Private a Bannerless Gaggle

[kristofer]

Somewhere in The Grenns​

Past gangly old canopies budding with leaves, shone the pale and all too bright Sun of a late morning. On an island of barely elevated ground stood an old stone Lodge, its grey walls steaming as the night slowly evaporated to the warming day. The bogs were beginning to stink.

Even the comely fucks in my dreams smell like farts off an old man’s arse — Midstride through the external stairway, Marshal Hållfast scrunched up his face against both the stench and the blasted light, directing his stare at the yard below. Then the palisades and further yet, into the mist above the flooded wetland. Boardwalks trailed off to distance, pathways of grey timber the only thing keeping a man from the ground that’d swallow him whole.

His boots gave a sickening squelch as he landed on the well-beaten mud of the yard. Plenty men were out and if not turned to their myriad tasks, openly idling about cooking fires. They burned low and gave out a great amount of opaque smoke, struggling through wet tinder. None even roused at the sight of him, too used to his squinty glare that gave him the general look of someone hard of seeing. Or, alternatively, a man perpetually constipated.

Both the makings of an angry geezer, as was this gaggle of relatively new faces they’d gotten out here — deserters, refugees and their escorts. A managerial nightmare. Begrudgingly, he halted in the midst of the yard and pocketed the slip of paper he’d held onto, one picked off a pidgeon’s foot not five minutes earlier. His irritable attention fell to rest upon an absurdly tall and broad figure not some thirty paces away, now come clearer from the smokes and the men that milled about, pretending to be busy.

What in the eight Hells —

“ You. “ He pointed at the bearded man, launching to approach in a brisk march. “ Who— “
“ Oh— that’s Ser Gregor, Sir. “ A young lad hassled in to the big man’s side, positively beaming. It quickly wilted under Hållfast’s glare, which didn’t relent, but gained a new sort of deadly quality.

“ I mean, Marshal — Hållfast — “ The boy hastily corrected, unable to continue as the Marshal merely blinked. Almost taken aback.
“ Do I know you? “
“ Artem, sir — Marshal. We’ve— “
“ Thank you, Artem. “ He nodded, deadpan. “ Now, fuck off. I’m talking to him— “ A quick hand toss indicated the actual target of his interest. “ Not you. “

Unlike he’d hoped, the lad wouldn’t leave. Instead, he remained hovering at his post like his life depended on it. Marshal Hållfast craned his neck a little, appraising what he’d deduced to be some sort of a knight. That suit of armour set not two steps away hadn’t escaped anyone’s notice. Explains that damn warhorse in the stables too, don't it?

“ We don’t get many knights here, Ser Gregor. “ He started, tone with a tinge of put on laziness, lest anyone assume the large man should’ve intimidated him. In truth, he didn’t know what he felt, staring up at him from this close of a range.

“ This insufferably loud lad your squire or something? “

Or just some personal jester? His head cocked at Artem, who thankfully remained silent this time around.

 

[Gregoryan A. Archambeau]

War - the currency of men and women playing chess with lives as pieces. The currency that left a bitter taste in your mouth as you saddled up again, and again, turning your horse's snout to face the next conflict. The wear and tear on the body that left you sore for days with bruises you didn't remember getting, in places you didn't remember having. The cries of the peasants called out for someone to answer, for someone to carry their standard.

A road weary Gregory, tired of bandits, could not resist the call. The drive to make a difference, to bring a quantifiable change and to uphold the tenets of chivalry. There could be no greater calling for a hedge knight. And so he had cinched the saddle straps, secured provisions and road forth, his guide the cries and tales of peasants, their laments the forging fire by which his ire grew.

His journey further north, the landscape shifting from grass to swamp and bog, was mostly solitary. The clop of metalshod hooves his only accompaniment save the jingle of chainmail or groan of metal as he shifted on the saddle. His path eventually led him to run into a group of weary men of fighting men trudging deeper into the light mist that seemed to hug the vision and cloy the senses.

The wet grass began to sink and at a panicked neigh from Steadfast, he slid from the saddle and guided the warhorse on to the firmer footing of the wooden planks, marking routes to destinations only the builders knew. Still, he curled his fingers around the leadstrap and followed the men. One foot in front of the other, the only salvation of the mist was the absence of the sun's harsh, demanding rays on his neck.

Shadows had him lifting pale blue eyes to view the palisade walls as he followed the men inside. Pantomimed gestures led him to a stable where he paid for feed and board for his horse - for what is a knight without a steed.

His mount seen to, he sought out the leader of the men, a gruff seeming sergeant who had to crane his neck and bite back the retort on his tongue at the sight of the towering warrior. He was quick to point out a spot where the giant man could set up his tent and another finger led him to a mess tent where the laughter and chatter of voices juxtaposed over the otherwise somber holdings of the lord he found himself in.

Days blurred as he trained, cleaned his armor and honed the edge of his bastard blade. During that time he had acquired a shadow, an unsanctioned squire, but one who seemed so genuine, the large man had been unable to decline.

It was no surprise when the Lord came calling, his presence easy to spot as the hushed voices ebbed and flowed as he came and went among them. Gregory was used to small men, vile men and those worthy of being called lord. This man seemed lost somewhere between the three and a large hand came up to rest on Artem's shoulder, reassuring him as pale blue eyes seemed to look through the Marshall.

He opened his mouth and with well practiced ease, proceeded to convey with actions what he could not in words. He gave the Lord a slight bow at the waist, pantomimed speaking his name and title though no words came forth and finally revealed the horrific scarring that made him mute, the skin still filled with dips and valleys cut through with a long jagged line that weaved unevenly through the hills.

His fake speech and presentation ended, he clapped Artem on the back, pushing the younger man forward slightly and indicated him with a nod of his chin. There was an unspoken vouch for the youths weight when speaking for him with the action.

 

[kristofer]

Not a word, but instead a whole lot of gestures, even the reveal of what remained of some sort of injury. And still, what surprised Marshal Hållfast the most, was that damn bow. Not once in his life had anyone bowed down in front of him — had it not been so terribly absurd come from a knight who outranked him in title and height both, he may have even been flattered.

Awkward amusement tackled the frown off his face, if only until his eye fell back upon the boy. Thrust forward so unceremoniously, Artem couldn’t but stare back, smiling sheepishly. Hållfast huffed out a sigh, scratching at the stubble about his chin.

“ Mute, huh. That complicates things. “
“ Does what— Sir, not to overstep, but I once knew a man who— “
“ First Scout Gilbert! “ The Marshal called, effectively interrupting before the child go on any further. Another second of this blather and I’m going to have to walk in the swamp myself.

“ Aye. “ Came answer, some twenty paces away. A man rose from where he’d been hunched over fletchings and bowstring, if still having eavesdropped plenty fine like nigh everyone else in the vicinity. He looked older than he sounded, tan skin rough and pockmarked about the cheeks, his dark hair having receded and turned grey at the temples. It was cropped relatively short, though just like the rest of him, from loosely buckled brigandine to worn cloak, he had a type of unkempt and wild quality to it. Akin to an abandoned yard, overgrown to the point you could no longer tell what it used to be.

And despite what must’ve been a rather hard life, the man smiled and sauntered over, leisurely as if the call had been a suggestion.

“ Marshal. “ He greeted Hållfast, then flicking a twofinger salute off his brow at the voiceless man.” Ser Gregor. “
“ Do you know this man? “ Hållfast queried the First Scout, who cocked his head in an inspectorial squint, hands on his hips. His crowsfeet remained, that residual easy joy about the look.
“ No. But he sure seems a knight to me. The horse, the armour, the works — “ His dark eyes indicated one after the other, then traveling the man’s tall frame up and down. “ Too pretty to behold. Like looking in the mirror. “

The First Scout winked, smile spreading wider to reveal the gaps in his teeth where both upper canines were missing. Alongside, Hållfast’s expression grew evermore sour.

“ Don’t know about credentials though— “
“ Have you heard of Arrowdale? He was there. “ Artem butted in, taking a step towards the First Scout, clearly emboldened by the man’s kind disposition. Gilbert’s brows arched, wrinkling his forehead something awful.
“ Really? “ His stare fell back on the knight, newly curious. It narrowed in quick succession, like he was excavating a memory. “ Now that you mention— “
“ What happened there. “ Hållfast asked, voice steady and unmatching the enthusiasm about the other two marshlanders. Gilbert gave a knowing snicker.

“ Well, the story tells there was a hillfort of a knight, who chucked a guy at a wagon so hard— “
“ He exploded. “ Artem chimed in, eyes wide and fingers spreading in a gesture. Bobbing his head, Gilbert blew out a puff.
“ Into red mist. They only found the bastard’s shoes. “

There was a lull, all staring at one another, then at the knight. Two out of three were concerningly approving, but not Hållfast. His mouth was lightly ajar, not believing but neither disbelieving. The man is fucking huge, that's for sure.

“ What in the Devils am I to do with a man like that? “
“ I don’t know. “ Gilbert gave a well-mannered shrug. “ Talk about him over some wine? Lads and ladies both love the story. “
“ Do you have any men to spare? “
“ Can’t say that I do, m’lord. “ It was with a little bow of the head, harking back to the knight’s disproportionate show of respect. Hållfast looked about as thrilled as any man who’d just smelled a cartload of shit.

“ Take him to the Baron. You’ve your rounds yet, no? “ He ordered suddenly, turning on heel to leave at once. Lest someone object or say something clever. Too early to pull off men’s fingernails.
“ Yes and very much so, Sir. “ Gilbert affirmed, all cheer as he rotated to face the fabled Ser Gregor proper.

“ Don’t talk much, huh — “He slapped the man’s large arm with the palm of his hand. “ We’ll get along just fine, you and me. As long as you’ve no issue with my singing — Keeps the marsh wives at bay, you see. “ It’s like sirens at sea, but uglier.

“ Will we be going right now? “ Artem stepped betwixt the men, staring up at Ser Gregor. The safer option as it came to getting his way.
“ You are going nowhere. “ The First Scout clasped the boy’s shoulder, firm. “ Your mother will drown me in the swamp if she hears I let you go. “
“ But— “
“ But nothing. “ His smile had disappeared, just to hammer in the point. The boy’s expression wilted evermore, like he’d just shattered his entire life and killed his dog.

Slain his knight dreams.

“ Although— “ First Scout glanced at Ser Gregor, a bit conspiratorial. “ I suppose you could saddle Ser Gregor’s horse and pack up his armour? “

The both of them stilled, waiting for any sign of approval. There was hardly to be words.

“ And fetch some rations and a wineskin. It’s a couple miles westward from here. “

I'd rather not we get bored.

 

[Gregoryan A. Archambeau]

Gregory's pale blue eyes tracked back and forth as the conversation flowed between the First Scout and the Marshall. He stood still, his back ramrod straight, his gaze looking into the eyes of whomever spoke to him. When the boy brought up Arrowdale, the giant's expression shifted into a frown, the edges of his mouth down-turned. He wasn't sure that referencing the ambush of a wagon convoy and his small exploits there would help much in establishing his credentials to be there.

Then the conversation shifted to the story of him throwing the man at the wagon, where he did not explode into red mist and there was plenty more than the bandit's shoes left to identify him by. He was strong, sure. Worked hard to remain so because his strength was one of the few talents he possessed that granted him an edge in hand-to-hand combat over opponents.

He was unsure how he felt about the First Scout's slap on his arm, though the thick leather of his jerkin resulted in him barely feeling it nor how he mentioned he would be singing. Men who bragged on their singing abilities could rarely carry a tune, usually were so shit-faced they couldn't remember the lyrics of the song they were singing and tended to vary in pitch and tune to the detriment of anyone with functioning eardrums nearby. He could only hope this assumption was wrong and he would find himself keeping his sanity.

Gregory watched the back and forth conversation between the boy Artem and Gilbert, his eyebrow raising when it seemed that Artem was hoping to lean on his recent interaction and show of support to push for his way. Having never been a father and not knowing whether the boy's mother would actually drown someone in the marsh, he was leaning toward supporting the First Scout until he offered an alternative that would see the boy entertaining his knightly dreams without actually putting himself at risk. Realizing several minutes of silence had elapsed where they were expecting a response of some kind from him, he gave a smile and a nod, reaching out a large hand to ruffle the boy's hair affectionately.

Once the boy was gone to his task, he stepped closer and crossed his arms over his broad chest, lifting an eyebrow as he stared at the First Scout as he indicated the direction the Marshall had left with jerk of his chin. He had slowly realized that whom he had thought to be in charge was in fact not and that they were in fact now going to meet the Baron. He could only hope that tales of his battlefield prowess would prove to be as advantageous in the meeting with him.

 

[kristofer]

With the show of approval and a ruffle of his hair, the boy turned and left for the stables in an ear-to-ear smile. First Scout Gilbert watched him go, snorting as the lad nigh slipped on the slick, well-beaten mud of the yard on his way. The pleasant expression upon his face mellowed out a tad as he regarded the large knight anew, head tilting as the man appeared to gesture something at him.

His eye bounced at Marshal Hållfast’s wake, then back at the knight. Not knowing for sure what anything meant had hardly stopped him before and neither would it now, so drawn conclusions it’d be.

“ Aye, you heard him right — It’s the Baron we’ll go to. Won’t be needing to ever glance at his ugly face again if you’re lucky. “ The First Scout winked, slapping the man on the arm again for effect.

“ Why don’t you grab your things, say goodbye to whomever you will and meet me outside the gate, the bend in the boardwalk going west — “ He threw out a hand, pointing into the grey timbers that’d trail off into the blinding sunlight. “ I’ll wait for you there, hmh? Going to check on a couple things before we go. “

Here’s hoping the way isn’t flooded.

*​

The swamps and the bogs looked afire with white flame, pools of water sparkling betwixt the trees. their gangly branches made thick by beard lichens and budding leaves. Baron Grennfelt’s hands rested on the banister of the balcony that overlooked it all, the cackle of corvids in the air alerting whomever would listen. A puffed up jackdaw landed on the roof behind them, turning the pale circle of its eye to whom stood silently in the noon breeze.

“ But one set of hoofbeats where two were expected. “ They said in a smile, brushing a lock of brown hair behind one ear. The pearls woven into their hairnet flashed gold as they turned their head to the awfully coy looking pigeon sat on the banister, one rescued from the claws of the large household cat not two weeks since. It wasn’t the way of a Keeper to get betwixt the struggles of nature, but something about a pigeon that’d scream in the words usually belongs to men had been— Well, awfully persuasive that one make an exception.

Below, upon the palisades and beyond, men were exchanging words. Not even a minute after, the gate was opened and a rider let in, eyes meeting eyes as the First Scout turned his to those that’d peer upon him. In a nod, the man rode on and dismounted by the door of the manor house, where the stablemaster’s assistant would relieve him of the reins.

“ Come, my friend. “ Baron Grennfelt spoke, turning on heel and opening the decorated door to the indoors, painted flowers glittering in the sun just as did the emboidered ones on their long gown. “ Let me introduce you to the First Scout. I’ve a most delicate scheme for the both of you. “

*​

Gilbert pushed the door open without ceremony, swaggering through the frame like a man coming home. He gave greeting in a haphazard salute and shut the way behind himself efficiently, swift to a flaw, all beneath the Baron’s watch. They’d settled in the middle of the room, to the pane of light that’d come through one of the windows and past red curtains. The warm tint was reflected about the muraled walls, giving every surface a glow like that of a hearth.

“ First Scout Gilbert. “ They spoke, smiling.
“ Keeper. “ He responded, eye happening on — a bird. Unblinking and blasé to the boot, he pointed it out in a flick of the index. “ Is that a pidgeon? “
“ He is and a named one at that. Cooberry Coobird the Third. “

Gilbert’s expression didn’t flicker.

“ Good day, I suppose. “ He greeted in a shrug and a bow of the head, settling to stand a little more straighter to a closer distance. Amusement colouring every inch of their expression, the Baron brought their hands together before them and eyed the man curiously.

“ Pray tell — why have you arrived alone? Did Marshal Hållfast not receive my message? “
“ He did. It’s just—“ Gilbert shrugged, head cocking as his stare averted at the window. Outside, a flock of jackdaws had begun chattering in one of the large trees decorating the court yard. “ The Bog ate him. “
“ Ate the Marshal? “ A brow arched, perfectly pointed.
“ No. The other guy. Boardwalk gave way and the— big horse sank first. “
“ Why didn’t you help him? “
“ Something in the water, Keeper. “ It’d never seen that big prey, probably. “ Is it wrong for a man to value his own life? “

Smile persisting, Baron Grennfelt glanced at the floor, shifting to go close the window.

“ No. “ They responded, in tune with the clack of the shutters. Gossiping birds, muffled.

“ But this means you must go. “
“ Where to? “ Gilbert shot back, at a speed that in anyone else’s court would’ve been considered uncouth if not outright rude.
“ Captain Ivanoff is dead. “

Though his face didn’t change, Gilbert couldn’t help shifting in place uneasily. A fidget of posture.

“ I see. How? “ He said, delayed. The new gravity upon the Baron’s face didn’t bode well.
“ One of his men killed him. No word from the squad since. “
“ Who? “

The demand in the First Scout’s tone was met with a cold stare, but none of it was meant for him.

“ Conrad Hornberger. “ They rested a hand on the windowsill, glancing at the glitter of gold about their fingers. “ One of my knights. “
“ Don’t seem like it no more. “
“ No. “ Grennfelt agreed, seemingly consoled by the statement for how both countenance and tone softened. “ Their last known location was to the North East from here, a steady fifteen miles. In a narrow length of woodland nestled betwixt two villages. “
“ Tar burners? “
“ Yes. But out of sight from their huts. “
“ Alright. “ A firm nod, stare directed at the floor like he meant to read a map from the worn tiles. “ You want me to find them? “
“ Yes. “
“ And Conrad? “
“ You catch sight of the wretch, kill him. “ Grennfelt’s stare latched onto the First Scout, like he was an eel they meant to nail down.

“ But first — I have equipped our friend Cooberry with a message to the good Iivo Koskela. “ They continued in a lighter tone, indicating the pigeon with a gesture. “ He’ll fly to Castle Murtohovi, then return to you. To help. “
“ Does he know where the Castle is? “

The moment lulled, hanging in the warm luminance of skyfire, both attentions hanging upon the small bird.