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Post by Ardeeb Tarkaan on Dec 9, 2014 14:13:27 GMT -5
The Calormene Empire
Tesh
~‘The Carved Centaur’~
There was an eerie silence to the wind of the harbor city of Tesh. It had qualities of contemplation and sanctity, giving the silent promise that this would be a day with no meaningful events. Sadly the local tavern at the pier at other plans, drunken shouts, glass breaking and a general merriment produced its own particular brand of sound. It mixed with the eerie silence and twisted it into a promise of adventure, hope for a new and more brighter future and above all the promise of… opportunity.
In the disreputable, loud source of sound there was the sense of commerce. People bustled around, some carrying drinks, food, while others sat lazily waiting for their orders to arrive. There, look. A barrel-chested man, with sharp pronounced features giving his face the appearance of an hungry eagle, two golden rings were wrapped around his fingers, which were more akin to sausages than anything else.
Look, there. A woman, gold glittering in her mouth, emeralds in her eyes and through it all you gathered that this one was not one to be trifled with. She had a small dagger perching on her belt, simply waiting for the opportune moment to be released of its leather prison and to serve its bloody goal.
There were more like them, men and women of ill repute. People with no respect for the common decency of the Imperial Law, who saw an opportunity and took it, through which they set themselves free from the baseless restrictions of civilization. Shackles were unknown to them, cages were meant to be lock picked and the written bylaws were to be cheated.
Hours could be spent to describe these swashbuckling inhabitants of the Inn and yet we don’t have hours, and so we have to content ourselves with one particular brand of rebellious justice. This man, for even with his long locks he was indeed a man, sat just a bit aside from the others; this separation was not meant as a sign of self-imposed superiority or elitarian composedness, no the truth was far more simple and less on the nose than that.
For the truth was that this particular individual was the Captain of this lively band of rogues and troublemaker, and it was his belief that during their times of shore-leave his crew shouldn’t feel restricted in its ways of merriment too much. Perhaps it was a short-sighted approach, perhaps he was making a fuss out of nothing. But Ardeeb Tarkaan wouldn’t be the dastardly bastard he was if not for his eccentric and peculiar mannerism.
And today he was feeling especially eccentric in his taste, a notion he promoted by waving his hand towards the keep in one fluid motion to gather some attention, before calling out for safe measure.
‘Another.’
Truly a man of many and much words. |
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Post by Stormwall on Dec 10, 2014 9:45:53 GMT -5
A supply run to Archenland had taken it out of him; when Stormness Head proved low on the essentials, then, he'd been less than overjoyed at their recommendation. There was, admittedly, always barter to be found in Tesh. The Calormen Empire, more than anyone, thrived and prospered in spite of the Witch. And it was warm here, and he missed the warmth.
After a long run in the snow, though, only to be told his best bet was to cross three passes and make his way down to the delta of the Winding Arrow -- he was tired, deep in his bones, and the barkeep was looking at him oddly. The Carved Centaur, it seemed, saw few actual centaurs, and those he'd glimpsed in Tesh were acculturated to the Lone Islands -- dusty flanks, Calormen accents and mannerisms, never grown a winter coat in their lives.
Or maybe it was the line of ten wolf pelts he meant to use as his currency. Freshly cured pelts had a smell when the air thawed, as it had on the way southeast from Stormness Head.
The other problem with Tesh was the beverage selection. Stormwall gazed into his cup as a Calormen yelled for more. "Stronger stomach than mine," he rumbled sourly.
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Post by Ardeeb Tarkaan on Jan 7, 2015 12:12:45 GMT -5
The appearance of a centaur came as a surprise to the occupants of the Carved Centaur, most of them weren’t all that familiar with these half men. Oh sure, they had -heard- of them, probably seen a few of ‘em from far away, but either of those was different from actually spying on one up close or have one walk up to you and ask for a drink, while wanting to pay for the drink with pelts.
Grumbles permeated through the Inn, combined with eyeing of the less appreciative tones, but it stayed at that. The men were tired, just back from a long journey and while they’d grumble the last thing they really wanted to do was start some kind of fight.
The innkeeper looked pointedly at the pelts and was starting to say something, probably a negative reaction to the things. What would he do with them? Where would he do with them? Did he look like a trader? Yadadada, a lot of negativity, that’s for sure.
But say one thing about Ardeeb Tarkaan, say he’s an optimistic fellow with a keen eye for opportunity. The opportunity of today was information, the centaur was clearly not from around here, the way he carried himself suggested things, many of them. But the main thing was that he had come from the Witch’s realm, and information from that corner of the world could mean money to the right people.
So while the centaur was doing his best to haggle his way into a drink Tarkaan found his way to the barkeep, giving a pat to a few of the onlookers - a suggestion for them to keep drinking and stop paying attention, perhaps.
‘Dustap, don’t worry about his tab.’ the Bastard said to him. ‘I will pay for it.’ Which was followed by a couple of coins landing on the bar, he sent a sideways-glance to the centaur. ‘Sit with me, friend? Don’t worry about this unruly crowd, they are simply tired and tired, traveling can do that to a person, no?’
Before slowly returning to his seat over in the corner.
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Post by Stormwall on Jan 13, 2015 13:20:39 GMT -5
Ardeeb TarkaanStormwall felt his eyes narrow and his nostrils flare, more out of annoyance that the barkeep wouldn't take honest pelts as coin than out of distrust for the too-friendly Calormen. But he nodded, pushed the chair against the wall, draped the pelts over it, and stood -- as centaurs do -- at the table instead of sitting. His new bottle of cheap Tashbaani wine thudded on the tabletop. "Thank you," he said, in what he meant as a neutral tone, but probably came across as deep, gruff and restrained -- the standard centaur male voice, to human ears at any rate. It carried more than he'd like. "Your health, Master Calormen." He slugged back half the bottle. Those wolf pelts were really starting to smell. "If you're planning to gain my trust and then rob me, please do it quickly. I bore easily."
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Post by Ardeeb Tarkaan on Jan 13, 2015 13:33:51 GMT -5
‘Please.’ the Calorman said, waving the issue away. ‘Keep the pelts, I just want to hear the latest news.’ Then he settled himself down in the chair, cradling his drink and taking sips.
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Post by Stormwall on Jan 13, 2015 13:43:02 GMT -5
"To the north," he said slowly, putting together his words with the awkwardness of one who spends most of his time in his own mind, or communicating in other ways than verbal, "all is calm, all is bright. I hate it. There's no change that mortals can make, try as they may. To the west, now...or out to the east, maybe...that's where there's news to be made. But where I'm from, to the north, nothing changes the Queen. Nothing keeps the Witch at bay, except for Archenland and the mountains, and the best they can hope to do is keep her busy so others elsewhere can have half a life. We're close enough to her now that I think she'll freeze this town in a century or less." He held the bottle up to the light and raised an eyebrow. "Strong." Ardeeb Tarkaan |
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Post by Ardeeb Tarkaan on Jan 13, 2015 13:51:44 GMT -5
News of the Queen was always troubling, even here her hand reached, though not very far. The Emperor and his secret cabal made sure of that. But while the news was troubling, it was hardly… news in the sense of the word, the Queen was always trouble and her hand was always reaching, reaching for more. Some said she wanted to rule the world, Ardaab didn’t have a solid opinion on it.
Too much loot to plunder on the sea to -really- care about it all. She was powerful, but the Bastard doubted she’d be able to freeze over the entire ocean. Now that would have been impressive.
‘Go easy on it, friend-centaur. It would not be wise to find yourself too drunk around these parts.’ Ardaab remarked, before taking another swig from his bottle. ‘You are heading back North again, or?’
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Post by Stormwall on Jan 13, 2015 14:00:36 GMT -5
The centaur drank, shook his head, swallowed. "Went on a supply run to Archenland, found Archenland's nearer posts low on supplies. But now that I'm here I don't much like the thought of going straight back to Narnia, and I don't mind saying it. Ten dead wolves in three days -- there'll be patrols out, and they're better at pathfinding than some. This is as good a place as any to hole up for now. I'm sure I can find someone to take the pelts off my hands." For a few coppers -- but coppers would get him the bread he needed. And what he lacked, he could graze in this garden or that, if he was quiet and quick. Ardeeb Tarkaan |
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Post by Ardeeb Tarkaan on Jan 13, 2015 14:12:48 GMT -5
Ardaab pondered it for a while, even though the Centaur hadn’t told him anything of particular note right now he was still a man from the North. He knew things about that place that nobody else did, it could play a serious factor in how the nation approached the North now and in the future. He took another sip from his drink and then shrugged, before asking another question.
‘How good are you with a sword?’
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Post by Stormwall on Jan 13, 2015 14:16:58 GMT -5
Ardeeb Tarkaan tarkaan Within that question was contained a set of conflicting mores, objectives and possibilities, as indeed any swordsman of conscience felt. The question could also have been phrased along the lines of 'are you capable of taking action'; skill with a sword is as suited to good or evil or selfishness or opportunity as any other capability to exert change, in the world and in one's fortunes. "With a little man-sword, only passable." He gestured to the massive hilt that protruded up over his shoulder. "With this, or my long-knives, the wolves can tell you. What do you have in mind?"
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Post by Ardeeb Tarkaan on Jan 13, 2015 14:36:04 GMT -5
‘Work. On our last trip we lost a few men.’ Ardaab explained. ‘I ain’t sure how you’d fare on a ship, but I am in need of experienced fighters.’
The pirate shrugged once again, it wasn’t for everyone; their work. Some found it repulsive, dishonorable, yadadada. Mostly things happened without bloodshed, fat merchants weren’t willing to trade their lives for some gold, but every once in a while someone got stupid.
Just the way of things.
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Post by Stormwall on Jan 13, 2015 14:48:34 GMT -5
"A ship, or so I'm told," he said, drawing on the bottle again, "is a lot like a sword. It answers a master's hand and follows his goals, more or less faithfully. A good fighter knows his sword and a good sailor knows his ship, but some say the ship knows the captain and the sword knows the hand. If your ship could talk, Captain, what would it say about how you steer it? Or, to be plainer -- what's your business?"
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Post by Ardeeb Tarkaan on Jan 13, 2015 15:42:15 GMT -5
It was a fair question, plain and open without trying to beat around the bush (much). Ardeeb could respect that, most of his life had been spent at court and its intrigue - trying to find something plain and honest there would be as successful as finding a nice and warm beach in the North these days. Needless to say there had been more than one reason for departing at place.
"The ship would tell you that blood has found its way to her deck some of the times." He said truthfully. "But she'd probably add that most of the time the Captain attempts to avoid needless bloodletting while appropriating goods that don't strictly belong to him."
Ardeeb shrugged and then smiled wearily.
"Or perhaps she'd simply complain about not getting a new polish job every three weeks."
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Post by Stormwall on Jan 13, 2015 16:32:12 GMT -5
"I won't kill the innocent," said Stormwall, and drank down the rest of the wine. "Not with gold in front of me or a whip behind me. But damned if I'm not tired of standing out in the cold by myself. Long as all that's understood, Captain, and I use that title advisedly -- long as you're clear on what it takes to sail with a centaur -- I've got no objections. Tell me about your ship. What's her draft, length, how's she rigged, how many crew?"
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Post by Ardeeb Tarkaan on Jan 14, 2015 14:52:57 GMT -5
‘There are only free men and women on my ship, friend. I won’t force you to do anything that your conscience does not allow for.’ the Captain answered without hesitation, the only good crew was a happy crew, content and perhaps eager. He was a bastard, perhaps a scoundrel to some. But not a murderer, so it wasn’t hard to agree to the terms. ‘A brigantine, around 49 meters for the draught, 60 meters from stern to tip of her bowspit, twenty-six sails. The number fluctuates as you might imagine, currently we have seventeen signed on.’
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