A beginning, 30 coins, an ancient sword. Options

[DarkHunter]

What a man does for money, can bring him to the sky, for a woman, he's going past the moons.

Oran, the mercenary...

He deftly turned the blade aside, striking another heavy blow to its red-hot surface. The clanging of the smithy echoed through the small town, as the black smith once again took up his morning work. A legionarre passed by, glacing in at the smith creating his newest sword. Sweating profusely, he doused the blade in the water barrel, a cloud of steam rising as it cooled. As if timed, the customer, another legionarre from the nearby fort, came in.

"Here you are," the blacksmith said "a blade, tenfold steel, with silver tracings, as always."

The legionarre grunted and dropped a bag of coins onto the counter. Oran turned, his normally bronze-hued skin flushed reddish, and covered in ashes from the fire. Counting out the coins he smiled, another days work finished, he thought to himself, as the legionarre turned and stepped out his door. Almost as soon as the guard left, a scuffy dressed man stepped into his small smithy.

"H'ndrud guld fe ye ter repar meh gar" the man muttered, barely comprehensible, as he dropped a pile of broken leather jerkins, rusty short swords, and various pieces of armour, all ill-matched and rough.

"Are you sure you can pay for the fixing, it'll be at least five hundred gold.... sir..." Oran anwsered the dirty fellow, eyeing him suspiciously.

The fellow spat on the floor, and lifted a blood stained canvas bag from inside the rags. "Tha'll pey fe 't"

Oran eyed the bag and touched it, hearing the clink of coins within, "Very well, come back tommorow and I'll have it patched up for you."

The bandit, for thats what he was, turned and hobbled out, "I se ye 'n the mornin' ten" he called back.

Oran set to work first on the swords, carving off the rust and letting in fall in flakes around his stool, once he had cleaned as many swords as would hold together during the derusting, he set to work on patching the leath jerkins...

The next morning...

Mist flowed down the hillsides from the nearby mountians, turning a light blue in the morning light, slowly fading as the sun rose in the sky. The morning was pristine, the mist had left tiny dew drops on the grass that glistened in the morning sun. The gear that had been left old and ragged, was sitting well repaired and restitched on the counter of the smithy, Oran sleeping soundly in the small room in the back. A sudden rapping broke the morning tranquility as the bandit rapped on the door of the smithy with a rough cane that he leaned heavily on...

[DarkHunter]

One foot in front of the other...

Oran stepped forward, and made a punching motion toward the forward-right guard. A lash of fire flicked past his head and burned the man's skin as it wrapped around his arm, crisping flesh and creating a sickening sizzling sound, and the smell of burning fat. The other guards recoiled from thier unfortunate fellow bandit, as he dropped to the ground, madly clawing at his burning arm. A pair of twangs of bow strings then another pair, and another, and the forward-left bandit dropped, pincouchined with green-quilled arrows.

The old man stood quickly, a throwing dagger appearing in each hand, as his bandit guards, Oran, and Goasa locked into a furious meele. Throwing daggers and arrow whistled through the fight, making each of the warriors spend more time ducking and weaving than partaking in the fight itself. Oran, scored the first true hit, through both sides in the fight were bleeding from small cuts and puncture holes. The hit was to the back of the knee of one of the bandits, which caused him to drop to his knees, and leave him a target for the arrow fired by Matile, which sunk to the quills into the bandits shoulder. Oran turned in time to see Goasa hack down his oppenent, and grimace in pain as he tugged a throwing dagger out from between his shoulder-guard and curiass.

Oran lifted the old man from under his desk, and held him over it, the ancient blade he used, held inches from the mans throat.

"Wait!" The man cryed out, and Oran paused as the bandit pulled a writ from his clothes. Oran glanced at it, reading it over:

Mokali Noxis has the permission and consent of the Comma Tong
to create a outpost within a place of his choice near Blackfire Imperial Fort.
The holder of this writ is granted amnesty from all and any charges and is to
be treated with utmost respect.

Moal Taan, of the Comma Tong

Mokali grinned, feeling certian that his safty was insured, a second rate band of mercenaries wouldn't dare deal with a organization such as the Comma Tong in a disrespectful manner...

Oran lifted the man, stone-hard muscles from blacksmithing straining to lift a man not only his own wieght, but a foot taller than him, up. "Comma Tong, pah" Oran spat, "I'll let the Comma tong clean your blood from the carpet." He threw the man back, Mokali stumbled over the burning bandit as he tried to regain his balance. Oran turned away, and a pair of muffled thumps and a whoosing noise, told him that Mokali wouldn't regain his balance.

He started the journey back to thier home town, and as they went he split the coins from the captian into even shares, a normal going-home ritual for one of the more unusual jobs. He stopped at the house where the fifth note was slipped, knocked on the door and was greeted by a short imperial who looked quite a bit like a little rat. Owis Nocti, was his name he ran a General store that, as was local knowledge, was filled with loot from the town's mercenary brigade. Owis ferreted through the loot, and hummed a strange melody,

"Come back tomorrow, I'll see what I can sell this for..." the little weasle said quietly, taking most of the loot...

This post has been edited by DarkHunter: Jan 26 2007, 12:43 PM