Notes on the Journals
Renderlark's attitude to journal-keeping was fairly haphazard; most of what has been recovered consists of scattered notes, and randomly entered dates next to entries often as short as a single word. In light of this, we have done our utmost to untangle his own writings, and have filled in spaces with comments and quotations taken from various conversation transcripts.
September 4th, 873AR
Dinner : Turnip.
Dessert : Washed Turnip.
Suspect the quartermaster is holding something back.
September 7th, 873AR (Date of the Battle of Malkan's Field)
Should be a good one today. Nice terrain, weather looks fine. Can't wait to sack their supplies.
September 8th, 873AR
Getting off that battlefield was the only option. Only cowards stay and die. In the event, I guess a lot of the Crimson Swords were cowards. I guess Karistan stitched us up; decided we were more trouble than we were worth after seeing what we could do to a place like Amorantia.
The Rooks weren't cowards, they were lunatics. How fate conspired to save the three of them I shall never know. I suspect some sort of prank from the Gods. I watched them picking over the battlefield like ravens, harvesting flesh and organs from the dead along with their coin and trappings.
According to Brogi, perhaps the most... unhinged of the siblings, that Bastard Morini ran off with what's left of the takings. Not on my watch. We prepared a cart and left in hot pursuit. Should be plenty of stops along the way to get fresh horses, so not going to spare these an inch.
September 9th, 873AR
Sneaky, amoral little gits have a million uses, and their morbid japes are tolerable, so far. I have taken to stopping my ears at night, though that comes with its own dangers, as they seem eager to festoon my person with gathered carrion. They seem to consider it some kind of honour to be bestowed with these grisly trophies... they're not even intimidating; I looked like some kind of insane druid, with my helm adorned with drooping severed hands, and a bisected rabbit attached to my boots.
Should reach Izmir tomorrow; perhaps the city will offer peace and quiet where the countryside has not.
September 10th, 873AR
Arrived in Izmir.
Left Izmir.
That's all I want to say.
As a result of a childish prank involving the pelt (pelt is a kind way of putting it, 'barely hollowed-out corpse' might be more accurate) of a wolf which attacked our camp last night, I was forced to acknowledge both the resourcefulness and the sheer blind daring of my halfling companions. However, their almost whimsical lack of regard for their own safety is starting to constitute a threat to my own. Any attempt to enter the city unnoticed having shed the markings of our company was scuppered by Brogi's disastrously conspicuous entrance... He deigned to ride up to the gates naked save for a crude hat 'made' from the head of the wolf. I don't know if he was drunk, but he'd better have been. The others made a fumbling attempt to make up for his behaviour, but the guards were about to put the lot of them in the cooler.
I'd long since jumped from the cart, and was able to show up a few minutes later and explain that they were seriously mentally disturbed patients who were in my charge for transporting. This is not as far from the truth as I would have liked. Anyway, after they embarrassingly decided to further risk life and limb by attacking the guards (a welcome opportunity for some stress relief sorely missed), they were tied up and taken to a church hospital.
Plan for fresh horses didn't work out great, though I was impressed with my blagging at least; got a guy to accept a tarred and feathered old nag as a baby Pegasus. This town's pretty tight though, getting a replacement out of here not as easy as I'd hoped.
The Rooks had been trying to break out of the hospital as well, so I thought it best to skip town after that; I got them out of there with some blather about inadequate security. Still got them tied up and unconscious in the back; hope I can pick up another horse before they wake/escape. Should be easy enough on this road.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Thursday, 22 July 2010
The Black Sheep
Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to talk about my family. I have never met one of my sisters outside the Castel Mercure.
Him? Oh. That's different.
He's barely family as it is. There are no male Mercuries. He is an aberration. Yes, I know others of my sisters have had kids, but none of them got ideas above their station. Besides, he was born outside the Castel. Real blood Mercuries have to be born and raised there.
No, my mother never bore a male child. Never will. Goodness knows how many she has had over the ages... I met twelve of them while I was at the Castel. That's nothing.
He did some stuff, yeah. What do you want to know? He was a bastard. No style. The Mercury watchword is style. He liked to scare people, just for the hell of it. And he'd kick people's heads in for no reason. Nothing to gain from it; he'd just kick them about for his own amusement. Maybe he did it to scare them, to try to make his name. There certainly seem to be a lot of people who know his name, don't there. I'm sure he was too clever to just give it away for no reason. Seems he made a point of asserting it was his real name, too. It was as well, he took his father's name, whoever the hell he was. Mr. Refract as well, I guess. Lost to history, that one.
*Sigh*
And nobody remembers his mother, do they? Apparently being a six-armed demi-god isn't enough for you people. Good day.
Conversation with Caradne Mercury, transcribed by the author; re-transcribed by someone with less shaky hands.
(We are not sure if Caradne is actually a demigod or not, and according to the recollections of Renderlark himself, she had no more than the usual number of arms. On the other hand, she has far outlived him (unless, heaven forbid, he is still out there somewhere) and spoke to us through a spider-infested cup of cold tea young Toby left on the workbench, so who can tell, really).
Him? Oh. That's different.
He's barely family as it is. There are no male Mercuries. He is an aberration. Yes, I know others of my sisters have had kids, but none of them got ideas above their station. Besides, he was born outside the Castel. Real blood Mercuries have to be born and raised there.
No, my mother never bore a male child. Never will. Goodness knows how many she has had over the ages... I met twelve of them while I was at the Castel. That's nothing.
He did some stuff, yeah. What do you want to know? He was a bastard. No style. The Mercury watchword is style. He liked to scare people, just for the hell of it. And he'd kick people's heads in for no reason. Nothing to gain from it; he'd just kick them about for his own amusement. Maybe he did it to scare them, to try to make his name. There certainly seem to be a lot of people who know his name, don't there. I'm sure he was too clever to just give it away for no reason. Seems he made a point of asserting it was his real name, too. It was as well, he took his father's name, whoever the hell he was. Mr. Refract as well, I guess. Lost to history, that one.
*Sigh*
And nobody remembers his mother, do they? Apparently being a six-armed demi-god isn't enough for you people. Good day.
Conversation with Caradne Mercury, transcribed by the author; re-transcribed by someone with less shaky hands.
(We are not sure if Caradne is actually a demigod or not, and according to the recollections of Renderlark himself, she had no more than the usual number of arms. On the other hand, she has far outlived him (unless, heaven forbid, he is still out there somewhere) and spoke to us through a spider-infested cup of cold tea young Toby left on the workbench, so who can tell, really).
Sunday, 11 July 2010
A Social Call
I was just the clerk; I counted things in, and counted ‘em out again. True, it meant being privy to a few confidential details, but I'd always figured it a fairly risk free position. No fighting, no heavy lifting… thought I had it pretty good. Then that bloke showed up. Refract, was it? I don't think he told me his name, but that's him alright.
He broke into my house when I was sleeping. At the time, I assumed he'd picked the lock, snuck past the dogs and used some special poison or something to keep the wife out cold. Turned out afterwards, he'd just bloody kicked the door down! The dogs hadn't put up much of a fight, poor things, and he'd apparently just clocked Trudy over the head. No style whatsoever, I must be a bloody heavy sleeper.
Anyway, first I knew was waking up with the smell of leather as his glove clasped over my mouth.
“Just a social call, Mr. Stoatly. I wont take up too much of your time.” He said. Then, he pulled me out of bed and stood me up against the wall, all in one movement. I know I’m not a big guy, but he must have been pretty darn strong. His armor clinked in the dark. It sounded heavy.
“Your city has a reputation for hospitality, Mr. Stoatly. I hope you aren't going to let it down. I am sorry to disturb you at such an hour, but I hope you aren't going to let that faze you. It'd be so embarrassing if you did anything silly”.
As the sleep worked its way from my eyes, I saw his face. Kind of a long face, medium length facial hair; didn't look like he'd had a bath or a shave for a while, and that's me talking. It's his eyes that really stick in the mind though; really scary. As he looked into my eyes, it was as if he… knew me. Knew everything about me, everything I'd done. Only way I can describe it is, it was as if it was my own father standing there.
I think I must've been gawking a bit, cos I felt his fist in my side like a hammer. His face hadn't moved, it was totally unexpected, so it knocked the wind out of me.
“Nothing to say, Mr. Stoatly? As a visitor to this city, I was hoping you could provide me with some directions, perhaps a little information. For example, I'm very interested to find out more about an organisation known as… the Low Road gang.”
“I don't know nothing.” I wheezed, still catching my breath.
“Don't be so hard on yourself, Mr. Stoatly. From what I hear, you're quite the man with numbers… and words.”
It was his eyes; he was a hard man to lie to. It was like… he'd just know. For another few moments, I didn't speak, considering how to respond. I think he lost his patience there; he punched me again, and a few of my ribs went; I felt them crack against each other. Then he threw me about a bit, kicked me in the stomach, and rammed my head into the door. I lay there for a bit, throwing up. Too dark to tell, but I think a lot of it was blood.
He picked me up, one handed, and turned me to face him. He had that disgusted look on his face, and frankly I would have too; I was like a worm on a hook.
Suddenly, he smiled at me. It wasn't some evil grin; it was a sincere, warm and friendly smile; which was somehow worse.
“I believe at least one of us will live to regret this evening, Mr. Stoatly. I hope I don't have to kill you and prove myself wrong.”
“What do you want?” I asked, still coughing up blood.
“Oh, I'm terribly sorry Mr. Stoatly. Was it merely a matter of specificity? The passwords, please. All of them. And the location of the HQ and main warehouse, if it isn't too much trouble.”
Well, I told him, didn't I? I knew from the way he looked at me he'd let me go if I told him what he wanted to know. And judging by the kicking he'd given me, I'd rather take my chances with the gang than have Mr. Refract coming after me if he found out I'd lied. True to his word, he left my heart beating. Gave me another kicking before he left, mind, and cut out my tongue, but I was almost grateful for that. I didn't need to worry about the gang catching up to me either; nobody heard anything from them after that night really. And a cut-out tongue's no bother to fix if you know the right people.
Taken from an interview with one Gerhardt Stoatly, a man who went on to great things after the Low Road gang was dissolved. He is currently the mayor of a large town, and talks candidly about his shady past. Apparently people like a politician who isn't afraid to let the skeletons out of the closet.
He broke into my house when I was sleeping. At the time, I assumed he'd picked the lock, snuck past the dogs and used some special poison or something to keep the wife out cold. Turned out afterwards, he'd just bloody kicked the door down! The dogs hadn't put up much of a fight, poor things, and he'd apparently just clocked Trudy over the head. No style whatsoever, I must be a bloody heavy sleeper.
Anyway, first I knew was waking up with the smell of leather as his glove clasped over my mouth.
“Just a social call, Mr. Stoatly. I wont take up too much of your time.” He said. Then, he pulled me out of bed and stood me up against the wall, all in one movement. I know I’m not a big guy, but he must have been pretty darn strong. His armor clinked in the dark. It sounded heavy.
“Your city has a reputation for hospitality, Mr. Stoatly. I hope you aren't going to let it down. I am sorry to disturb you at such an hour, but I hope you aren't going to let that faze you. It'd be so embarrassing if you did anything silly”.
As the sleep worked its way from my eyes, I saw his face. Kind of a long face, medium length facial hair; didn't look like he'd had a bath or a shave for a while, and that's me talking. It's his eyes that really stick in the mind though; really scary. As he looked into my eyes, it was as if he… knew me. Knew everything about me, everything I'd done. Only way I can describe it is, it was as if it was my own father standing there.
I think I must've been gawking a bit, cos I felt his fist in my side like a hammer. His face hadn't moved, it was totally unexpected, so it knocked the wind out of me.
“Nothing to say, Mr. Stoatly? As a visitor to this city, I was hoping you could provide me with some directions, perhaps a little information. For example, I'm very interested to find out more about an organisation known as… the Low Road gang.”
“I don't know nothing.” I wheezed, still catching my breath.
“Don't be so hard on yourself, Mr. Stoatly. From what I hear, you're quite the man with numbers… and words.”
It was his eyes; he was a hard man to lie to. It was like… he'd just know. For another few moments, I didn't speak, considering how to respond. I think he lost his patience there; he punched me again, and a few of my ribs went; I felt them crack against each other. Then he threw me about a bit, kicked me in the stomach, and rammed my head into the door. I lay there for a bit, throwing up. Too dark to tell, but I think a lot of it was blood.
He picked me up, one handed, and turned me to face him. He had that disgusted look on his face, and frankly I would have too; I was like a worm on a hook.
Suddenly, he smiled at me. It wasn't some evil grin; it was a sincere, warm and friendly smile; which was somehow worse.
“I believe at least one of us will live to regret this evening, Mr. Stoatly. I hope I don't have to kill you and prove myself wrong.”
“What do you want?” I asked, still coughing up blood.
“Oh, I'm terribly sorry Mr. Stoatly. Was it merely a matter of specificity? The passwords, please. All of them. And the location of the HQ and main warehouse, if it isn't too much trouble.”
Well, I told him, didn't I? I knew from the way he looked at me he'd let me go if I told him what he wanted to know. And judging by the kicking he'd given me, I'd rather take my chances with the gang than have Mr. Refract coming after me if he found out I'd lied. True to his word, he left my heart beating. Gave me another kicking before he left, mind, and cut out my tongue, but I was almost grateful for that. I didn't need to worry about the gang catching up to me either; nobody heard anything from them after that night really. And a cut-out tongue's no bother to fix if you know the right people.
Taken from an interview with one Gerhardt Stoatly, a man who went on to great things after the Low Road gang was dissolved. He is currently the mayor of a large town, and talks candidly about his shady past. Apparently people like a politician who isn't afraid to let the skeletons out of the closet.
Friday, 2 July 2010
The Recollections of a Barmaid
"Well, hello there. The name's Refract. That's Mr. Refract to you, unless you plan on getting lucky tonight, in which case it's 'My Lord'. Yeah, I've been following the army for ages... good money while it lasted, but now the cowardly snakes have turned on us. Killed the few friends I'd ever admit to having, and a lot of good fighters besides. Greedy bastards probably didn't want to pay the dues. Well, they're going to pay for that - every last one of 'em if I have anything to say about it.
What? Those poor dumb kids killing each other on the battlefield? Well, that's up to them, ain't it. They asked me to join up a couple of times when I was younger, but I'm buggered if I'm going to put my arse on the line to shovel blood money into someone else's pockets. No sympathy at all for those goons. Now, being a Merc, that's different. More honest, right? It's killing, yeah, but lots of people kill for a living, and least I do it quick and honourable. Tax collectors... they'll live you a long, slow death and relish it. Good honest job in fact, this one, you can choose who you work for if you're morally inclined, and you get a decent cut of the profits either way. Loyalty's all money in the end anyway, unless you're fighting for what you love, and in that case, government's got sod all to do with it. When you have friends, real friends, not just acquaintances of convenience, you watch their backs because you love the bastards. But you never tell them you've got their back, or they're going to get complacent. That's love, right?
My name? Nobody cares about my name. There's no hiding in this world, and I wouldn't even try. These guys, they don't know what they're doing. War is just fools against fools, and you know what they say about fools and their money. And, well, it's not just foolishness, it's greed, it's oppression... they're the real bastards in all this. They don't deserve respite. It's our turn to line our pockets now. And the name is Refract. Don't let anybody tell you any different. It's a patronymic system 'round here right? You know, you take your Dad's name? Well, that's it then.
The way I see it, half-elves like myself are way more than the sum of our parts. We ain't just watered down elves, or humans who take tea without milk. We've got the edge over 'em all. Humans? They're easy; it's all about greed with those guys. Flash 'em some gold and they're yours. Elves, well, they're even easier 'cos they're arrogant, see? They think they've got your number as soon as look at you, but if you're smart you'll fool them every time. With Dwarves... you'd think it was gold again, wouldn't you? But they aren't that stupid. In order to get those guys on side you've got to talk about honour, about redressing balances and settling old scores. They eat that stuff up like anything. It's almost too easy now. If you really want to be in the big leagues, you've got to test your charms on a dragon.
Me? Well, no. Not yet. But I'm still alive, right? That's got to count for something. I mean, talking one round's one thing, sure; but trying to chat one up, failing, then getting out of there without so much as a burnt arse, well, that's almost more impressive isn't it?
What, you want to know about halflings now? Oh, I'll TELL you about halflings..."
Transcript generously donated by Trixie Dunward, extracted from her meticulously kept journals, recently published under the title "The Secret Life of a Buxom Wench". We wish her the best of luck with the book, but fear that many may be unhappily misled by the title. Extract is undated, but we are assured as to its accuracy.
What? Those poor dumb kids killing each other on the battlefield? Well, that's up to them, ain't it. They asked me to join up a couple of times when I was younger, but I'm buggered if I'm going to put my arse on the line to shovel blood money into someone else's pockets. No sympathy at all for those goons. Now, being a Merc, that's different. More honest, right? It's killing, yeah, but lots of people kill for a living, and least I do it quick and honourable. Tax collectors... they'll live you a long, slow death and relish it. Good honest job in fact, this one, you can choose who you work for if you're morally inclined, and you get a decent cut of the profits either way. Loyalty's all money in the end anyway, unless you're fighting for what you love, and in that case, government's got sod all to do with it. When you have friends, real friends, not just acquaintances of convenience, you watch their backs because you love the bastards. But you never tell them you've got their back, or they're going to get complacent. That's love, right?
My name? Nobody cares about my name. There's no hiding in this world, and I wouldn't even try. These guys, they don't know what they're doing. War is just fools against fools, and you know what they say about fools and their money. And, well, it's not just foolishness, it's greed, it's oppression... they're the real bastards in all this. They don't deserve respite. It's our turn to line our pockets now. And the name is Refract. Don't let anybody tell you any different. It's a patronymic system 'round here right? You know, you take your Dad's name? Well, that's it then.
The way I see it, half-elves like myself are way more than the sum of our parts. We ain't just watered down elves, or humans who take tea without milk. We've got the edge over 'em all. Humans? They're easy; it's all about greed with those guys. Flash 'em some gold and they're yours. Elves, well, they're even easier 'cos they're arrogant, see? They think they've got your number as soon as look at you, but if you're smart you'll fool them every time. With Dwarves... you'd think it was gold again, wouldn't you? But they aren't that stupid. In order to get those guys on side you've got to talk about honour, about redressing balances and settling old scores. They eat that stuff up like anything. It's almost too easy now. If you really want to be in the big leagues, you've got to test your charms on a dragon.
Me? Well, no. Not yet. But I'm still alive, right? That's got to count for something. I mean, talking one round's one thing, sure; but trying to chat one up, failing, then getting out of there without so much as a burnt arse, well, that's almost more impressive isn't it?
What, you want to know about halflings now? Oh, I'll TELL you about halflings..."
Transcript generously donated by Trixie Dunward, extracted from her meticulously kept journals, recently published under the title "The Secret Life of a Buxom Wench". We wish her the best of luck with the book, but fear that many may be unhappily misled by the title. Extract is undated, but we are assured as to its accuracy.
Transcribing the Collection
These documents, in process of translation, reveal first hand information of the life and times of one Renderlark Refract, the famed Mercenary Gentleman present at the infamous sacking of Amorantia. These include conversation transcripts and journal entries, as well as writings by friends and companions, as well as those few enemies who survived him.
(This is a player character blog for a D&D/WHFR hybrid campaign run by the illustrious Differently Sane http://www.blogger.com/profile/05324687121236565035)
(This is a player character blog for a D&D/WHFR hybrid campaign run by the illustrious Differently Sane http://www.blogger.com/profile/05324687121236565035)
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