Join me around the Campfire for a story about the Land of La Longi. A shout out to my Beloved and my children is in order for a wonderful day! Thank you!
Thank you for the Epic Breakfast!!! Now…. The story!
Location: Northwich, La Longi
Emerson Berengar, known as Brother, pondered the situation. The Carsiolians were apparently South and East and the king was dead. In a startling turn of events, he found that the king’s Alchemist was ruling La Longi.
In a meeting at the Northwich Campfire, Brother had assembled not only the men of Northwich and O’Hagan,
but the Heron as well.
They agreed that if necessary, Northwich would separate themselves from the kingdom of La Longi.
The choice was made that any minion patrol would be destroyed and no quarter given.
Lord Rainport had been a wicked man under the sway of the King’s Alchemist.
The minions were not of the world and came through some sort of conjuring of unmated hosen. Brother shook his head thinking about it. If they weren’t so dangerous, it would almost be amusing.
It was Nicholas who proposed no quarter for minions.
Commander Nicholas had a cloverleaf type patrol to watch for enemies of Northwich and her interests and was on the lookout for minions and Carsiolians.
Now, there were two types of men in Nicholas’ drill, Northwich Warriors and those that wished they were.
To be a man in Northwich meant drill in the morning on specific days. Sometimes drunken Heron who fell asleep on the street found themselves in formation. All who rested their heads in Northwich went to drill without exception.
Recently, a traveller with song and mirth by the name of Benjamin narrowly missed the town’s pleasure by leaving in the middle of the night.
Nicholas had a gift for drill. Like orcs of lore, it was rumored that he was spawned in the soil, screaming. Such was drill.
Nicholas never seemed to get tired. Some learned they would rather fight the pequin than trifle with Commander Nicholas.
Nicholas had a score to settle with a Centuplicate named Pontus Urinitus. When you asked him of his homeland in Carsiolia, he would state, I am Nicholas, of Northwich.
To be a Northwich Warrior meant facing a dreaded pequin and wearing its skin after you had slain it. The pequin is unique in that it does not necessarily need to feed. It sustains itself by absorbing fear. It took a strong disposition to defeat one.
Earlier in the day, a young man in filthy, bloodstained armor must have heard of the Northwich Warriors before his arrival. He came to town exhausted and dehydrated, pequin hide in tow.
Ishaan was his name. Ishaan had a thing for milk. He was told if he asked for milk one more time he would become apprentice to Theodore, the Alchemist.
They were just joking of course. The man was lithe and strong, like a whip. That he had killed a pequin was permission enough to drink all the milk he desired.
Brother adjusted his hat against the sun and poured himself another cup of coffee, dark and bitter. Hearing a horse at a trot, he saw a messenger being checked in by the Northwich Patrol.
A tall, slender man approached the fire, and did not bother to dismount.
“Sir! Your sister, Lydia has been taken by the Carsiolians! I am afraid she is lost forever.”
Brother looked at his brew, black as any corvid, surly as the 16.
He handed it to the messenger.
“Here, hold my coffee, I’ll be back for it.”