Henry Tall
Tall screwed up the note paper and let the small bird fly free, there would be no return message.
“Signals” he called. The young lad was dozing in a corner on the poop deck jumped to and grabbed his bag of flags.
“Compliments to Captains Tabai and Onjamiekrork (Jamie), make all speed out of Moridale – borders are closing. Meet at agreed destination. Ten go with you in haste”.
Several flags ran up, came down, and repeated. Tall waited for the signal received confirmation and waved his hat at his two comrades in arms. He had faith they would do their jobs well. Dunbar’s sloop of war was swift and agile, in fact, she was the ideal ship for this run now. The brig was possibly the greatest risk, she was not fully refitted running a skeleton crew. Tall knew Jamie was resourceful and the crew would follow her. Her presence was sorely missed aboard his own ship. The Windsong’s only risk would be if there were land fortifications with cannon. Unlikely, the casting process to make cannon was still largely experimental, consequently cannon was in short supply broadly.
He watched as the two other vessels flew more sail and cut away, making all haste. They had good wind and were running with the current – Tall nodded to his first officer who barked out orders, sails swiftly unfurling and picking up the wind, Windsong lurched forward, a beast unleashed. Tall glanced at his helm/nav – a smile stretched broadly across her face as the power of the ship responded to the conditions. Tall then glanced at Sparrowhawk – she danced across the water, Tall imagined her captain beaming.
The first half of their run for the border was excellent, all three ships made good pace, the Brig in fact, was neatly trimmed and cutting through the water with ease. Tall noted that both the smaller ships were pulling away nicely, he estimated he could likely run them down in open water, but here, as wide and deep as the river was, they had it all over the Windsong.
As with all things too good to be true though, their luck ran out within kilometres of the border nearest to Pont.
Sparrowhawk responded well, she turned full about and remained upriver out of reach of the blockade. Half a dozen river boats were forming a line roughly across the river, there were gaps, but the small ships were agile enough to board any vessel attempting to run them. Tall raised his eye glass and spied the middle vessel – he did not need the flags read for him, “stand too and prepare to be boarded” … Tall tutted to himself,
“Damn sloppy,” He muttered. Tall watched the brig come about, much slower than the other ship, but Jamie had her under control. They were not preparing to be boarded. Tall looked again through his glass – he spied the Moridale captain on board the other vessel, a ridiculously ostentatious uniform in the Moridale Orange and brown for a ship not much larger than a fishing vessel. Tall snorted.
“Signals”
“Aye, sir” came before Tall had finished the word.
“Make way – Passage paid for” Tall smirked watching the momentarily confused look on the lad’s face. He snapped to though and ran the signal. Tall watched through his glass. The ostentatious one, raised a glass and actually shook his fist at Tall.
“Mr Whaleborne, are my forward chasers loaded?” He queried sounding amicable.
“Aye, indeed they are sir” his acting boatswain replied.
“Well then my lad, fire a shot across their bow and have her made ready to bring about.” He calmly ordered. Whaleborne scurried forward.
Dunbar watched from his own ship. What was the old man up to? When the forward cannon went off Dunbar let out a whoop, even he hadn’t expected that. Quick to his own glass he checked the trajectory, she was straight over the bow of the middle ship, no shortage of panic onboard that little cutter now, Dunbar chuckled momentarily forgetting their peril.
The frigate then came about, Dunbar swore he saw gun ports opening, Tall had no guns below decks to run out though… Checking the Moridale ships, he could no longer see the port side of Tall’s ship, he noted the general alarm spreading through all the vessels. Three of the six were making sail. The middle ship was frantically running signals up to his own ships and at Tall. Well, thought Dunbar, no matter how this ends now, that was spectacularly entertaining.
“Signal sir,” his first mate.
“Aye?” Grunted Dunbar.
“Make all due haste NOW!” Dunbar assumed his mate added the emphasis…
All three ships raised sails as one and immediately lurched toward the now crumbling blockade. Half the flotilla could not get away fast enough, to his credit, the lead ship tried to maintain station. It was no match for the Frigate bearing down on it though and its captain rightly assessed that Tall was in no mood for pulling up. Tall assessed that they knew exactly who these ships belonged to and, if not, they would soon find out. At the last possible moment, the small river vessel gave way. It’s master bellowing in rage at the Red Company flotilla as he made way.
A few more hours sailing and they were clear.
The next morning, as they neared the open water Tall mustered his ships together. His two captains came aboard to dine.
“We must now make all due haste to our home and inform the others that the way through Moridale is no longer clear.” He said as they finished up their meal. He offered brandy.
“Dunbar, stay with the brig, you’ll both make good pace, but I will go ahead to our keep.” He ordered his friend and colleague. Jamie nodded silently and sipped her brandy.
“I’ll send a bird to the keep as well, don’t want any of them stumbling into his territory over land now.” Offered Tabai. Tall nodded.
They chatted for a while longer finishing off their drinks. Sharing a laugh at Tall’s bluff with the wooden gun barrels he’d had made…
Once back on board their ships, no time was wasted. Windsong’s sails unfurled majestically in the pale moonlight, and she was off towards Doomsayer’s harbour. With the other two ships in fast pursuit.
Dalkor Hinswell
Dalkor Hinswell watched on bemused, never before had he watched someone so enthusiastically apply such a lack of understanding broadly everywhere on the job site. This young lad wouldn’t last, but he was a bit of entertainment at day’s end. It was near knock off – Dalkor was done with this job. He’d celebrate tonight at the Duke’s Head tavern – a nice meal and…getting drunk.
He laughed with a few of his work colleagues as they all rowdy finished up, some packing up tools, some dusting themselves off roughly. He would no doubt see a few of the crew at least on his revels tonight.
Washed and changed, Dalkor had a bowl of hot stew with fresh venison and a veritable array of different vegetables. A generous knob of bread and a few slices of cheese as well. He sipped from his tankard before taking a spoon full and savouring the rich gravy the noisy tavern almost quietened for a brief moment.
A pewter being slammed into the table opposite him brought him out of his reverie, ale sloshing onto the table – One of the crew from work, Cho Wolten, a mixer like himself – she had proven extremely versatile on the worksite, skilled in a variety of disciplines – the greatest asset on this job was her stone masonry skill. Dalkor nodded greeting as he chewed, offering her the bread and cheese – she politely refused taking a generous drink from her mug, smiling. He could see she already had a bit of a glow. He smiled with her.
“So, you’re really done with us big man?” She asked directly. He nodded,
“Yep, it’s just time for me to do other stuff.” He nibbled a piece of cheese as he looked her in the eye.
“Fair enough.” She smiled. They’d been good friends, work mates. She stood,
“I’ll stand you a tankard!” it was no request. He laughed loudly and nodded. He drank down the rest of his drink and finished up his stew, getting the last of the gravy with some of the bread.
Cho returned, two large mugs of ale in hand.
“Cheers” she roared as they clanged their mugs together before drinking. They both started to talk at once, her to ask what his plans were, him to say he was going to go fishing for a while. Cho whooped a hearty laugh,
“FISH!” She exclaimed.
“I never imagined.” She laughed out. “Dal one eye. a fisherman” She drank, and she laughed.
He nodded, excited now.
“I love fishing and miss it.” He said matter of factly. She caught that and nodded,
“I get ya big man.”
More of the crew came in and the conversations moved on with much mirth and merriment to be had. None too little of it at Dal’s expense at the news he was “going fishing”. Most of the good-natured ribbing was because they’d been working on a bridge, near a river. Dal told them he was focussed on his work to more good-natured ribbing. The job would be finishing up for all of them soon enough now. Just finishing touches, it was a matter of days now, weeks at most.
Gleesan, a labourer from the job laughed as he explained how things would go the next few months.
“We’re moneyed up, so, we go to the city, seek new contracts and…” He laughed,
“Live it up, perhaps more than a little.” The crowd roared.
“They’ll find something to do with us, they always do.” He raised his cup.
The next two days being rest days the revelry carried on until the wee hours of the morning. The rowdy revellers were roundly and loudly shushed in the streets and narrow allies once the tavern had closed. Most were making their way home, or at least to accommodations.
Dal made a brief detour to the waterfront, riverside it was referred to ironically meaning the river side of the bridge. A few small boats were docked there a few more beached further along the river side on a thin strand of sand.
Atop the blacksmiths via some stairs was a small aviary, this was Dal’s detour destination. Dal had some skills not many were aware of, aside from a natural resistance to alcohol anyway, he could fake drinking or give the impression he was drinking a lot, and he could readily do “drunk” … these were rudimentary skills though for someone like Dal. The small blue Shard Hawkling was not immediately recognisable among the other exotic birds in the aviary, he found it none the less. Dal attached his message and hoped his handler would receive it. Sure, that the little bird had the message he released it into the early morning darkness. He saw it fly off to the south before turning to his abode for his last night here.
Despite the late bedtime, Dal was still up early, fishing gear in hand he made his way to his boat, tied at the docks. A small but nimble dinghy he rowed it into the deeper water easily before heading down stream. He would try for Pont.
Dal would never know if his message reached his handler in the guard, he was among those rounded up along with several of his crew faced Duke of Moridale’s executioners' axe under charges of treason and supporting the Erayax.
Lord Trelor Alfred Henry Luminere-Smith
Lord Trelor Alfred Henry Luminere-Smith sits, blue eyes narrowed on the licking of logs, by flames, in hearth, under Mantle, illumination enough provided, for now, for the modest Lodging.
He sits in a not entirely relaxed position, senses on alert, as almost always. Though, he has afforded the slightly less modest luxury of a tankard, nearby, of apple juice (not cider, as he doth not imbibe. It is flavoursome, but lacks en certain tang, of that from the Manor Houee Orchards), and tell-tale tendrils of cherry infused pipeweed ascending from nostrils (the finest of Manorgrown tobacco. One can afford some ostentatiousness, despite being INCOGNITO).
His brow furrows, as contemplation continues.
The Skirmisher Guild. The School Of The Silent Steps. The cacophony of usual informants. Types, potentially savoury, or otherwise. Consultations made, information gathered, Reconnaissance ran. Scuttlebutt, potentially, entirely? Yet, mayhaps, kernels of truth contained? It's a path he has trod numerous times, though naught to this degree.
Generational commerce affords a degree of foresight, he ponders, additionally. Smiths, like Coopers, Wrights, Tanners, Fletchers, are almost omnipresent, in all but the smallest of hamlets. The incomings of raw materials, outgoings of finished goods.... a trail of meandering Wagons (fit strong by the Wrights, and Smiths, and frequent consumers of the Coopers' wares, themselves) carrying whisperers, disseminated in accuracy, by distance, likely.
Any ration, morsel, portion, any one factoid, shared, overhead, transferred, .....
Any craftsperson of metallurgy would admit, begrudgingly of course, that, in any suit of Armour, no matter the quality, the hours of molten toil, of worn musculature, of productivity, and sheer GRIT... exists a flaw. By it's very nature.
And, though some would suggest that a parley, of some description, is presently afforded those of HADOVEAN militant and political perspectives....
Tre tokes, DEEPLY.
With (Sir) Kindred The Bane (son, if not by name), and Sir Magnus Wolfgang Hebron (brother, if not by Birth), leading the House Of Smith in his absence....
He'll be DAMNED if he doesn't do all he can, to ensure it is a Geldhiemer hand, that squeezes the last mortal breath, out of the limp neck, of THAT mewling quim..... DUKE!
Tombs
Tombs has been with the main army of Red Co, running the business and keeping up coin. On hearing the news that moridale has effectively declared war on doomsayers, as well as the main factions, Tombs turns the army towards moridale with the intent to join the Doomsayers armys. Knowing that the situation has now endangered the Red Co fleet currently moving base to their new keep in the doomsayers territory. Hopeing to draw attention to moridale's border allowing the fleet to pass unmolested.
Tombs and Baelin
Tombs looked across his desk at Baelin who was just now putting down the extremely expensive velum parchment on said desk. One eyebrow cocked in question.
Baelin gave a wry smile,
“I haven’t been summoned anywhere since my early days at the Guild schools.” he said with an uneasy chuckle.
Both men then laughed together as though they were naughty schoolboys and despite the gravity of the situation. Red Company had been summoned before the Traders, Bankers, and Merchants guild – a rare event as far as Tombs was aware. Whilst the summons itself was of concern, Tombs had no doubt it was no reprimand or question of Red Company’s integrity – he chewed his lip considering what it might be though, it was a puzzle.
“Let’s go find out then.” He almost grunted as he stood and threw his coat on hastily. Baelin smiled and nodded in acknowledgement. They left the offices of the new Keep, both men pleasantly surprised at how well it was coming together, there were a few niggly little repairs needed, but it would do.
The horses made the trip to Doomsayers much faster, and it was uneventful. They quickly checked on the Company offices in Doomsayer’s and made their way to the Guild offices. The Traders, Bankers and Merchant’s guild was perhaps the most powerful of all the guilds, materially at least. Their offices comprised of three large and very ornate buildings – prominent in the Keep.
Upon arrival they were met and ushered to a dimly lit meeting room, a large heavy oaken table was the centre piece of the room – Tombs quickly counted up, twenty plush wood and leather chairs surrounded the table. The hearth glowed in the centre of the far wall. As their eyes adjusted both men noticed five figures sat at the far end of the table. An old, almost grizzled looking gnome sat at the head of the table. He smiled, briefly yet warmly and beckoned Tombs and Baelin forward.
“Gentlemen,” Smiled the Gnome, “We have a situation rapidly developing that you may, in part at least, already have some knowledge of.” He paused. He knew that the opening gambit would absolutely grab their attention. He continued,
“We are the executive five of the board, you can refer to me as The Chairman,” another pause, Baelin shrugged and smiled, Tombs held the Gnomes gaze.
“Who we are is unimportant, who we represent is though.” Tombs nodded his understanding at this.
After retelling what was known leading up to and including the mutual declaration of war upon Moridale. Neither Tombs nor Baelin appeared surprised, or shocked at the full telling of the story. The other four ‘executives’ listened dispassionately.
Tombs and Baelin briefly exchanged glances, Tombs then studied the five at the table more closely – a gnome, two humans, an orc, and a Dwarf. Red Company had a lot of dealings both with and for the guild – he understood perfectly that these five would be shrewd and quick-thinking operators all with specialist skills in differing fields.
“Well, we knew he was up to something.” Said Baelin, Tombs nodding in agreement, he then disclosed all that was known about the attack on the Red Keep. Tombs realised this was the first retelling of all that they knew. That secret had afforded them passage at least for one shipment of people and goods from the old Keep and, hopefully, a second one. The board shared their concern for the vessels and had two brigs standing ready to assist should they request it. Tombs would wait for the moment – it would be a close-run thing he knew, Moridale closing their borders may capture his flotilla within them. Of course, he also knew that between Henry and Dunbar at least, those two ships would be difficult to stop. He was unfamiliar with the acting captain of the Brig, but she certainly had Tall’s trust and that would have to do.
The chairman acknowledged that the attack on the Red Keep, and this latest event could be linked. Tombs offered the services of Red Company, despite at least half being either still at the old Keep, in transit, or the Ten forbid captured by Moridale. He knew the fate of any of his people taken by Moridale now would not be brief and terrible.
The Traders, Bankers and Merchant’s guild would keep Red Company now very much in the loop. The Guilds – which was almost all of Doomsayer’s Keep were united in backing the Kingdom and the Empire in disrupting Moridale’s agenda, the idea that the Duke of Moridale could actually be Erayax was taking root, regardless of whether or not he was a mere puppet in this. And, of course, he was certainly an individual to never underestimate either way.
Tombs and Baelin were already exchanging planning ideas on their ride back to the keep. Tombs briefly shared his concerns for the flotilla, Baelin agreed, concern etched into his face.
They wasted no time in putting Red Company into motion. Tombs sent birds to the old Keep with instructions and a small skirmishing party to, hopefully at least, meet up with the group coming overland. Tombs remembered that one in that number had fled Moridale himself, his life would be forfeit for certain if captured.
Now all they could do was wait for direction from the Traders as to where contact with Moridale was imminent. If the timing were right, Red Company would send the strongest force they could muster to that encounter.
A Bardagan Ranger
Despite the commotion up ahead the ranger moved swiftly yet silently through the dense underbrush. At the top of a small rise the source of the commotion came into clear view.
A small wagon with two horses and a cart with a bullock pulling it were waylaid by a small group of uniformed guard looking types. The Ranger recognized their orange and brown standard and spat moving as close as they could safely in order to better assess the situation.
“We are just poor farmers moving to the Doomsayer’s lands to be away from the factions fighting.” The older man of the small group entreated the guards. Their stony faces hinted they were having none of it though.
“Our borders are closed and you are trespassing as spies!” one of the guards blurted out. Two children began crying and a woman and young man tried to comfort them.
“Shut that mewling up!” Yelled another, immediately having the opposite effect. A largish looking flabby brute in a filthy uniform, he stepped toward the crying children menacingly. The ranger did not hesitate.
An arrow struck the large bruting thug in the mouth, killing him almost instantly. A second and then a third arrow felled two more in quick succession before any could react. More crying and screaming, the older man leapt to his family (or friends, the ranger did not know for sure) and huddled them all to the ground.
The remaining guards were now moving, two towards the travellers, the ranger broke cover, arrow knocked she sprinted towards the group – loosing and arrow and knocking another on the fly. By the time the remaining two guards thought to attack her, she was among them – axe and dagger in hands. It was over as quickly as it began. The ranger moved like lightning.
The old farmer stepped up from being the meagre cover he provided for the young ones. He sized the young girl up – she could be hardly out of her teens, yet a fully fledged ranger.
“A little young….” He started to say – she cut him off.
“Not for a Bardagan!” A small smile.
The farmer’s eyes widened and he tugged his forelock (unnecessarily),
“May the Ten protect you.” He stammered out. She appreciated the gesture despite suspicions that this farmer was probably a long way from devout.
Upon ensuring all were ok, she suggested travelling with them to Doomsayer’s Keep. The offer was readily accepted. The group explained that they had been separated from the main train they were with all moving to the sacred lands of Doomsayers Keep. She did not ask too many questions or where they were from – the farmer contemplated whether that was disinterest of if she considered it none of her business. He decided that he was not overly concerned either way – she had, not doubt, just saved their lives.
As it happened, she also knew pathways that they would never have found, cutting several days out of their journey.
They had not more encounters with Moridale’s people along the way, however, they had a story to tell upon arrival.
Ciris
Ciris grasped the parchment between her hands, eyes repeatedly skimming over the lines of text. Copies of the transcript from the duke’s so-called “declaration” had reached the Fox Den’s camp, utterings of disbelief and disgrace travelling throughout the tents. Up on her feet, Ciris marched towards the residence of her leader to make sure that she had received the news.
The Fox Den’s camp was a communal area, a large mess hall providing shelter for the majority of their forces. In the centre a fire pit crackled softly, an everlasting comfort to its inhabitants. Though they had done their best to transform it, it could never be hidden that this was once the home of the Wolf Pack. Amber pelts and emerald green tapestries had been decorated over the walls, covering past symbols like old wounds. As its former members would tell you, nothing had been quite the same since the Pack had disbanded. Ciris was only a youngling during these aforementioned glory days and had heard of their existence merely through whispers and legends. All she truly knew of the Pack was the stories Mallory and Briney had shared, able to tell that they were doing their best to fill the hole that had been left.
Ciris ducked her head underneath the curtain door that marked Mallory’s base of operations. She strolled past the cushioned chair and instead hoisted herself to sit on top of the cluttered desk. Her leader was in the far corner of the room, pacing back and forth with her brow furrowed.
“I’m assuming you’ve heard the news?” Ciris smiled tentatively. Mallory stopped, drawing in a breath. “I don’t know how this thick-skull duke expects us to believe a word he says. The Empire, working with the Erayax!? Dear Gods. Even worse, he’s got his brain-washed subjects hooked on whatever garbage he spits out.”
Ciris nodded in agreement. “Encouraging their family members to revolt; so that’s what the outbreaks near Sweetwater were about. It’s disgusting, too many good people are going to be casualties in this conflict.”
“Not counting the folks who were executed. I don’t want to imagine how they’ve tortured the Empress’s partner.” Mallory was now seated at the small alter she had set up, candles lit and surrounding a portrait of her Empress Yalsoi Darquin. She placed something upon the shrine; a small token, an offering. She was asking for a blessing. “I don’t even know why he would do this, apart from utter delusion. What does Moridale have against both the Empire and Kingdom?”
Ciris sighed, absentmindedly rifling through the papers strewn across Mallory’s desk. Her rodent skull mask was set to the side, revealing tired, sunken-in eyes. A hand came to her face, tracing the idents of her scars; they seemed deeper than usual, caused by overuse of her magic. “I don’t know either. And I don’t know how we’re expected to go and fight their armies when we know Geldheimers are going to be right on our tracks as well. Something tells me they won’t be willing to call a truce just for the moment.”
“Briney, any input?” Mallory called across the room. Some rustling, then a small catfolk peaking her head out from behind a tapestry. Briney entered the room fully, Ciris briefly catching a glance of a tunnel behind the covered wall. “Hm? What are we talking about?” The catfolk had a vacant look in her eyes, as was common since the disband of the Wolf Pack, and especially since the arrival of their newest member; a wolfkin assassin, who seemed to bring back a few too many memories for some. Mallory tried to maintain her patience. “The message from the Duke, and the orders from the Empress. We’re tasked with storming Moridale in few day’s time but still have no clue what he’s trying to achieve by accusing us. There has to be something more.”
“Oh.” Briney said, scratching behind her ear. “Maybe he’s projecting. That’s what Val says when I accuse her of cheating in cards.”
Mallory and Ciris exchanged a look. “She’s got a point” Ciris encouraged. Mallory’s eyebrows knitted together. “Maybe. But we can’t prove anything. If there is a chance that the duke could be working with the Erayax, I want everybody on their highest guard. I saw what they did to that Red Company guy, and… I will not allow any of my foxes to meet the same fate.”
Mallory took the parchment from Ciris, pinning it up to the wall with a knife. “The plan is simple. Get in, kick that duke’s butt, cause as much havoc as we can.” She looked over the smiling faces of her lieutenants, a renewed sense of determination rippling throughout the room. “Let’s just hope that it stays that simple.”
