Knights of Anathaeum Madder Dawn to Break

[Isander]

Crisp autumn leaves cracked underhoof in the knights' wake as they rode the Valen's length. Leagues out from Svapna, still in the shadow of the Spine and within range of the tributaries trickling down, they made some haste across the Wilds. The hours blurred together as fog burned to afternoon, as the sun trailed a lazy line to its crest and beyond. Caution gripped them, making sure to maintain the horses at no more than a canter. There was no sense in killing the beasts, not when the journey promised many passings of Pneria to come.

Isander among them held himself loose in the saddle; an arm at the reigns, spear aloft in the stirrup with a ready ease. Fixed in the accoutrements of combat, he wore well the linking maille and padded leathers that denoted his profession. They echoed the grim cast of his lips, the severity that held his gaze in taut survey of the sloping woods.

Reports of bandit activity lay folded in his pack, copies distributed around the others as deigned necessary: a score of armsmen taken by greed, deserters by every color of the word. They had made merry of their casual brutalities these past weeks, putting hamlets to the torch and raiding travelers on the road. Scraps of parchment did poor justice to their work. Kidnapping, larceny, murder, all pale reflections that but touched upon this sort. Butchers, the lot of them, deserving little more than the death riding forth on steel and hoof.

Under such determination did Isander purse.

Casting a nod to his companions, he said, "Not an hour more to Seymoor's Fife. What chance this lot's mayor will lend an ear? Two farmsteads already, and not a one but boarded their doors at the sight of us."


Castor Vega Solon Raye

 

[Castor Vega]

"I don't think we give them a choice." Castor's words were calm and measured but frustration lurked just beneath the surface. He had witnessed Cruelty's aftermath and was not in an overly conciliatory mood. They had come here to help and yet were being denied at every turn. He knew that they people were simply afraid but this could not go on any longer. Too many atrocities had transpired, and these bandits wouldn't stop. They'd fallen far too deep into the mire of their avarice.

Castor's opinion on the matter was clear but that was all it was. He was not the senior knight on this mission, probably for good reason. The Sworn was however reassured knowing that both Syrs Raye and Isander were present. This problem was unlikely to be solved through words alone. Steel would have to play and both were formidable fighters.


Isander Solon Raye

 

[Isander]

"Ride," Isander said with a snap of the reigns, not sure whether the hard syllable was meant for his companions or the futile air around them. It mattered little. They shared in his soured mood. His jaw was set, clenched taut to keep bile locked behind teeth that ground painfully at each clopping step. He wore the shroud of silence, let the hour pass them by in its grip.

Time was their currency, and they three paupers all.

He spared no small effort in unwinding his fingers from the reigns, loosing the tension that had coiled within him; it writhed from the arch of his back, throbbed in the veins pulsing at temple and neck. He had to breathe. Long, slow. It helped, if only just.

As they neared the first licks of smoke signaling their approach to Seymoor's Fife, Isander managed a semblance of calm. He carved it into his visage, features fixed in a near sightless stare into the ether beyond. The horses brayed, winded. Drew from canter to trot, trot to walk. He eased his posture, slouching at the saddle, ready to release foot from stirrup and set upon the ground.

The Fife, a collection of farmsteads and timbre framed houses clustered around a nearby tributary system, bore witness to them. Fieldhands paused in their labor, children looked up from their play. Apprehension hung in those gazes. Strangers rarely portended fair tidings. Isander held no fault to them.

"Castor," he said, swinging from the saddle.

"Any clue which of these lads is the mayor?"


Castor Vega Solon Raye

 

[Solon Raye]

Gzash was his name.

A vampire in service to a great master that had run rampant through the countryside for a time. Solon had taken the assignment a week ago. When the moon hung high in the sky, he'd poured over tomes and sharpened his blade. He'd prayed and slept early. His horse was well rested as well. The fight was much shorter than his preparation. Gzash's head adorned the side of of horse, white maned and with gold armor just like his. The vampire's face was contorted into a snarl, his canine teeth showing permanently. Hardly a trophy that Syr Raye wished to keep for himself. Rather one that he would deliver to the Lord who had commanded the creature be killed.

In time. That was still a ride away...

He'd been passing through Seymoor's Fife when he saw his brethren. There'd been chatter about bandit raids and the people were on edge. It didn't take him long to revognize them. The Knights of Anathaeum were not many. His horse's hooves behind them would have given away his position. His armor that shined like a star in the day would have let them know who he was. Syr Solon, the Knight Pursuant bowed his head to them slightly.

"Syrs," he greeted, eyeing them both. "Is it a mission or a pleasant ride that has brought you to Seymoor's Fife?"

 

[Castor Vega]

They rode further until finally arriving at the Fife. Truth be told it was much of the same. Castor considered their tepid reception a blessing. It had not been so with their previous attempts. None had yet to shutter their doors or ignore their presence entirely, thus hope remained. The Sworn dismounted just as he heard the sound of hooves behind him. Castor instinctively reached for his blade but quickly let his hands fall empty.

"The former unfortunately," responded Castor with a pained grin. "Coincidence seems to have favored us for once. It is good to see you Syr Raye." While younger than Castor, the other knight was significantly more accomplished. The Sworn had no problem with accepting help from a talented hand.

He turned his attention back to the other knight. "None of them, to answer your earlier question. However that slightly larger abode on the hill looks very much like a mayor's residence." Castor was hardly confident but surely that would make for a good starting point. Better than asking lads that were just as likely to piss themselves than answer a question.


Isander Solon Raye

 

[Isander]

The field hands beheld the party, their labors slowing as curiosity and suspicion crested brows in equal measure. Seymoore's Fife had no need of strangers; perched along the peatlands in the shadow of one of the Wda's tributaries, few well-intentioned travelers braved this deep into the Wylds for trade. This was a known quantity to the folk, particularly in the wake of the latest band of brigands holding up in the knolls.

Conversation trickled to whispers that followed the party. Muted, muffled. Hoes and sickles were laid at easy grasp. Readied. But they contented themselves to watch, to wait. Violence was a heavy thing, a burden not so easily shouldered.

Isander knew this, and yet raged boiled within him. He felt it. That powerlessness, that disgust. The inability to change, to escape from circumstances beyond any reasonable ken. He turned to his companions, dismounting in kind.

"Were that we found ourselves on a pleasant ride, Syr Raye," he said, brushing down his maille. He righted his posture, plucked the spear from its couching stirrup.

"Brigands have taken to the hills," he said. Sucked in a breath, lifted his voice. "Rapers, murderers, thieves all."

He looked to the farmers.

"We will kill them. But not alone. The Fife will know peace."

He nodded to his companions.

"Come. We shall pay our respects to the mayor."


Castor Vega Solon Raye