Legends of Belariath
Mozenwrathe
Looking For A Villain - Twisted New Year's Resolution
The man known to most as just Prydain or "Pry" (though sometimes "Pryd" and a few calling him "Mister Mahn) stepped into the Artists' Ambit for a few minutes. Well, he thought it would be for only a few minutes, as he just was not that eager to head into the Might Makes Right at the moment. He had two scimitars he was working on waiting for him, and neither of them had been working out right. Having broken them thrice so far, this was Prydain's fourth molding for each of the twin blades. Meaning that would be six destroyed blades in two days. Needless to say, Prydain was far from pleased. Still, work did not stop on the weaponry just because he had some difficulty making them. He did not dare ask Miss Alta to "take over" for him on the order, as she was the one mainly responsible for any customized mithril weapons and armor. Sure, there was Taurn - if he were not consistently missing in action as of recent. Something about trouble to the northwest that some of the militia had been dispatched to. Which meant in Prydain's case leaning more heavily on Fariday. Not that the torian seemed to mind, as he too was learning to perfect his craft and start on the way to learning mithril. James was useless for such tasks, as he did not work steel. Neither did the other two women that Prydain had read in the records worked there - one Rita Highlander and some dame Varisanna. (At least he hoped with names like those such were women. He could always be wrong.)
Prydain heard none of the commotion behind him until it was too late. Three men had rushed in to snatch up one of the artisans - a chirot, he imagined, given the wings. The woman had cried out for help of some sort - any, really. But the three barbarians had roared in defiance, insisting that all such frail creatures belonged to them by right of strength. Aden'Ver had decreed them superior, and the other artisans should know themselves blessed that they would be next. Prydain had hoped to avoid conflict, and could have easily allowed the woman to be carted away. It was when one of the barbarians specifically yelled out how "all those frail little white-haired whores were meant to be their slaves" that Prydain chose to react.
He picked up an empty ink pot made of kilned earth and flung it at the farthest one of the men. Striking him true, the barbarian - clearly a full head taller than Prydain himself - reeled back in pain. The other two men struck the chirot in the small of the back, knocking her to the floor as they growled threats at Prydain. Mostly about how such a blasphemous action would only end in the man's demise. So The Hidden did the only thing he could: he politely invited them to try to enslave him outside. His words were so flowery and his voice so effeminite, Prydain could hardly believe his own ears. If it were not for how aggravated he was, The Hidden would have collapsed on the spot, laughing at himself. The trio of barbarians were forced to agree, as Prydain had wisely (albeit callously) invoked the name of Aden'Ver during his empassioned plea. The chirot having not been forgotten, the barbarians dragged the poor thing outside while allowing Prydain to go ahead of them. And before Prydain had made it out of the door, the first barbarian blindsided the man, hitting him in the ribcage with a heavy club.
This was exactly what Prydain had expected from the trio.
Smiling inwardly, he rolled with the blow and flung himself outside, all the while acting far more injured than he was. Coughing up a little blood, Prydain wheezed and staggered backwards as the first barbarian seized upon the moment to jump on him. It was then Prydain struck a knifehand into the man's throat, cutting off his ability to breathe. Prydain's next blow was an elbow to the man's nose, breaking it. The barbarian got in a few good swings with the club, however, hammering away at Prydain's ribcage. The smith was not having it, however, and ended the man's flailing with another elbow - this one to the ear. Knocking out the barbarian cold, Prydain pushed the heavy form off of him before the second man caught up to him with a boot to the ribcage. Kicked far and high, Prydain went sprawling across the snow and dirt in agony. Drawing a sword, this man was clearly aiming to maim and perhaps even slay The Hidden - which suited Prydain's thoughts just fine. The broadsword cleaved downwards, leaving Prydain nowhere else to go but into the sword swing itself. Both hands rose to catch the arm, and the smith flung his shoulder into the barbarian, knocking him backwards. Throwing himself to the ground, Prydain claimed the same club that had almost shatered his ribs for defense. (His blades he had "forgotten" inside, trying to not call attention to his actual prowess.) The club would do him no good against a sword, so he opted to avoid the next few swings. None of them were wild and untrained - clearly, this man was a seasoned warrior. Still, Prydain waited for just one mistake he could capitalize on. That showed upon the fifth swing, as the second barbarian - of decidedly more tanned skin than the first or the third one - rushed in to finish Prydain off quickly. The club struck thrice: first to the man's hands to knock the sword from them, second to the man's knees, and then finally to the back of the skull. Prydain knew not if he had slain the barbarian or not, only that there was a third one remaining. The last one thought it best to use the chirot he had been holding as a shield, insisting Prydain drop his weapon and give in. Prydain complied to the barbarian's demands and turned around. The mocking laughter of the barbarian echoed in his ear as the third man mocked him for his naivete. Of course, the barbarian threw the chirot into the side of the building and kicked the girl again out of spite. From there, he ran up to Prydain to give him the killing blow through the back. Prydain turned at the last moment and flipped the final assailant over his shoulder. His next action was to continue to stomp on the man's chest and arms until he stopped moving.
Three up. Three down. Three ribs bruised. And at least three dozen bruises to nurse. Obviously, Prydain was getting far too lax in his training.
Throwing the three men into a wheelbarrow, Prydain called over a few passersby to wheel them to the Healer's Hut. Giving each of the two men moving the wheelbarrow ten mehrial each, he told them to give a message to the people that worked at the place: "Fix Them And Take The Money Out Their Purses." Coughing up some more blood, Prydain realized he had been hurt far worse than he had given the men credit for. He also felt strained, for throwing that last man had pulled some of his muscles out in the wrong way. Such a bother. Walking slowly back into the Artists' Ambit, Prydain picked up the chirot on the way and then lay the fragile female down on a table. Calling for any practicing healers, he offered twenty mehrial to any willing to tend to "the little slips wounds." He managed to get five all vying for his attentions then. Rolling his eyes, he told three of them to work on the chirot and the other two to fix him up. The healers insisted they would accept ten mehrial each, as none would normally bother to even spit in their direction. Shrugging caused him a lot more pain, now that the adrenaline was burned off. The two healers working on Prydain - one slyph and one half-wolven (who was definitely eyeing his behind) demanded the male remove his tunic and upper vestments to see the extent of the damage done to him. Coughing a few times more, he complied - much to the pleasure of more than a few lookers on. As his wings were "within," there was nothing to truly see except for his mithril tattoos.
And the bruises. Oh the bruises. Prydain was forced to see his entire left side was a mass of them, discolouration making him a truly technicolor terror. His right arm showed a few as well, and for the life of him Prydain could not remember being clipped on that side. It would be a full hour of prayers, prodding and pinching before The Hidden could breathe again normally. (Part of that was the heavy incense one of the other healers insisted upon.) The damage done to his body had been far, far worse than he had believed posslble. The barbarians were far more powerful than he had thought to give them credit for. If it were not for the hard work of the healers that had happened to be inside the Artists' Ambit, there was a strong chance he would have passed out walking aimlessly on the streets. The chirot was recovering just fine, her wings having been damaged from her rough handling by her would-be kidnappers. Slowly getting to his feet, Prydain gathered his clothes and walked back to where his weapons and scrolls had been left behind earlier. Looking around for some parchment and quills, Prydain took another ink pot - this one full - and started to write. Considering that so many were still talking about the vulpine celebration of the new year, The Hidden thought to himself about changes he would need make in himself to make this year better than the last one.
***
~* Resolutions For The New Year *~
I. Kill more people that obviously deserve killing, including anyone using a deity's name to try to cloak their actions in legitimacy.
II. Start working towards learning mithril, so Miss Alta can pay me even more money than I am already making - because money is good.
III. Complete the revisions on the tower, so Vesta and Kuwanyauma have a glorious place to live and study, work and prosper. As well, make sure to get fur blankets for the floors in all of the bedrooms.
IV. Get James to learn how to work leather. The boy needs to do more than look pretty and sell weapons.