Torm had already eaten a few bites, feeling the food slide down with immense satisfaction. He wasn't an unpious man, but he was no priest that was used to fasting. Of course, he was also not used to regular meals as a nobleman, but fighting was hungry work, and he had eaten little the previous day as well. He kept his eyes down for the most part when Gilroy entered, and did his best not to interrupt, though he did feel a sense of triumph when the other squire left with his tail between his legs. Theophana was as adept as dueling with her tongue as Torm was with his axe. 

"Where I learned to fight, my lady?" He asked, as if the question was a difficult one. He dabbed his mouth with a cloth, not wishing to be rude in front of her. "I had a good teacher, and worked my way up from a page." 

He let the silence linger for a few moments, after that. Her look showed him that was not enough, and he gave her a guilty smile. "Apologies, my lady." He said, taking a small sip of the ale provided. He wondered how to begin. Even if it weren't a life retelling, he still did not wish to bore her, while also not willing to explain his entire upbringing just yet. 

"My father was an Eisenriek castellan of small influence, but great duty. My mother was an abelorn lairdess. Her lands were small as well, but with a name. When I came of age, I was sent to the isle to learn from a knight in the service of her father. I was treated much as a bastard might be, but I learned and served, and when I was sixteen I was sent back to the continent. My father was no longer a castellan, but I was granted the privilege of serving under another master for two years, in the service of Baron Vogt De Berge of Sachein. My next master was a good man, and a powerful knight, but old. He died during the Battle of Goustal, but had yet to knight me. I served another two years under the good baron, before I found you." 

Theophana listened intently, intelligence glittering in her emerald eyes, but it was broken when she snickered. "You act as if I simply popped into your life and drove you from your old service." She said wryly, before growing an honest curiosity. "Why did you leave your baron? Were you dismissed or disgraced?" 

Torm hesitated, and then breathed out through his nose softly. He knew he would have to tell her how, at some point. It was not that he was ashamed. It was only an embarrassment that nobles took note of. He gathered his thoughts, and began the tale:

[hr]
[center][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xhpg3RljBEI[/youtube][/center]
It was a warm, albeit windswept day in august at the township of Courrège. The sun was near its zenith at midday, and the brunt of the townsfolk had already fled due to skirmishes across the border, the Eisenriek barons playing a game of misdirection with the Terriché, drawing their foot soldiers to outerlying villages to protect their farmsteads with a number of quick Chevauchees. Torm's lord, Baron Vogt De Berge, had intelligently deduced that Courrège was a vital foothold in gaining access to Terriché, as it straddled the river Obertrax. They had led their surprise charge from the treeline, the knights at the forefront on their destriers as the squires and foot soldiers advanced behind, under streams of arrows and more direct quarrels from arbelestiers. 

There was no gate or barbican, and the river had served as the moat. But the bridge could not be destroyed or withdrawn so quickly, and the knights held the landing as the two hundred men in either mail or cuir-bouilli under jupon jackets trudged through the short field in a hurry. Torm watched the swirling melee as he ran to join them, leading the ragtag force, an arrow hanging from his torso, the missile having lost the momentum to pierce his armor by the grace of Il. In the midst of the approaching melee, he heard a woman's wailing cry to God. An abbess at the doors of her church, cutting her arm with a ritual knife to call forth Il's blessing. 

Torm entered the battle like the birth of a newborn. Inching forth painfully, before plunging out all at once. Horses screamed and men cried out, and he was jostled like reeds from the powerful destriers and the rough line of defenders. He could not tell if any of his blows lands, save one that cut the leg of a spearman. He roared in pain, his cries silenced by a lance piercing him through his gaping mouth. At his right, a falchion fell in a flash of steel and cut into his shoulder, Torm grunting from a light cut, otherwise unwounded. He blocked the next slash with his own sword, before he was pushed to periphery by the weight of a horse. The squire found himself stumbling into a small courtyard out of the street, alone save for a Terrichian archer. The two looked face to face before the archer began fumbling for another arrow. Torm felt a hot nervousness in his breast, but on instinct he moved. The archer dropped his bow and whipped out a basilard, but Torm took three running steps and ran the man through, piercing leather and cloth. He felt the hot blood pour on his hand, and realized he had just taken a life. The terrichian fell, his face a mixture of pain and confusion, as if he wondered why Torm would do such a thing.  

The archer hit the stones, and Torm kept moving, tring to find a safe way back into the fore. He passed into another courtyard from a small street, finding his feet on dirt and straw. Torm found a large horse, seventeen or eighteen hands, if he had to guess. It was red and riderless, blood flecked its saddle. Torm thought little of it, mounting the beast swiftly and pulling its reins to realign it. Out of the archway up ahead, he saw the chaotic press, and with a small prayer to Il he kicked the steed forward. Torm and Lycurg hit the back of the enemy line like a hammer, the squire reigning blow after blow with his sword. He clove through the poorly forged helmet of a foot soldier and pierced the neck of a knight between his gorget and helm. The knight's iconography was upon his pauldron, that of a falling star over an oak tree. When he struck another man's sword, the enemy sword broke in two. It was only when a mace struckhis shoulder and sent him flying to the road did the flanking action stop. The feat was so audacious, that the back line buckled, and when he fell, it only drove his own men harder. 

The enemy routed, and only by Il's favor was Torm not trampled. Courrège had been won. 

[hr] 

The merriment had begun long ago. The hearth was alight, and even the servants seemed in high spirits. The baron Vogt De Berge sat at the back of the hall, wearing his customarily long tunic and ermine, along with well fashioned breeches and hose, his chaperon removed. He bore the gilded crest of his house, and rings of amethyst and rubies that showcased his impressive wealth. 

His knights sat closest to his table, a number of wolf hounds lounging or loping about the floor. Chicken and pork and peas were scooped out by hand and shoveled onto plates as spiced wine was served by maidens in wool dresses. The baron, an old friend of the king and Torm's previous master, was being presented with gifts of service and allowing each man to boast of their exploits, starting with his knights first. One after the other they spoke, speaking of their strength of arms, their captives and ransoms the armor they collected, the loot they acquired over the course of the day. A few of them even bragged of the women they took. 

One after another, until Torm was allowed to speak. A man in the front scoffed, but Torm stood up all the same. The room was quiet save for a murmur of idle gossip and soft music, and the burps of armsmen. 

"My lord Vogt De Berge, you do us all great honor to allow us this grand feast," Torm began uneasily. "In the battle, three days past, I slew... an archer, a militiaman. I broke into the back lines of the enemy, my lord. I fought upon a red horse. There I killed an armsman, and a knight of Terriche. I could not know his name, but he bore a falling star on his pauldron-"  

"Surely you don't mean Sir Jacque D'vaulloune." A voice rang out, and Torm turned to see a knight, sir Althaus, stand from his seat. It was then Torm had an inkling of what was happening. Althaus continued: "I have his horse and armor, he was mine. You cannot claim him." 

"I killed him." Torm remarked, resolutely. 

"Are you challenging my word, squire?" Sir Althaus asked dangerously. Torm noticed the music had stopped, as had the murmurs. He felt like molten iron had been poured into his breast. Sir Althaus sneered. "So, with all of your exploits, what do you bring our lord? Hmm? Surely you don't intend to claim your gift of vassalship is Courrège itself?" 

"I did not say that, sir." Torm replied quickly. 

"Yes, you have said very little of substance, as of yet, and nothing to show for it. In fact, were you not found knocked to the ground and without your sword? Who would accept you as a knight, who can provide nothing to his lordship but the boasts of other men's victories?" 
[hr] 

Torm swallowed uneasily, his face having darkened. The memory was still fresh, as was the embarrassment. He still felt the ghost of an ache on his shoulder, but it paled in comparison to the wound to his reputation.  

"The Baron, I think, knew I was telling the truth." Torm declared earnestly, clearing his throat. "But he was unable to help me. Sir Althaus had spoken correctly, for the most part. He had provided for his lord, and I had not. And so the Baron took my sword, and I was cast from his service." 

"Why do you think he believed you?" Theophana asked him. 

Torm gave a small smile. "Because when I was to leave, he left me with an axe, and the horse I had used at the battle. The big red." This had only been weeks ago, but it felt a lifetime had passed. "I knew then he held no ill will toward me, and gave me another chance to make my reputation elsewhere. And so I traveled to Yattar, and met you, my lady..."