Fate - First Reply A Run through the Wylds

[Roki]

Art: Forest from MTG by Jonas De Ro
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The woods around Astenvale were, for the most part, safe. Especially along the well trodden trails. Where many a member of the order trekked and trained. Roki among their number. Oft, a knight sworn, who pulled the short straw when it came to Monastery rotations, would rise before the crowing of the morning bird, and lead a band of Knight Prospectives on a circuit.

Trail run, obstacle course, grub at the knoll, sparring yard, split for specials.

Specials could be any number of thing really. Forge work, artificing, magic study, herbology, mycology, wild calling or archery. In the earlier years, everyone sort of followed a regiment. Less you were noble born. Then your regiment was a little more... tailored. Not that every blue blood had the dandy treatment. But a few definitely did.

"Hold on, Roki, come on now, you know..." a pant and a weeze came from the younger man who ran with a tightness that scrunched his face. Normally pale cheeks red. "You know I can't keep up yet,"

Roki did not slow his stride, his arms and legs pumped in unison. Brow shone with new sweat. His mind was mostly empty.

"Hold on, hey!"

It was at the shout that Roki heard him. The sharp sound. His big golden eyes turned to find the other squire huffing and puffing his way up the hill. "You know... I'm not... as fast,"

Roki smiled. "Almost there though, Marden, just gotta put our heads down and do it," he kept a pump of his legs beneath him though he looked funny as he jogged in place.

Marden only slowed down all the more. Hunched over and wheezed. "I can't, I can't, my chest hurts and it feels like I am going to die,"

Roki kept smiling. "Then die," he said, turned, and kept running down the trail.

His breath felt heavier, his rythm shifted. But he knew he would find it again.

"Wha, what?!" Marden shout out. Grit his teeth and ran after the golden-eyed mage.

 

[Ars Propheta-Capabilis]

Ars was not, by appearance, the posterchild for athleticism. The height of a youth's palm, (an average five feet for a Myconid of Ars' genus and species,) and certainly weighing no more than the average dose of tobacco in a pipe, one would expect a life of never-ending reliance on others for mobility.

This was the best of deceptions.

The Wylds were the birthplace of Ars, and all such Myconids for the region. It was the larger, blooded creatures, their crowds and their hewn stone and wooden thresholds, that slowed Ars down, caution necessary for safety. But he didn't spite them, not at all, for there was much good they did in turn, and much friendship and camaraderie they offered.

"You can't die in this way, young Marden, I've done calculations. This is the average breakover pace for peak performance for this group!" the tiny Sworn spoke, voice flowing across the Singingstone suspended at their chin, voice amplified just enough to be heard over the crunching footfalls.

But you might fall out if you don't exhale hard enough, please!

The apparition of a blue pennant floating in the air three strides in front of the prospects, its point facing downward, with a mushroom in the middle, marked the location of the early-risen little alchemist, and steadily did it move at the pace of the group, Ars ducking and dodging around leaves and sticks like his life depended on it. They'll all be tired later, not just the prospects. Ars expected an entire day of recovery for this, but glad he was to do it anyway. There was barely enough Sworn around to protect the Wylds.

"A left turn ahead!"

---

Roki

 

[Roki]

Roki grinned as Syr Ars didn't let up on Marden.

Oft did a squire make the mistake of dismissing the tiny Myconid knight, but Roki had been raised in the Monastery. He knew better.

Never quite made it any less funny when the tiny mushroom raced ahead of them though. Or when Syr Ars instructed them in the ways of combat and physical labor.

It was no secret that the tiny Syr was, well, fragile. Had trouble lifting an acorn if it was too big. Yet, his keen eye, and astute nature oft made his feedback alarmingly beneficial. Even when it came to things like sparring, or getting a stubborn boulder out of the way.

An absolute genius when it came to things related to the living breathing Wyld.

"Well, you heard the Knight," Roki called back with a laugh, following after Ars blue trail.

Renno and Naya were up ahead. The siblings took to running like deer. Not that Roki couldn't take them in a race. No. He just, well, he just knew how to pace himself.

Though he supposed they never really ran out of gas.

Volka was the slowest of their bunch. Even slower then Marden. But she was an absolute unit. Never quite stopped to walk or wheeze, just went on with her steady, thumping, run.

"Gods, Syr! Gods!" Marden cried out. "Of all the gods hidden in the Vale, why, why were they so cruel as to send me here!"

"You could be running!" Roki called back from up ahead.

Roki swept down the trail, his stride easy, even if he could feel his warmed legs getting just a little heavier. Felt his lungs rush cold with each full breath. A hop, a skip, landed on the balls of his feet as trail and dirt scratched behind him. The Left turn came up, and it was sharp.

Renno and Naya just bound off the big wall sized root that turned the trail sharp and to the left.

Roki ran faster, faster, sprang off his feet with a kick and a big drawing in of breath, and pushed off the root with gust of galed breath that shot him after the siblings, sailing some yards through the air before he twist and pulled one foot under him, then the other, and clipped back into his steady stride.

Ars Propheta-Capabilis

He laughed.

"Magick is cheating!" Reno grinned.

"He can't beat us without it," Naya assured.

Roki just winked. "Use it or lose it, as they say," he grinned, and his stride turned over all the faster.

Marden kept on huffing and puffing, and keeping on.

Volka never broke stride.