Venla Thiel

Venla Thiel

Lettucewielding foreman
No leaves were more beautiful than those with frozen drops of dew. Frozen is also the ground. Hard as a rock, no pick or shovel could turn it now. She breathes quietly. Every time the sun went down, it struck her how big life was and how lonely it was. She shivered a little and wrapped her cloak tighter around her.

When the day has given up, dusk falls over the landscape. The light mixes with the gray. In the village, people had begun to light their lanterns and candles. The lonely ones, just like the lovers, breathe a sigh of relief that night will soon be here. The children stopped their play, just as the adults stopped their work. Twilight sweeps its stillness over the village.

When the shadows began to change, Venla gathered her skirts in one hand and quickened her steps. The frozen gravel crunched hard under her feet; but the road to the village was almost completely clear of snow. Unfortunately, the ice patches gathered in a row and one had to watch one's steps now that the false twilight light colored the surrounding world in blue-gray tones. The bare and heavy branches of the birches sway slowly in a careful, but bitterly cold wind.

The dress the woman wore also had the colors of twilight; a dark gray. Her light breaths became visible in the cold, like white puffs of steam that regularly left her mouth or nose. Soon enough the door to the inn is pushed open and yVenla stumbles in, accompanied by a few gusts of cold winds. She quickly slams the door shut.

Venla walked over the big fireplace and quickly tugged off her cloak, mittens, and hung them on a hook there. The air was thick with the usual mix of sweat, beer, and the lingering scent of stew and bread, a familiar scent for her. She barely noticed it anymore. Without hesitation, she grabbed an apron from its place, tying it around her waist as she reached for a damp rag. She moved to the tables, wiping away old spills and the sticky traces of the day, working as she always did.

The door creaked open, Venla glanced up, wiping her hands on her apron as the newcomer stepped inside. The dull scrape of boots on the wooden floor echoed through the room, and she straightened, brushing stray red strands of hair from her face. A warm smile spread across her lips "Evening," she called out, her voice inviting. "What can I get you, traveler?"
 
"Where in the forgotten hells am I?" asked the knight to no one but himself. That's because there was not a single damned soul around. He'd finally managed to stumble upon a road yet he was beginning to think it led to nowhere. Castor imagined that he'd run into some traveler by now who knew these parts but his expectations were thoroughly dashed. Probably has something to do with this infernal chill, the knight mused cynically.

This was more than enough to put him in a foul mood yet the gods saw fit to pile misery on top of shit as they so often enjoyed doing. His desperation was driven by a rather nasty cut in his side; manageable, but enough to ruin anyone's day.

Speaking of- he thought to himself as the evening began to settle in. The moons, nice as they were, did not provide warmth. He'd end up more frozen than a Lapvonan's tit if he tried to kip outside. Thus he trudged down the road, more through spite than anything.

Eventually his litany of curses and determination brought him to a nondescript village. There, blissfully, did he spot a lantern and a sign.

He opened the door to the holy aroma of ale and stew.

"The strongest brew you've got," Castor said immediately as he practically fell into the nearest seat. "Ah, and bandages if you have 'em. If not, any rag will do as long as it's clean."
 
Arrowdale was a small hamlet, so small it was barely marked on any map. Its dirt paths wound between weathered cottages, their thatched roofs patched and re-patched against the elements. Life here was harsh but steady.

Her gaze flicked over the man as he collapsed into the chair. The rickety thing had seen its fair share of tired legs. Even though it wobbled to the right, it held under the knight's pressure. The inn's chairs were of a durable type, and most had seen and survived their fair share of bar fights. The right leg had even been slashed with a sword once, which was why this chair had become limp. But why replace something that was still usable?

"Milord, the strongest brew we have will strip the rust off any blade." she warned him. Venla walked over to the shelves and lifted a dark green bottle from its place. She unscrewed the cap before filling a smaller wooden mug with the clear liquid. This was the kind of spirits that burned going down.

"Take this slow." she said, setting the mug and the bottle in front of him with a dull thud. "Or it’ll lay you out worse than whatever cut you." A rueful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Without another word, she turned on her heel, heading toward the back. She knew exactly where to find clean enough linens. When she returned, she set a bundle of cloth and a clay bowl of hot, clean water down on the table. The bottle of spirits on the table was meant for drinking, but it was just as useful for burning rot out of wounds.

"Do you want me to tend to that wound of yours, or do you prefer to handle it yourself, milord?" Her tone was gentle.
 
A fallow breeze knicked the evening around the hamlet of Arrowdale. Dusk bloomed in violet hues, pattering about a sky chiaroscuro in wait of a coming squall. Folk bustled along dirt packed streets bringing in tools to the baying of hounds that bounded playfully before their charges. Whorls of wheat dust followed, kicked about by feet weary from an honest walk. Closure was meted out, preparations begun for the gnawing of another day. In all, a simple place, one bereft of the chaos oft seen in larger settings.

Nestled between woods and a bevy of farmland, the town boasted few memorable features, a facet Isander found himself regretting even as he dismissed it. Perhaps for the best. It lent a relaxed saunter to his gait, allowed his hips to tilt back with tension's ebbing gaze. Here at least he was allowed to breathe easy, untethered by worry. Even his next meal was assured; he approached a building that bustled out of time with the sleepy hamlet, the makings of what could only be a tavern, a place for wayfarers to ease the burdens of labor or travel. A sign hung above on freshly oiled chain, but the writing was illegible, the paint a forgotten touch.

He pushed into the inn, shoulders laden with saddlebags and the shaft of his spear bouncing from the crook of an elbow. There he hesitated, breathing in the acrid smoke of tabac and spices of wine blended before a mulling pot. It was laced with something floral, soap perhaps, or some cleaning reagent—indistinct, but a welcome sensation. The anteceding days had filled his nose with little more than the scent of brushland and peat. The musk of marsh under a caustic spring heat.

The knight wiped sweat from his brow and wetted the sleeve of his tunic in the process. He took another step past the threshold, a set of gazes coalescing on him. Only a few patroned the inn this evening, friends by his guess if not families long beholden to this land. They scoured him in momentary surveillance, weighing his step, settling on the spear that bounced before him. He knew that glance. They'd marked him a soldier, a brigand, some flavor of armsman. Foreign. As far from their world as were the moons to Khurun. Not unexpected. He leveled a thin smile at any who met his eyes.

"Barkeep," he called, and quickly corrected himself, "ah, mistress, I'd have a room, a meal, and a drink. And perhaps a game—dice, surely—if any would have me."

Perhaps, had he a moment's consideration, he might have blanched at noticing the injured Castor. Instead, he widened that smile and shrugged the saddlebags' weight against his shoulder.


@Venla Thiel @Castor
 
"Sounds like just the thing then," replied the knight with a pained smile. Losing his senses right about now didn't sound like half-bad idea. Despite the warning, Castor took a rather unhealthy swig of the draught. Fire cascaded from throat to gullet as the man reeled. He did his best to maintain indifference but Castor's shame was clear for all to see. The Sworn spent much of his youth aboard ships and with sailors who'd drink a demon's piss if offered. So he was no stranger to a stiff pour. The lass certainly hadn't been lying.

He nodded appreciatively as the barmaid returned with fresh linens and water. "Few moments earlier I barely had enough in me to open the damned door. Thanks to this spirit of yours, I'll manage. Anyways, seems you've got other guests to tend to," Castor reached for the linens and paused, "Oh, and I ain't no lord. Name's Castor."

His mention of other patrons had seemingly summoned another. This time the face was unexpected yet all too-familiar. "You're going to get in trouble with the Captain again." Wouldn't be the first knight to get scolded rolling the bones and certainly wouldn't be the last.
 
She watched him with a faint smile as he took a reckless swig of the spirits, the flush creeping up his face. Venla stood beside Castor's table, waiting for his answer. She glanced over her shoulder when the door flung open again. Travelers usually came from the road with hunger in their bellies and fatigue in their bones. But that one carried himself easy. A spear, good boots, a face that had not yet been ruined by war or hard living.

But the wounded man slumped beside her, was the more pressing matter. She turned back to him when he spoke. "You’re bleeding.. But if you insist..." How could he think that some fresh-faced, well-fed knight was more important than a man bleeding in front of her? "My apologies. You’re not a lord, then." she said softly. "Castor, is it?” She nodded as if affirming the change in her own mind. She had learned the hard way the weight of titles. Knew that to address a man, especially a noble, as anything less than his due could cost you. "And, I'm Venla," she added over her shoulder.

"Room and meal, as you wish, milord," she said, as she walked in behind the counter. "The drink depends on whether you want to wake up clear-headed or with your skull ringing like a bell." Venla wiped her hands on her apron and grabbed a key from a hook.

"We have a room just above, head up the stairs and it's at the end of the hall. The door to the left. It’s quieter. You won’t be disturbed" She handed him the key. She straightened, her gaze shifting slightly toward the kitchen door as she called out to her cousin.

“Adan!" Venla snapped, her voice sharp, but not unkind. "Lend a hand, will you?!" A boy, no older than fourteen emerged from the kitchen. The young boy had strawberry blonde hair and freckles speckled over his cheeks. The boy was all elbows and knees, still caught between the softness of childhood and the harshness of what was to come. Awkwardly growing into his skin. The tunic he wore was too big for him and the sleeves rolled up. His slender wrists stuck out like a scarecrow's limbs. She nodded at the knight’s gear. Adan hesitated for a moment, the uncertainty betraying his age. He walked around the counter, slow and unsure, his eyes scanning the man before him. The boy’s hands were twitching at his sides, wanting to help but unsure of how.

She turned back to the knight. "I’ll see to your meal. Sit yourself down, milord. I’ll bring it to you.. and Adan here will take your things to your room. "

@Isander & @Castor
 
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"A bell? Yes," Isander said, a near mumble as he fumbled his words. Mere seconds from crossing the establishment's threshold and a buzz already threatened to muddle his mind. Offloading his bags to the lad that approached him and offering instruction to relay the belongings to his room, he fished a pair of coins from a pocket and set them aside. One in the boy's hand, one on the bar as he crossed deeper into the room.

He did, however, fail to offload the confusion that twisted his brow. It beggared questions that he refused to ask, primarily those pertaining to his quite apparent lack of fortune in crossing paths with another of his order so many miles gone of the monastery. Particularly one he had not seen hide nor heard tell of in many cycles of the moons.

"Well," he said. "Well. With luck you'll bleed through those wraps and not make it back to tell her the tale."

He took a seat next to the injured knight.

"You look like shit, Cas." Concern bled into his voice. A little.

He cast his voice to the woman who had seen to him, saying, "A drink, then. Stiff enough to forget this evening, I think, would be appreciated."


@Castor @Venla Thiel
 
"Not the first time," he replied with a tired grin. Certainly wouldn't be the last either. Came part and parcel with the whole knight business. Admittedly he'd like to bleed less when it came down to it. These days death seemed to be lurking around every damned corner. Not just for him, but for the Order itself. Castor knew he probably should've taken the barmaid's offer but was getting a bit tired of others taking care of him. The Sworn didn't care much for pride yet even he wasn't entirely shameless. "Well met Venla. If I end up passing out before the bleeding stops, feel free to assist then."

As expected, the other knight was never at a loss for words. "Becoming something of a habit unfortunately," he said as he gingerly removed his leather cuirass. "Looks worse than it is," Castor added, noting the other man's concern. "Still hurts like a bastard."

Castor took another swig of the spirit before pouring a bit on his wound. Took about every ounce of willpower he had not to swear like a 'Lusian sailor.

"So how'd you find yourself in this...charming bit of nowhere?"
 
Venla’s green eyes lingered on the two knights. Folk like that never came through in pairs. Not unless something foul’s on the wind. She let out a slow breath through her nose. The ginger fetched a wooden mug from beneath the bar. Her fingers, nimble from years of work.

She murmured, " 'Thou shalt bleed for glory... and drink like a fish to forget it." Was that part of their sworn duty? Bleed out and drink themself into a stupor? She placed the mug before Isander on the counter. She tilted her chin toward Castor. "He’s got the bottle with the Bastard's Bile. I figured it best to give the strong stuff to the one already bleeding. You'll have to share with your brother-in-iron there, milord. By the time the sun crawls up, you both will be half-dead.”

Then she turned on her heel with a swish of skirts and pushed through the door into the kitchen. Steam from the stewpot clung to the low rafters, mingling with the woodsmoke and the smell of herbs and cooked meat. She ladled a generous helping of rabbit stew into a deep clay bowl, its surface glistening with oil and flecks of thyme and wild onion. The tavern wench cut a wedge of bread, still warm from the oven. Served beside the bread was a sliver of white cheese with a rind kissed by ash. She took a small dish of winter apple pie, its crust golden brown and crisp. She cut a slice and served it up on the same plate as the bread and the cheese.

When she returned, the food came not balanced on a tray, but held carefully in her hands. The bowl and the plate placed before Isander like an offering rather than a transaction. "Here." she said. "Rabbit stew. Fresh bread, cheese, and a little pie for good measure. Eat while it's hot." She picked up the clean wooden spoon from the pocket of her apron and handed it to the knight.

Venla watched Castor carefully, her arms folded loosely across her chest. "That’s gonna need stitches, you know." She let the words hang between them. It wasn’t her place to insist when he'd just told her he did not wish any of her aid. If she were a proud person, she might have been offended, but now she was just mostly weary.

@Castor @Isander
 
The platter of food kept Isander's tongue at bay. He spared a moment's appreciation for it, loosing a word of thanks as he surveyed the meal. The earthy smell of it stung his nose in a pleasant manner, and he tarried not in ripping off a chunk of bread.

"The lass is right, Cas," he said, lifting a dollop of stew to his lips. After chewing, he continued, "Won't be enough to save that ugly mug of yours, but perhaps it'll suffice to keep the innards in and not all over her clean floor."

A bright grin eclipsed his cheeks as he moved his gaze between the pair. He leaned on the table, tankard rattling as its perch was disturbed. This he rectified with some haste, scooping it into hand and taking a long draw.

"I was running errands with Roki," he said in answer to the earlier question, "tasked with ferrying supplies to Plumhollow for some local festivities. Mok-something, their patron deity, if memory serves. Perhaps you've ken of it?"

@Castor @Venla Thiel
 
Castor blinked, somewhat nonplussed at the tavern maid's reaction. Had he offended her? He was in too much damn pain to care in any case.

Not long after the other knight's meal arrived. The Sworn knew that while he could also probably use a bit of bread, he'd not be keeping anything down other than soak until his wound was settled.

"Could have half my face bashed in and I'd wager I still look a sight better than you," the Dusker shot back. His mother would've told him he was handsome if he'd ever met her. Can't say the same for his sire, but that was another matter.

Castor turned his attention back to Venla for a moment. "Don't suppose you're a fair hand with a needle?" Pain dissolved pride.

Trying to focus on anything else, he honed in on Isander's words. "Can't say that I am. Folks always looking for some reason to celebrate. Did you simply do some ferrying or did you happen to partake?"
 
“Could have half my face bashed in and I'd wager I still look a sight better than you.”

Her eyebrows lifting as the pair tossed barbs at each other like boys in a training yard. Over which of them had the more pretty face. "The Eight save us..." she muttered, half-laughing. "We’ve not had this much handsomeness in the tavern since Einar got all his teeth knocked out and started smiling again." She smirked at the two.

Her gaze lingered on Castor’s bloodied side, the red staining his shirt darker with each shallow breath he took. He wasn't fooling anyone. He was in pain, no matter how he tried to cover it.

“And yes, as it happens.. I can stitch."

She crossed the room to get supplies from the shelf under the counter. Venla returned with a length of waxed thread and a clean bandage. Like all good smallfolk, she carried a needlecase. She selected a curved bone needle from her case, meant for leatherwork, most often used patching her boots. But it was sharp, and sharp would do. Venla threaded the needle, once that task was done, she dipped the entire needle into Castor's glass of spirits, letting the alcohol coat it all. She didn't think they would have to cauterize his wound.

She knelt beside Castor. "Now hold still, pretty knight..."

@Castor @Isander
 
Measured amusement lighted in Isander's eyes. He beheld the pair from the perch of a cocked brow, nursing a chuckle at the rim of his cup.

"Oh, I partook. As they say: small folk, extravagant parties. Why, if I may be so bold, a few I encountered could drink even you to an early grave," he said.

"Well. You're doing a bang-up job of that, regardless. I take it you did more than fall from a horse while I galivanted off in the Plum? On the rout, or are you in need of an unpaid hand?"


@Castor @Venla Thiel
 
"Be a charity if I died from drink at this rate," he chuckled cynically. Laughter brought pain yet it wasn't entirely unwelcome. Helped him focus on things other than the dire. "Does sound like it made for good company." Castor couldn't say the same.

He braced himself as the barmaid prepared needle. There was nothing pretty about what was to follow. "Know if I say anything foul it's certainly directed at him."

Desperate to take his mind anywhere else, the Sworn recalled his brother's earlier question. "Word came in of a pair of slickhands hitting 'vans leaving the Hollow. I guess with this whole fest business, a bit of extra security was needed. Bastards gave me a merry chase and tried to gut me for my efforts. Didn't go down easy."

Castor allowed himself a heavy sigh. "Would've like to end it with words..."
 
Venla knelt beside Castor, grabbed the bowl of hot water and a rag, cleaning the blood away with brisk, practiced hands. She’d sewn up the farmers boy who split his leg on a rusted plough, and more drunks than she cared to count. But never a knight. And certainly not anyone built like this.

Gods, he is a sight, she thought, pretending she wasn’t looking. The cut was mean, deep and gaping, edges puffed and ugly.

The needle sank into the meat of him. She set the first stitch just above the worst of the gash, breath held as she pressed it in... and winced slightly when it sank deeper than intended. Through skin, fat… maybe muscle. Hard to say. The second tugged the lips of the wound tight. Wiping a bloody thumb against her apron. “It’s not the worst I’ve mended. Though most of them were boots.” She jested.

This close, she could smell blood mixing with the warm, worn scent of sweat and travel. Not exactly how she imagined her evening. At least the view’s good. Even if it’s leaking all over the floor. She hummed low under her breath. His blood slicked her fingers, hot and thick, soaking into her nails.

“When you came limping in looking like that, I figured you’d had a go at Big Jon.” She didn’t look up as she spoke, too focused on knotting the thread with wet fingers. "What's the Hollow?"
 
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