Fable - Ask Inch By Inch, Mile by Mile

[Sigurd Ulfson]

The table before him had more empty mugs than he cared to count. The sun was blazing in the Allir Reach that day and even his tent did little to keep the sun away. He sat talking to himself as he always did. Smart men with weak arms liked to say that it was a sign that his mind was sharp. That all the blows he'd taken to his head might have seen him lose an eye, but he still hadn't lost his wits. He sat shirtless with his belly hanging over his breeches. His muscles glistened in the sunlight as they were coated by a sheen of sweat. It was during times like this that he longed for his old home far North. The Tundra had always treated him better than any city in any other shore. Perhaps he'd get to return there before he died.

On this field, in front of a raging cunt like Lord Aethwynd's castle, he planned on living though. Poor sod had ran afoul the wrong member of the Alliran Council. Councilman Thruin was as callous and vengeful as he was rich. His gold soon saw a number of mercenary companies outside of Aethwynd's walls. Rumor had it that the first ones to bring the Councilman Aethwynd's head would receive a substantial bonus payout. And so on the fourth week, he sent a messenger to Cato to arrive with his best men. If he had thoughts of playing this game dirty, then certainly the other Captains in their camps were thinking the same.

"Cato, you insufferable cunt. Come have a drink with me before my heart finally gives out and I die of boredom... Did you just climb out of some woman's pleasure hole, you pretty fuck?" It was how the half-giant spoke. It was how he showed his love to the younger Mercenary Captain. "Come now. Pour an old man a drink before hell comes."​

 

[Cato]

"You been hitting the dice again old man?" asked Cato in reference to the other captain's lack of attire. Even with his protruding belly, the old man looked like he could rip a horse's head off. Gods knew that he could crush one with that mace of his. Who knows how many poor bastards had crumpled under the force of Sigurd's blows. Hopefully Cato would never be on the receiving end of those strikes. It was hardly unusual in this business for allies to quickly become enemies. Though that was a rarity when it came to the 'Shields.

"I did, as a matter of fact. Had a mind to climb right back in if I'm being completely honest. Instead I'm here, sitting outside some petty cunt's castle." Sighing, Cato filled the old man's cup and then his own before finding his seat. The camps around them bustled with activity as the two mercenary captains enjoyed a drink. Cato looked to the standards that flew, recognizing most, if not, all of them. Greedy ratfuckers, the whole lot of them. Cato included.

"So why'd you drag me and the boys all the way out here? First was never much for sharing." Time to get down to business.

Sigurd Ulfson

 

[Sigurd Ulfson]

"Excuse me fer not sharin' my Unlucky coin. Next, the rest of you shits will be sad the First itn't givin' out cock polishes as well, yeh lousy cunts." he said through a laugh and a cough as he brought the cup that Cato had poured for him to his lips. He downed it all in a few seconds before slamming the empty container on the table. Sigurd had a tendency to be quite invasive without meaning to be. He took up a great deal of space and his hands always seemed to find the next man's shoulder in one of his laughing fits. He clapped Cato on the back before he caught his breath.

"Nay, lad. You'll find there's quite a bit to share this go around... The petty cunt in that castle has a big price on his head. We're all gettin' paid 'ere but the fucker on the council is offerin' more if we kill that cocksucker and bring his 'ead back to the castle. I called you to either get up there and do the job when the battle starts or kill the sorry sons of bitches that do so we can get the pay ou'."

His loyalty was to the Blackshields and the men and women that served in it. He could have given a shit less about any of the other captains or even the man they were hunting. It was all business at the end of the day. Just so happened that Sigurd also happened to be a fan of spilling it in the dirtiest ways possible.

"I'll let yeh keep thir'y percent of the extra gold. The rest is goin' into me fuckin' retirement. There's a beach in the sand kingdoms that has me fuckin' name on it and I don't plan on being there without plenty of whores to keep me cock busy if yeh know wha' I mean."​

 

[Cato]

Cato winced as the other man jovially clapped his back. This half-senile fool forgets just how damned big he is. The mercenary captain usually would've been annoyed but he knew the old man didn't mean anything by it. There also weren't many people who were likely to tell him off either. Cato gingerly stretched his arm as the other mercenary made his explanation. "I'd heard word that the Council had it out for Aethwynd, didn't know it was this bad." Alliran politics was a mess at the best of times, but mostly it was just a proper clusterfuck. Too many rich, petty bastards in the same place.

He considered the rest of Sigurd's proposal and then finally shrugged. "Can't say you're wrong. Aren't many out there who are better than my lads when it comes to proper knifework." Each of the 'Shield's companies had their specialties, but the Third's was a little different. They were irregulars, comprised of all manner of cutthroats, assassins, and hedge wizards. Sneaking through chaos, and shiving the enemy lord is exactly what his boys did best. "I won't say no to some extra coin."

The mercenary captain looked at his peer with a mix of amusement and skepticism. "You've been talking bout this beach for years now. We both know there's only one way you retire in this business..." Cato let that morbid thought hang in the air for a moment before moving on. "Any word on when the assault's going to be?"

Sigurd Ulfson

 

[Sigurd Ulfson]

"Eh, well that's another thing that you're going to come with me to deal with. Some l'il prick soft boy from Alliria is the one leadin' the siege. The skin on me cock is rougher than this boy's hands. And I bet my bo'om penny that the fuckin' wolves around 'im are chompin' at the bit to test his fuckin' author'iy. So I'm goin' to get sui'ed and boo'ed and take this mace and smash 'is fukin' 'ead in-...'Scuse me."

Sigurd glanced his one eye away from Cato to hawk-spit on to the ground after clearing his throat.

"-I'm goin' to smash his fuckin' 'ead in to give you pretty magical miracle sluts time to get on the walls and inside the Keep. I'll rally the cunt's men ou' 'ere and 'ave the smartest among them take their captains place so we can get this assault star'ed proper. Scenery 'ere's too borin' to be waitin'."

One of his whores had come arrived in all her orcish glory with his chainmail. There was a boy who often shadowed him as well. He never talked much and Sigurd never quite cared to introduce him. But the Boy was keen with a blade and looked to be nearly as tall as Sigurd. He brought in the older man's breastplate.

"Let me ask you somethin' lad... You ever looked a man in the eyes and know tha' he wasn't who he said he was? ...I've known some right tough cunts in my days. Fuckers that might 'ave even scared me to me fuckin' bones. You still remembered the steel in their eyes even after you pu' them in their shallow grave. Then every lesser man just becomes another face. Tha's wha' I see when I look at this moist cunt of a Captain. That whole crew is rea'y to fuck him. I just 'ave to shove my cock in first I guess."

He mumbled something as he dressed himself and put on his chainmail. The Boy helped him put on his massive breastplate and the old man patted him on the shoulder to send him off as he clasped his swordbelt around his form and reached for the ugly black mace on the table. He put on a worn black hat over his chainmail that had seen better days and ran his great fingers through his thick grey mustache.

"Come now, lad. You and the Boy here best make sure I don' get shivved. Heh heh heh heh."​

 

[Cato]

The mercenary's expression remained neutral as he attempted to process the other captain's plan. A shit commander could get a lot of men killed in short order; both of them knew that well enough. There was no shortage of half-dumb bastards that came looking for glory-or whatever self-righteous fuckery they chose. A knife in the back happened more often than most cared to admit. Still, it was a dangerous game. It was just as easy to find yourself sleeping with the worms if you weren't careful.

He didn't doubt Sigurd's assessment of the situation but it had Cato feeling anxious. "You sure about this old man?" There's a lot of eyes round here and most of them ain't friendly. We've got the Nofin Free Company, 'Fiends, Kalfer's crew, and a whole bunch of noble pricks who think they know the game. Lot of folks who wouldn't mind seeing us fail. And by that I mean, wouldn't mind seeing as face-down in a muddy ditch." Cato knew he wasn't telling the old man anything he didn't already know but was saying it anyways.

"All I'm saying is there's a whole lot that could go wrong. Lucky or Unlucky." The other captain was fully suited up by this point which elicited a resigned sigh from Cato. If the old man still wanted to do this, there was no choice but to watch his back.

Sigurd Ulfson

 

[Imad Awain]

Outside the half giants tent sat a grisly figure. A creature born from refuse. Molded by blood. Allegiance to coin. Ronin. The conversation from within was hardly quiet. The laughs of the massive man attempted to break through his calloused interior. Unflinching, even beneath the sun's inimical showing. He meditated, picking up a few words here and there from inside the tent. The politics of the matter didn't intrigue him. They rarely did. Hell, coin was losing its luster. Drinking in a man's last breathe was a tonic he sought after more than most. He was a killer. He knew that. Cato knew that. When you needed success by blade you called Imad Awain, The Reaper.

Cato
Sigurd Ulfson

 

[Sigurd Ulfson]

"Let me tell you something, lad. I have been in more engagements through my years than you've tasted cunts. If it's one thing I know is when the wolves are hungry. If I don't do the deed, then somebody else will. You mark my words. And none of the other cunt Captains around 'ere will raise a sword for this cock hole."

He walked past the man sitting outside of his tent and did a double take when he noticed him. The old half-giant said nothing to him, but there was a sense of understanding there as he peered through his one eye. A monster recognized other monsters easy. There was nothing worth saying. Instead he focused on the task at hand, knowing that the small man would accompany his captain.

Music played and the smell of meat being cooked was heavy on the air. Sigurd towered over all he walked past and he sang a song under his breath as he moved with purpose. The largest tent in the siege grounds was tall with a silver flag flapping from it's point. It glistened in the sun and had a unicorn emblazed upon it.

"Alrigh'! Enough of the fuckin' lollygaggin'! I'm callin' ou' the Captain of the Driftsilvers to come ou' and face me in the old way and prove himself worthy of leadin' this siege... And while I'm a' it, I'll challenge any other Captain 'ere that thinks they 'ave balls enough to lead this siege! If your mother gave you a cock long enough to accept me challenge, then step righ' up!"

Sigurd knew none of them would answer the call. But the Allirian cunt? He would come out. Had too much to compensate for. Sigurd pulled up a chair and sat with his mace on his lap.​

 

[Cato]

"Alright old man, just wanted to make sure you thought it through is all." Cato would just have to trust in the other man's confidence. He'd lived this long after all, clearly he was doing something right. The mercenary captain checked his weapons all the same. If they were going to scrap, he didn't want to get caught with his trousers round his ankles.

As they stepped outside the tent, he spotted Imad waiting outside quietly. He was an eerie bastard, even among those in the Third. Few knew the sharp edge of blade like the dour killer. Cato wasn't even sure if the man was in it for the coin. Hells, he barely knew anything about Imad and wasn't keen on asking either. The man did his job and that's what mattered.

Cato slowed a step for a moment so that Imad could catch the captain's next words. "Might be some knifework that needs doing, keep ready."

Finally they found themselves outside the Driftsilvers tent and the challenge was made. A ripple of murmurs spread throughout those who were closest. Cato made no move for his blade but was ready all the same.

Now would this so-called Allirian cunt rise to the challenge, and would he be alone?

Sigurd Ulfson Imad Awain

 

[Imad Awain]

He caught the eyes of captain Sigurd, a knowing look. He squinted, attempting to block out the sun and get a better look of the bloke. No measuring needed. One possessed a preponderance over the other, but both were killers. No matter the status of a man, they all were going to die. The equalizer. He gave a quick nod of respect.

Cato followed behind the half giant. Delivering words that made Imad's hands twitch. "Aye, capn's." His accent thick, grainy, likely from the far west of Amol-kalit. "I'll be steps behind."

He repositioned a knife to the front of his belt. Counted 10 paces, and began to follow them. His eyes shifted around the camp as they made their way to the tent. Calculating.
Their arrival was met with Sigurds boisterous challenge.

He peeled off from the pack, circling the area. Hands steady, knife ready.

Cato
Sigurd Ulfson