Lucky Knight

| 𝔊𝔩𝔦𝔪𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴 | 𝔞 𝔗𝔞𝔩𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔇𝔦𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔱

So today I found out that there is a paint color called "Acceptable Beige", and people actually paint their houses with this. Part of me thinks that's hilarious, and the other part of me will lie awake at night contemplating what it is that constitutes an unacceptable beige...

Anyway! I posted Kieriel in the characters tab after a tiny bit of touch-up. Probably going to put a little elbow grease into my first post before crashing tonight, with the intent of having it done in the next few days.

| 𝔊𝔩𝔦𝔪𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴 | 𝔞 𝔗𝔞𝔩𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔇𝔦𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔱

Kieriel “Kestrel” Valcora

General

Name: Kieriel “Kestrel” Valcora
Race: Elf
Age: 122

Appearance
She is cinders and smoke, were one to pluck a line of poetry to lay upon Kieriel’s shoulders. Of considerable height for her people, she is corded with lean muscle and sinew beneath windburnt, heavily tanned skin. Raven-black hair lies in ragged, coarse sheaves down to her shoulder blades, habitually bound in string or in half-remembered braids she learned from her mother and sisters long ago. Eyes of pure, startling amber glare out from beneath thick brows, assessing and marking the world around her, almost never at rest. Little about her is graceful, though she moves with the calm surety and confidence of one accustomed to a life of gunpowder and steel.

Personal

Hate drove me here, consuming as a raging fire, a pure white-hot blaze – it drove me across the sands, through forgotten places and terrible storms, and the breaking of everything I ever knew. Until day had passed to night, and again, and again, and the unyielding sun worked its own fury upon me, and the hatred flared down to fading embers and all that was left was the shadow of what I was…

Biography

She had thought to be a hero, once, but life rarely allows for the dreams of children to flourish the way they’d like. The cruel, steady progress of time has a habit of stealing from the idealistic the heart of their aspirations, leaving little but dust and wistful nostalgia in its wake.

On the scale of the short-lived races who drive the world into which she was born, Kieriel was sired when ancient history was still the news of the day; even to her own people it was in many ways a different era, predating even the hopeful and – in the words of her father – vainly foolish Eildi Society’s foundation.

Her home was a kind one, all things considered, though despite her father’s reputation as a magnificent trader and pillar of the elven community-in-exile, his quick temper and pride saw his family uprooted and replanted with regularity within the borders of Berevin. Her mother and her sisters served as a positive and nurturing counterbalance, and all of them encouraged in the family’s youngest daughter the idea that she could do anything with her life, unbound by any expectations save those she placed upon herself.

It was this spirit of freedom which led her to roam the halls of whichever home the family inhabited, dodging tutors and engaging invisible foes in armed combat, usually to the death. No trees or trimmed shrubberies were safe from her terrorizing and terrible fury, at least not until her father grew tired of her waywardness and decided to try pushing her back to her studies by enlisting the services of an irascible, alcoholic, and unapologetically brutal weaponmaster to beat the spirit of adventure out of her.

But the best laid plans often go awry – she took to the curmudgeonly instructor’s lessons as a fish to water, gaining skill with almost preternatural speed. As she outgrew her first teacher she took on others, younger and more able to keep up with her across the years. Her sisters grew as well, each more beautiful and graceful than Kieriel and easy enough for her parents to pair off, and who in turn seemed to embrace their civil and cultural duties as elfen wombs with gusto.

Desperate to make similar use of her youngest daughter to expand the elfen race, her mother eventually discovered another elf of the same cloth as Kieriel, a dashing rogue who flitted through human society as though he’d been born to it, earning a reputation not only as a talented warrior but as something of a philosopher as well; arranging for her daughter and this promising candidate to meet (quite by accident) proved challenging, but rewarding.

Kieriel and Daeryn became acquainted in the gardens across crossed blades, and soon shared far more than just a love of combat.

Their attempt to undo the damage of the Burning Egress between matrimonial sheets proved futile, however, for as the years passed it became clear that Kieriel was barren, unable to serve her race in the capacity required of her. This, coupled with her father’s refusal to support the burgeoning Eildi Society – a vanity project he considered a ruinous endeavor at best – threw her family quickly from grace amongst their racial peers, and in a desperate bid for self-preservation Kieriel’s sisters and mother distanced themselves from daughter and father both.

One exception remained, however, as Ilaya – eldest of Kieriel’s sisters – bucked the family’s disdain and remained loyal and a constant companion to the unluckiest Valcora daughter.

With the passage of time came another disaster, however; a betrayal of another sort soon radically altered the course of Kieriel’s life and the lives of her family. Seeking the comfort and honor of doing his due diligence for the elfen race, Daeryn managed to sire a child of his own with Ilaya, a grave mistake which destroyed both Daeryn’s reputation and his lover’s life.

Mother and daughter perished in the throes of childbirth while the culprit fled. Broken by the betrayals, horrified by the carnage wrought, and now possessed of a terrible wrath, Kieriel took up what remained of her household and gave chase, seeking retribution.

Long years passed, and long miles wore past underfoot. Many jobs of dubious morality came and went, and what stones she garnered on the path often came from those enlisting her skills with the blade and pistol. Money became increasingly important, though always fleeting -- it would be a long time before Kieriel would find the one she sought, and though much occupied her in the intervening years nothing was ever enough to dissuade her from the hunt. Finally, only a short time prior to the beginning of the story, she caught up to him at last.

What began so very long ago as a sparring match between would-be lovers ended in a battle in the pitch-black darkness of the desert night, filled only with the light of gunfire and the sound of an approaching storm. It lasted mere minutes but felt like forever, neither combatant able to definitively finish the job of vengeance or self-preservation before the dust storm caught them, guns abandoned and blades crossed as the wind threw them from their feet and ripped the world apart around them.

Beaten, bloody, and burnt out to her core, Kieriel staggered from that unholy night towards the only civilization she might conceivably reach before dying. And it was there, half buried in the dust, that a Kevol caravan found her and brought her – for a price – to the bastion of Glimhollow. No sign of her once-paramour remained, and he never surfaced in the city or in the talk of traders.

Unsure of herself and of what remained of her solemn vows of revenge, exhausted from half a lifetime of pursuit and from a battle which very probably should have stolen her life, she found herself in search of something to do, of something to occupy her hands and mind so that they could not be turned back to the road and the yawning abyssal question of whether her quarry yet lived, for she knew in her heart of hearts that he did not.

And so it was thus that the Dusthawks found her, gathering dust and drink in the dim emerald light of Lower Shenul. It took little effort to persuade the self-named “Kestrel” to their service, though perhaps not their causes; the immediacy of their desires serves as a sort of pleasant, numbing balm for Kieriel now, and provides her with a way to pay back those who saved her life and to stay in her cups. It also provides her the fringe benefit of keeping her out of the eye of the Wid and its masters, for whom she’s inherited her father’s distaste.

Prime Motive: Seeking a Purpose
Accessory Motives: Slaking Frustration, Avoiding Pain, Drifting

Internal Conflict: The major internal conflict facing Kieriel now is the apparent end to her pursuit of vengeance. The need to move on coupled with the inability to recognize it. Sustained for so very long on her hate and pain, she finds herself adrift and unsure for the first time in living memory, unable to bridge the gap and overcome the howling void gnawing at the pit of her stomach. In an effort to feed that emptiness and avoid the pain of self-assessment, she buries herself now in the only thing she’s ever been particularly good at: Cracking bones and spilling blood.

Vocational

Occupation: Enforcer

Talents

• Long-Lived: Kieriel’s life has been long, and while a great deal of it has been narrowly focused, it does leave her with a wide array of experiences to draw upon.
• Martial Skill: Having honed her combat prowess both under many tutors and through a lifetime of spilling blood for the currency necessary to continue her hunt, Kieriel is no slouch with sword or pistol.
• Bloodhound: She’s spent a long time tracking, and consequently has gotten really good at it. It helped that she had such elusive prey.

Flaws

• Uninterested: Her narrow focus and her recent victory have left her fairly detached from things around her, and she tends to drift without focus when not actively engaged in a particular task.
• Barren: Something of a mortal sin amongst her kind, she is unable to bear children and does her best to avoid the company of her race.
• Bad With Money: Beyond basic sustenance, housing, and equipment maintenance, Kieriel doesn’t really handle money very well. She usually wastes almost everything she earns, often splitting it between trying to repay the Kevol who saved her and drowning herself in alcohol or other intoxicants.

Equipment
What raiment she bears is tattered and frayed, long worn out from the road and weather. Tough boots, loose leggings, a pair of wide studded belts, and a simple tunic coming apart at the seams are all she usually dons beneath her threadbare traveling cloak and ragged leather cuirass. Unremarkable, in general. An array of pouches, pistols, and ancient elfen fighting-blades mark her as a rung above the common traveler, however.

Supplemental

Secrets: Though she does not think on it often or too deeply, sometimes the details Kieriel remembers from the night of her sister’s death – and the close encounters with Daeryn over the years – don’t quite align with the narrative she clings to.

Quirks: Kieriel is capable of playing several instruments with varying degrees of skill and once considered musical pursuits to be almost as important as martial training, though has since let the former slip by.

| 𝔊𝔩𝔦𝔪𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴 | 𝔞 𝔗𝔞𝔩𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔇𝔦𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔱

Excellent! Glad I pass muster. Might clean Kieriel's sheet up a tiny bit before putting her in the characters tab, but she'll be there soon!

And there’s no need to apologize for the delay – I’ve just bought a house, and in getting it ready I’ve become intimately familiar with the true meaning of busy-ness on my end as well. Or perhaps just stepped sideways into a dimension where free time simply doesn’t exist in normal quantities? Haha.

Either way, very excited to join the game. Looking forward to firing up the writing engine with this crew!

| 𝔊𝔩𝔦𝔪𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴 | 𝔞 𝔗𝔞𝔩𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔇𝔦𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔱

My schedule will be a little erratic for the next few weeks, but I wanted to toss my hat in the ring sooner rather than later in case you were still accepting applications. Very interesting setting you've woven here! If I've gotten anything wrong in my signup, please let me know. Likewise, if I did miss my shot, no worries!

---

Kieriel “Kestrel” Valcora

General

Name: Kieriel “Kestrel” Valcora
Race: Elf
Age: 122

Appearance
She is cinders and smoke, were one to pluck a line of poetry to lay upon Kieriel’s shoulders. Of considerable height for her people, she is corded with lean muscle and sinew beneath windburnt, heavily tanned skin. Raven-black hair lies in ragged, coarse sheaves down to her shoulder blades, habitually bound in string or in half-remembered braids she learned from her mother and sisters long ago. Eyes of pure, startling amber glare out from beneath thick brows, assessing and marking the world around her, almost never at rest. Little about her is graceful, though she moves with the calm surety and confidence of one accustomed to a life of gunpowder and steel.

Personal

Hate drove me here, consuming as a raging fire, a pure white-hot blaze – it drove me across the sands, through forgotten places and terrible storms, and the breaking of everything I ever knew. Until day had passed to night, and again, and again, and the unyielding sun worked its own fury upon me, and the hatred flared down to fading embers and all that was left was the shadow of what I was…

Biography

She had thought to be a hero, once, but life rarely allows for the dreams of children to flourish the way they’d like. The cruel, steady progress of time has a habit of stealing from the idealistic the heart of their aspirations, leaving little but dust and wistful nostalgia in its wake.

On the scale of the short-lived races who drive the world into which she was born, Kieriel was sired when ancient history was still the news of the day; even to her own people it was in many ways a different era, predating even the hopeful and – in the words of her father – vainly foolish Eildi Society’s foundation.

Her home was a kind one, all things considered, though despite her father’s reputation as a magnificent trader and pillar of the elven community-in-exile, his quick temper and pride saw his family uprooted and replanted with regularity within the borders of Berevin. Her mother and her sisters served as a positive and nurturing counterbalance, and all of them encouraged in the family’s youngest daughter the idea that she could do anything with her life, unbound by any expectations save those she placed upon herself.

It was this spirit of freedom which led her to roam the halls of whichever home the family inhabited, dodging tutors and engaging invisible foes in armed combat, usually to the death. No trees or trimmed shrubberies were safe from her terrorizing and terrible fury, at least not until her father grew tired of her waywardness and decided to try pushing her back to her studies by enlisting the services of an irascible, alcoholic, and unapologetically brutal weaponmaster to beat the spirit of adventure out of her.

But the best laid plans often go awry – she took to the curmudgeonly instructor’s lessons as a fish to water, gaining skill with almost preternatural speed. As she outgrew her first teacher she took on others, younger and more able to keep up with her across the years. Her sisters grew as well, each more beautiful and graceful than Kieriel and easy enough for her parents to pair off, and who in turn seemed to embrace their civil and cultural duties as elfen wombs with gusto.

Desperate to make similar use of her youngest daughter to expand the elfen race, her mother eventually discovered another elf of the same cloth as Kieriel, a dashing rogue who flitted through human society as though he’d been born to it, earning a reputation not only as a talented warrior but as something of a philosopher as well; arranging for her daughter and this promising candidate to meet (quite by accident) proved challenging, but rewarding.

Kieriel and Daeryn became acquainted in the gardens across crossed blades, and soon shared far more than just a love of combat.

Their attempt to undo the damage of the Burning Egress between matrimonial sheets proved futile, however, for as the years passed it became clear that Kieriel was barren, unable to serve her race in the capacity required of her. This, coupled with her father’s refusal to support the burgeoning Eildi Society – a vanity project he considered a ruinous endeavor at best – threw her family quickly from grace amongst their racial peers, and in a desperate bid for self-preservation Kieriel’s sisters and mother distanced themselves from daughter and father both.

One exception remained, however, as Ilaya – eldest of Kieriel’s sisters – bucked the family’s disdain and remained loyal and a constant companion to the unluckiest Valcora daughter.

With the passage of time came another disaster, however; a betrayal of another sort soon radically altered the course of Kieriel’s life and the lives of her family. Seeking the comfort and honor of doing his due diligence for the elfen race, Daeryn managed to sire a child of his own with Ilaya, a grave mistake which destroyed both Daeryn’s reputation and his lover’s life.

Mother and daughter perished in the throes of childbirth while the culprit fled. Broken by the betrayals, horrified by the carnage wrought, and now possessed of a terrible wrath, Kieriel took up what remained of her household and gave chase, seeking retribution.

Long years passed, and long miles wore past underfoot. Many jobs of dubious morality came and went, and what coin she garnered on the path often came from those enlisting her skills with the blade and pistol. Money became increasingly important, though always fleeting -- it would be a long time before Kieriel would find the one she sought, and though much occupied her in the intervening years nothing was ever enough to dissuade her from the hunt. Finally, only a short time prior to the beginning of the story, she caught up to him at last.

What began so very long ago as a sparring match between would-be lovers ended in a battle in the pitch-black darkness of the desert night, filled only with the light of gunfire and the sound of an approaching storm. It lasted mere minutes but felt like forever, neither combatant able to definitively finish the job of vengeance or self-preservation before the dust storm caught them, guns abandoned and blades crossed as the wind threw them from their feet and ripped the world apart around them.

Beaten, bloody, and burnt out to her core, Kieriel staggered from that unholy night towards the only civilization she might conceivably reach before dying. And it was there, half buried in the dust, that a Kevol caravan found her and brought her – for a price – to the bastion of Glimhollow. No sign of her once-paramour remained, and he never surfaced in the city or in the talk of traders.

Unsure of herself and of what remained of her solemn vows of revenge, exhausted from half a lifetime of pursuit and from a battle which very probably should have stolen her life, she found herself in search of something to do, of something to occupy her hands and mind so that they could not be turned back to the road and the yawning abyssal question of whether her quarry yet lived, for she knew in her heart of hearts that he did not.

And so it was thus that the Dusthawks found her, gathering dust and drink in the dim emerald light of Lower Shenul. It took little effort to persuade the self-named “Kestrel” to their service, though perhaps not their causes; the immediacy of their desires serves as a sort of pleasant, numbing balm for Kieriel now, and provides her with a way to pay back those who saved her life and to stay in her cups. It also provides her the fringe benefit of keeping her out of the eye of the Wid and its masters, for whom she’s inherited her father’s distaste.

Prime Motive: Seeking a Purpose
Accessory Motives: Slaking Frustration, Avoiding Pain, Drifting

Internal Conflict: The major internal conflict facing Kieriel now is the apparent end to her pursuit of vengeance. The need to move on coupled with the inability to recognize it. Sustained for so very long on her hate and pain, she finds herself adrift and unsure for the first time in living memory, unable to bridge the gap and overcome the howling void gnawing at the pit of her stomach. In an effort to feed that emptiness and avoid the pain of self-assessment, she buries herself now in the only thing she’s ever been particularly good at: Cracking bones and spilling blood.

Vocational

Occupation: Enforcer

Talents

• Long-Lived: Kieriel’s life has been long, and while a great deal of it has been narrowly focused, it does leave her with a wide array of experiences to draw upon.
• Martial Skill: Having honed her combat prowess both under many tutors and through a lifetime of spilling blood for the currency necessary to continue her hunt, Kieriel is no slouch with sword or pistol.
• Bloodhound: She’s spent a long time tracking, and consequently has gotten really good at it. It helped that she had such elusive prey.

Flaws

• Uninterested: Her narrow focus and her recent victory have left her fairly detached from things around her, and she tends to drift without focus when not actively engaged in a particular task.
• Barren: Something of a mortal sin amongst her kind, she is unable to bear children and does her best to avoid the company of her race.
• Bad With Money: Beyond basic sustenance, housing, and equipment maintenance, Kieriel doesn’t really handle money very well. She usually wastes almost everything she earns, often splitting it between trying to repay the Kevol who saved her and drowning herself in alcohol or other intoxicants.

Equipment
What raiment she bears is tattered and frayed, long worn out from the road and weather. Tough boots, loose leggings, a pair of wide studded belts, and a simple tunic coming apart at the seams are all she usually dons beneath her threadbare traveling cloak and ragged leather cuirass. Unremarkable, in general. An array of pouches, pistols, and ancient elfen fighting-blades mark her as a rung above the common traveler, however.

Supplemental

Secrets: Though she does not think on it often or too deeply, sometimes the details Kieriel remembers from the night of her sister’s death – and the close encounters with Daeryn over the years – don’t quite align with the narrative she clings to.

Quirks: Kieriel is capable of playing several instruments with varying degrees of skill and once considered musical pursuits to be almost as important as martial training, though has since let the former slip by.

The Wheel of Time - Trolloc Wars

Posted. I absolutely could not resist the intro, and I am rusty as hell, so I apologize for both in advance.

I have one more post yet to finish, and then Rennet should find his way to the palace in Manetheren.

The Wheel of Time - Trolloc Wars

Rennet Kyne

Outskirts of Manetheren, The Day Before

****

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age long past, a wind rose amidst the tall grass and vast landscapes of Manetheren. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.

Daylight's warm embrace already waned as the seeking wind reached the dozen riders who rode the well-worn road to the Kingdom's capital, the soft heat of the day fading into the prickling chill of evening's shadow. Though none of the riders showed any outward sign of their fatigue they nonetheless felt it, and though few would admit they favored the falling of the sun they would not deny that the breeze felt good after a long day's travel.

At the head of this band of hard-pressed soldiers rode Prince Rennet Kyne, his long hair tangling itself in the breeze even as he fought to keep his eyes open against it. Upon his saddle was fixed a blade fit for masters and upon his hand a signet ring that marked his royal blood; his bearing was regal … imperious … but even the least astute observer could see the way he wavered in the saddle, and the way sweat slicked the clothes that sucked and pulled at him as he pressed his stoic band ever onward.

Scattered glances passed amongst the riders behind him, knowing looks and frustrated grimaces – nothing they would ever display to their young commander's face, but that needed to be aired amongst them to relieve some measure of the tension. Most of these pointed expressions settled in full upon the whip-thin soldier who rode mere paces back from the commander, a bodyguard who had followed his charge loyally into military service and who, when able, served as the mouthpiece of soldiers too wary of their Prince to speak their minds directly to him.

Eridin, the bodyguard in question, accepted their weary frustration with a sympathetic smile even as he shrugged. Speaking truth to power is a risky endeavour, he seemed to say. Even for a lifelong friend. And so the soldiers rolled their eyes and reigned in their tempers, and the ride pressed onward, and their prince remained – for the moment – oblivious.

It was not until the sun began its final descent over the edge of the world that their long ride began to slow. Beneath the blazing shadow of the dying sun, pressed out across either side of the road there against the horizon, every man amongst them could make out the shapes of people and wagons and the first glimmering sparks of cookfires dotting the assembled masses. Though the wind did not favor them, the riders could almost smell charring meat upon the breeze, a rumbling of hunger rising in answer.

As the Prince and his retinue drew closer, a handful of figures detached themselves from the roadside camp and stalked towards them. A pair of soldiers rode up to flank their Prince with weapons near the ready, and Eridin joined them with a bow in his hands, an arrow not far from the notch.

Distance closed between the two groups, and before a full half of the sun had perished they found themselves close enough to assess one another. Leading the band of motley travelers was a slip of a woman more handsome than pretty, and at her back a dozen men and women of varying ages. Each wore only the threadbare clothes on their backs, and only a scattered few carried anything resembling a weapon. Tarnished swords and splintered spears comprised their armament.

It was as sorry a defensive force as Rennet had ever seen. He waved his soldiers to slow their advance as they came closer to the travelers, he himself trying his best to reign his horse in the way he'd been taught. Unlike the show horses he'd grown accustomed to, these damnable warhorses always proved tougher to control and more headstrong than responsive, yet still he managed to bring it down into a languid trot.

As if his master's shadow, Eridin slid in full beside him, an easy smirk on his pale lips. “What say you, Highness? A dangerous band of highwaymen? I could fell their fearsome warrior queen with an arrow twixt the eyes and save us all a pitched battle on the plain.” He gestured softly with the bow in his hand. “She makes for a difficult target, sure enough, but I'd wager even in this light I'd not miss.”

Rennet grimaced. “Somehow I doubt these people present that great a threat,” he answered, shooing his bodyguard back. “And aren't you usually the one cautioning diplomacy over violence?”

To which his bodyguard only laughed. “A day's hard ride and half a day yet to the capital, Highness … I'm itching for distraction, no matter the shape of it.”

The Prince shook his head and once more waved his companion back, slowing his ride to a standstill a stone's throw from the travelers who awaited them. The rest of his soldiers did likewise, taking up position behind and to either side of their headstrong charge. One of them, his standard bearer, raised the flag of Aelgar quickly as if to ward off needless questions before they could form.

Without showing much in the way of fear, the woman at the head of the group stepped in to close the gap between herself and the Prince, her empty hands held before her in a show of peace.

“I do not recognize your standard,” she said, voice husky and much stronger than Rennet expected from so small a frame. “But I know it for a royal sigil or military mark, and so I entreat you to consider us friends.”

Rennet echoed the woman's lack of caution and trotted his horse a little closer as well. “It is the banner of Aelgar, and we are its loyal soldiers. If friendship if offered, then friendship will be answered.” He slid from his mount and found his feet on solid earth, taking a moment to regain his balance before turning to face the woman once more. “Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“Miranna, a merchant by trade. As are most of those I speak for.” Her thick brows furrowed slightly. “You're a long way from home. I'd guess you're here to reinforce the front, but it looks like you didn't think to bring an army with you. I hate to break it to you, but a dozen soldiers probably aren't going to tip the balance.”

“Just the vanguard, I assure you. The rest of the army is well on its way. We're pursuing something of a … political errand. A quick stopover in the capital before rejoining the main.”

A sharp indrawn breath from Eridin cautioned him to watch his words, but Rennet saw little point in doing so. It wasn't like this was a mission of utmost importance, after all – I've been sent to mingle with the royals and their court to keep me away from real fighting, at least until Captain-General Kumana is content that there'll be a couple of armies between me and real danger. Or more likely he just wants me out from underfoot and found a way to do it whilst appeasing my father's ego. The hoary old bastard.

The merchant – Miranna – paused thoughtfully, then signaled for her fellows to relinquish their arms. Most lowered them, but few let go entirely. Not that Rennet really blamed them. A time of war fed the desire to remain armed, especially amongst those one did not know. A very human impulse, that.

When faced with implacable Shadow one does well to carry a Light of one's own. Scholar Remmond Valdar's words, one of those old masters of the metaphorical who found solace in florid prose but had little to say that others hadn’t already beaten him to decades earlier. Valdar'd been alluding to the necessity of maintaining arms should the need for civil resistance against tyranny arise. But then … in times like these, pithy metaphors tend to take on a more literal interpretation, don't they?

The Prince of Aelgar grimaced and pushed the thought away, even as Miranna cast a glance back at his soldiers. “Well met, then, Captain … ?”

“Kyne,” Rennet answered, reflexively. Another hiss from his bodyguard, the worrywort.

She proffered a hand and Rennet took it, shaking. “Well met, Captain Kyne.”

“Well met, Miranna.”

The tension fell away from Miranna, and the rest of her group began to disperse, making their way back towards the wagons and cookfires that awaited them. Rennet felt a momentary pang for the embrace of a sanctuary of his own, suddenly aware that it might well be time to call it a night. It must have showed in his expression for Miranna grinned and followed his gaze over, then back.

One callused hand gestured absently as the other fell to her hip. “We don't have much, Captain, and I fear supplies will become increasingly scarce as the damnable Trollocs and the Shadow's other horrors continue pressing in … but it wouldn't hurt us much to offer you and yours a well-cooked meal and our company for the night, should you wish it. And I think it would do us some moral good to support the people fighting to save our lives, too.”

Rennet hesitated, the day's fatigue slowing his thoughts a bit. Part of him wanted to keep pressing onwards, to make another few miles to shorten the following day's travel … but another part of him was suddenly aware of the prickling feel of daggers at his back from the men he led, who might well mutiny if he kept them on the road for even a minute longer. Should they share a camp or keep separate? Should they put distance between themselves and the merchants, then wander off the road to be safe?

A quick glance to Eridan bought him nothing; the bodyguard's expression was studiously blank.

What would Galen do, here? Or Aric? Blood and ashes. Why did it always have to be difficult to weigh outcomes? Why couldn't the choice just be easy for once?

He sighed. “We'd be glad to share the road with you and yours tonight, Miranna. We'll camp beside you and offer you our protection for the evening in exchange for that meal you mentioned. It's the least we can do.”

Miranna clapped her hands together and grinned. “We have an accord, then. Come on then, Captain. Follow me and we'll clear you a space for your tents.”

She turned and began her walk back towards her people. Eridin dismounted and came to stand beside his Prince, saying nothing, neither affirming nor criticizing his commander's decision. It irked Rennet, that distance and silence. Until he caught the way his bodyguard's eyes followed Miranna as she led them towards the camp, anyway.

A deep smirk wormed its way across his lips as he shot a knowing look to his companion. “No matter the shape of it, eh?”

Eridin blushed, but continued to say nothing.

The Prince, thus emboldened with sudden humor, turned to his soldiers and boomed out a command he hoped they were waiting to hear.

“Well c'mon men, you heard the woman! Get yourselves dismounted – we're calling it a night.”

The Wheel of Time - Trolloc Wars

Been fighting a nasty head cold and dealing with job-hunting shenanigans, but I should have a post up tonight or tomorrow.

The Wheel of Time - Trolloc Wars

The first IC post is up!

@aviendha

Woot woot! Anything in particular you want Rennet to be doing? Anything you want me to start setting up?

The Wheel of Time - Trolloc Wars

@aviendha -- This response is pretty much what I was looking for; it's solidly reasoned, more fleshed out, and answers my concerns. I believe it lays my argument to rest.

The Wheel of Time - Trolloc Wars

@aviendha -- You make a good point that a lack of training would be death. I don't dispute that at all in any way, shape, or form. But rather than "I want my kid to potentially die knowing that I could have done something about it...", might not those parents think something more primal, like "I just don't want to lose my child"? And to wish, in the face of all the reality around them, that they did not have to give her up? And to be maybe just a little angry that there was no choice, regardless of the aristocratic zeitgeist or altruistic inclination?