May 21, 2025 3:56 am
Lancaelad stood in his room for a while after shedding his tattered maille skin, watching the distant turrets and gabled manse rooves of Endier. It was not the greatest city he had seen; the Freeport of Ilien was a short journey from Proudglaive, and he had visited the City of Anuire – that grand metropolis of islands, arching bridges and decaying Imperial grandeur from whence half the world had once been ruled – as a boy at his father's side. But it was great enough to smudge the horizon with the smoke of its industry and coin-grasping ambition. He imagined the Maesil, the Old Stone Tree of a river that wound through the ruins of empire like a heart-vein, dark with the rich soils of the Heartlands and bustling with barges and river-galleys.
The thought made him wince, and touch the ugly, puckered red wound in his sternum. His own heart-vein had been near enough pricked by goblin arrows, his life nearly spilled on the dirt of the Spider's demesne. The memory of the pain, of scuttling man-mockery shapes in the undergrowth with clever fingers and wicked bows prowling over him churned in his mind, then suddenly dropped into his belly. Lan bolted for the open window and hurled the stout, the scraps of food he had managed to down, the dregs of the medicinal elixir and a good measure of bile onto the courtyard below, earning his a curse from a passing merchant who was splashed by the bile. Lan waved dismissively at the man and pulled his head back inside, and wearily finished rinsing his mouth and washing himself with a copper of water and cloth. The dirt and grime and dried blood – so damn much blood, it was a wonder he had any left to run in his veins – came away, leaving only fatigue.
Gods, he was tired. Even All-Mighty Cuiraécen was said to rest after a good thundering storm. But Lancaelad's quest, and that of his companions, was not yet finished. This cloak-and-dagger business had seemed exciting when it was lying to Dieman garrisons and crooked little spymasters, spells of delusion and masked flights by night. But now he found himself wishing for more clear-cut and forthright dealings – he should be able to just flash his heraldry and demand that the factor here to meet Adalric Salien show themselves. It was all so vexing!
Passably clean, Lan slung the two corded-cup hauberks of maille over his shoulders like the world's least comfortable sleeping rolls and headed to the town and its smithy. As he left the inn he cast a rueful, wistful glance at Tovrunn. Their relationship had been amicable the last few days, but suddenly seemed to have chilled like a Rjurik winter. He had the vague idea that he was being held to blame for that, somehow. It was all so vexing!
At least he made it to the Halfday garrison building in good time, despite the burden. Lan puffed out his chest and straightened his spine as he approached the guards at the gate, who were leaning on their partisans and having a spirited discussion about the cock-fights that evening. "Fair eventide, soldiers. I am an errant knight, travelling about mine own business when I was waylaid by the rank goblins in yonder woods. My armour was grievously damaged in battle, and I am told your Rjurik smith can make it right. Told by... Bartrem, of the Lorn Wastrel. I would commission his services. Let me pass." It took him a moment to remember the innkeep's name, something he had filed away as of little import. He gave the men the slight, cocky smile of a man who had just casually declared why yes, I braved the Spiderfell and lived, what of it?
The thought made him wince, and touch the ugly, puckered red wound in his sternum. His own heart-vein had been near enough pricked by goblin arrows, his life nearly spilled on the dirt of the Spider's demesne. The memory of the pain, of scuttling man-mockery shapes in the undergrowth with clever fingers and wicked bows prowling over him churned in his mind, then suddenly dropped into his belly. Lan bolted for the open window and hurled the stout, the scraps of food he had managed to down, the dregs of the medicinal elixir and a good measure of bile onto the courtyard below, earning his a curse from a passing merchant who was splashed by the bile. Lan waved dismissively at the man and pulled his head back inside, and wearily finished rinsing his mouth and washing himself with a copper of water and cloth. The dirt and grime and dried blood – so damn much blood, it was a wonder he had any left to run in his veins – came away, leaving only fatigue.
Gods, he was tired. Even All-Mighty Cuiraécen was said to rest after a good thundering storm. But Lancaelad's quest, and that of his companions, was not yet finished. This cloak-and-dagger business had seemed exciting when it was lying to Dieman garrisons and crooked little spymasters, spells of delusion and masked flights by night. But now he found himself wishing for more clear-cut and forthright dealings – he should be able to just flash his heraldry and demand that the factor here to meet Adalric Salien show themselves. It was all so vexing!
Passably clean, Lan slung the two corded-cup hauberks of maille over his shoulders like the world's least comfortable sleeping rolls and headed to the town and its smithy. As he left the inn he cast a rueful, wistful glance at Tovrunn. Their relationship had been amicable the last few days, but suddenly seemed to have chilled like a Rjurik winter. He had the vague idea that he was being held to blame for that, somehow. It was all so vexing!
At least he made it to the Halfday garrison building in good time, despite the burden. Lan puffed out his chest and straightened his spine as he approached the guards at the gate, who were leaning on their partisans and having a spirited discussion about the cock-fights that evening. "Fair eventide, soldiers. I am an errant knight, travelling about mine own business when I was waylaid by the rank goblins in yonder woods. My armour was grievously damaged in battle, and I am told your Rjurik smith can make it right. Told by... Bartrem, of the Lorn Wastrel. I would commission his services. Let me pass." It took him a moment to remember the innkeep's name, something he had filed away as of little import. He gave the men the slight, cocky smile of a man who had just casually declared why yes, I braved the Spiderfell and lived, what of it?
