Fantasy Grave Misfortunes

[sspky]

Grave Misfortunes
Ronan || sspky ​

 

[sspky]

Gelwick was a rundown settlement on the crest of a narrow hill. A muddy, shallow river meandered along the hills northern basin, which was neighbored by small farms and shanty fishing docks. In all other directions, there sprawled a wide, dark forest of deep evergreens and ancient, twisted oaks. All told, the community was about 400 strong, with maybe 100 of those souls living in the squat, thatched-roof houses of Gelwick proper.

There was a church in Gelwick, built at the highest point of the hill. It was a tall, wood and stone thing with a gabled roof painted white and gold. Above its door hung the holy emblem of the Church of the Merciful Chalice.

On the far side of the narrow dirt road that led from the church, was a small, two-story establishment that offered room and board to travelers. The inn had no official title, but there was crudely painted on the wall to the left of the shape of a red stag with a white head.

Gerrard had come to the Red Stag late the night before. The inn's proprietor - a frail, long-limbed old man name Kurt O’Shaeney, had already barred the door for the night and had been about to hood the lanterns in the window when the armoured man appeared. After flashing a small purse of gold, Gerrard was let inside by the disgruntled, but greedy innkeep.

“Eh, there’ll be no dinner for you,” Kurt grumbled in the thick, low accent of the hill-folk - with hard vowels and often silent consonance, “Just hard bread and some dried meat. You can have a proper breakfast in the morning. Now take the bed in the loft and be off with you.”

The broad-shouldered mercenary slept soundly enough -- after all, it was his first night spent in a proper bed in nearly a week -- and rose with first light. After washing his hands and stubbled, weathered face, Gerrard took a seat by the low-burning hearth and called the innkeep for his breakfast. He lay his plate and leather armour out carefully on the table -- removed the night before -- and sat only in a dark leather tunic, cotton trousers, and a pair of hearty, calf-high boots. As he waited for the groggy, surly innkeeps wife, Milta, to prepare his breakfast, the blonde-haired man took to carefully cleaning and inspecting every inch of his gear.

 

[Ronan]

Father Chains was not a man who stayed at an inn or a house, he was a man who slept outside on a bedroll he traveled with, carefully tucked under his robes, and his robes were poorly cut; it resembled a dirty sack with unpatched holes and threads hanging from his sleeves.

Father Chains was a man of few. A man of ill-worn robes, no shoes, and broken chains on his wrists that rattled as he limped through Gelwick. If there were any open shutters in this dreary city, its citizens closed them upon seeing the priest. They beckoned their children inside, herded their husbands and wives closer, whispered about how the strange man would infect them with his poor. One farmer looked at him as he shuffled through the streets and saw that his eye sockets were empty.

He was unwelcomed in Gelwick. He was monstrous. The blind priest, they called him. Father Chains did not stay in Gelwick for long. At night, he found a small hillside some yards outside of the town with a dry patch of earth for him to rest on. He squatted down, groaning with his age as he did so, unrolled his bed, then lied on his back with his hands folded over his stomach and slept.

When dawn approached, Father Chains rose with purpose, to get food and water. Father Chains was skinny and wan man, his face was ashen grey with lines and his hands were skeletal, but sustenance was needed. He rolled up his bed and tucked it under robes and began his slow limp into the town again.

It was too early for the citizens to notice him. The town still slept, but near the entrance of its gateway was an inn and on the inn door was a painting of a faded stag. He opened the door and hobbled inside. As he did, the innkeeper was quick to warn him, 'We're not a charity.’

Kurt was quick to notice his appearance and even quicker to square his shoulders. Father Chains waved his hands and dropped three coppers on the innkeeper's desk. Three barons, more than enough for one meal, and without waiting for a response, he limped to the closest fireplace, his chains dragging against the floorboard. He found the most comfortable looking chair and eased himself into it, quietly gazing at the hearth as he waited for his breakfast.

 

[sspky]

Having quickly finished his breakfast, Gerrard had just begun tending to his plated pauldrons when the grisly apparition of a man entered the inn. Although Gerrard was not a holy man himself, he was a goodly worshipper of the Chalice, and recognized a strange pilgrim for what he was.


Rising from his eat by the fire, Gerrard watched the stranger cross the room and find a place near the low-burning hearth. He realized, quite suddenly, that there was something very familiar about the priest.


Raising a hand to the innkeeper, Gerrard said, “Return the man his coins. I’ll cover his breakfast -- and any lodgings, should he require them.”

 

[Ronan]

Father Chains snickered at Gerrard's kindness. The innkeeper's dog, an old, wiry mutt with a severely unbrushed coat whimpered when they heard this. The blind priest leaned forward in his chair and brought his face closer to the hearth and his snicker evolved into laughter. Father Chains laughed, a deep belly laugh that shook the walls and made the house tingle. The dog was standing. Father Chains was a clever man. 'Do you forget, my little nas?'

He craned his neck and his empty eye sockets connected with Gerrard's. It was as if he could see. 'I am a thief.'

The dog barked and Father Chains grinned and his teeth were yellow and crooked.

Father Chains stole the three barons easily. In his city, he is the poor blind priest, a priest of a decrepit temple with few adherents, and day in and day out he would beg on the steps of Sur Baraldi with four little nas with him, young boys in the same robes. He would rattle his goblet of two barons and a solon and implore: alms for Sur Baraldi. The four boys would do the same and go around the streets with their goblets looking for spare coin. But they were thieves. Highly trained thieves that Father Chains had brought up himself.

In the daylight as they begged for coins the boys would finger the pockets of a gullible passerby, and they never suspected anything missing. The four nas did this well and Father Chains was pleased, for every night under the roof of Sur Baraldi when they could take off their robes, they feasted. There was always a feast under Chains' watch. They would not starve, and they would dine together as thieves of Sur Baraldi.

'But no matter,' he said, his chilling grin waning as he eased back into his chair. 'A thief comes in peace. Three barons is nothing.'

 

[sspky]

Repulsed by the vagrants uncomfortable display, Gerrard cast one look over to the weary innkeep. Aftering judging the man more than capable of taking care of himself, Gerrard began to assemble his armour with practiced efficiency. He had a great many more miles to travel, and neither the time nor patients for mad-men -- holy or otherwise.


Gerrard had never been one to suffer fools. His upbringing had been a rough, but disciplined one. He learned his place, and the place of others, at a young age, and had no interest in challenging social norms. He’d do little more than alert the local clergy of the priests presence as he passed by the temple on his way out of town.


Within ten minutes, Gerrard had donned his armour. Slinging his pack over his back, the man offered the innkeep a curt nod, and began for the door.