Private Tales Rise and shining armour!

[Sam Fairbridge]

As the fellow with green eyes did place a thumb to the nose at the request, rubbing it as dwarves were somewise want to do to show that they were indeed thinking about something, a voice rumbled from the back of the shop, alongside heavy tread of iron shod boots.

"A flamberge is it you're after? A flamberge in these parts is like," the voice rumbled out, a face hot and bothered from hard labour with hammer and flame did emerge, and stopped in their tracks and in their speech. Thick braided brown beard and bald head, leather apron and thick set gloves, the forgeworker blinked a few times, regarding the armour for a dumb moment.

Words resumed as Stillwater himself felt the amused look of his colleague upon him who spoke with a chuckle.

"Like seeing an animated suit of armour. Mighty rare work of art, eh?" his colleague did say, and pawed at the sandwich once again, crumbs of cheese falling to the counter.

"Quite so Umbik, quite so," Stillwater said, slowly making his way to appraise the armour that made such a request. Eyes upon the craftsmanship behind the armour that did make the request. He placed gloved hands upon his hips and rumbled on.

"A flamberge eh? You're a discerning one. And I trust you're not the kind just to admire it on a wall. Well, the ways I sees it, there's only one way you're going to get a flamberge from around here any time soon. Don't get me wrong, I can make such a thing, and a damn good one at that. But with the extensive order from the local band of guards and mercenaries, well, you're going to be waiting a long time before I even could eye up an ingot. Got near thirty swords to be making, and the rest. And the way I see it," Stillwater said, and made a movement of his eyes at Umbik's direction, quick darting to the door and back.

The sandwich was placed down, and the steward of the shop went to the doorframe. A lever was pulled, and the door began to seal, moving slow by virtue of counterweights and pullies. The windows were high in the building, some directly into the roof that still provided illumination.

Sam looked quizzical at the two dwarves, feeling odd at the familiar sensation of being sealed in a place. Not quite panic, just caution about emulating such circumstance again of heavy stone doors.

The door sealed. Umbik walked to the counter again to the sandwich as Stillwater continued.

"The way I see it, there's a better way. There's already a flamberge in town you see. Something I laboured over for many weeks, something that would be better served by anyone else that would actually use it. And from the looks of it, you aren't looking for a trophy."

Stillwater entered a well practiced rant, as if consumed by the mere thought of it.

"I mean really, what use is a sword that's just going to be an ornament on the wall, I mean that mayor didn't even-" Stillwater said, and Umbik's voice joined it unison as the complaint, often spoken, was memorised and recited, "come to me to infuse the gem, it just sits there on a wall, polished and keen, in want of a warrior, in want of attunement to the runes!"

Stillwater looked to Umbik with a withering look. The sandwich was consumed entirely, and the paper was gingerly looked at as Stillwater made proper inspection.

Stillwater came down closer to Zxandor, looked them up and down.

"Ways I see it, the blade deserves better. It's a weapon. Not a painting, not a trophy, it needs to fulfil it's purpose. I tell you this true, the flamberge I made is flawless, else my name aint Jasper Stillwater. The mayor keeps it in his swanky home above his fireplace from what I hear. And I've been hearing rumour that he can't afford this order I've been toiling away on, owing to his ineptitude with book keeping. You see, he's been charged with supplying the local mercenaries the swords they need to do the job that sorely needs doing around here. No money for the weapons I'm making means he aint getting them, I started the job with all assurances, and I won't be walked over. It's a matter of agreements and me reputation. But all this means the trade route to the east, the bridge, is still blocked off by brigands while we muddle about with who owes what. You want that flamberge? I say clear the bridge of miscreants who are blockading it and ask for the flamberge in return for the job. You folks seem capable enough for it, damn sight more impressive than the folks waiting for their weapons since they lost 'em to rust monsters," Stillwater said and shook his head as if in mourning for all that good metal.

"Once the bridge is clear," Stillwater continued, "I can sell them piecemeal to the sellswords about, and ship the rest across the bridge, and everything goes back to working properly. Mayor Tillington isn't a bad sort, just, too comfortable, not used to real logistics. And I reckon he'll part with the flamberge in return for the solution to all his muddled problems. And if he don't, I'll knock sense into him personally. It's more than fair, and will save this town from having higher taxes. Or worse."

Sam looked at Stillwater, and then to Xzandor expectantly as he considered the terms. This was a first for Sam, and required some time to deliberate and calculate. A few nods as things settled into place in Sam's mind, and a gentle nod from Sam to encourage, but not dictate.

Stillwater gestured to the weapons affixed to walls. Longswords and short swords were the primary weapons on display as part of the shipment, but other weapons lay about, hammers and spears and the like.

"What'do'ya say, you gleaming miracle of steel and enchantment? I'll loan you what you need, until you earn what you want," Stillwater said, hands on hip, firmly happy that a long standing gripe might be resolved by this miracle of walking armour.

Sam looked on and allowed Zxandor to make this decision for themselves.

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

Zxandor watched and listened patiently. Patience was a natural state for any object, even animated ones.

For a being unlike them there might have been some overload of details but for Zxandor it was a matter of tasks.
The task was in the end to provide guard for Sam Fairbridge.
To that end they required a flamberge and to get the flamberge they needed to go to the East Bridge and ki...
The helm of a head turned again from Jasper to look at Sam for a moment.
...to stop these brigands Jasper spoke of.

Zxandor's mind, such as could be in at least metaphysical terminology deemed, was entirely unconcerned with the concept of effort. To them it was equally as straightforward to construct a catapult as it was to stand guard at a door so it was with swift readiness that they said.

"I understand and accept these conditions Jasper Stillwater."

Wasting no time at all Zxandor began to gather up the tools they felt necessary and useful.
Brigands as it was put did not tell them much but it mattered little. Orcs elf's and beastmen all died much the same as humans did when confronted.
First a dagger that got placed into their boot, then a short sword affixed to the hip and a hammer through the belt. The last piece chosen was a spear and shield which they slung over the shoulder.
The result was Zxandor looking everybit like a complete set and as they turned to confront the room they moved as easy as they had without the added weight.

"I am ready Sam Fairbridge."

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

A quiet marvelling from the dwarves as the Zxandor did with alacrity arm and gird themselves with a briskness that was firmly refreshing to them. Their eyes had seen many a palm test the weight of weapons before coin had been weighted to be more pleasing to retain. Zxandor moved with a decisiveness and assuredness in what they needed, like a good foreman collecting the precise instruments and resources needed in one sage assessment. The door was attended, the heavy stone yawning open as the conceit was turned into concept and charge, the task before the two them beckoning.

The regimented movement of a being that knew what they needed so quickly enacted to set them to quiet confidences all. Sam received the affirmation that all was in order with a nod, a quietude that made the magic trader all the more mysterious to the dwarves. Those white dots did look to each of the dwarves in turn, as if studying their admirations for a moment, having never seen such a thing regarded for themselves, and finding the look to be fascinating.

Sam approached the counter in subdued motion, hand reaching into pocket for a stitched together series of maps that had been bartered for and generated. Gloved hands spread out the paper onto the counter, and the gloves gestured gingerly about in a blank spot. Umbik prodded at an empty space of the map, free of detail. A nod, a mark of pencil, and the quilt of geography was tucked back inside robe pocket.

"As am I," Sam did say to Zxandor. A tip of the hat in thanks to the dwarven folk, and companion thusly armed, did Sam exit the shop, with a simple, "Let us attend this bridge then," quietly spoken, as rotely as if books were to rearranged in a library.

As daylight struck them once again, and the stone walls of the shop relinquished it's reminders of a previous time, Sam was a fluster with possibilities. Brigands were new. And new was interesting. But certain conditions had be met. The facts and figures were taken into consideration.

"Zxandor, that shop was going to be arming a lot of people to this task. I think," Sam said in hushed toned, as they did trundle through the place, the occasional nod going from Sam to those that did politely met their gaze and cordialities were offered non-verbally. The odd look of admiration at the shining armour that walked into the weapons store unarmed and had come up braced and bristling, quiet talk of possibilities already afoot in gossiping.

Sam spoke seriously to Zxandor, speaking their process of thinking.

"Self defence is one thing. But clearing a bridge of brigands, I've only read stories about this sort of thing. Not my usual area of matters. But if it's going to help this place, and well, if it helps you, I say do whatever is needed to ensure we build rapport and earn that flamberge to proper requirements. They were going to send thirty swords to the problem. I think, we can't afford to be...timid."

Sam looked to Zxandor, as they bought carried the tools of their respective professions upon their person.

"I don't want to hold you back with my previous instruction, not if it would endanger you," Sam said with overtones of concern, "Self defence is one thing."

A gentle sigh, an affixing of the hat, eyes cast out to the path ahead, a bridge some distance away, some settling of resolve in Sam's voice now.

"But this is another."

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

Zxandor listened as the walked at a brisk pace. One marched into conflict and so Zxandor marched forth.

Sam spoke of the limitations on killing. This was plain enough so to address this Zxandor stopped and spoke. Turning towards Sam and planting the butt of the spear into the ground.

"You speak of your instruction not to kill Sam Fairbridge."

They had not face, no means of discerning intent or meaning, only a voice that held not sign of impatience but instead a mild curiosity.

"I understand that you wish to lift this limitation and that you intend to fight along with me, is that correct?"

The reason they stopped was again simple in military terms. It was always best to understand ones allies and responsibilities clearly before a confrontation.
For all of Sam's ability to converse in subtleties Zxandor was a being made to be direct and candide.

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

The deluge of the weight of responsibility, the onus of choice, the argument of theories only read of clashing with practicalities, all this and more did become heavy within Sam's frame. As if a floodgate had been finally opened, the rush of pressure finally expressing itself in the cerebral flood of concerns. The sensation was dizzying, and Sam did slow at the arguments and calculations.

Gloves pawed at the straps of the backpack, pulling it tight to their back as if to feel further secure. Eyes went to Zxandor. To the weapons so gripped and holstered. There was an assurance in Sam's companion, and an unfettered acceptance. A resolve. So stark in contrast to this current sensation of uncertainty.

Nebulous notions, with oughts and shoulds did swim in Sam's rhetoric. Wants. This talk of wishes. Suddenly this all felt all too quick, all too rushed to Sam.

Yet, for all Sam's scrutiny of the question of lethality, there was little to guide that felt anything less than transparent and ghostly. The wishes of the town to remove these brigands, that it would solve many a concern, Sam did think, seeking to soothe what was irritated within them.

After all, it's good to be helpful to people, Sam did think.

A further moment as Sam did reflect on where this thought, ever present from the first moment to the present, did grow from. Eyes looking from their companion to the distance. Gloves did tense about the leather straps.

It was this sensation, the deep need to fulfil utility to others, of requests and tasks charged, that was suddenly acutely in the spotlight. As overwhelming as the sky to Sam the first moment they had peered upon it's vastness.

In this moment of reflection, Sam thought of moments before sentience, the time of serving simply, to the experiment, to the time of learning and curiosity, only with themselves to serve in their pursuit of understanding. A hollow feeling, yet curiosity had became the new master to obey, the previous master who had instructed Sam to scribe, to heft books, to pull levers and clean equipment, had perished.

This willingness to serve, free and quick, the unseen servant's modus operandi, did seem for the first time ever present, obvious and apparent.

Yet defer Sam did in this moment. To the wisdom of the settlement, to the Mayor, to the dwarves, to those thirty swords that would be brought to bear against these brigands, to the trade that would be allowed once bridge be clear. To Zxandor's want of a flamberge. Too many people in mind to serve in one singular event, and a heritage of obedience to tasks issued did influence.

And to that overwhelming sense of need to serve and help that had guided so far.

The logical conclusion did emerge. The ones that held the bridge couldn't be helped at the same time as the settlement. And indeed, caused harm to one another. A choice had to be made, and Sam knew these brigands not. Some ethics emerged, freshly formed, infant and mewling, finding place within the framework of logics merely read of until this point, instead of experienced and deduced.

"I wish to help," Sam said, feeling the words not to truly belong to themselves, yet speaking them all the same. "I wish to help you," Sam said, owning that sentiment more truly, "and in order to do that, you need a flamberge. I can't give you an unfair request. That would be abhorrent," Sam said, feeling that statement to be truer than anything he had said until this moment. An unseen servant when charged with an impossible task is rendered frustrated and doomed to being of poor utility. Sam had seen other of their kin suffer that briefly, from poor instruction from a weary Master who slumbered and awoke to find Sam's kin in arrested loop.

"And I feel, somehow, that asking you to enact non-lethal means might endanger. Both you, and the task we've been given. So," Sam said, firming their voice, "for this task, drop the limitations."

The wind did rush as if in response to this statement, setting robe to tremor and hat to bristle.

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

Zxandor nodded in ready acceptance. Whom to kill and whom not to kill was effectively all war was. They why was the only other factor.
"Thank you Sam Fairbridge."

Zxandor picked up the spear and continued marching.
"Being allowed to kill these Brigands will make this far simpler and quicker."

Victory in this scenario meant effectively one thing. That Brigands no longer occupy the Bridge as soon as possible.
If they are frightened off then they may return, if they are beaten and flee they may return for vengeance but if they are all killed then they shall never return.

"Do you have any other concerns Sam Fairbridge?"

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

Sam looked to Zxandor with softness in their eyes, a doubt and a troubled nature behind them. Soft light that did look to their companion, and then to the distance.

"Concerns...more for myself than of you. This is your element it seems. I'm, I'm just," Sam said, and clasped at their palm with their fingers, so distinguished by gloves and not by flesh beneath.

"I'm just not used to this line of thought. But," Sam said, and hefted the backpack, settling it upon their back in equal balance, slow and deliberate.

"There are tasks to perform. And that much I do know about," Sam said, and gestured to Zxandor to proceed on as Sam's own footfalls began to make the journey.

"That much I do know about," Sam said softer, thinking of the duties they once were charged with. And duties that Sam themselves was now provided to help their companion, not from authority external, wizardly and with exacting instruction of rote tasks, but from authority internal, needs to be met with unsure compass to guide.

The road opened the two, the bridge not far off, map serving well enough to those that might serve the town, and with it, themselves.

----

The bridge was a simple thing of wood that did creak much too loudly to make anyone feel comfortable about standing on it. The water that did power through the river from recent rains made the whole thing lean ever so slightly, yet the rope that did bind the wooden construction together did hold it true.

The brigands were simple beings of simple matters themselves. Hardly diligent in their attentions, they did amass about the bridge, firmly bored by their occupation. Spears were set to resting, as were eyes and shoulders against the wooden poles. Cards were thrown in irritation, banal conversations were indulged. None looked to the road that held the pace of Zxandor and Sam. No-one had bothered them in weeks, and time spent doing nothing did dull a man so.

To the eyes that did approach on the road distant, the bandits were at least fifteen in number from quick glance. Some hints of further numbers, bandits with fishing poles in the deeper part of the river, bandits who walked in pairs about the river further down with poles of their own. Three horses were tied to a stake near those that fished that did swish their tails against what flies cared to irritate. A cry of success as a rod did ensnare something, and the reeling in did begin. Some eyes went to that, thinking of food, instead of to Sam and Zxandor.

"They're distracted," Sam did say, nodding to Zxandor, hoping they might take the lead. This was not something that Sam was used to. All through the journey here, Sam had considered what spellcraft might assist. Some basic telekinetic forces, shields, blasts and such were fostered within their mind. Yet as the moment drew nearer, Sam lacked the confidence and experience to begin it.

"They're distracted," Sam did say again, as if delaying an inevitable leap into the unknown.

They looked to their gloves, clasped a few times, feeling this unusual feeling of minor dread and uncertainty within them.

Eyes turned back to Zxandor.

"I'm at your side," Sam did say softly, quickening their walk ever so slightly, their eyes turning to Zxandor expectantly, as if they might break out into a brave charge or some warcry, "I'll follow your example," Sam did say, those words spoken given some strength to Sam's resolve.

The bandits were more concerned with the catch of the day than the miracle of armour and the magic user that looked to them to be bold in this moment, both of whom would soon be upon the bandits who's eyes were upon the fishing rod that with firm grip and firmer pulls was dragging something willful from the water.

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

The opportunity was good. It was best to attack when an enemy was unready. Zxandor understood this as a matter of course. Sam seemed to be experiencing fear, or at least hesitation. Such battle psychology was common among fresh soldiers.
"Sam Fairbridge you are no required to fight. I am able to complete this task and you will be safer if you do not get closer."

The suggestion doubled up in its purpose, since they still considered themselves to be bodyguard to Sam.
They readied their spear and shield, checked their weapons and readied themselves.
Looking towards the bandits they selected their first target of the group. The empty helm turned towards Sam again.
"I will make my way across the bridge and take out the most ready then I will guard it against the rest. They will need to cross the river to get to you."
A moment passed and above them the leaves on the trees made a soft chorus.
"Stay safe Sam Fairbridge."

And then Zxandor began to run. Limbs that could not tire beat dirt towards the bridge and the waiting and idle bandits.

The first one to see him was startled into knocking over his spear before the oncoming rattle of chainmail and thudding of boots collided with him in a sudden and silencing splurt of impact. The spear sunk deep into the man's guts and methodically quick it was removed again by combination push and pull of the shield and haft of the weapon.
The other, an older woman who was still in shock at the suddenness of Zxandor's arrival balked and it cost her everything.
These were not soldiers.
As Zxandor silently slid the tip out of their second victim they wiped the blade onto the back of their long glove and made their way across the bridge. Their movements were more careful now, measured and with the speed at which the first two had been killed they knew the others would be fearful. This was good, the longer they spent afraid the closer they would be to panic and fleeing.

The two on the far side readied themselves, called for aid and tried to muster forgetting the catch of the day and other games they were playing. Scrambling hands sought weapons and feet wet from the river trod the grass and path towards the bridge. They asked questions like
"What is that thing?"
"Where did it come from?"
and
"What does it want?"

Zxandor did not reply, they advanced and without stopping jabbed at the nearest target when they reached them. Which earned a yelp of surprise and a bloody handed bandit retreated back towards the others.

"THE FUCK IS IT?"
Asked the bandit and Zxandor knocked the wind from them with their shield, sending them onto their back.
Two more fell in after abandoning their fishing, no shoes or armour to speak of and armed with buckler and daggers.

"KILL IT!"
The most senior of them commanded, a gnarled looking man with an eyepatch who wielded a spiked mace in one hand.
"KILL IT NOW!"

The first blow glanced off Zxandor's shield and they replied with another jab that almost caught their foe. This one was faster than the others so Zxandor let the shield slip and show and opening. Many a time one thought they could find a weakness in their body based on Zxandor's humanoid form but as this quick one soon discovered they had no organs to pierce to the spear lunge bit into rings of chain and nothing else.
Zxandor advanced again, stepping in and plunging their own spear deep into the vulnerable stomach of the quick one and the quick one crumbled into a steaming mess of themselves.

They left the spear where it lay and drew the others offending weapon from themselves. It clattered to the ground accompanied by the soft tinkling of lost ringlets. Zxandor could spare a few before they became seriously impaired. Damage to them was measured not in blood lost but in structural integrity. As long as their form held, they continued.
Next they drew up the warhammer from their belt and hefted it.

The bandits grouped up, a subconscious need to be close in the face of their unprecedented foe and then Zxandor spoke from their non existent mouth.

"Surrender or I will kill you!"

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

Efficient movements from companion so roused from rest did captivate the merchant, equal parts curiosity and shock as slick strikes made bodies shudder. Standing some small distance behind, the want to help collided with the unknowns of the nature of what was transpiring. Contested wills and injury fatal. As Sam did begin to grasp wits on how to help his companion and guardian, another demonstration of weapon mastery was displayed and performed, rendering the course of action imagined in Sam's mind irrelevant.

Those that had just caught the fish had discarded their meal, left to gasp at the air hostile to it. Silver scales did flex, hook still caught inside, binding it to the soil. Footsteps hurried to the bridge, weapons drawing, cries raised as they drew near as combat played out.

Those pin pricks of light did dart from bandit to bandit, gloves flexing, the demand to assist growing more intolerable to leave unacted upon. Another candle snuffed.

The voice raised in declaration of the facts, Zxandor's statement did shake both Sam and foes collected. Eyes turned to others for confirmation. This delay caused by declaration, Sam did sieze upon.

Sleeves thrown out as gloved fingertips did clasp at the air. A surge of will, a fluttering of hat. Eyes fixed to the weapons that were gripped by doubting hands.

Heat began to eminate from the weapons held, bucklers burning white, daggers fuming, spear haft scorching. Sam's eyes did flare themselves golden and dazzling, those fingers growing tighter about the air, the action did enfurnace the weapons availing against Zxandor.

Clatterings and quick disarming, yelps of pain and dismay.

Those too far to be affected by the heat took this as a sign of a command being made, weapons discarded, boots turning to leave the speed in expedience.

"We're leaving," one did say, more in command, backpedalling as hand hovered to a dagger in the belt, unsure if retreat would be afforded instead of full surrender. Others began to follow the lead, weaponless, panic displaying upon the brow, eyes to the shining steel that seemed unstoppable.

"You're surrendering," Sam stated, cool and cold, ethereal. Hands began to weave a more complicated spell that would take some small moments to entwine from thought to entwine with vine these captives to present in exchange of a flamberge.

The penal system with all it's drudgeries and lethalities flashed in the minds of bandits disarmed, and found fleet of foot or redoubled efforts to thwart through violence, some hands to weapons discarded now cooling, some boots turning complete to flee.

Vines began to rush bundled between gloved hands, moments away from unleashing and binding these prisoners to be.

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

It was all but done.
Sam Fairbridge loosed his magic and it took what fight was left from the brigands.

One made a desperate attempt to leap into the river.
The loud splash broke the calm and another completely bolted, fled for the treeline.
Zxandor allowed them both to go because the one with the mace was backing up with a few others.

"Don't try it or I will hunt you down one by one until you are all dead."
Zxandor did not idly make threats, after all they were only as good as the willingness to complete them.
In this case they did mean it. Zxandor could chase them all day and all night, not that it would take that long.

"Be quick Sam Fairbridge."
They urged their companion, with victory so close they did not wish for any more to get away.

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

Sam nodded, the die cast and the game firmly afoot. If this was the task undertaken, it would have to be rendered complete with utmost efficiency, Sam did think. Quickness requested, quickness delivered.

Vines did rush in serpant motions, deep greens coiling about those who stood arrested, chasing after those who did flee. At first the vines were content enough to bind, and then as the collection of criminals were gathered, were hefted into the air and hoisted towards the bridge central. No cruelty in the motion, just efficent and quick gathering of what was required.

Sam's boots were planted to the ground firm as the labours were delivered.

Senses within the vines, Sam did express some toil in the eyes. Feet were allowed to purchase the ground by bandit, and so did ease Sam's efforts to drag the criminal parties about.

"There," Sam said, sighing deep. The spell until this moment unknown to them in awareness. Something had instructed deep within of this spellcraft, from book read with eyes not their own it felt like. What else was accomplishable, Sam did think, and wondered what lurked within.

What dwelled in mansion was blade in trade of bandit thwarted.

"We go," Sam did say, heavy, left arm a wreathed with vines that coiled and gave little give, the bandits gathered uncomfortably close to one another in a great bundle for the stocks. Or worse. Small bickerings were suppressed with unnerving movement of the vines that did compress and relax. No cruelty, just a deep seated wish within Sam to be rid of the vines and the sensation of dragging such folk about.

Footsteps from Sam seemed to be as molasses, the vines bearing what toll such magics were. A shimmer from Sam's eyes as the coiling greenery did enact their toll.

"Zxandor, if you cut...these vines from me, can you...lead them...as one? This method is...quite the strain," Sam did say with utmost civility and politeness, each boot placed causing considerable strain upon muscles and framework that were arcane ether constructed.

Zxandor