Honest Labor

[Malaroth]

Malaroth turned his horse aside, risking a glance over his shoulder at the long, winding train of Derry refugees that were being led towards the border of their home. War was yet afoot, and he heard it in the heavy, plodding steps of the beleaguered people. He saw it in downcast or hardened features, turned as if away from a cold arctic wind. The rustle of chain mail and the occasional whicker of horses drew the Grand master’s studious gaze towards the knights that flanked the column that crawled away from the chapter house and even now wound past Myrkentown. Younger knights occasionally flexed their hands and he knew that they were attempting to remember what sorcery Lady Valaeli had instructed them in. Older knights, some disdainful of learning sorcery, nevertheless rode with the quiet confidence found only in a job almost entirely devoid of risk. He had done his best to remind them that this was Myrken Wood. Few things were as uneventful as they should be.

Behind him another small handful of knights veered away from the main press and turned off towards the town’s center. Laborers awaited them, eager to get what money they could before construction halted for the winter frost. There was, after all, a library to be repaired. Though certainly not in dire need of massive reconstruction, the Library of Mudd remained a symbol to many of the Ashfiend’s forays into the town proper. Rebuilding and refunding what had been damaged or destroyed, as well as fixing the damnable leak, might prove to restore weighty spirits. Apart from which, he had reminded the knight in charge of restoring the library, civic duty was not beneath the Shepherd Knights. He knew that the younger nobleman most vehemently, if quietly, disagreed.

He spurred his steed onward, feeling the mount’s powerful muscles easing along at a gentle canter. Cool air played, in vain, with the silver-streaked blond hair that he had, for once, pulled back into a long tail that tumbled easily between armored shoulder blades. Known little by the people of Myrkentown, he was nevertheless recognized by the black tabard adorn with the silver shepherd’s crook and the dissonant jangle of the coiled chain ever at his side.

Lines crawled along a pale brow as he remembered the directions provided for him and, with the swift application of his spurs, turned his steed down a sharp turn and towards a particular residence; the residence of one who had a vested interest in the refugees, though he was not entirely sure why. Residing in Myrken Wood drove all thoughts of simple, common trust from one’s mind rather quickly. Especially when one’s own allies lifted hands against one’s underlings. Especially when one’s allies sunk to betrayal.

Hopefully, he considered as he reigned in his horse and slid to booted feet with the sharp, metallic rejoinder of his spurs – Miss Fick would be home.

[Wendy]

Not only would Pemberton Fick be home, but the five other lady Ficks would be there as well, if the Grand Master dared move beyond the property's fence line.

As Malaroth observes, a narrow drive toward the stables and main house is edged by overgrown plantings. The lawn is littered with household finds that nobody has taken out 'to the shed' as yet. He might pass a crate of dusty bottles, or a cracked wash bin, a boot, a sleeping dog, some sort of twine that is tied to a tree and inexplicably strewn across the yard. He'll see wandering hens. There may still be wads of paper, having been beaten back to its pulp by the Myrken Wood weather, clinging to the autumn grasses.

These conditions have suited the large family since its conception in the Myrken field. They are oft too busy with half-finished carpentry projects, or watching the corn grow. It is easy to catch any one of them scaring up a story for a visiting friend. Who has time to bother with things like yard detail?

If the Ficks weren't such good-natured people, then maybe the neighboring clans would begin a dispute; however, to this day, they are all accepted as that chaotic group of charitably decent people - overruling any fingerpointings of neglect. Besides, the animals are healthy, and not one child has so much as lost a finger. This, they claim, is attributed to Mother Fick's watchful manner.

If he dares venture, the Grand Master Knight will first hear the voices of this boisterous group. They are forever struggling to be heard over one another - especially the little ones. He'll find the front steps unsteady, without a railing to seek leverage from. He'll find the door to the Fick's home wide open, and should not be surprised if he can see these people carrying on as they do - each with their own mission - each somehow acutely aware of the others.

If he stands there, he will find that they all have the ability to sense a visitor before the new guest is able to announce himself. Therefore, he will find several pairs of eyes are reading him, and perhaps he will hear the chime of a greeting from some bold child.

[Malaroth]

Chaos leashed by... something... which, as yet, remains a mystery: this is the nature of the Fick household. The sight of the haphazard array of odd objects arrayed across the lawn stirs the corners of his lips into a bemused smile, his wonderment and curiosity moving to the swift rhythm of the five-fold conversation within the home itself. Within the same breath women turn the conversation any given way while, shortly afterwards, returning back to comment upon the utterances of another. Talking moved forward and backward in constant tension. Around them, he spies through the open door, a pair of children wandering around in play about the adults, held in orbit only by a shared love of disorder bounded by familial love.

It was a warming sight.

Still bearing his smile, holding fast for civility's sake as he ventures up the creaky, unsteady porch stairs, he pauses at the threshold and raises a hand to rap gently upon the open door.

Sunlight trickled through the links of chain that hung obediently at his side - it often being used to enforce or threaten such. Smaller links clung to his tall, lean frame beneath the dark tabbard, whose length lay tamed by a stout brown belt and fell nearly to armored knees, the dark cloth bearing the slanted shepherd's crook caught up in budding ivy.

With the smile retreating minutely from the corners of cerulean eyes, he raised the knocking hand in greeting and cleared his throat.

"My pardon, good family, but is the lady Pemberton at home?"

[Wendy]

There is no such thing as an intruder, according to these farmers. Unfamiliar people are considered "wandering folks" who might call on them for a little something now and then. There is no alarm in being interrupted by the Grand Master Knight. Instead, Sir Malaroth is met with silence for the span it takes for several eyes to turn, from viewing him to picking out Pemberton - who was about to take another bite of a sweet roll.

"Oh, brother!" says a young one. An aunt gives a cluck and teases, "Lady Pemberton!" while Pember's sister makes with her best impression of a fainting spell, after asking those gathered, "Did He just ask for a Lady?" There are giggles among those present, and the girl suffers some jabs to her side from an unknown assailant. This has Miss Pember Fick setting down the handful of bread and making her way to the door.

She steps to its threshold and folds her arms, not giving those jokers the satisfaction of making her appear giddy - besides, it is only Sir Malaroth whom she barely knows. Pember glances over her shoulder at the onlookers, then shifts her stance so that at least part of the man, and his conversation, will be blocked from their inquisitive eavesdropping.

Pemberton stares beyond the man, scowling, until she can swallow what she's chewed, and then allows her gaze to rest on the Grand Master Knight. He seems dressed for an occasion, while she is comfortably suited, hardly expecting a formal visit such as this, in a confiscated sweater (her brother's) and a pair of dusty trousers.

Away from her station as Council Secretary, she neglects to address the man as she might have otherwise done, "What's going on?"

Just as soon, she realizes that this must be official business. Malaroth would have no other reason to appear. The young woman clears her throat and gives a silent nod, just to buy herself a few seconds. Words are plucked from the catalogue of her mind, before she makes a reattempt of that greeting, "Sir Malaroth, excuse me," her stance is unchanged. There is not a trace of concern to be read from her features, nor is there a readiness to detect of her limbs, "How may I help you?"

Activity resumes behind her, each of the Ficks having their own agenda, but there is still some interest of who this man is, and why he's arrived calling Pember Fick a lady.

[Malaroth]

There is silence for her at having stirred such a response amongst the women of the household. Amidst their play acting and teasing melodrama Miss Fick emerges, one among many, and her countenance conjures the barest hint of bemusement to the corners of pink lips framed in a neatly trimmed goatee. Cerulean eyes flicker, guardedly, over her shoulder as he watches the family at play with barely controlled fascination.

That is until she corrects her address of him.

Reminded of his duty, and her previous albeit brief visit to the Chapter House, he offers a respectful nod and slips a cool, pale palm to rest upon the pommel of a sheathed sword. "I recalled your concern for the Derry refugees as duty called me eastward for the border. I had thought to give some the opportunity to work restoring the blighted ruins of Snowstill Priory, to put aside their idleness and cleanse the site of its memory of the Ashfiend."

He canted his head aside, a blond eyebrow arching in curious study as he waited for her reaction. Pressing forward, he continued, "I was wondering if you would be interested in accompanying me since it seems their provision has, somewhat, fallen to you. What say you?" He queried in uncharacteristic abandon, or perhaps seemingly so, as he had sent neither message nor messenger though he himself had thought to ask her a week ago.

"You may ride with me now, or meet us at the Priory."

[Wendy]

Those behind her continued in their curiosity, only looking away when and if the Grand Master Knight peered over Pemberton's shoulder - at which time they would appear busy, yes, engrossed in other things such as the design of a wire brush, or the fabric of kitchen curtains.

The Fick girl absorbs the idea, then glances down at those things she wears. A change of clothes might have been called for if he didn't just invite her to help the refugees in getting organized at the Priory. No stranger to work of the back-breaking kind, the young woman straightens of the spine and gives an imperceptible nod in response.

It could be that these important families would have need of money while they remain in Myrken Wood. She does wonder whether they will be resistant to such work as cleaning up a mess that the Ashfiend left behind. Aware that these are nobles that the Shepherd Knights protect, Pemberton thinks to ask, "Have you.. gained the refugees consent to this?"

As to how much responsibility she had for these people's sakes, she was unsure - it was never quite clear. She thought that Malaroth had completely taken over their care. Did he not?

There is confusion outlined by the tilt of her head and the strain in her brow, but in the meanwhile, she is making a mental note to have her brother prepare his horse. She doesn't believe her mare would be up to the ride.

[Malaroth]

The woman is a lively thing in her way, by his measure. He notes how her eyes sparkle with thoughts and consideration, silently probe for contingencies, and then make swift decisions. It is all he can do to keep the corners of his lips from giving away gentle bemusement at the horse-loving Fick woman.

"Of course I have," he ventured in reply, brows drawing together in confusion as if forgetting to do just that would be near akin to madness. A wry smirk curls across a pale countenance, decorated with haggard features and dark rings beneath storm-blue eyes nestled deep beneath his brow. "Most are people accustomed to hard labor, and those who aren't are young enough where they can become so quickly enough. I think it is lack of anything else to do, to be quite honest, that has made the idea seem reasonable."

He moved his arms over the breadth of an armored chest, mail across his torso and chain at his side gently chiming and rustling like some metallic infant stirring in fitful slumber. In the shadow of the porch the sunlight behind him adds exaggerated shadows to often cold features, though the pursing of his lips reveals thoughts marching through his mind and along the length of his tongue.

"Perhaps our gift of rebuilding the Priory will entice the Faith to step up its ministry to the people in these dark times," he confessed with a grim, leashed sigh at his confession. "While not a religious man myself, I think that the people would welcome any respite and encouragement they can get. Furthermore, the Priory can serve as a temporary base to spot incoming refugees as they cross the border and we can direct them to Myrkentown as needed, if they have no pressing matter at the chapter house first. Overall, it should hasten our relocation for the arrivals."

"Well?" he added with a pleasant smile. "You'll even get a chance to see our greatest charger, and perhaps ride the beast as well. What do you say?"

[ShadowRose]

Elsewhere...

The large throng of refugees, knights and squires marched onward to the battle-stained Snowstill Priory in essence to rebuild it to its former glory. Among them, Sarayn Aluna Dala'vaesa walked along, having engaged in a conversation with several entities around her; most of them curious of her race, heritage and life beneath the surface. And, as was customary with the woman, she held them entranced with stories, both frightening and warming. It was a wonderful way to pass the time it took to travel from the Chapter House to the once-lively location of the Snowstill Priory.

Ah, but she hadn't come with them willingly. It had been a directive from Sir Malaroth; a means of a lesson, to teach her the true meaning of the virtues. Of course, it didn't mean she couldn't have fun with it, no?

While the others scattered about to do the more labor-intensive work, the drowess angled her way to the Chapel.. to clean of all things. Not surprisingly, several distracted, male refugees and squires followed her, hoping to help--or so they attempted to tell themselves. And, while they bent down to gather old leaves and fallen branches, the drowess used the slender form of a wand to burn and pillage what she could of her own pile of leaves and branches, giggling all the while.

This was helping, was it not?

[Wendy]

Malaroth of Zachea is an observant man. The Fick girl understands that he would have to be, in order to execute his charge over a flock of men and women who pledge their efforts under the auspices of the Trae Kelsan throne. That he watches and evaluates to the detail of the youthful shine in her eyes does not go unnoticed. Perhaps years of traipsing through the woodlands, at the heels of 'yard inspector' Gideon Fell, have trained those hazel eyes to pick up on subtle details such as a seemingly inattentive gaze and a near smile.

Pemberton has learned the art of covert behavior (having been a student from the time she was knee-height to her father) while at play as the faithful side-kick to Myrken Wood's most courageous, death-defying, inspiring, heart-breaking son.

Together they discovered phenomena in the forestry - beings not of this world, but from places far, far away - beyond the moon even. They'd slain evil wizards and resurrected burned structures from ash! They'd carried stolen babies to safety, and spared Myrkener's their very lives from The Baie!

Once, when they were the most bored, a story was born in Gideon's head... and as one may suspect, they were on its trail soon after. They were nearly successful, having managed to lure a heifer (who was kind in portraying "Ehrlagamar, the Tyrant") from the old Baker's pasture. The animal moseyed straight into the Fick's paddock. They'd made it the entire way and were about to approach the beast with their smart questions, when Pember's uncle caught them. He completely foiled plans (not to mention caused them great embarrassment when they were forced to return the cow.)

Even as they aged, Pemberton and Gideon were inseperable. Their quests grew more dangerous, as they would determine that certain locals were actually spies. Together, they would stake out several hours, hidden from view as they peeped into people's homes, sometimes even went inside, to study people's actions and try to undertand their personal belongings. They became adept at noticing peculiarities.

The two of them were stealth and chic and good at keeping people's secrets. They would be as close today, if coming of age hadn't ruined everything: Gideon left for the capital.

Things turned complicated...

All the same, her Myrken Wood experience is full and it is vast. Today, she is keen to detail even the small motions that others make. She can, very often, detect reasoning behind a person's eyes, if she is able to get a good, hard look.

Miss Fick has made no real attempt to study Malaroth, but does offer as wry a smirk back to him at the notion of riding that greatest charger. 'Are you to be lured, then?' She can hear these words as if that bitter Razasani soldier is snapping the comment.

Taking time to stretch her arms, to lengthen the spine and roll her head a moment, she looks up at the ceiling, as casual as Gideon might.

Minutes tick before she resumes a comfortable pose of folded arms against her brother's sweater. The young woman throws a gaze to the armour this man wears.

"Expecting the worst?"

She must ask. She hasn't anything like it to carry on her shoulders, and her brothers, all farm hands, wouldn't either. If the Shepherd Knights believe enough that they should wear their protective gear, would it be wise for her agree to join them? 'Just to seize the opportunity to view this interesting horse? Oo, -golly-! A -charger-! Fancy a pony ride, Pem?'

Rather obnoxiously, Gideon has proven her "gullible" so. many. times. that she can no longer be the eager girl she was.

So, an invitation to ride to the Priory and be of use will only be acceptable if concerns for herself, and the refugees, are satisfied.

"Who else will be there?"

Behind her, there are resounding groans from aunt and sister.

[Malaroth]

"That's some skill you have with magic there," Squire Brewer grinned as he ambled up alongside the pretty Drow woman. Behind him the other squires stared, some in awe of big Brewer's youthful confidence, others at Sarayn's exotic and fearsome beauty.

He stood tall, his face young and dominated by a square jaw and straight nose. A self-assured, easy smile attempted to smooth his greeting for the woman as he handled a rotting branch in large hands. With a wink he bent his arm behind his head, tossed the limb end-over-end, angling it ahead of his shoulder, and caught the branch during its descent. In a moment he had aimed it, like a wand, for a nearby leaf pile and wiggled it in imitation of working some burning spell of his own.

"You've set a fire in my heart, you know," he boldly and shamelessly asserted, brown eyes upon her own and broken only by a playful wink.

"Maybe," he murmured as he closed the distance between them with a few swaggering steps, leaning forward to share a secret. "You know of a way to help me out?"

[Malaroth]

Pemberton proves to be as fickle as any cat he has seen, noting the patient way she stretches and examines the ceiling, as if testing his patience, like taking the temperature of a swimming pond with the measure of a big toe. Amongst her family, he considered, perhaps she was more guarded? Though he could hardly claim to know her well, she seemed far more cautious than their last meeting.

"I always expect the worst," he explains in an even, measured tone. One hand falls to the tabbard, palm pressed against the shepherd's crook that curls over his heart. Chain mail rustles beneath as he presses down, firmly, before resting a palm upon his sword's pommel. "This is Myrken Wood, after all. But for the moment things are more quiet now than they have been for a while. I don't foresee any difficulties, but best to be prepared."

"As for the others," he continued after a gentle breath. "There will be over a dozen knights, their squires, and some sixty refugees to do most of the actual laborer. Between them we have smithies, carpenters, farmers, laborers... and anything else we might need. We hope." His concluding smile was somewhat apologetic.

[ShadowRose]

Elsewhere...

The drowess raised her wand yet again to destroy another branch in a fiery hiss, the severely damaged wood putting up nothing of a fight as it merely crumbled to dust.

"That's some skill you have with magic there."

Feeling the sudden closeness, the words laden with something other than a mere conversational starter, the exquisite beauty of the drowess was writ with quiet amusement before she even turned to regard the ambling squire. The stunning and prismatic hue of her blue eyes flickered to the awed faces behind him, and then settled evenly on him. Her posture had shifted from that of a proud sorceress dealing death to long-forgotten leaves and rotting branches, to that of a particularly bemused vixen; with one slender hand on tilted hip and the end of the wand tapping lightly against white teeth as she regarded him, and his offer, from top to bottom. To his branch-catching ploy, she graced him with the brilliance of a wry grin; and to his advancement and suggestive nearness, she never moved a muscle.

"You know of a way to help me out?"

The drowess leaned in to whisper sweet nothings into his ear, her accent a dark lilt on the common tongue, a language she so fluently spoke.

"Darling squire, you do -not- want to play with me." she purred, ".. there are some creatures deemed not wise to poke.. this lioness is one of them."

And, in her passing, she swatted him lightly, and playfully, on the bum with the end of the wand, sauntering off toward another pile of leaves and branches that awaited her destruction.

[Wendy]

Some time back, when she'd visited the Shepherd Knights's chapterhouse, Pemberton was given a mission: Ask the Grand Master Knight whether he would assist in the safe keeping of families fleeing Derry, with very few specifics as to which.

He might remember that she was the official sort of messenger, at least until he threatened to fall from the building's tower. If he did observe her closely, he'd recall the only glimpse of seeing her ease into any sort of comfort at the meeting place was when they went outside and visited with horses in the round pen.

If, by that fleeting moment, Malaroth had expected this straight-edged girl to be readily accepting of his offer of a chance with the charger horse, then he did not pay attention to her earlier behavior. There was a reason she remained in the Governor's employ after the exchange of power.

He should keep his comparison to a feline behind his lips, and perhaps try to remove it from his gaze. Otherwise, she will read his expression, and he might learn that the Fick girl is hardly so composed as a cat. Ask Gideon Fell.

There is a murmur from her mouth. Pemberton's stance changes once again, trading leisure for rigid shoulders and hanging hands.

"I own nothing like your suit of armour, should there be any trouble."

To simply trust that her welfare would be an utmost concern was laughable, to Pemberton. She, a farm girl with a bit part in the grand play that was Myrken Wood. Of anyone, she will seem the most dispensible. Even after the Derry refugees, for they are sworn government protection by agreement.

She does not know the Grand Master Knight; however, he has been entrusted with the lives of many.

There is such debate firing through the Fick girl's mind. To stay, to go.. it would not be for the joy ride on a charger... but, perhaps, to see that the refugees were adjusting well to their change of scene.

The Grand Master appears patient enough to wait for her deliberation's end. Eventually, he will receive a nod and the rush of hot breath as she sighs. She scratches at her neck and squints a moment more, but then concedes, letting her arm fall.

"I'll have my brother prepare his horse, and I will see you at the Priory."

There is better safety in traveling on her own, distanced well from the showy procession of twelve knights, their Grand Master, and such numbers of Derry kin.

Renewed interest threads through from the group that is her family. A small brother moves into position under her arm. He silently peers at the man on their porch, gaze a threat should the Grand Knight endanger his sister. Pemberton's hand rubs over his cropped hair and settles on the back of his small neck.

Now two of them are staring back at Malaroth.

[Malaroth]

Squire Brewer offered a fetching smile, or an attempted one, at the Drowess playful swat as it tickled his desires with apparent success for his advances.

Her words, however, told him something else entirely.

He watched her sashay towards another pile of rotting leaves - enjoying the simple feminine grace in her steps and the titillating scent that lingered with her passing.

She would make it difficult for him to concentrate on the mundane tasks at hand.

[Malaroth]

Her remark concerning armor etches an eyebrow into a quizzical arching, as if she had suggested something outright comical. The image of Miss Fick struggling about in a suit of chain mail stirred the corners of his lips in the briefest hints of a playful smile, a sense of play kept on a short and jagged leash. Hinted mirth perishes quickly, leaving him stoic, eyes narrowed in habitual scrutiny of the world at large, as she considers, hesitates, and finally accepts.

"You have my word that I will keep a personal eye bent towards your safety at all times," he offered with firm honesty. Though the words left him evenly, they bore a weight that haunted him with brief visions of a struggling caravan wandering across the barren blue Mul Wastes, of a similar promise he had sworn to someone else, and of all that had happened since. "And when I can spare them, I will bend two eyes towards that task."

As she agrees, even beneath the solemn stewardship of her much younger brother, who offers him such a scathing rebuke written in silent expression, he offers the fellow Fick a nod of greeting as one man might for another.

"I will meet you there, then." He bowed, barely, from the armored waist with a clattering of chains and mail, before turning upon a spurred heel and moving to reclaim his steed.