Ansgar (the beginning)

At the age of fourteen Ansgar Ulfander left home for Blegan where he seeks to become a knight.

Ansgar is given two options for a sponsor. Sir Jarvis and Sir Helut.

Sir Jarvis Collum – third son of his family, one from one of the more prominent families in the north. Sir Jarvis earned his knighthood early. He is capable in battle and superior in the tilt at tourney. Jarvis is young, dark of hair, and handsome of face. He is of average height but has a strong physical prowess. The Collums once owed fealty to the Ulfanders, but since the Aldaires claimed the north the roles have reversed. The Collum crest is a leafless silver oak centered in a field of forest green.

Sir Jarvis is interested in taking on a new squire but he “was hoping for one from a better family.”

Sir Helut Ennek – first born son of his family, a minor mountain clan from the north. Sir Helut was met with difficulty when he tried to join the knighthood. His natural talent changed minds quickly and soon he was accepted. Enneck rarely does well at tourney and he’s not well known. He is tall and slender and rather awkward looking. The Enneks are a small clan whose lands encompass the southern half of the Rukken Mountains. Their crest is a grey mountain on a yellow sky divided by a blue river that pools in a lake at the bottom.

Sir Helut is interested in training a squire and guiding him into knighthood.

Ansgar weighs his options with much deliberation. Sir Jarvis has little over him in terms of age, but his youth is one of the very reasons he is so celebrated. Still, with his skill in combat, good looks and haughty demeanor, Ansgar suspects the knight would be little more than a substitute for his older brother, Einar, a notion he finds distasteful. And yet his family is quite prominent…

However, he has heard his father rant often and at length about the Collums and others like them; former subjects to the House of Ulfander that now look down their noses at the once mighty wolf-men of the North (and who, as the old rumors say, may have played a hand in their downfall). He does not wish to cause a political scandal and tarnish the family name by becoming squire to a descendant of such turncoats.

Then there is Sir Helut. Another Northerner, but born of a clan of vulgar mountain folk and almost completely obscure. Those who do know of him speak greatly of his talents, though.

Lord Ivar would undoubtedly be enraged at having his son forced to choose between a traitor and a peasant, but Ansgar is far from home now and the decision must be his. He considers whether or not he wants to gain prestige at the cost of likely near-constant damage to his pride or become properly taught and trained in the ways of a knight, albeit by a wild man of the mountain no one has heard of.

In light of all this information, he finally concludes that what he wants is a change, a chance. No more being lorded over by someone barely his elder, no more getting by on the renown of those around him. He will prove himself and succeed on his own merit.

“I choose to squire under Sir Helut Ennek.” Father forgive me, but he is the lesser evil here.

They met in the practice yard in the early hours of the morning donning dented armor and dull blades.

For six full hours they waged a mock war on one another until Sir Helut called "halt!"

"You did well," the knight said short of breath and dripping with sweat. "Your master at arms has done your family a great service." He laughs then, an easy kind of laugh.

"If you had gone with Jarvis you'd likely still be learning how to fasten his armor about him. Now, " he says, resting his hand on Ansgar's shoulder, "let's get some ale in our bellys... And food as well."

Sir Helut lead them to a humble looking inn whose clientele appeared to be the working class folk of the city. They sat down at a table near the fire and the barmaid came over to introduce herself. Her name was Milly and she was a middle aged woman with red hair who could still pass for pretty in the right light. Ennek sent her to fetch two tankards of ale, two bowls of mutton soup, and a loaf of bread.

“The Ulfanders are an old clan,” he says. “We Enneks have been around for a long while too. We used to serve your neighbors, the Drenniks. When they bowed to Aldaire rule we had no choice but to follow suit. We are known for our iron, but not for our power.

“If you run into trouble and see the Grey Mountain sigil of House Ennek, use my name and they will help you.” He shows you the crest on his shirt, a grey mountain on a deep blue sky parted by a deep blue river that forms a pool at the bottom.

“How has your family faired?” he asks. “I haven’t heard much from the Ulfanders outside of history books and that old saying.”

The serving woman returned with the ale and food, collected coin from the knight, and left them to their peace. “To the North,” Sir Ennek said as way of toasting, holding his tankard up before him.

Sir Helut is about what Ansgar expected — as gangling and tough-skinned as a tree. He has the bulbous nose and ears and craggy features common to the mountain stock, whom some still call “giants” in honor of olden days. Hardly a comely fellow, but such things are the concern of lords and ladies, not knights.

The sparring match is intense, despite the beat-up equipment. Sir Helut has impressive reach and is as quick as a lynx. Ansgar’s sessions back home have long ago become predictable and tedious, meant more for the stage than a battlefield, but his new master is a flurry of welcome chaos.

Once noon comes, the younger Ulfander has been killed dozens of times over by the man’s well-placed strikes and all the new squire wants to do is collapse into a deep sleep. When Sir Helut suggests they seek food and drink instead, Ansgar realizes he is famished and decides that is an acceptable alternative.

Ansgar listens as Sir Helut talks about the Ennek clan, squirming a little when his own family gets brought up. The old saying, that “leashes are for dogs and Ulfanders,” has been with his kin ever since the Aldaires 'tamed' them. It is a humiliating expression in the North used to cow those behaving like animals or traitors.

The young man makes to reply when the serving woman returns with their order. “To the North,” he echoes awkwardly before beginning his meal, mindful to hold back the urge to simply wolf it all down and instead maintain his noble poise.

“My family has kept to itself for most of my life, Sir Helut,” he answers between bites, “The first time I left the North was a few years ago to attend my brother at tourney here in Blegan. If Father had his way, we’d never step foot off Lone Wolf Rock*. He’s always been adamant about keeping as far from the Aldaires as possible, but Einar’s too obsessed with himself to keep out of sight. Whether or not any newfound attention thrust on us will be of benefit is rather uncertain. As I’m sure you’ve no doubt heard, my family is notorious for its supposed… connections and shady dealings. I suspect Father keeps us close just as much out of fear of scandal as contempt for the monarchy.”

Ansgar takes in his surroundings, so lively and unlike his home. “This is not so bad, really. Better than a drafty castle hidden in the mountains.”

*This is the name of a prominent landmark on which is built the likewise-named Ulfander ancestral estate, not unlike Winterfell for the Starks.

"You will need trained in archery as well, I suppose," Ennek tells his squire. "I bend a bow like a blind man. I point this way," he points first in one direction and then in another; "the arrow goes that way."

"I have a friend who should be meeting us here shortly. He is Gæron Oakiron, he's a member of the city guard and one of the finest bowmen in the land. Last year he won the Harvest and Flower festivals." He pauses and drinks down the last of his ale. "You may have heard of him."

Soon a slim older bald man walks in and heads toward your table. There are two bows and two arrow filled quivers around his shoulder. He has a thin well shaved face and pale blue eyes, a long nose and thin pale lips. His skin is a light pinkish color. "Helut," he says with a smile that creases his cheeks. "This is the the lad?"

"Aye," the knight says. "Gæron, this is Ansgar Ulfander."

"Follow me," the archer says.

Before Ansgar can respond a young paige runs up to the table and presents a small paper scroll to Sir Helut, but the knight waves it off instead and orders the boy to read it.

"It's from Lord Salden," the boys says. "Livestock are disappearing from the farmlands south of Algard Hill, as well as one small child. You are being sent to investigate the cause and take appropriate action. You are expected to leave immediately."

Gæron and Sir Helut exchange looks. "Gæron," the knight says; "Would you care to accompany Ansgar and myself on this?"

The guardsman nods.

"Get yourself ready for the road, Ansgar. We meet at the Wayfarer gate in an hour."

Ansgar has been bowhunting with his father and brother several times before, but was hardly ever able to get a shot in himself due to their rampant competitiveness. Many times he did little more than carry around equipment, nevermind a bow and quiver of arrows.

Despite his earlier fatigue, the meal has reinvigorated him some and Ansgar is eager to return to practice. He’s heard the name Gæron Oakiron before, but is not familiar enough with the culture outside his home to know how highly regarded the man is or not. Whatever the case, it is best to remain professional.

When Sir Helut introduces him to the other man he seems tidy, something Ansgar can appreciate. “It is an honor to meet you,” he says and briefly bows. The man doesn’t dwell on ceremony, merely telling the young Northerner to follow him. Ansgar appreciates this succinctness as well.

Before they can leave, however, a page comes with news. Ansgar notices Sir Helut insist the boy read the scroll himself, figuring his new master is probably illiterate. Nonetheless, the man seems otherwise capable so far.

The page goes on to tell them about some disappearances around Algard Hill. Ansgar has never heard of the place, but the problem sounds like a minor one. He doesn’t care much for saving pigs and cows or whatever else it might be, but upon hearing of a missing child, the new squire tenses. He remembers Bitte, a servant girl with whom he’d become acquainted as a boy and who’d vanished late one evening before the celebration of the winter solstice. Bitte had been the warmest person in his cold life in the mountans, the only one he’d ever actually thought of as a friend, and he’d never seen her again.

Ansgar leaves to prepare as soon as he is ordered, now plenty motivated for an otherwise trivial undertaking. He packs lightly, taking only what he feels he’ll need and preps his horse, Haski, handed down by his brother now that it’s gotten older.

When he’s finished, he makes for the Wayfarer gate, though unfamiliar with the city as he is and absorbed in memories of his lost friend, he isn’t paying as much attention as perhaps he should be in terms of direction or those around him.

Mounting his steed, Ansgar moves at a light cantor through the city in the hopes of reaching the Wayfarer Gate, Ansgar soon finds himself passing landmarks that he doesn't recall seeing before. He slows down as the city becomes less and lass familiar and stops when the road he is on intesects with a freshly cobbled road. The roads go back to where he came behind him, ahead to what appears to be a crowded market, left leads up a building lined hill, and right leads down hill where the buildings are spaced farther apart, small yards in between them.

People walk past Ansgar as his horse stands there, some of them casting glances at him ranging from curious to annoyed in expression.

Ansgar realizes he may be lost and looks around, trying to surmise the whereabouts of the gate entrance. He figures it might be on the other side of the marketplace, as it would be clever planning to have outsiders just entering the city step right into a busy commercial district. He also considers the path to his right, where he’d be going downhill toward a less populated area.

Frowning at his woolgathering, Ansgar decides it’s probably best not to rely on his own assumptions and just ask for directions. No doubt Lord Ivar would scold him for betraying his ignorance to others — especially peasants — but the young Northerner considers this to be a situation where prudence trumps pride, not to mention that he risks losing face with Sir Helut if he is late.

“I pray you,” he says to one of the more curious-looking passers-by, “could you point me toward the Wayfarer gate? I’m afraid I’m new to this city and don’t know my way around very well.”

"Aye, it's a big city," the peasant responds. "Keep straight ahead, lad; the Wayfarer Gate is just past the market." The man smiles a bit, revealing a mouth with maybe three good teeth in it, the rest either black or completely fallen out.

"Ye look like ye'll be gettin' into some trouble out there, dressed in yer shiney armour as ye be. Take this, and when ye come back t' Blegan remember the name Jakob Smithy." He holds up a small fist sized sack to the young squire, smiling his ugly smile all the while.

“I thank you your indulgence, kind sir,” Ansgar says, accepting the sack and offering a bit of coin in return. Though not particularly penny-wise of him, he is grateful for the man’s easy hospitality and wants to show it with more than mere words. “And I assure you I shan’t forget it.”

He guides Haski straight on through the marketplace, content that his first guess was correct; perhaps he’ll do alright here in the big city, after all. Moving through the crowd of patrons, merchants and street performers, the young squire looks down curiously at the sack and opens it to see what the helpful peasant has given him.

The little sack is fastened with a blade of long grass and Ansgar easily unties it; looking inside to find tiny shreds and shavings of leaves and grasses, flowers and roots; the smell is pungant, both sweet and bitter at the same time. He recognized it for what it was though, a healing salve. Just add water, or spit the way the South Islanders do.

He reached the gate soon enough, where Sir Helut and the Gæron the guardsman wait. There is a third man with them; a common enough looking man who wears only boiled armor for protection and carries a hatchet at his side, he has sad blue eyes and a thick mud-colored beard.

"You're ready then?" Helut asks.

They exit through the gate and head South along the Suntongue road, following a river of the same name.

"Tell us your tale," Sir Helut says to the bearded man, he says it like an invitation rather than an order but it's an order all the same.

The man clears his throat. "My name is Jesof, I'm a woodsman from the village of Mudwood. First it was just a lamb. We though it was wolves. Then another one, then a goat, then a cow. When the cow went we knew it was more than wolves. No wolves can pick up a damn cow and carry it off without no signs of dragging...

"And then it was Moku's little girl. They're forming up a group to hunt whatever it is, but we thought it was best to alert the king so I came here. Lord Salden was ruling on matters for the day and he sent you."

Ansgar keeps an even pace alongside his master as he and the three men and their horses head out on what is apparently known as Suntongue Road, along the Suntongue River, according to a pair of signs on a wooden post easily seen while exiting the city. The young squire is familiar with the Sacking of Blegan and the use of the dread wyrm Suntongue by the kingdom’s Southern enemies to burn down everything they passed on their way to the capital. He finds it rather odd, even morbid, to name anything after such a ruinous monster.

As they travel, he notices the old stones they stride over are like black glass, just as the history books say. Every so often he spots a marker, some crumbling or overgrown reminder of the lives that were lost. Were the business at hand not so dire, he’d be inclined to see what else Sir Helut might know of the event, but now is most certainly not the time. Ansgar instead listens as the woodsman Jesof expounds upon the recent goings-on in his village.

Just as with Algard Hill, Ansgar has never heard of this Mudwood. Though, based on its name, he imagines that’s probably no great loss. The Northerner agrees silently with the man’s assessment concerning wolves; having been around the beasts all his life, Ansgar knows they are most like to avoid the stomping grounds of man and usually leave behind a gory mess after a meal.

When the woodsman is finished, Ansgar wonders just what he means about Lord Salden “ruling on matters” for the day. He has heard of the Saldens of the Southern Islands, of course, but does this rustic mean to imply a knight has been (or still is!) commanding in place of the King? Perhaps he has simply misunderstood the man’s backwoods dialect.

At any rate, the teenage attendant is suddenly unnerved. “Sir Helut, forgive me my boldness,” he says to his master in a tactfully hushed tone, “but what exactly is it we can do for these people they are not already doing themselves? I do not mean to undermine you or the knighthood or imply that I am unwilling; I merely wonder what we have to offer but a few more pairs of eyes.”

"They are plowmen and herders, hunters, harvesters, and woodsmen," Sir Helut Ennek said. "They are not warriors. We are being sent to act on King Aldaire's behalf, to help these people in their time of need."

Ahead of them Gæron speaks to the man from Mudswood. "What else do you know? Has anyone seen what is doing this? Are there tracks or any sort of evidence left behind?"

"No one has seen them," the woodsman says. "And we've seen no marks of their passing. It's almost like the livestock and Moku's little girl disappeared. But that's just crazy."

"Whatever it is, we'll figure it out;" Sir Helut said.

"Don't make promises we might not be able to keep," the bowman says.

Hours pass and the sun rises to its zeneth then begins to fall from the sky. Sir Helut chooses a place not far from the road to make camp. There is plenty of wood nearby to build a fire, and the ground is even.

"Gather some kindling, Ansgar," Sir Helut orders. "Jesof, gather us some wood for our fire. Gæron and I will make camp."

Ansgar looked around; on either side of the road were trees, a patch of wood to the west and a strip of trees between road of river to the east.

Ansgar finds Sir Helut’s answer somewhat unsatisfying; surely a village of country-dwellers are self-reliant and hard-nosed enough to take up arms and protect their own property, be they formal warriors or not. The young Northerner doesn’t even consider himself one, being only a newly-made squire whose years of training he feels amount more to a ‘nobleman’s hobby’ than anything professional. Nevertheless, he concedes that the more help the denizens of Mudwood have, the better.

As they begin to settle for the night, the youngest son of the once-proud House of Ulfander finds himself saddled with the inglorious task of gathering twigs and sticks. He frowns at his master’s command, but is otherwise silent on its banality. He opts for the strip of trees near the river, as it looks less dense and therefore less likely to be concealing any unknown dangers.

While he begins collecting tinder, Ansgar meditates on the possible cause behind the mysterious disappearances, drawing from his extensive studies back home.

Ansgar picks his way through the branches, selecting varying sizes of wood. He brings his first armload back the camp and heads back out for more. He can see the moonlight glimmer off of the smooth water of the Suntongue, steam rising off of the warm waters into the chill night air.

Something splashes not too far off in the wood and a moment later he hears a smacking sound followed by another splash.

The Suntongue is truly majestic, no matter its grisly associations, he thinks, before hearing something nearby.

The sounds seem innocuous enough, but Ansgar figures it would be wise to stay vigilant. He considers for a moment whether or not to report back to Sir Helut, but decides as it might be nothing (or worse, something), it's better he check it out on his own first - and with haste. Fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword, he approaches the source of the sounds with care.

As he cautiously moves toward the splashing sounds he hears more, and louder. As he gets closer he can feel the heat coming off of the river. The Suntongue joins several warm springs on its journey south, accounting for the heat. Legend has it that the Suntongue wyrms that gave the river its name breathed fire so deep into its depths that it boiled the river and melted the rock at the rivers bed

Poking his head out from behind a larger tree, Ansgar spots silver silver jumping up out of the water to fall back into its depths. Occassionally one will land on the shore and flop for a moment, making a slapping sound, before flopping back into the warm waters of the Suntongue.

One of the fish hopped out of the water to land a few feet away from where Ansgar stood.

Ansgar reacts on instinct, snatching a dagger from a loop on his worn leather belt (a hand-me-down of his brother’s not unlike Haski) and flinging it, running the fish’s shimmering body straight through. After a moment, he realizes what he’s killed and snorts at the sight. There is no threat here, after all, just some fish flopping around too close to shore.

It would seem I’ve found our supper, he thinks and walks over to the fish, kneeling down to retrieve his blade. He stands and begins to unsheathe his sword, but it occurs to him that using his knightly weapon to catch fish would be rather unprofessional. He frees his grip on the hilt again and scans the ground for a long, sturdy stick to use instead.

After a minute or so of searching, he finds a fallen branch beside a nearby tree. It is a little crooked, but fit enough to fashion into a crude spear. Picking it up, he hastily breaks off the smaller shoots protruding off it, then uses his dagger to whittle the end of it into a sharp point. All the while, he keeps his eyes on the jumping fish, which continue to emerge from and return to the river.

When the branch is sharpened to his satisfaction, Ansgar approaches the water’s edge and waits for a moment to strike.

SPLASH! SLAPSMACK!

A silvery fish hops out of the Suntongue and onto the riverbank and he swiftly pierces it with his makeshift spear. Bringing it up close to him, he removes the dead fish and tosses it over with the other, then waits for more.

Another few minutes pass and by the time he returns to the others at camp, he has a fish for each of them and another small bundle of kindling, as well as his spear.

“I’ve found us something to eat, Sir Helut,” he announces. “There were some fish jumping out of the river and onto shore.” Ansgar shows the three older men what he’s managed to catch.

The knight smiles broadly, the archer half grinning as well. "Good work," Sir Helut says, taking the fish from him. "I'll just cook these up for us."

The archer steps forward, he has two bows and two quivers of arrows. "I like the fish," he says, briefly pausing to Ansgar as he passes. "We should look at your bow skills before we rest," Gaeron says, walking past him. "Come along."

He leads Ansgar up the road to an old oak tree. A large branch fell off many years ago and a large knotted scar remains.

Gaeron points to it and tells you to aim for it's center.

[roll the percentile die at the end of your post.]

Ansgar checks his stance, remembering the few times he’s ever handled a bow directly. His old weaponsmaster back on Lone Wolf Rock, a gruff but senile man, didn’t have much respect for archery, believing bows and arrows more suited for children’s sport than war. And of course his father and brother were usually too locked in competition to bother giving him a chance when they went out hunting. Still, Ansgar values the chance to learn and understands, at least to some degree, he is working alongside a master of the craft at present.

Reaching somewhat gracelessly for the quiver on his back, he manages to withdraw an arrow and nock it on the bowstring. Pulling back slowly and carefully, he aims for the scar on the oak tree. Self-consciously, he releases his hold.

The member 'dreamshell' has done the following action : Roll

'Percentile' : 75

[OOC: The auto-admin feature threw me. Thought I had updated it for a second there. Anyway...]


The arrow sails through the air just left of the target, the shaft bouncing off of the trunk to send the arrow at a sharp angle downward.

"Not bad," the Gaeron says. "Your stance is adequate but you've got to work on your form. Your arms were shaking and it was clear that you're not used to lining up your target. But it's something to work with for sure."

The guard nods while Ansgar pulls out another arrow. Before Ansgar lets it fly, however; the guard tells him to remain still and walks over to adjust his form. He moves Ansgar's shoulders, bends one of his elbows slightly, and bends his knees a bit.

"Try it now," the pale faced Gaeron says. The arrow sails through the air and sticks in the tree just right of the knot. "Much better. Let's keep doing that."

The two practice for a good while when Sir Helut calls them back to the fire. The smell of fish and spices hits them as they approach the camp; both he and Gaeron's stomachs rumble.

[OOC: Do whatever. Sit down and eat and go to bed, or asks questions, or converse with NPCs. We'll go as long as you want to until you post something like "My ass is tired, I'm going to bed."]

(Is there some way else to roll the dice? Anyway, I am now back from an unexpected hiatus!)

Returning to the fire, Ansgar sits down on a fallen tree trunk beside his master, who offers him a fork and a plate occupied by a fat, browned fish. Famished for the second time today, the young squire stabs into the meat with just barely contained zeal and pops a bite into his mouth. He intends to chew slowly, to savor the meal he’s managed to provide the group for the night, when he feels a sharp stab against the inside of his cheek. He spits the food out quite suddenly, momentarily at a loss.

Of course, he thinks. The bones. I can't very well expect Sir Helut to remove them for me as if I were some babe at the table. The Northerner begins to meticulously debone the fish before he resumes eating, holding fast to his mannerly ways despite the rustic environs in an attempt to save his pride.

Eventually, he allows himself to glance up from his plate again and he observes the knight and the city guard in conversation. He wonders about their shared history and, after spending the day with them, feels comfortable enough to inquire about it.

“Sir Helut, I was curious if you might tell me how you and Master Oakiron came to be acquainted?”

(…Well, wasn’t that worth the wait? Of course it was.)

(Not sure how you rolled yours, I'm assuming you typed in the coding? If you click on the little dice icon it will do it for you. If that's not what you did then who knows. Anyway, back to your story:)
"Gaeron turned me away at the gate a few years back," Sir Helut said with a laugh.

“You looked a common beggar,” the guardsman said in defense. “Your shield and banners looked painted by children and you rode alone. “

“I had a letter from the king himself!” the knight protested.

“I still doubt the validity of the note,” Gaeron said smugly. “But the master of the gate thought otherwise and let you in, damn fool. We’ve regretted it ever since.”

The two shared a laugh, even Jesof (the man from Mudswood) chuckled a bit.

“Can’t say as we bonded that day;” the knight continues. “It wasn’t until the Mukett Wetlands…”

“When I saved your ass,” the guardsman said.

“Aye,” Sir Helut admitted. “It was the Swamp Battle, as it’s called now; well South of Blegan in Mukett territory. The ground was dangerous for horses and not much better for men; but there was a band of outlaws thereabout who’d attacked and killed Lord Vander Mosley, his guards, and left his daughters alive; raped and beaten."

“This happened on the Aldair South Pass,” Gaeron put in. “A well used road.”

Sir Helut nodded in agreement; “Up to that point they were a nuisance. They were a score in numbers, give or take; and they’d worked some of the less traveled roads and done some ill to the commoners in some of the smaller villages nearby, preying on their livestock and crops and occasionally doing something more foul. But this move on the Aldair South, That was bold; too bold for his grace to ignore. He sent a twenty armed guardsmen after them, only Gaeron here returned.”

“They had the area fortified,” Gaeron said. “And their numbers had swelled from what we’d thought. Their move of the South Pass got them some notoriety and it attracted all sort of foul men. They’d near tripled their numbers.”

The knight nodded. “The long and short of it is that Gaeron was charged with guiding a small company of men back to their stronghold and we fought in the mud. We lost thirty-seven men that day, a dozen of them knights. Took three of them prisoner, they were hanged all three.”