Judgment awaits

The Prodigal Crusader

#thelightprevails #The Prodigal Crusader

thelightschampion:

thelightprevails:

It’s strange, the knotted, coiled feeling that appears in one’s stomach when one wants to be bitter, angry, confused, mourning, guilty, stoic. And Toast fiddles with that knot as he talks, trying to tighten it, trying to keep it intact, but instead it slowly unravels like someone had coated it with wax. She wants to be more upset. She wants to be angry. Why can’t she find it within her to summon some holy wrath or rage? Why could she not hate when she wanted to command it to her side?

But Randal was not some grouper in the cove, nor was he a swine in the warrens. He was a man, a man who had killed, who had made a choice to kill, for her. And she would have to live with that, she knows. But it was not her choice. She never would have permitted him to slay the father, Simaline, and Agatha (rest their spirits, may they be warm and content in the caring and fierce embrace of Vesta forever). But he had. He had. It was wrong, she knew it was wrong, she should hate him for his actions, her trial should have been carried out as it was ordered, why did he have to cut them down…?

She looks at the danishes. The flowers. Her gaze rests there, on the soft petals. The little lilac blooms… the white lily. She raises her hand and rests her fingers on it, then picks it up. Her throat tightens. her teeth grind together and she does her very best not to let her face betray it; this violent ambivalence. Toustain holds the flower so gently but a part of her wants to crush it, rip it, destroy any evidence that it once lived, half out of anger, the other out of fear. An old fear. One that she figures she shouldn’t feel any longer.

“I wish you’d been here too,” she manages. She can still smell the bodies in the back of her mind every time she looks at one patch of floorboards. She blinks twice, hopes she doesn’t see them. “I was lucky. Someone happened to be by. He assisted me. They were days old and rotting by the time I was able to get to them.” She doesn’t know if he knows she’s talking about the bodies, but part of her doesn’t care. “I reshingled the roof. I’ve… kept things going.” Her movements stiffen, she swallows, pauses. Regains herself. “I figured… it was just a part of some penance.” She’s still staring at the lily in her hand, eyes dull, red at the corners.

“Penance?” Randal said. “Don’t make me laugh. I consider you to be a good woman, Toustain. You are like me when I was younger; compassionate, kind, eager to do the right thing. The sort of person the church encourages its servants to be.” He chuckled and shook his head. “But then I learned the truth of the world. And I realized the church didn’t give a damn for its flock, no matter how righteous they were.” He stood up, walking over to stand in front of the altar. He looked at the statues and the stained-glass windows; he looked at the iconography and holy symbols. He shouldn’t have seemed so out of place in that moment--he, a Crusader of the Light--and yet he did. He stood defiant before Vesta, before the Light, before saints that looked down from their perches on high.

“Faith and zealotry only got me so far during my first crusade,” he said. “When I saw my childhood friend murdered like a dog in the muck and filth of the battlefield, I was numb. I was numb until we marched into a town; where I sought solace in a bottle of liquor and the arms of a woman at the brothel.” He chuckled again. “Remarkably soothing things for the soul, I must say. Defiance of my vows lead to no consequences. No bolt of Light smote me when I went back to that woman. Thrice I visited her, and not once did the gods seek to punish me.” He turned to look at Toustain directly. “I was reborn, then, in a way,” he said. “I was free to be who I wanted to be. No priest could dictate how I could live. No old book would tell me what I could and I could not do.” He stepped forward, steel-clad hands gripping the pew in front of Toustain as he leaned over it. “I gave you that flower as an act of kindness. Just the smallest gift, that’s all it was. And they buried you alive because of it! How does that not seem wrong to you, Toustain?”

The Prodigal Crusader

#thelightprevails #The Prodigal Crusader

thelightschampion:

thelightprevails:

Her prayer is nearly done when she feels him walking closer. Feel is certainly the right word - his steps were near silent, reverent, in this holy place. She thinks, perhaps, that it might be another new recruit, someone who has come to worship before setting off on what may seem like a near impossible task. She is met, instead… by Ser Randal.

His voice rings in her ears, head whipping to the side and up to see him standing there, clad in full armor. She tenses, fingers still resting on the pew in front of her, where they had been laced. Her eyes move over him, her thoughts as panicked and indecisive as her gaze. Then her stomach settles on cold, cold like winter’s first frost, and an emptiness, a hollowness, that threatens to consume her whole torso. “…Yes,” she says. She doesn’t know what else to say. Yes was easier than no, no was turning him away. No didn’t help anything, she knows that.

Toustain wishes she had said a prayer for strength, but she had asked for diligence instead.

Should she stand? No, it wouldn’t help how small she felt standing next to the giant of a crusader. She instead scoots away from him, farther down the pew. An invitation. Why was she inviting him to sit? He had killed - he. Her eyes find the floor, the emptiness in her stomach clouded with nausea.

He had not come back. He had left the bodies there, and retreated. When Crevecoeur had nursed her back to health, Randal had not paid a visit, nor anytime after. Shame? Guilt? Knowing the man, he felt neither for his actions. Her brow furrows. She had been telling herself that Crevecoeur’s unearthing of her was what Vesta had wanted, that it was a holy act- did that extend to him as well?

And now, he was here, and she was nearly trembling, and why? He had not harmed her. He did not, in any way, mean to implicate her, but here he was, holding a flower, the very object of her demise and he held it like a token, like something to be treasured, and didn’t he understand? Didn’t he understand how… she had felt? How the earth surely would have swallowed her up and spit nothing but bones back because she had felt some small stirring, for him? How Crevecoeur perhaps was her only sign that there was a second chance for a secretly sinning soul? Was his absence punishment, then, was this another test of her faith? She looks down. Her knuckles were white.

Randal sidled into the isle and sat down, the pew creaking beneath him. He stayed a respectful distance from Toustain; and without a word, he set the basket between them. Along with the flowers, of course.

“I have not come to beg forgiveness,” he said, removing his helm completely. “I harbor no regrets for my actions that night. I will not apologize for what I did. I would have butchered a hundred people if it meant sparing you that horrid fate.” He looked up at the cracked windows, the worn pillars, the old statues; the abbey should have been falling apart, and yet it still stood. Toustain had seen to that. She was better than the priest he’d murdered. Better than the nuns he’d killed. She was above them all in faith and spirit. She had been from the start. If only the clergy had seen that. They’d still be alive, then.

“But, Sister Touastain,” he continued, “I will apologize for not being here to help. I apologize for leaving you alone to tend to this place.” He shook his head. “My duties have kept me so busy, I’ve been little more than a fleeting presence in the hamlet. But I should have tried, at least, to spare some time for you. To lend a hand until the Old Road disgorges more able-bodied hands that can help.” He gestured to the basket. “Danishes. I bought them fresh. A trifling gift, I suppose, in light of what I’ve done; but, perhaps, you might enjoy them in lieu of bread for a while.”

The Prodigal Crusader

No one batted an eye when Randal walked into the abbey. Most common folk were blissfully unaware of his murderous actions the month before; those that were had said very little on the matter.

Not that he was above reproach, of course. But might of law was untenable at the best of times in the hamlet. And even then, few would raise a hand against a crusader of such experience. Thus, he strode past departing parishioners without worry. They parted hastily before him, and he spared them no attention as he passed the threshold. A basket hung from one arm, covered by a silken cloth. A flower was clutched in his free hand; freshly picked and healthy. He couldn’t tarry long here. There were warrens to clear, ruins to patrol; the past month had demanded much of his attention, and would no doubt take more before it was over. His duty provided him little in the way of free time. He was determined to make the best of what he did have, though. This talk with Toustain had been a long time coming. She was easy enough to find. Sitting at a pew, head bowed in prayer; he approached quietly, the oiled plates of his armor making little noise in the quiet space. “Sister Toustain?” He said, lifting the visor of his helm. “Might I have a moment of your time?”

#Town Event #warning: VIOLENCE

Only God Forgives

A righteous man walked into the abbey with rage in his heart.

It was not the first time Randal had visited a church in anger. Nor, he knew, would it be the last.

dabbledincrochet:

Ah, that would settle it. She must’ve seen him long ago, at one of the parties. A face in passing, and a weary mind clinging to anything it can remember from then. From days of green and golden sunsets, crystal clear wine glasses and delicate white lace.

Right?

Crevecoeur leans her arms on the table, resting her chin on the back of her hand.

“Of course, France! Where else would someone with a name they describe as French as fine wine be from? Crev is short for Crevecoeur.” Her laugh is light and airy, somewhat distant as she tries to imagine this Randal among the rolling country of her estate, back in the day. What an amusement that would be, there was remarkably little room for such a Goliath of War among the green fields. “And you’d be no Crusader at all, I’d wager. You were needed – the only honorable thing to do would be to answer.”

“But, perhaps,” she continues, thinking, “I ought to enlist you as my travelling companion when I return home after this is over. Find somewhere peaceful to forget all the horrors, yes? Somewhere people speak my first language.”

“Crevecoeur...” Randal echoed, pronouncing the name unerringly. “I understand now why you go by Crev. Most Englishmen would run away howling before their tongues could pronounce such an amiable name.” A light smile crossed his face. “But I have no qualms with it. Seems only reasonable that I use it, if there’s a chance you and I might travel together at some point, hm?”

Food would be coming soon. He was eager to get and depart the inn before the morning escaped him. There was much to do and little time in which to accomplish it. Even if, admittedly, he didn’t mind the notion of talking with Crevecoeur for a while. What harm would there be, hm? Just an hour or two of idle conversation. Of entertaining the notion of traveling together once the grim business at the estate was concluded.

Pleasant thoughts, those...but they’d have to wait for another day.

“Ah, but I shouldn’t be taking up anymore of your time,” he said, downing the last bit of water in his tankard. “I will acquire some provisions from the innkeeper and be on my way. I’ve much to do in the Hamlet.”

dabbledincrochet:

“Er, yes, water will do nicely. Thank you, ma'am.” She smiles kindly at the young woman, though she winces when addressed as my lady yet again. A harmless statement, though it’s enough to make Crevecoeur wonder if she’s that obvious. She’s tried so hard to not be a lady, too… well, aside from her posture. She can’t seem to settle comfortably into something more relaxed, no matter how hard she tries to train herself.

“Not one to drink in the morning, Randal? That’s understandable – many dangers in that. I prefer to keep my wits about me during the day, as well.” She scans his face, brow quirking slightly as she studies it. Something about it is hauntingly familiar, some ghost of a memory. Perhaps he was slightly reminiscent of one of the paintings in her blood family’s manor… perhaps she’d seen a relative at a soirée? Shaking her head, she waves a slightly dismissive hand.

“Oh, oh no, don’t worry about any introspection, sir. It happens to the best of us – in fact, I’m guilty of it just now. I suppose we’ve broken even then.” She smiles again, fiddling with a slightly loosened button on her coat a moment. Crev notes to resew it later. “Marienburg, hm? Sounds like quite the place to grow up, especially separated from their family. Certainly more interesting than France… I lived there nearly all my life, and nearly nothing happened.” She tries to quickly scribble together a rough timeline of what was an acceptable tale to tell, and what would tell too much about who she was before this.

“Aside from the odd social event, of course. But that’s hardly on par with becoming a knight.”

“France, you say?” Randal said, taking a sip of water as the servant filled Crev’s own mug. “I lived there for a few years myself, believe it or not. My Order sent me to live at one of the local chapter houses when I was...oh, twenty-two? Perhaps twenty-three? Heavens, it feels like an age ago.”

His time in France felt so...detached. Distant. Years of ceaseless war and fervent prosecution had nearly overridden the fond memories of rolling, verdant countrysides and evenings spent brushing shoulders with court nobles and merchant princes. The smell of exotic foods and fine wines, perfumes and spices from the world over; all tarnished by the stark scent of burning homes and dried blood crusting his broadsword. But such was the price one paid to bring peace. He scratched at his chin, nails tracing over the stubble there. “I could have lived there, honestly. It was peaceful. Far away from all the troubles that were occurring around the Baltic at the time. But, alas, duty called me away. I’d have been a poor crusader if I ignored the call to arms, hm?”

dabbledincrochet:

She simply grins as he speaks, pleased by his appraisal. Yes, yes she is very skilled, and he’s good for noticing. Very good even.

“Ah, you flatter me – I wasn’t expecting positive appraisal of my skill by a Crusader today!” Her mood doesn’t seem to be too much affected by his insistence she try to find salvation, despite the uncomfortable prickling at the back of her neck. “And I’ll think about it, okay, Ser Randal? Churches aren’t really a friendly place for the less… honourable professions, but I’ll give it a spare thought if I have time.” She has absolutely no intention of going anywhere near the Abbey anytime soon. However, agreeing to think about something isn’t an investment than anything more than a moment of spare time. She can agree to that.

She drops his arm as soon as they reach the common room, a bit self conscious of how it would look to fellow roguish types. She was a, if formerly, married woman. He was a near perfect stranger. She ought not be on his arm so casually, not in such a public place. Crevecoeur greeted a few familiar faces on her way, murmuring a quiet “merci” to Randal as she took a seat, removing her hat to set it on her knee.

“No hats at the table, hm?” She jokes, folding her hands in her lap neatly. “And Germany? Lovely place, so I hear. You’ve certainly come a long way to help the Heir with his… darkness problem. What good fortune on his part, judging by the sword.” They certainly don’t give swords like that to just anyone, she’s sure. It’s quite the weapon.

By the Light, there was something about her face that made his brow furrow. There was a nagging sense he’d seen her before, somewhere. Perhaps he’d seen her on a faded wanted poster, or passed her by on the long road to the Estate and hadn’t paid her any mind.

Or, perhaps, his lack of sleep was making his judgement muddled. Perhaps he hadn’t seen her anywhere at all. He pinched the bridge of his nose and puffed out a breath, shoving aside the obnoxious, pestering thoughts. He’d deal with them later, at a more opportune time. “Apologies, I let my mind wander,” Randal said. “Germany is a lovely place, yes. Though I didn’t spend much of my childhood there, admittedly. I found myself spirited away to Poland when I was accepted as a squire. I spent many years in Marienburg, training under the knight who’d chosen me.” He leaned back in his chair as a young woman placed a tankard on the table. She went to pour ale from a pitcher, but he held up a hand to stop her. “No, thank you. Water will be fine.” “Oh, of course! My apologies.” She replied, looking somewhat bemused as she glanced at Crev. “Water for you as well, my lady?”

dabbledincrochet:

Crev frowns. Yet again, she finds herself in the precarious position of having to explain to a man the depths of her sin and wretchedness. It would be terribly amusing to watch his expression fade to horror, perhaps, but…. but there is something about him that makes the idea somewhat upsetting. That voice is not one that would sound good worked up and upset. So she simply settles her hand as she would long ago, and begins to walk.

“Ah, monsieur you’ve made a mistake. I’m no lady. I am a Grave Robber, rather. The part of medicine’s development they don’t like to talk about. I cannot tempt what has already been decided.” A pause, a longer one. That is not a good place to end that train of thought. “Perhaps we ought to agree not to speak of faith. It makes Sister Toustain and I uneasy enough, it would only be worse with a new acquaintance rather than a friend.” There, that was much better. With a free hand, she brushes her hair from her face, distinctly uncomfortable. Something about discussing faith around a Crusader felt like some kind of explosive about to go off, a disaster she was about to create for herself.

“… So, Ser Randal, where do you hail from? Are all of your kin this… tall?” A petty distraction, but perhaps one that would suffice. Most men do like to talk about themselves, and even if it could not deter the talk of faith, perhaps it would… shift the focus.

The last anyone wants is to cause a scene downstairs where everyone is eating.

The woman was bold. Impressively so. She might’ve been a heathen, but part of him couldn’t help but respect her forwardness. That sort of boldness deserved a modicum of admiration. “In all my years,” Randal said, “I haven’t met a thief who was so...upfront about her line of work. You’re either foolish, or so exceptionally skilled that you don’t care who knows.” He turned his head, brow furrowed as he looked her over. “I would settle on the latter. This forsaken Hamlet doesn’t draw incompetent adventurers.

And on the issue of faith...I will stay my tongue for the time being. You clearly know Sister Toustain, and I would not wish to cause her undue duress by making a mutual acquaintance uncomfortable. But do try to find salvation sooner rather than later, Madame Crev.” The smell of food was growing stronger as they neared the common room of the inn. It was a lively place this time of day, abuzz with excited conversations and the occasional bout of boisterous laughter from those who’d consumed a tad too much ale. Randal pulled away from Crev and found an empty table, politely pulling out a chair for her before he sat down himself. “And to answer your question,” he said, resting his arms on the pitted tabletop, “I hail from Germany, though I grew up in Poland. I was the tallest in my family by a fairly substantial margin.”

Pressed So Neatly

thelightprevails:

@thelightschampion

She held in her hand a small strip of dense, hard paper. Affixed to it was a dried lily, the edges yellowed slightly, the slightest bit of decay visible. She doesn’t dare to touch it; it’s so fragile it could snap with one wrong motion, and the beauty would be gone forever. The lace around the edge of the parchment might be a bit too much. That. That might be too much.

Toustain stops off a side street on her way to the inn, fingers glancing over the laced edge. Was it too much? The gift of a lily wasn’t meant to, mean, anything. It hadn’t been given with meaning, it was just a gift for the sake of giving, surely, and now she was doing the courteous thing in finding something to give back. She feels vulnerable, even with the hood of her robes pulled over her head. She puts her hand to the laced edge again. Should she carefully pull it off? The nuns had been so kind as to afford her a small bit of it, as there were leftovers in preparing the last runner for the altar. She didn’t want to waste it. And it’d been just enough…

She closes her eyes. She was thinking entirely too hard about this. And she finds when she’s thinking too hard about anything, the ideas of sin seem to loom closer and closer to her until she can feel their fingers getting caught up in the hem of her robes.

Toustain slips out of the sidestreet and heads towards the inn, card intact and resting in the basket of covered bread. In through the tavern, hit with the smell of beer, the early drinkers wearily calling for ale, and the ones still up from the night prior looking groggy, but sated. She stops and asks where Ser Randal was staying, and the innkeeper tells her. Room seven - up the stairs, to the right.

She thanks him and heads up the narrow staircase, the wood creaking under her unsure feet. And when she comes to his door, she hesitates one moment longer, before setting her knuckles to the wood. She holds her breath.

Rustling could be heard on the other side of the door. The quiet sound of platemail and chain rattling against one another. Footsteps, heavy and confident, grew steadily closer until, at last, the door swung open to reveal the Crusader’s titanic form. Morning light spilled in through the room’s grimy window, framing him against the threshold as he gave Toast a smile warmer than the dawning sun. “Sister Toast!” He exclaimed, clapping her on the shoulder. His other hand clasped a basket that looked similar to Toast’s, the top covered with linen. “Quite a fortuitous meeting, I daresay. I was just about to depart and a pay a visit to the Abby.” He stepped forth and closed the door of his room, his smile not waning for a moment. “And judging by your basket, it seems we have the same intentions, too! Would you like to accompany be whilst I doll out bread to the less fortunate, Sister Toast? It would be a pleasure to have you at my side this morning.”

dabbledincrochet:

She laughed, adjusting her coat ever so slightly. The faded green fabric had gotten a bit out of sorts when she’d hit her collision course, after all, and she did take some pride in being put together. Crevecoeur paid not mind to the others, only inclining her head slightly to one as they passed. She was a regular face to nearly everyone here, now, after all/

“… Sure, you could. Wasn’t my original plan, but seems driving it out anyway.” She says with a roguish grin, taking his hand in both of hers for a shake. “Call me Crev. My real name is more French than fine wine, nobody should have to trip over it. The pleasure is all mine, Ser Randal.” The name is said lightly, as if she didn’t quite care if he was a holy night or not. She didn’t, really. he was someone with nowhere else to go, likely, just like her. No sense in pretending he was any better.

She pauses to crack her spine, hands on her hips. Early mornings and sparing beds meant it was a needed part of the daily ritual.

“I hope I didn’t put a dent on your armor, Iron Golem,” she chimes lightly, amused, “or make you too late to get anything to eat by engaging you in conversation… though that last one would be a damned if I do, damned if I don’t deal, hm.” She shrugs, clearly also not all too concerned about that. It was a good, lazy morning, no need to be worried.

“May I escort you downstairs? Least I can do if I did make you late.”

There was something peculiar about the woman. Something he couldn’t quite place. The cadence of her voice, maybe, or the way she carried herself. It took some effort to keep from furrowing his brow at her. Had...no, they hadn’t crossed paths before. She wasn’t the kind of company he’d kept during his long crusade.

He would’ve remembered a face like hers, half-veiled as it was by the shadows of her hat.

“You need not concern yourself with my armor, Lady Crev,” Randal said. “It takes much more force to damage these plates. Though, admittedly, I would be rather impressed if you were capable of denting metal with your cranium alone.” He adjusted his sword belt, tightening the buckle a hairsbreadth. He was eager to get moving, even though the day held little for him to do. The lack of action was making him antsy.

“And it would be a pleasure to have an escort this morning,” he continued, nodding once. He even went as far as to offer her his steel-clad arm. “But I would ask you to refrain from making anymore jabs at your own salvation, Lady Crev. It is best not to tempt fate in this shadowy corner of the world.”

#dabbledincrochet #Ill Met By Sunrise

dabbledincrochet:

This place was finally starting to feel like home. The faces at the inn were familiar, the room felt like a haven, and she could usually rely on breakfast if the slid out of the threadbare, but serviceable, bed early. An easy feat, when she found rest so easily in this den of sinners and vagrants. These were of her kind, she had no reason to feel ill.

If she were religious, perhaps a moment to bless this den of scum and villainy would be appropriate. But she is not. All Crevecoeur really is, is pleasantly half-asleep.

She did not feel ill, as she lazily went about preparing for her day. Hair brushed, coat shaken out, boots laced up to their rightful place on her thighs. The inn is beginning to stir by the time she’s done, hat tilted as to shade her eyes. Seems she was just up just in time to be able to get something to eat before she began her days’ work. Striding out confidently into the hall, she dares close her eyes a second, taking in the air of the morning….

Only to very nearly smash her nose on a suddenly present individual. Staggering back, she quickly finds purchase in the wood beneath her, and straightens back up. A stranger would not see her fall.

“Oh, god, don’t worry about it. We’re all off our game every so often, even…” She pauses, taking in her newest acquaintance. He’s… very tall. Something in the back of her memory aches, unacknowledged. Taking a deep breath, she continues. “… Even, what, seven foot iron golems? It’s fine. Takes more than a bump to fell a lady.”

Randal hooked his thumbs through his belt and tilted his head back, chucking in amusement. The rich sound turned the heads of a few passerby, brows furrowed as they looked to see what, precisely, was making the towering Crusader laugh. Those staying in the adjacent rooms had marked him as a rather stoic man, but there he was, acting in manner that was decidedly not stoic. “An iron golem, you say?” He said, lips pulling into a smile. “I’ve been called a fair number of things in my time, but that...that is a new one, certainly.” He looked the woman over for a moment. She looked...competent. Dangerous. Someone whom you wouldn’t want to cross in a game of chance, or bump into in a dark alley. Not precisely a highwayman, but...something else. Something no less potent, and certainly just as deadly.

This hamlet certainly had a way of attracting peculiar people. Randal had no doubt he’d meet more during his crusade. “Well met, stranger,” he continued, offering her a massive, metal-clad hand to shake. “I am Ser Randal. If I may be so bold, are you a fellow adventurer seeking to drive out the infestation surrounding this hamlet?”

Restful sleep was hard to come by within the inn. Paranoia kept him awake most of the night, listening to every creaking footstep that passed by his door. And it certainly didn’t help that he was much too tall for the threadbare bed, though he was used to his height being an occasional detriment.

It was the damnable sinners around him that kept him awake. The hamlet was steeped in grime and filth and disease. Walking the streets made his skin crawl. Eating the food made his stomach roil. Even the air felt sickened and wrong.

The whole town needed to be cleansed, sanctified. Burned down to the brass tacks and built anew. Every brick and cobblestone and piece of thatch burned to cinders. Even the abbey.

Scorch it. Burn it all. Burn it down and-- Randal twitched, passing footsteps rousing him from his thoughts. The inn was beginning to bustle, the scent of breakfast wafting up from the common room. He heaved a sigh and stood up, beginning the routine of donning his armor. He took his time, making sure every strap was fastened snugly, securely. The sword belt came last, and after buckling it tightly around his waist, Randal strode from his room.

Only to bump into someone who happened to walk by at that exact moment. “Oh, Light above, my apologies!” Randal said, taking a step back. “I should have looked before stepping out. A hundred pardons for my clumsiness, stranger.”

Morning Dew

thelightprevails:

“No, no.” Yes, stay a bit longer. Tell me the stories of your travels, tell me of the farlands, offer your arm to me, walk with me a while through these halls, we can imagine what the stained glass will look like, the morning sun’s rays will make your helm shine. “I only require sleep, Ser Randal.”

She steps away from him, footing uneasy, but serviceable. She manages to not make herself look like a fool, at very least. The room they’re in feels bigger than the cathedral somehow. Like the air has been stretched thin between them. There’s a silence. Toast feels the lucky charm’s small weight in the inner pocket of her robes. Lucky. Lucky?

Her tongue stalls. “…You… can call me Toast.” She watches him, standing beside her bedroll now. She had not been afforded a cot like the senior members of the church, and the floor was cold, but it was a place to sleep. Her eyes wander over his arms again. The broadness of his chest. She was just there. Just moments before. It was warm, like the sun’s light soaking through her, and now, everything was cooling again. She doesn’t want this, not now. She wants to feel warm when she settles into bed. What a gift that would be.

Her legs are stiff. Of course she won’t slip into her bedroll with him present, she’d already acted bad enough already. A flash of guilt passes over her face. Awful. She’d acted awfully. She’d let so many things happen, she’d sinned by not speaking. She wrings her hands, looks anywhere but him. No, she’s been disrespectful now. He’s a Crusader, a warrior of the Light, she has to act accordingly. Her chin raises. She nods, respectfully. “If that suits your liking, Ser Randal.” The light filtering in the room catches his armor and he seems to just glow.

She wants to shake her head, but she won’t. She doesn’t know what to think at all.

“Toast...” Randal said, tilting his head to the side. “Toast. As in the food? Hm...I must say, that is one of the more peculiar nicknames I’ve been told. But, if that is what you prefer...” He put his fists on his hips and chuckled heartily. “Sister Toast it is, then! What a charming ring that has to it.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Should you require anything during your tenure in the Hamlet, you may seek me out at the inn closest to the Abby. I will do my utmost best to assist you in any endeavors, Sister Toast. Any at all!” Despite his helmet, one could easily hear the grin on his voice. “The Light brought us together this day. I just know it. Perhaps we can bring a little hope into the lives of these poor, downtrodden folk. Lord knows they need it.” Randal bowed deeply to Toustain once again. “Rest well, Sister Toast. May the Light grace you with peaceful dreams.” With that, he turned on his heel and made for the door, a merry hum emanating from his chest the whole while.

Morning Dew

There’s his hand again. Alighted on her shoulder, not heavy, but present. Steadying, like the roots of a tree. She looks at him again. Yes, he could be a tree. He’s tall enough, surely, and strong, and broad. All the things a Crusader would be, surely, she doesn’t know why it’s all so vivid in her mind at the moment. She needs rest. She needs sleep, the lack of it is just making everything so confusing. He’s confusing her, with the touches, it’s almost- no, it is, inappropriate, for him to be so familiar. For him to be so close, kissing. Touching? Unspeakable, all of this. Yes. That’s it, she can stop it, this confusion, she should say something, tell him that it isn’t right ofhim to-

She’s in his arms. Nothing escapes her lips but a slight gasp, the word “oh” uttered in an inhale. Her hands rest against the worn but well-kept cloth draped over his breastplate, bracing herself slightly, one hand nearly to his shoulder. Oh. She doesn’t grip, fingers twitching, she keeps herself from holding on. She must keep her dignity.

He’s speaking again. She can hear him, she swears by the Light that she can, but it’s all just a sound and a feeling. It’s rich, warm like liquid fire, it’s going into her ears but she can’t understand nearly any of it at all. She feels weightless like this, secure. Surely this wasn’t a Crusader, this was a kind of Archangel, come to beat back darkness, smite the wicked, this was no mortal, was it?

“Brazen… yes, Ser Randal, you certainly are.” She wants that to sound coarse but it just doesn’t. It doesn’t sound chastising at all.

“Ah… I’m staying with them, yes. In the west wing of the abbey.” They’re going to see her. Or perhaps they won’t, they’ll all be at morning prayers, surely, then brerakfast, but the Pastor had been checking in with her periodically, seeing how she was settling in. If he saw her…

“But… I assure you, Ser Randal, I can walk on my own, my feet are true, my step is guided by the Light!” She’s scrambling a bit mentally now, trying to find reasons to escape his grasp. But she doesn’t want to leave his arms. Not just yet. Just a few moments longer.

“The Light, Sister Toustain,” Randal said as he began to walk, “can do many wonderful, miraculous things. But, at the end of the day, we are still vessels of flesh and blood. And exhaustion can takes it toll even on the most stalwart faithful.” He looked down at her, face inscrutable behind his visor. “Allow me to do you this courtesy. It is my honor to help. And besides, carrying you is the least strenuous thing I’ve had to do all week.”

He made for the west wing, his steps steady and confident. He hummed a quiet melody as he pushed through the doors, being careful not to jostle Toustain. In due time he arrived as the haphazard collection of bedrolls and cots that made up the living quarters. There was a familiarity to the lodgings that made him ache for the citadel where he’d trained.

Such a simple lifestyle. It’d be preferable over the inn he’d been staying at, to be sure. Perhaps he’d speak with the Pastor at some point, see if the man would provide him with a little corner to call his own...hm. Something to consider. “And here we are!” He said, finally setting Toustain’s feet upon the ground. He kept one broad hand on her back, however, as if wary that she would abruptly topple over at the faintest breeze. “Do you need to me to bring you anything before I depart, Sister Toustain? Bread, or perhaps some water?”

Morning Dew

Perhaps it was the lack of sleep. Yes, it had to be. But for a moment the light in the cathedral seemed to be hazier. Her hand is grasped, but gently. Her eyes fly from his gloved hand to his face, eyes widening when he leans down and presses a kiss on her hand. She swallows thickly.

Oh Light.

“Ser Randal.” What a smile… and then his hand goes to his belt, a flower? A flower- and then to her… his hand brushes against her cheek, her hair, the wrappings around her head. The armor against her should have been cold but instead there was a warmth to it. His motions were so careful, and there was a certain tenderness to them, and yes, this kind of warmth, like he himself was this embodiment of the dawn, once resting on the stone but then rising like the sun, this… yes. Toustain finds herself at loss for words, lips parted, he keeps talking and she takes in a couple words. She’s… tired. She’s tired. Very tired.

Quarters. Something about quarters. Toast’s brow furrows in a quick moment of confusion. His arm is there. So she nods. She reaches for a moment, thinking of the times she’s seen noble ladies walking with their arms twined with their partner’s. How nice they looked. How lovely they looked.

She blinks. The light clarifies - the world is solid, with sharp edges, and shadows. She’s not those ladies.

“Ah…” Toast pivots a bit, turning to the side, glancing out of one of the broken windows. “Ah… I’d…” if only she’d caught what he actually said. What a fool she’s making of herself. She’s said her name, right? Yes. She’s certainly said her name, because he returned with his, and the kiss, and the flower, and she can feel it there. Resting against her ear, that small blossom. There’s a warmth.

“I’d better… I’ve been up all night, watching the cathedral-” she hears the bell ring for the morning prayers, and she thanks God for cutting her off. “I’m afraid…” how do you respond to a question that you haven’t fully heard? She searches his expression for some clue. A yes? A no? Is she wholly and truly lost, was the question complicated? He’d think her simple if she didn’t reply, and even worse if she gave the wrong answer. She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. It closes.

Randal’s brow furrowed as he looked at Toustain. There was a genuine concern in his gaze, and after a moment of consideration, he reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. She’d seemed a little hazy after he’d kissed her hand. A little befuddled whilst he put the flower behind her ear. In fact, the Vestal looked downright exhausted. Fatigue from working a long shift, perhaps? “Sister Toustain,” Randal said, “are you well to walk? You seem a tad...out of sorts. Indeed, one would think you’ve been up all night smiting the wicked!” He chuckled, the rich sound filling every nook and cranny of the room. “Ah, the work of the faithful can be quite demanding, hm? Even when ones task is to watch over an Abbey at night. Here, let me help...” He donned his helm and flipped down the visor. Then, one steady arm wrapped around Toustain’s waist. The other braced against the back of her legs, and without so much as a grunt of exertion, Randal hefted Toustain from her feet. As if she weighed no more than a satchel feathers.

“Pardon my brazenness, but you seemed close to falling asleep on your feet, Sister!” He said, chuckling again. “It would do the Light little good if you stumbled and smote your head upon the floor.” He adjusted his grip a little, arms as unyielding and sturdy as the metal of his vambraces. “Now, would it be fair to presume you’re residing with the other attendants of the Abbey? I would hope they provided an exceptional Vestal like yourself a cot to lay upon!”

Morning Dew

It had been a long night. She’d been monitoring the sick and weary with the nuns, though she wasn’t one of them. They regarded her as an outsider, still. It took time to gain trust, and she knew that. It hadn’t been two weeks since the Vestal had arrived, but she’d started to make a reputation for herself, and a good reputation at that. The people started to know her name. Toustain. The children of the town, though few, might someday come to call her Sister Toast. It was a thought that made her soul feel light.

She’s hazy, tired from her work and the smell of the many censers when she walks into the sanctuary to make her final rounds. She replaces a few burned-down tapers, not even noticing the figure kneeling before the altar before she heard his voice. The prayer was quiet. She couldn’t discern the words, only the meaning, and it felt righteous in its tone. It was nice to listen to. Toustain finds herself drifting a bit closer, walking up the aisle, a hand trailing along the backs of the wooden pews. When she’s only a few paces behind him, he’s praising the Light, and she smiles in earnest. Such humility.

She can tell by the garb that he is a Crusader. A valiant man, a courageous man, gone to beat back the darkness that covered this world. Of course he was here; his kind would be drawn to this conflict, the sickness. He could root it out if anyone could. She loses herself in thought for a moment, thinking of the many that had gone off. The many that had failed to return.

His voice brings her back to the present. And when she looks at him again he’s bowing deeply to her, the smell of soap and armor polish surrounding him. “O-Oh.” Toustain swallows, and puts a hand to her cheek. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to startle you. Sir.” She pushes away the sleep that had been collecting in the corners of her eyes, getting a better look at him. He was… huge. It wasn’t wholly evident when the man had been kneeling, but now, she can see plainly the breadth of him. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen someone so large. A mighty Crusader, indeed. “I’m… Sister Toustain.”

The Crusader’s metal-clad hand reached out and carefully took Toustain’s, His grip was gentle, almost delicately so; as if he was holding something wrought of porcelain. He pressed a kiss to the back of the Vestal’s hand, his lips soft to the touch. “You need not apologize, noble Vestal,” he said, letting go of her hand as he straightened. “It warms my heart to see a kindred spirit in this hallowed place! I am Ser Randal, formerly of Prussia.” His lips curled upward into a smile, one hand reaching into a pouch on his belt. From it withdrew a small white lily from it and, with the utmost care, tucked it behind Toustain’s right ear. “There,” Randal said, his smile widening a tad. “A token of good fortune I found upon the Old Road! Tis a shame that such flowers are a rarity in this blighted land; perhaps, Light willing, more shall grow when it is cleansed.” He rolled his shoulders, the plates of his pauldrons rolling smoothly over one another. “Ah, but pardon my wistful thinking. You seem exhausted, Sister Toustain. Would you, perhaps, care for an escort to your quarters?” He offered her his arm, as was expected of a knight. This Abbey was a safe place, a protected place, and Toustain’s place of lodging was no doubt a stone’s throw away if she was working there. But no self-respecting Crusader would dare traipse off without at least offering to escort a Vestal of the Light. It was unseemly!