George Longcloak

[WouldBeBard]

He walked through the city gate, sidestepping the loose stones in his path. He could still feel the heat of the day's fires behind him, even if the houses were all but gone, and the fires were down to their last embers.
Outside the city walls, it was cold. The air was far from clear, however.
The smell of burning wood, burning pitch and burning men was still fresh. The smell of the waste from months of siege less so. And now the smell of rot from the butcher's bill was tying it all together.

As he looked left, he saw people building pyres. Dozens of dead were being stripped, looted and readied for burning. Just like the houses in the city, though those might escape the burning. It would take them days longer to clear this area from the immediate signs of battle. Years to get rid of the scars. He sighed and moved to the right. He didn't contemplate the cost of war. That was for better men.

To his right were his companions, in his eyes the best of men. A few dozen. Rowdy, crass, brutally honest and brimming with life. In the knowledge that his campaign could have been their last, and that the next one probably will be. It had been for some of them. But that was life. Their life, at least. The one they knew, the one they were good at, the only one they could live by. 'Never fall in with soldiers' his mother had said, for a great deal of reasons, but he was sure it was the threat of losing her boy that scared her most. He was sure grandfather told her that, too. And his great grandfather told him that. And so on, of course. Somehow there always was at least one in every generation. The loot was being divvied up, and he saw his elder cousin was making sure he got an equal share. He wondered if his uncle had given the man the same speech.

He squatted down by his friends, and went straight into arguing over the spoils. He was handed one of the jugs of cider that were being passed around and took a swig. His cousin, sitting next to him leaned in and spoke through the ruckus.

"Good of you to join us, coz, I had my hands full trying to secure your bit while you were securing your bits to some widowed fisherwife, no doubt. Don't give me that look, I'm sure she was perfectly willing. Listen. Old man Harald wants to know if we're signing up for the next campaign. Seems the Black Band is marching at first light, he's been contracted by some noble making a bid for more land. Looks like we'll be sighseeing in Chessenta next. You're getting pretty good with that two hander, and he likes my archery. He says we'll be getting double pay, this time."

The Black Band. A preposterous name when you looked at how colourful the lot of them were. Cloth was currency, and the finery they wore directly reflected how many campaigns they'd fought and survived. And there had been many over the past decade. He had seen more of Faerûn than most were blessed to see. Chessenta was new. And yet. The warband that hired them just ransacked Telflamm. He just got out of a campaign, and this was as far north and east as he'd ever been. He was unlikely to get another chance like this.

"Thank Harald for me, coz, and tell him to give you my share, you're a good enough shot to warrant it. He can expect me back in a few campaigns. I'm headed north."

His cousin frowned at him."North? What in the Nine Hells do you expect to f-… Oh you have to be bloomin' joking. Narfell, George? Narfell? It's fairytales, you damn fool. Narfell is a backwater hole. There's nothing there. You'll make more money mining in Phent, and that's just a stone's throw from here. Shite, there's that look again. You know what? I won't stop you, gods know I couldn't, but I swear, I'm keeping all my spoils from Chessenta and won't even tell you about the girls there. Damn oaf."

He offered his cousin the cider and they grinned at eachother, they both took another swig and turned their attention back to the loot and laughter. Without turning to look at him, his cousin spoke.

"Just don't die, man."

He shrugged his shoulders with a faint laugh

"It's a backwater hole. How hard could that be?"

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Player: WouldBeBard
Character: George Longcloak