Rastfar
First Post
Session 4
session #4
Karl’s lifeless body produced a muffled echo as it thudded to the dusty floor in the abandoned Fallstick home. Tyrus crunched the dead man’s foot as he hurried to the side window, concerned with only one thing. He listened at the shutters. All outside seemed quiet enough. The woodsman hoped that they’d have some time before the missing Menovian was noticed. While Tyrus crouched at a kitchen window, readying bow and arrow staring at Ida Cubitt’s front door from a nicely covered flanking position, Wrenchard still stood over his victim.
A plan began to formulate in his mind.
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Adair ushered the last of the Bannon herd into their pen and washed up for supper. He hadd arrived just in time for the evening’s dinner melee. This event, he knew, would proceed with or without him, or any of his siblings for that matter. Despite an elbow to the eye, he enjoyed the meal. Beef was such a rare treat, he soon found himself forgetting its origins.
Jonas found himself at the middle of the Breach, whiling away the time by openly discussing ideas for a plot to a play that he had just decided he should write. Gerald was not interested, Motar didn’t care, and Harden was merely listening politely. For the second night in a row, Jonas realized why he loathed these late night watches.
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Still hobbled by the bog flu, Jebediah awakened to a quiet house with no activity. He sat up. He noted that his door was ajar; there was no light from the hall beyond. Without concept of time, he stood. Forced to rely on the headboard for support, his legs still resisting his commands, he knelt down. Under the bed he found exactly what he had expected. True to her word, Constance had left his things under his bed frame. Unfortunately, the foul festering bedpan was still there too. Catching a mouthful of fumes, Jebediah swallowed bile hard and tumbled backward onto his rump, clasping his hands over his mouth as he considered reaching for the receptacle to again vomit into. Choking down the reflex, he dragged forth his unusually heavy equipment and with great effort slung it up onto the bed. Wiping the darkened sweat now trickling down from his hairline, he flopped back next to the bundle. At least in the dark no one would ask why his sweat had a gray shade.
Minutes later, he was collected and suited in his breastplate-dominated armor. Hand-and-a-half sword drawn, he proceeded along the wall to his door. Relieved for the support, he continued into the vacant hall. Both his sister and hosts’ doors were ajar. A quick inspection of both rooms revealed the beds all made up and empty. Approaching the last room, the children’s, he discovered the same scene. Standing now at the top of the somehow taller, steeper, staircase, he girded up his loins and steeled himself. His exertion began to become evident in his raspy exhale.
Jebediah proceeded downstairs to the rest of the living areas. Clearing first through the sitting area he noticed Wrenchard’s quiver of war darts missing from the mantel. The house felt cold and vacant. As he proceeded to sweep through the larder a lonely light led him to the kitchen. Ultimately his search ended at a dead-bolted cellar door there. As he jiggled at the handle, the faintest squeak of paranoia emitted from behind.
Confused, he had not much time to ponder his precarious situation before he felt the press of cold steel at the jaw-line below his right ear.
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A large armored man, hefting a long spear emerged from Ida’s open doorframe. He called out for Karl, urging him to not ‘miss his turn.’ Tyrus pulled his bowstring taut and reflexively began to slow his breathing, taking aim. Only Wrenchard’s hand on his shoulder gave him pause, preventing the hunter from doing something rash. The war veteran had developed a plan and he relayed Tyrus’ part in it to him.
Scant minutes later, the Menovian, Grant as his companions called out to him, re-entered the house. Wrenchard took his cue and left Tyrus to his wiles. The wealthy cartographer circled north of the Cubitt house headed towards the Breach. There he hoped to find the Fawkes kid to enlist him in the impromptu plan.
Tyrus moved through the small house looking for large linens. He found an old horse blanket in which he rolled Karl’s body, now stripped of all equipment. Still not big enough, he emptied an old burlap sack of fermented grain. Using the bag, the ranger tied it about the man’s exposed feet and knees. Satisfied that the body was covered enough, the ranger dragged it to the door and resumed his position at the window to watch while waiting for Wrenchard’s return.
Jonas called out to the familiar figure, “Halt! Who goes there!?”, approaching with the lantern-light on the town side of the palisade.
The younger Fawkes had stopped, peering into the darkness beyond. Harden, Gerald, and Motar caught up to the young man who’d been walking in front.
“It’s me, Wrenchard.” The figure called out, continuing its approach at a hurried pace.
“Wrenchard who?” Jonas replied, lowering his military fork and setting it to defend against the imminent charge.
Harden clasped the crouched militiaman’s shoulder and drew up next to him, “Jonas, it’s Wrenchard.”
Jonas let his guard down as the war hero approached.
“I appreciate your newfound zeal for your duties.” Harden offered an accolade.
Wrenchard’s face did little to belie his predicament. “Jonas can I talk to you for a minute?” He gestured away from the Breach and the two other men.
“What’s wrong?” Jonas asked.
“You were right, Jonas.”
“Already?!” He replied with incredulity. The other two militiamen turned in their direction.
Wrenchard lowered his voice, prompting the co-conspirator to do the same, “Don’t let me doubt you again.”
“What did you just say? Say that again…”
“Don’t let me doubt you again,” Wrenchard repeated deferring to the boy’s wisdom. He knew he was risking causing Jonas’ head to swell, but he didn’t have time for games.
“Wow. No one has ever said that to me before.”
“It’s happening…” Wrenchard hinted.
“What’s happening?” Jonas asked for clarity.
Wrenchard only cast his gaze downward, nodded and began to explain the sudden predicament he and Tyrus had found themselves in.
Jonas interrupted before Wrenchard could finish. “Go back! We need to stop them!”
Wrenchard couldn’t calm the excited militiaman, “We can’t take them all.” He tried to elaborate, “There are three of them, we killed one.”
Jonas was not listening too closely; he was developing his own plan. “We don’t have to take them all, just the two in Ida’s house. Go back and be ready. If what I am about to do does not draw them out, be ready to go in after them. The rest should be distracted.”
Wrenchard had to trust in Jonas’ mental acumen to read his mind and called after him as the young man ran off in his frenetic way. “You’re going to tell Harden?”
He only saw Jonas wave non-commitedly as he rejoined the others at the south end of the breach. Before Wrenchard turned to dash back, he noted Jonas running in the direction of the alarm. Wrenchard picked up the pace a bit.
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His armor had betrayed his presence; Jebediah realized too late. The all too familiar voice that commanded him to freeze, hinted at gloating.
Taking the risk he slowly turned as Constance lowered the foil from covering position. He noted the darkened hall behind her that he had failed to scan. It was obvious to him that she had been hiding in there, strategically the most advantageous location in the middle of the house for her to do so: darkened with several exits.
“The Valinsons are down in the cellar, hiding.” She answered his unspoken query.
“What are you doing up here?” He berated, forgetting his illness.
“I heard noises.” She was smarmy, noting his weakened features.
Jebediah only rolled his eyes in reply and stepped aside to lean his weight back against the kitchen counter as Constance gave a secret knock on the locked door. Of course he would not have rolled his eyes if he could have seen what his sister saw, and for that she was thankful that he stood behind the door out of view of the stairs below. His face was streaked with dark ashen lines that descended from his scalp, where his hair began to take on another lighter shade. His eyebrows did now not seem somehow effected as bushy as they usually were and several small eyelash-looking hairs dotted his cheeks. Jebediah looked very much unlike himself in that twilight hour.
Gravis emerged poker in hand while Noelle and the rest of the Valinson clan still cowered below. Jebediah insisted that Constance rejoin the family in the cellar.
His sister protested vehemently, “I’m not going to leave you. You are sick and delusional.”
She turned on Gravis, shooing him back down into the safety of the houses recesses with the waggle of her foil. Jebediah was left no alternative.
“Fine.” He turned to prepare defenses for the manor. “Go to the dining room and get chairs to put in front of every window.”
Here eyes alight with success, Constance stifled a smirk, “OK,” she replied and sulked off into the dark of the large room.
With his sister’s help, Jebediah propped chairs against the windows and drew tables across all of the doors. He emptied the wine rack (1) and including pots and pans, he cluttered all the potential entrances both above and below the tables and chairs. Finally satisfied with his preparations of the manor’s defenses, the Groomers were left with nothing to do but wait.
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Jonas had finished his mad dash to the southernmost end of the Breach and weaved his way past the long forgotten construction of the longhouse. The alarm was located not far from the sheriffs office/house and the young entertainer remembered hearing its sounding only twice before in his life. He traded his fork for the long heavy-ended mallet that leaned against the gong.
Drawing in breath he counted, “One…, two…, three…, four…, five...” He set the pole in motion, punctuating, “That should be long enough,” as the mallet smashed metal.
‘Bong, bong, bong.’ The deep echo of percussive iron resounded through the sleepy little hamlet. It resonated in the entirety of the valley.
Affecting a deeper voice, Jonas yelled aloud, “Undead at the Breach! Undead on the Breach! All able bodies to the Breach!”
After dinner, Adair resumed the recent habit of visiting Wrenchard’s manor. It was then that he heard the alarm and he changed heading to charge in the direction of the rallying call. Along the way his path coincided with Jonas’ who was seemingly doing the opposite: running from the muster.
Without hesitation Jonas only slowed his pace and shouted hurried instructions at the wayward shepherd boy. “You need to go back to the gong and convince the others that you saw undead on the Breach. And then sneak away quietly and come to Ida Cubitt’s (2) house.”
With that, he hurried off. Stunned with the bizarre orders, Adair joined the congregation at the gong and soon joined their procession to the Breach, fanning out to search for the impending threat.
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Unfortunately, Wrenchard never quite made it back to the abandoned Fallstick house to tell Tyrus of the change in plan before Jonas had sounded the alarm.
The Menovian named Grant stepped outside and cocked his head at the sound, as the war hero was in the vicinity of the pub. He charged the rest of the way to find safety in the original unseen corner where he had watched the men first enter the house. For a second, Wrenchard thought perhaps the Irregular would go investigate the alarm, but he returned to Ida’s house, allowing Wrenchard to pass by unseen.
Once inside, Tyrus was quickly apprised of the new situation and the woodsman gathered his resolve for what he knew would be coming battle. Wrenchard pulled Karl’s wrapped body into the back bedroom with him and took up a position flanking Tyrus’ window, on the right. From his window Valinson could see the spot where he had originally stood to ruthlessly assassinate unknowing Karl, as well as the back half of Ida’s house.
The gong ceased to sound and a mildly disturbed Grant again emerged from Ida’s house in what Tyrus assumed was an effort to investigate the commotion. He did not care to ask. The ranger’s opening salvo left much to be desired, as his target, the Menovian in chainmail armor, continued to peer about in the waxing moonlight, unaware of the nearby threat.
Jonas was now closing the gap and approached the rear of the Cubitt house, which faced the Commons. Here he slowed, spotting a silhouette in the neighboring abandoned house. Jonas crept closer to Ida’s home to see what else he could see. Just then Wrenchard called out from the closer window. Surprised, Jonas didn’t know how he had not spotted the canny veteran earlier.
“Come out with your hands up!” Wrenchard demanded in an authoritative tone uncommon to his voice.
Jonas almost mistook the command as directed at him until he saw what he now recognized as Tyrus loose another arrow in the direction of Ida’s front doorway. The missile did not sound to have hit its mark. He paused as he heard wordplay from the opposite side of the structure.
“William, get out here, archers! In this closest house; I’ll move to flank the front.” The Menovian, Grant was quick to respond to action.
No sooner were these words spoken did the Menovian who must have been William emerged battle-ready from the house, scanning the Fallstick structure where Tyrus and Wrenchard watched from cover of darkened windows. Wrenchard saw Grant to be moving out of his threat range, he hopped up and made to the kitchen with Tyrus and another open window facing the front.
Enraged by the Kendrits demand and noting the movement, William called out, “I got ‘em. In the window. Grant, go through the front.” Turning his head back toward Ida’s open doorway he added, “Alex, you take the back.”
Grant moved out and away from Ida’s house, flanking towards the Fallsticks’ front door. William loosed a volley into Tyrus position, but the young woodsman enjoyed the cover offered by the window frame and shutters. A soldier with a heavy mace at his belt, Alex, Jonas presumed, kicked his way out of another of Ida’s shuttered windows, javelin in hand.
Jonas charged the man in matching studded leather armor and helm, as he emerged not so far away. Lowering his head and his fork, Jonas thrust forward. The Menovian proved too nimble, stepping aside as the militiaman’s pole arm sunk deep into the wooden wall.
Realizing the folly in his miss, Jonas was quick to exclaim, “Oh! You’re not Ralph!?”
His eyes met those of his intended target. All the young man saw within was loathing and sadism. Alex did not seem convinced. Taking full advantage of the sidestep that he had expertly performed; the Menovian hurled his first javelin at the assailant, missing. He pulled forth a second from the long narrow quiver on his back. Jonas wrenched the military fork out from the lumber. Splinters snapped as he turned it on Alex again, thrusting at the more experienced warrior. Alex avoided Jonas’ predictable strike, again sidestepping away to hurl another javelin at the upstart boy.
“No, look I thought you were this guy Ralph that was trying to get with my girlfriend,” Jonas said with an affected shrug, never moving his fork from its defensive position. “This is all a misunderstanding.”
The younger Fawkes howled out in pain as the spear-like missile pierced his bicep drawing blood before the sheer weight of the weapon bore it to the ground, violently tearing the fresh wound open more. Alex grinned and loosed the heavy mace from his belt.
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Back at the front of the house, Tyrus and William traded shots through the window, neither able to connect. From the adjacent window, Wrenchard launched a dart at the advancing Grant, but also missed. As the man with the long spear steadily advanced, one of William’s arrows finally sought home in Tyrus’ right shoulder. This caused his shot to go astray.
Like chess pieces the four men maneuvered about the house, outside and in, vying for opportunity and opening. Tyrus wheeled on Grant taking a final shot at the predator through the other kitchen window, before the well-armored warrior closed on the wall, passing from view. Capitalizing on Tyrus’ distraction, William peppered the ranger’s position with a continuous barrage of missile fire, again letting blood flow. Tyrus, moderately wounded, shrank away from the window into the depth of the room, upending a table for more cover. Anticipating Grant’s approach, Wrenchard retreated to the main room where he positioned himself by the bedroom door, ready to throw a deadly dart at Grant upon his entrance into the room.
Sure enough, Grant kicked open the door, which tore from the rusty old hinges with a screech of protest. He was rewarded for his efforts with a deep piercing wound to the abdomen. He gritted his teeth in an effort to bear the pain as he looked down to see the Kendrit’s dart protruding below. So now also moderately wounded, Grant looked up and focused his glare on the war hero who gingerly stepped backward, a defensive posture composed between his cloak and drawn short sword. Still with the reach of the long shaft weapon, Grant was able to give as good as he got, burying the piercing tip in Wrenchard’s chest.
Wrenchard continued to fall back into the bedroom, thus forcibly removing Grant’s spear tip from what felt like his newly punctured lung. Critically injured, Valinson felt blood begin to flow violently from his chest. He became light-headed; the room began to lose focus.
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Behind the house, Jonas again attempted to dispatch his opponent, failing to catch any of him with his pole arm. Alex switched tactics and bore down upon the young minstrel as he protected himself with a wooden shield. The two continued to trade ineffectual blows until Jonas was first to profit from opportunity.
As he blathered about how he wished not to fight ‘Ralph’, Jonas scanned the man’s defenses. Finally he was able to thrust his fork through, piercing Alex in the gut. As the younger warrior pulled back his odd weapon, blood streamed from the three neatly placed puncture wounds. Alcohol addled and adrenaline amped, Alex ignored the critical wound as Jonas saw the color virtually wipe from his face.
Unfortunately, Jonas had left himself open after attempting the intended incapacitating blow, and Alex, no stranger to combat, was quick to capitalize. He brought his heavy mace down hard into Jonas’ chest, smashing the ribs there into his left lung. Jonas forcibly drew in a deep breath. It was painful. Now seriously wounded, Jonas resumed his defensive posturing, as both men squared off again. They circled probing one another’s defenses once more.
More poorly made strikes were either misplaced or blocked. Ultimately, it must have been the clamor of combat that brought Ida to her window. Wild wisps of wiry hair strayed in defiance from her head, as she leaned forth from the window frame. Her strong forearms taut, she held herself out while waving a heavy cast iron pan in hand. Over his left shoulder, Jonas half saw her and maneuvered to step in front of her too late as she emerged, seeking vengeance from the Menovian ‘animals.’
“No ma’am, go back inside. It’s dangerous,” Jonas implored.
“You bastards! I’ll kill you!” she cried.
She flailed wildly at Alex with her pan. He ignored the new threat. Jonas and Alex resumed their less than thrilling display. Infuriated, Ida lunged forward, bringing the heavy metal vessel to bear across Alex’s cheek. Blood flowed from his face, his right eye instantly started to swell. For the first time he seemed to recognize her for what she was – another potential threat. Jonas failed to take advantage of the Menovian’s momentary distraction and Alex turned on Ida to dispatch her once and for all.
With a precise blow from his mace, he swung upward into the woman’s head. A loud crack carried across the night air, and Jonas witnessed as Ida’s feet left the ground due to the force of the blow. As she sailed through the air, he saw her face take on an impossible contortion, her jaw slipped up near her right ear, before she disappeared from his sight, back through the window from whence she came. Only her ankles and feet could be seen still propped on the sill from inside. The cast iron pan landed with a heavy thud in the dirt. It was the reminder necessary to focus the young militiaman who began to feel sick.
Fortuitously, he turned in time to dodge another of Alex’s well-placed blows.
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Feeling claustrophobic, Tyrus quickly crossed the small kitchen and burst out the front window. He slid sideways to view the front door, where he gained a clear view of Grant’s backside. William’s thought process was quite similar. Now that Tyrus had disappeared from sight, the Menovian archer sidestepped, circling to flank Wrenchard through the open bedroom window. William loosed an arrow into the room where Wrenchard was retreating into his view, back exposed. He missed. The arrow struck the support frame just shy of the map-maker’s skull. Almost simultaneously, Grant again stabbed, this time unsuccessfully.
Wrenchard realized what little chance he had for survival in his current predicament, if he didn’t flee. He gritted his teeth at the risk, squinted hard to focus, and ducked back into the common room, darting for the door behind the Menovian spearman. It was a bold and unanticipated move; but Grant was not without his training. Reflexively, he thrust the spear in Wrenchard’s direction as the Kendrit dared approach within the area threatened by his pole arm. He grunted with success as he struck what he mistook for the cartographer. Too late he realized the inaccuracy as the nimble Valinson continued through the room and out the door, tearing his cloak from the pull of Grant’s long spear as he did so.
Witnessing Wrenchard’s successful escape from the house, Tyrus bolted to the southeast. He didn’t wish to linger around any longer than he had to.
Grant and William both pursued Wrenchard out of the house, striking at him with spear and arrow, but ultimately unable to hit the wily war veteran. Wrenchard hustled westward, skirting the Commons, from the house along another forgotten home. He had the advantage of knowledge of the local area, but yet was unable to shake the spearman well enough to truly turn tail and run. William too, it seemed, was fleet of foot (3) enough to continually harry Wrenchard as he tried to break.
Exasperated, Wrenchard finally decided to try for an all out dash but was rewarded for his efforts with a tripping blow from Grant’s long spear. The Kendrit felt sudden shooting pain issue from his shins. It overtook him, his vision narrowed, tunnel-like. The last thing he saw was the ground swiftly rushing up to meet him.
A solitary figure skulking in the darkness across the Commons saw Wrenchard fall hard, face first into the dirt.
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Angered by the Menovians’ treatment of his fellow Kendrit, Jonas gave up trading careful, yet ineffective blows. Abandoning caution, he aggressively lunged with a foolhardy all-or-nothing strike. To his surprise, Bes (4) blessed him as he skewered Alex’s thigh. The additional sudden loss of blood was too much for the Menovian man who toppled like a hewn tree.
The tousle-haired youth stared down into the glossy eyes that seemed to pierce through him. With no idea of whether Alex was alive or dead, the realization of his act took the form of a lump in his throat. Jonas felt his stomach gurgle. He doubled over, retched and spat bile. The acidic yellow liquid coagulated the blood pooling at his feet. The sight of it made him sweat and vomit some more.
Long seconds passed before Jonas could muster some composure to deal with the situation at hand. Leaving the battle scene, Jonas ran to the front of Ida’s house and entered to find her in certainly worse shape than the man he had just left. The seamstress was still alive, her pulse weak. He tried to avoid looking at the maelstrom of features that was once a face, knowing it would restart his already queasy stomach. Doing his best to aid the helpless woman he bound what he could and gently lifted her onto a comfortable settee.
Satisfied he returned outside to deal with Alex’s body.
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Once on the move, there was not much that Tyrus stopped for. As he hustled his way through town he met one thing that would give him pause. Adair was rapidly approaching, as fortune would have it, directly along the rangers retreating path. The young shepherd had finally broken from the posse seeking out undead on the Breach.
Reality, courage, or stupidity must have set in for Tyrus at the sight of reinforcement, whichever it was it was enough to bolster his resolve. He turned and wordlessly began to run back in the direction of the seamstress’ house. Adair had only enough time to make out some blood-stains on his peer’s clothes, unable to tell if it was from Tyrus’ wounds or someone else’s. With little more information to act on, he quickly followed.
They closed on Ida’s house in time to see Jonas struggling through the open window. A pair of ankles and feet remained propped on the lintel as the militiaman ran back around to the front and out of the archers’ view. Not too be distracted, they left him to whatever chore he was about and loped between the cover of houses towards the sounds of voices in debate.
“Hey, I recognize this guy,” said the spearman looking down. “This is Sterling’s personal aide.”
The other Menovian bent over Wrenchard’s crumpled form, “Hey, where’s Karl? What’d you do with Karl?”
Grant looked at William, amused, “He can’t hear you…” It was apparent there was no reasoning with the archer. “…he’s bleeding to death.”
William never took his eyes off the Kendrit, and both Tyrus and Adair watched as the Menovian checked a booted kick aimed at Wrenchard’s brainpan. “This sunuvabitch prob’ly killed Karl. Let’s kill ‘im.”
Finally, he looked to the taller spearman for confirmation, expectantly.
“No, he’s Captain Sterling’s aide.” Grant emphasized the last word hoping to make his point.
The point of William’s own knife was pressed to the prone Kendrit’s neck now. “Sterling is only gonna kill him,” he mused. “We might as well do it.”
Not too far away Tyrus proposed to Adair, “You wanna take the bastards?”
“Sure.”
Adair stood and left the cover of the buildings shadows, drawing an arrow and pulling his bow - slightly askance as was his signature. (5)
Grant looked down at the would-be murderer, continuing his condescending explanation, “No. It would be criminal, we could be charged. I’m sure that if he wanted to, he’d find some way to make an example of us. We should bind this bastard and then bring him to Sterling to make…”
No more words issued from the Menovian spearman’s mouth, only the spittle spray of blood rained over William’s bowed head with a labored gasping of breath.
William looked up to his companion, “What the…?” Grant was falling forward over Valinson, an arrowhead protruding from his sternum.
Dropping the knife to be used for the blood-letting, William snatched up his own bow and fired a shot back at the shepherd boy from his crouched position. Adair was struck in the arm, and it stung like fire through his bicep.
Tyrus and Adair chased William across the Commons with a rain of arrows. Jonas had climbed out into the area in time to see the Menovian begin to run, fleeing his two attackers, and joined in the chase. With longer range Adair harried the soldier’s retreat as Tyrus closed the gap at full sprint. Jonas unleashed bolts too. The man reached the outskirts of town, critically injured, before Fawkes broke off pursuit to see to Wrenchard. Adair and Tyrus pressed on.
On the edge of the hamlet, as the three archers ran for the hills, the Kendrits were forced to stop their furious pace. William continued on to the base of the sparsely wooded hills. Finally, unable to see his pursuers, he stopped to rest, hands on his knees, panting for breath.
Tyrus, now in his element, easily found the man’s track. To the young hillman, a rampaging bear exercised more stealth. Adair continued forward cautiously in the dark of night, keeping his keen eye on the unaware Menovian. Tyrus hustled around to the Menovian’s left, picking a silent path to flank the invader.
The young shepherd skulked forward, first loosing one arrow that missed undetected, then another. He focused hard for the second volley, tuning out all else around. It missed at cost to him, as he stumbled, slipped, and fell over a slimy rotten log. Falling backward, the boy lay stunned. William turned and looked hard in Adair’s direction, weapon at the ready.
Hidden twixt brush and bramble, Tyrus continued his silent advance, from William’s right now. Fortuitously, the Menovian began walking forward, back towards where Adair lay. As the Bannon lad regained his full senses and cautiously rose to a squat to see William approaching from 150 feet away, Tyrus finally found himself in an enjoyable position to rush the Menovian from behind.
The slow methodic pull of both long and short swords from well-worn leather sheathes let no sound herald warning to William of what was coming. Blades in hand, Tyrus burst from cover, his thick muscled legs clearing a low briar patch. Through the rushes he plowed head on like a boar, his tusks poised for the kill. No chance to turn, Tyrus skewered William through the spine, lifting the man with the force of the charge, and hurtling him forward, blade and all. The ranger pounced on the crumpled form like a cougar, wrenched his long sword free and brought the short sword to bear across the Menovians neck as he knelt on Williams back. Awed, Adair looked on in astonishment. Somewhere deep in some part of Tyrus’ psyche he wished to succumb to his feral instincts. Just then he looked up and met his young prodigy’s stare across the dark. He gave pause.
Adair waited, curious.
“We should cut off his head so he doesn’t come back as undead.”
Adair walked over to join his companion; he could see that the ranger relished the idea.
“Then again, I may want to kill this bastard again,” continued Tyrus as he spat on the bloodied, muddied corpse.
“We have to burn him,” protested Adair.
The two, not wishing to leave the body in the hills, set off with it to Tyrus’ far away hut.
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Jonas doubled back. He wanted to start cleaning the mess, lest it attract more Menovian attention. Besides, Wrenchard was in dire straits. After tending to his employer’s wounds, Jonas also found Grant to be made of sterner stuff and did his best to secure the Menovian’s weakened life-thread. The militiaman then went to retrieve his victim’s body. Dragging Alex’s corpse to the house where Grant and Valinson still lay, he set about the laborious chore of moving them all. All alone with no one to offer advice, Jonas did his best. He stowed the Menovians away in the same house and ran off to fetch ‘first’ Adair, the healer/herbalist to help him. He awakened the elder man, with bangs on his door and then dragged him to the scene of the melee. They carried a stretcher between them. Along the way back they encountered Jesse Tanner returning from the Breach and enlisted him to their aid.
With great care, the three men transported the hamlet’s nobleman back to his house where Jebediah was finished making preparations for its conversion to fort. After scant little explanation, beyond the sight of his injured host, Jebediah dispersed his precautions allowing them entry.
Wrenchard was moved upstairs to his own bed where the ‘elder’ Adair could better care for him. Jesse departed to return home to ensure his wife’s safety. Still consumed by a sense of urgency, Jonas told Adair about Grant in the abandoned house before leaving. Once downstairs, Jebediah searched for answers.
“What’s going on?” He asked Jonas.
“I don’t have time, either come or don’t come.” Jonas offered no insight, ignoring the bottle-laden table pushed aside in the foyer as he headed back out into the nights mysteries.
Jebediah, armed and armored, and Constance similarly so, headed after him.
They didn’t make it far before Jebediah turned to her. “Go back to the house.”
Continuing pace, “Where are you going?” She asked. “You’re sick.” hoping that he would realize his need of her.
Jebediah sighed.
The trio stopped as Jonas turned on Constance. “Can you do me a favor?”
Constance only looked at him quizzical. She knew it would be another effort for them to ditch her.
“I forgot to tell Adair, the healer, that the seamstress, Ida, is in her house and in desperate need of help also. I don’t have time to go back.”
To the relief of both men she obliged complacently, not wishing to call Jonas’ bluff on chance of another’s life.
As Constance returned to Fort Valinson, Jonas and Jebediah picked up the pace a bit. Jonas began to offer an abridged explanation, as he knew it, while they began the search for Tyrus, Adair, and the last of the Menovian combatants.
“You know what this means,” Jebediah paused for effect, showing that he understood the full scope of the situation, “we’ll have to kill them all.”
“Or capture them and put them all in gaol.” Jonas had other ideas.
Jebediah looked bewildered at Jonas’ intention.
“What if more Menovians come?”
“They won’t check the gaol.” Jonas excused. “I can’t kill someone in cold blood, nor will I sit by as someone else does.”
Beginning where Wrenchard had nearly met his end, the pair headed off toward the hills following a blood-trail that far before losing it.
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As Jonas and Jebediah were searching for them in the southern hills, Tyrus and Adair returned to the hamlet and searched for the remaining bodies. Finding two of them, Alex and Grant, in the abandoned house where Jonas had left them, Tyrus delivered the coup-de-grace to the recently bound Grant, by slitting his throat with a hunting knife, after explaining to Adair that it was necessary and earning assent by silence.
Gathering some material from Ida Cubitt’s house, Adair brought it back to the abandoned house where he and Tyrus wrapped up the two bodies (and all of their gear), in order to haul them back to the hillman’s hut. They then returned for Karl’s body (the first Menovian to be killed) and brought it back to the hut as well.
There they spent the next few hours stripping the bodies of their gear and burning them in a secret place away from the prying eyes of the hamlet. In a shallow pit covered in stones all evidence of the night’s undoing was purged. Adair and Tyrus endured the stench of burning flesh that carried into the ranger’s hut on a chill nocturnal breeze. They dressed one another’s wounds and rested as much as they could for what remained of the night.
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Returning back to town, Jonas and Jebediah were unsuccessful in their search and soon parted ways.
Jebediah returned to Fort Valinson to get something for his bog flu from ‘first’ Adair and to stand post.
Jonas sought out Harden to inform him of what had transpired. After doing so, they woke the sheriff to discuss their options. Reluctantly, Sturgis agreed to allow the bodies to be brought to the gaol until they could be disposed of properly. With that plan in mind, Harden and Jonas set out to retrieve the fallen Menovians.
Upon returning to the scene of the crime, there was some puzzlement as to the corpses disappearance. In fact had it not been for the bloodied mess of battle, Harden might have thought that Jonas was playing at tricks again. They determined that the incriminating scene was too much to be left as is, so the two resigned themselves to spending much of the next few hours washing down the blood with well water, churning up the ground, and retrieving various arrows, javelins, and darts that had been left strewn about the land; leaving the solving of the mystery of the body snatchers for another time. While they worked they had detailed out a cover story at Jonas’ behest. The sheriff agreed that it would be plausible that the missing Menovians had met their end at the clawed hands of undead from beyond the breach; as long as the bodies did not turn up, of course.
When all was done, the deputy continued his nightly patrol. Jonas returned to Wrenchard’s manor, where he woke Jebediah who was sleeping, feet propped on the Neergaardian. (6) Jonas explained the cover story to Jebediah, who absorbed it. Exhausted, Jonas bedded down in Constance’s room.
Jonas fell asleep to the blissful scent of the beautiful girl; with glee he buried his face in her pillow.
Jebediah passed the story on to ‘the healer’ Adair who busily minded his attendees and Constance who was forced into the cellar’s refuge by her brother’s incessant pleading.
As the house grew quiet and cold, also feeling taxed, Jebediah also longed for bed. As he passed his sister’s bedroom he heard murmuring within.
“Zzz…Mmm…Constance…your brother will catch us…zzz…”
Jebediah ignored the fools’ fantasy and closed the door. Just as he reached his own and entered the room, Constance’s door re-opened. Jonas must have been wakened by the sounds. Muttering something he had thought important that he had forgotten to say, Jonas stood stark in the frame.
Jebediah’d had enough.
“Don’t walk around like that.” He scolded the young Fawkes. “Go back to bed.”
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Thoem, 25th of Syet – 564 H.E.
The overcast sky opened up allowing fat droplets of rain to fall to the earth below, saturating the ground and the day.
The next morning, Adair woke later than usual; understandably so. Tyrus stirred as well. For a while they both just lay there in pain. Still committed to taking the sheep out as usual, ultimately Adair sat up and began to collect his things. Tyrus propped himself on an elbow, prompting pain from his lower back. He ignored it with a wince.
“You are welcome to come back” he began, “but alone. And don’t tell anyone where my place is. I don’t care who they are.”
Adair could see the true lonely state that Tyrus lived in.
“I’ll be here,” he continued. “I need to rest as much as possible.” The ranger daubed at a cut that looked to him in danger of infection.
Adair nodded and slinked out. He passed the still he assumed that the infamous root tonic came from. Somehow, he thought it would be bigger.
On his way home he passed through town, the shepherd boy noticed that the Menovian officers had risen early and were already about their business. The Irregulars’ disappearance had not gone unnoticed for long. Keeping his distance, he saw Captain Sterling wagging a finger in Harden’s face. Sergeant Malchiah looked on, contemptuously. Avoiding the scene Adair hurried on.
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Some time later activity in the Valinson home began to return to normal, or what could best be described as normal under the circumstances. Kelize was surly about being kept in the cellar, as was Constance, and the former continually let everyone know about it. She did not portray Wrenchard as a kind man, citing misogyny and his treatment of his infirmed father as examples of his faults.
Jebediah sought escape from the self-imposed prison of familial obligation in Jonas who refused to get out of bed. With servants, children, and women continuously under foot, Jebediah found himself biting his cheek. Gravis volunteered to awaken Fawkes with a pail of water but was stayed by Jebediah. Jonas was spared the watery fate as there was a pounding at the door.
Jebediah got to experience Captain Sterling’s ire directly as he prompted Gravis to open the door. The man-servant did so but quickly found himself overwhelmed by the Menovian officer’s bullying and badgering. The questions were too much for Gravis to handle and Jebediah could see that he was about to falter in the web of lies that they had created, so he stepped in.
Humbling himself, and maintaining a low slouched posture, Jebediah warned of the illness that had overtaken his master. Sterling not to be troubled by these sycophant servants waved Jebediah off, demanding to see his aide. Jebediah protested and continued, offering the bottle of Wrenchard’s finest brandy (1) as a token of apology. Sterling accepted it, looking it over, noting its worth; he seemed a bit startled as to how the rural Valinson might have secured it.
Captain Sterling turned to leave, bumping into Malchiah who stood behind him in the doorway, trying to come in out of the elements. He redirected his anger at the Sergeant and berated him for not knowing the location of his men as he exited into the rain. Before Jebediah could close the door after them, Captain Sterling turned, almost as an afterthought.
“I will return this afternoon,” Sterling’s words rolled off his tongue. “I expect to see my aide up and about then, sick or not.”
A few hours…
A few hours was all Jebediah had to try and conjure up some sort of plan. He needed a cover story and knew exactly who to ask. The immediate threat passed, he reset the safety measures in the foyer with Gravis’ help and marched upstairs. He threw open the guest room door and confronted Jonas who rolled over in bed lazily. Jebediah pulled back the sheets in an attempt to rouse him. Jonas only lay there naked, the light crossbow loaded in his hand, resting on the mattress. The young militia man unloaded the weapon and put it back down beside the bed. He ignored Jebediah and returned to his lazy slumber.
Frustrated Jebediah stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The effects of his tantrum only earned him a sound shushing from Adair, down the hall in the infirmary that was Wrenchard’s bedroom. He knew that he had to leave and find someone else, anyone else, of the cabal.
Adair was the easiest to find, found in his habitual spot with the sheep in the pasture. There he was finally able to procure some answers. The shepherd boy went about his daily routine, nonchalantly taking refuge from the rain under the boughs of some low-lying wisteria branches.
Adair, gifted with the practiced eye for movement of the shepherd, easily spotted Jebediah’s march across the plain. He waited, whistling out to him.
They briefed one another on the most recent events, Jebediah asked about the Menovians.
“We burned the bodies.”
“How many were there?”
“Four.”
“Did you find the one who was wounded?” Jebediah referred to Grant.
“He’s not wounded anymore.” Adair appeared a bit sullen, disenchanted.
Knowing that at least the Menovian versus undead cover story would hold credibility now, Jebediah began to flounder for ideas about their most recent predicament. Adair offered no great insight. Unable to come up with no new solutions on their own, the pair decided to return to town, maybe speaking with the sheriff would help.
It did not. As they neared the office, Adair’s keen ear gave them cause to hesitate. Around the corner he could overhear the distinct voice of Captain Sterling. Daring to peek out, the two saw part of the action underway. The young shepherd relayed the conversation of heated tones to Jebediah as they peered on.
Captain Sterling was irate, “All I know is that your deputy claims my men were abducted by something that emerged from this breach. But unless I can see some bodies as proof, you are all suspect. I will raze this town!”
Sterling ignored the rain that rolled from his nose; Malchiah looked on gleefully, his grip tight on the spear he leaned on for support. The biggest figure of the trio was a tall, well-muscled Menovian in ringmail. He stood off to the sheriff’s right flank, greataxe in hand.
Sturgis did his best to calm the captain, who was obviously not satiated with whatever excuse he received.
Sterling spun on his heels and trudged through the mud, beckoning Malchiah and ‘Grinder’ with him.
As to appear inconspicuous, Adair and Jebediah quickly switched the topic of their conversation to studding sheep.
The Menovians traveled in the opposite direction.
When the coast was clear, the duo popped into the sheriff’s office. He was visibly rattled. They told him enough so that he would understand the situation, though he did adopt an attitude of some denial in ignorance.
“I’ll ask you no questions. You tell me no lies.”
“Fair enough, but we’re still going to need your help.” Jebediah replied.
“Perhaps we may beseech Ephraim for advice. I know no one wiser. Though I’m sure he’s not going to appreciate the situation too much.” Sturgis suggested.
Having agreed, the three of them did just that. They quickly found their way across town and to the open doorway of the lay priest. He invited them in out of the downpour and poured them all steeped herbs, offered them a seat by his hearth and warm blankets to ward off the cold and wetness. Adair did much of the explaining, with the sheriff and the pilgrim adding details here and there.
The priest thought long and hard. He had no immediate ideas. He suggested that they all meet at Wrenchard’s in half of an hour, and excused himself. Jebediah and Adair returned to the manor house, Sturgis to his office.
They waited in contemplation.
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Notes:
(1) – Except for one bottle of 411 H.E. Zootsburg brandy, which he knew to be of exceptionally fine character, and put it up on the mantel. Internally, he wondered how Wrenchard would have secured such a rare gem way out here in such a remote rural location.
(2) – Jonas pronounces Ida’s last name wrong. He doesn’t say Cubitt, he says Cuebitt.
(3) – DM’s Note: The description of the http://www.matantisi.com/aquerra/rules/feats.htm#fleetfootedFleet-Footed feat can be found on the http:[url]www.Aquerra.com[/url]Aquerra Online website.
(4) – Bes is the God of Luck and Gambling.
(5) – Due to the length of the long bow – anywhere between 6 and 7 feet – and Adair’s shorter stature, he has adapted his personal style to holding the bow at an angle. Though unorthodox, it works for him, though some of this compromise may account for his reduced range and damage with his arrows.
(6) – THIS is what I love about Aquerra! A simple throw-away line or trivial fact will become world-changing in the course of seconds as players’ dictate. There is no Ottoman Empire in Aquerra, but there is a Neergaard. Simply put, an ottoman would not exist therefore, but a Neergaardian (close enough) would. And so it goes, that in all of Aquerra, at that moment of game play, the Neergaardian (a cushioned rest for one to prop one’s feet on) was retroactively created.
session #4
Karl’s lifeless body produced a muffled echo as it thudded to the dusty floor in the abandoned Fallstick home. Tyrus crunched the dead man’s foot as he hurried to the side window, concerned with only one thing. He listened at the shutters. All outside seemed quiet enough. The woodsman hoped that they’d have some time before the missing Menovian was noticed. While Tyrus crouched at a kitchen window, readying bow and arrow staring at Ida Cubitt’s front door from a nicely covered flanking position, Wrenchard still stood over his victim.
A plan began to formulate in his mind.
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Adair ushered the last of the Bannon herd into their pen and washed up for supper. He hadd arrived just in time for the evening’s dinner melee. This event, he knew, would proceed with or without him, or any of his siblings for that matter. Despite an elbow to the eye, he enjoyed the meal. Beef was such a rare treat, he soon found himself forgetting its origins.
Jonas found himself at the middle of the Breach, whiling away the time by openly discussing ideas for a plot to a play that he had just decided he should write. Gerald was not interested, Motar didn’t care, and Harden was merely listening politely. For the second night in a row, Jonas realized why he loathed these late night watches.
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Still hobbled by the bog flu, Jebediah awakened to a quiet house with no activity. He sat up. He noted that his door was ajar; there was no light from the hall beyond. Without concept of time, he stood. Forced to rely on the headboard for support, his legs still resisting his commands, he knelt down. Under the bed he found exactly what he had expected. True to her word, Constance had left his things under his bed frame. Unfortunately, the foul festering bedpan was still there too. Catching a mouthful of fumes, Jebediah swallowed bile hard and tumbled backward onto his rump, clasping his hands over his mouth as he considered reaching for the receptacle to again vomit into. Choking down the reflex, he dragged forth his unusually heavy equipment and with great effort slung it up onto the bed. Wiping the darkened sweat now trickling down from his hairline, he flopped back next to the bundle. At least in the dark no one would ask why his sweat had a gray shade.
Minutes later, he was collected and suited in his breastplate-dominated armor. Hand-and-a-half sword drawn, he proceeded along the wall to his door. Relieved for the support, he continued into the vacant hall. Both his sister and hosts’ doors were ajar. A quick inspection of both rooms revealed the beds all made up and empty. Approaching the last room, the children’s, he discovered the same scene. Standing now at the top of the somehow taller, steeper, staircase, he girded up his loins and steeled himself. His exertion began to become evident in his raspy exhale.
Jebediah proceeded downstairs to the rest of the living areas. Clearing first through the sitting area he noticed Wrenchard’s quiver of war darts missing from the mantel. The house felt cold and vacant. As he proceeded to sweep through the larder a lonely light led him to the kitchen. Ultimately his search ended at a dead-bolted cellar door there. As he jiggled at the handle, the faintest squeak of paranoia emitted from behind.
Confused, he had not much time to ponder his precarious situation before he felt the press of cold steel at the jaw-line below his right ear.
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A large armored man, hefting a long spear emerged from Ida’s open doorframe. He called out for Karl, urging him to not ‘miss his turn.’ Tyrus pulled his bowstring taut and reflexively began to slow his breathing, taking aim. Only Wrenchard’s hand on his shoulder gave him pause, preventing the hunter from doing something rash. The war veteran had developed a plan and he relayed Tyrus’ part in it to him.
Scant minutes later, the Menovian, Grant as his companions called out to him, re-entered the house. Wrenchard took his cue and left Tyrus to his wiles. The wealthy cartographer circled north of the Cubitt house headed towards the Breach. There he hoped to find the Fawkes kid to enlist him in the impromptu plan.
Tyrus moved through the small house looking for large linens. He found an old horse blanket in which he rolled Karl’s body, now stripped of all equipment. Still not big enough, he emptied an old burlap sack of fermented grain. Using the bag, the ranger tied it about the man’s exposed feet and knees. Satisfied that the body was covered enough, the ranger dragged it to the door and resumed his position at the window to watch while waiting for Wrenchard’s return.
Jonas called out to the familiar figure, “Halt! Who goes there!?”, approaching with the lantern-light on the town side of the palisade.
The younger Fawkes had stopped, peering into the darkness beyond. Harden, Gerald, and Motar caught up to the young man who’d been walking in front.
“It’s me, Wrenchard.” The figure called out, continuing its approach at a hurried pace.
“Wrenchard who?” Jonas replied, lowering his military fork and setting it to defend against the imminent charge.
Harden clasped the crouched militiaman’s shoulder and drew up next to him, “Jonas, it’s Wrenchard.”
Jonas let his guard down as the war hero approached.
“I appreciate your newfound zeal for your duties.” Harden offered an accolade.
Wrenchard’s face did little to belie his predicament. “Jonas can I talk to you for a minute?” He gestured away from the Breach and the two other men.
“What’s wrong?” Jonas asked.
“You were right, Jonas.”
“Already?!” He replied with incredulity. The other two militiamen turned in their direction.
Wrenchard lowered his voice, prompting the co-conspirator to do the same, “Don’t let me doubt you again.”
“What did you just say? Say that again…”
“Don’t let me doubt you again,” Wrenchard repeated deferring to the boy’s wisdom. He knew he was risking causing Jonas’ head to swell, but he didn’t have time for games.
“Wow. No one has ever said that to me before.”
“It’s happening…” Wrenchard hinted.
“What’s happening?” Jonas asked for clarity.
Wrenchard only cast his gaze downward, nodded and began to explain the sudden predicament he and Tyrus had found themselves in.
Jonas interrupted before Wrenchard could finish. “Go back! We need to stop them!”
Wrenchard couldn’t calm the excited militiaman, “We can’t take them all.” He tried to elaborate, “There are three of them, we killed one.”
Jonas was not listening too closely; he was developing his own plan. “We don’t have to take them all, just the two in Ida’s house. Go back and be ready. If what I am about to do does not draw them out, be ready to go in after them. The rest should be distracted.”
Wrenchard had to trust in Jonas’ mental acumen to read his mind and called after him as the young man ran off in his frenetic way. “You’re going to tell Harden?”
He only saw Jonas wave non-commitedly as he rejoined the others at the south end of the breach. Before Wrenchard turned to dash back, he noted Jonas running in the direction of the alarm. Wrenchard picked up the pace a bit.
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His armor had betrayed his presence; Jebediah realized too late. The all too familiar voice that commanded him to freeze, hinted at gloating.
Taking the risk he slowly turned as Constance lowered the foil from covering position. He noted the darkened hall behind her that he had failed to scan. It was obvious to him that she had been hiding in there, strategically the most advantageous location in the middle of the house for her to do so: darkened with several exits.
“The Valinsons are down in the cellar, hiding.” She answered his unspoken query.
“What are you doing up here?” He berated, forgetting his illness.
“I heard noises.” She was smarmy, noting his weakened features.
Jebediah only rolled his eyes in reply and stepped aside to lean his weight back against the kitchen counter as Constance gave a secret knock on the locked door. Of course he would not have rolled his eyes if he could have seen what his sister saw, and for that she was thankful that he stood behind the door out of view of the stairs below. His face was streaked with dark ashen lines that descended from his scalp, where his hair began to take on another lighter shade. His eyebrows did now not seem somehow effected as bushy as they usually were and several small eyelash-looking hairs dotted his cheeks. Jebediah looked very much unlike himself in that twilight hour.
Gravis emerged poker in hand while Noelle and the rest of the Valinson clan still cowered below. Jebediah insisted that Constance rejoin the family in the cellar.
His sister protested vehemently, “I’m not going to leave you. You are sick and delusional.”
She turned on Gravis, shooing him back down into the safety of the houses recesses with the waggle of her foil. Jebediah was left no alternative.
“Fine.” He turned to prepare defenses for the manor. “Go to the dining room and get chairs to put in front of every window.”
Here eyes alight with success, Constance stifled a smirk, “OK,” she replied and sulked off into the dark of the large room.
With his sister’s help, Jebediah propped chairs against the windows and drew tables across all of the doors. He emptied the wine rack (1) and including pots and pans, he cluttered all the potential entrances both above and below the tables and chairs. Finally satisfied with his preparations of the manor’s defenses, the Groomers were left with nothing to do but wait.
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Jonas had finished his mad dash to the southernmost end of the Breach and weaved his way past the long forgotten construction of the longhouse. The alarm was located not far from the sheriffs office/house and the young entertainer remembered hearing its sounding only twice before in his life. He traded his fork for the long heavy-ended mallet that leaned against the gong.
Drawing in breath he counted, “One…, two…, three…, four…, five...” He set the pole in motion, punctuating, “That should be long enough,” as the mallet smashed metal.
‘Bong, bong, bong.’ The deep echo of percussive iron resounded through the sleepy little hamlet. It resonated in the entirety of the valley.
Affecting a deeper voice, Jonas yelled aloud, “Undead at the Breach! Undead on the Breach! All able bodies to the Breach!”
After dinner, Adair resumed the recent habit of visiting Wrenchard’s manor. It was then that he heard the alarm and he changed heading to charge in the direction of the rallying call. Along the way his path coincided with Jonas’ who was seemingly doing the opposite: running from the muster.
Without hesitation Jonas only slowed his pace and shouted hurried instructions at the wayward shepherd boy. “You need to go back to the gong and convince the others that you saw undead on the Breach. And then sneak away quietly and come to Ida Cubitt’s (2) house.”
With that, he hurried off. Stunned with the bizarre orders, Adair joined the congregation at the gong and soon joined their procession to the Breach, fanning out to search for the impending threat.
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Unfortunately, Wrenchard never quite made it back to the abandoned Fallstick house to tell Tyrus of the change in plan before Jonas had sounded the alarm.
The Menovian named Grant stepped outside and cocked his head at the sound, as the war hero was in the vicinity of the pub. He charged the rest of the way to find safety in the original unseen corner where he had watched the men first enter the house. For a second, Wrenchard thought perhaps the Irregular would go investigate the alarm, but he returned to Ida’s house, allowing Wrenchard to pass by unseen.
Once inside, Tyrus was quickly apprised of the new situation and the woodsman gathered his resolve for what he knew would be coming battle. Wrenchard pulled Karl’s wrapped body into the back bedroom with him and took up a position flanking Tyrus’ window, on the right. From his window Valinson could see the spot where he had originally stood to ruthlessly assassinate unknowing Karl, as well as the back half of Ida’s house.
The gong ceased to sound and a mildly disturbed Grant again emerged from Ida’s house in what Tyrus assumed was an effort to investigate the commotion. He did not care to ask. The ranger’s opening salvo left much to be desired, as his target, the Menovian in chainmail armor, continued to peer about in the waxing moonlight, unaware of the nearby threat.
Jonas was now closing the gap and approached the rear of the Cubitt house, which faced the Commons. Here he slowed, spotting a silhouette in the neighboring abandoned house. Jonas crept closer to Ida’s home to see what else he could see. Just then Wrenchard called out from the closer window. Surprised, Jonas didn’t know how he had not spotted the canny veteran earlier.
“Come out with your hands up!” Wrenchard demanded in an authoritative tone uncommon to his voice.
Jonas almost mistook the command as directed at him until he saw what he now recognized as Tyrus loose another arrow in the direction of Ida’s front doorway. The missile did not sound to have hit its mark. He paused as he heard wordplay from the opposite side of the structure.
“William, get out here, archers! In this closest house; I’ll move to flank the front.” The Menovian, Grant was quick to respond to action.
No sooner were these words spoken did the Menovian who must have been William emerged battle-ready from the house, scanning the Fallstick structure where Tyrus and Wrenchard watched from cover of darkened windows. Wrenchard saw Grant to be moving out of his threat range, he hopped up and made to the kitchen with Tyrus and another open window facing the front.
Enraged by the Kendrits demand and noting the movement, William called out, “I got ‘em. In the window. Grant, go through the front.” Turning his head back toward Ida’s open doorway he added, “Alex, you take the back.”
Grant moved out and away from Ida’s house, flanking towards the Fallsticks’ front door. William loosed a volley into Tyrus position, but the young woodsman enjoyed the cover offered by the window frame and shutters. A soldier with a heavy mace at his belt, Alex, Jonas presumed, kicked his way out of another of Ida’s shuttered windows, javelin in hand.
Jonas charged the man in matching studded leather armor and helm, as he emerged not so far away. Lowering his head and his fork, Jonas thrust forward. The Menovian proved too nimble, stepping aside as the militiaman’s pole arm sunk deep into the wooden wall.
Realizing the folly in his miss, Jonas was quick to exclaim, “Oh! You’re not Ralph!?”
His eyes met those of his intended target. All the young man saw within was loathing and sadism. Alex did not seem convinced. Taking full advantage of the sidestep that he had expertly performed; the Menovian hurled his first javelin at the assailant, missing. He pulled forth a second from the long narrow quiver on his back. Jonas wrenched the military fork out from the lumber. Splinters snapped as he turned it on Alex again, thrusting at the more experienced warrior. Alex avoided Jonas’ predictable strike, again sidestepping away to hurl another javelin at the upstart boy.
“No, look I thought you were this guy Ralph that was trying to get with my girlfriend,” Jonas said with an affected shrug, never moving his fork from its defensive position. “This is all a misunderstanding.”
The younger Fawkes howled out in pain as the spear-like missile pierced his bicep drawing blood before the sheer weight of the weapon bore it to the ground, violently tearing the fresh wound open more. Alex grinned and loosed the heavy mace from his belt.
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Back at the front of the house, Tyrus and William traded shots through the window, neither able to connect. From the adjacent window, Wrenchard launched a dart at the advancing Grant, but also missed. As the man with the long spear steadily advanced, one of William’s arrows finally sought home in Tyrus’ right shoulder. This caused his shot to go astray.
Like chess pieces the four men maneuvered about the house, outside and in, vying for opportunity and opening. Tyrus wheeled on Grant taking a final shot at the predator through the other kitchen window, before the well-armored warrior closed on the wall, passing from view. Capitalizing on Tyrus’ distraction, William peppered the ranger’s position with a continuous barrage of missile fire, again letting blood flow. Tyrus, moderately wounded, shrank away from the window into the depth of the room, upending a table for more cover. Anticipating Grant’s approach, Wrenchard retreated to the main room where he positioned himself by the bedroom door, ready to throw a deadly dart at Grant upon his entrance into the room.
Sure enough, Grant kicked open the door, which tore from the rusty old hinges with a screech of protest. He was rewarded for his efforts with a deep piercing wound to the abdomen. He gritted his teeth in an effort to bear the pain as he looked down to see the Kendrit’s dart protruding below. So now also moderately wounded, Grant looked up and focused his glare on the war hero who gingerly stepped backward, a defensive posture composed between his cloak and drawn short sword. Still with the reach of the long shaft weapon, Grant was able to give as good as he got, burying the piercing tip in Wrenchard’s chest.
Wrenchard continued to fall back into the bedroom, thus forcibly removing Grant’s spear tip from what felt like his newly punctured lung. Critically injured, Valinson felt blood begin to flow violently from his chest. He became light-headed; the room began to lose focus.
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Behind the house, Jonas again attempted to dispatch his opponent, failing to catch any of him with his pole arm. Alex switched tactics and bore down upon the young minstrel as he protected himself with a wooden shield. The two continued to trade ineffectual blows until Jonas was first to profit from opportunity.
As he blathered about how he wished not to fight ‘Ralph’, Jonas scanned the man’s defenses. Finally he was able to thrust his fork through, piercing Alex in the gut. As the younger warrior pulled back his odd weapon, blood streamed from the three neatly placed puncture wounds. Alcohol addled and adrenaline amped, Alex ignored the critical wound as Jonas saw the color virtually wipe from his face.
Unfortunately, Jonas had left himself open after attempting the intended incapacitating blow, and Alex, no stranger to combat, was quick to capitalize. He brought his heavy mace down hard into Jonas’ chest, smashing the ribs there into his left lung. Jonas forcibly drew in a deep breath. It was painful. Now seriously wounded, Jonas resumed his defensive posturing, as both men squared off again. They circled probing one another’s defenses once more.
More poorly made strikes were either misplaced or blocked. Ultimately, it must have been the clamor of combat that brought Ida to her window. Wild wisps of wiry hair strayed in defiance from her head, as she leaned forth from the window frame. Her strong forearms taut, she held herself out while waving a heavy cast iron pan in hand. Over his left shoulder, Jonas half saw her and maneuvered to step in front of her too late as she emerged, seeking vengeance from the Menovian ‘animals.’
“No ma’am, go back inside. It’s dangerous,” Jonas implored.
“You bastards! I’ll kill you!” she cried.
She flailed wildly at Alex with her pan. He ignored the new threat. Jonas and Alex resumed their less than thrilling display. Infuriated, Ida lunged forward, bringing the heavy metal vessel to bear across Alex’s cheek. Blood flowed from his face, his right eye instantly started to swell. For the first time he seemed to recognize her for what she was – another potential threat. Jonas failed to take advantage of the Menovian’s momentary distraction and Alex turned on Ida to dispatch her once and for all.
With a precise blow from his mace, he swung upward into the woman’s head. A loud crack carried across the night air, and Jonas witnessed as Ida’s feet left the ground due to the force of the blow. As she sailed through the air, he saw her face take on an impossible contortion, her jaw slipped up near her right ear, before she disappeared from his sight, back through the window from whence she came. Only her ankles and feet could be seen still propped on the sill from inside. The cast iron pan landed with a heavy thud in the dirt. It was the reminder necessary to focus the young militiaman who began to feel sick.
Fortuitously, he turned in time to dodge another of Alex’s well-placed blows.
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Feeling claustrophobic, Tyrus quickly crossed the small kitchen and burst out the front window. He slid sideways to view the front door, where he gained a clear view of Grant’s backside. William’s thought process was quite similar. Now that Tyrus had disappeared from sight, the Menovian archer sidestepped, circling to flank Wrenchard through the open bedroom window. William loosed an arrow into the room where Wrenchard was retreating into his view, back exposed. He missed. The arrow struck the support frame just shy of the map-maker’s skull. Almost simultaneously, Grant again stabbed, this time unsuccessfully.
Wrenchard realized what little chance he had for survival in his current predicament, if he didn’t flee. He gritted his teeth at the risk, squinted hard to focus, and ducked back into the common room, darting for the door behind the Menovian spearman. It was a bold and unanticipated move; but Grant was not without his training. Reflexively, he thrust the spear in Wrenchard’s direction as the Kendrit dared approach within the area threatened by his pole arm. He grunted with success as he struck what he mistook for the cartographer. Too late he realized the inaccuracy as the nimble Valinson continued through the room and out the door, tearing his cloak from the pull of Grant’s long spear as he did so.
Witnessing Wrenchard’s successful escape from the house, Tyrus bolted to the southeast. He didn’t wish to linger around any longer than he had to.
Grant and William both pursued Wrenchard out of the house, striking at him with spear and arrow, but ultimately unable to hit the wily war veteran. Wrenchard hustled westward, skirting the Commons, from the house along another forgotten home. He had the advantage of knowledge of the local area, but yet was unable to shake the spearman well enough to truly turn tail and run. William too, it seemed, was fleet of foot (3) enough to continually harry Wrenchard as he tried to break.
Exasperated, Wrenchard finally decided to try for an all out dash but was rewarded for his efforts with a tripping blow from Grant’s long spear. The Kendrit felt sudden shooting pain issue from his shins. It overtook him, his vision narrowed, tunnel-like. The last thing he saw was the ground swiftly rushing up to meet him.
A solitary figure skulking in the darkness across the Commons saw Wrenchard fall hard, face first into the dirt.
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Angered by the Menovians’ treatment of his fellow Kendrit, Jonas gave up trading careful, yet ineffective blows. Abandoning caution, he aggressively lunged with a foolhardy all-or-nothing strike. To his surprise, Bes (4) blessed him as he skewered Alex’s thigh. The additional sudden loss of blood was too much for the Menovian man who toppled like a hewn tree.
The tousle-haired youth stared down into the glossy eyes that seemed to pierce through him. With no idea of whether Alex was alive or dead, the realization of his act took the form of a lump in his throat. Jonas felt his stomach gurgle. He doubled over, retched and spat bile. The acidic yellow liquid coagulated the blood pooling at his feet. The sight of it made him sweat and vomit some more.
Long seconds passed before Jonas could muster some composure to deal with the situation at hand. Leaving the battle scene, Jonas ran to the front of Ida’s house and entered to find her in certainly worse shape than the man he had just left. The seamstress was still alive, her pulse weak. He tried to avoid looking at the maelstrom of features that was once a face, knowing it would restart his already queasy stomach. Doing his best to aid the helpless woman he bound what he could and gently lifted her onto a comfortable settee.
Satisfied he returned outside to deal with Alex’s body.
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Once on the move, there was not much that Tyrus stopped for. As he hustled his way through town he met one thing that would give him pause. Adair was rapidly approaching, as fortune would have it, directly along the rangers retreating path. The young shepherd had finally broken from the posse seeking out undead on the Breach.
Reality, courage, or stupidity must have set in for Tyrus at the sight of reinforcement, whichever it was it was enough to bolster his resolve. He turned and wordlessly began to run back in the direction of the seamstress’ house. Adair had only enough time to make out some blood-stains on his peer’s clothes, unable to tell if it was from Tyrus’ wounds or someone else’s. With little more information to act on, he quickly followed.
They closed on Ida’s house in time to see Jonas struggling through the open window. A pair of ankles and feet remained propped on the lintel as the militiaman ran back around to the front and out of the archers’ view. Not too be distracted, they left him to whatever chore he was about and loped between the cover of houses towards the sounds of voices in debate.
“Hey, I recognize this guy,” said the spearman looking down. “This is Sterling’s personal aide.”
The other Menovian bent over Wrenchard’s crumpled form, “Hey, where’s Karl? What’d you do with Karl?”
Grant looked at William, amused, “He can’t hear you…” It was apparent there was no reasoning with the archer. “…he’s bleeding to death.”
William never took his eyes off the Kendrit, and both Tyrus and Adair watched as the Menovian checked a booted kick aimed at Wrenchard’s brainpan. “This sunuvabitch prob’ly killed Karl. Let’s kill ‘im.”
Finally, he looked to the taller spearman for confirmation, expectantly.
“No, he’s Captain Sterling’s aide.” Grant emphasized the last word hoping to make his point.
The point of William’s own knife was pressed to the prone Kendrit’s neck now. “Sterling is only gonna kill him,” he mused. “We might as well do it.”
Not too far away Tyrus proposed to Adair, “You wanna take the bastards?”
“Sure.”
Adair stood and left the cover of the buildings shadows, drawing an arrow and pulling his bow - slightly askance as was his signature. (5)
Grant looked down at the would-be murderer, continuing his condescending explanation, “No. It would be criminal, we could be charged. I’m sure that if he wanted to, he’d find some way to make an example of us. We should bind this bastard and then bring him to Sterling to make…”
No more words issued from the Menovian spearman’s mouth, only the spittle spray of blood rained over William’s bowed head with a labored gasping of breath.
William looked up to his companion, “What the…?” Grant was falling forward over Valinson, an arrowhead protruding from his sternum.
Dropping the knife to be used for the blood-letting, William snatched up his own bow and fired a shot back at the shepherd boy from his crouched position. Adair was struck in the arm, and it stung like fire through his bicep.
Tyrus and Adair chased William across the Commons with a rain of arrows. Jonas had climbed out into the area in time to see the Menovian begin to run, fleeing his two attackers, and joined in the chase. With longer range Adair harried the soldier’s retreat as Tyrus closed the gap at full sprint. Jonas unleashed bolts too. The man reached the outskirts of town, critically injured, before Fawkes broke off pursuit to see to Wrenchard. Adair and Tyrus pressed on.
On the edge of the hamlet, as the three archers ran for the hills, the Kendrits were forced to stop their furious pace. William continued on to the base of the sparsely wooded hills. Finally, unable to see his pursuers, he stopped to rest, hands on his knees, panting for breath.
Tyrus, now in his element, easily found the man’s track. To the young hillman, a rampaging bear exercised more stealth. Adair continued forward cautiously in the dark of night, keeping his keen eye on the unaware Menovian. Tyrus hustled around to the Menovian’s left, picking a silent path to flank the invader.
The young shepherd skulked forward, first loosing one arrow that missed undetected, then another. He focused hard for the second volley, tuning out all else around. It missed at cost to him, as he stumbled, slipped, and fell over a slimy rotten log. Falling backward, the boy lay stunned. William turned and looked hard in Adair’s direction, weapon at the ready.
Hidden twixt brush and bramble, Tyrus continued his silent advance, from William’s right now. Fortuitously, the Menovian began walking forward, back towards where Adair lay. As the Bannon lad regained his full senses and cautiously rose to a squat to see William approaching from 150 feet away, Tyrus finally found himself in an enjoyable position to rush the Menovian from behind.
The slow methodic pull of both long and short swords from well-worn leather sheathes let no sound herald warning to William of what was coming. Blades in hand, Tyrus burst from cover, his thick muscled legs clearing a low briar patch. Through the rushes he plowed head on like a boar, his tusks poised for the kill. No chance to turn, Tyrus skewered William through the spine, lifting the man with the force of the charge, and hurtling him forward, blade and all. The ranger pounced on the crumpled form like a cougar, wrenched his long sword free and brought the short sword to bear across the Menovians neck as he knelt on Williams back. Awed, Adair looked on in astonishment. Somewhere deep in some part of Tyrus’ psyche he wished to succumb to his feral instincts. Just then he looked up and met his young prodigy’s stare across the dark. He gave pause.
Adair waited, curious.
“We should cut off his head so he doesn’t come back as undead.”
Adair walked over to join his companion; he could see that the ranger relished the idea.
“Then again, I may want to kill this bastard again,” continued Tyrus as he spat on the bloodied, muddied corpse.
“We have to burn him,” protested Adair.
The two, not wishing to leave the body in the hills, set off with it to Tyrus’ far away hut.
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Jonas doubled back. He wanted to start cleaning the mess, lest it attract more Menovian attention. Besides, Wrenchard was in dire straits. After tending to his employer’s wounds, Jonas also found Grant to be made of sterner stuff and did his best to secure the Menovian’s weakened life-thread. The militiaman then went to retrieve his victim’s body. Dragging Alex’s corpse to the house where Grant and Valinson still lay, he set about the laborious chore of moving them all. All alone with no one to offer advice, Jonas did his best. He stowed the Menovians away in the same house and ran off to fetch ‘first’ Adair, the healer/herbalist to help him. He awakened the elder man, with bangs on his door and then dragged him to the scene of the melee. They carried a stretcher between them. Along the way back they encountered Jesse Tanner returning from the Breach and enlisted him to their aid.
With great care, the three men transported the hamlet’s nobleman back to his house where Jebediah was finished making preparations for its conversion to fort. After scant little explanation, beyond the sight of his injured host, Jebediah dispersed his precautions allowing them entry.
Wrenchard was moved upstairs to his own bed where the ‘elder’ Adair could better care for him. Jesse departed to return home to ensure his wife’s safety. Still consumed by a sense of urgency, Jonas told Adair about Grant in the abandoned house before leaving. Once downstairs, Jebediah searched for answers.
“What’s going on?” He asked Jonas.
“I don’t have time, either come or don’t come.” Jonas offered no insight, ignoring the bottle-laden table pushed aside in the foyer as he headed back out into the nights mysteries.
Jebediah, armed and armored, and Constance similarly so, headed after him.
They didn’t make it far before Jebediah turned to her. “Go back to the house.”
Continuing pace, “Where are you going?” She asked. “You’re sick.” hoping that he would realize his need of her.
Jebediah sighed.
The trio stopped as Jonas turned on Constance. “Can you do me a favor?”
Constance only looked at him quizzical. She knew it would be another effort for them to ditch her.
“I forgot to tell Adair, the healer, that the seamstress, Ida, is in her house and in desperate need of help also. I don’t have time to go back.”
To the relief of both men she obliged complacently, not wishing to call Jonas’ bluff on chance of another’s life.
As Constance returned to Fort Valinson, Jonas and Jebediah picked up the pace a bit. Jonas began to offer an abridged explanation, as he knew it, while they began the search for Tyrus, Adair, and the last of the Menovian combatants.
“You know what this means,” Jebediah paused for effect, showing that he understood the full scope of the situation, “we’ll have to kill them all.”
“Or capture them and put them all in gaol.” Jonas had other ideas.
Jebediah looked bewildered at Jonas’ intention.
“What if more Menovians come?”
“They won’t check the gaol.” Jonas excused. “I can’t kill someone in cold blood, nor will I sit by as someone else does.”
Beginning where Wrenchard had nearly met his end, the pair headed off toward the hills following a blood-trail that far before losing it.
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As Jonas and Jebediah were searching for them in the southern hills, Tyrus and Adair returned to the hamlet and searched for the remaining bodies. Finding two of them, Alex and Grant, in the abandoned house where Jonas had left them, Tyrus delivered the coup-de-grace to the recently bound Grant, by slitting his throat with a hunting knife, after explaining to Adair that it was necessary and earning assent by silence.
Gathering some material from Ida Cubitt’s house, Adair brought it back to the abandoned house where he and Tyrus wrapped up the two bodies (and all of their gear), in order to haul them back to the hillman’s hut. They then returned for Karl’s body (the first Menovian to be killed) and brought it back to the hut as well.
There they spent the next few hours stripping the bodies of their gear and burning them in a secret place away from the prying eyes of the hamlet. In a shallow pit covered in stones all evidence of the night’s undoing was purged. Adair and Tyrus endured the stench of burning flesh that carried into the ranger’s hut on a chill nocturnal breeze. They dressed one another’s wounds and rested as much as they could for what remained of the night.
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Returning back to town, Jonas and Jebediah were unsuccessful in their search and soon parted ways.
Jebediah returned to Fort Valinson to get something for his bog flu from ‘first’ Adair and to stand post.
Jonas sought out Harden to inform him of what had transpired. After doing so, they woke the sheriff to discuss their options. Reluctantly, Sturgis agreed to allow the bodies to be brought to the gaol until they could be disposed of properly. With that plan in mind, Harden and Jonas set out to retrieve the fallen Menovians.
Upon returning to the scene of the crime, there was some puzzlement as to the corpses disappearance. In fact had it not been for the bloodied mess of battle, Harden might have thought that Jonas was playing at tricks again. They determined that the incriminating scene was too much to be left as is, so the two resigned themselves to spending much of the next few hours washing down the blood with well water, churning up the ground, and retrieving various arrows, javelins, and darts that had been left strewn about the land; leaving the solving of the mystery of the body snatchers for another time. While they worked they had detailed out a cover story at Jonas’ behest. The sheriff agreed that it would be plausible that the missing Menovians had met their end at the clawed hands of undead from beyond the breach; as long as the bodies did not turn up, of course.
When all was done, the deputy continued his nightly patrol. Jonas returned to Wrenchard’s manor, where he woke Jebediah who was sleeping, feet propped on the Neergaardian. (6) Jonas explained the cover story to Jebediah, who absorbed it. Exhausted, Jonas bedded down in Constance’s room.
Jonas fell asleep to the blissful scent of the beautiful girl; with glee he buried his face in her pillow.
Jebediah passed the story on to ‘the healer’ Adair who busily minded his attendees and Constance who was forced into the cellar’s refuge by her brother’s incessant pleading.
As the house grew quiet and cold, also feeling taxed, Jebediah also longed for bed. As he passed his sister’s bedroom he heard murmuring within.
“Zzz…Mmm…Constance…your brother will catch us…zzz…”
Jebediah ignored the fools’ fantasy and closed the door. Just as he reached his own and entered the room, Constance’s door re-opened. Jonas must have been wakened by the sounds. Muttering something he had thought important that he had forgotten to say, Jonas stood stark in the frame.
Jebediah’d had enough.
“Don’t walk around like that.” He scolded the young Fawkes. “Go back to bed.”
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Thoem, 25th of Syet – 564 H.E.
The overcast sky opened up allowing fat droplets of rain to fall to the earth below, saturating the ground and the day.
The next morning, Adair woke later than usual; understandably so. Tyrus stirred as well. For a while they both just lay there in pain. Still committed to taking the sheep out as usual, ultimately Adair sat up and began to collect his things. Tyrus propped himself on an elbow, prompting pain from his lower back. He ignored it with a wince.
“You are welcome to come back” he began, “but alone. And don’t tell anyone where my place is. I don’t care who they are.”
Adair could see the true lonely state that Tyrus lived in.
“I’ll be here,” he continued. “I need to rest as much as possible.” The ranger daubed at a cut that looked to him in danger of infection.
Adair nodded and slinked out. He passed the still he assumed that the infamous root tonic came from. Somehow, he thought it would be bigger.
On his way home he passed through town, the shepherd boy noticed that the Menovian officers had risen early and were already about their business. The Irregulars’ disappearance had not gone unnoticed for long. Keeping his distance, he saw Captain Sterling wagging a finger in Harden’s face. Sergeant Malchiah looked on, contemptuously. Avoiding the scene Adair hurried on.
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Some time later activity in the Valinson home began to return to normal, or what could best be described as normal under the circumstances. Kelize was surly about being kept in the cellar, as was Constance, and the former continually let everyone know about it. She did not portray Wrenchard as a kind man, citing misogyny and his treatment of his infirmed father as examples of his faults.
Jebediah sought escape from the self-imposed prison of familial obligation in Jonas who refused to get out of bed. With servants, children, and women continuously under foot, Jebediah found himself biting his cheek. Gravis volunteered to awaken Fawkes with a pail of water but was stayed by Jebediah. Jonas was spared the watery fate as there was a pounding at the door.
Jebediah got to experience Captain Sterling’s ire directly as he prompted Gravis to open the door. The man-servant did so but quickly found himself overwhelmed by the Menovian officer’s bullying and badgering. The questions were too much for Gravis to handle and Jebediah could see that he was about to falter in the web of lies that they had created, so he stepped in.
Humbling himself, and maintaining a low slouched posture, Jebediah warned of the illness that had overtaken his master. Sterling not to be troubled by these sycophant servants waved Jebediah off, demanding to see his aide. Jebediah protested and continued, offering the bottle of Wrenchard’s finest brandy (1) as a token of apology. Sterling accepted it, looking it over, noting its worth; he seemed a bit startled as to how the rural Valinson might have secured it.
Captain Sterling turned to leave, bumping into Malchiah who stood behind him in the doorway, trying to come in out of the elements. He redirected his anger at the Sergeant and berated him for not knowing the location of his men as he exited into the rain. Before Jebediah could close the door after them, Captain Sterling turned, almost as an afterthought.
“I will return this afternoon,” Sterling’s words rolled off his tongue. “I expect to see my aide up and about then, sick or not.”
A few hours…
A few hours was all Jebediah had to try and conjure up some sort of plan. He needed a cover story and knew exactly who to ask. The immediate threat passed, he reset the safety measures in the foyer with Gravis’ help and marched upstairs. He threw open the guest room door and confronted Jonas who rolled over in bed lazily. Jebediah pulled back the sheets in an attempt to rouse him. Jonas only lay there naked, the light crossbow loaded in his hand, resting on the mattress. The young militia man unloaded the weapon and put it back down beside the bed. He ignored Jebediah and returned to his lazy slumber.
Frustrated Jebediah stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The effects of his tantrum only earned him a sound shushing from Adair, down the hall in the infirmary that was Wrenchard’s bedroom. He knew that he had to leave and find someone else, anyone else, of the cabal.
Adair was the easiest to find, found in his habitual spot with the sheep in the pasture. There he was finally able to procure some answers. The shepherd boy went about his daily routine, nonchalantly taking refuge from the rain under the boughs of some low-lying wisteria branches.
Adair, gifted with the practiced eye for movement of the shepherd, easily spotted Jebediah’s march across the plain. He waited, whistling out to him.
They briefed one another on the most recent events, Jebediah asked about the Menovians.
“We burned the bodies.”
“How many were there?”
“Four.”
“Did you find the one who was wounded?” Jebediah referred to Grant.
“He’s not wounded anymore.” Adair appeared a bit sullen, disenchanted.
Knowing that at least the Menovian versus undead cover story would hold credibility now, Jebediah began to flounder for ideas about their most recent predicament. Adair offered no great insight. Unable to come up with no new solutions on their own, the pair decided to return to town, maybe speaking with the sheriff would help.
It did not. As they neared the office, Adair’s keen ear gave them cause to hesitate. Around the corner he could overhear the distinct voice of Captain Sterling. Daring to peek out, the two saw part of the action underway. The young shepherd relayed the conversation of heated tones to Jebediah as they peered on.
Captain Sterling was irate, “All I know is that your deputy claims my men were abducted by something that emerged from this breach. But unless I can see some bodies as proof, you are all suspect. I will raze this town!”
Sterling ignored the rain that rolled from his nose; Malchiah looked on gleefully, his grip tight on the spear he leaned on for support. The biggest figure of the trio was a tall, well-muscled Menovian in ringmail. He stood off to the sheriff’s right flank, greataxe in hand.
Sturgis did his best to calm the captain, who was obviously not satiated with whatever excuse he received.
Sterling spun on his heels and trudged through the mud, beckoning Malchiah and ‘Grinder’ with him.
As to appear inconspicuous, Adair and Jebediah quickly switched the topic of their conversation to studding sheep.
The Menovians traveled in the opposite direction.
When the coast was clear, the duo popped into the sheriff’s office. He was visibly rattled. They told him enough so that he would understand the situation, though he did adopt an attitude of some denial in ignorance.
“I’ll ask you no questions. You tell me no lies.”
“Fair enough, but we’re still going to need your help.” Jebediah replied.
“Perhaps we may beseech Ephraim for advice. I know no one wiser. Though I’m sure he’s not going to appreciate the situation too much.” Sturgis suggested.
Having agreed, the three of them did just that. They quickly found their way across town and to the open doorway of the lay priest. He invited them in out of the downpour and poured them all steeped herbs, offered them a seat by his hearth and warm blankets to ward off the cold and wetness. Adair did much of the explaining, with the sheriff and the pilgrim adding details here and there.
The priest thought long and hard. He had no immediate ideas. He suggested that they all meet at Wrenchard’s in half of an hour, and excused himself. Jebediah and Adair returned to the manor house, Sturgis to his office.
They waited in contemplation.
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Notes:
(1) – Except for one bottle of 411 H.E. Zootsburg brandy, which he knew to be of exceptionally fine character, and put it up on the mantel. Internally, he wondered how Wrenchard would have secured such a rare gem way out here in such a remote rural location.
(2) – Jonas pronounces Ida’s last name wrong. He doesn’t say Cubitt, he says Cuebitt.
(3) – DM’s Note: The description of the http://www.matantisi.com/aquerra/rules/feats.htm#fleetfootedFleet-Footed feat can be found on the http:[url]www.Aquerra.com[/url]Aquerra Online website.
(4) – Bes is the God of Luck and Gambling.
(5) – Due to the length of the long bow – anywhere between 6 and 7 feet – and Adair’s shorter stature, he has adapted his personal style to holding the bow at an angle. Though unorthodox, it works for him, though some of this compromise may account for his reduced range and damage with his arrows.
(6) – THIS is what I love about Aquerra! A simple throw-away line or trivial fact will become world-changing in the course of seconds as players’ dictate. There is no Ottoman Empire in Aquerra, but there is a Neergaard. Simply put, an ottoman would not exist therefore, but a Neergaardian (close enough) would. And so it goes, that in all of Aquerra, at that moment of game play, the Neergaardian (a cushioned rest for one to prop one’s feet on) was retroactively created.
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