snowthornes

[The Kingdom:Fort Bael] ·:*¨❆༺ ❅ 𝔄 𝔅𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔈𝔫𝔳𝔶 ❅ ༻❆¨*:·

Character: Thorne Briers
Status: Calculating

"'Fasionable lordling'?" A voice spoke up, then, one completely unfamiliar to the room and all its other occupants. Thorne's hands rested on the table before him, fingers stroking the warm surface of the hot stone Andrea had offered him. He had taken the liberty of taking it at some point; the warmth emanating from the stone permeated his palms. His voice was akin to smooth waters sliding over ice; neither cold nor distant, yet not warm either. "Is that your evaluation of me? I have to say, I'm quite flattered." his head tilted slightly, his eyes curving upwards in a manner that somehow felt harmless and assessing at the same time. "Indeed, it was remiss of me to keep silent for all this time; do forgive my carelessness." he raised his hand and placed it on his chest, then, a gentle salute that was typically seen as a respectful, if outdated, gesture of greeting. Then, bowing his head slightly, he spoke. "My name is Thorne Briers. I, like all of you, have come to stand in Rotia's chill with my own ambitions." at this point, he addressed everyone in the room, eyes resting on each face, including the pale-haired girl who was making her way past the table. "Sir Bromann speaks true. Our ambitions have brought our paths together, if only for a short while. It is best, then, that we cooperate with each other; no doubt if the young lord hears of blood being shed before the monsters even come to wage battle on Rotia's walls, he may be displeased enough to dock our pay, even throw us behind bars. I find the prospect to be rather unfortunate." Suddenly, his smile shifted, turning into something a little sharper, something sly and mischievous. "And Lady Andrea speaks true as well. There is great glory to be had in killing the biggest of the beasts that terrorize a city's walls. And with glory, follows gold." That wasn't always the case, but, well. That was a minor detail.

[The Kingdom:Fort Bael] ·:*¨❆༺ ❅ 𝔄 𝔅𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔈𝔫𝔳𝔶 ❅ ༻❆¨*:·

Character: Thorne Briers
Status: Observing.

As the travelers dispersed across the barracks, a united sense of relief permeated the air. Warmth was a precious resource welcomed by everyone present, including Thorne; while his magic responded best to the cold, he did like being able to feel more than numbness. Silently, he moved forward and took a seat at the table, draping his cloak over his chair. Gray eyes scanned the room's interior before finally coming to rest on the table's scarred, worn-out surface. As the other travelers had gone off either searching for food, claiming their beds, or gathering near the fires, his immediate beeline for a chair before doing anything else was a bit strange.

In actuality, he was just tired. He didn't need to claim a cot — they were all the same, with their most distinct differences being their distance or lack thereof from the braziers and fires in the room. Given his constitution, that made hardly any difference to him. Might as well let others claim their beds while he rested his own feet.

His mind drifted back to the scene earlier: the distant clang of a bell, the hurried arrival of a scout. Scouts... western ridge... haven't returned... The way tension had bled into the young lord's face, jaw tightening in anticipation of something that loomed in the horizon.

He stared sightlessly at the table, at the cracks and scratches that decorated its surface. Among them, was an initial scratched into the wood. M. Was that being still alive, he wondered? Those that came before and those that came after; a neverending cycle.

This is a world of loss.

An echo of a memory came pushing forth, and that was when he knew that he gone far too deep into his thoughts again.

Someone approached. A girl: pale-faced, though touched with the warmth of the room — presence silent. She placed a basket on the table and left. No extra movements, no attempt at conversation made. Thorne took back his glance, gaze resting upon the basket.

Well. If someone was kind enough to bring food to the table, then he wouldn't put on airs.

He took a piece of bread from the basket. Rough, maybe a little dry, but warm. He took a bite and started chewing, idly listening to the din of the living around him.

Some of the travelers had seemed to take this rare moment of respite as an opportunity for light socialization. The woman with red eyes, with the pointed ears — Thorne had been taking note of her since a while ago. There was an intensity to her, lingering in her upright stance and her direct gaze, but her actions showed a care that, though measured, was undeniably real. Even now, she was conversing with the reticent bread-bearing girl, who looked to be responding positively to her attempts, even if a little reluctantly.

He had a good impression of people like her.

Voices rang from the cots as well. One was especially familiar: that of the spirited archer who always seemed to provoke some kind of trouble. He had been observing Thorne earlier. In fact, he'd been observing everyone in the group — he hadn't really made an attempt to hide it. He possessed the sort of optimistic openness that, while a tad enviable, could easily be vanquished by the horrors of the world. Thorne had seen it happen.

Far too many times.

(How would this man fare?)

Not that it mattered. Their paths would only cross for this short while.

The sellsword, the one bearing a greatsword, was conversing with the archer. Sort of. He'd plopped himself down on the floor at one point. Why he chose the floor and not one of the fair few cots available, Thorne didn't know. The content of their conversation... unbidden, a small smile spread across Thorne's lips, there and gone again.

A 50/50 split? How bold.

The sellsword was approaching, his heavy footfalls making no attempt to soften his presence. Thorne felt the other mans' gaze sweep over him, lingering on him for a moment before moving on. Idly, he wondered what he was looking at. The sellsword stopped before the crimson-eyed woman, frame towering over her, pointing at her with undisguised hostility.

"You."

A quiet tension seeped into the room. Thorne sat unmoving in his chair, lowering his eyes to the bread in his hands — listening.

A pause.

Then, he sensed a stare in his direction. Not at him, but... at the basket of bread.

"I am hungry, and you have bread."

...

Wry amusement flashed across Thorne's face. This time, it lingered.

[The Kingdom:Fort Bael] ·:*¨❆༺ ❅ 𝔄 𝔅𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔈𝔫𝔳𝔶 ❅ ༻❆¨*:·

Character: Thorne Briers
Status: Serene. In his element. Sort of.

One would think, given his magic's close affinity to ice itself, that the element would see fit to treat him a little more kindly.

Such was the nature of the thoughts that ran through Thorne's head during the seemingly endless trek to Fort Bael's walls. Snow crunched under his weathered boots as he put one foot in front of the other, mindlessly following the disjointed group of travelers' movements. While his thoughts and attentions had long flown off to distant, more agreeable places, an awareness lingered about him all the same; the sort that felt like a bowstring always ready to bend, always ready to let loose a spell or an arrow at the slightest sign of things going south.

Luckily — or perhaps unluckily, depending on how one saw it — all the travelers around were far too fatigued to move in anything more than a state of perpetual silence, each locked in a tomb of their own thoughts. Occasionally, there would be a murmur, a whispered prayer, some sign of a traveler talking to themself (for who else could they speak to, solitary wayfarers that they were?); yet such things were swiftly swallowed up by the biting chill and wind that wound around them all.

Thorne tilted his head back, looking at the skies above. Vast, clad in the gray banners of winter, merciless and sharp as steel. He'd been found beneath the gaze of such skies, his father had told him. A miracle. A child favored by the cruel breath of winter itself.

The wind stung at his cheeks. The cold felt like it was burrowing deep into his bones. And yet — even then, he felt that tingle of power. His magic, coursing just beneath his skin, brimming with an energy that sung and delighted in the merciless chill. More, it seemed ton say. More...

If fire could burn to ashes, could ice crystallize till it was no more? Refine itself so meticulously that its very body turned to naught but ashes to be lost in the snow?

...

Thorne lowered his eyes.

The gate was opening.

A man, one who appeared to have spirits that rivaled the stubborness of the cold, got into a bit of a predicament upon accidentally agitating a wary guard, but the incident passed without fuss; it hadn't dampened the aforementioned man's dogged humor, at least. That seemed to liven up the crowd somewhat, if only a little. Scanning the surrounding people, Thorne took note of the weariness that cloaked every single guard that watched them with wary eyes, before his gaze shifted to a man who, even in his pensive silence, possessed a demeanor that was reminiscent of a leader holding court before his people. Young. Clear-eyed. Alert. This was an heir who had yet to chafe underneath decades of ruling.

Right on time, the traveler who'd had a close run-in guard's pike earlier spoke up, boldly addressing the person Thorne had determined to be the young heir of Rotia. He spoke directly, without scruples; he looked straight at the heir without fear. Despite himself, Thorne's brows shot up in both amusement and amazement.

At that moment, he had a thought that most likely went through the heads of all the other people in the area: How the hells had this man survived for this long?