Last, But Not Least

Last, But Not Least

Postby Serrus » Tue Sep 02, 2014 12:27 am

Dusk was settling upon the narrow streets by the time the sellsword had made his way back to the dingy, smelly pocket of Myrkentown that was The Hollows. The stench greeted him and his horse first -- boiling leather, wrought iron, shit and piss and vomit from drunken men on the streets. It smelt familiar, like a lingering aroma that burned the nasal hairs and watered the eyes.

Smells of home.

Where was home, though? This festering shagpile of people, all stuck together in this one little town like rats in a sewer, waiting for someone or something to flush them out? If Myrkentown was the best Myrkenwood had to offer, it was no wonder so many people passed through this town, like monks of the True Faith passing by a brothel.

"Ser Balca! Ser Balca!"

He turned to locate the familiar voice of the messenger boy, as did the storm-grey rouncey he sat upon, ears pricking upwards. The boy didn't have any food to eat though. Just a folded note, so the stallion snorted in disapproval, looking miserable once more.

The boy was a stunted lad, but he could sure run fast, and Serrus watched him tear across the mud-lined streets, note gripped betwixt fingers as if it were the lifeline to his heart. He wasn't sure where the lad was from. Heath, maybe. Perhaps even an outsider not from the mainlaind? Serrus supposed that might have explained why he could never pronounce his name correctly.

"Ser Balca! Message for you."

The boy handed him up the folded parchment, and it was easy to see how it differed from his usual correspondence, for this contained a royal seal of some sort, looking Trae Kelsan but he didn't know of the insignia. He sat back on the saddle, breaking the seal carefully, letting out a tired sigh. The journey to and from Heath had taken longer than his actual stay. He was exhausted from the ride, lips parched for ale, his loins burning for a cheap whore, and the last thing he felt like doing was reading. But read he did, as the boy stood by the horse's side and watched with expectant eyes, like a boy waiting for supper.

The sellsword finished the note, eyes turning to the lad. "When'd you get the note?"

"A week ago, ser," the boy replied.

The sellsword glared back. "A bloody week ago?!" he bellowed.

The boy shook his head, protesting. "I look for you, Ser Balca! Look in Castle. Look in brothel. Look in other brothel, too. They say you gone away, nobody know where. I try to look, but you gone!"

He'd been in Heath on 'business', gone for well over a couple of weeks. He hadn't told anyone, not even Nova, about this particular excursion. Fair call that a message wouldn't be received until the last minute.

"Well, can't be in two places at once, s'pose," the man muttered, reaching down to a pouch by his saddle and tossing the boy a copper.

The messenger looked the coin over, and pleading eyes glanced to the sellsword. "A farthing!?" he cried.

Serrus shrugged. "That's what y'get for bein' late," he replied. " 'alf of what y'normally get." And he kicked in his heels, the grey roan breaking forth into a trot, both man and horse leaving the protestations of the boy behind them.

* * *


He arrived at the town outskirts, leaving the war rouncey tied to a fence, the stallion happily munching on some dried grass as the sellsword walked amid the sights, sounds and smells of rank-and-file military; soldiers with little to do but while away the hours training, talking, laughing, eating, and gambling (for those lucky enough not to be caught). He presumed there was obvious contentment in the ranks, evident on the wide smiles and warm laughter that came from the multitude of men in their blue and gold surcoats. They were well equipped and well fed. Some he ascertained, given their sparring finesse, were well trained in the martial arts. The younger lads however, eager and foolish for war, appeared so green that Serrus wouldn't have been surprised if they untied their belts and pissed out grass.

Tents and pavilions abounded aplenty, soldiers walking to and fro. The loud clanging of blunted training swords rang to the eastern block of the encampment, but he hadn't come here to test his mettle -- he knew his expertise and his limitations, and he didn't need some stuck-up Trae Kelsan arsehole to tell him otherwise. He'd spent some time mulling over the rumours surrounding this Lady Egris, writer of the missive. She had a neat cursive hand. Much like most noble ladies, by his reckoning. If you'd seen one fancy way for a nobie to write 'fornication', you'd seen them all. Some of the rumours he'd heard of Egris were slightly credible, others incredible, sounding more like words of drunken louts and miscreants. The Crown's purpose here seemed clear enough, and the rumours surrounding the Baron and the Governor, sketchy as they were, were a clear enough indication that this army intended to stay for at least an extended time -- if not indefinitely.

He looked for soldiers -- not just any run of the mill pike-headed jackass, but the high ranking men. Commissioned Officers, Serjeants, Captains, Commanders. He found a larger pavilion a little distant from a group of cook fires, blue azures and deeper royals mixed with gold embroidery. Looked fancy enough. He made note of a well-equipped soldier, alert and sharp, who spotted him before he was even getting close to outskirts of the larger tents -- a noble's Constabale, a Serjeant, perhaps even a Commander. Given the steel breastplate he wore with surcoat and fine trimmings, he was anything but a low-ranking and inexperienced. Ginger hair hung down to the man's shoulders, and his grey eyes met Serrus' dark browns, eyes moving in the keen intent of one well-trained. A knight, perhaps. Serrus noted many things, the way he held his stance, the way his hand gripped the hilt of his longsword, fingers resting on the pommel. His eyes showed arrogance and overconfidence, a far cry from the blase, nonplussed overconfidence Serrus carried. When the soldier spoke, he even sounded like a snob.

"You there! Speak your name and your intentions, sirrah."

"Aye, an' a nice bloody evenin' to you, too, Ser," Serrus replied, a twang in the way he said 'Ser'. Arse. "Serrus Belcaw. I've business with t'Lady Egris. She 'appen' t'be about?"

"Business you say," the soldier replied, all stolid and stoic. "And what business, pray tell, would that be?"

None of your bloody business, you jumped up, pike-riding arsewipe. "I've a missive from 'er Lady's Person," Serrus replied in his usual devil-may-care overtones, much like he were talking of the harvest. "A brief note, requestin' a meetin' at 'er convenience. Or mine. Don't really matter which way, I s'pose." He reached into his leather brigadine and procured the folded note, seal broken but attached, and handed it over.

The soldier read the note, eyes glancing over it much longer than it would take even the most illiterate of men to read, peering over the note continuously in a manner that only fueled Serrus' dislike for the fellow, imagining the many colorful ways he could quickly end the man's life, but showing no inclination to do so, even hiding his discontent behind his usual wan smile and relaxed stance, leaning against an archer's target butt.

"Her Lady Egris is currently attending to important matters of State," the ranked soldier finally replied. "She may not be able to convene at your pleasure or arrive at the nonce. Especially when one considers your rather latent reply to her summons, sirrah."

Serrus kept his arms folded, wry smile widening as his eyes narrowed a slight. "Well now, there's only one bloody way t'find out, isn't there?"

The soldier frowned, and the sellsword took solace in seeing how the words bit into his hardened frown. But he remained dutiful, nodding once. "Wait here." And he turned back towards the larger pavilion, leaving Serrus to momentarily think about how ridiculous the man would look with his own longsword shoved up his backside.
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Re: Last, But Not Least

Postby Kestrel » Thu Sep 04, 2014 12:04 pm

The Baron's speech still echoed in the courtyard. There had been mutterings, but the man did not pause to allow them time to argue. It was no concern of his if the general populace did not agree with him. His word, and His Majesty's, was law. It was a simple way to lead. Egris paid attention, learned well.

The Lady Warden circulated among the King's men in the company of her new-found title. There had been congratulatory thumps on the back from her own men and more muted felicitations from the strangers among the blue-and-golds. Egris seemed to take them in stride, humble despite her nobility.

Her men among the larger army was a small force and they kept their camp at the periphery of the clearing. They sparred, they broke fast, and they gambled with their military brethren, but they slept among their own kind. The white-and-reds were cognizant that they were accepted, but they did not answer to the Baron. Polite, but wary as ever. They were paid well for their loyalty to Lady Verreaux first and King Chedwry second. She oft hired mercenaries with good reason, after all.

Soon enough, she left her company behind, and allowed herself the anonymity of walking amongst the fire-cast shadows as night fell into a later hour. The camp fires gave off a muted pop from time to time as quiet started to descend and soldiers unrolled their sleeping mats. Her eyes roamed the encampment, hands clasped behind her back. There was mud smeared across the back of her boots, but the uniform itself was pristine.

The soldier that spoke to Serrus probably left him waiting for quite some time. Egris did not often linger among the other officers and he rightly knew that. It was probably some power play that he went looking at all. The Lady happened to overhear his vow to search for her and she settled in to a rigid stance beside the mercenary as they both stared after the soldier.

"I wonder how long he would have made you wait," she mused, more to herself than the man at her side. With smart motion, she turned upon her heel to face him, leveling a smile. Her eyes met his gaze, unafraid.

The woman who greeted him was a beauty. There were a smattering of scars that dotted her face - across the bridge of her nose, numerous slanted down a cheek and across the arch of her mouth, but they did nothing to distract from her looks. One side of her hair was kept long, curling lazily past the level of her shoulder. The other had been cut short to barely tease the rim of her ear. Her eyes danced with amusement and curiosity. Far more than befitted a lady of her station, if her uniform and seals were any indication.

Her hand was extended, her gloves softened leather. "Egris Verreaux. You are the mercenary, are you not? Serrus Beclaw? Come to refuse me in person, have we?," she teased, with an impish expression. Well-understanding the double entendre. She had a soldier's humor.
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Re: Last, But Not Least

Postby Serrus » Fri Sep 05, 2014 2:24 pm

Some might have started at such a surreptitious arrival, but the sellsword had a knack for taking everything in stride, mostly because there wasn't too many things that fazed him these days. At her inquiry regarding the soldier, he retained his slouch against the archer butt, rolling his shoulders in a shrug of indifference.

"Way that bloke spat out 'sirrah' like he 'ad bird shit in 'is mouth, I'd say never, most like."

She would find the man glancing back at her not particularly stunning, though he did have a rural ruggedness about him, with his short-cut beard and long trails of dark hair, with brown eyes to match. He wore scars too, though not as criss-crossed as her mottled variety, and the larger one that ran from left eye to cheekbone was very noticeable, even with the facial hair. He looked near his forties, or past them. Hardly a snappy young upstart, and there was intelligence in those eyes, even if his smug grin made it appear that the man rarely took anything seriously.

He stepped forward from his slouch to take her offered hand, shaking it firmly, all brief and perfunctory. She was hardly a lady's lady, this one, rather taking the masculine offer of a handshake than the usual curtsy that oft required a bow in return, to which he was grateful in some respect. Tomboys tended to be blunt and straight to the point, which meant that business would remain business, and she wouldn't be talking up a storm every time their paths crossed.

He let out a soft 'hah' at her pun. "Aye, even brought a bloody ring fer t'occasion," he jests, sarcasm evident. "'Course, if we're talkin' 'bout military maneuvers, well, I 'appen t'know a good many maneuvers of me own." That smug grin remained, and he stood straight, arms folding against his chest.

"Still. Your letter spoke of a business proposal, aye? So let's talk 'bout that."
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Re: Last, But Not Least

Postby Kestrel » Sun Sep 07, 2014 4:35 am

The woman stepped out of the light like a phantom, her colors a brighter spot against the gloom thrown by the bright firelight. She smiled in disarming fashion as he spoke of the soldier. "Pay him no mind. The enlisted always think themselves superior to the mercenaries." And here, her eyes did scan his frame with consideration. "And you certainly look the part."

Her handshake was firm, but just as brief as his was intended to be. Her grin lingered as he mentioned the ring. He spoke of her letter and the business she mentioned and she gave a short nod. An arm waved, seeking to draw him into movement alongside her. They would leave the command tent, where there were always ears straining for gossip, and she would seek to take them towards the edge of the clearing. Her path was unhurried, her steps slowed to a stroll. The silence that stretched between them was as companionable as it could be for two strangers.

They ventured closer to where her men hunkered down for the night, but not too close. Not close enough to be noticed. The platonic affection that stretched across her features as she watched the men interact was unmistakeable. A moment of honest vulnerability that not often would risk revealing at this stage of the game. Her Ladyship had much to lose and had gained many enemies overnight, as a result of the Baron's decision.

"I thought it prudent to see if you wanted a position among my men. On a trial basis, for now. We need time to get to know one another. To see if our goals and morals run parallel or not. You would be paid handsomely in the meantime, but still be free to earn coin on the side in your own endeavors. You would, of course, neglect to wear my seal when not on official business."

"I aim to make Myrken safer for the people who live here. I am working to strengthen the Militia and bring food to those that need it. To bring strong leadership so that the people do not need to fear any longer."

Finally, she glanced over towards him and lofted a stern brow. "What are your thoughts on the matter? Do you seek a cause to follow?"

There would hardly be any hurt feelings should he decline. Still, there was something to be said for a royal seal behind his name, whatever his decision. Friends in high places.
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Re: Last, But Not Least

Postby Serrus » Sun Sep 07, 2014 11:13 pm

He followed in her wake towards the encampments, keeping left-rear, close enough to show that he was attentive, distant enough as a curt stranger should be to a noblewoman. His expression was nonplussed, an unfazed look about his person, not disinterest, but more carefree. They stop, and she asks him about taking a position among her men. A trial, much like a brief contract of sorts. His impassive glance to the men and her might have make him difficult to scrutinize at her explanations, the odd nod here and there, that wry smile unwavering... nothing snide or disrepsectful, but much like a man who had little to trouble him -- even if truth be told, it was part and parcel of his professionalism -- how he liked to 'work' in his duties, nefarious and despicable to some as they may be.

But then she mentions things like morals and goals running parallel, which mentally puts him on guard, though he retains his amicable demeaour. To her credit, she did make mention of being paid 'handsomely.' Being she was a noblewoman, he presumed she would well know the true meaning of being paid well for one's work, and not use those words like a cheap fence in a dingy street of The Hollows. He'd be paid for his work, and paid well -- something he'd been struggling with some respects to find in some circles of the town. Then comes her final question regarding a cause, and his own personal opinions on the matter.

He is notably silent at first to her question, either thinking of the question, or the right words to say -- or how to say them in a way someone of her disposition might find suitable. He was a commoner and a man of simple tastes and values, but that didn't diminish his intelligence. When he answers, he answers as he always does, in the usual casual overtones of a Granger.

"You've made it clear you're practiced in hirin' mercenaries, aye? So you'll know some of us don't much care for cause or t'work required in our services. Long as we get paid, we're content to do whatever t'bloody hell it is y'tell us t'do. As fer meself, I don't have much a cause, really, 'cept keeping m'self employed for t'most part."

"That said... you weren't far wrong, s'a dangerous town, this one. If your men are here t'keep things in order, all's well for all, then. Most simple folk don't much care who's in charge, so long as whoever's in charge don't make a mess o'things. An' from what I've 'eard, t'last blokes who ran this place did just bloody that."

He turned to face her, his dark eyes meeting hers as his casual overtones rolled along their merry way. "If I'm gonn be workin for yer, I'd be fine wearin' a seal or badge when I's in your service. Though I don't much care fer blue 'n gold, t'be honest," he adds, nodding to a distant sentry walking on patrol. "I've takin' much more a likin' t'brown, these days."

He'd worn the soldier's colours himself, all proud and strong for his province, all those years ago. A golden griffon on red and grey pipings. A swirling surcoat over steel plate on a black charger.

But that was a different man, a man who lived a lifetime ago, and that man was long since dead.
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Re: Last, But Not Least

Postby Kestrel » Tue Sep 09, 2014 10:40 am

Her head bobbed in response to his mention of mercenaries. "I prefer mercenaries, actually. Most, if not all of my men were, at one time, men for hire. A few were once criminals, victims of circumstance," she admitted. "I believe loyalty to coin can shift into honest loyalty with patience and action."

She smiled, briefly. "All of them started as a trial. Some moved on, far richer than before, when one of the two of us realized that we did not agree on the things that matter. The ones that stayed do so of their own accord. They are, of course, free to leave whenever they wish, but I ask for behavior befitting a man in my company. No unseemly behaviors to those weaker than they. No harming innocents in any fashion unless circumstances dictate otherwise. Self-discipline and fealty to me until they leave my service. No different than most military organizations, I'm certain," she mused.

"And the reason I look for mercenaries is that my men serve me. Not the King. Not unless I deem otherwise." It was a subtle distinction, especially given that she was employed by His Majesty's military, but it was notable. "To the benefit of my men." And her King. It gave her a certain freedom.

He complained about the blue-and-gold and she gave a brief laugh, soft and airy. There was something soft about that line of steel in her spine. "The colors may come later, Ser Belcaw. And how lucky for you that they are white, black, and red instead of my Uncle's colors, hm?"

It was a casual revelation - she was noble enough to warrant her own house colors. Royal blood ran through her veins, however diluted.

Her hand extended towards the man again, her eyes gleaming. In her palm rested a silver seal.

His for the taking.
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Re: Last, But Not Least

Postby Serrus » Fri Sep 12, 2014 12:36 am

He remained silent during her explanation of her reasons for hiring sellswords and mercenaries into her work. Much of it made sense, he supposed, though he was given the luxury of an objective point of a view and a more simpler way of seeing things, particularly Egris and her station within Myrkenwood. If they'd had this conversation five years ago, he might've chortled with laughter at her suggestion that those who sought coin could be bought with loyalty in patience, though his actions in the town since his arrival seemed to contrast to actions of a typical money-grubbing sellsword, and as such he had little comment on the matter.

Rules. Always with the rules. She spoke of the harm to the innocents, and this seemed to puzzle him internally. If she spoke of children, he supposed that was fair enough -- within reason. Though Belcaw was the sort of man who believed that no man or woman who'd passed the rite of passage could every truly be innocent. Everybody had secrets, and everybody had sinned once or twice, though some tended to break the moral code more than others. He supposed she simply meant to act as soldiers did -- though he wondered if her understanding of soldiers differed to his own.

As far as Serrus saw it, all those in command oft wanted the believe that those under their command were good and honourable men -- but most knew this was but a dream. Men had ambitions, men did what they saw fit for themselves -- even the knights with the hypocrisy of their chivalric code -- when men were given power, few wielded it responsibly. Not only that, but expecting such behaviour from mercenaries, too -- in his mind, he wondered if her stipulations were spoken because she thought them unbreakable, or because she wanted to appear as an honourable and just woman -- in Myrken, such a prospect seemed as fickle as a thistle fighting a storm.

Despite this, he did not question her motives. She'd given him leave to do his own private work, so he supposed he could do well to behave as a man befitting her ranks, as she so suggested, while he wore the seal, even though he made no internal vow to stick to said code once the seal came off. He nodded to her statement regarding service to her and her alone.

"Makes thing simple, like. I'd much rather report to one person than 'ave the whole mess of reporting to a whole dozen." At least then he'd know what was required of him, and not have numerous differing orders from differing men all at once.

As for colours -- he cared little about them. He'd stopped wearing them long ago, and had long since forgotten that life -- and here he was, ready to perhaps accept it again. He looked down to the seal, it's intricate carving and engravings, the way the lights of the fires danced about it's bronzed edges. In the distance, laughter could be heard faintly. A horse whinnied, and everywhere fires cracked and popped their final song for the night.

He'd seen another such fire, long ago. It had been cold that night, the slate numbing his knees as he knelt by the great fire of the temple. Men stood at a line each side, each of them wearing the same colours, each of them watching, many far older than he was. Some wore chainmail, others plate, some even boiled leather, though each carried the same colour: a golden griffon embroidered on a red field, bright with grey pipings. Before him stood the priest and his attendees, his words a murmured babble. The cold steel of a greatsword came down to kiss both of his shoulders, the steel a biting cold against his cheeks. But he didn't see the men standing side by side, nor see the priest or hear his incessant babble. He only saw the girl standing in the great flame, her frock a blazing inferno, her hair a smoking ruin, and her dark eyes gazing into his, great pools of sodden black that threatened to burst open in the heat. Tears flowed down the girl's cheeks. Tears that would not fall from eyes that would not blink.

In the blink of his own eye it vanished, and he found himself again standing upon wet grass glancing at the noblewoman, the vision all but gone. A mere moment had passed -- a few breaths, a few skips of the heart, as if the man had been reflecting carefully upon his next decision. A hand reached down to take the seal, calloused fingers closing about hers as his casual expression returned.

"So long as you don't 'expect me to bow every time y'walk past, or fer me t'milady you every time y'drop a stone down t'privy, we're agreed. I ain't no lord or lady's lackey."

And with that, he shook her hand, seal still enclosed between their fingers.
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