Knights of Anathaeum Perhaps Just Brawn

[Dal]

Four months had passed since Dal had been given the opportunity to prove himself as a Squire. Four months with a regular routine of physical exercise which bordered on the masochistic. Masochism which was enabled to further heights by proximity to those who could heal and bolster his body's recovery times to the ardours he placed unto himself. While Dal had always been one to aspire to a strict regimen, this unique monastery in this corner of the world allowed him the diet, the manpower, the equipment, and the respite from his mercenary contracts to perform, so he might reach new heights of achievement and conditioning. He had the hunger for success. And yet, his appetite to become great was denied satiation.

Time was running out before he was finally judged worthy. If he might swear oath. Or remain as he was, squire. And there was a deep refusal, even at the first mention of that fate, of remaining a simple squire in Dal's mind. And to Dal, he thought that without the ability to summon magic as the others did so readily, he would be a liability. Someone to be pitied. As if he were someone to simply hand arrows to archers instead of drawing back his crossbow in turn and releasing volley when commanded.

Magic. That unknowable mystic ability to change what was possible. This was what Dal failed to enact in the world. And it was driving him to points of exasperations. It drove him onto greater heights of physical endurance and strength, his pursuits in exercise becoming more challenging as he encountered failure after failure to conjure a single damn thing.

The training was intense and successful where his arcane ability failed to ignite within him.

It was not merely muscle which became stronger and more adept, for he paid good mind to lift the heaviest thing that could possibly be hefted, but his mind became more learned for his application towards the scholarly. Yet, such pursuits, while they broadened his mind on the ideas of magic, were not enough to imbue him with the ability to draw upon that wellspring that seemed to Dal to come so easily to others.

He applied himself with serious and dour mindset, adopting the same traditions which had guided him to being a consummate professional as a mercenary. No smoking. No gambling. No distractions. It was like old times in many ways, but only he was far less alone. Which in itself was a help and hindrance. Some might call him rigid. But, he called himself committed. And so it went.

Another encounter within the library, the source of the knowledge that was being granted freely, yet denied by his own inability to calling forth what was required.

“I'm telling you Parshen, none of these books are working,” Dal had said, his mantra to the librarian. And once again, he was handed another collection of books with a frustrating calm.

“Try these,” Parshen said.

Books which Dal proceeded to read studiously while pumping iron and chewing on roasted chicken. Hungry bites with eyes that didn't look at the meat, only the written word, re-reading sentences over and over until committed to memory. He often took to cooking meat while reading, and eating meat while reading, and going for long walks with weights upon his shoulders while reading. The body was being tested as much as his patience. He was pursuing anything to give him the edge on an all too blunted weapon. In between reps he recited what he had learned. All rote memory. No triggering of the arcane within his blood.

His mind was slowly understanding concepts like laylines, arcane winds, various theories on mana, yet, for all his rote ability to recite these training manuals, no spark of power was granted to him. No flicker of the life magic that would set him able to perform in those moments of crisis. No hint of any other element at his fingertips.

Always the fear of being a liability amongst such a proficient group of warriors did lurk within his mind. The elation of physical training kept him confident in his skill in violence, kept himself with some semblance of composure. But the gnawing of doubt and the building of exasperation was growing pressure within him. With blade, he knew his own worth. With his frame he knew that he could best many, and receive a beating and continue for another try to those who were swifter than he with blade. But always he had to rely on others to bolster his bruises towards natural hue, he always had turn to others, in his mind, like a wounded puppy, to attend his injuries. To say, no, I can't, when he wished he could render the arcane his weapon. His armour. The perceived humiliation was growing day by day as he became more exasperated with his own mind.

And it grew to a head.

A slammed fist within the library and upon the reading desk, a rising to his full stature and a tirade followed from the usually composed Dal.

“Why isn't there a...a something to drink, some food to eat, and then, it appears! The power. The power to summon...any fucking thing! Instead of being so damn useless in this field. I have read, what, fourty, fifty fucking books on the subject and do I get a single cantrip, a single gesture which fucking works? No. Just, try these books Dal. None of it helps me grasp this! Give me a tree to lumber, give me a weight to carry, a trial and then congratulations, you've got it! Instead of this. This wall I can't climb. I can't deal with this. I'm going for a walk. A long one. Useless! Absolutely, and completely, without merit this entire time of reading this magic stuff when nothing helps and I'm just a warrior who can't-”

He breathed. He rolled his shoulders and looked down at the impression he had made on the wood. He placed fingers across them and huffed.

Parshen was approaching to tend both the desk and Dal.

Dal made swift exit to avoid whatever Parshen had to say and inadvertently slammed the door in his departure, so incensed he was at his own frustration, leaving a mountain of books and a damaged desk in his wake. He proceeded to walk silently, his face a scowl, not making eye contact with those who he might encounter, when usually there might be a simple nod of respect. Clouded by his own frustration, he was absorbed by his own failure and gritted his teeth at his own inability. His own failure in his eyes.

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

Kiros was ready to depart from the festival, with his memory stone safely tucked away in the farthest corner of his travelling sack. To say that it belonged there would be to imply that such an idol belonged upon Arethil at all, which was a belief Kiros highly contested. Despite his reluctance and ire, he simply hadn't a choice in the matter. In possession of a soul that was damned and unfit for passage into the Astral Valley, his only available options were service to Her, eternal damnation, or the redemption of his soul. Had he the answer to the latter, he'd not have been here. His search remained ongoing and fruitless. At least presently, it was doomed to continue. He wondered just how far it would go.

Itra was no longer a kept secret, though She was still far from widely known. Constructing an idol of Her image was not something Kiros had ever imagined himself to be tasked with, yet here he was. Still, matters could be worse. A small blessing that this place carried no danger. Rather, the knights were rather friendly and welcoming. They even handed him the memory stone that he thought would be much more difficult to obtain. No quest She had ever sent him out upon had ever been this easy, even if the task itself was terrible.

Kiros didn't care to show others Her likeness. He didn't care to know what She looked like anyhow, nor what She sounded like. Kiros didn't care to know Her at all.

With everything set, Kiros took his bag and departed from the quarters he'd kept himself at. Upon bidding farewell to the innkeeper, he made his way down the path that lead out of the place. He gave his surroundings little regard, until a familiar sound met his ears. Someone was having a bad time of something, and it sounded like that someone was Dal. The more that Kiros heard, the more certain he became. He clearly remembered that level of frustration from Dal before.

Kiros made his way over to the source of the shouting, but before he could even make it halfway there the door burst open, and from it stormed Dal who slammed the door shut on his departure. The sight was a surprise, Kiros hardly expected to meet him here, of all places.

Dal was a mercenary last they met, in possession of far better principles than temperament. Initially incensed, he could not judge Dal for it too harshly. Kiros' own temper had gotten himself in plenty of troubl before. Even then, Dal's outburst had prompted a likewise retort from him, so stressed were they from the brutality of combat. Yet, against terrible odds, they had seen the ordeal through. The orc was a fine warrior, and the bonds built by battle were far too strong for insult to corrode. Though they hadn't initially been on good terms, they could not have parted ways on better.

Stopped where he was, Kiros looked to his old companion who wore a scowl clear on his face. Kiros hadn't a clue what was troubling him, having heard just enough to understand how troubling it had been. Hesitating a moment, he chose his words carefully before he spoke.

“Dal?” Kiros remarked. “I'd not expected you here. ...Is something amiss?” Kiros continued, of the mistaken idea that Dal had arrived as a guest, and was not currently here to train as a Knight of the Order. The thought of Dal ever practising magic didn't cross Kiros' mind at all, the notion seemed so absurd. Yet, that was exactly what he had been doing – even if the practice hadn't gone well.

Dal

 

[Dal]

Dal's scowl was deeply entrenched into his face despite the familiar sound of Kiros' voice. His foul mood and condition was not to be swiped so easily away by seeing an old comrade. Too enraptured in his emotional state, he remained silent a moment or three as he tried to reorientate his mindset to greeting such a fellow. Slowly the cogs turned, and his eyebrows raised from their firm set frown, his eyes softened, and he rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled.

It was clear that something had changed with Dal, least of all his lack of plate mail. His features were there to be seen and read, no hiding his sense of shame, or his half orc heritage.

“Kiros, of all people. A familiar face who isn't of the Order,” Dal said factually, as if his mind lumbered to face the facts of who he saw.

“Good to see you,” Dal said, exasperation in his voice at his circumstance. He took a few steps closer and appraised the cleric for any marks of conflict upon him. An old habit of the soldiering life, seeing if there were any fresh scars from combat to adorn like medals upon the flesh.

“What's amiss? By all that's worthy, I am not, it seems,” Dal said cryptically. He made one long motion of rubbing his face in a downward motion, and cleared his throat, as if trying to growl away his slowness in speaking about it.

“Near enough anyone else, I'd just keep this to myself. But...I'll tell you honest and plain. I'm a Squire of the Order of Anathaeum now. Not that's what I'd keep to myself. No. It's magic. Magic is the damned thing. You know I have no truck with it. No...gift. Barely understood a thing about it when we fought beside each other,” Dal said, acknowledging the scalding that Kiros had provided him.

“Since coming here, I've been studying for months; nothing comes. Thought with enough reading I could crack it. See,” Dal said, and pointed a thumb backwards, as if implying the entire Order were behind him at the library, “I took up arms with the Order to be with the best. Well, that's not how I came to be here, but it's where my heart is now. But, to be with the best, I have to be more than just a sellsword. I have to be, well. More. Can't very well be the only one without magic when people are depending on me. Might make the difference to becoming, well. You know. What a Squire aspires to be.”

A knight.

He didn't want to use the word so liberally, as if speaking the unattainable right now made it more so than it already was. Like some mewling child who grasped at the air for their mother's teet, he thought.

Kiros Rahnel

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

“...Magic?” Kiros replied, disbelief clear in the tone of his voice. It was not that Dal had joined the order – though Kiros hardly expected to find him here, he couldn’t be surprised that he put his sword to the higher purpose they offered. That much had not changed, and the orc was as obsessed with the warrior’s way as he’d ever been. Dal explained his lack of talent or knowledge of magic, which Kiros was well aware off. He had made such clear during their misunderstanding in Ixchel, which he too made a further reference. Neither could forget the initial disagreement, though it weighed not upon them. It was but a minor difference of many, insufficient to fracture the bond that shared battle had brought.

“I cannot say that I ever imagined that you'd be moved to pursue such a craft.” While Dal didn’t exactly request any assistance with his efforts, he hardly seemed the type to do so explicitly. But by his account, he was in desperate search of some means of magical manipulation.

“Command of the arcane is far from a trivial effort. Most all mages have found themselves in such a spot when starting out, I'd say.” Kiros himself was far from a master of the craft. While he could cast spells, he’d never known the first thing about actually writing them. Creation and modification was a matter left to Her, and She was completely careless with what She wrote. The effects She enabled were concrete and inflexible – Kiros had limited ability to alter them. Much of what the priest knew merely concerned theory, with limited practically towards invoking anything beyond what She, specifically, had written. Even that much had been a strenuous process. Though he knew now how to cast magics as the Knights might, he had still been through the process of learning, and had gained some ability to guide from his experiences. Unable to tell Dal what he might need to do, he could perhaps point out what had been going wrong.

Though it was enough to help a friend, there was a further benefit his good deed might bring. Kiros had been granted a new tool since their last meeting, and Her gift was as clumsy and ungainly to use as most any power She'd granted him. Yet, in helping Dal obtain a grasp of performing magic, Kiros might gain further experience in the use of his staff Heirahit to detect its presence. It'd be an opportunity too valuable to be dismissed.

“I'm in no particular rush, nor had I any particular destination, mind.” Kiros continued, with a gesture towards his travelling sack that had been packed in preparation for departure. “Perhaps I could keep by to aid you? I know not of the nuances Anathaeum's brand of magic might carry, but I do recall well the trials and difficulties present in the beginnings of learning the craft.” Kiros continued.

“Or perhaps we can grab an ale and fret about it later.” Kiros added. Far be it from Kiros to get in the way of a well-deserved break.

Dal

 

[Dal]

Dal's expression remained serious as his temper still roiled his gut even as assurances came plentiful from Kiros. It allowed his frustrations to breathe and be quenched in small part, his mood becoming more hopeful for hearing an outside source of help. This wasn't a simple reading suggestion as Parshen had offered. This was a powerful cleric he had seen in the field offering some initial instruction to his floundering.

He remained sharp, focused, searching the words provided for any hint of passage to his chosen journey. And as it revealed itself, Dal becoming hyperfocused as he heard the offer, but reigning in his seizing of the opportunity, he remained stone faced. He did not want to seem as a desperate case to assist, his own pride and self respect muddled with his sense of relief of frustration being salved by instruction from the potent cleric. But one could read the twitch of his greenskin ears to see that his interest and attentions were piqued.

Magic. The stuff of possibility made manifest to be yielded to him. Although Dal did not think of it so articulately. It was a gnawing need, a hunger within him to find proper place with his comrades. To not see their faces in the battlefield and find dismay when he might apply bandage when a flash of light and power should be in his command. There were new standards amongst the host he was part of.

He would not shirk his self imposed duty to ascend to their level, even as he found words of adequacy were bestowed to him in hints and suggestions by his comrades all too cloying and sympathetic. Accepting lot these Anathaeum, he had thought. Perhaps too accepting, although such a position if adopted fully would yield his own presence in hypocrisy. He was accepted into the Order to prove himself worthy of the title of knight. And this capacity, to Dal, was of uttter paramounts to that aspiration.

“How could I drink ale when you offer such a salve,” Dal said, thinking himself approaching some essence of wit. He smiled as he felt the rush of relief mingle with his elevated temper, his body fixed with some adrenaline to it from his previous temper driven outburst. “I'm nothing but fretting about this,” Dal admitted. It was a point of humility bordering on humilitation, but the bond of battle between the two of them allowed such honesty.

He explained himself.

“The Order, I was lucky to find it in the state I was. Torn to ribbons. Utterly punished by combat. Left to wander and bleed out. They were able to bind and mend me beyond what many could. If the old regiments I served with had the kind of power to heal that Anathaeum does, well. I'd have a lot more friends.”

He made small gesture with his hand to gesticulate his talking point.

“I'm not looking to summon the might which you do. But your brand of healing? I'd wager good part of my coin for such a thing, even a fraction of that capacity. To stabilise a comrade,” Dal said, and looked far off in the distance, “To deny Death for one's own side.”

The way he said the word Death was softer than the other words, not delivered with contempt. And he spoke the words that were so unfamiliar, so directly adverse to the swing of his sword arm. The way one might speak quiet the word of a divine presence for fear of summoning it. A hint of reverence to a concept that had served him before battle, a reverence which Dal had so engrained within him that he was not aware.

Perhaps the cleric would detect such a conflict of...faith within him.

Kiros Rahnel

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

Dal had paused, though his expression remained as stoic and steadfast as it always seemed to be. One of the two ofers was likely to be welcomed, and either would be a fine reason for Kiros to remain and extend his stay.

Dal opted for the latter, and accepted the offer of arcane assistance. Only now did Dal smile, and Kiros shared a small grin upon seeing it. To deliver his old friend from frustration was a gift he was glad he could provide. Though Kiros was a middling magician, he knew the trials of magic and spellcasting all too well – compounded by the fact that he had Her for guidance. If he could ever feel certain of anything, it was that he would make a far better mentor than She’d ever been.

“A fortune then, that we cross paths anew this day.” Kiros responded. “So to them, I owe this meeting.” He added. From Dal’s account, he would have perished had he not been found and mended by those of the order. A surprise to Kiros that his old friend had a newfound appreciation for the magical craft, when the two had conflicted about the very matter before. But time and experience had a means of changing attitudes – again, a truth that Kiros was well familiar with.

Kiros paused at the mention of ‘his’ brand of healing, a cursed boon that had been gifted by Her. Coin would have been a far preferable price to have paid for it than his own sanity. Though such was a truth he could not divulge. Further mention of Dal's own god of Death did little to quell Kiros' concern, however. To deny Death, to which he had pledged himself in battle in Ixchel raided the question of whom or what Dal placed his faith in now. Doubtful the Knights would be seen favourably by such a deity, and the tone his companion took was telling. Whether he had changed religion or was in the process of doing so remained unknown, nor could he even be sure that his interpretation was accurate.

“To deny Death?” Kiros asked, as he continued to ponder. Formerly, this would have hardly been an issue, but Her attitude had changed since. No longer did She endeavour to maintain Her secrecy. Rather, Kiros had been tasked with spreading Her name, to much continued fustration and fret. None deserved the misery of knowing Her, much less serving Her.

“...So, you speak of a new faith as well?” It was his hope that Dal might speak affirmation to another faith, and put Kiros' concerns at ease. It hardly seemed likely that he'd desire to follow Her, but given the reaction of Bubkiss on his retutn to the mainland it behooved him to remain cautious. Unlike Bubkiss, who had a keen interest in theology, Dal was unlikely to know who Itra was – beyond the unknown deity Kiros pledged his 'faith' to.

None, knew who Itra truly was.

Only Kiros was cursed with that knowledge.

Dal

 

[Dal]

Dal was somewhat set ajar in his confidence of things as Kiros placed the accurate question to his vagueries. He turned his left foot, his shoulders arched back slightly, as if he was ready to roll the question over his back and behind him. He gave out a low 'hmm', not in affirmation, but acknowledgement that he was processing the question.

Hardly new faith. Hardly faith like his. Hardly faith at all. Never had a response from beyond as striking as he has. Yet here I stand, despite it all.

No point being coy about any of it. Who better to talk to about such a thing. Help can't be granted to a problem hidden.

“Well,” Dal breathed, and turned his foot back, his shoulders becoming parallel once again as he bore the question and hefted it with his frame and mind, “I don't exactly call it faith like yours. I'm just a soldier. We have our rituals. Been doing certain things as long as I was surviving. And, well. I come from orcish tribes. Things worked differently there.”

He left that fact empty of detail delibately. Pointless to go over the orcish Gods he had no time for, and knew would spite him for even breathing their name.

“No godhead has spoken to me. No sign from above or below. But, I have certain things that brace me. Before a fight. Before you clash steel with another, and know that someone's life is going to be cut down, run through, battered and broken. To vanquish or be vanquished.”

Dal crossed his arms, and then quickly unfolded them as he tried to embrace an open dialogue. He was aware of his own reticence to talk about it. It was deeply personal, yet, he knew that if he could, and indeed, should be honest with anyone about the subject, it was Kiros. He'd earned such a prying into his mantras, and he was offering to help. Perhaps this was part of the process. The cogs of his mind slowly turned, yet failed to find a mechanical advantage for this line of inquiry yet.

“Been repeating certain things. It's not that I,” Dal said, and lowered his tone, as if admitting the shade of his soul in the starkness of banishing daylight, “Worship. I don't have statues, I don't pray in any temple.”

So what, is it a prayer I perform before battle?

What's the bloody word for it?

Ritual? Bracing of the mind? Framing the picture?

His internal lexicon, witting or no, had improved for all his reading of arcane texts. While his hands did not command any magic to muster, his ability to grapple with his own internal frameworks of reference had improved. Had Parshen known such a fact he might begrudge his recent outburst less.

He continued, speaking quicker and more fluidly for his willingness to engage with his own beliefs and habits. No-one had ever prized open this aspect of things. No student to teach, he had not imparted his habits, no master to report to, he had not been held to account for his rituals.

“I've had this, healthy respect, for the nature of combat. The finality of it. I brace myself by the reality of it. That life is ended by a stroke of my sword, and their weapon wishes my own final moment. Never had a vision, never had a voice, never had a divine blessing like you, or Eren did. Just. I survived. Because I accepted the end, allowed Death to do it's work through me, and if it claimed me. Well, that was that. Over the years I've repeated certain things, and it carries me through before I engage. Sets the mind right before a fight, to do what needs to be done. To ready yourself to see anyone fall, be it friend or foe. So the panick that claims the novice doesn't grip you too. So you don't morbidly look at someone when they are ended. I don't know if you'd call it praying, but I do...think about it and repeat the facts to myself before a confrontation.”

He became more sure of himself, his placement of words like heavy stones in a half constructed bridge between him and where he needed to get to.

Dal certainly sounded sure of himself in these moments, even as he had previously admitted no sign, no voice, the facts were clear to him, and his belief in the nature of combat hard won by muscle, sinew, scar and deed.

“Death is real. Death looms. Death recognises Death. And if you ignore it, don't prepare for it, don't guard against someone's desire to end you, well, you will be ended, and that's that. Resolute acceptance of death frees you to act when fear strikes. That's, the best way I can put it. Never had to state that before really.”

Dal finished speaking, and awaited in the void of understanding between the two of them to see what the man of faith would say to the soldier of morbid ritual.

Kiros Rahnel

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

His question had caused a notable response from Dal, who paused with a contemplative 'hmm' on being asked. The pause only heightened Kiros' concern. Much had clearly changed in Dal's life, and Kiros tensely awaited his answer.

“Well, I don't exactly call it faith like yours.” Dal admitted, and Kiros was relieved to hear it. Better that Dal not make spiritual inquiry, now that Kiros was mandated to spread word of Her. Better that Dal not follow in his footsteps, when they had already been the cause of such regret.

“No godhead has spoken to me. No sign from above or below.” Spoke Dal. Kiros could only wish he was so fortunate himself. A relief to know that Dal's faith remained in battle, and devotion to Her unlikely. An ironic notion for a priest - To honour and worship the divine was generally considered a noble virtue to be extolled, yet She had proven Herself a detestable exception. By far for the best that Dal not ask of Her.

“Worship. I don't have statues, I don't pray in any temple.” Dal continued. He spoke of his values and of their close ties with combat, that the gods had left him alone. Of death that did not frighten him. Kiros could not say the same. To die before redemption was to damn himself to The Pit. Yet, these were troubles he could not dare speak of, lest he lose what meagre progress he might have made towards his goal of self salvation. Death was a matter they both prepared for in different ways. Kiros did not seek danger, he was divinely mandated towards it. Dal sought out combat of his own volition, as it was simply his way to swing the blade. Dal lived to fight, and Kiros fought to live.

Kiros had his answer on the matter of faith, and responded with a simple nod. “I see, and those tenets are true to what I recall.” Kiros spoke. He could not deny that it was like Dal to hold such a view. It was enlisting with the Knights that was a surprise to Kiros, but he reflected on the words of his friend.

“But, what brought you here, then? To enlist as a Knight?” Kiros then asked. He could imagine possible reasons for Dal to have been here, but there were merely guesses and assumptions. The change from mercenary to knight was stark, and it was doubtless there was strong motivation behind it. This might tell him more of the Knights, of which he knew admittedly little of beyond their hospitality and arcane talent.

It seemed Kiros might learn much as well.

Dal

 

[Dal]

Dal gave a neutral expression. His ear twitched for a moment as he heard someone coughing out their lungs nearby from inhaling too much from a pipe. The sound of habits of soldiers at rest. Or influencing one another to have less capacity in their lungs, he thought.

"Was wounded. Badly. This lot fixed me up. Showed me around. They had some impressive skills, both with magic and blade. I realised that for each battle where I had elites at my side, I was also beside those who were witless and undisciplined. I enlisted with this band to serve with the best. And, well."

He gave a small perfunctory gravely intonation and firmed his jaw.

"Not many mercenaries my age onwards. Knights though. Brought down many who could fight well even in their greying days. Knights live better lives, better training, better equipment. And while I'm lacking for plate now since my old set was ruined, something I'm hoping is remedied soon, and the sword that served me so well in the field we shared is gone too, the Order provides. Besides. Based in one place I can train better. But magic," he said, bringing the subject around once again, "Isn't like muscle, isn't like the body. I can't condition it. Sure, I get a few concepts. But that's all it is. Concepts. Nothing happens. Don't want to let the side down and be without it, if it can be helped."

Kiros Rahnel

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

Kiros listened to Dal continue, nodding as the orc made mention of his recovery from battle inflicted wounds within the hospital run by the order. and his lamentations on the unreliable state of training he could count upon his fellow soldiers of coin to possess. Which made sense as mercenaries were a varied lot, and were usually united only by love of coin, and not necessarily through skill of blade. Kiros could not say the same of the militia he'd been impressed into upon his own youth, whom were poorly trained and barely a step above fodder in comparison to the sultan's more dedicated forces. The Knights of Anathaeum were clearly far more elite than even they, and held high standards in arts both arcane and physical.

“A truth there.” Kiros remarked. No, the youth was for collecting the coin, preferably enough to purchase a farm or some form of continued income. Either age or luck had a way of catching up to those sell-swords who had spent a long time in their trade. Kiros considered it a small miracle that he had not been slain by now, himself.

Soon the subject was turned back to the arcane craft, and Kiros could only agree with him further. Magic had many means though which to it could be woven, but they were nothing like physical feats for mortal folk. It was unnatural and new to learn for those neither trained nor attuned to it.

“An understandable concern, and a challenging task. It does not come easy my friend, not for us priests, either.” Kiros commented. His type of divine magic might be considered simpler, enabling priests to call upon the power of the divine to invoke their magic. Kiros had little flexibility with his magic and was limited in what spells he could cast, but Her affinity was to magic itself. Even though he could not employ it, the priest held considerable knowledge of other fields of magic purely from experiences of encountering them.


“Do tell me, of what branch of magic does it bear resemblance to? To that taught at Elbion? ...If you've any idea.” He began, but cut himself off upon the realization that his question might be too deep into the subject for Dal to respond to. He was new to learning the craft, but Kiros remained determined to assist his old friend.

“I can figure that out on perusing your material. Of no doubt, I could assist.” Kiros confidently added.

Dal

 

[Dal]

“Thanks,” Dal said, grateful that Kiros had the insight that he wouldn't be able to answer the question quite adequately.

“Better this way perhaps. Can't lead you astray with my misunderstandings,” Dal breathed honestly.

“Back to the scene of the crime,” Dal declared, knowing that he'd have to face Parshen at some point or another. “I left my books there. Hopefully Parshen, the librarian, will be...understanding to my outburst.”

Surely they'd understand, Dal thought. This was growing so tiresome on his patience. But Kiros' presence gave him a hope that things were not set in stone.

He gestured to Kiros to follow with a cock of the head as he fumbled with an apology in his head.

They turned the corner to an open door where a familiar sight to the library was to be seen. Dal looked at the feet barely outside of the library doorframe, great gouts of smoke coming out of the thin man's mouth. Clad in red robes and a look of discontent that seemed permanently about his features, was the knight of dusk, Valborast Valchek.

“Your outburst cost Parshen what generosity he had towards me,” Valborast hissed, his eyes looking to the distance as he puffed away on his pipe.

Dal considered apologising.

But not for long.

“What's your game, Squire? Smash a table, think that'll get some sympathy from us higher ups instead of-” Valborast said sarcastically, and did a double take when he saw the priest in his company. He tapped his pipe and reloaded it with tobacco as he reconsidered his tact.

Dal responded with a neutral expression, yet his right ear flicked irritably at the sound of Valborast's sarcasm.

“Well well, finding no fruit in the Order you turn to this outsider? Not a good look I must say for someone so early in their path to knighthood. Or should I say, so late in their career. I'd already mastered magic at a quarter of your age. What are you, fifty? Fifty five? I'm surprised you didn't retire when you were almost killed. But what do I know. I only know the Domain of Death and Blood. Maybe you should run your obstacle course instead of trying to seize that which cannot be grasped by too martial a head.”

Dal took a moment to consider his response, for one was required. Valborast didn't even look at Dal anymore, igniting another puff of tobacco with a fingertip. Even such a minor cantrip was beyond Dal. It seemed as if it was a further action of goading to the squire. He wanted to be with the best, and sometimes the best had egos that must be bested in turn, he thought.

“Some might think it was unbecoming to goad Squires at your esteemed rank.” Dal said clearly.

Valborast pursed his lips, regarding the words, and puffed out a breath of smoke in Dal's face.

“My advice is upon deaf ears then,” Valborast said, “You wouldn't survive against me. Even with that sword and muscle of yours I could become as shadow and end you through a thousand cuts,” Valborast flared his eyes, and stood his ground. He lowered his tone to some degree of sickening civility.

“I say this in case you think of challenging me like I know you want to for speaking so boldly, Squire. You'll find what glory you might in the field, but if you never attain magic, you'll never be trusted with the high priority missions. Know that and do as you will with that wisdom. You. Priest,” Valborast said and kept talking while staring down Dal.

“I wish you the very best of good fortune in trying to throw pearls before swine. The Order thanks you for trying to help the lesser of our Order in attempting to bleed stones.”

Valborast contented himself with his own smug tones.

Dal simmered but did not betray his professionalism by saying another word.

Kiros Rahnel

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

“A fair concern.” Kiros replied. If Dal was unable to provide an accurate explanation of his craft, Kiros could uncover further details on his own. Unwieldy as his spells were, they were still specifically designed for investigation of anything magical and were suited to unravelling the workings therein. How much he might uncover remained to be seen, as though She had designed Her spells for arcane investigation, She had certainly not written them well. Discovery, though feasible, would nonetheless be challenging. For a moment, Kiros pondered what properly designed divine magic ought to look like, doubting anything She’d given him ever came remotely close to qualifying.

“I shall be able to determine more once the magic is present before me.” Kiros assured, following Dal as he returned to the scene he had just caused. Though Kiros knew not what to expect, he braced himself for the conflict that was certain to follow. He’d not been there to witness the calamity, but he’d been able to easily hear it from beyond the building. Considering that Dal was a recent addition to the Order, his outburst had surely earned him a fair spot of trouble.

As the two re-entered the building, Kiros’ assumptions proved correct. Beyond the doors was a knight smoking a pipe. It was not the authority to which Dal had caused offense, though by the knight’s account the flare-up had caused issues for them both. And the man was quite vocal on how he regarded the situation, and began to verbally tear into Dal from the moment of his return, soon ceasing upon taking notice of Kiros.

The sight of another man of magic had caused him to brag about his own talents in the arcane. Kiros remained silent, uncaring and indifferent to the feats and accomplishments the knight had recounted. A priest he was, and a college mage he wasn't – Kiros had little basis on which to assess what had been mentioned, yet didn't doubt that the tales told were a touch tall. The intended purpose of the self-promotion was to place the knight in a position to further admonish Dal, which he did at length. Curt and blunt, the knight chastised Dal’s lack of talent and assured the orc that he’d never serve as a proper knight without it. The knight then addressed Kiros, who returned a pensive look to him, uncertain of his intent. Kiros was merely wished well in his tutelage of Dal, though he did so in the same acrid tone. Kiros merely returned a pensive nod, averse to conversing further with a man in such a clearly foul mood. Silence had always been an asset, whenever She was in one.

With little to add, Kiros simply followed Dal’s example and remained silent as Valborast made his departure. The man had been about as encouraging as She was, and nearly as boastful as well. Perhaps such attunement magic gives one a fat head, Kiros mused. The assumption held true for the wizards of Elbion.

It certainly true for Itra, a deity of magic itself.

Dal