Syr Montbank
New member
Every gesture in the air slices against the currents, sleekly one does pierce with silence. The rush of the paintings of the world below, a gallery that is gulfs away, yet pleads attention as if as close as whisper in the ears. Pitch and tilt, discipline and focus, doctrine in the dive.
As banners plant themselves within the soil, formations gathering their defiance against being interred where their flag do mark their stand, they are seen by unfailing canopy of sky. As lances begin their tilt and hooves crash in dreadful tearing tempo, mouths grow dry, eyes firm to the force soon to crash upon them. Speeches rising from those charged to command that shame the bard's imitation and historian's understanding of courage. Impassioning the tumultuous the words ring out, drawn steel and fierce fury that follow, determined in the duty now demanding it's pledge and sacrifice.
They are heard and seen and worked within by the shimmering white, a diamond that descends and circles.
The rest is known full to those who's boots marked such tapestries with their prints, who's hands did shake from clash of steel and worse, who faced the clamours of the carnage.
The galleries of landscape below did as watercolour wash with the memory. Free of the war bound hosts of battle, of his friends and foes the present moment recovered. The sky knight could see that nature had recovered in part from what movements had ravaged it. Yet even as his eyes saw no-one on the field in current day from such heights that were his home, his ears could hear those whispers, calling him direct as they had then, to pitch and dive and demanded his presence to the past impossible to reach again.
Some time since such galleries were painted fresh with colours of battle. The portrait of those that had stood there were oft marked by shadows in the eye.
Wings carried Montbank away, his eye full to brimming of the display, the wind his to slip away in. The eyefuls of history that greeted his closed lids given fresh perspective for revisitation. A history he had done his part in.
Montbank gave and held salute, wings broad and shimmering, before he did bid himself away.
To future battles he would attend. For now, his duty was to his readiness to act again.
The words, “You are relieved for two weeks,” carried their own duties. “Get some rest,” their own demands to act appropriately.
And so he went away and on.
What grace of silence and carriage of cloud and air was his to soothe him, enveloping those lurking where rain does form, a future day charged with descending need quicker than the lightning. The day turning to afternoon and evening as he made his passage to civilisation proper.
----
The sign above the tavern door that gentle moved in evening air a well maintained thing, a colourful dislay of peacock toasting glass with tankard holding black badger who did the same. The black badger adorned with scars, the peacock perfect.
The crackle of the hearth and cackle of laughter within the tavern contained by brick and shuttered window. A gentle creep of tobacco did seep and linger from tables hunched over by soldier. The night was theirs to take shelter from, what tasks of the day complete by the many that did visit the establishment. Montbank's face new to the old place of comfort and reprieve from sober moments.
A full journey made, the galleries that now looked back at Montbank were now framed upon the wall.
Montbank stared at the brush strokes of the noble tilt of mayor illustrated, wreathed in gold necklace and carrying the ornaments of power. The sound of pouring ales were even clearer to him that expression in the brushstroke, even so much as to tell him that barrel was near the moment of needing replacing. His stillness in contrast the myriad closeness of movement, of hands that cradled beverage, of lips that supped. His own taloned finger tapping routinely against the glass he held, keeping time to the erratic tavern goers as they enjoyed their evening. His eyes unblinking as he considered the brush strokes from his seat and table, the man who was portrayed standing proudly above the hearth, Montbank's orange eyes now locked with the artful look of prestige below the noble brow.
The sounds of footfall, eyes did not turn to greet. A tray that balanced metal tankards that did bump against themselves in tiny clinks that Montbank heard close.
“Another gin?” the bar staff did ask, taking the empty glass from Montbank, taloned hands freeing itself before the question and taking.
“That would be most welcome,” Montbank said, forcing himself to blink. A nod, a glance of gratitude that he tried to soften from what he suspected was taut unsettling attention.
“Be with you in a moment,” the staff did say, having seen those shadows before, even such bright oranges as his, and knew he would be no trouble. The strength of gin was often the solace of many who carried the weight of weapons and armour in memories more than their person.
More tobacco did seep from tables, the front door did introduce new patrons, foods plunged into with well carved wooden spoons, chatter of old friends and new friends forming. Montbank's eyes now to the fireplace, his back against the booth, his taloned hands giving that same tempo against the wooden table he sat alone at.
He patted his leather adornments down for something in the only place it would be. Across his sleek metals of armour was a network of organised supply. His beaked mouth clacked once in dismay.
“Must have been displaced when I took to ground,” Montbank said to himself, “A pick pocket perhaps? I do hope they enjoy it. Doubt I'd find a easy smoke to draw that won't be harsh in this place,” he said to himself, more rueful by his failure to find and retrieve than the losing crime.
He looked around for potential charity, looking to soldiers that plumed with leaf harsh drawing and acrid. The look all those who did draw smoke within themselves knew.
“Beggars can't be choosers, but Knights who double over coughing as they draw in are exceeding poor displays,” Montbank remarked to himself, eyes turning from patron to patron, considering his options.
As banners plant themselves within the soil, formations gathering their defiance against being interred where their flag do mark their stand, they are seen by unfailing canopy of sky. As lances begin their tilt and hooves crash in dreadful tearing tempo, mouths grow dry, eyes firm to the force soon to crash upon them. Speeches rising from those charged to command that shame the bard's imitation and historian's understanding of courage. Impassioning the tumultuous the words ring out, drawn steel and fierce fury that follow, determined in the duty now demanding it's pledge and sacrifice.
They are heard and seen and worked within by the shimmering white, a diamond that descends and circles.
The rest is known full to those who's boots marked such tapestries with their prints, who's hands did shake from clash of steel and worse, who faced the clamours of the carnage.
The galleries of landscape below did as watercolour wash with the memory. Free of the war bound hosts of battle, of his friends and foes the present moment recovered. The sky knight could see that nature had recovered in part from what movements had ravaged it. Yet even as his eyes saw no-one on the field in current day from such heights that were his home, his ears could hear those whispers, calling him direct as they had then, to pitch and dive and demanded his presence to the past impossible to reach again.
Some time since such galleries were painted fresh with colours of battle. The portrait of those that had stood there were oft marked by shadows in the eye.
Wings carried Montbank away, his eye full to brimming of the display, the wind his to slip away in. The eyefuls of history that greeted his closed lids given fresh perspective for revisitation. A history he had done his part in.
Montbank gave and held salute, wings broad and shimmering, before he did bid himself away.
To future battles he would attend. For now, his duty was to his readiness to act again.
The words, “You are relieved for two weeks,” carried their own duties. “Get some rest,” their own demands to act appropriately.
And so he went away and on.
What grace of silence and carriage of cloud and air was his to soothe him, enveloping those lurking where rain does form, a future day charged with descending need quicker than the lightning. The day turning to afternoon and evening as he made his passage to civilisation proper.
----
The sign above the tavern door that gentle moved in evening air a well maintained thing, a colourful dislay of peacock toasting glass with tankard holding black badger who did the same. The black badger adorned with scars, the peacock perfect.
The crackle of the hearth and cackle of laughter within the tavern contained by brick and shuttered window. A gentle creep of tobacco did seep and linger from tables hunched over by soldier. The night was theirs to take shelter from, what tasks of the day complete by the many that did visit the establishment. Montbank's face new to the old place of comfort and reprieve from sober moments.
A full journey made, the galleries that now looked back at Montbank were now framed upon the wall.
Montbank stared at the brush strokes of the noble tilt of mayor illustrated, wreathed in gold necklace and carrying the ornaments of power. The sound of pouring ales were even clearer to him that expression in the brushstroke, even so much as to tell him that barrel was near the moment of needing replacing. His stillness in contrast the myriad closeness of movement, of hands that cradled beverage, of lips that supped. His own taloned finger tapping routinely against the glass he held, keeping time to the erratic tavern goers as they enjoyed their evening. His eyes unblinking as he considered the brush strokes from his seat and table, the man who was portrayed standing proudly above the hearth, Montbank's orange eyes now locked with the artful look of prestige below the noble brow.
The sounds of footfall, eyes did not turn to greet. A tray that balanced metal tankards that did bump against themselves in tiny clinks that Montbank heard close.
“Another gin?” the bar staff did ask, taking the empty glass from Montbank, taloned hands freeing itself before the question and taking.
“That would be most welcome,” Montbank said, forcing himself to blink. A nod, a glance of gratitude that he tried to soften from what he suspected was taut unsettling attention.
“Be with you in a moment,” the staff did say, having seen those shadows before, even such bright oranges as his, and knew he would be no trouble. The strength of gin was often the solace of many who carried the weight of weapons and armour in memories more than their person.
More tobacco did seep from tables, the front door did introduce new patrons, foods plunged into with well carved wooden spoons, chatter of old friends and new friends forming. Montbank's eyes now to the fireplace, his back against the booth, his taloned hands giving that same tempo against the wooden table he sat alone at.
He patted his leather adornments down for something in the only place it would be. Across his sleek metals of armour was a network of organised supply. His beaked mouth clacked once in dismay.
“Must have been displaced when I took to ground,” Montbank said to himself, “A pick pocket perhaps? I do hope they enjoy it. Doubt I'd find a easy smoke to draw that won't be harsh in this place,” he said to himself, more rueful by his failure to find and retrieve than the losing crime.
He looked around for potential charity, looking to soldiers that plumed with leaf harsh drawing and acrid. The look all those who did draw smoke within themselves knew.
“Beggars can't be choosers, but Knights who double over coughing as they draw in are exceeding poor displays,” Montbank remarked to himself, eyes turning from patron to patron, considering his options.