A Wolf At The Door

A Wolf At The Door

Postby Serrus » Wed Apr 08, 2015 11:58 pm

Sleep had come heavily, hours passed by a clouded memory in the time it took him to blink, and yet he was still tired, so tired. His eyes seemed to flutter under the afternoon sun where he walked, and the spring insects became an incessant headache through each ear. The hooves shifted along the winding track, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump,thump, and he knew that sound, it sang a song for his sleep, of a dream he never remembered upon waking. He held the bridle of the silver-grey stallion, clung to it as boots clumped the dry earth. Stay to the roads, stay to the road. This was a road, small road, a winding road, a tiny road; but it was a road nonetheless. The horse's hooves thumped, and his heart beat in time, thump-thump, thump-thump. He leaned against the great muscled shoulder, and every so often the rouncey would nicker, looking for a source to break free – it was not used to being coddled or led in such a manner, and though it did not break free of the master or bite or shake him off, it chewed its bit irritably, and snorted every so often, black tail whipping through the air like an angered dragon, the blue roan a bright sheen against the brown and green trail.

He carried next to nothing now, he'd left it all behind at the dark, musky room. None of those things belonged to him, they were a foreigners clothes, and we do not abade the blood of the westerner and their False Single God, lest their thoughts make us anger the Gods and unbalance the earth, for we remember and abide by The Old Ways. The gambeson was torn, ripped and shredded, and he knew The Master would be furious for letting his hair be dishevelled in such a fashion. The clothes were not his, nor was the knife, nor the sword, or the ring, not by might nor honour nor toil had he gained them, so they were not his for the keeping. The spring sun was warm upon his brown garments and torn boots, and flies came to land upon the great cut upon his forehead, that clotted and festered, then bled, only to clot and fester again. It was a great crevice upon his skull, and his thoughts of it only made him think of a red moon, a bloodied stag and pine nettle, and it made his head hurt, so he thought no more of it.

"Perhaps I could sell you," he muttered to the horse and his voice sounded far, a dream. "Or my master will take tha' back, and I will pay him, but the gold is not mine to spend freely."

He saw the sheen of the lake before he smelled the water, the thick darker green line that broke out over toward the swamplands, but here along the track, the land was green and lush, the sun warm, and he still did not remember his name. I name you cur, for the blood that stained the sheets upon your mother's broken bones, for she was never be whole again when you surfaced the waters of her womb. The sparkling water directed him across the winding track toward the rocky manor, old and battered, but showed much maintenance upon its old aging foundations, a sign of a careful working hand where coin could not suffice.

"What liege lord would sleep in the den of a forsaken province?" he asked himself. "It matters not, for we shall see on the nonce." Hooves shifted, and the stallion guided him along, nudging its head against the master's back, impatient now with the new smells and sight of this man-herd home. The air was not quiet for long however, for it was soon filled with the fwoop-fwoop-fwoop of embossed black, fluttering and flapping and clicking of little talons from branches on high. And from their cries he remembered the ringing of bells, and he wondered if that was supposed to mean something. His thoughts become a great mass of confusion over the blackbirds great din as they amassed in number to greet the new visitor, with japing cries and mocking little dances of caw, caw, caw, and cah, cah, cah. In each little sound they made appeared a whistling tin, a shade of pearl, coppers and shillings and pennies and nails, and one by one their caw became mocking voices in his ears.

Little Wolf, Little Wolf, don't let him in. Leave him in the cold, dark and dim!

Who is he? Who is he? Look at his broken ear! Those silly paws on all fours! Such a silly little wolf!

Killed his mother, killed wife and child, lost his name and now he's wild!


"Shut thee marth or get thee down ye black wretches," growled the man, the 'Little Wolf'. "A fine pie ye would make, hot meat and butter. Come down, come hither and mock me, cowards." He pulled on the reins, trying to walk faster, but they only flitted and hopped and flapped along after him, branch to branch, tree to tree, laughing, cawing, teasing.

Scared of a sparrow is the Little Wolf! Lost his teeth of steel, where is the Master in Black? He knows nothing!

To the King In White, upon the throne he did brood at Garden's heart, and the Little Wolf trembled and shook in fear, and could not strike him down with his steel teeth on the blood moon!

A waste t'was tha d'unt give owt for nowt, if tha di'nt do it for thissen.


"Shut up, shut up, shut up," he snarled. "Shut thee bloody beaks, y'bastards," and he picked up a stone and hurled it at the them as the rouncey shied, pulling him aside from the track. The crows were unharmed as the stone thunked against a branch, and the great murder only cawed louder, and they laughed and laughed while the Little Wolf snarled and led the horse along the winding path towards the old manor.
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Re: A Wolf At The Door

Postby Cherny » Fri Apr 10, 2015 3:12 am

Word carries to the lodge on soot-black wings, messengers flitting ahead of the traveller, seeking the ear of what passes for the manor's lord. A wanderer, a ragged man, blood on his brow and a stone in his fist.

By the time the visitor nears the gates they are closed, barred, the roof-ridges lined with coal-feathered watchers, croaking and chuckling among themselves. The moat-ditch, cleared and dredged, glitters with slow water between the spikes of new-sprouted rushes, the thick moss on the building's foundations giving it the look of having arisen from the earth itself, a forest-softened outcropping of stone and timber. The gate is sound, however, its iron hinges clean and oiled, and wall's stones seem sturdy enough to endure the ages.

A clatter of boots on wood, and a head peers over the gate wall, hat of stove-blacked iron hastily donned, mailshirt chiming beneath a sable surcoat. A young face, a boy's face, yet already scarred and set in a stern mask as he watches the road, rune-carved spear gripped ready in one hand.

He waits, wary, and a hundred bead-bright eyes turn to watch the manor path.
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Re: A Wolf At The Door

Postby Serrus » Mon Apr 13, 2015 2:08 am

Hoof by hoof, step by step, the road winds itself along, and no shouts nor shouting nor cursing silence the murder any more than he wished, their mocking cries words of insult in his ears as they hopped from tree to tree to mock the stranger, though soon left him to congregate about the great manor, where they might mock him at safe distance from any more stones or rocks to be borne their way. The blue roan snorts impatiently, head flicking for a moment at the cawing crows, before lowering again to usher the man along, and it would seem that the horse is more leading man than man is leading horse.

Towards the gate they go, the warm sun beating down upon the man's torn clothing, and he carries no knife nor sword, but the cut upon his forehead perhaps makes him appear more ominous than any sharp blade could muster, travelling up the road he is. The road straightens, the iron gate looming in front of them in a great trespass, a fort with an ragged iron wall to keep the heathens out. A loose hand holds the bridle, and boots drag tiredly upon the muddy trail. Dark eyes cast upward to where he sees movement, see the gleaming helm in the spring noon, and the long spear with its sharp tip that perhaps sung tales of blood. Neither spear nor helm bother the man any as he holds his gaze upon the younger one for a time, a long stare, a stare of a man lost.

"Th'art far too young for a sentry's kit or a guardian's boots," he remarks, in a voice that sounds it is a great effort to form words. "Where is your liege lord, young master?" A lets out sigh, the horse tugging at the reins, head turning to eye the boy, ears swiveling at all the talk. "Such a lord with manservants and maids would not let his house fall to such ruin. Mayhap y've taken this old castle for thy sen, eh? You and your den of thieves."

He turns, eyeing the gate and the boy again, and the gnats come to swarm around the cut again, for the all the swatting he does to try and shoo them away.

"If this be your lord's house, I'd pay him for food and boarding, if he has the room. The stables might suffice if not."
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Re: A Wolf At The Door

Postby Cherny » Mon Apr 13, 2015 8:24 am

The bloodied stranger nears, and the boy watches his approach with studiously impassive gaze, waiting until the visitor stands before the gate, below the wall, close enough to hail; he waits, though, lets the man speak first, announce himself. What follows earns a scowl from the youth, head turning slightly to watch first with one eye, then the other. The stranger's speech is curious, piquing the boy's interest, but he doesn't move from his perch above. When he speaks he strives to deepen his voice, to sound gruff as the hunter's son, his pride stung by the ragged man's speculations.

"You threw stones at my crows." An accusation, daring the man to deny it, to lie to the boy's face. Each word dragged raw from his throat, but invested with as much dignity as he can muster, and a chorus of croaking rebuke rises with them.

"You'd d-do well to offer k-kinder words, ser, if you're l-looking for, for shelter. There's a b-beast in these w-woods that'll eat you if, if you're n-not careful."

No answer yet to the traveller's questions, instead a span of quiet, of closer inspection, dark eyes peering at the man's wound, his tattered garb and restless horse, the crows offering their own muttered counsel all the while. Unarmed, though, and that's perhaps enough for the boy not to turn him away then and there. Perhaps there's a flicker of recognition there, though the sellsword cuts a much different figure now. Perhaps it's the scar upon his brow, perhaps that hollow and haunted gaze that stirs sympathy in the young warden's breast.

"W-what happened to, to you?"
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Re: A Wolf At The Door

Postby Serrus » Mon Apr 13, 2015 3:29 pm

You threw stones at my crows, he said, in a voice that seemed to carry a pang of consternation.

"Your crows?" His eyes wandered to them, their beady black little eyes, their fluttering wings, and looks to where many have perched. "So I see. Aye, I did throw a stone. They mocked me, with their... words, their eyes. I never much felt a friend to crows." His eyes shift over to the boy. "I knew not they were your companions." His attentions turn back to the one with the helmet, voice carrying it's exhausted words across a rolling tongue. "I will not harass them further, and I would tolerate their noise, if they would not be so loud."

The snort of his horse interrupts him, and his attentions turn to the forest, the words of warning, of risk, of the beast in the woods. "You speak of the Keeper in Red," he says with a nod. "She gave me parlay a few weeks afore this day.. of sorts. Mayhap that is why I am standing at your master's gates, still drawing breath."

What happened to you? What happened to him, that night, where the moon was red and the giant stag tangled with the little wolf, and the Sparrow gave his name and took the other, so that he would not remember... not remember....

"The King in White took insult upon my breath, and so sought to drive it from mi'sen, but then took pity and left for his throne in the woods, and thus the Great Stag left the Little Wolf wounded." He draws a sigh. "The Sparrow took my name when I demanded it, and what hath lived before was torn asunder." He takes a moment, the words confusing him perhaps as much as they might the younger helmeted one, before his hands shift on the bridle, and he steps away from the gate towards where the young sentry watches.

"They call me Little Wolf," he introduces, in a voice that carries exhaustion. "But no teeth shall I bear, nor snarl shall I make, if your master would bid me boarding for the night. I have no quarrel with thy sen, only missen."
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Re: A Wolf At The Door

Postby Cherny » Mon Apr 13, 2015 10:49 pm

Some brief indignation from the watching crows at that talk of mockery, of words; the boy glances to the nearest, and is offered a low croaking which has the tone of protest about it, and he turns back to the petitioner below with renewed coolness, further accusation poised behind his teeth.

Except there's that talk of the creature in the woods, of parlay; a rambling account of the King in White and his hidden court, of sparrows and stags and wolves, and perhaps the boy's features pale slightly, perhaps his eyes widen a touch. A moment of balance in which the scales might tip either way. At last he turns from the traveller and his horse, vanishing behind the wall for a time; a clatter of descending boots on boards, and a moment later the grate of iron as the gate's bolts are drawn back and the sturdy timbers swung open. He's smaller yet, close to, half-lost in a coat made for a man twice his size, a mailshirt's chimes muffled beneath. A stout-bladed little falchion hangs at his hip, and his posture remains careful, wary, for all that he waves for the visitor to cross the bridge and pass the gate.

Beyond lies the courtyard, old cobbles mortared with moss and tufts of spring-pale grass; stables to one side, what might once have been kennels to the other; in one corner a chopping block and a crude woodshed; a clothesline strung across the opposite, blankets and shirts and homespun smocks billowing gently in the breeze. Beyond the manor house presents a picture of run-down nobility, of repairs made by diligent but not necessarily skilled hands; moss on the stones, timbers patched with an eye more to efficacy than aesthetics.

"You snap at, at anything here, it'll c-cost you your eyes." A stern warning offered in his raw little voice, and a meaningful flick of his gaze up to where the crows loiter with beaks like flinty little knives. As a courtesy, though, he extends a hand for the roan's reins, spear still gripped firmly in the other.

"I'll get him s-settled." And, as an afterthought, a nod for the wanderer's introduction. "I, I'm Cherny."
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Re: A Wolf At The Door

Postby Serrus » Tue Apr 14, 2015 3:11 am

"Cherny…"

He rolls the name over his tongue, over his lips, over his mind. Where the Hall stood against the great rains, where it had stood for five hundred years, names were given to men that carried meaning. Faelan, Little Wolf, Halsten, One Who Is As Stone, Merfan, From the Marrow, Senwrig, Small Hill. But he knew not the meaning nor origin of Cherny, and so he mulled over the word, until it seemed normal to say it. Following the gestured hand, he looks to the reins where the boy indicates, and fingers loosen their blistered grip upon the taut leather so the boy might take the horse as offered.

"Gramercy," thanks the man. "'Tis no horse of mine, but a good horse all the same." He takes note of the great manor, of the old building that had seen so many seasons come and go, and it reminded him of home, of the great walls of rock and slate, where the fires burned all year round, and the solar was but a great canvas to the stars above. When he was a boy, he would stare at the stars for hours, and his uncle would tell each of them their names, and the meanings of the names, and the power behind the names. But he had no interest for such talk, he simply wished to look upon them. An eye turns to the mossy cobblestones, the worn down pathways.

"Your master or lord is away, then?" he asks. "The steward? A liege lord's son, mayap?" The younger one looks nothing close to any of these suggestions, but Myrken was a strange land full of those who worshipped the one god and paved way for the great beasts of the ages, of dragons, gods and men. Who was he to say who is the liege lord, and who is the servant?

"Whomsoever tha' may be, it matters not. I have coin, and will pay for boarding, and 'pon the morrow I shall leave once more, should your master have no quarrel with missen."

He awaits the younger one's guidance upon the matter.
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Re: A Wolf At The Door

Postby Cherny » Tue Apr 14, 2015 8:28 am

For a time the lad's attention is on the wanderer's mount, a hand held for the beast to scent, a soothing touch for his neck and quiet words of reassurance for restless ears, .

"D-does he have a name?" A curious question, perhaps, but given the Little Wolf's addled state it's an understandable one, given his account of what happened, leading the boy to suspect a robbery on the road, wits scrambled by that blow to his brow. Either way he leads the stallion across the yard, a tilt of his head inviting the visitor to follow, if he will.

The stables are clean, well-swept, but cold with disuse, the animal scents of sweat and dung faint and stale. He rests his spear against the wall and busies himself with seeing the horse into a stall, unfastening bridle and bit and saddle with quick, clever fingers, hanging each piece neatly over the rail. A moment to smooth down that fine blue coat where it's been pressed beneath leather and brass, and a little longer to see that there's ample hay in the rack and straw upon the floor.

"My kn-knight's away questing." A very brief explanation as the man continues to press after the boy's master, though it's a half-answer, one which leaves assumptions to be made. The stallion duly settled, the squire slips from the stall with a last pat for the beast's shoulder, taking up his spear again and nodding back towards the yard.

"You c-can keep your c-coin, ser." Left unsaid that the vagabond likely has greater need of it, for all the manor's shabby appearance. Out into the courtyard again, a shift in the breeze carrying the scent of hounds from the kennels opposite.

"I, I can take a l-look at your head, if you l-like. I've w-watched the wells-smiths at the, the R-rememdium." Another glance back for that wound, and a somewhat critical inspection of those ragged clothes as he leads them towards the iron-bound front door.

"I'll d-draw a, a bath too. It's a w-while yet 'til s-supper."
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Re: A Wolf At The Door

Postby Serrus » Thu Apr 23, 2015 12:04 am

The blue roan is a stallion, ill-tempered at the best of times, but the past few days of fracas and cold wet wanderings in the spring rains have left it tired and hungry, and it does not shy away from the boy's gentle hand and coaxing steps to lead it toward the stables, recognising the sight and smell of them even if they were old and saw disuse, but it knew the familiar animal smells and dung, which meant it would have shelter and food soon, and it nickers impatiently, tail flicking in an equine display of eagerness.

The query leaves the visitor looking distant for a moment, before he regards Chery impassively. "He is no horse of mine, and for that I know not his name." He glances to the storm-grey horse a moment. "Tough and impatient, perhaps you could give him a name until he finds a good home and keeper to name him."

The stallion is cooperative as its led to the stables, still and silent as the tack is dismantled and removed, and it stirs little when groomed, only swivelling black ears and digging to curd and chomp on the hay as if it had not seen food in weeks, though it had only been a day or so, tail flicking again, and remaining mostly still, comforted by the new shelter and food. When Cherny returns with his spear, the Little Wolf is there, his dark eyes looking towards the many windows of the manse for signs of activity, of life, but their appears so little, if any at all.

"Errantry," he comments to Cherny's curt reply. "Thessilane. They say many are still warring there." But he doesn't press the boy for where his master has gone, who has shown him such kindness and hospitality, something befitting one perhaps learning the art of chivalry and honour. "My master is Lord of the Hall. Blackhall of Sagpa." An old great keep and moat that stood as a tower to the smaller reaches of the Sagpa River that reached into the Fraoch Maountains, black of stone and battered by storm, snow and landslide, some said it was old as Heath, and had stood for centuries. "We follow the Old Ways there, and speak not of your One God." He glances back to Cherny, and a brief smile appears on his features, though the smile appears superficial. "Sometimes my master is away questing, too," he says softly.

The boy talks of hospitality and charity, and not being having to pay for accommodations. Talk of him tending to his wound shows the Little Wolf pulling a face, but he does not show signs of agreement or dispute, he merely looks back to the manse ahead of them. "You are most kind, Master Cherny," replies the man, still looking forward. "My father taught me that kindness and compassion were the signs of a weak heart. Of a coward." He lets out a sigh, before glancing at the boy calmly.

"Perhaps not today, however, for 'tis a brave thing to allow a wounded stranger passage through your gates into your home."
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Re: A Wolf At The Door

Postby Cherny » Mon Apr 27, 2015 9:22 am

Old horse-scents in the stable, the most recent being another stallion, months-since departed.

"He's a, a thundercloud." Offered after a stretch of quiet contemplation, brush moving smoothly over the mount's steely coat.

Quiet as the visitor speaks of his home, of lords and halls, though there's a glance of something like disapproval as he admits himself a heathen - and ha, a Heathan with it, which brings a flicker of something like amusement to thin features as the thought occurs, hidden as he hurriedly turns back to the horse.

"My kn-knight's gone West. To, to Lothaine." A furtive look to see what the traveller knows of that place, if he perhaps grimaces in sympathy or dismay.

Quiet as they move on to the lodge itself, through the iron-bound door and into the hall beyond; an impressive, shadowed space, sturdy timbers rising to meet overhead like the hull of an overturned ship, the air scented with old dust and woodsmoke and hound. A dry rustling and scrabbling stirs briefly in the rafters as the pair enter, only reinforcing the stillness of the hall as they fade to silence.

Blankets blurred by the passage of countless feet soften the worn flagstones beneath, the walls of dark oak panels or inexpertly-whitewashed plaster. At one end of the hall, beyond a couple of looming armchairs, a small fire smoulders in the too-large hearth; a collection of pots and pans hanging from nails driven into the paneling nearby; a spark of life in a desert of genteel decay, little boxes and flour sacks and casks giving the impression of a pragmatic little campsite in the wilds of a house too large, too empty. The few decent articles of furniture mingle with others scavenged and scrounged from who-knows-where; carefully-stitched patches upon the upholstery; faded tapestries lend a desperate cosiness to the walls.

The boy drags the less-disreputable of the armchairs towards the fire and offers it to the visitor with an incongruously courtly bow, waiting until the man takes a seat - or refuses - before busying himself around the fire. Spear propped carefully up against the wall, coat shrugged from his shoulders and hung on a peg by the mantel shelf with his helm; even in his forge-blacked mailshirt he is a startlingly slight figure without those bulky layers; a boy's thin limbs, dark hair clumping in oily tufts, his movements quick, precise as he stirs the embers into life, plying them with sticks of split wood until they spark and crackle. Two kettles, one large and iron, the other small and copper, are filled from a battered tin ewer and hung from pothooks to boil while the squire rummages in the depths of a little pine box.

"Your f-father taught you wrong, s-ser." He doesn't meet his guest's eyes as he says this, not quite that daring, but there is a note of resolve in his tone that dares the man to gainsay him. "It's a c-coward who locks his h-heart in iron for f-fear of getting hurt. It, it's braver to be k-kind. T-today or, or any day. "

He takes clean little squares of linen from the pine box as he speaks, setting them within reach atop a nearby stool; a reel of thread and a fishbone sliver of steel follow. After a little more searching he finds a neatly-folded paper packet, retrieving a few aromatic leaves to grind between his palms into a chipped bowl while the copper kettle begins to shiver and steam. The first packet stored away again, he shakes more - different - herbs from a stoppered jar into a tin mug, before waiting patiently for the water to reach a proper boil. A chance to make another inspection of his guest, narrow features half-shadowed, dark eyes lively with sparks of firelight.

"I, I've seen you b-before, ser Wolf." Not entirely certain of it, but enough to say it aloud. "But you, you were s-someone else, I think."
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Re: A Wolf At The Door

Postby Serrus » Wed May 13, 2015 1:56 pm

He is a quiet visitor, polite yet reserved, following in the younger squire’s footsteps as he tends to his house. “He moves well,” is all he comments to Cherny’s talk of thunderclouds and grey stallions, keeping silent until they are moving from stables to the great manse of old, such a great building that seems so quiet and empty.

“Lothaine is cursed,” replies the man who calls himself Little Wolf. “Men scarce return from there as they once departed. Your Master shall be no different, should he return at all.” There’s little words of doom or somberness in those intonations, more a cool certainty. Lothaine is hardly a place of tranquility, after all.

He remains silent as he follows Cherny inside, and his dark eyes make note of the interior, but there is little in the way of comment or appreciation for now, mere choosing to be the quiet stranger, even though the stranger is now a guest. Darkhall lived to its namesake, slate and stone, and grand hearths with freezing winters, few in the way of blankets up floors to warm the feet, and harsh northerly winds that came from the ranges. Cold and hard, like the soldiers and men born and bred from the great castle.

He takes the offered chair with little complaint, and even less noise, watching the boy go about tending the fire, letting out a tired sigh. The wound throbbed a little, and he thought of it again, and it brought images of a bloodied moon, a screeching madman and a screaming madwoman, with the hiss of leather from unsheathing steel. He let his thoughts wander and turned his attentions as Cherny speaks up, commenting on hardened hearts and kindness.

“The kindly man takes to kindness as a babe does to mother’s milk, while the cold man takes to kindness as a hawk to a rabbit. Kindly men share kindness, for it is all they know. Cold men share little, for they know even less. Yet cold men are the ones who oft protect the men who are kind.”

The words had been hard to form, perhaps from the wound and his fatigue, but after he says them, Cherny comments on identities, of him being ‘someone else’. This seems to confuse him briefly, and he looks as if perhaps the boy has said something impertinent, or nonsensical. He diverts his eye the boy’s helmet worn earlier and his notable chain-mail, head tilting to the side.

“You have a blacksmith?” he asks. The working looked practical enough to be usable, but it didn’t have a craftsman’s touch or the look of a master smithy.
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Re: A Wolf At The Door

Postby Cherny » Mon Jun 22, 2015 9:15 am

There's an air of ritual once the copper kettle boils, the boy carefully pouring scalding water into bowl and mug in turn, filling the air with herbal fumes. He's seen them do the same at the Rememdium, knows the rough proportions of leaf to water, how long to leave them to steep, how much is safe to administer. Quiet for a time, content to rest patiently in the fire's glow.

"What d-does a cold man f-fight for, if he d-doesn't care?" Back and forth with this cautious little debate, his disagreement couched in careful terms so as not to give grounds for accusations of insolence. "A k-kind man can protect h-himself, ser. Better th-than a cold man, even. He's g-got a better r-reason."

His visitor turns aside from the idea of being someone else, and this brings a brief crease of concern to the young squire's brow. A brisk change of subject to that of blacksmiths - a distraction, and he goes along with it for now.

"No, s-ser. Not here." A glance across to the iron hat, down to his mailshirt, and he sets the well-wrought links chiming softly with a shrug. "My knight g-gave me this, s-ser. That," A nod for the helmet. "I found in t-town and, and h-had mended there."

Inspection of mug and basin - a sniff at each, a tentative fingertip to the steaming surface of the latter to gauge its heat - and he rises, takes up the mug to offer to his guest.

"This'll b-be bitter, ser, but it's to c-clean the blood." A flick of dark eyes for the man's brow. "Helps with the, the s-stinging, too."
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Re: A Wolf At The Door

Postby Serrus » Wed Jul 15, 2015 11:45 pm

"Kind men have soft hearts," says the guest in an unwelcome tone. "Some of them so soft, they would spare the man who wounded them, only that he might return and wound them again. Cold men know this, and strike them down so they would not rise up again." He sags into the old chair, shoulders hunkering down against the dark brown fabrics, hair trails hanging over his shoulders while the wound throbs to each beat of the heart, and his tone becomes more dejected. "I did not come to debate morals. The world spins and my head aches. The stag cut deep, as would be expected for a king in white."

The crackling of the fire has his mind wandering to other fires, hearth halls and great cold black slate of the hall he sometimes remembered. The carpet was a crimson red, like blood, almost, the smell of cindered wood and dry rushes, and the roaring fire that was never enough to warm the cold slate and stone in the winter months. "They say these forests are dangerous. The Red Keeper, the king in white. Great serpents. You do yourself well to have ready your spear, your armour well oiled." Dark eyes fold over to Cherny, regarding him for a moment. "Whom do you squire? Has he taught you how to fight? The parry and riposte, guards, stances? Sword and buckler, perhaps. Onto the bastard's sword when you're old enough."

He turns a impassive glance to the offered cup, and he takes it. A mouthful is taken, and indeed it is bitter, but he simply tilts up the cup and downs the lot noisily, thrusting it back towards the squire. "Here. Best you get on with it. Night gathers and I tire quickly."
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Serrus
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