The world was so full of promise yet tragically boring at times.
There were no other Tiefling's at the academy. Where ever Donal had taken Qwyn there never seemed to be any tieflings. Maybe I would have been better off being the world's worst thief. The thought came to Qwyn as he one again performed the mind numbing task of cleaning the chimney – by hand, of course – as punishment for making the academy far less mind numbingly boring. Where others had trouble memorizing the simplest spells or information Qwyn’s nearly perfect memory allowed for an easier time. Though it did not keep him from being bored.
The world was so full of promise. Though so far that was all it held. The promise of Tiefling's. Of women. Of a far more interesting life.
Though three square meals, a warm nightly bath, and a full library...those were the good parts. Perhaps if Qwyn had not traveled with Donal for three months he would not have been bored. Those months had been interesting. Donal had taught the rudimentary knowledge.
Though the academy...boring...and no Tiefling's. The world though. The world was so full of promise.
The world was so full of promise. Though a promise of a half-blinded boar pinning him between an earthen wall and a plant-tree held a promise of a painful sort. Qwyn silently shifted to his left (B10). How hurt is the Tree Thingie to the south of me? Well he can’t see me. For once he internalized his thoughts since speaking would most likely get him into a great deal of trouble. Though the Aborean certainly noticed the mystic energies of Feywild in the form of its brilliant white flame (32 to hit) as its elemental mind and body was suddenly ablaze in brilliant white flame. Rivulents of argent fire stream frothed from the tree-plant (17 hit points damage). It is not dead but it is certainly hindered and badly injured.
Voss's new friends toasted to his success for the fifth time. He knew it was five times since he had counted every single one since no one had ever raised a cup in his honor. "Show them more, Hudson Voss."
Voss had been in the camp for one day-not even sure where to pitch his tent due to the unspoken subtleties of camp hierarchy- when the tournament had started. Swordplay for the new novices before the "real" tournament began among the knights, warriors, and harder men who made up the New York King's Army.
By the end of the night Voss pitched his tent upstream with the most respected warriors of the camp.
Fighting with two weapons - a wooden long swrd and wooden dagger more valuable than his spent long sword and even more spent dagger - his raw strength was enough to overcome the lesser trained boys and men. Limited in training, he still had some training compared to others who had never held a sword before.
If they had not been wooden swords he most likely would have killed a few people thanks to brute strength and imprecision.
Sir Verbeek, you were positive that was his name, approached with a wizened smile on his face. He was with the group of army members who had recruited near Voss's town and eventually signed him to join the army. His shined helm was nearly ticked under his arm, a thick green cloak covered what was certainly chain mail. "Walk with me child." He was not man you felt you could refuse. Looks of envy were on the face of every man at the table.
Voss wondered if Verbeek was the type of man who would attempt to take advantage of a young soldier. He had heard of such tails. Voss was not certain how he would react. The military offered access to a new world. A world Voss had dreamed of.
Verbeek walked silently until he reached the the area where the fields were being plowed. Even late at night oxen and night boys were hard at work. Verbeek pointed a bent finger, up close it looked like everyone one of his fingers had been broken at some point, toward the oxen. "You are as strong as that creature. Do you know why a mule is more valuable than an ox? An ox rushes forward without thought. A mule walks casually, thinking. Thinking exactly how long it must walk before stopping. A mule can beat an ox."
The next day Voss stood across from Danlee. A skinny boy holding a staff with a coat of plate mail. A staff? Not a warriors weapon. Voss rushed forward with your long sword and dagger drawn.
Half an hour later Voss began vomiting. Each of his heavy blows was deflected by the skinny boy. Slowly his arms fatigued, muscles knotting. Sweat dripping from his brow. Soon the Danlee's blows started landing..and Voss finished second in the tournament. The first tournament ever ended without a decisive blow.
That night Voss was alone at the table...downstream. Victory had a thousand fathers, failure none. Sir Verbeek slipped down to join you. "Are you ready to learn how to be a mule?"
Silent and violent like an angry mule hard at work Voss continued his persistent and precise fighting. His primary long sword slashed viciously toward the remaining plant tree, following up as the creature felt the effects of whatever Qwyn did to it. The blow was true, easily making it past the creature’s defenses (32 to hit) and dealing a mortal blow (21 hit points damage.) With a loud creak the plant-tree tipped over, falling into the hedge. Voss was not done pivoting on his heel, whipping himself around toward the Dire Boar. Once again the creature had had a dread look in its eye as blood and pant leg dripped from its tusks. Voss dipped in with his non-magical sword (22 to hit) and the Dire Boar countered by parrying the blow using its tusk.
The Dire Boar’s tusks flashed a second time (29 to hit) catching Voss’s armor between its buckles. For a moment Voss believes he has missed most of the damage until the Dire Boar rears backward, snapping its neck skyward. Suddenly Voss finds that he is a projectile missile – like the flight of an arrow the warrior goes up – throw higher than he would have thought possible only coming to a stop when he collides with the 15 foot ceiling (6 hit points damage). Like the arrow returning to the ground he then falls, his reflexes and training saving himself from most of the damage of the impact (1 hit point). Remarkably enough Voss found himself right back where he started. Though he was much worse off than the beginning of battle, nearly half-spent with fatigue and damage.
“Are you relieved or sad?"
Remsfeld slammed his bastard sword against the stone wall with so much force that it bounced back toward him, the sword's natural flexibility suddenly becoming an enemy to the young dwarf. The flat of the blade struck him square in the cheek, the blow softened slightly by the thick brown beard that was his heritage, though not enough to erase the bright red mark rose to the surface. And this was the best part of Remsfeld's day so far.
His Uncle, standing close by, was respectful enough not to mention the near injury. Instead his Uncle calmly repeated, "Are you relieved or sad?"
Remsfeld slammed down his helm - making certain to aim it so it would not bounce back - then his gauntlet, followed by the rest of his guardsman outfit. By the time his tantrum was over he had worked up quite a sweat, which was proving problematic as he found himself naked in the cool cave that he called home.
His anger abetted he took several deep breaths to steady himself. He thought of the long hours the job would entail. The attention to detail. The benefits of such a job. He would be good at the job.
"I wanted the job." Remmy bit off each word individually, as though each was a piece of venison where he was savoring the taste.
"A Kingsguard commander. The type of job that would allow a young dwarf like yourself to rise in both station and aclaim."
"Aye." Remmy pulled open a wooden drawer that was inlaid into the wall. It was the only non-stone item in the room. He continued his fury by yanking out a woven cloak. A gift from his friend Rhaul. Rhaul who he never would see if he joined the guard. Rhaul who made Remsfeld laugh like no other.
"You would stand by holding your sword while others went off to battle. You would command others to hold back. You would command others in the darkness while doors were closed, traps were laid, and your King was protected." Uncle picked up the helm, checking it for dents. He found none. He put it on Remsfeld's bed.
"Aye." Remmy's anger subsided further. Level, calm, stubborn dwarveness.
"Are you relieved or sad?" His Uncle turned, heading toward the entrance to the room. "Whatever you are feeling right now? That is how you really feel about the job."
Remsfeld was slightly shocked that he found himself relieved.
Remmy was relieved he was not dead under the fallen branches. He crawled out of the hedge covered in blood, brambles, and bruises finding himself side-by-side with Voss While not dead he was noticeably pissed off. Both hands on his bastard sword, a heavy scowl on his face he rose to his feet. “Sumbitch! “’ere’s your favor back!” Remmy suddenly spun beneath the Dire Boar’s guard with a long, powerful cut, followed by the sweep of his dwarven leg in a move called spinning sweep (30 to hit.)
…And the Dire Boar found itself flipped through the air tusks over hoofs, landing with a loud thud (11 hit points) flat on its back.
History is made up of fiction, fact, myth and legend. Notice that truth is not listed among them. Master Graham was the first teacher Alion had when he took to the cloak. 30 plus years of traveling with adventurers gave a young acolyte a belief on what could happen - for better or worse - if you survived the trials of taking to the roads in your God's name. Tragically fact is curtailed to speak to the name of the victors. Myth and legend are facts that have not been written down. Fiction is a series of written tales that rich men write down to show to one another to prove piety. If you can tell the difference between the four then you will lead a glorious life where one day you will have earned the right to complain about your various infirmaries. For example, it burns when I urinate thanks to a horse nearly gelding me with a well placed kick. See. Fiction, fact, myth, and legend in one statement.
Fiction, fat, myth, and legend. What would the bard’s sing of today’s battle? Alion wondered how the tiefling kept managing to lose his pants. With no pants protecting prayer in his spell book, Alion focused on Remmy. Alion whispered a brief prayed, divine light washing over the dwarf, helping to mend the warrior’s wounds and eliminating the bruises.
- · Remmy is at max hit points
- · Voss is just over half
- The Dire Boar still looks pretty strong
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