Chapter One: A Small Favour to Repay
Meir Thorvale, a quiet hamlet with a couple dozen wood-framed buildings to its name, was nestled in the Western reaches of the Wrothgarian Mountains, and as such its stature amongst the towns and cities of High Rock was almost always cast in the shadow of something greater, be it the mountains themselves or the nearby city of Shornhelm, to whom Meir Thorvale pays taxes. Scraping by own what little resources its population has at its disposal, there had long been a feeling of resentment towards the larger city, which seems content to take and take but leave nothing for the small hamlet.
It is in this small hamlet that quite the stirring is happening, and in the early morning air a group of ten prisoners are marched out in shackles, the chain lengths jingling as they are marched towards the village square as curious onlookers watch these strangers brought before the fur-garbed Count Fleuren, a man with a hunched gait, a sunken face, gnarled hands, and a fiercely receding hairline that gave him an effective visage of a vulture. And like the carrion eating bird, he eyed his prisoners hungrily and with contempt.
The prisoners are knelt before him, knees digging into the hard, frost encrusted dirt. It is the first week of First Seed of 4E226, and winter’s icy grasp is finally relenting, although in the mountains, yet another two months of frigid weather are expected. Before the Count, the ten prisoners, all of which were recent additions to the overcrowded jail, which was at most meant to handle six prisoners, not this abundant lot, caught up for both major and laughably minor infractions that could have likely been squared with a modest fine, but Count Fleuren was a despicable and dishonourable sort, which is to say as far as ranking nobility goes in High Rock, he fit right in. Tightening his heavy long coat, embroidered and spotless, the Count walked up and down the line of prisoners, his hands clenched behind his back as the captain of the guard walked astride, holding the parchment that contained the prisoners names, crimes, and sentences.
“You vermin are here because you transgressed against the good people of Meir Thorvale,” he began, pausing to leer at the shabbily dressed Imperial who might have been a beggar. “The lot of you are accused of crimes against my subjects, and I am certain you found the conditions of our cells less than agreeable. However, a solution has presented itself to me that is impossible to ignore. I had initially intended just to execute the lot of you, but providence shined, and I am a merciful man. At noon, a ransom broker will be coming to town with a convoy, and you will be sold into his care.” A tight smirk crossed his face as he studied the prisoners. “So, in essence you get to keep your lives, my guards don’t have to tend to a bunch of thankless vermin, and Meir Thorvale gets to keep a tidy sum for each of your heads. Don’t look so grim! If anyone could possibly love your worthless hides, they can purchase you back. If not, well… I hear there might be dignity to be found in servitude. Now, captain, if you would-”
“RIDERS! BANDITS!” Came a cry from the watch tower, a bell ringing heavily into the morning air. The people fled into their homes or other sanctuaries, and the guards scrambled to assemble. The count, cursing loudly enough for it to echo in the din, made to retreat into his halls. Suddenly, the guard fell from the tower, an arrow sticking out of his throat, and riders burst into the village, throwing torches through windows and cutting down anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in the open. The guards rallied, and the captain made to reach for his broadsword when a rider made a pass at him, running the man through with a spear. All around the prisoners, Meir Thorvale was ransacked, and all they could do was watch.
Bringing his horse to a stop, a fur and leather clad man descended from the large beast’s back, his footprints crunching the soil beneath. He was clean shaven, save for a small beard, and his eyes were a mischievous green. “Well, this worked out better than expected. You lot look like you might be worth something, after all.” He gestured to one of his men to search the fallen captain. Behind the prisoners, Count Fleuren screamed like a tortured animal and was suddenly cut silent. The man before them smiled mirthfully and clapped his hands together. “So, good news; the ransom broker story our dear departed friend Count Fleuren no doubt spun at you is a lie, a fabrication, and one that one of my men had fed him down the grapevine. Henry, may I see that parchment?” the man asked, and his man handed him the sheet of rolled up parchment that the captain was carrying before freeing a set of keys from his belt. “So, we have thieves, murderers, poachers, civil disobedience, basically a stew pot of mediocrity. Our dearly departed friend belonged here beside you lot, in truth; he’d not paid his taxes for over a year like the naughty man he is. I don’t think he expected the term, ‘pay with your head’, to be quite so literal.” He said, watching as two of his men carried the decapitated head of the count and dropped it at his feet.
“Another for the collection.” He remarked with a shrug. “So, here’s how it goes. You ten, of which I have your names and descriptions and no shortage of connections of which to find you, are going to do me a small favour. When I release you from your bonds, you will go in a nice orderly fashion to the prison, obtain your personal possessions, and go forth to the city of Camlorn. With me so far? Good. Once there, you are going to infiltrate the castle and find my brother, a nobleman called Callen Raimes, who my spies tell me is being held prisoner by Lord Marco of Camlorn. Obviously, the whole affair is a bit mucky and simply will not do.” The man said, nodding for his man to begin unlocking the shackles. “Once he’s in your possession, and unharmed, bring him back to the keep in Shornhelm and you’ll each be paid a tiding of gold, a pardon for your crimes, and that warm fuzzy feeling one gets when they do something wonderful for this world.” A woman’s screams punctuated the last sentence, prompting the man to look over his shoulder at the source.
Returning his attention to the prisoners, he knelt down before them. “You have three weeks, which is about as long as I trust anyone to do their bloody jobs without making excuses for their incompetence. You bring me back my brother, you get rewarded. You don’t, and well, look around at what you’ve done to these poor people, bandits. I suppose the Lord of Shornhelm would have to respond with considerable force at the wanton destruction of his subjects, would he not?” A cruel grin crossed his face and he pushed himself up off of his knees. By then, the last of the shackles was removed and the man slipped the parchment into his tunic.
“Before any of you ask the dumb question of why I would trust any of you to do so much as lick my boots, the answer is simple; if you fuck up, get caught, and otherwise fail, it can’t be traced back to anyone but you. You’re all expendable, and I’m offering you a reasonable chance at redemption. If you try to cross me or fail, well, you aren’t the only criminals in prison waiting for a chance to breathe clean air and eat food that hasn’t been rotting for two weeks… and your word against a Lord’s is a proposition that will only end poorly for you, bandits.” He said, returning to mount his horse. He wheeled the equine towards the prisoners. “Remember, three weeks, Shornhelm! Oh, and I suppose you’ll be needing this.” He said, throwing a pouch to the ground that landed with a clank. Inside was a respectable amount of gold, and a parchment that carried Callen Raimes’ picture. “Travel expenses and the man you’re looking for. Consider it a token of good will and gratitude. Do not squander it.” He warned before riding off, the raiders still continuing their work.
”What an arsehole.” A man with short red hair and beard said at the man’s back, his facial tattoos giving him a somewhat wild appearance. Standing and shaking out his legs, as well as brushing the dirt off of his trousers, the man crossed his arms, ignoring the coin purse.
“I don’t know about you lot, but I’m getting me shite and getting out of this village before arsehole’s friends decide to mince us. Might as well meet at the road leading into this place, and decide what to do from there.” The man, Cedric, grunted and spat a heavy gob on the dirt.
”This was not how I expected today to fookin’ go.”
Nyxella,
TokyoPewPew,
Tlaloc
