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Some rest after adventuring, featuring Wendigo and his cleric companion, Peach.
Peach and art by the lovely
foxpeach !
His ears caught the sound of their drums. His nose the scent of their mead. His eyes picked the painted shapes dancing around the pyre and shadows. Many. So many. One of these shapes had it, dangling around the neck with a piece of twyne.
Behind the comfort of shade and wood they waited till the chanting subdued and the bodies slumped drunkenly in huts or in the dirt. Then he told her to wait with the horses.
He could see it in her eyes. She was ready to protest. He silenced her with a few kind words and a kiss.
Bloody gentleman-in-the-making.
Don’t get caught.
Do not get caught.
Do. Not. Get. caught.
Of course, he discovered the gem. Of course, it was relinquished to the chief.
Strong build yet crudely faced man sleeping with a gaggle of whores. The stone was just like the client described it. He wasn’t a thief, yet the fingers moved with a thief’s acuteness. Both sides of the twyre cut, lifting it in feathery motion. Feeling the coldness burn inside his pocket. And whether because of divine comedy or an aftereffect of his curse, one of the women woke up. Understandably, her first natural instinct was to shriek like a banshee.
So much for not getting caught.
***
She studied the gem with such intent.
It was the kind of concentration when reciting the passages for bleeding and battered limbs. And the kind of concentration when she stumbled on a good book. The nerves cold like the jagged surface. The wind gliding past trees and the crackling of embers were nothing more than faint guttural noise. She forgot about the empty belly, the dry throat and the aching legs.
As a cleric she knew when matters of the soul were concerned, both in the metaphorical and literal. She knew the intensity of human souls, elven, orcish, gnomish, dwarven, kitsune, beast and artificial. Even those cursed like her friend, carried a warmth. Inside this rock was a slumbering soul, unlike any she’d ever felt.
Her companion the Wendigo sat next to her. He’d filled a bucket from a nearby stream to cleanse his blade. Hours passed since the sword tasted blood and the coppery aroma was still fresh to his trained senses. He was happy she didn’t have to taint her blade. Not because he doubted her skill or her nerves. He simply didn’t want to bother her with such barbarisms.
She thought. “What are you?”
His wounds did not knit as they normally did. The telltale sign of cold iron. They’d only managed to gash his arms and chest, and the Wendigo, as was policy, replied. Not gutted. Not maimed. Around the fox, he was reminded of what it meant to be “civilized”.
“There’s something in there.” she muttered under her breath. “Something old…subdued.”
He watched the scarlet dilute and trickle. “Subdued?” he repeated.
“Some kind of entity. A soul, though…restrained. Like…stuck underneath a sheet of ice.”
“Benign?” He felt it appropriate to ask.
She replied honestly. “I hope.”
Peach laid the rock next to her feet and scooched closer, carefully pulling away his vest to examine the wounds. Again, with the machismo. She was no longer sore about his bout of machismo.
“If it stings, well, that’s the cost of chivalry, dear.”
“I’m a simple man with a simple mission.” he wiped the sword, now glistening next to the flame like spilt silver. “Want me to see if I can get us something fresh? To commemorate our little victory.”
“Want to be a gentleman again?”
“But I am a gentleman, woman.”
For that she gave him a kiss on his cheek.
After he went scouring for game, the fox resumed her trance. There was no mention of the target being a soulstone. What was their client planning to do with such a thing? And most importantly, whose soul rested inside?
***
Three days ago.
The Bride’s Inn was in the heart of Saint Thiery, a town huddled below the mountains. That night was the Farmer’s Festival. Streets laden with stalls selling honey, stiff homebrewed spirits, dried vegetables and fruits, spiced meats of all kinds, the spices used, tapestries crafted with such meticulous care, flower field colored confections, and everything else produced by honest commoner hands. A healthy beating city heart to lift the spirits of native or traveller. Inside the Bride’s Inn the aroma of lemon roasted hog dragged out of the kitchen and into the street. Young freckle-faced maids did the rounds, the kind of angel features that drew the eyes of many. Two bards next to the counter, one singing, one playing the guitar, some coin in the guitar case next to their feet, and drowned by the mirth of the clientele. And in one corner, there were talks of grim business.
Wine for the lady, beer for the gentleman-in-the-making.
“The Hireling’s Guild assured me you’re a reliable character.” said Obediah Stark. “You’ve a reputation for being brutally efficient, and efficiently brutal.”
“I’ve done business with this branch and I’ve had to stain my blade on some occasions.” retorted the Wendigo. “I try to avoid unnecessary blood.”
“Even when conflict is rushing at you?”
“Even then.”
The answer pleased the client. “An admirable quality. And naturally, the Guild gave you all the legal details?”
The Wendigo nodded.
Obediah Stark was the oldest and most diligent of Eduard Stark’s children, thus he got the lion share of Stark and Sons Ore And Jewelry Company. Stark and Sons was known in the region for producing the kind of quality fops from the capital preen over. Their mine was at the base of the mountain and the family had been gouging its contents since Saint Thiery’s infancy. There wasn’t a single miner or engineer in Saint Thiery who hadn’t dipped in their purse. There wasn’t a celebration, council meeting or orgy Obediah Stark did not finance or attend. All the bench jewellers outside were associated with him. Obediah was a social pusher. A pusher is always an oddity among the drudges and commonfolk. Neatly dressed frilly shirt and golden and emerald flower patterned jacket. Glimmering like the gems his business ripped from the earth. His features were boyish, innocent, looking like a cherub all grown up. His locks were even curled like a cherub’s, save for the color of crude. A fop like the fops he catered to.
Like every man gracing the Hireling’s Guild, Obediah Stark had an objective neither he or the city guard could fulfill. Obediah Stark was looking for an intelligent man, who had the vitality to fight multiple men, who could track, who was swift, and above all, keep his gob shut. Satisfaction was secondary, recovering his possessions was primary. He stuck his nose in the Saint Thiery branch and hashed out all the terms with the clerks. And by pure chance he stumbled on the Wendigo.
Business had been dry. His organism craved the finer parts of life, and thus he was more receptive than usual. Coupled with a desire to cheer up a certain someone.
Lots of folk jumped at the opportunity, mainly fledgelings looking to etch out a name. He sized up the Wendigo, made a few notes in that colorful brain of his, heard the clerks give their piece, and asked “you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty?”.
Stark proved his intent by paying his retainer and the Guild fee.
“Please start from the beginning.” said the fox. Her tail casually brushing against her companion’s back, a subconscious display of affection.
“Yes, yes.” began Stark. “I was ambushed by a band of heathens at Maiden’s Tear.” he sipped his gin to submerge the scorn in his voice. “With me was a chest housing material for a special commission, a violet stone unlike any other. Like a shard of ice. These creatures dispatched my guard like it were child’s play, the poor devils. Fearing violence my horse threw me off with the cargo. I scurried to retrieve it, I wanted to, but the moment their bloodthirsty eyes turned, my body moved on its own volition. I kept running for Gods know how long, until I stumbled on Kindly Knights. They generously nursed me back to health. I remember their faces. Savages. Slaughtering my men, stealing from me…bloody savages.”
The fox asked. “Do you believe this is a personal attack?”
He shook his head.
She continued. “It must be a very important commission if running wasn’t your first response.”
“Well, when you’ve got an entire dynasty resting on your shoulders, instinct tends to get overwritten. This was to be my family’s grandest project yet. Should you succeed, I’ll be eternally in your debt.”
They asked him to describe his attackers. Shaggy animal skins barely masking their painted bodies. From her satchel the fox took out a piece of paper and a pencil. She asked Stark to draw their markings, the chest, the gem, as well as to write any tidbits he deemed revelatory. They were human, though their boorish features could lead to them being mistaken for orcs. Stark called it the result of inbreeding. Crude swords and spears from bone and raw metal, their primitive technology countered by their unrelenting spirit. The duo drank their drinks and his words. They thought it a miracle he survived. And finally, as if to segment the societal contrast, reminded them of the legal status of tribals.
“Needless to say, strong arm tactics are a no.” said the fox. “We’ve had to play the role of purse snatcher in the past so, with some luck and deftness, we can do it.”
“And if we fail to discover the stone.” began the Wendigo. “If it has been relinquished to a different party and we cannot retrieve it, what should we do?”
“Not going to pawn it to the Junkers’, I hope.”
“I am bound to the contract and the contract is bound to my honor.”
It was true. The Guild had been modernized. They had a reputation, a market, and people to weed out the cheats. If you were caught foul playing you’d be ostracized. If you tried to cash in a contract once you’re deemed unreliable, all proceeds would go to the Guild and the state. If you were caught assuming a different identity, then a bounty would be set on you. It was a known fact that those caught served heavy sentences. Be good and the money comes.
Obediah Stark thought for a moment. Then came out the bitterness. “Give me something of theirs. Helm or hide or blade, or, Gods, something valuable. Or kill some of their horses. Reply with the same caliber of savagery. To remind them tribal ways are not welcome.”
The Wendigo asked him to write that detail in the document and the man complied. He was receptive. Very receptive.
Peach and art by the lovely
foxpeach !His ears caught the sound of their drums. His nose the scent of their mead. His eyes picked the painted shapes dancing around the pyre and shadows. Many. So many. One of these shapes had it, dangling around the neck with a piece of twyne.
Behind the comfort of shade and wood they waited till the chanting subdued and the bodies slumped drunkenly in huts or in the dirt. Then he told her to wait with the horses.
He could see it in her eyes. She was ready to protest. He silenced her with a few kind words and a kiss.
Bloody gentleman-in-the-making.
Don’t get caught.
Do not get caught.
Do. Not. Get. caught.
Of course, he discovered the gem. Of course, it was relinquished to the chief.
Strong build yet crudely faced man sleeping with a gaggle of whores. The stone was just like the client described it. He wasn’t a thief, yet the fingers moved with a thief’s acuteness. Both sides of the twyre cut, lifting it in feathery motion. Feeling the coldness burn inside his pocket. And whether because of divine comedy or an aftereffect of his curse, one of the women woke up. Understandably, her first natural instinct was to shriek like a banshee.
So much for not getting caught.
***
She studied the gem with such intent.
It was the kind of concentration when reciting the passages for bleeding and battered limbs. And the kind of concentration when she stumbled on a good book. The nerves cold like the jagged surface. The wind gliding past trees and the crackling of embers were nothing more than faint guttural noise. She forgot about the empty belly, the dry throat and the aching legs.
As a cleric she knew when matters of the soul were concerned, both in the metaphorical and literal. She knew the intensity of human souls, elven, orcish, gnomish, dwarven, kitsune, beast and artificial. Even those cursed like her friend, carried a warmth. Inside this rock was a slumbering soul, unlike any she’d ever felt.
Her companion the Wendigo sat next to her. He’d filled a bucket from a nearby stream to cleanse his blade. Hours passed since the sword tasted blood and the coppery aroma was still fresh to his trained senses. He was happy she didn’t have to taint her blade. Not because he doubted her skill or her nerves. He simply didn’t want to bother her with such barbarisms.
She thought. “What are you?”
His wounds did not knit as they normally did. The telltale sign of cold iron. They’d only managed to gash his arms and chest, and the Wendigo, as was policy, replied. Not gutted. Not maimed. Around the fox, he was reminded of what it meant to be “civilized”.
“There’s something in there.” she muttered under her breath. “Something old…subdued.”
He watched the scarlet dilute and trickle. “Subdued?” he repeated.
“Some kind of entity. A soul, though…restrained. Like…stuck underneath a sheet of ice.”
“Benign?” He felt it appropriate to ask.
She replied honestly. “I hope.”
Peach laid the rock next to her feet and scooched closer, carefully pulling away his vest to examine the wounds. Again, with the machismo. She was no longer sore about his bout of machismo.
“If it stings, well, that’s the cost of chivalry, dear.”
“I’m a simple man with a simple mission.” he wiped the sword, now glistening next to the flame like spilt silver. “Want me to see if I can get us something fresh? To commemorate our little victory.”
“Want to be a gentleman again?”
“But I am a gentleman, woman.”
For that she gave him a kiss on his cheek.
After he went scouring for game, the fox resumed her trance. There was no mention of the target being a soulstone. What was their client planning to do with such a thing? And most importantly, whose soul rested inside?
***
Three days ago.
The Bride’s Inn was in the heart of Saint Thiery, a town huddled below the mountains. That night was the Farmer’s Festival. Streets laden with stalls selling honey, stiff homebrewed spirits, dried vegetables and fruits, spiced meats of all kinds, the spices used, tapestries crafted with such meticulous care, flower field colored confections, and everything else produced by honest commoner hands. A healthy beating city heart to lift the spirits of native or traveller. Inside the Bride’s Inn the aroma of lemon roasted hog dragged out of the kitchen and into the street. Young freckle-faced maids did the rounds, the kind of angel features that drew the eyes of many. Two bards next to the counter, one singing, one playing the guitar, some coin in the guitar case next to their feet, and drowned by the mirth of the clientele. And in one corner, there were talks of grim business.
Wine for the lady, beer for the gentleman-in-the-making.
“The Hireling’s Guild assured me you’re a reliable character.” said Obediah Stark. “You’ve a reputation for being brutally efficient, and efficiently brutal.”
“I’ve done business with this branch and I’ve had to stain my blade on some occasions.” retorted the Wendigo. “I try to avoid unnecessary blood.”
“Even when conflict is rushing at you?”
“Even then.”
The answer pleased the client. “An admirable quality. And naturally, the Guild gave you all the legal details?”
The Wendigo nodded.
Obediah Stark was the oldest and most diligent of Eduard Stark’s children, thus he got the lion share of Stark and Sons Ore And Jewelry Company. Stark and Sons was known in the region for producing the kind of quality fops from the capital preen over. Their mine was at the base of the mountain and the family had been gouging its contents since Saint Thiery’s infancy. There wasn’t a single miner or engineer in Saint Thiery who hadn’t dipped in their purse. There wasn’t a celebration, council meeting or orgy Obediah Stark did not finance or attend. All the bench jewellers outside were associated with him. Obediah was a social pusher. A pusher is always an oddity among the drudges and commonfolk. Neatly dressed frilly shirt and golden and emerald flower patterned jacket. Glimmering like the gems his business ripped from the earth. His features were boyish, innocent, looking like a cherub all grown up. His locks were even curled like a cherub’s, save for the color of crude. A fop like the fops he catered to.
Like every man gracing the Hireling’s Guild, Obediah Stark had an objective neither he or the city guard could fulfill. Obediah Stark was looking for an intelligent man, who had the vitality to fight multiple men, who could track, who was swift, and above all, keep his gob shut. Satisfaction was secondary, recovering his possessions was primary. He stuck his nose in the Saint Thiery branch and hashed out all the terms with the clerks. And by pure chance he stumbled on the Wendigo.
Business had been dry. His organism craved the finer parts of life, and thus he was more receptive than usual. Coupled with a desire to cheer up a certain someone.
Lots of folk jumped at the opportunity, mainly fledgelings looking to etch out a name. He sized up the Wendigo, made a few notes in that colorful brain of his, heard the clerks give their piece, and asked “you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty?”.
Stark proved his intent by paying his retainer and the Guild fee.
“Please start from the beginning.” said the fox. Her tail casually brushing against her companion’s back, a subconscious display of affection.
“Yes, yes.” began Stark. “I was ambushed by a band of heathens at Maiden’s Tear.” he sipped his gin to submerge the scorn in his voice. “With me was a chest housing material for a special commission, a violet stone unlike any other. Like a shard of ice. These creatures dispatched my guard like it were child’s play, the poor devils. Fearing violence my horse threw me off with the cargo. I scurried to retrieve it, I wanted to, but the moment their bloodthirsty eyes turned, my body moved on its own volition. I kept running for Gods know how long, until I stumbled on Kindly Knights. They generously nursed me back to health. I remember their faces. Savages. Slaughtering my men, stealing from me…bloody savages.”
The fox asked. “Do you believe this is a personal attack?”
He shook his head.
She continued. “It must be a very important commission if running wasn’t your first response.”
“Well, when you’ve got an entire dynasty resting on your shoulders, instinct tends to get overwritten. This was to be my family’s grandest project yet. Should you succeed, I’ll be eternally in your debt.”
They asked him to describe his attackers. Shaggy animal skins barely masking their painted bodies. From her satchel the fox took out a piece of paper and a pencil. She asked Stark to draw their markings, the chest, the gem, as well as to write any tidbits he deemed revelatory. They were human, though their boorish features could lead to them being mistaken for orcs. Stark called it the result of inbreeding. Crude swords and spears from bone and raw metal, their primitive technology countered by their unrelenting spirit. The duo drank their drinks and his words. They thought it a miracle he survived. And finally, as if to segment the societal contrast, reminded them of the legal status of tribals.
“Needless to say, strong arm tactics are a no.” said the fox. “We’ve had to play the role of purse snatcher in the past so, with some luck and deftness, we can do it.”
“And if we fail to discover the stone.” began the Wendigo. “If it has been relinquished to a different party and we cannot retrieve it, what should we do?”
“Not going to pawn it to the Junkers’, I hope.”
“I am bound to the contract and the contract is bound to my honor.”
It was true. The Guild had been modernized. They had a reputation, a market, and people to weed out the cheats. If you were caught foul playing you’d be ostracized. If you tried to cash in a contract once you’re deemed unreliable, all proceeds would go to the Guild and the state. If you were caught assuming a different identity, then a bounty would be set on you. It was a known fact that those caught served heavy sentences. Be good and the money comes.
Obediah Stark thought for a moment. Then came out the bitterness. “Give me something of theirs. Helm or hide or blade, or, Gods, something valuable. Or kill some of their horses. Reply with the same caliber of savagery. To remind them tribal ways are not welcome.”
The Wendigo asked him to write that detail in the document and the man complied. He was receptive. Very receptive.
Category Artwork (Digital) / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 1920 x 1920px
File Size 3.54 MB
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