"Just one, I believe, Your Lordship."
"Another over-confident fool," remarked the once-powerful noble-in-exile. "Altrian, fetch my sword and raise the gate, would you?"
"As you wish, Milord."
Elba's Collection
Lord Firok's Undoing, Part 1.
Years ago, there came a war - a war of races. Goblins and their cousins sought to bring down the nations of humans and elves. In the end, the Allied Unison, led by the great Kingdoms of Forestaine, Coastlands and the Empire of Steafanoes, defeated the Uprisers. However, during that costly war many people were accused, most rightfully, of collaborating with the enemy. One of these collaborators fled his home and took up residence in no-man's land, safe from the retribution of his government. Deep in the Wildlands, Lord Firok had only to deal with erstwhile adventurers who came to collect the price on his head. This story is credited to the bard Syrjay O'Bragi, although it is doubtlessly older than she.
He knew they would always come for him. Let them come, he thought. He would defeat them as he had defeated all the others.
"Milord, there is, er, company at the gates," warned Altrian, his trusted aide. Altrian had been unfailingly loyal throughout the years. Come what may, Altrian would stand at his lord's side, as his forefathers had done for Firok's forefathers. Not as a warrior, mind you. He was merely a chamberlain, and a rather elderly one at that.
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"How many this time?" asked Firok.
"Just one, I believe, Your Lordship." "Another over-confident fool," remarked the once-powerful noble-in-exile. "Altrian, fetch my sword and raise the gate, would you?" "As you wish, Milord." |
The servant shuffled into the adjoining room, where the finer armaments of the Firok family were kept. The present, and most likely last, Lord of the Manor pondered the problem at hand, having long ago resigned himself to a life of exile.
Some of them who come to make good on the bounty are arrogant. These individuals act alone for they believe fame shared is fame wasted. In the end, it matters not, for the only notoriety gained is a small gravestone and far-off relatives who wonder whatever became of their brave kin. Usually, Altrian was kind enough to ask the 'visitor' their name in order to facilitate a decent burial. The old codger could be so fickle about that, the expatriot thought, but he was still a loyal man. The only one of the staff who ever really was. Now he was the entire staff.
Firok hadn't visited the meagre graveyard in over two winters, and couldn't remember how many were buried there then, much less now. It had been almost nine years since the war had ended. Nine years since the misguided politicians had him removed from the Crusaders and branded him a murderer. Still, they came. Not as many as there once were, but they came nonetheless. Full of promise, spirit and bravado. And stupidity.
The sound of footsteps behind him broke the reverie. Odd, thought Firok, Altrian is back rather quickly. Too quickly to have fetched the sword. The old chamberlain must be loosing his mind and forgotten his orders. He is, afterall, of the age. But Firok quickly realised it was not Altrian who stood behind him, for it was not the voice of his trusted chamberlain that issued through the room.
"Firok le Noire, traitor of the Uprising, fugitive from the law of Forestaine, criminal of the Royaume, I have come to bring thee to justice!"
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