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Post by Roscoe ⚔️ on Oct 26, 2023 20:13:35 GMT
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Post by Roscoe ⚔️ on Oct 26, 2023 20:14:19 GMT
“The fuck’s this?”
“Got a delivery for you, ser.”
“Stop smirkin’, it’s midnight and pissin’ down and you two’ve dragged me out of bed.”
“Yes, ser. Sorry, ser.”
“Better. Now I ask again. The fuck’s this?”
“Sergeant Grimes sends his regards, ser. Says he thinks you’ll like this one.”
The massive behemoth of a half-orc still hasn’t so much as glanced in Roscoe’s direction, still giving the watchmen that decidedly unimpressed look. At this point they don’t even care what this place is (some sort of massive red-bricked building, Roscoe can smell horses and leather and soldiers), seeing someone give these idiots a bollocking is already a step up.
“You bringin’ me a prisoner?”
“Er- well. No, ser, not as such.”
Now he looks over, giving the manacles around Roscoe’s wrists a deadpan look before looking back at twatface number 1. He raises an eyebrow ever so slightly.
“Well, it’s just. It’s a feisty one.”
The eyebrow rises further and the silence rings out for a long, uncomfortable moment.
“We can undo th-”
“I think you’d better do that, yeah.”
Something very large moves on four legs in the shadows of the courtyard further in, golden eyes glinting in the flickering light of the torches. Twatface 1 swallows audibly and twatface 2 fumbles for the key to the manacles.
“Now fuck off back to the barracks and tell Sargeant Grimes that Ser Baine weren’t none too happy with your conduct, or I’ll tell him myself when I go over there for a cuppa next week.”
The thing in the shadows growls. The twatfaces flee into the night. Roscoe rubs their wrists. The half-orc rolls his eyes and finally turns to look at them, giving them a thorough once-over.
“What’s your name then?”
“Who the fuck’s askin’?”
He laughs, loud enough to startle.
“Alright, yeah, I can see why Grimes sent you my way.”
Roscoe just scowls.
“I’m Baine Cinderwood, Master at arms. Welcome to the Order of the Crimson Fist.”
Fuck.
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Post by Roscoe ⚔️ on Oct 28, 2023 18:14:20 GMT
There’s a little freak in the rafters. He climbs up there, soundlessly, like the shadows of the barracks are helping him, and then he stays up there for hours.
He doesn’t say a word and is, for all intents and purposes, completely invisible.
This is apparently normal.
The big thing that was growling in the shadows when Roscoe first arrived is a fucking angelic dog, large enough that Baine rides him into battle.
He isn’t the biggest they have though, because “The Boss” allegedly has a stag that’s even bigger. And it speaks.
This is apparently normal.
They call the recruits “Squeaks” and run them ragged from sunup to sundown.
The Master at Arms has them doing meticulous drills under the watchful eye of a terrifyingly polite minotaur and a man who looks to be no older than Roscoe but is in fact 43 years old.
He was de-aged by a lich.
This is apparently normal.
Some of them are religious, in that overtly pious way that makes Roscoe want to desecrate something just for the fuck of it.
Some of them are faithful in a more quiet way, keeping their prayers between themselves and their god.
Some of them don’t give a flying fuck about the gods, because they’ve seen too many horrors to have that kind of faith in anything but the people fighting by their side.
A few of them have died, and been brought back. Some more than once. They all agree this isn’t normal.
Roscoe wonders, quietly to themselves, if that’s why they ended up here.
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