Funeris
First Post
Chapter 5: To Marchford, To Llyndofare, Are those Dwem?
The return trip to Marchford was more uneventful than the preceding journey to Dun Beric. Not a soul was to be seen on the worn trail. And nature showed not a sign of weariness or apprehension unlike the temperaments of the humans in Dun Beric and Marchford. The summer birds continued to chirp and the soon-setting sun continued to shine despite the Heroes’ now foul mood.
Fitz, who almost always had a somewhat cheery disposition, did not raise his eyes from his boots as they tramped down the trail. His expression sang the truth of his emotion; still twisted in anger, in foul resentment.
Funeris’ face was slightly flushed. Less so from physical exertion, he was a well-built youth and had tramped around for the majority of his life, than from shame. He was a follower of Morduk but never would he have treated a follower of another church so disrespectfully. His presence on this journey deftly proved that fact. He traveled with a Druid, an atheistic Rornman, a good and kind priest of Ceria, and a wizard that believed, well, who knew what the wizard believed. Probably nothing.
But if followers of Morduk, the god of justice, could treat non-believers with such contempt and bitterness, what did that mean? That wasn’t justice. That was not fair. What was it that Funeris’ father was trying to teach him? Or maybe, Morduk would deliver the town of Dun Beric some justice. Maybe, Morduk already began to. Before Funeris could finish his thoughts, Motega stopped on a swale. He waited for the rest of the group to catch up before they hiked into Marchford.
The setting sun showed the lack of light in the majority of the buildings of Marchford. Only the keep and Oggut’s Inn echoed torchlight into the descending darkness. Perched on the stone walkways of the keep, guards could be seen patrolling and watching for any signs of attack. The Heroes headed toward the keep first, to relay what little information they had retrieved.
Their presence was made known by the yelling of guards and the drawing of bows, Motega’s hand twitched toward his short bow but he held for just a moment. That moment being long enough for the group to be recognized and the soldiers’ weapons to be lowered. More yelling could be held behind the walls of the keep, and the sound of creaking wood issued from the gates.
Heavy, wooden double doors creaked open, spilling torchlight through the iron portcullis. Standing behind, were several guards that surrounded Sir Eddam.
“What news?” the noble questioned. The lines began to deepen in Fitz’s face as he opened his mouth.
Magnus stepped in and said, “The Duke of Dun Beric says he cannot send any aide this way. He needs his men in case there is another attack. But he said to hold down the keep if you can. And send the women and children west to Dun Meggan.”
“I’ve done that,” Sir Eddam mumbled. His stark white hair seemed to have thinned in the past day. Or perhaps the torchlight and stress just seemed to make him age one hundred years in the course of a day. “And how does Dun Beric fare?”
Magnus again answered before anyone else, “None dead, thanks to yours truly,” and he motioned toward the group. “But several wounded and we could not offer much help. They were in the midst of repairs when we left.”
“Good, good. And what are your plans now?”
“We’re not sure. We haven’t decided yet.”
“Well, we could always use more hands, if you want to stay.”
“We’ll, uh, talk about it.” Magnus grinned his most charming, which isn’t to say much, smile. Then the party turned and headed toward the tavern.
The return trip to Marchford was more uneventful than the preceding journey to Dun Beric. Not a soul was to be seen on the worn trail. And nature showed not a sign of weariness or apprehension unlike the temperaments of the humans in Dun Beric and Marchford. The summer birds continued to chirp and the soon-setting sun continued to shine despite the Heroes’ now foul mood.
Fitz, who almost always had a somewhat cheery disposition, did not raise his eyes from his boots as they tramped down the trail. His expression sang the truth of his emotion; still twisted in anger, in foul resentment.
Funeris’ face was slightly flushed. Less so from physical exertion, he was a well-built youth and had tramped around for the majority of his life, than from shame. He was a follower of Morduk but never would he have treated a follower of another church so disrespectfully. His presence on this journey deftly proved that fact. He traveled with a Druid, an atheistic Rornman, a good and kind priest of Ceria, and a wizard that believed, well, who knew what the wizard believed. Probably nothing.
But if followers of Morduk, the god of justice, could treat non-believers with such contempt and bitterness, what did that mean? That wasn’t justice. That was not fair. What was it that Funeris’ father was trying to teach him? Or maybe, Morduk would deliver the town of Dun Beric some justice. Maybe, Morduk already began to. Before Funeris could finish his thoughts, Motega stopped on a swale. He waited for the rest of the group to catch up before they hiked into Marchford.
The setting sun showed the lack of light in the majority of the buildings of Marchford. Only the keep and Oggut’s Inn echoed torchlight into the descending darkness. Perched on the stone walkways of the keep, guards could be seen patrolling and watching for any signs of attack. The Heroes headed toward the keep first, to relay what little information they had retrieved.
Their presence was made known by the yelling of guards and the drawing of bows, Motega’s hand twitched toward his short bow but he held for just a moment. That moment being long enough for the group to be recognized and the soldiers’ weapons to be lowered. More yelling could be held behind the walls of the keep, and the sound of creaking wood issued from the gates.
Heavy, wooden double doors creaked open, spilling torchlight through the iron portcullis. Standing behind, were several guards that surrounded Sir Eddam.
“What news?” the noble questioned. The lines began to deepen in Fitz’s face as he opened his mouth.
Magnus stepped in and said, “The Duke of Dun Beric says he cannot send any aide this way. He needs his men in case there is another attack. But he said to hold down the keep if you can. And send the women and children west to Dun Meggan.”
“I’ve done that,” Sir Eddam mumbled. His stark white hair seemed to have thinned in the past day. Or perhaps the torchlight and stress just seemed to make him age one hundred years in the course of a day. “And how does Dun Beric fare?”
Magnus again answered before anyone else, “None dead, thanks to yours truly,” and he motioned toward the group. “But several wounded and we could not offer much help. They were in the midst of repairs when we left.”
“Good, good. And what are your plans now?”
“We’re not sure. We haven’t decided yet.”
“Well, we could always use more hands, if you want to stay.”
“We’ll, uh, talk about it.” Magnus grinned his most charming, which isn’t to say much, smile. Then the party turned and headed toward the tavern.
