Log in

View Full Version : Rebuilding the Silver



Tshael
01-29-08, 12:53 PM
{closed}


Trees are the earth's endless effort to speak to the listening heaven.

-Rabindranath Tagore

The roads of Radasanth were calling for blood. They had been, from the moment the first flames licked at the sides of the Silver Pub. When the bar was in rubble, nothing but charcoaled sticks of timber and smoldering rock, Corone itself was weeping with despair. It had never been a mere building. When Tshael had emerged from the wilderness, so ignorant of anything but her horror and dread of a home she had so hastily left, the Silver had been standing. It had been old then, patched areas of floorboard creaking comfortably as her hooves had strode across it for the first time.

When Nashiara had taken it from her, she had taken it from the land, from the heritage that was the nation of Corone. Now, coming up the road - which saw much less use than it used to - the clatter of two hooves as they stuck against all the stones hidden in the dirt road. The sunlight fell on red locks, long curls that seemed to glow like fire in the noonday sun. Her eyes were burnished gold - dirty and dark with her anger as she looked upon the hill that once would have been graced with the silhouette of the Pub.

The ground was shaking now, a bare trembling growl as she started to climb up the road that would lead her to the grounds. Death was still strong on the wind, glass crunching under her steps where it had been thrown from the force of exploding alcohol. When she crested the hill, looking on the heaping masses of what had been most of the metal and stone in the building, her rage really grew, a fire fed with the fuel of memories that would never be regained. Her stance was solid, else she might have been thrown to her knees when the ground began to shake, throwing a fit in her stead. Deep ruts in the earth were torn even more around the hill, flowing like a wind of vengeance to the road. Murky water bubbled up from somewhere, desperately trying and failing to fill the gap in the earth that she was forcing even deeper still. Soil, debris and rock from the top of the hill started to shake it's way down, and she paid the trench no mind until she heard the distinct sound of rock striking against metal. She paused in her tearful surveillance of the land she owned, the Pub that was as ingrained in the history of this nation as much as any government building in Radasanth, and turned her cold gaze down to the rending of earth that her anger had torn.

For a long moment, all she could do was stare. There appeared to be a metal building down there, the edges of it's sides jutting through places where the earth had crumbled away from the ever expanding rip in the ground. Carefully, Tshael began to make her way around the tiny chasm, wonder filling her every movement. When she'd arrived at the other side. She leaned down over the edge, holding her breath when rock began to crumble under her left hand as it held her weight. with her right, she rapped against the metal with her knuckles, frowning at the hollow sound. It was a box, then, and not just a block. But what was inside? Before her fit had revealed it to her, there'd been no indication. Frowning, she turned, pulling away from the edge as she looked over the rest of the land that'd come with the Pub. It had been unused, herself having no interest in farming. Somewhere out there, was there a clue to this mysterious thing?

She walked for hours, until the noon sun was nothing but the golden light of near-twilight. Finally, when the sky was turning to colors of burning reds and deep purples, she found it. So unobtrusive in the tall grass that had long been cut, a simple metal doorway in the ground. It had been covered with dirts and loose leaves, weeds trailing the sides as they grew up over it, but it was still glinting between long blades of grass, waiting for something. Tshael felt it as she nudged at the sides, heard the call.

The screaming of Corone was enough to drive her back to Radasanth for the night, where the noise of the city could dampen the blood-curdling cry that continued to ring in her mind.

Tshael
02-04-08, 07:44 PM
The Captain's Archway was a small bar in Radasanth, nearer to the port than even it's name could give away. The endless song of gulls and the beating of waves on the shore broke in between the conversation of the patrons. The piano player had long ago gone home to his wife and children, the baby grand sitting worn, the seat empty as it usually was as grey twilight melted into darkness. The patrons, though engaged in their usual banter about everyday life, were much like the piano. Their lives went on, a schedule that had become as monotonous as the same songs played every day in the same order, but when all was said in done, they sat alone amidst the smell of ales and lagers. The alcohol behind the bar kept the piano going as much as it did the men, though no one bothered to think of that at all.

Tshael sat at the bar now, swirling the last remaining dregs of brandy around the bottom of the glass. She watched as the dark liquid revolved in a streak around the edges of the bottom, and in the sheen cast on glass that had been dried by her swigs not long before, she could see her reflection. As distorted as it was, she knew the darkness under her eyes was no mere shadow. The night before had been spent awake, wondering, listening. She'd heard something amazing and terrifying. There was something buried there, something to do with the burning of the Pub. Was it related to the woman who had set fire to the place to begin with?

Tshael took another drink, her brow furrowing as she cast furtive glances to the door of the bar, each one growing more hopeful and more frustrated when the door swung open only to be some stranger there to meet his friends. She'd sent out a messenger the night before, one with a loose tongue but good intentions. She'd had help years before, to claim the deed of the Pub as truely hers, to pay taxes to the government of Corone. Since then, she'd been handing back small favors to try and pay back her debt. Her friendship with Lord Ithermoss had been nothing more than a few small meetings long ago. She wasn't even sure if he was alive, but when she'd written out her message, pleading assistance of a few warriors, maybe some craftsmen, one thing was for sure.

The Red Hand was alive, and the only ally she had left.

Ranger
02-05-08, 01:46 PM
The prophet of the Thayne made his way through the shadowed alleyways, the darkness of the city of Radasanth. Like a common criminal he moved, cautiously, watching a patrol of guards pass by, hushing a vagabond stirred in their alcohol induced slumber. It was something new to him, being wanted, being feared. He had destroyed the god of his past, and with his death had assumed the full position as eyes, ears, and mouthpiece of the Thayne above. However, interaction between the Corone Empire, who controlled Radasanth, and the rebuilding Red Hand were far from pleasant.

They had attacked the small town the Gol’Bron had birthed in the wake of Lord Ithermoss’ passing. They had burned and pillaged like savages of old, budding questioning thoughts in the minds of the people and creating a rift between the group and the nation. An alliance could have been made, a truce between the two powers. Forgiveness of overrunning the Bazaar years before could have been granted, and in its place the militaristic might and profound dominance of trade and craft could have been at their disposal. Yet the government had chosen a different path, a way crooked and hard to trek, leaving Ranger and all the members of the Gol’Bron in constant danger.

Past allegiances were dire, and having the opportunity to renew them would be the most pressing matter for the clan. One of the many friendships that had been lost with the disappearance of Lord Ithermoss was with the Silver Pub and the dranak woman Tshael. The prophet had never met her personally, but had heard nothing but praise for her and her endeavors from the draken-lord. That was enough for him, for the word of Ithermoss might have well been the spoken word of a Thayne.

So, when summoned by a messenger, and after finally stopping his flapping tongue from wagging, the drow had quickly made his way to the capital of Corone. The words on everyone’s tongue were filled with rumors of an uprising, a war between the already torn government and the Gol’Bron. He had kept low, quiet and aloof, straying from tavern to dark alley to avoid the prying eyes of others and the accusing eyes of the guard. Trivial though the Pub might have been, offering less than the alliance with the Bandit Brotherhood ever did, it was a matter of standing by the promises of the true leader of the clan that spurred the prophet.

He pushed aside the door to the tavern, entering like a shadow and keeping his hooded cloak up. A few scattered, glazed eyes met his entrance, but with the darkness of the streets seemingly embracing his features it was hard to place him. The tavernkeeper nodded towards him, no smile but nor a frown either. Ranger nodded in return, asking for a fine wine to follow him, and searched the common room, his platinum eyes easily finding the dranak woman. Her flowing red hair danced across her shoulders, curling at the ends and hardly concealing the bare torso.

With a flush on his face, the drow moved to her table and took a seat softly across from her. “Tshael,” he said in a hushed tone, “The Red Hand stands at your side, as it always has. I am Ranger, currently something akin to the second in command of the clan. Sorahn may be following soon, I am unsure as of yet. Either way, your request for assistance has been answered by the clan, and though the great Ithermoss cannot be present, those of us that can will be doing all we can.”

Tshael
02-16-08, 01:45 PM
"Thank you," she said as she bowed her head to Ranger. She was grateful of the Red Hand, even if she'd lost contact from Ithermoss quickly after their alliance was granted. True that over the years she'd seen a few of the order in with a hot meal and free place to sleep, she had been afraid that they'd refuse to help. She didn't take Ranger's extended arm of assistance lightly.

"If you've still craftsmen among you, I would much prefer to commission the Hand for the new furnishing needs, rather than giving my gold to the bazaar." she said, nodding to the tender as he sidled over to refill her brandy. She sipped it, letting the taste dance in her mouth as she thought.

"I've a problem that needs sorting before the rebuilding can begin," she said now, the heart of her worries coming to surface. "Something's built under the Pub grounds, something that I'd like to understand more before I rebuild. It's not natural, I know that. It's made of steel, looked dwarven to me, but it could just be generally Alerian.

"It may sound silly, but I don't want to go down there alone."

Ranger
02-17-08, 05:06 PM
Ranger listened with a kind ear, taking in the information and storing it at the forefront of his memory. This was his contribution to the Red Hand, his personal contribution to the memory of Ithermoss. The silver eyes of the drow looked into the woman’s, her golden eyes dazzling despite the muted auburn light of the tavern. Her hair looked as soft as silk, and cascaded across her naked chest like a languid waterfall. Ranger smiled, and nodded as if to confirm and rationalize her fears.

“Our craftsmen are at your disposal,” he replied softly. “The clan was scattered, broken and nearly forgotten. It has been rebuilt, though without the mind of the draken lord at our helm. The Red Hand is still but a fledgling group, once again, but the power and drive of Ithermoss is with those of us that have been at the core since the beginning. And as we grow, our threat grows too…”

The prophet looked about the room, his eyes darting to and fro, looking for any that seemed to be leaning in or turned towards the two. “You must understand before I continue and you have the Hand at your side. The bazaar war of years ago created a rift between us and Radasanth, which is now under the control of the Corone Empire. As it stands, with our core weakened, they have declared an open war against us. We are fighting, as we always have, but in order for us to do so we have to be spread rather thin and pull all our allies as close as possible.”

“I would hate to involve you in our disputes, but the chances of that happening are quite possible. You would not be left defenseless, of course, for you have always had our assistance and would not be left for the gluttonous aristocrats to feed on.” The prophet leaned back, letting it soak in for a moment before continuing. “I am willing to offer whatever you need before the establishment of the tavern can continue.”

Tshael
05-10-08, 09:00 PM
She smiled, nodding.

"You must understand, Lord Ithermoss helped to keep the Pub as my own, and even when his own schemes took him on a course to anger influential people, the Pub has always been a haven for the Red Hand. I don't intend for it to change now. The Pub has always been on the outskirts of Radasanth, apart from the city. We cater to more travelers than citizens of the city, and I prefer it that way. I do not fear the Empire, and my friendship will always lie with you and yours."

She pushed her brandy glass away before the tender could come back to fill it again. Turning to Ranger, she held out her hand.

"We have an accord?"

Ranger
08-01-08, 02:17 PM
Ranger let his wine glass touch the table. It rang quietly and harmoniously, a delicate noise that caught his sharp ears and brought a smile to his face. The woman understood the situation, and still decided to carry on with the venture. The prophet had done what he needed to. In clearing his conscious he was ready to assist as much as he could in any way possible. “We have an accord,” he said as the calloused hand of the common man met the soft palms of the working woman, “and I am glad to be the one to renew the alliance that has long stood. I would not dare defy the name of the great Ithermoss, nor ignore those that he held close. A friend of old is a friend always; alliances nowadays are fickle and trite. Trust is hard to give, and watching for the stab in the back that is just waiting to plunge is always a troublesome notion.

“This however, this peace between the Silver and the Hand is a foundation long standing and one that comes without remorse or worry. I, as the current voice of the clan, accept that we have a standing lasting relationship. Our assistance is at your command.” The drow kissed the back of the woman’s hand and sat back. A promise was a promise, and the dutiful mind of the prophet was one that would not let the pact be forgotten.

“To begin, what is it that you need the most? I am at your immediate disposal and am willing to help with whatever is necessary to begin the reconstruction and revival.”

((Sry for the delay, let's get this underway.))