The King's Adventurer's (Retired)

[Polite]

It is late winter in the Kingdom of Thirce, and in the town squares bonfires are being built for the Winter's End Festival. Wishes, prayers, and notes to the dead are being written on pretty scraps of paper and folded into the shapes of creatures and flowers and at midnight, when the bonfires are lit, the tishi will be cast into the flames to carry their messages to gods and ancestors, gods, friends and to curse again old foes.

In the Norq Valley the wine makers freeze and re-freeze some of their wares to distill brandy as they await the spring's merchants.

Under Crown Guard a new tribal leader is named to the Dung Hill tribe of Goblins (who do not, of course, call themselves that. Among themsleves they are known as We Who Cleverly Take Shit. Which to you and I may not seem to be an improvement, but to this tribe of Goblins, who grow mushrooms needed by the Hedges and Mages alike, is quite a distinction). He is called Org, and he has fashioned his new crown out of the teeth and fingerbones of the old leader.

In the Hall of Builders a mage known as Blackroot waits for a buidling permit to build a mage school in Thirce. His beard is long and he has taken up smoking a very foul pipe. As he sits he comptiplates taking up other foul habits to speed up his request. He's been waiting for three years.

In the mountains it is the mateing time of the dragons, and three females have conceived. There is much rejoycing, but most people think it is thunder. In four years there will be eggs, and in ten years after that, if all goes well, hatchlings.

And in a drafty hall two men, battle scared and not yet past their prime but getting close, play stones. A betting game they have played together since they were children together.

Not only of an age but simlar in build and looks they could be brothers; but they are closer than that.

Thom, his once dark hair now a grizzled mix of colors, primarly silver but with an impressive white streak where once a cow had bashed his skull in, was the more battered of the two. Even now his left leg is splinted and a cane leans against his chair. He is dressed a plain looking tunic of good cloth and a pair of buckskin pants.

Balsom has retained his dark hair, with the exception of wings of silver at his temples and a mock goatee of silver in his dark beard, and looks better fed. The lines on his face are equally smiles and worry, and his clothes are of simlar cut to Thom's, but of fine cloth with discret and intricate sitchwork.

"So..."Balsom scoops of his stones and throws them again. "Maga and I were talking..."

Thom shifted and grimced in pain, not entirely caused by his leg. "Oh were you? That's nice. A man and his wife should, once in a while."

"Yes." The King of Thrice smiled. "I have a need and Maga has a want, and you are the solution."

Thom rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. He was getting too old for some of the things he put himself through. He should have never have been gored by that giant lizard. Even two years ago he wouldn't have. And sleeping on the ground did something to his joints that reminded him of that time he'd been bitten by that posion eater....

"Always, I am your man, sire." Thom answered.

"Good! Three stones!" Balsom took some of Thom's stones and added them to his pile. "Are you familer with Tempgar? Up north?"

Thom thought for a few moments as he rolled his own stones. "Small place, fishing mostly and Troll trade over the pass. Didn't we...depose the count there?"

"That's the place. I never replaced the count and it's gone down hill since then. Garrison's gotten lax, the townspeople have turned to wrecking ships and looting them, and there's been some Ur-Thrall rumors. I'd like you to go investigate it."

"And Maga's wish?"

"Maga wants you to settle down and get married. You've given us 30 years of good service, and 40 years friendship. She wants you to take it easy, enjoy your golden years now that things aren't ...." Balsom made a gesture to encompass the last few decades of rebellions, uprisings and other such annoying occurances.

"I see." He'd won no stones, and had the feeling he was about to lose a bigger prize." And the solution?"

Balsom pulled a packet of beribboned and wax sealed documents and lay them on the gaming table between them. "There'll be an offical announcement, a ball or something...to make it all public knowlege, but as of now, you are Count Tempgar."

His mouth was suddenly dry, and he made no move to touch the papers. "Sire...This is too much."

Balsom reached across the table and gripped Thom's hand.

"No cost is too much for the times you've been my friend, saved the life of myself and my wife and children, and saved the lives of countless innocents. You are no longer a landless knight, you are a Count."

Thom took a deep breath and let it out. "Well, I seem to have lost the game, but won a county! Won't the other's be surprized!" He chuckled and tried to imagine their faces...and couldn't.

 

[Morgoth]

Balyp stumbled into the Crusty Crane tavern, eyes glazed over. "What the hell d'ye want, man?" shouted the enraged barkeep.

Balyp smiled. "Why, mi (hic) goosh man (hic), I just wantsh to be makin' friendsh all good like. I feelsh bad 'bout tryin' ta steal from ya. Yer a nice fella, and I wantad ta give sumtin ta ya. Dis here be a (hic) shtick!"

The barkeep was not amused by the drunk man, and his surly face transformed into a glare of pure loathing. "I can see that, you bloody thief! What the hell do I need a stick for?" he shouted, ready to throw the man out for the sixth time in two hours.

"Na, na. Ya be wantin' ta lisen. Dis here be a magic shtick. Put in da ground, and bam!, ya get yaself a magic tree!" Balyp, said, leaning in close, the barkeep leaning back, doing his best to avoid the strong smell of alcohol.

"And just what would I do with a magic tree?" asked the indignant man.

"Well", Balyp responded, "tish no normal magic tree. Dis one here has gold fruit and shilver leavesh!" The barkeep, suddenly more interested, leaned in to hear the man. "Aye. Tish saved from poorness a lot. And I wants to gives it to ya 'cause ye been a good friend ta me, and I wantsh ta thank ye! Go ahead, trys it out in the back! Come back and tell me tish not amazin!" The barkeep quickly snatched the stick, turning and running as fast as he could through the back door.

Balyp straightened up, adjusting his clothes, spitting out the whiskey in his mouth, then leaping over the bar, where he deftly picked a small safe, shoving the money into the purse at his side. The patrons of the bar, what few there were, stared in dumbfounded shock. Then, paranoid as ever, the purse disappeared into a pocket. He shut the safe, leapt back over the bar, grooming himself as best he could, waiting for the barkeep to return, who soon enough, did, enraged, stick in hand. "This bloody stick ain't been magic! I just tried it, and nothing happened! You lying bastard!"

"Sir! I recommend that you keep a civil tongue in that head, lest I be forced to remove it! I am the honorable Sir Thom, and you will hand me that stick this instant. That stick means a great deal to me, having plundered it from the lair of a mighty wyrm, felled by my mightier blade. That stick and I have memories, and I demand that you, thieving batsard that you are, having stolen it most unjustly from me, return it this instant!" He silenced the still gaping patrons with a glare.

The enraged barkeep stared at Balyp with disbelief, shaking with ill-contained anger. “Listen you, you have tried to rob me three times already, and I simply will not stand for it! And you, you crazy bastard, are no Sir Thom. I have heard of his deeds and prowess, and you don’t even come close to fitting his description!”

Balyp stared back indignantly. “How dare you? How dare you deny my identity, and my sanity? I am as sane as a summer goose in a pond of fire beset by the harpies and very forces of Hell? What more could you ask for, man? Now, hand me my stick, or I shall be forced to report you to the law of this place. They have surely heard of me, and know me, and will certainly throw you into the jails for this infringement. Now, the stick, or I shall be forced to report you and your thieving!”

The barkeep nearly threw the stick at him, which Balyp snatched greedily, hugging it tightly. “He didn’t hurt you, did he, my baby? Me and you go back so long, to better times, when my name was known throughout the land. I’d never let you go. Not in a million years. Not for all the draconic hoards in the land.” Without any explanation, he twirled and walked through the door. He only broke into a run when he heard the surprised cry from inside, clutching the stick to him and mumbling, just before he disappeared into a dark alleyway.

 

[poohlive]

It didn't take long before Carl had chosen a select few from these recruits. Most of them, while trained extensively, just didn't have the posessive drive that he needed in a true fighter. To know how to use a sword, and to want to use that sword are two completely different things.
Most of these new batch were nothing more than a group of guards and jailors. It almost saddened him, that harsh look on a true warrior's eye, spit drooling from the corner of his mouth, and hate almost wafting off of them. They wanted blood spilled on the ground.
These guys just wanted a secure job in a relaxed part of the castle, where no one would bother them and they could catch up on sleep.
Maybe that's why he was so eager to get away from it, look for something a little more than what's out here. Teaching had become tiresome, the middle age equivalent to a desk job. He had suffered so that others could sleep easily at night, and they reward him with helping others meet their death... or catch up on a few ZZZ's.
A half dozen good men, ready to exzplore were out in the central courtyard, ready and waiting. Their young eager faces eyeing the new possibilty Carl had just told them with longing interest.
"This place bad, or something?"
Carl shook his head, "We're not going to fight a war or anything, if that's what you're saying. I think, just a few rough and tough locals, that's all. You know, people who have problems with new neighbors coming in."
"Yeah, that's where we come in?"
"We're just peace makers, no need to think this is some vigilante mission. Let me tell you, I've had more than my share of those. This is just a simple keep the..."
"Oh, come on. You're telling me we're not going to bust some heads?"
"Not unless its necessary."
"No offence, teacher, but when's the last time you've even kept the peace? There are some rag tag pieces of shit out there... we can't babysit them."
Carl stopped, looking at them, uneasy. He took a big breath.
"That's what is needed. Our job..."
"Our job? You? What in the hell? This is shit. You give us orders while we have to pretend to be all nice and shit. That's fucked up."
Carl nodded, "That's why I'm going with you. I'm part of the new group. We're all..."
"You can't do shit anymore, sir."
At this point, the hairs on Carl's head stood up. He turned back, seeing the one man, young, naive, with a sneering look on his face.
"Is that what you think?"
The young cadet shook his head, "This is fucking ridiculous."
In the end of everything, he still had this. Fuck.
"All right, you wanna prove something?" Carl spread his arms out, "I've scraped tougher shit off my boots, don't talk back..."
"Old man, it would be a pleasure to show you just how fucking weak you really are."
He came out, his sword already withdrawn. Carl stood for a moment, cocking his head, and unsheathing the sword simply and slowly.
"You forgot your lessons, Tolly."
Tolly spit on the ground, "Sir. I'm about to teach you a fucking lession."
He came out, strong, The sword high, freocious, but also forgetting his form. He was weak, and he left his side open. Carl side stepped, their swords locking up, and tried to moved around to stick in Tolly's side, but his weak knee twinged in pain as he let his full weight fall onto it.
So, instead of finishing this off easily, he limped back a few steps, ready for the next attack.
Tolly took no opportunity to waste, and came out again, stronger. He lept in through the side, coming up, holding the swords in the air, blocking them, and then moving around.
Carl moved the other way, dodged once around leaning far into Tolly and knocking him back, off his sword. Tolly wiped the blood from his lip, almost happy to see it.
He came in again, but Carl was ready for him. The guy was strong, fierce, and had a thick skull, and his attacks were tremendous, but they were also the same. Each time he came in high.
Carl ducked down, taking his bad leg out, and letting it sidesweep Tolly's oncoming charge. He fell face first, his sword clattering out of the way. Carl made a swirl, caushing a long but shallow gash on his back. Tolly cried out in pain.
Carl got up, wincing as the new pain crept up in his leg. This wasn't a good day for him. He'd need to soak it before long, and get some ice, if there was any.
"Someone else want to see just how old I am?" He said, wiping the sweat from his eye.
No one else spoke.
"I expect you packed and ready by the time the celebrations is over tomorrow. And Tolly, clean yourself up, look presentable. We're supposed to make an appearance tonight. I want you all looking your best."
Carl walked as straight as he could back into some of the barracks, only limping when he was out of sight.

 

[Polite]

Lord Tempgar, Thom

The day after Winter's End Festival Thom limped from his bedroom and rang for a page. While he waited he scrawled out notes to his comrades and to the Master at Arms, Carl.

He read over his note to Carl twice before desiding how to sign it.

Carl, it will be good to travel with you again. Assemble the men will be taking with us for inspection at noon today. We leave in two weeks, but knowing you, they are already ready to go."

Should he sign it Sir Thom, as usual? Or Lord, or Count Tempgar?

Uncomfortable yet with the title and telling himself that since nothing had been announced yet he was safe, he signed it "Sir Thom."

The rest of the notes, other than the addresses, were a quick scrawl of "Late dinner. My rooms. Thom."

"Whatcha writin'?" A shadow detached itself from behind some curtains and Thom, long used to mages, hedges and theives, calmly poured himself and his guest a drink.

"So, Swift, what is new in the world?"

The young theif they'd picked up in Kir's Hold curled himself up in a chair next to Thom's desk. "All sorts of gossip and rumors floated up in the night air..." Swift was unnaturally thin, with dark skin made pale by his perfered clothing of dressing in black buckskin from his hooded head to his soft soled boots.

"What did you hear, then?" Thom leaned back and listened to Swift's report. The boy was a fine theif, but he was one of the best intellgence gathers Thom had ever seen. While they talked the page came and went, with the messages and will as instuctions for the cook to serve a late cold supper to his rooms.

"One bit of gossip you haven't heard is that we are going North in a week or so, I just found out last night myself in a private conference with the king." Thom laid out the situcation to Swift, who pulled on his lower lip thoughtfully as he listened.

"Well, that's just bone for me, isn't it?" Swift said, frowning. "I join your outfit to learn and see the sights and earn a good livin' on the right side of the law, not go and park in the woods up North!"

"I take it then you don't want to come?" Thom asked.

"Not ruddy likely!" Swift rolled his eyes.

"In that case, I think you might like to have a chat with the head of security..."Thom wrote a name on a scrap of paper.

"Are you turning me in, then?" Swift pulled back into himself.

"No. I think you might enjoy a change in careers." Thom handed him the paper.

Swift took it. "Maybe. If it's interestin'." He glanced at the paper, not letting on he couldn't read. "And I'll try to be here tonight, when you meet with the others."

 

[Morgoth]

Ballyp walked calmly into the Hag's Briny Ass, a small, delapidated tavern he had proudly declared his base of operations to a bored and uncaring bartender and his one, extremely drunk customer. In fact, all that Ballyp had to do was buy one flagon of ale a day, and he could burn the entire city down and still find shelter in this run-down little place.

"Well, my good man? What are you waiting for? I'm here for my daily administration of the worst grog in the bloody land! I demand that this time, you water it down a bit more. My tongue nearly fell off last time, you know! Where do you even get that? Who in their right mind even brews it!? Nevermind, man, I've already deduced it from your glazed expression and lack of reaction. The bloody Dead King does, doesn't he? No, wait, don't shift your weight to give me a bizarre expression that I'll mistake for an answer: I don't want to know. Now hand it to me and let's get this over with", he ranted, his hands gesturing through the air like mad, nearly striking the bartender six or seven times. Finally, the tired man produced a rusty iron tankard full of a foul-smelling, black liquid. With a grimace, Ballyp downed it, gagged, belched a noxious black fume, yanked at his hair, gave a groan, and remarked, "I see you took my advice. Much better than last time, my friend. Keep the rate of improvement this high, and soon, you'll be selling ale to the bloody nobles. Anyone needs me, I'll be passed out in my room, praying for someone to slice out my stomach and my tongue. Make sure to send some assassins."

 

[Polite]

Elsewhere in the city, in a much nicer pub than the Hag's Briny Ass, a waitress sings to her customers as she brings them their ale, her coppery hair shining in the lamplight as she smiles at the patrons.

"Oh, Johnny be fair and Johnny be fine
And wants me for to wed,
And I would marry Johnny but me father up and said
I'm sad to tell my daughter what her mother never knew
But Johnny is a son of mine and so is kin to you.

"Oh, Billy be fair and Billy be fine
And wants me for to wed,
And I would marry Billy but me father up and said
I'm sad to tell my daughter what her mother never knew
But Billy is a son of mine and so is kin to you.

"Oh, Jimmy be fair and Jimmy be fine
And wants me for to wed,
And I would marry Jimmy but me father up and said
I'm sad to tell my daughter what her mother never knew
But Jimmy is a son of mine and so is kin to you."

She put her hands on her hips and made a moue of mock disappointment.

"Oh you never saw a girl so sad and sorry as I was!
All the boys in town are my kin and my father is the cause!
If life should thus continue I shall die a a single miss,
And so I'll go to mother dear and complain to her of this!"

Humming the tune she whisked away empty tankards and set them on the bar.

"Oh daughter haven't I told you to forgive and to forget?
And if your father sows his oats, well still you shouldn't fret!
Your father may be father to all the the boy town, but still...
He's not the one who sired you so marry who you will!
No he's not the one who sired you so marry who you will!"

Her audience roared with laughter and called for another ale and another song, and a few tired to steal a pinch or a kiss as well.

 

[cats]

Ronic Trmble

IC: 'Oh daughter haven't I told you to forgive and to forget?
And if your father sows his oats, well still you shouldn't fret!
Your father may be father to all the the boy town, but still...
He's not the one who sired you so marry who you will!
No he's not the one who sired you so marry who you will!'

"Now thats a good song." I nodded a few times. "maybe I should ad it to my long list of songs I know, just in case I ever am turned into a girl again." I took a swig of the ale, only to find it was empty. "Bartender I can't tell the story of the evil witch of darkwood pier, with out a full mug!"

The bartender gave a look at me before saying 'Glad to here that.' Then he went back to his own work. "Oh fine then, I'll do it this way." I placed three coins on the table. The bartender took them and then poured me a drink.

"Okay so this time Sir Thom came to me and asked if I had heard of a Witch of Dark wood lake. It seemed he had a new intelligence member called quick or something. While he seemed bright enough, he hadn't quite figured out the art of getting info as well as me. But who really has, I know most things, and I here he's gotten pretty good any how. So I told good Ole Thom, No can't say that I have."

.....37 minutes latter.....

"And so Thom comes in and finds me over her dead body, in that blood stained black dress, and He turns to me and says 'You don't have to where that any more. But I seem to of misplaced your pants.' Oh it was a good long while before he stopped jesting about that one." I looked around not to surprised to see a few people smile to try and convince me they actually were listening.

'So, you and Sir Thom did a lot together. Does that mean your going to that ball?' I turned to a surprisingly sober person who only 30 or so minutes ago had been trying to pinch the waitress. "Ball? What ball?"

 

[Polite]

After a light breakfast Thom reviewed the maps of his new county and the tax rolls. Boring stuff, really, but like any good campain success depends on prepartion.

It was while he stood with Carl reviewing the small group of soliders that a breathless red faced page found him and told him the Queen needed him urgently.

Maga was not a faint hearted woman and had swung a sword along side Thom and the King during the Ur-Thrall wars and for her to request Thom to come immediatly wasn't a something he put off lightly. He slapped Carl on the back and limped quickly to Maga's quarters.

The Queen of Thirce had aged well, but was no longer the slim hipped beauty who had helped Balsom keep his throne, but rather a sout and buxom matron with the silvery hair only a true blonde acheives in later years. She sat in her private study with a list in one hand, a cup of tea in the other, and a small group of seamstresses clustered in the corner awaiting her pleasure.

"Ah, Thom!" Maga cried out with a smile on her face, as if his visit was a surprize visit instead of a command appearance. "I'm so glad you've come, we haven't much time!"

"Time for what, my Queen?" Thom asked with a sudden sinking heart.

"Why your fitting, Thom! For your ball clothes. A present from myself, along with some other suitable new clothes for your new station." Maga raised her cup hand to the ladies in the corner who decended on Thom with pins and ruler ribbons and began undressing him.

"If I fought my way out of here and escaped, would you forgive me?" Thom asked.

"I would not!" Maga wagged a finger sternly at him. "Just hold still for the ladies while I go over this list with you."

"And what list is that, my Queen?" Thom asked as deft hands stripped away his outer clothes, revealing less than pristine underclothes and a collection of scars.

"Oh, a list of potentinal brides, my dear Thom!" Maga beamed brightly and began to read from her list, with personal asides to each womans character.

Thom groaned and wish he'd fled while he still had some clothes and digninty left.