February 15th, 2021.
Ettyn was quiet for much of the ride to Anya's holdings at Skoggard, not from any meaningful preoccupation but the careful study of a tracker in unfamiliar terrain. Jet black eyes scanned the path and the surrounding hills and valleys whenever the sky was open to them, and focused on her hearing and sense of smell whenever woodland closed in around them. If she was to be Master of the Hunt, Usher, or whatever they decided to call it for her friend, then she had to learn what she was protecting.
Boiled leather armor made for an easier and more comfortable ride, with a mail shirt underneath as a concession to the threat of marauders. Her heavy crossbow and her greatsword were sheathed across her back, across each other, with her spiked hatchet and silver short sword at opposite hips.
As far as crass, hung-over monster slayers went, she looked almost presentable. As long as you kept your distance and screwed up your eyes enough.
In contrast to the utilitarian outfit Ettyn had chosen, Anya looked utterly uncomfortable and unhappy in a long riding jacket (hold the frills), breeches and boots. She was approaching what you would expect a woman of stature to wear on the hunt with the decidedly unconventional change of trading pants for skirts and riding astride. At least twice an hour she hook two fingers under the high collar of the jacket and pulled it away from her throat. The Talon of Redwin was belted at her waist; anything longer was likely to just get caught up if she tried to draw it in a hurry.
The closer they got to her home, the less she appeared to be interested in their surroundings. By the time the horses' hooves hit on the packed mud and scatter cobblestones of the small village's main road, she was staring at her own mount's mane and picking at invisible specks of dirt.
It wasn't as cold here as the city, but still chilled enough that no one greeted them. Shutters and doors were tightly closed with thick wood smoke coming from each home. The fields that they had passed on their way in were covered in the same light layer of snow as RhyDin city, broken blackened stalks peeking out in neat rows waiting for spring.
"It's straight through to the house," she informed Ettyn, lifting a hand to point to the impossible to miss manor home at the end of the lane.
Ettyn grunted in reply. Dark eyes had strayed often to her friend and her fidgeting, though less so when they had more eyes on the two of them. She settled one gloved hand on the horn of her saddle so it wouldn't rest on a weapon instead (though a whip was tethered there), an instinctive place for it when surrounded by so many strangers. Even if there were doors and shutters between them, she could feel the eyes.
"Hell of a parade," she observed to Anya as they began to clear the village and drew closer to the manor itself. She was smirking, the expression putting more of a humorous twist in her face scars than her average unhinged grin.
"Well, they probably just don't want to overwhelm you with too warm of a welcome." The wry smile Anya gave her friend conveyed no surprise at the fact that everyone had stayed inside. They didn't see movement until they'd cleared the small stretch of village. The front doors of the manor home creaked open and a bent old man shuffled out on to the doorstep. A tall woman of roughly equal age joined him. Both stood waiting, squinting against the winter light to watch Anya and Ettyn approach.
She named them as they appeared but didn't point. "Osbern, the butler. He thinks he's chief of staff since Odart died. And Angnes, the housekeeper."
More servants began buzzing out of the house. They had known to expect them after Anya had sent for the horses and looked prepared. Two pages ran down the steps to the manor home and stood at the foot of the stairs, waiting to receive the horses. The elder members of the household did not dare the potentially slippery descent.
There was another grunt from the slayer, this one longer and more skeptical then the others. Osbern and Angnes. She had been received at country estates before, and while not typically through this entrance, the pages taking their horses was not a new process for her. She let one of them steady the reins but accepted no help down, landing on the ground with a thud, the muted clatter of her mail and her weapons (strapped tight as they were), and the chiming of her spurs.
"Do I say anything," Ettyn said out of the corner of her mouth, to Anya, as she simply stood and side-eyed the older servants at the top of the stairs. Just waiting and watching for now, ready to follow her friend's lead.
Anya accepted her page's hand down for appearances more than necessity. There was considerably less noise when her feet hit the ground. "About what? Oh. You mean at all. Not yet." It occured to her that Ettyn was likely unaccustomed to not having to explain her presence.
She started up the steps to be met almost immediately by an usher. Another advanced on Ettyn. Anya took the arm offered to her and the help up the stairs. Osbern greeted her at the top, head ducking to meet the minimum requirements of a bow. "Lady." His voice seemed to get stuck in his nose and wheeze out in a whine. "We are honored to have you return to us."
Angnes didn't give Anya time to reply before chiming in. "We have prepared your rooms. If additional will be needed for your guest, I will see to it immediately. We were unaware of the nature of your company."
The entire household was, of course, discreetly eyeing Ettyn. They were hiding their impressions well -- all but Angnes, who stared openly, and Osbern, who probably would have if his head had still been capable of turning.
"Ettyn will be staying in Mariot's rooms." That was it. No introductions or explanations. Anya simply continued on into the house.
Ettyn had not been instructed to take anyone's arm, so she didn't, managing the ice slick steps capably on her own. Child of the Wilds and all. She didn't even need to watch her feet, though, as she showed to Angnes when she turned to meet her gaze. There was no smile... just a hard look, challenging her to speak or strike or both.
She moved again when Anya did, and the look lasted until she was fully through the doors after her.
Skoggard
Moderators: Death Knell, Anya de la Rose
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Death Knell
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 203
- Joined: Tue Oct 06, 2020 10:10 pm
- Location: The Wilds
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Anya de la Rose
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 269
- Joined: Fri Jul 31, 2020 10:42 pm
- Location: Old Temple, Dockside
Re: Skoggard
Anya dropped the usher's arm as soon as she was inside. The main hall was dominated by a staircase that branched in to the two separate wings of the house. The entire building was decorated in raw wood, stone, faded tapestries for warmth and mirrors placed strategically to reflect sun and candlelight. She pointed to rooms as they passed. "Great hall, kitchens are through it, my mother called that the ballroom, no one goes in it, library, guard rooms, there are probably people in there. Your room will be upstairs in the west wing, I'm to the east. There are stairs to the storerooms and armory through the kitchens and through the guard rooms."
She pointed up at the stairs and to the right where Ettyn would be going. "Mariot's rooms were the first on the left." There was, in fact, a steady stream of activity in those rooms. The staff had been somehow activated by Angnes before she seemed to have managed to make it back inside. "Are you hungry?"
"Could eat. How many guards, and what do they have," Ettyn grunted, and bent just long enough to shift her spurs up out of the way, then moved after Anya. The fact that the servants were buzzing about in organized fashion, without verbal instruction from anyone she had observed, gave her a deep and abiding suspicion of everyone in the house, shown in the narrowing of her eyes.
And the follow-up statement, hoarsely whispered: "Could have had their brains eaten by illithid, replaced by devourers. Hive mind. Be careful."
The whisper had Anya furrowing her brow and looking up the stairs again. She whispered back, "I think they just know what they're doing." By now, she had faith that everyone had made it inside. She turned to call over her shoulder. "Send a meal to my solar, please, Osbern."
Then to answer Ettyn, she turned back, eyes ticking to the guard room while she did a mental tally. "Two dozen, never all at once. They have what they prefer. Crossbows, swords, a few like pikes." It was a horribly inadequate tally of one's own employees.
There was a hum that sounded more akin to a growl, a sure sign that the slayer not only disapproved, but was formulating some plan of her own based on her own strong biases. "Armory?" she said. Was the solar upstairs? She seemed completely unsure where to move now, trailing uncertainly after her friend, though her narrowed eyes kept tracking back to the guard rooms, as if fighting off the impulse to go slinking off that way and take a proper inventory of men and arms.
Anya was already on her way upstairs, taking the left fork when they came to it. She seemed to expect Ettyn and follow. Despite all the activity happening, she might as well have been alone. Staff moved around her or waited for her to pass regardless of how much or what they may be carrying. "Through the guard room. Eat first. It hasn't moved for the past 300 years, it likely won't decide to today."
There was, of course, a pair of guards flanking the doors to her rooms. They pulled them open when she drew close enough. She breezed past them and in to the well light main chamber of the rooms. This was her solar. She waited for the doors to close behind them before flopping down on to a ridiculously plush chair and pulling her riding boots off. She dug her toes in to the bearskin under her feet.
Ettyn was definitely sizing up the guards as she passed, assessing the best way to kill them separately, together, and to kill Anya in front of them as a means of judging their capabilities. Then the doors were shut, and Anya seemed to be relaxing...
After a long moment, so did the slayer, by degrees. She removed her most uncomfortable weapon first, the heavy crossbow, and found a place by the doors to set it down, lightly concealed by the furniture. Easy for one of them to grab if someone tried to force their way through. Next came the mighty greatsword, which she leaned up against a chair next to Anya's and started to look around the room, squinting at the furniture and decorations. She stalked up to the windows and peered out at their surroundings, and the woodland not far from them...
Finally she returned to the chair she'd claimed, unhooking her silver sword and her axe and hanging them over the back. She sank into the plush cushion, let out something between a groan and a sigh, and started unbuckling her boots, too.
"Never sat my ass on fancy cushions for too long. Do they make it fatter?" she asked. Her head was leaned back and her eyes were shut.
Anya had shed her riding coat and dropped it unceremoniously on the floor next to her chair. "Yes. Eventually." Although the real cause was likely the amount of food that was suddenly being paraded in to the room. Flagons of wine, loaves of black bread, roasted root vegetables, apples that were wrinkled and reaching the end of their storage potential but still sweet, hard cheese and an entire roast bird with one of the breasts already sliced. The attendants dropping it off remained silent.
Again, Anya seemed not to consider them as threats, eavesdroppers, or even really there. "There's a hunting lodge half a day out in to the woods I can show you tomorrow. It will keep you closer to where I suspect the owlbears are living. And I know it's closer to whatever den the wolves have built."
Ettyn was not so careless. As she watched the servants, and watched the servants watch and listen to them, she tore off a bird leg with a twist and a firm tug and said, "Sure Aggie will be pleased to hear that." She tore meat from the leg, eating that with one hand as she used the other to pile food onto her plate. A loaf of bread, a handful of vegetables, three apples that she knuckled at once, a wedge of hard cheese, and three thick slices of turkey breast.
She balanced the plate in her lap and dropped the leg onto it, and only now removed her gloves. She seized a flagon and filled a goblet up to the brim for herself, then grunted an offer to her friend.
Anya held out her own goblet for wine. She was less enthused about the food and stuck to bread, cheese and one of the apples. "Aggie." She huffed out a laugh. "She won't be pleased until I show up with a husband or a baby." The hand holding the wine gestured to the rooms. "Not making up other chambers was on purpose. To let me know she's disappointed in me."
Ettyn sniffed as she topped off Anya's wine like her own. "Hell of a way to speak to the one who pays her. She knew you were bringing a guest to stay, and only cleaned the flue and made the bed in your room?"
"Mmmm," Anya hummed in agreement with the assessment. "She's been here a long time. She doesn't want things to change. I think the two of them sprang fully formed from the hearth when the house was built." She picked at some more of the food, eating very little. If Ettyn was looking, which she almost certainly was, she'd find plentiful signs of a longer life in this room. Old swords hung by the mantle next to battered shields, a full suit of armor made for a giant of a man stood in the corner, skins of mundane game were scattered on the floor with a few of the more fantastic hung on the walls.
"Born here, and won't do her job the way you need her to..." Ettyn had taken in each of those details, hunts that she supposed that Anya had been on, or her husband, or both. Her gaze lingered on the suit of armor, and she observed, "Big fucker."
Anya snorted a laugh and swallowed her wine painfully before it came out her nose. "Yeah," she coughed. "Some number of great grandfathers ago." Fully recovered from her near drowning experience, she pointed to the skins around the room. "Some of these are his, I think. That was." She pointed to a massive greatsword that threatened to come crashing off of the wall mounts at any moment.
Then she pointed again to an owlbear skin. "That's what you're looking for." The creature in question had the body of a grizzly and the head of a great horned owl. Perhaps most horrifying was that whoever had preserved it had managed to find glass eyes that conveyed a sort of intelligence.
She pointed up at the stairs and to the right where Ettyn would be going. "Mariot's rooms were the first on the left." There was, in fact, a steady stream of activity in those rooms. The staff had been somehow activated by Angnes before she seemed to have managed to make it back inside. "Are you hungry?"
"Could eat. How many guards, and what do they have," Ettyn grunted, and bent just long enough to shift her spurs up out of the way, then moved after Anya. The fact that the servants were buzzing about in organized fashion, without verbal instruction from anyone she had observed, gave her a deep and abiding suspicion of everyone in the house, shown in the narrowing of her eyes.
And the follow-up statement, hoarsely whispered: "Could have had their brains eaten by illithid, replaced by devourers. Hive mind. Be careful."
The whisper had Anya furrowing her brow and looking up the stairs again. She whispered back, "I think they just know what they're doing." By now, she had faith that everyone had made it inside. She turned to call over her shoulder. "Send a meal to my solar, please, Osbern."
Then to answer Ettyn, she turned back, eyes ticking to the guard room while she did a mental tally. "Two dozen, never all at once. They have what they prefer. Crossbows, swords, a few like pikes." It was a horribly inadequate tally of one's own employees.
There was a hum that sounded more akin to a growl, a sure sign that the slayer not only disapproved, but was formulating some plan of her own based on her own strong biases. "Armory?" she said. Was the solar upstairs? She seemed completely unsure where to move now, trailing uncertainly after her friend, though her narrowed eyes kept tracking back to the guard rooms, as if fighting off the impulse to go slinking off that way and take a proper inventory of men and arms.
Anya was already on her way upstairs, taking the left fork when they came to it. She seemed to expect Ettyn and follow. Despite all the activity happening, she might as well have been alone. Staff moved around her or waited for her to pass regardless of how much or what they may be carrying. "Through the guard room. Eat first. It hasn't moved for the past 300 years, it likely won't decide to today."
There was, of course, a pair of guards flanking the doors to her rooms. They pulled them open when she drew close enough. She breezed past them and in to the well light main chamber of the rooms. This was her solar. She waited for the doors to close behind them before flopping down on to a ridiculously plush chair and pulling her riding boots off. She dug her toes in to the bearskin under her feet.
Ettyn was definitely sizing up the guards as she passed, assessing the best way to kill them separately, together, and to kill Anya in front of them as a means of judging their capabilities. Then the doors were shut, and Anya seemed to be relaxing...
After a long moment, so did the slayer, by degrees. She removed her most uncomfortable weapon first, the heavy crossbow, and found a place by the doors to set it down, lightly concealed by the furniture. Easy for one of them to grab if someone tried to force their way through. Next came the mighty greatsword, which she leaned up against a chair next to Anya's and started to look around the room, squinting at the furniture and decorations. She stalked up to the windows and peered out at their surroundings, and the woodland not far from them...
Finally she returned to the chair she'd claimed, unhooking her silver sword and her axe and hanging them over the back. She sank into the plush cushion, let out something between a groan and a sigh, and started unbuckling her boots, too.
"Never sat my ass on fancy cushions for too long. Do they make it fatter?" she asked. Her head was leaned back and her eyes were shut.
Anya had shed her riding coat and dropped it unceremoniously on the floor next to her chair. "Yes. Eventually." Although the real cause was likely the amount of food that was suddenly being paraded in to the room. Flagons of wine, loaves of black bread, roasted root vegetables, apples that were wrinkled and reaching the end of their storage potential but still sweet, hard cheese and an entire roast bird with one of the breasts already sliced. The attendants dropping it off remained silent.
Again, Anya seemed not to consider them as threats, eavesdroppers, or even really there. "There's a hunting lodge half a day out in to the woods I can show you tomorrow. It will keep you closer to where I suspect the owlbears are living. And I know it's closer to whatever den the wolves have built."
Ettyn was not so careless. As she watched the servants, and watched the servants watch and listen to them, she tore off a bird leg with a twist and a firm tug and said, "Sure Aggie will be pleased to hear that." She tore meat from the leg, eating that with one hand as she used the other to pile food onto her plate. A loaf of bread, a handful of vegetables, three apples that she knuckled at once, a wedge of hard cheese, and three thick slices of turkey breast.
She balanced the plate in her lap and dropped the leg onto it, and only now removed her gloves. She seized a flagon and filled a goblet up to the brim for herself, then grunted an offer to her friend.
Anya held out her own goblet for wine. She was less enthused about the food and stuck to bread, cheese and one of the apples. "Aggie." She huffed out a laugh. "She won't be pleased until I show up with a husband or a baby." The hand holding the wine gestured to the rooms. "Not making up other chambers was on purpose. To let me know she's disappointed in me."
Ettyn sniffed as she topped off Anya's wine like her own. "Hell of a way to speak to the one who pays her. She knew you were bringing a guest to stay, and only cleaned the flue and made the bed in your room?"
"Mmmm," Anya hummed in agreement with the assessment. "She's been here a long time. She doesn't want things to change. I think the two of them sprang fully formed from the hearth when the house was built." She picked at some more of the food, eating very little. If Ettyn was looking, which she almost certainly was, she'd find plentiful signs of a longer life in this room. Old swords hung by the mantle next to battered shields, a full suit of armor made for a giant of a man stood in the corner, skins of mundane game were scattered on the floor with a few of the more fantastic hung on the walls.
"Born here, and won't do her job the way you need her to..." Ettyn had taken in each of those details, hunts that she supposed that Anya had been on, or her husband, or both. Her gaze lingered on the suit of armor, and she observed, "Big fucker."
Anya snorted a laugh and swallowed her wine painfully before it came out her nose. "Yeah," she coughed. "Some number of great grandfathers ago." Fully recovered from her near drowning experience, she pointed to the skins around the room. "Some of these are his, I think. That was." She pointed to a massive greatsword that threatened to come crashing off of the wall mounts at any moment.
Then she pointed again to an owlbear skin. "That's what you're looking for." The creature in question had the body of a grizzly and the head of a great horned owl. Perhaps most horrifying was that whoever had preserved it had managed to find glass eyes that conveyed a sort of intelligence.
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Death Knell
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 203
- Joined: Tue Oct 06, 2020 10:10 pm
- Location: The Wilds
Re: Skoggard
Well, isn't that interesting. A perverse choice, or a warning...? "Hear any funny stories about Skoggard owlbears...?" Ettyn asked as she stood slowly from her seat, her plate (already half empty) set aside. She stalked closer to the owlbear to study its size, its talons, its beak, the width of its limbs, and the eyes... then moved on to the sword.
She lifted it from its wall mounts and scowled as she studied it. "Dusting's no care for steel like this... Sword with good bones, but it needs some care at the forge, a little softening up, get it right again... then polish and regular exercise. Needs a rubdown and play-time, just like me," she quietly growled as she worked her fingers around her hilt, balancing the end of the blade against her palm as she assessed it.
"Take it." The not eating appeared to be part of a larger strategy on Anya's part. She topped off the goblet and scooted farther back in the chair, tucking her feet under herself. She had adapted certain self preservation techniques when visiting home. "No one's likely to use it again here."
She took another drink. "The owlbears are smart. They'll set traps for you. Not as smart as a human hunter." She paused, then amended, "Most human hunters."
Ettyn snorted. "I met some whip-smart hunters... and plenty of fuck-dumb ones." She said nothing to the idea of taking the sword, but took it with her back to her seat so she could see the steel better under the light. Sure enough, the subtle stresses it had sustained since its last reforging had worsened over time, and her fingers lightly traced the signs of brittleness one by one. "You're working on getting pissed," she observed, idly.
"Mmhmm. Give it a day. You will too." Anya dug in further. A chunk of that black bread was still in her hand. She was taking a two pronged attack and dipping it in to the wine before eating it. "The hunting lodge is far enough that you won't be bothered by them if you take it."
She squinted at the sword on Ettyn's lap. "If you think you can save that, do it."
"Have to see the lodge before I choose," the slayer grunted, and laid the blade across an ottoman with care. "Can save the blade... but it'll take a smith who does more than nails and horseshoes. Anyone like that in Skoggard?"
She polished off a thick slice of breast in three big bites, and washed it down with a few gulps of wine, nearly emptying her goblet. She splashed some more into both of their cups. "Could take it to Heph, big happy bastard who I think wants my cunt and made my flail... but seems like overkill."
"You can see. There's a weapon smith in town that might be able to do it. Him or his son. I'll take you by tomorrow. Want to see where you'll be sleeping?" Anya stood up with her wine in her hand still. Her strategy was working. She blinked and opened one eye, then the other. She did not bother to put her boots back on.
Not seeing a sheath for the weapon, Ettyn breathed a sigh that rumbled in her throat and detached her cloak. "Yeah, might as well," she grunted as she went to collect the other weapons, hoisting them over her shoulders one by one, "rather than leave my shit all over your... soul-room." She moved to follow her out the door, wine goblet held in one hand, still wrapping her cloak around the old greatsword with the other as she went.
Anya shouldered through the door, startling the guards standing outside who had lapsed no their watch. She didn't look like she'd even noticed their presence. Leading the way, she climbed first down the steps and across the landing to start up the other side. The house wasn't built for efficiency of movement. Her steps sped up when she hit the landing like she didn't want to be seen. Too late. At the foot of the stairs there was a breathy gasp and a whine floated up at them: "Lady Anya. Your friend. Those are your family heirlooms."
Ettyn cast a look aside at Osbern, turning the blade with one hand with practiced efficiency as she wrapped it up in her cloak protectively. "It's gone brittle. Steel needs better care than dusting. I'll see to it," she grunted, expecting that information to simply settle the matter. Because it was all that he needed to know, right?
The little old man bristled with all the fury of assumed authority. His whining voice went up a pitch. "That steel has been hanging above that mantle since the Lord Magni placed it there after his final hunt and there has never been a complaint. It has been cared for by me and all of the Stewards before me." Osbern started climbing the stairs towards the two of them. He looked like he was about to rip the entire weapons bundle away from Ettyn with no prayer of ever carrying all of it.
Ettyn sneered, but a sneer from her was no haughty thing. It was full of teeth and scars and only a few degrees from a scowl. Her sneers carried bite. "Some care. This old Zweihander was about to sunder on its mounts from neglect... and the rest?" She lifted her chin, teeth baring wider. "I brought in with me. The crossbow, the silver sword, the hand-axe, the red-stoned greatsword are all mine, Obadiah," she said, growling his (wrong) name at him in challenge.
The wrong name seemed to be the last straw for the man. He turned as red as the family's namesake and opened and closed his mouth, fishlike, working on a rejoinder. Unfortunately for his pride, none came. He looked at Anya for backup.
For her part, she had been watching impassively, left arm crossed to prop up her right elbow and her wine goblet. She waited for him to look at her. "You aren't the steward," she told him. "You never were. And now, she is." She tilted her chin to indicate Ettyn. All through another sip of wine, she never broke eye contact with the old man. Then she spun on her bare heel and marched up the stairs.
Ettyn began to crack a grin again... until she started to put together what had happened. Her brow furrowed in confusion, and she broke eye contact with "Obadiah" when he became even less important to her than he already had been.
Sword in one hand and cup in the other, she stalked up the stairs after Anya, long strides catching up to her quickly. "Who the fuck is Stuart, and why do I take their name now," she hissed a raspy whisper as she followed, apparently completely confused. "I thought I was Master of the Hunt, which takes no name..."
"You're in charge if I'm not here. And it's Steward, not Stuart. You'll figure it out. If Osbern managed the job with all of his intellectual limitations, you'll be fine." She was not bothering to keep her voice down. At all. The guards on Ettyn's door seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the dismantling of Osbern. Given that they were the youngest staff members seen to date, it shouldn't come as a complete surprise.
"In charge... in charge of what?" Ettyn asked as they made their way into the west wing and towards the rooms that she was to occupy... apparently more frequently than she thought! "...Here...?" Her steps slowed.
Anya stopped and turned to face Ettyn. "Here, all that." She waved a hand towards the outside, primarily indicating the woods. "Unless you don't want it. But there are people here who don't want to fall apart with the town. It would be good for them to have someone new." She tilted her chin again, indicating Osbern who was still staring after them. "The rest of them? Fire them. Send them naked in to the woods. I don't care."
"They'll get their chance," Ettyn said, pitched loud enough for Osbern to hear. Maybe scare him into being useful or productive. Her wine goblet was abandoned on top of a railing, and she used her free hand to scrub at her face as her eyes strayed to the windows. The house itself concerned her less... but the land, the people? Her gaze moved back to her friend, really studying her. Day-drunk, again, common for the slayer but a little less for her friend. Drunk within an hour of returning to the manor to do a bit of necessary business, and already feeling the pressure and resentment she'd mentioned before...
"...This place... these people... they've made you unhappy for a while... but you can't leave it behind. It's tied to you." It wasn't quite a question, but she was still watching Anya's eyes, seeking... something. Confirmation that this was hurting her. That this was her curse.
Anya pressed her lips in to a thin line and nodded once. "Anyway," she drew in a deep breath. "There's the vineyard and good hunting. The inn is gaining a reputation. Not a tasteful one." She motioned for the doors to the rooms to be opened. "You don't have to be here. There are other houses. Or stay in RhyDin. I do."
When the doors were open, she led the way in. It was a smaller version of her own rooms with a decidedly more feminine twist. The taxidermied animals here were birds and there were no weapons on the walls. The tapestries on the walls were done up to show scenes of daily life instead of hunts and wars. "These were my sister's rooms. If they'll do for now."
"They're fine," Ettyn said. Anya could have shown her an empty room, and she would have said the same thing. The slayer needed very little. She had a place to set down her weapons now, somewhere to keep them until she'd had a chance to explore the armory. "Wine... killing... whores... you know me, princess," she said a little distractedly, a raspy sigh escaping as she turned it all over in her head. "We get some of your magic to get me here and back... that'll suit. 'Til then," she sniffed, "I'll hire and fire people, make sure it's running smooth when I'm in RhyDin..."
She turned to look at Anya. "Fine. I accept. But if I'm gonna be... Steward Ettyn Gedda of Skoggard," and there was her (very bad) Anya impression again, "then we have to celebrate. You ever shot a siege crossbow?" she asked.
"A...? No. I have not shot one of those before. And remember, it's not just yours to do. I'm not going away." Anya was getting good at ignoring the impression. At least this one hadn't ended with a nyeh.
"Do I have a siege crossbow?" She mulled it over as she placed her wine on a side table.
"I do," Ettyn grinned as she took the heavy weapon (indeed, heavy enough to punch through plate mail or a wooden barrier)... and then threw an arm around Anya's shoulders. "Come on. Let's find three cheap bottles of wine and play a little game..."
She lifted it from its wall mounts and scowled as she studied it. "Dusting's no care for steel like this... Sword with good bones, but it needs some care at the forge, a little softening up, get it right again... then polish and regular exercise. Needs a rubdown and play-time, just like me," she quietly growled as she worked her fingers around her hilt, balancing the end of the blade against her palm as she assessed it.
"Take it." The not eating appeared to be part of a larger strategy on Anya's part. She topped off the goblet and scooted farther back in the chair, tucking her feet under herself. She had adapted certain self preservation techniques when visiting home. "No one's likely to use it again here."
She took another drink. "The owlbears are smart. They'll set traps for you. Not as smart as a human hunter." She paused, then amended, "Most human hunters."
Ettyn snorted. "I met some whip-smart hunters... and plenty of fuck-dumb ones." She said nothing to the idea of taking the sword, but took it with her back to her seat so she could see the steel better under the light. Sure enough, the subtle stresses it had sustained since its last reforging had worsened over time, and her fingers lightly traced the signs of brittleness one by one. "You're working on getting pissed," she observed, idly.
"Mmhmm. Give it a day. You will too." Anya dug in further. A chunk of that black bread was still in her hand. She was taking a two pronged attack and dipping it in to the wine before eating it. "The hunting lodge is far enough that you won't be bothered by them if you take it."
She squinted at the sword on Ettyn's lap. "If you think you can save that, do it."
"Have to see the lodge before I choose," the slayer grunted, and laid the blade across an ottoman with care. "Can save the blade... but it'll take a smith who does more than nails and horseshoes. Anyone like that in Skoggard?"
She polished off a thick slice of breast in three big bites, and washed it down with a few gulps of wine, nearly emptying her goblet. She splashed some more into both of their cups. "Could take it to Heph, big happy bastard who I think wants my cunt and made my flail... but seems like overkill."
"You can see. There's a weapon smith in town that might be able to do it. Him or his son. I'll take you by tomorrow. Want to see where you'll be sleeping?" Anya stood up with her wine in her hand still. Her strategy was working. She blinked and opened one eye, then the other. She did not bother to put her boots back on.
Not seeing a sheath for the weapon, Ettyn breathed a sigh that rumbled in her throat and detached her cloak. "Yeah, might as well," she grunted as she went to collect the other weapons, hoisting them over her shoulders one by one, "rather than leave my shit all over your... soul-room." She moved to follow her out the door, wine goblet held in one hand, still wrapping her cloak around the old greatsword with the other as she went.
Anya shouldered through the door, startling the guards standing outside who had lapsed no their watch. She didn't look like she'd even noticed their presence. Leading the way, she climbed first down the steps and across the landing to start up the other side. The house wasn't built for efficiency of movement. Her steps sped up when she hit the landing like she didn't want to be seen. Too late. At the foot of the stairs there was a breathy gasp and a whine floated up at them: "Lady Anya. Your friend. Those are your family heirlooms."
Ettyn cast a look aside at Osbern, turning the blade with one hand with practiced efficiency as she wrapped it up in her cloak protectively. "It's gone brittle. Steel needs better care than dusting. I'll see to it," she grunted, expecting that information to simply settle the matter. Because it was all that he needed to know, right?
The little old man bristled with all the fury of assumed authority. His whining voice went up a pitch. "That steel has been hanging above that mantle since the Lord Magni placed it there after his final hunt and there has never been a complaint. It has been cared for by me and all of the Stewards before me." Osbern started climbing the stairs towards the two of them. He looked like he was about to rip the entire weapons bundle away from Ettyn with no prayer of ever carrying all of it.
Ettyn sneered, but a sneer from her was no haughty thing. It was full of teeth and scars and only a few degrees from a scowl. Her sneers carried bite. "Some care. This old Zweihander was about to sunder on its mounts from neglect... and the rest?" She lifted her chin, teeth baring wider. "I brought in with me. The crossbow, the silver sword, the hand-axe, the red-stoned greatsword are all mine, Obadiah," she said, growling his (wrong) name at him in challenge.
The wrong name seemed to be the last straw for the man. He turned as red as the family's namesake and opened and closed his mouth, fishlike, working on a rejoinder. Unfortunately for his pride, none came. He looked at Anya for backup.
For her part, she had been watching impassively, left arm crossed to prop up her right elbow and her wine goblet. She waited for him to look at her. "You aren't the steward," she told him. "You never were. And now, she is." She tilted her chin to indicate Ettyn. All through another sip of wine, she never broke eye contact with the old man. Then she spun on her bare heel and marched up the stairs.
Ettyn began to crack a grin again... until she started to put together what had happened. Her brow furrowed in confusion, and she broke eye contact with "Obadiah" when he became even less important to her than he already had been.
Sword in one hand and cup in the other, she stalked up the stairs after Anya, long strides catching up to her quickly. "Who the fuck is Stuart, and why do I take their name now," she hissed a raspy whisper as she followed, apparently completely confused. "I thought I was Master of the Hunt, which takes no name..."
"You're in charge if I'm not here. And it's Steward, not Stuart. You'll figure it out. If Osbern managed the job with all of his intellectual limitations, you'll be fine." She was not bothering to keep her voice down. At all. The guards on Ettyn's door seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the dismantling of Osbern. Given that they were the youngest staff members seen to date, it shouldn't come as a complete surprise.
"In charge... in charge of what?" Ettyn asked as they made their way into the west wing and towards the rooms that she was to occupy... apparently more frequently than she thought! "...Here...?" Her steps slowed.
Anya stopped and turned to face Ettyn. "Here, all that." She waved a hand towards the outside, primarily indicating the woods. "Unless you don't want it. But there are people here who don't want to fall apart with the town. It would be good for them to have someone new." She tilted her chin again, indicating Osbern who was still staring after them. "The rest of them? Fire them. Send them naked in to the woods. I don't care."
"They'll get their chance," Ettyn said, pitched loud enough for Osbern to hear. Maybe scare him into being useful or productive. Her wine goblet was abandoned on top of a railing, and she used her free hand to scrub at her face as her eyes strayed to the windows. The house itself concerned her less... but the land, the people? Her gaze moved back to her friend, really studying her. Day-drunk, again, common for the slayer but a little less for her friend. Drunk within an hour of returning to the manor to do a bit of necessary business, and already feeling the pressure and resentment she'd mentioned before...
"...This place... these people... they've made you unhappy for a while... but you can't leave it behind. It's tied to you." It wasn't quite a question, but she was still watching Anya's eyes, seeking... something. Confirmation that this was hurting her. That this was her curse.
Anya pressed her lips in to a thin line and nodded once. "Anyway," she drew in a deep breath. "There's the vineyard and good hunting. The inn is gaining a reputation. Not a tasteful one." She motioned for the doors to the rooms to be opened. "You don't have to be here. There are other houses. Or stay in RhyDin. I do."
When the doors were open, she led the way in. It was a smaller version of her own rooms with a decidedly more feminine twist. The taxidermied animals here were birds and there were no weapons on the walls. The tapestries on the walls were done up to show scenes of daily life instead of hunts and wars. "These were my sister's rooms. If they'll do for now."
"They're fine," Ettyn said. Anya could have shown her an empty room, and she would have said the same thing. The slayer needed very little. She had a place to set down her weapons now, somewhere to keep them until she'd had a chance to explore the armory. "Wine... killing... whores... you know me, princess," she said a little distractedly, a raspy sigh escaping as she turned it all over in her head. "We get some of your magic to get me here and back... that'll suit. 'Til then," she sniffed, "I'll hire and fire people, make sure it's running smooth when I'm in RhyDin..."
She turned to look at Anya. "Fine. I accept. But if I'm gonna be... Steward Ettyn Gedda of Skoggard," and there was her (very bad) Anya impression again, "then we have to celebrate. You ever shot a siege crossbow?" she asked.
"A...? No. I have not shot one of those before. And remember, it's not just yours to do. I'm not going away." Anya was getting good at ignoring the impression. At least this one hadn't ended with a nyeh.
"Do I have a siege crossbow?" She mulled it over as she placed her wine on a side table.
"I do," Ettyn grinned as she took the heavy weapon (indeed, heavy enough to punch through plate mail or a wooden barrier)... and then threw an arm around Anya's shoulders. "Come on. Let's find three cheap bottles of wine and play a little game..."
-
Death Knell
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 203
- Joined: Tue Oct 06, 2020 10:10 pm
- Location: The Wilds
Re: Skoggard
((Warning: contains a pretty violent and cruel hunt.))
February 28th, 2021.
Ettyn had slunk through the portal to Skoggard maybe an hour before dawn, and scared the hell out of the guards dozing upstairs when she'd simply appeared out of Mariot's rooms, dressed in a long green gambeson, a sheep-skin cloak, and sturdy boots ideal for the rugged southern pastures that rose to meet the wooded hills. On most days she preferred her crossbow to any other ranged weapon; but today she packed her old bow, her whip, and a silver short sword along with her steel, just in case.
She was hiding in a pasture for no more than an hour when the pack emerged, soon after a shepherd had let out her flock. The shepherd cried out at the sight of the wolves loping along the tree line and bounding over the crumbling stone walls, but cried out louder when what appeared to be a sheep at the edge of her vision rose up to a slayer's height and punched an arrow deep into the guts of an adolescent wolf.
It enraged the dying creature's mother, a massive alpha with protruding bones, and it took two arrows to its flank, outran a third, and fell upon the slayer -- right before it fell to her steel.
She followed the gut-shot young wolf back to the lair and left it to watch as she dispatched one of the cubs; two grown males tried to trap her in the lair, and she killed one and left the other wounded.
The pack was without its much stronger leader, cut nearly in half, and likely dispersed from their lair after it had been so violently invaded. She left the slain cub and the adolescent, skinned the adult male, nailed its skull and limbs to five trees near the lair for the clever owlbears to find as a warning, and accepted the shepherd's offer of her two young sons to haul the heavy dire wolf back to the manor to be stuffed.
It was a small kill by the slayer's standards, but it was her first as Steward of Skoggard.
Angnes was left to see to the cleaning and mending of her gambeson and her weapons, as well as to the dire wolf; while doddering Osbern she only trusted to make appointments.
Two hunters and a hedge wizard were her first appointments, each of them favoring a different part of Skoggard's boundaries. She spoke little, but as she had done with the shepherd and her boys, she ensured they at least knew her as Steward Ettyn. Mostly she listened, letting them spill firsthand and secondhand stories of owlbears, wyverns, marauders, and one intriguing account that may have been a bulette. The prospect of that hunt drew a pleased grin and quiet, shoulder-shaking laughter.
Her fourth appointment was a dark-haired, tan-skinned woman named Vivien Delgard, a common surname she had taken after her divorce from the local innkeeper, and after her family had refused to restore her name. The rumor was that she had been unfaithful to her husband--
--but of far greater interest to Ettyn were the types of people who all stood accused of being the man she was suspected of having an affair with. A carpenter, a blacksmith, a brewer, two vintners, farmers, hunters, a mason -- all people who had kept the busy inn well supplied and maintained, business contacts she had cultivated a good friendship with. And in her absence? The inn had begun to fall apart.
The state of the inn was a problem for another time.
"I did not sleep with any of them." Vivien had elected to remain standing while Ettyn sat by the hearth, cleaning the tooth and claw marks around her shoulder and neck. The slayer had just finished listing all of the men she knew and their occupations, and Vivien's expression had tightened at the imagined implication.
"Don't care." Ettyn looked up at her with pitch black eyes, and offered her a flagon with one black-blooded hand. There was a polite head-shake in reply. It was early for most people. "Got a cracked window in my soul-room." She'd meant solar. "Know a body who can fix it?"
"Mireille is the local glass-maker, but she's working on a new mirror for this household," Vivien said, raising an eyebrow. "But her daughter, Julia--"
"Mm." Ettyn interrupted her with a grunt, and poured wine from a flagon to refill her goblet. "Friendly with 'em?"
"Yes; I've known Mireille since I was--"
"--a little girl, like with the others." Ettyn sniffed. "You got a head for names and what they can do. I don't. Princess-- Lady Anya's house could use that. You got a job?"
Vivien's expression tightened bitterly, and she gave a slow shake of her head. Women rumored to have been unfaithful were rarely given work in a place like Skoggard.
But Ettyn wasn't from Skoggard. "You want one here?"
There was a slow nod. And when Ettyn roughly wiped off her hand and offered it? Vivien finally approached her to shake it firmly.
"Seneschal Vivien. You're now master of the jobs here at the manor. Welcome."
February 28th, 2021.
Ettyn had slunk through the portal to Skoggard maybe an hour before dawn, and scared the hell out of the guards dozing upstairs when she'd simply appeared out of Mariot's rooms, dressed in a long green gambeson, a sheep-skin cloak, and sturdy boots ideal for the rugged southern pastures that rose to meet the wooded hills. On most days she preferred her crossbow to any other ranged weapon; but today she packed her old bow, her whip, and a silver short sword along with her steel, just in case.
She was hiding in a pasture for no more than an hour when the pack emerged, soon after a shepherd had let out her flock. The shepherd cried out at the sight of the wolves loping along the tree line and bounding over the crumbling stone walls, but cried out louder when what appeared to be a sheep at the edge of her vision rose up to a slayer's height and punched an arrow deep into the guts of an adolescent wolf.
It enraged the dying creature's mother, a massive alpha with protruding bones, and it took two arrows to its flank, outran a third, and fell upon the slayer -- right before it fell to her steel.
She followed the gut-shot young wolf back to the lair and left it to watch as she dispatched one of the cubs; two grown males tried to trap her in the lair, and she killed one and left the other wounded.
The pack was without its much stronger leader, cut nearly in half, and likely dispersed from their lair after it had been so violently invaded. She left the slain cub and the adolescent, skinned the adult male, nailed its skull and limbs to five trees near the lair for the clever owlbears to find as a warning, and accepted the shepherd's offer of her two young sons to haul the heavy dire wolf back to the manor to be stuffed.
It was a small kill by the slayer's standards, but it was her first as Steward of Skoggard.
Angnes was left to see to the cleaning and mending of her gambeson and her weapons, as well as to the dire wolf; while doddering Osbern she only trusted to make appointments.
Two hunters and a hedge wizard were her first appointments, each of them favoring a different part of Skoggard's boundaries. She spoke little, but as she had done with the shepherd and her boys, she ensured they at least knew her as Steward Ettyn. Mostly she listened, letting them spill firsthand and secondhand stories of owlbears, wyverns, marauders, and one intriguing account that may have been a bulette. The prospect of that hunt drew a pleased grin and quiet, shoulder-shaking laughter.
Her fourth appointment was a dark-haired, tan-skinned woman named Vivien Delgard, a common surname she had taken after her divorce from the local innkeeper, and after her family had refused to restore her name. The rumor was that she had been unfaithful to her husband--
--but of far greater interest to Ettyn were the types of people who all stood accused of being the man she was suspected of having an affair with. A carpenter, a blacksmith, a brewer, two vintners, farmers, hunters, a mason -- all people who had kept the busy inn well supplied and maintained, business contacts she had cultivated a good friendship with. And in her absence? The inn had begun to fall apart.
The state of the inn was a problem for another time.
"I did not sleep with any of them." Vivien had elected to remain standing while Ettyn sat by the hearth, cleaning the tooth and claw marks around her shoulder and neck. The slayer had just finished listing all of the men she knew and their occupations, and Vivien's expression had tightened at the imagined implication.
"Don't care." Ettyn looked up at her with pitch black eyes, and offered her a flagon with one black-blooded hand. There was a polite head-shake in reply. It was early for most people. "Got a cracked window in my soul-room." She'd meant solar. "Know a body who can fix it?"
"Mireille is the local glass-maker, but she's working on a new mirror for this household," Vivien said, raising an eyebrow. "But her daughter, Julia--"
"Mm." Ettyn interrupted her with a grunt, and poured wine from a flagon to refill her goblet. "Friendly with 'em?"
"Yes; I've known Mireille since I was--"
"--a little girl, like with the others." Ettyn sniffed. "You got a head for names and what they can do. I don't. Princess-- Lady Anya's house could use that. You got a job?"
Vivien's expression tightened bitterly, and she gave a slow shake of her head. Women rumored to have been unfaithful were rarely given work in a place like Skoggard.
But Ettyn wasn't from Skoggard. "You want one here?"
There was a slow nod. And when Ettyn roughly wiped off her hand and offered it? Vivien finally approached her to shake it firmly.
"Seneschal Vivien. You're now master of the jobs here at the manor. Welcome."
-
Death Knell
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 203
- Joined: Tue Oct 06, 2020 10:10 pm
- Location: The Wilds
Bridges
April 11th, 2021.
In the two months since Ettyn and Anya's first visit, the humble southern valley called Skoggard had already begun to see changes. With the dire wolves removed and the wiliest of the owlbears culled, hunters and trappers had returned to the forests. Fur traders returned to the town, and the apothecary reopened his shop with the renewed bounty of woodland herbs and mushrooms. Shepherds' flocks were safer, carpenters were busy building new looms for the wool trade, and a family of herb and spice traders had started to visit from Cadentia to supply the town's dyers.
The manor was showing more life than it had in years. At first there were only visitors on the days the Lady and the Steward set aside for appointments; but as Seneschal Vivien managed the purse-strings and delegated tasks to new manor staff, there were more people to visit who could help the citizens of Skoggard with what they needed. The building itself looked better: cracked windows were replaced, cracked walls were patched, and the roof was ready for the spring rains. A few outbuildings remained in disuse and disrepair, but they were on a list now of tasks to be completed.
Outside, the gardens had taken a turn for the practical, but they were no longer overgrown. Inside, the manor was dusted, musty old rooms aired out, and moth-eaten fabrics were in the process of being mended and replaced. No silver was left tarnished; but more importantly to the new Steward?
The manor guards were in sensible armor, their gear was regularly checked and cleaned and maintained by a small number of squires, and they knew what weapons to carry and when, and how many the armory held. And thanks to a number of long days shooting and sparring in the manor yard, they were learning how to use most of them much better than they had before.
On certain matters, the Lady de la Rose would always have more of the community's trust. Property disputes had a long history, and often overlapped with the family feuds that only someone who'd known the valley for years could navigate; trade deals were something that she had better connections and a better head for; and those interested in a ball or a festival were less inclined to approach the scarred, blighted slayer over those matters.
But issues of monsters, and other small practical concerns, were often brought to the Steward. One of these was the oldest of the bridges outside of town.
Last summer, the fearsome dire wolves driven out of their dens by wily owlbears had kept a local company of carpenters from working on an old wooden bridge whose pilings had begun to sink and twist in the growing muck of the stream bed. New pilings were dropped in, and a patchwork path of planks and timbers laid across them as well (and quickly) as could be done, but the bridge had become too treacherous for wagons and those any less than sure-footed. The trio of ponds that served as watering holes for livestock and the herds of deer that wandered out of the forest at night were half-dry, and farmers in that part of the valley bickered over the water to irrigate their crops. And both the muck and the twisted pilings had rendered the stream impassable, a dent in the livelihood of those who used fishing to help fill their plates.
Ettyn had heard complaints from each of them, carpenters and herders and farmers and anglers and even hunters, and recommended, "Meet at the bridge with timbers and axes, hammers, nails, rope, shovels, and wheeled barews; and fix it."
"But we're asking you to fix it--"
"I'll be there. But I'm one person. Need twenty at least to do this."
She'd misunderstood the common counterargument, but her answer seemed to have satisfied them. Rather than depend on the Steward to hire workers from outside to tackle the problem, they showed up in the early dawn hours before the air grew hot. Barely twenty men and women, several draft horses, and a pile of fresh cut timbers were there when she arrived. Not enough, but she did not stop to ask for more; she simply started by beginning the process of tying off and dragging out the different parts of the bridge, and the people there quickly moved to follow.
It took several hours, and the work of all of their draft horses, to drag and dig out the bridge and pilings. A farmer from a nearby field had watched for the better part of an hour, before she brought her oxen over to help with the last pilings, wrenching them out of the stubborn muck.
Next came the digging, and while the slayer stood barefoot in the muddy stream bed with the others, shoveling and flinging muck into wheelbarrows, pushing it up the hills, more farmers had arrived to lay claim to the fertile soil. The flow of water had increased with the pilings gone, and flowed stronger and faster still as the muck left the stream bed, so only the strongest were allowed down there, tethered to trees along the banks by sturdy ropes. Those less strong had been sent back to town for more food and water, and by the time Ettyn emerged from the stream for lunch, covered in mud up past her waist?
A crowd of forty more had arrived from town, curious onlookers who had not seen a project like this happen in their valley for years. More able hands joined the work, spare timber hauled in from different homesteads across Skoggard, and the builders and carpenters could spare all of their time and attention to preparing the new bridge.
Food and wine, ale and water came from the manor house to feed the growing crowd of hungry volunteers, while heavy wooden timbers were set into stones in holes dug into the stream bed. What could be mended and reused was set back into place, lashed with ropes and hammered with long nails; and by the time the sun sank beneath the horizon, the last rotting pieces of the bridge had been replaced.
A number had only spectated, and a number among them did not stay to cheer with the volunteers and the blighted stranger who had become their steward, out among them instead of locked away in a manor hall. They left as soon as the work was done, familiar gossip on their lips as they made their way back to town after the strange spectacle. But others stayed, where there was enough food and drink for a dinner by firelight. She sat on the grass, drank and ate her fill, and told a few stories -- mostly of hunts, in lands not far from Skoggard.
She had other stories, but knew that tales of brothels and drinking contests were less well received in this valley (for now).
But mostly? She listened. She listened to people talking about what they remembered from when they were young, what they missed, what stories stuck with them from their parents and grandparents long after their passing. People were new to her, but she listened twice as hard as many, and every so often she heard what they did not quite say: what they wanted for themselves, and for those that would come after them.
Only when the feast was gone, and many had already left, did the slayer heave back to her feet, but she had one last request for the builders remaining, still packing up their supplies: "The Lady de la Rose and I have a house in RhyDin. Needs an addition. We could use your help."
The deal was sealed with a handshake. They'd come to Domus and help. She'd buy the supplies, and argued with them over payment for their time; but they'd been paid for the bridge, and insisted they be allowed to repay the help they'd received today. They expected to be done in a week.
The matter settled, Ettyn climbed back onto her horse and made her way to the manor, and to the home that awaited her on the other side of the portal.
In the two months since Ettyn and Anya's first visit, the humble southern valley called Skoggard had already begun to see changes. With the dire wolves removed and the wiliest of the owlbears culled, hunters and trappers had returned to the forests. Fur traders returned to the town, and the apothecary reopened his shop with the renewed bounty of woodland herbs and mushrooms. Shepherds' flocks were safer, carpenters were busy building new looms for the wool trade, and a family of herb and spice traders had started to visit from Cadentia to supply the town's dyers.
The manor was showing more life than it had in years. At first there were only visitors on the days the Lady and the Steward set aside for appointments; but as Seneschal Vivien managed the purse-strings and delegated tasks to new manor staff, there were more people to visit who could help the citizens of Skoggard with what they needed. The building itself looked better: cracked windows were replaced, cracked walls were patched, and the roof was ready for the spring rains. A few outbuildings remained in disuse and disrepair, but they were on a list now of tasks to be completed.
Outside, the gardens had taken a turn for the practical, but they were no longer overgrown. Inside, the manor was dusted, musty old rooms aired out, and moth-eaten fabrics were in the process of being mended and replaced. No silver was left tarnished; but more importantly to the new Steward?
The manor guards were in sensible armor, their gear was regularly checked and cleaned and maintained by a small number of squires, and they knew what weapons to carry and when, and how many the armory held. And thanks to a number of long days shooting and sparring in the manor yard, they were learning how to use most of them much better than they had before.
On certain matters, the Lady de la Rose would always have more of the community's trust. Property disputes had a long history, and often overlapped with the family feuds that only someone who'd known the valley for years could navigate; trade deals were something that she had better connections and a better head for; and those interested in a ball or a festival were less inclined to approach the scarred, blighted slayer over those matters.
But issues of monsters, and other small practical concerns, were often brought to the Steward. One of these was the oldest of the bridges outside of town.
Last summer, the fearsome dire wolves driven out of their dens by wily owlbears had kept a local company of carpenters from working on an old wooden bridge whose pilings had begun to sink and twist in the growing muck of the stream bed. New pilings were dropped in, and a patchwork path of planks and timbers laid across them as well (and quickly) as could be done, but the bridge had become too treacherous for wagons and those any less than sure-footed. The trio of ponds that served as watering holes for livestock and the herds of deer that wandered out of the forest at night were half-dry, and farmers in that part of the valley bickered over the water to irrigate their crops. And both the muck and the twisted pilings had rendered the stream impassable, a dent in the livelihood of those who used fishing to help fill their plates.
Ettyn had heard complaints from each of them, carpenters and herders and farmers and anglers and even hunters, and recommended, "Meet at the bridge with timbers and axes, hammers, nails, rope, shovels, and wheeled barews; and fix it."
"But we're asking you to fix it--"
"I'll be there. But I'm one person. Need twenty at least to do this."
She'd misunderstood the common counterargument, but her answer seemed to have satisfied them. Rather than depend on the Steward to hire workers from outside to tackle the problem, they showed up in the early dawn hours before the air grew hot. Barely twenty men and women, several draft horses, and a pile of fresh cut timbers were there when she arrived. Not enough, but she did not stop to ask for more; she simply started by beginning the process of tying off and dragging out the different parts of the bridge, and the people there quickly moved to follow.
It took several hours, and the work of all of their draft horses, to drag and dig out the bridge and pilings. A farmer from a nearby field had watched for the better part of an hour, before she brought her oxen over to help with the last pilings, wrenching them out of the stubborn muck.
Next came the digging, and while the slayer stood barefoot in the muddy stream bed with the others, shoveling and flinging muck into wheelbarrows, pushing it up the hills, more farmers had arrived to lay claim to the fertile soil. The flow of water had increased with the pilings gone, and flowed stronger and faster still as the muck left the stream bed, so only the strongest were allowed down there, tethered to trees along the banks by sturdy ropes. Those less strong had been sent back to town for more food and water, and by the time Ettyn emerged from the stream for lunch, covered in mud up past her waist?
A crowd of forty more had arrived from town, curious onlookers who had not seen a project like this happen in their valley for years. More able hands joined the work, spare timber hauled in from different homesteads across Skoggard, and the builders and carpenters could spare all of their time and attention to preparing the new bridge.
Food and wine, ale and water came from the manor house to feed the growing crowd of hungry volunteers, while heavy wooden timbers were set into stones in holes dug into the stream bed. What could be mended and reused was set back into place, lashed with ropes and hammered with long nails; and by the time the sun sank beneath the horizon, the last rotting pieces of the bridge had been replaced.
A number had only spectated, and a number among them did not stay to cheer with the volunteers and the blighted stranger who had become their steward, out among them instead of locked away in a manor hall. They left as soon as the work was done, familiar gossip on their lips as they made their way back to town after the strange spectacle. But others stayed, where there was enough food and drink for a dinner by firelight. She sat on the grass, drank and ate her fill, and told a few stories -- mostly of hunts, in lands not far from Skoggard.
She had other stories, but knew that tales of brothels and drinking contests were less well received in this valley (for now).
But mostly? She listened. She listened to people talking about what they remembered from when they were young, what they missed, what stories stuck with them from their parents and grandparents long after their passing. People were new to her, but she listened twice as hard as many, and every so often she heard what they did not quite say: what they wanted for themselves, and for those that would come after them.
Only when the feast was gone, and many had already left, did the slayer heave back to her feet, but she had one last request for the builders remaining, still packing up their supplies: "The Lady de la Rose and I have a house in RhyDin. Needs an addition. We could use your help."
The deal was sealed with a handshake. They'd come to Domus and help. She'd buy the supplies, and argued with them over payment for their time; but they'd been paid for the bridge, and insisted they be allowed to repay the help they'd received today. They expected to be done in a week.
The matter settled, Ettyn climbed back onto her horse and made her way to the manor, and to the home that awaited her on the other side of the portal.
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Anya de la Rose
- Proven Adventurer
- Posts: 269
- Joined: Fri Jul 31, 2020 10:42 pm
- Location: Old Temple, Dockside
Re: Skoggard
April 12th, 2021
Early in the morning, on a day she knew she would not be needed, Anya stepped through the portal to her old home. She hadn't used it alone before and immediately felt like she was invading Ettyn's space. While the room she emerged in had once been part of her sister's suite, they were now Ettyn's chambers. She kept her eyes forward on her way through the rooms and out through the door to the suite. Household workers who had not expected anyone, let alone Anya, to emerge from the steward's rooms shied away from her then recovered and curtsied, bowed or nodded as possible.
For the trip, she'd changed in to something more suitable to Skoggard. Black linen pants tucked in to knee high riding boots, a red tunic top embroidered with black rose vines at the hems and belted with black leather. Her gold signet ring was her only jewelry. Despite how comfortable the outfit should have been, she moved stiffly in it, pulling the sleeves down repeatedly, yanking the hem back in to place so the tunic laid smooth.
She'd barely made it down the stairs to the main hall before she was met by her new Seneschal, Vivien. She smiled warmly to the girl, the first face she remembered as always being friendly. The smile faltered only briefly when the younger woman dipped in to a curtsy.
"My Lady de la Rose, it's a pleasure to see you visiting. I regret that the Steward is not here today. If there's anything you need?"
"Please don't call me that, Viv. And I know where Ettyn is." Anya put her hands out palms up like she was trying to will the Seneschal to stand up again. "I need Duncan."
"The lawyer?" Vivien's face screwed up with distaste and confusion.
"Yes. Please send him to my solar. And uh, and a flagon of wine." It didn't matter how many times she promised herself she wouldn't drink here. She only ever made it this far, to the first person who asked what she needed.
*****
The solar of her suite had been decorated decades, perhaps centuries, earlier. Rather than redecorate, subsequent generations had simply added to the original design. The result was hunting trophies, weapons and furnishings stacked in a strata of the styles the Duchy had passed through. In the center of the mess, Anya had tucked herself in to the largest armchair available with her wine in hand and her feet pulled up under herself. Her boots laid on the floor in front of her.
She didn't move when there was a knock on the door. Her lack of reaction didn't prevent the door from swinging open to admit her Lawyer, followed by her Seneschal. Not many things seemed to stop people from coming in to her room when they wanted to.
"Lady de la Rose, I was told you wanted to see me." The lawyer's voice was quiet and measured. Anya assumed he'd practiced it for maximum grim reaper affect. He should have been a tax collector.
"Please have a seat. This won't be long." Anya waved to the chair nearest the one she was sitting in. She looked at the door to see Vivien step inside after Duncan and take up a post nearby.
The Lawyer made a show of arranging a line of scrolls on the table between the two chairs. "What will we be reviewing, my Lady?" He sat, slowly and deliberately. A pair of wire rimmed glasses Anya doubted he needed was produced from somewhere on his person and perched on his nose.
"My plan of succession. It's time for a change."
Duncan did not say anything. He carefully controlled expression remained neutral as he picked up one of the scrolls and cracked the seal. He laid an inkwell and quill alongside the newly unrolled parchment, more treasures produced from the pockets that covered his clothing. "What will the change be?"
"An amendment." Anya took a deep breath. "In the event the Lord or Lady should pass with no natural issue, all ownership, rights and titles of the Duchy of Skogaard shall pass to the Steward."
The quill scraped over the parchment, hitching almost imperceptibly on the last two words as it kept pace with Anya's dictation. "Will there be any other changes, Lady?"
"No. Thank you, Dunc." She leaned forward, finally placing her wine glass aside. With her right hand, she slid the golden signet ring off of her left. She waited in silence for the ink to dry enough, then for the Lawyer to preroll the parchment and drip red wax on the edge to bind it shut. She pressed her ring in to the wax as it cooled, leaving the impression of the rose behind clearly.
*****
With their business completed, Duncan had departed the solar to file the scrolls. Anya finished her glass of wine in silence and stood. She jumped to find Vivien still standing silently by the door.
"Oh gods, Viv. You're quiet as a mouse. Did you need something?" She had her hand over her heart, feeling it slow again.
"My apologies, Lady. I had hoped to speak with you about a concern some of the millers have brought to my attention."
"Go ahead, then." She'd bent to pull her boots back on while she listened to the answer.
"I've been told, my Lady, that there have been lights... in the graveyard by the mill. They see them most nights and, a few nights ago, one of the boys was working late. He swears he saw a woman there with dark hair leading, well, leading away a walking corpse." Viven's voice had dropped the entire time she talked until the end was merely a whisper. This was not a place where such reports were taken lightly or doubted.
Anya could hear the fear and she froze. A chill ran up her own spine while her stomach knotted. She waited to stand until she could steady herself. "Thanks, Viv. I'll find out what I can. I need to go."
She pushed the doors open herself. A tingling at the base of her spine told her eyes were on her. The familiar scrutiny felt threatening while she thought over Viven's news. She didn't stop feeling the need to run until she'd passed back through the portal home.
Early in the morning, on a day she knew she would not be needed, Anya stepped through the portal to her old home. She hadn't used it alone before and immediately felt like she was invading Ettyn's space. While the room she emerged in had once been part of her sister's suite, they were now Ettyn's chambers. She kept her eyes forward on her way through the rooms and out through the door to the suite. Household workers who had not expected anyone, let alone Anya, to emerge from the steward's rooms shied away from her then recovered and curtsied, bowed or nodded as possible.
For the trip, she'd changed in to something more suitable to Skoggard. Black linen pants tucked in to knee high riding boots, a red tunic top embroidered with black rose vines at the hems and belted with black leather. Her gold signet ring was her only jewelry. Despite how comfortable the outfit should have been, she moved stiffly in it, pulling the sleeves down repeatedly, yanking the hem back in to place so the tunic laid smooth.
She'd barely made it down the stairs to the main hall before she was met by her new Seneschal, Vivien. She smiled warmly to the girl, the first face she remembered as always being friendly. The smile faltered only briefly when the younger woman dipped in to a curtsy.
"My Lady de la Rose, it's a pleasure to see you visiting. I regret that the Steward is not here today. If there's anything you need?"
"Please don't call me that, Viv. And I know where Ettyn is." Anya put her hands out palms up like she was trying to will the Seneschal to stand up again. "I need Duncan."
"The lawyer?" Vivien's face screwed up with distaste and confusion.
"Yes. Please send him to my solar. And uh, and a flagon of wine." It didn't matter how many times she promised herself she wouldn't drink here. She only ever made it this far, to the first person who asked what she needed.
*****
The solar of her suite had been decorated decades, perhaps centuries, earlier. Rather than redecorate, subsequent generations had simply added to the original design. The result was hunting trophies, weapons and furnishings stacked in a strata of the styles the Duchy had passed through. In the center of the mess, Anya had tucked herself in to the largest armchair available with her wine in hand and her feet pulled up under herself. Her boots laid on the floor in front of her.
She didn't move when there was a knock on the door. Her lack of reaction didn't prevent the door from swinging open to admit her Lawyer, followed by her Seneschal. Not many things seemed to stop people from coming in to her room when they wanted to.
"Lady de la Rose, I was told you wanted to see me." The lawyer's voice was quiet and measured. Anya assumed he'd practiced it for maximum grim reaper affect. He should have been a tax collector.
"Please have a seat. This won't be long." Anya waved to the chair nearest the one she was sitting in. She looked at the door to see Vivien step inside after Duncan and take up a post nearby.
The Lawyer made a show of arranging a line of scrolls on the table between the two chairs. "What will we be reviewing, my Lady?" He sat, slowly and deliberately. A pair of wire rimmed glasses Anya doubted he needed was produced from somewhere on his person and perched on his nose.
"My plan of succession. It's time for a change."
Duncan did not say anything. He carefully controlled expression remained neutral as he picked up one of the scrolls and cracked the seal. He laid an inkwell and quill alongside the newly unrolled parchment, more treasures produced from the pockets that covered his clothing. "What will the change be?"
"An amendment." Anya took a deep breath. "In the event the Lord or Lady should pass with no natural issue, all ownership, rights and titles of the Duchy of Skogaard shall pass to the Steward."
The quill scraped over the parchment, hitching almost imperceptibly on the last two words as it kept pace with Anya's dictation. "Will there be any other changes, Lady?"
"No. Thank you, Dunc." She leaned forward, finally placing her wine glass aside. With her right hand, she slid the golden signet ring off of her left. She waited in silence for the ink to dry enough, then for the Lawyer to preroll the parchment and drip red wax on the edge to bind it shut. She pressed her ring in to the wax as it cooled, leaving the impression of the rose behind clearly.
*****
With their business completed, Duncan had departed the solar to file the scrolls. Anya finished her glass of wine in silence and stood. She jumped to find Vivien still standing silently by the door.
"Oh gods, Viv. You're quiet as a mouse. Did you need something?" She had her hand over her heart, feeling it slow again.
"My apologies, Lady. I had hoped to speak with you about a concern some of the millers have brought to my attention."
"Go ahead, then." She'd bent to pull her boots back on while she listened to the answer.
"I've been told, my Lady, that there have been lights... in the graveyard by the mill. They see them most nights and, a few nights ago, one of the boys was working late. He swears he saw a woman there with dark hair leading, well, leading away a walking corpse." Viven's voice had dropped the entire time she talked until the end was merely a whisper. This was not a place where such reports were taken lightly or doubted.
Anya could hear the fear and she froze. A chill ran up her own spine while her stomach knotted. She waited to stand until she could steady herself. "Thanks, Viv. I'll find out what I can. I need to go."
She pushed the doors open herself. A tingling at the base of her spine told her eyes were on her. The familiar scrutiny felt threatening while she thought over Viven's news. She didn't stop feeling the need to run until she'd passed back through the portal home.
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