Honest Labor

[Wendy]

It bodes well that Malaroth is in agreement and does not press the issue of the Fick girl's riding on her own. His metals quake as he steps away in musical tones that appeal to the youth whose skinny neck is loosed. The boy's sister notices this during a study of his features.

Her brother, barely twelve, could have been old enough to shadow Knights like Malaroth's. They were likely to be given paltry tasks such as fetching water for horses and mucking out stalls - perhaps they'd earn the opportunity to watch practice tournaments when their chores were completed.

Pemberton hadn't imagined another member of her family would have a yearning for a lifestyle beyond the corn they grew; however, the look in her little brother's eyes was hard to miss.

Malaroth would be taking to his mount by the time she turned on her little brother, leaning forward so they could meet eyes. For a time, she inspected the slant of his freckled nose, the curious pose of his small, red-tinged brows and the awe released when his jaw relaxes. When he finally gains perspective and realizes Pemberton there, his cheeks turn color.

Grinning, she tugs at the shoulder seam of his small sweater and considers, "Would you like to come along?"

[Malaroth]

Some time later, the exact count of hours lost to the Grand Master Knight, he arrived at the Snowstill Priory amidst the gentle rumble of activity. The knights had already taken up positions about the dilapidated structures while a trio regularly patrolled the perimeter. Those with a more stationary position kept wary eyes alert for any danger to the laborers in tumbling beams or crumbling walls.

It was one of the squires, young Arthur from Foggy Bottom, who had been charged with head mastery of the laborer force. Beneath his calculating eye and waving hands, he had asked Sarayn along with the other more impetuous squires to cleaning the chapel sanctuary. Out of a dislike for most of them, and a quiet hope the Drow would eat their hearts or something equally fitting for the crude and domineering pack of wolves amongst shepherds.

After dismounting, and leaving his mount in the care of another squire, he closed the distance to young Arthur and, after an exchange of words and reporting, listened to the young man while taking in the refreshing scene around him. Already hammers were being readied, measurements being taken, and nails being dispensed to see to the mean but honorable task of restoring this crumbling edifice of the One Faith.

"And where is Sarayn?" he asked distractedly, watching several refugees struggle with measuring a particularly long beam.

"I sent her to clean the chapel sanctuary with Squire Brewer and his, er, compatriots, Sir."

For his part, Malaroth regarded the squire for the span of several heartbeats before silently cursing and, turning upon a booted heel, hastening towards the chapel doors. Unsure if Brewer would have done something distinctly shameful or if he would have been burned to cinders in the attempt.

Somehow the latter seemed far more likely.

[ShadowRose]

Having further ignored the rather lecherous squire Brewer and the stares belonging to the other gentlemen, Sarayn Dala'vaesa had continued her work, destroying ill-fated piles of leaves, and disseminating branches for the greater good. Ah, but there had been a large puddle of water that had to be dealt with as well..

The drowess peered into the shallow, murky depths, smiling faintly at its reflection, only to straighten her posture and hold over it a lithe dark hand. Ever so slowly, the puddle of water began to gravitate toward the middle point of a delicate hand where she held aloft a crystal clear gem. As the water was consumed, the little trinket shifted to a blue color, signifying the contents that now lingered within it. Satisfied, Sarayn pocketed the gem with a hidden smile, craning the elegance of her neck to the front of the Chapel and away from the doors.

There, a central dais, and above it, a hole it the roof, a heavenly window that graced the room with a cone of light. Intrigued, the dark elf walked forward to stand under it, gazing upward directly into the soft light and ignoring the pain that near seared within. She seemed entranced, mystified at the beauty of such a thing.. .. mesmerized..

"Who are you..?" Sarayn breathed, the play between the dark elven woman and the other beginning anew.

The drowess smiled, her ankle-length silver hair fluttering in an unfelt breeze, ".. With me, you will find a new way of living.. of being -accepted-, Sarayn. Turn away from the ways of the old.. Follow me and live in harmony."

"I demand to know who you are..!" Sarayn near shouted only in her dream, the frown on her face so real.

"Shh, dear one.. look, your greatest challenge approaches.." the visionary pointed toward the Chapel's doors.

And the daydream faded away..

Sarayn Aluna Dala'vaesa turned to face the Chapel's doors, to see Sir Malaroth comes hastily within, and echoed quietly to herself, ".. my greatest challenge..?"

Regardless of what he might say to her, command her to do, at this point, she smiled, truly glad to see him, the halo of light surrounding her head as the sun tumbled down from above.

[Malaroth]

The broken chapel bore testament tot he Ashfiend's presence in the toppled altar and the remnants of the creature's deathfrost that hung about him like a plague. Yet there is more to ruin here; there is also tension between the small gang of squires and the lone but capable Drow. He proceeds into that tension headfirst, coming to a stop between the woman and Brewer's cronies.

"Sir," Brewer started, offering a slight bow from the waist in practiced fludity. "The Drow has been attempting to cause us to stumble," he noted, regarding her over the Grand Master's armroed shoulder. Though the words left him in a cool fashion, the subtle quirk of lips betrayed his intent.

A gesture that Malaroth was not unprepared or unwary of. He struggled to contain the sigh that threatened to bleed out, marking him as tired and ineffectual. For his part, he regarded the squire through narrowed eyes afire with cold suspicion, pausing to glance a moment at the slender Drow wreathed in sunlight.

Hoping that things would not turn ugly, he turned to face the pair of them as Brewer drew closer and his sycophants remained in one of the farther corners watching whilst proceeding with righting the wrecked pews.

"Is that so?" Malaroth queried, eyes narrowing further, a hand drifting towards the chain coiled at his side. He idly played with a few links beneath the pad of his thumb. Clearing his throat, an easy stride carried him towards Sarayn, whom he regarded evenly beneath an arched eyebrow.

"What do you have to say in regards to this accusation?"

[ShadowRose]

She tilted her head to one side as the words from Brewer's lips alighted the dark outer shell of her ears, the sparkling light of her bright blue eyes shifting to regard Brewer fully--and, surprisingtly, she didn't burst out in anger, or actions, like the many of her female counterparts would have.. and truly, Brewer should thank his lucky stars. Instead, her dark and full lips curled upward in a darling smile as if gazing upon something truly adorable, perhaps a child attempting her first steps--or, in this case, a silly human trying his wit against that of a dark elf for the first time. And she near sighed softly at how amusing, at how darling the situation truly was--and how petty.

"What do you have to say in regards to this accusation?"

She heard Malaroth say, the calm and cool of her gaze finally regarding him fully. "Oh, not a thing, Sir Malaroth.. but let us see exactly what our daring squire had to say not moments before you arrived, shall we?"

And from the pouch at her subtly-curved hip, she produced a beautifully glowing gem, a thing that neatly spewed the voice of Brewer and the things he had said, word by precious word--and it did not play favorites, for the voice of the slender dark elf came soon afterward.

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

"You've set a fire in my heart, you know.

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

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

And with the conclusion, she smiled brightly, dropping the expired object back from wence it came--"Dear squire, how am I causing you to stumble when you cannot rightfully stand in the first place?" And the beauty of her face shifted to Malaroth, stating evenly, "Now, if you two are quite finished with your pretty games, I desire to return to my work.. for the good of the people."

Staring at him, and never once allowing her gaze to waver, nor the smile that had bloomed across her face, she waited for his answer.

[Malaroth]

Zachea was a land that sought to firmly control what sorcery was practiced in its lands. Very few were allowed to even study the magical art, nevermind actually use it. Myrken Wood, however, was not Zachea. The evidence of this was all the more plain when anyone might potentially call upon magical power to aid them, to sow dischord, to commit murder.

Or, in this case, to prove a point.

Words reproduced from gems are becoming increasingly common. The first occurance of such, perhaps appropriately enough, when he had lsitened to Sarayn's confessions during her prolonged interrogation at the hands of Cinnabar Calomel. The thought of the governor darkened his countenance considerably.

"When you are finished cleaning in here," he began, turning his narrowed eyes upon the boastful squire. "You will mount up and return to the chapter house. Once there you will clean the pig stys, shovel out the horse stalls, and you will tell me why I should let you remain amongst us upon my return."

The squire suffered beneath the taut set of thin lips, the downcast angle of his haggard features, drawn taut in stirred frustration and furious discipline restrained beneath the kngihthood's aegis: honor, courage, wisdom. His own master, in Zachea, had not tolerated such insolence and neither would he.

Afrer Squire Brewer turned away, beneath the dreadful weight of the Grand Master's stern scowl, Malaroth turned and slowly approached a small pile of twigs and rotting leaves. He took in their chaotic array, tumbled upon one another, heaped by the childlike wind that had blown vigorously through the ceiling's hole and a shattered window.

It would be a good test of Lady Valaeli's teachings, he considered, allowing himself a small smile. He extended a long, lean arm, palm facing the collected mess, and began to reach out with a measure of what magic he knew.

[ShadowRose]

Sarayn Aluna Dala'vaesa watched the play between knight and squire with a stoic visage, the smile on her face having fallen, not at the punishment that was cast on the squire's shoulders, no--in fact that had caused her a fountain of inner glee. But of the continual air of the knight just a few feet away from her--the frustrations, the always-present storm in his eyes.. the unhappiness he had always shown on his handsome face.

It was then she neared him, gingerly, as if stepping on the sharpest of glass shards, each careful and elegant step shredding her tiny feet asunder, to face the chaotic storm that was represented in this man.. one she couldn't deny caring for.

"I.." she began, the words catching in her throat, desperately hoping that he would not be upset with her. ".. apologize if my presence here, with the Knights in general, causes undue stress upon you. It was.. never my intention." And oh, how she only wished to place a gentle hand upon his shoulder, refraining to do so with every fiber of her being--her only words being; "Please forgive me for any wrong doing I have done to you.. perhaps.." and her words trailed off for a moment, beginning anew, although shaken at best, ".. it is time to decide if I have a place here.. with you, with the rest of them. Perhaps.. it is not worth it. You have so much weighing down your heart already."

Reluctantly, she took a step back, ignoring any stares or hateful glares from the remaining squires nearby. Every word had been true, had been felt in her core. And, if he wished to cast her aside, it would hurt, yes, but it was a sacrifice she would be willing to make. For him.

What was this thing that she was feeling..? It was confusing, dangerous, and frightening. It was so much easier to hate.

[Malaroth]

Through closed eyes he formulated his will into the workings of a magic spell with which to set the small pile ablaze. His pale brows knit together, joined by an easy crease that marred otherwise smooth skin forever plagued by an ashen hue. A few muttered syllables slipped out between pressed lips. A small spark struck int heir midst, burning the centermost portion, wavered and lingered as smoke began to slither heavenward.

Then there were words. An apology and an offer.

Then there was the Drow's delicately angled visage in some affectation of sincerity.

"Redemption," he murmured as their gazes locked, "is always worth it."

[ShadowRose]

Where once her expression had been somber, distressed that he may be ill affected by her presence, came the stunning sunrise of a smile from the darkness, the renewed spark born again in the oceans of her eyes. As if a child before a newly-purchased gift from a parent, her words spilled from her lips near excitedly, "Then.. you will keep me..?" Quite possibly indicating that she considered herself a pet, and an odd one at that--with unsurpassed beauty and wit that could warm even the coldest of hearts.

The question had been rhetorical, no doubt--she locking gazes with his own while whispering, smile quieted behind the tinge of control, "If you need anything.. ears to listen, a heart to care, know that I will always be here." And yet again, another genuine offer.

She lifted the dark satin of her hand in a fleeting touch against the side of his face in appreciation, if he allowed it, before she turned and merrily skipped away--to set fire to many a branch with the elegant sweep of the wand she held gently in her finely-boned hand and giggling all the while.

A happy dark elf.. truly a frightening thing, no?

[Malaroth]

This creature, he considers in a heartbeat, is all extremes, as tempestuous as the White Sea and as deadly as a knife in the dark. For one moment she is full of despair, a second she possesses at least the appearance of honesty, and at any moment she may cut down an entire conversation with some barbed words. To see her skip, of all things, amidst the ruin setting fire to what she safely could.

It began to dawn upon him why Drow were never trusted - they were entirely unpredictable.

Her reach for his countenance, taut and tired, is met with a careful but purposeful grasp, his fingertips sliding against the back of her hand, his thumb into her palm. He offers a silent glance that attempts to remind her that they are not quite friends, but the ghost of a smile to state that they might become such. A reassuring squeeze, however light, to her ebon hand before he has released her, if only to affirm the woman in her inner conflict.

It was a delicate line to walk, he considered to himself, beckoning the remaining squires to sweep the ashes that Sarayn had left behind. As she went about her duties he then commanded the squires to stand before a larger pile of broken branches. With a gentle smile he bid them to each extend their hands, to focus, and to recall what Lady Valaeli had been teaching them.

As the youths struggled with such precision in their apprentice studies, Malaroth's gaze occasionally wandered towards the sauntering Sarayn.

[ShadowRose]

Leaving Malaroth and his young apprentices behind, the drowess moved beneath the skylight once more, angling her light blue eyes upward to stare into the blaring day--and to contemplate the damage done to the roof line. And, ah, how easy it would be to summon one of her companions as she always had, to ask--no, command--him to fix it for her by the use of magical abilities. Within the vault of her mind, however, Sarayn knew that Riznar, her wizard companion, nor Malaroth himself would approve of such things.

She shifted her attentions to the knight now, caught his gaze for the flicker of a moment, and then turned away--no, she wanted to show him that she was dedicated to changing, to honor.. to this truth. Again, she turned her eyes heavenward and issued the softest of sighs. Admitting defeat when it was well within her grasp, when things could be changed, or a task completed, was simply not an easy thing to do. But she did.

And to make it all the more startling, the drowess of perfect and well-manicured hands, she who had never needed to do anything but be pretty and cunning, actually stooped low to pick up and straighten the various damaged and unsorted things of import about the area.

And she felt utterly filthy.

[Wendy]

Dedicated to honor is Pemberton Fick. She shares a long line of service to Myrken Wood with the rest of her family. While a child, she was swept into the Fick's homestead tenets of support for fair politics for the community. Family dinners were shrouded in the, sometimes dark, contemplation of those who ruled, shaping the children who listened into mindful types that would learn to put their homeland first.

Her brother had wishes to stay behind, and that left the young woman on her own. She made her way to the Priory on horseback, glad to be absent from the parade of knights that that flanked the refugees. Miss Fick steered the reliable mare, following an unbeaten path, and eventually came upon the ruined site.

By the time she arrived, it seemed the work had already started. For a time, she remained with the borrowed horse, sitting straight-backed in the saddle, watching events from the nearest grove of trees.

[Malaroth]

The squire turned his hazel eyes out across the surrounding slopes with a dismal sigh. He would have preferred to have been amidst friends and knights, even the woe-begotten Derry folk, rather than stand alone and watch. Why couldn't he be allowed to have fun for once?

Until there is movement.

Until there is a stranger, on horseback, staring out upon their honest labor.

A breath stole into his lungs, cramping and swelling as his heart thundered with pre-courage and all his thoughts narrowed into a pinpoint. Anxiety and misery forged a dangerous weapon in his still young mind and, attempting to move from tree to tree, he laid a slender hand upon his short blade.

With any luck he could take the intruder unaware.


***

With a hearty sigh, Malaroth lowered his hand to his side. Already his slender fingers ached and throbbed with the remnant magical energy he had called upon for such menial tasks. He offered a gentle, encouraging smile to the squires and bid them continue practicing, while cleaning, with their fledgling sorcerous instruction. Valaeli would be proud, or at least pleased, that they were not throwing shoes or worse yet, pies.

Still sore, he grasped the edge of a pew and, setting his booted feet, struggled to turn the object upright. The rubble gathered atop it refused to budge save for the old pile of leaves that hissed and scraped with its descent amidst a suddenly billowing cloud of dust that threatened watering eyes with a sudden fit of sneezing.

"Could you..." he paused, sneezing. "Help..." another sneeze, that caused his eyes to screw tight. "Me with this?"

He shook his head, flaring nostrils and blinking several times. Allowing himself a small breath to steady his lungs, the fit having passed.

Until he sneezed again.

[ShadowRose]

Only a few feet away, and having always kept a watchful eye on him, the drowess exploded into a fitful bout of giggles, only to simply stand by idly and watch his dust-filled torture with mirth.

"Ah, the mighty Grand Master has been defeated by a cloud of dust! Who shall take over the glorious Shepherd Knights in his stead?" came the whimsical and overly-dramatic call from her dark lips.

It was only moments thereafter did she appear at his side, aiding him by laying her hand on the opposite edge of the pew and lifting upward so that it might rest peacefully and upright on the stone flooring. Still, mirth painted her face, and a giggle parted from her throat, truly enjoying his torment.

And then she sneezed too.

[Wendy]

Miss Fick remains still, conscious of a presence that shares the energy of this quiet space among lean trees. Cautiously, the woman bends her knee and slides the heel of her boot closer to the saddle. She makes a quick grasp for the dagger that resides in the space between a leather bootleg and her skin, and turns her gaze in the direction of a sound - a shift in someone's step? A sliding movement. Silent, watchful, heart trained to become slow, breath spared an exit until it is nearly still... so that she may hear this visitor's continued movement.