Private Tales Sospirando of the Wistful Vale

[Isander]

Three clicks from the monastery, Isander once again found himself in the Wylds. The precise trajectory that landed him there lay occluded to his gaze; indeed, his shoulders yet writhed with the stiffness of his recent travels, remembered well the hard caress of unpacked dirt and upturned roots. Perhaps given sufficient time he could recall an occasion on which his back had found the comforting embrace of a straw (or, under fortune's many-clipped wing, down) mattress, but he refused to dwell on such luxuries.

The leather straps of a girthy pack adorned his shoulders, bit deep into the tunic he accoutered himself with. Hours and miles prior he began regretting the choice of eschewing his customary maille and gambeson coat. Another inch of padding promised welcome relief, and in its absence he felt every step acutely. It settled as an ache in his knees, a quiver that threatened to buckle beneath a moment's rest. Then again, given the war he waged against his own lungs for calm and even breath, he also could not quite begrudge his choice.

At least, with the sun yet high in its sail across the midsummer sky, the weather held firm. This beneath the shadow of the Spine, a pleasant breeze blew staccato sighs across the forest's canopy; tall, skinny trees stood as sticks between new shoots and an ever present coat of lichen and green. His feet dragged him over a well-marked trail of chipped gravel and packed dirt, too thin and disparate for travel on horseback. A billygoat trail, surely, or some other game. He decided early on into the trek to pay little heed to such trifles.

Other, more pressing affairs demanded his attention, such as the newling Squire playing the part of pupil. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he offered a dawning shrug.

"I should note," he said, "I make for a poor mentor. Surely we are here to learn together, and I may yet seek your counsel on this." His voice came ripe with hesitation, pausing on occasion to suck in another gulp of air as he pressed into the foliage.

"Have you any experience with the hunt? Cook Pilsny shoved a satchel of potatoes and clove into my arms before we left and suggested the local partridge. A buck-quilled bird? Or something of the ilk."


Sitra

 

[Sitra]

The last few weeks were almost impossible for the squire next to Isander to describe in detail, as if everything was happening all at once and her memory was a book whose pages were all out of order.

She was rarely given the opportunity to stop and reflect; to find in that book where she'd last left off.​

But most of all, she never had the chance to simply be allowed to think. To breathe for little more than a few precious moments before being swept up again in the blurring passage of time and duties that defined her days at the Monastery. Was she studying hard under the tutelage of knights like Bebin Theros, both cousin and teacher?

Oh, certainly, and the state of her memories were a testament to that.

It was only this afternoon that brought some much needed reprieve in the form of a ranging, some distance from the Monastery. Away from the stifling routines, away from the daily lessons, away from the dozens of squires, knights, novices. Now she could finally have a chance to think. But only when her thoughts amidst the whispering trees and bubbling creaks weren't interrupted by one lamentation or another by the Knight Sworn she was following.

Sitra was not away from everyone, as it happened. In the woods a few paces ahead of her was the man who was supposed to be both guide and tutor, apparently.

However, she honestly wasn't quite certain whether that was what was happening here, and felt the faint stirring of panic as he spoke of learning together; the admission of ignorance was not a thrilling one while they were out in the middle of... nowhere, truly.

Aside from Isander's squire, there was literally nobody else that question might have been directed towards. As bloody if they were here to learn together if he had meant to ask her for directions. He may as well have asked the hundreds of little insects and animals that were going about their day in the woods and brooks of the Wyld to show them the way.

Thankfully the pause was only sought to catch his breath, before he elaborated.

Yet the question surprised her more than it should've, after she'd gotten over her initial panic.

There was a slight parting of her lips in an unvoiced query; one that she ultimately decided against asking in the hope that she was wrong. She wouldn't lie and say that she wasn't at least somewhat concerned about whether or not this grown man and fully fledged knight was asking her if she knew how to hunt out of simple curiosity, or if this was the thing he had wanted her counsel on.

Sitra uttered a quiet prayer to her gods and all the martyrs, then answered: "I have some experience, yes."

After a quiet sigh of frustration while she carefully brushed past a low-hanging branch (and then another) to avoid having her braided hair entangled in the worst of the woodland about them, she continued to speak; her voice perhaps a tad dry and without a great deal of inflection. Sitra was never more fact orientated than when she was annoyed. And there was admittedly a lot of things to be annoyed about when it came to trekking through dense foliage.

But she was trying her best not to sound too frustrated by the fact. "I'm not wonderful at it by any means, but yes, I've hunted with my father and brothers plenty while I still lived at home. I was also taught by... another knight, while we were riding to Astenvale."

Her earlier alarm had dissolved into something a little less existential by that point, and she'd since found the composure to put on her usual face of detached disinterest. If Isander wanted to look back to see anything beyond a squire that was perfectly content with following him aimlessly through endless woodland, then he would've been disappointed.

And if he had looked, then he would've noticed how Sitra was dressed in her usual uniform for the Wyld; that was, a sturdy pair of riding breeches and boots with plain leather gaiters, as well as her usual blouse beneath the much appreciated warmth of a fitted tunic that acted as an overshirt. Not to mention a travelling cloak of what might've once been a brilliant blue - before the weather and the mud had gotten to the dye, leaving it dull and washed out.

The ensemble was completed with the addition of a satchel that she'd regretted bringing; as the straps were far too loose and so it bounced and clattered at her waist at every opportunity. At first she was merely annoyed, but by this point it was simply another burden weighing her down. Every step was a labour in both her body's tolerance and whatever patience was left behind those frowning lips.

Very little, as it were.

"Have you had much experience with hunting, Syr?" Sitra did try to avoid sounding too rueful about having asked.

 

[Isander]

Isander, who picked a careful path through the browning summer brush, paid little in the way of attention to his companion behind. Boots thoroughly caked with mud and crunching in the gravel packed path that spoke of ancient stone dikes at bay beneath the churn of nature's clock, he exerted his effort on maintaining a steady breath. His eyes maintained a measure of diligence, surveying both the open ground and encroaching treeline with impunity.

It made for a meandering pace; each step taken came with fresh purpose, each gaze he cast was only reeled back in once it hooked a remarkable feature. An idle frustration hung from him at the rush with which he left the monastery. Bereft of pen and parchment, of any detailed maps for the surrounding areas, he acted on memory and feeling. It was, then, doubly unfortunate that he knew all too well that his sense for such matters lacked in certain accuracies.

Still, he gritted out what passed for a reassuring smile (a twitch of pale against lips that clung perhaps too bloodlessly to a reveal of teeth).

"My quarry tends to be of the mundane sort, Squire Sitra," he said, "men and blighted beasts. I've little experience in, uh, subsistence hunting." He loosed a shrug and adjusted the straps of his leather pack; it rattled against him, tussling a tuft of hair at the nape of his neck. Sweat that had beaded on his brow from their earlier walk began to roll freely, staining his collar in turn.

"The few I've occasioned to catch have led to interesting results. Squire Roki, perhaps, could avail you of those details.

"Regardless," he said, shifting to look back at her over a shoulder: "The haste with which we were ushered from the monastery prevented me from inquiring as to your experience. Pursuits of choice, how long you've been among the ranks, what motivations drew you so deep into the Wylds," and he cocked a patient brow.


Sitra

 

[Sitra]

When Isander admitted to his own inexperience with hunting, Sitra had simply nodded and made a noise of understanding. After all, there was no point in complaining or chiding him over the fact without sounding churlish, and for some reason she did not think it wise to be reprimanding someone that would no doubt be given the task to tutor and advise her in the future.

Not to mention how genuinely refreshing the earnestness of his answer was, now that he'd all but asked for her help on one of the few things she probably knew more than him about. Most were too prideful to make such an admission; both to a squire and a woman fourteen years their junior.

"I'll try my hand at it when we make camp, and who knows? Perhaps we'll have the chance to make use of those potatoes and cloves?"

It was a woodland teeming with life, so she was hopeful.

But as he continued to speak, Sitra couldn't resist blinking in muted surprise as she was suddenly assailed with question after question, and couldn't help but feel a little disoriented as to where to begin. The topics he brought up hardly made for idle conversation, after all. Nor did it help that she was now being actively scrutinized by Isander; her careful steps faltering somewhat as she turned her focus from the forest floor to meet his gaze, having felt his eyes upon her.

She should've expected it at some point, though. They were all reasonable questions to ask, and it wasn't like there was a great deal to talk about this deep into the Wyld - beyond what they could be eating the next time they settled down for the evening to make camp.

But even with that in mind, it had taken her a few moments longer to collect herself as they continued their journey, her lips pursing ever so subtly in idle thought as she worked over the answer in her head. All while navigating over the loose stones and treacherous roots that made it all the more difficult to gather her thoughts.

When she finally did find the appropriate words, she no longer looked so intently to the forest floor below for fear of losing her footing, but instead to Isander with the faintest hint of contemplation written across her brow.

"They're all good questions, and I wish I had better answers for you, Syr Isander." Sitra finally decided on telling the truth, without any fluff, as her face again turned away from his so that she could navigate across a fallen log in their path; the wood was damp upon her glove, softened by rot. "I arrived, say, five weeks ago? And I still only feel like I've just settled in," she continued to speak, no longer bothering with eye contact while she focused instead on what lay ahead in their path. Her gloved hands clutched at the satchel at her waist to prevent it from getting caught up in one of the many branches that she felt pressing at and tearing at her travelling cloak before - one by one - each bending twig eventually yielded to the steady advance of the two travelers.

"... as for my pursuit? I'm not quite certain yet, but it's something that I've been putting thought to ever since I arrived."

And for what motivations could have brought her to the doors of the Astenvale Monastery?

Well, maybe she wouldn't tell all of the truth. "When you ask of my motivations, I assume you mean to ask what brought my studies to Astenvale. I cannot confess to know the truth of it, beyond the fact that my cousin is in residence here. I suppose my family found the idea of tutelage under someone like Bebin to be more appealing than the alternatives," Sitra made a noise in her throat; the sound of what could be amusement, if it wasn't so tinged by bitter undertones. Not that it would mean anything to the Knight Sworn trampling through the forest ahead of her, really.

Quickly pivoting, she added: "How long have you been a Knight Sworn, if I may ask?

 

[Isander]

Spear sufficing as a walking stick, Isander's progress came in steady clips. His steps were picked with a measured caution, eyes vigilance in their constant survey of the thickening woodscape. It made for ponderous travel, the scenery mottling before him, wearing thin his focus.

Were it not for the presence of the Squire at his flank, Isander perhaps could have considered calling for rest at this hour; indeed, the fatigue of prior journeys culminated on his shoulders, hastening the breath that battered at his chest.

He succored silence to buy himself time to reply to their conversation, playing back distracted minutes to pick at which comment obviated concern, and which required an active ear. The task proved futile, much the same as disguising the panting that pricked at his lungs.

He met himself in the middle: a heavy sigh brought him to a standstill. He leaned back, stretching out his shoulders with gaze cast up to the treeline, and allowed himself to catch his breath.

Only then could he divert attention to his own response.

"Nine, nay ten years a Knight," he said, shaking himself back into step. "Nearly two decades amongst the Order, the majority of my life in fact."

A slight hiccup of hesitation.

"Well. Prior, I enjoyed a modicum of luxury in Alliria, but that was leagues and years away." He found his eyes straying back to the Squire, waning nostalgic in a helpless manner. "Hardly worth remembering."


Sitra

 

[Sitra]

Sitra had slowed her own stride to match the knight's pace almost without realizing, and only when Isander stopped completely had she looked up at him; her eyes reflecting the same relief that fell from her labored lips. He wasn't alone in needing a break - that was much clear - and she made it a point to lay her back against one of the sturdier trees, deferring to the older knight's call for rest.

The opportunity for respite was a welcome one, and her aching muscles had sung in appreciation when the chance to stretch them in the morning sun had arrived. With her breathing still audible, breathy and ragged, the squire was more than happy to yield the conversation to Isander as she chose instead to listen respectfully. Occasionally the treetops above them would catch her attention, with Sitra watching as a bird fluttered from branch to branch.

Something to eat would be marvelous, something to drink would be even better, and this small chance to massage her legs was almost divine. So that's exactly what she did; her attention flickering from the effort of her fingers to Isander's words as he told her how he'd been in the order nearly (if not longer) than she'd been alive.

It was certainly humbling to think about.

"So long, truly?" Sitra had asked in genuine curiosity; the words leaving her lips before she could have amended them to sound a little less rhetorical, and a little more appreciative. She was still young, and couldn't quite fathom having spent the better part of one's life in service to an order of hedge knights. "You must have stories to tell, I'm sure," she continued, a faint smile of thinly veiled amusement perched on her lips.

She had meant what she said, too. No doubt Isander's stories dwarfed anything her flitting life in this world could have offered, but that was for another time. A moment later he moved again, and the squire dutifully followed. While she was turning her mind over for a question that he might have answered, she was interrupted with another piece of this knight's history.

Isander spoke then of Alliria, of luxury, of a life that was condemned to a past supposedly meant to be forgotten after he'd joined the ranks of the knights of Astenvale.

When he'd finished speaking, Sitra turned to peer at him with renewed interest; she laughed a little at his modesty, and found herself wondering what exactly a life of luxury had meant. Perhaps she should have done her homework? For she knew little of this man's past beyond what he'd already told her, and If he had come from a noble house, she'd probably been privy to its history during her studies in Saknne.

Nobility serving amongst hedge knights was rare, but not unknown. Take her, for example.

"Well, I would be interested to hear about it, Syr Isander. Your life before Astenvale," she clarified. "That is, only if you care to share it with a squire who's far too curious for her own good."

That was certainly an understatement, but the poor man didn't yet know the extent of it.