TheGentleDuck

[!] Viktor took a long look at the flyer. "Eh, I do not see why not." If he fought, he could also promote his stew! IGN: TheGentleDuck NAME: Viktor Othaman AFFILIATION: Empire, House Othaman, The Pour House Tavern

With a gasp, Wrotek awoke. For the first time since he had gained it, his black eye was blind. A punishment, a petty exclusion or a more permanent consequence, he was too tired to care. Groaning, the exhausted elder threw them off his sheets, reaching a trembling hand for the walking stick leaning against his bed. Walking out into the frigid air of Isaakev, the centennial old man stepped barefoot into patches of snow before he made it up the steps of the keeps wall. It did not bother him, as he felt nothing much these days. The Mountain, ever present no matter the distance, beared down upon him. He stared back at it, aged, half blind and wreaked by his many decades... But still resolute. The fire of the old Bear was embers now, but it still burned hot with courage. "Calamity..." He muttered, his words lost into the cold wind. At that, vision returned to his black eye. Exhaling, Wrotek brought up his calloused hand and covered it. Now blind by choice, Wrotek turned and took his steps back down to his room. He had little time to act, and many letters to send.

"So the wheel turns again." The centenial patriarch Wrotek Pankiewich sighed wearily. "And so foolsihly march towards Calamity, puppets roused by holy fervor." The veteran stood with a groan. This war would likely be his last, and spelled the death of countless thousands. He looked towards the stairs to the second floor, where his grandchildren slept soundly and innocently. "For vy, my kin, let me take up my arms one more time. So that vy niet have to." As the old man walked through the dead of night towards his forge, other lights flickered to life in the houses he passed. It heartened him to know that the Haenseni would not falter.

Wrotek's hammer thudded as beat the metal into form, but the usual rhythm of his forge had been perturbed. Upon reading the proclamation, the gruff and stoic Forge master had buried himself within his work, as was his usual way of focusing on something other than pain. But today, his thoughts were too rattled. Karl had been the King, yes, but the old veteran had pretty much watched him grow up into his position after taking the throne so young. A bright, dutiful and eager lad turned into an honorable, proud and dignified man. Moreover, now the responsibility of rule fell to Joren and Nadya. A warrior and a prince, both without any aspirations to the throne. The patriarch grunted, tossing away his doubts with each beat of the hammer. It didn't matter now. All that was left to do was honor the King's memory and support the newly appointed one where he could. But for now... He set the hammer down, sitting on the stool by the anvil with a tired sigh. No work should be done in times of mourning Eventually, the only sound out of the smithy was Wrotek's muffled lament.

Wrotek received the invitation at his forge, allowing him a moment of respite from the billowing open flame. He sat at the workbench with a groan, but soon a smile drew across his wrinkled features as he read the announcement. "...About damn time." He said, the bluntness of his reply doing little to mask his excitement. Having served under the groom and as a frequent customer of the bride, he couldn't be happier for both. Now came the question of a gift... The Forge Master had already outfitted Magnus with the best weapons and armor he could offer, and both haenseti and scyfling would bury him in gifted blades. No, the gift had to be something different, something useful beyond a simple trinket...He glanced back at the forge, an idea brewing in his mind. "Hmmm... Need to draw up some plans." He returned back to his work, the joyful news granting him new motivation .

Dearest Sir Thornbriar, I have learned of this fateful expedition, and with great urge I write this letter. Fate whispers of a calamitous end should you embark without me. I wish to join you on this expedition to ensure this does not happen. My skills and long experience adventuring will do you well. Might I also remark I am a very good cook, and you will need your expedition fed. Wrotek "The Bear" Pankiewich.

The old man jostled awake, gasping for air as the final whispers of foresight retreated from his mind. His living tattoos ached, and he felt the ink spiral writhing back into his left eye socket, into the pitch black eyeball that still saw the visions dance in the shadows. This one had been much clearer than any other, and the importance wasn't lost on the Forge Master. His mind raced through the possible interpretations, but he quickly brushed the thought aside. "Too recent... Too sudden. Mastery doesn't allow for rushed conclusions. I will have to do a proper reading." Groaning, Wrotek pried off the sweat stained blankets and reached for the matchbox on his nightstand. The flickering match flame was barely a speck, but under it's warm glow the veteran noticed something alarming. A wriggling pool of ink had manifested on the back of his hand, making the final touches to a new tattoo. The coin had etched itself on his flesh, seeping into his soul as a permanent reminder of what he had been shown. Wrotek Pankiewich stared at the fresh marking with a worried frown. The match all the way down to his fingers, leaving the elder Palmreader without light once more. But he did not mind the dark. The clearest messages came in the blackest ink.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Proud warrior soul, Filled with fire and flame. The oasis denied him, Cold and tired, never again sane. The storm writhes, sweeping all away. The Eagle screeches and rends the flesh, Finding no one to blame. _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Wrotek gasped for air, dropping the hammer and leaning over the anvil. He held his throbbing head as the final whispers fell silent, the crackling molten metal in the forge his only company once more. The Forgemaster grunted, steeling his mind against the paranoia that assailed him and gripping his trembling wrist as he stumbled towards the stool by his workbench. The world around him was spinning, denying him clarity. He felt his stomach churn and threatened to expel its contents over the stone floor. His limbs were like twigs, sapped of the strength they had held just moments before, but the old man managed to bring his fingers up to his neck to check his pulse. It was certainly quickened, but not to the point his physical state should be this affected. “Is this… Is this a heart attack? Have I finally pushed too far?” Wrotek’s thoughts scrambled, trying to find a reason for this malady. He cursed, closing his eyes and fighting against the dizziness by regulating his breathing and taking a better posture. In that moment, trying to calm himself in the silence of his forge, his mind wandered to a different question. “What is this?” The Pankiewich Patriarch had lived a long life, travelling far and experiencing many things. He had been all across Aevos, as often a friend or foe to its people and sharing a good drink and knowledge with many different cultures and clans. He had come close to death enough times to know this wasn’t one of them, as the fatigue had acted faster than his fury could keep up with. Perhaps that was because he was older now, but he couldn't be this weak yet. It hadn't been long since he had braved the elements and scaled the Mountain. KRAKOOM The old man’s eyes snapped open. The vivid memory of what he had seen at the top struck him suddenly, sending him tumbling off the stool. He brought his hand up to shield himself from the light, but he still saw it. He was there, at the top of the world! He had never left! He gasped for air but there was none to breathe, he tried to free himself from snow that clung to his feet, he struggled against the wind that threatened to push him off the earth, tumbling down into the darkness below. He roared in defiance with a voice that was not his, fought with a strength that was long gone from his body and pushed forth with support that wasn’t for him alone. IT WAS ONLY HIM, THE ONE CHAINED AT THE MOUNTAIN, AND HIS DOGGED FIGHT FOR CONTROL! NO, NOT CONTROL! MASTERY, THE MASTERY HE HAD SOUGHT ALL HIS LIFE, NO MATTER THE TASK. AS A MERCENARY, AS A CINGEDOZ, AS A FATHER! AS A PERFORMER, SHERIFF, COOK, BLACKSMITH AND SOLDIER! HE ACHIEVED MASTERY AT THEM, AND NOW HE HAD TO BE- WROTEK He blinked away the dancing lights. He wasn’t sure where he was, with only the fading lantern glow illuminating his surroundings. He took a moment to think, to calm his racing mind. The fractured visions eluded him, a frustrating blank in his memory. He looked up at the window by his forge, noting that the sky above was pitch dark. “Hold on… MY forge?” He was home. In his basement smithy, not at his forge station at the barracks. Moreover, with how dark it was outside, hours must have passed since his last conscious thought. He let out a worried sigh, raising his hand up to his forehead. “What is this? Am I succumbing to dementia in my old age?” Now that the confusion was over, he realised two things. First, his smithy was completely clean. Wrotek had always been conscious about the clutter and leaving the space tidy, but hadn’t really minded the soot or small Ferrum shavings. Now, his forge was clean to a level of scrutiny he had thought impossible. There wasn’t a speck of dirt on the newly polished floor, the ingot pile was stacked to a precision that would make architects blush, and the tools were stashed away in their right spot for once, clear of oil and tarnish. Second, and probably most important given his current predicament: he was topless. Wrotek had never been prudish about showing his muscles, but in the last decade they had certainly lost their prior luster. More alarmingly, there was something new on his chest. A crude tattoo of Cingedoz runes was present on his left pectoral. The reddening flesh indicated it was very fresh, with the black ink still wet. The old man’s heartbeat quickened, and he bolted up the stairs of his basement up to his living quarters. His quick flight up the steps woke up his wolfhound, who sprang up from his sleeping and began barking and growling at the ruckus. Scrambling around, the old veteran pulled a kitchen rag from the countertop and furiously wiped the ink away. “H-How could I do that?! Such an amateur attempt, not masterful at all!” He grumbled as he rubbed his flesh raw, ink mixing with a trickle of blood as he stressed the bruised skin “No, wait. Wait! That’s not what matters here!” He stopped, panting as the world around him focused again. He looked down at his chest with growing worry. The tattoo had been scrubbed off, but there was still a faded mark on the aching skin. Wrotek gingerly ran his fingers on it and had to suppress a yelp as the pain shot through him. Bobdr sauntered up to his master with his tail between his legs, confused and a bit frightened. The big dog began licking his master's free hand, much to his relief and gratitude. “Preprazsm, chopak. Didn't mean to startle you. It is all right.” Bobdr gave a couple satisfied huffs, staying at his master's side for a while longer. .… …. …. After cleaning the new scrape and putting on his bed dressings, the Elder Pankiewich felt calm enough to think again. Bobdr followed him as he stumbled towards his bed, where the old man sat on the wool mattress with a very grave expression. Wrotek did his best to ignore the pain coming from the removed tattoo. It would fade, and he had more important things to think about. He still wasn't sure what had transpired, but he felt…Understanding. It wasn’t knowledge that gave him much comfort, but now he was certain about what he had seen. Those had been visions, much like the ones he had suffered after the Great Wave hit Aaun, or when he had gazed upon the Giant Ice Spires that stuck through Nau Valdev so many decades ago. But these were not twisted dreams that had eventually gone away. These felt far more real, far more… Wrotek shook his head. Whatever this was, it had done more than show him scattered images. It had spoken to him, made him understand concepts he hadn’t the morning before and compelled him to do things. So far his actions under this effect had not been destructive or malicious to anybody. Or so he hoped. Whatever the case, it was certainly not normal and definitely worth figuring out before he lost control again. His grip tightened around the bedsheets. How he loathed losing control, how much he hated the mastery over his mind and body slipping awa- He stopped the stray thought before it got too far from him. There was that word again. Mastery. That word was very alluring to him now. Or had it always been like that? Tired as he was, the old Pankiewich could only wonder. “And wondering is the fool's line of reason. I will know.” Wrotek Pankiewich drifted off into a restless sleep, the whispers of his mind never subsiding. His dreams that night were of his children’s smiles. _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ (OOC):

Wrotek Pankiewich took a deep breath, the cold and thin air making the action difficult. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, as it took him back to his youth, to the mountains above Aaun. His clan, the Cingedoz, had often made expeditions like this as they braved the elements mapping out their home. And although numerous, none had been as difficult as this one. Deep in thought, he crushed a piece of hardtack before putting the crumbs in his mouth. It was fair to say he was much older now, but this mountain was taller than any other he had climbed before. And the blizzard they were facing was so fierce even his wolfhound was starting to shiver. He glanced over to Bobdr. His faithful companion stood guard, slowly patrolling the edge of camp, looking out into the snow beyond. The occasional ear twitch indicated nothing but the raging elements was out there. For now at least. The old veteran turned his gaze towards the tents. Some of his group rested, others still worked well into the night. Brushing snow off his knees as he rose to his feet, Wrotek readied himself to get back to work. Older I may be, but I will make sure everyone gets back home.

Wrotek read the report with his brow furrowed in worry. The Forgemaster set down the letter, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "The sacrfice of this templar is costly. We need as many as we can get for this coming tide of darkness." His gaze shifted back to the anvil, were a couple steel bars were cooling off. He tapped them with his hammer and hoisted them back into the furnace to melt. As long as the enemy continued their wicked work, so would he carry on doing his.

Wrotek read the war calling with a wary heart as he scratched his beard. The old man closed the hatch of the furnace, letting the embers of the forge fade into the night. "Too old for war, I am" he muttered, taking off his gloves as he made the final preparations to leave the forge. The veteran soldier had been a warrior since he was a young lad. 70 years of fighting left their toll on a man, but he had done it with pride, earning blood, honor and coin for his family, comrades and himself. He had done his part, and now he mostly trained the future warriors and made their equipment. His family was well off thanks to him, and he needn't fight any longer. He locked the door to his forge, and went upstairs to his home where he fell into dreamless sleep. So Wrotek was content to stand by, until the missive came the following morning. His eldest grandson and granddaughter were off age, and they were marching to war. The old Bear grimaced, then looked over to the trunk by his bed. "Hmm, perhaps a few more years then." he clicked his tongue. The fires of the forge burned brightly the rest of the day.

Wrotek faltered upon hearing the news. He signed the Lorraine and looked up at the heavens. "Godan, by your word a city burns... What can we humble servants say to that? May the wicked be purged and the innocent forgiven."

Reading the missive again, Wrotek slumped in his seat. Not only did he need to find something nice to wear, but also find a mask for this? The grizzled warrior thought for a moment, his eyes moving to look towards the stairs to his living quarters. "Hmmm, I think I still have it somewhere..."

The veteran warrior read the contract, gears turning in his head. The Brotherhood of Saint Karl had already delegated a contingent of soldiers to this endeavor, equiped with weapons he had forged for them out of Aurum and Slayer steel. This matter was already handled, and the old man could simply return to his duties in logistics. And yet... Above all else except his faith, Wrotek "The Bear" Pankiewich had been a mercenary all his life. The prospect of treasure and adventure was pulling at him, calling out to the grizzled najimiek with whispers of glory, blood and coin. And to obtain it by giving final death to darkspawn and other sinister dregs? He didn't know why it was even a question. Wrotek Pankiewich He pushed the contract back across the table. The Bear took a deep breath, the warm feeling of past memories and future spoils filling his eager heart. "So" he put a hand to his belt, palming the hilt of his smithing hammer. "Guess I should prepare some things."

Wrotek looked up from the anvil upon hearing the news.The burly blacksmith let out a sigh of relief. "Thank Godan for this peace. May it last." He glanced down at his hammer, then the unfinished blade sitting on the anvil, still red hot and ready to be drawn out. "But it never hurts to be ready." The old smith returned to his work, for he had much to do.

Wrotek read the letter with a sad smile. "So the tent will be full of life again." The old man mused, scratching his beard. "A shame, the Ember Bear is too old to do his tricks. But I can always visit as a patron."

Wrotek ran his fingers over his shoulder, where the broken arrow was tattooed on his flesh. A mark of pride, a mark of triumph and glory more significant than any battle scar. He shook his head "Doesn't the church have better things to do?"

Wrotek read the missive with a frown. "He appeals to wolves. They are too blinded by faith and zeal to see anything else. Now he has put a target on himself." He muttered with discontent before walking away from the notice board. "I must find them before anyone gets any bright ideas."

Wrotek sat down, the tension of battle leaving him. Now at the camp, he inspected his spoils of war. The mercenary wasn't used to the feeling of national pride shared by the rest of the army, but charging alongside Aaun and the coalition to victory? That was a something worth treasuring. That and the heaps of loot they had claimed, of course. "Heh. Bardzo dobry."

Wrotek paused to consider before shaking his head. "Generous offer, but I must decline. I do not know the law well enough to enforce it, and I doubt a former mercenary would be trusted to keep it."