• We have updated our Community Code of Conduct. Please read through the new rules for the forum that are an integral part of Paradox Interactive’s User Agreement.
Oct 12, 1450 St. Malo

Gunther was lost in thought as he pushed out the door, busy calculating going rates and wondering if there would be a bounty paid for a sea crossing. He muttered "sorry" as he brushed past a scowling young man armed with a pole-arm.

Then he did a double take.

"Gaston! Is that you? I figured that Breton sent all you fools to your deaths." His face broke into a smile and he ran his hand across his bald head.

The younger man turned as well, his scowl dissolving and soon, he was fending off a good-natured cuff. He'd worked with Gunther before.

"If you're down here though, things couldn't have gone all that well. Listen, I've got a lead on a job, if you're interested, walk with me while I get my gear. I want to hear just what a fool-disaster that Breton Knight led you hot-bloods into."
 
October 12th, 1450, The Twisted Sole, St. Malo, Late Afternoon





Mario had spent a couple of hours wandering through the town, his neck swiveling back and forth trying to take it all in. The architecture was quite a bit different than back home. The smell of the sea and of fish was more noticeable than home as well.

The people bustled about speaking their strange language. Once in awhile he heard two words he clearly recognized. Free Company. Their arrival had been not only noticed, but being talked about everywhere. He smiled to himself, stepping aside as people hurried along. Most of them didn’t even know he was there.

Being short of stature used to make him angry that he wasn’t noticed. Being a member of Lochlan’s Rangers had caused him to reassess that feeling. Now he realized that his lack of height made it easier to get around without being noticed. It was a new feeling for him. One that he cherished.

He stepped into the tavern and saw that it was filling with company men and those who weren’t. Men were standing in line before a table in front of the hearth. Lochlan and Captain were speaking to each man in turn. It reminded him of the time he had petitioned to join the company.

We have a contract? I thought this was a stopover to England?

Lochlan was busy. Mario had no intention of drawing his attention. He made his way toward the upper floor. If Lochlan didn’t see him than perhaps he would forget he was around. God knows, the lieutenant had ways of finding things for him to do.
 
March 16, 1449 - Morning, Nizhney Novgorad

The Metropolitan Bishop, Saint Jonas severely admonished his young priest.

"Father Strophski, what were you thinking? You know better than to try to order the boyar of Novgorad to wash your clothes! I have informed him that you are under my protection but..."

"Bishop Jonas, I am truely sorry. I mistook him for my serf. Small error. It could happen to anyone."

"You then ordered him to empty your chamber pot!"

"Again, simply case of mistaken identity. And it was full and needed to be emptied."

"My son, you have to learn a lesson..."

With that, the young Orthodox priest was ordered to join a convoy forming to journey to the West....

October 12, 1450, aboard the trade vessel Быстрый торговец (Swift Trader)

"Men, tack hard to the port. Now. as if your life depended on it...."

The captain, his previous gruff manner now replaced by genuine fear leaned with the ship. The pirates had been chasing them for two hours, slowly gaining on the Russian trade ship.

Twenty minutes later, the main mast cracked under the strain. The ship was now dead in the water. The pirate ship quickly bore down on them.

The young Orthodox priest was placed in a small boat with many of the valuables and 10 men to command. Their only chance was to make land before they were overtaken....
 
Oct 12, 1450: St. Malo – The Docks - Afternoon

Staring at the distant target at the far end of the dock bitterly, Rhys ap Gruffyd loosed another arrow. Humming like an angry bee, the shaft excised a ballistic arc and caught the target just below the bullseye. The small crowd of locals that had formed politely applauded; he ignored them.

It was bad enough to be cooped up on a ship as it was -- terrible things, ships -- but being unable to practice for weeks was worse. Didn't Captain understand that a Welsh longbowman's skills degraded if they weren't constantly honed? He drew another arrow grimly, nocked it, let it loose. THWACK.

Rhys tried to look on the bright side. At least the Company -- this Company -- had taken him along. Not like Lieutenant Glendower and the other Welsh who'd gone east.

THWACK.

Those bastards.

THWACK.

All that was left in Italy was a rump band of a few dozen bowmen who, for one reason or another, were deemed too broken to head to China with Chen's party. Bowmen like him.

THWACK.

Dammit, just because he couldn't sit a horse or walk all day didn't mean he was a cripple! He shifted to put weight on his bad leg and winced as a lance of pain shot into his hip. His aim spoiled, the next arrow went askew, overshot, and splashed into the harbor.

Milo suddenly appeared at his shoulder. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?" the quartermaster squeaked. "Stop wasting supplies!"

"That was the first miss in ten!" ap Gruffyd said defensively, pointing at the target. "I'm not costing us anything!"

Milo seized the quiver and yanked it from its stand. "We'll see if you say that when I start taking these out of your pay!" Tucking the arrows under his arm, he turned back toward Athene. "Now be like a proper Englishman and a proper Company man, get to the tavern, and tuck in!"

With a snarl, Rhys turned and hobbled through the crowd toward The Twisted Sole.
 
October 12, 1450: The Road to St. Malo, Sunset

"N gowno!" The lurching figure barked in the low light of the setting sun, struggling to drag his heavy load behind him and keep up with the rest. He stopped for a moment, releasing his grasp on the chest he was pulling behind himself and wiping the sweat from his brow. The chill autumn air made him shiver, and with nothing to keep his bald head warm, he'd resulted to purchasing a woman's shawl and wrapping it about his head like a babushka. The thought made him laugh, even while he cursed the luck he'd had that day.

Looking over his shoulder, he sat and waited for a trailing family behind him. They were losing light, quickly, and he didn't like the idea of being alone in the dark in a strange land. Their dress was foreign to him but he'd noticed them aboard the ship earlier in the day.

The ship. He slammed his fist against the chest in frustration just thinking about it, and for a moment damned the nasal, spitly sounding man at the fore that fancied himself a captain. A late start in the day's journey caused the ship to sail closer to the shore as the sun began to set below the horizon. The captain of the vessel, knowing they were just a short distance from their intended dock, impatiently refused to weigh anchor and wait until the following morning. The sun, shining brightly in its descent that day, obscured the ships view near the port side, and a rock outcropping that rose up just beneath the water's edge. The lance-like spire gauged a man sized hole into the ship, splintering the wood and sending a torrent of water gushing in.

He shook his head, recalling the chaos that ensued as the ship noticeably began to go under, and the captain beached the vessel on a rocky stretch of shore. The ship throttled, tossing cargo and men from their feet to the cold, hard ground some two to three meters below. The casualties were few, but nobody walked away without an injury. He too was still feeling the bruises on his left side from where he'd come to a sudden stop after what seemed like an endless fall, right on top of a cluster of shoreline stones.

Peering back to the family behind him, he got up, stretched an arm out towards them, and made a gesturing motion towards the father. The man, brown haired and wide eyed with a crow's nose, was visibly tired from the trek up the rocky shore and through the fields to the road. He lifted a small child off his shoulders and set down a tied bundle of their rescued belongings before gesturing towards the chest and muttering something in an unknown tongue. The child sat down upon it, and the man reached down to grab it from one side. Lucjan reached for the man's bundle and slung it over his shoulder, then took hold of his side of the chest. None the lighter, but at least in friendly company, they pushed on. The man's wife set a gentle hand on Lucjan's back in thanks.

October 12, 1450: Arrival at St. Malo, After Dark

The lot of them arrived in a steady stream an hour or so after dark, the port wall's watch fires pushing the travelers on as they came into view not long before. Their massed explanation for the night-time intrusion was reasonable enough to get them through the gate, and a small look of pity for those of the lot that spoke the local language. Upon entering the town, Lucjan and the traveling family said their wordless goodbyes, and the bird-faced father pointed him towards a large building with flagon of ale upon its sign. He thanked the man for his direction with a pat on the shoulder and an appreciative wave. All he wanted to think about now was a warm bed, food, and acquiring a new space on a ship to Barcelona. And therein those three goals lie every problem he could imagine.

He didn't speak a lick of local. But he certainly drew plenty of attention.

Pulling the shawl from his head and stuffing it into the chest, he pulled the door open, and with a heavy wooden clatter, dragged his belongings into the inn behind him. The place was busy, very busy, and more than a few heads turned towards the noise. His deep, hazel eyes taking in the warm glow of the fireplace and the bustle of activity, pointed nose flaring with the smell of food and ale. He straightened up. Tall, muscular, and, at a glance, more than a little domineering, the Pollock let himself rest for a moment. Then, with an audible grunt, he lifted the wooden chest up to his own. His light skin turning a feint pink as he strained under the weight before setting it atop the bar and patting the side with a sigh. His long, loose, red robe, and the white sleeves of his clothing beneath, were visibly soiled with dirt, seawater and sweat. Were it not for the notably high quality of the sword that hung at his side, or the outlandish coins that he placed upon the bar and slid toward the tender, he couldn't have possibly looked like more of an anomaly. Despite the uselessness of the visage on the coins, the purity of its substance couldn't be denied. The bartender presented him with an ale, and made a finger motion implying that he was welcome to two more.

At that moment Lucjan's eyes caught the looks of a group near the fireplace, armed as no simple man would be armed, and frequently being approached by others in the same motif. Where there were soldiers in port, there was a ship.

Lugging the chest from the bar he set it to the floor. One hand grasped a handle on the chest, the other the handle on his ale, and the ruthless scraping and clattering of his burden announced his approach to the group at the fireplace. Standing upright, he took a swig of a his drink, reached into his robe and produced a small leather bag. It hit the center of the table with the clanks and pangs of coin, and he hoped to God that at least one of these men would understand him.

Polish, Lithuanian, and in finale the Latin of the Catholic church, he would try the tongues he knew until he got a responce.

"Lucjan Sylfajenski. I need a ship. My last arrangements failed to reach dock."

Firelight flickering in the colorful hazel of his eyes, a crisp glare shining off the sweat of his brow. He prayed for understanding.
 
Last edited:
October 12th - St. Malo, The Twisted Sole - Late Afternoon

"A job!?" barked Bogdan, nearly leaping forward in his chair. "Well, that's the best damn news I've had in weeks!" He didn't concern himself with Kent's title, and he gave a mostly cursory nod to Lasko. "Any details yet? We picking sides in the big war here?"

Mihai, meanwhile, whose demeanor had been frosty at best until the approach of the officer and the new recruit, smiled warmly to Lasko. "Welcome to the Free Company, Lord Sagarra, the pleasure is mine. Please pardon my master, one track mind. Here." He slid a full flagon across the table to the Basque...Lasko couldn't help but notice that no cup remained in front of the young man. "I presume that the Lieutenant here is introducing you to us because you'll be in the cavalry. The master and I are both light horse, mounted archers. We're fairly recent recruits ourselves, but if you need anything..."

He trailed off as Wilhelm approached, listening intently to the report. Bogdan, meanwhile, leaned back in his chair to get a better look at a passing barmaid. "If we're going up against bandits, as Lord Sagarra says, any information that girl might have could prove relevant, Lieutenant. Perhaps questioning her would be a good idea, once she's recovered a bit." He looked over at Lasko, and suddenly realized that the new guy was listening to only half a conversation. "Oh, my apologies. This morning, on our ride into town, we encountered a merchant caravan. Brigands had worked it over, mutilated and tortured everyone in it. One survivor, bad shape. We brought her in with us.

Anyway, where are you from? I've found that a peculiar aspect of the Free Company is that it never seems to attract more than two people from any one corner of the world. The Master and I are from Moldavia...it's, ah, just east of Hungary" he says, a bit sheepishly, not expecting anyone to know where his homeland is.
 
Oct 12, 1450, The Twisted Sole, St. Malo, Late Afternoon

Dietrich Langschwert rose from his bed to the sound of a hundred drunks stumbling around outside. His first thought was to open the door and punch in the face of the first person he saw as a way of saying be quiet and going back to bed.

But as he rose from his bed the pain in his head instantly drowned out the thunder of outside. How long had he been at it last night? He knew his games of cards could go all night especially if he was down.

He hobbled over to his money pouch and felt its weight. He had definitely lost last night and by the weight of the pouch, or lack thereof, it seemed probable that he had been up till dawn.

"Gah" He cried to himself as an expression summarising all his current emotions of hangover, tiredness and despair.

He dressed lackadaisically and decided to meet the day, or what was left of it. He opened his room's door and stumbled down the hall rubbing his eyes and brushing his long blonde hair out of his face. He didn't even notice any of the new arrivals until he reached the bottom of the staircase.

His regular table was taken by a group of smartly dressed foreigners and rowdy bunch of strangers were digging into the tankards all across the room. Who were these men daring enough to wake Dietrich from his afternoon slumber, bold enough to take his table and fearless enough to debar him of his usual peace and solitude that he could find in no other place but The Twisted Sole.

English? Well it appeared that some might be, including the man sitting in his usual seat, but they were far too tanned to be English.

French? Possibly, he could definitely make out some of the language in the room. He decided to head over to the bar and find out.

"Another bad one last night?" asked Francoise as Dietrich took a seat a leaned heavily on the counter rubbing his face.

"From what I can remember" replied Dietrich. "Better hold off the heavy ale for a while Francoise, just give me something hot."

Dietrich turned around to get a gaze at some of these new faces. Some of them had scabbards hanging from their belts whilst others carried knives in their hands as they downed the ale with the other. They had to be warriors of some sort, Dietrich thought to himself. St Malo was a place that in recent times housed many warriors including himself but he had never seen a group of this size. When Francoise returned with some cider Dietrich decided to bring up the subject.

"They be Free Company, mercenaries, arrived this morning on ship." was the reply.

Mercenaries. Like he used to be before he got caught up in this mess. Perhaps it was time for him to lay down his cards and get back to it. It would take some work to get back into shape he knew, he hadn't even wielded his sword for over three months. But this was Free company! Even he had heard of them from his days back in Germany. However long had he forgotten why he had heard of them. Somewhere in that hungover head of his he knew more than just the name but he could for the life of him remember anything. Nonetheless this was a good opportunity to get his life back on the road.

With great enthusiasm Dietrich gulped down his cider a little too quickly for its heat which had his face explode like a bomb momentarily. Then as if fueled by the explosion he got up a stumbled over towards the largest group of strangers and in the most indignified way possible tripped over his own feet and fell flat on his face right on front of them. The group helped him to his feet and mumbled a few words about the tavern's brew. Within a minute they were all laughing and Dietrich was in.
 
Oct 12, 1450, The Twisted Sole, St. Malo, Late Afternoon

Sergeant Lim Hui threw the dice as the other Company men shouted their bets, urging the dice to produce the result they desired. “High!” Lim shouted as the dice rolled to a stop. Men cheered and jeered depending on what they had bet on. Lim collected his winnings but his heart was not really into the game. He was still thinking about the earlier events of the day.

The deaths and destruction he had saw as the Cavalry rode into St Malo was still clear in his mind. Even though he had seen this type of scene many times, it still disgusted him that men could do this to fellow humans. The Turks at Belgrade, the Mongols back home in China now here, on the other side of the world in St Malo. Lim sighed as the thought of home came into his mind. He wondered how the rest of the Company travelling East was faring.

Lim Hui was one of three Chin who had decided not to make the trip east to China with the rest of the Company. Just a few days before Chen Hui and his men had set off, his adopted son Jan van den Berg had fallen seriously ill and for a while it looked like he might not survive. Because of his concern for Jan, he made the painful decision not to return to the land of his birth.

Thankfully, Jan had survived the illness and they had ridden out together under Kent’s command to St Malo to meet up with the rest of the Company who had sailed west.

As the cavalry group approached St Malo, his first impression of the place was the strong smell of fish which gradually got stronger as they entered the town. Lim was glad this was just going to be a short stop over.

As Lim was about to throw the dice for another time, fellow Light Cavalry Sergeant Abduh came up to the group looking for him and the other Light Cavalry Sergeants, “Game’s over guys.”

“Oh come on, Abduh. I know it’s against your religion to gamble but that should not stop the rest of us from enjoying ourselves.” The Irish Sergeant Daniel O’Floinn protested.

Abduh shrugged, “Not my call. We got some new recruits and Kent wants us to assess them.”

“Recruits? Isn’t this supposed to be a short stopover?” asked Jean d’Auxonne.

Lim Hui suddenly groaned in dismay as realization hit him. If the Company was recruiting, it only meant one thing. The same realization struck Jean at the same time, “We have a new contract!” as he exclaimed.

Reluctantly, Lim started to put away his dice and addressed his fellow Sergeants, “Looks like the game is over. Let’s get to work. O'Floinn and Jean, head out and find an empty field where we can put them new recruits to the test. Abduh and I will stay at the tavern and send the potential new recruits over to you.”

O'Floinn raised a hand. "What is it?" Lim asked.

"St Malo is a walled city and the surrounding area is all beaches. There ain't any fields around for training."

"Then how are we going to...?" Lim asked

"O'Floinn grinned as he shook his head. Jean stretched out his hand, "In this case then, can we have the dice please? You and Abduh can carry on with assessing the recruits while Daniel and I will continue to er assess the dice."

Lim sighed as he passed the dice over to Jean. Jean took the dice with a flourish, "Alright, the game's back on! Hurry hurry place your bets!" Lim looked at the dice game for a moment. His fingers twitched as he considered putting in one last bet. Before he could decide, Abduh did the sensible thing and pulled him away much to his reluctance.

Lim Hui and Abduh left the dice game and went to join Kent at the fireplace where he was sizing up some new potential recruits.

The scraping and clattering of a chest against the floor got Lim’s attention. He turned around to find a man with one hand on the handle of a chest and the other on a mug. The man spoke to Lim in a language he could not understand.

Lim spoke in English, “Do you understand English?”

A torrent of unknown words was the reply from the man. Lim sighed, this was going to be one of those days. He saw his adopted son Jan nearby and called him over.

“What is it father? Asked Jan.

Lim pointed to the man in front of him, “See if you can speak his language.”

Jan and the man tried to find a common language before Jan tried Latin, “How about Latin? Do you speak Latin?”
 
Last edited:
October 12, 1450, Late Afternoon, the Docks, St Malo,

Christine Rossi-Chen made another tick on her inventory list as the Company men moved another crate off the ship.

Born in Venice, she had moved to Ancona after marrying Chen Hui. As the daughter of a merchant, she had a good head for numbers and was a very organized person. The quartermaster of the Free Company Milo had recognized her ability and had asked her if she was interested in helping him take care of the Company’s inventory and she had agreed. Over the past few years, she had proven to be an able assistant to Milo.

With her husband away on campaign, she had travelled with the rest of the Company to St Malo. Milo had went to report to Captain, leaving her to take care of the items to be brought onto shore. According to Milo, this would only be a short stop over so she had taken care to make sure no more than necessary equipment was taken onto shore.

The sharp squealing of a baby boy signaled the arrival of her eight month old baby boy. Turning around, she saw the figure of Lao Wang approaching her, carrying her son with him.

Lao Wang was a retired Chinese soldier. He had served Chen Hui’s father on the battlefield for many years and after he left the military service, he joined the Chen household as a housekeeper. With Chen Hui away, Lao Wang had remained behind to look after Chen’s wife and the latest addition to the Chen family.

Christine put down her list and gently took the baby from Lao Wang to cuddle for a while, “How is my baby HanWei today?” A sharp squeal was the reply.

“I know. Mummy don’t like the fishy smell as well but don’t worry it will only be a while.” Christine said to her baby boy. As the next crate was unloaded from the ship, Christine handed the boy back to Lao Wang and she returned to her duties.

“Wait, stop. This box should not be taken down from the ship.” Christine said to the Company men after she had checked her inventory list.

The man shrugged, “It was Milo that asked us to bring them down.”

Christine frowned, Milo asked them huh. That crate contained arrows. Her eyebrows narrowed as a suspicious thought came to her.

She spotted Milo returning then from the tavern. She went up to him and asked, “What’s going on Milo? Why are we bringing down extra weapons?”

“Captain accepted a contract. So our stay will be longer than expected.”

“I see. What can I do to help?”

Milo rubbed his chin as he thought for a moment, “We are going be hiring some new men for the contract. They are going to need weapons and such and…”

“And you want me to see that the new recruits are properly outfitted. I will see to it.” Christine finished for him.

“Remember, don’t let them draw more than what is necessary. I will see to the unloading of the rest of the equipment and then I will join you back at the Tavern.” Milo warned as Christine made her way away from the docks to the Tavern where Milo had already earlier set up a temporary station for the new men to draw whatever they needed. Lao Wang followed close behind.

A few new recruits were already there when Christine arrived at the tavern. She quickly settled herself down and got down to work.
 
October 12th, 1450, Early Morning - The Shapely Tart, St. Malo

"So you think you can steal from Philippe and get away with it?" a wry grin of self-absorption was the only thing Jack Harrington could focus on

"Was..that a rhetorical question?" Jack inquired with a face as placid as a whore's face would be if this Philippe fellow had bedded her, Jack grinned.

Blood flooded into Philippe's pale Breton face turning him into an animated tomato. "We're going to close that smart little mouth of yours once and for all!" He delivered a punch to Jack's stomach, a blow that forced him to his knees.

"I've...i've had whippings from old ladies that hurt worse than that..." Jack remarked with a steady tone broken only by attempts at regaining a pattern of air intake. Many of the tavern's patrons laughed gleefully at the comment.

"Stand him back up!" Philippe roared, two other ruffians did as they were told. "Lets have a go at that handsome face of yours!" A storm of blows came upon Jack's face opening his lip and instigating a river of blood from his nose. A few of the whores began shouting for him to stop in empathy but their voices were not heard over the raucous taunts and cheers coming from the surrounding crowd. The bartender, an older man by the name of Jacques remained quiet, he was the owner of the bar on paper but Philippe was the real master of the place.

"Had enough boy?" Philippe asked a slumping Jack, his black bushy eyebrows took all the attention off his teal eyes.

"Are we going to have dessert after this?" Jack wondered out loud inspiring another rain of laughter

Philippe went to kick his ribs when Jack reached out and took his leg. A quiet hush crushed the room, Philippe's face revealed surprise. Jack stood up with a lighting quickness and tackled Philippe onto his back and like a longboat on the Frisian Sea took out his dagger and drove it through Philippe's left hand into the floorboard. A shriek erupted from him.

The two ruffians who had been holding him reached for their daggers but before any one of them could bring them out Jack was on the burlier man. He beat him fiercely for a moment before the other man, much thinner tackled him from the side knocking down the nearby table and chairs. This man not taking any chances stabbed at Jack's face while the burly man with a skittish gaunt stride recovered and went to the aid of their leader. But being on his side, Jack, flung his left elbow into the stabbing man's face knocking him off. He took out his second dagger from his left boot and thrusted it into the man's chest before charging the other. A cacophony of pain followed for a few minutes before the heavy thug fell unconscious.

"To answer your earlier question," Jack glared at the Breton thug groaning, holding his hand in agony. Jack's hazel eyes windows into oblivion. "Yes..yes I can". Jack kicked him in the temple knocking him out. The tavern and its patrons were silent as if listening to a priest at a funeral but there was nothing holy in this place. Jack retrieved his daggers and the valuables of the three men, including the ten florin that he had stolen from Philippe before making off for the dock.

****

October 12th, 1450, Afternoon - The Dock, St. Malo

Jack awoke to a bustle of whispers from the dockworkers and townfolk from above him. Seagulls squawked and the tide glided onto the nearby sand moving pebbles up and down the patch of beach below him. He had fallen asleep while hiding underneath the pier from that bastard Philippe's friends.

Nine days in France and the frogs already want to cut me head to toe He rubbed the sand out of his ashen yellow hair on his head and face.

His attention now removed from the focus of the noise above fell onto the unusually large mass gathering on the pier.

Great, beatings from frog bastards and now an invasion from ole England

He climbed up from his rocky bed and crawled onto the pier unacknowledged to get a better look. Like the Red Sea the crowd was parting as a stream of men came flowing off a ship, on its sails painted a skull in front of two swords holding a rose in its mouth.

Mercenaries His hazel eyes darkened by sleepless nights narrowed into a curious stare at the procession.

Jack's curiosity overtook him dragging him with the stream of men through the crowd of anxious onlookers a few blocks toward a tavern, The Twisted Sole. The crowd bristled with excitement, they had realized these men were not invaders or brigands at least.

A bit more thoughtful than Shapely Tart Jack grinned

"Hey you!" Jack shouted as he pointed toward a man dressed in silk garments, his wife and two daughters gathered around him. His face contorted in a nervous fit and he swallowed a bit harder than usual.

"Ye..yes?"

"What the hell is going on here?" Jack said more calmly

"Mercenaries I think, coming to rest for a few days before making off"

Jack scratched his pale cheek and stretched his face. "Mercenaries aye?" He walked to the tavern, forgetting the townsman.

Walking in he saw a line of men, some armed others not, in front a wooden table.

Ah they're recruitin!

"What company is this mate?" Jack inquired to a street urchin no older than sixteen waiting in line

"You've never heard of the Free Company?"

Rumors and fanciful stories Jack's eyes lit up

"This be the Free Company?" A big smile took over Jack's mouth, "Well it looks like we're gonna be famous mate!"

Some of the more professional looking men whispered to eachother and shared laughs over the employ of such a street rat as Jack took his place in line.
 
Oct 12, 1450, The Twisted Sole, St. Malo, Late Afternoon

A hopeful glint broke into Lucjan's eyes after finally finding a familiar tongue.

"Yes, I speak Latin." He responded quickly, as if not to lose focus on the current language. "My name is Lucjan Sylfajenski, and I am in need of a ship. My last arrangements failed to reach dock."

He spread his arms out and looked down at his muddied clothes, as if any of them needed any reassurance that he was, indeed, filthy. "The ship broke shore on a rocky stretch of beach a few miles up the coast."

As he talked, he slowly took a seat with the men, visibly becoming more comfortable in their presence. "If I'm not mistaken, you men are soldiers. And where there are soldiers in port, there are usually ships."

Jan nodded, affirming his suspicions, and took the liberty of explaining the current situation, as the others would be hard pressed to have him understand a simple 'how are you'.

Lucjan's heart sank as he leaned back on his chair, hands going up momentarily to rest on the sides of his head. He didn't have the money to pay these men to sail him to Barcelona. He didn't even have the money to pay them to take him to a larger port. He was, essentially, stranded in St. Malo. Had they been the sword arm of a merchant fleet, his family's standing in a foreign country's nobility would have been enough credit to merit, at the very least, seeing him safe passage home. He had no such luck. These men were mercenaries, and the only trustworthy compensation for them was cash paid up front. Even while his hopes of an easy road out of St. Malo diminished, he listened, quietly, to Jan's story. With every sentence he was mounting concern over everything he heard. Brigands and criminals roaming the land with impunity, nobility turned to robber barons, foreign soldiers, landless and defeated, roaming the countryside of their enemy with malice in their hearts.

He was lost. This was nothing like home, where the safety of peace was all he'd ever known. Battles, famine and banditry were foreign, far off things that happened on Teuton soil. Those things never touched the heartland of Poland, never came within sight of the walls of Cracow. Not in his lifetime.

His mind wandered to the families that had marched from the shipwreck to St. Malo, and specifically to the family he had stopped to help along the way. It sickened his heart to imagine such a horrible fate falling to that family as the kind that Jan made possible with every notation of Brittany's current state.

He started to visibly shudder before the macabre cloud of thoughts that rushed through his head. Demons danced the land under the guise of men, and those who were sworn to protect it, instead had stoked the flames beneath the fire.

He shot forward, hands planting firmly on the table as he stood, leaning over the men. A menacing grimace shot itself to Jan. "This is wrong. This cannot go on. I am a Catholic man, I will not let this land be turned to Hell on Earth!" The glare turned itself to Captain, and though he could still only communicate in Latin, his actions spoke for themselves. A firm hand reached out to the Captain as he spoke. His tone was solid, dedicated, and driven.

"Admit me into your service, as a knight of the Commonwealth of Poland-Lithuania, I will serve you until such a time as you have cleansed this land of its evils, and I have earned enough wages to finance my travels to Barcelona. I will stay with you no longer, no less, that is my word."

Jan echoed him in the background, word for word, in a language he could not understand. He stared, unwavering, into the Captain's eyes, his hand still outstretched, even if he already knew the response.
 
Oct 12, 1450: St. Malo – The Twisted Sole - Late Afternoon

So there it was, no real questioning of ability just the knowledge he had served with the English was enough, Thomas was now in the service of the Free Company. Strolling out of the Twisted Sole he headed down toward the dockside to find Milo as instructed.


Oct 12, 1450: St. Malo – The Docks - Late Afternoon

Standing from afar Thomas watched the man loosing the arrows, "a fine shot but slightly unbalanced in his stance" thought Thomas, as the man shifted his weight the tenth arrow went askew and Thomas saw that he favoured one leg more than the other, the archer was a man of skill to be able to adjust his weight to aim straight and a smile of approval crossed his lips, a fine archer indeed thought Thomas.

Shifting his pack on his shoulder he strolled down to the dockside and called out to the men there "I've been sent from the Twisted Sole, I'm looking for a man called Milo."
 
October 12, 1450. St.Malo – Late Morning


The smell of fish was the first thing he noticed as the ships were approaching the harbour. During his years roaming around Europe with his uncle Olav Erlingsson had not felt that smell of years. It kind of reminded him of the markets back in Norway, where the fishermen and merchants were always trying to sell their fish to the local inhabitants or to the German merchants who would bring it to the continent and then sell it. Although the smell reminded him of home, the city did not. He had never been in France before, his uncle had always thought him that the French were bad people and therefore they had not travel through France, but instead travelled and fought in the Baltic and in Germany, and it was there that Olav first heard about the Free Company.


And now he stood staring at the city of St.Malo in the employ of the Free Company. Having travelled to Ancona as his uncle was called back to Norway to do service for the King, Olav had found the Company, and was glad that he had been allowed to join. However he had decided against going to China, and therefore he now found himself in St.Malo.


He had travelled through much of Europe to join the company, and now he found himself among them, heading back towards the areas he knew best, the northern parts.


Shaking his head a little, Olav turned around and returned to his duties. There were several things that needed to be unloaded from the ships before he could walk to the tavern the Sergeant had told him they would be staying at.




October 12, 1450. St.Malo- Late Afternoon


It was late in the afternoon when Olav had finished his work at the docks. He had worked together with other Company men most of the day unloading the ships, and now that some other men from the Company had arrived to take over the work Olav could feel that he was a little tired.

But his feelings were soon to change as several of the men were talking about a new contract. Olav could feel his excitement rose as he quickly made his way to the tavern.



October 12, 1450. The Twisted Sole, St.Malo – Late Afternoon


Olav opened to the door to the tavern quickly and almost ran in through the door. He could see the officers sitting a large table in the corner. As he could see they were all eyeing everyone who entered Olav bowed to the officers, making especially sure to show respect for Sergeant Baer. Olav had mixed feelings to the sergeant. One part of him liked him and respected him, while the other part of him hated the man. As Olav made his way to the part he couldn’t stop himself from smiling a little, the mixed feelings towards the sergeant was probably the way it should be, after all it was the sergeants who were responsible for kicking the grunts around, but also for training them to become real Free Company men.


Olav went up to the door nodding to several familiar faces on the way. There were also several newcomers around and Olav could see a line of men standing in front of the Captain. Now he knew, if the Company was hiring this indeed did mean they had a new contract.



Turning to the barman Olav smiled.

“A beer, please. This calls for a celebration!”
 
May 16, 1450 Ancona

“Take it, little brother” urged Frederick as he placed the small sack into his brother’s hands. “I have no use for it now, my bones ache and it’s fitting it should be passed down to our family. I know the Captain plans to visit St Malo and it’s time that Jacques was reminded of his obligations. Not that he has failed to send on his tithe every year but memories fade and times change.”

“But Dieter has no use for cannon!” replied Otto “…and I’m no spring chicken either?”

“You’re young enough……and Dieter is old enough to make his own decisions. He may not want to be a Master Gunner but he knows all that I knew and I’m sure you’ve taught him a few things – about cannon of course” the old man winked.

“But he barely sees the need for the handguns – even that beautiful snap matchlock piece you made for him a decade ago. ‘Cannons are too slow’ he says – and he’s right. Fighting the Turk meant that we had to be nimble to survive – the days of sieges and set piece battles are a distant memory” argued Otto.

“That’s as it may be – for now”. The older brother looked worried. “But in the years since we left the fields of France the French and Burgundians have no been idle. Cannon now accompany even small field armies now – hell even we managed to retain a couple of falconets and even a demi saker. Dieter may not share my opinion of artillery but I know the Captain does. And our property in St Malo may well serve the Free Company well again”.


St Malo, October 12, late afternoon

Dieter looked around the hustle and bustle that was the impromptu recruiting ground of The Twisted Sole. As usual when the company arrived in town, the curious, the luckless and the lost gravitated to the recruiting desk. He’d seen it many times before in many towns and despite his relatively tender age of 27 he had earned the right to be Sergeant in the Free Company. Recruiting was always the easy part though. Moulding the disparate volunteers into an effective fighting force took much longer.

And warfare was changing – even the French had started to learn the feudal levies could not stand against the professional bands and organised companies working for the English, the Burgundians and the Swiss to name but three. And as recent events had proved they had learnt well. Dieter had heard reports of the Swiss tactics combining the front ranks of pikemen with halberdiers and even a number of crossbowmen attached to each unit. Pikes were a bugger to handle but the Company had a few competent file leaders. Perhaps now was the time to start to experiment a bit with some of these modern tactics. Particularly as uniformity of weapons didn’t seem to be a notable feature of the hopefuls applicants to the Company in front of him.

Dieter caught sight of his uncle and former guardian ,Otto approaching from the stairs. He was carrying a small sack

“Uncle, come and join us – what’s that you’re carrying?

Otto didn’t reply immediately but moved closer to his nephew and whispered “ Your inheritance – and possibly the future. Come with me”. Puzzled Dieter looked at his uncle. He didn’t appear to be joking. What was wrong?

St Malo, October 12, slightly later that afternoon

“Chemin de Fer?” What kind of name for a street is that?” laughed Dieter “It’s not made of iron?”

“Yes……..your father never really mastered the skill of learning new languages, did he?”

“My father? What has this got to do with my father? And what is that infernal place ahead of us?” The street ended in a number of ramshackle buildings one of which belched the black smoke of the charcoal burners trade and two more large buildings which seemed to be some kind of smithy or manufactory. People hurried by them, some holding posies of herbs to their faces to ward off the smells, others fingering crucifixes and rosaries in an effort to ward off the evil spirits inside the buildings.

“That..” replied the older man “..is our……your…….inheritance”

The Foundry, St Malo October 12

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. How can I help? Perhaps you are in need of some plate or even a sword. I can tell from your dress that you are not from these parts and the young gentlemen is clearly a man who is familiar with the arts of battle. My name is Jacques and I own this establishment…”

“That’s not entirely true is it, Jacques?” interrupted Otto. “I know it’s been a long time but surely you recognise me if not Dieter”

Jacques peered closer at the craggy features of the older man and hesitated “What do you mean, sir? I have run this foundry for the last 15 years…”

“Run – that’s better, Jacques. You are an honest man – my brother always said so” Otto looked around the large hall and spotted a soot blackened piece of terracotta nailed to the side of the door. It was broken in two. Moving over to the door he took out a similar but cleaner piece of terracotta from his sack and fitted them together. The pieces fitted together perfectly and the outline of a simple seal was clear – a crude cannon and the letter P.

Jacques froze for a second and then smiled “It’s been so long. I thought I’d never see that piece again. You must be…..?”

“Otto. Frederick’s brother. And this is Dieter his son”

“Dieter – my how much you have grown!”

“Will someone please explain what is going on?” an exasperated Dieter pleaded.
“I’m sorry – permit me to introduce myself. My name is Jacques de Bouvines and I am….was your father’s apprentice. This establishment was built by your father after the Free Company first came to St Malo. When he left for the east he left it in my care so long as I paid a tithe to him of all the profits each year. Can I take it then that the Company has returned?”

“Aye, that you can” replied Otto. “And how’s business?”

“Mixed, mixed” answered Jacques. “We keep busy repairing plate and producing the usual paraphernalia of war. An armourer never goes hungry in uncertain times. Obviously there is still a need for ploughs and other implements”

“And cannon…?” pressed Otto.

“We haven’t cast a cannon in six years. Bronze is expensive you know and iron cannon aren’t so popular in France. Frederick taught me well though and I have supplied the bells for many churches in the past few years. Do you need cannon?”

“That remains to be seen” replied Otto. Dieter rolled his eyes to the heavens. “In the meantime perhaps you might acquaint Dieter with his inheritance. Myself – I’ll be needing to stay here for a while, maybe a long while.”

Dieter spluttered “My inheritance! What the hell will I do with this?”

“Come, young sir, follow me”.
 
Last edited:
October 12 Late Afternoon, The Twisted Sole

Nikolai entered the bustling taproom and headed straight for Lochlan's table. Leaning his weapon of choice gently against a nearby wall he unceremoniously dumped a batch of assorted game on the lieutenants table, pulled up a chair and sank into it with a sigh.

Lochlan looked at the game with a gleam in is eye.

"So that's where you went after landfall."

The old Rus shrugged and beckoned for a maid,

"I don't like the sea."

Lochlan tabbed the floor lightly with his foot,

"Or the town?"

"I like the wild, I don't like this stone."

The maid arrived, he ordered beer and turned around reaching for his weapon, a short and heavy spear. Leaning it against the table the old man rummaged through his pouch and produced a whetstone.

Lochlan leaned back and stretched his long legs under the table. He had seen Nikolai do this countless of times before, when ever he had a spare moment. The Ranger slowly pulled the stone across the blade with a low grating sound and Lochlan again marvelled at the spear. Essentially it looked like the spear one would use to hunt boar, with a wide and heavy blade ending in a sturdy cross bar, set on a solid oaken staff.

The spear was beautifully crafted with intricate silver inlays across the blade in an eastern pattern. The upper half of the staff was bound with dozens of small iron rings to strengthen the wood against swords and the staff was shod with a heavy iron spike.

Nikolai slowly pulled the stone across the blade again and Lochlan smiled slightly,

"I wager you've worn of at least an inch of the blade in the time I've known you, Nikolai."

The grating stopped briefly, then resumed,

"I wager Captain would be pleased to have fresh rabbit, could be I only caught enough for him and myself."

Lochlan smiled,

"We are getting new men, should we take them into the countryside and see their skills?"

Nikolai nodded, any excuse to get out of town was a good excuse,

"Point them out to me and I'll go out tomorrow."

He put away the whetstone and wiped the blade carefully with his sleeve before pulling a tight leather cover over it and leaning the spear back against the wall.
 
Oct 12, 1450: St. Malo – The Twisted Sole - Late Afternoon

Tylo stood frozen in time, he had come to the tavern where the Free Company was heard to be, and as soon as he arrived he saw more than his fair share of grizzled men eyeing him. The shivers that went down his spine told him that those who were looking at him were of the Free Company.

All thoughts failed him. Since the beginning of the trip he had been planning on what to say if he ever met the company, but this was unreal. What should he do? A show of strength or a casual entry?

The elder statesman of the Free Company smiled and said, “Now there’s a boy who likes to shoot.”

A few disgruntled potential customers pushed Tylo out of the doorway and into the tavern. Tylo planted his feet which made him do an awkward half bow. Realizing how he must have looked, Tylo straightened himself out and propped his bows.

“What brings you here my boy? You don’t seem like you belong.”

Tylo took a deep gulp, this was it. “No sir, I don’t belong an-and I want to join the Free Company.”

The table convened in a short discussion. As soon as it was convened the discussion was dismissed and another man spoke up with a friendly greeting. “I am Lochlan, 2nd in command of the Free Company. Your young face seems like it has many a tale to tell. Nevertheless, how skilled are you with your bows?”

The warm greeting didn’t seem to melt the frozen Tylo. Today was becoming unbelievable, someone should pinch him to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. A brief moment went by and Tylo realized that he didn’t answer the question. “I’m not sure about the long bow, but for my bow here, I used to shoot items off of people’s heads to make money for my journey.”

Another man, who wasn’t part of the conversation, jumped in, “And how many spans did you shoot from?”

This took Tylo off guard. “At first it was close, but I have improved, and I can now shoot an apple easily off of someone’s head from 800 spans* or more.”

Whether it was Tylo’s brag or Lochlan’s stern gaze, the intruder backed off and sat back down with a grumble and a mug of ale.

“Quite impressive for a boy of your age, in fact for any age.” Lochlan smiled and beckoned Tylo closer. “You seem to me a bright and eager boy, you’re in. Say, can you tell anything about the bandits? We already a contract against them, so you might need to test your skills soon.”

Tylo’s face become pale and downcast, “Yes, sir, I do know of these bandits.” Then in resolution he lifted his face up and declared, “I shall fulfill my dream of joining the Free Company and get revenge on the bandits.”

*800 spans = 50 feet.
 
Last edited:
Oct 12, 1450: St Malo - Afternoon.

Gaston dropped into step beside Gunther as they made their way through the town. Whatever the deal, it was always good to have a friend to take your back.

"It started out all right. Sir Ro- Sieur Guiyon's sergeants had been with Bedford and he'd sprung for some decent kit. And he had the sense to let David and Walter get the unit sorted out before charging off. Not that he wasn't the little lordling right through. We used to call him Sir Robin because he had a bright red surcoat you could see a league off. But it looked like he could take advice."

"The job was the usual border work - Sir Robin was feuding with half his neighbours as well as the French, and a bunch of deserters turned brigand had come to join the fun. Everyone raiding everyone else's sheep and rent-collectors and trying to stop the other guys doing the same to them."

The tavern where Gunther was lodging was plain, but clean, and looked honest. Gunther's gear was where he had left it, and he even had some decent wine. Gaston wetted his throat and continued.

"Most of the raiders weren't much cop - farmers with sticks and village-fair corporals who thought bullying peasants made them tough. We caught a couple of bands and squished them, and most of the neighbours decided the game wasn't fun any more. Trouble was, we'd also scared the French enough to make them cut a deal with the bandits, and they hit one of Sir Robin's villages hard while we were off on the other border."

"So off we go on the hot trod, with Sir Robin at the head in case the French couldn't see us coming, and just over the border the tracks go off the road and onto a path into the woods."

Gunther looked up from the breastplate he was polishing and sighed. Gaston caught his expression and smiled sourly. "Yes, real obvious-like. Like they went over them two or three times just to make sure we didn't miss them by accident. Anyway, it was so obvious that even Sir Robin worked it out, so he had Walter and me take half the boys and loop round through the wood to rout out any lurkers."

"Turns out the Frogs weren't quite that dumb - they'd left a picket to cover their backs. After we run into them, Sir Robin hears the fighting - or maybe he just got bored - and in true knightly fashion, he lowers his lance and charges in."

"Yup, straight down the path. Pitfalls took the horses out and we hadn't had time to shift the crossbowmen. Sir Robin had good armour - he was still standing when the rest of us broke through. After it was over he offered to make me sergeant - seeing as David was dead and Walter had his hand smashed up - but I decided I didn't like the odds. Then he went all high-and-mighty on me and tried to stiff me on my pay."

Gunther didn't say anything, just shook his head and went on getting his gear in order. There was no wine left, so Gaston found a rag and set about cleaning the mud off his boots, then pulled a comb from his sleeve to get his hair and beard into order. First impressions always counted.

"All right, so you were right about Sir Robin and I was wrong. Now, tell what the deal is with the Free Company."
 
October 12, 1450, St Malo, Late Afternoon

Another wave of nausea hit Charles Steward. For a moment he thought he was going to throw up again but the wave passed him by this time.

The trip from Ancona to St Malo had a been a miserable one for Charles. For most of the Company men, they had found their sea legs after some time. Charles however had failed to overcome the sea sickness at all and had spent most of the trip leaning over the ship railings vomiting out the contents of his body.

Upon landing, Charles’s joy at getting off the ship disappeared when he realized he still had the motion sickness feeling. To top it off, the strong smell of fish was just making him even more nauseous.

Things got worse for Charles as Sergeant Baer detailed him to help with the unloading of the Free Company’s equipment from the ships. As he moved the crates, he was determined he would not vomit onto the crates. The embarrassment and having to answer to Sergeant Baer would be too much for him.

A man strolling down to the dockside called out, “I’ve been sent from the Twisted Sole, I am looking for a man called Milo.”

Charles was on his way back to the ship to get another crate when he heard the man’s call. He looked around and saw that Milo was on board the ship and did not hear the man’s call. Charles decided to be helpful and went to inform Milo that there was someone looking for him.

Annoyed at being disturbed, Milo went down to the docks where Thomas awaited him, “What do you want?”

Slightly taken aback by Milo’s sharp snap, Thomas replied, “I am a new recruit. Captain told me to look for you to get my equipment.”

Milo sighed, “Look around you, lad. We are busy here trying to get the Company’s equipment unloaded. Do you think I am able to get you whatever equipment you need right now?”

Thomas hesitated slightly before shaking his head.

“Right you are. So you can turn around and head back to the Twisted Sole now. We have a temporary station set up there for you new recruits to get your equipment needs. Look for Christine, she will help you.”

Thomas nodded and turned around when he heard Milo calling him back. He turned around as Milo continued, “And tell them not to send any more new recruits to the docks. The next person to appear at the docks looking for equipment will be volunteering to help me with my unloading.”

Thomas nodded again and moved away before Milo could summon him back again. Milo turned back to his work to find Charles still watching from a corner. “What are you looking at? Don’t you have work to do?!”

Charles quickly picked up the crate he had put down earlier and started making his way to the Twisted Sole.

The nauseous feeling had returned as he delivered the crate to the Tavern. As he passed by the kitchen, a kitchen hand walked pass him holding a barrel of fresh fish. The strong smell from the barrel coupled with the nauseous feeling he already had proved to be the tipping point. He needed to throw up again and he needed to do it very soon.

Holding his hand to his mouth, he started to make his way to the tavern’s entrance. There was a line of potential recruits waiting to talk with the officers and sergeants. Charles wanted to warn them to get out of the way.

Instead he tripped and as he fell, the vomit that he had been holding in for the past few hours poured out of his mouth and onto the potential recruits waiting in line. Charles was mortified, could things get any worse? It could. As he slowly got back to his feet, he saw some of his vomit on the trousers of someone he knew, someone he knew very well indeed. The trousers belonged to his sergeant, Sergeant Baer.
 
October 12th, 1450, The Twisted Sole, St-Malo, Late Afternoon

Lasko sipped his drink as he listened to the conversation between thw two gentlemen and this officer... actually, seeing as the officer was standing on Bogdan's other side, and it was rather noisy in this tavern, Lasko could only hear what Mihai was saying. "If we're going up against bandits, as Lord Sagarra says, any information that girl might have could prove relevant, Lieutenant. Perhaps questioning her would be a good idea, once she's recovered a bit." Mihai looked back at Lasko suddenly.

"Oh, my apologies. This morning, on our ride into town, we encountered a merchant caravan. Brigands had worked it over, mutilated and tortured everyone in it. One survivor, bad shape. We brought her in with us."

"That's awful," said Lasko. "Is she in town, or was there some doctor on the way here?"

"In town, as I think I said. Anyway, where are you from? I've found that a peculiar aspect of the Free Company is that it never seems to attract more than two people from any one corner of the world. The Master and I are from Moldavia...it's, ah, just east of Hungary"

"I've hearc of Moldovia, I think. I heard they speak a form of Italian there, or something." He thought hard for a moment. "That can't poosibly be true, the Hungarians would have gotten rid of them centuries ago. Anyway, I'm from Navarre. Do you know the last time I spoke my native language, I can hardly remember myself, I've been abroad so long."
 
Oct 12, 1450: St. Malo – The Twisted Sole - Late Afternoon

Baer looked down at his trousers and scowled fiercely. They were befouled with whatever the lad had been eating and drinking the past few hours and it smelled awful. His gaze went to the mortified face of Charles Steward. The younger man started to scramble to his feet, his face beet red with humiliation.

"What do you think you're doing?" Baer asked in a low voice.

One Charles and many other company men had heard before. The one that presaged a much louder voice that nobody wanted to hear.

"I tripped."

"You don't say?" Baer continued in a low voice, "What about the spewing of your stomach's contents all over the tavern?"

He made no specific mention of his trousers.

Charles groaned, holding his stomach, "I've felt horrible the entire trip here and even while unloading the ship I couldn't get my land legs back."

"So instead you decided to rush in here and toss your guts all over the place?"

"No Sergeant," Charles moaned softly, "I had delivered a crate to the tavern's kitchen when I passed a boy carrying a barrel of fish...."

Baer folded his arms across his massive chest and glared at the other.

"I didn't do it on purpose...."

Baer rolled his eyes, "Why didn't you go out the back door? Wouldn't it have been CLOSER to you than the front door?"

Charles grimaced, clutching his stomach tighter, "I didn't think of it, sergeant."

Lukas stared at him closer. He realized that the lad was actually in some pain, more than might be just an upset stomach. His irritation vanished as some concern for his health replaced it.

"We'll speak of this later," he growled, "Go see Jan. See if there is more wrong with you than just a penchence for fouling my clothing."

"Thank you sergeant," Charles nearly whispered.

He staggered toward the tavern door as Baer spun back toward the crowd that had gathered. His gaze hardened.

"What? You've never seen a man heave up before?" he snapped, "Don't you all have something else you should be doing?"

The veterans immediately went back to what they were doing. They knew Baer....He could find them something unpleasant to do instead of letting them relax. The newcomers looked at him askance.

"Eyes FORWARD!" he snarled, "Back to the business at hand!"

A couple of boys had come out from the kitchen with a bucket and rags to clean up the mess. One hesitantly tried to dab at the sergeant's legs. Baer snatched the rag from him with a growl.

"I'll take care of that, boy."

He dabbed at the spots. The stuff came away, but there was still a rank smell. It wasn't any worse than the smell of death and bowels released in death on a battlefield. He decided he could live with it. For now. He tossed the rag back to the boy and returned to his seat at the table. A spindly looking fellow looked at him in horror as he sat down.

"What do you want?" Baer inquired mildly.

"I'd like to join the Free Company."

"As what, the mascot?" Baer looked at the thin arms and body of the man, "You won't be able to hold a pike worth a damn."

"I'd like to be a scout."

"Any experience?"

"Well....no."

Baer rolled his eyes in annoyance, "That there is Lochlan. He's in charge of the Rangers. Talk to him."

He turned back with a scowl on his face to meet the next man who stepped up to him.....