I've written most of my post. I just need a bit of input from ZB1996 before I put it up. @ZB1996, I've sent you a PM!
Fireball XL5 Member
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I am waiting for FateWeaver to post.
Around the same time the refugees started arriving at Udny Pass, Harold was sat near the back of the tavern, nursing a mug of bitter lukewarm beer and scribbling notes into a leatherbound book.
It was not exactly a fine establishment. The table was damp from the day's spillages and the air smelt like wet dog and smoke. Another patron lay slumped at the table next to his, snoring deeply. Harold liked the place.
Another man sat behind Harold, at a different table, at a glance ostensibly muttering to himself. After each burst of manic mumbling, Harold jotted a series of lines, ticks and symbols into the book, pausing only to swig at his drink. He wrote in no known language any Aretan would recognise, but rather a form of shorthand he'd developed for personal use over the years. He'd started it originally in an attempt to obfuscate his notes to the eyes of would-be snoopers, but eventually found it a much quicker way of writing than the common tongue, and took to writing everything in Qg; the name he'd given his note-taking, which simply meant "quick".
Eventually the man behind Harold seemed to lose interest in his monologue and got up and left. Harold kept writing, but his pace slowed. Before he could finish up, a commotion at the bar drew his interest. It was a city steward, arguing with the barman. Harold watched with increasing irritation as the barman glanced in his direction, said something to the steward, and then pointed in his direction. The steward marched over.
"Alright, old man. Let's go."
"Go where?"
"Dungeon. Guards've got some refugees for you to look at."
"And what do I look like, the judge of a refugee beauty pageant? Get lost," Harold snarled.
The steward stared at him. Harold turned back to his notes and sighed. He wouldn't get out of this one.
"Alright fine, lead the way," he said quietly.
As the steward turned to leave, Harold picked up his pencil and wrote one more thing down in his notes, before flipping the book closed. A name. In plain Aretan, this time. He had a second system for disguising names and places, something his Qg shorthand didn't account for, but in this case it didn't seem necessary. If his source had given him accurate information it'd be a short investigation.
Harold wrote: 'Ilingard.'
It was not exactly a fine establishment. The table was damp from the day's spillages and the air smelt like wet dog and smoke. Another patron lay slumped at the table next to his, snoring deeply. Harold liked the place.
Another man sat behind Harold, at a different table, at a glance ostensibly muttering to himself. After each burst of manic mumbling, Harold jotted a series of lines, ticks and symbols into the book, pausing only to swig at his drink. He wrote in no known language any Aretan would recognise, but rather a form of shorthand he'd developed for personal use over the years. He'd started it originally in an attempt to obfuscate his notes to the eyes of would-be snoopers, but eventually found it a much quicker way of writing than the common tongue, and took to writing everything in Qg; the name he'd given his note-taking, which simply meant "quick".
Eventually the man behind Harold seemed to lose interest in his monologue and got up and left. Harold kept writing, but his pace slowed. Before he could finish up, a commotion at the bar drew his interest. It was a city steward, arguing with the barman. Harold watched with increasing irritation as the barman glanced in his direction, said something to the steward, and then pointed in his direction. The steward marched over.
"Alright, old man. Let's go."
"Go where?"
"Dungeon. Guards've got some refugees for you to look at."
"And what do I look like, the judge of a refugee beauty pageant? Get lost," Harold snarled.
The steward stared at him. Harold turned back to his notes and sighed. He wouldn't get out of this one.
"Alright fine, lead the way," he said quietly.
As the steward turned to leave, Harold picked up his pencil and wrote one more thing down in his notes, before flipping the book closed. A name. In plain Aretan, this time. He had a second system for disguising names and places, something his Qg shorthand didn't account for, but in this case it didn't seem necessary. If his source had given him accurate information it'd be a short investigation.
Harold wrote: 'Ilingard.'
I fancy run, myself. Mmm, Kraken...
Supplies are running perilously low!
Whiskey, hold the ice, please.
JK. Whiskey is gross.
What is this heresy?
Posted. FYI that introduction takes place at sunrise, just prior to the main party's arrival at sunset.
He'd woken to a grey morning. Fog hung low to the ground like clumps of cotton, and the air had a cool, damp quality to it, coating the skin like a film of sweat after a nightmare. And of late - of nightmares - Harold had plenty. He resented the reminder.
With tired eyes and a throbbing headache, Harold watched the figure in the mist approaching his house through his kitchen window. He held his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and willed the hangover to leave him, but his head would not forgive last night's indulgences so readily.
A demanding rapping at the door announced that his visitor had found his way through the early morning's murk. Harold flinched at the noise, but this was a visitor he could not simply turn away.
It was the court's official. Harold had been forewarned of his arrival the night before, though much too late to put the cork back in the bottle, or so he told himself. A prim and wiry man with a fine moustache stood at the door, unsmiling. His name was Kirn Atam; Harold had worked with him in the past, on official and not-so-official royal business.
"Harold," Kirn said.
"Hello, Kirn," Harold replied. "I expected you might be coming."
Kirn raised an eyebrow. Harold, wearing naught but a long and grimy bedshirt, did not look prepared to entertain guests.
"Then you probably know why I'm here," Kirn replied, plucking a small envelope from the breast pocket of his immaculate uniform. The envelope bore the royal seal, the outline of a jackal's feral sneer stamped into a button of blood-red wax.
Harold took the envelope without reply. He had suspected this day would come, though not quite so soon. If Kirn was at his door, it was serious. Harold had expected some fallout from his role in the recent execution, but now it seemed more likely this was to be a summons to appear before the high magistrate; the beginning of an investigation.
Kirn was looking at him like a bug under a lens. Studying his reaction as he processed this information. For a man so utterly devoid of emotion, Harold always thought it curious that Kirn took such an interest in the feelings of others.
"Thank you, Kirn. If that will be all...?"
Kirn straightened, nodded and, turning on his heel, stepped back out into the mist. Harold closed the door and looked at the envelope in his hand.
"Blasted witch," he muttered, bitterly. Though she was now surely rotting deep down in the salted earth, she continued to torment him. Her legacy, the decimation of his hitherto untouchable reputation.
Harold returned to his kitchen and watched the silhouette of Kirn fade away. It was still early. "But not too late for another drink," Harold whispered to himself, tossing the letter aside, delaying reading it 'til the next hangover.
With tired eyes and a throbbing headache, Harold watched the figure in the mist approaching his house through his kitchen window. He held his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and willed the hangover to leave him, but his head would not forgive last night's indulgences so readily.
A demanding rapping at the door announced that his visitor had found his way through the early morning's murk. Harold flinched at the noise, but this was a visitor he could not simply turn away.
It was the court's official. Harold had been forewarned of his arrival the night before, though much too late to put the cork back in the bottle, or so he told himself. A prim and wiry man with a fine moustache stood at the door, unsmiling. His name was Kirn Atam; Harold had worked with him in the past, on official and not-so-official royal business.
"Harold," Kirn said.
"Hello, Kirn," Harold replied. "I expected you might be coming."
Kirn raised an eyebrow. Harold, wearing naught but a long and grimy bedshirt, did not look prepared to entertain guests.
"Then you probably know why I'm here," Kirn replied, plucking a small envelope from the breast pocket of his immaculate uniform. The envelope bore the royal seal, the outline of a jackal's feral sneer stamped into a button of blood-red wax.
Harold took the envelope without reply. He had suspected this day would come, though not quite so soon. If Kirn was at his door, it was serious. Harold had expected some fallout from his role in the recent execution, but now it seemed more likely this was to be a summons to appear before the high magistrate; the beginning of an investigation.
Kirn was looking at him like a bug under a lens. Studying his reaction as he processed this information. For a man so utterly devoid of emotion, Harold always thought it curious that Kirn took such an interest in the feelings of others.
"Thank you, Kirn. If that will be all...?"
Kirn straightened, nodded and, turning on his heel, stepped back out into the mist. Harold closed the door and looked at the envelope in his hand.
"Blasted witch," he muttered, bitterly. Though she was now surely rotting deep down in the salted earth, she continued to torment him. Her legacy, the decimation of his hitherto untouchable reputation.
Harold returned to his kitchen and watched the silhouette of Kirn fade away. It was still early. "But not too late for another drink," Harold whispered to himself, tossing the letter aside, delaying reading it 'til the next hangover.
I think the plural of Viceni should be Vicenii.
Hey all. Thought I'd better check in and say hello before you all start thinking I'm some antisocial mute. @Life in Stasis invited me to join this RP. I'm just waiting for the green light to post as I'm pretty much ready to go.
If you've read the biog for my character you've probably realised he's not here to make friends, so apologies in advance for what he's about to put you all through.
If you've read the biog for my character you've probably realised he's not here to make friends, so apologies in advance for what he's about to put you all through.
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