The Scinterlands: Sibling Rivalry
Herremann the Wise
First Post
Unfortunately, It looks like this thread may have gone the way of all good things. A shame.
Roquesdoodle, wherefore art thou?
Best Regards
Herremann the Wise
Roquesdoodle, wherefore art thou?
Best Regards
Herremann the Wise
Last edited:
Roquesdoodle
First Post
Sorry sorry sorry for those of you reading this. I've been a bit preoccupied lately but hope to have then next installment in the next week or two.
Roquesdoodle
First Post
Finally, an update.
Again, sorry for the delay. After this update there is only one character introduction left. Once that is done we get to the REALLY good stuff. Anyway, enjoy.
The Hero
As the knights led the small group through the corridors of the castle, Glasdon could not help but feel as if he had been swallowed by some gigantic stone beast and was now being sluiced along its marble innards. Though he and the others certainly weren’t prisoners—it was almost safe to assume they were guests…almost—Glasdon still felt a need to move with deliberate caution.
Sean moved by his side, occasionally adjusting his wagon wheel whenever the passageway became too narrow or turned in what seemed a random direction. The elderly priest seemed at ease, though the way he kept pulling at the collar of his robes suggested that he was unaccustomed to being surrounded by so much stone.
The rabbit, Tibbit Proudhopper was his name, kept one eye on their escorts and the other to the shadows as his ears moved toward sounds that Glasdon could not hear. The rabbit’s nose twitched and his eyes roamed as Glasdon watched the Harefellow twice visibly restrain himself from vanishing into the shadows. Though Glasdon was fully aware of the martial prowess of the Scinter Knights that led them through the grand halls of the castle, he wondered if the Harefellow would indeed be able to disappear right from under their noses if it suddenly became necessary.
Being asked to meet with Sir Feon Rey was in and of itself nothing too terribly frightening. Though the man had a reputation that would make even the most hardened warrior blanch, he was also known for his fairness. Don’t cross the Hand and he won’t hang you by your thumbs and have you skinned alive (a single, but rather dark, incident that helped bring peace to the warring Island States).
But even armed with the knowledge of Feon Rey’s diplomacy, Glasdon still could not bury the sense of unease growing in the pit of his stomach. A dead Prince and a traveling King were not the most comforting circumstances in which to meet with a man known to have eradicated entire families for daring to threaten the sovereignty of the Crown.
But what unsettled Glasdon the most was the way the Scinter Knights always kept watching him from the corner of their eyes. He expected some wariness from them; the tense rivalry between the Materites and the Scinter Knights was legendary. Though both served King and Country, the Materites ultimately answered to their god Il Mater. It was an extra link in the chain of command that most of the secular Knights believed could too easily spread disloyalty. Kind Scinterod was viewed as the King by divine right. However, should the priests and clerics of Il Mater suddenly find it necessary to rescind the approval of their god, the Scinterlands would be plunged into a holy war. To Glasdon’s reasoning, this was why the King had embraced the church of Il Mater and their sect of holy warriors, the Materites. That his most decorated and skilled Knights would eye a Materite with such suspicion, however, gave him pause.
Oddly, the young woman with the strange name and wildly inappropriate dress did not appear to be terribly concerned with her deadly escorts. She even reached out and touched the lead Scinter Knight’s red mantle of station, studying its texture with her fingertips. The knight, however, was not amused by the breach of his personal space. The scowl he gave Pet would have sent anyone else scurrying away in fits of mad panic, but the young woman gave no mind to his ferocious gaze.
Glasdon casually shifted his oak shield and noticed that each of his escorts made sleight gestures toward the blades resting at their hips. They were not movements made of fear or unsettled nerves, but practiced responses to a possible threat. He could not help but smile to himself. Though he knew that each of these knights were battle-hardened veterans, it was nice to see that word of a Materite’s ability traveled this deep into the castle.
When they came to a large unadorned room, they were ushered inside. The Scinter Knights moved to each of the doors and stood sentry, their mailed mass prohibiting anyone from exiting.
In the center of the room was a large table, adorned with a modest display of food and several freshly arranged bouquets. The smell of the flowers and freshly cooked meat contrasted sharply with the dull scent of cold marble and steel.
Though the food looked quite appetizing, Glasdon felt it was out of place on the aged wood. He pictured maps sprawled across the broad oak expanse. Maps along with reports of troop movements and supply lines as Generals and Kings glowered over their schemes of conquest. Food belonged on that table no more than Glasdon belonged in that room. This was not a room for feasting or entertaining, but a room for strategizing, for planning.
This was a room for warmongering.
The Scinter Knight on the far side of the room moved to allow Sir Feon Rey into the room. His presence filled the open chamber like a flood of glacial water.
“Sit,” he said. And as Sir Feon Rey House Eater gestured to the chairs surrounding the table, Glasdon could not shake the image of a condemned prisoner being presented his last meal.
Again, sorry for the delay. After this update there is only one character introduction left. Once that is done we get to the REALLY good stuff. Anyway, enjoy.
The Hero
As the knights led the small group through the corridors of the castle, Glasdon could not help but feel as if he had been swallowed by some gigantic stone beast and was now being sluiced along its marble innards. Though he and the others certainly weren’t prisoners—it was almost safe to assume they were guests…almost—Glasdon still felt a need to move with deliberate caution.
Sean moved by his side, occasionally adjusting his wagon wheel whenever the passageway became too narrow or turned in what seemed a random direction. The elderly priest seemed at ease, though the way he kept pulling at the collar of his robes suggested that he was unaccustomed to being surrounded by so much stone.
The rabbit, Tibbit Proudhopper was his name, kept one eye on their escorts and the other to the shadows as his ears moved toward sounds that Glasdon could not hear. The rabbit’s nose twitched and his eyes roamed as Glasdon watched the Harefellow twice visibly restrain himself from vanishing into the shadows. Though Glasdon was fully aware of the martial prowess of the Scinter Knights that led them through the grand halls of the castle, he wondered if the Harefellow would indeed be able to disappear right from under their noses if it suddenly became necessary.
Being asked to meet with Sir Feon Rey was in and of itself nothing too terribly frightening. Though the man had a reputation that would make even the most hardened warrior blanch, he was also known for his fairness. Don’t cross the Hand and he won’t hang you by your thumbs and have you skinned alive (a single, but rather dark, incident that helped bring peace to the warring Island States).
But even armed with the knowledge of Feon Rey’s diplomacy, Glasdon still could not bury the sense of unease growing in the pit of his stomach. A dead Prince and a traveling King were not the most comforting circumstances in which to meet with a man known to have eradicated entire families for daring to threaten the sovereignty of the Crown.
But what unsettled Glasdon the most was the way the Scinter Knights always kept watching him from the corner of their eyes. He expected some wariness from them; the tense rivalry between the Materites and the Scinter Knights was legendary. Though both served King and Country, the Materites ultimately answered to their god Il Mater. It was an extra link in the chain of command that most of the secular Knights believed could too easily spread disloyalty. Kind Scinterod was viewed as the King by divine right. However, should the priests and clerics of Il Mater suddenly find it necessary to rescind the approval of their god, the Scinterlands would be plunged into a holy war. To Glasdon’s reasoning, this was why the King had embraced the church of Il Mater and their sect of holy warriors, the Materites. That his most decorated and skilled Knights would eye a Materite with such suspicion, however, gave him pause.
Oddly, the young woman with the strange name and wildly inappropriate dress did not appear to be terribly concerned with her deadly escorts. She even reached out and touched the lead Scinter Knight’s red mantle of station, studying its texture with her fingertips. The knight, however, was not amused by the breach of his personal space. The scowl he gave Pet would have sent anyone else scurrying away in fits of mad panic, but the young woman gave no mind to his ferocious gaze.
Glasdon casually shifted his oak shield and noticed that each of his escorts made sleight gestures toward the blades resting at their hips. They were not movements made of fear or unsettled nerves, but practiced responses to a possible threat. He could not help but smile to himself. Though he knew that each of these knights were battle-hardened veterans, it was nice to see that word of a Materite’s ability traveled this deep into the castle.
When they came to a large unadorned room, they were ushered inside. The Scinter Knights moved to each of the doors and stood sentry, their mailed mass prohibiting anyone from exiting.
In the center of the room was a large table, adorned with a modest display of food and several freshly arranged bouquets. The smell of the flowers and freshly cooked meat contrasted sharply with the dull scent of cold marble and steel.
Though the food looked quite appetizing, Glasdon felt it was out of place on the aged wood. He pictured maps sprawled across the broad oak expanse. Maps along with reports of troop movements and supply lines as Generals and Kings glowered over their schemes of conquest. Food belonged on that table no more than Glasdon belonged in that room. This was not a room for feasting or entertaining, but a room for strategizing, for planning.
This was a room for warmongering.
The Scinter Knight on the far side of the room moved to allow Sir Feon Rey into the room. His presence filled the open chamber like a flood of glacial water.
“Sit,” he said. And as Sir Feon Rey House Eater gestured to the chairs surrounding the table, Glasdon could not shake the image of a condemned prisoner being presented his last meal.
Roquesdoodle
First Post
The Bartender
(DM’s note: this is the last of the character set-ups. Although I just touched on some of the major aspects of each character, there’s a lot more to them that should come out later in the story. After this we start getting into the thick of it: twisted magic, elusive mysteries, and epic evil.
Not to mention born-again kobolds, un-scalable ladders, a shiny metal purse, and a strange and effective military tactic know simply as the “Reverse Johnson.”)
The Bartender
Connor gave the serving wench a wink and a comforting smile as he wiped the blood from his hand.
“Be a love and see the soldiers get a round on the house. This fella won’t be troublin’ ‘em any more today.”
The round girl nodded at him and filled her tray with pints before whisking out to the table where several soldiers of the Scinterland army were scowling into empty mugs.
Connor bent down to the bloodied drunk at his feet and pulled him up by the scruff of the neck. “Come on, lad. Time to go.”
“You broge my nothe!” The words leaked through the man’s hand as he held it over his broken face, thin lines of blood and spittle dribbling between his fingers.
“Aye,” Connor said. “And be thankful I did. Otherwise those men over there mighta’ seen fit to hang you from the castle walls.”
The drunk darted a quick glance at the soldiers through the corner of a swelling eye before he stumbled out the door.
Molly the serving wench met Connor behind the bar and started placing mugs into the soapy basin at her knees. “You should have let them have him. They would have given more than just a broken nose.”
“And ruined my bar in the process. No, he got what he deserved. No more, no less.”
Molly wiped her hands in her apron. “Still, to say that about the King was—“
“—wrong, yes. But not worth dyin’ over and certainly not worth killin’ over. Those soldiers woulda had to spend time in the stocks if they had their way with him.” Connor wiped a mug clean, inspecting it as if he were appraising a diamond. “This way, everybody wins. That drunkard learns his lesson, the King’s honor is defended, those boys stay out of trouble, and I don’t have to spend a week remodeling my bar.”
“But it scares me to see you fight, Connor.”
Connor flashed her a wistful smile. She waved a dirty rag at him and said, “Oh, you silly man. I just worry that someone might damage that pretty face of yours.” Then she turned to see to a couple of royal blacksmiths who had just sat down.
Molly was new and still seemed to be overly concerned by Connor’s size. Though certainly not a small man, he wasn’t a large man either. But it did seem that he was always the one having to look up during a conversation, especially in this bar.
The Broken Halberd was only a few short blocks from the castle proper and was a favorite among the Scinter Knights and most of the other men in King Scinterod’s army. Connor hadn’t been there long himself, but in the short time he had been there he had earned a reputation for keeping the tavern free from the typical violence one would find in a place frequented by men whose sole purpose in life was to kill other men…
…and drink…
…GARGANTUAN amounts of alcohol.
But that reputation wasn’t easily earned. The first few months he had tried to ignore the sparring soldiers under the auspice of “boys will be boys,” but when he had to patch holes and replace windows just as often as serving ale, he put his foot down.
Literally.
Connor was wiping greasy fingerprints off the bar when two Scinter Knights walked in. They were tall (as they ALL seemed to be), broad, and dressed in ceremonial plate-mail that glinted in the dull light of the bar as if it had been covered with a fine layer of gem-dust. It was their best armor, worn in honor of the fallen Prince. The same armor the Knights on board the Lady Darleanna were wearing when she set out on her final voyage.
Connor could see the haunted look in their eyes. The same look that was on everyone’s faces these past few days, ever since the sweet Prince had died. It was a look reflected in his own eyes when he stood before the looking-glass.
Connor shook his head then gently laid the bar-towel over his shoulder and nodded to the Knights. “Afternoon, mi’lords. Perhaps some ale to help dull the pain of this dark day.”
The two men shared a look, then one asked the other, “That him?”
The Knight nodded. They both strode to the bar, their heavy plate-mail rustling like the leaves of an iron tree. “Connor is it?”
“Aye.”
“The Hand would like two barrels of your finest ale delivered to him. Now.”
“Of course, mi’lord. I’ll have a boy run them ov—“
“No.” The Knight leaned forward, his leather bracings creaking. “You. Sir Feon Rey said YOU were to deliver it.”
“Me?”
“Is there another man by the name of Connor who keeps bar at the Broken Halberd?”
“No, I suppose there isn’t.” Connor was about to ask why the Hand had asked for him specifically, but then thought better of it. When dealing with the Hand, it was always best to keep questions to a minimum. The less he knew of the Hand’s business, the safer he’d be. Just get in. Just get out. The sooner he delivered the ale the sooner he’d be back to mopping vomit off the floor.
The Scinter Knights said nothing on the way to Arradian Castle. Connor walked between them, a barrel of Dobhran’s richest ale under each arm as he tried to ignore the feeling that he was being taken prisoner. He was just going to deliver the barrels to the kitchens and be done with it. Get in, get out. Nothing more. There was no reason to feel uneasy.
He had been inside the castle before, making similar deliveries to the kitchens for the King’s chefs. But Connor couldn’t fathom why the Hand would lower himself to request errands on behalf of a cook. Of course, the kitchen help was obviously too distraught over young Prince Korskadain’s death to be able to do such simple tasks as requesting a delivery of ale. That had to be it.
Once inside the castle, they made their way past a host of servants and nobles alike, all of them quiet and somber.
Yes, the kitchen help is too upset. That must be it. Ah, the poor things.
He adjusted the barrels under his arms as they walked straight to the hallway leading to the kitchen—
Yes, poor things.
—and then turned in the opposite direction.
“Excuse me, mi’lords, but aren’t the kitchens back that way?”
The more talkative of the two Knights stared down at him, never losing stride and said, “Yes.”
Connor nodded and then stared straight ahead, letting the two men guide him deeper into the castle. The chefs, they must be so upset they couldn’t leave their quarters. Yes, of course. That was it. Just no more questions, Connor lad. Get in, deliver the ale, and get out.
When Connor’s arms started to strain with the weight of the barrels, they stopped in front of a heavy door so deep within the castle that he was beginning to feel claustrophobic for the first time in a long, long while. One of the Knights knocked twice with the toe of his boot, then once high above his head. The door opened and Connor was ushered inside.
Inside a small group of people were sitting down to a feast. The Hand himself stood at the far end of the table, his squire by his side. Sir Feon Rey looked up and said, “Good. Pour us something to drink.”
Connor did as he was told. But as he poured ale into the empty mugs, he tried his best not to look directly at the faces of those gathered. The less he knew, the safer he’d be. But it wasn’t long before his curiosity overtook his reason.
Though he had seen all matters of creatures in the city of D’Auri, this small assembly was particularly odd. A harefellow agitated in his chair while next to him a young woman—just old enough to be called so—sat with her back perfectly straight, the smooth mounds of her womanhood clearly visible through the sheer fabric she wore.
Opposite her a Materite sat politely moving food to his plate while an older man with a wagon wheel resting against his lap bowed his head in prayer before serving himself. But perhaps the most noticeable thing about them was that they looked as nervous and as uncomfortable as Connor felt.
He concentrated on bringing his breathing under control, lest he spill ale on one of the Hand’s guests. Get in. Get out. When all of the mugs were filled, Connor made his way to the door to take his leave. The Scinter Knight standing in front of the door did not move.
“Connor…”
Connor turned. “Aye, Lord Hand?”
“Stay.”
But there’s vomit waitin’ for me. “Of course, mi’lord.”
Connor stood by the wall, stared at the floor and imagined himself fading into the stone.
“Please, eat as much as you’d like,” the Hand said. “While you do, I will explain why I brought you here.”
From the corner of his eye, Connor watched the rabbit’s nose twitch while he put as much food in his pockets as he did his plate. The others politely nibbled at their food, all of them watching the Hand from their periphery.
“I’m afraid I have no pleasantries this day so I will get straight to the point.” Everyone at the table froze in mid-motion for a moment: mugs, napkins, forks all pausing halfway between plate and mouth. Everyone except for the young woman. She seemed to be studying the food at the end of her utensil, turning it this way and that before putting it in her mouth.
“To put it simply, the Scinterlands needs your help. Your King needs your help.” Sir Feon Rey let out a low, heavy sigh. “And I need your help.”
The people sitting around the table stared at one another, all looking as if the Hand had just told them they had sprouted horns from the tops of their heads.
The Materite wiped the corner of his mouth then said, “Of course, my lord Hand. I would never presume to speak on behalf of the others gathered here, but it would be an honor for me to assist the Crown in any endeavor.”
“My thanks to you, Glasdon. But before you agree, any of you, there are certain things you must know.”
The rabbit found his appetite again and was shoveling food into his mouth and pockets with equal relish. “Mmwha sor’ a fings?”
Connor knew that now would be the best time to start singing to himself or reciting the lengthy list of Uilleand mead carried by the Broken Halberd or even the lengthier list of bar matrons he’d met in his young life. Anything to keep him from hearing what the Hand was about to say. The less he knew, the safer he’d be.
Let’s see, there was Denise, Shannon, Ariel of Newsport as well as Ariel of Fallsworth…”
“Because I am giving you the opportunity to refuse, I cannot divulge all the information unless you accept.”
…Mary, Farsinna, Bellenellaria, Sue…
“But I can assure you that you will all be paid. Handsomely. Gold, land, and titles.”
…Cara, Sarah, and who was the girl that liked the manacles? Oh yes, Darla…
“As for the task itself, until you agree, I can only tell you this…”
…and the sisters from Greenfield, what were their names, the sisters…
“It involves the Sisters.”
…the sist—
Connor looked up at the mention of the Sisters and saw that everyone at the table had gone pale, like ghosts haunting the place of their last meal. Almost in unison, they emptied their mugs.
Sir Feon Rey House Eater sat quietly, watching his guests ponder such a task. Connor could hear the Hand breathing as he waited, arms folded, his squire at attention by his side. “Connor,” the Hand said.
He stepped away from the wall.
“You are included in this as well.”
Connor could feel his blood draining from his face and pooling at his feet. “I’m honored, mi’lord, but I’m only a barkeep, after all.”
“Save it, Connor. You honestly think my men don’t talk to me? I am fully aware of how well you can handle yourself.”
Connor nodded without a word, then picked up a barrel of ale, raised it to his lips and took a long swallow.
The old man with the wagon wheel cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Lord Hand, but when you say ‘the Sisters,’ do you mean the Sisters?”
“Yes.”
“As in Mandlebrot’s daughters?”
“Yes.”
The rabbit raised a gravy-stained paw. “As in the three crazy sisters who buggered off just before their father’s great magical city up an’ disappeared?”
House Eater stood up and rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Yes, those sisters. What I am asking you to do will not be easy, I understand this. But I have selected each of you for various reasons which I will not go into now. All you need know as of this moment is that your King is calling upon you to help the Scinterlands. If you wish to leave, you are free to do so. But just remember…” the Hand squeezed the hilt of his sword, the tendons in his hand popping like twigs in small fire. “…it’s not everyday that you are asked to become heroes.”
House Eater stepped away from the table, his hand no longer looking as if it was resting on the hilt of his sword but more like it was ready to pull the blade free. “This is all I will tell you. Gold, lands, titles. All yours. But the task involves the daughters of Mandlebrot. The Sisters.”
The Hand then turned to Connor, staring at him with cold disinterested eyes, and spoke.
“Choose.”
(DM’s note: this is the last of the character set-ups. Although I just touched on some of the major aspects of each character, there’s a lot more to them that should come out later in the story. After this we start getting into the thick of it: twisted magic, elusive mysteries, and epic evil.
Not to mention born-again kobolds, un-scalable ladders, a shiny metal purse, and a strange and effective military tactic know simply as the “Reverse Johnson.”)
The Bartender
Connor gave the serving wench a wink and a comforting smile as he wiped the blood from his hand.
“Be a love and see the soldiers get a round on the house. This fella won’t be troublin’ ‘em any more today.”
The round girl nodded at him and filled her tray with pints before whisking out to the table where several soldiers of the Scinterland army were scowling into empty mugs.
Connor bent down to the bloodied drunk at his feet and pulled him up by the scruff of the neck. “Come on, lad. Time to go.”
“You broge my nothe!” The words leaked through the man’s hand as he held it over his broken face, thin lines of blood and spittle dribbling between his fingers.
“Aye,” Connor said. “And be thankful I did. Otherwise those men over there mighta’ seen fit to hang you from the castle walls.”
The drunk darted a quick glance at the soldiers through the corner of a swelling eye before he stumbled out the door.
Molly the serving wench met Connor behind the bar and started placing mugs into the soapy basin at her knees. “You should have let them have him. They would have given more than just a broken nose.”
“And ruined my bar in the process. No, he got what he deserved. No more, no less.”
Molly wiped her hands in her apron. “Still, to say that about the King was—“
“—wrong, yes. But not worth dyin’ over and certainly not worth killin’ over. Those soldiers woulda had to spend time in the stocks if they had their way with him.” Connor wiped a mug clean, inspecting it as if he were appraising a diamond. “This way, everybody wins. That drunkard learns his lesson, the King’s honor is defended, those boys stay out of trouble, and I don’t have to spend a week remodeling my bar.”
“But it scares me to see you fight, Connor.”
Connor flashed her a wistful smile. She waved a dirty rag at him and said, “Oh, you silly man. I just worry that someone might damage that pretty face of yours.” Then she turned to see to a couple of royal blacksmiths who had just sat down.
Molly was new and still seemed to be overly concerned by Connor’s size. Though certainly not a small man, he wasn’t a large man either. But it did seem that he was always the one having to look up during a conversation, especially in this bar.
The Broken Halberd was only a few short blocks from the castle proper and was a favorite among the Scinter Knights and most of the other men in King Scinterod’s army. Connor hadn’t been there long himself, but in the short time he had been there he had earned a reputation for keeping the tavern free from the typical violence one would find in a place frequented by men whose sole purpose in life was to kill other men…
…and drink…
…GARGANTUAN amounts of alcohol.
But that reputation wasn’t easily earned. The first few months he had tried to ignore the sparring soldiers under the auspice of “boys will be boys,” but when he had to patch holes and replace windows just as often as serving ale, he put his foot down.
Literally.
Connor was wiping greasy fingerprints off the bar when two Scinter Knights walked in. They were tall (as they ALL seemed to be), broad, and dressed in ceremonial plate-mail that glinted in the dull light of the bar as if it had been covered with a fine layer of gem-dust. It was their best armor, worn in honor of the fallen Prince. The same armor the Knights on board the Lady Darleanna were wearing when she set out on her final voyage.
Connor could see the haunted look in their eyes. The same look that was on everyone’s faces these past few days, ever since the sweet Prince had died. It was a look reflected in his own eyes when he stood before the looking-glass.
Connor shook his head then gently laid the bar-towel over his shoulder and nodded to the Knights. “Afternoon, mi’lords. Perhaps some ale to help dull the pain of this dark day.”
The two men shared a look, then one asked the other, “That him?”
The Knight nodded. They both strode to the bar, their heavy plate-mail rustling like the leaves of an iron tree. “Connor is it?”
“Aye.”
“The Hand would like two barrels of your finest ale delivered to him. Now.”
“Of course, mi’lord. I’ll have a boy run them ov—“
“No.” The Knight leaned forward, his leather bracings creaking. “You. Sir Feon Rey said YOU were to deliver it.”
“Me?”
“Is there another man by the name of Connor who keeps bar at the Broken Halberd?”
“No, I suppose there isn’t.” Connor was about to ask why the Hand had asked for him specifically, but then thought better of it. When dealing with the Hand, it was always best to keep questions to a minimum. The less he knew of the Hand’s business, the safer he’d be. Just get in. Just get out. The sooner he delivered the ale the sooner he’d be back to mopping vomit off the floor.
The Scinter Knights said nothing on the way to Arradian Castle. Connor walked between them, a barrel of Dobhran’s richest ale under each arm as he tried to ignore the feeling that he was being taken prisoner. He was just going to deliver the barrels to the kitchens and be done with it. Get in, get out. Nothing more. There was no reason to feel uneasy.
He had been inside the castle before, making similar deliveries to the kitchens for the King’s chefs. But Connor couldn’t fathom why the Hand would lower himself to request errands on behalf of a cook. Of course, the kitchen help was obviously too distraught over young Prince Korskadain’s death to be able to do such simple tasks as requesting a delivery of ale. That had to be it.
Once inside the castle, they made their way past a host of servants and nobles alike, all of them quiet and somber.
Yes, the kitchen help is too upset. That must be it. Ah, the poor things.
He adjusted the barrels under his arms as they walked straight to the hallway leading to the kitchen—
Yes, poor things.
—and then turned in the opposite direction.
“Excuse me, mi’lords, but aren’t the kitchens back that way?”
The more talkative of the two Knights stared down at him, never losing stride and said, “Yes.”
Connor nodded and then stared straight ahead, letting the two men guide him deeper into the castle. The chefs, they must be so upset they couldn’t leave their quarters. Yes, of course. That was it. Just no more questions, Connor lad. Get in, deliver the ale, and get out.
When Connor’s arms started to strain with the weight of the barrels, they stopped in front of a heavy door so deep within the castle that he was beginning to feel claustrophobic for the first time in a long, long while. One of the Knights knocked twice with the toe of his boot, then once high above his head. The door opened and Connor was ushered inside.
Inside a small group of people were sitting down to a feast. The Hand himself stood at the far end of the table, his squire by his side. Sir Feon Rey looked up and said, “Good. Pour us something to drink.”
Connor did as he was told. But as he poured ale into the empty mugs, he tried his best not to look directly at the faces of those gathered. The less he knew, the safer he’d be. But it wasn’t long before his curiosity overtook his reason.
Though he had seen all matters of creatures in the city of D’Auri, this small assembly was particularly odd. A harefellow agitated in his chair while next to him a young woman—just old enough to be called so—sat with her back perfectly straight, the smooth mounds of her womanhood clearly visible through the sheer fabric she wore.
Opposite her a Materite sat politely moving food to his plate while an older man with a wagon wheel resting against his lap bowed his head in prayer before serving himself. But perhaps the most noticeable thing about them was that they looked as nervous and as uncomfortable as Connor felt.
He concentrated on bringing his breathing under control, lest he spill ale on one of the Hand’s guests. Get in. Get out. When all of the mugs were filled, Connor made his way to the door to take his leave. The Scinter Knight standing in front of the door did not move.
“Connor…”
Connor turned. “Aye, Lord Hand?”
“Stay.”
But there’s vomit waitin’ for me. “Of course, mi’lord.”
Connor stood by the wall, stared at the floor and imagined himself fading into the stone.
“Please, eat as much as you’d like,” the Hand said. “While you do, I will explain why I brought you here.”
From the corner of his eye, Connor watched the rabbit’s nose twitch while he put as much food in his pockets as he did his plate. The others politely nibbled at their food, all of them watching the Hand from their periphery.
“I’m afraid I have no pleasantries this day so I will get straight to the point.” Everyone at the table froze in mid-motion for a moment: mugs, napkins, forks all pausing halfway between plate and mouth. Everyone except for the young woman. She seemed to be studying the food at the end of her utensil, turning it this way and that before putting it in her mouth.
“To put it simply, the Scinterlands needs your help. Your King needs your help.” Sir Feon Rey let out a low, heavy sigh. “And I need your help.”
The people sitting around the table stared at one another, all looking as if the Hand had just told them they had sprouted horns from the tops of their heads.
The Materite wiped the corner of his mouth then said, “Of course, my lord Hand. I would never presume to speak on behalf of the others gathered here, but it would be an honor for me to assist the Crown in any endeavor.”
“My thanks to you, Glasdon. But before you agree, any of you, there are certain things you must know.”
The rabbit found his appetite again and was shoveling food into his mouth and pockets with equal relish. “Mmwha sor’ a fings?”
Connor knew that now would be the best time to start singing to himself or reciting the lengthy list of Uilleand mead carried by the Broken Halberd or even the lengthier list of bar matrons he’d met in his young life. Anything to keep him from hearing what the Hand was about to say. The less he knew, the safer he’d be.
Let’s see, there was Denise, Shannon, Ariel of Newsport as well as Ariel of Fallsworth…”
“Because I am giving you the opportunity to refuse, I cannot divulge all the information unless you accept.”
…Mary, Farsinna, Bellenellaria, Sue…
“But I can assure you that you will all be paid. Handsomely. Gold, land, and titles.”
…Cara, Sarah, and who was the girl that liked the manacles? Oh yes, Darla…
“As for the task itself, until you agree, I can only tell you this…”
…and the sisters from Greenfield, what were their names, the sisters…
“It involves the Sisters.”
…the sist—
Connor looked up at the mention of the Sisters and saw that everyone at the table had gone pale, like ghosts haunting the place of their last meal. Almost in unison, they emptied their mugs.
Sir Feon Rey House Eater sat quietly, watching his guests ponder such a task. Connor could hear the Hand breathing as he waited, arms folded, his squire at attention by his side. “Connor,” the Hand said.
He stepped away from the wall.
“You are included in this as well.”
Connor could feel his blood draining from his face and pooling at his feet. “I’m honored, mi’lord, but I’m only a barkeep, after all.”
“Save it, Connor. You honestly think my men don’t talk to me? I am fully aware of how well you can handle yourself.”
Connor nodded without a word, then picked up a barrel of ale, raised it to his lips and took a long swallow.
The old man with the wagon wheel cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Lord Hand, but when you say ‘the Sisters,’ do you mean the Sisters?”
“Yes.”
“As in Mandlebrot’s daughters?”
“Yes.”
The rabbit raised a gravy-stained paw. “As in the three crazy sisters who buggered off just before their father’s great magical city up an’ disappeared?”
House Eater stood up and rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Yes, those sisters. What I am asking you to do will not be easy, I understand this. But I have selected each of you for various reasons which I will not go into now. All you need know as of this moment is that your King is calling upon you to help the Scinterlands. If you wish to leave, you are free to do so. But just remember…” the Hand squeezed the hilt of his sword, the tendons in his hand popping like twigs in small fire. “…it’s not everyday that you are asked to become heroes.”
House Eater stepped away from the table, his hand no longer looking as if it was resting on the hilt of his sword but more like it was ready to pull the blade free. “This is all I will tell you. Gold, lands, titles. All yours. But the task involves the daughters of Mandlebrot. The Sisters.”
The Hand then turned to Connor, staring at him with cold disinterested eyes, and spoke.
“Choose.”
Roquesdoodle
First Post
A Simple Task
“King Scinterod is not in Uilleand.” Sir Feon Rey readjusted himself in his seat and twirled a vicious carving knife between his able fingers. “He is here in Arradian Castle, in some form of…of…” He stuck the point of the knife into a large cut of meat, the handle wobbling for a moment after he let go. “Some form of stasis.”
Out of habit, Connor filled the empty mugs on the table while Glasdon asked, “What exactly do you mean…stasis?”
“Not alive, but not exactly dead either. Stasis.” Sir Feon Rey rubbed at the dark circles under his eyes. “We found him that way a few days before Korskadain’s death. Nothing we’ve tried has been able to rouse him. Valance, our court wizard, has exhausted every magical avenue and still nothing. But the Queen is desperate.” The Hand looked up from the skewered roast. “Which is why I have gathered all of you.”
Tibbit said, “I think you’ve made a mistake, Lord Hand. I don’t know anything ‘bout rousin’ Kings from magic naps.”
The Hand pulled the knife from the roast and began carving a slice. “No, but you do have some experience with discretion. South Haven, for instance.”
The rabbit’s ear twitched. “I’m from North Haven, Sir.”
Sir Feon Rey threw a slab of beef into his mouth as he stared at Tibbit.
“What happened in South Haven,” Pet asked.
The Hand spoke around a mouthful of food. “Mmm…the regent of South Haven had…an accident.”
Pet turned to Tibbit and tilted her head. “You killed the regent?”
As Tibbit sputtered, trying to deny the accusation, Sir Feon Rey broke in. “No, he didn’t kill the regent. However, the man who did is now in control of South Haven. And apparently he isn’t terribly fond of bards.” The Hand stabbed another slice of meat and held it in front of his face. “This new regent dislikes bards so much that he had the tongue of every bard in South Haven cut out and nailed to a wall.” The Hand threw the meat into his mouth and began to chew with a hint of a smile.
“All of them?” Sean asked.
“Well, all the ones that Tibbit here didn’t smuggle safely into North Haven.”
Tibbit casually wiped some crumbs from his leather jerkin. “For a price, mind you.”
Pet folded her arms across her chest, her narrow eyebrows furrowed in a knot of confusion as she spoke to the Hand. “And you let this new regent do this?”
Sir Feon Rey audibly swallowed the food in his mouth as he spread his arms in resignation. “There’s nothing I could do. South Haven isn’t part of the Scinterlands. I know it’s easy to forget sometimes, but I have no official authority there. Now, had he come across the river into North Haven searching for his grisly trophies, well, then I could have done something about it. And believe me when I say I would have nailed more than just his tongue to a wall.”
Pet tilted her head. “Like what? His p—”
“Perhaps some more ale, Pet?” Connor tried to smile as he filled her mug.
Sean leaned back and rested an arm on his wagon wheel. “Well, Tibbit. It was a noble thing you did.”
“Noble or not, it’s one of the reasons he’s here.” The Hand handed a napkin to his squire and then stood. “There are various reasons why I’ve chosen the five of you, perhaps the most important being that you each represent one of the Island States. Tibbit, you hail from Lesterhsire. Pet, from Wraithenul. The good Materite Glasdon here is from Dorland. Sean comes from Torborough, and Connor lives here in Valdurren. Though you each hail from a different state, you each call the Scinterlands home. And I prefer to have all the states represented in this struggle to help the King.”
“Why would anyone care if Wraithenul was involved?” Pet asked. “Most people don’t consider it part of the Scinterlands anyway.”
“I care, and that should be reason enough. But there are those in this country who want to go back to the way things were before King Scinterod united the Island States. If the King’s condition were to become public knowledge, those people would take advantage of the situation and we would have civil war. I will NOT allow that to happen.”
Sir Feon Rey did not speak for a moment, but let his eyes slowly roam over the people at the table in front of him. When he did speak again, his voice seemed to reverberate off the stone walls in thick, heavy waves. “I will be very displeased if the King’s condition is revealed. And I can assure you…the new regent of South Haven isn’t the only one with carpentry skills.”
Pet raised her hand. “But I don’t have a—”
“Pet!” Glasdon reached over and laid his hand gently across her forearm. “Perhaps we should let his Lordship finish what he has to say before we start debating the technical aspects of our punishment for treason.”
Everyone else at the table crossed their legs and leaned forward over the table. The Hand smiled, his mouth thin and crooked across his face. “Now that you’re aware of my problem, let me tell you of my solution.
“We know that the great wizard Mandlebrot created a sigil of immense power. We believe that this sigil will help us free the King from the spell he is under.”
Sean raised his hand. “And you want us to find it for you?”
“In a manner of speaking. For the most part, I already know where it is. I just need you to go get it.”
“So how does this involve the Sisters?” Connor asked.
“Mandlebrot divided this sigil and gifted a piece to each of his daughters—the Sisters as they are more commonly known. These pieces have been inked into their very living flesh. I need you to go to each of the Sisters, copy the sigil’s likeness, and then return those copies to me.”
Glasdon leaned forward, his clear voice falling over the table like a warm mist. “Pardon, Lord Hand, but what makes you believe these sorceresses will be willing to share such a personal and private thing with five total strangers?”
“Nothing. I imagine they won’t be too pleased with the idea.” The Hand washed down a bite of meat with a hearty swig of ale.
“Then how are we supposed to retrieve these copies?”
“Convince them.”
“It sounds like suicide, my Lord.” Sean was scowling, a strange and foreign feature on his weathered face.
“Which is one of the OTHER reasons I chose the lot of you. You’re expendable.”
“But wouldn’t it just be easier just to send some of your Scinter Knights to do the job?”
“Yes it would. Unfortunately I need them elsewhere. War is brewing in the north and I cannot divert my forces to a task that you should be quite capable of handling.”
“But they’re the SISTERS!”
Sir Feon Rey dismissed Tibbit’s outburst with a wave of his hand. “It will be easier than you might think. Two of the Sisters recently had a falling out in the small village of Naur’ ali. Their fighting turned the village into a smoldering pile of bloody ashes, but it also left them both greatly diminished in power. They should pose no problem for the five of you.”
“What about the third Sister?”
“We only know that Roh is somewhere in Wraithenul and is now in service to a dark god new to these lands. The Sister Cymbaline is here in Valdurren, living just outside of Riverrun. As for Celosia, we have no idea where she might be.”
“So Cymbaline is the only Sister we know where to find?”
The Hand gave a slow nod. “As of right now, yes. Hopefully, she will be forthcoming with the whereabouts of her siblings.”
Connor took a long draught of ale before saying, “Well lads, looks like were off to Riverrun then.”
“My squire Geranzimuth will accompany you. He will act as my eyes and ears since I cannot be there to wa-- Ahem. Guide you. Besides, he’s of age now where he should be setting off on adventures of his own.” Sir Feon Rey walked over to a small serving table against the wall and picked up a small square box. It was roughly the size of a book and its face was smooth, the grain of the wood shining through the polish. “Now, it would be very dangerous to copy the pieces of the Sigil onto just anything, so here. Take this.” He placed the box on the table in front of the group.
“How do we use it?” Tibbit asked.
“Take this to a blacksmith by the name of Akkadian Zigguraut, just outside of Riverrun. In return he will give you what you need to safely copy the pieces of the sigil. But do not open this box. He will know if you do. But more importantly, so will I.”
Sean twisted in his chair and pulled at his collar. “Excuse me, my Lord, but what if she doesn’t cooperate?” he asked. “Cymbaline may be greatly reduced in power, but she still is a daughter of Mandlebrot.”
Sir Feon Rey held out a hand to his squire. The thin youth produced a piece of paper and then returned to his post just a step behind the Hand. “This is a warrant for her arrest. We believe she has information regarding the disappearance of someone very close to the Crown. She can either cooperate or spend a week in the stocks.” He placed the paper on top of the box. “The choice is hers.”
“Your Lordship,” Glasdon said as he stood, his eyes focused sharply on the Hand. “Whose disappearance is she allegedly involved with?”
Sir Feon Rey’s face stiffened as his heavy voice became somber, almost sympathetic. “Wycliffe Arlatheon’s.”
The Materite nodded. “When do we leave?”
“First light. Horses and supplies will be waiting for you at the front gate at dawn. Good luck.” With that, the Hand turned and headed toward the door.
While the others sat at the table in silence, Glasdon hoisted his shield over his broad shoulders and started to follow after the Hand.
“Who’s this Wycliffe?” Tibbit asked.
“I don’t know.” Connor said. “Glasdon. Glasdon! Do you know who Wycliffe Arlatheon is?”
The Materite stopped, but did not turn around. He stood frozen for a moment, his thick red cloak flowing underneath his shield like bloody tears from the eye of a wounded god. “He is the son of Lynn and Ferrel Arlatheon, Duke and Duchess of Highwater.” He readjusted the heavy oak shield before moving again toward the door.
“He is also my cousin.”
“King Scinterod is not in Uilleand.” Sir Feon Rey readjusted himself in his seat and twirled a vicious carving knife between his able fingers. “He is here in Arradian Castle, in some form of…of…” He stuck the point of the knife into a large cut of meat, the handle wobbling for a moment after he let go. “Some form of stasis.”
Out of habit, Connor filled the empty mugs on the table while Glasdon asked, “What exactly do you mean…stasis?”
“Not alive, but not exactly dead either. Stasis.” Sir Feon Rey rubbed at the dark circles under his eyes. “We found him that way a few days before Korskadain’s death. Nothing we’ve tried has been able to rouse him. Valance, our court wizard, has exhausted every magical avenue and still nothing. But the Queen is desperate.” The Hand looked up from the skewered roast. “Which is why I have gathered all of you.”
Tibbit said, “I think you’ve made a mistake, Lord Hand. I don’t know anything ‘bout rousin’ Kings from magic naps.”
The Hand pulled the knife from the roast and began carving a slice. “No, but you do have some experience with discretion. South Haven, for instance.”
The rabbit’s ear twitched. “I’m from North Haven, Sir.”
Sir Feon Rey threw a slab of beef into his mouth as he stared at Tibbit.
“What happened in South Haven,” Pet asked.
The Hand spoke around a mouthful of food. “Mmm…the regent of South Haven had…an accident.”
Pet turned to Tibbit and tilted her head. “You killed the regent?”
As Tibbit sputtered, trying to deny the accusation, Sir Feon Rey broke in. “No, he didn’t kill the regent. However, the man who did is now in control of South Haven. And apparently he isn’t terribly fond of bards.” The Hand stabbed another slice of meat and held it in front of his face. “This new regent dislikes bards so much that he had the tongue of every bard in South Haven cut out and nailed to a wall.” The Hand threw the meat into his mouth and began to chew with a hint of a smile.
“All of them?” Sean asked.
“Well, all the ones that Tibbit here didn’t smuggle safely into North Haven.”
Tibbit casually wiped some crumbs from his leather jerkin. “For a price, mind you.”
Pet folded her arms across her chest, her narrow eyebrows furrowed in a knot of confusion as she spoke to the Hand. “And you let this new regent do this?”
Sir Feon Rey audibly swallowed the food in his mouth as he spread his arms in resignation. “There’s nothing I could do. South Haven isn’t part of the Scinterlands. I know it’s easy to forget sometimes, but I have no official authority there. Now, had he come across the river into North Haven searching for his grisly trophies, well, then I could have done something about it. And believe me when I say I would have nailed more than just his tongue to a wall.”
Pet tilted her head. “Like what? His p—”
“Perhaps some more ale, Pet?” Connor tried to smile as he filled her mug.
Sean leaned back and rested an arm on his wagon wheel. “Well, Tibbit. It was a noble thing you did.”
“Noble or not, it’s one of the reasons he’s here.” The Hand handed a napkin to his squire and then stood. “There are various reasons why I’ve chosen the five of you, perhaps the most important being that you each represent one of the Island States. Tibbit, you hail from Lesterhsire. Pet, from Wraithenul. The good Materite Glasdon here is from Dorland. Sean comes from Torborough, and Connor lives here in Valdurren. Though you each hail from a different state, you each call the Scinterlands home. And I prefer to have all the states represented in this struggle to help the King.”
“Why would anyone care if Wraithenul was involved?” Pet asked. “Most people don’t consider it part of the Scinterlands anyway.”
“I care, and that should be reason enough. But there are those in this country who want to go back to the way things were before King Scinterod united the Island States. If the King’s condition were to become public knowledge, those people would take advantage of the situation and we would have civil war. I will NOT allow that to happen.”
Sir Feon Rey did not speak for a moment, but let his eyes slowly roam over the people at the table in front of him. When he did speak again, his voice seemed to reverberate off the stone walls in thick, heavy waves. “I will be very displeased if the King’s condition is revealed. And I can assure you…the new regent of South Haven isn’t the only one with carpentry skills.”
Pet raised her hand. “But I don’t have a—”
“Pet!” Glasdon reached over and laid his hand gently across her forearm. “Perhaps we should let his Lordship finish what he has to say before we start debating the technical aspects of our punishment for treason.”
Everyone else at the table crossed their legs and leaned forward over the table. The Hand smiled, his mouth thin and crooked across his face. “Now that you’re aware of my problem, let me tell you of my solution.
“We know that the great wizard Mandlebrot created a sigil of immense power. We believe that this sigil will help us free the King from the spell he is under.”
Sean raised his hand. “And you want us to find it for you?”
“In a manner of speaking. For the most part, I already know where it is. I just need you to go get it.”
“So how does this involve the Sisters?” Connor asked.
“Mandlebrot divided this sigil and gifted a piece to each of his daughters—the Sisters as they are more commonly known. These pieces have been inked into their very living flesh. I need you to go to each of the Sisters, copy the sigil’s likeness, and then return those copies to me.”
Glasdon leaned forward, his clear voice falling over the table like a warm mist. “Pardon, Lord Hand, but what makes you believe these sorceresses will be willing to share such a personal and private thing with five total strangers?”
“Nothing. I imagine they won’t be too pleased with the idea.” The Hand washed down a bite of meat with a hearty swig of ale.
“Then how are we supposed to retrieve these copies?”
“Convince them.”
“It sounds like suicide, my Lord.” Sean was scowling, a strange and foreign feature on his weathered face.
“Which is one of the OTHER reasons I chose the lot of you. You’re expendable.”
“But wouldn’t it just be easier just to send some of your Scinter Knights to do the job?”
“Yes it would. Unfortunately I need them elsewhere. War is brewing in the north and I cannot divert my forces to a task that you should be quite capable of handling.”
“But they’re the SISTERS!”
Sir Feon Rey dismissed Tibbit’s outburst with a wave of his hand. “It will be easier than you might think. Two of the Sisters recently had a falling out in the small village of Naur’ ali. Their fighting turned the village into a smoldering pile of bloody ashes, but it also left them both greatly diminished in power. They should pose no problem for the five of you.”
“What about the third Sister?”
“We only know that Roh is somewhere in Wraithenul and is now in service to a dark god new to these lands. The Sister Cymbaline is here in Valdurren, living just outside of Riverrun. As for Celosia, we have no idea where she might be.”
“So Cymbaline is the only Sister we know where to find?”
The Hand gave a slow nod. “As of right now, yes. Hopefully, she will be forthcoming with the whereabouts of her siblings.”
Connor took a long draught of ale before saying, “Well lads, looks like were off to Riverrun then.”
“My squire Geranzimuth will accompany you. He will act as my eyes and ears since I cannot be there to wa-- Ahem. Guide you. Besides, he’s of age now where he should be setting off on adventures of his own.” Sir Feon Rey walked over to a small serving table against the wall and picked up a small square box. It was roughly the size of a book and its face was smooth, the grain of the wood shining through the polish. “Now, it would be very dangerous to copy the pieces of the Sigil onto just anything, so here. Take this.” He placed the box on the table in front of the group.
“How do we use it?” Tibbit asked.
“Take this to a blacksmith by the name of Akkadian Zigguraut, just outside of Riverrun. In return he will give you what you need to safely copy the pieces of the sigil. But do not open this box. He will know if you do. But more importantly, so will I.”
Sean twisted in his chair and pulled at his collar. “Excuse me, my Lord, but what if she doesn’t cooperate?” he asked. “Cymbaline may be greatly reduced in power, but she still is a daughter of Mandlebrot.”
Sir Feon Rey held out a hand to his squire. The thin youth produced a piece of paper and then returned to his post just a step behind the Hand. “This is a warrant for her arrest. We believe she has information regarding the disappearance of someone very close to the Crown. She can either cooperate or spend a week in the stocks.” He placed the paper on top of the box. “The choice is hers.”
“Your Lordship,” Glasdon said as he stood, his eyes focused sharply on the Hand. “Whose disappearance is she allegedly involved with?”
Sir Feon Rey’s face stiffened as his heavy voice became somber, almost sympathetic. “Wycliffe Arlatheon’s.”
The Materite nodded. “When do we leave?”
“First light. Horses and supplies will be waiting for you at the front gate at dawn. Good luck.” With that, the Hand turned and headed toward the door.
While the others sat at the table in silence, Glasdon hoisted his shield over his broad shoulders and started to follow after the Hand.
“Who’s this Wycliffe?” Tibbit asked.
“I don’t know.” Connor said. “Glasdon. Glasdon! Do you know who Wycliffe Arlatheon is?”
The Materite stopped, but did not turn around. He stood frozen for a moment, his thick red cloak flowing underneath his shield like bloody tears from the eye of a wounded god. “He is the son of Lynn and Ferrel Arlatheon, Duke and Duchess of Highwater.” He readjusted the heavy oak shield before moving again toward the door.
“He is also my cousin.”
