Bladesong
The sun was setting over the rolling hills of the Storm Mountains and a blanket of warm summer light bathed the town of Phandalin. The streets of the town were quiet as the townsfolk began to bed down. Some stoked the coals of fires within their hearths and stewed steaming pots of warm stew. Others settled into their beds, and early morning in the fields on the horizon. The rest seemed to be congregating at a local inn within the center of town. A creaked in the shallow breeze which winded between the buildings proclaiming the buildings heritage. The Stonehill Inn was written in a faded gold filigree an a picture of a small hovel on a grey slate of land.
The man stared at the tavern studiously. It seemed like a good place as any to start. The name of the place sounded familiar. Supposedly it was famous for something but the man can't remember what for. Judging by the laughter, cheering, and overall raucous mirth bursting from the building it's probably the people themselves who make this tavern famous. He pushed open the heavy wooden door with the shoulder and surveys the inside. It's as lovely inside as it is on the outside. Wooden beams support the upper floor and the rows of small lights attached to them. The walls are swarmed with flags of all sorts and sizes. Some are from nearby towns or provinces, others from the far corners of the world. They must've been gifted to the owner.
The tavern itself is packed. Groups belonging to some kind of organization, whether sport, music or other you're not sure of, seem to be the primary clientele here, which is probably the best clientele for the owner. Several long tables are occupied by, what looks like couples, lone travelers and anybody else who enjoys great company. The other, smaller tables are also occupied by people who clearly enjoy each other's company, though they seem to be strangers who have met here. Even most of the stools at the bar are occupied, though nobody seems to mind more company. The man spots an open stool at the far end of the bar beside a figure in some garishly pink and purple robes, likely a bard of some kind. The man weaves his way quickly through the tavern and slides onto the stood, careful unclip his slender blade from his belt and rest it against the bar. He is surprised to see the blade is alone in its position. It wouldn't be uncommon to see a dozen other weapons or belt knifes tucked away but the crowd gathered in this place seemed generally unconsidered. The man smiled and relaxed slightly, this was a safe place. It was difficult to relax, his upbringing on the streets of Neverwinter hadn't provided him the luxury of safety. There were times, perhaps only a dozen throughout his life, where he had felt safe. Perhaps, this would be another one of these times.
The innkeeper sixth sense of knowing when a patron needed a drink drew the burly man to him. The inkeeper's face was warm with wrinkles creasing his eyes from years of smiling.
"Good day to you traveler. Welcome to the Stonehill Inn. It's my humble establishment but we can offer warm food and brown beer like the rest. I'm Toblen," he says. "I'd offer you a bed but we seem to be full up." he finished and nodded to the bard sitting beside the man. The bard raised his head and sneered.
"The rooms are for my benefactors, not for me." the bard said with a whimper. "I had a bed once, they gave it to the bloody pig," he sighed. Toblen remained unphased by the lamentations and looked back to the man.
"A pint of ale then? It'll cost you naught but your name," he said. The man smiled and tipped his head in thanks, his silver-white hair cascading over his shoulders.
"Olo Silver," he said with a smile. "I'd love a drink thank you". Toblen smiled and scuttled off towards a massive kegs positioned behind the bar. Two other kegs had mugs over their spigots, likely signalling they were empty. Toblen returned with the ale and slid the almost overflowing glass across the polished wooden surface of the bar. Olo took a long drought and smiled at the surprising quality of the ale.
"Busy place," Olo mused. "No disrespect but what brings such a crowd to such a small town?" Before Toblen could answer the bard let out a derisive snort.
"You really aren't from around here," he said with a heavy slur in his speech. He was clearly drunk and Olo noted how the man seemed to be melting into the bar stool.
"No I am not," Olo said. He looked to Toblen. "Who is this colorful man beside me?"
Toblen chuckled and collected three empty mugs from around the bard.
"That's Tennen Maldernen. He's got the privilege of being squire to the Knights of the Storm Mountains." Toblen said proudly. "You'd think he'd be a bit more grateful for service to such a noble group," he quipped.
"Grateful?" Tennen scoffed. "The Half-Orc threatens to kill me everyday and I'm lucky if that old wretched Knight Sildar doesn't beat me black and blue with his scabbard for not paying his whores fast enough. Do you realize what kind of rank debauchery occurs under your roof?" he said. Toblen shrugged.
"I didn't realize there was an Order operating in the region," Olo said.
"They're not knights," Tennen said, exasperated. "Well, not all of them. That old fool Sildar was knighted for some lunacy probably a hundred years past. The rest of them aren't anything special."
"Nothing special?" Toblen said. "Was it you that rooted out those bastard Redbrands from Tresandor? No - I didn't think so. I suppose you killed those Stirges and that massive beast lurking in the crevasse near the Oni's farmsteads? Watch your tongue bard. You've got the privilege of serving real heroes. That's a rarity in these parts and 'alf the other boys in this town would kill to be at der' side," he scolded. Toblen turned back to Olo and a smile softened his face.
"They're not really Knights I suppose. Just a name that the folk are calling them. Knights of the Storm Mountains. The Brave Company. There's tons of names but it's whatever give the people some hope. It's been a dark time in these parts and they're the first ones to do anything about it."
"Intriguing," Olo said. "Where did they come from?" he asked Tennen.
"Who knows," he said with a shrug. "They don't tell me nothing. Just 'oh get me that, get the pig more food, find us more work, clean up the pig's shit.' Sounds like real noble work to me," Tennen snorted.
Olo realized the bard wasn't worth his time. The man was soggy with ale and seemed quite reticent of his benefactors. They intrigued Olo though, there was something lucrative about such a nascent opportunity. Olo needed the coin, his most recent contract as a merchant guard for a particularly gluttonous halfling, Oston Faltren. He had hated the work but needed the coin. This could, perhaps, present him with something more challenging. Resolved Olo turned back to Tennen.
"Are your patrons hiring?" he asked.
"Depends on who's asking," a voice said from behind him. The tavern suddenly fell silent, music dying down and a few hushed whisper stifled. Olo slid off his stood and rose to his full height. He finished his beer, making sure to drag out the display for the few theatrics it could muster and placed the mug on the bar. Turning slowly he saw a grizzled old man standing behind him, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The man had a face full of scars and crags; products of the decisions he had made in his life. He sported a close cropped beard and his black hair was speckled with grey. He was wearing a lose fitting tunic and brown pants. High leather boots rose to his knees and they were caked in dried dirt and grime. An elegant sword with a ornate pommel and in a black leather scabbard was clipped to a low-slung belt.
"Olo Silver," he said. "And you are?"
"Consider me a recruiter of sorts," he said and grinned at the chuckles and hoots that came from the crowd. "To see if you've got the grit and determination to fight with the best. We don't take boys." he said and then chuckled and motioned to Tennen. "Except for this one but he's more of a girl than anything." he said and let out a hearty laugh. Others in the tavern joined in and a few slapped the sour-faced Tennen on the shoulder.
"I can assure you - I'm worth the coin," Olo said casually. He reached back and collected the sword, clipping the long blade to his belt.
"Aye, we'll see about that," the man said. "Outside then!" he called out. The tavern suddenly erupted with a flurry of movement. Chairs and table were hauled out the door along with what appeared to be a keg. Within minutes, the half-a-hundred townsfolk gathered in the tavern had assembled a small fighter's pit outside. Tables were turned on their side to form the walls of the ring with torches tucked between the legs to light the extremity. Through either some sorcery or tactful coordination. Toblen has enlisted help is setting up a small bar complete with a small keg, mugs, and even a strong box for the coin. He was rapidly filling up mugs and laughing with the rest. Beside him, Tennen was feverishly collecting bets and writing them into a ledger.
Olo moved through an opening between two tables and tossed his cloak over the back of own. He rolled his shoulders and his body began to rhythmically begin the staccato interlude of the bladesong. His mind danced through the various forms and his muscled ached to dance with the harmony of the war dance. The older man hopped over the table and stumbled as his foot caught on the edge. He stumbled into the dirt and rolled onto his back, laughing as he did. The man clumsily climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. He reached for his right side and then guffawed as he realized his sword was clipped to his left side. The crowd hooted and howled at the display. Olo was disconnected from the display, his mind already falling into the trance of the bladesong. His father's words danced around him, the cadence of the music written on the words. He adopted into a low stance, knees bent, back straight, head down, and hands laid flat on the hilt of his blade. He noted from the corner of his eye the older man slowly drawing his blade, the steel rasping against the ring of the scabbard.
"Alright gents - no one dies tonight," Toblen called out from the side of the ring. "First blood is enough. No maiming, dismemberment, or castration if you please - just a cut will do." he said and then stared at the two awkwardly for a moment.
"Well come on then. Fight each other!" he said with an impatient wave of his hands. Olo launched himself forward, unable to resist the ache of his muscles as they cried to succumb to the dance. He moved forward, blade spinning and then leveling out parallel to the ground. The man seemed stunned by the sudden flurry of movement and raised his sword in weak defensive cross-guard as a block. Olo suddenly planted his foot on the ground and leaned forward, thrusting the blade forward and directly over the cross-guard of the night. Olo took a moment to lament the abrupt end to the duel. He had been craving for more of a challenge. He had driven the forward with the perfect amount of pressure to knick the old man's chest. What a disappointment.
Lights flashed and Olo frowned. His head throbbed and he blinked as he tried to regain his sense. He was on his back. He flexed his jaw and winced at the pain. Realizing he was exposed, he snapped to his feet and leveled his blade toward the old man. A swift and unexpected back hand had caught him off guard. The old man had anticipated the thrust and parried sideways, leveling a stiff muscled arm to catch Olo in the jaw. The man smiled and pointed at him with his sword, the clumsy act dissolving and replaced with the poise and finesse of a practiced veteran swordsman.
"It's been a few years since I've danced with a bladesinger. What was that? Eagle Strikes The Rabbit or Cat Scales the Wall?" the man said. Olo's usual stoic demeanor was momentarily replaced with genuine surprise.
"Aye, I know your dance little elf." he said and adopted a high guard. "Come on then, let's see how a blade of Myth Drannor can contend with that of an old blademaster." Without hesitation, the old man moved forward with a speed akin to a Coronal Guard and delivered a series of blows to Olo which he barely managed to parry. Olo forced himself back into the dance of the bladesong and began to slowly recover ground from the vicious assault. The old man and Olo traded blow after blow in something which appeared choreographed were it not for the blank look of concentration across each of their faces. The crowd shouted and gasped in surprise and the flurry of blows. The sheer speed of the combat was impossible to fathom, each fighter moving, leaning, and parrying with a practiced finesse. Olo could feel every aspect of his swordsmanship being tested; footwork, parrying, ripostes, blade turning, every aspect of his father's journals was flashing before him and the bladesong raged to a near deafening crescendo in his ears. After four minutes of a non-stop melee, Olo could feel the fatigue of the fight starting to wear on him. His counters were slowing, even if by a second, but they were slowing nonetheless. The old man noticed it to and infused his attack with a renewed vigor. Olo knew he had to end the attack soon. He would have to try something more - unconventional.
Olo slashed his blade in a series of wide arcs and drove the old man back. With some space to maneuver, he leaped forward and brought his blade down in a strike which would cleave a man from his shoulder to groin. Combining the rhythm of the bladesong with the guile of his former thieves-craft, he twisted in the air and tossed his blade into a reverse grip in his offhand. The old man had raised his blade to deflect the blow but was genuinely caught off guard by the sudden change. He tried to adjust and Olo was surprised at the old veteran's ability to recover but his blade struck true as it's tip sliced a neat cut into the old man's shoulder. Olo landed on the other side of the man in a deep stance, blade raised high behind him. He turned to the veteran who was staring at him with a wry smile on his face. Olo frowned and pointed to the man's shoulder. The man nodded and pointed to Olo's leg. He looked down and saw a small trickle of blood from a precise cut near his achille's heel, a perfect hamstring.
"It's a draw then!" called Toblen and the crowd erupted again into a chorus of shouts and cheers. The old man smiled and cleaned off his blade before sheathing it. Olo did the same and, with a flourish, sheathed his own slender blade. The old man swaggered forward and held out his blade.
"I think we can find a place for you bladesinger," the man said in perfect elvish. Olo again raised his eyebrows in surprise and gave the man a small bow. He motioned to the red-cord wrapped around the hilt of the man's sword.
"You are a blademaster?" Olo said.
"Aye, back when that meant something I guess. Now any bloke can wrap the shan'tai around his blade and call himself a "blademaster" he said with a shrug and a sneer. Olo nodded solemnly in agreement.
"You never gave me a name," Olo said.
"You're right, I didn't" he said. "Sildar Hallwinter." he said and held out his hand. Olo grasped Sildar's forearm with a firm grip.
"Welcome to the Brave Company or whatever these fuggin' folk are calling us," Sildar said with a smile. He turned to the crowd and held up Olo's arm with his own. The applause was deafening.
"Olo Silver," he said. "And you are?"
"Consider me a recruiter of sorts," he said and grinned at the chuckles and hoots that came from the crowd. "To see if you've got the grit and determination to fight with the best. We don't take boys." he said and then chuckled and motioned to Tennen. "Except for this one but he's more of a girl than anything." he said and let out a hearty laugh. Others in the tavern joined in and a few slapped the sour-faced Tennen on the shoulder.
"I can assure you - I'm worth the coin," Olo said casually. He reached back and collected the sword, clipping the long blade to his belt.
"Aye, we'll see about that," the man said. "Outside then!" he called out. The tavern suddenly erupted with a flurry of movement. Chairs and table were hauled out the door along with what appeared to be a keg. Within minutes, the half-a-hundred townsfolk gathered in the tavern had assembled a small fighter's pit outside. Tables were turned on their side to form the walls of the ring with torches tucked between the legs to light the extremity. Through either some sorcery or tactful coordination. Toblen has enlisted help is setting up a small bar complete with a small keg, mugs, and even a strong box for the coin. He was rapidly filling up mugs and laughing with the rest. Beside him, Tennen was feverishly collecting bets and writing them into a ledger.
Olo moved through an opening between two tables and tossed his cloak over the back of own. He rolled his shoulders and his body began to rhythmically begin the staccato interlude of the bladesong. His mind danced through the various forms and his muscled ached to dance with the harmony of the war dance. The older man hopped over the table and stumbled as his foot caught on the edge. He stumbled into the dirt and rolled onto his back, laughing as he did. The man clumsily climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. He reached for his right side and then guffawed as he realized his sword was clipped to his left side. The crowd hooted and howled at the display. Olo was disconnected from the display, his mind already falling into the trance of the bladesong. His father's words danced around him, the cadence of the music written on the words. He adopted into a low stance, knees bent, back straight, head down, and hands laid flat on the hilt of his blade. He noted from the corner of his eye the older man slowly drawing his blade, the steel rasping against the ring of the scabbard.
"Alright gents - no one dies tonight," Toblen called out from the side of the ring. "First blood is enough. No maiming, dismemberment, or castration if you please - just a cut will do." he said and then stared at the two awkwardly for a moment.
"Well come on then. Fight each other!" he said with an impatient wave of his hands. Olo launched himself forward, unable to resist the ache of his muscles as they cried to succumb to the dance. He moved forward, blade spinning and then leveling out parallel to the ground. The man seemed stunned by the sudden flurry of movement and raised his sword in weak defensive cross-guard as a block. Olo suddenly planted his foot on the ground and leaned forward, thrusting the blade forward and directly over the cross-guard of the night. Olo took a moment to lament the abrupt end to the duel. He had been craving for more of a challenge. He had driven the forward with the perfect amount of pressure to knick the old man's chest. What a disappointment.
Lights flashed and Olo frowned. His head throbbed and he blinked as he tried to regain his sense. He was on his back. He flexed his jaw and winced at the pain. Realizing he was exposed, he snapped to his feet and leveled his blade toward the old man. A swift and unexpected back hand had caught him off guard. The old man had anticipated the thrust and parried sideways, leveling a stiff muscled arm to catch Olo in the jaw. The man smiled and pointed at him with his sword, the clumsy act dissolving and replaced with the poise and finesse of a practiced veteran swordsman.
"It's been a few years since I've danced with a bladesinger. What was that? Eagle Strikes The Rabbit or Cat Scales the Wall?" the man said. Olo's usual stoic demeanor was momentarily replaced with genuine surprise.
"Aye, I know your dance little elf." he said and adopted a high guard. "Come on then, let's see how a blade of Myth Drannor can contend with that of an old blademaster." Without hesitation, the old man moved forward with a speed akin to a Coronal Guard and delivered a series of blows to Olo which he barely managed to parry. Olo forced himself back into the dance of the bladesong and began to slowly recover ground from the vicious assault. The old man and Olo traded blow after blow in something which appeared choreographed were it not for the blank look of concentration across each of their faces. The crowd shouted and gasped in surprise and the flurry of blows. The sheer speed of the combat was impossible to fathom, each fighter moving, leaning, and parrying with a practiced finesse. Olo could feel every aspect of his swordsmanship being tested; footwork, parrying, ripostes, blade turning, every aspect of his father's journals was flashing before him and the bladesong raged to a near deafening crescendo in his ears. After four minutes of a non-stop melee, Olo could feel the fatigue of the fight starting to wear on him. His counters were slowing, even if by a second, but they were slowing nonetheless. The old man noticed it to and infused his attack with a renewed vigor. Olo knew he had to end the attack soon. He would have to try something more - unconventional.
Olo slashed his blade in a series of wide arcs and drove the old man back. With some space to maneuver, he leaped forward and brought his blade down in a strike which would cleave a man from his shoulder to groin. Combining the rhythm of the bladesong with the guile of his former thieves-craft, he twisted in the air and tossed his blade into a reverse grip in his offhand. The old man had raised his blade to deflect the blow but was genuinely caught off guard by the sudden change. He tried to adjust and Olo was surprised at the old veteran's ability to recover but his blade struck true as it's tip sliced a neat cut into the old man's shoulder. Olo landed on the other side of the man in a deep stance, blade raised high behind him. He turned to the veteran who was staring at him with a wry smile on his face. Olo frowned and pointed to the man's shoulder. The man nodded and pointed to Olo's leg. He looked down and saw a small trickle of blood from a precise cut near his achille's heel, a perfect hamstring.
"It's a draw then!" called Toblen and the crowd erupted again into a chorus of shouts and cheers. The old man smiled and cleaned off his blade before sheathing it. Olo did the same and, with a flourish, sheathed his own slender blade. The old man swaggered forward and held out his blade.
"I think we can find a place for you bladesinger," the man said in perfect elvish. Olo again raised his eyebrows in surprise and gave the man a small bow. He motioned to the red-cord wrapped around the hilt of the man's sword.
"You are a blademaster?" Olo said.
"Aye, back when that meant something I guess. Now any bloke can wrap the shan'tai around his blade and call himself a "blademaster" he said with a shrug and a sneer. Olo nodded solemnly in agreement.
"You never gave me a name," Olo said.
"You're right, I didn't" he said. "Sildar Hallwinter." he said and held out his hand. Olo grasped Sildar's forearm with a firm grip.
"Welcome to the Brave Company or whatever these fuggin' folk are calling us," Sildar said with a smile. He turned to the crowd and held up Olo's arm with his own. The applause was deafening.
