peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
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Fantasy - Wildfire - [CLOSED]
- Thread starter peritwinkle
- Start date
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- Tags
- adventure dark fantasy magical
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
The rumble coming from below Leon’s tower that morning was unusually loud. Through the frosty window, Kaira could see a dark cloud of soldiers marching down the pathway leading to the outskirts of Lord Warren’s stronghold. They had been preparing all week: equipping the horses, polishing their breastplates, sharpening their blades to the thinness of a feather - all for a battle that they were so convinced they would win with barely any bloodshed on their side.
On the table she shared with her tutor, Leon had spead out a chess board and two plates filled with buttered scones and red berries. It was not often that he shared his meals with her, especially dessert, but Kaira had no intention of asking about it, in the fear that he would suddenly remember she still did not share his rights as the royal Volur. She wanted to enjoy this little bite of lavishness while the opportunity presented itself to her; this time the next day, all she would have to it would be dry bread and cold baked potatoes.
“Knight to your Rook,” Leon sighed as he pulled her piece off the board and settled it behind his plate. “Your mind is wandering elsewhere. Eyes up front.”
Kaira tensed her neck and pulled her own knight back. She knew she could win, and in other circumstances she would have cared enough to think that game through, but the sound of steel and leather outside bothered her. Or, perhaps that was merely a distraction. She wanted that day to be over. She wanted to be on the battlefield, doing something other than numbing her arse with her nose in a book, map or a game for the entirety of her day. She waited for Leon to make his move before she took a bite out of her scone.
“I want you to tell me what will happen tomorrow,” she demanded calmly. “Or rather, what the King wants to happen.”
The master pondered over the table and let out a soft breath. Slowly, he advanced with one of his pawns, as if to give her time to think about her next choice. “He wants us to catch any surprises before they occur,” he said. “Particularly, he wants you to see how a Volur can tip the scales in their side’s favour, and how…” he tapped the head of his pawn, “helpless every other army is without one.”
Kaira leaned forward and crossed her arms on the table. “All this time, all these years you taught me how to cause chaos. You taught me how to turn a blind eye to all the evil he wants us to cast in his name. Now you’re approving of his methods? Do you truly think he is doing the right thing, Leon? You have been by his side ever since he became King, you’ve witnessed all he has done, and when he has a whole world turned against him, you stand by his side the tallest you ever have.”
He pursed his lips and leaned against the backrest. Kaira had learned to tell when her tutor was mad, and surprisingly, this was not one of those moments. Instead, he almost seemed to be agreeing with her, silently. “We do what we have to do as Volur,” he replied. “I have taken an oath, and one day you will, too. I have not ceased to doubt him all these years, it’s true, no sane man would keep his eyes closed to everything.”
“Except for you, it was a choice. For me…”
“It was either kill or be killed,” he completed, dryly. His chair creaked as he sat back up and bent down over the table, to speak closer to her face. Looking her in the eye, Leon nodded compassionately. “Causing chaos is a hundred times easier than stopping it, Kaira. The weapon you fight with is entirely your choice. They can only fight with fire, but you have the ability to stifle it before they get to you. To us. This is how Windhold has been able to stand up all these years - not because of the blue-bloods and their rotten minds, but because of people like me - like you - who kept it all under control.”
Kaira leaned back in her chair, biting her lip. She had never been the one to opt for peace or stand in defense - not because she had chosen so, but because after all these years, she still could not control the storm within her. She often wondered if the King had asked Leon to train her for that exact reason. He was not a man of peace, either, a mentality passed from father to father down his bloodline. He was often displeased with Leon for making more conservative choices in battle. Volur were fearsome warriors, and very few of them knew the extent of their power. That lack of control was exactly how Windhold had been winning ever battle in the past seventeen years.
Eventually, she stretched out a pale hand and claimed Leon’s pawn with a petty kick. “I should be training, then,” she said, before falling back to finish her buttered scone.
“Do you have your sword ready?”
Kaira nodded. She had her fingers in a tight grip around the hilt, as if afraid that the strong wind would blow it from her hands. Leon watched her attentively, analysing her expression, her mannerisms. In his eyes, even at the age of 21, she was still a child, far too innocent and impulsive to be thrown into a battlefield. He hoped, for her sake, that there would be no need for violence from their end. That the people of Wendlyn would recognize their place and fall to their knees before any unnecessary blood was shed. And if it came to it, he hoped that he was still agile enough to protect her.
They watched the vanguard march uphill with their flags waving in the cold, autumn air. Behind them, the other half of King Alastair’s army was catching up with their horses. Kaira had been silent all morning, most likely pondering her moves, searching for a way to insert herself into battle before he could deny her the right. And frankly, Leon could not deny she was already stronger than him. She was stronger than any other Volur he had ever met - not that there were many left and willing to expose themselves so freely - and her lack of self-control made her twice as dangerous.
Leon cleared his throat sharply. “All you have to do is watch,” he reminded her. “Keep your mind calm, in case we need to intervene. By the time they get to us, if they have the means to, they will already be weakened. You need not fear them.”
“I don’t fear them,” she said. “They are not my enemy.”
“Good. No, they are not.”
Leon hit his stirrups and Kaira followed closely behind. The wind cut their cheeks sharper, like a blade, and the old Volur took in his last moments of peace before the battle began.
On the table she shared with her tutor, Leon had spead out a chess board and two plates filled with buttered scones and red berries. It was not often that he shared his meals with her, especially dessert, but Kaira had no intention of asking about it, in the fear that he would suddenly remember she still did not share his rights as the royal Volur. She wanted to enjoy this little bite of lavishness while the opportunity presented itself to her; this time the next day, all she would have to it would be dry bread and cold baked potatoes.
“Knight to your Rook,” Leon sighed as he pulled her piece off the board and settled it behind his plate. “Your mind is wandering elsewhere. Eyes up front.”
Kaira tensed her neck and pulled her own knight back. She knew she could win, and in other circumstances she would have cared enough to think that game through, but the sound of steel and leather outside bothered her. Or, perhaps that was merely a distraction. She wanted that day to be over. She wanted to be on the battlefield, doing something other than numbing her arse with her nose in a book, map or a game for the entirety of her day. She waited for Leon to make his move before she took a bite out of her scone.
“I want you to tell me what will happen tomorrow,” she demanded calmly. “Or rather, what the King wants to happen.”
The master pondered over the table and let out a soft breath. Slowly, he advanced with one of his pawns, as if to give her time to think about her next choice. “He wants us to catch any surprises before they occur,” he said. “Particularly, he wants you to see how a Volur can tip the scales in their side’s favour, and how…” he tapped the head of his pawn, “helpless every other army is without one.”
Kaira leaned forward and crossed her arms on the table. “All this time, all these years you taught me how to cause chaos. You taught me how to turn a blind eye to all the evil he wants us to cast in his name. Now you’re approving of his methods? Do you truly think he is doing the right thing, Leon? You have been by his side ever since he became King, you’ve witnessed all he has done, and when he has a whole world turned against him, you stand by his side the tallest you ever have.”
He pursed his lips and leaned against the backrest. Kaira had learned to tell when her tutor was mad, and surprisingly, this was not one of those moments. Instead, he almost seemed to be agreeing with her, silently. “We do what we have to do as Volur,” he replied. “I have taken an oath, and one day you will, too. I have not ceased to doubt him all these years, it’s true, no sane man would keep his eyes closed to everything.”
“Except for you, it was a choice. For me…”
“It was either kill or be killed,” he completed, dryly. His chair creaked as he sat back up and bent down over the table, to speak closer to her face. Looking her in the eye, Leon nodded compassionately. “Causing chaos is a hundred times easier than stopping it, Kaira. The weapon you fight with is entirely your choice. They can only fight with fire, but you have the ability to stifle it before they get to you. To us. This is how Windhold has been able to stand up all these years - not because of the blue-bloods and their rotten minds, but because of people like me - like you - who kept it all under control.”
Kaira leaned back in her chair, biting her lip. She had never been the one to opt for peace or stand in defense - not because she had chosen so, but because after all these years, she still could not control the storm within her. She often wondered if the King had asked Leon to train her for that exact reason. He was not a man of peace, either, a mentality passed from father to father down his bloodline. He was often displeased with Leon for making more conservative choices in battle. Volur were fearsome warriors, and very few of them knew the extent of their power. That lack of control was exactly how Windhold had been winning ever battle in the past seventeen years.
Eventually, she stretched out a pale hand and claimed Leon’s pawn with a petty kick. “I should be training, then,” she said, before falling back to finish her buttered scone.
༻ • ༺
“Do you have your sword ready?”
Kaira nodded. She had her fingers in a tight grip around the hilt, as if afraid that the strong wind would blow it from her hands. Leon watched her attentively, analysing her expression, her mannerisms. In his eyes, even at the age of 21, she was still a child, far too innocent and impulsive to be thrown into a battlefield. He hoped, for her sake, that there would be no need for violence from their end. That the people of Wendlyn would recognize their place and fall to their knees before any unnecessary blood was shed. And if it came to it, he hoped that he was still agile enough to protect her.
They watched the vanguard march uphill with their flags waving in the cold, autumn air. Behind them, the other half of King Alastair’s army was catching up with their horses. Kaira had been silent all morning, most likely pondering her moves, searching for a way to insert herself into battle before he could deny her the right. And frankly, Leon could not deny she was already stronger than him. She was stronger than any other Volur he had ever met - not that there were many left and willing to expose themselves so freely - and her lack of self-control made her twice as dangerous.
Leon cleared his throat sharply. “All you have to do is watch,” he reminded her. “Keep your mind calm, in case we need to intervene. By the time they get to us, if they have the means to, they will already be weakened. You need not fear them.”
“I don’t fear them,” she said. “They are not my enemy.”
“Good. No, they are not.”
Leon hit his stirrups and Kaira followed closely behind. The wind cut their cheeks sharper, like a blade, and the old Volur took in his last moments of peace before the battle began.
pointmango
Me
It was hours before sunrise on that cool autumn morning when Jonathan finished spreading the last of his coated tinder. He and a few other men spent the dark hours of the night preparing the field for battle. Now he stood, admiring his mixture of tinder, powder, and a concoction of dried sulphur, alcohols and the dried urine of wine drinking men. Piss Fire he called it. And it certainly made grown men piss their pants when they were engulfed in it’s unforgiving flame. The pinch of light peeking from the horizon let the atmosphere capture a well-brew to a visible haze. There was a deep stillness still about the air, broken only by a light chink or rattle in the distance that morning.
When he returned to the tents at their rendezvous point, two long tables were set in the center with a crowd of human beings surrounding it. All save one had their attention bent on the table, pushing tiles and figures that would represent their upcoming battle. The exception was an older woman with pale hair and an aged face. Her eyes met Jonathans as he came inside the entryway. Jonathan fixed his own gaze on hers, masquerading his excitement with a firm nod. Outside less than two hundred men were assembled to fight today. Many of the outer tents seemed to disappear in the night, men fleeing their duties, their intentions of being mere spectators in the battle taken cowardice as the fight grew nearer.
Jonathan walked to the edge of the mountain they’d be fighting beneath. Still in the early hours of the morning, so close to something they’d been planning for sometime, he could feel her uncertainty. Their men were preparing forward, to make their front line, and in the distance he could see the alignment of the great kingdom’s army. “The fire will draw him right out,” Jonathan told her in an attempt to ease her nerves. The comment only seemed to deepen the furrow in her brow. “It’ll work. If we time if correctly, a clear signal. It’s near impossible to put out. He won’t be able to handle so much fire.” Jon added.
“This level of bloodshed is insufferable,” She spoke finally. “Those men deserve freedom not death.”
“They aren’t slaves,” Jon pointed out.
“They might as well be.” Her eyes stayed focused ahead. “I will not give you the signal until it is absolutely necessary.”
“We stand no chance without the fire.” He argued.
“They stand no chance with it. I don’t want to do this Jonathan.”
Jon left for his post, a bit lower on the cliffs, but still high enough out of harm’s way. He and two other men were skilled with arrows, and they set up perfect points for a right hit to send an entire line of their enemies field up in flames within seconds. Anger poured through his veins. This was the plan, it was decided by the council. They had trusted his expertise with this strategy. Islea’s strategy was a death sentence.
*
Kyel stood in front of his horse watching the battle from an eastern ledge overlooking the hill this small fight was set up. He had come alone against his advisor's wishes to watch. He watched the Wendlyn army charge as the King’s army moved very little on the defense. It appeared to Kyel as though the King’s army was twice as large as the other. A warmness came to his chest as he watched the king’s men hold poorly trained defense of the scrappy lawless men of Wendlyn. But the numbers were too strong on the King’s side and Kyel knew this battle would be lost seemingly before it began.
Wendlyn was struggling, and the King’s army was pressing forward now. He wondered why Wendlyn was even trying, these numbers were hardly a secret. And Wendlyn’s resources were limited. The King had the coin and the access to much more. He’d met the leaders of Wendlyn before. They were more intelligent than this. Kyel’s advisors fought with him over working with them. Together they would stand well against the crown, if they could figure out a way around the Volur. But Kyel disagreed with their core, King Alastair’s land was not to be liberated, it was meant to be destroyed. Kyel could build something greater from the ashes, without magic.
His thoughts had distracted him, for the entire field before him seemed to light up in flame. All along the center of the King’s men, they were in flames. As men moved to help one another, the other would soon catch fire. Rolling about the ground did nothing to ease the flames, and soon yells of pain filled the distance instead of the yells of battle.
*
Islea’s eyes glazed with betrayal as her eyes fell on the scene of fire combusting before her. Her gaze jerked towards Jon’s point to where she could no longer see him. She wasted no time. She would deal with his disobedience later. Leon would come forward with the fire, and so this would be their only chance.
Jon leaned back against one of the rocks on the cliffs after he signaled him and his men to take their shot. The plan was executed perfectly. But his breath hitched as he thought about Islea’s prior orders. Panic overtook his body and he felt his hands shaking as he could hear the yells of men burning alive in the field. No doubt some of their own would suffer the intolerable fate the same as the king’s men. “No,” he told himself quietly. This was the right decision, this was the plan all of the elders agreed on. Islea did not have rank to change this event on her own. He would stand by this when questioned later. He could only hope from here that their true intention of this battle would be achieved.
When he returned to the tents at their rendezvous point, two long tables were set in the center with a crowd of human beings surrounding it. All save one had their attention bent on the table, pushing tiles and figures that would represent their upcoming battle. The exception was an older woman with pale hair and an aged face. Her eyes met Jonathans as he came inside the entryway. Jonathan fixed his own gaze on hers, masquerading his excitement with a firm nod. Outside less than two hundred men were assembled to fight today. Many of the outer tents seemed to disappear in the night, men fleeing their duties, their intentions of being mere spectators in the battle taken cowardice as the fight grew nearer.
Jonathan walked to the edge of the mountain they’d be fighting beneath. Still in the early hours of the morning, so close to something they’d been planning for sometime, he could feel her uncertainty. Their men were preparing forward, to make their front line, and in the distance he could see the alignment of the great kingdom’s army. “The fire will draw him right out,” Jonathan told her in an attempt to ease her nerves. The comment only seemed to deepen the furrow in her brow. “It’ll work. If we time if correctly, a clear signal. It’s near impossible to put out. He won’t be able to handle so much fire.” Jon added.
“This level of bloodshed is insufferable,” She spoke finally. “Those men deserve freedom not death.”
“They aren’t slaves,” Jon pointed out.
“They might as well be.” Her eyes stayed focused ahead. “I will not give you the signal until it is absolutely necessary.”
“We stand no chance without the fire.” He argued.
“They stand no chance with it. I don’t want to do this Jonathan.”
Jon left for his post, a bit lower on the cliffs, but still high enough out of harm’s way. He and two other men were skilled with arrows, and they set up perfect points for a right hit to send an entire line of their enemies field up in flames within seconds. Anger poured through his veins. This was the plan, it was decided by the council. They had trusted his expertise with this strategy. Islea’s strategy was a death sentence.
*
Kyel stood in front of his horse watching the battle from an eastern ledge overlooking the hill this small fight was set up. He had come alone against his advisor's wishes to watch. He watched the Wendlyn army charge as the King’s army moved very little on the defense. It appeared to Kyel as though the King’s army was twice as large as the other. A warmness came to his chest as he watched the king’s men hold poorly trained defense of the scrappy lawless men of Wendlyn. But the numbers were too strong on the King’s side and Kyel knew this battle would be lost seemingly before it began.
Wendlyn was struggling, and the King’s army was pressing forward now. He wondered why Wendlyn was even trying, these numbers were hardly a secret. And Wendlyn’s resources were limited. The King had the coin and the access to much more. He’d met the leaders of Wendlyn before. They were more intelligent than this. Kyel’s advisors fought with him over working with them. Together they would stand well against the crown, if they could figure out a way around the Volur. But Kyel disagreed with their core, King Alastair’s land was not to be liberated, it was meant to be destroyed. Kyel could build something greater from the ashes, without magic.
His thoughts had distracted him, for the entire field before him seemed to light up in flame. All along the center of the King’s men, they were in flames. As men moved to help one another, the other would soon catch fire. Rolling about the ground did nothing to ease the flames, and soon yells of pain filled the distance instead of the yells of battle.
*
Islea’s eyes glazed with betrayal as her eyes fell on the scene of fire combusting before her. Her gaze jerked towards Jon’s point to where she could no longer see him. She wasted no time. She would deal with his disobedience later. Leon would come forward with the fire, and so this would be their only chance.
Jon leaned back against one of the rocks on the cliffs after he signaled him and his men to take their shot. The plan was executed perfectly. But his breath hitched as he thought about Islea’s prior orders. Panic overtook his body and he felt his hands shaking as he could hear the yells of men burning alive in the field. No doubt some of their own would suffer the intolerable fate the same as the king’s men. “No,” he told himself quietly. This was the right decision, this was the plan all of the elders agreed on. Islea did not have rank to change this event on her own. He would stand by this when questioned later. He could only hope from here that their true intention of this battle would be achieved.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
The fire crackled quietly, sending sparks through the hearth in a jolly dance. It was a sight Bastian wished he could enjoy for longer, but he had a duty to fulfill. Even at his age of 58, he felt strong enough to lead his men into battle, yet he was aware he was more useful to them all alive rather than killed by pride. He set his jaw as he took a step back, hand on the base of his sword and his gaze on Beor, who was sitting contemplatively at the table.
“How many of the explosives do we have?” the old man asked hoarsely through his white beard. He was nearing the age of 70, yet still well on his feet and sharper than any of their other men.
“Two, Ser,” Bastian assured him. “They thought it out for both of the Volur, but I like to think of the second one as a backup if we don’t manage to bring either of them down from the first try.”
“Mm,” he grunted. “I would like the set,” he said. “We can do with him weakened, but ideally leaving him without the ace up his sleeve would be best, don’t you think, Bastian?”
Bastian agreed with a nod. He had passed that task onto someone he knew was smart enough to pop the explosive at the right place and time, but they could not know for certain what Alastair’s Commander had instructed their men to do. He was also aware death was not an option - one of the reasons Islea had insisted on discarding their initial plan of setting the enemy ablaze. One of the Volur was still a child, let alone they would be losing their only leverage. They needed to break the shield and capture the ace. Simple. But not easy.
༻ • ༺
The cold wind scourged Kaira’s cheeks like a sharp blade. She felt it penetrate through her clothes and nip at her bones. She found herself trembling slightly, but try to convince herself it had nothing to do with emotion. All she was allowed to feel was the sense of urgency, nothing more. Her mind ought to be at peace if she wished to be of any use, and she had no intention of leaving Leon to defend an army on his own.
A part of her felt like they were taking a risk standing too close to the frontline, but the Commander had assured them that their enemy would likely give up the stronghold without much of a fight. Leon seemed at peace as well, confident that no harm would come their way. And truthfully, as they got to the top of the hill overlooking the small town, Kaira could not help but feel bad for them. They had a couple hundred men, as opposed to the two thousand of their own. It was nothing short of grievous for the people of Wendlyn.
Their army advanced quickly. They brought up their flags and raised their swords, ready to strike an already bleeding enemy. Kaira’s horse gallopped like the wind, a prideful and glorious creature beneath a sinful monster. She could feel Leon’s protective gaze on her, but she did not dare look anywhere but up front. The cold had dampened her eyes; her teeth were clenched and her right hand slightly loose on the reins, ready to pull out her sword when needed. If needed.
Steel clinked against silver and roars filled the air like a storm. By the time the first man fell, Kaira could tell the coup was not going to go as planned. The enemy had no intention of backing down - on the contrary, the first hundred seemed to fight with the confidence of a thousand. Leon tapped his heels and pulled his mount away and behind, slowly, with his gloved fingers tense on his sword and ready to cast. All Kaira could hear was death, pain and metal. Breathing heavily, she could feel her insides twist in fear, and the wind suddenly washed against them with a beastly strength. Arrows filled the sky above them, and as Kaira whispered her first spellbind, they clashed against the ground before her like lightning.
Wildfire.
Hell itself had broken loose along the perimeter of the stronghold. Leon shouted her name in desperation behind once, twice, then his voice faded. The wind was only feeding the flames, spreading them from soldier to soldier in a storm of light and scathing heat. Kaira knew all too well Leon was still behind her, but had likely given up on trying to bring her back to consciousness.
As the next cold breeze hit her, she jolted off of her steed and hit the ground below with a loud thud. Around her, men screamed and bellowed in pain, while others fought to push their way out to safety. Kaira closed her eyes, parted her lips and struggled to steady her breathing. The wind only howled louder by her ears as the fire grew and stretched itself up higher into the sky. She could feel it, every spark and every blow, as if it came right out of her. As if the fire were a limb itself, but one too numb and heavy to control.
“Kaira!”
Leon’s voice was muffled behind the running crowd. Kaira stood her ground and chanted, waiting, hoping, praying, but all she could see and feel was the Inferno rumbling before her.
Then, a man’s shout rung in her ear, loud enough to force her eyes open. The wind stopped abruptly and the air turned a cloudy white. Kaira breathed in and coughed; she could taste ash, blood and metal. Soon, the sounds around her died down and the world turned, the sky spinning above her as she fell to the rocky ground. She could not hear Leon anymore. She could not see him, or anyone but the white cloud above her, before her lids shut down for good.
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pointmango
Me
In the evening the council room was stiflingly heated, lit up by brilliant gas lights and the glow of the fireplace. It had not taken them long to return to Greenwall Keep, although Jon dreaded the moment his entire trip. Entering the room with the other Generals and the council he came to find a girl laid over the table in front of them. With this dilemma at hand he wouldn’t be reprimanded so quickly. Jon perched himself at the side of the table, watching Islea now as her brow furrowed looking over the Volur. She had changed into sea-green robes with silver ornate accents and she studied the girl with dissidence. Jon knew his time was coming, why not get it over with? The basis of Islea’s thinking today had received a disagreeable concussion, but she was not easy to overthrow. “A striking girl.” Jon finally commented. It was true, she was young and beautiful, distinguished in her appearance.
“We lost over one hundred men today.” Islea informed Jon, but her gaze stayed on the girl. What would they do with her? What could they do? Bait her for Leon? Offer freedom? No, she would run back to Windhold. Kill her? That would make them just as barbaric as the Northerners. She knew Bastain and Cadmus would have the same predicaments running through their own minds. Leon had always been the goal, and that godforsaken King… They had tried for years, assassins, bounty hunters, nothing. Winterhold was near impossible to penetrate, and the White Palace was only that much more difficult. “We will question her when she awakens,” she was speaking to her councilmen now. “Assessing what to do with her will be the most important task at hand, but I’d like to hear what she has to say first, a young mind is malleable.”
*
Kyel rode to Wendlyn as the battle had finished. He stopped at the first settlement he came by, a small farm. The farmer and his wife were kind, he used parchment and ink and wrote out his words to his own council. He’d send a raven to the Iron Keep as soon as he got to Greenwall. But he needed all of his thoughts out of his mind as quickly as possible. He thanked the farmer and his wife again and was off. The sun was setting on the horizon, the outer mountains shielded the sun earlier in these autumn months, and the fields he knew to be once green were a crisp yellow as the weather grew colder.
The effect of his letter would relay the lack of confidence Kyel had in the Wendlyn council. A captured Volur could mean many opportunities for them, but it could also pose an extreme level of threat. Kyel loathed their destiny may lay in the hands of a liberation party. And so he would ride for Greenwall, and should trouble occurred he would do his best to maintain. Should he need more of them here, he would send another raven. For the time being he knew Greenwall would extend an arm to him and offer him shelter. Perhaps he could tempt them with an alliance all while keeping an eye on their efforts.
He arrived at Greenwall, a keep he had once admired for its beauty in a strange land between two mountainous cities. The castle stood tall, and the walls did as well, many of the walls were covered with green ivy throughout the spring and the summertime. It could be seen from almost any point in Wendlyn. He wondered why the crown had not destroyed it yet. The only natrual defense was a small river nearby that came from a decent size mountain beside the keep. A dwarf of a mountain compared to the ones near Ironstone and especially to those of Windhelm. Entering the castle he demanded he be brought to the council, specifically he wanted Cadmus Beor, Beor would listen to what he had to say. “Bring me to Beor,” he asked a second time, losing patience.
“As soon as he has finished his council meeting I will inform him of your presence.” The man, some sort of steward probably, spoke, his voice was shaking.
Kyel pulled his greatsword from his back and pointed the tip of his blade at the man’s throat. Truthfully Kyel thought the man brave to reject him, Kyel was about twice his size width wise and he towered over him. “Now.”
The steward nodded and led him forward, Kyel sheathed his sword and nodded a thank you now. When they arrived at the council door he shoved his parchment into the hand of the steward, "Send this to the Iron Keep in Ironstone as soon as you leave me.” he told the man. He let the hand open the door for him, the room was filled with a couple men, and two women, one familiar to Kyel, and one unconscious on the table in front of everyone else. He frowned at the Volur.
“Lord Kyel Skovgaard of Ironstone,” the Steward announced, leaving quickly before he could be reprimanded for interrupting.
Kyel’s eyes filtered around the room, the atmosphere pathetically negative. No one had known what became of him after their last meeting. Him and Beor wrote to one another often, but that was it. And alliance was brought up often, although never discussed in a detailed manner. He knew Islea thought he spoke with an overly grasping sense of sublimity, and so Kyel frowned in her direction before stepping forward. He vulgarly wished this Volur was a corpse, and he had a deep desire to make it true. He held no fear in meeting the Volur alive, and his frank dislike of the creature before him was clear. But any engagement of the sort should expect important consequences. This was not his prisoner, it was only now he wished he were aligned with Wendlyn.
His eyes moved over the woman slowly, she was an impressive woman. Young. Many would turn to look at her again in passing no doubt, her figure was slim, sufficiently tall, and had a more pronounced beauty about her that was sculpturesque. Her crisp hair was perfectly brown, and warm. The skin in her face was young, her age uncertain, early twenties perhaps? Kyel found her age difficult to pinpoint as she seemed physically more advanced than the number of years her skin implied. Even in her unconscious state she looked uneasy, she must’ve known she was in danger. Sensed it. And yet if she were to awaken, she would be the danger present to all of them. “You must kill her.”
“We lost over one hundred men today.” Islea informed Jon, but her gaze stayed on the girl. What would they do with her? What could they do? Bait her for Leon? Offer freedom? No, she would run back to Windhold. Kill her? That would make them just as barbaric as the Northerners. She knew Bastain and Cadmus would have the same predicaments running through their own minds. Leon had always been the goal, and that godforsaken King… They had tried for years, assassins, bounty hunters, nothing. Winterhold was near impossible to penetrate, and the White Palace was only that much more difficult. “We will question her when she awakens,” she was speaking to her councilmen now. “Assessing what to do with her will be the most important task at hand, but I’d like to hear what she has to say first, a young mind is malleable.”
*
Kyel rode to Wendlyn as the battle had finished. He stopped at the first settlement he came by, a small farm. The farmer and his wife were kind, he used parchment and ink and wrote out his words to his own council. He’d send a raven to the Iron Keep as soon as he got to Greenwall. But he needed all of his thoughts out of his mind as quickly as possible. He thanked the farmer and his wife again and was off. The sun was setting on the horizon, the outer mountains shielded the sun earlier in these autumn months, and the fields he knew to be once green were a crisp yellow as the weather grew colder.
The effect of his letter would relay the lack of confidence Kyel had in the Wendlyn council. A captured Volur could mean many opportunities for them, but it could also pose an extreme level of threat. Kyel loathed their destiny may lay in the hands of a liberation party. And so he would ride for Greenwall, and should trouble occurred he would do his best to maintain. Should he need more of them here, he would send another raven. For the time being he knew Greenwall would extend an arm to him and offer him shelter. Perhaps he could tempt them with an alliance all while keeping an eye on their efforts.
He arrived at Greenwall, a keep he had once admired for its beauty in a strange land between two mountainous cities. The castle stood tall, and the walls did as well, many of the walls were covered with green ivy throughout the spring and the summertime. It could be seen from almost any point in Wendlyn. He wondered why the crown had not destroyed it yet. The only natrual defense was a small river nearby that came from a decent size mountain beside the keep. A dwarf of a mountain compared to the ones near Ironstone and especially to those of Windhelm. Entering the castle he demanded he be brought to the council, specifically he wanted Cadmus Beor, Beor would listen to what he had to say. “Bring me to Beor,” he asked a second time, losing patience.
“As soon as he has finished his council meeting I will inform him of your presence.” The man, some sort of steward probably, spoke, his voice was shaking.
Kyel pulled his greatsword from his back and pointed the tip of his blade at the man’s throat. Truthfully Kyel thought the man brave to reject him, Kyel was about twice his size width wise and he towered over him. “Now.”
The steward nodded and led him forward, Kyel sheathed his sword and nodded a thank you now. When they arrived at the council door he shoved his parchment into the hand of the steward, "Send this to the Iron Keep in Ironstone as soon as you leave me.” he told the man. He let the hand open the door for him, the room was filled with a couple men, and two women, one familiar to Kyel, and one unconscious on the table in front of everyone else. He frowned at the Volur.
“Lord Kyel Skovgaard of Ironstone,” the Steward announced, leaving quickly before he could be reprimanded for interrupting.
Kyel’s eyes filtered around the room, the atmosphere pathetically negative. No one had known what became of him after their last meeting. Him and Beor wrote to one another often, but that was it. And alliance was brought up often, although never discussed in a detailed manner. He knew Islea thought he spoke with an overly grasping sense of sublimity, and so Kyel frowned in her direction before stepping forward. He vulgarly wished this Volur was a corpse, and he had a deep desire to make it true. He held no fear in meeting the Volur alive, and his frank dislike of the creature before him was clear. But any engagement of the sort should expect important consequences. This was not his prisoner, it was only now he wished he were aligned with Wendlyn.
His eyes moved over the woman slowly, she was an impressive woman. Young. Many would turn to look at her again in passing no doubt, her figure was slim, sufficiently tall, and had a more pronounced beauty about her that was sculpturesque. Her crisp hair was perfectly brown, and warm. The skin in her face was young, her age uncertain, early twenties perhaps? Kyel found her age difficult to pinpoint as she seemed physically more advanced than the number of years her skin implied. Even in her unconscious state she looked uneasy, she must’ve known she was in danger. Sensed it. And yet if she were to awaken, she would be the danger present to all of them. “You must kill her.”
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
Cadmus Beor had been waiting silently throughout the conversation between Islea and Jon. His eyes had not left the girl, analysing every detail of her appearence. She was young, barely out of her cocoon and thrown into battle, scared like a cub. Yet, he could tell she was more than her looks let them on. She was well built, had bruises on her wrists and callosities on her right palm where she held her sword. Leon had done a good job of training her, Beor knew.
“The girl does not die,” the old man ordered as he stood up from his chair overhung with worn out leather. He stepped towards her slowly, carefully, the hardwood floor creaking beneath his weight. Bastian took a step to the side to allow him to assess the woman. Beor’s fingers traced over the hilt of her sword hanging from her hip, then tugged slightly at the sleeve of her coat to reveal her wrists, then side of her neck. His moves were nonchalant, quiet, as if one would do so naturally, without a question to be asked.
“She has not earned her title yet,” Bastian observed. “She is still under master Leon.”
“Mm,” Beor nodded. He let out a deep breath and let his eyes jump from one anticipating face to the other. Kyel’s was the most expressive, a disgust etched in the furrow of his brow which the old man could barely recognize in him. “This girl is still young,” he said. “This was her first battle for King Alastair, and if we’re smart about it, it can be her last.” He took a step back, assessing the scene, demanding attention. “As Islea said, young minds are still malleable. I know Leon from what I’ve seen of him all these years, and it is unlikely he taught her hatred. Hatred is earned, it is what Alastair wants to breathe into his Volur.”
Bastian bit his lip and peeked at Beor from beneath his brow. The old warrior had almost seven decades behind him, and so many battles he could not dare count. Hell, he could not count his own, either. But if there was one man who knew the mind of the Windhold Kings and their Volur, it was Cadmus.
“The lot of you have probably heard of King Alastair’s hidden ace,” he said. “When the people of Wendlyn and the North speak of the Black Storm, or the Black Death… They do not speak of Leon, and certainly of no illness. This one,” he pointed sharply to the Volur laid almost lifeless on the council table, “is to be the worst nightmare we could ever dream…” He looked at Kyel, for a moment, then to Islea, “or if we play our cards right, our key to take back our freedom. And we cannot afford to kill our only advantage for the sake of weakening our enemy. For a few years from now, he will still have Leon, while we will have nothing.”
In his heart, Bastian knew he was right. None of them would agree with Kyel’s radical decision to kill the Volur, and even himself, a Northerner at heart, would not lean towards such a barbaric resolution. They needed the advantage more than they needed revenge. But only the Gods knew what the girl would do as soon as she opened her eyes and saw herself strapped to the ground in a strange, dark castle. She would most likely refuse to speak to them. Islea was their only chance at getting close to her to provoke a conversation.
Beor let out a sigh and stepped back to fall into his chair once again. He was a hurting man, wounded from his many battles, but it was not often that he let his weakness show. “Jon,” he called out to the young man. “What you did… Reckless. Heartless.” He nodded. “But without the wildfire, we would never have gotten to them. Therefore, no man in this room has the right to chastise you, but that does not give you free reign to go against our orders again. We have lost good men. I have no intention of letting that happen again.”
“The girl does not die,” the old man ordered as he stood up from his chair overhung with worn out leather. He stepped towards her slowly, carefully, the hardwood floor creaking beneath his weight. Bastian took a step to the side to allow him to assess the woman. Beor’s fingers traced over the hilt of her sword hanging from her hip, then tugged slightly at the sleeve of her coat to reveal her wrists, then side of her neck. His moves were nonchalant, quiet, as if one would do so naturally, without a question to be asked.
“She has not earned her title yet,” Bastian observed. “She is still under master Leon.”
“Mm,” Beor nodded. He let out a deep breath and let his eyes jump from one anticipating face to the other. Kyel’s was the most expressive, a disgust etched in the furrow of his brow which the old man could barely recognize in him. “This girl is still young,” he said. “This was her first battle for King Alastair, and if we’re smart about it, it can be her last.” He took a step back, assessing the scene, demanding attention. “As Islea said, young minds are still malleable. I know Leon from what I’ve seen of him all these years, and it is unlikely he taught her hatred. Hatred is earned, it is what Alastair wants to breathe into his Volur.”
Bastian bit his lip and peeked at Beor from beneath his brow. The old warrior had almost seven decades behind him, and so many battles he could not dare count. Hell, he could not count his own, either. But if there was one man who knew the mind of the Windhold Kings and their Volur, it was Cadmus.
“The lot of you have probably heard of King Alastair’s hidden ace,” he said. “When the people of Wendlyn and the North speak of the Black Storm, or the Black Death… They do not speak of Leon, and certainly of no illness. This one,” he pointed sharply to the Volur laid almost lifeless on the council table, “is to be the worst nightmare we could ever dream…” He looked at Kyel, for a moment, then to Islea, “or if we play our cards right, our key to take back our freedom. And we cannot afford to kill our only advantage for the sake of weakening our enemy. For a few years from now, he will still have Leon, while we will have nothing.”
In his heart, Bastian knew he was right. None of them would agree with Kyel’s radical decision to kill the Volur, and even himself, a Northerner at heart, would not lean towards such a barbaric resolution. They needed the advantage more than they needed revenge. But only the Gods knew what the girl would do as soon as she opened her eyes and saw herself strapped to the ground in a strange, dark castle. She would most likely refuse to speak to them. Islea was their only chance at getting close to her to provoke a conversation.
Beor let out a sigh and stepped back to fall into his chair once again. He was a hurting man, wounded from his many battles, but it was not often that he let his weakness show. “Jon,” he called out to the young man. “What you did… Reckless. Heartless.” He nodded. “But without the wildfire, we would never have gotten to them. Therefore, no man in this room has the right to chastise you, but that does not give you free reign to go against our orders again. We have lost good men. I have no intention of letting that happen again.”
pointmango
Me
Tension left Islea’s shoulders, she agreed with Cadmus. And she knew Bastain would heed the man’s words had he not agreed. Islea noted everyone’s expression as Cadmus spoke, both her and Bastain held straight faces, as they often did when others were present in the room. Kyel’s distaste was clear, she had a keen sense of absurdity in others, unfortunately she was kindly disposed toward any one who could help their cause, which meant giving the young Lord attention beyond what she would have been inclined to show. The young Jonathan however surprised her, he seemed interested in the subject.
Jon nodded as Beor called him out, “Thank you Ser Beor, I apologize for my disobedience. Especially to you Lady Islea.” He said. His eyes trailed the girl before them all. Beor had touched her hands, and Jon looked over them wondering if he could see it? Could he tell just by looking at them she was Volur? There were many subjects in this world, perhaps the majority, which he felt no interest in. Mostly because they were foolish. His mother told him subjects appear foolish to the young the same way light appears dull to the old. But would his mother feel so helpless in relation to these people. Jon disagreed with his mother, he was interested in archery and wildfire. He enjoyed strategy, but the unconventional kind. And he was interested in magic. He remembered stories his father told him of the old land and the history before himself. His father was passionate about the freedom of the people of this land. He was especially passionate about the freedom of the Volur. He thought they were prisoners, worse off than the citizens of Windhelm. His father would raise a cup in the air, and announce his sorrow for them, the true workers and leaders of Windhelm, forced to bid to the King’s words. His grandfather told him about a time where magic spread across the land, people and Volurs lived in harmony and helped one another.
Jon was not so optimistic, he believed in their freedom, in everyone’s freedom. But there was a pecking order, and Jon knew that better than his father. His father’s passion got the best of him, and he was susceptible to a Volur’s magic when Jon was young. How could Beor tell? Could any of them tell? Jon would have to figure it out for himself when she woke up. There were no common men in this room, nor women either. The only point of resemblance among those awake was the strong determination against King Alastair. Jon understood the council’s disagreeable nature towards his fearlessness when it came to battle. He agreed with their shame of his murderous disobedience today, and he would not fail again.
Kyel’s jaw was set. “Leon works for Alastair,” he could not stand the look of grief throughout the room as they stared at the beautiful young girl. “Hate may not be in her heart, but she could still choose them,” His hand slammed onto the chair beside him, “She will choose them. And if she is as powerful as you say, then I say we level the fields. You have been very good to me over the years. I would like Ironstone and Wendlyn to work together. But we are often standing in each other’s way.” Kyel expressed.
Islea lifted her chin, eyeing Kyel and his lack of intention other than to rid them of the Volur. “We cannot play this game solely with the people on the ground.” She said. “Even if Ironstone and Wendlyn joined forces it would be difficult. And Windhelm’s natural defense will damn us. Alastair has Leon. Perhaps we can change her mind.”
Rage ate into Kyel’s veins. So often nothing could hinder him, and when his mind was made it was in stone. But this evening he debated parting in silence as both Beor and Islea were making him hate his own words. Anger and resistance possessed him, he bit his lip in bitter vexation. He was trying to snatch at any phrase in his mind that would serve as a weapon against this small council, but he found none. His anger towards this unconscious Volur changed into superstitious dread at the coercion Islea and Bero had exercised over him. It was the first time such and interference entered his life and clouded his decisions, and he hated that she may have the potential of some future influence over their land should Wendlyn’s cause be successful. He could not help another flush of anger weighing over him, he poorly attempted an air of indifference. “I will see what she has to say.” Kyel spoke finally. “She must keep any secrecy undone, that is my condition. I will not be deceived by something so wicked.”
Jon nodded as Beor called him out, “Thank you Ser Beor, I apologize for my disobedience. Especially to you Lady Islea.” He said. His eyes trailed the girl before them all. Beor had touched her hands, and Jon looked over them wondering if he could see it? Could he tell just by looking at them she was Volur? There were many subjects in this world, perhaps the majority, which he felt no interest in. Mostly because they were foolish. His mother told him subjects appear foolish to the young the same way light appears dull to the old. But would his mother feel so helpless in relation to these people. Jon disagreed with his mother, he was interested in archery and wildfire. He enjoyed strategy, but the unconventional kind. And he was interested in magic. He remembered stories his father told him of the old land and the history before himself. His father was passionate about the freedom of the people of this land. He was especially passionate about the freedom of the Volur. He thought they were prisoners, worse off than the citizens of Windhelm. His father would raise a cup in the air, and announce his sorrow for them, the true workers and leaders of Windhelm, forced to bid to the King’s words. His grandfather told him about a time where magic spread across the land, people and Volurs lived in harmony and helped one another.
Jon was not so optimistic, he believed in their freedom, in everyone’s freedom. But there was a pecking order, and Jon knew that better than his father. His father’s passion got the best of him, and he was susceptible to a Volur’s magic when Jon was young. How could Beor tell? Could any of them tell? Jon would have to figure it out for himself when she woke up. There were no common men in this room, nor women either. The only point of resemblance among those awake was the strong determination against King Alastair. Jon understood the council’s disagreeable nature towards his fearlessness when it came to battle. He agreed with their shame of his murderous disobedience today, and he would not fail again.
Kyel’s jaw was set. “Leon works for Alastair,” he could not stand the look of grief throughout the room as they stared at the beautiful young girl. “Hate may not be in her heart, but she could still choose them,” His hand slammed onto the chair beside him, “She will choose them. And if she is as powerful as you say, then I say we level the fields. You have been very good to me over the years. I would like Ironstone and Wendlyn to work together. But we are often standing in each other’s way.” Kyel expressed.
Islea lifted her chin, eyeing Kyel and his lack of intention other than to rid them of the Volur. “We cannot play this game solely with the people on the ground.” She said. “Even if Ironstone and Wendlyn joined forces it would be difficult. And Windhelm’s natural defense will damn us. Alastair has Leon. Perhaps we can change her mind.”
Rage ate into Kyel’s veins. So often nothing could hinder him, and when his mind was made it was in stone. But this evening he debated parting in silence as both Beor and Islea were making him hate his own words. Anger and resistance possessed him, he bit his lip in bitter vexation. He was trying to snatch at any phrase in his mind that would serve as a weapon against this small council, but he found none. His anger towards this unconscious Volur changed into superstitious dread at the coercion Islea and Bero had exercised over him. It was the first time such and interference entered his life and clouded his decisions, and he hated that she may have the potential of some future influence over their land should Wendlyn’s cause be successful. He could not help another flush of anger weighing over him, he poorly attempted an air of indifference. “I will see what she has to say.” Kyel spoke finally. “She must keep any secrecy undone, that is my condition. I will not be deceived by something so wicked.”
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
Once again, Beor found himself listening in a scrutinizing silence. His gaze, now dark and brooding, dug into Kyel with a visible disappointment. “I did not think there would come a day when, between the two of you,” he said, gesturing towards Jon, “I would deem Kyel the senseless one.” He set his jaw and clenched his fingers around the armrest of his chair. “We cannot afford to toss away our only leverage before seeing with our own eyes if it is worth keeping,” he continued. “I am willing to take the risk, and I do not say this as a man well past his prime. I say this as a rational, tempered mind, which you seem to be lacking in this very moment, Kyel.”
“We have given her a double dose of the sleep powder,” Bastian chimed in. He cleared his throat, hands behind his back in slight unease. “Even when she does wake up, she will be too weak to pose any harm. Any threats and she’s back to slumber, it only takes a pinch.”
Beor nodded, gesturing with his palm towards Bastian, but still eyeing Kyel. His last statement relaxed his glare slightly, but his old skin held to the deep wrinkle between his brows. He was glad they could come to an agreement without any more spiteful words. With or without Kyel - as good of a man he was - they could not pass on the opportunity they had planned in so much depth in the past weeks before the coup, no matter how fevered he was regarding their decision.
Eventually, his expression returned to its usual poise, and he turned to look at Islea kindly. “I dare suggest it is you who presents herself when the Volur wakes,” he subtly demanded. “I doubt she would speak to one of us. And in the hopes that you will not take it personally, Islea, your looks are the least threatening of us all hardened battle men.”
Bastian smirked slightly and nodded, looking up at Islea from beneath his brows. She knew how to be calm and collected when it was necessary. He could not exactly say that she was unassuming, given the build of her body and the armor she always liked to wear, but he agreed with Beor that the Volur would best wake in the presence of another woman.
“Then it is settled, I suppose,” Beor sighed and stood up. “Tell the steward to pick her up and take her to a small room. Light up a fire, she looks dreadful. Only chain her to one leg, no need for fuss and tight straps.” It was not particularly clear who the old man had spoken to, but Bastian took the other without complaint. Frankly, he wanted her away and tied as soon as possible, before she parted her lids and saw herself lying like a freshly hunted deer, circled by strange, threatening men.
The earth was cold and hard. Every gulp of air she breathed in felt like a thousand needles penetrating her lungs and airways. Her mouth was dry and held a sickening taste of metal. As she moved her fingers, she could not hear the rustling of barren grass and leaves. Everything was silent and dark, and for a moment, Kaira almost came to peace with her death by wildfire.
Only she was very much alive.
With one loud breath, she bolted up, leaning against her elbows and unsticking her eyes wide open. She was no longer on the battlefield, surrounded by burning men, flames and smoke. The room was small, tight and chilly, slowly beginning to warm up from a young flame dancing in the hearth. Kaira tried to shift herself up, but felt a grasp against her left ankle and looked over to notice a strap tying her down to ring attached to the bed. She tried to pull at it, but found her muscles numb and weak. Even breathing felt like a great effort, nevermind attempting to swallow against the dryness down her throat.
“Leon?” he murmured in the darkness. Her vision was blurry, but by the looks of it, she was alone in the chamber. “Leon!” she cried louder. He ought to be somewhere close. Whoever had taken a hold of her, had likely caught him too. She remembered seeing him moments before falling to the ground. She remembered his voice calling her, then fading away. He cannot have left her to the wolves. “Leon!” she tried again, but with no luck.
Instead, she heard a pair of steps outside the door, fading out in the distance. Someone had heard her. Kaira gulped and made an attempt to sit up. Her bones hurt and she felt heavier than normal, as though she had boulders tied to her limbs. She leaned against the wall behind her and waited. Whoever came in, she could try to strike him before he got to her. She would find the strength within her, she knew, unless it all had left her in her useless attempt at stopping the fire.
“We have given her a double dose of the sleep powder,” Bastian chimed in. He cleared his throat, hands behind his back in slight unease. “Even when she does wake up, she will be too weak to pose any harm. Any threats and she’s back to slumber, it only takes a pinch.”
Beor nodded, gesturing with his palm towards Bastian, but still eyeing Kyel. His last statement relaxed his glare slightly, but his old skin held to the deep wrinkle between his brows. He was glad they could come to an agreement without any more spiteful words. With or without Kyel - as good of a man he was - they could not pass on the opportunity they had planned in so much depth in the past weeks before the coup, no matter how fevered he was regarding their decision.
Eventually, his expression returned to its usual poise, and he turned to look at Islea kindly. “I dare suggest it is you who presents herself when the Volur wakes,” he subtly demanded. “I doubt she would speak to one of us. And in the hopes that you will not take it personally, Islea, your looks are the least threatening of us all hardened battle men.”
Bastian smirked slightly and nodded, looking up at Islea from beneath his brows. She knew how to be calm and collected when it was necessary. He could not exactly say that she was unassuming, given the build of her body and the armor she always liked to wear, but he agreed with Beor that the Volur would best wake in the presence of another woman.
“Then it is settled, I suppose,” Beor sighed and stood up. “Tell the steward to pick her up and take her to a small room. Light up a fire, she looks dreadful. Only chain her to one leg, no need for fuss and tight straps.” It was not particularly clear who the old man had spoken to, but Bastian took the other without complaint. Frankly, he wanted her away and tied as soon as possible, before she parted her lids and saw herself lying like a freshly hunted deer, circled by strange, threatening men.
༻ • ༺
The earth was cold and hard. Every gulp of air she breathed in felt like a thousand needles penetrating her lungs and airways. Her mouth was dry and held a sickening taste of metal. As she moved her fingers, she could not hear the rustling of barren grass and leaves. Everything was silent and dark, and for a moment, Kaira almost came to peace with her death by wildfire.
Only she was very much alive.
With one loud breath, she bolted up, leaning against her elbows and unsticking her eyes wide open. She was no longer on the battlefield, surrounded by burning men, flames and smoke. The room was small, tight and chilly, slowly beginning to warm up from a young flame dancing in the hearth. Kaira tried to shift herself up, but felt a grasp against her left ankle and looked over to notice a strap tying her down to ring attached to the bed. She tried to pull at it, but found her muscles numb and weak. Even breathing felt like a great effort, nevermind attempting to swallow against the dryness down her throat.
“Leon?” he murmured in the darkness. Her vision was blurry, but by the looks of it, she was alone in the chamber. “Leon!” she cried louder. He ought to be somewhere close. Whoever had taken a hold of her, had likely caught him too. She remembered seeing him moments before falling to the ground. She remembered his voice calling her, then fading away. He cannot have left her to the wolves. “Leon!” she tried again, but with no luck.
Instead, she heard a pair of steps outside the door, fading out in the distance. Someone had heard her. Kaira gulped and made an attempt to sit up. Her bones hurt and she felt heavier than normal, as though she had boulders tied to her limbs. She leaned against the wall behind her and waited. Whoever came in, she could try to strike him before he got to her. She would find the strength within her, she knew, unless it all had left her in her useless attempt at stopping the fire.
pointmango
Me
Kyel could not speak again. He felt he must part in silence now. But he felt a difficulty moving forwards in silence as he looked between the council members. They had helped him before, and they would help him now should he need it. He felt his words he shared this evening made him deserve nothing from them. He would try, try to live and understand the way the people of Wendlyn did. He would try to think of the council and their beliefs. When a steward came to bring him to his room, Kyel advanced his hand out silently in thanks. “Thank you, until tomorrow.” He spoke to them all.
He knew he was superstitious. There was an intense feeling in himself about magic that shone at him with threat. But superstitions carried consequences, which often verify both their hope and their foreboding. It was horror that had swept his anger in tonight. He had to say something hard in those moments, he had to protect the North.
The steward assured him he had sent his letter, and he would personally look out for a reply over the next few days. Kyel did not answer him. He provided a firm nod, and without speaking he passed into the bedroom closing the door behind him and throwing himself onto the bed in irritation. He saw the purpose of keeping her alive, but he also saw the issue. What if there was even a wave of evil within her? Perhaps it was wicked of him to think such awful things about someone he knew nothing of, but he couldn’t shake the burden of the doubt and uneasiness in his gut.
*
Islea rose from her sitting posture down that hall as she heard the girl’s yell for her master. Her long saturated cloak dragged behind her, and as she entered the room she removed her cloak and set it over a chair in the corner of the room. The fabric was heavy on her tired arms from the day. She sat down in the chair facing the younger woman, her figure seeming even more delicate in this light firelight. Islea’s hands delicately lit two candles on the table beside the chair, and then set her hands together one over the other in her lap. She leaned forward just slightly, she did not want to lose sight of the girls face.
“You look well. Better than earlier,” she spoke calmly. “Perhaps it is the gods' will after such a battle. Your cloak was wet, we are having it cleaned and dried for you.” She said repositioning herself. Islea did not attempt to speak to the girl too seriously on the questions she wished to ask her. However her eyes were fixed on her, dreading that she would scare the girl. “We think no evil of you, poor child.” She began. “You shall be safe with us, please relax,” Islea reached for food on the table beside her, fresh bread and dried salted meat, a small chalice of wine as well. “You must have some food.”
“Asking you of trust is premature, but I will ask you to listen. I promise, no harm will come to you under my watch. Neither under the watch of my two councilmen should anything happen to me. You have my word.” She assured her. Islea wanted to release her from the bind at her leg, the poor weary thing looked startled. “My name is Islea Sulfield. I am one of three on the great council of Wendlyn. We are in one of the west chambers of Fort Greenwall.” She explained. “I have come a long way, I used to reside in Windhelm myself. I grew up around men who worked for the previous King. I escaped here. I ran away from dreadful things, and I found family here in Wendlyn. Our people will be good to you.” She knew she was laying it all on too thick and so Islea resisted no longer. “Our hope is to educate you in the land outside of the Kingdom you know so well. We hope you will be open to such ideas. Again, all we ask is that you listen, and decide for yourself.”
“I pray we shall have time to make acquaintance, that you will have the opportunity to meet the council and our allies, and some of our warriors. We know of your strength, and you are worthy of the best. King Alastair does not understand your potential to lead. You are not a tool to deliver him from the evil he sees in us. You are more, and we will give you our best.”
He knew he was superstitious. There was an intense feeling in himself about magic that shone at him with threat. But superstitions carried consequences, which often verify both their hope and their foreboding. It was horror that had swept his anger in tonight. He had to say something hard in those moments, he had to protect the North.
The steward assured him he had sent his letter, and he would personally look out for a reply over the next few days. Kyel did not answer him. He provided a firm nod, and without speaking he passed into the bedroom closing the door behind him and throwing himself onto the bed in irritation. He saw the purpose of keeping her alive, but he also saw the issue. What if there was even a wave of evil within her? Perhaps it was wicked of him to think such awful things about someone he knew nothing of, but he couldn’t shake the burden of the doubt and uneasiness in his gut.
*
Islea rose from her sitting posture down that hall as she heard the girl’s yell for her master. Her long saturated cloak dragged behind her, and as she entered the room she removed her cloak and set it over a chair in the corner of the room. The fabric was heavy on her tired arms from the day. She sat down in the chair facing the younger woman, her figure seeming even more delicate in this light firelight. Islea’s hands delicately lit two candles on the table beside the chair, and then set her hands together one over the other in her lap. She leaned forward just slightly, she did not want to lose sight of the girls face.
“You look well. Better than earlier,” she spoke calmly. “Perhaps it is the gods' will after such a battle. Your cloak was wet, we are having it cleaned and dried for you.” She said repositioning herself. Islea did not attempt to speak to the girl too seriously on the questions she wished to ask her. However her eyes were fixed on her, dreading that she would scare the girl. “We think no evil of you, poor child.” She began. “You shall be safe with us, please relax,” Islea reached for food on the table beside her, fresh bread and dried salted meat, a small chalice of wine as well. “You must have some food.”
“Asking you of trust is premature, but I will ask you to listen. I promise, no harm will come to you under my watch. Neither under the watch of my two councilmen should anything happen to me. You have my word.” She assured her. Islea wanted to release her from the bind at her leg, the poor weary thing looked startled. “My name is Islea Sulfield. I am one of three on the great council of Wendlyn. We are in one of the west chambers of Fort Greenwall.” She explained. “I have come a long way, I used to reside in Windhelm myself. I grew up around men who worked for the previous King. I escaped here. I ran away from dreadful things, and I found family here in Wendlyn. Our people will be good to you.” She knew she was laying it all on too thick and so Islea resisted no longer. “Our hope is to educate you in the land outside of the Kingdom you know so well. We hope you will be open to such ideas. Again, all we ask is that you listen, and decide for yourself.”
“I pray we shall have time to make acquaintance, that you will have the opportunity to meet the council and our allies, and some of our warriors. We know of your strength, and you are worthy of the best. King Alastair does not understand your potential to lead. You are not a tool to deliver him from the evil he sees in us. You are more, and we will give you our best.”
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
In the darkness, Kaira almost could not tell that the figure sitting before her belonged to a woman. The stranger was tall and wide, well built likely from arduous training on the battlefield; it was only the long hair and the feminine features that gave her away. She wore clothes fitting for a warrior, not alike King Alastair’s own counselors, a choice which made her wonder if the choice had been made deliberately, as a subtle threat to stand her ground.
The words that came out of her mouth, however, were nothing close to threatening. She heard pity, and was almost tempted to believe it. She likely did look dreadful, for she felt that way; she was still cold, numb, and every movement she made translated into a sharp pain in her back and chest. The woman was certainly not sorry for what she had done to capture her, however. It had been a clear victory, and Kaira’s bruises were but a mere inconvenience, if any at all.
She peeked at the food on the bedside apathetically before returning her gaze to Islea. She knew manipulation when she heard it, despite the hazy state of her mind. She was young, but not brainless. It was slowly dawning on her that she had been taken there as leverage, and the fire arrows had only served the purpose of clearing the ground enough for them to reach her. For the first time in years, they had played as dirty as they had been served by Alastair’s Volur, all for one bite of his power, impassive about paying the price of a few heads of their own.
“The white smoke,” she spoke in a deep, raspy voice. Her throat clenched, but she managed to stifle her cough. She remembered the air around her, tainted by milky fumes, and how the world had turned as she fell to the ground. “You tranquilized me, like cattle. Then dragged me here to try to win me over?” It was not truly a question. They were desperate, and had likely aimed for Leon but settled for her. “He escaped, didn’t he? Leon. You would never have gotten to him, you chose the weakling.”
Kaira breathed in and leanded back against the cold stone wall. She felt her chest fill with anger and fear, scourging her insides in an attempt to lash out in the form of havoc. Yet, they had been smart with their white concoction. In that state, she doubted she could stir the flames, let alone hurt the woman before her. Once again she tasted metal, and brought her fingers to her upper lip to discover a damp, sticky droplet dripping from her nostrils. Kaira closed her eyes, wiping her fingers on the sheets beneath her.
“Alastair is a vile man,” she muttered eventually. “But the least he can offer me is honesty. He does not pretend to care for my feelings or my wellbeing so long as my state does not directly affect him. And neither should you. You want me,” she sighed, letting out a brisk cough, “because I’m the only chance you’ve got against him. And I bet my right arm you would have been stupid enough to pick Leon if he had let you get close enough to him.”
They did not know. Very few did, and for a moment, Kaira was grateful that the Gods had not put him in her place. A royal Volur could never betray his King. She had been utterly unlucky and they were ungodly fortunate to have gotten her instead.
The words that came out of her mouth, however, were nothing close to threatening. She heard pity, and was almost tempted to believe it. She likely did look dreadful, for she felt that way; she was still cold, numb, and every movement she made translated into a sharp pain in her back and chest. The woman was certainly not sorry for what she had done to capture her, however. It had been a clear victory, and Kaira’s bruises were but a mere inconvenience, if any at all.
She peeked at the food on the bedside apathetically before returning her gaze to Islea. She knew manipulation when she heard it, despite the hazy state of her mind. She was young, but not brainless. It was slowly dawning on her that she had been taken there as leverage, and the fire arrows had only served the purpose of clearing the ground enough for them to reach her. For the first time in years, they had played as dirty as they had been served by Alastair’s Volur, all for one bite of his power, impassive about paying the price of a few heads of their own.
“The white smoke,” she spoke in a deep, raspy voice. Her throat clenched, but she managed to stifle her cough. She remembered the air around her, tainted by milky fumes, and how the world had turned as she fell to the ground. “You tranquilized me, like cattle. Then dragged me here to try to win me over?” It was not truly a question. They were desperate, and had likely aimed for Leon but settled for her. “He escaped, didn’t he? Leon. You would never have gotten to him, you chose the weakling.”
Kaira breathed in and leanded back against the cold stone wall. She felt her chest fill with anger and fear, scourging her insides in an attempt to lash out in the form of havoc. Yet, they had been smart with their white concoction. In that state, she doubted she could stir the flames, let alone hurt the woman before her. Once again she tasted metal, and brought her fingers to her upper lip to discover a damp, sticky droplet dripping from her nostrils. Kaira closed her eyes, wiping her fingers on the sheets beneath her.
“Alastair is a vile man,” she muttered eventually. “But the least he can offer me is honesty. He does not pretend to care for my feelings or my wellbeing so long as my state does not directly affect him. And neither should you. You want me,” she sighed, letting out a brisk cough, “because I’m the only chance you’ve got against him. And I bet my right arm you would have been stupid enough to pick Leon if he had let you get close enough to him.”
They did not know. Very few did, and for a moment, Kaira was grateful that the Gods had not put him in her place. A royal Volur could never betray his King. She had been utterly unlucky and they were ungodly fortunate to have gotten her instead.
pointmango
Me
Islea hid a smile at the girl's flash of fierceness. She was certainly not what might have been expected, and she found the young girl related to herself in a sense of resentful impulses perhaps. The altarpiece she resemble earlier was no longer miraculously perfect and full of hope. Still it was not Islea’s dispotioton to escape from an ugly scene, in fact she was more inclined to sit through them and take care of this girl. It would help if she could find a compromise that would make her popular in this comradeship though. “You are not weak in comparison to your master. You are young.”
“True goodness cannot be spoken, cannot even be written my dear,” Islea decided. She would not sit here and justify herself to this girl, she would have to learn the way they were here. Hopefully she would be impassioned by the ideals of Wendlyn, and join their cause, but Islea could not convince her now in a moment, and certainly not in such a state. “Goodness can only be devined by each of us on our own. It is according to an inward instruction of our own heart and privacy. We are good people. You will see. And I have no doubt you are good as well. Much like your master Leon, who has spent his lifetime trapped by this King you call vile.” Islea said.
“One may spend a good deal of energy resisting what others pursue. I urge you to listen and allow the gusts of discovery to fuel your free mind. You owe Leon at least that.” Islea informed her. She rose as she finished her though, and thought of outstretching her hand, she knew better. She lowered her eyes to meet the girls, “I would like you to meet my council tomorrow.” She told her, “Will you allow me to come again and inquire? You need not decide this moment. Perhaps tomorrow morning, after breakfast?” Islea asked her.
*
Jon walked into the dining chamber early the next morning to find Lord Kyel poking dried meat with his forl. The man was alone, it was still too early for the others. Jon’s lips turned up in somewhat of a smirk as the sun shone brightly around the large man. The sun shone bright in many of the rooms at Greenwall. Jon had seen the Ironstone castle, a dark place. He had wondered how anyone got any enjoyment out of life in such a depressing place. Here, large glass windows plagued the castle and there were no tall mountains to shelter the castle from the natural sun. And yet even in the sunlight Jon noticed Lord Kyel’s grimace.
Jon took his food, moving to sit at the other end of the hall, but he noticed the young Lord raise his hand, “You.” The man’s deep voice spoke. Jon’s brows lifted, and he stood again, nodding. “Come sit here.” Kyel commanded. Jon followed the Lord’s orders. He was not his superior directly, but Jon could muster a conversation with the brooding man. He’d always found the northerners' bluntness entertaining. Almost as entertaining as the Lord’s look of lust towards the unconscious girl on the table before insisting they must kill her. “You were the one who shot the arrow. You ignited the wildfire.”
“Yes ser,” Jon said.
“An impressive tactic. Unexpected from your council.” Kyel noted.
“True goodness cannot be spoken, cannot even be written my dear,” Islea decided. She would not sit here and justify herself to this girl, she would have to learn the way they were here. Hopefully she would be impassioned by the ideals of Wendlyn, and join their cause, but Islea could not convince her now in a moment, and certainly not in such a state. “Goodness can only be devined by each of us on our own. It is according to an inward instruction of our own heart and privacy. We are good people. You will see. And I have no doubt you are good as well. Much like your master Leon, who has spent his lifetime trapped by this King you call vile.” Islea said.
“One may spend a good deal of energy resisting what others pursue. I urge you to listen and allow the gusts of discovery to fuel your free mind. You owe Leon at least that.” Islea informed her. She rose as she finished her though, and thought of outstretching her hand, she knew better. She lowered her eyes to meet the girls, “I would like you to meet my council tomorrow.” She told her, “Will you allow me to come again and inquire? You need not decide this moment. Perhaps tomorrow morning, after breakfast?” Islea asked her.
*
Jon walked into the dining chamber early the next morning to find Lord Kyel poking dried meat with his forl. The man was alone, it was still too early for the others. Jon’s lips turned up in somewhat of a smirk as the sun shone brightly around the large man. The sun shone bright in many of the rooms at Greenwall. Jon had seen the Ironstone castle, a dark place. He had wondered how anyone got any enjoyment out of life in such a depressing place. Here, large glass windows plagued the castle and there were no tall mountains to shelter the castle from the natural sun. And yet even in the sunlight Jon noticed Lord Kyel’s grimace.
Jon took his food, moving to sit at the other end of the hall, but he noticed the young Lord raise his hand, “You.” The man’s deep voice spoke. Jon’s brows lifted, and he stood again, nodding. “Come sit here.” Kyel commanded. Jon followed the Lord’s orders. He was not his superior directly, but Jon could muster a conversation with the brooding man. He’d always found the northerners' bluntness entertaining. Almost as entertaining as the Lord’s look of lust towards the unconscious girl on the table before insisting they must kill her. “You were the one who shot the arrow. You ignited the wildfire.”
“Yes ser,” Jon said.
“An impressive tactic. Unexpected from your council.” Kyel noted.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
Kaira listened to Islea’s words in a scrutinizing silence, trying to find a weakness in her perfect acting, but she let nothing slip. Perhaps the woman did believe in what she was saying. Even the worst of knaves thought they were doing the righteous thing. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see the look of pleasure and pride on Alastair’s face after wiping even the smallest rebel village off the face of the earth. It was only those who served who might truly see the nature of their master’s actions. Unfortunately for her, then, Kaira thought Islea was in the right.
She did not answer the woman’s question directly. Instead, she let the silence and the expression written on her face to speak for her. Kaira knew she ought to sleep before making any decision. In that state, she could barely think in the moment, let alone choose to betray her King. Leon’s King, and by extension, Leon himself. She swallowed and closed her eyes, lowering herself against the backrest of the bed. “Sleep well,” she muttered, and waited for Islea to disappear through the wooden door.
Once she was alone, Kaira reached for the cup of wine from the tray of food placed on her bedside. Even the thought of eating made her throat clench, but there was no chance she would fall asleep without a few good gulps of alcohol. It was not often that Leon allowed her to enjoy wine or ginger ale, not even beer, unless they were celebrating a holiday or someone’s birthday. That seldom stopped her from sneaking some into her room whenever she got the chance, or asking for it when the younger servants were doing rounds in her part of the castle. It was, perhaps, the only thing that kept her from going insane thinking over the dreadful deeds Alastair asked them to do for him.
‘Close your eyes,’ she could almost hear Leon’s gentle voice. ‘Detach yourself. This is not your battle, you are but an instrument. They are not your victims, but his. You are but his blade.’
The alcohol scourged her throat down to her gut, but warmth came soon after, allowing her to lower herself comfortably against the mattress. She fell asleep rather quickly and dreamlessly. When she woke up in the morning, the sky was barely cracking of dawn and fine ray of lights peeked through the foggy glass. It took a good moment for Kaira to remember where she was and what had happened the night before, but as soon as she swallowed the sour aftertaste of wine on her tongue, everything came back to her memory at once.
In the hearth, the fire had died out, few pieces of burnt wood smoldering peacefully beneath the rubble. The room was still quite warm, likely due to its narrow walls; beneath the sheets and fur, Kaira had sweat a considerable amount, but she knew better than to complain. Sweat was poison leaving the body, and Gods knew how much she needed to get rid of it in that moment.
Turning to the side, she noticed that the tray of food had not disappeared from her bedside, despite being untouched, and instead was now accompanied by a metal bowl of water, brought by a steward while she was sleeping. She canted her head to crack her neck and pulled the sheets off, revealing her body to brisk air outside the blankets. “Hell,” she whispered as she forced her eyes wide open. Her head was throbbing with a blinding headache and her stomach growled and bellowed in a vehement protest. She fell to her knees on the floor and reached for the bowl of water to wash her face and run it through her dirtied hair. As she looked down at her palms, she saw black paint drip down her wrists and melt into the fabric of her sleeve.
Was this how Islea had seen her that evening? Kaira watched her reflection distort in the rippling water. She was covered in warpaint and dirt. Her hair still clung to dried grass from when she had fallen on the battlefield. It was the look of defeat, but Kaira was not yet ready to assume it. She had to weigh her options that day with a clear head, though deep inside, she knew the bitter truth all too well. Alastair would never stoop so low as to let them use her as leverage.
Holding in her breath, she dunk the top of her head in the bowl of water, then pulled it back and let it drip down her back. She needed a bath more than anything in that moment - hot, steaming and smelling of eucalyptus - but she would have to settle for a lukewarm wash at least until her deed was done that morning.
She did not answer the woman’s question directly. Instead, she let the silence and the expression written on her face to speak for her. Kaira knew she ought to sleep before making any decision. In that state, she could barely think in the moment, let alone choose to betray her King. Leon’s King, and by extension, Leon himself. She swallowed and closed her eyes, lowering herself against the backrest of the bed. “Sleep well,” she muttered, and waited for Islea to disappear through the wooden door.
Once she was alone, Kaira reached for the cup of wine from the tray of food placed on her bedside. Even the thought of eating made her throat clench, but there was no chance she would fall asleep without a few good gulps of alcohol. It was not often that Leon allowed her to enjoy wine or ginger ale, not even beer, unless they were celebrating a holiday or someone’s birthday. That seldom stopped her from sneaking some into her room whenever she got the chance, or asking for it when the younger servants were doing rounds in her part of the castle. It was, perhaps, the only thing that kept her from going insane thinking over the dreadful deeds Alastair asked them to do for him.
‘Close your eyes,’ she could almost hear Leon’s gentle voice. ‘Detach yourself. This is not your battle, you are but an instrument. They are not your victims, but his. You are but his blade.’
The alcohol scourged her throat down to her gut, but warmth came soon after, allowing her to lower herself comfortably against the mattress. She fell asleep rather quickly and dreamlessly. When she woke up in the morning, the sky was barely cracking of dawn and fine ray of lights peeked through the foggy glass. It took a good moment for Kaira to remember where she was and what had happened the night before, but as soon as she swallowed the sour aftertaste of wine on her tongue, everything came back to her memory at once.
In the hearth, the fire had died out, few pieces of burnt wood smoldering peacefully beneath the rubble. The room was still quite warm, likely due to its narrow walls; beneath the sheets and fur, Kaira had sweat a considerable amount, but she knew better than to complain. Sweat was poison leaving the body, and Gods knew how much she needed to get rid of it in that moment.
Turning to the side, she noticed that the tray of food had not disappeared from her bedside, despite being untouched, and instead was now accompanied by a metal bowl of water, brought by a steward while she was sleeping. She canted her head to crack her neck and pulled the sheets off, revealing her body to brisk air outside the blankets. “Hell,” she whispered as she forced her eyes wide open. Her head was throbbing with a blinding headache and her stomach growled and bellowed in a vehement protest. She fell to her knees on the floor and reached for the bowl of water to wash her face and run it through her dirtied hair. As she looked down at her palms, she saw black paint drip down her wrists and melt into the fabric of her sleeve.
Was this how Islea had seen her that evening? Kaira watched her reflection distort in the rippling water. She was covered in warpaint and dirt. Her hair still clung to dried grass from when she had fallen on the battlefield. It was the look of defeat, but Kaira was not yet ready to assume it. She had to weigh her options that day with a clear head, though deep inside, she knew the bitter truth all too well. Alastair would never stoop so low as to let them use her as leverage.
Holding in her breath, she dunk the top of her head in the bowl of water, then pulled it back and let it drip down her back. She needed a bath more than anything in that moment - hot, steaming and smelling of eucalyptus - but she would have to settle for a lukewarm wash at least until her deed was done that morning.
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pointmango
Me
Islea had instructed Jon to retrieve the Volur and bring her to their meeting. The incident of yesterday was a trivial matter when it came to the girl, and there was an inward sense growing within him that he should be sorry for the occasion. He thought about what to say to her, she’d be awake for this meeting. And he felt self-confidence would address and imaginary dullness in others. However, she was in the prime of her life, and no doubt a young Volur would be clever.
He knocked on the door, and when no sound came he opened it carefully. The state of the room was simple, mostly untouched aside from the food and water and the bed of course. And then there was her. Last night he had viewed her as a princess in exile, now looking at her she looked more like one of the tavern girls he met on his evenings off. The stress of travel and battle has taken a toll clearly.
“I’ve been tasked with bringing you to our council meeting,” Jon spoke dryly. He looked over the water, dirty, and the markings of her war paint still around the edges of her face. “I’ll have some of our stewards draw you a bath.” He said leaving without another word.
When he came back a young woman came with him, she was holding a fresh dress as well. She escorted the girl and Jon to a bathing chamber down the hall. She drew warm water into a basin, and a large wooden and paper divider was placed between them. Jon took a seat on the other side in a chair. “Forgive me for the lack of privacy, I’ve been tasked to…. Watch the sorcerer.” He said a joke in his tone.
“What’s your name?” He asked. He wished he could see the girl as he asked the questions. He wondered if her face every gave herself away. While Jon spoke the servant girl helped her into the bath and began to wash herself. Jon leaned back in his seat, lifting his booted feet to another chair across from him, he took a knife from his belt and began pressing the tip of the knife against it’s holster creating small breaks in the leather. “Is it true you don’t live to your own accord?” he wondered. “I suppose none of us do. But what’s it like? I mean, where are your parents? Did you ever know them?”
Jon’s brows lifted again, thinking of more questions, and letting them come out as they came, “Is the King as wicked as they say? I know all the power is frightening, but I truly cannot imagine him as anyone other than a big gluttonous coward.” He wondered.
He knocked on the door, and when no sound came he opened it carefully. The state of the room was simple, mostly untouched aside from the food and water and the bed of course. And then there was her. Last night he had viewed her as a princess in exile, now looking at her she looked more like one of the tavern girls he met on his evenings off. The stress of travel and battle has taken a toll clearly.
“I’ve been tasked with bringing you to our council meeting,” Jon spoke dryly. He looked over the water, dirty, and the markings of her war paint still around the edges of her face. “I’ll have some of our stewards draw you a bath.” He said leaving without another word.
When he came back a young woman came with him, she was holding a fresh dress as well. She escorted the girl and Jon to a bathing chamber down the hall. She drew warm water into a basin, and a large wooden and paper divider was placed between them. Jon took a seat on the other side in a chair. “Forgive me for the lack of privacy, I’ve been tasked to…. Watch the sorcerer.” He said a joke in his tone.
“What’s your name?” He asked. He wished he could see the girl as he asked the questions. He wondered if her face every gave herself away. While Jon spoke the servant girl helped her into the bath and began to wash herself. Jon leaned back in his seat, lifting his booted feet to another chair across from him, he took a knife from his belt and began pressing the tip of the knife against it’s holster creating small breaks in the leather. “Is it true you don’t live to your own accord?” he wondered. “I suppose none of us do. But what’s it like? I mean, where are your parents? Did you ever know them?”
Jon’s brows lifted again, thinking of more questions, and letting them come out as they came, “Is the King as wicked as they say? I know all the power is frightening, but I truly cannot imagine him as anyone other than a big gluttonous coward.” He wondered.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
Kaira’s line of thought was interrupted rather harshly by a knock on the door. She wiped her eyes quickly, shaking her wrists to drain her sleeve of excess water, then leaned back on her knees and pulled her damp hair away from her features. However, the face that popped from behind the threshold did not belong to the woman who had come to see her the evening before, but rather a young man, whom she had likely sent in her place to save time. The change of heart did not sit right with her, particularly in the already vexed state she found herself in, but knew better than to voice her disappointment. She did not trust Islea any more than that one stranger.
Yet, she was thankful for being offered a warm bath before the council. The already dirtied bowl of cold water had not been enough to wipe off the grime stuck to her skin and hair, and her clothes were certainly not in a presentable state. She felt abominable as well, but she doubted that feeling would fade as quickly as dirt. Without any words of introduction, the man disappeared, only to return moments later accompanied by a servant woman who seemed far more scared of Kaira as she was of her captors.
No protests left her mouth. She kept her teeth clenched as she pulled herself up on her feet and followed the woman and the man down the castle corridor towards the bathing room. Fort Greenwall was brighter than any other place in Windhold; its walls were replete with windows around every corner, wherever the corridor did not lead into another chamber. It felt warmer, as well; she remembered how even the floors in Castle Dahnmar radiated a scourging cold that penetrated through the thickest of soles. She would often have to wear double layers of socks and wrappings on the harsher winter days. Then was not the case, for despite the dark stone framing the walls, it felt strangely welcome, almost sprightly.
She was thankful that the bathing room was not too far away from her chamber. Despite the long sleep, her limbs still felt numb and her knees weak, unable to sustain her weight for long. She quickly propped herself on the edge of the tub as the servant pulled a thick divider between the two of them and the man, before kicking off her boots and beginning to untie her coat. The water was steaming, painting her cheeks a bright crimson and dampening her eyes. The woman was rather handy about helping her, moving quickly, seemingly fearful to keep contact for long. She was not too old, likely a mother judging by the looks of her body and the softness in her gaze.
As soon as her clothes were off, Kaira stepped into the hot water and let her body slip down to her chin with a soft sigh. The man’s voice was muffled as blood rushed to her head, but unfortunately not quiet enough to allow her to enjoy a moment’s peace. “Do you have a list of questions at the ready, to spare your breath?” she called from behind the divider. Kaira closed her eyes and let the woman run her trembling fingers through her hair. A part of her was tempted to speak to her, to let her know she would gain nothing from causing her harm, but in that moment, she would have to muster an ungodly strength to feel any sliver of empathy.
“My name is Kaira,” she said, eventually. “Kaira Grimward. I do not have a family anymore, thanks to your people, but since I still have not taken Leon’s place,” she sighed as she wiped her eyes, “I get to keep my last name.” It was a small luxury out of the very few she still clung to. She had nothing else, not even free will any longer. Anything she did reflected onto Alastair, and everything Alastair did, to a certain percent, pertained to her. “I will not repeat myself, I suppose your allies would like to know the answer to those questions as well,” she concluded. “Spare me this moment.” ‘It might as well be my last.’
As the water began to grow colder, Kaira pulled herself out of the tub and allowed the servant to compensate for some of her own tardy movements, quickly drying her and helping her step into the thick, embroidered black dress they had picked for her. It was not the most fitting, but at the very least she could not complain about the color. Then, she felt the woman’s hands twirl between her long, dark locks, braiding them messily to keep them away from her face whilst her hair dried down. Once she was done, she pulled the divider away and gestured for Kaira to step out towards her watcher.
“She is all ready, my Lord,” she murmured, lowering her head.
Yet, she was thankful for being offered a warm bath before the council. The already dirtied bowl of cold water had not been enough to wipe off the grime stuck to her skin and hair, and her clothes were certainly not in a presentable state. She felt abominable as well, but she doubted that feeling would fade as quickly as dirt. Without any words of introduction, the man disappeared, only to return moments later accompanied by a servant woman who seemed far more scared of Kaira as she was of her captors.
No protests left her mouth. She kept her teeth clenched as she pulled herself up on her feet and followed the woman and the man down the castle corridor towards the bathing room. Fort Greenwall was brighter than any other place in Windhold; its walls were replete with windows around every corner, wherever the corridor did not lead into another chamber. It felt warmer, as well; she remembered how even the floors in Castle Dahnmar radiated a scourging cold that penetrated through the thickest of soles. She would often have to wear double layers of socks and wrappings on the harsher winter days. Then was not the case, for despite the dark stone framing the walls, it felt strangely welcome, almost sprightly.
She was thankful that the bathing room was not too far away from her chamber. Despite the long sleep, her limbs still felt numb and her knees weak, unable to sustain her weight for long. She quickly propped herself on the edge of the tub as the servant pulled a thick divider between the two of them and the man, before kicking off her boots and beginning to untie her coat. The water was steaming, painting her cheeks a bright crimson and dampening her eyes. The woman was rather handy about helping her, moving quickly, seemingly fearful to keep contact for long. She was not too old, likely a mother judging by the looks of her body and the softness in her gaze.
As soon as her clothes were off, Kaira stepped into the hot water and let her body slip down to her chin with a soft sigh. The man’s voice was muffled as blood rushed to her head, but unfortunately not quiet enough to allow her to enjoy a moment’s peace. “Do you have a list of questions at the ready, to spare your breath?” she called from behind the divider. Kaira closed her eyes and let the woman run her trembling fingers through her hair. A part of her was tempted to speak to her, to let her know she would gain nothing from causing her harm, but in that moment, she would have to muster an ungodly strength to feel any sliver of empathy.
“My name is Kaira,” she said, eventually. “Kaira Grimward. I do not have a family anymore, thanks to your people, but since I still have not taken Leon’s place,” she sighed as she wiped her eyes, “I get to keep my last name.” It was a small luxury out of the very few she still clung to. She had nothing else, not even free will any longer. Anything she did reflected onto Alastair, and everything Alastair did, to a certain percent, pertained to her. “I will not repeat myself, I suppose your allies would like to know the answer to those questions as well,” she concluded. “Spare me this moment.” ‘It might as well be my last.’
As the water began to grow colder, Kaira pulled herself out of the tub and allowed the servant to compensate for some of her own tardy movements, quickly drying her and helping her step into the thick, embroidered black dress they had picked for her. It was not the most fitting, but at the very least she could not complain about the color. Then, she felt the woman’s hands twirl between her long, dark locks, braiding them messily to keep them away from her face whilst her hair dried down. Once she was done, she pulled the divider away and gestured for Kaira to step out towards her watcher.
“She is all ready, my Lord,” she murmured, lowering her head.
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pointmango
Me
A smirk came to his lips at her quick response. Kaira Grimward. He would remember. A bitter response to the next, she would learn quickly many people here felt the same way about her kind and her King in regards to their deceased families, his own father suffered the same fate. His eyes rolled when she said she didn’t want to answer his questions because the others would ask her the same. “We will hardly have any fun if you refuse to discuss the everyday despair of being the Royal Volur in training,” He commented sarcastically.
He was in a bit of training himself. Sent here by his older brother to learn the strategic ways of the council. His own small city of Riften was at the edge of the river that flowed from the mountains, through all of Wendlyn and the farms to the rift. Riftmere rumored to be home of the Thieves Guild, and another rumor that Jon was sent here by his brother for becoming mixed with the disapproving crowd. One thing was for certain, the best archers always came from the Guild.
When the divider was moved from between them his eyes trailed over her slightly, youthful, lovely, but no teasing in her eyes to mirror his. Shame. “Thank you Nessa,” he said. “Shall we?” Jon said, holding out his arm to Kaira now. As they moved down the hallway Jon had more questions, although he tried to bite his tongue, he could not help himself. “So does the magic just spit out from your hands? Or must you eat the components of the spell you are trying to cast?”
He let out a small breath, “Sorry, you must forgive me, I need to get it all out before the council meeting. You’ll see, they’re a very serious bunch. Quite depressing sometimes actually. Your arrival has marked them more animated than I’ve ever seen.”
*
The council was awaiting the Volur’s arrival, and Kyel was doing little more than wondering how this discussion would begin. Last night in Greenwall had been frustrating, he was occupied with the issue he faced, he forgot to ask for his companion in the letter he sent home. Thankfully one of his advisors wasted no time. He arrived at Greenwall in the morning with journals depicting old stories of Volur and his dog, Felix.
Islea had been disrupted this morning by the Northern advisors arrival, it was why sent Jonathan to collect the girl. At first, it seemed imposing Kyel’s advisor came, but as Islea thought on the subject, it marked and indication of purpose from the man. Perhaps Kyel was seriously considering joining their cause officially. When the door opened, Jonathan came into the room with the Volur on his arm. He had treated her well this morning, she was washed and in better shape, and so Islea gave Jonathan a nod of thanks. She glanced at Kyel, he was studying the girl, thinking whether he should incur the consequence of speaking first. She knew he would not, no compromising step had been taken. When he rose last night to leave their chamber, nothing had been resolved.
“Kaira Grimward,” Jonathan introduced her to the group.
He was in a bit of training himself. Sent here by his older brother to learn the strategic ways of the council. His own small city of Riften was at the edge of the river that flowed from the mountains, through all of Wendlyn and the farms to the rift. Riftmere rumored to be home of the Thieves Guild, and another rumor that Jon was sent here by his brother for becoming mixed with the disapproving crowd. One thing was for certain, the best archers always came from the Guild.
When the divider was moved from between them his eyes trailed over her slightly, youthful, lovely, but no teasing in her eyes to mirror his. Shame. “Thank you Nessa,” he said. “Shall we?” Jon said, holding out his arm to Kaira now. As they moved down the hallway Jon had more questions, although he tried to bite his tongue, he could not help himself. “So does the magic just spit out from your hands? Or must you eat the components of the spell you are trying to cast?”
He let out a small breath, “Sorry, you must forgive me, I need to get it all out before the council meeting. You’ll see, they’re a very serious bunch. Quite depressing sometimes actually. Your arrival has marked them more animated than I’ve ever seen.”
*
The council was awaiting the Volur’s arrival, and Kyel was doing little more than wondering how this discussion would begin. Last night in Greenwall had been frustrating, he was occupied with the issue he faced, he forgot to ask for his companion in the letter he sent home. Thankfully one of his advisors wasted no time. He arrived at Greenwall in the morning with journals depicting old stories of Volur and his dog, Felix.
Islea had been disrupted this morning by the Northern advisors arrival, it was why sent Jonathan to collect the girl. At first, it seemed imposing Kyel’s advisor came, but as Islea thought on the subject, it marked and indication of purpose from the man. Perhaps Kyel was seriously considering joining their cause officially. When the door opened, Jonathan came into the room with the Volur on his arm. He had treated her well this morning, she was washed and in better shape, and so Islea gave Jonathan a nod of thanks. She glanced at Kyel, he was studying the girl, thinking whether he should incur the consequence of speaking first. She knew he would not, no compromising step had been taken. When he rose last night to leave their chamber, nothing had been resolved.
“Kaira Grimward,” Jonathan introduced her to the group.
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peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
Kaira duly ignored the man’s sarcastic comments about a Volur’s despair. He knew nothing, and frankly, nor did she expect him to. Alastair was smart about keeping the appearances up and glimmering; nobody but his Volur and few people at court knew the tasks and duties they had to fulfill for the King, not only in training but in their daily life at war with the rest of the Kingdom. And she did suffer, but silently. Wine did a great deal to keep her quiet and compliant.
For a moment, she was tempted to deny the offer of his arm as support, but knew better than to trust that feet over a long distance. Whatever they had put in that white smoke had messed with her head terribly. She gave Nessa a nod of gratitude, before slowly accompanying the young man outside the bathing room and down the narrow castle corridors.
His question did not come unexpectedly, but Kaira was not looking to make conversation, and especially not with him. All that played in her head in that moment was her speech before the Lords and Knights that made up the council of the free folk. She could not let them see her momentary weakness, let alone to provoke a misinformed perception on the extent of her power. She was young and still not officially King Alastair’s personal sorcerer, but that perhaps made her all the more fearsome. “Well, I’m glad you lot have something to gawk at now,” she sighed, delicately avoiding a direct answer. She was too exhausted to play his game right then.
It felt like an awfully long way down to the council room, but only when the doors open did Kaira truly appreciate the peace from a few moments before. The room was rather long, not too narrow, and the sole pieces of furniture inside were a large table and leather armchairs, all generously decorated and visibly worn with time. A bright morning sun peeked through the tall windows, highlighting particles of dust rising from the emerald green rug beneath them. At the table sat a gathering of faces Kaira had never seen before in her life, with the exception of Islea, the woman who had come to see her the evening before. The others, she could only guess by recalling Alastaie and Leon’s descriptions of them - the old man standing a the head of the table was likely Cadmus Beor, the elder of the Wendlyn council, and the one standing on his left, with his right eye gauged out and neatly patched was Bastian Osmund.
Removing herself from the man’s arm, Kaira advanced towards the table. The elder rose slowly, straightening his back, and offered her a cordial smile. “It is good to see you decided to come speak to us today, Kaira Grimward,” he spoke. His voice was deep, warm, and radiated an unexplainable wisdom. “I am Ser Cadmus Beor, and this is Ser Bastian Osmund,” he continued, gesturing towards the aforementioned. “There is Lord Kyel Skovgaard, and his advisor from Ironstone. I assume you have already met Ser Islea Sulfield and Lord Jonathan Pelletier.”
Kaira’s gaze flickered from one strange face to the other, not allowing her eyes to linger on any for too long. It was only then that she realized the man by her side had not offered his name. She stepped forward and stopped as her hips touched the table, standing next to an empty chair which she had no intention of occupying for the time being. “I think we can cut the cordialities,” she said. “The only reason I am here, Ser, is because I know Alastair would never let you use me as leverage. Therefore I have to choose between death and making myself useful.” Once again. She gritted her teeth and set her jaw.
Beor lifted his head and looked down at her with narrowed eyes. “Why do you think so?” he cautiously inquired. Kaira let out a sharp breath to her nose.
“I would have assumed you knew your enemy better,” she smirked bitterly. “Alastair cares for nobody as much as he does about himself and his possessions. Whatever you would ask of him in return for my freedom would be too great a price. And I think you do know that, Ser Beor. I heard a great deal about you, and not unimpressive words, either.”
Beor did not respond, but neither did he lose eye contact with her. His right hand pressed against the table for balance, gathering himself in a posture similar to hers, still standing. He parted his lips to speak, but it was Bastian’s voice that broke the silence instead. “If you despise him so, then why did you choose to serve him?”
His question came like a sharp dagger. Kaira’s lips pursed and she immediately locked eyes with the curious man. “I never chose to serve him. Seventeen years ago, when your men attacked and burned my home village, it was Leon who found me in the ashes and took me to the castle as his own. He raised me to be next in line as his Volur. It was either that, or death. But unlike him, I never had the hope to change his ways.” She leaned back, tying her hands behind. “I suppose the Gods are on your side. Had you captured Leon in my stead, he would have been as useful to you as a snowgloble.”
“He would not have refused a ransom, then,” Bastian pressed.
“Perhaps, no,” Kaira shrugged. “But your other option would have been to kill him. Once a Volur is sworn to his King, they are bound to never break it. Which is why I am your… lucky draw.”
For a moment, she was tempted to deny the offer of his arm as support, but knew better than to trust that feet over a long distance. Whatever they had put in that white smoke had messed with her head terribly. She gave Nessa a nod of gratitude, before slowly accompanying the young man outside the bathing room and down the narrow castle corridors.
His question did not come unexpectedly, but Kaira was not looking to make conversation, and especially not with him. All that played in her head in that moment was her speech before the Lords and Knights that made up the council of the free folk. She could not let them see her momentary weakness, let alone to provoke a misinformed perception on the extent of her power. She was young and still not officially King Alastair’s personal sorcerer, but that perhaps made her all the more fearsome. “Well, I’m glad you lot have something to gawk at now,” she sighed, delicately avoiding a direct answer. She was too exhausted to play his game right then.
It felt like an awfully long way down to the council room, but only when the doors open did Kaira truly appreciate the peace from a few moments before. The room was rather long, not too narrow, and the sole pieces of furniture inside were a large table and leather armchairs, all generously decorated and visibly worn with time. A bright morning sun peeked through the tall windows, highlighting particles of dust rising from the emerald green rug beneath them. At the table sat a gathering of faces Kaira had never seen before in her life, with the exception of Islea, the woman who had come to see her the evening before. The others, she could only guess by recalling Alastaie and Leon’s descriptions of them - the old man standing a the head of the table was likely Cadmus Beor, the elder of the Wendlyn council, and the one standing on his left, with his right eye gauged out and neatly patched was Bastian Osmund.
Removing herself from the man’s arm, Kaira advanced towards the table. The elder rose slowly, straightening his back, and offered her a cordial smile. “It is good to see you decided to come speak to us today, Kaira Grimward,” he spoke. His voice was deep, warm, and radiated an unexplainable wisdom. “I am Ser Cadmus Beor, and this is Ser Bastian Osmund,” he continued, gesturing towards the aforementioned. “There is Lord Kyel Skovgaard, and his advisor from Ironstone. I assume you have already met Ser Islea Sulfield and Lord Jonathan Pelletier.”
Kaira’s gaze flickered from one strange face to the other, not allowing her eyes to linger on any for too long. It was only then that she realized the man by her side had not offered his name. She stepped forward and stopped as her hips touched the table, standing next to an empty chair which she had no intention of occupying for the time being. “I think we can cut the cordialities,” she said. “The only reason I am here, Ser, is because I know Alastair would never let you use me as leverage. Therefore I have to choose between death and making myself useful.” Once again. She gritted her teeth and set her jaw.
Beor lifted his head and looked down at her with narrowed eyes. “Why do you think so?” he cautiously inquired. Kaira let out a sharp breath to her nose.
“I would have assumed you knew your enemy better,” she smirked bitterly. “Alastair cares for nobody as much as he does about himself and his possessions. Whatever you would ask of him in return for my freedom would be too great a price. And I think you do know that, Ser Beor. I heard a great deal about you, and not unimpressive words, either.”
Beor did not respond, but neither did he lose eye contact with her. His right hand pressed against the table for balance, gathering himself in a posture similar to hers, still standing. He parted his lips to speak, but it was Bastian’s voice that broke the silence instead. “If you despise him so, then why did you choose to serve him?”
His question came like a sharp dagger. Kaira’s lips pursed and she immediately locked eyes with the curious man. “I never chose to serve him. Seventeen years ago, when your men attacked and burned my home village, it was Leon who found me in the ashes and took me to the castle as his own. He raised me to be next in line as his Volur. It was either that, or death. But unlike him, I never had the hope to change his ways.” She leaned back, tying her hands behind. “I suppose the Gods are on your side. Had you captured Leon in my stead, he would have been as useful to you as a snowgloble.”
“He would not have refused a ransom, then,” Bastian pressed.
“Perhaps, no,” Kaira shrugged. “But your other option would have been to kill him. Once a Volur is sworn to his King, they are bound to never break it. Which is why I am your… lucky draw.”
pointmango
Me
Jonathan perched himself in a lesser worn leather seat in the corner of the room. He was sitting slightly sideways on the chair in the council room. He had one hand and elbow resting on the arm of the chair, and his other hand was thrust over the side of his thigh while one ankle sat on his knee. It was this position exactly he was reprimanded for sitting in so many times, and yet it held the attitude of a man who was much interested in watching the girl across the room from him. He leaned back keeping his eyes between Beor and Kaira, this should be good. He nodded when his name was spoken, smiling wryly. He sat up a bit straighter at her distaste towards the King, and her reveal that they were in fact lucky they had received her instead of Leon was no bore. “So you want to help?” Jonathan asked leaning forward now. Islea shot him a look and Jonathan shrugged his shoulders and playfully put out his lip, “Sounds to me like you are willing to hear us out.” He said, but his tone was directed towards Islea even if he was speaking to Kaira.
“She needn't choose now.” Islea said.
“Why not?” It was Kyel. He had already placed dislike in the girl. Entitled. Kyel thought. They had spared her from a cell in their dungeons and she was demanding they cut the cordialities. She was in a limited position, he wondered if all Volur were this intolerable. His fist clenched, he wanted to appear exceptional before this Volur, risking ineffective insistences of his own opinion would be detrimental. Such caution appeared contemptible now, and for the first time he wondered if she knew the reality of the lives of this entire land and how they would burn themselves enthusiastically if it meant freedom from the crown. Everyone in this room was a martyr of an obscure circumstance, and yet he could not place her. She was a rarity in his mind, and her deliverances were still perplexing to his ear.
“But would you?” Jonathan wondered aloud, he knew he was speaking out of turn in this setting, but he felt much curiosity to know how she would act. “If Ser Beor said everything right, what Wendlyn is fighting for aligns and you prefer that over the King’s ways?”
“How are we to trust her if she turns on her King at the drop of a hat?” Kyel’s voice deepened with remonstrance. He had told them he would try and listen, but he needed security as well. “Listen, Volour, your King steals from my people, from the people of Wendlyn as well. He passes law and tax and enforces in the most corrupt manner imaginable. We do not care how he runs his own Kingdom. But we need freedom for ourselves and our people, and should anyone of Valera wish to leave, they may travel to Wendlyn, or Ironstone, or any other free city. But we must first make our cities free.”
“We are mostly severed from the King. We act decently independent, but Kyel is right. The sheer force of manpower the King possesses, man power and magic. Both of which tie us into binding contracts we do not wish to uphold.” Islea agreed begrudgingly with the Northern Lord.
“She needn't choose now.” Islea said.
“Why not?” It was Kyel. He had already placed dislike in the girl. Entitled. Kyel thought. They had spared her from a cell in their dungeons and she was demanding they cut the cordialities. She was in a limited position, he wondered if all Volur were this intolerable. His fist clenched, he wanted to appear exceptional before this Volur, risking ineffective insistences of his own opinion would be detrimental. Such caution appeared contemptible now, and for the first time he wondered if she knew the reality of the lives of this entire land and how they would burn themselves enthusiastically if it meant freedom from the crown. Everyone in this room was a martyr of an obscure circumstance, and yet he could not place her. She was a rarity in his mind, and her deliverances were still perplexing to his ear.
“But would you?” Jonathan wondered aloud, he knew he was speaking out of turn in this setting, but he felt much curiosity to know how she would act. “If Ser Beor said everything right, what Wendlyn is fighting for aligns and you prefer that over the King’s ways?”
“How are we to trust her if she turns on her King at the drop of a hat?” Kyel’s voice deepened with remonstrance. He had told them he would try and listen, but he needed security as well. “Listen, Volour, your King steals from my people, from the people of Wendlyn as well. He passes law and tax and enforces in the most corrupt manner imaginable. We do not care how he runs his own Kingdom. But we need freedom for ourselves and our people, and should anyone of Valera wish to leave, they may travel to Wendlyn, or Ironstone, or any other free city. But we must first make our cities free.”
“We are mostly severed from the King. We act decently independent, but Kyel is right. The sheer force of manpower the King possesses, man power and magic. Both of which tie us into binding contracts we do not wish to uphold.” Islea agreed begrudgingly with the Northern Lord.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
Kaira’s head turned to Jonathan as soon as he spoke. She eyed him cautiously, scurutinizingly, but did not break her poise. His brief exchange with Islea and Kyel made it clear for her where the two man stood in regards to her nature, yet she had not expected anything more of them. They could not know. Her stomach clenched and her heart twisted. She wished she were not in such a state that encumbered her mind.
As Kyel addressed her his own question, Kaira canted her head slightly and listened. He was ignorant. Young at heart, despite his maturity, and clearly saw the world in black and while. A mind and soul so comparable to Alastair’s. “You answered your own question, but very well,” she said calmly. “I have no reason to trust any of you. I do not know you, as you do not know me. You have only seen Alastair from the spectator seats, while I was there in the heart of the chaos the whole time.”
She straightened her back and pressed the tips of her fingers to the table. Her eyes flickered from one face to the other in a silent demand for regard. “You wonder why I would betray my King? Then first ask yourselves why you are leading this war - innocent people die at his hands every day, cities burn to the ground and children go hungry. He uses magic in a way that is not natural, but vile and destructive. Do you think the Volur have a say it? No. We close our eyes, tell ourselves it is not us who are responsible for his deeds, but him. We are but the weapon. The means.”
Then, her gaze remained focused on Kyel. She held his own for a moment, coarse but calm, empty. “Do you know how we initiate our training?” she asked softly. “At the age of ten I had to burn a dog alive, to prove I had it in me. I cried while doing it. I thought it was the worst thing I would ever do, but soon, at the age of thirteen, Alastair had me execute an old man by strangling for stealing a baby goat. He was hungry and desperate. He had fought in the battle that killed my family and was left a cripple who could not find any work. This time I had learned my lesson, so I waited until I got back to my room to let it all out. A servant heard me, however, and made sure to let the King know I was still not ready. Still not hardened enough.”
She assumed he would guess what came after. Kaira deemed there was no reason to waste her breath any longer with arguments against his own. Even the bare memories of her youth made her sick to her stomach. She swallowed and stepped back, eyes now turning to Beor, who had been watching her attentively for the entirety of her speech. “I agree to help you because your cause can only be the lesser evil,” she concluded.
“Mm,” the man nodded, brows slightly furrowed. “I sense a condition. Speak, then.”
“Yes,” Kaira pressed her lips into a line. “My condition is that no harm will come to Leon at your hands. You will leave the defense to me, but not touch him.” Deep inside, she knew Leon would agree with her. In that situation, death was not a solution. She wanted to believe that he would have made the same choice. “You agree to that, and I will help you.”
“How can we trust you?” Bastian chimed in from his seat.
“It was your choice to bring me here and ask for my allegiance. I agree, and now you ask me to prove it to you?” She shook her head. “Trust is earned. If I join you I expect I am a free Volur, therefore I will swear myself to no one anymore.”
As Kyel addressed her his own question, Kaira canted her head slightly and listened. He was ignorant. Young at heart, despite his maturity, and clearly saw the world in black and while. A mind and soul so comparable to Alastair’s. “You answered your own question, but very well,” she said calmly. “I have no reason to trust any of you. I do not know you, as you do not know me. You have only seen Alastair from the spectator seats, while I was there in the heart of the chaos the whole time.”
She straightened her back and pressed the tips of her fingers to the table. Her eyes flickered from one face to the other in a silent demand for regard. “You wonder why I would betray my King? Then first ask yourselves why you are leading this war - innocent people die at his hands every day, cities burn to the ground and children go hungry. He uses magic in a way that is not natural, but vile and destructive. Do you think the Volur have a say it? No. We close our eyes, tell ourselves it is not us who are responsible for his deeds, but him. We are but the weapon. The means.”
Then, her gaze remained focused on Kyel. She held his own for a moment, coarse but calm, empty. “Do you know how we initiate our training?” she asked softly. “At the age of ten I had to burn a dog alive, to prove I had it in me. I cried while doing it. I thought it was the worst thing I would ever do, but soon, at the age of thirteen, Alastair had me execute an old man by strangling for stealing a baby goat. He was hungry and desperate. He had fought in the battle that killed my family and was left a cripple who could not find any work. This time I had learned my lesson, so I waited until I got back to my room to let it all out. A servant heard me, however, and made sure to let the King know I was still not ready. Still not hardened enough.”
She assumed he would guess what came after. Kaira deemed there was no reason to waste her breath any longer with arguments against his own. Even the bare memories of her youth made her sick to her stomach. She swallowed and stepped back, eyes now turning to Beor, who had been watching her attentively for the entirety of her speech. “I agree to help you because your cause can only be the lesser evil,” she concluded.
“Mm,” the man nodded, brows slightly furrowed. “I sense a condition. Speak, then.”
“Yes,” Kaira pressed her lips into a line. “My condition is that no harm will come to Leon at your hands. You will leave the defense to me, but not touch him.” Deep inside, she knew Leon would agree with her. In that situation, death was not a solution. She wanted to believe that he would have made the same choice. “You agree to that, and I will help you.”
“How can we trust you?” Bastian chimed in from his seat.
“It was your choice to bring me here and ask for my allegiance. I agree, and now you ask me to prove it to you?” She shook her head. “Trust is earned. If I join you I expect I am a free Volur, therefore I will swear myself to no one anymore.”
pointmango
Me
Kyel listened to the Volur’s sob story. She was well poised, her words hit the right spot. He could even sense a weakness in Islea when she spoke about how horrifying it was to have to kill these people over and over. She was clearly penetrated by her grief and the sad memories that she was leading them to believe awakened horror within the kingdom. It was horrid, he wouldn’t dispute that, but what if it were a lie? All they could take was this Volur’s word, and wouldn’t trust someone who served the King so easily.
No harm to the other Volur was a foolish condition. But this morning Kyel did not wish for a losing destiny. And so he did not press forward with his fears, he had to push forward with fuller power to manage the circumstances better. But with him alive, how could they win? His fist clenched in rage. He was judging too far forward, he needed to relax all of the illusions in his head.
Bastain chimed in about trust, Kyel was listening. “Fine.” He said for the group. It was not his place, but he did not care. “A free Volur.” His gaze turned to the small council, “Should this Leon, harm anyone in this room though, I will not spare him. These three minds, even the young Lord, are too great to risk. I hope this man is as just as you speak him to be. Should he kill you I will also take his head.” As much as he hated it, she was one of them now, even if she considered herself free. “But should you betray us, should you harm another without cause, I will kill you myself.” his jaw was set.
He thought there was an intoxication of youthful egotism about her, whether it had been shaken by the trouble or humiliation of the other day's event was difficult to tell. He wondered if she felt the sense of culpability lay with her and not her master or the King? No, a Volur’s conscience was not that evolved. Her stories spoke otherwise though. By the gods, how could one individual lead him to such complications.
//The lesser evil./// That was it. Jonathan’s care for the cause only traveled so far, he enjoyed strategy and game as much as the next man, but all that was mute point. And the Northern Lord’s words only made him want to chuckle. Kaira was holding back from him earlier, and he also felt she was holding back now even. He had a feeling this was her being respectful to the elder council. It only made him want to get her alone and ask her more questions. He wondered what the Northern Lord would ask her if he had her alone. Probably something stupid and jaded. The Northerners' heads were thick. They hated the Volur because they were taught to hate the Volur. Jonathan’s father loved magic and Volurs, and Jonathan was wary of the cause itself because the Volur were associated with the King. He soon realized the pride in his original thought could be seen as simple rebellion and he discarded it.
Still his mind buzzed with ideas. If he alone could spark an entire fire to allow them to Capture a Volur and destroy a king’s army, what could their combined efforts achieve?
“Perhaps a less formal introduction,” Islea said now. “We’ve been dealing with raiders at the east wall. Perhaps you and Jonathan can come up with something creative?” She proposed.
Jonathan knew Islea well enough to know she often pawned the newbies off on him to get a feel of how they worked. He wasn’t the easiest to work with, but he smirked slightly because he was good. Besides, if he was keeping her occupied at least an hour of two of the day, they could discuss her progress.
No harm to the other Volur was a foolish condition. But this morning Kyel did not wish for a losing destiny. And so he did not press forward with his fears, he had to push forward with fuller power to manage the circumstances better. But with him alive, how could they win? His fist clenched in rage. He was judging too far forward, he needed to relax all of the illusions in his head.
Bastain chimed in about trust, Kyel was listening. “Fine.” He said for the group. It was not his place, but he did not care. “A free Volur.” His gaze turned to the small council, “Should this Leon, harm anyone in this room though, I will not spare him. These three minds, even the young Lord, are too great to risk. I hope this man is as just as you speak him to be. Should he kill you I will also take his head.” As much as he hated it, she was one of them now, even if she considered herself free. “But should you betray us, should you harm another without cause, I will kill you myself.” his jaw was set.
He thought there was an intoxication of youthful egotism about her, whether it had been shaken by the trouble or humiliation of the other day's event was difficult to tell. He wondered if she felt the sense of culpability lay with her and not her master or the King? No, a Volur’s conscience was not that evolved. Her stories spoke otherwise though. By the gods, how could one individual lead him to such complications.
//The lesser evil./// That was it. Jonathan’s care for the cause only traveled so far, he enjoyed strategy and game as much as the next man, but all that was mute point. And the Northern Lord’s words only made him want to chuckle. Kaira was holding back from him earlier, and he also felt she was holding back now even. He had a feeling this was her being respectful to the elder council. It only made him want to get her alone and ask her more questions. He wondered what the Northern Lord would ask her if he had her alone. Probably something stupid and jaded. The Northerners' heads were thick. They hated the Volur because they were taught to hate the Volur. Jonathan’s father loved magic and Volurs, and Jonathan was wary of the cause itself because the Volur were associated with the King. He soon realized the pride in his original thought could be seen as simple rebellion and he discarded it.
Still his mind buzzed with ideas. If he alone could spark an entire fire to allow them to Capture a Volur and destroy a king’s army, what could their combined efforts achieve?
“Perhaps a less formal introduction,” Islea said now. “We’ve been dealing with raiders at the east wall. Perhaps you and Jonathan can come up with something creative?” She proposed.
Jonathan knew Islea well enough to know she often pawned the newbies off on him to get a feel of how they worked. He wasn’t the easiest to work with, but he smirked slightly because he was good. Besides, if he was keeping her occupied at least an hour of two of the day, they could discuss her progress.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
Kyel’s words were harsh enough to make Kaira believe that he was not bluffing. She tensed but offered him a reassuring not, her expression albeit stern. “I assure you that attacking one singular person would be counterproductive,” she said. “So long as you keep your treasure out of the line of fire, Leon will not waste his time trying to specifically find them. A Volur’s duty is to deflect attacks and cause mass damage. We are not assassins.” And certainly not compensated well enough to risk their lives for the sake of one head.
She, however, had nothing to lose. Kaira searched the room calmly, as though trying to assimilate the new faces, but truly, she was contemplating her power to annihilate them all without a blink. It felt odd holding so much power without repercussions. At least Leon had one more reason to seriously think twice before attempting to betray or hurt Alastair - doing so would be paid with his life.
Her head bolted towards Islea as soon as she spoke, then to the giddy subject of her inquiry.
“I am sure Kaira would benefit from a walk through the castle,” Cadmus chimed in as he eventually reclaimed his seat. “May I call you Kaira?” he asked, but did not wait for an answer. “You should get accustomed to this place if you wish to aid us in defending it. For now, at least. I don’t suppose we will be waiting here any more than we need for our men to regain their forces after the battle of yesterday.”
Kaira said nothing, eyes averted to the floor. She barely knew Jonathan, but could sense he had a billion questions in mind ready to fire at her. She was still weak, and now growing hungry, with the wine from last night nipping at her stomach. When she lifted her eyes, they met Jonathan’s, and she offered him a snappy, dry smile. “Alright,” she eventually said, before pushing away from the table and walking towards him. Then, she turned to look at Islea briefly. “If I could have a hooded cloak, perhaps,” she prompted. “My hair is still quite wet. It would freeze as soon as I stepped outside.”
“You will have all you need here,” Cadmus promised. “So long as you treat us with respect, you will not be our prisoner.” He pressed his last words, still looking at her, but subtly shooting at Kyel. “Food as well, if you wish,” he added.
Once again, Kaira’s neck tensed, but this time she was quick to shake it off. “Thank you, Ser Beor, Lady Sulfield,” she nodded, before making her exit through the door and hoping Jonathan would follow her just as swiftly.
“Tell me about the raiders,” she demanded as she walked at a faster pace. The movement made her dizzy, but she needed the fresh air more than Cadmus Beor’s suggestion of a slow promenade through the castle. “Are they of a neighbouring village? Savages? I would have assumed your men were prepared well enough to take on a bunch of rugged wildlings if they hoped to take on Alastair’s army.”
She, however, had nothing to lose. Kaira searched the room calmly, as though trying to assimilate the new faces, but truly, she was contemplating her power to annihilate them all without a blink. It felt odd holding so much power without repercussions. At least Leon had one more reason to seriously think twice before attempting to betray or hurt Alastair - doing so would be paid with his life.
Her head bolted towards Islea as soon as she spoke, then to the giddy subject of her inquiry.
“I am sure Kaira would benefit from a walk through the castle,” Cadmus chimed in as he eventually reclaimed his seat. “May I call you Kaira?” he asked, but did not wait for an answer. “You should get accustomed to this place if you wish to aid us in defending it. For now, at least. I don’t suppose we will be waiting here any more than we need for our men to regain their forces after the battle of yesterday.”
Kaira said nothing, eyes averted to the floor. She barely knew Jonathan, but could sense he had a billion questions in mind ready to fire at her. She was still weak, and now growing hungry, with the wine from last night nipping at her stomach. When she lifted her eyes, they met Jonathan’s, and she offered him a snappy, dry smile. “Alright,” she eventually said, before pushing away from the table and walking towards him. Then, she turned to look at Islea briefly. “If I could have a hooded cloak, perhaps,” she prompted. “My hair is still quite wet. It would freeze as soon as I stepped outside.”
“You will have all you need here,” Cadmus promised. “So long as you treat us with respect, you will not be our prisoner.” He pressed his last words, still looking at her, but subtly shooting at Kyel. “Food as well, if you wish,” he added.
Once again, Kaira’s neck tensed, but this time she was quick to shake it off. “Thank you, Ser Beor, Lady Sulfield,” she nodded, before making her exit through the door and hoping Jonathan would follow her just as swiftly.
“Tell me about the raiders,” she demanded as she walked at a faster pace. The movement made her dizzy, but she needed the fresh air more than Cadmus Beor’s suggestion of a slow promenade through the castle. “Are they of a neighbouring village? Savages? I would have assumed your men were prepared well enough to take on a bunch of rugged wildlings if they hoped to take on Alastair’s army.”
pointmango
Me
Jonathan readjusted himself as Cadmus suggested a walk throughout the castle, knowing that duty would fall on him. He would have to offer her food, and get her a cloak as well before their walk began. Hospitality was never his strong suit. He wondered how she felt about these creatures before her, he could assume what she thought of Kyel. But what about these three whom had raised him by daylight. Their formalities were so cordial, and they all seemed to hold dignity from being in their private hearth. When he had first come, he looked around with wonder at all the old furniture, oaken chairs and bureaus, and high tables. He could tell it was due more to matters of chance and economy rather than their taste. He remembered being shocked by the colors presented here. Riftmere had been dull, never a lavish place, his father made sure of that. “We will assign a handmaid to you,” Jonathan said as well, perhaps Nessa from before.
He stood as she prompted him, perhaps she was more comfortable than she let on. He walked out of the room with her, offering his arm again, “We don’t know,” he told her truthfully. “Could be northern raiders, perhaps Kingsmen. Islea thinks it could be desperate nomads. I think their stealth is too advanced for them to be desperate, but nomads would not be such an outlandish guess.”
His brow did cock at the guess of savages, “We normally don’t get savages this far inland.” He said, although gauging that thought was interesting, perhaps the savages were adapting and were becoming more stealthy themselves.
Turning another hall corner he led her towards the main dining hall. He offered her a seat as food was already laid out for them. He excused himself a moment, coming back with a cloak in his arms for her. After handing her the cloak he leaned against a chair to her left. “That went better than I thought,” He commented easily. “They all like you, even that Northern seemed to lighten up.” He mused. “Are you just that charming, or is there some sort of alluring spell you cast?” He asked her with a smirk. He knew what it truly was, Cadmus, Bastain and Islea saw her potential, and respected her. Kyel likely just saw an intelligent woman with a pretty face and would chance the positive outlook. Jonathan wasn’t sure what he saw in this Volur, truthfully he couldn’t tell yet. She didn’t speak like a woman her age, but she wasn’t raised as one normally was. “Were you educated before they took you?” He asked.
He stood as she prompted him, perhaps she was more comfortable than she let on. He walked out of the room with her, offering his arm again, “We don’t know,” he told her truthfully. “Could be northern raiders, perhaps Kingsmen. Islea thinks it could be desperate nomads. I think their stealth is too advanced for them to be desperate, but nomads would not be such an outlandish guess.”
His brow did cock at the guess of savages, “We normally don’t get savages this far inland.” He said, although gauging that thought was interesting, perhaps the savages were adapting and were becoming more stealthy themselves.
Turning another hall corner he led her towards the main dining hall. He offered her a seat as food was already laid out for them. He excused himself a moment, coming back with a cloak in his arms for her. After handing her the cloak he leaned against a chair to her left. “That went better than I thought,” He commented easily. “They all like you, even that Northern seemed to lighten up.” He mused. “Are you just that charming, or is there some sort of alluring spell you cast?” He asked her with a smirk. He knew what it truly was, Cadmus, Bastain and Islea saw her potential, and respected her. Kyel likely just saw an intelligent woman with a pretty face and would chance the positive outlook. Jonathan wasn’t sure what he saw in this Volur, truthfully he couldn’t tell yet. She didn’t speak like a woman her age, but she wasn’t raised as one normally was. “Were you educated before they took you?” He asked.
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
The concept of raiders was strange to Kaira; Windhold was a quiet, still place, its people far too scared of Alastair’s wrath to step outside the line. It was very rare that she and Leon were sent to deal with thievery and raids, and even then, the culprits were mostly outsiders, with very narrow understanding of the extent of the King’s imagination when it came to punishments.
Jonathan quickly caught up with her and offered his hand, which this time around she promptly refused. The success of her speech had given her a good rush of vigor which she felt was potent enough to keep her on her feet without a man’s help. He began leading the way towards what looked like the dining hall instead of the castle yard, which earned a look of confusion from her, but no protest. She was famished, and frankly, not particularly enthusiastic about new groundwork that day. She wanted nothing but to eat, rest, and contemplate on her choice. Perhaps think of a way to contact Leon without causing a stir.
She followed obediently and smirked at his comment about her speech. As they sat down and servants rushed to fill their cups with ale, Kaira gave him a look of slight distrust. “I don’t imagine they would have liked me quite as much if I had said no,” she said, before digging into the roasted chicken. Her mouth was already watering just at the sight of it, and the smell was intoxicating. “I am not an idiot,” she sighed. “I know you would have killed me had I refused. And strangely enough, I don’t think I’m ready to die yet.” She took a big bite and downed it with a gulp of ale. She had contemplated death many times, but never at some Lord’s hands. When the time came, she would die gloriously, by her own doing, or perhaps another Volur’s.
“I will take the compliment, though,” she continued, carving with her fork at the bone. “I’ve never had a way with people. I don’t do much talking, really. Chatting with strangers, Gods forbid the King would let me form my own political opinion before I bind my allegiance to him.” She was jealous of Leon for his privilege of attending political parties and spending time unsupervised outside the castle walls. It was, however, entirely Alastair’s fault for running short on Volur to choose from, though she doubted he cared enough to regret not having defended them better. He had what he wanted. Well, did. Until that day.
His question about her past struck a cord in her chest. Kaira finished her piece of meat and washed it down with the remainder of ale she had left in her cup before wiping her lips clean. “I was four when Leon found me,” she said as she tapped her fingers against the cup. “I knew nothing but to blabber and play. I cried after my parents for a few days, but he allowed me to grow as any child would for a while. Until I turned seven, and…” She leaned back and canted her head slightly. “My magic became too loud to be ignored. I had to receive a formal training.” She looked at him. “Why do you care so much? You don’t wield. I would’ve sensed it in you, you’re as dry as any of them.”
Jonathan quickly caught up with her and offered his hand, which this time around she promptly refused. The success of her speech had given her a good rush of vigor which she felt was potent enough to keep her on her feet without a man’s help. He began leading the way towards what looked like the dining hall instead of the castle yard, which earned a look of confusion from her, but no protest. She was famished, and frankly, not particularly enthusiastic about new groundwork that day. She wanted nothing but to eat, rest, and contemplate on her choice. Perhaps think of a way to contact Leon without causing a stir.
She followed obediently and smirked at his comment about her speech. As they sat down and servants rushed to fill their cups with ale, Kaira gave him a look of slight distrust. “I don’t imagine they would have liked me quite as much if I had said no,” she said, before digging into the roasted chicken. Her mouth was already watering just at the sight of it, and the smell was intoxicating. “I am not an idiot,” she sighed. “I know you would have killed me had I refused. And strangely enough, I don’t think I’m ready to die yet.” She took a big bite and downed it with a gulp of ale. She had contemplated death many times, but never at some Lord’s hands. When the time came, she would die gloriously, by her own doing, or perhaps another Volur’s.
“I will take the compliment, though,” she continued, carving with her fork at the bone. “I’ve never had a way with people. I don’t do much talking, really. Chatting with strangers, Gods forbid the King would let me form my own political opinion before I bind my allegiance to him.” She was jealous of Leon for his privilege of attending political parties and spending time unsupervised outside the castle walls. It was, however, entirely Alastair’s fault for running short on Volur to choose from, though she doubted he cared enough to regret not having defended them better. He had what he wanted. Well, did. Until that day.
His question about her past struck a cord in her chest. Kaira finished her piece of meat and washed it down with the remainder of ale she had left in her cup before wiping her lips clean. “I was four when Leon found me,” she said as she tapped her fingers against the cup. “I knew nothing but to blabber and play. I cried after my parents for a few days, but he allowed me to grow as any child would for a while. Until I turned seven, and…” She leaned back and canted her head slightly. “My magic became too loud to be ignored. I had to receive a formal training.” She looked at him. “Why do you care so much? You don’t wield. I would’ve sensed it in you, you’re as dry as any of them.”
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pointmango
Me
Jon chuckled when she said they would have killed her if she said no. Kyel maybe but the others wouldn’t have. She had much to learn about his elders, and he’d look forward to watching her figure it out. He knew she’d be more clever than he was about it. The more he listened the more he was able to figure, she never had a way with people because she didn’t do much talking. He wondered how much of the wisdom she held was learned through her master and how much was her own.
He appreciated that her answers were honest and true. Then her question came, almost sounding as an insult, Jon chuckled again. “I don’t know how they view the Volur in Windhold. The King seems to use you more as a tool,” he shrugged. “A partner even, not an equal partner, but as high as one can become.” He mused now, “And the Northerners hate you. They remember the past too recently. I don’t think it was Leon, perhaps his master… or the ones before. The North faced brutal punishment for their independent ways early on. I can’t imagine being raised in such hate.” He thought of the Northern Lord now.
“Here… Wendlyn, Riftmere, the riverlands. We recall a time of peace and harmony. That’s what I was taught. Volur and a man were equals, and helped one another, and this land was prosperous as ever.” He stood up, now a smirk in his eyes as he offered his hand to her. “I want to figure it out for myself. The North says you’re evil, the riverlands say you’re the gods gifts to help man. I dunno,” he shrugged now as he motioned for them to move out of the dining hall now. “It’s all too good to be true right? You can’t be evil, your conscience works the same as mine. I don’t think the gods would gift us something so powerful.” He paused now, “I like answers. If you couldn’t tell,” he added with a wild grin. “So I’ll probably keep asking until I make sense of things.”
“Now for the grand tour,” He said, holding his arms out in the open. “Fort Greenwall they call it, more like a castle now.” He opened the door for her that led out to the courtyard. “The Gardens are lovely in the spring. Beor’s favorite,” he winked sarcastically. “Uh, castle is named for the natural ivy growing on the walls, blah, blah, the main village is just outside the walls. Small compared to Windhold. Mainly farming and fishing. All around Wendlyn along the river are the farms. There’s a large lake where I’m from, Riftmere, big on fishing, but enough farms to make do as well. Probably could become our own independent nation if my brother wasn’t so dead set on collaboration.” Jon stepped out in front of her now, and he turned around, walking backwards as she did forward. “So what are the limits?” He questioned, “Fire isn’t out of the question, I saw that. Which by the way, I win when it comes to fire. Can you control someone’s mind? Their actions? Are there any elements that are untouchable?”
He appreciated that her answers were honest and true. Then her question came, almost sounding as an insult, Jon chuckled again. “I don’t know how they view the Volur in Windhold. The King seems to use you more as a tool,” he shrugged. “A partner even, not an equal partner, but as high as one can become.” He mused now, “And the Northerners hate you. They remember the past too recently. I don’t think it was Leon, perhaps his master… or the ones before. The North faced brutal punishment for their independent ways early on. I can’t imagine being raised in such hate.” He thought of the Northern Lord now.
“Here… Wendlyn, Riftmere, the riverlands. We recall a time of peace and harmony. That’s what I was taught. Volur and a man were equals, and helped one another, and this land was prosperous as ever.” He stood up, now a smirk in his eyes as he offered his hand to her. “I want to figure it out for myself. The North says you’re evil, the riverlands say you’re the gods gifts to help man. I dunno,” he shrugged now as he motioned for them to move out of the dining hall now. “It’s all too good to be true right? You can’t be evil, your conscience works the same as mine. I don’t think the gods would gift us something so powerful.” He paused now, “I like answers. If you couldn’t tell,” he added with a wild grin. “So I’ll probably keep asking until I make sense of things.”
“Now for the grand tour,” He said, holding his arms out in the open. “Fort Greenwall they call it, more like a castle now.” He opened the door for her that led out to the courtyard. “The Gardens are lovely in the spring. Beor’s favorite,” he winked sarcastically. “Uh, castle is named for the natural ivy growing on the walls, blah, blah, the main village is just outside the walls. Small compared to Windhold. Mainly farming and fishing. All around Wendlyn along the river are the farms. There’s a large lake where I’m from, Riftmere, big on fishing, but enough farms to make do as well. Probably could become our own independent nation if my brother wasn’t so dead set on collaboration.” Jon stepped out in front of her now, and he turned around, walking backwards as she did forward. “So what are the limits?” He questioned, “Fire isn’t out of the question, I saw that. Which by the way, I win when it comes to fire. Can you control someone’s mind? Their actions? Are there any elements that are untouchable?”
peritwinkle
♠️your local Raphael♠️
There was an uncontested difference between the Northerner’s beliefs and those of the people of Wendlyn. Kaira could tell that Jonathan had a genuine interest in knowing her - or rather, learning what she was capable of - as opposed to the others’ craven and cautious inquiries. It earned the shadow of a smile from her, something that did not grace her expression too often. Oddly enough, she did not fear him, but nor was she foolish enough so as to trust him. No, trust was earned, not persuaded.
The smirk reappeared as he asked about her being evil. Perhaps she was, for one could not really view his own actions as other than righteous. She, of course, could not have done the right thing under King Alastair’s command. Inbetween his vile and reckless actions hid some smart political decisions, though they were not nearly enough to claim his deeds were inherently good. Neither were those of the free folk, but at the very least, what they stood for had nothing to do with slavery.
She stood up as he offered his hand, but instead of taking it, she filled in the moment by pulling the cloak over her shoulders. The damp hair pressing to her back was sending chills down her spine, yet thankfully, the fabric of the cloak was thick enough to absorb some of the dampness now. They stepped out into the courtyard and she was greeted by a sharp, brisk breeze and the scent of freshly rained grass. The gardens of Greenwall were not nearly as impressive as those back at Yllevad, an impression mostly provoked by the ivy growing wildly up its fortified walls. Yllevad was mostly decorated with all kinds of rare roses, bushes with dark violet leaves and very few pathways of green grass - just enough to give off a pleasing smell of spring.
A snappy huff left her nose as he claimed he was better versed in the arts of fire. “I doubt that,” she shrugged. “You can only control it when there is already a spark. I create the spark.” She averted her eyes to her shoes as they peeked from beneath the rim of her dress. “I have not found my limit yet. I suppose I am more focused on learning to control what I already can do. But I have seen Volur do… unimaginable things. Some can give you nightmares by just touching your temple, others can take them away. Healing has never been my forte. It takes so much power, as if I were giving a piece of my own life when I try to do it. Which is why Leon saw fit that I would be trained for combat instead.”
And she was a true storm when it came to battle. Yet, still a storm that did more harm than necessary, which Alastair still blamed on her young age and her lack of training. For the past couple of years, Leon had stopped trying to attribute a reason to it and chose to focus on the solution instead. “I have never seen or heard of anyone meddling with the doings of Life and Death, though,” she reflected. “And if there is one thing Alastair would settle down for, I think, would be a Volur who could promise to give him an heir.”
The smirk reappeared as he asked about her being evil. Perhaps she was, for one could not really view his own actions as other than righteous. She, of course, could not have done the right thing under King Alastair’s command. Inbetween his vile and reckless actions hid some smart political decisions, though they were not nearly enough to claim his deeds were inherently good. Neither were those of the free folk, but at the very least, what they stood for had nothing to do with slavery.
She stood up as he offered his hand, but instead of taking it, she filled in the moment by pulling the cloak over her shoulders. The damp hair pressing to her back was sending chills down her spine, yet thankfully, the fabric of the cloak was thick enough to absorb some of the dampness now. They stepped out into the courtyard and she was greeted by a sharp, brisk breeze and the scent of freshly rained grass. The gardens of Greenwall were not nearly as impressive as those back at Yllevad, an impression mostly provoked by the ivy growing wildly up its fortified walls. Yllevad was mostly decorated with all kinds of rare roses, bushes with dark violet leaves and very few pathways of green grass - just enough to give off a pleasing smell of spring.
A snappy huff left her nose as he claimed he was better versed in the arts of fire. “I doubt that,” she shrugged. “You can only control it when there is already a spark. I create the spark.” She averted her eyes to her shoes as they peeked from beneath the rim of her dress. “I have not found my limit yet. I suppose I am more focused on learning to control what I already can do. But I have seen Volur do… unimaginable things. Some can give you nightmares by just touching your temple, others can take them away. Healing has never been my forte. It takes so much power, as if I were giving a piece of my own life when I try to do it. Which is why Leon saw fit that I would be trained for combat instead.”
And she was a true storm when it came to battle. Yet, still a storm that did more harm than necessary, which Alastair still blamed on her young age and her lack of training. For the past couple of years, Leon had stopped trying to attribute a reason to it and chose to focus on the solution instead. “I have never seen or heard of anyone meddling with the doings of Life and Death, though,” she reflected. “And if there is one thing Alastair would settle down for, I think, would be a Volur who could promise to give him an heir.”
pointmango
Me
Jon enjoyed her reactions, especially about the fire. But his ears did perk up as she continued on about her limits, or lack thereof. Nightmares, horror, but also healing. It was fascinating. Perhaps that could be of use to everyone. He wanted to know if there were many healers.
She was a fighter, a strategist herself, he wondered how different the learnings were? Probably the same concepts in terms of armies, but he supposed her individual fighting would differ greatly from his. Did she use any weapons herself? Who could deny bows and arrows were among the prettiest weapons in the world for feminine forms to play with. They prompted an attitude for grace and power, and there was fine concentration in marksmanship. Jon had always liked the distance of archery. It had no ugly smell about it, no reek of brimstone, no one’s shins breaking against a club, truly the only danger was failing.
He then wondered if there were learned arts of magic Were there any people with this gift that she could sense who didn't know it. Even with a low level of magic, he wondered if that could help their land that much more. Seemed unlikely there was any magic left though. Her next words lifted his head in shock, he wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. “So that’s it then? Were you meant to produce Alastair an heir?” Before she could answer a dog ran between them.
“Oi! Felix!” A deep voice boomed, “Front!” He called and the dog came forward now. Kyel approached the pair and his dog Felix sat his rear right in front of Kyel, looking up at him. The dog resembled something of a wolf, with long flowing dark hair, small sprouts of brown around his paws, ears, chest and tail. And a large white splotch of fur on the center of his chest. Once Kyle pat his head, the dog relaxed some, but stayed close by. “May I take over?” Kyel said looking towards Jonathan.
Jon never had true rage toward the Northern Lord until this moment. He had questions about what Kaira had just said. He thought about refusing the man, but he nodded, in this arrangement technically the Lord held greater rank than him. “We’ll speak later then Kaira?” Jon said and stepped forward, taking her hand this time without asking, and pressing a kiss to her knuckle with a grin, somehow knowing she’d hate it. Jon couldn’t hold his grin for long, his prior questions would plague his mind until he met her again. “Lord Skovgaard.” he nodded to Kyel.
Kyel looked down upon Kaira, then he looked at Felix, “Behind,” He said, he motioned then for him and Kaira to continue walking, and Felix followed behind them slowly. “Lord Pelletier still as spritely as I remember him?” He asked her curiously. He had no doubt the fishing Lord’s brother would peg her with anything on his mind. Felix strayed slightly, his nose coming forward to Kaira’s hand, pushing his head under her hand. Kyel frowned at the pup, “Look,” he said in a firm tone, the dog's eyes were on him. “Behind,” He said, placing his own hand behind his back and the dog followed. “Do you like dogs?” He asked her now. Perhaps she could sense his scorn and that kept her mute. He had to defy the texture of his own nerves and the palpitation of his heart around her, what if the Volur could sense that too?
She was a fighter, a strategist herself, he wondered how different the learnings were? Probably the same concepts in terms of armies, but he supposed her individual fighting would differ greatly from his. Did she use any weapons herself? Who could deny bows and arrows were among the prettiest weapons in the world for feminine forms to play with. They prompted an attitude for grace and power, and there was fine concentration in marksmanship. Jon had always liked the distance of archery. It had no ugly smell about it, no reek of brimstone, no one’s shins breaking against a club, truly the only danger was failing.
He then wondered if there were learned arts of magic Were there any people with this gift that she could sense who didn't know it. Even with a low level of magic, he wondered if that could help their land that much more. Seemed unlikely there was any magic left though. Her next words lifted his head in shock, he wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. “So that’s it then? Were you meant to produce Alastair an heir?” Before she could answer a dog ran between them.
“Oi! Felix!” A deep voice boomed, “Front!” He called and the dog came forward now. Kyel approached the pair and his dog Felix sat his rear right in front of Kyel, looking up at him. The dog resembled something of a wolf, with long flowing dark hair, small sprouts of brown around his paws, ears, chest and tail. And a large white splotch of fur on the center of his chest. Once Kyle pat his head, the dog relaxed some, but stayed close by. “May I take over?” Kyel said looking towards Jonathan.
Jon never had true rage toward the Northern Lord until this moment. He had questions about what Kaira had just said. He thought about refusing the man, but he nodded, in this arrangement technically the Lord held greater rank than him. “We’ll speak later then Kaira?” Jon said and stepped forward, taking her hand this time without asking, and pressing a kiss to her knuckle with a grin, somehow knowing she’d hate it. Jon couldn’t hold his grin for long, his prior questions would plague his mind until he met her again. “Lord Skovgaard.” he nodded to Kyel.
Kyel looked down upon Kaira, then he looked at Felix, “Behind,” He said, he motioned then for him and Kaira to continue walking, and Felix followed behind them slowly. “Lord Pelletier still as spritely as I remember him?” He asked her curiously. He had no doubt the fishing Lord’s brother would peg her with anything on his mind. Felix strayed slightly, his nose coming forward to Kaira’s hand, pushing his head under her hand. Kyel frowned at the pup, “Look,” he said in a firm tone, the dog's eyes were on him. “Behind,” He said, placing his own hand behind his back and the dog followed. “Do you like dogs?” He asked her now. Perhaps she could sense his scorn and that kept her mute. He had to defy the texture of his own nerves and the palpitation of his heart around her, what if the Volur could sense that too?
