Flagg — Roleplayer Guild

Bosfryd, The Evening Previous

The sun was sinking below the tree line by the time they arrived, Daigon and a small collection of armsmen on horseback. All human. All mean-looking sons of bitches.

They plodded into the center of town, where the mercenary captain swung down from the saddle and tied his horse off at the water trough in front of the general store. 

The townsfolk, those stupid or brave enough to have hung around after Brand's protegees put arrows through the King's men, watched the mercenaries with confused trepidation. 

Veredict Daigon smiled at them, signaled for his men to stay put, and sauntered over to the tavern, his glittering gaze wandering the town around him.

Sleepy little place. Everything wood and stone, thatched roofs hung thick with moss. Charming. The woods closed around the town on three sides, like the tide washing in around a boulder in the sand, and Daigon wondered idly if any vengeful orphans lurked in the shadowy treeline, tracking his movements with arrows notched. 

He doubted it.  

A bell tinkled as he pushed open the tavern's heavy oak door. His eyes fell first to the blood still staining the floorboards, then alighted on the tavern-keep. Thin old man, meeting his gaze. Nervous but defiant. Daigon nodded to him.

"Not a busy night in Bosfryd," he offered as he ambled over to the bar. The room was empty save for a few grizzled old men nursing mugs of ale and speaking in low and surly tones. They wore chainmail flecked with rust, old swords slung at their hips. One drew a dagger as Daigon passed by and plunged it into the thick wood of the table, snarling something about Harold's dogs.

Cute.

Daigon took a seat at the bar. He flicked a silver coin and then another onto the notched, ale-stained wood.

"Another round for my new friends," he said, tilting his head to the murderous-looking crew behind him, "And I'll have a dram of the strongest thing you've got."

The barkeep frowned and spat into the rushes, and muttered something about not serving the King's men.

"No?" asked Daigon with a laugh, "Well at least give these fellows a drink. They look like they need it."

"What do you want here?" asked the barkeep, "You ain't welcome."

"What I want..." said Daigon, eyes narrowing in faux-contemplation, "What I want...well, I s'pose I want a fuckin drink to start with, friend. Saint Forgil's gout, you Vendish are a dour brood. Would you rather I ride in here chopping off heads and exacting bloody vengeance?"

"Seems the King's way."

"Hard to deny that," said Daigon, "Hard to deny. Guess that means the ranger's kids were thinkin' more about their own vengeance than about you folk when they did in those sellswords then, eh?"

The barkeep scowled. "Brand was good to Bosfryd. A good man."

"I hear that," said Daigon, "I'd toast his name, if I had a drink to toast him with. A crime what was done to him."

"Don't think you can sweet talk your way into our graces," said one of the armed codgers at the table, "We know what you're doin'."

"Wasn't tryin' to sweet talk you, friend," said Daigon with a sly smile, "Was tryin' to get you drunk. But this fellow- what's your name?"

"Muttle, Joren Muttle," said the barkeep.

"Muttle, right," said Daigon, turning back to the old men, "Your friend Muttle here won't take my money."

"I ain't takin' the king's blood money," said Muttle.

"We all take the King's coin now," replied Daigon, "War's over."

"Brand's orphans are still fightin. They're gonna bring down your King," said one of the others.

Daigon shrugged, "Maybe so, maybe not. Maybe a handful of bravos with bows and arrows, kids who haven't seen twenty winters, maybe they can do what Barkstead couldn't. But they don't seem to care about Bosfryd enough to make sure it's around to see them do it. I rode into town with enough men to put everything here to torch and sword, just like old Harry's done plenty of times to towns what defied him. And I haven't seen any arrows fly. Or am I dead and these are the Gardens of Vara?"

The tavern was silent for a long moment.

"I'm not here to do anyone any wrong, and I'm not here to ask you to betray Brand's memory by informing on his kin," said Daigon, "I ain't a butcher, I'm a soldier, and if King Harry told me to burn a town down or kill a good man like Brand of Nightwood, he knows I'd tell him where he could put those orders. We can all agree Harry's no Alma the Gentle, but he don't want to rule over naught but dust and ashes, and you don't want your town caught in a war you can't fight." 

More silence. Muttle began pouring everyone drinks and the flicker of a smirk passed over Daigon's face and was gone.

"All I'm saying here is keep neutral in this fight, as much as you can, 'specially should the orphans come back looking for aid. Next time leveler heads can't suggest to King Harry that he take the high road. Next time he sends in Forrestor Thalmy's boys or Veredict Daigon. And I don't have to tell you about those bastards."

"Twas that warlock Daigon what killed Brand," said Muttle, pushing a tumbler of something clear and eye watering across the bar, "A devil-conjurer they say."

"They say worse than that, friend," said Daigon, downing the drink, "Trust me. My point is, Harry may be a bastard, and he may have worse bastards working for him- and maybe Brand's kin will do some good and rid us of them, or maybe not. But this isn't your fight, and I don't want to see the women and childfolk of Bosfryd die for other men's fights."

"What do you want from us then, stranger?" said one of the old men.

"Another round," he said, and got a couple of laughs. Muttle poured him another and he threw a few more coins down on the bar, "One for everyone, Joren, and you too."

They all drank.

Daigon nodded at the patch of faded blood by the door. "What happened here, anyway? The rumors true? Can these kids really fight like the Beast awakened?"

"They ain't half bad," said Muttle, pouring a third round unbidden, "I'll say that. They ain't half bad. And some of them spellwrights, too. Might give that devil-fucking murdering sonofawhore Captain Daigon a run for it, magic-wise."

"That right?" asked Captain Daigon, raising an eyebrow. 

"Aye," said one of the old men at the table, "The elf witch, for one. She hexed the guard captain. Sent the rest of the King's boys packin' without spillin' an ounce more blood, even with tempers running high and men already dead. And I wouldn't be surprised if the swarthy fellow, Masef his name was, had a bit of the glamour neither. Looked a bit touched to my eye."

"Masef, eh?" said Daigon, "No Vendish name, that."

"No, no, a Southron he is, from the Ibin tribes I think," said Muttle.

"It's Ibir, the Ibir tribes," said Daigon quietly, as though mostly to himself, "Come from the old city of Mari. The dead city. Nomads now."

"Oh, aye, I s'pose that's right. Always pokin' around ruins as a boy, Masef was. Always curious."

There was a pause.

"Curious curious," said Daigon, standing brusquely, "I must say gents, this has been...informative. Thank you for the hospitality, and keep in mind what I said about other men's wars. You ever need someone in Harry's camp, you ever need someone to help you from slippin' in to a war you can't fight, you think about reaching out."

"Never got your name, soldier."

"Whul," said Daigon, "Captain Whul, same name as the Baron. Second cousin. He got the castle, we got a sheepfarm south of Durkin's Bog."

With that, he stepped out of the tavern and into the gathering dusk.

"Don't look like no Whul to me," said one of the old men as the door clicked shut, "Had the looks of a northman, and the accent of one."

Joren Muttle poured himself another drink, "Whoever he was, he wasn't wrong about Brand's lot leavin' us for the crows." 

-

They rode back along the Pilgrim's Road by night, torches held aloft to light their way.

"We going back to sack the place come morning?" asked one of Daigon's men. 

"It's a foolish hunter who eats his own bait," replied the Captain.

"What?"

"No, we ain't sacking Bosfryd. Not yet."

<Snipped quote by Flagg>
They probably abuse the hell out of the fact they're technically nobles of another nation, so they can't be dragged out and executed without risking war.

That, and I'll be playing up the shadowy manipulator aspect of vampires.

The fact that this time it's in the service of a genuinely good cause is an irony I like.@Ophidian

Feel free to make them full fledged nobles of New Anathagos- a great family like Gwent or Zaripov. Everyone from New Anathagos can trace their lineage to immigrants, so even if they're originally from elsewhere, there's no reason your vamps cant be fully integrated into the aristocratic ruling structure of the city, even if they will naturally face some suspicion and distrust from others.

Flagg Member

Strange. This outcome I did not foresee.

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