A few comments:
1-It is a novelization in terms of style, but it is 99% faithful to die rolls, etc
2-Characters started at 4th level
3-English is not my first language... forgive any mistakes
4-I hope you all like bloody fights...
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The Port City of Peredrin was known as a jewel among the cities of Agedon, mistress of the seas, and self-proclaimed crossroads of the world. The Inn of the High Tide, however, was a blemish on this jewel, a cheap wharf side tavern where the sea-faring scum of many lands rubbed shoulders with local fishermen who were often little better than pirates.
It was on a sunny mid-afternoon that a swarthy, shaven headed ascetic walked in. His simple linen garments and stout sandals showed him to be from neighboring Medegia, the oldest civilized nation in central Kalidon. The man was just shy of six feet, with an athletic build, and was encumbered only by an odd, slim bundle slung across his back. He briefly became the object of attention of the only large group in the common room: a table with ten local ruffians, dressed like fishermen, but with gold and silver glinting from their ears, and armed to the teeth with curved swords, knives, and harpoons. They drank freely, laughed loudly, and leered at the barmaids who with the skill of long experience avoided their lustful hands.
The Medegian spoke briefly to the stout barkeep, who subtly pointed out two other men, each sitting alone, both also the target of many a look and remark from the group of rowdies. One was of a build with the Medegian, but with short-cropped black hair and goatee. He was dressed in worn but well-cut garments of soft leather, and appeared deceptively relaxed. A slim scar marred the left side of his face. His left hand rested gently on the hilt of a long curved sword at his left hip. The sword identified him as a swordthane from Daladan, reputedly the best swordsmen in Kalidon, the elite among a people born and bred to war, for whom all glory came from battle.
The other man was unfamiliar to the Medegian. Even as he sat, his back to a wall, the observer could tell he was taller than him by at least half a head. His lean, strong features, akin to those of a bird of prey, were made fiercer by the bushy mustache that drooped almost to his jaw line, and his eyes were a pale grey color. He wore a hauberk of iron scale-mail over worn, oft-mended garments, but his high leather boots and broad leather belt were in prime condition. The last held the scabbard of a heavy broadsword. Behind him a large round shield and a steel-headed pike rested against the wall, completing the picture of a soldier, or legionnaire of Tormos, a land of hot-tempered bravoes and brave travelers and co-incidentally, the traditional enemies of the Dalasians.
The group of rowdies looked surreptitiously, laughing at short intervals, at all three foreigners, as the Medegian walked to the Dalasians table. Hail, friend. Allow me to buy you a drink. The Dalasian looked at him warily, but not unkindly, as the ascetic spoke. I am Nato, and master Braewund, the Barkeep, told me you also seek Conumbrius.
The swordthane nodded, and was about to answer, when his gaze was drawn to one of the burly sailors, who was swaggering his way towards the Torm soldier, as his friends watched intently. Trouble, friend he muttered to the Medegian. The Torm fixed an unfriendly stare on the approaching sailor, but the latter was not deterred.
It is common courtesy for foreigners such as yourself to buy a round of drinks for the locals. The burly sailor smiled and looked back to the long table from where his confederates egged him on. What say you? The soldier answered in heavily-accented Agedonian. In my country, it is common courtesy not to disturb a man at his cups. Now leave me be, dog!
The sailor merely smiled at the insult, and walked back to his friends. They greeted him with jeering laughter, and one of them whispered to him. He soon came back to the sullen Torm.
Excuse me, but your mule is looking for you outside.
Mule? The soldier asked suspiciously.
Not yours? The sailor laughed. Then it must be some other ass shes looking for! The group of rowdies exploded in laughter and jeers, which the sailor participated in, until he found himself wiping stinging wine from his eyes, where his erstwhile victim had emptied his cup disdainfully.
The Torm then stood, towering over the burly sailor, and hooked his thumbs into his broad belt, as he spoke grimly: Leave now, whoreson. The sailor could not back down in front of his peers, and swept out a broad-bladed scimitar, slashing at his foes face. But the tall soldier leaned back from the cut, so that it passed a hairs breadth from his jaw. His broadsword flashed into his hand, the pommel coming up so fast it almost brained the sailor, had the latter not jumped back. The ruffian roared, and closed again with broad overhand strokes. Sparks flashed when the broadsword turned the scimitar aside twice, and as the curved sword drew back once more, the heavier, straight blade fell as did the sailor, his skull cleft to the teeth less than half a minute after he drew his sword.
The Torm turned, expecting to see the rest of them charging at him, and was surprised to see the Medegian and the Dalasian had intercepted a group of five ruffians, and held them at bay. The other four had turned the large table on its side, and were readying to throw harpoons into the melee, heedless of their own comrades. The swordthane fought gracefully, his keen blade moving with perfect control, slicing through throats and wrists with equal ease. The Medegian was more surprising for the Torm had fought against Dalasians most of his life, and knew their style well. The long bundle had concealed a double-bladed sword, which Nato used to deal precise, lethal wounds as he weaved gracefully among his foes. Every strike seemed to hit a lung, kidney, or other vital.
The soldier charged into the fray, driving back a ruffian who was attempting to flank the ascetic. He approached with a high stance, battering down his opponents scimitar. As the sailor brought his blade up defensively, the soldier dropped his point, and thrust deep into his opponents groin. The sailor collapsed as his lifeblood fled through the huge gash in his artery. As the soldier stepped back to keep the dying man in sight while surveying the impromptu battle field, he saw the fight was over.
Three others lay dead, and a fourth was wounded, and on his knees before the swordthane. Mercy! he plead. The Dal looked at the kneeling man with contempt, and beheaded him in one stroke mercifully.
The three swordsmen looked at each other over their vanquished foes, as they cleaned and sheathed their blades. The soldier ran two fingers down his thick mustache. A Dal helping a Torm never thought I would see such a day. The swordthane did not detect gratitude in the soldiers voice, but then again, he would not have expected, or requested aid either, had the situation been reversed. Ten to one odds are unjust, and dishonorable. The ascetic smiled as he broke in. Besides, it was obvious we were next. Such is the way of their kind. An honor to meet you both. I am Nato. He offered his hand. The swordthane shook it first. Kelsar Sularios. The soldier shrugged his broad, mailed shoulders as he did the same. Valric Dagonar.
It was then that the barkeep and other customers realized the bloodshed was over, and stepped out of their hiding places. As Braewund began bemoaning the damage to his establishment, Nato gracefully offered to buy a round of ale for all those present. Kelsar and Valric stood to the side, the latter running a professional eye over the fallen thugs weapons. The three soon sat at Valrics table. The Medegian smiled as he began: Let us try this again. Braewund told me you also seek Conumbrius
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I can tell you what they are, but not their meaning. He referred to the odd birthmarks which all three swordsmen had on the palms of their left hands. To learn their meaning, you must be willing to travel far. And I must warn you: it is a trip from which you will not return. Valric scowled, as he exchanged glances with Kelsar and Nato. The swordthane and the ascetic seemed to understand Conumbrius better than he did. The robed graybeard had arrived shortly after the watch had left. It was only the innkeepers words that had persuaded the constable that the dead ruffians had started the brawl though one could not blame the watch for not wishing to arrest or disarm the three swordsmen.
You mean it will cost us our lives? Or that we must stay in this far land once we know? Valrics tone was blunt as usual, but Conumbrius merely smiled. It will indeed be a perilous journey, soldier. But even if you all survive, you will not be the same as when you set out, once this journey is completed. The three warriors were silent for a few moments, each considering the particular, mysterious circumstances of his own birth.
After a while all agreed, and Conumbrius did not seem surprised. It shall be a long journey, friends. We will need passage on a good ship, as well as supplies for several months. Kelsar, Nato, and Valric exchanged glances, as it was obvious that even the swordthane, for his fancy garb, did not have the means for such a trip. It was he who spoke. It will take some time to get such funds. Conumbrius merely smiled. I am sure fate will provide. At that instant two city guardsmen walked into the Inn of the High Tide, and approached the four men.
Are ye Kelsar Sularios, Valric Dagonar, and Nato? As the ascetic answered of course! in his friendly manner, Torm and Dal alike dropped their hands to their sword hilts, warily. The guardsman noticed, and spoke appeasingly. Easy, friends. Our captain, Rirardus, wishes to talk to you about a task the kind that pays gold. The three swordsmen looked at Conumbrius suspiciously, but the latter merely shrugged. I shall meet you here in an hour, then.
to be continued...
