The Tactical Retreat of Nero Wordsworth the Third
-
Character: Nero Wordsworth the Third
Login: DuckAndCowerApologies in advance for the length, boring dialog, and likely foramating difficulties. Also, Wordpad doesn't have spellcheck, so… anyway, enjoy.
Oh, before you subject yourself to this so-called story, I really don't know a thing about D&D or Narfell lore, so if someone could name me a large town/smallish city or area in which this could likely take place, I'd appreciate it.
Eight year old Silas Wordsworth hated doing his studies. He hated playing the lute, he hated learning rhetoric, and he hated learning ancient lore. But right now, he hated his mother most of all, because right now she was being stupid and mean and making him stay inside instead of going to his father's play.
"But Mo-ther," he whined, drawing out the vowels, "why can't I go see Father's play and then do my studies?"
"Silas, you know you are not old enough enough to watch your father's performances," said Martha Wordsworth. "When you are old enough to understand them, you may attend, and that is the end of the discussion. Now, begin again from the second verse, and try not to break any more strings."
"Yes, mother," the boy said dejectedly, and resumed his musical assault.
Almost a full hour of tuneless twanging later, the door to the estate house flew open, and Silas's father rushed in shouting. The boy instantly used the commotion to stow his lute out of sight.
"Martha, Martha my dear!" Nero Wordsworth cried. "The play was a rousing success. Why, you should have seen old Councilman Sharpe's face! When 'Councilman Dulle,' the play's oafish half-orc, entered the stage in all its naked glory and announced its full support of Sharpe's policies, why, I do believe a careful observer could have witnessed billious clouds of smoke essaying from the good councilman's ears, while the crowd laughed uproariously throughout! And I swear, the true councilman's countenance, with his ears quivering in anger and his upturned nose curled in disgust, why, he looked more the pig than the orc did! Oh Martha, this lampoon is one for the books, more impressive than any in recent memory. Come, let us have a toast to your wonderful husband."
"Dearest Nero, I am so happy for you. It must be a wonderful feeling to entertain such a crowd," said Martha.
"No, no, that was not the point at all. Do you not see? With the success of my play, public opinion of Councilman Sharpe will undoubtedly fall drastically, and it should be no problem to instate one of my own loyal puppets. Without Sharpe's pointless opposition, we may just be able to make some changes in this city," said Nero, then added quickly, "changes for the better, of course."
"Silas, are you listening?" Martha asked her son. "Perhaps if you took an example from your father, your studies would not prove so difficult."
"Yes, ma'am," Silas replied, obviously having heard the line many times before.
Nero ruffled his son's hair. "Come now, Martha, try not to be so harsh on the boy. Such a fine chap is bound to grow up to be just like his father. Isn't that right, Silas."
"Yes, sir," Silas replied, having heard this line just as many times.
"That's a good boy. Now fetch me a bottle of wine from the cellar and go outside to play. Your mother and I have some celebrating to do."
Silas frittered away the rest of the idyllic day playing in the sun. Freed from his studies, he forgot his angry thoughts towards his mother. Some of his father's earlier excitement had proven contagious, and Silas decided right then and there that he would try as hard as he could to be a great politician and performer, just like his father. Wandering through the outer grounds of his family's estate, he began dreaming up the play that he imagined he would someday dedicate to his father.
As darkness approached, he returned home. After bidding his mother and father a loving goodnight, he climbed into his bed and fell into a wonderfully content sleep, dreaming wonderfully content dreams.
Bang! Bang! Crash! Silas awoke with a start. The sound had come from downstairs, from the foyer at the front entrance! Still in his sleeping clothes, Silas rushed down the stairs, excited to see what could be causing such a ruckus at this hour of the night. Rounding the corner at the bottom of the stairs, he felt a strong hand lift him up by the back of his neck. Twisting around, his gaze was met by that of the ugliest man that the boy had ever seen. The hideousness of the man's pig-like nose was matched only by the murderous glare of his beady eyes. Several thugs stood around the grotesque man.
"Well, what have we here? The king rat's wittle princling, sooo cute in his wittle sweeping clothes," his captor mocked, while the thugs all laughed dutifully. Tears of frustration ran down Silas's face. "Awww, does the ratling want its mommy? Well go run to her then. She's right over there. And there. And there. And there."
At first Silas didn't understand. Then, straining to look at the ground where the pig-man seemed to be pointing, he did understand, all too well. Silas screamed and screamed, while Piggy and his cohorts just laughed.
With a sudden burst of anger, accompanied by a rush of adrenaline, the boy wriggled free of Piggy's grip, and sprinted back up the stairs. The thugs did not give chase.
"Councilman Wordsworth," Piggy shouted from downstairs, "get down here at once and account for yourself. Your dear wife has already paid for your cowardice; do not force me to ascend these stairs and visit my righteous fury upon your son!"
"All right, Sharpe," the boy, cowering under his bed, heard his father shout from the master bedroom, "you have made your point well. I will be down momentarily. I only ask that you allow me a moment to speak with my son."
"Granted, but do not tarry. You may say what you must to the boy, and then your well-deserved fate awaits."
Silas looked at his door expectantly. He wanted nothing more than to see his father's face, to hear his father's reassuring voice formulating an ingenious escape plan.
He looked at his door and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, the voice came from downstairs once again. "Wordsworth, your time is at an end. Prepare yourself!" Heavy footsteps sounded up the staircase and down the hallway. The boy's door flew open and, as his tormentor entered, Silas made a decision. Shaking with terror, he leapt from his window.
Snap. The sound reverberated through what seemed to be his whole being. He had landed poorly, on his back, and the pain was excruciating. He quickly tried to rise to his feet, but to the poor boy's dismay, his legs would not move. He couldn't even feel them. Hearing shouts from the upstairs window, he rolled onto his belly and started to crawl for the woods, almost eight hundred meters away.
And that's when he saw it. His father, sprinting into the woods. Crouching down. Looking at him.
"Father!" Silas tried to cry out as the footsteps approached, but chocked on a thick, salty liquid. Blood. And just before a crushing blow split his skull, he saw his father quietly withdraw into the safety of the forest.
"Hemest, thank the gods you found me," Nero said, crouching behind a thicket. Two full days had passed. "I trust you avoided observation on your way here?"
"As far as I know, sir."
"Good, good... and what of the other servants? Did the brute make any of you suffer?
"No, sir, I'm glad to say. Most of us have fled the estate, though." Hemest drifted off, and directed a hard stare at Nero.
"What is the matter, man? Out with it," Nero said.
"Is it true what they're saying about you?" the servant asked, with a trace of suspicion. "Is it true that it was you what killed your wife and that poor little boy?"
Nero fell back into a sitting position and held his head in his hands. "No... I had hoped... I mean, is it definite? Could there have been some mistake?" He looked at his former servant, eyes filling with pitiful hope. "Is there any chance at all that they could still be alive?"
Hemest sat next to his former master. "I'm sorry, sir. I saw it with my own eyes. Martha, she was badly dismembered, and your boy, well, his skull was shattered. I'm so sorry."
"Oh gods..."
"Talk around town is that you murdered your family in a drunken fury. The full council is calling for an investigation, and several witnesses have already given testimony against you. Several servants have admitted that you were drinking heavily that night-"
"We were celebrating!"
"-and Councilman Sharpe himself has produced several witnesses that say they heard you ranting angrily about your wife that night in the Farside Tavern."
"Fabrications! They must have been bribed by Sharpe! I shall return at once, and restore my good name. My family deserved better than to be killed in some sort of petty criminal scheme. I will have my reve-"
"No, sir. You don't understand. Your wife and son were adored throughout the community. The council, the guards, even the townspeople - they're out for blood. As far as they are concerned, you are guilty, and they plan to make you suffer."
Nero visibly deflated. "So... what then? What can I do?"
"Here, take this," Hemest replied, handing a coinpurse to Nero. "It's all I could collect without arousing suspicion. Make a life for yourself somewhere else. Somewhere far away."
Nero pocketed the coinpurse while looking at Hemest gratefully. "My friend, I can never repay this favor. I thank you from the bottom of my heart."
"Just take care of yourself, sir."
And with that, Nero began the uncomfortable and debasing trip to the uncomfortable and debasing lands of Narfell.
-
Reviewed - XP Pending.
