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80th of Spring, 515 AV.
Time and time again, year after year the wheel of the world turns. Seasons come and seasons go, and already the baking heat of summer was felt on the necks of the industrious Sylirans. It seemed that spring had only just begun before time was stolen down the river and was gone. With only 11 days of Spring left, the people, knights, squires, and commoners, were a bustle with chores and tasks. Repairs and constructions were to be made, food and drink were to be prepared and life in all it forms was to be played out on the grand cosmic stage, centered on Syliras.
Or in this case, centered on the Squire's Dormitories.
The typical morning at the Dormitories consisted of the resident youths competing for the best morsels set out by the kitchen. But such things were of no interest to Albrek Degan, former Warden Knight of the Silver Quadron. Former in the sense that Silver Quadron no longer existed as it did when he took up the position at least. He was purpose incarnate. Focused as sharp steel or a bolt of lightning. His eyes flicked through his surroundings, as if searching for hidden attackers, though he expected none. Where he passed, silence followed, though it resumed again when he was out of sight. When he stopped, the hard, grim-faced man also paused to consider the door in front of him. His eyes took in everything. Every notch and scuff. At last he moved, and lightly knocked on the door, which had been left ajar, though he had every right to simple enter. Muscles rippled under his uniform that bespoke both strength and great care.
Warden Albrek was more than just intimidating. His height and muscular physique were concerning, but it was his scared visage that terrified the youth. It was the face of a hard life, but a life dedicated to Peace. Life on Mizahar was not easy, and upholding a precious ideal like that even more so.
His gravely voice carried well that morning, such things he maintained great discipline over, "Squire Ball." He said without a twinge of humor. "It is time. Come." With nary a time for the squire to react the man was off to fetch the other squire. It spoke something of the man's character that knew with full confidence that the pycon below him would follow. Perhaps it was the man's aura. An expectation that his silence and presence was all he needed to command others.
By that time squires had been poking their heads out of doors or stopping in the hallways as Albrek passed. They knew something was up. It was not everyday that a squire was brought before the Windoak. Children, young men, and those few adult squires parted ways for the tall, boulder of a man. Hushed whispers echoed down those halls, no louder than the heavy boot-falls thudding across the wooden floor.
“Squire Archailist. It is time for you as well. Come.” He said after a brief knock on the ajar door. .
80th of Spring, 515 AV.
Time and time again, year after year the wheel of the world turns. Seasons come and seasons go, and already the baking heat of summer was felt on the necks of the industrious Sylirans. It seemed that spring had only just begun before time was stolen down the river and was gone. With only 11 days of Spring left, the people, knights, squires, and commoners, were a bustle with chores and tasks. Repairs and constructions were to be made, food and drink were to be prepared and life in all it forms was to be played out on the grand cosmic stage, centered on Syliras.
Or in this case, centered on the Squire's Dormitories.
The typical morning at the Dormitories consisted of the resident youths competing for the best morsels set out by the kitchen. But such things were of no interest to Albrek Degan, former Warden Knight of the Silver Quadron. Former in the sense that Silver Quadron no longer existed as it did when he took up the position at least. He was purpose incarnate. Focused as sharp steel or a bolt of lightning. His eyes flicked through his surroundings, as if searching for hidden attackers, though he expected none. Where he passed, silence followed, though it resumed again when he was out of sight. When he stopped, the hard, grim-faced man also paused to consider the door in front of him. His eyes took in everything. Every notch and scuff. At last he moved, and lightly knocked on the door, which had been left ajar, though he had every right to simple enter. Muscles rippled under his uniform that bespoke both strength and great care.
Warden Albrek was more than just intimidating. His height and muscular physique were concerning, but it was his scared visage that terrified the youth. It was the face of a hard life, but a life dedicated to Peace. Life on Mizahar was not easy, and upholding a precious ideal like that even more so.
His gravely voice carried well that morning, such things he maintained great discipline over, "Squire Ball." He said without a twinge of humor. "It is time. Come." With nary a time for the squire to react the man was off to fetch the other squire. It spoke something of the man's character that knew with full confidence that the pycon below him would follow. Perhaps it was the man's aura. An expectation that his silence and presence was all he needed to command others.
By that time squires had been poking their heads out of doors or stopping in the hallways as Albrek passed. They knew something was up. It was not everyday that a squire was brought before the Windoak. Children, young men, and those few adult squires parted ways for the tall, boulder of a man. Hushed whispers echoed down those halls, no louder than the heavy boot-falls thudding across the wooden floor.
“Squire Archailist. It is time for you as well. Come.” He said after a brief knock on the ajar door. .
