Terryn Hoffmann
“Virtus Juvat Fideles”
Dorran seemed satisfied with the answers, giving an understanding nod at the end of each man's explanation. The man didn't seem that interested however - he was mostly stuck in his self filled world where he, he and only he mattered. As such he waved the trio away to go stand guard outside for a while while he remained with Terryn. “Please excuse us for a moment, it's time we discuss the big planning for tomorrow.” he said to the three as they were waved away. As soon as they'd close the door Dorran would begin talking to Terryn. “Quite frankly I do not understand why my father has beckoned you to protect me.” he said whilst getting up from the chair and walking to an armor stand, crossing his arms and holding his chin with two fingers. He observed the armor and then reached out and plucked a dust speck off of it. It was a good armor, handsome looking, but no soldier would ever carry it into battle. It was thin, and adorned with silver in places where you'd want hard steel, not soft silver. To the side of it was a nice looking sword. Now, any soldier would want a sword like that. A steel blade, an ivory guard with several golden adornments. The handle was good looking too, steel for strength, wrapped in leather for grip. It was useful - this sword, unlike the armor. However the following events made it apparent that even the most useful blade was useless in the hands of a dunce.
Dorran grabbed the sword and did some 'practice' swings, clumsily and damn near hitting Terryn as he did so. The man stepped back, at ease, but the annoyance was readable in his face. When Dorran was done swinging his sword like an idiot, he placed it back and looked at Terryn triumphantly. “A man like me, with a sword like that, cannot be touched by mere mortal souls. I may not be king yet, but I can feel the Monarch looking over me.” Terryn bowed his head lightly and smirked, the bow merely being a front for Dorran so he wouldn't see the smirk. “Aye m'lord, you're right. The Monarch lives in you. You'll be revered like a God when you sit upon that Stag's throne.” Dorran seemed satisfied with the answer and turned around. He walked over to the nearby window that overlooked Hoffburgt Bay, the area that led to the castle docks. “I am glad a man of your martial stature, Terryn, agrees that I am a master swordsman. As such, I will assure you you and your men can rest easy tomorrow at the feast. Take it easy. If I am right, my father has a baptism by fire planned for your men. Ofcourse.. you don't officially know this, so keep your mouth shut.”
Terryn stood back up straight from the bow, and his smirk had dissapeared. He'd never said that Dorran was a master swordsman - that was his own interpretation, but Terryn wasn't dumb enough to correct the lord. He was a powerful man, and although he was too sure of himself, and hadn't the skills to back it up, he was still king Gregar's son, and Gregar no doubt knew of his son's faults and errors. Oh, the things Terryn would sacrifice to make sure Dorran didn't take the throne, but his brother in his stead. A man like Bjorn, a Servant, humble and capable, that would make a fine king.
“Thank you for this information, my lord. I'll keep my mouth shut.” Well, Terryn would, but he'd known from previous employments at the castle that the doors were too thin to discuss information like this without the sounds coming through. As such, he realized the three men outside would've heard every single thing the man had said. “I'll instruct my men to stand at ease, but I'll also tell them to remain vigilant all the same. It's best not to take any risks, m'lord. You are more than capable, but we wouldn't want to show people just what you are capable of in battle. Surprise is a nice tactic in battle, m'lord.” Dorran nodded slowly as he stood at the window, not even granting Terryn the pleasure of eye contact. He turned around and changed that, looking Terryn straight in the eye now as he lowered his hand again. “Yes, I know. That's why I told you to stand guard. I don't want to show my people what I am capable of. Imagine the surprise when they try to take my throne from me and get cut in half by me! I'm not dumb, you idiot peasant. Remember your place, Terryn. My father may like you.. others don't.” he said with a snarly tone, ignoring the fact that he'd just told Terryn to stand easy tomorrow. Terryn simply bowed with a soft “Yes m'lord, sorry m'lord.” It would be a dumb idea to give this man more reasons to be egocentrical by granting him the pleasure of whining to his father about this whole discussion.
Dorran shut up now and that was Terryn's cue to leave the room. As he left and closed the door behind him, he mouthed a soft “Fuckin' cunt blue-blooded rat's ass. Can't swing a sword to save his life. Would-be kin-” Well, that was somewhat stupid. He cut himself short when he realized there were still three other men around him, men who he did not know too well, and such they would probably rat him out if they saw anything to gain from that. “Ahem. Let's go.” It was obvious that Terryn was a bit emberassed by being caught red-handed cussing out the heir to the throne, but he'd hoped that the three individuals here felt the same way about that stuck up kid.
They would pass through the castle again, not stopping this time to view some areas of interest but rather walking straight back to the town. Not a word was to be spoken, as evidenced by Terryn's silence. And so they passed through the town again until something caught Terryn's eyes. He stopped dead in his tracks and turn to the left, facing down a street where he'd see two familiar figures, whom he did not expect to see in a town this shabby and dark. Well, not like there was any happy and sun-lit towns in Broacien. Place was full of swamps, deserts and other shit, there wasn't enough room for happy sun-lit towns. For that you'd best visit Cherwen.
He'd point to his right down the trail back to the barracks, softly speaking to the three with him. “Go ahead, go back to the barracks.” he said authoritively. But then he added, “Or go to a whorehouse, an inn or do whatever the hell you rats' arses like to do at night.” With that the conversation would be over - the men would know not to talk back or linger around unless they were feeling particularily stupid. As soon as they'd be gone, Terryn would pat down his clothes to get rid of dust and ugly spots. He readjusted the large two handed, rusty greatsword on his back that was chipped all round, before finally stepping closer to the two figures. His chain swayed side to side, clanking against the metal of his outfit softly. Luckily for him that sound went muffled under the midnight sounds of the town.
He approached from behind and extended a hand forwards, grabbing onto the shoulder of the smaller left figure, whilst speaking up to the right. “What's you doing out so late at night?” Hopefully, he'd scare the two enough to make them apologize right away and hurry back to the barracks, but he'd known Sara for longer and knew that might not happen. “Don't you know of the Boogeymen that go out at night to steal little girls, and murder the ones too big to take with them in a cloth sack?” Ofcourse, there weren't real boogeymen, but there were certainly kidnappers, rapists and murderers - if the two weren't unlucky enough to be caught by slavers, who were all three in one, and probably more. “Y'all best be headed to bed now, 'fore the boogeymen wake up and get'ya. Plenty of time to walk 'round town tomorrow, 'less you're joining us at the feast, Sara?” Terryn didn't particularily care much for them - well, ofcourse he did, but he realized more and more that Sara wasn't a kid any more, and would do whatever she wanted. Alycia, on the other hand, it was somewhat careless of Sara to take her with without an armed guard.
And there was no way in hell that Terryn was facing the wrath of her father again - Terryn might be a superior, but Nikolas was a nobleman in some way or another, and that meant that he had some influence over the course of the Black Shields. No, Terryn'd have to stay on his good side. Not to mention the girls were sweet, sweeter than some of the other camp followers and officers' kids, so he'd feel bad if they'd die to some random murderer. In a way, he did care for them. But more so out of practicality than feelings. His grip on the young girl's shoulder would tighten slowly, not hard enough to make her feel pain, but tight enough to make them realize he wasn't joking around. “Sara, I don't think ye' wanna explain to Alycia what a whorehouse is anyway.. and ye' were headed in that direction.” He'd point down the street subtly where at this point a drunken man was being kicked out of a brothel by a strong looking man, armed with a shortsword on his belt. Walking past those areas was generally a bad idea for a pretty girl like Sara.
Regardless of whether the duo of girls came with him back to the barracks, he'd continue home. As much as he felt responsible for them, Nikolas was still their father and he had to do these kind of things, not Terryn. In a way he felt bad for Nikolas although he did get himself in this situation. What idiot brings his kids with him on campaign? Tsk, nothing to be done however. A noble does as a noble pleases, and that's just how it went.
The very next day the Black Shields were up at the crack of dawn. Everyone was doing as they were instructed to - some of the labourer types were constructing a makeshift roof over the dining tables to ensure that they wouldn't get leaked on when having some of that filthy grub they called food. Others, the soldiering types, were either helping out by carrying stuff around or were polishing armor and weaponry insides. It was a prestigious task after all. The stream of nobles had increased even more today, with a new set of nobles arriving by the hour. It'd be a grand feast, worthy of king Gregar.
However the team consisting of Terryn, Laurence, Saewine and Warren was to be up even earlier. The four men were bound for castle Hoffburgt, passing as soon as the gates and drawbridge had opened. After all there were some preparations to be made. They were headed straight for the feasting hall, which was already filled with people at this early point in time - some of the nobles were seated there, drinking wine slowly as to not be drunk this soon. They were conversing at a normal tone, though that was bound to change when the room got more filled. As soon as the four guards would step in, several would look over at the four guardsmen, but then quickly resume to their conversations. At most there were 20 men in here already. Obviously the women were still in their quarters getting ready for the feast - that could sometimes take ages. Terryn turned to face his team and spoke to them at a hushed tone, to ensure that he wouldn't bother the nobles standing around talking. “Get to your positions boy, and better be prepared to stay there for a while. Not much gon' happen for the first three hours. If you need to walk around, just walk in a circle and pretend you're inspecting some stuff, or som'in like that.”
