Post by Fehu Isa on Mar 9, 2009 1:54:28 GMT -6
They had once been a powerful band. There was a time when they numbered in the dozens. Men without qualm who raided through the Northern Forest's edges from Kassau all the way to Hammersgaard. But they were eventually driven out by every city's guards except one. A hovel hole of a town that they nicknamed Loki's Armpit. A ramshackle mudhole with a few desperate people trying to eke out a living and one very greedy ass who barely visited, and only then to beat the forest people into working for a week without sleep in order to cut the trees needed for his Port Kar quota.
Then came the day those who remained noted as 'the coming of the Jarl'. They had found he brought the two things they could not fight against in their present state. Noble intentions, and an iron will. The former lead him to clear away the garbage and from the mudhole, call forth a growing village of traders and farmers and the forest people, all living in peace. A Torvaldslandic city before the Torvaldsmark. Where the content of a man's character and the willingness of his hands to set to whatever task he was given mattered far more than who his father had been, or what caste color he draped himself in. Skirmishes became reason for the city guard to seek out their camps and those who survived were loathe to take on the personage of this Jarl of the village of Fehu Isa.
He had, himself, ridden into the wood and killed all but three of them, though one was wounded so badly he lost the use of his arm, now drawn up and curled against his chest, his hand a withered claw. Those who remained were the worst though. Possessing the only tools to combat Franz's will of iron and his noble intentions. Greed and patience. During the festival at the Sardar, they had through the grapevine, recruited men who would be all too happy to have a part in the raiding of the city and the utter destruction of the man Franz Castellan. One in particular had his own reason. He had seen the slave the man was said to own. One of the finest in all of Gor. A golden goddess of honey skinned perfection. And for that girl. The kajira called Tempest, he would tear down the walls of Fehu Isa himself.
Now numbering but twenty, the dregs of the paga tents and the refuse too pitiful for even the trouble it would take to sully a blade with their blood, they converged in planning at the edge of the wood, watching the first target. The family was all but gone, leaving only two of the sons home to watch over the farm. Fields of sa-tarna and the flocks of verr. But their plan was dashed when a sudden influx of men began to pour into the city, doubling the city guard, men in black training the guards in ways no warrior knew. Secrecy and stealth. Assassin traits. New watchtowers were erected, and the men all but gave up hope. And then came the news that the Jarl had a child. Now, when he had the most to loose, they would strike.
As darkness fell on the city, the farm they had been watching was attacked, en masse, arrows loosed into the flocks without care where they hit or worry about retrieving the slain beasts. Like a flood of silent death they poured across the fields with botas of sul paga squeezing it out and then throwing down lit torches into the midst so the crops began to burn. In the shadows beyond the growing fire, they waited, bows in hand, watching the doors of the house, knowing any moment, they would fly open and the chance to strike at the unsuspecting men would be theirs. This was just the first step to breaking the Jarl. Crush his people's happiness and raise the music of keening widows and orphans instead.
Then came the day those who remained noted as 'the coming of the Jarl'. They had found he brought the two things they could not fight against in their present state. Noble intentions, and an iron will. The former lead him to clear away the garbage and from the mudhole, call forth a growing village of traders and farmers and the forest people, all living in peace. A Torvaldslandic city before the Torvaldsmark. Where the content of a man's character and the willingness of his hands to set to whatever task he was given mattered far more than who his father had been, or what caste color he draped himself in. Skirmishes became reason for the city guard to seek out their camps and those who survived were loathe to take on the personage of this Jarl of the village of Fehu Isa.
He had, himself, ridden into the wood and killed all but three of them, though one was wounded so badly he lost the use of his arm, now drawn up and curled against his chest, his hand a withered claw. Those who remained were the worst though. Possessing the only tools to combat Franz's will of iron and his noble intentions. Greed and patience. During the festival at the Sardar, they had through the grapevine, recruited men who would be all too happy to have a part in the raiding of the city and the utter destruction of the man Franz Castellan. One in particular had his own reason. He had seen the slave the man was said to own. One of the finest in all of Gor. A golden goddess of honey skinned perfection. And for that girl. The kajira called Tempest, he would tear down the walls of Fehu Isa himself.
Now numbering but twenty, the dregs of the paga tents and the refuse too pitiful for even the trouble it would take to sully a blade with their blood, they converged in planning at the edge of the wood, watching the first target. The family was all but gone, leaving only two of the sons home to watch over the farm. Fields of sa-tarna and the flocks of verr. But their plan was dashed when a sudden influx of men began to pour into the city, doubling the city guard, men in black training the guards in ways no warrior knew. Secrecy and stealth. Assassin traits. New watchtowers were erected, and the men all but gave up hope. And then came the news that the Jarl had a child. Now, when he had the most to loose, they would strike.
As darkness fell on the city, the farm they had been watching was attacked, en masse, arrows loosed into the flocks without care where they hit or worry about retrieving the slain beasts. Like a flood of silent death they poured across the fields with botas of sul paga squeezing it out and then throwing down lit torches into the midst so the crops began to burn. In the shadows beyond the growing fire, they waited, bows in hand, watching the doors of the house, knowing any moment, they would fly open and the chance to strike at the unsuspecting men would be theirs. This was just the first step to breaking the Jarl. Crush his people's happiness and raise the music of keening widows and orphans instead.