The Worlds of Katherine Kurtz

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."

There's a really nice contrast in our first two characters introduced!

Quote"Would any of these men actually be capable of providing protection?"...
"Certainly not that one."

Careful, careful or Elspeth's fears just might come true.  LOL
I do love our visit to the Broken Mast.

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.

Annnnndddd we're off to the races!   

I thank you all. Now, I leave the rest of the opening to the experts!

What a way to whet our appetite for more. You evoke your character's air of mystery wonderfully, Marc.

Woo hoo! We are on our way, whichever way the path may lead.

Way to get us started, Marc!

Congratulations, Marc du Temple. You have got us all off to a roaring start.  I love your opeing scene. This is going to be fun!