The Hunger gnawed at his soul. Not so much his belly, full of roasted wild hog and dry biscuits, but at the very core of his being. The big man tried to dull the ache with the sharpening of his battleaxe on the whetstone. He tried to find solace in that he had been able to recover the hide armor set and boots he had painstakingly crafted. The fact that even long after he had expelled them from his body, he still had some of his victims close brought a small level of comfort. But still he hungered...
"A copper for your thoughts?" she spoke softly, femininity oozed even in the few words she spoke. The Big Man looked up, his gaze having been drawn to the fire going on in the room's oversized fireplace×. More brightly colored than even a king's entire wardrobe, she stirred something in him that he thougt he had long ago forgotten. The Beautiful Woman, covered in multi-colored veils, undoubtly Varisian, with her mocha-copper colored skin and thick, curly hair. Her hazel eyes gazed into his, the color of iron. He tried not to look anywhere else when dealing with her. She revealed just enough flesh beneath her rainbow colored veils to keep him guessing, and more than enough to stir his appetite.
My thoughts? I think I'd like to rut you like a dragon in heat, then tear at your throat like a starving worg, drink your blood like a thirsting vampire and devour your still warm body like a....
A high pitched laughter shattered his fragile concentration. The Old Gnome Woman never failed to grip his attention with that laugh. For the briefest of movements, he felt his heart tremble with fear, looking at the gnome with the moldy green hair, sitting in an appropriately sized rocking chair, covered by a quilt.
"Oh dearie, if you truly knew his thoughts, I think they'd make even you blush." She let out another fit of laughter, "Or flee in terror. No telling." Another round of laughter at her own humor, immediately ending without transition as her brow furrowed and she began muttering about 'those damn kids'.
"No thoughts." The Big Man grunted, not wanting to betray himself to the gnome. He was being payed good money, and there would be plenty to eat soon enough. Couldn't turn on his allies yet, no matter how delicious they looked. He turned back his focus to his axe.
"Well, I'll share my thoughts for free." the woman said, dramatically stepping up from the stiffback couch, and walking past the fireplace, over to The Quiet One and his pet Orangutan, who sat idlely beside him picking at his own hairy feet, his slave collar clinking lightly. "Between the ghost, laughing gnome, you and your strange obsession with your axe, the fucking twins, and the mute idiot and stupid monkey, I am sick of being here. There is nothing to do. I have all of this gold but can't leave to buy anything!" she yelled passionately, walking back and forth in front of The Quiet One, her heels clicking loudly on the posh marble floor. The Quiet One said, barely above a whisper, "I am not mute. I just have nothing to say to you." he was a balding man, well into his 40s. Missing a few teeth, he looked more the part of a conscripted peasant, in his well-worn leathers, a simple club at his belt.
"Ghost?" said an Elven male who had appeared in a doorway, leaning against the threshold lackadaisicaly. His skin, an alabaster white, his hair the color of cotton. His blade, of pure silver glinted in the candle light. "I do get tired of hearing that. Very noncreative." his voice had an eerie resonance to it, barely noticeable, which made it that much more disquieting to the ear. "What about The Gentleman? You seemed quite taken by his charm. And you said nothing of..."
"Bah!" she waved him off with a sound of disgust. "He is less a real gentleman and more of an unhinged psychopath." she gave a flourish of her gloved hand as she paced, her body moving in ways pleasing to The Big Man. "Yes, m'lady. We are all psychopaths of the unhinged variety. That's why we were hired." said The Elven Ghost. "I am NOT a psychopath!" The Beautiful Woman shouted. "I am a professional." she hugged herself, looking abashed at her outburst.
The Ghost changed the subject, "And what of the fucking twins? Has anyone seen either of them?" he asked, feigning interest in a small glass figurine on the mantle piece. "Upstairs. Fucking. Where else?" grunted The Big Man, taking a glimmer of happiness in being vulgar.
"All day...well if nothing else positive can be said for their depravity, at least they are comitted to their favorite activity.
The Elf's ears twitched slightly, the others noticed his head snap to attention, eyes facing the hallway leading to the front door.
"Is it Va-?" started to say the quiet man.
"No. Not even I would hear or see her if it was." the white elf responded, knowing his suspicions. "Weapons out. Time to do what we're paid for."
Sunday, June 25, 2017
Sunday, June 11, 2017
Atonement
Cleric Lazzero Dalvera's room at the Arch and Lark is much as your own rooms, except the large dresser top has been converted to a makeshift shrine, with the unholy symbol of Asmodeus carved into it. Several red candles drip wax onto the furniture piece and an open book resides near the unholy symbol.
The man stands near the small window, bereft of his armor or shield, making him only slightly less intimidating. Having already explained the situation - Lazzero stood quiet for a few minutes.
"You swore an oath of nonviolence using your Hellfire oath as a binding? How very stupid of you." Lazzero says, putting a sneering emphasis on the word 'stupid'. "I am of a mind to leave you with this curse until Hell claims your soul. I believe that Asmodeus has guided me guided so that I might help you see the error of your ways, and make you an example to the rest of your friends. Fortunate for you, The devil Razelago was witness and courier for your compact. It is through him, that you will make ammends to Hell." Lazzero draws out a reddish stone unholy symbol streaked with veins of black ore and raises it up. "Kneel. Wyran of House Thrune, weakly mixer of colored waters and impure magic, you have transgressed against the 9 Hells themselves. Swearing upon that which is profane and binding, you knowingly broke said oath, in hopes of finding a way to circumvent both the spirit and letter of your promise. You recognize the error of your ways, the foolishness of your decisions and seek atonement that this curse be removed from you. As voicepiece for the Ruler of 9, Dark Lord Asmodeus, I speak with his power- Go to the zebub devil, Razelago, and unto him serve 6 days and 6 hours and 6 minutes of your leisured time, fulfilling any reasonable request he so demands of you, without compensation for your time." Lazzero lifts a leg, placing a boot against your shoulder and pushing you from kneeling to sprawled out on the floor. "Leave my presence now, Thrune. Be thankful that The Prince of Evil has granted you this mercy. Crawl from my room, worm." A palpable aura of evil and power surrounds Lazzero, having so recently channeled the will of a god.
The man stands near the small window, bereft of his armor or shield, making him only slightly less intimidating. Having already explained the situation - Lazzero stood quiet for a few minutes.
"You swore an oath of nonviolence using your Hellfire oath as a binding? How very stupid of you." Lazzero says, putting a sneering emphasis on the word 'stupid'. "I am of a mind to leave you with this curse until Hell claims your soul. I believe that Asmodeus has guided me guided so that I might help you see the error of your ways, and make you an example to the rest of your friends. Fortunate for you, The devil Razelago was witness and courier for your compact. It is through him, that you will make ammends to Hell." Lazzero draws out a reddish stone unholy symbol streaked with veins of black ore and raises it up. "Kneel. Wyran of House Thrune, weakly mixer of colored waters and impure magic, you have transgressed against the 9 Hells themselves. Swearing upon that which is profane and binding, you knowingly broke said oath, in hopes of finding a way to circumvent both the spirit and letter of your promise. You recognize the error of your ways, the foolishness of your decisions and seek atonement that this curse be removed from you. As voicepiece for the Ruler of 9, Dark Lord Asmodeus, I speak with his power- Go to the zebub devil, Razelago, and unto him serve 6 days and 6 hours and 6 minutes of your leisured time, fulfilling any reasonable request he so demands of you, without compensation for your time." Lazzero lifts a leg, placing a boot against your shoulder and pushing you from kneeling to sprawled out on the floor. "Leave my presence now, Thrune. Be thankful that The Prince of Evil has granted you this mercy. Crawl from my room, worm." A palpable aura of evil and power surrounds Lazzero, having so recently channeled the will of a god.
Thursday, June 8, 2017
Weekend Review
"Overall I am pleased with your success." says Archbaron Fex, looking at you with a slight smile. Behind him, Razelago stares focused on a map of Cheliax sitting at a child's sized table.
"However, mistakes were made. I have your weekly payment here," he says drawing out a satchel of gold for each of you. "100 pieces, as agreed upon. For dealing with Bolgart Caggan, I have added 50 more. This...'Cockroach King' would have been a repugnant ally to have relied on. I added 200 pieces for your efforts to eradicate him. Should he cause further problems in Longacre, I want you to eliminate him without expectation of further recompense. For maintaining good relations with the Vulture Crag mercenaries and not escalating hostilities, a further 50 gold each. Furthermore, I have been offered a grant from Egorian to request special supplies from the vaults of House Thrune, at the price of crafting. I expect you to choose something that will assist you with your duties here. This..." he says, producing a thick book on to his desk and sliding it towards you, "is what they can offer."
"Now, to discuss your failures. The killing of Mindy Parsons was a very poor way to handle a minor nuisance. The young girl was well liked by the locals. Bolgart Caggan was a difficult choice to make. By all witness accounts, the man was ready to fight to the death. The death of two of Staelish's men also did not go over well. Going forward, you will need to be more careful. Longacre is a small town, and word travels quickly. Even one more violent death and we may well find ourselves trying to put down a violent protest. If there is killing that needs to be done, it should be precise and serve a purpose.
Wyran, you said you have knowledge on who is respi sible for those flyers being distributed? See to it that they are captured. But first, it may serve us to borrow their method to send a more...inflamatory message, something more shocking, to turn opinion against them. Then, we arrest them. You agree, yes?" From his small sized table, Razelago lets out an irritated buzzing noise. "This will not do. Something will need to be done about Citadel Dinyar!"
"In time Razelago. In time. Wyran, you will need to see Lazzero Dalvera. I could help you with the problem your oath violation has caused, but the methods at my disposal are far less plesant. I hope you all learn a lesson about violating oaths so overtly. You are all dismissed. Send your damaged clothing to me after you have changed. I can mend them better than a seamstress, one of the benefits of specializing in conjuration magic. Keep up the good work."
As you turn to leave, the Archbaron says one last thing, "Oh, and do go handle the Castle Gate. It has been opened again"
___________________________________
The morning of Day 8, Cimri introduces you to two new arrivals; Jarquez Vecken and Samroy Rawles, friends of hers from a not too far off logging camp. The two are going to be staying in town and will serve as the new official Sheriff and Deputy. After sizing them up, you get the sense that they are little more than a pair of goons. Not very bright, but tough, with a helping of practical common sense, and willing to follow orders.
"However, mistakes were made. I have your weekly payment here," he says drawing out a satchel of gold for each of you. "100 pieces, as agreed upon. For dealing with Bolgart Caggan, I have added 50 more. This...'Cockroach King' would have been a repugnant ally to have relied on. I added 200 pieces for your efforts to eradicate him. Should he cause further problems in Longacre, I want you to eliminate him without expectation of further recompense. For maintaining good relations with the Vulture Crag mercenaries and not escalating hostilities, a further 50 gold each. Furthermore, I have been offered a grant from Egorian to request special supplies from the vaults of House Thrune, at the price of crafting. I expect you to choose something that will assist you with your duties here. This..." he says, producing a thick book on to his desk and sliding it towards you, "is what they can offer."
"Now, to discuss your failures. The killing of Mindy Parsons was a very poor way to handle a minor nuisance. The young girl was well liked by the locals. Bolgart Caggan was a difficult choice to make. By all witness accounts, the man was ready to fight to the death. The death of two of Staelish's men also did not go over well. Going forward, you will need to be more careful. Longacre is a small town, and word travels quickly. Even one more violent death and we may well find ourselves trying to put down a violent protest. If there is killing that needs to be done, it should be precise and serve a purpose.
Wyran, you said you have knowledge on who is respi sible for those flyers being distributed? See to it that they are captured. But first, it may serve us to borrow their method to send a more...inflamatory message, something more shocking, to turn opinion against them. Then, we arrest them. You agree, yes?" From his small sized table, Razelago lets out an irritated buzzing noise. "This will not do. Something will need to be done about Citadel Dinyar!"
"In time Razelago. In time. Wyran, you will need to see Lazzero Dalvera. I could help you with the problem your oath violation has caused, but the methods at my disposal are far less plesant. I hope you all learn a lesson about violating oaths so overtly. You are all dismissed. Send your damaged clothing to me after you have changed. I can mend them better than a seamstress, one of the benefits of specializing in conjuration magic. Keep up the good work."
As you turn to leave, the Archbaron says one last thing, "Oh, and do go handle the Castle Gate. It has been opened again"
___________________________________
The morning of Day 8, Cimri introduces you to two new arrivals; Jarquez Vecken and Samroy Rawles, friends of hers from a not too far off logging camp. The two are going to be staying in town and will serve as the new official Sheriff and Deputy. After sizing them up, you get the sense that they are little more than a pair of goons. Not very bright, but tough, with a helping of practical common sense, and willing to follow orders.
Tuesday, June 6, 2017
A drink between friends.
Built like a dwarf with the height of an orc, Gregory Haylissh moved as quickly as a man of his stature could. He had reddish hair with hints of blonde, and a full thick beard that was the envy of every man. His bright blue eyes rested above cheeks that spent most of their time turned upwards in a wide grin. Gregory was what one might call a 'pragmatic optimist'. He looked at every situation with a logical mind, but always looked for a silver lining. Not an easy task in a nation betrothed to Hell.
Nightfall had fast approached the working man as he was wrapping up his work at a farmhouse being built just outside of Longacre. It was just another annoyance, another law he had to remember and obey to avoid incurring an infraction. Having grown up in Longacre, he was accustomed to losing a bit of his income to the Archbaron's guards for minor rule violations. Such was the life of a Chellish citizen.
Thinking on it, Gregory had a growing realization that should he be caught, he would probably face a lot more than just a steep fine. The Archbaron's new minions were developing a reputation as an unpredictable group. Shooting women one day, saving a hospice the next. Brutal, weird, quiet, and overly friendly. The rumors were hard to make sense of. Looking around and getting his bearings, he switched directions and headed down an alley way towards Hemsmouth Way. It would take him uncomfortably close to the jail - seemingly the headquarters for the Archbaron's men- but it was home to the only friend he knew would let him stay until dawn. The thud of leather boots echoed through the night, coming down the intersecting alley. "Devils take me!" he cursed quietly, ducking into a closed doorway, and sucking in his gut, the only hiding space available to him. He prayed for Iomedae's courage to steel his nerves and keep him as unmoving as a statue. Daring to only move his eyes, he caught a glimpse of the man called Wyran, a Thrune if the rumors were true, and reportedly the most unstable of the group. Seemingly in a hurry, he continued through the alley, not seeing Gregory. The man gave a slight exhalation of breath, relieved. He counted 10 seconds before stepping from the doorway and peeking to make sure the Thrune was well on his way. As he peered down the alleyway at Wyran who was rapidly walking towards the jail, something bumped him on the back of the head. Panicking, Gregory half jumped, half fell to the grimey stone ground. Looking up, he felt his blood turn colder than Cocytus ice. A hulking monster peered down at him, two snorting pets at it's heel, their size and bulk the very image of a hellish beast to the terrified peasant. The light of the full moon behind the trio, illuminating their savage forms, making them appear even more ferocious. Their stench was powerful. 'This is the last experience I'll ever have. The smell of this thing...' Gregory thought to himself. "P-p-please..." he stammered, hardly a whisper. How he wished he had something defensive to grasp. His kingdom for a carpenter's hammer.
"I am no threat to you." snorts the beast, its voice deep and growling. "It's with him." it says, looking in Wyran's direction. "Go home, Greg. There's nothing here but death."
He crawled to his knees, already running before he had fully risen, his knees trembling. Never before had he run so fast, moving entirely on instinct fueled by terror.
"WYRAN THRUNE!" Gregory heard the monster bellow, echoing through the otherwise quiet city. Gregory found himself at the doorway of his friend, Killian Marsh. Looking over his shoulder, he pounded the wooden door, still too scared to speak, an irrational fear that words might draw the monster to him.
"Who in the Nine Hells is at my door!" Shouted a voice. Opening the door, a thin man, nearly the opposite of Gregory, stood in gray night clothes holding a lit candle. Beardless, pale, and with faded hair not quite brown, not quite gray but an ugly, unnamed color somewhere between. Gray eyes, which had seen unspeakable atrocities, the man was unmistakable as a son of Nidal, the nation of eternal dusk and night.
"Get in, you foolish oaf!" hissed Killian, grabbing the big man at the wrist, even as Gregory tried to knock at a door already opened. With a surprising strength, he pulled him in and snuffed the candle out. "Well over an hour past curfew, Greg. What are you doing out this late?"
"D-d-drink please, Killy. I need a drink. The hard stuff. My-my nerves." stammered Gregory, his heart thumping. He helped himself to an empty chair and the stalwart table.
Having already noted his friends delerious state and anticipated his need for drink, Killian was already finishing the pour on a double shot of Demon Balls tequila. Gregory wrapped his ham-sized fist around the glass and threw it back, tapping it back against the tabletop.
"One more, Killy. One more." spoke Gregory, eyeing the closed door as if it might burst into splinters at any moment. Killian obeyed. Gregory raised the glass midway to his mouth, then stopped.
"One more double, Killy." clarified Gregory, an unusually serious tone in his voice. Killian complied, and Gregory imbibed.
After a stretch of minutes, Gregory finally spoke.
"Towns going to Hell, even faster than the rest of Cheliax, Killy." Gregory spoke, the liqour settling his fears.
"What did you see to make a man as big as an ogre so afraid?"
Killian questioned.
"Now that I'm thinking clearly. I feel a bit foolish. I've heard the stories, I know the tales from travelers. Didn't see nothing as bad as I know you've seen, Killy, being from Nidal and such. It was scarey, sure, but what I think scared me the most, or at least my nerves on edge, was that Thrune fellow. Just wasn't expecting...wasn't expecting to see one of Asmodeus' own following him. Great big beast, two big horns from its face, fierce looking eyes, cloven hooves...and gods be all, the smell . Was going after the Thrune. Seemed full of Hellfire and deadset on settling a score."
"A fiend going after one of the Archbaron's own? Strange developments. Perhaps some sort of demon set loose?" pondered Killian, taking a swig from the Demon Balls bottle.
"Things are changing, and fast, Killy. Talk about this Angel Knight, and Glorious Reclamations. Staelish has been chased out, these new deputies are as wild and unpredictable as a group of murder hobos. Not sure what to be thinking of it all." Gregory said, finally breaking his stare off from the door to look at Killian, desperate for advice.
"Take it from me, a survivor from a nation enthralled to a god who wants to flay us alive and stitch us back together, lay low. Don't get involved. Let the ones with the armor and swords fight it out."
"I know what you mean, but seems like we could be in for big changes, maybe something better, if this Angel Knight could make good on her promises." said Gregory, his voice almost pleading, as if wanting Killian to gift him a measure of hope.
The Nidalese man would have none of it. "There is always someone willing to make promises to you in order to get you to throw yourself on a sword." he said, a harsh tone in his voice.
"I'd like to think I could help them in other ways, Killy. I'm not a fighter or some knight. But I'm strong. And I can build. Maybe...maybe I could make a difference."
"Greg, dear friend, the only difference you'd make is 101 bodies nailed to a Devil's Cross or hung from the long end of a short rope instead of 100 bodies. Let it rest, friend."
"Damn it, Killy! The tiefling! The one with that magic gun, he killed Mindy! The Parson's girl. She was a good girl, she was! Just turned 17 winters. Beautiful, and kind. It was...it was more than wrong...it was..." Gregory stumbled, the liquor beginning to effect him.
"Vile. Abominal. She was too kind. Kind even to a wrech of a man like me. I knew her. The only reason I ever went to The Last Stand. Too kind for the likes of Cheliax." spoke Killian, a hint of sorrow infused in his voice. "One more drink, a single, to Mindy Parsons." Gregory spoke, half asking, half demanding.
"I'll drink to that. Cheers, to a pretty dove gone too soon." said Killian.
The bottle put up, Killian hauled out a feather pillow and spare quilt, placing them in Gregory's hands, the thick man swaying slightly. "Sleep. Lets remember her fondly, but forget this Angel Knight nonsense. Okay, friend?"
"Sleep, yes. I'm still weighing my other options, friend." replied Gregory, a stupid grin on his face.
Nightfall had fast approached the working man as he was wrapping up his work at a farmhouse being built just outside of Longacre. It was just another annoyance, another law he had to remember and obey to avoid incurring an infraction. Having grown up in Longacre, he was accustomed to losing a bit of his income to the Archbaron's guards for minor rule violations. Such was the life of a Chellish citizen.
Thinking on it, Gregory had a growing realization that should he be caught, he would probably face a lot more than just a steep fine. The Archbaron's new minions were developing a reputation as an unpredictable group. Shooting women one day, saving a hospice the next. Brutal, weird, quiet, and overly friendly. The rumors were hard to make sense of. Looking around and getting his bearings, he switched directions and headed down an alley way towards Hemsmouth Way. It would take him uncomfortably close to the jail - seemingly the headquarters for the Archbaron's men- but it was home to the only friend he knew would let him stay until dawn. The thud of leather boots echoed through the night, coming down the intersecting alley. "Devils take me!" he cursed quietly, ducking into a closed doorway, and sucking in his gut, the only hiding space available to him. He prayed for Iomedae's courage to steel his nerves and keep him as unmoving as a statue. Daring to only move his eyes, he caught a glimpse of the man called Wyran, a Thrune if the rumors were true, and reportedly the most unstable of the group. Seemingly in a hurry, he continued through the alley, not seeing Gregory. The man gave a slight exhalation of breath, relieved. He counted 10 seconds before stepping from the doorway and peeking to make sure the Thrune was well on his way. As he peered down the alleyway at Wyran who was rapidly walking towards the jail, something bumped him on the back of the head. Panicking, Gregory half jumped, half fell to the grimey stone ground. Looking up, he felt his blood turn colder than Cocytus ice. A hulking monster peered down at him, two snorting pets at it's heel, their size and bulk the very image of a hellish beast to the terrified peasant. The light of the full moon behind the trio, illuminating their savage forms, making them appear even more ferocious. Their stench was powerful. 'This is the last experience I'll ever have. The smell of this thing...' Gregory thought to himself. "P-p-please..." he stammered, hardly a whisper. How he wished he had something defensive to grasp. His kingdom for a carpenter's hammer.
"I am no threat to you." snorts the beast, its voice deep and growling. "It's with him." it says, looking in Wyran's direction. "Go home, Greg. There's nothing here but death."
He crawled to his knees, already running before he had fully risen, his knees trembling. Never before had he run so fast, moving entirely on instinct fueled by terror.
"WYRAN THRUNE!" Gregory heard the monster bellow, echoing through the otherwise quiet city. Gregory found himself at the doorway of his friend, Killian Marsh. Looking over his shoulder, he pounded the wooden door, still too scared to speak, an irrational fear that words might draw the monster to him.
"Who in the Nine Hells is at my door!" Shouted a voice. Opening the door, a thin man, nearly the opposite of Gregory, stood in gray night clothes holding a lit candle. Beardless, pale, and with faded hair not quite brown, not quite gray but an ugly, unnamed color somewhere between. Gray eyes, which had seen unspeakable atrocities, the man was unmistakable as a son of Nidal, the nation of eternal dusk and night.
"Get in, you foolish oaf!" hissed Killian, grabbing the big man at the wrist, even as Gregory tried to knock at a door already opened. With a surprising strength, he pulled him in and snuffed the candle out. "Well over an hour past curfew, Greg. What are you doing out this late?"
"D-d-drink please, Killy. I need a drink. The hard stuff. My-my nerves." stammered Gregory, his heart thumping. He helped himself to an empty chair and the stalwart table.
Having already noted his friends delerious state and anticipated his need for drink, Killian was already finishing the pour on a double shot of Demon Balls tequila. Gregory wrapped his ham-sized fist around the glass and threw it back, tapping it back against the tabletop.
"One more, Killy. One more." spoke Gregory, eyeing the closed door as if it might burst into splinters at any moment. Killian obeyed. Gregory raised the glass midway to his mouth, then stopped.
"One more double, Killy." clarified Gregory, an unusually serious tone in his voice. Killian complied, and Gregory imbibed.
After a stretch of minutes, Gregory finally spoke.
"Towns going to Hell, even faster than the rest of Cheliax, Killy." Gregory spoke, the liqour settling his fears.
"What did you see to make a man as big as an ogre so afraid?"
Killian questioned.
"Now that I'm thinking clearly. I feel a bit foolish. I've heard the stories, I know the tales from travelers. Didn't see nothing as bad as I know you've seen, Killy, being from Nidal and such. It was scarey, sure, but what I think scared me the most, or at least my nerves on edge, was that Thrune fellow. Just wasn't expecting...wasn't expecting to see one of Asmodeus' own following him. Great big beast, two big horns from its face, fierce looking eyes, cloven hooves...and gods be all, the smell . Was going after the Thrune. Seemed full of Hellfire and deadset on settling a score."
"A fiend going after one of the Archbaron's own? Strange developments. Perhaps some sort of demon set loose?" pondered Killian, taking a swig from the Demon Balls bottle.
"Things are changing, and fast, Killy. Talk about this Angel Knight, and Glorious Reclamations. Staelish has been chased out, these new deputies are as wild and unpredictable as a group of murder hobos. Not sure what to be thinking of it all." Gregory said, finally breaking his stare off from the door to look at Killian, desperate for advice.
"Take it from me, a survivor from a nation enthralled to a god who wants to flay us alive and stitch us back together, lay low. Don't get involved. Let the ones with the armor and swords fight it out."
"I know what you mean, but seems like we could be in for big changes, maybe something better, if this Angel Knight could make good on her promises." said Gregory, his voice almost pleading, as if wanting Killian to gift him a measure of hope.
The Nidalese man would have none of it. "There is always someone willing to make promises to you in order to get you to throw yourself on a sword." he said, a harsh tone in his voice.
"I'd like to think I could help them in other ways, Killy. I'm not a fighter or some knight. But I'm strong. And I can build. Maybe...maybe I could make a difference."
"Greg, dear friend, the only difference you'd make is 101 bodies nailed to a Devil's Cross or hung from the long end of a short rope instead of 100 bodies. Let it rest, friend."
"Damn it, Killy! The tiefling! The one with that magic gun, he killed Mindy! The Parson's girl. She was a good girl, she was! Just turned 17 winters. Beautiful, and kind. It was...it was more than wrong...it was..." Gregory stumbled, the liquor beginning to effect him.
"Vile. Abominal. She was too kind. Kind even to a wrech of a man like me. I knew her. The only reason I ever went to The Last Stand. Too kind for the likes of Cheliax." spoke Killian, a hint of sorrow infused in his voice. "One more drink, a single, to Mindy Parsons." Gregory spoke, half asking, half demanding.
"I'll drink to that. Cheers, to a pretty dove gone too soon." said Killian.
The bottle put up, Killian hauled out a feather pillow and spare quilt, placing them in Gregory's hands, the thick man swaying slightly. "Sleep. Lets remember her fondly, but forget this Angel Knight nonsense. Okay, friend?"
"Sleep, yes. I'm still weighing my other options, friend." replied Gregory, a stupid grin on his face.
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