Private Tales Aspirations & Ale

Marek’s smile lingered as Sam spoke, right up until she dropped her titles.

Each one landed like a hammer. Lieutenant. Anirian Knights. Third Level-

His eyes widened.

Oh. Oh.

He straightened so fast his stool scraped the floor. His shoulders squared on instinct, posture snapping into something that was half-respect, half-oh-gods-don’t-screw-this-up. His brain promptly began sprinting in circles.

Dreadlord. An actual one. Not a tavern story. Not a warning whispered by scared people in alleys.

Right here.

He swallowed. Hard.

“I-uh-” Marek glanced down at his hands, then back up, then halfway rose from the stool before stopping again. “I don’t… know if I’m supposed to bow? Or salute? Or-” he gestured vaguely, “-do something that isn’t this.”

Internally, he was screaming.

Fuck, Marek, you’ve hauled bodies into pits for coin. You’ve worked with a drow and a vampire in the same week. Get it together.

Outwardly, he forced himself to breathe, jaw tightening as he wrestled his expression back into something resembling composure. “Marek,” he repeated, a little more formally now. “Just… Marek.”

Then Anja pushed the cider away and he was thankful for the brief distraction. Marek blinked, attention snapping to her, brow quirking. “You’re mad,” he said mildly. “That’s good cider.”

If she didn’t reclaim it or was too indecisive, he shrugged. “Waste not.” He reached over, snagged the cup, and tossed it back without ceremony, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking immediately more himself for it.

Finally, he turned back to Sam. “So,” he said, voice steadier than he felt, “Anirian Dreadlord, Dragonsbane, all that.” A pause. “Why come all the way out here?”

Samantha Black

There was a flicker of recognition the moment she said it.

“The Forgemaster’s Guild,” Marek repeated, a quiet chuckle slipping out before he could stop it. “Invite-only.” He shook his head, amused. “I don’t think I’m even allowed to linger in the district where the meeting took place.”

His gaze dropped to the sword at his side. The blade was nicked, dulled in places, the metal tired in a way only long use and cheap repairs could manage. He thumbed the spine absently, not embarrassed so much as… aware.

“I always thought,” he said, slower now, a little softer, “if I could make one myself… something built to take the lightning instead of fighting it….” For a moment, his eyes went distant, caught on the idea. “A blade that actually works with me.”

Then he blinked, shook it off, and took a sip of his drink, the moment passing like smoke.

He looked back at her, curiosity plain now, not guarded.

“So,” Marek asked, casual but earnest underneath it, “how does someone even become an Anirian knight?” His signature grin tugged at his mouth. “Asking for a friend. A very underqualified, poor friend.”

Samantha Black

Marek’s face fell the moment she started listing requirements.

Anirian citizen. Guard service. Best of the best.

He let out a long sigh and tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Well,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face, “that seems impossible then.”

He paused, then coughed awkwardly. “Because I’m Allirian. I mean-the friend. The friend is Allirian. Definitely not me.”

He shot her a sideways look, half-amused, half-annoyed. “You almost had my hopes up there, you know. Thought maybe I’d finally get out of this dump of a city without having to steal my way out.”

With that, he knocked back the rest of his drink in one go, setting the empty glass down a little harder than necessary.

Marek blinked when Anja answered instead of Sam.

“…wow,” he said, pointing at her with his glass. “I’m honestly impressed you knew I wasn’t actually talking about a friend.” He shook his head, grinning.

He turned back to Sam then, trying to keep his hands from trembling. “Yeah-why not?” he said quickly, before he could overthink it. “I mean, I can go be a square-” he grimaced, “-squire. That. I can do that.”

There was a moment where he just… looked hopeful. Open. Like the idea had already gotten its hooks in him.

“Come on,” Marek added, half-grin creeping back in as he tried to play it cool. “Lady like you doesn’t waste time buying drinks for people like me unless she’s already got some kind of plan rattling around.” He shrugged, palms up. “Figure the worst that happens is you kick me back to the streets later.”

Marek fired back at Anja without missing a beat.“Yeah, well, if I need lessons on how to actually be a square, I’ll ask you, m’lady.”

The words were out before his brain caught up. It was only after she went back to her book, blunt as ever, that it clicked what she’d said about herself. And he would have to come back to process the whole sisters thing later because Sam already had his full attention again.

He straightened as she spoke, really straightened this time, spine going rigid as her tone shifted. The humor drained from his face in stages, replaced by something tighter. Focused. A thin thread of fear ran through him, not panic, not doubt, but the kind that comes when you realize someone means every word they’re saying.

Put you in the ground.

Yeah. She wasn’t posturing.

He swallowed once, then nodded sharply. “Sir, yes, sir.” The words came out fast and automatic, followed by an awkward, too-quick salute that was more enthusiasm than form.

Then he hesitated, hand hovering mid-air before dropping it again, brow creasing. “…I should be saluting now, right?” he asked, glancing at her. “Since…uh. Subordinate. Or is that later? I can wait. Just…tell me which way’s less likely to get me killed.”

The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself, but his eyes stayed locked on hers. “Crystal clear,” he added more quietly. “No cutting corners. No games.”

Marek stared at the coins like they might vanish if he blinked too hard.

Coins. Actual weight in his palm. More than he’d ever seen in one place that wasn’t guarded by men with better weapons and worse tempers.

He closed his fingers around them, knuckles whitening. “…thank you,” he muttered, the words coming out quieter than he meant, like saying them too loudly would break something.


The alley was narrow and damp in the forgotten parts of the city. Marek knocked once, twice, then leaned back against the wall, waiting.

The door cracked open. A girl his age glared out, hair tied back, eyes tired.

“Are you stupid?” she hissed. “You know what time it is. I just got him down.”

Marek held up his hands. “I know. I know. I won’t stay long.”

She looked ready to slam the door until she saw the coins.

Her eyes widened. Marek stepped closer and poured a handful into her palm. “I’m getting out,” he said, the words tumbling over each other. “For real. Not talk. Not plans. It’s happening.”

She stared at the money like it was a spell. “I want you to take this,” he said, pushing more into her hand. “Take the baby. Leave. Go somewhere he can’t find you. Somewhere he won’t even think to look.”

Her breath hitched. “Marek-”

“Do it,” he said, softer. “You deserve better. He doesn’t get to keep you.”

She pulled him into a hug so suddenly he almost dropped the rest of the coins. He hugged her back, awkward and tight.

“I’ll never forget this,” she whispered.

He smiled into her shoulder. “You’re like a sister. Family takes care of family.”


He bought them meals. Real meals. Hot bread, meat that wasn’t half gristle, ale that didn’t taste like rot. He sat with his friends like a prince, flipping a few coins across the table, laughing louder than he had in years.

“I’m serious,” he told them, leaning back. “I’m leaving. Knights. Training. Whole thing. Streets are gonna be buzzing when I come back.”

They laughed. Scoffed. Called him an idiot. He rolled his eyes and let them. Let the laughter wash over him like proof he was still here.


He found a cow shed on the edge of the city and crawled into a pile of hay, using his pack as a pillow. The coins were lighter now, barely enough for clothes, a travel kit, a few days’ provisions.

It didn’t matter.

He stared up at the slats of the roof, smiling like the future was already real.


Marek woke to sunlight stabbing his eyes and panic flooding his veins.

Late.

He bolted upright, hay sticking to his hair and clothes, heart pounding. He scrambled to his feet, shoved his things into his pack, and sprinted toward the stables, boots slapping stone, lungs burning.

He didn’t slow until he arrived at the meeting place. He skidded to a stop, breathless, trying to stand straight, trying to look like he hadn’t slept in livestock.

“Yes-ma’am,” he panted without even checking to see if Sam was there, then swallowed, trying to steady himself. “I’m here.”

He froze. Two sisters. Horse merchant. Entire conversation mid-flow. He had absolutely just announced his presence like a runaway cart with bells.

Storms take you, Marek.

He tried to look casual. Failed. Horribly.

For a brief, blissful second, he thought he might’ve slipped in unnoticed.

Then...

Samantha Black said:

..did you sleep in a hay loft, Master Marek?"

Click to expand...

He bristled instantly, jaw tightening as he shot her a sideways look, lips curling into a strained grin. “Don’t you have a book to bury your nose in, Lady Anja?” he muttered to her through clenched teeth, plucking a stubborn piece of hay from his hair and flicking it away with dignity he absolutely did not possess.

He cleared his throat and straightened like someone who had definitely not slept next to livestock.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said quickly to Sam, posture snapping upright. “Apologies. I-uh. Had to confirm reality.”

No doubt Sam would be staring at him blankly at this point.

He hurried on. “Admittedly, I thought the whole tavern thing was a dream. You know. Dreadlord. Coins. Career prospects. Felt suspiciously like divine intervention.” He gestured vaguely at himself. “And then a fae calls me a crack, and frankly, that’s enough to make anyone question whether they’re still asleep or trapped in a nightmare.”

Honestly, all of that was technically true. He stopped talking immediately. Stood there. Hands at his sides. Spine straight. Face neutral.

Samantha Black

Marek stared after Anja for a moment, genuinely puzzled.

She grated on him in a way he couldn’t quite name, like an oxymoron in shoes. Too aloof to bother with his jabs, too uninterested to escalate them. It was irritating. And, annoyingly, kind of refreshing.

He found himself briefly wondering..if I asked her to teach me how to read properly, would she just… do it? No lectures, no pity? No laughing at me?

The thought unsettled him more than Sam’s stare.

He turned back just in time to open his mouth to tell her that he simply smelled like the average poor person. But Sam had already moved on, steamrolling straight into business.

“I can ride,” Marek said quickly.

Internally, his mind flashed back to the time he’d taken a job stealing a merchant’s horse and nearly died under its hooves. Technically still riding.

He walked over toward the horse that was prepared for his trial. He could have sworn it was glaring at him.

“So,” he said, glancing back at Sam, “how do you even pick the right one? Most of them are…” He paused, deciding that calling them ‘unruly bastards’ wasn’t appropriate in present company.

“…spirited,” he finished, diplomatic as a diplomat who’d never diplomatted in his life.

He put his foot in the stirrup and at least managed to get on the horse without incident.

Marek’s ears burned the moment Sam said the mare was for Anja.

“Oh-” He glanced down at the horse, then back at Sam, then over at Anja, who couldn't look more disinterested in the whole affair. “Right. Of course. Lady’s horse.”

He let out a slow breath when Sam didn’t seem to object, tension easing out of his shoulders as the gate swung open.

“Alright,” he murmured, giving the reins a gentle tug. “Easy. Easy.”

The mare shifted, a little uncertain, and his first steps were… not graceful. Marek wobbled once, seat a bit stiff, hands too tight on the reins. He adjusted, loosened his grip, heels down.

“Yeah, yeah, I got you,” he muttered, more to himself than the horse.

Then something clicked. He guided her into a slow trot, posture easing, movements smoothing out as he found her rhythm. The mare responded, ears flicking back, then forward, settling into the gait. Marek’s lips curved into a real smile. It was unforced, bright, the kind that hadn’t shown up much lately.

He leaned forward, one hand dropping to pat her neck. “Good girl,” he said quietly, warmth in his voice.

As he circled the ring, he glanced back toward Sam and Anja, grinning like he’d just discovered a miracle.

“I think she likes me,” he called out, cheerful and genuinely pleased, giving the mare another fond pat as she carried him along without complaint.

Marek nodded like he understood exactly what she meant. (He did not)

“Yeah. Canter. Balance. Got it.”

He nudged the mare forward, confidence blooming fast, too fast, as she picked up speed. He laughed under his breath, sitting taller, clearly convinced this was going very well.

“See?” he called out. “We’re-”

Then he tried to see what happened when he “got out of balance.” Immediately, he tipped too far to one side.

“-oh-oh no-”

Arms flailed. One leg slipped. For a moment, it looked like he was absolutely about to eat dirt. The mare slowed on her own, steady and experienced, and Marek scrambled back into place, wheezing out a laugh as he clutched the saddle.

“…meant to do that,” he said, breathless.

He spotted Anja approaching as if she were going to a funeral, and waved at her from the saddle. “Hey! You gotta try this,” he called out with a grin. “It’s actually really fun! Even you might like it!”

Having seen the entire spectacle, Anja looked entirely unconvinced that any part of anything he was doing could be described as fun. Face blanched, frown deepening, she watched the boy and the mare as though it were Death itself riding around on its skeletal steed and coming to collect her soul. Had this been in Oban, prior to being rescued by Sam, she might've welcomed the prospect.

Now?

Anja promptly turned on her heel and verily attempted to walk in the opposite direction... only to be caught by the hood of her cloak. Her eyes bulged and for a moment she mimed her own arm-flailing interpretation of Marek as she nearly toppled over from a single hooked finger.

"Uh-uh," Sam shook her head once, "I give you grace to say no to things when I can but this is not one of them. You must learn to ride, Anja."

"Hnnnkch-" replied Anja as she struggled, suddenly rather violently, twisting and pulling at the cloak before toppling over as Sam released her finger.

She remain where she fell, in a heap, and looked up at her sister with wilted dejection.

"I know you're scared," Sam moved to offer the younger girl a hand up, "but I promise you'll be fine. This is a good horse."

Frowning, Anja watched as Marek rode back over through the fence slats, "How do you know?"

"Because I've ridden horses my entire life and I know a good one when I see one. Now come, up with you."

Reluctantly she took her sister's hand and felt her waifish weight lifted to her feet with no effort at all. Anja took a moment to dust herself off, offering Sam another weary glance before giving in and stepping into the ring.

"Marek help her up into the saddle and lead her around while Montgomery gets your horse ready."

Anja stopped just inside the ring fence, clearly stiff and withdrawn with discomfort.

Marek stared.

Just… stared.

The cloak grab. The flailing. The full-body surrender into the dirt. He watched the entire sisterly exchange with rapt attention, so absorbed he forgot to laugh at any of it. It was like witnessing a strange regional dance.

When both sisters’ gazes snapped his way, he reacted on pure instinct, whipping his head to the opposite side so fast his neck gave a painful throb.

Then Sam spoke.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“…you want me to do what?”

No answer forthcoming. Of course.

He muttered something deeply uncharitable under his breath and swung down from the saddle, landing with a soft thud. As he approached Anja, he held up both hands in surrender.

“Alright, first thing, don’t slap me,” he said solemnly, not accustomed to coming so close to a highborn lady. “I’m only doing this because I’ve been instructed by someone who can put me in the ground.”

He offered her his calloused hand, nothing teasing about the gesture. When he guided her up, he did it with a surprising amount of gentleness, patient with her through the process.

Once she was seated, he looked up at her and smirked. “Try not to fall off,” he said lightly. “Would ruin my spotless record.”

He turned, took the reins, and started walking the mare slow and easy, giving Anja time to settle. Marek gazed ahead, rocking slightly with the motion, and then, entirely unhelpfully, began to sing to himself, but was audible.

"Alright, first thing, don't slap me."

The mere suggestion she would do so garnered him a look of shock so stark someone might've thought he'd asked her something wildly in appropriate. Her? Slap a male? She could barely count on her two hands the number of times she'd spent any time in close proximity to a man. The very thought of slapping a male in Oban could have put her in a cell or earned her lashes from a whip.

As if he'd threatened her with just the same, Ane treated the entire ordeal of getting mounted into the saddle as though he were holding her at swordpoint. It took some doing, but feeling as though she might get jailed for failing to find her way into the saddle was impetus enough to get the job done. She managed completely without grace, sitting awkward and stiff with her pale lower legs sticking out the hems of her dress skirts.

Was this... proper? It didn't feel proper. Weren't ladies supposed to ride in a different sort of saddle?

Ironically, Sam was thinking similarly. Watching the younger woman sit up there like an inelegant statue, she knew in that moment she'd have to invest in a side-saddle for her.

Anja, for her part, heard not a word of his merry little song. She was frozen in place, fingers curled around the pommel of the saddle like it were her only lifeline, feet hooked up through the stirrup irons with no weight in them whatsoever as her legs clung around the sides of the mare for dear life. Her white face slowly started turning blue because she had completely forgotten to breathe.

The mare patiently walked on behind Marek, curiously nibbling after his hand or his pockets for a treat.

Sam leaned against the fence, bemused, and silently ran a gloved hand over her face. This was going to be a long trip back to Vel Castere.

Marek finished his little song just as the mare completed most of the loop, blissfully unaware of the mortal crisis occurring behind him. He was entertained by the horse, giving her a pet whenever she nudged him.

He finally glanced back over his shoulder, “So, what do you think-” and stopped mid-word.

He squinted up at Anja.

“…Alright,” he said slowly, brow quirking, “either you’re trying real hard not to fart, or you’re about to pass out. And for both our sakes, I’m praying it’s the first.”

He stepped a little closer, “You’re squeezing her like she owes you money. Try the stirrups instead and put your weight down, not in. She’s not gonna escape from under you.”

Without making a thing of it as he walked toward her, he reached up and tugged the hem of her dress down so it covered a bit more of her legs, knowing she was too terrified to reach. His eyes were on hers the entire time.

“Look,” His expression was softer now. “When I’m about to do something scary,” he said, “like stepping into a ring with some rich knight who smells like polish and privilege… I count my breaths.”

He demonstrated, tapping two fingers against his chest. “In for three. Out for three. Doesn’t fix everything, but it keeps your mind from leaving without you.”

A grin tugged at his mouth. “And I’m not gonna let you fall. Mostly because Sam would kick my behind clear across the city, yeah?” He nodded, satisfied with that logic. “So it’s in both our interests for you to stay upright.”

He gave the reins a gentle slack. “You tell me when you’re ready. I won’t move her till you say so.”

He may have been trying to diffuse the obvious terrified strain with humor, but it only deepened the purple of Anja's face and the frown on her lips. Her eyes stared straight forward at nothing, unfocused. Somewhere in the world, a tensioned rope snapped out of pity.

Wasn't until Marek tugged at her skirts that she even seemed to notice they'd come to a stop and that he was talking directly at her. To - he was talking directly to her. Anja's cold blue eyes fell on him like a plummeting hailstone, wide and trying real hard to focus on his face after the sudden jolt of touch near her leg.

He was talking about breathing. As if that were something one had to actively think about-

Anja took a sudden long, loud, gasping breath drawn out in an overly-long three seconds. With a gulp at the end, she sputtered and coughed and visibly appeared to slacken (fractionally so!) in her spine. The color shortly returned to her face. Several more breaths heaved in and out, definitely not counted, but at least she was actively breathing again.

While that happened, Montgomery lead another horse out into the open. A stout and coppery palomino with a white stripe down its face.

"Who's this?" Sam asked as she righted herself from her lean to look at the horse.

"This is Blaze," said the man, giving the gelding a good pat on the neck, "good mind. Smart. Decently brave. Bit of snap to 'im."

"Snap?" Sam raised a brow as she moved to look the horse over. Wasn't going to win any prizes on looks or build alone. He had a narrow chest and wide-set hind with a short back. She wagered he was likely light on his feet but wasn't gonna be clearing any hedges.

"Aye, good reflexes. Neck-reins. Real comedian, too. He'll get into anything he can reach."

"Done many long marches?"

"Not so much," the man shook his head, "but he's bored here. Needs a job. He'll be happy with a purpose."



Anja shook her head, loose dark hairs flipping about her face, "I'm not ready-" and her breathing picked up pace, hyperventilation imminent, "I'm not ready!"