Pulvis et Umbra Sumus - Varis
Nov 23, 2019 16:45:25 GMT
BB, Ser Baine Cinderwood 🔥🌼, and 5 more like this
Post by Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar on Nov 23, 2019 16:45:25 GMT
The deep shadows of the High Forest are flecked white and grey where drifts of snow have found their way between the naked branches of the giant trees. The mulch and humus of the forest floor have frozen, their typical soft spring replaced with a brittle crunch as he picks his way toward the ice edged pool. Crouching on the banks, he pushes the mouth of the waterskin below the surface, the fur lining of his coat tickling his ears as he turns to watch a robin settle on a fallen branch. The tiny bird cocks its head, as though listening for something on the edge of hearing. As quickly as it arrived, it is gone, a flash of brown and orange against the muted tones of the winter glade. Perhaps its passing stirs a branch, or perhaps a wind in the canopy dislodges something high above, but a small flurry of snow swirls gently to rest on his outstretched arm, and suddenly, he is transported back to an earlier time.
The blinding blue and white of his tabard is stained with mud, the links of his chainmail hauberk clogged with the drying blood of his foes. He pulls the helm from his head, dropping it to the ground and leaning on the haft of his warhammer to catch his breath. A few paces away, his shield lie forgotten where he dropped, split by a single blow from one of the creatures huge axes. He was lucky not to have lost the arm that held it. Around him, others have not been so fortunate. He sees Roddin standing over a man who’s left leg ends below the knee, trying to stanch the blood-flow with a makeshift tourniquet. Propped against a wall some twenty feet away, Young Sim sits, dead eyes staring into the void as his cold fingers stiffen around the gut wound that leaked his life away. He looks up at the sound of footsteps, straightening to attention when he sees who they belong to.
Ser Lannith looks immaculate in his field plate. What little sun can force its way through the cloud cover forms a nimbus around his long blonde hair. He steps over the body of a boy who can’t be more than fifteen, not even looking down as his sabatons sink into mud stained red with blood.
“A noble victory, young Nailo. Well fought indeed. It won’t be long before I’m handing you a set of spurs, mark my words.”
Varis is silent, swallowing his first response. He feels a rising unease at the way his mentor surveys the battlefield - like a man taking stock of how many head of cattle he has.
“Thank you, Ser Lannith.”
The older man nods absently, his eye passing dispassionately over a red haired recruit with the back of his skull missing. Varis clears his throat, spitting bloody phlegm into the mud at his feet..
“What shall we do with the prisoners?”
The Commander frowns, turning to fully face his squire for the first time. The golden pins that fasten his sapphire cloak to his shoulders glint in the grey light. He looks genuinely puzzled at the question.
“You took some of the savages prisoner? What on earth for?”
“They surrendered, ser. Women and children mainly. Mekle has them corralled in the long house at the centre of the village.”
Ser Lannith nods, turning back to stare idly at the scene of carnage before him, as though his confusion has been resolved.
“Very good. Bar the door and then burn this flea bitten village to the ground.”
When Varis doesn’t respond, the knight turns slowly back to him. When he sees the frown creasing his protege’s brow his blue eyes become ice.
“Is there a problem, Nailo?”
Varis blinks a few times before answering.
“No, ser, but-”
“But? I gave you an order, soldier.”
Varis meets his mentor’s gaze for a moment then looks away.
“Yes, ser.”
Turning on his heel, the young half-elf strides off toward the centre of the orcish village as though walking to his own execution.
For half a day afterwards, as they ride back to Stonelake, a grim snow falls upon the column. Flakes of grey ash covering hair and cloaks, the smell of smoke always on the wind. The stench of charred flesh stays with them for weeks. The screams, longer still.
Varis blinks, shaking his head to clear the reverie and shuddering, though not from cold. Absently he lifts the filled waterskin to his lips, drinking deep. The icy water makes his teeth ache. As he restoppers it, he hears a hearty, tuneless whistling from the brush perhaps forty feet to his left. Stowing the skin, he picks his way through the tangled undergrowth, making sure to make enough noise that the whistler knows he is coming. The source of the dubious serenade reveals itself to be a halfling man, cheerfully dragging an old mule along one of the many narrow roads that snake through the forest. Varis stops ten or so feet from the man, raising a hand in greeting, and to show he is unarmed. Now that he is closer, he can see the mule is ladened with pack saddles and odd shaped items wrapped in oil cloth. It seems as though an entire village could be outfitted from the wares on it’s back.
“Well met, tinker.”
The halfling glances up, letting the reigns of his stubborn packbeast go slack for a moment. The mule takes the opportunity to break wind loudly and busies itself turning over frost-rimed logs in search of something to eat. The tinker smiles broadly.
“Well met, traveller! What brings you to these parts?”
“These woods are my home. Whence are you bound? Have you news from the Coast?”
The halfling’s smile turns mischievous, and he affects an air of affronted dignity.
“Ask a man his business and his news without so much as an offer of drink? You must have lived in these woods a long time, for your manners to be grown so coarse young man.”
In spite of himself, Varis smiles.
“Forgive me, honoured father. Would you care to join me by my fire. It is but a few minutes walk from here, and I have food, if no drink save water to speak of.”
The halfling nods, satisfied with the response.
“I would be honoured. Food and fire are more than enough for me young man. Mayhap I have something in the packs to wet our throats, too. Lead on.”
The sun is well past it’s zenith by the time they reach the young man’s camp - a small cave, formerly the home of a brown bear, who’s pelt now adorns the warrior’s shoulders. Varis sets about making a fire, offering his guest smoked meat and dried berries, which the tinker accepts with a grace far beyond what the modest fare warrants. Eventually he pulls a skin of wine from the back of the mule, and they sit before the fire as the shadows lengthen and night closes in around them. The tinker’s name is Borril Tanglewood, he says, and he hails from Daggerford, though these days he mainly travels the Sword Coast, not settling too long in any one place. He seems happy to natter away to the quiet young man, taking in the lean, muscular frame and the neat crescent scar beneath his left eye - too clean to have been made by any but the sharpest of blades. Eventually, when most of the wine has made its way down Borril’s gullet, he gives his host a sly wink.
“I’ve a story for you, young man. A tale that will set your heart racing with thoughts of adventure, and your feet itching to leave this quiet forest of yours.”
Varis gets the distinct impression Borril has been hoarding this piece of gossip, saving it till last. The young man leans forward, giving the tinker the audience he so clearly desires.
“A new land has been discovered, friend Varis. Aye, aye, I know you - like many of us godsfearing folk - thought the whole of this world was known already. But you’d be wrong, lad. Wronger than wrong. There’s a chap named Dofflas, or Duffle, or something. A prince from the east. A great warrior and explorer, so it’s said. Him and his pet mage found a portal out on an island in the Sea of Fallen Stars, out Cormyr way. Took them through into another place, a whole other world. Well, he’s setting up a town out there - cheap land, fresh start, a new continent to explore. Well, that’s a young man’s game, not for old Borril, now. Someone like you, though, lad…”
The conversation winds down shortly after that, and the men take to their beds, Varis finding his dreams haunted by visions of a strange new land full of danger and discovery. When he wakes in the morning, Borril has already left, leaving little to evidence his ever having been there at all, save a full skin of wine and a hastily scrawled note detailing how to reach the portal. Varis folds it and tucks it into one of his books, shaking his head at the foolishness of the notion. As the sun filters weakly through the bare limbs of the forest giants, he sets about the days work, putting thoughts of portals and this strange new land - what had Borril called it? Kannis? Kratos? - far from his mind.
The blinding blue and white of his tabard is stained with mud, the links of his chainmail hauberk clogged with the drying blood of his foes. He pulls the helm from his head, dropping it to the ground and leaning on the haft of his warhammer to catch his breath. A few paces away, his shield lie forgotten where he dropped, split by a single blow from one of the creatures huge axes. He was lucky not to have lost the arm that held it. Around him, others have not been so fortunate. He sees Roddin standing over a man who’s left leg ends below the knee, trying to stanch the blood-flow with a makeshift tourniquet. Propped against a wall some twenty feet away, Young Sim sits, dead eyes staring into the void as his cold fingers stiffen around the gut wound that leaked his life away. He looks up at the sound of footsteps, straightening to attention when he sees who they belong to.
Ser Lannith looks immaculate in his field plate. What little sun can force its way through the cloud cover forms a nimbus around his long blonde hair. He steps over the body of a boy who can’t be more than fifteen, not even looking down as his sabatons sink into mud stained red with blood.
“A noble victory, young Nailo. Well fought indeed. It won’t be long before I’m handing you a set of spurs, mark my words.”
Varis is silent, swallowing his first response. He feels a rising unease at the way his mentor surveys the battlefield - like a man taking stock of how many head of cattle he has.
“Thank you, Ser Lannith.”
The older man nods absently, his eye passing dispassionately over a red haired recruit with the back of his skull missing. Varis clears his throat, spitting bloody phlegm into the mud at his feet..
“What shall we do with the prisoners?”
The Commander frowns, turning to fully face his squire for the first time. The golden pins that fasten his sapphire cloak to his shoulders glint in the grey light. He looks genuinely puzzled at the question.
“You took some of the savages prisoner? What on earth for?”
“They surrendered, ser. Women and children mainly. Mekle has them corralled in the long house at the centre of the village.”
Ser Lannith nods, turning back to stare idly at the scene of carnage before him, as though his confusion has been resolved.
“Very good. Bar the door and then burn this flea bitten village to the ground.”
When Varis doesn’t respond, the knight turns slowly back to him. When he sees the frown creasing his protege’s brow his blue eyes become ice.
“Is there a problem, Nailo?”
Varis blinks a few times before answering.
“No, ser, but-”
“But? I gave you an order, soldier.”
Varis meets his mentor’s gaze for a moment then looks away.
“Yes, ser.”
Turning on his heel, the young half-elf strides off toward the centre of the orcish village as though walking to his own execution.
For half a day afterwards, as they ride back to Stonelake, a grim snow falls upon the column. Flakes of grey ash covering hair and cloaks, the smell of smoke always on the wind. The stench of charred flesh stays with them for weeks. The screams, longer still.
Varis blinks, shaking his head to clear the reverie and shuddering, though not from cold. Absently he lifts the filled waterskin to his lips, drinking deep. The icy water makes his teeth ache. As he restoppers it, he hears a hearty, tuneless whistling from the brush perhaps forty feet to his left. Stowing the skin, he picks his way through the tangled undergrowth, making sure to make enough noise that the whistler knows he is coming. The source of the dubious serenade reveals itself to be a halfling man, cheerfully dragging an old mule along one of the many narrow roads that snake through the forest. Varis stops ten or so feet from the man, raising a hand in greeting, and to show he is unarmed. Now that he is closer, he can see the mule is ladened with pack saddles and odd shaped items wrapped in oil cloth. It seems as though an entire village could be outfitted from the wares on it’s back.
“Well met, tinker.”
The halfling glances up, letting the reigns of his stubborn packbeast go slack for a moment. The mule takes the opportunity to break wind loudly and busies itself turning over frost-rimed logs in search of something to eat. The tinker smiles broadly.
“Well met, traveller! What brings you to these parts?”
“These woods are my home. Whence are you bound? Have you news from the Coast?”
The halfling’s smile turns mischievous, and he affects an air of affronted dignity.
“Ask a man his business and his news without so much as an offer of drink? You must have lived in these woods a long time, for your manners to be grown so coarse young man.”
In spite of himself, Varis smiles.
“Forgive me, honoured father. Would you care to join me by my fire. It is but a few minutes walk from here, and I have food, if no drink save water to speak of.”
The halfling nods, satisfied with the response.
“I would be honoured. Food and fire are more than enough for me young man. Mayhap I have something in the packs to wet our throats, too. Lead on.”
The sun is well past it’s zenith by the time they reach the young man’s camp - a small cave, formerly the home of a brown bear, who’s pelt now adorns the warrior’s shoulders. Varis sets about making a fire, offering his guest smoked meat and dried berries, which the tinker accepts with a grace far beyond what the modest fare warrants. Eventually he pulls a skin of wine from the back of the mule, and they sit before the fire as the shadows lengthen and night closes in around them. The tinker’s name is Borril Tanglewood, he says, and he hails from Daggerford, though these days he mainly travels the Sword Coast, not settling too long in any one place. He seems happy to natter away to the quiet young man, taking in the lean, muscular frame and the neat crescent scar beneath his left eye - too clean to have been made by any but the sharpest of blades. Eventually, when most of the wine has made its way down Borril’s gullet, he gives his host a sly wink.