Private Tales Aspirations & Ale

[Samantha Black]

Marek turned back to Anja, already lifting his glass. “It’s not actually elf-” he started to say, and then some random man walked in and proceeded to unload a monologue like the tavern had paid admission.

Marek froze mid-sentence.

He stared. Open-mouthed. Blinking once. Then again. His gaze tracked the man as he talked and talked and talked, eyes slowly narrowing not in suspicion but in pure, unfiltered confusion.

Is he trying to put a spell on me? Am I getting sleepy?

By the time the stranger finally drifted off, Marek was still sitting there, silent, glass hovering near his mouth like he’d forgotten what it was for.

Sam ordered another round.

Marek turned to her slowly and jerked a thumb back toward the door the man had exited through. His brow furrowed. “…did he just call me a crack?” he asked, baffled. He paused, thinking it over. “I don’t even know what that means.”

Then the new drink arrived, and whatever existential crisis had been forming took a backseat. Marek brightened immediately, took a grateful sip, and sighed.

“Ah. Right. That helps.” At Sam’s question, he shrugged, the movement tired rather than dismissive. He had never been asked that before, so he pondered for a moment before answering truthfully. “I’m just… done,” he said, quieter now. “Done living like tomorrow’s always a problem I’ve got to punch my way through.” He rolled the glass between his fingers. “I want somewhere to belong. Somewhere I can actually use what I was born with. Get better at it. Become someone. Not just scrape by.”

He glanced up at her, studying her properly for the first time, not as an authority, not as a threat, but as a person who might actually listen.

“…and I’ve been rude,” he added after a pause. He set the glass down and extended his uninjured hand across the bar. “Marek.” He gave a polite nod to Anja as well.

A crooked smile tugged at his mouth as he looked back at Sam. “And you’re Anirian, right?” he added, nodding toward her. “I know the accent. Don’t think I’ve met many folks from there.”

Samantha Black

Sam had a few notions of what a crack might be, but whether or not the boy was a crack in the system of societal expectations or an asscrack remained to be seen. Such a thing felt a bit premature to name for what was otherwise rather complex subject matter.

Listen she did. When she was younger she hadn't done enough of it, but Sam had learned it was an undervalued skill. She sipped quietly while he spoke, licking the taste of summer from her lips and trying not to let her memories distract her too much, especially now that some of the layers of his front were peeling away. Was a bit quicker to get to the meat and potatoes of the matter than she expected but Sam wasn't going to complain.

"...and I've been rude."

The woman glanced aside at him with a faint smirk of acknowledgement. She met his hand with her own, a firm grip that relayed a quiet confidence with its role and purpose here. About to introduce herself he cut her to the chase with a guess at her origins. Sam's smirk broadened, "Not many have reason to make the trek to Alliria. Lieutenant Samantha Black of the Anirian Knights, Third Level Dreadlord, Leader of the Dragonsbane Special Forces Squadron." It was a mouthful every time she had to say it, but in this specific conversation it would mean something to him.

"This is my ward, Lady Anja Traue of Oban-" she nodded toward the younger woman who had finally taken up her cup of cider to test with the tiniest and most delicate of sips.

The young woman's lips pursed at the flavor, an expression taking her face that clearly indicated she was not capable of forming an opinion. Anja very slowly sat the cup down on the bartop and delicately pushed it toward the Lieutenant.

"Don't you like it?" Sam asked, perplexed.

"I like the idea of it," Anja replied simply.

 

[Marek]

Marek’s smile lingered as Sam spoke, right up until she dropped her titles.

Each one landed like a hammer. Lieutenant. Anirian Knights. Third Level-

His eyes widened.

Oh. Oh.

He straightened so fast his stool scraped the floor. His shoulders squared on instinct, posture snapping into something that was half-respect, half-oh-gods-don’t-screw-this-up. His brain promptly began sprinting in circles.

Dreadlord. An actual one. Not a tavern story. Not a warning whispered by scared people in alleys.

Right here.

He swallowed. Hard.

“I-uh-” Marek glanced down at his hands, then back up, then halfway rose from the stool before stopping again. “I don’t… know if I’m supposed to bow? Or salute? Or-” he gestured vaguely, “-do something that isn’t this.”

Internally, he was screaming.

Fuck, Marek, you’ve hauled bodies into pits for coin. You’ve worked with a drow and a vampire in the same week. Get it together.

Outwardly, he forced himself to breathe, jaw tightening as he wrestled his expression back into something resembling composure. “Marek,” he repeated, a little more formally now. “Just… Marek.”

Then Anja pushed the cider away and he was thankful for the brief distraction. Marek blinked, attention snapping to her, brow quirking. “You’re mad,” he said mildly. “That’s good cider.”

If she didn’t reclaim it or was too indecisive, he shrugged. “Waste not.” He reached over, snagged the cup, and tossed it back without ceremony, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking immediately more himself for it.

Finally, he turned back to Sam. “So,” he said, voice steadier than he felt, “Anirian Dreadlord, Dragonsbane, all that.” A pause. “Why come all the way out here?”

Samantha Black

 

[Samantha Black]

Yeah, that was the sort of reputation Dreadlords carried for the last century or so, she supposed. Among the initiated survivors of her predecessors, most of them comported themselves with zero care for life beyond their own. It wasn't unheard of for Dreadlords to wipe out entire towns and cities for a mission simply because it was easier to burn down a forest than find a path through the trees.

That sort of business wasn't allowed anymore, but she'd be lying if she said making people squirm at the name Dreadlord didn't amuse her.

"You don't have to do anything..." she replied quietly before taking another sip, "Just Marek. You're not my subordinate."

"You're mad."

"Actually, I'm quite content," (Sam snorted a laugh into her mug) Anja replied with an easy smile, making no effort to stop him from enjoying the cider on her behalf.

It was good to see Anja interacting with the locals with such ease now. A far cry from the timid thing scared of its own shadow she'd brought home from Oban. "I'm a member of the Forgemaster's Guild," the Lieutenant began, "attending their bicentennial formation anniversary meeting. Once in a lifetime kind of thing, all the best Smiths from across Arethil in the guild are here... just so happens the date fell during the month of the Tournament."

 

[Marek]

There was a flicker of recognition the moment she said it.

“The Forgemaster’s Guild,” Marek repeated, a quiet chuckle slipping out before he could stop it. “Invite-only.” He shook his head, amused. “I don’t think I’m even allowed to linger in the district where the meeting took place.”

His gaze dropped to the sword at his side. The blade was nicked, dulled in places, the metal tired in a way only long use and cheap repairs could manage. He thumbed the spine absently, not embarrassed so much as… aware.

“I always thought,” he said, slower now, a little softer, “if I could make one myself… something built to take the lightning instead of fighting it….” For a moment, his eyes went distant, caught on the idea. “A blade that actually works with me.”

Then he blinked, shook it off, and took a sip of his drink, the moment passing like smoke.

He looked back at her, curiosity plain now, not guarded.

“So,” Marek asked, casual but earnest underneath it, “how does someone even become an Anirian knight?” His signature grin tugged at his mouth. “Asking for a friend. A very underqualified, poor friend.”

Samantha Black

 

[Samantha Black]

A blade enhanced to conduct the power of magic rather than repell - now there was a thought. Her own studies and practice into enchanted weapons and armor had taken a back seat upon her promotion to Lieutenant, but now that she'd become more settled into the role her free time had begun to open up between missions. The last weapon Sam had worked on was the Runesaber for Alistair Krixus, but the project was on hold while its benefactor was away.

Hm.

She glanced at him, brow propped at his interest in the Anirian Knights, "For starters you have to be an Anirian citizen and then you have to put in the time with the Anirian Guard and make a name for yourself. The Knights are hand-picked from the best of the best for their merit, accomplishments, loyalty, and skills."

 

[Marek]

Marek’s face fell the moment she started listing requirements.

Anirian citizen. Guard service. Best of the best.

He let out a long sigh and tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Well,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face, “that seems impossible then.”

He paused, then coughed awkwardly. “Because I’m Allirian. I mean-the friend. The friend is Allirian. Definitely not me.”

He shot her a sideways look, half-amused, half-annoyed. “You almost had my hopes up there, you know. Thought maybe I’d finally get out of this dump of a city without having to steal my way out.”

With that, he knocked back the rest of his drink in one go, setting the empty glass down a little harder than necessary.

 

[Samantha Black]

"Why not just leave with us?" Anja offered from her seat.

Her voice drew Sam's attention with curiosity, as she thought the girl had wedged herself back into her book. Didn't think her the type to pretend to read just to eavesdrop... Anja was more overt than that. She'd more likely sit there and nosily watch the two talk. Apparently she was quite good at multi-tasking.

"You've mentioned the need for a square-"

"Squire..." Sam corrected her gently, amused, her gaze slowly panning back over toward Marek with the amusement lingering.

"He can't be a Knight," Anja made a shrugging sort of motion with her shoulders as she turned a page, "but he wouldn't be here."

It wasn't a terrible idea, all things considered. He'd proven in the ring he had the gumption to meet threats head-on, and while he wasn't a trained soldier he had the capacity and willingness to learn. Sam didn't say yes, but also didn't immediately say no. She raised a brow at him to gauge his own reaction.

 

[Marek]

Marek blinked when Anja answered instead of Sam.

“…wow,” he said, pointing at her with his glass. “I’m honestly impressed you knew I wasn’t actually talking about a friend.” He shook his head, grinning.

He turned back to Sam then, trying to keep his hands from trembling. “Yeah-why not?” he said quickly, before he could overthink it. “I mean, I can go be a square-” he grimaced, “-squire. That. I can do that.”

There was a moment where he just… looked hopeful. Open. Like the idea had already gotten its hooks in him.

“Come on,” Marek added, half-grin creeping back in as he tried to play it cool. “Lady like you doesn’t waste time buying drinks for people like me unless she’s already got some kind of plan rattling around.” He shrugged, palms up. “Figure the worst that happens is you kick me back to the streets later.”

 

[Samantha Black]

"I was not convinced you had any friends to speak of," Anja replied rather bluntly, looking up from her book at him while he pointed his glass at her, "it's okay, neither do I."

"Dang..." Sam's brow went flat as she smacked her lips dryly, "guess that makes me chopped liver."

"You're my sister," the girl responded quietly as she looked back to her book, "that's different."

A dark, pointed brow twitched at the words, though the Lieutenant was pleased to be seeing a bit more personality out of her regardless of its manifestation. Seemed being around people her age was helping. She shifted her attention back to Marek who was suddenly presenting with puppy-dog eyes. Eesh. Is this what happened to the youth when it was raised by society and not Proctors?

"That is leagues away from the worst thing that could happen to you..." Sam replied flatly. Captain Holstag had taken a chance on her when she was 9 and elected to enroll her in a trial program with the Knights at the Academy. Marek was quite a bit older, she surmised, but no less malleable given enough beatings and direction.

Sam eyed him, the frigid stare of glacial judgement pining the boy in place, "Being the Squire of an Anirian Knight is a lifestyle, Marek. You have to get up every day and live it, completely, without question or complaint. My Squadron and my people are my family. I don't suffer fools. You won't make it back to the streets--I will put you in the ground at the first sign of deceit or treachery. Is that clear?"

 

[Marek]

Marek fired back at Anja without missing a beat.“Yeah, well, if I need lessons on how to actually be a square, I’ll ask you, m’lady.”

The words were out before his brain caught up. It was only after she went back to her book, blunt as ever, that it clicked what she’d said about herself. And he would have to come back to process the whole sisters thing later because Sam already had his full attention again.

He straightened as she spoke, really straightened this time, spine going rigid as her tone shifted. The humor drained from his face in stages, replaced by something tighter. Focused. A thin thread of fear ran through him, not panic, not doubt, but the kind that comes when you realize someone means every word they’re saying.

Put you in the ground.

Yeah. She wasn’t posturing.

He swallowed once, then nodded sharply. “Sir, yes, sir.” The words came out fast and automatic, followed by an awkward, too-quick salute that was more enthusiasm than form.

Then he hesitated, hand hovering mid-air before dropping it again, brow creasing. “…I should be saluting now, right?” he asked, glancing at her. “Since…uh. Subordinate. Or is that later? I can wait. Just…tell me which way’s less likely to get me killed.”

The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself, but his eyes stayed locked on hers. “Crystal clear,” he added more quietly. “No cutting corners. No games.”