Birthright: Chapter Seven

[ewancummins]

THE LOGGING CAMP


Not long after Gunnar has sworn fealty and Sir Ranald has begun to set up the armor auction, a messenger from the Duke arrives.

The man, a curtier dressed in the long cloak and ruff collar fashionable at Haes, steps into the tent and declares that Baron Lynwerd has been claimed by His Grace, Duke Devlin.

Sir Ranald coughs.
“What? Count Robin gave me his word —“


The courtier shrugs—“I don’t know anything about that. I’m just following my lord’s orders.
You are to immediately surrender his ancestral arms and armor."

The man stares hard at Gunnar.

“That sword is not your property. Hand it over.”
He holds out his hand to take Gunnar's new sword.

[ewancummins]

FOOTHILLS SOUTH OF THE ABBEY, FOERDE

Riding about the hills, scouting for signs of the foe, Foerde encounters a small patrol of light horsemen, bearing lances and swords, dressed in brigandine and mail. Painted spears cross the fronts of their shields.

The foremost of the patrol, a woman in armor, rides forward and doffs her helmet. The hawk-faced, youthful-looking woman shakes her crumpled hair loose of its mail coif.
“Ho, there, rider, are you one of our brethren?”
Fhylie spurs her steed a bit closer.
“I see that you are dressed in the habit of—oh! Your face—Landen?”

[ewancummins]

COUNT ROBIN'S HOUSE, FOX RUN, DEVLIN & FILBERT-


While Devlin receives a report from his fool-spy, Hotspur arrives, dressed for battle.


"Your Grace--"

The elf stride into the borrowed room as if it's his personal quarters and flops down into the nearest chair with just a slight wince on his thin face as he settles into the lumpy upholstery.


"Will we strike against Alamie soon? I yearn to avenge our fallen men. I may be immortal, but I don’t wish to wait forever for action.”

[ewancummins]

CORMAC AND CAPTAIN RENN

The two men, along with Sevet and Gatt, ride along the bumpy country road in the warm sunlight, headed towards the logging camp where Gunnar has been training fighters...

[RocEter]

FOOTHILLS SOUTH OF THE ABBEY, FOERDE

Riding about the hills, scouting for signs of the foe, Foerde encounters a small patrol of light horsemen, bearing lances and swords, dressed in brigandine and mail. Painted spears cross the fronts of their shields.

The foremost of the patrol, a woman in armor, rides forward and doffs her helmet. The hawk-faced, youthful-looking woman shakes her crumpled hair loose of its mail coif.
“Ho, there, rider, are you one of our brethren?”
Fhylie spurs her steed a bit closer.
“I see that you are dressed in the habit of—oh! Your face—Landen?”

Foerde gives a hearty laugh and then spurs his steed a bit a closer to her. "Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes, Grand Master." He says to her.

Lifting hands, slowly, Foerde lowers his hood so Fhylie can confirm his identity.

[ewancummins]

COUNT ROBIN'S HOUSE IN FOX RUN, AUDIENCE HALL, SAFANA


The dark, close-built stone and timber reception hall of Count Robin presents a stark contrast to the with the he airy, pastel-painted, artfully decorated receiving rooms of well-to-do Khinasi merchants and amirs.

The Count, a lean, hard-faced middle-aged man with long graying hair and drooping mustachios, rises from his oak chair and motions for Safana to sit in a chair brought forward by one of his servants.

“Lady Safana, I want to personally thank you for helping rescue my daughter, Beatrix. That scum, Lynwerd—“

His face twists in disgust-
“Will pay for his crimes, mark me. But that's another matter...”

A servant brings wine, and pours two glasses. Robin takes one.

“Sir Ranald tells me that you are a proper sorceress, not merely a sleight-of-hand trickster like the usual run of ‘wizards’ we have in these parts. Well, I’ve got a present for you. My fav--my eldest boy—“

The lines in his face deepen, aging him ten years at least.
“Studied magic for years, the only one of all our line in seven generations to take up the magical arts. He disappereed years ago, in the Five Peaks. I sent riders, offered rewards, waited, prayed. But he never came back and no tracker-- not even his brothers-- could find him. I’ve come to accept that he is dead. This-“

He reaches to a table set besides his chair and lifts a tome bound in battered leather and dull brass fittings.

“Was one of his books of grammarie. I want you to have it, as a guerdon for your valiant service to my house.”

[ewancummins]

HAES, EVENING, RIVERSIDE


ROALD & TORTHUR

Atli's hastily assembled gang of nine riverboat hands, footpads, and thieves meets Roald and Torthur in the back office of a burned out warehouse.

All the shutters are drawn or windows boarded up so the only light in the cramped room comes from a few candles burning atop the stained, battered table set in the midst of the meeting place.

Atli comes in through an interior door. His yellow-flecked eyes and golden teeth glitter in the gloom.
"Everybody’s here Torthur, Roald” the dwarf nods at his partners.

"These boys know they are stealing a boat and some cargo. No particulars, but they all agreed to that before the accepted the offer of work. None of us want rats to overhear things, start squealing.

[Brock Marsh Runoff]

LOGGING CAMP

On the way to the camp, Renn (along with Sevet and Gatt) encounters Cormac and his man Dietric. After a brief introduction, the two groups make their way on the road together.

"I hear tell you're becoming quite the local hero," he tells Cormac. "The boys say you're a man who knows how to put these goblins to the flight. I'm organizing a group of soldiers to harry the column escaping northward. Since you've been fighting in these lands, and know how the gobs tick, I'd welcome your expertise."

Once in the camp, Renn sees a man he recognizes. "Sir Ranald! I thought I might find you here. I'm looking for men who want to fight. And for the one called Gunnar."

[ewancummins]

FOOTHILLS SOUTH OF THE ABBEY, FOERDE

Riding about the hills, scouting for signs of the foe, Foerde encounters a small patrol of light horsemen, bearing lances and swords, dressed in brigandine and mail. Painted spears cross the fronts of their shields.

The foremost of the patrol, a woman in armor, rides forward and doffs her helmet. The hawk-faced, youthful-looking woman shakes her crumpled hair loose of its mail coif.
“Ho, there, rider, are you one of our brethren?”
Fhylie spurs her steed a bit closer.
“I see that you are dressed in the habit of—oh! Your face—Landen?”

Foerde gives a hearty laugh and then spurs his steed a bit a closer to her. "Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes, Grand Master." He says to her.

Lifting hands, slowly, Foerde lowers his hood so Fhylie can confirm his identity.

"It is you!"

Fhylie smiles.
“There’s a lot of fighting going on, but I suppose you know that by now. “

She permits herself a grim chuckle.
“It's more than raids. Duke Carilon assassinated Duke Gilgaed, and Gigaed's son Devlin leads the realm now. The Alamiens are in league with the monsters of the Five Peaks, so it seems. I was busy down south, under siege in Haes for a time. Now I’ve called together the Spears; raised volunteers to carry the war north and rescue any captives the goblins have taken.”

She rides alongside her old friends, looking him up and down.
“Tell me, since you are dressed as a monk, do you know anything about the fight that men say took place at the abbey to the north? I hear a great hero, Cormac Rogerson, and his companions led the defense. And with him was a priest of our god, a fierce warrior marked with a lion’s mane, who called down the power of the Thunderer to smite the foe. He called that man Foerde.”

Her smile widens.
“Anyone I ought to know, Landen?”

[RocEter]

FOOTHILLS SOUTH OF THE ABBEY, FOERDE

Riding about the hills, scouting for signs of the foe, Foerde encounters a small patrol of light horsemen, bearing lances and swords, dressed in brigandine and mail. Painted spears cross the fronts of their shields.

The foremost of the patrol, a woman in armor, rides forward and doffs her helmet. The hawk-faced, youthful-looking woman shakes her crumpled hair loose of its mail coif.
“Ho, there, rider, are you one of our brethren?”
Fhylie spurs her steed a bit closer.
“I see that you are dressed in the habit of—oh! Your face—Landen?”

Foerde gives a hearty laugh and then spurs his steed a bit a closer to her. "Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes, Grand Master." He says to her.

Lifting hands, slowly, Foerde lowers his hood so Fhylie can confirm his identity.

"It is you!"

Fhylie smiles.
“There’s a lot of fighting going on, but I suppose you know that by now. “

She permits herself a grim chuckle.
“It's more than raids. Duke Carilon assassinated Duke Gilgaed, and Gigaed's son Devlin leads the realm now. The Alamiens are in league with the monsters of the Five Peaks, so it seems. I was busy down south, under siege in Haes for a time. Now I’ve called together the Spears; raised volunteers to carry the war north and rescue any captives the goblins have taken.”

She rides alongside her old friends, looking him up and down.
“Tell me, since you are dressed as a monk, do you know anything about the fight that men say took place at the abbey to the north? I hear a great hero, Cormac Rogerson, and his companions led the defense. And with him was a priest of our god, a fierce warrior marked with a lion’s mane, who called down the power of the Thunderer to smite the foe. He called that man Foerde.”

Her smile widens.
“Anyone I ought to know, Landen?”

"The rumors are true then, we are at war with Alamie." Foerde says with a grim expression on his face. "The boy has become a man now.." Is all he has to say about Devlin taking charge.

"Know about? I was there! It was no defense Grand Master, it was an assault. Cormac and crew, along with myself, assaulted the abbey which the goblins had taken over. It was a glorious battle and the Thunderer got his first taste of vengeance." He says, with a slight smile.

"Ha! Been so long since I checked in, I go by Foerde of Elvesnemiere now Grand Master. Foerde works just fine though, or Landen. Can't be too picky about my names. I do have many of them.."

[Varrus the Ethical]

Haes, Evening, Riverside

HAES, EVENING, RIVERSIDE

"These boys know they are stealing a boat and some cargo. No particulars, but they all agreed to that before the accepted the offer of work. None of us want rats to overhear things, start squealing.

"Your discretion is appreciated, Atili." Roald turns to the men. "I think you'll all be pleasantly surprised in what I have planned. I just hope none of you are afraid of being on the water when it's dark."

[ewancummins]

FOERDE, HILLS SOUTH OF THE ABBEY

''Of course.''
She listens attentively as Landen/Foerde tells her more.
‘’Good job!’’
She turns in the saddle, first to the north and then to the south, surveying the country.
''We must be especially wary in this territory. Scouts report a large force of goblins and armored horsemen headed more or less this way. I need your best assessment. Do you think the Abbey is defensible now, if I lend you some of the Spears--or should it be evacuated? "


Rain begins to fall.

[ewancummins]

HAES, EVENING, RIVERSIDE



Subdued laughter rises from the assembled criminals.

A scar-faced thug replies-
''Naw, I likes boatin’ in the dark. Row slow 'n' quiet, nice 'n' peaceful, don't set off the Night Watch.''

[Lord Skybolt]

THE LOGGING CAMP


Not long after Gunnar has sworn fealty and Sir Ranald has begun to set up the armor auction, a messenger from the Duke arrives.

The man, a curtier dressed in the long cloak and ruff collar fashionable at Haes, steps into the tent and declares that Baron Lynwerd has been claimed by His Grace, Duke Devlin.

Sir Ranald coughs.
“What? Count Robin gave me his word —“


The courtier shrugs—“I don’t know anything about that. I’m just following my lord’s orders.
You are to immediately surrender his ancestral arms and armor."

The man stares hard at Gunnar.

“That sword is not your property. Hand it over.”
He holds out his hand to take Gunnar's new sword.

"That's interesting, do you have writ from the Duke ? And this sword was lawfully taken in combat against of an enemy of the Realm as spoils of war ." Turning to Sir Ranald :"Do you know anything about any of his arms and armor being ancestral, this sword certainly does not bear the crest of the House of Sorellen ."Gunnar says as he use a whetstone on his Sword and exams it more closely . Gunnar looks at the courtier and raises an eye brow wondering what he is going to do next as he make no move to give the man his sword .

[Varrus the Ethical]

Haes, Roald


Roald's grin is predatory. "Good. Because tonight will be especially dark." He points up. "No moon tonight. We'll be ghosts out on the river. Rich ghosts when we come back, I have no doubt."