this is the next few pages in the story, enjoy!! feedback always appreciated

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Now, I know what your thinking: a lowly tanner? Starting a war? It seems impossible! Fret not, dear reader, leave your incredulity behind. For it is my duty as a humble bard to guide you through these twists and turns.

You see, after leaving his father in that fairly uncomfortable state of un-life, Beldan had to make a hasty departure from his humble hamlet. And when out on the road, alone, he had come to find that his years of leatherwork did little to keep him warm and his belly full.



However, a life of stiff labor and unjust cruelty had made him considerably strong and unusually capable of inflicting violence on passers-by. And thus, he began a most lucrative career in thuggery.
From the dusty roads of Tobb’s Belt, to the verdant paths along Lower Bernavand. Up and down and crossways throughout the bustling trade routes of the Red Rim Province, Beldan peddled his newfound trade.
And let us not mince words, though that is among my greatest of passions, Beldan was exceptionally good at his job. You see, the toil of a tanner had very little in the way of reward for their efforts. But the life of roguery was replete with riches. Gold, wagons, weapons and wenches. The rewards seemed endless on those busy roads. The least reputable men from all around began to flock to his cause and in due time, our timid tanner began to garner a fair amount of infamy. And with no minor feat of alliteration, Beldan’s Butchers were born.

Ah, now I sense it. Recognition. Recollection. A spark of remembrance dances at the edges of your memory. Of course, you have heard of, oh seeker of stories, that treacherous troupe of terrible tyrants. Their trail has been tracked by many a trepidatious troubadour.

But Beldan and his butchers are but the start of our tale. The plot has yet begun to twist. As on one faithful day, on a merchant’s road just north of Lairdcrest, Beldan himself had captured yet another fine merchant’s cart full of wine, spices, bolts of fine cloth, and more than a few blades of rare frosteel, and other spoils to boot. One of which was the cart’s owner herself. A startlingly fair maiden with a mane of fiery hair and a temper to match, though it would be unfair to harshly judge her mood at the time. Laden with names and title far too long and complex for Beldan to belabor his mind with absorbing, he thusly dubbed her Red. None the wiser as to how his life was about to be turned sideways yet again.
But let not the ramblings of a humble bard distract you from our fine tale. Perhaps we need a closer look? Close your eyes and listen to the dulcet tones of my lute as we travel back to that fateful day…

“Drink?” The rogue offered his winesack to the red shock of hair that rested upon a bundle of burlaps.
The burlaps rustled and a muffled reply escaped from the vermillion mop.
“No.”
“Pipe?”
More rustling, and a pair of emerald-flecked gold eyes appeared from the heap, glaring darkly at the longstem bone pipe. They soon disappeared back into the folds of the roughspun sacks.
“No.”
The rogue, shrugged and took a long drag from the alabaster stem. A ghostly wisp of the spicy-sweet graybloom smoke escaped his lips and hung in the still air.
“How about a song? Arric sings nearly as well as he drinks.”
A hidden hole in the road sent the carriage bouncing hard as its wheel popped in and out, sending the pile of sacks and its occupant into the air.
She landed hard and smacked her head on one of the iron bars of the wagon that imprisoned her. More than a few chuckles could be heard from the various riders in the company surrounding the cart.
“No, damn you! I have naught to say to you, and have no desire for any filth you have to offer!”
She looked out the other side of the barred cart, opposite her captor, and sent a hand to the back of her head to tenderly inspect if she were bleeding.
The rogue removed a silken scarf from his vambrace and dropped it in the cage.
“Take care of that Red. Can’t have your Lord Father thinking we’re a bunch of woman-beating ruffians. We’re really pushing for the gentlemen vagabond persona after all.”
“My father will hunt you all down one by one like the mongrels you are! The bounty for the Butchers rises with every caravan you pillage. Every village you sack. Every helpless woman and child you murder.”
She thrust forward and spat venom at him, missing her target and hitting his boot. The effort dropped the burlap she had clutched so tightly to her, revealing her bare shoulder, a pale flesh that rivaled the color of his pipe. More interesting to him was her chosen travelware, previously hidden by her gown. Indigo deerskin boots, tanned in scarlet oak bark mixed with black iris, he estimated. Beldan cocked his head, admiring the corded seam up the sides, a unique style developed by slightlings from the Great Green, south of south beyond the Freelands.
Freelands wares? That’s curious. He mused. “Those are nice boots,” He pointed with his pipestem.
She tucked in her feet and pulled down on the burlap, “You’ll not have them, thief! If I am to be sold, these are part of the package! Or does Beldan the Butcher sell all his bounties back naked and battered?”
This cornered creature bares fangs more in hatred than fear. Beldan held up his hands, palms out, and backed away from the cart.

A rather large man in black leathers, brought his enormous brown draft horse up next to the rogues. He wore no armor, save for a long pauldron that connected to a vambrace and gauntlet, shielding his entire arm. A great battle ax was strapped to his back, and a smaller bearded ax swung loosely from his belt.
“Uh oh Beldan, the Lady lass knows who we is. Reckon you should take her tongue, if not her head, lest she squeals to her coiting Lord Daddy.” He reached down a slid a callused thumb across the blade of an axe that hung from his belt, tempting it’s razor edge to bite through the hardened flesh.
The big man smiled and flashed a mouth full of silver teeth, each studded with a shiny red gem.
“Ruby, we are not in the business of beating, killing, raping, or starving our guests.”

Beldan’s Butchers, he hated that name. Sure, she wasn’t far off. They stole, pillaged, and if the situation presented, took hostages for ransom. Kill? Rarely, and with the best intentions. Rape? Never. His followers were hand selected and followed a strict code. Only once had Beldan been forced to have Ruby Rikk remove head from shoulders of one of his own. Lay with a hostage maiden, and she becomes less valuable to her family for marrying off to another noble house, and in turn, pays a lighter ransom. If any at all. The life of a rogue was like any other business and Beldan didn’t stand for mishandling the merchandise.

He took another long draw of his pipe and eyed his captive. She was beautiful, he reckoned. If only a bit spoiled by the murderous expression she wore. Fair skin and long red hair pouring down her shoulders and back in a crimson waterfall. Her dress was fine, sure, like any noble. But it hew close and cut high like it were meant to move. She carried herself like she didn’t just ride in the carriage with a cup o’ tea, but drove it, perhaps. And the practical fit did wonders in accentuating all those curves.

The woman’s eyes narrowed at his wandering gaze.
“Guest?” she scoffed, “Well, pardon my manners, me’laird. I have forgotten to curtsey.” With a mock smile, the noblewoman interrupted a dainty bow with a lewd gesture. Beldan smirked despite himself. With a subtle wave of his hand, the caravan of thieves came to a halt.

Beldan hopped off his horse with a grace that belied his considerable frame and cast his motley gray cloak over his shoulder. The rogue appeared large and brutish with his barrel chest and tree trunk arms all bound up in blackened leathers. But he had a cleanliness and charm to his face, a day’s scruff on his jaw and long black haired tied behind his head in a messy bundle. He flashed his gray eyes and smiled crooked at the girl. A handsome smile, if not for a missing dogtooth
“Now Miss, I think we have gotten off on the wrong foot.” Beldan purred as he casually approached the bars of the carriage, “I know the rich folk like to titter on about the monsters that hunt these roads and if you were left to tussle with the likes of Ruby, here, they wouldn’t even know the half of it. But I assure you, I am a highwayman of the highest regard and the only thing standing between you and the dark desires of this disreputable lot.” With a dramatic gesture, Beldan turned aside and waved his arm toward his band of criminals of all stripes teeming with weapons astride their dirty mounts. They responded with devious grins and hearty laughs. The captive stepped back from the bars, but her eyes stayed sharp and baleful. “If you can stay all nice an’ cordial like, this can be but a minor inconvenience to whatever frolicking or finery you have sketched on your itiner’ry, Mi’lady. Or if you prefer, I can tie your ankles together with your hair and cast you over my horse like a grain sack.” Beldan quipped lightheartedly as a sinister shadow cast over his eyes. “So, how about we stay friends, eh?” he laughed as his eyes sparkled once again. The thief leaned against the bars casually, took a long drag from his pipe and awaited a reply. The young woman seemed shaken by his subtle dark turn, but her fire returned quickly.
“I’ll be faster friends with the back end of a badger, I reckon,” She seethed, “but I hear your threat, as it were. And I’m no fool who’s for fighting the likes of you lot all at once, though I’m no slouch. If you want a phony peace from me, then you have it. So long as you keep your jackals from barking at my cage.” The young noble spun around and picked out a relatively cushioned pile of sacks and sat down in a huff.
“So, Sir Highwayman. What is your plan, anyway?” She said as she stretched her arms behind her head, “And I’ll have a go on that pipe if the offer stands.”

What a curious creature this snared rouge beast was, Beldan stared, unblinking. How does an animal hiss and yet purr at the same time?
More interesting was her speech. She certainly acted the part of a high born that was used to making demands, though her speech was hardly that of a noble.
So a merchant’s daughter, but not of noble birth.
A salty disposition, he smiled ruefully. Salty, indeed. Not a merchant. Similar standing. A shipwright? From White Wind or perhaps Port Lairdcrest.
He placed the pipe in her open palm and she snatched it up quickly. Her untrusting eyes never left his as she mouthed the stem. The pipe’s cherry flared to life, making her hair glow like embers, and her hazel eyes shine like gold in the fading light. She continued the drag for several moments until the smoldering leaf began to dim, and the coal’s life winked out.
They stared at each other for a moment longer, daring the other to speak, before she blew out the smoke into the indigo dusk behind her, and slowly handed back the spent pipe.
“All that bluster givin’ way to the strong silent routine? Guess I’m just along for the ride then. In any case, we should get off the road, I hear bandits patrol this area.” The captive turned her head away from her captor with a sour smile, thus ending their conversation.
So a shipwright’s daughter, He mused. Mayhap a piratelord’s, with the charm she carries.
Beldan mounted his stallion and pulled up next to Arric Sevensongs.
“My goodness, you certainly have a way about you.” Arric was a slender man, barely reaching seven handspans tall. A bright red sash on his head covered the tops of his slightly tufted ears. He was a slightling, or at least a descendant of the people that flourished here several millennia ago.
That changed when the People of the West came to these lands, claiming them for their own, and easily enslaving the diminutive native people. Their cities, their history, and eventually even their name we’re all consumed by the large seafaring men. The men cruelly gave them the derogatory name slightling and through rape and ruin, the peaceful people of these lands heritage and features were muddied until they all but resembled the brutes that stole everything from them.
Time goes on, nations and rulers come and go, and things that should never had been forgotten were. The slightlings were free, they had rights, they had homes, and claims, and were seen, at least on paper, as equals in the Northern realms. Yet the name stuck, and not all people on either side were ready to forgive and forget.
Arric took no chances, as he adjusted the bandana on his head, ensuring his tips were tucked. Some slightlings were bold and brought attention to their heritage, piercing their unique ears and having their faces painfully inked with needles dipped in sloeberry dye as their ancestors may have done centuries ago.
A thief who is caught would probably be hung, or perhaps, if luck thrown in a cell. A slightling breaking the law always seemed to find a bit more waiting for him. Starved for a few weeks in a cell, followed by torture of some sort, and then death. A bad death. A slow death. Burning, drowning, or perhaps being torn in half by a pair of horses headed in either direction. In any case, a slightling rarely dies with ears still on his head.
“Has Beldan Hide finally met his match?” Arric smiled, speaking so softly, that none but Beldan might hear him. The slighling’s sing-song way a speaking, never louder than needed, lent to his title of Sevensongs, one song for every original member of Beldan’s little band of brothers. Despite the growth of their band, the name stuck.
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you, you smug thin shit?” Beldan threw a wink at the small man.
A hand stifled a giggle, which for Arric, was akin to a great belly laugh, “Can’t have you thinking you’re the King of the Road for all eternity,” Arric darted his eyes back to the wagon, “Someone has to put you in your—”
He stopped suddenly, and flew out his arm, a crossbow in hand, seeming to appear from nowhere.
“What do you hear?” Beldan squinted into the dark where the crossbow was pointed. His hand pulled a bundled braid of leather from his hip.
A quick snap unfurled the whip that reached the length of three men. A second snap sent the weapon’s hilt, which bore a dagger on each side, sliding down the throng of leather, and ending at the knot tied at the end of the whip.
One by one, the companions struck up torches, throwing light into the trees, and sending long shadows spearing off in all directions.
“Troll! It’s a coiting troll! Shoot it in its fat head!” Yelled another companion, who had jumped off his horse, a drawn longbow in hand.

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