The question came too late to be of any good. 'Enough,' was all the reply Agatha gave as the empty hands fled the field. 'I'll tell you all about it over a pint sometime.' She made it sound like a promise. Squaring her shoulders, the she-orc slapped her visor down, shutting out the light and everyone in it.

Noise reached her in muted waves, the ebb and flow breaking upon her armour like blades put to the task. Through all the shouting and screaming, she could hear her own heartbeat, a steady thump-thump in her ears.

A horn blast interrupted the rhythm, and the blood games recommenced to the sound of cheers and shattering glass.

'Wasteful,' the Captain remarked, grinning viciously as she made to guard Etain's flank. The other combatants had grown wise to Albrecht's play. Two moved to engaged his group. Big men, they were, wearing good plate and wielding a blunted axe and mace between them. The third, alas, was a fool. Had to be, considering how he broke off to face her rather than staying with his mates.

I know you, thought the she-orc as they closed on each other. Slayer. Killer of hedge knights. No doubt he was smiling behind that ugly, beaked visor of his. The dancing axe in his hand was a threat Agatha couldn't ignore. Nor did she.

Striking from the wrist, Agatha drew first blood as the clash came, slipping right on past his guard to deliver a blow to his faceplate. Good form, she didn't allow herself to get caught up in the moment. Success was fleeting, and the iron rim of her opponent's shield was as much a weapon as the axe sailing after her. Bearded, and still slick with the blood of its last victim.

Using her greater mobility, Agatha circled, blade poised and bobbing for an opening. The longsword in her grip was foreign and unfamiliar, and still she made it sing, striking at her opponent's arm and wrist in quick succession.

Her black battledress bore the brunt of her mistakes. Each new scar acted as a reminder, that was she not infallible. Untouchable, rather. Fortunately, neither was her foe.

Beating aside his shield, Agatha threw her shoulder in his chest, managing to hook an ankle in the process. He went down hard. When he tried to rise, he was met by the point of a sword, so close as to tickle his throat through the links of his aventail.

'Yield?' Agatha inquired, voice harsh behind her visor. 'Or need I force the issue?'
 
Etain had barely gotten her helmet on when the wine-drenched knight got his bearings back and charged. A red smear down his breastplate, still wet. And he was still pissed. The ball of the flail whooshed past her head. Etain ducked low, shoulder leading, her shield catching the backhand with a teeth-grinding clang. Her arm went numb to the elbow.

He came roaring in again, flail raced high, blood in his eye, foam on his lip... and that’s when it happened. His boot slammed down on something slick and sharp. A big glass shard punched through the sole of his leather boots. He screamed like a hog on a pike. His leg folded. The flail swung wide and harmless. He dropped it and rolled onto his side, clutching his boot with both gauntleted hands.

Etain paused, her shield half raised. “Really?”

“Yield!” he gasped, already kicking his sabatons off. “Fuck’s sake... I yield!” Blood and dirt stuck to his boots. She snorted and booted his weapon aside, just to make the point clear. She turned her head toward Agatha, who had planted her blade to another knight's throat. Two down, three to go before their alliance would be over. That broken bottle had done more damage than some others in its life now. Etain stepped gingerly over the green, sharp remains of that brave bottle before she turned her attention towards Ser Albretch and his group.
 
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The Killer contemplated the question, as if he had a choice. The sword at his throat begged to differ. 'I... yield,' he said after a time. Slowly. Reluctantly. It was an answer all the same. 'And I accept,' said Agatha, taking her blade from his neck in time to see Etain begin her advance.

Glass crunched underfoot as Agatha hastened to join her. Walking side by side, the Captain assessed their foes-to-be, longsword resting against her shoulder in a two-handed grip.

''Ware Ser Albrecht,' the she-orc warned Etain quietly. 'Bastard he may be, but the man can fight. Though, I'm told he prefers it when they can't.' Grinding her teeth to keep from spitting, Agatha cast a sidelong look to the other combatants. One of Ser Albrecht's "allies" was down and out for the count. So, too, was one of the unknown knights. A raised gauntlet marked their withdrawal from the melee.

Six combatants left, realised Agatha, remembering the prior agreement as Etain's shadow stretched ahead of her, across ground rent by past encounters. Does that make us enemies?

Ser Albrecht watched them approach, seemingly unfazed by the turn of events. The knight beside him readied his weapon, squaring off against Agatha as Albrecht looked to Etain, visor raised, eyes aglint in recognition and puzzlement.

'Lady D'Aramond! What a pleasant surprise!' Albrecht's enamelled armour shone brightly as he raised his sword in a salute. Polite-like. Agatha caught the ghost of a smile flash across his features. Gone in a blink. 'Why stand you with the mercenary?' He asked. 'Did she spin you a tale, perchance, alluding to some evil-doing or 'nother? Mayhaps she whispered sweetly in your ear, promising rich reward for standing against me.' His laugh was like nails against a chalkboard, grating, and far too amused for her liking.

Meanwhile, not two dozen paces distant, the lone knight was dealt a final blow before falling.

Three against two, thought Agatha, adjusting her stance as the victor took a moment to catch his breath. Fair odds, if only by a cunt's hair. 'You always were a silver-tongued shit-weasel, Albrecht,' replied Agatha, raising her voice to be heard over the chants pouring forth from a hundred bloodthirsty throats. 'A kernel of doubt here, a barefaced lie there,' she shook with laughter, the fire in her heart searing her senses down to a fine point.

'Fight your own battles for a change, why don't you. Or run and hide, like you did the last time we met.'
 
''Ware Ser Albrecht''
Her eyes flicked sideways, catching Agatha’s just for a moment. “If I don’t send him stumbling on his arse, you’ll have to.” She murmured back to the she-orc.

Lady D’Aramond? That was her mother. One does not address a knight lady, not unless you’re trying to get under her skin. Etain snorted, low and derisive.

“It is Ser D’Aramond,” she said, flat as a butcher’s cleaver. Etain rolled her shoulder back and lifted her chin. "You think I got out here in this field to curtsey at prancing pissants in plates!?” The knightess kept her stride steady, letting her shield knock lightly against her thigh with each step. Etain’s boots crushed the churned earth, slow and deliberate steps carrying her closer to Albrecht’s gleaming silhouette. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing behind the slit of the visor.

"Why stand you with the mercenary?" he asked.
"Did she spin you a tale, perchance, alluding to some evil-doing or 'nother? Mayhaps she whispered sweetly in your ear, promising rich reward for standing against me."

Etain didn’t slow her stride. She came on like a boulder rolling downhill, heavy, and about to make someone regret waking up that morning. “Nah,” she called back, voice metallic behind the visor, “She didn’t need to whisper a godsdamn thing!” She stopped just out of sword's reach, shield up.

“I took one look at your face and thought: Oh! There’s a man who needs his teeth kicked in!" And then Etain charged, blade raised, shield battering forward.
 
Ser Albrecht laughed derisively at Etain's words, lowering his visor with a clatter and click. 'What they say about your family is true, then!' The knight chuckled behind his faceplate, bracing himself as the Maid of Toulonne toed the sand and mud betwixt. 'The son sends the sister to do a man's work,' he tutted, let the disapproval roll off his tongue like poison.

'The Ox was right. Next they'll be saying you've a cock 'n' balls swinging 'tween your legs. Wouldn't surprise me, looking at you now. More a man than your brother'll ever be!'

Agatha could hear the grin in his voice, see the way his body tensed in anticipation, weapon interposed. He sought to goad Etain into making the first move by insulting her family name. A petty trick, attacking one's pride. But ofttimes effective. Had he besmirched the company name, Agatha would not have hesitated to strike him down. Nor did she.

Lunging, she swept aside a weapon, longsword rising to catch one of Albrecht's men upside the head. Turning, she parried a blow, winced as her backplate stopped another. A blade struck her pauldron as she whirled, drawing her opponents to her as they tried to box her in, feet thumping against dry earth. Setting about herself, left, right, left again, Agatha forced them away from Etain.

Strike, parry, riposte. Strike, parry, feint, strike!

The wounded knight was the first to withdraw. Battered, and bleeding from his prior engagement, he hadn't the will left to see the fight through. 'Fuck this!' Agatha heard him curse as he staggered towards the fences. 'He ain't payin' us enough for this shit!' Paying? Oh, indeed, it all makes sense now. Whirling, Agatha kept up her offensive, weapon reversed, using her crossguard to smite and smash.

She didn't realise how much she was hurting until after he went down. Her blood felt like fire in her veins, searing, scorching the life from limbs weighted with exhaustion. Her breathing sounded haggard to her own ears, the air inside her helm almost stifling as she tried to calm her breathing.

The clangour of swords drew her head around, and the Captain felt her eyes widen as her mind caught up with what she was seeing.
 
"Say that again about my brother," she growled. "...and you’ll be counting teeth in the piss-pot for a fortnight." She stepped forward, blade half-raised, posture casual, like a wolf pretending not to be hungry.

More a man than your brother'll ever be!
Inside Etain, the jab barely registered. She knew her brother and Arius wasn’t made for war. Never had been. Wine and lovers, song and smoke, that was her brother’s battlefield. But that didn’t mean someone like Ser Albrecht could drag his name through the muck.

Etain snorted. Loud, unladylike.
"If you keep begging like that, Ser, I’ll bend you over and fuck you with it after the bout!”
A ripple of laughter broke from the sidelines, young squires, hedge knights, and drunks alike choking on their cider. Even a few of the higher seats shifted uncomfortably.

And Etain surged forward with steel in her hand and no more patience left. Her shield caught his shield, the crack of it sending a jolt all the way up her arm to her shoulder, but she twisted with it, used the momentum. Her blunted sword slammed against his pauldron, not enough to break anything. She stepped in close, pressed shoulder to chestplate, and shoved, driving her pommel down toward the rim of his helm. But Albrecht wasn’t green. He grunted at the pommel strike, reeled back, but not far. He was close enough to hook a mailed fist around the edge of her gorget and yank.

He drove forward, armor-on-armor, and the clash rang out like temple bells. Etain’s feet scraped back in the churned sand. She shoved, twisted, tried to break the lock. He didn’t let her. Instead, he caught her with a brutal knee to the thigh. Her leg buckled. She staggered and his boot hooked behind her ankle.

Etain hit the ground with a teeth-rattling thud, the air punched from her lungs. Sand sprayed into her helmet. She rolled instinctively, shield up, but too late. Albrecht's knee crashed down onto her chestplate, pinning her.

The crowd roared.

He slammed the blunted edge against her helm, a jarring clang that left her ears ringing. Another blow. The world reeled sideways. Etain tried to buck him off. Sand in her teeth, the taste of blood on the tongue. Her vision blurred. She punched up at his face, gauntlet scraping the edge of his visor. Her arm buckled when he ripped her shield from her and flung it to the side. The crowd was a cacophony of noise, the booing, cheering, and screaming. Some in her favor, but most just for blood.
 
Adrenaline and instinct carried Agatha forward in spite of her exertions. Even encased in armour, she felt like she'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. Probably looked it, too. 'Not laughin' now, are ya, cunt?!' A downthrust pommel struck Etain's helm a solid blow. Another. Vicious, they encouraged the crowd into newfound frenzy, the fences keeping them at bay tremoring with every subsequent blow of Albrecht's sword.

Sweeping up a discarded shield, Agatha swung from the hips, smashing Albrecht full force in the face as he raised his arm to strike. Wood shattered. Impact jarred her arm. Albrecht's head snapped back as he toppled, landing in the dust by Etain's side.

'Bastard!' Agatha cursed, throwing aside her sword to bring the rim of the shield down on Albrecht's helm. Two-handed. 'You fucking bastard! Reap what you sow! Bastard!' Anger engulfed her. Fuel for a vengeful soul, it helped her to overcome her exhaustion, if but for a moment. Smashing, swinging, driving with all her might, the orkin kept going until there was naught but kindling in her hands. Twisted iron clutched betwixt nerveless fingers.

She didn't notice the silence at first. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she felt herself growing faint, the enormity of what she'd just done overriding any sense of self she still had left to lean on.

'Is- is he...?' A voice from the crowd. Shocked.

Dead? The shield slipped from Agatha's fingers, the device painted upon it shattered beyond all recognition. Glimmers of blue and white. Red. I hope so! Might that his soul rot and wither in Hel's furnace! Needing air, Agatha wrenched the helmet from her head, let it nestle in the crook of her arm.

Footsteps upon the sand. A swirl of red and white robes as a medic knelt beside the prone forms of the vanquished. Albrecht, and Etain, the latter still conscious, despite the beating she'd taken.

'He's alive,' said the medic. Agatha barely heard him.

Sinking to a knee in the sand, she made to open Etain's visor. At the medic's declaration, the crowd had started in again, their voices rolling like a thunderclap across the scattered field. The nobles up in the stands gave frivolous applause, their minds already trailing back to talk of tonight's feast, and the wedding to be held within the fortnight. Old enmities, new alliances.

'Still with us?' Agatha asked as the herald mounted his podium, preparing to announce the victor. Grimacing, Agatha helped Etain to sit, then stand, an arm draped over her shoulders for support. The Captain spied the herald open his mouth.

Meeting his gaze, she raised her freehand above her head. The crowd gasped, some in surprise, others in disbelief. The herald seemed equally conflicted.

Smiling, Agatha turned to Etain as the herald corrected himself. The crowd drew in a collective breath as a name was announced.

'Etain D'Aramond,' she said, in time to the herald's words. 'I yield to you.'
 
Pain bloomed white-hot behind her eyes. The first strike to her helm rattled her skull like a bell. Clang! A shock that shot down her spine and burst in her fingertips. She tasted copper. Her knees buckled. Her gauntleted hand twitched weakly against the sand.

The second blow came faster, harder. Her helm rang again, a dull thud of hammering sheet metal over her ears. She saw stars. She hadn’t even heard the crowd anymore. Just the wet sound her own breath hot, fast, panicked, and of Albrecht’s blows, the rhythmic crack of steel on steel and the pommel hammering her helm again and again.

Third strike. CRACK. Something gave way. A rivet popped or maybe it was her nose? Blood flooded her mouth, thick and sudden, and she choked on it. The world shrank: only the narrow slits of her visor, the stink of sweat and iron. No light. No sky. Just the shadow of plates and a red haze. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Her body screamed, trying to crawl backward, but the armor, the weight of it, held her in place. Like drowning in steel as he was hammering her down. Everything was so tight, the straps across her ribs, the bruising press of his knee against her sternum. She couldn’t seem to catch a breath.

The taste of copper filled her mouth, warm and leaking from her nose. Red rivets ran down over her lips, hot against her chin where it dripped into her gorget. One more hit and she’d black out. She hoped.

Then...

CRUNCH. Something else broke, but not in her. The pressure eased. A shock of noise. The sudden silence after. The blows stopped. Etain sucked in a breath like she hadn’t tasted air in hours, blinking through blood and sweat. Etain rolled over crumpled on her side in the churned sand, and for a long, blinding moment, she wasn't sure if she could move. She wasn’t sure if she was about to vomit or pass out. Maybe both.

She flinched as Agatha’s hand reached for her visor. Her face was a ruin behind the visor, one eye already swelling shut. Her nose bled freely, red streaks painting her cheeks, mouth and chin red. Etain groaned as Agatha hauled her up, knees felt like water and Etain swayed like a sapling in a storm, breath ragged beneath her dented helmet.

Watching as Albrecht being carried out on a stretcher, her mouth curled into something like a grin, despite the ache. “Could kiss you for that, if my jaw weren’t half loose.” Etain turned her head slowly. She stared at Agatha, still panting like a warhound. “You what?” Her knees buckled a little, and she forced them straight. “Fuck’s that for?” she rasped. Her voice was wrecked, raw with dust. She looked at Agatha and blinking sweat from her good eye. “You had the bastard. Crowd saw it. That was your win."

With a grunt, she reached out, grabbed Agatha’s wrist in a bruised, gauntleted hand. Steel grinding. And shoved her arm up. This is your champion! Not me. The crowd surged. Roared louder. Etain kept Agatha’s hand raised a moment longer, letting the crowd howl themselves hoarse, before she let it drop and gave a pained chuckle that turned into a cough.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” she muttered, wiping blood from her nose with the back of her gauntlet. Banric was already weaving through the sand toward them, arms full of bandages, salve, and whatever tonic he’d nicked from a healer’s tent.
 
It was a scene for the ages. Mercenary and knight, standing side by side, facing down the odds and emerging victorious despite what had been thrown at them. No doubt the bards would be working on new ballads before the hour was out. Assuming they could get a word in between all the cheering and chanting. The herald managed to, lungs fit to burst as he hollered at the heaving masses and the bluebloods sequestered up in the stands.

Having yielded before the eyes of gods and men, the victory went to Etain. As was right and proper. At least in the Captain's eyes.

'I had the bastard?' Agatha stifled a laugh. 'No, no. You had him right where you wanted him, I'm sure!' Steel slid against steel. Plate clattered as she adjusted her grip. With the announcement made, there was no longer any need to hang around.

Sand crunched underfoot as Banric rushed to his knight's side. Mender followed swiftly behind the young lad. There was no sign of Callous. 'Let me guess: gone to collect his winnings?' Smiling through the sweat and grime plastering her face, Agatha held Banric at arm's length as the lad tried to administer aid right there on the spot. 'Easy, now!' She warned. 'Your mistress is fine, if a little battered.' They both were, in truth.

Fatigued muscles. Aching bones. Fresh bruises spread across discoloured skin. Hurt piled upon hurt piled upon hurt.

'Mender, mind tending to Etain first?' Bodies parted as they left the field behind them. Taking up the slack, Banric assisted Agatha in carrying Etain back to the Captain's pavilion. 'Of course,' said the half-ork, a hand on the leather satchel riding her hip. 'Wouldn't trust these tourney doctors one bit. Twisted ankle? Fetch the saw! Fractured skull? Fetch the saw!' Mender laughed at her own joke, though, odds were good she wasn't joking.

'Here's hoping Albrecht's healers prove so learned.' Weathered fabric rustled as Mender swept back the flap covering the entrance. Hunching her shoulders, Agatha took some of Etain's weight onto herself as they passed through.

'Take a seat, and let's have a look at ya!' Looking to Banric, Mender gestured for a hand removing Etain's armour. Agatha took a stool opposite. 'How're you feeling?' She asked with a crooked grin. 'Got that jaw fixed yet?'
 
Etain grunted as Banric and Mender eased her down. Every joint screamed, every bruise throbbed in sync with her heartbeat... but gods, it had been worth it. The helmet, gorget, and breastplate came off, Banric working carefully, fingers nimble despite the nervous tremble in them. She muttered something between a groan and a curse when the chainmail followed, the padded gambeson underneath soaked through with sweat.

Mender didn’t waste time. The medic knelt beside her and took Etain’s chin in calloused fingers, turning her face gently toward the light. One eye was swelling fast, already a deep, ugly purple, and blood pooled from where her brow had split.

“Hold still,” Mender grunted.

A moment later came the sting, sharp, bright, like someone pouring fire behind her eye. Etain gritted her teeth and grunted through her nose as the pressure shifted and a thin line of blood spilled freely from the cut. “Better out than in,” Banric said, wiping it away with a rough cloth before Mender was packing the wound with something that stung even worse. The squire started unstrapping the greaves.

Etain glanced across at Agatha, who sat opposite, watching her with that crooked grin. “How’re you feeling?”

“Didn’t crack anything, but there’s a nasty lump,” Mender answered for Etain. And Banric filled in. “You’ll look like a rot-struck plum by nightfall, Syr”

“Can’t wait,” Etain muttered, blinking away the sting.

"Got that jaw fixed yet?”

She ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek, tested her jaw. Sore and tight, but not broken. Etain flexed it once, twice, feeling the ache bloom from her ear down her neck. Then she spat red into the dirt beside her stool. “Seems to be working fine.”

Banric folded the chainmail into a thick bundle and stood, gathering the rest of her gear. He slung the mail over one shoulder, plates clattering under his arm. “I’ll see these cleaned, then take them to the smith,” he said, voice tight. “Your gorget’s cracked, and helmet’s got a dent big enough to drown a frog in.” She muttered. “Good.” The boy nodded and slipped out.
 
Bloodied but unbowed. That's something at least. Pulling off her gauntlets, Agatha dropped them into her lap, one after the other. Her fingers felt like they might snap at the barest touch, brittle and clumsy from overuse. Much like the rest of me, she mused, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands.

Her black battledress adhered to her form like a second skin. Nicked and scarred, even dented in some places, it held true as she pressed to her feet after Banric. 'Good,' said Etain.

'Good.' She repeated the word. Almost believed it. The reflection standing in her mirror begged to differ, and she turned away, annoyed by how sorry she appeared in the half-light, more corpse than captain. 'Fuck, could I use a drink!' The words poured out of her like water from a fountain. Refreshing, if a little chilly. Feels good not having to shout. Her vocal cords certainly appreciated the reprieve. 'No more fighting for me today, I think.'

Staggering over to her camp chest, Agatha knelt, produced a key from a pouch at her waist. The lock was enchanted, much like those belonging to the Company's pay chests, and she felt her fingers tingle as the tumblers clicked, open.

'How do you take your wine, noble saer?' Rising, Agatha turned, a tired smile upon her lips. 'Fancy a tipple? I know I do.'
 
She spared a glance at Agatha, who looked every bit as exhausted as Etain felt. Gauntlets tossed aside, cheeks flushed with sweat and grime, hair plastered and wild around her face. There was something fierce in that exhaustion, raw from battle and survival.

“Joust’s tomorrow for me,” she said, a tired smile cracked her lips. “Not looking forward to it." A drink sounded a hell of a lot better than mounting up and facing the field again.

She gave a slow, lazy shrug, the kind that said she was too damn tired to fuss over wine. Bitter, sweet, dry, fruity, hot, or cold, it did not matter. “Any wine’s good enough now." Etain let out a ragged breath, the weight of the day pressing down on her like the armour she’d just shed. A smirk tugged at one corner of her mouth. Fancy a tipple? "I’d take two, if you’re offering.” A spark of mischief burned through the fatigue.

Etain pushed herself upright from the chair, muscles stiff and protesting with the movement. She took a couple of slow steps toward Agatha. Her gaze caught Agatha’s, this time with something quieter, respect. “You have my thanks for having my back out there.” Etain said, voice rough but genuine. “Could’ve ended ugly without you.” She reached her hand out, her hand rough, yet steady. Offering it not just in thanks, but as a quiet gesture of friendship.
 
'I am, as it so happens.' The contents of the bottle in her hand sloshed about as she gathered up cups enough for three. 'You still intend to compete in the joust tomorrow?' Mender asked, disbelief colouring her voice. 'Either you're incredibly brave, or you've taken one too many hits to the head,' she tsked, fingers fixing to mend and tend the split skin painting Etain's brow red.

'I need to clean and sew that,' she said, cutter's kit spread across the table behind her. 'So, drink up and hold still!'

Pouring three thimbles of a good Karalusian Red into three separate cups, Agatha glanced over as Etain climbed unsteadily to her feet to close the distance. The look that crossed Mender's features would've had many a Blackshield saying his prayers. Fortunate, then, that the Captain was there to intervene on the knight's behalf.

'Ain't that my line?' She asked, returning the handshake for all she was worth. 'We made a good team out there. Sure gave the people a show, didn't we!' Agatha's grin grew feral at the memory. 'I've half a mind to offer you a place in the Company,' she smirked, eyes glued to Etain's. Her expression shifted, slowly, turned pensive in the space of a few stolen breaths.

'Would you?' She passed Etain her wine. 'Join us, I mean? You'd be well-compensated, though, we pay by veterancy, not birthright.'
 
“I’ll ride the joust tomorrow,” she said, mouth quirking despite the split at her brow. “Promised Josephine we would."
Etain glanced toward Mender, who was hovering with needle and thread, and then back to Agatha.

The calloused press of palm to palm spoke more than her words would do. I owe you.

“Tell me about your Black Shields." she said before taking the cup. She rolled the wine along her tongue, watching the other women over the rim of the cup. The Karalusian Red burned sweet down her throat, chasing away the taste of dust and blood.

Knighthood was a fine thing if one liked bowing and kissing rings. With a sigh, she dropped into the nearest chair, letting the weight of the day sink into her bones. “Go on then," she muttered, tilting her head so the medic could get at the split above her brow. She caught Agatha’s eye as the needle pricked flesh.

“What’ll your Blackshields say, seeing a knight among their ranks?" She didn’t need a herald to announce who she was. Etain of d'Aramond. Even if she didn't flaunt her title, the mere fact that it existed could be enough to create displeasure in some. It didn’t matter if she fought shoulder-to-shoulder with them, if she bled in the same mud, some people would only ever see a knight. Worse, a noble, but then she has already been condemned by them. Not for anything she had done, but for the wars those of her station had started, the taxes claimed, for the sons and daughters sent to die in some lord’s petty quarrel. Some had fought for bread while she’d been born to banners and a bed under a roof.

So, yes. Some might hate her. And maybe they had the right to.

And Etain had already, over and over again, proved herself to fighters in half a dozen companies. Every time the same. Every time, the same bloody dance, whispers behind her back, testing her in the yard, the long weeks of initiation. She’d passed those tests before. Again and again. And still, here she was, staring down the same road. Was this all she’d ever find? Another camp full of strangers waiting to see if the knight would break or bend?
 
The Karalusian ended up on the table next to Mender's kit. 'What'll they say?' Agatha smiled as she took up a camp stool and placed it down in front of the knight. 'Not a fucking thing, Etain. Not after what they just witnessed.' Allowing herself a sip of the sweet red, the she-ork hovered over Etain a moment before taking a seat.

'A fair few of them were dispersed amongst the crowd, watching, waiting in case Albrecht tried anything... untoward.'

The fables would have you believe that all was fair in love and war, but that wasn't true. War was a messy, bloody affair, and for all their talk of honour, knights could be just as cutthroat as the lowest mercenaries. So it had been with Ser Albrecht of Venhold.

'Not only did you stand tall alongside their captain, you came damn close to winning.' It wasn't empty flattery. Etain didn't seem the sort to be taken by such meaningless rhetoric. Just simple, honest truth. As it should be between friends.

'The 'Shields are an old company. Well-disciplined, if you can believe it.' Smiling slightly, Agatha sipped at her wine, set it down on the ground between her feet. 'Eight hundred and thirty heads, all told, and that's just the battle contingent,' she said, working the tension from her neck and shoulders. 'There are... nigh as many in the Strength - our civilian complement. I'm talking tradespeople, armourers, merchants. And families.'

Mender's needle paused what it was doing, the hand guiding it growing still as the chief medicae glanced over.

'You wouldn't be the first noble-born to join us,' said Mender. 'Under the Black, we are all equal. Well. Except the officers.'

A grin passed between the two she-orks. Agatha nodded, let her gaze fall back to Etain. 'You've already proven your mettle before the brothers, and you kept your word to me, despite the fact we were little more than strangers at the time.'

Picking up her cup, Agatha held it out for the tapping.

'I understand if you do not wish to join us,' she said, eyes glued to Etain's. 'It's not an easy life. Nor is it always honest. But once you're in, you're in, and we'll fight for you til they put us in the fucking ground. Just as we'll expect you to fight for us, come the hour.'
 
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