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Post by drest on Oct 24, 2015 4:42:38 GMT
Lord Arden Ritter | ♂ | Human | Arcul The first place in any city to look for warriors was the mead-hall. Arden's search for fighting men to help prove himself to the Queen therefore began along Osevale's main thoroughfare. The autumn wind howled, biting and cold, along the broad street – sharpening its teeth for winter – but the sun still gave some warmth to the peddlers, travelers, shoppers, and farmers who bustled through the city.
A mead-hall in the current era was hard to define. A hundred years ago, every inn was a mead-hall, where warriors and poets drank and boasted over the roaring fire, where landlords kept potent dragon-spirits under the bar for a night's best singer, where men crawled to their rooms just before sunrise with their war-band or their cousins or whomever they roved with. Now, though every inn served mead, most accommodated merchants and artisans, meals given at tables set with proper silver, sleeping quarters in quiet rooms, no singers but lutists and harpists providing music.
To Arden – Lord Ritter, Thunder-in-the-Night, war-lord of Arcul – the difference was apparent. Fiddler's Rest – no. Greene's Ale – perhaps, but it's not very loud. The Purple Dragon – no, wrong color and too thin. The – aha!
Half-hidden behind two other shops, The Orcsblood Poitín sat at the end of a plain dirt path, a long, low, stone building with an orc knocking back an old drinking horn on its sign. Spoke his servant, Alban, "Would this be the one, Lord?"
Inside the Poitín, Arden grinned. "This is the one." At one end, four drummers pounded their oxhide drums as a dwarf, two men, and a she-orc shouted their boasts over the firepit in rhyming couplets. At the other, a grizzled older woman who looked to be half orc served mead, poitín, and treacle-liquor to a handful of miners and toughs. In between, long high tables were set with breads, cheeses, picked or jammed fruit, and great pies of meat and vegetables. The knives were steel, not silver, and no other utensils lay out.
One of the men at the bar dwarfed Arden, not an easy feat, and was painted in red-and-black warpaint. The war-lord and his servant took seats beside the huge man. Arden ordered from the half-orc innkeep, "Mead with two fingers of treacle-spirits for myself, and just mead for my servant here, if it please you."
"It does," she replied in a blunt but not unpleasant manner. "Don't get many lordlings here, Your Grace."
"Lord," he corrected her, coming off as harsher than he'd meant. "And I've a proposition best discussed over mead," which of course was the way to say he was looking for swords.
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Post by Ruin on Oct 25, 2015 9:37:03 GMT
With his elbows against the wooden bar-top, Jukka was seated upon a stool in a slightly hunched position. He had just gone through his third tankard of ale, and was ready for a fourth. The warrior could hold his alcohol very well, and it took quite a lot to get him inebriated. He probably should have shed some of his armour, with its boiled leather and fur shoulders, because the roaring fire in the centre of the hall kept the place at a cozy temperature. However, Jukka was not one to toss away protection in the midst of drunkards. One could never know when someone may attempt to sneak over and initiate a brawl.
The clansman did not have any real acquaintances in the bar at the moment, so for that reason he drank alone. Or, he was drinking alone, until two figures chose to take the stools by his side. The Orcsblood Poitín was a place that appealed to him most, due to the people it drew in. The majority were generally warriors such as he, so he did not stand out as much as he could have within another tavern or mead hall.
It was the word Lord that first drew the man with longer mahogany hair out of his thoughts, and he began to tune into the exchange between the newcomer and bartender. So this fellow was a Lord of some sort? He did not look familiar to Jukka, whom had acted as a mercenary for a few in the past.
"What sort of proposition?" questioned the warrior, in a rugged baritone. His natural curiosity had caused him to lackadaisically interrupt the exchange, as he had a mild inkling as to what the Lord was looking for.
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Post by drest on Oct 26, 2015 14:27:22 GMT
Arden smiled. "Thought you might be for it." The mead came; he took a long draught. It seemed excellent, although the liquor he'd had the innkeep add could have masked damn near anything. He raised an eyebrow to Alban, who gave the 'resonably-good' nod. Fair enough. "A band of outlaws camps too close to Whiteridge for comfort. It seems they've been burning stables and outlying farms as though they aim to mount a raid. Thirty of them, few of whom have seen combat, I'm told. They'd be broken if they did strike, but many innocents would die and many of them would get away. I'm to gather men and find them, first, in the caves above the village."
He sized the man up. A hand's breadth taller than Arden and broadly built, wild hair and war-paint, heavy scars across his forearms like Arden's own, the man would be hard to kill even if he couldn't fight, and looked as though he damn well could. Arden held out his hand. "Arden Ritter, Lord of Oakheart Hall to the south. I'm quite poor, but the Queen will be paying you – and fifteen-odd others, if you're with me"
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Post by Ruin on Oct 26, 2015 17:30:10 GMT
By the looks of it, this young Lord had seen some battle in his lifetime, for he too was rather broadly built and was obviously trained in wielding a weapon of some kind. So, as he knocked back the latest round of drink he had been given, Jukka decided that Arden was worth giving a chance to explain himself.
"The Queen, of all people?" Jukka allowed an impressed whoosh of air to escape his lips. Now that was a new, and potentially very rewarding, one. However, the Queen was known to be a colder sort. It was difficult to judge how generous she would end up being in regards to a final reward. The warrior had made his decision anyhow. He was always up for a good fight. "Alright," came his reply, and he gestured to the bartender to fetch him another flagon of ale. "Count me in. Have you got any plan of attack yet?"
Jukka was certainly curious about this Lord Arden Ritter fellow. He always appreciated a person with a good sense for attack tactics, and time would only tell whether he fell into this category. "Pleasure to meet you, Ritter," the male with hair a considerable length then added. Noticeably, he had excluded Arden's full title. He did not believe in formalities between two people whom would be battling alongside each other. At least, the young lord gave the impression that he too would take part. They generally did not, which was enough for Jukka to feel him worthy of a sliver more respect than what he usually offered. With a quirk of one corner of his lips that may have looked charming on someone without the rather intimidating facial paints, the northman extended a hand. "My name is Jukka."
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Post by drest on Oct 26, 2015 18:55:20 GMT
"The Queen," Arden confirmed with a nod. He shook the Northman's hand. "Lunus knows if she likes me, but I'm alive and promised coin. That's one promise better than when I arrived." He took another drink and nodded to Alban. "My chamberlain, Alban. He's smarter than me but he pretends he's not so I don't feel bad."
He sighed, and took another drink. "Plan depends I think on layout. And how many I muster. I'd like a night raid on the cave or wherever they're resting their kits, but with too few that risks letting half the band escape. I think the Queen wants a blow, not a campaign." He swirled his glass before him, hypersensitive eyes lost in the fluid patterns of the liquor and mead whirling amidst each other.
"I think we arrive, one or two visit town in a way the outlaws won't notice – disguised as merchants, you know – and speak to the city guard about the situation, a couple of trackers try to find sign, learn their movements, and the rest camp. The risk isn't our losing pitched battle, it's letting them escape." No answer came to him until he shut his eyes, blocking the visual din of the mead-hall. "Perhaps, perhaps we have the guards drive them into an ambush. Decisive as a night raid but more thorough. Ah, well, know more when we get there." Of Jukka he asked, "Know any trackers? I've served as one but it's not my area."
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Post by Ruin on Oct 27, 2015 13:04:51 GMT
To Jukka's ears, those suggestions sounded solid enough, and would most likely work with a little more fine tuning. He supposed it would have to wait until Lord Ritter recruited more men, and they could discuss the matter amongst each other. The warrior was not all that enthusiastic about seeking aid from the Whitevale guards, simply because he viewed it as removing a lot of the entertainment. However, Jukka would admit that if they wanted the task done thoroughly, it was probably the best option.
"I can't say I do know any trackers worth our while," mused the northman, searching his brain for even one name. But he was not one to settle and make allies too often. "Although, there is one man. A hunter from Blackpool. He's a bit odd, but he has a reputation for being efficient when it comes to tracking animals. I doubt that tracking people would be much different, if not easier. I'm sure he would be willing to team with us if there was coin offered."
Then, Jukka eyed the man before him once more. It was itching at him - the lack of knowledge he possessed in regards to the Lord. The warrior was sure he had learned every prominent noble name within the Kingdom, but the name Ritter simply did not ring a bell. "How come I have never heard of you before, Ritter?" There was a blunt sort of curiosity to his tone.
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Post by drest on Oct 28, 2015 11:28:14 GMT
"Odd is fine, if he's good." Arden had been called many things, but never choosy. "Where might we find this man now?"
"As to your question, I'm quite poor. My uncle would have lost our title if he hadn't named his bastard nephew heir. If you've heard of the 'Witch-Lord' from the last war, he is me." Arden was accustomed to being unknown. Truth told it didn't much bother him – in his mind, the only thing fame would do for him would be to make him have to speak more, though it would solve the issue of being a poor, minor house.
He found that he was bothered by this warrior's omission of 'Lord' from his conversation, but equally bothered by his own sensitivity. He considered himself a warrior first and a lord second; it was almost hypocritical to expect someone else to see him in a different light than he saw himself. Sanguis, it's been too damned long since I've seen action, he concluded.
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Post by Ruin on Oct 28, 2015 12:02:57 GMT
"He doesn't travel much, as far as I know. If I were you, I'd send that servant of yours off with a horse to go find him at Blackpool," commented the warrior, with a gesture of his hand towards Alban. "Look for an Arvid Theowulf. The ride would take a few days, I believe. That would probably be enough time to round up some more fighters." He then listened to the Lord, who had began to speak again. Jukka did not bother with any more ale. His belly was full, and he did not desire to get drunk at this particular point in time.
Witch Lord.. Now that name he had heard of. "You don't look like much of a witch." Jukka's outright statement was coming from the basis of which he identified witches. At home, within his clan, a witch was someone who prophesied the future for them, and also acted as a healer. They usually wore strange things too, such as necklaces of dead crows and beads. "How did you manage to get that name?"
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Post by drest on Oct 28, 2015 13:54:42 GMT
Arden looked to Alban, who nodded. "Alban," said he, stressing the name in an attempt to push Jukka into using it in the future, "shall go. Need he bear anything in mind about the man?"
Arden took another drink, and without thinking drained his glass. "The nickname's my charm and social grace," answered Arden. Seeing his cup empty, he asked the innkeep for another. "'Witch' means either 'soothsayer' or 'magician I don't like,' depending on the person. My mother was a proper witch, a healer; I'm a magician no one likes. Not much of one, mind, but I've middling use as a battle-mage."
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Post by Ruin on Oct 28, 2015 18:09:45 GMT
Jukka noticed the emphasis on Alban's name, and could guess what Arden was attempting to express. The warrior's only response was to cast a grin in his direction. "No, I doubt it. The man is quite popular, even with his strangeness. He'll only have to mention the name and I'm sure someone will find him."
"Some magic is better than none," Jukka pointed out. "I have no magical abilities whatsoever, so I've got to rely on strength alone. And this too, I suppose." The long-haired male tapped his temple with an index finger. "Anyhow, chatting doesn't get us anywhere." Jukka stood, nudging the stool he had been seated on away with his knee. "I'm going to go and see if I can round up any more men before the night is done."
The sound of a couple of coppers hitting the wood of the bar counter reverberated through the air as Jukka paid for the ale he had drank. He no longer felt the hesitance that he often felt when paying for things these past few days, because soon he would be given a fat purse of silver, if this task was taken care of correctly. And Jukka had no doubt that it would be. "Where can I find you on the morrow?"
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Post by drest on Oct 28, 2015 18:45:59 GMT
Alban nodded his understanding, but Arden waited to dismiss him as they would be parting shortly anyway.
"I'd be thankful if you can find more," he replied to the large, wild man. "I'll stay here and see whom else I can tempt." The innkeep brought his second mead-and-liquor, and he took a long swill, turing in his stool to look over the mead-hall. He watched the singers by the fire; the boasters had gone and two bards were reciting an old drinking song, a few women weaving a silken dance to the heavy, slow beat. An assortment of locals were watching the women, many of whom had promise as fighting men and women. "Think I may stay the night here, truth told. You may call on me at eight." He knocked back another drink, stood, and began to approach the dancers. "Mm. Nine."
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