Sabinian

Sabinian

Nemophilist
Weaver
Priscilla always woke him up before the sun rose. She had learned that meowing at him would do very little unless she only wanted him to turn over this way and that or maybe cover his ears with a pillow. If she wanted to wake him then she would paw gently at his face, mostly at his cheeks but sometimes at his nose to get him to sleep. Sabinian had learned when she was a kitten that if he tried to ignore her pawing and if his eyes fluttered in an attempt to stay shut she'd think them to be a wispy critter that needed catching. Hiding under his covers did little to hinder her forceful persuasion, she'd go for his feet, start running about the room, and would even dare to push his inkwell and notes off his small desk.

Priscilla was an utter tyrant when it came to getting breakfast. She was never this awful when it came to dinner time when he was wide awake and not in the midst of a lovely dream about sitting in a large, fancy armchair next to a roaring fire in a fancy hearth inside a fancy log cabin with a window to show the falling snow and make Sabinian feel all the warmer for being inside. Priscilla pawed at Sabinian's face again, abrading his dream and forcing alertness down his throat. He could moan and groan all he wanted but it wouldn't matter.

Another morning up before dawn to service his furry master. Right as he opened his verdane green eyes, Priscilla gave him meows of encouragement, her large green eyes wide with hunger.

"Poor Priscilla," he cooed groggily as he rolled out of bed with his long black hair a tangled mess. He tossed the lengths over his shoulder, stepping with all the grace of a newborn foal towards his dust-covered trunk that he was smart enough to lock from Priscilla's greedy little stomach. When he unlatched it and opened it up to grab the bag of dried steamed fish and fowl - the smell alone enough to make Sabinian want to skip breakfast - the small black cat began to circle around his leg, rubbing her cheeks against the edge of his shins. She trotted to her jade green ceramic bowl, looking up at Sabinian with an expectant meow. He bent low, poured in his special recipe cat food, using a hand to keep Priscilla at bay until he stood up. He only had a few minutes to hide the bag in the trunk, latching it before going to pick his usual attire.

Simple yet well-fitting trousers and tunic, the elf was slow to dress. He thought about going back to bed, hoping breakfast would placate Priscilla but soon enough she would be scratching at the door to be let out. She had places to be, peoples to see, and maybe claw at some squire's knee. The cat had to get out early to begin her reign of terror at the Monastery. She was in the middle of licking her her paw to clean her cheek and ear just as Sabinian had finished tying up his boots. He went to grab his current read, Unicorns and Sweetgrass: A Guide to Braiding Anything, and had his hand on the door before he hearing a knock. He looked back at Priscilla, her eyes narrowed from being disrupted.

"Syr Sabinian, are you... are you awake?" Sabinian recognized the voice and opened the door.

"Syr Cymbaline," He greeted with the only sort of smile one could muster before a cup of hot tea. "Good Morning." The woman nodded her head but her fingers were laced together so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. Her blue gaze couldn't meet his, instead choosing to look past his shoulder at Priscilla. Syr Cymbaline had ended up being Priscilla's favorite subject to torture. "Is... something the matter?" His belly felt like he had just swallowed a rock.

"No, well, actually, unfortunately, yes, but, you see it was an accident, just it happened last night and I tried to fix but now it's morning and I think I made things worse." The blonde took a deep breath, tried to look at Sabinian but ended up turning her head again. "Syr Noa was drunk last night. I tried to keep her from going into your stables, I really, really, really did." The elf frowned.

"Did she sleep in their hay again?" He really didn't like giving the unicorns hay soaked in alcohol sweats. Cymbaline shook her head, blonde curls bouncing. "Eat their oats?" To his knowledge Syr Noa hadn't done that yet but he wouldn't put it past her, she was a glutton for food as much as she was for drink. "I give up, tell me what happened." Syr Cymbaline looked down, face red with shame, holding her hands close to her chest as if there were a prayer to save her.

"Midnight escaped. " Syr Cymbaline whispered. A resounding boom rang through the halls as Unicorns and Sweetgrass: A Guide to Braiding Anything fell unceremoniously onto the floor.
 
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Word spreads quick through the monastery. When Osytha was much younger, she’d thought the Knights were many things — brave, wise, mighty. Honourable, and noble. ‘Terrible gossips’ had not been anywhere on that list, but it turns out it ought to. Younger Osytha also wouldn’t have imagined she’d end up joining the ranks of those tattle-tongues, but here we are. Sometimes, you end up stuck in the monastery for weeks between missions. Shit gets boring.

Osytha knows it’s going to be a good one when she sees the gaggle of squires loitering outside the stables. She finishes brushing down Forbítter, gives his head a goodbye rub, and moseys on out. She walks, nay, stalks, in the manner of one used to ghosting through the Wylds, ever the hunter and the hunted all at once; where masking one’s presence oft decides which of those you become in the end. All to sneak up on some acne-ridden cadets.

“… saw Syr Cymbaline le-ave a bit ago,” says one. His voice even breaks slightly, and he coughs, as though that actually makes it less obvious. “She looked really worried. But I think Syr Noa’s still in there?”

“Isn’t that the special stable? Syr Sabinian’s?” comes a reply.

By the Toils, they really do still sound like babies.

“Yeah,” answers yet another. Osytha thinks her name is… Mildred? Pretty sure it’s Mildred. Might be there’s a surname to go with it; should probably try and learn that some day.¹ “With the unicorn. ’S called, um… what was it…”

“Midnight,” Osytha supplies.

And quite helpfully, in her opinion. Yet judging by the terrified faces which turn her way, you’d think she’d been anything but. Osytha remembers that fear; remembers what it’s like to be on the other side of the Ceremony when in the presence of those who’ve earned their ‘Syr’. She’s not entirely without pity. But nor does she mind basking in those guilty expressions for a moment longer.

Then she cocks her head. “You need me to find you something to do, or…?”

They take the hint, and the squires hurry off. They’re not the only ones, though — Osytha sends another pair on their way with a pointed glare, then turns her gaze back to Sabinian’s stables. And she stares. Cogitating.

It’s awful silent. Something happened, and knowing Syr Noa, phrases like ‘rat-arsed’ and ‘really shat the bed this time’ are applicable to whatever went down. But if Noa’s getting a face-ripping, it is, or had been, a quiet one. And that’s bad. That means whoever’s handling this doesn’t want to let any of the busybodies outside know just how much damage she’s done. Which in turn probably means one of two things: that Midnight has either escaped or, somehow, died.

Well, the latter seems unlikely. If she had to, Osytha would put her money on Midnight coming out on top against a shit-faced Syr Noa. Much more probable is that the woman simply forgot to close the gate behind her.

The special stables… Syr Osytha pretty much has the run of the monastery’s facilities when it comes to its animals. The regular stables, yes, plus its kennels, ferret runs, and hack boxes, but… Midnight is one of those exceptional cases, handled by Syr Sabinian who, as Osytha has come to understand it, is something of an expert when it comes to unicorns. She’s been curious as all get out, but as one professional to another, woman wasn’t going to invite herself into those stalls for a poke-around. Like Forbítter, Midnight probably required specialist handling, which meant they didn’t let just anyone wander in there to have a go at it. Though, possibly more for the unicorn’s sake in this instance, and not because half the monastery would be missing fingers otherwise.

Maybe this is her chance, though? If Syr Sabinian needs help tracking down a runaway, he can do a lot worse than coming to trusty Syr Osytha for help. Assuming Syr Cymbaline went to break the bad news just now, the man’s probably going to be on his way over to inspect the damage. And if Osytha just happens to be nearby, all convenient like…

Is that a bit shameless? Yes. Does she care? Not really.

Osytha looks back in to the stables. They’ll probably want horses for this. Syr Sabinian might also appreciate having them ready to go ASAP. She moves toward the riding tack, and a small dark shape bounds happily around her feet. She looks down at Guffs, with his ridiculous stumpy legs and broad chest, and his one ear that’s still just a tiny bit floppy at the tip. Boy knows what’s up.

“You ready for another adventure, m’lad?”


¹ Ah, squires. They grow up so fast… which is awkward when it feels like you were only hazing them the other week. Then they go through the ceremony, take their oath, and you’re expected to know their names all a sudden? Apparently, Syr “You There” and Syr “The Lanky One, You Know, Walks Like a Drunk Marionette?” doesn’t cut it at that point.
 
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Like a dark storm, Sabinian raced out to the stables. He believed Syr Cymbaline meant no harm, he believed she meant to do well by searching for Midnight in the early morning hours and thinking she could coax the unicorn back to the stall. But as she followed after, pleading and making excuses, Syr Sabinian was a little glad that Priscilla always threw a fit if Syr Cymbaline tried to pet her. He purposefully took longer steps, soon outpacing her as if she had never been chasing after him at all.

Once he opened the large wooden doors of the stables that held the various unicorns, bicorns, and tricorns he tended to and studied about. He half expected Syr Noa opened up all their stalls, careless and stupidly grinning like she always was, the damned flibbertigibbet. But she was not there causing more of a ruckus than she already had, although as he strode down the hall he did see a suspiciously sized human body ident in the pile of hay. Nevermind that.

Sabinian was at Midnight's stall, saw that it had been locked back up. He snorted without humor, eyes narrowed into a green glare. He opened Midnight's stall back up, staring at it's emptiness. The others were snorting or chuffing, seeking his attention, but he could not look at away as if Midnight might appear. The elf's shoulders slumped.

Midnight was his favorite. Not just his favorite last decade or this decade or a century - he wasn't sure how long Midnight would live, he had never seen another unicorn like him before - but of all time. When he had seen the unicorn out in the wild, Sabinian felt his heart tighten in his chest, as if the strings of fate were pulling him to the glorious creature, coat darker than his own hair. It had taken Sabinian months to gain Midnight's trust, but once he had earned it and brought the creature back to the Monastery they were inseparable. He wasn't supposed to have favorites, but Midnight was his absolute favorite of all time.

There was no other unicorn as great as Midnight. No other creature proved to be as willful yet full of compromise, he was both arrogant and yet soft when Sabinian went to him after a hard day. Not even Priscilla dared to tease the unicorn, a mutual, unsaid understanding between the two beings that meant the world to Sabinian - or perhaps Priscilla, too, also knew that Midnight was the favorite.

When Sabinian did turn away from the empty stall, eyes ablaze with a fresh spring vigor, hands turned into fists, he left without worrying about the care of the others. He'd leave it to the others today. Right now, he needed a horse. If Midnight ran off then Sabinian had an idea on where to find him. Back in the woods of where they met, though he doubted that despite how swift footed the unicorn could be he was back there. Maybe he went to the glen to gorge himself on clover, or perhaps he decided to prance about the wild apple orchard. Turned out there could be a lot of places for Midnight to be.

"Syr Osytha, morning, excuse me." He saw the two horses ready, their ears twitching in anticipation. He paused. "Oh, you have Forbitter." His brows were pulled together, pausing in his pursuit. Interesting choice, considering what the horse was known for. Midnight rather liked to stare at him though when he was in his corral and Forbitter was permitted into the pasture. Their little staredowns were a ritual of sorts, one that Sabinian liked to think Midnight always won.
 
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Woman looks a little nonplussed for a second there. Of course she has Forbítter? She needs a horse. Forbítter is a horse. Forbítter is her horse. And he’s perfect. Ergo, she has Forbítter.

Oh, and another horse, too; a dark chestnut rouncey by the name of Evensong. Nice girl; patient, dutiful. Likes to splash around in puddles. Which, you know, isn’t great, even if it’s cute to watch. But it’s meant Osytha has had to treat the poor thing for hoof abscesses a couple of times now. Osytha has always found that Evensong’s temperament makes for a very calming presence. Syr Sabinian could probably use a bit of her magic right now.

Because a little investigation had more or less confirmed her suspicions: tracks, fresh-made in Rootgrot Burrow’s carpets of mosses and liverworts, leading away from the special stables. Of a character indicating a canter, leading up to a gallop once their maker had a clear shot at the exit. Not a safe practice amidst the confines and blind spots of the Burrow — a trained horse and rider would know much better than that. Well. So long as the rider wasn’t Syr Noa in the midst of one of her benders, she supposes.

She’s actually a bit worried about that woman. Osytha’s no stranger to a cheeky pint or two herself, but this level of recklessness has been a growing pattern of Syr Noa’s. She might be using the drink as a bandage for something. Not exactly uncommon amongst the ones in their line of work.

Something to worry about when they get back, she reckons. After they’ve seen to this other matter.

“Syr Sabinian,” she responds, greeting him back with a nod. “That I do — horses ready and at your disposal. As am I.”

Yes, very shameless. But there are limits. Osytha doesn’t know how well suited this unicorn is to the Wyld, if he has the skills he needs to survive out there after all his time in the burrow. And then, of course, there’s the Blight. If he’s headed toward the Vayd of all places… well, there are lots of reasons to get Midnight back, any number of dangers he might fall prey to out there. Osytha may be shameless, but she’s not going to put a creature’s wellbeing on the line just to sate her own curiosity.

“You’ll need a Dusker, and I can head out with you right away. I’m good, I know the Wylds, and I’m here.” She hardly blinks, hardly shows anything on her face; just keeps that stare levelled at Sabinian. Not a hostile gaze, though. Simply an attentive one. “But I’m not the best. If you need that, then I’ll help you find it. I don’t know how long that will take, or who exactly’s available. But I’m not going to try and dissuade you from that option.” Even if I really, really want to help wrangle an actual, live unicorn.

“This is your area of expertise,” she concludes, in that matter-of-fact-voice. “So tell me — how can I assist?”
 
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Dark brows rose in surprise at Syr Osytha's response. Sabinian had been at the Monastery a long time. He did his best to remember names and faces, when a squire turned into a knight, when there was a new field sworn peeking into his stables, and even did his best to remember how people liked to be greeted. Sometimes a wave would be fine, other times a nod, but many did like a 'good morning' or a 'good evening' to feel welcomed. He did not remember what his fellow knights and squires were good at, what horse they preferred, or their last names, if they had them.

He could appreciate someone who took action regardless. Knights could dress horses quickly for many reasons, but there was something about a horse being ready for him during a time of unbearable need.

"I don't need the best right now." He said with a thoughtful cadence, his hand went to his earlobe to play with the set of three silver hoops. Sabinian was looking at Evensong thoughtfully. She was a beautiful horse, the big fat white stripe going down her face was brilliant, complimenting the chestnut and dark hair. Still not as magnificent as Midnight, but magnificent for a horse nonetheless. "But I do need someone with gumption. You have that." I think. The elf smiled. She did get the horses ready. How did she know Midnight escaped?

Sabinian couldn't remember a time he saw her and Syr Noa together. He also thought Syr Osytha looked too serious to hang around the drunkard, but then again, Syr Cymbaline was a serious knight and Syr Noa managed to get her clutches in her. Best to make sure this human woman didn't get swept up in the unlawful machinations of the villainous Noa.

"I haven't told the Captains," He admitted almost sheepishly, going to Evensong to stroke down the white of her face. He smiled as she leaned into his hand. "But we should be back before the sun sets, just in time for supper. You won't tell on me, will you?"
 
That’s curveball number two, now. Osytha keeps her face carefully blank, though she can’t deny being a little taken aback by the elf’s request. Does Syr Sabinian actually mean to keep this from the brass? Sure, sometimes you can, sort of, bend the rules slightly here and there, maybe take a cheeky little shortcut to bypass some of the more onerous and inconsequential steps of formal procedure. Rules, oaths, tenets… they’re good, and Osytha is very glad she and the other Knights live by them. But they’re ideals; simplified codes which can’t always stand up against the chaos and nuance of reality. Sometimes, following the letter of the law means you go against the intent behind it, and Osytha knows which is often the more important of the two.

This is not one of those times.

Not when sweeping this under the rug only endangers Midnight and ignores the growing concern of Syr Noa’s self-medicating tendencies. Surely Syr Sabinian knows that? Man’s reputation had led Osytha to believe he genuinely cares for the beasts that he studies, and judging by his demeanour interacting with Evensong there, that belief might be justified. Osytha doesn’t know what kind of game he’s playing at, or if it even is a game. But experience has since taught the woman that, when you don’t know the rules, the only way to avoid losing is not to play at all.

Besides — she still remembers all of those blether-skites who’d been loitering around the scene earlier. If Syr Sabinian really does think he can stop this getting back to the captains, he’s in for a nasty surprise. All he can do at this point is decide how it happens. So, no, Osytha’s not going to indulge the request. But that doesn’t mean she can’t be diplomatic about it, either.

“No, Syr. I shan’t speak a word,” she tells Syr Sabinian through that poker-face of hers. “No need. Not since you’re already very clearly on your way to report this right now. I’m sure the captains would greatly appreciate being informed of the situation by someone as close to it as Midnight’s official handler, rather than myself. Or,” she adds, and here her tone becomes just a tiny bit pointed, “from anyone else. Syr.”

She hopes Syr Sabinian gets the hint. After all — if Osytha’s already figured it out, odds are that she won’t be the only one. Should the brass hear this from the man himself, they’ll get the best possible overview and be able to make informed decisions. If Osytha reports it instead, they’ll just end up asking her a lot of questions she probably doesn’t have answers to. But either of those are worlds better than the shit-show that’ll go down should the captains only hear of this through the grapevine. Because that doesn’t just look like a cover-up. That is a cover-up.

“Assuming that means I’m coming along, I’d like your permission to enter the special stables while you make that report. And to take something from the premises with us.” Osytha finally breaks eye contact to look down at Guffy there by her heels. He notices that, and rears up happily on his back legs to scrabble at her knee. She smiles softly, cupping the sides of his sweet little face in her hands and giving it a good ruffle. “Some item exclusive to Midnight — a brush, some tack, that kind of thing. If I can get Guffers here familiar with his scent, that could well help bring our runaway back all the sooner. Just in time for supper, as you say.”
 
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The smile that had been flirting with Sabinian's lips fell like a young man that tasted rejection for the first time. It a bittersweet reminder that there were rules, and that Syr Osytha truly was not like that vagabond Syr Noa. At the very least, the woman was kind enough to act as if it were some type of test, as if the six-hundred something year old elf cared for reminding young knights all the lessons they learned as a squire. He liked blaming it on being a fieldsworn knight himself, rules were brought to his attention in a much different way. But rules were still rules.

"Ah, right." Sabinian played with the ornate sleeve of his robe he used to keep himself warm. It was a pretty thing, only practical in it's material and thickness. "I'll report to them." A green glance levied her way, the hint of appreciation in how his brows settled low over his eyes. "And request you to come with, seeing as you have quite the bloodhound on you." The corners of his mouth lifted at her inquiry for permission. With his arm covered in fanciful sleeve he gestured towards his stables.

"Midnight was actually quite fond of his stuffed highland cow toy. It... hasn't been washed in awhile." Not that even if it was washed yesterday would it have kept the mighty Midnight from ruining it as much as he could. "Wear gloves, Syr Osytha." Was his only warning to her. With the nod of his head, Sabinian went to where he knew he should have gone first.

Mulling over the events, Sabinian was left with the decision of what to say, how to explain. He knew there would questions, he knew he'd fight for Midnight to come home as soon as possible with the two knights on the hunt for a runaway unicorn. There was a chance there would be no prodding, no questions about what how or why it happened, how a door was open when it should have been locked. How much truth would he tell them? How much vitriol could he hide? Most importantly, how much time would this take from him finding Midnight?


Sabinian came back not feeling lighter but heavier. He considered the words used, replaying the conversation back in his head. Anger ebbed and guilt rushed in like a wave, only to be pulled back and let the prickly rocks of frustration take over. It had his stomach feeling empty while his gut was heavy. Good thing he was riding instead of walking, but maybe a walk was what he needed more. The sort of sick from eating spicy food the night before was roiling about, little gurgles and burps. He had already used the restroom once, if he used it again for only a sliver of relief he'd feel less like a knight and more like peasant handed a broken pitchfork and told they'd be fighting in a war.

He found Syr Osytha with a hand over his stomach. Sabinian went over to get a length of rope and a harness. He wasn't so barbaric to have Midnight sleep in what he was sure felt like a shackle.

"It's approved. Did you find Mr. Cuddles?"
 
“Wear gloves, Syr Osytha.”

“I’ll find some clean ones right away.” Osytha glances up to the man. “I appreciate it, Syr Sabinian.”

They watch him leave, a little taste of anxiety lingering in the air. Then Osytha looks down at Guffers again.

“Don’t reckon we’ve any in your size there, boyo,” she laments.


* * *​


The mystery of Sabinian’s stables are revealed to Osytha by loch-light, glowing warm and even across the stalls. She sets Guffy down and takes some gloves from her belt, tugging them over hand before going any further in. Sabinian didn’t say if the measure is more so Midnight isn’t put off his favourite toy by having her scent all over it, but it’s a good precaution nonetheless. None of the horses in the main stables appear to have anything communicable that she’s seen, but sometimes the signs aren’t there until it’s already too late. They don’t need to go through all the effort of getting Midnight back safe and sound, just to then have him catch a case of horsepox.

Wait. Can unicorns get horsepox? She’ll have to ask.

Guffers had been a bit trickier. As much as she wishes for it, there’s a distinct lack of tiny little dog-mittens about the place. She usually keeps him outside the actual stalls — for a variety of reasons — so he’d be less likely to carry anything nasty over. But still, she wants to be very mindful of Syr Sabinian’s workspace. So, he’d gotten a brisk little foot-bath instead, which had nonetheless left him trembling down the length of his body and put a very pathetic look in his eye. He wasn’t due a bath just yet; poor little man felt very betrayed.

She had, of course, given him a treat for being Such A Good Boy, Yes You Are. And now all is right with the world once again.

Wary eyes and disgruntled snorts follow the knight as she proceeds down the aisle. She’s a strange shape and unfamiliar scent to these beasts, and if their temperaments at all mirror their more mundane equine cousins, they may be feeling a bit skittish at that. Perhaps Sabinian will prove willing to introduce her to a few of them after all this. Right now she hasn’t the time to waste, nor is she inclined to agitate them further with her unwelcome attentions. She walks on.

It’s not too hard to find. The stall is clearly in use, though now empty. And there, suplexed into the ground by the eastern skirting, is what could, in theory, once have been a stuffed toy, perhaps of some kind of animal, a highland cow being within the realm of possibility. She’s not ruling it out. One could describe the thing as being ‘well-loved’, but only if one had a dubious understanding of the term ‘love’.

Perhaps the gloves weren’t for Midnight’s sake after all.

Osytha un-snecks the latch and steps in. Guffers waits for her outside, because he knows the rules, but immediately scampers through once she gives him the command. She lets him do his thing — no doggy ‘business’ though, just sniffing — and looks around while she waits. Osytha doesn’t just want him to get acquainted with whichever scents are clinging to that toy-thing; she wants him to connect it all together, the smell of Midnight’s hair, sweat, dander, slobber, and his, well, simply put, the creature’s excrement. Especially that, because to a wee doggy’s nose, deposits like that are a flashing neon signpost screaming “I WAS HERE” in the night. He links it all together, and he’ll be able to recognise every single stinky indication of Midnight’s passage.

Osytha wonders if unicorns smell much as horses do, too. Another question for Syr Sabinian later on. Surely he’ll appreciate her interest in the matter.


* * *​


The man of the hour catches them just as Osytha is closing up the stall behind her, leaving everything as she found it. Syr Sabinian doesn’t present too well to her eye. Ill-thriven, with that un-focused sort of gaze people wear when they’re feeling queasy. Can’t have been a pleasant conversation, poor fellow. Still — they’re all better off for it, even if it amounted to little more than “here’s what happened, here’s what we’re doing, here’s how long it should take, and here’s the keys to the wine cellar, make sure Syr Noa doesn’t get her hands on them again.” Organisations such as theirs take a dim view on personnel operating outside of the chain of command to disappear without notice. Before you know it, phrases like “dereliction of duty” and “desertion” start getting bandeyed about, and Osytha would rather they not have to deal with that kind of heat. It might give Sabinian another sad tum tum.

“It's approved. Did you find Mr. Cuddles?”

OK, now she knows the man is messing with her. Osytha can’t imagine what manner of ‘cuddles’ could possibly result in the damage she’d seen, but she’s slowly realising she may soon find out. The dusker presents a wrapped bundle held in the nook of her arm, then peels back one fold of the cloth. A mangled bovine visage stares back at Sabinian.

“Mister Cuddles present and accounted for, syr,” Osytha confirms. That poker-face of hers is getting its toughest workout yet. “Most of him, anyway. All the bits I could find, at the very least. Er… brass mention anything I should know, or are we good to get underway?”
 
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Taut shoulders relaxed enough that no one could accuse Sabinian of having a broomstick up his tush, though his posture matched a royal's nonetheless. He reached for the toy wrapped in swaddling cloth, a corner of his mouth twitching into a crooked smile. One horn had been ripped off completely, the other was chewed half off. Sabinian had spent hours sewing back on its black button eyes, fixing the stitching after it had been restuffed, or sewing back on the felt hooves. The toy was dirty and it smelled, but wrapped up in the swaddling cloth it reminded Sabinian of all the beautiful births he had helped facilitate a safe delivery.

"You know, Syr Osytha, unicorns are much like lambs when they are born. They are so soft that they bruise and bleed very easily. It endangers the newborn as much as the mother, unicorn blood carries far on a breeze." When he wrapped Mr. Cuddles with the swaddling cloth he did so with practiced ease, fingers deftly pulling the fabric in a way that it all tied together without needing a knot. He didn't hold it against is his side or on his hip, instead he cradled it with the arm he used to settle his nervous stomach. Some color returned back to his face, the flush of red outdoing the sickly green that had creeped in. "Of course, certain breeds are too big to be swaddled and held like this." Sabinian looked down at Guffers before looking back at the fellow knight.

"They did." He admitted slowly as if trying to remember their words or piecing together a believable lie. In this case it was to delay the bad news. "By you coming on this mission with me then you are also volunteering yourself to fix up any sort of property damages that Midnight may have caused." Sabinian cleared his throat. "Apparently a report came in recently of a disgruntled yet humble carrot farmer who has been ransacked of quite a few carrots in his gardens. His cabbage patch was trampled over as well."
 
It’s quite a change which seems to come over Syr Sabinian there, as he stares at that revenant cow. Something tender enters the man’s gaze; something which reminds Osytha of a doting parent’s rapt adoration, and she has the feeling he’s looking at more than just Mr Cuddles, more than just in the here-and-now.

“The mothers mun care for their young ’uns a great deal, then,” she remarks as they saunter back to the horses. “I imagine they’d be that gentle, an’ all. ’Twould be quite summat. To witness such a thing, I mean.”

Osytha goes not to Forbítter, but to Evensong first. The rouncey huffs at her, welcoming, as the knight’s hands stroke the sweet girl’s muzzle.

She remembers when Evensong had been foaled. Watching the mother groom down this unsteady little thing, fussing over every inch of her babe. All else in the stables had been so still and quiet, Osytha could even hear a dusk choir echo down from the Great Halls. One of those perfect, timeless moments. She and the other knights had all known then and there what the filly’s name would be.

That brings a soft little smile to Osytha’s face, that memory. It doesn’t falter when Sabinian shares the directive from on high, either; woman just gives Evensong one last affectionate pat before she starts securing Guffers aback of her own saddle.

“Well, I s’pose pineapples¹ are all just part of the job,” she remarks, tucking the dog into his basket. “We’re belike to play at farmer, then? No matter. I was considering a career change, anyway. And I’ve always been partial to a good carrot. Moreso than pineapples, at least in that regard.”

Osytha swings herself up onto Forbítter, and when she looks over at Sabinian, that soft smile has suddenly become an evil little grin.

“’S the tapering,” she confides, matching tone with a conspiratorial wink. “Makes a world of difference.”

Sorry, Sabs. It’s too late to pick someone else now.

Osytha urges her perfect darling prince Forbs into a lumbering gait toward the exit. The steady, shod clop of his gait is pillowed by blankets of moss here, a bed of bracken there; lovers of the cool, shady places, and aided by gentle, persistent loch-light.

“Carrots and cabbages, carrots and cabbages,” she mutters, mostly to herself. Then louder: “… they don’t mean the Ploughman farm a bit sou’east of here, do they? Old Peggy and Simon?” Osytha rubs her chin. “Think I heard they’ve just had another bairn — their seventh, if’n I recall. Bugger. Last thing they need now is a spoiled crop.”

She’ll be more than glad to lend a hand, if so. Mending fences and a spot of yard work… perhaps it’s not the most knightly of work. But also, far from the worst mission Osytha has been on, that’s for certain.


¹ ‘Pineapple’ (verb): to be ‘pineappled’ is to be assigned or volunteered by a superior officer for an odious, or otherwise unenviable, job. You can probably guess which act involving a pineapple is being used for comparison here.
 
"Mothers are always care for their children, always willing to sacrifice," Syr Sabinian agreed. Syr Osytha would be a wonderful travel partner. The elf could tell, it was obvious. The horses liked her, even the spirited ones. He felt certain that Midnight might like her as long as he didn't see her getting off of Forbitter. If he knew about her cleaning her dog he would have been even more elated. Finally, a knight that understood boundaries. A knight that believe in being the sort of knight that would have stories made about them for children to fall asleep, too.

It would be a story about more than heroism. There would be monsters and obstacles to overcome, but a fairytale about manners and modesty. Sabinian liked the old tales, the traditions they held. Noble with a good heart, the sort of man that overcame any trial, who always won in the end. The older tales were awful, heros always suffering for years and years because they angered a wrathful god. Those ones seldom had truly happy endings.

'S the tapering,'

"And smoother," He said, thinking of how even pineapple leaves could give quite the prick.

'Makes a world of difference.'

Sabinian's face fell. Was that a sexual innuendo? The sort Syr Noa liked to make regardless of her level of sobriety. Syr Osytha very much had the sort of smile that he saw often on the hooligan's face. The wink sealed the deal. He sat upon Evenson stiffly, shielding Mister Cuddles from Syr Osytha.

Syr Osytha could be crude. How dreadful.

With a weary sigh as if they had been traveling together for weeks, Sabinian used the reins to get Evensong up the other horses side. He looked over at the Knight, pleased at least that she looked at home in a saddle. Slowly turning his head forward, Sabinian considered the question now that the shock of the joke had worn off. Green eyes were dull with disinterest.

"A seventh," He said with a unimpressed look. The sunlight didn't warm his face, the morning still too early for the heat of the sun. Birdsong was abundant alongside all their flapping about in the trees surrounding them. The Monastery was usually always filled with noise, but it was the pleasant sort. Nothing like screaming children who wiped their snot with a sleeve and coughed in everyone's face. A sharp, icy shiver spread down his spine.

"It must be very loud over there." Sabinian couldn't think of what would be nice to say. 'Congratulations?' That sounded like it would be right but the more that Sabinian thought about Farmer Simon having a seventh child to run amuck, the less that sounded congratulatory and more insidious. Congratulations, another mouth to feed, more sleepless nights, and, oh yes, don't forget to change it's shit-stained diaper. The Knight of Dawn would have rather said 'I'm sorry' and give the farmer a reassuring hand on the shoulder, perhaps even pretend to care about the lamentations of fatherhood.

He did smile at the thought of Midnight gorging himself on carrots before being disrupted by the bawling child. Midnight, the adorable little narcissist, would have destroyed the cabbages as revenge before trotting off with his head held high in the air. Sabinian cleared his throat, smile disappearing. That was not a knightly thought.

"We'll need to assess the damage while we're there, though I expect Simon to follow us around everywhere and point at everything wrong, even if it was that way before Midnight arrived. I could never soften Simon to like Midnight. Or myself. I did scold him quite a bit when he was a boy. But he was a troublemaker, was always trying to come in the Monastery despite never asking for permission."
 
For a moment there, seems like Syr Sabinian is joining in on the joke. But, no; when Osytha sneaks a sidelong glance to gauge his reaction, the other knight mostly just looks uncomfortable. Well — good to know. Nothing like a little recon by force to get a feel for your opponent, and now she has some idea of where to draw the line.

Not that it’s going to stop her teasing the man, mind you. But there’s no call to go making things weird.

“It must be very loud over there.”​

Osytha considers this. The eldest two of the Ploughman brood, Jimmy and Alice, are about fifteen and thirteen respectively, and both spend a lot of time working the farm. But most of the sprogs have yet to see past their tenth summer, and have that relentless, curious energy that’s common to young children the world over. Whenever Osytha pops around she usually has to fight her way through at least two wrestling matches, another couple impromptu stick-sword fights, and a litany of quizzes on every subject under the sun, all before she’s even set foot in the door. No questing Knight in any grand old tale has ever had to face so many, and so taxing, a series of trials as those which await on the path up to yon Ploughman homestead.

“You don’t ken the half of et,” Osytha replies.

They could probably make a beeline straight for the farm. Osytha certainly knows the way well enough to do so. But for now, out in the grey morn with roselight brushing the tips of distant bergs, Osytha’s first instinct is to guide Forbítter across the wide field east of Astenvale Monastery, following that trail of hoof-prints cut deep into the turf. Unless anyone actually saw Midnight with their own two eyes over at the farm, going straight there is a bit premature. They don’t want to arrive only to discover the damage was caused by boar or some such, and that their so-called shortcut is nothing less than a costly detour.

Osytha is about to ask as much when Sabinian goes on about Simon as boy. She actually lets out a bark of laughter, hearing that.

“He sounds just like I were as a lass!” Osytha roars. “If I’d but grown up down the road, not a power alive could’ve kept me out the monastery. Belike I’d have been just as insufferable, too — no, scratch that, I were that insufferable. I kens et.” She scratches her neck, a little awkwardly. “Hopefully, it stops at ‘were’…”

That flash of sheepishness is soon forgotten, though, on such a gorgeous morning as this. Cool, and clear, with everything smelling fresh and green from the crisp dew. Osytha takes a deep, satisfying breath of that air, and feels its invigorating chill spread its tendrils inside.

“Doubt you need fret about ol’ Simon any more.” Osytha checks on Guffers behind her; boy is still tucked in snug and warm, with but a little black nose peeking out from beneath the woollen blanket. Like hers, it’s twitching away as it tastes the breeze. “Wi’ six — eyah, seven, beg pardon — bairns to mind? Man seems to spend more time stoppin’ trouble than he does mekkin et these days. ’Course, weddin’ Peggy Miller helped some an’ all. Woman’s allus had a good head on her shoulders, by all accounts.”

Syr Sabinian hardly sounded like he was thrilled by any of the prospects awaiting them at the Ploughman’s. That is, if Midnight is actually the culprit there. But, if so, perhaps Osytha can take one for the team; give the fellow one thing fewer to vex over.

“Them Ploughman tykes, mind you — they’re a handful, reet enow. ’S like gettin’ swarmed by midges. If’n you don’t much care to be so plagued, Guffers an’ I can wrangle the bairns, keep them out your hair while you discuss business wi’ the adults. Or if’n the thought of bein’ henpecked by ol’ Simon appeals even less, we could do it the other way round.” Osytha’s gaze scans up and down, threading along the tracks as they disappear into the grass. “Supposin’ it even comes to that, mind you. Did we actually get a confirmed sightin’ of our Midnight over yonder umbellifer and brassica tillage?”
 
Evensong managed to get one step ahead of Forbitter, propelled by Sabinian's unsaid duty. Field Sworn of the Wylds, Sabinian had a soft spot for any creature and in return they also seemed to get along well with him. His talents always lied within the wild beauty of the equine beasts. Sure, they were his favorite, but they were also where his talents and skills lied. He placed blood, sweat and tears into the study of them, wishing to know them more intimately than anyone ever could. Especially unicorns, oh those wonderful, ethereal creatures. Gentle yet strong, sensitive yet bold, shy yet short-tempered - the true essence of femininity. Surely Evensong felt this beneath him and it gave her courage to hasten her step.

"I suppose we are all mischievous in our youth," Sabinian said thoughtfully, glancing at Syr Osytha and giving her a gentle look, a hint of fondness there. Forbitter liked her after all, and she had gotten horses ready for him and her. She had even reminded him in his clouded mind that he was missing important steps in this rescue mission. "You are not insufferable, Syr Osytha." Even with the crude joke, yes, Syr Osytha was.... "Anything but that, even in your youth now."

Shoulders began to hunch forward as she reminded the elf how many tiny terrors there were, again. Back curling like a shrimp, he looked as dreadful as he felt, thinking about all those kids. Sabinian inclined his head towards Syr Osytha. Brows raised high, eye wide. There was a shimmer to them now, the sort of sheen dogs got when giving puppy eyes for a treat.

"You'd suffer -- " Cough, "I mean, you'd do that for me?" Syr Osytha would protect him from those rumpusing children who surely would want to get their sticky hands all over his clean clothes and long hair. If they weren't on horses, he could grasp her hand between both of his and promise her that she ever needed anything -- absolutely anything -- he would do it to return this gracious favor of her. The joke she had made not long ago was quickly being swept to the back of his mind, would soon be forgotten if she kept it up.

"Ah, no sighting is confirmed." Glittering green eyes were turned towards the road. Sabinian knew Midnight well. He'd wish it were more likely that Midnight had ventured straight into the Vale. "But this wouldn't be the first time he went into a garden. I am hopeful that Midnight left his mark well enough to show us where to go next. The early morning dew should be enough for a hoofprint or two in the carrot patch." Evensong's ears perked towards Sabinian. So she liked carrots. He'd remember that for later.

"Of course, your animal companion might be able to sniff Midnight out." Sabinian cleared his throat. "I believe you told me before, the pup's name is Guffaw?" The Knight clearly wasn't sure. "Or... Guppy?" Guppy sounded like a cute name for a dog, but still it didn't sounds quite right. "Forgive me, I may have forgotten. I've always been more inclined to cats."
 
“You’d suffer — I mean, you’d do that for me?”​

“Easy, tiger.” Osytha gives Syr Sabinian a look halfway between surprise and amusement. “They’s just bairns. But aye, I’ll mind the tykes if’n that would be a help. In truth, I don’t minds ’em so much.”

I believe you told me before, the pup’s name is Guffaw? Or... Guppy? Forgive me, I may have forgotten. I’ve always been more inclined to cats.​

“Aye, yon dear Priscilla pays us a visit every now an’ then in the stables. Sweet little thing. Gets on well wi’ the ’orses.” Osytha reaches out and gives Forbítter’s neck an affectionate rub. “Even this ’un, ill-tempered sod that ’e can be.”

In truth, Forbs doesn’t actually seem to care one way or the other about Syr Sabinian’s cat. But at least there are no outright acts of malice on his part, which for him, counts as getting along swimmingly.

“You were quite close wi’ the name there,” she continues to say. “Just ’ad to split the diff’rence. An’, aye, Guffy ’ere can ’elp sniff out your Midnight if’n we lose the trail by sight. Reight now, wi’out a confirmed sightin’ at the Ploughman’s, I’m inclined to follow these prints a while further to be sure. But et’s your call, syr. Either way — I’ve tracked worse wi’ less, so, I en’t too worried.” Though, she glances up from the trail to give Sabinian a little nod. “Which is not to say Guffers an’ I intend on laikin’ aht, either.”

That little nose perks up at mention of his name — still just a dark snout peeking out from the folds of his cosy plaid blanket. Osytha absent-mindedly reaches back to double-check his harness is secure, and gets a few slobbery kisses on her wrist there.

“E’s that popular wi’ yon Ploughman bairns an’ all, so between us, we’ll ’ave no trouble keepin’ the wee devils off your back.” Then, a bit of that evil grin re-surfaces, and she leans forward. “‘I suppose we are all mischievous in our youth’ — is that reight? Well, by way of thanks for my selfless sacrifice, per’aps you can tell me what sort of ’ell our young Sabinian raised back in the day. Break a heart or twa, did you? Rise to a few clandestine duels, ’appen? No, wait… I reckon you was a bush ranger type. Skirmishin’ against wicked barons, protectin’ yon Wylds and unicorns from the woodsman’s axe. I’m right, en’t I?”
 
Guffy. He'd be sure to remember the name. Sabinian was a Field Sworn of Dawn, trained fully in the way of the Wylds. He didn't have the knack that some Knights did in being able to directly communicate with animals. He was jealous of the sort that could, like Syr Noa who was always talking to her pet tiger, Ne. All Sabinian heard were chuffs and growls and roars, but Syr Noa could make sense of that and the twitching whiskers and tail flicks. He couldn't read Guffy's mind now, but as he watched the pup lift its head to Osytha's hand, he thought that there wasn't a need to understand all creature's in ways of mortal speech.

Sometimes a nuzzle or a lick meant more than a thousand common or Elvish words. He was also glad that he could not fully read Priscilla's mind. She could be quite the devil when she wanted to be. It was best to not think of what went on in her head.

"It seems our furry friends are more acquainted than we are. A shame. I should pay more attention to those that Priscilla and Midnight likes. They've always been good judges of character."

How was he like when he was young? Sabinian didn't think about it often. He was old, he was just lucky that his knees hadn't started creaking yet.

"I was raised by humans in Unicorn Bay." Sabinian said, "Simple farmers. There was a goat and five chickens. A stubborn mule that wanted to sleep all day. I had a older brother and a older sister. I didn't learn how to read and write until I was one hundred and fifteen, I think. Around that time, it was after I left my home alone and immediately got mugged in the first big city. A scholar took pity on me." Sheepishly, he looked at Syr Osytha.

"Apologies, what I consider to be my youth is longer than you'll ever live. I wish I could say I was the sort of elf that was some Slyvan effigy, at home in nature, able to speak to flowers from the petals to the roots. I didn't quite care for the chickens or the goat although I did care for them. I didn't realize our mule's woes. I would have stayed inside all day baking and cooking with my adopted Mother if she had allowed me. I didn't much like the work that men had to do in that village, the glaring sun, the dry air, the smell of feces. Smoke and sugar felt more like home. And at the Scholar's I fell in love with the smell of ink and parchment, glass on windows and dark brown drapes to keep the sun and outside away.

"It wasn't until I went to the Monastery that they taught me the way of the Wylds. It was a seed inside me that I had carelessly tossed into hard, dry soil in my youth. Many of my teachers are gone, but they nurtured that Wyld seed. They dug deep behind that cracked earth of sullen disposition, until the soil was dark and rich and ready to change. They watered it with crystal clear teachings, explaining away the confusion of large textbooks. They nurtured me with love and care, even when I tried to fight back because I was scared."

Sabinian was smiling. Perhaps that was his youth, unlearning his stubbornness and fears, to become acquainted with compromise and bravery. He was not a true knight in the way he saw the Pursuants or Captains. Not because he was a Field Sworn instead of Knight Sworn, but because he had not been born with the Knight's Spirit. He believed in those stories, that even a mouse could become a Knight if their heart was true and their soul good.

"Syr Osytha, I hope," He had turned towards her again, his face neutral, but his eyes were shiny as the sun moved higher in the sky. Evensong nickered. "You understand when I say I am jealous of you. It's the good sort of jealousy. The sort that makes you realize when you're missing something." Sabinian nodded his head to his own words. Yes, he was missing something. It was only to be expected, being six hundred and then some.
 
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