Spoils to the Victors

[Sir Karsimir]

Marn was not a far journey from Shim, in fact, it was completed before noon. Not that it felt that way. After combat came a tiredness in defiance to the sun still climbing in the sky, both from the effort a man uses in fighting for his life when outnumbered and from the draining tension of such mortal danger.

Carrying wounds was a heavy burden, heavier than the weight of armour. Most of the armour had been thrown onto the saddle borne by a great horse, who seemed to cope with the weight no differently than he would with a large rider. The total weight of the armour carried was little more than that of a large rider, certainly less than an armoured man.

Thankfully, for Railtus the bleeding of his arm had long since stopped. While the wound had not truly scabbed over, the deep cut seemed to be clotted up like a long and crimson groove in the flesh left by a curved blade. Busted ribs with aggravated injuries persisted in announcing their presence, as if they hated to be forgotten, as much as the owner of the ribs hated to be reminded.

By Marn, Krurzeg had far less need of the support from the blacksmith than when he had first set off from Shim. Although still hunched over from his wounds the great orc stood mostly upright. It was a marked improvement for so little over an hour.

Two children of the blacksmith, one older and one younger, were both wary of the massive creature. Each one wore weapons on their belt, which both needed reminding to keep in their sheaths. When that reminder went unheeded, Railtus did not shout, or yell, or punish. Instead he merely siezed the wrist swiftly before the weapon could clear the sheath, guided the blade back into place, and then advised the young one of the dangers involved in handling a weapon untrained. "Keep the weapons on your belt." he told them, "When you draw a weapon you can hurt someone, and there is no one here that we want to get hurt."

"But... but the monster." protested the young child.

"Where?" answered Railtus, looking left and right, confident that no monster was present.

"There!" cried out the child, pointing at Krurzeg.

"That brave warrior fought against six armed men to protect a woman he had never met. The monsters were the ones trying to harm her, and they looked just like you and me." Railtus informed the child. While not one to go and hug a random troll (as the return embrace would probably kill him), Railtus had never thought of 'human' and 'monster' as mutually exclusive.

The child fell silent.

Through the streets they presented an uncommon spectacle, two injured men in armour, one larger man, two women (of which one was a stunning beauty), two children, and a great green behemoth with red eyes and tusks. They were near the bakery now, and Krurzeg would heal sooner if given chance to rest, they also needed somewhere to store all of their gear for the moment. Once Krurzeg was fully healed, more could be done about the other injuries.

"Do you still have your key?" Railtus asked to Julen as they neared the bakery, while tolerance for Krurzeg might exist on an official level, Railtus saw little reason to confront Effie with something quite so frightening if they could just open the door and get Krurzeg through.

[Julen]

Julen relaxed when Railtus assured him that Shim was unlikely to get caught in the middle of any impending wars. He still wondered who had summoned the mercenaries, as well as what cause was paying for their support. But as long as they behaved themselves, and fought their battles far away from his neighbor’s crops, Julen was willing enough to let them get on with it.

On a more selfish level, Julen was also relieved to hear that Railtus’s immediate plans didn’t involve joining the campaign. He wanted his friend to achieve his dream of knighthood. And he knew, deep in his heart, he would follow wherever Railtus led -- without question, without hesitation. But even so, Julen wasn’t looking forward to his first war.

With that settled, Julen slowed his pace, so that he dropped back from Railtus’s side and fell into step with Rosemary. She seemed to be holding up well. However, Julen knew his wife down to the smallest detail, and he could see the places where lines of tension cut across her face, like wounds that not even Railtus could heal. Hoping to distract her from the ordeal she’d so recently endured, Julen relayed all that Railtus had told him about Krurzeg.

When Julen finished, Rosemary glanced over her shoulder at the orc and the blacksmith, before returning her eyes to her husband. “So he was…trying to help me?”

“Apparently. And I nearly put a spear through him. That’s pretty poor payment for such heroism.” Railtus had shrugged off the mistake as the inevitable result of battle confusion, but Julen still felt bad about it. He couldn’t help thinking that if it had been a human warrior charging at Rosemary, yelling in some foreign tongue, he might not have been so quick to decide the man was a foe.

“What’s he going to do now?”

“Krurzeg?” Railtus hadn’t actually said anything specific, but Julen could make a pretty good guess. Railtus seemed to possess a gift for collecting misfits -- a mistreated warhorse, an impoverished farmer -- and turning them into so much more than they ever thought they could be. “I think he’s with us.”

Rosemary seemed to consider that. Then she nodded. “If he’s going to stay, he should learn the language.” And, before Julen had a chance to say anything either for or against that idea, she approached Krurzeg.

“Sir,” she greeted, giving him a curtsey much like the one she’d given Railtus after he liberated her from the first mercenary. “I thank you most kindly for your assistance.”

Unfamiliar with both her words and the gesture, Krurzeg simply grunted something in response. But Rosemary hadn’t been expecting him to kiss her hand. Walking beside the orc, she pointed to herself, and said “Rosemary” in a slow, clear voice. Then she began to indicate other objects around them. “Road.” “Tree.” “Dagger.” “Hair.” Still drained by his wounds, Krurzeg didn’t try repeating anything back, and it was unclear whether her words registered as anything other than pleasant babble, like the trilling of a songbird. But either way, he seemed to enjoy her company.

When they entered Marn, Julen was impressed by the reaction they received from its citizens. He remembered his first journey to House Anstrun, and the way people had been quick to step aside when Railtus needed to pass -- but that was nothing compared to the way they cleared a path for Krurzeg. Most of them actually crossed the street to avoid the orc. The fact that he himself, now dressed in armor and slightly battle-scarred, might also come across as an imposing figure simply didn’t occur to Julen.

Railtus’s question tugged Julen’s attention away from the people around them. Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out the black iron key. One of the things that had added a less-than-convincing touch to Effie’s speech about not being able to hold his room for him was the fact that she’d never demanded her key back. “I’ve got it. But are you sure it’s a good idea to just sneak Krurzeg in? If Effie stumbles on him without any forewarning, I hate to think what she’ll do to that poor orc.”

[Sir Karsimir]

Mental images leaped to mind of Effie doing something one would hate to think of too a poor orc, and the prospect of her doing more harm than a gnat escaped those images. The main wound hindering Krurzeg was from running onto a spear at full speed. Not the most sensible thing to do, admittedly, but an indication of what would be necessary to actually cause some damage.

"Tell her." accepted Railtus, having never thought to keep Krurzeg a secret at any rate, "Once all inside. No need to present anyone for inspection first. Get in and unpack, then tell her. You both need to rest."

"In the meantime," A lifted voice addressed the entire group, specifically Orin and his family, "We must arrange you safe keeping. Come." A simple command, with little detail or explanation.

Leaving Julen to somehow fit Krurzeg through the doorway and to store most of their weapons, Railtus led the family away to their next destination. A good inn came to mind. There were few inns, due to the small demand in Marn, but hopefully that could be used to an advantage. If Railtus could offer these places some form of reliable custom, then he would be able to trust in some form of discount.

Towards the center of the city was the Central Inn, a thoroughly uninspiring name but one which matched the establishment pretty well. Here would be the most logical place to store a family, as most travellers would use the place. It was also very close to the Fighter's Guild, requiring little travel to get Orin at work. Surely there would be access to a Forge at the Fighter's Guild.

An event which Railtus had failed to factor in was that the recent influx of soldiers would leave the inn moderately packed. Approaching the landlord, Railtus made his request as if undaunted.

"Greetings and hail." he began politely, "We need housing for this family and stabling for my horse."

"We got a lot in right now. It'll cost you." growled the innkeeper, already eager to be haggling.

"Family accommodations?" Railtus asked.

"Ooh," whistled the innkeeper, "That'll be expensive. We got some crowding in here."

Striking Railtus right then was the very human frustration of encountering an unforeseen obstacle in his path, coupled with the hint of injustice and exploitation. "My guess is that most of the fighters here are single, or at least do not travel with wives and children. Surely you have some family rooms to spare." Although irritated, Railtus was imploring rather than threatening.

"How much?" asked the innkeeper, believing he caught a note of desperation.

"Fifty bishani. Right now. For the week. Both for the family and the horse. If all proceeds well then I will give a bonus in a few days time." Space was offered to be haggled upwards, though haggled by deed and not word.

"That all?" asked the innkeeper, raising an eyebrow.

"Should all go well, some jewels will be added. On my word." Staring deeply into the innkeeper, Railtus found no true malice in the man. That alone inclined him to be more gentle in his dealings.

"The family suite is ten a day."

"Done." answered Railtus.

Orin sputtered, "We can'nae afford that!"

"You do not have to." replied Railtus, before turning back to the innkeep. "Fifty now, consider the room reserved for the next five days. Between now and then, the stay will be extended, a discussion for another time."

"Agreed." With that, the innkeeper accepted the offered funds. "Now for the horse."

Fighting down embarrassment, Railtus shook his head at being so smoothly fleeced. "Two bishan a day, five days. Will add a further reward for fine treatment." This totalled up to sixty bishani, ten more than he wished to spend for two days less than he wished it to last. Still, a small sacrifice to keep Orin and his family with a roof above and food within.

Not long ago, wealth meant very little to Railtus, and on a personal level nothing had changed, but no longer did he have the luxury of being so careless with his money, instead seeking to do the most good through judicious use. Thinking back to meeting Julen, money was such an issue to his life. Now this was like a new responsibility, a new duty accepted and faced with care, but one more thing for him to handle, one more thing for him to do right. One question which Julen had once asked about how Railtus handled the burden of his power began playing through his mind.

Desperately seeking another matter with which to direct his stray thoughts, Railtus chose now for the time to eat. Noon was not far behind, and regular meals were very necessary things. So now, the fellows sat in a ring and broke bread together. The lady of the family, the wife and mother, took the pause to speak to Railtus. "For all this, thank you. I don't know why you do it."

Pausing between bites, Railtus raised a questioning look at her. "Do what, milady?"

She blinked at being referred to as a lady, but answered. "Help us, I mean."

Railtus only shrugged, as if his act of kindness had been no greater than to hold open a door. "You were in trouble. Shim was not safe. What else could I do?" By how he said that, the choice seemed obvious.

"But why?" she asked.

"To keep you out of danger, why else?" Reading his face, there was true confusion there, as if unsure of the question.

"I mean, why spend money you bled for," the lady pointing at the wound on the arm of Railtus, "to bring us food." Railtus had forgot that the rations being eaten by the family right then were previously from his backpack. "To find us shelter. Why?"

Now a sudden certainty returned to Railtus, that which stayed with him against the hateful dark, a pure light to guide him to right action. "Because the alternative is to leave a family and children to go hungry, and in danger."

Clearly there was no use in arguing with him, and it was not as if any here truly wished for him to take back his kindness. So they finished the meal in silence. With all finished, Railtus rose smoothly from his cross-legged seat, only to struggle with the pain once upright.

"What's wrong, lad?" Orin asked.

"Two broken ribs." answered Railtus carelessly, as if he was not concerned with it.

Orin simply gaped.

"We will get you work while you stay." announced Railtus, "Is your son learning the trade?"

"Aye. Quite well, I might add."

"Good. As I need to call on your services."

"Aye lad. What do you wish?" Orin seemed eager, almost jumping to the yet unassigned task.

"Armouring." stated Railtus simply, "We have spare maille that we could join together to make a full coat. That and I want the scale armour joined together with rivets to upgrade it to locking scale."

"Clever." stated Orin.

"Shall we go?"

And so ended that conversation. The Fighter's Guild was merely two streets away, no major journey. Once there, Railtus remembered the route he took to meet the swarthy skinned warrior he had first gained his training poles from.

The bald-headed man was working the forge, having traded in his armour for an apron. When Railtus approached, he glanced up with little interest, and growled out, "What is it?"

"We have a smith and his apprentice here, if you have a spare forge for them to work." Railtus answered, opening with the note of answering the most obvious need.

"What's the catch?" demanded the well-muscled black weaponsmith.

"No catch. I have work for him to do right now, and see that he is given fair wage afterwards."

A long pause took place, as the proposition fell in place, with another pause following for the man to believe the offer. "Deal!" said emphatically.

With their own forge to work, the three began on their projects. Railtus with his scale coat, cutting at the thread to free each scale while Orin began joining the scales with rivets, holding the scale firmly in place. In the meantime, the boy was using spike and hammer to split rings, breaking a line through the maille just below the chest.

The scale was the most swift, completed in less than an hour with the division of labour, each rivet piercing the hidden leather beneath as a secondary reinforcement rather than a foundation backing. Now came the wait for the metal to cool.

Half an hour later, one of the maille shirts were effectively cut in two, with a pile of spare rings set up to join that with the existing garment. While this was going on, the forge was burning, and further involvement from Railtus would merely get in the way. On that note, he traded his gambeson for the locking scale, and left with his old coat of plates in hand.

Once there, he began examining the troops already in place. Searching. Searching.

There.

Railtus approached, "Warrior!" he called. This one was mildly shorter than Railtus, garbed in thick grey wool, with a heavy sleeveless doublet worn over both, studded evenly with shiny tin heads. "Is that a brigandine?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Would a trade interest you?" Railtus asked.

"This is my armour." said the soldier, "What could you trade worth that?"

Railtus held up the coat of plates.

The fighter examined it, "Is this a trick?"

"No trick. A brigandine would be better for a member of my retinue. That is all. Feel free to examine the armour, although I want to examine yours before we agree a trade."

With that, the billman rested his bill against the nearby wall, and doffed his doublet. Both parties gazed at the offered armour, and both found that the armour suited their purposes.

"Why would a brigandine better suit your man?" wondered the soldier aloud, since a brigandine was nothing more than a lighter version of the coat of plates.

"Acquired maille this morning, and is a foot soldier as well. There is more to it, but it makes no difference right now."

"This morning?" queried the fighter.

"In battle." explained Railtus, probably raising more questions. "Bandits at Shim. If you wish, join me in driving them off."

"Are you serious?" asked the billman.

"I am bleeding." answered Railtus, deadpan.

With a pause for thought. "I will think about it. Have the brigandine, I like this." stated the fighter, donning his new coat of plates.

Returning to the forge, the shoulder-links of the cannabilised maille shirt had been broken, and the front and back of the chest pieces were being rolled around into sleeves. Rather than joining the maille sleeves to the main body of the armour, the sleeves were being connected into long cylinders of maille by the boy while his father finished the main coat.

Remembering his gold ingots, Railtus went shopping for helms. They were at hand. Most did not suit him, either being skull caps or restricting his vision. One was interesting. It held a design superficially similar to the Imperial helmet worn by Julen, although had elements of a coppergate helm as well. What was different was the curve of the cheekplates that allowed for space around the eyes, granting clearer vision while still protecting most of the head and face.

"I like that helm. Do we have spaulders as well?" asked Railtus.

"Harness ones?" wondered the dark-skinned smith.

"Solid steel. No need for articulated pieces. Merely those I can wear over this armour." Full harness was not his plan, instead simple additions to his new armour.

"We have some in stock. One moment." True to his word, after a moment, he came back, complete with spaulders. More shaped plates of steel strapped to the outer arm.

"A gold ingot for spaulders and helm?" suggested Railtus.

"Sounds fair."

Complete with new armour, Railtus journeyed to collect his horse. Granted, he journeyed for all of two hundred yards, but he journeyed nonetheless. During that route, he collected a bushel of bruised apples, knowing how fond his horse was of them.

When he opened the stable door, the gift was anticipated, as the heavy horse moved forward and began openly sniffing and the small bushel. Immediately, it snatched an apple with confidence, crunched that one between it's teeth, and swallowed it, moving onto the next apple fairly quickly.

"I thought of a name for you." whispered Railtus. "Arjen. Do you like it?"

A friendly nicker from the warhorse seemed to imply as much, or that it was just happy with the apples. Still, already the animal was more at ease than when they had first met. It crunched on another apple, finished it, and moved to brush it's nose against the face of Railtus.

That was unexpected, but welcome. Happily, Railtus stroked the mane of Arjen, glad for newfound trust of the friend and comrade. While gently wrapping his arms around the neck of the stallion, he made sure to keep out of the way of the apples, so that Arjen could continue to feast to his heart's content.

Or more importantly, to his stomach's content.

After a few minutes of petting the warhorse, Railtus let go to begin searching his saddlebags for a comb. This one was made of bone. The bone of what, he did not know, but Railtus was not the squeamish sort to worry about things such as that. One who drives steel into another man's flesh tends not to be.

Grooming this time was short, several minutes worth. While the difference was limited, it was an improvement, one of many steps towards Arjen being brought to the condition that he deserved. Before long, Railtus saddled Arjen up and led him outwards.

On the way back, Railtus found that he was given plenty of breathing room. Right now, he was clad in glittering and clinking steel, leading a massive horse by the reins. The reins were held lightly, with the horse following in step without any pressure being needed.

Near the Fighter's Guild, Arjen stiffened and froze. Railtus lay an assuring hand on the shoulders, "Stay with me. I will not be long. If there is trouble, neigh loudly and I will come running. I promise you."

Seeming to understand, Arjen forced himself forwards.

"That's good, brave one. Your with me now. No one will hurt you. I will not allow it."

Not wishing to keep Arjen here for longer than was needed, as the horse clearly wished to be elsewhere - probably away from the sorts who reminded him of Guntar, not that Railtus was aware of the same level of evil - Railtus rushed up the stairs to the forge at which Orin was working. The time at the stables had added up to half an hour, with travel times added atop that.

Now the armour was finished.

With that done, Railtus carried his old and bloodstained gambeson, along with the new brigandine for Julen, to the horse. Orin carried the maille hauberk. These were all thrown over the saddle, with Railtus again leading the great warbeast through the streets, guessing what had happened in his absense.

Surely another great warbeast was healed by now, since Railtus had been gone close to several hours. Once he was back, he could begin healing Julen's jaw and give the man-at-arms his new armour.

On these travels, Railtus was a distinguished and imposing figure, clad in armour of gleaming scales made from burnished steel, with a fierce helm enclosing most of his face and head, the appearance on offer was very different to how Julen had last seen him. One staring into the helm and the past sweeping cheekplates would see his face, but that much would take scrutiny to recognise.

[Julen]

After unlocking the door to his room, Julen ushered Krurzeg inside, and gestured at the bed. He wasn’t entirely sure that a piece of furniture designed for humans would hold the great orc, but it only seemed fair to offer the best sleeping spot to the one most in need of rest. Gingerly, Krurzeg climbed onto the mattress, curling his huge body to fit, and while the bed creaked in protest at his weight, it didn’t break. He looked rather like a child that had fallen asleep in a doll’s bed -- if a child would ever have leathery green skin and tusks. Giving it some thought, Julen supposed that orc children must indeed have those things. Although whether they would ever play with dolls was an entirely different matter.

Leaving Krurzeg to his recuperation, Julen carried in their surplus weapons, and stacked them next to the fireplace. By the time he’d finished that, Rosemary was already laying out the supplies she’d need to continue work on his gambeson. So the only task which remained was to inform Effie of their presence. In preparation for that encounter, Julen decided to remove his maille mantle and shirt, figuring he was unlikely to be attacked on his way into the bakery. Also, after all of Effie’s comments when she’d seen him carrying Railtus’s shield, Julen wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what she’d say if he appeared before her in full armor. But as he removed his helmet, a cry from Rosemary delayed any further disrobing.

“You’re hurt!”

Belatedly, Julen realized that his helm had done much to conceal the bruising on the side of his face. “I’m fine,” he tried to assure, shrugging off the injury.

“You could have been killed.” Abandoning her piles of fabric and straw, Rosemary crossed over to him, enfolding her husband’s hand in her own. “Because of me.”

Julen shook his head. “Because of those men, not because of you. Don’t blame yourself for their evil.”

“I should have worn a hood, done something to disguise my face. Gods! I hate being beautiful. I hate being a prize that everyone wants to win. I wish I was homely, and we could live in peace.”

Gently, Julen raised her hand, and held it against his uninjured cheek. “I’m fine,” he repeated.

“When you told me to ride away…to just leave you there…that was the hardest thing I ever had to do.”

“You did the right thing. It was easier for me to fight without worrying about you.”

“I know.” With her free hand, Rosemary caught one of Julen’s curls, twining it around her finger as if that could somehow bind them together. “But you asked me to never let go of your hand. In that moment, I feel like did.”

Julen pulled her to him in a fierce embrace. “No. You didn’t. And no matter how far I have to go, or what I have to do, I know that you never will.”

They stood together for several minutes, supporting each other, nestled in the space between words. In the place where breath and heartbeat are enough. Then, Rosemary slipped from his arms, nodding at her sewing. “I should get started on that.”

“Right. I’ll go talk to Effie.”

Divested of the remaining maille armor, and carrying his gift for Andreya, Julen entered through the bakery’s back door. As usual, Effie and her young apprentices were hard at work. The girls spooned portions of a lumpy dough, nut, and dried fruit mixture onto pieces of cheesecloth, which they then tied shut and dropped into boiling water, while Effie hurried between supervising them and helping her customers. But all three looked up when Julen stepped into the kitchen.

“Julen!” the bakery’s owner exclaimed. “What are you doing back here so soon? Wouldn’t your wife let you in the house?” Effie’s quick, grayish-blue eyes lit on Julen’s bruised cheek. “My word! Did she do that to you?”

Once again, Julen marveled at Effie’s ability to immediately assume the most embarrassing explanation for anything. “Rosemary came back to Marn with me. She’ll be staying in my room for a little while. As for what happened to my face…that’s a story which might be better saved for a time when innocent ears aren’t present.”

“Why? What colossal mess have you gotten yourself into now?”

Before Julen could think of an appropriate answer to that, Andreya approached him, and pointed to the jar in his hand. “What’s that?”

Glad of the distraction, Julen presented her with his gift. “I told you that I’d bring you a frog, didn’t I? Here he is. You’ll need to change his water every day or so, and make sure you put plenty of live flies in there for him to eat.”

Delighted, Andreya peered through the glass at her new pet. “Is he a fine and noble frog?”

Julen considered. He wasn’t exactly sure what standards one used when judging such things in frogs, but since he didn’t have any evidence to prove otherwise, he decided to give it the benefit of the doubt. “A most fine and noble frog indeed.”

“Then I know just what to name him: Railtus.” Andreya beamed as she tapped the side of the jar. “Hello, Railtus. Would you like a fly?”

Only a massive exertion of willpower kept Julen’s face straight. Silently, he resolved that no matter what he needed to do to work it into the conversation, Railtus was going to hear about that.

By now, Andreya’s friend had found the courage to come forward. “Sir? Did you bring anything for me?”

“For you? Ah...” Julen searched his memory for some token he could give to the girl. Railtus had taken all the unclaimed jewelry with him. And surely she wouldn’t have much use for armor or weapons. Then, as sometimes happened, Julen’s sense of mischief got the better of him. “For you, I have another pet. An orc. And not just any orc -- a great orc.”

“Julen!” Effie scolded. “Don’t lie to children.”

Ignoring Effie, Julen crouched down, until he was at eye level with the girls. “What do you say? Would you like to come see your orc? Only, you have to promise to be very quiet, because he’s sleeping.”

“We promise!” they chorused eagerly.

So Julen took one of their hands in each of his, to prevent any impulsive rushes either toward or away from Krurzeg, and led them out the back of the bakery. Shaking her head, Effie followed.

“Now girls,” Effie began, obviously trying to prepare them for disappointment. Since Julen’s hands were both in use, she took it upon herself to push open the door to his room. “I don’t know what Julen has in here, but I’m sure it’s not actually an orc, so I don’t want you to be--”

And then, for once in her life, Effie was speechless. Andreya’s friend let out a soft squeal, before remembering Julen’s request for silence. Hastily, she clamped her hand over her mouth to stop the noise, while Andreya herself simply gaped at Krurzeg before asking “Does he eat flies, too?”

“Julen of Shim,” Effie hissed. “I’ll have a frog in my kitchen if I must, but not an orc. He stays in this room. And nobody gets him as a pet.”

In truth, Andreya’s friend looked rather relieved when Effie denied her ownership of the orc. “You can share my frog,” Andreya promised, offering her pet. “Here. Want to carry him?”

“I’ll take that.” Swiftly, Effie snatched the jar. “You can play with this creature after your work is done. We’ve wasted enough time on this nonsense, and that bread pudding won’t cook itself. Come along.” Spurred by a light slap against each of their backsides, the girls ran back into the bakery. Effie moved to follow them. However, before she vanished inside, she glanced over her shoulder, and Julen could swear that he saw a smile flicker on her lips. “As for you…I can tell that I’m going to regret the day I rented you a room. But at least life is never dull.”

After Effie had gone, Julen closed the door behind himself, and sat down on the floor. Only then did he notice that he’d become the target of a disapproving stare from his wife.

“That wasn’t nice,” Rosemary chided. “Krurzeg isn’t a sideshow. How would you like it if we were among his people and he brought children to gawk and point at you?”

“If I were asleep, I doubt that I’d mind much at all.” Adrenalin had finally deserted Julen, leaving him unspeakably weary, and he envied Krurzeg’s restful state. But even as tired as he was, he had to admit that Rosemary raised a good point. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, rubbing the side of his face that he could still touch without pain. “You’re right. Sometimes I go too far.” For a moment, Julen remembered the bright flash of anger in Railtus’s eyes when he’d made the crack about the training dummy and the brothel. “Sometimes I just go way too far…”

The hard lines of Rosemary’s frown softened. Slowly, she shook her head. “You never mean any harm by it. That’s the important thing. Now, get some rest.”

For awhile, Julen dozed, slipping in and out of unconsciousness as smoothly as Rosemary’s needle pulled thread in and out of the stiff cotton fabric. Whenever he opened his eyes, she was always there, hunched over her work, and Julen watched her in silence, savoring the stability of her presence, the unwaveringness of her commitment, until it lulled him back to sleep.

Eventually, however, Julen’s hunger fully roused him. But eating lunch had become an unpleasant challenge, since biting into anything harder than some of Rosemary’s cherry jam sent jabs of pain shooting through his jaw. Finally, Rosemary went into the bakery, and brought back some of the bread pudding that Effie’s apprentices had been preparing, which proved soft enough to chew with only mild discomfort. Julen was still picking nuts out of his third piece when he heard a knock at the door. Gesturing for him to remain seated, Rosemary went and answered it.

“Welcome back, M’lord,” she greeted, apparently awestruck enough to abandon her usual title of “Sir”. “You’re…you’re looking very well. I trust your errands were successful?”

Julen craned his neck, trying to see what about Railtus had so impressed Rosemary. But from his vantage point on the floor, he still couldn’t get a clear view.

[Sir Karsimir]

Disregarding the use of the new title with conscious effort, Railtus paid it no more heed, understanding that the formal mode of address was more a matter of personal preference for Rosemary and not fearful submission or currying favour. In that context, he could tolerate the reference to his rank, although he much preferred to be a person instead of a title.

In greeting, he gave a respectful bow of the head, a pleasant smile half-obscured by the sweeping cheekpieces that masked his mouth at the corners, so that the widening of the lips would all happen out of sight. Rather than using words, he raised a hand to touch the crest of his helm and then lowered the hand with the palm facing upwards. "Well enough, my thanks for your asking."

Before entering, he turned to glance backwards, apparently addressing someone behind him. "Arjen, will you be warm?" apparently so, because almost immediately afterwards, he began gathering thick and heavy folds into his arms from the saddle. "I will be swift." he assured the destrier.

Making entry, he brought in maille, brigandine and gambeson folded in his arms, having now made a habit of leaving his shield to hang from the saddle. Between the armour he was wearing and that he brought in his arms, he was carrying easily over a hundred pounds without struggling, although he took care to keep the weight off his wounded arm, which instead held the spear.

Inside, he saw the thick purple bruise clouding the jaw of Julen, and swiftly dropped the armour. Most of it clattered noisily on the floorboards as the metal struck wood. Neither asking permission nor explaining, Railtus thrust a gold-lit hand onto Julen's chest, pressing the palm over his heart.

When he withdrew the hand, there was a golden handprint glowing faintly on Julen's chest, gradually dimming and fading with each moment that passed. With each passing minute the pain from the cracked jawbone would ease and soothe, and the bruise would be tenacious to last more than a handful of those minutes in clearing.

"How has all fared?" asked Railtus, making no mention of the miracle he had just invoked.

Without further ado, he leaned his spear against the wall and promptly moved on to the armour. First addressing Rosemary, he separated his old gambeson, still bloodstained on the right arm and hip. "Although no substitute, your work may be aided by having this to refer to." Typically a second-hand gambeson would have gathered an odour from the previous owner, this one simply smelled of air scorched sweet by lightning.

As was usual with Railtus, he switched to addressing another person without stopping. Now Julen. "Be wearing full armour almost always. The habit will serve you well." Partially prompting this advice was the yeoman's current armourless state. Nothing to blame him for, simply a practice that the chevalier wished to instill. Many fighters preferred to march unarmoured, travelling fresh and unwearied, only donning their armour in preparation for the battle. Railtus preferred armoured vigilance, knowing how few battles occurred under convenient circumstances, and holding the belief that a warrior should always be ready to defend the helpless.

Slowly, Krurzeg stirred, having begun from the first clatter of dropped maille. With the weapon of flesh awake, there was business left unfinished. A brief comment passed from Railtus to Krurzeg and back again, before the conclusion was relayed.

"Now, we divide the wealth gathered. Now that Orin and his family are fed and sheltered, we have seventy bishani. Twenty-five each for you and Krurzeg, and twenty for operating funds. Bars and ingots will be held for the same purpose." With that decided, he pooled all of the unclaimed baubles together on the floor. "Make a claim to any which you like." That addressed all present. "Rosemary, you too."

A few suggestions came to mind, as much in explanation as anything else. "Torcs and armlets are a warrior custom. Wear them and other fighters will show more professional respect," Such as keeping a respectful distance from your wife, thought the chevalier, "with the knowledge that these were earned in battle." he continued smoothly, heedless of his errant thought.

"Once done here, I am arranging Krurzeg," throwing in a mannerly nod in the direction of the great orc, "with stipend, bed and board." Fishing through the jewelry, Railtus examined the heavy gold ring, evaluating it as a gift for Mavelle. Eventually he decided that it was too chunky for those slim hands, and chose a band of simple silver, with the thought of making an apology for not having brought her a more worthy gift.

[Julen]

Arjen? Still unable to see out the door, Julen wondered about this new addition to their group. What downtrodden soul had Railtus taken pity on this time? Had one of the mercenaries shown up already to join their cause? Then, Arjen whinnied, and Julen guessed that the war horse now had a name.

When Railtus entered the room, Julen scrambled to his feet. He’d always thought that Railtus looked impressive. But now, with his face partially obscured by a war helm, and dressed in armor polished to such a bright sheen that it almost seemed to spark as light struck its interlocking plates, he inspired the urge to salute. In fact, Julen probably would have saluted, if he’d had any idea what the appropriate gesture would be.

Julen remembered seeing his friend for the first time -- the way he’d been a combination of storybook knight and soaking wet boy. These days, the boy rarely surfaced. And something else about Railtus seemed different, although Julen couldn’t quite figure out what, until Railtus glanced in his direction. Then he saw it. Eyes that had once been the clearest green were now tinted slightly amber, as if a faint fire had been lit behind them. So it wasn’t just the boy that was vanishing. The man, too, was gradually giving way to…something else.

Abruptly, Railtus dropped the armor he’d been carrying, and reached toward Julen. Startled by the sudden movement, Julen took an involuntary step backward. But Railtus’s hand still pressed against his chest. And when it did, air rushed out of Julen’s lungs in a mute gasp, displaced by a strange tingling heat, which flowed up through his body until it reached the injured side of his face, where it seemed to concentrate. For a moment, Julen was aware of nothing else. Then, as the sensation began to recede, Julen could feel it carrying his pain off into nothingness.

Despite the depth of Julen’s gratitude, he couldn’t help wishing that Railtus would be a little better about asking before he laid his hands on people. Being touched without any attempt to gain his consent made Julen feel like baggage. Heck, sometimes it seemed like Railtus asked for permission from his horse more often than he asked for it from his yeoman. Of course, Julen reflected, the horse was capable of inflicting considerably more damage than he was.

Anyway, they’d already had that conversation. Alright, maybe it hadn’t been a conversation as much as whacking each other with training weapons, yet the matter had been settled. And in his heart, Julen knew that Railtus didn’t mean any offense. He was just being efficient. He assumed, quite correctly, that Julen wouldn’t refuse being healed, so he just went ahead and did it so he could move on to the next person in need of help, the next good deed in need of doing. How could Julen resent that? He couldn’t. So he smiled and nodded his appreciation to Railtus.

“Everything’s been fine,” Julen assured, in response to Railtus’s question about how they had fared. “Effie’s glad to have me back, and she didn’t start pelting Krurzeg with stale pastries.”

Gratefully, Rosemary accepted the old gambeson from Railtus. “Thank you.” But the way her eyes darted toward her husband, and his rapidly healing face, indicated that she was thanking Railtus for much more than providing her with a template for her sewing.

Julen couldn’t argue with Railtus’s advice about remaining armored, so he tried on his new maille and brigandine, both of which fit nicely. Then he joined the others while they split the plunder. He still didn’t have the stomach to claim any rings or broaches. But upon hearing Railtus explain the significance of armlets, Julen selected the bronze one, and pushed it into place above his elbow. If respect meant that people wouldn’t pick fights with him, he wanted all the respect he could get.

Interestingly, Rosemary didn’t appear to share his queasiness when it came to taking jewelry from the dead. After sifting through the pieces, she chose the bronze broach with an amethyst stone, and the gold ring decorated by graceful figures. The fact that she was willing to wear baubles taken from the corpses of men who’d intended to dishonor her, but not any of Phelan’s gifts, spoke volumes about how she now felt about the nobleman who had been her suitor.

“Are you taking Krurzeg back to House Anstrun?” Julen summoned a brief, but extremely satisfying, vision of Phelan meeting the great orc. “Also, how long to you expect to be gone? And is there anything you’d like me to do in the meantime?”

[Sir Karsimir]

Gathering the remaining trinkets, Railtus swept them away into pouches. One piece made him hesitate, and hesitation was rare for the Shining One. In his hand was a gold torc, which had been left unclaimed. Currently Railtus was wearing a torc of silver, which he favoured over the gold from mere personal preference. Extending his hand, he offered it out to Julen one last time. If it were still not taken, it would make a fine gift for Mavelle.

"Evening draws near, so expect that I be gone overnight. Be about your own business until then. Let me say that this morning your cool head and courage saved lives. Well done."

With that, he gave the couple chance to spend some long overdue time together. Collecting his spear, and his new warrior, the chevalier left, opening the door and vaulting easily into the saddle, despite the vast size of the destrier. Tipping the spear from horseback, he bid, "Fare you well, for now." Then Krarug closed the door on the way out.

Arjen was much happier with a rider than he was when being used as a packhorse. Great muscles strained and stretched, obviously aching to break out into a run. As a measure of compromise, small warning was given to Krarug first before building up into a swift trot.

Following in great bounding steps, the orc was sure to be an intimidating sight for many, although the run itself did not phase him in the slightest. With another small stop at the Fighter's Guild, Krarug exhanged clubs, instead now bearing a huge mace adorned with menacing barbs and flanges. Apparantly that instrument of havoc had once belonged to a troll.

Mostly things were quietening down, if only slightly. When Railtus dismounted, Arjen stayed ever by his side, never straying more than arm's length from him. Despite this closeness, they never seemed to bump into each other, as if naturally aware of where the other was at all times.

Hunting about, he found a tailor, and approached him with a simple task as the man showed him a collection of shirts and cloaks. When he asked for surcoats, there were those as well. One was of the right colour, and he told of the adjustments he wished to make. The tailor assigned his wife immediately to the task.

Using the delay to their advantage, they aimed straight for the account holdings, registering Krarug with the very nervous accountant. When presented as a bodyguard, the accounted relented and accepted grudgingly, mostly feeling unable to veto the decision.

With Krarug now given a badge and copy of contract, which had been proof-read by Railtus at least three times, they found somewhere to stop and eat once more, in this case the Drunken Rat. People looked worried at an armoured man and massive orc together, having a clearly important conversation in some unknown language.

It was a dark tale. One of blood and vengeance gone too far. One of death and killing, when fighting continued until the memory of why the battles had started was drowned in blood. Then there was a limit met.

First true victory for Krarug in battle. All men had the beginnings of corruption in them, yet Krarug had faced his dark side and triumphed over it.

With a short return to the Fighter's Guild, the new surcoat was picked up, bearing the intended image. Now, back to House Anstrun. Returning Arjen to the stables would be more reasonable and practical, but at that moment the Shining One felt a strong urge to be seen by Mavelle while displaying full horse and armour.

He wanted to show off.

Approaching the great manor on horseback, he tackled the ramparts at a gallop, cantering along the raised ground to the next slope which again was met at speed. All the while his approach made a dramatic clatter on the flagstones, and he was met by a collection of guards at the entrance. These guards posted at that hall laid tentative grips on their weapons, awed by the spectacle of an armoured champion galloping upwards atop a great charger and accompanied by a beast of size and power.

Then the battle spear was lifted in chivalrous salute, and the helm raised clear of the head. The men relaxed, recognising the chevalier before them, although perhaps with some questions. Couching the fierce war helm under his right arm to avoid pressing it against his broken ribs, Railtus cut off any questions with a request.

"Show me the Lady Mavelle, please."

[Julen]

Julen hesitated when Railtus offered him the gold torc. It was one thing to wear armor stripped from the bodies of fallen opponents -- practical necessity demanded such measures. But Julen still felt reluctant to claim something which might have once held considerably more personal significance to its owner. However, just as he was about to tell Railtus to keep the torc, to do something good with it, a thought occurred to him. Why should the responsibility of doing something good always fall on Railtus? During the time Julen had spent with his friend, he’d observed both the small and the big acts of charity that Railtus had performed, and it didn’t look so hard. A person didn’t need to be Angelsworn to help people. They just needed to keep their eyes open for opportunities. And this was such an opportunity.

“Thank you,” Julen answered, accepting the torc. As his fingers closed around it, he once again thought of his own locket. If the day came when he fell in battle, and if Railtus was unable to return both body and necklace to Shim so they could be buried together, Julen hoped that whoever claimed the locket would use it for a higher purpose than as a trophy. A noble fate for Rosemary’s gift would allow his spirit more peace. And perhaps, by using the gold torc to aid others, he would provide its previous owner with a little atonement, and allow the mercenary’s spirit a more tranquil rest as well.

After Railtus had gone, Julen turned toward Rosemary, who had already laid out Railtus’s old gambeson on the floor. Concentration bent her mouth into a frown as she knelt beside it, tracing the lines of its construction.

“I have an errand,” Julen announced. “When I get back, I thought we could treat ourselves to dinner at a nice pub. Maybe somewhere that has a bard, or musicians, or possibly even a little dancing.” He knew that his wife loved dancing. “We have enough money to afford it now. And after everything that’s happened, we deserve some small reward.”

Smiling, Rosemary looked up from her work. “That sounds lovely.”

“Good. I’ll see you in a few hours.” Julen bent over and kissed his wife. Then, he buckled on his sword belt, before securing his sword and dagger in their respective places. His helmet went back on his head. Last of all, he unfastened his money pouch, tossing it down on the room’s table. Where he was going, it would be better not to present that kind of temptation.

He did, however, take the gold torc.

[Falcon Bertille]

Mavelle was in the parlor with a few of her most favored maids, watching a conjuring performance. Not true conjuring, of course, since all forms of magic were forbidden in Marn. House Anstrun had not maintained its position of power by openly defying The Judges. So instead of true miracles, the entertainer presented crafty tricks, making balls disappear and solid rings link into chains, before inviting his audience to guess how he’d accomplished the feats. Mavelle’s quick mind delighted in the game. And although she rarely saw past the conjurer’s misdirection, she applauded more enthusiastically than anyone else when he explained his methods. To her, his sleight of hand seemed so much cleverer than real magic, which was dangerous and rather nasty.

But even Mavelle’s delight in the performance couldn’t completely distract her from the gloom she’d struggled with ever since Railtus left the previous morning. Despite how little time he’d actually been gone, she missed him as if they’d been separated for months. She even missed his fights with Phelan. Hoping to make the days pass faster, she’d tried to keep busy, but many of her old amusements had lost their ability to please. Mavelle felt like a child who had outgrown her toys, but still lacked access to the adult world beyond them.

After Mavelle confided those feelings to Phelan, her brother had promised to introduce her to some more mature diversions, guaranteed to grant the satisfaction she was seeking. Mavelle hadn’t demanded any specifics. But she hoped that, whatever he had in mind, it could fill the hole that seemed to have opened up inside her

The conjurer has just promised to transform two feathers into two living doves when a servant entered the parlor and bent low to whisper into Mavelle’s ear. “Lord Railtus is at the main door, asking to see you.”

If the servant had conveyed any other message, Mavelle would have resented the interruption. But the unexpected return of her beloved filled her heart with joy. Jumping to her feet, Mavelle waved at her maids, indicating that they were free to remain and enjoy the show if they wished. Then she dashed off to greet Railtus.

Beyond the main door, an impressive sight awaited Mavelle. Railtus sat mounted on a massive brown horse, wearing a surcoat emblazoned with a striking design, and holding his helm under his arm like the decapitated head of some defeated enemy. His armor glowed slightly amber in the setting sun’s fading rays, matching the amber light that danced in those piercing eyes. Mavelle found herself so captivated by the vision he presented that she initially didn’t notice the monstrous orc standing nearby.

“Railtus!” she squealed, running toward him. “Are you a knight already?”

[Sir Karsimir]

As was courteous, Railtus dismounted when the lady emerged, climbing down from the saddle as she ran towards him. To free his hands, he hung his helm from the horn of the saddle. Her enthusiasm was touching, and truly sweet, although in that gesture was a reminder that he had not longed for her the same way during their time apart.

Though still, he spoke truly. "A pleasure to see you again, my lady." Accompanying that gesture was a mild bow from the shoulder, curling that shoulder forwards while the other remained back, keeping the spear held upright. "And to answer your question, merely closer than a day and a half ago." The speed of his progress brought a pleasant smile to his face, as if finding clear humour in the irony.

Still, that gave him a graceful way to lead towards something. "Officially, I am a chevalier, a knight in all but name. To reach full knighthood, I need my own armour and steed." A glance was cast towards each, "I must be proven in arms." With that, he tucked the back of his hand beneath his string of trophy rings worn on a leather cord, presenting it slightly forwards. At that moment light dawned on his success as a warrior, realising that most squires were knighted before defeating sixteen men in combat. That thought froze him in place, as truth had been clouded by his modesty.

Struck by the enormity of the realisation, he faltered in his speech, needing to recover. Instead of adding fillers, he simply bowed his head slightly and concentrated to compose himself, so that when he spoke he seemed as clear and certain as always. "Now, I must earn sponsorship for the order, and gather a retinue of loyal warriors."

That was the part he was working towards.

"That retinue, the Lightswords, has a member with us." Announced the chevalier, taking Mavelle's hand in his own, subtly ensnaring her full attention to give him time to present his follower. "Krarug. One of the bravest and strongest warriors that I have the fortune to know. A champion who charged against six armed men to protect an innocent woman, a worthy companion indeed." Having finished that, he made a sweeping gesture to introduce the orcish warrior.

Even without knowing the language, Krarug recognised his name, and from the tone and inflection of the following speech knew that he was being carefully introduced to the woman. As if posing for inspection, he straightened his shoulders and did his best to appear non-threatening.

Non-threatening was a relative term with regard to Krarug, since he mildly resembled an ambulatory mountainside, although one with the addition of a huge set of tusks. The ropy arms spread apart with open hands, as if to imply that he was no danger, although one look at those shovel-like hands left no doubt of their capacity for destruction. The wicked mace hung from the belt, supported by the cluster of spikes and flanges in a vast frog loop.

Lips drew backwards, failing to expose the lesser teeth but pulling back to widen the mouth on his face.

The orc was trying to smile.

[Falcon Bertille]

Mavelle gasped in admiration when Railtus displayed his newly-won rings. True, Phelan had collected lots of similar trophies, but she couldn’t remember an instance when he’d ever returned with so many after such a short span of time. “Oh Railtus! I’m so proud of you. If you put your mind to it, I’m sure you could be a knight by the end of the week.”

Impulsively, Mavelle seized Railtus’s shoulders and pulled herself up onto her tiptoes as she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. Then, slightly shocked by her own boldness, she released him and stepped back. After all, they were supposed to be conducting their courtship with some degree of subtlety. Chastised by that belated mental reminder, Mavelle attempted to cover for her mistake. “That is, Father will be so pleased. You’ve brought great honor to House Anstrun.”

However, before Mavelle could backpedal any further, Railtus took her hand in his, and comforting warmth spread through her body, the way it always did when he touched her with his gentle strength. Relaxing, Mavelle stared into Railtus’s eyes as he spoke about the new warrior who’d entered his service. Krarug. That was a strange name -- guttural and rather ugly. Still, Mavelle expected nothing more horrible than a particularly rough fighter when her gaze followed Railtus’s gesture.

Lord Kendall had gone to some pains to provide a satisfactory education for his daughter, so Mavelle knew an orc when she saw one. But being able to hang a name on that monstrous mass of moldy-green skin did remarkably little to quiet Mavelle’s fear. When Krarug moved his hands to spread them, she cried out and shrank back against Railtus, terrified that the beast intended to grab her. Unable to even look at the orc, she buried her face in her hands.

It was not Mavelle’s proudest moment. She’d always thought of herself as an adventurous girl, eager to venture beyond her sheltered existence behind the walls of House Anstrun. But, as so many people discovered, reality frequently failed to match the glamour of ballads, and seeing an orc illustrated on the pages of a book was miles away from having one standing near you, breathing fetid air in your direction.

Still, Railtus’s words had not been entirely lost on Mavelle. She knew that this orc had performed a heroic deed. She knew that it must be a good orc if Railtus had brought it here, since he would never do anything to deliberately endanger her. She knew he wanted her to accept this creature. So, in an effort to please Railtus, Mavelle forced herself to spread her fingers, peering out at the orc through bars of flesh. But when Krarug pulled his lips back, contorting his face into a grotesque grimace, Mavelle’s fingers snapped shut again.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, her voice shaking. “My head knows he won’t hurt me, but I can’t make my heart listen. He looks so fierce.”

[Sir Karsimir]

"Look at me." bid the chevalier, stepping close to Mavelle as he did so. With the arm that had just moments before been holding Mavelle by the hand, he folded his arm around her shoulders, like a great bird sheltering her beneath it's wing. The spear arm, he kept folded close to his body, to shield his broken ribs against the likely embrace.

Having sufficient understanding of body language to know that covering one's eyes was not a friendly gesture, Krarug stepped back to avoid distressing the poor girl further.

"Dear Mavelle." whispered Railtus to her ear, as he softly kissed her forehead from the cover of their caring embrace, "Warriors are expected to be fierce." Wait until I finish making his armour, he thought to himself, stopping himself from voicing that dry and perhaps caustic observation. "My champion here does not mean you distress, and would be sure to grant you a respectful distance. Now excuse me."

Stepping back from Mavelle, the crusader turned to face the Weapon of Flesh, and resumed that language of sharp syllables. Mostly, he apologised for the situation, gave Mavelle's apologies for being frightened, directed Krarug to the Central Inn, and had him return Arjen there safely.

The soldiers at the door seemed visibly pleased by the great orc's departure. As the orc led the warhorse from the ramp, one of the soldiers stepped forward to hurl scorn after the rejected savage. Said soldier found a spontoon promptly levelled at him.

"Understand this. That, is my champion, and to be treated with respect. He has proven himself as noble as any in the manor by departing to set a lady at ease. Understood?"

"The House Elders are aristocrats, my lord, of high status. That there is a filthy savage." argued the hireling. "Unworthy of approaching this manor."

Actually, the great orc was no more dirty than most humans. "He was the one who behaved with courtesy. Perhaps you should do the same."

Now the hireling began to sputter, but refrained from confronting a nobleman further. Walking inside, through the vast double doors which led to marble halls, the chevalier returned his attention to Mavelle. "Tell me, how have you filled your days?" As always, he was interested in the life of the woman whom he planned to court, and in truth, he knew little of the ways in which urban nobles filled their time.

[Falcon Bertille]

“But you aren’t fierce,” Mavelle protested, slowly lifting her face from her hands in order to look at Railtus. She felt terribly grateful for the sheltering arm he’d wrapped around her shoulders. Having it there chased away her shivers, like a warm scarf protecting her from winter’s chill. “Not to me, at least. To me, you’re the kindest, most gentle man I’ve ever met.”

That thought put an idea into Mavelle’s head. “Of course, I suppose that Krarug might not seem fierce to a lady orc. And to her, you might seem very fierce indeed.” Mavelle wasn’t entirely sure that there even were such things as lady orcs. However, viewing the situation in a more removed and analytical manner helped to overcome her instinctive fear.

Mavelle was glad that Railtus spoke up in defense of the departing orc. But she was also glad that Krarug would not be coming inside. First a peasant who had the audacity brawl with her brother, and now a monster -- why did Railtus insist on bringing such unsuitable guests to her house?

As they went inside, Mavelle raised her arm a little, inviting Railtus to link his own with it. “Oh, I’ve tried to keep busy. Yesterday morning, after you left, I went to my mother’s library. I kept thinking of our talk, the one regarding how I wanted to be remembered, so I decided to read more about my ancestors to see if it gave me any ideas. But it didn’t help much. When you’re suddenly trying to decide what to do with your life, it seems like there are far too many possibilities to ever get your head around.”

“Later that afternoon, I went shopping for a new perfume. What do you think?” Mavelle presented a delicate wrist for him to sniff. The faint scent of strawberries and vanilla seemed to rise from her pale skin. “And yesterday evening, I had my astronomy lesson. If you like, after it gets dark tonight, I can point out the new constellations I learned.”

“This morning I went for a walk in the garden with my maids. It’s so beautiful this time of year. And then, just as you arrived, we were watching a magic show. Not real magic, of course -- just pretend magic. But it was fun. The man could do such clever things with his hands. Maybe that’s the thing for me…maybe I should learn to do something clever. I rather think I am clever, so I’m sure I could learn to do something clever.”

Shaking her head, Mavelle laughed, like butterfly wings brushing against tiny bells. “But listen to me go on about my boring life, when you’re the one who has a tale to tell. What happened to you while you were away? How did you win your new armor, and horse, and trophy rings?”

[Sir Karsimir]

Not fierce? Surely Mavelle could recall the burning wrath to which she had bore witness, summoned forth against her brother Phelan? No secret had been made of that ravenous hunger to purge that thrice-damned blight in human form from the world through deadly battle. Woefully, for but a whisper of an instant, even Mavelle had feared him that day.

Yet the statement passed without comment.

Torn in loyalties and heart as she was, the lady was vulnerable. No good would come of inflicting such a dark issue upon her. That would distress her, and the Shining One had no taste for cruelty. This was a dire situation, for as truly Phelan deserved the pain of death, there would be no justice in Mavelle suffering the pain of loss. Yet an oath had been taken, an oath to undo the wicked and bring about their swift end. That oath was demanding that justice be brought to Phelan.

Presented with the offered arm, the chevalier shook his head. "That arm was slashed by a sabre." he explained, "Two broken ribs on the other side. Apparently, armour is no excuse for being hit with axes." Holding the spear with his other hand, having no place to put it when not in use, he had no free arm to offer. Despite the pain of his wounds, sympathy held no interest to him. Choosing the path of knighthood was to choose injury in combat. Eggs and omelettes.

Eventually, Mavelle asked her question, and the chevalier had been politely attentive. Yet that was all it was, polite. With his situation as it was, he was eager to find worthy shelter for his orc huscarl, a duty of a warlord towards his men.

"Shim is not safe." warned the Shining One. "You know of the fighters come to the city?" An assumption rather than a question, for her ties to a famed swordsman could keep her reasonably aware of such events, since Phelan had to go on campaigns to earn his fame and legend... usually accompanied by more poets than warriors. "Others are staying in the village. Many of these are robber men, brutish thugs who bully the townsfolk into submission. I have rescued those I can, and am making preparations to better face the rest of the brigands. Readying armour, horse drills, formation work. Countless details that spare men from death." True to his nature, he gave only a sober account of what happened, for his joy in battle did not extend to finding a thrill in the subject of violence.

Most of what Mavelle had described for her time away seemed very superficial. Shopping for perfume, a walk in the garden, a false magic show. None of these showed any intrinsic value. While enjoying entertainment was an acceptable notion, far higher hopes were fair to ask for in such a relationship. As for astronomy, the constellations were so far away that the importance of them to the world around had to be questioned. Mavelle had called this keeping busy, yet the pastimes appeared very idle.

One thing the chevalier knew there and then, was that he did not wish to spend his life with one of the idle rich.

The false magician received no comment at all, although the concept was deemed strange and unnatural. Who would practice such a trade in a city like Marn? Would not the appearance of magic be more trouble than it is worth in such a magic hating society? The concept of a magic show seemed strange and pointless to one who wielded magic in the form of ideals made flesh.

"As for tonight, I have a huscarl in need of shelter and I intend to find that for him. There are duties that a lord has towards his men." Of course, the House Elders had never seen it that way, and the statement was in complete contradiction to their views. Nevertheless, it was a statement which would be stood by. "It appears my men will not be accepted here, so I will need to make alternate arrangements." Rather than demand further hospitality, he overlooked the standing agreement with Lord Kendall, understanding that the spirit of such a bargain did not include welcoming giant orc warriors into his home.

[Falcon Bertille]

Slightly stung by Railtus’s refusal, Mavelle lowered her arm. Somewhere in her mind lurked the notion that if a knight truly loved his lady, he would endure all forms of discomfort for the pleasure of her touch, and would surely throw down his spear in an instant if it prevented him from escorting her in the manner that she preferred. But perhaps that was an unreasonable expectation. Mavelle was not self-centered enough to hold Railtus’s slashed arm and broken ribs against him, especially when the injuries had doubtlessly been obtained during a quest to prove himself worthy of courting her. So, although a little disappointed, Mavelle accepted Railtus’s rebuff with grace.

“I’m sorry that you’re hurt,” she answered, quite sincerely. Even aside from the issue of preventing him from linking arms with her, Mavelle didn’t like to think of Railtus being in pain. “It’s just that you carried yourself so bravely, I didn’t suspect. Would you like me to summon a healer?”

By now, Railtus’s rather somber retelling of the events in Shim came as no surprise to Mavelle. And she knew better than to try fishing for more colorful details. It seemed that if she wanted to hear a truly epic account of Railtus’s exploits, she would need to send one of her brother’s poets along with him the next time he left Marn. Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. It would be a less glorious assignment than chronicling the triumphs of the great Phelan Anstrun, but perhaps she could persuade one of them that it would be a chance to get in at the beginning of a saga, to write about a hero’s early adventures before he becomes known to the entire world. Yes, she would definitely look into that.

“I did hear that new fighters were gathering at the Guild.” Mavelle nearly added that she was sure Phelan would be as outraged as Railtus if he learned about these thugs and brutes in Shim, disgracing the profession of warrior by bullying peasants. But she held it back. No good ever seemed to come from mentioning her brother around Railtus. “I’m sorry that not all men who carry a sword manage to carry it with honor. It’s good that you were there to defend those who couldn’t defend themselves.”

Maybe it was her imagination, but Mavelle thought she detected a slight change in Railtus’s attitude toward her. After declining her offer to link arms, he’d made no move to touch her, not even a subtle brush of his hand. He hadn’t said anything nice about her new perfume. And her recitation of the activities she’d filled her time with while he was away had elicited no further comments or questions.

Perhaps he was disappointed in her. Certainly, she was disappointed in herself. She’d behaved badly with that orc. And it couldn’t be very interesting to listen to someone go on about activities that hadn’t been particularly satisfying even when she was participating in them.

Then again, perhaps he was just tired. After all, he’d been in a battle that morning, and still carried injuries from it. Mavelle decided to test that theory, hoping it would prove to be the correct one. “I’m glad that you summoned me, so that I could welcome you home. It’s very nice to see you again. But if you need rest, you should go to your room. I could have some food sent to you there, if you’d like. Or perhaps you’d prefer for me to arrange a bath?”

“And if you need to spend tonight making preparations for your men, then please do so. I don’t want to get in the way of anything important.” There wasn’t exactly bite in the word important, but there was a question. A question that needed answering.