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- Joined
- Aug 27, 2018
They were getting stronger all the time. Every caravan, patrol, wandering band of pilgrims or small hamlet they hit bought them momentum in the form of weapons, resources, and confidence. As word of the ferocious band spread, evermore misfits, outcasts and perverts came trickling in, finding their spot in the savage brotherhood. For those who knew the heart of the brigand, it was simple to do what all the Count's men could (or would) not - venture into the great green supernatural forests that blanketed virtually all of the county, save the spaces where farmers had carved out clearings around the towns and cities, and make contact with Baron Smith's lot. There was always a place for rough and ready folk among the Baron's men. Men who knew how to fight. How to steal. But most importantly, men who knew how the share.
That's what it was about at the end of the day - sharing. The rich, fat townsfolk and warmongering knightly class spent their days sat atop an endless mound of treasures, coin, good drink, and better fanny. When famine, plague and raids swept across the countryside they buttoned themselves up in their forts with all their riches and women and waited it out. The common man fell to misery - the common criminal, however, fought back. A little wealth redistribution was what was needed. And ol' Baron Smith was the one to make it happen.
They said Baron Smith was a giant, who stood nine feet tall and possessed the strength to lift a noble's carriage off the ground and shake all his ladies and trinkets right out onto the ground. And there was some truth in that - he was certainly a tall, strapping sort of man, well-allocated in muscle from his former vocation, with a dark mop of hair and piercing, cold eyes. They said he had a cock the size of a stallion's, and that half the Count's daughters had come to him for the honour of sucking it. An embellishment of course, though he was well-hung and had raped one or two of the Count's women in his time, though under what circumstances he never shared. They said he was a proper Baron and all, his grandfather elevated to the rank by the dark faeries of the forest for faithfully serving their unknowable will. That one was clearly nonsense - his family heritage was right there in his name. Smith. They only called him "Baron" because that's what all outlaws chiefs liked to be called, and Smith had made a better go of it than disenfranchised men who did hold noble rank.
He certainly led with a sense of gravitas and ambition that befit his title, however. And today would be the pinnacle of it. For today, the gang hit the Vein, the great stone-paved river of commerce and travel that linked one end of the county to the other, and to the lands beyond. The one road that was patrolled and cleared so heavily that no outlaw would dare consider an ambush along its length. But none had been Baron Smith, with Baron Smith's small army at their back. And, perhaps, none had been offered such a juicy prize: loot beyond counting and quite possibly the prettiest bit of fanny in the realm.
"No wanking yet, ye damned slugs!" The hardened sentry, a scarred, bald man named Stephen, hissed over his shoulder to the band of goons he'd been entrusted. Though he couldn't blame them. He always got stiff as steel before a raid - but it was better to use that bestial energy in the fight than to squirt it out all over the soggy earth and go in all worn out. He could hear them grumbling and belting their britches back up as he scanned the road, keeping an eye out for any sign of the runner. This would be a hard fight - their prize had a bodyguard of some of the finest knights, dagger-men and archers south of Sterngard keeping a close eye on her backside. But as always, Baron Smith had a plan. The gang had been up before the crack of dawn, excavating pits and constructing canopy covers. Now, they lay in wait in ambush positions, crossbows and knives held close. The road wardens who were supposed to be watching out for this kind of thing? Well, their boss was rotting in a trunk floating in the river up at old Wayroadston, and his lazy peons were probably getting their pricks slobbered over by some anonymously-sent whores. A judicious use of gang funds, for the pussy Baron Smith's lads were about to pull was worth a thousand tarty back-alley cum-swillers. Not to mention the cash.
And then, the runner came. He burst over the horizon, half-crouching, half-sprinting. His face was screwed up in a squint - the sun was just starting to rise behind the ambushers. Perfect timing. Stephen watched as the young, lanky man slid into his own trench and pulled the camouflaged lid down, then gave a whistle. He loaded a bolt into his crossbow and hauled the windlass. The rest of the lads did the same. It would be a hard fight. There would be blood. There would be losses. But they knew Baron Smith was with them, and that purged all fear from their black hearts, leaving only greed.
That's what it was about at the end of the day - sharing. The rich, fat townsfolk and warmongering knightly class spent their days sat atop an endless mound of treasures, coin, good drink, and better fanny. When famine, plague and raids swept across the countryside they buttoned themselves up in their forts with all their riches and women and waited it out. The common man fell to misery - the common criminal, however, fought back. A little wealth redistribution was what was needed. And ol' Baron Smith was the one to make it happen.
They said Baron Smith was a giant, who stood nine feet tall and possessed the strength to lift a noble's carriage off the ground and shake all his ladies and trinkets right out onto the ground. And there was some truth in that - he was certainly a tall, strapping sort of man, well-allocated in muscle from his former vocation, with a dark mop of hair and piercing, cold eyes. They said he had a cock the size of a stallion's, and that half the Count's daughters had come to him for the honour of sucking it. An embellishment of course, though he was well-hung and had raped one or two of the Count's women in his time, though under what circumstances he never shared. They said he was a proper Baron and all, his grandfather elevated to the rank by the dark faeries of the forest for faithfully serving their unknowable will. That one was clearly nonsense - his family heritage was right there in his name. Smith. They only called him "Baron" because that's what all outlaws chiefs liked to be called, and Smith had made a better go of it than disenfranchised men who did hold noble rank.
He certainly led with a sense of gravitas and ambition that befit his title, however. And today would be the pinnacle of it. For today, the gang hit the Vein, the great stone-paved river of commerce and travel that linked one end of the county to the other, and to the lands beyond. The one road that was patrolled and cleared so heavily that no outlaw would dare consider an ambush along its length. But none had been Baron Smith, with Baron Smith's small army at their back. And, perhaps, none had been offered such a juicy prize: loot beyond counting and quite possibly the prettiest bit of fanny in the realm.
"No wanking yet, ye damned slugs!" The hardened sentry, a scarred, bald man named Stephen, hissed over his shoulder to the band of goons he'd been entrusted. Though he couldn't blame them. He always got stiff as steel before a raid - but it was better to use that bestial energy in the fight than to squirt it out all over the soggy earth and go in all worn out. He could hear them grumbling and belting their britches back up as he scanned the road, keeping an eye out for any sign of the runner. This would be a hard fight - their prize had a bodyguard of some of the finest knights, dagger-men and archers south of Sterngard keeping a close eye on her backside. But as always, Baron Smith had a plan. The gang had been up before the crack of dawn, excavating pits and constructing canopy covers. Now, they lay in wait in ambush positions, crossbows and knives held close. The road wardens who were supposed to be watching out for this kind of thing? Well, their boss was rotting in a trunk floating in the river up at old Wayroadston, and his lazy peons were probably getting their pricks slobbered over by some anonymously-sent whores. A judicious use of gang funds, for the pussy Baron Smith's lads were about to pull was worth a thousand tarty back-alley cum-swillers. Not to mention the cash.
And then, the runner came. He burst over the horizon, half-crouching, half-sprinting. His face was screwed up in a squint - the sun was just starting to rise behind the ambushers. Perfect timing. Stephen watched as the young, lanky man slid into his own trench and pulled the camouflaged lid down, then gave a whistle. He loaded a bolt into his crossbow and hauled the windlass. The rest of the lads did the same. It would be a hard fight. There would be blood. There would be losses. But they knew Baron Smith was with them, and that purged all fear from their black hearts, leaving only greed.
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