Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-7262318-20170128213721/@comment-5543592-20170129152752

Markos nodded at that, but said nothing. He didn't know what kind of weapons children would make, or vice versa.

4 days after the confrontation in the chapel…

“His men came yesterday.”   Erik began at the next meeting of the council. In the mayor’s home, next to the inn that the mayor owned, Erik, Asmund, Joh, Titus, and Markos all sat around the dining table. The five were all good friends, and so had drank and discussed their lives and personal issues before Erik had broughten up the real business of the evening. Asmund and Markos had served in the same cohort, and Erik had been Joh’s logistics officer when the large blacksmith had been a quartermaster. Having all served in the same legion and on the same fronts from time to time, each had been familiar at least in some way with the other before coming to Kyne’s Folly.

“And left. Without any trouble.”   Erik finished.

“Not at all?”   Asmund asked, a little surprised.

“No. They just looked around, saw it wasn’t there for them, and then left.”

“Kind of anti-climatic.”   Joh noted with a snort. “After all the threatening that little man did in the chapel.”

“Well, Markos did say if we stood up to them they’d go away. I suppose you were right.”   Titus conceded.

“It wasn’t a matter of being right. It was the choice we had to make.”

“Well it was the right choice, regardless.”   Titus said.

“And here was Erik saying he’d gotten us all killed.”   Asmund stated, amused.

“I didn’t say that.”   Erik protested, holding up a hand. “I didn’t say that. I said he was going to. Before the speech. It was Asmund who told you you were out of your mind.”   Erik said, pointing at the larger Nord.

“He has to be.”   Asmund said. “He actually married Freydis.”

Markos leaned over and punched the man in the arm, resulting in laughter around the table.

“Since you boys have insulted my wife.”   Markos said once the chuckles had resided. “I’m going to have to excuse myself.”

There were protests for him to stay, but he explained he was expected home for dinner and he had to make sure Hjalti finished his chores and the horses likely were in the wrong pens, so he really must go.

With a few reluctant good-byes, Markos excused himself and headed outdoors. They were a fine group of men, those on the council. Markos respected each of them greatly, and thinking on that made him consider is own place in the world. He figured he’d led a good life. He was wealthy, old, settled. He had a son who was shaping up to be a good man and a wife who loved him. For the things he’d seen in the war and the things he’d had to do, Markos thought he’d been let off the hook rather easier.

<p class="MsoNormal">He climbed up into the box of his cart, and whipped the reins, urged the team of horses to carry him home.

<p class="MsoNormal">The cart carried him through the gray light as the sun began to set behind the horizon, and it grew progressively darker until he arrived at his farm. The farmhouse was squat and homely, an a large barn and stable sat on either side of it. Sheep roamed in a pen off to the side, and pigs trotted freely about the expanse of the farm. They were clever animals, and Markos would’ve let them in the house, only Freydis would’ve killed him for doing so.

<p class="MsoNormal">Parking the carriage next to the stable, and unstrapping the team, which he guided into their respective stalls. A quick survey of the stables showed Hjalti had penned all the horses properly, which was a surprise.

<p class="MsoNormal">Markos hung the harnesses from their hooks, and headed inside.

<p class="MsoNormal">Goriyn Mortis sat at the dining table.

<p class="MsoNormal">“And here’s the man of the hour.”   Goriyn cooed, legs kicked up on the table top, hands behind his head. The table had seats enough for four, and Hjalti and Freydis occupied two others. An empty seat was pulled out and turned towards the door, waiting for Markos. The table was set, with the bowls out and filled with stew; a wine jug sat on the table. Goriyn had either caught Freydis in the middle of making dinner, forced her to set this all up, or had came in just as they were sitting down.

<p class="MsoNormal">“We were waiting for you, Markos.”   Mortis continued. “Your wife, apparently, makes the best lamb stew in the town. I’m so eager to try it.”

<p class="MsoNormal">The next words he spoke in a low voice, as if he wasn’t supposed to be saying them. “But they said we couldn’t start without you.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“And of course we can’t!”   Goriyn announced, swinging his legs down, and rising. “Because this whole evening is about you, Markos! It’s your night! So go on, go on, have a seat. The fun’s just beginning…”   Goriyn trailed off in a menacing chuckle as he gestured to the empty chair.

<p class="MsoNormal">Markos slowly crossed the room to his seat and hesitantly set himself down in it.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, very good. We’ve got the whole family here. Wife.”   He pointed to Freydis. “Son.”   He pointed to Hjalti. “And the father.”   Mortis drawled, sitting down once again. “So let’s begin.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“Now, Markos, a friend of mine told me you got mouthy with him the other day.”

<p class="MsoNormal">Markos glanced at Hjalti and Freydis. The boy was pale as a sheet, and watching Mortis’ every move. The boy had likely heard a dozen rumors about the rebellion’s leader from the other youths in the village. And most of those rumors were probably true.

<p class="MsoNormal">Freydis was watching him, trusting him to do something.

<p class="MsoNormal">“And I said, ‘Markos? That sweet old man who’d never hurt a fly? No, we can’t be thinking of the same Markos.’”

<p class="MsoNormal">Goriyn grimaced and shook his head, as if this news was as embarrassing for him as it was for Markos. “But no! My friend told me, ‘it was Markos. Markos Seven-Fingers in Kyne’s Folly. He spoke out against you!’”

<p class="MsoNormal">Goriyn leaned forward confidentally, resting an elbow on the table. “And you know what my friend told me you said to him? You said ‘I’m the man who’s going to kill you.’”

<p class="MsoNormal">Goriyn leaned closer. “Is that what you said Markos?”   He whispered. “Did you say those words?”

<p class="MsoNormal">Markos narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t afraid for himself. He’d dealt with worse than Goriyn in his time. He was afraid for his family.

<p class="MsoNormal">“I did.”   He answered in a quiet voice.

<p class="MsoNormal">Goriyn threw his hands in the air dramatically, and leaned back in his chair, so that it only stood on two legs for a moment. “I don’t believe it. You, Markos? After everything we’ve been through?”

<p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t know you.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh but you do, Markos. You really do. You know me, because you knew, deep down inside, that this would be happening.”   He jabbed a finger towards Markos’ chest. “You know the kind of man I am because I know the kind of man you are.”

<p class="MsoNormal">Markos’ hands lay flat on the table. One of the steaks knives was within reach. Knives he’d sharpened himself.

<p class="MsoNormal">“You don’t want to hurt them.”   He nodded over at his wife and son. “Let them go.”

<p class="MsoNormal">Goriyn grinned wolfishly. “I don’t? Oh, Markos. Since when do you tell me what I want?”

<p class="MsoNormal">Markos’ hand darted towards the knife, intent on grabbing it and driving the blade into Goriyn’s chest. The Dunmer slipped the knife off the table and into his own hand before Markos’ fingers even got close. Markos had gotten old without even realizing it.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Ouch, too slow.”   Goriyn snickered. Markos glared at him and in the next blink the Dark Elf pressed the edge of the blade to Hjalti’s throat. Freydis gasped.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Don’t!”   Markos barked involuntarily. He leaned forwards, about to spring from his seat, but Goriyn only pressed the blade tighter against Hjatli’s skin. Hjalti’s frightened eyes locked onto Markos’ and neither of them looked away from the other.

<p class="MsoNormal">“You make very poor dining companions.”   Goriyn told them, sounding offended. “I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

<p class="MsoNormal">He lowered the blade from Hjalti’s throat and stood up. Markos relaxed slightly. Goriyn had just been here to scare him.

<p class="MsoNormal">“What’s this table made out of?”   Goriyn asked, knocking on it, lowering the knife to his side.

<p class="MsoNormal">Markos blinked at the abruptness of the question but was able to find the answer for it, since he’d crafted the table himself.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Sandalwood.”   He told the Jorane rebellion leader.

<p class="MsoNormal">“I thought so.”   Goriyn sighed.

<p class="MsoNormal">In a flash, the knife whipped out, and slashed Hjalti’s throat ear to ear. The youth toppled to the ground as blood squirted onto the table top, the surface of the dining table immediately running red, and then began to spill out onto the floor. Freydis screamed ear-piercingly. Markos was frozen in shock.

<p class="MsoNormal">“I’m not the biggest fan of sandalwood.”   Goriyn admitted neutrally.

<p class="MsoNormal">Markos dove across the table, not towards Goriyn, but to Hjalti. The boy lay gasping on the ground, his life ebbing out of him. The Dunmer exited the shack without a care in the world.

<p class="MsoNormal">Markos knelt beside Hjalti and pressed both hands to the gaping wound in Hjalti’s throat. Hjalti’s frightened, frantic eyes looked up at Markos, desperately searching for an answer as to why this had happened.

<p class="MsoNormal">“It’s all right, son.”   Markos told Hjalti urgently, his hands red with blood. “You’re going to be okay. I promise you’ll be okay.”

<p class="MsoNormal">Freydis collapsed to the ground, unconscious. No one to get Hjalti to the cart. No one to run to the healer. Markos desperately searched for a solution, but he realized something: it didn’t matter. They were never going to get Hjalti to a healer anyway. The boy had moments left to live. He’d seen a hundred wounds like this one in the legion. Fatal every time. But this was his son. This was supposed to be different.

<p class="MsoNormal">Hjalti’s struggles began to cease as the light faded in his eyes. He was still looking at Markos desperately. His father had always made things right. Markos had always been there to fix things. Splinters in his toes as a toddler. Broken toys as a boy. A broken heart as a young lad. Markos could fix this. A father could fix anything.

<p class="MsoNormal">“I love you, Hjalti.”   Markos whispered, as if he could will the life back into his son. “I love you more than life itself.”

<p class="MsoNormal">The boy stilled. His eyes glazed over. Empty.

<p class="MsoNormal">Markos pulled him close and whispered words no one could hear.