Return of the old

It appears as if some mighty force has scooped a great gouge out of the hillside, forming a wide, upland plateau upon which lies Kierkgard Dun, the chief fortified town of the Dunlendings. The main gates stand near at hand to the northwest, while to either side of it the city walls soon merge with the sheer slopes of the hillside, leaving a triangular margin of grass before the gate some twenty paces on a side.

The steep path that you traversed up to the gate both looks and feels dangerous. It is so narrow that there is barely enough room for a horse to turn 'round safely, and it is easily and openly visible from the walls on the mountain above in daylight and dangerously precarious at night to anyone unfamiliar with its configuation. From the area before the gate, a wide, panoramic view of the lands about can be seen, blocked only by the Dun and the bulk of the hill itself.

OOC note: type +inspect/list for views

Contents:

Carac

Tet'Nak

Guardian patrol

Obvious exits:

Main Gates leads to Kierkgard Dun <>.

Ravine Path leads to Kierkgard Dun <>.

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Dunland Time and Weather Forecast

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Real Time is: Sun Oct 26 16:04:33 2008

IC weather is: Wind: fresh - Clouds: moderate - Rain: drizzle

IC Moon is: Not visible

IC time is: Mid Morning

IC date is: Sunday, Day 16 of April in the year 3045.

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Four rough looking fellows stand near the gate. They are fat, two are even leaning against a cart that sits idly there, and has since it was taken from a trader days ago by these same guards. Why they took it, no one knows, but there are rumors that the goods were sold immediately to another local merchant.

Though 'strangers' are often harassed, even though they are local traders, crime has still risen. Many merchants find themselves at the point of a dagger. In an instant their pockets are cleaned and are poorer for their efforts. Trade has slowed in response.

Moving slowly up the ravine pass is a middle aged man. He holds a six foot staff and seems to use it as a walking stick, though it could just be the elevation of the climb. He looks up toward the gate and presses forward, hardly even noticing the guards milling about ...

If the middle aged stranger did not notice the guards, he would certainly notice them now. A staff comes lazily down, the top end arcing until it lands with a soft thud on the ground, barring the man from proceeding. With his mouth full of fruit, one of the guards asks, "Where do you think you are going, stranger?"

The other guards are busy hassling an attractive widow to notice.

A busy day along the Ravine Path it would seem for another pair travel along that narrow road that leads up towards the once holy city of Kierkgard Dun. A layer of dust and grime upon their clothing and the slowness of their steps a testament to the long path they have travelled to arrive here this day.

The younger of the two, a man somewhere in his early to mid twenties. pauses momentarily to gaze at the approaching gates with eyes that show both loss and anger.

His momentary study of the city is broken by the words of the guard and his attention turns fully towards them and the 'stranger'.

The stranger gives a long, slow, look to the guard. "Where does it appear I am going?" He nods directly forward, "I am going to Kierkgard Dun." He looks over his shoulder, noticing others on the path. He had walked alone in the ascent, keeping to himself. His gate was not labored, and quick enough to stay ahead of the younger men trailing behind. "Now," he starts, looking back to the guard, "Move from my way ..."

At the edge of the green apron that fronts the gates, a solitary figure stirs. The tall, rather lanky young man had been gazing out over the lands to the northwest now he turns to see the source of the guard's attention, eyeing the stranger who has spoken with no little scepticism. Shrugging, he moves just a little closer - enough to get a clear view, but not to intercept. His attention seems divided between the confrontation and the now-empty cart half-blocking the way.

"Don't make me hurt you, old man!" The tip of the staff rises off the ground, so that it now at thigh height of the stranger. "Stand back. Strangers aren't welcome here." With his other hand, he continues to eat the ripe peach, the juice running down his knuckles. His tone softens. "Of course there are easier ways to pass."

It has been a while since the hefty guard has raised his voice it seems, for the other guards tormenting the widow turn their heads. But as soon as they see that the rotund man has started his usual speech, they return to hassling the widow.

"Hurt me?" the old man quips, "Hurt me?" he repeats, face turning into a large grin. Then, his grin turns into a laugh, as the old man begins shaking his head. "Hurt me!" He bends over, slapping his knee as he finds the situation downright hilarious.

Finally, he gets himself under control. When he rights his stand, he rests his right hand near the pommel of his sword. "Go back to sitting, eating, or whatever you were doing when I got here."

The young man in grey listens briefly, but the words of the guard only seem to cause the anger in his eyes to burn hotter. As the 'stranger' shows his sword the younger man steps forward and takes a positon at the strangers side.

"What has become of Dunland," he half spits towards the guards in a voice filled with malice. "I have travelled many leagues to return home, only to find the keep which my father's people once held destroyed, their village burned, and the home of my great grandmother destroyed." His eyes flare and he takes a step towards the guard.

"Now I find that there very heart of Dunland, Kierkgard Dun has been taken over by highwaymen?" He now pushes back his cloak to reveal a deadly looking mace.

"I am no stranger, I am Carac the son of I'racil and demand you step aside and allow us entrance, or we will enter over the top of your corpse."

Still with half an eye on the confrontation between staff-bearer and lone guard, the lanky fellow saunters across to the other pair of guards, and raises his voice enough to carry over the widow's protests. "Need a hand shifting that cart? I could do it for a bag of those apples, or whatever they are," he jerks his head toward the fruit-munching guard, "if they're still good."

His attitude of studied nonchalance suddenly falls away as the clear voice of the younger man echoes in the ravine. His shoulders jerk - still, he manages to keep his gaze on the guards he had approached, though his features are blank with what might perhaps be shock.

The smirk upon the guard twitches slightly at Tet'Nak's hostility, but upon seeing that passerbys are beginning to notice the hefty guard flares his nostrils and stands with his legs apart. He cannot stand down in front of all these people.

His nervous smile regains some strength as Brev - someone who isn't a stranger - approaches. Loudly, he says to Brev, "Looks like this stranger thinks he can just walk into our sacred city and not pay his proper tribute. You can get a lot more than a bag of apples if you will watch me beat this insane stranger to a pulp" he says out loud. "And YOU!" He points at his staff next to Carac. "You claim that you are the son of Splitface? Do you know how many ruffians claim to be his son? Step aside and ask your mama to wipe your nose and leave this business to us men."

Now that he has gained momentum, his voice rises more. "Now there's one of you, and four of us. And if you shed so much as a drop of our blood, I will make sure you will suffer before they cut off your head!"

The old man gives a glance over to the youth's angry tirade, "I'racil you say?" He sighs slightly, "I knew the man." He attempts to get a good look at Carac's face. "I do not recall so well what he looked like." Shrugging, an aparantly paying no attention to the guards, ignoring them as if their were not even there. "You have made an introduction, though, I suppose not a formal one. Either way, I feel I should make my own." He grips his pommel firm, drawing the weapon so quickly it defies his age.

"I am called Tet'Nak," he says, immediately driving his blade forward at the guards belly without a moment of hesitation.

Carac snorts softly. "If you knew my father, then you'd know there's a chance that all of those who claim to be his son are indeed what they claim." He pulls the mace free from where its clapsed to his belt.

"This mace was my father's returned to me by his one time companion Ornlu, the Hawk. Since you seem to have some knowledge of him, perhaps you recognize it."

With Tet'nak going after the first guard, Carac, leaps towards the other two swing the mace in a wide arc towards the head of the closest. "Tet'nak, you say?" he calls even as he swings. "I have heard of you."

The lanky young man, Brev, snorts at the guard's response. "Not interested in watching a freak show. Just asked about the cart. 'Course, if you /don't/ want it moved," he shrugs, "it's nothing to m-" He breaks off, leaping nimbly back as a mace swings in his direction, even if he is not the immediate target. "Kiern!" His hand goes to his hip, closing tight round his dagger-hilt, though he makes no move to join this fight on either side. Instead he shouts in the combatants' direction, "What d'you think is /in/ there?" Contempt echoes in his tone.

Legends tell of the Guardians, the Watchers of Dunland, who some say knew Kiern Himself when he walked the promised lands. They are warriors, healers, and some say the true heart of the Dunlendings, for their membership crosses all Clan and Family boundaries, uniting all through their faith.

But a lot has happened since.

Surely, Kiern himself would praise Tet'Nak for ridding such a soft bellied "warrior" from the ranks of the Guardians. For soft indeed is his belly, and so easily does the sword of the old man slice through his guard.

The other three guards are too stunned by this sudden turn of events to even notice that Carac has drawn his weapon. Only when the mace smashes the skull of one Guardian and splatters brain matter all over the place that the two remaining guards snap to their senses. Inexperienced they may be, but they are still trained. They draw their own swords.

Screams and shouting can be heard from the crowd.

"Notoriety," Tet'Nak comments, retracting his blade from the man's stomach and turning to face another guard. "That was very similar to lard," he says, probably talking about the ease his sword pierced the innards of the guard. "Oh, look, more lard." He gives a satisfied smile to everything that is going on.

Blood drips from his blade onto the ground. Slowly, Tet'Nak steps forward, but suddenly he stops. "Oh, I remember now, this is where I killed Giric, Chieftain of the Stag." He waves his blade, "This was the blade. I will say he gave a better account of himself than this fellow." He flicks up his sword, tossing blood at the face of the nearest guard, but the motion is just a feint, and immediately sweeps the 'walking stick' in his opposite hand toward the side of the guard's head.

"I'racil never liked Guardians, much," Carac says as he thrusts a booted foot towards midsection of the next Guardian.

"I believe he referred to them as Kiern's whores," he continues as he raises the mace for another attack. "This lot does fight like women, so perhaps he was onto something there."

The fellow they call Brev seems remarkably unconcerned, considering that he is witnessing the return of a notorious legend, a name men of power whisper fearfully in the night. As the crowd screams at the sight of Tet'nak's dripping blade, his attention is all for the other man, the one who had called himself Carac. Brev's eyes are half-hidden, but his features no longer wear that nonchalant smile - instead they are hard, cold. "Well, he would know," he snaps. The dagger is no longer in his hip but in his hand, as he dances away, aiming to put that emptied cart between himself and the mace-wielder.

Names not uttered in years start travelling from mouth to mouth, carrying word all across the city that Tet'Nak has returned, the son of Splitface has returned. This, all in the heel of the Grey Boar's return.

What little courage the inexperienced Guardian seemed to muster falters as Tet'Nak flicks the blood of his commander upon his face. He takes a step back, managing to miss the blow to his head by the walking stick. "You shall pay for this." His voice trembles. "You shall pay for this!" He shouts, retreating.

The other remaining Guardian, takes a different approach with Carac. His voice flips over as he shouts,"Wait! Wait! The people.. the people recognize you. Then you are no stranger! You may pass!" He manages to miss the kick, probably because of the cart that suddenly appears between himself and Carac.

Tet'Nak rolls his eyes at the man fleeing. "Definately original," he says, "You will pay! You will pay for this!" Tet'Nak just shakes his head, "How many times do I have to hear that?" He grunts, lowering his blade and wiping it against the dead man's shirt where blood has not already stained.

Perhaps for the first time, Tet'Nak notices Brev, simply nodding his head to the man as he stands there. The old man does not seem like he has been in a fight. There is no experession to his face, no worry, not panic. He replaces his sword and rests the butt of his staff on the ground once more.

Carac lowers the mace, but keeps it ready in case it be needed again. "Spread the word," he says through clenched teeth. "Kierkgard Dun shall be open to all as it was before and as it was meant to be. Run back to where ever it is you Guardians hide when not stealing from your own people and tell them all."

He glances then towards the dagger wielder on the opposite side of the cart. "It takes a whore to know a whore?" he asks with a raised brow. "Is that what you wish to say?" He gives a soft chuckle and then shrugs. "I will not deny that, I'racil had many faults, but we do not choose our parents do we? And I am not my fath . . ." his words break off as he looks harder upon the young man. "Breveg?"

The young man with the dagger watches the fighters warily. When it is clear that both mace and sword seek no more work this day, his dagger is lowered, though his hand still holds it as it rests on his hip. Tet'nak's nod is answered with the barest one of his own. No distaste, no admiration - nothing save a polite blankness.

As he faces Carac, wariness is in his stance. "Name's Brev, now." A moment longer, and he snorts. "No, none of us choose our fathers, do we. So what brings you to Kierkgard, Carac I'racils son? The Market's half-empty the inn has rats in the straw, its girls have the pox and they'll fleece you of your coin quicker than a pack of dogs tearing at a bone."

Tet'Nak seems bored now. He peers over at Carac and Brev. He does not seem to care much, at least the expressions in his face, however, he does watch their exchange. Slowly, Tet'Nak walks over to the cart and opens the bag of apples. He grabs on out and inspects it. He tosses it back into the bag and shakes his head, eventually finding the one he wants.

"Limited worm holes," he says, bringing it up to his mouth and biting off a piece.

Carac shrugs slightly. "I came looking for something," he replies. "Exacly what, I can't say. A link to a happier time, perhaps. A time when throwing snowballs and sneaking into the old witches clearing were all I needed to be concerned with."

He then glances towards the gates and what can be seen of the city beyond them. "But what I have found . . ." he shakes his head in disgust. "How did the Clans allow this to befall the people of Dunland?" he asks. "Are things like this throughout the land?"

He glances towards the cart and Tet'nak. "I doubt we'll have much time to enjoy our victory," he says. "I imagine those guards will be returning with others before long."

A muscle in Brev's cheek twitches. "Those times are long gone. Washed away by the blood. These days it's simple enough - die or live." He runs a hand through his hair, and for a moment his eyes meet the other man's, their gaze bitter. Then his dark curls fall back in place, doing their work once more.

His voice lowers, though its bitterness remains."The clans?" He gives a short bark of laughter. "Bunch of nobles sitting on their backsides, sending other folk out to do their dirty work. You think they give a damn?" His gaze flicks to the other side of the cart, where the once claiming to be Tet'nak stands. "There you hold Dunland," he states, nodding toward the apple. Half-rotten."

"Half?" Tet'Nak says, "Far more than half I am afraid." He looks back toward Kierkgard Dun, "Ah, I suppose people will be getting into their famous rioting mood." His eyes move back to Carac and Brev, "I was /almost/ killed in a riot one time." He points down the ravine, "You two should join me, this way, I think. I know of some suitable places to stay." The old man pauses for a few moments, waiting for the two to decide if they are coming with him or not.

Carac looks towards Brev for a moment. "If what you say is true, then perhaps this is why I felt the need to return," he says. "Perhaps it's Keirn or some other force telling us it is time for things to change in Dunland."

Another glance towards the gates and then towards Tet'nak and he nods. "We were friends once, Brev," he says turning back towards the younger man. "I hope we can be again." With that he turns to follow the older man.

Breveg shrugs at Tet'nak's words. "Doubt they'll come looking for me. /I'm/ not important." A trace of satisfaction creeps into his voice, quickly muffled. "And since the way is so conveniently open ..." He glances toward the city gates, where a few townsfolk are still milling about like frightened sheep (though the wiser ones are long gone). "Perhaps later." He offers the older man a level nod.

Looking back to Carac, he hesitates. "We were," he states, then after a moment's silence adds, "That depends on what you have become." He lifts the rest of the bag of apples, pausing to toss one of the less worm-eaten ones in Carac's direction. "Or," he adds more softly, perhaps to himself, "what I have become." Bag in hand, he walks away.

=== Tet'Nak's DESC ===========================================================

Coarse, raggedly trimmed, and muffed hair presents itself atop the man's head. The base color is dark brown, but grey flecks can be seen, especially above the temple and beyond the ear. Small wrinkles and slightly sagging skin can attest to what some call "middle-age" as only the grey flecks within his hair might only suggest. His wide, yet average length nose is crooked, apparently being broke several times. No other mar can be seen over his visage, save what time has long sought to destroy, the vitality of man.

The jerkin covering his shoulders, chest, and waist is fashioned with no sleeves, but most other details are obscured by the suit of padding and chain mail covering it. The suit itself is set upon the padding, which is died black, but each link is well cared for, or so it appears, for their slightly tarnished shine lives on with its owner.

His fingers, from the second digit, and forearms, reaching to the elbows, are covered by boiled leather that has been fitted with studs. The gauntlets appear to have been created piecemeal, as if certain elements are constantly replaced by newer or better conditioned materials. The left looks slightly different from the right gauntlet, the left fitted with more studs while the right is fitted with less studs, causing the mismatch in weight as well.

The breeches that cover his legs are simple enough. They are somewhat baggy, providing ease of motion and comfort rather than style. Each pant leg tucks into a set of brown boots. Woven into those boots are some types of what could be presumed as blond animal hair. His waist is surrounded by several pouches that are in turn attached to a belt, matching in color to the boots. From it hangs a scabbard and hilt protruding from that scabbard, a hand-and-a-half sword within its resting place.

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=== Carac's DESC =============================================================

Tall and broad of shoulder is the man before you, looking to be somewhere in his early to mid-twenties. A shaggy mop of curly dark hair cascades down from atop his head and often strays across his face. Dark eyes peer out from beneath those wayward curls, always peering into the surroundings nigh to him.

Upon the well-built form of this man lies a cloak that may have been black at one time, but has faded been faded by wear and the elements to a dingy grey. Underneath this cover can be spied a tunic of the same faded hue. Beneath the drab cloth lies pants, also grey yet darker than the faded clothe above, lower still are well worn boots of dark leather.

The only other thing that stands out is a crudely carved wooden medallion in the shape of a hawk, which hangs from a simple leather thong upon his neck.

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=== Brev's DESC ==============================================================

You look on a lanky young man of perhaps 20 years or so. His complexion is swarthy, and his head is topped by a mass of dark curls that stray this way and that, half-hiding eyes of a smoky amber colour. His features are angular, though still somewhat softened by youth: wide cheekbones and a pointed chin, balanced by a narrow, slightly upcurved nose.

He is clad in a tunic of coarse cloth dyed a deep russet, and breeks of a mid-brown shade owing as much to dirt as to dye, with a folded piece of leather stuffed into the waistband. At his other hip hangs a utilitarian knife, of bone with a decorative tracery in some blackened substance that, on closer inspection, might be tarnished silver. Around his neck is hung a bear's tooth, worn and polished, threaded on a piece of twine.

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