POOHEAD189

Fantasy Lowfi Dungeon Crawl, anyone?

Perhaps...

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

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:

---

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.

---

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?"

---

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..."

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

The crowd held a funereal silence, and at that moment it was the only place in all of Yattar that held such quiet. It was the silence itself that gave Torm the indication this was practically unheard of. He felt overwhelmed, perhaps slightly dizzy, but held himself well. What had he done to earn such an honor? The Squire knew intellectually it was the daring rescue of the other day, but emotionally it was hard to fathom. The warrior smelled the cloth, experiencing the soft fragrance of lavender. He tucked it into his breastplate, and knelt before her.

"You do me great honor, m'lady. I will not lose today, I swear to you."

He didn't know where the words had come from, but by Il he believed them. There were murmurs close by, mostly from the other fights. However, they were interrupted by a distant cheer from a grim covered peasant, likely quite drunk. It was a spark that ignited a chorus of cheers rolling over the witnesses, likely a thousand men and woman. Theophana seemed in her element, granting the masses a wave and a radiant smile. Torm looked at the pageantry and ease she held herself with, and realized yet again he was staring.

He rose up and quickly went to find a place to be nondescript until his name came up. Mercifully for his stomach, but a cruel joke to the trouble he dropped himself in, the troubador spoke next.

"Ladies and gentleman! We have not had such a display in this humble arena for seven years! For those of you who weren't here the last time, I'll wager that's about all of you, our strong champion is the first to fight in the melee! Now all we must decide, is who shall go against him!" He gesticulated to the tawdry courtier to the right of the arena, next to the rack. It was a study structure, lined with all the blunted weapons one could imagine on the continent. The courtier was upper middle aged and dressed like Torm would imagine a lower member of court might look if they were the unscrupulous villain in a folk story where he deflowered the purity of a princess. He waited for the cheering to die down, chin held high, before he reached into the large basket of lots, fishing around for dramatic effect before pulling out a single name. Evidently he was educated enough to read, for he did not give it to the troubadour. Instead he simply called to him a name.

The troubadour, who stood in a more advantageous position to both hear and be heard, began to laugh. Torm would never forget that moment, at Yattar in the cold morning, while the sun peeked over the horizon and gave the announcer a glorious golden light as he expended a great mirth.

"My lords! My ladies! And all the rest of you sods! It appears there will be some infighting today, for the opponent that shall face our graced challenger is none other than Matthias Fullman, Squire of the House of Obai!"

Yet again, there was a roar of approval. Torm's eyes widened, unfamiliar with the name but not entirely certain how this worked. He turned to his fellow armsmen, seeing them all spin to regard a tall man with a broad nose, and long dark hair. His armor was polished, and though he was no knight, he had undoubtedly worked his way up from page in the service of the Falkenrath family. Torm, despite his recent 'heroics,' was likely nothing but an outsider to their eyes. He only gave Torm a cursory glance, before looking to the older armsman and sharing a smile, as if there was some private joke.

The two squires were brought forward and led to the weapon's rack, what the announcer referred to as the armory.

3 minutes passed...

Torm realigned his stance, feeling the weight of the axe in his hands. It was slightly heavier than his long handled one, more robust in the head. He almost felt like the head might topple off the end of it, despite the haft's thickness. He still smelled the faint lavender, and it brought his senses into focus as Matthias readied himself as well. The man had chosen a large bastard, holding the weapon in both hands as if it were an extension of himself. The helm Torm wore was stifling, his every breath loud in his ears. Was it nerves, or was it something else? His armor clinked, and yet again he felt just how hungry he was. He felt weak, and inadequate. What was he doing here, fighting an armsman of the House of Obai?

The trumpet sounded.

The two squires began to circle, and it was only now Torm realized Matthis was taller than he. No small thing, for Torm was not a short man. He fancied he was slightly bulkier of muscle, but having a height advantage could be the key to victory in a close match. Torm decided to take the initiative, and he stepped forward. Matthias redirected his blade to his left, cutting Torm's advance. Draufkrieg thrust his axe head forward in a show of attacking, before hooking the sword blade with the lower beard of the axe yanking the swordblade down. Matthias' blade whipped back, but Torm had already cleared the way, and struck Matthias in the stomach with the butt end of the axe. It drove the wind out of the taller squire, but he managed to swipe at Torm's face. He felt the weight of the sword glance off the top of his helm, and it caused Torm to bend down to keep it from being a clear blow. It lowered the stronger squire, and on instinct he swept his axe across the leading leg of Matthias. Hooking his calf, he yanked on the leg just before Matthias's sword came crashing down onto his shoulder. The move saved him, and Torm took Matthias off balance. The man jumped, the flat of his blade banging against Torm's pauldron, but Torm ignore it and charged like a bull, bowling Matthias to the floor of the arena. The squire fell atop the other, axe half pressing into Matthias's arm to keep him from grabbing hold of the large sword with both hands. Soon their mailed offhands were grasping at the others helm, and to Torm's surprise, Matthias could not get a firm grip on the strange shape of his great helm. The tall, heavy chunk of iron was hard to see in, and even more difficult to breathe, but it was also difficult to control or remove. After a few tense moments of struggle, Torm ripped Matthias' sallet off his face, and grabbed at his neck.

"Yield! I yield!" Matthis yelled, his calm demeanor replaced by exertion and fear.

Torm coughed, in disbelief for the briefest moment, before pushing himself up and off his opponent. For his part, Matthis scrambled away, too embarrassed to be allowed aid in getting up. Torm himself rose to his full height, and unable to look at the crowd from the lack of clear sight in his great helm, he simply raised his axe above his head with one hand, the other lowered in a fist. It was a knightly, stoic image. One Torm would see later in certain pieces of art, likely given by eyewitnesses. The crowd, bated breathe from all the cries and bets, screamed in equal excitement and outrage.

"Lords and Ladies! Squire Torm Draufkrieg has won against Matthias Fullman!" The troubadour screamed over the crowd's roar.

Torm decided he wanted to see it, and he dropped the large weapon, and tore his own helmet off. His hair wild, he found the energy in his breast was too much, and he howled in exultation. It was the sound of a great wolf, he would hear. He could only feel it, and when he looked at the crowd, he saw Theophana watching him intently. Torm's ruddy face bloomed in a smile, and he clasped his hand over his breastplate, and knelt in her direction.

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

"Hello and welcome everyone! On this brilliant spring day, we find ourselves fortunate enough to be present at the Sourdough Arena, in all of its splendor!"

A tall, lanky man with sand colored hair with the colorful outfit of a troubadour stepped out onto the dirt, speaking to the crowd as if all the eyes of the continent were on him. His voice rang clear and loud, able to reach the upper seats. He spoke in a sarcastic, yet grandiose way that seemed to make a sardonic wit on the usual presenters. No doubt the Sourdough Arena was the only place he could get away with it. Torm might have even been entertained, had he not been ordered to turn and present himself at arms, only to see in the slit of his visor the Lady Theophana. Whether by blessing or curse, she was at the center of his vision when he turned, and the embarrassment of earlier, along with the silent judgement and contempt of his fellows shattered like glass. He wondered why she was present. She looked even more radiant than the day before.

"I see we have nobility in our presence!" The man cried, clearly unprepared for the eventuality. Torm had not been listening to rest of his presentation until he had been thrust back into reality. The troubadour seemed slightly less arrogant and foolhardy, knowing he could not simply curtail and pander to the mob. He clapped his hands together. "As I said, what an auspicious day! Gentlemen, as you all know we have your names in lots, and the matches will be set up for such. However, as the nobility have seen fit to grace us, we shall first do the march of honor. Remove your visors in respect!"

The lieutenants ordered the same action, and all the knights and squires did as they were bit. Torm was once again caught on the off foot. He paused, and then decided to pull the entirety of his helmet off. As it lifted off, he shook his head like a stallion, and stood tall, eyes forward, though they drifted to the upper seats where Theophana sat. To the crowd, Torm was one of only four men out of nearly a hundred that needed to fully remove their helmets.

At the calls of the lieutenants, the men formed a rough line, starting from the north with house De Broase. They would march past, and when the house of Obai did so, each man would face her and give the lady a bow, acknowledging her with a curt 'm'lady' to honor her, before the match began. Torm was inexperienced, but he had been told as such by all the stories, and it seemed to be lining up exactly as he had been informed. They would then march past the tall weapon's rack, and await their time to fight. He desperately hoped his was soon, lest he lose from simple hunger.

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

Torm woke up before the smell of cooking pots and the cock crowed. The morning was still dark, but when he peered out of his tent, there was a wan light just under the trees, like Father Joseph rising with Mulchaddezur's Golden Lamb. Still, Yattar never slept. He could hear distant voices and the neighing of horses. For some reason he also heard the call of a goat, and he assumed there was an innocent reason for it.

The newly inducted squire of Obai closed the tent flap, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He'd been given the chance to wash before he slept, and he took it, but he couldn't relax. The water was cold and the lye itched, but he managed to get clean so he could present himself as a proper squire. A servant granted him the armaments needed to perform in the melee the next day, and that was precisely the reason he rose early. He had no squire or servant of his own, and it took time to put on the armor. He tied the londonier along his lower back and swiftly put on the padded chausses. He was unused to sabatons, but the greaves felt like old friends. The padded jack and coif came next, along with the chainmail hauberk. The globos breastplate was an oddity, but he had worn one before, he had simply never owned one himself. Technically he did not own this one, either. Next came the arm braces, and then the pauldrons. He could hardly reach about to finish the latter off, but he somehow managed it. Soon, all he had left was to don his helm, but he would wait.

He had been granted an antique. A great helm with a slim visor. Robust and impeccable for defense, but his vision was intensely limited and he could hardly turn. It looked somewhat rusted, but the regalia showed it was an obai helm from the holy wars of Calsidechi. He took it as a good omen. These used to be worn exclusively by knights, and while no one wore them now, a chevelier had once used it in defense of the faith. He gave a quick prayer he would do them honor.

Once he stepped out of the tent, he found the darkness of morning had given way to sun and breakfast. The Obai encampment was bustling with activity as couriers, cooks, maids, and pages hurried through the weaving cavalcade of pavilions and tents. He asked a grey-bearded goodman where he could find something to eat, and the servant hastily pointed him at a cookpot four tents away. Torm thanked him, but he was already out of ear shot. Torm advanced on the food, stopping to allow a scullery maid to sashay by, but before he could take another two steps, he was overtaken by a rider. A man on a black stallion, with long hair as dark as his steeds, stomped the beast in Torm's space in a manner that was unabashedly intimidating.

"You! Are you the one called Draufkrieg?" He asked, eyes bristling like daggers. Torm realized he must be a knight. His armor was of superb quality, and he proudly wore the dove of the house of Falkenrath on his surcoat.

"Yes, good sir." Torm said, giving the customary greeting to his forehead.

"You are needed at the melee. If you dawdle any longer, you'll be disqualified." He said with barely held contempt, his lip curling. Many women might find the goatee he sported dashing, Torm imagined, but to the squire it only added to his menace. "What do you wait for, man?"

Torm's stomach knotted, not because of his intense hunger, but of embarrassment. "Sir, I had no servant to aid in dressing me. Only now have I left my tent to eat breakfast."

"Then you should have planned for such!" He snapped. Torm had indeed, but apparently not well enough. "You may eat after you've competed. I have been dishonored by our liege by having to fetch you like an errand boy. If I have to do so again, I will end your life with a lance or a blade, whichever suits me. Are we clear, you cad?"

"Yes, sir." Torm breathed, giving a quick bow in supplication. He wasn't frightened of the man's blade, but to insult a knight so early in his patronage could be a permanent blemish on his career. The knight did not even answer, he simply sniffed and kicked his steed into motion. The horse cantered off, nearly killing a servant girl. She tumbled into the soft dirt still caked with dew. Torm opened his mouth in concern, but another man had come to check on the woman. He curbed the instinct to aid her, and ran off to the melee area.

There were four main events at Yattar, along with two dozen other smaller competitions of strength and skill. The most popular by far was The Joust, and three lanes were built to accommodate different sections of the competition. The Knights of Terriche typically won, but there were always surprises. Next was the Archery competition, where the men of Abelorn reigned supreme with their longbows. However, it was in the two melees that the men of Eisenriek held their reputation. The first was the Grand Melee, a battle of warbands on foot in a cordoned off arena. The second was the Soldier's Melee, where a singular man could make a small bit of coin and fame. Of course, you had to pay to get in, but if a lord represented you, they could foot the bill for the melee, as it was a pittance in cost compared to the Joust.

Torm found the Melee arena, one of three in all, at the south eastern end of the Yattari grounds. The arena was a rough hexagon of wooden rails, with a simple dirt floor and raised seats overlooking the venue, along with a single watch tower. The seats could hold four hundred men and women, the least in all of Yattar. In particularly popular days, a few hundred could stand on the ground outside of the spikes beyond the ring, and it was only in the Soldier's Melee that commoners openly placed bets. Of course wagers were common across the entirety of the township, but it was seen as crass and done in whispers or before the competition. Not in the Soldier's Melee, and particularly in the Sourdough Ring, the lowest of the three arenas. It was not exclusive, but men who had never competed in the competition were required to fight there before they could move to the Brass Arena, and then the Arena of Champions. The Sourdough Arena was a preliminary affair.

Torm squeezed through the crowd, horrified to find the nameless knight had not been exaggerating. The flags of the lords were hanging over the sidelines, where all men who served noble lords conversed and awaited the trumpet call and the list of names to be decided for the day. Torm stepped under the Flag of Sigfried Falkenrath, and found himself face to face with unkind faces.

"You're lucky boy," an older man with hard eyes said. He tongued something before spitting phlegm onto the ground. "Il is kind to newcomers on the first day. One of the lieutenants of Lord Gimbol has caught the plague."

"Oh," Torm breathed, understing immediately. This arena was too lowbrow for the lords themselves. They had a lieutenant chaperone and watch, and they had to postpone the beginning for their replacement.

Saints above, what a start.

Silver & Gold: A Warhammer Roleplay

Malcador awoke slowly, and then all at once. There was something off, something he could not quite grasp. He jerked out of bed, his heart skipping a beat as he realized the placement of the sun, which was almost as disturbing as there being a sun at all. He should have awoken at first light! He swiftly ran to the window, not caring he was as naked as the day he was born. He whipped the curtains open, and a quick glance at the glaring sun told him it was nearly 9 AM.

There was a scream, and laughter, and Malcador looked down to see a small group of sorceresses pointing up at his naked form. He closed the curtain immediately.

The astromancer was back in his own quarters. After his tryst with Emmaline the previous night, she had kicked him out so Albrecht wouldn't come down in the early morning and see the two of them wrapped around one another like wrestling snakes. She had given him a lingering kiss with her sheets wrapped around her when he made it to the door, promising more soon, and he went home in the dark with naught but his trousers and boots on, the rest of his clothing and effects clustered in his arms. He was so exhausted he stripped his pants off again and fell onto his bed, damning the consequences of the day. Thinking about sharing a bed with Emmaline had made it all worth it.

But now he had twenty minutes to make it to the Chaple of Sigmar before the next service began.

Usually he was meticulous about his appearance, but he took no time in brushing his hair or adjusting his clothing. He donned his most basic acolyte attire and ran out of the tower before Master Belmond could inquire upon yesterday's activities with any penetrating questions. Members of the Celestial Order were expected to be loyal and unquestioning to their masters, even beyond other students of other schools. Any false move and at best he could be sent to clean the gutters in the perilously high alcoves of their cyclopean tower. At worst, students have been expelled for any considering to disobey a question by their specific master.

Malcador made it to the bottom of the stairs of their apartments, one of the many slimmer buildings of living connected to the main tower of Astromancy. Even in the wan sun, the Astroglobe at the top of the tower was the largest in the entirety of the world, and it glinted brightly.

"Oh Malcador!" A girlish voice called from the apartments next door. The debonair acolyte turned. His studious air was gone, replaced by apprehension. He recognized the voice. Posing out of the window three floors up like a mermaid out of water, Jessibel the Azure looked down at him with a smirk. She was a bit older than an acolyte should be, much like Emmaline, but her hair was dark and it was likely by choice. The woman did not wish to return the estates she would be bidden to once she graduated.

"I haven't the time!" Malcador called up to her.

She only laughed. "There was a point a year ago you would given anything to speak to me. Could you have a new item of interest? Is that why you came back last night half naked?"

"I came back because I was out drinking." He said as he turned away, knowing the story was a weak one. He couldn't let Jessibel find out about Emmaline, or the entirety of the colleges would know it by the end of the day.

"That better be a lie, or we'll have more than words for you." Another voice remarked. Malcador was struck white like a ghost when Gunter, Heinrich, and Grigor stepped out of the crowd. The three young acolytes looked pissed in a way only a young man who had not gotten laid could be.

"Compatriots, I have to go!" Malcador remarked, holding his hands up. "If I don't make this errand I'll be strung up by the balls!"

"That's a start." Grigor remarked dryly.

"Where in the wastes were you, Zauberhaft?" Gunter asked acidly, eye twitching from an illicet substance, likely opium from Cathay. "We waited for two hours, and then did our best to scavenge during the night. They were expecting us as a group! We weren't even allowed in the Gong and Tackle!"

It was an exquisite venue you had to make reservations for. Anything amiss and they would grant it to someone more trustworthy. The girls in there were supposed to be beyond beautiful. Malcador doubted they were as tasty as Emmaline's bosom or rump, but he could imagine it was disappointing to his mates. Plus, and they would never admit this, Malcador was the smooth one. He could get women to join all of them, and without him, they were three intelligent but less than charming individuals.

"Look, it's only the second day of the week. I'll be able to make it up to you, but as of now I have to go!"

Malcador began to run, and he heard their cries follow him across the courtyard as Jessibel cackled.

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

Torm had expected to make it into Yattar in relative obscurity, perhaps mentally prepare himself for the melee. He wasn't sure just how good he would be under someone's patronage this quickly. Had he already done his best, he would have proven himself and felt he had worked for the privilege of vassalhood, but now he if he accepted... Torm felt he would have to work twice as hard to prove Lord Falkenrath's decision was not a poor one, and nervousness bred mistakes.

Still, this had been one of his main goals for making the trek to Yattar. Perhaps Il and Saint Magnus smiled upon him, rather than bestowed a cunning curse. After the briefest thought, he knelt at the lord's feet. "I accept, my liege. It would be an honor to serve." Had he refused, it might have been seen as an insult, and in the back of his mind, he felt a small, nagging thought. Had he said no, he would be unable to see the Lady Theophana any longer beyond a polite hello.

He should have expelled that demon of a thought away, but it was so minuscule he barely registered it.

"Very good." Sigfried said, his tone monotonous as if he'd already forgotten him. He bade Torm stand up, and the Squire did as he was bid. He saw Theophana beaming at him, but Sigfried looked at him in a way that demanded his attention. "Now, since you're of my house we'll need to give you the right surcoat. I won't have you gallivanting around like a sellsword, and I suppose you did not come to Yattar just out of curiosity."

"No, my lord." Torm replied. "I intend to compete, by your leave."

Sigfried sniffed and wrinkled his face for a moment as if something had caught his sensibilities off guard. "Well, I have a few of my best men in the joust and melee. Are you an archer?"

Torm felt somewhat crestfallen, though he hid it well. "No, my lord. I-"

"Too bad. Could have won a pretty pence for me, but I suppose you'll do for the melee. Just don't make me look bad." He said, and glanced back at Theophana. "Or the rescue of my wife will look rather unimpressive, no matter what coin and trouble you saved me."

Torm placed his hand from his chin to the top of his forehead. Commoners had begun to perform a cruder version of the knightly salute in recent years, and some lords had forbidden it. It seemed adequate in this instance, and for his part, Sigfried appeared to be satisfied at the gesture. "Now, go get yourself some food. Your horse is in the stables." Sigfried snapped, and a servant girl of small stature rushed into the room in a white linen dress. "Show him to his quarters." The lord didn't even look at the girl. Torm hesitated, not having been formally dismissed but realize he was being bidden to leave. Torm gave a nod to both lord and lady, and to his surprise, he saw Theophana locking eyes with him for a moment. He gave a faint smile, and turned follow the servant girl.

At the doorway, a courier stepped past Torm, nearly tackling the strong squire. He shoved past Torm and stopped mere yards from the nobleman. "My lord, baron Hreltig has asked for your presence."

There was a small catch in Sigfried's eyes, and he gave a curt nod. "Very well. Wife, I must go for the afternoon. Please try not to get nabbed by the cook." He said dismissively. Torm had the inclination of not leaving, but when Sigfried turned, Torm was heading out the door with the servant girl.

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

"We could just wait in here, my lady." Torm reasoned cautiously. The squire sat upon a smoothly squared stone under the bridge, his hands atop the haft of his axe, its head upon the floor of the riverside. It was not like him to hide, even if he secretly admitted that he wished for her agreement. After he killed the two knights, he knew there would be a reckoning on his own life if the same men found them again. Torm then pushed the thought aside. Lady Theophana was his primary concern. When she turned to regard him, he continued: "Wait under the bridge for another hour or two, then ride in on the main road."

"We do not know if they will set a watch," She replied, and she held her head high with an imperious air. "I will also not be cowed by the mere presence of danger. They are brigands and thieves, no matter what titles they were granted. They slew my men and I will not ride meekly into Yattar."

A more cynical man would have questioned this. Even a knight sworn to her service. They would have said that her honor was well and good, but Torm's neck was also on the line. She would be captured but he would be brutalized, at best.

Yet Torm was not a cynical man at heart. He saw her as if for the first time at that moment. He was moved by her bravery, without the shackles of pessimism or skepticism. Whatever happened, he would respect her for more than merely her title and the way of the world. She had a strong will that belied her dainty form. Torm, mouth closed and gazing inwardly, gave a short nod. "Right, as you will, my lady." He said, getting to his feet and hefting his axe. She seemed pleasantly surprised he agreed, likely expecting resistance. Earnestly, thought of reward was not on his mind, but no doubt there would be one if he succeeded. Luckily, despite the small debate, they were very close to Yattar. It would be difficult for the men to attack them so close, unless they caught them by the river or near a forested bend. They would have to move quickly.

Torm helped Lady Theophana back onto his steed, and then mounted Lykurg as well. The horse, having supped enough water to keep himself sated until the next day, seemed to be slightly waterlogged but still capable. Torm started him out slow, leaving the underbelly of the bridge casually. Their best bet was not necessarily stealth or speed, but blending in. A coach was easy to spot, but a lone rider and a small, waifish passenger was not a large target.

Beside the road to the south, there was a verdant field where shepards guarded a flock of prized Abelorn sheep. The beasts and their wool were the primary source of revenue for the island, and though the prized race of sheep did not breed well on the mainland, the continent still imported them to give the attempt. Instead of the main road, they traversed those very fields, passing by the gloriously plump livestock. Theophana seemed somewhat charmed at the sight. Their coats were enormous, and the shepards gave friendly waves to the two when they discerned they weren't vagabonds.

"So this is the fabled white gold I hear of." She said, reaching as if she could touch the coats high upon Lykurg.

"My mother told me of them. As soft as clouds, she said." He replied, thinking back to boyhood. His mother had come from the isle, and told him strange tails of magic and fey spirits. She had said there was a blessing upon the sheep that allowed them to grow huge coats of the finest wool, yet the magic would be lost on the mainland. Not entirely true, as most tales were, but the climate and the weather seemed to disagree with the ungulates, and they had a difficult time reproducing off the isle.

They passed into a small copse of trees, and out the other end was another field where oxen and cows grazed lazily. A small calf bounced up and down as the older beasts merely chewed with their tails flicking. The calf spotted Lykurg and bounded over, bleating for a moment before bounding away, as if it had found a new playmate. Theophana held her hand to her mouth to hide her delight at the sight, and Torm couldn't help but give a closed mouth grin. A cloud passed over the sun, and soon the field was left behind as the land brightened once more.

For a brief moment, Torm imagined they had seen a swift rider on the hill to the north, but nothing came of it. Soon they heard the bells of Yattar tolling, and Torm turned Lykurg onto a quaint dirt path, where villagers gave way, their baskets full of bread or other such commodities. Over the next rise, they saw a minaret, likely the top of a church. Upon the road were the Icon of venerated Saints. Men and women kneeled at the small busts, laying small coins or other forms of tribute to whomever they paid homage.

"Have you ever been here before, herr Draufkrieg?"

"No, my lady. But I hear it's a place one never forgets."

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

Lykurg was a large horse. His father had been a draft horse, actually. He was stronger than he was quick, however he was also unfortunately wounded. Two normally wouldn't be a problem, but Torm wanted to get a look at that wound, and he could tell the horse was not feeling his best, much like his master. Still, they couldn't stop, not even just for their fates but for the lady. It was presumptive to think she was a princess, save for the fact she was clearly not from the west, but her nobility was a sure thing.

"We will escape," He told her, sounding less like a promise and more like willing it to be true. He felt like a wolf at bay, but his mind was unclouded. As a crossbow quarrel scythed between the two of them and punched into an old oak, Torm tugged on Lykurg's reins. The powerful horse whinnied and spun on a dime, trampling into the forest at an angle from the road they had come. The brambles crackled and leaves thwished against their extremities as Torm kept Lykurg on the path, the horse's head bowed. The woman clung to the beast's neck as if it were her lifeline, and he knew it was in more ways than one.

Shouts erupted from all sides of the woods, but the growth was too thick to see any of them. Gradually they grew fainter as Lykurg stepped onto a small path, and both horse and rider sped forward, vaguely toward where the voices had last been. Torm smiled feircely when the small road curved left up a small slope, Lykurg leaping over a small stream. The woman squealed, but not loudly, knowing stealth was paramount. A handful of minutes later, they reached the main road to Yattar yet again. To their left, Torm saw the hill where he had first spotted the lady in trouble, and instead turned right, up the road that now lay empty. He whipped the horse's reins, and tireless Lykurg stormed forward, passing another muted shout. He couldn't guess if they had seen him or were simply communicating, but even if the three of them had been discovered, they had a head start now. Torm kept Lykurg on the road for the next fifteen minutes, constantly glancing back over his shoulder to make sure they weren't followed. After a few miles, he slowed Lykurg to a canter and bade the lady let him help her sit on the saddle with him. She acquiesced, though he could tell she was relieved.

He felt awkward and timorous with the lady so close, now that the action was over. There were multiple layers of clothing between them, which helped, but still.

"Thank you for aiding me, sir." She said at last, exhaling as if only now could she finally catch her breath.

"It's my honor, but I am no sir, my lady." He remarked, and she glanced back at him, somewhat shocked at the pronouncement. He felt the need to explain, as if she had cast some spell. "I... I had expected to be, but I was released from service before I could be granted the title. I'll not pry on your travels unless you wish to grace me, but I was hoping to be granted patronage at Yattar to perhaps gain another chance."

"Well you're off to a good start," she said with a dry wit. He snorted, and was unable to keep himself from grinning. Little did he know she was meant what she said. The lady looked back at him, and he realized her eyes were green like emeralds. The sages said green eyes were a sign of sorcery, but he cast that aside. It wouldn't do to assume witchery on the woman he saved.

"What's your name?" She asked him. He realized their eyes had been locked for some moments, and he looked to the road.

"Torm Draufkrieg, my lady." He replied. "Of Eisenriek."

In a manner of speaking, Torm was a member of the nobility, only very distant and one who had lost favor in the courts of his homeland. Fleeing to the mainland, they had naught but a rarely listened claim to aristocracy, and when no one listened, it might as well not exist at all.

"Perhaps not a knight in name, but in deed." The lady said, and Lykurg snorted. She blinked as if someone had called her something untoward, and then she giggled. It brought a smile to Torm's face.

"This is Lykurg, it was both of our pleasure to help." Torm said, and then winced, letting out a small groan. The lady looked at him, concern on her beautiful face. So close, she truly did seem exotic to his experience. She placed a soft hand on his cheek, warm and pleasant despite the dried blood.

"Are you hurt?" She inquired.

"Not from this battle." He assured her. Torm had an honest way about him, with a boyish charm to his smile, yet an experienced look in his eyes that gave him a rougher quality than some cloistered page. "I was lucky here. Not so lucky elsewhere."

"I hear there is a river that crosses the road to Yattar. We'll stop there and grant your horse and yourself some rest. Then I can ask how you speak Vencal so well." She said, and when he was about to explain, she shushed him with a look.

been 4 years..

@thouxanban welcome back!