Bjorn: Mirallia leads you out into the hall, then shakes her head. "I don't understand," she sighs. "Too much ... and I'll think of it later. Let us find our quarters. I don't know about you, but I'm certain I could benefit from a bath."
So saying, she leads the way until a servant directs the pair of you to a side-room on the second floor, and leaves you there alone.
Inside the room, Bjorn pauses, just to one side of the door, crossing his arms and tapping his fingers on the forearm plate of his armour. Abruptly, he looks up at Mirallia, his lips twisting in a sardonic expression. "So," he says, conversationally, "what did you think?"
"I don't know what to think," Mirallia says, somewhat dazed. She pulls a cord, and a moment later, a servant enters, mumbles something politely, and waits for Mirallia to explain that she wants a bath drawn before vanishing.
The quarters that Mirallia was given are pretty generous, really. Almost a full-sized apartment. The entry room has a pair of long, half-bed half-couch like pieces of furniture, a small fireplace, and a door between the main room and the hall. You'd guess that that antechamber will be your room.
The main room has a table in the center, four chairs around it, and a writing desk near the window. From there, another two rooms branch out to the left and right. The room to the right is a bedroom (huge, four-poster bed, there) and to the left is a bathing chamber/privy, though it's more sanitary than anything you've yet seen here. There's also a large, empty stone basin that you expect servants will begin filling with hot water shortly.
"This is all very confusing," she says, closing her eyes and rubbing at her temples. "One bit of confusion stacked atop another, to build a monument of madness."
Bjorn exhales slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he stares into empty space, still leaning against the wall. "I don't trust him," he says blandly, as if commenting on the state of the stones in the wall. "He is... convenient. Just as convenient as the disappearance of Bloom's torc, or the orc ambush, or any of the other disaster," he empahsizes that word, slightly, "that have plagued us so far."
He shakes his head. "If he was created by the forces I work for, why weren't we told about him before this started? Why is his advice on how to go about success different than what we were told before this began?"
His smile widens into a mirthless grin, and he winks at Mirallia. "A stranger who tells you the way to the bar is kindly, but one who gives you a sack of gold... he's untrustworthy."
"As that goes," Mirallia says slowly. "He is still important to this keep, and more importantly, he sits court for Lord Kevin. It is your friends, and yourself, that are in the greatest danger, I think. We must be careful." There's a knock at the door, and a trio of bucket-laden servants struggle in, pouring their buckets into the stone basin in the other room before promising to return again in a minute.
"What do you think we should do?" Mirallia asks, running her fingers across the symbol of Hamar on her necklace worriedly.
"I think we should do what's in front of us," Bjorn says, gently. "Assassins are a real concern, so we'll watch for them. And the Dreadmarch is undeniably real, so we'll deal with that." He shrugs, but his eyes on Mirallia are serious. "Confusion is doubt. I don't doubt my goals. I won't doubt myself. That means the only thing I have to be confused about is what time will breakfast be, and exactly where I'll be sleeping." He glances around the chamber in a quick mock search, one eyebrow raised, and a smile tugging at his lips.
"I suppose," Mirallia says hesitantly. "Ah ... when I finish bathing, I will leave the water for you, if you'd like it. Otherwise you will need to go to the basement for the public bath ... and I'm not sure I like the idea of you so far away at a time like this."
"That sounds like a good idea," Bjorn says, wryly. "I can't imagine that I smell very good." He grimaces. "And lacking a change of clothes doesn't help either.
"Anyways, I'm just going to study the layout of this place while you bathe. I'll stay nearby and in earshot."
"You lost your casual clothes?" she asks, just before round two of the bucket brigade files in, sloshes their water into the bath, and troops out again. "Drat. I suppose we'll need to find something for you ... we can't have you wearing armor about the entire day, like Lord Kevin. At least, not before the battle."
"Hmph." Bjorn grunts. "No, I'd forgotten those. Thank you for reminding me." Conscious of the bucket brigade, he asks, deferentially, "Is there anything you would like me to deal with while you bathe, Madame?"
Nodding, she orders (while they are listening in) "Make yourself familiar, and comfortable in this area, so that you may serve more readily, should it be required." Deciding that this is neither gossip-worthy or about them, the bucket brigadeers vanish again.
Bjorn nods. "Anything else, before you bathe?"
She purses her lips. "No," she says after a moment. "But ... should we hide the draughts of life, do you think?"
Bjorn frowns. "They expected us to bring them, right? Better, instead, would be to hide some of them. We don't want to draw suspicion by not seeming to have any, and there needs to be some convenient, for emergencies. The ones not hidden will act as bait, and keep anybody from searching for what we have hidden, with any luck.
"The question is: where do we hide them?"
Bjorn studies the room, looking for inspiration.
The furniture is pretty sparse. If this were your cell back at the Workshop, you'd know exactly where to put them. As it is, you're not sure.
The fireplace seems like it might have a few loosenable stones, but you have no idea how these potions hold up to heat.
Snorting slightly, Bjorn looks back to Mirallia. "No ideas come to mind, but as long as they're within reach, it's not much of a concern. I'll try to figure something out while I look around."
Round three of the bucket brigade arrives, deposits hot water, and vanishes. Mirallia vanishes into the bathing chamber, and you're left to your own to survey the rooms.
They're all very sparsely furnished, unfortunately.
Outside, to either side of your apartments, are identical rooms (though, these are still empty). The hallway is bare stone, with a tapestry on the wall. It appears to be some design of red and yellow cloth woven together into a pattern, but it doesn't really seem to make an image.
After glancing upwards to quickly study the ceiling, Bjorn makes his way to the writing desk and examines its contents.
Thick paper sheets. Better quality than what's in your book, but not much. Feather quills (four of them), and two sealed but tiny bottles of ink. In addition, there's a lump of wax, and a small candle (nearly a stub) inside the desk's one drawer.
With a shrug to himself, Bjorn settles himself to wait for Mirallia.
She finishes her bath ane emerges shortly thereafter. You don't know where she put her change of clothes, but imagine it's somewhere similar to where she kept her mace hidden. Either way, she looks much happier now that she's clean.
"The bath is free," she says, gesturing to the empty room behind her, and toweling water from her hair.
"Thank you," Bjorn says, politely, and heads to the bath, taking his pack (containing both change of clothes and the Draughts of Life) -- as well as his sword -- with him.
And thereupon, scrubs himself clean.
This takes a lot of scrubbing. Someone thoughtfully left both a towel and a rag for you to scrub yourself with, and the water is still warm when you get in. Though, it's cold by the time you get out.
Your spare clothes, aside from what you were wearing beneath your armor (which you're not sure you should wear without armor) appear to have not been worn since the last time they were washed. They fit pretty well, and it takes a minute to adjust to how easily you can move around without all those extra steel plates strapped to you.
You could probably get used to this.
Rooting through his pack to get the change of clothes, Bjorn stumbles across the signet ring, once again, and stops to examine it a little more carefully.
It's not your size. It looks like a crescent moon with three stars in it. It's a solid gold band, from what you can tell, and the seal itself is carved (pretty carefully) from some sort of stone.
Putting the ring back in his pack, along with the armour, Bjorn buckles on his sword and steps out of the bath.
"I feel considerably better," he remarks.
Mirallia looks up from the writing desk, where she's busily inscribing something. "You look better," she remarks. "Where did we find so much dirt in all that snow?" she muses.
"Your armor may need cleaning, too."
"Dirt," Bjorn says, "is one of the few unfaltering constants."
Setting himself down cross-legged, he roots through his pack, looking to see if he has what he needs to clean his armour. "I couldn't think of a good place to hide the draughts," he comments. "For the time being, it would probably be best to carry it with us."
You have what you need to clean your armor, though the armor's under-clothes will need to be washed. You have a basin of mostly cold water that can serve such a purpose, though.
Setting about the task, Bjorn continues, "I'm a bit worried about the arrangements. There are windows in almost all the rooms, which face to the outside of the keep. If an assassin wanted to get in..." he breaks off. "I will have to see what I can do about making the window in your bedroom, at least, a little more secure."
"The window?" Mirallia asks, as though the idea of using a window for any purpose other than letting light in were an entirely new concept. "How would someone.... I suppose you know best."
Bjorn half-smiles. "I don't know best -- I don't even know much. But it's best to try to cover all the bases."
Still scrubbing at his armour, he continues, thoughtfully, "Perhaps the next thing we should do is report to the Lord? It seems appropriate, and I would appreciate a better sense of the situation."
She shakes her head. "Because we're here early, we don't need to worry. The ceremony isn't for a few days yet. Lord Kevin has enough to worry about with marshalling the troops."
Bjorn looks up, sharply, pausing in his work. "Ceremony?" he repeats. "What ceremony?"
"Of presentation, when we hand the draughts of life over to Lord Kevin, and are accepted into his service for the duration of the Dreadmarch." She frowns. "It should be in three days ... one of the Archonae had always arrived to preside over it, and leave the icon of hope behind for the battle.
"It's a gift from their oracle, which is said to speak directly to Hamar. I've never seen it myself ... but it is sealed in a grotto beneath the keep. It's said that the presence of this icon will keep despair from entering the keep and affecting those within, no matter how fierce the odds."
Further rumination is cut off by a knock at the door.
While waiting for someone to answer the door, Ginrai says, "One request, Paul. While talking with Mirella, can you play some music, preferably some soft melody?"
Bjorn, about to say something sharp, cuts off and stares at the door. "Get out of sight," he says, softly, to Mirallia, motioning her to the side of the antechamber that will be hidden behind the door when it opens. Then he himself moves to the door, right hand on his sword, and opens the door, stepping back with it so that it provides cover for himself.
"May I help you?" he asks.
Mirallia obediently ducks into her bedroom while you open the door. You're greeted with the sight of a scruffy looking bard, and a bizarre looking mystic or magician. Unfortunately, you recognize both of them right off the bat.
"Hey, Bjorn. We're here to kidnap the Princess. Or, if that's not possible, talk with you."
Bjorn eyes Paul and Parthipan. "What do you want with Mirallia?"
"Eh? Actually we wanted to first talk with you in private."
Bjorn rolls his eyes. "Then say that, don't try to be funny. Mirallia's in another room. What's up?"
Paul nods at Ginrai. "Well, go ahead."
"No problem. Anyway, I was wondering what, if anything, you knew of your other-self?"
Bjorn blinks, blankly, and then shrugs. "Think I told you all this before. My other-self was a slave to the Church of Hamar, and had been since fairly young. Lower-class citizen, basically only respected for battle. That's about it, really."
"Hmm? Actually, I didn't know this. So you've known Mirella and the former High Priestess for some time, then? Do you know anything else important of yourself? Possibly others who you've met throughout the years there or possibly about the priestesses?"
"She's a priestess of Hamar. She wasn't all that high-ranking, I gather, and she really doesn't want this job. That's about it." He frowns. "Look, this is a pretty useless way of asking me about these things. If you have a specific question, it might jog my other-memories, but this sort of vague, general stuff..."
"I see. Was hoping that you'd know of the events around the time when the priestess died. If you do discover anything else about your other-self *please* tell me immediately since it could be important with regards to us making it out of here alive."
Ginrai sighs. "Anyway, we also wanted to talk in private with Mirella."
"All right, wait a second," Bjorn says. "Why are you all of a sudden so sure that our pasts may be the key to success? We've all been worrying about it, so why, right now, are you suddenly making such a big deal out of it?"
Ginrai nods. "I have a feeling that someone from the Church of Hamar was tied with the Pax Arcana and was wondering if either you or Mirallia know of anyone suspicious around the time of the Priestesses death."
Bjorn shrugs. "I don't know of anybody, any more than you do, and for the same reasons. No memories. But I'll go get Mirallia. Wait here."
Without waiting for a reply, Bjorn heads to the bedroom. Knocking on the doorframe, he says, "Mirallia? It's Parthipan and Durant. They would like to ask you some questions about the death of your predecessor, if you're willing."
Mirallia comes out of the bedroom, and takes one of the seats at the main table in the front room. "I suppose," she says, looking the slightest bit annoyed. "What would you like to know?"
Bjorn follows Mirallia back to the main room, but chooses to stand close to the door, one ear cocked for sounds in the hallway outside.
"Quite a few things, to be honest. First thing being, do you know the cause of her death? Was it something that happened all of a sudden?"
"Perhaps," Mirallia says thoughtfully, looking distant. "She was wandering in the garden ... alone, though. I remember it because I was busy at the time with Bjorn." She coughs quietly. "We were discussing his appropriateness as a candidate for the ceremony. There were twelve potential vassals there, but of course, only four can be chosen.
"While she was in the garden, she fainted. When we investigated, we found no sign of ilness upon her ... nor any wound. But she would not recover, even with our prayers. She did not wake to speak of what happened, and passed away that night."
"And everyone there came to the immediate conclusion that her death was through natural causes?"
"There were no wounds, and Hamar would not heal her. We hardly assumed it was natural," Mirallia replies levely. "Though ... it may have been poison. We cannot heal that."
"I see.... Other than yourself, who else was considered to be her successor?"
"I was third in succession," Mirallia replies, frowning. "Though, in truth, I did not expect to be chosen for this task. I thought that it would go to Grizelda ... but she insisted that I go, and that she would take care of Winterhaven until Gatemaster Eske arrived."
Ginrai sighs. "I take it you haven't heard anything from her since? Who was the other person in line to succeed ahead of you and will either arrive here later on?"
"Of course not. There are no messengers between the Keep and Winterhaven. At least, not on any form of regular basis, anyway. Once we left, we heard nothing.
"There was no one ahead of us ... the first in line was Megan, and she died. Grizelda was second, and elected to have me go before her. The only others were Branwel and Oliva, but they were judged too young to be ready for this.
"All of them are still in Winterhaven, awaiting the arrival of Gatemaster Eske. When he arrives, they will then be taken through his doorway to the great temple of Hamar in Loren. That's a month's journey away from here, south and east."
"Ah. During the days before Megan died, was anyone there acting strangely?"
"...yourself, I would suppose," she says slowly. "You had come months too early to meet Eske. And you, as well," she adds, turning to look at Paul. "Winterhaven is so remote as to have no one at all visit for years on end."
"Wait... we were *there* during that time?! Hmm... Were we usually seen around either Megan or Grizelda?"
"Not usually, no," Mirallia says. "You were far more interested in Gatemaster Eske, and barely left your chambers. Master Durant hardly ever set foot outside of the main hall, discussing old stories and battles with the vassals."
Ginrai frowns. "I'm guessing that's why you were wary of me and Paul during our journey."
She says nothing, merely rolling her eyes by way of reply.
"Ah, well... seeing how this has turned out, I might as well ask this question. Very early on I made a comment about a ring to which you responded rather strangely. Is there any reason to that?"
"There is a reason for everything," she says coldly. "But that is none of your business." With that, she stands up and stalks off into her own room.
"Wonderful tact," Bjorn says, dryly. "Perhaps you should have let the Great Statesman do the talking?" He shakes his head. "There are other things we have to worry about. For example, the fact that an Archonae is supposed to be coming here, with some artifact that is a symbol of victory, or something." Grimacing, he continues, "From what it sounds like, if that gets interfered with, then things will go badly. And given our luck, it's likely that things will go badly. Why don't you two check that out, and maybe see if you hear any other rumours of sudden, unfortunate coincidences?"
"Well, that didn't actually turn out the way I thought it would. I was expecting her to have slapped me before leaving."
Hearing Bjorn's comments, Ginrai replies, "Who, other than presumably Lord Kevin, would be meeting with the Archonae?"
"It's a big ceremony, apparently, so a lot of people. But I don't know enough about Archonae to know if they can be ambushed -- or enough about the ceremony to guess what can go wrong."
Bjorn shrugs. "I've got concerns about the military preparations, so I'm going to try and work that side of things. Now, unless there's something else?"
"One more thing. What is your current impression of Radagast? When me and Paul were talking with him he mentioned that it was possible that someone else's other-self was responsible for the death of the Priestess. Though now, after hearing what Mirallia said, it seems more likely that either Paul or I was responsible."
"I don't know what A has to do with B," Bjorn says, "but Radagast..." He grimaces. "Radagast is very convenient. There's been a lot of convenient things happening, and most of them have been for the other side. I can't see any reason to trust him -- but then, no reason to distrust him, either." He looks Parthipan dead in the eyes, and then shoots Paul the same warning glance. "I wouldn't get too wrapped up in what Radagast says. First and foremost, remember what the Oracle and Ezmereth said."
Ginrai nods. "Should we try and avoid him then? At first I was considering asking him about this after we left here, but that could be a rather horrible decision at this time. And then there's the possibility that he might take part in the meeting with the Archonae...."
"No, don't avoid him," Bjorn says. "That would look suspicious... and he might be on our side. Just take what he tells you with a grain of salt, and don't treat him as a trusted ally until you can trust him.
"As for the meeting..." Bjorn shrugs. "We don't know what the ceremony is going to be like, and we couldn't do anything anways without proof. That's why I want you to find out about the ceremony."
"That shouldn't be difficult seeing how my other-self had knowledge on the Archonae. I'll see if he brought any books on them. Now that I think of it, my other-self also had knowledge on herbology... damn."
Bjorn shrugs. "However you want to go about it. But if you question anybody else, try and show a little more subtlety and tact, eh?"
"Yeah, sure thing." Ginrai gets up to leave.
"Good luck." Bjorn gets up after Parthipan and Paul, shutting the door behind them.
Then he goes to the bedroom, and discreetly raps on the bedroom door. "Mirallia?" He hesitates. "Are you alright?"
She opens the door, and looks irritated. "I'm fine," she says aftr a moment. "Just annoyed. Those questions make no sense to me ... I think I like the new loremaster even less than the old one."
Parthipan and Paul return to Secret Game (http://pishoque.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=33313#33313).
"That's understandable," Bjorn says, with a touch of humour in his voice. "I have absolutely no idea what he was trying to get at." He shakes his head. "For what it's worth, I think I got him set on a line of research that'll keep him out of your hair for a while."
Bjorn hesitates for a second, and then continues, "I think it must seem like we -- myself and the others, and our enemies -- are playing a sort of... game with your world. When Parthipan acts like that, it must be hard to trust us. But by no choice of ours, our 'game' involves the Dreadmarch. I'm doing what I do to protect humans, and the fact that the people who live here are in a different world makes no difference in my eyes. We are fighting for the same thing, Mirallia, and I hope you believe that."
"I do," she says slowly. "Are you not human on your world?"
Taken aback, Bjorn can only blink at Mirallia before breaking out in laughter. "I did phrase that badly, didn't I?" he says whimiscally. "No, I'm human." His amusement fades, and his jaws clench, before relaxing again. "Quite human, not matter what others occasionally might say," he continues, jovially.
"Ah," she says, seeming to realize that this might be a sore point. "I'm going to get some rest," she finally decides. "Don't stay awake too long. I'll see you in the morning."
With that, she retreats into her own room, closing the door except for a small fraction. You hear the interior shutters being pulled against the windows, presumably to make it darker, and then the rustling of cloth, and then nothing.
Goddamnit, Bjorn thinks in frustration, I wanted to do something about the window in her room. He shrugs, to himself, and then sits himself down cross-legged before Mirallia's door, sword across his knees. Leaning back against the wall, about to drift off into sleep, a thought snaps into clear focus in his mind: The Dreadmarch is coming. Ahead of schedule.
Frowning, eyes closed, he contemplates that. The attitude people have here... stinks. Waiting on a ceremony? The March has already pulled out a surprise on them. What if they had another one? What if they got here before the ceremony?
So what would I do? Outriders, scouts. Harassing actions. Traps. Fire the plains -- nobody on our side's out there anyways. Find out what they have in the ways of supply lines, and break them.
Next question: what would my other-self do? If he wanted to slow the March down, if he wanted to weaken them before they showed up, if he was afraid they'd get here before they were supposed to... what would all his training tell him to do?
[OOC: Six points of Influence in Tactics to try and answer that question!]
You fall asleep before you find a solid answer. When you wake up, which is apparently before Mirallia, you realize that there are a number of problems.
For one, there's supposed to be a contingient of storm-riders already out there, waiting for the chance to join with everyone for the battle.
For another, the outpost full of scouts and soldiers is still standing, and that's going to be hard to sneak by before the men abandon it to rejoin the forces at the keep.
And, of course, snow doesn't burn very well.
Another problem has cropped up between now and then, however: Where to get something to eat. You're a bit hungry, though you're warm enough and in loose enough clothing that the stiffness from sleeping in a sitting position is pretty negligable.
Bjorn gets to his feet, stretching. Hrm. Traps, then. Tricky, inefficient. Not enough speed or cover for harasssing. Should still be scouts and outriders out, though with any luck they've done that already. He shakes his head. Don't know enough. Don't like this.
Grumpy early-morning contemplation finished, he knocks softly on Mirallia's door.
She answers after a moment, climbing out of bed and looking around the main room as if she'd forgotten where she fell asleep. She remembers quickly enough, and mumbles, "Good morning," to you.
"Good morning," Bjorn says, gravely. "Would you like me to arrange some breakfast to be brought?"
"Yes, please," she says walking to the writing desk and resuming whatever she had started yesterday. "And some tea," she adds, shaking one of the ink bottles to see how much ink is left.
Bjorn shakes his head, unseen by Mirallia. I might be taking this role a bit too far, he thinks with dark humour. All of the work with none of the fun.
He tugs on the cord which will summon a servant, and then goes over the door to wait for said servant to show up.
It takes less than a minute before there's a knock at the door. The servant listens to what you want, then nods, and runs off to fetch it. It takes a few minutes more before breakfast and tea arrives, but it does, warm, and fresh from the kitchen.
"Your breakfast is here, Madame," Bjorn says, as the door closes.
How lucky, the kitchen served your favorite: eggs.
There's also some warm bread and some cheese. These people seem big on the Atkins diet. Mirallia takes a small plate with some of the eggs, and a piece of bread, and goes back to her writing table.
Bjorn quickly and efficiently eats his share. When finished, he looks over at Mirallia. "May I ask what you're working on?" he asks, politely.
"My memiours," she replies, frowning. "And perhaps my confession...." She pauses. "Perhaps I should burn it. It would not do for this to be found ... but I have yet to record my sin upon it, only that which led me to the temple at Winterhaven."
Bjorn snorts softly, under his breath. "Memoirs are best written when everything's long done, I think," he says, somewhat more gently than the words would indicate. "For now, I think we'd better off doing something, then thinking about what's already done."
"Very well," she says, setting the quill aside. "What should we do, then?"
"That," Bjorn pronounces, "is a very good question."
He frowns, and looks off in the distance. "So. What's the problem? A lot of things. The Dreadmarch is ahead of schedule. The priestess who should have had your task died. The ambush in the mountains." His brow knits further. "The fact that the storm-riders didn't help you. The disappearance of the Loremaster Eske. Probably other things, that I've forgotten or don't know about. All of it goes towards the Dreadmarch winning."
He sighs, and slumps in his seat. "The problem is seeing the connections -- and from there, what to do about it. Somebody is behind all this; and, likely, has been for a while. If the storm-riders have been subverted... likely, then, Bloom's torc was stolen to help a puppet into his place, and that happened a long time ago. On the other hand, the ambush couldn't have been prepared much in advance...."
He trails off into thought.
"This many things working against us ... I find it all very unsettling," Mirallia says, pacing from one wall, to the writing desk, and then back. "But I don't understand who ... or what ... is behind it."
"Radagast might be right," Bjorn says slowly, startled out of contemplation by Mirellia's speech. Leaning back in his chair, he continues, "It might be my... opposition. There's problems with that, but it's not impossible.
"But practically speaking, what's behind it is the Dreadmarch and the Elder Gods. The end goal is the same thing they've always aimed at, it's just that this time they seem to be getting smarter. They've recruited human agents, or put in convincing dopplegangers. They're weaving a net. What we need to do is take hold of a thread."
He pauses again, thinking.
"I wasn't ever much for embriodery," Mirallia supplies, tapping her fingers across the surface of the window in the main room. "But I guess that's what we are, and someone's already set about unravelling us."
Bjorn grunts softly in agreement. His heads hangs a while longer, and then he shakes it, looking up at Mirallia. "I think we have too many questions, and not enough answers, or leads to answers. We won't find any sitting here."
Rising, he continues, "Unless you have another idea, I think we should go find Lord Kelvin and see if there's anything we can do to assist in the preparations. I have some tactical questions I would like answered... and at the very least, if anything else is to happen, the quickest way to find out about it is to be near the command." He shrugs, slightly embarassed.
Mirallia considers this for a moment, then agrees, hesitantly. "I wouldn't want to impinge on his campaign against the Dreadmarch, but I suppose this is far more dangerous than it's been before, and we've no time for games.
"This one really will be a struggle." Nodding to herself, and having made up her mind, she checks herself to make sure her hair is presentable, then asks, "Ah, Bjorn ... if ... I may ... do you still have my ring? I ... may need it for what is to come."
Bjorn blinks, and then comprehends. "Ah. I... think I do. One second." As he roots in his pack to retrieve it, he asks, over his shoulder, "What exactly do you mean by, 'this one'?" Standing, he unties the handkerchief from the ring and passes it to Mirallia.
"It's as Radagast said -- for the last several marches ... no one took them as seriously as should be warranted. For something that the entire fate of the world hangs in the balance on, you would expect everyone to be concerned. But the truth of the matter is that south of the heartlands, in the rice kingdoms, many don't even know about what we will be doing here in the weeks to come.
"If they do know, it is because the Archonae move about, and share some of what their oracle has told them. But to them, it is much like a dream, or a fable. Something that they are told of which is not really true, and even if it is, does not matter." She shakes her head.
In a much quieter voice, she adds, "Something they can freely throw an unwanted daughter to, believing that no ill will come of it."
Raising her head, and taking the ring, she speaks in a more conversational tone. "And perhaps now, I realize that all other things aside, to atone for my sin, I must fight and see that the worst does not come to pass." She nods, then slips the ring on.
It's her size, you realize, and would never have fit on you. "This is a symbol of my birthright," she explains, eyeing it, as if she had forgotten how to wear it. "All of that is cast aside when a priestess joins Hamar, and it would be ... shameful for her to keep it afterwards. Perhaps it would be even more shameful to give it as a token of affection, breaking more of those rules in the process.
"And perhaps the greatest shame is in asking for it back afterwards," she says, frowning. "But the clergy has no place in the discussion of tactics and battle. Nobility does, and I will use what I have to fight for my best.
"If you can come from a world where you've never learned things that our children know, and say over and over that the right thing is to stop the Dreadmarch, then I'm a great fool than you could ever aspire to be for not seeing it myself."
With a smile, she plants a kiss on your cheek, and then whirls towards the door. "Lord Kevin will not be expecting us, so we must be patient."
Bjorn blinks, startled, and then grins. "One second, actually."
Grabbing his pack, he slips into the bathroom. When he returns, he is no longer wearing his ordinary clothes, but once again the plate armour. "There. Lord Kevin might not be charitably inclined towards a priestess and her vassal." Tugging at his left gauntlet, to adjust it comfortably, he says, with a grim humour, "A noblewoman backed by a soldier of Hamar is a different story entirely, I'll bet. Too bad I don't have the ceremonial armour anymore -- but then, looking dangerous is probably more effective than looking pretty." He grins ferally, and then opens the door, bowing low. "If you are ready, m'Lady?"
She smirks, and you're off, wandering through the maze-like interior of the keep. Either she knows where she's going, or she's a good bluffer -- either way, you eventually find yourself climbing a few sets of stairs, and stopping before a massive double-door in an indoor halway, guarded by a pair of bored-looking men in good-quality plate-mail.
They eye you speculatively, not trusting the sword, but after a moment, one of them raps on the door. A call you can't make out echoes from inside, and then the doors swing open slowly. You're shown through an ante-chamber by a well-dressed servant, and then you're in a room that has to mimic the proportions of the feasting-hall downstairs. One might wonder, idly, about the architectural feasibilty of this construction, what with the two large towers that are supposed to be overhead, but apparently, no one else lets little details like this bother them.
Columns line this room at irregular intervals, supporting the ceiling overhead, and allowing room for iron rings bearing torches to illuminate the area. They are, at this moment, unlit, however.
The room runs the length of the keep, and you know this because the far wall has windows -- warped, wavery, bubbled glass (you can tell that from this far away) -- but glass none-the-less. Lord Kevin, no longer in armor, and his right-hand man, still in armor, are huddled over a huge desk basking in the sunlight that permits itself to shine over the horizon and into the room. Radagast reclines in a chair a short distance away, puffing on his pipe and staring at nothing in particular. There's no sign of his elf-friend, or Liandral, though.
Lord Kevin looks up as Mirallia draws near, stopping a handful of paces from the desk. "Ah!" he says, rising from his chair. "It is good to see you again, Madame Mirallia. I hope you've rested from your ordeal?"
"I have, Lord Kevin," she says, bowing to him.
"What can I help you with, then?" the man asks, turning to stare at his desk contemplatively. From where you stand, you can see it is a map, covered with odd trinkets and tokens -- mostly coins or blocks -- that probably represent soldiers on a battlefield. The militant man in plate says nothing, eyeing you speculatively.
"I wish to offer what aid I can in the defenses of Stormwall Keep," she says, glancing sidelong at Radagast, who has roused himself from his glazed contemplation of the cieling.
"Well, that's good," Lord Kevin muses. "We can use more help, assuredly, but your hands will be full at the ceremony. And after that, well, we can always use assistance with the wounded."
"There's ... possibly more," Mirallia says slowly, uncertain of how to proceed.
"What else is there?" Lord Kevin asks, leaning one elbow on the table and frowning at his map.
Radagast nods curiously, and the armored man continues staring straight at you.
By ingrained habit, Bjorn tries to conceal the overt signs of his martial arts skill. Now, though, he drops that pretense. He straightens his back, letting his arms and shoulders hang loose, and his eyes take on an empty, half-lidded look.
"Madam Mirallia," he states, quietly and calmly, "is the hand of Hamar in this place. His wrath for the Dreadmarch is holy, and it is her role to make His will be known, and to carry out His commands.
"And I am a soldier of Hamar. By His will, war is my beginning and my end." His face rests impassive as he pronounces that. "A sword sheathed is a sword wasted."
"Well put," the armored man says dryly, sizing you up as though when it came time for him to chew you up and spit you out, you'd have a fraction more gristle on you than most others. "Speaking of sheathed swords, there is something ... that we'd like to discuss, as long as you're volunteering."
Radagast frowns, but nods, and Lord Kevin leans back in his chair. It's pretty big, padded in hides. Honestly, you're not sure if it's fit for a king, but Lord Kevin seems to think it's pretty dandy.
"I take it that unlikely coincidences have plagued your preparations, as well?" Mirallia finally hazards.
The armored man scowls, and Kevin nods, half-hiding a smile. "Indeed," the lord finally says. "We've invited warriors of renown from afar to test their mettle, and to prepare for the worst. And lorekeepers, of course.
"This is a battle which I don't intend to underestimate, even if it's so much of a joking rout that it could be won by children with sticks. My ancestors have made mistakes, which I like to think I've learned from.
"Perhaps in our memories, what has truly happened has become obfuscated behind stories of it not really being that bad ... but preparing for the worst, I've almost gotten everything I've expected.
"I sent out letters, and messengers, to several renowned figures, as I've said before. Gatemaster Eske, for example. Of course, he's gone, and no one knows where. Peculiar.
"But too, the soldiers, the spearmen, the archers ... all those I would single out as those worthy of distinction ... almost all of them have fallen. Oh, certainly, four of those who I'd wanted here are here ... now. I have the legendary King of the Wolves, a Storm-rider of true renown and ferocity! ... but of late, he is given to drink, and has lost the respect of his people.
"The great Ekim Boneforge, who is said to be one of the oldest Dwarves still walking the earth, his memory reaching back to the first Dreadmarch, and back still, to when Man fought God on the field before this keep. ...but he does not fight, because he has no care to temper those he strikes into better weapons to be used against him. There is some truth to the legend that those who live through a blow from a Dwarven hammer rise stronger than they fell. Perhaps this is for the best.
"Only one is here as he should be. Dorian Shivershaft, the archer. And I suspect the reason he is here, is because he came immediately, and set about reviewing the fortifications nearly ten years ago, and hasn't left since. I have not shared my suspicion that he narrowly avoided being assasinated ... but I think he is aware anyway."
Frowning pensively, he turns to look directly at you. "That is three," he adds.
Bjorn stares back, impassively.
Lord Kevin frowns pensively after a moment, looking between you and the lady. Finally, he says, "The fourth was found ... much later. Breke the Bladestorm ... he was standing in the field in the Heartlands. His retainers all slain, and him with nothing to do.
"My men tried to help him when they encountered him, on their way to the keep, but he ignored them, only checking to make sure that the chains around his wrists were secured. A chained man ... and he the only survivor of a gruesome battle? And in the heartlands, no less.
"Mm. We thought this odd. He didn't answer our questions, except to say, at length, that he did not see the attackers. But he slew them.
"One wonders how this is possible, but he doesn't speak of these things. Or much of anything at all, really. He spends all his time in contemplation. Apparently there is a madness within him ... and it is not that he is ... or was ... his own man. It was that he went where his retainers led, and did as they bade."
The armored man finally speaks. "It seems to me, that we need someone to take up that task of governing Breke's chains, if he's to fight for us," he says, his voice deep and rough, likely from years of shouting orders. "None of our men are willing to do this ... they give up after a day of trying.
"But if, somehow, someone were to take responsibility, and see that Breke were restored to the legendary swordsman he is said to be, then we'd have enough less worry on our table that we could allow another voice to enter our planning sessions.
"Otherwise, we've much to do, and little time to do it."
Mirallia frowns, a very subtle, tight frown, and eyes you out of the corner of her eyes.
"Why do the keepers give up, Sir?" Bjorn asks, quietly, without shifting.
"I've heard it said that Breke is somewhat difficult to get along with," the armored man says, shrugging. "And who would trade the glory of wielding a blade for leading a legend around on a chain?"
"I am not a healer," Bjorn says. "But I am a soldier, and in this place, I follow the orders of Sir Kevin and Madame Mirallia."
Inwardly, he roils with a combination of frustration and curiousity. Ridiculous. Wars don't get won by single heroes, especially ones that everyone distrusts. On the other hand... he survived an assassination attempt. That may make him the best lead yet.
"Hmm," the armored man grunts. "If you can manage Breke, then well allow Lady Mirallia to participate in the planning."
Bjorn looks at Mirallia, a questioning look to his eyes.
"Well," Mirallia says slowly, "if that's the case, Bjorn, do you think you're up to that task?"
"Yes," Bjorn says, simply.
"Very well, then," the armored man says, relaxing into his chair a little bit. "Ask one of the servants to show you to Sir Breke's rooms."
Lord Kevin nods thoughtfully. "Indeed," he murmurs. "Now, Madame Mirallia, if you'd care to take a look at this map, you can see our plans for the first day, hmm?"
Mirallia nods at you, and turns her attention to the map. Radagast rubs his chin thoughtfully, and frowns, but remains silent, sitting off to one side.
Bjorn bows deeply to the gathered gentry, and then makes his way out of the war room, closing the door gently behind him.
Outside the room, he addresses himself to the nearest servant. "Excuse me, good master, but could you take me to the chambers of Sir Breke?"
The servant blinks, and raises an eyebrow, but nods, and leads you to a room on the second floor -- this one a good distance from Mirallia's. The door is closed, and the servant leaves the second he's certain you know it's the door to Breke's room specifically.
Bjorn raps politely on the door.
Some calls out from within, in a tired, but clear voice: "Enter!"
The hallway is peculiarly deserted at this point....
Bjorn enters the room, quietly, and shuts the door behind him before turning to look at Sir Breke.
You enter the apartments, which mirror the rooms you share with Mirallia. Breke is sitting at the chair closest to (as you reckon) the bedroom, in front of the table. He stares forward at something you can't see, and drums his fingers across the table.
He's currently dressed in amor a lot like yours, only with thicker metal plates on it. In addition, he has a pair of nearly identical swords on his back, one with a white hilt, and one with a black hilt.
On the table before him, someone has painstakingly carved a circle, and it doesn't look like it's a rough, crude scratching, it looks like someone put effort into making it smooth and perfectly rounded.
"No food?" he asks, lowering his face to peer at the circle on the table, his eyes not even flickering towards you. "I suppose it is early."
His hands rise from his lap, and you see someone has secured (and welded) manacles onto him. His wrists are still scarred from the heat of this welding, and chains dangle across the floor behind him. There's probably a good three meters of reach on those chains, too.
Bjorn bows. "Sir Breke, I am Bjorn, a vassal of Hamar. By the request of Lord Kevin, I am here to act as your companion."
"How nice," he says flatly. "They send a holy man." He seems restless for a moment, then shrugs. "Have a seat," he says, gesturing vaguely. "Tell me about yourself, Bjorn."
Bjorn takes the indicated seat. "I am a vassal of Hamar. There's not much to say about that, Sir Breke. What would you like to know?"
As he speaks, he studies Breke carefully -- particularly his face, trying to understand him.
Breke's face is lined with creases. He's a man who scowls a lot. His eyes are a bluish gray, and wander around the room. They don't flickering from spot to spot, but just kind of float around, as though he were seeing something you couldn't.
One hand rises, dragging the chain with it, and touches one edge of the circle, then moves about, tracing the perimeter idly before he speaks.
"Tell me about your childhood, then," he sighs.
Bjorn shrugs. "Again, Sir, there is little to say. I grew up on an isolated farm, so it was not until I was five years of age before I spent time with other children. As you'd expect, I was treated harshly by my peers -- always the victim of childhood games.
"And then, one day, I gutted the worst of the bullies with a hand trowel, simply to hear him scream, and when he was dead, I made sausages of his brains. I became quite popular, then."
Breke blinks at this, then scowls, and then slaps the tabble with one hand (sending chains rattling about) and howls with laughter.
"Hah!" he yells. "Sausage!" Sobering slightly he says, "That's good. Very good." He nods to himself. "Have you ever actually killed a man?" he asks, his voice hardening a bit.
"Yes," Bjorns says quietly, with a hint of sadness, but his eyes are intent and serious, fixed on Breke's gaze.
Breke's eyes still wander around, not fixing on anything at all. "Ah. Soldier, then. Service of Hamar." He ruminates. "Won't lose your head in a battle ... carry yourself like you know how to fight. Very well."
He climbs to his feet, incidentally knocking his chair over behind him, and thrusts a wrist at you. "Lead me to the courtyard. I want to fight with you."
Bjorn rises, taking the profferred manacle, and leads the way out to the courtyard.
Breke follows behind you, walking with a slow, shuffling gait. It's annoying, but with a pace like that, you have a hard time seeing how this guy would be useful in combat. Either way, you manage to get him to the courtyard, his pace slowing again by half every time you encounter a staircase or ramp.
Once you're there, he raises his face, and sighs. "How long until the Dreadmarch arrives?" he asks.
"I'm not sure," Bjorn says, thoughtfully. "They are ahead of schedule, but it's not clear to me just how much so." He shrugs. "I suspect at least two or three days, but I would need to speak with my superiors to know for certain."
"Eh, I think Hamar has better things to do with his time than tell us the specifics," he grumbles. "Choose a fighting circle."
When you look across the courtyard (which, today, has far less armored men in it), you do see a few circles drawn in the ground with stone.
Bjorn leads the way to the nearest unoccupied circle, nodding deferentially at the soldiers he passes.
The few there all stay what they're doing, turning to watch you. They're evidently pretty surprised by something. Either him coming out, or you being there and willing to spar with him.
You hope it's sparring, at least. When you stop in the circle, Breke frowns, and raises one hand to the hilt of a sword. He hesitates, though for a second, before shaking his head. "You can let go of the chain, now," he finally says. "Come at me when you are ready."
Bjorn lets go of the chain, and steps away, keeping his eyes on Breke, moving to the far end of the circle. He studies his opponent for a second, and then, with a single almost invisible motion, draws his sword and moves straight into a sweeping slash, aimed flat across Breke's chest.
Breke draws his sword and deflects your slash with the same motion, his feet not moving in the slightest. Nodding in approval, he draws his other blade. "Not bad," he says. "Again."
Smoothly, Bjorn pulls the deflected cut around in a spiral to bring it down in a heavy, overhanded chop, aimed straight at Breke's head. But as Breke's swords move to deflect, he shifts, still bearing down hard with the sword as he steps in to slam his free left hand as hard as he can into Breke's gut.
This actually gets through, and Breke grunts, stepping back a half-step. "They teach you that at the temple?" he asks, whipping one blade towards you -- the metal actually matches the colloring of the hilts, one blade white, one black. The blackened blade deflects your guard, while the white narrowly misses your shoulder.
Either way, you've gotten Breke to use his feet. He shrugs his shoulders, pulling the chains so they snap like whips, landing behind him and out of the way. This time, he drives at you, one blade held high, and the other lower.
It's dangerous to assume that the people of this world use the same principles of sword-fighting that Bjorn was trained by, but he hasn't got much choice, under the circumstances. Two swords when effective move as one. The first binds and deflects the opponent's blade, and the second moves into the created gap. Treat them as one blade, and defeat both.
As Breke charges forward, Bjorn steps in as well, bringing his sword in an upwards diagonal, held in both hands. As Breke blocks his cut, Bjorn pushes in again, twisting the sword around to drive the locked blades towards Breke's other blade, aiming to foul up his arms.
The plan is brilliant, but it seems that his swords nearly have minds of their own. The black sword goes into the lock eagerly -- too eagerly. The white blade goes clear, in a fast, low arc.
And then it's cutting through your armor, and you, and comes out the other side, and Breke drops his hands to his side like he's dissapointed.
When you regain the presence of mind to check, there's no mar on your armor, no cut on your skin.
"In a real battle," Breke says softly, "you'd have to mean it." Then he sheathes his blades.
"In a real battle, I would have," Bjorn says, in a flat voice. "But this wasn't a real battle. This was a test -- for both of us." He grins, coldly. "Did you get what you wanted?"
"I think so," he says, somewhat mollified. "I need to return to my room, now," he says, dangling a chain in your general direction, his eyes still wandering.
Bjorn sheathes his sword, and then takes up the manacle, leading Breke back to his rooms in silence.
It's the same, slow, shuffling steps, even slower on inclines. When you return to Breke's room, he walks over to his chair, frowns at it, and then kicks it to one side, moving around the table and taking a different chair instead. This is the one that would face the entrance. "The chair fell over," he notes.
"Yes," Bjorn says, "it did."
He shuts the door behind him, but makes no movement towards the table. Instead, he studies Breke carefully, watching the erratic, wandering movements of his eyes. The, abruptly, he asks, "Why?"
"Probably because I knocked it over," Breke replies indifferently, his fingertips tapping the table.
A servant enters the room, unbidden, and bearing a small tray. She puts the place precisely in the center of the circle carved in the table, a large flagon to one side, and a knife suitable for eating off of on the plate. She hesitates, and asks, "Anything else?"
Breke shakes his head. "That will do," he says distantly, as though his mind were elsewhere.
The girl nods, and turns to you. "Anything for yourself?" she asks.
"No, thank you, mistress," Bjorn says, respectfully.
When the servant has left the room, Bjorn resumes his study of Breke. Without acknowledging Breke's last statement, he continues, in the same even tone, "You're blind, aren't you? And right now, my instincts tell me that you're unwary, and that I could kill you without effort -- and at the same time, they tell me that you're dangerous, and I haven't a chance of beating you without dying myself." His eyes narrow. "You're cuffed like a criminal, but they don't seem to do the least bit to slow you down when you fight.
"So. Why?"
Breke stiffens, and lowers his head. "Most would assume madness before blindness," he says quietly. "A warrior can't be blind ... you should know that. They must be whole in body and spirit.
"Nothing about the mind, though." He snorts, and shakes his head. "I can tell where you are, still standing next to the door, fingers twitching like you've got to be ready to unsheath that crowbar you call a sword at a heartbeat's notice. I can tell that. And I could tell when the other men grew nervous of my obvious blindness.
"And I know where that circle is," he says, pointing at the circle carved in the table. "I've learned that. But I can't ... don't have the time or subtlety to learn where every door is. Where stairs and walls are.
"You serve Hamar ... but I've actually met him. 'Power,' I said. 'I desire power. I'll give anything for mastery of a the blade, and the art of killing.' And he said ... 'Give me your eyes, that have gazed upon me, and I shall give you the tools to do as you wish, made by my brother, those ages ago.' Then he gave me these swords, which I've never seen, and my sight has never worked since.
"When I was younger ... much younger ... those I'd hired to keep my secret and help my goal of mastering the blade ... they tried many other things. But the ploy that always worked best was to simply pretend to be a madman, a genius of killing with no social graces.
"Stumbling, not looking anyone in the eyes ... this is fine for madmen. And if they got the job done right, then so much the better. It was a fine thing.
"And then a letter came from Lord Kevin. And he said that there would be an exchange of money for my services. We thought this was a fine thing, my assistants and I, and so we left.
"But ... we were attacked. They couldn't touch me, no. If they tried, they'd be slain, and that would be that.
"But they found another way to cripple me anew regardless."
He shrugs, and his fingertips find the tankard, pulling it in front of him.
"So." Bjorn makes his way over to the table, righting the fallen chair and sitting himself down in it. "You bargained away your sight to attain an unnatural mastery. Rather than taking pride in your dealings with Hamar, you hide what you've done with those chains and a pretense of madness. Whatever has been helping the Dreadmarch killed all your assistants, and so now you need a new seeing eye to guide you." He adjusts the hang of his scabbard to make himself a little more comfortable. "Is that about right?"
He nods, taking a sip from his drink. "About right," he agrees.
Bjorn drums his fingers on the table top, a single staccato flan. "Well, then," he says, "what have you got to offer?"
he considers this for a moment, then says, "You're a slave to the church. Someone with money could buy your freedom."
"And?" Bjorn asks, indifferently. "At this time, that's far from being particularly important to me. My freedom won't mean much if the Dreadmarch wins. Besides," he shrugs, "an exchange of one servitude for another doesn't offer much."
His lips quirk. "Perhaps I should rephrase the situation. You traded with Hamar, your sight for your skill. If I were to act as your guide, Hamar would be giving you back a portion of your sight. What will you offer in turn?"
"I've got exactly one thing that's not money, and that's the swords," Breke replies dryly. "Those, I keep until I die, unless you're willing to give me YOUR sight for them."
"No," Bjorn disagrees, "you have at least one more thing. Your skill. The swords are meaningless unless they're used. And I suspect that not all your ability comes from the swords themselves?"
Breke purses his lips. "Is that what you're after?" he asks, frowning. "Fine. I'll teach you how to fight without relying on your eyes. Is that what you're looking for? I think you know how to handle a sword well enough as it is ... and you'll get better in time. I did. But fighting without using your eyes...."
"No, it's not what I'm after," Bjorn says. He leans forward, and his voice becomes intent. "The Dreadmarch will be no laughing matter this time. They've struck hard, and come close to winning the war before the seige has even become. Nothing matters, beside that. What I want, then, is for you to fight. Not for money, not for glory. You'll fight the Dreadmarch, and your only thought will be its defeat. That is my price. If you fight for Hamar here, I will be your eyes."
"Is that all?" he asks skeptically. "Fine, then. I was committed, anyway. At first, it was for money. But now that all of my friends and followers are dead, it's for revenge. You'd never convince me that a pack of assasins just 'happened' to show up and kill everyone but me.
"Someone out there, on the side of the Dreadmarch, has decided to try and get in my way. All I want is someone to tell me when I'm on a slope, and get me into the battle. I can manage it from there. For Hamar, for the fallen ... for money, for glory ... for all of that ... but most of all, to stop the Dreadmarch."
Bjorn smiles. "Then we have a bargain. Now. What do we need to do, before the Dreadmarch shows up?"
Breke makes a thoughtful noise. "We need to train you to survive long enough to do your job," he decides.
"And what does that entail?"
"Awareness of your surroundings," he says, nodding. "It's an art ... a science, really, to be fully aware of your surroundings in battle without relying on your eyes. Do you think you can try and learn that?"
"Yes." Bjorn shrugs. "Trying is easy. If it can be learned, I'll do my damnedest."
"We'll start tomorrow," he says, frowning. "Tomorrow ... not much time, eh? Well, think on it. It'll help."
Bjorn nods, and then remembers. "All right," he says aloud. "Do you think you could spare me for the next couple of hours or so, then? I would like to return to Lord Kevin and, if possible, find out what the tactical situation is."
"Eh. That's fine," he says. "As long as you don't die before this is all over, anything should be fine." Fumbling a bit, he manages to slide the plate of stew over in front of himself.
"All right, then. I'll be back soon, Sir Breke." With that, Bjorn makes his way out of the chambers, closing the door softly behind him. Frowning up and down the hallways, he does his best to retrace his steps back to the war-room.
You manage to find it after a bit of searching -- the same two guards bar the door when you arrive.
Bjorn comes to a stop before them, and nods respectfully. "Could you let Lord Kevin know that I have returned?" he asks.
The guards dubiously raise their eyebrows, but the one on the left goes into the room through the doors, and takes a minute to return. When he does, he nods at you, and says, "Go on in."
With that, they open the doors for you and wait expectantly.
Nodding his thanks, Bjorn steps into the room and bows to its occupants.
Lord Kevin is still behind the desk, now talking in a low voice with the armored man. Mirallia sits nearby, looking worriedly back at you.
When Lord Kevin sees you, he breaks off and calls across the room, "And how did your match against Breke fare?"
"Sir Breke believes that I require additional training," Bjorn replies, gravely, "and he will provide that for me beginning tomorrow."
This causes the armored guy to turn around and look at you quizically. "He's keeping you on?" he asks incredulously.
"It appears so, my Lord." Bjorn directs his gaze still at Lord Kevin. "For the time being, however, he does not require my immediate assistance, and he was curious as to the details of the current tactical situation."
"He was -- but why ..." The armored man sighs, shaking his head. "You can tell him we have it well in hand," he replies curtly.
Lord Kevin shoots him a sharp glance, and then says, "If he desires to see it himself, he can come here and look at the battle plans."
Bjorn bows deeply. "As you command, my Lord. That was indeed his wish, but I convinced him otherwise, fearing the reactions of the troops were they to think that a madman was involved in the planning. Should he be sufficiently calm, I shall return with him shortly."
Mirallia blinks at that, and Lord Kevin raises an eyebrow. "True," he murmurs. "Very true. That's the same reason that Sir Bloom hasn't been included in the planning."
"Ugh," the armored man grunts, shaking his head. "Very well, I suppose. Take a look at the map, and make up something convincing to tell him," he says, gesturing you over to the desk.
Bjorn steps over to the table, and carefully studies the map.
<Faceless> roll 3d6 for tactics
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Faceless ... : 3d6 for tactics --> {12}
<Faceless> roll 3d6 for high society
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Faceless ... : 3d6 for high society --> {9}
It looks pretty straightforward. From what you can tell, the thrust of the attack is going to be that the walls will be lined with archers raining death on the attackers. Once their numbers have thinned, the majority of the archers will be moved to the center of the wall, and a rush through the gates will move paralell to the wall, branching out to come at the attackers from two sides, with the archers firing into the middle, and so, having the least chance of hitting their own troops.
The real problem with it, of course, is that as you understand things, the idea is to kill the general as quickly as possible. Making the battle take longer than it has to wouldn't be such a great idea.
You're pretty sure you know how to make that point without offending Lord Kevin, though.
Bjorn makes a thoughtful noise. "You expect the generals to be so heavily defended, then?"
"By the records we've gone through, this is traditionally the case," Lord Kevin agrees. "Though, Liandral mentioned that you had already seen the army on the move ... he said he couldn't count them, because the charm put on him by Loremaster Parthipan blocked his vision somewhat. Do you have any idea how many foes we might be facing?"
"I am afraid I did not see them myself," Bjorn says, apologetically. "Sir Bloom did, however, and he said that he at first confused the March with a river."
"Then we must question him," Lord Kevin decides. The armored man looks less than pleased about this, but nods, rises, and quickly marches to the end of the hall, then saying something to the guards.
"He should be here shortly," the man says to Lord Kevin, a heartbeat before the door opens, and Phil and Nathan walk in, looking around curiously.
Lord Kevin raises an eyebrow at this. "Fortuitous timing," he allows.
"I trust you're well, Sir Bloom?"
"Indeed. Your hospitality is superb, Lord." Dracos entered, glancing swiftly about the room with his eyes and taking the measure of those inside. "I assume this is a meeting of planning?"
Dracos
Lord Kevin nods. "Indeed ... I was wondering, perhaps, if you could recall how many foes you saw on the peak on their way here," he explains. "I imagine you couldn't count them, but a rough estimate wouldn't hurt."
Dracos brushed his beard, thinking hard. "It's hard to say, they were like a river of darkness that stretched along the horizon. Thousands, no, Hundreds of thousands strong if I had to guess."
Dracos
Lord Kevin blinks at this. "That's an awfully large force," he says skeptically. "Are you certain?"
"I can only say what my eyes saw. Perhaps it could've been some illusion to make them appear more fearsome."
Dracos
"Not if Liandral said they didn't know you were there," he says slowly. "But such a large force ... that might prevent the rest of the storm-riders from even reaching us." Lord Kevin looks upset at this.
Sir Lammermore frowns, and rubs at his chin. "Well, we'll know their numbers by the arrival of the Storm-riders," he decides. "If they arrive on time, then it must have been some trick of the light. If they don't arrive as planned...." He shrugs. "Well, then we'll know."
Lord Kevin doesn't look convinced. "If Banor were here, I've heard he could see across the winds. That might tell us more," he sighs. "Very well, barring any other way to check, we will go with your assertation, Sir Lammermore."
Dracos glances around, listening and eyeing bjorn, waiting for Lord Kevin to continue.
Dracos
"We brought a Lorekeeper with us . . . I believe he studies the same area as did Windmaster Banor. Perhaps he could help - we left him speaking to Radagast," Rez shrugs apologetically, "I can't tell you exactly what he can or can't do though."
Lord Kevin furrows his brow. "Possibly," he says slowly. "I was under the impression it would require a full-fledged master of the lore to accomplish, but anything is better than nothing. We require an answer as quickly as possible ... Sir Bloom, may I prevail upon you to take my request to your Lorekeeper ... Parthipan, was it?"
"That you may, Lord." Dracos nods. "Is there anything else, or should I leave promptly to hunt him down?"
Dracos
"That should be all," Lord Kevin says, nodding.
Dracos eyes Bjorn meaningfully and then bows, taking his leave and returning to where he last saw Parthipan.
Dracos
Rez bows, and follows Drac out.
Phil and Nathan now move to Secret Game (http://pishoque.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=33676#33676).
Bjorn, who remained silent throughout the past exchange, speaks up again. "If I may interrupt again," he asks, delicately, "Sir Breke was also wondering both how long it would be before the Dreadmarch arrived, and how long before the arrival of the storm-riders was anticipated."
"Well, the storm-riders should arrive tomorrow ... the Dreadmarch in two days," Lord Kevin replies. "Anything else?"
Bjorn bows, slightly. "Unless you think there is something else that Sir Breke -- or I, as Sir Breke's... assistant -- should know, then no, my Lord Kevin."
He nods at you, and turns his attention to the map, brooding. Mirallia gives you a subtle nod before turning her attention back to it, as well. Sir Lammermore makes a shooing gesture at you.
Bjorn bows, conveniently choosing an angle which points at Lord Kevin and Mirallia but not, somehow, Sir Lammermore, and silently withdraws from the room.
One outside the room, he looks for both Dracos and Nathan. If he fails to see either of them, he politely inquires of the guards whether they'd noticed where his friends had gone.
After a bit of bumbling, you are told that they're with Parthipan, in Radagast's tower. You reach it not too much after that.
This thread now momentarily merges with Secret Game (http://pishoque.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=33690#33690).
After they close the door and are a few steps down the hall (without any nearby servants), Rez starts talking.
"I'm sorry. I forgot." He pauses, "About Radagast. I got into planning-session mode."
"It happens." Dracos gestures to the door obviously in indication while continuing to move. "Why don't we head to my room for a moment to talk?"
Dracos
Bjorn shakes his head. "No," he says, quietly and quickly, "you guys need to get going, and you should talk to Lord Kevin -- both for the information and for cover.
"You probably wouldn't have been able to keep your plans entirely secret anyways, so you'll just have to assume the enemy knows where you're going and what you're trying to do." He shrugs. "The things you're trying to do... obviously, find out what the situation is. But you also have to try to re-establish your reputations. Nathan's probably done that already just by recovering Hadrick's blade. If you had it reforged, it'd be even better. Dr... Sir Bloom needs to show people he isn't a drunk, and reclaim the torc." His lips quirk. "Don't be afraid just to bull it through into a trial by combat or something."
He looks the two straight in the eyes. "The other thing you absolutely have to do, if it turns out the storm-riders have been compromised, is get it under control, and then work out what to do with them. Ideally, if you can get them to the Keep before the seige starts... but if you can't, you need a battle plan."
"I know. But we can't begin to plan until we at least get closer. You'll have to keep your eyes sharp too, Bjorn, for what should be obvious reasons."
Dracos
Bjorn grunts. "Best way to catch a fox is to lay out bait, yeah. For battle-plans... your best bet is probably going to be try to and sneak up along the moutain range, to hit the army hard in the flanks." He makes a slightly disgusted face. "Seiges don't leave a lot of room for complexity. But yeah, make your best call."
He looks at the two of them. "That about it?"
Rez grins and taps his sword hilt. "It's a very nice blade, in my admittedly limited knowledge of them."
"But you're right. We're going to have to wing that . . . we just don't know enough right now. Also, Ginrai can possibly get in contact with us . . . it might be an idea to try and prevail on Lord Kevin to get armed escorts sent out to any other groups coming in, if it's not already too late."
Rez and party walk towards Lord Kevin's hall!
Bjorn grunts. "He's not likely to listen to tactical advice from the three of us. Especially not Sir Bloom," Bjorn says, semi-apologetically. "I wouldn't raise any concerns in front of him. Just tell him that you want to meet up with your kinsmen, and ask for directions."
"Suggest it to Mirallia, then. What happened to us is example enough, and I'm sure we aren't the only ones."
Bjorn grunts thoughtfully. "Good idea."
By this time, they've once again reached the war-room again. Stopping just outside earshot of the two guards, Bjorn looks (up) at Dracos and Nathan. "Good luck, you two. Try not to get your asses killed."
"Pfft. We're both way to contrary to lie down and die just because someone decided they wanted to stick a sword into us. We'll be fine."
Dracos smirked. "You too, Bjorn."
Dracos headed into the room Lord Kevin had been in, assuming nothing tries to stop him and waits the requisite time to be acknowledged as present by the higher lord rather than interrupt him.
Dracos
For appearances sake, Bjorn bows respectfully to both Nathan and Dracos, and then makes his way back to Breke's room.
Phil and Nathan now return to To Far Away Times (http://pishoque.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=33659#33659).
Breke's back in the seat where you originally saw him, drumming his fingers against the table-top. He doesn't look up, but asks, "Back so soon?" when you enter.
Bjorn shrugs. "It was made fairly clear that they don't care for my input into the strategy."
Making his way over to the table, he pulls out a chair and sits down. "We have two days before the Dreadmarch arrives. Will that be enough time for me to finish the training that I must?"
Breke frowns. "Doubt it," he replies dryly. "Hope you're a quick learner; we might as well start now."
With that, Bjorn enters rigorous training to learn how to sense threats while blinded....
After losing track of time in training, Breke pronounces that you've learned to hone your reflexes 'well enough'. Before you can ask him well enough for what, there's a knock at the door, and you're called to the ceremony.
This thread now ends, as we proceed to: The Fantatic Waltz (http://pishoque.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=34063#34063).