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.

 

[Jenavere]

Jenavere was standing at the desk when the knock at the door came. She didn't have a moment to steady herself, to smooth her skirt, to do any number of things she might have done if she had had a moment. The impulse betrayed something in her, even to herself. She tried to pass it off like some courtly thing -- a hostess wanting to make a good impression on a guest, a grateful baroness wanting to be presentable to the visiting hero -- but in her bones she knew. She wanted to feel beautiful. She wanted to feel that he thought so.

It was a stupid impulse then -- however long the years had placed between it and now -- and it was no less stupid now. But that was the thing about impulses; they didn't care whether they were stupid.

The door opened without her calling and Ser Greve entered, bowing at the neck. She knew instantly that the man accompanying him was Arnor. He didn't look the same as he had then. He was both more handsome and less. Older, true, but also marked with the consequences of the years in a way that she wasn't. Scarred. Perhaps more gaunt in the face than she remembered. The eyes, when they lifted and touched her own, were the same. Intense. Frightening.

Her breath caught for a moment and she straightened her shoulders. Her hands gathered at her waist, near the châtelaine on her simple chain belt, bearing a small ring of keys and a small purse.

"You are very welcome to Greymere Hall," Jenavere said when she could trust herself to speak. "I have asked Ser Greve to bring you here so we could thank you in person for your efforts against the orcs that have been threatening the area." She paused a moment. "And when we heard you were injured in your work, we thought it our responsibility to see you made well."

The use of the royal we -- as it were -- seemed to add a layer of comfortable insulation to the thing. As if she were speaking on behalf of the whole village, not just herself. "I... I hope my steward made the offer in the manner in which it was intended. That he did not arrest you, for instance."

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Beneath the facade of control and sarcasm, he stiffened when she stood. His breath hitched, caught in his nostrils. Caught off-guard with her sudden rise and her pose. She was elegant, beautiful and righteous in all the ways he wasn't. He was scarred and uncouth, she was regal, elegant, beautiful and intelligent. It showed in just the way she moved.

"You've shown me such kindness." He spoke after his own bout of silence. He dissected her words, hoping for meaning lost in them. It'd been years. It'd been a great many years- and he finally got a chance to look directly at her. She was older, perhaps more mature was the word- older implied a loss of beauty, a relic. She was radiant as ever. Just as he remembered.

Just as he remembered when he left all those years ago.

"Your people, as well. Your people are... good. You've done them well." She was a good steward, or perhaps they were naturally good and kind. They were before. Time had not hardened their hearts and made them cruel to strangers and outsiders.

"The Orcs are growing more bold-" He moved, which elicited a groan. He looked over at a nearby piece of furniture, a chair. A wonderful chair. "Forgive me, my Lady, but, I must make bold of your chair." His body practically fell into it. He was careful not to undo the many salves, burning bandages, and whatever witchcraft and awfulness the apothecary had set upon him. He coughed, taking a deep breath before continuing.

"The Orcs are growing more bold. I just was in the wrong place at the right time."

 

[Jenavere]

"Please," Jenavere said, gesturing broadly to the small sitting area by the fireplace; not that waited for her permission or seemed to require it at all. She looked at Ser Greve grimly, a minute shake of her magnificent coppery head silently wondering why he had brought the man when he was not fit to stand. Greve, to his credit, looked mildly chastened and lowered his gaze.

"Leave me," Jenavere told Greve quietly. He looked discomfited, glancing between his liege lady and Arnor. Jenavere sighed softly. "You may stand outside the door if you feel a man who can hardly stand is a threat to me, Ser Greve, but I assure you I am safe as houses."

The only one she had to worry about was herself.

Ser Greve left the room, and she heard his footsteps halt directly outside the door. A faint smile crossed her lips. She chose to see Ser Greve's hesitance as protective in nature, not distrustful. She rounded the desk but did not approach the seating area. The study was not so large that they could not converse comfortably. "The Orcs have been ravaging the countryside down the hill," Jenavere said, gesturing to a small pile of correspondence. "We have sent a few of our constabulary to help where we can, but -- we cannot leave Merewick undefended, as I'm sure you can understand." Her fingers laced together, allowing her to subtly twist at her wedding band, and a long silence stretched between them for a few moments before her dark eyes flicked up to him again.

"Are you in a lot of pain?"

Her voice was small then, almost like it was the last time they had met, when she had been little more than a slip of a girl. Concerned. A little afraid.

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

a lifetime ago I wandered away

Ser Greve was a good man. Apprehensive, but loyal. But, in his defense, Arnor would be apprehensive about him too. He made it a point to thank Ser Greve later on when he had the chance. He seemed a decent man.

"They'll come again." He said, looking up at the ceiling. His blue eyes found their way to look over at her. He slouched into the chair, a grimace when he angled his body, trying to find a position that was somewhat relaxing. With each movement he made, he remembered the strikes, stabs and cuts the Orcs gave him. Blades that pierced his armor. The crushing power of an axe. A deep cut of a stolen elven sword across his upper shoulder.

"Merewick can't protect all of the Spine.. I understand, my lady." He said after a moment. He agreed with her. Sending troops and guards to try and stem the hordes of Orcs was noble, but it would take an army that Merewick did not have. But that sounded like her. She wanted to help. She was a good person. She was a rarity. His eyes shifted to the pile of correspondence after she spoke of it. He thought, for a moment, the desperation it must've taken for them to petition even her for aid. Letters upon letters. Grim tidings and bad omens.

His eyes were lingering on her wedding band. Her question broke him out of a trance.

"Yes." He raised his eyebrows, taking a deep breath. "But I'm alive, and arguably, been through worse."

 

[Jenavere]

Jenavere twisted her ring even more at his observation that the Orcs would come back. She knew that, deep down, though she had tried not to dwell on it. The best she could do was outfit her men as best she could and trust Ser Greve in their training. Would it be enough? The thought preyed on her mind endlessly. It kept her up at night.

"Yes," she said simply. "They will. That's -- that's one of the reasons Ser Greve wanted to see you. Even before we knew who you were. I would consider it a favor -- a service, really -- if you could tell him what you know about Orcs. If he had some -- some little knowledge, some bit of expertise -- then perhaps we may come through it."

Her fingers twisted the ring again, once, then she forced herself to drop her hands, balling her fists with the intensity of the movement. "Would some brandy help?" she asked curiously. Jenavere herself could go for a nip, and might have if she trusted herself to keep a firm hold of her tongue and her eyes. She had so many questions. And Arnor being there...

It had her feeling somewhat nostalgic. And a little curious. And perhaps just a touch vindictive. Perhaps she might never have the chance to ask these questions again. Why did you leave? What did I do wrong? Where did I lack? They were stupid questions, girlish questions, the kind of questions that had tormented her because she had been foolish enough to believe, at one point, that they were the right questions. Instead of: What was I thinking? What might I have done? How could I have almost ruined everything?

"Or I seem to recall you were rather fond of whiskey." She crossed to the sideboard, examined the bottles. Slender, pale fingers selected the whiskey and a small, fine glass. Like Jenavere herself, too finely wrought for a brute's hands. Like Jenavere herself, she put it in front of Arnor anyway, with the bottle, before retreating to a safe distance, putting the desk between her and the man.

"Where have you been?" Jenavere asked softly as she sat in the too-large, but when she spoke again, her voice was tight, almost hard. "Or don't I have the right to ask?"

Arnor Skuldsson​

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

despite all the attempts to forget, there was no chance to escaping my cursed memory

Jenavere

The Orcs kept him awake at night, too. Fear and loathing gripped the land, a dread in green skin. The lack of peaceful sleep all across the Spine. Save for perhaps, the Dwarven fortress at Belgrath. Jenavere was not alone in her lack of sleep. Arnor's was guilt, not worry.

Arnor nodded when she asked about the brandy. Or any type of liquor, really. Despite his brutish upbringing, Arnor was a man of class when it came to his liquors- he'd found them to be a good topic of conversation with the right clients. Making himself appear less of a brute, and a learned man, an astute well-rounded and well-read person was easier when you simply talked about liquors for a few hours.

He twirled the glass in his fingers, grunting as he leaned forward to pour himself a glass. He capped the bottle, taking a swig. He watched her slender form, graceful as ever. And that cursed ring. She played with it, out of nervousness.

"I'll share what I know and do what I can." He made no mention of it, but the implication was that he was leaving again. Just that thread remained in the air for a moment, before he breathed in to answer her next question. They couldn't dance around it forever.

"You have every right to ask. All over, my lady. To one end of the world to the next." It didn't seem a fond topic to discuss the entire lengths of which he had gone across the world. He rubbed his face- missing a day's shave. He kept the shave, to blend in better. As best as he could, really. He was still an outlander. A Nordenfiir. He looked down at his feet. Guilt, shame. Making even the tall man that lay before her into something small.

"You want to know why I didn't come back. Or why I didn't stay."

That answer, was heavy in the air. Even he, a great slayer of beasts, of evil men, seemed to be more afraid of her, and that topic- than when he was hunting some great beast, or fighting some terrible fight.

 

[Jenavere]

At this a faint smile crossed her prim lips, sardonic.

"Do I?" she asked quietly.

If she looked at it with clear eyes, she knew why. Arnor was not the type to settle, especially not with a creature such as Jenavere. He was not cut out for quiet village life, for working with her family business to carve out a quiet, honest existence, devoid of the kind of excitement that was typical to his life now.

Or was it that her parents had a long road mapped for her, a road that Arnor knew instinctively did not have room for him? The purpose of a daughter, if one looked at it with open eyes and an honest spirit, was to sell her. Yes, you called it a marriage contract, and if she was lucky it wasn't slavery but domestic servitude. And you couldn't sell a daughter to a man with no money and no prospects.

Or that they both knew that once the thrill and excitement of stupid, young, naive 'love' wore off -- after the heat and light wore off -- they were not well-suited to one another. When Jenavere got old, or heaven forbid fat, when the luster abandoned her hair to brittle white, she was not interesting enough to captivate a man like Arnor. When Arnor got injured, when his body finally gave out, the thrill of being in his company would become tolerance and then silent resentment and then acrimony.

And that was only if they lived long enough. That was no guarantee in a world like this.

Or maybe they knew that those moments of friction between them, when disagreement became an opportunity to banter and flirt, would become bitter argument and unhappiness.

Or they understood, even then, that monster hunting couldn't keep Jenavere in a lifestyle to which she was accustomed.

Jenavere folded her hands together atop the desk, appearing to settle. "Go on, then."

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

every sun and every moon further away the roads took me, the more the draw to come back

He stared at the liquor in the glass, turning the glass in his fingers several times. He took a deep breath, inhaling deeply through his nose. "Yes, always." He spoke quietly, as if he was a child again.

"I asked myself that for years. My people- back on the Tundra, they..." He rolled his hands together. "Mingle, together. Settling down, is foreign to them. But, me?" He set the drink down after taking one. "I find myself more enamored with the idea of settling, especially now." He ran his finger on the edge of the glass, a nervous habit of his to occupy his hands. He was still with the rest of his body, but some motion and some form of task kept him grounded, focused.

"But then, all that time ago?" He looked up at the ceiling, finding some comfort in the fact he did not have to look at her to admit his fault.

"I remember walking away, and turning back to glance, once more. Hoping you'd be there, staring too- it was nightfall. Many stars, I could see so much of the town, the stonework, the buildings, the windows... The moon, the stars. Almost like daylight, how bright it was. Right after I was paid for the task. It was one of my first hunts, first successful anyways. All on my lonesome, too." Another swig, then a gentle set down of the glass.

"And then I watched that tower. I pictured you in it. I pictured us in it. And all I could think of-" Another pause. Thoughts formulated how to say it in her language. He did not often struggle with the common tongue, but in some cases, he wanted to be careful with his words, deliberate, and unharmful. But also, genuine. Earnest and honest. More than he had been with any woman, ever.

Fiirevik, the language of the Tundra allowed for mistakes and had many interpretations. It made communication more simple, less dignified and less confusing. Words could hold double meaning, words could be used for more than just what they were meant to be used. Less talking, more doing. Common tongue did not. It was one of the joys he liked about speaking it. More precise, more poetic.

"Was how out of place I'd be with you. Here. Amongst all these-" He waved his hand to the door. "People." Ser Greve included.

"I understood myself in a way, at that moment. What kind of man I had become, what kind of life I was starting then. And it wasn't one I wanted to subject you to." He turned the glass over once more.

"I still thought about you, on all the roads, and all the places, and every moment closer to death than I wished."