"Oh, really? Well now, aren't we fortunate?" he asked flamboyantly. I mean, to be privy to such gracious wisdom. Moreover, from such an esteemed Woodwind Master…or was that simply a windy Wood-elf's privy disaster? I never can recall the difference," he concluded smugly.
Braumis snorted out loud, and then commenced upon an intentional bout of coughing to cover his unexpected reaction.
"The Maestro has already critiqued your stinky little song without my assistance!" she scowled.
Now he did turn to face her, and with an expression of outrage.
"Hold!" commanded Maestro Spinwyp. Pulling the reins back on his beetle, he slid down the back of its shell.
In response, all three student performers also came to a stop, staked out their mounts, and formed a semicircular line about the Gnome.
"My dear Prince," began the little man. "As Mistress Breesylisthez points out so clearly, the subject was concluded the moment I finished assessing it."
Sibastian's bearing of anger shifted to neutral as his attention drifted reluctantly from Miria to Spinwyp. "As always, the Maestro is correct, and I humbly beg his pardon."
"You, humble?" Miria inquired incredulously.
"That's better," intoned the Gnome, momentarily ignoring the Wood-elf's comment."
Then, as his attention did come to bear on her, Miria's aplomb dropped, along with her gaze, as she seemed to develop an abruptly interest in her boots.
"You have become increasingly derogatory of late, my dear," observed the Maestro.
"Beg pardon," she mumbled in a small voice, eyes still cast downward as she seemed to be attempting to wipe a light layer of dust from the top of her left boot with the heavily crusted sole of her right.
"That is also better," he said, and then paused for effect. "But not good enough!" he intoned angrily while returning to his beetle. "You are all quite talented," he told them as he sought a purchase in which to remount. "All quite proficient, quite competent in your respective fields," he continued, still struggling to climb its shell from the back, only to slide back to the ground in absence of the rope ladder he had failed to drop in his haste to address their bickering.
At this, the serious expressions slowly faded from their collective assembly, including those of Sibastian and Miria.
"However, this expedition is not just to assess your individual abilities," he intoned seriously, and then jumped to catch the beetle's dangling reins in mid air. "In fact, it's a desperate attempt to determine if any of you will ever learn to perform, other than solo," he grunted with exertion as he pulled the slow-minded insect a few meters to the north and toward a small outcrop of rocks.
"It's a…blasted exercise in harmonious collaboration!" he shouted at the beetle, whose bewilderment owing to the little man's mixed directives had finally driven it to opt for non-conformity. It suddenly halted in its tracks, refusing to be moved further until it received proper commands.
The maestro ceased his tug of war, on hearing the sound of his student's unified laughter, further amplified by his reddened countenance as he peeked around his willful mount to witness their lighthearted harmony. At least they're being disrespectful in unison, he thought in rueful consolation.
"Hail, Miria Breesylisthez!" shouted Aqua, yet fifty meters out, but closing fast.
"Hail, Aqua Rainswalker!" shouted Miria as she centered on her old school chum.
"Is it really her?" asked Braumis brightly.
"Surely," laughed Miria. "Know anyone else who runs like that?"
Her elation at their arrival was simply more than her patience could bear. She could almost hear her mother's chastising voice, "Proper ladies never display their hearts upon their sleeves." No matter. They are here! They have come, and I am safely delivered unto my goodly, goodly friends! she resonated inwardly as she ran and leapt and fairly skipped the entire way. When she reached them, she came just short of colliding with Miria. Instead, they locked arms in a tandem pivot, to end by embracing one another in girlish giggles.
"Ditsy Wood-elves," Sibastian muttered with muddled disdain.
"Oh, Siby!" Aqua cried, rushing to Sibastian, and hugging and kissing his entire face without mercy.
Accordingly, he could but close his eyes tightly while scrunching his face in defense. Where Rainswalker was concerned, one might as well abandon all hope of complete avoidance.
"Greetings, Mistress Rainswalker!" called Braumis expectantly, hoping for a similar cordiality as was afforded Sibastian.
Not to disappoint, Aqua attacked her dwarven friend with great affectionate zeal, and then danced him about in circles until he was too dizzy to stand. He didn't seem to mind in the least.
"Where's my Maestro!" she called abruptly, releasing Braumis, who accordingly staggered about for several moments with a sloppy grin.
"Oh, dear," mumbled Maestro Spinwyp, involuntarily casting about for any means of escape, and then whirling about to seek the ladder that he had forgotten was yet resting atop his beetle. Finally, he released a heavy sigh of resignation as Aqua bore down upon him.
***
At midmorning, Marcus had at the University to bestow yet another visit upon his old friend. Under other circumstances, this might have been better received. However, the growing tension between them, centering primarily around certain alleged improprieties on the parts of Borin and the good Marshal's missing spouse, was sufficient cause for the unfortunate encounter that ensued.
Another element might have been the vehement entrance Marcus made during Borin's lecture, which had centered on the development of the pole-axe in ancient warfare, and its impact on modern society.
Initial reactions from attending students were to simply give the outraged Paladin as wide a birth as possible while he advanced on the substitute Professor's pulpit.
After spewing an incredible string of foul accusations upon said guest speaker, said Marshal then grabbed up one of the artifacts from the main display table, and brought the ancient weapon to bear on the object of his outrage, who accordingly decided to follow his temporary students' example, as he too gave way. In fact, he gave way for some time, and in timely fashion as they both continued to circle about the interior of the then student-free amphitheater.
***
"I swear I don't know!" Perdil cried hysterically at the Halfling woman sitting on his chest.
"Get off him!" Magnatha commanded as she entered the hospice.
"Not until he tells me!" Tuda shouted directly into the terrified man's ear.
"He doesn't know, anymore than you do!" Cleetis insisted while grasping her about the waist, wrenched her from atop the thoroughly pummeled Cleric, and then holding her up as a means to neutralize her aggression.
"It was his responsibility!" Tuda countered, ineffectively attempting to kick Perdil's prone figure from mid-air.
"Perdil's not to blame," Magnatha insisted. "Leastways, no more than any of us."
"I never even got to welcome him back, and now he's gone!" Tuda cried, no longer struggling, but initiating a series of jerky, shallow breaths, and thereby indicating that the dam was about to burst. Her entire family seemed to be disappearing, one by one.
"Well, blubberin' won't help none, neither," Magnatha mumbled unhappily while sniffling and blinking several times in quick succession.
"We're just wasting time with all this bickering," Cleetis asserted.
Hobson abruptly sounded the alarm.
"Wolf!" cried the lookout, as the camp came alive with Tarots filing out of every tent and wagon.
Magnatha's first thought was that Jester had finally come to his senses.
While he was distracted, Tuda broke free of her father's grip, and hit the ground running.
"A wolf is hardly call for an alarm!" someone shouted from the crowd.
"This one isn't stopping!" returned the lookout. "It's coming straight into camp!"
There could only be two reasons a wolf might exhibit such behavior. It was either starving, or rabid. Both reasons
were good call for alarm, and everyone prepared for its arrival. If they were quick and lucky, it would die before anyone was hurt.
"Nobody moves against the wolf!" Tuda shouted, still running toward the crowd without slowing. "It's Jester!"
The Tarots made way for her as she ran on to greet him, but as the distance between them closed, she could see it wasn't Jester after all. Jester's wolf form had an auburn hue. This was a gray wolf.
Her own inner alarm went off as she halted in her tracks, immediately reversed direction, and bolted back toward the safety of camp, while knowing full and well that she couldn't possibly make it in time. As the sound of its footfalls came closer, she prepared to scream, but stopped when the beast passed her by as if overtaking an inferior opponent in a foot race.
Caught off guard, the crowd watched as the wild beast ran right up the center of the path they had provided Tuda. Apparently, he found them as unappetizing as the Halfling. They turned to witness it make a beeline for Magnatha and Cleetis as he assisted her toward the crowd.
Upon this realization, Cleetis jumped in front of Magnatha, prepared to defend her with his life, but was quickly whacked across the back of the head, thus falling unconscious as Magnatha stepped over his prone figure in order to protect him from the marauding wolf, who, rather than attack, ran round them both, specifically outside the range of Magnatha's canes, and then ran on until coming to the hospice, where he entered without hesitation. Said entrance was immediately followed by an almost feminine shriek of a most piercing quality.
Magnatha entered the tent, fully prepared to beat the creature off of what must by then be Squire Shiverley's corpse. Once inside however, she found the Cleric desperately attempting to exit the tent's opposite end by crawling under the canvas wall while the wolf, now atop Jester's bed, had lain down, and was currently panting heavily, as if near exhaustion.
Inching forward to venture a closer examination of the apparently passive creature, she noted that the fur was coarse and patchy, with several lengthy scars about the flanks and forelegs. This animal was near about seventy-five summers: fairly old as far as wolves went. After a moment, she achieved recognition. "Digger?"
At her voice, the wolf's tail wagged wearily.
"Ya… Ya old bag of misbegotten fleas!" she stammered, clutching her chest, and leaning heavily on her remaining cane. "Ya damn near busted me pump!"
At this unappreciative change in tone, the wolf's tail dropped to the bed as he emitted a small growl, perhaps more closely resembling a tired whine.
***
In the end, Borin and his would-be assailant simply grew too exhausted to flee and/or chase, and though their altercation hadn't actually come to blows, they each sported mutual indications to their mobile disagreement.
Propped against the now upturned speaker's podium Borin had hurled at him while they were yet in transit, Marcus gingerly explored the resulting bump on his head.
On the other side of the stage, Borin leaned on the ancient pole-axe Marcus had thrown like a spear after finally coming to the conclusion that his brave friend had absolutely no intention of ever slowing. Fortunately, the makeshift projectile missed Borin altogether, and instead had deeply embedded itself within the wall, just ahead of his ongoing circular retreat, approximately at shin level. Accordingly, this resulted in a relatively large amount of overall property damage, for when Borin tripped, approximately at shin level, his forward momentum continued to convey him, horizontally, and directly into a rather expansive display case, which up until that point had housed the last half-century of the University's lead-crystal trophies, all of which had been accumulated by the almost exclusive success of its Academic Debate Association. Miraculously, the nearly quarter-ton of crystal had completely missed Borin, who had just managed to scramble beneath the display's lowest shelf as the shattered avalanche descended.
"If you hadn't missed!" Borin began, implying what might have happened had the projectile hit him.
"When did you ever know me to miss?"
Borin considered this, but found little comfort in it, all things considered.
"Why can't you just admit it?" Marcus asked while getting to his feet, and sitting down on top the overturned podium.
"Admit what?"
"The betrayal is not only hers, you know. It feels as though there are two daggers in my back."
Borin's attention dropped from his bruised shin. He leaned the ancient weapon against the wall, and righted an overturned chair. As he reclined against the chair's back, he drew a deep breath, and then issued a heavy sigh. "It wasn't an assault on you, Marc."
"Oh, nothing personal? Is that it? I hope you will excuse me if I yet take it personally, old chum."
"It…took place of its own accord. I don't believe either of us actually intended for it to happen."
"Oh, now I understand. It was just a simple mishap," Marcus asserted as if having an abrupt epiphany. "Oopsy, I slipped!" he crooned, holding his head and shoulders back in an exaggerated impersonation of Borin's characteristic posture. "Oh, think nothing of it, ole boy," he continued in a higher-pitched impression of Selina's voice.
"It wasn't like that!" Borin insisted sharply.
"Go on," Marcus prompted in an easier tone.
"It…it's everything," he motioned expansively. "It's this degrading life we live. It's the yearning for what we will never have again. It's this cesspool of a city, and what my Father is becoming, and what I fear I'm becoming." He paused, and then continued. "It's having to deal with a kind of pain they never taught us about in the Arena!" he shouted at no one, though looking Marcus squarely in the eyes for the first time in a long time.
"I'm sure I've no idea what you're talking about," Marcus insisted, but glanced away anxiously as what Borin said began to sink in.
"You meditate it away, everyday. Every single day you withdraw just that much more inside your shell. Father hides too, but Warriors aren't taught meditation, so he hides in bottles," he paused again. "S…Selina and I hid within each other's arms. We might have taken solace in the company of friends and family. Unfortunately, there wasn't anyone of that description available, other than ourselves."
"Constable Goodfellow!" shouted a man from the doorway. Marcus looked up as his superior started to attempt entrance to the amphitheater, and then stopped in view of the massive amount of debris. Behind him were a number of other officers. "If you and your friend here have quite finished, I would appreciate a word or two, with both of you."
***
"There's really no sense in my going along," Perdil insisted anxiously while steadily unpacking the rucksack Cleetis continued to fill with items he felt Perdil would need.
Upon noticing that the sack was no closer to being full than when he had started, Cleetis carefully placed himself between the Cleric and the sack, and then continued.
"But…"
"We've been over this," Cleetis sighed.
"Do I look like some sort of Ranger?"
"No more than I do."
"Wonderful! I take it you just want company while losing your way in the wilderness. That way, you won't be lonely when we perish by the elements together!"
"We aren't going to get lost," Cleetis informed him while hanging the packed sack on the slender man's shoulder by the strap, then guiding him out of the hospice by his other shoulder.
"Perhaps we'll get lucky and end up as some vile creature's dinner!"
"We'll have Digger with us."
"You think that decrepit old beast can keep us safe?" Perdil asked incredulously.
"He won't have to," Cleetis assured him. "I'm more than capable of handling just about anything we might come across."
"Well, maybe, but how do you know the wolf is up to the challenge? He… What do you mean, just about anything?"
"I'm ready!" Tuda shouted as she busted out of the wagon wearing her own fully packed rucksack.
"You're not going anywhere!" Cleetis declared.
"She can take my place,"
Perdil offered.
"If this timid bag of bones is going, then why can't I?"
"Because it's too danger…" He cut his answer short at the sight of Perdil's ever-widening eyes.
"Nice day for a hike," Ezlea called cheerily. Hobson advanced close behind her, toting several bags, a pup tent, wardrobe, toiletries, three full crates of food, and one well stocked makeup case.
"We're burnin' daylight!" Magnatha grumbled, lashing down her tent own flap, and then hobbling toward them as quickly as anyone with bad hips and knees might be expected to move.
Cleetis's placid demeanor began to crumble, and after a long moment, wherein he both attempted and failed to regain composure, "Are you people crazy?"
***
Brinehaven prided itself on a simple but direct legal system. They maintained three separate categories of judicial action, with limited options for punishment under each category.
Misdemeanors, for example, were merely a matter of exile. This was a sentence of forty-eight fortnights, or two full summers, whichever came first. At the end of said sentence, exiles were then permitted access to the city again, but only if they agreed to be branded on their upper arm with a large letter E.
Minor Felonies, on the other hand, brought a prison sentence of ninety-six fortnights, or four summers, and with no possibility of early parole for first time offenders. Second time offenders were simply beheaded without trial. An ex-convict accused of a Minor Felony was quite rare, as most had by this point concluded that Brinehaven was not quite their cup of tea.
Major Felonies, however, which could range from manslaughter to mass murder, carried only one of two possible sentences. Families of the victims retained all rights to punishment. In the absence of a victim's family, those convicted of Major Felonies were simply burned slowly at the stake, often taking as long as three full days to expire. Most preferred the stake.
***
Marcus pushed his wheelbarrow of personal possessions up the incline until reaching the crest of the hill where Borin and Reginald rested by their own barrows. As he reached them, he lowered the handles until the barrow rested firmly.
Rendering Nirayel - Thief's Prophecy Page 5