bands, selling small batches far and wide to avoid suspicion, Ashra-el came across an ornate, silver chalice. Its rubies glinted up from the bottom of a dusty sack, and the intricate carvings along the rim of the glass went far beyond any handiwork she had seen. The thing must have been ancient, that detail seeming that much more obvious when none of the remaining piles of treasure showed dining ware anywhere near as skillfully crafted. She smirked, lifted the chalice in the air to the surprise of her men, and declared, “For years, we’ve run around Alspmar, trying to save our own hides from those who’d hunt us down like rats. We’ve had to leave behind good friends, people who had been with us through the thick and thin, and their sacrifices have led us to this place. We always said that we stole to live, so isn’t it time we stole to live well?”
The speech was simple, but it was exactly what they had wanted to hear. Sometimes, that was all that was needed. Deep down, she wanted nothing to do with the dictatorial sort that usually made up the ranks of great leaders. Keep her people happy, keep them running around for her, and there’d be no problems. She didn’t foresee anything changing once they christened the relic of an antebellum age as their headquarters, and truth be told, it might not have, if it hadn’t been for that goblet.
The lightheaded feeling that followed soon after was far from normal, but she and her cohorts said nothing of it. The fact that she slept for nearly two days straight after fainting was never mentioned. The mystery of the malaise was to remain just that for just a few days longer. Rumors circulated that the indomitable Ashra-el had been poisoned, and none in the keep quite yet understood that there was a modicum of truth to that completely mundane assumption.
It was an easy mistake to subscribe to the common yet erroneous belief, predominantly propagated by Ensis, that information was currency in Börsegeld. Every building in Börsegeld, palaces, taverns, schools, monasteries, brothels, teemed with secrets, plans, and bargains. Everyone in the kingdom had information. They gleaned it from looks, from silences, from food left behind at a feast, from charcoal on a man’s hand. These facts and stories, no matter how accurate, were useless on their own. Information in Börsegeld was worth less than dirt, as even the holiest of holy spaces was a surfeit of rumors, allegations, and condemnations. Just like the rest of Alspmar, even the mysterious north was run by petty coin alone.
That was the only reason why news of David Tripton and Aydelle Latorbelli hadn’t spread like flames over an oily sea. Börsegeld would not profit from such a union, and any lasting engagement with Ensis beyond superficial trade agreements still brought bile to the recesses of most citizen’s throats. Extasis was far from sure that he understood the news he had picked up in garbled bits along the street on this drizzly morning, but he knew it would be suicide to reveal that much to the indomitable Holmi.
As an orator, it was his job to be informed. If he didn’t know every detail, he had to sell what he was certain of, and spin the vagueness into a colorful tapestry of ideals that even a simple sheep-shearer would want to buy. Being caught unawares was his greatest fear. Holmi, of all people, was the person who put him at the greatest risk. Nobody quite understood how and where the unassuming man got his stories, as the morning-bright eyes and glorified flaxen locks above his brows suggested nothing of the spider that he had become over the years. His web was immense, tangling up thousands of nobles, merchants, warriors, and barmaidens. Because of Holmi, if the Duke of Hither sneezed, all of Vorvelade muttered, “Bless you”.
“You are making a speech today?” the silence was broken by the broker, hands clasped, looking as sweet and innocent as a lamb in a puddle of fresh milk and honey. It was almost hard to take the man seriously.
“I am,” Extasis confirmed. No harm in that, he thought, seeing as it’s my job. He’d rather say no more, but he knew that was not the name of the game.
“Efrain’s been enjoying the drier weather in the south for too long. I hope you’ll entreat him to return,” Holmi joked, though his words landed like a dirty blow to the orator’s gut. He had had no idea that the Archduke was not currently in Tihr, but with that piece of news, he could begin to believe in that cockamamie wedding story after all. Extasis couldn’t shake the fact that he felt he was being mocked by his companion, but he bit his tongue for the time being. Whatever you can tease out of him will make for a better platform this afternoon.
At the other end of the tavern, head down on his folded arms, sat a swordsman. He seemed not to notice the voluptuous wench who hovered above him, until she cleared her throat. Looking up quickly, he raised a single finger, “It’d best be water f’r me.”
She made a face, unsure of why a man who already looked like hell would want to risk a glass of water when he could just down a mug of beer, but she obliged, returning a few moments later with the unsavory beverage and a ton of questions. “You look like shit,” was her starting line, as she felt the rest would come to light in time.
“Feel a mite worse’n that, ‘f you can ‘magine it,” the stranger slurred. The bags under his eyes didn’t speak of a man who drank himself stupid and slept for a few solid hours after every binge, “Wouldja believe me ‘f I said I wake up e’ry afternoon” (he stumbled over those syllables like an overzealous child down stairs) “after clearly wakin’ up’t dawn like a fine fellow should, only to r’ember nothin’ of my morn?”
Taaj began to regret taking an interest in his life story, and she hoped that turning away to polish a glass into oblivion would save her from entertaining the man any further. She turned back, briefly, only to find that he had apparently blacked out. He was an odd fellow, but she shrugged and filed him under the ever-expanding list of things that weren’t her problem. A good friend of hers in Tilrive had written about a traveler who sounded just like this guy, a peculiar name, Broby Gangritch, prone to blackouts and full of unsettling tales. For her own sanity, she decided to let him sleep it off, but sincerely hoped he’d pay up soon and find an inn to call his lodging if he intended to nod off like this all throughout the day.
Sir Shy scampered through the gleaming halls, doing his damnedest not to stray from the sporadic expanses of luxury rugs that peppered the immense palace. He wasn’t the clumsy sort, but he needed to be at the king’s throne and he was in terrible danger of being late. This king was far more lenient than the last in that respect. The previous monarchs of Tilrive were so terrified of fouling up Tamsin’s plan for peace, gods rest her sainted soul, that punctuality, charm, niceities, all manner of courtly virtues were stressed almost above the laws themselves. It had been a land of peacekeepers ever since its hasty inception and its people were not above feeling the crushing weight that came with such a goal.
But all of that had changed with the crowning of this monarch, the son of a cadet branch to the Tamsinian royalty. He cared about results above all. Tangible accomplishments, too, and not just the propagation of a sad sack of leftover wishes and fears.
The throne room door loomed large ahead of him as the adviser straightened the accoutrements that dangled omnipresent on his chest. Entering at the king’s order, he took in the sight of the fair-haired ruler on his high-backed throne. He never seemed at ease, not like his predecessors. Something within him kicked and rollicked at even the slightest movement across the map. He barely turned his crowned head to address his guest, “I’m glad to see you’ve shown up. I hear that you have a nasty habit of vanishing.” The tone was playful, but Shy winced nonetheless.
“No, Your Majesty, those days are behind me,” he laughed, and awaited whatever order was about to come his way.
“Fetch my generals to the main hall. I feel I must discuss this most recent development with them," the monarch grumbled.
Sir Shy took a deep bow, although he wondered what good could come from gathering his brightest commanders on such a tranquil afternoon, "Of course, King Hank. It would be my pleasure."
