Tate Daalgard
Three years ago:
“You really can’t be more specific, can you?” Tate asked for the fifth time, sending a sideways glance towards the four individuals who were meant to oversee his Reckoning day ceremony. They stood stiffly beside the fountain and said nothing, only observing while they waited for the boy to choose one of the many goblets that littered the room. The only piece of advice he’d been given so far was that the goblet would “choose” him, which in his opinion, wasn’t very good advice at all.
“How is a goblet even supposed to choose anything? It isn’t like it has a consciousness or something like that... Does it?” Tate paused and turned to the four again, receiving only silence before continuing his leisurely pace around the room. His eyes swept carefully through the wide selection of goblets while he silently pondered his own questions. Perhaps he’d find his answers when he found his goblet, Tate thought a little more hopeful. It wasn’t like these geezers seemed ever willing to answer his questions themselves. The whole process seemed silly to him anyway, because at the end of the day it didn’t matter what some fancy cup and a little magic water said, the choice was still his. He was going to become a mercenary. He was going to fight.
“What happens if I pick the wrong one?” another question slipped through his lips, but Tate didn’t raise his studying gaze from the goblets, instead taking the search a bit more seriously as to not prolong the ceremony too much. “Will it not work? Or does it really not matter which one I choose, so long as I’m the one who chooses it?” he continues to inquire. Perhaps he should just go ahead and pick at random? Would the four geezers notice if he did?
A few more steps and Tate stopped again, eyeing each of the goblets within reach. They all seemed suitable enough for the task. He should just pick one already, he grumbled in his head. Finally, he let his eyes rest on a small goblet tucked a few rows back from the edge of the table. With a brass casted stem that rose up and hugged an unevenly blown glass bowl, it looked rather awkward beside the rest of the many shinier, more rounded goblets. He couldn’t tell if the intricate, twisting design was meant to be leaves or not because of how sloppily it had been casted, and in a few places it even looked like it had melted into the glass, forcing it to bulge slightly and ruin what would otherwise be a nearly round shape. It was absolutely the ugliest thing Tate had ever laid eyes on, and yet the longer his eyes mocked it, the more charming it appeared, like it was screaming for the chance to decide his fate. Perhaps this is what the geezers had meant when they said the goblet would choose him.
For once, Tate didn’t ask any questions. Instead, he reached across the long table and plucked the small goblet up from the rest, carefully lifting it closer so as to admire its details further. It really was poorly crafted. Then he turned and strode confidently towards the fountain and the waiting four.
“This is your last chance to tell me I picked the wrong one.” He warned while stealing a hesitant glance at each of the elders steely faces. Again, they said nothing, and Tate took this as a sign of encouragement and went ahead and dipped his goblet into the fountain. When he brought the glass up and let the water settle, it immediately turned Harbinger blue.
Tate felt his chest tighten and his eyebrows knit together while he simply stared into the goblet.
- - -
After the ceremony, Tate spent most of the night alone, thinking about that cup full of blue water. When the time came the next morning for him to decide his Estuarie, he chose Harbinger. It was a pleasant surprise for anyone who knew him, but most of all his parents, who hadnt liked the idea of their son becoming just another soldier. For them, Harbinger suited the boy much more.
- - -
Present time:
Tate enjoyed the light breeze while he sat beside a tree on the edge of camp, his eyes trained on the pages of a thin paperback novel. Beside him, curled up and faintly snoring was a white rabbit, its head crowned with thin, off-white antlers. He was mindful of the critter while he flipped through his book, not really paying much mind to the story itself. Instead he listened to others in the camp while they went about their own routines, listening in on bits of gossip and mundane stories when he could, and otherwise just people watching. It was like a hobby for him, honestly, and while he had little do to lately, was his only escape from boredom.
A few moments later and something by the tree line to his left caught his attention, drawing his eyes up in time to see Samuel and his partner returning to camp. The former sported what Tate would interpret as a solemn face, and didn’t look at all interested in talking. If he recalled correctly, the man had gone hunting earlier, but it didn’t look like he was carrying very much now.
“Poor day for hunting?” Tate asked casually, closing his book and standing from where he’d been sitting. Beside him, Jojo jerked awake, ears standing up out of reflex and his red eyes darting about for a few moments. “Or did you run into other troubles?” he added a bit more curiously.
