December 26th, 2019 - Vyrna, following the events of this meeting...
The weather was miserable in the old city at any time of year, but twice so in the middle of winter. The Forsaken Sea churned up storm after snowy storm that it spat upon the miserable ramshackle houses clustered around the docks, tearing out shingles and wall boards and letting in the deadly chill; and the harbor itself, always mired with eddies of slush and broken ice, completely froze over to the point that the headless undead giants who pulled boats to and from shore could not break through.
Wind whistled through the back streets near the busiest ice fishing spot and the Volokhov-owned canneries, sending a wall of white over the alleyways and the hidden entrance to the workers' most popular pub, the Lucky Pup. The sign rattled loudly, almost as loud as the din inside, swinging the image of a happy seal pup out on the ice, with a great bear and two hunters tearing each other apart not far behind him.
It was the perfect cover for someone approaching unseen and unheard.
Roka had been unseen so far in the trip through the miserable city, at least until he emerged from the dark street under the rattling sign and entered the workers' pub. There he paused for a moment, tramping his rough boots to dislodge the muck of slush and soot from the soles before stepping in and pushing back his ragged wool hat and the grimy hood of his cloak. After his dark eyes peered at the workers crowded inside, he took a moment to let his ears adjust from the scream of the wind to the din of the rabble inside. Then he was on his way over to the bar, resting a lightly curled hand on the counter. When he spotted the pub's barkeeper he called for bread, raising his voice to pitch over the general racket.
The rest of him looked in as shabby a state as his attire, eyes staring balefully from a face streaked with soot and overgrown with unkempt whiskers.
The barkeep leered at him for three silent seconds, lip curling, then said to him in a disdainful voice, "Are you affected in the head? We have no bread. No one has bread. We have lichay," and she swept a grimy hand towards the bubbling kettles of lichen tea behind her, "and we have kasha... but we don't have any milk or honey, so forget even asking for it," she grunted as she set a bowl of plain buckwheat porridge down in front of a man who looked very cross as he tried to droop down as low as the dangling earflaps of his hat.
"But I hat kasha," he enunciated emphatically as he nudged the bowl away.
"Tuh. Eat your kasha, Zahari, or you will starve." She watched him reluctantly tuck into his meal with a cracked wooden spoon, then raised a dark eyebrow at Roka expectantly.
Roka scratched at his chin with a raspy sound of beard, listening to the bartender, then watching Zahari's outburst, before looking back to the barkeep. "No one? That seems odd. I saw granaries full over at the Volokhovs. They must have bread every day, and mountains of grain that they aren't even using while others have to starve." He pushed up closer to the counter and studied the crowd with a sweep of gaze while laying out some money to purchase what there was to buy.
The mention of the name drew a lot of glowers and grumbles, though they were guarded. When he turned back to the barkeep, she was pointing a ragged old cavalry saber at him. "You dare to speak against an Old Family?" She lifted her chin. "Say that you piss on their name so I can cut you down here and now, or say nothing at all."
Roka eyed the ragged old saber with a raise of brows, standing up to full height. "Old Families are supposed to be immune to being pissed on?" he asked. "Well, it must be nice to be from an Old Family. But I'm not, so it's my duty to piss on them. If they were worth anything, they'd use their power to keep people from being hungry around here." He waved a hand dismissively at the sword. "So if you want to cut me down for having a sense of civic pride, you better get cutting."
The barkeep looked around the room. No one was rushing Roka with a sword or a barbed whip or manacles. They were safe. A few patrons raised cups in his direction, and the barkeep stowed the saber behind the bar and poured him a reeking double measure of vodka in a clay cup. "Have that, and forget about the granaries. Desperate people always try to get in before they starve, and this winter has been full of dead, desperate people. The giants always find them before they get far. Such a fate," she shook her head ruefully.
Roka looked on, expression somewhere between pensive and bemused as the barkeep watched the others in the room for their reaction. One hand lifted from the counter to take the clay cup, lifting it in a salute to all the others around him at the bar. He wasted no time drinking down the reeking vodka, then sighed as if weary. "That is a tragedy..." he agreed. "Killed by the giants. Did they not know the method of becoming invisible to them? I must guess they did not, or at least some of their raids would have been successful..."
"What method? We are no magicians, else we would be snatched up by the Old Families for breeding or sacrifice. The giants lack heads, eyes, breath, and yet they live and move and see." She shook her head again as she scoured stains out of the worst of her cups with a damp rag.
Roka took a breath after putting the cup down and shook his head. "I am not a magician. But I remember what the old people said about the giants. They were once alive of course. They were hag spawn. They hunted the White Forest for chimney smoke and sucked in the heat. If the fire went out, they reached inside and took the family, sucked out their breath and froze their hearts. Now their heads are gone but they can still find mortals' breath. If you hide your breath from them, they can't see you."
Roka seemed to be becoming absorbed in his own storytelling, leaning on the counter and casting a lazy look over the crowd. "Unless they have a handler with them, of course. A necromancer. But then their raid might still have been successful, because they'd know you can spot the necromancer since he always has a mark in his right eye. Kill him first, and with your breath masked from the giant, it's no threat at all."
The barkeep watched him for another long moment, while others around them murmured to each other, sharing what shreds they could recall of their grandparents' stories about the giants.
Finally, she spoke up, giving Roka an intrigued smile as she spoke aside to one of her regulars. "Zahari. Take two of the bladder masks and take this man to the granaries, and if he turns out to be crazy?" Her smile turned wicked. "Make sure that you outrun him."
* * * * *
Around midnight, one of the noble families' granaries was successfully raided for the first time in forty years, resulting in the loss of four heavy sacks that would keep the Lucky Pup's larder stocked for the rest of the winter. A necromancer had been spotted but he had been let to pass on with his charge, lest the thieves tip their hand; and they did not raid the granaries again.
For now.
Examining Options
Moderators: Mallory, Eri Maeda, Patrick
Re: Examining Options
January 16th, 2020 - Vyrna.
The Volokhov Manor in Vyrna was a sprawling, once majestic old place that had gone to seed over the last century. The high wrought iron fence that surrounded the grounds was rusted, bent, and broken in places; loose shingles exposed small holes in the vast, cathedral-like rooftop; and the once famous hedge gardens were reduced to crooked old trees, gnarled roots, and withered stumps. The coachmen’s livery was slightly faded and frayed, and there was a pinched look about the house servants helping the various Volokhov cousins in their fine furs going to and from the heavy front doors carved from greenish black mineral glass.
The eastern wing was in the worst shape, where signs of an old fire charred the exterior stonework and parts of the roof, and the stained glass windows were largely broken, with aging iron bars were roughly fitted across them. Wind blew a dusting of snow into what had once been a grand old ballroom, where Lord Arius had held court with pale-throated beauties from all across the city...
But that had been a long time ago, and now that the old man had crawled out of his vault beneath the manor, he held court in the streets of RhyDin, encroaching over territory once held by a wily old mountain demon...
The old mountain demon was now encroaching on the road leading to the decrepit manor, dressed as a passing worker in his heavy cloak and thick wool hat. He hunched over as he walked past, glancing idly at the grounds of the once grand structure. As he limped along he leaned on a weathered old stick, pausing often as if to rest a painful leg. In those intervals the end of the stick was moving, though slowly enough that it was not perceptible from a distance, tracing the shape of magic sigils on the ground.
The faint markings left behind were soon covered by the newly falling snow that was already beginning to drift in from the bay. Roka grumbled under his breath, making soft the incantations of the spells to control the undead.
The timing was perfect. It was not until Roka had finished his last scratchings and mutterings that a pair of guards in black armor with long barbed spears walked by. They sneered at him as they passed him, and one tipped the shaft of his spear to catch his walking stick and trip him up. “I would not dither, old fool. The ghouls will have you for a snack,” he spat, and his companion barked out a cruel laugh as they continued their route back through the manor gates.
Roka made a great show of bowing and hurrying along from the guards, limbs flapping comically as he vacated the vicinity of their patrol route. Once they were safely out of sight he grinned at their retreating forms and moved off the road to a spot out of the way beyond the last of the fences. The increasing snow fall and dismal fog made it all the easier to become invisible there at the roadside, where he watched and waited.
Half an hour passed with several carriages rattling past and a steady stream of pedestrians shuffling as quickly as they could on the far side of the street from the manor; most stuck to the side streets, passing one block over, keeping more distance on their way to and from the harbor.
The pace of those on the street with him noticeably quickened as the sound of iron scraping on stone came from around the corner. A hulking, ogre-sized ghoul with pale blue flesh made its way down the lane, dragging one bulging arm tipped with jagged metal claws and a maul-head driven through the wrist. Its other arm clawed ineffectually at the air, trying to pull itself along faster as its single eye, a blood red gem inscribed with an elaborate sigil, swayed side to side to take in the street and its denizens. It lurched towards a man simply trying to pass a little too close by the manor with a basket of frost-bitten fish, who promptly dropped it and dashed away in terror. Then the creature turned away from him and came up to the corner, rounding it...
...and stopping short as something went off silently, kicking up a puff of snow from the street around it. The ghoul swayed slightly on its feet but was otherwise still, awaiting instruction.
Roka became visible again, first outlined by falling snow, then passing into plain sight as he witnessed the ghoul come to a halt. He stared at the swaying giant with intent concentration, then lifted one gloved hand from his walking stick to point in the direction that the beast had come from, sending it on its mission to barrel towards the next nearest noble estate.
It had its mission now, and would carry it out until it succeeded, died trying, or Roka commanded it otherwise. It let out a bellowing roar and began to push off with its heavy arms, taking uneven bounds that bowled over pedestrians, knocked into the side of a carriage, spooked several horses, and thudded heavily into walls and fences. There was an immediate panic, and a fisherwoman on a corner not that far from Roka cried out, “The guardian, it’s attacking! It came from the Volokhov Manor!”
Almost at once she joined the crowd fleeing, moving away from both Roka and the beast as it began tearing into the guards trying to hack it to bits as it threw itself at the gates of another estate.
Roka kept his concentration sharp, though his head tilted at the sound of the panicked fisherwoman's shouted declaration. A smile now showed from under the old mountain demon’s hood as he directed the rampaging guardian to pause in its assault on the gate to inflict the most ruinous damage it could on the guards attacking it.
There was a sharp increase in screams of terror as the ghoul focused on mortal flesh, tearing two guards completely apart and showering the street in steaming viscera.
A gunshot staggered it, followed by two clean slices from an elegant saber, as a noble knight tried to hamstring it. The follow-through thrust stopped halfway into its torso as it loomed over the wide-eyed knight, pinning him with one long arm... then brought its gaping maw down over his head. The body twitched violently as the ghoul bit through the neck, continuing to feast as it was shot and stabbed again and again...
Roka was standing up straight as he watched the great battle with the guards, eyes widening a bit. So characteristically serene in lecturing, he now looked more youthful than ever in his enthusiasm at the unfolding show. “Wow,” he said with a grin, happily watching the ghoul fight to the end of its ability. He wasn't about to waste any of the creature’s strength, keeping it at its task of wiping out as many guards as possible before it fell apart. Only once it was finally defeated did he turn and continue along toward the harbor, away from the chaotic aftermath.
On the way, he looked to be sure that the panicked fisherwoman hadn't lost her basket or any of the frostbitten fish. He soon found a small basket at the side of the road further away from the carnage, seemingly discarded, having only a few small, ugly fish in the bottom — and directly underneath, slimy newspapers with charcoal scribblings in the margins.
Roka seemed to be on a mission of his own now, free of the main confusion of guards to bend and pick up the item. He tucked it under the arm holding his stick, and leafed through the newspapers. The scrawled, coded messages from his comrades were gazed at with interest as he walked along toward the pub...
The Volokhov Manor in Vyrna was a sprawling, once majestic old place that had gone to seed over the last century. The high wrought iron fence that surrounded the grounds was rusted, bent, and broken in places; loose shingles exposed small holes in the vast, cathedral-like rooftop; and the once famous hedge gardens were reduced to crooked old trees, gnarled roots, and withered stumps. The coachmen’s livery was slightly faded and frayed, and there was a pinched look about the house servants helping the various Volokhov cousins in their fine furs going to and from the heavy front doors carved from greenish black mineral glass.
The eastern wing was in the worst shape, where signs of an old fire charred the exterior stonework and parts of the roof, and the stained glass windows were largely broken, with aging iron bars were roughly fitted across them. Wind blew a dusting of snow into what had once been a grand old ballroom, where Lord Arius had held court with pale-throated beauties from all across the city...
But that had been a long time ago, and now that the old man had crawled out of his vault beneath the manor, he held court in the streets of RhyDin, encroaching over territory once held by a wily old mountain demon...
The old mountain demon was now encroaching on the road leading to the decrepit manor, dressed as a passing worker in his heavy cloak and thick wool hat. He hunched over as he walked past, glancing idly at the grounds of the once grand structure. As he limped along he leaned on a weathered old stick, pausing often as if to rest a painful leg. In those intervals the end of the stick was moving, though slowly enough that it was not perceptible from a distance, tracing the shape of magic sigils on the ground.
The faint markings left behind were soon covered by the newly falling snow that was already beginning to drift in from the bay. Roka grumbled under his breath, making soft the incantations of the spells to control the undead.
The timing was perfect. It was not until Roka had finished his last scratchings and mutterings that a pair of guards in black armor with long barbed spears walked by. They sneered at him as they passed him, and one tipped the shaft of his spear to catch his walking stick and trip him up. “I would not dither, old fool. The ghouls will have you for a snack,” he spat, and his companion barked out a cruel laugh as they continued their route back through the manor gates.
Roka made a great show of bowing and hurrying along from the guards, limbs flapping comically as he vacated the vicinity of their patrol route. Once they were safely out of sight he grinned at their retreating forms and moved off the road to a spot out of the way beyond the last of the fences. The increasing snow fall and dismal fog made it all the easier to become invisible there at the roadside, where he watched and waited.
Half an hour passed with several carriages rattling past and a steady stream of pedestrians shuffling as quickly as they could on the far side of the street from the manor; most stuck to the side streets, passing one block over, keeping more distance on their way to and from the harbor.
The pace of those on the street with him noticeably quickened as the sound of iron scraping on stone came from around the corner. A hulking, ogre-sized ghoul with pale blue flesh made its way down the lane, dragging one bulging arm tipped with jagged metal claws and a maul-head driven through the wrist. Its other arm clawed ineffectually at the air, trying to pull itself along faster as its single eye, a blood red gem inscribed with an elaborate sigil, swayed side to side to take in the street and its denizens. It lurched towards a man simply trying to pass a little too close by the manor with a basket of frost-bitten fish, who promptly dropped it and dashed away in terror. Then the creature turned away from him and came up to the corner, rounding it...
...and stopping short as something went off silently, kicking up a puff of snow from the street around it. The ghoul swayed slightly on its feet but was otherwise still, awaiting instruction.
Roka became visible again, first outlined by falling snow, then passing into plain sight as he witnessed the ghoul come to a halt. He stared at the swaying giant with intent concentration, then lifted one gloved hand from his walking stick to point in the direction that the beast had come from, sending it on its mission to barrel towards the next nearest noble estate.
It had its mission now, and would carry it out until it succeeded, died trying, or Roka commanded it otherwise. It let out a bellowing roar and began to push off with its heavy arms, taking uneven bounds that bowled over pedestrians, knocked into the side of a carriage, spooked several horses, and thudded heavily into walls and fences. There was an immediate panic, and a fisherwoman on a corner not that far from Roka cried out, “The guardian, it’s attacking! It came from the Volokhov Manor!”
Almost at once she joined the crowd fleeing, moving away from both Roka and the beast as it began tearing into the guards trying to hack it to bits as it threw itself at the gates of another estate.
Roka kept his concentration sharp, though his head tilted at the sound of the panicked fisherwoman's shouted declaration. A smile now showed from under the old mountain demon’s hood as he directed the rampaging guardian to pause in its assault on the gate to inflict the most ruinous damage it could on the guards attacking it.
There was a sharp increase in screams of terror as the ghoul focused on mortal flesh, tearing two guards completely apart and showering the street in steaming viscera.
A gunshot staggered it, followed by two clean slices from an elegant saber, as a noble knight tried to hamstring it. The follow-through thrust stopped halfway into its torso as it loomed over the wide-eyed knight, pinning him with one long arm... then brought its gaping maw down over his head. The body twitched violently as the ghoul bit through the neck, continuing to feast as it was shot and stabbed again and again...
Roka was standing up straight as he watched the great battle with the guards, eyes widening a bit. So characteristically serene in lecturing, he now looked more youthful than ever in his enthusiasm at the unfolding show. “Wow,” he said with a grin, happily watching the ghoul fight to the end of its ability. He wasn't about to waste any of the creature’s strength, keeping it at its task of wiping out as many guards as possible before it fell apart. Only once it was finally defeated did he turn and continue along toward the harbor, away from the chaotic aftermath.
On the way, he looked to be sure that the panicked fisherwoman hadn't lost her basket or any of the frostbitten fish. He soon found a small basket at the side of the road further away from the carnage, seemingly discarded, having only a few small, ugly fish in the bottom — and directly underneath, slimy newspapers with charcoal scribblings in the margins.
Roka seemed to be on a mission of his own now, free of the main confusion of guards to bend and pick up the item. He tucked it under the arm holding his stick, and leafed through the newspapers. The scrawled, coded messages from his comrades were gazed at with interest as he walked along toward the pub...
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