Gone... goblin hunting

[Restless Soul]

“They’re coming from the Windlancer peaks, apparently. Instead of dealing with the bandits themselves, Baron Girard ordered the militia and Knights to secure the mine and give no chase when they fled.” The disgruntled tone of the elf was obviously one of disgust. He pointed a finger to the old map of Scara Brae, tracing a path from Sess-Terria Hold directly towards the northern of the twin cities bordering Brokenthorn. The Innari would take a direct path back to wherever they were conducting their raids from. “We know that they are not coming from anywhere within the mountains, otherwise the Sess-Terria scouts would have found them at some time. The only reports released have been about trolls in the hills and caves. That means the goblins are coming from the south. That puts them somewhere between Olme and the next Duchy.”

Locien Fletcher gripped the elegant longsword at his hip, his fingers tightly wrapped around the hilt. Amras Fletcher had never seen his father show so much frustration. The white knuckles, the bottom lip curled down, teeth barred; signs of anger rarely expressed. Whatever had happened at the meeting with the messenger from the northern duchy had put him in a foul mood. The threat was not something that Amras thought meaningful, but it must have been a burden if his dad was in such a state.

“So, the watch can’t go after them because it’s outside of city jurisdiction… and the Knights?” Amras knew that the whole of Scara Brae was protected by the Knights. On horseback and in full gleaming armor, he had seen them ride through the city multiple times in his past. They were in charge of things like fighting Innari, protecting the cities and forts of Scara Brae, and generally discouraging disagreeable activities.

Locien shook his head and sighed. “It seems the knights are busy elsewhere, doing things at the command of the Queen near Neverscale. The only ones not called up are the few left behind to stay with the Dukes and Duchesses. This is something that we’ve been assigned. Now, listen up.

“It’s not just jurisdiction issues that I have with sending my men. We have to secure the transports of lumber from the forests edge to the border of the next Duchy. There guards will be switched and the task continued until the allotted shipments are completed. That leaves a handful in Olme, even Uthia’s watch is helping and they’re just as short-handed. That leaves you and whoever else wants to help you with this mission.”

Amras snickered at the idea of going on a mission. It was such a slip of the tongue by his father, he knew. The young elf was no soldier, like his father, or ranger of Brokenthorn like his mother. He was a self-made street urchin, a petty thief and troublemaker by choice. The amethyst eyed teenager was good with his thin rapier, daggers, and bow. He was well versed in stealth, knew enough to scrape by as a pick-pocket or fledgling hunter. Amras was anything but what his father had always wanted for his eldest son; he was not on the path to follow in his father’s footsteps.

“I’ve put out a bulletin around Olme and Uthia, requesting whatever help anyone who is not already helping as a lumberjack or on guard. One group went ahead of you already, some boys around your age from Uthia and a couple retired watchmen.” Amras cursed to himself. Retired watchmen were as stubborn as dirt, but were not nearly as troublesome as Uthia boys. If it was who he thought it was, there would be as much a problem with goblins as the sister cities assistance. “I don’t know if they’ll be as good up north, since they’re used to the South Brokenthorn district of the Duchy… that’s why I’m sending you and Olme boys as well.”

Amras nodded and tugged at the belted strap across his chest, letting the sheathed bow on his back tug against his spine. He understood finally why his father had asked to see him fully armed and geared. The task that he was given could not be put off and forgotten, something Amras had done quite often and only received a tongue lashing for. This was more serious and important. “You’re expected to meet with whoever else has agreed to help by the well at the center of town. The others are going to be there at noon. Don’t mess this up, I’m trusting you.”

Amras turned without another word and left the guard house, happy to be away from the watch headquarters just as any petty thief would be. As he pushed open the door and let the chill wind of winter swiftly push into the warm building he heard his father clear his throat. “There will also be a reward for doing this, Amras Fletcher. As with everyone else, we’ll be paying you.”

((Open to a two others max, not including the one who already wanted to join in if possible. Just going goblin hunting on Scara Brae, bloody treasures to be found? Perhaps!))

[Atzar]

Being a wanderer had some advantages.

Freedom. Atzar could go anywhere, do anything. He had seen things that few men ever had the privilege to see. He had braved the dangers of places that most dared not go. He had lived through trials that most could not survive, and he wasn't even old enough to sport a full beard yet.

He relied on no man but himself. He needed nothing but the clothes on his back and the coins in his purse, and an existence as a freelance mage provided plenty of those. Whenever his trusty leather pouch started to feel a bit too light, he would ask around, take on a job, put a fireball in the right place or up the right ass, and find himself in the comforting company of that light, golden jingle once more.

But there were disadvantages as well. With the freedom of responsibility came freedom of purpose, and the mage often wondered if that sacrifice was worth it. He needed nobody, but in turn nobody needed him. Was it truly better to live only for oneself?

Someday he might find the answer to that question, but not yet. Right now, the second disadvantage of life as a wanderer chose to rear its ugly head: namely, the discomforting truth that his purse was currently absent of that light, golden jingle.

He was in Olme, a quiet, sleepy town on the island of Scara Brae. It was supposed to be a short stay – enough only to buy supplies on his way to explore the Liviol Sanctum off the northwestern coast – but a clever pickpocket had torn that plan to pieces. So it was that the tall, dark-haired mage found himself in the town watch’s headquarters. The simple room showed no attempt at decoration. Small, square windows admitted just enough of day's dying light. On the far wall, a warm blaze crackled in the plain stone fireplace to ward off winter's chill. Behind a small desk in the center of the room sat a guard.

“Did you get a look at the thief?” The guardsman scarcely spared him a glance as Atzar told his story. Balding, overweight and unshaven, the middle-aged man looked as if he had made it his own personal mission to get through life with as little effort as possible. The mage realized at once why he was relegated to in-house duty – he wouldn’t have wanted to rely on this oaf in combat either.

“No. I told you, I didn’t see it happen. One minute I had it, and the next it was gone.”

“How do you know you didn’t just drop it or something?” The man’s bored expression never wavered. His stubbly chin rested in one hand; with the other he idly fingered the rust-spotted iron tip of his spear.

Atzar turned to the side and indicated the belt loop at his right hip. The tough leather had been cut cleanly, as if with a blade. “It was a thief,” he said, biting the words off as he fought to control his temper.

The guardsman grunted. “Looks like you’re right. Still, can’t do anything for you if you can’t tell me what your pickpocket looks like.”

"I told you, I didn't see him." Atzar glared through blue eyes at the unhelpful, indifferent soldier.

"Nothing I can do, bud."

“So you’re not going to do anything at all?” The mage’s voice rose. What a useless idiot!

Then, for the first time, the guard showed something other than complete disinterest. Leaning his spear against his desk, he stood. “Look, bud,” he shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do. I can’t just walk through the town, asking if anybody happened to steal a pouch full of money today. If you didn’t manage to see who stole your money, then I think your guy made a clean getaway. Sucks, and I’m sorry, but you aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last. Now, is there anything else you need?”

He was right. It didn’t make him any less of a useless idiot, but he was right, and Atzar knew it. The mage stood quietly for several seconds, hands on his hips, staring disgustedly at the ceiling. “Yeah,” he answered finally. “I guess I’m looking for some work.”

[Restless Soul]

The day dragged on slowly, almost as slowly as Amras dragged his feet. He shuffled towards the center of town, kicking loose rocks and dust as he went. Being told what to do was something he hated most of all. In a foul mood, the beautiful day was lost on him. A bright sun, thin clouds drifting lazily, and the light winter breeze combined to make a beautiful Scara Brae afternoon. The packed-dirt streets were filled with the citizens of Olme, going about their daily chores with cheery smiles. If only they knew of the threat that lingered in the north. “Stupid, boring people…”

Amras made it to the well, waving as he approached. Anther man was standing about with his back to the young elf, waiting for him. It was hard to tell if he was late or if the man was early, but it did not matter to him anyway. He sighed and put on a straight face. “Afternoon,” it was also unclear if his father had made him the leader of the little band, or if there even was one. He had gone on a few little ‘missions’ before, and the person in charge had always been firmly set ahead of time. This time, he assumed, it would be a little more haphazard. “You know what’s going on, I hope?”

“Something about goblins, and killing. Don’t care so much about gold and goblins, but I haven’t had a good fight in a long time.” The man spoke while facing the opposite way from Amras. A plume of smoke rose from his face as he turned, puffing out from around his pursed lips and cigar. He pulled it out of his mouth and tapped off the ash. “The names Harold, think the other guys who were hanging around left. Went on about the old days, back when I was…”

The man prattled on. He stroked his short black beard and puffed at his cigar as he told a story about his past as a Knight of Scara Brae. Amras could only sigh. A self-proclaimed war hero, Harold was going to be going on forever. He did look like he could carry himself in a fight though. A frame like a mountain and decked in a miss-match of chain and plate armor, the former knight was a powerhouse of a man. At his side he had a dagger as long as the elf’s forearm, and on his back was a sword almost as tall as him. “Good to meet you Harold,” Amras interjected, making the man stop mid-sentence and nod. “Just going to wait to see who else comes around. If it’s just us, I don’t see a point in going…”

Harold grunted in agreement and went back to his cigar, crossing a meaty arm across his chest and leaned back against the well. The younger man shook his head slowly and turned to sit on the well also. The party was supposed to be assisting the first from Uthia, that much was a given, but only two people did not make a support. Amras was good with his thin blade and bow, and the man in armor with a greatsword would be good to hide behind, but that could not keep him safe forever.

[Atzar]

The man looked unlike any Atzar had ever seen. He was well past his prime – in his sixties, if the mage had to guess. His snowy hair stuck out in all directions, and from beneath bushy eyebrows peered acid-green eyes that actually glowed. Apparently oblivious to the wintry cold, the man wore nothing to cover his scrawny torso. Red suspenders held his baggy orange pants off of the ground, and weighing down each leg were oversized, bulging pockets that clinked and clacked whenever the old man moved.

“I’m Atzar.” The mage hesitantly extended a hand, and nearly dropped to his knees when the old fellow seized it with a grip that could have crushed iron.

Rather than introduce himself, however, the man scowled darkly and thrust Atzar’s hand away. “That’s a goblin name,” he growled. “You a goblin?”

“Uh… no. Don’t think it’s a… goblin name, either.”

“Good. Hates me some goblins, I do. Be bad for ya if y’ were a goblin.” He emphasized this statement by poking a bony finger into the mage’s midriff. Again Atzar fought to quell his rising temper. These Olme people were turning out to be an unsavory bunch.

“…Right. Well, we’re supposed to be at the well in the center of town. Let’s go.” Turning on his heel, he stalked down the cobblestone street without another word. The rhythmic clanks told him that the mad old man followed. Remember the gold, Atzar, he told himself. Just remember the gold. He quickened his pace, and after several strides the clinking noises grew fainter as the oddball fell further behind. Idly the mage wondered if the fool could even fight.

When he reached the well, he frowned. The slovenly guard at the watch’s quarters had made it sound as if this mission was important. So why were there only two people at the meeting point? One was a giant of a man, adorned in a hodgepodge of armor and sporting a huge blade on his back; the other was an Elven lad who didn’t appear significantly older than Atzar himself. Once again the mage offered his hand and introduced himself, and to his relief the oddly-matched duo returned his greeting. Harold and Amras, they were called, and they presented a refreshing return to relative normalcy.

“So… what can you do?” the elf asked after the introductions. When Atzar glanced at him, he shrugged. “You don’t have a weapon, and we aren’t exactly having a picnic here.”

The mage laughed. “I practice magic. I’ll pull my weight; trust me.”

The old man caught up just then, and the elf turned to him. “Afternoon. I’m Amras.”

The fool’s glare returned. “Sounds like a goblin name.”

Atzar groaned.

[Restless Soul]

Atzar seemed relatively useless, as far as the young elf was concerned. Tall and rather fit, he looked like he would have been a good thief with the right training. At worst, he would pass as a militia man lost when called to fight; perhaps a former potter called to fight. With a clean-shaven face - ”wonder if he’s even started shaving yet” – Atzar appeared to be the only other normal person in the group. He did not look like a warrior though, and the only thing Amras had ever heard about magic users was related to wizards. Atzar did not wear a hat, so he wasn’t a wizard, but he used magic? It was a conundrum that the elf was interested in watching unfold. Following along behind him was a lumbering old man, and if it hadn’t been for him stopping at the kids side Amras wouldn’t have guessed he was coming along at all.

“A… goblin?” With a cocked head the elf looked at the old man, trying to take him in. He read like a book written phonetically, by a five year old, and upside-down. Haphazard hair stuck out in all directions, which alone would be enough to ignore. However, the fuzzy caterpillars he called eye-brows were furrowed and his piercing green eyes waited for an answer. Despite his loud dress, he was very serious. Half way between a sigh and laughter Amras shook his head, utterly confused. “I’m an elf, not a goblin.”

The response must not have been satisfactory, because the man stepped towards Amras. He tried to inch away, but the large jingling steps of the old man were taken quickly. Faces mere inches apart, Amras could smell his breath as much as feel it. Amras’ eyes started to water, but before they could the man stepped back and nodded. His mouth spread into a half-smirk, half-smile. It would have been a toothy grin if there were enough teeth left in his mouth to make one. “Good. Hates me some goblins, I do.”

“And you are coming along because? I asked Atzar the same thing; this isn’t a bloody picnic…” The man shook his legs and let the clattering of his orange pants speak for themselves. Unfortunately the unspoken language, which should only be used in situations when it is evident what is meant, was lost on the elven boy. He seemed self-satisfied with his answer to the question though. It was only after he shifted his green eyes to Harold, and the waiting face he saw begged for more of an answer.

“’Cause.”

“Oh…” Amras shrugged and looked past the old man to the would-be wizard. Atzar shrugged. It seemed that the other kid in the group had as much understanding of who the man was, much less what his reason for coming along was. “Well then…”

Harold broke the momentary awestruck silence. “Let’s go, doubt anyone else is coming along.” He puffed his cigar and shifted the massive blade on his back. With a smile he clapped the old man on the shoulder. “We have another experienced partner on this mission,” he chuckled. “This reminds me of this one time, years ago –“

Whatever story he started to tell he at least started as he walked towards the edge of Olme. The old man with the fuzzy brows and Harold took the lead, leaving Amras and the kid to follow along. Amras could only hope that Harold would run out of stories, lose his voice from telling them, or some goblins would be spotted immediately. He knew he would not be so lucky though, he never was.

[Atzar]

Olme didn’t hold a candle to some of the bigger cities like Radasanth and Ettermire, but even so, the constant hustle, bustle, and noise quickly became too much for Atzar. He was an explorer at heart. He enjoyed the constant thrill of facing the unknown, of seeing new places and braving new dangers. Street gangs, pickpockets, and inept guards just weren’t his type of adventure. So when they finally left the town in their wake, the mage relaxed. No more buildings loomed over him now. No more smoke invaded his nostrils. Instead there were rolling hills and tall trees, stripped bare of their foliage. In his nose was that indescribably fresh, sharp scent that only the cold season could produce. His breath steamed in the air in front of him as he smiled. He had always liked the winter, and he was in his element now.

However, that’s not to say he wouldn’t have appreciated some better company. Amras didn’t seem like a bad fellow – at the very least he didn’t seem to possess the stuffy arrogance so common in his species. But Harold and the old man (whose name they still hadn’t managed to extract) were only a step away from intolerable. Even now, they carried on a loud conversation. The huge warrior recounted yet another story from the glorious days of his youth, interrupted sporadically by cackling comments that frequently made no sense at all.

Atzar tuned it out, listening instead to the sound of his leather boots crunching through the snow. His eyes roved the countryside constantly, searching for anything out of the ordinary, never resting on anything for very long. Idly he noted a plume of smoke rising from behind a hill some distance in front of them.

“So… I have a question,” Amras spoke up.

The mage looked at his companion. The young elf barely came up to the Atzar’s shoulder, but despite this there was something… mature about him. He carried himself with quiet confidence - or perhaps it was simply stoic tolerance of the mismatched pair chattering in front of them, a feeling to which the elementalist could relate. “Sure,” he responded.

“Are you a wizard?”

Atzar raised an eyebrow. “Nah. I’m a mage, actually.”

“What’s the difference?” The tall young man could tell by the look on Amras’ face that this had been puzzling him for awhile, and he smiled.

“As far as I know, wizards get their power from stuff they possess – books, staves, hats, not sure what else. I don’t need any of that stuff to use my magic. If I need to use it, I just use it – nothing else to it, really.”

“Ah. I see.” The elf’s expression indicated that he still had doubts. Truthfully, Atzar didn’t have a better answer – he knew his own capabilities well enough, but he’d never put a lot of effort into studying other branches of magic. Why learn something he couldn’t use? It was a waste of time, as far as he was concerned.

Again the trail of smoke caught his eye and held it this time. Atzar pointed it out to his companion. “Any idea what’s over there?” he asked. It just didn’t look right. The clouds rose black and oily into the sky, far too thick and dark to be an ordinary campfire, and the mage wasn’t familiar enough with the area to know if there was a house or village out there. Still, even the fumes from a chimney didn’t look like this. This was something else, and he already had his suspicion about what it could be.