If you kill her, the South will still revolt. People will still wage war. Mercenaries will still make money. You are the Red Lance's squire, and you follow orders.
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[[Deny the Honor. You would rather serve as his right hand.]] | [[Deny the Honor. You would rather serve as his right hand.]] | ||
| - | Category:The Red Lance Category: Playing the Charade | + | [[Category:The Red Lance]] [[Category: Playing the Charade]] |
Revision as of 18:55, 4 November 2012
The extraction was messy. The Red Lance took the Duchess and rode off. There was fighting in the city, but the Red Lance followed the planned escape route. Any guards in pursuit were met with pots of boiling oil or 'convenient' road blocks.
You have found your way back to the safehouse. The Norlandic Empire's plains turn to hills here, as you are situated next to the arboreal Barrier Forest, and then the provinces of Southcliffe beyond that. You have a perfect route of escape if need be, but for now the imperative is to rest. You arrive around 10pm at a tavern on the edge of town. The Red Lance reclines on the tavern floor, still partially in his armor. Agents, men and women alike, treat his wounds. It looks like the reason he is still wearing armor is because it looks like certain parts can no longer be considered 'dented', but rather 'caved in'. The man is trapped in his protective suit, and he is leaking blood from the creases and articulations between the armored plates. His helmet is off. You see his weather-worn face, and the same stern expression peering out from the top of his braided beard and handlebar moustache that you've seen for the last five years.
"Squire. You've made it. Good show." He says, the slightest hint of a southern accent. The Red Lance, as you know him, is from the south. As a mercenary, he claims no allegiance, but he was born under the red flag of Duchess Elena Lueca's grandfather, back when the Luecas still held titles like 'King' or 'Queen'.
"Thanks for leaving me behind there, ser" You say sarcastically. You remember that no one refers to the Red Lance directly by that name. In effect, once a man dons the title, he loses his name. You are familiar with how the charade is played. There was once a Red Lance, but he died over a decade ago...During the actual war between the Norlandic Empire and the Kingdom of Southcliffe. To keep the mercenary house together, the title was passed onto whoever could carry the mantel. Should anyone ever be compromised, the name "Redoric" is given, as if the original Red Lance was pulling the strings for some dark organization. The members of the mercenary house respectively called each other Oathsworne. Brothers and sisters devoted to each other, and willing to lay down their lives for the cause - whatever it may be. When you swear an Oath under the Red Lance, he pays for your death up front. Your blood family is provided for, so that you may forget about blood and concern yourself only with your Oath. You don't use the term Oathsworne outside of the safehouses. The charade calls for the illusion that The Red Lance's leadership and prowess inspires the faceless bands of mercenaries he leads, wherever he may hire or find them. In reality, you and your Oathsworne brothers and sisters follow wherever The Red Lance goes...discreetly, of course.
The Red Lance lets out an unusual chuckle. It must be the opium. The Red Lance starts to speak, his breathing labored and his words slow. "I'm all banged up, Squire. Nhero's lance was sturdier than his horse." You notice the cratered armour. The steel is dented a full four inches into the old mercenary's ribcage. There is a small puncture wound in the center. He pauses. You know where he is going with this. "I'm still the head honcho, but I need you to play the game..."
Accept the Honor. Don the title of The Red Lance. (You never liked your name anyway)
