John Furnival
22nd Winter, 512AV
Maybe a fiddle will do it. No, that's not it. I would certainly fancy owning a fiddle, really; to produce soothing sounds from a beautiful wooden instrument would be almost divine. I could learn from watching the beggars at the Bazaar play. Not that I would want to be a beggar. Heavens no. A great Ser has too much dignity to look into a beggar's eyes, much less imitate one. A fiddle is fit for a man of high class. Not that I have ever seen a man of any class other than that of a beggar play the fiddle. Who would invest their coin in sound, any way, no matter how pleasing it is? With so much to do, so many issues to address, so many lives to protect... there is no room for money to be spent toward a miserable rat playing music. I don't think I could learn to play just by watching the beggars. I think I would have to find a teacher.
A river of thoughts rushed through his head as he cleaned his uniform and weapons and then donned them. He put on his steel full-body chainmail, slipped into his heavy cotton tunic, wrapped his waist with a black leather belt, tied to the belt his leather scabbard with his steel longsword, put on his high black leather boots, strapped on his steel half-chest and shoulder plate armor, hung on his shoulder his wooden longbow and leather quiver of a dozen wooden arrows, filled his waterskin, threw on his leather pack, and strapped on his large wooden shield to his back. He picked up his steel helm with thin eye slits and swung open the door of his little apartment, which was located deep in the depths of the Maiden District in the Stormhold Citadel. The man marched from the right-most area of the Maiden toward the Dyres, which was his patrol location for today. This is where he decided to go today because his loneliness sometimes overcame his hardened soul. Sometimes, even his mind betrayed him, forcing the Ser to retreat to the Great Bazaar, where there were so many people and so much criminal activity that the last thing a knight could think of was himself.
As the Dyres District came into view, Ser John Furnial donned his helm and tightened the leather chin strap. He rested his left hand on the handle of his sheathed longsword and kept his right hand hanging off of his pant pocket, his golden holy symbol pressed against his palm. The noise of the busy market increased steadily as he marched forth. Even at this hour, when the sun was still hours from rising, at the very early morning, the Bazaar was ever so busy. Most of the bandits leave at this hour, although there are still some lingerers. It would be convenient to think these "stragglers" are the idiots of the criminal underworld, but as a knight of the age of thirty and two, John Furnival knew better. His childhood quest for knighthood included the slaying of a wicked robber, one who prowled the city in the daytime. None of his victims ever ratted him out out of fear, but finally a knight witnessed his doing and reported it to the Sylrian Knights.
I was given a warrant and was told to arrest the man. Not surprisingly, though, the robber drew his knife and cut at my face. Had I not leaned back, I would have been without an eye at present. Luckily, he only sliced my lower eyelid, a a minor wound. That was the first time I ever killed a man. I heaved my sword at his neck, which lodged itself into his spine. He instantly collapsed, choking and gagging on the floor, my sword still in his neck and in my grip. Too stunned to even move, I watched in horror as the criminal painfully bled to death.
That inspired me, however, to make a list of all of my fears. I overcame them by fighting them, and along the way I turned into a man that would seem like a prisoner who spent half his life in the Tank. Nobody recognized me anymore, but then again, there were few that even knew of me. I kept my distance from the world and occupied myself with my journals and mechanical drawings, using my own mind as my best friend. Maybe I was missing the point of the Sylrian Knighthood, or maybe I was missing the point of humanity. I would finish my whole daily agenda and then I was left with nobody but myself. Nothing but my sword, which I wiped away every day just in case there was any blood left, for I could not recall the last time I killed a man in a duel. There was always rationale in my "victories," but no reason was ever legitimate enough. How could it possibly?
As I walked through winding paths that I mentally mapped through the years, I automatically scanned my head left and right and up and down. My head would move right but my eyes would move left. I could see every one and every thing. I noted patterns and new tables and old ones. I was just thinking of my hunger and a man that sold fresh white bread when all of a sudden my shoulder bounced and from behind me there waltzed a big, brown-haired man, seemingly of younger age, dressed in dirty old rags, probably in his twenties. He did not look back after pushing me. He trudged forward with his shoulders out and took long strides. I have seen idiots do this to try to prove their might and in an attempt to get attention, but in all of my years as a holder of the title of knight, I have never been shoved intentionally and ignored. I took a quick step forward, lifting my right hand to grab his shoulder, when the large man turned around quickly and smacked my hand away, as if he had eyes in the back of his head! He had one blind eye and one sharp one, I noticed, which was quite ironic. His good eye was strained red and made it evident that he was intoxicated. I couldn't decide which eye to look at so I just looked at his forehead. I was just about to let him go and tell him to go home because I knew he must have had a rough day, but he swiftly picked up an apple from a nearby table and threw it at my helmet. I stepped back and wiped my hand on my helmet, the sticky residue of the crushed apple glistening off of my chainmail gloves. We were making a big scene now, the whole Bazaar staring.
I crossed my right hand over and pulled out my sword. I lunged forward, intending to leave the tip of my blade just shy of his chest when, in a sudden, the blood drained from his face, making his skin a ghostly pale. He stepped back a few steps and then turned around and ran away, pushing through the crowd. In a moment, he had disappeared and I was left in the Great Bazaar, the circle made by the crowd now slightly broken. I lowered my sword and sheathed it, dumbfounded.
"Back to your business!" I yelled.
The usual loudness of the Great Bazaar returned instantly and the event was now old news; never to be spoken of again. I looked around in hope of finding the one-eyed man, but all I saw was the endless sea of people. People that sold their wares to those that needed them in order to survive or to enjoy their survival that seemed to go in endless circles. Maybe that's all there was. Maybe that's where it stopped. A person's duty is to eat and sleep, and in order to maintain their freedom of eating and sleeping, an order was created because it was necessary, that order being the Sylrian Knights. I was part of that order and what I thought did not matter. I am responsible for these people and they are responsible for themselves. Nowhere in the equation do I come in. Ser John Furnival might as well be a myth, for his face will forever be hidden beneath the helm with the thin eye slits. Most of the Sylrian Knights are unrecognized guardians; they will never be recognized for their lifetime of devotion toward the protection of the city.
John placed his hand on his sword again and gripped his cross more tightly now as he paced through the Bazaar, a bit more quickly now. He started to doubt if the previous occurrence was anything more than a daydream.
Maybe a fiddle will do it. No, that's not it. I would certainly fancy owning a fiddle, really; to produce soothing sounds from a beautiful wooden instrument would be almost divine. I could learn from watching the beggars at the Bazaar play. Not that I would want to be a beggar. Heavens no. A great Ser has too much dignity to look into a beggar's eyes, much less imitate one. A fiddle is fit for a man of high class. Not that I have ever seen a man of any class other than that of a beggar play the fiddle. Who would invest their coin in sound, any way, no matter how pleasing it is? With so much to do, so many issues to address, so many lives to protect... there is no room for money to be spent toward a miserable rat playing music. I don't think I could learn to play just by watching the beggars. I think I would have to find a teacher.
A river of thoughts rushed through his head as he cleaned his uniform and weapons and then donned them. He put on his steel full-body chainmail, slipped into his heavy cotton tunic, wrapped his waist with a black leather belt, tied to the belt his leather scabbard with his steel longsword, put on his high black leather boots, strapped on his steel half-chest and shoulder plate armor, hung on his shoulder his wooden longbow and leather quiver of a dozen wooden arrows, filled his waterskin, threw on his leather pack, and strapped on his large wooden shield to his back. He picked up his steel helm with thin eye slits and swung open the door of his little apartment, which was located deep in the depths of the Maiden District in the Stormhold Citadel. The man marched from the right-most area of the Maiden toward the Dyres, which was his patrol location for today. This is where he decided to go today because his loneliness sometimes overcame his hardened soul. Sometimes, even his mind betrayed him, forcing the Ser to retreat to the Great Bazaar, where there were so many people and so much criminal activity that the last thing a knight could think of was himself.
As the Dyres District came into view, Ser John Furnial donned his helm and tightened the leather chin strap. He rested his left hand on the handle of his sheathed longsword and kept his right hand hanging off of his pant pocket, his golden holy symbol pressed against his palm. The noise of the busy market increased steadily as he marched forth. Even at this hour, when the sun was still hours from rising, at the very early morning, the Bazaar was ever so busy. Most of the bandits leave at this hour, although there are still some lingerers. It would be convenient to think these "stragglers" are the idiots of the criminal underworld, but as a knight of the age of thirty and two, John Furnival knew better. His childhood quest for knighthood included the slaying of a wicked robber, one who prowled the city in the daytime. None of his victims ever ratted him out out of fear, but finally a knight witnessed his doing and reported it to the Sylrian Knights.
I was given a warrant and was told to arrest the man. Not surprisingly, though, the robber drew his knife and cut at my face. Had I not leaned back, I would have been without an eye at present. Luckily, he only sliced my lower eyelid, a a minor wound. That was the first time I ever killed a man. I heaved my sword at his neck, which lodged itself into his spine. He instantly collapsed, choking and gagging on the floor, my sword still in his neck and in my grip. Too stunned to even move, I watched in horror as the criminal painfully bled to death.
That inspired me, however, to make a list of all of my fears. I overcame them by fighting them, and along the way I turned into a man that would seem like a prisoner who spent half his life in the Tank. Nobody recognized me anymore, but then again, there were few that even knew of me. I kept my distance from the world and occupied myself with my journals and mechanical drawings, using my own mind as my best friend. Maybe I was missing the point of the Sylrian Knighthood, or maybe I was missing the point of humanity. I would finish my whole daily agenda and then I was left with nobody but myself. Nothing but my sword, which I wiped away every day just in case there was any blood left, for I could not recall the last time I killed a man in a duel. There was always rationale in my "victories," but no reason was ever legitimate enough. How could it possibly?
As I walked through winding paths that I mentally mapped through the years, I automatically scanned my head left and right and up and down. My head would move right but my eyes would move left. I could see every one and every thing. I noted patterns and new tables and old ones. I was just thinking of my hunger and a man that sold fresh white bread when all of a sudden my shoulder bounced and from behind me there waltzed a big, brown-haired man, seemingly of younger age, dressed in dirty old rags, probably in his twenties. He did not look back after pushing me. He trudged forward with his shoulders out and took long strides. I have seen idiots do this to try to prove their might and in an attempt to get attention, but in all of my years as a holder of the title of knight, I have never been shoved intentionally and ignored. I took a quick step forward, lifting my right hand to grab his shoulder, when the large man turned around quickly and smacked my hand away, as if he had eyes in the back of his head! He had one blind eye and one sharp one, I noticed, which was quite ironic. His good eye was strained red and made it evident that he was intoxicated. I couldn't decide which eye to look at so I just looked at his forehead. I was just about to let him go and tell him to go home because I knew he must have had a rough day, but he swiftly picked up an apple from a nearby table and threw it at my helmet. I stepped back and wiped my hand on my helmet, the sticky residue of the crushed apple glistening off of my chainmail gloves. We were making a big scene now, the whole Bazaar staring.
I crossed my right hand over and pulled out my sword. I lunged forward, intending to leave the tip of my blade just shy of his chest when, in a sudden, the blood drained from his face, making his skin a ghostly pale. He stepped back a few steps and then turned around and ran away, pushing through the crowd. In a moment, he had disappeared and I was left in the Great Bazaar, the circle made by the crowd now slightly broken. I lowered my sword and sheathed it, dumbfounded.
"Back to your business!" I yelled.
The usual loudness of the Great Bazaar returned instantly and the event was now old news; never to be spoken of again. I looked around in hope of finding the one-eyed man, but all I saw was the endless sea of people. People that sold their wares to those that needed them in order to survive or to enjoy their survival that seemed to go in endless circles. Maybe that's all there was. Maybe that's where it stopped. A person's duty is to eat and sleep, and in order to maintain their freedom of eating and sleeping, an order was created because it was necessary, that order being the Sylrian Knights. I was part of that order and what I thought did not matter. I am responsible for these people and they are responsible for themselves. Nowhere in the equation do I come in. Ser John Furnival might as well be a myth, for his face will forever be hidden beneath the helm with the thin eye slits. Most of the Sylrian Knights are unrecognized guardians; they will never be recognized for their lifetime of devotion toward the protection of the city.
John placed his hand on his sword again and gripped his cross more tightly now as he paced through the Bazaar, a bit more quickly now. He started to doubt if the previous occurrence was anything more than a daydream.
Knights Hospitaller
