Difference between revisions of "RP:Stolen Goods"
(Created page with " == Characters == *Hadrian<br> *Akadius<br><br> == Stolen Goods == <br><br> Akadius's piercing blue eyes shifted, gazing upon the patrons within the room. A light sigh exite...")
Revision as of 07:45, 11 May 2012
Akadius's piercing blue eyes shifted, gazing upon the patrons within the room. A light sigh exited his lips, while he moved, altering his weight within the chair. It groaned in agony, from the stress of weight, and skidded back a foot, while he still sat within it. Calmly, both of his feet were raised and placed upon the table before him. A 'clank' rang out as metal met wood. Akadius had decided to become more comfortable while waiting for this man. This, Hadrian, as he called himself. A mythril shield laid upon the table near him, a grim scene displayed upon it. A mountain of bodies, while one man stood upon it. Mortality, it was called or rather, a piece of the set called such. A spear laid next to the shield, common in all aspects, but brutally efficient within his hands. In this position is how he would stay, relaxed, and waiting for his next job, patiently.
Hadrian steps into the tavern from the northern entrance, if only to be immediately bombarded by the pungent, putrid stench of the Grog Shop—like an ever-present ominous being looming up around the infrastructure with intent only to poison the lungs and minds of its visitors; Hadrian loved it. His careful, monotonous, march is kept in cadence to the clink-clinking of grisly metal armaments; a clear cut designation of class and skill. “Grargh!” He lifts his arms up out to each side, as if an expectant child to mother, waiting for a hug to be reciprocated. Grargh just stares at him. “Alright then, I’ll pick up my tab this time!” Hadrian laughs at him, as Grargh goes about pouring him a shot of whiskey. Hadrian only took shots. “How’s business been, brother?” He asks in that deep, grating voice of his; with an unremarkable accent in this area, but quite a distinguishable one from any other land. Grargh slides him the drink and goes on ignoring him. Typical. “Ah, you don’t have to be like that, brother.” He grins and snatches up the shot, if only to pound it back. The empty glass is placed back to the counter, and Grargh, knowingly, goes about refilling it. “So, we’ve got grouping here then.” His ubiquitous gaze searches the crowd with an intimate knowledge of just about every individual therein. “Akadius, then?” His eyes settle upon the man dressed for a lovely breakfast after a slaughter.
Akadius had grown accustom to the stench within this tavern. The smell of piss, alcohol and blood, was nothing new to him. In fact most men who met their death upon the tip of his spear, smelled the same. Full bellies of ale often lead to headaches and poor decisions the morning of battle. Not many men could understand that. A twitch of his head a few cracks were heard moving down his neck. The release in pressure felt good. "I am." He spoke in reply. Hands quickly moved to the table, to brace the weight of his standing. "And you, must be Hadrian." A foot was placed in front of the other as he marched towards the bar, to join him in conversation. "The Murum Mors, seeks out employment. 15 men with spears, shields and glory for dreams await for naught but a payment." His voice rang out, carrying a dialect of the pits. The pits of the arena. "We care little of what the job is. As long as the payment is good, glory will be yours." He added before coming to a halt next the Hadrian. He had no idea what the man would seek the Murum Mors for, but it didn't matter.
Hadrian nods his head in knowing acknowledgement, a droll smile ghosting across his features, “I know of the Murum Mors. Your reputation precedes you, brother.” The second shot of whiskey is thrown back, and then the glass is turned upside down, and placed back to the roughly-hewn bartop. Grargh laughed at that—it was unusual for Hadrian to drink so little when he came to the bar. “There is no glory to be had in this, however. Stealing from another, with naught but the simple desire to fill the coffers of another city, and line the pockets of the brave is never a glorious act, brother.” His grim description of the task ahead is to blatantly put aside any dreams of heroic deeds and ripe damsels, nothing more. “At any rate, the Murum Mors is a necessity…” He trails off as a group of orc and men come laughing obnoxiously into the bar, patting each other on the back and talking about some Priest. Hadrian grunts in irritation. “There was more than one, lads!” He calls out to them, in humorous desperation to maintain what little honor he had. “As you can see,” His green eyes now back to Akadius, “My little group is without much in the means of strategy. The Murum Mors is particularly adept at guerilla warfare, so I’ve heard.” He leaves out that he had fought against them as a mercenary in the Archmosian wars. Firsthand knowledge is not without its benefits. “Gold for you and yours is to be had, brother. Interested in hearing more?”
Akadius listens carefully to the words Hadrian uses, for every would be held accountable for their speech here. He too, knew about Hadrian, a champion of the same era. Long has he wanted a match upon the sands with this man. However, glory must come first. His eyes shifted over to the men who entered the room, examining them momentarily. "Even slaughter of a city has glory to be earned, brother. You may not see it as such, but anything that screams Murum Mors was here, adds to what we seek." His voice still carrying that gruff pit dialect. Battle was his form of glory, any and all battle. Blue eyes once again turned towards Hadrian with a serious look upon his face. "I am interested in hearing more." His head turned to a man sitting patiently in the corner, dressed much the same. "Constantine, send word to the others, I'll meet them this eve." At that the man left, giving only a nod. "So business. What is it you seek from us?"
Hadrian studies Akadius’ eyes for a few moments, as if consciously playing a game of mental math; determining the trustfulness, skill, and intelligence of him. Before the idle thoughts could drag silence into awkwardness, he speaks, not a thought given to the man, Constantine, who briskly left, “My target is Cenril. With the civil unrest there, due to the gangs and the churches outspoken hatred of them, the place is prime for picking clean.” A glance is stolen at the Shield of Mortality, a momentary reflective thought of his Helmet pricking at his mind. That damned Priest. “Cenril is the Merchant Capital in all of Lithrydel, with the unrest it sees, we would be fool not to take action. My plan is to make blockades on the outskirts of the city, and stop passing caravans. The recovered loot will be divvied out in a percentage with the bulk going towards Gualon.” Now he reaches behind himself, withdrawing a dagger that was tucked behind his belt. He brings it slowly around to the front, then slams it deep into the bartop. “I retrieved this from the church there, and I can tell you, there is much more to be had.” The dagger gleams enchantingly, encrusted from pommel to hilt in various sized and colored gems, “You may have it.” He waves off-handedly to the dagger.
Akadius carries no disloyalty or tricks of any sort within his mind. Once a contract is struck, nothing will stop him from completing it. That was, what the Murum Mors were known for. Feared by all, outlived by none and there was nothing he wouldn't do to prove it. A serious look crossed his face as Cenril was mentioned. He too knew there was much for the taking within the city itself. A blockade, however, would make things easier. Blue eyes moved towards the dagger as it 'thocked' into the wooden bar, studying it briefly. Awkward silence surely set it before any form of reply was given. He had to contemplate the task at hand and the rewards of such a mission. Quickly the dagger was grabbed and flicked over the palm of his hand. The red liquid of life quickly breathed fresh air. The cut palm was quickly covered by fingers; a clenched fist. "This I swear to you Hadrian. The Murum Mors will wave their banner of war for this mission alone. It will be completed or we will fight to our last breath to finish it. Cenril will whisper words of Hadrian, words of the Murum Mors. They will fear the day we marched upon their soil!" He finished. A blood oath had just been made. No job was below this man. The task had been accepted.
Hadrian’s lips draw back into a tight-lipped smile, “Very well, brother. I’ve made plans with my men to meet on the bridge to Cenril, just west of the city tonight.” He rises from his slouched position against the bar, and nods to Grargh, before tossing a few coins onto the counter, “Debt paid, you old bastard.” A chortle escapes his lips and he shakes his head at the stern look the bartender gave him. “Stick with me, brother, and I can promise you Gualon will rise to power once more and then we will put to the test your motto.” He steps away from the bar and his men, whom had been mingling within the bar, but maintaining sobriety, knowingly rise and follow him out in suit. Just before Hadrian is free of the stank tavern, he turns his head back, “See you tonight then, brother!” And he crosses the threshold back into the streets of Gualon.
Akadius watches the men leave, before leaving himself. There was much to do. Tonight the Murum Mors march to war! The anticipation of battle, was already exciting him. Footstep after footstep led him back to the table, to grab his shield and spear. Again heel was placed upon the wooden floor as he marched onwards. Onwards towards the Murum Mors. Preparations must begin. Tonight blood will be spilled.
LATER THAT NIGHT…
The wind is strong upon the bridge, whistling and howling as it made its journey through the ravine. Clouds loom up overhead like some foreboding presence, darkening all in the embrace of the night and further aiding any of the unscrupulous type to hunker down well in a keen hiding spot. The crickets sing their song, a lullaby to the world of the day as it were, heralding the coming of ghostly shadows and adding a harrowing ambience to the way in which the trees around are nestled against the road. Hadrian’s men sat quietly therein, hanging back just near the beginning of the bridge coming from Cenril. The leaves waive languidly in the breeze, as if to claim a personification of the living beings hidden within them… Hadrian is growing uncomfortable, the bark of the branches were not forgiving in the slightest. He wondered just how long they would have to wait for a caravan to come unbeknownst across the bridge in the direction of Kelay. He hoped Akadius knew well the plan, as everything rode on the perfect fluid execution of it, which would yield their prize.
Akadius waited just beyond the bridge, in hiding, with the men of the Murum Mors. Fifteen able bodied men trained in spear and shield phalanx fighting. His heartbeat raced as the coming idea of battle and glory swelled within him. The mood was perfect, dark and mysterious only aiding their hiding. The trap was set; all there was to do, was wait it out. A caravan would soon march it's way across this bridge and into the venomous jaws of the Murum Mors. He and his men hid within a small grouping of trees to the west of the bridge, watching everything for any sign of movement. With spear and shield clasped in each hand, he breathed deeply, waiting for his prey to walk helplessly across the bridge. The howling wind, the dark clouds only aided his thoughts for victory this night.
The wind this night is brutal, Vesimiir thinks to himself, as his eyes languidly watch the countryside. “Mister Guickmoor, with the size of tonight’s merchandise, and the sheer risk involved in transporting so much, I will be demanding an increase in pay upon arrival to our destination.” He says nonchalantly, lifting a booted foot up to rest upon the chassis of the wagaon. “Vesimiir, you know as well as I that there isn’t any risk in transporting these goods. The gods watch over me now.” Guickmoor had recently run into some trouble, and found salvation through attending a church seminar—he felt completely revitalized, and his problems were all beginning to ebb away. Vesimiir simply chortles, “I don’t care, I demand a higher pay, or my men and I walk and leave you encumbered with gold, with no guards to hold your hand on the way back.” He finally breaks his gaze from the scenery, to glare at Guickmoor. The Merchant said nothing more on the matter, and turns his head, defeated. This was little different than highway robbery! The slow jostle of the wagon as it rolls across the cobblestone road is soothing, and proves to dull the minds of the Caravan and Co.
Hadrian’s ears perk up, his head to swivel back and forth as he listens to the rustling of wooden wheels roll across cobblestone. He tries to focus his eyes, blindly probing like mad in the dead of night for any sign of a Caravan. The clinking of metal chains and groaning of wood—the trademark of a wagon—continue to ensue, louder and louder as it draws closer. His breathing slows, his pulse keeping cadence, counting the seconds until the Caravan rolls into sight. Men, more than he had expected, slowly step out from the wraithen darkness, brandishing weapons at their hips, and harboring a no-nonsense look about them. This was it. The time had come! Hadrian leans forward on the balls of his feet, mindful so as not to fall out of his perch in the tree, but just enough to garner a better assessment of the guards accompanying the Merchant. He issues a hollow coo—the caw of a Sage Crow—to signal his men that their prize awaited them. Soon enough they would pass the Raiders, and make their way over the bridge to the blockade. The anticipation was like heat in the air, forcing the bite of the cold to ebb away in its wake. Hadrian could see a few of his men from his vantage point, doing likewise the same as him; leaning forward expectantly from their place within the trees. Ten raiders in all, they were good men, despite being a bit inexperienced with a blade. It was all he could come up with from the riff-raff of Gualon’s streets. Soon, however, his Raiding Party would be hardened veterans of the trade!
Akadius eyed the bridge from his hiding place within the darkness of the trees. The Murum Mors never uttering a sound. Their hard trained muscles, flexed in anticipation as well. How long must they wait for glory? How long, he thought. His ears twitched, almost turning in the direction of the coo. That was it. The sign. The caravan approaches! His heart began to pound, practically jumping out of his chest at the excitement of it at. Glory, it seems, was finally arriving. A nod was given to his second in command, Constantine, who turned towards the men and drew his secondary spear. Every many readied himself in an instant. Shield brought forth, spears pointing outwards and in a low crouch. Every shield protected the man from neck to knee. The men all breathe deeply, hastening oxygen to their blood. The substance which brings explosive speed and strength. They were ready. Ready to rain death down upon their enemies. "On my mark" Akadius whispers. His eyes narrowing on the bridge, like tunnel vision.
The caravan lurches as it pulls up onto the cobblestone bridge, jostling about to and fro beneath the weight. The hired guards, a little over half a dozen, are all footmen, carrying a vast assortment of weaponry: from crossbows, to pikes, and swords to battleaxes. Their stern demeanor would provide quite the detriment to any foolish enough to risk a raid on their charge. The leader of the guards, a man by the name of Vesimiir, is riding upon the wagon, his ever-vigilant gaze searching the breadth of bridge in quiet assessment. He idly strokes his favored waraxe; the crescent forming a wicked curve that has tasted man and beast alike--he felt confident that this Caravan would reach its destination safely under his critical eye. “Mister Guickmoor, we will be crossing into the quiet town of Kelay momentarily. It looks as if we will make it there before first light.” He states in a polite fashion, those searching eyes never to meet the gaze of the man he spoke to, instead to continue watching the surroundings. He played the part of a Hawk well.
Hadrian watches as the Wagon lifts up onto the bridge, and then releases the second shrill coo, before descending from his tree as carefully as he could manage. All around the mouth of the bridge, Men and Orc alike drop down from their hiding places, before sprinting across the cobblestone to meet up with Hadrian. Hadrian, the grizzled warrior, lifts his left hand, silently signaling them all to stay within the shadows of the bridges side-wall. A few of the Orcs grunt their understanding, and they all rush over to follow in the wake of the wagon; well sheathed within the inky black confines of their patron shadow. Their leader, Hadrian, slowly draws Widowmaker, the feel of the hilt a welcoming embrace in the palm of his hand. Soon enough, all of the Blackblood Raiding Party draw their various armaments, gritting their teeth with grim determination. And then it happens. Hadrian screams, issuing a fierce battle-cry filled with unbridled rage, and charges from the shadows to the tail of the proceeding Caravan; his Blackbloods quick to follow in tow, all brandishing their choice weapon, and verbal assault. Be it curse words, cries, or hollers, the men descend upon the caravan like wolves to sheep.
Akadius and the Murum Mors stayed hunkered down within the blackness of the trees. The shadows were surely dark enough to hide them all. The air seemed to slow, his heart almost stopping. Everything had become tranquil within these final moments. The quiet before the storm. Then he saw it. The caravan climbing the cobblestone bridge. At last, glory was here! "Murum Mors, you know what to do! Move out!" He whispered. They all moved in unison, fifteen men created a wall of death. A marching phantom in the night. Hadrians war cry was like music to ears, poisoning his mind with blood-lust. "Murum Mors, bring them death!" he screamed. With well honed practice and deadly accuracy, they all launched their spears into the void of night. The distance from them to the caravan was easily crossed with their skill. Some spears were aimed for the horses, others for the people around the beasts of burden. Those night spears, quietly hummed through the air as they sped towards their targets. "On me" he yelled. The men quickly fell back into line. Locking shields as they pressed their way toward the enemies. Hopefully Hadrian could scare them across the bridge where death itself would clash with these freelance bodyguards. All their spears were drawn in unison and pointed towards the caravan. They had them completely surrounded.
Vesimiir stands up abruptly just as he hears the first battle-cry ring out like a shrill banshee’s scream. What was happening? His mind began to race, and peering back over his shoulder, a forlorn hope sunk deep within his chest. This Caravanning business just got all too real for him. “Men drop back to our flanks, see to it those vagabonds don’t get near us, ride the horses hard across the bridge!” He shouts his orders, his face turning red with the effort and fury behind it. How dare these people do this! And then the spears… He watches one man taken down, rightfully so, as the spear impales him square in the throat, the barb to thrust gruesomely out the back of his neck. The stink of blood soon filled his nose. Men all about began screaming in pain, apparently being impaled by the Murum Mors’ spears. “Don’t falter, there will be a bonus for those that survive!” He knew his attempts at rallying the men were futile. One of the two horses lets out a loud neigh, and topples over, if only to snap the chassis and break free from its hold. The Caravan is dragged sideways, snapping the wooden spokes and breaking the wheels right off their axle, forcing the body into a jackknife position. The last horse, terrified for its life, still charges full speed towards the Murum Mors, the wagon dragging behind. Vesimiir shouts out, as he and Guickmoor tumble to the ground and are pinned between the bridges side-wall, and the weight of the wagon dragging against it. “Help!” Guickmoor cries out in mortal anguish, “Please!” The audible snapping of bones ensues, as he his crushed furthermore into the solid stone wall—with any more force, he would be ground into paste. Some of the hired guard break away from the back, and rush the blockade with newfound zeal, intent on crushing their assailants. Vesimiir, pinned only by the leg, finally manages break free, if only to look up into the eyes of his killer from the flat of his back. The cobblestone felt horridly cold on his back.
Hadrian descends upon Vesimiir, the man obviously giving all the orders, with a sickening hack of Widowmaker to his throat. The Blackbloods break into full on warfare with the guards, pushing them ever onwards toward Akadius and his men. Two more are felled by their gruesome weaponry, yet four of the Blackbloods already lie bloodied and lifeless at their flanks. This was proving to be a costly affair.
Akadius grins wickedly as he sees the plan coming to fruition. None will stand before the might of Murum Mors! Akadius throws his last spear upon the fleeing beast, aimed directly at the base of it's throat, where neck meets body. With a thud, the spear easily sinks halfway down the shaft, straight through the fleshy part of the beast. It's body flailed and slammed hard to the ground, sliding across the cobblestone bridge. The Murum Mors act in kind and split as they push forward, allowing the beast to and wagon, to slide past them unharmed. It came to a screaming halt just yards behind them. "Break free!" Akadius shouted! "For glory!" The Murum Mors separated, allowing five feet or so between them all. They moved with steadfast determination. A battle axe came screaming towards the captain Constantine. A half step to the left had his vitals out of harms way. The axe clanked against his shield and slid down to the ground almost shattering upon impact. His spear moved quickly, piercing his enemies chest. Another Mors bent low and embraced for impact. His helpless victim slammed into his shield as he raised it up. Throwing the poor man clean off the bridge. Slaughter, ensued. The last two guards took spears to their backs as they attempted to flee. All that lay before the Murum Mors was death. They had won victory!
Hadrian || It had happened so quickly. These men didn’t have a hope of salvation from the start. The night had sealed their fate, and with the morning, their bodies would be picked clean by the scavengers of Sage. Hadrian breathes heavily, heaving from all the excitement, whilst scanning the bridge to be certain none had escaped. Not a man from the Caravan had lived this night. Good. “Excellent work, brothers.” He hollers out, wiping Widowmaker clean on the collar of Vesimiir. He sheathes his trusty brand, and then begins looting the corpses. “Keep what you find, then throw their arses over!” A coinpurse is retrieved from Vesimiir, along with a gold ring and his prized waraxe. Soon enough, he picks the man up and lobs him over the bridge. Not even a sickening crunch can be heard, as his body hits the ravine floor below. A soldiers march is taken up now, now to the cadence of his throbbing pulse and heaving breaths, “Well done, brother. Seems your lads can hold their own after all.” He grins a boyish grin to Akaduis, his arm reaching out to clasp that of his hired mercenaries.
Akadius followed in kind issuing his own orders. "Toss that damned beast over the side! Empty the wagon and throw it over as well! Move it!" A grin worked it's way across his sweating face as he turned toward Hadrian "Of course we can! Our ability was never in question!" He joked, reaching his arm out to return the clasp. "May you find more use for the Murum Mors." He stated simply. The Mors worked quickly to empty the contents of the wagon, before working as a team and pushing it over the bridge. It careened down to the ravine floor crashing loudly against it. The dead horses were soon to follow. "Well escort you and your men back to the saftey of Gualon. If you have need of us again you know where to find me." He added before turning himself and helping his men clear the bridge.
Hadrian nods his head, thankful to have had the Murum Mors along for the ride today. Without them, this would have surely been a gruesome battle, and Hadrian would be among the dead littering the ravine floor this night. “Men, collect your things, we leave for Gualon.” Orcs and Men alike being hooting and hollering, as they begin grabbing the retrieved cargo, and make way for Gualon. Hadrian stood alone now, atop the Cenril Bridge, his eyes gazing out to the vast nothingness of the night. “This is your creation, gods, this is on you,” He whispers bitterly into the whipping wind, before turning toe and following the men back to Gualon.