Post by Hellion on Oct 31, 2010 20:52:14 GMT -8
I figured that with nothing better to do, I might as well write about the adventures of one of my characters, Marcus Actaeon. Enjoy them.
Heroes Fall
It was cold. The dark night and the chill air were thick with the frosted breath of the De’Mira werebeasts as they crouched in the tall grasses outside the small, walled in village. Sentries patrolled the wall, lances in hand and swords on their hips. The beasts’ eyes, seeing perfectly in the light of the full moon, studied the fortifications of Telras’ Bend, a tiny hamlet in the wilds of Tirin, barely worth mentioning, not even on most maps. In this night, the night of the full moon, this village would disappear. There were no warnings, no howls, no growling. The beasts, only those chosen for their control over their bestial forms and dark pelts, crept forward. They moved through the grass, barely a blade moving with their passing. In moments, they were at the wall. That was when the howls started. The roars, the barks, the growls. The night became alive with the monstrous cacophony of animal noises as the swift, powerful beasts tore through the wooden walls and the guards upon them. Screams of anguish filled the night as the De’Mira killed, raped, and devoured anyone in sight. Humans fled. Some tried to fight, only to be battered down by the De’Miras’ superior strength. By morning, the village was gone. Burned to the ground. There were no living people in sight, just bodies and blood. The military patrol that found it were horrified, and returned to the capital for orders. They did not yet know that there were werebeasts in Tirin. How could they? Werebeasts were restricted to their island. It was declared the work of bandits…until another village fell, and this time there were survivors to tell the true story.
The Hog’s Trough was a piece of shit tavern in a piece of shit town in the middle of the forests of Tirin. Like Telras’ Bend, few people knew about it, and even fewer traveled to it…which was why, among the squalor, the music, and the women, Marcus Actaeon was there. Here, he was known simply as Tern, the wandering blade. He had stumbled into this town early in his career as a mercenary, and had decided he liked the drink. With a pitcher of beer in one hand, and his other resting on the hip of a blond haired beauty named Katrina, Marcus was thoroughly enjoying himself. Drunk off his ass, and fixing to take Katrina upstairs for a good roll, he was quite glad he had made it back to The Trough. As he began to rise from his seat and make his way with Katrina up the stairs, he bumped into a man and causing the fellow to spill his drink. Before Marcus could apologize, there was a fist planted firmly in his face. It all went downhill from there. In moments the entire tavern was a single, rumbling brawl. Marcus was thrown out near the end of it, skidding through the mud and ending up in the rainy streets. Groaning slightly as his aching body readjusted itself to the sudden change in positioning, Marcus noted a man in a cloak looming over him. A very familiar man. With a gravelly, somewhat deep voice, Marcus remained conscious enough to utter “Aw fuck me…why are you here?”, before passing out.
Marcus came to as the sunlight of the rising dawn hit his face. Clenching his eyes shut, he moaned and rolled over, trying to fight the aching hangover he was suffering. It took him a minute to realize that he was in a bed, instead of in the streets where he had last been. Then he remembered the man he had seen. He sat up, grimacing at the ugly taste in his mouth. A slight chuckle brought his attention to the corner of the room, where the man was sitting. He was perhaps fifty years old, head and face clean shaven. A wicked scar cut across his face from his left eyebrow to his right cheek, and he was missing a tooth or two in his grin. He wore the uniform of a Tirin Knight Commander, and despite his age and grizzled appearance, his body was still fit with constant training. He wore a hand-and-a-half sword on his hip. “Good morning to you, ‘Tern’…or would you prefer ‘Wolf’? Or we could drop the aliases you’ve been using left and right and I could simply call you Marcus, as I did four years ago when we were comrades.” He said, a small, controlled smile on his lips. Marcus scowled at the man as he stood, stretching. His clothes stank.
“Knight Commander Val Dross…they let you out of Damona at your age?” Marcus growled, reaching for a pitcher of water and drinking deeply. “How are you not dead? And how did you find me?”
Val smirked and stood as well. “You are not so difficult to find as you might think Marcus. A traitor to the crown? Wandering about the very country you betrayed? Let me tell you: No one thought you had hung that night. Even the king didn’t believe it. There were posters up for with your face on them for months after the hanging.”
Marcus cringed mentally. “I’m not a traitor. I was framed.”
“That doesn’t matter you idiot. The prince says you did it and the king believes him. Why the hell are you still in Tirin?” Val growled, fixing Marcus with a gaze that had once turned him to stone when he had been a young, inexperienced recruit. Now it just made him laugh. “I’m here for a reason Marcus.”
“To arrest me?”
“No you damn fool. To recruit you.”
Marcus froze, then laughed. He laughed hard. He laughed loudly. “Did you get hit in the head a little too hard the last time you were in a fight Val? Why the fuck would you be out here recruiting me?”
“Because the king won’t give me the platoon I need to hunt De’Mira werebeasts.” That made a chill run down Marcus’s spine. De’Mirans? In Tirin? That was a problem. That was a serious problem. “They’ve destroyed two villages Marcus. Two villages full of innocent people. Now after last night’s drunken display of debauchery, I have my reserves about asking you this, but isn’t there some sense of honor or pride left in your husk of a soul to feel a need to fight these monsters?”
Marcus grit his teeth. Val Dross knew all the right buttons to push. He tried to fight it. He didn’t want to help Tirin. He wanted to kill Val Dross, get Strider, and flee Tirin while he still could. But no. He was not that strong.
“How many men do you need?”
“Fifty, at the very least.”
“And how many do you have?”
“If you join? Fifty.”
"What's in it for me?"
"Aside from me not killing you where you stand? Six hundred gold Sovereigns, and any arms you need while you are with us."
“…fine. Let’s go.”