The Hand That Wielded The Day Star 0:5
It started out small. Look haggard, hungry, and innocent enough, and monks will keep you around.
Before Verick knew it he had a clean set of friar's robes, and his own room and list of dailey chores. He didn't even know what god he was supposed to be praising, and it really wasn't that important. He must have spent three months there cleaning latrenes, making small talk with the brothers, and dusting chandeliers. When something interesting finally did happen he did have his sword around his waist, but lately it had more use as a crevice cleaner and back washer than a weapon. After all, if you just wrap a towel or cloth around the blade-
"I'm looking for volunteers for the King's army."
What he meant to say were draftees. No one volunteered for the King's army anymore. It was a suicide note with this war going on. For thirty years the kingdom of O'jjin, a massive city state to the north full of mongoloid half-orcs, power hungry hill tribes, and men so brash and fearsome that they were often known to bed ogresses just for a challenge, had decided the quaint Kingdom of Traeignor would make for a good land to raise some demi-human monstrosities. That and the side benefit of all the raping and pillaging that came with a good barbaric war campaign. Their king was a good man in their eyes. Plenty of skulls of your fallen enemies to drink your blood washed mead out of. He was a terribly fierce wildman, no shorter than seven foot, wielding an awesome war hammer of oak and rusted spikes. God's of strength must favor him, since he was reported to have the ability to fling armored men across the battlefield with just his bad arm.
I guess in short I'm saying that yes, this war was suicide. Best to pack your belongings and catch passage to a less war-torn and ravaged land.
The man seeking the "volunteers" wore pale blue steel armor, kept his white hair short to his head, and kept a full compliment of soldiers and guards in tow when he entered the temple. His good eye sized up the temple and the monks, his right eye was a much paler milky shade, and the flesh surrounding it was pink and a spider webbed mess of scar tissue and ruts. His boots clanked unpleasantly, that was the first thing Verick noticed, as those metal boots were scuffing the stone floors he had just buffed. He was already preparing a fresh cloth to buff them again.
After a long silence he adressed the room once more.
"Are there none among you who wish to serve your king and protect your land."
"We fight the wars of the heart here sir." It was the abbot, though you wouldn't know that from looking at him, he wore no ceremonial garb. He was just very old, and eminated a presence of wisdom and sensibility- like the rest of the brothers.
"We are an order of peace, study, and reflection, and as you can see, many of us are unsuited to combat." His frail hand passed around the room to old men, Earl the recovering psychopath, mangled hermits who'd already served one too many tours of duty, and Verick who was again scrubbing the floors.
"We'll take him." The old campaigner announced indicating Verick.
"Take? I do believe you meant 'ask' did you not sir?"
The abbot was pushed aside and apprehended by waiting guards.
"Get up boy." The boots that scratched the floor rapped Verick on the head smartly. "You're going to serve your kingdom."
"Sorry, I'm a little busy rebuffing the floor sir." A habit Verick had learned while in the company of the monks was to adress people by sir. Often out of respect, but not in this scuff mark making usurper's case. This time the boot didn't rap smartly, it came with full force against Verick's temple. He went flying across the room into a candlebras and a bookshelf, a copy of "Dragons and You" landing half opened on his face.
"Maybe I should have said please."
The unconcious crumpled mass of Verick was hauled off and thrown over the back of a horse. The last thing he remembered where the words in print hovering inches from his eyes "When dealing with a stronger opponent (I.E. Dragonkind) it is not the strongest combatant who wins, but the one with the most dominant will." Which was bollocks since Verick very intensely wanted to keep buffing that floor, clearly more than that man wanted another grunt. Metal boots, armed guards, and fire breath obviously make a difference in this world. That was the harsh reality of the matter.
Before Verick knew it he had a clean set of friar's robes, and his own room and list of dailey chores. He didn't even know what god he was supposed to be praising, and it really wasn't that important. He must have spent three months there cleaning latrenes, making small talk with the brothers, and dusting chandeliers. When something interesting finally did happen he did have his sword around his waist, but lately it had more use as a crevice cleaner and back washer than a weapon. After all, if you just wrap a towel or cloth around the blade-
"I'm looking for volunteers for the King's army."
What he meant to say were draftees. No one volunteered for the King's army anymore. It was a suicide note with this war going on. For thirty years the kingdom of O'jjin, a massive city state to the north full of mongoloid half-orcs, power hungry hill tribes, and men so brash and fearsome that they were often known to bed ogresses just for a challenge, had decided the quaint Kingdom of Traeignor would make for a good land to raise some demi-human monstrosities. That and the side benefit of all the raping and pillaging that came with a good barbaric war campaign. Their king was a good man in their eyes. Plenty of skulls of your fallen enemies to drink your blood washed mead out of. He was a terribly fierce wildman, no shorter than seven foot, wielding an awesome war hammer of oak and rusted spikes. God's of strength must favor him, since he was reported to have the ability to fling armored men across the battlefield with just his bad arm.
I guess in short I'm saying that yes, this war was suicide. Best to pack your belongings and catch passage to a less war-torn and ravaged land.
The man seeking the "volunteers" wore pale blue steel armor, kept his white hair short to his head, and kept a full compliment of soldiers and guards in tow when he entered the temple. His good eye sized up the temple and the monks, his right eye was a much paler milky shade, and the flesh surrounding it was pink and a spider webbed mess of scar tissue and ruts. His boots clanked unpleasantly, that was the first thing Verick noticed, as those metal boots were scuffing the stone floors he had just buffed. He was already preparing a fresh cloth to buff them again.
After a long silence he adressed the room once more.
"Are there none among you who wish to serve your king and protect your land."
"We fight the wars of the heart here sir." It was the abbot, though you wouldn't know that from looking at him, he wore no ceremonial garb. He was just very old, and eminated a presence of wisdom and sensibility- like the rest of the brothers.
"We are an order of peace, study, and reflection, and as you can see, many of us are unsuited to combat." His frail hand passed around the room to old men, Earl the recovering psychopath, mangled hermits who'd already served one too many tours of duty, and Verick who was again scrubbing the floors.
"We'll take him." The old campaigner announced indicating Verick.
"Take? I do believe you meant 'ask' did you not sir?"
The abbot was pushed aside and apprehended by waiting guards.
"Get up boy." The boots that scratched the floor rapped Verick on the head smartly. "You're going to serve your kingdom."
"Sorry, I'm a little busy rebuffing the floor sir." A habit Verick had learned while in the company of the monks was to adress people by sir. Often out of respect, but not in this scuff mark making usurper's case. This time the boot didn't rap smartly, it came with full force against Verick's temple. He went flying across the room into a candlebras and a bookshelf, a copy of "Dragons and You" landing half opened on his face.
"Maybe I should have said please."
The unconcious crumpled mass of Verick was hauled off and thrown over the back of a horse. The last thing he remembered where the words in print hovering inches from his eyes "When dealing with a stronger opponent (I.E. Dragonkind) it is not the strongest combatant who wins, but the one with the most dominant will." Which was bollocks since Verick very intensely wanted to keep buffing that floor, clearly more than that man wanted another grunt. Metal boots, armed guards, and fire breath obviously make a difference in this world. That was the harsh reality of the matter.