Completed To Crobhear

[Sarah Lindwell]

Sarah groaned slightly. The bumping of the wagon jarred her aching flesh. A grimaced marked her face. It would have stolen her beauty, the her charred flesh already did that.Her scars, covered by flaxen hair, were still easily noticeable. Her only saving grace were the piercing blue eyes that stared down any errant soul that was too obvious in their looks. She massaged the bicep of her bad arm, trying to ease the constant pain. It did not help.

Thoughts flashed through her head. Her life had changed so much in the last several months as to be unrecognizable. She had escaped Molthal. Well, released more like.Her heart still beat heavy at thoughts of that hellish plateau. She had expected hunters to come after her, but they never did. More games she was sure. Now she sat here, on this wagon, surrounded by a number of other people. All of whom were on their way south by the Spine.

Some were merely travelers, others were traders, more still were hired blades. She glanced down to her own blade. It rested in its scabbard across her lap. The pommel was elevated due to the awkward bend in her crippled leg. The silver steel of the crossguard glinted in the midday sun. Her grimace turned to the slightest bit of a smile. She gripped the implement of war tightly. Her knuckles turned white and a sighed escaped from her. Her body seemed to relax a little. Her black brigandine seemed to settle under her cloak. Steel greaves and sabatons were plainly visible, as was the deep red cloth underneath.

The hood of her cloak was down, freeing her platinum hair to the wind. Looking out from between the thick locks, her blue eyes found her traveling companion. A young man, even if he was a few years older than her, that had seemingly recognized her. She had remembered his name too, if not his face. Tyisur Volklor, one of the few individuals she had hired multiple times without them being a formal member of the Bloody Thorns. She had hired him whenever they needed a more delicate approach. Bursting through the front door was not always the best option after all.

The man had seen her in the previous town. And he had called her name. Or at least a version of it she hadn't heard in a long time. Sarah Blirken, which was her legal name in Alliria but not one she had actively used since her elderly husband's death. It had been strange to hear it. She still wasn't sure what to think.

A memory came unbidden. Charles, her right hand, was laughing boisterously as a young man stood uncertain.She stared him down. The man in question had broke into their food stores but was seemingly distracted by the extra blades she kept. He had blonde hair and soft green eyes. Callouses marked the insides of his hands. They weren't the kind that would have been developed on a farm. Though the sword on his side was indicative of that. Charles wanted to recruit him after a few others of our number had fought him. The man was good, she'd give him that. Better than her? No, at least not yet. And she had told him as much. She had enjoyed the look on his face as Charles loudly agreed.

Now, as she sat on this wooden bench,her teeth gritted again. She used to look down at Tyisur. Not out of any sense of being better, but because she was taller than him by a good few inches. Now though, with her back twisted and leg bent, she had to look up at him. She did not like it. She waited for his eyes to meet hers.

“So Volklor, I guess you can claim to be better with a blade now,” A snarky grin crept up her face as she made the comment.

 

[Tyisur Volklor]

Before becoming a part of his current company, Tyisur was steadily making his way homeward. The successful retrieval of a stolen item had been a relief, and he felt a sense of satisfaction knowing he had completed the mission with ease. However, fate had more in store for him as he continued en route to Dornoch. It was during a stop in a quaint town that he had a much unexpected encounter that would change the course of his direction. As he traversed the streets of the place, his eyes had locked onto a figure ahead, one that stirred a sense of recognition deep within him.

Despite the passage of time and the changes that had transpired, there was no mistaking her: it was indeed Sarah. It was the same person who had hired him countless times in the past, and one he believed to be a casualty of the brutal Battle of Lord Holdram. Her presence had stirred up memories long forgotten, mingling with both disbelief and wonder. Even now she stood out in the crowd with a pair of sapphire blue eyes and bright platinum hair that seemed to radiate when touched by the sun. But what sent a shiver down his spine was the fact that it had been over four long years since he had last laid eyes on her.

Watching someone die was one thing– It was an act he had performed countless times before with zero hesitation. He knew that some of the victims may have even been decent men, their faces now distant memories in the recesses of his mind. But to him they were all the same-- pawns in a deadly game played, with coin above their head marking them as targets. Watching someone suffer was entirely different, a sensation that gnawed at his insides with more intensity. He couldn't explain it, couldn't shake the feeling of unease that settled deep within him. No words could adequately describe it. The former associate reminded him of the fragility of life.

With enough money saved, the seasoned sellsword found himself in a position of rare comfort, not necessarily desperate for work like some of his peers. For all his years of mercenary work, he had surprisingly never ventured beyond the familiar walls of Dornoch. The prospect of aiding the woman was intriguing, though it left him also feeling uncertain, for the extent of his commitment remained unknown.

As he journeyed alongside the wagon, a companion in silence, his thoughts meandered through recent events. He wore a simple long-sleeved v-neck shirt. Around his neck and head draped a green wind shawl that complimented his eyes, its soft fabric billowing gently in the wind. Loose-fitting trousers enveloped his legs in comfort and ease. The fabric danced with the cool breeze. A longsword swung gently at his side. The leather-wrapped hilt provided a comfortable grip. Traveling with such a weapon hanging freely at his side was not typically his style.

The noise of everything around him faded into the background. Soon his attention was solely fixated on Sarah, who rode in the wagon beside him. His gaze, normally more guarded, shifted to meet hers, and he couldn't help but notice the scars that marred her skin, a testament hardships endured. Yet, it was not the scars that held his interest, but the depths of her eyes. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, a rare display of emotion never seen by others throughout Arethil. While there had been a multitude of alternative paths in the realm they both traveled, he had chosen this one willingly.

"I am only better for a short time," he murmured softly, his words carrying a hint of reassurance, willing her to believe in her own strength. It was as if he believed that she, the one who had faced so much, would undoubtedly rise above it all. "Before long, you will regain your strength and mastery, and I will surely bow down once more,” he suggested. Silence enveloped them once more as he took a moment to gather his thoughts. "What are your plans once you reach the Crobhear stone?"

WolfHorns

 

[Sarah Lindwell]

Her face morphed into a gentle smile at the boy's remark. He was far too modest. It was a look that didn't suit him. She had much preferred the easy confidence he projected with his movements and words. Though the man fumbled only slightly when he was talking to her. Her smile lessened slightly. She was thankful to him, truly. He was a reminder of better days, but he did not look at her with pity. Instead his eyes held a soft warmth. It clashed with the usual coldness that he always showed the world.

Her mind wandered at his words. She didn't know what she wanted. Didn't know if she wanted to be fixed. A part of her was worried that if she was ever healed, then the last remnants of her Company would disappear with it. She didn't know what she would do without the constant reminder of them. Her mind wandered to Charles, to Fennith, to Lars, Edith, Michael, the Doug trio, Daniel, Amelia, Gretta, Hornsil, and so many others. Their voices overlapped for a moment. Laughs of raucous joy, shouts of triumph, grumblings at long distant rains, and then the screams and whimpering and begging. Too many of her own men had been put down by her blade. They had been overrun by the orcs. Trapped alongside their allies and employers. Disease took them. But it did it so slowly. Everyone knew they were going to die. Young Anders had been the first to speak up.

"My Lady," the boy had said, his voice so weak as to be barely above a whimper. The Company had taken to calling her 'My Lady' over the years. It was more of an inside joke. despite it also having been her proper title. Anders had asked for her to end his suffering. Said he wanted to die, a man. In control of his faculties and his mind. He had lived in the slums before Edith found him and brought him into the fold. He had told us all about how sickness and infection claimed you. He didn't want to die like that. And so he pleaded. And I granted his wish.

I granted so many wishes in those terrible days. Each one with only a smile on their face and a word of thanks.

Then she looked at Tyisur again. He had grown so much since she last saw him. Where once was just skin pulled against bone, now laid corded muscle. He was no longer adorned in worn rags and threadbare trousers. He had made something of himself. She was proud of him. "I'm proud of you," she whispered to him. Yes, she knew how silly that would sound coming from her. Even then, she felt it needed to be said. The boy who had refused her's and charles' help so many times, preferring to land face first in the mud rather than to grab onto a helping hand. That some boy had kept getting back up on his own two feet. She knew what kind of life he led. She had always known. Tyisur wasn't one for the bright sun and blue-lit skies. No, he was a creature of twilight. He danced across the edge of society, and he did it so skillfully.

His question, more pointed in its nature than his previous statements, caught her off guard. What did she want? What were her plans? Her only thoughts had been of going anywhere else. But she had achieved that, hadn't she? And now here he was, a relic of a previous time. The past seeking the future.

There. In his eyes she saw another pair. Green eyes and blonde hair. An easy smile that came too quickly. A loud laugh that stopped any conversation. A pair of hands that felt the need to poke everything. A woman whose face and form came unbidden in the moment. Someone that had once encouraged her to become more than a mere novice in a blade. A woman that had later given her an invitation. An invitation that she had turned down because of the Bloody Thorns. "Do you remember Farren, Volklor?"

 

[Tyisur Volklor]

His mind was a machine of calculation, churning continuously with assessments, even as the corners of her lips curved upwards in a gentle smile in response to his words. A knack for quick analysis and observation had been ingrained in him since childhood, a trait that had become second nature, and proven invaluable in his mercenary life. Now it felt like a curse in the presence of Sarah. The man's mind raced to assess her, to unravel the layers of her being with the same meticulous observation used on everyone from commoners to kings alike; it was an unrelenting force that often knew no distinction.

Her words lingered in the air, resonating in his mind like a song, she expressed her pride in him. Though his ambition was set high, the reality of his current circumstances were still leagues above his rather humble beginnings. His stoic facade betrayed no hint of the emotions swirling within. The mercenaries' gaze drifted towards the horizon where the sun began to dip below the horizon. It was a beautiful sight, even to someone of his nature. The journey southward stretched before them. Over the seven years of their acquaintance, they had both experienced storms and also moments of triumph, forging a bond that transcended mere business. In this moment, he was reminded of the walls he had built around his heart. He viewed emotional entanglements as a weakness, a vulnerability that could compromise his focus and determination.

As he walked leisurely beside the wagon, his hands nonchalantly crossed before him, and he savored the present moment. Despite the beauty of the natural world surrounding him, his eyes remained fixed on the horizon. He enjoyed the gentle caress of the breeze, and the forgiving terrain, a welcoming change from the harsh landscapes he often had to travel through. Tyisur observed her silence following his inquiry, curiosity flickering within him before extinguishing like a flame. Her response, or lack thereof, elicited no reaction within him, merely an acknowledgment that it would remain unanswered; it was simply a void in the conversation, nothing more.

His focus shifted, and he immersed himself in the sounds of nature, those of birds, the rustle of leaves, and even the creak of wagon wheels in motion. Each breath inhaled filled his lungs with the cool air, and he found himself in a state of relaxation. He was comfortable in the silence between them. Sarah was in need of peace of any kind, there was no doubt about it. And as he observed her demeanor for a split second, he knew that in this moment, the serene environment enveloping them might have been exactly what her soul needed.

When she mentioned another name, Tyisur, with his piercing gaze, simply nodded in a gesture of recognition. His memory never faltered. The sellsword possessed the gift of never forgetting a name, always linking each one to a place, a face, a memory. Yet, he sensed a much deeper reason behind her inquiries. A part of him longed for her to unburden her heart of it all at once, to reveal the truths behind all of it. Raw honesty made things more simple. And yet, he held his tongue, unwilling to push her beyond her comfort zone. Judgment and criticism could have easily been injected then, and often he didn’t mind such, but now wasn’t the right time.

"How can I be of service, Sarah," he spoke her name deliberately, possibly a display of kindness from a man known for his distant demeanor. Though not one to offer his skills freely, he recognized the vulnerability in her situation and made a vow to assist her in this moment of need; it was rare to find kindness within the depths of his dark heart. "I am the extension of your sword, for a whisper of time. Speak a name, and consider it done. Name a place, and I shall appear," he concluded.

 

[Sarah Lindwell]

It was good that he remembered her. It had been so long ago after all. Her hand absently traced the fuller of her blade. The wagon jostled again. The seed of a thought was planted. Then it grew. It flowered and bore fruit. A stream of words, and even more of thought flowed through her mind. Images and smells. A forgotten smile and a remembered laugh.

Her eyes latched onto Tyisur. The man was waiting solemnly. "How strange Volklor," She smiled for him again, "that we fall back into the grooves of our past." She hummed to herself for a moment. He reminded her so clearly of them now. He would have fit in well with the others that had been under her command. But she was glad he hadn't joined. Otherwise he would've died just like them. He had drifted closer in their conversation. Close enough to touch. She did.

Her good hand, covered in leather and steel, reached out. Her fingers brushed against his cheek. They passed through his hair. The moment was strange to her. It had an ephemeral quality. So did Tyisur. It felt that if she looked away but for a moment he would disappear forever. The thought burrowed into her bones. Wormed its way into her gut and laid there. But she didn't let it show. Instead she kept that soft, sad smile.

"I'm going south, Volklor." She murmured, her hand still against his cheek. Then she pulled it back slowly, hesitantly. "There are rumours. A place of the dead." Her eyes closed. Faces flashed behind their lids. A name muttered here and there. Names that Tyisur would have known. She drew a breath, long and rattling.

"I have a request to make, as you're already aware." The woman's demeanor changed. The broken girl faded and in her place sat a true Lady of Alliria's merchant nobles. A strength of will bled off of her in waves. The old strength billowed from her eyes and the set of her jaw. This was a woman that was to be respected, one that was to be followed. "Go to Alliria. Find my father, Lord Lindwell, and inform him that his prodigal daughter lives. Tell him to ready my estates for my return."

"There you will find Sir Alkitt, he is the head knight of the Lindwell Estates. Inform him especially of my continued survival. If need be, I have the utmost faith that he will assist you. Then you must go east." Her own head turned in that direction. Towards the horizon from which the sun and stars rise. She did not look forward in distance, but in time. She looked towards tomorrow and the day after.

"Go to the Eldyr Tree. There you will find Anathaeum and our old friend, Farren." Sarah pulled aside a lock of her platinum hair. She held it out straight. "Here, cut this and take it with you. She will be able to find me from this."

 

[Tyisur Volklor]

For a moment, he locked eyes with Sarah, searching deep with her sapphire orbs. His eyes then wandered, tracing the trail of burns and scars etched on her face, telling stories of suffering and survival, ones that even he did not fully understand. A wave of empathy washed over him, connecting them in a silent understanding. As they walked alongside the wagon, memories of their shared past danced in his mind like flickering shadows, stirring a foreign sense of nostalgia. It reminded him of simpler times. Yet amidst it all, there lingered a realization that their connection, though deep-rooted, would soon come to another end.

Like smoke drifting in the wind, memories of their shared history kept strolling delicately in his mind's eye, painting pictures of a past long gone. The sound of her voice pierced through the fog of reminiscence, returning him to the present moment. His distant features remained unyielding, her gentle words resonating like a soft melody, managing to stir an ache in his heart. There was still a sense of resilience in the young woman, for she lived in a world where possibilities truly knew no bound. During his almost thirty years of roaming about Arethil, the mercenary had witnessed as many miracles as he had with death. Tyisur believed in her physical strength to overcome the obstacles of recovery; yet he knew all too well there would be scars beneath the surface, unseen but always present. It was common in all of humanity–each person bore their own burden, some were simply buried deeper within.

As her initial words hung in the air, they would elicit no response, instead met by his unyielding silence. When her hand drew closer, the gentle caress along the side of his face was met with passive acceptance, devoid of any hint of reciprocation. It not only carried the warmth of her skin, but also the cool presence of steel and smooth leather. His gaze deliberately drifted downwards, his mind constantly at work as it settled upon her lips, searching for clues behind her subtle movements. The man knew that denying her any glimpse of joy would be a betrayal of their short, but shared journey. Finding its way to his hair, only to withdraw seconds later, it would leave the echo of her touch behind. The woman’s voice once more broke the silence, and he calmly looked away from her, focusing on the winding path ahead.

Her destination remained shrouded in mystery as he tried to pinpoint exactly where she was headed, but he would make no move to question it further–some paths were meant to be walked alone. In the blink of an eye, a shift in her demeanor swept over her, a sudden transformation that transported him back to the distant memory of their last encounter. Now she was the Sarah Lindwell he remembered all too well. He began cataloging the faces he would need to seek, and also mapped out the journey ahead. "It will be done," he stated simply. Turning his head eastward, he drew in a deep, steadying breath. ”I am confident that a flicker of hope endures amidst the chaos that has surrounded you," he declared softly.

An image of Farren flashed across his mind, another face from his past that he had not seen in ages. With a swift movement, his hand moved to the stiletto dagger at his belt, drawing it forth with grace. As the blade gleamed in the sunlight, he took her outstretched hand in his own, a gesture of solidarity, before swiftly cutting through the platinum lock of hair. The weapon was then returned to its resting place.