• PM To Join • Zugzwang

[Rafael Warrick]

80th Ashan, 717

At last he arrived in Endor. For trials on end he had wandered, unable to make a choice. Should he have fled to the Eastern Settlement instead? Should he return to Warrick and meet his father's ire? Or should he return to Krome and finish what he had started?

The men and women that had accompanied him to Krome at the start of the season were no longer with him. Either they had been killed or captured, or perhaps captured, tortured, and then killed. Who was to say? One thing was certain, returning to Krome would be suicide, no matter what, and he was not ready to leave this world yet. Not while Cassander still sat on the throne. Not while the wheel of politics still spun 'round and 'round. Not until he had brought an end to all the madness.

He had dismissed his trusted advisor Olyfer. Not only was the man too old for long trips, but he did not wish to be responsible for another death. The hounds of Krome were chasing after them after all. He was sure of it. Everywhere he went he was ill at ease, forced to stay off the road and sleep on a mattress of leaves and twigs. Yet he had not dared to venture too far away from civilization. Out there in the wilds, he would not last, but neither could he travel along common roads, for fear of being recognized. And thus he wandered. Each trial he woke up having made up his mind, but by the end of the same trial, he would question his purpose and re-think his strategy until finally, he had come close to the Endor mines.

He had not spoken to anyone for over fifty trials, save for what he had muttered into the ears of his malnourished horse. His mind had been his only company, and it had not done him any good. Rafael Warrick was but a shadow of his former self, dismantled by self-inflected banishment, plagued by doubt and guilt. The only thing that kept him upright in the saddle was his hate for the ways of the land, and Cassander embodied everything that he loathed.

It was at the Endor mines that he would find the Qe'dreki. He was certain of it. A great army awaited him, he only had to cut them loose. Then, all would be well. The Iron Hand would be swept aside like a rotten leave in an autumn storm. The land would be free from the tyranny that Cassander and his puppetmaster, the Empress, sought to impose on it.

It was near dusk that Rafael spotted a group of riders under the banner of the Iron Hand. They had made camp at the side of the road and it was hard to say how many of them there were. The road was bare on either side, stretching into dusty plains and it was impossible to steer back into the wild without drawing their attention. Moreover, if he could spot them, they could see him too. There was only one thing for it, he would have to ride past them and hope none recognized him. Certainly, his time in the wild had rendered him dirty. Dew and mud clung to his uncombed hair and the horse he rode on moved sluggishly, not far from collapsing entirely.

He rolled his shoulders to loosen the strap on the round, black, shield he carried on his back so he could swing it onto his arm at a moment's notice. His left hand already gripped the hilt of his longsword, ready to draw it at the first sign of trouble. Ever since fleeing Krome, he had not taken of his leather armour, though he had loosened the gauntlet on his right forearm where the scar Xander had given him still flared up in irritation every so often.

Despite keeping his head down, he felt the heat of questioning gazes on him. No wonder. He looked hungry, lost, and disheveled. For a trill he gazed up, his eyes wide and hollow as he recognized one man in particular. Malcolm. Malcolm shitting Krome. At once he looked down again and prayed to all the Immortals that his former teacher had not noticed him passing by.

[Malcolm]

Rested, the warden and his company had hit the road late that morning and made good time. By dusk the group had slowed, their horses in need of water, and the men itching to set up camp in the dying light. The road, for the most part, had been quiet, and the knights on foot at the front of the march had stopped anyone they passed for papers and inspection of trade goods. These roads were plagued by faction VII members, but the bandit group was quite good at avoiding the Iron Hand.
Two young squires on foot that had joined them from Endor for the short part of their journey to Warrick, kept the pace with drums, playing a low tune to keep spirits high. The group wasn't very large, with no more than forty men and a handful of women, double their numbers since they had left Andaris. One man walked with a deer slung across the back of his horse, something they would all enjoy for dinner tonight.
Two long, black banners at the front of the group declared that they were indeed of the Iron Hand, one of a silver fist and the other of a dragon. It was the first rider that carried the warden’s banner, a long, triangular flag, also in black, that donned the red sigil of The Wolf of Krome. Malcolm himself followed some horses behind, surrounded by those he trusted most; a captain by the name of Benjamin Beaujeu to his right, and his son, Vaughn Krome, to the left.
Underestimated, Rafael had been excused without concern from the knights, being that he looked only a lad. It wasn't until he neared the warden, that a pair of eyes followed him with care. Malcolm tightened the reins he held and saw his horse draw back from the centre of the group to venture towards the edge, a dark creature with a wild mane and sturdy legs, large enough to carry a knight in full plate armour.
Benjamin turned about to wait while the rest of the party continued down the road. “Boy,” Malcolm called, but even with his helmet removed, his voice was lost to the sound of men and mount marching.
From a distance the shape of the young man looked right, somewhat leaner, but strong of shoulder and back. Malcolm knew a swordsman when he saw one, and there were few so young and well trained as Rafael Warrick. “Lord Warrick!” Malcolm called again, this time with gusto.

[Vakhanor]

Violet had been hallucinating and Vakhanor had been eager to take a breath of fresh air. Ever since they had dug that forsaken hole, Violet had been acting strangely. Her mind was slowly deteriorating into madness and the medic had told Vakh that the wound was infected. All day and all night he had sat with her, trying to quell the hallucinations and nightmares. He’d even called for Malcolm when she had asked for it. Her condition was getting worse and with each passing minute Vakhanor’s heart sank.

Taking a breather Vakh reveled taken a moment of fresh air to grab a piss in the woods and found a tree out of the way of the camp to do his business. It would be dark soon and he'd probably have to try cooking a broth for Violet when she woke up. The healer had given the smith a collection of herbs to stew into the tea, mokou bean she'd called it. Going through the list of things he needed to, Vakh was returning to camp when he saw a wandering traveller passing on horseback. The rider was young, he could not have been older than eighteen arcs; worn, tired and avoiding them. Peering from behind the shadow of the bushes he watched Malcolm approached the boy “Lord Warrick!” he heard the warden say.

Caution saw Vakhanor to stay hidden and kneeling to the ground, grasping two palm sized rocks from the forest floor ready to hurl at the mount should the boy attempt to run from Malcolm. An element of curiosity also drove the redhead, what was a young lord doing wandering near the mines? Vakhanor’s eyes fell to his horse's shaking feet and wondered how long the boy had been riding.

[Rafael Warrick]

80th Ashan, 717

Just when he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, a familiar voice called after him. For a few more trills his horse stumbled forward until Rafael lightly tugged the reins, bringing the shaking mount to a standstill. If he had been a good rider and if he'd taken better care of the poor animal that carried him, he would surely bolted away at full speed. But he was nowhere as good a rider as he was a swordsman, and the horse that carried him was old, winded, and close to collapse.

Stiff from many trials of restless travel, Rafael slid out of the saddle and landed with a heavy thud, his back still turned to Lord Krome and his company. It wasn't until he'd pulled a carrot from the saddlebags and fed it to Ranger that he finally, slowly, turned around, and greeted the Warden of the North with a wry smile.

"Malcolm," he answered simply. Whether it was familiarity or hostility that led him to address the Warden so directly was hard to say. He made no efforts to excuse himself or to explain why he was in Endor or why he was on the road to the Endor mines. Instead, he led his horse by the reins as he walked up to his former teacher who towered over him from his position in the saddle. "You wouldn't happen to know if there's a water stream nearby, would you? I've been on the road for a while..." He nudged his chin towards his thirsty horse, "he could do with some refreshment."

With luck, Malcolm wouldn't ask too many questions and simply let him continue on his merry way. But given that they had never properly parted ways, it seemed unlikely. Even more concerning was the Krome banner that the company rode under. Rafael feared the worst, but trusted that Malcolm, if he was indeed aware of what had happened in Krome, would be honorable enough to let him surrender. Still, the trained swordsman in him was on guard, and his left hand still hovered dangerously close to the hilt of his blade. It had tasted Krome blood before.

Yet for all his caution, he had utterly failed to notice Vakhanor, lurking from the bushes. Instead, all his attention was trained solely on Malcolm as he tried to guess if the Warden would respond with words, violence, or violent words.

OOC

Not sticking to a strict posting order. Anyone who was invited over PM is still welcome to pop in.

[Malcolm]

The Wolf of Krome

Malcolm lifted his left, gloved hand and whistled. One of the drummers ran over, slowing as he neared the horses from behind. He looked even younger than Rafael, his cheeks burning red on account of the cold air and march. “Water for the horse,” Malcolm commanded the boy in Draketh, which roughly translated in common to ‘calm, urgent, stream, horse.’
“Yes, Ser,” the boy said quickly, and took up the reins of Rafael's mount before leading it towards a steam they had gone by only minutes ago.
The tension in Rafael’s sword arm hadn't gone unnoticed by the warden, he knew what it took to draw a blade, especially a longsword, his own weapon of choice, at speed. His mount danced impatiently on the spot, the arch in his long, black neck, tight. Kaiba wasn't as nervous as he had been at the start of their journey, but his nostrils still flared as if ready to jump at the first sign of trouble.
On closer observation, it was plain to see that Rafael had been through some hardship in the last few days or weeks, and as much as it pained Malcolm to see, what had been one of his most promising squires, so disheveled, he was pleased to see that the boy was alive. The last letter he had received from Rafael had been rather unsettling, with talk that led him to believe Rafael might do something stupid, something that might even get him killed.
“You can't travel alone, lad, not in these parts. I know I wouldn't tempt the fates,” Malcolm told him. “Camp with us tonight, I'll send you on your way with food and four knights tomorrow, and see that you get home safe.”
But he wasn't going home, was he?
Deep down even Malcolm knew that without asking. He had raised sons, and upon meeting Rafael, he remember wondering what kind of a man had raised the boy, so full of determination and cockheadedness. Malcolm had later found that Rafael too, could be a humble lad, but he fought a hostile mind, and was driven by a hunger for something a sigil and title would never satisfy.
Malcolm gathered his reins as if he were about to jump down from his horse, when Benjamin came up alongside him and leaned over, whispering something into the warden’s ear as he kept his eyes fixed on Rafael. Malcolm's brow knotted in confusion, and he too turned his eye on the young lord.

[Vaughn]

As the rider turned out to be just a boy and was probably not Faction VII, Vaughn had ridden on when Malcolm had first stopped to hail the newcomer, leaving the others behind. Lord Warrick! he heard his father call out behind him, and for a moment that gave Vaughn pause. But he put his heels gently to Kicks' sides to keep her cantering towards the area where the first of the men were already well into setting up camp.

Trial-last his father had spoken to a boy in the Endor Mines and given him water, a young lad of just thirteen arcs named William of all things, a knight's name, William Kemp. Yesterday evening after dealing with the cave-in, the boy had been released with a couple other of the slaves when the Hand had checked their papers. Somehow after that Kemp had fallen to Vaughn to look after.

The boy's feet were covered in sores, half-eaten away and infected. They were painful for him to walk on. Kemp couldn't even wear proper shoes, only dry cloths that wound from his toes to his ankles. Despite this the boy insisted on limping around, running errands and wrangling tents and animals and armor. He had picked up a lot from the squires simply by watching them for a trial.

Now the boy hobbled over leading a horse that looked on the brink of collapse. The Warrick boy's horse. The animal was in bad shape, slobbering a mixture of old spit and new water which seemed fresh from a stream, and though it was standing steadily enough the legs visibly trembled. "Whoa," Vaughn said, dismounting his own horse and trading the reins with Kemp. Taking the new animal's lead and reaching out to brush a hand against his neck.

"How did you get saddled with this?" Vaughn asked. Kemp turned and pointed.

"Joshie took him to the stream." There was a young squire, maybe a couple years older than Kemp, standing nearby and watching. When Vaughn looked over the other ducked his head and suddenly looked busy. "What should I do with 'im ser?"

"Don't call me ser," Vaughn said, then, "We'll take him, get him fed and rested. Can you deal with Kicks?"

"Yes ser!" Kemp said brightly, half-limping half-scampering off in his excitement, and Vaughn called after him, "And take a rest yourself!"

"No ser!" Kemp was gone before Vaughn could correct him.

Shaking his head Vaughn took the horse through camp to a quiet, shaded area with a lot of untrampled grass. Coaxing the animal, who seemed nervous, to eventually lie down, his legs tucked underneath him. Vaughn would be back in a while to take off the saddle, and then again in break or two to make sure the animal could get back up and to check his legs and hooves. Until then, "Eat," he murmured, brushing at the horse's tangled mane, and called out to the side, hooking a finger at the young squire that Kemp had pointed out before, who was still shadowing Vaughn and trying to seem like he wasn't, "You there."

Reluctantly the boy stepped forward. "Yes?" His tone was petulant.

"If anyone tries to rouse this horse chase them back. And collect a bucket or two more of water for him. Okay?" Using a stern tone because the boy was glowering over at him, obviously annoyed at having been commanded. Vaughn may be the Warden's son but to the everyday soldiers, who suspected favoritism and disliked unproven noble blood, that wasn't a good thing. Vaughn wasn't considered one of them. "You hear me?"

"Yes." The boy said, and Vaughn dragged him back to the camp, leaving the horse's reins tied to a nearby tree, to make sure he actually found a bucket and went off once more in the direction of the nearby stream.

A few bits later someone approached both Vaughn and horse, but it wasn't the squire. It was Kemp, wincing with every step. This time with a bucket of water that must have weighed a fifth of his weight.

"Kemp," Vaughn said. Sighing as the boy took the water over towards the horse. Setting it down carefully so as not to spill a single drop. Kemp patted the animal on the head as the horse leaned to greedily drink. "What happened to that squire?"

"Joshie? He said you said to take Kicks' reins and-"

"You gave him Kicks?" Vaughn's tone implied what a mistake that had been. Suddenly Kemp's eyes were big as a deer's.

"Oh," he said. "Sorry ser!" He turned as if to run away, probably off to find Kicks, and Vaughn reached out and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. He pushed him down so he sat next to the resting horse. "Just stay here," Vaughn said. Trying to summon whatever semblance of the military there was as of yet inside himself. After a moment he blew out a breath and said, "Don't move, okay?" Obviously if he told Kemp to rest the boy would not listen. Instead, "I need someone I can trust to watch this horse and tell me if he ever looks to be in worsening shape. Okay?"

"Okay." Kemp turned and looked at the horse as one might a hero from legend. "I heard," he said, beaming, "That this is a lord's horse!"

"May be," Vaughn said. "If he looks thirsty you'll fetch him more water?"

"Yes ser!"

"Okay. I'll be back. And if you see that little shit..." Vaughn shook his head. "Nevermind. Just don't listen to him again."

---

He found Kicks after a quick thorough search, tied in a copse of trees far off to the side of the camp, nearly hidden by brush. The renegade squire, Joshie, was nowhere to be seen.

Good for him. He would live another day.

Instead Vaughn delivered Kicks to a nearby tent, one that looked a little haphazard. Nobody else had claimed it so Vaughn lashed the horse to one of the stakes. Then walked off to find his father.

The man himself was still talking with the bedraggled boy from earlier, and Vaughn came up silently to Malcolm's side.

Was this kid truly a Warrick? Both Lei'lira and Violet were blonde of hair, fair and strong, but this boy was dark and... well, just dark. He had a look about him like he hadn't seen restful sleep in trials.

"Your horse," Vaughn said by way of introduction, when there was a lull in conversation. He gestured off towards the camp. "You almost killed him. He's resting back that way. I've gotten him to lay down and one of the squires," Kemp was not really a squire, but close enough, "Is fetching him water and tending to him." His voice was unfriendly. Vaughn had always liked horses. The person who had done that to an animal was either cruel, callous, or completely unqualified to care for one.

"He shouldn't ride today or tomorrow. He shouldn't ride at all with you if you intend to push him til he dies."

[Rafael Warrick]

80th Ashan, 717

He handed the reigns to the youthful boy that Malcolm had called and gave a curt nod before settling his steely gaze on the Warden again. Was he facing friend or foe? Gritting his teeth, he answered Malcolm plainly. “I am not going home…” he said gruffly, “though I would be, if I knew where it was.” And therein lay the crux of the problem, the very reason he’d deviated so far from the path that has father had set out for him. A sigh escaped him. Perhaps there was still a way back? If he had simply kept his head down, he would have been in the Warden’s company now, he might even have achieved knighthood and done his father proud. He paused until the air between them grew too burdensome to be ignored.

“I was on my way to the mines,” he confessed plainly. “Last I heard, the King sends his captives there, does he not? Those that are of able body and not the defenseless slobs he enjoys slaughtering in the arena.” He shot a challenging gaze at the Warden and those at his sides, gauging their reactions. “I wished to see for myself.”

His attention shifted to a new arrival then, a man who, at first glance, looked every bit like Malcolm except for his blond hair and younger age. A flash of irritation crossed his face as he was criticized for how he had treated his horse and with two steps he bounded over until he stood right in front of the self-righteous man. “Who’s this then?” he asked from Malcolm as he slowly circled around Vaughn and measured the threat with his eyes. “A new bodyguard? Fresh meat for the King’s royal army?” The disdain was clear in his voice and he shook his head in disappointment. He halted in front of Vaughn again as he completed the circle and offered a faint smirk. “Thank you. You are most kind.”

From the corner of his eyes he spotted Benjamin leaning in, whispering into Malcolm’s ear. Almost he leapt back. Almost did he reach for his blade and put up his shield, but just before he did, he restrained himself and his muscles merely twitched. “What is it?” he asked Malcolm in the calmest voice he could muster.

[Malcolm]

Rafael informed the warden that his intention was not to return home, but carry on towards the mines. Indeed it was where the king sent those sentenced for their crimes to be punished, working in shifts to extend the underground city, and long tunnels looking for ore. Malcolm was really concerned now. Rafael looked as if he hadn't enjoyed the comforts of a warm bed and meal in some time. What kept a noble from his home?
“Those sentenced for their crimes against the king, country, or its people are sent to the mines,” Malcolm agreed with him. “The length of their sentences differ, but if the crime is considerable, it's most likely they will end up there for at least an arc.”
In his life time, Malcolm had faced the arena more than once, and had even done time in the mines of Endor. It wasn't easy, but the warden had to hand it to the king, he knew how to break a man.
“The worse the punishment, the deeper down they send you,” Benjamin cut in, and watched as Rafael circled Vaughn.
Up until this point, Malcolm had remained on his horse, but after Benjamin’s whispered words, and Rafael’s sudden step backwards, he thought his words would be better received on equal footing. “Lord Warrick, this is Vaughn Krome, Baron of Krome, and my son,” Malcolm planted a hand on Vaughn’s shoulder. “Vaughn, this is Rafael Warrick, Ned’s son. For a short time he worked as my squire in Andaris, I had hoped he would one trial join me in Aramane as a knight or captain, but he is in high demand, with many choices to consider,” Malcolm said, and smiled. “The mines will be closed until dawn, come, join us for a meal and tell me of your travels since Ne’haer.” he reached out as if to touch his hand to Rafael’s shoulder and head back in the direction of camp.
Benjamin took the reins of Malcolm’s horse and had the animals walk on slowly behind. “Benjamin informs me that there has been trouble on this road recently with escaped prisoners, so it's a good thing we ran into one another, I’d hate to think of you alone out here.”

[Vakhanor]

Still in the darkness Vakhanor watched the scene play out before him. Watching, waiting for the first sign of sudden movement to spring to defence and where he placed distrust in the stranger, where he had expected violence; there was none. Soon stepping in to take away the horse, his eyes flicked to the man leading the creature away from the scene. Vakh knew better than to consider the young Krome a boy, while Malcolm Krome might have been ancient in comparison to the rest of the party they kept. Hell Vakh didn't know how old the man was, only that his appearance had barely changed from that of a man in his mid to late thirties for many years.

Weaving through the shadows Vakh thought to utilise the distraction of their conversation to circle around the boy, skulking behind the shade of the treeline until the there was no more cover to the clearing and stood behind the little Warrick Lord, observing the conversation as he readied himself to smack the boy should her try anything. A man of patience and honour, Malcolm had been kind to the the little lord. Whether this was because of shared nobility or there was a deeper connection between the knight and the stranger the smith did not know, but nobility was his bane and this kid wasn't any exception.

Back and forth the conversation went on, filled with vague details and comforting offerings followed by Vaughn's raging protest against the cruelty toward the sickly mount. One dark man to another, a cool, metallic excitement flickered across his face. Killing this boy would have brought him great pleasure, if not for the ties he was bound to and the adoration he held for Violet.

[Vaughn]

The little Warrick bounded over and Vaughn did not give an inch, not letting the other hold any sway in his approach. In the moments that Rafael gave his impromptu inspection, prowling around like a hungry lion, Vaughn shifted his stance a little as if bored and, when the boy next looked at him, gave a sharp, wide grin. Wolf to lion, lion to wolf.

Though he was annoyed by the way this Rafael Warrick had treated his horse, Vaughn couldn't help but like the tyke's bravado.

"Hand feeling twitchy?" he asked the other, still smiling as he glanced pointedly at the little lion's sword arm. Vaughn's own arms remained relaxed by his sides, though there was something about this boy that was off. Something wild about him.

He was a Warrick so why was he out here, by himself, looking like a beggar knight with naught but sword and shield and dying horse? Malcolm knew him and seemed to think of him favorably, and there did not appear to be bad blood between them. But there was definitely something there. Despite his air of grandeur, of confidence, the kid seemed... nervous maybe. Flinchy.

Enough so that when Malcolm reached out toward Rafael, Vaughn stopped him. He gave his father a brief shake of the head.

Vakhanor had appeared from somewhere close by, having snuck up to stand behind the Warrick without announcement, and Vaughn couldn't tell if the boy had noticed his new shadow or not. Vaughn shot the smith a questioning look. It was clear that Vakhanor was trying to intimidate, perhaps even frighten Rafael. But why?

It seemed both Rafael and Vakhanor thought something more was going on here.

A brief silence had fallen between them all and, to stop the silence becoming awkward, Vaughn spoke carefully into it. "We just came from the Mines ourselves on business with the Iron Hand. You haven't noticed anyone odd around here? Faction VII? Qe'Dreki stragglers?" Looking for any sort of reaction, though he wasn't sure what exactly he was fishing for.

After a moment he shrugged. "The Warden may have only offered, but I insist you stay with us this evening, Lord Warrick. If only to give your poor mount a rest. Should it please you, I'll show you where I've put him. I've eventually got to go back that way myself." He motioned the direction he had settled the horse. Already they were walking slowly back towards the camp, trailing after Benjamin and the horses that he led.