Everyone Compromises Eventually

The meal ran late but the barbarians were not as boisterous as Aliana had expected and mostly ignored the people of the temple as they crept around the edges of the hall and nervously gathered food for themselves. Finished dining and conferring with his men, Ferich had Aliana show him to Isarius' quarters. Aliana had never been to Isarius' wing of the Temple, but she, like everyone knew where it was. The two great doors in the throne room--plated with gold and situated just behind the largest altar--lead to the holiest of places where the Great Isarius lived and ate and slept. 

The doors were abandoned now, no soldiers stood guard and the doors opened easily at a touch. Aliana couldn't help a fission of fear as she stepped through them. But she was not smote down for daring to enter where she should never have been granted passage. Indeed, there was no immediate consequence, and why should there be? Ferich had no patience for her hesitancy and strode briskly through the sumptuous rooms, an expression of pure disgust growing on his face. When they came at last to what had been Isarius' sleeping quarters, he shook his head at the massive bed swathed in silks and velvet.

"No, I cannot sleep here. You must show me other quarters."

Aliana glanced between Ferich and had to admit that next to the rough utility of the warrior, all the costly glamour of the room did seem a bit...gaudy. She could not imagine him living in these rooms any more than he seemed able to. It was an absurd notion.

But. She remembered the first bloom of chaos after Isarius' death; how everyone they had looked to for guidance had fled, or embraced death themselves. She was tired of fighting to achieve the simplest of goals, and she remembered that there were people starving for no other reason than for want of a leader. The Temple Priests had killed themselves, but there were other priests, further afield, and plenty who were still devout enough to cling to whatever empty symbol they could. Isarius had many sons, and many former lords who would want to keep their power. It was easy to imagine what an empty set of holy rooms could come to symbolize. It was easier still to imagine the successive bouts of chaos that would follow. Aliana was tired of chaos.

"I think," she said, "it would be better if you did sleep here."

"I cannot. This is," Ferich gestured broadly about, seeming at a loss for words. "This is foolish. Insane."

"Then change it," Aliana shrugged. "If you leave them empty, the people will say these rooms are waiting for another god to fill them."

Ferich sneered at her. "You want to turn me into a god like the one you lost."

"If you like."

"You are faithless."

Aliana pressed her lips together and bit her tongue. It was true she had never been very pious, did not spare long, rambling thoughts for the meaning of sacrifice and the confluence of divinity and flesh that was Isarius. Her mind tended toward practical matters, but she had carried out the daily rituals without fail. She had loved Isarius in her own way, and she, too, felt lost without him. 

"You have killed my god and my king. If you do not replace him, someone else will." 

Ferich scoffed. "A man cannot be a god."

"Then don't be!" Aliana snapped, perhaps unwisely. "You don't have to be a king either, let the people hate you for all I care, but at least tell them what to do because they certainly haven't been willing to do it for themselves." 

Ferich stared at her as Aliana crossed her arms in front of her chest and refused to take back her words. Finally, he said, "The rooms must be changed."

Aliana sighed. "Tomorrow."

She turned to go, but his voice stopped her. "There must be other sleeping chambers somewhere in this maze. Find one for yourself."

Aliana blinked at him. "I have a room."

He sighed at her, as if she was the one being obtuse. "I do not understand your people." He looked around him with a renewed sense of derision. "You do. You will remain close so you can tell me what I must know."

Aliana opened her mouth to suggest that there were others more suited to such a position, but closed it when she realized that, no, there really weren't. Instead, she nodded, and went off to find a place to sleep.

Castle Wode

Lord Alfric was a thin man, as tall as Egan, but severe. He kept his castle in strict care and the knights under him well-disciplined. Roderic liked him. He understood a man who set goals for himself and his people, who believed in the high ideals of knighthood. Egan did not seem to share Roderic's opinion. In all fairness, it seemed a mutual disdain. Alfric had taken one look at Egan and decided to address himself to Roderic instead. 

"Castle Wode is at your service. We've not seen hide nor hair of this supposed beast, but the herders insist it exists, and  we will provide was aide we can."

Roderic dismounted and bowed, handing the reins of his horse off to a stable-hand. "We are in your debt, Lord Alfric." He winced at the sound of Egan flailing himself out of his saddle behind him. Alfric raised an eyebrow in question and Roderic shrugged sheepishly. After all, he had no idea why His Majest had insisted that Egan accompany him. He'd just as soon come alone.

"Well," said Alfric, "one of my men will show you to your quarters. This is a working castle, so do not expect the lavishness of court. They'll be dry and warm, though." Alfric walked as he spoke, and Roderic followed him into the common hall where knights and soldiers and other working men were taking their evening repast at long wooden tables.  "If you like, you may eat first. We don't muck about with sending words to a person's rooms so if you want to eat, you'll show yourselves here at the proper times."

Roderic nodded. "Of course, my Lord."

They sat down with Alfric at the head table and availed themselves of the simple but hardy fair on offer. There was roast meat, bread, and wine. Nothing lavish, as Alfric had said, but filling and warm in the coolness of the mountain climate. After supper was finished, Roderic and Egan were shown to their shared quarters. The stone walls were bare, the furniture heavy and plain, but there was a fire going and their belongings had been brought up from the stables. Roderic smiled in satisfaction. 

Egan flopped himself into a chair close to the fire, the expression on his face far from the satisfaction Roderic felt. "Well, here we are then." 

"We can start looking for the dragon first thing tomorrow. Lord Alfric said he would have some the peasants come up to the castle to speak with us about what they've seen. That should give us a good idea of where to start." Roderic began to strip off his light armor almost cheerfully. "With any luck, we'll have a sighting within a few days time."

"Yes, well. I wouldn't be so sure about that if I were you," said Egan, sourly. "You heard Lord Alfric, no one here at the castle has seen anything of the sort."

Roderic raised his eyebrows at Egan. "Yes, of course. Because if a dragon has any intelligence at all, the last thing it's going to do is show itself to a castle full of knights."

If anything, that seemed to push Egan further into his uncharacteristically black mood. Roderic shrugged if off and washed what he could of the road from himself in the room's basin. He was tired, and one of the two beds in the room was certainly calling his name. Egan could sulk all he wanted to, Roderic had every intention of getting an early start come morning.

Mortimer Sprill, Character Rambling

Mortimer Sprill was not a good man. Good men were constrained by laws, and morality, and intangible things like compassion. They gave of themselves, sacrificed for others, and when they achieved greatness, they shaped history.  Sprill was not a good man, and he had no interest in trying to be. 

What Sprill was, was a survivor. He saw no innate value in goodness, but there was a tangible reward in survival. It was the first and basest instinct of Man, and if it wasn't exactly noble, well. Sprill saw no innate value in nobility, either. Every being in the Universe wanted to survive, and most were willing to do so at the cost of others. Luckily, Sprill was also clever.  He had a whirring, sinuous mind, with an ear for sound and a talent for observation. These natural talents he used with a surgeon's precision to make himself necessary. If not trusted, he could at least be invaluable.

When he joined the Royal Naval Academy, he did so with no illusions as to his place. He was there on a charity scholarship, reeking of poverty and Border-born classlessness. He had grown up hungry and desperate, and he was never going to win approval, certainly not by faking a patriotism or gratitude he did not feel. So he didn't. He was sullen, and quite, and still, very, very clever. 

Eventually, the restrictive discipline and hierarchy of military life ceased chafing and Sprill found it much to his liking. It was as though someone had thoughtfully laid out a map detailing the expected behaviors of everyone around him and provided a helpful key of the most common motivations. It was a restful paradise after juggling the explosive and unpredictable hierarchies of the gangs. Sprill had always been a manipulative bastard and the Fleet was almost too easy, allowing him to develop a degree of subtlety he let himself be proud of in quiet moments.

Sprill was not good, or compassionate, or loyal, or grateful. He was driven, manipulative, clever, and, very occasionally, the best man to have in your corner.

When the barbarian Tribes came down from their mountain strongholds, the Great Isarius sent his armies to protect his people. The marched from the Sacred City with chariots and horses and gleaming armor. The women tossed flowers in their path, the priests chanted prayers, and Isarius himself granted them a blessing, standing over them on his high balcony in the Royal Temple.Victory was assured.

But the hill country was ill-suited for chariots and horses. Their gleaming armor was heavy, it weighted them down when they had to climb and was cumbersome in the damp. And all the blessings in the world could not make the mountain trails less winding. Too often the soldiers of the Holy Kingdom found themselves lost and separated, chasing shadows in the mists as the barbarians harried them. The barbarians wore little armor, rode no horses, owned no chariots, and ran along the mountain trails as though they were wide, paved roads. The barbarians advanced, and the soldiers retreated.

Long months were spent with no victories to celebrate and more land lost than held. The people of the hills were simple. They herded goats and tended small farms, lived by the land and without the land they had nothing. Their homes were burned, crops trampled, herds stolen. They fled to the Sacred City, wept allowed to the priests, and offered what meager sacrifices they could to Great Isarius, begging him to save them. Seeing the plight of the hill people, the people of the Sacred City grew afraid, and they too wept before the priests and sacrificed for their soldiers' victory.

Victory remained elusive.

Great Isarius heard the cries of his people, and because he was a compassionate God, he readied himself for war. He donned his own armor, took up his great sword and rode from the Sacred City in his golden chariot. His elite guard attended him, and a legion of soldiers rode after him. The people cheered, sacrificed in joy, and waited eagerly for his triumphant return.

When Isarius died, the barbarians advanced into the plains. Here, the armies of the Holy Kingdom might have defeated them, with their chariots and their horses, and their sturdy armor. Instead, the barbarians found a neatly paved road, leading them into the Sacred City.

Aliana was uncomfortably full by the time she had proved none of the food was poisoned well enough to satisfy Ferich. She was prepared to return to the Secretaries' Hall but Ferich insisted she sit next to him as he ate with his me.

"You said you were the one that ordered meals prepared." 

Ferich phrased it as a statement, not a question, and it had been more like groveling, but she answered anyway. "Yes."

"You are the ruler here then."

Aliana stared at him, confused. "No. I'm an..." she trailed off, realizing she didn't have the word in the language of the Tribes, so she finished in Tavari, "undersecretary."

"Undersecretary," repeated Ferich. "I do not think we have these in the mountains."

Aliana smiled slightly at the thought. "No, probably not."

"An undersecretary is a leader."

"No," Aliana corrected cautiously. "I was one of fifty, who worked under the five Secretaries of Great Isarius. I copied notes, sent missives. Solved small problems that did not need to see greater eyes."

Ferich seemed to mull this over for awhile. "Where are your leaders?"

"Great Isarius is dead, his Secretaries died with him. When they heard, the priests killed themselves. The lords all left."

Ferich scoffed at that last. "Cowards."

"There are more dead in the women's quarters." Aliana said, remembering. 

"Women's quarters?"

"Great Isarius' wives. Some of his children." Aliana shrugged.

"Wives." Ferich snorted. "Foolish the man who would seek out more than one. It is no wonder he did not care to keep them close." Aliana bit her tongue and he continued. "I will see to it they are cleaned, if they have not been already."

There Are Not Many Opportunities to Bathe on the Road to Conquest

Ferich was not as tall as Aliana had thought from a distance, Cosmas topped him by a good inch or two. And he stank; sour sweat and the metallic tang of blood. But he was broad across the shoulders, muscular and terrifying as he glowered at the tables in the dining hall where they were laden with food for the evening meal.

"What is this?" he said, turning his scowl on Aliana.

Aliana glanced at the tables. "It is a meal."  She thought that was fairly evident but perhaps he meant that the fare was too plain?

"You think to poison us when we have already conquered you?" 

Aliana gaped, even as her heart raced. "No, it is just a meal."

"No man offers to feed his enemy."

Aliana's mind twisted around that, trying to think how to answer. "I had the kitchen start preparing meals again days ago," she said, because Ferich did not seem to want to wait for her to gather her thoughts. "We... Isarius is dead. But we remain. Tavarin remains. And everyone must eat."

"You expect me to believe there is nothing wrong with this food? That it is freely given to the men who slayed your king."

God, Aliana wanted to correct, but there seemed little point. Instead, she shrugged. "You're early. We didn't know when to expect you, and you're ahead of our best guesses. We wouldn't have had time to arrange so much poison even had we wanted to."

That seemed to be a more plausible explanation to Ferich's mind. But he remained suspicious. "You will sample each of these dishes."

Aliana nodded. She had skipped the morning meal, and she did not actually have anything better to do than to allay the barbarians' suspicions. 

Invasions are Tiring

Aliana watched Ferich arrive then retreated to the Secretaries' Hall where she sat with Cosmas, Mirissa, and Ormato. The four of them were quiet together, each lost to the privacy of their own minds as they slumped at their desks, absently fingering old missives. It was a relief almost. The Temple was no longer a temple and no longer any business of theirs. The barbarians would take it over and it would run smoothly or not.

"I have family," Mirissa said. Aliana looked up, surprised. She had assumed that they, like her, had stayed because they had no better option. "I could learn to be a farmer again." She looked at her hands. They were not fine and soft, but they bore only the callouses a pen would make and the small wounds of paper.

Ormato snorted. "My Da was a rat-catcher. I'm too old to learn that business even if I wanted to." He shrugged. "Still, they always need someone to help settle accounts at the docks."

Cosmas wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I think I'd rather be a rat-catcher. Or a farmer," he added like an afterthought.  The three of them turned to Aliana. She blinked, unsure what they wanted her to say. She had no where to go, no plans for herself.

The door to the Hall opened before she could answer them. One of the barbarians strode in. His braids were short and underneath his beard and the dirt, he looked young.

"Who here has understanding of the Tribes?" He spoke in his native language and glared as if he expected cowering.

Aliana was too tired to cower. She glanced at her compatriots. It was a bit of an open question. all of them had some understanding of the Tribes, spoke at least a little of the language. Still, of all who were left if seemed that she was the only one without immediate recourse, so she stood. "I have understanding of the Tribes. What do you need?"

"Come." He strode from the room, clearly expecting her to follow. Aliana waved of the vague noises of concern and strode after him.

Ferich Works as a Barbarian Name Right? Right.

Ferich, warlord of the mountain tribes, marched into the Sacred City like his men, on foot. He had no chariot or mount but was an intimidating figure regardless. He wore creased and scuffed leather armor, great furs, and his mass of dark braids fell down his back, heavy with feathers and beads and battle-tokens. He wore no sword at his side or across his back but left it to be borne by one of the warriors that followed him. 

The people of the Sacred City watched Ferich and his warriors from silent lines along the street. The wolves had come into the city, but they were lean and hungry and tired. They were fearsome, but they offered no acknowledgement to the people of the City, and they carried their wounded behind them.

The Temple servants lined up to meet Ferich, silent as the people of the City. They said nothing to his disgusted sneer as he found the Throne Room, still red and stinking. He, in turn, ignored them as he ordered the altars destroyed, and the gold and silver Temple instruments melted down. The Royal Temple was to be a temple no longer and became, instead, the Royal Palace. 

Okay, housework calls again. Maybe I'll be able to get back to this tonight.

I Am Interested in the Most Boring Parts of a Conflict

Aliana was an undersecretary of the Great Isarius. Had been. She understood three languages to fluency, had pieces of two others, and her hand writing was immaculate. She had worked hard to win her position and had hoped, in the fullness of time, to become a secretary. Many shied away from the thought. To be an undersecretary was enough, to interact with those who had directly spoken with God more of an honor than could be described. To speak with God himself, to take things directly from his hand and be trusted with his confidence was too much. Too overwhelming. Too frightening. Others, of course, sought the position. The power was appealing. And people thronged for days to merely be one in a crowd that was blessed by the Great Isarius' visage. To be granted that radiance every day... for some it was a tantalizing lure.

That was over now. The Great Isarius' secretaries had accompanied him to meet the barbarians and so been slaughtered alongside him. Now, out of a pool of fifty undersecretaries, only Aliana and three others remained. She didn't know where the others had gone, and she didn't care to. She might have gone as well, if only she had somewhere to go to. Instead, she paced the Secretaries' Hall, given charge simply by dint of being the one least likely to break down in tears at inopportune moments.

In her hands were the most urgent requests filtering up to the Temple. It was too thick a stack, and it consisted entirely of small, mundane things it would not have taken five minutes to take care of before, if she had seen the requests at all. But now she had no idea who remained at their posts, that what she asked would be done if she merely sent a missive. These past four days, she had seen parts of the Temple she had not known existed. 

Aliana sighed and set her stack down, pressing her fingers to her eyes in an effort to think. She would have to open the granary stores. The farmlands had remained unmolested after Isarius' death, as far as she knew, but the supply lines had broken down and the people of the Sacred City were panicking and the poorest were beginning to go hungry. The stores could be replenished with the harvest. 

That meant she would have to track down where the granary was, who was supposed have charge of it and whether or not they still did. Then she would have to find a way to distribute the stores to those who were actually in need of them without causing another riot. Aliana was almost sure the Temple no longer had the resources to do so. 

She was fairly certain the City's water had not been poisoned. The barbarians had been remarkably polite after Isarius' death and were reportedly days yet away from the city. Still, she would have to see if she could track down someone with the knowledge to check. They could not afford for that sort of paranoia to spread if it were at all possible to stop it.

Aliana blinked open her eyes and looked over to Cosmas, who was watching her. "What am I forgetting?"

"The throne room."

Aliana slumped. "Of course. And the women's quarters."

A surprising number of servants and attendants had stayed, but so far they had refused to touch the bodies of the priests or Isarius' women where they lay. The throne room still ran red with pools of tacky, drying blood and the women's quarters were rank with death and decayed food. If this went on too much longer they ran the risk of disease. 

"Would you ask the servants again?" Cosmas was slender and handsome. Even pale with fatigue and dark circles under his eyes, he was still charming. Aliana was afraid she'd used all of her charm with the Temple workers raking together a skin and bones kitchen staff and convincing them to put out two large meals a day. But at least everyone ate.

Cosmas nodded and rose, leaving the Secretaries' Hall. Aliana turned to Mirissa and Ormato. "Can either of you tell me where the granary is?"

I Can't Even Begin to Think of What to Call This

God died last Tuesday.

Unfortunately for the people of the Holy Kingdom of Tavarin the world did not end in Blessed Ice and Fire and the infidel barbarian responsible still marched inexorably toward the Sacred City. When word of the Great Isarius' death reached the Royal Temple, the High Priest and his acolytes wept aloud in the throne room, tearing their clothes and bathing in ashes; sending long, heartbroken prayers up with sweet incense. No one asked to whom they prayed, if God was dead.

News of the undaunted barbarian march came soon afterward. The High Priest ceased his wailing. He gathered his acolytes, faces a mess of ash, bodies perfumed with incense and prayer. They stood in ranks, youngest to oldest, as the High Priest slit their throats one by one, reciting aloud the last measure of the Holy Words. The High Priest then turned his knife on himself as he uttered the last Words.

The Great Isarius' women saw what the priests had done and for the first time were afraid for themselves in their cloistered luxury. Some fed themselves and their small children poison. Others fled in the night, seeking the shelter offered by less pious lords who had abandoned the Temple before news had even arrived. By Friday, none remained.

God was dead. His lords and priests and women had followed after him or gone their own ways. But the world had not ended and the Royal Temple of the Sacred City in the heart of the Holy Kingdom of Tavarin, still had the daily business of its shredded kingdom to attend to.

Goats Are Judgemental

Ugh,  alarms only work if you remember to keep the volume on them turned up. Luckily, David's still asleep!

Roderic had to concede that Egan was the better hunter. The gangling man--who fidgeted so badly on his horse he nearly fell off once a day, and hadn't bothered to bring his sword--disappeared into the surrounding growth and, without fail, returned not an hour later with something edible. Roderic almost hated him for it. Except, that was an attitude unbefitting a knight and he could hardly complain about regular, fresh meat instead of boiled jerky. They'd had no time to fish, so Roderic had to admit nothing on that score.

The trees and long grasses thinned as they reached the mountains, replaced by knotted and bent vegetation and wind-scoured stone. Roderic saw no one, though Egan happily informed him there were small villages dotted all about. Goat-herders, apparently. The goats, they saw plenty of, bleating at each other or staring down at the knights from some improbable outcropping through their beady, slot-pupiled eyes. Roderic detested them, not least because Egan seemed delighted by their presence and was apt to detail just how very well suited to the terrain they were. All well and good, but Roderic was not a goat, he was not riding a goat, and, no matter how much he might wish it, his companion was not going to turn into a goat. He saw no good reason why he should know so very much about them. 

Egan, annoyingly light spirited already, seemed to get more cheerful the higher the road they followed climbed. His fidgeting, however, got worse. The road wound along the side of a ravine, much like the one Roderic had previously fantasized about Egan tumbling down as it turned out. Egan, riding just ahead of Roderic, peered over the side of it, fascinated, it seemed, by the open air and the steep falling away of stone. So fascinated, in fact, that he began to lean out of the saddle, eyes wide and his face strange with some emotion Roderic could not interpret. Egan's grip on the reins began to loosen.

"Hey!" Roderic called sharply. Egan blinked and flailed himself back into the saddle. He turned to Roderic wit ha sheepish grin. Roderic frowned. "If heights bother you, don't look. The last thing I need is for you to tumble down the side of the mountain in a swoon."

Egan smiled. "I'll keep that in mind."

Ugh

Egan thought Roderic was an idiot. He was glory hungry, and he kept calling the northerners farmers. They could more properly be called shepherds. Well, goat-herders. Goats were hardy creatures, nimble, intelligent, kind of mean actually. Sheep were stupid, and dirty, but they tasted better. Hmmmmm, mutton. 

Egan blinked, and went back to preparing the rabbit he'd snared for roasting. He bit back a smirk at Roderic's suspicious glare. 

Yeah, I don't know. This is tiny and terrible. I'll try again tomorrow.

Insomnia

Switiching it up today.

Insomnia, Astrid decided, was a bitch. And not the sort of bitch that was actually a decent sort of woman that was maybe a little too aggressive and refused to go quietly into that good night of socially accepted chauvinism. Insomnia was stone cold, cruel, liked to kick puppies and didn't smile at kittens, bitch. 

Astrid was willing to admit that she would have less of a problem with insomnia, if she had less of a problem with insomnia. 

Three in the morning stretched out dark and useless with nothing but the promise that she had to be up in two hours and her alarm would start blaring in one. Astrid didn't own a television, couldn't afford internet, and the lamp beside her bed had burnt out two weeks ago. She had yet to replace the bulb. All she could do was stare up at her water-spotted ceiling and refuse to get out of bed because it was three in the goddamn morning, and she didn't have to be up yet.

She missed the days when having three alarms going off at half hour intervals had been a necessity, but Astrid had been filled with a strange, thrumming restlessness for months now. She couldn't remember when it had started, the feeling creeping up slowly, held at bay by daylight hours and drudgery, but sneaking into the odd moment, the interminable silences she had forced herself to grow accustomed to. In the dark, her thoughts stretched to fill the limits of her tiny studio, beating at the windows like trapped, frantic hummingbirds. Dawn, which had been as mythic to her as a Greek god, was now a welcome companion. 

Astrid rolled her head across her disheveled pillows to stare at her alarm clock, a cheap, plastic thing with red digital numbers she had bought at the Good Will.

3:10

Fuck her life.

.... so, I apologize the rampant swearing. Oops?

Dragon Hunting is not a Holiday

Sir Egan rode a sturdy destrier, not unlike Roderic's own, and was dressed in light armor, also not unlike Roderic's own. His dark hair was held back by a leather thong and his boots, while of fine quality, were appropriately work-scuffed. Still, there was something that bothered Roderic about Egan as they rode north from the king's city.

Perhaps it was the spectacles. They were a delicate contraption of silver and glass that sat on the end of Egan's nose and were perpetually in danger of falling off. Roderic was finding he had very strong opinions about them. Spectacles were for spindly old shopkeeps or scholars, not for men who would be functionally useless in battle once they inevitably fell and shattered, leaving any companion that man might have responsible for protecting him. Spectacles. Roderic was not impressed.

Egan seemed oblivious to Roderic's brooding thoughts and smiled as they rode. "This is lovely weather," he said with apparent satisfaction. "I've been cooped up in the castle too long. I'm not at all sorry for the chance to be out and about, even if it is on a wild goose chase." He grinned over at Roderic.

Roderic scowled. "What do you mean, 'wild goose chase?'"

Egan shrugged. "There hasn't been a dragon sighted anywhere near here in over a century, and there's no reason for that to have changed. Things have to be pretty drastic to get a creature like a dragon to alter its habits." Egan smiled again, glancing over at Roderic. "I'm not sorry for the chance to do a bit of hunting, though. Maybe we'll even have time for some fishing."

"You hunt?" Roderic cast another dubious glance at the spectacles.

Egan nodded. "Quite well, and there should be plenty chance for it."

"Well, I wouldn't get too excited over the prospect. Those farmers saw a dragon, and it's our duty to kill it."

Egan frowned lightly. "I'm telling you, it's not a dragon. The farmers may have seen something, but it definitely wasn't a giant, flying, fire-breathing lizard."

Roderic frowned back at him. "Seems like something that would be difficult to mistake to me."

"Well, they must have, because there is no dragon terrorizing the northern province."

"Why are you so sure about that?"

"Because! It makes no sense. I-- we would have heard something about it before now." Egan's expression matched Roderic's now.

"There is a dragon," said Roderic. "And I am going to kill it." And the bards could sing the tale of Sir Roderic and the Dragon. No one wanted to hear the tale of That Time Sir Egan Went Fishing.

"There is no dragon," insisted Egan.

"We'll see."

Ballard Has a Surprising Amount of Game

"Ink stains!" Roderic reiterated, sloshing ale over his hands as he gestured with his cup. "No knight worth his spurs runs around with ink stains on his hands, let alone his clothes. As if the spectacles weren't bad enough. You'd think he'd have the decency to try and make up for them." Roderic gulped at his ale to comfort himself.

"Egan, eh?" said Ballard, who was less than interested in Roderic's plight. He had a wench on each knee already--both apple-cheeked and giggling--and looked to be eyeing a third across the tavern. "Tall, skinny fellow? He's got nice reach with those long arms of his. Can take a beating too. Saw him fall off a parapet once without taking more damage than a sprained wrist."

Roderic frowned. "That's impossible."

"Mayhaps," Ballard shrugged. One of the wenches started braiding his beard. "Drink your ale, Rod."

Roderic obeyed. "If he's clumsy enough to fall off a parapet, I don't see why I'm taking him hunting for a dragon in the mountains. There are cliffs! And ravines! That's why the dragons like it!" Roderic paused in his tirade as a thought occurred to him. Maybe a dragon would push Sir Egan off a cliff, then Roderic could avenge his sworn brother's death. The bards would like that...

"Egan is not going to fall off a cliff. He earned his spurs long before you and the King thinks he's the right man to go haring off into the mountains with you so that's an end to it. Now finish your cup, pour another and find a nice wench to help you take your mind off it."

"I need no companionship but that of my brothers-in-arms!" declared Roderic, thinking about the epic speech he would make after Egan took his dragon inspired tumble down a ravine.

Ballard shrugged again. "Well, if that's what you prefer, I'm sure the girls could point you in the direction of a like-mined man."

"What? No!" Roderic colored spectacularly. The wenches on Ballard's knees were giggling again.

"As you like," said Ballard, philosophically. "But I think would do you some good."

"Drink your ale," said Roderic, hiding his red face in his own.

Ballar was only too happy to oblige.

Who Needs Friends When You Have Loyal Knights and Enough Mead to Drown In?

Alright, so it's not exactly morning, but it's my day off. Tomorrow I will be back to waking up absurdly early and being productive.

On bended knee, right hand fisted lightly over his heart, Roderic waited for His Majesty to finish with his mead. It might take awhile. His Majesty was so fond of the golden drink he had installed a colony of bees in the lesser garden and declared harming a member of the Royal Hive a crime. This caused a minor panic in some of the ladies, who were sure that the only proper ways to respond to a flying insect involved prodigious flailing, shrieking, or perhaps a maidenly swoon. However, the King was determined, and a ready supply of honey soon became a ready supply of mead.

His Majesty sat back at last, and with a contented sigh, considered Roderic where he knelt. "Rise." 

Gratefully, Roderic did so. His Majesty frowned mildly at his knight. "You are rather short. Have you always been so?"

Roderic stiffened. "I have not shrunk, Your Majesty."

"I suppose not," said His Majesty. "You never can tell, though, with those blasted wizards running about. Deucedly hard to keep track of who's done what or built a tower where. Can't ban them, though. Next thing you know we'd be under attack with a legion of offended wizards at the enemy's beck and call."

Not quite sure what to say to all of that, Roderic went with a safe, "Yes, Your Majesty."

"As it is we've got a dragon mucking about the northern province. Farmers are all in a lather."

"A dragon?" There hadn't been a dragon locally in well over a century.

"Yes, and I expect you to deal with it. Scare it off. Kill it. Offer it a place in the Royal Army; wouldn't have to deal with wizards if we had a dragon in the ranks, I expect. Never get one to agree, of course, but that's a thought I could get behind."

Roderic's mind spun. Here, at last, was the chance to make true name for himself. Not just a tournament champion, or intimidating fighter, he would be Sir Roderic, Dragonslayer. The bards would sing of it. He, and the great beast in single combat, no aid or companion save that of his sword and loyal steed. 

"I expect you and Sir Egan to leave with the dawn."

First Things

Yay! I'm actually awake and typing. I want you to know, it is not even 5am yet. Anyway, I thought I'd start by laying out what, precisely, I hope to achieve from this exercise.

First and foremost, I want to establish a habit of making time to write around my somewhat unpredictable schedule. To that end, I'm less worried about content and more concerned with consistently putting something down. I'm hoping that as I progress, these morning sessions may act as a sort of 'warm up' so that I can write something actually useful in the evening.

Secondly, I still really need to work on the whole self-editing thing. As in, not being obsessive about it. Therefore, I am not going to do more than a cursory once over before posting. Typos, clunky words, misused words, these are all things I am graciously allowing you to be a part of. Aren't you lucky.

Now, let's see...





Crash!

Clunk!

Griiiiiiiiiind

TWANG!


Roderic stared across the practice yard where his sword was quivering, upright, in the packed dirt. He panted a moment before trudging over to retrieve it. This was the problem with being the best. You outstripped all your peers so the Master at Arms became your sparring partner, and you got to feel like an uncoordinated adolescent all over again.

Master Ballard grinned widely underneath his misshapen nose. "Hurry along Rod! Naught's bruised but your pride. You may beat me yet!"

Ignoring the cheerful taunting, as well as their chuckling audience--those peers he had been so determined to best--Roderic retrieved his sword with a grunt. He returned to his position before Ballard and adjusted his grip. Well enough. This time, he would wait for Ballard to move.

The Master at Arms was two full hands taller than Roderic, covered over in thick muscles, and all his hair seemed to have migrated from the top of his head down into his riotous beard. His nose was large and largely crooked from countless breakings, and his eyes were small, dark things. Everything about him said: powerful, but slow.

And it was a gods cursed lie. The man was snake-quick and had the habit of being absolutely still until the moment he burst into movement.Roderic would catch him at it one day. No one was that still, every fighter that breathed telegraphed their movements somehow.

Thump

Slip

Crash!

THUNK!

Roderic wheezed and waited for his vision to clear, flat on his back. Ballard's hand drifted into his field of vision, offering to pull him up. Roderic waved it away. Really, he would just lie here a little longer.

"Well, I think that's enough for now, Rod," Said Ballard. Roderic graciously ignored the note of amusement in his voice. "King wants to see you anyhow, so don't lay about too long."

Roderic groaned as Ballard strolled away. An audience with the King. Perfect.