Private Tales Moments in the Woods

[Jenavere]

The morning fog lay unnaturally thick over Greymere Hall; Jenavere Calder -- standing at the window of her study on the third floor -- couldn't see to the village of Merewick, only a short walk from her gates. She didn't like it, not when there were orcs apparently marauding in the area. Her fingers rested gently on the sill, fingertips gently tapping on the old wood. To her right, she heard a log settle in the fire, the soft pnnnf of air escaping, catching fire, curling around blackened char. The whisper of footsteps in the hallway beckoned her to turn, so that by the time the knock came at the door, she was seated in the large chair that had once been her late husband's, and now dwarfed her.

"Come," Jenavere said. The door opened and it was a moment more before she looked up from the ledger on the desk. She was graced by two people this time -- her stalwart steward and seneschal, Master Wulfric Dane, and Ser Harlon Greve, the manor's master-at-arms and castellan. Both men approached her desk and bowed stiffly.

"Milady," said Dane as he straightened. "Word from the village. A -- hireling -- of some sort -- "

"Monster hunter, milady," Greve broke in with an apologetic look to Dane.

" -- has apparently killed one of the bands of orcs prowling around. They were, I am told, mustering for an attack at the Thierry farmstead."

Jenavere's eyebrows lifted. The Thierrys were responsible for supplying grain to village markets, and sugarbeats for the winter stores besides. "You said a monster hunter. Just one? And he took down a whole patrol band?"

Dane's eyebrows knitted together. "He was wounded in the altercation. The local apothecary is looking after him."

"And she wants gold for her trouble," Jenavere said, resting her elbows delicately on the armrests of the chair, studying the two men carefully. "Fair is fair, I suppose. Master Dane, you may take ten gold pieces from the safe." She indicated the heavy iron thing in the corner. "You are familiar, I think, with the wards in place."

"I am, milady, thank you, and -- I'm sure she will appreciate your generosity -- but that's not why I'm here. Ser Greve was hoping to send several men into the village to speak to this Skuldsson character about the most successful tactics to use against Orcs in combat." Jenavere's brain had screeched to a halt before the end of the sentence, her eyes pinning a tapestry to the wall over his left shoulder. "Milady?"

"Did you say Skuldsson?" she asked, forcing herself to straighten. "Arnor Skuldsson?"

The two men exchanged a glance. Did she know him? How? Dane confirmed that he had. "Have we your permission to send a detachment of the household men down to the village to see if we can get some actionable intelligence?"

Jenavere shook her head subtly. She cleared her throat and stood. "I think we can do better. Bring him here. I'm sure our apothecary is capable of tending his wounds. And we are more able to absorb the expense of feeding and boarding someone who has done a service to Merewick." There was something faraway in her eyes, like a song half-remembered.

"And if he won't come?" Greve asked. "You know how some of these... adventurer types are." The disdain dripped from his lips like spittle.

"I rather doubt it," Jenavere said. "Not when you tell him that it is an invitation from Lady Jenavere Calder. And if he does... well, this is a matter of regional security. Bring him here. Let Mistress Sewell know to prepare a room."

The men bowed and, after collecting the gold from the safe and then locking and re-activating the wards, left the room to carry out her instruction.

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

It happened with such brutal swiftness that Arnor had roughly no time, if any, to comprehend how violent it was what he did. The orcs came at him hard and fast on the road. They were not wasting time with robbery or banditry- they were taking the dead's loot, not leaving survivors. And judging by the path of destruction they wrought across the Spine the past few weeks, it was his turn to face them on the road. The scuffle lasted barely two minutes, but in the end, Arnor had been wounded- and the orcs lie dead. Cut across his torso, deep from an axe. It buried into his skin, his chainmail failing to stop the blunt force.

Luckily for him, he was not far outside of town when it happened. The scuffle was heard by the locals- and the many came to his aid. Even if he didn't particularly want it right away. He knew this place. He did not think he'd return. But a job was a job. That, and the good Lady had to have been married off, carted away by some fancier, better man than him.

The ache of longing, the bitter sweetness of memory, came back to him. He learned a great many things in his time across the Summer Lands. His lessons, sometimes earned in blood, were painfully remembered. But her?

He remembered her.

And he remembered how he left. A lifetime, almost, ago. Not truly- but enough time had past that he thought the memory would not sting. And yet, it did. The apothecary was a rather handsy, touchy, uncaring woman. Arnor was not an expert in the fields of healing and medicine and herbs, but he was damn sure that if he was, he would not make it sting and hurt as much as she did. Poke here, prod there. Unpleasantness all around.

Then, the door opened. Naturally, Arnor looked at his gear- swords especially, across the room. But the guards and men-at-arms that entered the abode did not appear to be the aggressive type. In fact, they did not seem aggressive at all. Most of them seemed curious, clamoring to get into the doorway to get a look. Whispers, he heard, words, he made out. Disagreements about the orcs. The marks on his body. One man correctly pointed out that he was a Nordenfiir.

One man approached, introduced himself as Ser Harlon Greve. Arnor flinched as the woman put a salve on him that felt like his skin was on fire. Said something about not catching disease from it. He would've preferred bed rest and a bath, but, rules were rules.

Curiously, though, Ser Harlon Greve asked him to appear at the castle and paid the woman treating him. He must've made an impression, or the townsfolk were expressing their thanks. He stood up, nodding at them, trying to move his stiff body.

"If you don't mind, I'll want a few nights at the inn-" Ser Greve held up a hand and stopped him. "You've been requested." He said, no malice or anything but duty in his words. Arnor took a deep breath and rolled his eyes, and opened his mouth to speak. "By Lady Jenavere Calder herself." Arnor's body froze for a moment while he was putting on one of his other shirts.

"Oh." Was all he managed to say in reply. His gear and weapons were carried for him, though, out of habit, he retained one of his swords. He was led up to the great Hall, Greymere Hall. All of Merewick village lie under it's gaze, it's protection. And hers.

He was given quarters, a basin to wash his face- despite the scrubbing the wicked witch of the woods and her so called "medicine" did on him after he was brought in and found to not be at death's door. He took a moment to himself, shaving, washing his face, making use of a small travel mirror to ensure his teeth did not have debris or blood still in them.

He took a deep breath, and walked out of his quarters. Ser Greve, ever stiff and ever present, was still there. He felt his steps be heavier and heavier as he was led towards where she was in the hall, his breath quickening. He took a deep breath before rounding the corner. Arnor's footsteps were heavier, he dragged his feet when he was nervous.

His boots stopped when he was in the threshold of her doorway. She was as beautiful as the day he left. He could've seen her in a thousand years and thought the same. He remembered his manners. She taught them to him. He bowed, properly, and addressed her.

"My lady." His voice was quieter than it usually was. Lost it's grit. She might have been how he remembered her, but Arnor looked different. He had cut his hair, shaved, and grown weary. Scars marked his face, but his eyes never lost their intensity, their glare. He wasn't sure how to address the situation, but he had to speak. It was proper, and becoming. His eyes did not leave the floor, or danced around the room.

"To what am I owed the pleasure?" He made no sarcastic remark. He did not mean it in a way that was just a formality. He was happy to see her. He was just unsure of what else to say. So much time had passed. Before she could speak, his eyes met hers finally. They remained there, hard and still.

"It is good to see you, my lady."

He meant every word, perhaps more than any other word he'd spoken in the last few months alone.