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Cuts and scrapes covered every inch of his body as he slowly made his way further into, what he now feared would become his tomb. The blood from his cracked lips, were the only fluid he still could use to ensure that his tongue did not stick to the top of his mouth. The further he ventured inside, the darker it got and he cursed himself for venturing in unprepared. Neither torches nor water had he brought with him, then again it had been folly not to move as fast as possible. His friends and troops could only hold the enemy for so long. Having lost his sword in the last fight against the undead, and now armed with only his shield and dagger, he forced himself to enter the darkness ahead. With his right hand resting against the wall to his side, he slowly ventured deeper. Each step also created a wet crunching sound but, due to the lack of light, he had no idea what he was treading on. As he turned a corner, a soft green light could be seen further down the hall and a renewed strength returned as he hurried his steps.
Jean-Luc could not stop himself from thinking about the rolling waves hammering up on the shores of L’Anguille as he watched the man coming towards him. It was the stomach that rolled side to side and up and down, with each step under the tightly stretched, grease stained, white shirt he wore. An apron, that by the looks of it, most certainly had seen its fair share of slaughter did its best to hide the obese form of the man that slowly made its way over towards Jean-Luc. “You have truly earned you silvers Minstrel, and the key to the room I promised.” Jean-Luc could barely hide his contempt for the fat tavern keeper before him, and a shiver ran down his spine as the fat man pressed his oily hand on Jean-Luc’s shoulder. Where Jean-Luc's smile, at least in his own mind would charm the fairest of elven maidens, the tavern keep's smile would scare even the foul lord of disease. It was with mixed feelings of relief for finally being able to go to bed, and revulsion of actually touching skin to skin with the tavern owner, as he pressed his oily hand with the key into Jean-Luc's.
“Would you find it, to taxing to send one of the serving maids with a bath up to my room?” Jean-Luc said as he took out a handkerchief from a pocket in his vest. He examined the embroidered silk, and considered if it would ruin the memories of Lady Mendrial of Paravon if he used it to clean his hands.His eyes drifted from the handkerchief to his hands, and when he saw a droplet of grease about to fall from his fingers, he quickly dismissed what ever the fair duchess would think about how he used her gift of love. “I’ll send it up myself.”“Ahh. Well see I was hoping to...”“Nonsense, a skilled minstrel as you should receive the best of services. Who else but me can offer that? Do not worry yourself.” ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ Jean-Luc said softly to himself as he watched the Tavern owner walk off with a shrug that set his body into a rocking motion. ‘By the Lady, I’m going to be sick.’ Jean-Luc could feel how his stomach was about to turn inside out and quickly turned to retire to his room.
Overall, it had been a good evening, and it had taken some smooth talking to get the patrons to leave the tavern when it came to closing hours. The only one who had left without a fuss was the hooded knight. On tired legs, Jean-Luc made his way up the wooded stairs and entered his room. It was spartan at best, but it would suit his needs for the night. With a deep sigh, he removed the clothes on his upper half and placed them on the lone chair by the recliner, before he took a seat on the bed. He always hated, when he could not finish a story for the crowd but that fight with the Carroburgers had cost time and by the laws of the Duke Reginald, a tavern was only allowed to remain open until the Yeoman called twelve strikes. It was all to make sure that the peasants, when dawn came and work began anew, were not worn out.
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A sound very much like a woodpecker, tapping its beak against a tree in the mythical forest of Athel Loren, was slowly drowned by that of a woodsman tending to his trade. The chopping of wood soon turned into the soft giggling voices, from the fairest of elven maidens, barely audible over the soft groaning sound that came from the ancient oaks. Jean-Luc opened his eyes and stared into pitch-black darkness. No, not total darkness, the soft green light of Morrslieb, one of the two celesital bodies, granted some illumination in the room. With a soft grunt, he slowly rose himself up and placed his feet on the floor.“Must have been more tired then I believed.” He said softly as he rubbed his eyes and yawned “Indeed, I knocked but you did not awake.” The reply was unexpected and in itself reason for a man to feel fear in a situation like this. However, Jean-Luc did not find himself frozen in fear over the fact that he was not alone, he knew that voice. That perfect L’Anguille dialect, he had heard it earlier this very night.
He swallowed deeply and glanced around in the dim light, to find the source of the voice. Jean-Luc felt a shiver run down his spine as all his well-tuned senses caught, what could only be described as a barely noticeable change of the wind in the room. ‘Magic’ he thought for himself a second before the lantern on the bed stand came alight. With no visible source of ignition, a bright flame appeared inside the glass casing, and it illuminated the whole room. Sitting on the same chair, where he had put his clothes, the hooded knight now sat. No visible weapons, he sat comfortably and with his arms crossed over his chest. “What do you want?” Jean-Luc said as he marvelled over the fact that even this bright light did not seem to penetrate the shadows casts down by the hood to shield the strangers face from view. “Merely for you to complete your tale Minstrel, I was most intrigued. I will make it worth your while I assure you.” The stranger said and gestured with a slight nod over towards the bed stand where the lantern stood. Jean-Luc followed the nod with his gaze and for the first time noticed a large pouch standing just behind the lantern. Once again, he swallowed hard, as he could easily see the contours of coins pressed against the cloth of the bag. “Thirty gold pieces Minstrel is far more then any payment a tavern will ever pay for you to complete a tale is it not?” “Thi. Thirt.” Jean-Luc had trouble to form the word in his mouth as he stared at the pouch. If the stranger told the truth, it contained more money then he ever had owned
“Thirty gold pieces will be more then. Yes it should cover it, just let me fetch my lute.” Entering the deepest rooms.He found the living saints final resting place.Its eternal glory forever kept from disgrace.Young Sir Ferran, came face to face with the King of Tombs.Filled with strength from the Lady he refused to make this his last of standValiantly he charged with sword in hand.He clashing of swords and spilling of blood he fought so glorious.Until he alone stood victorious.
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