[center][h3][color=993333]István Shilage[/color][/h3][/center]

[@The Otter][@Eisenhorn]

Hm.

Above one of the many fires set in the Lions' camp beneath those crimson banners, burly hands navigated a task far more delicate than they'd ever been built for. Though pale in a manner diagnostic of reduced sunlight, suggesting time spent in the range of years to the heights of Velt's colder north, they'd been quick to regain their old color closer to home— and had never once lacked in the gnarled, robust structure, all callused palms, thick fingers, and overdeveloped knuckles, that so encased the horn-carved spoon in their grip. Made to grip things firmly, take the shock of impact, a soldier's mitts— not those of an alchemist. If you looked at them, you would think them lost for subtlety.

[color=993333][i]We've had that merchant bandying her wares about for a while now. Loud as ever tonight— if this proves the goods aren't worth the racket, then I'll have to kick her over to the western flank— to say nothing of the librans.[/i][/color]

Regardless, looks were oft deceiving, and the man's movements carried within themselves the tightly corralled precision and dexterity that so belied the broad and strong physique he carried— clear and exacting in cadence and force. One, two, three spoonfuls, each the same mass, fell into the long-handled pot balanced upon his knee, cast from copper. His eyes could read the structure of each mound, his fingers could feel the weight, and his body remembered the motion almost as well as his mind could recall his own name. Three, and no more. He needed sharpness when battle approached, not jitters, not a half-cocked buzz. Three would serve best, having ground the beans so fine in his pestle beforehand.

A gust of wind broke upon his broad back, carrying with it the smoke of fires like his own and the odor of roasting meat. Some of their liked to enter battles like the one they'd soon undertake with a full stomach, citing it gave them strength. In István's mind, it made him sluggish— he always preferred coffee to stave off the rest digestion desired. Any loss in physical capability would be overcome by the mental gain.

Additionally, he did like that it made him a touch meaner. Good for war.

In circling back to their mercantile accoutrement, he did in fairness have high hopes— the smell of the grounds was right once he added a pinch of grated cardamom, carefully retrieved by his cook from a heavy iron spicebox, and shook. This was a Nemish method of preparation, and so Nemish beans were preferable— Lirrah's sources were wide enough to feasibly have exchanged something authentic for his coin. Having swung down here, to the southern end of Velt's territory, the Lions had brought Istvan far closer to home than he'd been in the years prior— Demet territory was on the other side of the nation from the small holdings of the recently-risen Shilage.

Apple orchards, Thalnic river salmon, properly roasted coffee— this assignment had in some respects spoilt István with the tastes of his childhood. Of that which his heritage [i]sung[/i] within the heart. Even here, in his battleground ritual, he was following a grandfather's, then father's teachings. He would too teach it to his son— as he had a little brother, or perhaps cousin. He'd need to [i]find[/i] the boy soon, whatever he might call him.

A gooseneck drew the swirl of endlessness into the pot as he poured the water, all that ever was and ever would be in the details. Reon's light was found within them, embossing flaw, strength, method, madness. Attention paid meant result earned, simply put. He poured slow, and deliberate, saturating the savory dust with ninefold its weight in water. Then, upon the opposite axis, he repeated the motion with the spoon, never exceeding twelve rings drawn.

Less would make it weak. More would ruin its balance.

Finally satisfied, his eyes at last turned up to gaze upon the fire he was seated aside, beholding a heavy pot of cast iron filled with, of all things, sand. This was the method that turned a wild flame into a smooth, gentle blanket of heat that the Nem had taught his ancestors. The trick to allow the contents of the shining copper pot to foam and simmer, instead of boil over and scald, scattering bitterness about a drink that was to be robust and rich.

Two minutes. The simmer rising up the sides would tell him it was done. His gaze remained affixed to the pots through the time, stony mask unchanging even as a familiar subordinate (Jakob, if memory served) appeared in his peripheral.

"Sir Shilage." the man began, disciplined yet quite overeager to carry out his task. This must be a summons, then— István'd noticed the young man pounding a footpath directly through camp to his tent. "The Earl wishes you to meet him at the Lady's pavilion—"

[color=993333]"The boy isn't the [i]only[/i] Earl Lady Hraesleg has caught up in the storm of her rise."[/color] He preached in reply, unwavering in gaze or expression. [color=993333]"You're lucky I recognize you as one of ours. Next time, a name."

[i]Done.[/i][/color]

The servant, in spite of himself, flinched as the older man suddenly burst into motion, reaching forward to quickly pry his cezve free from the sandpot, spooning the foam into the pair of waiting mugs that lied upon a cloth rag before deliberately pouring the contents in, a dark brown liquid akin to melted chocolate.

[color=993333]"He asked for me, then. Where was he last?"[/color]

Accompanying the query, the rightward mug was thrust into the servant's hands, insistent and accompanied by a smirk that, in Jakob's mind, might have been a welcoming and pleasant smile on another face. Obviously the man wished him to drink the fresh brew... but to what end? What was it he clearly meant to gain? He was known to the Demet troops and underlings of almost every stripe as serious and harsh, not one to freely share his precious potions. Was Shilage giving him thanks for the relayed message, or about to test him?

Suppressing a shiver from the breeze, he brought the warm ceramic to his lips...

[hr]

Satisfied that Lirrah's beans wouldn't be [i]poisoning[/i] the only real heir of his honored mentor, István would shortly douse the flame and order the men under his command to prepare themselves after packing out camp. He was already halfway suited himself, gambeson on his body shielding his torso from the cooling breezes that raced through the grounds. it wouldn't be long before the operation kicked off, so apropos of nothing, he intended to ensure the Earl enough awareness that he'd survive the eve.

He made his walk beneath the banners, mug held level and rigid in either hand. Another skill borne of long, long practice. As his long strides carried him through the sights and cacophony of a wartime encampment, every bit chaotic as it was regimented, his ears picked upon a jaunty, familiar tune wafting through the air.

Urden, a mercenary, was also in preparation, as the high rasp of whetstone on honed steel laced itself between the verses of his voice. Jovial and underhanded in equal measure, the dark-haired man was as archetypal of his profession as it got— the free spirit of a man whose vice had been leveraged into a trade, with it freedom. Loyalty to coin was quite fluid compared to that of blood, and István made no pretensions that he didn't consider it of equal value— but by the same token, each libran that had bought his services had been earned back double in bloodshed. That, any man could respect.

A fellow soldier from a martial lineage, all the more so.

As he passed, István raised one mug in greeting, a bassy rumble of hummed rhythm settling beneath that of the mercenary's lyrics.

[color=993333]"Any chance you've seen Earl Demet wandering off somewhere?"[/color]

He'd been hoping to intercept him, but found his tent barren. From the sound of it, the boy didn't intend to meet until the moment of briefing.