Post by harkion on Aug 12, 2009 11:30:39 GMT -5
The Last of the Brotherhood – Harkion Vito’s Tale
Smoke drifted idly from the wreckage of the burning siege engines, affectionately stroking the calm after the battle, when the crows swarmed from the heights to plague the dead and the dying alike. Everywhere the black specters pecked and fought with vultures over the bodies of the dead, while the wounded and dying called out in pain for succor. Scavengers in the guise of men roamed the battlefield too, working their way here and there, searching for valuable jewelry, gold teeth, and the occasional gem-encrusted dagger. When they found some survivors, after searching the nearby bodies for loot, they would drag them across the field to where a large wagon waited to carry them to some nearby temple or warehouse to die. Others, wearing a different tabard, had their throats efficiently cut and their pockets turned inside out.
Harkion Vito, standing on a bluff overlooking the carnage, looked on impassively, his jaw set and face expressionless, but with eyes speaking of a deeper wisdom and troubled thoughts. He wore his hair cropped but long, with a slight wave displaying the beauty of his brown locks. Light stubble ran across his jaw, and an old battle scar marked his forehead between the eyes, implying ancient battles fought and his life decrying the fate of the inflictor. At his side he wore both sword and dagger, and his back braced longbow and shield. A long black cloak hung in a roll on his back, and a brass hunting horn dangled from a worn leather strap at his side. His maille fit him like a second skin, fit and flowing over his corded muscles hardened from battle and war. His thighs and spaulders were armored in plate, polished but worn with blows and strikes of battle.
Harkion breathed deep, sucking the corruption and death below into his lungs, and then expelling it in a slow and steady breath that released his own tension as well as the sight of the battle from his mind. He was a warrior, the veteran of many a campaign as both a mercenary and a soldier. Born of a small farming village to the south of the Mittlemarch, he grew into a strong man and set out to find his place in the world. He had fought skirmishes and wars throughout the lands from the frost-bitten plains of the north to the swampy bogs of the east. He had grown strong of arm and learned the art of forging steel. He crafted his own armor, hiding within it runes of luck and strength that would bring the eyes of the gods upon him favorably. He had gone on a pilgrimage of wisdom, studying with monks and philosophers in the art of life and war.
In this journey, he found the Brotherhood of Questors, a secret order of warriors who sought to end tyranny and oppression in the lands with the might of their blades. In secret they moved through the fiefdoms and baronies of the lands of the south, fighting against injustice and the right of choice. When Baron Varick took women against their will at threat to their families and reputation, the Brotherhood brought him low while he was falconing in the forest. When a bandit leader sought to overthrow the duchy of Tharn, they moved through the band like avenging furies in the dead of night to take his head. When the shadow of an evil cult leader threatened to overwhelm the kind and peaceful hamlet of Garn’s Brook, they slew his followers and burned his ruined keep to the ground. But the Brotherhood was never great in numbers, having just a little more than a dozen members. When at last their fates caught up with them, they were unprepared for the betrayal. Sitting in banquet at the request of the Mayor of Tildenham, they were poisoned with wine fouled with Grey Maiden’s Anguish, a slow and agonizing death that slowly filled their lungs with foam until they drowned on dry land. Being the only one who preferred water to wine, Harkion survived to hack his way free of the mercenaries hired by Baron Varick’s nephew, escaping into the night. The town of Tildenham was sacked and burned by the mercenaries, who turned on the new baron and slaughtered and sacked his keep as well.
Today, Harkion looks out over the battle that marks the end of that mercenary band. They lie below, with dozens of other nameless men taken by the gods of death in the heat of battle. He turns and walks north, searching out a new place free from the corruption and loss he has found here in the south, seeking a new place to carve his name deep in glory that the gods are long in forgetting where he has stepped, and to continue the valiant work as the Last of the Brotherhood for as long as his arm holds strength.
Smoke drifted idly from the wreckage of the burning siege engines, affectionately stroking the calm after the battle, when the crows swarmed from the heights to plague the dead and the dying alike. Everywhere the black specters pecked and fought with vultures over the bodies of the dead, while the wounded and dying called out in pain for succor. Scavengers in the guise of men roamed the battlefield too, working their way here and there, searching for valuable jewelry, gold teeth, and the occasional gem-encrusted dagger. When they found some survivors, after searching the nearby bodies for loot, they would drag them across the field to where a large wagon waited to carry them to some nearby temple or warehouse to die. Others, wearing a different tabard, had their throats efficiently cut and their pockets turned inside out.
Harkion Vito, standing on a bluff overlooking the carnage, looked on impassively, his jaw set and face expressionless, but with eyes speaking of a deeper wisdom and troubled thoughts. He wore his hair cropped but long, with a slight wave displaying the beauty of his brown locks. Light stubble ran across his jaw, and an old battle scar marked his forehead between the eyes, implying ancient battles fought and his life decrying the fate of the inflictor. At his side he wore both sword and dagger, and his back braced longbow and shield. A long black cloak hung in a roll on his back, and a brass hunting horn dangled from a worn leather strap at his side. His maille fit him like a second skin, fit and flowing over his corded muscles hardened from battle and war. His thighs and spaulders were armored in plate, polished but worn with blows and strikes of battle.
Harkion breathed deep, sucking the corruption and death below into his lungs, and then expelling it in a slow and steady breath that released his own tension as well as the sight of the battle from his mind. He was a warrior, the veteran of many a campaign as both a mercenary and a soldier. Born of a small farming village to the south of the Mittlemarch, he grew into a strong man and set out to find his place in the world. He had fought skirmishes and wars throughout the lands from the frost-bitten plains of the north to the swampy bogs of the east. He had grown strong of arm and learned the art of forging steel. He crafted his own armor, hiding within it runes of luck and strength that would bring the eyes of the gods upon him favorably. He had gone on a pilgrimage of wisdom, studying with monks and philosophers in the art of life and war.
In this journey, he found the Brotherhood of Questors, a secret order of warriors who sought to end tyranny and oppression in the lands with the might of their blades. In secret they moved through the fiefdoms and baronies of the lands of the south, fighting against injustice and the right of choice. When Baron Varick took women against their will at threat to their families and reputation, the Brotherhood brought him low while he was falconing in the forest. When a bandit leader sought to overthrow the duchy of Tharn, they moved through the band like avenging furies in the dead of night to take his head. When the shadow of an evil cult leader threatened to overwhelm the kind and peaceful hamlet of Garn’s Brook, they slew his followers and burned his ruined keep to the ground. But the Brotherhood was never great in numbers, having just a little more than a dozen members. When at last their fates caught up with them, they were unprepared for the betrayal. Sitting in banquet at the request of the Mayor of Tildenham, they were poisoned with wine fouled with Grey Maiden’s Anguish, a slow and agonizing death that slowly filled their lungs with foam until they drowned on dry land. Being the only one who preferred water to wine, Harkion survived to hack his way free of the mercenaries hired by Baron Varick’s nephew, escaping into the night. The town of Tildenham was sacked and burned by the mercenaries, who turned on the new baron and slaughtered and sacked his keep as well.
Today, Harkion looks out over the battle that marks the end of that mercenary band. They lie below, with dozens of other nameless men taken by the gods of death in the heat of battle. He turns and walks north, searching out a new place free from the corruption and loss he has found here in the south, seeking a new place to carve his name deep in glory that the gods are long in forgetting where he has stepped, and to continue the valiant work as the Last of the Brotherhood for as long as his arm holds strength.