Chaynal @chaynal - Tumblr Blog

The roads of Drustvar are not quiet.

‘Dreams are our hopes, our secrets we keep from ourselves, our fears; all mixed together into a story we have to remember.’

He woke with a startled jerk upward, a gasp of breath that filled his lungs and stretched them to a degree they had not been in what felt like a lifetime. His head throbbed, and the sudden realization that he was outside exposed to the elements beat into him as the glaring sunlight shocked his vision.

Raising a hand to shield his gaze he’d squint, a stiff sensation in his body and he’d realize his arm was light- no armor weighing it down. His head was still a little foggy, but a rush of anxiety filled him as he recalled the last moments before he’d fallen into darkness.

As his eyes began to adjust he’d try to sit up, a groan leaving him as his muscled frame protest the movement. It felt as if he’d not moved his joints for days, and just as he brought himself up to a seated position he felt a hard scaly pressure at his back, and a deep slow voice sounded with kindness and age.

“Do not move so quickly. You have been still for nearly a week. Here, you must be starving.”

A thick hand held out a large carved bowl with an assortment of fruits, seaweed wrapped fish, and what looked to be some kind of paste mashed down, the smell gave it away as crab, or clam perhaps. Still feeling that rush of needing to be where his allies were, to find them, to protect them, Chay’s large body twist so he was on his knees and facing that- holy titans what was he looking at? The Tortollan continued holding out that large bowl, eyes blinking slowly. He could tell the large man was shocked.

“Yours wasn’t the only ship to come to our shores recently. Or the first. It is why we were observing. You were lucky that we were close when you went under the waters. Now, start by telling me your name. Can you recall your name?”

The offered food was looked over, and his stomach gave protest to the fact he had not began devouring it.

“I am Sir Chaynal Malevolent, I.. What do you mean, of the other ships?”

The Tortollan sat down the bowl, rising slowly to collect a driftwood crafted walking stick that held numerous baubles tied to it’s length and began pacing away from the ‘cot’ that had held Chay. With a bit of protest from his calves Chay brought himself up to his feet, bare soles meeting the slick surface of the stone beneath him. He had been stripped down to his arming jacket and slacks, and it didn’t take long for him to steady himself to follow along.

It wasn’t far, just around the beach head and the Tortollan stood, gesturing toward the sea and a little inlet nestled ahead.

“They are polluting our waters, they have taken our nesting isles, many have fled, though just as many could not.”

What he saw before him caused his blood to burn. His gaze widened as he realized just what the Tortollan was showing him and what it meant. The Horde.

Adam caught his eye, it seemed the newly knighted man was able to hear whatever was being exchanged behind those doors. His knowing nod suggest it hadn’t been good. Light began to build around his frame, his sense of unease building. He hated diplomacy. Always secrets, bluster, noncompliance. It had been one of the many reasons he had surrendered his seat on the house of nobles in favor of being on the front lines. At least there you could kill your enemies, at least there they weren’t hiding behind- Shots fired.

A punch straight into his right shoulder staggered him, the munition ringing out in his ears as it collided with his plated armor. He made to draw his gaze away from Adam and to the direction he’d been struck from, that light beginning to draw forth as a shield, but as he did so he felt a tremendous pain at his temple and everything went black.

Hazy. Warm. Heavy. The surface of the water was growing distant as he stared in a confusion. His lungs felt stretched, bubbles raced before his face in some sort of trail to bread crumb where he’d been. His head pulsed, that ringing still in his ears as the pressure of the water grew stronger around him. He was sinking? He’d prepared for this, hadn’t he? His mind trudged through the pain, not moving as quickly as it should have. Blood fogged the water. His blood? Amulet. He had his amulet prepared in case he fell overboard- what was that?

Head rolling to the side he could make out a large silhouette in the water. Then another, before he realized how many things lived in the deeps. One particularly large figure was racing his way as if- had his blood attracted them? What was he supposed to be doing? The bubbles had stopped, his gaze turned upward to the distant surface. Blood fogged the water. His mind was spinning. Had he prepared for- darkness took him.

#RP

Gun emplacements... Catapults... Archers...

The vibrations of the modified gyrocopter felt unnatural as he strained to search for anything that would threaten the incoming scouting party. The sound of the engines rattled within his helm, deafening him compared to the wing beats of Abrahmis. His hands rest on the controls, keeping the machine at a fair elevation though unlike the grand gryphon he had to rely entirely on himself. Who loses their own scouts? Squinting his eyes he peered past the mist that blew along the mountainside. His ass was vibrating from the seat, his large frame cramped up in the cockpit that felt as if it had been built for a gnome.

Come on... something, anything. They had stated the Forsaken had retreated in this direction and that the forward scouts had gone missing within the mountains; but the mountain range of Alterac was vast. Turning his head to the side he narrowed his gaze as he noted a herd of rams. He didn’t hear it over the hum of the engines and the propellers. The fireball that had been fired and guided through magic directly into his engines.

Flames engulfed the cockpit, though after having tasted the maker’s flames these felt artificial; lacking. It still burned, and still caused smoke to choke his vision. The dashboard components ruptured, sending flaming debris into his helm and chest plate. A ringing as if someone had just struck a grand church bell echoed within his head and he could feel the cold winds beating against the left of his temple. His helm had been severely damaged, thank the light for the imbued and enchanted metals otherwise the broken propeller would have sheered off a section of his head with it.

He was going down, and there was nothing he could do to salvage the machine that had been lent to him. Light burned about his form and he tried his best to direct his plummet into the courtyard of a small outpost that was growing closer with each passing second.

The crash sounded with an explosion he knew Jharol’s keen senses would notice. The debris of that machine sprayed the courtyard leaving a fiery smoking crater littering bits and pieces in a wide circle. At it’s center he stood bathed in that protective barrier, staggered slightly at the odd angle in which he’d landed himself, and took in a hard breath. Never again. Those machines were death traps. Abrahmis would have smelled, or seen the mage that had fired upon him whether or not /he/ would have.

Before he could truly get his barrings arrows plinked into his bubble, smacking at it only to tumble away. His ear rang with a static noise that held broken voices within it, the comm had been damaged giving him only clips and bits of what was being said.

“Archers- Magister- A compound east of the mountain path.” He spoke though he was uncertain if they could hear him.

‘Chaynal --- down.’ Broke Jharol’s voice in his ear.

No. If they thought he was felled they may act brashly, “I am well!” He shouted as the first Forsaken charged into him, the light of his barrier dissipating and forcing him to slam his plated fist into the grotesque axe that had been cleaved toward him.

A club struck his back, ringing as it met the metal of his armor. Light burned within his fist and he plunged it toward the axe wielding Forsaken’s skull. Taking hold of that half rotted face in his massive grip he expelled that light like a shotgun through that skull-like mouth.

An arrow bounced off his pauldron, then another rang against his broken helm far too close to that quarter gap that exposed half of his face. He felt a tugging at his back, something was trying to pull him down? Leather straps snapped as his shield was ripped from his back, tearing at the already shrapnel scarred fabric of his cloak. He had been surrounded.

Light radiated from his large form, bursting like a shockwave around his body as he fought to beat back the numbers that fell upon him. Something caught flame and ran screaming as another fell to his feet, though still they pressed on. Something was shouted in gutterspeak, that filthy tongue, and he felt another series of arrows clatter into his armor- his left arm lift to shield the exposed portion of his face just as another slam rang under his arm from that club.

‘--al can you hear me? Wha-- smell like --- orc shit and ---’ Jaysin’s voice beat into his ear. By the light did she never shut up? He whirled about searching for whoever that bastard was that was beating on him like an armored drum. There he stood, the mace he held an aged iron ball on a large stick. ‘--mmander? Does he -- you his girlfri--’

His fists radiated fiercely as he rushed that mace wielding Forsaken, waiting until his shoulder would make impact to allow that light to explode from his body like a massive holy grenade making as much chaos from the charge as he could. He was fighting alone here, everything was an enemy. As mist and dirt cleared from that small explosion he stared out into the courtyard. The arrows had stopped, and as the dust settled he could see why.

The scouts they had come to locate sat within an iron barred wagon cell; Forsaken archers surrounding it with their bows turned to the chained scouts. It was clear, he was to surrender, or the scouts would go first.

Brows ticked with frustration and he let his hands fall to his sides. Breath caught in his lungs and he ceased his struggle. More Gutterspeak was bellowed and the blades on his back were taken. The libram torn from his arming belt and he was urged forward with a prod from a pike to join the scouts in their cage.

Before the door was opened one of the Forsaken latched his plated hands together and jerked him into a stooping position, more barked Gutterspeak that he didn’t understand herald the sound of a large cauldron being dragged his way, a slopping sound as whatever it’s contents were spilled over.

His skin burned, something that felt like sludge was poured over his nape and down onto his armor as it seeped into the cracks and hinges of his armor. ‘Is there --oom for you an-- boyfriend where you ar-- not a cage?’ Jaysin’s voice continued to mock him over that comm. He stared forward, analyzing those scouts to ensure they had not been experimented on yet. They seemed well enough, beaten a bit, but alive.

Once he was within the cage he was jerked downward so his wrists could be latched into the floor. His helm yanked from his head by a bony hand before he’d be struck in the face with a half rotted gauntlet and that tar-like substance was poured over his head.

My Lord Sunshield,

I will not write to you of the atrocities committed by the Horde upon the people of the Alliance. Such word has reached your ear, I am sure.

I instead choose to write to you of those who stood, those who fought, and those who died beneath your banner.

Sir Varsen, Miss Marvic both fought with the ferocity that I am sure was what caught your eye. The strengths you saw in them were demonstrated upon the Darkshores. Both followed orders, both held courage in the face of death. By their hands many of the Horde who sought to bring ruin to the land were felled before they could complete their nefarious objective.

It is with a heavy heart that I must add, Mister Wilmont succumbed to the wounds he received upon the battlefield. His final moments were within the triage tents within Lor’danel. Light be praised that he did not live to see the world tree burned. He fought bravely, and with honor. I ask that while he held no titles to merit such, that he be given a Knight’s burial. Such a man as he is rare in this world, I feel we all owe him a debt that will go unpaid otherwise.

Mister Jharol and his overwatch of our small group of defenders proved invaluable; without the aid he provided us I fear someone else may be writing this report to you. He is, to my knowledge, unharmed and fortunately so.

Squire Day and Miss Elora both bared their burdens well. While they both still have much to learn of war and loss, they stood resolute to the very end. Both are a boon to your House, and should be thanked accordingly.

It is of Squire Adamar that I will focus upon now....

#fallen sun

kylewilmont

Miles away in the mud near the bank of the Wild Bend River, a pair of two-handed great axes lay forgotten - the wicked edge of one stained with more blood than mud. Boot impressions within the mud and the bodies of many, many Orcs told the story of the battle here.

For those who knew Orcish culture, they could easily guess that a challenge was made in the middle of the skirmish, the trampled ground forming a ring around a set of marks left by two combatants - a large human and larger orc if the imprints were any indication. The human had not fared well by all estimation, the impression of his armored form clearly outlined in two places within the ring.

If the Orc who battled the human had won the honorable duel it would be difficult to determine, for the human’s body was not among those of the Orcs. Back in Lor’danel the veteran warrior lay very still on the table - bloody bandages binding his head, chest and stomach.

Someone had taken the time amidst the chaos of war to clear away the caked on dirt and dried blood - even changing his crimson stained pants. His hairy chest rose and fell erratically, sometimes stopping altogether. A woman stood over his body, fingers delicately combing through the silver-flecked blonde locks not trapped beneath the bandages.

“Kyle…” The woman said, calling his name softly. “It’s time to go.”

The graying warrior looked over at her, recognizing the pale hair, large doe-like eyes and tanned skinned of the half elf. A wide smile splayed across his pale face. Kyle breathed out her name, reaching up to cup the soft curve of her cheek in his calloused hand, pale hair spilling over his thick digits when she leaned into his touch. “Where are we going?” Kyle asked.

Annowre smiled at him and leaned her cheek into Kyle’s large palm, gazing at him with affection. “Home.” She answered, turning her gaze skyward.

Only then did Kyle notice the Valkyrie hovering near by, her form bathed in a bright golden light - magnificent wings effortlessly keeping her aloft. Tears burned at the corners of Kyle’s crystalline blue eyes, awe struck and yet torn. Home? Was it really time to go? He wondered.

Annowre took his hand, tugging gently. “The Halls of Valor await you.” She told him. Kyle sat up then rose off the table still holding Anne’s hand as he looked back to the aging warrior lying too still on the table. Yes, Kyle thought as he took note of that battered, battle hardened body, it was time to go home.

Kyle turned toward Annowre, smiling as he pulled her into a tight embrace - oh how he’d missed this woman! Golden light encompassed the pair, brightening to a blinding brilliance - brought on by the Valkyrie.

And then…

They were gone.

@house-of-the-fallen-sun

#Notwithouthonor

The chamber was lit with little more than the candle atop the broad desk, air stilled and the sounds of rain beating against glass kept the small room from being completely silent. Sitting before the parchment Chay’s large frame was remained unmoved. How many letters had he sent? When had the reports turned from something he felt was necessary to something he felt was fruitless? What was the purpose. Those of the guard who were of any significance had left for war. At some point he had realized there were none to read the reports he provided save for himself. It had been some months since his return to the darkened woods. The keep had been all but ruined when he first arrived. All was in order now, save for the section along the south ramparts that simply couldn’t be repaired without wholly replacing the large stone segments. There were hardly enough staff within Sunshield manor to guard the grounds at all hours, though he had done well to supplement the lack of men with his own diligence. Tonight’s report was little different than those who preceded. Preparations for work to be done within the coming days, lists of what has been accomplished within the past days, marks on supplies necessary to ensure the reconstruction of the keeps outlying towers and fortifications. But now, his hand stilled. The barracks had been restored, yet there were no guards to fill the bunks. The ramparts had been repaired, but there were none to patrol them. Those who had remained during the Legion’s pass over Duskwood and the subsequent losses thereafter had been groundskeepers, house maids, young men unfit to go to war, or too old to be expected to do battle. He found his thoughts turning from patrols, reports, upkeep. His tasks here had been accomplished. Sunshield manor was in full order, save for those bodies necessary for ensuring what had been done the last months would not be undone the moment he ventured away from his Lord’s estate. His thumb tapped against the quill and he rose to his feet; the report unfinished. The halls were as quiet as the room had been. Though properly furnished once again, they were missing the air that presence had once given them. It was beginning to feel more and more as if those who had remained behind, himself included, would slowly settle into a life of routine upkeep with hardly enough hours in the day to keep up with the demands of such a vast estate. House Sunshield was missing something even he could not provide it. What was a House, without it’s Lord?

The call to act has never been so loud.

Westfall had been defended, the invasion point was still a mess of chaos as bodies were cleared from the fields to be identified. Craters marred with ash and lingering fel embers had to be dug out and evened. The wall, what had been under construction, had to be repaired. The mill had become a makeshift infirmary and the tower of Sentinel Hill a command station. Within Chaynal spoke with Marshall Stoutmantle, laying out suggestions and acting as council to the weathered veterans of the Hill. Everything had to be done quickly, the invasion had been unexpected and left a heavy sense of oncoming ruin. It had only been a few short hours since the ominous ship had left the skies above them and Chay emerged from within the tower at the same pace he had entered. Hurriedly he descended the stairs and made his way through the makeshift encampment. Dirt marred his cheeks, a portion of his well trimmed beard burned away and his left brow swollen. That pale flesh was heated and his brows set sternly as he approached the segment of soldiers who had answered his call to aid Westfall. “Marshall Stoutmantle wishes to thank every man and woman who came to assist Westfall under the banner of the King.” He spoke dryly, “I was informed gryphon riders are en route now to fortify the skies, ballistae and cavalrymen are also on the road.” His gaze turned from Darrock to Blackwell, then onward to Lea and Teshnan. “There are reports of Legion activity sporadically appearing in the lands to the north as well, Westfall is not the only target. As those demons retreated from the skies I saw them take direction for Deadwind Pass. I have heard Dalaran has relocated, it is undoubtedly their next target.” Drawing his plated gloves before him the large knight drew in a breath. “I will not ask any of you to follow me into the same battle we have only just won, you will receive no /order/ to place yourselves between a Legion of enemies and the innocent lives which they have come to claim.” Those perk lips flattened slightly and he turned toward one of the Sanguine soldiers who had reclaimed his helm from the field. Drawing the heavy helm upward he latched it in place and turned toward Duskwood. To the location the Sanguine had stationed their gryphons. “You all have lives to live, loved ones to protect. Bonds beyond oaths.” A few steps were taken as he directed his attention down to the battered portion of armor along his abdomen. He’d not had time to remove the armor and inspect whatever damage he may have sustained. “Whatever you choose, know this; the Legion came this day. They came to claim the land we stand upon. The lives of every man and woman of Westfall. They came to create a staging point for their invasion of our Kingdom.” Turning he cast those vivid blues upon the encampment, members of the Sanguine already standing and readying their gear for travel. “They came in their arrogance to take what is ours to protect. They came in their numbers to decimate the weak. They came by surprise unannounced and unprovoked to wage war against mortals who live but once.” His head lofted toward the skies and he was silent a moment, the scent of ash still carried on the winds. “And we prevailed.” The words came firmly before he set his gaze back upon those of the Coalition. “We shall continue to prevail. I make for Dalaran, to continue to hold my oaths. To continue to prove to the Legion this world is /ours/. That if they would come to lay claim to those who are unable to fight, who are weak of will or body, that I will stand against them. Those of you who feel as I, I implore you to ready your arms.” At that he turned and moved for the fields, Dalaran was in need and he was going to answer. Those of the Sanguine rose up and followed along, one of the men clapped against Swale’s shoulder, “Twelve of those Eredar me and Sigvald took down, you think the Eredar are immortal? Their bodies looked pretty dead to me-” The bantering continued as they made for the gryphons.

The flight from Dalaran over Duskwood was hurried, Markus was silent for the first half of the trip. It was when the dim of night sky was marred with fel light coming from beyond Duskwood's banks that he began to talk. It wasn't about the mission at first, his tone still firm and demanding as it seemed was always the case with the battle hardened soldier.

"You got kids Darrock?" He spoke loudly over the wind toward Darrock who was at his back, he didn't wait for an answer however, "I do, well, did. A boy and two girls. I'd have to say it was because of them that when I first met Malevolent I didn't think he was just bluster and bullshit."

His eyes remained planted before him as he gripped the reigns tighter. There was a sinking feeling in his chest that came every time he felt the odds were too great to overcome. It was only the fact that he was still able to get that feeling at all that he was able to ignore it.

"We lived in Lakeshire, until the orcs came. They took everything from us. From me. You know what that feels like? You know what that does to a man?" The briefest of glances was given over his shoulder toward Darrock. "If this is real, if this is an actual /invasion/ of demons and not just another attempt it's going to make that nightmare look gentle."

Wind blew past them, hot compared to the natural coolness at their altitude. The stench of fel tainted ash carried along with it. As they neared the river dividing Westfall's fields from the dark wood other gryphons carrying members of the Sanguine Song flanked in alongside them. Arm gestures were given from a woman mounted atop her armored gryphon, House Sunshield's banner waving violently at her back.

"Hold tight, we're sweeping forward for a quick observation of the situation! You go falling off this thing and I'm going to kick your ass understand me?!"

As soon as he spoke the gryphon veered hard left and into a lower position, the half dozen other members of the Sanguine followed in trained pursuit. It was difficult to see much of anything at their travelling altitude, clouds and smoke blocked the horizon.

Sweeping low past the final layer of pitch and fel glowing smoke they dove into something that was polar opposite from their peaceful race to the farmlands. As if breaching headfirst into a torrent of fire and chaos the dim sounds of explosions drowned out by the wind blast into the forefront.

Markus gripped the reigns of his beast to force it upward just in time to keep himself and Darrock from making impact with an ashen skinned beast, it's leathery wings pocked with tattered holes. Another raced past raking it's claws along their gryphons feathered wings and drawing a loud screech from the creature.

"Move move move!" He shouted hoping the others could hear before they too dove down into the awaiting clusters of fel bats which had begun to swarm the skies of Westfall. A harsh growl echoed within his helm and he turned his head to try and catch a glimpse of how well the others were faring on their entry.

None were armed with bows or guns, they had come prepared to scout ahead and prepare for battle on the ground. "Darrock! We're going to make a break for the shoreline! Try and draw some of these buggers off the rest." One of the gryphons following suit slammed headlong into a fel bat and the ashen wings of the demon wrapped around both rider and mount taking them into a freefall. The formation broke to try and make for more difficult targets.

"Rally at the bridge!" A woman's voice called forth, growing distant on the wind and commotion. A hard jerk to the right brought Markus and Darrock in their destination toward the shoreline.

"We sweep around and come back, try to keep as many of those things off us if you can!" Markus called forth only to let out a defiant roar as another demon smashed into the underbelly of their mount. The gryphon's talons clutched at the demon's wings fiercely and they were forced to divert from their course and make a hard break left.

The skies were littered with them, so many that it caught Markus by surprise and he grew silent. Fel bats, doomguard, fel cannon fire. Above it all a large black monolith ship lay hovering like some shard of a demon's keep above Sentinel Hill. Below them? Screams, flames and the echoing sounds of battle. Militia scattered about the tower of Sentinel Hill, archers spotted disorderly along the semi constructed wall.

Nobody was prepared for this.

"Hold tight!" Markus shouted as fel flames burst past them, searing off the right side of their gryphons face and charring it's wing. He held firmly to the reigns for what little good it did him, moreso to keep hold on the dying mount as it screamed it's last and struggled to keep from simply falling to the earth.

Their speed was growing, the ground drawing nearer. It was when they were nearing what looked to be a cornfield set to blaze that it happened. Without word Markus slammed his right elbow against Darrock's side and twist harshly to force him off the gryphon and into what was likely the safest method of landing; among the rows of corn and tilled soil. He held tightly then as his gryphon continued forward to make impact against the stony hillside past the farmlands. Darrock would find himself not far from the Westfall tower along the river, within a fair jogging distance of the rally point. The bridge bordering Duskwood.

#@Healingthebeast

What returned to Darrock would not be a letter. His reply came in the form of a heavily armored man who appeared to be in much haste. The infirmary doors burst open as heavy thumps reverberated against the flooring.

“Sir Malevolent requests your presence within Westfall immediately. You are to take up the armor given to you and join me alongside nine others of the Sanguine Song as we fly by gryphon to the rivers of Duskwood and the invasion point.”

Taking a moment to remove his helm Markus tucked the heavy object beneath his shoulder, “No more orcs to fight, by tonight we’ll all be counting the number of /demons/ felled by our formation.” An eager grin was plastered across his brutish features as he stared Darrock down awaiting his answer.

#@Healingthebeast

The morning gathering of House Guard began as it had the few days before it. Those of the Sanguine Song arrived and awaited orders of where their march would carry them; only today they had arrived in full battle armaments. Shields, swords, helms, chain-mesh lined cloaks with thick heavy linen was all donned. At their front? Chay stood and awaited Darrock. “We march outside the city this morning. There are those within the Sanguine who believe the several laps around the city has become too easy a task and feel it is not suitable punishment.” His lips perked as he set those vivid blues upon Darrock before hoisting his chain coifed helm over his head and strapped in the thick metals. Behind those slits within his visor he’d hold his gaze upon the mender. Though within the fierce visage of his helm was a caring almost paternal gaze it was shielded and somewhat nullified by the cold steels dividing him from the world. “Borgio, Eigrim, and Arcbald are relieved of today’s march as someone needs to remain behind to guard Lord Sunshield’s holdings in our absence. Today’s march will be... taxing.” A warm melodic chuckle echoed within the confines of his helm as he turned toward two men in similar armor, his massive frame obscuring their actions though the jostling of metal suggest an exchange was underway. He turned toward Darrock, left arm cradling a chain-link tunic and thick leather gambison. In his right he held a large chain-mesh laden cloak similar to those the House Guard wore. As he moved forward to present the gear to Darrock the two men behind him also moved, one holding a large shield and bastard sword, the other held in one arm an open steel curiass and a thick closed faced helm in his grip. “Markus Wulfenheart-” Chay gestured to the man holding the weaponry, “Paul Blackmoore.” He gestured to the other. “Will assist you in properly donning your attire before we set upon the icy hills of the crystal forest below the city.” It was clear this wasn’t a request as the two men moved in toward Darrock and stood at the ready to assist his preparations. As they stood, Chay turned about and shouted with that field-commander’s tone booming and commanding. “You have all been marching close to one week due to your ineptitude. Today will remind you that we must always be prepared for the very worst. We cannot afford a moment of laxity within our service. In war you were prepared to march beside me into the fel-fires of Tanaan at a moment’s notice and you did so without so much as a whimper! Show me now, brothers of the Sanguine Song, that you carry that same resolve even still; that as House Guard you have not become complacent dulldrums unfit to carry your swords!” Markus leaned in as he planted a plated grip on Darrock’s shoulder, “You have been marching beside men who have watched horrors befall their brothers. No wheezing today. You march beside /me/.” Paul tossed the heavy chain-meshed cloak over his own left shoulder as he brought the chain tunic upward and awaited Darrock to ready his arms to accept the help. “Avery Holne bore that shield, she sharpened that blade every morning. Even the morning she died. You let either of them drag on the ground during this march I’ll drag you.” His words came firmly, not as a threat but as sense to drive home the importance of the items Darrock was being fitted with. An honor? Perhaps a trial.

#@Kaelenar @Clawsbeforelaws

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