Cool breeze tussled the blonde mane. The manicured beard juxtaposed by its stout bearer, sporting wicked scars strewn about every inch of exposed skin. Dawn rays bathe the diminutive garden, a solitary haven within castle grounds. Another gust deposited a yellow petal upon the solitary man’s palm whom smiled at the sight. Basking in the serenity a voice ruined the brief tranquillity.
“Lord Mats, we have a host of traveling traders requesting entry” said the manservant as he approached.
“Can’t I get a single moment of rest” complained Mats, readjusting his posture upon the singular bench.
Ignoring the complaints “Fifty two trading wagons excluding the guard detail” the elderly servant continued. “They are certified by the Jarl”, he proffered the folded vellum atop a silver plate.
Calloused hands unfolded the certificate, Mats scanned through with disinterest “Everything is in order, let the Tristanese in”. He returned the letter, but the man remained “Anything else, been a long day”.
Unfazed the courtly servant replied “A Larsian priest wishes for an audience”.
“Mjiir’s beard! No. Those zealots are persistent with their martyr”, Mats could swear that the man was smirking.
“Least I remind you that they are personally recognised by the Jarl. Please reconsider”.
Mats stood up, signing aloud “Fine, set up an appointment tomorrow morning” he took a final gaze at his retreat “And I wasn’t planning on drinking tonight”.
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Varius and Victor waited within the gatehouse, a pair of Acleshen men at arms overseeing them. It had been nearly an hour since their arrival and the priest was growing irritated, Herius give me strength internalized Varius.
“Patience Peyton” whispered Victor at the sight of the priest, “By God you’re supposed to be the bastion of virtue”.
Closing his eyes Varius eased his breathing as he forcibly relaxed. With his mind now clear the priest retrieved the holy book, passing the time rejuvenating his faith. The pair waited in silence, the occasional thumps of steel sabatons leaking beyond the closed door.
After what felt like an eternity the iron reinforced door opened as the Acleshen messenger returned at last. The rotund man approached Varius and the commander, breathing hard with beads of sweat upon his forehead he took a sit before the Tristanese pair. With a gesture an accompanying servant placed a mug before the plump man, the honeyed fragment permeated the room as he quenched his thirst.
“Lord of the Manor Mats hereby grants you his hospitality” addressed the Acleshen before taking another gulp, “You and yours may enter”.
“And of our request to set up a market?” asked Victor.
“You may install twenty booths within the town square” replied the Acleshen, turning to Varius he continued “And the Larsian priest has been granted audience at first light”.
“Well then, we shall pass on the news. Night is almost upon us” Varius clasped hands with the messenger across the table, “It has been a pleasure”.
With the Jarl’s certificate returned Varius left the gatehouse, Victor following closely behind. Dusk’s ember faded and as night encroached the priest observed as lamps lit one after the other. A tranquil sight to behold, before the wale of gnashing gears broke the peace. Varius directed his attention to the noise, the pair of portcullises raising in succession before himself and Victor.
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The mail shirt slid over Mats shoulders, a servant securing a belt around the waist as another brought the wooden shield and a dull sword. Cold iron stung the palm as Mats donned the helmet, morning dew rolling off the curves. With the traditional arms and armour at bear Mats stepped within the field, dawn barely breaking upon the horizon. Men at arms ringed the sparring grounds, two warriors from a bygone time poised for battle.
Shields raised at an angle the foes circled one another, the one handed sword hidden from one another’s sight. A yard separated the two, and in a burst Mats lowered his stance. Shield close to his chest, the burly man charged his foe. In retaliation his opponent thrusted, shield leading the offending wrist. The blade glanced over Mats helmet sliding atop the crown. Shields crashed. Placing his right foot behind his foes stabilising left heel, Mats capitalised and shoved. Leveraged, the taller man fell upon his back with Mats landing upon him. Quickly mounting his opponent Mats trapped the man’s arms between his legs, lightly pressing the sword tip upon the downed foe’s jugular.
“I yield” uttered the defeated man.
Mats aided the man to his feet “Pay more attention”, he distanced himself from his sparring partner “Shield up—”.
“One match Lord” Mats manservant intruded, “That was the deal, was it not?” the elder man uttered before his lord stoically. “Perhaps you have new arrangements with Lady Hilde?” asked the sly fox.
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Shoulders slumped Mats left the bailey. The sympathetic expressions upon his men at arms did little to raise his morose spirit.
“Father your late” was the first words Mats heard as he entered his study. Where did my cute little Valkyrie go cried Mats internally. Sulking the Lord of the manner took his place at the oak desk, the self-appointed chamberlain hovering besides him.
“Morning to you Hilde dear” Mats said.
Without looking away from the document at hand “Hum, yes, good morning” she replied. “The brew master has purchased his emancipation” Hilde placed the piece of paper before Mats, “But his willing to continue as a freeman”.
The manservant approached the desk, “Apologies for intruding, however the Larsian priest and his guest has been waiting upon you” placing two cups of lemon tea before his charges.
Groaning Mats motioned for the guests to be brought before him.
“Father Varius Peyton of Tristan, and Sir Calredraxt Omriseth’s son of the Everlasting Spires” announced the manservant.
“You may be sited” intoned Mats, “Now, what did you want priest—”.
“What my Lord meant to ask is what brings your esteemed self here today” said Hilde, never breaking eye contact with her father.
Varius shifted awkwardly, “It concerns Sir Calredraxt, Lord”.
“Cal will do just fine” said the mage, seeping casually at the fragrant tea.
The Everlasting Spires? Contemplated Mats. “Continue” he waved at the priest.
The priest glanced at Cal, “I will get directly to the matter at hand then. Our convoy wishes to sponsor Sir Cal’s stay within your abode for the duration of a month”.
Mats leaned forward, chin resting upon his knuckles “To what end?”.
“Sir Cal is a mage, I am sure that if you inform Jarl Vinar he would offer employ” said Varius.
“My Lord, if I may” Hilde started, “A sitting mage will be fortuitous, it is most arduous to secure their services this far south” taking a step back after stating her mind.
“Fine, a paying guest is a welcomed change” A mage. Anything less than Acolyte would be underwhelming, “As for employment, it’s up to the Jarl” beggars can’t be choosers though he added internally.
Varius availed himself of the tea, “Then if it pleases you Lord Mats, I shall impose of your hospitality in a ten day when our convoy departs”. The priest retrieved a tome from his pouch “Now for business of faith Lord, if I may have a moment to speak of the good word.”
Mats broke into a cold sweat, “I have a proposal for your priest” he gulped “The temple will host you by my decree, I’m sure that your God will rather your time spent on the masses than this old man stuck in his old ways”. Did the bastard smirk thought Mats as he watched Varius close the tome.
“What do you make of that” asked Mats, the two guests having left.
Hilde circled the desk sitting heavily before Mats “Dad, be more tactful”, she signed “That’s why we are stuck in the sticks even with all your achievements”.
“Why so cold my little Valkyrie” complain Mats, drawing a blush from his daughter.
Crossing eyes with her father, Hilde turned sideways with a huff. “Honestly, I don’t think we can accept payment in good faith” she regained her composure “It is all but guaranteed that Jarl Vinar will be eager to take in the mage”.
Revelling in his daughter’s pouting Mats replied, “True, old Vinar would never pass a mage”.
“Adia guide me” muttered Hilde, “Some respect dad”.
A cool drop trickled down Mats neck, sparse rainfall pelting down from clear summer skies. The mild precipitation doing nothing to daunt the mass of humanity. Mats found the town centre a mass of activity, people flocking to and fro the Tristanese merchants as they payed nary any interest to the local instalments. Observing the bustling hive Mats questioned his current course of action. Steeling himself he brought the fawn stallion to halt at the square’s edge. Unmounting his steed the lord passed the reigns unto his housecarl. Few paying attention as Mats slipped into the crowd, his disdain of foppish finery doing little to denote the man’s station.
Fragrance of foreign spices melded, assaulting the senses. Mats spared but a passing glance to the exotic condiments and textiles. In time he found his mark, a smaller booth heavily guarded and ignored by most. Tunnel vision setting in the broad beast of a man pushed his way to the jewel merchant.
“Welcome Sir, what may I interest you in” addressed the woman, similar aged to Mats’ late wife.
Browsing the catalogue behind the glass display Mats saw naught but foreign styled articles, “Anything themed after Adia?”.
“Ah, for a special lady then”, the accent was oddly alluring to Mats “A moment if you would”. The merchant rummaged through her stock, presenting three small elm chests in short order. Two of the ornamented chests contained jewelled golden necklaces, one showcasing sapphire and the other rose clear rubies. Seamlessly carved along the links were words of praise to Adia in old Acleshen. “And our centrepiece”.
Unlocking the final chest she presented the contents to Mats. A pair of platinum bangles depicting a tapestry of the goddess of fate, Adia, spinning the very fabric of destiny in all her ethereal glory. The image moved ever so subtly, seemingly alive. Mats failed to hide his shock as it became apparent that such was no trick of the imagination.
“Magnificent, is it not” the merchant warmed at the grizzled man’s surprise, “A master piece by an anonymous Magus” she closed the lid. “Sadly being a non-custom piece priced at ten million crowns, it has been quite the struggle to sell” locking the chest she returned her attention to Mats, “So which one do you fancy” she gracefully motioned at the two necklaces.
“I’ll take the bracelets” said Mats.
“Pardon?” asked the merchant.
“How would you like payment” Mats steered the conversation back on track.
“For a purchase of this kind” she regained her composure, “We shall personally deliver the merchandise and confer purchase at a private venue of your choosing”.
“Come to the keep then” said Mats, already fantasying himself gifting the bangles to an overjoyed Hilde.
The merchant bowed to the aloof man, “Certainly, and we thank you for your patronage Manor Lord Mats” seemingly to have deduced his station.
His purpose achieved Mats strolled along the packed square, approaching a few silk stalls before leaving as he realised that he knew nothing about fabric. Passing the time Mats spotted a single arms and armour seller. Pleasantly surprised the man walked towards the booth, only to be interjected by his housecarl who had somehow found his liege within the melee.
“My Lord, you have appointments awaiting” addressed the heavily armoured man despite the climate.
Seeing as he was now breaking the flow of traffic as bystanders skirted the armed man, Mats left the town square.