This is his story.
THE LAST THING ANYONE EXPECTS AFTER THRUSTING A SWORD INTO SOMEONE’S UNPROTECTED BELLY IS THE METAL BLADE SHATTERING INTO A HUNDRED PIECES, yet that was what happened to young Lawrence one terrible afternoon. The highwayman stared in horror as the weapon flew apart on impact, and the young boy stumbled backwards from the force of his blow. Tiny fragments flew in all directions, with some leaving jagged red rivers across the highwayman’s face. Rucelle, the portly red-haired guardian of the young boy, screamed in utter horror as he believed his ward had been mortally wounded. He got up to his feet and ran headlong towards the highwayman, no longer afraid to endanger his own life to avenge the boy.
But the boy did not need avenging.
Lawrence cupped a hand over his belly, expecting warm blood where only sweat was felt. A beat before he found the courage to look down and inspect the skin, finding only shredded fibers where the sharp edge met his trousers. He had nary a wound in sight!
“You killed him,” Rucelle cried out, bashing the highwayman with his balled fists over and over. Rucelle knew precious little of the ways of fistful combat, but any limbs fueled with rage had the capacity to deliver harm. The highwayman took a few blows, too shocked to defend himself, but recovered and kicked Rucelle to the floor beside his unharmed ward. Rucelle turned, fearing he was about to see sight of his failures only to find the young boy with his shirt rolled up and his fingers probing his belly.
“He is alive, you imbécile!” the highwayman growled, “I do not know what magie you invoked, but you will rue this day.”
“You are alive!” Rucelle gasped and crawled to the boy’s side. Lawrence smiled, showing the gap between his front teeth. He had lost one of the big ones when he jumped off the carriage a few seconds too soon. The coachman mused it was a learning experience for the boy. Lawrence was just disappointed it did little to help him learn to whistle.
“Why did you stab me, sir?” Lawrence asked even as Rucelle pulled him up from the ground and cradled him like a giant baby.
“This is unacceptable,” the highwayman shook his head and stared at the remaining fragment of the sword still stuck to the hilt. A heavy droplet of blood slid down his cheek and clung under his nose. “The moine clearly was wrong with his terms. This is no ordinary job.” He followed this with a string of curses in Montaigne which would probably have made Lawrence blush, had he knew how to speak the Sunflower’s language.
Rucelle, on the other hand, knew how to speak Montaigne. Hailing from a family devoted to willing service, the Baptistin of the Sarmatian Commonwealth were a respected line which happily offered their services and stewardship to both noble and merchant families in various Nations. He was trained at a young age to speak most Théan languages and was well-travelled enough to know the differences between many regional dialects. This man was no highwayman. This was a meurtrier. A hired killer.
And the boy was his target.-------------
Includes a writeup for a new type of Glamour Knight, The Eighth.
And a new possible Antagonist Secret Society, The Theotokos.
Available at Drivethrurpg: