By Hans-Jörg Knabel
The man, who never draw his weapon:
The development of Lester, one of the four old friends, well-known from former Gothic installments. In seperate phases graphic artists and 3D modeler brings the character to live. |
 |
A character sketch |
 |
A realistic render |
 |
The final Lester at a screenshot |
“It’s askew!” Murdra yelled up the gallery, hissing under her breath. The woodcutters would’ve done a better job, it dawned on her, but the fishermen worked cheap. You get what you pay fer!
“Are you sure?” Lorn asked. He had been just about to hammer in a nail.
“Way too low on the left. Any dolt can see that!”
Lorn tucked the hammer back into his belt. “Awright”, he sighed. “ ’iulad: a bit ‘igher, will ya?” Hiulad’s face, already deep red from the exertion, took on a purplish tinge. With a grunt, he lifted the railing a hand’s breadth higher.
“Like this?” he groaned. Murdra wrinkled her forehead. “You’re allowed to open your mouth, you know” she growled at Grengar, who was sitting nearby, sipping his mead with a smirk on his face.
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’! You didn’t want us, so we’re lettin’ the fishermen have all the fun. We’re just ‘ere to watch.” The woodcutters at his table raised their cups and laughed. At a loss, Murdra swilled the spittle in her mouth from cheek to cheek.
“It’s too high now, my friend”, a voice said behind her.
Murdra turned around with a scowl, and caught her breath. Jus’ like a demon, she thought. The face of the stranger was marred with tattoos, but his eyes were friendly, his voice soft. Murdra stared at the mace in his belt. Must’ve come through the wine cellar. I should lock the damn door!
The tattooed man pointed at Hiulad. “A little lower, my friend”, he said. “ But just a little.”
With each word he spoke, Murdra smelled swampweed. She turned back to the gallery, squinted at the railing and shouted: “ ‘es right!” Hiulad groaned and eased the railing down an inch.
“That should do it”, the stranger said. Murdra gave a satisfied grunt as Lorn hammered in the first nail. “Want somethin’ to eat, eh?” she asked the stranger. “Got some fish and ‘taters ready.”
“Potatoes sound good”, the stranger answered with a friendly smile. “But I’ll pass on the fish.”
“Suit yourself”, Murdra grumbled. “Jus’ pick a table. I’ll get your food.” More hammering could now be heard from the gallery. Murdra trudged into the kitchen and grabbed a wooden bowl from under the counter. When she looked back into the tap room, the stranger was standing beside the woodcutters.
“Is this seat free?” he asked.
The woodcutters eyed him with mistrust, staring at the tattoos on his face. After a moment, Grengar broke the silence. “Who in Beliar’s name are you?”
“My name is Lester, my friend.” The stranger sat down beside Grengar. “I’m from Tooshoo. Not from the tree... I’ve got a hut in the swamps. A friend of mine said he’d meet me here. Maybe you know him – his name is Diego.”
“Yeah, we’ve met”, Grengar said reluctantly. “A few days ago. ‘e’s in Stewark now.”
“Hm.” Lester looked disappointed.
Murdra trudged back to his table. “ ‘es comin’ back”, she grumbled, plunking down the steaming bowl in front of her new guest. “Today or tomorrow, ‘e said.”
“I’ll wait here, then. Do you have a free room?”
Murdra nodded absentmindedly. She could hear the fishermen coming down the stairs.
“We’re done”, Lorn said. Murdra looked up to the gallery. The railing was straight as a fiddle, just like new. “We could all use a cup of...” Lorn’s voice trailed off. He looked past Murdra, out of the window. “Soldiers”, he breathed.
There were at least a dozen men in her courtyard, dressed in identical Setarrifian armour and bearing swords and shields on their backs.
“They’re from Silverlake”, Grengar murmured. “What are they doin’ ‘ere?”
“Uh”, Hiulad ventured. “Mebbe they was in Stewark, at the Baron’s. Now they is ‘ungry an’ thirsty.”
Some soldiers were already heading towards the door. Murdra hurried to the counter and poured some mead. Soldiers always wanted mead, mead and more mead. There were even more soldiers round the back, near the open kitchen door. ‘ow many are there? Murdra thought. Not enough room in the courtyard? The door to the tap room swung open. A stately Setarrifian wearing a gilded breastplate stepped over the threshold. Some of his men strode past him and headed up the stairs without hesitation. The others remained at their officer’s side. The Setarrifian glanced around the tap room with an imperious look on his face. “You’re drinking? In the middle of the day?” he thundered. “Don’t you have work?!”
“We’re woodcutters and fishermen, and just grabbin’ a bite”, Grengar said carefully.
The officer shot a glance at his men. “Ten fellows eating from a single bowl? The barony of Stewark is even more destitute than I thought!” The soldiers behind him guffawed, and the officer joined in. He stopped laughing abruptly and looked Grengar squarely in the eye. “I say: you are a pack of lazy dogs and should be ashamed of yourselves!” The fishermen and the woodcutters remained silent and kept their eyes downcast, but Lester just frowned, put something into his mouth, and started to chew.
“I can see you at least have the decency to feel ashamed”, the officer continued. “But you are in luck! I can offer you a glorious opportunity to wash the guilt from your soul. The king is looking for brave men, volunteers to defeat the Myrtanians in the Gorge of Thorniara.” He strode towards Hiulad. “Anything to say?”
“Uh”, stammered Hiulad, slow and awkward as always. “Sounds... good?”
“Now we’re talking! What’s your name, boy?”
“I is ‘iulad the fisherman.”
The officer looked over his shoulder at his men. “Write down: Yoolud, a fisherman from Stewark, has volunteered to serve the king on the battlefield.”
“Huh?” Hiulad started to stammer, but the officer paid him no heed.
“Anyone else?”
Grengar slowly rose from his seat.
“You?” the officer barked.
Grengar shook his head. “I’m a woodcutter. Don’t know nothin’ about soldierin’.”
“You’ll learn.” The officer shoved Grengar towards his men. “You’re coming with us.” His gaze fell on Lester. “You look like some kind of black mage”, he said. “Can you cast spells?”
“No.”
“Can you fight?”
“Barely.”
“That’s a mighty fine mace you have there”, the officer prodded.
“That, my friend, is just a deterrent”, Lester said calmly. “I don’t need it.”
The officer laughed and grabbed Lester, the heavy gauntlet digging into his shoulder. “Come along”, he growled. “We’ll show you how to wield a mace.”
Lester, who seemed to realize that they weren’t going to let him go, stood up. “If I have to”, he said.
“You do”, the officer growled, pulling him away from the table.
“No one upstairs, Sir!” a soldier shouted from the gallery.
“Shame.” The officer pointed at the remaining men. “Bring them all. Leave the woman – no use for her on the battlefield.”
The Setarrifian soldiers stepped forward and grabbed the remaining men by the arms. The officer pushed Lester towards the door, his hand still firmly on his shoulder. Lester did not resist. He just rolled his eyes and kept chewing, his mace hanging uselessly from his belt.
Lorn wasn’t going to come along quietly. He tore himself from the soldier’s grasp and darted for the kitchen door. Fuhgeddit, Murdra thought. The soldiers at the door had a big grin on their faces.
“Down, boy!” One of them rammed his armored fist into Lorn’s stomach, and the fisherman doubled over, his cheek sagging against the soldier’s breastplate. The soldiers let him gasp for air for a moment, then dragged him back through the kitchen, out into the courtyard.
The door swung shut with a slam.
The taproom lay silent and empty in front of Murdra. Angry shouts could still be heard from the courtyard.
At least the railing’s fixed, Murdra thought. She pulled out a bookleta quill and an inkwell from below the counter. Once the noise had abated, she jotted down what the men owed her, down to the last copper piece.
.
Questions to the author - click here! (Spellbound Forum)
Discussion at World of Gothic
|
