Forgotten Shadows

[Bynw]

This thread is for the game only. Only Players may post to this thread. Everything posted here is "in-character".

Any out-of-character posts or posts from members who are not players will be deleted.

[Bynw]

The horrors of war have not been forgotten in the last 4 years since the Mearaen Rebellion of 1164. The rebuilding of keeps and new lords and titles stand as stark reminders of the costs of war. And there are the countless dead on both sides of the rebellion. Bodies are still found in fields and unmarked graves.

It was a war started by the Deryni, yet few of that race perished in the conflict. Perhaps that is what sparked the flame of resentment in the beginning. Whatever it was, the sparks smoldered in pockets here and there across Gwynedd. Often dismissed as rumor or ghost stories by various lords.

Even the openly Deryni lords couldn't bring themselves to believe such things were again happening in Gwynedd under King Kelson's reign. So the flames spread and sparked more fires in the hearts of men.

As it grew worse, the Church condemned the violence against the Deryni and against those that retaliated. But by the autumn of 1168 the flames had grown to an inferno. Some priests, in very human communities, were preaching about the evils of the Deryni and their sorcery that has brought damnation to Gwynedd.

It is a perilous time and things haven't been this bleak since the death of King Cinhil. And it looks as if history is going to repeat itself and bring about another Deryni persecution.

[Bynw]

King Kelson and his court are seeing the realities of the growing Willimite resurgence and resentment of the Deryni across Gwynedd. The King is cautious in his actions otherwise the balance may tip to one side or other other and flames will burn across Gwynedd and consume both human and Deryni as it does. "Keep the King's Peace" is a common phrase when meeting strangers on the roads of the kingdom. Sometimes, it isn't peaceful.

[Marc_du_Temple]

In coastal Carbury towne, Autumn had rushed in like the chills heralding a fever. The sailors and the fishers had planned accordingly, putting out to sea to net herring, cod, mackerel, and with a prayer to Saint Andrew: salmon, before the Gulf of Kheldour was too perilous to cross. Indeed, the only ones troubled by the question of where their next meal would come from were the travelers, the wanderers, the vagabonds and the like. All of them converged in certain hotspots. The abbey, monastery or other such sanctuary for the body and the soul, the tavern for more practical rest, and the faire: the domain of jesters, players and fools. Spotted John, known as such for the paint on his face and the marks on his often exposed abdomen, was familiar with them all, but tonight he had yet seen only the last of those and it was his home. Just one more to say goodbye to.

"If you see me sleeping in the tent in the morning, kick me in my side and kiss me, dear friends, for I could not stay away for anything. If my arrow of Orion is embedded in the dirt by the entrance, then know we will meet again, in whatever shape we find each other. If there is no sign of me at all tomorrow, then I am with The Lord, and it is best you act as though I were never here." Those were his last words to his performing entourage, drawn from all over the Eleven Kingdoms, and a few beyond their borders. His motley facepaint had been ruined by the tears he shed for them, but they did not fall alone. Only their leader, the acrobat calling himself Scimmio, spat on the ground inside of their tent instead.

"You walk away from us out of habit as much as I tuck and roll the same. I can't promise there won't be another bowman where you once slept when you return, boy."

The boy in question simply smiled, his eyes glistening like blue ponds struck by stones. "It's kind of you to say that I am needed, boss. I had missed the feeling when we met in Valoret. But we've had enough mischief for a thousand years in two, haven't we, boys and girls? God be with ye all." With that, he tucked his straw hair in his cap, rose, bowed with a jester's sardonicism, adjusted the gayly dyed thing that was once a tunic and now but a shredded mockery of such shirts, and then saddled his horse outside.

Spotted John had intended to go one way from there, but the wind had blown him in another direction. Regardless, it was away, and he was alive, so by the light of oil lamps he loosed an arrow with a unique marker on it: a necklace with a woven figure evoking Orion and his bow, finding their home not in the sky, but the ground.

None could see where that wind began, but hours later it had led to The Broken Mast. He crept in warily with a wet, unblemished face, sans the tunic, with a mismatched towel draped over his old kit of lime and black like an all-concealing sagum, as though he were Pontius Pilate on a wilderness journey. Best to go by your real name, now, he thought.

[Jerusha]

Elspeth Rowan opened the side door of her stepfather's tavern, The Broken Mast. She was hit by the usual tavern sounds: men talking loudly, the occasional laugh or curse, tankards slapped down on wooden tables, the scrape of a bench across the floor as someone left for home or for the privy outside. She spotted Amy, one of the few people she called a friend, serving bowls of thick stew to a group of men at a table. Amy smiled at their fervent thanks, but moved quickly away.

Elspeth made her way as unobtrusively as possible across the room to the swinging door of the kitchen. This was her mother's domain; The Broken Mast was well known for its better than average food. As usual, the kitchen was warm both from the cooking fires and the bustle of activity. Elspeth lowered the hood of her cloak. She was well-known here, and no one commented on her mismatched eyes. Certainly not if they wanted to remain employed.

Her mother approached her, her kirtle covered by a large once-white apron and her gray hair bound into a still-white kerchief. "Everything is well?" she asked.

"As well as can be expected," Elspeth replied. "The wet nurse I arranged for has been accepted by the baby, who is finally starting to thrive."

"Are you still set on traveling with Amy to the library at Grecotha?" Elen Rowan's question held a hint of disapproval.

Elslpeth sighed, remembering the difficult childbirth she had attended less than a week ago. The woman was approaching 40 years of age, too old to bear a child, but after four daughters and a few stillbirths, a son was finally born. The father was ecstatic, promising his wife a fine new kirtle as a birth present. His joy soon turned to despair as the exhausted woman succumbed to childbed fever three days later. Elspeth, assisted by Amy, had tried every remedy she knew of, but nothing had broken the fever. The fine new kirtle would now be a shroud.

"Yes Mam, I am still determined. The old infirmarian at the hospice adjacent to Saint Stefan's Priory told me of a medicine called talicil that would reduce a fever quickly. Its use was banned long ago by the Regents, but records of its existence may have been kept at Grecotha. If that information could save a life..."

"Geoffrey will not let you travel unescorted," Elen stated firmly. "Your stepfather would not risk your or Amy's safety on the roads. Especially these days."

"But who will he find? Every available man will be working to bring in the harvest, or at sea to secure a catch before the weather turns foul. He can't spare Carew, especially with Amy coming with me." Carew was Elspeth's younger brother, who was well suited to follow his stepfather into the tavern trade and very good at tossing unruly patrons out into the mud. Elspeth stepped to the door of the kitchen and waved a hand to generally encompass those in the tavern. "Would any of these men actually be capable of providing protection?"

As she surveyed the room, Elspeth noticed the man just entering the tavern. His face was damp and he wore a mismatched towel draped over a ghastly kit of lime and black.

"Certainly not that one!" she stated with a nod of her head in the man's direction.

[Marc_du_Temple]

He heard her shout, and while he was initially perturbed by her gaze, the feeling subsided when he thought about what she had said. She's denying my involvement with something. Good. ((Bede attempts to Sneak to the tavern bar subtly. 3d6 5 + 3 + 6 = 14)) Now, stand proud, but move calmly. They're looking for a faire freak. That's obviously someone else. You are a patrician, and as long as you remain enshrouded by your new sagum, there's nothing more to see. He left his bow by the door, alongside the cumbersome weapons of the other patrons, but kept his hunting knife wrapped under the rags that were once a tabard. As he weaved between the boisterous patrons like a free sail on the wind, he was careful not to move like an archer, lest he invite a challenge by the exposed fibers of his disproportionate arms. Too few know that it is a world of difference between throwing a punch within a meter and loosing an arrow a quarter of a mile. The plan worked. So well, that nobody but the bartender asked his business, after offering him a wipe and a chide about risking a head cold.

"With arrows like those, you could spear a fish, man." He remarked as he wiped down a glass and proffered it to "John".

Oh, I sometimes forget I am wearing those, he thought but did not say, until he could not think of a reason why he should not.

"Ah, a professional, then?" The bartender laughed with appraisal in his eyes, but "John" gestured to keep the conversation a quiet one, then accepted the glass.

"An honest fisher of men, man." ((Bede attempts to make a Perceptive check at the bar. 2d6 6 + 4 = 10)) The bartender chuckled before turning his back to the ragged man in pristine white. A rookie mistake from a professional, "John" could tell. His suspicions were confirmed by two things: the way the man behind the counter shifted and turned things that helped nothing by being turned, and a burly man stalking through the gloom of the candlelight reflected in the glass in "John"'s hand. They bore no resemblance in body, but in the way they dressed, there was something. An agent of a reeve? A constable in the flesh? "John" wondered about either of them, then shook his head. He had seconds to think what to do, and they were draining out the hourglass quicker than the reading of this sentence.

Like a millstone covered in melting snow, he turned to face the room and the man of particular interest. ((Bede audaciously offers to buy Carew a drink. (Charismatic Roll)2d6 4 + 1 = 5)) "May I offer you a drink, friend?" He kept the glass in the air to see the bartender reflected in its surface. He does the cleaning very well, on top of everything else. He thought it would be a shame to have to fight his way out of there, but he patted the solid lump of his knife wrapped under his rags in preparation.

Now that they were face to face, both men were better able to judge one another. A ragged wanderer and an aproned, amiable but protective type with dark wavy hair. One belonged, and the other did not. With a declining hand that in the wavering light seemed the size of "John"'s chest, the strong young man said, "I cannot accept on the job . . . err . . ."

"Bede. But a common archer, man." And he adjusted the heavy towel. He noticed a resemblance between the man before him and the maiden from before; it was in the face, this time, but his eyes were comparatively plain, being merely a warm brown.

The mysterious man crossed his oaken arms. "Not a silvatico, I hope."
Bede snorted at that and played up a Nefynian accent. "You think I would get far in the woods draped in this? I am more of a specialist, dealing in secure goods, wares, people." And at one time, it was true. "Most recently: the Selkie, just today put out to sea, headed for Transha."

"Without you?" asked the man behind the counter.

Bede looked up and around to meet his gaze with a grin. "My contract was up."

The bartender nodded his understanding, then nodded to the man on his feet. That man took the cue to dispel some mystery and shook Bede's hand. The left one, empty as could be. "I'm Carew, stepson of the proprietor. Let me buy you a drink. Bede. We don't often have people like you darkening our doorway." The brawny heir to the tavern knew how to flatter. After the three men had reached a modicum of familiarity over the first couple of drinks, Bede had nearly let his guard down. Between the tall tales the pair pulled out of him, he noticed certain questions they asked of his character.

Carew excitedly asked: "Ever kill anyone?"

"Only as needed to fulfill my duties." At no other times had he stayed put long enough to check the status of his targets.

The bartender, who had revealed himself to be Geoffrey: the true proprietor of The Broken Mast, asked, "What do you think of maidens?"
This caused Bede pause. "How else might you ask me that?"
"What's your history with the fairer sex?"

"Ah." While he fidgeted with his earring, he replied, "Uneventful, good man. But if I heard one scream I would do my damndest to put an arrow through the cause of her grief."

Geoffrey became serious, suddenly. "Heaven forbid it, but you may yet have a chance."

"Pardon, sir?"

"It's my sister, and the girl following her like a sister, you see," Carew spoke up to explain. "They have business in Grecotha, but our father forbids them to go without an escort."

Coming that much closer to the full picture, Bede nodded. "'Tis the only sensible thing to do."

Geoffrey nodded in turn. "So, I would like to hire you, Archer. Four royals for four days, if you bring my Elspeth and Amy back to me unharmed."

((The time for negotiating wages has come. Haggle! 2d6 1 + 5 = 6)) Bede had been drinking, and nearly choked on the honeyed substance in his gullet. Carew helped him to catch his breath, and then it was his turn. "Nice, round numbers, sir, but a little low. This is a prosperous tavern, in a prosperous town. I know you can afford to pay me a fair soldier's wage, if only for a brief time. It would be six royals for four solid days, but that's not counting however long it will take for her to accomplish her goals in Grecotha, now, is it? Here's my proposal: you pay me the six upfront, then extra for however many more days she needs."

Gregory smiled. "You are bold and reasoned. Also, queer and foolish, young man. Four upfront, two on the return and then one and a half royals for extra days. And if all goes well, Carew won't dash your brains out when you return."

With Bede's lead, all rose. "I believe, gentlemen, that we are in agreement."

[Bynw]

On the cold rain soaked autumn night, men in black leather and chain, bust through the oaken doors of the old monastery. They search through the building and cells but find no one. Exhausted by their empty search and the worsening weather they leave. Riding into the dark of night.

"They were there. Some of the coals were still warm in one of the braziers."

"The Master will not be pleased. But this weather makes it impossible to track them. We will have to rely on other methods."

[Laurna]

"No, no! Not that one!" The barmaid proclaimed under her breath. The tavern crowd was loud enough to drown out the sound of her voice. Helpless to protest, she watched from across the tavern room,  as Proprietor Goeffrey Kildryn and Master Carew Rowan negotiated with a fellow on what can only be business of a guardianship nature.

"Forsake all Saints who detest women," she cursed under her breath, "The man is shirtless!" I will not fall for that again. Helplessly, her mind shimmied back to those handful of years ago when she had fallen, weak kneed, for a shirtless man. But who else could not have, for one such as he? Her inner mind consoled her for her past indiscretion. He lay cold as death itself. I did what I did to save his life.

Had his life been saved? She had no answer. She fingered the silver chain that hung from her neck, hiding her history deep under her kirtel. Her life had changed after that night. If ever she learned that he lived, she intended to call in his debt to her.  She looked back at the man being maneuvered into a job, he was a burly fellow, well enough to look the part, but he was not HIM. No one would ever be.

"Wench... Where's our ale!" Amy turned back to her work , setting the three tankards of ale on the table before her.  Her hand automatically opened to take the coins in payment. Two coins touched her palm. A third bounced on her bosom and tumbled into her cleavage. She knew better than to try and retrieve the silver penny before these louts. But that didn't stop them. "Come closer, lassie, and I will retrieve it for you," the drunkest one shouted, followed by cat calls from the other two.

Amy snarled at them all and her glare stopped the one's fingers from moving closer. "Roll those eyes of yours down to the gunk under your boots and just maybe you will find what is left of your brain sloshed on the floor."

She stormed away with half the tavern hooting and hollering at her back. "I need to find a better way to make a living." She snarled as she passed Carew on her way to the kitchens.

Amy stayed in the kitchen after that watching Elspeth wrangle out of her mother a full basket of bread, cheese, fruit, and dried meat to get them through the first days of their travels. When she finally got the go ahead, Amy filled three ale skins, a wine skin of the good stuff, and more skins of water and put them in the basket with the other goods.  There were perks to this job with her good friend being the owner's daughter.  Well, step-daughter, but that was a close enough relation.

When Carew finally marched into the kitchen, he widely smiled as he caught her glance. With conviction, he announced. "Amaryllis Aldan, I have tossed those three far beyond our tavern doors for the sake of your honor," he bowed chivalrously. "You can go back out onto the floor." Then more seriously he said, "Geoffrey needs your help with this crowd."

"Does he really?" she asked, wondering if Carew would someday be the one to save her from this life.  No, he enjoyed the tavern life far too well to take her away from here. " ...and that fellow...?"

"He is hired," the tall and handsome brother of Elspeth proclaimed.

"Not until you get him a shirt, he is not." Amy swore. "He is not as tall as you but he has your shoulders, give him one of your old shirts.  That green one that has faded from too many washes should do."

Carew laughed, "I am sure I can do better than that.  To make my sister and you happy I will throw in that leather jerkin, which I have outgrown."

"That will do," Elspeth said in agreement before hefting up her basket of goods and making her way out the back door. "Amy, I will see you in the morning at the stables. Make sure Geoffrey lets you go soon enough to get some sleep, we have more than a day's ride ahead of us."
   
   

*****

Clip, clip... clop, clop... clip, clip... clop, clop...,

The foot falls of the two dusky tan ponies seemed to fall into the same strides. The rhythm was soothing. Amy felt at ease in the saddle as she rode alongside her mentor (the woman without whose tender care, she would have surely perished from this life.) The old gravel road climbed up from the harbor, skirting the hills, and reaching up for the flat plateau of land ahead of them. They had climbed the worst of the road's ascension that morning. And now as the afternoon came on, their sturdy little ponies took this slow climb with confidence. They would not see the distant tall curtain walls of the great University City of Grecotha until they had rounded the hill on their right and turned to face South. It would be a sight to see from this distance in the late afternoon sun. Amy had only seen it once before, but that time the city had been receding in the background and her eyes had been filled with despair that she had become a forsaken soul as she had walked this same road to the harbor by the great Gulf of Kheldour.

clip, clip, clip... clop, clop, clop

The larger horse walking the opposite side of Elspeth Rowan; the bay mare seemed to fall into the same slow strides as both ponies. Amy didn't look up, but she merrily stifled a smile behind the edges of the woolen cloak hood resting over her head. Their 'man-at-arms' had seemed to finally settle into the ponies' slow pace. Amy was not sure if the man's calling was truly that of a man-at-arms. Her first sight of him last night, with only a heavy cloth draped over his shoulders, was somewhat improved by his now wearing of a shirt and jerkin. He even seemed to have come upon a new belt at his waist. A man-at-arms, he could certainly not be. From her father's house, she had known plenty of men in that profession. This man carried neither a sword across his back nor one at his side. Instead, across his back was a hefty quiver of many brightly fletched arrows and his long bow was conveniently laid across his back with the loosened bow string tied with a cloth to his leather shoulder strap. But then who was she to comment about the man's true profession? What could it matter? It was not that far distance between Carbury and Grecotha, a travel that she was certain Elspeth and she could have made on their own. Yet Proprietor Kildryn, Elspeth's step-father, had insisted that they could not, so he had hired Bede. The young hired man was finally easing into their non-hurried pace.

Amy's thoughts drifted to times past. Her traveling days before meeting Elspeth had been managed by foot or by wagon-rides offered from friendly passersby. Weeks of being foot sore had led her in despair to these harbor shores some four years past. She tried desperately not to think of those harsh times. The anger of her father when he had returned home from the war had been enough to cause her to run away. The woman riding beside her now, had saved her from her own folly, she owed Elspeth more than she could ever repay.

Clip, clip, Click and a whiny.

The horse shook his head at the misstep, and the man-at-arms stifled a short curse. He was out of the saddle with the agility of a cat; any man accustomed to chain-mail would not have moved with such grace. He swung the bow to his side without it touching the animal, something only an experienced archer would have considered. Again, Amy wondered what Bede's real calling had been.

A quick perusal of the horse's foot, a flick of a dagger that Amy did not know where it came from, dislodged a small pebble from the hoof. "No damage done," proclaimed the young man as he bounded back into the saddle without effort and readjusted his gear.

"Do you think we will make the gates of Grecotha before nightfall?" Amy had to ask, wondering if it were best to find a place at the side of the road to rest instead. She had worked long hours the night before and had not managed the sleep that Elspeth had requested for her to get. A quick bite of food and even a short nap would do her wonders.

Casting out with the border-folk skills her grandmaman had taught her, she searched for a safe place at the side of the road. ((Perception taken with advantage, 3d6 rolls 1, 4, & 6 Success))

"Mistress Elspeth, I believe there is a flat spot beside the road, just around that rock there. We could pull aside and give the animals a bit of rest."