Private The only brew for the brave and true

[Skuggflamma]

Magnar stepped down from the doorway, wiping his hands on his apron out of habit more than need. His eyes moved between Willard and the other man now, taking him in proper. “Evening to you, Syr” He said with a polite nod. The dogs, sensing no quarrel in the air, gave a few uncertain huffs before padding closer, tails swaying like slow. Bramble made a slow circle round the horses, while Ivy planted herself nearby as to supervise.

“From Astenvale,” Magnar repeated the words slow, scratching at his beard. That was a name that usually came with a wagon load of barrels for the brewer. His eyes flicked once to the letter in Willard’s hand, then back to the man himself. “Hah. Don’t tell me they’ve started sending word this early.” A small grin tugged at his mouth. “Das Broofest’s not for a while yet, last I reckoned!"

“Well, if you’ve got tidings, you’d best share them where there’s light enough to see what’s what.” Magnar gave a short chuckle and jerked his head toward the open door. “Course you can come in. You’ve both the look of men who could do with a chair and something to drink.” Magnar waved them in fully, then lifted his voice toward the back rooms. Dogs squeezed in between the knights and the open door. Inside the two big grey dogs settled near the fire.

“Ma!” Magnar called. “We’ve got company!"

The warmth inside spilled out to meet them, all golden and homely. Fire crackling, kettle muttering, the sweet, familiar smell of mash clinging to the air. A loaf sat half-cut on the table, a knife still buried in its crust, as though someone had only just stepped away... A firm scuff of boots echoed from the back of the house, and a tall, sturdy woman appeared. Her eyes, sharp and bright, took in Willard and his companion in one quick sweep.

“Well, look at that,” she said. “Syr Willard. You’ve better not be bringing trouble this time...”

Magnar moved to the table, picking up two stout mugs and filling them with ale from the flagon. The foam rose just so before he set them down in front of their guests. “Here! Sit yourselves, knights!" He turned back to Willard, reaching for the letter. “Now, come on then, lad, hand that over. Let’s see what’s got you clattering at our door this evening."

 

[Willard]

Willard's eyes widened in surprise. He laughed, shrugging, as one often did when at a loss for words. 'Careful with this one, Hec. Last time Magnar offered me a drink, he damn near poisoned me,' the dawnling's smile was short-lived. Dusting off his boots, he followed Magnar inside.

My, but this place hasn't changed a bit, the knight thought, hooking a thumb through his sword belt.

The hounds returned to their place by the hearth as yet more footsteps joined the crackle and cough of old timbers and firewood. Much like her home, madam Thiel had not changed much since last they had seen each other. 'I wouldn't dream of it, Lady,' replied the dawnling, bowing his head in greeting. 'Still, best keep your ladle close,' he continued, 'I think we passed the sheriff on the ride in. Hoary old goat.' Magnar snorted. His mother raised a brow questioningly.

Averting his gaze, Willard handed off the letter to Magnar, before waving his friend forward.

'Anyways, allow me to introduce my Sworn-brother, Hector Rookheart.' Stepping deeper into the room, Willard drew a chair out from beneath the table, but remained afoot.

 

[Hector]

Hector bowed his head to the man, fingers tugging at the wide brim of his brown leather cap. "Evening to you as well, ser,"

Didn't sound so easy as when Syr Sando drawled it out. Then, the scruffy old Syr had a way about his dealings.

"From Astenvale..."

A twitch of the ear at the surprise that lingered there in the pause. The quiet like the sticky pour of molasses from a jug. The laugh came of a sudden, as did the mention of Das Broofest. Hector blinked at that. Too many gaps in the sketch of it all.

Willard he could see clearly. Here to deliver word from Lady Venla. Why the surprise of Astenvale then?

It hit him. The names of things come again. Arrowdale. The Thiel name and all the proud kegs he had helped haul off wagons, and tap into come the fall of leaves and change of colors that gave sign for the fest.

Hector stared, perhaps a little too long, at the man who could only be the famed Magnar. Eldest of the Thiel's. Eyes glanced to Willard, who but played at the potency of a brew, last he was offered a drink.

"I'll keep my wits about me," Hector said with a nod, and a hint of tooth in his smile.

In they went.

Into a haze of warm and sweet, mixed with all the savory, salt and sour. So full was the scent of the home, that Hector could feel his own bones growing sturdier, his gut, made to feel fuller, if only with the clarity of how hungry he was.

Was the sort of scents and lingering tastes that didn't beg one stay, it simply let them know they were always welcome to come back.

Could feel the sort of thing in the Knoll, when the kitchen was right, and the hall full enough with high spirits.

He pulled his hat off, soft leather held easy in splayed grip, just as boots knocked, and come the matriarch.

"... You've better not be bringing trouble this time..."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Lady... I think we passed the sheriff on the ride in..."

"Here! Sit yourselves, Knights!"
Hector gave nod. "My thanks," he said, and took up the flagon. waited a moment before taking his seat.

...Come on then, lad..."

The letter passed between Willard and Magnar.

"... allow me to introduce my Sworn-brother, Hector Rookheart."
Hector's lips were already sipping at the dark drink that filled his cup. So sweet and chocolatey in how it all hit his nose. He blinked. Coughed some, and pulled the flagon from his mouth quick. But not so quick he would spill. Wiped his lip, and pressed his heels just the straighter. Stood just the taller. "An honor to meet you, Mistress Thiel," he said with a bow that was all too serious.

A bit of dark stout spilled from his cup, and unto the floor.

"Oop," Hector said, wide eyed at the splash.

 

[Skuggflamma]

“Mistress Thiel,” Magnar stared at Hector for half a heartbeat. Then it broke. A laugh burst out of him, loud and bright, the sort that filled the whole room and shook the rafters. “Mistress...!” he tried, failing halfway through as he bent forward, one hand braced on the mantle over the fireplace. “Gods above, you hear that, Ma? Mistress Thiel!”

Magnar wiped at his eyes, still grinning as he straightened again, giving Hector a friendly clap on the shoulder. "You’ll have her thinking she’s taken a title now. You’ll call her Saara, and me Magnar." A dark splash hit the floorboards. Magnar’s eyes dropped to it, then, just as quick, something grey and nimble slipped out from under the bench like it had been waiting its whole life for this very moment. A cat, set straight to work lapping at the spill. "Waste not, she says.” Said Magnar with grin breaking across his face, “Seems you’ve made friends with Mottle there.”

Then the tall brewer took the letter with his warm big hands warm, turning it over once. He unrolled the letter and leaned a hip against the table as he read, lips moving just a touch over the words. Then he paused. His thumb brushed over the scratched word, though he said nothing of it, only to carry carefully continued on. He huffed once at the line about the oven. By the time he reached the end, something in his strong shoulders had eased.

“Well,” he muttered, folding the letter once, more neatly than he’d found it. “That’s her. Rambling halfway to market just to tell you she’s eaten her fill and isn’t dead in a ditch.” A breath left him, in something that sounded like a laugh and a sigh.

“You’ve my thanks for this, Syr Willard” he said, “Means more than I can put into neat words."

“No one drinks on an empty belly in this house." A mother was a mother, that was the plain truth of it, and it mattered little whose sons stood in her doorway. If they had boots dusty from the road and that hollow look about the eyes, then they were someone’s boys, and that was reason enough. She reached for the letter as she passed Magnar.

Off she went into the kitchen, skirts brushing the doorway, the familiar sounds following soon after, lids lifted, spoon stirring. The letter opened there in the warm glow of the hearth, where the light was better and a mother could read her daughter’s words without a room full of eyes upon her.

“So,” he said, tone turning practical again, as if the world were made of simple things like bread and hard work and asking plain questions. “What brings two riders from Astenvale to our door besides carrying letters, eh?”

 

[Willard]

'Don't mention it,' replied Willard, waving the thanks away. 'We were passing through. Only right that we stopped by.' Magnar's voice was thick with relief. There was even a bit of mist about his eyes, though surely that was due to the woodsmoke, and not the words written in his sister's hand.

Willard's foot bounced nervously as he took a seat at the table. The grey looked up at him curiously, before zipping away to join Bramble and Ivy by the hearth. Together they formed a cozy nest for the cat to settle into.

Dipping his head in gratitude, the dawnling watched as Saara took the letter from her son, a distant glimmer to her gaze as she wandered off to read. The moment stretched. 'So.' Magnar asked his question, no less polite despite his bluntness. Some folk were just like that. Loud. Obnoxious. Willard smiled some as he turned his attention towards the towering Magnar.

'Besides delivering letters? Chasing rumours, mostly.' Impatient bards, too. 'A woman by the name of Verseheart came here recently. No doubt you've heard the talk going around about a blighted unicorn? Well, we received a report informing us that one such mythical beast had been spotted in the area not so long ago.' A cup landed on the table in front of Willard. Slowly, the dawnling picked it up.

'Hector and I, alongside a number of our fellow knights, have been dispatched to verify said reports, and, if we are able, to deal with the blight presence any which way we can.' Dangerous didn't even begin to cover it. Willard hoped the rumours proved false. With any luck, they would all get to return home with their skins intact.

But when has luck ever favoured us?

'Anything you can tell us about this unicorn sighting would be much appreciated,' the knight spoke up from behind the rim of his cup. 'Where's your brother, by the way? Rane, wasn't it?'

 

[Hector]

Hector couldn't help but smile at the guffaw that had bellowed out of the big man's big chest. The whole sound of it filled the room. Mistress Thiel, Saara, didn't seem none too bothered by the formal address.

Even so, Hector's face ran warm.

Mayhaps in part due to the warmth that swirled about the home he found himself in. Low as the fires burned. It was in the details. The tenderness that lingered in the voices, and the glimmer of the eyes.

You've my thanks, Syr Willard...

Don't mention it...

No one drinks on an empty belly in this house.
Hector tilt his cup at that. "It's much appreciated, Ma'am," He set the stein down, and eyed the dark brew as the talk went on around him.

The quest at hand. The blighted unicorn, and a dig for information. Hector mulled it over, and somehow found that bit of their being there, the least bit interesting.

A warm soft thing pressed itself firm against Hector's ankles. Could feel it through the leather of his boot. He leaned over, and smiled at the little grey shape with the big jewels for eyes. Mottle. Offered a knuckle, and worked in some scritches just beneath the chin. Relished in the warm rumble and purr that soon followed.

Made the fire pop feel all the warmer.

 

[Skuggflamma]

Magnar listened, one arm folded over the other, his expression shifting by small degrees the longer Willard spoke.

“Now hold on,” he said, not unkindly, just plain confused. “You rode in saying you’d brought word from Astenvale… but I haven’t heard a single word from Astenvale yet. Not one. Just beasts and young knights chasing after a bard with more legs than sense.” He scratched his beard, slow and thoughtful.

“As for your unicorn…” He let out a short breath through his nose. “Can’t say I’ve heard a whisper of such a thing. Blighted or otherwise." Folk would be talking, sure as sunrise, if there were a beast like that wandering about. "Aye, there is trouble up along the northern shore road. But we’ve had that before this time of year. Ice breaks, waters shift… and then there’s Old One-Tooth.”

He gave Hector a sideways look and realized he had to explain to these outsiders who Old One-Tooth was. “Big old walrus. Comes round every spring, all temper, looking for a mate that’s not there. Spooks the horses, tips the odd cart if he’s in a mood. Nothing new.”

He shifted his weight, thinking back. “That bard though. Said she was heading up to the highlands.” A small shrug followed, easy and unconcerned. “Something about monster hunters and the Drakhorn Den, I think she called it." Just then, Saara returned from the kitchen, carrying two full bowls that steamed richly in the warm air. She set them down in front of the knights, bread following close behind.

“Beyond that, couldn’t tell you much. No unicorns on our shores, that’s for certain.” Magnar glanced up at her, then back to Willard, the earlier confusion still lingering like an unsolved riddle. “Rane?” he echoed, then nodded. “Aye, he’s off north,” he went on. "Spring’s come proper now, and the trees up in the colder woods are running sweet as anything.” He gave a small, content nod, as if that alone explained the whole world.

"We tap the sap for our stout, you see. Gives it a roundness to it."

 

[Willard]

Willard shrugged. No surprise there, he thought. Letters had a habit of getting lost on the twining country roads seperating Astenvale from the world at large. Highwaymen loved their stagecoaches nearly as much as poachers loved plucking pigeon feathers. And sending stones were a rare commodity those in the know preferred kept secret.

'Next you'll tell us ole One-Tooth has a taste for half-eared half-elves,' the scout gruffed, swapping smirk for smile as the matriarch brought them fresh bowls. 'Our gratitude, Lady,' the youngster continued, quietly stirring his stew.

Mention of his homeland bade Willard pause, spoon half-raised, a tuft of warm bread clutched in his offhand, like a stone yet to be skipped 'cross lake's surface. Well, that's interesting. 'Any monster troubles lately, Magnar?' Willard blew on his spoon. 'Drakhorn's full of Cazadores... and cutthroats.' Sometimes, one had to look long and hard to spot the difference, not that staring at hardened killers could be considered sensible, by any measure of the word.

But then hunting man-killers wasn't exactly smart neither.

'It's also where the shepherd's hide their moonshine,' Willard spoke matter-of-factly, grinning up at Magnar. 'He been gone long?'

 

[Hector]

Hector sat within the Thiel home. At their table. Given drink and food that steamed with all its warmth and promise. Shown hospitality. Kindness. As they did for Willard.

Had done so prior.

And Hector's sworn brother, Willard, had ridden in with Venla Thiel, all those months ago. Daughter to Mistress Saara Thiel. Sister to Magnar Thiel. Both took care of the wayward knights. One sat alongside them spilling tale and secret in equal measure. And while the roundness of the stout, and the warmth of the soup pulled smile's curl across Hector's lip. It was a wistful thing.

"Master Magnar," Hector cut through whatever lingering conversation tangled about his ears. Face fire lit, and shadow danced. "You won't be too angered with me, should I share your secret with our brewmasters back in the Knoll, would you?" he smiled. Something honest there. "But I confess, I am as confused as you are," he tilt his head toward Willard, and eyed his brother. "We bring word from Lady Venla, who resides within the Astenvale Monastery," his eyes turned back to elder Thiel, and in turn the Matriarch. "Is this news?"

These were not witch hunters. Poachers. Brigands. Tyrant lords, or folk deathly loyal to such. These were the folk the Knights of Anatheaum were sworn to aid and protect. Hector did not know the full depth of what had transpired here, seasons prior, but he did know one thing.

He would not take part in it.

 

[Skuggflamma]

Magnar’s hand stilled on his cup, like a wheel that had been turning steady and suddenly found grit in the axle.

“Astenvale monastery,” he repeated. “Is that what you said?”

There was no anger in his voice. Just confusion.

Magnar shifted his weight, boots scraping faint against the worn floorboards, the same boards that had seen spilled ale, muddy boots, laughter that ran too late, and the odd hard night besides. A good floor, a true one. It didn’t lie, and neither did he, not if he could help it.

“That’s a queer turn of things,” Magnar said at last. His eyes came back to Willard, and this time they stayed there. Behind him, Saara had gone still in the doorway to the kitchen, one resting on the frame.

“How’d my sister come to be in Astenvale… when she set out for Drachenberg?”

Magnar took in Willard proper now, not as a guest, not as a passing rider, but as a young man standing in his house with his sister’s name tangled up in his mouth. Fair-haired. Young enough that the years hadn't started their work on him yet. No beard worth speaking of. The kind that Venla would have walked past without a second look. She’d always had a type... the dark hair, a bit of roughness to them. You notice those things, being a brother. Magnar’s brow creased, faintly.

This one…
It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the lad.

Only that, if you’d asked Magnar yesterday, he wouldn’t have put coin on Venla changing her road for someone like Willard.

 

[Willard]

The dawnling sat there, confused, until he wasn't. 'Ah.' Drachenberg. Fuck! Rubbing at his weary eyes, Willard looked from Magnar to Saara, his expression a mixture of guilt and self-loathing. How could I have forgotten that little detail? He asked himself, pushing his bowl away, his appetite gone.

'Drachenberg. Well,' he stared at a spot over Saara's shoulder, hoping to blur the concern she wore so openly. He sighed.

'When Venla and I told you we were heading to the Berg, we were being genuine. I fully intended to deliver her there safe and sound,' he stirred, holding up a hand before they could jump to conclusions. 'And I did. Though, the plan changed the moment she laid eyes on the place.' Or maybe she had made up her mind long before they'd even reached the township? Willard could not lay the blame on fickle thoughts when his own heart sang the same.

'I am a sworn knight... but I do not serve Lord Kazarine.'

No badges or feathered plumes. Even the colours he wore were wrong. Drachenberg! Perhaps the Road had worn him down, or perhaps it had been the horrors inflicted upon Lehtoja, and many such places since? Either way, his memory had betrayed him.

Better this way, he mused, gazing past Magnar to his mother. Venla's mother. Rewarding their hospitality by filling their thoughts with worry struck Willard as an unforgivable sin. 'Your daughter is fine, ma'am,' he assured her, before glancing away. What good were promises when they came from the mouth of a liar?

'I know not what she wrote you... but... I think it would gladden her to hear you are both healthy and hearty. As she is... at Astenvale,' he paused, feeling his face heat slightly.

 

[Hector]

Hector's brow quirked.

Sworn man of Lord Kazarine?

He shook the thought away. Spooned down another bit of stew.

To be so tangled in such lies. It made little sense to him. Though. What made sense in this day and age, save the warm soup in his bowl and the sweet drink in his flagon?

He let out a cool breath, hearing his sworn brother stumble over his own words. Ease worked over him. Tired so clear in the chords of his limbs, and the spread of his shoulders.

Then he recalled. Not all were of the Order, as he was. Born unto its ranks. Orphaned by its duty. Raised to its oaths by hands that knew his own mother and father, better than he ever could. He took another spoonful.

He would remain silent now. This was for Willard to navigate now in full. And mayhaps. Mayhaps Hector was beginning to realize, he had been upset that so much had been hidden from him, as well as the good Thiels.

 

[Skuggflamma]

“Changed her mind, did she?” Magnar said at last, doubtful in the way of a man trying to make sense of a crooked plank. “Just like that?” Words leaving him like he was testing each word before letting it leave his tongue. He let out a short breath through his nose, glancing once at the table, then back up again. “Venla’s not one for sudden turns,” he went on.

“You rode her all the way there,” he went on, voice plain, “and she took one look and turned away?” His eyes settled firmer on Willard now. A faint shake of his head followed. “She’s not some wandering sword. She’s never been that sort. Why would she change her mind like that? To leave for Astenvale?” Hectors spoon shifted in the bowl the only thing heard in the quiet that followed Magnar's voice.

Saara spoke. “Is she in trouble?”
Magnar gave a small nod at that, not taking his eyes off Willard.
“Aye,” he said. “That’s the heart of it.”

He leaned forward, hands braced on the table, the wood creaking faint under the shift. “Because from where I’m standing,” he went on, “it sounds less like she changed her mind… and more like something changed it for her.” Then, blunt as a hammer: “You were with her, lad.” Knuckles had gone pale against the table edge.

'Your daughter is fine, ma'am,'

"At Astenvale?" Magnar repeated, and glanced at his mother. Gentle, brief. Then back to Willard.

"Step outside with me, lad."

 

[Willard]

The trouble with a guilty conscience was that you could not hide it. The part of Willard that wanted to guard Venla's secrets struggled with the part that wanted to tell them the truth. Eyes being windows, he realised he could not withhold it from them, not with the pair staring right through. Besides, they deserved to know how their daughter fared, what she was capable of.

Only, the full extent of her powers were a mystery, even to him.

He recalled how she had reacted when he'd found her, after her powers had first manifested. Scared, like a cornered animal. Terrified he had come to kill her, or see her killed by authorities beyond him. Like witches of old.

Willard grimaced as Magnar asked him to step outside, referring to him as "boy". A blow to his pride, but one he no doubt deserved.

'Enjoy your stew,' the dawnling laid a hand on his friend's shoulder as he made to stand, sliding what was left of his bowl over. He couldn't bring himself to look at Saara, for fear of seeing Venla stood in her place, imagining her disappointment in him.

Ivy and Bramble stirred as Willard headed out ahead of Magnar. The door swung shut before either of them could reach it. Ivy whined softly.

 

[Hector]

Come the pat, and come the walking off.

Hector was left with not but the stir and swirl of it all. And the worried visage of a mother, who knew nothing of what became her daughter.

Starmarked. Hector knew it called. Shroudspun. He had heard others name it. Magicked. Bewitched. Endaemoned. Moonsburned. Fiendtouched.

They did not know.

That much was plane as the floor beneath him. Like thought the strange totems of flesh were of some unknown happening. And at the core of all the truth that had been spoken, so much was true. Only the Captains, the Masters, and those Knights deemed worthy truly knew. Whatever it was that had put Lady Venla in the dungeon cells.

Another spoon filled with stew. Though what appetite had gnawed at his stomach seemed well past settled now. Twisted in fact.

Hector looked to where Magnar and Willard had stepped out to. Brown eyes lifted to see Mistress Saara. Fingers worked to tight knots. Eyes heavy with a worry that only grew the weightier with all that was left unsaid.

"It is as my sworn brother has said, Mistress Thiel," Hector put to words. Though he knew not if silence were the better choice left to him. "Lady Venla is alive and well, and has been of great asset to our Order, in the aid she provides," Hector's hands moved to his coat, and pulled free a leather journal. Laid it unto the table, along with a stylus of silverpoint. "I would be happy to pen a message for you, if you would like, Mistress Thiel," he bowed his head. "It's the least I can do, as thanks for the hospitality,"