Prelude, Part One.
Since (sadly) my 'prelude' is invisible to the group as a whole, I think I'll start posting some of it here. I had a lot of fun with it.
Back at First Hall (GM).
The dwarves who employed Taija insisted on calling the ramshackle fortification "First Hall." It wasn't much of a hall...when this Delve had been at the peak of its power, it had been an antechamber accessible from a side entrance. Too small to house the whole motley regiment sent to "reclaim" the Delve, the original stonework comprised only half the hall. The remainder was wood and stone--dwarf-built--but hardly as comfortable or warm as the portion inside the mountain. Dhazjun swore that this would be the first of many halls that would know their dwarven masters.
As far as Taija and the other mercenaries were concerned, the oath meant rather less than Dhazjun's fortune.
Morn had sent them out on a long forage, out around the mountain all the way up to the treeline. There hadn't been much to find: a few scrawny orcs, a sleepy dire bear the ranger had managed to calm, and a brief but bloody tussle with a band of snowchilder. Taija's hip was still black and blue beneath her armor from that one.
But they'd all made it back, which meant hot food and warm beds and another fistful of silver.
Dichotomy (Taija)
She had certainly been in worse places.
So Taija kept telling herself, leaning against the wall near the eating area. Quite a few, in fact; her mentor would tell her to take heart, to hold to hope, to keep strong against despair. Things, after all, had been much worse. Things could be much worse, now.
It didn't help the cold one bit, though.
The other mercenaries complained about meager pay and dangerous duty. Out in the field, their voices rose sharply, their tempers flared. Here, their anger simmered, like the pot of stew before which they lined, jostling with elbows and shoulders for better placement. Dwarves, Taija had noted, were not terribly sympathetic toward malingerers and bellyachers. This suited her well enough - she received an earful of her compatriots' grousing every day on the trail.
"Not so bad a day, was it?"
Well, most of her compatriots.
Keeping her hood up, she turned her eyes toward the young man, studying him with wary curiousity. 'Young' - he could be over a hundred, for all she knew. Half-elven, from the look, and somehow unsurprisingly, a forestwalker by trade. Probably the best of the bunch, she felt, cheerful, bright-eyed, always ready to step into the cold, scouting ahead, diving into the heart of trouble. So to speak - he certainly took risks getting into the best possible place to loose his arrows, rather than hanging back and potting shots over his shield-mates' heads.
She tried a smile. Stiff, awkward, it was nonetheless real. "Thanks." A fumbled offering, an opening she hoped he would take. Gods, what was his name?
Being half-elven, by nature convivial, he did. "For...oh, the bear. Or was it the snowchild?" The latter had come in on her flank, struck hard, then received a clothyard shaft in the side. That had given her an opening of her own - Taija, slow in conversation, hesitated not a whit when it came to steel.
"That one," she replied, still groping for a line to hold. "Got a piece of me, for sure."
The boy - man? - smiled fair to split his cheeks; he opened his mouth, but one of the mercenaries last in line beat him to it. "Kid wants one as well, I bet." That drew guffaws from the knot of men around the armored man, put colour in the ranger's - Amras, she suddenly recalled with abysmal timing - cheeks, and woke up something bored and dozing within. Her birthright suddenly burning hot within, Taija pushed herself off the wall, drawing herself up to fix her eyes on the base of the lout's skull.
Her voice rang out over the hall. "I missed that." The smile was less of amusement than it was a baring of teeth. "But a good joke is worth its weight in silver. Let's hear it - if it makes me laugh, I'll give you today's purse." The words dragged him around like barbed hooks; he faced her, chin tucked, brows lowered. No coward this, for all his bluster. The men around him, so briefly amused from their funk, shifted back, clearing room; the potential for more excitement banished their fatigue as a strong wind did the lowland fog. Oh, this should be fun. The whisper swirled in her thoughts like threads of blood in clear water as she studied the man. Waiting. Watch his eyes. See the hate. Breathe in, smell the fear.
In her thoughts. But not hers, not completely.
"Something wrong?"
The deep, easy voice cut the silence; eyes turned down to the heavy, rock-hard warrior pushing his way through the crowd. Not Dhazjun, their employer, but the calmer, more flexible garrison captain: Morn Bronzehand. "Better not be a fight," he said, stopping dead between Taija and the other mercenary. "You get your pay to fight outside, not in here. I figured you'd have enough of it, and be professional enough not to do it for free. Was I wrong?"
Taija's fist clenched, trembling in her gauntlet. For a moment, her vision blurred with the effort. Then, like heat from a dying coal, the anger slowly began to bleed away. Shaking off the whispers, she blinked her lambent eyes back into focus and lowered her gaze. "Nossir." Like as not, he wouldn't understand the truth - the dark-kin did most of her work for free. Peasants didn't exactly have stores of silver saved up. The other mercenary muttered something unintelligible - it must have satisfied Morn, for the dwarf turned away, pausing only for a snap of the wrist in Taija's direction. The small, leather purse nearly hummed in the air as it flew across the distance, but a twitch of her own hand plucked it from its flight.
A small game between them - one of the only things making the work bearable.
Morn's small smile hung in the air as he pushed his way back through the crowd, and the line of mercenaries began to move again. Taija shook her head. "Come on," she muttered to Amras, turning to glance at the ranger. "There'll be nothing left."
"I..." Something had changed. Amras' smile, formerly friendly, hung on his face like a rotted fruit on a branch. "I'll wait. You go ahead." He made a quick motion with one hand toward the line, a jerk of his arm that seemed more waving away than offering. Her stomach rolled and Taija opened her mouth to speak, but the half-elf turned away. "Care for my arrows," he muttered, heading for the bunks.
The dark-kin bit her lip as the ranger hurried off, turning back to face the backs of those in the line. None turned to smirk. None chuckled.
But inside Taija, laughter welled. Not hers...not completely.
Rumination Over Stew (Taija)
The stew - bland to her, spiced for a palate decidedly not human - did fill the hole in her gut, warming Taija from the inside as the warmth of the fire did the outside. She had met a handful of dark-kin in her travels, and at least two seemed armored against the wind's chill, their blood running like molten iron through their veins. Something I missed. It was probably a blessing, but at the moment Taija felt a pang of jealousy.
I could have it, though.
That wasn't her - not really - and she shut her mind against the thought. Another spoonful of the stew, another sip of the hot, watered wine. Feeling the weight of eyes, the young woman tugged her hood a touch lower, knowing full well people could still see its unnatural shape, bulging out at the back of her head. But the hood protected her from them, so she kept it up.
Amras returned in short order, sans his equipment. Too quickly for a thorough examination of his arrows, but then Taija already knew he had made an excuse. Avoiding her eyes, he hurried to the pot for whatever remained. Someone muttered something about 'bent shafts', to a general round of laughter. Taija closed her eyes and ears, taking another sip of the hot wine. There were no other women in the garrison of mercenaries, and small wonder - the few who joined up with sellswords knew better than to take this sort of duty alone, without a group for backup. Oh, they would have been safe in the dwarven halls - regardless of their feelings toward whiteshields, the dwarves would never tolerate that sort of crime. The offender would likely find himself in a circle, naked, facing his intended victim, armed and armored. But outside? Too many chances for a group of men to get a woman alone, especially after a wild fight against marauding beasts. Too many excuses as to why she had not returned. Too many men in this sort of company who knew only of their base desires, and nothing of honor.
Taija, on the other hand, knew she was safe. It would take a brave man to approach her - the sort of cowards who might assault a woman would likely wither before touching her. And after seeing her fight? In the language of its creator, her weapon was a 'surf-breaker', for good reason - it was meant to battle against hordes, rather than in duels. Taija used it well. Probably, she gloomily considered, because of who I am. Blood calls to blood.
At least she was making coin. Possibly enough to pay for the next step along the path she and her mentor had discovered. Spell-casting was expensive to purchase. Spell-casting from clergy, for one such as her, even moreso.
I'd have the money if I didn't keep giving it away.
Her teeth ground. Shut up! The wooden spoon creaked in her fingers, and she relaxed, one at a time. She was doing some good, here. Taija didn't much like their employer - her mentor would have called him arrogant. Herself, she would have thought that a trifle extreme, but 'blowhard' sprang to mind. But dwarves seemed to be good people. One, a friend of her mentor, had bothered to teach her their language several years before, and it stood her well, here, garnering grudging respect from the rock-stubborn people. They weren't malicious, simply disinterested - insular - and their presence would make the area safer.
She liked them. They may not have liked her, but they were fair, and that counted for a lot. Her actions, her work garnered her as much as her appearance, her bloody, cursed aura lost, which beat most of her experiences among her own people.
Humans are not my people. They sure don't believe I'm theirs.
Shut up!