Warriors of The Most High

[Marcus Telcontar]

It was a distant time. far more distant that you might have realised. So distant that the disaster that had overtaken the planet that the Chronicles were about was but a distant memory. Of that time, none was written anymore, for the time of Sicence was but a childhood myth. Who believed in such a thing as Science anyway? A fantasy, a lie. Demons and Spirits were the fact and ruled the land. Kings and Queens were under their power, praying for thier favour, selling their souls for gain while they lived.

Guns no longer existed, the mighty now were the oones whom could draw sword and use it to better others. Castles, proud and strong stood in the best of lands, enslaving those whom surrounded and lived in the lands. Shrines to evil abounded and cruel acts were carried out to the populace, demanded to appease the demons that held sway. Corruption and disease abounded, the average life of the peasants was misreble and hard, short as well. Only the nobles had a life span that compared to the Ancients, some even had artifacts that had survived the long and dark years from the Changing. Rumours of great ruins across the sea abounded, but like Science, was decryed as a myth. Who sailed across the ocean anyway? Those who tried had never returned.

But thee were some who saw things differently. They were executed as heritics or scorned, Priests who wandered the land with texts that the Demons hunted down and destroyed. Men whom strayed far from home and rarely came back again. Priests mainly. But there was one other, whom the Demons feared. For he was somethign else.

He was a Ranger and a Warrior of The Most High. And why he came and what happened is writ upon the scrolls of The Men Of God, the ones who believed and set us free.

--

The figure was not known to the innkeeper. He was mud splattered, his faded and threadbare cloak coverign a man of ill countance, who was clearly dark and dangerous. Others in the inn, peasants and minor nobles stayed clear of this stranger.

Much as he liked, for company was not of his liking.

He had a pipe between his lips, his face cast in shadow by his hood as he smoked, not saying a word, seemingly not even movign a musce as he sat, leanign back on the old wooden chair, boots up and on the table. The innkeeper had noted the stranger had a fell sword hidden in that cloak, a longer and heavier weapon to the rapiers and short staffs the locals used when they needed weapons. There was a glint of armour under the folds of his jerkin as well, which maked him even more unusual. No one strode the roads garbed as such. No one.

"So, who be Longshanks?" asked Ger , ne of the local farmers.

"I not tbe knowing and I not be askign replied the innkeeper in a hushed voice. "He be trouble, I deem, even if he be fairly spoken. Would you be asking questions he not be wanting to answer? That sword of his looks dangeous. A fell person I deem him"

"Aye, but you deem all not of this village fell and a fair few in it as well. Still, he has an ill favoured look. I be glad when he goes. Did he say where come from?"

"Nay. But north I think he comes from, if the cloa is any indication"

The stranger moved, the shadowed face turning to regard the two speakers. They felt the weight of his gaze and decided not to speak further on the subject of that man. But the man did speak, though not of their questions.

"A beer, innkeeper. And some cheese and buscuits if you would". A hand came out and dropped a gold coin on the table. The Innkeeper goggled, surprised that such a vagabond had such coinage.

Is he a robber? wondered the keeper. I must inform my Lord of this one

[Xazor Elessar]

"Please...I know I don't have much, but I want nothing save for the heat and shelter of your establishment."

A small voice belonging to a woman pleaded. The burly guard at the door of the Inn shook his head and stood in front of the door. She gently placed a hand upon his arm and looked up into his eyes.

"Please....I shall repay you for your kindness someday."

He thought a moment and then with a grunt, reluctantly opened the door and allowed the woman inside. She humbly bowed her head and passed through the door and into the warmth of the Inn. It was nicer than she had seen in such a long time....even if it was not much, to a peasant it was the world.

Many stared at her as she walked through the crowds in her dirty rags which were just barely enough to cover her slender body. Her blond hair was full of knots and appeared quite unkempt. Her fair skin was dirty and had bruises and cuts throughout the delicate layers. Still, there was some sign of hope, perhaps...in her bright cyan eyes, the most lively part of her.

Finding an empty table by the fire near the far wall, the young woman seated herself and simply took in the heat. The warmth enveloped her body and made her glow with a glad smile that was strange for one of the streets. Her hands came to rest upon the old wood of the table. It was cracked and worn, full of splinters and engravings of others who had sat there before her. She read a few of the writings, but did not understand most of them.

"Excuse me, ma'am....I thought that....peasants were not allowed in the Inn!"

A man tapped her on the shoulder as he spoke and then let out a thunderous laugh, drawing much uneeded attention to the young woman. Her cheeks flushed red as a cherry and she spoke not a word. Instead, she became unattached from the situation...allowing her eyes to wander. Suddenly they captured a sight....a man, sitting off in the corner diagonal to her own place. His figure was dark as were his eyes, and smoke from his pipe encircled his head. The woman seemed to stare at him for the longest time, canting her head slightly to the right and taking him in from a new perspective. Just as she began drifting off with the sight in her mind, a loud crash was heard at the front of the bar as the barkeep dropped a few glasses.

"Damnit! It's that man over there....he's doin' funny things here. I don't think he's got good intentions."

The fat man said to another bystander. This drew the young peasants eyes away from the mystery man to the situation before she turned back to the warm fire. She took it in gratefully, for she did not know the next time she would be able to return here and be warm and sheltered. It was a rare and simple gift that she received but once in a great while. To many, it was nothing...but to her....it was the world.

[Jeran Conrad]

A strange wind blew the shadows briskly to and fro as the young man made his way through the old, chilly village. Perhaps it was made a colder trip simply by the fact that he had been dispatched yet again to Darit's Inn for a constable action. He hated life as a constable of this small village--but it was better than being couped up in the castle with his father. Indeed, the life was not too adventurous--dispersing drunks from self-inflicted harm, dealing with petty thieves, and even the occassional fight. His father had been grateful enough to allow him to continue in this job. Afterall, he was in a delicate position for someone who should risk harm for their job.

He was Jeran, son of King Brythan of Illingsburgh, Prince of Illingsburgh and heir to its throne.

What a throne, he thought. The castle was barely one quarter the size of La-Radbury and housed nearly one tenth of its men. He didn't want it--he wanted nothing to do with the life of a noble. It was too much a mad dash for money and presitge, and he'd humble himself before the common folk before he'd turn into some gold-eyeing monster.

"Come right away, m'lord! Darit's called for help!" The young boy had spoken, out of breath and out of steam. Immediately, Jeran had come from his seat to the door, as the Inn was merely three or four streets away. He took to a jog, making his way to his destination.

"Did Darit give purpose of my calling?" He asked the boy he kept pace beside him.

"No, m'lord. Not a word." The boy still spoke between breaths. Arriving at the Inn, Jeran adjusted his equiptment before entering. He wore a medium sized rapier at his side--given to him by his father. It's hilt was beautiful and crafted in gold and jewel. The scabbard was studded with other precious stones. His leather armor held the emblem of the King upon it, reinforced by studs. It was a strong piece of armor--the only non-show piece he wore. His clock laid across his shoulders and dagger at his other side.

Entering the inn, he peered into the dimly lit establishment. The usual consort of locals met his eyes--save two he did not recognize. One was a woman--fair and petite. She was not well fed nor clothed, and her constant shiver showed the true depth of her chill. The other was a man--cloaked in nearly as much mystery surrounding him as his sudden appearance. Who was this? Surely, this was Darit's problem. He caught eyes with Darit as the innkeeper pointed to the man. Approaching the bar, Jeran leaned his body cooly against the wooden top, next to the stranger.

"Good eve, Darit. Why did ye summon me this eve?" He spoke, his words loud enough for the stranger to hear.

"I think it be the man next ta ya that be deserving your attention, m'lord Constable." He spoke, pointing a finger directly at the man. "No soul be carrying a purse as he be with such commonfolk dress."

"Indeed," Jeran replied, eyeing the bloated purse that had been removed from the traveler's belt. "Do we find a thief that should come in the night to steal from our flock like the wolves who howl at the edge of the se lands?" He had a hint of confidence in his voice. All knew that he was, without agrument, the best swordsmen in Illingsburgh.

[Marcus Telcontar]

Ever since he had dropped the gold soverign, on the tapble, the Ranger had become aware others were watchign him. Assessing. Deliberating. No one more than the innkeeper, who clearly thought ill of the long legged man leaning back on the chair. In fact, the coin lay untouched, which immediatly got him on alert, for in this poor country, such a coin would be valued, for it was a months wages, even for an innkeeper. So why was he not takign it up?

He knew that on his long road and travels, others tended to avoid the man in his cloak, walking in a direction only he knew of, for purposes he would not say to anyone. And no one dared speak tohim, for if he took the hood off, he was clearly grim and short of temper, ill favoured and onimous. He made the various house demons nervous and some of their works would even fail in his wake. Like some kind of a curse he was to those he passed.

Right now, his dark eyes were watchign as a noble one came into the room of the inn, comign not longer after a starving waif like girl. He took a puff on his pipe as the innkeeper explained his disquiet to the noble, pointing directly at the Ranger.

"Indeed," the noble said to the innkeeper, eyeing the Ranger off with a great deal of suspicion, eyeing the bloated purse that had been removed from the traveler's belt. "Do we find a thief that should come in the night to steal from our flock like the wolves who howl at the edge of the se lands?"

The Ranger paused before taking the pipe out of his mouth and replying, his voice soft and mild, but with an odd accent. "Aye? You accuse me of being a thief, my Lord? A slight on my honour that be, for I am no thief. I toil honestly for the coins I carry. How is it a stranger can be accused as such without proof - or there no such honour as justice in this mudhole?" he ended with a sneer.

[Xazor Elessar]

As soon as the young woman was just beginning to feel as though her bones were thawing, the same guard that let her in came to her table and grapped her by the arm with one giant hand.

"Time to leave...you pay nothing for this and you've had plenty! Peasants are bad for business....out with ya!"

Lowering her eyes, Xazor walked along side the guard, hanging her head in shame. He opened the door and threw her out into the cold. Her frail body fell onto the hard ground outside of the Inn, giving no mercy to her at all. She pressed her hands upon the cold ground and slowly rose to her feet. A ragged breath escaped her lips as she pulled the rags upon her body closer to maintain some of the heat from inside of the Inn. She turned away from the establishment and began journeying back to her home: a series of carboard boxes covered with sticks and leaves.

Just as the peasant turned around, though....a mob of four men attacked her, throwing their bodies at her and grasping at her arms and legs. They forced her to the ground as she kicked and screamed, unleasing what she could upon the assailants. They did not seem to be affected as they tore at the dirty clothes upon her body.

"No! Stop it please! HELP ME SOMEONE!"

'Why would they help you, you are nothing to the world any longer.' The thoughts echoed in her mind as she attempted an escape by crawling away and out of their hands, but it was no use. One of the larger men slapped a hand over her mouth as the others began beating on her small framed body. They violated her and managed to remove a good majority of her rags for clothing. Tears streamed down her fair cheeks as she curled up and seemed to shrivel there on the ground like a burning leaf in the autumn. It seemed as though all hope was lost and she would surly be forced to succumb to whatever these men had in mind for her.

[Sejah Haversh]

(Two and a half months previous)

The seeds wouldn't grow.

The winter had been fierce, and had frozen the Northlands worse than they had been in many a year. Seeds that should have sprouted and formed plants had died, and so many farmers found out the hard way that they would have no summer or fall crops, leaving many to desert their homes in search of some other way to feed themselves and their families. Mikheil's brother and sister-in-law had been lucky. He had been found hearty enough to join the castle guard, and his wife a position in the kitchens, so they could leave their farm without worry. But it did leave Mikheil in the lurch, as he had been living with them for the past three years trying to make it as a farmer.

Four years previous, Mikheil had been a squire to a respectable, yet aging knight of the realm. He traveled with him, and had learned from him what it meant to be a knight, as well as how to fight and defend one's self for seventeen years. And four years ago come winter, his master fell ill and died at an inn, leaving him all his posessions. Since then, Mikheil tried to apply for knighthood himself, but was refused, and then went to live as a farmer, putting away the two-handed greatsword he had been willed, and putting his horse to work on a plow rather than hauling a man of war about the countryside. It had been a good life, until the seeds wouldn't grow.

Now, at the age of 34, Mikhel rode silently along an old road to the south. Though it was early summer, the air was bitter cold, and he pulled his fur-lined leather cape tighter about himself. The little food he hd was packed along with a second pallium and his horse grooming kit in a pack behind him, and lashed to his saddle with his bedroll and horse blanket rolled and stacked atop it. He was a formiddable figure for his age; 6' 3" and weiging nearly 270 pounds, Mikheil was larger than most men he encountered. His dark brown, almost black hair was already graying, especially at his temples where they were almost solid gray, and even his thick brows had hits of gray as well.

As he rode on, more abandoned farms came and went from his view. The giant sword across his back seemed worthless for it could not defend against hunger, or fight to bring food to a table. A shorter one which actually had a pointed tip lay slung across his hip, and a rondel dagger used primarily for eating with was attached on the other side of his belt. Thick leather gloves gripped the reighs of his horse, and lip-boots witht eh flaps folded up and tied protected his bare legs as he rode. His clothing of chose was a pallium; a long-sleeved shirt that hung down to a bit above the knees and was work without pants. His was of a deep green color, and made of roughly spun wool, though he had worn it long enough that it was no longer itchy inside. Though he was not a knight, he looked and acted the part well enough.

But now was a time for change. There was nothing left for him in the Northlands, so he would head south to warmer climates and tales of Lords needing good soldiers who recieved ample pay for their services. With luck, he would reach the midlands in two months time.

(OOC- This is basically what he looks like, though this Mikheil is human, not a badger. http://elfwood.lysator.liu.se/loth/g/u/guardia/badger_knight.jpg.html )

[Jeran Conrad]

Honor and Justice? When did a drifter, like this man, come to entertain discussions of honor and justice? This man did not appear as anordinary drifter--that could be said about his mysterious origin. Such wandering souls concerned themselves with their next meal or their next form of income. Nary a wanderer was known to pose such questions.

"This mudhole bears more of a burden than you credit, stranger." His tone was fierce but not raised. "For many years honor and justice have forsaken it--like a nurturing mother leaving the nest of young to provide for themselves." His voice raised slightly and he stopped it. There was no need to proceed to argue with such a commoner. It was time to put him on his way.

"Despite your crimes or, as you claim, lack thereof, Darit would wish that such company not be held in his Inn. I must respect his wishes and escort you from this keep at once." He stood, keeping his eyes locked on the invisible ones from inside the other's hood. "If you will not come politely than I will be forced to find...other means." His hand fell to rest on the hilt of his blade as he remained before the Ranger.

[Marcus Telcontar]

He didn't commnt other than to resume smoking his pipe for a few more seconds, then replying.

"Since when are ones like you just and true? May your demon abandon your household"

The whole room drew quiet and tense. The innkeeper gasped, glancing at the noble, shocked by the blashemy from the lips of the stanger.

The Ranger noted the scream from outside. Put his pipe down on the table, took his feet off the chair. Seemingly still relaxed with the gold coin still on the table. And readied himself for what was now next.

[Sejah Haversh]

In and out of two months time, Mikheil had seen many a grubby countryside and backwater town, but this one was taking the cake. Fearful peasants ducked out of his way as the large man guided his even larger horse trough the crooked and dank alley that called itself the main drag.

This "Illingsburgh" was slowly getting on his nerves like a wet rag stuffed down the back of one's shirt. Annoying, and the annoyance would only spread as he saw no chance to make any knd of money in the ramshackle Fifedom. The only thing that caught his eye was the faded image of a flagon of beer and loaf of bread that had been painted on a hanging door sign some ages ago. His funds were meager, but his stomach reminded him that it was indeed quite empty. The ground before the tavern looked deeply muddy, and Mikheil didn't wish to have to dismout there, so he pulled his roan cludesdale to a hald and swung himself over the side, dropping to the groud with a wet sqelch. It seemed there was no end to the squalor that made Illingsburgh.

The foreigner was about to bend downt o untie the flaps of his boots from his upper legs when he heard a cry, the cry of a woman. He still paused to untie his boot flaps, folding the lips back down before leading his steed in the direction of the cry he had heard, which conveniently happened to be near the tavern. Had it come fromt he other way, odds were that he would have ignored it.

"Excuse me," he called out in a deep baritone voice, his accent clipped, "You will leave her alone now." It was directed at the four men that had accosted Xazor, nd his hand rested on the handle of his short broadsword. "She not be yours to make scream, now go, before I make you."

[Jeran Conrad]

The eyes of the young man widened as large as saucers at the words of this stranger. How dare he! How dare he challenge the great protectors of this land! He challenges it's honor, it's justice, and now it's beliefs. Who did this man think he was! Jeran's very blood boiled at the spoken insult.

"You will learn to hold your tongue before--" A shrill scream echoed throughout the streets of Illingsburgh, ringing out in the heads of those who heard it. It silenced even Jeran's words as it gripped his own attention. His fiery eyes glanced back at the drifter's who, by now, was relaxing himself at the bar. He had to make a choice--something told him to attend to the scream as quickly as he could. Still, his pride wished him to stand before this challenge. He would not be torn away from such rivalry.

"STRING EM UP!" A voice from the crowd that had gathered around the wild man spoke. The rest of the crowd agreed in scattered cheers and shouts. "DON'T LET EM TALK LIKE THAT!" "OFF WITH 'IS VERY HEAD, SAYS I!" The crowd continued to boil as the mystery man remained still. Odd, Jeran thought. He was unmoved by the threat.

"Quiet!" Jeran snapped at the crowd. Admittedly, he did not sympathize with the drifter, but he wished not to deal with an enraged mass of drunks. The crowd calmed down some. "Now. This man will be punished for his sins. Aye, justice will be served." He let his rapier come unsheated and held it at his side. "But not at his death by an angry mob. Indeed, he will be escorted--"

"ARRRRRRGGHHHHH!" One of the men uttered a cry of anger, grabbing a wooden chair from Darit's floor and rasing it high. He rushed the stranger with it--intentions to slam it down upon his head--before Jeran could barely move.

[Xazor Elessar]

The men surrounding Xazor turned at the sound of another and simply looked at him. This gave the peasant time to slip away once again...that is, until one of the roughians spotted her and firmly planted a foot into the frail one's hand. She yelped like a beaten dog and curled up on the ground once again.

"What are you gonna do about it? The odds ain't in yer favor, boy!"

One of the largest men spoke up first, taking a step foward and folding his broad arms over his chest. A sneer formed on his lips and a matching laugh courted it. He turned his head and nodded to the three men behind him and they continued on, beating the woman as before. Tears streamed down her face as they continued tearing into her and what little clothing she had left. Now she was close to naked if not so already and any self dignity she had had ben stripped away.

"PLEASE HELP ME!"

She screamed once again before one of the three men kicked her squarly in the stomach. Gasping and caughing, the young peasant woman spit up blood onto the ground as she held her hands in place upon her stomach. There was nothing she could do except pray they they did not take her life.

[Sejah Haversh]

"Boy?" Mikheil smirked, "I am older den you are, methinks." He replied, and then removed his gloved hand from the reigns of his horse. He was on no account a small fellow, standign taller than all but one of them, and nearly weighing in at his level as well.

"I tell you let her go. You do not, I make you no longer able to have children, da?" His voice was a warning growl, and he inched forward, though realizing that he could not make a sudden move while the three in back still posed a threat to Xazor. "She not much to look at, so let her be. I offer you bargain. If you can stop me, you get horse and girl. I stop you, you lose your family jewels. Sound like good deal? But, I think you cowards, come face me all at once, or all will know you fear me."

Mikheil knew the odds were against him, but he had a large advantage in that he was readily armed, and also posessed his greatsword as well. His brown eyes burned like firebrands as he sneered at the ruffians, his challenge now made,

[Marcus Telcontar]

Hardly had the villager drew up the chair to strike, the Ranger bounded to his feet and in a flash, 5 feet of cold, hard steel was drawn, a long sword, vastly different and unknown to the rapier carrying locals. The sword flashed and in a blink of an eye, the chair flew away from the hands of the local, broken into pieces by the power of the sword stroke.

"Your hospitality seems to be lacking. Then so will mine be!" the Ranger snarled.

--

Apart from the scence to the side of the inn, an unfortunantly too common occurance in the lands, the roads were quiet, muddied and manure strewn from horses. The outside on the inn didnt even hint about what was going on inside until a villager quite suddenly flew out one of the windows, cluthcing at his chest from a sidekick.

--

Inside, pandemonium was breaking out as the Ranger attacked. Using his free fist and his feet, only parrying with his sword against weapons his opponents would pick up and try to weild in return. The noble wasn't spared, he was booted through another window, to land in the mud near where the waif was being attacked. The Ranger felled another opponent, then seeing the room had suddenly lost the taste for a fight, he straightened, his hood still obsuring his face and no signs of extertion. Not even a quickness of breath.

"I will be back in a moment, Master Innkeeper and I expect better hospitality when I return" he stated, walking to the window from with the noble had gone through, fully intending to give him an even sharper lesson. Instead, he saw four men in various stages of unclothed, with the waif whom had been removed from the inn not a few moment s before. He also noted another man there with a sword not unlike his own, markedly different to the rapier at all used except from his home in the North.

Now that caught his attention. Another wanderer from The North? None other he had seen in all his journeys. At least someone true and valiant was in this demon infested town. Ignorign the noble who still had his face in the mud, the hooded Ranger slowly came at the now four rather worried would be rapist, caught between two fell men with glittering steel unlike they had ever seen.

[Xazor Elessar]

The three men stopped at the other's words and laughed amongst themselves. The 'leader' shook his head doubtfully...for the stranger, and smirked. From his side he pulled a sword, crude in appearance just like its sheeth. The other three did the same, pulling out their own swords, some nicer than the others. Nonetheless, they were all sharp and ready to kill. Smiling toothily, the 'leader' stepped forward and nodded to the others to follow.

"Stay put or I'll make you scream and as you do I will rip out your vocal chords so I can feel them vibrate in my hand!"

One of the men yelled at Xazor, spitting at her feet. She recoiled with fear and sunk low to the ground, barely able to move from the last attack she received. The man advanced forward a few more paces before all four of them jumped at the stranger with their swords extended. Attacks from both sides and from above and below came straight for him.

"You don't have a PRAYER!"

The ugliest one yelled and spit came flying out of his mouth, landing on the man they were assulting as his sword came in an upward attack from below.

[Sejah Haversh]

The hearty Northerner backed off a step and raised his hight hand to grip the handle of the maddive greatsword slung over his shoulder, and managed to pull it off, frog and all, in time to spin it around and clasp his other arm onto it before swinging hard at the first attacker. The nearly five foot, flat-ended blade struck him hard, cleaving his chest open.

Letting go with one hand, he grabbed the handle of his shorter sword, still hanging at his wast in a smaller frog of its own, he jabbed it backward to pierce the side of his next assainant. A clumsy swing from the third thudded against his back with the flat side of the blade, but Mikhel was already turning to go after him, smashing him across the face with the iron pommel of his greatsword. It was not over yet, but in the midst of things, it appeared that he had somehow gained an ally, though he couldn't take much time to see just who the stranger might be. His main concern was for his own life, and after his, the nearly naked woman now covered in mud and filth from crawling across the alley floor.

[Jeran Conrad]

"No--" it was too late. The chair was quickly finding its mark, whooshing down upon the head of the stranger. Jeran stopped his breath as...as...amazingly, the chair was cleaved in half. Cleaved by a...a sword! A real sword, like the ones he had read about at the library! The steely, flat blade glinted as it rushed through the wood like it wasn't there. Without delay, the stranger then dispatched a peasant through a window. Amazing strength and agility...sheer battle sense. Jeran raised his own rapier as the man rushed him. Too late, however, as the dark, muddy-bottomed boot lurched forward, crushing his mouth. It's momentum carried through him, sending him crashing through the window and into a puddle of gooey mud, face first.

Rolling over, Jeran tried to clear his muddy face with his free hand, only to see the stranger bounding from the window seal over top of him. His blade was raised, as though he was preparing to end this ordeal. Jeran fought to get from underneath his grasp, but the other was too strong. Suddenly, something diverted the stranger's attention. He dodged a glance at Jeran--almost an "I'll be right back to finish this" look--and disappeared into a new fray.

Collecting himself and his weapon, Jeran stood, his polished armom and royal ensignias covered with dripping mud. He took a few steps forward towards the fray that took place before him. A new combatant had appeared--another powerful one, it seemed. He, too, weilded a weapon of intimidation as Jeran's previous advesary. Was this a dream? What in the world was going on!

Despite the chaos of the moment, Jeran could tell what was going on. The man from the Inn--to be called Drifter until another name is brought to light--was making his way towards the lady, it seemed. The other man--Greatsword, titled after his large sword--was busy cleaving the would-be assailants that threatened the peasant woman. Jeran's head spun as he wondered what in the hell he would do.

"Ehhhhhhh...." He looked back and forth, all participants seemingly ignoring him. "As Constable of this land, I....I uhh....I command you, in the name of King Brythan of Illingsburgh...to desist these...ehhh...activities?" He ended the sentence almost as a question, his confidence fading as he glanced at the size of the swords Drifter and Greatsword wielded compared to his rapier.

[Marcus Telcontar]

The fools didn'r know when their death stared them in their face. One of them drew out a rapier, challenging the Ranger. The long sword slapped the thin weapon away then cleaved the would be rapist's head off from his shoulders. His second opponent didnt even have time for that as his head was smote. The dead assasilant dropped with a thud on top of the waif, his brains leaking out on her.

And it seemed the other swordsman had dealt with the other two. Every bit as quick. The Ranger was rather impressed. a dndecided to entreat a conversation as he wiped his blade. And for the moment ignored fancypants, getting up from the mud.

"And whence have you come, my good man?" he asked of the taller swordweilder. "You not be carrying rapiers and toothpicks like the norm - that be a Northerner blade and style you use."

[Sejah Haversh]

Leaning his greatsword against a wall, Mikheil looked back to Marcus as he stepped over a body to reach his horse. "Da, it is that, and so be my form, Marcus Elessar, Ranger of the Northlands." With that he smirked and turned back to the small pack he had lashed to his square-backed saddle, retreiving a worn and weathered wool horse blanket.

"Your form, it is better den last time I see you, da? Da, methink so. But memory never good part of you, methink too." He said over his shoulder and he made his way back to Xazor and shoved the dead offender off of her with his booted foot. Unrolling the blanket, he squatted down and handed it to her. "Here, cover yourself, but I will be needing back, please."

His smile was genunie, even despite the scar on his left temple pulling slightly at one eyebrow. Resumign his stand, the bulky foreigner tugged at the hem of his pallium, pulling it back down to normal length before picking up his greatsword again and wiping it on the shirt of one of the dead, also ignoring the noble.

[Marcus Telcontar]

The accent was familiar, even if the form was not. This was indeed a fellow Northlander, many, many leagues from home.

"You have me at a disadvantage, good sir. You seem to know of me, yet I can't recall seeing your visage. But your sword I do recognise, that of Sir Edric. Pray tell, how it you have the good Knight's sword? Speak, while we bear this lass inside"

He gave the noble a glance and almost laughed out loud at how ridiculous he looked. What a misreble cur. But he did need to address the young fool.

"Off with you and dont bother me again. I'll have no upstart King or his nobles delay where I wish to go. Go!"

[Sejah Haversh]

Mihkeil took a moment to sling his greatsword back over his shoulder and then helped Xazor to her feet after she had wrapped the blanked around herself. "Come, nobody going to hurt you now," He said in as comforting a voice as possible. Helping her inside after Marcus, Mikheil finally answered the ranger's question once the lady had seated herself.

"I know you because of Sir Edric. You fight him, and lose. He trip you, da? Yes, I remember well. I help you up from ravine." The large fellow grinned, one of his molars missing. "I was Sir Edric's squire. He leave me sowrds and horse when he die four years back. So, I try to be farmer, but winter this year is very brutal, and farms cannot survive. So, I come South. You come for same reason, niet?"

[Jeran Conrad]

Drifter now had a proper name--Marcus Elessar, Ranger of the Northlands. Quite a title, indeed. As much as it did intrigue Jeran, he had a job to do and would complete it.

"Upstart King?" He repeated, offended. "I will have you know, sir, that upstart by your accounts or no, this is my father's kingdom." Perhaps he had said too much in his anger. He wished not to reveal the true origin of his being, but maybe it was too late. "You cannot walk upon these lands, seeking to tarnish whatever law or creed you wish to break and parade around acting as nothing is wrong. You must come...to...." His words trailed off as the two men with gigantic swords turned to look at him. It was also true that Marcus had committed no crime--save for pounding a few locals. Even then, it was at his own self defense. No charge could be made of this type of behavior.

He wiped the mud from his brow, wearily letting his arms fall to his sides. He was beaten--humiliated--by the Ranger. There was no need for further argument, if only discuccion could end up getting him killed. His head hung in shame. A fool he had been to challenge the likes of these men. They journeyed from far away lands--lands he could only dream of seeing. Their stories would be grand, telling of deeds and perils he could only imagine.

Indeed...he was nothing compared to these men.

"Your time is wasted enough," he at last spoke, his tone soft and his voice low. The men continued to speak despite his presence, and he understood. He turned his beaten back to the men, and began to walk away, sheathing his weapon, eyes kept steady on the ground.

[Xazor Elessar]

Xazor could not believe the help she was receiving from these perfect strangers. She gratefully took the blanket and wrapped it around her nearly naked body, soaking up the warmth found in it. She limped partway to the Inn and then followed the men in, receving a glare from the guard. She kept her head low and drew no attention to herself as they sat down and she joined them. Her intention was not to eavesdrop as they began talking amongst themselves, but alas...she could help it naught as she sat and listened to tales of Nobles and Kings. Her eyes widened as they spoke, for indeed.....the kind men were Nobles themselves.

Her eyes were drawn to the man of darkness. Grim was he and curiousity got the better of the young waif as she kept her eyes upon him for a good long time. Finally she snapped out of the one sided staring contest and looked away, only to be drawn back to his face. Shaking her head, Xazor smiled gently and decided perhaps she should speak.

"Excuse me m'lord...I know I am not at liberty to speak in your humbling presence....but I prithee....what ist thou name?"

She questioned softly, bowing her head before her eyes slinked back up to his face from the table top.

"I mean not to be rude or show you any disrespect....tho' I am quite curious about yourself, Noble of the North."

Again her eyes met the table top, afraid that he would hit her for asking such a question. It was only custom in this place that those of higher class treat the lowly ones with hatred, for indeed...they were better, yes? She kept silent, awaiting his answer or his fist....whichever came first, she was prepared.

[Sejah Haversh]

Mikheil was instantly a commanding presence in the tavern, and his quick order for a flagon of beer and a loaf of bread was placed, the barmaid hopped to action.

He removed his greatsword once more as he sat down, leaning it against the table, though it seemed to be quite out of place there as well, being slightly over five feet in length. It was not a graceful weapon, forged steel with a single fuller running down its center and a large crosstree at the hilt with a handle bound in thin chain. Definitely not a weapon for the weak of muscle, his greatsword weighed a bit over ten pounds, and had been known to cleave a man in two on the rare occasion in battle.

But battle was pushed from Mikheil's mind as his ale and bread arrived, and he took a swig of the frothy brew before wiping his mouth and answering Xazor in his deep, accented voice. "I am not noble, only a former squire. Marcus not of nobility, either. At least, not as far as I know. My name is Mikheil, and I am stranger to this land. What will you do, Miss? You have family to go to?"

Feeling that was enough for the moment, the large man tore a hunk off of his bread and took a large bite of it, then chewed and washed it down with a gulp of ale.

[Jeran Conrad]

Twas a long cold walk despite the short distance he had traveled back to the stable. His head hung low as the sop and mud of the wet streets still dripped off of his body. The trek seemed to take ages as he made it shamefully. He had no skill nor even the proper weapon to defend against foes the likes he had just met. He didn't lack the courage--he had fire in his eyes. But he was no fool, and he knew when he was well overmatched.

Getting back to the flat, he took a look inside of it. It was good-sized--well beyond the normal size for a commoner. He was nobility and still retained his ideas of what was comfortable. Still, it looked so damp. So dirty...lonely. He hated this place. He wanted out more than anything--to leave his duties, his king, his kingdom--and find worth to his life. There was so much more to this world--much more than Illingsburgh had to offer. Of that, he was sure.

His eyes dashed back and forth among his few possessions. Ideas flowed through his head. The strangers--Marcus, the Ranger of the Northland, and Greatsword, the others--they were passing through. Travelers. Heading out of this town soon, he imagined. They...they...they were his ticket out of here! They were his chance to getting free!

He quickly packed a few things--a change of clothes, his lattern, a rope, some dried meats and a leather satchel full of water. Reaching behind an old chest and into the wall, he pulled forth a small, secret pouch. He reached inside. It was full of gold coins--more than 25, perhaps. He had plenty of money. Grabbing his heavy cloak, he rushed to the stable.

In it, among the draft horses and riding ones, he found his horse. A beautiful, strong brown and black-spotted Morgan named Greyfox, after the quickness of the samll animal. She was the fastest horse in all of Illingsburgh, and had one many competitions in the neighboring Southern Kingdoms. He saddled her quickly, pulling together all of the tack.

"This eve, we shall fullfill our destinies, Grey," Jeran said lightly, mounting his horse. With a quick whistle and a small kick from his boots, the horse and rider dashed out of the stable, leaving the dark flat and it's cold, damp foundations behind.

[Marcus Telcontar]

"Me? Noble? Nay, certainly not. My name however has honour and it is Marcus Elessar, Ranger. As Mihkail asks, what might be your name maiden and whence did you come from?"

No, he was far from noble birth. Well.. actually he didnt know. His earliest memory was of a farm, wandering behind the woman whom he thought was his mother when he was young. He had found out later, much later as a teen that he had been bought from a place he had never found out where it was, purchased to be the farmhand of the King of the North.

That had been the plan. The servants and villagers had a spot where they would mock sword fight, bettign on the winners, supplimenting their meagre wages with winnings. The nobles, Knights and squires would join in on the bettign, swelling the pot. While the North was a class society, the lines between classes were not as rigid as elsewhere. Here, the fierceness of winter bought everyone together. Ranks and titles meant nothing when snows piled up 3 meters outside the keeps and the battle to live ensnared everyone.

In the ring, arguments could be settled as well. Marcus remembered the cruel youth, a squire with a heavy hand whom unusually for the North bought up an unfair charge. To avoid payment, Marcus had chosen the ring and certain humiliation, beating. Then he would go back to the farm. It's started out that way, the Squire had some skill and welded the blunt weapon in such a way that the flat would smack the farm hand. But the unfairness got the the young man and anger he felt - an rage. He blindly tried to stike back.

they said later that even beaten, Marcus had shown a natural skill. He had found himself drafted into the army and trained as a Man at arms. The next time the Squire, now a Knight called Marcus out again, a year later for some imagined insult, he was ready. The Knight towered over the skinny youth, thinking this was goign to be as before. The knight swung once, Marcus parried and then with chilling speed, took a chance and spun his blade, smashing it upwards into the groin. The sound the Knight made was like a kettle boiling, until the younger man stepped back and clouted the Knight across the temple, endign the match so fast that there was stunned silence. The Knight never came near Marcus again and it was said his shame was such that he rode out of the North to seek other lands. Unmanned by a peasant! Even with a dueling blade, the doctor had said the damage to the groin was terrible. The Knight was lucky to have survived.

His story since that day was long, but here he was. A man allowed to stand in the presence of his King and speak unbidden. A Ranger and now a wanderer, walking the great lands of the South. What his purpose was, he didnt say.

It was good however to meet someone from the North.

[Xazor Elessar]

Xazor's eyes took in everything that they could. 'Marcus -- what a peculiar name that is.' she thought to herself as her cyan orbs focused on his face. He had rugged but handsome features and it was evident that he was quite the outdoorsman. Smiling and blushing slightly, the young waif looked down at the table as she thought of the question asked of her. No one had ever bothered to ask of her before, so formulating an answer that made any sense was a bit difficult for her at first, for so many thoughts seemed to rush together at once.

"My name too holds a bit of noble air to it. I am Xazor Dawnstrider -- and I -- I descend from --"

Her thoughts were cut short as she looked up at Marcus. He had an expectant look upon his face as did the others, but she feared that they would mock her, or accuse her of blasphemy for what she was about to say. Putting doubt aside, she took a bold step forth and looked the Ranger in the eyes.

"I was banished from a land some time ago -- the land of Mordanduin. I descend from -- Kings, unbelievable as that may seem."

The young woman's expression changed slightly as she became thoughtful for a moment, looking off into what seemed like another world. Her attention was quickly drawn back to Marcus as she smiled and shook her head.

"Perhaps I have already spoken too much, but I feel as though I should continue -- no one has ever cared to ask me of such things in the past. I was looked down upon for being a woman -- especially a woman with a warriors heart. I decided that serving a man in a house, bearing his children and cleaning his clothes was not for me. A great War broke out between the lands surrounding ours and so the King -- my Uncle -- decided to join in the War. I knew my place was at the sides of the men, though he would not have it -- so I cut my hair and stole my Brother's armor, and then I rode away with the army for War."

She paused once again and looked down at what seemed to be her legs, but it was her side as painful memories crossed her mind. What the others knew not was of a wound she had acquired during battle -- a deep gash across the left side of her stomach, puncturing her rib cage and breaking several bones. Though it had healed by now, it was painful to recall.

"I was badly injured after facing the Head Rider of the opposing forces. I slayed him but did not go unharmed myself. He nearly mortally wounded me, but another came to my aide and I was saved. It was then they discovered my true identity. They cast me out of the medical tents and the King -- my own Uncle threatened to kill me, but by the graces he spared my life and instead, banished me to save his name so no one could accuse him of breaking the codes of our land for family."

Xazor's eyes met those of Marcus once again, hoping that he actually wished to hear this from her. At times, she felt as though they were staring at her in a mocking fasion -- ready to rebuke her words at any moment. Something told her to continue, though, and so she did.

"I made my way here, to this poor little town. For many years I tried to live on my own. I attempted to gain a job, but no one trusted me because of my status of being banned from another land. So, I became a peasant -- I make no money and I only survive off the kindness of others. Funny how the tables turn, yes?"

The irony caused her to drift off into thought once again as she ended her tale. There was not much too it -- and she was not angry at her Uncle for doing what he did. She was not angry at anyone for the fact that she was now a peasant upon the streets, fighting for her life on a daily basis. No, she kept quiet mostly and remained in a rather stoic mood -- suffering in solitude and silence.

[Marcus Telcontar]

"Well that be an interesting story, if it can be believed. So, ye wish to be a shield maiden, do ye?" Marcus cast an amused glance at his fellow Northerner, before regarding the waif once again. "what do you think Mikahil?"

[Sejah Haversh]

Mikheil swigged at his ale while stifling a chuckle and then replied in his accented voice, "If she can lift sheild, maybe, da? Niet, it too bad I not having sheild, otherwise we could give her a try."

Ripping a hunk of bread off, the large man stuffed it in his mouth and chewed for a bit, then swallowing some and speaking again with his mouth partially full. "But, methinks she is needing clothes more than place of status. My horse will be needing blanket back tonight, so she cannot keep."

Taking another drink of the dark ale, Mihkeil then tore off a bit more from his bread and offered for Marcus to take some as well, though it was competely skipped past Xazor. He didn't know her, nor had she brought him anything but a workout and an inconvenience so far, so, she was not as worth his time as Marcus was. At least he was a Northerner, and might provide some useful information. "Care for bread, Marcus? It not bad, really."

[Xazor Elessar]

Xazor's eyes met the table top for a moment and she sighed to herself. 'I should have known better than to get mixed up in the affairs of strangers -- untrustworthy are they.' she thought as the men nearly denied her story. Being a truthful woman was not always easy and she found it better to be silent at times. Her eyes went to the sword upon Marcus's hip. Had he been someone she knew better, she would have taken the weapon and proven herself then and there, but she thought better than that.

"If you give me sword and shield I challenge any one of you to a duel! If then I cannot prove myself, cast me aside as a waste of your precious minutes. I have my life to live and obviously you have your own."

She stared into Marcus's eyes once again -- a cold glare that was pregnant with meaning. The young waif would not be pushed around by a bunch of men -- not now, not ever.

"Unless you're afraid."

Her voice held mystery to it as did the expression upon her face. She noted the men look at one another for a moment and thought perhaps they would mock her once again. Xazor fixed her gaze upon the rugged ranger's face as before and she held her eyes there -- not looking away for anything.

[Sejah Haversh]

"Miss," Mikheil interrupted, "I not doubt story, but thinks you have too much pride for having lost much face. Learn humility, and you get further."

After another drink of his ale that nearly drained his tankard, he added, "Besides, you could not weild my blade. It heavy for even I." To accent his point, the large man pulled his greatsword over and picked it up, letting the blunt top thump on the floor. It truly was a massive thing, and even if Xazor could lift it to hold, to control a swing would be completely beyond her. "We not afriad, miss, only try to help you save what face you have left. I see Marcus fight, you not able to beat. Now, lose temper and be more like lady, da?"

[Xazor Elessar]

Xazor rolled her eyes and turned away from the man, basically ignoring what he said.

"I can prove my worth -- that is what you wanted, yes? I can and I will."

By this time she felt perhaps she should leave -- being in the company of those who doubted her and thought she should learn humility made her squirm inside. It was just like those she had been tossed away from -- but different. Sighing, she lost her attention on somewhere else -- a young woman braiding a child's hair in a beautiful design. Xazor smiled to herself as she ignored the men.

[Jeran Conrad]

The cold night rushed in as the doors to the Inn flew open. Entering the room--with a slight bump on his ego and his butt--Jeran walked in, wearing his hunting attire and all of his possesions in a pack across his back. He looked as though he was leaving which, on this cold night, was somewhat odd. He approached the bar at the same place that the three who were, moments ago, conversing sat.

He stopped, remembering how he had suffered a deep ego bruise from their last encounter. He remembered how they had ignored him and dismissed him. The wouldn't get the chance to, this time. No, he would not take no for an answer.

"Northerners of the...North. I am Jeran Conrad, son of King Brythan of Illingsburgh, and I am leaving this cruel, unforgiving land." It sounded as though he was adressing the entire inn when it was obvious that his attention was focused primarily on the two men. "For here on out, I shall ride with you. You must take me with you--as you are in debt to me. If I were to inform my father of the injustices you have committed--causing trouble, attacking a constable, assulting his son--he wold have you hanged." He tried a threat. Although, and truly, he would not bring these men to harm, he didn't know how to gain passage with them otherwise.

He noticed the girl now, as well, wrapped in a horse blanket. He wondered if she was with them or if the men were merely feeding her or caring for her now.

[Sejah Haversh]

A gagging chortle could be hard eminating from the back of Mikheils' throat, and soon it develped into snickering, and then a full blown guffaw of laughter. Banging his gloved fist ont eh table to relieve some of the humor that had washed over him, Mikheil shook his head and smiled widely.

"You would hang us? Niet, I thinking not. Where are soldiers to back you up if we resist? I see nobody. But, you are good for a laugh, come, sit, I let you buy us drinks, mine empty." He said, a strong grin plastered on his face as he scooted over to make room at the table for Jeran.

"Well, this be good night after all. First fighting, then two comedians, da, I like this Southlands," he commented, tearing off another piece of bread and stuffing it into his mouth.

"And, as for you, miss, I not need proof of worth. You say you can do something, I believe you. It will only be embarassment if you cannot do what you claim in pinch, and it will be own fault. Want some bread?" Mikheil offered the loaf out to her so she could tear off some. He wasn't cruel, just didn't need to be friendly was all. Though, the night was quickly lifting his spirits.

[Marcus Telcontar]

Amusing evening for Mikheil he could tell, but for the long legged Ranger, leaning back with his hood up and smoking a long stemmed pipe, one muddy boot up on a chair in front of him, this was a most unexpected and unwanted development. He preferred to wak the roads alone, going as he would. Admittedly, his fellow Northerner would prove to be good company for a few days until they parted ways, but these other two - some waif and this demon worshipping <smallfont color={hovercolor}>-Censored-</smallfont>, now that wasn;t so plesant and not easy to shake off either. If it wasn't for the fact Marcus didnt believe in luck, he would be cursing the foulness of it. Instead, he was wondering why the Most High had bought this lot into his path. For what purpose and for direction?

The fact was, Marcus hadn't been walking this road by his own self will. In a dream he had been told to go back west many months ago and here he was, after crossing the Straights of Hemers, walking across the land for months until he had arrived here. Up to now, his journey had been quiet with only the odd demon trying to organise his lynching, but cold steel and a Word drove the villagers and the demons away. Unlike the priests, he fought back.

So far he had managed to keep a low profile, but with two Southerners, he was seeing that could change. A lone cloaked man found it easy to hide. A group... he was not so certain. But for now, he kept his thoughts to himself and only answered briefly to the "noble"

"Suit yourself"

[Jeran Conrad]

"Yes...because I deserve to go..." He paused. "You know...because I have...money...and I..." He had prepared an elaborate rebuttal to argue them that they should allow him to travel with them. They hadn't declined him--and it was becomming evident that his rebuttal was not needed. He shut his mouth.

Finding a seat, he made his way to the table and ordered more drinks. He had a heavy purse, and this night he would need to engorge himself with fresh meats and drink before they departed. He had the goblets of his new companions filled at his expense--at Mikheil's request--and sat, listening to them discuss things amongst themselves.

He glanced down to the rapier that hung at his side. It was a pathetic blade, and the fact that it hung at his side in such whimpy form was a blow to his pride. He wondered how well he would do in the world before him. But then, he glanced to the Northerners that stood by his side.

He'd be alright.