By Oath or Flame (John Griffin - Open to all Knights)

[Carrick Frost]

21 Summer 510 AV Evening (Location details subject to moderator discretion)

The dining hall of the great Syliran Knights lay bare within the second tier of the citadel known formally as Stormhold castle, yet the knight who ripped his bread callously open and did not dip it into the spiced soup nicknamed it something a tad less spectacular but matched evenly in color. The lanky and humming blue eyed squire who sat across from the uniformed man watched this event unfold with a snickering air of amusement.

“Tell me, good master Frost.. why it is .. You .. cannot eat both the soup and the bread.. At the same time.”

The redhead in question glanced up with a breath through the nose as he swallowed, mulling over his chalice of water as if ignoring the feint. He finally nudged the knight next to him with a sparkle in the eye lit from the flame of the hanging chandelier.

“See this squire over here, 'hasn’t figured out the secret to the soup yet. The breezy oak will definitely pass him over again this year. Shame that.”

Nearly smiling, Carrick Frost returned to his meal with a flourish, finishing the stew to the last spoon filled drop. “Damn good mutton. I can see it now.. Squire Pantagruel.” He raised his hands into the air dramatically glum as if imagining the fancy title. “Quest for a dash of hot Soup..” Frost looked down like a napping titan. “Now be a good lad and get us another.”
Snide snickers lifted from left and right of him but the boy’s ego was only gently squashed.

“You know, Sir Griffin I hear is a much more honorable sire, a real gentleman. You could learn a thing or three about duty from him.”

Carrick laughed, stretching the skin around the curve of his mouth.

“Don’t forget the tripe, now avaunt to the front Sir Anthony 'unt.”

The men and women of the mighty Oak returned to their discourse with the clang of cutlery and the laughter of a few who should need it before a night out on patrol.

[John Griffin]

John never dined in his armor unless he absolutely had to, and this eve was no such time. Instead he arrived at the mess in pants, boots, doublet and jerkin, with his sword and dagger strapped around his waste, hanging at the ready. As if summoned by the previous mention of himself, John walked up to the table Carrick was sitting at, and waved down the nearest page to fetch him some bread and soup.

Taking a seat, John gave Carrick and the other nearby knights nods of acknowledgement. Shifting his sword so that he could sit comfortably, he pulled the chair close to the table, as he was wont to do, and leaned forward, one arm on the table, hand propping his head up, the other placed on his leg.

Smiling he said, "Did I hear something about a quest for soup?" giving a wink to squire Pantagruel he continued jokingly, "Is that your latest undertaking Sir Frost? Sounds like a noble one." The jest was meant to be all in good fun. John was one of those needing of some jokes and laughter, as he was on the brink of his first night patrol.