Jordan Forthey
The city felt almost overwhelmingly massive to the young guy wandering the streets. The houses counted in many thousands. The people, probably hundreds of thousands. To the best of his knowledge, he only knew two of them ... one was behind the walls of the Magic Academy, and the other had
explicitly dismissed him to take care of some personal business. Which is to say, his wandering was more than just slightly aimless.
Back at home, it had just been his family, the neighbors, and the occasional trip to the market with the bartering it entailed. After that, since age twelve, he had been the Glades' stable boy, and mostly interacted with the other stable folk, guests and their servants and squires, and the occasional Glade, from the gentle Lady Glade to the indeed quite intimidating Sir Tareon himself. The latter, was, luckily, a rare sight. For the longest time, the head of the hold only seemed to acknowledge his existence if he needed his horse prepared, and Jordan on his part had not managed to fade into the background quickly enough.
The younger Glades had been more common visitors; Lord and Lady Tareon rarely left the premises unannounced and on their own, but their offspring of his age and older had come and gone quite as they pleased. From Sir Jeran, who treated even common servant with respect; to the late Sir Manin, usually jovial but crude; to the noble Lady Eleanor; to the always slightly distracted Elan; to mirthful Alaisi; to Sir Javien, who seemed to actually
see him even less than his father; to Gerain, a boy close to his age who always followed him to the stable door and drummed his fingers against the stable wall as he made the preparations; to ... yes, Sir Yanin himself.
It was strange, really. Back when he first agreed to work there for food, bed and a couple of rodlin - during the winter, when there was less to do on his parents' farm, and it was more economically viable to just send him off rather than feed him themselves -, he would not have thought he would one day become Sir Yanin's ... back then simply Yanin's, apprentice. Squire, even. He had seemed to barely care about him more than Sir Javien. He just came, stated what he wanted done, and went.
His future master's reputation - even as a teenager - had preceded him. He had started training when barely in double digits, and defeated an actual knight when he was barely fourteen, had he not? He had
seen said knight - Sir Marcus -, who was later the master of another of the Glade siblings. Didn't look like a weakling. More like the old, tough man - although he was about a decade younger than Sir Tareon. Maybe thirty-eight, at most forty, perhaps. Just with hair that was already graying.
Soon after first defeating his master, the Viper of Glades had furthermore proven more proficient than any other who dared openly challenge him (or who accepted his challenge), too. It stood to reason, then, that it was less about his mentor's shortcomings, and more about the Viper himself being extraordinary.
Much later, when Jordan had gotten to know Sir Yanin better, he figured some of those supposed Yanin-(not-yet-Sir)-sided challenges might have been his personal way of defending Sir Marcus's honor.
So you thought you were better than him because you did not get beaten up by novice squires? Come then, come prove that you can do what Sir Marcus couldn't, and beat that exact same squire. It only lasted a couple of years, the Yanin-(not-yet-Sir)-initiated challenges. The novice squire started sounding like a man rather than a boy and soon towered over majority of people. So, the argument lost its validity - the person they'd be fighting now might be the same Yanin, but his body was not what it had been. And people tended to be slightly more reserved in general when the opposition was looking down on you not because of his opinion on you, but simply because you were a head shorter. Especially if that person had garnered a little bit of local reputation for being a superior combatant. As an aside, perhaps Sir Yanin himself had grown up; these days, he mostly tried to convince people not to even try.
Of course, everything about Sir Yanin's earlier years, Jordan had heard second-hand. When Yanin (not yet Sir) was fourteen, Jordan was still small enough to almost stand fully upright under the tall kitchen table at his parents' home. The one mother stood at when she was preparing food, before she brought things over to the dining table. When he first arrived at the Glades' holdings, Yanin (not yet Sir) was already seventeen. Still a youth, but no longer a child. Especially in the eyes of someone who oneself was no older than twelve.
Idly, Jordan had wondered whether even Lord Tareon himself could have stood against his son by that time. Perhaps not. Perhaps it was why he had never tried. It'd be admission of being worse than not his most favorite son. Sir Jeran had practiced with Yanin (not yet Sir) a few times, and he was no match. Little surprise, there. Jeran was narrower, and did not practice half as rigorously. Sir Yanin found time to practice even when on the move. Preferably at least two hours. Regardless of weather.
It had been one of the times Yanin (not yet Sir) had just finished training that he had first asked him a question on his own accord.
"What is that?"
Yanin (not yet Sir) had looked at him. The young Glade did not seem
angry, but something in that look made Jordan uncomfortable. It felt like the look of someone who was trying to decide what to do with you. Usually not a good sign.
"The ... weapon. I don't think I've seen something like that before." For some reason he had continued, rather than retreated.
You treat them with respect, you hear? Do as they say. Don't make demands. Don't whine. Don't be nosy. He had ignored his mother's advice a
little bit with Sir Jeran, Lady Alaisi, and Lady Melone, but
they had decided to talk to him first. Yanin (not yet Sir) had ... not.
"The man who sold it called it a headhunting axe." The same voice Yanin (not yet Sir) had normally used to order him around.
You will get Prince saddled and ready tomorrow at sunrise. It is a headhunting axe. The exact same intonation. Both were statements.
Jordan's eyes had moved from Yanin (not yet Sir) to the weapon. He had seen battleaxes before. This here did not look much like a battleaxe. It looked like a scythe someone had snapped half the blade off of, and then ground the remainder into a sharp curve again. And there was a spike of sorts at the back. The Glade maintained the
look. Jordan was split between digging an even potentially bigger hole for himself, and just apologizing and hoping for forgiveness. Was it a good thing the Glade answered, or a bad thing he took so long to decide? Back then, the height difference between them was even greater. Yanin (not yet Sir) was, for all intents and purposes, an almost fully grown man, and a large one at that. Jordan was barely pubescent. He sounded like a boy, looked like one, too. His work was physical, but consisted of lifting a spade, not swinging something that, by the sound of it, was
designed for detaching people's noggins.
"Uhh... Yeah. It certainly looks like something you could take someone's head off ... with. I mean, I saw what you did to the target. The damage, I mean. Or maybe it's just because it's you. You could probably take off a person's head with a spade, too." Indeed, facing Yanin (not yet Sir) who was armed with
just a spade would not have left him with much, nay, any better odds.
For a moment, the young Glade's face remained unchanged, but then his one eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. Still not angry. Still thinking? Surprised? Maybe this moment was the one Yanin (not yet Sir) decided that the nonsense he spouted meant he was too dumb to be worth bothering to punish him for his insolence. A lost cause, so to speak.
"It'd be rather easy to kill with. Handles well. Deals massive damage. But it's more commonly a tool. A lot of those foreign weapons are. Cutting through thickets, carving furniture, doesn't matter, they're meant for utility first. Not quite as restricted to status and combat as most of our swords."
Huh. So perhaps the thoughts about scythes and spades were not that far off... "I see ... thank you."
"Hmh." And without any further sign of acknowledging his existence, Yanin (not yet Sir) had wandered off, leaving Jordan standing where he was for several long minutes before he remembered what he was doing before he stopped to watch the tail end of the Viper of Glades' practice. Not exactly friendly. But he had actually replied to him rather than demonstrate his new toy's ability to pierce actual human skulls. Jordan's, for instance.
Later on - after seeing the same expression on Yanin's (not yet Sir and Sir alike) face numerous times - he had come to figure that specific look was less "what am I to do with you after what you just did" and more "well, I'm listening; what (the heck) do you want of me". Potentially with some amount of actual irritation mixed into the latter, depending on when you bothered him ... he still couldn't tell, after five years of being around him. Maybe it was better not to poke at him too much. He'd seen Sir Yanin truly angry a couple of times. Just not at
him. He'd prefer to keep it that way.
In spite of a number of people's apprehensiveness towards Sir Yanin, though, he did not think he was actually a cruel guy. More just a very ... well, irreverent one, on one hand. That's for certain. Very blunt. Abrupt. Confrontational. But never cruel just for the
sake of being cruel. Nor was he violent. Again, somewhat contrastingly to his combat prowess. He could be dedicated, though, if he set his mind to something. Occasionally other things but combat, too. For all his irreverence, he did have a sense of duty. Sir Yanin himself insisted you just had to not be stupid about it. Duty, that is. And there were things his master cared about, even if it was sometimes hard to tell what they were.
In any case, it had been easier to ask other questions from Yanin (not yet Sir) after his curiosity had gotten better of him once. He was never not quite sure whether he was annoying the guy or not, but he gave replies, and he was outside more commonly than the other Glades. Probably another thing his mother would not have approved of. Bothering the Glades. But they were the only not-peasants he knew who were around on a consistent basis. Who had more knowledge and experience than the common folk. Who not only knew tales, but had
lived them. Who possessed real ancient tomes and real steel weaponry. To a twelve-year-old no one, it was a kind of a big thing.
In the end, he managed to convince his family and the Glades' other servants that he could stay as a stable hand past the winter, and Lady Glade approved. And then the year after that. And another. Once his father and one of his sisters died, he still opted to stay. Shame, the sense that he might have his own life he'd have to yield ... he did not know. He suspected his remaining family were quite bitter at him. They seemed like a part of an entirely different life. And then there was the feeling that if he'd gone back, he'd just be waiting to contract the withering himself, like his sibling and ancestor both had. Whereas out here, he might at least hear something. Or so he told himself.
Eventually, Yanin (not yet Sir) was knighted and and became Sir Yanin. And Jordan, probably with some impression that he was ... well, not Sir Yanin's friend. Definitely not that. But given that the other Glade brothers either had squires or - in case of Elan - did not have time for them, or were too young ... and because Sir Yanin had mentioned he intended to leave his family grounds for a while... Due to something mostly between himself and his father. Sir Yanin never specified in more detail.
In any case, Jordan had inquired about potentially becoming his squire. Or apprentice. Or just coming along and being his servant or something. Sir Yanin had stated he'd think about it. A few days later, Sir Yanin had - for once, approached
him for a change. The answer was yes.
And so they took off. Found a place in Seclyr. He was not entirely certain on the specifics of it all, but Sir Yanin was soon in charge of a small number of people. A few properly decked out guards, and a dozen other guys and gals who did not truly seem professional. Since Sir Yanin was now responsible for the guards, Jordan, by proxy, became one of them. Some fields, some houses, a street with a small shop and the occasional unaffiliated seller by the side. And a tiny pub, which was by far the only actually interesting place. There was little in the way of actual guard duty. Mostly just checking that no one was hunting on the grounds without permission, or taking off with baskets full of someone else's drakehorn fruits, or initiate a fight in the pub.
"Why this place?" he had inquired.
"It's quiet. And away from Lord Tareon."
"But it isn't all, is it?"
"No."
"What more is there, then?"
"You need practice, for one."
He ... guessed there was really no arguing with that. Sir Yanin was ... well, he probably held back. And held back a lot. But he did not let Jordan win, either. Worse, he always made defeating him seem easy. Even when the weapons they were fighting with were not equal. Practice lasted however long Sir Yanin seemed to see fit ... probably until either Jordan got too tired to keep up with even his own meager baseline. Or until Sir Yanin got too annoyed with, or bored of trying to teach him something. His master never outright stated either of the latter, but
felt like it. To add insult to injury, training usually took place before Sir Yanin's own regime.
He had asked Sir Yanin why he usually told off people who attempted to challenge him for a duel, these days.
"What for? You could probably count the humans in Rodoria who could defeat me in a fair swordfight on your fingers," his master had replied. "But these worth fighting won't fight fair. They won't use the same weapons as you. They won't stick to metal and wood. They won't wait in a queue. And they might not even be human." There had been a pause. "You can't change what you are, only practice. And pick how you fight, when, and with who. And use everything in your disposal, fair be damned."
"That doesn't seem very knightly."
"Honor is for duels. Consider it one of the few lessons my dear father truly taught me. How do you think he became known as having tactical skill? Or how did anyone? It was not by fighting fair, I can tell you that much. History is not made with fair. It just swipes the unfair under the rug."
"The history is always written by the winners. Right." He had heard the phrase. It was sobering to hear it asserted like that, he supposed.
Sir Yanin shrugged. "By whoever is currently in charge."
For himself, his master had been quite talkative that day.
Over a year as a guard had passed quite quickly. Surprisingly so. There were a couple of incidents of note. He had managed to befriend a couple of the villages and guards. Sir Yanin was, as always, more reclusive, unless he meant business. It wasn't until he pointed out that these people might not be quite as kind to his Lady Alaisi as either of them when that Jordan began to realize why his master might have more than usual reservations towards the locals. Maybe most of them wouldn't give them out ... out of respect for Sir Yanin, if nothing else. The others probably would, the bigoted lot.
Recently, though, something had been bothering Sir Yanin. It was hard to tell what exactly, but
something had. His habits changed. And one day, he had handed his duties off to to his second in command, and well, here they now were. In Zerul City. Visiting Sir Yanin's sister and taking care of some other, unspecified business.
The horses and their things had been taken care of, and so he had been dismissed. Staying in the room didn't seem of too much interest. The bars and inns were many. And a whole lot bigger than the one in Brow's Rest. He did not feel hungry just yet, though, and stepping into one without the intention of ordering either a drink or food seemed inappropriate, somehow. The eight rodlin he carried weighed down on his pocket. Giving one of those away to acquire nourishment he did not
need felt like a waste. Chances were the room Sir Yanin had ordered already came with food included.
He'd found a market ... quite the garden-variety sort. Just a lot bigger than the one he had been used to. And with some wares he was quite unfamiliar with. He had inquired about a few of those, but without him displaying an intent of buying, the merchants tended to quickly become impatient. He had also found a couple of standalone shops with magical wares, whose owners or workers kept a close eye on him. And one shop which sold jewelry. He had felt even more out of place there than in most other places of the massive, sprawling city. As if he had no business being there, and was thought of as a potential thief rather than a potential client.
There was also something obviously wrong ... as if the withering was not enough, the city was also full of, well, he supposed refugees was the most apt term for them. And quite a lot of the higher ups were off to a wedding of the future duchess ... who would have otherwise become the future duchess? ... Jordan did not know what exactly
his matter with the topic was, but for some reason Sir Yanin seemed almost irate when he mentioned the fact. Perhaps it interfered with his plans, whatever they were, somehow. Maybe it meant some of the people he had been looking for were not there.
He had lingered by the gate for a while. Tried to get a few accounts out of the later refugees. Nemhim's capital was ... destroyed? By what? Something in his chest felt cold. They might not have lived in the city, and they might have been bitter towards him, but his remaining family were in that duchy. Were they safe? One man with blood-soaked bandages around his limply hanging left arm whose packages he had offered to carry claimed he had seen the ... beast. And the corpses. Their chests ripped open. The beast was something four-legged, and dark. Not black. More murky reddish-brown. It chased after people.
To top it all off, the Anaxim Forest was gone. The thing must have been millenia old, and now it was gone, razed and burned to ground... All that, it seemed, within a span of a few days. Had Sir Yanin somehow been aware that any of this was going to happen? Was any of
those things why they were here now? Was this the beginning of one of those adventures he had only heard of? If so, the reality was quite depressing already...
After aiding the man, he had wandered off in deep thought, heavy brown boots hitting the cobbled street in a monotonous, lulling rhythm. Gray pants, brown belt, sword and dagger by his hips. His woolen coat was draped over his shoulders, rather than bound closely, baring some of his white, cotton shirt. Most of the way, his eyes were downcast, blond-brown hair curtaining his face.
It was mostly the quieting down of his surroundings that finally had him raise his head. Somehow, this street was almost empty. The light-colored stone houses stood tall. Probably quite rich region, comprised predominantly of residences. No shops. No pubs. No interest for anyone, unless they lived here, or were just passing through.
He had only a vague idea where exactly he was, but seeing he had not been walking for much more than a dozen minutes, it could not have been too far. He can always just backtrack. Should be easier than backtracking in a forest - forests did not have streets, after all. And he had not made too many turns. The sun had been positioned towards the opposite side of the city, and it shouldn't have moved much, so if he leaves it behind his back, and starts walking, he should get back close to the gates ... maybe a few streets off, but no worries.
He looked up towards the sky to determine where the sun was - even with clouds, there was usually a lighter splotch -, but as he did so, something else caught his eye. Something which seemed to get a raise out of the remnants of his time spent as a guard. There was ... definitely something on one of the decorative cornicles attached to one of the houses. It was hard to tell what exactly it was, but it was quite long and evidently at least partially made out of cloth. If he had not incidentally backed against the side of the opposite building in his search of any indication of the stellar body overhead, he'd not seen it.
What was that? Had wind carried it up there? Had it been thrown out of one of the windows? With no overly obvious access, he doubted the house's inhabitants had knowingly stowed it there. Was it ... a person? Could it be? If so, was it a homeless person who had figured he had found a particularly safe spot away from thieves and horses' hooves, or perhaps a watchpost of some sort? Maybe an eavesdropper?
Somewhat restlessly, his hand wanted to move to his sword, but he reconsidered.
"Hey!?" he shouted at the ... whatever it was. Part of him felt dumb, should it turn out to be some wind-driven cloth up there. Another part of him warned that, should it indeed be a person, it might mean trouble.
Noctis
Izurich
sandstorm
Alfhedil
Tuujaimaa