Gregoryan A. Archambeau

Gregoryan A. Archambeau

The Mute Knight
Character Profile
Profile
Tracker
Tracker
The repetitive hoof-beats of Steadfast beat a staccato rhythm as the mounted hedge knight rode down the well-traveled road leading into town. The walls of the town had been growing slowly larger for hours and the dust had begun to coat his throat with an annoying layer of dust and his water-skin was pitifully hollow on his saddlebags. Gregory adjusted the cloak that shielded the top of his head from the sun and guided Steadfast into the milling line of traveling merchants, farmers and fellow travelers. Steadfast snorted and flicked his head, his long black mane shifting, as another rider's horse grew too close to the massive warhorse.

When his time finally came to seek entry, the guards lowered their pikes to prohibit entry. "State your business."

He lifted his hands and cupping his gloved palms together, simulated drinking, and then placing the flats of both palms together, pretended to lay his head to rest and closed his eyes for a brief moment. His pale gaze flicked back open and looked at the two guards, though neither made a move to shift their pikes.

"I asked ye what yer business was, not for ye to give me some form of act."

Rolling his eyes, he lifted his coin purse from his belt and shook it before pointing at a nearby tavern. The guard followed his gaze, gave a laugh and muttered. "Should have just said so."

The guards lifted their pikes and he nudged Steadfast through the gate. He found a nearby stable, paying to sequester Steadfast for several days, though he saw to the removal of his saddle, tack and rubbed him down himself before allowing the stable boy to fork a bale of hay into the stall. Adjusting the sword on his hip and the bastard sword on his back, he walked across town to the tavern, ducking inside and settling on one of the stools before the bar, the stool groaning under his considerable bulk. He raised a hand to attempt to signal the barkeep, though the tavern appeared to be in the midday rush and the milling crowd and clamoring voices turned it into a hellish battlefield all its own, where his sword would do him no good. He settled to wait out the rush, the fingers of one large hand tapping on the surface of the bar's counter while the other hand cupped his bearded cheek.
 
Tiborael Holladay was not a good man. He had made his way to Svapna weeks ago, wearing clothes dyed with expensive colors and accented with furs so white and thick that they had to come from Lapvona. He wore a stupid hat with a silly peacock feather sticking out of it, and his shoes were so hardy that the dust and dirt from the market didn't even stick to them. He paraded himself around with an entourage of young women and big men who resembled bears and oxen.

Tiborael Holladay rode large, big horses that suited far up North, not the South, but Safa supposed this man would do anything to make himself stand out. He was an average-looking man with average height and average intelligence. His wealth was what brought attention to him, but no one in Svapna would know how big one's pockets were unless it was flaunted. However, in Svapna, minor flaunting was needed, but Tiborael demanded to be a peacock amongst pigeons.

So when Tiborael rode his large black and white horse, wearing his gaudy turquoise and violet clothes accented by golden thread and that ridiculously thick and heavy mantle made of moln bear pelt and his stupid peacock hat that was too big for his little head, he didn't much care when he near trampled over little Edda. His horse had stomped on her foot, and Tiborael didn't look back as the girl screamed and cried after having her foot crushed.

'Someone should teach him a lesson,' a man said.

Safa couldn't agree more, and so after she took Edda to an apothecary for pain relief and then to an old war nurse for treatment, she followed Tiborael and his entourage. She would teach him a lesson twice as big as the lesson he had taught sweet, little Edda.


Safa had been to this town before in her travels around South Ilica. There was an inn that she liked, which apparently everyone else liked just as much. Tiborael was staying at a new inn on the other side of town, and she had caught a conversation between his two favorite guards that they would be staying there for a few days while Tiborael dealt with a fever from traveling. Safa wasn't sure she'd get an opportunity better than this, but she would need a plan to get to Tiborael in the first place.

"Hey, barkeep!" She waved a hand to get his attention, but he ignored her as he filled up mugs of ale from massive barrels. "Stop ignoring me." Safa slammed her palm on the counter, the clap doing even less than her shouting to get even an admission of notice. She huffed, leaning back on her stool and crossing her arms over her chest. She had come to the bar top to get served faster than those at the many tables scattered about all over the main floor. Maybe she should have risked her luck sitting between two sweaty men intent on smashing their wooden mugs against each other. She was short enough not to worry about them smacking her against the head with their mugs, but she couldn't entertain the idea of ale splattering over her head.

Soon, a man so large that Safa thought he might be one of Tiborael's bodyguards took the stool beside her. Dark eyes looked him over for a moment before flicking back to the barkeep, who couldn't even handle giving a nod to the newcomer. With a roll of her dark eyes, Safa leaned over to the bear of a man.

"Don't get your hopes up, this guy sucks. He couldn't take an order to save his life right now, even if he tried." This seemed to get the barkeep's attention, his head whirling back as he filled up three more mugs of ale. Brows hung low over his eyes, skin creasing along his brow. Safa could only see the man's lower lip through his unruly, dark beard, but she was sure he was frowning.

"Yeah, I suck? Well, yer daft if ya can't see that I'm damn busy!" He slammed the three mugs of ale onto the side of the bartop, where they could be carried out to the patrons on the floors. Ale sloshed over and joined the sticky, wet puddle beneath the mugs.

"Oh, so now I get your attention?" Safa threw her hands up in the air before leaning forward against the counter. "I should've insulted you sooner!"
 
Pale blue eyes shifted to glance slowly down to see the origin of the voice seeking his attention. The hauberk clinked as he shifted on the stool, the wood protesting. His gauntlet fingers ceased their tapping, one dark eyebrow rising in curiosity.

The smallest of smiles tilted up the corners of his lips. The discomfort of the barkeep's response rubbed him the wrong way a bit, but he could understand the woman's frustration if she had been waiting longer.

He reached down to his belt, fingers curling around his coin purse and drawing on the string to loosen it, he began rummaging around and pulled out several coins, more than sufficient to buy a pair of drinks. He retied the purse and slipped it back on his belt before depositing the coins on the counter.

He tapped the woman gently on the shoulder and indicated the coins with a glance, pushing them toward her. He made several quick glances over to the barkeep. He lifted two fingers and then curled them back into a mimicry of holding a mug and pantomimed drinking.
 
"Huh?" Safa huffed, looking at the bear of a man beside her. He had tapped her shoulder, but no words had come from it. Her head turned towards the man, a brow crooked in inquiry. Dark eyes regarded him cooly, but there was a layer of superstition. Safa wasn't daft enough not to give him a look of complete inquiry and confusion. There was a moment of silence, only a raised brow and curving downward lips from Safa to give any hint of how she felt.

"You deaf?" But as she said this, the barkeep finally came towards the counter towards them. He rested his heavy hands against the bartop, shoulders bending over as he huffed towards Safa.

"What' cha want?" His voice was gruff; it belonged to a man who had spent his life serving others. He held weary eyes,eyes that had seen small children break plates and eyes that had also caught spouses cheating on their partners. His eyes told Safa that he wasn't the patient type and that if she didn't give the order now, he was the sort to move on and come back to them many minutes later.

"Two pints of ale, and then a second for both." The barkeep huffed, muttered something intelligible but sure to be an insult before turning his back to the two patrons. He grabbed two semi-clean wooden mugs. It didn't bother Safa; the lack of cleanliness was something she was used to. She turned towards the man with shoulders that better suited an ox.

"You can't speak for yourself or what?" She wasn't the sort to mince words, and she wouldn't try not to now.

@Gregoryan A. Archambeau
 
Gregory did not miss the skepticism in her glance at him, nor the suspicion that followed when nothing came from his mouth to accompany it. This was a familiar ritual with the giant warrior, a game he had been forced to adapt to the rules of to play. He was saved from having to respond to her question regarding his capability to hear when the bartender finally gifted them with his attention and services. His gaze ran slowly over the man, taking note of the wear eyes, the heavy hands, the seeming exhaustion that seeped from every ounce of his pores.

Apparently not as overly fond of the smaller woman's sarcasm or wit, he muttered something unintelligible under his breath as he turned his back to them. Pale blue eyes watched the bartender grab two semi-clean mugs and carry them over to a large barrel. He slowly twisted the spokes to release the amber liquid into one mug, though his gaze slowly shifted back to the smaller woman beside him, her words cutting through the distraction.

One eyebrow slowly lifted toward his forehead. How should he answer her question in a way she could understand, let alone comprehend? He didn't have the capability for speech, so even with his education, as small as it was, he couldn't explain that it wasn't he couldn't just speak, he no longer had the capacity to form words. He slowly tilted his chin up and away from her, reaching up to curl his fingers around the collar of his tunic and pulled it down.

The skin around his throat was still an angry red and had uneven ridges. A long faint line ran across horizontal across the breadth of his throat over the uneven ridges of the healing skin. Patches of dark hair sprouted among the jagged skin, though it was more sparse than thick. He slowly lifted the tunic collar back to cover the wound. He opened his mouth, went through the motions of speaking, showing her that no words came out as his lips formed the shapes of words.

The thunk of mugs on the bar had his pale blue eyes shifting to see the bartender had placed two mugs in front of them. His fingers curled around the handle of the mug and lifted it to the smaller woman beside him in a toast with a smile.

@Safa
 
Oh, gross. Poor Guy.

Safa only thought it, but her face portrayed her thoughts, nonetheless. There was the deep furrowing of brows, a look of surprise, and some sick curiosity about what could cause a wound like that. A hanging gone wrong? Being strangled? A blade to the throat. She looked away when the mugs were placed before them, glad for the distraction. She wasn't sure she'd have looked away otherwise.

She had lifted up the heavy mug, ready to bring it to her lips, but through her peripheral caught the start of a toast. She returned it, clunking her mug against his, not because it was expected, but because she had to look at the man and smile. It was a sort of apology, of sorts, for staring. She looked right into his eyes, and her gaze didn't dip lower than his lips, spreading in a smile.

"Cheers," Safa said, chugging the ale like water. She had to put it down when she was a quarter through, gasping for breath and then subsequently burping. She tried to be polite by covering her mouth, but her hand did little to muffle the sound. She turned her head away from the mute man, momentarily sheepish. She could imagine him thinking: Oh, gross. I feel sorry for the poor guy who marries her.

"Well, something tells me you're a great listener. So, Mister, wanna hear a secret?"
 
Gregory was familiar with the look the smaller woman was trying to hide. It was something that he had been forced to accept as part of his life and interacting with the public as a knight. He could hide behind a helm, the visor pulled down. The worst part was that he couldn't do anything to explain, to tell the origin story of the scar.

His smile blossomed larger as she raised her mug to clunk it against his own. He lifted the mug to his lips, tilting it to pour the contents down his throat, the warm liquid burning slightly before settling as a pleasant tingle in his belly. The burp from the small woman startled him and he had to slowly turn to look at her.

He lifted a massive paw to rest on her shoulder, gently squeezing to get her attention before smiling again, the corners of his lips tilting up in amusement. A twinkle of his amusement showed in his pale blue eyes as well.

When prompted for the sharing of her secret, he held up a finger to pause her continuing before slamming his empty mug on the counter and when the bartender looked, he tilted it upside down to show it was empty. The bartender grumbled something under his breath again before taking the mug and refilling it.

The mug slid across the surface of the bar into his hand and drink refilled, he gave a wave of his hand for her to continue with her story.
 
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. The man got himself another beer, and Safa continued to nurse her own. She didn't care about the smell or the flavor of it, only that it would soon relax her shoulders and make everything around her a little brighter and a little lighter.

With the wave of his hand, she brought her mug back to the countertop. She hadn't thought about how to tell a secret, or what secret she should tell. There was then the question of why she had suggested in the first place to tell him a secret.

"When I was about seven or eight, I took the last fig and blamed it on my sister. She was so upset that no one believed her that she ran away. We never saw her again." Safa looked inside her mug. There was no reflection, the wood was too wet, and the ale was too light. She took a swig, but it didn't erase the foul taste left in her mouth.

"I thought of her because your eyes are the same. Kinda." She shrugged and lifted her cup to finish her drink. She slammed her mug hard on the counter, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. The bartender turned towards her briefly to glare a dagger or two her way. "Now, that hit the spot!"
 
The story that began was not the one he had expected to hear. It was a story that one would tell their sibling or loved one. A secret that was shared when the bonds were far deeper than the ones shared between them. Alas, it was her secret and she carried the weight of deciding who she would burden in the sharing of it. He listened and waited, when the story was finished, he raised his mug in cheer, acknowledging the gift he had been given for what it was and drank. And drank. And drank until the mug was empty and he was staring at the wooden bottom.

At the mention of the resemblance in her sister's eyes and his own, his pale blue gaze found hers, conveying a sympathy and concern that his robbed speech would be unable to deliver. Smiling, he lifted a hand to place it gently on her shoulder again, squeezing gently. He caught the glare from the bartender and returned it with one of his own. He dug into his coin purse, withdrew more coin, enough to pay for another round and slid them across the surface of the bar.

The bartender slid the coins into his apron, grabbed the two mugs and refilled them at the barrel. He plopped the mugs in front of them once more, refilled. Gregory gifted the bartender with a nod, slid the woman hers and clunked his against it, spilling some of his on to the surface of the bar. He gave a cheeky grin and lifted the mug up to his lips, tilting it back and slowly draining the contents again. A small trickle ran down into his beard and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.
 
Another drink, another cheer.

Unloading the secret off her slight shoulders had an effect that Safa didn't expect. This time, she didn't chug. She didn't savor the sourness, nor did she ignore it. She drank now with small, calculated sips. Safa considered how now would be a good time to eat, eyeing the back of the bartender's head. They'd wait forever for a meal if he were in charge of putting in their order, so she craned her head over her shoulder. It would be best to bother other inn staff.

"I'll be back, big guy," Safa said, sliding off her stool. Despite the lightness in her head and limbs, Safa was still sure-footed and quiet. Unsurprisingly, she surprised the middle-aged woman carrying empty plates from a table of weary-eyed travellers. Safa was efficient in her order, holding two fingers and pointing at the bar top. With a nod of her head, Safa pulled out her own coin purse and was about to pay the woman until she shook her head, making a big show of the pile of plates that demanded both hands to be held. She told Safa to pay when she was served, though she did lean over to double-check the coin in the brown purse.

"Since you've been paying for my drinks, I got us dinner. Well, dinner for me, maybe an appetizer for you." Safa said as she got back on her stool. She looked inside her mug, which was well more than halfway full. "This place is all about their pigs. We could be in for a treat." She rarely ate meat while at home, preferring the cost of lentils over salted meats. But nothing helped a tipsy mind more than meat.
 
Gregory watched the smaller woman slide down off her stool, pale blue eyes curious. He made no move to stop her or inquire though. He quickly lost track of her in the crowd and returned to nursing his mug of ale. His finger traced the lines and ridges of the wood, imagining the tree they could have originated from before being carved into the mug. At the sound of the familiar voice returning, his head shifted to watch her as she climbed back on her stool.

At the mention of her purchasing them food, he quickly raised his hands and waved them back and forth sideways, shaking his head no. He reached for his coin purse on his belt and pulled out several coins - what he believed to be a fair price for the food and slid them across the bar's counter towards her. At the mention of pigs though and unable to tell if she was being sarcastic or not, he lifted an eyebrow.

Realization dawned several seconds later and he lifted a large hand to slap the smaller woman several times on the back. He held back on the strength of the blows to keep from doing serious harm, but it was apparent he took great mirth in the joke. He signaled the bartender for another round of drinks for them both.
 
The small woman shook her head quickly at the gestures of the man beside her. Safa pushed the coins back towards him.

"Where I am from, people are expected to return favors." It wasn't just the returning of the favor, it was more so that there were certain perceptions, the sort most women Safa's age wanted to avoid. The Empire was known for nursing standards with conflicting morals—the rich and powerful received leniency for certain things not afforded to others. Safa was not one of these elites, nor did she want to be.

She found them all abhorrent, like Tiborael Holladay.

Safa had to hold herself upright by bracing herself against the bar top. The man didn't realize his strength, though Safa assumed he meant to be gentle. But bears could not play with foxes without them getting hurt, or something like that, the anecdote now a distant memory.

"Careful there." Her heart was beating like crazy, a small adrenaline spike surging through her veins like bushfire. She still had half a pint to finish, and thought about protesting. She didn't. Food was on the way, and she could handle this another alongside some meat. "You sure got a lot of coin." Safa remarked instead, eyeing the man with playful scrutiny. "Either you're a rich bastard's muscle or you're selling Shroud Powder."

@Gregoryan A. Archambeau
 
Gregory tried and failed to hide the frown when the woman pushed the coins back toward him. It was simply against his chivalric code to allow her to pay for dinner when he had the funds and the desire to do so, which he did. Though recent brushes with his fingers had shown his coin purse to be growing considerably lighter with each round they drank. He accepted that he would not win this argument after a few moments of deliberation. His fingers curled around the coins and slid them down to rejoin the others in his coin purse. He made sure she was watching when he gave a shrug to show he understood, though he didn't quite understand.

He frowned when he saw the signs of discomfort on the woman's face. He realized his error. He had been a tad too excessive still, even with trying to hold back on the force and strength in each blow. He gave her a sheepish grin and shrugged again, a slight roll of his broad shoulders.

His expression turned hurt when she questioned the origins of his coin. He may not have always served the best lords or ladies, but he had done so dutifully. He was obligated to honor his vows, to do less would be to dishonor himself and to violate the ancient tenets of chivalry he tried to embody. Catching the playful look, he played along, curling one arm into a flex, the bicep bulging beneath the sleeves of his tunic shirt.

He made a show of laughing, rubbing his belly, while slamming the mug down on the surface of the bar again and again. He rubbed his belly again and pantomimed the motion of eating with a spoon. His stomach was beginning to rumble and protest the lack of food. He could only hope the food the smaller woman had paid for would arrive soon.
 
It was interesting to see a face that wasn't made to be a mask, like hers. There was a truthfulness to it that Safa enjoyed inwardly, the ability to understand the curve of one's eyes, their lips, even the rise or dip of their brows. Everything felt genuine instead of manipulated. Refreshing, unlike the ale that moved between her lips to the back of her throat.

"Alright, alright, alright," Safa said with a grin, "Rich bastard's muscle, got it." It would have been ridiculous to have a mute sell shroud powder, after all, everyone tried to barter for a lower price. Then again, this man didn't seem the sort to sell powder. From Safa's experience in seedy areas around the Empire those who sold such infamous powder tended to be skinny. People chose not to mess with the lanky sellers in fear of the muscle hiding within in the shadows behind them.

Before Safa could say more, the woman she had spoken to not long ago brought over four plates: One was a plate of dried pork, the meat well cracked and nearly brown, the other was a plate of four loaves of dried bread. Safa was used to such meals, though she often had juicy olives in brine to help soften it. However, the next two plates would take the use of olives: a pottage of leeks, cabbage, garlic, onion, spinach and lentils would be set between them and then finally a plate of yogurt and cheese.

"Well," Safa said, "I think we have a feast before us!" She paid the woman then, tipping her as well for the prompt service. She turned towards the mute man. "Hey, weird question, but... what is your name? Do you have written anywhere?" Safa was practically illiterate, though common words she could piece together. "I'm Safa. I think before sharing a meal together we could at least get to know each other's names, sort of."

@Gregoryan A. Archambeau
 
Rich bastard's muscle was an unfair approximation of the truth. He wasn't just hired muscle though. He had certain tenets and ideals he held strongly to. This more often than not led to conflicts and clashes with the lord or lady his services were pledged to at that particular time. He was trying to slowly gain prestige and notice in the jousting tilts, but it would take time before a truly worthy lord or lady would find his services worthy enough to employ.

Thankfully, they were forced to change their topic of conversation when the woman arrived carrying plates of food. Gregory couldn't help smile at the veritable feast placed before them, his stomach audibly rumbling in agreement. They smells blended together to be tempting enough to start a trickle of drool running down one corner of his mouth.

At the question of his name, he lifted a callused finger to scratch at the dark beard on his chin. He had no parchment nor quill with which to write on. An idea sparked, he gently prodded the smaller woman and held up a finger. He slowly lowered it to the surface of the bar and began to draw out the letters of his name. First the subtle curves of the g, then the hunchback r, a swift e followed by two more curvy gs, an o, another hunchback r and finally an expressive y.

Turning back to look at her, he raised a quizzical eyebrow. He could only hope she had been able to follow along and transcribe the letters as he drew them. If not, they would have to get some parchment and quill so he could physically transcribe his name with ink.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom