Honest Labor

[Malaroth]

Knights are not trained for stealth, no matter how some might wish, or think, otherwise. To the squire he was closing in upon some messenger of the Ashfiend, or the scout for bloodthirsty bandits. Regardless, this was the moment of his herosim. It was clear to him now. This was why he had been stuck with watch duty - he was meant to find this intruder. He was therefore also meant to put a stop to whatever villainy was clearly brewing and reap untold glory form it to propel him into the ranks of the knights and beyond.

Imagine his surprise when, tearing his blade free, he spun about from behind a tree and took the first step forward in a ferocious sprint. Except he stumbled on that first step. Except he twisted his ankle and, his young face screwed up in courage suddenly slackened in surprised pain and, weapon released, he fell hard onto his side.

As the weapon bounced against the ground,h e struggled through suddenly breathless lungs while peering up at the Fick woman.

"Have at you!"

***

Malaroth grinned as she succumbed to the dust that played havoc with their noses. The grin lowered his defenses however, causing him to explode with another sneeze, before he rolled his eyes in playful frustration and stalked away from the resettled pew. His thoughts turned elsewhere, loose and unstrangled in the midst of good, hard work. They turned towards his squire, and the sad spirit that clung to her.

With a distracted sigh, worry creasing his pale brow, he sidled up to the toppled altar and stared beyond the havoc the Ashfiend's raw strength had wreaked. He duly noted that they did not have the strength amongst them to set the stone construct right, nor the tools to see the job done. While he cataloged what such a task required, he thought again of Squire Mayfield and the last heart-to-heart talk they had shared.

He thought of it with a smile, arms interweaving across a lean chest. Even were the Ashfiend gone, and all armies abolished, there would yet be enough harm and hurt in the heart of men to plague all of one's living days.

[Wendy]

Council secretaries do not spend their time in sparring camps; however, this lithe creature moves as though she is trained in the use of stealth tactics for undercover work. Her motions display that she has sharpened skills which require rigorous practice - such as precisely aiming a dangerous weapon before she flings it.

There is reason enough, should one study her past, for this girl of rural heritage to be steady on her feet as she abandons the mare in haste. Pemberton's thrown dagger could not have missed its target had he remained upright. In the quick minute of this hero's demise, the then unarmed farm girl gathers up the squire's weapon and is before him.

"Have at you!" he blurts out.

The young woman peers down. The worn-thin points of her boots are directed at the young man's face. Instead of kicking at him, she drops one knee to the ground. The Fick girl leans until her stormy features are looming directly over that surprised, upturned visage. The squire's seized weapon is turned against him as it's tip is angled for his jugular. Her freer hand might get a hold of his garb, near to the throat, while he remains on his side.

"Shut up!" is harsh, is quiet, is sneered at the man. He has already caused her to lose her favorite weapon - now lying feet away, somewhere in the leaves - due to his clumsiness, "Or you will bleed like a tracked-down deer." Meanwhile, her gaze challenges his uniform to reveal its loyalty... then returning, as it may, to his face in order to read it, perhaps, to anticipate his actions.

Here is a girl with three older brothers and a highly argumentative, temperamental best friend. She has learned to hunt and kill everything from rabbits on the farm to rumors spread in Myrken Wood. While there does not appear to be any empathy exposed in her actions, it stands to reason that Pemberton Fick's brothers, and damned Gideon, may have used her as the target of their own practice on many occasion. It is likely, here and now, that she has made use of their tactics.

There is risk involved in leaving her brother's mare unattended. There is also a probability that anyone else patrolling the priory's periphery will have either witnessed the disordered young man's fall, or heard his exclamation.

[ShadowRose]

The drowess fluttered a hand in front of her face to ward off the attack of the dust and, once her blue eyes had recovered, watched him walk away with the wisp of a smile on her face. She started to move toward him, to inquire of thoughts and perhaps offer comfort.. but the sudden entry of a rather distraught squire and his cry made her pause and regard him fully.

"An agent of the Ashfiend is attacking squire Slade! Help us!"

And without even waiting for an answer, the young boy fled through the chapel doors, and the drowess, with quick and even stride, followed after him. Beyond the dusty sanctuary, and a few feet away, stood a young girl over a downed squire -- the allies of Ashfiend were many; from the dead themselves, to Quiller.. and now in the form of a slight thing, more accustomed to farmlife than to the road carved by a killer. But her movements.. lithe, practiced, betrayed more dark origins.

Sarayn moved in quickly, having withdrawn two short swords from the sheaths attached to her leg, and exacted a perfected double-pronged attack at the poor Fick woman; one liquid-sheen blade searching for the flesh of her arm that held the squire's blade, and the other sweepingly for her head.

Duck and run, dear Fick. It will save your life.

[Malaroth]

The Ashfiend struck Malaroth as loathe to give up anything, even the Priory, despite its little strategic value. That the creature had sent an emissary of his corrupt will said that they had a chance. A slim chance, but one all the same, to catch the one who served and prevent him, or her, from reporting back to its master.

Hurried steps lead him at a dead run in the swift Drow's wake. As he nears he spies one of the squires indeed held in the clutches of some slender, struggling figure beside a horse. Only it is no servant of the Ashfiend. Rather the woman is a servant of the state. A servant he had invited. A servant who might quickly fall beneath the zealous Drow's blades.

A strangled gasp is all he can muster before tearing off after the slender Drow, shoulder lowered, arms wide as he scrambles to pounce and take the woman down.

[Wendy]

A runner among the leaves, a cry within the priory, while Pemberton pulls at the squire's top. Her narrowing gaze is an attempt to hone in on a symbol at the breast of his shirt, but it is a duty to find one, even with a squint used to sharpen her gaze.

No time seems to have exchanged between the girl’s inspection and the arrival of an attacker. The Drowess is upon her quickly, causing a frantic pace in the farm girl’s heart. There is little time to act as Sarayn charges her with a glide of metals, clinks of partnered knife blades – they are spun in expert technique, aimed for her upturning head, and for her exposed axillary’s region.

Pember's breath catches, her hazel eyes whiten as they bulb. Her body’s message is to send all blood, all strength, to the muscles of her heart – and to fill the extraordinary system of her veins with the tingling endurance of adrenaline.

It is the girl’s instinct to shove that squire's blade into the way of Sarayn’s swing for her head, and as the Drowess is near on top of her, Pemberton’s balance on one knee is compromised.

The council secretary falls backward, and for cover - without thinking - her skinny arm’s strength pulls on the squire’s shirt to bring his body with hers as she goes. The blade aiming for her armpit has missed its intended mark, but it is possible that it could sink into the squire's body.

[ShadowRose]

Reflexes quick, cunning immeasurable, the underlying clue that something was amiss, that the girl may in fact not be an agent of the Ashfiend, was the strangled gasp emitted behind her from the knight following in her wake. But she ignored it, assuming that his breath was spent in surprise at the expense of the poor squire in the villain's grasp--she had no choice but to draw her attack short as the cunning little scamp fell backward and pulled the unfortunate boy with her, using his body as a shield. She threw her blade out harmlessly wide, missing the poor child within inches, and glared coldly at the pair beneath her.

The second clue.. well, hit her unexpectedly, she turning just in time to face him before the knight and drowess tumbled together, over the council secretary and unfortunate squire. The weight of him in that armor crushed the air from her, causing her to gasp outright, and the metal slammed into her delicate flesh--no doubt causing considerable bruising.

Still, through pain and lack of breath, the drowess grinned weakly, whispering, "If you wanted to throw me on my back.. you should have just asked." And her following giggle became a deep cough.

[Malaroth]

The squire bit his lip as he and the Fick lady collided, crashing in a heap of tangled limbs, held as the woman's prey. Bound in this Ashfiend servant's arms, poised to take death for a woman already delivered into undeath.

Until Malaroth is rising from his feet, grumbling some half-swallowed response to Sarayn's teasing banter.

Until the Grand Master extends a pair of hands after his approach, eyes tense in a medic's thorough, if distant, scrutiny.

"I hope your journey was otherwise uneventful," The Grand Master murmured, waiting to help both to their feet as the squire, trembling, tenderly begins to pick himself from the Fick woman.

[Wendy]

Taking the squire with her turned out to be a good idea for Pemberton, but it is too bad that it wasn't skill that led her to the taking of that action. Sarayn's blade swing tore the squire's weapon from her hand before the fall, and then the duo (of Malaroth and his Drowess) crashed down on the bodies of those already on the ground - all of this leaving the Fick girl with a sorely stinging brow.

It could have been an elbow that cracked against her skull. She doesn't know what's hit her. In a matter of hours, the fragile orbit surrounding her eye is going to shine like the blue corn moon.

Getting to her feet takes patience. Taking inventory of her hurts will require another minute or two of everyone's time. The squire seems unscathed; however, she was certain that Sarayn's attack was brutal and would have cut her successfully. Apologies are uttered, leaves plucked from her sweater and hair, for the distraction she has caused.

She rubs at the back of her head, feeling a tender spot from where it jammed against the ground. Perhaps she shared the squire's luck that there wasn't a rock jutting up from the earth right there.

Sarayn is given a swollen look of a disapproving mouth and stormy, hazel eyes, before Pemberton's stare moves to the squire. Let them share her dislike for their tactics, and then Malaroth, too - only at his concern, she drops her shoulders and gives an abrupt nod.

"Uneventful, by far. I would have had my little brother with me, had he not chickened out of the ride." Clearly, the Drowess and the others on premesis were not informed of her possible arrival? At least not with any description. This troubles her.

"I've lost my knife..." Turning her back on the strange, mismanaged trio, the girl kicks at leaves in the ground, stepping paces from their whereabouts so that she might find where that first dagger landed - she'd be sad to lose that, "I'm glad my brother wasn't here for the slaughter." This, she says, for the Grand Master's benefit, while aware that anyone might listen. The others hadn't seen the small boy - but, he had.

[ShadowRose]

Sarayn grumbled to herself and winced as she gingerly picked herself from the ground, she too picking leaves and all sorts of sundry from her clothing and hair. The drowess flicked her eyes momentarily to Fick, and then to Malaroth, finally shifting her attentions to the downed squire who began to pick himself up from the ground as well. She made her way over to him, and asked quietly, "Are you okay..? Are you hurt..?" as her blue eyes fell over his frame in a singular sweep of inspection.

The glint of a metallic object caught her meticulous gaze, and she stooped low to gather it up in delicate hands, turning it over once or twice. 'Far too simple to be mine, and the balance is off,' she lamented internally, lifting her sight to the Fick woman as the other searched for a lost item.

"Miss.." Sarayn issued from her lips, holding out the weapon for her, "I believe this is yours." Still, the following was all she could muster, "I would apologize for my over-zealous attack against you. However, I find that attacking a small boy for no reason a tad bit tasteless. Unless.." and she looked at the squire now, arching a pale brow, ".. he somehow began the scuffle?" And that fact wouldn't pass over the drow as unbelievable for she had several run-ins with these so-called squires, and they hadn't been pleasant.

"Either way.." the drowess chuckled, crossing her arms over the tenderness of her frame, the glint in her eyes unmistakable, ".. welcome to the Snowstill Priory."

[Wendy]

With an eye-catching gaze for Malaroth, the secretary smirks, "Yes, I believe the balance is way off." And her eyes widen before they roll as if to share the idea that the Drowess herself suffers an imbalance. Pember Fick is chipper enough in the very next instant, and glances at the weapon in the dark one's hand. "No, that's not it." her head shakes and she resumes kicking at the spread of autumn leaves. It must be somewhere among them. She is sure of it. "Please, don't let me keep anyone from their tasks." she insists, crouching to reveal what the side of her boot has discovered.

[ShadowRose]

Sarayn snorted a tad slight before nearing Malaroth considerably, if only to whisper, "Feisty little thing, isn't she?" before pocketing the dagger and moving aside; more than likely to simply watch their newest 'friend'.

[Malaroth]

The Grand Master glances between the two with a carefully neutral expression before taking the squire aside. He could see shame written into the youthful countenance beneath the blush of rosied cheeks and, laying a hand upon the lad's shoulder, fell to knee and murmured to him carefully, encouragingly, and punitively.

Satisfied, he gave the youth a gentle pat before climbing to his full height, offering Sarayn's cutting comment no remark as Pemberton resumes the search for her weapon.

"Allow me to apologize for my overzealous squire. He was merely trying to be brave in his own, youthful, somewhat foolish way. Still, there is no harm done, for which I am grateful." A heavy sigh for the admission, as it had come close to being quite a different fate for all involved.

"Now, then. Perhaps some introductions are in order?" He queried, turning aside to regard Sarayn with cool, cerulean eyes. "This is Miss Pemberton Fick, who has agreed to assist us in the rebuilding project."

"Miss Fick," he continued after a pause with which to clear his throat. "I don't believe I thanked you, properly, nor welcomed you for joining us."

[Wendy]

A brief shake of browning leaves reveals a white bone at Pemberton's fingertips. A deer, she notices, quiet and eyeing fine, impacted teeth in the bridge of the mandible. A deer or a dog.

While the others convene behind her, this farmer's daughter-turned-council secretary stands. Thumbs tucked into her waistline, she continues to kick at the leaves, taking lazy steps away from the small crowd - that is, until Malaroth's voice calls to reach her.

For a moment there is only quiet radiating from the slender figure. Her hazel eyes are aimed for the Grand Master Knight. The impact of the squire's landing has already begun to fade from her body, but there is an unrealized stain setting into her brother's sweater.

The overzealous squire is given salute by the wave of her hand, "All's good with me." No harm made, though there is a definite aire of hostility skirting Pemberton's further strides from the pack. At least the young man can be at ease in that it isn't his fault.

She is about to resume looking for her knife when Malaroth continues, drawing her back a step. Giving up, she turns her body around to face them, looking only at Malaroth - even through the introduction of her name. No cordial smile, no gaze for the Drowess, no wink at the squire, just a steady look at the Grand Master Knight, and a small nod to acknowledge that he speaks at all.

"Joining you may be out of the question," If any of them can catch her smirk it would relay humor - because who knows whether she will be killed before long, should Malaroth employ other swift, perfect and determined Drow creatures as his helpers. "I'll do my best to survive, Sir Malaroth. The family likes me. They'll want me to come home after this..."

If there is nothing else? Her eyes will ask. She'd like to find her blade, if she might.

[ShadowRose]

And by this time, as cordial introductions were made, the drowess had quite lost interest and simply disappeared; the lingering vision of her form ducking back into the damaged chapel.