The Campaign Builder's Guild

Section 1:  The Forge

The iron, glowing orange from the consecrated flame at the heart of the forge, was plunged deep into the quenching water.  Prayers were intoned at this instant, a deep and sacred chant to the god of fire and water.  The smith withdrew the hissing blade from the barrel; the water, like the flame was a conjuration by the presently chanting priests.  This was a doubly holy blade.

His assistant, a fine and strong lad of only 14, brought him two files.  The smith, taking the stimll warm blade, drew these across the edge; neighter bit deeply.  The smith grinned to himself, a smile parting his red, forge toughened face.  It had good hardness.

"What happens now, smith?" the older and fatter of the two priests inquired.

"I must now affix the hilt," replied the smith, "which ye  brothers have witnessed me make and have consecrated for me."  He was speaking formally, so as to have three informed witnesses to his feat.

The assistant brought the components, a fine steel guard and pommel, to the anvil near which his master worked.  Not yet polished, they shone darkly with their fire-scale.

"More heat, if you would lad" the smith commanded his apprentice, who immediately began working the billows.  Soon enough, the holy flame lept into brighter life, a fire with which to attach the hilt.  With his tongs, the smith placed the heavy disk of steel into the flame.  The guard entered soon after.

The priests looked on in silence.  The fat one, Jarvis he had introduced himself, took great interest.  As a yough, he had wanted apprenticeship to a rather well known weapon smith, but had to take refuge in the temple when the sweating sickness took his family.  A Lícwyrþe, he wielded holy magic; an acceptable trade off he believed.  He had been questioning the smith during the entire lengthy process of making two gifts of war; a sword and a fine matching dagger.

The young assistant to Jarvis, who was introduced as Cedric, looked vaguely interested.  He had been in the small shop of this little community all day, and though the sun had gone,he was still there.  He knew little of swords beyond which end he wished to be on, but knew the sword and dagger crafted in this shop today were no mere war tools.  The lord of this village, a wealthy Æþelen noble named Dæn Allec, had a son that just completed his training as an accepted of Wotan; a Lícwyrþe just like him.  He also knew the smith was competent in weapon-craft, well known and that his project was no secret.  He knew the ore had been taken from a particular mountain of repute, that the fire and water conjured by he and his older teacher would imbue holy powers within the blade, and he knew his price.

This price had already been paid; a hundredpund of silver and passage to Abroden, in the east.  Two slaves, one a pretty young slut, had been thrown in to sweeten the deal.  The deal-maker, an Ácorenlic noble with some tie to Dæn, apparently, desired the sword for himself, and did not wish to pay for it; knowing he'd be refused.  It made the inevitable murder that much easier.

The dagger was finished by the time Cedric drew his attention back to the forge.  Cooling, the pommel had shrunk around the blade's tang, making an ingeniously tight fit.  Cedric assumed the same process was applied to the guard; he had not paid attention during the sword's construction either, until Jarvis got his attention for the prayer-spells they needed to work.  His mind was on his money.

Jarvis and the smith were talking; the teacher spoke much, and often.  Cedric positioned his body by the door, the only way out of the small stone structure; the cool spring air contrasted with the stifling heat of the forge.  Reaching into the folds of his red robe, he drew his own dagger.  It wasn't as fine as the one before him would be when finished, but it was sharp all the same.  He approached Jarvis, who admired the handiwork while the smith tended the forge, raking down his coals.  The boy busied himself in a tool chest.

Cedric's dagger found home in the dead center of Jarvis' back, which must have supprised the old man as he let out a loud yelp, his body tensing as he dropped the dagger.  His brain disconnected from the rest of the body, Jarvis fell to the floor and his soul left its mortal coil.

By this time, the other two were well aware of the murder just before them, and the smith attempted to say something in his defense.  Cedric did not hear the words.  He was lost in prayer, a brief incantation that brought a bolt of flame to his fingertips.  This bolt left Cedric's outstretched hand, smashing into the smith's face.  The man could not scream as he burned; his lungs incinerated immediately.

The boy, having been crouched by the tool chest even as his master burned, was spared the flame, and attempted to assail the holyman with a sledge.  He missed, and the side-stepping conjurer allowed the yough to cut his own throat on his dagger.  He death rattled and fell.

Silence consumed the smithy, and the unmistakable stench of blood, piss and burned flesh filled the air.  The whole event had gone down quicker than he thought.  Cedric leaned back against the entrance way, his bloody right hand trembling.  He dropped his dagger.  Taking a few deep breaths, spoilt by the smells of death, he steadied himself.

First, he wrapped the sword and dagger in a good cloth, placing it aside.  He took his time; the smithy was a respectable distance from the village proper, and he was certain no folk had heard anything.  He hauled, with difficulty, the body of his teacher to their borses outside.  They were docile beasts, and had not stirred at the scents around them; their noses likely dulled by a day spent near such a forge.  It took Cedric nearly an hour to haul his master's body onto the back of his mere, but he managed, and tied his hands around the horses neck.  She balked, but Cedric always had a way with that one.  Jarvis was beginning to stiffen.

The hard part done, he returned to the shop, and picked up his prize.  He secured the bundle to his own steed, a younger mere of his liking.  He did the same with his staff of office, a long oak stave denoting his rank in the temple, as if the blue trim on his robes was not enough.  Returning to the smithy once more, he began to pray, asking Geanul, his god, to lend him holy fire.  A bladze, not unlike the ones used to ignite holy fire hours ago within the forge, took to the charcoal near the hearth of the fire itself.  A second one ignited the ody of the still smoldering smith.  A third began on top of the wooden work table, and soon enough the whole shop was ablaze.  Cedric, taking the rights of his horse, rode off with the other mere in tow.






 [ooc]Murder :o[/ooc]

M.

Not saying you can't title your story this, but it's been used: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fires_of_Heaven

Ironically, I dislike WoT :p

Thanks for the heads up.  How bad was the above?

M.

Section 2:  The Manor

The fury Dæn unleashed at news of an attack on his people was unlike any his men had ever seen.  He threw chairs, overturned tables, cursed and beat the house slave with the audacity to cross him.  Such an assault on his vassals and destruction of his property was a deeper insult than a slap in the face.

It took the charms of his youngest daughter, a yet unmarried girl of 15, to sooth him.  She always had a particular way with her father.  He sat in his hall, still brooding.  The monetary loss on the iron and the priests alone was enormous, but the loss of such a talented smith was far worse to Dæn.

He st at his high table, head in hands, working the situation over in his mind.  He started with the facts.  At the twenty second hour, a man of his village spotted the fire.  He raised alarm.  Soon after, a bucket brigade extinguished the flames.  The village Reeve, an elderly man of sixty winters, lead the salvaging at dawn, but all that was found notable were two skeletons, burned in the fire.  His project was gone, as the Reeve, a friend of Dæn himself, reported.  This had triggered his rage.

The sun was climbing, and the house, roused early by their lord's rage, was in full stirl.  They gave their master wide birth, even his husceorls.  The nobleman began to pull on his thick white beard, as he often did in deep thought.

He began to go over what the reeve had reported.  The lord had not gone to the site himself, to enraged and grieved.  His daughter brought in ale and bread, but he did not notice.

He thought back to the reeve's messenger boy's words.  Two skeletons, one near the forge.  The other was clearly a boy.  That accounted for the smith and his apprentice.  No sign remained of the priests, which means they were not victims of the fire.  The sword and dagger were gone, which, combined with the two skeletons found, pointed to an attack instead of an accident.  No smith burns his own forge down.

He discounted the idea of the metal worker running off with the prize himself.  Likely his word on the origins was no good elsewhere, and it would sell for much less than he earned already for his work.  He certainly wasn't capable of killing a man to take his place in the fire, let alone his own apprentice.  Besides, the freeman didn't own a horse, so he would not get far.

His thoughts on horse reminded him of what the reeve's messenger boy had stated about tracks.  Unshod hoof prints lead to the smithy, clear in the ground from the rain before their arrival.  Tracks abounded near the hitch, as their horses spent an entire day there.  Tracks also lead away from the ruined building, in the opposite direction from which they came '" not back towards their temple directly.

The man leaned back in his chair, now noticing the drink and loaf by his side.  He broke off a bit and chewed it slowly.  The bread had little bits of dried grapes.  He loved dried grapes.  This brought him some respite from his story thoughts, but his anger had taken its toll.  Fifty-eight winters was a bit much for him to be so energetic.  

He was certain no man of his own was responsible.  As a youth, his son Ienc was popular with his vassals; far be it from them to want to take from him, especially if he had god-magic.  He had the reeve head count all the same.

What seemed most likely to D His anger had taken its toll.  Fifty-eight winters was a bit much for him to be so energetic.  N at this instant of this spring mid-morning, was an Ábroden raid.  He was near enough to the border that it was a possibility.  No such raids in this region had been known for the past six years, however.  Then again, he thought, these would have left tracks, footprints or far more numerous hoof prints.

'And why,' he wondered aloud, getting the attention of a house-slave cleaning up the mess he had made, 'would anyone attack one lone building with little likelihood of worth, in the dark, and not make better chaos in their wake?'  He ignored the slave '" it was the same man he battered earlier.

He discounted his raid idea, idly pulling pieces off the loaf and only occasionally putting them in his mouth.  He discounted mercenaries, too '" silence along the border didn't attract their filth this far away.

He pondered the hand of the priests in all this.  He handily dismissed the possibility that any Ieldran clergyman would do such things.  They hand little need of possessions, and none of swords, no matter how holy.  '˜Clearly,' he thought to his self, '˜it was someone on the inside. But who?'
Just then a boy entered, bearing news.  'Reeve reports all accounted for.'

Dæn's face darkened at the news.  Had someone gone missing, at least they could have tracked them down.  '˜So much for an inside job.' he thought.

The boy waited; clearly the reeve wanted orders.  Standing, the Lord of the manor moved towards a corner, where a small closed desk was stored.  He drew a small bit of parchment, ink, pen and sealing wax from within.  Sitting at his dining table again, he bid the boy to wait.

He lit a candle and began writing, the sunlight from the windows illuminating his task.

'I assume you are one of the reeve's boys?' he spoke to the boy while he wrote.  He was not so good with names and faces.  This boy couldn't have been much older than twelve winters.

'Aye, sir,' the boy informed his overlord.  'his youngest, Stefan, thirteen winters.'  The nobleman took mental note, but he did not acknowledge his inferior.  He finished his message, and sprinkled sand on the still wet ink.  He lifted the iron pan of wax above the flame and once again questioned the boy.  

'Can you ride?' he asked as the wax began to melt.

The boy seemed a little surprised at the question, but he answered in the affirmative.  

Dæn folded the thick skin page and selated it, using his personal stamp.  He carried this on his person always.

He handed his message over to the boy, and charged him to take it to the town '" a full day and a half ride '" immediately.

'There,' the older man said, 'you are to take it to the temple of fire and water.'

The boy, wide-eyed at the responsibility laid at his feet, accepted the note.  It was good parchment, and probably cost more than all the con he had ever held in his short life.  

'Talk to my slave Greta, in the kitchen, she will provision you.  Then speak to Heafon, in the stables.  There is a young horse there that will suit your task.'

He sank back into the chair, his shoulders aching.  He made a mental note to get them massaged later.  The boy turned to go.

'Also, take this.'  He pulled out a small purse from his belt.  He was fond of the noise coins made in bulk, thin as they are.  Dæn counted out nine silver pennies '" over four times what he paid the villains that sifted through the ruins of his smithy.

Stefan, even more bemused, took the coin readily.  It was three days wage of any good man.

'Buy what you like, for your troubles.  Serve my inquiry well and maybe I'll make you a page.  It would suit your family's station well.'

Stefan's  heart raced.  '˜A page!' he thought.  '˜A mighty privilege, to served the lord's house!'.  He turned, nodding to the lord on his way and made for the doo, seeking to find this kitchen.

 [ooc]A troubled lord indeed.  But why offer so much for a simple messenger's job?  Why not send your own men?  Who ate the last piece of pie?  What's that smell?[/ooc]

M.

I'm pretty bad at this, aren't I?

M.

This is really interesting. I want to know what happened to Jarvis, and why Cedric apparently put him on his horse (or was it actually the smith?!). Also, despite the fact that I don't know too much about the background of this story, I can still understand what's going on. Please, continue writing - don't be dissuaded by the lack of comments, because I want to know what's going to happen!

He put Jarvis on the horse to make it look more like something that didn't involve him.  Three skeletons in a fire involving a building only two people work in is a tad suspicious.  I'll see about getting the next chapter down.

M.