Ione

Ione

ill fated; cursed
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They would soon come up to just over an hour before reaching Sumu before Ione slowed her mare. She whipped her head to stare at @Volmar and could not help but narrow her eyes at him. Reputation surrounding him had never sat well with her, but now she was to work with him. To make right of a wrong, to free those that were taken advantage of.

Ione, armed in every way of a knight, sharpened her steel. Prepared to address him after hours of barely conversing.

"We are getting close. Soon we will need to go on foot and take reconnaissance." It had been the plan she spoke of early in their journey, practically mimicking the words of the Captain that briefed them. Assess, determine, execute. Ione would do all she could to free and bring salvation to the villagers of Sumu. The Sightless were a plague, one she would like to see brought to flames and crumble to ash.

Ione reached for her waterskin, pulling out the stopper and brought the drink to her lips. She only took small sips, enough to keep her mouth from feeling dry. After she returned it to attach to her belt, she wiped her glove over her mouth. "Perhaps," she continued, trying to smooth away any wrinkles of annoyance she held for him, "we take a short break now before we continue onward."
 
And a pleasantly tranquil few hours’ silence it had been. Volmar was happy enough while it lasted, being the sort who prefers no talk at all over forced, idle chatter. He’d but watched the scenery shift past as they’d slowly, but surely, followed the land’s descent from low hills and grassy pastures, down into flat, muddy plains of marsh.

What a miserable place.

Great swathes of bog, too drowned to sow crops, but oh how the locals have tried. Dusk and Dawn had passed some overly-optimistic fields already, and even Volmar knew those stalks of corn didn’t look right. Stunted, leaf-burned things, home to swarming black clouds of midges. Whatever the peasants could grow here was enough to scrape by, but not much more than that.

By all accounts, Sumu had been a shithole even before Syr Hector burned half of it down. Now, though? Volmar wouldn’t be surprised if it ends up being the saddest, sorriest, most wretchedly depauperate settlement that he’s ever seen. And that’s coming from someone who’s lived next door to the Sink.

He’s quite looking forward to it. The Sumu experience promises to be singularly ugly, and ugly things are interesting.

“We are getting close. Soon we will need to go on foot and take reconnaissance.”​

Volmar answers with a single nod, his gaze not turning away from the vista of sprawling peat and muddy channels at his side. “The report mentioned there are some woods bordering the village,” he remarks, casually. “Good cover. There’s also a small hill overlooking Sumu. It’s exposed, but mirrorsilk should be enough keep us hidden at distance. We’ll have the best vantage point from atop that.”

Another nod at Syr Ione’s suggestion of a quick stop, only this time, he’s jerking his head toward the grizzled, drooping boughs of a willow stand about forty yards off the so-called track.

“There?” Volmar suggests. They’ll probably have no hope of hiding hoofprints in this increasingly soft ground, but it still beats potentially being caught out in the open while they finalise the particulars of their approach.

Volmar is curious about that, as well. Specifically, Syr Ione’s thoughts on how to tackle the sticky situation of Sightless sympathisers. Truth is, this is their first mission of real significance together, and despite over a decade of them technically sharing the halls of Astenvale Monastery, Volmar hasn’t had much opportunity to get a read on the woman. Some long postings on his part to the Planter Barracks in Crown’s Hold hasn’t much helped matters there.

Still — it’s not that he hasn’t paid attention, as such. He’s watched her as he watches all his fellows, when the opportunity presents itself. Read up on mission reports. Observed her honed skills at the training grounds. Listened when she’s cropped up in conversion, and carefully remembered what was said. Eavesdropped a little on some rowdy gatherings upon the Knoll in which she’s partaken, when they’ve happened to be drinking neighbours. Then, after the socialising eventually burns Ione out and leaves her all pensive, when she makes her excuses and wanders off… occasionally, he’ll depart as well. Watch from afar as she visits the wishing well. Year after year, she keeps returning to that place. Sometimes seemingly to ponder its depths, other times, just to rest against its bricks and close her eyes. By far the least eventful instances of Ione-watching, and yet strangely enough, the most interesting; to see the person who emerges when she finally believes herself alone.

So, you know. Just the same kind of attention he pays to most everyone. Volmar’s impression of Syr Ione thus far is that she’s highly skilled, dedicated, reliable, and morally sound. A textbook example of an exemplary Knight. Wholly ordinary, in other words; about as boringly well-adjusted as they come.

Or so it would be easy to assume. Yet, he doesn’t believe one makes it to Pursuant entirely on ‘ordinary’.

Will I see something else on this mission? he muses, guiding his steed along to follow Ione’s lead. And I wonder, too. What is it that keeps drawing you back there…?
 
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Ione's gaze followed where his head motioned, and looking past him, she saw the weep of a willow that offered shelter from the road. It was as good as any place to collect themselves, to rest after the hours of riding and ensuring they were not being followed. Ione had insisted on keeping high vigilance, that they both would be safe.

She steered her mare towards the brush, the earth not becoming any firmer in this environment, but at least they would not be seen. Her hand lifted, reaching for the draping of leaves and parting the curtain lest the true weight of it knocked her off her horse. It would have been something to laugh about, but she did not feel as if she were in company that would have that sort of humour. Ione barely knew anything of Volmar, but what she had heard and then saw with her own observations... her instinct was to be on the defensive. To be wary.

With that thought, she turned her head, spotting him in her peripheral as she passed through the willow leaves. Before they fell back into place, their eyes locked.

She dismounted, leading her horse towards a low hanging branch where she secured the reins to it.

"You have enough rations?" Ione's voice was neutral, forced to remain that way. She had put herself on edge, and it was easier to blame it on Volmar and not her own fear of what they may find in the aftermath of what happened in Sumu.

What if this was a problem they could not fix? That she would fail at this?
 
Volmar swings down out of the saddle, his black riding boots squelching between knee-high tufts of cottongrass as he leads his horse toward those willows. Aschevüerri is a proud dongola stallion, near sixteen hands tall, black with white sabino markings splashed up his legs, belly, and face. He gives the dawnling an appreciative huff against his neck, happy to be freed of his master’s weight for the time being, and they follow Ione to disappear behind the low-bent screen of weeping willow.

A sudden reprieve of green-tinted shade, sheltering them from the glare and sun outside. The air isn’t too bad; fresh enough, for marshland anyway, its muddy pong subdued by almost seaweed-and-pine notes from fresh-trod peat moss. Once he’s got his own horse likewise hitched, Volmar takes a little feed out for the beast. He’s busy affixing Asche’s nosebag in place when the dusker’s voice presses at his back.

“You have enough rations?”​

One final tug-tug of a strap, and Volmar glances impassively back over his shoulder at the other Knight-Pursuant.

A stern sort of lazuli gaze is waiting for him there, dimmed and tealed some by their willowshade’s palette. Winnowed flecks of noonday sun dance through, lazily lighting up her brazen cascade of locks — a solitary splash of warm reddish-gold amidst these colder greens and blues. Ione is one of those people graced with a naturally soft cast to her features. In repose, her face is the kind of soulful, ethereal visage which artists seem to spend their careers chasing; something so delicate that it can only live inside the perfect nuance of a few innocuous brushstrokes. However, much of that serenity is gone now. Her countenance is instead hardened by something akin to worry or annoyance as she beholds Volmar.

He’s noticed Ione has been making that expression quite a lot while in his presence.

Is it the stress of this mission? Understandable, for one who agonises over things like morals, as he suspects Syr Ione does. Yet, her looks of ire often seem directed. And whether he’s truly the cause or simply an outlet, either way, that fretful blue gaze will find its way to Volmar. She’s probably aware of his reputation, and has been pre-empting a certain kind of abrasive company. That happens a lot. He supposes that’s also understandable — it’s not like the dawnling hasn’t heard what people say about him. He pays attention, after all.

Sometimes it’s fun to subvert expectations. Crank up the affability, watch confusion bloom behind someone’s eyes, and later hear that person’s voice rise to contend those much less charitable mutterings about Volmar’s person. But Ione has already been working herself into such an irritable tizzy that it seems a shame not to take advantage.

Besides, if she’s expecting the worst of him… who is he to prove her wrong?

I wonder, thinks he, staring into those bright, apprehensive blue eyes, what sort of face you make when you’re truly angry?

Volmar blinks at her. “Rations,” he repeats back in a deliberate, flat tone. “That’s what your worried about?”

He turns back to his saddlebags, fishing out a hoof pick, and steps to the beast’s shoulder. Leans forward slightly so he can rub the horse’s foreleg insistently, after which Asche lifts the limb and presents the underside of his hoof.

“It’s as you said, syr,” Volmar continues on while he inspects for lodged debris. “We’re close to our destination. If I’m wanting for anything, I’ll just take it from the village.” He sniffs, in a disparaging sort of manner. “Though I don’t have high hopes about the quality. Of Sumu’s fare, or otherwise.”
 
That flare of irritation reared it's head inside her, her gaze searing into him even if her face remained unchanged. She stiffened, not in pause, but as if she were holding herself back.

"Are you truly going to dismiss our cause so soon?" Ione shook her head, scoffing derisively as she began to look through her saddle bag for something, anything, that may give her purpose in this moment. She could not help herself, for having hope that some good could come from this and she refused to have him ruin her expectations.

Her hand found two round shapes, fingers flexing and curling around to retrieve the soft fruit. Two apples. One for her, one for her mare. Tending to her horse was a good way to distract her, to not have to look at him now that they had stopped riding. Volmar had taken up the rear, much to her delight, and thus Ione did not feel the need to strike up conversation in those hours. Now? It was facing her own nature, being unable to help herself and engage.

Once her horse took the first apple, there was no hesitation as she offered the second one. The horse took it happily, and Ione watched and listened as she crunched and chewed.

"No, you will not take from the village." She peered at him over her shoulder, eyes narrowed without a doubt. "Not unless the people of Sumu give offering. We are Knights, we are there to help them." As much as they could be helped, but saying that, giving it voice... it made her feel hopeless.
 
“Why, that almost sounded like an order.” A short, sure flick, and out flies a pebble to land amidst some gnarled old roots. “I don’t believe you out-rank me, Syr Ione,” Volmar adds, continuing on to Asche’s rear leg. “But I do believe reconnoitring and assaulting an enemy position falls within the realm of conventional warfare, which makes it the purview of Dawn — so, the decision of what we do with Sumu ultimately rests with me.”

The man doesn’t raise his voice, nor show any expression besides a mild interest toward the contents lodged in his horse’s hooves. Volmar but speaks with the unaffected, off-hand tone of someone who knows they are simply, completely, in the right.

“I’ll listen to any recommendations you have, of course. Though if you recall, our primary directive is to neutralise the Sightless presence there. Granting aid to Sumu is of secondary concern.” The dawnling finishes on that side of his horse, and circles round to the other. But instead of resuming his inspection just yet, Volmar instead lifts his dark gaze up to meet Ione’s. “A question for you first, syr. Supposing we find ourselves in a position to do so… what makes you think the people of Sumu will actually want our ‘help’?”
 
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In this moment, she knew what it felt like to seethe. To have calmness and rage wage war within herself, to put herself at odds with what words to speak amongst the maelstrom of taking power for herself. Because Volmar was right. His truth said simply, plainly, and she had nothing to triumph over him.

When his eyes met her own, she hoped he saw something dangerous.

Ione was the first to look away. She hated that he was right. That he recalled their objective for what it was, and that her need to help, to fix...

Hells, Volmar would probably let her try. Watch her try something out of desperation, to liberate those in Sumu... but she had seen what those of blind faith would do for the Sightless.

"Do we not owe it to them to try? To reason with them?" The copper haired knight turned away. She had forced those words through gritted teeth, knowing her outlook for this mission may not work, but she would not strip herself of her thoughts.

Ione closed her eyes. She thought of a body of water, the wishing well, and calmness washed over her. The effect of the Loch was gentle, easing Ione's shoulders. She had not realised the tension she carried until she was reminded of the way she held herself.

"Is it wrong of me to want that?" Ione did not turn back to watch him. It was better to pretend he was not there, not when he was out of sight... but she knew her hopes were foolish. She could hear him keeping busy while they sought respite beneath the willow.
 
Volmar retorts at first with silence. Tilts his head ever so slightly and simply watches Ione seek her inner peace, reminiscent in a way of those times he’s seen her at the wishing well. Of times when she’s re-emerge from the brooding evergreens verging on Astenvale, when the forest seems to have called to her instead.

He wonders if he can break it, that serenity of hers. Is it fragile, like a bird’s bones? Does it bend like a green bough? Or is it cast iron; all unyielding strength until it’s suddenly not, cracking apart so perfectly along some lurking fault?

“‘Owe’.” Again, that flat tone… but then it lifts with the bright sound of Volmar’s laughter. “Maybe so. I daresay the people of Sumu are owed a great many things.”

Pat, pat, squeeze, and Asche dutifully lifts another leg for maintenance. The horse lets out a low huff, eager to be done with his pedicure. Out in the marshes, a redshank’s high, trilling, staccato cry is carried on a lonely gust of wind, which makes the willow’s tendrils sway drowsily around them. The air smells for a moment more of acrid brown water, before the softer scent of sphagnum slowly creeps back up.

… Volmar stares for a second, to that shifting, lace-like willow screen and the glimpse of brighter meadows beyond. “Last time the order was here,” he says, a little distantly, “Syr Hector’s weaving burned half the village down. Mothers and fathers, sons and daughters; scarred, crippled. Killed. I don’t know if you’ve ever watched people trapped in a fire, Syr Ione. It is a singularly horrific fate.”

He’s staring at the sweeping fronds, yes. And also past them, to something separated by more than mere distance. Until that second is over, and he sets his eyes downward to the waiting hoof.

“You speak of what is ‘owed’. If they’re owed anything, surely justice is on that list. The mob which came for Hector probably thought as much.” Poke, hook, flick — thud. Volmar releases that leg, and gives Asche a comforting rub along his withers before proceeding to the final foot. “So then, syr. If that’s what Sumu still wants, will you give it to them? Bring them Syr Skykiller in chains, or perhaps offer up yourself in his stead? Or will you say ‘no’ — that you get to decide for them just what it is they’re owed?”
 
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