ACORNS, CAROB, AND CRUEL AND UNUSUAL SNACKING.
You want me to go back there? Gidea asked, pacing nervously. “ You do remember that the noble houses hate me, right?”
“Which is one of the reasons you’re needed”, Rosalind explained. “Right now, dad is struggling to hold the place together alone but is too proud to send his daughter out on missions. So I kind of set out to see how bad things were, and so far, it’s pretty bad; you two make a great team, working alone? Not so much.”
Gidea sighed and tried her best to think, but this mess had her tied in knots. “I’ll think about it, OK?”
“Alright, then we’ll stick around till the light festival and see what happens; I really really really hope you choose to go back. I know you hate the snobs back there, but them hating you too is kinda a huge advantage right now since it redirects the assassins, and you can handle it. Dad? Well, I love him, but he is not a fighter, and I don’t think either of us wants to see him hurt.” She smiled faintly.
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The bandits had been attacking Acornacres village for weeks now, and the farmers were anxious. They would not be able to hold forever, their main products were acorns and carob, and due to sheer desperation, they had been forced to subsist on their own products.
As you probably figured out, acorn coffee and carob bars were hardly the ideal foods to subsist on, and several locals were considering their options. If they surrendered, they would be killed, sold, or tortured. If they stayed, it meant more bloody Carob. Which almost made the torture a better alternative. Their wives had tried desperately, bless them. The widow Giles who had been visiting from five-stiles (she visited often, it was best not to ask why, but apparently it was good for morale as a few days later most of the village had a spring in their step, including a few of the wives, and there was an unspoken agreement that nobody would ever notice it,) and her charming daughters had even taken a hand to cooking, producing a really passable carob and acorn coffee cake, from some flour they had somehow salvaged. (Everybody ate while carefully avoiding eye contact and praying the siege would break soon, after all, even the best of truces have their limits.)
Now they had the problem that supplies were low but had no idea how to solve the issue. There wasn’t really a god for husbands trapped in a besieged village with their wives, and six “visitors” who each husband (and several wives, sons, and daughters of age of course,) insisted was here for somebody else, and whose wives (husbands or parents) were insistent they had better be here for somebody else. The tensions were high, and it was only a matter of time before somebody died to a flat iron to the skull. (There wasn’t really a god for it, but it happened enough there probably should have been. It was a surprisingly regular occurrence.)
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
So they set up a little shrine and started to pray, hoping something would show up. At this point, they needed the divine intervention and weren’t particularly fussy as to the source, except avoiding devilish symbols; of course, one did not want to get conned into a contract when you were in no good situation to negotiate terms. That way lay lawyers, the most terrifying creatures in existence.
The altar was duly set up, but nothing was happening when a hooded stranger approached, blatantly ignoring the siege as they headed towards the gates.
Banquo Robero was the first to notice the approaching stranger. (He was the first in his family to step away from the usual family trade and turn to regular banditry after realising that robbing rich folks and banks brought guards while robbing peasants? Not as profitable, but if you kept the atrocities to an absolute minimum, nobody cared if you robbed poor folks blind. Hell, the banks did it as regular as clockwork, and nobody even batted an eye.) So as you can imagine, he had something to prove, as he drew his rapier, put on his best charming bandit smile (the effect was rather ruined by being missing half his teeth, but banditry does not include dental coverage) and got his horse into the stranger's path.
“I advise you turn back, my fine friend, we have business here, and you alas no longer have such a thing.”
“That is where you’re wrong”, the stranger replied, giving back a smile that, for some reason, gave Banquo the willies. “I have business there as they called for me, and I advise you not stand in my path.”
“Or what?” Came a second voice, it was Tybalt, and he was the muscle of the operation. It showed, as that bulk of his blotted out the light somewhat.
“You’ll find out if you bar my path, mortal.” The voice gained an edge, and a few of the more savvy bandits who noticed the word mortal suddenly realised they had forgotten they had business a long way away, in fact as far away as possible, and had never, and would never be here, at all, honest guv. Within a minute, the field by the gates was a lot emptier. But the ones who were left.. well, if brains were dangerous, they would probably be safe, if not for the fact that ignorance seldom makes as good armour as you’d think.
“Ere oo do yer fink you’re talking to like?” One of the bandits tried, his most creative attempt at intimidation.
“A pile of ashes”, came the reply.
“you wo........” A lightning strike from a clear sky proved the hooded figures words true, as the other bandits played back what happened in their heads, finally cottoned on and scarpered. Their insurance definitely did not cover getting smote. (In this world act of god really meant something, and the insurance companies were always extremely careful to not try to write off the wrong thing because they were mighty smiteable themselves, and gods disliked others stepping into their domain.)
The deity formerly known as Drizul walked on, politely escorting the ladies home to five stiles and accepting a gingersnap for his troubles before walking mysteriously into the mist and vanishing.)