Meleck

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Tone change on Andrew

Okay, going to bring out Andrew’s other side..

As dusk settled in, There was a change that Andrew did not expect. A woman with the night coughs, a young girl with a very high fever, and a farmer that had been kicked by one of the cows when he tried to separate the calf.

They had been placed in one of the upper rooms, it was larger and allowed them to be made comfortable. Andrew’s cot was now upstairs and occupied by the man. The woman rested on a pile of the abbots clothes and vestments. The young girl was being held in his arms and he rocked her humming. Andrew was dressed in a plain cotton pants, well work and a healer’s smock. He had blood and vomit on the bottom and he was bare foot. The only weapon he carried was the knife on his arm. He used it to cut bandages. A chest was open and drawers were pulled out showing herbs and ointments. Each labeled by name.

In the morning, he would ask Master Bork to help him set the man’s arm. He would have the guards hold him down. Andrew knew he wasn’t strong enough to pull and straighten it. He did not like admitting that he needed help of others. The man’s ribs were mended so he was breathing better. He had stopped the bleeding that occurred when the woman coughed, she had been close to death. If a few days, she would be well enough to return home. Andrew ordered that the windows in her house opened and her bedding washed. Andrew had sent the girls parents home to get some sleep. He healed the sweating wreck of a girl, wrapped in a blanket. Her hair clumped from her sweating and Andrew and she had the evidence of the girl’s vomit.

Andrew as he sat there, realized that he was a fool. He said out loud, “Why do I have to do things the hard way too?” As he said that Scribe Drom came to check on him a lantern low, she smiled at him as if that was the first right thing he had done. “Would you ask Master Drom if he could spare me a few moments? I could use his help and that of one of the guards.” He would apologize and suggest, ask, if they shouldn’t work on some irrigation projects for the farm, a blast furnace and smelter for the mine, and a common building to put their offices and a place to heal. He would send a runner to get cut stones from the Mine for the wall and for the foundations.

If the boy showed up, he would ask him what he though Pigeon Spit needed. Thieves do see the real hurts of an area. He might even ask the boy to help his refresh his skills.

Heck, he might ask the Captain to teach him how to ride a horse.

He closed his eyes and continued to hum.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

The pick pocketing spree was just fine. If I was a young thief, I would have done it too. Andrew is just making a play to get the boys attention. The town would probably riot in a couple days if he did it. A way of getting his point across that the thieves guild does not run the city. He also loves the Gold Tooth as family.

If he was going to crack down, he would have let the good Captain loose. Then announced it. He is trying to let the boy know that the rules of the game have changed. He is saying, To quote Carmen, “Respect my ‘thoritay” as he controls those who control the sword.

Odds are the thieves guild would probably be “do what you want and give us a cut.” Most of the leadership is/was older than Andrew. I could see him becoming a low level leader. His is a worry about where do I fit in. His generation is probably gone.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Scribe Dorn showed Master Bork to the room. It was larger, but Andrew insisted on that specific room as his. Her room was across the hall from his.
[color=#00aa88”]“He is a good man, but a bit odd,”[/color] she said as if that was a surprise, “even worse since he is coming home. We try to keep him busy so he feels like he is in charge.” The truth was Scribe Dorn was more in charge as she controlled the purse than Andrew.
She pulls some inks and quills from her pocket for him.
“He does have some good ideas at time,” She said, “but he has a tendency of getting himself.” She pauses then continues, “um, in over his head.”

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Andrew smiled as the boy popped out then went back to hiding. Andrew was wise enough, well maybe old enough, to think going through the crawl space wasn’t something he wanted to do. He wasn’t fat, but he was no longer starving thin either. The crawl spaces were tight when he was young; he hated to think of getting stuck now. The boy would having him in speed and dexterity.

He chuckled at the thought about the stories about the mad Abbot, knife wielding and part of the thieves’ guild. He was okay with it even become a song as long as they left his name out of it.

The boy was young almost old enough to wok and someone was watching out for him. He looked like he was being routinely fed and his clothing were “clean” and in good condition. That meant that there was a woman in his life, a mother or an older sister. He might even be a part of a family.

Andrew thought back to his youth, he would not have wanted to come out of the hidey-hole either. Still, the boy should have realized that if he wanted to hurt him the Abbot would have yelled for the guards or grabbed a cross bow and shot through the floor, even taken the sword from the bed and thrust it down into him. Having spent time in the Royal Court one had to always be aware of assassins. The knife was to protect him self not to attack the boy. Any one with basic knife training would have recognized that the knife was being held defensively. He even gave him a chance to interact on his own terms, as guild brothers. Andrew sighed and asked to no one, “Does everyone have to do things the hard way?” It was clear that he needed to deal with the thieves’ guild, quickly. Had the guild master lost that much control? The thought of the guild master having died made him sit down on the bunk. The thought of himself possibly being the oldest guild member alive and therefor the defacto Guild Master hit him hard, right between the eyes.

He waited for a couple moments giving the boy a good chance to escape. He would give the boy a little room to brag for the evening. Then he had heavy chests moved to block the crawl spaces and passage ways. Tomorrow nails would be pounded into the floors at angles.

---

In the morning, Andrew and his crew, walked to waterfront to examine what they were dealing with. The Abbot called over one of the street kids and gave him a message to pass on. He whispered it to him, “If the one that visited me last night and took my stuff does not call on me, in the day light. The whole town will suffer. They will be feeding, providing drinks, bedding, and dealing with sailors long at sea that are itching for a fight and carry no coins and all will know the reason why.” He nodded at the two large warships and the little ships coming in to pickup supplies. He handed the child a silver coin to make sure the message was passed on. He needed to learn what happened to his guild family.

They spent most of the day, walking the town. Andrew would stop to look at a flower garden, children at play, he would watch people working their jobs. He spoke very little, lost in thought, nodding greetings to those who spoke to him.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bug bomb! Church style..

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Andrew waited, saying his prayers extra long. The sunlight set, he picked up the bowl of stew and placed the tray out the door for someone to take. Then going to a trunk he got a pouch and a metal plate. He took a smoldering stick from the fire then went over near the hide-hold. He pour some of the contents on the plate, then looked and poured some more. He started blowing on the stick to making it red hot. Moving the stick so the glow could be seen, he placed it into the material on the plate. Smoke started to fill the air, with a prayer the incense started to swirl, driving into the cracks in the floor and walls. Even the bugs started to flee at the strong scent. He pulled his dagger from his sleeve, watching the smoke change direction as it edged around the hatch and sinking into the hole. He was hoping to fill the space with smoke and insects and spiders to drive his guest out of hiding.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

As Andrew took the credentials, took them out and examined them diligently. In dwarvish, "Master Bork, If one wishes to speak about these things, Dwarvish makes it easier." Finding the credentials in order and knowing that his scribe would send a pigeon to ensure that he was in good standing, Andrew continued. Dwarves did not tend to lie when it came to working with stone, but they might push to truth a little.

Measuring the man, the Abbot smiled. What did he know about this man? First thing he was a bold risk taker. Did that mean that he wasn’t careful? Master Bork did not start by offering to build a cathedral or even a temple. Most people applying for the job would have started there. So he did not think it was important, then what was? His hospitality being refused which meant the man was nervous and did not want to make a bad impression. But the nervousness probably also meant that he had not taken on something this big before. Andrew felt nervous about it too. Andrew got up and opened one of his chests digging in it.

As he searched he asked, "Do you already have a plan that you can show me?" he asked. Andrew knew this was a trap of a question. If he had a plan that meant that he did not care what others thought. If he did not, then he wasn't prepared. If it was only partially done, well then he didn’t complete things. Andrew liked how bold Bork was and wanted to see him react to the trap. He wanted to know this man's character. He pulled a thick book out of the chest and returned to the table and waited to see what Master Bork would offer.

After Bork gives his answer, Andrew tells him, "You can use the room down the hall for your office and space. This week you will be paid the proper rate. But, there are three conditions for keeping the job. The first is to get the boys that are hanging around the town and have them build a stone wall around the house tall enough to provide some protection. The second is I want to see a drawn out design with a plan, first things to last things.”
He paused for a moment, “By the end of the week."
Andrew hands him an oversized empty blank book to work on.

Andrew knew he was being a bastard and was asking too much. But it would answer all the questions he had. How did he deal with challenges? Could he plan and manage money? How would he deal with it when things did not get done? How did he deal with people? Could he help them learn new skills? Would he delegate or need to be in charge of everything? Would he ask others to help? Would he let them grumble and complain?

Would he grumble and complain? Master Brok was a dwarf, so there would be grumbling, complaining, and swearing – that happened even when things go smoothly. It was why Andrew originally learned Dwarvish, so he could swear effectively. But would he let other experience his anger?

With only a couple of teamster wagons and no wheelwright in Pigeon Spit, sabotage the project would be easy. Andrew knew the wall would not get done. He would need to find a partner.

“In a week, you will eat at my table and we will negotiate your proper salary,” Andrew said, “If you would excuse me, I can see that it about time for my evening prayers.” Andrew looked out the door to the scribe and said, “Please tend to his needs.” Andrew smiled, as he showed Master Brok out the door.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

I figured I would help the encounters happen.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Captain Afarel and Scribe Drom had been working to repair the damage that Andrew had done. A chair and a couple tables were brought into the room. The lock picks had been hidden in the pillow case. People had been coming and going. Petitioning for this and that, favors from the crown, business ventures to invest in, and the like. People wanting justice and others trying to make bribes. Food and wine was brought in for the appropriate people. Drom would be listening outside the room recording the facts and Afarel would note who would need to be watched.

Andrew thought he heard the sound of movement coming from below the floor. After the patron left, Andrew took a bowl of the hot stew and a spoon and placed it near where he thought the hidden door was. He hoped that his "rat" in the cellar would at least eat. He had been in that position many times. The worst was being trapped in a dress under a bed for a night.

"Captain," he bellowed, "Did I ever tell you that I had an uncle that had a gold tooth? He lived in a house that was so drafty that the rats would come and go as they pleased. He finally decide to start feeding them and keeping them as pets."
Afarel was confused by the conversation as he came in.
"I visited his house, the one with the gold tooth, and was bit by a rat. The rats started to think that they ran the place, so we poisoned them," Andrew said in a more normal voice.
"Post a bounty on rats," Andrew said, "and have the garbage heap on the edge of town burned."

Afarel reported that the men had reported a large number thefts. Pick pockets mostly.

Sitting at the table, Andrew looked up at him and folds his hands in front of his chin.
Then Andrew said calmly almost forcefully, "You parade me in like I am the king, on a stupid horse, flaunting the royal flags and seal. Then wonder why the pick pockets come out? Your lucky you and your men are lucky to have brass buttons and swords." He was about to tell the captain how to deal with the situation, when a dwarf tired of being stonewalled by protocol, Scribe Drom and the guards, started to push his way past the young guards. He caught Andrew's attention and Andrew called him in. Andrew hoped, his rat in the basement had managed to hear all that conversation. In dwarvish, Andrew calls the dwarf in to the table. Then dismisses the captain.

Andrew offers a clean bowl and silverware, dark rye bread and water to his new guest. "What is it that you would like me to do for you?" Andrew asked.

Exalted: Fall of Creation

Cilla watched the exchanges that were happening. Her emotions were running high and she knew it. He was correct about that. As she watched the exchange between Fergus and the ex-monk, the apology of sorts and the offer of real help. She let the inner growl die down to a soft snarl. His body language had given a hint of humanity and his words expressed a sense of something - Guilt, shame, regret - she could not place it and she dared not to ask anyone. She knew Fergus like snow to be Alpha's and they had their pride and image to maintain. She was a yipping pup in their world, an annoyance, and her admiration or gratitude would mean little to either of them.

Cilla struggled as she thought. On one hand, She wanted to like Fergus. She wanted to admire him for his kindness. As she looked at him, She did feel grateful and it showed on her face. On the other hand, one had to be cautious. One does not give their friendship for one kind act. She liked the thought of being able to sleep in an inn, it would be like being a lady. A bed and a bath would being a queen. She did not like the thought of taking Ferus' generosity as a hand out. It was offered to Snow and those under his protection. Snow also knew that she would need to do something worth what she received or she would not accept it. She blew a sigh out.

Cilla then looked from Ferus to Axley and watched the bard. She would do what Snow asked her to do. How could she do less, he had helped her many times and kept her safe. Cilla looked at Axley with eyes that asked the big question, Is he nice or mean? Axley knew people like she knew animals. Axley had made a point of learning peoples names and listening to their stories. She had been patient with people like Cilla that had a hard time trusting. She was glad that Axley had gotten to know her, even a little. Axley knew her name and the names of her dogs. She watched the Bard trying to read her body language on what was going on.