Completed 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 steel 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

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music OOC

Upon the bridge, the man did dance, garbed in his armor fit for a knight. Only this was no knight. No, he wore the iron, sported the steel, could ride a horse and brandished a shield, but he was no Ostrum Brandish. Vandor Colton, the sellsword, tore across the stone as his boots carried him forward, and his blade carried a head from shoulders.

A clean sweep through the enemy, some lesser goblin, though all goblins were lesser to him. One need not feel like their race was superior in order to see that creatures like these were only worth a swift end. Vandor was no sadist and he hated hearing these things scream. It was enough to glimpse their ugly faces and smell their sweat.

So he made quick work of his foes as the enemy converged upon the two warriors there on the bridge up toward the center. This was expected, given their entrance, only from their current position both men could use the bridge’s defenses against their opponents.

Vandor did. He beckoned his enemy to him past the entrance, swinging sword and raising shield, paving rivers of blood and breaking the welkin with the roars of combat and carnage. Spellsword, maybe, but he had no need for lightning just yet. Maybe that orc would call for a change in tactics.

“Warriors, the orc calls us,” the sellsword taunted but just as much took it as a compliment. Hardly out of breath, if with a bit of a pant to his speech, Vandor turned to receive this next visitor. “This is one popular bridge, isn’t it?” Half-speaking to himself as much as Ostrum and the orc.

Yet he was an orc that made sense. He might have been an oaf. But at least he is a lesser oaf than the rest of them. And Vandor wasn’t racist. He simply neglected to mention to Ostrum that he once had a goblin mistress.

Ostrum made slow approach, blade brandished, and he was not alone. Together they had fought, today as yesterday, and clearly they were a team once again proven to be worth every weight in sword swings.

“It is a logical offer,” Vandor spoke truth. “And this one speaks in more structured sentences than his predecessors at least.” He gestured toward the dead bugbears. Two of them were from Vandor’s handiwork, and those had been taken out swiftly. Truly, what were a pair of bugbears compared to wyverns, hydras and undead hordes?

However, the sellsword was no fool. Both bugears had been pounced upon with the element of surprise and precision, but here was an orc with spears who might yet beckon the spellsword to take greater action if the occasion called for it.

“I say…” Trailing off, Vandor winced as he shook a suspiciously grotesque string of black blood from his blade. “We've been winning against your friends the better part of the day and I'm spent. Give us your name, Lord Orc, and the name of your employer, and point me toward the nearest tavern.”

His blade was bloody, his shield was dirty, his armor was never as heavy as the unversed might expect, yet Vandor Colton was already rather ready for a pint of lager, some live music and maybe a mistress to sit in his lap. Just better remember not to offer anybody to my buddy.

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

The axioms of the code of the Enshrined Blade did run their course within Ostrum's mind matter, predictions, calculations, ethics and morals chartered against the practicalities, mission statements of his order and their purpose within the realm. Vandor, he surmised, viewed this offer as favourable and permissible.

It might, Ostrum reasoned, his sword still firm in his hand as his eyes did remain stern as Vandor spoke.

But, Ostrum thought, renewing his faculties from carnage to considerations, his obligations were to the truth of his condition and to his function of preserving order within society. He had not much time to consider the variables, but there were many implications if those that did employ brigands were connected, vital, beyond common retribution. Working for more complicated means of state perhaps. To the noble classes his own order did find themselves attached in purpose to defend. If a lordling were responsible, could such an uprooting by simple lashings of justice imperil the land, and indeed, his own Order's reputation?

This very quandary was one he himself had written upon in his examinations to become a knight proper, and received commendation for his rhetoric. Yet as much as rhetoric did inform his ethics, he craved more information before the implications of the bargain became solid consequence.

To strike bargains with brigands might hobble and tarnish much, Ostrum succinctly concluded.

Vandor finished delivered acceptance, resulting in a small smile from the orc, perhaps in relief, but perhaps, Ostrum thought, in enjoyment of deception.

"Hold," Ostrum instructed, a voice of command did that did belay a deal being struck. The smile retreated from the orc's face, tusks jutting out at the prospect, his blade turning a fraction as Ostrum did interject. A further trembling of spear point that became tighter in cluster from hobgoblin array.

"Before we agree. This employer that directs you so," Ostrum said, weighing his words carefully as to glean as much as possible, "Be they brigand and outside of society, or are they interwoven into it? Be they someone of means and status, someone of the community?"

The orc rolled his shoulders, irritated at the inquiry. He himself might have expressed such with words, but wished for the offer to be accepted, and instead sought clarity of his own.

"Speak plain," the orc did say. "And the name is Nell," he said, giving more sympathetic eye to Vandor.

Ostrum's face fouled slightly at the prospect, his moustache moving as his lips did purse and scrunch at the request to speak so.

The knight did make a growl in his throat as if clearing it, as if such a request did require an emanation of something guttural to accomplish, turning Nell's eyes back to Ostrum in a snap.

"Are they an outlaw?" Ostrum asked, and realised in speaking it how it might not be sufficient a question alone. He added another quickly, as to not make the result of his additional question be a simple denial for requesting information without deal being sealed, "Do they speak like I do?"

The orc became surly, sensing trouble, yet allayed and encouraged by Vandor's willingness to agree to the deal. That, and the bracers about his wrists did defeat the trepidation that might rise in his frame, making him less attentive to his own body giving alarm by enchantment designed for combat boldness, not this self preserving intuition that was smothered all the same.

"No. Yes," Nell said in a monotone drawl.

It was enough of an answer to ensure the lesser of two evils would be thwarted, with the deviser and funder of such complots about this bridge being safe from Ostrum's and Vandor's further intervention.

Ostrum's conclusion all those years ago about the conflict of the Code informed this moment, however complicated it was, it was reduced by human process to imperfect compromise and solution to a world that needed knights to serve.

Providence to the Just takes precedent over Providence to the Innocent.

Ostrum made quick pace forward, sword gripped in both hands, attitude adopting in each step, not as quick sudden lash of combat resuming, but enough sign that one should be about the fight. The hobgoblins made chatterings of blame and frustrations, they themselves affected by the fear of death the two had so wrought so effectively against the bugbears and others of their kin. Nell gave out a bray as his own sword did raise.

Nell stood to the center, two bunches of hobgoblins to his side as resignation to the fight to come settled comfortably.

"You'll die the same as the other idiots then!" Nell did say, his voice rising to the occasion as he readied a combat stance, some sophistication and training within him it seemed.

Ostrum did not look to Vandor, merely giving command as he stood in the center. A sudden rush would mean being stabbed by flanking spears. The center dominated by Nell, who stood prepared to recieve.

The way Ostrum spoke now, it was as if he was speaking of the facts of the world, surmising them as one might list the most indelible and rudimentary truths, clarifying them for his comrade, and making it clear by his tone this: This conclusion is not up for debate in front of our enemy.

"We provide contest. It is decided, by Code. Ready your steel Vandor," Ostrum uttered, longsword ready upon his shoulder, his heart quickening as his blood rose to the occasion of completing the mission they had accepted, not the mystery that might ensnare them to disorderly and unknightly obligations.

Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music OOC

Vandor would be a liar to say that he did not enjoy swinging his blade when the occasion called for it. O how it so often did. However, despite his words, he was ready for this engagement to go either way.

Truth be told, he was just as much tempted to take every head in this vicinity just for bothering him—after taking the names of the orc and his employer. Or maybe he was just finally ready to rest, but not in death. In the end, perhaps the deception was both opponents’. Though this conversation had merit.

“Hold,” Ser Ostrum spoke. His tone was no less that of, well, Ostrum. It commanded respect. Authority. It simply commanded. Yet Vandor was naturally less interested in semantics than actions as he glimpsed the hobgolins muster their cluster, poised to skewer with spears galore two men like boars amid the voice of the Enshrined Knight.

Nell. That was this orc’s name, and never mind the sympathetic eye, for Vandor was ever tempted to take it anyway. Poor poorly creature. I’d take myself to hell if I were named Nell.

“Do they speak like I do?”

Nobody speaks like you do, buddy.

Vandor contentedly thought silently, keeping himself to himself as Ostrum spoke with Nell, twirling his sword lazily; less in a flourish and more in a let’s-get-on-with-it-but-I’m-patient. Then Ostrum stepped and that was enough of an indication for his sellsword acquaintance to grin with less than trepidation and yet more excitement. Here we go again.

The mercenary did not make quick pace forward but certainly paced forward, as calm as those bodies sleeping silently in the river beneath his feet, courtesy of these creatures who offered their victims no mercy once they had seized this bridge. Vandor would return the favor.

"You'll die the same as the other idiots then!"

“You mean them?”

Vandor gestured toward the dead—that meant the bodies of goblins and bugbears and whatever else littered this cursed bridge.

"Ready your steel Vandor."

“Always ready,” Vandor uttered, longsword ready in right hand, shield brandished in left; and ever the storm of thunder and lightning were this knight and sellsword as they fought together. They had done so at the cursed Keep, to liberate it from the Enshrined’s enemies; and again on this rock, not of tower or parapet but of bridge, to shower it with the blood of their enemies in an instant.

Steel readied, eyes peeled, the mercenary decided that taking these beasts in a head-on collision would prove fruitless and be pretty silly. He had a sword, he had a shield, he had abilities not yet revealed to this ill ilk; but amid his presence were other equipment, items, objects and all such that Vandor Colton did shift between with his peripheral vision.

Ah. There it is. A weapon that would permit him some distance amid the threat of a spear wall and an oafish orc named Nell. Like a number of your dumber kind, you do quite smell.

“By the wicked grin of Vandor Colton,” he spoke while taking cover, sheathing sword and shield.

“And Ostrum Brandish’s honor.” He loaded a crossbow.

-PWING!-

He released the quill from the string.

“It’s time you leave this bridge, I think.”

He figured they might attack him at range with bows of their own but, if they did, it would expose an opening for Ostrum to exploit with more than his voice.

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

Trigger of crossbow squeezed applied pressure on spearwall assembled, bolt making powerful introductions of pain, puncturing shoulder of goblinoid that shirked the formation as a result of the drawstring interjection. The mass of spearpoints shivered as the injured brigand was given space to withdraw to the back, speartip sagging, yet they did not dissolve; the rest found courage from the prospect that they would be shot should they stall, and destroyed by fearless orc should they flee. And so, in rushing steps, did they roughly becoming a bristling mob of singular surging direction.

Ostrum, his movements in well practised gait that was freer than most in plate, yet still with half steps and pivots that considered joints that locked and steel that did uncurl to protect, placed armoured sole upon the bridge stone. Stone and path that had brought so much misfortune to the innocent. To be quelled, subdued, yet not uprooted and purified at the source.

No doubt this scene would play again with different actors to the same script. But it was Vandor and Ostrum's turn to act this out, with motion of blade and sabaton, with crossbow bolt and stance availing.

The spear points lacked the steady march of discipline, what method of conflict was in them was as animalistic as their snarls and yipping sounds of malcontent, yet bundled by their numbers to thrust as staggered impulses. Yet with assurance that his companion in arms was taking to the fight with bolt to fly, Ostrum was free to create wide, almost luxuriously exaggerated arcs with longsword, beginning with such motions as the first flurry of feet rose the occasion of bolt of pain.

Spearpoints bristled and jutted in desperation, for a crossbow was to be reloaded and brought to bear. And the orc, bronze bracered, gleaming, did make steady march forward, driving them forward by aura of his steady confidence.

Longsword made orbit and chopped away one point, then two more in momentous swing, steady, low sound eminating from the blade as it did make swathe and swoosh.

To sunder a spear requires a Greatsword. To sunder these primative points, merely audacity.

Ostrum's mind did adhere to axiomatic thought in erudite manner to the fighting arts. Such was his training. Such was his dedications to the fighting arts. And in supplication, did he make circular motions, body turning and shoulder bearing weight, pauldrons gleaming with intricate design as postured turned, as blade did chop and sunder points of prickling weapons jutting in continual motion, wood splintering, clattering barbs to the bridge.

In such motions, Ostrum gained a rhythm himself, marked by full steps and half steps back, securing defence for his companion, so beheading the weapons in short order. The confidence failed the goblinoids, who shuddered and drew out dirks and daggers in self defence, rather than aggression that was firmly muted. Fear grew as advantage dwindled.

Yet bolstered by bracers of fearlessness, did the orc Nell make up for his comrade's failing spirits. A steady march now which parted the hobgoblins in wide swathe of the arm, as useless weapons were discarded and short stabbing things were torn from belt and clutched tentatively. They stooped and formed as an opportunistic mass behind the battering ram of an orc that made tall approach.

Ostrum moved from steady moving blade to a stance known as window guard, point forward from the right shoulder as true as Vandor's bolt did fly straight. So positioned, eyes ahead, Nell's own blade came down as stance was taken, Nell's motion revealing knowledge of swordsmanship. Not a simple overhead cut with forward motion, but a diagonal step that brought sword down in swathe across. The two swordsmen met with steel, yet sprang away from one another, as their motion of body and weapon reaffirmed their centre line of combat. Ostrum seated his weapon on his right shoulder, and found himself against the wall of the bridge furthest from Vandor. While ready to bring about a more firm cut and aggression to Nell, the orc himself stood between Vandor and Ostrum...and grinned broad.

"Get the other one," Nell said, dauntless and unafraid.

Such confidence, and path created, was enough to encourage it to be so.

There was little Ostrum could do as they did with screeches and with mob tactics, did make their rush, only one staying behind for being so injured by Vandor's bolt.

Ostrum began his swing, and prayed that his comrade could pick up steel as quickly as he had picked up the bow, for now he was firmly engaged by position to contend with Nell, who brought his own ferocity to play, now that he had moved Ostrum thus, to exchange blows, now separated from Vandor by Nell's barrel chest and bracers that gleamed more frequent than Ostrum's own.

Much more tactical than I gave credit, Ostrum thought with a bitter mixture of satisfaction for a foe of some cunning, and regret that he had been played in such a fashion to leave his comrade to be surged so by daggerful goblinoids.

To win by arrow wouldn't do anyway, Ostrum thought, firming jaw as blades did collide again, Nell confident in powerful slashes that did ring out as they connected, whistling steel colliding into shocking clash.

Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music OOC

“Ready your steel, Vandor” came his companion’s call earlier. “Always ready” came Vandor’s answer. And Vandor had drawn the blade, only to be replaced by the crossbow, and the sellsword did sell his pitch and pull string, and the quill did fly into his enemies, and the goblin-shits did fall backward by the cruel point of a bolt that struck like a hammer’s punch.

In this chorus of carnage wherein bow and blade exchanged the kind of conversation that only warriors know, whence from one gallant knight’s throat did come the call of judgment, there was yet a cry in silence for justice; for Ostrum Brandish prayed that his comrade could pick up steel as quickly as he had picked up the bow—and his prayer was answered, for these two warriors did not fight alone, but delivered justice and judgment together as surely as words were written in a rather long run-on sentence.

“Get the other one,” said Ned or whatever the hell the orc was called. He was tall, like his dead bugbear friends, but what did they say about those who fall who are O so tall? The orc spoke, there on a bridge where blood stained stone, above a river that had been turned into a grave where the dead did float, and his words were heard.

“Oh?” As Ostrum Brandish engaged his orc opponent with blade, Vandor Colton beckoned his own opponents, those goblins who dared to stare his way. He dropped his bow and retrieved his shield, flourished his sword, eyes peeled like his steel beneath a smile that spat on these vile beasts. “Come, then!” The sellsword called across the carnage. “COME KILL ME IF YOU CAN!”

And, like that, as the Enshrined Knight, Ser Ostrum Brandish of shiny vambrace by gauntlet’s glow waged battle with his mighty foe, his companion tore forth with a storm of thunder and lightning like a king in a game of thrones.

A sellsword was all he was, really, more or less and bereft of ale galore, though on this bridge was a task of two to avert time honored doom. An epic tale in there somewhere, but what the hell, Vandor was too busy swinging at his enemies and would leave the poetry for his orc-killing buddy.

Swing away, Vandor did, blade of -cling!- and -clang!- as his opponent swung at his shield. Amid the makeshift defenses of this bridge, the mercenary used objects to his advantage. A crate got in the way of one idiot who tripped over it as blood did drip from his neck bereft of head the next instant.

Spears fallen, a lot of them from a weapon’s rack as they rolled like logs into more feet but, honestly, Vandor was mainly taking out his foes by cleaving his blade through flesh and bone. His sword intercepted his enemy’s, rewarded the attack with a parry and riposte, and slashed through another’s back.

His shield? A proven defense—as much as an offense. He bashed at a goblin who dared to dance with him, blood spewing from a broken nose, and scream his enemy did before a sword skewered his throat. Thunder. Lightning. A storm of swords. These goblins would bleed, every one of them, and in their death Vandor Colton would drink in their screams, relish in their agony, because, in the end, he fucking hated them.

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

Grimvisaged both as blows were exchanged between Nell and Ostrum, no bind forming from their efforts, but fierce sparks as steel did snap out and be received by foe's own metal. Nell's footwork was assured and consistent, Ostrum's own with proper distance for their equal measured longswords. Each slash produced and fended sent increasing vibration through Ostrum's weapon as Nell increasing brute strength to the proceedings, no singular stroke parried full bore, instead redirected and with proper degrees given space to pass through air from steel's reflection. It was as if a blacksmith were hammering away with increasing force to test the subject to breaking point.

Ostrum made a bid to understand the gait that did carry weapon to end him so unfettered by caution and trepidation's touch, knowing full well that this orc's strength was not something to challenge direct or endure for long. His muscles, still recovering from the ardours of the previous encounters with duty, would not endure this pummelling if simply beared. Nell was strong, assured, with much force in the bicep that did bring longsword to swing, and swing it did in steady rhythms.

A gambit for information was produced by the knight. Ostrum provided feign and redirected his body as to make a proceeding cut, yet withdrawing such a cut before fully committed, another feign to measure the reaction.

The reaction of Nell was preventative to the feign's full course denied, yet not impulsive, a stance taken calmly, not yet leapt towards by adrenaline and frantic wit to survive, instead revealing a coldness in Nell's responses. As if he were making posture for a sword instructor's manual, delivered smoothly, at steady and consistent pace.

It was information enough as Ostrum became more arrhythmic, more erratic and unpredictable, changing small adjustments to his approach as to beguile when his cuts would land.

Meanwhile, the hobgoblins were finding themselves quickly cut down, battered by shield, waylaid by crate, sword point puncturing throat and combat firmly in Vandor's authority. Their willingness to fight was being bled from them for each fellow of their number snuffed. A stalled moment as those remaining did look to each other, their initial surge denied. Not many remained to press the day, and they made steady step, not turning their back just yet to Vandor, hearing steel clash to their side as Nell kept the cause. Daggers still held, their eyes becoming more desperate for reprieve.

Vandor's eyes revealed his own ferocity and hatreds. Such a look these goblinoids had seen within the gaze of dwarves who crushed with aplomb and zeal, such commitment to the bitterness making firm their decision to have no part in this end.

All those remaining, aside from one nearest, did make to leap from the bridge to the stream below, scrambling over stone wall to leap, daggers tumbling as they themselves did make stride and bound to waters. To the side where the merchant and cart were left, broken, the hobgoblins making splash beside such a graveyard. The one that did not remained ignorant of his comrade's exit, dagger sharp in the hand, yet wits dull to the changing circumstance, except to the prospect of that sword and shield of Vandor's.

At this moment, Ostrum's unpredictable attitude made marks against the orc's face as his change in approach yielded result. A long shallow cut across the forehead, as Nell's enchantment denied him the adrenaline to step way with proper impetus to preservation.

Blood did run down orc face. Nell grimaced, pain clear to his senses. Some steps back, a palm to check what had occured. So close, Ostrum could see some embellishment of rune upon the arms of his opponent that did their work to calm.

"You've smothered your fear by arcane armour," Ostrum stated, turning blade to middle position, point promising more, touched with orcish ichor. Ostrum cocked his head, providing insight in assured tones, "You might have the techniques of swordsmanship, that cross cut well performed I'll grant you. But you've denied your reactions the speed that being pressured, harrowed, that engaging with a foe does yield. And soon, you'll be blinded by your own blood. Know that, denier of instinct, that you will die calmer than most," Ostrum said.

A harrumph from Nell.

A pause provided, the logic offered, as the sting of the wound unmollified by adrenaline's course did give pulse of pain.

A decision.

Longsword in right hand, left hand snapping buckle that bound the bracer. It fell the ground, the sword turned to the other hand as the other was made to be removed.

A rising surge of suppressed emotion was seen within the eyes and jaw of Nell, who shivered for the moment, bracing against the enchantment's release as the first bracer left him. A confusing sensation rushed over Nell, fear fighting within him against the half complete enchantment, adrenaline now unfamiliar, and the sting causing his eyes to narrow. As he sought release from his bracer, the second being in the process of awkward unbuckling as Ostrum made his move in sudden motion, longsword rising up from ground in swiftness.

A bloody cut as right hand was turned to stump.

The bracer fell to the ground as the orcish hand fell twitching.

And all fear did touch his brain as pain played it's part to remind Nell of fragility, a cry of anguish and shock as Ostrum stood grimly smiling at his work and ploy, blood pouring from face and stump, blade held awkwardly as Nell staggered back, the rush of fear now coming with all strength for it's delay.

Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

A pair of swordsmen. There on the bridge. Spare not one opponent. They’re gone like the wind. Where dawn did kiss. Stare. Watch. Listen. Then again, who wrote the poem amid the Enshrined Knight and the sellsword? It was not Vandor Colton but Ostrum Brandish.

So, though they fought as one, moved as a unit, danced hand in hand in this song of blood and steel, their motives were different despite their similar instruments. The knight fought for the voice of justice. The sellsword thought the gift of coin was its own purpose, though he wasn’t so indifferent with his kiss of judgment as goblins squealed.

Exhausted? Not yet. There upon the bridge, between the makeshift parapets, his sword did swing to behead opponents, cut through tissue, necks, plunge into chests, as his shield punched yet again. “BASTARD!” Vandor cursed as a blade scraped his pauldron. Were it not for the armor that protected him then he would have surely witnessed his blood soar. “Be wrought to failure!” Vandor roared as his sword tore and rendered.

For he spoke, not in his own voice, no, but in the voice of his companion as he remembered. Memories burned through him, flashed behind his eyelids in instants, never distracted so much as fueled by the echoes of those ghouls who he and his slew. Back in the Keep, in honoured doom, as those enemies did bleed and his blade did weep.

“For your loyalty to a fool’s life of service!” Though those weren’t his own words, they were a chorus amid the drums, a retention. Breathless, his arms burned, the weight of his armament and armor getting heavier despite the previous respite, yet Vandor Colton did not let up even as he found himself surrounded.

As he glanced at his companion, Ostrum Brandish who dueled the orc, the sellsword was fueled with the power of a storm. Where it may rain from east to west, a downpour from south to north, what did rend flesh was the weapon in his grip, yes, the breath in his chest as it welled within, expelled, became a roar. For the sellsword became a spellsword the next moment.

“FALL AGAIN!” Vandor commanded as goblins fell to the depths to the tune of carnage. “IN THUNDER’S BREATH!” Then his shield boomed like the whip of a mountain’s wind, surmounted all odds stacked against him. Crack, the welkin did, as a flash of lightning split, the hobgoblins shouted, and a storm of swords bit against them to the rhythm of a lost limb.

In victory's whisper, catching his breath, Vandor turned to discover that the orc was missing his hand, courtesy of his enemy, Brandish who stands at distance from Colton but never so distant. No poet is the mercenary, merely a simple man, but as he grinned at the remnant of this bridge’s defenses, that orc whose growl became a howl, he could not help himself. He just had to laugh.

“I thought you would have learned your lesson,” the spellsword taunted in the midst of cripples, bastards and broken things amid downed and drowned goblins. “About overplaying your….” He glanced at that hand on the ground. “...Position.”

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

Goblins broken and to the winds or water.

Bridge now host to some agony in the peace now enacted.

Bloody stump in hand, not crawling away, but transfixed by the sight and the harsh injunction of pain and a reality of fear that years the loss of such enchanted bravery he had relied upon til now. Upon knees, fixed eyes to the injury, all senses defeated, all methods of survive escaping him.

Nell did feel in shock of emotion upon receiving such a surge of happenings.

His eyes, narrowing and widening as if there were two warriors within him, one freshly humiliated in youthful panics, the other older and more hardened to such truths of violence with something akin to dismayed revelation.

He made to speak.

Yet there were no words to hear.

Ostrum's blade sheathed in one triumphant gesture from swathe of steel dispatch to delivering victory in his finality. A moment perhaps not seen complete by Vandor, who had seen Ostrum fight within the Keep with comrades spectral and times so hard pressed. In such a dispatch, the result was an Ostrum who seemed to perform this final service to Nell as a matter of excellence, diligence and proper appearance. There was the duellist's spirit on display here, to provide showmanship to those that stood in the victory to see.

Nell slumped, never to think on fear again.

Ostrum turned firmly contented that something had been done this day, no matter how long it might last.

He looked to Vandor who had driven the foe with him away from the crossing with him.

"It is done," Ostrum said, firm fact providing assuredness to morale and memory.

A few breaths as his mind did relinquish combat wits into knightly ways.

"Well driven and committed," Ostrum said, allowing his body to talk to himself as he ensured that Vandor had not been wounded for his efforts.

Vandor Colton


Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

The orc slumped, an orc with a stump where once a hand was but, as with others before him he had poorly chosen Ostrum Brandish for his opponent so he was doomed from the onset. Amid the onslaught, Vandor Colton had also fought, and those goblins paid the same price. Of which, he was certainly going to get paid for this.

“It is done,” Ostrum said as the sellsword took a rag to his sword. It was thick with blood but when it was sheathed it was clean enough. “It is indeed,” he agreed, taking in the scene. There wasn’t much scenery to see, granted, but seeing dead enemies always did give him a bit of satisfaction and glee. They’re dead. Not me. I’m still breathing. So much for these two men being the ones swimming in that dirty river as those oafish bugbears said.

Well driven and committed, yes, and that went for both of them as Vandor nodded at Ostrum. “We cut through them like a blade through cheesecake.” He could suddenly go for cake come to think of it. “Anyway, they mentioned something about purses. Give us a second."

Vandor began raiding the bridge at a leisurely pace. A few gold pieces here, some silver coins there, nothing too much for his luggage as he traveled light to begin with and he wasn’t a greedy mercenary by any means. Not entirely. Besides, this wasn’t even the real payment he would get for a mission well accomplished.

“Now…” Sighing into the breeze, a gentle rain wetting and refreshing his countenance, Vandor offered his companion both brows raised in a kind of smile to match his grin. “How about a drink?”

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

Ostrum made for his own search as Vandor did his plundering of coin, eyes seeking chill footwear as he strode about. Nell did not bear such things upon his person, merely stillness and seeping lifeforce. Eliminating those slain as holders of the item he sought, Ostrum made to the tent with stride that moved the muscles to relieve the tensions drilled within. His stomach gave a yielding prang of comfortable pain that told him that he was leaving his combat senses.

The tent was opened with a rush of the hand, a smattering of possessions about the place and a soup within thick black cauldron that smelled strongly of pepper, salt and spoiled unknowable fish. Ostrum's nose was offended, his eyes watering at the affront. He suddenly felt somewhat more pride in his prepared bacon this morning as he gave a grim view at the viscious thing that did bubble over controlled flame. He let the air in to the tent to make the process easier as he did peer about.

"Mayhap there," Ostrum did state.

He made to a wooden trunk and kicked it open, firmly irritated by the scent that was deemed palatable by goblinoid band. Some small vials of unknowns. A few bucklers with rust upon them. And a pair of ice blue boots with thick white fur about the trim.

Ostrum snatched the boots and left the tent in short order, blinking away the annoyance to the eyes and breathing deep of cleaner airs.

Approaching Vandor, eyes squinting for such recent exposure to such culinary fumes.

"Our task is done. Easier I suspect than that business of wild mages riding crustaceous beast."

A moment as he considered for a fleeting moment pressing the day onto further tasks.

His arms did ache, such swathes of steel to sunder the spears had demanded much from his already laboured frame from the Keeps' defence. He felt a thirst upon him now that had been exacerbated by the proximity to the foul soup.

"A drink is firmly on the agenda. If my olfactories haven't been firmly scoured by whatever was in that tent. Let us be away from this bridge. Onto better company than dead foes and salted foulness."

They did make tread as two towards the nearest tavern did journey.

It was not long before the faded sign that did swing in gentle breeze greeted the two as daylight made it's final usherings to nightfall.

That tavern was named The Surly Pig. A thatched roof, hardwood floors and thick reliable beams, some decades spent serving all manner of traveller and lout with pale ales, black stouts, cheap wines and comfortable beds; a wide hearth well fed that did host a perpetual stew.

Tonight's guests that did greet the entrance of Ostrum and Vandor: Three wide berthed dwarves who were about a game of darts, the board set to their height and firmly attacked by broad fingers that were used to shaping barrels to proper shape. They threw their darts as if punctuation to whatever discussion they did make in the gravel sounds of their native tongue. Their squat frames adorned with short sword and satchels heavy with tobacco which was being stuffed into pipe between conversation and thrust of dart.

A pair of mages, swathed in yellow sashes upon burgundy robes, who seemed content enough to be at a point of rest, their eyes heavy upon their drinks of wine which was muddled occasionally by ladels into the bowl of water at the centre of their table. Water that carried a handful of leaves that did swirl about the surface, the mages dipping into it occasionally, their attention upon the ripples that did emanate.

A halfling was at the perpetual stew, filling wooden bowl with chunks of suede, sliced carrot and chicken, who made elaborate motion with short fingers to throw away bones from the bubbling broth into the fire. The bones blackened under the stoked flames. His hat, a thing of feathered pomp, was upon a second seat before the meal to take for any and all who did pay their way, seemingly waiting for another to join him in his meal. An assortment of stools were about to accommodate the heavy and tall, the short and light, and everything in-between.

Ostrum made steady approach to the tavern host, making arrangements for them to have seperate rooms, funding the venture without question. Coins were handed over correctly, and extra services and indulgences afforded. He looked to Vandor, coins laid down to begin a healthy tab.

"We have place to rest and drinks to order, take what you please from coins provided towards this...Surly Pig," Ostrum said, the words delivered with all the courteousness one should provide to those who were responsible for providing food, shelter, drink and warmth between travels and trevails.

"I'll take a tankard of water to refresh my senses, and your darkest stout."

The provider of such libation did pour from tap with firm and assured hand, leaving the comfortable silence of diligent service. The person was elven, golden eyes, a necklace of bronze that did bear a small swine upon hindlegs that did look as the name of this place did suggest. The rest of his attire was functional heavy cloth of cream, well worn from toils about the place.

"Order whatever you wish. You've earned it for your consistent application to the tasks set before us," Ostrum said as the stout did settle, the head forming as the black liquid did with mineral rich substance promise a firm rejection of the soup's offending memory.

Vandor Colton