Fable - Ask the search for a stolen work

[Rignid]

The sky was that bluish-grey of a cool twilight on the threshold of Summer and Autumn. The sun still warming Alliria, but it was now all but peeking through the architecture of the city. What was- up until recent days- a warm embrace was now just a gentle stroke on Rignid's ruddy cheek as he plodded along the almost deserted streets on the very outer rim of the city, on his way to the tavern where he was boarding (a rare luxury for the young traveller, who was often resigned to a bush or a tent due to his unwise spending habits). A calmness was settled on his bones, the sleepy tiredness of a day's good activity lingering satisfyingly in his muscles from his long walks and exciting research- something he was itching to ink into the large notebook that rested heavily in his melting arms, upon his return to his room.

As the last tendrils of light sunk even lower, extending shadows into tentacles that undulated over the warm grey cobblestones, a chilly gust of wind blew through the backstreet that Rignid was walking down. But that was not the only chill that the scholar felt- there was also that unpleasant feeling of unwanted eyes raking one's back, undoing one's bags and rifling through one's pockets. He sped up a little, not so fast as to draw attention, but almost barrelled straight into the wide chest of a well-dressed but brute-like orc, who was looking down at him with emotionless intent behind his black eyes.

Rignid took a step back and muttered a quick apology, before ducking his head low and side-stepping the male. However, to his astonishment, the orc stuck out one trunk-like arm, blocking the mage's way. At the same time, Rignid became aware of a set of light footsteps, and stepped back from the large limb to find himself in between the orc and the short and wiry human who had just sneaked up behind him. Both folk were just over a step away from Rignid- far enough to indicate that they did not yet intend to cause physical harm, but close enough that the mage was sure they would not hesitate to do so if he did not co-operate with them. As if to punctuate this thought, the wiry human drew two savage looking shivs, the kind of weaponry that was born not of craftsmanship but of cruelty.

It was this human that spoke, with the sneering voice of a right-hand man that did not need to be careful with his speech.

"Good evening young man," he opened, "methinks we've been a-lookin for yous. The boss thinks you've gots something of interest to him. And I'll be smote by the damned gods if I aint seeing that exact tome in your sissy little hands. Now- there be two ways this can go. Yous can give us that there notebook easylike, nice and calm, and we'll be on our ways- not a hair on your little head harmed. And, well, the other ways this can goes is in my hands right now- so what say you then boy. Be nice and give us that there book?"

The shadows were beginning to close in on Rignid's peripherals now, and his clutch on his notebook tightened out of habit, breath speeding up.

"I can't," Rignid said, "this is my life's work, I can't just give it up to you. I shan't."

In reply, Rignid felt a huge hand grip the back of his collar and haul him up like a dangling, newborn kitten. He felt the cold cut of one of the human's shivs pressing into his neck; he couldn't swallow without feeling the scratch of the metal against his adam's apple.

"drop the book now, or we're spilling your blood on this lovely clean street- I'll give you the count of five. If that stupid notebook isn't on the floor by one, it'll be your insides instead," and with that he began to count, a lifetime's pauses between each number- punctuated by Rignid's increasingly desperate whimpers.

"Five...Four...Three...Two...O-"

The dull thud of leather and paper was heard hitting the floor, and a final gasp escaped Rignid's mouth. The human smiled, a sneer as crude as his blades, and picked it up. The orc dropped the scholar back onto his feet, and- with a wink from the human- they both slunk off into the shadows between some buildings: any noise they made was dulled by some mysterious force.

4 hour timeskip​

Rignid was now sulking in the corner, nursing the dregs of a pint of whatever cheap drink he'd ordered upon entering the tavern in a blur of emotion- his day was well and truly ruined. No matter how raucous the festivities in the small tavern were getting, his mood could not be lifted.

He tried and failed considering how best he could retrieve his notebook, but for tonight his optimistic nature was broken, and he resigned himself to his sorrow in the corner of
the sturdy room, feeling the bite of the cold stone at his back and fingering the thin, raised cut on his neck with a sigh.

 

[Alric Crane]

It was his nightly ritual to saunter down the white steps of the Abbey and into The Smiling Dog tavern, preachers and Gods be damned. “I’ve served my time, haven’t I?” he’d bellow red-faced and smoke-shrouded, blowing clouds out his wooden pipe at anyone who’d dare question his drinking habits. “Hear, hear! A man should be able to have a taste o’ the bottle unmolested from time to time!”

Nevermind if time to time was actually every evening.

He was a battle worn knight of Esion and had at one point been one of the most dangerous sword arms in the Allirian strait. So what if he liked to drown his sorrows? “You couldn’t know the battles I’ve been in,” he’d hrmph proudly to anyone who’d listen, a mug of ale splashing on his britches. “The foes I’ve slain. The women I could’ve bedded. I gave it all up for the bastard Lion God. The least he could do is allow an old bloke his thirst!”

“Have another!” some other drunken brigand would console, because it could never just be one. No, it’d be two, three, and four before the town winos and local ruffians would grow tired of Alric Crane’s stories of heroism; of the time he scaled the Allir Keep, or his defeat and capture of the teal sorceress…an old man blathering on about better days, wishing he was still young.

They’d heard them all before.

When everyone’s patience had finally worn thin, the singing would start. There’d be the thumping of wooden mugs on tables, the accompaniment of a fiddle player. Crane would sing a song or two before hollering for another drink. Six and seven later and he’d be taking a nap at the bar next to Rignid in a puddle of his own drool, every now again snoring himself awake to take another sip of ale.

On one such occasion he looked over at Rignid with glazed red eyes, smacking his lips under his regal ginger mustache.

“Now, now,” he muttered, hiccuping between words. “Why the long face, old chap? You look like you could use another drink,” Alric declared, his finger raised.

He looked like he was about to be sick.

 

[Rignid]

Rignid didn't know what to make of the fiery drunkard that had dropped himself unceremoniously into the chair next to him- he wouldn't have paid him much heed at all to be honest, had the moustachioed man not been planted firmly in his seat and slumped over like a sack of potatoes, leaving Rignid squished up to the wall inescapably. He remarked that this was the second time he had been trapped by somebody immovable today; once more and he'd have made a personal record.

He was beginning to become infuriated with the man who clearly could not control his drinking, and was drifting stupidly between a comatose state and incessantly piping more amber liquid down his gullet while vaguely rambling in a sing-song voice (or he could just have been singing- or poetry- or anything really). Seemingly the only reason he wasn't banned from the place was because of the steady stream of coins leaving his pocket and entering the barman's.

But Rignid's annoyance was thawed somewhat by the seemingly genuine, warm tone that the man took on when he looked to the scholar and asked him that question. Although clumsy and drunken, it was nice that someone actually asked how Rignid was, as it wasn't often that the boy make personal connections on his travels, and Rignid felt all of the emotions of the day reach a thundering crescendo as he recounted everything that had happened until that point.

"...And then," he choked out, now at the end of his story, "they took my notebook with four years of magical research in. It's my most treasured possession, my life's work. Without it I'm nothing! And they just took it. I don't know where they're gone now..."

Rignid slumped his head down on the sticky table, screaming into his arms, "HOW COULD I LET THIS HAPPEN!?"

Then, he descended into silent tears, hiding his face from the embarrassment of dumping such a long story onto this stranger and then crying on him. What must the drunkard think? To be honest, the scholar thought that he looked like he might hurl. Rignid wanted his bed desperately.

 

[Alric Crane]

When Rignid first began his tale, Alric was having some trouble following. Perhaps it was a generational gap. Fraymancy? What in the seven hells was that?

Too much reading, not enough time rough-housing with other boys, or playing swords, or hunting…the things that make a man, Alric thought, while trying not to belch throw-up on himself. Why, when Alric was this boy’s age, he’d already taken his first life. In fact, he suspected that’s precisely what he’d do if he’d been in this young wizard’s boots; draw steel on the dodgy bastards.

But that was Alric Crane, and this was…well, whoever this was sitting next to him. Whoever he may have been, he seemed truly broken up about this “book” of his…so Crane resigned himself to take the lad more seriously. He fumbled for his wooden pipe, accidentally dropping it on the tavern floor while Rignid continued to have a nervous breakdown, before picking it up, packing it full of skunkflower, and sparking it up. He took a long puff and squinted, trying to peer through to the other side of his drunkenness for a moment of clarity.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it too bad, lad,” the mustachioed knight offered beneath bushy ginger eyebrows. “I had a great loss at your age as well.” What was supposed to be sage advice drawn from a relatable experience ended up being a sloppy lament about Alric’s formative years instead. “My whole life, dear boy…sworn in service to the Lion God Esion. Twenty-eight years of service, lad. Twenty-eight!”

Crane took another puff of his pipe. “And I dare say I didn’t cry about it either, boy-o! Well, actually I did, but that’s beside the point. What I mean to say is-”

But Crane’s train of thought became derailed as his eyes scanned the tavern–and he suddenly recognized somebody entering the tavern whom he’d rather not see.

“-oh, Esion be damned, here’s that dreadful woman,” he abruptly interrupted himself, shrinking down in his stool in an attempt to hide himself beside Rignid. If the youthful wizard had no idea what Alric was referencing, he did when the woman in armor and coif strode over to where they were sitting, a scowl on her face. When she spoke, she gave Rignid the impression that not only did she know the old knight, but that they had some sort of casual animosity towards each other–and that Rignid was about to be thrust right in the middle of it!

“Are you really going to make me drag you drunkenly from a tavern every night?” Reinlinde hissed between grit teeth, as Crane desperately shook the last drops out of his wooden mug down his open maw. It would be the last drink of the night, it appeared.

“You wound me, m’lady. Are you implying I’m not here on official knight business?” Alric replied, the cherry in his pipe burning low.

“You puked for an hour last night before falling asleep with the pigs,” the young lady reminded him, crossing her arms. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m implying.”

Alric would’ve admired his apprentice’s tenacity if it had been directed at anyone other than him. While she was a half foot shorter than Alric, Reinlinde still cut an assertive figure with her blonde military bowl cut and nun’s headdress. But Alric Crane was a veteran knight. You could press him with a strong parry, but he was always one step ahead, even on his backfoot.

“Wrong and wrong again,” he countered, patting Rignid on the back a shade harder than Rignid probably cared for, “because I am here on official business, business of the order my dear girl. Tell her, er--what was your name again? Tell her about your diary, boy.”

Like a poker player who had just revealed a royal flush, Alric sat back in his seat smugly, waiting for the wizard to provide the cover story for Crane’s late night excursion outside the abbey. The Order of Esion was a holy order, and intoxication was a damnable offense–though truth be told, Crane had been with the order so long that the church turned a blind eye to his drinking habits.

Reinlinde certainly didn’t. A novice knight of twenty-two years of age, when she’d first been assigned by the church as Alric’s apprentice she’d been overjoyed. Alric Crane was an elite Alliran swordfighter. Squiring for such an accomplished warrior was an honor in itself.

But waking him up with a bucket of cold water every morning, or trying to keep him from passing out on his horse was not quite as endearing.

Reinlinde’s steely blue gaze turned to Rignid, eagerly awaiting his corroboration.

 

[Rignid]

Rignid laughed lightly, and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. He felt the blue eyes of the lady in her metal coolness, in contrast to the hazy, glazed eyes of the man. He was looking up at Rignid, pleading behind his eyes like a dog asking for more food.

After a moment of awkward silence, the armoured woman cleared her throat- wordless but clearly prompting Rignid to explain himself. He sighed at his new social predicament, but decided that it wouldn't hurt to relay the story to the newcomer.

So this is what he did, relaying the story as closely as he could to the story that he told the drunkard. This time around, though, he didn't feel as distraught. These were knights, apparently, and the drunkard himself had just said that he would've fought the thugs. Maybe with this hot-headed elder and his younger (but more mature) caretaker, Rignid could seek help.

When he finished telling the story, he took a breath. It was nice to share his problems with somebody else, even just for a little while.

"so... do you think you can help?" he asked- partly to convince her, in aid of his newfound friend, that he had truly been seeking help all along- but also because now he actually believed they could help, "my name is Rignid by the way."

He stuck out his hand towards the woman.

 

[Reinlinde]

“I’m Reinlinde, apprentice knight of the Order of Esion, and this is…my colleague, Alric Crane, a master knight in the order,” Reinlinde said, coolly observing the old drunkard. “He would do well to remember to act like one. Excuse his drunkenness, he knows no shame my ser.”

Alric bristled at his companion’s brash characterization of him, his face turning a rosy burnt shade of either inebriation or anger or both.

“Nevertheless, a crime has been committed, dear girl,” the old redhead growled, raising his eyebrows in the direction of the pale Rignid. “You heard the young chap. A mugging, a robbery! A theft in the night! They stole the young lad’s life work, and to what end? Sorcery and magic…bah! Nothing good ever comes of it.”

“He’s right,” Reinlinde admitted, actually nodding in agreement with Alric for once. “You were clearly targeted for your notebook...who knows what the wrong person could do with that knowledge.” The white-and-gold -clothed nun warrior stroked her chin thoughtfully just long enough to observe Rignid. “Though I must say, aren’t you a bit young to be a sage?”

There was a twinkle in Reinlinde’s eye when she said it, but Crane wasn’t done bloviating. “Holier than a piece of cheese, this one.” He stood up wobbling from his stool, straightening his back and placing a gauntleted hand on the hilt of his sword. “Well whoever these brigands are, we swore an oath to protect the realm–you remember the oath, don’t you girl?”

Reinelinde frowned in her coif. “Ser, you are in no shape to protect anything. Not at this hour, not in your cups as such.”

“I vow to wield my sword with justice, defending the innocent and weak against all foes,” Alric started, placing his hand on the wrong side of his chain-mailed chest in a pledge. He forgot he was holding his pipe and dropped it again, before clumsily bumping his head stooping to pick it back up. “To strike fear into the hearts of those who would molest the peace of the land in the name of-”

“Yes, yes, very good ser, but not tonight,” the blue-eyed knight’s apprentice interrupted. “The hour is late. There is no shop or fence awake right now for these muggers of Rignid’s to pawn their loot.”

“A wise observation,” Crane agreed, swaying in place. “Yes, whoever these men are…should they try to sell this notebook of yours, well, they will have to wait for market open. Yes, yes, now that I think about it…perhaps I know somebody who could help us.”

Reinlinde cast her colleague a skeptical glance, before turning back to Rignid. “Then why don’t we meet you here tomorrow morning at first light. We’ll follow my master’s notion…if he’s still able to seat a horse. I’m curious to see if he’ll even remember the evening.”

“Remember the evening,” Alric scoffed mockingly with an abrupt laugh. “I look forward to your bold japes when we next spar again, girl.” With that, the old knight staggered for the tavern exit, saluting Rignid on his way out the door and leaving Reinlinde to close out the conversation. She bowed her head respectfully at Rignid.

“Tomorrow we find your notebook.”

 

[Rignid]

That night, Rignid barely slept. When the longing for his notebook wasn't keeping him awake, the excitement at the prospect of an adventure with real knights was. This strange mixture of emotions ensured that when the sun was just hauling itself over the horizon in the morning, Rignid was already completely ready and down in the empty bar at the front of the inn.

The bar was quite charming at this time. The sun's low rays were stretching into the room and glazing the golden wood of the furniture and walls with honey coloured light. The light was warm, and made the wood on the table that Rignid was leaning on feel like it had been warming by a fire, like the benches in the saunas that can sometimes be found in colder cities. The smell of wooden surfaces, sticky with spilled beer and ale, filled the room, and breathing in through the mouth one could taste the strong malt scent on the air, clashing with a clean, morning breeze that was lazing through the room in a straight line from an open window. It was almost completely silent, and Rignid could hear his own breathing, in and out. That was, until his peaceful reverie was crudely dispersed by the sounds of a barking old man and clattering metal.

Rignid watched the two nights jog past one window, catching a few moments of Alric hollering out. He heard words and phrases like "quicker," and "a good knight is never late to their duties," and "I wonder if they'll serve ale at this time," being ejected by the elder. Then, the door was opened suddenly and the two knights came in, now strolling at least, and headed towards the young mage. After greeting each other and sitting down, Rignid turned to the 'master' knight and asked him,

"so, who is this connection that you have that can help us? Shall we head to the market?" Rignid wondered what time the markets actually opened, but supposed that he would know soon enough if it was important. The boy was excited to get going, because he really wanted his notebook back, but also because he hadn't had a good adventure in a while.