Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
11th Mirtul, 1367 DR
You are rudely awakened by the sounds of baying hounds. The cacophony seems to easily pass through every crack and crevice in your hovel, incessantly pounding upon your forehead like unwelcome morning visitors. With a sigh of longing for your pallet, you sit up, stretch, and push your way through the reed curtains into the blinding sunlight.
The fetid smell of the Dead Fens, as always, greets your nostrils. Outsiders often hold kerchiefs to their noses when wandering about Argos, but you find the scent oddly pleasant. It’s smells of stability, of routine, of home.
Yet, this morning, nothing seems to be normal.
A handful of bearded men prance about the muddy streets of Argos on horses bred for war. Their mail is covered with rust and grime, their faces of dirt that bespeaks of hard days and nights spent on the road. Though none have weapons in hand, you see their hands never stray far from sword hilt or axe shaft.
One of their number, a man somewhat darker of color and slighter of build than his fellows, raises a hand. On cue, a horseman beside him raises an ugly trumpet to his lips and issues a long, mournful call. A moment passes wherein the blower regains his breath, and again he lets loose with a second clarion.
Around you, your fellow townsfolk of Argos exit their own hovels. You see confusion and distrust plainly on their faces. You imagine the same emotion is reflected on your own countenance.
One of the bearded men eyes you all with a sneer. “Hurry, hurry ye little swamp rats! Your Empire calls! Out of your little dens! Out with you all!” He accentuates his order by pounding the butt of a spear on a shuttered window of the Sighing Cypress. More townsfolk gather, shuffling forward, wiping sleep from their eyes.
To the east the sun barely peers across the rising mists of the swamplands.
An eternity filled with unpleasant sounds and barking dogs ensues until – finally – Lord Crayke issues forth from beneath the wooden ramparts surrounding his keep. Beside him is a young boy holding a forlorn banner, looking for all the world as if he would rather be anywhere but where he is. Upon the banner is Crayke’s sigil – a red crayfish. You realize with mild surprise you have never seen it before.
The dark-colored newcomer nods impassively. “Lord Crayke.”
“Aye, sir,” Crayke answers, his voice hoarse. It appears as if your lord of Argos spent a long night drinking. The man rubs red-rimmed eyes. “And you are?”
“Sir Rys, White Knight of Val Hor.”
Crayke’s eyes widen. “But…but you do not wear the armor befitting your station-”
“Of course not.” The man frowns. “There is war afoot. And I am on an errand that requires circumspection.”
You have a feeling Crayke has no idea what the man implies, but your lord nods dutifully. “Argos is at your command.”
Ryn looks about like a man studying a midden heap. “How many men do you have?”
“Men?” Crayke blinks as he surveys you and the other townsfolk.
“Soldiers.”
“Five, sir.”
“Five companies?”
“Five men.”
Rys removes a leather riding glove and rubs his eyes. “Beyond those swamps,” the man gestures after a moment, “is…what?”
Crayke chews his lip in thought. “The Coldwind Meadows?”
“I’ll ask the questions, Lord.” Rys dismounts and begins to walk around the central square. His eyes, as they pass over you, show nothing but disdain. “And beyond the Meadows – what?”
“R-Rhelm.”
“Aye,” Rys answers, stopping his pacing. “Rhelm. Our enemies. They have seen fit to declare war upon us.”
“On Argos?”
“On Valudia, you old fool.” Rys loses his composure momentarily. “Stand up, speak like a man. You are Lord here, not I.”
Crayke attempts to straighten, but fails. “Aye, sir.”
“You will soon have Rhelmsmen at your gates, such as they are.” Rys walks toward the wooden walls surrounding Crayke’s keep and eyes them pointedly. “By order of the Three Popas, you must hold this town as long as possible.”
“But…there is nothing here.” Crayke spreads his hands apologetically. “We have nothing for the taking – but fish. Plenty of fish.”
Rys shrugs, apparently unconcerned. “You have your heads. The Rhelmsmen will take them sooner than your foodstuffs.” Rys’ men erupt into laughter around him. “Send those not able to hold spear or sword south down the Fletchway. They should make for the North Twins. They may wait there until directed otherwise.”
Crayke’s normally-ruddy complexion is pale. “And…the others?”
“They stay here. With you. You will lead them in a defense of this place.” Rys pulls his glove onto his hand, walks to his mount, and gains his saddle with a fluid motion. The White Knight stares hard at the lord of Argos. “I remember you, Lord. I remember you when you passed through Haroburg some time ago. You complained of your lot. You wanted something better. Now is your chance to have it. Serve the Three Throne well, and perhaps you may be given new lands and titles.”
Crayke’s shoulders slump. “But how am I to defend this place? We have no-”
Rys waves a hand in your direction. “You have hunters, yes? Fishermen, yes? Use them. I would suggest you improve your wooden walls forthwith. Gather these fish you seem to love. Stockpile, stockpile, stockpile. Send out scouts, watch the coast, even watch the swamps. An army could not move through those quagmires, but a raiding party might.”
“How long, sir?”
“As long as need be.” Rys guides his mount with his knees, deftly avoiding the hounds beneath his hooves. “A tenday past, Hammer fell to the Rhelmsmen. You have seen that fortress? Good. Then you know – if it can fall, certainly this town can. Best prepare yourself and your lands.”
Crayke suddenly seems to gain a sliver of courage. “But why?”
“Why?”
“Why would Rhelm wage war upon us?”
“We are men, are we not?” Rys says no more.
With nary a glance, the mailed riders trot from the town at a brisk canter. Through it all, the hounds never stopped baying. In the silence that now blankets your village, you can hear the beasts for long, long time.
You are rudely awakened by the sounds of baying hounds. The cacophony seems to easily pass through every crack and crevice in your hovel, incessantly pounding upon your forehead like unwelcome morning visitors. With a sigh of longing for your pallet, you sit up, stretch, and push your way through the reed curtains into the blinding sunlight.
The fetid smell of the Dead Fens, as always, greets your nostrils. Outsiders often hold kerchiefs to their noses when wandering about Argos, but you find the scent oddly pleasant. It’s smells of stability, of routine, of home.
Yet, this morning, nothing seems to be normal.
A handful of bearded men prance about the muddy streets of Argos on horses bred for war. Their mail is covered with rust and grime, their faces of dirt that bespeaks of hard days and nights spent on the road. Though none have weapons in hand, you see their hands never stray far from sword hilt or axe shaft.
One of their number, a man somewhat darker of color and slighter of build than his fellows, raises a hand. On cue, a horseman beside him raises an ugly trumpet to his lips and issues a long, mournful call. A moment passes wherein the blower regains his breath, and again he lets loose with a second clarion.
Around you, your fellow townsfolk of Argos exit their own hovels. You see confusion and distrust plainly on their faces. You imagine the same emotion is reflected on your own countenance.
One of the bearded men eyes you all with a sneer. “Hurry, hurry ye little swamp rats! Your Empire calls! Out of your little dens! Out with you all!” He accentuates his order by pounding the butt of a spear on a shuttered window of the Sighing Cypress. More townsfolk gather, shuffling forward, wiping sleep from their eyes.
To the east the sun barely peers across the rising mists of the swamplands.
An eternity filled with unpleasant sounds and barking dogs ensues until – finally – Lord Crayke issues forth from beneath the wooden ramparts surrounding his keep. Beside him is a young boy holding a forlorn banner, looking for all the world as if he would rather be anywhere but where he is. Upon the banner is Crayke’s sigil – a red crayfish. You realize with mild surprise you have never seen it before.
The dark-colored newcomer nods impassively. “Lord Crayke.”
“Aye, sir,” Crayke answers, his voice hoarse. It appears as if your lord of Argos spent a long night drinking. The man rubs red-rimmed eyes. “And you are?”
“Sir Rys, White Knight of Val Hor.”
Crayke’s eyes widen. “But…but you do not wear the armor befitting your station-”
“Of course not.” The man frowns. “There is war afoot. And I am on an errand that requires circumspection.”
You have a feeling Crayke has no idea what the man implies, but your lord nods dutifully. “Argos is at your command.”
Ryn looks about like a man studying a midden heap. “How many men do you have?”
“Men?” Crayke blinks as he surveys you and the other townsfolk.
“Soldiers.”
“Five, sir.”
“Five companies?”
“Five men.”
Rys removes a leather riding glove and rubs his eyes. “Beyond those swamps,” the man gestures after a moment, “is…what?”
Crayke chews his lip in thought. “The Coldwind Meadows?”
“I’ll ask the questions, Lord.” Rys dismounts and begins to walk around the central square. His eyes, as they pass over you, show nothing but disdain. “And beyond the Meadows – what?”
“R-Rhelm.”
“Aye,” Rys answers, stopping his pacing. “Rhelm. Our enemies. They have seen fit to declare war upon us.”
“On Argos?”
“On Valudia, you old fool.” Rys loses his composure momentarily. “Stand up, speak like a man. You are Lord here, not I.”
Crayke attempts to straighten, but fails. “Aye, sir.”
“You will soon have Rhelmsmen at your gates, such as they are.” Rys walks toward the wooden walls surrounding Crayke’s keep and eyes them pointedly. “By order of the Three Popas, you must hold this town as long as possible.”
“But…there is nothing here.” Crayke spreads his hands apologetically. “We have nothing for the taking – but fish. Plenty of fish.”
Rys shrugs, apparently unconcerned. “You have your heads. The Rhelmsmen will take them sooner than your foodstuffs.” Rys’ men erupt into laughter around him. “Send those not able to hold spear or sword south down the Fletchway. They should make for the North Twins. They may wait there until directed otherwise.”
Crayke’s normally-ruddy complexion is pale. “And…the others?”
“They stay here. With you. You will lead them in a defense of this place.” Rys pulls his glove onto his hand, walks to his mount, and gains his saddle with a fluid motion. The White Knight stares hard at the lord of Argos. “I remember you, Lord. I remember you when you passed through Haroburg some time ago. You complained of your lot. You wanted something better. Now is your chance to have it. Serve the Three Throne well, and perhaps you may be given new lands and titles.”
Crayke’s shoulders slump. “But how am I to defend this place? We have no-”
Rys waves a hand in your direction. “You have hunters, yes? Fishermen, yes? Use them. I would suggest you improve your wooden walls forthwith. Gather these fish you seem to love. Stockpile, stockpile, stockpile. Send out scouts, watch the coast, even watch the swamps. An army could not move through those quagmires, but a raiding party might.”
“How long, sir?”
“As long as need be.” Rys guides his mount with his knees, deftly avoiding the hounds beneath his hooves. “A tenday past, Hammer fell to the Rhelmsmen. You have seen that fortress? Good. Then you know – if it can fall, certainly this town can. Best prepare yourself and your lands.”
Crayke suddenly seems to gain a sliver of courage. “But why?”
“Why?”
“Why would Rhelm wage war upon us?”
“We are men, are we not?” Rys says no more.
With nary a glance, the mailed riders trot from the town at a brisk canter. Through it all, the hounds never stopped baying. In the silence that now blankets your village, you can hear the beasts for long, long time.
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