Wrymlung the Decayed

Volunteer

A torrent of rain slams against the oiled leather Wrymlung wears in a futile attempt to stay dry as he rides at a break-neck pace despite the danger of the muddy ground, his heart pounding in anticipation as he draws closer and closer to the fort that burns with torchlight like a beacon in the night. Thunder booms overhead and webs of lightning flash in bursts just above, lighting the otherwise dark, water-logged road without so much as a sliver of moonlight from the thick clouds covering the entire sky. Wrymlung stares into the darkness through the streams of water running down his face, attempting to discern the road from the woods, but his efforts are in vain with this maelstrom, so he ducks his head to shield himself somewhat from the elements. Shivers wrack his body in both chill and fear as he trusts his steed to find the way for both of them, trusting his life solely to Bertram not for the first time.

Bertram’s hooves splash and trudge through the muck as he gallops as fast as he can over newly cut streams where the road had once been, running hard enough that Wrymlung can feel Bertram’s chest heave beneath his own body. The beat of his hooves against the ground becomes more and more uneven as exhaustion begins to weigh Bertram down. Wrymlung had already pushed him for far too long, but there was no stopping now, not with hell at their backs. Wrymlung begins counting each thud of every hoof to mark the passing of time, as it feels as though it passes by so sluggishly, especially now that they’re so close and yet still so far from the fort.

Light surges onto them like the oncoming dawn but Wrymlung doesn’t look up fast enough, Bertram’s hooves hitting slick cobble before Wrymlung can regain control, and they’re both suddenly diagonal. Bertram brays in distress as nearly a ton of horse whirls through the air as he tries to regain control, then Wrymlung feels them lurch, one of Bertram’s legs catching on something and they both fall to the ground in heaps. Shaking hard enough that his armor rattles, Wrymlung pushes himself to his feet and clutches his injured shoulder, rising enough to see three soldiers running from the gate towards them. He couldn’t make out their words through the booming thunder, the rain, and Bertram’s loud shrieks of distress.

One soldier pushes into his space, and he sees it’s his friend, Francesco, who shouts over the storm, “Wrymlung! What’s made you ride like a man running for his life?”

“Commander,” Wrymlung blurts out, gripping Francesco like a lifeline, “I need to speak with the commander. The Gerardi family have now hired mercenaries from Soarone to pull more Alterian houses into the conflict between the Arundell and Honeywood families…” Wrymlung wheezes through the pain, through the harrowing cries of Bertram, catching his breath to continue, “They intend to ignite a war.”

There’s a sound like an ax hitting the trunk of a tree and -immediately- it’s quieter, the sound of rain and thunder suddenly seeming soft compared to the shrieks and brays that no longer shatter the air. Wrymlung sucks in a breath, his breathing steadily quickening until he’s panting with his eyes wide to stare blankly at Francesco, who glances behind Wrymlung and swallows. As Wrymlung begins to turn around to the low sound of something heavy being dragged away, Francesco clutches Wrymlung to drag him into the fort past the thick stone walls of the gate, keeping his head forward so that he won’t look, can’t look.

The two weary soldiers march across the inner ward where a whirl of movement takes to the storm as orders are shouted above the torrent, Wrymlung’s words already spreading from the gate to the entirety of the fort. Steel greaves churn mud and dark rain water as soldiers prepare a caravan of war. Wrymlung barely registers any of it, his heart like a stone in his chest, and it’s already a great effort to keep himself moving, his task far greater than the hollow feeling growing within him. A deep chill overtakes him as Francesco leaves his side to open the great door that leads into the main hall, ushering Wrymlung inside.

“The commander is inside,” Francesco shouted through the rain, his words stern but his eyes warm and understanding in a silent apology, “I must leave to tend to the preparations to spread the word.”

Wrymlung simply nods and ducks inside, the chill not leaving him even as he enters the aura of warmth made by the grand fireplaces maintained at each end of the main hall. The many eyes of the guards within the hall catch onto his miserable form, and he knows he looks a fright with his eyes sunken from a lack of sleep and his entire frame drenched with rainwater, plastering his dark hair on his head. A small stream of water follows Wrymlung as he slides, not unlike a snake, quickly to the commander’s quarters, throwing open the door to stumble before the commander.

“Commander Tremont, I am here to report that several groups of mercenaries have been dispatched by the Gerardi to plant evidence amongst the rival houses of Alteria, harming them even,” Wrymlung rocks a little uneasily on his feet but catches himself as he draws in a hot, suffocating lung full of air, “I mean that they intend to murder their way across Alteria.” He feels himself begin to whither under the weight within his heart as he half sobs, “Even the children.”

Commander Tremont as a man can be summed up in the word “imposing”, his thick frame made only broader by the armor he wears, over which his thick head sits a king lording over his kingdom. He looks the part of a warrior, with his knobby nose twisted from many fractures from many fights and his hair grayed from years at the helm. Before him, Wrymlung looks like a drenched stray who’s come looking for shelter.

The Commander clears his throat pointedly and looks to the side of Wrymlung, drawing his attention to an elderly woman dressed in black velvet sitting in a padded chair with a servant at attention next to her. A gilded cane of ebony topped with a silver handle rests in her aged yet regal hands, a sign of her true status, and Wrymlung falls to one knee.

“My lady, I apologize for my irreverence,” Wrymlung did not pull his eyes away, half-stunned to see the master of the house he serves.

She lifts one hand and carves it up through the air in a delicate gesture to which her servant nods.

“I introduce to you her ladyship, the gracious Lady Giovannetta Mediti,” the servant announced.

Lady Giovannetta Gaheris Mediti, head and master of the noble Nautagonian merchant family, Mediti stares down at Wrymlung over silver, crescent spectacles impassively, waiting for him to continue. It startles him how calm she remains despite his words, despite the chaos, unnerving him deeply as he looks up into her dark, uncaring eyes.

Wrymlung swallows and then speaks, “Your ladyship, I am a soldier of the northern regiment, Wrymlung of Begonia, and I come bearing news from Soarone of a plot against Alteria. I believe that House Gerardi wishes to profit from an Alterian war by selling weapons to the many militant houses, but first, they need to- ”

Lady Mediti holds a hand up, silencing him, then settles herself, “You have done well. I can see that you have traveled without delay to bring this most pertinent news to us.” She turns to the commander, her tone as dry as sand, “Commander Tremont, I am confident that you will be able to send guards along with the goodwill of the Mediti family to all the houses of Alteria.”

Commander Tremont stands and ducks into a half bow, “Of course, your ladyship.” For a moment, he pauses, throwing Lady Mediti a pointed look, “But I must ask, do you mean all the houses?”

“Indeed,” Lady Mediti announced sharply, and the commander nodded before looking at the guard that had just stepped in behind Wrymlung.

“You, what are you doing here? All hands must prepare to set out!” Commander Tremont snaps at the young woman who doesn’t so much as pause.

“I apologize, commander,” she turns to her ladyship and steps closer, “but I come with an important message for Lady Mediti.”

Wrymlung sees a flash of steel in the low firelight within the sleeve of the newcomer and though his body screams for rest, aching to his very bones, he moves with near supernatural speed, pinning the woman to the ground while his hand clenches her wrist. She shrieks as Wrymlung feels bones snap under his hand, forcing her to release the thin dagger surely meant for Lady Mediti. The young woman turns out to be a drakeman with tarnished bronze scales that dig into his gauntlet's leather.

“The Mediti will die! I swear it upon the Dawn Maker,” the would-be assassin howls as she struggles feebly beneath Wrymlung, “You bastards will all die!”

Wrymlung hears even steps come up behind and then around him until Lady Mediti stands rigidly before him, her back perfectly straight. The soldier looks up at her as the drakeman thrashes in Wrymlung's arms, awaiting her instructions. Faster than he could or would ever expect, Lady Giovannetta Mediti slams her cane into the skull of the fake guard, cracking the bone and killing her in one fell move.

“Wrymlung, was it?” Lady Mediti bends down like a vulture, her spectacles flashing in the light from the fireplace, looking Wrymlung in the eye, “I would have you become one of my honored knights.”