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Co-written with @PrinceOfHeaven
The soft crunch of horses' hooves on snow was barely audible, drowned out by the whistle of the winter wind and the creaking of bare branches as Count Erwyn rode upon his destrier, closely followed by his packed dormeuse, snowflakes forming a blanket of white upon the vehicle's roof. The sky was overcast; a rippling sea of grey, the sun only barely managing to peek through in a few spots, casting bright beams of light down from the heavens to land on the towers of Mirador. The Count was safely out of its direct light, but still he kept his eyes concealed behind a pair of smoked eyeglasses, and his head covered with a dark felt tricorne, its edges trimmed with subtle silver detailing. His hood was not up, but it hung at the ready from the back of his riding cloak, in case his eternal nemesis in the sky were to make a less inhibited appearance. Before this small procession, the gates of the Order's fortress loomed high, and Erwyn tugged sharply on his steed's reins to bring the beast to a halt, the carriage rolling to a standstill behind him.
A Norsidic warrior stepped forwards, hands gripping his halberd firmly, slightly lowered and ready for battle on the offchance this individual turned violent. "Evening. Here for the feast I'd imagine?" he said, in his thick Oslandic accent. His eyes wandered to the carriage and the man's entourage. Most people who showed up to Mirador for the feast were locals with no real need for packed carriages. The most people usually brought were the horses they rode in on.
The Count spend several seconds studying the warrior and his weapon intently over the top of his dark glasses. At last, he nodded. "Indeed I am, soldier," he replied, his words inflected with a heavy Asmeinlander accent. "May I enter?"
The Nord lightly jabbed the spearhead of his halberd towards the carriage. "It would be ideal if my companions and I could search your carriage before you enter? Just a quick look around in the interior and you'll be good to go."
Dismounting, Erwyn strode around to the door of the vehicle and gestured for his soldiers to move aside, before flinging the wooden panel open to reveal a spacious interior richly decorated in crimson velvet, at odds with the crates and cases strewn across the floor and seats. He beckoned the Nord forward. "Search it as you wish, friend. I assure you there is nothing untoward."
The Oslandic warrior gestured for his companions to approach as he stepped into the carriage, looking around for anything that seemed out of place: vials of strange liquids (potential poisons), concealable weaponry... anything that could be considered a threat to the guests of honor. Finding nothing, he carefully stepped out of the vehicle. "Very well. Proceed, and cause no trouble," he said, nodding to the Asmeinlander.
"Trouble?" the Count exclaimed with mock surprise. "I would not dream of it, my good man!" Jumping back onto his horse, he gestured to his entourage to move forward, and spurred his horse into a gentle trot through the gates of the Order's fortress.
"One last thing!" the soldier called out as the carriage moved past the gates. "The stable is by the blacksmith in the market square! Talk to Alvar if you need any gear repaired, and to his wife Madalen if you'd like something to tide you over until the feast!"
Looking back, the vampire lightly tapped his tricorne in gratitude, before proceeding onwards in the direction of the stables, passing through the winding cobbled streets of Mirador, his armoured mount and jet black carriage drawing more than a few stares from the local townsfolk. After a few minutes, he emerged into a spacious square, draped with banners and streamers and packed with crowds thronging around the various market stalls. His gaze panning over the scene from atop his steed, Erwyn spotted the stable instantly, trotting around the side of the bustling market towards it. Drawing to a halt alongside the building, he dismounted, his soldiers holding the reins of his horse and the pair of carthorses as they glanced around to find an empty stall.
As the man approached the dark, stone building, a young elven man, probably just out of adolescence, approached him and the carriage. He wore the simple clothes of a stableboy, with the addition of a white and gold tabard with the image of the sun emblazoned on the front. "Milord," he said with a nod, reaching for the reins of the horse. "Keep's not far, up on the top of the hill," he added. Bowing courteously to the Asmein nobleman, he took his horse to the nearest empty stall, guiding the soldiers along to help park the carriage.
Erwyn gave the elf a polite nod as he carried out his work. Waiting until the carriage was safely parked and the horses hitched, he passed the man a fat bag of coin. "Much obliged." He began to walk away, before stopping abruptly and spinning back around to face the elf. "Ah, one more thing - just to check, I shall find Alvar next door, ja?"
"Uh..." the elf looked down at the generous payment, before snapping back to reality. "Yes, Alvar runs the forge, it's the building next door," he said, nodding vigorously to the Asmeinian.
With a final nod of thanks, the vampire departed, followed close behind by his servant and soldiers, the latter of whom had left their poleaxes in the carriage and now sported just their arming swords - it was unlikely the Order would take kindly to weapons of war at their feast. Striding over to the next building along, the Count pushed open the door, a small bell above it ringing as he entered, its delicate chime drowned out by the clang of hammers on steel and the whoosh of bellows. "Hello?" he called, listening for footsteps as he inspected the weapons and tools that hung from the walls.
A tall, stocky Norsidic man was operating the forge when Erywn had come in. It seemed as though he were crafting some sort of longsword. His aged, wrinkled face looked up to the pale man standing at the door of his shop. He smiled and set his work aside, moving everything to a proper, safe place before dusting off his hands and wiping his sweat-soaked face with a nearby rag. "Ah, hello there! I take it you're here to buy arms and armor? Maybe new gear for your horses? I make excellent barding! Fine Oslandic equipment, the envy of the Aesernian Kingdoms, with regular shipments of Valgarde Steel!" He said this as he walked behind the store counter.
"Always good to find proper northern metal in these parts," Erwyn said, taking off his hat and tucking it under his arm. "I may have a little work for a skilled smith, you'll be pleased to know. I'll start with the smaller job; it's about time I got a new rapier. Forty-five inch flamberge blade, swept hilt, and if you could engrave my crest somwhere..." he tapped the ornate silver pin which held his cloak, the bat sigil of his house displayed upon it. "I'll write it all down for you in a minute, anyway. The second commission is a little more interesting." Reaching into his coat, his gloved hand re-emerged with a thick sheaf of papers, which he placed on the counter and spread out, revealing a series of intricate diagrams interspersed with scrawled notes. "I've drawn up a few plans, as you can see; I just require the actual parts. And if you make a few copies of this particular piece, let's say twenty or so..." he pointed to one of the sheets, bearing a long, lance-like object, "that would be much appreciated."
Alvar took a look at the diagrams, and a wide smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "You must be here to see the Grandmaster! He could use weapons of this nature against the foul demon that plagues Illyrica," he said with a hearty chuckle. "Unfortunately he isn't here yet, but I'm sure we can pass the time while I fill your orders. Do you need anything else before I get started?"
The vampire gave the question a moment's thought, before shaking his head. "No, I think that will be all, thank you. Although... I don't suppose you know of a good inn nearby, do you?" He chuckled. "It's been a long journey, and gods know I could do with an ale and a bed."
"Smart question!" Alvar said with a chortle. "The Broken Flagon is west of of the market square. It's a three-story Aesernian insula building. Modest rent, good fare, better ale. The risk of fire is quite low, as well."
"Sounds like it will do just fine. Thank you, my good man." Erwyn turned to leave, pausing to withdraw another full bag of coin from within his coat. Tossing it gently backwards, the purse made a satisfying rattle as it landed on the counter. "I almost forgot. Twenty gold Thalers as an advance payment, in case you need to buy any extra materials. Another sixty when I return after the feast." With a cheery wave, the Count made his way through the door, leaving the Northern blacksmith to his considerable workload.
The Broken Flagon, as quaint as it was, was packed with travelers who had all come in from out of town to partake in the festivities. The air smelled of bread and mead, and was otherwise filled with the sound of metal clinking, men laughing and hollering, and the occasional refill as alcohol flowed from the taps of kegs. The door swung open, and Erwyn stood silhouetted in the doorway for a few seconds, surveying the room. Satisfied, he strolled in, removing his tricorne and gloves and tucking them under his arm before running a pale hand back through his luxuriant jet-black hair. Ambling over to the bar, his small entourage leaning on the wooden counter beside him, the vampire gave a polite nod to summon a nearby barmaid as he slipped his dark glasses into a coat pocket, revealing the almost otherworldly silver-grey eyes underneath, that had until now been concealed.
One of the barmaids, a young Shadow Elf holding a tray of mugs, approached the vampire, looking him over with a tired, though polite smile. "Welcome to the Broken Flagon, traveler. What would you fancy?" she asked. She looked a tad impatient, though given the tray of mead mugs, she likely had other customers.
The Count glanced down at the full tray before looking apologetically back to the barmaid. "Ah, I didn't realise you were busy. Please, serve those who were already here first; my men and I can wait a few minutes."
The barmaid gave a slight curtsey. "Thank you greatly, milord," she replied as she walked off to deliver the mead. For a few minutes the Vampire and his soldiers would wait, idly watching the antics of the other patrons. Much of it consisted of drinking games between Nords, Aesernians, and their haplessly featherweighted Elven companions. A few surcoat-clad knights threw knives into a sturdy wooden post, aiming at an artist's cheap rendering of the Shaitun Hargash, Patron of That Which Is Revolting. Others still played various board games; one table was playing chess, another mancala, for instance.
Eventually the same Shadow Elf returned with the empty pewter platter, setting it down on the counter. "My deepest apologies for the wait, milord. Many have traveled to see the Grandmaster, and I've never quite seen the Flagon so full before," she explained. "But nevermind excuses; can I get anything for you and your men?"
"Four ales, four meals, and a couple of nice rooms for a few nights," Erwyn replied. "That will be all for now, thank you." His hand slipped into a pocket and reemerged with a handful of coins, which he slid across the bar.
"I'll have to check with the innkeeper to see if we've any available rooms, but we'll work something out, hopefully. Thank you for your patronage in the meantime." With that, the barmaid accepted the gold and walked off to have the order filled.
The soft crunch of horses' hooves on snow was barely audible, drowned out by the whistle of the winter wind and the creaking of bare branches as Count Erwyn rode upon his destrier, closely followed by his packed dormeuse, snowflakes forming a blanket of white upon the vehicle's roof. The sky was overcast; a rippling sea of grey, the sun only barely managing to peek through in a few spots, casting bright beams of light down from the heavens to land on the towers of Mirador. The Count was safely out of its direct light, but still he kept his eyes concealed behind a pair of smoked eyeglasses, and his head covered with a dark felt tricorne, its edges trimmed with subtle silver detailing. His hood was not up, but it hung at the ready from the back of his riding cloak, in case his eternal nemesis in the sky were to make a less inhibited appearance. Before this small procession, the gates of the Order's fortress loomed high, and Erwyn tugged sharply on his steed's reins to bring the beast to a halt, the carriage rolling to a standstill behind him.
A Norsidic warrior stepped forwards, hands gripping his halberd firmly, slightly lowered and ready for battle on the offchance this individual turned violent. "Evening. Here for the feast I'd imagine?" he said, in his thick Oslandic accent. His eyes wandered to the carriage and the man's entourage. Most people who showed up to Mirador for the feast were locals with no real need for packed carriages. The most people usually brought were the horses they rode in on.
The Count spend several seconds studying the warrior and his weapon intently over the top of his dark glasses. At last, he nodded. "Indeed I am, soldier," he replied, his words inflected with a heavy Asmeinlander accent. "May I enter?"
The Nord lightly jabbed the spearhead of his halberd towards the carriage. "It would be ideal if my companions and I could search your carriage before you enter? Just a quick look around in the interior and you'll be good to go."
Dismounting, Erwyn strode around to the door of the vehicle and gestured for his soldiers to move aside, before flinging the wooden panel open to reveal a spacious interior richly decorated in crimson velvet, at odds with the crates and cases strewn across the floor and seats. He beckoned the Nord forward. "Search it as you wish, friend. I assure you there is nothing untoward."
The Oslandic warrior gestured for his companions to approach as he stepped into the carriage, looking around for anything that seemed out of place: vials of strange liquids (potential poisons), concealable weaponry... anything that could be considered a threat to the guests of honor. Finding nothing, he carefully stepped out of the vehicle. "Very well. Proceed, and cause no trouble," he said, nodding to the Asmeinlander.
"Trouble?" the Count exclaimed with mock surprise. "I would not dream of it, my good man!" Jumping back onto his horse, he gestured to his entourage to move forward, and spurred his horse into a gentle trot through the gates of the Order's fortress.
"One last thing!" the soldier called out as the carriage moved past the gates. "The stable is by the blacksmith in the market square! Talk to Alvar if you need any gear repaired, and to his wife Madalen if you'd like something to tide you over until the feast!"
Looking back, the vampire lightly tapped his tricorne in gratitude, before proceeding onwards in the direction of the stables, passing through the winding cobbled streets of Mirador, his armoured mount and jet black carriage drawing more than a few stares from the local townsfolk. After a few minutes, he emerged into a spacious square, draped with banners and streamers and packed with crowds thronging around the various market stalls. His gaze panning over the scene from atop his steed, Erwyn spotted the stable instantly, trotting around the side of the bustling market towards it. Drawing to a halt alongside the building, he dismounted, his soldiers holding the reins of his horse and the pair of carthorses as they glanced around to find an empty stall.
As the man approached the dark, stone building, a young elven man, probably just out of adolescence, approached him and the carriage. He wore the simple clothes of a stableboy, with the addition of a white and gold tabard with the image of the sun emblazoned on the front. "Milord," he said with a nod, reaching for the reins of the horse. "Keep's not far, up on the top of the hill," he added. Bowing courteously to the Asmein nobleman, he took his horse to the nearest empty stall, guiding the soldiers along to help park the carriage.
Erwyn gave the elf a polite nod as he carried out his work. Waiting until the carriage was safely parked and the horses hitched, he passed the man a fat bag of coin. "Much obliged." He began to walk away, before stopping abruptly and spinning back around to face the elf. "Ah, one more thing - just to check, I shall find Alvar next door, ja?"
"Uh..." the elf looked down at the generous payment, before snapping back to reality. "Yes, Alvar runs the forge, it's the building next door," he said, nodding vigorously to the Asmeinian.
With a final nod of thanks, the vampire departed, followed close behind by his servant and soldiers, the latter of whom had left their poleaxes in the carriage and now sported just their arming swords - it was unlikely the Order would take kindly to weapons of war at their feast. Striding over to the next building along, the Count pushed open the door, a small bell above it ringing as he entered, its delicate chime drowned out by the clang of hammers on steel and the whoosh of bellows. "Hello?" he called, listening for footsteps as he inspected the weapons and tools that hung from the walls.
A tall, stocky Norsidic man was operating the forge when Erywn had come in. It seemed as though he were crafting some sort of longsword. His aged, wrinkled face looked up to the pale man standing at the door of his shop. He smiled and set his work aside, moving everything to a proper, safe place before dusting off his hands and wiping his sweat-soaked face with a nearby rag. "Ah, hello there! I take it you're here to buy arms and armor? Maybe new gear for your horses? I make excellent barding! Fine Oslandic equipment, the envy of the Aesernian Kingdoms, with regular shipments of Valgarde Steel!" He said this as he walked behind the store counter.
"Always good to find proper northern metal in these parts," Erwyn said, taking off his hat and tucking it under his arm. "I may have a little work for a skilled smith, you'll be pleased to know. I'll start with the smaller job; it's about time I got a new rapier. Forty-five inch flamberge blade, swept hilt, and if you could engrave my crest somwhere..." he tapped the ornate silver pin which held his cloak, the bat sigil of his house displayed upon it. "I'll write it all down for you in a minute, anyway. The second commission is a little more interesting." Reaching into his coat, his gloved hand re-emerged with a thick sheaf of papers, which he placed on the counter and spread out, revealing a series of intricate diagrams interspersed with scrawled notes. "I've drawn up a few plans, as you can see; I just require the actual parts. And if you make a few copies of this particular piece, let's say twenty or so..." he pointed to one of the sheets, bearing a long, lance-like object, "that would be much appreciated."
Alvar took a look at the diagrams, and a wide smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "You must be here to see the Grandmaster! He could use weapons of this nature against the foul demon that plagues Illyrica," he said with a hearty chuckle. "Unfortunately he isn't here yet, but I'm sure we can pass the time while I fill your orders. Do you need anything else before I get started?"
The vampire gave the question a moment's thought, before shaking his head. "No, I think that will be all, thank you. Although... I don't suppose you know of a good inn nearby, do you?" He chuckled. "It's been a long journey, and gods know I could do with an ale and a bed."
"Smart question!" Alvar said with a chortle. "The Broken Flagon is west of of the market square. It's a three-story Aesernian insula building. Modest rent, good fare, better ale. The risk of fire is quite low, as well."
"Sounds like it will do just fine. Thank you, my good man." Erwyn turned to leave, pausing to withdraw another full bag of coin from within his coat. Tossing it gently backwards, the purse made a satisfying rattle as it landed on the counter. "I almost forgot. Twenty gold Thalers as an advance payment, in case you need to buy any extra materials. Another sixty when I return after the feast." With a cheery wave, the Count made his way through the door, leaving the Northern blacksmith to his considerable workload.
The Broken Flagon, as quaint as it was, was packed with travelers who had all come in from out of town to partake in the festivities. The air smelled of bread and mead, and was otherwise filled with the sound of metal clinking, men laughing and hollering, and the occasional refill as alcohol flowed from the taps of kegs. The door swung open, and Erwyn stood silhouetted in the doorway for a few seconds, surveying the room. Satisfied, he strolled in, removing his tricorne and gloves and tucking them under his arm before running a pale hand back through his luxuriant jet-black hair. Ambling over to the bar, his small entourage leaning on the wooden counter beside him, the vampire gave a polite nod to summon a nearby barmaid as he slipped his dark glasses into a coat pocket, revealing the almost otherworldly silver-grey eyes underneath, that had until now been concealed.
One of the barmaids, a young Shadow Elf holding a tray of mugs, approached the vampire, looking him over with a tired, though polite smile. "Welcome to the Broken Flagon, traveler. What would you fancy?" she asked. She looked a tad impatient, though given the tray of mead mugs, she likely had other customers.
The Count glanced down at the full tray before looking apologetically back to the barmaid. "Ah, I didn't realise you were busy. Please, serve those who were already here first; my men and I can wait a few minutes."
The barmaid gave a slight curtsey. "Thank you greatly, milord," she replied as she walked off to deliver the mead. For a few minutes the Vampire and his soldiers would wait, idly watching the antics of the other patrons. Much of it consisted of drinking games between Nords, Aesernians, and their haplessly featherweighted Elven companions. A few surcoat-clad knights threw knives into a sturdy wooden post, aiming at an artist's cheap rendering of the Shaitun Hargash, Patron of That Which Is Revolting. Others still played various board games; one table was playing chess, another mancala, for instance.
Eventually the same Shadow Elf returned with the empty pewter platter, setting it down on the counter. "My deepest apologies for the wait, milord. Many have traveled to see the Grandmaster, and I've never quite seen the Flagon so full before," she explained. "But nevermind excuses; can I get anything for you and your men?"
"Four ales, four meals, and a couple of nice rooms for a few nights," Erwyn replied. "That will be all for now, thank you." His hand slipped into a pocket and reemerged with a handful of coins, which he slid across the bar.
"I'll have to check with the innkeeper to see if we've any available rooms, but we'll work something out, hopefully. Thank you for your patronage in the meantime." With that, the barmaid accepted the gold and walked off to have the order filled.