Private Tales A Task Of Two

[Ostrum Brandish]

The camp fire so sustained by simplistic cantrip and deliberate arrangement of heavy logs that as they were spent rolled the next into consumption, provided warmth to the two of fighting stock as they did rest. The canopy of night was soon to dissipate, faintly did the dark turn to lighter hue of blue. Ostrum had insisted on providing final watch to greet the day, informing his companion that he had to scribe reports as to the recent accomplishments their now separated group had so recently attained. He had done so by the light of the flames, ink marking in tiny writing upon paper which he was duty bound to provide to his organisation. The final words marked that he had provided financial reward to each companion for their heroic efforts, and once again providing their names so that they would be recognised by the history of the Enshrined.

It was only Vandor and Ostrum now upon the road, the others, Garrod and Ryiek had said their farewells after all too brief celebration and recuperation. It suited Ostrum's whim to indulge in hiring the further services of Vandor, for while he himself was trained to be singular agent, he was still tending to the aches of recent conflict. The apothecaries and healers did much to mend him of his complaints, yet time was always required to allow such things to take hold completely.

The day revealed itself as Ostrum listened as the branches from trees did sway, as morning birds did give call and response, and the dangers of low light conditions dissipated under the sun. Ostrum went about the morning quietly, not wishing to disturb his comrade until there was something to present.

Something to present was swiftly rendered hot and sizzled in the pan. Slices of thick bacon and eggs that did spit away, some cherry tomatoes well sliced. Indulgences to soothe his own morale and fuel the journey to come.

As the cooking did reach it's conclusion, Ostrum heard a familiar call. A bird of grey, a simple carrier pigeon, made entrance, fluttering to Ostrum's side and looked at him for a moment, before preening.

Ostrum took the pan off the flames and placed it upon the soil as it did cool and then reached down to thin bird leg to find two small notes affixed. He gave the bird a nod, knowing full well the avian had no understanding of the meaning motion of the heading except in it's walking gait.

The small letters were opened and read quickly, and Ostrum did smooth his moustache muchly after reading each in turn. He breathed in the smell of breakfast and felt his stomach hunger for something more than the words he so digested.

“Vandor,” Ostrum said quietly, allowing his companion to greet gently the day, “There's food. And tasks to attend. A choice of two, when you are roused to hear them.”

He portioned food out, and presented the rousing Vandor with his share of the vittels. The sky was not in full daybreak yet, but eyes could serve in the brightening blue sky. Ostrum began to chew on his own food as he awaited a response from his company.

Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music OOC

A sellsword is always awake, some would say. Sure, he may be early or late, but his eyes never really ever glazed over until his death day. True to rumor, Vandor could stand for hours on end into the deepest depths of darkness, when the stars were overhead and that black blanket of which they peppered beckoned him to bed.

He could sip tea or coffee, feed on caffeine, but what really kept him going was the contract of which he had signed his name in as much blood as ink. It wasn’t much different to whatever his partner and employer had been scribbling in letters throughout the duration of the mercenary’s slumber.

For, as much as Vandor could keep his eyes open, he would be a bit of an idiot to reject the notion of sleep at each and every opportunity given to him. He was quick on his feet to get off his feet upon the offer to rest his weary head on that earthen bed of dirt and leaf amid the trees.

And…well…another rumor was true…even sellswords could dream…

From the gale to the gallows, they call my name
Under the hail of the shadows, I draw my blade
When the arms of tomorrow do take me away
May they grip my sword in fist night and day

And Vandor Colton wakes.

To the songs of birds that seemed to fill the wood, and the fingers of the fiddler who plays; a makeshift chef who makes food based on the scent of fresh bacon, eggs and tomatoes. The only thing missing? A cup of tea or coffee. But the mercenary is not known for being picky.

His armor was light during the day, somehow heavier at night in his slumber, but he never took it off in the wilderness. This woodland was no different. He lifted his head from his makeshift bed of blanket and jacket. He rubbed his eyes as the dawn’s sky came upon him, and he listened, for someone had spoken.

From food to tasks. No break from work for this man... Not even full daybreak yet and already his contractor wanted his services. Breakfast first. Oh yes. It was a sentiment that Ostrum Brandish surely shared.

From the task of averting time honored doom, and Garrod and Ryiek, two warriors proven true too, left the group, and then there were two. Vandor Colton wasn’t one to turn down the offer for more copper and silver. And definitely not bacon and eggs. Or tomatoes for that matter.

“Let me guess…” The sellsword yawned nigh break of dawn with a mighty stretch. He did not rise just yet but sat up, giving his lips a rub. Whatever his dream was, well, he had evidently drooled like a fool all right. “You want me to chop wood and fetch water from the river, aye?”

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

"Nothing so base for your attentions, I hired a warrior, and we Enshrined do not make squire work of hirelings, when we keep them," Ostrum said matter of factly, his eyes not rising from the meal which he was eating in short order, accurate stabs into the cooked flesh made as if punctuating his sentence.

"Squires run contrary to our singular purpose, you see," he said as a point pride, and then made short work of a tomato which was ground down and swallowed.

"We have two possible ventures for our sword arms. I received news from this dutiful fellow you see," Ostrum said as he ate on, but making careful mind not to talk with his mouth full. It provided a slow cadence to his words, for the day was still early and to be respected for the quiet to enjoy. He pointed with his eyes to what he referred, the denizen of grey who did preen at feather and await a decision from them both.

"Word not from my Order, and certainly nothing so dangerous as the last venture. But business none-the-less. Guilds who know us Enshrined as good to the task made sure to reach me. But there are two causes that would warrant steel to heft, for I sense we cannot attend both, for they lie in contrary cardinal directions. I would hear your opinion on which to allocate ourselves towards. So eat and let me regale you properly, either task will make fools of us should have no energy to provide mettle."

Ostrum finished his meal and placed cutlery neatly within the canteen he ate from, and brushed at his moustache with small handcherchief that bore a simple O.B upon the corner in royal blue, and replaced it within pocket.

"The first task would be to remove a pair that exorts a public bridge. They levy fees on travellers without permit and with means of force. They had grown too free with their temper and injured an entourage of merchants badly and left them bereft of their moneys and goods. They are strong of muscle and are of bugbear descent. We are instructed to move them on, or outright kill them for their interference with travellers. If we can return the goods the Guild in question would view that as a task performed copacetically. The main item of which would be a pair of chill resisting boots that were intended to be a gift to a noble who has a perchant for mountaineering. He was most aggrieved to hear of a gift so liberated. The rest is of no consequence, and we are understood not to be men of luggages. Such is but three hours north, as the crow flies."

Ostrum allowed such information to digest as his meal did reassure his spirit. He continued after his stomach offered a low rumble of satiation, as if he had timed it so not to be interrupted by his own trunk.

"The second lies to the south. There is talk of a giant crustacean that has taken residence within the cranberry paddies. Fortunately none of the farmers were injured, for they fled as soon as it brought shell to be seen. It seems driven to cause a nuisance, and there is mention that it may have a master of beasts driving it on so. Although why a field of cranberries would be of interest I cannot phantom. There is scant information on the one that drives it, although they say he wore ragged robes of brown with a thick thicket of hair. A wild man of magic perhaps. That is but two hours away."

Ostrum cleared his throat politely and grew louder in tone to match the rising day that made the distinction between light and shadows now. The birds began to warble with less frequency as the day's duties to the morning were of flight and foraging instead of their announcements.

The pigeon hopped from space to space, pecking at the ground for it's own meal. Ostrum, seeing this from the corner of his eyes, reached into satchel and took out a few berries for the messenger to take. He laid it down a healthy distance from him, respecting that while tame, the messenger still might bear some reservations.

"What think you then on these matters then? Which do you think we should attend first and foremost?" Ostrum asked as he stretched his right and left palm in turn, a method to prevent strain when the sword would be drawn for either notion.

Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music

Enshrined. There was that word again. Doubtless, Vandor had since learned of the term upon first meeting Ostrum Brandish back in that tavern. He was versed enough to understand that this order of Enshrined Blades were not merely knights, if one recent night was anything to go by.

Knight Ostrum had referred to Vandor as a warrior, as if in honor, and that he was; but only a man with a sword to sell before this Enshrined knight. Yet there was no animosity between them, no sense of superiority in either caliber. Ultimately, the knight and the mercenary were both warriors. They had proven that to each other by fighting side by side against more than one monster. They had been turned to dust that night.

After Vandor rubbed crust from his eyes, he slid his plate onto his lap and leisured. His counterpart had quite a way with words; the kind of speech to digest alongside breakfast. Chivalry was in the man’s tongue as much as his spirit, and even a less scrupulous soul like Colton could see it. More importantly, he was afforded the opportunity to sink his teeth into his meal as he listened.

Eggs. Tomatoes. Nice crispy bacon. Thick as whatever he had carved off of a creature’s back back on the parapets of that blighted keep. Unperturbed by such memories even as he eats and Ostrum speaks, Vandor momentarily wondered what had become of their other two partners.

Amid vittles and mettle, how he wished for a hot beverage from a kettle. He settled for his waterskin, washing down a rasher of bacon. Blade pokes the tomato, cherry on the tip, slips between lips, every moment as purposed as Ostrum’s, as delicate as an autumn wind.

“Needs salt” was all he said as he chewed on egg. In moments, he had finished his portion, set his plate aside and pocketed his knife. Bacon grease that did drip down his chin was promptly wiped as he listened to the two tasks at hand. To his options.

The first was easy and routine enough. Truthfully this was one mercenary who had been hired on either side of such a scenario. One time to remove a group of highwaymen by any means necessary for their blatant disregard for fine folk passing through. One time to include himself in said group and ensure that passersby were extorted for all they were worth. For one man’s job is the job of another man. A phrase he may explain someday.

Today, however, Vandor did not particularly feel like going out of his way to hunt crustaceans or cranberries.

“I think bugbears are hairy hobgoblins to be dealt with no differently.” Another sip of water that ought to be coffee or mead. “Shouldn’t be too much trouble for the likes of an Enshrined and a not-quite-a-knight. One who could use a pair of new boots but coin will suffice.” Along with any belongings they have stolen. Vandor didn’t voice that out loud, but it was standard operation for him to take what the dead could no longer use, regardless of where they got it from to begin with.

“Three hours as the crow flies…” The sellsword chewed on distance and direction as he dusted his hands and got up to stand and stretch his legs. A bird of a different sort enjoyed its own meal that moment. “I’ve eaten both crow and pigeon when the occasion arose. I recommend neither though.” A corner of Vandor’s lips turned upward. Soon he would be eating bugbear. Rather, his blade would be, here in this world of beast-eat-beast. He had a feeling that these brigands would not leave peacefully.

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

"Salt is a luxury I did not think to afford us when buying supplies," Ostrum said matter of factly. He considered his tone to be too blunt, and softened it as he continued.

"Believe me good warrior," Ostrum said as he made motions to tidy up the meal, washing out the remnants of both their meals with a small application of water from skin and cloth fit for such purpose, "I have no intention of making such a diet for myself. I fear it would not power the locomotion of battle all too well. I hope I shall never be part of a siege which prolongs itself to make hunger a weapon. Terrible business from what I have read."

The knight affixed his pack to his back and smothered the flames with a firm few kicks from iron shod boots. He tested the draw of his sword, and readied his spirit for the task that was accepted. The draw was smooth, the longsword held for a moment as it made small gleam in the breaking day. The action was well practiced, as was the sheathing of his hallmark weapon. He looked to his companion.

"I'm glad we agree. The bridge it is then. I don't think either one of us in heavy armour would fare well in the paddies against crustacean, and mad mage to boot. They would have the advantage. Let others answer that call then," Ostrum said, and approached the pigeon. A look passed between the two, and Ostrum slowly, with rewrapped parchment placed the note with information of the crab terror back into the small holster for messenger.

"Go, duty directs us both," Ostrum said, and made subtle gesture with his fingertips and looked to the sky, which soon had the pigeon's wings beating upon such rising currents as the fresh day did provide.

"We should reach it by mid-day if we leave promptly," Ostrum said matter of factly as he made ready himself and his belongings

Some time was afforded for both of them to make good their preparations, and Ostrum awaited a few paces from smothered embers for his hireling to make good on the journey ahead of them.

"I have minor cantrip to guide us true, a compass of sorts. Most spells we employ are to pursue duty's ends, this being no different. This gauntlet," Ostrum said, and raised his left vambrace so it might be seen properly. The metal of which had the same darkened copper hue as the rest of his armour, full of spiralling patterns which interlocked both in physical defense and some minor arcane purpose.

Ostrum blinked in a sleepy fashion, activating the magic with an impulse as he did rely upon the training which allowed him such functions. All Enshrined were taught such techniques so they might make good their journeys to where they bore in mind. His eyes returned focus upon the vambrace which had a small diamond mark of faint blue upon it, a bearing which turned as Ostrum's arm did. The glow was faint, but still discernable to the eye that sought it's assistance.

"This gauntlet will guide us without error, should all things hold true. I am glad you picked this task, we are alike in thinking that bugbears bear little good for the common man. Especially when they hold such place of passage ransom for their ends. If there be two, well, that provides fight enough for both of us to be considered fair. And then after that, well, we seek the reward and perhaps further tasks to perform. Certainly less hazardous toils ahead than the stalwart performance you did deliver in such troubled haunted keep of my Order."

Ostrum pointed his boots to the direction the diamond did provide.

"Be you ready, Vandor? I have enough water for us to slake our thirst, no need to tend the river for our want." Ostrum said, authority in his voice implied by the softness of it. The clouds did part to reveal the sun, and the rays did provide warmth against the chill winds that robbed it with minor pulls of it's will.

He cleared his throat and made small jest as he waited for Vandor to make ready and tread forward to begin the journey.

"What in the name of good streel in the hand were you doing eating pigeon and crow, pray tell? Unless you be a gormand who pursues all foods as well as good fights, hm?"

Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music OOC (Recurring)

Sieges. Oh yes. Vandor could recollect a few of them. A romantic endeavor for the unversed and unlearnt. Had any actually been in a siege, well, they would know as much as and more than this sellsword. It wasn’t the fighting that killed. It was the starving. The stealing. Thieves love a siege. They hoarded food like gold. Terrible business indeed.

The bloody, dirty business that Vandor Colton and Ostrum Brandish and others had engaged in back in that Keep, however, was no siege. That was an invasion. An assault upon the walls. And it was as invigorating as a dance and a kiss when the walls fall in any siege. As long as a mercenary was on the right side when they did, that is.

Hand on hilt, blade in scabbard, a resting motion common to any swordsman worthy of the notion. Brandish had brandished his blade meanwhile, tested it, and not for naught. It took a swordsman to know a swordsman, never mind sellsword or knight.

They were in agreement then. Vandor need not speak of it. Need not nod in compliance. That would be redundant. Yet he in turn offered no surprise to his partner’s action toward the pigeon. The guilds’ requests had to come from somewhere in the end and, whether the crow flies with omens, words flew with pigeons. Dark words, dark wings, and words are wind. As were Vandor’s as he thought them as if pissing into the wind that rather odd moment.

Backpack around shoulders, adjusting his sword’s scabbard and his dagger’s, the sellsword winced at what must be a bit of bacon tucked between his teeth. He picked at it with a lighter knife. Tasty. “Promptly is the traveler’s wisdom. Plodding is for the idiot.” He shrugged. It was a saying that really needed no response.

Cantrip, magic, whatever element, was something that Vandor wasn’t exactly unversed in. He had surely proven it with his lightning and thunder back in the blighted pit with wyvern, hydra and skeleton for the pyre.

Ostrum’s gauntlet, since witnessed, on which it did glow pale purple upon their first engagement back in that tavern; of guidance and promise of direction by powers not permitted to nature’s more mundane ways. The shimmer was azure and, in admission, beyond Vandor’s own power.

Both men, prepared for the task at hand, the journey ahead, there they stand. Ostrum speaks as Vandor picks meat from his teeth, twirling his slimmer blade between his fingers, gazing into his companion’s face. Odd thought, that. Companion. Contractor, more like, yet there the knight stood and spoke of more rewards, further errands for this warrior-errant, as if the two were already friends.

Water offered, readiness inspected, Vandor was ready to move on. “We certainly shan’t go thirsty between our spring drink,” he grinned, suddenly thinking of those moments back in The Corner Cross when both men had amicably played their game of words with each other. “Yet if you can find wine on our way, well, this sellsword will be your best friend.”

They walked along a bit, their journey through foliage, beneath canopy and between woodland scenery one of steady gait but not one of delay. Good steel in the hand. It certainly fit his fist. Vandor couldn’t help but chortle at the promptness of his partner’s question. It prompted a trip down memory lane. He did have a bit to his name.

“Well, besides satiating my hunger with whatever I might find, the feast on crow was during a feast of crows in a desert a lot less green than this pleasant environment…” As soon as he thought it, a flock of birds flew overhead, not black but brown as bark. “A failed mission. Sometimes a sellsword sells his sword to the wrong captain. It is what it is.”

He spoke of starvation, or being on the verge of it, whether his partner could read between the lines. Whatever the knight thought or said, Vandor spoke no further on it, and did not mention the pigeon.

“Here’s a question of mine own, Sir Knight.” Vandor’s lips twisted into a wicked smile. “Where did you learn to cook bacon? One of the cleanest cuts and crispiest of crunch I’ve had in the wild. No exaggeration."

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

Ostrum braced slightly at the question, eyes affixed to the horizon which beckoned with quarry to quash.

A few moments as he set the pace, face returning to a stoic expression as boots did tread with purpose. He ran his fingers across his belt, feeling rondel ready, feeling hammer looped snugly should longsword not serve. He was slow in his hand movements, as if reassurances were required to reply correctly.

"In my life before my life proper," Ostrum replied slowly, as if the words were a pain to endure, a slow cut across thumb to draw a speck of blood perhaps. He blinked a few times, as if his lashes might beat away the memory of thick cold woodland, of labours even then with axe to heft against the grain. Of hearing of the story of troubles alleviated by the Order he now served, and thus, his obligation to fill their ranks as payment so many years after the fact.

Dreams of a better life rarely involve the hardships to attain the talents to survive their practicalities when one's a lad, Ostrum thought.

He replied more cheerfully, moving on in the timeline of his life within his mind to thoughts of himself as a young man, some small years into training, with sage advice being doled out as liberal ammunition in volleys daily.

"Although," Ostrum said, "I learned as squire plenty more, the cooking of protein is more...essential, in the building of a soldiering body. Each labour undertaken must be performed with excellence. Such is our way. We are singular in application, and so singular must we Enshrined be about with our tasks. And anything poorly applied is a liability to oneself. We should be able to rely on ourselves to provide the best chances one can."

Ostrum's expression became more natural as words did become more casual, less rote doctrine speaking now more the man inside the armour of doctrine.

"I'm glad it met the mark," Ostrum added, and refused to indulge a small smile that threatened in minor pulls upon his face. He was not the man's personal chef, after all. And the man has mentioned want of wine. An indulgence before a fight. It was if he was bracing himself against the spirit of good cheer with concerns that had the barest hint of evidence to allow them to grow as tender weeds within his mind.

"A failed mission," Ostrum said, humming a note of consideration at the mention of it. "You were lucky to survive. Oft we are not afforded second chances. And in a desert no less. Perish the thought of having one's bones bleach in endless sand. I have only read of such places. I go where I must, but I prefer these realms of warmth and green, than, how was it put," Ostrum said, trailing off for a moment, looking up as he did recall a page in a book of poems.

"Ah yes. From east to west does the howling wind do move the dune, and rend the flesh from bone, inch by inch the dune does move, as does the imperilment of this desert bound soul drone and drone, from chill of night to scorch of day, does duty demand I stay, yet thirst of all fate's weapons, threatens the exeunt of my serving days," Ostrum recited.

Another duty to lexicon honoured in such delivery. It was only then that a small smile was allowed upon Ostrum's face as they walked.

Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music OOC (Recurring)

Curious. Vandor certainly was when it came to his companion’s claim of creating tasty bacon worth his very name in weight. What was equally of curiosity was how so plain a question was met with a bit of hesitation. Then again, wasn’t Vandor’s own answer after being asked to tell the tale of crow and pigeon anyway? Sometimes even the simplest of questions could trigger memories as deep as a tributary and its lake.

Ostrum’s demeanor shifted just as surely, and that was welcoming. Truthfully, Vandor considered himself a happy enough bloke who would spend their journey cheerfully rather than reaping remembrance of lesser lives no longer lived.

Squire. Of course. Vandor never made it that far, never became a page or squire, and definitely not a knight. He was a sellsword. Nothing more. But no up-jumped cutthroat. That, though, was a bit of a fib in its own right. He was once again reminded that the guy beside him was no simple knight. He was neither a black knight nor a dark knight, or a dick knight, the kind that Vandor enjoyed destroying, but a bit of a white knight, an Enshrined Knight.

“Well, you certainly had this sellsword sold on your attention to detail with your blade. Even better with your bacon.” Vandor indulged a small smile. He learned long ago as only a lad to never keep his lips from spreading when given the opportunity.

Just as surely as many merry memories danced within his mind like the finest blackcurrant wine, however, was Vandor taken down that lane of the slain. His gaze trained on the horizon, not only to watch where he was going but to wonder if beyond the fringes of this forest was a desert waiting for him; a crow to take back what he had taken from its cousin.

It was enough that Ostrum had all but commanded his companion to perish such thinking, as if reading into him, but the poem he recited suddenly broke all of Vandor’s concentration. That crow of death would have to wait to feast on his flesh that moment.

To be honest, he wasn’t much of a poet himself, and the context was lost on him as much as whatever term “exeunt” meant in the latter verse. Then again, what made most sense was some semblance of his weapon being what kept him going, ever moving forth, for Vandor Colton was the weapon, yes, he was the sword that was given.

“Very pretty.” There was no teasing in his speech despite the joviality. “How many women have you taken to bed with such poetry?” That much was a tease at least. If this Knight of the Enshrined had since mentioned he was not permitted to take a wife then it had been forgotten.

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

Ostrum provided quick rebuke, a baleful eye barely concealed for but a flash of his temper, before returning to calmness, in hope that more was not required.

"I'll not have that kind of talk," Ostrum said low to make the point plain.

He did not provide further edification on the matter. In truth, he was disappointed that within a breath of uttering a poem, there was mention of such things so swift in the mind of his company. In honouring his vow towards lexicon one moment, the hireling made mention of his proclivities the next. Which were no-one's business but his own in his esteemed eyes.

Such was the difference between a gentleman and whatever Vandor called himself in lapse of his manners, Ostrum surmised. Coin had bought him a reliable swordarm that did not quail in the face of insurmountable odds. Nothing more could be expected, yet such encroaching candour would not be indulged. It simply wouldn't do.

While Ostrum had given the man a purse for employ, for it suited him in this moment, there was much in the divide between them in their conversation. For now, Ostrum would have silence in the journey for a time, for fouled for such commonalities made manifest.

They travelled. And with it, the day revealed it's intention. Some time into the trek, the cloud did begin to form, heavy on the wings with a growing wind. While sunlight was bold, and warmth still in it's presence, a sharp but light rain was no doubt approaching.

Ostrum revealed this information as a point to open communication between the two again.

"Light showers on the horizon. Be wary of slick stone when we approach and engage."

Ostrum looked to the sun that was bright in the face of such talk, yet clouds seemed to gloat as they began to creep grey about that brilliance. He thought himself more the clouds than the sun in this moment. He made effort to make better morale between him and the sellsword.

"Though you did well when the rain did fall heavy in the Keep. Well enough to not endure me speak of such warnings. Forgive me. I merely like to see the day carried well, then to have a minor detail cause...well, I think you understand well enough. I make it," Ostrum said, glancing to gauntlet that did shimmer at his mental request, providing purple hue that did make information known, "near ten minute walk before we meet the malefactors."

He flexed fingers that did make ready by habit, and then become rested upon the blade pommel, nestled and waiting patiently to tear free and make contest.

Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

Unfortunately, Vandor had a bit of a bad habit of carrying his own character over to whatever environment. While one side of him found it a tad adorable that his companion was stricken so by his joke, he was not the kind of mercenary to poke that button. He didn’t talk back, didn’t grin or chortle, but simply looked away with eyebrows raised in compliance.

Dear me, I appear to have struck a nerve. It was bound to happen sooner or later. The more these two men walked and talked, fought beside one another, got to know each other, toes would be stepped on even unintentionally. For, in the end, one was a knight of esteemed order and the other a mercenary who was so very used to less savory company.

Though poetry, with all its pretty prose, was something he would happily take to bed with a woman in tow, he resolved within himself to never bring it up in that way again. This was a soldier of fortune who did not break his contract, and he owed Knight Brandish his word on that.

Silence, if unprompted, was not misbegotten. Vandor used the moments to remember the bacon that morning, feasts far before it, but to forget the crows and the pigeons. Time passed and, naturally, there was another rumbling in his stomach. Jerky kept him from going hungry.

He would also not grow too cold or wet with his black cloak and the hood it was equipped with. As the sky taunted the two men as to what its clouds might do to them, now Vandor remembered slipping on slick stone. That was another moment when he had almost been given to the crows.

“Fighting in the rain, if it comes to it, will not be my first time, and I don’t mean the Keep.” He sighed as a breeze blew, no doubt brought about by the loom of clouds in the coat of timberwolf grey. “Who knows? Maybe our mission will be one of peace and the men and the bugbears shall end up dancing in the rain.”

Another joke, another grin, but at least this one did not come with women. Ten minutes ended with a bridge in the distance. The pair had a clear view of it, including the figures in the center, with others at either end. However, watching from behind the tree line, they could not see them.

“Strategic. A strong concentration in the middle while a few are stationed at the ends to check anyone trying to pass. Something goes bad, reinforcements arrive and it's goodbye.” Vandor did grin at the notion. “Except today they’ll be facing a sellsword and a knight.”

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

The bridge was a host to a number of brigands that did idle about. A far cry from halberdiers standing at portcullis, these were men who loitered, who did their best to burn the hours via their pipes and roll away the minutes with dice and petty coins. Cloaks were being adopted by the lesser in frame, humanoids that bore the goblinoid ears of the greater, hunched on makeshift stools as they were about their preoccupations made from wagon parts dutifully smashed and made barricade and seating arrangement. A brutal sort of palisade did narrow the bridge, made of wildly vibrant wagon parts that was a traveller's dearly beloved home that had fallen victim to their occupation of the bridge.

Two stood large and perhaps in charge, the ones that could heft the hinges of the barricade, should coin pass in exploitation of the bridge.

Lumbering beings who nestled weighty hammers upon their shoulders as their ears did flick in response to droplets of rain did begin to descend from an eastern wind. Blackened breastplates nestled about their chest that seemed more akin to cooking implements as they towered over their lesser brethren, bugbears that occasionally gave low orbits to their hammers as if entertaining the thought of smashing their hobgoblin underling's teeth.

The cloaked collected their dice once again and made for another throw as goblin speech passed between them. The bugbears stood in defiance of approaching rain, their constitutions firm against such things as illness from rain. Their eyes were yellow and blinked slow as if deliberately spiting the rain's efforts to cause nuisance. The hobgoblins were made of more shrewd and grumbling opinions about the increasing downpour as pipes were extinguished by the spitting rain. In the distance beyond the bridge, under tarp, were other hobgoblins that tended a boiling pot of fish that provided a heavy stink on rain patterned winds.

The water that passed underneath the bridge was a shallow grave for those travellers.

Ostrum peered much from the treeline. Weapons of the hobgoblins, ranged support that did gamble; the hammers so hefted mighty from broad shoulders that loomed over their underlings. The corpses of the felled caravan owners. The distant tarp that had a low flame to mark that there were others.

"There'll be no peace today," Ostrum determined upon seeing such innocents in the river.

"I would have this bridge clear and justice be done. But we shall be about it correctly. Those crossbow would present danger if we simply charged, and the barrier would make us vulnerable, narrow passage as it is. I would parlay with them, then cut them down as my purse does land upon the bridge in payment once the bridge is open. Agreeable? I hope your draw is quick sprung from scabbard." Ostrum said, reaching for his purse instead of his sword. He held it within his left, for his right would take up the hammer.

No wild displays of emotion on his face, just a determined look that was the hallmark of knights about the act of butchering miscreants. Wild looks of fury would give the game away he knew, so much reserving of his temper at the sight of the innocent so cut down low was performed.

There would be time for that expression soon enough.

Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music OOC

Even with the ugly mugs in the distance, the surely sorry excuses of countenances amid hobgoblins and their bugbear brethren, Vandor was pleased.
Unperturbed by upturned carriages and splintered wagons repurposed as barricades and palisades, Colton was eased.
Despite the bodies in the river, those who had died by the bridge’s captors turned brigands who demanded payment for passage, the sellsword was at peace.

His reasons were simple, really. Though he was peaceful of demeanor, easy in speech, he was pleased that his employer needed him, not to speak, but to swing. To kill. There will be no peace today. After all, the mercenary’s silver tongue was not for sell. His sword, on the other hand, certainly was, and it would serve its purpose. Steel for monsters.

“Agreed,” Vandor clicked his teeth as if summoning some steed. A steed of vengeance, perhaps. Though, granted, he knew naught of the slain, cared nothing for corpses swallowed by waves. Justice would not be his today. It would be Ostrum Brandish’s.

“The first oaf won’t even see my blade sing from its scabbard before it reaches his throat,” Vandor promised, confidence dripping from his tongue. “The second one will at least get to think over his regrets and bad breath.” He shrugged. “For a split second.”

Then, like that, Enshrined Knight and sellsword moved as one despite their differences.

“Oh look it’s the fuckin’ shithole patrol,” spat a bugbear. The irony wasn’t lost on Vandor. Surely he was referring to this pair of Human men as the equivalent of 'shitheads' but, judging by the stench of this bridge, his words were rather backwards.

“Hand over your purse if you want to pass,” his brother from the same ugly mother demanded.

“What if we just want to view the architecture and turn back for another route?” There goes Vandor’s lips again. Ostrum did mention to parlay but he figured these idiots wouldn’t even catch his sarcasm anyway.

“Then you go end up swimmin’ in the river with them.”

Left hand on the hilt at his hip, in a resting position, it would take only a moment to draw sword from scabbard, then Vandor would answer the dead who begged for revenge. His was a unique view in life: He sold his sword to the living but he bought death with its blade. It was a fair trade, he reckoned.

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

"Move the pallisade open, the coins are yours," Ostrum said flatly, as he hefted the considerable purse a fraction into the air so that the jangle could be heard, his feet as trunks within the ground that had formed root as the world did turn about it.

The bugbears gave out a low grumble of disagreement.

"Squeeze through," one bugbear said curtly, it's ears flickering in the rain that did make it's presence greater known for velocity of wind that did rise to the occasion.

"No," Ostrum immediately replied, his tone dull and seemingly bored.

Tension within the hobgoblins. Flicks of ears as teeth did gnash and crossbows were jutted out from cloaks that were still clung to. They were poised to fire from their cover against the rain, three huddled as snake eyes lay on the ground, copper coins becoming speckled with raindrops as they waited for their new owners.

Irritation from the bugbears, side eyes that brought hammers to agitation, a low swoop of one about the ground as if to punctuate the point that they had brute strength behind them. The pallisade did much to prevent crossbow fire from reaching them presently, but to get through the passageway would be a vulnerable prospect. Single file, lacking grace, lacking the speed to prevent a crossbow bolt or three making their mark as they made slow advance.

"What you say manling? No?" the bugbear did say, giving a bray that did rise as condensation.

"No," Ostrum replied, low. "I'll not have our armour scraped for the price getting through that narrow way. Would cost more to buff it out than to gain passage."

Meaty paws placed upon the barricade as a decision was ruminated over by simplistic brain.

The hobgoblins huddled, and one did give rise to phlegmatic chatter as they made their opinions on the division of labour known.

"They pay, we open, right?"
"Right, we open when they pay,"
"Arrows to eyes if they don't pay, but they is paying, so door open."
"We shoot, you move gate, we cook, you move gate, we move coin, you move gate!"

The democracy of goblinoids had an odd surge to it. The bugbears seemed more irritated by their reminder of their duties around the bridge than the prospect of two swordsmen making passage. They rolled their shoulders, as if the suggestion they do their part in the operation was spoiled meat in the belly that brought prangs of discomfort to endure. The pair of bugbears looked to each other, brooding over their lot.

"Coins," they said as one, looking to Ostrum who carried such payment ready.

"Coins," Ostrum echoed. A heartbeat. "Once you open up."

An exasperated grunt from one bugbear as the work began to heft the painted wagon sides that were scraped along the stone to make wider entrance for the two armoured warriors. The other bugbear refused to open the right side of the palisade, for it did not see the need.

It'll have to do, Ostrum thought as he made approach. He did not need to look to Vandor. He would know what to do, he thought.

Ostrum made quick advance as he tossed the purse high into the air in the direction of the hobgoblins.

"Pay us, not them!" one bugbear protested in a one note growl, as the coins so lobbed landed upon copper coins, fresh faced gold coins abundant as they spilled into snake eyes. The hobgoblins were transfixed by coins, each one concerned with palming a small share before the bugbears knew the value. Crossbows were held gingerly as hands lowered, and then as one the three hobgoblins conspired to make their movement to embezzle quick.

Ostrum did not sprint, but purposefully strode towards the hobgoblins as if he were simply making quick passage past the bugbears. As fluid as the waters did that flow beneath the bridge, his longsword escaped containment, and wide cut that did bloody two that had lurched forward towards the coin in lethal cut. The third of this group did reach for crossbow completely, and attempted to bring it bear as Ostrum's post cut posture granted perfect left shoulder into it's face that did send it over the edge of the bridge.

It reeled, a further kick, and the hobgoblin joined the water corpses with a screech.

The bugbears began to make wild swings as they brought up their weapons to put down the manlings that had made such quick advance, battle joined with Vandor by the two.

Now was the time to clash on the bridge with brutish hammerblows that would crush plate and skull just the same. Ostrum would join against the bugbears in short order, job completed against the ranged element, coins left for those who would survive the day.

From beneath the tarp beyond the bridge, a call from a hobgoblin chef who sounded full of pride.

"Soup's ready!"

Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music OOC (Recurring)

…From east to west…the howling wind moves the dune…

Do forgive him. He had only heard the poem once. Just that morning. Felt like only moments ago. Felt like ages ago though. If he had some moments alone then he might wonder after that poem entering his very own head at that moment. What had prompted the thought there and then amid the presence of hobgoblins and the other ugly bastards called bugbears?

…And rend flesh from bone…inch by inch dune does move…

Coins jump, jingle-jangle. Annoyed bugs, beetles battle. No poem. No poet. Just a nursery rhyme that suddenly entered his mind alongside whatever it was that Ostrum had earlier chimed. Bugear tells the knight to squeeze through. I might squeeze my blade through, if that’s what he means. Vandor knows better at least.

…As does the peril of this desert bound soul drone and drone…

Droplets of water vapor pitter-patter off his armor. Tapping on pauldrons whose steel was exposed in the midst of black cloak. Fabric takes the rain like mist in an ocean. Like blood on the blade. Crossbows aim. In a sellsword’s brain is an ocean of violence. Contained. Sustained. Balanced. But can’t hide it.

…From night’s chill to scorch of day does duty demand I stay…

“No,” Ostrum says. “No” yet again. Here we go. When Knight Brandish spoke 'No' he meant it. He was not a man to mince his words. He was not a man to say one thing but mean another. He was not a man who so joked in callous merriment. He did not jape the way Vandor may have just then. For this Enshrined Knight, ‘No’ struck like a blow from the heaviest hammer.

…Yet thirst of all fate’s weapons threatens…the…what was it..?

Idiots engage in conversation. Brainless bugbears. Mindless goblins. Like many orcs Vandor head met. Ogres. Though a number were certainly smarter than this odd lot. He had met stupid humans too. In the end, they all died the same way—at the edge of his blade.

…Exit…Excellent?..Excrement?...

Vandor could only stand there and blink as he tried to remember the rest of the phrase. Then he blinks at these idiots in wonder. He looks between Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, trying to keep up with the intelligent tongue of the goblin that would put Ostrum’s to shame, suddenly stuck on ‘move gate’ ‘move coin’ ‘move gate’. Somebody give this genius a stage…

…Etiquette?...Eminent?...Elephant?...

Granted, one party was mad at having to do all the heavy lifting, while opening the palisade didn’t seem all too heavy. A sensible sentiment, even the sellsword would have to agree in this instance. Finally, the door opens. One half of it, anyway. It was like some kind of poetic parallel of how the Brain Brigade had half their brains.

Then it came. The coins of payment high in the sky. And the word in that one bloody poem’s line.

…Threatens the exeunt of my serving days…

Well, what the hell, he didn’t know what that word even meant anyway. Though he did know how to swing his blade. Ostrum went first through the doorway. Toward the hobgoblins who stand not with sword but crossbow at range.

Vandor, however, had a different objective in mind, and a promise. There were some words he just could never break. As the knight dealt with those presently too busy with gold and copper, the sellsword entered past the palisade, as casually as his companion, and promptly turned to face his target.

As he did, he drew his blade and in that same swift motion he lived up to his pledge. Vandor’s sword sang from his scabbard and opened the throat of his opponent in one fell motion. The bugbear was armored amidst pots and pans, mainly breastplate at that, but his hairy gullet wasn’t.

Blood spilled in an instant, staining the blade black, but Vandor had already turned toward his next target: the other bugbear. By that time, the knight was reminding the hobbers of why they didn’t deserve life. To be fair, the remaining bugbear at this gate had more time to reflect over bad breath and regrets as Vandor turned to face him. The unsightly fellow even had enough space to swing his hammer with a bellow.

“DIE LIKE DOOMY MICE STUPID HUMIE”

Oh my. It was a clumsy swing from an ungainly thing but Vandor still had to duck beneath the hammer. It swung safely away but before it could return to its wielder, Vandor was already up in a rush forward. He thrust his blade. It found purchase in a gap between the bugbear’s makeshift plate where it stuck in bone and flesh.

The sellsword knew where to aim his sword in this larger creature. The stomach might not have done much. Might have even rewarded him with a punch. The heart, however, ended his opponent in death in a moment. He wrenched his weapon free and quickly turned to face his enemies. Reinforcements from the center of the bridge. Hobgoblins from the cookfire beyond the bridge.

C’mon then.

“Soup’s ready!”

“GOOD!” The sellsword called across the carnage, flourishing his sword. “I'M BLOODY HUNGRY!"

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

From within the tent that did call out the single joyful word of, 'Soup!' ears did tremor with panic at the human who brayed back the call of their own hunger. Six hobgoblins who were waiting about for that call placed hunger prangs to one side and their weapons to their own. The six were mangy creatures who stooped low as they spied what was afoot upon the bridge from the distance of the soup tent, eyes darting from place to place as the sound of bugbear's being dispatched panicked them muchly, their eyes looking to each other, ears twitching at the sound of steel finding flesh. A decision was quickly forming between them as hands faltered at spears held weakly and unconvincingly.

It was with a shove with wide spread arms from the orc who stood disdainful of their failing courage, singular eye baleful at their lack of stomach for the fight. His own sword was being drawn at the occasion, a longsword similar in design to the one that the humans that fought on the bridge did wield. A moment of looks, and then, the decision turned to what duty that had. The seven moved up, the hobgoblins moving up in rushes of nervousness, bundling themselves to groups of three with spearpoint protruding out as they gingerly made approach. The orc, clad in chainmail and pauldrons of brass, longsword held with confidence, walked behind them, slow and with menace, self assurance in abundance where his comrades found themselves paling before the fight.

The bridge itself was quickly being claimed and the occupants ejected, yet the final exit of stone to ground firmament was now being filled with reinforcements that jutted out speartip. The orc, stood, waiting, as Ostrum and Vandor did their work, it's confidence completely unfettered at the sight of plate on the humans and the bugbears bodies collapsed upon the stone. Bracers of bronze were about the orc's wrists that assured his beating heart that panic was impossible, that clarity of thought in the combat to come were his to maintain. Such had guided the criminal mind in desperate moments of brutal cunning.

"Warriors," it said called out, voice of gravel matched with perfect inflection, despite the mighty tusks that did jut from the orc's lower jaw. There was a sound of respect within it's voice, and a frozen calm about it that belied the devastation so quickly wrought upon it's comrades. The spears gained some firmness in their jutting, gnashing of teeth and growls emanating from the hobgoblins as they formed in three man groups to the left and right of the orc that stood tall and proud.

"Can't fight a spearwall, just the two of you. These fellas with me will poke you full of holes. But you look foolish enough to try. And I'd rather walk away from this. How about you leave this bridge here and I tell you who's paying us to hold this bridge. If we go down, the bridge gets blocked up again in a month by our employer when he pays handsome for it from similar if not nastier people. More bodies of merchants added to the riverbank. More guards killed. You find out who's actually paying us lot to do it, well. You might actually win against 'em and stop this for good. What do you two say? Let me and this lot live, both our groups walk away from this damned bridge, and you find out who's got a dog in this race. Or just get butchered by me once spearpoint herds you into a good corner. Not the first time this has happened. But you might be the first to be smart enough to take the offer. Prove you aint as thick as your armour."

Ostrum made slow approach, blade held in right as he looked at the spearpoint and assessed the situation.

The foes upon the bridge were slain. The defence of it was still in question.

"Vandor," Ostrum called, summoning to his side as he did look to the orc with his hedge of speartips that did hold firm for virtue of the orc's words. His voice was calm and equally as confident as the orc who made such an offer.

"What make of you of this offer?" Ostrum said, asking for second opinion as he stood looking at speartip from the center of the bridge. He stood at half readiness.

Alone, he would have made his decision smooth as Vandor's draw. But his company's character was of interest to Ostrum, who would know his thoughts. Taking down two bugbears in quick succession was a feat unto itself, but what of this tactical assessment, and of the promise of finding out who was behind these blockades?

Vandor Colton