Questing for Knights

[Kait]

It had been more than two months now since the end of the world. The solemn sanctity of mourning had seemed to settle about her shoulders for untold ages, its heavy mantle pulling her to new depths of despair until resolve had formed, at last. Patience Mayfield had been a daughter, a sister, and just as normal a young woman as Myrken fields could grow; now she sought to be something more. The honeyed waves of her hair were braided in two even plaits behind her head amidst comments from her aged and ailing aunt about how fine a wife she would make, how happy she would be if she simply started a family of her own. These she took in stride as deft fingers worked lengths of gray ribbon 'round the ends to secure each braid.

"They were my family, and now they're gone. Probably worse.."

That stilled the old woman for the time being. Even abed some gossip of the terrible fiend had reached her ears, and she could not bear the thought of her sister's family as walking corpses. Better they had been taken by plague, or any of the other scores of terrors this place had to offer over the ages she had born witness, and poor Patience left tidy graves to mourn over. Was it any wonder how troubled the child's heart was, bereft of even the peace coffins and graves could bring? Still, she was no man, and it was man's justice she went to seek for her family now.

"Take heart, auntie, they probably will turn me away at the gate." They both knew it would not be that simple. Even as a child Patience had been the epitome of her namesake, willing to out wait anyone for whatever her heart had been set on, no matter how inconsequential. Her aunt had no doubt that should these knights turn her niece away, the young woman would be a quiet presence outside their keep for however long they could stand to keep her at bay before finding some task to busy her with.

Their goodbyes were long and not without tears, but Patience would depart her aunt's small home not far removed from the center of Myrkentown with a small bag of supplies and clothing before the sun had sunk below the horizon. Her path would take her past the ruins of her former home, and give her ample time to consider what her fate may have been had she not left the farm to tend Auntie Edana four months ago. Such thoughts ate up the distance between the ruined farm and the lands formerly owned by the Aikmann family, now home to the order of knights she sought to join.

The early evening would find her before their makeshift keep, pleading her case before a knight who had not yet spoken a single word to her. Patience's voice had risen in both octaves and volume before another knight approached to see just what was the matter. Her sun freckled cheeks flushed deeply as the second man explained the other fellow had taken a vow of silence, and it was a subdued set of hazel eyes that would reluctantly settle upon this second Sir Knight with a lingering air of humiliation as she asked after his master..

[Malaroth]

Boris had regarded the woman with a playful smile as she began, with all haste, to explain herself and justify her application for the Shepherd Knighthood. While the girl certainly possessed courage in spades she had all the luck of a bad penny, and chose to relay her tale to Sir Storth of Trae Kelsa or, as some of the squires had taken to calling him, Sir Silent. No one really knew what had driven the man to take his oath and, given that the man himself had taken it, he was unable and unwilling to explain anyway.

He didn't blame her for being embarrassed and he could tell that she was, given her posture and slight hesitation that had followed his correction. Nevertheless, as she requested to see his own master, both pitch black eyebrows darted onto a sunburned forehead that readily beaded with sweat. That she had pressed him for such proved startling and he did his best to hide a small laugh before answering her. Did she really mean to press this nonsense about joining?

"Well... my lady..." he hesitantly began in a slightly hoarse, strained voice that bore the momentum of bellowing orders at farmhands over the past hot days. "My Master is Sir Caelin Moore, but if you're really serious about joining us I think we have enough farm hands and milk maids. So why not just run along to wherever you came from and forget this nonsense about joining, alright?"

As Brois raised a pink-backed hand to wave the girl along, his silent counterpart closed the distance between them. With a single, serpentine strike he grabbed Boris' dismissive wave, sparing the man a silent glare and slow shake of the head. Outrage and disdain alighted the reprimanding knight's severe emerald gaze and with a weighty arm he indicated for Boris to take himself away, inside the wall, to the far side of the keep proper.

Turning to regard the woman, he beckoned for her to come inside while pointing towards a tall figure who carried an iron-shod staff. Though the figure walked among the others they also moved around him, leaving the man a small circle of space.

The silent knight waited for her to find the man he had indicated and watched her with quiet, patient expectation.

[Kait]

A farm hand or a milk maid? Of course she had worked as both for most of her life on her father's land, though there was but one cow to be milked. To hear it spoken in jest, a barb meant to send the young woman back to what this one saw as her proper place, ignited a well of anger she had not known herself capable of before. The knight would receive little hint of this as her lips drew into a tight line, bearing further insult without comment when he moved dismiss her with a casual shooing usually reserved for children who were getting underfoot. Then the silent knight rebuked his brother in arms, and was motioning her inside; her hesitation then was not a lack of willingness, but confusion at what had just transpired.

Once she had gathered her wits and whatever courage she could claim, she gave the silent one a nod of thanks though no smile would grace those determined lips and give lie to the emotion that echoed in her eyes. Steady, even steps drew her toward the one he had indicated, and she would have a few spare seconds to consider his staff and the movements of the others before she presented herself in silence. Her tongue would be held for a respectable measure, for she would neither be ignored nor thrust herself upon him with a copious line of chatter that would see her sent away for good.

[Malaroth]

People move about the converted farm, many of them going about their tasks as if the knighthood had never moved onto the land. A stable boy struggled with a particularly ornery horse who rolling eyes and occasional shrieks alerted those nearby and drew help from two armored figures. An older peasant, his back bowed but strong and his fleshed tanned like old parchment easily hefted a broad yoke and ambled towards a barn. The sharp, sure hammer-falls against tempered steel echoed within and beyond the wooden walls.

The staff firmly in hand, Malaroth made his way amongst the working laborers and knights alike. Some insisted on going about their chores in clothing that bespoke their lineage or decorated past, while others had no foppish wear to spare or recognized the simple sense in dressing like a farmhand for several hours a day. The men hurried to finish their chores now that the day had all but ended, and his thoughts turned far beyond the perimeter wall to the conflict that would soon be upon him or upon the Fiend.

Except standing before him, in silence, was a girl who might have belonged amongst those tending the animals. He was about to suggest just that when, as his gaze darted studiously over her, he found the woman unfamiliar. His head canted aside, several strands of gold-silver hair tumbling into a perpetually haggard visage, as he cleared his throat.

"Yes? How can I help you, my lady?"

[Kait]

"It is how I can help you, that most concerns me, Sir." She was no lady, and was unsure where it was a kindness or simple inattention that had him address her as such. All the same, she would watch him closely as she spoke, taking measure of the man by demeanor alone for the time being.

"I wish to become a knight, and to aid you in killing Ashfiend." She only allowed herself half a breath before forging on, having no intent to give him time to protest her words before she was done with it. "I have little family to mourn me if something should happen, and none who would fuss in public over my decision. I am, of course, not trained in the ways of combat. What I can offer are my skills on a farm, a steady hand to patch tunics and dress wounds alike, and a willingness to submit to any training you would put to your knights without complaint." What she didn't mention was just what had become of her family. The iron in her words depended on skirting that issue just now, hate and the determination that sprung from it would have to serve as her iron staves until she could forge herself better, a more noble purpose.

"My land will be the knighthood's, if you will have me. It is only a small farm," and the ruins of her home, "the land is fertile as any in Myrken. I only ask that you use it to further your cause, and help my people ask best you can. We are not all good, nor are we often noble, but Myrken is a hard place and we do what needs be done to survive it." There was a measure of pride there, for this place and the people who had planted their roots in it. Several generations working on the backs of their ancestors had bought her father free of their debt at last, free to plant and toil as *he* saw fit. The backs of those men and women had brought her this far as well, and she would do what she was able to see that their sacrifice would not be without meaning.

She had set forth her terms, and with a deep breath she prepared herself for whatever answer he would see fit to give. Of course she was prepared to debate the matter, stubbornness was written in her eyes and in the very manner in which she held herself. The slight incline of her chin signaled her willingness to hear his protests now, and silently she counted the days she would be able to remain camped outside the knight's lands before a provision run would be necessary..

[Malaroth]

The woman's boldness in a dark land blows over him as sun after winter, her combative words clashing against him with verbally-rattled sabers eager to wet keen blades on fresh blood. He arches an eyebrow, gaze wandering over her inquisitively, probing her stance, attempting to pluck her nature from the set of her shoulders and the tilt of her chin. The soul that writhes throughout her body and blood is an evident, clamorous thing and it threatens to betray him with a smile. Already a few heads have turned to watch the interplay between a petitioner, a woman to boot, and the knighthood's leader.

"No you are not good." His answer sits lonesome int he air, rapidly growing tense as he beholds the woman through the wind-stirred length of silver-gold hair that veils lean, tired features painted with ashen cheeks and rings beneath the eyes. "Nor noble."

"I tell you," he continued, his mud-caked boots beginning to trace a circle about the female stranger. The dry earth breathed a small cloud of dust with every descent of the staff in his hand. It wreathed mud-brown slacks in a light powder, drying the air between the two of them. "That I have knights who do not complain, skilled craftsmen and husbandry men among them, and people with and without families at my command."

He had walked a full circle about her, this intriguing, mirror-creature who shone back across age towards youth and vigor, stained only by also having no one to mourn his death. A hint of a smile, small and personal, played at the corner of his lips as he began to recognize in her a person he knew painful well. It was the same person he saw in what few mirrors he had looked within.

"What have you to offer me," he began again, his voice low and soft and only for the two of them. An intimate secret that he has begun to know and she might even suspect. "Apart from your skills? Are you only a collection of habits and training?"

[Kait]

Vengeance and hate were the wrong answers. It mattered little whether or not they were the true answers, they were almost always wrong. The right answer was a mixture of whatever the inquisitor wanted to hear, with as much truth as could be managed to seal up the edges without giving away everything. It was a fine, winding line to walk, but she would not take up much of his time picking just the right words. No, Patience did best under pressure.

"I have hope that Myrken can be rid of this monster, the next, and all that must follow. I will see it happen, because I must. They do not know what it is.. Our wonderful little council, they will have meetings and pass down decisions, but they will know nothing of the work that needs be done." Ah, but she was getting off track already. Was it so seldom she was asked things of import that she had no end of things to say? She shifted her weight slightly to the right, and squared her shoulders before beginning again, preparing for the onslaught of her own words.

"How many of your men will take up arms against their kin? You will need strength to do what needs be done here, strength of the sort no one should have to muster. I will make them my brothers, I will comfort them when we slay -no, put to rest- fathers, brothers, wives, sisters, children, all. You will have my loyalty in all things, but I will not be as a blind sheep. You will have my hope, my love of this place and these people, and my future. That itself is not without risk." A ghost of a smile then, as she mused just what risks were to be had when dealing with Patience Mayfield and her tenuous future.

"I will be relentless, kind, attentive, strong, loyal, and any number of things I feel may be of service, as much and as oft as needed, until The Fiend is no more." One monster at a time. If she survived through seeing this one destroyed, the knights would have her loyalty for however many more she could stand against. Maybe, just maybe she could find some peace for herself along the way as well.

[Malaroth]

"Courage," he began by shifting the staff to one hand while the other punctuated his words by lifting a finger with each. "Honor and wisdom. That is the rule of this order, the goal, and the method." The words left him with the practiced and familiar ease of a drill master. The girl struggled vehemently against herself, her anger, the the struggle was one he had fled from in silence and terrible shame. For only the dead are silent though the murdered never ultimately were, at least not if he were the killer.

Without fully realizing it he crossed into full-fledged hypocrisy as he spoke, his fingers between their eyes. The digits served as a numerated veil, an ideological wall that hopefully separated the two.

"You have something resembling courage, though I believe it needs to be refined," his voice remained gentle if firm as he saw no need in embarrassing the woman before her potentially future fellow knights and squires. "It is certainly not wisdom to seek an end to such a creature as the Ashfiend. And as for your honor, it has yet to be tested."

He sighed commonly, heavily, reminded of his sobriquet "Malaroth the Miserable," which was somewhat preferable to "Malaroth the Mad." The girl, he considered as she regarded him with the pinnacle of attention and a barely tamed fury, struck him again as himself but not negatively. Had he not, after all, been one of Zachea's finest white knights? Had he not also been rough and hot metal, ready to be pounded and beaten into a worthy sword to be leveled at evil?

"What I want to know," he continued as his voice dropped even softer, intimate, as he closed the distance between them to almost nothing. She could easily count the stubble along his jaw, the lines beneath cerulean eyes. "Is when, on the battlefield, when your companions are slain, your commander is dead, and the banner of the Shepherd Knights lays broken... what is it that will keep you going? At the core of your being, who and what are you?"

He had recently answered the question for himself and he had begun to wonder if he could change that answer. He surely wanted to with all that remained of his heart.

[Kait]

"And it is wise to let a monster run unchecked through our homes, destroying what it will, and taking what it wants? That is the wisdom of those far richer and more important than I, and I'll leave them to it." Fire and brimstone for the council and their pets; they too set anger to a simmer in her hazel eyes. She shook her head in disgust, and repeated her new mantra in her head once more -one monster at a time- before she could bring herself to speak more on what he had said.

"Hate, and love, in equal measure." Her own words were but a whisper as she lifted her chin and stole away even more of what precious little space remained between them. Mumbled words of speculation might have passed between the knights and staff who passed them still on the way to whatever duty they had next, but she would be too absorbed in their conversation to notice.

A foolish woman would have run here without a thought of finding out what she was getting into, Patience had not. Feigning simple curiosity and the desire to catch up on gossip, she had learned a fair deal about the knights from shopkeeps, apprentices, local messenger boys, and the like. Their leader, she had been told, suffered personal injury and humiliation at the hands of the fiend; they even whispered that he would hunt the monstrosity down no matter what the council said. The knowledge of Myrkenfolk had painted quite an interesting picture of him, and left her feeling more confident of her words than perhaps she ought to.

"As for my honor, I would challenge you to test it for yourself. Have you a squire, Sir?" It was a gambit of sorts, for while she knew he was usually seen on his own about town, that was no guarantee that he did not have a squire toiling away at more mundane tasks here at the keep. Yes, she would ask this of him rather than approaching a lesser knight for approval. Anyone else might think it a joke, and treat her as a woman indulging her latest fancy; she was sure he would handle her as any other in the knighthood, and equal treatment was nearly more than she dared let herself hope for.

[Malaroth]

The woman struck him as a hot fire that struggled to burn low and cold, reducing itself to smoldering ashes that might be disturbed with a brief wind. The scent of her daring struck him heavily and, as long fingers loosened and re-wound about the iron-shod staff he aided the space between them with a pair of slowly retreating steps that yet kept his eyes upon hers.

"Hate," he began, his lips pursing in thought. "And love. Yes, indeed." Words failed him then, his cerulean gaze narrowing, brewing with storms, their gazes dueling and measuring, baiting and tensing. A host of questions flitted through his mind, all variations of why and how, and her ferocity for the Ashfiend stood as a brilliant, burning them only partially leashed. Rancor touched the fleck of her word and yet she fought to contain it.

The woman was, he considered, very human. And in Myrken Wood that could count for a lot. A raised hand beckoned for one of the squires to approach. At Malaroth's command the straw-haired youth set a heavy yoke down upon the ground and went on his way, sparing the odd pair several backward glances.

"You will serve for one full cycle of the sun, and you will tell me if your fire fails when burdened with work. Or," he paused a moment while beginning to turn. "Or if the work makes it burn all the brighter."

[Kait]

She would take up that yoke and head toward the stables, steadying it with one hand as she found herself side stepping around a young lad leading a horse out into the keep's yard. Her shoulders and arms were built of the lean sort of muscle that came from frequent laboring at a plow, caring for livestock, and churning butter; the yoke simply made easy work of something she would have normally done with bare hands. In the stables she would find herself brushing down horses, slinging hay, and other more smelly jobs as it seemed word had spread quickly that this day's work was to be something of a test for her.

The day would pass quickly, eaten up by a thousand jobs large and small, none more or less important than the last. Oh, and what she could learn in the space of just one day from them all. The work a smith put into shaping a single horseshoe, the sheer quantity of food a cook would prepare to feed all the folk of the keep, her secret for making such heavenly biscuits, and a myriad of other little gems of knowledge offered up mostly by people who were impressed solely by her willingness to *listen* to them.

There were so many names to remember, temperaments to take note of; the evening would find her slumped over a table contemplating all she had learned, seen, and heard while chewing on the corner of one excellent biscuit. The work had not been easy, but it was the sort of labor that left her feeling warm and glad to have come to this place. She had almost forgotten the sort of community sharing in an honest day's work could foster between strangers, and was very glad to have been reminded of it once more, come what may.

[Malaroth]

It often took some restraint to prevent himself from mucking in overmuch with the knights' and squires' daily duties. While the squires, as a whole, tended to take the farm work in stride several of the knights thought such work beneath them. His heart drifted between anger at their arrogance and a mild, pitiable sadness for them - that they would never know the glory of good-tilled earth and of a life simply and honorably lived without the fanfare of station and title.

Such thoughts haunted him as he approached the quiet Patience, soft boots caked with dirt scuffing against the loose earth and dust announcing his arrival. Staffless for the moment, his hands swung casually at his sides while eyes narrowed from bearing against the sun fell upon her. He had made a note to keep the woman in his gaze often throughout the day, occasionally catching a brief smile as she spoke with the cook, the stableboys, or the smithy.

Whatever anger she held the Ashfiend, or the other Myrken Monsters, she yet lived, breathed and felt as a person ought. Yet her shadow threatened to grow and change, twisting into a long-haired man with storm-ridden blue eyes, a man who had once served Zachea as an orphaned knight. A knight who had become something far worse to the people he had once served.

"You will learn, in time," he offered without preamble while sidling up beside her. "That the toiling is harder than the smiting, and the living with the latter can be the harder still." His gaze softened at his own words, thoughts reaching back across the recent years, pregnant with life and pain, and had perhaps bled the ashen color upon cheeks far too young to bear them.

"That there is honor to be found in a simple life, that there must be courage to face up to a life no longer allowed to be simple, and wisdom to know the difference." He held aloft three fingers before her, slender digits more useful in playing music than clutching swords. "Courage, honor, wisdom. That is what we strive for in all things. These are not garments to be worn during your tasks and shrugged off at sunset. Breath them. Know them and live them."

"From this moment they shall be your guiding principles or you will not remain here long." With that he extended his arm, the shirt beneath a black tabard stained with the farm dust, the cuff spotted with clerk's ink.

"Welcome, squire."