Studying one's enemies was a wisdom Aldebrand and House Salain had embraced, and that included learning the language of likely rivals. Unfortunately, it had all been theoretical work drawn from books and accounts of interactions. That, and the secondhand tutelage of traders who often only learned enough of the language to name a price for their wares. As such, he was only able to ferret out one of four words the girl spoke, and even then his poor grammar often left him confused as to whether the servant was speaking of him, of Wynn, or of an inanimate object.
Fortunately, Wynn sorted out the meaning for him.
"You'll have to spend some time each day sharing your tongue with me," he told Wynn, realizing his grasp of the language needed substantial bolstering.
"But yes, someone of your station should have servants accompany you. And if your status is akin to a Knight, perhaps also someone to act as a squire. That would be especially helpful if you intend to participate in the Tourney." Aldebrand judged that such a thing would invite both controversy and interest. But the court seemed to like such things, so that was probably good.
He supposed he'd meet the Princess again. He'd have to remember to read his words out in his mind before speaking them aloud, lest he offend her once more.
"If you like that girl, bring her. I'll see to her pay. And one or two others besides, if you like. Do you have any noble relatives junior to your station who might enjoy waiting on you? You should have a confidant near to your rank, but subordinate to it, so that you can gossip about courtly things and use her as an agent to probe for intelligence. I have seen it done many times. The royal court is like an assortment of national factions vying for power. They seem to forget we are all of one Kingdom and are always seeking advantage over one another."
It was impolitic of him to speak ill of his own nation, but he had never been very good at editing his opinions.
"Wynn... I know you have been adopted by a powerful man, but I remain largely ignorant of how to describe your position in ways a Bryddian would understand. You will meet my parents, most likely, on the passage out of here. You will be meeting nobles at ports along the way. You will be announced at court. There are people whose whole job it will be to announce you properly.
What should be said of your Gaelic social and military rank? What does it mean to be adopted by Lord Breccan? What does it mean to serve in your cohort of Dragonriders? To work in your prestigious unit?
Do your people even have such things as Knights and Nobility? I must find ways to translate your world in terms my world will understand."
@[Stormwolfe]
The serving girl, who was as blonde-haired and blue-eyed as everybody else in this vast mansion-cum-castle, it seemed, and who led Sir Aldebrand and his wife through the corridors, looked a little afraid of either one or both of them: or maybe it was the ungodly combination of the two that gave the girl the collywobbles. But eventually the wench, whose name was Angharad, had to ask a question, and so braved to open her mouth. She spoke in the same barbaric, fennic version of Gaelic as did Wynn.
"Wyt ti'n dau yn cysgu yn yr un gwely?"
Wynn looked a little discomfited, but managed a dignified "Wrth gwrs. Rydyn ni'n briod." back, before turning and explaining to Aldebrand "She wants to know if we will be sleeping together. I told her 'of course!', as we are man and wife." she said.
The girl raised her eyebrows. To be fair, she needed to know this, to know where to properly lodge them. Feeling that she had survived asking one question, she evidentially felt emboldened enough to ask another. This time she addressed it directly to Aldebrand, even though it must have been clear that he did not fully comprehend her foreign tongue.
"A yw'n wir fod gan bendefigion dynol wraig-yn-aros i'w mynychu pa le bynnag y maent yn mynd?"
"Nac ydw!" answered Wynn for him.
The maid looked sullen.
"The silly little beggar is trying to get to come to Brydd with us." Wynn sniffed. What the girl had actually asked the human lord is whether it was true that Human Noblewomen (by which she meant Bryddian noblewomen) always had a lady-in-waiting in attendance when they traipsed about.
Notwithstanding Wynn's short dismissal of the question, the girl flashed Aldebrand a smile, while Wynn glowered.
Irongron, who had lost both casque and shield in the rough and tumble of the melee, and who, bareheaded, was at least recognisable to the men he was trying to rally, was just starting to wonder where Alcide had got to, and where was he with the White Falcon re-enforcements, when he heard a nearby throating.
He closed the distance to then shout, "YOU! OFFO'S CHURL!"
The doughty Irongron gave a combined grunt of displeasure at the insult, but also delight at being able to settle things man to man with Tancred, whom he had no difficulty recognising. He might have made a dog's breakfast of this battle, but he could gain some form of absolution by at least striking down the author of this disaster. Indeed, seeing Tancred fall might alter the whole course of the fray.
"We have unsettled business, Irongron! Let us finish it!" and with he waved his bloody sword above his head and charged at the man.
Tancred's opponent needed no further bidding: with bearing rein, Irongron made his horse commit a demi-volte and charged pell-mell toward the approaching Tancred: he wasn't the greatest at thinking up insults in the heat of battle, so contented himself with a loud cry of "Irongronnnn!!" as he attacked, his combat notched sword raised and his teeth bared!
"It is inappropriate for you to contradict us by making outbursts in the middle of an operation or negotiation," Zaiden said simply, "Some of what we say to others is true. Some of it is false. Sometimes we will sacrifice someone to achieve the ends of our cause. Sometimes we will elevate them for the same reasons. Whatever machine we use to favor Al-Ador, however we operate that machine, we can not have you throwing your shoes into the gears." It was as far as he dared to go at this time by way of his own rebuke.
"If you have discomfort with this notion, you may return to your home now. You will receive full pay for your assignment, and no one shall ever speak of this further. Go in peace, Devil of the Sands. Live a long and prosperous life."
Akris stared at one half of the pair he was sworn to protect. "You forget. The contract is not with you. I have taken a vow to ensure the safety of you and your sister in this land of alien ways. I cannot take my leave of you any more than you can dismiss me..." Akris then held up a hand before the brother could speak. "...Fear not...I will not shirk my duties over our difference of opinion. I am not here to ensure the success of your plan. My duty is to make sure neither one of you dies. I do not have to endorse this scheme of yours to perform what is required of me."
The assassin regarded the man coolly "Do not underestimate me. You are welcome to misjudge me, but never underestimate me."
The unfortunate lad managed to get the reins of a horse but he would not get far. Some of the light cavalry scouts Tancred always employed were lurking about the outer fringes of the battlefield. Not for them to get involved in the cut and thrust melees of the knights, they would be a poor match for such vaunted warriors. But they were quite good at the art of ambush, hit and run raids, and in this case - picking off stragglers. The luckless peasant was soon speared off the horse, throat slit as he lay sprawled out on the ground, and the ring pocketed by one of Tancred's scouts as loot.
***
Meanwhile Tancred's host was rapidly gaining the upper hand on Offo's now outnumbered chivalry. One by one some of his knights were breaking off the battle and hastening to get away while escape was still possible. Live to fight another day. A sizeable number though were by now surrounded on all sides, trapped their fates were yielding or death.
Tancred had just cleaved another foe out of his saddle when he spotted none other than one of Offo's most well known and thus recognizable even in armor, Lord Irongron. The two men had clashed before without any decisive result. Tancred wanted another try at the man. He closed the distance to then shout, "YOU! OFFO'S CHURL!"
He got the man's attention even thru the swirl and tumult of the ongoing mounted brawl.
"We have unsettled business, Irongron! Let us finish it!" and with he waved his bloody sword above his head and charged at the man.
Breccan indicated his leave for Wynn and Syr Aldebrand to retire with a wave of his hand and a nod, "I will have supper sent to your rooms," he stated.
Once they had withdrawn with a young serving girl to guide them to their quarters, Breccan rose and walked out onto the massive terrace and summoned Rhagarth with a soft mental call. There was a sound like a thunderclap as the great dragon launched herself from some unseen post nearby, circled overhead and then landed gracefully and softly for one so large.
Breccan stepped to her side and lay his hand on the side of her face when she had lowered it so their eyes to meet, ‘We have much work to do in order to settle this affair,’ he conveyed the message in the Ddraig’s mindspeech, a form of telepathic communication that the Drakeri shared with the dragons.
‘There is,’ Rhagarth agreed.
‘First of all,’ Breccan said, turning his eyes to the sky, ‘You must find Gruudux and impress on him the importance of behaving himself. In fact, in many ways, Wynn will be hostage to that good behavior. He cannot fly off in a sulk.’
Rhagarth rumbled her assent and prepared to launch while Breccan turned back inside to take up quill and paper. He would sup alone in this room while he worked to head off more trouble than Claen Gael had seen in nearly one-hundred years.
Aldebrand's eyes widened as events rapidly unfolded.
Although, 'Events Rapidly Unfolded' might be a good descriptor of everything that had transpired lately.
The Lord Breccan adopted Wynn, apparently a long-planned event that was crystallized by emerging factors. A substantial dowry was even promised. Well... treasure was the traditional means by which lack of social station was compensated for. Gold was worth its weight in titles.
Aldebrand had no actual understanding of Lord Breccan's station. Wynn had said that nobility worked differently, here. But he was clearly a man of high standing who interacted with the most notable figures of the realm.
"I imagine it will be necessary to visit on many family events and holidays," Aldebrand agreed, "not least any ceremony to certify the marriage. Though I hope this might not interfere with the Tourney. This particular Tourney is especially notable in Brydd, celebrating the founding of the Kingdom on its 250th anniversary. My absence would possibly be seen as an affront to the King, and there are some family commitments I am expected to satisfy when I arrive there."
The matter of taking a squire still had to be dealt with- his gesture of reconciliation after insulting the Princess.
On the issue of the dragon's safety...
"A political envoy would necessarily enjoy the assured safe passage for themselves, their possessions, and their retinue. Of course, Wynn would need to promise good conduct for the dragon." Aldebrand paused, not sure how much to explain. "In my Kingdom, the nature of dragons is not entirely understood. Some see them as barely tamed beasts. Others as dogs or horses. But in either case, they would expect an envoy to vouch for and be responsible for it. Few would see a dragon as a thinking creature responsible for itself."
Few indeed. Aldebrand himself had only come to that conclusion recently, and had not figured out the full ramifications of it. That a dragon might actually rule its rider was a potential concept he was only beginning to imagine.
"In any event, my Lord, I am deeply honored by these gestures of support. My loyalty with always be to by King, my country, and my family. You are part of that family, now." He bowed low.
Aldebrand had two fathers, now.
"By your leave, we shall retire so that you may attend to the important matters befitting your station, until such a time as your superiors come to a consensus regarding a potential diplomatic mission and we can depart for the Tourney."
"How...dare you..." Akris almost hissed the words. "You would be as bad as those who he is fleeing from?" Akris knew he was treading on a line with his behavior, but if they valued his opinion when it was useful, then they would also accept it when it was inconvenient.
"Magic is taught, or passed along...it is not bred like livestock and treated like stones in a slinger's bag or spent like money in a whorehouse..." Akris' gaze moved between the twins with equal disdain. "If he agrees to help us, then we make an arrangement, and we treat with him for his resource as we would for water." Akris took a breath and stepped back, not quite moving fully from between them and the old man.
"If you disrespect the gift you have, it may abandon you...fickle as any woman, sure as any Karma..."
Zaiden only barely concealed his shock at Akris' remarks. 'How Dare You' were words typically uttered by someone with power, over someone without it. They were a challenge, and a promise of punishment. And they were coming from the person assigned to their protection detail.
Until now, it had seemed to Zaiden that Akris was an underling providing useful advice. But this attitude revealed something different. Akris considered himself an equal, perhaps even a superior, to Zaiden and his sister. He believed that he could have a say in what was done, to whom, and why.
In short, Akris had just become a dire threat at the center of this mission. A threat that Zaiden was not sure how to remove. The Sand Devils had potent abilities. That's why Akris had been chosen. He was capable of killing many men, or getting into any space necessary to complete a mission. The only way to defeat such a foe was to stab him in the back. But how did you stab a devil in the back?
What if you missed?
Worse, Akris was not merely a threat, but an ignorant one. He did not understand how magic worked in these realms. He apparently did not even realize that Zaiden and his sister were part of a breeding program that was already two generations old. Magic, not bred? What sort of propaganda was used by the cult that created these Sand Devil assassins? Did Akris truly believe he could have such power without some trait or taint in his blood?
Zara wisely withdrew with Rustio after making a brief, curt rebuke.
Then Zaiden turned his eyes upon the assassin who could easily kill them all in their sleep. Or perhaps even while they were awake and ready.
"It is inappropriate for you to contradict us by making outbursts in the middle of an operation or negotiation," Zaiden said simply, "Some of what we say to others is true. Some of it is false. Sometimes we will sacrifice someone to achieve the ends of our cause. Sometimes we will elevate them for the same reasons. Whatever machine we use to favor Al-Ador, however we operate that machine, we can not have you throwing your shoes into the gears." It was as far as he dared to go at this time by way of his own rebuke.
"If you have discomfort with this notion, you may return to your home now. You will receive full pay for your assignment, and no one shall ever speak of this further. Go in peace, Devil of the Sands. Live a long and prosperous life."
Zaiden hoped that the assassin would take the opportunity to leave. If the man stayed on, he would be a potential cancer in the body of this mission, waiting to sabotage the health of the operation at any point if the man's strange morality and dangerous ignorance flared up anew.
_________________
"Oh. You have a wonderful technique," Rustio said as he observed the detailed sketches upon the pages of Zara's journal. "Would that I had such talent!"
He peered at each image for a moment before making commentary, "That is a Blackthorn Rose. It grows in the mountains, and can be identified because it always has an odd number of petals. Well, unless something has happened to damage it. But bugs will not eat this flower, and even goats will not touch it. You see, it has a very bitter flavor and will even make you ill if you eat it. Some poor souls have brewed it into a tea, thinking it may have medicinal properties. Three days of agonizing pain and an early grave was their only reward. Of course, the bitterness of such a flower prevents accidental ingestion. You'd have to mix it with sweet wine or some other brew to mistake it..."
And another, "Ah, Brownthistle Bush. The goats love it, and can eat it even despite its many thorns. They have mouths of steel. The bush is very resilient, and re-grows quickly, making it a good source of food for the mounted soldiery's animals in this March..."
And finally, "The Twin Clover, with heart-shaped leaves. There is a legend that if two lovers each eat one of the cloves, their love will be cemented for eternity, and they will have many children. Some say the plant can be brewed into a love potion, but I am no alchemist..."
Irongron was not long in realising his mistake and the trap into which he had fallen, nor was he slow in responding to his mistake.
"Alcide to me! Alcide to me!!" his voice boomed and somehow or other, that doughty warrior managed to cut his way through to his feudal lord, though not without earning a few dents to his casque and kite-shaped shield, nor without adding a few notches to his sword blade, despite it was wrought by Irongron's almost legendary, and recently deceased swordsmith Beaman.
"My Lord! a fell trick of Tancred's is this!" Alcide managed to pant as his warhorse reeled.
"The day is not lost: trick for trick! Hasten thee to the hill and bring forth the White Falcons!" declaimed the harried commander, before turning and beating off an attack by an enemy knight who bore a roiling blue griffon upon his shield.
Alcide, true to his general's word, beat his way back through the mêlée, though the press was fierce, now they had been flanked by Tancred's fresh horsemen, and yet more dents and notches and blood besmirched his panoply. All was confusion around the hill, straggling peasants of the levy running hither and thither, crossbow men and archers, struggling to make out friend or foe within the battling throng of heavily mailed knights, even some loose sergeants a-horse, thrust out of the main battle and scorning to lower themselves to scutching low-born foot-soldiers, looking out for an opening to get back amongst the noble scrum.
So it was that once free of the main battle, he was able to make his way easily to the hill and around it where, a scarce quarter of an hour before, the White Falcon banner had fluttered in the wind above the mercenary troops of Ælfic and Wulf. But now, there was no fluttering banner, there were no troops, no Ælfic and definitely no Wulf!
"Fled! Fled by Ceros, fled!!" growled Alcine. "YOU!!" a dazed looking peasant lad, trailing a flail usually used for threshing corn, looked up, terrified. "Take yonder loose warhorse and hie thee to Great Orm, and make report to the King that Irongron is defeated, stabbed in the back by those very white livered sparrows he sent unto our succour. Go, and take this ring as a vouchsafe of the veracity of your fell news!" With that he pulled off his own signet ring, which bore a rough approximation of his arms, cunningly wrought by the daughter of the blacksmith Beaman, and thrust it into the young man's outstretched, trmbling hand.
"But Zur, Oi dunno ow to ride a horse!" the lad dared to point out.
"Then you'd better learn, before I cleave your turnip HEAD IN TWAIN!!!" bellowed the knight.
The boy ran off after the loose mount, while Alcide, girding his loins and making his peace with Ceros, spurred his own destrier back into the fray.
Homeland and Culture
Emerging from their half-hidden isle home in the Howling Islands and the massive karst formations that guard the islands, the Molg ply the waters in search of very dangerous prey, dragons! They are a fierce primitive tribe whose culture and even religious beliefs are woven into the hunting and killing of these massive and ancient beasts.
The Molg are descendants of Murians, even they do not know how long they have dwelt upon their island home. Some Molg are originally outlanders captured at a young age and raised as part of the tribe, a few are escaped criminals, slaves from other lands adopted into the tribe for particular skills, usually ferocity and fighting abilities.
The Molg are a male dominated society, most women exist to raise the young and tend to crops, stock, any mundane tasks. The men are steeped from youth in the harsh credo of the hunt and the kill - preferably of dragons or at least skrill. But they are raiders too and will seldom pass by targets of opportunity. On occasion they might deal in the slave trade but more along the lines of hostages of value than wholesale captures and sales of expendable folk.
Theirs is not a money economy, they have no coinage, and often understand little if anything about the currencies of the more developed lands of Aereth. They are more likely to barter for items they might need or use that are not easily available for them. To the Molg nothing is more valuable and indeed desired than possession of dragon’s eyes. Obviously they are very very difficult to acquire as killing a dragon is a near impossible feat, yet it can be done. The Molg have done it. These eyes are wanted by users of arcane magic and will become eager customers should the Molg gain a pair…or even one.
Now this obsession with dragons has many drawbacks for the Molg. They have never been a large populous tribe there on their small isle in the middle of nowhere but hunting dragons has been a very serious drain on their population, especially the males. Losses are constant, it is a dangerous lifestyle, and occasionally disastrous even if an entire ship goes down or is consumed along with crew by dragon’s flames. To make up for the lack of numbers, it is common for crews to include boys, old men, and even a few adventurous (and fiercely determined) women. Yet there has never been any thought among the Molg to abandon this lifestyle. A few of the more civilized historians liken it to a death cult. Like the Molg have ever cared what outsiders think of them.
How to Play
The Dragonslayers are controlled by Wayfarer . Please contact via PM or Aereth's Discord (preferred) if you are interested in playing one of these characters. For now, the NPC bios are lists in posts in this thread. The characters will be posted using The Bard (Shared NPC account).