Brothers and sisters of Altair, the time to march on our enemy has come! Our ancestors have fought and died defending our beloved city. Now that honor is ours. We go to face the greatest enemy our city has yet known.
Many of you remember the lash of the Fire Legion. Many of you remember its tyranny and oppression of our people. But the foe before us seeks not to conquer or enslave, but to destroy. We must succeed, or there will be no tomorrow.
But fear not, the sun will rise again! We are strong, we are brave, and we will not perish from this land. Let us defend what is rightfully ours! Altair!
-Cyrus
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The Black Sword, Chapter 5: Rivals
Ghaleon staggered back as a burly fist slammed into his stomach, hitting his breastplate and tilting it into his abdomen. Torvald did not even seem to notice that his fist had struck steel as he took up a fighting stance. Amidst his attempts to regain his footing, Ghaleon drew a small hand crossbow strapped to his pack. He recovered with a flourish, loosing a bolt at his adversary. Torvald dodged to the right just in time as the bolt grazed his left bicep, digging a shallow channel in his skin as it passed.
Torvald was upon him before he could even cast away his crossbow. Growling, he launched another huge fist directly at Ghaleon's face. The blow found purchase, and Ghaleon's became a world of red and green starbursts. As the warrior dropped to his knees in the dust, Torvald gloated, "There. Had enough?"
The sound of metal scraping against metal rang out as Ghaleon leaped to his feet with a rabid fury burning in his eyes. His sword drew a wide arc in front of him, and Torvald backpedaled just quickly enough to avoid the strike. With a lunge, he caught Ghaleon's hand as the swipe neared its end, twisting it until it released and the blade clattered to the ground. With one fluid motion, pulling the arm around behind the warrior's back and pressing his foot to the back of the legs, Torvald forced Ghaleon back on his knees.
A thick, muscled arm whipped under Ghaleon's chin and closed around his neck. A knee in his back pushed him prone in the dust with Torvald's crushing weight forcing the breath from his lungs. Ghaleon kicked his legs furiously and tried to pull with his arms, but Torvald had taken a position that allowed him to evade these blows. Each breath required greater strain. Sputtering in the dust, Ghaleon began to drift into a blurry haze. The world seemed to darken and drift away, then nothing.
***
Ghaleon awoke with a start as Soirse completed a minor spell of healing. He sat bolt-upright, eyes darting every way in an attempt to find Torvald, but his childhood rival had moved on. He struggled to his feet, picking up his sword with his dirt-caked hand. Silently, he sheathed the blade and turned away, walking toward the bridge.
No one spoke on the rest of the journey to Ollidar Fallone's manor. Ghaleon huffed and fumed, furious and impotent. Soirse struggled to stifle laughter over Ghaleon's plight while still feeling a pang of empathy. Malcolm just walked. The mansion was a picture of faded opulence. Immense and heavily ornamented, the splendor it still displayed served only to accent that which it had lost. The grounds were slightly overgrown; the gilding around the doorway was mildly tarnished. The three travelers approached the door. Ghaleon knocked.
After a few moments of silence, the door opened. In its place stood an average-sized man, trim but not slight, dressed in older, but still exquisite clothing. His brown hair hung like laurels around his otherwise bald head; his brow furrowed with stress.
"May I help you folks?" the man sighed.
"Ollidar Fallone?" Ghaleon asked politely.
"I am he," the man responded.
"You owe my associate some money," Ghaleon said, growling out the word "money" as his rage from his previous humiliation came surging back.
"I am sure I don't know what you are talking about," Fallone replied coyly.
"I don't have time for this," Ghaleon threatened, gripping his sword hilt as he stepped forward, "Jagg needs his gold." At the mention of Jagg Mitchum, Ollidar Fallone's face showed recognition. The merchant fidgeted nervously.
"I... ah... do recall some dealings with the esteemed Mister Mitchum, long ago, vaguely," Fallone stammered, "though I was quite certain I... ah... fulfilled all my obligations."
"Not according to Mister Mitchum," Ghaleon replied, loosening the sword in its sheath, "seems you owe him some three hundred gold pieces."
Ollidar Fallone's face could not hide his nervousness, and recognition of the sum played across his face. "I suppose my accountant, yes, my accountant could have made some error. I'll have a word with him."
"I'll have a sack of gold in my hand." The blade slid an inch in the sheath.
The merchant coughed and scuffed his feet. A bead of sweat formed on the side of his nose as he sniffed uncomfortably. "My good sir," he said, "I'm afraid I am a bit... ah... deficient in funds at the present time." The sword slid out an inch further. "But," Fallone interjected, "I have an armorsmith in my employ, one William Welles." Ghaleon remained stoic, while Malcolm's expression dimmed at the mention of the armorsmith. "He's working on a rather lucrative contract, you see, yes and once he finishes I should be able to pay in full. I'm afraid that's all I can promise right now," Ollidar stammered hastily.
Ghaleon considered the offer for a moment, then replied, "It'll have to do. I'll be back for the gold." He turned and walked away, sword rattling in its sheath, without even waiting for the door to close. Soirse and Malcolm paused for a moment, then turned to follow.
***
"Where are we going?" Malcolm asked as Ghaleon, walking briskly since the trio departed from Ollidar Fallone's manor, turned down the smith's row, where the dwarf had his armor shop.
"To get Jagg his money," was his equally brisk answer.
"What?" Malcolm inquired, "I thought Fallone didn't have it."
"You're an armorsmith right?" Ghaleon asked, then without waiting for Malcolm's response added, "Getting rid of some competition."
The warrior came to a halt in front of a small brick and stone shop with a well-made but plain sign hanging out front that read "Welles' Armor." He loosed his pack, dropped it at his feet, and extracted a large, worn burlap robe. Slipping it over his armor, he turned to meet Malcolm and Soirse's confused looks.
"It's Brother Ghaleon, for the moment. Wait here."
The others complied, and Ghaleon pulled the hood of the monk's robe over his head as he entered the shop.
Moments later, he emerged carrying a well-made, unadorned breastplate in his hands. "Go get your cart," he said curtly to Malcolm in a tone that brooked no argument. That night, the taverns buzzed with talk of a monk pushing a cart filled with armor down the smith's row.
Torvald was upon him before he could even cast away his crossbow. Growling, he launched another huge fist directly at Ghaleon's face. The blow found purchase, and Ghaleon's became a world of red and green starbursts. As the warrior dropped to his knees in the dust, Torvald gloated, "There. Had enough?"
The sound of metal scraping against metal rang out as Ghaleon leaped to his feet with a rabid fury burning in his eyes. His sword drew a wide arc in front of him, and Torvald backpedaled just quickly enough to avoid the strike. With a lunge, he caught Ghaleon's hand as the swipe neared its end, twisting it until it released and the blade clattered to the ground. With one fluid motion, pulling the arm around behind the warrior's back and pressing his foot to the back of the legs, Torvald forced Ghaleon back on his knees.
A thick, muscled arm whipped under Ghaleon's chin and closed around his neck. A knee in his back pushed him prone in the dust with Torvald's crushing weight forcing the breath from his lungs. Ghaleon kicked his legs furiously and tried to pull with his arms, but Torvald had taken a position that allowed him to evade these blows. Each breath required greater strain. Sputtering in the dust, Ghaleon began to drift into a blurry haze. The world seemed to darken and drift away, then nothing.
***
Ghaleon awoke with a start as Soirse completed a minor spell of healing. He sat bolt-upright, eyes darting every way in an attempt to find Torvald, but his childhood rival had moved on. He struggled to his feet, picking up his sword with his dirt-caked hand. Silently, he sheathed the blade and turned away, walking toward the bridge.
No one spoke on the rest of the journey to Ollidar Fallone's manor. Ghaleon huffed and fumed, furious and impotent. Soirse struggled to stifle laughter over Ghaleon's plight while still feeling a pang of empathy. Malcolm just walked. The mansion was a picture of faded opulence. Immense and heavily ornamented, the splendor it still displayed served only to accent that which it had lost. The grounds were slightly overgrown; the gilding around the doorway was mildly tarnished. The three travelers approached the door. Ghaleon knocked.
After a few moments of silence, the door opened. In its place stood an average-sized man, trim but not slight, dressed in older, but still exquisite clothing. His brown hair hung like laurels around his otherwise bald head; his brow furrowed with stress.
"May I help you folks?" the man sighed.
"Ollidar Fallone?" Ghaleon asked politely.
"I am he," the man responded.
"You owe my associate some money," Ghaleon said, growling out the word "money" as his rage from his previous humiliation came surging back.
"I am sure I don't know what you are talking about," Fallone replied coyly.
"I don't have time for this," Ghaleon threatened, gripping his sword hilt as he stepped forward, "Jagg needs his gold." At the mention of Jagg Mitchum, Ollidar Fallone's face showed recognition. The merchant fidgeted nervously.
"I... ah... do recall some dealings with the esteemed Mister Mitchum, long ago, vaguely," Fallone stammered, "though I was quite certain I... ah... fulfilled all my obligations."
"Not according to Mister Mitchum," Ghaleon replied, loosening the sword in its sheath, "seems you owe him some three hundred gold pieces."
Ollidar Fallone's face could not hide his nervousness, and recognition of the sum played across his face. "I suppose my accountant, yes, my accountant could have made some error. I'll have a word with him."
"I'll have a sack of gold in my hand." The blade slid an inch in the sheath.
The merchant coughed and scuffed his feet. A bead of sweat formed on the side of his nose as he sniffed uncomfortably. "My good sir," he said, "I'm afraid I am a bit... ah... deficient in funds at the present time." The sword slid out an inch further. "But," Fallone interjected, "I have an armorsmith in my employ, one William Welles." Ghaleon remained stoic, while Malcolm's expression dimmed at the mention of the armorsmith. "He's working on a rather lucrative contract, you see, yes and once he finishes I should be able to pay in full. I'm afraid that's all I can promise right now," Ollidar stammered hastily.
Ghaleon considered the offer for a moment, then replied, "It'll have to do. I'll be back for the gold." He turned and walked away, sword rattling in its sheath, without even waiting for the door to close. Soirse and Malcolm paused for a moment, then turned to follow.
***
"Where are we going?" Malcolm asked as Ghaleon, walking briskly since the trio departed from Ollidar Fallone's manor, turned down the smith's row, where the dwarf had his armor shop.
"To get Jagg his money," was his equally brisk answer.
"What?" Malcolm inquired, "I thought Fallone didn't have it."
"You're an armorsmith right?" Ghaleon asked, then without waiting for Malcolm's response added, "Getting rid of some competition."
The warrior came to a halt in front of a small brick and stone shop with a well-made but plain sign hanging out front that read "Welles' Armor." He loosed his pack, dropped it at his feet, and extracted a large, worn burlap robe. Slipping it over his armor, he turned to meet Malcolm and Soirse's confused looks.
"It's Brother Ghaleon, for the moment. Wait here."
The others complied, and Ghaleon pulled the hood of the monk's robe over his head as he entered the shop.
Moments later, he emerged carrying a well-made, unadorned breastplate in his hands. "Go get your cart," he said curtly to Malcolm in a tone that brooked no argument. That night, the taverns buzzed with talk of a monk pushing a cart filled with armor down the smith's row.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
The Black Sword, Chapter 4: The Tumblin' Dice
Soirse and Siobhan worked tirelessly through the night, slaving away over the long table of flasks and jars. Around an hour before sunrise, she finally mastered the formula. When Ghaleon and Malcolm awoke, Soirse greeted them, bleary-eyed but proud, holding three full vials of suppressant antidote in her hands. Ghaleon rubbed his eyes, reached out, and took a vial.
"Guess you and the old man are good for something after all," he mumbled through his morning haze. Malcolm ambled over and took a vial as well.
"Thanks. We should get going soon, though," he said.
Soirse sighed, fatigued but triumphant, and nodded. Siobhan had begun emptying and packing his alchemical equipment.
"I'll be leaving in two days. Ghaleon, make sure you have everything arranged by then. With all your help, I'm certain we can all finally free ourselves from the Shadow Veil's grip. Godspeed," the old man said, waving the adventurers out. The three left the house when it was still early in the morning.
"What do we do now?" Malcolm asked.
"I know somebody who might be able to help," Ghaleon replied, "Let's pay him a visit."
***
The adventurers approached a dingy, two-story wooden building. The sign over the door was engraved with the image of two dice being cast, captioned with the words "Tumblin' Dice." The pub was nearly empty this early in the morning save the man behind the bar. It was suitably grimy for a pub, and it sported several round, pock-marked wooden tables. Pottery mugs lined the shelves behind the bar and the wooden barrels in the corners of the room stank of their payloads from the previous night. Though the bar was empty, years of smoke-reek emanated from every plank therein.
The barkeep grumbled. Without looking up, he said, "Ghaleon Ebonheart. Drinking this early?"
"Ale, dark, but this is a business visit," the warrior replied.
The bartender looked up at Soirse and Malcolm and smiled wryly. He wore stringy brown hair and a scraggly beard born of a few days' neglect. His eyes turned down toward Fenrir. "No dogs."
"If he goes, I go," Soirse replied sternly.
"Fine then. Have a nice day."
"You two can argue later," Ghaleon interposed, "For now, we've got business to take care of. Jagg, these are Malcolm and Soirse," gesturing, "my associates." Gesturing back toward the bar, "Associates, Jagg Mitchum." The barkeep bowed mockingly.
"What did you have in mind," his features lost their jovial air.
"Need to get a guy out of town unnoticed."
"A kidnapping, eh? You know I don't do murder though, right?"
"No, he wants to go. Just make sure no one knows he's going."
"Hm. Nothing I can't handle, for the right price."
"See, that's the thing, Jagg," Ghaleon mumbled, "I'm a little short on the coin right now."
"The honorable noble is broke," Jagg teased, "What a shame."
"Maybe we could work off the cost," Malcolm spoke up.
Jagg ran his hands through his hair, catching his fingers on a tangle and scratching his scalp where his fingers stopped. "I do have one job you could do. Suppose I could take care of your friend if you do it for me."
"What's the task?" Ghaleon inquired.
"Oh nothing hard, just need you to collect a little money from a man who owes me a debt. His name's Ollidar Fallone, a merchant who lives in the Figaro District. You bring me the three hundred gold he owes me, and I'll make sure your friend gets out of town safe."
Ghaleon pondered for a moment, feigned disappointment at the offer, and, attempting to sound put-out, said, "Hm. Alright, it's a deal." The bartender shook his hand, cunning smile still traced across his face.
***
The sun shone high in the sky as Soirse, Ghaleon, and Malcolm emerged into the town square of Altair. The air was dry and the packed-dirt ground swirled with dust. Years of heavy foot traffic had worn away the grass, but oak trees still lined the wide square. On the far side of this gathering ground ran the Nareth-Lene River, crossed by stone and mortar bridge. A group of townsfolk crested the bridge's slight arch and strode towards the square.
The man leading this group was squat but muscular; short cropped blond hair framed his square face as his jaw tensed with anger. He was young, healthy, and flanked by a group of five or six friends. "Ghaleon!" he called out.
Ghaleon's expression sunk, eyes rolling in disgust. "Torvald," he called back calmly.
"Day off from digging in the dirt on the farm, peasant?"
"Got business to conduct. I don't have time to deal with you right now, Torvald."
"Friend of yours?" Soirse asked.
"Hardly. Torvald Oberian has been a pain in my ass since I was young. He's always been big, and he's a member of one of the Five Families on top of that."
"What's the matter? Can't stand up like a man? I owe you a severe beating for what you did to my sister," the brawny adversary taunted.
"What did you do to his sister," Malcolm asked under his breath.
"'With his sister' would be a more accurate description," the fighter replied.
"Fight me, coward," came another call, "Let me teach you some honor." Torvald's friends barked insults and catcalls to back him up, forming an arc encircling the three. "Or you could walk away, and everyone will know you're a pathetic coward."
Ghaleon turned to keep his back to Torvald and began walking toward the bridge.
"Just like your father."
No sooner had he heard those words than Ghaleon was inches from the young noble. At the end of his stride, he raised a tightly clenched fist into the air and brought it down at Torvald's face. The noble ducked to the side at the last moment and the blow hit him in the shoulder.
"That was a bad mistake."
"Guess you and the old man are good for something after all," he mumbled through his morning haze. Malcolm ambled over and took a vial as well.
"Thanks. We should get going soon, though," he said.
Soirse sighed, fatigued but triumphant, and nodded. Siobhan had begun emptying and packing his alchemical equipment.
"I'll be leaving in two days. Ghaleon, make sure you have everything arranged by then. With all your help, I'm certain we can all finally free ourselves from the Shadow Veil's grip. Godspeed," the old man said, waving the adventurers out. The three left the house when it was still early in the morning.
"What do we do now?" Malcolm asked.
"I know somebody who might be able to help," Ghaleon replied, "Let's pay him a visit."
***
The adventurers approached a dingy, two-story wooden building. The sign over the door was engraved with the image of two dice being cast, captioned with the words "Tumblin' Dice." The pub was nearly empty this early in the morning save the man behind the bar. It was suitably grimy for a pub, and it sported several round, pock-marked wooden tables. Pottery mugs lined the shelves behind the bar and the wooden barrels in the corners of the room stank of their payloads from the previous night. Though the bar was empty, years of smoke-reek emanated from every plank therein.
The barkeep grumbled. Without looking up, he said, "Ghaleon Ebonheart. Drinking this early?"
"Ale, dark, but this is a business visit," the warrior replied.
The bartender looked up at Soirse and Malcolm and smiled wryly. He wore stringy brown hair and a scraggly beard born of a few days' neglect. His eyes turned down toward Fenrir. "No dogs."
"If he goes, I go," Soirse replied sternly.
"Fine then. Have a nice day."
"You two can argue later," Ghaleon interposed, "For now, we've got business to take care of. Jagg, these are Malcolm and Soirse," gesturing, "my associates." Gesturing back toward the bar, "Associates, Jagg Mitchum." The barkeep bowed mockingly.
"What did you have in mind," his features lost their jovial air.
"Need to get a guy out of town unnoticed."
"A kidnapping, eh? You know I don't do murder though, right?"
"No, he wants to go. Just make sure no one knows he's going."
"Hm. Nothing I can't handle, for the right price."
"See, that's the thing, Jagg," Ghaleon mumbled, "I'm a little short on the coin right now."
"The honorable noble is broke," Jagg teased, "What a shame."
"Maybe we could work off the cost," Malcolm spoke up.
Jagg ran his hands through his hair, catching his fingers on a tangle and scratching his scalp where his fingers stopped. "I do have one job you could do. Suppose I could take care of your friend if you do it for me."
"What's the task?" Ghaleon inquired.
"Oh nothing hard, just need you to collect a little money from a man who owes me a debt. His name's Ollidar Fallone, a merchant who lives in the Figaro District. You bring me the three hundred gold he owes me, and I'll make sure your friend gets out of town safe."
Ghaleon pondered for a moment, feigned disappointment at the offer, and, attempting to sound put-out, said, "Hm. Alright, it's a deal." The bartender shook his hand, cunning smile still traced across his face.
***
The sun shone high in the sky as Soirse, Ghaleon, and Malcolm emerged into the town square of Altair. The air was dry and the packed-dirt ground swirled with dust. Years of heavy foot traffic had worn away the grass, but oak trees still lined the wide square. On the far side of this gathering ground ran the Nareth-Lene River, crossed by stone and mortar bridge. A group of townsfolk crested the bridge's slight arch and strode towards the square.
The man leading this group was squat but muscular; short cropped blond hair framed his square face as his jaw tensed with anger. He was young, healthy, and flanked by a group of five or six friends. "Ghaleon!" he called out.
Ghaleon's expression sunk, eyes rolling in disgust. "Torvald," he called back calmly.
"Day off from digging in the dirt on the farm, peasant?"
"Got business to conduct. I don't have time to deal with you right now, Torvald."
"Friend of yours?" Soirse asked.
"Hardly. Torvald Oberian has been a pain in my ass since I was young. He's always been big, and he's a member of one of the Five Families on top of that."
"What's the matter? Can't stand up like a man? I owe you a severe beating for what you did to my sister," the brawny adversary taunted.
"What did you do to his sister," Malcolm asked under his breath.
"'With his sister' would be a more accurate description," the fighter replied.
"Fight me, coward," came another call, "Let me teach you some honor." Torvald's friends barked insults and catcalls to back him up, forming an arc encircling the three. "Or you could walk away, and everyone will know you're a pathetic coward."
Ghaleon turned to keep his back to Torvald and began walking toward the bridge.
"Just like your father."
No sooner had he heard those words than Ghaleon was inches from the young noble. At the end of his stride, he raised a tightly clenched fist into the air and brought it down at Torvald's face. The noble ducked to the side at the last moment and the blow hit him in the shoulder.
"That was a bad mistake."
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