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1332, The Year of Sword and Stars
"Reach for the sky!"
Six crossbow bolts aimed at the young mans heart, and he knew it. Hells below, he knew that catching a ride on a caravan this late in the season was a bad idea.....
A gap toothed, dirty man with stringy hair tied in a rat's tail grinned at him, licking his cracking lips with a chuckle bubbling from his throat. "What do we have here, boys? Looks like a bunch o' folk lost! Didn't they know that this here road belongs to Clyde's Cleavers?" A rough laugh rang out from the assorted highwaymen, chortles and snickers of agreement floating towards the young man's ears.
Clyde, or so the youngster thought, spat a greenish red mouth of spit onto his boots. "What's your name, sonny?"
The nervous young man shifted, his eyes darting back and forth between the highwaymen and the caravan owners, who were practically soiling themselves as death loomed over them, and worse: financial ruin. Bloody merchants.
"Oy! I asked your name!" Clyde snarled.
His attention shifted back to the robber. "J-J-Jeremy, sir. Master Clyde, sir." His knees quaked, knocking around loud enough to hear. "James Mastheur, son of Geoffery Mastheur."
The bandits gritty eyes opened wide, the red bloodshot veins almost bulging. "Mastheur? As in the Aquor Mastheurs? Boy, you'll fetch a pretty penny won't you?" A cruel laugh erupts from his grizzled throat. "A fine price indeed!"
"Yes, s-s-sir." Jeremy was almost in tears, thinking about managing to stay alive through this mess. Those bastard merchants probably wouldn't make it through, but such is the life of a noble's son....
The rattle of armor could be heard from off the side of the main road. Almost comically, the band of highwaymen turned their heads to stare. Jeremy slowly turned his own head, careful not to move quickly enough to cause alarm. Down the road, he could spot a lone figure wearing a low brimmed hat. He was wearing a suit of chain, with knight's spurs clinking against the ground as he walked.
No, he didn't walk. He strolled. He sauntered. He walked with a quiet confidence that you could see from a mile out. Jeremy had once seen a championship duel between Sembia and Cormyr. The Sembian knight had stepped into the arena with a swagger that was greeted with thunderous applause from the crowd as he kissed his hands and spread his arms. The Cormyr knight had walked like this man. Quiet. Unassuming.
As though the world was a painting that he was simply passing through and observing. When they drew their swords, the Cormyr knight had just taken a wider stance with a foot back, and rested his hand on the hilt of his blade while the Sembian brandished his sword at him.
That had been the quickest fight the audience had ever seen. The Sembian had broken his sword arm in seven places while the Cormyr swordsman had left the stadium as he came.
Silently. Airily.
Snapping back to reality, Jeremy finally noticed that the bandit had began shouting threats at the lightly armored man, who had stopped about ten feet from the caravan. Clyde was stalking over with a swagger that would have put the Sembian to shame. He raised his crossbow, and pointed it at the man with the low brimmed hat.
Death's shadow grinned.
A resounding crack that made Jeremy wince resulted in Clyde dropping like a sack of wheat onto the ground, his face looking like it just got pounded with a adamantine hammer. The knight flexed his hand, the gleaming steel knuckledusters on his right fingers covered in blood. The five other highwaymen just stared for a moment longer before shouting and shooting their crossbows. The bolts hit nothing but air, as the knight moved with unnatural quickness to the nearest highwayman and used him as a human shield. Bolts thudded into their comrades chest and stomach, and he was dead before he knew what hit him.
Four left.
Jeremy dove under the wagon, closing his eyes in terror. By the gods, what was going on? Why is blood that red? Why did Clyde's face look like a butcher had just taken a meat mallet to it, and why oh my gods why is everyone dying so quick how can someone do that to another person why--
Gasping sobs shook him as he opened his eyes. Three more gruesomely killed corpses of the highwaymen littered the ground, with the last looking upwards in total fear at the armored man. Jeremy could only see his armored boots, but seeing the highwayman's eyes gave him a good idea of how much panic he was in.
"Banditry is a crime in this land." A deep voice vibrated within Jeremy's bones. "And you killing these people, as you were in all likelihood about to do, is a crime against the gods."
"S-sir, please! Take me in for trial! We were just simple bandits, we-Ugh!"
The armored boot on the man crushed downwards on top of the bandits chest. "Do you take me for a fool? Helm grant you forgiveness, thief and murderer. For I will not." With a sickening crunch, the boot stomped flat, caving in the highwayman's ribcage. Blood dribbled from his mouth as the boot lifted, and moved towards the other caravan riders. "Go with Helm's vigilant gaze." The voice said with a touch of kindness.
Jeremy crawled out from under the wagon, just in time to see the stranger walking off with the same quiet stroll he had come. The stench of blood and filth reached his nostrils, and he struggled to swallow without vomiting. "S-s-sir! Your name!"
The man looked back, his blue flinty gaze staring at Jeremy with ironclad resolve. He could barely be more than twenty, Jeremy thought.
"Helm's vigilance has come to Sundren, sir."
The man turned away and continued walking, his spurs clinking gently against the ground.
"You can call me Proskus."
"Reach for the sky!"
Six crossbow bolts aimed at the young mans heart, and he knew it. Hells below, he knew that catching a ride on a caravan this late in the season was a bad idea.....
A gap toothed, dirty man with stringy hair tied in a rat's tail grinned at him, licking his cracking lips with a chuckle bubbling from his throat. "What do we have here, boys? Looks like a bunch o' folk lost! Didn't they know that this here road belongs to Clyde's Cleavers?" A rough laugh rang out from the assorted highwaymen, chortles and snickers of agreement floating towards the young man's ears.
Clyde, or so the youngster thought, spat a greenish red mouth of spit onto his boots. "What's your name, sonny?"
The nervous young man shifted, his eyes darting back and forth between the highwaymen and the caravan owners, who were practically soiling themselves as death loomed over them, and worse: financial ruin. Bloody merchants.
"Oy! I asked your name!" Clyde snarled.
His attention shifted back to the robber. "J-J-Jeremy, sir. Master Clyde, sir." His knees quaked, knocking around loud enough to hear. "James Mastheur, son of Geoffery Mastheur."
The bandits gritty eyes opened wide, the red bloodshot veins almost bulging. "Mastheur? As in the Aquor Mastheurs? Boy, you'll fetch a pretty penny won't you?" A cruel laugh erupts from his grizzled throat. "A fine price indeed!"
"Yes, s-s-sir." Jeremy was almost in tears, thinking about managing to stay alive through this mess. Those bastard merchants probably wouldn't make it through, but such is the life of a noble's son....
The rattle of armor could be heard from off the side of the main road. Almost comically, the band of highwaymen turned their heads to stare. Jeremy slowly turned his own head, careful not to move quickly enough to cause alarm. Down the road, he could spot a lone figure wearing a low brimmed hat. He was wearing a suit of chain, with knight's spurs clinking against the ground as he walked.
No, he didn't walk. He strolled. He sauntered. He walked with a quiet confidence that you could see from a mile out. Jeremy had once seen a championship duel between Sembia and Cormyr. The Sembian knight had stepped into the arena with a swagger that was greeted with thunderous applause from the crowd as he kissed his hands and spread his arms. The Cormyr knight had walked like this man. Quiet. Unassuming.
As though the world was a painting that he was simply passing through and observing. When they drew their swords, the Cormyr knight had just taken a wider stance with a foot back, and rested his hand on the hilt of his blade while the Sembian brandished his sword at him.
That had been the quickest fight the audience had ever seen. The Sembian had broken his sword arm in seven places while the Cormyr swordsman had left the stadium as he came.
Silently. Airily.
Snapping back to reality, Jeremy finally noticed that the bandit had began shouting threats at the lightly armored man, who had stopped about ten feet from the caravan. Clyde was stalking over with a swagger that would have put the Sembian to shame. He raised his crossbow, and pointed it at the man with the low brimmed hat.
Death's shadow grinned.
A resounding crack that made Jeremy wince resulted in Clyde dropping like a sack of wheat onto the ground, his face looking like it just got pounded with a adamantine hammer. The knight flexed his hand, the gleaming steel knuckledusters on his right fingers covered in blood. The five other highwaymen just stared for a moment longer before shouting and shooting their crossbows. The bolts hit nothing but air, as the knight moved with unnatural quickness to the nearest highwayman and used him as a human shield. Bolts thudded into their comrades chest and stomach, and he was dead before he knew what hit him.
Four left.
Jeremy dove under the wagon, closing his eyes in terror. By the gods, what was going on? Why is blood that red? Why did Clyde's face look like a butcher had just taken a meat mallet to it, and why oh my gods why is everyone dying so quick how can someone do that to another person why--
Gasping sobs shook him as he opened his eyes. Three more gruesomely killed corpses of the highwaymen littered the ground, with the last looking upwards in total fear at the armored man. Jeremy could only see his armored boots, but seeing the highwayman's eyes gave him a good idea of how much panic he was in.
"Banditry is a crime in this land." A deep voice vibrated within Jeremy's bones. "And you killing these people, as you were in all likelihood about to do, is a crime against the gods."
"S-sir, please! Take me in for trial! We were just simple bandits, we-Ugh!"
The armored boot on the man crushed downwards on top of the bandits chest. "Do you take me for a fool? Helm grant you forgiveness, thief and murderer. For I will not." With a sickening crunch, the boot stomped flat, caving in the highwayman's ribcage. Blood dribbled from his mouth as the boot lifted, and moved towards the other caravan riders. "Go with Helm's vigilant gaze." The voice said with a touch of kindness.
Jeremy crawled out from under the wagon, just in time to see the stranger walking off with the same quiet stroll he had come. The stench of blood and filth reached his nostrils, and he struggled to swallow without vomiting. "S-s-sir! Your name!"
The man looked back, his blue flinty gaze staring at Jeremy with ironclad resolve. He could barely be more than twenty, Jeremy thought.
"Helm's vigilance has come to Sundren, sir."
The man turned away and continued walking, his spurs clinking gently against the ground.
"You can call me Proskus."