Private Tales A Hymn for Honest Hands

[Saskia Kerraelas]

"Syr Isander!" Saskia gasped, appalled but smiling at the Knight. What cheek!

"Thank you," She chuckled, "I have never been the greatest at building things. How awful of me to volunteer for such a task!" The dusker grinned. "I like helping out... after the skirmish with the cultists and the... It's just nice to remind oneself there are things to celebrate in life, like offering a helping hand." Saskia had done plenty of fighting to do her for a good while, and a change of pace seemed needed.

Saskia gave her cut a once over, impressed that the sting of the wound no longer could be felt. The blood, however, would need to be washed off later. "Is it odd of me to feel good about helping out, despite me not doing all that much?" She queried, the smile still strong.

Isander

 

[Isander]

"Certainly not," Isander said by way of reply.

"It puts matters into perspective, I'd think. Gwinholm is a place little different from any other hamlet dayward of the Spine. Normal folk, divorced from the training we've come to take for granted. For all that, we're no faster at laying a simple fence."

He laughed then, boyish and full. Bending to retrieve his tools, he found himself shaking his head and returning an easy smile. He offered them for her appraisal.

"An hour's work, a day's labor—another pair of hands seldom goes unwelcomed."


Saskia Kerraelas

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

Chewing her lip, her face moves into a quizzical and thoughtful expression as he spoke of the life unlike their own. Different ways of growing up, of carrying out daily routines. Perhaps the dwellers in Gwinholm lived peacefully, unaware of threats like the Everwatched and the cultists. The beasts that lurk in shadows she knew too well, but there was so much poison one could take at a time.

Saskia took hold of his hammer, the very one he had done excellent work with in this passing morning. Her hand dropped a little, unaware it would be heavier than she thought, but her skill with the sword and other weaponry that helped her adapt to holding it correctly fast. "One post. Then surely our good deed is done?"

The dusker looked hopeful, smiling greatly in hopes that Syr Isander would relent. Her earlier unease in her stomach threatened to make her feel poorly again, but now she knew to identify it as having not ate enough in the previous day.

Isander

 

[Isander]

"One post," Isander said with an agreeable nod, "and we'll break for lunch. Soup on the kettle, as I recall?"

He stretched out his back, stealing a moment to relax while Saskia doffed the hammer. The morning wended by, a refreshing matrix of breeze and chill that iced the sweat from his opened shirt; the linen clung to him, hung coarse and damp on skin pricked by the many wandering fingers of early winter. He smiled at her then, the expression a fixture that he could not rid himself of, and offered another shrug.

"Or we could call it here and leave the rest to more honest folk. We've a long road ahead," he said.

Contemplation fell over him; a crease at the brow, crow drawing their murderous feet down the eaves of his eyes. He had hoped for a day's labor to ease them into the morrow. Perhaps a rest bore merit.


Saskia Kerraelas

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

She had just about set up, and unsuccessfully at that, a new post to put in place by the time Syr Isander came up with the latter suggestion. Her hands were off the post, letting it fall to it's fate as she beamed at the older Syr. "Oh of course, I am most sure they will understand!"

Saskia held out the hammer to return, eager to put her practice with the tool to a later date.

It was with a happy grin she entered the local pub, rising to the tips of her toes to scout an open table. She was quick to move when she had spied one, small but enough to hold them each a meal and a drink. "Come along, Syr Isander!" He would have no trouble losing sight of her. Her flaxen hair was almost a beacon in this light, for how bright it looked in the mage lights.

She chose her seat so that she faced the menu, her gold flecked amber eyes studying the board behind the barkeep. "Carrot soup or potato stew... this is a tough decision..." she mused aloud.

Isander

 

[Isander]

"Potato," Isander said, a proud if not offended puff of air escaping him, "hardly a decision at all." After an intermittent time of rinsing the dirt and sweat from his hands, he accoutered himself in a fresh tunic and boots and had followed Saskia into the pub.

Fetching himself a bowl, he ladled in a pair of scoops of the potato stew; chunks of meat and earthy, turned vegetables filtered to the top of a thick, starchy broth. Whorls of steam let off that film of oil coating its surface, and he loosed a few cooling breaths atop it. An idle attempt, really, one that met little in the way of success. Indeed, the knight managed to scald the roof of his mouth no less than thrice in the span of a single bite; first with the broth, then the potato, and lastly the meat.

"Few honest labors go unrewarded," he said.


Saskia Kerraelas

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

She had no superior palate, but Saskia Kerraelas knew her way around eating many a cuisine.

She knew not to fill her spoon from the middle of the bowl, but rather collecting soup after a few minutes from the sides of the bowl and giving it gentle, steady blows to cool it further. Saskia spent childhoods in the Knoll burning her tongue, the insides of her cheeks, and even the roof of her mouth on a great many dishes, but she was no fool to trust a steaming bowl of soup.

A snicker could not be stifled as Isander clearly misjudged how cool his spoonful had been.

"This, and fresh bread..." Saskia sighed, dreamily. "It is the best reward for the soul in the colder months."

No sooner had she mentioned bread, her amber eyes fell on a basket being placed next to the soup. She shot out from her seat, nabbing two rolls each for the Knights. Fresh, they were still warm in her hands (which Syr Isander convinced her to wash before they had left) as she placed two rolls before Isander, and two next to her bowl.

"See? Isn't this a great reward now?" The Shadow Knight grinned.

Isander

 

[Isander]

"Yes," Isander said, agreeing from behind a hand that shielded his mouth from view; licks of broth had spilled over his lips, dribbled down to his chin before he found a nearby cloth to wipe it clean.

He echoed that grin, perhaps proudly with his second bite. This he scooped with a handful of bread, blowing on it until the steam whorled loosely before him. Their meal, accompanied by the quiet banter of a quintet of nearby laborers, indeed provided needed respite from the morning's rigor.

His brow, only recently dried of the sweat that suffused it, shone dark in the filtered light through the pub's smokey windows (the fixtures did well to insulate the building from the early winter breeze, but after a fashion lent the stagnant lurch of musk to the air).

"So," he said, and let the word taper off for effect, deadpan but for the glint in his gaze, "have you been emboldened for the afternoon's project? We've another section of fence, and perhaps a barn facade to repair."


Saskia Kerraelas

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

Saskia frowned at Isander, all hopes and dreams of a free afternoon now dashed as the promise of more labour was to be done that day. With a deeper scowl, she dipped her fresh bread into her soup and took a bite, scalding her tongue but the Shadow Knight pressed on and continued to chew. It gave her time to think, to determine whether or not he was throwing out a jest, but careful eyes watched him.

After her mouthful had been swallowed, she cooled her tongue by speaking. "It has been only a few minutes since we sat to eat, can you not allow an hour to pass before ruining the moment with this talk of more work?"

Kerraelas scrunched her face for a moment, displeased that her colleague for the day was so determined to get them back out there.

"I will not entertain more talk about work, good Syr," her soup spoon pointed at him, "but perhaps of... hmm... a funny story? I would start, but I talk too much already as it is." She grinned, lowering her spoon back to the bowl and lightly stirring the soup.

Isander

 

[Isander]

Isander leveled a slow blink at his companion and spooned another bite of soup into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and lifted a cloth to dab at his chin. Keeping his topography carefully bland, he allowed the nearby rattle of conversation to fill the void in his own speech; a breath, two, he mulled over the suggestion and adopted a stern affect, but could not quite maintain it in the face of Saskia's simple grin.

"Very well," he said, a sigh loosing from his chest. "You win. No more talk of work. We'll come to that later"—casting a glance to Saskia's expression, he quickly amended—"perhaps, we can play it by ear."

A quick, disarming grin and hands raised to ward off protest.

"Funny story. Right." He shifted the topic as readily, slouching back on the bench to reflect on what he might share.

"Well. You're familiar with Squire Roki? Perhaps you could lend ear to when he and I ventured forth in hunt for a wild pig..."


Saskia Kerraelas

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

It seemed Syr Isander would survive being partnered up with Saskia, for the Shadow Knight grinned at him in approval of him forgoing anymore mention of work. Readying herself to hear story, Saskia flagged down someone to fetch them both some ale.

She found herself nodding, "Roki is a good friend. I haven't heard about this adventurous hunt for a wild pig." Not wanting her soup to grow cold, she began to slowly cool a spoonful before tasting.

The ale came shortly, and Saskia clapped her hand with eagerness. "Alright, now you can start telling the story!"

 

[Isander]

Isander lifted his mug, drank a sizable portion, and set it back to the table. He brushed the space before him clean, sweeping bowl and spoon to the side and resting his weight atop his elbows. He leaned forward, took a breath, and began his tale:

"Then, let me set the stage for you. Late this past autumn, Squire Roki and I departed from a hamlet not too dissimilar from Gwinholm but for the leagues separating it eastward. On the eve prior our departure, I happened upon a table of laborers sporting a standing wager: an off-season hog was spotted in the nearby heathland. They spoke of its size, and it grew with each telling. From a sprightly pig to a monstrous boar, no two accounts agreed precisely on its form.

"Indeed, I could not help but be enraptured by the description. Perhaps as a result of one too many cups that night, perhaps as a consequence of the atmosphere itself"—he bared a sheepish grin, a shrug obscured behind steepled fingers—"I boasted that I would best this beast. The cooks egged me on with a great number of claps to my back.

"So, the following morning, slightly wearier for wear, I set out with Squire Roki to the heath. With only our supplies, my spear, and Roki's well-oiled pan, we scoured the field in the gray hours of dawn..."


Saskia Kerraelas

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

Saskia leaned forward on the table, intrigued by the story. The idea of a hog being an incredible size was baffling, but what a feat to track it down and best it!

She grinned, hooked, listening to Isander recall the early morning set out. "Go on."

Eyes wide, fixated on her brother-in-arms, Saskia awaited to hear just how large this beast ended up being. She could picture them, Syr Isander equipped with his spear, and Roki packed with all his things and that famous frying pan bouncing against his pack as he walked.

 

[Isander]

"...and succumbed to the evening's libations," Isander said, belting a laugh out from his chest. Wetting his throat, he cocked a brow at his fellow and bandied a brief hesitation before continuing.

"Upon reaching the open heath, it dawned on me that I have little in the way with experience tracking or hunting for game. By whence the sun began its crawl across the gray, I'd only just managed to lay eyes on the first, uh, hooves? No, what was it Roki called them... trippers? Trotter? Trotters!"

A broad grin accompanied his exclamation and he mimed little feet with his knuckles on the table.

"There we were, I espied the prints of this pig's trotters among dents in the reeds and grass, the barest hint of activity about the damp earth that surrounded us. But lo! A cry sounded from back at camp. Roki, alone, tending the breakfast fire. Where I was hunting for the pig, the very creature had sniffed out Roki!"


Saskia Kerraelas

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

Saskia could picture Roki being surprised.

Except, in her head, Roki would be screaming out of sheer surprise and for Isander's aide. The idea of it, the mere concoction of hilarity her mind thought up brought Saskia to snort and wheeze. Tears were quick to leave her eyes, she almost fell out from her chair as she tried to catch her breath, but even bracing her hands against the table did no help in helping her regain composure.

"At breakfast." More laughter ensued, and Saskia garnered a few curious glances their way. "You know what pairs great with eggs for breakfast!"

Bacon.

Isander

 

[Isander]

"Taters," Isander said, meeting laughter in kind.

"That morning Roki cooked up a fierce skillet of taters, onion, and... some kind of mushroom, should memory serve true. That man makes magic of his craft," he said. A wistful cast misted his eyes in the telling, and he offered another shrug.

"Nevertheless, Syr Saskia, it is good to see your spirits lighten."


Saskia Kerraelas

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

It was if his attention on her laughter was a subtle reminder that after this short break, they were to return to their duty and labour.

Saskia's last laugh died with a sigh, looking at Syr Isander opposite her.

"Maybe another story, one from me... and then we can finish up here and get back to our work." She could tell her longest story if she wanted to, because gods and the wylds knew Saskia could talk his ear off... but there was a story she was happy to tell.

"I have two shadowed familiars that play guardian to me when night falls. Bread and Butter. Do you want to know how they came to be that first time?"

Isander