Completed A Friend In Need

[Dal]

Keep walking. Keep moving. Don't lie down. Don't. Don't give in. Don't fall to the floor. Nothing but death on the floor.

Think.

Can't think. Luxury that. Breathe Dal. Breathe.

Shuddering pain. Gritted teeth, tusks set to grinding. Bloody shoulderplates shuddered and sagged, then drew back up to function with a hiss of pain and a growl of determination.

Just keep moving. They're ahead. Somewhere ahead. To where the sun fades from where I lost against them. They told me that much.

Might have lied. Bastards. Gave me a sliver of hope. Why?

Can't think now. Just...move. Keep moving. Find these knights. Find a better death another day. This? This won't do. This won't stand. I will though. Don't fall. Keep walking. Fought too many times to be brought down like this, unclean, unfitting, unpaid, disarmed. I've survived plenty. Can't think I can't survive this too.

The pain rebuked such hope. Almost brought him to his knees as he pressed a bloody palm against bark.

The thoughts of a dying half orc beaten, bloodied, left to crawl at first, left to haul himself as if his guts were precious baggage, held in by plate mail and pale green hands, paler from the blood loss, the thoughts faded from the pain as his muscles sagged and his vision darkened. He issued another grunt which carried with it the taste of copper as he pressed his will into service by his own refusal to die against a tree.

He had not been left for dead. He had been left to fight for his life, step by step, against what was left of his armour, his grievous wounds born from vicious weapons that tore through armour and body. The mercy of savage warriors. The mercy of his old clan. His armour was ruined. His body had been punished more than he had ever suffered. Yet still, he pressed on.

Dal had been walking for an hour in this state, those who had tormented him and released him deep in the woods some place else by now, leaving him to his own fate. He had been given such wounds by those who bore greener skin than him and savagery that even his time raised by the orcs, and fighting against them in pitched battle and siege, had not prepared him for. Serrated blades that tore asunder his armour and raked at the flesh. Chains with reaching hooks that tore away helmets, snagged at joints, rendered him hobbled. Spears that collided against his armour with the force of a stone golem's fist. A foe that Dal had faced and overcome with the assistance of his comrades at the time. He knew what it was to be struck by such a thing, and was shocked as a mere spear could summon such strength from what must have been enchantment.

Damn fool I was to face them alone, thought I could handle it as I always had, before I started relying on others to get the job done. Should have raised a mercenary band of my own. Should have been more wary, avoided the call to fight from them, but I didn't, I acted like a damn champion, like someone bound by honour. By pride. I've grown soft from the influence of sirs and nobles, grown stupid and naïve. Thought I was better than that.

Should have asked for help from my...

Dal shook his head.

Facing things down with adventurers. Working with dwarves. Killing orcs. Figures I'd be brought down by a pack of knight slayers, the best of my clan. My clan. My clan who didn't finish me off for not carrying title. Vicious tactics. Vicious enough to leave me like this. Where are my old comrades? All scattered to their causes. Busy with their own lots. And I'm here, holding my guts. Walking to more knights. Knights. The ones with honour. The ones those orcs would have killed instead of leaving like this, ruined. Broken.

Will I ever lift a sword again?

He pressed on, defeat lingering in his thoughts, yet survival firmly trained into him.

The birds watched as the life ebbed from the mercenary. The trees received his hand as it relied on support to carry on. Their roots almost tripped him. Dal doubted he would be able to get up if he fell to their snares.

His vision was spotted by blackness, the sunlight was his compass, it guided him to where he needed to go. Stones appeared in his vision.

Is that? Is that what I'm looking for?

Dal fell to a knee as the world began to drag him under.

Not much time. Just, call out. Say something. State you're here. That...you need...

Dry lips snarled in contempt at his own condition.

He breathed deep in, and felt the ragged pain assault him as he did. He closed his eyes, looked up, and offered a single roar of pain, anguish and desperation as Dal brought attention to himself, a cry that lasted several heart beats, before silence enveloped him, and his consciousness barely held, his hand upon his torn breastplate, a living statue that kneeled a small distance away before the monastery that the Knights of Anathaeum called home.

Someone...anyone...

 

[Syr Galvanhad]

Galvanhad had been at the gate conversing with Ugluk, one of his most promising students, who had forsworn all personal glory to ensure the protection of the Monastery. He, himself, had chosen the path of the teacher, training the students that would one day take his place, make this order their own. And they already quick to do so.

"--and then Helena looked up at Dorn and kicked him in the shin. She was a fiery one." Galvanhad laughed, then used his gauntlet to hold onto Ugluk for support. "So Dorn squats down and goes... Arseling. Flicked her on the nose and by the way she fell you would have thought the old bastard kicked her. I had to do my prayers for forgiveness for laughter that day."

Ugluk let out a hearty laugh and smacked his senior on the back, nearly toppling the man, who had thankfully had the foresight to prepare for such an assault. "Yeah, I could see her doing that. And believe me, that doesn't sound too off-tempo to be Dorn. So what did you do, after you got done laughing?"

"I told her to get back onto her feet and she did. She had a name to carry. A legacy to uphold. She did it then, and she does it now. Soon, us fossils will be put to pasture." he would add with a smirk. "And on those da-" he would pause as a soul wrenching roar could be heard. "Ugluk, with me. Pollocks!" he would shout back to the gate.

"Yes Syr Galvanhad?" the squire would jump to attention as his name was called.

"Defend this gate with your life." The old knight ordered before he and Ugluk advanced from the gate, seeking out any and all signs. It could either be someone in distress, or some manner of beast looking to haunt Astenvale. Either way, he was confident the pair of them could deal with it.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Within about ten or so minutes, boots would crunch the ground beside Dal, the boots were so polished that the light reflecting on them would nearly be enough to spur the Orc from his unconsciousness. Almost.

"You sure he's alive?" Ugluk would ask.

"It matters not. Dead or alive, he returns with us. Either we can nurse him back to health or we give him his final rites." the old Knight would then kneel beside Dal and remove a gauntlet, his fingers moving to rest at the half-orcs neck to find a pulse, and thankfully he did. But it was weak. "We need to get him back to the Monastery. Ugluk, bring him with us." he would order as he pushed himself back to his feet with some effort.

Ugluk grunted as he bent down and lifted Dal as if he were a paperweight, cradling him in his arms in a way so as to not aggravate his wounds any more than they already were. The merry Orc would then begin to whistle his merry working tune as they began the trek back to their home. Thankfully, with the lack of searching, this would be a much quicker journey and within no time they were back to the gates of the Monastery.

Pollocks would once more stand upright, spear in hand, and at attention as the pair returned. "Pollocks! You're relieved. Grab three squires and bring a litter than get him to the infirmary." Galvanhad barked out. And like that, the boy was once more racing for his new task. So they would wait for Pollocks to grab a litter and some squires before setting down the injured warrior.

 

[Dal]

Consciousness escaped the half orc, but thoughts, feelings, memories, these did not fail to remind Dal that he existed, that he was somewhere in the world.

Darkness at first. An awareness of a pulsing sensation, slow, the drum of his life.

The tempo changed as memories convulsed in the dark. The drum of war sounded out, heavy, rising in tempo.

Words sounded as a declaration that sounded as if they were deep in the earth, commanding Dal to attention. The sound echoed, each time growing louder, more insistent, yet mumbled in manner. At the final declaration, Dal understood.

“"ARRRRRRAAAAAAGOOOOTH! FOR-MA-TION!"

And with that cry, Dal's mind clenched, and so with it his body's right hand tensed, as if gripping a weapon.

He felt himself swimming about on the spot as flashes of memory illuminated the darkness. The blurred faces of bearded warriors, moving in unison, and then scurrying about, greeted Dal as he felt his brow furrow.

Didn't I already...

Darkness bled across his vision, and Dal fell to his knees. The sound of dwarves moving could still be heard, echoing, rippling across the ocean of memory. Then the familiar sound of metal crashing, of wills being contested. Combat played out around him, deafening, roaring, insistent. Yet he remained upon his knees, merely playing pantomime at combat in minor movements, as if he were playing at meek conductor. A sway of the shoulders when he remembered a pivoting step, a murmur issued from lips that cried out for water as he remembered a shout of war, a tremor of cold as the wind carried the smell of death, so familiar, so ever present.

Did I fall?

As his vision swam, a wineskin was thrown in his direction, heavy, ponderous.

Lightning fast, Dal caught it. The movement shocked him. He looked at who threw it.

A golden knight, resplendent, assuring, faceless, yet with golden hair that streaked out, filling the blackness with some sunlight here. The figure said something, yet Dal could not hear. It was all as if underwater.

Dal nodded at whatever was said. He popped the plug of the wineskin and raised to his lips.

Blood gushed from the wineskin, cooling him, salving him, slaking his thirst, yet he knew this was not how things were supposed to be.

He looked to the golden figure, who continued with her assuring presence, despite the taste of blood. She mumbled something, which Dal frowned at. He tried to focus on what was said, piece it together.

And then it sounded out again, and the figure seemed annoyed at the repeating herself. She faded as the words became clearer.

“I drank the blood of the innocent when I could find none of the guilty.”

Dal felt the blood in his mouth and was unsure if something was amiss. And then, the blood began to pour from his chest.

He looked down and tried to stop the bleeding from a vicious cut, a recent cut. But as pressed upon the wound, the grip of a sword was found within deep in his guts.

Without hesitation, he pulled at it, and felt resistance, as if there was frost in the scabbard.

“I have your back,” Dal said calmly, and pulled at the sword with all his might.

The blade drew from his internals. Black liquid poured from the wound in his chest, but Dal paid it no mind. His eyes were upon the blood stained longsword he gripped.

This is mine.

A dwarven symbol glowed red instead of the typical blue at the crossguard. A muffled roar of slain orcs sounded out around him that ebbed and flowed like the sound of the ocean. Dal scrunched his face up and breathed, but found his breath choked by smoke, by the blood that he found was still pouring upon his head. He looked at the symbol once again.

Dwarven ruins, Dal thought incorrectly. He gripped the blade in the murk of his mind, ready with poised stance, ready to take on whatever enemy. He was upon his feet, and everything was awash in red.

He waited.

The world trembled, and insidiously, six figures began to loom above him. Dal's eyes looked up, his vision now concealed by the typical sight he saw in battle, a helmet visor, contained. He heard his breath, weak, dying already before they brought all manner of orcish weaponry to attack him.

Can't let them attack some passing knights in ambush. Have to strike first.

And then the pain was upon him.

Weapons shot out from the dark, barbed things that tore at him, things that could not be parried.

In the waking world, as the knights carried him to safety, a final thought repeated in Dal's dying mind as blackness rushed to meet him. Dal's last bitter thought as his consciousness drifted and rippled in the vast light of crimson that was his perception was this:

I did all that for nothing, the elf saved himself.

 

[Hector]

Hammers rang out as they fell into a rhythmic work. Sparks flew and white hot billets of metal were pounded into shape. The crude form of axe heads at the end of one young smithy's tongs. Arrowheads being carefully pinged into broad slicing shapes, while another still struck and turned and struck and turned another piece of metal that slowly took the piercing shape of a spearhead.

Still, amidst the asynchronous symphony of so many apprentices at work, Hector was lost in his own craft, tending a flat piece of metal in the licking fires of the great forge that was the heart of the smith's shop. His eyes shielded by the tinted glass spectacles he had earned the privilege of wearing, as the gold-red-orange wash poured out of the wide maw that was the forge's fire chamber. Embers a-crackle and pop and hiss, they sang a song that was but one phrase in an everchanging voice. I hunger for more.

It was a song all of the apprentices were coming to learn. The same song that put a proud smile on Hector's face as he watched his work change color in the flames. The song he listened to, less he feed his work to the flame too.

"Hoy!" Called out Roki's familiar voice.

Hector paid it no mind, gently turning his piece in the fire, watched as the cloros of the endless tongues turned blue and green and white agains the curved plate.

"Hector! Is that Pllocks?" Roki went on.

Hector's brow pinched, and his lips bunched into a pout. "What?" He asked, turning to see whatever it was Roki spoke of.

Pollocks ran through the courtyard, eyes wide and wild, far seeing, but blind to all those so near to him.

"Pollocks!" Roki called out, leaving his station, the young half-orc rushed to his fellow squire.

Hector could see it too. Something serious was afoot. Roki spoke to Pollocks, and Pollocks seemed to gush out a slew of words. Roki, ever-sure, grabbed him by the shoulder, gave the other young man a nod, and turned, waving Hector down.

"Hector! We must grab a litter!"

Hector quenched his tongs, nodding to his fellow, and hurried off.

---

The armored orc was heavy, but the three young men were able to carry him to the infirmary atop the litter. Dried herbs hung about the rafters, and wild plants grew along the windows and in garden beds. There was an asortment of powders and tinctures and vials filled with every color of liquid, and some that seemed to change and glow. Most importantly, the air smelled clean, like tea tree and witch hazel.

"Easy now, easy," Roki guided them as they moved him onto one of the empty beds.

Hector had been channeling a healing spell all the while, and sweat was beading on his brow, running down his face, his eyes squinted, he saw the world through the fuzz of his eye-lashes, as he focused on his breathing and keeping his energies linked to this man, so close to death's door.

All Hector could do was slow the bleeding, and prevent further cantamination. At least, as things were. He was no master healer. Only able to wield those spells that might have him or others around him hold on to life a while longer. Buy time.

It was strange. He was not sure he could rememebr ever casting this magic on another person. Maybe once after a training accident where Winry had gotten cracked across the arm. But that was only bruising. His magic worked to prevent swelling. This? This was draining. Like trying to build a dam out of the earth after a hard rain.

You only have to slow the bleeding, Hector.

Like a ripple of water across dark pond, came a Knight Sworn of Dusk. "You've done well, young ones," she said to the squires. She wasted no time in gathering her mana, her voice low and melodic as words most ancient flowed in songlike string. Gold light emenated around her hands, and she reached out to place them over the big warrior's wounds.

"Hector," Roki called out, "Hey!" the half orc jostled his companion. "Syr Josai will handle this, don't worry,"

"Your duty is not done yet, wash yourselves, I will need help getting him out of his armor, whilst I keep his wounds from worsening," Her voice was strained, but it never broke its calm and placid tone.

Roki nodded to Hector, who seemed to have come through, and then he looked to Pollocks. "Well, you heard the Syr, let's get to it," the squires made themeselves ready.

---

MrTophat Syr Galvanhad

 

[Dal]

The healing magic wreathed around Dal's wounds, and with it, his thoughts returned into sharp focus. His eyes opened with heavy tremors of shock, his pupils narrow, as if blinded by horrendous light. His jaw parted as if he wished to speak, but his sensations and faculties faded in and out.

Kiros, did you...did you bring down the light again?

No, wrong battle. That was a time ago. I wouldn't be at death's door, vulnerable, if you were around Kiros. Even if you called me an idiot. Or was a dullard.

Forget that nostalgia.

Come on. Think. Survive. Get up.

But the soldier could not summon full command of his frame yet, all that was offered were his fingers, now clenched and pawing around in the mist of his awareness, his blood now contained from wicked serrations foul play. His mind forgot the journey, only the cause of his condition. His jaw clenched in anger, and blood greeted his tongue, rewarding his sense of wrath with an appreciation of his own mortality, the way of all flesh.

The memory of being felled in battle stabbed him and demanded a retort, the taste of blood in his mouth, the heaviness of his body, the muffled talk above him and the changing of his vision from darkness to light, the movement of his armour away from his person, it all fuelled his conclusions which he struggled to respond to.

I'm being fed upon, as if I were carrion. Scavengers. Slavers? Beasts that...that find the weak, the vulnerable, the defeated...

Dal had seen in his time the feasting of birds upon the dying in many a siege and pitched battle, the aftermath and the prelude to the next conflict. Not all commanders gave respite to the dying. Not all were so lucky to be tended to, to be left dying, wounded, in agonising moments as the end was foretold but not delivered until the torture of languishing in the open, for the beasts, for those who pursued the spoils of war, for those who would put down a sign of suffering with a coup de grace.

I won't let you.

I won't let you!

His hand reached for a rondel that was not there, and his hand fell limp as he felt frustration at not being able to fend himself from the carrion. Yet neither wolf nor vulture brought with them the tingle of warmth that played over his wounds, and his mind began to calm, despite his lack of rondel to fend off whoever may be feasting upon his armour.

He felt the armour depart from him in heavy movements, trained hands that were adept to removing the armour, yet, Dal noticed it was not a violent wrenching of his second skin. It was diligent, mindful, respectful of the quality of the armour, even if it had been rended open in places.

The soothing sensation of magic brought him some comfort. It gave him enough respite to think that he was not under assault from those who would do him harm, and some measure of clarity now greeted him as colour began to swim into his vision as he stared up, his neck refusing to obey him as his fingers trembled.

I made it. I made it to the knights.

God of death, let me kill those who rendered me so low.

God of death, let me not be preyed upon by the honourable, let them be true, let them do their work of mercy, so that I might, so that I might...

Dal felt the chill of death abate, yet he felt immobile. He contorted his lips into a sneer at his own condition and breathed out a few words, his throat was dry, his lips were chapped, and his eyes struggled to focus as his pupils dilated and contracted in pulses of pain.

“There's...an ambush...out there...”

His voice lacked the savagery, the righteous indignation he wished it to command. In his heart was violence and burning of homesteads. In his mind was a play by play of the contest he had lost against the band who had brought him such injury. Yet his voice was soft, well spoken, yet anyone could hear the bitterness in his voice, as if he was giving a report on his own failure instead of a desperate warning to the knights.

He swallowed, and tasted the familiar copper. He gave a small chuckle as he felt his armour being peeled away from him. He gazed at the ceiling and inhaled in a shuddering breath that granted him a dulled pain. Dal smelled the freshness of the air and knew this was the sign of a decent apothecary.

“Water,” Dal wheezed and gritted his teeth. He could feel himself slipping again and he knew that remaining hydrated was vital in any form of survival, let alone recovery. His own wineskin had been sliced open by his malefactors. Another possession ruined by full blooded orcs. Another slight to avenge.

Syr Galvanhad Hector

 

[Hector]

It was hard work. Holding the man down. Working his straps and buckles free. Delicate work. to pry and wiggle and move those pieces so twisted and bent and stabbed in. It took all the concentration he could muster. They could muster. All the while Syr Josai went on, pouring what magic she could. The golden light of life. Stemmed the bleeding, kept the the flesh strong as the jagged metal teeth from the rent plate were pulled out with squelches and sucks from the wound.

It was ugly work.

"Hold him down, don't let him move too much!" Syr Josai said, voice hot.

They had managed to work the front plate of the warrior's Cuirass free. Even as he grumbled and shouted and threatened to toss, to turn and tear more of his own flesh away. But the rage left him. The instinct to survive, to fight whatever nightmares chased him in the land between the waking, the sleeping, and the dead seemed to give way. Surrender. Rest.

He spoke of an ambush.

"Keep him speaking, young squires, don't let him drift into sleep if it can be helped," Syr Josai warned. "Hector," Her voice rang with command.

"Syr?" The squire replied, as Roki asked the man to stay with him, asked him to tell him of the ambush. Told him he would be ok.

"Hector," Josai repeated, and he was glad she did, for his mind was being pulled between all those things that were happening. "Cant of life, slow the bleeding, I will fetch my potions and needle," she nodded to the squire. Hector nodded in return. "On three,"

Hector closed his eyes, and let his can't flow from his lips.

"One,"

Oh ye spirit of life, of ye giver of growth
let my breath carry thy will
let my hand guide that strength most true,
to endure, to go on,

"Two,"

while the lands around me may be barren
while the rivers may run dry,
let your gift go on, so that I may hold.
but for a moment more

"Three!"

Again the young squire's hands glowed with the soft golden light, and he felt the flow of the man, his vitality in red, pumping and pumping all through his limbs, circulating across countless streams of tract.

No. He heard Josai's voice in his mind. Do not get lost in the vastness of a body. Focus, Hector, on the wound. See it with your eyes, think of that very spot upon your own being. See it in your mind. There, guide the magic there, Hector.

Hector's breath grew labored, sweat bead down his face and his lips were set into a line, and his brow was furrowed with the weight of his effort. He looked to the wound. Felt the flow of life. Of blood. Thought of roots. Thought of tangles. Of life of another form. He focused. Though of his own hurts. His own cuts. How much easier it was to stop his own bleeding. Feel his own flow. Now. He fed more of his energy into this man, felt the bleeding slow. Stop. If only for a moment.

"Good, Hector," Josai returned, and applied a salve upon the wound. Sticky and oil, it smelled of pine and tea-tree. A scent that stung the eye and burned the nostrils. Without a word she stuck her hand into the wound, probed with her fingers. "Hold your spell, Hector," she commanded, her eyes shut. And the tattoos about her face glowed with a pale blue light. The light of Loch. "I've sealed the internal wounds," she said, and when she pulled her hand from inside there was a feint cold mist. "I will begin stitching the wound shut, can you hold on?"

Wordlessly, Hector nodded. It was easier now that she had done... whatever it was she had done.

Josai revealed needle and thread, and slowly, carefully, stitched the wound shut.

 

[Dal]

When was the last time I removed my armour? That I wasn't on the path to another job? Another task?

The armour was shed and memories armoured him in it's stead. The pain that rose was mitigated by a clenched jaw that rotated from time to time, and his face carried a look that was saw the traces of what was instead of what is. The memories punctuated through the mist of his condition.

Months ago. After the siege. I sealed the door to my room. Barricaded it with a chest of drawers. Took off my armour and breathed deep without the protection.

Dal took a deep breath and it came in shudders. Purses full of coin, tied together on a cord that were revealed as the breastplate was removed, made tiny chimes as his breath modulated. It was like some tribal set of teeth on a necklace that the mercenary wore. Wages hard earned. A lifetime's perhaps. They gave out small tones of their presence. Dal felt exposed in such a state.

He gave out a small guttural complaint and looked to those who attended him. He didn't indulge in conversation yet. Even as he was asked about the ambush.

First time I've been injured so badly. First time I put my neck out so boldly. There's a lesson in this. Next time you might not have-

He shook his head as if shirking his duty to learn, instead favouring his duty to his sense of professionalism as he heard the dulled questions that he knew were designed to keep him awake, and the original impulse that had made him engage with those who had brought him down so low rose again. Solidarity to fellow warriors.

His eyes kept to the distance, as if he thought to stare down his memories to obey his purpose. He spoke as if giving a field report, dry and monotone.

“Six of them. Orcs. Well equipped. Lurking...lurking in the woods about...an hour away. Well armed and they knew how to move. I engaged them. Thought I'd do you lot a favour in preventing a massacre on a patrol. That's what I thought. But...it seems you're doing me the favour now.”

His eyes narrowed and blinked. Some colour entered his voice.

“I can pay. For all this. This treatment.”

And then the counting began, the magic flowing, and Dal became quiet as he felt he did not want to disturb the flow of conversation with whatever deity, power or skill served to save him further.

This isn't like Gil's magic. That elf used his God to restore me of exhaustion. Stole a day's well felt battle from my muscles, as if claiming the sensation for his own. This is different. This is...

Dal watched the exertion upon Hector's face and saw a look that he felt he recognised. It seemed to Dal in that moment as if Hector was like someone who stood at the walls of a siege, crossbow in hand, sweat coming from their brow as they wound the drawstring back, their eyes set to the task and what they must do.

Magic. Perhaps there is some common ground between the martial mindset and this. This...miracle.

Dal gritted his teeth despite the soothing sensation that pulsed and examined him at the thought.

Miracle. This is but an art. Perhaps knightly. Beyond me in scope.

Ah, the needle. That I understand.

Dal nodded at the needle work and did not flinch at it's fluid movements. Instead, he bore it as a common pain, like the ache of a muscle when pressed beyond it's cause, each bite heralding his own recovery. The abatement of his approaching death. The horseman that eternally rode behind all soldiers, heralding the end, chasing, pursuing, until finally-

“So,” Dal said dryly, “You knights,” he said and exhaled a shallow breath through his nose as if the punctuate whatever feelings he had about them. “Tell me about who I owe. Who attends me as if...”

His voice became less sharp as unconsciousness threatened to claim itself. He clenched his hand, as if fighting against the drubbing of sleep's embrace. He sharpened his tongue as if trying to outrun that horseman by virtue of parley.

The God of Death loves to claim the heavy eyed.

He shook his head.

Isn't there something you've forgotten?

“I'm Dal. Sellsword.”

He breathed in slowly to prevent his money from jangling so loudly and the stitches from being a scene of malpractice.

“Who are you lot? Never...never seen knights use magic like...like this. I'm trying not to rest. Job's not done. Tell me about yourselves. Before I pass out from hearing myself drone on.”

And in the debt of the honourable. Better keep them from knowing how many I've felled of their breed in my time.

Syr Galvanhad Hector

 

[Syr Galvanhad]

While the Squires had taken Dal to tend his wounds, Galvanhad had led a dozen Knights to search for whoever attacked their newest patient. Bolstered by members of the Watch, the attackers had fled like cowards. It appeared there would be no reasoning, no understanding.

Orcs in the Vale didn't normally attack passerbys, not so close to the Monastery, especially since the Knights had gotten peace to settle amongst many. It had been some time since the last war in the Vale.

Returning unsuccessfully, Galvanhad would make his way to the infirmary, Ugluk and the others now keeping a watch. Patrols would be formed to ensure this didn't happen again. Once he entered the chamber, he would come to a stop beside young Hector and Roki as he listened to the anguished ramblings of the orc on the table.

"Sell-sword Dal, you may call me Syr Galvanhad. It was Squires Roki, Hector, and Pollocks who saw you to safety." Now came the hardest part, vetting the injured Orc and seeing if he was worth their effort and not a threat to Astenvale.. or undoing all the work done to him and finishing what the other Orcs started. "Tell me, what brought you to the Vale?" He would remove a gauntlet and tuck it into his belt, the bare large hand resting on Dal's forehead. "The truth. We will not suffer lies in this Monastery."

Dal Hector

 

[Hector]

Roki would stare wide eyed at the much larger warrior. "P-pay?" That, that did not seem necessary. He was, he was someone in need. He shook the thought away. "Ser, we are the Knights of Anathaeum, your life is all the payment we seek,"

But the man carried on, weakly, he strung words together, as if the very act was all he could do to defy that great spirit that came to collect them all. Roki, was not sure why, but as Hector and Syr Josai worked, he held the big mans hand, as if to let him know that he was not truly alone.

Lost in all that occurred, neither Roki nor Hector had noticed the venerable Master at Arms enter the room. Hector, still at work to ceasing the loss of blood, and feeding a steady stream of magic into the wounded Dal, tensed up some, nearly lost his concentration as Syr Galvanhad, usually so warm and welcoming, splashed cold reality across the room. Sought truth, and warded off lies.

He saw this man as a threat, the squires soon realized. ​

As Syr Josai worked the last stitches into Dal's flesh, she would clear her throat at Syr Galvanhad's actions. "Pursuant Galvanhad, Syr, " she began, placing the metal tool which worked the bloody threads through the skin of her patient in a small wash pan. Her hands were covered in gore.

"While all appreciate the importance of your questions, you have not properly sanitized, and the stink of the field is on you," she motioned with her head over her shoulders. "Wash basin and soap are over there. You would not risk infecting the wounds of your precious trainees, would you? A wounded stranger should be no different," She huffed, and looked at her elder with a calm, yet solid confidence. She was like a stone, jutting proudly from the surface of a glacial lake. "He is no risk to us as he is now, and even Pollocks could put him down if he dared pose threat," she bowed her head, deeply with respect. "Please Syr," she walked to the basin herself, and wasted no time in washing her hands.

"Hector," she called back. "We will switch in a moment, keep your focus,"

Syr Galvanhad Dal ​

 

[Dal]

Dal received the news that payment was not required with some small measure of discomfort.

These are a charitable lot. Which meant that they might take payment in some other form, if not money, than what? Servitude? Or are they really that concerned with a sellsword on their door.

Dal's mercenary mind was not convinced.

Knights of Anathaeum. Never heard of you.

But then I never heard of Heike's order before she told me. None of these lot are wearing gold armour. Must be a poorer organisation. Or one with less vanity.

Before Dal could argue with himself as to why his old comrade Herr Heike wore golden armour that marked her as a champion, the knight pursuiant had entered and addressed him.

So, it's formalities. Reasonable. But what's this hand on my head business. Never seen that manoeuvrer before.

He remained silent and kept his gaze with this Syr who introduced himself.

These questions can't wait for hygiene.

“It's alright,” Dal stated, as if he wanted to get this side of the interrogation over and done with. As if he respected the position he was placing the people in charge with. Of keeping a stranger in their midst. Of the need to assure their own safety.

“Syr Galvanhad,” Dal began, respect to the station in his voice as he refused to flinch or shirk the placement of the hand upon his forehead. The man who asked Dal questions about himself commanded a level of authority and self respect that all knights Dal had encountered mustered about themselves like a heavy shroud, and his first instinct was to sit up to better address him. But Dal thought better of it. He thought that if he might move away from the hand, it might be read as him squirming. So stillness pervaded.

The sellsword was used to the stern look of a superior in his time in regiments, but this was a far more stern thing. It was quite clear who was in control here.

Submit and be known Dal. Just like inspection day.

He met the gaze of this knight without qualm or fear.

An honest account was doled out as he was performing inventory for a quartermaster. He made sure to make his words well understood, a report that he provided without slurring his wounds from fatigue or mistake. The half-orc may have been laid low, but he had an assurance as to his own purpose, and the value of his actions to himself and himself alone. That, and he took some pride in not resembling the pure blooded orcs in the manner of their speech.

Dal began to elucidate cleanly.

“I needed some space from my last engagement in Belgrath. Served with a knight named Heike. Needed some distance from it.”

From adventuring. From taking on charity cases for friends.

“It was a bitter affair. But a successful mission. And I didn't feel like taking on contracts with the dwarves, so I travelled away from Belgrath. Felt I shed enough blight orc blood. Travelled for a while. Spent some of my money. Trained as best I could alone.”

Get to the point, this man is waiting for proper answers.

“During my time training and putting some distance between me and that siege, I heard from a travelling merchant that there was a mercenary company that I could perhaps join. Told me that it was travelling some distance from this, Vale. Not a big operation, but one that might appreciate, and pay, for my services. Thought it was worth the chance.”

He exhaled loudly.

“But that turned out to be false. By the time I thought that perhaps my information was wrong, or this mercenary band had changed course, I was already in this territory. Your territory. If this band are in the area, they escape me. So. I found myself in the position of a vagabond instead of a sellsword, as happens from time to time in the pursuit of contracts.”

Found yourself to be an adventurer, roaming around with a career's worth of money and time to think as to what to do with it.

Was that so bad? To find yourself in the position of adventurer?

Yes, Dal thought.

“Being a sellsword is like being a prospector Syr. Sometimes there's gold. Sometimes there's not. That's the risk you run with the profession I'm in,” Dal explained.

Not that you might understand that reality, knight.

“Thought I might train seeing as I was here. Perhaps hire a master of the sword, or perhaps lance. It's been a while since I had the coin to do so.”

The purses around Dal's neck could have been used to retire in some small comfort. But Dal had often scoffed at the thought of it.

“But then, the orcs. I hope that answers your question well enough, Syr. Why I'm here.”

Dal tone was respectful, yet not grovelling. He held a forbearance and a distance that was not so easily dissolved. Especially when a hand was upon his head as if checking for fever.

Checking for lies, Dal suspected without a change in his heart rate. He had uttered no falsehood. He had respected this knight's want for the truth well enough. Still, such an action spoke to Dal of the nature of these knights more than the answer to his previous question could.

Syr Galvanhad Hector

 

[Syr Galvanhad]

At Syr Josai's words, his head tilted towards the basin, but only briefly. "Pollocks, the basin." His tone to the squire were gentle. As Dal spoke up, Galvanhad would look back at Josai. "Security for this Monastery supersedes all. Even a skewered boar can find the strength to gore a man." he would remind her gently. The border of death itself was where one found their true strength.

As if he could read minds or sense the will to sit up, after all, the mark of a career soldier were not lost on the Knight. "At ease, son. Movement will undo their efforts." Whether Dal took his words to heart or found his own will to not move, he wasn't sure.

But the Sell-sword spoke of his tale, spoke of Belgrath, and most importantly, spoke the truth. Much like how Galvanhad could sense corruption, he had gained the ability to sense lies, darkness, something he needed to learn over a past failing. That he took contracts for Dwarves meant that he had at least fought on the side of good at Belgrath, whether it was for coin or not, he played a part in why that city stood.

When he was done speaking the hand would lift from his forehead, just as Pollocks approached with the basin. He removed his other glove and dipped his hands into the bowl, then took the soap and scrubbed the road from his hands. Pollocks offered a towel and he would take it on exchange, and dry his hands. "Thank you, Pollocks."

His hardened gaze would shift back to Dal, though soften some. "So a man with no purpose other than coin has found himself within the Vale.. Not the first time we have heard that story, nor will it be the last. Welcome, Dal, to where purpose finds all." There would be no judgement in his voice as he spoke, such was not his way. His hands would clasp behind his back as he walked from the head of the slab to the base. "One last question, answer this and you will find comfort in your recovery here."

He briefly glanced at Josai. "What drove the Orcs to attack you? Such attacks are rare this deep in the Vale." He would have to send word to the Clans, see if any of their young were trying to earn their tusks.

Dal Hector

 

[Hector]

Syr Josai nodded with mild satisfaction at the Pursuant's compromise. And dried off her own hands as Pollocks moved the basin.

Whilst their mentor acted, calmly, coolly, firm and with measure. The three squires looked on, reverence deep in the dark of their eyes. Each tall and at attention. Ready to act at a mere utterence. Or, at least that is what they told themselves in their heads. Who knew what would happen if Syr Galvanahad called them forth to act.

Still, they watched, and absorbed the interaction.

At the last question, they all slowly turned their eyes on Dal.

Syr Josai, nodded again, her eyes closed, as she too listened to the man respond.

In the distance, birds sang, and the sound of testing blades clanked and bashed. A single crow cawed. Countless bugs hummed. Life went on.

 

[Dal]

Dal kept Syr Galvanhad's gaze. He spoke without hint of contrition or guilt, yet with exceptional care.

"They didn't," Dal rumbled, "The band were discussing ambush when I happened upon them. I know their lot. Know what they're capable of. Their methods. Their clan is from far off, they're nothing but splintered predators now. They lay down traps and pounce from treeline. Torture for the amusement of it. Their creed states, 'Bring low the sworn'."

The motto was spoken in the harsh orcish language. Dal looked as if he hated uttering the words. Or was speaking old words of the enemy.

Words of his childhood. Words that he used to utter himself before he broke away.

"Tried to help your lot. Got cut down instead. Thought of one of my old comrades being felled by them. Didn't find the thought sat well with me. So I engaged."

He still kept the knight pursuant's gaze and felt the look of the others.

And there it is.

Syr Galvanhad Hector

 

[Syr Galvanhad]

"Bring low the sworn." Galvanhad mused in the common tongue, translating the orcish for those who didn't know it. "Knight-hunters. Lost souls no doubt driven onto their path by hatred." There would be a flash of pity in his eyes as he spoke of the orcs.

His hands would shift from the small or his back as his arms crossed in thought. "You attacked with hatred, malice, intent is a fickle mistress. She can either embolden you to great deeds, or see you cut down in haste. Vengeance automatically overrules the 'aid' for us. We are of the Vale and she protects her own."

His gaze flitted to the Squires. "Boys keep tending to his wounds. Pollocks, see to finding him a room in the East Wing." His gaze shifted back to Dal. "You may recover here until you are ready, at that time, others may wish to hear of your attack. I urge you to give the events much thought. I also urge you to bare your soul of ill intent whilst here, son. Thoughts of Vengeance will only undo the healing here."

Pollocks would rush off at the Pursuants word, thankful he didn't have to tend any more injuries.

"Now then, any questions before I leave you to Josai's care?"

Dal Hector

 

[Dal]

“None. Made yourself clear, Syr,” Dal replied curtly and let the criticism of his intent and the lack of appreciation for his efforts feed his own reticence.

Thought of vengeance will ruin the healing? Magic that tells me how to think. That's one of way of making people change their tune. Sinister.

Dal chambered his plans and ushered his violent thoughts to sleep for now, which included questions on how to get equipment. They would return in time, remembered and uncovered as a weapon buried in the soil. Dal took the warning seriously, but merely sheathed the weapon that was his grudge and discarded all notion of doing the knight's a favour. There would be no conversion entire today.

Healing was the task before him, and he settled his shoulders into the bed and found nothing but unease. He felt like a damned fool for trying to prevent an ambush to these knights of Athenaeum. And he felt the urge to feed the thoughts of revenge to keep himself going but resisted it as one might resist the want to scratch a healing wound.

Instead, his eyes looked to those who were around him, bearing them a far more generous attitude than this Syr Galvanhad.

Sanctimonious. Think that's the word for it.

Dal couldn't decide if he would have been better off had he needed to pay for the treatment and hospitality. He allowed this to be the judgement of the day as he observed those around him, wakefulness given in small measure to him for virtue of the healing he had received.

Syr Galvanhad Hector Lysanthir of Arapat

 

[Lysanthir of Arapat]

Word bounded through Astenvale as a round stone did when struck off in a tiled bath house. Word of an injured warrior at their doorstep. Syr Meepo had already begun writing the tale, based on the howling that echoed about.

Lysanthir had been intently honing what he playfully referred to as A Toast To Flame on one of the upper retaining walls, when Pollocks ran in from the gate, frantic. The very next thing he knew, Hector, Roki, and Pollocks were swiftly bringing the Half-Orc to the infirmary on a litter.

Much as he wanted to, he had no intention of butting in and making himself an obstacle, between the more proficient knights and healers handling it, but as it was, he still had his moments.

And that moment, well... He'd tripped- arms first -into a patch of wiry sap thicket.

He couldn't even think to muster anger. Between the burning, inflamed whelts on his arms and hands, and the plant having taken just as much undesired abuse from the fall as he had, all he could do was laugh at himself, extend a breath of apology to the thicket, and make his way down to the infirmary.

Could he deal with it himself, and let them focus fully on the savaged Half-Orc? Probably. But it had been a few weeks since he had last spoken to Syr Josai or Syr Ars, and it can't be doubted that the best salves and washes are in the infirmary. Satiating his curiosity was simply a perk.

He watches Pollocks run from the building and cross the courtyard, ever dramatic.

Lysanthir approaches, and pauses at the ajar door with curled fingers, before thinking better of knocking with his knuckles. Instead, he inclines his head to tap the door with a horn, announcing his presence before nudging in with his hip.

"Dear Syrs, I've found myself in a bit of a sticky situation."

He holds his arms up like a scrubbed-in surgeon, sheepish grin on his face. Appreciates the antiseptic, herbal smell of the air as he walks back, towards the group gathered about the warrior.

He offers a nod to each of them in turn, expression shifting to good-natured amusement.

"Syr Galvanhad, Syr Josai, Hector and Roki. Poor Pollocks looked a bit queasy, I'm surprised he was able to run so straight."

He lightly twists his wrists, palms away, cringing, and holds his hands higher. Squeezing past to get closer to a table stacked with jars and bottles of liquid, he eyes for a soothing rinse, before taking a more direct look at Dal.

"Hail, syr."

---

Hector Dal Syr Galvanhad

 

[Dal]

There had been many a campfire that Dal had sought comfort from in between a hard day's fighting or marching. Huddled for warmth, staring at the rising embers in the luxury of not having to maintain light discipline, Dal would listen to those who thought themselves capable as storytellers, skalds or bards during those times with an air for tolerance. Yet despite even the most proficient telling, he possessed no stomach for the more outlandish stories, the tales of the people of magic, the denizens of the wild. Dal's ears were sharp to the accounts of battles, of formations, of briefings of what foe might meet them once campfire was extinguished. He considered in this moment that perhaps his past comrades had possessed some wisdom in paying attention to such fancier accounts seeing as he was face to face now with one such fable.

He wondered if this one too had sought refuge from the wilds as he had done. The mercenary didn't consider that this one held rank around here.

"I'm just Dal,"Dal said, his tone of quiet disbelief.

He couldn't help but keep his attentions on the satyr. After a small time he realised that there was familiarity between him and the rest.

Dal tentatively asked, "You hold rank? Someone of your...stature?"

 

[Lysanthir of Arapat]

Lysanthir tilts his head, just slightly, and gives Dal a genial half-smile at his disbelief.

"Well met, just Dal. Lysanthir of Arapat. I'd clasp your wrist..."

Lysanthir gestures with his wounded arms and outright grins, then moves his focus to treating them. Rinses carefully and methodically at Josai's instruction, rubs it in for good measure. Sighs with relief.

Feels Dal's keen, drowsy attention on him, sees him from the corner of his eye as the Half-Orc watches, settles.

I'd feel akin to a curiosity, if it weren't for your weeping wounds and open eyes.

"You hold rank? Someone of your...stature?"

Lysanthir fully faces Dal, hands since relaxed, a paler shade of red, and nods. Inquisitive of the man's precise connotation, and proud of his rank with none of the hubris.

"Indeed, I am Knight of Anathaeum, if that is your meaning."

He gives a glance to Syr Galvanhad, before inclining his head towards Dal. The desecrated armour on the floor glints through the grime, and for a moment, the etching seems familiar.

"I may not be Master-At-Arms, champion, but I'm no lesser without a title."

---

Dal

 

[Dal]

Claims he doesn't have a title, yet holds position as a knight. Curious. Is this actual, real humility? Or just dull headedness of what he is in comparison to the rest of us soldiers, us warriors of fortune?

“Champion," Dal said with a wry smile as he resisted a dark chuckle to himself at being called such a thing, "Syr Knight,” Dal said, reminding his company of the title he carried for virtue of his belonging to the order, “maybe if I hadn't taken the role of champion for pay so many times I might not have believed in my own track record, as if it were a shield...as if it weren't blinders to make a horse more likely to charge into danger,” Dal said in reflection, his conversation revealing his own discovery to what might have gone wrong for him strategically.

Dal gritted his teeth slowly at his own admission.

“What repute I've earned gets my foot in the door for more danger for better pay, if I'm that lucky to be known. Your title, Syr, gets you all manner of respect, courtesy, safety and respect, on and off the field,” Dal said, years of division between his class of warrior and the nobility and prestige that belonging to a knightly order provided informing his response.

Lysanthir of Arapat

 

[Syr Galvanhad]

At the satyr's entry, Galvanhad would shoot the young man a smile. "Lys, your arms have seen better days, son." He knew full well Josai would tend to Lysanthirs needs, she was wholly capable in that regard.

The injured Orc was more than just that, he was a being bound by ignorance, ignorance revealed at his initial remark to Lysanthir. One of Lysanthir's stature? The very words would make the Master-At-Arms bristle, and in his youth he may have ended a life there in defense of one of his own.

Lysanthir would be the first to respond, perhaps not understanding the weight of Dal's words, or rather hoping for an alternative. But a look from him would soothe the hidden rage, so that when he spoke, his tone was level.

"Titles are merely that, just words meant to give credence to ones actions. The danger of them, is that we risk losing ourself to the title, believe in the story." He would take the basin from Lysanthir and pass it off to Roki, who changed the waters. "The rank of Knight within this hallowed hall isn't bound to nobility. It isn't inherited due to ones station, its earned through ones deeds. Satyrs, Orcs, Kobolds, Gnolls, Lycanthropes, and even Vampires have earned the title here. All with a purpose to protect the Vale. Our Order isn't bound to wealth, just right in action." Dal clearly had a limited knowledge of Knightly Orders. "We here, live a life of service to each other, the people of Astenvale, and the whole of the Vale."

Lysanthir of Arapat Josai Dal Hector

 

[Josai]

Josai smiled a soft smile, as Syr Lysanthir was, well, every bit himself from the little she had come to know of the Satyr Knight. Calm and quiet in one moment, ready to jump the next. As perplexing and welcome as warm spring rain. Though she would be hard pressed to ever voice the thought.

Syr Galvanhad cut in to shed his light upon the matter of titles and the nature of knighthood. The Pursuant of Life was wizened in the ways of the order, had raised many of them up, and was one of Josai's own mentors in the ways of healing and life weaving. Though, she would like tell him over a cup of tea, his old and storied roots came with all that old roots implied. A life so sturdy in its soil that few could move it. A force so grounded that its very presence acted as home and shelter to many.

But to some. It blocked out the very light that would see them grow beside it, if only given a chance.

She but cut between the men, like a well placed knife aiming to prune a stray branch upon a tree. "Syr Lysanthir," she began once the old Master-At-Arms passed on his acorn of wisdom. "If you could focus your efforts in aiding the wounded's body in its recovery, that would be most appreciated," she motioned toward the wounds with sharp and pointed flicks of the wrist. "You've done well in our practice sessions, the concept is the same, stimulate the body's natural healing processes by imbuing your own stream of life into the wounded. Envision the body if you can, imagine the currents of blood which bring life across the whole being with each pump of he heart," she closed her own eyes and let out her hands over the patient, demonstrating.

The golden glow of life's energy rippled and ebbed about her palms as she calmly took in and let out her breath in even measure. "I will start the flow, and you will take over once the current is strengthened," she felt the surge of each pulse. Felt her own energies pour into each push and pull of the warrior's strong heart.

She had seen the rivers and streams and tributaries, like so many endless roots and branches, through the Magic Eye that she needn't keep it active for such acts. "Tell me, Wounded Dal," she waited for Lysanthir a moment. "Is being run out of hamlets and towns after healing the sick and dying, part of the respect most earn with the title of Syr?" she smirked, and stepped back once Lysanthir had taken over the flow of healing. She opened her eyes, and looked down at the wounded warrior. "How about being stoned as the superstitious, ignorant, and politically minded call you witch, or heretic?" Her gaze was as hard and cold as a river stone. "For we have lost many a Sworn brother and sister to such courtesies far from our field."

Her attention returned to Lysanthir, watching his work for a long moment. "Very good, Syr Lysanthir, read the current, and let it guide your own energies,"

Dal would like feel a sense of invigoration. Pain numbed. Some energies returning. The healing was not so dramatic that the very flesh would stitch itself together then and there, for such feats were reserved pnly in the most dire of straits, and for now at least, Death's shadow had been convinced to roam further from the healing hut.

"Hector," she cut. "See to it Wounded Dal's armor is taken to the smithy, to be washed at the very least."

Hector nodded and carried off the bloodied armor.

Lysanthir of Arapat Dal Syr Galvanhad

 

[Dal]

Dal listened and mulled over the sentiment that Syr Galvanhad issued. Before he could reply, Josai made her questions known. He smiled at them, at the directness of it, on how it was designed to create sympathy for them and their duties. This was an attitude he could appreciate and did not bristle at the prospect of it, but welcomed it, as he might a good sparring partner's ingenuity with a blade.

After a short time he replied quietly in a matter of fact manner that he was careful not to have sound like petulance. He wasn't trying to argue, just state things as he saw them.

“Titles can make your opinion worth more and to be heard clearer in war council. Titles can make you more likely to be able to requisition a horse for you and your retinue. Titles can ensure you don't get placed in the front line with the common footsoldier digging latrines. Titles can make sure your rations aren't spoiled. It can boost your chances of survival in war. Having one has advantages. But...as you say, carrying a title carries it's own dangers. Of expectations.”

Dal cleared his throat and interlocked his fingers. He felt the throb of healing about his body as the magic worked itself through him.

“Thank you for the attentions,” Dal said as the magic influenced his healing, and continued with his line of thought. “Just stating what I've seen from the other side. But then I've served with mixed companies in odd circumstances. Mercenary groups, sieges, assaults, expeditions. Don't get me wrong, I respect the fact that not all soldiers are of the same pedigree, and knights are generally better trained, better armed and better lead than most folk.”

He began to speak again, realising that he hadn't quite responded to the questions the healer asked.

“Deadly lot you are in the right hands,” he began, and sighed and shook his head as he remembered some of his encounters in the past. “But I've also dealt with some fool knights in my time, and most of the cause of the issue was from the nobility aspect of things. Mounted divisions that treated it more as sport and hunting than warfare. Knights who would treat the common soldier as all too expendable. People in positions of authority who had no mind for tactics, or the mindfulness for the entire war effort. Winning battles for personal glory that lost us the ability to continue in war, causing dispersals of the company. So it's...heartening to hear that you're different in that. And accepting all manner of stock. I've been turned down from plenty of jobs because of my heritage. It's become part of the job description of a sellsword to deal with the paymaster's prejudice. Maybe I'm too used to that. It's why I asked about Syr Lysanthir of Arapat there. It's new to me this level of...meritocracy. Think that's the word. Knights are meant to be the elite. You have your duty to attend, despite the thankfulness of those who might receive it, you carry it out anyway. ”

Dal heard his own words and gave a small hum of thought at the implication of it for his own circumstance, finding common ground in answers the line of questioning Josai asked.

Dal had to resist asking about the vampires. He'd been so generous with his acceptance of Heike's past so he felt he'd be a hypocrite to question a vampiric knight's purpose in defending a territory instead of terrorising it.

He wondered if his armour was beyond saving. The sellsword knew that he would have to buy a new assortment of weapons, but buying a new suit of armour, that would be expensive. He would ask about it later, once he was better recovered.

Lysanthir of Arapat Josai Syr Galvanhad

 

[Lysanthir of Arapat]

Dal's critical smile and dark tone is informative to Lysanthir, solidifying into a tiny prickle in his mind.

Funny, you're curious about my stature, when you seem to doubt your own.

"Syr Knight," he says, pointed.

Lysanthir nods. He cuts his amusement off at the head, disallowing it to shine through fully on his face. He hadn't expected to strike a nerve in the man.

You speak a lot, friend.

“maybe if I hadn't taken the role of champion for pay so many times I might not have believed in my own track record, as if it were a shield...as if it weren't blinders to make a horse more likely to charge into danger,”

The shift in angle to his voice, followed by the near-audible grind of his teeth, tethers Lysanthir to the infirmary, wanting to see where he's headed. He keeps his attentions on Dal as he seeks out a stool, shifting it closer so that he may sit down a conversational distance from the man's bed.

"Nothing is truly certain." He says, voice pitched low, ever affable. Absently, he soothes at his blistered arms. The tingling abates.

Dal continues, “What repute I've earned gets my foot in the door for more danger for better pay, if I'm that lucky to be known. Your title, Syr, gets you all manner of respect, courtesy, safety and respect, on and off the field.”

Another shift, another nerve struck, this time on Lysanthir's side. He'd laugh if he hadn't known. Syr Galvanahad speaks instead, while he mulls over what he'd say, voices around him fading to the background as he stares at Dal with pure sobriety.

"Titles are merely that, just words meant to give credence to ones actions. The danger of them, is that we risk losing ourself to the title, believe in the story. The rank of Knight within this hallowed hall isn't bound to nobility. It isn't inherited due to ones station, its earned through ones deeds-"

He knew well what it was like to live on the road, tied to nothing but your past, with the hope that it would be enough. The blade slung low at your hip and the sun in your eyes, scrubbing blood from your boots and gauntlets. Even still, life had been comparatively fair to Lysanthir. His life before the road wasn't sordid. He bore fewer scars than some. Kept to the lighter sides of his own story. Hadn't gone into battle with ten one-hundred-score of nameless helmets on the horizon.

It was why he hadn't joined a group, back then. The more ambitious road warriors he had met didn't want to settle problems, they wanted to group up and play chess with their swords in hand. Wanted to kill for pleasure.

He didn't care for battle, and he didn't care for killing, avoided it if possible. Did only what was required per situation.

So he specialized in small skirmishes, marauders, poachers. Criminals and malicious deserters. Every fight of his, shed of blood and clash of metal, was personal. It wasn't a game. It wasn't for prestige, or for getting off. It was for what he considered the right thing to do. Some would call that noble, but Lysanthir called it not being a prick.

And then he had met Helena and Lilian. Watched their prowess and their auras compliment each other, fought by their sides to stop the bloodshed of a noble forest creature, saw what groups could do if they had intentions other than bloodlust. He could practically feel it. Following them to Astenvale was one of the best decisions he had made on the road. He couldn't thank them enough, and he was grateful for the quick acceptance that the Knights of Anathaeum gave him. Learned their magic and their craft and their very history, took it to heart.

So, the term Knight was little more than a job description to Lysanthir. Not a position of respect beyond the common courtesy working people give each other. Syr Galvanhad made that point well enough without his help.

And some or all of this, he wanted to condense into a response to the man in front of him.

"Syr Lysanthir," cut Syr Josai's voice through his fog, "If you could focus your efforts in aiding the wounded's body in its recovery, that would be most appreciated,"

Did she interpret his hazy staring as a challenge, or merely want to pull him into the present? Either way, he wouldn't deny her request. He rises from the stool to meet her, outstretching his palms over Dal's torso, adjacent to Josai's, "Of course, Syr."

He takes a deep, slow breath, collecting his own usually-disjointed rhythm into time with hers. He had more practice to do, certainly, but his efforts were still effective. Josai always spoke of flowing rivers. Lysanthir always thought of ringing music.

He feels the chamber of Dal's heart, thrumming as it tries to get over the physical trauma and fix the damage. Breath. Feels the stretching of every vein, vessel, like strings. Breath. Focuses intently and brings forth his soul, tingling even moreso than his healing whelts, and channels it into Dal. The golden glow, tinged with blue-green, surrounds his palms.

Josai eases him into carrying it alone, and he takes it in stride, fingers trembling and plucking of their own accord, like they might at his lyre.

Then Dal startlingly sums up most of his previous train of thought. Elaborates on the inquiry of statures with his own experiences. Lysanthir breathes again, and finding a few simple words, offers them to Dal in return, hoping what was left out will be plain to see.

"I left home at twenty-six, armed and armoured, wanting to do something good. I'll be forty soon, however I only joined the Order last year."

---

Dal Syr Galvanhad Josai

 

[Syr Galvanhad]

As Josai began to instruct Lysanthir, Galvanhad would draw closer to the young Satyr. There were many ways to heal, but this was the most costly. To give another the essence of your own life, was not something to be done lightly, and many healers pulled that payment from the world around them. Here in the Monastery, that sacrifice was honored, special.

When Josai cut her stream of transference, one hand would move to her shoulder to steady her, this sort of healing one never truly got used to the payment. They merely found ways to strengthen themselves in the font of Life. For Galvanhad, that happened at the base of the Eldyr Tree.

His other hand would move to Lysanthir's arm, just below the pauldron, but high enough to avoid the cuts. "Take from me what you need, son." The first time was always the most straining and some healers could faint, he didn't want that for the Satyr.

Galvanhad exhaled slowly and opened his own magicks to them. For Josai, she would feel the ebb and flow of the great current that she had come to recognize as Galvanhad from years of tutelage. He could feel the tiny tributary that had been sacrificed to start Dal's healing and though it wasn't enough to drain Syr Josai, he guided the flow of life to fill the gap, and once it was filled, he gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before removing his hand.

As Lysanthir plucked and pulled at the strings, he would feel the warmth of Galvanhad's hand atop his shoulder, and with it the addition of a second healing song. This one would start with a quick tempo, before it began to mirror something Lysanthir may not have heard in a long time: A song of the Falwood, a song of Arapat. Galvanhad's presence would grow until it merely became a bastion to pull energy from. Unlike Josai's, this chord of healing wouldn't end until the young Satyr had finished healing.

Josai Dal Lysanthir of Arapat

 

[Lysanthir of Arapat]

Lysanthir had, for the most part, tuned out the tamed world around him as soon as he finished speaking. He had little need for complicated language and dampening stone walls while focusing this intently.

The muffled birdcall near the window floats through his mind, the breath of his fellows dim, the rustle of dried herbs overhead, evocative of forest leaves. The only thing in mind to keep him from faltering.

A hand, warm, lightly rests upon his shoulder. For a mere hint of breath he considers shrinking away from the touch, before the wash of strength soothes his worry. He needn't shun a mentor. Somewhere in the lofty ceiling of his mind, another quivering, shrinking thing dissipates, leaves him to his ministrations.

He barely registers Syr Galvanhad's voice at his side, nodding slightly; "Take from me what you need, son."

The genuine rumble of Galvanhad's voice faded away, and from his shoulder, he feels a quick, precise tempo, far more steady in measure than his own. And then it changed, picked up Lysanthir's own melody. Filled in where his own notes hadn't yet...

...
A pipe plays, whistling like the wind through the treetops, trilling like the call of birds.
The pumping, thrumming of a hand drum comes to a head,
while fingers drum and a plectrum rides on lyre strings.
An indignant voice somewhere on the other side of the brush calls complaint, harsh and distinctly Anirian,
heartless and wholly alien to the land, however another whisper ceases the drivel, leaves them to their own.

"What are you even talking about, you al'kólos? It was a perfect lilt!"

"Hush and ignore him, Alcibados, and tap your hoof just so!"

He smiles easily at his friends, gives his string-hand a stretch, and repositions his plectrum.

"Why don't we play Ar Ughnia fully, and see how it sounds?"
...​

It sounded just fine. Quite fine.

His fingers continued to pluck along just so, radiating life into Dal's wounds. His body relaxed slightly into the finedrawn sensation of the transference, and nothing ill intruded upon his mind other than the task at hand.

"Thank you." his whispers to Syr Galvanhad, voice pulled well taut.

He neither wants to overwear Galvanhad, nor does he want to halt so soon. So there he stands, on the fenceline, eyes focused on nothing in particular. After a while of silence, he speaks to Dal before him.

"I've never considered knight erranthood as anything more than a job. No more or less deserving of respect than a farmer or carpenter. No more or less worthy of mortal decency than Abtati, Elf, Human, or Orc."

He pauses, turning it over in his mind, half musing out loud as he speaks.

"I'd laugh if the way others refused to give that decency and respect wasn't so damnably depressing. If it hadn't caused war and tavern brawls and sleeping on the street."

He inhales, and lets loose a sigh, the corner of his lip twitching. His plucking fingers catch and spread, curl up tight at the knuckles spasmodically. Syr Galvanhad likely feels the slight wavering of his song, while Lysanthir's soul presses onward, determined to complete the final stanza.

"You have made a name for yourself as a sellsword. Would you take a stand for yourself as a mortal?"

Suddenly, his face contorts into discomfort, cringing. His hands and forearms seize with a quaking, searing cramp, body itself overworked. The song's melody has almost played out, and with a pained, apologetic glance to Dal's face, the transference of health flickers, growing momentarily with a burst of last-ditch effort, 'da dum ba-ra-ta, da da!' before fading to a halt. Lysanthir rubs his arms, and the cramp goes away.

He looks to Syr Galvanhad with a rueful, thankful smile, nodding.

---

Syr Galvanhad Josai Dal