Post by Duke Fontayne on Oct 9, 2009 15:41:42 GMT -5
A chill wind whipped across Duke’s face. The cool touch eased the burning of the bruise on his cheek. The sun was just cresting the horizon and he could see the smoke from campfires a little ways ahead. He chuckled at his current state of affairs and winced when his ribs reminded him that a well swung bar stool could crack bones. He inhaled the fresh air and thought back to his recent past. The last few years had seen him drifting from one wretched cesspit of a city to another. He had worked as a bouncer at taverns, a guard and enforcer for low end money lenders and gamblers, and when times were tough as a two bit criminal street thug. A grim life it had been, with little brightness in the future.
His small to middling stature made many an opponent underestimate him. However, when the chips hit the table Duke would not back down. He had a rage pent up inside him waiting to burst forth. Maybe it was the heritage of his ancestral Viking blood that infused him with this berserker fury. Or maybe it was just a mix of personal pride and dissatisfaction with his lot in life. Whatever the reason, it led to a number of situations where Duke’s choice was to end things quickly and violently. When relations with the local crime lords or law enforcement became strained, Duke would skip town with a few coins in his pocket and make his way to the next settlement with a seedy inn or bar where he could have a drink and make himself acquainted with resident toughs and petty criminals.
The latest town he had found himself in was known as Riverfront. Its allegiance was to the Kingdom of Llorac, whatever that may be. Last night Duke had been enjoying himself at a poorly lit tavern with a jug of mead in his hand. He had been rolling dice for paltry sums of money with a few of the regulars when the door opened and three men walked in and tossed a haughty glance around the room. The cuts of their clothes and thickly lined cloaks marked them as men of some wealth. Some well to do merchants, thought Duke. The men took a table next to Duke and his associates and ordered ale from the old barkeep.
It wasn’t long before the new arrivals had put down a few rounds and were talking boisterously of their deeds in trading, battle, and the bedroom. At first Duke found it amusing, but as the night wore on and their voices grew more lively, their antics more unruly and their lies less entertaining, it began to wear on him. Duke bowed out of the dice game, got up, and moved to the other end of the tavern to enjoy the last of his mead in peace.
“Friend,” called one of the well dressed men, “does our presence bother you? Do you find us offensive, when it is us who should be offended by your smell?”
Duke tried to ignore the pompous man.
Another added, “Yes, it is a wonder that we can even keep this ale down with your stench in the air. I shall have to burn my tunic when I get home for fear of the smell and the fleas.”
“No one forced you to drink here,” Duke responded.
“Ah, so the dirty little rat can speak,” said the last man who was wearing a small ruby set in gold in his ear.
The sound of moving chairs caused Duke to sigh. His mind ran through the potential outcomes, and he gave an apologetic look to the man behind the bar. He knew better than to leave his back to three opponents, so he shifted off of his stool and away from the three men who were now sauntering over to him with malicious grins on their faces.
“Looks like this little river rat could use some manners,” said the man with the earring as he produced a dagger from under his cloak.
Another, with a thick iron chain around his neck, undid the clasp, wrapped it around his hand , and made a fist as he approached. The last moved to flank Duke.
Duke crouched, changed his grip on the jug of mead and said, “Why don’t you gentlemen just keep on walking out that door before things get ugly?”
The man with the earring looked back to the table that Duke had been sitting at, and the men there raised their hands and remained seated. They were not going to get involved. Duke knew they didn’t owe him anything, but they should have been up for a bit of a fight. Before the man with the earring could turn back to him, Duke kicked his stool at him hoping to slow his advance, and lashed out at the one who was trying to flank him. His jug caught him in the side of the head and sent him crashing to the floor. Duke spun just in time to catch a bar stool in the side instead of the back. The stool broke apart and the assailant was left holding two solid stool legs. He swung again and Duke attempted to parry the blow with his jug. The jug busted open and left a jagged ended cylinder in Duke’s hand. Duke kicked the man in the stomach causing him to bend over forward. He heard the crunch of a breaking nose as he kneed the man in his face. The stool legs and a length of chain hit the floor, followed by the now bloody man.
The man with the earring had stayed back to assess Duke’s skill. He now pulled off his cloak, revealing a leather cuirass and a short sword in a finely tooled sheath. He drew the sword and assumed a dueling stance. Crap, thought Duke, this will not end well. He took a quick glance around to confirm that the other two men were still down and then scooped up one of the stool legs. Duke and the man slowly circled each other, careful to avoid the men on the ground.
“Scared? Ready to run?” called the man with the blades.
Duke’s blood was already pumping furiously and now a red haze seemed to settle across his vision. In a burst of movement, he crossed the distance to his opponent and forced a block with a mighty swing of the wooden leg become club. The dagger came in low for his gut. Duke sidestepped to his left while still maintaining pressure on the man’s sword with his cudgel. He quickly brought the semi-shattered jug around and into the arm of his adversary causing the dagger to drop to the floor. The enemy head-butted Duke in the face, forcing him back. The man cursed and seeing his chance lunged at Duke with the short sword. Duke skirted the thrust and brought the stool leg down heavily on the man’s back knocking him to the ground. The fight seemed to be over.
The proprietor of the establishment said, “Well fought, but you had best get out of here. That there is a minor noble of Llorac. They rarely fight fair and will come seeking revenge."
Duke had gathered up his few belongings and headed for the river to catch a boat out of Riverfront. When he arrived at the docks he noticed a couple of guards eyeballing people as they passed. They grabbed one man, shook him roughly, and asked him if he knew a man named Duke. Word had spread fast. It seemed like the boats were going to be unavailable for some time.
Duke had heard of the barbarians of the Northern Steppes and the mercenaries known as the Legion of the Dragoons that called this rugged stretch of land their home. Maybe it was time to leave this life of merely surviving on the underbelly of humanity. Maybe these barbarians would take him in if he showed courage and a willingness to learn their ways. During the night, Duke made his way out of the town and headed toward the Dragoon encampment hoping to meet these warriors or the nomadic peoples of the steppes.
A chill wind whipped across Duke’s face…
His small to middling stature made many an opponent underestimate him. However, when the chips hit the table Duke would not back down. He had a rage pent up inside him waiting to burst forth. Maybe it was the heritage of his ancestral Viking blood that infused him with this berserker fury. Or maybe it was just a mix of personal pride and dissatisfaction with his lot in life. Whatever the reason, it led to a number of situations where Duke’s choice was to end things quickly and violently. When relations with the local crime lords or law enforcement became strained, Duke would skip town with a few coins in his pocket and make his way to the next settlement with a seedy inn or bar where he could have a drink and make himself acquainted with resident toughs and petty criminals.
The latest town he had found himself in was known as Riverfront. Its allegiance was to the Kingdom of Llorac, whatever that may be. Last night Duke had been enjoying himself at a poorly lit tavern with a jug of mead in his hand. He had been rolling dice for paltry sums of money with a few of the regulars when the door opened and three men walked in and tossed a haughty glance around the room. The cuts of their clothes and thickly lined cloaks marked them as men of some wealth. Some well to do merchants, thought Duke. The men took a table next to Duke and his associates and ordered ale from the old barkeep.
It wasn’t long before the new arrivals had put down a few rounds and were talking boisterously of their deeds in trading, battle, and the bedroom. At first Duke found it amusing, but as the night wore on and their voices grew more lively, their antics more unruly and their lies less entertaining, it began to wear on him. Duke bowed out of the dice game, got up, and moved to the other end of the tavern to enjoy the last of his mead in peace.
“Friend,” called one of the well dressed men, “does our presence bother you? Do you find us offensive, when it is us who should be offended by your smell?”
Duke tried to ignore the pompous man.
Another added, “Yes, it is a wonder that we can even keep this ale down with your stench in the air. I shall have to burn my tunic when I get home for fear of the smell and the fleas.”
“No one forced you to drink here,” Duke responded.
“Ah, so the dirty little rat can speak,” said the last man who was wearing a small ruby set in gold in his ear.
The sound of moving chairs caused Duke to sigh. His mind ran through the potential outcomes, and he gave an apologetic look to the man behind the bar. He knew better than to leave his back to three opponents, so he shifted off of his stool and away from the three men who were now sauntering over to him with malicious grins on their faces.
“Looks like this little river rat could use some manners,” said the man with the earring as he produced a dagger from under his cloak.
Another, with a thick iron chain around his neck, undid the clasp, wrapped it around his hand , and made a fist as he approached. The last moved to flank Duke.
Duke crouched, changed his grip on the jug of mead and said, “Why don’t you gentlemen just keep on walking out that door before things get ugly?”
The man with the earring looked back to the table that Duke had been sitting at, and the men there raised their hands and remained seated. They were not going to get involved. Duke knew they didn’t owe him anything, but they should have been up for a bit of a fight. Before the man with the earring could turn back to him, Duke kicked his stool at him hoping to slow his advance, and lashed out at the one who was trying to flank him. His jug caught him in the side of the head and sent him crashing to the floor. Duke spun just in time to catch a bar stool in the side instead of the back. The stool broke apart and the assailant was left holding two solid stool legs. He swung again and Duke attempted to parry the blow with his jug. The jug busted open and left a jagged ended cylinder in Duke’s hand. Duke kicked the man in the stomach causing him to bend over forward. He heard the crunch of a breaking nose as he kneed the man in his face. The stool legs and a length of chain hit the floor, followed by the now bloody man.
The man with the earring had stayed back to assess Duke’s skill. He now pulled off his cloak, revealing a leather cuirass and a short sword in a finely tooled sheath. He drew the sword and assumed a dueling stance. Crap, thought Duke, this will not end well. He took a quick glance around to confirm that the other two men were still down and then scooped up one of the stool legs. Duke and the man slowly circled each other, careful to avoid the men on the ground.
“Scared? Ready to run?” called the man with the blades.
Duke’s blood was already pumping furiously and now a red haze seemed to settle across his vision. In a burst of movement, he crossed the distance to his opponent and forced a block with a mighty swing of the wooden leg become club. The dagger came in low for his gut. Duke sidestepped to his left while still maintaining pressure on the man’s sword with his cudgel. He quickly brought the semi-shattered jug around and into the arm of his adversary causing the dagger to drop to the floor. The enemy head-butted Duke in the face, forcing him back. The man cursed and seeing his chance lunged at Duke with the short sword. Duke skirted the thrust and brought the stool leg down heavily on the man’s back knocking him to the ground. The fight seemed to be over.
The proprietor of the establishment said, “Well fought, but you had best get out of here. That there is a minor noble of Llorac. They rarely fight fair and will come seeking revenge."
Duke had gathered up his few belongings and headed for the river to catch a boat out of Riverfront. When he arrived at the docks he noticed a couple of guards eyeballing people as they passed. They grabbed one man, shook him roughly, and asked him if he knew a man named Duke. Word had spread fast. It seemed like the boats were going to be unavailable for some time.
Duke had heard of the barbarians of the Northern Steppes and the mercenaries known as the Legion of the Dragoons that called this rugged stretch of land their home. Maybe it was time to leave this life of merely surviving on the underbelly of humanity. Maybe these barbarians would take him in if he showed courage and a willingness to learn their ways. During the night, Duke made his way out of the town and headed toward the Dragoon encampment hoping to meet these warriors or the nomadic peoples of the steppes.
A chill wind whipped across Duke’s face…