Open Chronicles A Sellsword And Ale Galore

[Vandor Colton]

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Spoiler: Music IC

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Some miles out from the city of Alliria, The Corner Cross had set up shop a long time ago. Built atop the flat land and verdant grass of the Allir Reach, the inn was intended to be a safe place for travelers to come and have a pint, turn in for the night, or keep going on their way throughout the day as they at least stop by for a bite.

It was no structure to marvel at, certainly not when it came to others that were nestled in Alliria with the latter's stone and iron, but the stonework of The Corner Cross was no less comely and cozy. Cobblestones dotted the paths to and fro, scattered blocks at the ends where the paths met the crossroads to take travelers and adventurers north, south, east and west.

The Corner Cross, then, was tucked in a corner of those roads; a block of grey stone and beige wood. It had a terrace outside the entrance and a balcony for patrons on the second floor, though no one was permitted onto the third or into the attic. Those were reserved for the owners.

By a crackling fireplace, the warmth more for atmosphere in the middle of the day, flames also came from pipes and such instruments from patrons, smoke intertwining with the scents of meat and mead, sounds of chitchatting and dancing amid music from a live band.

It was as much of a tavern as one would expect, no more or less, and was enough for one man as he sat at a corner table, watching and drinking. A plate of food was before him, a tankard in one hand and a pipe in the other.

Garbed in a traveler’s cloak over a suit of plate armor, he ought to look his part. Vandor Colton was a sellsword. He advertised as much to the bartender on his way in. For now, he sat at his corner, waiting for a mission or a distraction at the least. Then again, the place was entertaining enough already, so maybe a quiet conversation could come his way.

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

https://soundcloud.com/david-giffard%2Freharl-chronicles-ostrum

The path of a knight was one beset by hardships, hardships that were often allayed at the very place that Ostrum set eyes on in the harsh daylight to his tired eyes. The days that had brought him here had been hardset indeed, with sword strokes delivered in equal measure to firm word to brigand who would prey upon those who travelled here and there. Such was not his task, but in truth, was duty all the same in his passage through the land. Providence to the Just as his knightly order prescribed it. He longed for rest, a moment to gather his thoughts, to rest his bones, to compose himself and his own metric of wellness. Too many days under harsh weather conditions does dull the perception so, Ostrum thought as he made his entrance into the tavern.

The warmth from the fire was a welcome one, although he felt it more in his face than his body, so encased in the full plate that carried with it the ornamentation that made it clear of his fighting stock and value. Some knights carried with them the guilded armour of gold, but Ostrum carried strange symbols of burnished copper upon the same shaded metal that he wore. No shield or heraldry did he wear of other knights. His fighting arts were to mark him as venture enough to notable opponents.

He sighed. Refuge at last from the open road. The sound of song was welcome, such things guided the people to good cheer. Too many times he had opened a tavern door and found trouble in the very air he breathed, ale soaked breath that bandied threat before he could rest his haunches. Still, he did not let down his defences, for so engrained was the troubles of the road that he could scarcely abandon vigiliance, even if the food did smell good, the air was sweetened by song, and the fireplace did crackle and emit warmth.

Ostrum, Knight of the Enshrined Blade, made slow passage to the table to which Vandor sat, Ostrum's eyes calm yet immensely tired from lack of sleep, his confidence assured and lurking within his features without flaring into arrogance. He carried himself with nobility, his footsteps slower than one might expect, as if he were merely a passenger in the game of life. He looked to Vandor, and spoke with authority, yet soft, for such authority was not needed to be flexed. They both were martial men, and Ostrum expected that the fellow warrior would recognise in him the need to simply sit with fellows they might feel safe beside for simple virtue of being so armed.

The truth of it was that he was tired of overhearing the chatter of the common person that so prickled his ear to the plight of the labourer, the farmer, the merchant. He desired a quiet seat with a fellow of the blade, so armoured, and perhaps, some information as to the conditions around such a place.

“Pardon,” Ostrum began, and gestured to a seat at the table. “May I partake a seat? The road has been long, and you seem as if you have seen your own share of martial matters that I would trust my company to your own. These last few days have made me wary, and while I have no reason to suspect an outbreak of calamity, my nerves, truth be told, would be assured by company of another who has blade and armour. If I may? Tell me some good news, and let me sit, I would do much good by it.”

Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music IC (Recurring)

Vandor kept content in his corner, spotting a few other warriors here and there, some knights.
However, most folks within this tavern were passengers if not travelers. There is a difference.
There were those who passed through and those who stayed, even if both paid day and night.
The Corner Cross is a quaint place, living up to its reputation, boasting fire and other elements.

For someone of his experience, well, it is pretty easy to tell a tavern’s guests from its residents.
As he sipped his ale, licked his lips, puffed a pipe, someone else walked into the establishment.
Another one in plate armor, whether a soldier or a knight, however his metal was certainly finer.
Brandished copper, dark as dapper, a person fitted with weapons, whether sword or warhammer.

A hedge knight, maybe, yet he did not beg the mercenary’s attention as Vandor’s gaze then went.
There were other patrons who were coming in or going out, whether loud mouths or kind guests.
Candles on tables, lanterns, cards and dice, games and gambles, whether it was chess or gwent.
Slipping a morsel of beef between his teeth, Vandor received one man approach him just then.

The same one as before, a shorter figure in armor, but no less broader with his mustache.
He looked sleepless, like Vandor had been with too many suns and moons without a camp.
Sleepless, but not asleep. There was a difference when it came to strength, woman or man.
The warrior before the warrior gestured to take a seat. Vandor observed as his knife stabbed.

He crunched on a carrot. “Please.” Vandor extended a hand to the chair adjacent his own end.
“Take a seat.” He swallowed his dark liquid, the ale bittersweet, as he liked it. “Hm, good news?”
He drummed his fingers on the tabletop at the request. “Well…” He hesitated. “I’ve a sharp edge.”
Yet he did not brandish his sword. “Clean plate as well as a plate to clean.” He grinned. “And you?”

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

A sharp edge?

Simple and to the point of it then.

Ostrum sat down and felt the relief almost immediate. His muscles had been taut at walking such distance on his own, fighting on his own, deciding without charge to direct him. But as always, the precepts of his Order did guide his decisions, so much so that initiative to do what was just was second nature, instinctual by drilling, instruction and education.

Of course, the idea of what was Just was not a universal concept, yet all the dominant within his frame as was it so with all of his Order.

Ostrum did not let his relief appear upon his face as a grand dropping of appearances. He was not some labourer who toiled to field and was want to plant boots upon a table and immediately start griping. His back still straight, his posture still self respecting and proud, perhaps a little too proud for one so hard worn by the road. He breathed in deep and considered the response and question.

“One must be thankful for the wit to bear arms and that those arms serve the purpose to which they are designed,” Ostrum said, making no comment upon the clean plate, but rather the blade to which Vandor made mention. He continued, looking at the man straight in the face, perhaps a little too frankly. Such was the habit of the knight and his Order, to view things directly and perhaps a little too much so at that. He appreciated how curt the man was, such things spoke of a simple pragmatism that Ostrum found much more useful than he did appealing in a man.

“Good news is hard to come by. Foul weather grows more abundant, and I have yet to receive news of my next charge by bird or direct communique. Yet, I was successful in refuting some brigands that waylaid a few common folk in my travel here, but nothing so much to remove the root of the problem. I fear such troubles are becoming common on these roads of late. Such a thing is beyond my purview presently, and besides, none could offer a challenge worthy of my attentions. Petty lordlings may have the issue to meet, I cannot thwart it so freely. I was but a temporary yet welcome salve to the irritant to the innocent. Good news I suppose for most is that there is no grand fight or struggle, yet...we are not most.”

Ostrum made clear reference of their fighting stock. He gestured over his armour, as if form of introduction and kinship in their profession, if not title then in deed of regular meted violence.

“I am Sir Ostrum Brandish, Knight of the Enshrined Blade. Might I ask your name? I see you are of those who can bring arms to bear. Such is a worldly and good sight. That in itself is good news to me enough. A region of the world without individuals to bear arms is a vulnerable one, both to the degradation of order and the tarnishing of proper character, wouldn't you say?” Ostrum asked, wondering if there was some hierarchy of martial conduct within his company, of if the armour was worn for both defence and promotion of virtuous action.

What was considered virtuous by an Enshrined Blade was very different from the common folk however, and indeed, even mercenaries. Still, the question stood, and was an open door to which his new company could shut or walk through as they saw fit.

Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music IC (Recurring)

Well, this other guy, the knight, had his own wits about him for certain, with wisdom in his words.
Arms serve purpose. The mercenary reflected, licking ale from his lips. Was he quoting another?
Vandor wondered, then dismissed it. His own armor is self-maintained, plate cleaned of grime.
It served his purpose well: to protect the wearer. His blade? Well, he was no knight. Sellsword.

No more, no less, yet perhaps his own purpose came with its wit. Both men’s eyes had met.
The mustached man did not look away from the other. They stared, eyes into eyes, so honest.
It was a moment where two warriors could look at each other and be open. Eyes are movement.
You could predict what your enemy would do from pupil to iris—step sideward or swing downward.

Funny... Vandor thought. This man mayhaps be my friend or my enemy this moment or in the next.
A mercenary had learned that the coin could flip either way. For now, this here knight is his guest.

And guest meant guest right beside salt and bread. Vandor listened as his guest spoke to him.
His news was different; less of sword or armor, given more for weather and of passing danger.
Brigands. Commonfolk. Problems for better men. Yet sellswords, lesser than knights, saw profit.
Petty lordlings can decree the removal of those bandits; the latter can in turn pay to take a purse.

Vandor gave nothing of this away on his face while he listened. Then came ‘Sir Ostrum Brandish’.
Knight. He’s right. It didn’t take attention to make this connection. Knight of the Enshrined Blade.
That was a flowery title, though the knight did not appear entitled. His armor, however, was ornate.
Decorated with symbols or sigils or signets, whatever the case. By blade, his armor was his skeleton.
It didn’t take a knight or a mercenary to know this. It only took a warrior. There were others like him.

Vandor cracked a grin at his contemporary’s words about bearing arms itself being good news.
That was, of course, how the man began this conversation, from sharp edge and to clean plate.
“I would indeed say,” he agreed simply. Wisdom in words. If only my brother could say the same.
Words were wind. “Whether in defense of farmland or in offense on marchland, arms prove true.”

Vandor, for his words, never felt that his speech rang with the same wit, but he wasn’t perturbed.
“A nation may have its army,” he continued as he chewed on meat. “One yet made of individuals.”
Ale washed it down. “Each with their own sword. Equipped with experience fit for their character.”
He gestured toward the plate of bread. “Even brigands, however, are individuals. If still vulnerable.”

At that, the man kept a grin.
“Order. Chaos. Swords sell.”
His tone civil, he meant well.
“Mercenary. Vandor Colton.”

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

Ostrum did his level best not to seem like he was appealing for confirmation of his ingrained opinion, rather that he was offering his position and seeing what the lay of the land was in his company. He became assured at the answer however, and leaned back in his chair as to rest his back. He felt the knots within it, and resolved himself to trying to work out some of the tension later. A tense body was harder to ply to the work of fighting, or at least, could damage one in the long run of the professional act of the killing arts, this much he knew.

This talk of individuals in the field mingled well within Ostrum's own core beliefs and purpose, yet, he held a superiority as to his function within groups. To equate the individuality of the brigand with his own oft solitary function in the field was appalling to the knight. There were leagues of difference in function. One, selfish, flightish, driven by profit and oppertunitistic predation. His own, well. He did not question the value of his upbringing and purpose. He was a champion, born and bred for the purpose of standing high and proud above other fighting troops, one who was committed towards acting for the best interest of one party that he was sworn to protect and serve. He retorted.

"Mercenary Vandor Colton, you speak some truth of it. Individuals they may be, and a great number may assume one fighting spirit and accomplish much. I speak more on soldiers than of these...brigands. Yet, the individual remains to be exposed in such conditions. Often I have had to shake the foe into remembering that while cohesion in a fighting force lends one well to survival, when faced against the solitary might of the determined and well prepared for the risk that bold venture in battle demands to turn the tide. .."

He shrugged, as if dismissing the oppertunity to speak of his own successes in the field. He became more casual, yet all the more well placed in his following inquiry.

"Tell me, sellsword," Ostrum said, turning the word sellsword in his mouth without contempt but with a strange point to it that resounded with consideration of the title, "What determines you accept a contract? A task, a job. Does compunction live within you, or is one field the same as another if the weight of coin does balance fair?"

Ostrum smiled an irritating smile, as if gently toying with his company. He stabbed at the heart of the moral quandry of being a mercenary, all while enjoying his own position in society. The freedom to accept contracts came with moral turpitude. He was free of such things. His was but to serve his oaths. Such a life was complicated, yet compelled by duty and his structure of ethics, was he unfettered by such things as doubt or regret. Even when the fighting grew fiercest, his charges were not to be questioned in their integrity. Enshrined Blades were assigned by thoughts more well reasoned and philosophically tempered than the individual knight themselves.

So the belief went within Ostrum at least.

Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music IC

Soldiers. Brigands. Vandor resisted the temptation to shrug in his position, content with sitting.
He could sit and shrug, for sure and then some, but he instead wanted to listen to the opinions.
They were different men. That much was certain upon ‘knight’ and ‘mercenary’ upon walking in.
Then again, the mercenary had met knights of different caliber. He had killed a few. Had no pity.

Ostrum, on the other hand, was no knight who tried to get this other guy to accept his plight.
He did not speak with a lowered brow as though the mercenary was just some lower being.
What’s the difference? Vandor was stuck on ‘soldiers’ and ‘brigands’ in his bit of philosophy.
Though he did listen as his contemporary spoke of survival and battle, for merc or knight.

There was a difference, of course. Vandor was no brigand or bandit. He was a sellsword.
He did not take offense to being named as such. He sold his sword—and there you have it.
Once again, his guest did not speak with discontent but with respect—within his position.
Compunction? The sellsword licked his lips, tasting spiced beef and leeks, ale and more.

Morals. Principles. Scruples. Knights might strive to live by those. So may the sellsword.
There were some keywords in there. “Oh,” Vandor smiled back as he thought of before.
Knight. Bandit. Good. Bad. Someone had to be the in-between. “My own code is strong.”
So was every Average Joe’s. He glanced at the band. “Does a musician play any song?”

There were no lyrics in this instance, and no vocals, just instruments.
“Either they play what the audience wants or what they have chosen.”
Is this a game? Vandor hoped so. He would play. “For my own blade…”
A delay to break bread. “I sell it to what sounds good as much as pays.”

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

"Depends if they have a patron," Ostrum said, thinking of the aristrocratic societies to which he had learned of and seen occasionally in his placements. Individuals of merit who were free to write what their noble coffers might find appealling, or interesting. "Some musicians are there to please the crowd as a whole while earning enough to get by, others play to become famous and keep memories alive, others, live to appeal to but the one and their court to sustain themselves and their career. But the comparison you draw is an adequate one I suppose, I see to what you are driving at."

He glanced at the members of the tavern that did serve with enough gravitas that he was attended. In short order wine was provided, coin exchanged, and mutton promised. He cleared his throat and turned back to the conversation.

"I don't mean to harry you. And, indeed, I've heard worse answers from those in your profession. I've never longed for the enterprising spirit required to ply a trade haggling over the price of committing to a fight. My needs are met, and I meet the need. And, I've never had the need to hire on my own cause. Some of my Order are more specialised to be as good stewards as they are warriors, able to command ledgers and accounts to serve an effort true. I cannot see such terrain true in my mind. Rather I see claw and talon than the black and red ink of accounts." Ostrum chuckled at his own musing, but not by much mirth as by the prospect of fighting again. To be free to act within the domains of glory, he thought.

"You run not with a mercenary company I take it. There's safety there, in bands gathered with paymasters. But that said...Did you hear of the recent fate of the Gilded Shield? Scattered some weeks ago in far off field against the Blighted orc. News filters slow. They fought valiantly, but were committed without support from what I hear. Shame. Scant survived. I hear they believed themselves invincible for virtue of their impressive run of successes against oft quashed rivals. A lesson there mayhap, the fortune promised on success was I hear considerable, but beyond the capacity of the force entire to accomplish. There is a lesson in that, me thinks. What think you?" Ostrum said dryly.

He pulled deep of his wine and wondered if he might face this sellsword one day by virtue of happenstance.

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music IC (Recurring)

Ostrum had hit his target as far as Vandor listened. It did depend on if the musician had a patron.
A sellsword may go alone but his blade isn’t useful if he swung it at nothing. He needs payment.
A knight also needed to survive on something, though his deeds are worth more than his sword.
Or it should be. Chivalry was just a word. Vandor had met knights as unscrupulous as sellswords.

A sword sold to get by in life or to gain fame. Whatever the case, to Vandor, life is ever a game.
A game of swords, a game of thrones, where every king and lordling needs some kind of blade.
Those chosen to serve, knights better or worse, had their freedoms but didn’t always get a say.
The mercenary, on the other hand, more than hedge knight or freerider, had more room to play.

His weapon was his instrument. Vandor Colton was one musician who played where he wanted.
When he wanted. Whom he wanted. Emperor, murderer, as long as a contract suited his tastes.
Vandor began thinking of black and red ink, claw and talon, hearing a man who sounded honest.
Needs are met. Meet the need. Like ale or mead. A sellsword’s main need was just getting paid.

Far from feeling harried, Vandor enjoyed being engaged in conversation with this voice of verses.
The sellsword may not be as trained in vocabulary but, well, he too had heard worse from others.
The mercenary shook his head in answer to running with a mercenary company. Safety...maybe.
He worked alone but wasn’t opposed to a gang if that was the contract. But no consistent team.

“I think it foolish to chase after fortune in any case.” He pulled deep of his ale as if in a mimic.
“I may be a sellsword but I try to keep a tempered blade.” He slipped bread between his teeth.
“I have bested knights.” Eyes into eyes. A smiling eye. “And have been bested by knights indeed.”
He may face this knight one day, with or without pay. “Sometimes you lose, sometimes you win."

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

“I know little of defeat,” Ostrum replied haughtily as he placed his glass down and pressed it forward from himself, as if ejecting the taste of such a thought of being bested so casually from his lips.

He was about to speak of some verbage as to his position on matters of martial victory, to speak of the grave consequence for him and his causes when adopted if defeat were to be so readily accepted. The loss of comrades' lives, his charge's faith, his Order's approval. And indeed, judgement. The final conclusion of accomplishments made during an assignment were to always to be tempered against the values of their order and the high deeds expecting of them. But almost as if contradicting his visage of his Order's pristine appearance of successes in his mind, his gauntlet did glow a pale purple, with marks of black scratched upon it.

Ostrum frowned and peered at it, feeling the weight of responsibility upon him in this moment. This was a rare sign indeed, one instructed but rarely had an agent have need to respond to it. There were decades between this event, and sometimes fate had no mind to have one of his Order to know of it to attend the deeds that were to play out. A pulse of information from those who's duty it was to inform the warriors of their local duty.

The Enshrined Blade breathed in deep and closed his eyes. He recited the compulsion so engrained in his psyche to answer the call. He would not quail nor shirk this grim task that so gave sign of it's demands upon his gauntlet.

“Herald of an ancient place that must be attended by those who have will to muster and history to honour,” he whispered to himself. He looked to his wine and thought not to drink further, for fear of dulling his mind to the task required. He made mental roster of his coinage and found it satisfactory to the event now upon the eves of revealing itself. He alone would not be enough to undo the curse that trapped his ancient comrades, this much he was humble enough to understand. No fear crept into his heart, but a practical understanding of the mortal dread that would soon be upon him in the field, to face it alone would be foolishness indeed.

“Mercenary Colton. I have received news of deeds that must be observed. I dare speak plain. I would employ you. I have coin to measure for your skill, for there is need of it, pressing and true. How fare you against minions of the Dark? Does your fighting spirit hold true for coin against such forces? I would hire you to take part in a rare event of supernatural foreboding. I can promise a full purse at my command, and more should we be successful. I dare say, to do this on my own would not serve my comrades true. To explain. My Order has a hallowed, some say cursed, ground to which a great defeat was handed down, a mark against our name ill remembered yet honoured for desperate valience displayed years ago. Some souls were entrapped within the soil, noble fighting forces ancient to my Order. But with it, their foe will rise, and the same defeat shall be handed down to the souls of my comrades. So it has gone for years without attendance of the living. Much is written of their torment. We have an opportunity to rally to their cause, the living with my former comrades against the Dark. I would summon you to my cause, for I have need of blade and mettle tested to turn the tide of history to give far better fare to the fallen to which I must attend in this eerie battle to come...”

Ostrum seized upon his glove with digits firm.

“We will not know defeat this time," Ostrum resolved, his words that to rally even the most cowardly of men, and embolden those with measure to fight against the foes to come.

He reached upon a purse and placed it upon the table, weighted well to hire ten score archers or perhaps one sellsword of good skill such as Vandor. More purses for such purpose could be summoned for others to attend their calling. Ostrum's eyes fixed to the sellsword for his answer, and hoped that his coin and word were enough to call his solitary pursuit a group endeavour.

Vandor Colton

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Word of need. A strange humor cut a crook across the corner of Garrod's lip. His eye upon his ledger. The numbers inked there upon the pages of fine paper. His ink pot upon the counter, quill dipped and ready to scrawl.

He scratched numbers one after the other. Wrote them down in neat collums. Just as Artorious had taught him.

Twenty gold. That would be the amount he needed to get to the next point of his journey with some measure of comfort. Fifteen if he was being sparse. But why be sparse when you put your life on the line?

He closed his eye, and took a moment to think it over. Let his pen rest upon a black dyed rag. Corked his ink pot, and put together his things.

Garrod rose once his ledger was stowed, picked up the fat-bladed greatsword that was his monster slayer, and rest its heft against his shoulder as he walked across the tavern. The long road of his weapon pointed up to the establishment's ceiling.

The Noct Yaegir sat down beside the sellsword and the knight. He let his great weapon down beside him. Its magicked runes gleamed with the light of candles and lamps. As did the strange bone-white gauntlet that seemed every bit his right arm. A chitonous thing, that looked to be part of his very flesh, instead of armor piece, so seemless were its segments and hinged joints. Still, it gleamed with a sinister sheen. A thing not of nature or common craft.

"You've a job?" The green eyed hunter asked the pair of warriors.

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music IC

Even with an army, it didn't matter how skilled or experienced you were, in the sellsword’s experience.
You could have a force or be a force to be reckoned with, and could fly forth with a storm of swords.
However, no warrior was invincible. Success was always met with failure, sooner or later, less or more.
The Gilded Shield, a mercenary company, had evidently been given this cold truth as a hard lesson.

Maybe someday Vandor Colton would have the opportunity to brandish his blade with Ostrum Brandish.
The mercenary had fought a few knights, lost a few fights, yet there he was; he survived, was still alive.
What became of them who failed to kill him? The same question could be turned against the other knight.
Casually sizing one another up aside, the warrior for hire eyed the knight, the gauntlet; not so outlandish.

Whether with scratches, pale purple color, the world was filled with artifacts and amulets beside gauntlets.
Yet it was the measure of the knight’s gaze that told Colton here was a man on a mission who needed him.
Or just his sword, at any rate. The mercenary listened to torments written, tested mettle, as his gaze drifted.
Purse on the table did indeed have some weight to it. This time. He wondered of defeat. “If we die, so be it.”

Whether that would serve as a formal answer to the knight’s offer, another arrived at their company.
A man with a black band for an eyepatch and a sword that could cleave a man in half with one swing.
No pale purple gauntlet with black scratches, but one of white chitin. And here I am, in everyday plate.
There was more than one purse for the knight’s purpose, offer given, newcomer permitted. And my blade.

“I’ve danced with knights and otherwise.” Vandor took another swig of ale, still rather sober.
“Wives. Minions of darkness. Other mercenaries like me.” He shrugged. “If not quite like me.”
One there was at that tavern table. Then two. Now there were three. It was a good number.
“Consider me hired.” The sellsword turned to the new guy. “Vandor.” It sufficed. “Mercenary.”

Ostrum Brandish Garrod Arlette

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

Ostrum remained measured and composed in the sight of Garrod's weaponry and clear signs of being well travelled in the world of martial skill and tests, the vast armaments and the ease of heft to which he held such an instrument an assurance it was. Such was a butcher's weapon, for carving men from horses and men from frame and bone in brutal cut. Or indeed, he thought with furthering understanding as he appraised the prowess he was upon the cusp of hiring, creature from their mortal moorings. He nodded slowly in approval as he assessed his new company, finding his cause all the better served by such a beast slayer's interest in the task ahead. The task ahead was not one for a regular troop, where amassed spear thrust simple and rote would be quickly made a mockery of by sinister force, or contingent of archers would volley and fall in turn as quickly as their arrows might launch and descend. Ostrum was a thorough bred champion, and it would seem he had attracted the professional attentions of those who might stand up to the task ahead.

Vandor seemed confident in himself, Ostrum thought, curt spoken and accepting of the performance required. This one, this new comer who would heft such vast slab of cutting power, had no doubt experience of the stranger fields of battle. One did not bear scars and equipment as his without some task performed beyond the norm, he assessed.

He placed another purse upon the table and spoke clear and true to Garrod.

“I am Sir Ostrum Brandish, newcomer, welcome. This is Mercenary Vandor Colton, as he says. A job, yes, an event that is rare and fraught with prospective supernatural adversity. The Dark rises in a quick summoning and temporarily present ruin near here, rising from the grassland where my ancient comrades did make stand against it so many years ago, in their Keep. Such a day carried valience, but defeat all the same. Such is a stain upon our name in Order if the Truth be spoken of it, candidly, verily. I would have you aid my Order in remedying this sick drama that shall soon unfold once more, separated by decades in the occasion of the repeating act. In their defeat they were cursed to relive their final struggle to tormenting hosts of Dark bound spirit, you see. Such is the Dark's humour. With mortal intervention, the day may be carried and the curse lifted. It falls to us three to answer the call, if, you would find it agreeable. I see no reason to doubt you can heft such weaponry without liability, so long as your backswing be in check,” Ostrum said with a mirthful yet serious chuckle, a flash of the eyes for he did not wish to see wild blade swinging about the field without mind of comrades positions and efforts.

“I offer you the same purse for such a venture as this here Vandor. I would hear your name, and would gladly welcome it if you would aid my Order's efforts to corral success against this blasted ceremony. The spirits of the fallen must be freed from this melodrama born from cruel rememberance, birthed by the Dark's refusal to let the dead sleep and my Order forget it's crushing defeat.”

Vandor Colton Garrod Arlette

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Garrod took the bag, his eye cold with calculation as the white fingers of his strange arm felt the heft of it. His ears listened, as his digits pulled open the strings, as much to the man's words, as to the warm clink of gold, and the cool clink of silver. His eyes scrolled, ever so with each turn of coin within the confines of the purse.

An even twenty gold's worth. More money then he'd made in months.

But it could be more... Oh Flesh Mine. The demon that was his arm whispered sweetly.

"You pay me great respect, Sir Brandish," he said with the slightest curl of conceit at the corner of his lips. He tightened the purse strings, and slid them back to the neutral position whereupon they had been laid. Pulled his papers out with the next motion. Then his pen and ink with light clack against the wood.

Without another word, he began to scribe the details of their quest, his eye keenly upon the parchment that saw fine silver nib scritch and scrape across the plane.

The name of the Contractor, Sir Ostrum Brandish. the terms of the service, the details there in. The Dark, the spirits bound, the promise of on Garrod Arlette's skilled swordarm, and finally the price to be agreed upon for the service.

20 Gold, as was promised to the previous comer, Vandor, with a minimum bonus of 10 gold upon completion, to be further discussed and negotiated, pending the peril of their quest. A lign dashed across the bottom of the page to be signed. An x that marked the spot.

"If you find my terms agreeable," Garrod said, as he let his quill rest within its pot. Pushed the paper forward toward the knight, and smiled at the other sellsword. "Sign at the bottom, and we can be on our way, good Sir," His eye returned to the knight, as he awaited the reply. Smooth smile poked through by a bit of hungry tooth.

Ostrum Brandish
Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music IC (Recurring)

Amid his new employer’s speech, Vandor decided to listen with but half an ear, the other on music.
He had of course already been briefed in between valiance this and remembrance of that and such.
At the table in the corner of the tavern, the rest of the establishment was taken to its own business.
Much of it merriment, he noticed, drinking his ale before cutting into his meat. It was bloody tough.

As Ostrum mentioned his blasted ceremony, Vandor wasn’t one to sit on ceremony as he dined.
The mercenary heard his new partner in turn, a man with the band of an eyepatch, whose name—
Had he given his name? Maybe Vandor missed it. He who swings a great sword looking to get paid.
Was the payment a great respect? It was good enough for the mission. But I will raise the fee if I die.

Truthfully, he wasn’t terribly greedy for a mercenary, and the opportunity sounded rather exciting.
Furthermore, he was all but bored in this tavern. He liked this knight. By his side, he’ll be fighting.
Whatever happened, the sellsword’s content to set off on this job with words in a verbal contract.
The other man, though, slid a paper across the tabletop and gestured for it to be signed in hand.

Vandor glanced, swallowed cabbage. It made sense. But he didn’t feel the need of a document.
He had his blade in case Sir Ostrum Brandish decided to be a problem, but he was no criminal.
Still. The sellsword finished his meal and finalized his ale. A contract is a contract is a contract.
And Vandor Colton, well, he was not a man to break his word when it came to selling his blade.

"Can I borrow that?"
Vandor asked of quill.
He'd write with his hand.
A note by gold for his bill.

He had caught the server's eye.
He'd be back some day or night.
More stories at The Corner Cross.
"Ready?" Was it time to move on?

Ostrum Brandish Garrod Arlette

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

The paperwork reminded Ostrum of the stewardship he was oft lapse in, and scratched his name with wide line and flourish to honour the contract once his eyes read it with quick understanding. Other knights of the Enshrined might have added further caveats, further oaths and vows justifying the expense and hiring. Such verbosity of purpose did not suit the time sensitive nature of the task ahead to Ostrum however. Better to be considered lapse in proper regard to oath and vow in stewardship of mercenaries than lapse in deed to the appointed opportunity to bring succour to his true brethren.

Garrod, is it.

“Well then, Garrod,” Ostrum said, placing what minor irritation that he must read the name upon contract before hearing it spoken in introduction aside, “Let us be about the task with due observation of our needs. Let us meet outside in five minutes, acquire what you need to be about the venture. Vandor, if you need blessing upon your blade to strike the supernatural with withering, I can provide. Garrod, I trust your battle array lend you strength enough for the task ahead.”

Ostrum hadn't been so base to issue examination through arcane means to the strength within Garrod, but it was plain enough. With Vandor, there was steel and armour, things to be trusted and relied. But within Garrod, there was something lurking, this much he sensed. All to advantage, Ostrum hoped.

“It is but a day's trek away upon the heels that spur us, if memory serves me true. I will corroborate with divination in the interim to render our export of deeds prompt and true. I trust I need not coddle nor nanny you. We are bound by contract to fulfil our purpose, such is enough for the combats ahead. Let us to our function, with diligence not set aside for our haste to set our souls to the burning wick of combat.”

Ostrum poured the glass of wine into a wineskin, willing the liquid to pour without funnel to lose a drop. A minor cantrip of base function that could easily be set to the task of applying salve to burn or disinfectant to wound. He cared not that the mixture would betray the original intent of the flavours to both original bottles. Now was not the time for aristocratic penchant.

He nodded to each in turn, and exited seat to stand outside.

The sky was vast and limitless, clouds drifting as distant canopy to provide perspective. Ostrum breathed and made quick inventory of his equipment, checking the draw of weapons, intoning vow and oath as he did so. He made quick work of his duty, and then placed right hand upon the left's gauntlet.

A shimmer of azure. A sparking of the light as Ostrum beseeched the device for council as to direction of the place they must journey.

A simple map flickered into life across the gauntlet, his present location, the navigation of cardinal directions, and, the location of the battleground to come.

Dismissing it in a respectful gesture that veiled the gauntlet of it's arcane wit, Ostrum nodded to each warrior in turn as they made their way out of the tavern and into his company.

“Garrod. Vandor. It is to us. Let us move onto the field that demands our swordarms so. I dare say that we should not expect the Dark to venture beyond it's chosen domain to replay such humiliation and cruelty upon my fallen comrades. Come. We move true, to the East.”

Ostrum began to lead, making trek with straight back and firm brow, his step sure and long. It would not do to meet such a place with uncertainty in his treading, with trepidation in his arrival. He felt the weight of responsibility play upon his conscience, and with each footstep was he steeled further by mighty conviction that they would carry the night that was to come against haunting force with availing and staunch courage.

Private Tales - To Avert Time Honoured Doom

Shuddering into existence from memories scant remembered, stone work did pull itself from the ether of time into the realm of the living and wilful upon this simple grassland, the ruined stone keep rising from the memory of the soil so blackened with blood ancient years ago. It bore the marks of...

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Vandor Colton Garrod Arlette