Inexorable {Flashback}

A group of sellswords complete a.. peculiar contract.

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Encompassing a vast wilderness filled with flora and fauna of immense proportions, the Northern Reaches include all the Talderian Forest north of the Suvan and stretch into the vast permanent tundra and ice fields outside Avanthal.

Inexorable {Flashback}

Postby Rewyn Horne on March 16th, 2015, 4:46 am

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The Northern Reaches, 19th Winter, 406 A.V.


''Hurry your ass up, it's petchin' cold out here.'' A voice called, muffled by the deer-hide tent between them. Rewyn woke from his slumber, barely eager to leave his humble abode. At least it's warm in here.. He realised he had slept long past the rise of the sun, which he was accustom to leaving at with each coming day. Crawling from his blanket of pelts and cloth, Rewyn wiped the sleep from his eyes, stretched out like a canvas, and felt all his bones crack at once. He heard a mailed fist beat at the side of his tent, and for a moment feared it would collapse.

''I'm coming, Rook.'' He yelled back drily. Rook was Murs' right-hand man, and Murs was the leader of their little sellsword company. They were no Flayed Brothers, in savagery or in number, but their steel was sharp and their thirst for gold was unending. Contracts were never few and far between. Rewyn slid himself into his armour; a brigantine studded with iron across the breast, leather gauntlets with a thin iron plate down the wrist, breeches, and some leather boots that were too big for his feet. He preferred to remain light and thus agile when he fought, though the huge cloak of sheepskin he garbed over top only weighed him down. It was winter regardless, and he would've preferred a cumbersome cloak than perishing slowly and excruciatingly to frostbite.

Wiry, gloved hands wrapped around the edge of his tent flap, and he pushed it open, revealing an angry Rook. He was a sturdy man, rugged and brawny from fighting and climbing. His chest was covered in a crudely-kept mail shirt and a boiled leather cuirass, his legs and feet covered in leathers. His hands were wrapped in fur gloves, and his figure in a huge wolf skin cloak. He pulled it tight against his skin, inexorable gaze falling upon the younger man. Rewyn gave him a nervous smile, but the man just laughed through his thick copper beard.

''Awake at last then, lad? Good to see you didn't freeze in your sleep,'' He ran a gloved hand through his short, spiky hair, ''Murs says we'll be heading off after we break our fast, got a contract close by or summat. Best we go see him, then.'' The copper-haired giant of a man motioned for Rewyn to follow, and so he did, haplessly attempting to adjust his sword belt. There were fifteen amongst their band, each man as deadly as the last. Some were archers, others swung flails, but most stuck to sword and shield. Murs had gathered them from all over the land, from Cyphrus and from Sylira, from Ravok and from the Reaches themselves. They sat around fires, huddled and cold even beneath their furs, breaths materialized into hazy white puffs of smoke. Rewyn's boots created discreet crunch sounds as they walked atop the fallen pine needles. It wasn't long before either was caked in milky white snow that seemed to freeze his toes, even through the leather that divided them.

Some of their fellows nodded or waved as they went by, but most stuck to their fasts, gnawing through the last serving of the boar they had left. Murs had put a quarrel in the beast only two days before, and already its meat ran scarce. The Reaches were aplenty with edible game, but they oft evaded quarrel, arrow and trap. The boar had been stuck as it drank from a stream, luckily enough for the company. Soon it would be just a matter of what they would eat when the meat ran dry.

''Come, get some boar into ya belly before it's petched off into everyone else’s!'' Asger urged as they approached Murs' tent. Asger was the only man in the company with any knowledge of cooking, though that wasn't to say eating his meals was the greatest pleasure. His boar was often under-cooked or burnt, and his stews and soups were hardly to die for. Still, they sufficed. Better to have shyke in the stomach than nothing at all.

''Thankyou, Asger.'' Rewyn muttered as the man handed him a bowl, laden with some vegetable stew with traces of boar haunch throughout. Rewyn ate it dutifully, ignoring the overcooked meat and the filthy smell of it all. ''Where is Murs?'' He asked curiously as he handed the bowl back to Asger, realizing their leader was not present outside his own tent. It was the largest of the company, made of wolf and deer and cow pelts, and held together with crude sticks and vines. Inside was nothing but a log for sitting and a bedroll for sleeping, as well as some woven sacks full of provisions. At least, they had been filled with provisions.

Asger shrugged, haunch shoulders raising and falling idly. He was a large man, from the Reaches, but Rook made even him look small. His long blonde hair was tied up with a thin strand of rope, extending down to the middle of his back. His squared face was covered in a short, close-cropped beard, and brown eyes peered out from beneath thick golden brows. Asger wore a sheepskin cloak similar to Rewyn's, though chose to adorn more furs beneath it rather than armour. He was a man trained with a crossbow, and never saw the need to coat himself in protective clothing when the enemy never even got close to him. Warmth over safety, he always japed.

''Haven't seen him since the sun came up, he took his sword and his horn and wandered off down the mountain pass.'' The crossbowman-turned-cook said concernedly. They were situated in a compact flat area of the mountains, with a vast forest of soldier pines at their back and a treacherous, narrow mountain pass at their front. They had came up the pass, but would trek through the pines when they disembarked.

We are to travel through the forest, so then why has Murs gone the other way, and alone?

He did not know if it was the wind, the snow or the sudden feel of insecurity that gave him shivers.

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Last edited by Rewyn Horne on March 16th, 2015, 12:33 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Inexorable {Flashback}

Postby Rewyn Horne on March 16th, 2015, 8:20 am

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The rest of the morning dragged on for an eternity. Rewyn sat slouched on the log, Rook paced around the tent, and Asger sat waxing the string of his crossbow. It was unlike Murs to go off on his own, especially without first consenting Rook, his best friend and closest ally. Where Asger and Rewyn were worried, Rook was genuinely concerned, pushing the verge of angry. His fists were clenched as he stomped back and forth, his huge feet crushing the pine needles underneath. Outside the looming grey clouds brought the promise of rain, the light snowfall the reassurance of the perpetual cold. Inside the tent, two torches flickered bright and orange, casting dancing shadows upon the hide walls. It kept them shielded from the weather outside, but it could not protect them from the worry.

''Where the petch is he?'' Rook ran his hands down over his face in frustration, splayed fingers tugging at his soot-stained cheeks as slid down them. Asger shrugged. He seemed to shrug a lot.

''It's unlike him.'' Rewyn replied bluntly, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm. Asger coughed violently, though quickly composed himself.

''You're bloody right about that, Murs ain't the secretive type. He didn't tell me a word, just took his sword and that horn of his and set off.'' Asger stated, albeit sadly. He finished waxing his string and placed his crossbow down by his feet, then took out his skin of wine. He nearly breathed it in, and crimson juices trickled down through his coarse beard. He offered it to Rewyn but he refused, it was too early to drink, and he wasn't thirsty. You don't drink wine for the taste or to quench your thirsts, but for the feeling it gives you after it hits your liver, that's what Murs had always told him. He feared the uneasy feeling he had in his gut would only force the wine back up.

''His horn? No doubt he is expecting trouble, then. That horn is loud. Truly loud. He blows it ten leagues away, we'll hear the petching thing. Let's just hope he don't have too. Give me some of that,'' Rook walked forward and took the wine skin, then poured the little remaining down his throat, salivating in the prospect of getting drunk, ''We're supposed to move out on the morrow, Murs said himself. What happens if he don't come back? Do we stay? Do we go? What?'' Asger panicked, as he took the skin back, heaving a sigh when he realised it was drained.

''If we're ordered to leave on the morrow, then we leave when the sun rises.'' Rewyn said plainly. He was a young man, but one of duty and code. An order was an order.

''Leave without our leader? That doesn't seem right, not to me. No, we stay. We stay til he returns.'' Rook said defiantly. He was second-in-command, but often let his friendship intervene his duty.

Asger shrugged, again, and began rummaging through a sack in search of more wine. ''Lad's right, I think. Murs wouldn't want us to stay here, with or without him. You heard him when we arrived. 'It's dangerous up here, and cold, we need to find a safer camp as soon as we're fit to continue'. That's what he said. We're too high up, Rook, no matter how you look at it. Wolves have already came more than once, and this mountain air makes my petching lungs tired.'' He concurred, finally finding a half full wine skin amongst the empty ones.

Rook snorted. ''Lad is dutiful, I'll give him that,'' he shot a glance at Rewyn, his copper brows furling up in annoyance, ''But Murs is more than a leader to me, he's a brother. I won't leave him down there, not alone. He swings a sword as well as a Syliran knight, but even a sword can't kill the cold, or the hunger. He will die, starving and lonely, and we will be moving off in the opposite direction to find warmth and food. I won't have it.'' He crossed his broad arms over his chest, and snorted again.

Asger scratched some lice from his scalp. ''What do you propose then?'' He asked.

''You think we should go and find him?'' Rewyn asked, as if it were all some jape. Rook nodded incessantly. ''That's madness, I have as much respect as any man does for Murs, but he left on his own. Why should we all die for his poor decision? If he wanted us with him, he would have ordered it. But he went alone, before any of us could discover he went at all. I think that merits some form of command, perhaps one telling us to stay put.'' Rewyn suddenly felt thirsty. ''Pass it here, Asger,'' he said, practically snatching the skin from the man's hand. It was warm, but surprisingly refreshing.

Rook breathed a drawn out, heavy sigh. He knew Rewyn was right in the matter, but he would not admit it. ''If he set off so early, then mayhap he planned to return early? It's nearing midday, and I see no signs of him.'' He absent-mindedly rubbed a hand against the back of his scalp to destroy an itch.

''It is unknown where he went, but it is clear he wanted to go alone.'' Rewyn said bluntly. Rook may have been the commander in Murs absence, but he was doing a poor job. There was friendship, and there was duty. They were separate matters, and Rook seemed too inclined to blend them as one. The copper haired giant clenched his fists tightly, and purple veins began to form on his thick neck. A gloominess overcame the tent, and for a minute the dancing shadows on the walls were all there was.

Crunch. Crunch.

The sounds of footsteps from outside echoed through the tent, snapping the silence in two. Rook jolted to attention, and Rewyn straightened his posture. The tent flap opened to reveal a tall, slender man, draped in furs and mail, his short brown hair matted in blood, his exposed neck dotted with specks of crimson. He panted loudly as he entered, pale blue eyes scanning around the room. When they found Rook, Murs smiled.

''Rook, you look discouraged. I am sorry if I frightened you with my absence. I scoured this barren north for some game, but finding it was harder than I anticipated. Carrying it up the pass, well, that was a different story entirely. Nonetheless, I did not come back empty handed. It pains me, killing a doe. But she'll be as fine a meal as any.'' It was only then that Rewyn realized he had been holding the ankle of a slain doe in one hand, with a string of hares over his shoulder. Murs looked dishevelled, dark circles decorating the perimeter of his eyes. The sword that hung from his belt was coated in crimson and frost, and it gleamed against the embers of the torches.

Rook strode over and wrapped his huge arms around his friend, tugging him close. Murs seemed nearly half his size, patting his comrade on the back with his spare hand.

''I found a house, down in the woods at the foot of the pass. We missed it on the way up, it would seem. A hearth burned from inside, though I was wary of whoever lived there. Could be a petching witch for all we know, yet my gut tells me I should learn it for myself. It might be they have some food to share.''

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Last edited by Rewyn Horne on March 16th, 2015, 12:32 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Inexorable {Flashback}

Postby Rewyn Horne on March 16th, 2015, 12:06 pm

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''Bloody well done, Asger, best cooking you ever did! Har!'' Bermund stated, gnawing at the hare with the few teeth he had left. The company had gathered around a single fire, watching as its embers twirled and climbed, reaching for the clouded night sky, before fading into nothingness. Timber and twigs were piled as tall as a man, flaking and charring beneath the roaring flames that swayed back and forth as the wind licked at them. As night finally fell, so did the growing chill of the winter. None complained. They were as hard as the stone mountains that lingered over them. Though, those rugged rocky spearheads emitted a sense of feebleness in the grand scope of the world. The mountains stretched up, tall and stern and grey, before fading amidst the thick fog above. Their peaks were capped in milky snow, as were the tiny plateaus that run rampant throughout them.

Rewyn felt the cold snap at him like the jaws of a wolf, tightening his embrace on his sheepskin cloak. Flakes of snow descended lazily upon him, though were soon lost amongst the whiteness of his sheepskin. He swatted at some, as if that would stop them from falling. Bermund sat at his right, and Asger to his left. Bermund was a seasoned warrior, crazy and slightly deluded, yes, but hardened and experienced too. He could swing a flail about like a rogue swung a dirk. Bermund the Crazed, some called him. He made a good enough companion, and a fearsome enemy. Murs had recruited him in Cyphrus, during their journey across the Sea of Grass. He was native to Syliras, yet never explained what he was doing in Drykas lands.

''What do you think they're yappin' about?'' He nudged Rewyn on the shoulder, and poked his portion of deer out across the fire. Amongst the other side of the roaring flames, Rook and Murs sat, talking quietly amongst themselves. Mayhap they're talking about where we're going on the morn, or what the next contract will be. It had not been long since their last contract, the destruction of a small cult of mages, who had taken four of their own to the grave in the midst of the skirmish. Now they were in the Reaches, Murs did not see why they should leave without the fulfilment of several more contracts. It would be a wasted journey otherwise.

''Could be anything, really.'' Rewyn replied, although bluntly, before biting into his roast hare. The meat was chewy but it was cooked well enough, though the lack of seasoning made swallowing an effort. Rewyn seldom spoke to Bermund, for his conversations oft lead to pestilent cackling and vulgar ideas. He made a good soldier, but a shyke person to chat idly with.

''I'd wager they're discussing our next move,'' Asger interjected, realizing the young lad's discomforts, ''Murs said he found a house. Not deserted, either. It might be we found some food there.''

Bermund licked his cracked lips at the prospect of more food. His pale pink tongue quickly snaked back inside his mouth, before the winter cold took it as a token. ''I'd kill for another good meal,'' Bermund stated, patting the dagger at his hip. Asger laughed a throaty laugh.

''You might have to, before night falls on the morrow.'' Rewyn said, plainer than ever. Bermund patted his hip again, nodding happily. He was crazed for bloodshed, yet somehow remained as loyal as a slave to a master. It was the reason Murs had offered him a part in their little band.

As Bermund went to speak, eyes widening in utter excitement, a drunken Rook staggered over, wine skin in one hand, strips of meat in the other. He swayed back and forth like a tree in a gale, mumbling to himself beneath his breath.

''You're bloody drunk then, aye?'' Rewyn grinned, revealing the strands of meat that had been lodged between his teeth. It was not often that Rook ever got drunk, his duties and tendency to protect Murs often prevented such pleasantries. A refreshing surprise, to say the least.

''Aye boy, I'm petched off me shy-shyke. Too much wine for a man who drinks too little, the effects are as shockin' as the Valterrian! Anyhow, I ain't here to speak about my state, I am here to relay orders,'' He stumbled around for a moment, before involuntarily finding a seat amongst the snow and fallen needles, ''We move in the morn, sunrise. Least you all do, I'll be dead from a rotted liver, har! We plan to trek the pass again, to find that house Murs spoke about. If they can sell us enough provisions, we may be able to continue on in search of a contract for a few more weeks. . If we find none, we petch off out of this icy wasteland.'' Rook tried to pull himself back to his feet, but could not do so until Asger aided him. Happily, he stumbled off to tell the others of their new course.

Bermund rubbed his gloved hands together excitedly. ''I can only hope they don't give up their food and wine easily. I crave a good bout. Those mages, they were no challenge. My flail bludgeoned one of their skulls so hard it cracked and caved in! The joy of it! Shame Alvord got hit by that spell, though. He was a strong fighter, with a good swing. Magic is a coward's weapon, they stand back and they shoot their pretty fire at you until you burn alive. Never stand two mizas of a chance when you get close to em, though. Har! The morn lads, the morn. It might be there's some worthy little knights down in that house, stinging to defend their winter stock.'' He clapped excitedly, nearly falling backward from the log they had erected as a bench.

Asger finished the last bite of his deer, then said between chews, ''No cowardice in distance, lad. Best off hitting your enemy before they get close to you, I say. It takes skill to stick a man with a quarrel from thirty yards, all you have to do is swing that big flail around until it breaks a rib or a nose.'' Bermund cackled, a laugh that sounded like a horse in its throes.

''That flail is far heavier than you'd think, arrow man. It takes just as much skill to swing it around as it does to put a quarrel in a man, I'd wager my life on it. Let's say we have a duel, see how many times you can fire and load that wooden piece of shyke before my flail marks its territory in the side of your face! Har!'' Bermund japed, yet there was a threatening undertone that loomed beneath his folly.

Asger washed his hare down with the last of his wine, then said, ''I'd fire and load it once, lad. Just once. One quarrel in your brain is enough to put you on your back.'' The burly man wiped the wine from his beard, stood up and disappeared off into the night, leaving behind his empty skin. Bermund reached for it, sighed when he realized the wine was drained, and tossed it carelessly toward the fire. Rewyn cracked his knuckles, unaffected by the quarrels between his comrades. They were all warriors in their own right, he knew. Squabbles regarding dominance were inevitable.

When Bermund the Crazed asked Rewyn of his opinion between close-quarters and long-range combat, he said, ''It all depends, I think. A man in heavy armour with sword and shield could have the advantage over a brigand in leathers with a bow, but they all have their weaknesses. The knight may deflect the arrows fired at him, but without a horse he has little chance of catching a man in light armours. The archer could tire him, and a well-placed shot could end the knight. Likewise, if the knight gets close enough, that archer is as good as dead. Magic is similar, though stronger than either. Flames could cook a man in his armour, and spears of ice could penetrate a brigand's leathers. Yet, a wizard oft flaunts robes, making him naked in his defenses. Their strength lies in their offence, and they're as butchered as cattle if they are cornered.'' Rewyn reflected on what he had said, and reaffirmed his belief in every word in his head. He often dreamt of the battle that ensued between the sellswords and the mage cult, clueless as to how they had survived the ordeal. Perhaps it was their advantage of surprise, for they attacked in the night. Perhaps.

''Maybe you're right, lad. Maybe. But I wager Asger would miss his two shots, and on the third reload I'd have his head for my flail's supper.'' Bermund rasped another laugh, then coughed up some phlegm and spat it out. The yellow mucus soon disappeared beneath the flakes of snow that fell, now more plentiful than before.

''It's past time I slept, I think. Mayhap I'll go study those books I found, the ones in the cave.'' Rewyn said drily, as he stood up and stretched his arms. He had found a small collection of tomes the mages had been studying, and Murs allowed him to keep them. He did not understand their content, but the pages felt fitting at his fingertips, and the words were righteous to his eyes.

''Bloody tomes have no place here, lad, words won't win your battles for you.'' Bermund replied bleakly, though let him leave all the same.

Maybe not the words themselves, but the things they teach.

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Inexorable {Flashback}

Postby Rewyn Horne on March 17th, 2015, 1:52 am

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Sleep did not come easy that night. Rewyn spent the first hour under his pelts and cloths, clenching on to the little sense of warmth he had left. His arms were exposed to the cold, left outside his pelts so he could turn the pages of his book. The tent flap did little to stop the howling winds, and the imminent cold they brought with them. He felt his jaw chatter uncontrollably, his skin rise and fall with goose-prickles every few minutes. The torch he had lit was enough to read by, but provided ample warmth. Rewyn hated the winter, for all it was worth. He much preferred the spring, and the autumn, where days were humid and the night was cool.

Reimancy, written and scribed by Ser Robert Scaleskin was an interesting book. Robert Scaleskin had been a Khevit, a philosopher, and a wizard. His musings were vague, but they were written in plain common, unlike some of the other dusty tomes Rewyn had salvaged from the mage cult. Two of them were written in an ancient tongue that nobody could understand, and the other was scrawled so hastily the words became irrefutably unreadable. Rewyn could make out some sentences, here and there, but for the most part his eyes grew sore trying. And so, Scaleskin's meagre attempt at composing a book became his only hope at learning anything.

For a mage to control Reimancy, they must materialise their Djed into Res, the thing, it is called. It is not uncommon for the grand mages to master all four, but that is extensive, tiring work. I myself never tried it. Fire was my speciality. This Res can be morphed into the elements – earth, fire, wind and water. Pesky thing, water. Always put out my fire, damn Horvik Steeltongue. Damn him to all the hells, let Dira eat his cock. The book rambled on and on in the same manner, as Scaleskin constantly trailed off into irrelevant subjects. Eventually Rewyn reached the end of the tome, and at the bottom in a foreign handwriting it read: Rest in peace, Scaleskin, died 491 A.V. Perhaps someone quenched the flames for good, or perhaps his own Reimancy killed him. Rewyn left the book with no more information than the fact the magic was dangerous and tolling, with a basic understanding of what Res had been. He would of asked one of his companions to further enlighten him, but they held less knowledge on magic than a stone wall. They were all stout defiers of Djed, believing it corrupt and evil.

Rewyn however, was perplexed.

''Up, get up! It's time we got moving!'' He heard Rook shout from outside his tent, peering out tired eyes to view shafts of sunlight peeping through the cracks in his tent flap. Sunrise, he thought, and scrambled from beneath his covers to adorn his leathers. For the fourteenth day in a row, Rewyn was plagued by his ill-fitting sword, which hung too low down his leg. Rook had given it to him when his own was lost, yet it was more a bastard sword than it was a long sword, and carrying it around was cumbersome. Frantically attempting to adjust his sword belt so the sheath wouldn't smack against his knee, Rewyn stepped out into the camp. The rest of the men were up and ready, armoured and at attention. He noted Bermund standing beside Asger smirking wildly, probably pleased with their argument the night before.

''I'm here,'' Rewyn noted as he jogged past to Rook to fall in with the other men. Black-Eye Barron, Bermund, Asger, Winfred, Gunnar and the others were all there, crowded around Murs' tent. The leader himself was not present, though Rewyn assumed they were waiting for him. It was not long until he emerged, mighty bone horn slung over one shoulder, and his leather pack over the other. His longsword dangled at his hip, barely visible beneath his layers of fur and sable cloak. The origins of his warhorn Halvor were unknown, and it was said it descended through generations of Myrian clans before it found its way to the mercenary. It was made of an elephant tusk, with a band of dull iron clasped around either end. There was nothing physically intriguing about it, but the sound it made was thunderous.

''Brothers, I am glad you are all awake,'' Murs shouted as he lifted his tent flap, eyes squinting at the morning sun that beamed through the clouds. It was just as cold as the day before, yet the clouds had moved off to the west, and the sun had taken their place. The blue sky was hardly visible through the thick mountain fog, but the sun was as bright as ever. Pale white-yellow lances shot through the hazy grey tendrils that merged to form a canopy above them, making the day clear enough to travel on. Murs smiled through squinted eyes, appeased.

''It seems the weather favours our travels,'' He raised a gloved hand over his eyes to block out the finger of sunlight that reached down for him, ''I've had word of a potential contract, back the way we came. While that does make our trek up that wretched pass for naught, it means mizas, ale and whores too. I also saw an occupied tavern, down at the foot of the mountains. Maybe they can provide us with food. This contract should place us close enough to Avanthal when it's done too, and it may be we could stay there a night or two.'' He finished with a smile, and many of the men cheered. A city meant a roof over their heads, ale in their livers, and whores in their beds. There was nothing a travelling sellsword revelled in more.

''Oscar,'' Murs said, and a burly Isur with a spear stepped forward, his face squared and stern, his body layered in sheets of mail and boiled leather, ''You scout ahead, down the pass. You're quick and you're strong. I heard the wolves howling as I woke, and if they are hungry, I do not intend to feed them.''

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