Man of the blade: a tale of the actual 'heroes' of Calradia(NEW POLL)

Ahh, this is life! The warm sun on my face, the stench of gore in the air and the pitiful cries of the sod hanging over the precipice. Apparently he's holding on to a branch and the rock face is too steep (almost vertical, to be more precise) for him to climb back. I wouldn't say he's lucky – his mates at least died quickly. I look back to where my ride, Groinkicker, is ripping in the bare arm of one of the fools, splashing more blood around the place than I did with my sword. I still have a hard time believing it – a flesh-loving horse! Must be from all the time spent in my company and the maddening heat in the desert where it grew up. Even hunters and destriers tend to keep a distance from it in the stables despite its small size and dog-like appearance. On the side, lying in the shade, is one of my spares – Fear. I always chuckle at the name I gave it. It can smell danger from leagues away and is faster than a Pravenian beggar's hand when it has to run from something. Fear gives it wings, so to speak... Somewhere behind me I can hear prancing and some kind of incoherent sounds. My unstable and mad as a hornet heavy spare, Terror. I don't know what happened to this animal in its early years and frankly I don't want to know. The fact that I'm probably the only person in Calradia it lets touch it and definitely the only person in the world that would leave it alive speaks enough about me, I guess.
I return my attention to the hapless looter hanging on his branch. By now he's started pleading with me in the name of whatever gods his unfaithful arse can come up with to help him up. I tell him clearly that the only way I'd help him is down, preferably facilitating that with a rock to his face, and that he can try and climb back up once I'm gone. And that he's lucky I'll be likely gone by the mid-afternoon, which he can make more difficult by pissing me off with his sobbing and making me stay till the sun is down. He shuts up. Being a ruthless knave myself, I have absolutely no pity for the types that try to slash your throat in the morning and cry for your help at noon just because you put them in an uncomfortable situation. Nut up or let die, I say. I think he'd rather let die. Village idiots turned brigands don't last long, in my experience. I get back to the scene of the fight (more like a morning exercise it felt like) and pocket the corpses for any valuables. I have to put my gauntlets back on to extract some coins from  my horse's mouth. Good thing it can't chew steel (yet) or I'd be left without a hand. After gathering everything of use (rusty falchions can still be sold to village smiths at a modest price) I peer at my looter. He's hugging his branch and trying to stay on top of it. From what I can see and smell, he already managed to lose control of his stomach, bladder and bowels at some point. An idea strikes me and I ask him if he has any money or other valuables on himself. He seems to respond positively (at least I think that the faint 'Uuh' was supposed to mean yes). I lower him a rope, pull him up, and then have to kick him thrice in the ribs in order to make him let loose of the damn thing. Talk about holding on for dear life! With a steel grip on the back of his neck I pin him down at the base of a tree and pocket him for whatever he has on his belt. A few denars and a good knife. I take them – one has to take all one can take in life, it will always come handy. With a farewell kick to his arse I leave him there and mount Groinkicker after cleaning its muzzle from all the blood. I call the other two animals and set off. After a few steps I hear meaty crunching from behind accompanied by weak and tearful groans and followed by a fading scream. I don't hear a thud, either silenced out by the sound of the hooves or by the shape of the precipice. After a few moments Terror shows up on my side, with a bloody muzzle. It knows its stuff. I rarely take prisoners or for that matter leave enemies alive, and while I thought that some backwater bumpkin shouldn't be able to do much to me, hatred can take a human to great lengths and heights. I actually allow myself to feel a bit sorry for the poor lout, as being eaten alive by a horse and then being thrown by it in a chasm is not a pleasant death. But then again, he and his mates shouldn't have picked a fight with me.
With these thoughts in mind, I continue down towards the foothills and towards Shariz, where the next head I've been paid for still stands (presumably) on the shoulders of a man that is as good as dead.

Despite my best efforts the rest of my journey is fairly uneventful. I get into a fight in some roadside inn, as the serving wench I'm wooing with tales of my battlefield exploits becomes contested by a trio of caravan guards. The bunch thinks that they have more of a right to her because they're ugly, dusty and have more hands than me. Not that the last part wouldn't give them a fighting chance in the field or especially in a mugging, but I know how to turn the tables in a bar fight. Literally. However, as they are the ones that start turning over tables and braking earthenware just to provoke me, the whole affair ends up with them 'paying' a hefty sum for the trouble and a round for everyone (after I and a few other patrons beat them up in the corner and relieve them of their purses, of course).

The innkeeper is not very keen to let me stay despite the three fools' denars that I hand him for all the broken equipment, since the likes of me tend to be as much trouble as the rowdy hired spears. I somewhat dissuade his worries by telling him that he's not very likely to see me ever again, as I'm always on the move and would probably die in a war before I get to pass through his little establishment once more. Still grumbling, he gives me permission to take a room for the night, but warns me against stirring up any more trouble.

Just to make sure that wouldn't happen I go and check up on my horses to see if they haven't made a ruckus, as they are wont to do when they sense I'm in a fight. I half expect to see the three loons from earlier leaving in the dark with their horses covered in bruises and bites, but no such luck. I find Groinkicker slowly turning a wooden post into drool-soaked splinters, Terror chattering its teeth and banging its head against another post and Fear, wide-eyed, gently shaking in the hay despite the blanket. As I'm leaving I think to myself that those three would probably demolish the stable out of  boredom this time around as opposed to the last time they did it when they had to run from an angry mob. I notice in passing that all the other animals in there, including two big and scary looking mastiffs, are quietly cowering on the opposing side of the pens and trying to keep as much litter-filled space between themselves and my horses as possible.

Later in the night I still get to play under the serving girl's skirt, and leave early in the morning before she wakes up. I nevertheless leave a decently filled purse on her chest before I go off. She wouldn't get anything more from me than that and the memorable night it pays for, so I think that she should content herself with it for her own sake. Having  had to abandon one or two tearful maids in the past I'm frankly stupefied by how foolish a woman has to be to expect anything more than trouble from an unapologetic and murderous scoundrel like myself.

I soon come close to Shariz. In the afternoon heat the only thing I feel is sleepiness, but I still try to keep my eyes open. The sultan puts good effort (or at least puts the needed pressure on his servants so they put the effort) into keeping his little playground of an oasis a safe, heavenly garden. But nevertheless, bandits and deserters can be found roaming the area, and I'd be damned (beyond the measure to which I already am) if I let any dregs surprise me. The city itself is built next to the sea, amidst somewhat arid grasslands. Not many farms, but surely lots of herds. Groinkicker gets jittery, as he apparently remembers I bought him somewhere in this area.

Upon entering the city, I notice two things. One is all the decoration adorning the buildings – flower garlands, pennants and flags, strange patterns painted onto the walls. The mark of a ruler who prefers to spend his time holed up in his little illusion of careless bliss instead of actually running his country. The second thing is the group of bloodied and weary Sarranid soldiers who have come in right before me. Mostly horsemen, mind, with half of their steeds literally dead with exhaustion on the ground. I notice there aren't even enough horses for everyone and figure many must have ridden two on a mount. I'm guessing the smell of all of this is what causes my own rides to make a ruckus right in front of the main gates.

Curious and arrogant as I am, I ask directly a paled soldier sitting on the ground and holding with his left hand the stump where his right hand had obviously been in the not-so-distant past. The man is the only one that is neither milling about nor unconscious, and he at least has the strength to tell me that Durquba has fallen and Ahmerrad is still under siege. I leave him, as he doesn't need to tell me more. Arwa's rebellion is blowing full force and the sultan is indulging in debauchery in his gardens. Rather typical. Though the only thing that gives me any reason to worry is the possibility that the Desert Hawk shows up with a siege army at the gates of Shariz. Not that a siege isn't the perfect way to carry out an assassination, but in that case my own sorry hide would be at great risk. I weigh my chances and decide it wouldn't be likely before I finish my job, but keep a mental note to be on the lookout for raiders on my way out. If there's one smart thing in the Desert Hawk's forces, it's all the brigands and peasantry he's managed to buy, bully or hype into following him and Arwa. Having seen them die by the droves and still smother their enemy at the first siege of Bariyye, I'd be in quite the predicament if even a scout force shows up in the area. I know the people of the desert to be even crazier than their horses.

While all the twisted wheels in my head are turning, I go about my routine. Find a spot to lodge, ask around the tavern (alcohol can do wonders to a man's tongue). Some drunk pauper pulls a sword on me because I bump into him by accident. Knowing better than to confront him for nothing (there is such a thing as too many bar fights in a single day), I try to make up, but he insists. A swift kick to his groin and shield to the face convinces him of his error, also knocking him out and relieving him of his purse and blade. Then I continue working – by the evening I know the exact location of my target's holdings, the approximate size of his personal guard and their reputation when it comes to doing their own job(the typical thing for a minor noble who makes a profit from commerce – not shabby but not particularly great either), as well as the people in his household apart from the soldiers. This is where things get interesting – the man has no sons and the two youngest of his four daughters are as of yet unmarried and without candidates for marriage. This is where I already know how I'll most likely pull it off. Something that would work perfectly with Sarranids,overly possessive of their women and daughters, who on their side tend to jump at any opportunity for an affair because of the closed-in lives they usually have. The trick is actually rather old, and I have experience with it (Swadian nobles fall for it every time, and especially ones from Suno, where everyone falls for it no matter their status). What I have to do now is somehow get access to the man's household. Not expected to pose a problem, as I have one very employable quality – I'm  a hired blade. With experience. The first part of the con would be to sell my services to him. Sniffing around the markets, however, yields only that the man is preparing a large caravan to depart within several weeks. With everyone in his household that is presently in Shariz. I'm satisfied with the prospect, as this would give me time to work and the perfect setting for finishing the job.