The Plucky Hecatonchire
Karstone wasn’t the only one to be shocked; Charles, having shuffled out of the way of everyone who barged into the bar, whipped his head about so fast it clicked across the room. The nearest man, a sellsword of some description, winced in sympathy.
Sir Charles could not attest to when he had last seen Karstone. The last he remembered , for certain, was during their doomed charge into Capital City, and that was partly thanks to Mr. Hodgan reminding him of how he looked like he had 'gon’ out yer bluddy ‘ead’. Everything after that was a jumbled mess of horror, of blood and demons and dark magic, and a young boy they had failed to save. He wanted to say there had been griffins involved as well, but no matter how he tried to arrange the story he failed to make it make sense.
It had been magic. The rivers had turned red and flowed into the city, the dead had risen to drag them to their deaths, and he had been struck upon the head. It didn't have to make sense.
As the discerning observer would have realised, Sir Charles had never made it to Messia. While the gods had fiddled with the world, wiping the memories of everyone who had anything to do with it save their chosen few, he had been lying in a fevered coma. If he had known that any of this happened, it would have helped him make sense of how the monks seemed so reluctant to answer any of his questions, and why he had been confined to his chambers so often until he learned to stop talking about the City. As it was, he had no idea how suspicious his continued remembrance must seem.
Therefore, he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at his former comrade-in-arms in shock for about a second. Then, his brain started working again; Karstone was an adventurer by choice. He must have heard the same stories Charles did, and of course he would have come this way. Still, he was torn between calling this one hell of a coincidence and shrugging it off as a small world after all. All seeing. All knowing. All scumbag.
Karstone wasn’t the only one to be shocked; Charles, having shuffled out of the way of everyone who barged into the bar, whipped his head about so fast it clicked across the room. The nearest man, a sellsword of some description, winced in sympathy.
Sir Charles could not attest to when he had last seen Karstone. The last he remembered , for certain, was during their doomed charge into Capital City, and that was partly thanks to Mr. Hodgan reminding him of how he looked like he had 'gon’ out yer bluddy ‘ead’. Everything after that was a jumbled mess of horror, of blood and demons and dark magic, and a young boy they had failed to save. He wanted to say there had been griffins involved as well, but no matter how he tried to arrange the story he failed to make it make sense.
It had been magic. The rivers had turned red and flowed into the city, the dead had risen to drag them to their deaths, and he had been struck upon the head. It didn't have to make sense.
As the discerning observer would have realised, Sir Charles had never made it to Messia. While the gods had fiddled with the world, wiping the memories of everyone who had anything to do with it save their chosen few, he had been lying in a fevered coma. If he had known that any of this happened, it would have helped him make sense of how the monks seemed so reluctant to answer any of his questions, and why he had been confined to his chambers so often until he learned to stop talking about the City. As it was, he had no idea how suspicious his continued remembrance must seem.
Therefore, he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at his former comrade-in-arms in shock for about a second. Then, his brain started working again; Karstone was an adventurer by choice. He must have heard the same stories Charles did, and of course he would have come this way. Still, he was torn between calling this one hell of a coincidence and shrugging it off as a small world after all. All seeing. All knowing. All scumbag.
08-Jun-2015 01:19:24 - Last edited on 08-Jun-2015 01:23:00 by Loaned Shark