LoR - Confiding with the Enemy

A freebuild for Loreos in the Lands of Roawia LEGO roleplaying game.

 

 

Story:

Erathor's POV:

Slumped against the far wall of a cell, Erathor Pridenar was reduced to a bleeding, sleepless mess of a man, far from his position just…days? weeks? before…he had completely lost track of time in this dingy four-paces hole. The only light came in through the barred door, from the torchlight on the opposite wall of the prison corridor. Not only was he unsure as to how long he’d been in chains – he didn’t even have any idea where he was. Last he knew, he was walking amongst the long grass of a Garhim meadow.

A crash from above Erathor finally rocked him out of his dozing state, there were raised voices too, though he couldn’t make them out. Probably the Outlaw guards arguing again, unsurprising really. There was a groan from the next cell along, The Garhim there - he called himself Ian Ferguson - was the closest Erathor had to company. They had spoken a few times, but each of their conversations ended up with them becoming more frustrated and angry with the other. It was understandable, really, with both of them locked away like this. Ian was young and inexperienced, which showed in the ways he tried to insult the Loreesi lord.

Erathor groaned as he turned himself over to face the other wall, his bruised legs and arms, wounds presumably inflicted by his captors, desperately aching. Breathing heavily, he decided to sit upright as he heard footsteps outside – some of the guards had a tendency to enter the cell and attempt to kick the daylight out of a sleeping prisoner. His own strength was returning, and now he felt he’d be able to put up a fight if they tried to attack him.

The guard appeared at the door, but made no move to enter. He was a huge man, broad-shouldered with sandy hair and a fierce scowl. For a minute, nothing happened.

“Can I help you, sir?” Erathor asked impatiently. The man glared at him.

“You’re rich, Loreesi?” The lord frowned and rose to his feet.

“Yes, I am. Why would that be of any concern to you? Ransom?”

“No.” The jailer looked around and then knelt. “I can get you out of here if you pay me enough.” His voice was hard and gruff.

“Should I trust you? You captured me. You murdered one of my men!”

“Was that me? No. These men who keep you under lock and key, they have a grudge against you. I don’t know what it is, but they hate you. It would be best to accept my offer.” Erathor sighed and debated the idea in his mind. This man couldn’t be trusted…or could he?

“Are you a sellsword working here for money?”

“I am.”

“Then get me out of here. You will be paid if you return home with me.” There was a gasp from the next cell along. Erathor could see Ian’s hands gripping the bars, and a tuft of yellow hair.

“I’ll accompany you to the entrance of your home. You will give me the money I demand, and I will leave. I suppose you’ll want me to get him out too?” The man nodded in Ian’s direction.

“I suppose you’d better. Won’t help relations with the Garhims if I leave him here to rot.”

“Much appreciated,” Ian said sarcastically, getting a cool smile in response.

“I’ll get you out as soon as possible. They don’t pay nearly enough here.” The jailer stood and moved away.

“Thank you. I don’t know your name, by the way.” Turning back, the man looked at Erathor.

“They call me Rufus Battleborn.”

 

 

Ian's POV:

The horse's back rolled rhythmically against Sir Ian Ferguson's bare, scarred chest. He groaned and lifted his head, and blinked, glancing around painfully. He noticed his hands were tied. " 'Ave a good rest, Sleepin' Beauty?" said a rough, cockney voice above him. Sir Ian grunted and remembered suddenly. The oil, the strike to his head, begin dragged through the tunnels beneath Granhaven then out and onto a horse… The memory of the oil searing over his shield brought him aware of the sharp pain scattered over his shoulder and leg. He winced and bit his scabbed lip. " 'Ey, boss! Maybe we oughtta clean this un' up a bit 'fore we drop 'im off. Them rick folk dunno like their slaves all torn up." Slave. The word brought a knot of panic into Sir Ian's stomach. He, trying not to show any reaction, took in his surroundings. The plodding horse was beginning to slow to a stop in a small clearing among a swath of rough, scattered boulders and dry thistles. " 'Ere that, blondie?! Yer gonna be a slave…huh, huh, huh! And yer gonna make us rich!" The Outlaw looked at him with a patchy-toothed grin. Sir Ian grimaced and spat. He had an idea in the back of his mind, related to the bundle of his gear and weapons slung across the back of another mule. As the one of the Outlaws shoved his from the horse, he purposely stumbled and fell into the flank of the horse. As he steadied himself, he slipped the dagger from the bundle and held it against the inside of his forearm. "Watch it, blondie!" the teeth-missing Outlaw yelled. "Stay away from sharp toys!" He patted the Claymore. Sir Ian grinned to himself silently as the Outlaws set up camp. Oh, I think I know what I'm doing, he mused.

Hours later, Sir Ian was kicked into a dingy cell from a dimly-lit, stone corridor. They had blindfolded his eyes as they had lead him through some kind of Outlaw camp or outpost. He grunted and toppled to the ground trying to avoid landing on his burnt side. "Fools! I'll have the Garhim army on you!" he yelled, and banged on the door which had promptly slammed in his face to some rude laughter. He slumped back against the wall, exhausted, defeated, and aching sorely in the head. "It's no use…" a dry croak came from his left. For the first time, he noticed another cell, divided from his by metal bars, to his left. Ian could barely make out a man lying against the wall in the dark. As his eyes adjusted, he got a better look at the stranger. He had shaggy dark hair and tanned skin, was of heavyset build, and, most noticeably--mercilessly beaten, especially a large swollen bruise on his head, not unlike Ian's own. "Same men took you?" Ian queried. "No… I was captured at Grahnhaven, by different Outlaws." "I was at Grahnhaven as well… Were you under the Lord Erathor Pridenar or Arturius Xavier?" "I am Lord Pridenar." the man replied. "Ah. Loreesi." Ian spat in disgust. Loreesi sat low in his eyes after some of them had swindled his father in business. "And you are…?" Erathor continued. "Sir Ian Ferguson, and your service." Ian replied in mock respect. Erathor took on a cold look and turned away. "Sleep well while you can, Garhim." Time passed, he knew not how long. Days, weeks maybe. He had nothing to do except engage in a few brief bouts of insulting with the Loreesi Lord in the next cell. All he knew is that the furious red and black scorched scars smattered along his right side hurt immeasurably. He tried to sleep, and eventually, did for the sole reason of being to weary to hold his eyes open. Suddenly, he awoke to a seemingly unnatural sound. He heard voices from the direction of Erathor's cell. "…You will be paid if you return home with me." he heard Erathor's voice whisper in the dark. Ian stiffened and crawled across the dirt floor to peer through the bars. He saw a massive, sandy-haired man speaking in whispers with the Loreesi through the door. "I'll accompany you to the entrance of your home," the large man spoke. "You will give me the money I demand, and I will leave. The blonde guard gazed straight at Ian through the bars and gestured in his direction. "I suppose you'll want me to get him out too?" "Erathor paused a moment, considering. "I suppose you'd better," he replied. " Won't help relations with the Garhims if I leave him here to rot." "Much appreciated," Ian replied through the bars, hope flaring within him. He could escape.

 

 

No, not a great build by any means, but it's a good enough start for this story arc. My next scene, hopefully, will be larger and more detailed - all my recent MOCs seem to have been vignettes! Anyway, I hope you liked the stories, written by Brickninja and I. Enjoy!

Oh, and yes, that is Sir Ian's hand you can see. ;)

 

Thanks for viewing and have a great day!

Done