"Know, oh prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars -- Nemedia, Ophir, Brythunia, Hyperborea, Zamora with its dark-haired women and towers of spider-haunted mystery, Zingara with its chivalry, Koth that bordered on the pastoral lands of Shem, Stygia with its shadow-guarded tombs, Hyrkania whose riders wore steel and silk and gold. But the proudest kingdom of the world was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming west. Hither came Conan, the Cimmerian, black-haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under his sandalled feet." -- The Nemedian Chronicles

It is the Year of the Horse, the final year in the Hyborian calendar cycle. It is the Month of the Snow Ape. And it is the third day of that month, the new month having begun just three days ago. You know this because you find yourself stationed at Fort Drethil, a wooden fort along the Westermarck, all that stands between the golden kingdom of Aquilonia and the trackless forests of Pictland. You know this because three days ago, a supply train bearing food and necessities for the population of the fort -- overseen by a Baron Trejanus -- was expected to arrive... but did not. You know this because the Baron's men-at-arms, mercenaries, and free companions are becoming restless. Three days is feeling like a very long time to not know what happened to the supply train.

(Folks are still wrapping up their characters, and I'd like to kick off first thing next week, if not sooner, but feel free to roleplay a little for now. How do you find yourself at Fort Drethil in the Westermarck? What do others around you know about you, generally? How have you been occupying your time at the fort?)

"I didn't mean anything by it." pleads Fanny to herself as she kneels over a soapy bucket and scrubs the mud from a silken garment. "Aren't I old enough to keep what company I choose? Everyone is a miscreant leper to you, why don't you lighten up?" she argues defiantly and bravely out loud, but in a low voice and only after glancing subtly over her shoulder to make sure the abbot wasn't nearby.

She wrings the garment free of water and slaps it open over a fence to dry, then she grabs the next garment and begins the process of washing again. Making a mock serious face she grumbles "Discipline and self denial is the path to enlightenment. Spend more time in quiet meditation and self reflection and less time engaging in... conviviality." she mocks in her most imperious voice.

Groaning she sets the next, but not the last, garment to dry on the fence and lifts the heavy bucket with both hands hanging between her bowed out legs. With the most awkward looking bucket hold that makes her look like a hermit crab she shuffles her way towards the end of the fence to dump it. It is clear that this bucket is a mite too heavy for her to handle.

"March you here. March you there. They don't really know where they want you, they just want to keep you busy," complained Darakyn. He was coming to grips with the vagaries of of being a soldier in the Aquilonian empire, but it was nowhere near are exciting as the recruiting officer had suggested when he had signed up. Certainly he had got to see exotic places, but mostly as mile after mile of muddy roads, and now, here he was, on the far reaches of the Westermarck in a crappy wooden fort, running low on supplies.

Almost without thinking about it he picks up Fanny's bucket to move it where she needs it next. She's a holy roller, but at least she's a girl, and that's better than all the bloody soldiers he has to deal with day in and day out.

"Think the supply wagon is just taking its time, or been taken?" he asks her. "Maybe we should ride out and look for it?"
This message was last edited by the player at 12:39, Mon 22 June 2020.

Fanny gives a relieved sigh as the soldier takes the bucket from her. "Great, that's great. You can set it down over here." she indicates with a finger. "Thank you."

She lets his question hang for a moment as she quietly reflects on the man, wondering if she was right about whether he was a soldier or not. After a short pause she probes, "I think your superiors would have something to say about who and when someone should investigate the missing wagon. Don't you? I know mine would. Would never let me go, that's for sure." She pouts.

"'Spect the Major's thinking about it," nods Darkyn, his accent full of the rolling r's and the long a's of the southern countryside in Aquilonia. "Nothing happens too fast around here, I reckon, until it's too late and then it all happens in a panic.

"First lesson I learned in the army, though -- don't ask questions."

He set the bucket down where she points and stands back to watch her work.

"Where you from? You look different than the girls I know. And you must 'ave pissed someone off to be set to doing all this laundry," he adds with a laugh.

Fanny kicks the bucket full of dirty water over into the ditch and brushes a loosened lock of damp hair behind her ear. "Don't ask questions you say? Can't say I've learned that one yet, though I'm sure the abbot isn't finished trying to educate me towards that ends." she holds up one of the dirty blue alien looking silken garments on the fence, similar to what she was wearing, for emphasis. She tosses the garment back onto the fence with a little attitude, like the now clean clothing was still tainted and dirty.

"Sometimes I wonder if I was meant for this life. I mean, I respect the discipline, the study and reflection, and the lifestyle and all. But, between you and me..." she looks back and forth conspiratorially, masks her mouth with a cupped hand and leans close to Darakyn. She whispers with a playful grin, "I think I'll go out of my mind with boredom."
This message was last edited by the player at 21:56, Mon 22 June 2020.

(For those of you who haven't posted in this thread yet: Please roleplay a little. How do you find yourself at Fort Drethil in the Westermarck? What do others around you know about you, generally? How have you been occupying your time at the fort?)

The land was depressingly flat and Abdur would have preferred to serve on the Cimmerian frontier where the hills and mountains although small reminded him of his homeland in the Himelias.  Still the Picts were fierce and worthy foes and in their savagery not too unlike his own people.  There would be trouble, more than on the Cimmerian frontier where the raids were fierce, sudden and powerful while along the Thunder River the Picts would come across in stealth and brutality until some sudden event would have them surge across in a wave of screaming death.  He smiled thinking of the blood and glory to be had, the hard fighting and deep drinking afterward.

Tall, with an unruly shock of hair and a bushy beard Abdul was hirsute, tall and burly with a speed and power bred in the harsh lands of tall mountains, deep valleys, fierce maidens and bold warriors.  Abdul Rahman had come a long way from the roof of the world.  Vendhayan raids had brutalized his tribe although they'd given better than they'd taken with hundreds of the mounted dogs laid out dead on the mountain trails.  The invaders had been driven back as they had always been but at a cost that crippled his people.  Rather than accept the take over by neighbors Abdul had traveled north and west to seek his fortune.  Black Kingdoms, Kush, Shem, Koth, even supercilious Nemedia had seen the flash of Abdul's blade and his fierce thirst for drink and wenches.  Now bored and hearing of unrest in Aquilonia Abdul had come to the very edge of civilization.

Strolling along the ramparts of the ramshackle fort Abdul noted the girl with the look of Khitai and the Aquilonian.  The chit was attractive although soft seeming and had been lingering around a strange group of wise men.  Abdul forked his fingers and spit in aversion against the evil eye.  In the week he'd been in the fort Abdul had avoided the wise men as he had no truck with strange gods and stranger sorcery.  Yet the girl was washing clothing in the most mundane of tasks and talking to one of the burly Aquilonian soldiers, young and full of vigor.  Spitting again Abdl swaggered over to the pair with the rolling gait of a hillman.

"Bad news in these lands with missing wagons.  Picts took them for sure and their heads are shrinking in the medicine huts across the river for sure," Abdul broke in gruffly.  "The far east, yes?" He asked the girl.  "You, I've seen in the drills... good with a sword."  He nodded to Darakyn.  "I am Abdul Rahman of the Highuri of the Himelian mountains."  He spat again and made a motion against evil spirits.  "There will be blood on the trails soon enough I think... soon enough."

"Very good!" praises Fanny with excitement. "My name is Fan-Hee, from the southern jungles of Khitai. We are both very far from home."

Fanny eyes the newcomer with fascination. She knew much about her Hyrkanian neighbors, from her studies, and had only briefly had the opportunity in the past to speak with one. He looked as wild and strong as the mountains he came from and she shuddered to think of having to face him in battle. Yogah be praised for the wall.

"Can I ask you a question?" ignoring the need for an affirmative she continues without skipping a beat. "What makes you so certain that the missing wagons are the work of the Picts? I understand the likelihood, and I can feel the tension around here, but why the certainty?"

As the three speak by the fence, the ditch, and the washing, an Aquilonian -- garbed as one of Baron Trejanus's men-at-arms -- approaches, walking with purpose. He is fully armed, as though on patrol, carrying his bill, with an arming sword sheathed at his hip.

"You there," he says sharply, pointing a finger at Darakyn Chard and Abdur Rahman. "Come with me. The Baron has need for such as you."