For More Than Glory
- Thread starter Emiricol
- Start date
evandariel
First Post
(I assume this is Inside the dockside tavern)
Gadreman whittles the time away until nightfall, at which time he will wait until morning, when a supposed business proposition opens up. For a time he plays dice with Almedh, but after winning and losing several games, coming out mostly even with the desertman, dice grow monotonous. So the man resumes to his room with a barrel of ale and a pair of wenches, letting go of some of the few coins he has. It is well worth it, trading empty time for a night of revelry. Gadreman is, to no man's suprise, not seen again until well after dawn the next day.
Gadreman whittles the time away until nightfall, at which time he will wait until morning, when a supposed business proposition opens up. For a time he plays dice with Almedh, but after winning and losing several games, coming out mostly even with the desertman, dice grow monotonous. So the man resumes to his room with a barrel of ale and a pair of wenches, letting go of some of the few coins he has. It is well worth it, trading empty time for a night of revelry. Gadreman is, to no man's suprise, not seen again until well after dawn the next day.
evandariel
First Post
A conversation with the barkeep
Gadreman awakens the next morning to find himself the victim of a splitting headache. The previous nights revelries do not show on his face or in his firm step, though the man grimaces at the repercussions of drinking such large amounts of ale. Hardly remembering when the whores left, or when he finally passed out from sheer exhaustion, he checks his purse of gold to affirm that the contents are still there. It was a relief to see the remnants of his last pay still within, and he strapped the belt holding the pouch across his waist. After dressing and rearming himself (the dagger he laid under his pillow the previous night now sheathed at his leg), Gadreman makes his way downstairs.
He sits at the bar, taking in the pleasant morning air, still not used to his freedom, nor the smell of the dead and of burned flesh not stinging his nostrils every morning. Once the barkeep has brought him another ale to douse the pounding in his skull, Gadreman idly discusses local events and of the war in Ulruz. The civil war that had split Ulruz like a piece of fruit had been the only reason for his unlikely escape. It provided a means for rebellion within the arenas, it left guards off their guard for slaves, and the general chaos overlying the landscape made it very much easier to get to the borders. He escaped with only several encounters, reaching the borders in days, an exceptional feat for a slave within the radius of Doluhre. All of this he tells to the barkeep and anyone willing to listen, knowing that a chance of the men hunting for him being within this village, this inn, were unlikely. He had given them a good run for their money.
Once again the topic turns to thieves and scoundrels, and Gadreman inquires as to the plague of thieves within the tavern. "Are they not keepin' their end of the bargain?" He asks in a voice thick with the Thusesti accent. He leans closer, muttering to the barkeep, "If ye ever have need of any services, I'd be happy to look into that particular infestation. I ain't against a good thief now'n again, but I wouldn't mind straightening somethin' out with 'em. I definitely didn't take to kindly to havin' them sick their dogs on me."
He waits for an answer, a rather frightening smile hovering about his lips.
Gadreman awakens the next morning to find himself the victim of a splitting headache. The previous nights revelries do not show on his face or in his firm step, though the man grimaces at the repercussions of drinking such large amounts of ale. Hardly remembering when the whores left, or when he finally passed out from sheer exhaustion, he checks his purse of gold to affirm that the contents are still there. It was a relief to see the remnants of his last pay still within, and he strapped the belt holding the pouch across his waist. After dressing and rearming himself (the dagger he laid under his pillow the previous night now sheathed at his leg), Gadreman makes his way downstairs.
He sits at the bar, taking in the pleasant morning air, still not used to his freedom, nor the smell of the dead and of burned flesh not stinging his nostrils every morning. Once the barkeep has brought him another ale to douse the pounding in his skull, Gadreman idly discusses local events and of the war in Ulruz. The civil war that had split Ulruz like a piece of fruit had been the only reason for his unlikely escape. It provided a means for rebellion within the arenas, it left guards off their guard for slaves, and the general chaos overlying the landscape made it very much easier to get to the borders. He escaped with only several encounters, reaching the borders in days, an exceptional feat for a slave within the radius of Doluhre. All of this he tells to the barkeep and anyone willing to listen, knowing that a chance of the men hunting for him being within this village, this inn, were unlikely. He had given them a good run for their money.
Once again the topic turns to thieves and scoundrels, and Gadreman inquires as to the plague of thieves within the tavern. "Are they not keepin' their end of the bargain?" He asks in a voice thick with the Thusesti accent. He leans closer, muttering to the barkeep, "If ye ever have need of any services, I'd be happy to look into that particular infestation. I ain't against a good thief now'n again, but I wouldn't mind straightening somethin' out with 'em. I definitely didn't take to kindly to havin' them sick their dogs on me."
He waits for an answer, a rather frightening smile hovering about his lips.
Emiricol
Registered User
The barkeep shrugs, saying in Tradespeak, "No problem with thieves. We pay for there not to be any problems. The men you fought were *dne Hetzeren," he says, spitting on the floor with fury. "They operate without genehmngei - without sanction. They risk their lives for petty coins, mostly. You did the guild a favor."
He wipes a ceramic mug down lazily. "So. You speak with an odd accent. I want to say Ulruz, but there is something more in there as well." The comment is really more of a question, and the barkeep raises an eyebrow in curiosity. He doesn't seem overly interested, though - certainly not a threat.
* malicious rabble, roughly
He wipes a ceramic mug down lazily. "So. You speak with an odd accent. I want to say Ulruz, but there is something more in there as well." The comment is really more of a question, and the barkeep raises an eyebrow in curiosity. He doesn't seem overly interested, though - certainly not a threat.
* malicious rabble, roughly
evandariel
First Post
With a slight nod and a little thought, Gadreman speaks, albeit in a rather low tone, "Aye, 'tis Ulruz. I know a smattering of it. The accent comes from my servitude in the arena, in Doluhre. Before that," He leans closer, so as not to be overheard by too many, "I was raised by ogres."
Gadreman can't keep the slight smile from appearing on his face, and continues, "They were an unusually cruel and intelligent tribe. They massacred an entire village on the outskirts of Mittendien when I was but a baby, slaughtering men and women left and right. The captives were used as slaves, raped, or left to die. I was one of the latter. Amidst some hundred children and infants, I lay waiting for death to take me. I was but one winter of age then, though a large and healthy child. Several days passed, with screaming and crying all around, innocent one's lives coming to an end periodically. Eventually I lay in the pit alone, the others passed away. Even the children who had resorted to eating the dead had died or choked on their own vomit.
"When the ogres noticed, one woman among them, and when I say woman I refer to a female ogre, brought me from the pit and took me to the tribe's semi-permanent location not far off. The elders, who are mainly the largest and strongest, or most cunning, of the ogres, decided that I should be raised among them as an ogre. Even ogre children rarely showed the strength and persistance I had as a youth, and so I deserved a place of respect. At least, that's what I was told.
"I was brought up as a warrior and hunter, to be of service to those ogres leading raids on human settlements, and it was during one of these excursions that the ogres were slaughtered and I captured. The humans did not take kindly to the attacks, and they did not think a child such as I was worthy of any sort of mercy.
"So it was I came to find myself in the salt mines. I am not sure if you remember them, the ones that used to be betwixt here and Ulruz, sitting snugly along the border. I grew into the man you see now, down in those pits for some time. The salt mines came to an end in a goblin raid, urged on by some superior hobgoblin in Ulruz. They dragged me and most of my fellow slaves back into their country, to their masters. I was one of the fortunate few to end up in the arenas, where a slave has at least some chance of winning his freedom. Or at least some of it."
Gadreman takes a sip from his ale, winking to the bartender, and continues. His voice is thick and at time stumbles over words, sometimes reverting to Thusesti, and occasionally, Giant. "I enjoyed the fighting, having been reared among one of the most ferocious races on this earth. It was several years until the conflicts in Ulruz came to a head, but that was the last of any sort of coersion of life in Doluhre. During Antonius' raid on the capitol, I made my escape, amidst a band of gladiators taking advantage of the guards' suprise at the invasion. We nearly all escaped, only losing a handful of men. We spread thin and made it to the borders of the city when the slavers found us. Spells were thrown about, lightning and light abounded, arrows overhead of both mundane and magic creation. I was the only one to escape. Apparently the slavers knew that there was still life yet in Doluhre, and as soon as the coup had finished they would merely be led by another. It didn't matter to them, politics. What mattered was that their livelihood was escaping.
"So I am hunted now, by mages and warriors alike, and I am sure some clerics of Beher are numbered among them. It is nothing unusual to me, my life being in danger every waking hour. I rather enjoy the chase. But I have outmaneuvered them, and something tells me they are far behind. We shall see, but I guess that I will have time to tarry here or there now. If they have not given up chase, it will take them long to find this place, and to get here without a large welcome from the local populace." He grins and offers his hand to the barkeep, "So, Gadreman of the Bloody Fist is at your service, if you have need." He gives the bartender a firm shake and then finishes his ale, waiting for a response to his story, and to his offer.
Gadreman can't keep the slight smile from appearing on his face, and continues, "They were an unusually cruel and intelligent tribe. They massacred an entire village on the outskirts of Mittendien when I was but a baby, slaughtering men and women left and right. The captives were used as slaves, raped, or left to die. I was one of the latter. Amidst some hundred children and infants, I lay waiting for death to take me. I was but one winter of age then, though a large and healthy child. Several days passed, with screaming and crying all around, innocent one's lives coming to an end periodically. Eventually I lay in the pit alone, the others passed away. Even the children who had resorted to eating the dead had died or choked on their own vomit.
"When the ogres noticed, one woman among them, and when I say woman I refer to a female ogre, brought me from the pit and took me to the tribe's semi-permanent location not far off. The elders, who are mainly the largest and strongest, or most cunning, of the ogres, decided that I should be raised among them as an ogre. Even ogre children rarely showed the strength and persistance I had as a youth, and so I deserved a place of respect. At least, that's what I was told.
"I was brought up as a warrior and hunter, to be of service to those ogres leading raids on human settlements, and it was during one of these excursions that the ogres were slaughtered and I captured. The humans did not take kindly to the attacks, and they did not think a child such as I was worthy of any sort of mercy.
"So it was I came to find myself in the salt mines. I am not sure if you remember them, the ones that used to be betwixt here and Ulruz, sitting snugly along the border. I grew into the man you see now, down in those pits for some time. The salt mines came to an end in a goblin raid, urged on by some superior hobgoblin in Ulruz. They dragged me and most of my fellow slaves back into their country, to their masters. I was one of the fortunate few to end up in the arenas, where a slave has at least some chance of winning his freedom. Or at least some of it."
Gadreman takes a sip from his ale, winking to the bartender, and continues. His voice is thick and at time stumbles over words, sometimes reverting to Thusesti, and occasionally, Giant. "I enjoyed the fighting, having been reared among one of the most ferocious races on this earth. It was several years until the conflicts in Ulruz came to a head, but that was the last of any sort of coersion of life in Doluhre. During Antonius' raid on the capitol, I made my escape, amidst a band of gladiators taking advantage of the guards' suprise at the invasion. We nearly all escaped, only losing a handful of men. We spread thin and made it to the borders of the city when the slavers found us. Spells were thrown about, lightning and light abounded, arrows overhead of both mundane and magic creation. I was the only one to escape. Apparently the slavers knew that there was still life yet in Doluhre, and as soon as the coup had finished they would merely be led by another. It didn't matter to them, politics. What mattered was that their livelihood was escaping.
"So I am hunted now, by mages and warriors alike, and I am sure some clerics of Beher are numbered among them. It is nothing unusual to me, my life being in danger every waking hour. I rather enjoy the chase. But I have outmaneuvered them, and something tells me they are far behind. We shall see, but I guess that I will have time to tarry here or there now. If they have not given up chase, it will take them long to find this place, and to get here without a large welcome from the local populace." He grins and offers his hand to the barkeep, "So, Gadreman of the Bloody Fist is at your service, if you have need." He gives the bartender a firm shake and then finishes his ale, waiting for a response to his story, and to his offer.
Emiricol
Registered User
The barkeep chuckles. "Well then, Gadreman of the bloody fist! That was a remarkable tale, whether true or not! Here, have an ale on me - payment for the tale." He grins, and sets down the last of the mugs he had been cleaning. "So ye be home at last, back in Mittendein, but I'd wager it doesn't feel like home to ye. A man with no roots is one blown by the winds. Tell me, Gadreman, why has the wind blown you here, now?"
Last edited:
evandariel
First Post
Picking up the new ale, Gadreman clears his throat, "Well, it all had to do with the path of least resistance. Any man worth his salt knows how to follow that particular trail. I simply took the routes that had the least chance a' me getting recaptured by some rather unhappy Ulruz slavers. Path of least resistance."
He grunts and looks around, "Like I said, I doubt they've made any progress towards this area. We shall see though, aye? The winds may have brought me here, but the smell of gold keeps me here. It's about time to replenish my empty pockets, and have a good time to boot. it all comes down to time and money. If I got time, and I got money, I'll stick around until my ventures lead me elsewhere."
He grunts and looks around, "Like I said, I doubt they've made any progress towards this area. We shall see though, aye? The winds may have brought me here, but the smell of gold keeps me here. It's about time to replenish my empty pockets, and have a good time to boot. it all comes down to time and money. If I got time, and I got money, I'll stick around until my ventures lead me elsewhere."
Emiricol
Registered User
The barkeep nods sagely. "Yep, gold helps, and silver will do, but to get warm at night takes one o' the two." He chuckles, "My neice sings that all the time. Not sure why I remembered it. Alright, listen - you are handy in a fight. I hear there's a guy coming in who could use a good bodyguard. His last one went and played dead for the guy's enemies, and he's lookin' to trade up. I hear the pay's good, if you can stand the man. He's a wizard you see, one of them Marzen folks. Spending too much time near Dwarves, I say, but that's between Marzen and her people, not me. Guy's got a touch of Lunakav in him, if you know what I mean. Few arrows short of a quiver. But his gold's right as rain. You should check it out."
evandariel
First Post
With a tip of his tankard, Gadreman nods, "That I'll do. It's the only offer for work I've heard up until now. That's actually why I'm here, so early. I await the mage."
He pulls out his sword, lays it across his lap, and produces a whetstone. The soft scraping sound seems to relax the large man. He looks back up at the barkeep, "Ever seen one of these? I hear tell they aren't as common in the outlying lands. I got this at the arena, and have kept it with me the way here. It's called a Falchion, though I'm not sure what country designed the make. It doesn't really matter to me. Sorta like a scimitar it is, except it's.. well as you can see, a whole hell of a lot bigger than those toothpicks. Happens to be one of my favorite weapons in all my adventuring days, especially when it's got a nice, sharp edge on it." He continues to run the whetstone up the blade, enjoying the odd and off-key song it creates.
"When do ye expect the spell-flinger t' be here?"
He pulls out his sword, lays it across his lap, and produces a whetstone. The soft scraping sound seems to relax the large man. He looks back up at the barkeep, "Ever seen one of these? I hear tell they aren't as common in the outlying lands. I got this at the arena, and have kept it with me the way here. It's called a Falchion, though I'm not sure what country designed the make. It doesn't really matter to me. Sorta like a scimitar it is, except it's.. well as you can see, a whole hell of a lot bigger than those toothpicks. Happens to be one of my favorite weapons in all my adventuring days, especially when it's got a nice, sharp edge on it." He continues to run the whetstone up the blade, enjoying the odd and off-key song it creates.
"When do ye expect the spell-flinger t' be here?"
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