Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
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Post by Ascher on Aug 1, 2020 8:37:59 GMT -6
"That's enough of that, I think." This, from the herbalist - her serious expression somewhat mitigated by the gentle, but firm words. "Unless my eyes deceive me, I daresay that our house-guest awoke in the midst of you tending to your chores - hm?" The girl, startled, blinked at her mistress for a few moments before nodding slowly - eyes filled with questions. "I... was," she admitted finally, in that peculiar fashion which characterized a teenager wary of being set to a wearisome task by an authority figure. "Best you return to them, then," the spinster said firmly, nodding toward the door. "I'll take care of checking the bundles in here - you finish tending to the garden and see to replacing the salves."
The girl sighed, but set aside the bloodied linens and stepped back from the bed. She curtsied to Ascher - regaining a trace of her earlier shyness - before making her silent way out of the room. The scarred mage was surprised, despite himself. It was not often that one saw an apprentice of such an age listen to and obey their teacher with so little resistance. Idly, he wondered if he could consult the herbalist on how best to handle pupils at the Academy.
His musings were interrupted by the spinster's sigh, as she rose and began to press against the edges of his wound. Now that his abdomen and torso were no longer swathed in linen, the full extent of his injuries was readily apparent. A series of stitches began the far tip of his right collarbone. They marched along a surprisingly straight line, down to the ridge of his left hip. The girl hadn't misspoken when she said someone had split him from hip to shoulder. Of course, her lack of familiarity with the means by which such had been done would likely not be the case with the mistress of the house.
Ascher winced as the herbalist began pressing against red, slightly-puffy skin. "Ah..." The elderly woman remarked, mostly to herself. "The beginnings of infection. You're going to make these old bones dig out my staves, are you?" She snorted lightly. "Mages these days. No consideration for an old woman." She shook her head in mock severity, perking an eyebrow at her patient. The scarred mage shifted his shoulders in something that could vaguely pass for a shrug. You know, if one were half-blind and observing the subject from a fair distance away. The herbalist smirked. "Not often I see someone taken down by a wind-blade, you know," she remarked casually. "Not many wield such magics, these days."
She was fishing for information, he knew. Of course, concealing it from the woman who served as his healer would be likely to result in a misdiagnosis or complications in treatment that would be better avoided. "Aye," the mage affirmed after a heartbeat. "It was a wind-blade." Ascher paused, before deciding that there was little point in discretion under these circumstances. The evidence of the altercation between himself and the soldier-mage was clearly evident, written across his torso in the language of sweat and blood. "Met an old friend at a tavern," he explained quietly. "A handful of soldiers were there. They were drunk - one soldier-mage in particular. There was a... misunderstanding... about something my friend and I were speaking about, which set him off. To avoid a brawl, a noble's... a noble's man told him to take it outside if he had something to prove. So, we stepped out of the inn... and the soldier-mage didn't see fit to hold back. Not that I hold a grudge, mind - it was just... a bit of a surprise... to be fighting for my life."
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Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
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Post by Ascher on Aug 2, 2020 8:53:11 GMT -6
The elderly woman perked an eyebrow as she rummaged through a drawer in the bedside table, eventually producing a small wooden box from within. "All very interesting, I'm sure," she remarked absently. "But, frankly, I won't remember a word of it." The herbalist winked at him, a faint smile tracing its way over her features. "Old age, you know. My memory isn't as good as once it was." The scarred mage flashed a quick smile in return. He didn't quite trust the woman's words outright, but - in his experience - healers who promised silence and later gave up the ghost to those hunting for their patients rarely lived to the ripe old age that she exhibited.
"Has anyone shown interest in my recovery - or lack thereof?" The question was soft, carefully phrased. At this point, the herbalist comprised the most worldly source of information at his disposal - the alternative being the fourteen-year-old who couldn't quite decide whether she was shy or not. If the fellow's squad-mates were going to come after him for his actions - be it for a personal grudge, for fear of noble retaliation, or to uphold the honor of the Bernese Army - he would be well-advised to be prepared.
"The whole street saw you carried in here, laddy-buck," came the prompt reply. The spinster smirked, seeing Ascher's wince. "At last count..." She carefully opened the box's carved lid, giving rise to a pungent and somewhat spicy scent that seemed to fill the room in mere moments. "...we had three mages..." The elderly herbalist produced a small square of linen, rubbing it in the waxy substance that the box had revealed. "...two pupils..." After ensuring that a liberal amount of the salve had collected on the edge of the linen, she half-bent over the bed - peering at the line of stitches that marched across his chest, her gaze frighteningly focused. "...four soldiers, one with a captain's bars..." The woman began to dab the substance along the red and puffy edges of the wound, sending a shiver of discomfort down her patient's spine. "...two noble's men, whose masters have slipped my mind..."
As the healer began to make her way up toward his collarbone, a dull burning sensation began to sink into the mage's flesh - not unpleasant, per-say, but certainly discomfiting. "...both sets of neighbors - concerned for the well-being of their daughters, you see..." Ascher snorted. Women had nothing to fear from him. While he was lonely, he held no delusions as to the nature of the companionship which he desired. If they did not choose him as he chose them, then the relationship was not one from which he would derive any contentment or satisfaction. "...and two sages, one from the Imperial Academy." Now that was surprising. Not one, but two sages? The scarred mage grit his teeth against the sensation that now threatened to sink into his bones, his body shaking as he watched the puffiness around his wound begin to subside before his eyes - the skin shading back to its customary off-tan.
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Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
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Post by Ascher on Aug 3, 2020 8:15:10 GMT -6
For a time, the scarred mage said nothing. The old woman, for her part, puttered around the room - taking up the task that the young one had begun at the onset of the day - while she waited for the salve to take effect. It was not the first time that Ascher had experienced the extraordinary power of a vulnerary. One such concoction had saved him when he had survived the wind-blade whose mark adorned his face. No, it was the myriad of visitors that drew his thoughts.
The presence of the mages, at least, was somewhat understandable. He could imagine that one or two of his old comrades still kept an ear out for news regarding the Academy. The duel in which he had participated was not precisely private. Moreover, if Ascher recalled what the baronet said correctly... the manner in which he had engaged the soldier-mage would have caused a fair few practitioners to sit up and take notice. He would undoubtedly be perceived as a vagrant - his status as an Academy graduate would only come to light if someone thought to check the rolls on file with the institution - and a vagrant overcoming a soldier-mage of the Bernese military would quickly become the talk of pupils and instructors alike. Moreso, given that the only spells anyone had seen him employ were derivations of the most basic wind diagram.
In a sense, he could understand both the mages and pupils - presuming they were from the Academy. It would not be beyond the pale for a couple of students to allow their curiosity and boldness to overcome their good sense, driving them to seek out confirmation of the rumors which had almost certainly begun to spread. The instructors, likewise, would need their own confirmation. There had been mages among the crowd that day; almost all of whom had been affiliated with the Academy in some fashion. It was likely that the trio who had sought audience with him whilst he was incapacitated had been among them - or, at the very least, were associated with others who had been present.
The noble's men... that was a trifle surprising. He supposed that the baronet had overseen the duel. This meant that the men-at-arms could reasonably have been sent to gather information - whether by the baronet himself, or by those who considered him a political obstacle. If it proved to be the latter, he had little to fear. The outcome of any given duel had little bearing on the reputation of the one who oversaw it, unless there were grievous breaches of etiquette which the overseer proved unwilling or unable to redress.
While his opponent had overstepped himself by casting a final spell after clear ceremonial death, Ascher had not technically been offered a surrender. It had been dishonorable, without a doubt, but just within the lines of legality. If the former proved to be the case, then it would seem the scarred mage retained the interest of the baronet for reasons yet to be determined. The man had given the impression of a veteran; it was possible he was interested in how Ascher had successfully overcome a soldier-mage whilst only using fundamental spells. It was also possible the man was simply monitoring him to ensure that the young soldier did not return, misguided, to salvage his honor by finishing the job.
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Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
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Post by Ascher on Aug 4, 2020 8:47:05 GMT -6
"What do I owe you?" the scarred man asked after a time, shaking himself out of his reverie. It was odd that such considerations should seem pleasant to him. Perhaps he had missed his time in the service more than he cared to admit - even to himself. The herbalist half-turned, perched precariously with one foot on the seat of a chair and the other firmly ensconced atop the dresser. Her hands fiddled with the binding on a particularly reticent bundle of herbs, even as she squinted at her patient. The whole affair was really quite amusing, and Ascher could not help the small smile that glimmered at the edges of his features.
"Owe? Why, nothing!" The woman peered at her patient for a heartbeat, then turned back to the drying herbs. "It was the most miraculous thing, you see - a coin-purse! It simply appeared upon my worktable, quick as you please. Now, far be it for me to question the will of Ashera - if she so desires that I be enriched, thus shall I find myself enriched!" The herbalist carefully made her way off the chair, stepping down from the dresser in the process. She was really quite nimble, for someone who appeared to be on the far side of sixty. An errant part of the mage's mind observed that she might have once been quite stunning, in the days of her youth.
"Blessings to those upon whom Ashera smiles," Ascher remarked softly, half-musing to himself. Hannah nodded approvingly. It could be argued that he, himself, fell into that category. The scarred mage had most certainly survived a situation which would almost certainly have led to his death - facing wind-blades with nothing but one's wits and a basic wind diagram was hardly the action of a man who valued his own life. But then, he hadn't known the soldier-mage would wield - or be permitted to wield - his military tome under such circumstances. That had most certainly not been the norm when he had served. Of course, the last time he wore the uniform of Bern had effectively been during the Bandit War... so it was reasonable to expect that customs and courtesies had changed in the intervening years.
As the mage mused, the herbalist continued to prattle - bustling onward about the room. "Hannah, says I, have you gone and left a client's payment uncounted? Now, that isn't like you old girl!" She turned toward Ascher's sickbed, waving a feathered duster in his general direction. Where it had come from, her patient couldn't say. "So I look in my ledger... and what do I find but a neatly-penned entry, in my own handwriting, showing your treatment has been paid! Myriad, truly myriad, are the blessings of Ashera." Her sharp eyes belied her congenial manner as she shot a stern glance in the mage's direction. The man got the message. "Truly myriad," he repeated with a wink. Clearly, someone had already paid the herbalist. All this nonsense... Ashera, pardon him - all of this talk about a miraculous coin-purse was simply a theatrical way of explaining that without truly explaining. She wasn't talking. Folk were unlikely to have the nerve to gainsay something presented as a miracle, particularly when it related to the healing of an otherwise doomed man. Such stories abounded, with regard to those who followed the goddess.
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Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
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Post by Ascher on Aug 5, 2020 19:54:25 GMT -6
The next few days were a blur for Ascher, an admixture of unconsciousness and occasional bouts of excruciating pain. Though the salve had alleviated some of the agony, the mage's initial consciousness had foreshadowed a false recovery. The edges of his wound had began to weep, curling in upon themselves and adopting an irritated reddish hue. Hannah - bless her soul - proved to possess saint-like meticulousness and the patience of a Divine Dragon. Always, she was present - replacing the linens and poultices, soaking up the colorless fluid that flowed intermittently from her patient's wounds. Truly, the herbalist proved a gift from Ashera herself.
Nearly two weeks later, the scarred mage was deemed sufficiently healthy to join the household for their evening meal - and, apparently, sufficiently healthy so as to not put off their appetite. As he knew all too well, the smell of infection was utterly nauseating. He felt a resurgence of strength as he sat at the table, garments freshly laundered at Anna's insistence. The fourteen-year-old had proved to be Ascher's only source of news from the outside world. Hannah seemed to be of the opinion that too much information would be the bane of her patients and thus sought to conceal the state of things until they had recovered.
The man never knew whether others had tried to visit following his initial awakening - on that subject, the straw-haired girl remained reticent to speak. The scarred mage had an inkling that something had scared her into silence - Hannah, perhaps - but had no way to corroborate his suspicions. It was another two weeks before Ascher sat upon the hearth, pulling his boots on for what he hoped would be his final farewells to the pair. They were lovely, to be sure, but he had lived on his own for far too long to return to a life of companionship - particularly with a woman his mother's age, and a girl young enough to be his own daughter.
After a muted exchange of well-wishes and Hannah's stern admonition to ward oneself against battle spells when dueling a soldier - that particular tidbit of information had apparently been revealed upon his arrival, much to the chagrin of the newly-recovered duelist - Ascher took his leave. His first matter to address was, of course, to ensure that Randolf was aware of his survival and hadn't taken it upon himself to distribute what few belongings the man had managed to secure from Lucerne and the rebel hides in which they had been hidden during the occupation.
Oddly, he found the inn closed - the door boarded up, with a large 'x' scrawled across the main entry. Those were plague markings, yet the man was just a hair shy of absolutely certain that there had been no such event during his convalescence. A plague would have been virulent; the chalk sigil would have spread throughout the city. A curfew would be in effect, carters collecting bodies to be taken to the communal pyres that were commissioned in lieu of graves under such conditions.
Yet... he saw none of these things.
Children laughed and cried as they ran roughshod through the streets. Shopkeepers argued with matrons and guardsmen, while their stalls did a booming trade in all manner of goods. Food was plentiful, as was much of the luxury merchandise that would not have been readily available were an epidemic on the rise. Even the city's erstwhile defenders seemed at ease, leaning against their spears and chatting idly with one another on street corners. No bodies, no quarantine, no fear. Thus, the questions remained:
Who would chalk such a mark upon Randolf's door? And, more importantly... what had happened to his friend?
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Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
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Post by Ascher on Aug 6, 2020 20:16:45 GMT -6
The mage pondered over the situation as he wove his way through the alleys of Bern, taking a roundabout route toward the main gates. If, in truth, there was a pandemic in the making then the primary entrance and exit to the city would undoubtedly be the place to learn of it. As he walked, Ascher reflected upon those whom he recalled seeing in Randolf's inn. Try though he might, the only individuals which sprang to mind were Randolf, the baronet, and the handful of soldiers who were with his opponent. His friend, himself, was missing - this effectively left the baronet and the soldiers as potential sources of information. Neither of which the scarred mage found particularly appealing.
The man considered his choices. In theory, it would not be terribly difficult to suss out the baronet's identity. He believed that he recalled the colors the man had wore, as well as that of his... bodyguard? Man-at-arms? His armsman, regardless of the position's title. The true measure of one's resourcefulness would likely lay in locating the baronet and gaining a personal audience with the man. Despite his presence in Bern, most baronets did not possess enough coin to hire stewards to tend to their lands whilst they frolicked about with the rest of the nobles. This was, in part, why knights were named to such positions in the first place - even the most inept squire was expected to know how to keep a ledger and turn a basic profit, even if such calculations were normally factored following battles or tournament with regard to the spoils of victory.
Speaking in generalities, this usually meant that the average baronet - if such a thing could be said to exist - was unable to personally depart from his lands for extended periods of time unless called to war. Under such circumstances, hereditary nobles would assign their primary or secondary heirs to tend to their holdings. Baronets, as non-hereditary aristocracy, were not afforded such privileges. Instead, a crown-appointed steward would govern their lands in trust until such a time as the baronet returned from the battlefield - or his replacement was selected, in the event of death or dishonor.
The particular noble which was subject to Ascher's consideration had given him the distinct impression of a relatively low-ranking baronet. Not a recent appointee, necessarily, but not one which possessed wealth and power in excess. The lone armsman which accompanied the baronet constituted the most prominent evidence of that fact; baronets which achieved wealth and power usually did so at the expense of others, leading to a great many enemies both within and without the country of Bern. As a result, that wealth and power were generally employed to safeguard their lives - leading such baronets to maintain as large of a body of men-at-arms as was permitted by the crown.
After all, the title of baronet was not hereditary - one had only to slay or disgrace the office-holder to effectively ensure that their replacement was not of the same family or bloodline. Regardless, his thoughts had clearly digressed. A baronet with so few guardsmen would likely need to return to his holdings frequently, if not reside there on a more permanent basis. Given the size of the country of Bern, gaining an audience could very well require Ascher to travel to the furthest reaches of the nation in an effort to ascertain the fate of his friend. By then, it could very well be too late - and he was loath to gamble with Randolf's life.
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Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
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Post by Ascher on Aug 7, 2020 9:12:53 GMT -6
However, the alternatives to seeking an audience with the baronet were twofold; either the scarred mage sought out the soldiers who had been enjoying themselves at Randolf's inn... or he embarked on an independent investigation that involved neither the military nor the baronet. Identifying the soldiers would likely pose significant greater difficulty than identifying the noble, given that the disposition of military troops was not likely to be publicized by whatever commander currently held sway in Bern. They bore no marking or insignia that he could recall, barring one man with a captain's pin. While not necessarily considered a low rank, there were an abundance of captains in the Bernese Army - many of whom were stationed in the capital, whether in a martial or administrative capacity.
Idly, the man wondered if some standardized manner of identification might be warranted - a badge, perhaps, with the soldier's name or personal sigil? He quickly dismissed the idea. It would never catch on. Besides, displaying one's name for all to see would likely result in one's enemies becoming able to more readily target key figures within Bern. Ascher shuddered, recalling the chaos that had ensued when his unit's quartermaster had fallen to the blade of a sneak-thieving camp follower. They had all eaten naught but cold porridge and stale bread for the better part of six months, before his replacement arrived - putting everyone in a rather dark mood and sending morale into the gutter. Thankfully, that had been before he had been made responsible for other soldiers. The sergeants and officers unfortunate enough to hold such positions, however, were not well-regarded by their subordinates as a result of the poor living conditions and delayed pay.
Another digression. Is it a sign of old age, this growing fondness for reminiscence? Ascher's boot-heel scuffed against the cobblestones as he turned a corner, lost in his thoughts. The street led into what the man presumed to be a laundress' courtyard - or perhaps a dyer's workshop? Long cords were strung across the open expanse, well above the mage's head. Lengths of colored cloth had been laid upon them, left to dry in the sun. The fabric - silk, he surmised, eying the nearest such hanging - had been dyed various shades of blue, whether the deep azure of a sapphire or the vibrant cerulean of the Maridine Wyvern's scales. There was a certain peace to be had in this place, watching the courtyard's contents as they drifted gently in what had proved to be a soft, pleasant breeze.
It was a two-level courtyard, with staircases at each corner that led to a covered walkway that wrapped around the second floor - a relatively common design for compounds that had been adopted just after the end of the Bandit War. Ascher, himself, had grown up in just such a place. He could almost hear his mother chatting with the other carpenters' wives, smell the fragrance of sandalwood bark - imported for the nobility at great expense. The man reckoned that there would be shopfronts beyond the handful of doors at street-level, of the kind that his family used to own. Fabric merchants, if the contents of the courtyard were any indication - or else folk who had some manner of fascination with the color blue. To each their own; Ascher was not so arrogant as to believe himself in a position to judge.
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Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
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Post by Ascher on Aug 8, 2020 10:28:09 GMT -6
The scarred mage took a seat upon a rickety bench, leaning back - letting the courtyard wall take his weight. The man sighed as he glanced about him, taking note of the signs that the inhabitants of this place were not necessarily in the most secure financial position. The benches that lined the walls were wooden, rather than stone, and seemed to be in rather rough shape. His father would have been aghast at such workmanship, were he alive to see the state to which Bern's once-famed courtyards had fallen. The plaster walls were cracked and peeling, revealing a combination of brick and crumbling mortar. The cloth in evidence upon the lines was rather well-appointed, in stark contrast to what he could see of the denizens' living conditions.
It was still quite early in the day - neither craftsman nor housewife had yet taken to the streets, leaving the small plaza in relative peace. The scarred mage closed his eyes for the span of a heartbeat, his head tilting back until it rested against the cool plaster. Just as the man began to inadvertently drift off into the realm of sleep, the scuff of boots on cobblestones reached his ears. This was not, in itself, terribly uncommon - being, as he was, a nominal resident of Bern's eponymous and most populous city. What sent a shock of adrenaline coursing through him was the clink of metal upon metal, the dull 'shiink' of maille rings falling against one another - cadenced with the steps as they grew louder.
Guardsmen, he told himself. The Ilians are gone. The Sacaens hardly ever wore maille in the first place, and most certainly wouldn't have been walking the streets of Bern's capitol unless they were somehow under duress. There were any number of legitimate entities who might done chainmail within the confines of a city. Tightening his jaw, the mage purposefully closed his eyes - focusing on his slow pattern of inhale and exhale. The footsteps grew audibly louder as several pairs of boots made their way into the courtyard. Then, a handful grew silent whilst a loud and sudden bang echoed through the air.
Ascher started, eyes shooting open as he straightened. Four men were gathered around a door near the entrance to the courtyard. Burly men, with the exception of a short and rather spindly sort that couldn't help but remind the scarred mage of a weasel. The long-haired man got the impression that the weasel was in charge, whilst the others served as enforcers of some kind. Daggers and fighting leathers were in ready evidence, along with well-worn, metal-studded clubs not unlike what shopkeepers might keep beneath the table to deal with unruly customers.
The third man planted his boot squarely in the center of the door, causing it to shudder in its frame - splintering slightly as a boot-point was revealed. It was he that wore a shirt of maille, slightly rusty and generally ill-maintained, over a ragged gambeson. Unlike his fellows, he wore a longsword at his waist - a plain and unadorned affair, with a circular pommel and leather-wrapped hilt. A deserter, perhaps, or an Ilian left behind during the country's withdrawal from Bern?
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Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
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Post by Ascher on Aug 10, 2020 9:48:43 GMT -6
Two kicks later, the door slammed inward - the sound of wood splintering as it struck stone echoing through the courtyard. Ascher had seen this manner of thing before, in Lucerne. It was not uncommon for the local thugs to organize themselves into gangs, claiming territory and taking up 'collections' to fund their beer habits and the occasional foray into establishments of disreputable pleasure. Seeing such an individual as well-equipped as the man who had donned maille and wore a longsword among them, however, was a rare occurrence from the mage's perspective. The weasel and his bully-boys waited outside while their well-armored brother-in-arms made his way into the habitation - or possibly a shop, depending on the layout of this particular courtyard.
The mage idly tucked a strand of hair behind his ear as he eyed the group in a vaguely speculative fashion. Thugs of this sort were rarely well-loved in the neighborhoods which lay within their self-proclaimed kingdoms. Ascher harbored no delusions as to the inherent goodness of his person, disgusted as he was by what he saw during the Bandit War... yet, the man considered whether he could make a difference if he were to step in.
It was unlikely, to say the least.
Four men, three of whom clearly familiar with physical altercations - and himself a mage? The weasel, likely a knife-fighter or possible dabbler in the arts of magic, could potentially pose a greater threat even than his bodyguards. The numbers were against him, which meant that the scarred mage would need to find some manner of advantage that would mitigate the possibility of simply being mobbed by the gang members. Ascher cast his gaze around the courtyard, his eyes finally falling upon one of the staircases.
Casually - telling himself that it was simply a good idea to practice caution - the scarred mage stood and began to weave his way through the cloth-filled plaza, angling his path to lead him toward where the staircase began. If conflict broke out - it was not unheard of for the denizens of neighborhoods under the sway of gangs such as the one to which he assumed these thugs belonged - then it would prove a blessing from Ashera to those who fought at range. The duel notwithstanding, Ascher more certainly preferred to cast his spells from well outside the striking range of spears and blades alike. Arrows too, ideally.
His boots scuffed against the dry wood of each step as the man made his purposeful, unhurried way to the upper floor of the courtyard. The thin coat of paint which overlaid the structure was peeling - clearly, it had not been maintained properly for a good many years. Since before the occupation, if the mage were to hazard a guess. The structure's wooden bones remained sound, though, despite their aged appearance. Quietly, the mage made his way along the walkway until he had a relatively unobstructed view of the shop. No sooner had he reached his intended position than did a piercing shriek echo from beyond the doorway.
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Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
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Post by Ascher on Aug 11, 2020 21:06:40 GMT -6
The cry heralded the reappearance of the well-armed thug, dragging a young woman out of the shop - her ponytail clenched firmly in his fist. With a scowl, the disreputable armiger threw his captive at the feet of his supposed leader. The weasel-faced man smirked, his gaze drifting lazily over her prone form. Scarcely had a heartbeat passed before a well-rounded matron ran out from another of the courtyard's doors, apron crumpled in her fists as she sprinted to the captive's side. As she fell to her knees, one hand coming to rest gently upon the shoulder of the battered woman.
The matron and captive bore a certain resemblance to one an other. The young woman - a daughter, perhaps - wore her dark hair in a ponytail. The ebon strands cascaded over her shoulder like a fall of fine silk. One's hair was often the sole vanity that a common-born woman could afford in Bernese society. It was said that a man could judge the character of such a woman simply by comparing the care she took when maintaining her own hair with that she afforded others. The matron's own locks were bound in a tight bun, yet the streaks of silver simply accented the strands' darker tones.
Jaw tight, the mage stood upon the second-floor walkway - conflicted for perhaps the span of a breath - before striding purposefully toward the stairs he had only just ascended. As Ascher made his way back toward ground-level, a lithe figure appeared from the same doorway that the matron had used. It was an older man, light of step and keen of eye. His gaze was unwavering as it rested upon the maille-clad ruffian that had manhandled the young woman from the shop. A straight blade was laid bare in his right hand, with a long fuller and oddly bereft of a crossguard. The steel shone dully in the morning light, the stranger's grip tight enough to allow good control without risking the leather hilt wrappings.
The weasel paled as he saw the new arrival, taking stock of the man with a curt glance before stepping forward in an aggressive fashion. "Go back inside, Sacaen," he called harshly. The sound of his rasping voice could only be favorably compared to the experience of walking upon broken glass. Sometimes, one knew it had to be tolerated - but would go to great lengths to prevent themselves from being exposed if left to one's own devices. The swordsman wore a half-robe of Sacaen origin, characterized by a series of geometric patterns along the hem - symbolic, Ascher had been told.
As the mage's boot struck the cobblestones of the plaza, the weasel's bodyguards began to drift apart - attention upon the swordsman as they began to slowly ease their way toward opposite flanks. An unfavorable position, to be sure - particularly as the Sacaen would find it necessary to charge forward in order to defend both matron and captive against any less-than-honorable violence on the part of the thugs, leaving him open to blows from behind.
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Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
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Post by Ascher on Aug 12, 2020 21:45:56 GMT -6
There was a rational voice in the back of Ascher's mind that pointed out - in quite the reasonable fashion - that this whole affair was not his to fight. The mother and daughter clearly had a capable defender in the Sacaen man; the streaks of grey did little to belie the natural manner in which he held his blade. The mage had quite literally been passing through, merely pausing to reminisce about the similarity between this courtyard and the mists of his childhood memories. Yet, he found himself moving - allowing the nearest of the bully-boys to put himself between Ascher and the Sacaen.
The nomad's eyes flickered momentarily toward the scarred mage, narrowing ever so slightly as the long-haired man twitched his hand - manifesting a minute diagram near the tip of his pointer finger, just enough for the spirits of the wind to begin to gather, before inclining his head ever-so-slightly toward the weasel-faced thug. Expressionless, the Sacaen turned his attention back to the situation at-hand - clearly more focused upon the pair of thugs and their maille-clad fellow than the leader, much to the weasel's amusement.
"You're not on the plains now, friend," the lead gang member remarked casually, radiating an arrogant confidence that made one want to strangle the smirk right off his face. The weasel didn't give any indication of being aware of the scarred mage's presence, but one of his thugs glared directly at Ascher - a clear attempt to frighten him off through sheer force of will. "Our streets, our rules. This affair is none of your business." Even as he spoke, the weasel reached down to smoothly unlatch a battered hip-case and subsequently produced a small, leather-bound book not unlike Ascher's own. No sooner had the tome cleared its case, however, than did the weasel segue into a chant - his voice thin and reedy.
It was a pupil's chant - a mnemonic device and focusing incantation intended to guide anima spirits in the absence of a diagram. Such verses were quite prevalent in the superstitious past, but had long since been disregarded as superfluous among the well-educated minds of the Imperial Academy. Their use in this context suggested that the weasel was either informally-trained or self-taught from dated manuscripts. The chant wasn't in a language that Ascher recognized, but he could see the spirits of thunder it drew forth.
Being struck by such attacks was unpleasant, to say the least. He had seen such tactics employed most often against wyverns and other scaled beasts, but it was not uncommon for soldiers of Bern to sport fractal scars - the shock leaving permanent marks that looked vaguely like trees or ferns. Somehow, the mage suspected that the Sacaen would ill-appreciate his wordless indication of his intention to assist after being struck by a spell from that aspect of the Trinity.
Eyes narrowed, Ascher's hand snapped up before tracing an 'L' shape in the air - releasing the foundational motes of a diagram in a triangular pattern. "Mage!" The gang member who had attempted to intimidate the long-haired man paled as he shouted his now-redundant observation. His fellow, caught between Ascher and the Sacaen swordsman, whirled - only to fall to one knee as the tip of a blade poked through the front of his jerkin. The robed Sacaen withdraw his weapon in a swift, clean motion before turning his attention toward the other club-armed opponent.
The weasel's eyes widened as he turned toward Ascher, smirk disappearing as he stuttered - the chant faltering before returning to its previous cadence. His hand rose high above his head as spirits of lightning were drawn swiftly inward by the diagram now manifesting before his original target. Electricity crackled around the weasel's fingertips as he flung his hand downward in the general direction of the swordsman, clearly distracted by the appearance of a fellow magic-user, as he continued his chant - the spirits of thunder now gathering for a second blow against the new foe.
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Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
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Post by Ascher on Aug 13, 2020 14:33:34 GMT -6
With a loud 'crack' and a blinding flash, a quill-thin bolt of lightning zipped past where the Sacaen had been standing - catching the hem of the man's robe in passing, scorching a hole through the wool and giving rise to a mingled scent of ozone and burning sheepskin. The swordsman had side-stepped in a fashion peculiar to his people, some manner of martial art that Ascher had always found beyond his understanding. The fluidity of motion always reminded him more of a dance than a viable combat technique. Of course, that was likely why he clasped a tome rather than a blade.
A burst of compressed air materialized as Ascher snapped his hand toward the weasel - or, more specifically, toward the man's upturned palm. Wind, though objectively less damaging than the other 'light' elements, was generally agreed to be the spell classification that boasted the greatest ease of control. This allowed for quick casting times and comparatively impressive accuracy relative to bursts of flame or streaks of lightning. Thunder magic, in contrast, boasted the greatest offensive power - and additionally had the tendency to become attracted to metallic objects, a convenient trait when one was often faced with foes who favored steel arms and armour. Like... mercenaries. Or city guardsmen, for instance.
The scarred mage's spell struck the weasel's hand mid-rise - perhaps a second or two before the thin bolts of lightning dancing at his fingertips had the opportunity to blast toward his foe. With a sound that was half-shriek and half-curse, the gang leader stumbled backward. His chant ended abruptly as the spirits of thunder began to disperse, the white-blue sparks flickering between his fingers dying out as the man clasped his wrist with a pained expression. Ascher knew it wasn't enough to deny him the use of the hand irreparably, but he knew from experience that it certainly caused enough pain for someone to sit up and take notice.
The Sacaen slipped toward the other club-armed thug, leveraging the distraction obligingly provided by the dueling mages to send the tip of his blade through the man's throat. As the gang member fell gaping to his knees - hands clutching at his neck in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of his lifeblood - the nomad strode toward where the mother-and-daughter pair lay, releasing one hand from his blade in order to get a firm hold beneath the matron's armpit. As he wordlessly hauled the woman to her feet and gave her a little push toward the door through which they both had come, the maille-clad thug - having given the mages a wide berth - darted in and caught hold of the young shopkeeper's kerchief. He yanked it harshly, choking off the scream that had begun to rise in her throat, before resting his blade against her neck.
The Sacaen froze as he caught sight of the situation, both hands having returned to the hilt of his weapon. The other swordsman grinned maliciously, brow furrowed in a menacing fashion. "That's it, mate. Now, here's what we're..." The rolling thunder of another lightning bolt roared over his words, prompting the man to pale as his eyes darted toward where Ascher and his opponent were exchanging insights on the finer points of magical conduct in an urban battlefield environment. The results were... unsettling, to say the least.
The scarred mage had doffed his traveler's cloak entirely, preferring at some point to lose the garment than risk the lightning setting it aflame. The smell of ozone and charred cloth was quite prevalent in the courtyard as he darted between the large swaths of linen that hung in the space - using them to restrict his foe's line-of-sight. A scorched hole near his shoulder suggested that the weasel's most recent efforts had not been entirely in vain, though the man seemed to be rather heavily winded. He had, after all, only recently recovered from the last such conflict.
The weasel-faced gang leader, in comparison, was almost blue in the face with frustration. His reedy voice had become hoarse with chanting, his hands rising and falling as though conducting an orchestra - sending bolts of lightning searing through the sheets of linen in the general direction of his opponent. Besides the injury to his wrist - visibly swollen - he now limped prodigiously, clearly favoring his right leg. The man cursed roundly as he tried to make his way through the yards of fallen linen that had somehow entangled themselves about his ankles.
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Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
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Post by Ascher on Aug 14, 2020 13:12:06 GMT -6
Suddenly, a series of loud, shrill whistles cut through the morning air with piercing clarity. The maille-clad thug flinched, casting a glance behind him - toward the archway that led to the main thoroughfare. Judging from the small crowd of people that had silently gathered to watch the conflict, someone had likely taken the initiative to notify the guard of an ongoing disturbance. Clearly, the gang leader and his henchman would not find it easy to take their leave through the crowd. From the looks on some of the laborers' faces, it was likely that the only reason they had restrained themselves from jumping into the fight was the anima being thrown around by Ascher and his opponent.
No-one relished the opportunity to be suffocated or struck by lightning. Even so, there were a handful of carters near the front with some hefty, iron-bound clubs striking their palms in a rather intimidating fashion. "...Caaaaairn...?" The thug drew out the first vowel in his leader's name in a fashion that clearly conveyed his discomfort with the present situation. A muffled grunt answered him as the weasel-faced man struggled out from under a sheet of heavy linen that had fallen over him in its entirety. After a few seconds, the thunder mage kicked his way out from under the fabric - only to be struck in the chest, center of mass, by another burst of compressed air. The ruffian staggered under the force of the blow, collapsing back into the mass of linen as his bad leg refused to accepted his weight.
"WHAT?" The man threw his hands up in an exasperated fashion. "I'm kind of BUSY here..." He pushed himself back to a standing position, grimacing - his chest heaving with every breath. "Can't you SEE THAT?" The weasel glared at the maille-clad man, then grew pale as he saw the size of the crowd - and their expressions. "Shite..." The mage breathed, eying the townsfolk before casting around desperately for an alternative exit from the courtyard. After a heartbeat, his eyes alighted upon the alleyway through which Ascher had originally arrived.
"Bring the tramp!" the weasel rasped harshly, limping toward the small gate.
The maille-clad thug quickly spun his captive around - the edge of his weapon against her throat, the length of the blade resting upon her shoulder - and began to back in the general direction of the alleyway. No sooner had he gone five steps than did the spear-shafts and glinting helms of the town guardsmen appear near the rear of the crowd. Before he could take two steps more, the weasel had already made his way out into the maze of alleys and Ascher's scorched and exhausted form stood between the thug and the exit - the motes of a spell foundation glimmering before him.
"Out o' the way!" The swordsman spat grimly, eying the mage as he swung the young woman around once again - kicking irritably at the linen sheets that covered the ground, tugging at his bootheels. It had turned into a stand-off. To his left, the crowd and - before too long - the guardsmen as well. In front, a Sacaen whose expression suggested he'd love nothing more than to engage in some impromptu heart surgery by way of the blade that hung loosely by his side. To his right, the grim-faced Ascher, with his scorched tunic and the scent of ozone assaulting the nostrils of anyone within ten feet.
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Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
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Post by Ascher on Aug 16, 2020 13:19:38 GMT -6
A maille-clad guardsman with a crimson surcoat - emblazoned with the city seal of Bern's capitol, notably different than the national crest - pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Judging by his expression and vague mutterings, the man was nearly apoplectic with anger. "Bodies on the cobbles... throwing spells around in the streets... just before I get off duty... because OF COURSE it would..." The new arrival was a lieutenant, judging by the single bar on his lapel - likely the ranking officer on duty in this section of the city. The face beneath the conical helmet paled as the gravity of the situation before him became readily apparent.
A brawl that ended with a handful of folk killing one another was not something for which the guard could be blamed. Mishandling a situation in which there was a hostage involved - in plain view of a crowd of agitated townsfolk, no less - was a different matter altogether. Dealing with the situation well might merit recognition or perhaps a promotion. However, the possible consequences were also a great deal more lethal. Frankly speaking, this was a matter that he would have rather left in the hands of his erstwhile and more experienced colleagues.
Ascher barely spared a glance for the newly-arrived guardsmen as he stared at the lone remaining thug, taking stock of his movements and the directions in which he cast his gaze. Folk often looked and shifted their weight before they stepped, making such body language a much better indicator of impending hostility than might otherwise be available. "Stay back!" The thug said harshly, yanking her head back by her hair to bare her throat more visibly. Her neck was nestled between his weapon's blade and crossguard, making it unlikely - at best - that he could be disarmed without the young woman losing a great deal of blood and flesh in the process.
The lieutenant abruptly came to a halt, just in front of the crowd. A flurry of worried murmurs emerged from the crowd, mingled with the growls of the carters nearest the front. One of the workers - a bald, broad-shouldered man - shifted his gaze intermittently between the Sacaen swordmaster and the bully-boy that held the girl firmly in-hand. The similarity in appearance between the captive and the Sacaen had become even more pronounced in such close proximity. The hair the scarred mage had originally assumed to be ebon or an incredibly dark brown was, in truth, a deep emerald green.
Her captor had clearly been growing agitated, but the man seemed to relax a bit when he caught sight of the lone bar on the guardsman's collar. "Here, now, Lieutenant..." The thug adopted a somewhat cajoling tone of voice, one belied by the blade he held to the throat of a vulnerable young woman. "Tell the wind-faced bastard..." He glanced meaningfully toward Ascher's battered form. "...to get the hell out o' the alley, and I'll be on my merry way. Long as you keep those hands away from any hilts and don't do anything stupid - like follow me - she'll come round in a day or two, not too much worse for wear." He grinned maliciously, his confidence growing as that of the guardsman seemed to fade away.
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Ascher
Mage
Posts: 45
Profession: Former Rebel
Affiliation: People of Bern
Affinity: Wind
Profile: Ascher
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Post by Ascher on Aug 17, 2020 20:01:51 GMT -6
The scarred mage hacked a coarse cough from the depths of his abdomen, spitting a blood-flecked bit of phlegm onto the cobbles. Silver light glimmered around his fingertips, the beginnings of a foundational mote threatening to appear at any moment. The lieutenant's flickered indecisively between the thug, the Sacaen, and the newly re-injured wind mage. The guardsman nervously wet his lips before firming his jaw - mindful not only of the apparent competence of the combatants, but also of how this whole affair would be perceived by the townsfolk. The carters, in particular, seemed to be less than impressed with the performance of the erstwhile members of the city watch thus far.
Slowly, almost as if reluctant to cross the mailled-clad captor, the watch officer shook his head. "Not this time," he murmured, the words spoken as if for his ears alone. Then, in a louder voice that contained something that approached a degree of confidence... "Let her go and you'll live. Keep her, and you die. You can't both cut her throat and parry a blow." At this, the thug adopted a rather nonplussed expression. The man clearly hadn't thought that far ahead in this predicament. Ascher chanced a glance toward the Sacaen, only to see the nomad watching him carefully. The mage's brow.
The robed swordmaster nodded ever-so-slightly toward the thug's captive, then rolled his neck abruptly to the right - almost as though flinging his chin toward the crowd and watchmen. A dull crack sounded from his general direction, the motion concealed as a neck stretch intended to intimidate someone - whether the onlookers, the watchmen, or the thug was anyone's guess. The scarred mage perked an eyebrow, watching carefully as the Sacaen hefted his weapon meaningfully, lifting the tip up from where it rested near the cobbles as if casually preparing for a fencer's salute.
Ascher swallowed, then nodded ever-so-slightly - his gaze returning to the young woman and her captor. He dearly hoped that he had properly interpreted the Sacaen's unspoken plan, otherwise he'd likely be on the wrong end of an irate swordmaster - rarely a positive circumstance for any spellcaster, especially in such close quarters. As the thug opened his mouth to reply to the lieutenant, the mage took his shot. Two deft flicks of the wrist established the foundation for a burst of compressed air, before another snapped the roiling ball of wind toward the thug's upraised elbow. The joint had begun to shake with the effort of keeping his sword elevated in an admittedly-awkward position - long blades had never been meant to be wielded in such a fashion, such was the purview of daggers or short steel rather than the bully-boy's arming sword.
Little more than a silent shimmer in the air could be seen as a faint breeze rustled the sheets of fabric that remained upon the clotheslines, the spell almost unnoticeable as it made headway along its assigned path. A nearly solid, fist-sized construct of wind struck the thug's elbow at a staggering speed - pushing the man's forearm into his captive's throat and ramming his weapon's crossguard into the side of her neck. Though painful, it was undoubtedly superior to the draw-cut that would've seen the young woman's lifeblood flowing to the cobbles below. Alone, however, the maneuver would have accomplished little but aggravating the thug - given that such lowly spells were incapable of causing serious harm.
No sooner had the wind-ball sped on its way than did the Sacaen throw himself forward. The nomad flung himself prone on his hands and feet - a position that those in Bern knew as the front-lean-and-rest - just as a whirring sound emitted from the open doorway behind him. Silhouetted by the frame stood the matron, a curved bow ready-strung in her hands and two arrows held in readiness near the stave. The thug's weapon struck the cobbles with a clatter as he released both it and the girl to clutch at the long shaft of wood that now adorned the hollow at the base of his neck, gasping desperately for breath.
It was then that the young woman whirled upon her captor, slamming her foot into the back of the thug's knee - toppling him in short order. She pulled a belt-knife from a hip-sheath, her beautiful features contorted with fury as the blade rose... and began to fall, held point-first in a reverse grip as though to slam down into the bully-boy's chest. A larger, calloused hand caught the shopkeeper's wrist as the weapon began to descend - unyielding despite the woman's struggles. "The arrow took him," the Sacaen said quietly, having pushed himself to his feet and traversed the two strides to the pair after the matron's aim proved true. "No need to hasten his way. Let his life fade in its own time - and fade it will."
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