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.