Gatherin' 'o Peasants

(OOC Note: This is one of the first RPs on the MUSH, back when it opened in January 2003)

Lightholder Crossroads 

A small village has sprouted on the edge of the Lightholder River where the cobblestone roads from Fastheld's other prominent districts intersect, in the shadow of Caryas Hill and the majestic gray silhouette of Fastheld Keep - the seat of power for the entire realm.

Sutlers, traveling performers and other small-time merchants ply their trades along this main crossroads - competing for space with carriages hauling passengers, couriers rushing important communiques from one district to another, and the soldiers of the Emperor's Blades who regularly patrol the area.

On the northwest corner of the intersection, next to the road that twists north toward Lightholder Bridge and the palace, sits a large tavern and inn where weary travelers can refresh themselves.

The two ragged peasent stand talking at the door to the Tavern.

Ezirith stands in the doorway to the tavern, gripping a broom, perhaps a little tighter than she needs to, as she sweeps dust and debris out the door and talks to Morrik.

Morrik - You see a slender, square-faced human male who stands about five feet eight inches tall, with pink skin and curly reddish-brown hair. He is wearing a dark brown patched-up tunic on top, black trousers on the bottom, and wears two leather shoes with his toes sticking out.

Wullum walks pathetically out of the horse stables, slouched over and in a generally miserable predicament. After all, he's a peasant. He glances around at his immediate surroundings with sullen eyes and then decides to head for the duo. "'Allo there." he greets.

Wullum - You see a gaunt, angular-faced human male who stands about five feet eight inches tall, with brown skin and curly dark brown hair. He is wearing a dingy gray patched-up overcoat on top, brown trousers on the bottom, and wears two leather shoes with holes in the toes.

Morrik grins and nods at Wullem. "And 'ow are you, boyo?"

Ezirith nods to Wullem, "Good day, sir." She continues to sweep, her grip on the broom not /quite/ verging on white-knuckled.

Wullum scratches his oily hair, grinning in return. "Oim al-right, 'ow ar' you?" His head shifts to Ezirith, an eyebrow arching up. To Morrik, he asks, "Whas wit' 'er?"

Morrik glances at Ezirith. "I do believe the bully boys gave her a turn." He smiles at Ezirith. "Did they, love?"

Ezirith thankfully takes the excuse, "Aye - a bit of a turn, aye." Her grip on the broom doesn't relax though, even after she sweeps the last of the dust and debris out of the door.

Wullum chuckles lightly, but carefully. "S'what we peasants 'ave got to endure, aye?" He then decides to switch the topic of the conversation. "'Eye, ya 'ear about the new lesser? I 'eard they cut 'im up right 'ere, I did."

For the first time, Morrik's smile fades to something other than mock unhappiness. "Oh, aye?"

Wullum nods eagerly, happy to tell his story. He leans in closer to the duo, as if scared to say something too loud. "An' I even 'eard 'e was just a peasant, like us I'd reckon. Just nabbed em' off the street. I wondered where ol' Ean 'ad gone, haven't seen him today. Think maybe they took 'em!"

Ezirith nods, "Saw them take him away, I did. An' the priest an' two Blades were in the tavern just minutes before that." Her voice lowers as she continues, "I'm fairly sure he was one of us - heard the priest tell the Blades ta take a peasant and make it look good."

Morrik shakes his head. "I don't hold with tha 'tall. They should just kill the poor bugger outright."

Wullum leans back, stroking his chin lightly. He shrugs at Morrik. "'Eye, it was just ol' Ean, 'e didn't do nothin'. Unless 'e's been keeping some secrets." He smiles revealing his slightly yellow teeth. Standard peasant's mouth, anyways.

Ezirith shakes her head at Wullum, "No one else cares if we live or die - so we have to look out for our own, aye? An' if some noble picks us as a scapegoat..well, we hope the Light grants the puir bugger a swift death. An' maybe that the noble gets 'is reward fer treatin' us so."

Wullum turns to Ezirith, nodding enthusiastically. "Aye. An' no ones willin' to give us a little bit 'o work, aye? So we can' even support all o' us. It's 'ard being a peasant."

Morrik looks around quickly. "Aye, tis true." He changes the topic quickly before the conversation can change to mroe dangerous topics. "Come inside. Help me collect, and if there's enough, I'll buy you both a bit of beer."

Wullum's eyes grow wide, glued to Morrik. "You've got some coin? Oy, where'dju get 'it?"

Ezirith nods, "Aye. Best we can hope for is ta become a vassal." She perks up a little, "Wonderin' that meself - but I'll help ye collect."

Morrik looks back and forth between the two. "Are you two daft? Naw, naw, where would such as I get money? I'll sing for it, and hope the Tavern patrons give well."

Wullum snorts. "I fancy they'd rather spend it all on ale an' get some free entertainment. But I guess I'll 'elp. Got nothing else to do."

Morrik waves the two in ahead of him. "Roight you are then, in with the pair of you vagabonds." He grins again.

Ezirith shrugs, "Could always a begged it offa some noble or merchant, aye?" She shrugs again and grins back, heading inside and bringing the broom with her.

Wullum smiles at Morrik's 'antics', nodding and heading inside in back of Ezirith.

Lightholder Tavern 

It is said - primarily by the proprietor, a jovial merchant-classer named Solas Creek - that all roads in Fastheld lead to the Lightholder Tavern. On any given night, it's not hard to see why he might justify such a claim.

The pub, which started centuries ago as a small refreshment wagon for laborers building Fastheld Keep atop Caryas Hill, sees boisterous crowds filling its rafters with laughter and pipe smoke at all hours of the day and night as travelers make their way through the realm.

About three dozen tables are arranged among the polished wooden columns on which hang the wrought-iron lanterns that help give the tavern its name. Solas or one of his assistants can usually be found working behind a wide C-shaped counter, serving mugs of keg-tapped ale to thirsty patrons who stand at the bar.

The floor is strewn with amber rushes, except in a circle of about twenty feet in diameter, where the stone fireplace and chimney rise toward the ceiling.

Wullum bobbles into the tavern with a wide grin on his face, in a happy mood, even though he is in dire circumstances. The circumstances? He's a peasant with no money or job.

Ezirith follows close behind Wullum. She's grinning too, gripping the broom in one hand. She's in pretty much the same circumstances - but it doesn't seem to bother her too much.

Morrik steps into the Tavern, and takes a deep breath. He is in precisely the same state as the other two, but seems remarkably happy despite it. He waves the other two to follow a little ways behind him, and walks up to the bar.

Wullum follows Morrik obidiently, like a dog, although his gaze wanders around the whole tavern. He doesn't seem to know anyone here besides the duo, accented by a momentary frown which is quickly replaced by that same stupid grin.

Ezirith just follows Wullum and Morrik, still gripping the broom. Maybe someone'll have to pry it out of her hands to get it away from her..

Morrik strides up to the bar, and says, "A pint for me and my friends, keep."

Wullum arrives at the bar, behind Morrik and stops. He winces slightly as Morrik asks for a pint, knowing very well that he hasn't the coin to back it up his request and that the 'tender most likely won't give them jobs. To himself anyways, he shrugs.

Solas Creek is currently playing a sort of shell game for the amusement of a patron. Three overturned wooden cups. Under one, he places a tiny round holna fruit. "So, y'see, young Master," he says to the noble. "I done put the fruit under the middle one, yes..." And then, at Morrik's comment, he growls, mutters: "Third damn time..." And then swings his gaze toward Morrik. "Show me Imperial Kahars, coinsuck, and I'll fill your mug gladly."

Ezirith sets the broom down, wincing at Morrik's words as well. She says nothing though, just watching quietly.

Morrik raises an eyebrow. "Ah, I haven't got the gilt, so I shall go thirsty." He shakes his head in mock sadness. "Nothing sadder than being in a bar without a bit of beer." He clears his throat dramatically, in a clear tenor, begins to sing, to stomping his foot in time to the words, "It's lonesome away from your kindred and all, By the campfire at night where the wild dingos call, But there's nothin' so lonesome, so dull or so drear, Than to stand in the bar of a pub with no beer." He continues, "Now the publican's anxious for the quota to come There's a faraway look on the face of the bum The maid's gone all cranky and the cook's acting queer What a terrible place is a pub with no beer."

There's a dog by one of the tables, currently relieving its bladder in a puddle among the rushes. Solas jabs a beefy finger in that direction and grins broadly. "For a song so purty, I got just the drink to slake your thirst." The grin fades. "No coin, no ale, no jesting! I've no time for your shenanigans."

Wullum sighs as Morrik's voice picks up in song. Although it probably sounds decent to the normal person's ear, Wullum probably knows that this little plan won't work. He says quietly, "S'no use, my friend." He grimaces at Solas outburst, gently patting Morrik on the shoulder.

Morrik stops, muttering under his breath. he glances at the surronding tables. "Come, patrons, shall you have the song, or no? A few coppers from one or two will keep my friends in drink, and me in song!"

Ezirith shakes her head, moving towards Morrik, "Nae - just drop it before ye get us all in trouble, please."

A tradesman - possibly a blacksmith, if the scorched hair and coal-smudged face is any indication - rises from his table to glower at Morrik. "Singin'? Try doin' *real* work, ya laggard!"

Morrik shakes his head. "What? No, missus, you go, but if its a thrashing I;ve earned, then I shall take it."

Wullum repeats Ezirith's gesture, and decides to quietly slip away from Morrik before he himself gets in trouble. "Aright boy, les' go. Now." is the last thing that slips past his lips.

Morrik looks incredulous. "No one? No one wants to hear the song? Lord of light...." He mutters to himself. He nods at Ezirith and Wullum, spirits obviously dampened. "Aye, I'm comin'."

Ezirith nods and sighs softly but hurries away - after all, what is done to one peasant can just as easily be done to two or three, "Sad, perhaps - but let's keep you in one piece, aye? You'll nae sing as well if you get hauled in by a Blade an' wind up losing your tongue."

Wullum heads for the streets oncemore, his eyes flitting around the room in an apparent bout of paranoia. He is not a happy camper. "Morrik's 'ure name, aye? Don't try an' pull anything like that again, ya' 'ear?"

"Don't let me catch ya snorin' in my stables," the keep growls after them.

Morrik follows after, more slowly. "'s a damn funny song as well. Sad, 'tis, sad." he doesn't appear to hear Wullum, or Solas.

Lightholder Crossroads 

A small village has sprouted on the edge of the Lightholder River where the cobblestone roads from Fastheld's other prominent districts intersect, in the shadow of Caryas Hill and the majestic gray silhouette of Fastheld Keep - the seat of power for the entire realm.

Sutlers, traveling performers and other small-time merchants ply their trades along this main crossroads - competing for space with carriages hauling passengers, couriers rushing important communiques from one district to another, and the soldiers of the Emperor's Blades who regularly patrol the area.

On the northwest corner of the intersection, next to the road that twists north toward Lightholder Bridge and the palace, sits a large tavern and inn where weary travelers can refresh themselves.

Wullum exits from the tavern with all due haste, still paranoid for guards. He stops and turns around towards Morrik. "'Eye, did ya 'ear me?"

Morrik follows sullenly. "I did, ya chatter spout, I did. I've sung for my supper afore, though. Tisn't natural, so tisn't."

Ezirith follows the other two quickly, shivering slightly, "Aye, boy - ye donnae want ta be caught singin' by the guards. They're nae too appreciative of fine things such as singin'. 'Tis a pity." She runs a hand through her hair and glances around, keeping an eye out for guards.

Wullum tilts his head. He says to Morrik, "Aye, well 'ya di-int sing 'ere, ya didn't. 'Ere, Solas 'ates the beggars, 'e's got no problem callin' the guards. Listen, I feel bad for ya, but we can't do anything. We're just peasants, aye?"

Morrik glares at Wullum. "Piss off."

Ezirith tries to grip Morrik's arm, "'Ey - he just saved yer life, most likely. An' he's right. Only way /we're/ going to get treated anywhere near fair is if we get to be someone's vassals. Until /that/ unlikely day comes, we ain't gonna get anythin' near fair treatment /or/ courtesy. Probably won't get courtesy even if we do get to be a vassal. But we just got ta bear it an' try to survive."

Wullum's browridge creases inwardly in a fit off anger. "Alroight, I'll piss off, but when the Blades come to you an' cut your tongue out, you don't be comin' runnin' to me, aye? Bloody nonce.." He immediatly turns around to walk off.

Morrik turns his glare on Ezirith. "Aye, 'tis that thinking that keeps a peasent a peasent."

Ezirith glares back, "An' what the hells are we supposed ta think, eh? It's damned /true/! We donnae get fair treatment - we do nae even get a /trial/!" She continues to grip Morrik's arm, "Best we can hope fer if a Blade takes us is a swift death - otherwise we just hope that someone'll take us in as a vassal."

Morrik sighs. He moves a few feet to one side, shaking himself free of Ezirith, and sits. "Aye, you're right. I just wish it was different."

Wullum continues his bold, angered stride down the street, finally finding a nice pile of hay to sit on about 30 meters away from the two. He gently lays down on it.

Return to Season 1 (2003)