A Licencious, ravenous and clutching rough draft from your friend Sakimu
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Dark and brooding he sat at the steps to the monastery. Dismas, a rouge, vagabond. A man haunted seemingly by endless stretches of bad luck and misfortune. Curious that he would come across a friend such as the man across from him, hair sleek and shining like brilliant justice in the sunlight of a day bright, the sun laughing at their despondence.
Dismas regarded the crusader at his side. Reynauld was a man never sporting downed spirits.
He looked to the city around them not with the cynical gaze Dismas always gave it, but a look that spoke of pride and honor for the city he had helped to protect so many times. Still, the holy man was down on his luck; with the land at peace he was on an extended break from combat. The magistrate paid knights a pittance when not needed. He had a comfortable room at the abbey, and was well looked after by the clergy, but Reynauld dreamed endlessly of the glory and honor that battle brings. He led a battalion of loyal men into many battles in his day, inspiring his followers through heroic deeds and rallying cries. Now, he spent his days in the tavern with Dismas, drinking his meager government handout in a musty tavern that seemed to mirror his own decay. Still, he smiled to the day and remarked to his companion the comforting warmth it provided.
Dismas scoffed, cleaning his rusty flintlock under his dark gaze. The thing was battered and bruised from so many years of use, made crudely from cheap wood and metal. He cherished it. The flintlock and dirk were essential tools of his trade, light and deadly. He had made a living from them, not an enviable life, but one with it's moments.
And yet, the monotony of sticking up defenseless civilians now bored him, and his thoughts tuned to the torn, weather-beaten page hung on the nearby noticeboard.
"Reynauld."
The Crusader turned his gaze.
"That page. Old, decaying, like the west road on a wet spring day. Yes, it tells of glory and fortune too good to possibly be true. But it's an adventure, old friend. We have nothing to lose, a week out in the sticks."
With no response from his friend, he continued somewhat wistfully. Reynauld looked into the clear sky as a pack of crows soared overhead.
"I've heard so many stories of the old manor out on the old road. I've seen the carriage driver. He has something in his eye; he knows things, seen things. It's free passage on that wagon. The steed is healthy, the carriage constructed well."
Reynauld let Dismas finish, looked at the notice board sitting complacently in the town square.
Chipped and beaten, surrounded by undesirables and treacherous uneven cobbles, it seemed, if anything, forboding and dark. An old hag, wretched and scarred, stumbled up to the board with the help of an aged cane that looked nowhere near as old as herself and pinned a notice with an incredibly well rendered visage of a feline. The text was unreadable from this distance, but the cat was most likely the one forever knocking down junk with an unending malevolence in the alley behind Dismas' squalid accommodation. The highwayman rose with a small grunt and strode to the board to read the page whilst the crone slinked away.
The page was indeed for a missing cat, promising a reward for it's successful return. With the reward unclear, and no details given as the where to return the cat, Dismas turned towards the retreating woman and proceeded towards her. "What do I get for returning the cat?" He queried, blunt as a forge-man's hammer. The woman turns with shuddering movements. "Child, I have many stocks. What interests you? Manuscripts? Fetishes? Torches, perhaps, or literary volumes from acclaimed authors? Canned food?"
Dismas' mind flashed instantly to the other notice that captivated his thoughts.
"Food and Torches. How many do you have?"
"Plenty. Bring me Mr. Snuggles, it's all yours."
Always aware, Dismas had already caught the cat in the periphery of his vision. Quiet, skulking, dextrous. He and the beast shared many common traits. Wasting no time, he paces to the opposite side of the square, he tracked it's movements with a keen eye. Mr. Snuggles leapt from bin to fence to windowsill, making his way down an alley. But Dismas knew this city like no other, and quickly discovered a way to cut off and corner the cat. Although feckless in most areas, Dismas took no chances in matters of combat and maneuvering. With deft, practiced moves, he slunk to the spot he expected the cat to reach and lay in wait, peeking ever so gently over a ledge to watch the feline approach. Nabbing the thing was not without injury; he swore as the furball cut him whist being manhandled. He stuck the creature into a large jacket recess and made back for Reynauld, cursing himself for not asking where the woman would take delivery.
Reynauld was poring over his holy texts on the steps as the world slowly turned around him. Muffled mews brought him out of his trance and he turned to Dismas, eyebrow cocked.