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This is a story of the bit players, the Rosencrantzes and Guildensterns. The little people who so often get caught up in events beyond their reckoning and power, who are played with by heroes and nobles, villains and gods. A little tale within a greater tale which is after all but a part of tales never-ending in the Great Pattern.
Come dear Reader, closer to the firelight. The dusk is growing colder and we will need the warmth as tales unfold as tales will. The men tighten their cloaks about themselves as the camp followers finish the tasks of cleaning spits and seeing the refuse to the middens. Darkness occupies the thoughts of even those of the anointed officer corps. Their own and that which they march to face. Grimness and hope interplay as the paladins give orders, showing how fractured their loss has rendered them, and making the latent fear they cannot feel all the worse in the camp.
Curious the threat that was once such a great light to the world and now threatens to suck the warmth from bones and freezes smiles at the mention. Widely spread are those who know the evils done and have set the score upon their hearts, honor bloodied for their vengeance. Though, here and there are mercenaries, foreigners, adventurers who have no stake save their blood and blades for fortune's sake, and those who seek to slay what evil lurks in the heart of man.
Cannily crafted, a table within the sprawling camp sits under an oil lantern as men array themselves about it, heeding the siren call, the light swish and flick of cards being shuffled and hands being dealt out. Their faces wreathed in the play of shadow upon light as coins, rings, petty gems trade hands and find their way back onto familiar fingers.
"Kings Crippled" says one figure, a burly man still wearing his helmet from the day's march, though a few wine stains in his massive beard betray how he's cooled himself down. One could say that his face isn't so much dominated by the beard, but in fact, is almost made up of beard...
"Onions Down, I'm beat" The man to his left sighs as he lays his cards down. He starts to take a ring off of his left hand, before thinking better of it. "Y'know, I think I've lost enough of next months' pay, I might just live long enough to have to pay it back after all."
"Nonsense, lad, you're going to pay me back if I have to take out the foes you're due to slay when we finally have to hit the anvil, who knows, you might just bump me up to the next level of Valhalla when I go."
"Whatever suits you friend Dwarf, your kind don't have to worry about some lucky Johnson getting your widow after all..." Coidzor trailed off, seeing the faces of some of the younger men about. He coughs and starts studying his knotted hands as he shuffles the deck. I guess being an Unspecified Services spook really does hurt your social skills... Well, at least I'm not the one getting shot at tonight...
One of the younger, less scarred faces in the firelight sighs at this. "Ah, Clementia...Will I see you again?" Realizing he had said this aloud, he blushes visibly, betraying his age more than his skill at Cripple Mr. Onion would suggest.
"There lad, we're the ones with clerics who can heal... and call me Fred, please, we're not all stuck in Moradin's beard or used to these Sergeant's stripes..." the beast of a dwarf claps a meaty, knotted hand on the kid's shoulder and gives a pumping, jovial reassurance as he passes along some wine.
"It's a mug's game, war, feeding lives to the devils' dogs like so much chaff in the wind... But what can one do when home and hearth are threatened but take up to arms. And arms we have taken up, so take heart lad, we still have life within us, and where there's life, there's hope. And where there isn't, glorious death, or not so glorious, if my axe tastes that blackguards' neck..." The dwarf catches himself, realizing he's forgotten his audience again, and mutters an oath.
"I just hope we don't all die for this murderer... Damned Heroes, sweeping us all along with them. When all this would be settled if one man were conveniently separated from his head. The way paladins are, you'd think his own people would've done him in, coming back like that..." A shrug and a sigh.
"Hey now, despite their noble foolishness, these paladins care about keeping us alive. The Saint's a good man and a good commander. Unlike some of the men I've served under. We won't bloody the ground in vain for some inbred duke's desire to be king." A pause. Some nodding in thought. Not too much of a pause though, as the deck has been passed to the next man.
"Now, who's in for another hand?"
A few of the men mutter noncommittally and retire to their bedrolls, though for the most part the game picks back up with renewed interest, if only to get the darkness from their minds. Since they're so preoccupied with the darkness within, none of them notice the darkness in their midst, curiously contemplating their game before raiding the midden for the slaughtered remains of dinner and one washing woman whose taste for juicy gossip found her on the wrong end of an assassin's knife.
Re: Shippingitp IV: Flattery Will Get You EVERYWHERE
Originally Posted by Keld Denar
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