Author Topic: Mogsams A6 fluff so far. Or a nice tail about Kislev if you aren't playing.  (Read 738 times)

Offline Mogsam

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Every gust of white cold caused him to shiver in the saddle as he rode his young black mare. She carried his weight easily and her breath clung to the air as she panted enthusiastically during her casual afternoon stroll through the tundra. She was obviously better suited to this frigid wasteland than he having been born here, it was hard not to be envious of her. He had called her Chelo in his head, though her real Kislevian name was unpronouncable for his uncultured tongue. Named after his first tumble way back in his youth. Not that he had been tumbling since, it was hard to find a live woman on a norse dragonship and harder still to tumble when your hands were chained to the floor.

Thinking about the chains caused him to instinctively look at his wrists. Two great scars would be visible if not for the thick woolen gloves he wore. Their great red welts a constant reminder of his shame. Nikoli gripped the reigns with all the strength his three fingers could provide. The others had been lost during his ordeal and it was difficult to guide the horse without their aid. Once he would have been able to tell the horse what to do with but a flick of his wrist, now he could barely hold the horse steady. It was better not to think about his fingers. For a few minutes he tried to drive the thoughts out of his head but it only made him wander to other complaints his battered body was making. His buttocks chaffed from the steady movement and leather saddle, it had been what seemed like a decade since he had ridden anything other than a wooden plank on a boat. Realistically it had been but several months, though that didn't make it seem any less alien. It was almost enough to make him cry. Snow buffeted him gently as it fell from the sky and it stuck to his beard making it even more grey than it was. He had aged much before his time. Months rowing without food and shelter had caused it to age faster than his body. If he wasn't in the middle of Kislev he'd have considered shaving it off but even hair is a welcome friend in the freezing north. Though the beard was allways full of ice which was of course irrating.

The horse infront of him shat onto the path they were taking with a nonchalonce that he had long forgotten, the steaming mass melting the snow around it and distracting him momentarily. Years of training took over and he tried to prod Chelo gently to go around the offending pile. She simply ignored him and proceeded to stamp with her usual enthusiasm not even regestering what humans would find distasteful. He couldn't help but laugh at the horses ignorance.

"What are you laughing about southerner." asked the gruff Kislevian guard that was escorting the long trail of prisoners to the local magistrate.

"I'm a northerner." came Nikoli's choked response. He had barely spoken for months and it came out closer to a whisper than a shout. The guard moved his horse closer and strained to hear the emanicpated mans words.

"What did you say?"

"I'm from the north. My father was a Boyar." He spoke using obvious effort.

"And my mother was a bear." responded the guard. "Her teats secreted mead and she wore a big white cape."

"Technically I am a Boyar now I suppose." Responded Nikoli ignoring the guards sarcasm. He wasn't used to talking to other people anyway. "Though personally I think I made a very good rower. Perhaps I should enlist as a oarsman for the new navy." He looked down at his baggy shirt as he spoke. "I imagine I might need to put on a few stones first though."

"So which of these fanciful Boyars was your father then? I guess the Empress was your mam as well?"

"Boyar Alik Mishinki, Captain of the Leopard Guard and exiled Boyar of Eringrad." He said with a tone of nostalgia. His father had died on the return sail from Araby, the land of his birth if not his heritage. It was the guards turn to laugh.

"The personal guard who let the prince die? Your the crotch spawn of the worst personal guard in our countries history? If I were you I'd go with the mead leaking bear. It's a more honourable story." With that the guard prodded his horse into a faster walk and walked away laughing. Nikoli Mishinki gathered his black and white bear skin cloak around himself to buffet the cold, it always seemed much warmer with this cloak around his shoulders. His father may have let the Kislevian prince die but he had never failed his king. Ladislao had lived and he had restored his pride in his sons eyes.

"Let him laugh my darling. The world needs more laughter."

He closed his eyes and let his mare lead him as the voice spoke to him. She often chose moments when he was alone.

"For the world is turning, times are changing.. Things will not be the same."
Curse you and your ability to stay within the lines.

Offline Mogsam

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The stew warmed his stomach as it decended. Thick pieces of horsemeat swam lazily in his cheap wooden bowl, steam filling the cold air. Just this mediocre meal was more than he had eaten in days, chances are he would be sick after eating so much but he shoveled the food none the less. Pungiant smells reached his nostrils as he dipped his crude spoon in once more, there was definately turnips in there. He'd eaten turnips every day since he had arrived in Erengrad. They were an acquired taste and one he hadn't begun to favour but he no longer cared what he ate, as long as there was food. Soon enough it was all gone and his stomach was becoming vocal with his choice to be quite so ravenous after so much starvation.
"Quite finished are you?" came an amused voice. It was the maid who had provided the meal. No doubt his manners were the source of her mirth. She had a plain face and her hair looked perpetually damp.

"You have my thanks." he replied in his best Kislev. Though he no doubt sounded like a fool. His father had taught him the words of their home but he had never actually had to use them, not when Arabic was so much more beautiful. It was the language of bawdy songs and was used as such in the south.

"Oh don't thank me honey. I just brought you it, thank the horse and the old man who paid for it." She winked at him playfully as she spoke. Once he'd have found it charming and flirted back. Now he was somewhat more indifferent. "Who was he anyway? Not often we get people wearing such fine clothes in this place." It was a fair question and if he was honest to himself Nikoli wasn't sure.

"Supposedly he is my uncle." Not that he knew if it was true. His father had rarely spoke about their family, most of the family he knew were arabic like his mother. If she had seen him but a year ago his embroidered clothes would have easily outshone his 'uncles'. Now his only finery was the great monochromatic cloak he allways wore.

"Supposedly?" She asked with a chuckle.

"He says he is and he paid for my dinner and board." That was good enough at the moment he had decided. "I heard he paid for vodka too." Pausing for a moment she looked confused before he shook his empty cup. She giggled and took the hint. It probably wasn't a very good idea to drink too much, he didn't have the resistance to the alcohol he used to have. Especially not this fermented potato rubbish.
Several regretable vodkas later he sat next to the fire, the flames warming his mangled left hand whilst the right nursed his prize. He was thoroughly drunk and it was fantastic. He watched the flames move through their dance for what seemed like hours. They held such promise, yet he had seen them devour others with such anger. The elfs screams sometimes haunted him. It was a struggle not to shudder despite the warmth. A sound to his side broke his unintentional distracton.

"Mind if I sit?" Came the voice with a smooth and comfortable style. Nikoli struggled to focus as his head lazily moved to the gentlemans face. The features were blurred but he could see the man was a local. The man took Nikoli's lack of response for confusion. "Mind if I sit by your fire?" He asked again, this time in Arabic.

"You may sit by the fire, but no one owns fire." He replied none to soberly in Kislev.

"Then perhaps we can enjoy it together." the stranger said before putting himself down on his rump with his back to the fire. "You look shorter than I thought you would."

"Don't be fooled by my exceptlional desception. I'm actually part giant. On my grandpas side. He was quite the randy fellow." The stranger gave him an appraising look as Nikoli closed his eyes.

"You almost sound intellectly when you've been drinking."

The voice that spoke to him slurred as she spoke.

"You certainly have his sense of humour." Said the stranger with no enthusiasm obviously unamused by the drunken wit.

"You knew the old goat then?"
"I knew him, he was a great man. And I know your uncle. And I knew your father. Now I know you." The comment stirred Nikoli's interest and he tried to study the mans features. They came out as a blur.

"I am your servant as I was your fathers before his exile. You are my new Boyar. Your duties will begin when you are more sober. I will be here tomorrow at midday to take you to your new estate. What little remains of it anyway." With that the man got up and walked away.

"Your servant? That is quite the turn for the books. I hope there are more of them. Though prettier."

It sounded terrible to Nikoli. He had already failed as a leader, a true leader didn't arrive in chains to a barbarian. Now he was being told that he was some petty lord? He reached for another glass and tried welcome the unconciousness it would eventually bring.
Curse you and your ability to stay within the lines.

Offline Mogsam

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This is the origianl text where he came from. He was a minor POV in a story for A5.5. Notice I mispelt his name!  :biggriin:

The heavy iron chains bit deeply into his already bloody and raw wrists as the wooden pole resisted the water. Every stroke was pure agony and apparently unending, this forsaken northern sea seemed to stretch out for leagues. It seemed as though Manaan had long abandoned this sea if the constant storms were anything to go by. The boat stank of salt, urine and sweat where the slaves rowed chained together, scrawny pathetic creatures only good for one thing. For months Nicolay had been a prisoner on this barbaric ship, only Mymridia must know how long as he sure as hell didn’t. He used to pray to her but had given up, she had no place looking over him at the arse end of civilisation. With the world in the perpetual motion of a moving ship he could see little other than the fur covered back of the wretch in front of him. The slave had the curly thick black hair of Araby but he couldn’t recognise him. Perhaps it was one of his own men, Hazzeem maybe… it had been so long since he had eaten anything but greasy slops and ale he wouldn’t be sure if the man was stood facing him. The fur coats were the one boon given to their captives, frozen rowers made little pace, still it hardly mattered to him, his entire world was a blur of rain and wood.

The world of dreams was much warmer than that of water. In his imagination he was still in southern Estalia, the land of eternal summer. There were pretty freckled wenches serving him the finest wines with genuine smiles. His cheeks had a healthy padding and his white and black bear fur cloak was only over one shoulder, he didn’t need to huddle constantly for warmth. He could see Chelo blushing as he glanced at her shyly. The girl had flirted relentlessly with him for weeks before finally submitting. It had been a crowning moment of his short life. The other young men at his side stood when the trumpet blared, it mattered not whether they were Arabs, Estalians or from Kislev, they were all his willing subjects. The golden clad figure sat at the head of the table, his blonde hair tumbling playfully down his face and onto his leopard skin tunic, that eternal smile on his face. He dreamt of the cheer that came tumbling out of his with his Kings arrival. It was perfect.

He woke with a jolt as sea water splashed onto his face. It felt as though Stromfels was spitting in his face. The poor young mans beard absorbed much of the gods spittle and his wet face helped to wake him. His sudden movement hadn’t gone unnoticed but he sat stoic as the bearded Northman hit him full in the chest with the blunt end of his spear. The force caused him to slump winded and the breath escaped his chapped lips. Some more bruised ribs there no doubt. It was his own fault, he shouldn’t have drawn attention to himself. The water hid the few tears he could shed as they dribbled down his cheek. His pale green eyes had been empty for a long time now. This was his place, he had earnt it. The ever blurry sails depicted a black and white bear on a field of red, he was the bears servant now not the cats. The irony did not fail him, the robust cloak warming his shoulders was that of a black and white bear, shorter than most but warmer by far. Ladislao would be amused by such co-incidence, his princely gift matched his captors mark. He would most likely be smiling anyway. A crude trumpet sounded and his hands moved to the paddle, the blisters biting into his palm as he gripped it. Now it was time to row, he didn‘t need to stand for this ruler.
Curse you and your ability to stay within the lines.