Balthazar Woll

[Stug3]

HISTORY:
Balthazar Woll or Bobby to his friends and family was raised in Leilon by his parents Hildegard and Gunter Woll. Balthazar's life growing up was far from poverty stricken but he was not raised high on the hog either. As respectable merchants his parents worked hard to provide the necessities of raising a strong and respectable son. They worked hard not to spoil or coddle their son, growing up under his parents roof Balthazar learned the importance of self-respect and the honesty of a hard days work. Gunter, his father was not a strict disciplinarian but he did not allow Balthazar to get away with inappropriate behavior either. Balthazar learned the bounds of his father's tolerance for as his father put it Tomfoolery. Balthazar was raised to be respectful and well mannered. Able to read and write he could hold his own in conversation on many subjects including politics, commerce and religion. Gunter did much to prepare his son to one-day take over the family business with its many compromises and challenges. Balthazar's mother Hildegard however had little illusion her son would one day take over the business; she could see the restlessness and knew that the life of a merchant was not in the cards for Balthazar. As a young boy Balthazar was held spellbound by the stories of the scarred and boisterous men who were employed to protect the shipments. They lived life as they found fit, surviving on their wit and skills as swordsmen and the stories they told Balthazar stirred his young imagination so that he could not sleep for hours afterwards. Balthazar often daydreamed about his life as a free blade in the service of this king or that, employed to get crucial supplies through enemy siege lines or defending his home from marauding villains. As with most daydreams the horror and brutality of war were absent in the fanciful imagination of a child mind.


Times have changed drastically, Blood's army advances and few places are safe any longer. Stories of Bone Dragons and formidable creatures wandering the land are all abuzz in the taverns and watering holes. It seems not a day goes by that travelers here or there do not recount strange happenings across the land of Mistone. Calls to arms go out to defend this town or that; war effort collections, enlistments and formations of militia are not uncommon these days. Even Balthazar's parents contribute to the war effort, coin and weapons are needed in awe-inspiring numbers and the Wolls give liberally to the cause. As lands fall the shipment destinations become less and less and those that are still open need the supplies desperately. All of this was not lost on Balthazar. At the request of his father Balthazar was to accompany a trade wagon to Port Hampshire for overseas shipment of its contents. Old enough to accompany the wagons without his father Balthazar was excited by the prospect of being on his own for a bit. Besides the trip was far from perilous, he had traveled with the Port Hampshire caravan a few times before and the caravan always employed several free blades to handle any threat that may present itself.
Two weeks later Balthazar returned to Leilon a ragged and bloodied mess. Covered in road grime, dried blood and dressed in rags of what were his clothes, he collapsed in exhaustion at the gate. His parents were summoned and he was taken to their home for care. His back was covered in deep claw like wounds and bite marks covered a great portion of his chest, a broken right arm, three broken ribs, two missing teeth, an arrowhead lodged in his right shoulder and a vicious slash from skull to chin had destroyed his left eye, Healers arrived to tend his wounds. He was cleaned, the broken bones were set, slashes were stitched, and the arrowhead removed.
In the following days Balthazar's mother left his bedside little and his father desperately tried to find out what had happened to the caravan; when had they been attacked, where, by whom or what and what of the guards and wagon masters? Goods could be replaced but lives had been lost and men were missing.
For days Balthazar lay in his bed sleeping fitfully a cry or muffled shout would escape on occasion to startle his ever-watchful mother. It took a week for Balthazar to wake up but he was not the same Bobby whom three weeks earlier had set off for Port Hampshire with a smile and a wave to his mother, Balthazar would never be the same again.
Questions, questions and more questions were asked but precious few answers surfaced. No answers about who had attacked them or where, no answer about the other men in the caravan, no answers.
Hildegard was worried about her son; her once happy boy became quiet and withdrawn. He rarely ate and she often heard him thrashing around in bed or crying warnings in his sleep, exhaustion showed on his face and in his one good eye a strange look flickered. His mother asked Gunter if he had noticed, he assured her he had. She likened it to the way a starving man might eye sweet bread. Balthazar spent much of his time alone and often returned home with cuts and bruises or bloodied clothes, when his mother or father inquired to his whereabouts practicing was the only reply, day after day for months this played out. Worry grew in the heart of Hildegard, as her son changed into what he was becoming, what it was she did not know, or was she sure she was going to like it.
One afternoon when Balthazar passed his mother she grabbed him, took Balthazar's face in her hand and with tears streaming down her cheeks asked, Where is Bobby?
He's dead Balthazar replied coldly.
Hildegard was confused, dead Balthazar is standing right before me, living, breathing. Slowly Balthazar removed his mother's hands and led her to the table where he pulled out a chair for her to sit on. The voice Balthazar used to tell his mother the story of what happened was as terrifying and heartbreaking as the story its self. The ambush, the fight, the slaughter and his escape all flowed from the mouth of her son as if it were an order taken for a merchant, no emotion and no inflection simply recounting facts. Facts so horrific Hildegard felt physically sick. The ambush had been sprung with such terrifying speed five men were dead before they even knew they were under attack, arrows from the under brush thudded in to their unprotected flesh, a half dozen apiece. Those unlucky enough to be spared instant death had to fight for their end at the hands of the awfulness that erupted from the roadside brush. Creatures that defy the minds eye poured from the forest to commit heinous acts against the men of the caravan. Huge hulking beasts thickly muscled with squashed faces and tusks, hairless misshapen heads and all wielding clubs and axes. They fell on the men with abandon and murderous strength, hacking with axe and slinging men off their feet with great blows from the clubs. Heads crushed and bones broke on every swing of the weapons regardless to the armor worn. Men lifted off their feet to have their necks and backs broken, others swung into trees by their feet others had their heads twisted completely around, limbs were torn free from torso. Still in to this bloodbath arrows streaked, impacting the hulks as well but with little effect. One with six or seven arrows in it continued to beat the wagon master with his club even though his head was turned into pulp and he was obviously dead. Men and horses alike were full of arrows, some to wounded to stand others still fighting in a vain attempt to survive. As if the slaughter was not yet enough, small yapping creatures that had been the source of the arrows also boiled from the forest to join the butchery. Small but very fast they swarmed any still fighting and with their short bladed swords piled on to the men driving them from their feet and making quick work of the overwhelmed men. Wounded men trying to defend themselves from attack, men missing limbs, men with arrows protruding from their backs and chests, men split open holding their insides in with one hand and trying to block the killing blow with the other. Even the horses did not escape the butchering they were set upon just like the men beaten, stabbed and hacked to death. It was no fight it was extermination. The sound of metal on metal, blade on shield, ax into flesh, grunts, squeals, screams and the pleading of the wounded filled Hildegard's head as Balthazar recounted his tale. It was no fight it was extermination.
Balthazar continued on to confess he had been hiding in the middle most wagon for a large amount of the assault until it was clear that it was nearly over and no one of the caravan was going to escape alive. As the hulks and barking creatures finished off anyone still alive including the wounded, Balthazar made his move to escape. As he lifted the tarp covering the wagon one of the hulking creatures yanked the cover free and swung his ax down to cleave Balthazar's skull. In a moment of nothing but luck Balthazar stepped on to a few spear shafts in the wagon and slipped backward out of the arc of the falling ax. Still doing extreme but not fatal damage the ax became imbedded in the wagon. Balthazar continued over backwards and out of the wagon breaking his arm when he landed on the bent shield of a caravan guard. Getting to his feet with one good eye, a throbbing arm and standing in the gore that surrounded the wagon Balthazar began to run down the line of wagons. Cradling his useless arm, trying to see through the blood that filled his good eye, slipping and sliding in the blood and filth that covered the ground he was determined to get away. As he ran an arrow stung in to his shoulder spinning him sideways and slamming him into the last wagon in line causing him to break three ribs. Momentarily stunned and stationary a sling bullet hit him in the mouth blowing out two of his teeth and laying open his lip. Crawling under the wagon to escape any more arrows or stones he continued to crawl to the back of the wagon towards the empty road behind the caravan. As he emerged one of the yipping creatures pounced from the wagon to his back and began to claw and bite at him breaking off the arrow shaft but leaving the head buried deep in the shoulder. Wounded badly barely able to see or breathe Balthazar figured this was how he would die, killed by some stinking biting yelping thing he had no strength to remove from his back. An arrow meant to end his escape struck the creature passed clean through and almost removed his ear as it hissed by. His fear fueled flight continued for how long he could not say but it seemed like hours of running, stumbling and gasping. Out of fear Balthazar foolishly stayed off the roads, he may have been found sooner if he had remained on the roads but his pain-wracked brain could think of only one thing HOME. When Balthazar woke and found himself home and alive a deep feeling of shame and guilt over took him. He had survived by hiding and the running when many good men had died horribly while fighting. He would never be vulnerable or defenseless again and would never feel ashamed because he had to run away and leave others to die. Balthazar stood up from the table and walked off.
Hildegard cried for hours after Balthazar had finished his horrific recounting of the attack and his remarkable escape. Re-telling the story to Gunter on his return home. Now aware of the ghastly events endured by their son Gunter and Hildegard understood the changes that Balthazar had undergone. Although deeply concerned for Balthazar neither was surprised when he announced he was leaving Leilon for parts unknown.


Balthazar spent his last night with Gunter and Hildegard trying to dissuade their fears and explain his decision to leave the city, his family and the family business behind him for an unknown future on the road. With no real plans Balthazar had quite a time convincing them he knew what he was doing, if in fact he had persuaded them at all. Parents know when the chick must leave the nest and Balthazar had grown his flight feathers. If he would fly or not only the future can say...

[Stug3]

I do not know why I should write any of this down as no bard will ever sing my song nor will I be imortalized in stone. I am but a man; called ruffian or hooligan by some and often worse. What would they know? Few have walked in my shoes and fewer still would have the guts to walk away from the comfortable life I was accustomed to...

[Stug3]

It is true I do live to fight; the exhilaration of hard won battle stirs me like nothing else. I live simply, with little to call my own but none to call master. My sword arm provides much of what I need and my bow the rest. I hunt for food deer and boar or anything else I have eaten things in times of destitution that would make Ghouls retch; yet I persist...

[Stug3]

I have taken the few employment opportunities to be had locally and they have provided coin to add weight to my oft-empty purse. It is true I require little from the local townships but a few rudimentary items I cannot fabricate myself. The surrounding countryside has ample game, both animal and aggressive creatures to satisfy my need for food and combat...

[Stug3]

The closest town, Hlint is as good a place as any to secure essential equipment. I find my quiver is quickly depleted and many of the locals produce a dizzing range of arms, armor and anything one can imagine, much of it is in my opinion frivolous. Many seem too concerned how they look or what someone thinks about them. Too much production for me and I steer clear as much as possible. As much as I dislike the town I must admit it does draw a wide range of skilled warriors both in magic and strong-arms, the races seem to mix freely with little friction, I was surprised to see Elves and Dwarves talking civilly with little or no insults and creatures I would normally draw my weapon on roam the streets conducting business and gossiping like house-girls. Despite my feelings toward most of them, (which I have kept hidden) I have found a few I would cautiously call friend...

[Stug3]

Renji and Tegan, these two I have had recent travels with and I have found them to be industrious and eager for battle like myself. I admit I know little about them save for bits and pieces I have collected in our time on the road, but they know less of me, which I may change in the future. Renji seems to share the same eagerness for strife and adventure as I do. He is excellent with a crossbow and wields two blades, has a penchant for poison and a secretive nature, I like that. Tegan is a fine lass, I believe she is partially Elvin by her looks alone, but I will not ask. She is a fine addition to our forays as she is a magic slinger of some skill; quite a few times her magic has sailed past my ears to strike an opponent. (Unlike Renji, who has put arrows into me.) We have encountered many creatures that defy description or articulate description in our adventures and I am secretly in good spirits when I happen upon either one or both of these fine companions...

[Stug3]

I had the fortune or misfortune, to once again encounter Renji, traveling south with a small group or would-be adventurers, of which I immediately joined. With a wink and a knowing look we had wordlessly formulated a plan to get rich (It is good to have someone so like-minded). Headed for parts unknown with an unknown plan and no organization we found ourselves facing dark spirits by the score and some kind of hulking creature made entirely of bone. The spirits were no problem to overcome but the bone creatures were unaffected by our feeble attempts to fell them, chaos ensued and many were killed. After a valiant rearguard action I was forced into retreat, as the spirits used magic to drain my will and eventually I fell mortally wounded. For the first time...
Luckily I was expelled from the void to find myself in Hlint, dim-witted and weak but among a few of my companions who had also fallen and soon we were on our way back to the field of battle, be it ever so slowly. We returned to the wilds around Fort Velensk and located the survivors of our group; at that point it was decided to assault the Trolls who roam nearby, another well thought out plan with another trip to the void and a long slow trudge back for me. Upon my return I was surprised (be it pleasantly) to find most of our ragged group had dispersed, leaving without their share of gold, (more for me is always better than less.) With just three of us remaining we again (foolishly) attacked the Trolls and this time I survived Renji did not. Unable to make it back on his own, I made for Hlint, Renji and I set off again for the wilds surrounding Fort Velensk to recover his remains. We took a short cut through the Broken Forest and were consequently set upon by Were-beasts and while trying to defend Renji I was once again introduced to the void. I got off easy. The beasts tracked Renji all the way back to Fort Hope and had him trapped at the Inn. Luckily the door of the Inn is much stouter than it looks and he was able to hold them off for quite sometime. I received a bird with word of Renji's predicament and set off to help. When who should I run across but Tegan. Well now...
Always a pleasure to see her, she is very easy to look at and with her magic skills growing daily she is more than a welcomed addition I informed her of the situation and she was more than happy to lend a hand. We eventually rescued Renji and stopped to get a pelt or two for Tegan. While there we had a run in with some bird-girls; Herpies I think Tegan said? Renji and his arrows, Tegan shooting fire (very impressive I must say) and of course me hacking away at these ugly creatures with the for-mentioned missiles singing past my head. What a grand time, a little brawling does wonders for the spirit. Someone mentioned pies and I remember little after that...

[Stug3]

I find myself struggling internally with my views and actions. The war-within is not without casualties, moments of madness seem to well up and I can do odd things and say even stranger things, I would fear these episodes but I am unaware when they strike and often only the strange looks from those around me tell of their surfacing. Am I just along for the ride as this madness runs its course. I am not the same Balthazar I was when I was a boy. The devastation and pain inflicted was so great that even raised well by my parents in a life with little want or hardship, educated and with good manners, I now find myself in contempt of the weak and those who would allow themselves to be victimized.  The dichotomy of my actions furthers this conflict as I heal wounded companions without thought of compensation or cost incurred. I protect weaker members, stand rear-guard, shepherd stragglers and defend to the death those around me. Yet I hate them for being weak and would cheat them from their share of the spoils...

[Stug3]

By all outward appearances I am but a normal man, both courteous and civilized. This is but a thin veneer, a Balthazar suit if you will. And this threadbare suit has begun to leak madness. Are there two Balthazars in this body, one dark and malevolent the other respectable and good-natured, battling for control over my corporeal body? The malevolence strains against the fragile bonds that prevent its release. Yet these bonds weaken as I spend increasingly more time in the wilds of this land. Eventually my civility and upbringing will no longer be able to contain this madman inside. Stripped of my sanity and humanity I will be no more than a bipedal animal of instinct and impulse...

[Stug3]

The madness seems to be easing slightly or I may have gone completely around the bend, and just do not know it. I have done much and little in the time since I have written here last. I have found a way to keep coin jingling in my purse and satisfy my love of a good fight. I have become a procurer of interesting and mundane things. I have begun taking contracts to collect and deliver the items that keep this good land functioning and all the skilled tradesmen in business. This business is well suited to a strong back as much as a strong arm and the pay out is enough to keep a tidy profit. This arrangement is two fold; I keep myself in coin and keep myself from wandering aimlessly about and if I have an  episode no one is there to notice. I have delivered goods to some of the most respected Artisans and Crafters in the land, on time and on contract is paying off as more contracts come in. I have not as of yet run into problems delivering any of the requested material on time, nor have I completed a contract to find another party has already supplied the materials, leaving me stuck with something I now have to find a buyer for. If things continue as they are word will spread of my dependability in acquisition and delivery opening more jobs and more coin...

[Stug3]

It has been far too long since I last put ink in this book. My self-induced  exile has caused me to miss so much, as word of Blood's defeat has only recently reached my ears. (What the cost of this victory was I could only surmise) Little information made it into the deep forest where I was skulking for these long months. The madness I feared has faded and I find myself internally at peace for the first time in years. The wilderness provided as it always has but the healing my troubled soul was unexpected, I no longer feel as if I carry a monster waiting to shed its Balthazar skin and make an escape in the darkness. I regret my absence during such a significant time in history. Although my absence is regrettable it was nonetheless necessary. I was heartened to see many new faces bustling about in Hlint, yet sadness settled about my heart as I searched for familiar faces among the crowds. Where had they all gone? I left to the wilds for me but now I find myself thinking of friends and comrades. How many had fallen in the fight to secure Blood's defeat, How many are nothing but memory?...

[Stug3]

I returned to Hlint a few weeks ago and whom should I find at the lead of a stout party but miss Tegan off to parts unknown. I was a bit surprised not to see her second shadow by the name of Renji. I sat quietly down on the bench near the bank to catch my breath and watch as they prepared to head off. It seems not long ago Renji and I watched her back on many adventures and a few misadventures. Word is she has become quite the spell slinger and to see her at the lead of this group was a great joy. Even with all that was going one she noticed me as I sat and inquired if we had met before, as I reminder her of someone she had not seen in a goodly amount of time. We talked for a short bit and I asked of Renji and was concerned to find he has not been seen in quite sometime. We had many an adventure and he is one of very few I would call friend. With his penchant for trouble I find it easy to believe yet sad that he may be dead. I will hold some hope that he will stroll out of the forest someday no worse for wear. I had a few things for Tegan as usual, seems I always find something for her in my wanderings. Her tailoring skills have grown considerably and I received a magic bag for all the free pelts as she put it. It was Quite the gift for one in my line of work. Being pressed for time with a party to lead we bid each other farewell, I hope to see her again soon as I have much to catch up on. I will keep my eye peeled for her as I walkabout collecting...

[Stug3]

There  has been quit a surge in requests for my services. Requests for eggs, aloe and garlic being the most prevalent and time consuming. Not that I am complaining. Corn, devilish corn, boxes and boxes of corn. One would think grinding corn would be the simplest of tasks and one would be wrong apparently. Botching a job as simple as grinding corn is quite the blow to ones ego then you get used to it.  Chickens on the other hand, what can I say? I like them roasted? It makes me wonder if the gods put them here as a joke, the punch line being the on going frustration of mortals. The times I have threatened these maddening creatures with my sword or tried to strangle the eggs from them are as numerous as the stars in the night sky.

*(Do they really continue to run around when their head is removed? Further investigations may be necessary, maybe a field-test or five)*

[Stug3]

I  seem to have generated some interest in myself The Dragon's Whisper is looking to do a story,on me of all People. With so many famous and interesting folks I should wonder why I came into light of their interest. Well I do not look on this opportunity blindly. More exposure means more work, more work means more coin. I look forward to the issuance of the article and suspect I will get to read it months after its release. I doubt the Whispers messengers  will find it easy to track me down as I forage in the deep woods and dusty deserts of Mistone or Milara.  
I have taken one of the notices for posterity

*One page parchment notice, folded neatly to fit in the book*

 Wanted:
The Dragon's Whisper is putting a bounty out for a write-up on  Balthazar Woll His ability to scrounge the lands for nature's bounties seems unprecedented. What drives someone to such pursuits? Where does this person hail from? What drives them now and into the future? Have they goals beyond this? The Dragon's Whisper wants to know.
Those wishing to collect this bounty mark their names below. Editor reserves right to choose which writer collects the fee. All articles due by Mai 17, 1403.

[Stug3]

I aquired a copy of the Whisper and after reading itI am surprised to find myself feeling a bit homesick. I should return home to look in on my parents one day soon. I have decided to keep the pages...

 *The following is torn from the Dragon's Whisper...*
 That potion in your pocket, the armor on your back, your shield, your arrows ever wonder who collected those materials for the craftsman?

 My parents, Hildegard and Gunter, raised me in Leilon where they run an import-export business. I was raised well and never wanted for much, other than the adventure all young boys seek. I have nothing but fond memories of growing up under my parents tutelage. Leilon and the family business kept me busy and out of any real trouble. I am sure my father expected as did I, that I would take over from him when decided he had been at it long enough, but my mother I think she just new it would not be so. Mothers seem to receive  True Seeing as a gift at the birth of their first child, as I got away with very little whenever she was around. Although I doubt she had any idea what would be the catalyst for that conclusion.  

 It was a fine day when I left with a caravan of war materials for the fight against Blood and his army a fine day to be totally destroyed a fine day to start a new life. I will not bore you with the details or I just may be sparing myself the pain remembering my own cowardice. That is how I gained the scar and lost my eye.  

 Everything changed after my escape and recovery. I could not go back to my life; I had changed too much to fit back in to the hole. Training long hours with blade and shield. I also worked with bows but having only one eye makes it hard to judge distance and as a result I am a laughingly bad bowman. I do carry one just for the off chance I find the broadside of a barn in need of smiting. I left home for anywhere months later and soon found myself in that quaint little town Hlint.

 I hated Hlint and all it s inhabitants, weak, needing someones help for everything, never fending for themselves, taken advantage of by everyone, spineless like sheep. I can say now I no longer feel that way, Hlint like a fungus seems to have grown on me in these many months. I still venture in to Hlint as little as possible but not for any specific reasons. I find conversation tedious at best and feel I should be doing something, anything but sitting idly by gossiping about the weather or who is doing what. I don't wish to seem aloof, it is only I have this need to be doing something hence my scrounging service was born.  
 These lands hold a great wealth of skilled craftsmen; Armorers, Tailors, Brewers, Gem Smiths, the list is a long as some of the Elvin names you hear in town. I have very little wish to be a great craftsman, I need only to make what little I require to survive. With the enormous numbers of crafters I was seeing requests for this or that posted all over the inn and trade hall. I did a few jobs in Hlint but the ol' coin purse was awfully empty, necessity may be the mother of invention but poverty is the mother-in-law. I was sure that with all their time spent crafting the tedious job of collecting all the materials was not only distracting them from their chosen profession but somewhat boring or even dangerous for them.  

 No better job for me! What could be better than being outdoors, traveling the byways and paths of this land? I can fight when I want, or need to. I have no one to tell me what to do I am my own man. I have seen many amazing sights and met interesting folks from all over the land along the way. My ambitions are simple, complete contracts on time, in quantity and get paid I find satisfaction in delivering a requested quota. What will they do with it? What will it become? I have worked for many of the greatest smiths of this age, helped them to create exceptional items of beauty and power. I do not expect my customers to call me friend, only to call me when they need delivery...

[Stug3]

Home a strange thought after so many years. What does home mean now?Could I just walk through that door and sit at my fathers table again? Talk with my mother of trivial things after the things I have seen and done? How would I tell her of the slaughter of entire Goblin tribes, the crippling nausea that accompanies the bite of spiders, the lingering smell of burned flesh that penetrates the clothing and permeates the hair after a flame strike or fire ball has done its horrific work? Would I be able to hold a respectably civil tongue?  Would my father receive me well as the man I am now? Sitting across from me would he smell the taint of death? I have never killed good men but I am a killer nonetheless. How would I explain the difference between the man who quietly fishes for delicate trout and the other, his face splashed with gore after hacking limbs from Orcs? Is there really a dissimilarity of the two? Can one really return home to be forgiven and his past forgotten, can it be that simple...

[Stug3]

The decision to return home is an oddly complicated one, and has been gnawing at me for weeks. Sleep has become a deeply missed companion. How hard can it be? It is a simple journey, nothing imposing along the way. I find myself wanting to return but taking no more than a few steps before stopping. What is it that stops me in my tracks? Fear, Regret? Neither of these are strangers. I have felt fear many times and regret; who does not have regrets? Many would find going home the simplest of decisions and some can do nothing but wish of returning. I have my work, many depend on me  Should I merely flip a true? Crown I go, seal I stay...

[Stug3]

I  have decided to return home. More to the point I have resigned myself to the fact something else wants me to return home. I flipped the true, crown, so I flipped it again and it again was crown. Every time I flipped that true it came up crown. I tried another and another and finally one more. How can that be? Finally out of frustration I threw the contents of my coin pouch into the air. Gods be! Every single true was a crown! Only a fool would disregard this as chance. I will complete my current obligations and immediately set out for home...

[Stug3]

My return home did not go as I had hoped...
The city itself is much as I recall it as a child save for the weather, the darkened sky and frequent snow lend an air menace to the city, and the once busy streets are peculiarly vacant. I remember merchants hawking their wares calling in customers with booming voices, mothers shopped for the day’s meal while children looked dreamily at the sweets displayed in windows and toys arranged on tables. The boisterous sounds of laughter and haggling, the mummer of hundreds of voices, the overlapping sounds of livestock a city full of life I can still hear it all.

 The streets and buildings were the same but the city itself seems to have taken another quality. A strange feeling of foreboding settled around me as I moved along the streets and alleys, I felt as if I was being squeezed fear perhaps? I know fear as well as any and more than most yet this was different. Trapped was more like it, high walls and narrow streets all pressed in on me as I moved along. I half expected to hear the sounds of splintering wood and grinding stones as the buildings pressed inward towards me. I was born in this city, why should I be so uneasy within its walls now? I walked these very streets as a child, never did I feel uneasy. The occasional beggar or cut-purse crossed my path, little more than an annoyance and far from dangerous. What has changed to bring such a crushing dread to bear down on me?

 I stopped first at my family's shop only to find it locked up tight. Odd, why would it be closed at this time of day? A glimpse through a dusty window only deepened my concern. Expecting to find the well stocked shop I remember, I could see no sign of inventory or even that anyone had been inside for quite sometime. Something more than concern began to well up within me. Why is the shop empty? My father's business was thriving, caravans left laden with goods for many ports several times a week. Reputable merchants sent runners to fill orders, the casual customer walking in off the street to peruse the goods or place an order. The door never seemed to close, but now..?

 I made inquiries to men whom my father had dealings with for many years, merchants, men-at-arms anybody I could think of that may have any information at all. Very few had actual information and some would not even talk with me, very strange.

 I left what had been the family business and moved quickly along the streets towards my parent's house.

 I was unprepared for the scene that met my eye. My family home burned to the ground, nothing remained except for a few charred beams and the chimney which leaned inward at a grotesque angle. Shocked I starred blankly at the remains of the house I had been raised in. It took several minutes before I could move into the wreckage, covered in a blanket of snow but still smelling faintly of smoke. I searched for any sign of my parents, wondering if they had been in the house when it burned. After hours of turning over beams and scorched planks I could find no sign of remains, burned or other wise.

 I did find my mothers necklace, warped by the heat but still discernable as the one she always wore. Did this mean they had perished and their bodies had been removed for burial? Tears freely fell for the first time in more years then I can remember. How long I sat in that ruin I do not know...

 Memories flooded in, my mother humming softly as she rocked me back to sleep after a bad dream had awoken me, sitting at the table and listening to my father talk of business while my mother busied herself with the evening meal, the look of horror on my mothers face as I described the attack that changed her son so terribly.

 I needed to find out what had transpired. Was it an accidental fire, had a candle toppled and set a rug alight, or something more devious? Surely the neighbors would know, they have lived alongside my family for many years, they must know.

 John Galassi was the only one to speak to me; the others quickly shut their doors upon seeing my face without a word. Mr. Galassi had worked with my father on many occasions and often spent evenings in our house sharing a meal. John and my father spent hours discussing shipment plans, the best routs for a caravan, who to hire on as security or how many were needed. I respected John as much as I did my father; he held the only answers I was likely to get about what happened to my family.

 John hustled me inside quickly and took a brief look around the street before closing and securely bolting the door behind us. Ushered into a seat by the fire and offered a nip of strong spirits. I opened my mouth to speak; John's up raised hand and dour look stopped me mid word. In a voice almost a whisper John uttered one word, treason  What in the hells did he mean treason! What did my parents have to do with treason? My father supplied arms and made shipment after shipment during the war. Many caravans left loaded to the tarpaulin with weapons and supplies of all types, the pack animals straining under the weight. The numbers of men, who were armed with weapons supplied by my father I can only speculate. How could anyone brand my father with such a word? Anger welled up; I felt I would kill poor John for voicing such an absurd accusation. I could not of course kill John, a family friend for so long and the only neighbor who would even open their door to me. Still angry but trying to remain calm I asked, who had leveled this charge? What evidence did they offer as proof? John despondently took a cloth covered object from the shelf along the fireplace and slowly removed it. He laid the weapons on the table; simple battle axes, nothing fancy or exceptional about them just like the thousands in use in any militia or army. This was proof of treason; two commonplace axes had been enough to destroy all my family had worked years to achieve? Still unclear as to how these axes had brought my parents to charges of treason. John must have seen the bewilderment on my face, he turned one of the weapons on its axis and then I could clearly see it. I now knew how these were linked to my family In the light of the fire I could see the brand on the shaft; the familiar WSc of Woll Shipping Company.These indeed had been shipped by my father. Now that it was certain as to the origin of the axes just how did that constitute treason? Thousands perhaps millions of weapons had been shipped during the war years what made these such damming evidence? I opened my mouth to ask this very question but I was once again slower than John; recovered from the field during a campaign against Blood's troops. I do not think I could have spoken even if I knew what to say. John continued on to tell me that nearly twenty companies of Blood's forces had been equipped with weapons and armor bearing the Woll Shipping Company brand. How could this be? My father would never have supplied weapons to the enemy. Every shipment went to the war effort, to the defense of freedom and ultimately to victory. Never will I believe he had willingly supplied Blood, there must be some mistake, and a rational explanation has to exist for all of this. Continuing on John stated that the weapons and an accusation of war profiteering brought by another merchant were enough to bring the treason charge. War profiteering, thats absurd, my father thought nothing of payment for the equipment. His only thought was to supply the war effort, defeat the enemy and then and only then worry about collecting any debts he was owed. I know he was not paid for many of his shipments as embattled armies soon collapsed under the weight of the enemy.

 He further explained that there had been no trial nor were my parents even arrested; there had been no time. Word spread and the frightened, war weary populace took it upon them selves to dispense what they perceived as justice. What actually happened to my parents is unclear; weather they fled or were killed in the fire that razed my home is still a mystery. He is sure they were not taken into custody; he has made some quite inquiries in to that. As to where they are or if they are still alive he does not know. The anger I had been barely containing boiled in to rage, I was ready for murder. I wanted to burn the whole city to the ground, wanted to cast its pitiful inhabitants out into the cold just as they had done to my parents. Through clenched teeth I asked the name of this merchant whom leveled the war profiteering claim. John was reluctant to provide me his name as he could see it ending badly, murder seldom goes over well. With a hissed promise to leave him breathing, I was able to coax a name from him; Vymetal. Stanley, Vymetal...

 When I could again hear past the rage pounding in my head, John continued on about how the good mister Vymetal had been able to purchase my father's business for a pittance, acquire my father's customers, his inventory; and turned into quite the prosperous little business man in one fortuitous and profitable stroke.  

Standing, I thanked John for his hospitality. I must have had murder in my eye and John afraid I was going to something foolish tried to talk me out of leaving. Assuring him I had no intention of swinging from a rope for slipping my blade between the ribs of Mr. Vymetal, I reached for the door. John asked what I was going to do now. I replied I was going to see a man about paying a debt. Closing the door behind me I stepped into the night.

I had not lied to John; I had no intention of swinging on the end of a rope. As for slipping my blade into Vymetal...well, we will see about that...

[Stug3]

Walking through the darkened city my head buzzed with all I had learned but more ominously what I had not learned. What had become of my parents, with charges of treason and war profiteering looming had my parents fled the city ahead of the mob, or had they died when their home was set ablaze? Vymetal, what was his connection to all this? Had he seen an opportunity to profit and seized upon it? Was he more directly involved; perhaps somehow connected to the weapons making their way to the enemy? So many questions and so few people willing to give answers, perhaps it is their motivation that I need to work on.

I need to pay Mr. Vymetal a call, ask a few discrete questions or perhaps a few direct ones. I hope for his sake he has the answers I want; if not then I will have to be persuasive, he will not like being persuaded. I will get the answers I need if I have to remove every one of his fingers, toes, hands, feet and eyes; then if I have to I will get serious.

Never in my life would I have thought that I could talk of torture or even murder with such indifference, such clarity. He will give me the answers I seek or he will tell me who has them. Either way I will have answers...