Runelords

"A good writer possesses not only his own spirit, but also the spirit of his friends."
- Friedrich Nietzsche

It looked as though it was going to be another beautiful day in Pell. There were a few clouds dotting the sky and a cool morning breeze was making its way through the city. The general population was excited for the Veyond Festival and the weather seemed to be a reflection of their excitement.

Not far outside of Pell, large tents and campgrounds were springing up like a mini-city. The Southern area of the grounds was vendors and merchants from all over Rofehaven who had been coming over the last few days. In the Northern area you could find countless servants setting up tents for their lords as well as other nobles. In the center of the area was the main attraction, a large, wooden, arena that had taken several months to build. It was to be the location for a variety of events and competitions. The arena could be seen from almost anywhere around the grounds, but that wasn't too surprising as most everyone were still setting up their tents.

In the 'streets' between the tents of the merchants, mainly to think, was Gaborn. The dark green cloak hung loosely off his shoulders, covering the burgundy colored clothing beneath. Years ago and a festival like this would have found Gaborn in full celebration, likely with a few tankards of ale nearby. Now though, there was little hint of excitement in his appearance or mood, it was business as usual for him. His dark eyes darted back and forth between the men and women that were setting their stalls and tents up, the occasional ‘good morning’ or ‘hello’ to those who greeted him. Between the weather and the obvious enthusiasm everyone was showing, it looked as though this was going to be a very memorable few days.

OOC: Sorry for the short post, but the IC is now open. Post either on your way to Blackwood or already arriving, and the rest is up to you.

There was a silly thing about Rofehaven. The world all came together and unglued all at once when festivals of the nature near Pell were about. On the surface, it almost seemed like a Harem. The women in this case would be the Lords of Rofehaven, all excited, giddy, and oh so polite, until the dagger came in the darkness of the night. Beneath the surface everything was coming undone as the political wars flew across the tables like arrows in the night; hidden behind kind words, that is.

And then there was Forsythe; watching and waiting like a hawk from within. He had no affiliation, and became whatever was required of him. At the moment, and for the past week, he'd been a worker on the Arena. Now complete, he went on to construction of booths and what not for the general comfort of those assembled to watch the games. Mostly barracks for non-nobles who spent away their measly earnings and gave to the lords and independent merchants freely for trifles.

His time in service of the Lord of Pinevale, Sir Kirtani Redwind, and his spouse the Lady Gwenore Redwind of Rockholm, had shown him the real state of the world and true life of the lords. It had opened his eyes to the workings of lords to peons, and what it all meant. It wasn't that he approved or disapproved. Pinevale is, was, and always will be, Forsythe's motherland and love. He had sacrificed his very life, or what counts, for it. No ties, no traces... totally a ghost of a human. A spectre. The only thing that remains of friendship and family is the Lord Kirtani, and the Brotherhood of the Crescent Moon.

Presently, in the droll of monotony, his thoughts moved to the mute girl that dedicated her quality of voice to him, locked away with as much service to him as he had to Pinevale. Thoughts of his dedicates, who he could remember to the very pores of their face and hairs of their head, no doubt to the credit of his endowment of wit, almost always brought his heart to wailing. The only soft spot he had in life, truly. As of recently, his lifestyle had made him an incredibly cold individual when playing the role of himself. Most of the time he forgot if he was Forsythe of the Brotherhood of the Crescent Moon, or Durand the carpenter, Marciano the tentmaker, or some other fiction to gather information.

His eyes snapped to immediately though, as the Lord of Firenze walked from his tent. He sported a new set of rings and a crimson cape of quite fine quality. A far cry from the average merchant's lounge wear he usually sported. He must have made some agreement behind closed doors some time in the past year. The cocky grin on his face told of a renewed confidence. A service for gold, probably, considering he had few exports that garnished money like that. There were important people who wanted to go through his land and save a day's travel. It is likely that they struck a deal. No matter, Kirtani would come with his trophy wife tomorrow and his duty would be done for the time being. He would report the news he'd heard and seen, tell him that there are no tricks in the construction of the arena except those meant to be hidden to the Lords and competitors alike. He would not spoil those for his lord and break the time honored traditions of Rofehaven.

Emale rode as fast and has hard as her force horse could carry her. Her long black hair flapped wildly, as she had lost the ties that bond it a few hours ago. She gripped the reins hard causing her knuckles to turn white, and her palms were red from the rubbing. She spurred her horse onward down the small path and cross its rocky terrain.

Nearly a week ago she had left Voricia with a small convoy to travel to the Veyond Festival. However, the convoy’s wagon could not hold up to the rough path she had chosen to travel. Braking down only a few days before the games were to begin, Emale had little patience to wait and went on ahead, and left her second in charge.

Within a few hours, Emale pulled back on the reins and come to a complete halt. For a moment she looked down from the small hill she had just crested. Tents of all sizes and shapes littered the landscape.

This was not Emale’s first festival and more than likely not her last. However, she never gave it much thought. She would only bring a few Amazons, and only enough supplies to sustain them. Emale did not like to make a display out of her self. Voricia was a small country and one that brought a much controversy. Though Voricia was currently at peace, it was always on guard against those that thought its politics were morally wrong.

With a small flick of her right wrist and a click of her tongue the horse quickly spun in a semi-circle and dashed down toward the massive grouping of tents. With each thump of the horses hoofs Emale was brought closer and closer.

Once again she pulled back on the reins slowing her horse to a trot, and patted her horse on the neck. Leaning forward she spoke into its ear. “Good Girl, remind me to give you a treat when Linus gets here.” The horse huffed and shook its head in response, and come to a stop.

Now in the middle of the tents, Emale hopped off her horse. Quickly glancing around, she saw a rather puny boy taking care of another horse.

“You there boy.” she pointed and walked over to the boy with reins in hand. “What is your name?”

“Marcos, Mi’lady” the boy spoke with a boldness that Emale was not used to.

Taking a moment to remember that she was not in her own country she continues to ask, “Who is your master Marcos?” Her voice was calm and she spoke very slowly as if specking to a child who did not understand.

“The Baron Mirmor, Mi’lady” the boy seemed to be annoyed by her tone.

It was a name she recognized. “Good, here watch my horse for me.” She held out the reins to the boy. “If your Master asks, tell him that she belongs to First Lady Emale. He should not have a problem. Do… you… understand?”

“Yes” the boy bit his tongue at being ordered around by a woman who thought he was stupid. With that he took the reins and walked the horse away.

Emale took a deep breath, clenching her fists as the boy turned his back on her, and let it out. “Do they not teach them manors” she cursed to herself as she looked down at her garments.

Quickly she brushed off the dirt and rearranged herself to look presentable. Today she wore one of her best riding attire. She wore a tunic, as black as her hair, trimmed with deep purple braids around the neck and cuffs and black riding pants to match. Her boots came all the way of to her knees and was decorated with straps of purple leather. A black belt adorned her hips. Hanging from it was her long sword and hip pouch. Reaching into her hip pouch she pulled out a long blue ribbon, swiftly reaching back and tying the long tendrils of hair back into a lose ponytail.

She surveyed her surrounding and eyed what appeared to be the fighting Arena. That was as good as anywhere to wait until her people arrived. With almost a skip in her step she headed to see where the fighting would take place.

The Veyond Festival. A symbol of the peace and prosperity for all the citizens of Rofehaven.

Somehow, it never felt that way to Aron.

His duties during the festival were always a ceaseless struggle to keep the thieves and thugs out, and stop overzealous lords and noblemen from biting each other’s heads off. Never the less, the excitement in the air was undeniable. Children played in the streets of the makeshift village of tents and stands, and some of the adults had broken out the tankards of ale to begin festivities early. Even Aron found himself a little caught up in the infectious enthusiasm in the air, smiling and greeting all those along the stretch that acknowledged the captain.

He was wearing his plain leather garb despite others urging him to put on colorful, decorative armor for the celebration. Aron had flatly refused the flamboyant apparel; a decision he was glad to have made. He chuckled at the others guards dressed in the fancy armor struggling to blend in. Suddenly, a man came barreling around one of the tents, breaking Aron from his thoughts. The figure shoved his way through the crowds of people as two angry guards rounded the corner after him.

"Stop him!" one of the guards shouted.

The crook paid no heed to Aron, who had now slowly began to push his way through the crowd to intercept him. The man was large, using his girth to drive his way through the crowd, until he ran into Aron. The man plowed right into him, but Aron was ready for this. Bracing himself, Aron quickly ducked the mans outstretched arms and slammed his shoulder into his pelvis. Before the unfortunate thief even knew what had happened, he found himself on his back, struggling to regain his breath.

"Thank you, sir!" one of the guards saluted Aron as he ran up.

"Lock him up, gentlemen." Aron replied, hefting the dazed criminal to his feet and tossing him to the guards. A few witnesses cheered as Aron resumed his watch.

"The celebrations haven't even started yet and we're throwing people in the dungeon," Aron muttered to himself. "This is sure to be an interesting festival."

Emale ran her hand along the rails around the center ring. She stared into the empty space, trying to imagine the events that would take place over the next couple of days. Hundreds of people flocked to the seats to see the highest of lords and knights fight. Nearly a decade ago she participated for the first time. Being the only woman had been a challenge, but she managed to survive.

Voricia is peaceful nation but it did not start out that way. The legend says that barbarians came from the North, and threatened the very lives of her people’s ancestors. However, one woman stood up against the barbarians. Wielding a sword as just as the barbarians did. She gathered an army, and brought the barbarians to their knees. It was that woman that would become the royal figure head of her Kingdom. It was that woman that Emale descended from.

Emale stepped into the ring, her feet kicking up a dust cloud. She trusted that there were no tricks in the construction of ring, but she wanted to know the ring like it was the back of her hand. She would use that to her tactical advantage.

Quickly she glanced to the stands and the surrounding area. With three endowments of sight, she knew that she was unwatched, for now. She took several more steps into the ring, and drew her sword. What better time to get to get some practice. Taking a deep she began. Moving at half speed she practiced each move with precision. Calmly sticking at an imaginary target.

"There are so many people here..."

Genevera glanced over her shoulder, sitting at a table in a merchants tent, glaring over the crowd that continues to grow around the large wooden arena. Laughter and conversations by hundreds of people seem to blend, creating an almost bee hive affect - people swarming for the best view, as if the they were bees and the arena was covered in sweet nectar.

Moments pass, and the noise of anticipation continue to fill the area. However, a stir in the crowd catches Genevera's eye. A large man falls to the ground, holding his mid section as he attempts to get up. The crowd seems to give room for a second man, who hands over the beaten man over to the authorities. "Lock him up!" Did she hear him correctly? What could this man have done to deserve such a devastating attack? She shakes her head, and turns her attention back to her cup of tea, breathing cool air over the warm dark surface.

Genevera is a young beautiful woman, and this she knew all too well. Over the years, Genevera has learned that men, especially younger men, can be easily manipulated. She always found this amusing, knowing that her magical and physical skills could easily disable a man - but knowing that disabling a man with only words was more powerful than anything else. However, women on the other hand were not so receptive. Living with young men, training along side the Guardians of Light - interactions with women of her own age was not an everday occurrence.

"I best make my way over...this better be worth it...."

Genevera gently raised herself to her feet, using her long silver staff to hold her weight as she throw a simple leather bag over her shoulder. Before leaving the merchants tent, she placed a few extra coins on the table for the young servant boy. "This should help him out."

She made her way towards the arena attempting to navigate through a maze of strangers. As she drew closer to the edge of the ring, a man came running towards her, not paying attention that she was in his path. Genevera attempted to dodge the man, however she lost her footing. Her body was tossed over the railing, her bag dropping to the ground, and her staff along with it. There was a slight slope, and from the force of falling she rolled further into the ring.

A woman, clad in a black tunic, lunged forward as Genevera stopped rolling from the impact. A glimmer of light sliced through the air such as only a sword of brilliant metal can make. Genevera let out a loud shriek, covering her face with her arms. A burning sensation overcame her, as it does most times before the chaotic and still unmanaged powers within her attempts to escape.

Continuing his duties, Forsythe was asked to do some inspection work on the Arena every day by the head carpenter. After all, while it was a one-time use arena, it would get the work of a lifetime. The weight of the people watching the events would be immense. One peg forgotten, one spike out of place, or cracked timber in the expansion and contraction in the heat of the day and cool of night could cause disastrous effects of death and sorrow for the peasants, force knights, or rune lords.

With his toolbox in hand, much lighter than would normally be expected due to his enhancements of brawn, he strode through the underside of the bleachers quite quickly. His normally keen eyes even more enhanced than naturally, making sure there were errors to be fixed or marked for repair. Hearing the swish of sword through air and the thud of feet on the arena floor he stopped to lean against a support and watch through bleacher benches. He'd seen her before, at other events in the past, the Amazoness. Much talked about in crudeness or in controversy. Definitely a well-known, though infamous, personage. Her reputation seemed to border on respect and disgust.

From the few movements done in careful precision that he'd seen, Forsythe saw her as a formidable warrior. No matter what gender, he had learned to keep an eye on any with skills to wound or kill another. A child is lethal, if trained to be. Probably more so with the lack of control a child naturally bears under his list of attributes.

He smiled simply in approval and turned to continue his work. No doubt through her enhancements, she knew of her observer. His lack of showing a sign of it, no doubt hid his identity as well as humans lack the care to notice ants as they gallop by on horseback.

Sweat dripped from her brow as Emale practiced each step carefully. She could feel the gaze of another on her back. Fighting the urge to stop, she continued on with the next step.

"Left, left, block, right, block, right, right ,block." she muttered under breath to keep her mind on her practice. Her feet moved swiftly with a grace not unlike a dancer. A grace that was almost completely her own. Her only endowment had been a precaution more than a need.

With one last lunge and a war cry of victory Emale finally ended her practice. She sheathed her sword. Panting heavily, she turned to see her spectator who was working among the bleachers. She could see well enough through the wood work that it was a man. For a moment she watched him as he had watched her. He had hair as black as her own and stood at a good hight. He moved about his chores as if they were mundane. Some thing struck her as odd. She could not place her finger on it.

"Pathetic isn’t it" Came a familiar voice. Emale turned to see her Second standing at the edge of the Arena. She smiled, completely forgetting the worker, and headed toward her friend.

" What pray tell are you inferring to?" Emale asked as she was walked out of the arena and to her friend.

" The Men here. They think they are all so skillfully. The arena at home is twice as big as this."

“I would be careful, and choose my words carefully, Linus” Emale grinned at her long time friend and most trusted adviser. “You never know who could be listening. They maybe men, but they are men with power.”

Linus was not a beauty to behold, but she was stronger than any woman or animal Emale knew of. Standing taller than most, many compared her to a tree. She was just as sturdy as one, and as root bound. “I was choosing my words carefully” Linus grinned back. “I can not believe you would choose that type of life for him.”

“You know the Laws” Emale’s smirk faded away.

“YOU are the law” Linus stated boldly

“As much as that is true Linus, I can not change it. It is for their protection as well as my own.”

“But surely you can make an exception for him”

“I Will NOT” Emale grew tired of Linus’s boldness. Her mind was made up and she was not to be questioned further. She turned back once more to the fighting on the field. She was determined to give him a life he could not have in Voricia.

“The Caravan has arrived and setting up your camp as we speck, Mi’lady” Linus spoke with resignation.

“Shall we go then?” Turning her back to the field Emale headed back to camp. It was a short walk, and by the time they had arrive most of camp was already set up. The women were all busily working around the fire and unloading the caravan. There was not a single man in the camp.

“Go retrieve my horse Linus. She is at the encampment of Lord Marcos."

“Yes Mi’lady” Linus bowed, turned, and began to shout orders at the worker women.

With a long sigh, Emale headed into her new erected tent. It was not an elaborate tent, but held the bare essentials for travel. A four posted bed rose just slightly off the ground with a few pillows and a fur blanket was to the right. A desk with parchment, a quill, a bound book and a well used candle to the left. And on the ground were many rugs. They were rugs made from the finest craftswomen from Voricia. Many of them depicted battle hardened warriors along with flowering orchards.

For a moment she just stood in the entry way of the tent, but her eyes were quickly drawn to the bound book laying on the table. Taking the steps to the table, she picked it up. She stared down at the plain black cover of the book, as she turned and walked to the edge of her bed. She sat on the bed and quickly opened to the first page. The book was not just a book. It was was one with detailed drawn images. The first page had a battle ready woman with her sword drawn. The next page a horse and the next a sentry yawning.

After turning several pages Emale stopped and stared down at the page. On the page was the picture of a young boy. He was laughing as he held out his arms, a wooden sword and shield in each hand. Longingly she ran her hand over the picture.

Forsythe heard the banter of the women and worked without a change in pace. The only changes he made were the obvious looks women of their kind, and of their statures, would get from a normal worker trying to mind his own business. To react differently than any fool would prove one to be a true fool indeed. It wasn't any vital information he gleaned, but definitely something to put away for later reports to His Lordship.

When he had finished his work there, he was notified his duties were complete and he was free for the remainder of the day. He had almost forgotten his carpenter alias, and took the coins that were apportioned him. It was payday. Not much more than was able to pay for one's meals the next couple of days and spend some money on watching the games. Not to mention the games for the peasants. For now, it would pay for a round of ale.

Forsythe strolled ever so calmly to the temporary pub, bought a decent flavoured lager, and sat at a wooden table and chair in the open air.

I put on my robe and wizard hat

I then Summoned my Dodge Charger to carry me away to my next adventure