Post by Steeleye on Aug 19, 2010 22:58:45 GMT -5
Blinding rain fell in sheets across the windswept lanes of Espar, late one Elesias night. Old Gunnarr of the Espar Guard paced back and forth in the mud, pulling his cloak tightly about him. He knew it would do little good as the cloth was soaked through. The motion was instinctive and the old soldier was simply too weary to bother resisting the habit.
"Perhaps two hours of darkwatch remain" he muttered to the uncaring deluge falling around him. He wondered who might notice if he spent most of that time sheltered under the roof of the stable behind the manor. He could return to his post ahead of the changing of the guard at dawn easily enough. Who would take notice during this storm?
He would notice. Somehow. Gunnarr glanced up to the stone manor house. The windows were dark and still as the rain struck the glass relentlessly. That bastard notices everything.
Gunnarr glanced to the south, towards the Sentinel Rock. He knew that magicked sword would be floating about blithely oblivious to the misery of the summer storm. Helm sees all don't he? Let him keep the damned darkwatch.
Then Gunnarr saw something. His wizened brow furrowed beneath his wet, soggy cowl. There it was once again -- movement. A grey blot, masked by the rain. Moving along the lane from the shrine. Moving north, toward the manor house.
Rousing clarity within himself, Gunnarr moved to stand in the center of the lane and squarely faced the south. The drone of the steady rainfall threatened to lull his mind back into numb self-pity. In response, the old guardsman stomped his feet in the mud, rallying his awareness. A moment later, the drone of the rain began to slowly give way to the ring of heavy mail in motion.
Even in the dark storm, as the armored figure drew near, Gunnarr could see that the metal was brightly polished. A tabard and cloak of grey whipped heedlessly about the figure - a man by the shape. The guardsman squinted, searching for evidence of any weapon in hand. None could be seen. Then the figure came to halt a half dozen paces away.
"Ho, Guardsman."
"Hail yerself. What business have ye this hour in this storm? If ye haven't noticed the shops are closed. I don't think e'en The Eye'll have a door open for ye."
"I have been in prayer at the shrine."
"Are ye daft? In the storm?"
"It was not raining when my prayer began."
"Ye should have cut 'em short maybe. I'd say ye prayed too long. The town's shut tight and I'll not be rousing anyone ta take ye in."
"I have not come to ask for shelter."
"What then?" Gunnarr squinted, growing more irratable. Wasn't the darkwatch over yet? Damn it all.
"I have correspondence for Lord Hezom."
"Tha howling wind's driven ye mad if ye think I'm going ta wake him fer ye."
The armored man nodded, his cowl whipping around his bearded face. "I do not ask for audience, guardsman. Would you please have this delivered to good Lord Hezom in the morn upon his rousing?" A guantlet moved forward, out from the shelter of a tattered, windswept cloak. The mailed fingers clutched a bundle of oiled lambskin.
"What is it worth ta ye?"
"Of course, I have a few gold pieces." Another gauntleted hand fumbled with a pouch.
Gunnarr grunted and held out his hand, sheathed in a soaked leather glove. He felt the coins fall into his palm. He could not see them but the weight felt right. "A'right."
Once again the wrap of lambskin was offered and Gunnarr accepted it, tucking it away into the soggy pit of his arm.
"Who is this from, anyhow?"
"Please tell his Lordship that Lucian Sarakar, servant of Lord Helm, offers his regards and service. "
"Lucius?"
"Lucian."
"A'right."
"May Lord Helm favor your watch."
Gunnarr glanced up into the driving rain. Favor? Helm's Shiny arse.
"Perhaps two hours of darkwatch remain" he muttered to the uncaring deluge falling around him. He wondered who might notice if he spent most of that time sheltered under the roof of the stable behind the manor. He could return to his post ahead of the changing of the guard at dawn easily enough. Who would take notice during this storm?
He would notice. Somehow. Gunnarr glanced up to the stone manor house. The windows were dark and still as the rain struck the glass relentlessly. That bastard notices everything.
Gunnarr glanced to the south, towards the Sentinel Rock. He knew that magicked sword would be floating about blithely oblivious to the misery of the summer storm. Helm sees all don't he? Let him keep the damned darkwatch.
Then Gunnarr saw something. His wizened brow furrowed beneath his wet, soggy cowl. There it was once again -- movement. A grey blot, masked by the rain. Moving along the lane from the shrine. Moving north, toward the manor house.
Rousing clarity within himself, Gunnarr moved to stand in the center of the lane and squarely faced the south. The drone of the steady rainfall threatened to lull his mind back into numb self-pity. In response, the old guardsman stomped his feet in the mud, rallying his awareness. A moment later, the drone of the rain began to slowly give way to the ring of heavy mail in motion.
Even in the dark storm, as the armored figure drew near, Gunnarr could see that the metal was brightly polished. A tabard and cloak of grey whipped heedlessly about the figure - a man by the shape. The guardsman squinted, searching for evidence of any weapon in hand. None could be seen. Then the figure came to halt a half dozen paces away.
"Ho, Guardsman."
"Hail yerself. What business have ye this hour in this storm? If ye haven't noticed the shops are closed. I don't think e'en The Eye'll have a door open for ye."
"I have been in prayer at the shrine."
"Are ye daft? In the storm?"
"It was not raining when my prayer began."
"Ye should have cut 'em short maybe. I'd say ye prayed too long. The town's shut tight and I'll not be rousing anyone ta take ye in."
"I have not come to ask for shelter."
"What then?" Gunnarr squinted, growing more irratable. Wasn't the darkwatch over yet? Damn it all.
"I have correspondence for Lord Hezom."
"Tha howling wind's driven ye mad if ye think I'm going ta wake him fer ye."
The armored man nodded, his cowl whipping around his bearded face. "I do not ask for audience, guardsman. Would you please have this delivered to good Lord Hezom in the morn upon his rousing?" A guantlet moved forward, out from the shelter of a tattered, windswept cloak. The mailed fingers clutched a bundle of oiled lambskin.
"What is it worth ta ye?"
"Of course, I have a few gold pieces." Another gauntleted hand fumbled with a pouch.
Gunnarr grunted and held out his hand, sheathed in a soaked leather glove. He felt the coins fall into his palm. He could not see them but the weight felt right. "A'right."
Once again the wrap of lambskin was offered and Gunnarr accepted it, tucking it away into the soggy pit of his arm.
"Who is this from, anyhow?"
"Please tell his Lordship that Lucian Sarakar, servant of Lord Helm, offers his regards and service. "
"Lucius?"
"Lucian."
"A'right."
"May Lord Helm favor your watch."
Gunnarr glanced up into the driving rain. Favor? Helm's Shiny arse.