The Stonecutter Cartel
06-10-16, 11:37 PM
((This story takes place in the year 1815 CP, during the civil war in Corone))
Black carrion birds scattered as the first warning of the approaching storm resounded. Spooked by the thunder, the vultures and crows would retreat to the green, leafy maple trees surrounding the open glade to rest and digest their meals in safety, arguing among themselves noisily as they did so.
Harmon’s Field, as it was called by the locals, was the latest of the sites to host a skirmish between the rebellious Concordian Rangers and the imperial soldiers who sought to put them down. The first fat droplets of rain fell to the bloodstained earth kicking up puffs of dust as they wet the dry ground. The grass had been all but stripped away by frenzied boots during the battle, and the acres of once fertile earth were left to dry out in the hot summer sun, along with the countless corpses that dotted the landscape. The first clouds to roll over Harmon’s field were silver in color, giving way to dark indigo thunderheads that blotted out the noon sun almost entirely and cast darkness over the forlorn battlefield. The rain began to fall heavily, wetting too the corpses of once-noble warriors, now gas-swollen from days of baking in the heat.
Taking its time, a brown-cloaked figure with a white and red checkered handkerchief tied around the bottom half of his nose and face, strolled ahead of his team with a slender blade of iron in his hand. Not seeming to be deterred by the sudden change of weather, the short, squat humanoid weaved back and forth among the deceased soldiers, sliding his knife between gaps in armor and piercing the stomach cavities of the cadavers, which hissed as they expelled the noxious fumes that had built up inside them.
“Pop! Pop!” the figure chimed cheerfully with an exotic accent as he went about his grim work. The stabber seemed to ignore the heavily armored knights in their tarnished plate armor, favoring the corpses stretching out their light leather armor instead. Behind him, six similarly cloaked figures hauled the reeking deflated corpses into the backs of one of two large wagons which the stout laborers pulled by hand. Each among the troupe was a dwarf, and obviously so to any who would know one as such. They all sported some manner of beard, dense and muscular frames, and not one among them crested five feet in height. Some grumbled, others hummed, and all went about their work tirelessly in the rain as they loaded dead soldiers into their wagons.
“Come on then! Any among you want to try pulling a wagon of deaders through the mud? I suggest you pick up the pace then! Remember, just the rangers,” one of the hooded dwarves called out to his comrades, seeming to be the leader of the crew. He spoke the gruff, rumbling tongue of the dwarven people which the others spoke too - No need for the common tongue, which suited him just fine as he spoke it poorly anyway. The stabber heard his leader over the steady and rhythmic drumming of rain and began to scramble, doubling his efforts. The carts were nearly full but the hardy creatures had little difficulty moving their loads, working in teams of three to propel the heavy wagons. None of them wanted to be caught in the middle of Harmon’s when the earth turned to soup.
As the last few leather-armored bodies were loaded into the wagons, the leader moved away from the rest of his men, sniffing the air. A familiar scent trumped the ozone that accompanied the storm, and the rampant smell of decay. It lead him to the corpse of an imperial knight who had the plate-mail on his right arm shattered away revealing bloated grey flesh. The head dwarf plunked down to his knees beside the knight who had died propped up against a small earthen mound. He mused a moment, stroking his long, black beard, and then began to roughly tear away the remainder of a gauntlet on the corpse’s hand, tossing aside the scrap carelessly. “A-ha!” he exalted, flashing a toothy grin. He tugged at a small metallic band on knight’s finger with no results at first, but the leader grimaced and pulled on it again with one smooth motion which tore both the ring and sheets pallid skin right from the knight’s digit with a grotesque squelch. The dwarf hocked and then spit on the piece of jewellery, rubbing the wedding band on his leather jerkin and admiring the sheen of yellow metal. The ring blazed brightly as a stroke of lightning arced across the sky.
Gold.
The only thing in the world that mattered.
Black carrion birds scattered as the first warning of the approaching storm resounded. Spooked by the thunder, the vultures and crows would retreat to the green, leafy maple trees surrounding the open glade to rest and digest their meals in safety, arguing among themselves noisily as they did so.
Harmon’s Field, as it was called by the locals, was the latest of the sites to host a skirmish between the rebellious Concordian Rangers and the imperial soldiers who sought to put them down. The first fat droplets of rain fell to the bloodstained earth kicking up puffs of dust as they wet the dry ground. The grass had been all but stripped away by frenzied boots during the battle, and the acres of once fertile earth were left to dry out in the hot summer sun, along with the countless corpses that dotted the landscape. The first clouds to roll over Harmon’s field were silver in color, giving way to dark indigo thunderheads that blotted out the noon sun almost entirely and cast darkness over the forlorn battlefield. The rain began to fall heavily, wetting too the corpses of once-noble warriors, now gas-swollen from days of baking in the heat.
Taking its time, a brown-cloaked figure with a white and red checkered handkerchief tied around the bottom half of his nose and face, strolled ahead of his team with a slender blade of iron in his hand. Not seeming to be deterred by the sudden change of weather, the short, squat humanoid weaved back and forth among the deceased soldiers, sliding his knife between gaps in armor and piercing the stomach cavities of the cadavers, which hissed as they expelled the noxious fumes that had built up inside them.
“Pop! Pop!” the figure chimed cheerfully with an exotic accent as he went about his grim work. The stabber seemed to ignore the heavily armored knights in their tarnished plate armor, favoring the corpses stretching out their light leather armor instead. Behind him, six similarly cloaked figures hauled the reeking deflated corpses into the backs of one of two large wagons which the stout laborers pulled by hand. Each among the troupe was a dwarf, and obviously so to any who would know one as such. They all sported some manner of beard, dense and muscular frames, and not one among them crested five feet in height. Some grumbled, others hummed, and all went about their work tirelessly in the rain as they loaded dead soldiers into their wagons.
“Come on then! Any among you want to try pulling a wagon of deaders through the mud? I suggest you pick up the pace then! Remember, just the rangers,” one of the hooded dwarves called out to his comrades, seeming to be the leader of the crew. He spoke the gruff, rumbling tongue of the dwarven people which the others spoke too - No need for the common tongue, which suited him just fine as he spoke it poorly anyway. The stabber heard his leader over the steady and rhythmic drumming of rain and began to scramble, doubling his efforts. The carts were nearly full but the hardy creatures had little difficulty moving their loads, working in teams of three to propel the heavy wagons. None of them wanted to be caught in the middle of Harmon’s when the earth turned to soup.
As the last few leather-armored bodies were loaded into the wagons, the leader moved away from the rest of his men, sniffing the air. A familiar scent trumped the ozone that accompanied the storm, and the rampant smell of decay. It lead him to the corpse of an imperial knight who had the plate-mail on his right arm shattered away revealing bloated grey flesh. The head dwarf plunked down to his knees beside the knight who had died propped up against a small earthen mound. He mused a moment, stroking his long, black beard, and then began to roughly tear away the remainder of a gauntlet on the corpse’s hand, tossing aside the scrap carelessly. “A-ha!” he exalted, flashing a toothy grin. He tugged at a small metallic band on knight’s finger with no results at first, but the leader grimaced and pulled on it again with one smooth motion which tore both the ring and sheets pallid skin right from the knight’s digit with a grotesque squelch. The dwarf hocked and then spit on the piece of jewellery, rubbing the wedding band on his leather jerkin and admiring the sheen of yellow metal. The ring blazed brightly as a stroke of lightning arced across the sky.
Gold.
The only thing in the world that mattered.