A Sellsword's Notebook

[tinfoilhat]

A worn bookbinding, in which most of the original pages have been ripped out. Various parchments and pamphlets are repurposed and stuffed into the sleeve in roughly chronological order.

"His presence is in the dunes, not with the City."

Darras of Warad offered his God's favor for thirty seven coins and bade me to join him in the dunes beyond the Rose Gate. No obvious guards or associates lurking - I do not suspect an ambush.

Then simply, may Warad the Wanderer bless you Isotta. May you travel the roads with sharp eyes, unblinded by storms.
May you be cleansed of any foul influences, by those of foul nature.
And lastly may these foul forces nay besmirch thy soul.

I watched the dunes beyond as he conjured his prayer - the magicked lights seemed a perfect signal for others to strike.

A cool breeze over the sands instead. Not unpleasant.

"Warad will look upon you favorably if you tend travelers and safeguard the roads while you travel onto glory."

I almost believe him.

A nameless priestess asked to follow my shadow as I bade Darras farewell. Scented smokes. Tobacco pipes. Oils.

I wished to travel the nearby dunes to familiarize myself and needed bait in case ambush awaited so I accept. I don't ask her who or what her God is - they tend to never stop once invited.

She is quiet as we walk the dunes at night. Her only request throughout, to hold my blade and divine some manner of "thread" from it. Scented oils, I assumed, placed upon the steel and ignited with prayer. I dislike the fire.

"That blade nears the end of its tale - its light almost extinguished."

I said "Good" in response. Not certain why I would say so - the oils fumes, perhaps.

Travelers from the Well pass us in number as we continued exploring. Naelin and her "Torchbearers". They offered safety in numbers and guidance if we wanted to follow along, waiving a typical fee. The trap is so obvious, but we are so close to the gate yet that I am curious to see if the people are so bold.

So we follow, behind of course. I suspect I could quickly kill the one "Alejandro" to start, but do not think I could fend off Jhaeros, Naelin, and the others at once. When they stop to prepare their wards and steel, I prepared myself to trip the priestess and sprint for the gate.

They instead bid us farewell and pushed off on their own. No payment demanded. No malice in the eyes.

An odd evening in the sands ended with the priestess declining tithe and inviting me to seek her out at the priory of the Sisterhood if my mind changed regarding my "thread being rewoven". I doubt I will.

[tinfoilhat]

Spoils laid before us, I tensed and waited for the expected chaos and betrayal to play out. I had placed Gore-Mound as the most dangerous and ensured I was at his back - blade ready to slice at exposed neck. I didn't like my odds with Aubrey or the others. Distance, and the tunnel at my back while they thinned each-other out would be enough. Likely I could finish off who was left.

I count to ten as I watch the initial pickings begin. They quietly gather things of interest while I watch their hands, their eyes, their movements. I watch the ridge above to see if I can catch the glint of boltheads against the setting sunlight.

Aubrey calls out to me - the noise startles me out of concentration. She is insisting I take my share of the vials. I let them walk away far enough before I bend down to take it and wait for the hidden steel to be drawn, but  Varin is already leading the crew on to the next dune.

Mutes and magicked ink.

Stars and fortune altered - short term.

Dreams of an oasis.

Banda Rossa - "Old soldiers don't talk about their old battles."

[tinfoilhat]

A feeble man who looked two days away from becoming mummified answered my call for priests, as I had felt my Fortune's well beginning to dry. Marcellus of Izdu - a god of academics and records. Feeling that this would be a relatively straightforward transaction, I offered the coin as usual for his God's favour or avertment of furious gaze, but he instead he gave freely out of "principle":

I will pray for Izdu to keep your mind sharp
That you may always fight a resolution to your problems
And that, maybe, you will pass on your knowledge to others. Teach them to survive as you will.

No.

I swallowed the anger. So many souls still clinging to the nobility of charity - giving away food, drink, or knowledge without expectation of return. This dying world and its Gods cannot care of such things, the righteous become just the same dust as anyone else.

Promises are made to at least read freely offered tome, that I might learn something of it. There is something to be said of keeping the mind as honed as my blade.

"B'aara requires nothing. She gives generously. You see evidence of this all around the Well."

Afsana is another priestess who declines the coin offered. It is truly beginning to frustrate me now. They always ask of me some task: Read this book. Offer water to the thirsty. Grant shelter to travelers. Simple enough things to do, but would that it be so simple as it is with Cosimo and the other acolytes of Agaslakku. A God's pleasure as tithe is taken from the fallen, earned through bloody battle.

I am not picky. These things I can do, so long as Fortune holds until a worthy end.

People like Varin and Aubrey are difficult to hate, but their hopeless struggle to save a people who do not deserve it frusrates. They discover a single drop of water in an endless sea of ash, and think of it as an oasis.

It is easy to understand the naive youth that motivates the druid, but the aged Voiced should understand the inevitibility of it all. It is perplexing.

"One step ahead of the other."

[tinfoilhat]

Four walls and a door.

It's odd adjusting back to the routine from days past. Awaken, get the work, get the coin, get the smokes, get the wine, get the company

The Slurp beckons sleep when I need it. Good enough.

Lynneth is almost the spitting image of Hilde, even in mannerisms. I find myself remembering her dignified dip of the head to the vilest scum as we met clients in the Skulk - a determination undeterred by the wretchedness about us. I remember her little prayers to the Light that Was - so certain that it would see our band through to victory and ever greater glories. That humanity's light would shine again...

It distracts me from the purpose of our introduction, courtesy of Varin. She's another priestess of the Waradim and my fortune's waning, so I give her the usual ask. She tells me she doesn't charge coin for her duties - like so many others. Maybe it's the agitation that I allowed myself to be distracted, or maybe it's the dull headache from needing a smoke, but I find myself chastising her. Stupid. Nobody, especially her, cares about this old bitch's advice.

But then she does, or maybe she sees an easy mark. Fifty dinari. She asks me to take her hand, so I hand my last smoke to Moody to hold and do so.

O Warad, I bring to you another lost soul. May the road always be clear before her, and the ambushes that lie ahead obvious and easily outwitted. May she find prosperity, and good health, in all that she does.

No lights. No exalted warmth as I am blessed. Yet I feel lighter, somehow.

I ask Moody for my cigarette back and he couldn't keep it together, blubbering an apology. My head feels like it is splitting, and I can't find a place that rolls the smokes. Fucking Moody.

[tinfoilhat]

Not dead yet.

Throughout the Banda Rossa's siege on the orc infested fortress, I find myself panting the words as I cut through orc after orc. Sweat in my eyes - but don't have time to wipe them. I hope that the blurred figures in front of me aren't other future Failures as I swing. There's no time to wonder or regret. Stop swinging, and I'm dead.

My dirt pouch is empty and my head's splitting by the time we stumble through the deeper tunnels. Blackbelly is shouting and cleaving orcs down like they're nothing but docile cattle to get through. I can hardly keep up, but I know that if I stop running, I'm dead. The throne room awaits.

I find myself screeching the mantra with the others as we make one final desperate push across narrow bridges - arrows and spellfire hurled towards us without reservation. Screams of dying orc and Banda Rossa fodder both ring in my ears as we make minuscule advances, stumbling over corpses. Shipburner charges ahead towards the biggest fucking creature he can see, waving his steel and shooting his pistol with reckless abandon.

"Watch my back, and I'll watch yours." Of the six or so strangers I tried to make the panicked pact with, Shipburner and Ayaz are the only ones still alive. A mercenary is only as good their adherence to word and contract, so I abandon all sense join him and we cut and cut and cut until there's nothing left swinging back.

Somehow, we're still alive at the end.  We shamble about and pillage what we can. Shipburner hands me a cigar and says something, but I can't make it out - the world's still spinning so I just puff at it and wait until the order to return is given.

Of the remaining lot, three of us are given the opportunity to don the cloak as Recluta. Shipburner and  Kythaela made sense, but I found myself surprisingly pleased when I was beckoned forward. Maybe the priest's prayers are paying off.

Not dead yet.

Freshly donned in the colors, Blackbelly wanted to show us something.

The prisoner we had captured wasn't singing as loudly as needed. I find myself thinking back to Doban and his pliers as I watch my superiors work. I remember asking Doban what they were for whilst camping for the night, and the quiet chuckles shared at my naivety. I remember the disgust and indignation. I remember thinking I should have done something, but I didn't.

And so history repeats itself. I tense and perhaps in some effort to seem like I'm not entirely complicit I tell them to promise it a clean end for the information,  to see the wretch killed as quickly as possible. But the work continues. I'm simply to observe, so I do so. Should have kept my mouth shut.

The nameless creature gives us what we want and a boot is slammed on the back of its neck. Blood dribbling from the eyelids. Convulsing body. A bad way to go, but it's over. Blackbelly tells the Recluta to clean it up, so we heft the thing up and take it out to the sands to be burned. Far away as we were and even wearing cloth about your face, you can't escape the stench. I need to take meals in my bunk for the next few days. The once savory smells from the kitchen make me retch.

Blackbelly tells us to get some drinks and take some time off after we return. Maybe he's been in these boots before and is doing us a favor. As we three take our Rosewines, we raise them in toast. "Not dead yet!"

I can't help but think that not a single Condottiero wanted nor asked any of us for our names as I guzzle the wine down.

[tinfoilhat]

Laremy's got the look that labels a man insane at first glance, and the words that come out of his mouth doesn't help either. Yet he's surprisingly convincing over a cup of coffee. I find he's as genuine as the rest of them, and would welcome his stars' favor just as readily as the Wheel - it's all the same in my well.

Seven nights of asking questions to an uncaring sky. A stupid thing, but my word is given. I shall see what boon awaits from a priest of the stars.

I want to make something clear.
You are Recluta.
You are worthless.
You deserve nothing.

It's when Condottiero Capuano's knife comes up to my throat that I realized I made a grave mistake. I should have held onto my anger, but instead chose to yell "hit" at the dealer four times in a row without even looking at the cards. She knows how to prod at old wounds that one thinks are hidden - she knows exactly what she's doing when she's dressing me down in front of the others. Maybe a lesson to be learned there, or maybe she's just enjoying it. I want to throttle her, and the others, for not joining me.

Watch my back, and I'll watch yours.

[tinfoilhat]

Kythaela made a call for us to meet in the Krak for a job. The Lion, Tough Toli, Peacock, and myself. A proper hand of killers, we set to meet someone out on an old homestead along the lonely highway. Client's an old man, building a new fence as he explains the work to be done. He tells us his daughter's been snatched up, and wants to hire La Banda Rossa to see her returned safely. Name's not as important as the payment. Exceedingly large, for a man of apparent simple means.

A short jaunt into the dunes sees us to the camp. Dozens of the bastards, holed up in a little oasis. Slavers, trying to ply their trade so close to the Well. We pretend to be curious buyers as we approach their little barricade and spot the girl. She thinks it's all a game, calls out to the father about her new friends. He winces, because he knows what's coming.

Tough Toli's hammer comes down with enough force to cause the sands to quake and the barricade is no more. I charge to secure the girl as the killing starts proper - she stands in a sort of shock for a moment as the dregs fall and die, and I'm thankful I don't have to chase a panicking hostage.

Someone manages to blow their horn, and off in the distance the scouting band answers. They're too close. A lurching in my stomach as I realize we're going to be holed up in their little camp, fending off the reinforcements. I tell the man to keep the girl away - he tells her to play in the water and not to turn around for any reason. I feel my Well's running dry as I march out with the others, but I don't have much time for introspection as the bolts come flying towards us. It's a bloody affair - through the pumping blood I can hardly keep count of how many we've killed. My body lurches as I've tripped up and riddled with bolts, but the magic keeps me alive long enough to roll with the blows and keep cutting until it's all over.

They're all dead or dying. Relative silence in the dunes at last, as I drift back towards the client and his daughter. Old memories swell up - I think about how Hilde managed these jobs. A confident, warm smile, to frightened children. Promises of treats if they follow our orders and stay safe. A stupid, pitiful part of me tries this for some reason as I draw up to the girl. Clear my throat so I don't sound so wretched.

She looks upon me in horror. I realize, then, that I am covered in blood - my own, and splashes of so many felled. My blade still drawn, as I wobble towards them with shaky, exhausted legs. The man tells me it's enough - takes my invisibility potion, and hurries the girl away from the mess.

The payment is as promised, and more. The old man's exhausted - he knows he needs to move on now, and he doesn't offer his thanks as he chases after his little girl playing nearby. I look upon the fence he finished building, and wonder what the point of it all was.

Condottiero d'Armagnac is a man of few words - his lessons usually brief and potent. He told me when I was taking out my frustrations in The Pit, that proper soldiers keep their tantrums to themselves - that anger, held close and locked away.

It is a lesson I wished I recalled as La Capitana made it clear what the prisoner's fate was going to be, and mood in the room shifted dramatically. Our man at least had the grace to take his last drink of offered port and, in his last words, congratulated us on our "first victory". It was something I likely would have said if positions were switched, but the fury swells in my breast as if I was doused in oil and suddenly lit aflame. All the pain and humiliation as a Reculta that I've buried came to light at a simple barb, and I find when sense takes hold again I've severed the man's head from shoulders. Blood spraying everywhere, on everyone. Nobody says a damn thing as the body crumples to the ground, 'till Peacock exclaims he's just cleaned his cloak before.

La Capitana is pleased. The next order is given to the Lion. With the body not even cold, we three are to cut palms and swear the words over the dead. To serve until death. For coin and glory. For La Banda Rossa.

Shipburner's wearing his buffoon's grin, and Peacock looks mighty pleased with himself as the ceremony concludes. I can only look at the headless corpse bleeding out, and think of the  now emptied bottle of Modan Port on the table.

[tinfoilhat]

Rennik Colmes and I are settling final details between our little contract when I ask the usual question - the safe one, between professionals. Why one does what they do. What sort of prize are they expecting at the end of the path.  I expect the usual responses of a comfortable retirement.. an endless deluge of mizzar, wine, women, or whatever satiates.  His answer catches me off balance, as it's something I didn't think I'd ever hear another soul admit aloud.

When he's about business he's a careful, almost paranoid sort. Reluctant to take drink. Watching everything and nothing at the same time.  When he tells me though, the mess in Syter's murder, the cloud of the "why" of that chaos begins to dissipate and a sort of sense comes to light. I try to play it off with a laugh and nudge him towards the eventual goal of this current legateship with the grace of a Groknak, it's all I can do to hide the realization that we're more alike than I care to admit.

The coffer is fat enough that I could likely swim in the dinar. The glory of our victory as I give a shitty speech in the Krak after should have been enough - but it's not. Two fools, chasing the most elusive vice of all.

The Lyrists are making grand showing of introducing the two students who are about to graduate. Alejandro and Edha, both faces I've grown familiar with are taking it as well as they can despite nerves. It reminds me of times amidst the Fellowship, the same inane and vapid rituals to bolster camaraderie as they welcome new souls into the fold. I remember shuffling my feet and bellowing my oath with courage found in mead consumed moments prior, remember my voice cracking and my infinite shame as Hadrick laughs and gives me that wink of his in some effort to encourage me. I remember it did.

The crowd is cheering - it rouses me from the thoughts and I remember that I'm supposed to clap, too. These minglings, these appearances with our allies are a necessary thing that I wish my siblings took to more readily. I find I'm angry about something - furious even, and it's not about my comrades leaving me with the softer diplomacy. It's the glint in their eyes - the hope. The students, the balladeers. They sincerely believe the pretty words chiseled into stonework and monuments about the Krak, still believe there's something worth finding in this dying gasp of a world. That it can actually be saved. I muster what grace I can to congratulate the pair and wish them well on their quest, despite my doubts. The Grandmaster appears and, as if sensing my frustration, renews fires I try to smother..

Harbor hope you should, Isotta Delmare...

More cheers. More laughter. More celebrations as the Grandmaster finishes her speech and congratulations and the hall is left to her Cinquefoil.  The newly graduated balladeers hug the guests and receive well wishes. I find myself thinking of a cold and dirty backroom in the Fortress. Five people huddled around a headless corpse still spurting blood whilst we swore our oaths. I wonder what words she would have offered to us then, were she present.

Why do I even care about this?