Post by Darius (retired) on Mar 30, 2019 12:49:30 GMT
Early one evening, the door to the Ettin opens. A figure of average height but broad shouldered and dressed head to toe in armour walks in, in the act of removing a helmet. Outside, before the door closes, a well-cared-for horse can be seen tied up to the hitching post. A longbow and quiver are secured to one side of the saddle; a sword to the other.
The man – human, mid-40s, his face scarred and care-worn – is wearing functional, unsophisticated armour. He has a shield, unadorned but for the rough image of an open eye, slung over his left shoulder. A couple of long blades hang from his belt. In his right hand, he carries a long, deadly spear, the long, wooden handle wrapped and re-wrapped many times in leather bands: a short, metal cross-spar juts out from the haft about 18 inches below the bladed point.
Grizzled and dirty, clearly coming off the back of several days’ hard travel, the man approaches the bar and rests his helm on the polished, dark wood. He nods to Coll, who nods back noncommittally and continues to wipe clean an ale mug.
“Fill that up for me, will you?” The man asks, pointing to the mug. “And bring me some food when you have a moment. Whatever’s last cooked.”
His tone isn’t rude - just clipped and tired; his voice gravely from too many days on the road. Or maybe from too much use over the years. He peels off his gauntlets and drops them beside his helmet, running hands through short, black hair matted with sweat and dust. He unhooks a heavy purse from his belt and counts out a few coins onto the bar.
Only now does the man turn to regard the rest of the saloon, taking in the occupants and decor with a dispassionate look.
“So this is the Three-Headed Ettin.”
It’s not a question, nor a judgement: just a fact.
He turns back to Coll, who puts the brimming mug down in front of the newcomer.
“Still the place to find fair pay for hard work?”
Coll nods again. The man grunts in response, seemingly happy with the lack of superfluous talk, and puts a few more coins down on the bar.
“This should get me a room and some food for a week. Let me know when it runs out.”
The man unslings his shield and props it up beside the nearest stool, the image of the eye facing the room. He leans his spear alongside it, and – resting one hand on the haft – takes a drink from the mug before looking around again.
“I reckon I’ll stop here a while and see what needs doing.”
Over the next week or two, the sight of the stranger rising early and descending to the Ettin’s coach yard for an hour or two of training becomes familiar. Clad in his armour and bearing spear and shield, the man moves through a random series of motions – no sequence or combination ever the same.
The shield seems to operate as an extension of his arm, almost another weapon. Here he brings it down as though onto an opponent’s knee; there he sweeps it out wide to crash into a foe rushing up from the side; now he lunges forward, shoulder braced against shield to knock an enemy off balance. And all the while, the spear point follows a split second behind, using the theoretical moment of disequilibrium created by the shield to plunge the blade into imagined, unprotected flesh. Anyone with a degree of martial ability who watched for any length of time would swear that sometimes the man was moved by the shield - following its prescient passage rather than directing it.
There was nothing elegant or refined or tutored in his actions; they were economical, efficient, deadly. This wasn't a knight practicing for battle; this was a man honing his ability to survive.
Most evenings, the man would retire to the same spot in the Ettin, his back to the wall and with a clear view of the room and doors. Neither garrulous nor silent, he would participate in conversations by answering most questions with as little information as possible, and any questions he did ask would be mainly about finding work or expressing interest in any local or regional troubles and unrest.
He volunteered little about himself beyond his name, Darius, and that he was an ex-solider who had worked up and down the Sword Coast for as long as he could remember. He had apparently come out this far because he'd heard good money could be made in exchange for a steady hand. Each night, he would have three drinks, some food, and retire to bed before midnight.
The next morning, he would be up early and return to his training...
The man – human, mid-40s, his face scarred and care-worn – is wearing functional, unsophisticated armour. He has a shield, unadorned but for the rough image of an open eye, slung over his left shoulder. A couple of long blades hang from his belt. In his right hand, he carries a long, deadly spear, the long, wooden handle wrapped and re-wrapped many times in leather bands: a short, metal cross-spar juts out from the haft about 18 inches below the bladed point.
Grizzled and dirty, clearly coming off the back of several days’ hard travel, the man approaches the bar and rests his helm on the polished, dark wood. He nods to Coll, who nods back noncommittally and continues to wipe clean an ale mug.
“Fill that up for me, will you?” The man asks, pointing to the mug. “And bring me some food when you have a moment. Whatever’s last cooked.”
His tone isn’t rude - just clipped and tired; his voice gravely from too many days on the road. Or maybe from too much use over the years. He peels off his gauntlets and drops them beside his helmet, running hands through short, black hair matted with sweat and dust. He unhooks a heavy purse from his belt and counts out a few coins onto the bar.
Only now does the man turn to regard the rest of the saloon, taking in the occupants and decor with a dispassionate look.
“So this is the Three-Headed Ettin.”
It’s not a question, nor a judgement: just a fact.
He turns back to Coll, who puts the brimming mug down in front of the newcomer.
“Still the place to find fair pay for hard work?”
Coll nods again. The man grunts in response, seemingly happy with the lack of superfluous talk, and puts a few more coins down on the bar.
“This should get me a room and some food for a week. Let me know when it runs out.”
The man unslings his shield and props it up beside the nearest stool, the image of the eye facing the room. He leans his spear alongside it, and – resting one hand on the haft – takes a drink from the mug before looking around again.
“I reckon I’ll stop here a while and see what needs doing.”
****
Over the next week or two, the sight of the stranger rising early and descending to the Ettin’s coach yard for an hour or two of training becomes familiar. Clad in his armour and bearing spear and shield, the man moves through a random series of motions – no sequence or combination ever the same.
The shield seems to operate as an extension of his arm, almost another weapon. Here he brings it down as though onto an opponent’s knee; there he sweeps it out wide to crash into a foe rushing up from the side; now he lunges forward, shoulder braced against shield to knock an enemy off balance. And all the while, the spear point follows a split second behind, using the theoretical moment of disequilibrium created by the shield to plunge the blade into imagined, unprotected flesh. Anyone with a degree of martial ability who watched for any length of time would swear that sometimes the man was moved by the shield - following its prescient passage rather than directing it.
There was nothing elegant or refined or tutored in his actions; they were economical, efficient, deadly. This wasn't a knight practicing for battle; this was a man honing his ability to survive.
****
The man spent his early days walking around Daring and trying to get the measure of the place; sizing it up. He'd stop by the City Watch training ground, and lean against a post looking on impassively as Grimes and Thundercog put the rank and file through their paces. Broad arms folded across his massive chest, he'd observe the Crimson Fist acolytes drilling in well-ordered lines, moving in synch and in time to the barked orders of the imposing Half-Elf who seemed to command them. He would largely ignore the churches and merchant halls, save for when he visited the latter to replenish simple supplies or to enquire if there were any guard jobs going. Occasionally, he would stop by the Gilded Mirror for a drink, a gamble, and a woman.Most evenings, the man would retire to the same spot in the Ettin, his back to the wall and with a clear view of the room and doors. Neither garrulous nor silent, he would participate in conversations by answering most questions with as little information as possible, and any questions he did ask would be mainly about finding work or expressing interest in any local or regional troubles and unrest.
He volunteered little about himself beyond his name, Darius, and that he was an ex-solider who had worked up and down the Sword Coast for as long as he could remember. He had apparently come out this far because he'd heard good money could be made in exchange for a steady hand. Each night, he would have three drinks, some food, and retire to bed before midnight.
The next morning, he would be up early and return to his training...