Private The Boar King

[Venla Thiel]

The yard bathed in white. Dawn crept in thin and colorless.

Mist lay low and woolly, wrapping horse and man alike in a damp hush. Leather creaked as saddles were checked and tightened. Bits rang between square teeth. The young stableboy murmured to the restless horses, his breath as visible as thers. The hounds strained against their leads, lean bodies shivering eagerly. One let out a sharp bark, and another answered, until a curse snapped them quiet again.

Boar spears leaned in a careful row against the stable wall, iron heads dark and hungry. Ash shafts, spearheads narrow and cruel. One of the spearmen was busy rubbing them down with oil. Coils of rope lay ready. Thick gloves hung from belts. The small hunting party wore wool layered over wool. The tavern’s upper hall lay in that thin hour between dark and day, when the lanterns had burned low and the cold had crept close as a reeve.

The knocking on Isander's door came careful against the grain of the door. But in the quiet of the corridor it sounded louder than it ought. Smoke clung to the rafters from last night’s hearth. She stood before the closed door and knocked again. Venla kept her knuckles against the oak a moment longer than needed, listening for sounds from inside.

“Syr?” she called softly through the wood. “It is morning.” Venla leaned closer, red braid slipping over her shoulder, cheek near enough to the door that she could feel the wood. “the horses are saddled." she went on. “Big Jon has had the night to sharpen his tusks." Venla allowed herself a small nod, as if she had won some private skirmish, she did not wait for answer. If the knight had sense enough left in him, pride would see him upright soon enough.

She stepped back from the door. “I will see to Syr Castor,” she added, “You may race him to the yard, if you like. It would grieve me to see him claim the best spear while you wrestle with the pillow.” The redhead moved to the next door. This one was scarred by a big nick, old and deep, once someone taken a blade to it... Venla stood a moment before the door, her hand hovering in the air.

She knocked, soft as a sparrow pecking at a crust. “Syr Castor?” she called gently. “It’s Venla.” She leaned a little closer, resting her shoulder against the frame. “I was only wondering… how you fare? The hunt for Big Jon is going out, and I thought… if you felt strong enough, you might like to ride with us.”

 

[Isander]

"Gods and stars above," came the mutter from beneath the sheets. Isander held a hand to his forehead, thumb digging into his temple as though to bore a hole straight through.

The voice that came through the door, accompanied by a banging that sounded all the same as the hammering at the great Runefolk forges, had wakened him. His slumber, resembling more closely the tight embrace of death, still loomed over him; sweat lathered his brow, his chest, made a crumpled mess of the simple sheets he had swathed himself with. He did a poor job of undressing, leaving his shirt half laced and his sleeves puffed out wildly beneath him.

A groan escaped him. The curtains were closed tight about the room, letting in only the faintest hints of light. If not for the cock's crowing earlier he would have guessed it to be still the middle of night, or the ass crack of dawn at the latest. A time unbecoming a knight, in his estimate.

Once he had thought himself unscrupulous, driven. There were days he could wake from the brink of death simply to work on his drills, to train with the spear or utter incantations in all manner of meditative frenzies. He held a fondness for those, in reminiscence at least.

Now, the ache in his head was second only to the agony with which he back squealed at him for release. It was with such lurid caution that he rolled from the bed and slaked himself of the sweat soaking his body.

He had to consider, then, what hunting a boar might entail. Tales of such endeavors alighted his ears as a lad. Great kings of the States whose deeds were memorialized in tapestry and song. The scenes he recalled told of hounds loosed in the woods, of men with spears on horseback without a lick of fear to their wide-shouldered frames. Huntsmen in the back would ready arrows while the lord called the charge, and then...

Well. The boar died. How hard could it be?

He rummaged around the mess of belongings for a pair of trousers. The last unblemished pair, boasting a neatly stitched crotch absent the usual saddle-wear. These he shook himself into, hopping a step to loop an ankle into the tight fabric, and topped with a leather jerkin. It was wrinkled from disuse, from sitting untouched in his bags for untold days of riding as he ventured from the Mer'shawl to this comely backwater. He made no effort to straighten it out, preferring the way it folded uncomfortably at his hips.

Boots next. He slipped into them with a grunt, meticulously tightening them around the ankle and stomping them taut. A necessity for any small amount of travel. He loosed a chuckle and slapped the hardened leather of a sole. After a time, he managed to tidy up his belongings and make from the room.

"Morning, lass," he said, fighting to keep a bright note in his tone.

"Cas die in his sleep?"

 

[Castor]

"Fucking hells," the knight groaned, the light knock coming as a clarion call. Immediate regret took hold as Castor decided to sit up, pain lancing up his side bringing watered eyes. Slow, deliberate movements allowed him to eventually swing his feet around and off the side of the bed. There he sat for a few quiet moments to gather himself. He knew the pain was more a result of stiffness at this point, still hurt like a bastard.

"I'll be a moment," he managed to finally call out.

Castor went through the business of getting dressed and it was a difficult business to be sure. Sword strapped to side, he eschewed donning his leather cuirass for the moment. Instead he held it one hand as he finally opened the door to find Venla and Isander waiting.

"If only I was so lucky." He gave the other Sworn a small grin. Castor then turned to Venla, "Once again, thanks for patching me up. Didn't think I'd be walking around just yet." 'Course Castor wasn't exactly in any condition to go hunting but kept that to himself. The idea of laying about in this situation wasn't sitting well with him. Sure, if it was a normal boar hunt he'd wish 'em well and close the door. The stories Venla told them the other night had the Dusker worried.

Also someone had to watch Isander's back.

"Sounds like we're last to the party?"

 

[Venla Thiel]

“Oh…” she said softly, almost to herself. “There you are.” Her eyes lifted to him at once as the door opened, careful and quick, taking only what was plain to see. The way he stood in the doorway. The way he had dressed like a man trying not to admit he needed help dressing. The cuirass held in one hand. She shifted her weight, glancing past Castor into the room for a moment, then back again.

“Yer not looking right, Syr” she added gently, as if it were a useful piece of advice. Her eyes lingered on him a little longer. Her gaze softened in a way that had nothing to do with approval and much more to do with concern. And please don’t be worse than you’re pretending to be, she thought.

"If it’s giving you trouble. Big Jon has waited longer for worse things than us, I reckon. He won’t mind another day of breathing.” she went on. “I know you said you would last night and that you meant it. I could hear that much even through the Bastard's Bile.” A faint, shy little half smirk tugged at her mouth.

At his thanks, she gave a quick shake of her head. “You don’t need to thank me,” she added, a little embarrassed by it. “It was just needlework. Anyone with steady hands could’ve done it. I was just the one standing nearest."

“Yer just in time. The others have already eaten, I told them not to start without you. But bread goes cold fast in the mornings... If you can't manage the stairs...” she cleared her throat softly, "I can bring something up. I don’t mind.” After that, she stepped aside properly, just a step back from the doorway, making room for him in the corridor. As if giving him time to become fully present in the doorway.

 

[Roki]

Somewhere in the kitchens, where pots steamed, and kettles whistled. Cooks called out the happenings to each other. Roki stared wide eyed at one man, scrambling some eggs. Face pinched tight as he worked the custardy ribbons and folds of golden goodness over in the black plane of a skillet.

The sounds all, sizzle and hiss.

"Would you please, stop hovering as you are," the cook with russet brown hair and a head shaped like an egg muttered low to the purple haired orkin.

"Oh!" Roki said, with a straightening of his back and a nervous titter of laughter pouring from his lips. He shrugged. "Sorry, I just, well, was admiring your form is all,"

The cook grumbled. "Form, he says," scraping up the last bits of fluffy golden morsels onto a plate. Steaming. Grabbed up a hunk of bread. Cut it quick with a knife. Slathered butter there on and put it face down in the black pan. Then pinched up some salt and sprinkled it over the eggs. Dainty like. "What do you know about form, lad?" An almost proud grin there on his lip.

"Well," he blinks. "You obviously put great care into your craft!" he beams. "The eggs don't have a speck of brown on them, all golden and, just the tiniest bit of custard still there betwixt the folds,"

A laugh from the cook. "That so?" Sets to a pot, where beans in a sweet stew boil and bubble. Stirs them. "Here, taste this," he says, pulling the spoon out, and letting only a choice bean in its sauce sit there. He even blew on it some to let it cool.

Roki beamed.

---

Up the stairs, his own belly full. "Rise and shine, m'Syr!" Roki belted. Oblivious to the gentle conversation that was going on. Plate of sausage and eggs, with a heap of beans and well buttered toast all rattle and clatter almost careful twixt the orkin squire's hands. "Breakfast is ready, and the hunt is!" He sees Venla there. "Oh, uhm," he laughs nervous to himself. Offers up the goods. "Sorry, just, trying to be heplful," peers over her some. Nosy lad that he is. "Wasn't interrupting anything tender like, was I?"

 

[Castor]

"You wouldn't be the first to tell me I'm not as dashing come morning light," stated the knight with a chuckle, barely suppressing a wince. An uneasiness squirmed inside which was not simply brushed away by the humor. The concern in Venla's eyes invoked an entirely different manner of guilt from which he was not accustomed. It was similar yet all too different from the worry proferred by his fellow knights, a sentiment entirely removed from duty; a sentiment that would have to wait until the hunt was done.

"If he's waited for things worse than us then that's a problem, 'cause Isander was the good one..." quipped Castor at the other knight's absence. The Sworn had apparently got called away on another urgent mission and Duskers weren't always known for having a gentle hand. "Anyways, Big Jon's preferences don't factor into the equation."

A hard look followed by practiced cynicism. "Except there was no one else. You did good work, that's all there is to it."

Castor had a clever quip 'bout breakfast-in-bed lined up, then plum-haired chaos arrived.

"Only thing tender here are my ribs, young Roki." The Sworn couldn't help but smile at the squire's timing, unfortunate yet not entirely unwelcome. Venla's offer was well-intended but Castor had too much of that sympathy these last few months.

"I'll take the meal downstairs and then we can get a move on."