Private Tales A Matter of Business I

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

It was not an oft thing that a practice beyond his Magical Discipline and Fencing held Petrus' attention for longer than was absolutely necessary. But as he drew in a contemplative exhale, senses unmarred and focus untainted save the gentle crackling of the fireplace in his personal study, his calloused hand would turn a slightly yellowed page on 'A Treatise on the Practice of Archery' before once again rising to support his cheek via his curled knuckles. It was late evening now, teetering on nightfall as the last of the sun's vestiges for the day made way for the moon and stars, and with an efficacy born of countless nights of repetition did Petrus draw a match from one of his drawers, eyes never leaving the book, struck it upon a striking pad laid out on his desk, and light a candle that sat off to his left. He then shook his hand once, twice, before lazily disposing of the match into the nearby fireplace.

His purpose for reading the treatise before him was quite simple. Petrus, if not already sharing areas of interest with those he was to converse with, did all he could to put himself into the mindset of any potential conversation partner, especially one with which he planned to do business. This particular manual, as an example, was written by the predecessor of his currently planned company: one Gerard Montefort. A now dispossessed chapter house master of the now obscure Brotherhood of the Bow. As Petrus finished his current chapter he pauses, chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment, before closing the book after marking his page. Carefully setting it aside, spine facing away from him and toward the two chairs before his desk, Petrus would then dip a quill in ink and gently sign a promissory note of sums to be transferred. Agreeing to purchase the land upon which said chapterhouse had been built before he rolled the vellum shut, promptly bound it, and stamped it closed with his personal seal.

Once again acting more out of instinct born of countless nights of paperwork Petrus would extend his hand to the wall wherein a series of strings would sit, precariously taught, arcing out and away into the wall and through very small holes in the stonework around him. Plucking one of these strings would case the faintest 'jingle' to reach him through the doorway to his study and one of his innumerable assistant would prompt open the door with a polite. "Yes Lord?" Petrus would slide the vellum across the table without a word, already beginning to lift the treatise on archery once more as the assistant took the vellum with a bow and very rehearsed "Very good my lord. Ah.... I had actually just received word your guest has arrived. A Ser Montefort was it?" Petrus paused in his motion of raising the book and set his jaw gently, thinking briefly, before he nodded his assent. "Send him in."

The servant, answering with an equally rehearsed "As you wish my Lord." would hurry from the room, vellum tucked neatly away into a pouch on his hip, and see to it that word was delivered to Gerard Montefort that he was now expected in Petrus' study. Petrus, meanwhile, once again placed the treatise on archery down, spine facing the doorway and wine-red bookmark obviously jutting from it's pages, before he stood and strode to a small cabinet on one side of the room. Gently lifting his rapier from it's display on top and would begin the process of caring for the blade, oiling it gently to see it maintain it's rather flawless finish. As the door opened Petrus would not look up, instead he would simply remark "Ser Montefort, take a seat if you would, I am merely finishing up a small ritual in the waning hours." Petrus would then gently lift a small, clean clothe from beside where the rapier had rested and begin to clean the blade, his hands moving with a great deal of practice and precision, draining the small excess oil into a small dish before he continued speaking "To dispel any confusion, Ser Montefort, I have called you here tonight on a matter of business. But, before such things...." Petrus gently set the rapier back into place and turned, bundling the clothe in such a fashion to keep his hands clean before he set it back on the cabinet. Turning, the head of House Iskandar would regard Gerard coolly, his amber eyes boring into the once chapter master as his hands laced behind his back with meaningful elegance and he inclined his head, if only the barest amount ".... you have my sympathies for the loss of your chapter. Men of competency are a rarer and rarer breed in this 'Age of Chronicles' and any place that would serve as a crucible for their forging is at least as valuable as the least of the men it makes."

Gerard Montefort

 

[Gerard Montefort]

The courier had found Gerard in one of the seedier taverns of Alliria, nursing an ale while the midday sun bared down on the streets outside. The summer had been unkind to him--nay, the whole year--as everything had been taken from him in seemingly a moment's notice. His guild hall was burned to the ground without notice or warning, all of the members either killed in the fire or otherwise missing. Worst of all, there were no clues as to who had done this or even why. And so, the once-proud mercenary captain shook his last few gold pieces every day, weighing whether or not another drink was worth the risk of sleeping on the street that evening. And he was coming perilously close to accepting that paradigm.

So when an offer came requesting his talents specifically--and, strangely enough, on the merit of the book he had managed to finish while away in Fal'Addas--there was little else to do except accept the offer. Gerard was past his prime in terms of age, his skills become duller rather than sharper with each passing day, but he was still more than a good enough shot, even if he wasn't quite as athletic as someone ten years his junior. Moreover, he needed some way to pay for the increasingly higher volumes of alcohol he had been consuming, the only sedative he'd found to quell the melancholy in his heart after losing love and life, and while he could not stomach the tragedies that had befallen him, he could stomach beers, ales, and meads, and that was enough, at least for now.

Gear in tow, he set off towards the mansion mentioned in the note. When he arrived, in addition to the expected feelings of envy and resentment he had towards anyone of particular wealth, Gerard also felt a particular apprehension at the building, which seemed to tower over him like the maw of a beast ready to devour him, much like when he'd fought the Lindwurm alongside his former sub-commander. That beast still lurked in the mountains of the Spine, perhaps waiting for him even now. And yet, inside the mansion, perhaps something altogether more unsavory waited in the dark.

He entered the building at last, the doors creaking open as he heaved the heavy wooden blockages open. The mansion was much as he expected in terms of extravagance, and almost immediately he was greeted by a butler. Gerard explained himself, to which the man simply nodded.

"Of course, sir. Master Iskandar has been awaiting your arrival."

Gerard didn't belong here, he thought, as the butler led him through luxuriously decorated rooms and carpets that probably cost more than what he'd make as a mercenary in a month. Paintings suggested that the man enjoyed art, or at least that he enjoyed the perception that he was a man of culture, both of which Gerard scoffed at. Whatever this was, there was a strong chance it wouldn't end well for him, but Gerard was desperate and, like any mercenary, listened to the needs of his stomach before worrying about things like his health and safety.

At last, he entered the room, where the man himself awaited him. He nodded as the man invited him to sit down, adjusting his bow and pack as he did so, as he felt more out of place compared to the finery clad in his armor and kit. Gerard raised an eyebrow, however, at the mention of the loss of the guild, and of the mention of men of competency. Little did he realize, Gerard suspected, that most of those men had perished in the fire, and he himself was now an aimless drunkard.

"If I understand you, you're lamenting the loss of the guild, and only the men's skill, but not the men," Gerard said, his eyes pointing upward as his half-inebriated mind tried to keep up with his more articulate manner of speech. "I should probably be upset, but I'm the one who survived the whole thing by happenstance, and death is always a possibility for a mercenary. Just, probably not the death they were expecting. At any rate, I can only assume you called me here because you need a job done, and whatever job that is requires something catch a few arrows from my bow. So whatever you need, spit it out. Time is one of the only things I have left, and the way things are going lately, I'm not sure I have much of it left."

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

Petrus regarded Gerard with a gaze much like an uncle or father who was once again inclined to have a conversation with the family drunk or drug addict and, if Petrus' distant, stoic gaze was anything to go by in the comparison, it would not have been the father or uncle's FIRST talk with said family member despite it being Petrus' first meeting with Gerard. Such was his patience already drawn thin by the Montefort's disappointing, though not entirely inaccurate, summation of Petrus' condolences. Thankfully, however, Gerard touched on a bit of information that earned a small, if interested, hum from Petrus.

Taking a moment to let the former chapter master's words hang in the air Petrus would seat himself across from Gerard with a thoughtful expression as he retrieved a bottle of wine from the innards of his desk. A fine year, truth be told, and one that demanded no small amount of enchanting work on the desk in question to be kept at the pinnacle of drinking condition. Along with the wine Petrus brought up a small glass, poured himself a bit, before setting the bottle across the desk closer to Gerard. Waving a hand casuall at Gerard as it released the bottle.

"I'll not insult you with a paltry drink, take the bottle if you like, it is far from the only payment I offer."

In a manner that may have surprised Gerard Petrus did not sip or luxuriate with his wine like some gallivanting nobleman at a gala, and it was gone in a quick enough manner to elicit a small sigh from Petrus upon it's completion. Only once the wine glass was gently sat back upon the desk did Petrus rest his arms on the chair he sat in. His gaze now much less inquisitive and more fiercely intent on Gerard.

"That would depend, I should think, on whether your skills are worth half the stories told about them. Could you bury the instrument of your craft into the skull of a man hidden in the throes of a swaying mob with no regard for their own safety? Or, perhaps, if your skills extend further than that of a mere showman would you be confident in trading arrows against the Elves of Fal'Addas, for instance?"

Petrus leaned ever so slightly in his chair, now resting his forearm on his left side on the chair's arm, while his right hand idly played with the amber ring on his left ring finger. The questions did not halt, save for that brief shift, as he was rather merciless with Gerard's half-inebriated mind. His voice, at least at first, was only the slightest bit more intent.

"If you were provided the opportunity for 'more time' as you put it do you feel you could improve your already tale-worthy skills? Have you, as many whisper Gerard Montefort, expired past your prime and become a thing of yesteryear, perhaps? Or would you refine your potency such that if I asked you to retrieve other masters of their own respective arts deadly in their own right, ALIVE, could you perform such a task?"

Petrus' final question to Gerard saw his voice die down from mildly intent to a soft, genuinely inquisitive question. Petrus' gaze no longer quite piercing into the man across from him but, rather, drink in Gerard's form, body language, and mannerisms as a whole.

Gerard Montefort