In the Sun, we march in Shadow

[Vanidor]

The brilliance of the sun answered the plea of those who sheltered beneath the gloom of shadowy clouds. Casting his rays downward upon the shriveled tendrils of plant and grass and flower. It flashed upon the soft waves that swept the currently placid beaches of Silver Lake. The wind that rose was also pleasing. Offering soft respite from the usual summer heat.

It stirred dust that lay dormant upon the field. Lifted banners of crimson and white that lined the rough-hewn ramparts. The fortress itself, however, sat silent and quiet. It had been a work in progress, that edifice. Stone had been brought nigh, carted at great cost of coin and labor. Wood had been shorn and fitted, designed to make the structure more permanent. More real. As if a symbol between the lord who resided in it, and the province he had decided to help defend.

It was still a symbol of that promise, truthfully. The walls were strong timber, with earthen ramparts. A ditch had been dug to encircle it, ready to be filled with water drawn from the nearby lake. A heavy gate, wide enough for three men abreast upon horses to charge out of, dominated the wall that faced Myrkentown. This was the entrance in the Hawk’s layer, it was guarded by ten men in crimson and black.

Usually, by the rise of the sun, it would be opened and the daily patrol would have been loosened. Twenty men that split themselves into squadrons of five, riding through the town and province to assist the Order of Straka in their usual duties. For the past two weeks there had been none of that. Indeed, the main gates had only been opened thrice since the assassination attempt upon the Duke.

Once, for a flurry of messenger’s riding for Thessilane. And again, but two days past, for a cart and a troop of ten. They had wound their way from the fortress, riding in stony silence down the road and into town. Women who were friendly with the soldiers received sullen stares and harsh quiet. Traders, who could usually tempt them with fine swords and spear heads, were given the same treatment. Indeed, all who crossed their path would be staunchly ignored.

All, that is, except for a certain carpenter. Iarann Acair was at the entrance to his shop, leaning back in a wooden chair he had made himself. Feet were tossed up on the railing before him, and a pipe between his lips. Grey smoke curled upwards from it and wreathed his head. He had been a soldier at one time. Had often joked that he had taken his skill with whittling during the idle times between battles, and turned it to making chests and tables. He almost recognized the look in the faces that came before him. So the request that came from a stone faced lieutenant was of no surprise.

He didn’t even haggle as he usually would have. Simply set a price for the work, and was responded just as quickly. He hadn’t expected much in that regard, and neither had the officer it would have seemed. The dimensions were made, and the desired embellishments. The cart would be left, and the soldiers as well, to make sure the man had peace to do his work. The projected needed to be completed quickly, three days if it was possible. Iarann told him it would be ready in two, such was his reverence. A heavy purse exchanged hands, and the master carpenter left to get the wood he needed.

Heavy oak would be the only answer, long planks of it. With plenty extra for the additions that had been asked for of course. He would have to stop by the goldsmith to get some beaten gold as well, for the inlays. The dyer for the proper paints and laminates. And a seamstress for the lining and such. Each was paid out of the purse he had been given, a cost he paid gladly… and sadly.

The rest of that day would pass, and the man would work long into the night. Only going to sleep when he could no longer keep his eye on the lines he was shaving and planing and bending. His assistant woke him early the next day, and together the two of them worked hard to finish the project. The soldiers lingered outside, sending away those who had come to check up on the progress of other items. The master was unavailable, and would be so for another day.

Long into that night he would work as well, with the assistant running to the seamstress and the goldsmith. Taking the hastily made parcels, and the goldsmith in his case, to the carpenters shop. The lining was laid within, satin of deep cream. Silver and gold thread wound it’s way through the material. The gold was beaten into the heavy wood, now polished and lacquered with the crimson paints acquired for this purpose. Iarann was still awake when the Lieutenant returned the next day.

It was presented, by the worn man and his assistant. And by the goldsmith as well, who had agreed to stay and help once he learned what it was… and who it was for. The three waited quietly as the officer looked over the requested item. A simple nod was all they would receive, along with another heavy pouch and a softly murmured ‘thank you’.

Soon enough, the soldiers were in the shop and carrying what they had come for out. Oblong, and draped over with a blanket of black velvet cloth. It took eight of them to carry it sufficiently enough for the officer, who urged them softly not to damage the masterpiece they held. It was reverently done, and slipped into the back of the waiting cart. Straps were tossed over it, holding the rectangular package in place. At times, wind caught and showed the crimson edge. Or perhaps a flash of gilt engraving as it passed.

In the sun, they marched in shadow. The same merchants and maidens attempted to collect the looks of the men, but the looks did not even acknowledge them as had the last time. There was no quick glance, and a partial wish to be at the side of a buxom wench. Nor was there a quick and shrewd look at a glinting axe or quiver of arrows. Nothing more than the rumble of iron-shod wheels and the hooves of horses all the way from the carpenter shop to the foot of the fortress.

Where the main gates opened for the third time. The men on guard duty snapped to attention. Ten-foot lances coming straight as arrows, and crimson pennants at their tips snapping-to in the breeze. The cart rumbled in through the gates, and they came shut with a clash…

And the sun returned to hiding beneath the gloom of heavy clouds, shadow once again dotting the landscape.

[Sherazade]

Sam never drank to excess, always had less than everyone else, she needed to stay on her toes listen for likely targets and lets face there were still 3 drow looking for her... But tonight was different, tonight the little thief was most assuredly drunk, at least to all outward appearances. Head pillowed on her arms, she leaned against the bar, shifting on her stool to get some feeling back in her rump. "he's dead ya know the duke ... and his lackeys blame me for not telling what i knew sooner , well screw them and screw him to, they can all go to 'ell and burn"

The words were slurred ,ran together like tributaries as they drained into a river, still they could be understood if one had listened hard enough. Lifting her mug Sam drained the last dregs and slide from the stool , weaving her way towards the door. Out into the street she stumbled , liqiud honey depths glazed as they flicked left and right taking in her surroundings, though how much she actually saw was debatable. Towards the edge of town she turned seemingly involved in the complicated process of walking and staying upright .

It could have been a trick of light and shadow but as she slipped into the woods edge the little thief for a moment seemed to be walking straighter as if no longer intoxicated.