Bracht Leaves Squarento

Bracht leans against the door of the tavern. "A little too much mead," he thinks, as he staggers down the street. Music! There's a gypsy camp just on the edge of the small town. He looks at his purse... just half a silver left. What the hell!

He sits and listens to the music, watchs the dark sinuous girl dance, and then wanders over to the fortuneteller. She snatches the half-silver from Bracht's hand before he can blink. "Sit down...sit down," she coos.

Taking his caloused hand in hers, she turns his palm up. "OH.. a mighty warrior are you ... mighty in possibilities, if not in experience, at least." She favors him with a gap toothed smile. "Your fortune lies with those who are in darkness ev'n now. A prince I see. A dwarf. Elves! Magic too. Strong men, women as well! They are in need of you, even as you are in need of them."

She leans close, he can smell the alcohol in her garlicky breath. "Danger there is, but reward too! Seek them south of Riverside. But avoid the city and the armies of the Duke, for doom lies there." She curls his fingers into the palm. "I can speak with your dead relatives...but it will cost you another coin!"

Bracht staggers back to town, wandering in to another tavern.

Bracht wakes, and blinks  -- judging from the light outside the window, it is shortly after dawn.  He looks around the room without moving too much, trying to remember the night before.  There was drink.  There was --- oh yes: "Carlotta" is her name.   Her head is resting on his shoulder... so it's a reasonable guess that these are her quarters.  He takes a moment to try and recall the night that followed -- lots of grope and tickle... Surely there was more than that, after all, both of them were naked -- he wished he could remember it all.  He jostles her as he slides out of the bed, but she just curls up again, pulling a pillow over her head.

He gets into his clothes as quietly as possible and slips out the door.  It's two flights down to the street where he looks around to get his bearings.  North and east is where his horse and belongings are: "The Singing Sword", an inn greatly favored by the sell-swords and free men at arms in Squarento.  On his way, he stops at a bakery for some hot bread and next door for a cup of kafe -- the thick, dark morning brew favored by clansmen.

"Well," he thinks, "I've been lazing around here long enough.  Time to see what the Gods have in store for me down south of Riverside."  He packs his gear, checks his weapons, and settles up with the innkeeper.  Minutes later Mahvros is saddled and Bracht swings up on to the horse's back. 

Bracht had not been out into the southeast peninsula of Melfis for some time.  The area was so (relatively) safe for merchants that not many hired guards for the trip to Riverside or Athring.

He was surprised at the receiption he found at Squarento's Eastern Gate.  A light traffic, he expected, due to the army that everyone knew was outside the gates.  The fishermen who were apparantly the normal morning travellers had brief conversations with the guards at the gate, but when Bracht approached, a small squad of soldiers scrambled out of the nearby guardhouse, weapons drawn.

Bracht dismounted carefully, his movements tailored to giving them no reason to do anything rash.  He'd functioned as a city guard in his time, and so had an idea what was coming.

"Your business?"  The sergeant of the squad was brusque, but not hostile.

"Just looking to go out the gate, Sergeant," explained Bracht with a calming smile.

The sergeant looks him top to toe,  sees the weapons arrayed on the horse and makes an "easy there" gesture with his palms.  "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to speak with the officer inside.  This is routine with ...er... shall we say, fellows in your line of work?  Since the troubles, you understand."  He nods with his head back out the partially open gate.

Bracht nods in compliance. "Just as I expected," he thinks.  "They dont want anybody from inside to go and join those outside... Especially a skilled fighter."

Inside is a small room with an ISC officer (Imperial Spell Caster) behind a desk.  "You'll have to offer a standard statement of intent, under oath, if you're going outside the walls," he explains.

This was routine, Bracht knew. The ISC hack (as everyone outside the bureaucracy called these "officers") raised the standard Wand of Truth and pointed it at the warrior.  After he felt the tell-tale tingle of the spell, Bracht said the words he had put together for this:  "I, Bracht, have no intent to aid the enemies of this city or the government of the King.  My intent is to find my comrades."  He was relying on the fortune teller's words, that his fortune would be with the dwarves and elves and such that were out there.  Surely they would become comrades...whoever they were.   That made the statement true.

Having satisfied this bit of red-tape, Bracht was waved thru the gates without further incident.  Outside, he followed the road’s branch to the right, avoiding the broad, main road that would lead thru another set of checkpoints -- this time those put up by the Duke's army.  The very army the gypsy said to avoid. 

He was an axeman, not a civilian.  It made him nervous to turn away from a hostile force... as if he had a bulls-eye on his back.   He turned his horse down the Old Coast Road, following along with the fishermen.  Down toward the coast, crossing and re-crossing the delta tributaries of the Rangithael, Mahvros’ gate ate up the distance.  Finally, in mid-morning, he was at the base of the twisting, turning road up the steep cliff that ran along the coast.

One minute the sky was clear, the sun, bright overhead, the wind, light.  And two minutes later dark clouds spring up out of nowhere, thunderbolts tore thru the sky off to the north  over the area where Bracht guessed the Duke’s army would be encamped.  It was dark, the sun gone, the wind tearing at his cloak.  And then the rain began.  Large fat drops, driven by the wind, stung against his skin and that of his horse.   Every few minutes, the skyline would flash with lurid bolts of lightening. 

Mahvros’ ears flattened as he stolidly climbed the trail winding up the cliff.  They were not in the center of the squall, and  judging from the intensity of the wind, darkness and lightning, it would not be a pleasant place to be.  Bracht turned up the cowl of his cloak against the wind and rain, and thought about the nice start to this day.

A few leagues of plodding thru the storm, in mid-afternoon, Bracht and Mahvros entered the forest atop the cliff, and the weather cleared as suddenly as if a window were shut.  He had been an axeman for a while, now, in all kinds of situations and he had never been in a war that involved wizards, but this weather felt like the old Clan stories that were told of the Dragon Wars on the Plains, hundreds of years ago.  Weather that went on and off like a candle being blown out.  The earth opening up.  Plants coming to life and rocks melting underfoot.  He shuddered:  he greatly preferred a decent fight.

His eye caught a scrap of parchment on a nailed to a tree alongside the road.  It was a “WANTED” poster.  He read it, tore it off the nail, and looked around.  He was no great tracker, but it did not take much to see that a group of several horsemen had stayed here last night: there was a campfire, grass was matted down and he could see where several horses had been picketed.

He stopped for a meal, and then, refreshed, remounted and set out again.  The afternoon wore on to early evening, and Bracht catches a sound of metal on metal from ahead.  He quickly dodges off the trail into the cover of the woods.  Dismounting, he scouts carefully ahead and sees ten men, wearing the colors of the Duke’s army making camp for the night.  They do not see him yet, indeed, have not even set up their sentries.  He backs as quietly as he can into the concealing forest and returns to the tree where he had secured Mahvros.

Bracht lays a gentle hand on Mahvros to keep him quiet and considers his next move.  Chances are the soldiers would continue on their way come morning.  A routine patrol, perhaps, or maybe they were out putting up 'wanted' posters.  Either way, a run-in with the Duke's soldiers was most definitely not what he wanted.  Would they 'recruit' him if they found him, or merely kill him out of hand?  Neither was a particularly warming thought.  He didn't take well to orders.  Half the reason he was on the road was so he could be independent.  It suited him.
 
No, best not to take chances.  Taking Mahvros by the reins the barbarian led the horse back the way he came, choosing his path carefully.  He continued on until the dark became prohibitive, then chose a likely spot off the trail of the soldiers to picket his horse and camp for the night.  Cold rations and a blanket would have to do.  He'd not risk a fire so close to the soldiers.  With luck they'd head on come morning, and he'd just go his own way after them.
 
Visions of heroic deeds, brave companions and glorious quests swam through his head as he shifted on the hard ground trying to get comfortable.  As he was sleeping the face of the woman the night before crept into his mind, filling him with an altogether different kind of warmth, and he indeed dreamt of heroic deeds--but they had nothing to do with brave companions and glorious quests
After a day outside the city walls, he slept well.  In the morning he realized he'd have to decide how to proceed.
Should he remount and continue down the road toward the spot where the patrol was camped the previous night?  And what would he do if they were still there and saw him first?  And if they were not there, how fast should he proceed down the road?

Should he stay in the woods?  That would provide some safety, but at the cost of considerable progress.  But then again, perhaps safety would be more important than speed -- especially since he didnt have anywhere particular to go.  True, the gypsy had said "south of Riverside" and that was another day or 2 down the road.

All these questions and more he considered as he splashed his face with water from the clear, cold brook that was his wash-bowl this morning.

Bracht combed out his hair and beard while trying to sort through his options.  'Stop and think', he told himself.  A skill his elders had often despaired of him ever learning.  Chances were the soldiers would head out a distance and turn, or possibly come back the way they came.  In that case following their trail directly wouldn't be such a good thing.  It wasn't too difficult to spot someone following you directly unless that person was being very careful.  However, based on the casualness of their previous evening's camp, Bracht didn't think they were expecting too much in the way of trouble.  While that might breed carelessness in some, Bracht couldn't take that chance.
 
He waited a bit overlong before moving up to his previous location from the night before.  He left Mahvros a short distance back and crept forward, trying to find some sign of which direction the soldiers might have headed.  If they did indeed head out in a straight line, Bracht would move a bit off their trail and parallel their course, trying to stay within a certain amount of cover if possible.
 
If their trail ended up curving somewhat that would make things easier.  He could move off their trail for a bit but continue on his way without fear of meeting that patrol.  He'd still have to avoid others, of course, but first things first.  The further away he got the better chance he'd have of getting away clear, or being able to talk his way out of trouble.  He wasn't about to be arrested for being a spy, and there really wasn't a whole lot of reason for him to be sneaking around these woods, anyway.
 
He paused, listening.  'If they head straight, I go east,' he told himself.  'If the trail curves I'll just head away for a bit and then run it out.'

Bracht cautiously approaches the campsite.  It is late morning and the dozen soldiers are *STILL* there.  From a concealed spot in the bushes, he watches them sorting thru a jumbled pile of tack.  There are belts and straps and metal parts and saddles and horse equipment of all sorts in a large tangled pile.  The horses are tied together by a careless string of ropes and 4 of the soldiers are standing around the horses protectively; the others are sorting out the equipment mess.  From what snatches of conversation Bracht can overhear, sometime during the night, all the horses got loose and all the equipment got unbuckled and unstrapped and confused... but nobody saw anything until morning.

Tiptoeing away from the clearing, Bracht heads back the way he came.  He judges that he should be able to get clear around to the other side of the road, and get back on his journey and have a reasonable head start on the squad.  He was no genius on forest-lore, but he was the product of generations of clansmen, and he knew pretty surely that he had just seen a bit of pixie-created "bad luck."  All the plainsmen knew that you'd better stay on the good side of those fae folk, or your life would be a living hell. 

He paused as he was walking away from the clearing and put a biscuit and some sweet, dried fruit on the stump of a tree.  He looked around at the trees and bushes, and, gesturing in the general direction of the soldiers, said, "I've nothing to do with those fools back there."   Somehow, he knew, "they" were watching and the treat would be scooped up in just a few minutes.  If he sat here all day, he would not see it disappear but by nightfall it would be gone none-the-less.  Bracht turned with a soft laugh and mounted Mahvros.

By midday, he felt he was around in front of the squad and far enough ahead to pick up the pace.  Angling back near, but not on, the road, the forest growth was less dense and he made better time.

As he rode, his thoughts turned to the "WANTED" poster he had in his pocket. "What kind of damn fool picks a quarrel with pixies?" he wondered to himself.  He snorted in derision at the idea of a bounty on their heads.  Why, he had never even heard of anybody even seeing one, let alone catching a pixie!

He was even more confused about the bounty offered for hexapumas.  He knew about the 'pumas, of course.  They were creatures of the plains of his forefathers.  Old stores told of an alliance between them and the clans in the long-ago days of the Dark Wars.  It surprised him that any were found here, they could still be found in the hills and wild country of the plains ... he let his mind wander over what he had learned about the large, dangerous, but intelligent cats.

Hexapumas are large six-limbed cats native to the plains north and west of the Westron Mountains.  The male of these animals are typically 15-18 ft long, and about 3 ft high at the shoulder, females are usually 2/3 the size of males.  The extra  pair of limbs in the middle of their bodies gives them a fearsome combat capability, and a top speed that rivals that of a galloping horse.  A healthy hexapuma has a normal life expectancy of 20-30 years.

In their homelands, they live and travel in prides, typically made up of 2-4 males and 6-12 females, and led by a Pride Lord and his mate, called the LordsMate.  The Pride Lord and LordsMate are monogamous, but other members of the pride are not.  Kits are rare, usually coming only every 3 or 4 years, and hexapuma parents are extremely protective.   They are territorial, but some individuals travel widely.  They are extremely intelligent and communicate telepathically with each other, sometimes with humans, and there are unproven tales that they can communicate with other animals.  There are old tales that some hexapumas have learned to use magic.

He wondered again about this Duke, who seemed to have a knack for picking bad enemies: Pixies, some sort of Druid, and a beast that could read your mind from an arrows-flight away... He shook his head again.

It was getting dark and Bracht looked for a spot for the night -- away from the road, someplace that could not be seen if those soldiers decided to press on to try and make up time.  He turned west, into the thicker woods, as dusk settled.  He found a small clearing near a stream and settled down to another fire-less night.

In the dark hours of the night, he was awakened as several acorns fell into his face all at the same time.  If you sleep alone in the open, he had learned years ago, you sleep half-awake.  Mahvros was nervous also, pawing the ground and stamping -- Bracht knew that behavior: he looked ready for a fight.  Bracht sniffed the air quietly; there was a strong smell on the light breeze coming from the west -- not quite the smell of an animal, but definitely not human.    He thought quickly: behind him (or "probably" behind him, he admitted) were the soldiers -- they were mostly to the north, he guessed, but how far?  To the west was the source of this smell.  To the east  was the road leading further south... Or he could continue east to the other side of the road.  And of course, he could always stay here... his hand reached for the comforting feel of the shaft of his bardiche.