L.G. Surgeson's Blog, page 12

Mrs Iona Pringle

aka: Lady Iona, Duchess of Pringle; Iona; IP; That woman…

Age: you shouldn’t ask a lady her age

Religious views: prefer not to disclose

Adventuring skills and specialities: scouting, thievery, risk-taking, being outspoken and opinionated

Marital Status: Widow – of the late and great Dakarn Pringle, one time piss-artist now aspect of Trickster.

Family connections: One daughter – Rosemary Iona Pringle. She has no interest in her family roots.

Bio:

Born in obscurity in the Elven Forest, Iona brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘parvenu’. She’s widely travelled, having ‘worked her passage’ across the continent with the Ambassadorial services of Paravel and Albion. The adventuring life suits her because it allows her to pursue several of her great passions: being right, making money and gaining power and most importantly – appearing to be doing all of this for the right reasons. In her spare time, she runs an Aberddu knocking shop (sorry… high class drinking establishment with bespoke personal entertainment) called The Duchess’ Pleasure.

In Iona’s defense, she’s a more genuine soul than people give her credit for – her best friends include an erstwhile pig-farmer turned adventurer called Derek and  a colourful gypsy called Morwenna. She is fiercely loyal to those select few that she loves and will fight tooth and nail for them, and against the Frisian Inquisition. She just doesn’t suffer fools.

Quotes:

“When you said ‘you don’t know what’s down there in that fog,’” he gasped finally level with Iona again, “What you meant was that I didn’t know what was in that fog but you did, wasn’t it?”

A scornful smirk curled across Iona’s face as she turned to look at the flushed cheeks of the wheezing wizard.

“Glad you’ve finally worked that one out,” she retorted, “Now perhaps we can get to where we’re going without getting ourselves killed.”

“Absolutely, right you are. You lead on then, madam,” said Gerard, trying to sound cordial whilst still flushed and panting. Fire flashed in Iona’s eyes, as she turned on her heels, started back up the hill and growled

“And don’t call me Madam,”  - The Freetown Bridge

 

 

“Miss’ ‘ona Prin’le.” he asked gently, and took Scylayla’s scowl as an affirmative.

Iona, probably still alive because of her paranoia, shot one hand down to her knife hilt. Why on earth did a gargantuan swineherd in Idldorf know her name? She knew farm folks liked their gossip but she hadn’t been in Paravel that long and Derek surely couldn’t know every pig farmer on the continent, could he? With little option but to own up to her name, she turned to the man and said,

“I’m Iona Pringle, how can I help you?”

The swineherd pulled himself up to his full, towering, height, removed his rag cap and bowed low.

“Obidiah Bowe Hingis, a’ your ser’ice, it’s an honour ma’am,” he said with the poorly contained excitement of a small child who’d been told he has to stand still for five minutes and then he can have his own magic cat. He proffered a hand like a side of steak and not knowing what else to do, Iona took it and shook. Her other hand was now firmly gripping her dagger, ready to draw. After a bone-crushing moment she retrieved her sweat-coated hand and wiped it on the seat of her hose. She was just about to take leave of her unexplained admirer when he bellowed across the hubbub of the thoroughfare.

“Oi, Oi, Abraham,” and a man that resembled a human stick insect looked up, a clay pipe clamped between him disgusting brown teeth. “gue’ ‘o thi’ im! I’ only Miss’ Prin’ fro’ tha stories,”  - Dawn of Darkness

 

 

“What in the names of all the Gods were you think?” she cried as she burst through the door to find Clara and Pudding sitting forlornly on the bed side by side gazing at their feet. “What the hell did you break out for?” Looking up sullenly, Clara said,

“We had some fings to do, di’n't we?”

“Yeah,” chimed in Pudding her eyes narrowed with resentment. “We can’t be sittin’ about here all night like a bunch of hookers ya know. We’ve got things to do, people to see and all that.”

“Like what?” demanded Iona, glaring at them incredulously. “What was so bloody important that you couldn’t follow a simple instruction?”

“Well,” started Clara her voice already wheedling after just one word, “I had some fings to collect didn’t I ? “

“Like what?” snapped Iona again, getting into her motherly stride. At this point Clara stood up to show Iona her coat.

“My best coat for instance,” she said turning to show Iona the full extent of the immense monstrous garment. Iona had been ready to retaliate to any one of a number of excuses but this one completely floored her. She just stood there, gaping. After floundering for a few seconds she finally managed to utter,

“That’s your best coat?”

“Yeah,” squealed Clara offended, “Wha’ wrong with it? It’s got plenty of wear in it.”

“Yeah, for someone twice your height and weight or possibly a family of midgets.”

“It fitted the guy who died in it,” mumbled Clara by way of explanation.

“Someone died in it?” cried Iona, her earlier fury subsiding in pity.  - In Shadows, Waiting.

The Adventure Begins…. (kind of….)

And so it began, as troubled times do, not with the dark sense of foreboding that hindsight would suggest but with the gradually building irritation born of knowing that your life will pan out to be less comfortable and easy than those generations before you. The slowly dawning knowledge that the world has laid some unwanted destiny at your door, that the tale of life has somehow scripted you as a hero and not merely a contented extra, is somewhat unpleasant. The poetic vicissitude of such times is lost on those who are unfortunate enough to live through them. Dreams of great deeds of sacrifice and courageousness are not dreamt by those who find themselves having to carry out those deeds when they had been planning a more salubrious and somewhat longer life.

It was not altogether true that those who were to sacrifice themselves in fulfilment of this destiny were planning a quiet life, nor is it true that they found their destiny as wholly unwanted as many. They were, for the most part at least, adventurers. A quiet life to them is like an empty classroom to a schoolmaster, appealing at first glance but soon to become tiresome and pointless.

However, if they were to choose, many would not elect a crusade of such proportion, preferring the relative peace of plunder and pillage. It is not, as has been mooted by some of the more philosophical observers of the adventurers art, their wish to simply travel the world killing people in new and interesting places. Whilst that is undoubtedly part of their remit, it is not their sole purpose. Simply killing people is a military life, not an adventuring one. To an adventurer, murder is merely a necessary side effect not a final goal. The final goal is often dependent on the individual but can usually be summarised as the pursuit of three things in some combination: fame, fortune and of course excitement. Some loftier adventurers have claimed they are interested in acquisition of knowledge, protection of innocents and the betterment of civilisation but they nevertheless expect their share of the more material spoils.

In light of these career goals, it seemed somehow strange that at the turn of the twelfth century, it was a group of adventurers that found themselves standing in the eye of a rapidly growing storm.