#shedal

[ljwilder-blog]

a warlords tale, part 33.

“You called for me, your highness?”

Heavy were the steps of the leader of Vitnir Hall as he lingered within the private room shared by his queen and her king when he was not departed away for battle. Oh, there was some instance of lingering concern that this may well start unseemly rumors upon the servants and staff of the manor but if this was her will, he would bend to it. Not even Zanil was present and so were the two in only one another’s companionship as a waving gesture did indicate that the door should be closed. Was she intentionally trying to make these actions seem suspicious? Regardless, he did as she commanded and closed the door prior to lowering himself into one of the many seats that peopled the vacant areas of the room. Respectable was the distance--but that would not matter once the rumors saw fit to start, really.

“I would--like to offer you my apologies, Gideon Whitemane.” Her voice was humble and honest. It was not the commanding cadence of a queen but instead the honest admission of one who had been in errance in an action and perhaps in spite of himself his expression did come to lay as one of surprise with his head canted ever so slightly to the side. Then a smile was upon his lips as he heard her continue. “I acted in err and for that I feel great regret and ask only your rightful forgiveness. I did not have my wits about me, Gideon, and I did act wrongly.”

It seemed as though she would continue on but forward did he extend his hand with a shake of the head and a lifting hand with fingers lax to indicate a kind request for her to be still. And she did, though her painted lips were creased into a visible frown. “Please. One apology is enough. Do you think I have never been called a beast before, or a monster? Long have I been like this, my lady Abigail, and with any luck longer still will I be. With any luck I will be around to serve your children on the throne, though…” and that hand that had silenced her lifted to comb through dark locks with salt-and-pepper silver streaked through, “that may perhaps be pushing it.”

The mention of her children. Her and lingered over her stomach for a moment before she leaned forward slightly, gazing at him with curious eyes. Always they had been stories, legends of the Wolves of Baiden. She merely assumed it meant the ferocity of Baiden’s people and that stories of werewolves were just that--stories. But that was not the case. Across from her was seated a man bedecked in leather and linen and fur that was indeed one of the werewolves she heard stories of. Equal parts was she frightened and excited by the notion but she schooled herself as she folded her hands in her lap.

“And how long have you served the Rosenlied family, Gideon? Yourself, not your people as a whole.”

A smile revealed that his eyeteeth were potentially a little sharper than they should have been, that there was something in his smile that was indeed predatorial. Bestial. But she did not let her eyes linger as up did they lift to the brown eyes that looked upon her and something in that expression communicated that he knew.

“I was rather young when I first saw Alden. And he was not yet king. It was at my father’s funeral, for my father served Baiden as a knight and took sick while he was dwelling on castle grounds. I served Valentin briefly, less than a decade before he came to pass to the hall of champions. Alden, I served for all of his days.”

It seemed as though light found its way into her eyes, a light of surprise as she looked upon him. He was not a man in his youth by any means, but such numbers as they went through her mind--Alden had ruled for thirty perhaps even forty years (for a few weeks was scarce long enough to memorize such numerical things as who ruled and for how long) and Mercurius himself was tenured over a decade. Fifty to sixty years alone in the service of the Rosenlied family. A normal man would be bent over and preparing for the grave. “And were you born like this?”

Back into his seat did he lean as he crossed his legs idly at the ankles. Straps wound around suede boots that laced firmly up the inner calves that were of impressive size. Gideon was not a petite man and one would have to assume to be the head of a hall of brawlers he would have to be the best brawler of them all. “Werewolves cannot have children, your majesty,” he spoke as he laced his fingers upon the back of his neck. Any lingering tension in the room had been assuaded and so he did see fit to take comfort in his body and in the space. “We lose that ability in exchange for many others. What werewolves exist in the world today were bitten, transformed. Not even the first of all werewolves was birthed in such a way, or so go the stories that we are told.” And stories were that: stories. None were alive today who could cite the exact origins of werewolves, but the stories were passed down. Primarily through those who took the name of Whitemane, those who served as the head of Vitnir Hall. At the time of my biting and when the former head of Vitnir Hall did come to me, I was destitute and nearly thirty years of age.”

Deep did the queen breathe as she leaned herself back in the seat she was in, raising a hand to lightly linger against her forehead. Not only had she wholly uprooted herself from Oran to Baiden to become queen of a country she knew next to nothing about mere weeks before her husband would ride forth to the first war Liev had known since the very Grand War itself, but now? Now she was faced with the stuff of frightful childhood tales. Werewolves. Across from her sat a werewolf draped in leather and fur with a bestial smile and yet she could not find it in herself to be afeard of him.

Perhaps she would have, initially. That was not the case. Though there was intimidation to be had of him, there were broad shoulders and animalistic gaits and she was sure he could rend a man asunder with those hands that so casually laced on the back of his neck. But when those brown eyes were upon her, there was nothing but submission. The loyalty of a hound was in those brown eyes: such had been her first impression and so to back to that impression would he lean whenever she felt the chill of fear creeping into her gut. She would not allow herself to be afraid, as one would not allow oneself to be afraid of a dog that was in the process of being trained.

Dogs could smell fear and she was quite sure that werewolves were likely the same.

“You… you can be no younger than seventy, eighty…” she spoke her thoughts aloud in time to hear the low grumble of a chuckle in response. Humans could live to such an age in Baiden and throughout Liev, though more often was sixty a reasonable estimate for ages. To live to one hundred was seen as a blessing among humans though elves did average four to seven hundred depending upon nigh innumerable factors that were still a mystery to humans, no doubt including purity of a line and other such things. “Am I correct?”

“Werewolves, my queen, oft live longer than mortal lives. Those that control the wolf within, that is. Some… some who are bitten by those that we cannot find unfortunately cannot and must be put down.” Put down. To put down feral wolves was part of what Vitnir Hall saw to doing for they were a danger not only to all of Liev but also to the sanctity of what the Wolves’ Guild had come to create. All it took was one wrong step from one werewolf and there would be an upheaval. Luckily, people going missing was not utterly unheard of for death did happen unexpectedly all the time. A few near misses had happened but… by and large, the werewolves of Liev were kept under the watchful thumb of Gideon Whitemane and the Wolves of Baiden. “Marrick Whiteman, the leader of the guild before I came to such a position, was likely near to one-hundred and ten before he passed on to lay at the feet of Silas. For that is what we at least like to think our fate is. We are, after all, the Wolves of Silas. Only the strongest are permitted to endure what it is being a werewolf causes and so we do not view it as a curse, merely something that separates us from the rest. The weak… the weak do not survive the first transformation, mostly.

“Ah… I have gotten off topic. I could not give you a definite number on my life as far as age is concerned, but your estimation of eighty is not too far off. I have stopped keeping track. It is not something we care much for in the Wolves’ Guild. Once you have survived your first year of lycanthropy, time becomes relative. We measure it how we will. We’ve grand celebrations plenty enough that we do not need to commemorate days of birth… or rebirth, as it were.” For that was what it was. Becoming a werewolf was seen as a form of rebirth. Their humanity was changed forever and no longer were they what they had been born as. So Marrick had taught Gideon, and so would Gideon serve to teach his heir when the time came.

His words were wise and sagely and came with an almost surprising nuance and grace. By the time he had come to answer the question nearly had she forgotten what her inquiry had been as she heard the words. One-hundred and ten? Had any human in all of Liev lived to such an age? Though with the diffusing of elf blood into the mainstream population of humans, longer lives were almost more common among the people. But not in Baiden. Considerable pride was taken in the fact that most occupants of the country at the foot of the mountains held primarily the blood of humans and humans alone. One of the many things that Mercurius’s father had left to him was the fact that he should not marry of an elf, that he should not bring elf blood upon the throne. And so he had not, for the lady that sat opposite the werewolf was quite human in every way.

“I see,” as she set to rise and move towards the door with a few steps. “I thank you for your forgiveness, Gideon Whiteman, and for your time. I also thank you for the years to come of loyal service to the Rosenlied family…” upon the doorknob did the fingers linger before a larger hand rest over them. Contrast was visible between the two, for darker was the skin of the Baidenese wolf, scarred and calloused his hands from fighting and working and dealing with the wolves. Upon the heel of his hand was she aware now of a scar. Puncture wounds. They were undoubtedly from where a wolf had sunk teeth into the flesh there at some point and the idea nearly made her wince.

“It stopped hurting years ago,” he stated with a grin, feeling her honeyed eyes come up to meet his. “There is no need to see me out, my lady. You need only dismiss me. I come and go as you please. These are, after all, your halls. Not mine.”

With that her hand was removed with a strange gentleness and the man passed by her with long gaits. Down the hall he gazed as he rejoined alongside Emirain who scarce glanced in her direction as the two set off down the hall nigh in sync. For a moment, and only for a brief, fleeting moment did her heart ache. It was as though she could feel the deep connection that ran between the two of them, even when they did not speak. The shared power.

They were mated wolves, after all.

Away from the door did she move as she returned to a seat at the window. Vacant were the training ground below of knights training, for they were posted elsewhere or preparing to be sent out to join the main fronts. Only in the paddock generally use for horseback training were there two men, notably of Vitnir Hall, brawling with naught but bare hands. One was knocked to the ground and nearly came to skid across the hay that was laid out there for the sake of the horse’s traction, knocking his head upon the fence. A normal man would be out cold. But for a werewolf, she supposed that it only made sense that he lept back up and immediately reengaged his fighting partner. There was something frightening about that power.

And yet, being as they were her allies, something thrilling, too.

Low was the whistle that came from the healer as the party came to a slow ride. Before them was what could only be described as the remains of a campsite that, by and large, it seemed people he gotten up and left in quite a hurry from. Low burning embers were still ringed by stones that appeared to have been hurriedly output if only because leaving them unattended would come to cause fire throughout the campsite. Even a blind man could gather that it was Baidenese. The insignia of the wolf, bear, and lion was upon the war flags that lay as though useless or forgotten. It was the same banners that she road under. The captain that lead them and a few knights did dismount but an extended hand reached out to still her healers from doing the same: this was not something that called for their intervention just yet. Her mouth as formed in a frown, though, as she heard the men talking amongst themselves.

“You… you do not think they are all dead, do you?”

“No,” she said to him in a tone that was nearly a snap as she turned in the saddle to face him. “Do you even see a sign of a fight here? ‘Cause if you do, let me know. I don’t. They probably rode off to battle like knights do.”

“I would assume you to be correct, Lady Shedal,” came the voice of the captain who was alongside her now. Hoofprints indicated that such a departure had transpired in quite a hurry and northward was it they took off in direction of. Such was what he communicated to her and to the men about her and it was as though there was a collective sigh that was regripped by a sharp intake of breath. That meant to the north there was battle.

“Then what the hell are we waiting for?” Her voice was a loud retort to the captain as she tapped the side of her horse with her booted feet to urge him a step or two forth. “If they have ridden north, so too shall we. If we follow the hoofprints…”

“Do not be hasty,” the captain attempted to speak before her hand was extended to him with fingers locked firmly alongside one another.

“If we are not hasty, more Baidenese men will die. I do not know the code to which knights and their captains are sworn but I do know that the whole purpose of the healing arts is to keep people from dying. And I am pretty sure that the knight’s code likely includes protecting those that fight with you, right?”

A scoff came from one of the knights mounted still upon the horse and it was he who spoke in retort to her, “And you, a half-elf of Vaira, have right to speak so to a captain of the knights of Baiden? Hold your tongue, halfblood, until it is needed.”

It was with a viper’s swiftness that her head did turn to look at the male who was seated among the ranks behind her as low was the voice in her throat when he spoke. “I will remember those words, o goodly knight, when you are bleeding on the field. And so do I ask all of my units to recall that. This man, see him?” Hooded faces did turn and suddenly were witness to the knight as he did take a few steps back from where they were gazing upon him. “He has called me a halfblood. He has stated I, a healer who has volunteered my life to a country that is not one of my birth or residence, have no right to speak of what is best to preserve life! Furthermore, I am a woman. It is through women that all life comes. I would say I have far more right to speak upon healing than this knight, this man, this pure-blooded human who speaks to me so. And would my units not agree?”

Loud were the shouts of agreement that came from knight and healer alike in the company and so the look upon her face grew smug as she was righted in her seat. Down to the dismounted captain who had dropped his head during her quite blatant highlight of Baiden’s racism, for there was shame in him that this was a knight beneath him, one who served under him that had said such things. But it was not an uncommon opinion. Some of the knights still muttered agreements that came to her keen ears but she opted to ignore them. To react with explosion to every instance of racism would only result in wearing her far more thin than she desire to be. More to Arric than to Mercurius was her promise, though she would heed as she needed to whatever king she found herself under.

“So, captain,” as Shedal again spoke to him with her horse quite steadied beneath her and what nearly counted as a grin on her face, “I suppose we’re riding north?”

Into his saddle did he swing as he ordered one of his men to seize the battle flag that had been left behind upon the first departure of the knights of Baiden northward. “Yes. We ride north to join our brothers.”

part 34.

read from the beginning.

[ljwilder-blog]

a warlords tale, part 27.

Those captains that had remained at Castle Rosenlied were tasked with seeing to dispersing the healers as was fit. There were not three leaders to cleanly split among them for there was only Tahvaen and Shedal and, frankly, Tahvaen was far more a rogue than a healer. He would not be riding out alongside them and would remain within the walls of the castle as long as was permissible for him. After the news of the western front had reached him he had bordered upon reclusive and far too quiet for Shedal’s taste. Though there was a hall filled with food to welcome those that had come to the aid of Baiden, he did not partake. Merely did she see him sipping upon a glass filled three-quarters of the way with a carmine liquid and turning away food that was placed before him, which was very unlike him. A frown was on her face as she sat next to him and cut her eyes towards in his direction to see his fingers lingering upon a tri-folded letter tucked away within the outer jerkin he was clad in. Rightfully, it was no business of hers and no inquiry was made as she lowered herself into a chair next to him.

“War’s pretty scary, isn’t it?”

There was general revelry. For amongst the healers in their Vairan garb, she had come to noticed strangers that did not even seem traditionally Baidenese. Their clothes seemed to be from all over Liev and there was a particular bias towards leathers and furs and woven cloth. They almost looked like the northern folk--but again, this had little to do with her. All she had heard these strangers referred to as were those of Vitnir Hall, the Wolve’s Guild.

“Seems they’ve got quite the number of guests in Castle Rosenlied, huh?” It was clear her attempts at conversation were wont to fall flat, but that did not stop her. It seemed the redhead’s mood had been completely soured by the news on the western front and, in the long run, who could rightly blame him? Though likely it was that mostly they were strangers to him, he had known Brenner. To have one you are familiar with die in war does bring forth an idea of the reality of it, the truth and tangibility of that which is war, and which is loss. Attempt to cheer Tahvaen from his sour state would likely be in vain and yet it was simply Shedal’s manner of personality to try. Soon enough it was realized, though, that he seemed too adrift to partake in revelry and so she moved away.

Tight did the Vairan grip to the wine glass before he drank deeply from it. It was well aged and tasted more bitter than sweet but in a way, he supposed that fit what he wanted more. He could not think that this would be any easier with Arric here and yet he found himself missing his friend. Diplomatics were not in the blood of the half-elf who had grown up on the street and so all these things were excessively difficult for him. But dealing with such news upon his arrival? He would drink himself to a fitful sleep this evening. That, he could promise.

“Tahvaen.”

While Shedal’s speech had fallen upon deaf ears, it was the tone of Zanil that caused him to snap from his forward fixated gaze. Nothing in particular did he look at, honestly, and that was quite fine by him. His head did lift to look at Zanil who did not bother to sit beside him. It only gave the half-elf the sense that this was going to be a fleeting conversation which was probably far easier for him, given his state. It was--a numbness. There was a strange sensation of detachment from his mind and body but something about the advisor's voice did serve to ground him once more.

“They are not all dead. I will not believe it; I do not feel it in my bones. There may yet be survivors.”

“N’ why would I care what your bones have to say? Hell, you were th’ one that told me about all this, anyway…” came that voice, grumbled, low beneath his breath as his gaze was down on the table again. Upon the wood grain. Anywhere but the eyes of anyone in the room as though he had a secret to conceal from them all. “They’re dead. Big deal, people dyin’ in war isn’t a new thing…” But there was a certain weight in his voice. Something in it clearly communicated that this most certainly was a big deal, and that was the way that it was. The conversation was not long for this world, but it seemed that Zanil did have at least something to say as he leaned against the chair.

“If all of Baiden can trust me, I do not see why you cannot. Do make sure to eat. Elves can survive on less than humans, rightfully, but they cannot survive on air and wine alone.”

It seemed that served to dismiss the conversation as from his periphery he did see the advisor step away to speak with Shedal regarding something likely of more importance than the fact Tahvaen was skulking about in response to lives lost. Soon enough, the glass was drained but it was not immediately refilled. Bowed was his head for a moment as a prayer was extended upward towards the sister goddesses that he pledged his loyalty to:

Please let the old codger’s bones be right about this.

If Brayden’s spirits were not already suffering given the fact that there was little that could be done insofar as communicating known locations of scouts, then the rain certainly was not providing any influx of joy. Errol had taken to his tent for the time being and urged Brayden to do the same, but the majority of the forces were seated in the rain with their armor removed in attempts to keep it from getting too wet and risking rust or rot or any other unappealing state of being. So it was among them that he sat in the mud.

The mud to the east was of a different consistency than the mud in the middle and in the west of the land. While their mud tended to be hard and thick, almost clay-like, as they neared Ludan mud tended to be more grainy. It was likely given that if they kept riding east they would indeed find what was beneath their feet to be sand and not stone or dirt, something completely different than what they or their horses were used to. By and large until the dirt turned to mud it was hard to delineate the difference, but as the mud squelched over the hooves of their horses and their own feet, the variation was indeed quite obvious.

“I feel like I’m gonna get stuck,” he heard one of the knight grumble as he pulled his feet from a particularly sticky patch of mud. The area where the horses stood was mostly people by rocks and stones which, while they would have to be dug out from the hooves of the animals later, did help prevent their own fright. Let them focus on how the lightning did make them feel fear. Let their feet be steady upon the ground--as steady as they could be.

It was among his men that he insisted on lingering, wanting little to do with isolating himself away. If Errol chose to be one of those commanders that held himself above his men, who was Brayden to tell him not to? It was truthfully no business of his. His people did seem to respect him regardless and so it was an issue that the captain felt no need to press.

“Shouldn’t you be in the captain’s tent, Brayden?”

Soft was the voice that he heard from the one who sat on the boulder beside him. His own lips were upturned just slightly as though he was amused by the statement or the moment. “Errol is quite fine in the captain’s tent for now. I will remain with you.”

Brayden was officially within the realm of his thirties. As for the knight that spoke with him, well, it was clear if by the voice alone he was scarce into manhood. He swore for a moment he tasted guilt on his tongue at the fact this was a child. He was a boy. At that age, he and Brenner were still training for position as knights, though it was known well that due to their father’s status they would well enough be accepted in. Clarent was quite proud of his boys and always would be given that they had grown up almost exactly how he wanted them to.

What of this boy? What of the one that spoke to him of the captain’s tent? Had his father been a knight--was his father still a knight? It was not out of the realm of possibility by any means. Many remained as knights until their sixties and the boy could be no more than twenty. Or maybe his father had tried to talk him out of it, telling him that even though Liev has known peace for many years, there are dangers of knighthood. What if his mother had been the knight? There were endless versions of the story that Brayden could think of in his mind, and even then it was possible that none of them would come to be the unique truth that was all this boy’s.

Would his son one day be in this position, too?

“All the men speak fondly of you,” he heard the voice again, as though timid, trying to speak to him. In these times, even the simplest spoken word could offer some sort of validation. Who was he to deny it to this boy who likely needed it most? Very real was the idea of dying in war. At least he had known more of life than this young man. “They say you are a good captain, and that you care for your men. I should not be surprised that you are here with us and not in the tent.”

“Do not mistake this and assume Errol cares not for his men,” he said, turning slightly on the stone. The name of the boy did not come to him for there were a number that he had ridden with. Whereas his brother’s unit was perhaps a half-dozen men strong, his was at least triple that. Names came and went as, frankly, Brayden was not particularly good with them in the first place. “He cares deeply for all his brothers and sisters that fight for Baiden. We are all family, in the end, whether captain or squire.”

This boy was thereafter lead into silence, though whether it was by the crack of lightning in the distance or the words that had been said by the captain was difficult to tell. Towards the captain’s tent did the eyes of the brunette knight remained focus, though he said nothing. Internally he disapproves of the dichotomy that Errol presented between himself and the men--Mercurius had ridden out with his own intents of not placing himself above the men, but that did not seem to apply to captains. He was ranked above Errol but had no intent of pulling rank upon an old friend unless it was completely necessary for the situation.

“You’ll catch your death out here.” It was not the boy’s voice again, and thankfully so. This was a voice that had to it greater command and power, and he knew the voice well. Elfreda had come to stand alongside him, her arms folded over her chest as she nodded her head towards the captain’s tent. “He has the driest spot in the camp, though I’m not sure that is saying much. This muck will ruin our boots if it does not stop raining eventually.

“Are we simply to linger about and wait to catch our death of illness, Brayden?”

Marching into the mountains was suicide. But how long could supplies and good humor last? Longer could elves last without food or water; more adept were they at surviving in the mountains, as well. But the waiting game could cost men due to illness, due to storms, due to the Gods may only know what. So his response to her was merely silence.

“Would it not be best to wait in towns and cities? There, at least, there are resources. There are beds, and water, and food. What point is there to simply protecting empty land?”

“By protecting this ‘empty land,’ Elfreda, we are keeping innocent lives from being lost.” To that, the woman had nothing to say; she was mute as she gazed still forth at the tent though she said nothing. “If we did set up in towns and cities, then they would be attacked. Lives of innocents would be lost. I think it is quite clear that is the last thing we would desire. Mercurius is a good king; he is a man that has pledged all to protect his people. All of his people. And while on the front we may lose two men, had they attacked a city it would be exponentially worse.”

And so she was silent, for she knew he was right.

“The men of Barksdale fare well!”

Though it was not enough to replace the men that found their grave at the site of the attack, Barksdale had sent forth at least twenty able bodied men. About half of them were knights themselves, positioned there, though their armor did not shine like Brenner’s and their weapons were not as sharp as Culver’s, but knights of Baiden they were none the less. The others were workers. Hunters. A smith knew well how to use a blade for he must know how to craft them. Upon horses did they ride, for the nearness to Oran meant that they were quite readily accessible. And nearly did the captain weep when they appeared before his eyes, proud Men and Women of Baiden in their cobbled armor. They would not let their knights stand alone, even if they knew they had little chance.

He could have wept, but he did not.

“May Silas bless each one of you.”

In addition to the men had come horses; horses for those that had escaped from the captivity of the Brotherhood of the Crimson Dawn (though they knew it not by name) who had lost theirs. Oranian mounts were not bread with the same fortitude as Baidenese warhorses but still they were strong beneath a rider and trustworthy above all else. Down did swing one man who was likely the horsekeeper as he stepped forth with reins in hand. Fine was the horse he offered to Brenner but his hand was held up as though to decline, with a shake of his head.

“This horse is best begotten to you. I need no more than I ask for. I need only the simplest of horses that will carry me to and fro, nothing so finely bred. He is yours. Ride him with pride, my friend.”

Supplies, too, were brought out upon horseback. They had carried with them little and what little they had had been lost or tasked to Culver and Orson upon their departure to ride to Barksdale. But one of the stout beasts was packed with rations--with food, with bandages, with what they pled their need. It was no surprise that the people of Baiden refused to turn them away. It could even be said they had given far more than the people would need, but with the addition of the twenty men they would likely be glad for the increase in supplies.

“Brother and sisters, Baidenese all, I cannot express my gratitude for your willingness to answer our call to arms. Surely some of your kin lay dead on the field to the north and for that I cannot express great enough sorry. I could weep with joy at your arrival and yet with sadness upon what brings you here.”

Brenner was known as a meek man, but eloquent could he be. All attention was on him and a hush came to fall about the people who were gathered around him, those that stood and those that were on horseback, even those who had set about unloading supplies. In the pit of his stomach was a certain nervousness but he shouldered the weight of a captain and spoke to them once more.

“Those brave ones that stood on the eastern border are with Silas himself now, and so will wait to see us after our own departure. Dwelling on them will offer us no respite. We must band together and know well that our unity is all that can protect our people.

“Their numbers are small, but they are vicious,” as his gaze fleeted about the faces that look at him. Women with hair pulled back and men with beards flaked in silver and those which could be no older than the advent of adulthood. “They take no quarter. They slew our brothers and sisters like animals and gave no attempt at a proper burial. They are not kind to us. They will not spare us. But we cannot fear them.

“You have pledged your life to Baiden, but should any of you desire to return to your homes, I would not blame you. We need only the most loyal of men and women at our sides. Please only stay knowing that your life is that of Baiden’s now; please know you may never be remembered as a hero but in Silas’s hall you will be revered as a true warrior. Return home if you see so fit.”

But it was one of the men who stepped forth, a man in mismatched armor that could not hold a coin to the regality that Brenner carried. His blade was likely more used to hanging above a fireplace than being in a man’s hand, but with honor did he step forth. “I speak for us all, or at least I would hope, when I say this is our home. Barksdale is only part of somethin’ bigger, and something worth fighting to protect. No real Baidenese man would turn tail and run now, Captain.”

So did the visage of Brenner spread into a smile as applause surrounded them, both from the units that had traveled with him from the castle and those who had just joined their numbers. Truly their unity was astounding and he was proud to be a captain of Baiden.

part 28.

read from the beginning.

[ljwilder-blog]

a warlords tale, part 23.

It was Tahvaen who was tasked with riding to Baiden, but not without grunts and grumbles of opposition. People in the northern continent tended to be less than hospitable to those that displayed elven traits (with, of course, a few exceptions because they could overlook it when it suited their needs, bah). But with official notary of the King of Vaira, he was presumed to surpass at least some of the worst of it. Tucked away beneath the traveling cloak was the letter stating he was on official Vairan business for he would travel faster than any sort of official word sent through a courier.

In his opinion, it would have made more sense for Arandel to go. But logic did reside in the fact that the advisor should remain in the castle city of Vaira and the only other one with even passing familiarity to Baiden was Tahvaen. And he had to admit: of all the companions he could be traveling with, Shedal was not the worst.

“I understand the whole idea of loyalty to those that are our allies,” he heard her voice from a few paces behind him. In Oran had they stopped for a bit, needing to replenish a few supplies before continuing on the three-day ride, “and yet I am still deeply pissed off that that son of a bitch king insulted me.”

Even though Mercurius had waited until he presumed the woman was out of earshot, that was clearly seen not to be the case. And, besides, she and Tahvaen convened frequently enough that he would have felt quite despicable had he not had it within him to tell her of what had been said when her back was turned. Of course she knew. Shedal had a way of knowing what was going on in the castle almost as well as Arric himself--and sometimes, even better.

“He may be hotter than the sun but that does not make up for it.”

“I think you’re giving him way too much credit, there,” stated the redhead as he stepped down from the shop they had been in. A few minor things--dried fruit and jerky along with addition skeins for water--were tucked in his bag as they moved towards the inn. They were in no really hurry and Arric had made sure to emphasize that, so of course his friend translated that as take your time getting to Baiden. It was not as though they were the ones who had declared war, after all. They had not even sent a messenger to inform anyone of their intent for aid. Possible it was, though unlikely, that they would be turned away when they arrived offering aid if only because supporting the healers would put a drain upon Baiden’s resources. But the grand military country was hardly known for being in a time of recession, lest they would not have pursued war. At least, that was how he thought about it. “He’s alright.”

“You seemed far for interested in his knights and serving maids than His Majesty, Tahvaen,” the woman teased as she readjusted the cowl she wore. Bright was the sun that burned overhead and tradition did mandate that healers garbed themselves in hoods and light colors. The light colors were useful when the traveling heat did beat down upon them and the hood served well to shade the sun from the eyes. But right now? The hood was down and the weight of the cowl felt cumbersome. “I thought as we rode north it was supposed to get colder.”

“Oran is always a little warmer than Vaira.” Down the cobblestone road did they walk, surrounded on both sides by architecture that boasted breezeways and open areas allowing the wind to dance through it as though Ossa herself would be there. “That is why they call upon Ossa. Her wind is the only that that keeps the place liveable sometimes.”

Her arms were across her chest as she gave a look at the structures that were around them. Slight was the grin on her face. “I know I’m Ludanese, but out there, it is a dry heat. Not so much here. I see now why all the windows and arches are open.” Through an aforementioned arch did she follow Tahvaen into the tavern. Insofar as those were concerned, their building was slightly more traditional--if only because it served to appease the mandate of privacy that an inn had to beget. But the main areas still boasted tall archways and glassless windows. For a moment did the head healer muse that it was likely very impractical when rain came through. “You’ve never been to Ludan, have you?”

Quiet was everything on the front of the inn and behind the bar did a girl likely younger than Shedal (though, half-elves were notorious for not looking their age) set about the task of cleaning glasses. Her eyes raised and she seemed almost surprised when two people entered as it was the middle of the day. Generally, all things were quiet into the evening.

“Ah, didn’ expect to see travelers so early on. How can I help ya?”

Not very deep into Oran were they, and those that lived on the periphery of Ossa’s land did tend to have a slight drawl to their words. Though, personally, Tahvaen had little room to speak on drawls and accents. To her did he give a bit of a nod as he walked forward, leaning on the counter in that idle way of his. His history with aristocracy was a bizarre one. Prior to Arric deciding that it was best for him not to live on the streets, that last thing the half-elf had ever entertained was the idea that he would be working as a delegate on official business, merrily upon his way to Baiden to dispatch healers. Arric would ride out later and they would reconvene there, but as it was it was best he remain within Vaira for at least a little bit longer. They were in the process of training a few additional castle guards as knights to supplement that standing military that the king had opted to desire, if only because complete interdependence upon Baiden did not sit well upon him.

Tahvaen was an orphan. When asked about it, he shrugged it off. Tahvaen was Arric’s best friend and a confidant that gave a different view into what it was that they saw on a daily basis. It was known that courts were populated by courtly people that had grown up in courts all their life and so a vagabond like him did stick out like a sore thumb. But Arric would think that the input from one that had lived at the very bottom of society was useful.

“Listen n’ be honest with me,” as his own accent showed in reflection. Never had he managed to completely work it out of the way he spoke, but at the encouragement of Arandel moreso than the king did he learn to speak in a manner slightly more acceptable in courtly settings, “cause we’ve a lot of folk that’re in need of lodgin’ for the night. What can you do for us?”

Down was placed the glass and it was immediately evident that in her eyes was the knowledge of the money that could pass hands. It was no small sum, that was for sure. Hands that showed evidence of likely having worked at running a tavern since she was small (though, likely, it was her mother’s tavern; women tended to run such an industry even across Liev) were placed upon the wood counter as she looked directly at the elf.

“How many are you talkin’ of, traveler? I can’t give you a number til I got a number in hand. Seems fair enough?”

And then to her he did nod. “We’ve twenty Vairan men and women needing lodgings and probably a good, hearty meal. Not quite talkin’ a grand high feast, here, but they aren’t folk adapted to traveling and relying on bread and cheese and jerky.”

“Aren’t a single room in this in spoken for tonight, but the buildin’s a small one. We got only twelve rooms up for rent as it is. But if your folk don’t mind sharin’, then they’re all yours. Providing, of course, that you’ve the coin.”

Forward over the counter did he lean, eyes cutting as though he were planning to confirm there were none in earshot. “We travel on official business of diplomacy of Vaira. The coin can be good if you can promise this will be kept secret.” Still had the elven advisor pushed that an open expression of support for Baiden may be in errance. This was protested by both Tahvaen and Arric until finally they were both quieted and agreed that the healers would move in relative secrecy from Vaira to Baiden. A nod was given and from his hip was unknotted a pouch that contained a copious amount of gold coin. Judging from the look upon the woman’s face, it was more than enough to see that they were cared for. So readily did he move away with a passive wave of his hand towards where Shedal still stood, hands poised upon the  curve of her hips draped in the fabric of her white tunic. A smile was shot to the barkeep as the woman hurriedly tucked away the coins where they would be out of sight and out of mind--at least, that was the hope.

“Send ya folk in whenever they get weak and tired of the city. I am afraid there’s not much t’ go about keeping ‘em entertained in these parts, but they’ll have a full belly and a nice meal whenever they come calling for it.”

Down the street were they before the two turned to look at each other and Shedal’s brows raised up significantly. “From someone standing off to the side, that looked like a shady deal. Just, y’know, in case you were wondering.” And from the male half-elf did a snort of laughter come, his hands resting in his pocket. The traveling cloak was offcast and tucked into the bags still affixed to the horses that had been stabled nearby. A good big of coin had gone there, honestly, but most inns in this town seemed to not have associated stables and the horses need to be put away before the men could be.

“Come off it,” he stated with a grin cast in her direction. “I have seen and been in a number of shady deals and that woulda been the fastest and easiest shady deal in the history of ‘em, if we’re thinkin’ it’s that shady at all. No one even pointed a dagger at no one! I think you’ve been in the palace too long, Shedal.”

“Unlike someone, I didn’t grow up on the streets. To someone that grew up outside of squalor, well, it looked awful suspicious.”

Were Tahvaen likely anyone other than himself, a deep offense likely would have been taken at the notion he had grown up in squalor. But it was not wrong. Never had he really known his parents and never had he really been in a position that it mattered to him. Growing up on the streets was really a fact of life for him and he did not gaze upon it with resentment. But that was certainly not the current case.

“You got a point. But to someone that knows shady deals, ‘cause it matters most to people that know shady deals, that wasn’t shady. Not at all.”

“Have I done what is best?”

Rare was it that Zanil had moments to himself, and rare still that he felt the need to ruminate about them and muse before a statue of Silas. Alone was he in the throne room for Abigail attended to a lunch on her own. Already had her appetite begun to increase and still she had made no mention of the coming of her courses, so the assumption was quite solidified within her advisor’s mind that she was indeed with child.

Here he sat, dwarfed beneath the statue of stone that sat in the back of the throne room. Usually at least one other was in attendance with him when he was here, but today it was merely his thoughts and the statue of Silas and the beasts that did surround him. The wolf itself was well over the height of the advisor that stood before it and his own height was quite impressive. Perhaps if he stood and lifted his arm he could place it upon the stone beast’s head. But right now, he hadn’t the desire to bother. The floor suited him quite well and he was content to stay there for a moment.

Back did he lean with his palms flat on the floor and up did he look at the strong jawline of the statue. Alway he pictured with near Baidenese attributes, but it made sense--humans did tend to project upon what they worshiped their own attributes. It made them feel nearer to them. A smile lingered on his face at the thought before again he sat forward and into his cupped hands did drop his chin.

In his thoughtful reflection he had mused over a number of things, but the keynote of which was that he had acted with neither consent nor blessing of the king or queen and opted to bring a well trusted unit into guard the castle. For long had those that dwelt within Vitnir Hall, a massive building located a half-day’s ride from the  castle itself, pledged their loyalty to Baiden and its king. Perhaps the loyalty of those within the hall was the only thing that had been promised to the king of Baiden longer than the loyalty of Zanil.

Vitnir Hall was occupied by many of the greatest fighters in the nation that did not enlist within the knighthood. In contrast to the relative stoic order of the knights, the fighters of the hall were known for being raucous and rowdy, far more like the humans that dwelt on the northern continent in lieu of those that lived within the expanse of Liev. But they were strong men and women that pledged loyalty to country and crown with a ferocity that earned them the nickname of the Wolves’ Guild. While by and large they kept to themselves and were something of a mystery, their loyalty and friendship was known well to Zanil. Many of their leaders as well had been known to him over the ages and with any luck many yet would be. Their current leader was beginning to show age both in the short trimmed beard that he wore and the brown hair atop his head. And only on the top. The sides were shaved and often the greying (though thick) locks were pushed back away from his face. But even though his body was wearing with age, his eyes were as bright as Zanil had ever seen them.

It seemed the guild head was summoned by Zanil’s thoughts of him. Soon enough there was upon the door a knock before it was opened with a lack of ceremony. The servant tried to mutter something but was silence and waved off by the broad frame that came to fill the door. And as Zanil rose to face him, his own smile blossomed night from ear to ear. Just inside the doorframe were no fewer than five figures, though only two did he know of by name.

“Gideon Whitemane and Emirain of Vitnir Hall,” as he crossed the floor to descend the two stairs and reside upon the same level as those that had likely ridden out this very morning. There was no way the courier had reached them before such a time--and said courier had yet to return. It was not that Zanil by necessity had doubts that he would, he was merely amused at the fact that the hall’s head had likely traveled out with a fury nearly unknown. “I don’t quite think Whitemane suits you, Gideon. Not yet.”

Broad and scarred was the hand that lifted as his footfalls were near audible through the hall. While he was not so tall as Zanil, what was lacking in height was made up for in muscle. Loose was the tunic that draped from the broad physical frame as he returned the smile of the advisor in kind. Even so did those arms equally as scarred as those hands extend to motion the advisor in for a hug. Only then did brows of silver knit as the advisor spoke once more.

“Augh, no. I’m afraid my back isn’t in need of popping, Gideon, so if you would--” but he was within the embrace of the hall’s head as soon as his feet met the floor. Few dared be so brash with him and even fewer would have lifted him up as though he weighed as little as a child. But in that instance of weightlessness did his dark eyes widened and he heard the howl of laughter from Gideon’s guildmates that were still around him.

A moment was taken to readjust his garb when boot-clad feet came again to rest safely upon the floor. Askew was the belt and fabric but he heard the man opposite him speak as he waited for the advisor to get resituated.

“You don’t way a bit more than the first time I picked you up. Never seen someone keep such a flatline of weight, honestly.”

“If anything, I’ve lost weight. I’m wearing heavier boots this time.” Forward did one leg extend as he pointed down at the tight tied laces of his boots and he gave a playful grin before his feet were again planted. Audible was the snort that came from the woman that he had to peek around Gideon to see properly. Younger was she than Gideon, or perhaps he just showed the weather upon his face more than she. “But Whitemane. Really? Greymane at best, Gideon, but mostly still Brownmane.”

“I took the name from the man who came before me and so will the man who follows me take it. Just because his hair was a little whiter than mine, you cannot fault me. Now...” as he stepped back a bit, rejoining the band who looked almost out of place within castle halls. Not necessarily unwashed but visibly showing the grit and grime of travel, with thick hair back in small braids or with woven bits of wire. “Where is our Queen? We’ve yet to meet her.”

part 24.

read from the beginning.

[ljwilder-blog]

a kings tale, part 15.

It was to the luck of the king that he was not too far from the bed for he soon found himself planted back upon it again. Naturally, he felt doubly idiotic for he had not been keen enough to recognize the voice from the councils he had attended. Arandel generally presented himself in silence but it was not as though he had never heard the man be vocal or express any sort of opinion when councils were less than harmonious--he knew the voice. Likely Zanil would suggest he merely pin it upon the illness but in the interim before one was able to divert his thoughts, he would blame it upon his own stupidity and assumptiveness. He had not been expecting to see Arric’s slight frame nor the impressive height of the advisor before him and even had he not succumbed to illness, it was likely he would have been flabbergasted off his feet.

Of course it was the tone of Zanil’s voice that saw to it they were not engulfed in silence. Clearing his throat, the advisor spoke. “I apologize for appearances, King Lander, but we were not yet expecting your company.” This was again a pinnacle example of why Mercurius had established the order that things were to be done in: to alleviate any sort of worry of these moments happening. A deep regret did boil up in the pit of the immortal’s stomach for he knew the err in the plan had fallen upon his head and it would have been a better idea to send a less telltale face. “Furthermore, I apologize for concealing my identity earlier…”

But he was met not with any sort of animosity but a gentle smile. More brutish kings (including his own, should the tables be turned) would show anger upon their face and handle the whole ordeal of deception with distaste even if technically no lie had been told. Tiadel was by all technicalities a name that he went by. Arric merely gave a gentle shake of his head from left to right as he looked towards Arandel before speaking. “I had a feeling I knew you. I have seen you before standing alongside Mercurius’s father, when I attended council with my father and my uncle. I simply could not shake the feeling that I had seen you before… you have rather unique eyes, you know.”

Two fingers rested lightly upon his cheekbone beneath the aforementioned eyes. It had been pointed out to him that most people in this world or any other seemed never to have laid eyes upon a specific unique coloration as his. Generally it was only pointed out by children or upon occasion lovers, the ones who took the time to get to know the details of his face, but for it to be pointed out in so casual a situation almost made the man laugh. Instead, his solemn expression broke into one of amusement as he gave a shake of his own head, quite humored by the whole situation. “Generally it is the hair and the particular manner I am told I have that gives me away. The fact that it was my eyes should say something about where you focus lies, King Lander.”

“No, please. I asked Mercurius at the last council to address me as Arric when we are not before others. I ask the same of you. Though, only if you will give me your true name.” It was not that the king did not know the name of the advisor. Arandel had spoken it shortly after the mysterious man presumed to be a delegate had exited the council room and thus it was no mystery to him. But confirmation and full honesty was something that the king felt he at least deserved in his own country.

“I suppose that would be necessary, wouldn’t it?” Eyes cut to the elf that stood mute beside the king, having felt those grey eyes upon him for some duration of time. His expression did not fall even given the somewhat sour expression that lit the face of the elvish advisor before his gaze relocated itself to the Vairan king. With a fisted hand placed beneath his left collarbone, a stiff bow was given and he spoke as he rose to his full height once more, “By your grace, King Arric Lander of Vaira, I introduce myself as the royal advisor to His Majesty King Mercurius Lafayette Rosenlied of Baiden. In truth I am named Zanil and so humbly request your forgiveness for my half-truth earlier as,” eyes flicked from the softer blue to the harsher grey and back once more, “there are times that I do go by Tiadel. I would never lie before a crowned king of Liev, after all.”

The grin was cheshire and a snort of laughter came from the seated king on the bed. Zanil’s games grew tedious for the king when he was playing them with him, but it was amusing to see them turned on someone else. He understood now the veiled smirks and grin he saw upon Brenner and Brayden’s face more often than he honestly liked to recount. It was easy enough for the more tenured king to cover the snorting sound up with a cough to make it seem as though he had not indeed found amusement, schooling his olive hued face to keep the visage of the stern Baidenese king that he had learned others expected to see. How much point or merit there was in showing such a farce before Zanil was debatable but before those who did not know him so well it was necessary. For now, at least.

“Mercurius--” the humor of the immortal advisor was offcast for the time being, the shortest of the four in the room (by a significant margin) stepped forward and past the lank frame of the Baidenese advisor to approach the other king. There was a certain gentleness to Arric that was foreign to a man as hardened as Mercurius, a man who leaned away when a hand was placed upon his forehead. Always had the Vairan king been nearer to his mother than his father so it seemed some maternal instincts had ebbed their way into his mannerisms. “I’ll send for a healer for you immediately,” as the lips formed a frown when he felt the sheer temperature on the skin there. Dark eyes lifted to meet the blue ones and his lips opened to protest, but a rapid shake of a blonde-haired head silence him before words could be formed. “You are my guest, Mercurius, and I will not have my guest be ill.

“Arandel, send for Shedal. She’ll know exactly what to do. Describe his symptoms to her as well--that way she will be better prepared.” And the mute elf gave a nod before taking his exit of the impromptu conferencing area. Arric’s attention turned back to Mercurius for the moment before he lowered himself in one of the guest chairs located opposite the bed that the Baidenese king rest upon. “It seems like a severe cold and over exhaustion to me… but I am no healer,” speculated the fair king as he placed his head in his hands.

“There is no need to treat me as some wilting violet.” It was not an expression of thanks that it likely should have been. The statement came off as irked and calloused as though he wished to merely suffer through his illness. This was something that Zanil could aptly attest to: Mercurius was not one to bend to healers or request their aid. More often than not he pushed through illnesses if only because of his boarish insistence of strengthening his body. “It is some passing illness, not some grand plague.”

A sigh was mirrored between both men who currently attended the king, their glance momentarily shared. Lips of the immortal curled into a smile while the look upon the face of the young king was still one of slight concern though tinged with a shadow of perturbation. “You are a guest in my castle, Mercurius, and I would be ill as a host to deny you the necessary care. Wouldn’t you agree?” And silence was his response for the time being. “Please, allow me to be hospitable to you, Mercurius. I only apologize we were ill prepared. Had you informed us of your coming…”

Instinct instructed him to raise his hand with that splayed finger motion that was wholly too familiar to Zanil, so much so that his keen black eyes could almost see the fingers twitching as they gripped to the fabric of his pants. How funny! The man certainly was showing some restraint in dealing with the Vairan king today. Restraint, or respect. Maybe the prosperity that blossomed under Arric in Vaira had merited this expression from the more tenured ruler. “I had not intended to inform you for I did not want banners unfurled nor did I want special treatment. It was planned merely to be a brief council. Nothing demanding fanfare or tolling bells… though I believe this festival has both of those parts covered quite well.” At least he hoped that the sudden attention paid to ceremony and circumstance could be disregarded by most as merely some part of the festival. There was reason he had not travelled as a king but merely as a delegate. Mandates of honor among kings and excessive respect, preparations made including grandeur meals that were honestly quite excessive--these were all things he had sought to avoid by traveling incognito. Such had fared quite well until the advisor’s final step erred on the river stone and the whole pot was dropped into the water. “Nor did I want the entire country to be aware of the fact I had sought your counsel.” That was a dangerous mixture of his own pride and his desire for secrecy. He had not been exactly vague about the ongoings in Baiden at the last council he had attended and yet it was not like him to desire the other countries involvement. Oran and Ludan were both quite a distance from the intimacy of knowledge shared with Arric, and that was quite the way he wanted to keep it. King Daien of Oran had made it rather boldfaced that he had little interest in assisting his cousins to the north should the whispers of battle turn to shouts.

“Mercurius.” The voice still would not quite fill a council hall in the same way that the Baidenese king’s would, but there was more resonance to it. Enough resonance, in fact, that it caused the king to turn his head and provide full attention. “You do realize that if you wished to travel without it being know you need only inform me prior and I will see to it you are welcomed and comfortable without the fanfare you seem to be avoiding.”

Genuinely these words should not have come as a surprise to the northern king. While their prior interaction had been brief, there was an open communication between them already. Asking such a favor likely seemed to be a small thing but Mercurius was still a childishly stubborn man at times and was rigid about doing things in what he deemed to be his way. He would often hear no others save for Zanil’s… and that was primarily when he was feeling gracious. The word of the king was infallible as far as most were concerned, and no exception was made save for when the ruler changed his own mind. The monarchy was quite absolute in Baiden, but it was not as though other countries in Liev were scrambling for more diverse forms of government. Such revolutions seemed primarily confined to overseas. Liev and Baiden in particular subscribed to a mantra of not fixing something that was not broken.

“Then I will be aware of that next time I ride for days on end seeki--” but it was the sound of coughing that interjected itself before he was able to finish placing the thoughts into words. Arric moved to rise from his seat and yet an extended hand of the advisor to the Baidenese king stilled him.

“I mean no offense, King Lander, but it is best you keep some distance from him. We do not need to have to deal with two kings suffering the same illness.”

When coughs gave way finally to quiet accented by the charms that hung in the garden that this room oversaw, a haggard breath was inhaled before he spoke again. “... You understand my meaning.” There was no reason to wrap up that sentence. This was likely not something that he would be marking on his calendar as a monthly or even yearly pilgrimage. Outside of emergencies such as these particular requests it was likely the two kings would see one another merely in passing at council in Vaira. After all, it had recently been decided that Vaira would become the city of council given the central location upon the expanse of the continent. It was easier for all to have some sort of regular travel location. Historically, council had shifted location from one country to the next based on volunteer status--though Baiden had been known for rarely volunteering. “Personal peregrinations to Vaira are not exactly occurrences I plan to make on the regular.” Offence was neither implied or taken. Kings were men that were oft too busy to bother with networking with other rulers. Their lords were even dispersed under then and had little direct run in save for extreme cases. Liev was a land blessed by peace under Naliri herself and for that all men were quite thankful. That is why when the wind carried whispers of war and general antagonism, it was far easier to duck one’s head and tuck one’s tail than stand to fight. Battles always resulted in a victor and a loser and there was no desire amongst the men of Oran to forge any sort of rift between themselves and the fair elf folk of the Silatin Mountains.

Opportunities for candid speech between the two men under the watchful eye of the Baidenese advisor soon came to a halt as the door was heard opening again. Arandel stood next to a woman with her brown hair drawn up into a ponytail that was drawn through a hole cut in a white linen hood. It was a traditional Lievan marking of those who practiced healing arts, even if the rest of her clothes were markedly less the traditional idea of a healer upon scrutiny from the king.

“Don’t give me that look. I’m here to help you.” The voice possessed an accent, a staccato manner of speaking characteristic of the eastern cities of Ludan. She moved with a definitive motion to kneel by the king who was seated. “I am inclined to believe Baidenese men are strong to blade and arrow but may have a weakness for a common Vairan cold, based upon what Arandel has told me of your particular brand of malady…”

“Shedal!” reprimanded the fair king as he rose from his seat. The woman was far more used to treating those around the castle that it seemed her manners opted for forgo her as she ground a dried root in a mortar with a pestle. “Please show hospitality to His Majesty King Rosenlied, if you would.” While it was guised as a request what everyone in the room was acutely aware of was the fact that it was in fact an order from a king to one who worked beneath him. For a moment the woman’s head bowed apologetically.

“Of course, sir. I’m sure the Baidenese air has men fit as warhorses, but it seems that the travel did not attend well to His Majesty’s sensibilities.” A few drops of some oily liquid was added to the ground up root. The texture was enough to make the brows of the afflicted man furrow and lean back slightly, gazing over the kneeling woman’s head at the king who was still seated. Only an expression that implied a ghost of sheepishness and no words of support or renown.

Once the female was finished concocting whatever it may be, she rose to her feet and extended a hand towards the open collar of the black tunic the man was clothed in. And then for a moment she seemed to hesitate--more often than not she handled servants and upon the rare occasion of injury the castle guards. So having to handle someone considered as a piece of important society did cause her to second guess her movements. “If you would be so kind, my lord, I request you remove or lower your garment. This is to be applied to the chest.”

Soured still was the look that was upon the face of the ruler though he did as instructed, reaching both hands up to draw away from his collarbones the loose neck of the draped tunic. It was fairly plain and even a lighter, less expensive cloth. Vaira’s climate was more temperate given proximity to the ocean and distance from the ocean whereas the city of Baiden sprung up in the shadow of the mountains and was considerably more cold. They were not so misfortunate as to be buried beneath a blanket of snow year round yet their fabrics did tend to be heavier. And now the heavy fabric was pulled away to expose the reasonably broad chest of the king of Baiden.

It was a small paintbrush that was drawn from a pouch that hung on the woman’s hip that was drawn out. The substance as rather oily and as she had handled it many times before, it was far easier for her to use something other than her hands to apply it. When mixed with the root, the oil had taken on a color akin to watered down honey… if only the smell was so pleasant.

“This may be cold,” as the brush was pressed against his skin. Muscles contracted in reaction to the sensation and the brows of the woman shot up just a bit. While the majority of the king’s body was still concealed, there was definition to each muscle that moved in reaction the sensation. And she was certainly able to confirm that the fighting men of Baiden were far, far different than the more lank men she found herself treating. Once the salve was applied, a twin to the root that had been ground was offered to him on an outstretched palm. “Now, place this root in a glass and fill it with water. Drink the water throughout the day--and repeat the process. Make sure it sits in water overnight, though, and then have the root served with your breakfast. And you must eat it all.” A bounce was in her step as she moved back towards Arandel for a moment, before she paused. “And next time, King Rosenlied, come back with a wound that gives me a reason to have you take off the rest of your shirt.”

The jaw of the both kings found some level of slack in response to the comment made by the abrupt young woman. Arric was well aware of the fact the woman had a fair bit of spunk to her and yet this seemed to border upon excess. His head came to rest in his hands as he grumbled her name in a scolding manner… and yet he allowed some transgressions, as she was truly the greatest healer he had in his employ.

“I apologize,” once she and the elf advisor had made an exit, “for her manner. She is not often  one to deal with those so far gone from her in status…” but he was silenced by the raising hand. Already there was a sensation of looseness around his lungs that had prior felt bound. Mercurius that could not deny that for her garish audacity she was adept at what it was that she did.

“I only request, Arric,” came the voice once again able to draw the stern cadence that the Baidenese ruler was known for, “that before you present me with someone with elf blood you warn me accordingly.”

Likely was it a good thing that the back of the advisor was turned, because the man winced visibly at the statement and saw the face of the young king fall from the periphery of his vision.

part 16.

read from the beginning.

[imagymnasia]

I know a lot of people look down on Evanescence and that whole culture, but I've always loved their music and always will. It's just emotionally, darkly beautiful. I've garnered a lot of character songs and blurb ideas from their songs.

Also this cover is lovely.