Qwyn found himself wading mid-waste through a pile of shit. He wished he was only speaking metaphorically though in this case it was literal. The moths, bats, and other vermin waste was proof that the books had been undisturbed, save for the destruction brought on by hungry and cold animals. Qwyn tugged at the string holding his pants up. His belt had broken days ago with his improvised attempts at fashioning a suitable replacement failing miserably. His long fingers danced effortlessly across the cracking spines of the books. Some of the books were beyond saving, some were not worthy of saving, though one in particular...Six hours later he smelled as bad as the room looked. To his chest he clasped the jewel encrusted penguin hide bound book. Penguin-hide had been the chosen materials for the Gretzky tribe. The material had done its job well. The oily material had defended the books against the elements themselves; defending against both rain and shit. The book was as good as new. The answers Qwyn sought...it all started here. Yes he had doubted himself at first. Yes he had considred quitting. Yes it had taken him months longer than he expected. But he was here. He was alive. He would not doubt himself again. He hitched his pants up one last time, well worth it to make it this far.
"Does anyone have a spare pair of pants?" Qwyn looked down at the dead Aboreans. Fully intent on doing a quick check of the creatures and then getting moving.
"Wish we had more time. We could've had ourselves a fantastic breakfast." Qwyn then takes out his daggers, planning on getting a small piece of one of the tree dudes. Could make for good crafting material -- a wand or some such.
His dagger sinks into the tree-plant man. The blood, or what would be bloody, is surprisingly syrup-like. The kind of stuff that scares a man like darkness in the night.
Funny, darkness used to scare me. Voss's eyes wandering skyward toward the moonless night. Commander Verbeek gave it the same gravitous one would announce that supper was ready. To a man the legion knew what it meant, We go tonight. The enemy also knew tonight would most likely be an attack too, preparing hot oil to bath the raiders in, double guards on areas into the sewer, double-men along the walls. It was a sick game commanders played with one another. To counter the argument of defender preparedness Voss's commander had argued that the since the siege was going so well and the enemy was starving an attack would not be expected since the enemy would be starved out by winter. Voss and his brothers laughed when they heard THAT.
No commander ever rose to glory with bards singing songs of starving an enemy. Which is how Voss came to find himself trudging waste deep in shit with One brother on each side of him. Voss was not sure which was the most cowardly: starving out an enemy, sneaking into the castle, or climbing through human waste to sneak into the castle. Battle should be fought in open fields, or man to man, wizards were bad enough. Sieges were not honorable. That is why Voss has spent the last five years ranging around the Hudson Valley on his own. "Hudson, you know this castle is it going to work." Long ago the men in the garrison had taken to calling him Hudson. It was the reason the commander had sent someone to locate Voss in the first place. He was positive know one even knew his last name, which was good as Voss most likely would have ended up as a hostage, as opposed to breaking into the castle, in which case he would end up dead. All because there was a new lord who pledged allegiance to the wrong ally or some equally mundane offense that invariably led to the death of innocents. Voss recalled a saying he had heard around a fire Old king, old war, same shit. New king, new war, same shit. The biggest problem of this particular battle was that the new lord was Voss's brother-in-law and that his sister and nephew were also trapped in the castle. All which led to a mid-level high pile of shit to be waded through.
Voss replies to Qwyn's query about pants, "You already took my pair."
Voss takes out his dagger, fully planning on resting and healing for the 15 minutes that it would take him to be back at full strength. "Don't suppose any of us is handy with a carving knife? We could skin the boar and take its hide to cure it later for a new set of pants."
He then dug into his dead opponents flesh.
Remsfeld found himself wading mid-waste through a meadow of flowers. Chest-level high it was the tallest flowers he had ever seen in his life. He squeezed his nose to pinch back of a sneeze. One thought crossed his mind. I would rather be wading through a pile of shit.
Remsfeld took account of his body parts. All there. I wonder how Inara is doing. He pushed her from his mind. Figure out out what needs to be done here and deal with her later.
Qywn slipped a piece of Aborean flesh into his bag. Getting back to work Qwyn begins making a new pair of pants out of leaves and scarps of shredded breeches.
Alion found himself wading mid-waste through a pile of shit. Not a literal pile of shit as that would have been disgusting, even for a farmer boy like himself. The metaphorical pile of shit was how to grow three inches by his sister's wedding so he could dance with the beautiful Tiara. How best to grow three inches while doing the chores was the issue, an issue with no clear answer in sight. He wheeled the barrel of cheese home. It was a hard day of trading at the market, especially for a boy of seven. But wheat for wood and then wood for sheep had led to the acquisition of the cheese. Which was what his mother had wanted. Alion whistled happily, playing out the scenario in his head of three inches growth and Tiara's collapsing into his arms.
He spotted the horses tied to the simple one-story stone house that his Mother jokingly called "the castle." As Bridgewater's largest land owners his family could have certainly built and commanded a larger castle though his Father humbly said the royal decree wasn't worth the piss of ink that made up the letters nor the shits of the men who had granted it years ago. Alion recognized the horses at once.
The Cullen family had a remarkable family crest that they insisted on displaying everywhere. Including a large flag attached to the horses saddle. Alion hurried forward with the cheese. His father would be in a cross mood, his mother moreso and his sister...The Cullen family claimed to have royal blood though they offered no such proof save their Penguin Crested banner. As he approached the door pushing the barrel he caught himself wondering where the red droplets on the cheese came from. It took him a moment to register the arrow sticking through his shoulder, poking out rudely in front of him. The droplets ran down the rough wooden shaft before falling of the cliff that was the steel arrow head. Mother is going to be displeased wad his penultimate thought. It was then that the ground rushed up to meet his face as a stench reached his noise. I shit myself was his final thought.
Alion takes stock of the situation. "I say we break long enough to heal up and proceed. Weren't we looking for something around here for that talking head? Maybe we should set the woods on fire."
No one replies to the fire question. Maybe Voss asked it earlier. Everything could get so confusing sometimes.
A shard, Alion recalled. Though what it looked like was anyone's guess.
Alion could hear the screams of his sister mixed in with the screams of his mother. His mouth was dry, in desperate need of water to clear the iron taste in his mouth. His shoulder hurt to hell. Somewhere in there a third female cry joined in the chorus of pain from the house.
Tiara...Tiara...Tiara. Certainly her voice was mixed in. Where are my father's body guards? Where are the field workers? Alion regained his feet. Laughably the wheel barrel had remained upright when he let go of it - the sign of a story that would never be finished.
"You were dead." Gruff, weathered hands grabbed Alion's shoulders half-dragging the boy to his feet. Preacher Maine pulled away from the house. Father had insisted on religion for the family and farmers and Preacher Maine with one eye that danced wildly in on direction and a second eye that danced a completely different tempo was the man who led the weekly prayers. Wild hair tied in a thick pony tail, he gave the impression of a man who was more at home in a bar than a place of worship.
"My father." Did Alion ask it or think it? Everything was muddled.
"Dead," muttered Maine. They reached the beginning of a row where some wheat had been planted.
"Mother. She will follow soon. My sister -- "
"Boy don't ask questions where you do not want answers."
"Tiara?" Maine slapped Alion hard across the face.
"I told your father this fool Cullen would come."
Alion recalled the conversation. Long ago his fathers and Cullen had been friends. His sister was promised to Cullens son as long as a dowry was provided. When no dowry could be raised - Cullen claiming the name was enough - his father had put his sisters hand back out for marriage.
Cullen came to claim kings right and blood. Bought off enough guards. This will be his land now. His thoughts were mixing between now, then, and what would be. Alion continued the blind fleeing through the field. Even at a young age he knew that the Cullen's were ruthless and cunning. He did not doubt they were capable of stealing the land and hiding behind their hired bookmen. Where will I go? Fatigue had overwhelmed him though adrenaline pushed him forward.
"Come child. The road. Safer that way." Maine continued to drag Alion forward.
Alion looked back toward the stone house. The wicker room and wooden interior beams...he could not help but notice in the moonless night it looked like a beacon. The flames leaped high into the night, lighting the path ahead.
Fifteen minutes later the party is well rested with pieces of dead flesh packed away. Qwyn's vine tree-branch pants looking like one good movement would reduce them to twings.
Voss takes out his bow, now fully rested and healed explore where the pig came from. He went South for 15 feet diagnol when he saw it. At first he though she was levitating then he understood thin, nearly opaque bonds held her in the air.
A half-naked woman. Brunette. Early-20s. There was some sort of fountain in the room. An active fountain that spurt water through the air in a small arc behind her head. Bound to the fountain by the opaque bind was the woman. She was slumping badly, as though there was no energy to her body. Her mouth was also gagged. The water also runs down her body.
She is about 15 feet away away from the party.
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