The Crownless

[Hound]

The grim stink of salt and pitch filled the air, the acrid tang of dead earth and scorched crops. The earth was crusted with the first, soft promises of snowfall – but the land had no care for the coming of rain nor ice. It was barren now, a ruined and forlorn memory of a once-prosperous hamlet.

Lord Geoffrey Beaumont smiled to himself, wiping his mouth with a shorn length of linen cloth torn from the corpse of an unfortunate peasant – many of whom now littered the ground like carrion in the wake of his marauding soldiery. He watched his men as they counted their spoils; the faint clink of unearthed silver, ransacked from the secret hiding places of hovels and homesteads. The white surcoat he wore was stained sanguine with the blood of the fallen, and the end of his scabbard was slick with dying life.

"Milord. All the houses are accounted for; we've looted everything we could find, and we've slaves for the market when we get home," reported a slack-jawed man with a serjeant's blazon stitched onto his gambeson. He sniffed loudly, rubbing at his crooked nose before gesturing to the men. "We're ready to leave on your order."
Lord Beaumont nodded his approval, raising a hand to muster the warriors before they turned to drink and disorderliness. He paused, though, sniffing the wind as an errant scent danced across his notice. A fleeting whisper of something out of the ordinary.

"What is that smell, Serjeant?" He inquired sharply, turning in his saddle to look about himself. His bushy eyebrows narrowed in concern, jaw clenched as he scanned the area. He was a paranoid man by nature – evidenced by his decision for a pre-emptive strike against his brother's fief, knowing there would soon be war over the inherited dukedom from his father; if one is to enter a fight, one ought always throw the first punch, after all.

"Dunno, Milord. Can't smell nothing other than rotting bodies. Thinking we should get ourselves away proper quick, like." The Serjeant mused in his peasant drawl, fetching an apple from his hip satchel and sinking his cracked teeth into its pulp.

Munch, munch, munch.

The sound was distracting. Geoffrey found it hard to focus. His rage began to grow. A fury blossomed behind his eyes, the sudden rising of hackles along the lupine flesh of his inner beast. He felt his fingers dig violently into the reins of his horse, and then...

The Serjeant collapsed to the ground, gurgling as he scrabbled at his throat. Blood squirted from his jugular like a morbid geyser, and his fingers twitched and quivered as he struggled to stem the flow. Geoffrey reeled in alarm, staring at the now blood-slicked longsword in his grasp. What had he done? Why?
His horse suddenly reared out, neighing furiously as he was ejected violently from his saddle. The beast had been spayed! What was this madness? He crashed against the sodden earth with a groan of pain, reeling from his sudden concussion. Beyond the tinny whine of his ringing skull, he heard the shrieks of alarm and fear from the soldiers nearby. The sound of metal tearing into skin, and the whimpers of dying men.

He turned his head to look, and saw his retainers running amok in a violent mob; men swinging punches at one another, others trying to restrain the ones who had turned feral. Panic soaked the air, and Geoffrey's attention returned to that familiar, tell-tale scent, sharp and bitter on the nose...

Sorcery.

He realised, too late, what was happening. He heard the whistle of spitting arrows before he saw them, the clinking rustle of maille and steel – and finally, the roaring cries of something no nobleman of Tethyr ever wished to hear. The ghouls from the fairytales; the madmen muttered about in tavern tales; the nightmares told by wet nurses to their lordly young.

The Crownless had come, singing their joyful tune of black vengeance:
"A tenth to the serf,
A tenth to the knave,
A tenth to all the widows of the men down in their graves!
A tenth for your wounds,
A tenth for your pain,
A tenth to all the folk whom by the nobleborn were slain!
A tenth for your bow,
A tenth for your sword,
A tenth for the courage to stand against your Lord!
Aaaaand a tenth for we the Crownless who helped to set you free!"

THE CROWNLESS

Aliases: The Tenth Share, The Merry Men, The Free, Sovereigns, 'Hoods'
Primary Alignment: Chaotic, Good
Origin: Tethyr, Faerun

Synopsis: The Crownless, also known as the Tenth Share for the manner in which they distribute their spoils, are a popularised band of supposed ne'er-do-wells and brigands whom historically haunted the woodlands and forests of Tethyr. Promoting themselves as defenders of ancient, ancestral liberties and the guardians of the common folk whom often found themselves oppressed or otherwise mistreated by an uncaring foreign class of Amnian nobility.

Renowned among peasants and reviled among noblemen and burghers, the Crownless are both controversial and highly illegal. Membership is cause for death by lynching, and a significant bounty is offered in most counties of Tethyr for the head of a group ringleader.

A highly disorganised and decentralised group, the Crownless are nevertheless united by a single core ethos: the desire to take from the rich and give to the poor. Dividing the rewards of any brigandry into tenths, the Crownless distribute tenth shares of their wealth among the villages and hamlets they proclaim themselves protectors of, though the veracity with which this principle is adhered to can vary from group to group – some are more greedy than others.


Interested in joining? Message Hound on discord for more information, or find a member of the Crownless in the game world...