Post by phrostphyre on Jun 14, 2013 1:56:43 GMT -5
He was fairly certain that Leilani Richards was dead. Died in a fire, the reports all said. That was.... That was bad. Bad for him, bad for the other guards he shared her duty with. So they did the only thing they could think to do, aside from get into a brawl, knife someone, and get hung as murderers. They went and got rip-roaring drunk. Granted, it might not have been the best idea, considering they, the group, and he, charged with her security were probably about to die, due to their lack of ability, if one wanted to look at it that way, but that was all they had. Drink, make merry, and enjoy the rest of their time.
Come the next morning, however, and they were neither being hung as criminal scum or drawn and quartered as traitors. Immensely pleased by this turn of events, he went and got drunk again. Considering he was armed at the time with seax and sword, that might have been another bad idea in a long string of them. His luck finally ran out when Sean MacLaren ran into a fight. He didn't draw steel first, and he'd insist so to his dying day, but a man wound up dead, with another severely injured, and Sean fleeing Carvala. Hot on his heels, his former comrades in arms followed Sean to Teirm, where he took ship for a place he never thought he'd go again: Hibernia.
Once an outlaw there, time didn't change things, that much: Upon his arrival at Fergus' Folly, a port on the coast, he was promptly arrested and jailed, where he waited for execution. It didn't come.
~*~
Dirty, smelling like hay and rats, and drenched in sweat, I was pretty sure I was a sight for sore eyes. Nevertheless, I was determined to escape. After cooling my heels for most of a month, and spiralling through depression, anger, and eventually guilt, at Leilani's death, I had finally decided to do something.
Sadly, that something consisted of murdering the kailer's assistant through the bars in the cell, taking the key, unlocking my shackles, and opening the door. Stealing his dagger, I made my way to the front, where I slit the jailer's throat, before hunting through the small building, looking for my arms. To my luck, I found everything but my throwing axes. No big loss, then, considering I was alive and not dead. I shrugged into my chain mail shirt, over the loose shirt I was wearing, and then pulled my plaid over it, buckling on sword and seax, and tightening the straps of my shield on my forearm.
Padding out of the dingy building, into the mid-day light, I winced at the brightness, cursed, and put my head down and headed straight back to the docks, where I finally found a ship to take me anywhere but here, this land filled with wild clansmen, memories of a lost love, dead parents, and a lost war.
~*~
He had taken ship, then, for Vroengard. He didn't know where, or what, it was, but when he found it was to be the new stronghold of the Riders, he figured he could at least find somewhere to get, and stay, drunk, while he worked as a manual laborer for passage to the Cathar lands, who he had heard were hiring soldiers. Considering he spent most of his evenings drunk or with the whores, a fact which he chose to ignore most of the time, he'd never have enough hard cash to satisfy a ship's captain.
With an internal shrug at that grim thought, he turned back to trying to out drown his sorrows with his boon drinking companion, a fellow from Broddring. Albert, he said his name was, was laughing uproariously at something one of the whores had done. Taking a drink, Sean suddenly felt disgusted at himself. This wasn't what he was, was it? Nothing but a sellsword, staying alive in between contracts by working as a common laborer? His father was the feared Iron Jarl of Scandia, striking from the mist! His grandfather was the Boar King of Hibernia, famed throughout the lesser nations as a warrior and soldier! And he, Sean, was doing nothing to bring honor to their names, or his own.
Taking a good, long look at his surroundings, the disgust deepened. A dingy tavern, with cheap floozies hanging off every false word of even more false men? Once, his word had been iron, good throughout a land. Standing, Sean motioned for Albert and his floozy to stay, before moving out of the tavern. He was drunk, but not drunk enough to not know it. A scowl decorated his face, as he went down the road in the middle of Sardavar Leed. He was headed for Mount Erolas, but he didn't know for sure why.
Perhaps this was his way to an honorable death, redeeming the family name for all time? Giving a sort of internal shrug, Sean continued onwards to the forest covered volcano, long dead. Or so the scientists said. Personally, Sean was inclined to disbelieve them, as no one truly knew what went on in volcanoes. He eventually left Sardavar Leed behind him, entering the forest that covered the mountain volcano thing.
Shrugging internally again, Sean slipped into a tube thing leading inwards and down. Perhaps he'd find something to fight. That'd be nice, he's pretty sure. Maybe a woman afterwards... He couldn't recall the last woman he'd truly loved, other than the lassie in Hibernia, and perhaps Leilani. He was unsure, of that. Certainly protectiveness, but that came with the job, didn't it? But the depression and rage and grief at her death....
Lost in his thoughts, Sean didn't notice the eversharpening downward tilt to the tube, or the faint light glowing up at him. When he finally arrived at the Vault, he was surprised, to be certain. Dragon eggs? He hadn't expected that. "I didn't ask for this," he proclaimed loudly, though what he hadn't asked for was anyone's guess, including his. "Perhaps," he mused aloud, "perhaps I didn't ask to be exiled from my home, or the nation where I had made my new one. Although," Sean continued, still drunk, "although I would like another chance."
Another chance at what, young one? A voice seemed to ask from nowhere, everywhere.
"I don't know," Sean declared softly. He missed fighting, he supposed, but that might not be safe to declare to an unknown entity. The thrill of it, the exhilaration of knowing you held your shield-brothers' lives in your hands, and that your enemy could do nothing against you.
Maybe, youngling, you seek a chance at life? For have you ever truly lived?
"I've lived," Sean protested. "I've lived well! I've fought and drunk and made love and been scarred!" He didn't like what the entity was getting at. He had lived well!
Is it perhaps redemption? He didn't know. He was tired and sore from the walk and he didn't want to participate so deeply in this soul searching session he seemed to be having with a god of some kind.
Almost amused, now, the voice chimed in once more: Sleep, then, youngling. I shall stand watch for you. And then Sean noticed the cushions, and deciding there were worse places to sleep, sprawled across them, using an oval shaped rock for a pillow, and slept.
Come the next morning, however, and they were neither being hung as criminal scum or drawn and quartered as traitors. Immensely pleased by this turn of events, he went and got drunk again. Considering he was armed at the time with seax and sword, that might have been another bad idea in a long string of them. His luck finally ran out when Sean MacLaren ran into a fight. He didn't draw steel first, and he'd insist so to his dying day, but a man wound up dead, with another severely injured, and Sean fleeing Carvala. Hot on his heels, his former comrades in arms followed Sean to Teirm, where he took ship for a place he never thought he'd go again: Hibernia.
Once an outlaw there, time didn't change things, that much: Upon his arrival at Fergus' Folly, a port on the coast, he was promptly arrested and jailed, where he waited for execution. It didn't come.
~*~
Dirty, smelling like hay and rats, and drenched in sweat, I was pretty sure I was a sight for sore eyes. Nevertheless, I was determined to escape. After cooling my heels for most of a month, and spiralling through depression, anger, and eventually guilt, at Leilani's death, I had finally decided to do something.
Sadly, that something consisted of murdering the kailer's assistant through the bars in the cell, taking the key, unlocking my shackles, and opening the door. Stealing his dagger, I made my way to the front, where I slit the jailer's throat, before hunting through the small building, looking for my arms. To my luck, I found everything but my throwing axes. No big loss, then, considering I was alive and not dead. I shrugged into my chain mail shirt, over the loose shirt I was wearing, and then pulled my plaid over it, buckling on sword and seax, and tightening the straps of my shield on my forearm.
Padding out of the dingy building, into the mid-day light, I winced at the brightness, cursed, and put my head down and headed straight back to the docks, where I finally found a ship to take me anywhere but here, this land filled with wild clansmen, memories of a lost love, dead parents, and a lost war.
~*~
He had taken ship, then, for Vroengard. He didn't know where, or what, it was, but when he found it was to be the new stronghold of the Riders, he figured he could at least find somewhere to get, and stay, drunk, while he worked as a manual laborer for passage to the Cathar lands, who he had heard were hiring soldiers. Considering he spent most of his evenings drunk or with the whores, a fact which he chose to ignore most of the time, he'd never have enough hard cash to satisfy a ship's captain.
With an internal shrug at that grim thought, he turned back to trying to out drown his sorrows with his boon drinking companion, a fellow from Broddring. Albert, he said his name was, was laughing uproariously at something one of the whores had done. Taking a drink, Sean suddenly felt disgusted at himself. This wasn't what he was, was it? Nothing but a sellsword, staying alive in between contracts by working as a common laborer? His father was the feared Iron Jarl of Scandia, striking from the mist! His grandfather was the Boar King of Hibernia, famed throughout the lesser nations as a warrior and soldier! And he, Sean, was doing nothing to bring honor to their names, or his own.
Taking a good, long look at his surroundings, the disgust deepened. A dingy tavern, with cheap floozies hanging off every false word of even more false men? Once, his word had been iron, good throughout a land. Standing, Sean motioned for Albert and his floozy to stay, before moving out of the tavern. He was drunk, but not drunk enough to not know it. A scowl decorated his face, as he went down the road in the middle of Sardavar Leed. He was headed for Mount Erolas, but he didn't know for sure why.
Perhaps this was his way to an honorable death, redeeming the family name for all time? Giving a sort of internal shrug, Sean continued onwards to the forest covered volcano, long dead. Or so the scientists said. Personally, Sean was inclined to disbelieve them, as no one truly knew what went on in volcanoes. He eventually left Sardavar Leed behind him, entering the forest that covered the mountain volcano thing.
Shrugging internally again, Sean slipped into a tube thing leading inwards and down. Perhaps he'd find something to fight. That'd be nice, he's pretty sure. Maybe a woman afterwards... He couldn't recall the last woman he'd truly loved, other than the lassie in Hibernia, and perhaps Leilani. He was unsure, of that. Certainly protectiveness, but that came with the job, didn't it? But the depression and rage and grief at her death....
Lost in his thoughts, Sean didn't notice the eversharpening downward tilt to the tube, or the faint light glowing up at him. When he finally arrived at the Vault, he was surprised, to be certain. Dragon eggs? He hadn't expected that. "I didn't ask for this," he proclaimed loudly, though what he hadn't asked for was anyone's guess, including his. "Perhaps," he mused aloud, "perhaps I didn't ask to be exiled from my home, or the nation where I had made my new one. Although," Sean continued, still drunk, "although I would like another chance."
Another chance at what, young one? A voice seemed to ask from nowhere, everywhere.
"I don't know," Sean declared softly. He missed fighting, he supposed, but that might not be safe to declare to an unknown entity. The thrill of it, the exhilaration of knowing you held your shield-brothers' lives in your hands, and that your enemy could do nothing against you.
Maybe, youngling, you seek a chance at life? For have you ever truly lived?
"I've lived," Sean protested. "I've lived well! I've fought and drunk and made love and been scarred!" He didn't like what the entity was getting at. He had lived well!
Is it perhaps redemption? He didn't know. He was tired and sore from the walk and he didn't want to participate so deeply in this soul searching session he seemed to be having with a god of some kind.
Almost amused, now, the voice chimed in once more: Sleep, then, youngling. I shall stand watch for you. And then Sean noticed the cushions, and deciding there were worse places to sleep, sprawled across them, using an oval shaped rock for a pillow, and slept.
