Completed A Friend In Need

[Josai]

Josai nodded her thanks to Syr Galvanhad, and watched as Lysanthir went to work, listened as the wounded mercenary fought on with what he had left. Near run through and left for dead, his warrior's spirit was still locked in struggle, latching on to each word, and giving back more and then some.

He had no sword in hand, but she could see it still.

The sworn knight shut her eyes and gathered herself up. She focused on her breath. Let words fall from her lips as she sent the flow of her magick into the floor.

"Oh Lochs above and Lochs below, let the light of stars shine bright,
across the midnight fields,
across those black expanse,
mirrors mine mirrors most
ripples out
that ebbs in
through me you flow
light of the Loch." ​

Through the stone. Trickling through the soil. Down till it touched the cool surface of fonts below. She drew in her own breath, and felt it pull into her.

Magick of the land.

Of the Monastery grounds.

Not boundless, no. But vast. A thing that churned, slow as clouds spanned across the sky on a windless night. Ten breaths. That is all she could regain. Ten breaths worth of magick that helped her feel more full again. Fed her limbs with strength.

Eyes once shut opened once more, as Syr Lysanthir's words struck through the air like darting swallows through the fields. "You've done all you can, Syr Lysanthir, nothing left but to let his strength return," she nodded to him, and then looked at Syr Galvanhad. A gentle nod, and she went to clean out the bucket of water.

Syr Galvanhad Lysanthir of Arapat Dal

 

[Dal]

The pulses of healing energy was an assault of magical influence, positive power which Dal's mind struggled to contend with as his body mended itself through virtue of the proficiency of the order. Dal realised as he felt the warmth invade him that something was odd about the experience of being healed by magical means. The mercenary was a stranger to being healed by such means, but even he knew that something was amiss within himself. He found the amount of words he had just spoken so freely to be unlike himself. Delivered to strangers no less. As each healer gave their energies and attentions, he found himself wanting to move, to pace, to be animated despite himself. His fingers gained a tremor, and he caught his involuntary movements by snatching his fingers together, as if in contempt of the rebellion.

“Wait, wait, this is,” Dal said and yawned deeply, and a flicker of irritation marked his features as he realised he was falling asleep and tried to resist, “too...much,” Dal breathed, and promptly succumbed to the overwhelming sensation of being elevated upwards, as if his spirit was being pulled up to the ceiling itself, and promptly passed out. While his body was experienced at warfare, it was wholly unused to being healed in such a manner. Others might have experienced magical healing a countless times, the times Dal had experienced such a thing was but a handful, if that.

He entered the world of the subconscious as his body mended itself.

https://soundcloud.com/david-giffard%2Freharl-dal-recovers-1

The question Lysanthir asked would rule the dreams that Dal was forced to endure as his body healed. The dreams were delivered as if Dal himself were awake and conscious, his mind energised and fully capable of commanding his faculties within his dream. His body would remain still, yet his mind would contend with the blackness marred with watercolours that streaked across the canvas of his subconscious with the recent conversations guiding the scenes.

It was an expanse of time to self reflect that Dal had never experienced before. He met it at first with irritation, wanting nothing more than to wake. But his body refused to rouse, and he met with each turn of his own churning mind as if this was a trial of some sort. Faceless figures who asked questions. His own responses did not satisfy. A shift of colour, a whirling of memories, and once again, the questions were asked.

But the faces of those he had killed flashed as old friends. Wordless were they. And wordless Dal received them. This much he endured without qualm. It was part of his purpose, and something he was well versed in.

Dal endured.

Is this the cost of being restored? To listen to a satyr ask such a thing of me over and over?

“Would you take a stand for yourself as a mortal?"

Damn you.

Dal was forced to endure and contend with it, his will yielding, piece by piece, to the meaning of it. His mind was fully awake, and he had time to think. A luxury at first he found to be a torture. And then, a training ground, to practice and sharpen his skills and wit. He wrestled with his discomfort and set his mind in order. Thinking on his condition.

Where his career had granted him. What he lacked. What he had. What he was. What he might be. And when he caught himself thinking of revenge, he thought of the advice he had been given. He did not want to be trapped here in the dream state longer than he had to. But still, his weapon was at his side in the dreamstate, undrawn.

Even as the slain wordlessly crowded him.

Three days passed as Dal slept.

Three days trapped in a dream, where his primary company were his memories, his recent healers, and that damned question that echoed every so often, just as Dal thought he was rid of it.

A flicker of motion within the pale green hands.

A shuddering of shoulders, a clasping of digits upon a weapon that was not there.

Dal roused.

He gasped and growled as his faculty came back to him in the flesh, his eyes adjusting to the daylight as if it were a stranger. His breathing was elevated as he looked around, not entirely sure that he was truly departed from the dream. He looked down at his wounds, and ran a hand gingerly across where he had held his guts in place. Little scarring.

“Their magic is good,” he whispered to himself, hoarse. He tried to wet his lips and found himself wanting.

A jug of water was to his left, and he drank deep from it, and gasped as he finished it entire.

He moved, slowly, not sure if he would undo some unknown wound unattended. Placing feet upon the ground, he went to find somewhere to freshen up, to gather his senses, and to find a knight. He walked as if unsure of himself, but he felt no deadly pain. Just a dull ache and a warmth that still lingered from the overwhelming healing energies delivered to save him.

Ideally that Lysanthir. I've had to endure that question for...how long was I out for? Damn it all. I need to talk to someone. Anyone. Clear my head of this isolation.

Dal began to walk out and tempered himself.

I wonder if I can think of revenge without the healing undoing.

Don't risk it Dal. There'll be time enough. Dwell on it later.

 

[Syr Galvanhad]

The price of healing was great, at least through the methods they taught. Clerics could do more for less, but their gods were their source, their vein of energy. The gods of the Vale didn't have such reserves of energy, many of them lost to time, nor did the Order follow any particular diety. Some did, some didn't.

Galvanhad had had a lifetime to build up his own reserves and he would give to the others as freely as he could. Once Lysanthir spoke his thanks, Galvanhad would ease back his stream, the various chords fading into a gentle finale, until his magick closed off. "You never need to thank me."

He would take a few steps, steadying himself on a nearby table before he fully re-composed himself. "Have squires move him to the overlook and get a volunteer to get him fresh linens. He shouldn't awaken in here nor in soiled clothes."

With that, the Master-At-Arms would take head for the entry before pausing. "Josai, Lysanthir, excellent work you two. Pass that onto the squires as well." He then continued to the exit and took his leave of them.

Lysanthir of Arapat Josai Dal

 

[Lysanthir of Arapat]

Lysanthir remains still, quiet, as Dal wrestles with himself, murmurs through the delirium. Visibly slips into unconsciousness. He waits a few long, silent moments in observation, watching for the rise of breath, before shaking himself into a somewhat tenuous awareness.

"You never need to thank me." Says Galvanhad, and Lysanthir turns fully to him.

"I must always thank you, Syr Galvanhad. It's only natural to me."

He soothes at his own arms again, taking curious glances at Dal's form in between thoughts, dense as murky saltwater, riding in an icy layer below sunwarmed fresh. Too much.

I'll never be used to the differing reactions caused by healing.

Galvanhad leans for a moment upon a table. Requests a volunteer for fresh linens, squires to move the man to the overlook. Lysanthir nods and makes to follow him out the door, head off as requested, when he turns back for a moment.

"Josai, Lysanthir, excellent work you two. Pass that onto the squires as well."

"Aye, thank you, Syr."

---

He did as requested. Found squires to move the man. Commended Roki, Hector, Pollocks, for their swift and brilliant effort. Brought linens up himself on his way, slung in a sack over his shoulder like a washer headed for water. Brought up a pail of flowers in brandied water, to last about a week.

Sat down in the knoll for a while, cup of darkly brewed chamomile and whitebud encircled by his hands, warm.

The hollow ring of his thoughts yawing like a great, deep, underground temple of stone, every sound within multiplied, every sound outside dampened. Smooth, indistinct verbalizations thrummed darkly from the lowest basin, rolled along the walls.

Dusk approached. He watched the passing knights and squires from a window as they went up for the night. The last candle was blown. He wasn't drowsy. His very ears whined, like a beast brought low, forever riding an echo. He crept out silently. Climbing to the peak of the Eldyr's Lookout, lyre on his back, plectrum in his purse, never sparing a glance from his task.

At the perch, he gazed down at Astenvale. The envined monastery. Then to the Eldyr Tree, with wide, innumerable boughs, great beyond mundane language, best saved for the aeons-old art of song. Then towards the Spine, her shadowed, charcoal beauty cutting the mixed cloth of the starred heaven, wreathed in late clouds.

He played. Stilted at first. Rough. Coarse. Allowed himself to fumble across the strings as his dexterity willed it. A beating chant, ebbing and cold-fingered on the basest strings. It brings a hush to the night creatures.

And then he began to warm. Eyes closed and silent. With each pluck, fingers spreading and striking, he gathered back a mote of relaxation. With each firm strum, he felt his heart and the land swell around him in a universal rush of life. He embraces each foul note as much as each plucked true. Those creatures of the night take up their chorus again.

After a while, he sings a few stanzas, bits and pieces of beloved songs from home mixed together. A final soothing balm, and at the end, as he loosens the strings on his lyre and stows his plectrum, he finds the moon overhead cloaked in dream.

Sleep finds him upon his return, and weariness avoids him for a few days.

---

He glances in on Dal in between his duties and practices, as he aught to. Three times the second day, not counting assisting Syr Josai in moving him to check his healing wounds. Once, in the early hours of the third day, which was the last time he'd had the chance.

And now he sits, crosslegged on a short wall of the monastery's grounds, utilizing a candle's flame and a small, long-legged pan to melt oils together. Down below, in the monastery's courtyard, a colourful stranger sings elevated, deified tones.

---

Dal Syr Galvanhad Josai

 

[Dal]

Dal rolled his head and felt the tension that was knotted deep inside his powerful neck muscles; he pushed his neck as far as it could go in each cardinal direction until he felt the satisfying unwinding of his built up compression. It reminded him of his days of hard training, of needing to bath in deep hot water to prevent future injury. Only this time he was all too aware that this was simply bed rest that had rendered his so taut and fraught from his consternation with the dreamscape he had been trapped within. He walked slowly, yet with purpose to find someone, anyone. His feet met the ground at first tenderly, as if he might undo some healing by carrying his typical stride. But soon he discovered that his footfalls would not betray him and unweave the flesh that had been sewn together by magic and expertise, and walked more confident of his own faculties.

His hand instinctively lingered near his belt despite the lack of rondel that lurked here. Dal's mind would not let himself be contented in the safety of this place and his mind longed to have any kind of weapon so he might draw ready against some threat. He wondered if he was in any fit state to defend himself, and rolled his shoulders as he walked, his powerful muscles stiff from the stasis he had endured. A stasis sorely needed to complete the healing, yet one that set Dal back.

He breathed deep of the air that remained so fresh no matter where one turned and thought upon his own combat readiness, as if he might find a job on a noticeboard. But this was no village, this was a monastery, with all manner of attendants of duty. Dal dismissed the instinct, but his green eyes remained sharp. He blinked a few times and found irritation within them, and pawed away the sleep that had gathered. The half-orc was slowly returning to the world of the waking, step by step, behaviour after behaviour. His mind slowly removed the veil is disbelief that was around himself, as if he might hear a voice or see a face that would be well since dead and ghoulish to his visage. And while he saw some people pass him, knights, squires and other attendants of duty, Dal made no conversation just yet. His own company was enough for now, and the waking world soon revealed to him the words that he would speak out loud in discourse, brewed in his mind and seeped in his own contemplations to be quite the concoction indeed.

The mercenary, now awakened by his own locomotion and embracing of the air and sights around him, had become calmer since his first awakening, but no more forgiving for the words that once first uttered in the waking world. Words that had been intoned countlessly against him, a weapon that was repeatedly set against him and countered, remedied and provided reposte as if it were a diligent and all too attentive teacher. His own consciousness had absorbed the existential question and turned it into a training circle, a proving ground, a battlefield, all to be mastered and given attentions to better oneself.

Or be defeated, extinguished, bettered, spent.

Dal saw the author of his own consicousness' litany against him and drew himself up high, his shoulders raising and his chest containing the pride of a warrior. He felt no pain from his chest from such a self address and Dal felt all the more confident for a lack of pain that greeted him.

Still, the thoughts of revenge were held off for now.

That comes later, when all is safe. For now, a response.

Dal drew near to Lysanthir and saw that there was some artistry in his actions. He looked with intense eyes, eyes that had not seen properly for three days, yet he had beheld much in his dormant and recovering state. He blinked a few times and considered his words, as if he was contemplating drawing a rondel to stab at the fellow.

“You,” Dal said, measuring his voice. It was far darker than he had intended, and he caught his own sense of bitterness about his internal experience. He fought against his anger, his indignation at having healing magic bring him such a trial of the consciousness, and thought how it had sharpened his mind and given him an appreciation for his situation. How his mind had gone over the details of his financial status, about how he had contemplated how his work had brought him here, and his extension of solidarity had been struck down in concept by the one that had sought the truth from him in such a determining fashion. To seek lies from him, before further healing was provided. There would be time for contempt. Hate. Such things bettered the half orc. But in this moment, Dal breathed cold. He felt the chill of the air, and perhaps it was the song that made him stay the mental hand that would draw the serrated word against the one who had posed the question.

A question which Dal repeated, his words containing the anger and meeting them with temperance and patience, and perhaps, even a little gratitude for galvanizing his warrior spirit to improvement. He almost relished delivering the words, as if it provided great catharsis for being contained so long.

“Would you take a stand for yourself as a mortal? I've been contending with those words in a fever dream for what seemed like a lifetime. I've got an answer for you, Lysanthir. If you'd hear it.”

Lysanthir of Arapat

 

[Lysanthir of Arapat]

Lysanthir adds a second piece of wax to the pan and stirs it in with his finger, head nodding softly.

Surely this'll do...

The crunch of heavy footsteps has him glance up. Dal, upright, proud and squared as a kingsguard, comes his way, and Lysanthir, for all his relaxed posture, still manages to relax that much more. His shoulders sag in relief to see the man mobile and at least mostly conscious.

He gives Dal a genial smile of greeting despite the stony look on his face, and returns his eyes to his work, dripping oil onto the back of his hand to test it's consistency.

Dal's shadow falls across him, his work.

"You," he growls out, grave and discordant, short. Voice rough with disuse.

Lysanthir's gaze jumps from the back of his hand to a cracked stone not far past his candle, staring at it- through it -for a very long moment. Very slowly, he lowers his stirring hand to the wall, fingers curling around a stone as he adjusts. He takes a breath.

You're upset... I've angered you.

He lowers his other hand to the wall and turns his seat to face Dal. Pulls himself properly upright as he looks up at Dal, who stares at him with boiling eyes. Lysanthir's expression becomes guarded, yet inquisitive. He rests his hands upon his knees, lax, and remains silent. Flicks his eyes only momentarily to Dal's hands, despite his lack of arming.

Trained meticulously to draw at a moment's danger, or otherwise.

Dal's voice is angry, perhaps rightfully so, while slightly... Pleased? Like a nest of wasps wrapped in silk.

“Would you take a stand for yourself as a mortal? I've been contending with those words in a fever dream for what seemed like a lifetime. I've got an answer for you, Lysanthir. If you'd hear it.”

His eyebrows raise in concern. In spite of Dal's phrasing, Lysanthir doesn't know if he aught to expect words, or actions, from the man. He keeps his voice steady, brokering neither bite nor waver. The fingers of his left hand curl up.

"Absolutely, Syr."

---

Dal

 

[Dal]

Dal allowed his statements to stir the waters of peace with it's turbulence, steady in their motion, constant yet not overwhelming in ferocity, yet controlled in each rising wave of word that could easily crash upon the shore of violence. He felt his own aggression, and remembered so many of the orcs that raised him go beyond this level of intensity, and settled himself. Remaining rigid in posture and quieting his voice so that it became calmer, almost conspiratorial as to the truth of things, he began to speak. The initial wave of catharsis of speaking in such a way did much to soothe him of his complaint and foul temper that thrived off the warmth of hate, the momentum of scorn. Seeing the reaction of someone living to his words instead of such another dead face to bear witness to his prolonged stay in his own mind calmed him and assured him that this indeed was the world of the living. He spoke calmer now. With all the certainty of an artisan chiseling stone as they discovered the statue within the block of stone.

“I'm used to standing alone. Fighting against however many, alone. Thinking alone. Training alone. But I've only got as far as I have because some people took a chance. My first sword instructor, my first real sword instructor that is, was a knight. A knight who didn't care where I came from. Just that I wanted to fight with a disciplined mind. A proper form. I earned enough money as part of a mercenary band to split away and train with them. To better myself. So, I thought, I'll stand for me. I'll stand for my skills. I'll stand for being one of the better soldiers that can get the job done, despite what happens, I'll keep my cool, I'll persevere. And if I die, well. That's that.”

He paced a little, as if the words freed him from the prison of rigidity, as if he was disarming himself, weapon by weapon.

“I did what I could to be a cut above the rest. To earn my money to fund the constant war effort. My platemail, that took me months. Months without drinking, gambling, anything of luxury. I kept that habit. Now? I've got enough coin now to settle down. But I wouldn't know what to do anymore. That's not for me. But I've killed too many in battle to simply quit. Could always set up my own band but, I'm not cut out for high command. I know that truth in my bones. But despite my years in the field...the only time I truly started to feel like I was part of something that mattered, a battlefield where I didn't have to think bitterly on the chain of command or the good order of the soldiers was when I involved myself with knights. There was one knight, one knight who showed me...well. Their name of Herr Heike Eisen. She was the first knight I saw and thought, yeah. That's someone you could follow. That's a leader. That's someone worth sticking your neck out for and fighting 'til you couldn't bleed anymore, 'til you couldn't swing your sword anymore or lift your dagger. And even then, you'd fight on another way. That siege with her was the hardest I ever fought. I felt alive. Felt like each move mattered. That it wasn't like you were drowning. Like you were in command of the ocean of death itself, that you could beat the tide. Command it. Conquer it.”

Dal breathed deep in of pride of that day. How victory had been so hard won with his comrades, with dwarves, and labelled himself a slayer of orcs by the score.

“So when you ask me, would I take a stand for myself as a mortal? I do every time I step onto the field of battle. But...I can't keep doing this alone. Taking contracts for money that is slowly increasing as the dangers grow higher and higher. If I'm going to fight, I want to fight on the battlefield, with the best. If I'm going to stand as a mortal, I'll stand as one who can fight, kill, and fight again. And I'm done fighting with people who,” Dal said and paused. He blinked a few times as the emotion caught him, but he clenched his jaw to keep the emotion from spilling out of him. “People who just leave you for dead as they try to save their own skins, as they become another corpse in their panic. I'm sick of it. I can't go back to being part of the rabble. Not after fighting with Herr Heike. And the rest who served under her and with her. So I ask you.”

Dal raised his chin in challenge, his eyes flashing with the spirit of the warrior, and asked:

“Does your Order fight as well as you heal?”

 

[Lysanthir of Arapat]

Lysanthir's ears flick in interest, one and then the other, as Dal begins speaking.

“I'm used to standing alone. Fighting against however many, alone. Thinking alone. Training alone-" His voice a test swing, a check for aim when striking a straw dummy, before finding the surety of a cutting edge. And yet, he pulls it, withholding full force as he practices each verbal move.

Lysanthir watches intently as Dal begins to pace, lose some of his statuesque stance.

Bound by self and full of conviction, you are.

He relaxes into his seat, loosens his curled fingers, and takes only a moment to snuff his candle.

“I did what I could to be a cut above the rest. To earn my money to fund the constant war effort-"

Lysanthir hums, a sound of recognition at Dal's words, to indicate he hadn't wandered off to a higher dimension, a lower cavern. The sound only differentiated from the stranger's song by octave.

War and strife, and it's shaping, defining force. Far too many fingers of it reside in far too many pies.

"-Their name of Herr Heike Eisen-"

Ah.

The Golden Soldier of the Sayve, he'd heard a farmer's son once say. He knew very little of her, little he could verify as something more honest than legend or story. He knew only that she had battled valiantly, through the destruction of her home, through the might of besieging Orcs, and by extension, anything else thrown at her.

Dal swelled with pride, and Lysanthir hummed again, a twitch of his lip indicating some bit of positivity.

“So when you ask me, would I take a stand for myself as a mortal? I do every time I step onto the field of battle. But...I can't keep doing this alone. Taking contracts-"

Oh?

"-If I'm going to stand as a mortal, I'll stand as one who can fight, kill, and fight again. And I'm done fighting with people who,” Dal pauses, and Lysanthir raises his head up a bit more to see his jaw muscle flex, “People who just leave you for dead as they try to save their own skins, as they become another corpse in their panic-"

Hm.

"Not after fighting with Herr Heike. And the rest who served under her and with her. So I ask you.”

Dal lifts his chin with the fight of a red hart that knows his station. Eyes glittering with the will to out-rut ten dozen stags for the right to good territory, the right to exist.

“Does your Order fight as well as you heal?”

Lysanthir bites off his initially happy reaction at it's very head, remaining cool and placid, as he looks up at Dal.

You'll have your work cut out for you, friend. Your grip may be sure and your blade on-mark most days, but your head and your desires run in pitch-hot tandem. Still...

He nods to the man, brows pitched upwards and a warily positive glow to his eyes.

"We do, Dal, for all of the right reasons."

He dabs at his cooled oil mixture, a good compound for anything needing weather protection, and rubs some into his hands, before picking his accoutrements up and sliding from the wall with moderate grace.

"We do, if you're willing to learn about how we are. Follow me."

Lysanthir, with his fingers mentally crossed, begins walking towards the main buildings, eyes seeking out a senior member- ideally a Captain or Syr Galvanhad, preferably anyone other than Syr Dorn, as entertaining as the old coot was -for he himself was in no position to do any sort of interview, and Dorn was... Well.

---

Dal

 

[Dal]

Dal followed, his footstep more sure of himself, yet, as he passed through the monastery, he felt the strange peacefulness of the place, and while his senses could not pick up the powerful magics that were unleashed daily within this place, he had been a witness to the healing potential of the knights first hand and knew there was power wielded here.

What would they expect me to do? I'm just a swordsman.

Doubt began to creep in but Dal did not betray his own intent to serve with the best. He kept his head high, his shoulders level, and any lingering pain away from himself. But as he followed Lysanthir, that old thought lurched back. The thought of revenge. Of getting his weapon back.

I owe this order a debt. But I owe those bastards one too.

Dal rubbed his jaw and thought that decided he should continue the path he had set himself upon.

Knights. Let's see how hard it is to become one of them. I learned plenty from knights, killing them, training under them, serving with them. Now, let's see if I can take things to the next level.

He didn't know what to expect. Perhaps a gruelling verbal ordeal to see if he really meant what he said about wanting to serve with the best. Perhaps a test of swordsmanship.

What if they want me to cast spells? I've never...

I'll cross that bridge when it comes to it. You never stop learning Dal. Never stop getting better. I chose a life of warfare. Let's see how it goes before the final blow upon myself. I might be delaying it by joining worthy soldiers.

Or I could be signing away my freedom.

But then...what good had that freedom ever done me?

He followed expectantly, making no conversation except with the shift in his priorities in his head.

Lysanthir of Arapat

 

[Syr Dorn]

"Pollocks! Paffa! You're next." The old veteran hissed as his arms crossed atop his chest. He had the look of a man disappointed plastered to his face. A mighty battle axe rested astride his harness and a pair of hatchets felt at home on either side of his hips. There was a group of ten squires watching the display.

Two young boys, a human boy and a short gnome with green hair would step into the middle of the small practice grounds. Where Galvanhad would have them practice with wooden weapons, Dorn kept them using real ones.

"Syr Dorn.." Paffa began. "Do we have to us-" the gnome would tighten like a plank as he was cut off by the old Battleaxe.

"Listen here, Arseling. In order to know the weight of a blade, you need to use one. If you're using light wooden shits here, you'll be used to the weight when ya get to the field. Swinging iron is tiring work and ill not be collecting your corpses because you're arms got sore." His hardened gaze shifted to Pollocks. "Pollocks. Try to hit me with your sword."

"Oh.. shit..." Pollocks gulped and let loose a half-hearted battlecry as he surged towards the veteran knight. His arc was wide, but he would put all his weight behind it. Dorn braced and the sound of steel impacting steel would ring out as metallic gauntlet caught the blade. In a smooth movement Dorn's free gauntlet would strike the wrist holding the blade, forcing him to release it. Dorn then turned the sword over in hand to grasp it by the blade and shifted, swinging the crossguard into Pollocks ankle and sweeping the leg. Back struck turf and as Pollocks regained oxygen, Dorn dropped to a knee and put the crossguard against his throat.

"There are more ways to kill then with the blade. You know this." He would pull Pollocks back to his feet, his gaze shifting to Lysanthir, the secret Dawn amidst the Dusks. "Arapat." He would say with a nod of his head to him and a glance to Dal.

He then turned back to the two boys. "Come now. Show me what you know. Use the full sword, not just the blade. One of you land a solid hit or its back to making the caskets."

Lysanthir of Arapat | Dal

 

[Syr Galvanhad]

Galvanhad stood in the courtyard beneath the shade of the overlook. The Captains had asked him to keep tabs on Dorn's more.. zealous training of the Squires. Was it extreme? Sure, but it wasn't without its merits. They were spread thin as it were and Squires were being knighted earlier than they ought to have been to fill the holes. As such, they needed to be tougher than those that came before.

The steady gait of hooves clacked on the stone and his gaze shifted to where Lysanthir and Dal were approaching. "Good afternoon, Lysanthir, Dal." He would say, his gaze gentle as it worked along the half-orc inspecting the wounds. "I trust your mending is going nicely?"

Lysanthir of Arapat | Dal

 

[Dal]

“Well. Well indeed. Best care I've ever received,” Dal reported and instinctively brought himself to some form of attention, his body more rigid and contained about himself. The gesture seemed odd to perform without armour, a second skin to the mercenary. He continued. “From what I can tell, is that your Order has access to some of the best healing, from within.”

Do I want to ask directly or wait for Lysanthir to speak up?

No. Best ask myself.

“What's your recruitment policy around here?” he asked bluntly.

Lysanthir of Arapat @Syr Galvanhad

 

[Lysanthir of Arapat]

Syr Dorn stood, sentinel-strong and with his typical air of discontent, in the near-center of the courtyard whilst he reprimanded and reeducated the squires on their swordsmanship. Lysanthir couldn't say he particularly cared for Dorn's volatile verbal methods, eliciting of memories as they were for him. But the man's insistence on using steel over wood held water, so Lysanthir decided to avoid making comment on his tone this go-round.

Thankfully, to one the side of the yard Syr Galvanhad was monitoring the situation, and Lysanthir headed for him easily, Dal in tow.

"Good afternoon, Lysanthir, Dal." said Galvanhad warmly, his keen and well-trained eyes checking over Dal. "I trust your mending is going nicely?"

"Good afternoon, Syr Galvanhad." he replies happily.

Lysanthir lags a little and takes a pair of angled strides, coming up to a halt next to Dal, or perhaps mere half-a-hoof behind Dal's toes. It put his expression in a less precarious position to be only in easiest sight of Galvanhad. Absently, he picks at the candle, sending a few flakes of wax to the ground from the melted rivulets it had spilled while lit.

“Well. Well indeed. Best care I've ever received,” responded Dal, “From what I can tell, is that your Order has access to some of the best healing, from within.”

Lysanthir nods, mostly to himself, and pulls a mere breath of smile. In the ensuing pause, with hardly a second wasted, Lysanthir sees- feels, even -Dal swell into a proper stance for presenting himself to a ranking officer, shoulders squared less in the statuesque anger or warrior's pride of earlier, more in the basic need to do so.

“What's your recruitment policy around here?” Dal finishes, pointedly.

A grin blooms on Lysanthir's face for a moment, amusement creasing his eyes, before he batters it down to a mild lift of positivity.

Nary a bush beaten near you, friend.

He nods, taking that final half-hoof step forwards to present on an even footing with the man.

"I must commend Dal, Syr Galvanhad,"

He pauses for a breath, debating his following words not for Syr Galvanhad, but for Dal.

"I don't know how long he had been awake when he came to me, but he came pacing, and with more than a mere question. An entire speech, and seemingly on the fly to boot. Who, how, why he is, and for what reason he asks this now. For all that, I'd have to say he speaks honestly."

Lysanthir glances up at Dal's face to gauge his reaction, straightens his own stance a bit.

I hope your good humour extends as far as your wonderful lexicon.

"Though I have to speak honestly as well. I had almost expected a throwing down of the gauntlet."

---

Dal Syr Galvanhad

 

[Syr Galvanhad]

Well. Well indeed. Best care I've ever received, from what I can tell, is that your Order has access to some of the best healing, from within.

Dal would respond quickly, seemingly earnestly. The Master-At-Arms would look to Lysanthir. "And your arms, son?" He asked, his tone carrying its usual fatherly concern.

What's your recruitment policy around here?

Before Galvanhad spoke, Lysanthir would jump in to speak on his behalf. He had a whole speech prepared for Lysanthir, words were pretty things, they could be crafted and molded, modified to make something sound pretty. It was the intent that was key, and Dal had expressed a need for revenge when he was brought in, he had carried hate.

"And why is it you wish to be a Knight? At least of our Order." He would ask, his arms crossing. "I, too, would like to hear this speech." It wasn't that he didn't trust Lysanthir's ability, it was his duty to be thorough. Some squires could be dangerous when they joined, but a warrior bearing strong ideals that went against the tenets, those were even more dangerous.

Dal | Lysanthir of Arapat

 

[Dal]

Dal felt the energy sapped from him from speaking the words before. But, he thought, this was no time to disappoint or quail before the occasion. He remained at attention as he gathered his thoughts and attempted to make them known as best as possible to the person that would decide his fate. Having the words expunged once somehow made it more difficult to summon again. But the mercenary had the spirit of the speech within him, and made do with what energy he had.

It reminded him of speaking before many a mercenary paymaster to justify his skills and aptitude. Yet this was different. Knights. They had codes, ethics, methods of justice, temperance to the truth of things. Dal held no falsehood in his heart, for the driving force that made him wish to serve alongside the best that the realm had to offer beat out his own burning desire for revenge. Revenge seemed like such a simple and distant thing now to what could be accomplished if he applied himself within his new venue.


“Sir,” Dal began, and issued his thoughts. “I'm a soldier of fortune. Served with some terrible units. Served with some good ones. And the most cohesive warriors I've encountered have been knights, both against and with, both in organisation, battle array and skill. I served with a knight known as Herr Heike Eisen, of the Golden Blades, with the dwarven forces of Arragoth, the Arragoth Marines, Sir. Whole experience left an impression on me. Only reason we won was because there was a knight to command, to lead, to inspire. Used to think knights were just noble born, packed in plate and led by their pride. Learning differently these days.”

He paused and snapped his feet together.

“I'm tired of fighting in rag-tag groups for coin, it'll get me killed for lack of cohesion. Lack of solidarity. Tired of pursuing terrible contracts, and negotiating them. Fighting for reasons which were bloody minded. I'm best when I'm given orders, this much I know. Frees my mind to fight and act if I have them. Gives me further...zeal. I want to fight beside people who know how to fight as a unit, as one. People who have the resources to mend their wounded instead of just leaving them to die on the field. I don't know about how the other orders of the realm function, just that, I'm here only because of your generosity, your attended duty of care to a stranger. I don't know much about your order, so I am stepping in a little blind. You might call me foolish for that. But I know that I want to serve with the best, and well, you fit that description from what I see. Soldiers who look out for each other. Who act with a single purpose. Who have cohesion, discipline, a base. I've spent my time with bands that just want coin, and fighting for Herr Heike gave me a real satisfaction that we did some good in the world in rescuing an innocent. Instead of, well. Whatever the hell reason I fought for the mercenary hosts over the years.”

Dal gave further words to his cause.

“I'm a hard worker, and I train hard too. I know how to swing a blade, that I can assure you, and the expectations of a soldier and the soldiering life. I understand if you have reservations, but , I'll serve your cause well if you'll take me. I'll even learn magic if that's what's expected. Never had much truck with it, but I'll serve from the lowest position, just as any might, to prove myself. Simply put, the mercenary life has rewarded me with coin, but not much else. I want to fight for a reason beyond my own purse. I want to be part of something bigger than myself. I think the independent life has gotten me nothing but bloody wounds and memories of dead comrades. Think it's time for a career change. That's...that's why I'm petitioning to join your Order, in whatever way you'll take me. I'll fight for whatever purpose you give me. I'll learn your methods and expectations, and live up to them."

He waited for a response, feeling lighter yet all the more vulnerable for the gulf of words he had just delivered.

Lysanthir of Arapat Syr Galvanhad

 

[Syr Galvanhad]

Galvanhad's arms remained cross as the younger half-orc began to speak, but he spoke of the only thing he knew: battle. That was put one aspect of the Knights, and far from the most important. His gaze remained level as he gauged the truth in which Dal spoke, until his completion.

His gaze shifted to Lysanthir, if only briefly, before it moved back to Dal. It was a look that the old knight had cast many times before, where he weighed the words of a hopeful, their soul, their intent. If he found them lacking, they would be turned away.

Silence would accompany that look, one that was almost unnerving. And within the passage of several excruciatingly long minutes, the expression of the Master-At-Arms would shift, and he would speak. "Your words bear the weight of your soul and have been found to be earnest. You wish to join us, so you will under these conditions: You will be a squire for a year, the end of which, you will be tested and seen if you will remain a squire or move onto knighthood. Your armor is the relic of man who sold his soul for coin, you will take it Rulgak to be melted down and reforged, for in order to be reborn, be remade, you need to be free of the sins of your past. This also means, no action will be taken against those who wounded you.. unless they prey upon the people of the Vale."

His arms would uncross, his gauntlets coming to rest upon his belt. "Not all of our Order cast spells, so the need isn't a requirement. Any fool can swing a blade or take a life. A knight takes only the lives they need to, and no more. Battle is our last resort, and service is our highest calling. If you can accept these terms, this path, then you are welcome amongst us. If you can't, we will provide you with a horse once your body is mended and wish you the best."

His tone had been level, gentle even, despite the edge behind the words. "What say, you?"

---

Lysanthir of Arapat | Dal

 

[Lysanthir of Arapat]

Lysanthir listens intently as Dal speaks, a similar, yet calmer passion as before. Speaks of battle, war. The life of a soldier. The life of desperately proving of oneself to every last fool left on Epressa, only to receive their money. Dal snaps to attention, chest swelled, bares his life for what it's become in the simplest action. Lysanthir's jaw clenches at that in a withheld cringe.

Who first defined a man's worth by the discs in his purse, and decided to leave it that way? First defined a man's worth by his usefulness and nothing else, and thought that was enough?

As Dal finishes, and Syr Galvanhad gives a glance to Lysanthir, he raises his eyebrows in a jut of interest, a near-shrug. Works his jaw lower until his muscles relax with a yawn, and he returns to a neutral state.

In the moment that Galvanhad's gaze returns to Dal, Lysanthir takes a careful sidestep, turning to face both Galvanhand and Dal from their sides, so as to look between them easily. He crosses his own arms, but with far more casuality than Galvanhad.

Good luck, friend. Your heart and your head shall be weighed by feather, now.

He bites the inside of his lip as Galvhanhad measures up Dal, regards him with intense consideration for long, silent minutes, and he withholds himself from speaking.

"Your words bear the weight of your soul and have been found to be earnest. You wish to join us, so you will under these conditions;" He begins. His voice calm though edged, as a good mentor. He lays out the requirements. Lysanthir absently wonders if this meant Dal's weapons as well.

"...This also means, no action will be taken against those who wounded you.. unless they prey upon the people of the Vale."

Lysanthir perks up, just slightly, at these words. He wouldn't ask, not so soon.

Your visage will surely remind me later, Dal.

Syr Galvanhad's arms uncross as he continues, hands resting upon his belt calmly. "Not all of our Order cast spells, so the need isn't a requirement. Any fool can swing a blade or take a life. A knight takes only the lives they need to, and no more..."

Lsyanthir nods, switching which arm rests on top, shifting his weight onto the other hoof, as Galvanhad lets Dal know that if he cannot live to accept the Knights of Anathaeum's terms, he will leave unharmed.

"What say, you?"

Lysanthir's lungs swell with a gentle pride, and he stands up a little straighter. He shifts his gaze between the two slowly, intently, and smiles mostly to himself, but outwardly nonetheless.

Indeed, what say you, Dal?

---

Dal Syr Galvanhad

 

[Dal]

The silent look from Syr Galvanhad was received and met with Dal's own pale green eyes, eyes that had been matched by foe and quartermaster alike to judge his merit. This look lasted longer than he had ever been appraised by someone who might hire him however, for it was a different thing to accepted onto a job than what was being asked here. To be welcomed into the fold of the domain of knights. To become one of them and adopt their customs and methods of war, and, of peace. Dal understood the life long commitment that it stood for, and did not let calamity or doubt into his heart. His eyes were not stupefied by the gaze of a superior in rank, his stance did not alter, his stillness was well trained into him for standing true to what was required of him. His thoughts went to the battles that he had succeeded within, for Dal did not know if the same senses that this man had within his touch was contained within his gaze. There would be no falsehood now in this the hour of judgement. Thoughts on how he got here at all rose to the surface of his memories.

Herr Heike. You set me on this path, whether you know it or not. It must be a better path than the one I've walked for so long.

Kiros. I wonder if I might gain a fraction of the power of magic that you hold by joining these knights. Never had the access to the education. Might be able to turn tides with more than steel.

And if this Syr declines, well, I'll just figure something else out.

Always do.

Dal listened to the final judgement and kept at attention, and felt the expectations that were demanded of him galvanise his spirit into further deeds. He contemplated the meaning of it. And of discarding the grudge against those who wounded him so.

Orders are orders.

Dal's voice came out clearly. “Understood Syr. I accept. That armour has served me well, and long. But, I know something better will be needed. Magical weapons were nothing to it. I'll talk to this Rulgak immediately, if I might. I want to be useful, and it might take some time. I'll need to get used to the armour as well. And as to magic, I don't want to waste a potential weapon in service. Never had the opportunity to have an education in it. As to those who brought me down, well.”

Dal shrugged and chose his words carefully as to not to conduct himself poorly or in bad faith.

“I have better things to do now than to pursue that. Need to be the best I can in the year you've given me. Permission to attend my armour right away? This is the longest I've been without armour in a long time. I'd feel much better with something to allow me to train with the men.”

Lysanthir of Arapat Syr Galvanhad

 

[Syr Galvanhad]

Dal accepted, and Galvanhad could feel a minor weight lifted. He could count the number of times he had turned away hopefuls on both hands, for whatever reason. And each time, that declination had hit them harder then they expected.

He had given Dal a year to prove to him that he had made the right call. That hunger for battle was a dark spirit to shake, and with a sideways glance he could see his greatest friend, one who hungered for it more than any other soul he had ever known. But every hunger had a balance, and Dorns balance was his desire to bring every lost or abandoned child to the Monastery that he could find. Everyday, he saw Fillack more and more.

Permission to attend my armour right away?

Galvanhad's gaze would shift back to Dal. "Permission granted. Lysanthir will will give you a tour of both the Monastery, as well as Astenvale. Rulgak will handle your needs, just make sure it doesn't go beyond our stock. Excess, is a vice."

One of the squires cursed out as the flat of a blade impacted with their hand, a sound that drew the Master-At-Arms attention with a smirk. "If you gentlemen excuse me, I have some training to attend to. Also, Dal. If you are on time, you're late, so be early. Hunt down a squire named Hector, he shall be your baseline for all this. Enjoy the rest of your days, you two."

A bow of his head and he would turn to to cross his arms before his chest. "Paffa! Eyes up!"

---

Dal | Lysanthir of Arapat

 

[Lysanthir of Arapat]

“Understood Syr. I accept." Dal announces, delving into the depths of his armour and his skill.

Lysanthir's eyes snap at once to the man, his form still kept composed through it all, and takes a measured inhale.

I hold out hope for you, friend. If you apply yourself as well to your new duties as to old stances, I think you'll do well.

Dal assures to Syr Galvanhad of his intention, and requests to attend to his armour immediately, and Lysanthir's gaze turns to Galvanhad.

"Permission granted. Lysanthir will give you a tour of both the Monastery, as well as Astenvale. Rulgak will handle your needs, just make sure it doesn't go beyond our stock. Excess, is a vice."

Lysanthir nods, smiling, and gives an easy sort of salute.

"Of course, Syr Galvanhad, I will be glad to-"

At Paffa's curse, he looks over swiftly, concerned, and just as swiftly Galvanhad excuses himself to attend to the young squire's education, bidding them well. "Paffa! Eyes up!"

"Have a wonderful day, Syr." Lysanthir chuckles, turning to Dal to give him a "come with" gesture as he begins walking a few paces away.

"You came from the Overlook wing, where guests typically stay..." he gestures in its direction, with a nod to the colourful stranger nearby, looking to the sky with presumed rapture.

"And over this way are the dormitories for squires and new sworn. Sorted by rank, then age. Many of the other knights, myself included, stay in Astenvale itself. And that's where we'll find Rulgak."

He inhales the sweet air for a moment, absently tucking the candle into his purse, cupping the small pan between it's spider-legs. As he walks towards the gate with a wave to Ugluk, he spins to face Dal, arms momentarily flung wide for balance as he takes a few strides backwards.

"Anything in particular you would like to know?"

---

Dal (also the pan style in question for curious readers)

 

[Dal]

Dal provided a salute that was curt and efficient for the man knew the proper order of respect in the military and how to carry it out without self aggrandizement to his muscle bound form, yet without the inattentive lapse of respect that was so commonly a form of subordination. No excessive stamping of feet, just a snap to attention that came with an about face that was deadly smooth. A hint to his ability to shift on the battlefield with dexterity beyond his frame. He did not move sluggishly as others as broad as he might have gone about their gestures, but with a swiftness and grace that displayed the speed the soldier was summoning. Nothing too rushed, just well practiced and with the right level of humility and respect for the time of his superior officer. Dal had seen too many soldiers provide attention to themselves, as if providing respect to another was an opportunity to thrust out their chest to present their medals to those who had eyes to see, and wished not to bring disrepute to himself and to the structure he had just joined.

He had lived through numerous campaigns, ventures and hiring practices, and he had passed the silent appraisal of a man who could see into the depths of the soul with but a touch, and perhaps, gleaned even more truth with but a practiced look. The now superior officer had passed Dal's own sense of standard, for if he had found himself accepted all too quickly it would have told him something in of itself. Both of the man and of the order. That perhaps these knights were desperate for recruits, that they had sustained losses beyond their means. And so too was Dal informed by the fact that Syr Galvanhad did not ask for a committee to induct someone into their ranks as a squire indicated the mandate to which authority provided. Dal wasn't so much impressed as he was satisfied that there was sign of good order in those who he would report to, and a practicality to matter of recruitment. A desperate voice that tried to convince one of the value of the unit spoke volumes of the possible indentured service on strained battlefields that might come, and so Dal had a sense of relief to avoid that fate.

And what fate had he earned himself? A year.

A singular year to prove himself, to meet with expectation with a skill his own to command and refine through virtue of the resources and structures he was part to. And, of money he might apply to his cause to be the best. For there was no doubt in Dal's mind that his aim was to become a knight as Heike was. He thought of the first thing he had judged when meeting her all the time ago, the golden armour, the sign of care and respect to the rigours of combat to come from duty. And while Dal did not hunger for the resplendence of golden armour, he did demand himself the same attention to equipment as he had carried to promote his chances of survival, to heighten his professional pride, to excel in his field and not to be a burden upon others. He had visions of squires being rescued by their betters for virtue of their inexperience in the world and lack of proper equipment and resolved himself to avoid such a circumstance. It would not do to have demerits of any kind which were avoidable through proper preparation and attention to the seriousness of the expectations Dal placed upon himself when serving, let alone the demands that knighthood would no doubt provide.

The now squire would not be satisfied by taking what was allowed, he would have the best available in his extensive budget. Excess was a sin, as Dal's superior had put it, but Dal would not be satisfied by anything but the best he could place hand and body within. He had saved up enough all those years ago for a decent suit of armour that had saved his life regularly for virtue of the interlocking plate and all encompassing metal, and Dal had far greater coin to spend on such a thing since then. A lack of preparation for the tasks Dal wished to undertake would not be acceptable to him, nor the idea that he would have to buy another suit of armour when he became a knight. For even now he thought of how to excel and show his worth, what deeds he would willingly undertake for that most dangerous of words, a word that smouldered as the hot ember within his mind that drove away the darkness of doubt in steady pulses of heat.

Glory.

I must become more than I was. All my trials. All my combats, have led to this. I must not fail myself. I must become more than I am. More capable. More daring. There's a reason to go beyond, beyond the coin, beyond survival. I must spend this year well.

He kept a dignity about himself as his mind turned with his body to the guide Lysanthir acted as now, detailing his mind with the essential points of interest. Where he might sleep, where he had come from, orientation so he might not get lost in the basics of things. He scribed such details upon the parchment of his mind for later reference. Dal would feel shame if he lapsed in orientation, and all things now were something to excel at with a calm, steady and professional disposition that his previous employers found to be a source of solace in times of peace and strife.

More often strife.

Dal watched as Lysanthir brought his arms out to balance himself and thought it care free, all too care free. But then, this one was a full fledged knight and could enjoy his status and time to gallivant, Dal thought. He couldn't resist a small smile of amusement at the gesture.

“Yes,” Dal said, and looked at Lysanthir. He considered what had been just discussed, and how Lysanthir had spoken up for him in what capacity he could. It was a welcome thing to have someone vouch for his honesty, and there was not even a mention of any misgivings about the nature of himself. He thought on this for a moment, and considered his own misgivings about the capacity of a satyr to serve as a knight. But how to approach such a thing, Dal wondered. His own pride blended with the matter of respect and found good favour with one another in this moment.

“Thanks for speaking up for me. Especially because you said that you thought I was going to throw down the gauntlet earlier. Shows something.”

Dal's face had a neutral expression, as if he did not want to give more credance to civility that might border upon saccharine platitudes so early in the day of knowing Lysanthir. He moved swiftly on as to not dwell upon the sentiment.

“Where can I drill and practice? I'm used to spending a lot of time to the task when something big is coming up. I've got a year Syr Lysanthir. One whole year. And something tells me I'm going to need to get used to a wealth of weapons if I'm going to be the best I can be. Do you have any training manuals on the killing arts in this place? I've read a few before,”

Dal said, providing a subtle hint that the half orc knew how to read and study. He was genuinely curious about what he now had access to. How it might aid him in understanding more than he once did, to conquer his past self and rise to the occasions that might be asked of him.

And then an obvious question came bounding into his mind. Dal gave a hum of acknowledgement at the thought and gesticulated with an open palm to emphasise the earnest question he now delivered.

“Who,” Dal said, and corrected himself, “or what, is the common foe you," and then a correction, "we, face?” as he asked the most common question he provided to his employers. He stood seriously, for this was a serious matter indeed.

Dal hoped with all his soul, for the love of all that was honourable and worthy, that the answer wasn't to be 'elves'. For if it was one thing that Dal was afeared of, and shirked in contract, it was the prospect of facing a long lived thing as an elf who toyed with their prey with blade, magic and bow.

Lysanthir of Arapat

 

[Lysanthir of Arapat]

Salutes had, directions given, Lysanthir began to lead the silently brewing Dal into Astenvale proper, watching him quietly.

Dal intrigued him, intrigued him deeply. And now he had time to really think about him. From what he said, and said much indeed, he had dedicated his entire life to martial skill. Had sworn off the drink, sworn off gambling, sworn off luxury. The blade was his life, his livelihood, his selfmaking. Lysanthir couldn't decide if it was a sense of duty, pleasure, or spite that kept the man going. From the way he spoke of having to push past preconceived notions...

Have you ever been comfortable?

A smile, small but nonetheless there, comes to Dal's face at his little spin, and Lysanthir returns with his own small one before spinning again to face where they're going.

"Yes."

Ah, you do live!

“Thanks for speaking up for me. Especially because you said that you thought I was going to throw down the gauntlet earlier. Shows something.”

Lysanthir's smile widens a bit, and with a glance and Dal's continued words, decides to keep his eyes on the road, if only for the man's sake. He'd have to get used to the friendliness typical to Astenvale.

“Where can I drill and practice? I'm used to spending a lot of time to the task when something big is coming up. I've got a year Syr Lysanthir. One whole year. And something tells me I'm going to need to get used to a wealth of weapons if I'm going to be the best I can be. Do you have any training manuals on the killing arts in this place? I've read a few before." he said, curious.

Lysanthir inhales slowly and deeply. The Dwarf-ran tavern of the village, Eth Tikund, catches his eye only momentarily.

"There are plenty of places to train around the monastery and village. Just back there, with Syr Dorn and the young squires, is one of them. There is a specific training area as well, which is better suited for formal practice, bouts of magic, first blood matches, the like. Some go to their own 'special locations' for solo practice, if they have them, like a pool of water or a glade in the forest. There are classrooms or areas for specific lessons, and an entire library right over-" he gestures to it, the top of it just visible over a squat house, "-there, behind that home. Our librarian is Parshen. You'll likely find him there for any specific questions, and his cat as well. Only."

Lysanthir stretches a bit.

"Don't stress yourself. You have an entire year. You must already know what to do with your blade, show it. You already read and I assume can do math, show it. Show your dedication to the order, show your willingness to do right. If you apply yourself to these as you apply yourself to military conduct, you will do well."

He leaves a mildly pregnant silence. The Wyvern's Nest comes into sight, and his pace unconsciously picks up a bit in excitement. Dal hums and gestures with an open palm.

"Who- Or what, is the common foe you," he stumbles a bit, "we, face?"

Lysanthir blinks. A seemingly well-worn phrase, newly in need of butchering, was both all too familiar and all too unnecessary to Lysanthir, although fair to ask from one unawares. Lysanthir's voice grows sober.

"I'll give you the short answer now, and recount the tale that gives the answer it's birth and bearing later. We are about the protection and nurturing of those or that which cannot protect theirselves. We lend our strength to those little folks, things, creatures, and our mercy and respect to the wilds of the Vale, so called for the Deities are said to have once walked here long ago. Our greatest foes are willful ignorance, those who disrespect those helpless, guiltless things, those who try to bastardize naturality and bend it to their will for greed and tyranny."

Lysanthir inhales and sighs, hoping that was enough of an explanation, for they had no one enemy by creed, race, or company. He strides up the short steps to the Smithy's door and holds it open for the man, gesturing inward, a tiny smile coming to his face.

"Here we are. The Mítrahim from which your rebirth will begin."

---

Dal (That Mítrahim would be a womb, in Lysanthir's native tongue)

 

[Dal]

Dal absorbed all of the answers silently yet attentively, with the demeanour of one who was serious about the craft to which he applied and would not stand for a misstep within himself for lacking attention. The answers received did not quell the questions within him, for when he asked what foe was to be commonly faced, the squire expected some creed given, some monster described, some foe given face and name. Not the ideals presented. Dal exhaled at the rhetoric and let the matter lie for now, although he sensed there was something behind the words concerning someone who might bastardise nature, and further, the words about the willingness to do right left him somewhat puzzled.

All will be explained I'm sure. Code. Ethics. Morals. Duty.

Duty...

Dal found himself left cold by the statement, and wondered if that was some grievous fault. Duty to the mission, duty to your comrades, these were the most known things to Dal. The reason he had joined. Whatever the cause he would have to apply himself towards, the saving of innocents, justice, protection of nature, he would discover it in time and guidance.

Knights are symbols, Dal reminded himself from his reflection of seeing Heike on the battlefield.

One matter discussed he would pursue with a small smile owing to a now shared esprit de corps was this:

“I'd stress if I were idle. Each day we conquer ourselves so that we are not conquered in turn.” He spoke with assurity, as if this truth resounded within him without doubt or failing. “So, I'll find somewhere to drill, somewhere with heavy stone. Thank you for telling me of the way of things work around here.”

He left out that his understanding of mathematics wasn't exactly stellar, enough to deal with the negotiations of contracts and the counting of moneys. He hoped it was enough. And when he dwelled on the thought as he looked at the entrance of this Mitrahim as Lysanthir put it, and down to the suit of armour he had been carrying with him. Torn. Broken. Sundered. Soon to be melted down and reforged. He felt a tingling on his neck at the thought of melting it down, and felt a slight chill at how deep the cuts had ripped his armour apart.

Ripped him apart.

“Rebirth. I felt like a new soldier the first time I put on this suit. It's going to be...strange, melting it down. We've seen a lot of action.”

He gave a low exhale through pursed lips as he looked at the doorway. He gathered himself for but a moment, and entered.

Lysanthir of Arapat Rulgak

 

[Rulgak]

Scanning the shelves within the store, Rulgak moved in a slow walk as she looked over the wares that sat upon them. A battle axe caught her eye, and Rulgak reached to take the item from the shelf. It was stout, more useful for a dwarf than anything else, but neither was it heavy enough for their tastes. Too long to be a hatchet, and too light to give confidence against heavy armour, it was clear to Rulgak why this still sat for sale. She added it to the sheathed broadsword and leaf spear bundled beneath her other muscled arm, carrying all three back with her to the double doors that led to the workshop.

The smithy had been in a constant flurry of activity. Behind the doors lay the workshop, where smiths were busily working on all manner of tasks with the symphony of many hammers striking steel ringing through the air. Along a wall lay a row of forges, all of which were lit, with air pumped through them by the power of the waterwheel, and connected by means of a long wooden shaft extending out from the wheel at the river.

Within the ongoing chaos delved Rulgak, moving at brisk pace from station to station. With the schedule growing tighter, it was up to her to ensure that the smithy remained ahead of it. Thankfully it was thus far, and each smith she’d checked on had been either on time or ahead of it. The day had thus far been a productive one, and Rulgak was grateful for it. She needed every bit of time that she could get, more work was all but certain. Things were bound to remain at such a busy pace until more smiths could be hired, or more apprentices could be trusted as journeymen. The former could not be counted on, and the latter was a lengthy process.

Galnar was the last smith she visited, and he had been working on the head of a halberd which she expected would be finished by the time of her approach. He was busy filing away at the blade, leaving a scattering of glimmering dust coating on the table it lay on.

“Is the halberd ready?”

“Yes, Rulgak. I’ve even got a start on grinding out some of the edges.” Galnar replied, speaking the words with confidence. It made Rulgak hopeful, but far be it from her to forego verification. She plucked the halberd heard from the table, bringing it up eye level for a closer view. Though the blade was crude, the form was well defined. It was a rough approximation to the weapon it would become, the surface needed to be evened and the blade needed to be ground down and sharpened. In some areas it was already ground down, as the journeyman had pointed out to her.

“Good work. We've an assortment of finished weapons ready for sharpening. Grab some of the apprentices and oversee their work.” Rulgak replied.

“I'm right on it.” Affirmed Galnar with a nod, before departing over to the table to inspect the work to be done. Some blades were more difficult to sharpen than others, but hardly to a degree that restricted apprentices from working on them. It wasn't like anything was was flame-edged. Galnar was quite sure he'd have heard Rulgak's shouts if one had been scheduled that day.

Rulgak took her leave from the workbench as Galnar did, taking the halberd head with her to her workbench in the corner of the smithy. A bit larger than the others, it was hewn from oak and on its surface was an array of blades, plates, and ingots that Rulgak had been working with throughout the day. She added the halberd head to the assortment in an empty spot, before turning from the table to make her return to the shop. All around her the busy sight and sounds of work continued. Galnar passed her by with a nod, followed along by several apprentices who'd been selected for the work she'd assigned him.

The heavy workshop doors swung open, and from them Rulgak made her re-entrance into the shop. The doors swung back and forth behind her as she moved to browse the selection, scanning what weapons and armour were on display for anything that hadn't sold in a decent length of time. Some might be salvaged to become items in greater demand, which would save much needed time over making them from scratch. Doing so wasn't the ideal option, but until the workshop gained more smiths such resourcefulness would be necessary.

Rulgak continued along the shelves, occasionally pausing to scan the wares before her in a deeper search for acceptable salvage. One sword caught her eye, sporting a blade that was wide and short. She was quite surprised, it was a fine blade, but she couldn't deny that it had sat for months without a buyer. She reached out to take the sword by the grip and inspect it, slowly waving it to check its balance as she pondered.

No. It had gone purchased, but was too useful to salvage. Sidearms had risen in demand not long ago, and this sword might soon be among those purchased. Still, she needed something. Another two or three items to salvage would allow them to be that much farther ahead of the work to be done. As she did, her search took her closer in the direction of Dal, and only then did she notice the new face. He was an orc, sort of. Rulgak wouldn't dare put it in such crude terms, but that was the case. Dal was clearly half-an-orc, the other half human by his features. By his appearance, he looked more human than not, taken by human fashion and wearing their clothing. Likely raised among the humans, Rulgak mistakenly mused. It seemed a fair assumption, he clearly looked as if he had been.

Though having paused to glance at the man, she couldn't just go back to her search without speaking anything. The humans considered that rude, and Dal was likely beholden to their customs and probably would, too.

“Something you seek? You look new.” Rulgak asked, awaiting his response.

Lysanthir of Arapat Dal

 

[Dal]

The sound of hammerfalls, the crafting of gear, the stoking of fires and the sound of industry sent a wave of nostalgia through Dal as he observed the place as he walked in and waited patiently as he drank in the establishment. He breathed in deep and smelt the hallmark scents of well established industry and felt immediately soothed by it. While it was a place of business, it was a sanctuary to warriors in need of gear and assistance in their efforts to best their foes. Such was the way that Dal thought of it in this moment.

So many years had passed since he had entered such an accomplished place of arms and armour, for his purchases had been made with a lifetime in mind. Certainly the half orc had bought more ammunition for his crossbow over time, or perhaps gained repairs, but the original foundry that he had bought the now wrecked armour that dwelled within his hands had been a mighty thing indeed. A place connected to the castle where he had received his first proper sword instruction, and both the creation of his armour and his fighting arts had cost him many months of pay, pay that had not been squandered so that he might receive such boons.

The place was much like that foundry, full of apprentices that bore the same grit and determination as those that worked here as they applied themselves to the craft under the careful eye of their master. While smaller than the foundry he had originally set foot in, it bore the same spirit of excellence. So it was that Dal felt reassured that the order he had just joined had the capacity to meet his own need for the highest quality.

Dal's eyes looked to the various weapons that lay waiting for their owners or prospective buyers and he considered what he might need to pursue his new life. The answer that Lysanthir had provided hadn't mentioned what manner of beast he might be requested to put down, but he felt confident that due to the size of the place and the wilding ways of the forest that there was something out there. Something big to put down.

His eyes turned to the halberd, and as he envisioned how he might apply himself to such a piece of equipment to such an unknown enemy, Rulgak spoke.

As the master of this place addressed Dal he turned his pale green eyes to her and thought on how not to make himself seem foolish. While he felt comfortable in such a place, he somehow always found it strange to talk to an orc. This one pronounced her words completely and without slurring or error, unlike some of the other orcs he had encountered. Not that Dal bore any ill will towards them, but Dal had always filed down his tusks as to be able to pronounce things as correctly as possible to gain favour for his speech from underneath a helmet. The squire again felt incredible naked for he lacked the ability to hide his expression or nature for virtue of armour.

He thought it wise to be too formal than too familiar.

He provided salute and answer.

“Quite correct Syr. I am new. I've been sent to melt my old gear. Recently had my gear sundered, so I am in need. Both in weapons and in armour. I'm Dal,” Dal said, and as he realised that he had some title and appropriate rank which was pertitent to a discussion now, “Squire.”

He felt an odd twinge of pride ring out in his soul at the word, as if the steel of his warrior spirit had been struck by one of the hammers at work in the room.

Rulgak Lysanthir of Arapat