Shienvien

The Prophecy

Jordan Forthey

The city felt almost overwhelmingly massive to the young guy wandering the streets. The houses counted in many thousands. The people, probably hundreds of thousands. To the best of his knowledge, he only knew two of them ... one was behind the walls of the Magic Academy, and the other had explicitly dismissed him to take care of some personal business. Which is to say, his wandering was more than just slightly aimless.

Back at home, it had just been his family, the neighbors, and the occasional trip to the market with the bartering it entailed. After that, since age twelve, he had been the Glades' stable boy, and mostly interacted with the other stable folk, guests and their servants and squires, and the occasional Glade, from the gentle Lady Glade to the indeed quite intimidating Sir Tareon himself. The latter, was, luckily, a rare sight. For the longest time, the head of the hold only seemed to acknowledge his existence if he needed his horse prepared, and Jordan on his part had not managed to fade into the background quickly enough.
The younger Glades had been more common visitors; Lord and Lady Tareon rarely left the premises unannounced and on their own, but their offspring of his age and older had come and gone quite as they pleased. From Sir Jeran, who treated even common servant with respect; to the late Sir Manin, usually jovial but crude; to the noble Lady Eleanor; to the always slightly distracted Elan; to mirthful Alaisi; to Sir Javien, who seemed to actually see him even less than his father; to Gerain, a boy close to his age who always followed him to the stable door and drummed his fingers against the stable wall as he made the preparations; to ... yes, Sir Yanin himself.
It was strange, really. Back when he first agreed to work there for food, bed and a couple of rodlin - during the winter, when there was less to do on his parents' farm, and it was more economically viable to just send him off rather than feed him themselves -, he would not have thought he would one day become Sir Yanin's ... back then simply Yanin's, apprentice. Squire, even. He had seemed to barely care about him more than Sir Javien. He just came, stated what he wanted done, and went.
His future master's reputation - even as a teenager - had preceded him. He had started training when barely in double digits, and defeated an actual knight when he was barely fourteen, had he not? He had seen said knight - Sir Marcus -, who was later the master of another of the Glade siblings. Didn't look like a weakling. More like the old, tough man - although he was about a decade younger than Sir Tareon. Maybe thirty-eight, at most forty, perhaps. Just with hair that was already graying.
Soon after first defeating his master, the Viper of Glades had furthermore proven more proficient than any other who dared openly challenge him (or who accepted his challenge), too. It stood to reason, then, that it was less about his mentor's shortcomings, and more about the Viper himself being extraordinary.
Much later, when Jordan had gotten to know Sir Yanin better, he figured some of those supposed Yanin-(not-yet-Sir)-sided challenges might have been his personal way of defending Sir Marcus's honor. So you thought you were better than him because you did not get beaten up by novice squires? Come then, come prove that you can do what Sir Marcus couldn't, and beat that exact same squire.
It only lasted a couple of years, the Yanin-(not-yet-Sir)-initiated challenges. The novice squire started sounding like a man rather than a boy and soon towered over majority of people. So, the argument lost its validity - the person they'd be fighting now might be the same Yanin, but his body was not what it had been. And people tended to be slightly more reserved in general when the opposition was looking down on you not because of his opinion on you, but simply because you were a head shorter. Especially if that person had garnered a little bit of local reputation for being a superior combatant. As an aside, perhaps Sir Yanin himself had grown up; these days, he mostly tried to convince people not to even try.
Of course, everything about Sir Yanin's earlier years, Jordan had heard second-hand. When Yanin (not yet Sir) was fourteen, Jordan was still small enough to almost stand fully upright under the tall kitchen table at his parents' home. The one mother stood at when she was preparing food, before she brought things over to the dining table. When he first arrived at the Glades' holdings, Yanin (not yet Sir) was already seventeen. Still a youth, but no longer a child. Especially in the eyes of someone who oneself was no older than twelve.
Idly, Jordan had wondered whether even Lord Tareon himself could have stood against his son by that time. Perhaps not. Perhaps it was why he had never tried. It'd be admission of being worse than not his most favorite son. Sir Jeran had practiced with Yanin (not yet Sir) a few times, and he was no match. Little surprise, there. Jeran was narrower, and did not practice half as rigorously. Sir Yanin found time to practice even when on the move. Preferably at least two hours. Regardless of weather.
It had been one of the times Yanin (not yet Sir) had just finished training that he had first asked him a question on his own accord.
"What is that?"
Yanin (not yet Sir) had looked at him. The young Glade did not seem angry, but something in that look made Jordan uncomfortable. It felt like the look of someone who was trying to decide what to do with you. Usually not a good sign.
"The ... weapon. I don't think I've seen something like that before." For some reason he had continued, rather than retreated. You treat them with respect, you hear? Do as they say. Don't make demands. Don't whine. Don't be nosy. He had ignored his mother's advice a little bit with Sir Jeran, Lady Alaisi, and Lady Melone, but they had decided to talk to him first. Yanin (not yet Sir) had ... not.
"The man who sold it called it a headhunting axe." The same voice Yanin (not yet Sir) had normally used to order him around. You will get Prince saddled and ready tomorrow at sunrise. It is a headhunting axe. The exact same intonation. Both were statements.
Jordan's eyes had moved from Yanin (not yet Sir) to the weapon. He had seen battleaxes before. This here did not look much like a battleaxe. It looked like a scythe someone had snapped half the blade off of, and then ground the remainder into a sharp curve again. And there was a spike of sorts at the back. The Glade maintained the look.
Jordan was split between digging an even potentially bigger hole for himself, and just apologizing and hoping for forgiveness. Was it a good thing the Glade answered, or a bad thing he took so long to decide? Back then, the height difference between them was even greater. Yanin (not yet Sir) was, for all intents and purposes, an almost fully grown man, and a large one at that. Jordan was barely pubescent. He sounded like a boy, looked like one, too. His work was physical, but consisted of lifting a spade, not swinging something that, by the sound of it, was designed for detaching people's noggins.
"Uhh... Yeah. It certainly looks like something you could take someone's head off ... with. I mean, I saw what you did to the target. The damage, I mean. Or maybe it's just because it's you. You could probably take off a person's head with a spade, too." Indeed, facing Yanin (not yet Sir) who was armed with just a spade would not have left him with much, nay, any better odds.
For a moment, the young Glade's face remained unchanged, but then his one eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. Still not angry. Still thinking? Surprised? Maybe this moment was the one Yanin (not yet Sir) decided that the nonsense he spouted meant he was too dumb to be worth bothering to punish him for his insolence. A lost cause, so to speak.
"It'd be rather easy to kill with. Handles well. Deals massive damage. But it's more commonly a tool. A lot of those foreign weapons are. Cutting through thickets, carving furniture, doesn't matter, they're meant for utility first. Not quite as restricted to status and combat as most of our swords."
Huh. So perhaps the thoughts about scythes and spades were not that far off... "I see ... thank you."
"Hmh." And without any further sign of acknowledging his existence, Yanin (not yet Sir) had wandered off, leaving Jordan standing where he was for several long minutes before he remembered what he was doing before he stopped to watch the tail end of the Viper of Glades' practice. Not exactly friendly. But he had actually replied to him rather than demonstrate his new toy's ability to pierce actual human skulls. Jordan's, for instance.
Later on - after seeing the same expression on Yanin's (not yet Sir and Sir alike) face numerous times - he had come to figure that specific look was less "what am I to do with you after what you just did" and more "well, I'm listening; what (the heck) do you want of me". Potentially with some amount of actual irritation mixed into the latter, depending on when you bothered him ... he still couldn't tell, after five years of being around him. Maybe it was better not to poke at him too much. He'd seen Sir Yanin truly angry a couple of times. Just not at him. He'd prefer to keep it that way.
In spite of a number of people's apprehensiveness towards Sir Yanin, though, he did not think he was actually a cruel guy. More just a very ... well, irreverent one, on one hand. That's for certain. Very blunt. Abrupt. Confrontational. But never cruel just for the sake of being cruel. Nor was he violent. Again, somewhat contrastingly to his combat prowess. He could be dedicated, though, if he set his mind to something. Occasionally other things but combat, too. For all his irreverence, he did have a sense of duty. Sir Yanin himself insisted you just had to not be stupid about it. Duty, that is. And there were things his master cared about, even if it was sometimes hard to tell what they were.
In any case, it had been easier to ask other questions from Yanin (not yet Sir) after his curiosity had gotten better of him once. He was never not quite sure whether he was annoying the guy or not, but he gave replies, and he was outside more commonly than the other Glades. Probably another thing his mother would not have approved of. Bothering the Glades. But they were the only not-peasants he knew who were around on a consistent basis. Who had more knowledge and experience than the common folk. Who not only knew tales, but had lived them. Who possessed real ancient tomes and real steel weaponry. To a twelve-year-old no one, it was a kind of a big thing.
In the end, he managed to convince his family and the Glades' other servants that he could stay as a stable hand past the winter, and Lady Glade approved. And then the year after that. And another. Once his father and one of his sisters died, he still opted to stay. Shame, the sense that he might have his own life he'd have to yield ... he did not know. He suspected his remaining family were quite bitter at him. They seemed like a part of an entirely different life. And then there was the feeling that if he'd gone back, he'd just be waiting to contract the withering himself, like his sibling and ancestor both had. Whereas out here, he might at least hear something. Or so he told himself.
Eventually, Yanin (not yet Sir) was knighted and and became Sir Yanin. And Jordan, probably with some impression that he was ... well, not Sir Yanin's friend. Definitely not that. But given that the other Glade brothers either had squires or - in case of Elan - did not have time for them, or were too young ... and because Sir Yanin had mentioned he intended to leave his family grounds for a while... Due to something mostly between himself and his father. Sir Yanin never specified in more detail.
In any case, Jordan had inquired about potentially becoming his squire. Or apprentice. Or just coming along and being his servant or something. Sir Yanin had stated he'd think about it. A few days later, Sir Yanin had - for once, approached him for a change. The answer was yes.
And so they took off. Found a place in Seclyr. He was not entirely certain on the specifics of it all, but Sir Yanin was soon in charge of a small number of people. A few properly decked out guards, and a dozen other guys and gals who did not truly seem professional. Since Sir Yanin was now responsible for the guards, Jordan, by proxy, became one of them. Some fields, some houses, a street with a small shop and the occasional unaffiliated seller by the side. And a tiny pub, which was by far the only actually interesting place. There was little in the way of actual guard duty. Mostly just checking that no one was hunting on the grounds without permission, or taking off with baskets full of someone else's drakehorn fruits, or initiate a fight in the pub.
"Why this place?" he had inquired.
"It's quiet. And away from Lord Tareon."
"But it isn't all, is it?"
"No."
"What more is there, then?"
"You need practice, for one."
He ... guessed there was really no arguing with that. Sir Yanin was ... well, he probably held back. And held back a lot. But he did not let Jordan win, either. Worse, he always made defeating him seem easy. Even when the weapons they were fighting with were not equal. Practice lasted however long Sir Yanin seemed to see fit ... probably until either Jordan got too tired to keep up with even his own meager baseline. Or until Sir Yanin got too annoyed with, or bored of trying to teach him something. His master never outright stated either of the latter, but felt like it. To add insult to injury, training usually took place before Sir Yanin's own regime.
He had asked Sir Yanin why he usually told off people who attempted to challenge him for a duel, these days.
"What for? You could probably count the humans in Rodoria who could defeat me in a fair swordfight on your fingers," his master had replied. "But these worth fighting won't fight fair. They won't use the same weapons as you. They won't stick to metal and wood. They won't wait in a queue. And they might not even be human." There had been a pause. "You can't change what you are, only practice. And pick how you fight, when, and with who. And use everything in your disposal, fair be damned."
"That doesn't seem very knightly."
"Honor is for duels. Consider it one of the few lessons my dear father truly taught me. How do you think he became known as having tactical skill? Or how did anyone? It was not by fighting fair, I can tell you that much. History is not made with fair. It just swipes the unfair under the rug."
"The history is always written by the winners. Right." He had heard the phrase. It was sobering to hear it asserted like that, he supposed.
Sir Yanin shrugged. "By whoever is currently in charge."
For himself, his master had been quite talkative that day.
Over a year as a guard had passed quite quickly. Surprisingly so. There were a couple of incidents of note. He had managed to befriend a couple of the villages and guards. Sir Yanin was, as always, more reclusive, unless he meant business. It wasn't until he pointed out that these people might not be quite as kind to his Lady Alaisi as either of them when that Jordan began to realize why his master might have more than usual reservations towards the locals. Maybe most of them wouldn't give them out ... out of respect for Sir Yanin, if nothing else. The others probably would, the bigoted lot.
Recently, though, something had been bothering Sir Yanin. It was hard to tell what exactly, but something had. His habits changed. And one day, he had handed his duties off to to his second in command, and well, here they now were. In Zerul City. Visiting Sir Yanin's sister and taking care of some other, unspecified business.

The horses and their things had been taken care of, and so he had been dismissed. Staying in the room didn't seem of too much interest. The bars and inns were many. And a whole lot bigger than the one in Brow's Rest. He did not feel hungry just yet, though, and stepping into one without the intention of ordering either a drink or food seemed inappropriate, somehow. The eight rodlin he carried weighed down on his pocket. Giving one of those away to acquire nourishment he did not need felt like a waste. Chances were the room Sir Yanin had ordered already came with food included.
He'd found a market ... quite the garden-variety sort. Just a lot bigger than the one he had been used to. And with some wares he was quite unfamiliar with. He had inquired about a few of those, but without him displaying an intent of buying, the merchants tended to quickly become impatient. He had also found a couple of standalone shops with magical wares, whose owners or workers kept a close eye on him. And one shop which sold jewelry. He had felt even more out of place there than in most other places of the massive, sprawling city. As if he had no business being there, and was thought of as a potential thief rather than a potential client.
There was also something obviously wrong ... as if the withering was not enough, the city was also full of, well, he supposed refugees was the most apt term for them. And quite a lot of the higher ups were off to a wedding of the future duchess ... who would have otherwise become the future duchess? ... Jordan did not know what exactly his matter with the topic was, but for some reason Sir Yanin seemed almost irate when he mentioned the fact. Perhaps it interfered with his plans, whatever they were, somehow. Maybe it meant some of the people he had been looking for were not there.
He had lingered by the gate for a while. Tried to get a few accounts out of the later refugees. Nemhim's capital was ... destroyed? By what? Something in his chest felt cold. They might not have lived in the city, and they might have been bitter towards him, but his remaining family were in that duchy. Were they safe? One man with blood-soaked bandages around his limply hanging left arm whose packages he had offered to carry claimed he had seen the ... beast. And the corpses. Their chests ripped open. The beast was something four-legged, and dark. Not black. More murky reddish-brown. It chased after people.
To top it all off, the Anaxim Forest was gone. The thing must have been millenia old, and now it was gone, razed and burned to ground... All that, it seemed, within a span of a few days. Had Sir Yanin somehow been aware that any of this was going to happen? Was any of those things why they were here now? Was this the beginning of one of those adventures he had only heard of? If so, the reality was quite depressing already...
After aiding the man, he had wandered off in deep thought, heavy brown boots hitting the cobbled street in a monotonous, lulling rhythm. Gray pants, brown belt, sword and dagger by his hips. His woolen coat was draped over his shoulders, rather than bound closely, baring some of his white, cotton shirt. Most of the way, his eyes were downcast, blond-brown hair curtaining his face.
It was mostly the quieting down of his surroundings that finally had him raise his head. Somehow, this street was almost empty. The light-colored stone houses stood tall. Probably quite rich region, comprised predominantly of residences. No shops. No pubs. No interest for anyone, unless they lived here, or were just passing through.
He had only a vague idea where exactly he was, but seeing he had not been walking for much more than a dozen minutes, it could not have been too far. He can always just backtrack. Should be easier than backtracking in a forest - forests did not have streets, after all. And he had not made too many turns. The sun had been positioned towards the opposite side of the city, and it shouldn't have moved much, so if he leaves it behind his back, and starts walking, he should get back close to the gates ... maybe a few streets off, but no worries.
He looked up towards the sky to determine where the sun was - even with clouds, there was usually a lighter splotch -, but as he did so, something else caught his eye. Something which seemed to get a raise out of the remnants of his time spent as a guard. There was ... definitely something on one of the decorative cornicles attached to one of the houses. It was hard to tell what exactly it was, but it was quite long and evidently at least partially made out of cloth. If he had not incidentally backed against the side of the opposite building in his search of any indication of the stellar body overhead, he'd not seen it.
What was that? Had wind carried it up there? Had it been thrown out of one of the windows? With no overly obvious access, he doubted the house's inhabitants had knowingly stowed it there. Was it ... a person? Could it be? If so, was it a homeless person who had figured he had found a particularly safe spot away from thieves and horses' hooves, or perhaps a watchpost of some sort? Maybe an eavesdropper?
Somewhat restlessly, his hand wanted to move to his sword, but he reconsidered.
"Hey!?" he shouted at the ... whatever it was. Part of him felt dumb, should it turn out to be some wind-driven cloth up there. Another part of him warned that, should it indeed be a person, it might mean trouble.

The Prophecy

@Rhae: Good; we'll see, then.

And yes, the "wiki" is still up. Been taking care of as much - theprophecycompendium.tk (link also in the OoC opening post).

The Prophecy

Thanks; I started wondering, though - do you (Jack, that is) recall the previous time I used the same character in a RP?

The Prophecy

Brow's nest should work just fine, I'd reckon. Could you describe the village population/structure/surroundings with a couple of sentences so I could better sync up Yanin's memories to what it's like?

The Prophecy

@Rhae/Merc: Hmm... Could probably still have Jordan spot Morgan ... but keep Ixion/Yanin close by, just in case he starts looking too much like a dinner (whether it's Ixion or Yanin who happens upon them first depending on how early into the next year Merc gets to posting, I suppose). Would at least get the three/four of them together. What do you two think?

@Jack: Should I just pick a random duchy and location name for wherever Yanin was stationed for his job? Also, how often do Reniam vampires have to eat, and how commonly they'd usually do?

The Prophecy

Domhnall, Iridiel and Angora

After a few seemingly too long moments (one could begin to think the poor fellow had managed to knock himself out on his way down), the probably quite humiliated squire slowly got up. “I’m fine,” he squeaked, before clearing his throat and trying again. “Turns out mud doesn’t care who you are, either. I...” He faltered, then sighed. Mud doesn't care who ... the what now?
"Dinnae know wha' were ya doin', lad, but I s'pose tha'd be one way tae obtain camoflage if ya don' have one given by nature," the forestfolk expressed, absently scratching one black-bearded cheek as the dark brown-green eyes in his brown-and-green splotched face confusedly took in the young black-eyes's newly modified appearance. "One'd figure ya ha' a crossbow aimed a' yer heed, but ain't more than a crow in these trees."

Oh dear. No sooner have I gotten clean than this one decides to take a mud bath. Angora's inner thoughts were a mixture of confusion and humour. This once-stoic defender of peace and morality, reduced to gibbering fits of ... what could only be described as palsy. Well, it was either that or he'd had a slight mental breakdown and probably needed a massage, a good stiff drink and lots of pampering, either one of them.
He was also decidedly less majestic-looking as a result of this misadventure; his once-brilliant white shirt and his breastplate, both of them were now [i]very[i/] brown ... as was the majority of his face ... and his hair. Angora bit back a laugh at the irony of his situation - no longer was he the knight in shining armour who pronounced sentence upon the accused! Now, he was in the mud and the blood with the rest of them...
Was he going to succumb to a spirit lurking in his sword too, and then have to have a foreign healer repair his own mind? Mmh. Perhaps not. Don't curse it, Angora.
The squire, for what it was worth, had wiped away the majority of the mud before attempting to speak, only for his voice to fail him. He squeaked out a declaration of wellbeing. Angora wasn't convinced. Her smile hadn't faded, for all this - she checked the mud underneath where he had, uh, 'fallen over', for rocks and any stony promonitories. No sharp edges. No blood. Good. Could have been hazardous to his health - even more so than the sight of her nude form. A cut in the mud like that would easily become infected, and though the aforementioned healer was somewhat awake, Angora would rather her abilities weren't immediately tested.
She heard the brown and green splotchy man - Domhnall, she quickly reminded herself - start talking in his coarse, rough speech. A crossbow aimed at the head? Crows? Oh, right. He had assumed that the squire had dived for cover from an unknown assailant! Perhaps not exactly false, given the circumstances, though the assailant was quite known, and she didn't need a crossbow aimed at his head. Angora shrugged and returned her focus to the squire, seemingly oblivious to his shame and his embarrassment.
"Well, uh ... you take care of yourself, right? That looked painful, and you're kinda lucky that you didn't hit a rock or something. Would have been quite the mess if you had, too." She picked up Jaelnec's hat and offered it to him, though the hat had also fallen victim to the seemingly ever-present earth.
And then, to compound Angora's shivering chilliness ... she felt the first few drops from the sky fall upon her head, trickling down her black hair and into her eyes. She could taste the water as it dripped onto her lips, as a drizzle slowly emerged into a torrent from the menacing clouds above. Rainwater ran in rivulets down Angora's neck, down her back, down her chest, splashing against her bare skin in the rents in her clothing.
"We... should probably get moving." It was increasingly difficult to hear oneself over the noise of the rainwater now pounding down on the leaves and trees around them.
At least the squire wouldn't have to worry about the mud for long.

Well, the very least his well-honed hunter's instincts were not off, Domhnall wryly thought to himself, now beginning to genuinely shiver rather than just briefly shudder from the abrupt change of temperature. It had been but a couple of minutes since he had assessed the threat of impending rainfall as the greatest threat over their heads, and sure enough, here it was.
"I'm won' tae agree with the lass here," the forestfolk agreed, half-speaking loudly, half-shouting over the rain and his own shivering. He'd probably die of hypothermia if he continued to stand there much longer. "So le's pick up our things an' get going, aye?" The things which, incidentally, were all over the place.
With luck, the rain would not be for long - sudden downpours like this seldom were. It was entirely possible it wasn't that expansive, either - the leader of this rag-tag group was probably quite right to take off ahead of them. Might have spared himself and the white-eyes a cold shower, for one.
Without further ado, he motioned Iridiel to come, and took off jogging to where most of their things had been left. The highlander woman, uttering an inventive stream of swearwords in her native tongue, followed after him.

The Prophecy

Jaelnec has yet to master the art of contemplating firewood.

Could I get a name for some small semi-rural town in any duchy which is big enough to have a dozen to two guards? (Otherwise I'll just pick and name one at random.)

Hmm. And how probably would Jordan get eaten if he were to spot Morgan before Ixion? @Rhaevnn Xeno The Viper himself should be mostly safe, not so sure about his squire (barring intervention from his master).

The Prophecy

Domhnall, Iridiel and Angora

Kings were there to keep the throne occupied? No, come now, she might be young, but Angora knew that was just naivete and folly to truly believe that the King, the undisputed ruler of Rodoria, was merely a figurehead. True, the Dukes spoiled and ranted and raved when the King had his back turned, but the King was the man in charge, surely. Surely? Now she doubted herself. Perhaps the King was just a figurehead, controlled by puppet masters behind the throne- she stopped herself before she went on. It wasn't the King she hated. No, not at all - it was the very institution of the monarchy. What right did one man have to rule over all others because of his bloodline? Why were the common people always ignored, nay, shoved to the side, when it came to government? Wasn't the government supposed to be taking care of the people? Surely... the people themselves knew what was best for themselves? Well, maybe not.
Angora herself was no politician. Iridiel, on the other hand, she could be a politician if she wanted to be one. A hot-headed firebrand she was, especially when it came to defending people and her own right to freedom. Angora remembered that Iridiel had said that she had been exiled for her own beliefs - or perhaps it was the killing of two officials who believed otherwise. Either way, surely she could understand Angora's point? If she understood it of course, which was not a given when speaking to a foreigner. Iridiel showed no real signs of interest in the conversation for her part. She looked to be simply enjoying snuggling up to her green-skinned friend. Which brought Angora back to the point at hand - the muddied cloak that currently adorned her shoulders.
Angora sat up, and attempted to lift the cloak over her head to present it to Iridiel. "You, er... you should probably have this back now. I'll be fine."
Iridiel shook her head. "I gave it to you."
As Olan was approaching the downed woman (“The fire didn’t do anything, you know? In any case I’m pretty sure it’d be better for you not to kick it. You know?”), Domhnall peered at the vague direction Jaelnec was supposedly in. As the forestfolk had been idly contemplating the firewood in lieu of inadvertently (or intentionally) staring at the above-knee parts of the very naked Angora (somewhat disturbingly, it now occurred to him that her lack of shame could have had at least as much to do with the "getting close to your target" part of her job description than the it she had been stuck with for over half a year), he had missed what exactly the young black-eyes had been up to; he would've assumed he merely jumped to his feet a couple of moments before Angora commenced with her assault on the campfire, but no, the entirety of him had disappeared from immediate sight altogether...
"Sorry... My uh, temper got the better of me," Angora mumbled embarrassedly as she took Olan's hand to help her to her feet. She had noticed the strange antics of the man who initially had been oh so confrontational towards her... he had tried to do a backflip... from a sitting position, over the log that he had been sitting on. Angora's mind tried to work out the logic in that as she rushed over after Olan had helped her up to check on the black-eyed one. Angora knelt beside him, shaking him by the shoulders gently, trying to conceal the broad smile on her face.
"Are you alright?" She fought the urge to follow up with, See anything you like? She wouldn't be that brazen. These were people of honour and morals... She'd already sullied that enough with telling them about the Firm.
Iridiel, for her part, was silent, rolling her eyes and finally detaching herself from Domhnall's warmth... albeit very reluctantly. She would have liked that cloak right about now, but the human likely needed it more, especially given the state of her at the moment. Her outfit, though clean, was still little better than rags. And likely adding to the squire's embarrassment, it didn't leave much to the imagination. She must be freezing still. Hussy.
Domhnall regretted the absence of Iridiel's warm weight resting against his chest even more than the highlander did the reverse; somewhat demonstratively, the forestfolk raised his shoulders and shuddered slightly as a damp gust of wind made sure to immediately remind him of the general ambient temperature. All good things come to an end, he supposed, finally begrudgingly getting back up to his feet to see what manner of fate had befallen their young black-eyed companion. At the very least, moving about should also give some warmth...
Well, the squire had not gotten far, as it turned out. Angora was poking at the poor fellow, who had somehow achieved a prone position face down behind the log he had sitting on. To the best of his knowledge, something like that could happen to a startled housecat, or perhaps a cub not quite in control of its facilities yet, rarely a larger animal, let alone a humanoid. Unless, perhaps, they just spotted a crossbow pointed at them a few trees away. That might have justified such a hasty taking of cover. But alas, the sparse trees around remained bereft of any life but them bigger than a crow. The only serious threat hanging overhead was that of it starting to rain again.
Angora would doubtlessly not enjoy it more than any other of them. Now that she was clean, it became apparent how poorly her clothes were, one patch of pale skin chasing another. Perhaps we should lend a fishnet for her or something - it would probably have fewer holes in it. Wisely, he withheld commenting on it loudly for the time being.

The Prophecy

I think I'll put Sir Yanin's family holdings down in Etlon. I'll still need some semi-rural town just about anywhere in the country where Yanin could have been for over a year (head of guard of sorts).

Keeping an eye on the people moving about in Zerul City, seeing whether there is a good opportunity for him to step in. (Unless, again, someone wishes to bother him or his squire first - Yanin's currently wearing the cloak atop of mail, for the record.)

Er... And am I to assume no one would try to stop Aemoten at the gates?

The Prophecy

Domhnall and Angora

It appeared that the young black-eyes was not particularly opinionated on the matter, Domhnall had to conclude. Either that, or he decided to keep his opinions to himself. Whatever the case, the current leader's placeholder grudgingly resigned to accepting Angora's revelations with just a single word, fine. Huh. The forestfolk's eyes flitted from Jaelnec to Angora.
It... wasn't the response she was expecting from the man who had so vehemently been crusading against her way of life. Angora smiled - at least he was no longer hell-bent on demanding that she turn her life away from the Firm overnight. Such a thing was simply not possible, not to mention she might have a visit from a Con or two over her defection away from the Firm... or even her father. Erik was a Captain-Junior in the Dramburgh family - a family that was built on the Cleaners... Erik himself was a rarity - an outsider who attained high status in a family despite lacking their name. The Kelenwyn group was not a large one, but they were efficient. Angora doubted that even she would escape with her life. Admittedly, the man had a point - her hands were soaked in the blood of those she had killed, though perhaps he and others like him didn't quite realise what a Cleaner did. No matter.
Angora returned her attentions to her clothes. They were still damp - not to mention freezing cold - but they could probably ill-afford to spend too much longer sitting in front of a fire. Next to the green and brown man, his companion with the shock of red hair and blue lips slowly came to from her nap. Perhaps a subtle clue from the gods, Angora thought to herself, giggling quietly. The Black Sword's glow had ebbed away to a dull smoulder from the bright fiery runes that had been showing earlier. Angora turned the blade over in her hands several times... it was warm, very warm to the touch. She laid the blade on her clothes.
“I suppose it isn’t important in the end, you know?” Olan piped up. “The Withering doesn’t care who you are or what you do. And that’s our objective, right? Getting rid of the Withering?” Though somewhat surprised, the young black-eyes seemed to agree. That was right, this was their mission... The group's, and now theirs by extension. Iridiel had said her goddess instructed them to join the group on their quest ... or something of the sorts. The gist was what was important here. Healer first and foremost... Seemed like the sort of thing that would fit the bill quite nicely, in any case. Speaking of Iridiel, she was certainly beginning to stir now.
"Yeah... the Withering." Angora's face fell. So that was their mission was it? To cure the Withering, the greatest plague that the mortal world had ever seen? Wonderful. "Funny thing, isn't it, disease? From King to common folk, you're just as vulnerable. Makes you wonder, doesn't it - what truly makes a King so worthy of respect and obedience, when they're just as soft and fleshy and mortal as the rest of us?" Angora shrugged and went back to poking at her clothes. Iridiel - at least Angora thought that was her name - seemed to have woken up fully by now, though she was still yawning her head off and murmuring something in her native language to her companion. Were they a couple? Or were they just very good friends? Angora didn't know, nor did she really think it was her place to know. They were foreigners, they could have banned marriage for all she knew... She looked around at everybody. Perhaps she could let the clothes dry on her body, using her natural heat...
"I should probably get dressed."
"Ya do that," figured Domhnall. The clothes were probably still damp, but then again, she could also just move herself closer to the flames... Probably had a lower risk of setting the clothes on fire than just moving the clothes by themselves even closer to the fire.
What really separated a king from the common man... Some agreement made by the majority? The woman was quite right as far as Domhnall was concerned. King, peasant, at the end of the day they were just all people. Did not mean one was more correct than the other, or that the majority was necessarily right, or fair. Iridiel was only here because someone decided that her intentions did not matter, after all...
"Good morning," he noted to Iridiel, who had now lifted her head from his shoulder. He kept his arm around her for the time being, though; the warmth was nice, and he'd been sitting still for a while...
"Hmmmh... morning, still? I can't have slept for long I suppose..." Iridiel yawned and gently placed her head back on Domhnall's shoulder, pressing herself into his chest slightly. The warmth was most definitely welcome ... and Iridiel watched as Angora was going to find that out the hard way.
Angora got to her feet, cursing quietly as she took hold of her clothes from by the fire and moved them away from the odd spark or two, before snatching them up in her hand and allowing the cloak to fall from around her shoulders, heedless of what the others might think of her naked form on show to them all. Shit, that's cold! Instinctively she drew her hands about her breasts, shivering from the chill wind biting at her flesh, but she forced herself to forget about the chill for the moment in exchange for donning her clothes - though she wondered quite how well they'd actually protect her, given their poor state of maintenance. She swore repeatedly as she dressed herself as hastily as she could, though true to what she thought... it wasn't much good. The rips and holes combined with the damp clothing to render her perhaps even fucking colder than before! At least she could rely on the cloak to keep her warm- the cloak that was on the floor in the mud.
At last, her temper perhaps snapped once and for all. "Fuck it all!" In her anger, Angora aimed a kick at the fire, which missed, thanks to her still-foggy state of mind, and perhaps the side effects of having been kicked in the face several times. She fell to the floor, lying there thoroughly upset, embarrassed and exhausted.
Evidently still drowsy, Iridiel took his comment as an invitation to snuggle closer to him (not that he had anything against it), whereas Angora, from what he knew, quite uncharacteristically to Rodorians, opted to just change her clothes in the full sight of them all. It might have been that living in the forests under the influence of some critter that did not care at all for the common manners of its host for ten months or so had slightly dampened her sense of privacy... If Domhnall had any further thoughts on the matter, he did not seem to show them, and instead seemed to be trying to figure out whether he could reach one of the nearby logs to toss it to the flames and not move himself while he was at it.
All was fine and good until Angora decided to ... kick their campfire? Whatever her intent, she missed her target and fell flat on her back, eliciting an instinctive jerk from Domhnall's free hand and shoulder before he caught up with the fact that there was little way for him to do much unless he removed Iridiel from himself and got up. For a moment he paused, looking at Iridiel, then back at Angora, then at the two black-eyes. Assuming that one of them had not moved already (or, in Jaelnec's case, made himself sink underground), he lifted his eyebrows at them. Well? Are you just going to sit there with your hands free?