Private Of Sundered Beliefs

[Ione]

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."

 

[Volmar]

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…?

 

[Ione]

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]

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.”

 

[Ione]

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.

 

[Volmar]

“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’?”

 

[Ione]

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]

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?”

 

[Ione]

Each time she blinked, she could picture with stark clarity what victims of a fire's burn looked like. Guilt set into her, but it was not her own. An empathy that she could not help but bear, for Ione's own heart bled for others before herself.

She refused to look his way. What if he could see it on her face? The haunting. The memories. Her first year as a squire had been riddled with recalling the smells, the cries, the screams, and she had been working in the medic's tent at that time due to her excellent gift within the Pursuit of Life. Ione had seen a fire blaze through forest and homes.

The serenity she sought in the wells of Loch turned poisoned. Volmar's words reaching her in ripples.

When she turned to face him, she felt a slip in her control. Emotion poured into her expression, into her gaze as she stared with fury and frustration, with grief and guilt.

"Do you not get tired of being like this?" Her words came out in a defensive sneer. Ione turned, facing him straight on. "Of being something so foul, you may indeed belong here in marshes."

Her eyes brightened, emboldened. "No. I will not offer up a brother-in-arms or myself to feed their justice. I will not contribute to violence when so much has been lost." Ione frowned, still staring at the irritation that was Volmar's too attentive eyes. "Perhaps you of Dawn should prepare a way of communicating that with those residing in Sumu. So that we all come to an agreement and steer them away from the clutches of the Sightless."

Her gaze was unwavering. It was her risk to take, to allow him to watch her and see something she may not be aware of. But Ione would not be the first to break eye contact.

 

[Volmar]

He can hear it in her voice, how that peace has fled her. Volmar wondered if he could break it, and so he has… but Ione? No. The woman herself is not so easily bowed. When he looks up, Volmar sees something beyond mere irritation; Syr Ione is glaring back at him with the low, steady simmer of incensed righteousness.

A new face, he notes with some relish. Not quite truly angry, but still. How interesting.

Anger, though… anger isn’t stable. Sooner or later it burns through everything you can offer it, and then its strength sputters out. No need to push Ione much further than this. Not just yet. Throw too much fuel on a fire when the kindling has barely caught, and you’ll only smother it.

One needs to nurture that fledgling flame, if it is to grow…

Volmar smiles back at her. It barely touches his features at all, but in a way, that softness only makes it warmer. He nods at her, once, slowly, and cedes the staring competition when he looks down to probe at the crevices of Aschevüerri’s last hoof.

“I fear what awaits us in Sumu will be far fouler than anything I could ever say.” Volmar releases the horse’s leg, and walks back around to stow his little pick away. “Were you unable to field a few valid questions on the matter, then how could you hope to handle facing the real thing?”

Water sloshes mutedly in Volmar’s canteen as he draws it up, and unstoppers the mouth with a satisfying pop. He’s back to watching Ione, burnished chestnut eyes regarding her over the top of the vessel as he gulps down some water. His sleeve briefly slides over his mouth when he’s done, then lowers the canteen back to his belt.

“Perhaps.” Thumb and forefinger cradle Volmar’s chin, faintly rasping across his stubble as he rubs thoughtfully at his jaw. “Perhaps diplomacy isn’t entirely out of the question.” He shrugs. “We shall have to see what we learn from our reconnaissance. Speaking of which… I’m inclined to use the woodland approach first. We’ll have good cover, and it sounds like it’ll get us closest to the village. If we can’t find a good surveillance position there, then we can try the hill instead. We’ll just have to approach carefully — the Sightless may have established some sort of perimeter.”

Volmar’s hand drops away, and he hooks his thumbs into the sides of his belt. “Any thoughts there, syr?”

 

[Ione]

He was more annoying than a gnat, and some part of her wondered if he said such incendiary things to get a rise out of her.

Her gaze skewered him, held him accountable as he went about drinking from his canteen. After his drink, those lips made way for more of those words to stir trouble within her thoughts. But Ione was noticing now, becoming more aware of how he perceived her. She was feeding him, giving him reactions she was not proud of upon reflection, but she knew this was her in all her genuine splendor.

Ione narrowd her eyes, letting his questions linger in the stagnant air between them.

"Diplomacy is always our first choice. One does not need to be of the Sanctum of Dawn to know that." Her eyes returned to the road, then to the trees and vines that snaked from low boughs. "We are both Pursuants. We did not get this far by letting the good people fall to a fate they made out of desperation. If they turned to the Sightless, then we can bring them back."

Ione indulged Volmar by bringing back her stare upon him. Her brows dipped and furrowed, as if waiting for that smile to grow wider as he admits to saying what he had said was out of jest.

When he did not, Ione's lips pursed hard before she released them. "We approach as you said, keep our cover until we are sure all is right... and if it is safe for us to do so, I would like us both to approach the village and extend a helping hand on behalf of the Order."

It had taken her a moment to remember some of the details listed in the report. Ione believed Sumu was not a place they could leave behind and abandon after what had happened.

 

[Volmar]

“Diplomacy is always our first choice. One does not need to be of the Sanctum of Dawn to know that.”​

Volmar carefully refrains from comment.

Still… she’s right about a couple of things, at least. Going in with spells blazing before they’ve got a read on the situation — that’s just not the order’s style. It’s not even Volmar’s style, and he certainly can not be accused of always making diplomacy his first resort, unless one is inclined toward a rather grim, rather tongue-in-cheek sense of humour.

Syr Ione also has a point about them both being pursuants; they weren’t picked for this mission because anyone thought it would be easy. At first he’d wondered if her fixation on a peaceful solution was naïveté, which seems unlikely for one of their rank, but you never know. Sometimes a knight stops being hardened by experience and starts going the other way, starts going soft. Like that Osytha girl, for one. But, if Syr Ione of Dusk truly knows how hard it’ll be bringing Sumu around on their side, and she still wants to try? Well, there’s something to respect in that… even if Volmar had been looking forward to cutting loose against some Sightless.

Be nice if those villagers recognise her insistence on the matter, maybe show a little appreciation. But he won’t hold out hope. There’s been too much pain, too much damage for the people of Sumu to see things clearly.

Fools. Piece of shit town was about to get burned down by Hvithelm’s thugs anyway, just, Hector happened to beat them to it entirely by accident. Sumu didn’t care that he was also the reason they still had half a village left standing, or that a lot of folks survived their burns only because he stayed back to treat the wounded. People don’t see the things you prevent — how could they, when by definition that reality never came to pass? They don’t like complicated truths. They saw Syr Skykiller’s lightning strike the first sparks, and from then on, they had someone to blame for everything. A stain which must surely extend to others of his ilk.

Pity. They would probably quite like Ione, if they think to give her a chance. They’d be sure to like her a hell of a lot more than Volmar and his way of doing things. But if the Sightless have sunk their claws into the place, probably any hopes for diplomacy are dead in the water. People only ever see what they want to see, and it would appear that Sumu wants to see the Knights of Anathaeum as their enemy.

Then again, if there was a way…

Volmar gazes aside, through a becalmed willow-lace veil, out over the muggy, buzzing, bog, where sunlight glares harshly off flat stretches of rank water. He’s dropped that smile; his face returned to its considered and impassive stony mask.

“… and if it is safe for us to do so, I would like us both to approach the village and extend a helping hand on behalf of the Order.”​

The man nods. “Understood.”

He walks back over to Asche and, as he lifts his hands to give the beast some more sturdy scratches, that blank expression shifts. Upon those chiselled yet also boyishly-handsome features, in the soft narrowing of his rich russet eyes… is something almost tender.

“Take your time to refresh, syr,” he tells Ione, though his gaze remains locked upon the horse’s big dark eye. “But I’m ready to move out whenever you are.”