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PILLOWFIGHT!

Ahem.

Writing Prompt #3: A Short Story in your Character's History

Like it says on the lunch tin, this writing activity will involve you taking one of your FoC characters (your choice, or all of them, whatever you want) and writing a short story about them prior to the events of this here roleplay, and by extension, mercenaries in our esteemed tragedy company. 

No real length requirements (both minimum and maximum), but treat it kind of like you were doing a post. It's more like a snapshot of what their lives were like prior to this story. It can be serious, it can be humourous, it can be disturbing... whatever you want to go for! 

Submission deadline is Saturday March 11. Have fun, kids!@Dervish

Marcel Gawain and the Case of the Haunted Stove

‘’Dear Marcel, you see, I’m afraid your friend might be somewhat misinformed when it comes to matters such as these. What you’re speaking of is simply preposterous,’’ an old man spoke as he and his protégé walked down the alley. Their forms were obscured beneath greatcoats with leather capes, and their eyes were similarly concealed by wide-brimmed hats, and occasionally, glints of steel and silver betrayed from underneath their clothing – with this in mind, they made quite a grim sight. But despite all the foreboding that such signs inferred to, their chat was all too friendly to make one consider them as dangerous men. To onlookers, they looked like inquisitors, or worse, hunters (the dangers that came to mind with the mention of the profession had made speaking the word out loud almost a taboo), but the matters they spoke of, and the manner in which they spoke, made them sound more like father and son.

‘’But Master Diarmid, I have known Robert for some time, and he is a smart lad, not without experience of such matters. He was alongside me during the situation with the Shocker.’’ The young lad seemed insistent to protect his friend from his master’s criticism, but the old Reachman would have none of it.

‘’Humbug! My good boy, you know I respect your young vision, but why would a bloody gho-I mean, Unkindly, possess a bloody stove?’’ Master Diarmid was not a man of temper, but at his old age, he had relaxed his social restraint. Nonetheless, hunters had to adhere to manners.

‘’We shall see, Master Diarmid. I am merely relaying what he told me. At worst, we will have a fine dinner tonight, no?’’

Master Diarmid smiled. ‘’Oh, you. Fair point. I shall cease bickering.’’

And the two made their merry way along the cobblestone paths, until they reached the Count’s Castle.

-

Inside, they were greeted, and treated well – Count Saint-Loup was well known for his benevolence and generosity, and had made sure that these esteemed guests of his were to be shown respect.

At dinner, after some chit chat, the matter was finally brought up by Robert, having received permission from his father by looking at him with expectant eyes and receiving a tired nod. Master Diarmid seemed quite saddened from the fact that he had to pause his ravenous picking at the fatty, sauce-covered goose liver in front of him (as sophisticated and experienced as Master Diarmid were, he was nonetheless of a Reachman spirit and heart, and thus, a savage used to peasant foods such as cassoulet – when faced with haute cuisine, his appetite became a beast more untamable than even the wildest Scamps of Mehrunes Dagon), but, as said before, he had to adhere to manners. He raised his head, propped his arms up on his elbows, and set his knuckles right underneath his chin, intently viewing the lad.

‘’Monsieur Goupeville, as I’m sure my friend Marcel has told you in detail, our household has a rather… interesting problem. Our kitchen, to be precise. Our stove is haunted.’’

Master Diarmid raised his eyebrows, eyes looking as calm as always, until a sudden and abrupt laugh pierced the silence.

‘’I am sorry. It just sounds… absurd, does it not? A… A stove.’’ 

The Count gathered his composure once more, but couldn’t help but keep snickering as his son continued.

‘’It started three days ago, you see. Our maids were complaining about hearing funny noises from inside the stove, even when it was not cooking. When guards went to investigate, there was nothing, so we gave the maid the day off. The day after, after dinner, fire pooled from the stove and dripped onto the ground, and took shapes of letters.’’ 

‘’Mind if I ask what was written?’’ Master Diarmid interrupted, one of his brows much closer to his eye now. 

‘’…Obscenities, Monsieur. My father, I, and the guards were dumbfounded. And that was when all the flour sacks in the kitchen exploded with a flash. It was a mess.’’

The Count let out another short laugh. Before looking back at Robert and nodding for him to continue, Master Diarmid gave the Count a quick glance.

‘’And yesterday, at dinner, one of the stews had filth in it. We had warned the maids not to use the stove, so the culprit was birched. Although, thing is that the stove has been… laughing ever since, Monsieur.’’

As if on cue, faint echoes of giggling, and screams of frightened maids somehow made their way to the dining room. The fireplace began cracking and spitting sparks, the flames reaching out from their spot to further guide the shadows into a macabre dance that changed in intensity with every moment. Upon witnessing the sight, Marcel gulped with unease, and the Count and his son Robert, although startled at first, quickly gathered their composure and shook their heads in disbelief.

Master Diarmid took a deep breath. 

‘’So I see. Could you lead the way to the kitchen?’’

‘’Monsieur, I’ll have the guar-‘’

‘’Please, I insist that you come, you and your father. This is your household, your property, and Unkindly harassing property often have something to do with the owner.’’

-

Despite there being no reports of unnatural activity during preparation of dinner, the investigating party could hear odd noises throughout the hallway during the walk to the kitchen. The Count seemed to have gathered himself, and now walked with the conviction and sternness of the two hunters who led the way, perhaps even more so, as to atone for his behavior during dinner. Master Diarmid bore an expression of righteous anger, although in truth this was rather frustration at the stove for having denied him a proper enjoyment of the products of the Count’s kitchen – he had no intention of sparing whatever it was that had kept him from the so highly praised magret de canard of the count’s famous chef, Joachim Flam-Bourguignon. Before entering the kitchen, Master Diarmid drew one of his swords, the silver blade gleaming with lights from Marcel’s lamp gleaming off its surface.

‘’You think it will be… violent, Monsieur?’’ Robert asked, hesitation hushing his voice.

‘’Oh, no, young lad, ‘tis a mere precaution.’’  

And with that, Master Diarmid pulled a small vial from one of his bandoliers, and gestured for one of the guards following them to open the door. The heavy wooden door creaked ominously as the young Breton pulled it open, and settled at the edge of the wall to reveal… a kitchen. Heavy ladles and rolling pins hung from the walls, like the sausages dried peppers hooked to the ceiling. Some of the fireplaces were still aflame, and some pieces of cutlery were left on the tables, next to half-cut meats and vegetables, implying at a hurried evacuation. It was no wonder, considering the screams and the laughter they had heard earlier. 

The accursed, cylinder-shaped stone oven, built into the corner to the left of the entrance, stood unmoving, as expected of a piece of masonry.

‘’Shut the chimney,’’ Master Diarmid ordered to one of the guards, as Marcel hung the lantern on one of the hooks hanging from the ceiling. ‘’And dear Marcel, gather some firewood, would you?’’

Marcel, like everyone else in the room, looked at his master in confusion, but did not delay in doing what he was told.

‘’Spirits and firewood, Monsieur?’’ The Count asked, surprised.

‘’I am afraid that this is not a haunting, sir. From what I’ve inferred, this sounds more like the work of Rude Folk.’’

Some of the guards gasped, one even dropped his bill-hook, receiving chastising looks from his colleagues. The people of High Rock would not dare name Daedra by their names after the Oblivion Crisis – the fear that they would hear and come knocking had led to rather odd nicknames, such as the Rude Folk, or Those Behind the Curtains. Superstition, midwife’s tales, and ignorance often led people to misjudge these creatures – Master Diarmid was rightfully tired of receiving reports of Atronaches and chasing after ball lightning.

‘’Should this be enough, Master Diarmid?’’ Marcel asked, holding a basket of firewood gathered from the other end of the kitchen, where the other stoves were.

‘’Yes, yes. Place them in, my boy,’’ Master Diarmid said, opening the vial in his hand. A faint but nonetheless peculiar smell immediately filled the room, although it was not exactly unpleasant. One could even say that it was soothing.

‘’What is that, Monsieur?’’ The Count asked, surprised at the scent.

‘’Arbutus compote, with some mint and lemon squeezed in it, and drops of water taken from the fountain of the Chapel of Stendarr. Nice taste and smell. Keeps unwanted away, too.’’ 

Master Diarmid poured the mix onto the firewood, spreading it evenly on all the pieces. As if on cue, one of the guards rushed in, reporting that the chimney of the stove had been closed. The old hunter smiled.

‘’Now, now. My boy, could you light the fire?’’

Marcel, grabbing the flint lighter standing next to the unused fireplace, pulled the trigger of the mechanism on top of a thin branch of wood, trying to set it aflame. After a couple of tries, the young Breton managed to ignite the branch, and poked it next to one of the bigger ones, waiting for them to catch fire. Once they did, Master Diarmid closed the hatch, and began to wait, just like his audience. 

‘’And now what, Monsieur?’’ The Count asked, but was hushed by Master Diarmid. Nobody else dared speak anything afterwards.

After a couple of minutes of waiting, thrashing sounds began echoing from inside the stove, alongside screams. The Reachman smiled smugly. 

‘’LET ME OUT PLEASE LET ME OUT HEEEEELP LET ME OUUUUUUUUUT’’

Master Diarmid opened the stove hatch, but held the tip of his sword against the fireplace, poking at something. From amongst the funny-smelling flames, a hairy, goat-like small man comically struggled to get out, in obvious pain.

‘’Who sent you here, beast?’’

‘’NOOOOOOOOOO’’

‘’You stay inside, then.’’

‘’IT WAS MARGRETHE DELASOLE WANTED COUNT TO EAT SHIT LET ME OUUUUUUUUUUT’’

Master Diarmid pulled his sword away, and when the creature jumped out, writhing on the ground, he thrust the tip of his sword right into the beast’s midsection, impaling it to the ground. The scamp struggled for a few moments afterwards, and then accepted its end, going limp. Master Diarmid pulled out his sword from inside the beast, and the silver blade 'spat' off all the blood on its tip as it came out, letting the hunter sheathe it without having to clean it.

‘’You know of a Delasole, milord?’’ The old hunter asked, looking at Count Saint-Loup, who seemed shaken by the ordeal like the rest of the audience, except some of the older guards.

‘’She used to work in our kitchen, but we ordered her to leave after... suboptimal performance. She left the day after, went back to her village, I think.’’

Master Diarmid nodded slowly. ‘’Well, that explains it. She shouldn’t be much of a problem, I’m sure your men can handle it,’’ the Reachman said. ‘’Shame about the dinner, really. I have heard much praise of Chef Flam-Bourguignon.’’

‘’Please, Monsieur. After all you’ve done, dinner is the least we can offer. Why not stay for a few days? I’m sure Monsieur Flam-Bourguignon would be proud to serve a man of esteem such as you.’’

Master Diarmid smiled. ‘’Well, it would be terrifically rude to refuse such a request, wouldn’t it, Marcel?’’

Margrethe Delasole was taken from her village, brought to Ykalon, tried, and hanged for consorting with Daedra, practice of witchcraft, horrid acts against nobility, and attempts against well-being of others.

The two Witch Hunters became local celebrities for the act. A perfume, containing arbutus and lemon, has been popular amongst nobles in Ykalon and surrounding cities since.

Diarmid Goupeville used the influence of Count Saint-Loup to become a member of various Gourmet Clubs, earning himself a seat in many of the most famous restaurants in High Rock.

The stove in Castle Saint-Loup is unused to this day.
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