The #Broken_Dagger Forum

"You must find for yourself, and your would-be order, a base of operations. Take for yourself what money I offer you in this endeavor, for a man who would serve me and my people must do much with little."

The king had relaid the message to him. The monarch himself had remained silent as the message was read aloud by some page or other court official. While willing to aid Malaroth in his endeavor, the king regarded him the entire time with probing eyes. For his part, the nobleman read severe suspicion in those eyes. And why not, Malaroth considered, from someone who was at least passingly familiar with Zachea, his homeland?

Famliar enough to know that Malaroth was not a Zachean name.

For now, it was enough that the king had agreed and that the first of his required tasks had been accomplished. At least insofar as the actual structure had been concerned. About halfway between Foggy Bottom and Myrkentown he had rediscovered a farm that he passed on his many walks through the countryside.

The farmer, Thomas Aikman, had lost his spouse to disease and his children to bandits. Such horror might have hardened a lesser man to a breaking point and while a great sorrow had consumed the peasant, he had not lost himself to the inner darkness. It was with this knowledge in mind that Malaroth had approached him with a purse of royal doubloons and purchased the farm from him.

Aikman was to stay on, so as not to rob the man of his livelihood and so that the soon to be born knighthood would have at least one person on the premises who knew something about growing food. What little Thomas had would not provide for very many. Still, Malaroth considered, it might be something. Something he could do for the people in his new home.

Something he could do to start again.

Malaroth scowled. The gesture threatened to spill the miniscule, metallic circlets that he held between white, even teeth as both hands struggled to hammer together one sheet of aged chain mail with another. He slipped, for the hundreth time, and again hammered his bruised thumb. At once he grumbled and moaned, his mistaken blow stirking the abused digit at just the wrong place. The metal rings tumbled frmo his mouth and spilled over the hay-strewn floor - taunting him with a crisp, soft jingling as they rolled into dark and unprobed corners.

He bit back several choice curses and, to avoid temptation entirely, popped the injured thumb into his mouth and tasted the familiar, coppery tang of his own blood.

As Thomas saw to chipping the rust off of a spade that appeared to have been in the family for generations, he spared Malaroth a slow, sad shake of the head. "At this rate you won't finish that thing until the end of the week."

"Only if I am lucky," Malaroth replied after removing his thumb and offering a sheepish grin. "I'm thankful you threw in this old suit of your father's with the purchase of your farm, Thomas. He kept it up rather well, and obviously put it to good use."

The farmer merely shrugged as he hefted the spade and slung it over a sinewy shoulder. "Well I took pains to oil it after he passed on. He spent a lot of time on it, so I thought I should do the same. Figured he would like me to do it." And then the farmer had meandered back outside, to toil away in the rain.

For a few moments he merely watched the rain fall as he felt the sharp pain in his thumb settle back into a dull, simmering ache. With a great sigh he stooped and recaptured the mallet and adjusted the mail shirt upon his lap. Although Thomas was not much for conversation, Malaroth considered, he was glad that the farmer had staid on. He could teach himself, and whoever else might join him in the future, a thing or two about scratching for one's own worms.

He could teach them about humility.

grumbling to himself, he considered that it was a trait he had never truly learned. He had put on a good show of it on several occasions, but always in the hope that someone might praise him all the more for his seeming humility. It was a bitter irony. The memories of his pride stung deeply, all the more so in his fatigued state, and brought with them a deluge of self-incrimination for his actions in the high temple. Actions that had set everything into motion.

Actions that had ultimately led him here.

He sneered at the guilt as he set another handful of individual links between his lips and pressed them grimly between the chapped flesh.

"You cannot shake me with your attempts at guilt," he vowed beneath his breath. "If you had just cooperated, if you had just..."

He stopped, again, and shook his head in an attempt to throw the lengthy tangles out of his ashen countenance. In this new land, he wondered, he could indeed begin again. There needn't be any white knights, Sovelli, or Witch Kings, only himself and whatever truth he chose to weave for himself. It would be just as difficult as weaving these metal links together, he noted, before setting back to the task at hand.

He chose to ignore for the moment, that no matter where he fled, he was still there.

Iron was a poor substitute for silver. Malaroth had learned this the hard way as the smithing took its toll upon his weary arms and mending ribs. He had spent little time in the Zachean forges. His mentor had deemed it wise for the young pupil to learn about the basics of smithing and smelting in order to appreciate the instruments of war he would wield for a lifetime - as well as those who made them. Of all the lessons Malaroth had been instructed in, he considered, the one he had learned best was the respect and appreciation for the common man.

The affirmation of his lessons drew a grim smile to chapped lips. The gesture touched the corner of his eyes that remained narrowed against the sparks. Every hammer's fall brought with it a cleansing, searing rain of sparks that threatened to sear his eyebrows from a pale countenance and caked his skin with grime and soot.

He spared Thomas a brief glance through the cloud of smoke and fire, catching a glimpse of the wiry, older farmer stalking along the roof of the old barn and marking off where he would need to restructure the almost servicable building into something resembling a small keep for the knightly order. At the very top, if Malaroth remembered the crude sand drawings, there would stand a small, open and raised tower from which would fly the banner of the knightly order and below which, upon the outside of the "tower" wall, would rest his latest creation.

He glanced down at his crude creation. An old shield, that Thomas had been using to carry around large quantities of bricks and other small things about the barn, now bore a crude length of beaten iron fashioned into the likeness of a miniature, crooked shepherd's staff. The chisel beside him had been used to carve into the shield itself and create a measured, if chaotic, pattern of vines twining about the length of the vertical staff and sprouting off into leaves and blossoms.

Though he wore stout, heavy gloves he was still careful as he lifted the weighy shield and, grunting at the strain brought upon his ribs, quickly slid the decorated shield into a large trough of water beside him. He coughed violently through the hot, sizzling mist which brought greater complaint from his ribs. Reaching down he splashed the rapidly heating water up the length of the not-entirely submerged symbol before rolling it over so as to allow both sides to cool from immersion.

Still coughing, he tugged the gloves off and dropped them into the dry dust at his feet before removing himself from the billowing cloud. His ribs complained less as he moved further away from the make-shift forge and, grabbing an axe, he made his way towards the tree line just beyond the small farm's boundries.

Hefting the tool, he glanced over its rust-bitten head and sighed wearily. His thoughts wandered back to the hulking wood pile Merrin had hired him to chop before he, Merrin, and the band of hunters and trappers had set out to find the cause of their missing children. A bitter frown tugged at his lips as he approached the nearest tree and looked the wooden giant up and down. Neither Merrin, nor any of the others, had returned with him. As for Malaroth himself, he returned, but no longer as Strethdale's informal protector.

Stewing upon the memories, he brought the axe to bear against the next tree. Several stumps watched in mute, expressionless horror nearby as another of their number would soon feed the two men's construction project. Soon, Malaroth considered, they would have enough lumber to reconstruct the keep. Then all he would need was a small number of farmers to assist Thomas, and a squire.

After all of that, he hoped, Lord Hawkesbury, acting in the King's stead, would formally recognize the founding of the Order.

Malaroth sat back in his chair before the hearth. The old wooden construct groaned as he shifted his weight, and it wobbled as he crossed booted ankles in front of the fire. While the heat was a bit much, it would help him remove the filth caking his boots all the sooner.

In his pale hands he clutched several parchment scrolls that each bore the names and histories of knights, swordsmen, and other worthies that someone in the King's court had decided might make excellent additions to the knighthood. Malaroth scowled as he took in the pile as a whole. While having the king's backing would undoubtedly prove to be a great blessing, it also threatened to be a curse. The knight had no illusions about His Majesty possessing a firm and unshakable faith in this outlander who sought to serve. At least one of these hopefuls, if not many more, would be men strongly loyal to the crown who would serve as his eyes and ears amongst their ranks.

Still, Malaroth considered, there was no way to determine who such a person, or persons, might be. Many were skilled warriors but lacked the finer points of character one might hope for in a knight. There was a certain extent to which that was his job as Grand Master. At the same time, some people just did not want to learn or live by anything even remotely considered honor or courage - insofar as faking such virtues might propel their own station.

Many were also noble fops, or the children of fops, who sought to make a name for themselves at their soirees about their adventures and newfound titles. Zachean knights could not afford to be such dilettantes in their service to the people or the king-priest. Laxity along the border meant death and privation at the hands of either Leshgaul or elven bandits. Undoubtedly here, where the borders did little to repel hostile and evil forces, it would prove twice as true.

That was not to say that there none who might make fine knights. None came without some promise of struggle, compromise or difficulty. Firstly was Caelin Moore who had proven himself to His majesty during his time as a royal bodyguard. While an excellent combatant the man had never truly demonstrated anything remotely close to initiative. He promised to be a straight arrow, however short it might actually fly.

Secondly was the enigmatic Osric Storth. The man had also proven himself a capable combatant but had lost many men beneath his banner amongst several royal campaigns. After suffering a violent wound that nearly took his life the man swore an oath of silence that he had maintained for the past seven years without any sign of violating. Such dedication, Malaroth considered, was admirable. However there were obvious communication difficulties as well as the possibility of dealing with someone who had become nearly petrified by fear.

Laurence Talbot, though likely numbering among the fops, showed a particular drive and ambition that might be channeled constructively.

With a deep sigh, Malaroth shook his head and begin setting aside those applicant and reccomendations he would accept. Still, he considered, having a local apply would do the knighthood some good.

From the top of the makeshift barn-turned-keep, atop of which a handful of laborers struggled to bring sharpened wooden planks to bear. The grunts, grumbles and garbled songs commingled in the hot summer air and brought a smile to Malaroth's haggard countenance. A few hours ago he had labored alongside them in reinforcing and reshaping the tall, broad barn into something resembling a keep - his task specifically had been to work on the supports holding the short, square tower that jutted from the roof of one end of the keep.

His vantage allowed for a broad, sweeping view of the North Passage Down as it cut a simple, relatively straight path past scattered farmsteads and along the green plains. Making their way towards the keep amongst a small party of squires and pages rode the three knights Malaroth had accepted from His Majesty's recommendations. From how they sat upon their horses, to how they moved amongst each other, the Grand Master could already tell a few things about their opinions of each other.

Compared to other military and civilian orders, a knighthood tended to often suffer from egoism and related conflicts. Given Malaroth's experience with such, that each of the knights was expected to labor in the fields or at the forge would hopefully serve to drain the fires of any forthcoming arguments. Still, he was no fool and expected them all the same.

Behind them, several miles away yet, ventured another small party of local applicants, squire-hopefuls, and the last of the hired laborers, clerks and smiths to service the knighthood. Although his countenance was one given to scowling Malaroth could not hold back a tight, satisfied smile. His labors had paid off and, although small, the knighthood was now fully operational.

Taking the steps quickly as he descended, Malaroth considered how he would greet these latest arrivals.

There was something carthartic in working the land, in working one's body. It was not something Glenn had felt during the first two mornings of assisting the knights in the field (aching pain being the main thing he had felt, if not while working then shortly thereafter), but upon the third day, with more than enough outside stimuli and frustration, Glenn could feel each push and pull of the land thoroughout his body. And now, it was good.

Such odd terms had been presented to Ser Malaroth a few days hence. He had arrived with quite the gift in hand, a map directly to where everyone in Myrken currently thought the Fiend to be, with sightings and apperances of the creature marked off in a pattern to prove it. As for the terms, it made sense for Glenn to request a fee, perhaps below market price, for his upcoming work. Perhaps a bit more unexpected was his request of room and board. Malaroth, if he had been paying attention to Glenn's behavior, may not have been surprised by the young man asking for a used rapier. Glenn, on the other hand was blown away by the counter-offer of a new, commissioned, blade. On that, he deferred for now, asking to think about it. It would have been quite the step down a path still unclear to him.

The last real request, however, was permission to partially earn his keep, as all the knights, squires, and most of the staff did, by working the land each and every morning. The reason for this built directly into his training. The mapmaker KNEW he needed more strength, more speed, more endurance. Staying with a knightly order with such a unique custom gave him just the opportunity to build such things.

That was not to say it was generally pleasant work. Today, however, was different. Last night had been so frustrating for Glenn. His future here in Myrken, which had begun to settle in nicely, was now utterly unsure. He was more than happy to take it out on dirt, a bit too happy, perhaps for it was drawing attention.

"Hey, Mapmaker." A boy, perhaps five years his younger, perhaps more (it was hard to tell for a number of reasons), dressed like another of the squires looked over to him. "That dirt piss on your mother, yeah?" Most of the knights rather stayed clear of him. They understood he was useful. They were surprised he was so willing to work beside them. Most of all, he kept his head down, not asking for trouble.

"That doesn't make any sense." There was a certain tone Glenn took when he was dismissing something, or someone, out of hand.

"Neither does you being so mad at the ground, if you ask me. You'll just hurt yourself that way, AND screw up the crops." The squire had red-brown hair and a slightly dirty look to him, though the latter might have had something to do with the fact he had been working outside. He held up a filty hand to Glenn. "Elliot Brown. Squire." There was an annoyingly cheerful look on the boy's face.

Glenn stared at the hand for a few very long seconds, before he let the tool drop and took it in a reluctant shake. "Glenn, mapmaker."

"Yeah, we know." Elliot squeezed about as hard as he could. It was nothing personal, just a sign of the usual competition between squires. It was very difficult for them to place Glenn into a catagory that fit their normal lives. Maybe if he wasn't out here working the field, he could be a dignitary or something like that, someone to hobnob with Sir Malaroth, but no, here he was, in the fields, like the rest of them. And he definitely wasn't a knight! That left as something of a peer, in the eyes of the squires. "What we don't know is why you're out here, Glenn Mapmaker. You're a bit old to start learning to be a knight, and that's on top of the reading and writing and whatever else you do."

"I eat here, I work here. Isn't that how it works?" That drew a raise of the eyebrown from the younger squire. "And I'm weak. That's what you're saying right? So being out here will make me stronger."

A shrug of the boy's shoulders went along with the raised eyebrow. "That sounds daft to me. You are what you are, right? Sir Malaroth wouldn't not want nothing to do with you otherwise. Makes sense to me that you should just be happy with..."

Glenn cut him off, his tone (and patience) short again. "It's not enough, not here in Myrken. I can't hide behing people forever, can I?"

The boy's lips twitched slightly, but then he nodded. "Yeah, maybe. Me?" He did not seem to care that Glenn didn't ask. "Ma died in the flux. I'm in the middle of seven kids and Pa has a hard time taking care of the younger ones. Being here meant I could funnel some food back to them and my neighbors and not make Pa try to figure out how to feed me when there was barely any food to go around. Sir Malaroth is a great man, a great man." A young man like Elliot, even though he was not of noble stock(quite the opposite), was still a prime recruit for an up and coming knightly order, new to the region. He was bright, athletic and had an incredibly positive attitude, seeing this as the greatest, luckiest opportunity in the world. Moreover, he had been brave enough to run from home and try to talk his way into the knights. It had been over a month now, but he would already gladly give his life for the Order.

"Guess he is." A non-commital shrug from Glenn. He liked the man well enough but he wasn't about to gush. "Anything else?"

That brought a bit of distaste to Elliot's mouth. He had no way of knowing what was going on in Glenn's life and the mapmaker was giving him little reason to care. "Huh. You weren't doing things right and I just wanted to let you know. That's all."

"The land thanks you for coming to its aid and saving it from my butchery. If that's it, then.." Glenn looked down and got back to work, dismissing the now rather put off squire. He hoped, all but prayed, that when he arrived back in town, Ariane would at least show up for their training appointment. He had his doubts.

"Come on you stubborn beast" Valaeli, tugged on the leading rope for the mule, she had borrowed. "Its not much further, then you can rest, before we go back" A sigh of relief left her as the mule started moving again, ruby gaze checking the burden it carried had not slipped, the casket with the mithril was still secure. She wanted to arrive before sundown, for she knew the suspcions her colouring often aroused. Skin as pale as freshly fallen snow, ruby gaze, so often people called her a Vampire, but Valaeli was no such thing.

Monochrome skirts rustled as she moved, givin glimpses of soft leather boots, ruby slippers werent made for walking such distances in after all. Before long the white haired, 5ft elf would be approaching the home of the order, the sun shining down on her tresses, giving one perhaps enough doubt to not strike out of hand, despite the shimmering ruby gaze that lifted.

The strange figure conjured attention, weighty and tense, from those who stood by the gates. At an echoing call from the gatemaster, however, the looming double doors opened wide to allow the pallid woman entrance. None were able to remain dedicated to their tasks amidst her arrival as squires ignored their tasks, peasants risked quick, studious glances, and the scattered, armored knights regarded her with measured judgment.

A pair of boys, awaiting the sorceress' arrival, slow in their approaching jog. With one raising a small, slender shepherd's staff as a token of being sent by the Grand Master, the other placed himself before the cart to guide her towards what accommodations and services had been prepared for her. A steady, plodding pace takes them carefully around the stout wooden fortress in the midst of the walled keep, surrounded by farm fields and apple trees.

Along the curve of the outer wall squats the smithy beside the original remnants of Aikmann's farmstead and second barn. The structure, a small, cramped stone construct, offered a gloomy face for the latest arrival punctuated by the steady clang of hammered steel echoing from within.

"The Gran' Master will be along shortly, madam," the youth carrying Malaroth's symbol of office declared, before offering their services in unloading whatever belongings she might have brought with her.

There was a moment, a space of mere heartbeats, were Valaeli thought she would be driven to defend herself. Defence only, that was all she could afford here, attacking would be wrong, would see her having to stand aside from joining the attack against the fiend. Of course all these thoughts, though they followed a single thread, flowed lightning fast through her mind, and then the double doors were swinging open.

She awaited the approaching lads, a smile curving her lips that perhaps surprisingly shed warmth into her ruby gaze. In silence she followed both lads, only allowing her gaze to wander enough, to statisfy polite curiosity. It wasnt until the one with the staff had spoken that she uttered any words at all.

"Thank you, you have been most chivilrous and I shall keep you only long enough to unload both the small and large chest, the rest i can manage easily" Words though softly spoken would not carry the ghostly shivering tones her colouring might lead one to expect. "and see to the mules comfort till tomorrow, I've arranged to have it returned to its owner."

So polite, so courteous, and yet the effort to be such cost her nothing.

The squires did as the strange black-and-white lady bid, meeting her smile and wishes with demurring nods and quick, careful service as they unloaded the objects she had directed them to. The pair struggled with the larger chest, one youth being somewhat taller than the other, and straining his back to compensate for their disparate height.

The shorter of the two freed the mules from their bindings and, with a soft voice and coaxing words, began to lead the animals towards the stables. The taller of the two moved to catch up with his counterpart, and both drew aside at the passage of a third.

This third stood taller than both and moved with an easy stride that set the links of his chain mail armor into a quiet jangle accompanied by the stout, coiled chain that rested upon his belt. An iron-shod staff rested easily in a pale, calloused hand and he offered Valaeli a slight smile with his approach. He regarded her with clear cerulean eyes squinted against the brilliant summer sun and bore up well beneath its rigorous and merciless heat.

"Welcome to the chapter house of the knighthood," Malaroth offered warmly as he closed the distance between them. "I'm thankful once again for your willingness to help us out. I've also informed the smithy of your coming and rather unique plans for him. He's willing to cooperate though you may need to repeat the directions for him on occasion."

He smiled and stopped before her, palms laying atop the staff's end. "He is waxing on in years, and is somewhat deaf. He also knows nothing about magical craft." His smile faded at the thought of the smithy's passing on in age, and his eyes sought the comfort of the ground for a moment. "But he is kind-hearted, and stubborn enough to see any assignment done."

He hesitated a moment to clear his throat, looking at her assembled luggage with an arched eyebrow. "Now, is there anything I can help you with? We've set aside some quarters for you above the smithy for your convenience."

There were few sweet memories for Valaeli when it came to her childhood, well at least ones that were untainted, but the two squires as they wrestled with the heavier chest, and the hieght difference, brought one to mind, and a fond smile to her lips. Pleasant reverie was broken by the quiet jangle of chain mail. Gaze fell upon Malaroth, just as he gave greeting. "Thank you for the kind greeting" Lips seemed to twitch as she considered his words on the smith. Smaller bags were grasped by the straps, and shouldered. "I'm sure the smith and I shall manage quite well." the prospect of having to repeated instructions did not seem to bother her, his being stubborn enough to continue with a task was heartening.

Did she need help with anything, for the moment she could not think of anything at all "I believe I am alright for now, and i should like to meet the smith, once i've had some rest"

"Of course," Malaroth offered politely, offering a nod in acquiescence to her wishes. He spares the paired youths a brief glance and, with a gesture of the lengthy staff, directs them to ascend the broad wooden stair that clings to the side of the smithy towards the second floor. The two struggle with her chests, and against a door swollen in the humidity, before vanishing inside and forcing the heavy windows open.

"The smith, as always, is hard at work," the Grand master continues as she shoulders her smaller baggage with evident ease. The staff's end touches the dry ground beside booted feet as a leisurely pace leads him in the youths' wake. "And an affable fellow, if somewhat hard of hearing. Regardless I have faith that the two of you shall be able to craft your weapon in time for the assault."

He pauses at the base of the outside stairs, both hands grasping the staff's topmost end, marking his pause with a thoughtful sigh. "Your permanent quarters in the keep itself are still being prepared. Hopefully, within a week or two, we will be ready to move you into something more spacious and less stuffy. I fear, living above the smithy, that your accommodations may be quite... warm."

A gentle smirk of apology as fingertips stray from the weapon and symbol of his office to travel through the gold-and-silver stained length of his hair. "We can have cool water brought to you fairly regularly to slake your thirst, however. The well here runs pure and deep. And should there be anything else I can help you with, do not hesitate to ask."

He gestured towards the stairs, allowing the woman to depart as she will to become settled and set to working alongside the smith. His chapped lips entertain a gentle, warm smile marked with sincerity at her offer to join the hunt as well as the knighthood.

"Glad to have you with us, lady Valaeli."

Glenn Burnie would not return to the knights' chapter house today. It had been a harrowing day and a harrowing night and he wasn't up for the ride. Life, however, would go on without one lone mapmaker.

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They called it a victory, an unqualified, absolute victory. The Fiend had been driven back. The captured girl had been rescued. Apparently, some powerful weapon had been recovered as well. For Elliot, however, it didn't feel like much of a victory. Friends had been hurt. People he had looked up to had DIED.

His own knight, Sir Tyroc was severely injured at the hands of an undead, one of Tyroc's own peers who had been raised up by the Ashfiend after his death. Elliot had been back in the rear line when it happened. Most of the squires were split and used in support roles. With his knight injured and unconscious, Elliot would fill in for his good friend and fellow squire Marc, who had his leg broken in the assault. His knight, Sir Storth, was by far one of the more frustrating figures in the entire Chapter House. It was bad enough that both his master and one of his best friends were hurt, but he was serving under Sir Silent now and most of the time, he didn't have the first idea what the man wanted from him.

It was a depressed young man that watched this girl with her bandaged hand rush past him, presumably on an errand for HER master. "Hey, Girl!" It was one of the nicer things any of the squires called Patience Mayfield. Generally, she was called far, far worse by Elliot's fellows. It wasn't the sort of thing that would get her to stop when she was on important business (and wasn't all of Malaroth's business important?), so he found himself leaping to his feet from his sitting position against the wall. A few moments later he was neck and neck with her, rushing as well.

"Hey, hey, hold on. It's Patience, right?" Elliot hadn't been the one to injure her hand, nor had he been there when it happened, but it was hardly something he had disapproved of at the time. She was an intruder, and seemed to be the cheekiest, most presumptious wench one could imagine. She was the only female squire, come in off the streets and just like that, under Sir Malaroth himself! A day like yesterday, though, that could change things. "They say that you did... They say that you were very brave out there yesterday."

He continued to follow alongside her, talking quickly enough that she couldn't easily get a word in. "Yeah, I'm Elliot, I was... serving under Sir Tyroc before he was hurt and now, well, until Marc gets better, Sir... Silent." His voice was nice and even. There was no way he'd speak ill of any of the knights, especially one like Sir Storth, who, despite being frustrating to a squire, was well deserving of his respect. Of course she knew who he was. Just because he, like the other squires, had been giving her the cold shoulder up until now, didn't mean that she was blind or dumb. What this was, instead, was something of a peace offering, something that she, in Elliot's eyes at least, had more than deserved by standing out there on the front line beside Malaroth yesterday. In any regard, Elliot Brown was not the sort of lad who wished to share his misery. If that was the case, he probably wouldn't have been here with the knights at all.

Could it be all that surprising that his so-called peace offering was met with a stony glare, and the anxious tapping of her right foot as she waited for the boy to finish his blathering? For her part, she was smudged with dirt from nose to toes, and looking no more pleased with the end of his little performance than she had at the onslaught. She could not imagine just what the boy was after, and a further narrowing of hazel eyes suggested that she didn't care to try either.
"Is there something you're wanting, Squire Elliot?" Frankly, if he hadn't mentioned he was currently under Sir Silent's command, the lad would not have gotten the time of day from this one. Even the short nails on her still bandaged hand were packed with dirt beneath, and in their beds; the bandages themselves had not managed to stay clean either, and it would be no surprise that she was eager to change them as soon as she had reported in. "I was there, and there was nothing brave about it. Men died, people fought their kin, their deceased kin." Go make what rumors you would of that, boy. That was all she had for him, and suddenly she was cutting off at an angle for Sir Malaroth's quarters, smoothing down stray strands of fair brown and gold that had escaped from her braid as best she could. She was in sore need of a bath, but it would keep until after she checked in with her master.

Elliot stared slack jawed. She... did she just? She... That was it! That was absolutely it! No more peace offerings to no more outsiders who absolutely didn't belong here, no mapmakers, no crazy girl squires who should be home doing the dishes. No more Mister Nice Squire, nosiree, not after his knight might die and his friend might not walk again, not after he tried to extend the hand of friendship to her and got spurned. No way, no how. He believed wholeheartedly in the order and that meant that no attacking anyone from behind. That wasn't very knightly. A warning shot, however. That was fine. He noted her angle, took off his boot, and tossed it hard, aiming a few feet beside her skull.

There was a bit of regret a moment later, not the least of which would be because he might not see that boot again and he needed it. Nonetheless, if she were to turn around, she'd see him sitting down against the wall, looking down. He had not entered that conversation to toss a shoe at her.