So no. Fionn was here to bring him in. Figures. Lein sighed. "This won't stop me from slipping. But be my guest." Lein put a hand over his prosthetic shoulder, rolling it over and wincing as he felt the mechanisms click through the fabric of the tunic. He still had feeling in there, which was good enough.
As Lein led the pair out the graveyard and into the streets early into the awakening hours, a curious collection of scrappy children began to not-so silently saunter along them. As usual, he produced an absconded apple from nowhere, pressed a thumbnail into its unbroken skin, and tossed the apple at the crowd, distracting them momentarily. Still gotta tell them somehow, Lein thought grimly. No, Fionn first. Lein recounted his tale in a low voice. "Ran some lines for a seedy bunch back before signing unto the Knights, shuffling around some stuff behind the Church. They found a bunch of rivals to spill blood over, and soon those rivals were after me too. One of those dolts had the bright idea to bring in someone above their pay grade, and this hunter's been on my trails since."
"Took care of the guy, but shoot one cockroach and all its ugly spawnlings come crawling out. Been tying up loose ends from that. Besides," Lein smiled wryly. "Thought I ought to get a glow up. If we ever have to dance at a fancy ball, I can't be caught out without a proper weapon on hand. Last time I had to fight with flour and bricks."
He listened quietly to Lein's tale, without passing comment on his confidence in his ability to escape from the grasp. His eyes quickly cast about to take in the sight of the children started to follow along with them, before Lein threw them off with the tossed apple. "And how much of your 'tying up loose ends' is just looking for more trouble to get into?" he asked as the crowd started to disperse from around them. "And how often do you end up dragging the likes of them into it, instead of out?"
No great effort needed to figure out which option might earn his ire.
Of course, the story, the absences (this one especially), the over the top acts, and especially the way that Lein had disguised himself and been acting at the ball, the near-perfect common Veltian that the lad could speak...once combined with some of what had passed between himself, Lein, and Tyaethe at said ball, certain puzzle pieces started to fit together quite nicely. Lein often tried to make himself intentionally dodgy. Aloof. Friendly, but not familiar; he had no qualms joking around with the others, but if he still had the arm he lost he might use it to keep them two arms' lengths away.
"What was it she said to you, again?" he mused to himself, before Lein had any good chance to respond to his earlier questions, his grip on the tunic tightening slightly. "I'm not banned from balls, like you're not a member of the nobility? Curious phrase, that."
It was cold. There was something in this cloud heaven that unsettled him.
An Ingvarr of natural birth was never supposed to be feeling the bumpy skins from the chilly wind. No, this wasn't natural. It started with only one bandit, and soon escalated to battle-hardened soldiers, mercenaries. And the intensity grew with each opponent, leaving Steffen no time to rest inbetween.
In the midst of the dull-colored rock plateau, the tall Ingvarr stood at the other end of an even longer spear, one coated and trimmed in complete metal, ornamented with two biased gold squares, the razor sharp edge of one end quickly deflected a dangerous axe swing and immediately was followed up with the other end, as Steffen switched his sides of attack. The blade sliced into the attacker's throat, and another follow up, this time lethal stab, into the same area.
The opponent, as much as he could feel the flesh earlier driving the spear into him, had already fragmented, disintegrated and scattered. The ground leaving no trace of his slain enemy. It was as if their lives were insignificant, not even worth a remembrance, a prayer, a last word. They just vanished like that, only for the next opponent, a stronger opponent, to emerge and throw themselves at the Ingvarr.
His death wasn't even significant either. The moment a spear was driven through his heart, a sword through his neck or an arrow to the eye, the echoing scream was cut short, as he was right back on his feet. All wounds healed, all pain disappeared, all armors cleaned, back to the starting point. Continuity only applies to three things: his vivid memory of the events, the encouraging cries and rallies of the legendary figures of the Iron Roses - those who had made the order and the land they lived on as beautiful as it is, and the agonizing pain in his left hip.
That last one came later...as Steffen's breathe laboured to keep himself calm and composed, his mind too busy juggling between the fiery ever-continuous battle and beholding the trance he had been thrown into - the spear skilfully yet with great force slapped the sword away from his opponent and delivered a quick death, his next opponent was coming at him already.
White jaunty hair, red and black horns, eyes luminant in nasty intention, came right at Steffen with his short sword. The Ingvarr knight hesitated, thinking he had seen someone else, his hands tingled and cold just for a brief brief moment, and when he moved to defend himself, his opponent was already right up to his face. A few swings in and the other Ingvarr got a clean and devastating hit on Steffen's left hip.
Both his jaws gripped tight, the sound of air rushing into his mouth as adrenaline kicked back in. One of his arm gripped tightly into both wrist that was gripping onto the sword that was halfway into his hip and partially visible from the other side, and the other let go of the spear and reached for a dagger sheathed by his side. His opponent did not expect the response, and quickly fell to a stab to the throat.
The next opponent came in almost immediately, however, and Steffen knew he was dead. Both weapons on the ground, having been injured, a well-known hero of the past. And indeed he fell swiftly. And unlike previous fight, the wound the Ingvarr left on him was strangely permanent. The searing pain faded to pity him, but the dull, burning pain that took its place was not much consolation.
The battle continued until sunset, the sky scorched partially from Reon's beauty but also the blood of both his and his enemy alike. By this time, he was surprised he still had the mental state to continue the never-ending fight and death, the dull pain on his side adding more salt to it. He was still, with a mountain of tenacity, taking on opponents stronger than him by all means, and still standing.
His next opponent, out of how many he had lost count long ago, was Erich.
The one person with no need of an introduction, but also the one whom the knights had to deal with the week before. But this Erich was no hollow skeleton. This was the Erich, the Demonbreaker at his almost full power. Wrinkles plowed his forehead, but his steps were firm and strong, his armor basked in the mesmerizing evening sun. For a moment, the Ingvarr almost wished this was real, but the unfortunate reality was that he had seen the rotted bones of the great warrior. This wasn't real.
Erich made sure Steffen was ready to fight, but wasted no time the moment he indicated his fighting intent. He might not be the real Erich, but his fighting was. His full might was unleashed upon the Ingvarr, his giant blade swinging with almost no effort. Each swing, Steffen needed his full might to even begin to contend with the infamous Demonbreaker, forcing him to rely overwhelmingly on his mobility due to his lack of a bulky armor. That combined with his magic, Steffen was surprised that he could survive to deliver some of his own counterattacks, but he knew it wouldn't take long before he was overwhelmed.
One of Erich's sword swing managed to catch Steffen off-balance, and the follow-up swing on the other side was delivered with the full spinning force of Erich's body. Steffen tried to block with his spear, but the force was too much this time. It was a miracle that it was his polearm's shaft that collided with his body thanks to its incredible resilience, not the sharp blade and he was just pushed back significantly. But that collision unfortunately hit him right in his old injury. The Ingvarr leaned leftward awkwardly, trying to process the pain that briefly just incapacitated him for a few seconds.
The Hero of Aimlenn didn't even take a second to figure it out.
"What happened?" His voice uttered, his grandfatherly concern well-mixed in with his tough voice. "Old wounds?"
Steffen wanted to say something, but an invisible urge from within stopped him, and sealed his lips tight. His hands trembled, for once his battle-hardened spirit faltered.
Erich had no mercy on this pitiful attempt, as he unleashed a barrage of attack, all of them from Steffen's left side, brute forcing through the Ingvarr's crumbling defense. Very soon, Erich's blade calmly and very smoothly swiped his spear away and cut right into his chest. Upon pulling his blade back, Erich looked at Steffen for a moment, now fully defeated, clutching onto the fountain of blood on his body.
"Sir Steffen." He said. "There is much of you to critique but from the looks of it, it may be excess."
The Hero of Aimlenn, the Demonbreaker, the true exemplar of any aspiring knight, walked over to the Ingvarr.
"I sense a stormy youth in you, son. But take it from me, it is no use trying to keep it in you." Erich said, as he raised his sword. "It kills."
Without hesitation, he brought it down upon Steffen. Death beckoned, but not before Steffen could hear Erich's last word to him.
"And take this as a lesson."
The dream did not continue for long after that. The last fragment in his mind was Volkstraad.
The pain in his hip was gone. That was when he knew he was actually in the real world. In the comforting support of his wool bed he laid, his hand careening on his vitals. All were just the sensation of a cold morning palm. His chest lowered from the air escaping his nose and mouth, finally calming down from the previous night.
A few unusual yawn glistened his eyes with tears. It was quite rare that Steffen would be tired from a night of sleep, knowing the importance of rest after each hard day of work. If physical deterioration wasn't good enough for everyone, a clouded mind attracted negative thoughts. And he didn't need more of those to ruin his day. But his rest yesterday wasn't necessarily rest either. Maybe he could take the day a little easier.
Upon finishing his normal morning routine and heading for some breakfast, the Ingvarr decided on what to do for the rest of the day. His paperwork were to be delayed a little back further in the day, or even the day after depending. Training would be nice, and quite necessary, but it's a quiet morning, it's better to enjoy it a little. He also wondered where Lein had went, having not seen the Hundi bugging him for a whole week, but Steffen was a bit too busy to ask. He trusted that this troublemaker knight would likely be back at some point. He wouldn't just get up and leave without saying anything to him right?
Now that he overthought about it, he did get a little worried.
Steffen chose to retreat to the Candaeln garden with a pair of scissors and a bucket instead, tending to the flowers and plants growing there. He always loved the garden. Having visited and tended to it quite often, the different flowers brought into this world a serene and delightful fragrance. Adding in the sounds of chirping birds, the delicate butterflies swirling in hues, it wasn't difficult to see that this would be his favorite place for a calm quiet morning.
He didn't know how long it had been going. The first few hadn't been much. But he knew the woman in the sky had been testing him. Prodding him. He hadn't given her the satisfaction of seeing his tricks. That was, until a knight in the panoply of House Brias approached, the family sigil on his shield. After that, Renar saw nothing but red. Fine. She wanted to provoke him? She succeeded. From then on, he fought without reserve, making full use of his arsenal of dirty fighting and inspired manuevers.
Whatever man of Brias this was didn't get to make a single move before a hurled dagger jammed itself into his eye. Half a dozen soldiers charged him only to trip on caltrops he'd scattered across the ground and be killed while prone and trying to recover. Just for his own satisfaction, Renar killed an orc warchief in the exact same manner he'd slew his first: sand in the eyes, poleaxe thrust to the thigh, and a dagger to the throat.
A giant of a man with a flail and kiteshield gave Renar his first death, his face concealed by a flat-topped helmet. From there, the challenges grew greater. Famed heroes, knights, and wizards. It gratified Renar to know that he was at least giving as good as he got in this dream, slaughtering several who came against him before one would eventually strike a killing blow. And then, after an archmage crushed him with a magically-hurled boulder, he appeared.
Edwin the Traitor. Wielder of Steelfang. The man approached Renar with an easy smile, actually having the audacity to clap.
"Oh, bravo. Bravo. You're really doing pretty well so far, you know. Not quite up to our standards yet, but you'll get there one day."
The fact that this one actually bothered to talk first had Renar pause, his poleaxe leveled at the most reviled traitor in all of Thaln's history.
"Is there a point to this?" He snarled in disbelief, trying to figure out what game both Edwin and the witch up above were playing. "Why you?" Renar charged, and they clashed. His gambits were seen through, and his counters reversed time and again.
"Maybe." Edwin replied easily as a smash from the flat of Steelfang sent Renar reeling back. "Let me hazard a guess. Some in the order don't quite trust you. Think you might be my second coming, for some reason or another."
The thought of taking Edwin's path had crimson returning to the edges of Renar's vision, sheer resentment allowing him to fight through the pain and take up his weapon once more.
"Then they understand nothing. I've read the histories. You disgust me. And not for the usual protests that you would hear. I care nothing of chivalry or valor."
"Oh? Let's hear it, then." Edwin quirked a brow, sounding genuinely interested in what Renar had to say.
"You threw away everything you had for some mad dream of peace. I remain loyal to the Iron Rose because as they rise, so do I. To cast all that aside for an ideal is the mindset of a child. There is no such thing as a just or kind world. Only what you can wrench from it for yourself." Renar spat, surging forward with a whirl of his poleaxe to clash against Steelfang again.
"Is fighting for an ideal really so bad? It isn't worth laying all on the line for?" Edwin sounded genuinely saddened by Renar's outburst, even as they traded blows once more.
"Never." Renar hissed, even as Edwin finally got the better of him, an improper parry on his part allowing Steelfang to wrench Renar's poleaxe out of his hands. "I fight for myself, and nothing else. If you had done the same, perhaps Parvan and Cyrus might have lived long, happy lives. But I suppose your false peace mattered more." He uttered in one last act of spite before the Traitor took his head from his shoulders.
They'd decided on drinks after training, as usual. Renar sat across from Gerard at the table, taking a sip of his wine as he observed his friend staring straight down into his mug of cider. Were it anyone else, he would have assumed that his fellow knight was simply tired out from an afternoon of constant attrition and combat. But this was Segremors. The poor fool had a tendency to obsess over what others would find trivial.
"You're going to be like this all evening if I don't say something, so let's hear it." Renar sighed, giving in and making the first move. "What's on your mind this time? Worrying your head off that Fionn broke routine once and didn't train with us today?" The thought had crossed Renar's mind a few times, but it was doubtful that one instance meant anything. If it continued to happen, it would be cause for concern. But a single absence could have been due to anything: a letter to send off, supplies to purchase in town, or even a case of the runs.
"Or is this about the Demonbreaker still? Had I an inkling that he was down there, I would have joined the lot of you. Still almost jealous, really."
Location: Aimlenn Streets Interactions:@The Otter "No scam. I know when to fold and when to cut. I'm on the home stretch, anyway." Fionn was too close. It was a throwaway comment by the hell-born hag that probably tipped him off. was too tired to spin another elaborate yarn about his past. It would be easy enough to cut loose and disappear, adopt a new name and sing a different tune as he had always done, but not yet. Not while Hadrianus was circling above his head, more than willing to uproot everything in Aimlenn to drag him back down. Lein just had to keep mum about it. Just for a couple more weeks to put everything in place.
As they came across a stream of farmers busily trafficking out into the fields, Lein abruptly dove into the crowd, leaving Fionn still grasping the tunic sleeve. With a swift and decisive tug, the seams of the tunic ripped off and left Fionn grasping the empty sleeve. Lein reappeared some paces away from the crowd and waving his newly freed prosthetic arm. "Looks like this will be where we'll be parting ways, Herr Fionn," Lein said, mockingly adopting the suave affectations of Lady Cteline with a curtsy. "Don't be pulling your hair out digging places that don't need digging. Promise I'll behave - why, I'll even try sleeping on those terrible castle mattresses, as thanks for your courtesy today."
Sitting around here was making one thing clear, even if it hadn't answered any of the other questions plaguing the vampire: a certain name was coming up far too often to be reassuring. It wasn't one that the current knights ever had much reason to bring up, and the last time... well, it had been only about a year ago, but that was enough to raise concerns.
But to assuage those concerns, she'd need to find someone involved in administrative work. Who would be responsible for locking up inconvenient items after cataloguing their existence to at least keep track of them. So, either go and get Liliana's attention--she still hadn't returned to front-line duties--on the off chance that she'd opted to go package collecting first thing in the morning and not spending time with her family... or go find Steffen. He really seemed like the better bet, on top of not being one of the knights she was always faintly annoyed by. Even more, since the duellist had become a mother...
A look around the inside of Candaeln didn't find her target, so, with a sigh, Tyaethe took a detour to collect something before heading outside.
A few minutes later, there was a cough from behind the Ingvarr. The source? One diminutive vampire, of course, stood under a rather frilly, very pink parasol, eyes occasionally flicking an annoyed glance up at where the fabric blocked the sun.
"Sorry to interrupt your gardening, but did we get another painting we can't display anywhere?"
It was the first thing that came to mind if it came to Merilia causing trouble now. Oh, she'd certainly played no end of tricks on people before she stopped hanging around the order, but that stopped being a thing nearly a hundred years ago. Almost all the contact since then had been the occasional painting randomly deposited in a hallway, adding to the ever-growing collection that had started with the portraits of many of the original knights. The pigments had changed over the years, but the shockingly realistic style, the use of protective enchantments in the frames that removed any need for varnish or the like, and the uncanny feeling of depth--honestly, some of the landscapes seemed more like windows, but they were definitely paint on canvas (another clue, rather than wood; she'd always been particular about that)--all spoke of the mage being the source.
Which made getting a lifesized portrait of some extremely foreign girl a very awkward experience. For one, it had just been sat there most of a day before anyone reported it, and it was a wonder there hadn't been any visitors at the time. Secondly... well, it had been far beyond the bounds of artistic. Tyaethe honestly couldn't tell if the intent had been to cause trouble, or if Merilia had just sent the thing over by accident... if it had happened again, that would probably answer the question. And they'd have to stash that away, too; the amount of effort needed to damage one of them due to the enchantments just wasn't worth it.
Lein wasn't half as surprising as he thought he was. Next to someone whose senses and instincts had been honed purely for reading other's movements, both large and subtle, the momentary tensing of his body, the slight shift in his stride—it was obvious what he was planning, even without the group of workmen to run into and try and throw Fionn off. He had half a mind to stop the 'escape' in its tracks, use the speed and reflexes he'd developed over the years, and prove to Lein and any onlookers that his physique wasn't just for show. But he didn't.
He stood still as Lein dived into the flow of farmers and workmen, jostling them about to come out on the other side, sleeve torn free and left hanging in Fionn's grasp. They all started to clear away faster at the sudden disturbance, even as Lein took a chance to stop. To turn and gloat.
For all the false malice that 'Lady Cteline's' gaze might have held at the ball, Fionn's grin, for just a moment, held ten times as much. His glare was downright predatory. His body poised to take off after the Hundi. Running calculations about how quickly he could cross the distance, longer legs and stronger strides covering more ground with every bound. Ready to tackle the other man down into the dirt.
You want to win. You want to dominate, don't you?
He relaxed after a heartbeat, though his eyes didn't leave Lein's. "I trust I'll see you tonight, then," he said, lazily waving at Lein with the ripped sleeve. "We'll have to continue our conversation, after all, and besides..." He breathed out, focusing his mind in another direction, muttering some nonsense syllables under his breath just to sell the act.
Clearly visible even in the morning sunlight, and unmistakeably magical glow enveloped his fingers and the tattered cloth within them in a viridian nimbus.
"Don't think I won't find you. You may be quick, but your man's got tricks of his own...and he's a lot more stubborn, like."
A cough brought the Ingvarr back from his subtly meditative state, enjoying both the view and also making sure the plants and flowers get to do the same to anyone who visited in the future. Turning around, he was met with another sight of pink, one not that far off from the roses he just watered earlier. It was Dame Tyaethe inquiring something about a painting. While the subject matter was quite out of the blue that it took Steffen a few seconds to register the question, her phrasing of it really drove it home to him.
"...You're talking about that one, right?" He said, with a finger raised.
The prestige of the Iron Rose were hard to dispute, and thus some artistic folks would occasionally send in their work to show their gratitude, and maybe other purposes as well. A lot weren't exactly displayable, not always necessarily because of the skills of the artists. Those ones he'd gladly send a letter of appreciation for. But no, that was likely not the one Tyaethe was asking about. This one was...let's just say even Steffen, who was quite liberal with his standards of artistic expression, was a little hesitant on calling it so. He really wasn't sure what kind of thoughts and feelings that portrait was supposed to arouse to the bystanders.
"Yes, we did get a painting like that." A slight tint of exasperation came from Steffen. "And no, no one approved it. It was just there somehow."
Seeing the Tyaethe being a bit twitchy about the sun in front of her, Steffen looked around and extended one of his arms towards a bench nearby, one where the sun is behind it instead. If the conversation were to continue, the vampire probably would like to be sitting to face the much taller Ingvarr rather than standing, not to mention the sun too - annoying for anyone facing it and not just vampires.
"Dame Merilia's getting...more creative I'd say." He said, trying his best to soften his real feelings about the painting. He had seen through the hallways full of these work, and her work had always had a distinct look to it. The choice of material, the shockingly realistic brushstroke, like if someone just take a sword and cut the scenery out from reality. It wasn't hard to infer the artist once he was introduced. "It's in the storage if you're interested. Truth be told, I'm letting Dame Liliana decide on what to do with it, when she's free."
Taking the seat, although the parasol was still carefully angled to avoid the inevitably rapid sunburn, Tyaethe shook her head. "I'm not asking because I want to see the picture... we're probably just going to keep it, to be honest. It's not something we can give away or sell off, and breaking the protections on it to get rid of the thing would be a massive pain. Seriously, I've seen flimsier protections on a castle gateway, and that was specifically shored up in times of war. Not that we couldn't if we tried, she's not here to fix it again, but it would be too much work over a painting..."
Voice trailing off, the girl blinked a few times, trying to get her train of thought back to where it was to start with. Right, the painting wasn't why she was here. "No, I've just been hearing people mention Merilia all morning. That usually means she's dropped something off here... don't tell me she's sent one of her concubines over? I thought that letter was a joke..."
The girl gave a blank stare at the colourful mass ahead that was probably a flowerbed. Or maybe someone had spilled several buckets of paint over a hedge, hell if she could see from here. Were they going to have to deal with some foreign rabbit that didn't speak any of the local languages, at all? That would be a problem.
"I certainly hope some creative folks can come up with a good use of that painting. Because I cannot." Steffen replied with an amused headshake.
Now he imagined that thing being used as some sort of decoy in case some thief decided to take chances with the Roses. Give or take, those paintings would still be expensive just by the owners alone. Or better yet, a prank to counter-prank some certain knights in the order. Or even a shield of some kind too on the battlefield, as long as one went through a very severe and thorough ego death before wielding that into battle.
"Concubines?" Steffen looked up with a confused look, before opening his eyes wide and gazed away. "Oh right right." His hand rubbed his temple, a little embarrassed he didn't know the word at first. Maybe it was him, but he wasn't aware that having mistresses seems to be more common in these area than from where he lived. Or maybe it could just be Merilia. But what's the big deal with having her mistresses come over? Are they troublemakers?
"I don't know anything about that yet. But if they're here, they'll make themselves known soon enough." Steffen said, leaning his head slightly. "Is them coming an issue though? I can always help them out if needed."
"I can come up with plenty of uses for a painting like that," the girl remarked, which was an odd statement given her apparent age, "But it's absolutely not the sort of thing a knightly order should be trafficking in. We have some standards to maintain, and not being purveyors of inexplicably detailed obscenity is one of those."
Tyaethe kicked her legs absent-mindedly as Steffen kept talking. "So... nobody has already shown up? There hasn't been a surge in people talking about rabbits? It's not that they would be a problem..." well, probably? Taking on total strangers there was no easy way to send home until Merilia came to pick them up again was a bit beyond the order's usual remit, but it was hardly like sheltering another person would be much of a burden to them. "But if she hasn't send another problematic painting over, and there hasn't been a sign of any sort of Akitsushiman walking around Candaeln, then why have people been talking about Merilia so much? She's not exactly popular."
His eyes flicked upwards, meeting those of the man across the table, and a smirk played across his face. "Nah, I know what he's up to. I'm worrying he'll start charging me a premium once it's his cider I'm drinking."
More a joke than a fib. While any idiot could tell something was on Gerard's mind, he knew well that trying to willfully conceal the matter behind a veil of falsehood wouldn't have a chance of getting past Sir Renar, too shrewd by half for anything his common sense could come up with. If anything, it served to signal that he'd been brought back to the present for the talk, now that the lull between them had broken.
Another draft, this one longer, and he continued in earnest.
"Believe me, I'd have loved to have you around for it— even I have enough pride that getting tossed around like a sack of rocks gets under my skin, looking back."
Once was a punished mistake.
Twice was unorthodox tactics.
Speaking frankly, for all the honor it was to be entrusted by the spirit of such a legendary figure to finish the job?
Three was fucking ridiculous.
"I can't let that happen again. If I'm just outmatched, it is what it is. You know as well as anyone that I can handle being beat— But if we keep running into enemies like him or Jeremiah? I'm not always gonna have somebody around to stab them in the armpit when they're about to rip me in half, punch a hole through my armor and me inside. Not looking for the third time to be the charm on that."
"So, allow me to get this straight," Renar started incredulously while pouring himself some more wine. "You're more angry about being physically thrown around by your opponent than losing to them? That's the same thing as being outmatched, you dolt."
Outmatched was a term that brought some recent connotations with it. Renar's mind briefly flashed back to that dream he'd had. Certainly, some of those losses he could have accepted. But others? Not a chance in hell. Steelfang's outline remained in his thoughts for a moment, his brow furrowing. At least Gerard had one thing right in what he'd said though.
"You aren't incorrect in that regard, though. We need to get stronger, more skilled, better. All of us. A more foolish man would be more content with humiliating their half-brother in public before Thaln's nobility. I, however, fully intend on not resting on my laurels. Technique is one thing, but if there's anything I've gathered from your tale of the catacombs, we've a significant amount of physical conditioning to go through. Skillful tricks won't help us close the gap in direct combat against a mage."
The lightning mage that they'd mentioned had been...concerning. Especially considering the fact that they hadn't just killed her the moment they had the chance. Soft-hearted fools. And Serenity, he supposed.
"Next time, if I'm not there, do us all a favor and ignore the ones who called for not killing the dangerous, hostile mage. Unless it's a demand from the Knight-Captain or Paladin Tyaethe, the rest have no greater authority than you." He shook his head with a sigh. "If that loose end doesn't come back to haunt us, well. Care to stake some gold on it?"
"Considering I don't even get to sleep without Erich Cazt showing up, I'll pass. I'm a dolt, not an idiot."
It was like that spurt of mental communique had laid the seed for his specter to populate the darker corners of Gerard's mind— appearing at the end of the gauntlet of the many deaths Gerard had suffered at the height of his powers, after even Agrahn. Even aside from that singularly vexing night... Many times now, when working alone on his cuts, the shadows of fellow mercenaries or knights fell away in his mind's eye when placing them, when conjuring imagined foes— replaced by the Hero. An incessant reminder of the plain truth that Renar and he arrived upon— stagnation would be the end of them both.
He didn't fear dying. He'd long ago been convinced not to— but to Renar's point of their ambitions, it was an utterly souring thought to not realize them off the back of ones' own inaction. They knew the woods well— but needed to wisen up to tackle the dark forest that was the world.
"We'll have to figure out how to get there. We train pretty damn hard already, so there's only so much redoubling the effort's gonna do. Need to change up the method, I think."
Get smarter. Use your head.
"And I gotta fight a little less stupid along the way. Conditioning, though... Paladin Tyaethe mentioned hauling statues around to me a while back. Fionn has his construction project. Guess they're worth trying out."
Starts, but not nearly the finish line. Strength work, but little to match it for speed.
For all of Gerard's self-depreciation, he did bring up a good point. They were already training as hard as they believed they could. More effort would only lead to injury, most likely. So then, what to do?
"At least you're finally getting it through your head that you ought to be at least trying to fight in a less suicidal manner. Although that begs the question of how I ought to change my methods." Renar mused aloud, while already coming up with the basics of a plan in his head.
"Hauling statues doesn't seem to be a poor idea, at the very least. I do know that between all of our little training group, I tend to focus more on technique than outright force. Adopting a more rigorous method of physical conditioning ought to provide dividends. Though I don't quite intend to neglect arms training. Or reduce it, for that matter. But perhaps what we all need to improve faster is a change of pace. New foes to practice against." A sigh. "Dame Lilette is still within the city somewhere. I intend to find her. From there, it's a matter of seeing exactly how I can bribe her into training me for however long she intends to stay in Thaln. And by train, I mean repeatedly beat me to within an inch of my life until I can better stand up to someone of her calibur." He took a sip of wine to fortify himself. As it stood, Renar truly didn't see a better way to become a better combatant faster than this. There were more sane and less grueling ways, certainly. But those would take longer than he feared they had until the next great threat arose.
"As I see it, she's likely been asked far less than Dame Tyaethe about this. Which means it won't be as impossible of a task to secure her assistance. And by the time she leaves, hopefully I'm improved somewhat enough that the aforementioned might be interested enough to continue that training."
The joke was taken a little seriously, he thought. But a reminder here and there of the prestige wouldn't hurt. Besides, it's Dame Tyaethe, the First and Youngest, the serious, no-nonsense founder of the Iron Rose. If there were anyone who would want to keep the knight's image proper, in this case for a good reason too. Steffen simply just let the matter fade away naturally.
As the issue, or so it seemed, about Merilia returned to the picture frame, Steffen began to stagger in the amount of information to process. "There has been talks about Merilia, yes, since the painting came over." He said, scratching his chin. "But I don't think I hear anything about rabbits?" When Tyaethe mentioned Akitsushima and Merilia's concubines, his mind defaulted over to those far eastern princesses that he had heard from the collection of Vos Korvungaand tales, it reminded him a lot of the Hundis. He had never seen them in person before though, so if one were really going to show up this week, he'd be willing to greet them. Both out of curiosity as well as empathy that a foreign person likely knowing little of the local language would be quite a scary prospect. He had been through that before.
"She has her charm, but you have a point." Trying to steer clear of Tyaethe's statement of her popularity as much as possible, Steffen simply nodded. "I'll keep my eyes open. If there's any lost rabbit or anything on discussion, I will certainly let you in on it." A small smile turned up on him. "I'm sure it's not that serious."
"Shouldn't be too hard, they ought to stick out..." Tyaethe said, thinking about it. Well, stick out if you could see them, she'd need to go find glasses for that. Or just listen for the extremely out of place accent, that might do it. "It's not too much of a concern if Merilia's doing something, she's literally unable to do anything of harm to the knights, at worst it's annoying pranks or unexplained attempts at helping, but..."
'Harmless' could still be extremely annoying, when you were a mage with all the time in the world and far too many tricks to fall back on. Rearranging all the doors in Candaeln to open to some other room than the one they were supposed to for an afternoon, for instance, hadn't actually hurt anyone, but it had been maddening. And, of course, Elionne hadn't been able to find the source and demand that she undo it, because none of the doors (or windows, for that matter) had opened onto Merilia's own quarters at that point.
The vampire continued to look at the brightly-coloured blurs in front. Hm, had whatever she was doing not affected Steffen? It didn't seem right; the painting obviously made people talk about the artist far more, but surely there was no way that could drive so much discussion a year later?
"Fresh perspective." he conceded, nodding along at Renar's initial rejoinder. The analysis was harsh, blunt, but never totally unfair— a continuous throughline between him and his better-schooled peers whenever time came to talk technique. This often came up during training— and inwardly, Gerard found it a regret that he hadn't internalized their words properly, for all his talk of respecting them, their skills, their experience, and their ability. That it had taken vividly dying, over and over, and coming excessively close twice more in reality, for the lesson to begin to stick.
Fionn had said it best, once— That Gerard's instinct, the one that most combatants reverted to under pressure, was to bet on a coin flip to regain. To seize Vor by being meaner, stronger, by wanting it more— relying on aggression and athleticism, rather than craft, process, and adaptation. Initiative ruled everything, so seizing initiative meant everything.
Pace. Pressure. Persistence.
Renar focused on having a deep bag of tricks— Gerard fought like he just needed to try harder than the opponent. He had ideas on offense, and could bring plenty of force to bear to invoke them— but there wasn't much depth or method beyond his workmanlike basics and moment-to-moment opportunism. Analyses that had flooded into his consciousness in these four months of crossing blades with Sir Renar, Dame Serenity, Fionn. Even in understanding such a limitation academically, it was hard to change who he was. This was how he'd been taught.
It takes time to learn. It takes time again to unlearn. We can't act like we have time. We might be out of it tomorrow.
But if anyone could accelerate that process, who better than a swordswoman with multiple centuries of dedication to the craft?
"Right, she is." his eyes widened at the realization— having barely interacted with her at the ball due to the accosting young nobility, and then standing within the subsequent whirlwind upon the assassination attempt... her presence had utterly slipped his mind. "And she's famous for the skill to begin with— probably nobody better to show us how to refine approaches even as we get stronger. All that time at the pinnacle has to have given her some kind of sense for styles like ours, how they work, how we can make them better. I'm throwing in with that."
Too good an idea to pass up. So like Sir Renar to have this one up his sleeve— So like Gerard to jump on a golden chance without hesitating. They couldn't concern themselves with worries of her potential refusal— the attempt needed to be made, lest it be gone until fate took them.
"Working with her ought to make us faster, too, by proxy. Didn't she snatch the damn bolt out of the air, when that all went down? Our eyes'll be forced to start keeping up with that kind of speed, and that's half the battle."
"Many more have tried and failed." Lein shrugged, his gloating smile unchanged. "Best you don't disappoint me, hmm?" With a wave, the wayward Hundi hitched a ride on a passing carriage and melted into the stream of farmers.
What was that, just then? Some kind of esoteric magic? Lein was careful not to show any reaction, as it was rather clear that Fionn was simply trying to badger and intimidate than consider actually chasing through Lein through the crowd. No, what really ruffled Lein's feathers was that insidious look on Fionn. As far as Lein had tracked of Fionn's routine, there was nothing under the Veltian that prodded at suspicion. The man was refreshingly as simple as he presented himself - sometimes training, sometimes relaxing with Gerard and Renar. But having skipped out on checking in on his fellow knights' routines these past days, Fionn suddenly developing weird arcane conditions wasn't out of the question.
Whatever. There were too many headaches to consider, including the real one that just about blinded him with how insistently it clamored for his attention. First, a good drink.
---
"Records...arrivals...two years? No, three back." Lein murmured to himself, drinking tea out of what he assumed to be Steffen's tea cup, though in Lein's hands it was more akin to a mug. He was familiar enough with the Ingvarr's office layout and habits to know how to pick the entrance lock, that Steffen would be out of his office around about this time, and that Lein was to be careful not to pull on the door knob too hard lest its fragile hinges break again, but he had never paid quite so much attention to the tidy wall of records that had lined a side of the desk. Hilda. Grey Peaks. Hilda. Lein turned the name over on his mind, honing each syllable so as not to forget. A smaller but firm voice stalked each repetition. Or not.
Being several heads shorter than the intended user meant that Lein had to get a little creative with his approach. He tip-toed upon a precariously balanced stack of books, knocking off a heavy tome from the bookshelf. Leaning the tome against the bookcase, Lein started to browse quickly through the pages. Rows and rows of studiously recorded identification papers, each organized to time, associated requisitions and complete with cursive notes on incomplete entries. Lein was careful not to let his fingers smudge the disciplined line-work.
"Steffen, you twisted menace." Lein chortled, "This is why you're by your lonesome so much." The amusement did not linger, however, as even with the meticulous indices the elusive 'Hilda from the Grey Peaks' remained unrecorded. He tossed as many attributes he knew of the woman. Lein stared holes into the book, flying through the pages and de-scrambling each eloquent note. Check all blacksmiths. None. Check all iron-workers. None. Words blended into each other, ink beginning to take on its own mocking meanings. The precise factual notation became taunts and jeers. Check all blacksmiths. No. Arrivals from the Grey Mountains. No.
5 appendices and 4 encyclopedias later, Lein imagined tearing out the pages and throwing each and every insufferably silent entry fluttering through the window. Of course there would be many, many of the populace that would go unrecorded - Lein himself having a hand in facilitating the deception - but having dug through half the castle archives and found nothing of cause left nothing but a gnawing irritation. Lein decided to drown his disappointment with the last of the foul drink and slammed the archival book shut. He didn't have the luxury of a next time, but pushing this search was the only option available to him. Just curious. Nothing more. Lein told himself, completely spent on all his willpower. He was sure to have nightmares of reading cursive now.
His exit was just as methodical as his entry, working radially backwards out. Replace the books in their clerical order (thought it took a while for Lein to remember the proper order). Tidy up the sheaves of paper near the window. Dust floor and desk to clear footprints. Refill the inkwells and replacing the tea leaves. Oh, and let Steffen know that he really ought to get a quieter door frame.
People looking at Candaeln from the outside couldn't really be considered unusual--it was a landmark, famous, and rather intimidating to approach. It was rather less common for someone to seem so shifty while doing it, given the reputation of the knights that lived within. Nonetheless, the elf standing a short way from the main entrance was managing that, occasionally moving a bit closer before going back to leaning against a nearby wall, fidgeting all the while.
It might take anyone that met her at the ball a minute to recognise Lilia, but the hair colour was a big giveaway, as was the ornate sword still strapped to her waist. Her clothing was miles away from the militaristic uniform she had been wearing at the time--still dominated by greens, but much brighter in colour. A loose, almost alarmingly short skirt; a sleeveless tunic; and some sort of cream cardigan that had to be entirely decorative, given that it was lacy and almost entirely holes. The glossy, expensive boots had been replaced with some pretty simple sandals.
More than all that, though, there was the tan. The elf at the ball had been as pale as her mother, but now possessed a complexion that wouldn't have looked out of place in the southern reaches of Etrial, on the edge of the desert. Still, there was only likely to be one incredibly awkward and gangly high elf in Aimlenn at a time.
