The Canterbury Tales- Chapter 4: Dead Drunk

[Deuce Traveler]

The caravan you have joined is set to leave Damascus, a situation you have mixed feelings about. On the one hand, Damascus is dirty, crime ridden and age-worn and though you travel with some cattle the smell can only get fresher once you leave these streets. On the other hand, Damascus has a certain character to it that you know you won't find elsewhere. The ancient Romans left their marks upon the roads of the city that are smoothed by the ages. The defensive walls must have been torn down several times because they are a mish-mash of materials and differing conditions. One long stretch of the western wall is said to have been built by Alexander the Great himself, though now that you dwell on such a fact you realize that he most likely commissioned the building of it if he had indeed been involved rather than been the actual builder.

The population is mixed ethnically, as the city has been a crossroads that has brought great wealth at times and great tragedy at others. Just a generation ago the city suffered greatly from the Plague and political turmoil. Now the city seems to have recovered somewhat as you would consider it bustling with moderate traffic. There are rumors of possible wars with numerous factions that surround Damascus, but the locals aren't terrified by the talk and are indeed the largest gossips. You have to give the people and the city credit. If there was ever a people and city that has suffered, yet survived to rise again it is Damascus. Perhaps that is why the legend of the phoenix holds such sway in this region.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the caravan master, Alfred Fayweather, who is giving commands to a few of his hired hands as they harness the wagons. The man has replaced his finer clothes that he wore while talking business at the market and is now dressed in a coarser fashion more suitable to the dusty trails that the caravan will traverse. Though trade flows freely through these lands, most people do not travel far from a city when in small groups. Here, as in Europe, wars and misrule have allowed banditry to flourish. A large number of odd and varying travelers, mostly fellow Britons, have decided to join with Fayweather's caravan. There is a knight and his squire in dust-covered but sturdy armor, a baker whose smirk and laugh betray a bawdy sense of humor, a woman approaching the elder years who wields a critical frown, and so on.

 

[ethandrew]

Francis leaned down and beat the bottom of his black pants, causing the dry dirt and attached filth to break free and fly. "I hate Damascus," he complained under his breath.

He liked the rain. This heat, the dry lands, well, it didn't suit him. It put him in a dour mood and seemingly always put him on edge, short tempered. He flicked his hair back out of his eyes and used his off hand to help push it back. If he was going to be in this sun he was at least going to evenly darken his face, no white foreheads for him.

With his rapier on his hip, a dagger and sap hidden on his waistband, and a crossbow nearby with his traveling pack, Francis appeared ready. Who knew about his charge, though. Francis was sure that there was still much work to be done before he would be ready, as was always the case. Trunks of false relics, perfumes, and liquor, as well as other various valuable he was sure to have picked up whilst here in Damascus. A pardoner's life was always interesting, which meant that a pardoner's assistant's life was always work, work, work.

 

[Theroc]

Alwyn departed Damascus with a somewhat heavy heart, knowing that the chances were if he should every return, what little magic in Damascus would be buried under the heel of Christianity. He was not particularly fond of the weather, but the history of Damascus and it's ties to deities besides the mundane 'God' left the wanting climate very little of an annoyance for the boy. He felt somewhat at ease here, as if the spirits were watching. He'd definitely need to find a place to be alone and make his daily covenant with the old Gods, praying for a safe journey.

He seemed not particularly well prepared for a long journey, but he felt he'd make due. He had learned to use his religion and his somewhat taller frame to intimidate those less strong of will, or to honey his tongue to facilitate better bargains.

 

[Dragonwriter]

Duncan is busy adjusting the straps on his own horse, Gaoth, as the caravan master was rushing to and fro.

The young Scot had long since lost track of the last group he had protected on the way to this haphazard city, but it was time for him to head out and fulfill his duty once again. And since larger merchant groups presented tempting targets to brigands, this seemed like a good one to go with. He wasn't even interested in payment, though it would be accepted if offered.

The young man hitches his belt up, brushing his heavy club as he does. He looks across the assembling caravan party with a slight smile. Scholars, traders and porters to his eye... It was probably going to be a good thing he was here.

As Duncan's horse snorts and stamps a hoof, he reaches out and pats the equine's neck. "Easy Gaoth. We'll be on the road again shortly."

 

[Fenris]

Sir Ricard Goodlake was in high spirits. He had made the trip down to Damascus without incident, made his necessary devotions and was headed home. Not that Damascus was bad, the order's headquarters was here, and it was a place of ancient honor and wonder. Still he longed for home.

So with one last check of his sword and armor he waited with the others for Alfred to finally get the caravan moving.

 

[Deuce Traveler]

The ragtag caravan took form within the next 30 minutes, consisting of four wagons, a dozen mules and about five dozen men and women looking mostly from England. Their various tales on how they came to Damascus should make for some entertainment. Alfred Fayweather and his men finish with their own laden wagon, freeing the caravan leader to walk through the crowd and politely position the people into a loose column. Some of the travelers have a sharper tongue than others, but Alfred shows deftness in how he handles their concerns and yet extricates himself so that he may speed up the preparations.

Finally he seems satisfied and shouts for all to hear in a voice used to command, "Fellow travelers, we are leaving Damascus now. Please stay in the column and keep the pace. I will be taking the lead and if there is any trouble just pass the word up and I will make sure you are care of. At this time I would like to ask for a handful of volunteers to scout the trail ahead for damaged roads or bandits. Some men that can handle themselves in the face of trouble. No, not you sir knight. I would prefer to keep your trained expertise with the column in case something gets by the scouts," Alfred says to an armed and burly gentleman who nods in deference and steps back into the column as fast as he had stepped forth.

At this point a handful of men stepped forth (the player characters) and were accepted as the caravan's scouts for this leg of the journey.

OOC: I figure you can introduce yourselves now to one another. The party will be travelling briskly ahead of the caravan to place themselves in scouting distance in my next post.

 

[Dragonwriter]

Duncan quickly stepped forward, leading Gaoth behind, a broad smile on his face. He looks around as others step up to scout ahead. Once it seems no one else will volunteer, he nods in deference to the caravan leader and turns to his new companions, still smiling.

"Well met, all. Name's Duncan Reed, and it's a pleasure to travel with you back across these lands. Speaking of which, we'd best get a move on quickly, or that one's likely to burst," he says with a chuckle and a jerk over his shoulder with his thumb, pointing at Fayweather.

He quickly steps onto one of Gaoth's stirrups and swings his other leg over the horse.

"And so, ready when you are."

 

[Theroc]

Alwyn stepped forward himself, nodding faintly. "I am Alwyn, and I can aid in scouting forays if needed. I assure you I am more capable than I appear. I will just need a moment alone to pray..." He stated simply, attempting to find a solitary place in which to make his prayers to the Gods, praying for the spirit of a betrayer to grant his great protection to this mortal vessel, allowing the spirit to once more experience the world as a living being, through himself.

"Savnok, I summon thee, betrayer of Gods, thief of protection... I offer a chance to steal mortal senses in exchange for protection from harm this day..." The young man muttered as he drew the seal in the ground before him, awaiting to see of the Deity revealed himself, or if he would grant a sign.

 

[Fenris]

"Richard Goodlake" says the young man in armor taking Duncan's hand. "I am sure we shall all be needed to help on this trip, roads are never as safe as one would want."

 

[ethandrew]

Francis was busy weighing the merits of joining the scouting party versus staying with the caravan, where he might possibly ingratiate himself with one of the more attractive ladies accompanying the voyage. But it was then that he heard the effeminate voice of the Pardoner calling out a flirtatious, "Sissy," when the decision was quite easy to make.

Stepping forward to the caravan-master, the young man smiled, acquiescing his services. Once assembled with the scouting group, he shakes hands with the others, "I am Francis, and I serve the Church, a vassal of the Pope, if you will. Though unfortunately I don't have a horse," he states to Duncan.