The #Broken_Dagger Forum

Certain business was best done early. Seeing a serious man about serious matters was best done early. It had been a difficult evening with difficult people, not bad people, but difficult ones. Thankfully, Elliot Gahald was trained to deal with difficulties. Elliot Gahald was reared to handle the worst that life threw towards him and to do so with a smile and a kind word. He was excited about this meeting, ready to return kindness previously given to him, multiple kindnesses from multiple people. It would not be an easy task, necessarily, even if it was one he knew he would find joy in. It was a task well worth doing and that was what mattered most.

So there he was, in full armor, glistening, his face hurting from Gloria's attack with a bridle, but cleaned up to the extent that there was no outward damage, riding Dash carefully through the woods towards the mill. Today was a new day and this morning would bring with it more light than possessed the day previous.

The rutted road to the mill is narrow and winding, but rather pleasant for that fact; the woods provide a respite from the sun's glare, a dappled shade that shifts with the breeze; nearer to its destination it is joined by a small stream that murmurs between mossy banks, minnows shoaling in the shallows while dragonflies dart brilliantly above.

The mill is heard before it's seen, a slow creaking of timber as steady as a sleeper's breathing, and a deeper vibration that can only be the grinding of the stones. The building itself, set in a small clearing, is an uneven construction of split-timber planking and limewashed daub, a squat tower at the far end; the whole slouches against the side of a broad earthen bank that holds back the pond from which it derives its power; the great wheel, a circle the height of two men, turns sedately under the impetus of the racewater, in turn driving the gears and machinery within the body of the mill.

The miller himself is visible as the knight approaches, a stiff-backed figure in apron and vest and shirtsleeves, leaning on his stick while he oversees a red-haired youth loading flour-sacks onto a wagon's bed, the driver stowing each one securely as it is handed up. All three pause and turn towards the sound of approaching hooves, staring at the armoured knight who rides towards the mill. A curt word or two to the boy - one of his workers, from the looks of it - and the miller steps forward to meet the rider, though he waits to be greeted first.

There is no heroic rearing up of Dash. There is no trick stop with dusts flying and stomps heard through the mill. This was an easy gait, a polite gait. Elliot had no desire to disrupt. His presence here would do that enough. He was in full armor, save for his helmet. He had his sword slung over his shoulder and back. He was a sight. So his beautiful horse would make a beautiful deceleration to its destination and its rider would step down, a youthful, pleasant look on his face.

"Mister Waldemar," for they had met, in passing, back at the trial. At the very least, they had seen each other. "I am in your debt. Your kindness in sharing your time and education with me was the sort that I have not experienced from many here. Thank you." It was a practiced speech, perhaps, but more out of nervousness or a social awkwardness than any sort of outright guile. "I bring the well-wishes of my Lady and a note from her, and a request from three parties, of which she and I are two of the three."

"Master Brown." A thin smile and polite bow of his head, both hands settling before him on the head of his walking stick. "Or Sir Elliot, if that's your style these days. I was wondering to what I owed this honour." A nod for the noble steed, a glance for the gleaming armour.

A pause, fingers lifting to plead patience as he glances over his shoulder; a glare for the red-haired youth, one eye covered by a sweat-stained strip of linen, and the boy sullenly returns to his work. Back to the knight, then, brows lifting at the young man's earnest thanks.

"In honesty, I'd hardly expected to receive a reply. I can only hope that my recommendations spare you any future embarrassments, particularly now that you find yourself in so elevated a role. I confess myself surprised, in fact." Not least by the boy's newfound manners and deference, where previously he'd only offered insolence and a terrible attitude. Something has changed, far more so than he would have imagined from a mere change of heart.

"Ah, yes, your Lady. Delightful, of course." A hand held out, palm up, expectant; a note, he'd said. "May I see?"

"Sir Elliot would be fine, Mister Waldemar," not old man Baldy or Medrik or whatever else he might have been called once upon a time. "Thank you," he was about to ask if, perhaps, the miller had known him as a youth, or had known his family. That might explain the kindness. He decided against it though. The timing was poor. He was here on official business and hoped, in truth, to be able to have many talks with Mister Waldemar on his own time.

He was surprised by his response, and that made some sense. The two did not know each other. "I was very glad to receive your letter. I have already started on the texts you suggested, though some of the lesser translations. It is hard work," he admitted though not without some verve, not without some enthusiasm. It was taxing, but he was up to the task. "Your charge, Cherny, has helped me obtain the prime.. the main one you suggested, from Darkenhold. He was kind enough to do that for me," and he would have it if not for Gloria Wynsee's overzealousness. He could not fault her for caring for her friends, but it certain caused both him and them pain, Cherny included. As the hand went out, he passed over the carefully tied and protected note. "Young Cherny is the topic of my visit, actually."

"Sir Elliot, then. You dropped in on your way to a battle, perhaps?" That armour. It has its obvious application as ward against blade and bowshot, but the road isn't that unsafe; no, the boy wears it - likely at his Lady's behest, but not unwillingly - in order to impress, to awe, a clear display of his mistress' wealth and thus influence.

That the new-minted knight has made a start on the texts is, again, unexpected, but the miller is learning to reconsider his previous estimation of the boy's character, even if he finds the fact of it to be perplexing.

"Mm. I apologise for Monteroy, the man was a decent scholar but an insufferable lickspittle. Save Van Gusteen for last, also, or the rest will likely seem incredibly dry by comparison." A brow raised at the news that the mill-boy had helped obtain a tome, perhaps some lingering apprehension over Elliot Brown's past tendencies. "With the permission of its proper owner, I trust."

He accepts the letter and promptly busies himself with untying it and breaking the seal, little concern for formality in this instance; if it's important news it is only appropriate to read it right away, no? So it's with eyes downcast to the letter that he gives a distracted reply.

"If you wish to speak with the boy I'll thank you to return later. I have a mill to run, you see, and his time is mine until the day's work is done."

Elliot Gahald was not quite a fool. Marek Waldemar was not some amazing thespian who could hide things like his own ire or amusement or sardonic quips. Perhaps he hadn't been trying. Still, the young knight would return those words with a smile, a beautiful smile, in fact. "Mister Waldemar, I can understand your surprise and even disbelief. It has been a very long time since knights were present in Myrken Wood. I wear this armor to prepare, to train my body for the need that is always here and the need that always comes back," the words were serious, not bragging. This was more than just a job, more than just a duty, it was a holy mission, a higher calling. "If I can help to inspire the good people here, then that is all the better. I want to be ready so that no one further has to be hurt," like those eleven children were hurt.

They move on to texts almost immediately and there was some real recognition as it was not the primary name on the list that he had begun with and it showed. "I've been advised that I should limit the my studies to a certain amount of time everyday, that the mind can only handle so much at once, especially with complicated material. Do you feel the same?" He did not like that thought. He did not like anything barring his way but he knew he could only train his body so much and it was an honest question on scholarship. He simply needed another opinion. Then, as almost an after thought. "The tome belongs to Sylvius Duquesne. I asked young Cherny to borrow it from him. It was also Mister Duquesne who gave me the advise I just mentioned," so there was some sort of agreement between them, at least indirectly.

"I do hope to get the book from him now," he nodded, "but most of all I wished to speak to you about what my Lady and what I am asking. I understand that it is no small thing."

"Mm. Be that as it may, such a martial aspect is perhaps not appropriate when paying a social call. Or, indeed, business." As this visit apparently involves, to gauge from the contents of the letter; the miller is silent for a time, skimming through the neatly-written script with a growing frown, and then again more carefully.

"Compare the mind to a muscle - it grows stronger when exercised, and also fatigues after exertion. And if not used regularly, it withers." Offered absently as he reads the letter for a third time before finally looking up to meet the boy's gaze, his expression by no means delighted.

"This is the first I've heard of it, this matter between your Lady and the boy. Becoming a squire." Perhaps it might occur in the same way that an insolent lout might become a knight. "I confess that I am disappointed, ser. I treat my workers fairly - sometimes moreso than they deserve, Kotek." That last cast over his shoulder for the benefit of the red-haired youth, who hastens to load the last few sacks onto the wagon. When he continues it is with a note of faint bitterness to his voice.

"I'd thought the boy had more sense about him than to have his head turned by tales of errantry, but if it is his wish and your Lady's then who am I to object? But I will not deny that it is an inconvenience; he's my best worker, and with the winter wheat just harvested I can hardly afford to do without. I trust this remuneration" His fingers flick against the page with a crisp snap. "will take that into account. Your Lady's kind efforts to send business my way are wasted if I've not hands enough to fulfil it."

Yet another read-through of the Lady's letter, and it might be a wonder that the paper doesn't smoulder under the miller's gaze. He dismisses the matter of Sylvius Duquesne and his tome with an impatient shake of his head; his attention is upon the Lady Rhaena's concerns, not her knight's. At last, a deep breath and a sigh as he resigns himself to this abrupt news.

"Three things - three assurances from you, first." A hand lifted, a finger extended for each in turn. "Your Lady will be responsible for the boy's care; she will not use her skill upon his mind; and should he leave your service, he will be returned directly to mine. Can you promise me this?"

Marek Waldemar was a serious man.

Elliot Gahald could appreciate serious men. His master had been one at times, when the need was there. It wasn't now, but that was fine. A man's nature was his nature. Elliot smiled to the miller. "I meant no slight, sir, and did not mean to disrupt." as for the bit about the mind, there was a nod. "What I am used to reading is easier, but I know if I keep at it, I will be able to take the lessons as my own. Thank you again."

On to the matter at hand, then. "There is no question that young Cherny has not been in good hands. If that wasn't the case, his character would not be so.." Elliot searches for a word, face overcome with a momentary frustration. Sometimes he hit this moment where he knew what he was trying to say, knew that he should have the tools to do so, but simply could find them. Finally, almost sheepishly, he finishes. "good. I am sure you have had a hand in his development. This is, however, a new Myrken Wood, one that's drawn you back, from what I've heard," one where he could do good and stable business and a creature such as the Baie did not disrupt his life. "One where a boy may hope for something more than just fairness, even if fairness was more than he might have hoped for just a few years before."

The flick is noted, eyes shifting slightly to take it in. Obviously Waldemar was not pleased. "The Lady Burnie was a trader by profession. She understands such things better than I." Her skill, the man says, and there could have been blades and danger right there, for he came close to offending. This was a Witch-Blighted Myrken as well, though, and Elliot was quick to forgive its victims. "I vow those assurances to you, Mister Waldemar. On my honor."

"His character is his own; I've taught him the value of an honest day's work, because that is all I need from my workers. Beyond that he has seen to his own education - to my cost, if I'm to lose him to these aspirations." The word pronounced with some small disdain, and he might as well have said foolishness in its place. Having tired of reading through the letter yet again he folds it carefully, tucking it into his apron.

"When you've finished with your current reading, I shall be glad to provide a list of regimes which declared their advent to be the dawning of a new golden age. Peace and plenty for all, hm? We shall see." The scepticism of a student of history, of the many different ways men have reached for the same thing - or claimed to, at least. In any case with that vow - no comment on the boy's honour, probably for the best - it seems their business is done, as he's already inclining his head in a perfunctory bow.

"You may have the boy when his day's work is done. He'll bring whatever else you need with him, I'm sure; you can meet him at the end of the road."

Elliot Gahald had nothing but a conscientious nod in response to the words about young Cherny's character. If the boy had found this road on his own, all the more impressive. it only solidified the knight's choice in this matter. If Marek Waldemar wished to be either humble or wash his hands on the boy's development, it was his right, of course.

The rest however, awakened something deep within the still-teenager, caused his heart to thump, not with defiance or backtalk, but instead with a spirited, but polite addition to the conversation. "I would value those suggestions, Mister Waldemar, and I will share them with my Lady as well. We will see, but we will also try, and we will strive, and we will work hard, just as you value, sir. It seems a good thing to fight for. I cannot think of anything better." The smile that Elliot flashed here was earnest and certainly unlike the taunting grins and smirks of a boy walking on a bartop just a year before.

The youth is much changed from their first meeting; none of the insolence, the rebellion of before; somehow, though, his incessantly polite earnestness is nearly as obnoxious. Certainly it is wearying, like spending too long in brilliant sunshine, and at the same time unsettling - like looking at half a boy, bereft of anything but adoration for his Lady and blind belief in her cause.

"God save us from true believers. Strive as you see fit, sir, but I'll thank you to do it well away from my mill." His stick lifts to indicate the road, and the wide world of knightly business that surely awaits beyond. "If you'll excuse me, I have flour to grind."