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Logs

Blood in the Chetwood

Tags: Gidon,  Brev,  One-Eyed Cleaver

Short Summary: The current owner of a meat cleaver engraved 'Property of the Prancing Pony' meets his demise
Date (real-life): 2010-09-06
Scene Location: Bree: The Chetwood
Date (in-game): November 3050
Time of Day: Dusk
Weather: Clear
The Chetwood

The forest here seems darker and fouler, and the trees seem to grow crookedly at strange angles. There is a small stream through the forest here that runs east-west. To the east, the stream plunges down into the rank Midgewater Marshes, its clean water mixing in with the brown muck and mire of the swamps. There are several paths here that lead away into all directions, but the most well-worn of them leads to the west.

A small hut has been built into the woods; an anvil sits in front of the door.

Obvious exits:
West

================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Mon Sep 06 14:40:38 2010
Bree time: Evening on Sunday of Autumn - November 14,1450
Moon Phase: Waxing Gibbous Moon

Breelands Weather
The autumn air is cool but pleasant around you. The sky is clear with only slight wisps of clouds overhead. The moon is above the horizon and in its waxing gibbous phase.
===============================================================================

[Nob(#16122)] The sun is setting, and under the eaves of the great forest, it is dusk - just the hour when the deer are out feeding. Gidon comes through the trees to his house, stopping at the edge of the clearing and looking around, and listening. If there are bandits inside, he wants to know about it before he goes in himself!

Surely Gidon's house is not the safest of haunts for brigands. But when the nights are as cold as this - it's November, after all - any refuge is welcome. Brev, in his worn-out and disreputable-looking 'bandit' gear, must certainly be willing to take the risk. Currently he is flitting about the edge of the clearing gathering a bundle of firewood. Not unarmed, of course - the spear with which his seeming lack of skill has earned him the nickname 'Squinty' is not in evidence, but he has a knife in hand.

Gidon makes no sound, but something - some hidden sense or just a natural mistrust of the rest of the world - makes him start glancing around warily.

[Graim(#20753)]     Brev is not the only disreputible sort at the edge of the clearing, though this one makes sure to keep out of sight of both Gidon and Brev. Lean, haggard, missing more than a few teeth and a cloth serving as an eyepath over the left eye, One-Eyed Cleaver here watches and waits.

    The source of his name is strapped to his belt; perhaps, on good days, one might make out engraved onto the grip of the cleaver 'Property of Nob, of the Prancing Pony'.

[Nob(#16122)] Gidon waits a few minutes longer, looking around, listening - but he sees and hears no one else, and when Brev passes closer to him, he whispers, "Brev.." The lad is slender, and even thinner than normal now that he's coming into his growth - for a 16 yr old Bree boy, he is tall, though Brev is still taller. A little. His father's patched and too-large cloak obscures much of his form.

These last weeks have not made Brev any less jumpy. He keeps breaking off from his wood-gathering to survey the darkness of the forest, and when the whisper comes he turns cat-swift, knife flicking out as though to menace the unknown.

But then something about the lurking shadow halts his hand, and slowly his tense stance relaxes a fraction. "Kiern, you know I don't like surprises," he mutters, moving in closer to Gidon and forcing a lopsided smirk.

Of his own 'shadow' he is as yet unaware.

[Graim(#20753)]     As Brev whirls about, Cleaver narrows his good eye (only good in the sense that it works) slightly before he begins to slowly and quietly make his way towards the other bandit, a hand slipping down to his stolen cleaver for a moment, as if checking it is still there.

[Nob(#16122)] Gidon stiffens, and listens - then relaxes. Nothing. "Jus' me," he says, still barely above a whisper. "Ever'thing's all right." The boy gives Brev a lopsided grin. "Thomas, he tol' th'guards I'm a thief. He's follering me around ever'where now."

Brev's mouth twitches as his own grin is mirrored. "He did, did he?" he mutters darkly. "Should show the little runt the meaning of the word." And then, as the final words are spoken, he queries softly, "Everywhere - here?" He's still got his knife-hand raised and now he begins a slow turn to survey the shadows beneath the trees, where every rustle could hide an unseen observer. It will have him facing Cleaver (or at least the trees sheltering Cleaver) in a moment.

[Graim(#20753)]     Cleaver catches the tale end of the whispered conversation before Brev begins to turn. Stopping, the one eye of the bandit darts back and forth before he finds a nice spot behind a tree; there he darts, to hide from the gaze of others.

[Nob(#16122)] "Course not," Gidon murmurs scornfully. "He's too scared...." Something in the woods rustles, and he freezes, looking around warily himself. Still he sees nothing - and after a minute, he turns back to the older man. "Nervous," he excuses himself. "Got some coin in m'pocket, sold a deer - y'ought t'take it. Can say you stole it off me."

Brev's eye catches a flicker of movement; he narrows his gaze and waits a while, but when all seems still he shrugs. "Must've been a squirrel. Right. Thomas. Tell him we're .. oh, lets think. Out on the Greenway, those hills just near the barrows." His grin is rather less pleasant now.

At the other suggestion one brow arches. "Aye, right. And I just happened to let you go into the bargain? Won't work - 'less there's a few bruises involved on both sides." The glint in his eye is somehow testing.

[Nob(#16122)] Gidon grins also, and makes a sudden feint with his fist at Brev's shoulder. "Might keep 'em watchin' me," he suggests. Then, seriously, his voice still almost a whisper, he says, "Make 'em b'lieve you, wouldn't it? F'they heard..." And he swings again, not so much a feint this time.

[Graim(#20753)]     Though One-Eyed may not be able to see, he can hear. A scowl, or a disturbingly malicious and gleeful smile, comes onto his face as he listens to the pair talk. After a few minutes, hand gripping the handle of his stolen cleaver (Nob never suspected!), he swings out from behind the tree and swaggers towards the other pair.

    "Well, well, well. What's all dis den?" Drawls Cleaver, one eye flicking between the pair before settling on Brev. "Makin' /deals/ with the marks!"

That first feint is anticipated, and easily dodged; Brev snorts. At the murmur he retorts, "No-one's-"

Wrong. As Cleaver emerges from the trees he turns, and the swing that was intended for his shoulder finds its mark elsewhere - on his face, full between the brows. Blood begins to drip from his nose and he swears fluidly in Dunael (at least, it has the ring of a curse to it). His right hand and the knife it holds somehow fail to injure Gidon; his left, though, has managed to snag Gidon's purse as the youth flees (or could he have been pushed?).

"Kiern, I almost had him," Brev growls a protest in Cleaver's direction.

[Graim(#20753)]     "Don't try to lie to me, boy," growls Cleaver, stalking towards Brev, pulling his cleaver from his belt. "I 'eard what you was talkin' 'bout. 'least, the parts that counted! I may only 'ave one eye, but I 'ave both ears." A gap-filled, malicious grin is given by Cleaver. "And you sneakin' about don't 'elp you."

Brev keeps Gidon's purse in his hand, feeling for the strings, as he lets Cleaver approach. "Aye," he replies drily, "it's called blackmail, round where I come from. And sneaking, eh? So sorry I'm not built like a plough-ox."

He makes no threatening move as such - but he's not lowered his knife. His nose is still dripping blood; whether it's actually broken or simply bruised is hard to tell in this half-light.

[Graim(#20753)]     "Ha! And just what do you 'ave that's worth 'blackmail', boy?" Asks Cleaver, head tilting to the side slightly. "And it's sneakin' 'way from camp that puts you bad. Without tellin' us, yer fellows and brothers, that yer gonna get some money?!" One-Eyed finishes with a snarl, cleaver blade reflecting dimly in the low light.

Brev ignores the title of 'boy'. "Information," he answers succinctly. "It's a .. family matter." His mouth pulls back in a mirthless smirk. "And /his/ information's useful. If I can feed him enough to confuse the Breeguard, so much the better. You /want/ them looking for us out in the marshes, eh?"

He watches the light glint off the cleaver. "Seems to me it's someone else who's looking to a little extra cash," h remarks calmly. "Far as I'm concerned, /this/," he lets his left hand lift a little, "is going back to camp. So you've two choices. You can wait to see if you get a share - or you can try and persuade me otherwise." He stands poised on the balls of his feet, apparently simply waiting ...

[Graim(#20753)]     "Pah. I never trusted you, boy," spits Cleaver, followed by spitting at Brev's feet. "You 'ave a shiftless look 'bout you; changable, very changable. The Breeguard are fools and nitwits." He falls silent, replacing words with a few-toothed smile.

    "Now, there's an idea. Gut you like a coney, say I caught you plannin' on betrayin' us! You won't be missed." With a cruel grin, Cleaver lunges forward, swinging his stolen cleaver (Nob should've paid better attention to it!) at Brev's chest.

Brev springs into action like a taut bowstring that has just been released. A swift sideways leap carries him out of the way of the misappropriated kitchen tool and round to Cleaver's blind side. His left arm, holding the purse by its strings, swings out toward Cleaver's face whilst his right hand, the knife-hand strikes toward the bandit's back, somewhere between the shoulder-blades. "Poor choice," he states softly.

[Graim(#20753)]     Perhaps One-Eyed isn't as nimble as he used to be. Perhaps it's getting smacked in the face with a purse of coins. Whatever the reason, not only is he struck by coin purse but stabbed in the back (literally) by the other bandit. A study of shock is upon Cleaver's face, mouth opening and closing silently before he sinks to his knees. "Bastard..." comes the word from Cleaver, his cleaver dropping from his hand. "You utter... utter..." And then he falls foward, onto his face.

Brev, still tensed for a retaliatory blow, watches in silence as Cleaver pitches forward. His features are expressionless, but the muscle in his cheek is twitching. "Aye," he agrees bleakly, then, mockery creeping into his tone. "Figured I might as well live up to my name."

He pulls the knife free and then, if not prevented, he will slide it across Cleaver's grimy throat to ensure that this particular bandit has no tale to tell. No, he's not the trusting type.

[Graim(#20753)]     Cleaver only twitches before the knife is run across his throat, blood spurting out from the cut, covering knife and hand, before it runs out onto the cold ground. So ends the tale of mighty One-Eyed Cleaver, Thief of Prancing Pony Kitchen Tools.

Brev stares at the blood on his hand and mutters almost angrily, "Kiern, I hate this." But any personal distaste does not prevent him from taking the cleaver from Cleaver's lax hand and starting to lay out a trail leading back toward Archet, on which said implement is dropped en route.

The tale of unseen assailants he'll spin the bandits is yet to be concocted - but likely blame will be laid at the feet of the Rangers. After all, aren't those mysterious Tall Folk known for their interference?


Date added: 2010-09-07 04:20:21    Hits: 180
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