Completed A Task Of Two

[Vandor Colton]

Well, while Vandor had indeed acquired some ample coin for his troubles with orcs, goblins and bugbears, he wasn’t one to stand on ceremony at the offer from his partner to pay his way at the tavern. The Surly Pig was surely one of his favorite names so far on their journey. Certainly better than Nail or whatever the hell that orc was called before a sword reminded him why an Enshrined Knight didn’t like surly opponents who talked smack. Granted, the sellsword had done just that.

Three dwarves playing darts over there, mages with water with ladles of which did dip, scent of strew from hafling brew proved true as it drifted up Vandor’s nostrils. This tavern, if typical, was definitely sweeter in odor than that awful bridge. Taking in the scenery, the mercenary further spied two orc and human guys tumbling dice in one corner; an elf smoking a pipe, playing solitaire in another with cards as red as a bleeding heart. My kind of tavern, all right.

“I’ll take the same,” Vandor requested of bartender or whomever after water and stout were ordered. “My thanks.” He lifted his tankard, first in a gesture sincere to his partner, then to his lips and sipped, and it did transfer to a deep drink.

Music permeated the tavern; merry lute, jovial drum, violin in celebration; only the musicians didn’t know that these two men had just finished a mission that might earn them every chicken in this tavern. Then again, Vandor was no greedy merc. Just pretty darn hungry.

“And I’ll take a plate of black bread, side of butter, and two salted fish as big as you can find from the kitchen. Oh, and bacon.” He glanced at Ostrum at that. Breakfast by Brandish was some of the best he had ever had. “Four, six slices, thick as you can slice 'em!" He snapped his fingers, not in impatience but excitement. “Eggs! Three eggs. Over medium. Three sausage links. Or patties. Let’s see. Baked beans. Biscuits with gravy. An apple. Hashbrowns with onions, mushrooms and tomatoes, layered with cheese, preferably cheddar but whatever is fresh. Do you have pigeon pie? I’ll take a slice. Oh, and a sweet roll," he finalized.

“Shall I just bring the kitchen out to you, sir?” Glared the bartender.

“No need but I’ll be seated over there, my good man, and you have my thanks.” Vandor found a table, got comfy, and drank heartily. “Aye. This is the life!” He told Ostrum if he was sat beside him or nobody otherwise.

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

Ostrum raised an eyebrow at the ambitious food request. Better a glutton of food that can be burned off, he did think, than a drunkard. He wondered if Vandor was testing his finances to this matter. Or merely relishing matters of gastronomies when crow was not the forced dish to dine upon.

He made a few deep pulls of the stout once the drink had settled and he himself had settled into chair with Vandor, his movements slow, as if prowling about the place with quiet reservations about something.

Two fingers upon his moustache to clear the head of the stout that marked him, napkin already taken for his digits. He knew that to use a napkin upon his moustache was only required in fine courts, and in such moments a stout was rarely on offer.

His eyes set to the perpetual stew. He set to appreciating the thought of food before he woud make his move to acquire it. Such did his discipline well, and he knew that hunger was a spice all it's own.

Eyes turned back to Vandor, who made celebrations of their rest. Ostrum felt almost envious of the relief his comrade enjoyed. For Ostrum, there was comfort here, yet the promise of tomorrow and the vows for each moment prevented him from relishing such busy work's completion as thoroughly as Vandor did.

He closed his hand that rested upon the table in gentle fist as if clutching his own misgivings.

Yet some escaped him, tempered, but released none the less.

"That spellcraft you delivered on the bridge was unexpected. Must make one famished."

His closed hand released, and clasped upon the stout instead. Another series of pulls, less deep, buying time as response was made and his body enjoyed the slowness that this peace did allow.

Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music IC

Words heard. Words curve, turn, burn, earn, yearn, and every other rhyme within the mindless noggin of this Vandor Colton at the moment. He had only just begun to sip his stout so sobriety was still well within his mind. Yet, maybe it was the moment itself, sitting not by himself but with his employer.

Companion? Friend? The thought was aimless, twisted on his lips, twisting into a frown the next moment. A sellsword had no friends, he said over and over again. Truly, who could two men be any differently than Vandor Colton and Ostrum Brandish?

"That spellcraft you delivered on the bridge was unexpected. Must make one famished."

“Oh, it’s just an old trick,” he dismissed, cracking an almond between his teeth from a bowl on the table with mixed nuts. It didn’t do much to satiate his hunger and there it was. Famished. He tasted the word as given by Brandish as he waited on his breakfast regardless of time of day. Friend? That word again. No, this man couldn’t be it. The Enshrined Knight was a formidable warrior, yes; stood in stark contrast to this simple, amoral mercenary. Partners. Quite right. No more. No less. Platonic, granted.

“Though you have surely seen it back in the Keep.” Vandor spoke simply, licking salt from his lips, listening to the music, gaze trained on the musicians. “Sellsword. That is my occupation. Spellsword? Perhaps that is my amusement.” He shrugged, nonchalance in his shoulders, never the weight of the world, though honesty did unfurl.

“As I did your own power, Ser Ostrum Brandish, as bright as lightning and as loud as thunder.” He glanced at his partner, offered him a grin, cracked a walnut between his teeth, looking back at the band. And maybe he’d be interrupted any moment but he determined to keep speaking as much as listening.

“You. Me. Ryiek. Garrod.” No nut between his lips but the rim of his cup as he rewarded himself a deep drink. His companion could afford it. Granted, Vandor was a mercenary, so was naturally cheeky about it. “I ever wonder what happened to them.” Perhaps more than a meager mercenary should at that.

“To think, we met in a tavern quite like this, you remember?” The Corner Cross was its name. Some miles out from the city of Alliria. Crossroads were exactly where this mercenary found himself recently. Intersection. Indecision. Vandor Colton. Ostrum Brandish. Knight of worth. Soldier of fortune for plunder.

“You are a poet,” Vandor stated the obvious. Ostrum had since shown it. “I wonder,” as he listened to music. “Do you play any instrument?”

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

Ostrum allowed Vandor to speak, and awaited turn to reply. The man seemed firmly to enjoy the social license of such a place, Ostrum observed. He himself further resisted the nagging of his body to indulge in nourishment, further contenting his discipline and willpower as he received Vandor's inquiries, remembrances, and indulgences.

He gave no nod of affirmation nor sign of rising mirth of talk of their meeting in the previous tavern. Such was just a moment in life that had carried him to his purpose. No spirit of nostalgia lived with him for such recent things, nor for past things beyond formative memories as a squire. To go before his induction, before he in body and then spirit paid tithe for deeds of his now kin performed years before his birth. That tithe of his vocation.

He did think on that time before his forging for but a flash of an image, irresistable. Perhaps it was hearing the chatterings of so many, or the way Vandor did turn him introverted for his own council of behaviours. An image of snow covered evergreen trees did strike, the howling of beasts in the night did accompany, a singular ax buried into stump did lodge crooked. More revealed itself, Ostrum transfixed to his own memory that burdened him. That ax wrenched by what strength a child had to bear. Carried to bedside, the barring of the door and this vigil routine. And much long waiting for the sun to rise.

He blinked three times, allowing himself to return in waves from that image and the associations, to what he had become, what he was now until his death. The conclusion that those moments before were only to be indulged in some place more hallowed and patient than this place of social glibness firmly guarding him from becoming a deluge of remembrances himself.

Must be hunger's gnawing and this merriment finding what prying ways into my being, Ostrum did think. He took a sip of stout. Planting it down, he replied with the same assuredness in his voice despite his experience of being reminded of what was, and was never to be returned to.

"I do not command the weirding ways as you might. It is not the leaning of my Order. The Killing Arts, this I know. And poetry, yes, I know this too. Such is engrained into us, to serve the realm and resemble more than brutish things before and after we are deigned to dispatch, obligated to challenge, and honoured to serve and protect. The vow of lexicon does not consider the musical arts. We are not minstrels, nor would we serve in court with lute or-" Ostrum said, and arrested his speech as he did remember. He gave small smile.

"Ah. However, there was one. It has been known of some to commit skaldry. To embolden troops, to raise morale. The spoken word turned from lyricisms to melodies and powerful deliverance. Speeches, we do perform, to turn a tide of soldiers or wavering council of war. But there was one of our Order Enshrined. One who did shame the maestro, who did rouse from dread the will to fight in those he was retainer for, and, provide stalwart contest with absolute assuredness it did carry much in memory beyond his life. Many a victory attained. And further, glory and esteem to us all."

Ostrum said all so factually, without glimmer of joy. Yet there was a nostalgia there upon hearing it often as a story before sleep, when comforts were hard to find, one lived vicariously. An ache to meet one who he would never meet again as he once did. In stories as a teenager. Even if one had no tone or timbre, one could imagine a singular Enshrined turning the tide as they did sing, and much profit was made by the imagining, so that it might become fuel to the toils of training and tests.

Endless tests.

Ostrum made to attain some food, giving soft words of etiquette to the halfling as he did provide vittels to himself. He placed a small portion of suede from the side of the fire, prepared for this very moment, to offer some tending to this dish so sustaining to any who did stay here.

He returned to the table with full bowl and let the rising heat and scent further enhance his delayed enjoyment of receiving rations.

"So you see, I have no instrument but my Killing Arts given implement and geas. But a word committed is an action unto itself. And we are judged by the manner in which we so commit. A deed wrought by influencing vow, by breaking silence, we are known and are judged for our delivery, and indeed, nature of how we deliver or condemn others as a consequence of what we do utter."

He began to eat, slow, his eyes to his bowl now, allowing Vandor some time to digest what was before him.

Vandor Colton

 

[Vandor Colton]

Spoiler: Music IC

Simple. That was Vandor’s tongue. Plain as day, never mind sunlight, for he was never quite that bright inside his mind. Violent, yes, unscrupulous even, after a fashion, but not mindless. Not some senseless goblin. Friends? Granted, he didn’t have them. Only had traveling companions if the assignment required it. Memories? He had those but, much like his companion in this tavern at the moment, he rarely reflected on them. Only if the occasion called for it. Perhaps it did. The environment certainly served up the experience as it did breakfast whether it was time for dinner.

His own was surely cooking, soon to be coming, though whether his server would be comely Vandor had not entered this tavern to be served that journey. Tonight? Maybe, if they decided to stay the night, and he wouldn’t mind the presence of a woman in his bed. At the moment, however, he settled for mixed nuts and musicians, though he just as much listened to the fine tongue of Ostrum. Vandor might be a simple man of simple tongue and taste but his companion’s was like a fiddle as plucked and by the fiddler onstage.

Killing arts. Though, just as with his poem spoken on the road, Vandor might not recognize some of what Ostrum spoke, his dialogue not flowery but fancier than his own speech, he did revel in familiarity with his counterpart’s ‘killing arts’. Different versions, surely, but what was a mercenary who did not possess the art of killing within his arsenal?

The Order of the Enshrined Blade was ever a mystery for Vandor; however, the more he walked and talked and fought with this knight the more he was learning of his company. The mercenary’s voice, singing in merriment as often as not as he journeyed night and day, was just as much joined with knights of ill repute; from black knights to hedge knights to exiled knights and knight-errants who just liked to commit crime.

There were knights of orders, knights of companies, knights who had sworn their swords to noble houses, but many of those knights, in this sellsword’s experience, were anything but noble. The same could never be said of Ostrum Brandish. At least, not yet.

Weirdling. Vandor backtracked to that word even as he listened. Skaldry. His companion might be no musician but he was given the vocabulary that this simpler mercenary appreciated. It was a far cry from the piss and shit that came out of the mouths of bugbears and other men whom he had the displeasure of working with. If the fellow’s fellow Enshrined Knights were anything like their brother Ostrum Brandish then Vandor could only wonder what melody they may make besides with blade. The sellsword's instrument.

“Ah, finally! It might not have been everything Vandor had ordered given some provisions and ingredients were apparently lacking in the kitchen but, nevertheless if better yet, that had meant his food had come out even sooner. It looked no less delicious and never mind the eyes of the server as she exchanged his smile with a wave of her eyelashes.

Vandor thanked her, slipped a rasher of bacon between his teeth, and swallowed. His consumption was as slow as his companion’s as he digested breakfast-dinner as much as words. “You may not play the lute, then,” Vandor began in answer but never looked away from the stage. “Yet for as long as we have journeyed you have indeed offered me only truth. So, in a sense, as your sword does sing and your gauntlet does drum, perhaps your integrity is your true melody, your greatest instrument, Sir Ostrum Brandish.”

Vandor slipped him a grin, bit into bread, shrugged his attempt at wisdom away because, in the end, this was no knight but a mercenary content with simplicity. Then again, Vandor did relish making melody, making love, crushing his opponents into dust more than noble knights might, so maybe the simple man in this duo was actually Ostrum. if in the best of sense.

“As for me, I also play no lute but I do play the flute from time to time.” Not at this moment though. He was busy eating and listening to the violin. It was a single violinist, a solo performance, as the musician opened his lips, singing.

“Far be it from me to tell you my woe, such as you’ll never know
Heart carved apart, you cannot understand this man torn in half
I began as one, it’s true, though I sit and stand in this task of two
No cloth can clean this bloody tale, so I get lost in broth and ale”

Ostrum Brandish

 

[Ostrum Brandish]

What flatteries came were weathered as much as criticism might. Even tempered to such feedback, it at least pointed to some shrewdness of determination in Vandor, Ostrum did think. All praise and all criticism from those not of his order was to be taken with much salt, he knew that much. Yet, to see some values of his order was recognised, and did provide a temptation to indulge in such recognition with all it's own allure.

There was much saccharine elements in him, Ostrum did judge as he fought against contentment to his purpose and standing. Yet, perhaps, Ostrum did think, he himself had grown too harsh and distant to common experience to appreciate things as they might be to others. Vandor was good enough for company in the field, and caused no offense grevious. That was enough, Ostrum did think.

He gave polite smile, neither affirming such compliments or with over reaching humility deny them.

The song was enough, and the meals that both men ate as they listened did much to fill the time. Soon to retire and be about their rest, be it in solitude and reflection, or in merrymaking and hedonism of common life, all the more joyful for it's survival from combats endured.

The tavern was their place of rest, the winter boots to be delivered on their coming travails, payments rendered to Vandor for his efforts. And further tasks beyond this matter of bridge brigands bested, of merchants allowed some space of time to travel across those bloodied waters, would be accepted and embraced.

And greater deeds that would demand much of these two warriors was soon to be laboured upon by fate's scribing hand, set by coin and code the two would travel to their new appointed task with new faces to liberate and combat, departing far from this Surly Pig, and the bridge that would inevitably be once again claimed and turned lucrative by criminals abounding.

But that bridge, like so many concerns of the realm, would be a task for others to attend in their absence. For these two had other duties to call their own to give response to, be it culminating coin or vow availing, to the Spine would they travel, to face another task beyond the wits of the regular citizen.

For those who carried steel and the will to wield it were never in want of cause to rise to conflict's needs and profitable wants and ways.

--FIN--

Click here to read the next story with Ostrum and Vandor (and new faces) - The Frozen Cabal