A thousand documents to sign, Documents in a language Sett could only just barely read, a thousand measurements, women who seemed skittish of him, but he didn’t have any intention of harming them, who held odd, flat strings to try and discover what they’d need to make for him… Armor, they said.
Armor he didn’t need. Still in his Mageseeker attire, a long coat that reached past the backs of his knees, a dark grey adorned with pale golds and yellows.
And that was enough. He was told where he was going, and he did not want to wait, instead immediately headed to the camp, only hours behind the courier. It was better he found himself there instead of sitting in a city that stared at him, with walls that burned. There was no excuse, no reason not to leave immediately. So, he did.
This lead to shock and suspicion when he had arrived. Weapons pointed at them, but there was not an ounce of fear.
“I was sent here under the order of Jarvan Lightshield the Fourth.”
And he was told to wait. Wait, wait, wait, there was always waiting. It never made sense, as much as he hated the Mageseekers, they would only get him when it was time to act- they did not make him wait…
… Perhaps, perhaps being in that cell was little more than an eternal waiting game. That didn’t matter now, at least.
Finally, a soldier came to him, ushering him forth, to meet the one he would be serving, a Sire Garen Crownguard… He learned enough of this land’s customs that he had a reasonable idea of how to behave- Obey, and do not question, and things went fine.
He walked lightly into the tent, always minding to keep everything in view, so he did not accidentally bump into something or someone, ducking as to not hit his head on anything…
For a moment, he hesitated, trying to remember ‘etiquiette’, a thing he was not exactly skilled at, and shifted to stand on a single knee.
“Sire Crownguard,” he said, softly, his head low, even his ears flopped limply, not even controlling how they twisted or moved, a complete show of… submission.
Demacians did love it when another submitted, and he was not about to risk his luck with being far too aggressive, as the Mageseekers often called him.
“I am Settirgh, a former Mageseeker. I’m here to assist in whatever you need of me.”
It was not common for Garen to look up to people. He was not a man of small stature by any means either, but when he was brought face to face with the man before him, Garen found himself having to crane his head back to meet the sullen gold of his eyes nonetheless. His sheer stature was enough to leave him speechless for a passing moment, lost in his own surprise before he introduced himself.
Was this not the man that Jarvan had wrote to him about? Perplexed, Garen withdrew the letter he had read less than an hour ago from his belt and unfolded it, skimming the contents of it once more.
“You are here earlier than I expected,” the Captain finally said after he looked back up from the parchment, eyeing over his new recruit once more. “No matter, we can make do.”
Settrigh, as he called himself, a name that was foreign to the Demacian tongue no doubt, was much more... demure than he was expecting. It was almost off-putting how keenly submissive Settrigh presented himself as. There was little doubt in Garen’s mind that such behavior had been beaten into by the brutual hands of the Mageseekers, but he would need to learn quickly that in order to survive as a soldier of the Dauntless Vanguard— under Garen’s Vanguard in particular— he would need to develop a stronger character. Regardless, Jarvan vouched for the man, and so Garen would give him a place among his ranks.
“You need only address me as Captain,” he began as he returned the folded letter to his belt and held his gloved hand out to the new soldier. “Captain Crownguard will do if you so desire, but such formality is not needed here.”
Turning briefly away from Settrigh, Garen called Merrek to his side. “Merrek, do we still have Kriel’s old sleeping quarters?” he asked, speaking of the Stonehorn that had been apart of the Vanguard some months ago. It might be large for the Vastayan, but that was certainly better than a bed too small and clothes ill-fitting.
“Yes, Captain, believe we do.”
“Perfect. Would you and Cithria arrange a room for him in the mean time?”
“Guess these old bones of mine can get to it,” Merrek huffed, getting up from the wooden table and chairs where he had been playing tell stones ( and losing ) with Aly Morns.
Garen bid them both his thanks as they left to arrange a bed and quarters for the new soldier. After waving them off, he turned his attention back to the taller man.
“Now, Settrigh, next would be to get you fitted, though that might take some time to find the necessary tailor and armorer. In the mean time, what is your weapon of choice? We can see to getting you armed for now.”
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