Today’s snippet, titled “Boot”, is a piece I wrote about an NPC in my Pathfinder Campaign (sort of the “King Maker” adventure path). The intention behind this was to illustrate events occurring in the world, but away from the PCs. They’re supposed to be writing their own pieces about actual in-game events. We shall see if any materialize.
      Be forewarned, there are mature themes and naughty language below.
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      “I wonder how she does it?”
      Boris looked up from his blade and whetstone. “Who does what, Rove?”
      He nodded in Rachel’s direction. “Magic.”
      Tymor slapped him on the shoulder as he crossed behind Rove and then plopped down on the log beside him. “Magic? You fancy yourself magic, Rove? Prancin’ about in dresses making butterflies dance for the little girls?”
      Rove shoved Tymor’s arm away, reaching to retrieve his polishing cloth. “No, not that. But like, I’ve read stories about real wizards laying waste to whole cities with a single spell! Imagine that – just poof! and all your enemies are burnt to ashes.”
      “That’d be right amazing,” Boris said. “But I bet you’d put lots of innocent people in the ground too. Better to take ‘em on, one at a time, face-to-face. Stab ‘em right in the fucking guts and watch the evil pour out.”
      “Or right in the spine,” Tymor said, chuckling. The oldest of the boys, and the one most likely to get himself or one of the young women in trouble, Tymor sometimes said things that left both Rove and Boris scratching their heads.
      “Yeah, or that.”
      Back in Greypine, Rove had known Boris fairly well. They were of a similar age and though his father had been a parchment maker and scribe and Boris’ an ostler, they lived in houses which shared a backyard. Maybe Rove wouldn’t have called Boris a friend, exactly; but in a small town which had boasted a population of some five hundred people, they were certainly more than mere acquaintances.
      Tymor, on the other hand, had lived on the far side of town, idle and fairly well-to-do as a baker’s son. His father’s shop had been a brightly lit haven filled with incredible odors, beautiful, multi-colored icings on fluffy cakes, cookies and pastries and the airiest, sweetest finest loaves of bread.
      “I suppose.” Rove shrugged noncommittally, having decided that talking too much in front of the other squires was just going to get him in more trouble with them. They still laughed at how he had nearly thrown-up when Zehavah showed him how to thread a worm onto a hook for fishing. And sometimes Tymor put critters – live or dead – in his bedroll, just to see his reaction. Rove was fairly certain he would never live down the time he squealed and nearly crushed Boris’ family jewels as he scrabbled out of the tent.
      As Gavriil had instructed, Rove began caring for his blade. He had not picked it up as quickly as Boris, but he knew he was a million times more disciplined than Tymor. It felt strange, sitting here with boys his age, the three of them in leather armor, polishing swords like real squires.
      “You think we’ll get to do any fighting?” Tymor asked, testing the sharpness of his edge with a thumb. He drew a thin line of blood and sucked it clean.
      “Course not, you ninny. They’ll have us guarding the horses or watching out for the womenfolk. We won’t see combat.”
      Rove glanced at Boris. “You’re probably right, thank Erastil and Desna and all the Gods.”
      “I wouldn’t mind doing more’n watch out for the womenfolk. Was a real pity that all the young ones stayed back in the city, but I’d still let the widow Karni or that chubby one, Susa, warm my bedroll. Better still, mistress Zehavah. Mm-mm! The teats on that one!”
      “You better not let Lady Lexi hear you talking like that,” Rove said, looking over his shoulder. “She’ll put you out without a second thought. She might not be any taller than a girl, but she’s fierce as any man.”
      “True,” Boris nodded. “I’d rather squire for Lady Lexi than for almost any knight or warrior I ever even heard about – well, unless there was a real lance expert about to give me direction.”
      Ryven’s an ace with a lance, Rove thought as he rubbed oil into his weapon. Even if its a small one. Plus Erin, he’s good too. But if he’s not bright enough to figure it out on his own, his loss.
      “Hey Rove, where’s your boot mate?”
      Blinking, he looked down at his foot. The left was still clad in leather, laced up his calf, but the right wore only a thin wool sock with a hole in the toe. “What in all the Hells?”
      Tymor’s face was expressionless – which immediately made him suspicious.
      “How’d you lose a whole boot and not know it?”
      “I- I didn’t. It was there just-” He frowned at Tymor, leaning over to peek behind his back.
      Snickering, Tymor tossed the shoe at him and stood. “I hope your shaft ain’t as curved as your sword there, Rove, else you’ll never get it in. See you fuckers later, I’m off to have a shit.”
      Boris rolled his eyes at Tymor’s retreating back. “He’s a bit of a prat, isn’t he?”
      “More than a bit,” Rove said, sliding his weapon into its sheath. “And if I ever do learn a bit of magic, he’s the first one I’ll blow-up.”
      Laughing, Boris stood, putting his own weapon away. “I wouldn’t hold my breath, Rove. Where’s a peasant like you going to learn magic anyway?”
      He sighed. “No where. Like as not… no where.”
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Note: Image is “::wery old::” by fazong from SXC.hu