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Skycleft: Tales from the Mad Bard [updated 11/04/04]
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<blockquote data-quote="threshel" data-source="post: 1806156" data-attributes="member: 5164"><p>Clutter away. <img src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" class="smilie smilie--sprite smilie--sprite1" alt=":)" title="Smile :)" loading="lazy" data-shortname=":)" /></p><p>---------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">Introduction Part Three</p><p></p><p>Hurgen was worried. Usually he had nothing to fear from his sons. A fatherly hand upside the head had calmed more than one raging son, but this wasn’t the flaring temper of a jealous teenager or the heated dispute of sibling rivalry. Ilan was induced to this rage by grief unnatural. It was likely he would turn on his father, who was still out of breath from running. So Hurgen did the only thing he was sure about: he tossed his maul away. As it landed with a thick thud on the loamy earth, he knew that his best hope for stopping Ilan had been to keep it. Hurgen shook his head to clear the thought. He couldn’t bring himself to lift a weapon to his boy. He was still worried, but struggled to think. It was hard to do while looking into the rage ruddy face of his incoherent son. He had to be smart. His instincts were screaming at him to put a stop to it, to put his foot down, to nip it in the bud. He fought to stifle them. The deference would not be there. This was going to get physical, and Ilan was younger, just as strong if not stronger, and fueled by mindless rage. All of Hurgen’s life he had been a direct man, sure of his physical ability and his son’s respect for him. His way was the direct way: to stop something, you stood in its path until it stopped. For the first time in his life, the big man looked at that something, and <em>knew</em> it would mow him down. Something flickered in his mind’s eye: his boys wrestling in the yard back home. The big three boys trying to out-muscle each other while Arik…</p><p></p><p>Ilan erupted into motion, blood and spittle flying as his rage burst from him in a tearing scream. He charged down the trail, towards the rear of the line, towards Arik. The only thing in his way was Hurgen, and just as the big boy was about to collide with his father, Hurgen stepped aside.</p><p></p><p>And stuck out his foot.</p><p></p><p>To be honest, had Ilan been aware of his father’s presence, the tactic would’ve failed. But he wasn’t, and he went sprawling in the dark dirt, breath rushing from his barrel chest in a great whoosh. The hatchet flew from his hand, and Hurgen leapt upon his back. Ilan bucked and raged under him, but Hurgen knew leverage and how to apply it. Pinning his boy, he grabbed the rags from his belt, and stuffed one in each of the big lad’s ears. Ilan managed to push himself up on his hands, and flipped over to vent his rage on his attacker. Hurgen promptly laid a fatherly hand upside his son’s head with a muffled thwack.</p><p></p><p>“Ilan!” He shouted, as sharply as he had ever said it, with all the gravitas he could muster. Ilan’s eyes focused in recognition, then widened in shock. Hurgen hoped he wouldn’t remember, but knew he would.</p><p></p><p>“Papa?” The realization dawned. His words caught in his throat. Hurgen helped him to his feet and Ilan found his voice again, rough though it was. “No… <em>no</em>.” He looked around wildly. “Arik!” He called desperately. “Arik!”</p><p></p><p>“Calm yourself, boy!” Hurgen gripped Ilan by the shoulders, holding his attention. “You never made it, we’re still near your wagon. I doubt he could hear you, besides.” Hurgen pointed to the scraps of rags hanging from his own ears. Ilan’s hands came up to touch the longer rags hanging from the side of his head. He stood like that for a moment, and Hurgen could see the tightness ease from his shoulders. The flush of rage and grief left his face; replaced by a stony look his father knew hid embarrassment and guilt. Hurgen didn’t let him dwell on it long. “Fetch your hatchet, “ he said as he pointed to where it had flown, “and right your wagon. I don’t think Hersh likes the position he’s in.” Ilan snatched the hatchet, and quickly walked to the sideways wagon. Raising one arm, Ilan yanked it right without breaking stride. The wagon fell on its wheels with a solid bang, and Hersh bellowed in irritation as his yoke jerked with it.</p><p></p><p>“Quit whinin’, Hersh.” Ilan freed the ox from the harness and coaxed it to its feet. Ilan checked the big bull over to make sure it wasn’t injured, and hung the yoke back over Hersh’s shoulders.</p><p></p><p>“We don’t have time, boy,” said Hurgen as he walked up, the maul again gripped in his hand.</p><p></p><p>“I have to yoke him at least, or he’ll go lookin’.” Ilan said as he finished up. “Maybe for Bula.” He gave his father a sideways look.</p><p></p><p>“You should’ve tied him off like I said.” Hurgen said gruffly as they turned to continue up the trail.</p><p></p><p>“A great beast like him? There’s those that’ll pay for his stud. I’ve had offers.” Ever the optimist, his Ilan was.</p><p></p><p>“I didn’t know you were husbander as well as carpenter. How do you expect to keep him in harness?” By the Sword, it felt good to banter with one of his boys again.</p><p></p><p>“Hersh and I have an understanding, Papa.”</p><p></p><p>“An understanding. Is this why all I see is tracks into the woods? How far had the two of you fallen behind?” Hurgen’s irritation was real. He wasn’t as close to the front as he had thought, and as prudent as spacing the carts could be, too much of a gap split the line and made it more vulnerable. He broke into a trot, giving Ilan a look that said he expected an answer to his question.</p><p></p><p>“I could still see Carild, Papa.” Ilan was trotting beside him, their feet thumping in time. Hurgen raised an eyebrow. “Well, sometimes I mean.”</p><p></p><p>They crested a low rise that dropped sharply on the other side. The trail straightened here, and descended into a bowl depression. There was a sharp ascent on the other side, but Hurgen could see why Brenjar had chosen this way. It was the only way through the trees wide enough for the wagons. A tangled mess of provisions, oxen, and the last two carts of Hurgen’s family were strewn in the bottom of the bowl. A bright blond and broad backed figure lay face down in the loam, unmoving.</p><p></p><p>“Carild!” Hurgen cried as he gingerly made his way down the slope. Ilan shot past him, his young joints able to soak up the impact, and slid to his knees beside his fallen brother.</p><p></p><p>“He’s still breathin’, Papa, but he’s hurt!” Ilan cried, already tearing his own shirt into strips. Carild was bleeding. He stuffed the first two strips of cloth into his brother’s ears and searched him for wounds. He found a gash where Carild had struck his head when he fell. Ilan bound it best he could, and looked up to his see his father had reached the bottom of the bowl.</p><p></p><p>“You think he’ll live?” Hurgen asked, looking at the collided carts and the tracks they made. Ilan’s reply was too quiet to hear through the rags. The older man turned towards his son. “Speak up, boy!” Ilan’s eyes were glossy, and he worked his throat as he searched for the strength to give his reply again.</p><p></p><p>“I don’t <em>know</em>, Papa. There’s a lot of blood.” Hurgen knelt beside his son, his big hands gentle as he checked Carild.</p><p></p><p>“Good job with the wrap. His bleeding has slowed.” He turned Carild gingerly to get a better look at his face, and then checked his hands. “His color’s still good." Ilan breathed a sigh of relief, and they stood to survey the wreckage.</p><p></p><p>It was plain what happened to the two oldest sons of Hurgen. Carild was descending, the tracks kicked sideways in the loam where he worked the brake on his cart. Tojon had been ascending the far side. Deep hoof prints marked where his oxen had strained to lug his big box wagon up the hill. When the song hit, they had fallen to it. Carild’s hand would have slipped off the brake as Tojon’s whip and reigns slipped from his own hands. The heavily laden carts of a blacksmith and stonemason overpowered the oxen pulling them, and the deep grooves in the hillsides showed where the wagons had slid out of control, careening into each other. Carild’s had flipped over, flinging him to where he lay, and his oxen were caught between the two carts. It was likely they were dead, or would need to be put down. They were visible in the wreckage, but motionless and silent.</p><p></p><p>“Where’s Tojon and Hili?” Ilan asked, running to the front of his eldest brother’s box wagon. Hili was Tojon’s new wife, brought home with him after his apprenticeship, and the box wagon was as much for her comfort as it was to guard the valuable tools of his trade, along with the raw iron he was bringing along. It all made for a heavy and dangerous place to be in a collision. The rear axle was broken where the box wagon had slammed into Carild’s oxen, and the whole affair was canted at a strange angle, the bodies of the oxen lifting the cart off the ground on one side. Tojon’s own oxen had dragged the broken harness with them and found young leaf to graze in a large patch of sunlight. They were lowing to each other in frustration. The harness kept them together and they each had different ideas of where the best leaf was. Ilan didn’t see any injuries or limps, so he let them be for the moment and climbed into the front of Tojon’s wagon. He figured that anyone on the driver’s board would have been flung into the back of the wagon. Poking his head past the curtains separating the driver’s seat from the enclosed back of the wagon he saw them. Hili was curled on the bunk and facing the wall, crying softly. Tojon knelt beside it sobbing apologies into her skirts. Ilan gathered there was some indiscretion in their past, but didn’t want to hear more. He tore two strips off his shirt and went to stuff his brother’s ears. He stopped as a thought struck him, then grinned and stuffed the strips into his mouth, chewing them into wads of spit and cloth. These he then stuffed in his brother’s ears.</p><p></p><p>It had the desired effect. Tojon sat bolt up, face twisted in repulsed shock and grabbed at his ears. Ilan clamped his hands over his brother’s.</p><p></p><p>“Don’t remove them! They keep the music away!” He shouted. Tojon looked at him dumbly for a moment, then nodded. Ilan took his hands away. “Are you hurt?”</p><p></p><p>“N…no.” Tojon cleared his throat. Ilan waited patiently as Tojon regained himself, then handed him two strips of cloth and nodded towards Hili. “Do…” Tojon looked at Hili. “Do I have to soak them first?” He looked around for water and saw that all of his had spilled through the floorboards. Ilan grinned back at his brother as he clambered out of the wagon.</p><p></p><p>“Nope,” he said, then spat on the ground and let the curtains close. Tojon understood at once and his anguished cry made Ilan’s grin wider as he rounded the corner. Hurgen was still sitting next to Carild, comforting his son as he was coming around. </p><p></p><p>"Easy, boy, easy. You'll be hale soon, just a knock on your skull." He looked up at Ilan, who was still grinning. "I take it you found Tojon and his bride?” </p><p></p><p>“Yes, Papa, they are well.”</p><p></p><p>Hurgen grinned back at his son.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="threshel, post: 1806156, member: 5164"] Clutter away. :) --------------------------------------------------------------------------- [CENTER]Introduction Part Three[/CENTER] Hurgen was worried. Usually he had nothing to fear from his sons. A fatherly hand upside the head had calmed more than one raging son, but this wasn’t the flaring temper of a jealous teenager or the heated dispute of sibling rivalry. Ilan was induced to this rage by grief unnatural. It was likely he would turn on his father, who was still out of breath from running. So Hurgen did the only thing he was sure about: he tossed his maul away. As it landed with a thick thud on the loamy earth, he knew that his best hope for stopping Ilan had been to keep it. Hurgen shook his head to clear the thought. He couldn’t bring himself to lift a weapon to his boy. He was still worried, but struggled to think. It was hard to do while looking into the rage ruddy face of his incoherent son. He had to be smart. His instincts were screaming at him to put a stop to it, to put his foot down, to nip it in the bud. He fought to stifle them. The deference would not be there. This was going to get physical, and Ilan was younger, just as strong if not stronger, and fueled by mindless rage. All of Hurgen’s life he had been a direct man, sure of his physical ability and his son’s respect for him. His way was the direct way: to stop something, you stood in its path until it stopped. For the first time in his life, the big man looked at that something, and [i]knew[/i] it would mow him down. Something flickered in his mind’s eye: his boys wrestling in the yard back home. The big three boys trying to out-muscle each other while Arik… Ilan erupted into motion, blood and spittle flying as his rage burst from him in a tearing scream. He charged down the trail, towards the rear of the line, towards Arik. The only thing in his way was Hurgen, and just as the big boy was about to collide with his father, Hurgen stepped aside. And stuck out his foot. To be honest, had Ilan been aware of his father’s presence, the tactic would’ve failed. But he wasn’t, and he went sprawling in the dark dirt, breath rushing from his barrel chest in a great whoosh. The hatchet flew from his hand, and Hurgen leapt upon his back. Ilan bucked and raged under him, but Hurgen knew leverage and how to apply it. Pinning his boy, he grabbed the rags from his belt, and stuffed one in each of the big lad’s ears. Ilan managed to push himself up on his hands, and flipped over to vent his rage on his attacker. Hurgen promptly laid a fatherly hand upside his son’s head with a muffled thwack. “Ilan!” He shouted, as sharply as he had ever said it, with all the gravitas he could muster. Ilan’s eyes focused in recognition, then widened in shock. Hurgen hoped he wouldn’t remember, but knew he would. “Papa?” The realization dawned. His words caught in his throat. Hurgen helped him to his feet and Ilan found his voice again, rough though it was. “No… [i]no[/i].” He looked around wildly. “Arik!” He called desperately. “Arik!” “Calm yourself, boy!” Hurgen gripped Ilan by the shoulders, holding his attention. “You never made it, we’re still near your wagon. I doubt he could hear you, besides.” Hurgen pointed to the scraps of rags hanging from his own ears. Ilan’s hands came up to touch the longer rags hanging from the side of his head. He stood like that for a moment, and Hurgen could see the tightness ease from his shoulders. The flush of rage and grief left his face; replaced by a stony look his father knew hid embarrassment and guilt. Hurgen didn’t let him dwell on it long. “Fetch your hatchet, “ he said as he pointed to where it had flown, “and right your wagon. I don’t think Hersh likes the position he’s in.” Ilan snatched the hatchet, and quickly walked to the sideways wagon. Raising one arm, Ilan yanked it right without breaking stride. The wagon fell on its wheels with a solid bang, and Hersh bellowed in irritation as his yoke jerked with it. “Quit whinin’, Hersh.” Ilan freed the ox from the harness and coaxed it to its feet. Ilan checked the big bull over to make sure it wasn’t injured, and hung the yoke back over Hersh’s shoulders. “We don’t have time, boy,” said Hurgen as he walked up, the maul again gripped in his hand. “I have to yoke him at least, or he’ll go lookin’.” Ilan said as he finished up. “Maybe for Bula.” He gave his father a sideways look. “You should’ve tied him off like I said.” Hurgen said gruffly as they turned to continue up the trail. “A great beast like him? There’s those that’ll pay for his stud. I’ve had offers.” Ever the optimist, his Ilan was. “I didn’t know you were husbander as well as carpenter. How do you expect to keep him in harness?” By the Sword, it felt good to banter with one of his boys again. “Hersh and I have an understanding, Papa.” “An understanding. Is this why all I see is tracks into the woods? How far had the two of you fallen behind?” Hurgen’s irritation was real. He wasn’t as close to the front as he had thought, and as prudent as spacing the carts could be, too much of a gap split the line and made it more vulnerable. He broke into a trot, giving Ilan a look that said he expected an answer to his question. “I could still see Carild, Papa.” Ilan was trotting beside him, their feet thumping in time. Hurgen raised an eyebrow. “Well, sometimes I mean.” They crested a low rise that dropped sharply on the other side. The trail straightened here, and descended into a bowl depression. There was a sharp ascent on the other side, but Hurgen could see why Brenjar had chosen this way. It was the only way through the trees wide enough for the wagons. A tangled mess of provisions, oxen, and the last two carts of Hurgen’s family were strewn in the bottom of the bowl. A bright blond and broad backed figure lay face down in the loam, unmoving. “Carild!” Hurgen cried as he gingerly made his way down the slope. Ilan shot past him, his young joints able to soak up the impact, and slid to his knees beside his fallen brother. “He’s still breathin’, Papa, but he’s hurt!” Ilan cried, already tearing his own shirt into strips. Carild was bleeding. He stuffed the first two strips of cloth into his brother’s ears and searched him for wounds. He found a gash where Carild had struck his head when he fell. Ilan bound it best he could, and looked up to his see his father had reached the bottom of the bowl. “You think he’ll live?” Hurgen asked, looking at the collided carts and the tracks they made. Ilan’s reply was too quiet to hear through the rags. The older man turned towards his son. “Speak up, boy!” Ilan’s eyes were glossy, and he worked his throat as he searched for the strength to give his reply again. “I don’t [i]know[/i], Papa. There’s a lot of blood.” Hurgen knelt beside his son, his big hands gentle as he checked Carild. “Good job with the wrap. His bleeding has slowed.” He turned Carild gingerly to get a better look at his face, and then checked his hands. “His color’s still good." Ilan breathed a sigh of relief, and they stood to survey the wreckage. It was plain what happened to the two oldest sons of Hurgen. Carild was descending, the tracks kicked sideways in the loam where he worked the brake on his cart. Tojon had been ascending the far side. Deep hoof prints marked where his oxen had strained to lug his big box wagon up the hill. When the song hit, they had fallen to it. Carild’s hand would have slipped off the brake as Tojon’s whip and reigns slipped from his own hands. The heavily laden carts of a blacksmith and stonemason overpowered the oxen pulling them, and the deep grooves in the hillsides showed where the wagons had slid out of control, careening into each other. Carild’s had flipped over, flinging him to where he lay, and his oxen were caught between the two carts. It was likely they were dead, or would need to be put down. They were visible in the wreckage, but motionless and silent. “Where’s Tojon and Hili?” Ilan asked, running to the front of his eldest brother’s box wagon. Hili was Tojon’s new wife, brought home with him after his apprenticeship, and the box wagon was as much for her comfort as it was to guard the valuable tools of his trade, along with the raw iron he was bringing along. It all made for a heavy and dangerous place to be in a collision. The rear axle was broken where the box wagon had slammed into Carild’s oxen, and the whole affair was canted at a strange angle, the bodies of the oxen lifting the cart off the ground on one side. Tojon’s own oxen had dragged the broken harness with them and found young leaf to graze in a large patch of sunlight. They were lowing to each other in frustration. The harness kept them together and they each had different ideas of where the best leaf was. Ilan didn’t see any injuries or limps, so he let them be for the moment and climbed into the front of Tojon’s wagon. He figured that anyone on the driver’s board would have been flung into the back of the wagon. Poking his head past the curtains separating the driver’s seat from the enclosed back of the wagon he saw them. Hili was curled on the bunk and facing the wall, crying softly. Tojon knelt beside it sobbing apologies into her skirts. Ilan gathered there was some indiscretion in their past, but didn’t want to hear more. He tore two strips off his shirt and went to stuff his brother’s ears. He stopped as a thought struck him, then grinned and stuffed the strips into his mouth, chewing them into wads of spit and cloth. These he then stuffed in his brother’s ears. It had the desired effect. Tojon sat bolt up, face twisted in repulsed shock and grabbed at his ears. Ilan clamped his hands over his brother’s. “Don’t remove them! They keep the music away!” He shouted. Tojon looked at him dumbly for a moment, then nodded. Ilan took his hands away. “Are you hurt?” “N…no.” Tojon cleared his throat. Ilan waited patiently as Tojon regained himself, then handed him two strips of cloth and nodded towards Hili. “Do…” Tojon looked at Hili. “Do I have to soak them first?” He looked around for water and saw that all of his had spilled through the floorboards. Ilan grinned back at his brother as he clambered out of the wagon. “Nope,” he said, then spat on the ground and let the curtains close. Tojon understood at once and his anguished cry made Ilan’s grin wider as he rounded the corner. Hurgen was still sitting next to Carild, comforting his son as he was coming around. "Easy, boy, easy. You'll be hale soon, just a knock on your skull." He looked up at Ilan, who was still grinning. "I take it you found Tojon and his bride?” “Yes, Papa, they are well.” Hurgen grinned back at his son. [/QUOTE]
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Skycleft: Tales from the Mad Bard [updated 11/04/04]
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