RP:The Fate of the Boar King's Men

Part of the Questionable Honor Arc

Background

Thistle goes to Eboric's fortress to complete a deal made with him.

Eboric's Fortress

Eboric can be found strolling through the courtyard, overseeing the preparation of his men. The whole fort swarms with activity, with men hurrying to and fro, carrying arms and armor and general supplies, while the air rings to the sound of blacksmiths' hammers. The bulk of Eboric's men are already in Venturil, but he is here to fetch all but what is needed to defend the fort, to lead them to his conquest.

It was unexpected. Or rather, it had been expected, but seeing it and imagining it were two entirely different things, and Thistle found herself entertaining a level of uneasiness that'd been absent the last few days. For once. But seeing the men, the actual building itself -- but building was too tame a word. It was a fortress in truth, and a well defended one from Thistle's own admittedly inexperienced opinion. It looked intimidating, and it succeeded in instilling that sense of awe and tentative doubt in Thistle. She almost turned away, but, well, if there was one thing you didn't do it was turn your back on a khan. You'd find a weapon there, make no bones about it. Still, there was something to be said for bravado, and she tucked away all the unhappy feelings behind a confidence that didn't quite visibly tremble around the edges. There was a gate. Of course there was a gate. One that included hard men who were decidedly unimpressed by her slight form. They stared down at her, and she stared up at them. Souls smile. For once, smile. "I'm ah, here to see, ah. . ." there were two things that had severely upset Thistle's life in the last two or three -- had it been three? -- days. Too much drink, and Katya. It would have been too much Katya, but there was really only one level of the Rus woman, and that was too much. Given that, and her own nervousness, Thistle quite suddenly found herself lacking a very important memory: Eboric's name. She'd told herself she'd remember it. She'd even practiced it so that the syllables would come out smoothly. Her face went red, she could feel it in the sudden damnable heat. Her palms went prickly, as did the back of her neck, and she knew that sweat would very quickly follow. "Your leader," she finished, and winced. Lame even by her rather low standards.

Eboric 's gate guards glance at one another, then back at the woman, grinning. "Oh, and I suppose we'll just let you walk right in then," one says, in the distinct accent of a Frostmaw man. The other snickers, but perhaps takes pity on Thistle, for he asks, "What's your name then, girl, and what business do you have with the Aethling?"

That could be a problem. Thistle didn't remember what name she'd given Eboric. She winced, again, and tried not to look too nervous as she stared up. She wasn't smiling at all. "I'm the one from the steppes. I made a pact with him to exchange an honor debt for his help. If he doesn't remember me, fine. I'll leave." Which was her only option anyways. Argue with men who could have arrows or bolts in her before she'd a chance to pull her own bow from her scabbard -- and even then, it didn't have the draw strength to do anything more than tickle them. Thistle resisted the urge to take a step back, the prickling sense of half-imagined arrows sweeping down over her body.

The first man looks ready to shoot back another sarcastic response, but the second speaks before he has a chance. "I will go and ask him," he says. "Stay here." With that, he disappears, quickly replaced by another man who, with the first, watch Thistle in silence. It is not long, however, before the kinder thegn reappears, opening the gate to admit the visitor. Just inside stands Eboric himself, and he nods his thanks to the warrior, who salutes and returns to his station. "I had begun to think that you wouldn't come," the werebear says, by way of greeting.

The uncomfortable feeling spread, the sense that there had been a huge mistake and Thistle was in fact about to give herself a gut wound that would fester and eventually lead to her own death. "Things happened," Thistle said, and maybe she would have said more but she was entirely too conscious of the watching eyes. She walked forward, not liking at all the gate that was likely to close behind her. Trapped. That feeling was utterly detested. "But I have come as agreed, and you have my honor for my lateness." Recovering poise was a difficult thing, but once past the gate and standing before Eboric, she gave him a very correct four-second, ninety-degree bow, fists held briefly at head level, palms out. There was a thin, scabbed line running across the base of her left palm, but it disappeared as she straightened and looked at Eboric. Entirely at a loss? Oh yeah.

The gate most certainly does close again, with a heavy bar settled in place as an added measure. Eboric watches, somewhat amused, as Thistle bows, and inclines his head in response to the gesture, before motioning for her to follow as he moves further into the compound. "So tell me," he says as he walks, "how can I help?"

Thistle did follow Eboric, though her attention was challenged by the details of the fortress itself and Eboric himself. She didn't like it. "I need strong arms, and ears. A bolthole." She passed a hand over her eyes, rubbed the palm of it over her mouth. Souls, she was tired. "There's more than I'd like going on, and it's difficult to find out certain things alone. I can only be so many places."

Eboric turns aside to speak to a warrior as he hurries by, and the man nods and, with a salute, turns back and enters the fort's hall. To Thistle, the warlord says, "As well as warriors, I also lead men and women who work in more...subtle ways. I can spare you ten such persons, who can easily hold their own in a fight, but who can also integrate themselves in your...particular sort of world. They will take orders from you, to an extent...they will be under the command of one of my own, and you will keep her fully abreast of your doings, especially as they pertain to my thegns."

A hard look passed over Thistle's face, but it quickly broke down into uncertainty. She listened to him, and took some small amount of time to think over what next she had to say. How to phrase it. When she spoke, she spoke slowly. "I appreciate what you are willing to offer, but I need to know -- I am less than a nobody, here. What I do in the, no, in Cenril itself, isn't guaranteed to give me the best reputation. You're a powerful man, with allies of similarly powerful natures, I'm sure. Why help me? What do you stand to gain? You might lose some of your men, if things go badly. I can't guarantee they won't."

Eboric smiles and shrugs his shoulders. "Cenril is a complicated city, and as you well know, crime-riddled. That said, it has the potential to be a prosperous place, should someone rise above the rest to properly use what is there. What I gain from this is quite simple, really. I place a bet on you and, true, I may lose that bet. But if I win, by which I mean you win, then not only are you indebted to me for the initial offer of help, I should hope that I would have in you, or the person or group that takes control once your business is concluded, an ally with access to the resources of Cenril. It is all the game of politics, Dei, and as little as I like it, it must be played all the same."

Politics, right. Honesty was a dangerous thing when you played such a game, and right then Thistle had to make the judgement call on what honesty might do for her. Eboric wasn't her liege. She'd no need to coddle him. "As you say. I'd like to meet these men and women you'll loan to me."

Eboric nods his head. "But of course. The nature of their skills, however, means that they are seldom to be found here...it wouldn't do if they were connected to me, naturally. I will call them in, and send a letter to the one who will command them...I do not know if she will wish to give her true name or not, but she will come and find you."

Thistle shrugged. "I have no need for true names, so long as they're steady. Ah, but there is one . . . another you should tell them of. Her name is Katya. She is," and here Thistle swallowed, glanced down at her left hand. When she continued, her voice was low, and dry, "My bloodsister. And rude. Very rude. I've been training with her in a compound owned by a man named, ah. . .Gerard. I believe. I'll find a more suitable place; that one is very, hmm, conspicuous. For them to meet me, I mean. I'll be with her on a raid on some bandits, in the next few days. To get me a horse. A better one," that, muttered under her breath, before she continued in a louder voice, "And aside from that, I've some business out on the plains in the next few days. It'd be best to contact me in a week. The best way to find me would be to leave a message for Katya at Gerard's place. I'll make sure they're expecting it."

Eboric smiles, and leads Thistle back toward the gate. "I will pass on that word to her. Have you need for anything else? Gold, weapons?"

Thistle considered her needs, as she observed the strengths of the fortress around her. She wondered if that was the point of their walk; a quiet reminder of what misusing his resources or his trust would gain her. If so, it wasn't a point that she needed. She was well enough aware of the stakes, in all of her uneasy alliances. "Armor. An apothecary, if you have one to spare." She went grim at that. "There are many gangs and other groups in Cenril, and while I've spent some time gathering plants in the plains, time is one resource you can't help me with. I need to be prepared."

Eboric frowns, and shakes his head. "Armor, I can get to you in abundance. I have few healers, however, and even fewer that know their herbs well. I am afraid I cannot help you with that one."

Thistle sighed. "One to act as my second, then. Publicly; I've no wish to steal your men or women in truth. Maintaining an appearance of being more than I am will work the same way, but such a person will need to know how to talk. Eyes, and ears, and strong arms. Armor. I'll render the plants myself." Thistle lifted her head and looked up at Eboric. "One last thing. Your name: what does it mean?"

Eboric nods his head. "I will send you one, then." At her last question, he cocks his head to one side. "My name? Eboric means 'wild boar king,' if I recall correctly. My father had high hopes for me, it seems."

Thistle grinned. "Boar is a good name. A strong name. Strong enough that even the Souls above would take notice, but you haven't collapsed under its weight. Very well, Wild Boar King, I would seal this pact with you. Among my people, such a thing would constitute a blood oath. Among yours?"

Eboric 's lips curl into a slight smile. "A blood oath is known to my people, to be sure, and when my thegns swear to me, they often give their blood. But I think it would be best if the blood, once shed, is only mixed where it falls to the earth; you would not want my blood in your veins, I assure you."

Thistle frowned, and thought of daimons. It would be rude to ask, and Thistle had no desire to offend the leader who stood before her. "I will clasp with you, without blood. To mix blood upon the ground is what enemies do." She offered her right arm, stretched it out towards him. Her expression had sobered, turned serious with an assurity she did not wholly feel.

Eboric reaches out to clasp the offered arm, his own limb easily engulfing the smaller. He applies pressure, though not enough to cause pain, and says, "Then we are agreed."

Thistle returned the pressure, though she knew he would easily crush her hand should he desire it. Irritating. "Agreed." A few seconds more they held, measuring, before the release. She took a step back, and bowed low, one fist clasped within the opposing hand. "I'll take my leave," she said, as she straightened. "I'll expect your men and women after the raid in one week."

Eboric nods his head, and gestures to the guards at the gate, who heave the bar off and away, letting the gate swing open.

Thistle left the confining fortress, and didn't look back despite the itching sensation of almost-pain between her shoulder-blades that was her instincts screaming at her for turning her back upon what she was sure were competent archers. Some things just never changed.