Grain, Cast West (closed)

[Obuzeti]

His horse is soaked in sweat, and Jussain is little better. He dismounts when his ragged company of twenty reaches the last hill before the Magonides river. Beneath him, in this hidden little dell, is Auen, the small fief he'd been deeded for valorous efforts against the Hungarians, on the far east edge of the March of Carinthia. He takes a deep breath and lets his eyes roll over it.

It's perhaps a half-hour's ride on horseback; a series of selions built over low, rolling hills, a double row of buildings that almost pass as a village; the river is partially diverted into a millpond with a trio of small, brick-and-mortar buildings that use the water to drive their mills. A building situated at the base of the hill, near the compost, is undoubtedly the butcher's; last, the manor itself rests near the headwaters of the river where the tributary breaks off; lastly, a small crowd of huts and thatches announcing the presence of servants and bondsmen.

Servants. By God, Jussain still doesn't really believe it himself. The knighting ceremony had been a blur, blood still smeared on his brigandine from where he'd fought desperately with his men to prevent the Magyars from retreating across the river Lech. Near a third of his own men had been felled. The straggling handful behind him - twenty-two souls, all told - is what's left.

Heavy breath precedes the trudge of his closest man - Leonard Kasphur, shield slung up over his shoulder besides his short, ugly blade; he'd won it gambling, some barbarian design heavily swept forward. "How many, do you think?" he asks, one hand raised to keep the evening sun out of his eyes.

Jussain shrugs, the corner of his lips curled down. "Perhaps - five, six hundred? Say three to a selion, seems fair."

"More n' half of those are owned by bigger families and rented out," Leonard says with a shake of his head. "Still, fair guess."

"Too late to introduce ourselves," Jussain says with a shake of his head. "Let's head for the manor. We'll bivouac there until we know more. At the very least I've got a roof and food for all of you."

"Sounds fine in my book," Virgo calls from somewhere in the middle of the back. He'd be singing something bawdy, normally, but it's been a long march. "Almost as good as sitting down."

The low rumble of assent to that drives Jussain to a nod. "Food first," he says. "Head for the manor. I'll ride ahead and see what I can get rustled up."

His heels touch on either side of his destrier, and it wearily speeds up to a canter as he makes for his new home. He draws some attention from the serfs, the children going from rough-and-tumble playing to getting yanked back into houses, out of sight - especially the daughters. His teeth click behind his pale lips. He can't blame them, not with the Magyars having driven a permanent fear of horse-riders into them. Instead of focusing on that, he squints at his new residence.

It looks like a dining hall, a backroom that probably has bedrooms and storerooms, another large structure to the side he can't immediately identify, and then a chapel to the side. No walls, no towers, not even a motte; it has to be older than a century, before the horsemen rode west, then, and the recent patching on the ceiling proves that point - it'd been burnt down at least once before.

How reassuring.

Nevertheless, the alderman is already there, greying and smiling haplessly, almost pleading, as Jussain dismounts his destrier and leads it to the small fishpond near the entrance to the estate.

"Welcome home, mi'lord," he says, obsequious, and the newly-ordained man finds the taste of that hated title even less pleasant on the other end.

 

[heartofcourage]

"Just over twenty strong." Came the announcement from the man in front, relayed back through the small band of raiders that were stationed on a far flung hill on the edge of civilization.

They had been waiting for the arrival of the new lord of the land, a man placed in that position by the conquering forces that had swept through the area. It was a direct threat to their way of life, but one that might quickly be remedied as he settled into his new role. He would have work to do to stabilize the citizens that were still there and assert his dominance over them. In other words, he would be occupied.

"He won't cause us issue." A light and lyrical voice sounded from the steppe horse that pawed impatiently at the ground.

"We can't depend on that, Anasztazia." Another voice called from further away, the rest of the small band silent as she was challenged. "Your father would know that."

"My father is not here. So, you either follow me as you gyula or you go back home like the cowards that you are." The woman practically growled back, her bright blue eyes blazing fire as she looked upon her men. "Or have you not had enough of the raping that this new leader brings?"

Anasztazia Vadas was as cunning and sly as a fox, taking after her father in ways that made up for the fact that he had never had a son to carry on his name. Her dark hair spoke to her mother's foreign origins, but her eyes were the thing that could strike fear in the hearts of many. The nearly white irises of her blue eyes had gained her the reputation as a seer. She had no powers, but she did not stop those who were superstitious from believing that she could see into their souls.

"We can trade cattle along the mountains, but we need more to make it worth our while. If we strike to the north, he won't have time to respond." She murmured, already calculating what might be had in the wealthy north.

She didn't wait for them to respond, instead taking her horse in hand and turning him in that direction. The horse snorted and started into a gallop instantly, in tuned with his owner's wants after years of training with her. If her men, less than ten in total, followed, they followed. If not, she would take on this task by herself.

 

[Obuzeti]

The manor has food enough stocked in the grainhouse for his men, and that's the main thing. The other hall proves to be empty - whatever'd been in there had probably been stolen the last time this place had been run over by raiders. He passes it over to the men and has the maid (a maid!) prepare barley bread and some beer; nothing special, but both are fresh, and finally reaching their destination is reason enough for some good cheer. Jussain plops himself down with his lot and lets it go on for a candlemark, then claps his hands.

"Take the rest of tonight off, but tomorrow we've got to get things in motion. Conrad and Hector, scout the woods, get some meat and some furs for the tanner; you'll all need bedding, and while there's probably some in the manor it won't be enough for twenty. Fremont's lot, get a tower in place on that big cedar about a hundred paces south - we'll want a bird's eye view to call out raiders in the future. Ernest, you and your crew get to fashioning stakes and hemp tripwires; we can't catch horsemen, but we can make it too dangerous to ride down into the dell. Leonard, you're with me."

He claps a hand over his chest in salutation, then stands and leaves; Leonard follows, his faithful shadow, as they head to the main hall and collapse in a pair of chairs.

"You're not wasting any time," Leonard says, his blonde hair wild and cropped short, sticking up at odd angles nevertheless. He has a lined, weathered face and a crooked smile; a poacher, rambler, and deserter, but he'd proven faithful to Jussain at the last, and now stood as his closest companion. "Something up?"

"Raiders hit every tenday or so, and they're overdue," Jussain says wearily, and draws his arming-blade out halfway to look at his own reflection in it; the mirrored steel more expensive than anything he'd owned in his life up to this point, and the symbol of his office, more or less. An older man, grey starting to show in his dark hair, short and stocky, powerfully-built but neither tall nor handsome; strong-featured might be the best compliment that could be given. A soldier's soldier, a lifer in the army, unobtrusive and unremarkable, save for victory's gleam.

And here he is, not a fortnight out from Lechfeld, already back in the path of these damned horsemen.

"I'll post a watch tonight - draw lots for two men, one at the manor, one at the village. Have 'em whistle if they see anything," he says, as the blade hisses closed and he leans back into the rough chair, eyes closing with fatigue. "We can't catch them on foot, but maybe we can at least stop 'em from riding off with anything too important, or setting fires."

The story of fighting the Maygars is getting there too late. Otto, praise his new crown, had gotten lucky with the rains bogging their horse down enough for the infantry to cut them apart as they tried to ford the rivers. Here in the open again, he's got no advantages, save that maybe these aren't the experienced reivers that he'd faced before.

Well, he'll find out soon enough. He leans back and closes his eyes, just for a moment. He's been in the saddle all day. Leonard's boots clump away to give out the bad news to the men, and he lets the grey fog over his vision for now; just a quick nap to keep him from passing out the following day too early.

 

[heartofcourage]

Dusk was falling. Perfect for their plans to begin. Anasztazia crept through the dark shadows, her leather boots barely making a sound. The smell of wood smoke filled the air, the hut that sat just in the distance filled with the sounds of voices both great and small. A family was sharing a meal inside, oblivious to the fact that their grain and their cattle were about to be stolen.

She cut the ties that held the cattle back, allowing the gate to swing open with a quiet creek. Ducking down low, she gave a call to the one working with her, ushering the cattle out and into the quickly darkening pasture.

Blowing out a breath, she pushed back the hood of her dark cloak and leaned against the rough wooden wall of the barn. She was exhausted after a day of fighting with her fellow tribe’s men. There was no respect for her position. No agreement with the way that she demanded things be done. There would be no bloodshed if they could help it. No burning farms or lives to the ground. The less noise they made the longer they could operate.

From the road came unfamiliar voices, accents that didn’t quiet sound right. She froze, barely turning her head to see two men patrolling, dressed in armor from the conquering king. If they were there, that meant there must have been a new lord of the manor. That meant that there would soon be new possibilities, new farms to pillage. Things might be looking up….

 

[Obuzeti]

Eustan and Schants draw the short straws; their patrol route winds through the main village and loops around it afterwards. Patrol is six hours, after which they're supposed to swap over with Coers and Tiemann, but that's a long ways away.

"D'ya think we're still like, proper military men? I mean, draw a wage and like?" Eustan queries, scratching his hair; it's low enough to hang in his eyes now, with no barber or shears handy during the campaign and the following march here. There's sheep in the fields, though, so some have got be handy somewhere nearby.

"Got last month's wage," Schants says, tall and bored-looking, ruddy skin from his Western heritage a mark that had seen him thrown out of many a unit. Not the Captain's, though.

"Fair," Eustan replies, scratching his chin. "And the food'll be fresher. Looking forward to that. Not just hard tack and stew."

The pair ambles their way down the main street, free of torches that'd ruin their eyesight; instead squinting out into the dark, watching for movement that doesn't match the rustling of the grass. They don't spot the woman herself, but the ambling forms of the cattle are an easy enough spot, and Eustan's brow furrows as the cow wanders out into the open meadow, chasing fresher graze. "Hey, that cow on a lead?"

Schants's head jerks around, and his lips thin as he draws his short blade and his shield comes off his back. "It's moving awful fast for a cow eating grass, that's what I think."

His family's peasants all the way back, and rustling is an offense that can mean children starving during the long winters without the meat and milk they bring. Getting caught often means that not enough of you would make it to the alderman for the king's justice, just in case you tried it a second time. The infantryman quickens into a trot, shield held high protectively just in case - there's a lot of tall grass for a poacher to hide in out there - as he heads for the freewind cattle. Eustan follows behind, a little confused, but willing to follow the other man's lead; city boy he is, he's a little fuzzy on how country serfs handle this sort of thing.

 

[heartofcourage]

The two soldiers conversed in low tones before the suspicious sounds of the livestock being taken caught the one just right. Anasztazia glanced towards the shadowed figures of her accomplices, already taking two of the cattle and trying to lead them off. She gave them no warning, no shout to give away her position as the soldiers dashed past her. Jozef and Bern were smart enough in the art of the steal to get away as they heard the soldiers raising all kinds of noise in the tall grass.

She filled her satchel with grain and root vegetables stored in the barn before she casually strolled to the darkened road. The language that they spoke was familiar, a rougher tone than she was used to hearing locals speak. The shouts of the soldiers sounded in the field, joined by the confused calls of the owners. As chaos developed behind her, she simply kept walking towards town.

A short distance away from the farm, she heard the familiar sounds of hooves on dirt. She didn't even need to glance over her shoulder to see Egil, her steed, following dutifully behind. He was a beautiful dark steppe horse, broad and built for travel. He had been her prized possession after she had tamed him herself. Smart as any horse had ever been, she prided herself on having such a loyal companion even when the world was ending around them.

The town was understandably quiet as she entered. It seemed that the arrival of the new men had put a damper on whatever celebrations the end of the war had brought. A new king, a new ruler, and new rules. Life would be different for everyone there. Egil paused at the edge of the tall grasses, taking it upon himself to graze as she continued towards an unassuming building.

Candles burned and men drank. A whorehouse, for lack of better terms. A place of secrets and a place for information. She didn't enter, instead sitting down at a table outside across from a man that she knew very well.

"Salvatore." She said with a nod of her head beneath her dark cloak as she tossed a small bag of coins in his direction. "Compliments of my father, of course."

 

[Obuzeti]

Salvatore snorts. "Your father couldn't give a damn what happens this far west," he says, and there's grim truth to that. He certainly hadn't cared to leave a chain of command in place, or any kind of instruction on how to keep the boys fed. With the horde out razing, desperately trying to regain the valor lost at Lechfeld, the home tribes are left to fend for themselves.

Salvatore is a unique little man; short, shrewd, and with the raised, inflamed skin of a brand upon his left cheek: an E, marking him an embezzler in the states of the Republics to the south. He's offered little explanation of it. His name obviously comes from those southern states as well, and he has the swarthy, broad-chested build of a sailor and the round-walk of one, now so far inland he's like to never see a boat again.

The establishment here is unique; an inn for travelers heading through the tribes to the east or into the Empire to the west, a stopping-point for messengers and mappers both, a hostel to hold rowdy fighting-men away from the locals, with women to slake their lusts on. No one here is particularly happy about their lot, but the wood-beams are stacked solid, the thatch roof is tough, and the food is steady.

He pockets the coins after tossing them in his hand briefly, able to identify the contents by weight and jingle alone. "New lord's going to be a thornbush for you, filly," he says, with an unpleasant grimace. "Word is he's been granted the land for holding. Mayhaps the Emperor would like blooded veterans facing east these days. His blade's still wet from Lechfeld; I'd not play games."

It's been a generation since a proper lord lived in the manor; nominally their fief belonged to a second son that had played at politics at the capital, leaving his remote holdings fallow. The dividends of that had been ill, indeed. None of them were familiar with the customs of lordship anymore, and the village is neither prosperous nor of favorable location. His temper is like to be fierce once he comes to recognize the raw bargain he's been offered.

 

[heartofcourage]

“No lord thus far has been too much of a problem for me.” She said with a shrug of her shoulders. “Just because his blade is wet doesn’t mean that he’s ready to face the problems that they have here. He’ll turn tail and run just like all the others, which means I have to be prepared to secure as much of my fortune as possible before that happens.”

“Which is why I need your information, friend. Everything you know about him.” Anazstazia said as she leaned forward, her blue eyes glowing in the candlelight. “My father’s men won’t stay loyal for long. If he insists on being gone to secure spoils of war I have to do what is best for those that stayed. It matters not if I’m a woman. I’m all they have.”

 

[Obuzeti]

"Well, I didn't see any horses, so you can definitely run circles around his lot," Salvatore says with a shrug. He's never cared about whose coin he takes - this entire area is already exile to him, and the locals just more foreign faces. They've hardly been welcoming, either. "Just don't pick a standing fight - but you hardly need me to tell you that."

The squat man shrugs as to her question though. "About the man himself? Almost nothing. He's one of those new benefice lot that the Emperor raised to fuck with his nobility more. There's like, two hundred of the fuckers, and sounds like more coming so information is scarce on the ground."

He glances at his mug and takes a swig of terrible beer; tasteless, but healthier than the groundwater around here. "I know some of the career soldiers and officers call him the Whoreson; evidently he's some camp follower's brat, been running with the army since he was a babe. Doesn't talk much, doesn't compete to be in the vanguard or rearguard, no hostages, no glory-chasing. Boring fucker. Doesn't even argue when you piss on his mother."

Salvatore frowns at Anazstazia. "He's a killer, but maybe a dull one. Don't think you can taunt him out or lure him; he'll fight on his terms or not at all. You might be able to talk him into walking away if you can pretend to have more raiders than he can handle, but that's just a guess. He won't lose his head over the attempt, anyways."

 

[heartofcourage]

"A man who comes all this way for land won't walk away so easily." She said with a long sigh, rethinking the situation as she stood. "I have two men about to be thrown in jail for stealing cattle. Give it a few hours before getting them out, if you would. Send them back towards camp with a stern warning about being quieter next time. They refuse to listen to a woman, no matter how many times I've warned them to watch their backs."

"I'll gather the rest of my men and continue with the plan to strike the north. If they don't have horses, as you say, then it'll be easy. Before they can rest and regroup, we can be gone with spoils." She murmured and glanced towards the manor house. "And if he is as bland and boring as you say, he might not even bother to investigate."