Knights of Anathaeum Two for Today, Three for Tomorrow

[Hector]

Night had long fallen. Not that time came easy to telling within the tall stacks of the monastery's archives. Most light beneath their vaulted ceilings were sparked by magick-light. Their ethereal glows cast in warm yellows that mocked fire's light. Too rare and ancient were the texts stored there in to be trusted by a true and open flame, or even sun's rays, he remembered Innis scolding him once.

It made good work for the apprentice artificers and rune-smiths too.

The magick lamps that is. Hells, Hector still retouched the rune-work on some of the older lamps from time to time. It was good practice. And there was much to learn from the enchantments of past generations. Though it was usually Roki that improved upon the designs, if he were honest.

Away from the glass panes of the library's arched windows, time blurred by. But Hector could feel it behind his eyes. The need for rest that crept over him.

Hector sat back in his corner of the tall stacks, and rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. A tome on a small plank of wood rested on his lap. Easier to carry the thing around with you, and sit between the shelves, he found, than walk back and forth between isles and desk. Kind of easy to get lost back here. Not that he would ever tell anyone. Specially not Innis. Why wasn't Innis here, he wondered.

My, he was tired. And in all honesty, he was rather confused as to why Syr Raye had offered him the task. Of course, he had offered other squires the position as well. And hector was sure they accepted. Assistants to the scholarship of Pursuant of Life, Solon Raye. Hector smirked at the realizing memory of it. Doubly of the course, Hector was proud to stand and accept such a duty. Beat shoveling manure, that's for sure.

He leaned back, and gave a heavy yawn, let one hand stretch up behind him as he sat on the old wooden stool, and it groaned beneath him.

But that wasn't really it, was it?

It had been months since the Sworn had been called to council. Left all the squires out in the dark. But, word caught wind. They were squires but they weren't dumb. Well, least not all of them. And it only took a day or two before they all whispered around the knoll as to the secrets of the Everwatcher. And hells, Vos had fought a demon to that account. It was only some weeks later that reports started to pour in. Cultists in distant cities. Blight spreading through the woods.

Hector looked down at the book that rest upon his lap.

It just felt silly was all. Doused by the warm glow of false-fire's light. To be sitting here, behind the safety of the Monastery's walls, dressed in plain clothes, scouring tomes, in search for a people that were... well. In a lot of old legends.

---

Solon Raye

 

[Solon Raye]

These archives had been home to him once.

Solon had been much smaller than the other squires when he was brought in. It had taken him some time to get used to the art of swordplay when he was a lad. He'd seen his father kill so many people with blades that he had been scared of them for a time. In his mind, weapons were for frightening people. Men who had darkness in their hearts often gravitated to what would help them spread it, after all. For the love of coin or for the feigned love of a god that would never love them back, mortal kind were all strange creatures. Solon had once feared the strangeness. These archives and their records without number had stolen him away from thoughts that haunted him and placed him in many other times. Knights that were his heroes recorded their histories and triumphs and failures so that he might make a way for himself. They bled and spread their knowledge so that the next Syrs could rise. Despite how cold the walls were in this place, the thought of it had always warmed his heart.

Now it was he who was responsible for passing on lessons. Even as his heart still beat and his sword arm was strong.

The Knight Pursuant of Life looked like some reaper as he seemed to glide about the archives, looking over the shoulders of the squires and giving encouraging words and tips in his whispered baritone. His robes were grey and did well to hide his muscular form as they flowed and caught little light from candles and torches. Solon carried a small candle himself as he rounded a corner to see one of the finer squires giving himself a rest among his piles of history and stories. Slowly, he made his way over to him, reaching down to take the book from his lap. His reach was slow and deliberate and meant to startle him, though not scare the poor boy out of his skin. After all, certainly he knew that the knight would come around to check on him eventually.

"Look alive, young one," he said, brown eyes scanning the pages of the selection Hector had been somewhat paying attention to. "If one of my old masters caught you dozing off in the middle of study, they'd have made you regret it. I still remember the drills Syr Kane put me through in the Wilds simply for leaning back in my seat."

Solon offered the younger man a hint of a smile, handsome features still shown as candlelight bounced off of his ebon face.

"Now, tell me Hector, what has your sharp mind found about the Trinemorro? Do you understand the significance of why I asked you to study them?"​

 

[Hector]

Hector heard the footsteps before he heard the voice. Only, the steady knock of sure strides was almost a lullaby to him at this point. So late in the night, cramped and hunched over his text there between the stacks.

Knock. Knock. Leather heel against cold stone. Like the ticks of dwarven clock.

The squire felt his body slack some, his head dip.

'Look alive, young one,' Said Syr Raye.

Syr Raye?!

Hector's eyes sprang open, and his back straightened up, alert and at attention. "Syr!" he called out, sharp despite the bags beneath his eyes. He still stat atop his squat stool with book across his lap. He felt nervous, unsure of what the pursuant would do in the face the squire's negligance of duty. So, he listened, as Syr Raye made mention of Syr Kane.

The knight prospective gulped at the thought of drills in the Wyld. He blinked, and when his eyes looked to Syr Raye, they saw the warmth of a friendly smile. Some of the tension bled out of his shoulders, and the corners of his lips curled some. Just a friendly tease. Or, at least he hoped.

Then came the question. And praise. Hector hadn't expected that. Not because cruelty was so common a currency amongst their order, but because, well... he didn't feel so sharp.

"Well, Syr," he began, and looked down at the pages he had last been reading. "Syr Gondalyns Legends and Folklore of the Spine contains tales of the Trinemorro, or the three eyed folk, as they are often referred to in the stories, that date back to before the Age of Expansion. Some dwarven legends that date back to the Age of Wonders even make mention of the three eyed folk, and... the Sisters Trine," Hector shook his head, "But other texts, for example," he closed the tome and placed it down, grabbing up another.

"The Saga of Eolydiir, by one Syr Taritsora, make reference to our own Order communing with these... Sisters Trine... Back in the wars between gods and man," his brow pinched, and his thoughts grew hazed. "But... it doesn't make mention of why, least, not in any manner I can discern," he shook his head, and looked up to the man who stood so tall before him. "Syr I, well, I assume you have given me this task because the Trinemorro are somehow related to the troubles our order faces now..." his eyes looked down, and he frowned. "Tied to the everwatcher somehow,"