The Bellows and The Boy(closed)
It was an inn like any other in the palace district in Brynsland, the largest city in Elysia Realm in the Kingdom of Boudineer. There was a parlor on the entry level, opulently decorated with a bar constructed of dark, heavy wood the same as the tables and chairs, which were upholstered in plush red velvet. An elaborate fireplace embellished with gold leaf and intricately carved patterns that depicted the varying landscape of the realm. There were plush sofas and high back chairs for weary travellers to rest their bones and attentive staff to care for any need that arose. The rooms on the upper floors were furnished with furniture as exquisite as below. While some were afforded a fireplace and seating area, four-poster beds with pristine linens and down stuffed duvans along with writing desks dominated each room. There was a stable where the finest farriers and groomers in the Kingdom were employed, along with a blacksmith who apprenticed under the the Royal weaponsmith. All entrances were guarded around the clock to insure the security of all patrons and all staff were housed on the premises in various outbuildings just beyond the courtyard.
There were a few peculiarities that made this inn different from all others in Boudineer. For starters, there was no signage to speak of and was nicknamed “The Nameless” by the citizenry. The windows were always shuttered and there never seemed to be any vacancies. It was also abnormally close the the castle wall, it’s outbuildings seemed to be built into the wall itself. There was also an unusual amount of stairs leading up to the front door that hinted there was more to the lower levels than just cellar.
The fact that there was more than one was unique enough but what these levels housed would have shocked the locals. The lowest level was far beneath the surface, built into the bedrock of Elysia and housed a dungeon from which none would ever return. There was also a network of tunnels that led directly to the castle’s inner keep in one direction and to a grove of trees outside the city proper in the other. The level above housed an armory and archive to rival any in the kingdom. Above that was another, more intimate parlor that lead to the Innkeeper’s private suite.
It was here that Elric Riley paced, having abandoned the parlor above to wallow in his own misfortunes. His once voluminous raven mane was receding at his temples and various shades of gray to match his eyes. There was a time in his life, that his presence would strike fear in the strongest man but now in his 60th year, Elric had been reduced to an administrator. It was a position that he once held the lowest regard, for those who were not built for the rigors of the sword. In all his years he never imagined he would be reduced to such a futile state, a relative secretary in The Unseen Order.
When he took the job of Innkeeper, nearly 15 years ago, Elric was led to believe he was in line for the Order’s most prestigious position. The Initiator. The Bellows, the one who controls The Wind. Those were the mythic names for the one who took his orders directly from the Crown and the cadre of men and women with various skills set that executed those orders. Elric had risen through the ranks beginning at the age of 8 when a mysterious man came to pick him up from the urchin home in lower Ausveld. By the time he was 20, Elric was head of the motley, The Order’s support staff, and charged with training the kingdom’s throwaways in the ways of The Wind. He was offered his first mission as a courier soon after and before he knew it, Elric was being fitted for his very own double breasted cloak. His name was recorded in the Innkeeper’s registry in the “Tenant” section.
For the first time in his life, Elric Riley felt his life meant something. His was no longer an orphan destined to live in squalor until he found his way into a pauper’s grave. He led troops to squelch rebellion, interrogated traitors, and brought down bandits who threatened the safety of the citizenry. And though he received no accolades, no invitations to The Grand Fete, Elric was content. Even after a musket blast stole the hearing in left ear and he was made the Innkeeper, he believed there would be glory. Elric assumed an audience with the Crown was in his future, he need only bide his time.
Years came and went without his setting foot in the castle proper. He barely left the inn but still he was resolute in his devotion to The Order. It was Elric who persuaded a renowned smithy into The Order’s employ. It was Elric who championed the establishment of another nameless inn in Ausveld, a decision that may have triggered his downfall.
For the better part of a year, Elric traversed the kingdom in a horse drawn carriage scouting locations for this new facility. With the Bellows’ blessing, he oversaw the renovations. He believed that his ambitions would be rewarded with a promotion when the time was right. Unbeknownst to him the mechanism of succession had already begun and his name was not on the list.
There was only one name and when Elric returned to find that it was not his own, he flew into a rage that nearly earned him a visit to the dungeon. A weekend spent in one of Brynsland’s Houses of Sydor quelled his passions and allowed him to return to his usual meticulous self. The change over would not be immediate and there would be some overlap while the successor learned of his new duties. That was plenty of time for Elric to hatch a plan to usurp power.
The first step had already been completed with the mysterious death of the acting Initiator. Elric spun a tail of a hidden ailment to conceal his own involvement in the slow poisoning of his superior and was finally awarded an invitation to the castle proper. There was no grand banquet of course, just a clandestine meeting with the Crown’s Interior Advisor in the bowels of the inner keep where Elric swore allegiance to the successor and assured his assistance in the transition. A small part of him held out hope that he might be named Initiator instead but of course, that was not the case, so he moved onto stage two. For that he needed a scapegoat someone outside of The Order who could be manipulated into doing his dirty work.
Kemp Jacoby, a recent recruit, had made it plain that his influence was being wasted eavesdropping on nobles. Initially, Elric found the young man’s ambition audacious and ill advised but he was the perfect patsy. He fed him a tale of possible intrigue within their covert ranks and enlisted his assistance in ferreting out the traitor. Elric worked the young man for weeks, sending him on dummy missions until the time was right.
“You’re to recruit a messenger,” he told Kemp just two nights ago. “Obedient, but expendable. The caravan leaves at midday in three days time, if your boy is not on it all will be lost.”
He almost felt bad for how the young man’s eyes lit up. The mischievous tilt to his smile, the swell of his chest, it was all too familiar to the bitter old man. Elric himself had stood in the same spot before Kemp Jacoby was off the wet nurse. His predecessor had poured him a drink from the same decantur to toast the same terrible decision nearly 25 years ago. It occurred to Elric then that perhaps his predecessors had done the same to him, fed him false promises to inspire loyalty. He took some solace in knowing that Kemp’s life would not be as long.
A knock at the door shook Elric out of his reminiscence and he turned to find his page announcing the arrival of one Kemp Jacoby and the brute he’d hired as muscle. Only Kemp entered the parlor, with the same mischievous grin, and took a seat before it had even been offered.
“You’ll be pleased by my selection, sir,” he said as Elric poured himself a drink. “I told him nothing of the business done here and Gerard has gone off to arrange his misfortune…”
“I’ll not be pleased until the mission is complete. You’re sure none will come looking for him,” Elric asked after a long draft from his wine glass. “He’s not a local is he?”
“I assure he’ll not be missed, sir,” Kemp said with a chuckle as he pressed himself up from his seat and moved toward the bar. “The bastard son of a long dead backwoods herbalist is just as expendable as any welp you might find in the urchin’s home. He’s never been to Brynsland, never left the quaint little village of his birth and yet none would consider him a friend. Those that know him might consider his disappearance a gift from Maker.”
“For your sake, I hope you are correct,” was Elric’s stern reply as he casually took the decanter and glass from Kemp’s hands before moving to his door. “Report tomorrow once he is off with the caravan. I’ll have your next mission details then,” he said with a raised eyebrow, making Kemp scramble a little before he shuffled towards the open door. “Stay indoors until then,” he ordered before slamming the door in Kemp’s face. “Presumptuous twit,” he muttered as he made his way back to his desk. Elric leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the courtyard below, all the while thinking that soon it would all be his.
It was an inn like any other in the palace district in Brynsland, the largest city in Elysia Realm in the Kingdom of Boudineer. There was a parlor on the entry level, opulently decorated with a bar constructed of dark, heavy wood the same as the tables and chairs, which were upholstered in plush red velvet. An elaborate fireplace embellished with gold leaf and intricately carved patterns that depicted the varying landscape of the realm. There were plush sofas and high back chairs for weary travellers to rest their bones and attentive staff to care for any need that arose. The rooms on the upper floors were furnished with furniture as exquisite as below. While some were afforded a fireplace and seating area, four-poster beds with pristine linens and down stuffed duvans along with writing desks dominated each room. There was a stable where the finest farriers and groomers in the Kingdom were employed, along with a blacksmith who apprenticed under the the Royal weaponsmith. All entrances were guarded around the clock to insure the security of all patrons and all staff were housed on the premises in various outbuildings just beyond the courtyard.
There were a few peculiarities that made this inn different from all others in Boudineer. For starters, there was no signage to speak of and was nicknamed “The Nameless” by the citizenry. The windows were always shuttered and there never seemed to be any vacancies. It was also abnormally close the the castle wall, it’s outbuildings seemed to be built into the wall itself. There was also an unusual amount of stairs leading up to the front door that hinted there was more to the lower levels than just cellar.
The fact that there was more than one was unique enough but what these levels housed would have shocked the locals. The lowest level was far beneath the surface, built into the bedrock of Elysia and housed a dungeon from which none would ever return. There was also a network of tunnels that led directly to the castle’s inner keep in one direction and to a grove of trees outside the city proper in the other. The level above housed an armory and archive to rival any in the kingdom. Above that was another, more intimate parlor that lead to the Innkeeper’s private suite.
It was here that Elric Riley paced, having abandoned the parlor above to wallow in his own misfortunes. His once voluminous raven mane was receding at his temples and various shades of gray to match his eyes. There was a time in his life, that his presence would strike fear in the strongest man but now in his 60th year, Elric had been reduced to an administrator. It was a position that he once held the lowest regard, for those who were not built for the rigors of the sword. In all his years he never imagined he would be reduced to such a futile state, a relative secretary in The Unseen Order.
When he took the job of Innkeeper, nearly 15 years ago, Elric was led to believe he was in line for the Order’s most prestigious position. The Initiator. The Bellows, the one who controls The Wind. Those were the mythic names for the one who took his orders directly from the Crown and the cadre of men and women with various skills set that executed those orders. Elric had risen through the ranks beginning at the age of 8 when a mysterious man came to pick him up from the urchin home in lower Ausveld. By the time he was 20, Elric was head of the motley, The Order’s support staff, and charged with training the kingdom’s throwaways in the ways of The Wind. He was offered his first mission as a courier soon after and before he knew it, Elric was being fitted for his very own double breasted cloak. His name was recorded in the Innkeeper’s registry in the “Tenant” section.
For the first time in his life, Elric Riley felt his life meant something. His was no longer an orphan destined to live in squalor until he found his way into a pauper’s grave. He led troops to squelch rebellion, interrogated traitors, and brought down bandits who threatened the safety of the citizenry. And though he received no accolades, no invitations to The Grand Fete, Elric was content. Even after a musket blast stole the hearing in left ear and he was made the Innkeeper, he believed there would be glory. Elric assumed an audience with the Crown was in his future, he need only bide his time.
Years came and went without his setting foot in the castle proper. He barely left the inn but still he was resolute in his devotion to The Order. It was Elric who persuaded a renowned smithy into The Order’s employ. It was Elric who championed the establishment of another nameless inn in Ausveld, a decision that may have triggered his downfall.
For the better part of a year, Elric traversed the kingdom in a horse drawn carriage scouting locations for this new facility. With the Bellows’ blessing, he oversaw the renovations. He believed that his ambitions would be rewarded with a promotion when the time was right. Unbeknownst to him the mechanism of succession had already begun and his name was not on the list.
There was only one name and when Elric returned to find that it was not his own, he flew into a rage that nearly earned him a visit to the dungeon. A weekend spent in one of Brynsland’s Houses of Sydor quelled his passions and allowed him to return to his usual meticulous self. The change over would not be immediate and there would be some overlap while the successor learned of his new duties. That was plenty of time for Elric to hatch a plan to usurp power.
The first step had already been completed with the mysterious death of the acting Initiator. Elric spun a tail of a hidden ailment to conceal his own involvement in the slow poisoning of his superior and was finally awarded an invitation to the castle proper. There was no grand banquet of course, just a clandestine meeting with the Crown’s Interior Advisor in the bowels of the inner keep where Elric swore allegiance to the successor and assured his assistance in the transition. A small part of him held out hope that he might be named Initiator instead but of course, that was not the case, so he moved onto stage two. For that he needed a scapegoat someone outside of The Order who could be manipulated into doing his dirty work.
Kemp Jacoby, a recent recruit, had made it plain that his influence was being wasted eavesdropping on nobles. Initially, Elric found the young man’s ambition audacious and ill advised but he was the perfect patsy. He fed him a tale of possible intrigue within their covert ranks and enlisted his assistance in ferreting out the traitor. Elric worked the young man for weeks, sending him on dummy missions until the time was right.
“You’re to recruit a messenger,” he told Kemp just two nights ago. “Obedient, but expendable. The caravan leaves at midday in three days time, if your boy is not on it all will be lost.”
He almost felt bad for how the young man’s eyes lit up. The mischievous tilt to his smile, the swell of his chest, it was all too familiar to the bitter old man. Elric himself had stood in the same spot before Kemp Jacoby was off the wet nurse. His predecessor had poured him a drink from the same decantur to toast the same terrible decision nearly 25 years ago. It occurred to Elric then that perhaps his predecessors had done the same to him, fed him false promises to inspire loyalty. He took some solace in knowing that Kemp’s life would not be as long.
A knock at the door shook Elric out of his reminiscence and he turned to find his page announcing the arrival of one Kemp Jacoby and the brute he’d hired as muscle. Only Kemp entered the parlor, with the same mischievous grin, and took a seat before it had even been offered.
“You’ll be pleased by my selection, sir,” he said as Elric poured himself a drink. “I told him nothing of the business done here and Gerard has gone off to arrange his misfortune…”
“I’ll not be pleased until the mission is complete. You’re sure none will come looking for him,” Elric asked after a long draft from his wine glass. “He’s not a local is he?”
“I assure he’ll not be missed, sir,” Kemp said with a chuckle as he pressed himself up from his seat and moved toward the bar. “The bastard son of a long dead backwoods herbalist is just as expendable as any welp you might find in the urchin’s home. He’s never been to Brynsland, never left the quaint little village of his birth and yet none would consider him a friend. Those that know him might consider his disappearance a gift from Maker.”
“For your sake, I hope you are correct,” was Elric’s stern reply as he casually took the decanter and glass from Kemp’s hands before moving to his door. “Report tomorrow once he is off with the caravan. I’ll have your next mission details then,” he said with a raised eyebrow, making Kemp scramble a little before he shuffled towards the open door. “Stay indoors until then,” he ordered before slamming the door in Kemp’s face. “Presumptuous twit,” he muttered as he made his way back to his desk. Elric leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the courtyard below, all the while thinking that soon it would all be his.
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