Invidia
The bright rays of the early morning sun covers Harverfell, wrapping the large city in its warm glow. Light gleams off the iron hinges and signs of shops, and the citizens begin their daily work. Some lazily stroll around, taking in the crisp morning air, and others get straight to work. Within a couple of hours the city is bustling with activity, on the outside this would appear as any normal day, and for the most part it is. But within the confines of the castle, it is anything but a normal day.
In the keep, servants shuffle here and there, cleaning, scrubbing, and moving furniture and other equipment. Court advisors huddle and discuss their ideas and argue amongst each other. Guards patrol the palace, some yawning lazily and others keeping a watchful eye over the activities of everyone.
A large, wooden door creaks open, and a stocky, finely dressed man on the shorter side slowly walks into the chamber. His great beard appearing a bit tangled and unkempt, streaks of grey combing through it. The king surveys the court, looking all around at the servants and people going about their daily business, all too preoccupied to notice his presence.
From under bushy grey eyebrows he gazes, his left eye perpetually half shut. They say this is his good eye, and with it he has the vision of a hawk; this has earned him the nickname of the Hawk King. A name that has both impressed and struck fear into the hearts of those who had foul intentions of his kingdom.
The King passes the throne and takes his time going down each step. Although often a slow and lumbering man, his walk is never without purpose. The servants and advisors apologize profusely for not hailing him as he walked out the door to his private chambers, the man waves them off, having never been comfortable around high and unnecessary praise. He makes his way to his favorite balcony, keeping a watchful eye over his kingdom.
The Hawk King can almost see him in the distance, they had spent weeks preparing for this. Today would be the day his…guest would arrive. Despite their problems in the past, the King has made it clear they would welcome him with open arms and with hospitality.
In the distance a caravan approaches….
Multiple wagons roll down the dirt road to Harverfell, squeaking and squelching in the mud. At the forefront of the first wagon in the caravan, sits a lonesome figure. With elbows resting on his knees, and his chin in his hands. He stares into the mud ahead of him as the half-dragon servant at his side steers the horses.
His maroon coat puffing at the ends of the sleeves, and other than that he feels this coat is a bit too tight on him, and itchy too.
The horses reel to a stop, taking him out of his reverie. Ahead, several ragged strangers stand on the side of the road. They all appear lost, as they stare at the ground below them.
The man stands, flattening the creases in his clothes as he steps off the carriage, watching the strangers with curiosity. Their beards are long, skin dirty, clothes torn and ragged, blisters covering their skin. One of the men scratches his exposed forearm, the blister not taking much to crack open and start oozing blood.
One of the men, having heard the long procession, as no doubt the others had finally turns his head. He tries to hide a gasp as the tall, strange being in front of him approaches. Walking softly upon the dirt road he stops several feet from them. The sunlight seeming to reflect off his bald, pale white head; extremely pale like the rest of his skin.
It isn't the abnormal pasty color of the stranger that surprises the man. Around his eyes lies black paint, in the shape of a diamond covering each eye. The eyes themselves, as pitch black as the dead of night. Stare into the depths of the man's very soul. The creature in front of him appears astonished at the sight of what's at the man's feet.
"What happened to him?" the tall entity asks, pointing to the dead man on the ground.
"The fever got him," the dirty stranger says.
A man lies on the ground, puss and blood oozing from the sores and blisters covering his body. A thick mucus slowly drips from his eyes as they start to slowly dissolve.
"It ain't a fever," another man says, "it’s the damn plague. We've all got it."
The creature takes a quick step back from the group. Holding his fist to his mouth as he takes in the scene in front of him.
"We all got the plague, and no way to get treatment," the man says, "damn doctors only give a shit about how much coin they can make."
"We got a whole village sick," a third man says.
The creature's dark eyes take in the whole group, causing most of them to shuffle nervously.
"So what are you all doing out here?" he says.
"Waiting for one of the King's caravans to pass through so we can rob it," the second man says, scratching his graying beard.
"You hardly look like robbers," the dark eyed being says.
"We sold all our stuff to get some elixir," one of the robbers shrugs, "we were just going to use these rocks over here."
He points to a pile of rocks laying on the ground.
"You say you have a village?" the tall creature says.
"Yeah, it's just down that way," one of the men points, the village visible in the distance.
"Well, there will be no need for violence today," the thing says as he goes over to one of the carriages.
The group of men stare in fear and nervously scratch themselves as they watch the long chain of carriages. One man gulps as the scaly servant stares blankly at him, its small horns curving up towards the sky. The half-dragon sits with wings folded and tongue flickering, its deep grey eyes seeming dull and void of any thought or reason. Others sit in the carriages or fly around the caravan, once in a while shrieking and fluttering restlessly.
The slim bald creature emerges with a large bag, and tosses the hefty thing to the ground in front of the men. They all look in confusion.
"What is it?" one asks.
"That should be enough to cover the cost of some medicine for your village, right?" he asks.
One of them men peeks inside the sack, to find it brimming with gold coins and trinkets.
"By the gods!" he says, "this could get us treatment for months!"
"Who are you?" one of the men says.
"My name, is Tarragon."
