Open Chronicles Something not so Wicked

[Amelia Hawthorne]

"You mean the murder?" Amelia finished for him. Her friendly mask dropping to her usual pragmatism, her brown eyes no longer warm.

Crossing her arms, she quipped, "If you're going to be gossiping about it, you might as well have the gall to call it for what it is." The squire turned a reproachful glance at the eavesdropping shopkeeper who had been rearranging the same three carrots. "Her life was worth at least that much, don't you think?"

Not looking for a reply, Amelia sighed and straightened her knitted cowl, letting the sudden tension ease before continuing, "As for Jali's involvement. I don't believe in incriminating anyone until I have all the facts. And I will have them, you can be sure of that." She stated confidently. "But first, I wanted to check with honest townsfolk, like yourself, before I questioned possible suspects."

Amelia watched the face of the man closely for any sign of subterfuge, one red brow raised. "So if that is all the information you have for me. I will thank you for your time and wish you a happy day at market before going on my way."

Aarno

 

[Faramund]

Whatever game she thought she was playing, Faramund had had about enough of it. 'A name I've heard tell of, given to me by an acquaintance we share.' Standing, stretching, the dawnling stepped closer to the woods-witch. The unnatural stillness did little to effect the apparent ease with which he spoke.

It was just a game. A bit of harmless fun to pass the time.

A woman had been murdered, but at least someone was getting a laugh out of it. 'Suppose there's no point asking how it is you know so much?' Sniffing, he followed her stare down yonder path to the silent trees beyond. Faramund saw no hint of Into. Just a lone spear, lent against a tall old ash tree.

Cheeky fucker.

'I'm going to go see a man about a shovel now,' he told the witch, hands on hips. 'Should all go to plan, I'll be back in time for tea. If not, well... I'm sure you'll figure it out.'

Strolling away at a leisurely pace, the dawnling made his way down the beaten path towards Old Man Ringbom's place. He genuinely hoped the witch had been honest with him. If she hadn't been, well...

He was sure she would figure that out, too.

Aarno

 

[Aarno]

Back at the Village
The shack with the Dead

It had begun to dawn on him that Into had given him the slip, spear and all.

The little man had left for help some time ago, to fetch his friend Fredrik with whom he’d guarded the body the night before, only to never return. So, here he yet was where they’d all split, deserted thricefold and standing next to the door like any glorified, gullible idiot. Grinding his jaw, Aarno gave the street a yet another once over, seeing none whom he recognized. Up in the sky the last clouds had dissipated, leaving but the big bright orb that forced his eyes into a squint. It was giving him a headache, adding to the rest of the misery.

Fuck this.

In a dry creak, the door opened as he let himself into the shack, the cool air and darkness a balm after the glare of the sun outside. He didn’t close the door the entire way, a bright beam left on the dirt floor as he strayed further in. It’s refractions caught on the bloodstained wisps, spilling down past the table’s edge.

Within the walls, with the outside muffled to whispers, his steps sounded terribly loud, soles scraping as he approached the dead. He settled to hover there, taking in every inch again in the meager light, from the tips of the soaked greaves to the top of the gored skull.

No helm on an otherwise geared up knight. Where has it gone? The same address as her horse? Doesn’t look like a woman who travels in the back of a wagon to this podunk—

On the mirror of the breastplate moved a shape, the gloom of the indoors retreating some. Hand landing on the hilt of his sword, he turned to regard the doorway, glare finding someone familiar.

That girl. From earlier in the morning, at the yard. He blinked, tense as she merely stood, watching, saying nothing. She appeared as wary of him as he was of her, though upon him was not so much tension as the lack of patience.

“ What do you want? “


At the Village
Streetside

The easy glee on the shopkeeps face mellowed as the squire scolded him, his palms rising at her in a defensive gesture.

“ Of course. Terrible thing, murder. “ He stammered out, with the composure of a man who’d just been himself accused of doing the deed. Even if she did call him honest and all that. Well assumed, one had to give her that. He was nothing, if not—

“ Yes, well, I— “ He shrugged, scratching at the back of his head, eyes straying at his fellow shopkeep and then at the street. “ Of course, your time is very precious, good squire, I’d hate to— “

Past her head, he caught movement, a figure straying towards the smithy. Oh, goodness gracious, how fortunate!

“ Jali! “ He yelled out, waving with some triumph. The tall lad stopped at his tracks in a flinch, black curly hair flying to his eyes. A sootstained hand stroked the strands aside, revealing a startled stare, before settling on the circular pull-handle of the smithy door.

“ This young lady was looking for you. I had just done telling her how you’d gone, but— “ The shopkeep pointed at the knight prospect, smiling wide.

“ How fortunate you should’ve been back. Bet your master got a pretty penny for that helm. Was that a commission? “ Along his chattering, the expression on the smith’s apprentice gained an all the more clueless edge. Or was it, possibly, horror.

“ Uhh— I don’t know. “

Stare averting, he pulled on the door.

Amelia Hawthorne ​

At the Old Man’s hut

On top of the meager hill, stood a solitary abode. But one room with its low roof, stonework outside whitewashed not long ago. An all too kempt garden and exterior, a set of tools in their hooks outside in a neat row. Things for gardening and carpentry, shining back the day.

There was smoke coming from the chimney, the sound of embers being adjusted with a poker coming from inside, through an ajar door. Next to the three stone steps leading up to the entrance was a bench and below it, a dog. No leash kept it, but it wouldn’t stir to the sound of footsteps coming up the path, broad jaw resting on top of crossed front paws. Its black eyes opened belatedly, sight of a stranger inspiring a little wag of the tail.

No sound came from the hound, but a curious stare and pointed ears trained on the Knight.

Faramund ​

 

[Faramund]

Ringbom's hut loomed into view. Small, lonely, it was exactly the kind of place Faramund had expected to find this far out from the village. Guess the witch was telling the truth, mused the knight, taking note of all things noteworthy.

The smoke pouring from the chimney. The door, left ajar, as if to let some air in.

A dog lazing in the shade of a nearby bench. Scruffy, fluffy and oh-so deserving of a scratch behind the ears.

Resisting the temptation, Faramund strolled up to the front of the house, his gaze wandering to the well-tended patch of garden. A man of the wylds, he knew what a potato looked like. Cabbages, too. And were those carrots, there, on the far si-

A loud bang came from inside the hut.

'Hello?' Faramund called out, one hand going to the hilt of his sabre. 'Saer Ringbom?'

Aarno

 

[Aarno]

At the knight’s call, a momentary silence fell as an attention was roused unexpectedly. This appeared to be without greater alarm as sluggish movement reinitiated quickly therein, a grunt of a curse and the bending of a figure seeing something picked up from the floor. Heavy steps rung the boards as the door was approached and opened wide in a firm yank.

A set of dark eyes fell upon the visitor, watching from beneath a frown as the old man held onto the door, his other hand with a large log in it. He was grey, but none so frail as many that shared his years, squat if broad enough still to fill the frame.

“ What do you want? “

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Old Man Ringbom was indeed old, though nowhere near what Faramund had been expecting. Short, but strong-looking. Grey, and yet just the right amount of grouch to make the dawnling suspect he really had been a warrior, way back in his heyday.

'To ask you a few questions, if you've the time to answer them.'

Faramund eyed the log in Ringbom's hand. 'Bit early in the day, is it not?' Dusk was still a long ways off, and the day was far too warm to be spent inside by the fire. Besides, Faramund didn't smell no pottage on the boil.

So what is he burning?

'Mind if I come inside?' He asked, his hand falling away from his blade as he took a step closer. 'I promise to keep this brief.'

Aarno

 

[Aarno]

The man’s expression didn’t ripple from its grim frown as the knight spoke both purpose and suggestion, if leaving yet enough suspense that one might hesitate. Foregoing instant answer, he hovered in the doorframe in silence for a couple seconds, eyes scanning the thicket about the hut and the path from whence the swordsman had come. His eye appeared to catch naught of substance, landing back on the stranger belatedly.

“ Sure. “ He said without emotion, turning in the frame that was left wide open into his wake. “ But I’ll be holding you onto that promise. I’ve things to do today yet. “

Within the hut was but one room with a partition towards the left end, a lattice weaved of twigs separating wherein one might sleep from the rest of the space. On the rafters were housed all manner of dry goods, from sacks of grain to hard bread and herbs that hung down like an upended forest. The furniture was meager and rough-hewn, a broad table with two benches on either side dominating the middle of the cooking area. Like having promptly forgotten of his visitor, the man said naught as he meandered to the firepit that haunted the corner of the space, glowing red.

The log left his hand, discarded into it.

Faramund

 

[Amelia Hawthorne]

At the Village
Streetside

The easy glee on the shopkeeps face mellowed as the squire scolded him, his palms rising at her in a defensive gesture.

“ Of course. Terrible thing, murder. “ He stammered out, with the composure of a man who’d just been himself accused of doing the deed. Even if she did call him honest and all that. Well assumed, one had to give her that. He was nothing, if not—

“ Yes, well, I— “ He shrugged, scratching at the back of his head, eyes straying at his fellow shopkeep and then at the street. “ Of course, your time is very precious, good squire, I’d hate to— “

Past her head, he caught movement, a figure straying towards the smithy. Oh, goodness gracious, how fortunate!

“ Jali! “ He yelled out, waving with some triumph. The tall lad stopped at his tracks in a flinch, black curly hair flying to his eyes. A sootstained hand stroked the strands aside, revealing a startled stare, before settling on the circular pull-handle of the smithy door.

“ This young lady was looking for you. I had just done telling her how you’d gone, but— “ The shopkeep pointed at the knight prospect, smiling wide.

“ How fortunate you should’ve been back. Bet your master got a pretty penny for that helm. Was that a commission? “ Along his chattering, the expression on the smith’s apprentice gained an all the more clueless edge. Or was it, possibly, horror.

“ Uhh— I don’t know. “

Stare averting, he pulled on the door.

"Yes, how fortunate." Amelia murmured, her attention riveted like a hound on the hare at the towering adolescent back of Jali. Swiftly, Amelia placed a few coins on the shopkeep's stand for his part and walked away without another word.

Her heart hammered in her chest, the strings between theories pulling taut in her mind's eye. So the fair knight's helm had been in his possession at some point? Was he given the helm? Did he take it? Did he kill for it? How. When. And most importantly, why?

Amelia's quick steps ate up the worn cobblestones until she stood mere feet behind Jali. He had dropped something in his haste to open the door and had failed in his scrambling to pick it up before the squire could arrive. There was a flash of something like metal that he deposited in his pocket, the back of his neck a ruddy hue as he still pretended she wasn't there.

Pointedly, Amelia cleared her throat. Having no qualms against making herself a nuisance and a bother in her search for answers.

"Pardon. I didn't mean to interrupt you with what is clearly important business. But I am with the Monastery, and I have some questions for you, ones that I'm sure you'll make time for." A pleasant mask settled back over her face. All warm smiles and glittering brown eyes, her fingers already itching for her notebook.

Aarno Faramund

 

[Aarno]

There was cheer hollered at the knight prospect’s distancing back, a thanks for the compensation so generously rendered and left at the stall, but that did little to lift the foreboding air that’d taken the entire street. All stared, callously, as new quarry was picked and swiftly approached, determination incarnate crossing a street and descending upon the smith’s son and apprentice.

The broad door had been pulled open as the squire spoke, drawing the attention of whom yet appeared of the mind to flee and struggling. From within the smithy came a breath of warm air, darkness reigning beyond the frame save for the red glow of a furnace. In that black sliver, the lad stopped and turned, palm resting on the loop of the door handle like he might drown without it.

He didn’t speak for an extended, thoughtful moment after she’d finished, glancing at the tips of his worn shoes.

“ You want to— come in and ask them? “ His look didn’t climb up to her, but instead took in what stood rather silent somewhere beyond her, watching. The village.

“ Folk are staring. “ He continued and turned on heel, his dark clothes allowing the indoors to practically swallow him as he left the ajar door behind himself. Within, the dirt floor gave a soft scrape as a stool was settled out of the corner of the room and sat upon.

Amelia Hawthorne

 

[Faramund]

'As do I,' grumbled Faramund, politely kicking the dirt from his boots before following Ringbom inside. 'Nice place,' he observed, 'very... tidy.' Indeed, the small hut was practically spotless, each nook and cranny swept and tidied away, as if the Old Man of the Woods had been expecting this meeting.

Or else forewarned.

'You... uh, expecting visitors?' He asked, casting about himself casual-like. A talent he had perfected over the years, that. 'Only, I have it on good authority that you're not one to receive them lightly. Or at all, really.' His eyes alighted on the mantle piece. A... broach, freshly-polished. Ringbom was quick to pocket it.

Faramund felt his sword hand start to tingle.

'Mind telling me who it was that came to see you the night of the murder? And where, exactly, you hurried off to shortly thereafter?' Faramund sniffed, glance darting to the fireplace and back. 'Preferably before your grub boils over.'

Aarno

 

[Aarno]

The old man huffed in a tone much resembling amusement at the initial remarks, the knight’s deductions as they were, his weathered face betraying very little else. As if forced to do so by an ardent desire to keep distance, the broad table yet betwixt himself and his armed guest, he stalled next to the firepit. Watched as the visitor’s gaze meandered about the details of the room, his home, so exposed.

Mind telling — He minded plenty, in fact, but that hardly had an effect on the perpetual tired frown upon his face. In his eyes, something flitted, a moment’s indecision as he hummed and glanced at the brightness beyond one of the window slits. The sun, the woodland, all that was outside the hut that had suddenly begun to feel cramped, infinitely small and dark.

Saer Ringbom, as he had been called in honour of some past he had no fondness for, he regarded the stranger at long last with new disposition. Not hostile, but determined.

“ Have you a name, knight? You know mine, without having had to ask for it. “ His head tilted, a subdued curiousity in the tone before he went on.

“ As for what you want answered — I went out on an assignment. Or you might call it a job. Rather late in the day, sure, but— “ He shrugged, blasé.

“ That was the nature of it. When it comes to these visitors you mentioned, they are my business and no one else’s. “ A deep breath rising his chest, he folded his arms, stare allowing no challenge. Or was it taunting for one, digging into every fibre?

“ You’ll understand. It is hardly proper for a hired knife to tell whom might’ve required his services. “

Faramund