[flashback] Making a Name (solo)

[Maedoc]

19th Day of Summer, 507 A.V. A cold breeze blew uncharacteristically through the tall wooden columns of the forest, sending leaves and the grit of the wilds swirling away across the shadows of trees. The thin path wove between trees like a lost serpent. It was not a thing made to make travel through the forest easier, but a path made from the continuous beating of hooves and feet over time. The first man simply wandered through the wood, and every one after simply followed his steps. Thus was the way of the wilds, wandering and hoping for the best. A grey hood danced around a weathered face as the man both belonged to slouched behind a dark tree. The dark stubble on his chin was testament to his youthful age, though his face held all the wear and pain of a lifetime under the shadow of his hood. He was entirely too large to hide completely behind the tree, instead trusting in their prey to keep their eyes down, as often was the case of people walking long distances. Pale green eyes shifted from the path to another shadow about twenty meters north of him. Tulk hid easily amongst the trees, a vicious spear in hand and a mace across his back. Tulk was the type of man who couldn’t have ever been loved by a mother. His cruel streak was a mile wide and leagues long. And his arms were powerful enough to put half that spear through an unsuspecting merchant. But he wouldn’t do that, it would ruin the victim’s clothes, and they needed those. Maedoc had been running with Tulk for two years now, ever since they had freed themselves from their cursed slavers. And Maedoc had never been at ease around the malicious Myrian. But Maedoc would not know what it meant to be at ease if it came up and bit him on the nose. A shaded wave came from down the path, victims were coming. Fingers tightened around a long war hammer as Maedoc anticipated the thrill of the catch. Tulk may be the terror in these woods, but Maedoc had definitely been gaining a reputation as deadly with that hammer. Their last stint had gone wrong, turning out to be a band of mercenaries from Sunberth rather than the coveted Syliran merchants they all loved to prey on. It had turned into a charged standoff and ended in a bloody pool. Four of their party had been claimed there. More the loot for the survivors. The caravan rounded the wood and approached the thin clearing they had chosen as the ambush point. Three two person wagons laden with tailored cloth and barrels of alcohol. Each was driven by a tired looking man armed with no more than their eating knives. But four guards rode horses as well as the merchant himself. Two of the leather clad guards carried short swords at their waist and crossbows in their hands. The others carried spears and daggers. Maedoc allowed himself to indulge in a smile as he thought about how easily his hammer would crush those leather bound bodies. Crouching in anticipation of the fight, Maedoc toyed with the idea of leaving a few alive just to spread word about the warrior with the hammer. Perhaps it would be enough of a problem to send Syliran Knights after them. One could only hope. Tulk slid from behind the shadows and caught Maedoc’s eye, he nodded.

[Maedoc]

Maedoc began to laugh boisterously as the spear flew from Tulk’s hands and found its mark. It had slid about a foot through the neck of the merchant. Though he was old and fat, the merchant was the ideal target for the initial attack. They had learned early on to kill the one paying the guards, fore their loyalty stopped when the pay did. The man stared forward in disbelief, not able to even turn his head to see his assailant. He made low gurgling noises before slumping off his horse and dying noisily on the ground. But by that time Maedoc was upon the nearest guard. The spike side of his hammer broke through leather, skin, muscle and bone as he sent it home viciously in the man’s shoulder. His arm was instantly useless, sending his crossbow sprawling on the dirt. A low grunt preceded a savage pull from Maedoc and the man was sent tumbling to the now blood caked earth. Pausing to admire his handiwork for a moment, Maedoc stared down at the guard. He struggled to crawl backwards but was wary of his now panicked steed as well. The pain was so great that he could not hope to fight back, but not great enough that he could not beg for mercy. His voice was high and pathetic as he sobbed at Maedoc. A sudden flash of himself at eleven, the night his father had died, sent the bandit into a rage. Who was this cur to beg for mercy? This was Mizahar and you took the risk, man. Now you reap the wondrous rewards our beautiful home has to offer. This was a hard man’s world. The head of his hammer thudded dully into the guard’s skull, sending his body into spasms and his brain flying in a thousand different directions. Maedoc grunted again as he tried to pull his weapon free. He failed and cursed loudly. Setting a boot on the man’s chest, he hefted the hammer once again. It came loose with the faintest sucking noise. Maedoc spat with disgust. The lean, dark forms of his compatriots loomed over the three men left alive from the skirmish. Two frightened drivers and a heavily wounded guard. Tulk swung his mace gently against the body he now stood upon. Sometimes his vile ways could unsettle Maedoc so much he could do nothing but laugh. It was nothing more than a mechanism for coping, but it had made people think he was nearly as insane as Tulk. “So, this stuff is now ours. I think we can all agree on that.” Tulk spoke casually, gazing about the wreckage with a theatrical, practiced boredom. He wore a Syliran chain mail shirt and a nasal helm he had taken off a dead knight. His arms were corded with muscle and his face was shadowed in the heavy forest light, Both drivers nodded vigorously, the guard simply moaned in defeat. “O-of course sir. All yours.” One man said, his eyes betraying the level of fear plaguing him. Maedoc shook his head In disappointment. Such simple men did not deserve to walk these wilds. Better to stay safely within their walled cities. They were no match for the hard places in between. Tulk had Maedoc and a few other criminals look through their loot, shifting things about the wagons to empty one out. In a fit of cruel humor Maedoc grabbed the ankle of the guard and dragged him across the ground toward the empty wagon. He slid easily, but yelped in pain when he was dragged unceremoniously over the corpse of a comrade. Maedoc hefted him by the collar and dropped him halfway in the wagon’s bed. Shoving him hard in the back sent him tumbling in the rest of the way. He was left to wallow in the bed, slowly dripping blood to stain the boards beneath him. “You are lucky to be riding away from this. Remember who owns these woods.” A gloved finger jabbed at one of the drivers gently as the bandit cleaned blood and gore from the head of his hammer. “Oh yes we will, we will. And who might that be, sir?” The second driver piped up. He was young and thin still. A weak chin trembled under his pale face as he stared at Maedoc. A bout of laughter escaped his lips like the crack of a whip. “Not you.” Tulk was satisfied with that. He ordered the drivers into the empty wagon and told them to start driving. The men knew luck when it slapped them in the face and did not hesitate. They never so much as looked behind them. Maedoc watched them leave, not really interested in any of the loot. He had been living off of the power struggles that came with every fight. This was his therapy, his outlet of emotion. A man could not live with the vile feelings that plagued him so. The release of his anger was the most valuable reward in this business. Tulk came up behind him. A towering Myrian warrior, Tulk stood about a foot taller than the shorter Syliran bandit. He was more reserved in his greed than the other bandits as well. For Tulk and Maedoc this was a grudge to be had, a retribution rather than a means to profit. Tulk wanted revenge on the people of Sylira for ruining his life and making him a slave, and Maedoc wanted sweet vengeance on them for living happy lives while he was left with the pathetic existence he was made to endure.

[Maedoc]

They spent as little time as possible making the wagons ready to move. It was death to stay too long in one place when you were in such a disdained business. Sidling up next to Maedoc, the fearless leader of their gang nodded down the path with a smooth, shaved head. “You follow them and make sure they don’t come nosing around. There’s been talk of Syliran Knights coming through these woods more often and making camp to aid travelers… Come back if anything happens. You know where we’ll be.” A response was not needed. He pulled out his pipe and carefully filled it with a bit of the tobacco he carried with him everywhere. It flashed into flame and died down quickly after one expert stroke of his flint and steel. A long drag on that pipe was exactly what he needed. Syliran Knights, today could become very lucrative. He waved a lazy goodbye to the rest of the bandits and set out a good distance behind the wagoneers with his hammer over a shoulder. Pulling his hood down he ran his gloved fingers through the light blond hair that perched on his head. Sweat and blood streaked through it and he frowned at his slightly red glove. Another drag from the pipe sent him into one of his contemplative moods that so often assail him when alone. Knights and merchants, bandits and slaves. He was entitled to taking what he could, it was the law of the land. All these Sylirans with their self-righteousness and entitlement don’t even understand what it’s like to suffer and survive. He was working himself up though, mustn’t do that. They had already killed most of them, what more could be asked. He sucked a wave of warmth out of his pipe and held it in a moment. Trees were now even more heavily littering the landscape, making spotting the wagoneers more difficult. He quickened his long stride and follow the path only loosely, rarely staying on it. The only noise he made was the soft crunch of branches and fallen leaves, as well as the occasional snap as his hammer ripped smaller twigs and leaves from trees he passed under. Smoke danced regularly from his lips as he contemplated the idea of an increase in Syliran Knights in the wood. Such men were indeed very competent in combat as well as tactics. The presence of such a powerful policing force might be a great hindrance. But on the other hand, they carried many valuables worthy of a robbery. The wind rustled leaves above his head as Maedoc strode around a bend, mind in a haze of internal thoughts. He almost gave himself away when he realized the wagoneers had stopped and dismounted from their cart. His view of them was obscured by the wagon. Crouching down silently he slipped into the shadows of a few pines. Hushed voices told him they were at least talking among themselves, if not with someone else. This odd behavior could not bode well. Crouching there behind the trees, the bandit wanted desperately to take a drag from his pipe, but that would give away his position. Since when did unarmed men who had just been robbed stop and talk in the very woods they had been accosted in? Since never. Unless they knew something he didn’t. Something that changed the way this particular game was played. Bark was pulled from a dark tree trunk as Maedoc squeezed it with his gloved hand.

[Maedoc]

The aroma of fresh moss and tree bark assailed the nostrils deep in the woods of Sylira. The air was thick with the minuscule elements of the wilds that could not be found in the cities. The many plants and animals all left their mark here, and it swirled together to create the mild chaos that now flowed slowly into the lungs of one Maedoc Galenos. The same air that fueled the men he was watching. Twenty minutes had come and gone as the shaded highwayman crouched behind his hide and watched. The situation had gotten serious to say the least. Though the sun had gotten lower in the sky and the shadows had grown deeper, but the wagoneers and now their associates were still visible. No less than seven men had sidled stealthily out of the bushes around them. From the way the two cart drivers showed little surprise in seeing the newcomers, it must have been an arranged meeting. The newcomers were obviously fighting men of some skill. All wore armor and surcoats with insignia that looked suspiciously like the idol of the Windoak. But Maedoc could not be sure in the dim light that broke through the forest canopy only sparingly. Four wore chain mail and skullcaps, armed with longbows and shortswords. They were lean and heavily muscled in the shoulder and arm, telltale sign that their experience with their weapons was not of the rudimentary sort. Two of their number wore heavy plate and carried longswords at their hip. Knights. The last was simply a boy, perhaps late adolescence. He wore the insignia but carried his sword like a man new to the task. Perhaps a squire or a scholar simply there out of necessity. But their presence meant Syliras had a presence in the wood. That fact alone promoted a deep, unshakable fear in Maedoc. Had they been on the caravan it would have been less dire. Tulk and his men would not have attacked and the knights would have continued on their way, none the wiser. But this meant that Syliras knew about the increased highway robbery in these parts and was taking active steps against such criminal act. The tall ex-slave shrank back a bit subconsciously. The urge to flee and tell Tulk the bad news was almost overpowering. But Maedoc did hate Sylirans, and he’d never forgive himself for a missed opportunity to cause them their due suffrage. So he waited, he watched, and he listened. “You count ten men?” “Yes, Ser. Ten who came, all well armed and armored. They look like they’ve been out here quite a while, preying on the weak and unarmed.” This last bit the weak chinned wagon driver said with a wrathful wiggle of his pasty face. Maedoc sneered. I wonder where we got our weapons if all our victims were unarmed? He thought haughtily, flared annoyance at the man’s slight against him set his teeth grinding. That fool was the one atremble with fear, not I! “With Anton’s webbing we were able to signal our men along the road. Ser Jeoff found their tracks and is following their party now. With Anton’s abilities it will be easy to coordinate a retaliation.” One of the knights placed an affectionate hand on the shoulder of the novice swordsman. Maedoc’s mood darkened. More Sylirans, and what’s more they knew of Tulk’s troop. Something had to be done about this. Though fearful that he was indeed no match for an entire unit of Sylirans, he still felt the edgy rush of anger he always did when staring at the bold stance of the pretentious. Such confidence was unwarranted. Had they ever suffered the Ziths’ whips, or the dank sickness of the mines? Unlikely, the way they smiled and laughed at their ill-conceived plot. He had fought, fought!, for his freedom. Tulk was Myrian born and Syliran bled. He ate the hearts of better men than these. What had these men ever really fought for? Honor, valor, safety? Pompous ideals that were no more than thin air and a warm breeze. Honor and valor could not keep your heart beating. Honor and Valor could not keep a man warm in the winter. Maedoc fought for survival, to be strong is to be harder than the land that tests you. He fumed as he watched the Sylirans gather themselves for the upcoming hunt and preemptively spoke of victory and their trip home. An image of a bright, bustling city crept into his thoughts, as unbidden as a bad memory. And a memory it was. Many years ago when he was still a page and his father a knight bearing the tree of the Windoak, he too had called Sylira home. Long days he spent dreaming of his first quest, given by the beloved Windoak. He wondered briefly what would happen if the Windoak saw him now, no quests would be given for sure. But this particular memory was of a simple task his father had set him before their midday meal. He had been in the street gathering a pale of water from the well. Stopping to watch three sisters dance, a rhythm of swirls where they would let their dresses flow in the air, he had been utterly enchanted. He did not know why it ambushed him here and now of all times. It disturbed him to the core of his hatred and a spike of jealously was all that was needed to shatter the unwelcome image. Perhaps these men had families who right now worried about them but knew they were doing their duty, and honoring their names by policing these roads. Perhaps those families would cry and mourn the deaths of their proud fathers, sons, and brothers who fell here. And perhaps they might finally realize that some things in the wild could not be broken by high handed ideals and codes of honor. Some knew better.

[Maedoc]

The obstacle of the sun was now almost totally irrelevant, the dense forest almost completely shrouding the last vibrant rays of the day behind deep green leaves. Hopefully Tulk and the rest of the crew had realized long ago that something was amiss when he failed to return. Perhaps they were preparing for a fight, or perhaps they had abandoned him. He was almost sure it was at least a bit of both. Either way didn’t really matter, the Sylirans would find the bandits if they really had a djed enhanced tracker like they boasted. Maedoc was pleased he would not be there when that happened. Now that the forest floor was covered in shadows, Maedoc had more freedom to move deeper into the trees. This was a much needed blessing since the enemy had now finished readying themselves for battle and were preparing to set off directly down the path, which would have taken them right past him had he not been able to move deeper into the brush beside the road. The fear within him had settled into a jolting rhythm in his chest and only spiked when one of the men at arms would glance near him. He was still wondering what he could do. He could always just let them pass and hope Tulk and the rest were prepared enough to handle a troop of Sylirans. That seemed a flimsy, cowardly path that yielded little profitable outcome. He could charge them and hopefully kill or maim a few enough to give his companions enough of a chance to survive. Most of them meant little enough to him to make that a laughable option. So that left waiting, listening, and thinking. They were about to move, and he would move with them. Or rather, a decently inconspicuous distance behind them. He sat back on the soft moss, resting his eyes from the sight of the Sylirans for a moment. He was neither experienced at wilderness survival or hunting, they had always sold their loot to a fence or shady shop owner and boozed their way back to their camp. He had never had any real experience alone in the wood. The idea created the kind of undue stress that was poison in combat. Maedoc knew, no matter what happened tonight, he would have to see some bloodshed by morning. The now tired and cramped bandit sidled left, moss scraping away easily under his boots. If he reached the large oak just a few yards away he could use it as cover until the Sylirans had passed, but he’d have to hurry, as they were looking as though they were almost ready to set out. The archers had restrung their bows and the two knights had inspected each other’s armor while the young squire, Anton, had sat in a daze for the entire time, slumped under a tree. When the boy roused himself, wiping the green of the mossy floor off his tunic and breeches, he reported in a hushed voice to one of the knights. Maedoc was not close enough to hear anything, and he could barely see them anymore now that the sun was all but gone. The men arranged themselves into an order and set off the way the wagoneers had come. Two of the archers, arrows ready on the strings of their long yew bows, lead the way. Behind them, about twenty-five yards behind them, came the knight’s and their magicking squire, not nearly as subtle as the bowmen. They were their plate awkwardly while walking through the wood, clearly these two particular knights were used to combat via mount, but they could not be underestimated. A Syliran Knight was a knight no matter the clime or place, and all were death with a sword. The last two archers spoke amongst themselves quietly until the knights were barely visible ahead and then set out, leaving a wide gap between them. Maedoc did not understand the significance of Syliran formations, but knew he had to be careful around these bowmen. The knights may be pompous chargers, but these archers were woodsmen. A keen eye and a sharp ear was what set them apart, and Maedoc was not skilled in the art of stealth. He waited until the western most archer was far enough away that he could not hear his footsteps and decided to follow. Keeping low and carrying his hammer close to his body, as not to snag anything, he became swift. Ever since his years as a sickly miner’s slave, Maedoc had been able to navigate very well in the dark. Spending most of his teenage years deep in a mine had brought with it a sort of sense of dark places. It was no big edge, but enough for him to keep stride with the far more experienced woodsmen. Worry grew quickly inside him as he recognized a large rock outcropping that the archers lightly climbed. They were not a league from Tulk’s camp. Though dark, Maedoc knew these Sylirans would be able to track Tulk to the camp if they had followed him this far. And who knew how many swords were with the Ser Jeoff they had mentioned. Soon they would be hugging the small stream that lead across the eastern face of the camp. Soon Tulk would have to fight or run to survive. They had a good fifteen men, most with short range weapons. A former mercenary and three huntsmen were all they boasted of archers, and the Sylirans Maedoc had seen matched that, not accounting for the second half of their force he had not laid eyes upon. But the outlaws knew the woods, especially their camp, much better than did these knights. The merciless Myrian in command of them was no upstart criminal either. Tulk had been a vicious warrior all his life and always kept a predatory mentality, even when the odds were against him. Truly, it was the real reason Maedoc had stayed with him so long. Tulk accepted every obstacle with a grain of salt, and found ways to overcome them. If any of the various bandits and rogues in these wild lands could fight off this threat, it was Tulk. Sure enough, the sound of running water became evident off to the right of Maedoc. It sounded very close and he guessed that the Sylirans knew the bandits would make their camp near the stream, water being a vital resource, and were following it until they found the camp. Boots crunched softly on the soil beneath, the sound seeming loud to him but falling on deaf ears ahead. Nonetheless, Maedoc worried over every doubt that slipped it’s way into his head. Perhaps they knew he was following and planned an ambush, just to even the odds a bit more. Or did they have someone following him, ready to gut him should he try to warn Tulk? He turned around and peered into the darkness behind him suspiciously. Neither hearing or seeing anyone behind him did little to comfort him. The silhouettes of armor clad knights became more visible against the backdrop of shadowed trees and boulders as the dull light of a campfire appeared. Blades and arrowheads shone in glittery flashes as Maedoc watched the men unsheathe and ready their weapons. In the distance the flickering shadows of people shifted around the fire. His friends were there, and seemingly unaware. The Sylirans had stopped and were now crouching together, all facing the squire. They were nearly fifteen yards from the camp Maedoc had grudgingly called home for the past six months. The squire was the only man who seemed to be relaxed. The archers and knights crouched and stared with fervent stress at the form of the squire, who sat slouched on the ground. As Maedoc watched the scene a feeling of uneasiness crept inside him. Why? The knights, the archers, all watched this youth sit like it was important. Apparently it was more important than watching the enemy encampment. But why? He was neither in charge nor even speaking to them. Maedoc did not understand. He didn’t understand… But of course! He could not see what the boy was doing because he did not understand! It was magic. This squire must be communicating with their allies. Suddenly the pressing need to do something overcame Maedoc, closely followed by the rush of fear he had learned to simply accept. It was neither quenchable, nor ignorable. The fear of death was not something a man can simply forget, it had to be taken on the chin and stared down. He knew, it was time to act.

[Maedoc]

As his feet took him closer to his enemies a desperate, half formed, plan dropped itself into his head. The squire needed to die, and the others would easily take Maedoc down if he spent his first attack on the hapless boy. His heart continued to flutter spastically in his chest as he bitterly realized his first attack was more than likely his only attack. He gripped his hammer just under the head and focused on the squat forms of the Sylirans, cloaked in the shadows of the brush. He neither rushed his approach or slowed for fear or doubt, though he felt both weigh very heavily upon his steps. Barely knowing what he would do upon reaching the Sylirans he crossed the shaded distance relatively shortly. The shadows in the distance told him that at least most of his compatriots were still awake, if not ready to defend their lives. The enemies were close now. He could see the faint glimmer of golden fire light off the dusty plate-mail of the knights. None of the archers had drawn arrow yet, which Maedoc was thankful for. At least he would have a moment, if not more, to move before they ran him through with four deadly Syliran shafts. A practiced twist of the wrist spun the hammer about so the unforgiving spike was forward in his hand. Apparently the boy was still communing with their allies elsewhere in the trees, for he sat slack and slouched in the dirt. Maedoc grunted as he rolled his shoulder and grimaced as one of the knights began to turn his way, startled. This was the moment where his future lay in the balance. Teeth bared, arm swinging wildly toward the unaware squire, Maedoc’s leather clad shoulder connected hard with the knight’s plate clad one. He felt a satisfying resistance in his grip as the hammer tip sunk into cloth, leather, and eventually flesh. He turned heels over head as his torso bounced roughly off the knight, who gave a surprised yelp, and began to roll into the shadows again. The spike was ripped free with a vicious tearing and the squire immediately lost concentration, screaming. Maedoc was vaguely aware of the barked curses of both knights as they tried to collect themselves from the ground where Maedoc’s charge had made them collide and tumble. ”Sylirans! Sylirans in the wood! Ambush, Ambu-” Maedoc had begun to bellow, quickly if not gracefully, rising from the muddle of a thorn bush and tearing his cloak from the branches to run towards the camp. But he had not made it five steps before he heard the frightening twang of longbows, and the malicious hiss of arrows passing in the night. He was yelling a warning when he felt something hit his back with a force he had not experienced before, and a burning he could not ignore or tough through. It hit his right side and he felt it rip through cloth, leather, and eventually the highwayman’s own flesh, grazing roughly across two ribs. Almost instantly he lost his footing and found himself tumbling again through the night. A shrill scream filled the forrest as he landed hard on the side that had been wounded, hearing the snap of the arrow as it broke off inside him. A thickly pained groan escaped his lips before the force of a rock hitting his stomach expelled his breath enough to leave him heaving. Dazed and throbbing, Maedoc could barely register his surroundings. He could see and hear clearly, but his mind cared not for the forrest or the battle around him, it knew only that he was suffering. Flaming arrows flew above him, both ways. Fires sprang into existence and men shouted. He was conscious enough to register the shouted anger of the outlaws making war with the Sylirans and knew he had successfully warned them. How much help that warning would be was impossible to know. He heard footfalls and the clash of steel on steel. Maedoc rubbed his forehead with a gloved hand as he struggled to look around. He was in a small ditch, heavily populated with ferns and bushes that did much to hide the actual ground and unbalance the wounded man. Apparently the Sylirans had either discounted him as dead, or just had more pressing threats to deal with, for none of them were near him. He could feel his knees shaking as he hoisted himself up into a low kneel. He stared around without being able to focus, feeling the blood pumping itself through his neck, pulsing inside his head. He was feeling faint and dangerously close to throwing up. But he was alive, and that was more than he would have thought. Maedoc forced himself to focus, his mind wandering back to reality with the determination of a blissfully oblivious babe. He was wounded. An arrow in the right side of his back. And there were Sylirans, enemies, around him. He slowly, tentatively, reached behind him and felt the wound. Three inches of wooden shaft stuck out from his back just through the bottom of his lateral muscle. Feeling the foreign object jutting so boldly out of his body made him puke into the dark ferns beneath him. The splat was dull and the retching made him weak again. Maedoc leaned back and closed his eyes, determined to stay conscious. He raised his gloved hand to see if there was much bleeding. Although the forrest had bit lit more by the now raging fires started from Tulk’s archers, the ditch he was in was covered in nothing but shadows. He could not see his glove. He gently pulled it off and again moved his hand towards his back. It came away warm and wet. Damn. Maedoc would have to address the wound soon, or else it would get infected and he would die. His jumbled thoughts were interrupted by another sound. It was the whimpering shudders of a man in tears. The sound filled his ears even more so than the adrenaline laced noises of battle. It was the sound of pain and fear. A sound he knew very well. The welcome distraction from his mind jarring pain set the bloodied bandit to attempt to stand. Shaky knees kept him tall. He paused a moment, listening for the tears of hopelessness. More sobbing from behind him, beside the stream. Maedoc made his way slowly through the trees towards the stream, ignoring the battle being waged only yards away to find this tormented soul. Fires blazed and danced between trees, setting everything in twisted light or deep shadows. He leaned heavily on his hammer as he limped his way through the landscape. The rush of water met his ears with a subtlety and he realized that he was close. It was not a man, but a boy. An adolescent boy pretending to be a man. The injured squire. Maedoc’s vicious strike had shattered the boy’s concentration, rendering his abilities unusable. He had crawled through the brush to the stream. The Syliran had attempted to clean the wound but now sat slumped over the water, moaning in pain. Maedoc began to laugh in a low, tired humor.

[Maedoc]

”Why so sad, hero? Isn’t this what you wanted?” Maedoc spoke to the boy, voice quiet and thick with leering menace. He approached the sitting figure slowly, dragging his hammer as he went. “What? What do you mean?” The squire spoke in a high, nervous tone. He had collected himself well, glancing around for some way to save himself. Maedoc was secretly impressed. A few more years of training and this boy could very well make a decent knight. The idea left a bitter taste in the bandit’s mouth. “Honor, valor, protecting the weak and the downtrodden. That’s what you wanted when you gave yourself to the Knights. Look where they got you now.” He dropped his hammer beside the stream and began to kneel next to the wounded squire. “I am not afraid of death. I-I’m willing to die for Sylira.” The boy stammered, reciting the words with a brave face, though his tone was faint and very afraid. “A knight must stand tall, n-no matter the odds.” A clenched jaw and a deep frown helped mask his fear and give him a much needed air of defiance. Maedoc began to laugh again. The boy’s chivalry was astounding. It was beginning to really anger him. “Good, because the odds are certainly against you, boy.” Maedoc looked around theatrically. “You’re friends seem to have forgot you were here.” He smiled, a vicious grin cracking his macabre face. Such foolish behavior set his teeth a rattle. Where did this boy think this would lead him? Why was he being so damn pompous. ”So have yours.” The words left the youth’s mouth before the boy could think about it. The silence that followed was heavy with anticipation. He seemed to realized quickly that bating Maedoc was a bad idea. The bigger, older warrior clenched a vice grip around the squire’s jaw and pushed a palm against his wounded thigh. “You think I need them to deal with upstart Syliran blue-blood! Where is your courage now?” He roared at the boy, his vision blurring in his rage. Something inside him had broken. Something that had taken many years of surprised emotions to bury and forget. The sight of this wounded squire with the silvery branches of the dreaded Windoak upon his chest made that barrier fall. Maedoc was once again a youth, trying to please a father who had nothing but bitterness in him. Roughly worn hands pushed a pale face under the water, rigid with furious might. The boy struggled and air rushed up to the surface from his mouth. Maedoc wanted nothing more than to kill him. To end this boy and watch his body float down the stream. But if he did that then what was the point. He had not been left to die, no he had been left to suffer. He jabbed two fingers in the squire’s mouth and pulled him up by his jaw. The teen turned his head, violently retching water out onto the muddy shore. Maedoc watched the boy struggle for breath, for life. His hand was still pressing down upon the thigh wound. He could feel the warm blood between his fingers. “Here is your precious honor, your code. Here is the ideals upon which you build your pathetically diluted purpose.” Maedoc whispered slowly, staring down at the boy’s face, bright orange in the firelight. He held up a hand, red with the boy’s blood. “Your life, your blood. And guess what!” He said conspiratorially, leaning closer. “It spills upon the ground just as easily as mine.” The squire looked at him in horror. His pain and fear were severely shaking his courage. The boy could neither speak nor fight off the bigger man. He could only watch, only listen. The fight raged on. Men still shouted, though most were consumed by their fights, now matched man for man. The Sylirans and the outlaws danced among the tall pillars of shadow that were the night time trees of the Syliran Wildlands. Knights shouted battle cries and the Windoak’s name, outlaws laughed a vicious cackle or spat curses as they ducked and dodged the swords of knights. But Maedoc and Squire Anton were alone by the stream. ”How many more are there? How many Sylirans think they can tame this land?” Maedoc asked the boy, searching his eyes for an answer. The boy stared at him, eye wide in panic. He looked as though the words never reached his ears. Maedoc gnashed his teeth and dunked the boy again. Careful to press harder than last time, he reapplied his blood-caked hand to the boy’s wound. Maedoc waited a moment and let him gasp for air once again. He frowned down at the pathetically sputtering form beneath him. “How many?” “W-w-we’re all there is. Just a… a patrol…” The boy breathed, he's chest heaving under a glistening wet surcoat. His hair was in a wet mess around his face and in his eyes, but he was so exhausted he did not try to fix it. Maedoc heard yelling from Tulk. He was telling his men to fall back. They would cross the stream and move deeper into the wood. Tulk had trained them well, but not well enough to stand up to a full Syliran patrol for long. He returned his gaze to the dazed boy beneath him. Slowly he drew his eating knife, waving it before the boy’s eyes. “Thanks for the help kid. Not really doing your friends any favors though, helping me. Wonder if that was a little break down in your code of honor.” He slid the sharp edge of the knife across the boy’s cheek, leaving a shallow wound that bled down into the squire’s eye. “That’s so you always remember that your blood’s the same as mine, and it’s the only thing that matters. Not your useless knighthood, or your code, or your honor. Remember me, boy. I’m the man who taught you the most important lesson you’ll ever learn. When the blades start dancing, survival is the only thing anyone cares about.” Frowning down at the boy in disgust, he sheathed his blade and hefted his hammer. Now that his rage was spent and his adrenaline waining, he felt the pain of the arrow more and more. He stood unsteadily, shafting around to look back at the now blazing campsite. He saw no outlaws, only knights wandering around looking for dead friends. Tulk had gone already! He spun back and glanced down at the barely conscious form of the boy before stepping over him into the shallow water. Maedoc made his way into the frigid water until the dark liquid splashed against his wound. It felt both good and bad, confusing his nerves. The icy touch of the water slowed his blood flow, good for the wound. But he could die if he didn’t hurry up and cross. He used his legs mostly to cross, his upper body writhed in pain whenever he tried to pull himself through the water with his arms. Glancing back over his shoulder he saw a few of the Sylirans had gathered around the wagon he and Tulk had hijacked earlier in the day. It seemed years ago now. They were making their way over to the stream. Heart fluttering uncertainly in fear, Maedoc hurried his crossing. Risking pain for a swifter movement, he gingerly brushed his arms through the water. He reached the other side and threw his hammer up into the shadowed recesses between two large oaks. Their roots brushed against his waist and legs in the water. He spent the better part of a minute pulling himself carefully out of the water. He had to use the strength of his legs and one good hand to balance himself on the slippery black forms of the oak roots. His right arm almost useless, and certainly in to state to bear his weight. He turned and slumped down behind one of the oaks, glancing back at the victim of his rage. All he could see of the boy was a hazy white smudge that was his surcoat. The other Sylirans were on the approach, investigating the death toll of their battle. But they would not be able to see Maedoc. This side of the stream was completely hidden in shadows, far away from the fire. He could do no more than sit there and watch, all his strength spent and his head reeling with dizziness. He felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped, lurching around. He could not see anyone but knew it must be a friend, or a stranger, because he was not dead yet. ”A good fight. Glad to see you lived, Maedoc. That warning really helped.” Tulk’s deep tone and softly muttered words were a blessing upon Maedoc’s ears. “We lost eight, nothing more than a handful now. But old Hayden is still alive, I’ll go get him to come fix you up.” A simple pat on his soaked shoulder was enough to send Maedoc’s spirits soaring, He would be taken care of. Hayden was alive and able to heal him. The Sylirans had gather up Anton and were now in the process of retreating. Maedoc had lived. He had survived. With a relieved sigh, the bandit lost consciousness in a warm, dark haze.

[Verilian]

Maedoc +3 Stealth +3 Warhammer +4 Observation +1 Intimidation +1 Interrogation +1 Philosophy +1 Swimming You Question My Logic? : I dished out a bunch of random XPs, but if you have any questions or feel I missed anything, feel free to PM me. Lores: Ambushing a Caravan, Fighting for Revenge, Tailing a party in the woods, The Pain of being shot in the back Notes: Good job. Very well written. I'm not incredibly familiar with the Syliran knights and how they work, though I did notice one thing you mentioned that I think might be a bit off lorewise. I think only full knights get quests from the Wind Oak.. but it's not a huge deal. I might be wrong, I don't know. Anyway, great job, I really enjoyed the thread! Notice As per the request of the Founders, threads cannot be graded unless your CS is up to date. This means you need to add threads to your thread list when you make new threads, keep your skills up to date, ledger, living expenses, ect. If you aren't up to date, you'll get a PM from me before i grade your thread.