Flynn leaned back heavily in his chair.  It was creaky and old but sturdy enough.  Like as not it had seen the last rebellion against the crown.  If it could weather that, it could weather Flynn Goodall's expanding arse.

Not that he wasn't in shape, Flynn reflected while drinking in the local spiced ale, all the muscle of his youth was still there, just sheathed in more padding than before.  That and, he liked to think, the grit of hard experience.

The thought pleased Flynn and the ale too wasn't bad.  It was as thin and yellow as piss, but the tavern keep had added a blend of spices that made it pleasant enough without being too heavy.  Belarius himself couldn't have done a better job.

To one side of him at the low table sat Elsa, his second-in-command, tearing surgically at a chicken breast with her thin knife.  She was still something to look at, Flynn conceded, though the deep scar running from eye to chin and the bow slung across her back made clear that she was worth more than that in a fight.  She wasn't the brightest mercenary Flynn had worked with, but she was trustworthy, strong and could put an arrow shaft up a bee's arse from half a mile away.

The rest of his small band was out enjoying the town, a rare night off for Flynn's group of mercenaries.  His last payout had been over a week prior after he'd lost half of his men to Xerxes rebel dogs in the outskirts of the northern wood.

To Saunders, Flynn muttered, raising his beer.  Copper, Danny Longlegs, Reaver, Martin, Half-face and Guines.

"May they dream of Heaven," Elsa agreed, raising her own mug.

Together they drank.

"It'll be hard replacing that lot," Elsa noted as she went back to her meal.

Aye, but we'll need the manpower if we're to serve Lord Gallister, if we're wanting to finish in less than a year I mean.

Elsa shrugged.  Flynn had worked beside her long enough to understand this meant that she was generally indifferent.  New recruits meant breaking in and the possibility of a green idiot getting you killed.  Then again, Elsa had been a novice once.

The rest of the lads are out looking for fresh meat.  We'll take who we can find here and then move on in a few days.  Box their ears while we work our way across the plain and anyone who washes out can part ways there.

North of the Kiln: neither plain nor mountain really... just nothing as far as Flynn was concerned.

Elsa shrugged, a woman of few words.

Besides, Flynn added as he flagged down the tavern keep for another beer, collecting taxes from helpless villagers?  What could be easier?
This message was last edited by the player at 15:59, Thu 20 Nov 2014.

In reply to Flynn Goodall (msg # 1):

Flynn stepped out of the dingy tavern into the sunlight.  He blinked and shielded his eyes, unprepared for the glare.  The morning before had begun with heavy clouds and proceeded to a thin fine rain like a thousand gnats pissing all over everything.

They'd reached Haven near to noon the day before and by then Flynn's whole company had had enough of the weather.  They'd earned a night off.  Still, there was a job to do and so while the master of the small company rested his sore behind in the tavern with Elsa for a second day, the rest had plodded back out into the rain to look for recruits.

Fortunately, though he had to give up his seat, at least it had stopped raining.

And he would have been happy to keep drinking and being dry, but all too soon Lump had poked his ugly head up beside the table.

"Sir, Flynn, sir.  Jake's back an' says he'n the boys have rounded up some hopefuls"

Flynn had debated boxing the young hunchback's ear but thought better of it.  Instead he'd finished his beer and signaled for Elsa to follow him out.

Now, Lump sticking to him like a shadow, Flynn made his way from the tavern door to the market.

Haven's center was a large open plot of land trodden to dust then into a hard-packed floor by countless boots and hooves.  This market was always abuzz with small tents, wooden and cloth stands, carts and ramshackle hovels where farmers, merchants and traders peddled their various wares.

The western half of this open market was semi-circled by a half-ring of inns, taverns, brothels and drinking halls.  Behind that, like an onion, were the other layers of the town radiating out to the west toward the vast forest.  First came the craftsmen, smithies, tinkers, fletchers, tanners and the like, then the farmers houses, granaries, bakers and all.  Furthest west were the small cottages of woodsmen, hunters and trappers, then the vast wood and many miles away Red Junction.

At the eastern border of the market were two stone towers surrounded by wooden palisades, the only defense Haven possessed.  Oh the locals liked to say "peace is our shield" or some such shit, but Flynn didn't think a juggler's fart of that notion.

He stomped heavily, maille jangling around him.  He preferred not to wear it when he aught be relaxing, but appearances had to be kept up.

"There's Jacob and the Kattenses!" Elsa pointed out.  Her eyes were far younger and keener than Flynn's.  He squinted and sure enough, made out Jacob's lanky form and the big twins' proportions across the market.

They walked past a young shepherd doing his best to get under the petticoats of a merchant's daughter.  They walked past a man selling apples for two pennies apiece, though to hear him tell it, he was letting you rob him.  They walked past a small stand where a man dressed in motley had set up a dozen Raze-snails on a saw horse and for a penny you could smash as many as you liked with a hammer until the count of ten.

All this Flynn ignored and more, until finally he reached a small clearing beside a well.

There, Jacob Larelle, the beanpole spearman, leaned against a javeline.  Beside him stood the Kattenses, identical twins Hoy and Marlo Kattens each near enough to seven feet.

Allright, then.  Flynn said, resting one hand on the hilt of his sword.  Let's see what you've turned up.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:17, Thu 11 Dec 2014.

In reply to Flynn Goodall (msg # 2):

"Why does everyone insist on squeezing their eyes shut?" Brennan mutters to himself between clenched teeth, panting heavily as he ducks through the sparsely populated yet surprisingly twisted streets of Haven.

"The truth is out there!" he calls over his shoulder, cupping a hand to project his voice toward his pursuers. A rock sails over his head in response, and Brennan refocuses his attention on his running.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spies a convenient canvas overhang that's been pinned up to shield the merchant below it from the scalding sun. He slows to a stop, draws his bow, nocks an arrow, fires, then sprints after his arrow without waiting to see if he hit his target.


The arrow sails into one of the pegs holding the awning upright, causing it to fall in front of the merchant's stand like a ramp. Brennan scrambles up his makeshift ladder, jumps onto the rooftops, and lands easily in an alley on the other side of the building.

Panting and sweating profusely, he presses his back against the dark alley walls until his pursuers have passed by. Once his breathing has returned to normal, he walks back into the sunlight and approaches the merchant whose awning he'd just used as an escape route.

"Terribly sorry about that," he says, handing the bewildered man a coin. "For your trouble."

Not long afterward, Brennan finds himself drinking alone at a nondescript watering hole when a slender man slides into the seat beside him.

"Nice shot. If you're looking for work and wouldn't mind ducking town for a little while, might be you should come with me."

The slender man stands and leaves the tavern. After a moment's consideration, Brennan pays his tab and follows him out.

***

"You're Flynn, I take it?" one of the recruits says, stepping forward and offering an appropriate bow. Sandy brown hair poked out from his hood, and his eyes twinkled good-naturedly as he straightened to his usual posture.

"The name's Brennan, if it pleases you, sir. And if you're in the market for talent, I'm in the market for work."

He stands with an easy grace and maintains a care-free disposition as easily as one might breathe. He's not immediately likeable, per se, but he does exude an almost palpable aura of competence, confidence, or maybe arrogance. It's hard to tell.

"I've been told you're recruiting fighters, sir, but if you don't mind my saying so, any lug can swing a sword. I can do you one better."

Brennan flashes another smile and brandishes his bow.

"In addition to wielding a mean cudgel, I can tell you with a straight face that you're looking at the best archer in a hundred leagues. I'm also a bit of haggler, sir, so you're sure to get the best deals in town as long as I'm doing the talking."

He shoulders his bow and crosses his arms across his chest.

"Talking's the only thing I do better than shooting, if I'm being honest, sir. Well, that and writing. I'm lucky enough to be literate, sir, and not just in the common parlance. If you do any business in Chal'i or Nor, or with folks from those regions, I can help you with the translation, with the contracts, and with the payout at the end."

"Best of all, sir, between the hunting and the haggling, I practically pay for myself. You won't regret taking me on."

Brennan gives another bow, smiles, and steps back into line with the other recruits.
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:35, Wed 10 Dec 2014.

In reply to Brennan Otthild (msg # 3):

You see somebody walking naked across the town square.