The sun had just set when Arra led the small band of hooded and masked figures through the Bree-Fields. Just ahead the dirt path met a small wooden bridge which went over the stream which flanked a nearby farmhouse. The windows were bright. "Someone's home," Arra said from beneath her hideous mask, carved into the shape of an orc's face. Some might call it an improvement. "Just follow my lead." Holding a torch, she stepped on the bridge and headed toward the farmhouse, not trying to be stealthy. She meant for them to be seen.
Garbold follows loosely behind Arra as she makes her way onto the bridge. His boots pad quietly as he makes his way across the wooden boards, his cloak hiding his sword and dagger from view. A smirk flashes across his lips as he takes in the homestead.
Supper had just ended for the family, and the pre-night time chores just beginning. Two teenage boys bounded off the porch, heading away from the farm through the fields oblivious to their surroundings. A man watched them go - their father, the head of the farm and the household. A simple man, in simple clothes, living a simple life on his farm with his family. He was on the older end of middle-aged. As he looked out on the fields, the torch moving up the road caught his attention, who would be visiting now? “Hello?” He called out, brow furrowing.
Neyarra stopped in front of the house, the torch casting shadows on her wicked mask's features. Her green eyes could be seen peering through the eye sockets. "Good evening," she called, as if she didn't have armed figures by her side. "We have a proposition for you."
Freyga kept close to Arra, as if seeking the protection of the goblin-brigand. She glanced at the hooded recruit, a stranger whose name she’d not heard said on their short walk from the meeting point where they’d left Sedryn to watch the road. She thumbs her belt, feeling the absence of the seax-weight across her lap—such a distinctly foreign weapon wasn’t as suited to the work as her wood-axe and knives.
Chadley hangs back a bit, a wary eye on the bridge crossing the stream and a hand on his belt - ready to draw his knife if necessary, but more ready to draw his crossbow.
Farmer Al let out a deep breath, "I doubt I want to hear it.. Not with how the lot o'youse look." He picked up a shovel that was resting by the door, "Best if you all turn and go back the way you came." He wasn't a fighter, he was a farmer and that was plain to see. The sight of a group of brigands wasn’t common anymore, and now they’re sitting at his doorstep. Between the lack of light and their masks, he couldn’t identify anyone of them. Blackwolds?
Garbold glances at Arra, his cloak shifting slightly as he places a hand on the hilt of his blade, though the weapon would still be concealed by the black fabric.
Neyarra smiled underneath her mask, but to the farmer she was always grinning evilly. She held up a hand, the one not holding a torch. "Are these fields not a dangerous place? Surely you've heard of farms being burned down, pillaged. We only offer protection from these dangers." She glanced at Garbold as he shifted. "We'd make the fields a safer place."
He sighed, "Haven't been much danger in the recent months... Unless yer talking about the wolves."
Freyga kept quiet, her head bowed, eyes raised through the eye-slit in the mask she’d roughly stitched from an old forge-apron.
Chadley fights the urge to chuckle at the farmer's comment behind the linen of his hood but remains silent.
Neyarra paused to look to either side, turning her goblin head, mostly for the farmer's sake. "I've heard tell of someone's farm burning recently. It'd be a shame if that happened here. For a small fee, we could prevent that from happening."
"A small fee? It always starts as a small fee, then its half the livestock." A rock came hurling from behind, aiming for the back of Garbold's head. The two boys had returned, finding their farm under threat, another rock came, then one of the boys came running from the field with a stick, swinging wildly at the group.
Chadley feels the rock whip past his shoulder and abruptly turns - by the time he's facing behind, he's drawn his bow, and, coming to rest with the smooth familiar wood against his shoulder, he fires.
Garbold grunts, grabbing the back of his head as the stone finds its mark. He turns, spying the boy approaching with the stick. Suddenly, his blade appears in his hand, the pale metal shining in the moonlight. He'd quickly move forward, attempting to parry the boy's clumsy swing and disarm the boy.
Neyarra turned, her torch swinging wide. "Don't kill them," she spat at her companions. But she said nothing about wounding them. Then to the farmer she shouted, "Call off your mutts or we'll burn this fucking place to the ground."
Chadley watches the bolt land where he aimed, at the farmhand's feet. He cocks his head to the side as if to dare the youth to throw another rock, and see where it gets him.
Garbold nods back at Neyarra, connecting at the "hilt" of the boy's improvised weapon and quickly twisting, sending the stick flying into the air. As the boy reels back from the maneuver, Garbold lunges forward and sends the pommel of his sword straight into the boy's face. Blood spurts into the air as the blow connects, the boy's nose breaking with a sickening "crunch." He falls back onto the grass, grasping at his nose before Garbold levels the tip of his sword at his throat, though remains still.
Freyga turned when she heard the thunk of stone on skull, gripping the neck of her axe. It stayed in the ring looped on her belt as she kept both father and sons in her sight. A tilt of her head towards the farmer, and she muttered in echo of their leader. “We just want to talk. Come to an arrangement,” she said with a patchwork of accents stitched from Bree-land to the Gap.
The farmer cursed under his breath, jumping back from the bolt. Damn teenagers. Full of angst and too much confidence. He watched in disbelief as his one son easily crumpled to the ground, "Stop! No!" The Farmer would try to come off the porch, knowing the other boy was still waiting in the dark... Waiting with another rock. "We'll talk, we'll talk."
Neyarra stepped forward, drawing her blade in a red-tinged flash of steel and pointing it at the old man. "The price went up. A pouch of silver for each of us. And don't stinge."
Chadley scans the rear of the farm, ready to loose another bolt in a more injurious fashion if—or when—the situation necessitated it.
Freyga followed Arra, for all appearances staying at her side for back-up.
Garbold keeps his pale eyes trained on the boy, his sword unmoving from the boy's throat. However, he obviously is continuing to listen to the actions of his companions behind him.
A small goat wandered up to Arra, bleeting out at her before attempting to eat her pant leg. The farmer held up his hands, "Okay, okay. I'm sure we can come to a compromise. That's a lot of silver.." And, as boys are to do ,the boy still hiding hurls another rock, aiming for either Arra or Freyga. This gives up his hiding spot easily.
The boy with Garbold is utterly terrified and in considerable pain, he stayed laying on the ground, being a bit smarter than his brother.
Neyarra cursed as her pants were chewed at by a farm animal. Her blade flashed again, and there was blood everywhere and a screaming goat. She stepped up close to the old farmer and pointed her bloody dagger at his throat. "Give. Me. My. Fucking. Silver."
Chadley casts a glance toward the road, unworried but alert; the sound of their raised voices and introductory violence not yet enough to signal clear distress, but clearly unordinary in the calm of the idyllic farmland.
Freyga jumped out of the spray of hot blood, and the stone missed its mark, thudding against the farmhouse instead of either brigand. She cursed and glared out into the dark for the hidden farm-boy. “I’d run, boy,” she called, but not too loudly. “That or come out and lie down on the ground.”
As the blood splattered, he stepped back from the bridgand's blade, "You'll have your silver.. I don't have enough for everyone tonight." He looked at his one boy, also at sword-point, the other one trying to sneak closer to the house, "Just... dont hurt anyone, please. They're stupid kids." He begged, "I can give you..." He looked at the poor baby goat, "Animals, or.. I don't know, a token that you'll be paid."
Chadley nodded (in the past tense this time) toward the young goat, unwilling to join the negotiation but clearly willing to take livestock as part of his share, at the least.
Neyarra shook her head slowly at the farmer, then jerked up with her knife and plunged it in the man's stomach.
Farmer Al's eyes went wide, slumping into Arra, "Why?" He asked with a groan, going limp. The rock-throwing boy bolted out of his hiding spot, attempting to tackle Chadley.
Garbold glances over his shoulder at Neyarra, the boy under his blade crying out as Farmer Al gets stabbed. Garbold turns back around, bringing his sword away from the boy's throat, but quickly brings his boot to collide with the boy's head. The boy crumples back to the ground, his eyes rolling back into his head as he blacks out.
Garbold says, 'Fool.'
"Moon!" Freyga shouted, her mind whizzing through the past seconds—the goat's blood, the thrown rock—the reasons she wasn't at Arra's side to grab the blade before it flew. She lunged for the stabbed man's arm.
Chadley saw the youth as he ran headlong to attempt a tackle, and dispassionately loosed the bolt into his chest, and prepares to be hid with—perhaps literally—dead weight.
The boy caught the bolt in his chest, falling onto Chadley, literally dead weight. Cause that’s a great pun.
Garbold | It's funny because he's dead.
Neyarra withdrew her dagger, tugging it from the old man's stomach. Blood hit her clothes and fell to the earth. "Fucking farmers," she said, already stepping past him up to the house. Her hand went to the door's handle, and she turned to look over the scene with her companions. "Take all you can. We'll load it up onto a cart," she shouted. The nearest farm wasn't in shouting distance, but surely the entire Bree-Fields were in range of this cautionary tale.
Garbold turns, wiping the blood on his sword's hilt on the inside of his cloak. He slides the blade into the scabbard at his waist, turning and heading up the stairs to help load up any loot he could find.
Freyga lowered herself and the body she tried to bear onto the steps, but she knew the look of a fatal wound. She let the blood seep out, slipping the man quickly down to death. She glanced at the unconscious boy as Garbold walked past her.
Chadley shrugged the dead body of the farmboy off him, kicked it aside, and walked to join the rest, not caring to watch the young man's form bleed out its wasted future into the picturesque stream.
Neyarra swung open the door and marched inside to loot the place. The small home was not treated with great care as the brigands quickly looted it of its valuables. In the barn they'd find a cart to load up with everything they could find.
After a few moments, Garbold emerges from the house with a large sack of goods slung over his shoulder. He makes his way down the steps, casting a cold gaze at Freyga and the farmer. He'd glance at the unconscious boy one more time before walking over to the youth. He crouches down next to him and checks his pulse.
The boy was unconscious, but still very much alive. For now.
Freyga lay the farmer besides the steps and joined Garbold, her hands empty but for blood. "What are you going to do?" she muttered, eyeing the sword under his cloak, a hand on her axe head.
Garbold looked back over his shoulder at the carnage. He'd sigh quietly and straightens up before glancing at Freyga. "Here." He says, his Dalish accent tinging the one word he's even said to the group as he tries to push the sack of loot into her arms.
Chadley busied himself as well, helping to take anything seemingly of value, and some things of perhaps little value beyond aesthetic or utility, and neatly bundles them for transport—then paused as he realized that perhaps there was the chance to liberate a no-longer-needed cart and a beast to pull it.
Neyarra busied herself with the cart, motioning for Chadley to put the loot he carried into the cart. "Let's get this filled up as quick as possible." There was blood soaking her front, and some on her mask. It was impossible to tell which was goat blood and which was farmer blood, except for maybe the goat blood was mainly on her pants.
Freyga fumbled the sack with one arm, the other hand still on the axe in its loop. She hoisted the bundle to the grass and with a firmer tone said, "Leave him. He's no threat now.”
Chadley nodded appreciatively at the cart as he loaded his neatly packaged bundles of stolen goods. "We might even look respectable with these bundles, eh? So long as we get rid of this."
Garbold grunts, turning back to the boy. "He's not right now... But he might make something of himself another day." He says, scooping the teenager into his arms and tossing him over his shoulder in a carry.
Neyarra looked down at her clothes. "I'll have to steal myself something to wear that isn't covered in blood. But first, to take care of the rest of this place." She picked up her torch and jerked her head toward the barn and the fields before marching over that way.
Chadley readied the cart to make a smooth, unobtrusive get-away with the goods and whomever could lay-low in the back.
Freyga echoed, her tone grim, her eyes hard, "What are you going to do? Kill him? Leave him with his family, if that's your plan."
Soon, the buildings of the farm and then the fields themselves had caught fire, the first sign smoke rolling across the landscape. By that point the cart was loaded up and ready. Arra returned to Chadley no longer holding a torch, the stench of smoke clinging to her clothes. The air was beginning to thicken. "Let's get out of this place," she said, spitting at the grass near the farmer's corpse and calling to the others, "We're leaving!"
Garbold stares back at Freyga with an icy gaze, but doesn't say anything. Instead, he makes his way over to the cart and tosses the boy unceremoniously in the back.
Chadley gestures to the cart. "Room in the back, as long as there's no racket being made." He stripped his shirt off and pulled from his rucksack a clean, respectable looking tunic, then hid the mask in the bag as he climbed into the front of the cart, ready to play the part of a clean-cut farmer.
Freyga let go of the axe, lifting the sack with both arms as she followed to the cart. She yanked off her own mask and looked down at the leathers she’d borrowed from a blacksmith, flecked red with farm blood. As the flames caught a crop of hazel branches, the sap boiling and popping, Freyga cringed with one last look at the family they’d shattered.
Garbold hops into the back of the cart, carefully making sure the boy would be hidden among the belongings before settling in himself. Pulling down his hood, he'd glance up at the burning house, his expression difficult to read in the light of the flames.
Chadley sat himself upon the bench seat with the reins in his hand, running a hand through his short, dark hair. He seemed practiced at this part, the subterfuge required to leave the scene of the crime and disappear into plain sight.
Once the cart was loaded up with goods and men, Arra got into the front with Chadley, pulling off her mask and tossing it into the back among the piles of ill-gotten gains. "Take us out," she told Chadley, leaning back in her seat and folding her arms across her chest. The boy's clothes were a bit baggy on her, but they were better than the blood-stained set she'd let burn in the barn fire. "Freyga, coming with us?"
Freyga stripped herself of the leathers down to the trousers and tunic, looking again no more than the woodswoman she'd been that morning. The cold that sank in through the thin wool was welcome. "Of course." She climbed up after them, her features set, her gaze ahead.
Chadley lit a pipe, the very picture of a rural trader on his way into Town in respectable, yet still home-spun, clothing.
The cart, loaded up with an entire livelihood's worth of treasures, rolled over the bridge, behind it corpses lying in the grass and a farm ablaze. Arra looked over her shoulder at it one last time as the cart turned down the road. Soon the other farmers of the Bree-fields would hear of this. And when she came knocking, they would cough up their silver to avoid a similar fate. A smile tugged at her lips.
Chat Log: 03/24
