orangeNES: Insert Witty Comment Here

[orangelex44]

Remember, I'm not going to enforce the agreement in any way... you'll have to send money or whatever in your orders, don't assume it'll just happen.

 

[Seon]

Shouldn't making an oath dedicated to a god (except perhaps the ones, especially Esus), make an effect on the clergy of that nation at least? Increasing discontent as the oath made by the head of state (or council) on their god was broken?

 

[Haseri]

Magnadine was in his tent, looking over reports from all over the world. A war between Doviello and the Malakim…The orcs of the Clan of Embers attacking Bannor…the only offers were to join other individuals like himself, something he couldn’t see happening in the short run.

He was itching to be out there, on the battlefield, making a real difference. Instead, he was watching the horses graze (an old el’Hippi saying that means you’re doing nothing in particular). There had been talk of being hired for something, but the Hippus had not told him anything, they had only consulted him on the price. Turns out they didn’t do much of anything this year.

His men were getting restless. He could feel it. Everyday he had to assure them a big job was coming. Recently, all he was getting was small jobs, up in the mountains, protecting miners, barely enough to cover the whole company. He had no idea what would happen if he didn’t get a job soon. 1,000 aggressive el’Hippi horseman is not a pretty sight.

 

[Kyroshill]

Return of a Warlord - Part I

Spoiler :

Having hastily prepared his pack, Duin called in his assistant and driver. As they entered the room, he reflected on the past few years. Eórdridh was a tall young man, with sinewy strength and quick reflexes. Though of orcish birth, he was yet young enough to pass human, at least with a little help. Gemma was a petite girl, full of class and style. She had come up through Os-Gabella’s court, so had learned much in the way of etiquette and deportment. Both had been entirely indispensible in the past, but days were much too dangerous now.

“Sit down,” Duin began. “I have a journey to make, and this time, you cannot come with me. Eórdridh made to speak, but was quickly cowed into silence with a glance from Halfmorn. “As you know,” he continued, “the Clan marches on the Bannor yet again, and I must cross the border to complete my task. There was a time when I would have needed you both to cross that border, but Bannor patrols are especially busy right now. You must go back to your families and prepare. The Bannor have been through much and are stronger for it. The Clan seems to be in control now, but they are disorganized, and the tide may soon turn. When it does, your people will need you.”

Reaching into his sack, Duin pulled out two small purses. Handing one to each youth he said, “This is the last of my old fortunes. Luckily for me, the time has come around again where I may make yet another fortune. So this is yours in recognition for all you have done. Now go! And if I survive, I may yet see you both again.”

Purses in hand, Eórdridh and Gemma left the room, and Duin sat in silence for a few minutes. After a time, he closed his sack and reached his hand up to his chest. Satisfied, he took a deep breath and headed out.

<=========================>

Moving out along the highway he felt he could breathe again. Braduk the Burning was a foul place to be in the best of days, and these were certainly not the best of days. The road to Torrolerial was bustling with activity, which suited him just fine. The Clan armies spread out as far as the eye could see… and they were heading toward the Bannor. Clan elders were convinced that victory was at hand, by Duin was not so sure. He had seen the Bannor endure worse and come out the other side. Even banishment to Hell was not enough to end the Bannor peoples, so a few hundred thousand orcs and goblins probably wouldn’t finish the job either. But that was exactly what Duin wanted, strife between nations. When nations fight, borders become porous for individuals, and those of Halfmorn’s ilk did not like watchful eyes at any pace.

No longer enjoying the comfort of a carriage, Duin was now on horseback. A young roan was equipped with one of the finer Hippi saddles, which gave the rider more freedom of movement without sacrificing control. A fine steed though it was, even this transportation will have soon served its purpose.

As he rode in silence, making his way past regiments of orcish warriors arrayed with axes, swords, pikes, or whatever manner of weapon they could gather, his thoughts wandered to long ago days.

He remembered sitting astride his warhorse, magnificently clad in the finest armor, wielding a glorious broadsword. He also remembered how the trees themselves seemed to come alive without warning. How was he to know that would happen? He remembered the stench of blood, and the screams of both man and animal. He remembered how his armies were routed, and then hunted down and killed, one by one. And they say Umbrawood elves care for all living creatures. Hah!

But that was in the past. Time heals all wounds, and many years had come and gone. The world was changed. And he was changed as well, make no mistake. The last few years brought a depth of despair that is actually quite enlightening to those that succeed in wading through its murky waters. There was business to be attended to, but first a stop along the way to settle an old score.

The trail he needed to take to accomplish this served a second purpose. The road was very lightly travelled, and petered out as it neared the Bannor borders. From there, if one knew where to look, there was a single overgrown track that led down through the thickets. It wasn’t pretty, but it wasn’t guarded either.

Having come to a crossing, Duin guided the roan away from the massing armies and started down the track toward the old shack. The swamps had tried to reclaim the road, but the trained eye could still make its way over the crumbling trail. The road would be long, but it was a trip he had to make.

After eight days of surviving on a diet of swamp tubers and the occasional toad or snake, he finally reached the clearing he remembered. More overgrown now, but the old man probably had had little help in maintaining his abode. Dismounting, Duin tied the roan to a nearby bald cypress and slowly walked toward the ramshackle hut on the far side.

As he approached, he drew his longsword and moved as silently as the squishy ground would allow. As he neared the door, he was a little surprised that he hadn’t been detected. Closer and closer, he felt the hairs prick up on the back of his neck. The old man was finally going to pay for his betrayal. The day had come.

He lunged through the door, quickly searching the gloom to find the traitor. Frantically he searched, fearing he had been trapped. Finally, his eyes settled on the answer. In the far corner sat a cushioned chair. And in that chair sat a skeleton in the robes of an archmage.

He heard more than felt the thud as he landed on the soft earth. Unbelievable. He was actually dead.

“That son of a . .. .. .. .. .!” That was all he said. Then he let out a sigh. In this sigh it would have been obvious, if anyone had been around, that he had no intention of killing this wizard. After a few hours, he slowly rose and walked backed to the roan, who had settled in nicely, having found lichen with a pleasant flavor. He reached into the pack and pulled out the small shovel.

The soft ground was easy work, and the skeleton was tightly wrapped in its robes, so the work was easy. He laid the old man out the best that he could, considering the state of the body. After covering over the remains, he found an old chunk of cedar. He placed it over the grave, and cleared away the bark. Pulling out his knife, he carved the following words: “Here lies Domulin, the Greatest Elven Mage Never Known.”

He stared at this for several minutes, lost in memories of old wars won and lost. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “You left me again.”

Saddened, but not really surprised any longer, he made his way toward the border two days hence.

 

[Kyroshill]

Return of a Warlord - Part II

Spoiler :

Having crossed over successfully, Duin was now on high alert. Sure he could roam freely for a while, but soon Bannor guards would start asking questions. And Duin was not a fan of questions. After a few hours search, Halfmorn found a grove from which he could begin. Quickly he removed his sack from the saddlebag, and after rummaging through the other bag tossed a few more items in his sack. Safely tied up, Duin knew the roan wouldn’t wander away. However, he also knew that if a Bannor unit found the horse, they would seize it. Since he couldn’t allow that to happen…

The carcass would provide food for the wolves that Halfmorn knew must live nearby. Wolf droppings and fur balls were to be found here and there, and of course Halfmorn, even in human guise, could detect the undeniable musk left behind by roving males.

Moving through the underbrush, Duin eventually found just what he needed. Apparently there was an archery unit nearby, because here was a gentleman in his the garb of a Bannor soldier with a leather protector over the first two fingers of his right hand. It was his left hand that he used to control the stream of urine that struck the oak tree beside which he stood. The solo male that had already marked that tree will not be pleased, Duin thought as he made his move. This was not the time or the place for a conversion, nor a nursemaid session. All Halfmorn needed was the uniform, and this soldier’s size was close enough considering time was a factor.

It was an old trick, but effective. Left hand over the mouth, right knee just above the hip to raise the jacket, and right hand drives the dagger directly through the spine at the lower back. Paralysis comes instantly, with death shortly to follow. And best of all, no blood on the uniform. The clumsy ones would go for the throat, thinking to bleed them out. But the blood comes fast, and the uniform gets soaked. Blood leads to questions, even in time of war.

Now fitted in Bannor colors, Duin was more easily able to make his way toward the wall that the Clan was just about to hurl themselves at. It wasn’t easy, but Duin wasn’t inexperienced at deception either. The closer one gets to the front lines, the harder it is to maneuver. Eventually it comes down to dumb luck.

“Soldier!” Duin heard a voice yell behind him. Unsure to whom the speaker was referring, he continued on. “Stop right there, soldier! Now!” Not pressing his luck, Duin halted and turned briskly to face the speaker. “Whose regiment you with?” the man demanded.

“None, sir!” Duin barked back. “I’m from the country. My younger brother was killed by those vile things out there, and I have come to take his place. Though his uniform is a bit snug, I wear with it pride sir!”

Not completely convinced, but lacking the time or resources to delay any further, the man said, “Fine! Arieden’s Regiment could use help. They are 300 meters ahead of you and bear a crest with a gryphon in flight backed by crossed swords. Move quickly! And tell him that Tonnsarn sent you. There is no time to lose I fear. The orcs will not sit for long.”

Though the mass of soldiers was almost stifling this close to the front, most were too busy tending to their weapons or praying to take much notice. At last, he reached “his” unit. As it turned out Arieden was off meeting with the other commanders plotting tactics. So it was his 3rd in command who met Duin when he arrived. The man appeared to be almost fifty, though it’s possible he was either much younger, or much older. It was difficult to judge age in the Bannor these days.

After telling his pre-rehearsed story again, Duin was at the front, as his wished to be. “Have you any fighting experience?” the officer asked.

“That depends, sir. Does wrestling a randy bull off of a heifer count?”

The man laughed a hearty laugh, unexpected in these days, but strangely welcome. “Well, son. Can you hold a shield?”

“Yes sir, I can,” Duin replied.

“Well then, Goaren needs a shield man. His was struck down by a poisoned goblin blade,” pausing to spit angrily at the ground, the man continued, “Cowards, I tell you. As if mere poison could stop the Bannor anyway, with all that we have seen.

“Anyway, as I said, Goaren needs a shield man. You’re a lucky one son. He is one of the finest soldiers on the wall. I’ve heard it said that he could impale a horsefly at 50 meters. There’s no finer with a bowstring to be found round here, that’s for certain.”

Goaren was a tall lad, blond of hair, and yet brown of eye. Even with the heavy sleeves of the Bannor uniform, it was obvious that this man had powerful arms. While talking with others, Duin heard it said that Goaren’s bow had a draw that was full 20 pounds greater than any other in the unit.

The boy appeared to be no more than 23 or 24, but had a more mature demeanor. When introduced to Goaren, the bowman merely nodded his approval and turned away, lost in thought. Duin mused how strange it seemed that no one had inquired about his name yet. But then Bannor military families frequently saw their country-bumpkin demagogue cousins as nothing but acceptable losses anyway, so names weren’t really important.

Then the expected happened. The Clan attacked. The fighting was intense as goblin bodies piled up all along the wall. Goaren seemed to be nearly as good as advertised, striking down orc after goblin with his rapid fire style. This lad certainly kept the fletchers busy. After several hours, the archers were drawn back from the wall, in order to bring swords into play against the enemy now overtopping the wall.

Goaren, however, refused to be budged. He continued to fire, taking an enemy with each draw, sometimes two. At last, his support failing and arrows running out Goaren made the call. “Fall back,” he told his shieldbearer. As he turned, a goblin scrambled over the wall and before Goaren could draw his own shortsword, the goblin had driven the vile blade into right thigh. A second later, Duin’s own sword ran through the goblin attacker. More goblins were now scrambling over the wall, so Duin did what any good shieldman would do. He dragged Goaren from the wall and away from immediate danger.

With the posion already taking effect, Duin had little time to act. He dragged Goaren not to the medics, but behind a clay bunker and into a shallow depression, hidden by brush. Duin removed Goaren’s helmet and wiped the sweat from the dying soldier’s brow.

“Thank you,” the man croaked. “But I fear it may be too late. The toxin fills my humors, turning them against me.”

“No, sir,” Duin assured the man, “I can save you.”

“Would that it were so,” Goaren began, “but my day has come. No medic can save me now. But I should ask, squire. What is the name of my shieldman, who so ably performed his task?”

Duin of course had a name to fit his invented persona, but since he hadn’t needed it before, it seemed unnecessary now.

“My name is Duin. Duin Halfmorn.”

Goaren’s eyes widened in disbelief. “By Junil, you still live too? The world has not changed as much as one would have thought.”

“As I said, I can save you.”

“Oh, no! I will not become a savage beast!” Goaren insisted.

“Do I appear a savage to you? I will train you, and guard you. You will be my second-in-command. You have survived Hell, how could this fate be any worse?”

“I don’t know. Death seems like a reprieve after those tribulations. And Junil would not be pleased,” Goaren said with a slight inflection at the end. Something that Duin did not overlook.

“And where was Junil today? What part did he have in this? Did he personally carry your dead away at least? He certainly did not bring victory.”

“I…. I don’t know…”

“I do. Junil has forsaken Erebus, instead kowtowing to the enforcers of some outdated pact. He will never again come to your aid. I, however, now offer you salvation, and a new life.”

“Once again, I fear you are too late Baron. My body fails.”

“Nonsense,” Duin huffed. “Goblin poisons are weak, and take time to act. What you are feeling is a sleeping agent added, in order to make you an easy target for orcish swords.”

Noticing that Goaren was fading, Duin looked around. He spotted a rivulet leading away from the wall. It was choked with blood, and muddy, but no doubt led to a larger waterway. Duin dragged the bowman until he was sure he would be out of sight of spying eyes. When it was clear, Duin lifted Goaren onto his shoulder and carried him away.

After a few hours, they came to a small clearing nearby a flowing creek. Duin propped Goaren against a tree and soaked a kerchief in the cool waters. Duin cleaned the man’s face and hands, and daubed his brow. After some time, Goaren stirred. Duin walked to him. “How are you feeling?”

“So I’m not dead after all then. So you made me one of your things?”

“No. I did not. You feel no different do you?”

“No. Not as such. But why have you let me live?”

“I told you. I want you to be my second-in-command.”

“So do all your recruits get this treatment?”

“Absolutely not. I do not have time to ask for soldiers, they get ‘drafted.’ I have enough military experience to know the value of an officer class. And I want you to be the first. This must be your choice, as I will require your absolute loyalty.”

“If I choose not to join you?” Goaren said, with a noticeable hint of resignation in his voice.

“Then I leave you to your fate. Judging by your wound, it seems that fate soon approaches. Decide.”

“It seems that my path is clear. But what about the posion?”

“Trust me,” Duin said through a mouth that was elongating as he spoke.

Goaren had always wondered what it would look like, but the transition seemed quite smooth, taking a little under a minute. Now before him was a wolf, but much larger than any wolf he’d ever seen. This wolf stood a meter and a half at the shoulder, and had a shiny silver coat. The ragged remnants of the Bannor uniform hung from its bulging frame, rending further with each step the animal took toward him.

“That seems easy enough,” Goaren thought. And then the fangs tore into his flesh, and he blacked out again.

<====================>

The first hunt is always the hardest, they are always overzealous. But Goaren seemed to have an uncanny early control. At least in that he didn’t run into the forest as soon as he awoke. Duin was able to get him in the right direction. The carter never knew what hit him. One minute he’s whistling a tune to keep away the dark, the next he has a snarling scrawny wolf tearing at his throat

The first ones always die. But that’s good. One was enough for now.

Satiated, Goaren looked up at Duin. “What next?”

 

[orangelex44]

I've been a bit busy lately; I might not have time for a proper update immediately, but rest assured I'm working on it.

I've seen some great stuff from the characters, although I think I'm still missing one or two of you. All together, though, I'm very pleased - some interesting things are about to develop. Most noticably, the Bannor seem to have suddenly become the center of a bunch of attention... for better or worse.

 

[Haseri]

As Magnadine looked out at the horses grazing, one of his men came up to him. He whimpered under the restless gaze of the general, but pulled himself together and spoke, in a low voice so only Magnadine could hear him: “Excuse me, Gen'ral, but I really think we are wasting our time here. My father, may Tali watch him as he rides the Great Plains ever after, had a brother who died in a hired war between the elves.

I'm telling you this because he mentioned that his brother – my uncle – had a son some years before dying, and that son was raised in Thariss, by his mother – my aunt – after the father died. I've heard rumours that a 'renegade Hippus' has been causing havoc in Clan lands near Thariss - perhaps this is he? His first name is inherited from my uncle, Sayn.

All I'm saying is, if we want some action instead of waiting for orders or watching over the herds, perhaps our time is better used elsewhere? Perhaps the Bannor need us and are willing to pay even if we don't ride under Rhoanna?"

He looked up at Magnadine, questioning. Was he being too reckless? Would Magnadine understand, or would he be punished?

His fears were pushed aside as Magnadine broke into a smile, a rare occurrence outside a celebration. “Perhaps you are right. We have been here too long. But we should not be so hasty as to forsake Rhoanna. However, if what you say is true, and a single man has been fighting the Clan…a powerful ally…and of el’Hippi origin.”

Magnadine retreated back to his tent. The soldier absent-mindedly followed. Magnadine was staring a collection of hastily drawn maps of he world, and a scrap of paper. “Sir?” The soldier asked. He could just pick up his leader’s mumblings.

“If I travel alone it would be better…still a mercenary company…yes, he’s fully capable of leading these men…I will be back, after I’ve spoken to this ‘Sayn’.”

The soldier approached with caution. “Are you OK, Gen’ral?”

Magnadine shot up with a start. “Get my horse ready. I’m going to find this ‘Sayn’. Alone. By some coincidence he sent me a letter some time ago. I forgot about it until just now. His letter says to seek him out. A confrontation. Ha.” He had got up, stretched and was now putting on his riding gear.

The soldier was dumbstruck. “Uh…wait…did you say you were leaving sir?”

“Only temporarily. If the Hippi do find a job for us, Poreth is more than capable than leading the men. I am sure of it. Yes, after you get my horse; go get someone to send a message to the Hippi. Well, what are you waiting for? Go!”

45 minutes later, his horse was ready. Poreth, his most capable and trusted Second-in-Command, was waiting by it. “So, you’re leaving?”

“Yes, and like I said, only temporarily. I trust my men to your capable hands.”

“Where are you going again?”

“I shall go east. The man I am looking for is near Thariss, close to Clan lands. I shall see want he wants, and then, I shall return. If you are given a job in the mean time, I trust you to carry it out.”

“Wait, what if…?” But the general was already gone. Poreth turned at looked to the west. He hoped the council would find something soon, for he was already dreading telling the men of their leader’s departure.

 

[Kyroshill]

OOC: Really?..... Hmmmm......

 

[Seon]

Update coming soon, I hope, Orange?

 

[MasterofDisasta]

Well, I guess it's time for me to finally reveal my character. Sort of.

Introduction

Spoiler :

I’m … hungry.

That’s all I can say.

That’s all I can think of.

I haven’t fed in … a day? A week? A month?
Does it even matter?
I’m hungry now. I’ll always be hungry. I just can’t find enough …

But I wasn’t always hungry. I had a name once … before the hunger …

Sometimes I try to remember … but it’s so hard to concentrate …

And I’m so hungry.

 

[Seon]

That reminds me of zombies... (Merciary! Eko! Thomas! That's your cue!)

Now trying to search the lore forums, I determine that you....are.... you... are.... zombies

 

[orangelex44]

Nope. Wrong.

EDIT: and he's not exactly a character, either. It's complicated, I'll let Master explain it if he wishes.

 

[MasterofDisasta]

The Hunting

Spoiler :

The hunger is all I have left. I&#8217;ve lost all memory of my life before the Hunger; I can&#8217;t even recall my name. I&#8217;m hungry. That&#8217;s all I know, and that&#8217;s all I need to know.

But it&#8217;s been a good night, and I've already caught one &#8211; I can think more clearly now.

I think I&#8217;m finally going to free myself from the grip of the Hunger. I&#8217;ve fed twice in the last week and I can feel my strength regaining, both over my mind and body. Perhaps I can finally leave this wretched place, and move to a &#8230;.

I can see another, walking alone in the street. A perfect opportunity, a second feeding in one night. And this time, I have the strength to catch it.

It ducks into an alleyway, and I follow. As I silently stalk my unsuspecting prey, I can feel the effects of my last feeding, keeping the Hunger at bay. I can control my movements and follow my prey cautiously, instead of one of the random uncontrolled attacks of late.

It&#8217;s so close &#8230; but still too cautious, I should wait for it to let its guard down. But I&#8217;m impatient and to my surprise &#8230; suddenly Hungry.

I can&#8217;t wait .. I charge and I can feel its fear. I scramble to get the dagger up to its throat, but the Hunger is back and I&#8217;m clumsy again. It hits the dagger out of my hand. I fall upon it, tearing at its arms, its face, and its eyes. It lets out scream and I&#8217;m so angry &#8230; I get a hold on its head and smash it against the ground. &#8230; It&#8217;s unconscious, dying but not dead. Good. Very good.

&#8230;.

I leave. I&#8217;ve replenished my strength; two victims is practically a feast for me. I haven&#8217;t fed so well since &#8230; well since before I can remember.

And yet &#8230; the Hunger still has its hold on me. I wasn&#8217;t as careful or coordinated as I should have been, even after feeding once. I just need to feed more, just a bit more and I&#8217;ll be in control again. I&#8217;ve fed twice already but as I travel the streets I know that I will need to feed again soon. I can already feel myself getting Hungry &#8230;

 

[Seon]

What are you then, a vampire? Loshas Valas, or something like that? o_0.

But that's definately a character, and she really won't be clumsy so... hmm...

*Thinks*

now, there are a few non-canon characters in this thread already! Tyrs and his captain Karimir, Master with his crazy some kind of thing, a group of somesort, and whatever somebody I know's character (which, I noticed, has not given out his stories yet).

Then again Orange, are you going to post the stories the characters sent with their orders in the update?

 

[orangelex44]

Not planning on it, no. First, that would be too long to post, second, that would take too long to do, and third, that would be too easy on behalf of the nations.

What I'll do is give a short summary, with the results on a national level, and make everyone have to guess a bit at what the results were for the individual.

So far, I have orders in from Magnadine, Karimir, Mary, Sayn, Hemah, and Duin, and MasterofDisasta. That leaves two yet... unless I just lost them in transit, or something.

 

[Tyrs]

EDIT: Ninja'ed

 

[Seon]

Soo... do we need to post our stories ourselves (I sent you mine 3 days ago!)?

 

[Tyrs]

If you want them public, then I would assume so

 

[MasterofDisasta]

I think that if you ask him, orange will post stories for you so that you can remain anonymous. At least it seems he's done that so far for several characters.

As for my character, I'm glad I was able to leave it a bit ambiguous for the time being.

I don't want to give it away yet but I'll just say that my stories may not have come from the most reliable narrator. It's still all true, from his point of view ...

 

[orangelex44]

10char? Quotes must not count, never knew that...

Spoiler :

Jubilee, the bloody city of frigging insanity. Or so it was said when I first heard about it. To my surprise, I found that it was actually true.

“Ponies,” muttered a man behind me. I turned around.

“Bloody ponies,” the man spat into the dirt and walked away. I turned toward the festivities and nodded.

“Ponies,” I muttered to myself. Ponies galloped through the streets. Ponies galloped onto the stage like some fashion show in Kwythellar. There were contests to see how much a pony could eat. There were contests to see how many ponies a man could put in oneself.

A pony suddenly collapsed in front of me. “Ponies,” I greeted it.

“Ponies,” it greeted back. It stood back up and galloped away.

I stared at it galloping away for a long time, turned around, and started ambling toward the library.

This city, with its eccentric nature, never seemed to give up in trying to annoy the unholy heck out of people. It wasn’t long until I heard the familiar cry of “THIEF!!!”

The thief or rather, a pony with a bag of carrots in its mouth galloped through the streets.

I sighed and started chanting. Suddenly, a puddle of rainwater blasted itself onto the pony, pinning it against a wall.

“Thank you!” The shop owner clapped his hands. “That was quite a show, now for that pony…”

A mimic suddenly burst out of the pony and ran down the street, laughing all the way.

The shop keeper stood agape. “Bloody ponies,” The shopkeeper and I both whirled around to see the same man that welcomed me into the city. “Bloody darn ponies,” he sadly turned around and walked away.

The shop keeper picked up the bag of carrots, thanked me, and walked away. The crowd, especially children, grew larger around me.

“Show us another trick,” one of them suddenly asked. “Trick?” I mused myself with the idea of drowning them with water, but decided against it. “Ponies,” I muttered, and used the remaining ether to create and form a mist shaped like a pony. I sent it off to one direction.

“Catch.”

The magic word. The children screamed after the misty form of the pony and left me slumped against the wall.

“You are a mage.”

I glanced angrily backward. “Now what?”

A simple-looking swordsman with leather armor sheepishly looked down at his feet. He kicked away at the small pebble by his feet.

“You are not like the rest of them,” he said.

I cocked my head off to a side. I noticed a pony dragging a man into a dark alley, but decided to ignore it. “What do you mean?”

“You see, most mages will either try to shoo away the children, or even scare them off with a blast of magic, but you didn’t do that,” said the swordsman.

“You seem to know a lot about us mages,” I said.

“Talked with hundreds of’em,” he said. “All secretive jerks, always thinking that they are better then anyone else, but you!” He pointed a finger at me. “Are something different, you made that… pony… thing… for those children, right? I take that as a sound that you are willing to be more nice with other creatures on this world, so…”

“Get on with it,” I pointed at the dusk. “We don’t have much time.”

“Okay, okay, the point is that I am interested in learning magic, so how does teaching me magic sound?”

I pointed at his sword. “You don’t look like a student”

“Oh, this,” he clapped his hand against it. “A mage told me that I could learn magic if I practiced with it a thousand times per day for three months. I did it, but he just laughed and pointed at my arms and said that I would be better off as a mercenary, so here I am,”

He made a sad, forced laugh.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. A pony collapsed in front of the swordsman and he kicked it to make sure that there weren’t anything inside it. Satisfied that there was nothing in the pony, he kicked it away.

“It would be dangerous to travel with me; I can’t guarantee for your safety.”

“More dangerous than here?” He pointed at the ponies.

I frowned. “No, perhaps not, what is your name?”

“You can call me Kir,” he said.

“I will leave in two days; meet me outside on the south road…”

I finally managed to get to the library. I opened the door, went inside, sprinted outside back again to narrowly evade the rampaging ponies by which that time I had given up and was looking for an inn.

That also turned out to be harder then expected.