Knights of Anathaeum Spectres in the Hold

[Aarno]

Wind and draft both did howl, whistling through the window slits and corners of the keep. Dunhold.

With an extended hand he'd tried its walls and doorways, fingertips brushing lightly like in inspection of a delicate silk. The stone was old, he felt, but none so aged as that of the monastery. It had arrogance in its sharp edges and unblemished facings, but the tones were hushed like it meant to do all of it in secret, forced to begrudging humility. A proud simplicity, the expense visible in the materials and scale, rather than ornamentation. Even this particular errant corridor was broad, allowing multiple to stride abreast were they of the mind to. Arches rose in regular intervals in the hall, a satisfyingly even ten paces apart as he walked. It was in a slow hobble, for the pain in his leg and side that kept the figure lightly bent, constantly bracing.

He’d left the infirmary half against his will, urged to movement by both the ache in his back and what he’d assumed was well-meaning and educated advice. It would help heal, she’d said. And wasn’t that all that he really had to do, stranded here with a select others who’d not gone off to take on a fight once lost afield. A rematch, against something eldritch that could undo a person with a mere look. His lack of optimism regarding the task had willed him to silence, to listen and to remain.

To wait. If only it wasn’t so bloody cold.

Drawing in the scent of smoke and tallow candles that dominated the indoors, he watched the Dunstable crest shimmer in the surcoat of a passing man. One with a similar one had ridden him out of battle in the end, risking both himself and his horse in the process. A passing fancy struck him that he should’ve sought the man out, perhaps, assuming he yet lived.

Many did not. Had not. And he’d never even gotten his name, nor memorized face of which so much had been hidden beneath a helm. A voice, then, maybe. Bright had it been, beneath the din.

Someone somewhere would remember. And he’d only need one.

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

Farren's brow dewed with sweat, her skin clammy and freezing from a handful of days recovering while unconscious after the skirmish. Her wounds healing, despite their severity. In her delirium, she kept reliving the same dream over and over. Her body sprinting across the flat virgin snow of the white battlefield. Dogged by the vision of eyeless empty sockets and haggard decaying faces in her peripheral.

And no matter how hard she tried or how hard she begged to shift into one of her swift bestial forms. She was left unable to access that part of herself. Empty and incomplete. Abandoned and at the mercy of the fallen.

Her lungs burned with the cold as she choked down tears, the hot sloshing of bright red blood splashing from each new print she stomped into the snow as she ran. The clamoring cries of the dead growing louder and louder until their incessant screams were all she could hear. Please. She begged. Leave me be. She cried.

But the dead snatched at her heel, and she crashed into the snow with a cry and flurry of rolling limbs.

With a gasp, Farren jolted upright. Her breath coming out in pained heaves at trying to orient herself back with reality once more.

She was lying in a simple bed, adorned with once crisp sheets, now drenched in her fevered sweat and crumpled into white knuckled hands against her chest.

Stumbling out of bed, she passed the rows of cots towards the open stone archway. Studiously ignoring the beds that were filled with the troubled sleep of the fellow injured while she desperately sought the peace of cold crisp fresh air. She needed to move, to get out and feel the cool air against her skin.

Farren kept a hand against the wall for support, sharp pains radiating through her chest and shoulder as she walked. Her thoughts flittering between the memories of ripping wolf teeth and goring elk tines. All drenched in blood.

Her body felt heavy and finally Farren found solace against the cool stone surface of a bench that hugged the stone corridor. The back of her head resting against its wall while the Dusker breathed through her dizziness.

She had had worse when it came to being injured, no doubt. But the eyeless magic horrors that plagued her dreams were a new kind of after-battle torture, and it took all her strength to not be consumed by them the moment she closed her eyes.

 

[Faramund]

The numbing cold was enough to make even the dead grumble in complaint. Driven inside by the howling wind, their voices echoed through the dark corridors of Dunhold, dogging Faramund's every step. Try as he might, he could not lose them. For he carried them in his mind, that oh-so contested of places. How many lives had he taken during the course of his own? Dozens? Hundreds?

Thousands?

He did not know... nor was he ever like to. Until recently, he had believed himself to be his own man. Another lie he had grown so used to telling. Syr Faramund was no more his own man than he was the Order's. He was -in his mind at least- an interloper, victim and perpetrator rolled into one. A traitor, worthy of scorn.

Someday soon, he would find the death he sought. But not today.

Today, he was out freezing his bollocks off. A fate worse than death, truth be told, but no doubt he deserved it all the same. 'Get those goddamned horses inside!' He heard someone shout from afar, as if they were being carried away by the storm currently battering itself upon Dunhold's ancient walls. 'A hand! Give me a hand here!' Another yelled, closer, more insistent.

Faramund leant a hand, guiding the spooked horses inside before the cold could claim them, too.

Once they were safe and secure, he found for himself a place to wait out the storm. By the time he found refuge, his hair and beard was speckled with snow and bits of ice. His cloak had done what it could to shield him from the elements, but everything had its limits. Even the hold itself was starting to show its age.

'Fuckin' cold as a witch's tit out there!' Faramund complained, sitting himself down beside Farren. The shapeshifter looked worse than he did, poor lass.

'Shouldn't you be resting up?' He asked, peeling off his gloves so as to warm frozen fingers with his breath.

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

Her jaw ached from clenching it. Trying to rid her mouth of the memory of being drenched with blood as she exsanguinated mortal men with a ripping of her teeth.

Death for them looked like the yawning jaws of a rabid black wolf.

A familiar voice interrupted her thoughts and Farren opened tired grey eyes to watch Syr Faramund approach and take vigil next to her.

His words scrunched her brow bemusedly. Was it cold? She couldn't tell. Her body felt too warm as it was, running a low grade fever to try and off infection.

"I am resting. It's the sleeping part that's the issue." She went to sigh, but winced and slid a hand to quietly grip her side. Bruising and a cracked rib or two was a lucky thing compared to the fate of others out on the battlefield.

Others that had been vaporized into red mist even.

Concentrating on small even breaths, Farren looked over Faramund from head to toe. "I'm glad to see that you look no worse for wear though."

 

[Faramund]

'Quite a few restless souls around Dunhold, as of late.' Blowing on his numb fingers, Faramund tucked them away beneath his arms. The corridor was dark and dreary, though warmer than the frozen hell outside. Banners flapped in the windy entrance hall just down from them.

Faramund heard voices, tiny against the gale blowing outside.

Do they belong to the living or the dead? He wondered. 'I'm glad you think so,' he rumbled, finding the strength within himself to smile. 'I hope you won't think poorly of me for saying you're a sight for sore eyes, too. Not many of the brethren came through unscathed. We were... lucky, I s'pose.' He remembered the battle clear enough. Not so much the fighting as the strategy Lord Dunstable had used to keep them all alive.

Well, most of them.

'Shame about Basco and Trelewyn,' he grimaced, 'and Squire Istvan, Lady take his soul!' His first real taste of battle... and his last. Just the way it goes.

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

"Luck." Farren snorted derisively, uncharacteristic for her normally warm nature. "I suppose one could call it that." She briefly pushed aside the collar of her loose tunic, revealing the neat wrapping of linen bandages around her shoulder. The faint spotting of old blood that was seeping through was a telltale sign that they would need to be changed soon. "I plan on seeing Syr Josai when we get back to the Monastery. I'll be damned if a mere spear ruins my fighting career."

But her sardonic grin slipped from her face at the mention of the dead. Farren remembered the squire she had comforted before the battle. Their same nervous expression had morphed into one of agony as they were cut down by Järnberg's men. And damn if Farren wasn't ashamed for not being able to even remember their name. What a pointless death theirs had been.

Out of habit, Farren went to grab her hallmark braid from over her shoulder so she could fidget with it, when she realized with a sinking of her stomach— that her hair was undone.

Lurching forward, the blood drained from her face, she gathered the loose blonde waves to confirm her suspicions. Her bells, gone. The red string that tied them, gone.

"W-hat? Where are they?! What did they do with my bells?!" Farren struggled to stand, snow-speckled loose hair sticking to her fevered cheeks. She didn't care if she seemed irrational, to an outsider these things may have seemed like mere trinkets, but they were everything to her. And to know she had been parted from them against her will and without her knowing left her gutted and reeling with anxious panic.

"Faramund, I don't understand? Where did they put them? Why!?"

Faramund Aarno

 

[Reynald]

Reynald had trained well, had fought before, had even participated in a few real fights, but nothing like this. The young man was bruised and sore and his head hurt. He had a vague recollection of being hit on the head and the pushing through it as the battle still raged. Whatever had happened to him in the haze of battle, he would count his blessings that he had somehow made it out alive.

In better shape than most, Reynald had considered going with the others to continue the fight even though he was sure his luck would have quickly run out, but one of the healers had mentioned to him that they could use another set of hands and he had accepted the offer without thinking twice. Did it make him a coward? If it did, he would have to live with that. For the time though, he would make an effort to convince himself otherwise. That it had been a sound decision, that they had truly needed his help and that he had given it without any desire to avoid another fight against something that could turn a person into next to nothing in the blink of an eye.

Mulling everything over, he had taken to pacing up and down Dunhold’s long corridors when he was not needed in the infirmary. Soon, however, a sudden shout of ‘why’ echoing down the stoney halls disturbed his thoughts. Curious, somewhat bored, and wondering if any assistance was needed, Reynald made his way around a corner and down the corridor to find the source.

“Is everything alright?” he looked between Faramund and Farren, hoping for some explanation.


Aarno Faramund Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Faramund]

Faramund stood as Farren did, a weary expression creasing his features. Why the ribbons and bells were important to her, he could not say. But they were important. He could tell that much just by looking at her.

'You were in a pretty sorry state, Farren. The medics probably removed them when they were checking you over for wounds,' he guessed, seeing no other reason for their removal. 'I'll go look into it,' he continued reassuringly, footsteps making him turn just in time to see a figure approaching through the torchlight.

'Yes, we're fine.' Faramund answered instinctually, brown-gold eyes flitting between the squire and his sister-knight. 'Listen, would you mind sitting with Syr Lóthlindor until I return? There's something I have to do.'

With one last, worried glance at Farren, the dawnling rushed off in the direction of the infirmary before either could raise their voices in complaint.

Aarno Farren Lóthlindor Reynald

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

It was to be her last day in the infirmary, so said the medics, but Saskia could not bring herself round to the idea of joining her family elsewhere in these halls. But she could not stare out the window from her cot another day, witnessing the cold and unforgiving wind that never seemed to cease, even when the sky went pitch black, the whistling still reminded her of a persistent chill.

Some had come to visit her early in her admission here, but after short replies and a lack of will to make conversation, they soon left her to revel in her dark thoughts.

The child is tired, said the medics, put herself through a lot of casting that day.

And yet, Saskia let them believe such a tale. Her shaking, her riddled thoughts, they had been her body going through a shock, but not at the expense of wielding a strength of shadow.

She had been frightful, remorseful, and her eyes sought for answers in the recesses of every shadow present in the infirmary.

Amber eyes did one last check before the medic strode towards her. The shadows in the corners of the room offered no alternative. The shadows in the dying flames in the hearth told her there was not much else she could do. The shadows...

"Syr Kerraelas, how are we feeling?" Came the sweet tone of a medic that just came onto shift.

"The same." She answered vaguely with a sigh, trying to see past the medic to consult the shadows that danced around in the licking flames of the sconces, by the door.

 

[Reynald]

“Certainly, Syr.” Reynald stared after Faramund, bewildered as the knight hustled away from them suddenly. It did not seem to him that everything was fine, but he didn’t exactly have time to ask questions either.

After a moment he did as he was told, and took a seat on the bench a good arm’s length away from Syr Lóthlindor. He had seen her while she had been in the infirmary, fitful in her sleep as she recovered from her injury. She still looked unwell, but he felt it best to keep that particular observation to himself.

Sitting there, Reynald found himself at a loss for words. He looked to the stonework of the hall, and impressive as it was it gave little in the way of topics for conversation. Under more normal circumstances he would not have felt so awkward, but given the events that had transpired it felt to him that talking of trivial things was inappropriate and talking about what had happened was impossible.

”Is everything fine, Syr Lóthlindor?” he didn’t want to pry if she didn’t want to talk to him about whatever had caused her to shout, but he was a bit concerned and if he was to sit here with her he might as well lend an ear.

Faramund Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Aarno]

Beneath the atmospheric hum, of hearths and the winter air outside, were distant voices. One riled up to a yell, incomprehensible but none less alarming. Turning a corner, he caught the last glimpse of Syr Faramund rushing off, stare tracing where he assumed he’d come from. In his wake remained two, sat on a bench next to the wall.

Unhurried, he made to approach them, one hand adjusting the heavy wool draped about his shoulders against the cold. It caught snow as he hobbled on, the lightest down come drifting down from above. The little wisps were given an absent brush as he slowly arrived to earshot, catching the posed question.

Not much at present that was alright, was there? They were a miserable looking lot no matter what light one was to inspect them in. About as expressive as a gravestone, he gave the squire a quick nod in his way, half acknowledgement half commiseration.

“ What’s happening here? Caught Syr Faramund rushing off, just now. “ He muttered, stare bouncing betwixt the both of them. Directly before Syr Lóthlindor, he finally halted. Her haggard appearance pried from him a frown, his hand reaching out to try her forehead with the backs of the fingers.

“ You’re feverish yet, Syr Lóthlindor. What'd inspire you to stray out here, to the all too frigid air? “

Reynald Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

Farren's eyes anxiously tracked Faramund's retreating back as he set off down the hall.

The fact that he seemed to take her worries seriously enough to go find her things, convinced her to stay put. But just barely.

Instead, Farren tried to offer a friendly smile to the squire who now sat next to her. His intentions were sweet, but to be honest, the last thing the Dusker wanted to do was dig into these fresh horrors they had experienced. The blood was too fresh and she was still so tired. And her outburst had drained the last of her endurance, leaving a deep fatigue in her limbs.

But it seemed Farren would not have to muster the energy to pretend to be okay just yet. For there before her stood Syr Aarno, concern etching his normally stoic brow. Her savior for the second time it would seem.

His cold hand was a balm to her burning skin and she closed her eyes at the sudden relief, leaning into his hand with an exhale that made her bruised ribs twinge.

Opening them at his question, she found she was suddenly embarrassed under his watchful eye.

Farren shifted her weight sheepishly before finally admitting, "Well... I've been having a hard time sleeping. And I was quite upset to find that the medics found the need to.... take out... my hair...while I slept..." Her voice trailed off, her words sounding ridiculous even to her owns ears.

Lamely, she added with a wave towards her hair, "My bells. They weren't supposed to touch them..." Sudden emotion clogged her throat. "I can't lose them, Syr Aarno."

Aarno Reynald

 

[Reynald]

Reynald smiled back when Farren gave him that weak smile, and was quick to take the hint. He wouldn't press, he would simply keep an eye on her until Faramund returned from… wherever it was he had gone.


At Aarno's approach, the squire sat up a bit straighter, returning his nod with a polite one of his own. He felt somewhat out of place without any fellow squires about.


Then, he sat in silence. His dark eyes flitted between the two knights as they interacted, watching with interest as Aarno felt Farren's forehead. A fever wasn't a great sign, though to his mind it did explain her intense concern about her bells. With a fevered mind, it wasn't surprising that she might latch on to something like those bells and blow it out of proportion.


"Is that why he left in such a hurry? I'm sure he'll be back with them soon..."

 

[Aarno]

She countered the touch by leaning into it, his senses reaching past the skin and into the aches of the fever and past battle. The pain felt strongest at the shoulder, reaching back with a sympathetic tingle that bloomed at his fingertips. Bruised ribs not unlike his own held the entire body captive, a tenseness to every inhale.

Two heartbeats in his ears, he merely hummed as Farren responded, importance and audible weight in her voice. It was not easy to look on, his expression gaining a forlorn understanding.

Swallowing, he brushed his hand over the side of her head as if in smoothing of errant wisps of hair. It landed on her shoulder for a bit of encouragement, before finally withdrawing. The squire chimed in then and for his sake Aarno made an attempt at a smile, appreciative.

“ Am inclined to agree with Squire Reynald. If anyone should find them it’d be Syr Faramund. “ He nodded, eye straying to the direction the fabled man had disappeared to.

“ The man has a way to go through obstacles at frightening tenacity, like they are a mere joke to him. Ferocious, efficient and swift like a hound on a scent. Or perhaps, rather — “ He shrugged, in his mind the image of their not long since shared hunt. Heels kicking up a blizzard, knife out before the bow had left his grip, leaping to a kill. Himself had barely been fast enough to just poke his head out from beyond their shared slot in the snow to see the blade land.

“ Like some one man wolf pack. “

Farren Lóthlindor Reynald

 

[Faramund]

The infirmary was much the same as he remembered it. Stalking in, his cloak drawn tight against the cold that permeated damn near everything, Faramund looked around for someone to talk to. Lit candles burned on bedside tables, puncturing the gloomy atmosphere with some much needed light.

'Hello! Can I help you?'

Turning to find a wizened old doctor standing at his shoulder, Faramund cleared his throat surreptitiously. 'Perhaps.' Raising an eyebrow, the old greybeard gestured for Mund to follow. Walking over to a nearby desk, the doctor sat down heavily and poured himself a cup of wine. When he saw Faramund watching, he offered to pour another.

'No, thank you.'

'Suit yourself!' Tucking the bottle away in one of the lower drawers, the doctor took a sip, before eyeing Faramund over the rim of his cup. 'So,' he began, 'are you going to tell me what it is that brings you here... or are you just going to stand there all night?' Smiling despite himself, the dawnling glanced about. 'Maybe,' he replied. 'Maybe not.'

Nurses flitted amongst the wounded, checking up on those few patients yet to succumb to sleep. Or their wounds.

'You had a patient, recently. A knight by the name of Farren. Short, she was, with a long braid decorated with bells and ribbons. Do you remember?' Turning back to the doctor, Faramund continued; 'I'm here to collect her effects. Namely, those bells and ribbons I mentioned. I was wondering if you could help me find them?'

Snorting, the doctor sipped at his wine noisily. 'I suppose I could,' he grumbled, feigning annoyance. 'What's in it for me?'

'What do you mean, what's in it for you?'

The doctor sighed. 'Look around you, boy! See how many beds are full? How many are empty?' Faramund did. Still didn't answer his question. The doctor sighed again. 'Do you know how many people have come through my ward in the last few days? Dozens. All of them had items and personal belongings kept on their persons. Your Farren, whoever she is, was just one of many.'

'I see.'

'Do you?' The doctor looked up at Faramund, suddenly tired. The dawnling could see pain in the old man's eyes; he knew that look well. 'Listen! I want to help you, I do! But whatever effects she had are gone with the rest.' Faramund nodded. 'Do you know where they were taken?'

The doctor gestured noncommittally.

'Away, somewhere, I don't know!' Sagging in his chair, the doctor drew his cup to his chest. 'Now, if that's everything, please leave. I've patients trying to sleep.'

Leaving the doctor be, Faramund made for the exit, only to stop midway.

Altering his course, he made towards a bed deeper in the ward. A nurse tried to stop him, but when he promised to be quiet, she grudgingly allowed him to stay. Which was a good thing. 'Evening, Saskia,' he said, pulling up a chair alongside the dusker's bed.

'Still lazing around as usual, I see.' Smiling, he leaned in, close enough for her to make out his face in the half-light. 'Don't suppose you would be able to help me?'

Saskia Kerraelas

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

The medic had asked some more questions, but Saskia was in no mood to hold conversation with someone that plastered on such sunny disposition.

And what gods heard her prayer, for Syr Faramund soon pulled seat by her cot and brought the first smile on her lips in the days since the skirmist. She sat up straighter, not caring that she was still dressed in the pyjamas the infirmary insisted she wear. Every. Day.

"Help you?" Eagerness became too hopeful, but adventure was always waiting in her amber eyes. "With what--- I mean, of course. I have been here for days and with nurses to converse with." And her shadows... and the cold, quiet dark of night.

"Does that mean I get to get out of here?" Again, that hope in those large eyes of hers. "Oooh! Tell the doctor I am needed for an important errand!! Oh! OH! Or you could say it is imperative that Syr Kerraelas returns to her active duties! I think that one sounds more... smart." The shadowwielder's hands clapped with excitement, and so she clamped both hands shut as she quietly gave Faramund a pleading look.

Guess she was feeling back to normal.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

'Let's not get ahead of ourselves. This isn't a rescue, as much as I hate to say it.' Smiling wanly, Faramund held up a hand to calm the ever-excitable Saskia. 'I'm here on behalf of our dear friend Farren. You'll recall she was your next door neighbour, until recently.' The dawnling had stopped by to see them both before her release. As often as time had allowed, truth be told.

He hated hospitals. Hated abstinence, too. How long had it been since he'd last had a proper drink?

Nevermind that. Sniffing the cold, musty air, Faramund hooked a conspiratorial finger at Saskia. The blonde dusker was fond of games and surprises. Hells, she was one of the most happy-go-lucky knights in the entire Order.

Next to the likes of Syrs Bebin and Monroe, at least.

'Your shadows. I take it they tell you things,' he paused a moment as a nurse wandered by, like a bad smell in dire need of an open window. 'Our sister-knight had her bells and ribbons taken from her. I was hoping you might know where, exactly, they've been taken to?'

Saskia Kerraelas

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

It was a strange thing, feeling fragile. Like Farren was having a problem holding all her pieces together and one more push was going to scatter her shards onto the floor. So, the comfort of Aarno's tenderness was more than Farren could find the words to express her gratitude in that moment. She didn't feel so panicked at his words. Even the pain felt suddenly manageable.

Right. Right. Syr Faramund said he would help, and I need to believe him. I'm sure his usual antics will cause some... obstacles. But he always comes through in the end.

Determined now to not become any more of an insufferable burden in the meantime, the Dusker took as deep a steadying breath as she was able and quickly made to stand.

A wave of dizziness washed over her. "Oh." She gasped, a hand shooting out to steady herself on Reynald's shoulder. Some of her good nature seemed to return when she chuckled at herself. "It seems I am still a tad light-headed. Not exactly convenient." Clearing her throat, she reluctantly asked, "If I could bother one of you for some assistance back into my bed, I would be eternally grateful."

Aarno Reynald

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

Saskia looked to the bed Farren had occupied until recently, all smiles gone from her expression. Whereas Saskia had only overexerted herself, her dear friend and sister had suffered a darkness even Saskia could not take from her.

"Yes... I remember. The bells and ribbon are sacred pieces of her people and most dearly beloved by Farren..." but Saskia at the time had her back turned on Farren, had been quietly pretending to sleep through the ruckus when tears had wet her cheeks and pillow. She was not of a mind to help then, but Saskia felt that purpose renew.

"Give me a moment." She whispered, leaning forward and over the side of her cot. Her hand reaches for something underneath, sifting through shadow and cobwebs, which Saskia could be heard chastising the staff about in grumbling undertones.

"No! No! Red! The ribbon was definitely red!" Saskia now hung out from her bed enough that her other hand held her in place with the other continued to fish under her bed. All sorts of forgotten and lost things were brought to the dim light, but none of which Faramund and Saskia were after. "Yes! Red! Perfect!"

Her hand clutched to it, holding it up for viewing by her favourite dawnling. "Can... you help me back into my cot?" She asked after attempting to pull herself back into a seated position.

Faramund

 

[Reynald]

"Syr Farramund sounds very-- oh!" Reynald’s eyes went wide when Farren suddenly leaned her weight onto him. He had not been expecting it, and so he buckled slightly at first but within a moment he bore the weight, even placing his hand on her wrist to provide a bit more stability to the ailing knight.


“Steady,” his voice was soft, an attempt to sound reassuring.


He stood slowly and moved Farren's arm so that it was around his shoulders rather than just pressing down on one of them. It was only then that he fully appreciated just how small she was compared to him. Being half a foot taller, Reynald had to stoop considerably to lend her aid without making her stretch.


"Ready when you are." Despite it all, he managed a cheerful smile.


"Will you come with us Syr Aarno?"

Farren Lóthlindor Aarno

 

[Aarno]

A dark snicker rumbled within the chamber of his mouth at the look on the squire’s face, so suddenly seized by the shoulder as he was and wide-eyed for it. To his credit, he appeared to take on the entire posed predicament in stride, jumping to the task. Aarno hadn’t but to watch it with both appreciation and approval.

He bared teeth in a smile of his own at the question therein, nodding once.

“ Certainly. I’ve no duty nor leisure here, cold and bereft of pleasant company as it will be once you lot have gone. “ He said in a wink to the both of them, settling to trail at Farren’s side so she be left betwixt himself and the squire whom would support her.

“ One cannot but wonder when we’ll get to be out of here. I long to be home. “ He muttered in a low tone, lest his dissatisfaction leave the privacy betwixt them. His eyes strayed the walls, watching every stranger of a stone like they’d be plotting something. Perhaps they were.

“ The air prickles with something — Foreboding. “

And for once, he was of the mind to think it wasn't just Syr Faramund’s chaotic presence in his vicinity causing the feeling.

Farren Lóthlindor Reynald

 

[Faramund]

Faramund shrugged, a sly smile on his face. 'I don't know. Can I?' Leaning out of his seat, the dawnling slid a hand under Saskia's arm, careful to avoid the bruises he could just about make out through the thin sleeve of her gown. With a gentleness belying his strength, he pulled her up, only letting go when he was sure she was settled.

'Better?' He asked softly, the red ribbon held loosely between his fingers.

One item down. Where are the others? 'Any idea where the bells might have gotten to?' Faramund pressed, taking a seat once more. He tucked the ribbon away for safekeeping as he studied the shadows under Saskia's bed. He knew from the way they moved that what he was looking at wasn't natural. The fact that they possessed eyes didn't help either.

'It's okay if you don't!' Faramund continued. 'I'm sure I'll be able to find them one way or another. Not half so swiftly or stylishly, mind,' he laughed. 'But it is what it is!'

Saskia Kerraelas

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

Saskia knew of the bells he spoke of, but they were not found underneaths the infirmary cots.

"Wait..."

And Saskia lifted a hand towards the window at her left, beckoning the drapes of shadows casting from the candle light. She held it, weaving it as it wound down her arm. The softest twinkling sounds could be heard, and Saskia directed a frown at Faramund.

"I think they are on the move. We should go, now." Said the young Knight Sworn, dressed in what looked like children's pyjamas the infirmary forced her in. "They are important and I am in need of hunting down idiots!"

Anything to get out of here.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Faramund thought about trying to stop her, but then thought better of it. Standing, putting the chair back where he had found it, he instead reached for the clasp of his cloak. 'Here,' he said, shrugging free of the cloak to wrap it around the smaller -and scantily-dressed- knight. 'Can't have you catching a cold now, can we?' Offering her his arm for support, Faramund made for the exit.

The nurses on duty had other ideas.

'And where do you think you're going?' A voice interrupted them, as firm as it was soft. Blinking, Faramund gazed innocently at the nurse blocking their escape. Bloody Hell, he thought, she's nearly as big as me! Hands on hips, the nurse in question had a mean look about her. A scar ran the length of her brow, right to left, intersecting a beaked nose and full lips. A once-warrior, if Faramund had to guess.

'Just taking her to stretch her legs,' he promised, the choice to remain silent off the table. 'Five, ten minutes, tops.'

'Hmmm.' The nurse's scarred brow furrowed. 'Very well. You may leave- but no farther than the end of the corridor, hear me? Can't have patients in her state up and about for too long, lest they get worse.' A pause as she turned to Saskia, a hint of sympathy to her otherwise hard features. 'For your own good, you understand? The sooner you recover, the sooner we can all go about our lives.'

Nod-nodding along, Faramund steered Saskia around the roadblock and out into the cold dark of the corridor.

Casting a glance over his shoulder, he sighed, relieved. 'That was close!' For a second there, the lady-nurse had looked set to knock him out. Saskia, too, if she put up a struggle. 'We'd better make this quick,' he said, a mischievous smile hidden behind his eyes.

'Lead the way, shadow-girl!'

Saskia Kerraelas

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

Adventure was just within reach, a few more steps and she was free, but her least favourite nurse stopped them both in place. Saskia tugged Faramund's cloak tighter around her, as if it came with a protection against the woman who had been near strong arming Saskia to take her nightly medications. To make sure you are getting enough nutrients, since Saskia had been refusing some meals out of quiet protest.

Once they were down the corridor, Saskia made a face. "Ugh. I cannot wait until they really release me."

What an odd picture the two made if they were to be seen.

Faramund's cloak almost swallowed her whole, but with the constant readjusting it over her slight shoulders, Saskia appeared as if she were a child donning the clothes meant for an grown being. The nightgown was of a pale yellow, a faovurite colour of hers. She was barefoot, too excited to remember slippers, but the cold stone floors did not freeze her as the shadows under her feet moved to create that barrier between warmth and coldness.

"This way!" And she shot off from him, around the corner. Her feet slapped against the flooring, and the largest grin pulled at her mouth, giving her a crazed look in her exhausted appearance. She still had a gaunt look to her, drained of energy after the skirmish, but Faramund's visit had given her back some semblance of life.

She looked to him like a brother, appreciating his help and guidance in her formative years. He was the first to teach her the best way on getting back on her feet when knocked down one too many times.

So helping him now, to find the bells of their sister-knight, was the least she could to repay him.

"Move those old and weary bones, Syr Faramund!" Her voice carried through the halls, just like they used to as a squire. One would know Saskia was near by hearing her first before she came into view.

Faramund