Completed Snake in the Eagle's Shadow

Passing through the wall the group did travel, sans their guide who upon providing the true passageway into the cave system did attend their duties of the mountain. The knights were upon their own for the grace that Frazil had provided. The caves ran shallow, yet deep enough to hide enough their pursuers. The earth did shelter them, and guide them onward to their egress without being hampered.

Sando, Lefelen, Chadwyck, Bebin, Montbank. The group had made their way through the mission. Now the stalagmites and stalactites reflected what light was carried and made, sheen from years in the making. Statues that were smashed in places, the heads desacrated, loomed across the walls, their bodies fat, their hands holding staves that represented wisdom. The passage carried with it a column of fresh air that raced in pulses as one faced the right direction. A clue as to how to free oneself from this place by following that thin jet of air that did run true in the place.

Montbank relied upon the good assistance of his comrades, spending time with the comrades that cycled their attentions to aid him. The discomfort of being underground was allayed by the proximity of those who he was so used to spying from up high. He remained quiet, and thought on how long he might have to spend in the tanks, or just perhaps with a simple dose of healing. The pain was not quite so acute for not having to labour on his own. Still, more than most encounters, he was left with an afterimage that did rise into his vision as he held darkness for a moment too long. The eyes of the griffon. The cowl of the wizard with burning eyes that did forgoe it's mount in favour of further violence.

“I think we're close,” Montbank said to Chadwyck who assisted him in this moment, and looked for signs of the same kind of invisible door that had yielded to them. His comrades deduced the same thing as he, and they all stood before what was not a dead end, but in fact their passage delivered true.

“Thanks for carrying me through this. I should be fine to travel now. Let's get home.”

As a sign of independence, he stepped through the invisible wall and blinked hard as the vision of the rock faded to reveal more familiar forest sounds...

Bebin Theros
 
Light of day warmed the skin it kissed as Bebin blinked back tears that welled about his eyes, so used to the dark after their long trek.

Rations low, men still wounded, with little rest.

He took in a long breath, and felt the crisp mountain wind revitalize him. Give strength back to his tired limbs. If only just to march a little further. "We keep close, we go slow and we rotate the forward scout," he assured, and stepped forward, his boots crunched down the gravel of the soil, his frame tall, head high and alert as he snaked down the slope.

Far in the distance, but a shape on the distant horizon, one could see the Eldyr tree. The sea of emerald green tree tops vast between the grey stone of the mountain, and that distant sentinel.

Further still was their home, the Monastery.
Some days later...

There was no knock at the door to the room in the healer's hut. Nary a sound.

"Syr Bebin," Josai said flatly as she attended the mostly healed wounds upon Montbank's wing. "It is common courtesy to announce yourself,"

Bebin huffed. "We've need to debrief, Montbank," he said stoney. "That mage..."

Josai shook her head. "You'll be good as new within week's end, Theo, just be sure not to push yourself," neatly, she put away the pots of powder, and salve. Their bitter scent, diminished as she moved away. "Syrs," she said and bowed before she left.

Bebin's expression was stony, and unchanged.

Theolonious Montbank
 
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Montbank nodded and closed his eyes in a sign of understanding at Josai at the medical advice.

Don't push yourself. Most flying is out of bounds then.

Flying was always a venture in pushing the impossible. Feats of daring, highwinds to explore and traverse, manoeuvrers and tricks to practice. None of that for now. Montbank didn't want to spend time away from the action more than he had to, and that meant rest. The others would have to do as they must without him. To act as he might want, to be free and alone for a time, in some vantage in the clouds or trees, that was not allowed. More time with the ground troops.

He sighed. Free from his gear, for his task was to heal, not be in preparation for combat, he felt somewhat vulnerable for lacking his tailored plate. It was arranged neatly in his quarters, ready to be donned another day once the healing was truly done. His sword, a mark of his station, was still at his side, this time looped in the typical fashion, not the flush configuration that allowed him to fly and not lose his implements of knightly combat.

Theolonious looked to Bebin. It was a reassuring thing to the sky knight, that stoic expression. It was unperturbed. Like he himself was. Or so he maintained. But the tremors of being so close to total defeat lingered. This time, there were no nightmares. He did all he could to fill the time with healing, with conversation, with reading. But still, he had come close this time. Had the ground support not been there...

"That mage, quite.” Montbank said slowly. He rotated his wing slowly. He wasn't constrained to military conversation now, although in this moment of reliving the account he still sounded his stiff self, concise, yet with a hint of making good a tough situation. “Terrible shame about the griffon, I expected the mage to save it. But he wrote both their fates with his base decision. Wouldn't you say, Syr?”

Montbank wasn't sure on that even as he said it, but made a good show to at least sound as if he had conviction about it. It was a military endeavour. Regrets were for people who hestitated. Montbank wouldn't indulge in anything that might hamper his future ability to act with the decisiveness that was required of him. The winds would not forgive should one not practice such boldness with one's choices of perspective.

I did what had to be done. As did Bebin. As did Bebin.

Montbank kept eye contact with Bebin, silent as a statue, the only movement was his taloned feet clenching slightly and then relaxing.

Bebin Theros
 
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Bebin gave a nod in agreement. "A shame, yes," he eased his posture some, saw the shake in the owl knight's feathers. Noted how his talons clenched, and loosed. Clenched, and loosed. "We cannot speak to what motivated the man, and his decisions," it was a horrid site. The bolt of red, the storm of feathers and wings as the griffon fell from the sky. "He was our combatant," as if that designation changed anything. As if it lightened the burden any. "The griffon, a cost his blind devotion was willing to pay,"

It was not the first upjumped mage they had come across. Bebin's mind flashed back to the mission upon the peaks of the Spine, all those years ago. Where he and Faramund had faced down a pyromancer whose command of flame proved more potent than reports indicated.

Thought to the Prelate and the Cloak of Many Eyes.

Raw and untrained. More powerful than sin.

"You did well out there," Bebin assured. "We would have been in more dire straits were it not for your overwatch and quick action," he let the words sink in. Smiled. "I would have likely been trampled under-hoof when I had fallen,"

Theolonious Montbank
 
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"It's what I'm here for, Syr," Montbank replied dutifully. He smiled slightly at the recognition. It was good to get some feedback. Usually it was his targets to abscond away from the battlefield that were in his position. Wounded. In need of the talk of assurance. It was odd to be at the other end of it. Certainly his fellows went to thank him, but after a few days after his duty had ascribed his actions, he had grown cold to it, merely affirmed people's gratitude with a simple nod, a simple deflection of, "It was nothing."

It hasn't been nothing this time. He had spent almost every offensive manuever he had to perform as he had done. If he hadn't prepared everything in proper fashion, things could have gone very differently he knew. Bebin and his other comrades had survived in good sorts. That was the main thing. A reward unto itself for his preparedness and actions, as Bebin said.

"What did the Order attain via this mission? I trust it was worth the venture I hope?" he asked.

What immediately sprang to mind to say was, 'Was it worth the danger?'

But he thought not to say such a thing. A mission assigned always was worth the danger. Doubt of that did not exist within his heart. Just the reflexive pained self wanted to say such a thing, pained for his own sake, but primarily for putting his comrades in such a peril. He trusted his superiors. The cause. The purpose.

And besides. It would be bad form to utter such things, Montbank thought, composed before his superior.

Montbank added, "And you never have to thank me for what I do."

Bebin Theros
 
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Bebin let the knight's response hang in the air. "Nonsense, Theo," he said with some softness in his tone. "We are not lord's men, nor are we professional soldiers, in true," he let his eyes come down to the floor, to the old stone of the room. "We serve a purpose that calls to us, but any one of us may leave if we so choose," he knew more than a few knights who had. He looked up at the sworn knight once more. "I will always thank you, for every action you take in this cause, and should you choose to leave, I would thank you all the same, for all you have done,"

He bowed his head to the knight. "And I thank you once more, Syr Montbank," next he rose he cleared his throat.

"We uncovered valuable intel regarding potential targets for poaching by house Galdabrent," he let out the air from his lungs, drew in new breath. "Oldgrowth woodland, hunting grounds, potential mining veins," he shook his head. "Its unlikely that the Galdabrents are the only ones with this information," his mouth set into a grim line. "It will allow us to better patrol those lands, and set up networks for quicker responses to the region," he paused. "Work for another time,"

Theolonious Montbank
 
It was a humble display from one with such prowess. But while he felt a heavy dose of respect to his soldier's spirit do him well, this talk of being free unsettled Montbank in some small measure, and he couldn't place quite why immediately. To be free to fly away to some far off land, certainly, he entertained it, but only as a mere idle thought while coasting within and beyond the cloudscape.

While it was true he took brief leaves of absences to alleviate his tension. Yet during such times he remained in contact if something was desperately required of him, to scramble to some immediate task. He skirted a fine line between being truly away without leave and being within distance to attend these rare crises. Montbank had been receiving less and less punishment as people understood his position better. But, while he indulged in flights of fancy, he never gave any real thought that he might free himself of this life from the knights.

He was needed. He understood that much.

He wondered if Bebin was using some kind of reverse psychology on him, but thought better of him than to use such a tactic to secure his placement here.

My fellows need me. My desires are second to their needs. I won't abandon them. What would I do with my time anyway. It would be squandered in comparison to these duties. What they do for the soldiers who think, it's okay. Montbank's coming. It'll all be okay.

The facts made him know he was needed. Bebin made him feel needed, and as if his agency was respected. He settled the unsettling feeling as just jitters from being injured. There was no excuse he could provide to get away from such flattery. It would be improper to take the words as they were not intended. And so Theo gave a low hum in acknowledgement.

“Work for another time,” Montbank intoned quietly as he organised his thoughts.

He thought on the work he might have to provide to the one other person that he needed to impart the importance of this kind of winged operation. How close to the line it had been, and how 'proper preparation prevails against prevailing preventable problems' had rung true again. Or so Montbank's saying went.

“I thought I should let you know. I'm taking time to train Off-the-Wall Westbrooke, as he is known. Whether they take to the lessons I've had to learn the hard way is another matter. But I won't speak unfairly so soon in the game, what? Spirited lad. Well meaning. Just got to apply their beak to the grindstone. There's a lot of ground to cover even before you touch the skies you know. I will say this. Would do my nerves better if I had more sky gifted operatives like him to mould. And, I dare say, I believe it would assure the chaps than to have one single sky knight out there. I'm...just one person. The open winds are a awfully big place, if you catch my meaning.”

Bebin Theros
 
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"Westbrooke," Bebin replied, a bit of a smirk on his face. "Glad to hear you have taken an interest in him," he mulled over the other pieces. "Yes, it is that" he sounded, and crossed his arms about his chest as he leaned back. "It is above my station to speak on the formation of a new corps," he brought one hand to his jaw, and rubbed at the dark bristles of his beard. A sharp grin showed itself upon his mouth "But you've proven yourself the man to lead such an effort, Theo," he let his hands fall, folded them over each other behind his back as he stood with his head held tall and sure. "Pray tell, Sky Knight," a roguish grin still curled his lips. "Have you heard of the orders Talon Corps?"

Theolonious Montbank
 
That mention of his title did solidify his pride. He noticed the roguish grin and felt his own interest piquing.

"Talon Corps. Can't say I know anything about that. But I have a jolly good feeling I'm about to find out," Montbank said and seemed to relax a little by their conversation. He had expected a simple consideration of the idea of more aerial warriors. Not a name to be dropped for him to chase up.
 
A smirk quirked the corner of Bebin's mouth. "A unit of Sky Knights, Theo," he smiled wider. "A part of our order's storied history. Sworn kith and kin who rode upon the winds, as you do now, deemed the Talon corps."

He turned, and stepped toward the room's window. Cast his gaze out to the world outside.

"I plan to put your name forward to lead the efforts in reconstructing such a unit." His gaze cut back.."Are you up for the task?"
 
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A storied history which Montbank hadn't had the time to read or hear of, there was simply too much preparation, too much training, too many labours of itemisation of his gear to be spent in the ancient lores of glories past. Still. The name was evocative to Montbank, who clasped his claws for altogether different reasons now. Excitement and cheerful uncertainty that shored up much good feeling in him. But he balanced himself, realising that what was being asked of him was a huge responsibilities.

On the ground, when he was human, there had been clarion calls of organisation, sweeps and proper order and drilling to ensure formations could be called and fulfilled. In the skies? Disorder could very easily rule the day. Mass confusion. Disarray. Panic.

“If I'm granted the materials about what the original Talon Corp's function was, and anything on their methods of training, certainly. Their successes and possible mishaps. Their rise and falls. I don't want to appropriate a honoured core of our Order without knowing their deeds, and I won't lead anyone who's not ready for the battlespace. Air to ground as solitary support I understand, but what you're suggesting sounds like...possible air domination.”

Montbank seemed to rise slightly taller, a slightly deranged and ambitious look in those eyes of his.

“I'd be proud to lead such a venture. Recruits. We'd need to find recruits. Does that fall to me? I might be able to scour the land in search of people. If I was...given leave. After I study our purpose of course. And prepare everything for them in turn.”
 
Bebin's eye glimmered. "You have leave, Syr," he bowed his head to acknowledge the order. "To study, prepare and recruit for this endeavor as you see fit," he looked over the Sworn Knight. "You would do well to speak to Master Hawken, and seek his council in this. The Master of Life hails from Oban, and Pickles, the ornery old griffon in the aviary, was once his trusted stead," a small rumble in his throat. "Been some years since that old beast has taken to the sky,"
 
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Leave on official business. It would take time to take to the skies with a head full of respect to what was being asked of him to foster. And what shape that might form. A single individual could make all the difference from the skies. He'd have to find the right talent, the right attitude, the right aptitude for the esteemed position.

"I wonder how many more things I have to learn about the skies. Thank you for trusting me with this. I shall seek their council and see what I can manage. I've been at this task for years. I'm glad my request has reach the right ears. I best be about it then, if there's nothing else. Once again, thank you for guiding the ground forces so excellently. Things around here wouldn't be the same without your direction."

He fought the urge to say something stupid in his giddiness like, 'I won't let you down,' but thought better of it.
 
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A short breath pushed out of lung, and a pleased look upon his face. The smile, but a feint curl of his lips. Nod.

"Rest is your first priority, Syr," he said with a grin. "Mayhap Parshen can bring you some reading material, if you are so inclined, the broad knight brought his heels close together, and snapped a fist against his chest, sharp and quick as it thud against his frame. "Strength and Trust, Syr Montbank," the Pursuant salute. Turned on his heel, and made for the exit to let the sky knight get his much deserved rest.
 
Montbank returned the salute, the gesture filling him with new found confidence in the scheme that was being devised. A resurrection of the old way of things, to take to the skies and to render them useful beyond simple gazing. The winds would provide more than fodder to the windmill and his own efforts, that is, if the reading was done, the recruits were gathered, and the old ways honoured.

But for now, there was rest.

Montbank felt his muscles ache, the satisfaction of harsh endurance received and braced against. He let his wings slowly lose their tension of being so ready to answer the call, for flying was forbidden for now. Rest first, then to new heights of understanding.

In the days to come, it was often seen that Montbank was reading deep into the accounts of olden battles, of battle arrays of collections of sky knights, their needs, their victories, the lessons learned from the harsh sting of defeats. A broken wing here, a memory of a fallen knight there, an accolade of daring, a motion of recklessness punished yet respected by the mavericks and frowned upon by the stiffness of command. Parshen provided in healthy dose these accounts, given in tomes that were instructed to be treated with all the respect they commanded. They were the parchment inscribed history of those that could not longer pass down their knowledge and lessons except in their dutiful records.

Montbank at first simply read. And then, upon his growing awareness of his own position between the past and future, a present sky knight in charge of this new revival, so did he begin to write. His talons picked up quill, and set about a new book, first in journal form, notes, ideas, possibilities, and then at Parshen's insistence, a finer bound book which resembled the previous accounts of the Talon Core. The new meeting old, the present moments of concerns and efforts to be recorded by Montbank. He used both in conjunction, one for rough notes, the other, a blank canvas that he felt the heaviness and promise of a living history's possibility.

The first words, he pondered, that he might write into the heavy tome. This was a moment in history all it's own, and it simply wouldn't do to leave them without some degree of flair, some gravitas, and respect, he thought. Some days were spent in consideration of the first words to etch, as his journal became a working manual for his own reinvention of the Talon Core. A maneuver of his own compared with the oldest deeds and protocols. Various designs of harness in comparison to the the infused and estoric armours of the old sky knights. Blazing blues and pale whites of arcane enriched materials to grant protection which he himself did only dream, in spats of ambition, of his future comrades wielding in their contestations of the sky space that awaited to fill with the Talon Core's members. As his imagination blossomed, so did his daring to write within the tome that would mark the true creation of the Talon Core.

When one night, when the moon was full, and the rain did fall, when the infirmary was the last day to contain him, did a cool wind brush against his wings and bristle them, refreshing his mind to the task truly at hand.

He scribed his words thus.

To those who came before who kissed the sky with soaring wingtip,

To those who come after who dare to ascend into the heavens,

We give thanks for the gift of flight,

For the knowledge and awareness of the duty that befalls us,

Has been paid by efforts and faith,

Strength And Trust.
​


And so after the ardours and success of the mission he and his comrades had dared to execute, fuelled by Bebin's direction and authority, was the Talon Core first leap from past to present delivered in the the stroke of a pen, and by a sky knight's determination to restore past glory to current winds and skies.
 
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