Errant Son — Roleplayer Guild

Haesteinn was quite surprised to notice that neither of the two men had even attempted to take their share of the loot, nor Eira. He shook his head, annoyed slightly with them. If he'd been in better shape he'd have looted them himself. “Suit yourself, but if you think you'll grow rich off of king's pay, then forget about it.” he added before they left. As soon as they had all banded up they were leaving again - leading to the situation in the forest still. As Haesteinn called out for Ellinor, Eira had already begun trying to track down the culprit, and Genseric wasn't sitting still either. As soon as Eira had found the footprints however, it would become obvious that they had barely left the area. 

Eira was slightly ahead, so Haesteinn couldn't quite see what was going on. Her yelling, however, made it clear she had found both Ellinor and someone else. With a pain in his arm from the cut he'd received he pulled out his bastard sword from the sheath, quickly stepping through the shrubbery and stepping past Eira. His blade instantly went upwards, and pointed at the mans throat. He formed a barrier between Eira and the man, in case he tried anything funny. “You'll not lay a finger on her, or anyone else, for that matter.” he said, looking Keys dead in the eye. As soon as Jahan and Genseric would arrive on scene as well, it was going to be obvious to Keys that he had not a snowballs chance in hell to try anything at all. He was facing two northerners, one of which with a bow whom had already shown her skill, and the other a trained swordsman with tribal markings and the markings of a Servant. Then there was Genseric, a noble 'knight' whom had not had the chance to show any real prowess, but looked mighty intimidating in his armor, and Jahan - a man who by any mans' standards looked quite strange, but at the same time, was armed, which was a deterrent in any situation.

“By King's decree, I am a sergeant of the Black Shields, so stay your hands, peasant.” he added bitingly. He inched slightly to the left, and used his left hand to quickly grab the sword that was sticking into the mud. He tossed it slightly to the back, near Eira's feet. “You're heavily armored for a brigand like those we just met. State your business!” He eyed Keys carefully, taking in the mans features. 

It was only then that he actually noticed the near-lifeless body near the man. And then Haesteinn thought back to those words the man had spoken to Eira, and finally made sense of the mash of words he hadn't been able to decipher in the heat of the moment. His blade lowered slightly, no longer pointing directly at the man. And Ellinor looked to be fine. She was speaking nonsense, but she seemed fine. Perhaps he did save her.

“I.. I see. Eira, lower your bow. It seems that this man might be speaking the truth. Keep his sword, however. For now.” he'd say, lowering his blade even more and then sheathing it. It seemed that this man was sincere, even if his choice of words against potential friends were harsh. “Tell me your name. You're welcome to camp with the Black Shields for tonight.” He looked at Ellinor with a sense of pity. “You've earned as much.”

As soon as the two unconscious bandits were gathered again and everyone had taken some time to do whatever they must, the party headed back to the camp. It was a longer trek this time. The moon was showing already, indicating just how long they'd been out and about. Haesteinn would walk up front, leading the way. Two times he felt like he was lost. Two times he turned out to be wrong, and he was simply driving himself crazy.

After approximately forty more minutes, the party arrived at the camp. Haesteinn would order the rest back to their corner, where their tents had been set up. Upon entering the camp he would speak to Keys for a moment. “Hey,” he'd say to open the conversation while letting the others pass. “You should accompany me to Terryn. He's the commander, and he'll want to speak to you.” He'd then lead the way to the center of the camp, following the wooden planks that'd been laid out as a path of sorts. In the center of the camp was a great tent. It was lit inside, a certain luxury generally reserved for the noble and the commanding. 

It seemed to be the latter. Haesteinn opened the flaps of the tent, and walked inside, holding open the flaps for Keys to pass through as well. Behind a desk was Terryn, looking at some map of sorts. As Haesteinn entered he'd raise his eyes from his works and look at the two men. “Haestein. My favorite sergeant.” There was a large amount of sarcasm in the words Terryn spoke. “What can I do for you and.. whomever this may be.” 

Haesteinn bowed lightly, before approaching closer. “Me and my men found a brigand encampment not too far from here. We cleared it out and managed to take two captives. Might be able to get some information, or perhaps sell them at the next town we come to. This man here helped us. He saved the cooks life.” Terryn looked at Keys for a moment, seemingly not as impressed as anyone else would've been. “Right. Well, do with the captives as you please. You took them. Don't make them my problem. As for this man, I'll have a talk with him.”

Haesteinn nodded and attempted to leave the tent again, but was interrupted by Terryn. “And Haesteinn, get that arm fixed up. You're bleeding all over the place..” Haesteinn held his tongue, and continued on his way out of the tent. As he passed Keys he would tell him to meet the rest at the back right corner of the camp. Keys would then be left with Terryn as Haesteinn made his exit.

Haesteinn left the tent and immediately took a right, heading for their own little corner. He had no intention of fixing the wound, as the surgeons were always all over the place, and never in their own tents. It would be a lot of work to track one down for a simple small cut. But as he crossed a corner, he stumbled upon what seemed to be a woman with a sword, stitching up a man. He approached her right as she finished up, and looked upon her. “I've a cut.” he said norsely. “Do you have time to come with me and stitch me up?” he then asked, slightly more friendly. As he did so, he showed her his upper arm, which had a cut about 8 centimetres wide. It wasn't too deep, luckily, but it'd be better for Haesteinn if he did get it stitched.

If the woman agreed, he would walk back to the corner of the camp where Eira, Jahan, Genseric and Ellinor would most likely be. He'd sit down in front of his own tent, which was only slightly larger than that of the others. Those that had one, anyway. It seemed like Eira did not even have a tent. As he sat down he would take off the top layer of his armor, the heavy boiled leather he wore over the breastplate, before removing the breastplate. Third was the chainmail - the process of taking off the armor always reminded Haesteinn how annoying armor actually was.

After the chainmail all that remained was the gambeson, which he took off as well. Under it was only a light, red tunic. It reached to his elbows, so all he had to do was pull up the sleeve and let the surgeon do her work. On his upper arms and neck, as well as a small part of his chest, were some signs of tribal markings. No effort was made to hide them however. 

“Eira,” A few moments had passed in silence, as nobody seemed to be particularly talkative. Haesteinns voice had broken that silence. “Make a fire.” It was an order, more or less. The northern man lived up to every stereotype that the southerners had about the northerners. At least personality wise. Then Haesteinns gaze would go over the faces of Genseric and Jahan. “Fine work today. Where are you guys from?” Using his free arm, he leaned back and grabbed something from his tent. Rummaging through a few items he pulled out some salted meat, before proceeding to stick it in his mouth and start chewing. “Then I know where to deliver a letter if you die.” Not necessarily meant to insult or belittle the others, the words certainly came out that way. However, death was common in warbands. A sergeant would most likely need to send a few letters in his service, and it was easiest if you knew where to deliver them.

Furthermore, it was a chance to learn more about his fellow soldiers. If they were going to survive, it was probably best to get to know them a little.

Meanwhile, in Terryns tent, the man would look up at Keys and give him a thorough look. “Your body looks like that of a nobleman. A little frail, if I may say so.” he spoke, harsh words with a harsher tone. “Your armor confirms that. Who are you, where are you from, and why are you here?”

Gawain clumsily stepped forwards, body battered still from the beating he had received. He had followed the Eretol lady, and proceeded to the church, which was nothing more than a heap of smoldering ruins at this point. By God, how could the elves sustain being in the smoke so long? Some elven magic, surely. Gawain himself was trying his best not to cough his damn lungs up..

As he approached the church the elf, whom seemed to be the leader, approached him and rudely dragged him by the arm. A shove further and Gawain was standing next to the large steed. It was a fine steed, making Gawain wonder how the elves could even afford such beasts. He'd seen many horses in the royal stables that would appear inferior to this steed. The elf instructed him to take seat, or rather, take saddle. “Why not give me my own horse? Surely you have had casualties. Their horses must be around here.” he asked, rebelliously looking back at the man. Or elf, rather. “I mean, my hands are bound, I have no armor and you have my weapons. If I survive your warriors chasing me down, I won't survive the desert. Surely, my own horse would be benefici-” 

He interrupted himself, taking a moment of silence before looking at the horse again. It seemed he reached the conclusion of futility in asking the man for his own horse. “Right.. I didn't think so..” he silently mumbled as he grabbed the horses reins and slung himself on top. It was a timely process, since his hands were bound. If the elf had been so stupid as to let him sit on the back of the horse, Gawain could've tried to strangle him and take him hostage - force the elves to give him weapons, and armor, and then take a horse and make an escape. But no, the elf seemed smarter than that.

Must've taken slaves before.

As soon as he was seated he looked at the elf, viciously. “I'll have you know that if we happen to get ambushed by angry mages, I'll be hopping off of this horse. I'd rather not serve as your meat-shield, and I'm sure you'd rather fight without me on your horse. No disrespect, elf.” The word 'elf' came out even more vicious than Gawain's face was at this moment. Before he came to this area, to investigate the border region, he had hated the elves and the mages. When the mage captured him, he had hated mages more than elves. But now that the elves had captured him without even as much as a chance at defending himself, he really, really hated the elves. And he was sure that they knew as much.

When the elf asked for his name he intended, with every inch of his body, to simply meet the elf with silence. But Gawain's arrogance and self esteem prohibited him from doing as much. He wished to die with at least his name known - so that perhaps he could go down as a hero, fighting an elven warband who tried to harm civilians. It would be a painful death, probably, but it'd be better than dying a nameless knight. “My name is Gawain Castagher.. of Keep Sudval. You'd do well to remember it.” The mans words were aimed to be a threat - indirectly so, anyway. It cost Gawain a lot of patience to keep himself from simply taking the horse and attempting to ride off with it, or to jump at the elf and tear his throat out. His bound hands might have stopped him from doing the latter, but a skilled knight needed no hands to ride a horse. “I'd rather band up with the mages than the elves, right about now..” he softly mumbled as he looked forwards, out into the desert, waiting for the elf to mount the horse and do whatever he wanted to do. 

It was so humiliating, being captured like this.

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