[color=lightblue]"About time it stopped pissing down rain, was getting tired of wringing out my cloak..."[/color]

Rolan Herzog was resting at a small campsite, the sun low in the sky as the day grew close to its end. He had been on assignment, looking into reports of particularly evasive troublemakers that were reported to have ties to the wrong side of the War of the Red Flag. His orders had been to go investigate, and if they were indeed tied to the rebels report back and join the contingent sent to sort them out. If they didn't, he had been given liberty to deal with them himself. It had turned out that, in fact, they had been using the name without any ties and, with that report sent back to Candaeln so he could focus on cleaning up. It had been a busy few weeks, tracking them was tricky under good conditions, and it had been pouring rain for almost the entire time. He had just finished up cleaning out the last of the troublesome individuals, leaving him too late in the evening to depart immediately, instead resting by a campfire on the outskirts of town. While officially grateful, Rolan knew full well that taking advantage of that would go poorly, so he made camp outside the town and planned to depart at dawn. While restringing his crossbow, he found his mind wandering to, once again, how the hell he had found himself as an Iron Rose.

[hider=A Summary of Knights and Knaves]
"So you are the bounty hunter the locals keep praising so highly?"

Rolan remembered the opening remark from the leading and senior most Knight. A spitting image of a knight, all noble obligation and the kind of experienced presence that most people would have expected from someone who held a position of authority in a knightly order. Doubly so, the fabled and legendary Iron Roses. Rolan was annoyed at the time, though, he had been rather busy trying to track down the reason he had been approached. Smugglers, at least that is what they called themselves, but these particular fellows were barely better than bandits. Trade goods and farmers would get jumped, robbed, and their goods would get sold at less discerning markets for a fraction of their worth. All profit for the smugglers, but a massive loss for the honest folk. Rolan had been planning to do the work for a few nights food and board, while he figured out where to go next, but he now had a band of Iron Roses looking for him to lead them right to the hideout of these smugglers.

He hadn't been forced, of course, Rolan had been made abundantly aware of that. It was for the good of the many however, and they had hoped he would help them out and, in return, let them help clear out the self proclaimed smugglers. He begrudgingly agreed, and they departed immediately. Rolan had been preparing to make the trek alone, and he recalled his annoyance with how slowly, deliberately, the knights moved. They had a mission to accomplish, a job to do, and Rolan had a rather heated debate with the senior Knight of the contingent during the one night at camp. He had argued that all the knights were currently doing was slowing him down, giving the bandits playing smuggler ample time to prepare and fortify. There had been no signs of them fleeing, especially with so much time to prepare on home territory. The Knight had countered that a forced march into the heart of the bandit power was just as foolish as taking too long. 

A compromise was reached, Rolan forcing the issue by threatening to simply leave the Knights behind, standing around like a bunch of fools. He would take the lighter, faster members of the contingent to harass and harry the smugglers, and not give them the chance to fortify in peace. Rolan knew that he wasn't popular with the selected knights, but quickly proved himself by leading, loosely speaking, raids as the main contingent moved into position. The harrying attacks at odd hours kept the smugglers from digging in too much, and Rolan volunteering to join the main assault also seemed to endear him to the Knights. Apparently most would have taken the coin for leading the way, regardless of what was said prior, and let them handle the rest. Rolan, though he wouldn't admit it, frankly didn't think the Knights would pull this off on their own without someone making sure it went well.

His worries were, of course, unfounded. The Knights were skilled and, even if Rolan would not say it, probably did not need to harry the smugglers after all. Still, Rolan made sure to keep picking off threats that would otherwise pose even a minor risk to the Knights from beyond their normal reaches. He was also quick to point out attempts to escape or evade the contingent of Knights, several members peeling off to keep them from fleeing, hemming attempted escapes back in before resuming the cleanup. Before long anyone who had not surrendered was dead, and the prisoners were handed over to local authorities to be tried and punished. Rolan had been preparing to go and collect his payment from both the Knights and locals, in that order since the locals had only promised food and board for a few days, when he was made an offer that genuinely stunned him.

"Playing at bounty hunter doesn't suit you, frankly, given the way you conduct yourself. If you are prepared to accept a higher calling, there is a place in the Iron Roses for you."

The rest of the Knight's pitch had been frankly a blur. Rolan had been expecting to have to haggle or argue to get his promised pay from the Knights, and now he had been offered a place in the Order. Apparently he had been someone to keep an eye out for, his continued efforts and general lack of exploitive treatment of the towns and people he found himself in had reached the right, or wrong, ears. Part of him had to wanted to reject outright, to just give him his damned coin and leave him alone. An old feeling, one that he had heard nearly his entire childhood from a father who had inherited that same hatred from his father, and so on and so forth. But, pragmatically speaking, he would have been a fool to not accept. Knighthood meant nobility, which meant that, after enough service, he could coast on easy glory found parading around playing at hero. He had told the Knight he needed to sleep on the decision, that it wasn't something to make a light decision on, regardless of choice. Apparently that only convinced the man further he was material for the Iron Roses, but he was given the chance to sleep on it, and if he wanted to take the offer, meet them at the edge of town at dawn so they could set out and return to Candaeln to report their success, and formally induct him as a Knight. The following dawn found Rolan joining them and, well, the rest was history.
[/hider]

This had been a year ago, and Rolan had been kept incredibly busy chasing and tracking problems ill suited to more conventionally noble knights. Rolan had been careful to keep his family name out of the knowledge of his fellow Knights, simply claiming he had no family name prior to joining the Iron Roses. No one had called him out on it yet, either out of courtesy or genuine lack of knowledge, but it didn't serve him any to make a troubled family history known to his fellows. Fortunately, when out on his own and at camp, it was easy to muse on such things. Especially since, well, it beat just sitting around with an empty head. Satisfied with the maintenance on his crossbow, he stood and rigged his surroundings with some rudimentary alarms. An old trick he learned before the Iron Roses, but anyone not paying attention would trip over them and cause some loosely balanced camping supplies to topple over loudly. Of course this would wake Rolan up, ideally, and it was part of his standard practice when he couldn't take turns standing watch on the times he had company with him. With camp secured, he retired to sleep. He planned to make an early morning of it, and get back to Candaeln. It was almost two weeks out on foot, and the sooner he started the better.

[hr]

[hider=A Good night's Rest]

[color=lightblue]"C'mon you [i]bastard[/i], the last one put an end to this dance quicker. Aren't you supposed to be tougher?!"[/color]

Rolan had cursed his focus on getting a proper sleep in after getting back to Candaeln while evading the armored juggernaut bearing down on him again. Once he was asleep, all hell had metaphorically broken loose. A looming, empty arena and a creepy observer. After realizing what was going on he had taken a shot at her in the hopes of ending this song and dance early. No such luck, and the foot soldier who had manifested thought to take advantage of an unloaded crossbow. Poor fool hadn't realized that Rolan knew his way around in a close quarters fight, using his knife to turn the reach of the spear into a hinderance. Of course, the first fights were the easiest. A bandit who charged headlong into a crossbow bolt into the chest, some shambling undead that had taken a few strikes with the blunt end of his crossbow to break apart, and common foot soldiers were giving way to more trouble. 

The first notable fight was an unmounted knight, a junior one to be sure but fully clad in plate all the same, wielding kite shield and arming sword. A practical dangerous combination that provided ample protection against even a crossbow's powerful force. Rolan didn't waste a shot on the advancing knight, lowering his stance slightly and watching the shielding advance turn into a charge, a lunge that Rolan was waiting for. Springing sideways, he evaded away from the knight's shield arm and fired his crossbow into the man's side, the near point blank shot punching through the armor and digging deep into his side. Dancing out of reach, Rolan was a deft hand at reloading even under duress, having created enough space to deftly pick his custom made wippe lever off his belt, draw the string back and slip it back into place before the knight had closed the distance again. Again, Rolan delayed his shot as the knight advanced on him more cautiously, painfully aware of the weakness in his armor now, at least at close range. Rolan backstepped the brisk downwards swipe, aiming low and putting a shot into his knee now that his foe was shielding high enough to prevent another flanking shot. 

The junior knight kept advancing, having no other option but to engage Rolan as he danced out of reach again and again. Rolan was patient, a hunter circling his prey now that is was wounded and limping, only striking when he could ensure a damaging blow. Eventually the junior knight made a desperate last effort, just trying to rush down the crossbow wielding Rolan. Sidestepping the man, he slammed the stock of his crossbow against the helmet of the knight, sending the wounded man reeling long enough to put a vital shot into his foe. But before he had time to think, he was cast into the next fight, and the next, and the next.

The first problem had been several experienced skirmishers, archers hiding out in a woodline while he had little cover to return fire from. Rather than trade shots, he had closed the distance, forcing them to scatter into the woods and give him a chance. It wasn't much of a chance, with each archer he pursued the others harried him from the flanks, eventually wearing him down and killing him with a final volley. It was then Rolan realized the absurdness of the game he played. For each opponent he clawed a hard fought, fraught victory from, there were plenty more who could weather his crossbow volleys until he was left without a bolt left, or could close the gap fast enough to render his ranged advantage moot. More importantly, each death just meant facing the next, more dangerous foe, and the fights only grew more difficult.

The first of the truly one sided fights was a seasoned knight, as heavily armored as the warhorse he was riding. He couldn't land a good shot on either horse or knight, and the first charge had forced him into a desperate evasion, and each time the mounted knight wheeled it was moving too fast, too erratically to draw a good shot on. Once out of crossbow bolts, that left his knife and, unsurprisingly, it was a fool's errand to fight a mounted knight with a knife. It was an unlucky lance strike that had sent the crossbow hurtling from his grip, shattered into pieces, while the same charging blow had left his arm nearly torn from his body. The last thing he remembered of that fight was trying to go for the charging horse's throat, a shifting blow of the lance rending his head clean from his body.

Snapping back to his current predicament, Rolan couldn't land a single shot that could even penetrate the layers of angled plate, practically designed to withstand regiments of archers firing volleys into a breach. One crossbow in comparison was practically a stiff breeze in comparison, and sure enough he was finally out of crossbow bolts. Discarding the crossbow, unthinkable before but now it didn't matter knowing it would return win or lose, he drew his knife and rushed in. The iron clad juggernaut tossed the tower shield aside, two handing the bastard sword he had wielded so deftly with one, meeting the crossbowman's challenge in melee openly. Steel scraped across steel as Rolan sought an opening in the towering man's armor, ducking under the first counterstroke and staying in close. This worked until a feinted swipe smashed the pommel of the bastard sword into his spine, sending him to the ground unable to feel his legs. Struggling to rise, the juggernaut brought his bastard sword down, cleanly executing the struggling Rolan in one fell strike.

Rolan grasped at his throat the moment he was restored again, knowing he hadn't somehow mystically become able to function without a body, staring across the open field of an arena to see who he was being thrown against now. The sight of who it was drained what little energy he had to struggle with out of him, at least at that moment.

[color=lightblue]"Oh, and here I thought I was actually making some headway..."[/color]

Anyone would recognize a founding member of the Iron Roses, and Rolan was no exception. The Shooting Star Parvan himself, standing at the peak of his strength and prowess like he hadn't been laid low. He had to respect the drive in making one last attack from death's door, at least if the stories were to be believed, but as he readied his crossbow for a quick bout, Parvan called out to him from across the field. That...wasn't expected, none of the others had said a word to him.

"Not even going to say anything clever like to the earlier challengers? And here I was hoping to trade taunts as well as blows!"

Rolan couldn't help but scoff at that. He'd get a shot off, if Parvan was feeling sporting, before getting run through and torn to pieces by a surge of explosive mana. The scoff came with an almost bitter remark, as much as Rolan lived his life fighting uphill, there was a difference between uphill and a sheer cliff face. 

[color=lightblue]"If your mouth is half as sharp as your spear, it'd be wasted breath."[/color]

The Shooting Star shouldered his spear, giving the crossbow wielding knight a casual up and down glance before grinning, flourishing the spear before slamming it down. The surge of mana from the blow buckled the ground, but rather than attack like Rolan expected, continued to casually speak with Rolan. He wasn't sure right now whether or not he preferred the sudden attacks without a word spoken, or the confidence that practically radiated from the founding knight currently squaring off with him.

"Tell you what, you've put on such a good show so far, here's a deal so you don't completely bore me to tears. I'll only retaliate after each attack you make, as long as you at least try to seriously land a single hit.  How's that sound for not wasting your breath?"

Rolan considered Parvan's words, the taunt snuck in not going over his head at all. If he was the prideful sort he would be offended, but fortunately pride didn't mean much when fighting for your life. Even if he was dead several times over now, at least he could make an argument for never just rolling over and dying. Raising the crossbow to his shoulder, he couldn't keep that confident, though cocky would be more fitting at this moment, grin off his face since there was an argument that he could at least make a single hit land. Nevermind that all Parvan had to do was deflect first, and then counter.

[color=lightblue]"Deal. Let's see if I can get deathblow out of you, should be good at them with the practice right?"[/color]

Rolan snapped the crossbow back up, deliberately firing low to try and fake out the legend he was squaring off with. Parvan casually slapped the bolt aside, flourishing the spear before dropping into a low stance. The spear flashed with charging mana before he launched forward, the lunge narrowly missing as Rolan threw himself sideways, the clasp of his cloak shattering from the near miss as the following detonation sent him hurtling away from the Shooting Star. Rolling across the ground, the knight righted himself and skidded to a halt, reloading and firing again. This time Parvan lunged again, Rolan ready for it and sidestepping and trying to slam the stock of his crossbow down on his opponents head. A duck, and mana infused shoulder check blew Rolan across the arena.

"Oooh, almost Iron Rose, almost! Your much too slow though, much too slow."

Rolan was coughing up blood as he forced himself to his knees, reloading again as he stained his crossbow with blood. Dumping a vial of toxins on the bolt, he ran through his injuries. Several broken ribs, it felt like he could barely breath so he probably had lost a lung at this point too. He didn't have long to continue trading blows like this, even a near miss was dragging him down in injuries. He was struggling to lift his crossbow now, and as it shook he hurled a dagger with his off hand, having been trying to hide his offhand with his body. Parvan casually tilted his head, dagger hurtling past.

"Here I thought you would actually land a strike."

Parvan twirled the spear in his hand, a wide stance as he made ready to hurl his weapon straight into Rolan's heart. Rolan struggled to his feet, crossbow shaking in his one hand, the other one clutching his side. His eyes were dull right up until Parvan hurled the spear, screaming with enchantment, that his eyes lit up again. Shifting sideways, the spear ripped his arm off, throwing him sideways with enough momentum to pull his crossbow up one more time. He had been banking on the Shooting Star to finish him with a thrown strike, and right before the explosion consumed him he fired. The bolt, splattered with his blood and the toxins he had dumped onto it, slammed into the legend's shoulder. A bloody grin, and Rolan was incinerated in the blast, long dead before he could ever have seen if the poison would have been enough or not.

The next thing Rolan could pick out, he could hear clapping. Parvan, uninjured and restored like he was, had a wide grin on his face. 

"Look at you, stealing my own trick. Giving up your life to make one last spiteful strike, trying to follow in my footsteps Knight?"

[color=lightblue]"Maybe I am, not like I am banking on much more than making it to the next day."[/color]

Parvan shouldered his spear again, knowing that he didn't have much longer to converse with Rolan before the next challenge came.

"Look, coming from someone who threw his own life down to make one last strike, make sure that, when the time comes? You make it count. You don't get to know if that final throw from the brink is going to matter or not, and that, is a bitch. Have fun getting your ass kicked by what comes next!"

Rolan couldn't help but laugh at the remark, as Parvan faded and he was left wondering, in that brief moment of silence before he was thrust into the next fight, just how much of that he could take at its word, and how much of it was just showboating as to what was 'right' by the observer still hovering far above, unmoving and unwavering this entire time. When he saw who his next opponent was, he felt obliged to make what any polite company would consider an incredibly crass, rude gesture towards the figure in the sky before the next bout began.

[/hider]

It had been a long two week's march back to Candaeln, though to call a lone Knight returning from a fairly inglorious tasking a march was generous to say the least. What had made it a long march was the fact the damned dream was still keeping him from really focusing his mind on anything else. Had he been going mad already, after only a year of formal service? He would have to discreetly poke around with some of the other knights once he returned to Candaeln. Rolan had slept off the exhaustion that came from that initial day, though he couldn't afford to slow down on that first day, in fact he had made double time back to Candaeln, to look into whether this dream was just limited to him or any of the other Iron Roses. By the time he reached his destination, he at least looked as well rested as someone who just spent weeks on the march.

Rolan stretched as he strolled along, keeping an eye out for anyone of sufficient rank to report back to. Returning to Candaeln was quite the luxury compared to moving through the villages, though he never felt exactly at ease in the seat of the Iron Roses. Sure, he was a Knight and was officially quartered here, but it didn't feel like a home or even a base to operate out of for him, it never had. Hence why he always volunteered for longer, far flung missions that took a bit more of a delicate hand than an armored gauntlet might otherwise offer. Still, it wouldn't take him long to end up passing the Candaeln Shrine, and spot a Knight only the blindest fool would miss, and a complete stranger alongside her.

[color=lightblue]"Well, good as time as any to report my return. Get a measure for this new person too..."[/color]

Approaching the shrine, Rolan made no efforts to try and stall any further. Might as well check in, see what he missed, and if he was lucky get a new set of marching orders. Unlikely, he would probably have to at least check in with the Knight-Captain given how long he had been on assignment, but at least he could get everything in motion right now. He announced himself upon entering the shrine properly, hand raised in casual greeting. Tyaethe was a well known face, even if he spent more time away from the other Iron Roses than most, but he honestly did not recognize the smaller, pale woman. Horns, pale skin, pale hair, like someone had pulled a plug and drained the color from her. He had better things to do than gawk and judge though.

[color=lightblue]"Tyaethe, found yourself a new friend, looks like. Finished that clean up job, my last report on them not being related to any remnants of the rebels made it back here I assume."[/color]

[@6slyboy6][@Raineh Daze]