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| Rumour's Tongue, Proves Comfort False; Act II Scene IV - The Peasant's Revolt | |
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| Topic Started: Oct 6 2014, 09:39 PM (282 Views) | |
| Lothiar Reik | Oct 6 2014, 09:39 PM Post #1 |
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| Summer, 8AR Thunder rumbled slowly in the ditant, long and rolling in a fumbling fulmination. It had been raining all day, from the first light of the sun, through the overcast grey of the daylight, and the twilight of the gloaming sun. It was light yet persistent, turning the rutted dirt paths that snaked its way beween looming fields of green cereals to churned mud, puddles of brown water sitting idle in the well-worn wagon tracks. The distant sunset bathed the proceedings in a dull orange glow, its final, dying lights trying vainly to pierce the grey carpet of cloud. A squat wooden fort, hastily erected, sat atop a commanding hill. Its rough palisade circled a small paddock, where horses nickered, and two large congregations sat opposing one another, set straight in the pitted muck. Twenty tents of well tanned leather and canvas lined one, and fifteen unhitched wagons another, and silent, spear-wielding sentries circled its perimeter. There were no gates, only tall posts flanking a vast puddled of disturbed earth and sputtering water, and guards huddled into their cloaks, seeking some respite from the oppressive precipitation. At the centre of it all lay a large round tent of mud-stained silk, a homely glow emmitting from within ts depths. Lothiar sat, hunched over a table, his eyes straining to read an old map inked onto old leather, seeking routes of pacification. Mustered here was fully one third of his total forces, forming a van that would forge a path for the other two, each a two day ride from the other. As his eyes perused the map, his mind whirred, turning scrawled ink into steep hills, old manors, and vast plains. He plotted areas of strategic importance, the size of garrissons left behind, though in his heart he knew its redundancy. Alamonde Chiskayek, the baron whose lands he was now moving into with force, had been in Kinaldi for the past three years, not even bothering to replenish his knightly contingent following its depetion after the Dark COnquest and subsequent famines. As such, many of the manors were dilapidated, uninhabited, with no magistrate or retainers to put up any form of stiff resistance. He merely had his old seneschal collect not even half of his revenues every six months. A determined show of force, and a new administration, would soon put that ancien regime to bed. Reik smiled, thinking on the future - the increased supply, the wider pool of recruitment, that such an easy prize offered him. If he moved with enough alacrity - pressing men into service and requisitioning arms and the harvest, he could move on Orl'Kabbar by the end of the season - such a den of theives would no doubt leap at the chance of easy plunder. With the city under his command, he would winter there, before holding a spring muster and moving with wicked intent on the capital. King of the West! It had such a pretty ring to it! The entrance flap flickered, and he bolted upright out of his reverie, his vast form straightening on the low stool. He waited a few choice heartbeats - it was good to make men sweat in his presence - before answering. "You may enter." Edited by Lothiar Reik, Oct 7 2014, 12:50 AM.
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| Drium | Jun 15 2015, 08:04 AM Post #2 |
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A commandeered horse galloped along the path through the well watered fields, hooves splashing mud and dirty water with every heavy stomp against the ground. Its fully cloaked rider was clung to its back, reigns gripped tightly in hand and head bowed to keep their face from being battered by the rain as they traveled through it. A large sack, attached to the waist knocked rhythmically against their thigh, appearing as simply a large bump underneath the cover of the cloak. Their destination was not far off ahead, the hilltop fort currently a growing silhouette against the backdrop of gray sky. A shiver ran up their spine as they continued onward, the cloak, darkened by the saturation of rain, giving them a bit of chill, despite the summer's warmth. They kicked the horse's sides to urge it on faster then, wanting to get to a place where they could be sheltered from the rain as quickly as possible. Upon finally reaching the fort, the figure slowed to a stop at the behest of the guards and dismounted into the mud. After a small, forced interaction, they were allowed entrance, the guards apparently having expected the arrival, and pointing them in the direction of where they should be headed. The horse was left in their care, the rider figuring that they would simply procure another whenever the need arose. They walked briskly through the base, vaguely annoyed by the fort's lack of ceiling, despite having no reason to expect one. They paid no attention to the various soldiers that were scattered within, none of whom were of interest or worth even peripheral acknowledgment in the figure's eyes. Instead they focused on the center tent, the largest within the encampment, reaching it quickly, and pausing in step only to make their presence known without rudely barging in unannounced. Hearing the invitation that allowed them entrance, the hooded figure flung wide the flap before casually sauntering forward without a word. They stopped within the center of the space, allowing a yard or two of distance between themselves and the table behind which their employer was seated. A long pause rested between them as the figure remained silent, the hood of their cloak turning to either side as they surveyed the space, taking in the details of decoration before hidden, rust colored eyes finally focused forward. Water dripped from the rim of the hood and frayed hem of the cloak, and the figure sighed heavily, happy to be out of the rain. "Your detachment was weak, Lothiar," they spoke evenly, gruff, masculine voice breaking the silence, though the corner of his mouth, not hidden by the shadow of his hood, twitched into the toothy beginnings of a mocking smirk. "Would've thought your people were as powerful and unyielding as you are..." The demon's arm shifted underneath the cloak, fiddling with the large satchel that was strapped to their side. "But a few barely trained villagers and their bleeding heart mercenaries crushed them entirely." After a moment, the demon made a motion and held their arm out straight, pulling the severed head of the contingent's commanding officer into view. The head was dirty, face speckled with blood and laced with lacerations. The mouth hung ajar with a number of front teeth missing, and what were once bright green eyes were now faded and dull, one staring straight ahead, the other rolled up to the ceiling. "I found this one where the battle took place." What the demon didn't mention was that he found the human alive and about to be taken prisoner. He would have saved the man, but the way he had been begging and pleading for his life, offering what few secrets and plans he knew in exchange, disgusted the hellion. So much so that he dispatched the man himself, after a bit of a beating, along with the few mercenary stragglers who were to capture him. The demon then released his grasp on the locks of gray-streaked brown hair, letting the head drop to the ground with a heavy plop before rolling onto its side. "It seems he wasn't able to divulge any information about your operation, so that is good. But, what would you like to do now?" |
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| Lothiar Reik | Jun 17 2015, 02:09 AM Post #3 |
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The Lord discarded the map, his broad hands laying it flat across the table. The parchment was old, a relic of his father's, but it still held some degree of accuracy. Like most of the inheritance he had ripped from his kin, it served him only as a tool - it was useful for the moment, but would quickly be discarded. He sat back, and watched intently as the tent flap twitched, admitting a lithe man, swaddled in a cloak and hood against the driving rain. His eyes burrowed into the figure, as his fingers intertwined and came to rest atop his paunch. The man did not speak immediately, instead a silence developed between them. The Lord kept his gaze upon the figure, though their clothing revealed precious little about them - he focused instead on the lower jaw jutting from beneath the hood. He kept his nerve - some of the men he had gathered to him were little better than slavering beasts, and more than once he had had to assert himself amidst their baying. Scum, in the main, but effective scum for the tasks he had for them. He needed terror and brutality - unfortunately that came with a price in manners. Your detachment was weak, Lothiar... A voice, at last! The words of the man flowed to him, and his brow furrowed as he brought the discomfiting news. Resistance? It was to be expected, but such temerity from mere peasants - callow, country folks of no standing - was rather surprising. Burghers and townships had the luxury of walls, and capital. But peasants? They would be crushed by a fine charge of cavalry, sent running to their hovels only to be burned within - of course, one show of force with enough straggling survivors would induce others to easy capitulation. If only the rain would let up... His eyebrows raised, as the figure before him produced a severed head. Putrefaction was soon to set it, and the eyes were grotesquely mismatched - still, he allowed himself only a small curl of the lip in disgust. The man spoke on, and Lothiar waited for him to finish, before he spoke on. "Ah. Friedrich's boy, never much of a soldier, it must be said. I sent him ahead to rob and pillage - I had not calculated organised resistance, I must admit, but you get what you pay for. I had thought those boys would have enough mettle to see a few goatherds off." he shrugged, his massive shoulders rolling like a wave "Would that he had revealed us as such, the quicker their surrender would be." He was not overly concerned - he had sent Sabellius off on a similar, though better equipped, chevauchee. The skills of that man far outstripped that callow boy's, and his wild appearance would strike fear across the land. He stood, his huge form towering over the table, and he considered the cloaked man once more. "We continue as planned - though I wish this rain would slack. We cannot march with this deluge, the roads are in bad repair as it is." his voice rumbled, akin to the distant thunder "I have sent men on ahead, of a higher calibre. Perhaps they will sweep these farmhands back to their fields." His thick fingers dipped into a fat pouch hanging from his belt, bringing forth a broad gold coin, which he deftly flicked to the other man. Not a word of thanks was uttered - to Reik, the gesture was enough. "Your name? I might have further use of you." |
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| Drium | Jun 18 2015, 12:02 PM Post #4 |
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He studied the human's reaction to the news and decomposing head with interest, the demon finding himself quite curious as to how the lord would respond to setbacks to his plan and the loss of the lives of those he commanded. Was this employer a squeamish man? One of those fully backseat commanders who had no experience or firsthand exposure to the death and gore their ambitions wrought? The cloaked figure had worked for such mortals in the past; those who were cool and collected when in front of their masses, yet in private, easily incited by knowledge of even the smallest and trivial of unplanned hurdles. He hoped this one wasn't just more of the same. In the end, the slight reaction of the other to the severed head, a twitching of the lip and nothing else, was bittersweet to the cloaked figured. On one hand, he actually did want to see the human squirm. Regardless of his employer's disposition, it was always amusing to him to see humans in positions of authority twitch in discomfort. To witness all their physical might, material wealth, and military power be overshadowed by the simplicity of their mortal nature's revulsion to death. Still, it was good that the lord wasn't completely thrown off by the sight. After all, there would be plenty more and perhaps worse to come if his plans came to fruition. With the signs of resistance forming amongst those he desired to conquer, and the knowledge that those in his way were likely little more than a hastily thrown together group of untrained farmhands, there was certain to be a sea of mangled, bloated, unburied bodies to carpet Lothiar's march to glory. He remained silent and unmoving as his employer rose, the hood of his cloak, dripping with water still, shifting ever so slightly as the wearer tilted his head back a degree to keep visual contact with his face. This human had to be at least a foot taller than him; taller than the vast majority of his kind that the demon had encountered in his world. He silently flicked his tongue against the back of a canine, knowing that with such an imposing height to go with his ambitions and assets, that this one was likely to be quite demanding. All of that together likely played a hand in bringing him to where he was now; it was no secret that mortals were swayed by aesthetics such as height and attitude. It would be interesting to see how such an assumed personality trait would mesh with his own propensity for aloofness. A black nailed hand shot out, snatching the coin from the air with an expert ease. Of course, if Lothiar kept the gold and potential for violence, or at least the witnessing of it flowing, they'd likely get along quite well. He didn't put the coin away immediately, instead affectionately fondling the piece of currency with his forefinger and thumb, enjoying the texture. There was something about the feel of gold and jewels that just did it for him. "Drium," he answered the request for a name simply, taking the time then to shrug off his hood with a shake of his head. His free hand moved to snake back through his mop of violet hair, black feline ears flicking as he passed by them. His rust colored eyes shifted again to Lothiar. "I would hope so.... This looks like it could be fun, and the farmers have their own contracted mercenaries from what I can tell. Might end up more of a struggle than perhaps you anticipate." He grins toothily then before giving a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. "You should be able to march soon. I suspect the rain shall end before midnight. You could, then, march before dawn under the cover of darkness if you wanted." |
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| Lothiar Reik | Jun 20 2015, 12:03 AM Post #5 |
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The gold shimmered in the torchlight as it was launched through the air, the heavy disc spinning slowly, every turn bringing a fresh glint to the eye. Its glittering arc came to a sudden, choked halt, as the hand of the other man snaked out, and snatched it out of existence. The Lord's eyes were once more upon his company, and he felt as if he were similarly appraised. He sat back, and watched, as the man pushed back his hood, the rest of the man's features joining that lone chin, and revealed to him was a sight most queer. Violet hair topped the man's head, along with a pair of feline ears. Lothiar could not quite fathom their purpose, for he also appeared to have a rather more normal set in the rather more normal place. His eyes - hawk-like and predatory, as were most reaver's - were the colour of young rust. Reik could not help but raise his eyebrows, but other than those oddities, he appeared almost as expected - lithe and hard jawed, a man whose hands had been imbrued in blood. He had a fair few oddballs serving under his banner - first among them the Moghul's emissary, so the surprise did not last. The man spoke, and Lothiar leaned forward to hear his words. Ah! The curse of the young and the eager, thinking a quick charge was the sole solution to all matters military. What use was a man weak with hunger? What could a soldier do, he who charges while out of breath? Reik gave a laugh, settling back into his lazy lean, hands clasped loosely atop his gut. "A fine night it would be, good Drium, if I could." he began, eyes burning into the other man with malice "Would that we all could ride as you might, braving the sodden ground with an eager brand in hand, flames licking the fears of our enemies!" He stood, joints cracking as his vast form heaved itself into its full towering height. He enjoyed his physicality, it made him feel the subservience of others far more keenly. He would never know how shorter lords made their authority felt - but then, thoughts of other lords filled him with a grasping need. To conquer, to rule. "Fine riders such as yourself would have no trouble, be assured. However, wagons and supply is another matter entirely. We cannot dine on wisps, nor drink the sweet air that carries them. Men need food, and the roads here are barely more than rough tracks made by sheep. Once we take Orl'Kabbar, those paved veins of trade will do us nicely. Alas, for now, we are at a crawl." He clapped his gargantuan hands together, making a thunderous sound, and the two guards stationed outside bustled in. Lothiar's face adopted a stormlike quality - a furrowed brow and a mouth set in a line - as he barked at them. "Bring me some wine! Be quick!" He sat once more, and motioned to a stool set off in the corner, next to his armour stand. Obviously this was an invitation. "Sit, and we shall talk further." |
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