Closed Saving Face (Marcus Braeden)

[Sighard]

Fall 50th, 512 A.V.

The Syliran fields were nothing short of a modern marvel. They were an agricultural phenomenon that accounted heavily for the success of the civilization it fed. Often amply green or yellow with the sweet smell of wheat or grapes, it harbored tens of thousands of units of food that was the essential nourishment which supplied the exorbitant demand for energy from the capital. A citizen lived and breathed the crops of Syliras, and it was by the collective efforts of Knights and farmers that it was maintained and protected. Yet, even the 4th Regiment’s Green Company was not a suitable primary force to account for the thousands of acres they were expected to protect. There was now a demand for an auxillary force to meet smaller challenges of agricultural loss prevention that the 4th Regiment could either not manage or was too tied up in the affairs of the Djed Storm to micromanage.

This is where Sighard came in, and as the squire stood idly by he ran through the instructions of his heavily mustached superior again. He could nearly smell the older gent’s pungent breath as he uneasily drew back the memory. It contained hints of alcohol if he remembered correctly, and that was a depressing fact that brought him back to darker days. Either way, the words of the Stewart Knight were as such,

Damn these animals. . . they seem to be getting bolder and bolder every day. There have been multiple reports from pockets of unprotected farmland, rather close to the Mithryn Outpost. The farmers swear they get bitten by dogs guided by humans but that’s a load of rubbish. Scout reports have shown the perimeter of the fields to be clear of any foreign presences so all signs point to desperate wolves and such looking for food. I’m sending a load of squires as an auxillary force to the Green Company. You’ll be stationed in pairs at the sites of these recent attacks and stake out during the night to see if you can flush these beasts out of their hiding spots. I’ll expect a full report after each night to your squad leader. Other than that, make sure you’re well stocked before you leave and best of luck. Dismissed.

The memory dissolved fast, and the squire was forced to look upon the daylight of the Mithryn Outpost and how diminishing it really looked. Even having been fully rebuilt after the storm there were still traces of devastation that had yet to be cleared. The guarded homes of the farmer were creaky and seemed to sway uneasily in the passing breeze as if they were built too quickly and in a desperation to accommodate the harbingers of Syliran nourishment. Every simple man that passed looked exhausted and reeked of sweat and alcohol. There was a sadness to this place, and Sighard would be glad to be rid of it once he stepped outside the boundaries of this village to the outskirt of the fields. He needed only to wait for his partner to arrive.

[Marcus Braeden]

It looked as though Marcus would be spending a few days outside the protective walls of Syliras, as commanded by his patron knight, Ser Noah. At least this time he wasn't being dragged all the way into the Taldera Region like the last time he left the city. No, this time it would be something much closer to home, the Mithryn Outpost. It had something to do with animals, wolves or something, snatching up some of the crop meant for Syliras. Marcus didn't know all the details, as he had been lost in his own amazement of completing his first real mission with the order. Sure, he did find himself doing work in the Spires after the djed storm, but it was nothing official from the order. Ser Noah had gone off and volunteered them for that one. Marcus was packed into a cart filled with roughly ten other squires. This would be the last cart to arrive at the outpost, as the others had left earlier in the morning, and Marcus had neglected to wake up early to get on any of those carts. Marcus sat upright with his back against the side of the cart, with a rather eager look on his face. It was one of those looks that annoyed everyone around you just because of how happy you were. The fact that every other squire that wasn't asleep looked miserable probably didn't help either. Marcus was dressed in his usual attire, the plate mail generally loaned to squires. His sword rested on his left side. A bow was attached to him with the string crossing his chest and the frame resting on his back, which also carried a sack of 20 arrows, although he would need more than 20 if he wanted to hit anything. Normally, the cool fall air would bother him, but his armor that was normally brutally hot on a summer day, was now somewhat tolerable. It was a balancing point between the outside air and the air trapped beneath his armor. Marcus sighed, resting his head back and closing his eyes. He had mine as well get some shuteye before arriving at the outpost. It felt as if only a few chimes had passed since Marcus had dozed off before erupting to life at the sound of yelling and something striking him on the leg. "Get up, get up! We're here!" one of the squires had yelled whilst giving Marcus a forceful slap on the leg. "Okay, okay, I'm up." Marcus said as he sat up and peered out across the landscape before him. Massive fields of various crops surrounded the outpost ahead of them. These were the Syliran Fields, the lifeblood of Syliras. The majority of the cities food would most likely come from these fields. Enough food to feed the entire population of Syliras, and the fields definitely looked like they could. All 50,000 people. How did the knights manage to patrol all this land? Before long, Marcus and his fellow squires found themselves being herded out of the cart. Everyone had arrived.

[Sighard]

A generational gap split, evenly, the distance between Sighard and the superior Knight which stepped from the passenger seat of the horse-drawn cart. The squire watched, attentively, as the Knight stepped, and smeared against his greave, an old pile of horse dung. It was one of many that littered the agricultural haven, and there was an incessant buzzing of flies which Sighard expected to carry all sorts of disease and pestering for this small town. Nonetheless, the wisened veteran stepped forth, with all the prominence and pomp of a man who'd completed his quest to attain Knighthood and acted as if every mission were a blessing to him.

Their superior looked to be in his thirties, with a light brown crop of hair that had receded severely. His features were thin and ovular and he had a crooked nose but it was his eyes, a brilliant blue, that conveyed his experience and knowledge to the bumbling squires who unloaded of the truck in what could have been construed as a confused herd of cattle. Ser John was his name, and he often thought himself destined for greatness. Apparently the slice of heaven that he had been consigned to did not deter him from this prospect for he guided the squires out with a bark that was full of the life and energy that Sighard had held at one point in his life.

"Off the cart! In line! There's work to be done yet and you fools are killing daylight!"

As if on queue the squires suddenly assembled into a line, Sighard included. Although they seemed incapable when left to their own devices, they'd been highly trained to respond in an organized and efficient manner to command. They all stood, straight as an arrow in their borrowed, metal armor and blades, and looked a formidable force in the face of this place. They certainly presented well enough the dignity of the Knight's, and this was shown by the look of awe by passing farmers who carried buckets of grapes, water and various tools. There was an energized sense about them in the face of these armed men, and one could almost smell the fear of persecution were they to be caught slacking.

"Braeden, Beleld. Step forward." Ser John called out, though his attention did not bother to look who the two squires were, rather he minded the slip of long parchment he'd been reading from.

Sighard stepped immediately forth, some number of feet in front of the line to make his presence known and it was all he could do not to look aside and break discipline. The name Braeden seemed painfully familiar to him but he did not dare turn his head away from the attention of his superior, even for an instant and when he would assuredly not get caught.

[Marcus Braeden]

Before Marcus could even fully compose himself after waking from his nap, he and his fellow arrivals were herded out of the cart and lined up with the others who arrived earlier. Marcus was sure to be quick about it, as he didn't feel like taking any flack from their superior. He didn't look like he was in any sort of mood for games. Marcus kept his posture as tight as possible as Ser John barked out names in groups of two. It looked as though Marcus would be assigned a partner for this work. It was probably for the best, to have someone watching his back. After all, wolves can be pretty dangerous right? Braeden, Beleld. Step forward!" Marcus quickly stepped forward, noting the name. Beleld? Haven't heard that name I don't think Marcus thought to himself. But Marcus was terrible with last names, for all he knew it could be his old friend Hadrian, but Marcus knew for a fact that it wasn't. Once Marcus was out of alignment with his fellow squires, Marcus quickly glanced at his partner. Marcus recognized him. No, Marcus knew him. It was that boy he had sparred with a year ago, before he was even a squire. Sighard...I can't believe it he thought to himself as a smile stretched along his face. Just a year ago Marcus had been but a smith at the Ironworks, who was pissed off at the world to say the least. Sighard somehow pulled him out of that rut, as if all Marcus' pent up anger was suddenly released during the spar. Marcus hadn't seen the boy since though. Maybe his patron knight dragged him across the continent too.

[Sighard]

“Look alive, gentlemen!” Ser John barked, his face rupturing into a voluminous crimson and exporting an unnecessary amount of fog from his swollen nostrils. One could sense the apathy the cold brought, even though strength and energy exuded from this Knight’s veins, a coming winter almost always brought a desolate attitude that could be attested too from the long, dark bags under his eyes, and the hoarse rasp that rattled his voice. Though his demeanor spelled the shame of lackluster, he seemed to maintain a will, a twinkling of his eye that refused to disappear. Sighard almost thought it was a stupid stubbornness that he should not have.

Sighard, at least, snapped to attention so that all the hinges in his armor rattled and a number of his joints popped elegantly. His movement was so contrasted from his stoicism that it even caused Ser John to stir, uneasily as he offered questionable glances and a fleshy brow perked upwards as an added allusion to his discontent. There were no words from the blonde headed, weary looking man, only a dip of his head which brushed his hair downwards in tenuous waves that brushed elegantly at his bearded features. Did he look different to Marcus? That had much to be determined.

Needless to say, the squire recognized the blacksmith, or what was the blacksmith, almost immediately. It was tough to muddy persons when one had such fiery red hair and that build—if the squire remembered correctly the other was quite strong. This, at least made him feel a little better, although there was no nostalgia. His memories of years past were but a hazy blur that all combined as a tumultuous storm to dampen his mentality. He dared not even remember the good for all the bad it had brought. Instead, he was apathetic, and so turned his gaze slowly away without so much as a smile, lifting his head to listen as Ser John spoke once more.

“You two will secure base camp one. Its a couple miles ride from this outpost due North. You’ll walk and find all necessary accommodations for a few nights’ stay have been accounted for. Ration as you’ve been trained and be on the lookout for any suspicious activity. Report all that you see to me at the top of each day and we’ll go from there. Am I understood?” The Knight explained, in a rather cut and dry, rehearsed tone that did not contain the power of his previous speech.

“Aye, ser,” Sighard proclaimed dutifully.

[Marcus Braeden]

Marcus returned his bewildered gaze back to Ser John, who was once more barking out commands. Once the superior had both of the squires full attention, he issued their orders. It was simple, really. Walk a few miles north and camp out while keeping on the lookout for any suspicious activity. What could possibly go wrong with that? Maybe an animal or two may come sniffing about, but that was nothing two fully armed squires couldn't take care of. The only thing that could possibly worry Marcus was bandits, but at least he had armor this time in case arrows started flying again. "Am I understood?" Ser John asked plainly. "Got it ser," Marcus responded eagerly. Once they had been dismissed, Marcus proudly wandered over to his partner. The last time the two had met, Marcus was just a smith at the Ironworks who had no business even identifying himself with the Order. But now here he was, a squire, training to be one of those armored hero's seen all over the region. "Long time no see Sighard. I thought I would see you at some point!" Marcus called out to the boy as he approached. The mail underneath the plate of his armor rattled as he walked, while his sword wobbled at his side, occasionally smacking him in the leg. God it was an awkward sword. Unbalanced, slightly bent, and there was even a small crack in the hilt. Maybe Ros at the Ironworks would let him use the forge to make himself something. Things to think about when he returned.

OOCOh and by the way, Marcus' hair is brown not red

[Sighard]

Marcus’ proclamation had rung with such a clear conviction, cheery bells that blasted only hollow air in the face of gray and death. Had the lad aged? Was his hair actually crimson or was this symbolic of the fires of Sighard’s tumultuous past? The memories lapsed, gently against the recesses of his subconscious, and dared not breach the steel confines of his accessible thoughts. As his neck labored to lift his head, heavy with thought, the true composition of his features were exposed to the other. Though still a boy, withering marks of age had begun to form nearer the most external parts of his face, and there was a dull luster in his eyes that distanced him from the other. He forced a smile, authentic to physical interpretation, but there was little behind it. It was simply the politician in Sighard these days to represent how others saw him. He does not know the tragedies of my past. . . I shall not endeavor to burden him with reality.

“Marcus! You are a warm sight for these cold eyes! Come, let us make haste to our camp and catch up in the meanwhile.” The tones were genuine, cheery lilts and Sighard played the part well of familiar acquaintance. They were softer though, so as not to contest the barking of Ser John, and turned askew off towards the distance, a gesture that was reciprocated by the quick pivot of the squire as he turned to move forth, fully expecting that Marcus would follow. He was immediately filled with several gusts of fierce wind, raising an arm defensively as he spoke. “Take care to mind my uncouth appearance. It’s been quite the year, but I don’t have to tell you, eh?” Dark humor referenced, albeit subtly, the Djed Storm which was all too popular an event for Syliras at the beginning of Spring.

He continued to trudge, noting how the once muddy trail underfoot had solidified into an uneven trough, which slowed the pace of their march and offered much jangling of intercepting iron. They past a multitude of farmers, and were regarded for the most part with apathy, though some did offer a naïve bow of respect. They seemed malnourished and weary. Frightened by the recent stories no doubt, and suffering from a lesser output of food. They were burly men and women who carried with them large harvesting baskets and tanned skin. These people did not enjoy lives within the Stronghold and so were subject to the harshness of the outside world.

“Tell me then, how has our time apart treated you?”

[Marcus Braeden]

Marcus nodded in agreement, and the two began to to trek north, towards their camp. As Marcus walked next to Sighard, he occasionally glanced over at his companion. Sighard had changed in the year the two squires had been apart. He was no longer the boy that Marcus had sparred against, but looked older. His persona was not of the gleeful boy he had met. One didn't need to be an aurist to see that. For the moment, Marcus assumed Sighard had simply gotten older and more experienced. Intense training would probably have that effect on a young boy. Not to mention, the djed storm had taken its toll on the whole continent. "Don't need to explain yourself to me. It's been a year, to say the least" Marcus responded. He began to recap the year that had passed since he sparred with Sighard. Becoming a squire in the winter, just in time for a massive djed storm in the spring. Then there was journey to the Spires, in which he and other squires helped return life to normal. Most of the summer was spent up there. In hindsight he kind of wished he had spent that time training, rather than running a muck in the Spires. His one year anniversary of being with the knights was approaching, and he wanted to become a full knight. He felt old in comparison to his fellow squires, and was beginning to fear time itself. Sighard soon asked what Marcus had done in the last year. "It's been interesting to say the least. As you can see, I became a squire shortly after our spar. Spent much of the winter sitting in the classroom, learning history and lore of the knights. Then the storm hit in the spring. Next thing I knew I was on my way to the Spires, where a group of us helped rebuild. I spent most of the summer up there. And then finally here I am, back in Syliras" Marcus explained to Sighard. "I guess that's my story. What about you?" Marcus asked plainly.