Fable - Ask A Feast of Crows

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 Corvetius preferred them. They were men of civility after all, not to be mistaken for stray raiders, bandits or, heavens forbid, barbarians. A scowl of disapproval made it to his brow when he caught one of them, Lampfrey, picking his nose, warhammer resting against his shoulder. But with the peasantry all circled around them, this was an improper time for a reprimand.

As he rolled out his scroll, no doubt the first such craftsmanship these common folk had seen in their lives, Corvetius sniffed in the country air through his nose, and found it punishing his senses with the reek of rotten fish. But he wouldn't let the stench of their livelihoods deter him from his message of utmost importance:

"Good folk of," Corvetius squinted at the name of the village, then frowned, rearing back his head. What kind of name was that? "Brackenwold. I am Sir Corvetius Tinworth Pettybrand of Ruthgaard, in the worshipful service of Lord Ruthgaard - by the same name." Glancing up from his parchment, he noted the many slack-jawed and dead-eyed gazes from his audience. "The lord of these lands, mind you," he added, pointedly, before clearing his throat, carrying on. "Since his lordship has widened his borders, it has been decreed that your hamlet falls under his jurisdiction. As such, you shall have the great honour and peerage of falling under his protection as his serfs. But such glorious governance comes at a price, and it is each serfs irrevocable duty to pay their due tithes for the maintenance of our integrity on our roads and safety--"

At this, angry mutters and murmurs overcrowded his voice. His men-at-arms straightened a little. A hammer went down to be hefted in hands, above which a gluttenous smirk peeked. Swords and axes were drawn. A crossbow lazily cocked, the soldier in question taking his sweet time to prepare his vicious weapon, while murmurs turned to shouts.

"Quiet! I will have silence!"

Clementine
Caspian Reneux

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 beggar-monk, no doubt, that these easily duped villagers had taken in for sake of misplaced piety. Well, if they could spare a coin for some worthless vagabond, then surely they would have the requisite wealth to show proper loyalty.

The scandal. All that time he had spent carefully and meticulously scribing each word on his proclamation, of which his liege lord had given full approval (barely reading it and going straight on a hunt though, but he supposed his liege's faith in his most trusted bailif was undeniable by that gesture). And here he had come in his finest clothes to this muddy armpit of a village, dirtying the polish on his boots and scorching his rear in a saddle, only to find the villagers uproariously uncompliant. Well, this would certainly not do.

Reluctantly, he rolled up the scroll halfway, holding it by his side, as though still fully intending to go through the whole transcript, in good time. But first, he had this cawing crow of a man to shoo off. He adjusted his red velvet bag hat and shook out the extravagant, gold-threaded surplus velvet of his sleeves, pulled up in his belt to puff out his chest a little more, and like a thus bedecked rooster of fine cloth, he set about sinking his claws into this interloper.

"Perhaps from disturbing rabblerousers such as yourself. Hm? Your raising slander here of the honourable Lord Ruthgaard will do this village," he had to sneak a peek at the scroll again to remember the name, "Brackenwold, absolutely no favours. Without our gods' chosen swords, this will be lawless territory." He swiped out his hand as if tearing into the fears of the villagers, and indeed, some of them recoiled at the gesture, faces frightened. The fearmongering might have been helped by the crossbowman mock-practising his aim, checking the scope of his weapon. "Easy pickings for any warband of deserters or outlaws! And in these dark days, who knows what might happen? Orcs, goblins, fae-folk, rogue magi, ogres and trolls, for goodness' sake, and a whole host of other wandering evils! Frankly," he scoffed, looking about him with disdain. "I am surprised it hasn't already been burned down sooner. Hardly any defences or palisades to speak of, little infrastructure, certainly no militia that I can see. But trust me, that day of reckoning will come." He pointed out at the crowd for dramatic effect, rings glinting in the sun, causing two parents to huddle up protectively over their child and some older folk to quiver their knees. "And you will rue the day you rejected the crown's protection."

Clementine
Caspian Reneux