Julen retrieved his spear and dragged its head through the grass, imitating what he’d seen Railtus do to clean his own sword. Somehow, as dark red stained the tender green sprouts, Julen couldn’t help believing that he’d desecrated the land his father left him. Could anything ever grow here now and not be tainted by the blood he’d spilled onto wholesome soil? Again, Julen told himself that it had been necessary, that the mercenary needed to be stopped. Permanently. But he was not yet such a soldier that the necessity of taking a life made it easy.
Following Railtus inside the farmhouse, Julen felt a rush of memories clamoring for his attention. Home. If there hadn’t been more pressing concerns, Julen would have walked through each room, drinking everything in with all his senses -- the jars of jam and pickled vegetables in the kitchen, the multi-colored spools of wool in Rosemary’s sollar, the set of carefully carved circus animals that marched across a shelf in the guest room, patiently awaiting the day when they would once more belong to the children of the house. But all that would have to wait. Obeying Railtus’s request, Julen went to fetch what the mercenary had left behind.
The minute he stepped into his bedroom, Julen’s eyes fell on the pack, which stood out like a black beetle on a wedding cake. But he didn’t immediately pick it up. Instead, Julen let his gaze wander a little. The bed had been stripped of its sheets, yet the familiar straw mattress and feather pillows looked incredibly inviting. Part of Julen ached to lie down, close his eyes, and pretend that his life was the same as it had been the last time he slept there. A life without the knowledge of a power he couldn’t control and which might well get him executed. A life where he hadn’t just helped to kill a man and made a vow to help kill others. But Julen shook off the temptation. This was his life now. And his fate was both more exciting, and more terrifying, than what it had been before he set out for Marn.
Nothing was bought without paying a price. Nothing was built without destroying something else.
When he returned to Railtus, Julen handed him the pack. He was pleased to see that his friend had finally attended to the wound on his forehead. “Railtus?” he ventured. An apology had already been made, but now that Julen had gained fresh insight, he felt that he owed Railtus a deeper one. Also, standing in his own house gave Julen the strength to speak of uncomfortable things. “After you grabbed my wrist, things were said. Well, I guess they weren’t so much said as they were thought, but you know what I mean.” Julen’s gaze dropped to the floor while he remembered his rage-fuelled assault on Railtus. “I wasn’t raised in a chivalry tradition like you were. Nor was there any expectation that I would ever enter the military. I always thought I would live my life as a free man, taking orders from no one. Sometimes that makes this...difficult.”
Julen drew a deep breath as he paused to gather his thoughts. “However, after fighting that mercenary, I understand that what you did was not done for the sake of exerting power over me, but because I needed to understand something that would save my life. Such a thing is the act of both a leader and a friend. I hope I can consider you to be each of those.”
Unexpected Homecomings
-
Sir Karsimir
- Citizen
- Posts: 714
- Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 8:12 pm
- Name: Karsimir Von Greyssen
- Race: Reichvolk human
"I would be honoured." Truthfully Railtus had long forgotten ever grabbing Julen's wrist. With so much of his life devoted to honing lethal violence into an art form, most disagreements and challenges seemed hollow to him. Thoughts of anger were standard in training, wrath harnessed and channeled as if a resource to be tapped.
No comment was made concerning the difficulties Julen had mentioned. If there was anything to say, Railtus could not think of it. Although unable to relate with such a concept, nor did he have grounds to judge it.
More than anything, the apology confused Railtus, who had considered the matter long since dead and buried. As dead as the mercenary outside.
Which reminded him, something needed doing about the corpse. Aside from the fact that sooner or later it would begin to smell, were any to discover the body of the mercenary who had terrorised Rosemary's farm, that would announce a major change that could interest some of the others. Such attention would not be welcome just yet.
Rummaging through the pack, Railtus began dividing the contents based on who they were most suitable for. The searching itself was not very hopeful, since all the best gear would be kept on the mercenary himself, still, there was the possibility of valuables or trade goods which may have worth to Rosemary. Perhaps worth enough to repair some of the wrongs.
Returning his attention to Julen, Railtus addressed a large part of what was said. "Being a soldier is harder than it appears. No matter how well we dress it up, what we do is kill some people and manipulate others. How many times have you known me to manipulate people to get my way?" A question asked mostly rhetorically.
Setting the pack down on the ground, Railtus kept hold of any items which cared to declare themselves as of obvious usefulness.
No comment was made concerning the difficulties Julen had mentioned. If there was anything to say, Railtus could not think of it. Although unable to relate with such a concept, nor did he have grounds to judge it.
More than anything, the apology confused Railtus, who had considered the matter long since dead and buried. As dead as the mercenary outside.
Which reminded him, something needed doing about the corpse. Aside from the fact that sooner or later it would begin to smell, were any to discover the body of the mercenary who had terrorised Rosemary's farm, that would announce a major change that could interest some of the others. Such attention would not be welcome just yet.
Rummaging through the pack, Railtus began dividing the contents based on who they were most suitable for. The searching itself was not very hopeful, since all the best gear would be kept on the mercenary himself, still, there was the possibility of valuables or trade goods which may have worth to Rosemary. Perhaps worth enough to repair some of the wrongs.
Returning his attention to Julen, Railtus addressed a large part of what was said. "Being a soldier is harder than it appears. No matter how well we dress it up, what we do is kill some people and manipulate others. How many times have you known me to manipulate people to get my way?" A question asked mostly rhetorically.
Setting the pack down on the ground, Railtus kept hold of any items which cared to declare themselves as of obvious usefulness.
My faith protects me, my kevlar helps.
Julen watched his apology drop into Railtus and vanish, causing barely a ripple in the warrior’s expression. And a terrible sense of loneliness came over him. Railtus might claim to be a mortal man like any other, might even behave like it sometimes, but something fundamentally unearthly existed at his core. And as the years passed, that was the part of him that would grow. Already, he couldn’t understand the daily struggles of Julen’s spirit, the battles against fear, lust, pride, or envy. Given time, perhaps the daily struggles of the body would become equally irrelevant. After all, did angels feel weariness, hunger, pleasure or pain? And then what would be left between them? Nothing except the next evil -- where to find it, how to fight it, what to do after it was defeated. That would be the sole topic of conversation until Railtus finally ascended or, far more likely, Julen died in some cursed spot miles from his home.
But Julen didn’t speak his thoughts aloud. What could he say? Ask Railtus to be more human? Even if that was possible, which Julen doubted, it was selfish. To be free of vice was an admirable thing. That very freedom was what allowed Railtus to combat evil so effectively. In time, if he also gained freedom from physical weakness, that would only increase his power. An angel could do more good than any man. He, Julen, could do more good in the service of an angel than in the service of any man. And somehow, knowing that would just have to be enough.
Moments later, Railtus’s question about manipulating people bent Julen’s mouth into a wry smile. Surely the fact that Rosemary was out washing the belongings of a dead mercenary, while he was running around his own house fetching things for Railtus, spoke more about the answer to that than words ever could. It was on the tip of Julen’s tongue to ask Railtus about the first man he ever killed, and if he’d had any doubts afterward. But as far as Julen could tell, Railtus didn’t have doubts or regrets. Ever. So he simply nodded in response to Railtus’s statement.
The contents of the pack proved uninspiring -- a few days worth of rations, some rope, a flask of alcohol, three torches, a tinderbox, and a large horse whip. Assuming that Railtus would not have particular instructions for any of that, Julen proceeded on to the next errand. “The stable is this way.”
But Julen didn’t speak his thoughts aloud. What could he say? Ask Railtus to be more human? Even if that was possible, which Julen doubted, it was selfish. To be free of vice was an admirable thing. That very freedom was what allowed Railtus to combat evil so effectively. In time, if he also gained freedom from physical weakness, that would only increase his power. An angel could do more good than any man. He, Julen, could do more good in the service of an angel than in the service of any man. And somehow, knowing that would just have to be enough.
Moments later, Railtus’s question about manipulating people bent Julen’s mouth into a wry smile. Surely the fact that Rosemary was out washing the belongings of a dead mercenary, while he was running around his own house fetching things for Railtus, spoke more about the answer to that than words ever could. It was on the tip of Julen’s tongue to ask Railtus about the first man he ever killed, and if he’d had any doubts afterward. But as far as Julen could tell, Railtus didn’t have doubts or regrets. Ever. So he simply nodded in response to Railtus’s statement.
The contents of the pack proved uninspiring -- a few days worth of rations, some rope, a flask of alcohol, three torches, a tinderbox, and a large horse whip. Assuming that Railtus would not have particular instructions for any of that, Julen proceeded on to the next errand. “The stable is this way.”
-
Sir Karsimir
- Citizen
- Posts: 714
- Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 8:12 pm
- Name: Karsimir Von Greyssen
- Race: Reichvolk human
A subtle chill crept inside like the emptiness of a stagnant pond. Hovering above the back of his neck was the notion of a mistake, as if having disappointed Julen somehow. That newly evasive note in his demeanor did not go unnoticed.
"I was supposed to say more, yes?" Railtus wondered aloud. Thinking back to what was said, perhaps more of a reaction was expected to that confession. Very well. It would be answered directly. Railtus was capable of subtlety, in much the same manner as a gnomish flamethrower. "Julen, I trust you. You do not need to justify yourself to me." That was offered by way of some explanation.
Keeping hold of the horse whip, Railtus stayed sat where he was, eyes blazing with righteous wrath. Slowly, he reached for his poniard, then drew it with contrasting suddeness. With the narrow dagger, he began sawing his way through the tool of savagery.
Cutting through the whip only took a few moments, at which point, he folded the length of the whip and began sawing through it again. Destroying that instrument of torture held clear significance just then.
"Might be best if we wash any blood off before we meet the horse. Let us not give him a reason to panic."
Now cleaned of spilled life, they opened the stable doors. One thing contrasted with the creature Rosemary described, this thing was huge, a true battle horse. In fact, that gave Railtus pause before approaching. Often someone intruding on the stall of a warhorse is lucky to escape alive. One arm stretched aside to intercept a possible approach by Julen.
Ears twitching nervously, the beast stamped and shifted, even shying away at the approach of strangers. Not like a warhorse, not at all.
Releasing a mournful sigh, Railtus entered the stable.
It had made no attempt to kill him yet, so it was not quite a warhorse. One such as the mercenary was unlikely to command the power of a warhorse. Most had to be raised from an early age, and if the state of this one was any indication, the mercenary lacked the will and patience for such a grave investment.
How could any creature be treated like this? This was a life, dammit! Open mouthed, Railtus reached down and tried to feel horror above anger, no reason to unnerve the horse more than it had been already. Blood would do it. Anger would do it. Fear would do it. Compassion would not. Only compassion was the source of his anger. Smiling to himself, at least that ordeal was over.
Wrath faded as if stolen by the wind.
Gazing at him, Railtus saw great beauty and strength beneath that ragged condition. Somewhere beneath the dust and scurf was a matted coat the soft brown of milky chocolate, a cream-white stripe running along the center of the nose flowing further onto the mane, and curtains of white fur draping the platter-like hooves. Thoroughly confounding was the notion of neglecting such an incredible animal.
Morality aside, owning such a fine horse deserved better attention than this.
"Stay calm, brave one." crooned Railtus, finding some clean straw with which to rub that massive shoulder. "Nothing to fear. I promise you." Dust and scurf flew, this mount was in dire need of a brush, having not been well-groomed in some time. Working his way along the ribs, the croup, the rump. Always soft and gentle in touch. "You would like to be out of here, go for a ride? Open air, along the roads, good horse. You are safe now."
Soothing the creature with a kind hand on the shoulder, Railtus began searching through the gear kept by the horse, hoping for a brush, or a hoofpick, or something for the care that the animal was clearly not receiving.
Even now it was wearing a bridle, red leather adorned with silver rings tarnished black. Reins wide and heavy, and the bit-
No. Fucking. Way.
A horse could be trained to any bit, although smooth ones were often better. Hasty warriors favoured rough bits over training to force attention from the horse. Good horsemen chose the smoothest bits they could find.
This bit had spikes.
Raising fingers towards the bit, Railtus channeled forth a fraction of what he was feeling to ease the steed's pain. A dark smell carried on each nervous breath, one of old blood. It was a wonder the animal did not gain an infection. With luck, that soothing blessing would be enough to ease the business of getting rid of that abominable bit.
Handling the bit lead to exactly that happening. Leather gauntlets came in useful at that point, at least for retaining fingers at any rate. Poor thing cringed, as if expecting punishment to come. Railtus brought one hand around the back of it's neck, stroking the mane, "You are safe now." Still it waited to be struck, or hurt, or punished. Instead, merely the noseband and throatlatch were unfastened, the crownpiece loosened, before prying open a lip to remove the bit.
Which confused the horse no end.
As an act of good faith, Railtus lifted his leather-garbed hand to the horse's lips, and began to heal. Already he begrudged what effort he had used on his own cut. Here was one far more deserving and in far greater need. Slowly the cuts and sores faded into mere puckered skin, a small step but at least an improvement.
By this point Railtus was developing a hatred for red leather. Phelan used red leather for his boots and the handle on his sword. Now this bridle. Inherently, a connection was being formed between red leather and intolerable cruelty.
Finally the bit was removed. Railtus looked over to Julen, throwing the bit towards him. "I want that thing destroyed. Incinerated. Use it as fuel for the next fire. And we will need to find a bit with any business so much as near a horse."
Thankfully there was a hoofpick, hopefully it had been used at least once, thought Railtus bitterly. Reaching down, he cupped the back of one hoof to encourage it to raise. Outright resistance met that idea. "Come on. Now. Please." Tension gathered overhead like a cloud, the horse wore it's ears stiffly turned back. "If something is wrong I need to look at it." Railtus tried explaining reasonably to the horse. Eventually it complied, at it's own pace, as offered. Cleaning around near the frog was no trouble. Same with the other hoof. Then cupping the rear hoof, it shook a little, guiding his hand up the fur of the leg, he felt a groove and-
SLAM!
Reverberating echoes lingered in the air after the hoof placed a major dent into the breastplate, connecting on the top of the bent shoulder. Railtus went sore and sprawling from that blow, reaching a stop only through impact with the stable wall.
"Ow." he said, indulging in the joy of understatement. Snapping up his gaze, he prepared for Julen's reaction. One thing he knew was that there was no way Julen would overlook an event like that.
Back to the horse. Careful not to touch, he held his steel pendant outthrust towards the groove hidden under the fur, be it wound or scar. Warmth flowed outwards in a stream of fresh vigour, soothing and renewing the blighted flesh. First the leg stiffened, wary in reaction to the sensation, any sensation, but soon the bunched muscles relaxed and the fetlocks over the hooves sank deeper into the straw.
When it finished, the horse twitched slightly, as though disappointed with the ending.
"Brave one. You have nothing to fear now." assured Railtus, reaching up to caress the neck, careful not to strain the matted hair. "The poor treatment that you have suffered will be undone. Your mouth will heal soon enough. Your legs, will be harder but I will make them better somehow. Do you understand?"
The horse understood.
But did not yet dare to believe.
"I was supposed to say more, yes?" Railtus wondered aloud. Thinking back to what was said, perhaps more of a reaction was expected to that confession. Very well. It would be answered directly. Railtus was capable of subtlety, in much the same manner as a gnomish flamethrower. "Julen, I trust you. You do not need to justify yourself to me." That was offered by way of some explanation.
Keeping hold of the horse whip, Railtus stayed sat where he was, eyes blazing with righteous wrath. Slowly, he reached for his poniard, then drew it with contrasting suddeness. With the narrow dagger, he began sawing his way through the tool of savagery.
Cutting through the whip only took a few moments, at which point, he folded the length of the whip and began sawing through it again. Destroying that instrument of torture held clear significance just then.
"Might be best if we wash any blood off before we meet the horse. Let us not give him a reason to panic."
Now cleaned of spilled life, they opened the stable doors. One thing contrasted with the creature Rosemary described, this thing was huge, a true battle horse. In fact, that gave Railtus pause before approaching. Often someone intruding on the stall of a warhorse is lucky to escape alive. One arm stretched aside to intercept a possible approach by Julen.
Ears twitching nervously, the beast stamped and shifted, even shying away at the approach of strangers. Not like a warhorse, not at all.
Releasing a mournful sigh, Railtus entered the stable.
It had made no attempt to kill him yet, so it was not quite a warhorse. One such as the mercenary was unlikely to command the power of a warhorse. Most had to be raised from an early age, and if the state of this one was any indication, the mercenary lacked the will and patience for such a grave investment.
How could any creature be treated like this? This was a life, dammit! Open mouthed, Railtus reached down and tried to feel horror above anger, no reason to unnerve the horse more than it had been already. Blood would do it. Anger would do it. Fear would do it. Compassion would not. Only compassion was the source of his anger. Smiling to himself, at least that ordeal was over.
Wrath faded as if stolen by the wind.
Gazing at him, Railtus saw great beauty and strength beneath that ragged condition. Somewhere beneath the dust and scurf was a matted coat the soft brown of milky chocolate, a cream-white stripe running along the center of the nose flowing further onto the mane, and curtains of white fur draping the platter-like hooves. Thoroughly confounding was the notion of neglecting such an incredible animal.
Morality aside, owning such a fine horse deserved better attention than this.
"Stay calm, brave one." crooned Railtus, finding some clean straw with which to rub that massive shoulder. "Nothing to fear. I promise you." Dust and scurf flew, this mount was in dire need of a brush, having not been well-groomed in some time. Working his way along the ribs, the croup, the rump. Always soft and gentle in touch. "You would like to be out of here, go for a ride? Open air, along the roads, good horse. You are safe now."
Soothing the creature with a kind hand on the shoulder, Railtus began searching through the gear kept by the horse, hoping for a brush, or a hoofpick, or something for the care that the animal was clearly not receiving.
Even now it was wearing a bridle, red leather adorned with silver rings tarnished black. Reins wide and heavy, and the bit-
No. Fucking. Way.
A horse could be trained to any bit, although smooth ones were often better. Hasty warriors favoured rough bits over training to force attention from the horse. Good horsemen chose the smoothest bits they could find.
This bit had spikes.
Raising fingers towards the bit, Railtus channeled forth a fraction of what he was feeling to ease the steed's pain. A dark smell carried on each nervous breath, one of old blood. It was a wonder the animal did not gain an infection. With luck, that soothing blessing would be enough to ease the business of getting rid of that abominable bit.
Handling the bit lead to exactly that happening. Leather gauntlets came in useful at that point, at least for retaining fingers at any rate. Poor thing cringed, as if expecting punishment to come. Railtus brought one hand around the back of it's neck, stroking the mane, "You are safe now." Still it waited to be struck, or hurt, or punished. Instead, merely the noseband and throatlatch were unfastened, the crownpiece loosened, before prying open a lip to remove the bit.
Which confused the horse no end.
As an act of good faith, Railtus lifted his leather-garbed hand to the horse's lips, and began to heal. Already he begrudged what effort he had used on his own cut. Here was one far more deserving and in far greater need. Slowly the cuts and sores faded into mere puckered skin, a small step but at least an improvement.
By this point Railtus was developing a hatred for red leather. Phelan used red leather for his boots and the handle on his sword. Now this bridle. Inherently, a connection was being formed between red leather and intolerable cruelty.
Finally the bit was removed. Railtus looked over to Julen, throwing the bit towards him. "I want that thing destroyed. Incinerated. Use it as fuel for the next fire. And we will need to find a bit with any business so much as near a horse."
Thankfully there was a hoofpick, hopefully it had been used at least once, thought Railtus bitterly. Reaching down, he cupped the back of one hoof to encourage it to raise. Outright resistance met that idea. "Come on. Now. Please." Tension gathered overhead like a cloud, the horse wore it's ears stiffly turned back. "If something is wrong I need to look at it." Railtus tried explaining reasonably to the horse. Eventually it complied, at it's own pace, as offered. Cleaning around near the frog was no trouble. Same with the other hoof. Then cupping the rear hoof, it shook a little, guiding his hand up the fur of the leg, he felt a groove and-
SLAM!
Reverberating echoes lingered in the air after the hoof placed a major dent into the breastplate, connecting on the top of the bent shoulder. Railtus went sore and sprawling from that blow, reaching a stop only through impact with the stable wall.
"Ow." he said, indulging in the joy of understatement. Snapping up his gaze, he prepared for Julen's reaction. One thing he knew was that there was no way Julen would overlook an event like that.
Back to the horse. Careful not to touch, he held his steel pendant outthrust towards the groove hidden under the fur, be it wound or scar. Warmth flowed outwards in a stream of fresh vigour, soothing and renewing the blighted flesh. First the leg stiffened, wary in reaction to the sensation, any sensation, but soon the bunched muscles relaxed and the fetlocks over the hooves sank deeper into the straw.
When it finished, the horse twitched slightly, as though disappointed with the ending.
"Brave one. You have nothing to fear now." assured Railtus, reaching up to caress the neck, careful not to strain the matted hair. "The poor treatment that you have suffered will be undone. Your mouth will heal soon enough. Your legs, will be harder but I will make them better somehow. Do you understand?"
The horse understood.
But did not yet dare to believe.
My faith protects me, my kevlar helps.
“I know you trust me,” Julen assured, genuinely appreciative that Railtus had noticed something bothering him and made an effort to address it. “And your trust means a great deal. It’s just that sometimes...” Julen trailed off, shaking his head. No. Going further might lead to a lengthy discussion, and Railtus had taught him that there was a time for talking, and a time for action. “This can wait. Judging by what Rosemary said, an animal is suffering. We should see to that first.”
Railtus’s destruction of the horse whip seemed to indicate that he agreed. Grim concentration showed on the warrior’s face as he sawed through the intertwined strips of leather, and Julen couldn’t quite repress a slight shiver. He’d already seen that look once today. It had been there when Railtus told the mercenary he was going to die. Apparently if Railtus decided the world was better off without you, be you a man or an inanimate object, that was the end of you.
Nodding to the suggestion about washing up, Julen took Railtus into the kitchen, where he filled a bowl with water from the cistern. The length of his spear had allowed Julen to keep a fair distance from his opponent, and he was amazed by how clean he’d managed to remain. It didn’t seem right that a man should be able to cut another man’s throat and still remain so clean. Still, Julen gave his hands and face a thorough rinsing, as if the cool water could wash away something more intangible than blood.
Then, he led Railtus out to the stable. Julen’s own horse had died about a month before he left for Marn. Its death, and the resulting decrease in the amount of land could be tilled without it, had been what finally drove him to seek income beyond the farm. Now, as Julen pushed open one of the doors that had remained unused for so long, he actually welcomed the idea of another animal dwelling here.
Until he got a good look at the animal in question. True, it had the potential to be a magnificent creature -- its size alone made that clear. But it was dirty, and its mane was tangled, and the way it shied away from them spoke of grave mistreatment. Julen had grown up around animals, which meant he knew that fear could make them more dangerous than even anger. So when Railtus raised an arm to bar his way, Julen didn’t protest, and allowed Railtus to approach the stall alone.
In silence, Julen watched Railtus soothe the poor horse. Seeing its suffering made Julen even more grateful that he’d arrived home in time to prevent Rosemary from receiving similarly callous treatment. If the man could do this to his own mount, then who knew what he might do to a woman he never expected to see again? And then Railtus discovered the spiked bit. Seeing that instrument of torture used on any living being would have upset Julen, and seeing it used on a creature whose fate he’d so recently associated with Rosemary filled him with a cold rage. When Railtus tossed him the bit, Julen wished the mercenary was still alive, so he could march outside and strike him with it.
But since that opportunity no longer existed, he simply agreed with Railtus. “I’ll burn it,” he swore. “And I still have the bit I used on my horse. It’s nothing fancy, but by the gods, it’s smooth.”
Then Railtus began to use the hoofpick. Julen held his breath, knowing that this could be sensitive work. However, even braced for something, he wasn’t prepared for the kick that sent Railtus sprawling backward against the stall wall. With the sound of the blow still ringing in his ears like a gong, Julen dashed forward, prepared to interpose himself, or drag Railtus to safety, or something. Fortunately, he wasn’t needed. The horse didn’t seem interested in delivering any further strikes. After muttering a heartfelt “Ow”, Railtus got back to his feet, and Julen retreated, afraid of aggravating the situation by making the skittish animal even more nervous.
Glancing down at his boot, Julen noticed that his charge had caused him to step in one of the more unfortunate byproducts of horses. And that got him thinking. Someone was going to need to change the straw, bring food and water, handle the grooming, and attend to other related chores. Judging by what Julen knew about the relative duties of knights and footmen, he had a pretty good guess that it wouldn’t be Railtus. So, somehow, he was going to need to befriend this beast. He couldn’t ease its pain as Railtus could. But there were other ways to win the trust of animals.
While Railtus finished his healing, Julen darted back into the house. When he returned, he had an apple that he’d cut into several thick slices, one of which he placed in the palm of his hand. Keeping his fingers together and his hand flat, Julen extended the piece of fruit, and allowed the horse to approach at its own rate. At the same time, he spoke to it in a calm voice.
“Your master is dead, my friend. But don’t worry. I think Railtus likes you. He has a habit of taking in strays that the world hasn’t been kind to.” As Julen tried to reassure it, the horse eyed him with a wary stare. Then, perhaps catching scent of apple, it began to stretch out its neck toward the offered fruit. “He’ll work you hard, of course, and he’ll expect more than you ever believed you could give. But he’ll forgive you for your faults.”
With a hasty dip of its head, the horse snatched up the apple slice, then drew back before it could be punished for taking such liberties. But Julen only smiled at it and placed another piece in his hand. “He’ll take good care of you.”
Railtus’s destruction of the horse whip seemed to indicate that he agreed. Grim concentration showed on the warrior’s face as he sawed through the intertwined strips of leather, and Julen couldn’t quite repress a slight shiver. He’d already seen that look once today. It had been there when Railtus told the mercenary he was going to die. Apparently if Railtus decided the world was better off without you, be you a man or an inanimate object, that was the end of you.
Nodding to the suggestion about washing up, Julen took Railtus into the kitchen, where he filled a bowl with water from the cistern. The length of his spear had allowed Julen to keep a fair distance from his opponent, and he was amazed by how clean he’d managed to remain. It didn’t seem right that a man should be able to cut another man’s throat and still remain so clean. Still, Julen gave his hands and face a thorough rinsing, as if the cool water could wash away something more intangible than blood.
Then, he led Railtus out to the stable. Julen’s own horse had died about a month before he left for Marn. Its death, and the resulting decrease in the amount of land could be tilled without it, had been what finally drove him to seek income beyond the farm. Now, as Julen pushed open one of the doors that had remained unused for so long, he actually welcomed the idea of another animal dwelling here.
Until he got a good look at the animal in question. True, it had the potential to be a magnificent creature -- its size alone made that clear. But it was dirty, and its mane was tangled, and the way it shied away from them spoke of grave mistreatment. Julen had grown up around animals, which meant he knew that fear could make them more dangerous than even anger. So when Railtus raised an arm to bar his way, Julen didn’t protest, and allowed Railtus to approach the stall alone.
In silence, Julen watched Railtus soothe the poor horse. Seeing its suffering made Julen even more grateful that he’d arrived home in time to prevent Rosemary from receiving similarly callous treatment. If the man could do this to his own mount, then who knew what he might do to a woman he never expected to see again? And then Railtus discovered the spiked bit. Seeing that instrument of torture used on any living being would have upset Julen, and seeing it used on a creature whose fate he’d so recently associated with Rosemary filled him with a cold rage. When Railtus tossed him the bit, Julen wished the mercenary was still alive, so he could march outside and strike him with it.
But since that opportunity no longer existed, he simply agreed with Railtus. “I’ll burn it,” he swore. “And I still have the bit I used on my horse. It’s nothing fancy, but by the gods, it’s smooth.”
Then Railtus began to use the hoofpick. Julen held his breath, knowing that this could be sensitive work. However, even braced for something, he wasn’t prepared for the kick that sent Railtus sprawling backward against the stall wall. With the sound of the blow still ringing in his ears like a gong, Julen dashed forward, prepared to interpose himself, or drag Railtus to safety, or something. Fortunately, he wasn’t needed. The horse didn’t seem interested in delivering any further strikes. After muttering a heartfelt “Ow”, Railtus got back to his feet, and Julen retreated, afraid of aggravating the situation by making the skittish animal even more nervous.
Glancing down at his boot, Julen noticed that his charge had caused him to step in one of the more unfortunate byproducts of horses. And that got him thinking. Someone was going to need to change the straw, bring food and water, handle the grooming, and attend to other related chores. Judging by what Julen knew about the relative duties of knights and footmen, he had a pretty good guess that it wouldn’t be Railtus. So, somehow, he was going to need to befriend this beast. He couldn’t ease its pain as Railtus could. But there were other ways to win the trust of animals.
While Railtus finished his healing, Julen darted back into the house. When he returned, he had an apple that he’d cut into several thick slices, one of which he placed in the palm of his hand. Keeping his fingers together and his hand flat, Julen extended the piece of fruit, and allowed the horse to approach at its own rate. At the same time, he spoke to it in a calm voice.
“Your master is dead, my friend. But don’t worry. I think Railtus likes you. He has a habit of taking in strays that the world hasn’t been kind to.” As Julen tried to reassure it, the horse eyed him with a wary stare. Then, perhaps catching scent of apple, it began to stretch out its neck toward the offered fruit. “He’ll work you hard, of course, and he’ll expect more than you ever believed you could give. But he’ll forgive you for your faults.”
With a hasty dip of its head, the horse snatched up the apple slice, then drew back before it could be punished for taking such liberties. But Julen only smiled at it and placed another piece in his hand. “He’ll take good care of you.”
-
Sir Karsimir
- Citizen
- Posts: 714
- Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 8:12 pm
- Name: Karsimir Von Greyssen
- Race: Reichvolk human
Cautiously, as if doubting it's senses, the horse inched it's head forwards towards the fruit. Taking another nibble, it snatched at the fruit and retracted the neck to indulge in the fruit unharmed. When the offering hand remained unmoved, the horse fixed it with a stare, as if expecting the apple slices to rear up and exact revenge of their own.
Reluctantly, doubtfully, it reached forwards for another slice, only to be very surprised when the offered slice was genuine. Obviously the horse was well-fed, judging by the build of layered muscle, and the fact that it showed signs of needing exercise.
Listening closely, Railtus did not know what to make of Julen's description of him, nor did he know how to feel. Was that how he worked? A part of Railtus tried to form some view of that image, that part of him failed. Instead, Railtus did what he usually did when unable to find a strong judgement on a subject. Forgot about it.
Eventually the horse consented to eat without seeking to hide between bites. It even sniffed directly at Julen's hand, smelling the juices of unstolen apples and eager to be hunting for more. Apples were prey. Beware all apples.
Carrots would be in equal danger.
Good signs so far, and Railtus took note of a smile on his face that he was unaware of thusfar. If only he was free to tarry.
"Julen. Mind his legs. They were cut into by a rope, probably the mercenary binding his legs together to keep him from wandering at night." Yes. It worked, but was lazy, and cruel. And led to bad results. A true warhorse was kept through loyalty alone, with a spirit to be prized and not broken.
"We have work to do." stated Railtus, forcibly tearing himself away from the treasured charger. "The mercenary needs burying to buy time. If his fate is discovered we may have challengers heading our way, and I would rather deal with them after preparing my new sword and your armour."
Even now he was nearing the door like a hound straining against a lead. "All will be safer once it is done."
Reluctantly, doubtfully, it reached forwards for another slice, only to be very surprised when the offered slice was genuine. Obviously the horse was well-fed, judging by the build of layered muscle, and the fact that it showed signs of needing exercise.
Listening closely, Railtus did not know what to make of Julen's description of him, nor did he know how to feel. Was that how he worked? A part of Railtus tried to form some view of that image, that part of him failed. Instead, Railtus did what he usually did when unable to find a strong judgement on a subject. Forgot about it.
Eventually the horse consented to eat without seeking to hide between bites. It even sniffed directly at Julen's hand, smelling the juices of unstolen apples and eager to be hunting for more. Apples were prey. Beware all apples.
Carrots would be in equal danger.
Good signs so far, and Railtus took note of a smile on his face that he was unaware of thusfar. If only he was free to tarry.
"Julen. Mind his legs. They were cut into by a rope, probably the mercenary binding his legs together to keep him from wandering at night." Yes. It worked, but was lazy, and cruel. And led to bad results. A true warhorse was kept through loyalty alone, with a spirit to be prized and not broken.
"We have work to do." stated Railtus, forcibly tearing himself away from the treasured charger. "The mercenary needs burying to buy time. If his fate is discovered we may have challengers heading our way, and I would rather deal with them after preparing my new sword and your armour."
Even now he was nearing the door like a hound straining against a lead. "All will be safer once it is done."
My faith protects me, my kevlar helps.
“Burying. Right. I’ll get some shovels.”
After feeding the horse his last bit of apple, Julen reached out to tentatively stroke its muzzle. When no resistance was offered, he grinned, and nodded at Railtus’s retreating figure. “You see what you’re in for? If I were you, my friend, I’d rest now. While you still have a chance.”
From a shed near the stable, Julen retrieved two shovels. Carrying them around to the front of the house, he noticed that Rosemary had already finished washing the mercenary’s clothing, along with the bed sheets, all of which now hung on the line to dry. As he approached, she was hard at work scrubbing blood from the cowhide jack. Unable to pass so close to his wife without stealing a touch, Julen shifted the shovels to one hand, and trailed his other hand across her shoulder. The caress drew a smile from Rosemary. Without pausing in her task, she bent her head to nuzzle his hand before it slipped away.
Joining Railtus beside the mercenary’s body, Julen turned his mind to thoughts of burying it. He didn’t like the idea of having the man remain on his land in any form. But Railtus was right -- concealing the mercenary’s fate would buy them necessary time, so they needed to do this quick, and they needed to do it close. Not in the field or the gardens. He didn’t want to risk any of his descendents getting an unpleasant shock while digging in those. There was a small plot in the back of the house where a number of Julen’s ancestors, having professed rather strong sentiments against being buried in the town cemetery, now rested. But this invader didn’t deserve to lie with honorable people. Digging in any of the livestock pens would disturb the animals...
“The compost pile,” Julen proposed. “We can move the compost aside, bury him, and then pile it back up over the grave. Not only will the compost hide any signs of fresh digging, it will give him the monument he so richly deserves.”
Glancing at Railtus to see if he agreed, Julen noticed the sunlight glint off the fresh dent in Railtus’s breast plate, and it reminded him of the horse’s attack. Since Railtus hadn’t made any complaints after his initial “Ow”, Julen had assumed he was alright. But, as the incident with Railtus’ gashed forehead demonstrated, Railtus wasn’t always the best judge of his own health. “That horse kicked you pretty good,” Julen ventured. “Are you okay?”
After feeding the horse his last bit of apple, Julen reached out to tentatively stroke its muzzle. When no resistance was offered, he grinned, and nodded at Railtus’s retreating figure. “You see what you’re in for? If I were you, my friend, I’d rest now. While you still have a chance.”
From a shed near the stable, Julen retrieved two shovels. Carrying them around to the front of the house, he noticed that Rosemary had already finished washing the mercenary’s clothing, along with the bed sheets, all of which now hung on the line to dry. As he approached, she was hard at work scrubbing blood from the cowhide jack. Unable to pass so close to his wife without stealing a touch, Julen shifted the shovels to one hand, and trailed his other hand across her shoulder. The caress drew a smile from Rosemary. Without pausing in her task, she bent her head to nuzzle his hand before it slipped away.
Joining Railtus beside the mercenary’s body, Julen turned his mind to thoughts of burying it. He didn’t like the idea of having the man remain on his land in any form. But Railtus was right -- concealing the mercenary’s fate would buy them necessary time, so they needed to do this quick, and they needed to do it close. Not in the field or the gardens. He didn’t want to risk any of his descendents getting an unpleasant shock while digging in those. There was a small plot in the back of the house where a number of Julen’s ancestors, having professed rather strong sentiments against being buried in the town cemetery, now rested. But this invader didn’t deserve to lie with honorable people. Digging in any of the livestock pens would disturb the animals...
“The compost pile,” Julen proposed. “We can move the compost aside, bury him, and then pile it back up over the grave. Not only will the compost hide any signs of fresh digging, it will give him the monument he so richly deserves.”
Glancing at Railtus to see if he agreed, Julen noticed the sunlight glint off the fresh dent in Railtus’s breast plate, and it reminded him of the horse’s attack. Since Railtus hadn’t made any complaints after his initial “Ow”, Julen had assumed he was alright. But, as the incident with Railtus’ gashed forehead demonstrated, Railtus wasn’t always the best judge of his own health. “That horse kicked you pretty good,” Julen ventured. “Are you okay?”
-
Sir Karsimir
- Citizen
- Posts: 714
- Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 8:12 pm
- Name: Karsimir Von Greyssen
- Race: Reichvolk human
No objections from Railtus, in fact, he snorted a chuckle at the mention of a fitting monument. While not one to favour actively dishonouring a foe, this was the most suitable place for burial. Not from malice, or spite, simply to ensure that the honour extended to the others would not be tainted by the dead man's evil.
Picking up a shovel, Railtus got to work without even the presumed hesitation. For a nobleman, he did not shy from manual labour. Of course, working so hard while in an iron breastplate built up a sweat, and he began to grimace partway through the task. Still, warriors seldom complained of physical discomfort.
"I will survive." Railtus answered dryly, and quite honestly, since he did not claim to be alright. That shoulder and arm was aching to the point of sharp daggers of pain sliding through his bones. The limb felt heavy and bloated, sure to be swollen and bruised very soon. Gritting his teeth, he resumed digging, disregarding the twinges as his injury protested.
More difficult was the dent in his armour, which continuously pressed against the injury, at once reminding him of it's presence and preventing him from reaching to deal with it. Soon, he would have to hammer out that dent in his armour if he wanted to retain mobility.
"Once this is done, I will take the sword to the smith." Railtus gasped out from between scoops with the shovel. "When I get back, we will deal with your armour. You mentioned you had some skill at blacksmithing, so do you have your own forge to work with? It would make the avantail easier."
Picking up a shovel, Railtus got to work without even the presumed hesitation. For a nobleman, he did not shy from manual labour. Of course, working so hard while in an iron breastplate built up a sweat, and he began to grimace partway through the task. Still, warriors seldom complained of physical discomfort.
"I will survive." Railtus answered dryly, and quite honestly, since he did not claim to be alright. That shoulder and arm was aching to the point of sharp daggers of pain sliding through his bones. The limb felt heavy and bloated, sure to be swollen and bruised very soon. Gritting his teeth, he resumed digging, disregarding the twinges as his injury protested.
More difficult was the dent in his armour, which continuously pressed against the injury, at once reminding him of it's presence and preventing him from reaching to deal with it. Soon, he would have to hammer out that dent in his armour if he wanted to retain mobility.
"Once this is done, I will take the sword to the smith." Railtus gasped out from between scoops with the shovel. "When I get back, we will deal with your armour. You mentioned you had some skill at blacksmithing, so do you have your own forge to work with? It would make the avantail easier."
My faith protects me, my kevlar helps.
Taking up a position near Railtus, Julen began to dig. Despite the chore’s lack of glamour, it actually felt good to plunge his shovel into the ground, to lift the familiar weight of the earth, to fill his nostrils with the rich scent of freshly-turned soil. Julen threw himself into the task with such enthusiasm that it wasn’t long before he’d worked up quite a sweat beneath his thick arming coat. For a moment, he almost suggested to Railtus that they take off their armor while working. But then it occurred to Julen that if more mercenaries did happen to arrive, they probably wouldn’t be considerate enough to give Railtus and him a few minutes to get suited up before beginning combat. So Julen just endured the discomfort.
However, Julen soon noticed that Railtus appeared to be enduring considerably more discomfort. And, while Railtus’s assertion that he would survive was probably true enough, Julen thought that more needed to be said. Continuing to dig, he searched for some way to broach the subject without seeming to lecture, badger, or judge.
“I don’t pretend to understand the limitations of your healing,” Julen began. “Ultimately, you’re the only one in a position to decide when it gets used, and I respect that. But I’m going to make a suggestion. If you do decide to heal the damage done when you got kicked, don’t think of it as merely alleviating your own suffering. Think of it as making yourself better able to fight for people in need of defending. Given our current situation, I don’t think that’s too much of a stretch.”
By now, the hole was deep enough for a decent burial. With Railtus’s help, Julen dragged the mercenary’s body over, and dropped it in. As Julen stared down at the corpse, he felt like he should say something profound. But the only thought that came into his head was that killing people sure was a hell of a lot of work. So, as he began to shovel dirt back over the body, he replied to Railtus’s question about blacksmithing.
“Yes, there’s a small forge near the shed. I use it for making horseshoes, nails, things like that.” And while they were on the topic, Julen decided to ask something he’d been wondering about. “Railtus? If you’re just going to have the sword fixed, why did you break it in the first place?”
However, Julen soon noticed that Railtus appeared to be enduring considerably more discomfort. And, while Railtus’s assertion that he would survive was probably true enough, Julen thought that more needed to be said. Continuing to dig, he searched for some way to broach the subject without seeming to lecture, badger, or judge.
“I don’t pretend to understand the limitations of your healing,” Julen began. “Ultimately, you’re the only one in a position to decide when it gets used, and I respect that. But I’m going to make a suggestion. If you do decide to heal the damage done when you got kicked, don’t think of it as merely alleviating your own suffering. Think of it as making yourself better able to fight for people in need of defending. Given our current situation, I don’t think that’s too much of a stretch.”
By now, the hole was deep enough for a decent burial. With Railtus’s help, Julen dragged the mercenary’s body over, and dropped it in. As Julen stared down at the corpse, he felt like he should say something profound. But the only thought that came into his head was that killing people sure was a hell of a lot of work. So, as he began to shovel dirt back over the body, he replied to Railtus’s question about blacksmithing.
“Yes, there’s a small forge near the shed. I use it for making horseshoes, nails, things like that.” And while they were on the topic, Julen decided to ask something he’d been wondering about. “Railtus? If you’re just going to have the sword fixed, why did you break it in the first place?”
Last edited by Julen on Fri Apr 20, 2007 9:39 am, edited 1 time in total.
-
Sir Karsimir
- Citizen
- Posts: 714
- Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 8:12 pm
- Name: Karsimir Von Greyssen
- Race: Reichvolk human
Now with the corpse dwelling within the pit, steadily receding beneath the broken shower of earth, Railtus lessened his efforts sufficiently to spare his attention to the question put before him, with only minimal distraction from the pain. "It needed doing." answered Railtus unhelpfully. "The weapon was tainted by the evil it was used for. I can retain the original design and metal, but I will not be the owner of a sword stained with the blood of the innocent." Grim determination entered his voice with that announcement, as if the notion haunted him.
Steadying himself with a deep breath, more heaps of earth were thrown into the ground, progressing further towards a complete grave. Again, pain flared through his arm, piercing him as if his bones were aflame. "To heal, is an act of compassion. The more true that is when I do so the stronger my power to heal. Normally I heal over the course of hours or days. What you have seen were exceptions. Surface marks on you and the poor girl. A desperation case with Ramas." Pausing to allow a grunt of effort, another spadeful contributed towards the burial. "If I push too far, my talents begin to fade." Then, Railtus did something he very seldom did.
He hesitated.
Coming to a decision, he confessed. "With Ramas, I was terrified. Afterwards, I thought it had cost me my place for good." New emotion thickened his voice, suggesting he may have hit his head on something when being hoofed across the stable by the horse. "The notion of being fully mortal again, it frightens me." There, he said it.
And he stopped right there, enough had been said. All people had fears, and his was what Julen and others had to deal with every single day. With an irritated sigh, he dispelled his selfish grumblings and got back to worrying about people who actually needed the damn help.
Renewed vigour brought more scoops of the shovel, filling the grave more quickly. As if the work, the effort, even the now-welcome pain, could drown out the cries of his weaknesses. Frenzied effort caused the top of the filling earth to rise.
Shoulder killing, Railtus dropped the shovel. Shifting the pendant to press against the pain, he chanted softly.
"Flesh made whole, that duty be done. Innocents in need, I now stand ready."
Jolting as if struck by an electric current, Railtus lifted the injured arm and began moving it around. It still hurt, still swollen and bruised, but now told Railtus of sensation other than pain.
"Which way to the smith?"
Steadying himself with a deep breath, more heaps of earth were thrown into the ground, progressing further towards a complete grave. Again, pain flared through his arm, piercing him as if his bones were aflame. "To heal, is an act of compassion. The more true that is when I do so the stronger my power to heal. Normally I heal over the course of hours or days. What you have seen were exceptions. Surface marks on you and the poor girl. A desperation case with Ramas." Pausing to allow a grunt of effort, another spadeful contributed towards the burial. "If I push too far, my talents begin to fade." Then, Railtus did something he very seldom did.
He hesitated.
Coming to a decision, he confessed. "With Ramas, I was terrified. Afterwards, I thought it had cost me my place for good." New emotion thickened his voice, suggesting he may have hit his head on something when being hoofed across the stable by the horse. "The notion of being fully mortal again, it frightens me." There, he said it.
And he stopped right there, enough had been said. All people had fears, and his was what Julen and others had to deal with every single day. With an irritated sigh, he dispelled his selfish grumblings and got back to worrying about people who actually needed the damn help.
Renewed vigour brought more scoops of the shovel, filling the grave more quickly. As if the work, the effort, even the now-welcome pain, could drown out the cries of his weaknesses. Frenzied effort caused the top of the filling earth to rise.
Shoulder killing, Railtus dropped the shovel. Shifting the pendant to press against the pain, he chanted softly.
"Flesh made whole, that duty be done. Innocents in need, I now stand ready."
Jolting as if struck by an electric current, Railtus lifted the injured arm and began moving it around. It still hurt, still swollen and bruised, but now told Railtus of sensation other than pain.
"Which way to the smith?"
My faith protects me, my kevlar helps.
Julen nodded in response to Railtus’s explanation for why he’d broken the sword. It made sense. Re-forging the blade would allow it a fresh start, a chance to serve a better master. Just as the dead mercenary now served the earth, feeding her creatures while he rotted, giving back some small portion of the life he took from others.
Far more surprising, however, was what Railtus said about his healing. Julen knew that his friend’s powers were limited. The frightening toll taken by his effort to help Ramas had been proof of that. But it hadn’t occurred to Julen that the sacred energy was like a lake inside Railtus, something which could actually be drained dry. Each time Railtus healed someone, Julen had assumed he was casting a spell granted to him by his angelic nature, and instead, he was actually sacrificing a bit of that nature. Abruptly, Julen felt guilty for allowing Railtus to expend such an important part of his spirit on minor complaints like a scratched face or sore muscles. In the future, he resolved, he’d try to limit the aid he received to truly important injuries.
When Railtus admitted his dread of becoming fully mortal again, Julen knew how hard it must have been for the warrior to speak about such a thing. Searching for words to express his sympathy and gratitude -- sympathy for the terror, gratitude for the honesty -- Julen glanced over at his friend. And what he saw on Railtus’s face stunned him more than the confession. Shame. Railtus actually thought it was weakness to fear losing the powers which allowed him to help people, to fear the return of every sin he’d already triumphed over. Julen’s first instinct was to drop his shovel, grab Railtus by the shoulders, and shake him. But he suspected that particular confrontation wouldn’t end well. So instead, while he continued to work, Julen spoke casually, as if making conversation about the weather. “It’s interesting. The notion of becoming what you are, of losing the things that make me human...even the weak things, even the wicked things...that’s what terrifies me. You’re afraid to return to a darkness you left behind. I’m afraid to step into the light. Which of us has more to be ashamed of?”
After throwing the last bit of earth into place, Julen began to beat it down with the back of his shovel. Vaguely aware that he was whacking the soil as if he expected the dead mercenary to try climbing from his grave, Julen attempted to rein himself in, but his confession to Railtus had exposed a raw nerve. Nearly a minute passed before he regained enough composure to stop pounding and shovel the compost pile back to its original spot. And, by the time he finished that, he could actually keep his voice level while giving Railtus directions to the smith.
“Mostly, you just go back the way we came. Orin’s shop will be on the left side of the road, just before you reach the village’s edge.” Julen paused, trying to wipe the sweat from his brow before it could drip into his eyes. “What would you like me to do while you’re gone?”
Far more surprising, however, was what Railtus said about his healing. Julen knew that his friend’s powers were limited. The frightening toll taken by his effort to help Ramas had been proof of that. But it hadn’t occurred to Julen that the sacred energy was like a lake inside Railtus, something which could actually be drained dry. Each time Railtus healed someone, Julen had assumed he was casting a spell granted to him by his angelic nature, and instead, he was actually sacrificing a bit of that nature. Abruptly, Julen felt guilty for allowing Railtus to expend such an important part of his spirit on minor complaints like a scratched face or sore muscles. In the future, he resolved, he’d try to limit the aid he received to truly important injuries.
When Railtus admitted his dread of becoming fully mortal again, Julen knew how hard it must have been for the warrior to speak about such a thing. Searching for words to express his sympathy and gratitude -- sympathy for the terror, gratitude for the honesty -- Julen glanced over at his friend. And what he saw on Railtus’s face stunned him more than the confession. Shame. Railtus actually thought it was weakness to fear losing the powers which allowed him to help people, to fear the return of every sin he’d already triumphed over. Julen’s first instinct was to drop his shovel, grab Railtus by the shoulders, and shake him. But he suspected that particular confrontation wouldn’t end well. So instead, while he continued to work, Julen spoke casually, as if making conversation about the weather. “It’s interesting. The notion of becoming what you are, of losing the things that make me human...even the weak things, even the wicked things...that’s what terrifies me. You’re afraid to return to a darkness you left behind. I’m afraid to step into the light. Which of us has more to be ashamed of?”
After throwing the last bit of earth into place, Julen began to beat it down with the back of his shovel. Vaguely aware that he was whacking the soil as if he expected the dead mercenary to try climbing from his grave, Julen attempted to rein himself in, but his confession to Railtus had exposed a raw nerve. Nearly a minute passed before he regained enough composure to stop pounding and shovel the compost pile back to its original spot. And, by the time he finished that, he could actually keep his voice level while giving Railtus directions to the smith.
“Mostly, you just go back the way we came. Orin’s shop will be on the left side of the road, just before you reach the village’s edge.” Julen paused, trying to wipe the sweat from his brow before it could drip into his eyes. “What would you like me to do while you’re gone?”
-
Sir Karsimir
- Citizen
- Posts: 714
- Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 8:12 pm
- Name: Karsimir Von Greyssen
- Race: Reichvolk human
Such kindness reached Railtus, and was appreciated. As kind as that comment was, it made a basic misunderstanding about what an Angelsworn was. "Kind of you to say," then he saw the furious thumping of the topsoil, and realised the admission from Julen had been equally heartfelt. So Railtus merely grunted in acknowledgement, the grunt which implied a response when nothing seemed suitable to say.
"The essence returns swiftly enough, and easily too, only that was the first time I had felt the Heavens beyond my reach." explained Railtus, "Healing is only one miracle, there are others. When I drain my spirit I lose access to them all until I recover. Given the choice, I prefer to reserve something for emergencies." In keeping with his nature, Railtus moved the topic of conversation away from himself, a subject he did not find interesting to discuss anyway. "Retaining humanity is your right. Becoming Angelsworn is a major sacrifice, one never to be expected from anyone. There is nothing for you to feel ashamed of."
"As for what you can do while I am gone, make damn sure that Rosemary is safe. Never stray more than six feet from your spear. If someone comes get inside and funnel them through the doorway so they cannot dodge around the spearhead."
With that, Railtus fetched the broken sword, kept it in scabbard and carried it by the sheath towards the smith, taking the directions he was given. Sure, he was sweating, but he was visiting a forge so that would be no true concern. Keeping a wary eye about, he did not dare to show his weakness or injury, in the case of attracting interest in just how that injury was gained.
By the appearance as he approached, no sooner had the smith got to work on one project than another mercenary was making demands. Again, this one bore a shadow on his spirit. Reluctance struck, these shadows and blighted souls were far too many, and he did not know how to act. Sailing across the room to behead someone because they had a tainted aura seemed like poor behaviour for an Angelsworn.
Although a smith, Orin of Shim was not quite a war smith. Arms and armour would not be his main trade. Instead, most his work was horseshoes, railings, and many other things that Railtus had never really considered from his life of luxury. One fact that he noted was that the horse he now kept had a sound set of shoes. Giving some thought, most of his metal went into farm tools, sewing needles, nails, all the instruments of any man's craft. Actually, the more he thought about it, the more vital the blacksmith was to the community.
Currently, he was making bolts and spearheads, with the occasional variety of adding a shield-boss. Usually the mercenaries wanted buckles or clasps, being adaquately armed already. Tool knives were made for those too lazy to maintain their own, and he had been fixing the dents out of armour.
"Excuse me?" asked Railtus, sticking his head inside.
The large man stood favouring one side, wincing as he worked the hammer. "What?" he asked, in a defeated tone, mildly perplexed by the unexpected etiquette.
"Rosemary told me to come to you above repairing my new sword." Then he stopped, observing something of greater importance. "You are hurt." he stated.
Failing to register the concern, Orin grimaced in confusion. "Guntar let you near her?"
Railtus allowed himself to enjoy the revelation. "Was Guntar the previous owner of this sword?" he asked mildly, presenting the sword to be seen. "And these bracers?"
"Aiieee!" exclaimed the smith, jumping with the shock of the discovery. Yes, the drama was well worth it. Then his eyes narrowed, trying to make sense of such friendliness from one who had killed one as feared as Guntar. "You looking to be the next to try taking Rosemary?"
With a steadying breath, Railtus shook his head grimly. "No one has taken Rosemary. And no one will. That is part of why Guntar died, to spare the lady from any such abuses."
Orin stammered at that, finally accepting the visitors character. "Ah, well. Er... That was a good deed you did lad."
"Thank you. Now, you are hurt. What happened?" Railtus asked.
"Oh, well, I tried refusing the demands o' some o' them mercenaries. Took me' hammer to one of them. His friends jumped in. Were too many for me. Only reason me not more hurt is 'cos they need me fit to work the forge for them. All the mercenaries here I thought would make me a fortune. Now I worry about feeding me' kin."
"Guntar had rations I can bring you." Railtus suggested, "And I am liscenced as a healer. Hopefully that will help you. How much to repair my sword?"
Orin blinked. "Aye. You a healer?"
"Yes. Now trust me here." With that, he set the sword down and began working on the bruises. "Wrong be unmade, wound be undone. Pain, now be abated." A soft chill flowed through Orin's hurt flesh, lingering in the bruises and allowing him to move more easily.
"Hayyyee!" Orin exclaimed, not sure whether his cry was from joy or fear. That sudden end to the pain was gladly welcome, although he had long learned to fear magic.
"Healing the sick and injured is not a power of evil. Which is why I got my liscence."
That satisfied the smith easily, who very much wanted to believe that the man who had just rescued a young girl and healed an attack done to him was someone who could be trusted.
"You will bring me the food when this is done?"
"Of course."
"Then I owe you the sword. Go get." grinned the blacksmith.
"Understood. One more thing, there is a blessing for the water before we quench the blade. Just humour me on this and give me chance." It sounded innocent, a superstition, a belief, a personal choice. Nothing like the process for making a sacred blade.
"Right, lad. What's your name?"
"Railtus. Pleased to meet you Orin."
"The essence returns swiftly enough, and easily too, only that was the first time I had felt the Heavens beyond my reach." explained Railtus, "Healing is only one miracle, there are others. When I drain my spirit I lose access to them all until I recover. Given the choice, I prefer to reserve something for emergencies." In keeping with his nature, Railtus moved the topic of conversation away from himself, a subject he did not find interesting to discuss anyway. "Retaining humanity is your right. Becoming Angelsworn is a major sacrifice, one never to be expected from anyone. There is nothing for you to feel ashamed of."
"As for what you can do while I am gone, make damn sure that Rosemary is safe. Never stray more than six feet from your spear. If someone comes get inside and funnel them through the doorway so they cannot dodge around the spearhead."
With that, Railtus fetched the broken sword, kept it in scabbard and carried it by the sheath towards the smith, taking the directions he was given. Sure, he was sweating, but he was visiting a forge so that would be no true concern. Keeping a wary eye about, he did not dare to show his weakness or injury, in the case of attracting interest in just how that injury was gained.
By the appearance as he approached, no sooner had the smith got to work on one project than another mercenary was making demands. Again, this one bore a shadow on his spirit. Reluctance struck, these shadows and blighted souls were far too many, and he did not know how to act. Sailing across the room to behead someone because they had a tainted aura seemed like poor behaviour for an Angelsworn.
Although a smith, Orin of Shim was not quite a war smith. Arms and armour would not be his main trade. Instead, most his work was horseshoes, railings, and many other things that Railtus had never really considered from his life of luxury. One fact that he noted was that the horse he now kept had a sound set of shoes. Giving some thought, most of his metal went into farm tools, sewing needles, nails, all the instruments of any man's craft. Actually, the more he thought about it, the more vital the blacksmith was to the community.
Currently, he was making bolts and spearheads, with the occasional variety of adding a shield-boss. Usually the mercenaries wanted buckles or clasps, being adaquately armed already. Tool knives were made for those too lazy to maintain their own, and he had been fixing the dents out of armour.
"Excuse me?" asked Railtus, sticking his head inside.
The large man stood favouring one side, wincing as he worked the hammer. "What?" he asked, in a defeated tone, mildly perplexed by the unexpected etiquette.
"Rosemary told me to come to you above repairing my new sword." Then he stopped, observing something of greater importance. "You are hurt." he stated.
Failing to register the concern, Orin grimaced in confusion. "Guntar let you near her?"
Railtus allowed himself to enjoy the revelation. "Was Guntar the previous owner of this sword?" he asked mildly, presenting the sword to be seen. "And these bracers?"
"Aiieee!" exclaimed the smith, jumping with the shock of the discovery. Yes, the drama was well worth it. Then his eyes narrowed, trying to make sense of such friendliness from one who had killed one as feared as Guntar. "You looking to be the next to try taking Rosemary?"
With a steadying breath, Railtus shook his head grimly. "No one has taken Rosemary. And no one will. That is part of why Guntar died, to spare the lady from any such abuses."
Orin stammered at that, finally accepting the visitors character. "Ah, well. Er... That was a good deed you did lad."
"Thank you. Now, you are hurt. What happened?" Railtus asked.
"Oh, well, I tried refusing the demands o' some o' them mercenaries. Took me' hammer to one of them. His friends jumped in. Were too many for me. Only reason me not more hurt is 'cos they need me fit to work the forge for them. All the mercenaries here I thought would make me a fortune. Now I worry about feeding me' kin."
"Guntar had rations I can bring you." Railtus suggested, "And I am liscenced as a healer. Hopefully that will help you. How much to repair my sword?"
Orin blinked. "Aye. You a healer?"
"Yes. Now trust me here." With that, he set the sword down and began working on the bruises. "Wrong be unmade, wound be undone. Pain, now be abated." A soft chill flowed through Orin's hurt flesh, lingering in the bruises and allowing him to move more easily.
"Hayyyee!" Orin exclaimed, not sure whether his cry was from joy or fear. That sudden end to the pain was gladly welcome, although he had long learned to fear magic.
"Healing the sick and injured is not a power of evil. Which is why I got my liscence."
That satisfied the smith easily, who very much wanted to believe that the man who had just rescued a young girl and healed an attack done to him was someone who could be trusted.
"You will bring me the food when this is done?"
"Of course."
"Then I owe you the sword. Go get." grinned the blacksmith.
"Understood. One more thing, there is a blessing for the water before we quench the blade. Just humour me on this and give me chance." It sounded innocent, a superstition, a belief, a personal choice. Nothing like the process for making a sacred blade.
"Right, lad. What's your name?"
"Railtus. Pleased to meet you Orin."
My faith protects me, my kevlar helps.
After wishing Railtus luck with his errand, Julen went to look for Rosemary. In the front yard, he found the rest of the dead mercenary’s gear washed and set out to dry beneath the sun, as well as a wet spot where the washtub had been emptied before being returned to its place in the shed. But of his wife, there was no sign. Overcome by a sudden sense of anxiety, Julen dashed into the house, planning to retrieve his spear and go look for her. If another mercenary had happened by while he was digging, he’d never forgive himself. Once inside, however, Julen heard the familiar clatter of pans coming from the kitchen. An audible sigh of relief escaped his lips. Even so, Julen still picked up his spear before going to join her. “There you are.”
“Of course I’m here. Where else would I go to cook lunch?” Placing a final potato in her bowl, Rosemary turned toward Julen and smiled. But the smile waned when her gaze lit on his spear. “Do you have to bring that thing into my kitchen?”
“Railtus told me to keep it close.”
To Julen’s surprise, Rosemary didn’t get angry, or insist on the weapon’s removal. Instead, she giggled. “You should see yourself when you say his name. Honestly, I think your eyes actually light up.” Shaking her head, Rosemary placed her bowl of potatoes on the kitchen table, and then sat down in front of them. “If he were a woman, I’d be jealous.”
“Huh,” Julen grunted, unsure how else to respond. He hadn’t realized his admiration was so obvious. Somewhat discomforted by the revelation, he stared out the kitchen window, and changed the subject. “Anything exciting happen while I was away?”
“Other than a bunch of mercenaries showing up to terrorize the village? A few things, none of them good. Margretta drown in the Ofriyu Mar River. Some people said that they saw her walking with strange man right before it happened. They tried to catch him, but the river rose up against them. There was another woman involved, a traveler from somewhere, but no one really knows what happened to her.”
“Poor Margretta.” Julen remembered her as a sweet girl, although not overly bright. Only a fool would consent to walk along the Ofriyu Mar with a stranger. Still, even fools didn’t deserve to draw their last breath in those chill waters.
Lifting her paring knife, Rosemary began to peel a potato, and its skin fell to the kitchen table like strips of brown ribbon. “Also, young Ander Valman ran away from home. There are rumors about why.”
“Rumors?”
“His father got drunk at the Red Chalice and started claiming Ander had used some sort of magic to attack him. But the general opinion is that Ander finally fought back, and his father won’t admit that his son punched him hard enough to knock him cold.” Rosemary set the peeled potato aside, and started on another one. “If Ander actually had some sort of magical ability, people would have noticed. It’s not the sort of thing you miss about someone.”
That hit uncomfortably close to home. Again, Julen attempted to shift the conversation to a safer topic. “Thanks for washing everything. And thanks for taking the rest of it inside.”
“You’re welcome. We’ll have to make sure Railtus gets his handkerchief back. Some young lady obviously expended quite a bit of effort embroidering it.” Another peeled potato joined the first one. But instead of starting on a third, Rosemary toyed with the paring knife, running her finger along the back of its blade. “She must be a very brave woman, to give her heart to someone like him. I hope I can be as brave.”
“Brave?” The troubled note in his wife’s voice didn’t elude Julen. Leaning his spear against the wall, he crossed over to her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Why should you need to be brave?”
When she looked up at him, her expression was a mixture of anger and pity. “You foolish man! You still don’t understand, do you? Not really.”
“Understand what?”
“Understand what you’ve promised to do. Understand what it means to me. You come home and tell me that you’ve found a job, as if you’ve gotten yourself apprenticed to a potter or a cooper. You tell that you’ve found a way to save the farm. But how much of your precious farm do you think you’re going to see?”
“I--”
“Once the mercenaries are under control, do you think Railtus is going to stick around? He’ll march you off to face the next pressing evil. That’s what men like him do, men who are willing to sacrifice everything to protect the world from nightmares. And maybe he won’t mean to, but he’ll sacrifice you, too. In small ways. In big ways. Until, one day, you only have one thing left to give for his cause. That’s how it will be for us, Julen. You’ll be off fighting god-knows-what, and I’ll be here, wondering if this time is the time my husband doesn’t come home.”
Julen gaped. It hadn’t occurred to him, not like that. And yet, when Rosemary explained, it all seemed so obvious. Dazed by the immensity of the blow he’d dealt to her, Julen sunk to his knees beside her chair. “I’m so sorry. I swear, I only ever meant to spare you from suffering. To find a way to make life better for both of us.” Bowing his head, Julen forced out the words he knew he needed to speak. “I gave Railtus my word. We are both in his debt more than we can ever repay. But if you wish it, I’ll tell him that I quit, that he needs to find a new footman.”
For a long while, Rosemary didn’t answer. Julen felt her hand stroking his hair -- she was the only one who seemed able to tame his unruly curls, to guide her fingers through their unpredictable mazes without ever causing even a moment of pain. She understood him that well.
“I’m tempted,” she finally confessed. From the trembling in her voice, Julen guessed that she was crying, although he couldn’t force himself to look up and see her tears. “To keep you with me, to keep you safe...I’m tempted. Even if it meant Railtus would have to fight alone. Even if it meant that you wouldn’t be happy. But this is what you want. You think it’s not, you think you belong to this farm, but the look in your eyes tells a different story. So I’ll just need to be brave.”
Unable to reply, Julen rested his head in her lap. He had no doubt that Rosemary could be brave. He just hoped that his heart could be as strong as hers.
“Of course I’m here. Where else would I go to cook lunch?” Placing a final potato in her bowl, Rosemary turned toward Julen and smiled. But the smile waned when her gaze lit on his spear. “Do you have to bring that thing into my kitchen?”
“Railtus told me to keep it close.”
To Julen’s surprise, Rosemary didn’t get angry, or insist on the weapon’s removal. Instead, she giggled. “You should see yourself when you say his name. Honestly, I think your eyes actually light up.” Shaking her head, Rosemary placed her bowl of potatoes on the kitchen table, and then sat down in front of them. “If he were a woman, I’d be jealous.”
“Huh,” Julen grunted, unsure how else to respond. He hadn’t realized his admiration was so obvious. Somewhat discomforted by the revelation, he stared out the kitchen window, and changed the subject. “Anything exciting happen while I was away?”
“Other than a bunch of mercenaries showing up to terrorize the village? A few things, none of them good. Margretta drown in the Ofriyu Mar River. Some people said that they saw her walking with strange man right before it happened. They tried to catch him, but the river rose up against them. There was another woman involved, a traveler from somewhere, but no one really knows what happened to her.”
“Poor Margretta.” Julen remembered her as a sweet girl, although not overly bright. Only a fool would consent to walk along the Ofriyu Mar with a stranger. Still, even fools didn’t deserve to draw their last breath in those chill waters.
Lifting her paring knife, Rosemary began to peel a potato, and its skin fell to the kitchen table like strips of brown ribbon. “Also, young Ander Valman ran away from home. There are rumors about why.”
“Rumors?”
“His father got drunk at the Red Chalice and started claiming Ander had used some sort of magic to attack him. But the general opinion is that Ander finally fought back, and his father won’t admit that his son punched him hard enough to knock him cold.” Rosemary set the peeled potato aside, and started on another one. “If Ander actually had some sort of magical ability, people would have noticed. It’s not the sort of thing you miss about someone.”
That hit uncomfortably close to home. Again, Julen attempted to shift the conversation to a safer topic. “Thanks for washing everything. And thanks for taking the rest of it inside.”
“You’re welcome. We’ll have to make sure Railtus gets his handkerchief back. Some young lady obviously expended quite a bit of effort embroidering it.” Another peeled potato joined the first one. But instead of starting on a third, Rosemary toyed with the paring knife, running her finger along the back of its blade. “She must be a very brave woman, to give her heart to someone like him. I hope I can be as brave.”
“Brave?” The troubled note in his wife’s voice didn’t elude Julen. Leaning his spear against the wall, he crossed over to her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Why should you need to be brave?”
When she looked up at him, her expression was a mixture of anger and pity. “You foolish man! You still don’t understand, do you? Not really.”
“Understand what?”
“Understand what you’ve promised to do. Understand what it means to me. You come home and tell me that you’ve found a job, as if you’ve gotten yourself apprenticed to a potter or a cooper. You tell that you’ve found a way to save the farm. But how much of your precious farm do you think you’re going to see?”
“I--”
“Once the mercenaries are under control, do you think Railtus is going to stick around? He’ll march you off to face the next pressing evil. That’s what men like him do, men who are willing to sacrifice everything to protect the world from nightmares. And maybe he won’t mean to, but he’ll sacrifice you, too. In small ways. In big ways. Until, one day, you only have one thing left to give for his cause. That’s how it will be for us, Julen. You’ll be off fighting god-knows-what, and I’ll be here, wondering if this time is the time my husband doesn’t come home.”
Julen gaped. It hadn’t occurred to him, not like that. And yet, when Rosemary explained, it all seemed so obvious. Dazed by the immensity of the blow he’d dealt to her, Julen sunk to his knees beside her chair. “I’m so sorry. I swear, I only ever meant to spare you from suffering. To find a way to make life better for both of us.” Bowing his head, Julen forced out the words he knew he needed to speak. “I gave Railtus my word. We are both in his debt more than we can ever repay. But if you wish it, I’ll tell him that I quit, that he needs to find a new footman.”
For a long while, Rosemary didn’t answer. Julen felt her hand stroking his hair -- she was the only one who seemed able to tame his unruly curls, to guide her fingers through their unpredictable mazes without ever causing even a moment of pain. She understood him that well.
“I’m tempted,” she finally confessed. From the trembling in her voice, Julen guessed that she was crying, although he couldn’t force himself to look up and see her tears. “To keep you with me, to keep you safe...I’m tempted. Even if it meant Railtus would have to fight alone. Even if it meant that you wouldn’t be happy. But this is what you want. You think it’s not, you think you belong to this farm, but the look in your eyes tells a different story. So I’ll just need to be brave.”
Unable to reply, Julen rested his head in her lap. He had no doubt that Rosemary could be brave. He just hoped that his heart could be as strong as hers.
-
Sir Karsimir
- Citizen
- Posts: 714
- Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 8:12 pm
- Name: Karsimir Von Greyssen
- Race: Reichvolk human
Upon his return to the farmhouse, Railtus slipped by without comment. Julen & Rosemary were discussing something and they were entitled to some privacy. So Railtus did his best to be unobtrusive, which was unsuccessful, and collected the mercenary's pack. A respectful nod was given on the way past, but no mind was paid to whether it was noticed.
Bringing gifts of food and ale, Railtus found Orin eagerly at work, heating the broken shards of blade, softening the metal that it may fuse together. Heat was applied nearest the break. Of course, the heat would conduct along the whole length of the blade, but the point of fracture was needed to soften the most.
Since sword hilts were made of wood, the blade was detatched from the socket. A cast-mould was used to retain the basic shape while firing the blade. Awkwardly enough, repairing a sword was more complicated than forging it in the first place. Creating a fresh sword could simply pour the molten metal into the mould, but repairing it demanded preserving as much of the original work as possible. Applying heat was needed to melt the fracture to rejoin it, yet too much heat would deform the blade, costing it shape and hardness.
So keeping the blade glowing hot, the subtle shifts were corrected, the steel forced back into shape. A process which took a few hours, even with help from Railtus. Admittedly, he was unskilled help. "Useful skills" and "nobleman" seldom went together. Making the join was the trophy ring, which was cleanly melted down to fix the break. This required less care, and shortened the process considerably, helping retain the design and features of the original blade.
While the blade was hot and softened, it was quenched in the water that Railtus had blessed. White steam rose and the glow seemed whiter than normal. A strange event, but a blessing was seldom thought of as magic, and the smith had no reason nor wish to question it.
On the ricasso, there was no edge, so adding the further metal there held no risk of blunting the blade. Of course, it would need resharpening after, but Railtus could do that alone.
Not that Orin wished it so. Instead, he had a better tool than a wetstone for sharpening. Some spinning wheel of metal, which ground down the edges to thin them. A tool unknown to Railtus, but not unwelcomed.
Other half-finished projects lay nearby. Most noticable were a collection of lames forged, making up part of a curiass of armour.
"Where are my arrowheads!" a voice bellowed in.
Orin glanced towards Railtus, wondering what intervention to expect. "Is he paying you for them?"
Orin shrugged doubtfully.
Pulling on his gamberson, Railtus took his new sword from Orin. "Time to break this in." he commented casually.
"Answer me!" came the same rough voice, nearer now.
"There are some made here!" Orin answered.
"Some?" menaced the newcomer, he was of moderate height, with a quilted coat and bearing a bow. "I said to have them ALL ready."
"I gave him another task to do. Have you paid for them already?"
"Are you stupid?" said the archer.
"Just honourable." replied Railtus mildly.
The archer wanted to sneer, but decided not to further provoke the man with a sword resting on his shoulder. "When will I get my arrowheads?" he snapped at the smith.
"Probably when you pay for them is my guess." Railtus chimed in.
"And who is going to make me?" challenged the archer.
"The one wanting the arrowheads." answered Railtus.
At that moment, the archer put serious thought to punching Railtus. Then realised that any attack at all would invite retaliation from that longsword he was resting neatly on his shoulder. Brawls were one thing, but the mercenaries tried to avoid lethal combat just yet. There would even be some reluctance to kill - killing would frighten the townsfolk too much, give them no choice but to fight back.
The set up they so enjoyed depended on the submission of the peasants.
Where had Railtus encountered that before?
So the archer stormed off. Some minutes were spent finishing the edge. Railtus added a suggestion. "I will likely end up fighting some more. Any excess gear we find can be stock for you, in exchange for your services when needed?"
Uneasily, Orin accepted, knowing he could trust Railtus not to abuse the arrangement. After that, Railtus made his way back to the farmhouse, where he expected to spend most of the day making armour.
Bringing gifts of food and ale, Railtus found Orin eagerly at work, heating the broken shards of blade, softening the metal that it may fuse together. Heat was applied nearest the break. Of course, the heat would conduct along the whole length of the blade, but the point of fracture was needed to soften the most.
Since sword hilts were made of wood, the blade was detatched from the socket. A cast-mould was used to retain the basic shape while firing the blade. Awkwardly enough, repairing a sword was more complicated than forging it in the first place. Creating a fresh sword could simply pour the molten metal into the mould, but repairing it demanded preserving as much of the original work as possible. Applying heat was needed to melt the fracture to rejoin it, yet too much heat would deform the blade, costing it shape and hardness.
So keeping the blade glowing hot, the subtle shifts were corrected, the steel forced back into shape. A process which took a few hours, even with help from Railtus. Admittedly, he was unskilled help. "Useful skills" and "nobleman" seldom went together. Making the join was the trophy ring, which was cleanly melted down to fix the break. This required less care, and shortened the process considerably, helping retain the design and features of the original blade.
While the blade was hot and softened, it was quenched in the water that Railtus had blessed. White steam rose and the glow seemed whiter than normal. A strange event, but a blessing was seldom thought of as magic, and the smith had no reason nor wish to question it.
On the ricasso, there was no edge, so adding the further metal there held no risk of blunting the blade. Of course, it would need resharpening after, but Railtus could do that alone.
Not that Orin wished it so. Instead, he had a better tool than a wetstone for sharpening. Some spinning wheel of metal, which ground down the edges to thin them. A tool unknown to Railtus, but not unwelcomed.
Other half-finished projects lay nearby. Most noticable were a collection of lames forged, making up part of a curiass of armour.
"Where are my arrowheads!" a voice bellowed in.
Orin glanced towards Railtus, wondering what intervention to expect. "Is he paying you for them?"
Orin shrugged doubtfully.
Pulling on his gamberson, Railtus took his new sword from Orin. "Time to break this in." he commented casually.
"Answer me!" came the same rough voice, nearer now.
"There are some made here!" Orin answered.
"Some?" menaced the newcomer, he was of moderate height, with a quilted coat and bearing a bow. "I said to have them ALL ready."
"I gave him another task to do. Have you paid for them already?"
"Are you stupid?" said the archer.
"Just honourable." replied Railtus mildly.
The archer wanted to sneer, but decided not to further provoke the man with a sword resting on his shoulder. "When will I get my arrowheads?" he snapped at the smith.
"Probably when you pay for them is my guess." Railtus chimed in.
"And who is going to make me?" challenged the archer.
"The one wanting the arrowheads." answered Railtus.
At that moment, the archer put serious thought to punching Railtus. Then realised that any attack at all would invite retaliation from that longsword he was resting neatly on his shoulder. Brawls were one thing, but the mercenaries tried to avoid lethal combat just yet. There would even be some reluctance to kill - killing would frighten the townsfolk too much, give them no choice but to fight back.
The set up they so enjoyed depended on the submission of the peasants.
Where had Railtus encountered that before?
So the archer stormed off. Some minutes were spent finishing the edge. Railtus added a suggestion. "I will likely end up fighting some more. Any excess gear we find can be stock for you, in exchange for your services when needed?"
Uneasily, Orin accepted, knowing he could trust Railtus not to abuse the arrangement. After that, Railtus made his way back to the farmhouse, where he expected to spend most of the day making armour.
My faith protects me, my kevlar helps.
Sunk deep in their own thoughts, neither Julen nor Rosemary took much notice of Railtus’s brief return. Even after he left again, an unnatural stillness filled the farmhouse, creating an almost tangible sense of unease.
It finally ended as fights between them usually ended. After a little, Rosemary withdrew her hand from Julen’s hair, and began to peel another potato. Julen pushed himself to his feet. Without speaking, he washed his hands, and then joined her at the table, cutting the potatoes into chunks as she finished with them. Carrots were dealt with in a similar fashion. By the time they placed the vegetables in a roasting pan, along with links of pork sausage, the small assistances offered to each other had erased the tension between them. They were a team again. A husband and wife, ready to stand together against anything.
While Rosemary sprinkled wine over the vegetables and sausage, she broke the silence between them, sweeping away the pieces of it as if they had never been there. “What’s the horse’s name?”
“The horse?”
“That poor beast in our stable. Since you didn’t say anything about putting it out of its misery, I assume we’re keeping it. So what’s its name?”
Julen smiled. His family didn’t give names to animals, just descriptions -- the horse that pulls the plow, the chicken that’s going into the stewpot tonight because it stopped laying eggs. But Rosemary hadn’t grown up on a farm, and part of her still viewed the creatures around her as pets. “I suppose the decision of what to name it will be Railtus’s, since it’s his horse now. Did you have anything in mind?”
“I’ll give it some thought,” Rosemary promised, sliding their lunch into the wood-fire stove. Then she tugged on Julen’s hand. “Come pick cherries with me.”
“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” Julen admitted, with absolute honesty. But when he reached for his spear, Rosemary arched her eyebrows.
“Are you going to stab them off the tree?”
“Railtus said--”
“Ah yes, Railtus.” For a moment, Julen feared that Rosemary would get angry again. But she only laughed. “Fine, then. Bring it. Except, let’s see if we can spend some time together without mentioning Railtus.”
For the next hour or so, they managed to do that rather splendidly. When Railtus returned from his visit to the smith, they were back in the kitchen, attempting to feed each other cherries without using their hands, their lips coated by a sticky-sweet layer of fruit juice. Startled by his employer’s arrival, Julen stammered something incoherent. Fortunately, Rosemary retained her composure, greeting their guest with a smile and graceful curtsey. “Welcome back, Good Sir. I trust your errand went well? My husband and I were just about to have some lunch, and it would be an honor if you’d join us.”
Hoping to dispel any misunderstandings Railtus might have about exactly what he was being invited to join in, Julen picked up a pair of kitchen towels and pulled the roasting pan from the stove. “Sausage and vegetables,” he explained.
“With cherries for desert,” Rosemary giggled. And, although the wink she gave had been directed at Railtus, Julen was the one who felt a blush’s warmth begin to creep across his cheeks.
It finally ended as fights between them usually ended. After a little, Rosemary withdrew her hand from Julen’s hair, and began to peel another potato. Julen pushed himself to his feet. Without speaking, he washed his hands, and then joined her at the table, cutting the potatoes into chunks as she finished with them. Carrots were dealt with in a similar fashion. By the time they placed the vegetables in a roasting pan, along with links of pork sausage, the small assistances offered to each other had erased the tension between them. They were a team again. A husband and wife, ready to stand together against anything.
While Rosemary sprinkled wine over the vegetables and sausage, she broke the silence between them, sweeping away the pieces of it as if they had never been there. “What’s the horse’s name?”
“The horse?”
“That poor beast in our stable. Since you didn’t say anything about putting it out of its misery, I assume we’re keeping it. So what’s its name?”
Julen smiled. His family didn’t give names to animals, just descriptions -- the horse that pulls the plow, the chicken that’s going into the stewpot tonight because it stopped laying eggs. But Rosemary hadn’t grown up on a farm, and part of her still viewed the creatures around her as pets. “I suppose the decision of what to name it will be Railtus’s, since it’s his horse now. Did you have anything in mind?”
“I’ll give it some thought,” Rosemary promised, sliding their lunch into the wood-fire stove. Then she tugged on Julen’s hand. “Come pick cherries with me.”
“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” Julen admitted, with absolute honesty. But when he reached for his spear, Rosemary arched her eyebrows.
“Are you going to stab them off the tree?”
“Railtus said--”
“Ah yes, Railtus.” For a moment, Julen feared that Rosemary would get angry again. But she only laughed. “Fine, then. Bring it. Except, let’s see if we can spend some time together without mentioning Railtus.”
For the next hour or so, they managed to do that rather splendidly. When Railtus returned from his visit to the smith, they were back in the kitchen, attempting to feed each other cherries without using their hands, their lips coated by a sticky-sweet layer of fruit juice. Startled by his employer’s arrival, Julen stammered something incoherent. Fortunately, Rosemary retained her composure, greeting their guest with a smile and graceful curtsey. “Welcome back, Good Sir. I trust your errand went well? My husband and I were just about to have some lunch, and it would be an honor if you’d join us.”
Hoping to dispel any misunderstandings Railtus might have about exactly what he was being invited to join in, Julen picked up a pair of kitchen towels and pulled the roasting pan from the stove. “Sausage and vegetables,” he explained.
“With cherries for desert,” Rosemary giggled. And, although the wink she gave had been directed at Railtus, Julen was the one who felt a blush’s warmth begin to creep across his cheeks.