Fall, 1335
The celebrations were formal, with wine and banquests. Logan mostly drank. Beside him, Meratezatgh mostly ate. After a day of feasting, dancing, songs, amusements, and tourneys, the Forester ended up tired, depressed, and slightly tipsy as he bid the dragon goodnight and slowly walked back to his room.
Despite his inebriation however, Logan stopped as right before he reached his door, his hand half-raised to grip the knob.
Something was wrong.
The Forester always left a thin, nearly invisible piece of string tied on the door hinge before padlocking the door with his own locks. His locks were still there, but Logan was now staring at the broken string dangling from the side of the door.
He sensed a hostile figure in his room, where his awlpike also had been placed. Quietly, Logan drew his arming sword and mentally noted his knife in the sheath in his belt.
There had been stories of assassins employed by the Other Men to eliminate their rivals, especially the ones regarding the deaths of the Old Bad Man and of Lord Randall of Brekshire during the Great War. The Hunter-Killers; he had indeed encountered Other Men called that during that conflict, and those had been vicious, bloody encounters, won more by luck and technology than skill. And one of those encounters ended with Glib dead. As the Dragonrider of the Normad army, Logan guessed that he was now a high-profile target again.
For a minute Logan thought to turn around, call up the Guard, and be done. Then he thought better of it.
Well, the Forester thought to himself, he had helped beat those assassins before, he could do so again.
The confined quarters would mean that any exchange would be short and violent. Logan quietly picked the locks, casually turned the handle, then quickly kicked the door open and charged through in a crouch.
An Other Man was indeed sitting on the edge of Logan’s bed, casually cleaning his nails with a knife. He was wearing the blue trousers and tan tunic of a Erolander servant, though the Other Man also had added the red trim of an envoy. The Other Man looked up at Logan with amusement.
“Welcome, Logan Durham, Forester of Stanton. Dragonrider of the Plague-giver’s army.” The Trasgu calmly stated in fluent Auxian. “I am Perigord of Tassure. Please, put down your weapon, I mean you no harm.”
“What are you doing here?” Logan growled.
“I walked in-nice little string trap by the way. I want to have a simple talk between men, hopefully one that is mutually beneficial for the both of us, Forester.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Please.” Perigord sniffed. “There’s no benefit in me killing you. Your death would enrage our mutual acquaintance, the Plague-Giver, and he would use your corpse to rally further support for his cause within Auxia. Your dragon companion probably would probably not take your death well either and would likely join the Plague-Giver to avenge your blood with those of my people. Gremenal’s Bane would be far more difficult to kill than yourself, and costly too. No, I am afraid we will try to sort this out like gentlemen.”
“You won’t make me turn against my friends.” Logan asserted. “Whatever your plan is, you won’t be retaking Eroland.”
“Oh, of course not. Eroland has fallen.” The Other Man put down his knife and instead stood up and clapped.
“Bravo, Logan Durham, Forester of Stanton. You and your dragon have fought well all these years-gone and covered yourselves in glory no? Fighting against the best of the Tassurian Empire. Freeing the dragon queen. Driving us invaders from the Gates of Caldern. Routing the last Tassurians from Auxia. Invading the North. Now what are you doing here in Eroland? The war is over. Bringing more glory to yourselves by fighting the ruined and the weak? Kicking down the defeated?”
“Shut up!” Logan snapped as he gripped his sword tighter.
“When does vengeance simply become aggression?”
“I’m warning you-”
“Why did you come here?” The spy continued, ignoring the exclamation. “What oath did you make that ties you so strongly to your friend still dragging you and your dragon into this war? Don’t you have a wife?”
Logan was silent.
“What kind of friend forces you to fight an eternal war at the ends of the earth?” Perigord gave his warmest smile; a genuine one, but one that nevertheless gave a hint of cold calculation. “You have won. Go back to Stanton. Go back to your home-the one you have sacrificed so much for. You and your dragon deserve some peace for a change. Give us the courtesy to defend our own homes.”
With his sword still pointed at the Other Man, Logan furiously pointed to the door. “Leave!”
Perigord shrugged and got up.
“I will be going. You should as well. Leave Eroland. My people have lost the island, but perhaps I can save the rest of the Trasgu homeland. Leave this endless war your friend is waging. You will not be harmed. You wish this eternal conflict to be over? You are the one who decides.”
“Go!”
The Other Man slipped out the door faster than Logan could react, the envoy’s last words reaching the Forester’s ears as the Tassurian disappeared.
“You know that all I say is true.”
Logan warily sat down on his bed just vacated by the Other Man spy, his sword resting on his lap. The Forester noticed Perigord’s knife was resting beside him. The Other Man must have left it as a calling card.
Logan frowned.
Perigord was very good at what he did.
Massive Attack - Teardrop
Another great work from intricatevision!
The celebrations were formal, with wine and banquests. Logan mostly drank. Beside him, Meratezatgh mostly ate. After a day of feasting, dancing, songs, amusements, and tourneys, the Forester ended up tired, depressed, and slightly tipsy as he bid the dragon goodnight and slowly walked back to his room.
Despite his inebriation however, Logan stopped as right before he reached his door, his hand half-raised to grip the knob.
Something was wrong.
The Forester always left a thin, nearly invisible piece of string tied on the door hinge before padlocking the door with his own locks. His locks were still there, but Logan was now staring at the broken string dangling from the side of the door.
He sensed a hostile figure in his room, where his awlpike also had been placed. Quietly, Logan drew his arming sword and mentally noted his knife in the sheath in his belt.
There had been stories of assassins employed by the Other Men to eliminate their rivals, especially the ones regarding the deaths of the Old Bad Man and of Lord Randall of Brekshire during the Great War. The Hunter-Killers; he had indeed encountered Other Men called that during that conflict, and those had been vicious, bloody encounters, won more by luck and technology than skill. And one of those encounters ended with Glib dead. As the Dragonrider of the Normad army, Logan guessed that he was now a high-profile target again.
For a minute Logan thought to turn around, call up the Guard, and be done. Then he thought better of it.
Well, the Forester thought to himself, he had helped beat those assassins before, he could do so again.
The confined quarters would mean that any exchange would be short and violent. Logan quietly picked the locks, casually turned the handle, then quickly kicked the door open and charged through in a crouch.
An Other Man was indeed sitting on the edge of Logan’s bed, casually cleaning his nails with a knife. He was wearing the blue trousers and tan tunic of a Erolander servant, though the Other Man also had added the red trim of an envoy. The Other Man looked up at Logan with amusement.
“Welcome, Logan Durham, Forester of Stanton. Dragonrider of the Plague-giver’s army.” The Trasgu calmly stated in fluent Auxian. “I am Perigord of Tassure. Please, put down your weapon, I mean you no harm.”
“What are you doing here?” Logan growled.
“I walked in-nice little string trap by the way. I want to have a simple talk between men, hopefully one that is mutually beneficial for the both of us, Forester.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Please.” Perigord sniffed. “There’s no benefit in me killing you. Your death would enrage our mutual acquaintance, the Plague-Giver, and he would use your corpse to rally further support for his cause within Auxia. Your dragon companion probably would probably not take your death well either and would likely join the Plague-Giver to avenge your blood with those of my people. Gremenal’s Bane would be far more difficult to kill than yourself, and costly too. No, I am afraid we will try to sort this out like gentlemen.”
“You won’t make me turn against my friends.” Logan asserted. “Whatever your plan is, you won’t be retaking Eroland.”
“Oh, of course not. Eroland has fallen.” The Other Man put down his knife and instead stood up and clapped.
“Bravo, Logan Durham, Forester of Stanton. You and your dragon have fought well all these years-gone and covered yourselves in glory no? Fighting against the best of the Tassurian Empire. Freeing the dragon queen. Driving us invaders from the Gates of Caldern. Routing the last Tassurians from Auxia. Invading the North. Now what are you doing here in Eroland? The war is over. Bringing more glory to yourselves by fighting the ruined and the weak? Kicking down the defeated?”
“Shut up!” Logan snapped as he gripped his sword tighter.
“When does vengeance simply become aggression?”
“I’m warning you-”
“Why did you come here?” The spy continued, ignoring the exclamation. “What oath did you make that ties you so strongly to your friend still dragging you and your dragon into this war? Don’t you have a wife?”
Logan was silent.
“What kind of friend forces you to fight an eternal war at the ends of the earth?” Perigord gave his warmest smile; a genuine one, but one that nevertheless gave a hint of cold calculation. “You have won. Go back to Stanton. Go back to your home-the one you have sacrificed so much for. You and your dragon deserve some peace for a change. Give us the courtesy to defend our own homes.”
With his sword still pointed at the Other Man, Logan furiously pointed to the door. “Leave!”
Perigord shrugged and got up.
“I will be going. You should as well. Leave Eroland. My people have lost the island, but perhaps I can save the rest of the Trasgu homeland. Leave this endless war your friend is waging. You will not be harmed. You wish this eternal conflict to be over? You are the one who decides.”
“Go!”
The Other Man slipped out the door faster than Logan could react, the envoy’s last words reaching the Forester’s ears as the Tassurian disappeared.
“You know that all I say is true.”
Logan warily sat down on his bed just vacated by the Other Man spy, his sword resting on his lap. The Forester noticed Perigord’s knife was resting beside him. The Other Man must have left it as a calling card.
Logan frowned.
Perigord was very good at what he did.
Massive Attack - Teardrop
Another great work from intricatevision!
Category Artwork (Digital) / Fantasy
Species Orc
Gender Multiple characters
Size 1600 x 989px
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