Forums » Fantasy Roleplay » (Closed) Nights in the Dark Woodland

Eratoff, a dense woodland Region ruled by a three decade old Jarl, ruling over it from within his walled village and fortress and his royals and noblemen. Recently wedded, he now has a Queen, who stays secluded from within the Fortress' walls. Soon after such an event, a necromancer to the northwest cursed the village and it's surrounding forests, with haunts and plentiful undead.

He has called for aid from the other regions, to meet him in the walls of his fortress, during the day-time. For every full and new moon, the undead that are slain rise again from the earth.

It is noon, with the village gates open to the travelers that come through. With a gravel road winding through the village between the oaken and stone houses, which eventually leads to the fortress, which might as well be a small castle situated in the middle of the village. The Jarl and his guards wait at the front door...

The tavern was loud and noisy, pervaded by both sober and drunken laughter that made a jolly scene even though things had been tough lately. A dark, warm atmosphere if you wanted to get exact. Alcohol was on the air and Zero could taste it just as much as he could taste the alcohol in the content of his glass. A whiskey glass sat there as he looked down, taking note of the wooden surface of the bar around the glass. The glass itself was empty. Zero glanced up, making out the back wall, and then the bartender who was almost glaring at him with wide, almost unbelieving and angry eyes. The bartender leaned over the counter, just a few inches away from where Zero had his elbows resting on that wooden surface.

"Look here, buddy." he said, calmly, as though trying to make a point, "You've been here since I got the doors open and you haven't stopped drinking. You're going to drink me dry."

"Really?" Zero answered in an almost nonchalant voice, a deep and beautiful tone as he spoke, "I suppose I must have lost track of time." And it was true, Zero had lost track of time, and he hadn't stopped drinking the whole time. But of course, with no actual digestive system, no blood system, and no true bodily system of any kind, intoxication was impossible unless he decided to make himself able to feel intoxicated. He reached into his coat pocket, retrieving a few gold coins. Bounty from his last adventure in the area, "Here. This should cover any damage I might have done to your collection of fine beverages." The bartender seemed to change his attitude quickly and dropping the sour disposition for pure amazement as Zero set them on his counter.

"W-whoa..." the roughly bartender let out, picking up the pieces off the counter, "You know this is a lot more than what you owe in drinks, right?"

But Zero was already standing, finishing off the glass, and setting it down, and moving away, "That's fine," Zero replied, his voice growing quieter as he moved away from the bartender. He waved backwards as he walked away, his hand up in the air for a moment, "Keep what I don't owe." he called out as he moved to the door and pushed it open.

Zero was at first taken back from the light of the outside world, but he adjusted quickly, making out the cobblestone path and all the building and what not. He brushed himself off for a moment and then began to make a beeline for the sort of castle at center of the village.

However, if you were not Zero, and you had noticed him, you would have seen a taller man with a somewhat stocky build exit the tavern wearing a very light leather coat that fell down to his knees with a tougher pair of fabric pants about the same shade of brown. Underneath the coat, a thin chainmail shirt with small metal shoulder pads could be seen, and an empty scabbard could be seen hanging from the right side of his waist, though, judging by the scabbard, Zero might have been carrying a one handed sword at one point. His features were sharp. Dark brown hair fell messily from his head to about his eyebrows, though it looked cleaner. The most striking thing about him beyond that he was walking around in light armor, was that he had unnaturally bright blue eyes. Though the common bystander might not notice him at all, and to Zero, that was the plan.

(I'll work on adding another page to Cori's profile for this RP, since this is obviously not the same Cori. But I've always been fond of adjusting her for this sort of setting.)

The cloak over her figure was light, but neutral in color. Her attempt to move without attracting attention may have ironically attracted extra, but still no more than what was under the guise: a glimpse of her pale white skin and maybe even her dark eyes was possible only from directly in front of her, which few people cared to be. She walked with a straight and tall gait and one could easily asses from this alone that she was no commoner. However, the short sword occasionally seen under her cloak and the quiver of arrows on her back was the most blatant clue.

She entered the village, but she was only one of many who might be interested in winning the Jarl's favor or seek glory or gold. Though her reasons for offering her aid were less impersonal, but perhaps far more selfish. She was passing the tavern when a tall man stumbled out of it, and she stopped to let him pass, eyeing him. In keeping her own gaze hidden, she had missed his striking blue eyes, but she scowled curiously at the empty scabbard. "Lose something?" she wondered.

The woman was stumped by his lack of weapon, as it would do no good for the task the Jarl was asking, but she shrugged and continued on. She felt the occasional eyes of bystanders as she grew closer and closer to the center of town, as villagers were very interested (and dependent) in the type of people who would be arriving today. Luckily, most gazes passed uninterested: under the cloak she was merely a slim figure of just below average height for a man, barely fattened up by the leather armor.

When she finally arrived at the fortress, she revealed her red eyes to the Jarl as she looked at him, leaving some distance between her and his party of guards. There was a moment of hesitation, and for all the confidence in her stature, she was suddenly unsure of what to say or do. In fear of taking too long and appearing too awkward, she stepped forward with a formal bow. "I'm Corrine of Eastcliff, daughter of Lord Raysdan and Lady Ana," she greeted, the names known only within the territory of Eastcliff to belong to a harsh noble and his elegant wife. "I'm here to help in anyway I can." Her voice was steady and clear, but her fingers were shaking as she waited for a reply or for another traveler to follow her example.

(Do we have to have an order? Because I feel it'd make sense for Zero to show up directly behind her if she passed him right before he started walking towards the Jarl)

(Actually, we'll just say he was walking at a leisurely rate.)

The merchant's cart creaked slowly to a halt before the fortified town gate of Eratoff—perhaps fortified was too generous—it was little better than a ramshackle curtain-wall of loose stones, covered in tangles of dying grey ivy. A makeshift wattle-and-daub rampart tottered precariously above the gate, whose bolted wooden doors looked to be the only sturdy thing about the entire affair, as they barred the cart from entering the town proper. The steep gabled rooftops and tall chimneys of the township peered over the embattlements like curious children, while the steepled bell-tower of the local chancel and the keep of the Jarl's castle loomed greyishly beyond; mindful parents clucking their tongues. The overcast sky hung like a pall over the whole image, painting it in bleak tones. This was not a picturesque entrance.

"Halt, in the name of the Jarl!" came a sharp report from above.

The ample visage of a town guardsman sprouted over the rampart, liveried in a threadbare tunic of green and black motley. From his perch he surveyed the new arrival; taking in the wooden cart, the brace of mules at the head, the driver at the box seat, the mottled tarp behind him, and the two dark shapes sitting on the tail board. The guard's eyes glowered furtively beneath the shadow of his kettle helmet, and he lifted his free hand to his jowl for a clearer shout - the other gripped the shaft of a spear.

"Ho, below," he bellowed down at the cart, " 'oo goes there?"

The driver of the cart waved up at the guard. He was a reedy and gnarled old fellow in a woolen cap, dressed modestly but neatly, and with a dour or exhausted cast about his features. Purple circles lined his sallow eyes. "Hail and goodly met, sir!" the man exclaimed in a cheerful-if-weatherworn voice, "Egbert o' Bromhead, sir, at your service sir! Merchant sir! That is: linen merchant, sir, and cottons and darning-yarns moreover, sir! Hullo, sir, and gods'b'ye, sir!"

The guardsman leaned his elbow against the parapet, drumming his fingers on his plump cheek. "Oh aye, merchant is't? And 'oo else there 'companied with you, 'pon your good ricketycart, sirrah? Those there o'er yon shoulder, blackguard-lookin' slabberdegullions at your rear?"

The merchant laughed heartily, thumbing over his shoulder at the dark passengers, "Oh, sir, 'tis a knight and no less, sir! A knight-at-arms all gleaming steel-bedecked and his good squire at his beck, moreover! The noble knight did cross athwart my path some four nights ere, sir, and he was good enough to take the hospitality of my carriage since we was headed down the same way anywise! Can't be too careful 'round these parts—heard rumours and things—rumours you wouldn't believe, sir, an honest guard like yourself, sir! Alwise a happy thing, having a knight on hand when times get thick and troubled, sir - soothly-so, sir! Mighty fine highwayman-deterrent, is a good knight on your cart."

The guard snorted loudly from his post. "Oh, 'ow now, then, sirrah? I seen my fair share o' chivalric types come 'round lately, what with the Jarl's petitioning for 'elp and all. Seen my fare share o' knights and dames and cold steel, my ol' fellow. So 'ere now: let's 'ave a look at 'im then! Handsomely now! The page-boy too!"

At the guard's beckoning, the two figures decamped from the back of the cart and strolled around to the fore. Their heavy, hob-nailed boots crunched against the gravel of the main road, though the shorter of the two walked with a slight limp in his gait. They halted just in front of the cart, allowing the guardsman to take them in.

The taller of the pair stood a pace behind the smaller one, but held up a gauntleted hand in greeting, a glimmer of well-tended steel catching the pale sunlight. He was covered from head to toe in full-plate armour, unlaquered and unadorned, save for the gothic fluting on the cuirass and vambraces. Over the shining ensemble was draped a heavy mantle and cloak of dull sable, with a voluminous hood that shrouded the knight's features from the guard's lofty perspective. The dark drabness of the knight's raiment was a sharp contrast to the bright gleam of his armour. A sword was sheathed at his side like a deadly promise.

The second figure was less remarkable; a callow, stringy youth with a greasy face and a head of strawish hair. His dingy serf's-clothes were covered by a sable cloak that matched his master's. All in all he had the look of a shabby scarecrow, but he stood squarely and boldly, grinning up at the guard with an air of undeserved pomposity. With a grandiose flourish (that unfortunately bore close resemblance to a marionette flailing in the wind), the squire commenced his clearly rehearsed introduction of his master.

"Good sir," yawped the squire in a voice that could only be charitably described as a fitting match for his looks, "you have the honour of addressing," following an unnecessary pause, "Sir Brandyl of Caradon, the Sable Raven Knight; of good repute and storied prowess! And if I may humbly submit that I am called Osprey of Gisbourlake, goodly esquire of the aforespoke!"

The guardsman was taken aback to say the least by the young squire's theatricality. "Err," he floundered, "yes, aye, well! 'Ullo t'the pair o' you! Sir Brandyl o' Caradon! Caradon, eh? Caradon o'er west o' Lovrance and Yeomarch? That's a long, long ways westerwise, if I ain't mistook! What be your business 'ere in our fine township o' Eratoff, good sir knight?"

"Why, we are here to answer the summons of your good lordship, the Jarl of Eratoff, as a matter of course!" answered the squire, with a clumsy theatrical bow. The Sable Raven Knight offered a more dignified dip of his hooded head, but remained silent. It was at this point that the guard realised why the squire capered so awkwardly; the young lad was missing his left leg. A wooden peg-leg met the stump just below the knee.

"That's as may be," said the guard, "but hold your horses there a mite longer whiles I go about getting this gate open for the three o' ye first!" With that, the guard disappeared behind the rampart, and not a moment later the town gate swung open with a grumble of its heavy hinges.

"Bless your britches, good sir," cheered the old merchant, reclaiming the reins of his cart, "and bless your noble soul, Sir Brandyl of Caradon," he added, saluting the Sable Raven Knight. "After all, I mayn't've got all the way here if you hadn't've hopped aboard along with me, to scare off the brigands and bandits and bugbears lurking 'long the sides of the road o'nights, I'd wager a ha'penny on it, and no less! May the fates see you kindly on your way to good fortune, milord!"

With that, the merchant cracked the reins and the mules settled into a canter with nary a whinny, pulling the cart through the town gate and into the town proper. Osprey and the Sable Knight lingered a moment longer, watching the cart gallivant off down to the narrow rectangular cloister of what looked to be the market square in the middle of town. Then, the young squire clapped his master on the back and the strange, sable-clad pair set off in search of the path that would take them to the Jarl's demesne and to the initiation of a new enterprise.

Like Zero, the Hanged Man had spent the majority of the day in one of Eratoff's dingy pubs. Unlike Zero, his hours had blurred into a long inebriated haze as he downed tankard after tankard of cheap swill. To an observer, he wasn't much to look at--a hunched vagabond wearing a voluminous dust-colored mantle and a large tower shield, its device hidden by burlap. Beneath it all he seemed to be armed and armored, but he had clearly seen better days.

He raised the tankard to find it empty. Just a moment ago it had been half full. "Another," he said, sliding it back across to the keeper.

"I need some proof you can pay your tab, sirrah," the keeper replied.

Mumbling, the Hanged Man reached into each of his sad, empty pouches, fingers trembling. He found an array of miscellany, which wound up spread across the countertop as the man looked for his coin. The keeper did not look pleased. Finally, by some miracle, the wanderer procured a piece of silver. The mint was foreign, and the keeper turned it over and over in his hands, scrutinizing it. Finally he bit it, and when it bent, tucked it away in his pocket. "You're squared up for now, sirrah, but it's time you got out," he said, clearly doubting the swordsman's ability to pay.

The Hanged Man wasn't about to fight him. He lowered his chin, scooped his trinkets back into his pouch, and lurched to his feet.

The swill he'd been drinking had been cut with water on more than one occasion, so he was less inebriated than he thought he'd be. That was a disappointment, but at least he'd be able to keep his feet beneath him.

A shadow was sweeping towards him. Nay--two shadows, one armored and one not. The Hanged Man hesitated in the middle of the road. Every so often the wind made his pale cloak flutter, giving him the look of a wayward ghost. As the Sable Knight drew closer, he took a few hurried steps backwards and bowed deeply, trying not to stumble. He knew his place.

The fortress stands tall and rugged in the village, with the Jarl standing outside the hall's doors inside it's walls. With many more persons in all kinds of armor with many weapons near the front of the Fortress, awaiting the Jarl for his commands. Archers, swordsmen, spearmen, and even a few tome wielders are waiting, split into two groups, one on he left, and one on the right of the gravel road, leading up to the entrance of the hall.

The Jarl is dressed in plated armor, made of steel and leather, with a great horned helm covering his face, with two guards stationed at his sides, and a guant servant girl near the back, holding whats seems to be a giant piece of

As the five approached the fortress, and with Corrine with her greeting, The Jarl began to speak.

"It seems everyone's here then. Well, let me give you the gist of what's going on. A Necromancer or Summoner to the Northwest has made a small army of undead to attack my village every full and new moon. Some of my guardsmen have already been slain by the banshees and ghouls. And their attacks keep ever damaging the walls, chipping away at the stones each and every time. And tonight will be a full moon, so expect the worst. I've assembled three teams out of those who ventured here. Aria, if you will please..."

The servant girl rolls out a large map in front of the Jarl on the gravel road, The Jarl gets a stick off the ground to point with.

"One will go to the watch tower at the east, and will help defend from further attacks with the guardsmen there. The second team will go to the south and help defend the outpost, they been receiving heavy forces, and their stone encampment will barely hold anymore. And the group of late arrivers, will try to seek out The Elden of The North Forest, to help them along their journey to seek out the Summoner's lair before anyone else. He's a druidic type character, who helped the surrounding villages before with famine and sickness, and will most likely be a great force to help take out this Summoner once and for all, and end this meaningless death."

"We have suspected of three locations where the Summoner's lair is. A group of ruins just a bit northward and then far west, an old manor to very northwest going directly from the village, and then some sort of encampment more northward than the rest. The late arrivers will head toward the manor after they've finished trying to find The Elden, the first group and the second group will explore the ruins and supposed encampment after they finished defend the watchtower and the outpost. Any questions at all? You all will head out just before sunset if any of you need to be refreshed or rested first."

(Current post order:
Zero
Cori
Sable
Hanged Man)

Zero approached where Cori, The Hanged Man, and The Sable Knight were all standing, surprisingly the last. "Oh well." he thought to himself as he moved to stand beside Cori, stretching his arms upward for a moment and yawning. Suddenly he cracked a small smile, "Good day for an adventure, no?" he remarked in the same unnaturally smooth and perfect voice he used earlier. Her anxiety was obvious from where he was standing, but that wasn't his concern.

His real concern rested around his comrades dying. He knew he wouldn't be able to keep an eye on all of them at once. The rather large knight might hold his own well, and he made a note not to underestimate the girl. But the other. Drunken soldier type. Probably scarred from some experience. Zero decided it'd probably be a good idea to keep an eye on him. Though time might show otherwise as well.

And then the Jarl began to talk. Zero focused on his words, studying the man up and down with an analytical mindset, thinking over his words, his posture, his surroundings. Didn't matter too much, but Zero needed to focus on something that would keep his focus on the words of the Jarl. As the map was rolled out on the ground, Zero knelt to get a better view of the finer parts of the map. He took in as much detail as he could before standing again and continuing to listen to the Jarl's words.

As the Jarl finished his small speech, Zero smiled, bowing to him with a perfectly controlled bend with his right arm crossed across his abdomen, "I cannot think of any questions for the time being," he said, standing to his full height again and beginning to move away from the others slowly, a small chuckle on his breath as he walked. He changed his mind after a moment, breathing in. He reminded himself that he couldn't abandon others during group missions. Slowly, he turned back around and made his way back to the group, replacing himself within the spot next to Cori.

"Can't go sauntering off without my new partners." he let out coolly, but something in his tone had changed. Just a small undertone, spoke slight agitation in his new position as he stood there. He crossed his arms then, shifting weight toone foot and waiting until the moment they could leave.

"This is going to fun." he reminded himself internally. No need to get too overzealous of course. Everything in time.

Zero could feel himself starting to get uncomfortable, here, standing and listening to his assignment. Not his style at all. Zero actually wasn't used to working for anyone anyways. Wasn't in his nature. Back where he was from, he didn't work for anyone, and when he came here, he hadn't really intended on, but the best way to find any action around here was to ask and see what needed to be done.

And what needed to be done often ranged from splitting logs to murder. Zero didn't have a problem with either, and faced with killing undead and a necromancer, it got him excited. Even the term, small army made him kind of drool. Violence was his call. But like before, he wasn't used to going through a middleman to get to it.

The smooth voice drew Cori's attention. She looked to the man beside her, amused to recognize him as the man who was missing a sword. Her gaze lingered on the empty scabbard again before she looked up to his eyes-- Now that she noticed they were a bright blue, stark against his dark hair, she was taken aback. For a moment, she stared back with eyes just as intense, a serious scowl on her face. Then after rudely staring, she looked away without a word, taking refuge under her cloak again. The small exchange (if you could call it so) did nothing for the anxiety in her stomach.

She eyed her other companions to be: a knight and his squire, dressed in dark, and a vagabond who carried with him the pungent stench of alcohol--and too much of it. Cori wrinkled her nose in disdain, but recognized that each person seemed to have something she very much lacked: experience. She knew she would have to work hard to prove her worth among the men, and her fingers fluttered over the hilt of her sheathed sword at the thought.

With a casual greeting, the Jarl got right to business, making Cori feel self conscious of her formal introduction. However, she didn't have the time to dwell. Their mission was explained and she peered over Zero to eye the map. She recognized the territory from similar maps at home, but she had never explored it herself. As such, she listened closely, gaze following the Jarl's words along the map and occasionally flickering up to eye the corresponding horizon. None of the paths seemed particularly easy, especially for her first adventure of sorts, but she felt confident.

"Which group are we?" she questioned when prompted, ignoring Zero as he trotted away. Despite the quivering of her pale fingers, her voice remained steady and cool. It was unmistakably feminine: light but low.

As quickly as he was gone, Zero had returned to her side with yet another comment. She found herself refusing to look at him again, but she was tempted when she caught ear of the change of his voice. "I don't think we mind," she instead replied coolly, irritation suddenly lacing her words. Part of her was aware that she was not making the best impression on Zero, but another part insisted his agitation was with her anyway.

(i've been awake for 30+ hrs lmao I'm so tireed, so I'm sorry if this is..not comprehensible. i wanted to get something up to keep it moving, though, so ill check back after sleeps in case naything needss edited/changed.)

The main road through town—past the narrow market square and the steepled spire of the holy chancel—was a ramble of serpentine twists, not the typical straight causeway of most larger townships. Perhaps it had once been a winding goat-trail before the settlement had grown around it, for the center of the town was situated on a broad hilltop, and the road ascended in a gradual incline to meet the port-cullis gatehouse of the Jarl's castle, which sat throne-like on the summit of the hill.

The castle itself was of the Late Gothic Normedrian style, yet bore certain architectural inheritances suggesting the remains of an old Bretagnic hill-fort. The central keep was a sprawl of high walls and tall towers, while the curtain wall surrounding the bailey was thick, parapeted and turreted, much more defensible than the outer wall of the town itself. It was decidedly the most impressive thing about the dilapidated town of Eratoff, whose timber-framed houses huddled over the lanes with their overhanging jetties, oppressing the streets below in their jostle for space.

The Sable Raven Knight and his squire marched their way through town at a strident pace, paying little heed to the peasantry who bowed and genuflected in their wake, for according to the letter the Duke's convocation was to be held at noonday and it seemed they might be somewhat tardy.

By the time they had achieved the gate of the Jarl's castle, the squire was red-faced and wheezing, and the Sable Knight rested a supportive hand on the lad's back as he bent over double, catching his breath in ragged gasps.

"Bloody... hells... sir!" Osprey wheezed between gulps of air, "Next time we... ought to trim down the... introductions for time... aye, sir?"

The Sable Knight nodded.

Alas, it was not to be.

When the pair hailed the gatehouse guards, Osprey launched into his performance with typical aplomb. And when they made their formal introductions to the Jarl himself—who waited in the bailey courtyard with an impressive assemblage of troops—the squire held nothing back. Unfortunately, halfway through recounting a rather embellished and partly fanciful list of Sir Brandyl's knightly exploits, Osprey's peg-leg caught on a raised flagstone and he tumbled into a messy heap. The Sable Knight gently helped the boy to his feet. Osprey regained his composure remarkably well, but all his gusto had evaporated in the embarrassment, and the rest of the announcement was mercifully truncated.

At length, following a further onslaught of proclamations pertaining to other arrivals, and a host of the usual courtly formalities, the business of the day commenced. The Jarl himself was not so bombastic as his troubadours and heralds; he spoke in a brusque and straightforward manner, laying out his plans for dealing with the plight that assailed his small slice of Jarldom, and what he expected of those who had deigned to answer his summons. He was an impressive figure, clearly a man of action, and not some chinless prick-me-dainty pompadour like so much of this realm's complacent aristocracy. He had the look of old Bretagnic blood in him, more a chieftain than a patrician. Even the usually feckless Osprey listened with rapt attention to what the man had to say.

When the Jarl had concluded, the Sable Knight knelt on his haunches before the large map of the region that had been lain out on the ground, studying its cartography through the eye-sockets of his crow-like hounskull helmet. Once he had committed the pertinent information to memory, he rose to his feet with a metallic rustle of his armoured joints. Perfunctory in his duty, Osprey dusted off the knight's flanks.

Sir Brandyl turned to regard the others who had attended the Jarl's petitioning, his raven visage tilting as he assessed each of them in turn. Hedge-knights, sellswords and assorted soldiers of fortune; put as diplomatically as possible, they were a motley company. Three of them stood out by virtue of peculiar appearances.

The first was a man dark of hair, fair of skin and sharp of face, mail-clad under a leather tabard. He was notable for his lack of either helmet or sword; an empty scabbard hung uselessly from his belt. His eyes were of a disconcerting hue—sapphire, topaz, zircon—the chatoyant gleam of cold gemstones seemed crushed into that icy gaze.

The second was a lady garbed in simple clothes that, as only a knight could tell, belied her noble mien. The shadow of her cloak and cowl were not quite sufficient to hide her ghostly features and fair hair. Curious that a quiver of arrows was slung over her back, suggesting her skill at archery, when her albinism should betoken poor eyesight.

The third was... well, clearly a drunkard, swaying on his feet in a saturnalian haze. The man's age was hard to determine. His face was a palimpsest of hard lines and ugly scars, incongruous with his boyish jawline and topknot of flaxen hair. But under the pale shelter of his cerement cloak, there were signs of veteran skill. Battle-worn armour, weapons that had clearly seen use. Most tellingly, the hefty tower-shield he carried. A canopy of burlap covered whatever blazon that shield might bear.

Curiosity upon curiosity.

Since the former pair were engaged with each other, the Sable Raven Knight approached the inebriate, and offered a formal salute of greeting. Osprey limped along, standing apace from his master with an impatient expression.

The Hanged Man had spent much of the past two weeks in Eratoff, drifting from pub to flophouse to pub again, frittering away his scanty coin. He'd even resorted to trapping rats in the pub's cellar for a couple coins--which, of course, had gone right back into the keeper's coffers. All the kegs and barrels and bottles down in the cellar had almost proven too tempting for the sorry lush.

Fearful whispers of the Summoner's curse had been at the tip of every tongue, followed closely by rumors of the grand rewards the jarl would be presenting to those who stepped forward and stood against the threat. The Hanged Man could not say if those rumors were true--and still, there he stood, swaying as he listened to the jarl presenting his battle plan. Much of it drifted right through the once-knight's ears, or else was lost in the dim, warm buzz that filled his head like cotton. At least it wasn't only the jarl's voice that was muted by haze of wine, but the others as well. Damnable ghosts.

The Hanged Man was dimly aware of the company that had assembled for the task. Men-at-arms aplenty, archers and crossbowmen, even a sorcerer or two. Then there was the black-garbed knight to whom he'd bowed earlier, the peg-legged squire, the lad with the blue eyes from the pub, and a very pale woman who appeared highborn. The Hanged Man watched the latter pair a moment. They looked so young. And the former pair ... the former pair was approaching him. That raven helm made his hands twitch--he felt all those beaks and claws turning him to mincemeat again. As the Sable Knight saluted, the Hanged Man straightened up, his sabatons clicking together at the heel and his right arm crossing his chest. He clearly had a military background, but beyond that he was difficult to piece together.

Standing so rigidly wasn't easy when the world refused to stand still, and the Hanged Man soon stumbled out of his formal salute. "S-sir, I'm af--I'm afraid I don't know these c-counties, nor much of the peerage who rules them." His voice was hoarse and his words broken, only partially by drink. His voice didn't much match his grim demeanor. Formal, humble, subservient, yet not cowed by the figure before him. "And as s-such, sir, I do not recog--recognize you. Begging humble apologies, sir."

As the swordsman struggled to keep his composure, a pale bird glided down from the bailey wall to perch upon the highest edge of his shield. It was a crow, white as the first frost with haunting red eyes that seemed far too clever for their own good. It let out a raspy greeting, first to the Sable Knight and then to Cori. Something about the woman amused it. "Go away," the Hanged Man grumbled, shaking himself in a futile attempt to dislodge the creature.

The Jarl began to speak again. "Why, you four that just shown up including the one that just walked off. If the manor IS the place of the Summoner, the ones who didn't give one about making me wait will get the first encounter with him or her. And hopefully survive long enough to meet the reinforcements after they get finished checking the other two places." The two other groups of sell-swords could be heard quietly chuckling and snorting. "Oh and by the way, your rewards will be whatever you can get your hands on at the Summoner's Lairs. Well, see you all at sunset I suppose." The Jarl and his men opened the doors of the hall behind them, and went inside, not looking back.

The two other groups of men and woman began to scatter and disperse into the village below, some hitting up taverns while other take strolls around the markets. The folk of the village are going through their daily lives, getting water from wells, smiths making weapons and forging armor, and especially with all the sell-swords walking about, no doubt the merchants will get business. The library can also be seen near the west wall of the village, if one so desires to have a read while waiting.

While the groups dispersed, a dark figure could be seen in one of the windows of the fortress' towers peering out over the village. With the dark nearly disfiguring all of it's details, only one thing could be seen from the figure. It looks feminine. It possibly being the newly wedded Queen of the village having a gaze at it's ongoings.

(The Jarl just made me very happy with that. )

Zero couldn't help but let out a small chuckle as the Jarl hit them with some very passive sarcasm. It really was a well formed stab at their being late. And then there was the laughing and snickering of the other groups. This was interesting. They were all mercenaries. They re-purposed themselves for every mission they went on. Zero did not. He knew what he was going to be doing and it was his express purpose. He just had to hold himself back a little.

He had kept staring forwards during the hooded woman's little stare at him, though he had noticed. It's really hard not to notice when someone burns holes in your head with their eyes. Well. Whatever she had found hadn't been to her liking, because he seemed to have made her even more uncomfortable with just his looks. "Funny. I didn't think I was that ugly today." Zero thought to himself as the Jarl finished his speech and took within the ramshackle castle.

Zero yawned then, as though he was tired, even though there wasn't any exhaustion about him, and turned, readying himself to walk towards the knight and the drunken mess. "Perhaps I should really find a name for him that isn't judging." Zero thought to himself.

"Funny thing is," Zero said to the woman as he slowly began to saunter towards the other two; just an ending note, "Their forces may feel losses, but ours will not."

He made his way to the other then, taking a stance adjacent to the other two so that they all formed a triangle. He didn't speak at the moment though. He hadn't taken the time to map these two out and he'd like to. What he'd gotten from the woman so far was that of a very tense person, perhaps nobility escaping noble responsibilities (though this he doubted heavily), he'd come across many female adventurers and warriors in his time traveling, and almost all of them bore striking similarity to men in their whole person. In fact, he'd never seen a woman adventurer or warrior who felt the need to hide themselves from the people around them. Especially not when doing a public act. Well. They'd definitely see what this woman was capable of in the future, but for now, like earlier, he made his notes not to underestimate her.

The drunken mess, "Whoops", was really what the name implied. Drunk and a mess. He seemed somewhat embarrassed as well, confronted by the knight. Made sense. He definitely looked war torn, and he'd obviously lost everything as far as the purpose of war went. Being confronted by the strong figure of the knight was probably intimidating, if not embarrassing.

The knight was the only one he currently couldn't lay a finger on. He hadn't spoke that he knew of, and he had a follower to speak for him. Curiosity sparked in Zero. He made a small note to figure more about this knight out later on.

(Oh, and by the way, there's a new player that will be joining us that i've managed to fit into the RP. He'll post after the hanged man.) (here's the deal, he's going to have ONE "catch-up" post that's going to be out of order, that he can post whenever he wants. But there after, it then resumes back to the normal posting order after his catch-up post.)

(New Post Order :
Zero
Cori
Sable
Hanged Man
Sven)

Sven Knight-mauler cursed under his breath as he looked skyward for the umpteenth time in the hour; Noon had come and gone, and so, the mercenary missed the scheduled briefing with Eratoff's Jarl. The ginger warrior scowled. In his extensive experience, briefings tended to be long-winded affairs, spanning the course of hours. If he were lucky, Sven would be able to catch at least some of the briefing, and catch up on what he had missed afterwards from one of the other warriors present. Of course, that hinged on the guards letting the Knight-mauler into the briefing to begin with; Such events were,of course, sensitive affairs.

As Eratoff's "ramparts" came into view, Sven's scowl deepened, as the scent of pitch and charcoal met his nose. He knew there was neither within any reasonable distance of him; It was his past, reminding him of what he had done. It was here he was born. It was here he was raised. And it was here he had killed his parents, destroyed his home, and likely damned dozens of others to the same. All because of one tiny mistake, snowballing into something far greater than it ever should have been.

The mountainous man dug his heels into Striga's flanks a little harder, prompting the old nag to pick up the pace. The scent had passed. He needed to keep himself in the now. The past is dead. For better or for worse. But, it would seem,these days, the dead would prefer to be living. He gave a dark chuckle over his private gallows humour, and rode the dusty road up to the gates. He arrived within minutes, and after bringing Striga to a stop, he began to unfasten his helm's chinstrap, before the guard at the gate hailed him,

"Halt, in the name of the Jarl! Ho, below, 'oo goes?"

Sven, with his one free hand, finished unfastening his helm. He slipped his fore and middle fingers through his helm's eye sockets, and pulled the metal headgear from its proper place, revealing his countenance to the guard of the gate. However, before he spoke, Sven placed the helm atop his polehammer's head, the weapon crooked against his shoulder.

"I am Sven, Knight-mauler, guardsman. I am a mercenary, seeking to answer the Jarl's call for aid. I realise I am tardy, and wish not to make my tardiness worse. I request entrance into the township of Eratoff."

Sven looked up to the guardsman on the ramparts, and saw the man's lips move. What he said, however, Sven couldn't tell. Internally, the Knight-mauler shrugged; What the guard had said doesn't truly matter. Not right now, at least. A brief moment later, the guardsman spoke,

"Awright, then. Ye' may enter. But mind yerself in town! We don't take kindly to troublesome offcomers."

The mercenary nodded in response. Satisfied, the guard turned, and ordered the opening of the gate. As the massive wooden portal swung open, Sven judged Striga's flanks, moving her forward at a gentle pace, into Eratoff's market square. It was as he had remembered. His gaze lingered upon the place where his parent's home once stood; Burned down to the foundation, there was nothing to salvage. And in the intervening years, it would seem that somebody had built their own home upon the spot.

He pulled his eyes from the memory. He had a Jarl to meet.

Striga's old legs brought the mercenary to the stables, where he dismounted, and left his nag in the care of the stable hands. Sven continued through the town on foot, moving with notable alacrity. His helm had moved from atop his hammer, to under his right arm. The burly ginger marched smartly up to the portcullis of the keep, and snapped to attention equally smartly.

"Sven Knight-mauler, mercenary. I seek audience with the Jarl on business, relating to his recent call for aid. Furthermore, I extend my deepest apologies for my tardiness. I will make no excuses."

The present guards exchanged a look, and one barked an order to a guard within the bailey, who left his post to head deeper into the keep, likely to deliver the message. Minutes later, he returned, and said,

"The Jarl will see you presently, Knight-mauler."

The guardsman spat the sobriquet out as if it were poison; The man either had no love for sellswords, or found the subject of his title to be supremely distasteful. Either way, it didn't matter to Sven. He strode forward as the sallyport was opened to allow him entry; It wouldn't do to open the portcullis for a single man, especially if that man was a sellsword.

Sven entered the bailey, and found himself pleasantly surprised to come face-to-face with the Jarl outside, accompanied by an entourage of bodyguards, and a herald. The mountainous mercenary marched to a halt, and once again snapped to attention, saluting the Jarl.

"My greetings to you, Your Lordship, and my deepest apologies for my tardiness. I am Sven,Knight-mauler. Mercenary, and I seek to offer my services to you and your people."

The mercenary awaited the Jarl's reply; If the man had deigned to meet with Sven at this point, then he figured that his chances of getting the job were excellent. From there, he can negotiate a fee, or rate, for his services. Considering the fact that Eratoff wasn't exactly the richest place around, he'd have to lowball his prices. However, he was willing to do that.

For now.

(I don't have time to post tonight, so I'm going to skip this round to keep it moving. I'll post the next time around, though.)

Upon hearing the Hanged Man profess to his unfamiliarity with the region, the Sable Raven Knight shifted his weight; almost a nervous shuffle, really. Osprey rolled his eyes behind his master's back.

"Good sir," the knight finally spoke, "I exhort thee, do not—do not be chagrined. Thou'rt not alone in thine ignorance of this woodland realm, I assure thee. In sooth, I also find myself a stranger in a strange land."

All at once, the air of mystery and intimidation vanished from the Sable Raven Knight. Even through the metallic echo of his visor, Sir Brandyl's voice betrayed his youthfulness, his friendliness and his sheepishness. At the same time, the courtly cant he spoke with was unusually archaic; although not entirely uncommon of those bred to the chivalric life.

"We," the knight acknowledged his squire with a gesture, "hail from distant kingdoms, far to the west of this woodland realm. I am, well—a knight-errant, I daresay—whilom a vassal of the fair country of Caradon, but long ere departed on this pilgrimage, with the sun rising athwart the eastern horizon for mine only compass."

"Not I, however," Osprey chimed in with a waggle of his finger, "I'm from Gisbourlake, not quite so far west as Caradon, and which ain't half so gloomy as this fallow hamlet, I ought to recommend to you!"

"Gramercy, lad," murmured the Sable Knight. He was about to oblige the Hanged Man with his own inquiries, when something rather unexpected happened. A snow-white raven descended to alight on the crest of the Hanged Man's shield, where it seemed most unusually comfortable. It crowed uncannily at Sir Brandyl, before the shield's owner—visibly dismayed yet strangely unsurprised to receive such an ominous visitor—attempted to shake off the feathered intruder.

The Sable Raven Knight could only watch, bemused, while the drunken sellsword and the bizarre bird quarrelled over perching rights. He glanced back at Osprey again, who shrugged at him, nonplussed. Eventually he resolved to take no more notice of the crow, and attempted to reignite the conversation before it floundered into irretrievable awkwardness.

"Uh... Prithee, good sir: If I may say so, thou hast the resemblance of a seasoned soldier about thyself. Wert thou beforetime a man-at-arms... or even a knight, peradventure? In my fleeting estimation, the lacquered panoply thou wearest is of fine quality." He lifted an armoured finger to tap at the beak of his visor. "Withal, mine own burnished armour and sombre raiment make for a queer and sheer contrast to thine."

"La, sir," added Osprey, "my master might strike a somedeal ghoulish effigy at first sight, but he's really rather a benign and biddable fellow, once you come to know him." The squire rapped his knuckles playfully on his master's rerebrace.

The Sable Knight brushed Osprey's hand off, continuing. "Yes, most assuredly. I must beg of thee not to be addled by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance I bear. It was a quaint custom of the court in my country. That is, for the knights of the realm to be so-arrayed, in a spectacle of heraldic beasts. Be-likened as I am to such a bird of omen." He pointed at the white crow, still stubbornly perched on the lip of the Hanged Man's shield. "A cousin, meseems, of thine own friendly fowl," he quipped. "But I digress. If thou wouldst be so kind as to satisfy my curiosity?"

The Hanged Man spared a glance for the short, stout man who barged into the bailey--perchance their small party would grow by one. And in truth, he might have paid better attention to the mercenary and the jarl, but it was the Sable Knight that captivated him. With a toss of the head he shook back his pale hood, better displaying the incongruous planes and curves of his face, as well as the sunken green eyes that shone dimly from deep sockets.

Brandyl's voice fit his visage as poorly as the Hanged Man's did. He sounded earnest, even sweet. The once-knight pondered a moment on what the fellow looked like under the visor. But as the Sable Knight spoke of his western home, the vagabond's eyes widened, then narrowed to scrutinous slits. The white crow went forgotten.

He comes from the west.

His lips, suddenly quite dry, parted as if he were on the cusp of words, but none emerged until after the Caradonian knight posed his questions of the stranger. He laid a heavy hand upon his breastplate, the steel fired until it was far darker than steel ought to be. The make was fine, well-weathered yet free of rust. "I ... I was a knight. A long time past ... a lifetime. Landless, raised from humble birth to a position far above my station ... in truth, good sir, you remind me a great deal of mine own likeness, back in my younger days." He cleared his throat. Drink had loosened his tongue. "Not that you, ah ... I-I do not mean to say that you shall turn out quite so sorry as me, sir."

The Hanged Man raised his gauntlet, and his feathered shadow swooped down from its perch to settle upon his knuckles instead. "I have seen fearsome men and fearsome beasts alike in my time, sir--verily I have been both man and beast, in a--in a manner." The man let out a sigh through his nose, unsure of how to broach the subject that had been gnawing at him. He stroked the top of the crow's head. "... you say you hail from the west. I, sir, hail from the east, and rarely digress from my westward path ..." He licked his lips. "... in fact, I-I seek a man. The Lord of the Lances ... or whatever has become of him."

(Normal post order resumes.)

The Jarl began to speak again, except with only one of the mercenaries as his audience. He didn't nearly need to speak as loudly as he did before when he had a whole crowd that needed to hear him. He holds a scrolled up map in his left hand. "Another late arrival I see. Well, since you basically missed the entire meeting I was holding earlier, I'll keep this quick and simple, since you don't really need to know the two other team's parts in this."

"Recently a Summoner has cursed our village with undead. About a small army's worth. They rise up from the ground and reawaken every new and full moon. Your team, consists of those four people over there chatting away." He points briefly to the group of five. "You all are first to seek out The Elden of the Forest, and hopefully make him join you all on your quest to stop the fiend. I expect finding him will take at least a half-day or so, since he lives secluded in the woodland to the north of the village. Then, you are to go to the far northwest and attempt to find the manor, one of the three spots suggested by my scouts to be the lair of the summoner, while the other two teams explore the other two."

He hands the map to Sven.

"If you indeed find the summoner there, please attempt to survive long enough to tell the tale about it until the other two teams arrive for reinforcements if their expeditions prove unsuccessful. If you find nothing, your team shall go to the other two spots marked on the map to investigate them. Any questions?"

It's sun is high in the sky, it's not noon anymore, but still bright enough to consider it nowhere near sunset.