Recent content by Corvetius of Ruthgaard

The men crumpled, cursed and rolled over one another, scrambling to find their footing. Laughter and snickers rippled through the tavern. Corvetius' finger was still halfway pointing at Dante, as if incapable of understanding how the simple order hit him had resulted in this debacle. Gradually...

The three remaining men stood and gawked, too shocked to immediately react. Corvetius had taken a step back, face twitching with disbelief. It took a stumbling second or two for Corvetius to find his words, much of his former pomp drained before brutal necessity: "Well—well don't just stand...

Corvetius looked him in the eye. Then he threw back his head and chuckled, looking at his men. One stared blankly back at him. Corvetius had to give him an encouraging clearing of his throat and overt expression. The man rapidly guffawed, leading the others to chortle. Four laughing faces around...

"Market for-- take two docatto-- ten zoldo a week?!" Corvetius spluttered out his indignation, and his company looked confused. Probably too many numbers tossed about for them. But as Lord Ruthgaard's prime bailiff, these numbers ran quick metrics in his mind, which was an outrageous sum for a...

"Pah! Another one." Whoops and braying laughter erupted behind Dante. Upon turning, he would see a middle-aged man wearing an impressive chaperon of scarlet velvet laced with gold, and a similarly styled tunic with broad, frilled sleeves. About him sat three men-at-arms, faces about as beaten...

When fear seized his senses, Corvetius resorted to one particular method. A method oft practised in his iron mirror before a public hearing, or exercised in his hot tub the day before a hanging. He spoke to himself. "Very well, Corvetius, a small setback, nothing major--" his eyes locked on a...

Corvetius' hand twitched for the hilt of his blade, but it wasn't forthcoming. "Lampfrey, where in the bloody blazes have you gone? Sword!" There was no sign of the man-at-arms. However, the shambling dead came steadily closer, red eyes honing in on Corvetius. Sweat trickled down his brow...

Events transpired at an unnatural speed. What Corvetius had mistaken foe the enraged and wordless protests of a leper, turned out to be something else entirely. An axe cleaved against the pot-helmet of the crossbowman. That helmet saved his life. With a harsh clang and skidding of metal...

In a sea of uncouth interruptions, one wave crested above the others. Corvetius' generous jowls quivered with indignation. He lowered his scroll an inch, spotting above its roll a black-robed figure, pale as death and gangly as a scarecrow, standing behind the peasants. Some vagrant...

Sir Corvetius stepped up on the improvised scaffold - an impounded cart - and unsheathed his scroll case. Scattered about him stood the finest of the finest of Lord Ruthgaard's men-at-arms, the cream of the crop, coifs and kettle-helmets glinting with rust in the sunlight, all cleanly shaven, as...