Winter 4th Morning 513 AV
The desert sun beat down on Marricks back as he shambled like some rotting Nuit through the endless wastes. The sand scorched the bottoms of his feet and continually found its way in between his toes, almost as if the very ground wished to hamper his progress. He felt as though no drink or imbibement would slake his thirst and with each dune crested, it seemed more and more as though the desert went on forever. Yet the softest of breezes pushed at his back, urging him forward, like some gentle guiding hand.
As he crested the hump of a massive dune his eyes fell upon an oasis, green and safe. ‘Well thes es quoite convenient.’ He said aloud to himself as he stopped to take a breath, his salvation in sight. He stood there watching, and waiting for the next breeze to blow the apparition of safety away from him, yet the oasis did not sway in his vision. It seemed a bastion of beauty that rested in this desolate place.
What was he thinking? For that matter, why wasn’t he flying through the desert? Only one thing seemed clear to him, and that was that he was afraid of it. Things that seemed safe were not always so. At last the Kelvic worked up the courage to shed his clothing and transformed into a Raven. Enthusiastically he dipped into a short sand bath before he stretched his wings and took flight. But as he descended to the green respite from his exhausting journey, the Oasis seemed to move away from him.
After multiple failed attempts to land in the oasis he descended to the crest of the dune where he left his clothes and transformed back into the man. A look of frustration on his face and his dehydration headache getting worse, he slipped back into his clothes. With a stressful sigh, he descended the dune on foot. Somewhere in his head he realized that this was why he walked. Why he chose to be in human form. It was the only way he could reach the oasis.
As his aching feet brought him closer, the oasis diminished before his eyes until at last all but a shallow pool of standing water lay out before him, surrounded by the scrub grass, and sand. Slowly, he waded into the warm wet pool and submerged himself. Marrick shut his eyes with relief in his heart and let himself float, his body weightlessly buoyed up by the water. His feet felt immediately less painful, and his body felt as if it were lapping up the liquid.
“Why don’t you take a drink?” the whisper came in his ear, and for a momentary glance he realized that Oriah held him as he floated there in the pool. Disbelief clear in his eyes, he blinked.
The ceiling of an unfamiliar room greeted the squire as he cracked his grimy and bleary eyes. Like some magical marionette whose strings had been cut, he awkwardly tested body and limb for mobility. The muscles in his belly ached, as did his jaw, while his arm felt as if it had been filleted by a knife. When the squire felt he was still in one peace, he lay their quietly trying to remember what had happened the night before. The Rearing Stallion, Kevith the BarKeep, and Oriah.
With the Memory of the Benshira’s name, the night’s events rushed into his mind’s eye like falling water, crowding his aching head with visions of what had happened. He had been drunk. That much was certain to him. His first time getting sloshed and it had nearly gotten him killed. Though, the knowledge that it had not been his intention to die encouraged the idea of doing it again sometime. Truly, it would have been a spectacular night if there had been less violence and murder, and more wine, music, dancing, and food.
The Kelvic took one long deep breath and the chime of a clock hanging from the wall drew his attention away from the ceiling. As Marrick turned his aching neck to help take in the room around him, he realized that he no longer had a shirt. Yet one more puzzled situation to add to the long list that formed in his head.
Otherwise the room was simplistic and elegant. Fine velveteen curtains hung in front of the shudders of each window. Fresh flowers lay in a white porcelain vase on a finely carved Bronzewood table. The whole room seemed in lock step with the theme of Bronzewood and Velveteen, accept for the occasional tasteful application of silk, or sheer fabrics. Though nothing had laid his befuddled mind to rest, as to where he was, and how he had gotten there.
The last thing he could remember was being in the alleyway, Oriah helping him to his feet and a rather painfully long walk back into the Rearing Stallion where he promptly had passed out.
As his eyes travelled at last to the floor, things began to come into perspective. On the fine slatted wood, Oriah’s form lay tangled up in her blankets. He had been in rough shape last night and the Kelvic realized this must have been her room at the White Swan, for where else would one find themselves so locked in a tender struggle with ones linens. As he watched her sleep, she seemed younger for some reason, a concept the Raven couldn’t quite put to words, but it intrigued him none the less. Seeing her there sleeping so serenely, filled Marrick with an imperative to maintain silence.
On the wall near the door, he saw his gear, patiently waiting for his return. Silent as a leaf on the breeze he rolled his painful and mangled body out of Oriah’s bed, and as carefully as he could manage put his weight on the floor boards. The squire’s gentle descent was met with the subtlest sound of creaking wood.
With a slow and gentle effort he stood silently and stretched out as far as he could comfortably manage with his bruised body. The occasional soft pop of tendon and joint filled him with an odd satisfaction. As Marrick stood straight and still, he inspected the fruits of his last eve’s labor. His arm was the worst of it. A large bandage wrapped what he could imagine was a long, yet tended wound. Still, he felt he might have managed a repeat dance of the night before, however painful it would have been.
Though now was not the time for dancing. Sick as he felt, the Kelvic knew that food was the order of business. So the Raven set his mind to silent escape, and eventual return. With a keen and clever eye, he observed the floor boards, his goal lay in where the joists below might run. The closer to the joist he walked, the less movement there would be in the floor boards. Slowly he edged his foot along the slat line in the wood and silently walked to his gear near the door. Then with the softest slip of fabric on leather he removed his Black Gambeson from his pack.
With a nonchalant flip over his shoulder he draped the garment over his broad frame and left the room behind. He was careful to lay the latch down, instead of let it fall down on the hook with a clap. An effort not wasted, as the latch fell into place with an almost inaudible thump. Once he was safely in the hallway he slipped the gambeson on over his shoulders and buckled its six fasteners, testing each for tightness.
With each step forward down the hallway he felt more and more like he was about to vomit. This must be what people called a hangover. Why on earth do people drink if they get one of these afterward? He thought to himself as he fought the lightheadedness he felt overcoming his senses.
Finally like an angel of mercy a young server boy appeared, eyeing him with a look of concern. “Ser?” he said timidly as Marrick rubbed his eyes to try and get the headache to go away.
The Kelvic sighed softly as he moved from his eyes to the bridge of his nose. “Nae sa loud Boyo, I can hear snails crawlin roight now.” After a moment, he noticed the boy hadn’t left, and instead had continued to stare at him with a look of confusion. “Forgive meh manners son, I’ve had a rough noight. Can ye take me teh the baths, Oi need a bit o’ proivacy.”
The young man nodded vigorously and offered his shoulder to the Kelvic. “Please sir. Use my shoulder. I can help.”Marrick must have looked quite the wreck, as this spritely young fellow was offering him his shoulder. With a little smile and a gracious nod, he lay one hand over the boys arm and let him lead the way. Within minutes Marrick found himself alone in a stall, expounding what remained of the night before, the poor lad waiting for him outside with a towel and a glass of milk.
When he finished, the Squire stepped out and sat down next to the young man, and gratefully took the small cup of milk, sipping at it carefully. “So, tell meh Son. Am Oi the warst ye’ve ever helped teh the priv?” He said humbly, the guilt apparent in his voice.
“No sir, we’ve had knights and squires a’plenty who’ve come in from a night of drink. Typically from the Outposts. Not much fun, out there I’m told.” The young man spoke vigorously. “I hope to be a squire someday!” he said with a proud smile.
“Why aren’t ye a page yet son?” Marrick said after chancing a longer swig of milk. Somewhere in its off white silken contents, Marrick recognized an additional flavor. When he examined the contents, he noticed a slight discoloration. “and what have yeh put in moy drenk?”
The page bowed his head pleasantly. “Ser Erik says I’m not yet ready to join the order and that I make a difference here at the Swan, helping people, like Lady Collins and Mashila. And the Milk has a bit of barley mash in it. It helps you to steady up.”
“Barley mash? You mean thars whesky in thes?” Marrick said with a chuckle. “Ye’r pullin meh leg boyo.” Marrick grinned at the lad, the crows feet touching his eyes.
“Yes ser, hair of the dog after a night as a wolf. Helps any monster become a man again.”
“Well boyo, ain’t yeh full o’ good stories.” Marrick said after polishing off the cup of milk. With a grateful smile, he pressed a silver miza into the boys hand along with his empty cup. “Alroight now, I thenk I have a koind lady waitin fer me. Do yeh have any food available fer me teh bring back up?” The Kelvic said with smile. The young man seemed to gush with joy at the mention of yet another task to help Marrick with, which made the Squire smile with incredulity.
Before long, the young fellow had guided him to the kitchens, where the wee chap explained the situation to a kindly looking lady in an apron. She gestured for the boy to go, and he bowed to her before he fled as if on urgent business. The woman eyed him up and down with the look of a hawk and beckoned him to come closer. Obediently the squire walked forward and bowed his head.
“Good morn M’lady. Oi apologize fer makin sech a fuss last noight. If’n thars anythin I could do to make it up to yeh or the house, Oi’d be pleased teh make it so.” Marrick said, his head still bowed.
The woman eyed him with an appraising gaze and turned her nose up to him. “You could start by taking a bath, but for now I suppose getting that poor woman who harbored your battered corpse last night something to eat, would be better.” She said with an air of disapproval.
“Oi agree with yer koind appraisal M’lady. And food would be more appreciated than foine gold.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly with his good arm and smiled weakly. “I don’t thenk there is anythin, that Oi could possibly do teh repay Lady Oriah fer the koindness she’s given meh.”
The cook seemed to brighten a little at his comment and nodded approval before she smiled slightly. “At last a man who values a woman’s labors.” She said before beckoning him to follow her back into the kitchens. With a sly look to her narrowed eyes, she showed him to a seat where he could wait while she cooked up something for him.
“Could Oi help in any way M’lady?” Marrick said as he eyed the kitchen with subdued curiosity.
“Polite, Knows that women are beyond value, and domestic.” She chuckled softly to herself. “Don’t tell me. You were raised by your mother?” She chuckled softly as she pulled a half dozen farm fresh eggs from a wicker basket.
“Aye, M’lady. Koind and woise, ye are.” He said with a smile.
“Well aren’t you possessed of a silver tongue.” She said smiling at her mixing bowl as she cracked an egg and dropped it in. “I’m Samantha Trevas.” She said over her second cracked egg. “You can call me Sam.”
“Marrick. A pleasure, M’lady.” Marrick smiled genuinely, and nodded. “Oi’m a fair beater sam. Oi can whisk those eggs for ye, if ye loike?”
“Don’t be silly. I get paid to work.” She said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Tell me a story. It will help pass the time.”
Marrick bowed his head thoughtfully. He couldn’t think of any stories, save one. So, with a deep breath he fortified his courage and began.
“Once in Ravok, there was a moighty arena champion. A proud bruiser, who’s sweftness was legend, and his ruthlessness in the field of battle a song for bards.” He began. “He commanded a hoigh proice teh be fought, and a hoigher proice teh be bed. And yet, the man loved a sad and dark haired beauty. She was his secret, and his safe haven from the warld he lived en.” As the cook beat the eggs, the squire spoke on, with a strange little smile on his face.
“Their secret love bore a son, and loike his mother he was dark of hair, fair of skin, and had pale blue eyes.” He watched as she lay the eggs into a skillet along with a half dozen strips of bacon. The sizzling savory smell wafted toward him and he was momentarily distracted.
“I can tell already this is going to be a sad tale.” She said as she split a wizened orange with a large knife. With a deft hand she squeezed its juice into a pitcher.
“Aye, bittersweet as anythin in loife.” He said, as she beckoned him to join her near the oranges. She offered him the knife, handle first and gestured for him to continue. “Jest as weth any secret, it came teh loight. The lovers were taken from each other, and their choild was sold, as slave children often are.” Marrick sliced five oranges, squeezing each of their contents into the glazed stoneware pitcher.
“With nothin left teh leve fer, the arena foighter faltered, and his loife was taken.” He paused a moment before he picked up the pitcher and laid it on a nearby carrying tray. With a casual air, he picked up a pair of plates off a shelf, along with a couple of empty cups. With the familiarity of a scullery boy he laid them on the platter alongside the pitcher.
As he turned to Samantha to see how the eggs and bacon were coming he noticed that she had stopped stirring the contents of the skillet to furtively wipe away a tear. With a sudden burst of enthusiasm the cook lifted the skillet and tenderly pushed its contents equally onto each plate. “So what happened to the wee babe?” She said before she took a long sigh.
Marrick’s smile was mysteriously light, as it scarcely touched the corners of his mouth. “The choild grew up, much loike his mother. Though, strange as it seem, he leved his loife weth a joy, fought fer every day.” He said with the slightest of bows of his head to the kindly cook.
“Well, Sylir lives on through us dear squire. All good folk seek his peace.” She said as she added a couple of fresh rolls to the plates on his carry tray.
“I thenk that’ll do Lady Sam.” He said with a slow and careful grasp of the tray. “Thank ye fer yer koindness M’lady.” He bowed his head once more before he started for the door.
“A moment squire!” Samantha called out behind him.
As Marrick turned he found that she had a pair of small cups for tea, and a full pot. With a careful hand born from serving, she laid them on the tray.
It was her turn to fix him with a mysterious knowing smile. “And these are from Ravok.” She said as she lifted a bunch of grapes. “For the story. I hope you enjoy them.” She whispered, at last stepping back giving him his leave.
“Wee babe.” Marrick heard as he reached the doorway to the kitchens. He halted but for a moment and took one last deep breath of the familiar feeling kitchen, and went back to Oriah’s room.
He entered similarly to the way he left. Silence his objective, he lay down the tray at the foot of the door, and lifted the latch quietly. He expected Oriah to still be asleep as he lifted the tray, and quietly crossed the threshold. |
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by Marrick Corvis on January 22nd, 2014, 4:38 am 
