Dunshire's chosen messenger made good time, crossing Dunshire and half of Eldershire in his first day of riding. The people of Alderton - Eldershire's "capital," for lack of a better term - were most distressed by the news that a Keeper had appeared in their neighboring hamlet, and generously provided a fresh horse for the messenger. A similar scene played out the following day when he reached Harrowfield, chief town of Harrowshire, and it was still a few hours shy of dusk on the third day when the humble herald rode up to the residence of Lord Luthor. The saddlesore rider was swiftly ushered into the modestly-sized yet elaborately-decorated manor house, and thence into the presence of Luthor himself.
It was clear at a glance that this man was indeed a Lord of the Land. He stood a head taller than any of his servants or guards and had shoulders like an ox, yet moved with a light-footedness that suggested he was just as capable of grace and agility as he was brute force. He dressed in a style not too dissimilar from that of the local mayors and merchants, though the quality of his garments was clearly a cut or three above what was available to the commoners, and his dark, curly hair, fair complexion, and stern, hawk-like features doubtlessly served him in good stead on a battlefield or in a ballroom.
Surely, this man is our salvation, the messenger thought with a mix of awe and relief, as he bowed low in Luthor's presence. Surely a man blessed by the gods with such strength and fairness of form will have the wit and skills to match, nay, to exceed whatever horrors a Keeper can throw at him.
"Rise, herald," Lord Luthor intoned in a voice like distant thunder, "and speak. What brings you to my door on this fine afternoon?"
The messenger, Harold, took a moment to marvel at the revelation that Lord Luthor could address him by name despite never having laid eyes on him before. Truly, he is a genius! We are saved!
"M-my Lord," Harold began nervously, "I hail f-from the village of Dunshire, where there has been a most d-dire d-development." As quickly as he could through his chronic stutter, the messenger explained the events of three days ago, and what the Dunshire council feared it to portend.
Lord Luthor's response was immediate, and loud.
"A Keeper? A Keeper? What in the blessed name of all that is divine would one of those foul heretics be doing in my august domain? Am I not Lord Luthor of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Reginald, descended from the kings and heroes of old, favored by the Light and guided in my every thought and deed by the gods themselves?"
"Gwah...?" Harold uttered in shock. He had no prior experience with rants such as this, which in a large portion of the local multiverse, would have been called "Kunoesque."
"Verily," Luthor continued on, "this must be some trick, some slanderous deceit meant to cast aspersion against my good name and peerless character! Yes, truly, it is a foul sham, doubtlessly perpetrated by my most hated rival, that low-born scoundrel Kent. Vile coward and seducer of maidens that he is, such a base scheme is precisely the manner of trickery he would resort to, rather than face my invincible might in open combat! But it shall not succeed! Do you hear me, Kent? My keen eyes and brilliant mind have seen through your feeble attempt at misdirection, you mongrel cur! It shall not succeed, and you shall fall before me! Mercy!"
"Yes, milord?"
Harold nearly jumped out of his skin as the voice came out of what he'd thought was empty space right next to him. Instead, that space was occupied by a fair-haired woman in her early twenties, wearing a mild variation on the sort of outfit Harold would have expected to see on a butler or other male servant.
"Escort this traitorous wretch to the dungeon at once!" Luthor bellowed, pointing at the now-horrified Harold. "You are to question him most thoroughly on his association with that blasphemous warlock Kent, and the true nature of the villain's newest plot against my noble self. Use all necessary measures, spare nothing! I wish to know the full details of Kent's black scheme by sunrise tomorrow, am I understood?"
"Yes, milord."
Delicate-looking hands with a grip that rivalled that of Dunshire's blacksmith seized Harold by the arm and promptly dragged him from the chamber, even as Lord Luthor descended into another rant against his nemesis, who was apparently doomed to suffer a crushing and humiliating defeat for daring to come between Luthor and his "two loves."
"B-but- I-I don't- I m-mean, I'm not-"
"Don't worry about it," the woman, Mercy, replied in a surprisingly kind and cheerful tone, as the door to the audience chamber closed firmly shut behind them. Almost as soon as it was done, she released her killer grip on Harold's arm, letting the poor man go free and fall onto the floor in a heap. "The boss is nuts. Everyone knows it, and we've learned how to interpret his rantings into something approaching sane orders. For example, 'torture this innocent peasant for details on a plot that doesn't exist' translates to 'give this man food and lots of ale to make up for the shock he's just been through, question him closely about the actual details of his message, and then give him a heap of gold for his time and trouble and send him on his way.'"
Harold blinked. "R-really?"
"Sounds about right," one of the guards flanking his Lordship's chamber door affirmed, as he reached down and hauled the now very confused farmhand back to his feet.
"S-so this 'black sorcerer Kent' would a-actually be-"
"A landed squire who lives over in Littleton, Littleshire," Mercy answered promptly, kindly dusting Harold off. "Nice guy, hard worker, hell of a fighter if you tick him off enough to make him take up arms. He, uh, conscientiously objected to how the boss was treating some of the fair ladies of Littleton a few years back."
The other guard snickered. "Called him out in the middle of town, asked him politely to stop it, and then knocked him cold with one punch. Boss-man woke up a week later and swore undying vengeance."
"Kent's been kicking his ass on a bi-weekly basis ever since," the first soldier finished. "You just had the bad fortune to ride into town just when the next mad vengeance scheme was due to kick off."
"I-I see." Harold considered what he'd been told, then homed in on the most important part. "Y-you mentioned something about g-gold, Miss M-Mercy?"
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(Posted Sat, 04 Sep 2010 22:39)
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