MITCHELL – OUTSKIRTS OF GARET, KLYDOR

[https://i.imgur.com/13l3JXM.jpg]

1ST CARLISHAE, THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING, 845 PBM

Mitchell approached the familiar outskirts of Garet, the only town that he had known in his nearly eighteen years. Dawn was fast approaching, and he had to reach Chivalry Park in time for the dawn service of the Festival of Rebirth.

‘About an hour to go before dawn. I should make it. Would have been easier if Maragon did not insist that I leave my transport a mile from the city. But Maragon has his rules,’ Mitchell mused.

The Festival was how Garet celebrated the end of Winter and the coming of Spring. This and the Sun-Day celebration at the end of Summer were the biggest social events in Garet.

‘Similar celebrations will be occurring all over Driax at this very same moment. Well... hopefully a little later in the day. Being up this early sucks. But Maragon did stress how vitally important this task is.’

He pulled his heavy cloak tight around his lean frame in an attempt to ward off the cold.

‘I am to deliver the special incense the priests use in the welcoming prayer ritual, so they can bless the townsfolk as they arrive. If I am late, does that mean all the bad luck that happens for the next year is my fault?’

Visions of catastrophes, from northmen raids to raging fires consuming Garet, sped through his mind. Pulling the binds on this pack tight to his body, Mitchell picked up his pace. Garet still lay deep in slumber, but the Festival's early start had roused a few souls. Activity was starting to stir.

‘I wish Maragon were here. How important does something have to be to leave the day before the Festival, and leave all this to me?’

The weight of his pack made running difficult, so he alternated between a brisk walk and a jog. These exertions quickly had him sweating profusely and he had to remove his cloak. Pushing through his discomfort, he reached the bustling market adjacent to Chivalry Park.

‘Find the Deacon. Deliver the goods. That is my simple, straightforward, and almost impossible to screw up, task. Will Alicia be here?’ The mere thought her distracted him. The image of her wavy, dark brown hair, those hazel eyes, and infectious smile was indelible.

OK. Don’t think of her. Just focus on the mission.’

Mitchell had first seen Alicia over ten years ago, when he had encountered her in the Kilrati Woods, the small grove of forest to the south of town. He had secretly watched her in prayer, as she participated in the annual “Victory at the Gate” ceremony with the other priests and acolytes. And despite the fact that there were over 20 people involved, he had been unable to take his eyes from her beautiful face.

In the time since she had matured into a striking young woman, and in the process had drawn the interest of every common man in the village between fifteen and fifty. Mitchell suspected a few of the nobles were also evaluating the social ramifications of marrying a commoner.

But Alicia was much more than a commoner. She was a cleric of Chandrilar, one of the chosen few who could channel prayers into magickal blessings. While she could one day take a husband, violating her sanctity before then could cost her the blessings of her God. And in the land of Driax, these blessings carried significant power.

Mitchell walked through the market, already a bustling hive of activity as vendors packed the stalls, particularly those nearest the park, eagerly awaiting the arrival of most of the town for the dawn service.

He used a copper coin from his purse to purchase an apple from a vendor placed fortuitously along his path. He took a large bite and began chewing as he passed from the market and into the park.

He could see the priests from both main faiths in Garet in attendance, with those in the white and gold robes of the Sun-God Faylen, clearly more visible in the pre-dawn torchlight than those of the dark grey coloured robes of Chandrilar. Being the God of duty, loyalty and obedience would have made Chandrilar popular enough in a chivalrous kingdom such as Klydor, but as the founder of the empire when he was alive, Chandrilar was both the first King, and patron God of the whole nation of Klydor. Mitchell knew the smaller shrines to the other Gods would also hold services for the Festival, but most of the townsfolk would be here.

Mitchell went looking for the Deacon.

‘Hopefully, as the leader of the church of Chandrilar, he might have really distinctive robes. A great big special hat would be nice!’

As he looked around, he estimated there were 30 people here setting up the temporary outdoor church. He began moving towards the largest clusters of dark grey robes and asking for the Deacon. While no signature hat was found, it did not take long to find the elder priest of the church.

“Excuse me Deacon, but I've brought the incense you requested from my...” … ‘I am never sure what to call him’ … “Uncle.”

“Thank you, child,” replied the mostly bald, elderly priest, his warm smile radiating comfort.

Mitchell quickly, but carefully, took out the large, wrapped bundles of incense and gave them to the Deacon. The Deacon took one bundle and motioned for Mitchell to bring the other. He led Mitchell to the area they were setting up as an entrance, with ropes to channel the attendees towards the rows of heavy wooden pews everyone would sit on.

After they had placed them, Mitchell was preparing to leave.

“Will Maragon be joining us this morning?” asked the Deacon.

‘You know he will not. He never comes to these. He almost never comes to town.’

“No. He has business that prevents him from making it. He sends his apologies,” replied Mitchell, using the same apology, word for word, he used everytime he had to explain why his mentor/caretaker/father/uncle was not going to be attending something.

“Does he have other errands for you to run before the service?” the elderly priest asked.

“He does not. I was to attend the ceremony and pay close attention,” replied Mitchell.

“Excellent. Could you assist us with the setup?” gestured the Deacon, indicating the ongoing preparations.

‘I had hoped to rest and preserve my energies. Maragon wishes me to train with the militia this afternoon, and I hope to retain some energy for the party tonight. After all, it is not every day you turn eighteen and become a man!’

Mitchell nodded.

‘But I will not decline the priest’s assistance for help. Assisting is the right thing to do. Besides, Alicia might be here.’

ALICIA – CHIVALRY PARK, GARET, KLYDOR

1ST CARLISHAE, EARLY SPRING, 845 PBM

Alicia paused, wiping sweat from her brow. Before her lay rows of sturdy wooden pews spread across Garet's grassy central park. Although dawn was just breaking, today marked one of Garet's grandest festival days. During the Rebirth Festival, townspeople would pray for the forthcoming Spring, expressing gratitude to the Gods and hoping for prosperity in crops, trade, family, and life.

‘Also the day the churches of Faylen and Chandrilar require many hands to help out set up an outdoor church. This special gathering is easily too large for either of our churches to house within our normal chapels,’ she reflected.

Other priests and acolytes from Klydor's two dominant faiths bustled around her, ensuring the outdoor amphitheatre would be sacred and welcoming. For Alicia, this festival held special significance. Today, at eighteen, she'd transition from acolyte to priest.

“And how is our star acolyte?”

Alicia turned from her brief reverie and looked towards the kind, wise voice of Deacon Jonas. Alicia turned from her brief reverie and looked towards the kind, wise voice of Deacon Jonas. The hard labours of the morning had caused darker sweat stains on the vestments, and a sheen across his mostly bald pate.

“I am just eager to serve my lord however he sees fit,” she replied cheerfully.

“Do not be so modest child.” The Deacon's smile was warm. "You've been chosen for a reason. Your devotion stands out even among the devout. We're blessed to have you."

‘When someone refers to the special powers that I can summon through my prayers, how am I supposed to act? I mostly just feel unworthy. I do not understand why me. Why not the poor Deacon here? He has given his life to Chandrilar. Why does he not have the gifts of a Cleric?’

As if sensing the silence was making her uncomfortable, the Deacon continued.

“Your gifts are a blessing, child. Do not wonder why you have them. The Gods know the path they intend for you and that you will need them. Or perhaps Driax will need that you have them. It is not our place to wonder which few priests are ever given the divine honour of being a Cleric.”

Alicia nodded her understanding.

His next request took her by surprise. "I'd like you to lead the Oath of Duty prayer this afternoon."

Hesitant, Alicia said, "Father, I haven't been officially ordained as a priest. Would that not be inappropriate or unfair for the other priests and acolytes?"

‘I do not want favouritism. I want to earn what I have and the honours I am given. And I certainly do not want others to dislike me because they think I am being unfairly favoured.’

“Alicia, your progression to priest is now merely a formality, as you have reached adulthood as of this very dawn. And you are the hardest working person in our church. You strive hard to prove yourself worthy of Chandrilar’s blessing every day, and that is why you are so worthy. Please respect my judgement in this.”

Alicia remained unconvinced of her worthiness, but she respected the Deacon too much to argue with him. She nodded her acquiescence.

She then redoubled her efforts to help set everything up, determined to prove her worthiness in the next hour to anyone not already convinced by her five years of prior service. She moved towards what would be the entrance to their temporary church. To her surprise, she spotted the lean, scraggly-haired figure of her friend Mitchell, helping to place large sticks of incense at various points around the entranceway.

"Hey, Mitchy!" she called to him.

He and another helper, Eduard, were each carrying two of the long, cumbersome poles. Eduard, being the more robust of the two, managed one under each arm with ease. He'd just finished lighting one of the poles from a previously lit one and was embedding it into the ground with one arm, while holding the other unlit one under his other arm.

Mitchell, however, was struggling to emulate the act, resulting in his lit stick wavering wildly as he tried to position it to drive into the ground using only one arm. When he heard Alicia’s voice, he attempted to turn towards her. But, juggling the two incense sticks, it became too much. The lit stick twirled around, clashing against a nearby table adorned with holy symbol-laden strips of cloth.

The impact made Mitchell drop the stick. As it landed, the burning end maintained solid contact with the fabric. The cloths caught fire from the prolonged touch, flames rising as the stick rolled across them before finally tumbling off the table.

Horrified, Mitchell practically lunged at the flames, trying to smother them with his hands. The fabrics, evidently flammable, blazed intensely and resisted his efforts to quell them.

Then Mitchell’s hands moved in a peculiar way, a series of gestures that appeared to be neither entirely necessary nor traditional. But, astoundingly, the flames died out.

‘Thank the Gods!’

Alicia was the first to inspect the aftermath. Once assured that the flames were indeed extinguished, she turned to Mitchell, who was now on his knees, panting, his gaze gradually finding hers.

"I am so sorry," he murmured.

"Never mind that. Are you alright?" she asked, her concern for his well-being far surpassing any worries about the damaged cloths. She waved away those coming to check on Mitchell, indicating they should handle the charred fabric and other collateral damage instead.

"Besides my pride, I’m unharmed," Mitchell offered a half-smile to placate her. She pushed strands of his dark brown hair away from his face, peering into his deep blue eyes, and sensed he wasn't being entirely truthful.

"Show me your hands," she demanded. Reluctantly, he did. She inspected them, noting that while the left hand was merely red and slightly burned, the right was worse with blisters already forming on his palm.

"I'll be fine," Mitchell tried to reassure.

"In a few minutes, those hands will be badly blistered and very painful," she retorted. "How can you assist my Lord today if you are incapacitated? But I know a prayer to ease your suffering."

Alicia noticed Mitchell tensing up before making an effort to relax.

She focused intently, taking his right hand in hers, and began a prayer, spoken in a sacred dialect familiar to very few outside the church.

"Deus Pater noster, qui est in caelis"

(Our Father-God, who resides in the heavens)

"Nu virtus animatus de ule"

(May your courage inspire us all)

"Placere juvare qu saucius viri"

(Please aid this wounded man before you)

"Nis pietas de inabsoluta"

(His duty here remains unfinished)

"Benedico ovus Illyrius"

(Praise be to our Father-God)

Alicia concentrated on the precise enunciation of the prayer, feeling the divine energy of her God build within her as she recited each line. The special gift of a Cleric meant that they could channel the power of their God through prayers, each tied to significant sections in the religious book of Chandrilar. This section was from when Chandrilar had healed and saved the life of a gravely wounded Prince of the Llewyrr.

Alicia had not the power of Chandrilar himself, but her magicks would likely be enough for Mitchell’s minor wounds. And if she was strong enough, and devout enough, her powers could grow over time.

As the incantation concluded, she felt that power surge into her hands. Both she and Mitchell watched the soft, yellow light emanate from her palm, the magic meandering across his burned skin, healing blistered areas wherever it touched. When it was done, no trace of the burn remained.

‘I am happy to use my Lord’s gifts on those wounded in assisting his church. But I hope he appreciates it. I also hope it does not freak him out. Often people’s first encounter with the divine power of a Cleric can have that effect.

"Thank you," Mitchell replied calmly before adding wryly, "Can Chandrilar do anything about the damage I did to those holy cloths? I fear I may have destroyed a church artifact."

As Alicia released his hand, her reply was only a gentle smile. Of all the responses, Mitchell’s casual reaction was perhaps the most extraordinary she had encountered.

‘His comfort in the most unusual situations and unease in the most routine ones is a constant enigma. And though I reprimand those who refer to him as such, it is easy to understand why many have nicknamed him "Mitchell the Strange".’

HAWKIN –ARANSON MANOR, GARET, KLYDOR

1ST CARLISHAE, EARLY SPRING, 845 PBM

Hawkin groggily emerged from his luxurious bed, stealing a glance towards the windows. The sun was already well into its ascent.

‘Sun is up. Has been for at least a couple of hours. Father is going to be mad I overslept,’ Hawkin thought to himself. ‘I hope no scarecrow has gone missing, or a villager has lost their cat while I was sleeping.’

He searched for something to wear, and grabbed the clothes he had strewn on the floor at whatever time he got home the night before. He gave them a quick look, and a smell, and decided they would do. He was still pulling them on his large muscular frame as he started out of his bedroom and made for the dining room.

‘Need to do something about my hair. If father sees my long hair unkempt again he will demand I get it cut. No time to brush it though.’

He doubled back to his room to grab a hair-tie from the top of a large oak chest of drawers, and put his long dark brown hair into a simple tail. He recommenced his journey for his breakfast.

On his way, he signaled a passing servant to clean his room. As he passed each empty room, he felt a sense of relief – perhaps his father's reprimand could be postponed. Mastering the art of evasion and procrastination was a skill Hawkin cherished.

He slipped into the dining room, using a combination of speed and stealth, eager to be both out of the view of any other rooms, and not to make too much noise in doing so. This was clearly not the first time he had tried to move through the house quietly.

He closed the door behind him quietly, thinking he'd avoided detection. He exhaled in relief. That feeling evaporated when he turned and found his father, Sir Sarek Aranson, seated at the table, staring at him. He did not look thrilled. Beside him was an elf, easily recognizable by the slender features and pointed ears, but otherwise Hawkin did not know him or why he might be here.

Sarek was every bit the dedicated warrior, always prepared, even at breakfast, to defend his village. His chainmail shimmered beneath the Aranson family's red lion tabard, and his sword leaned nearby. Age had taken his hair's chestnut hue, but his powerful presence remained undiminished. As Lord of Garet, he was revered for his commitment to the village and its militia. As a father, he yearned for a responsible heir, one dedicated to Garet's prosperity.

"Would you like some tea?" Sir Sarek offered, his tone deceptively mild.

‘Careful with what you say next. This is a trapped question,’ Hawkin cautioned himself.

No clever response came to mind. So after a few seconds, the best he could think of was, “Sure.” Hawkin moved to sit down.

“In case you were losing sleep over it, I believe few missed your absence at the dawn Rebirth prayers.”

‘Oh shit! Today is the Rebirth Festival. Which means I missed the dawn prayers at which the whole town was present?! Damn it! Cue lecture on the importance of meeting your responsibilities.’

“I also met with the new guardsmen this morning and ensured they were appropriately welcomed into the militia, and that their weapons and armour were in suitable condition,” said Sarek calmly.

‘What crazy game are we playing here? You don’t tell me off for sleeping through a task that was mine, or for missing an important ritual in town-life, both of which you consider sacrosanct. And now we are pretending everything is fine? Are we pretending because of our guest? Eighteen years or so on Driax tells me you are anything but OK with me missing my responsibilities. Particularly anything to do with your damned militia of armed farmers and villagers.’

“That’s good,” replied Hawkin. He wasn’t sure what the rules of this new game were, but he was determined to not the be the one who pushed the conversation into troubled waters.

“I believe the maids appreciate you saving them from cooking you breakfast, today,” Sarek commented.

‘I did? Ok. I guess no breakfast today. Not sure why. The whole point of having maids and servants is they do what you want whenever you want.’

“What is for morning tea?” Hawkin asked hopefully.

“A cup of tea and a scone with butter. They are excellent,” replied Sarek, taking a bite out of a scone covered in half-melted butter. “The perfect morning tea after a hearty breakfast and a productive morning.”

‘Guess I will have to try and sneak something from the kitchens on my way out.’

The guest was slender, and appeared to be slightly taller than average, or at least he looked the same height as Sarek. He had the traditional pointed, and angular face of elves, with high cheekbones, a large forehead, pointed ears, and very long hair in a shimmering silver colour.

‘The silver colour means something, but I cannot remember what. I was probably asleep during that class.’

“Sure, Father. I am happy to do whatever you require,” Hawkin replied.

“Now, let us discuss your duties today as the town prepares for the Rebirth Festival tonight,” announced Sarek. He turned towards their guest before continuing.

“I have assigned you to perimeter watch duty tonight. You will be the officer in command during the festival.”

‘You cannot be serious. One of the biggest parties of the year, and you have assigned me to the one duty that I cannot participate in the festival at all. Not only that, perimeter watch is the most boring assignment of all. Nothing is going to happen tonight. Nothing happens on the perimeter of the town any night.’

“That’s not fair!” Hawkin complained. Rebirth Festival was not just the start of Spring, and the end of Winter. It was also the day celebrated by all commoners as their birthday, meaning everyone in the town would be celebrating their birthday at the same time tonight.

And now I won’t be there to enjoy it.

“Fair? Life is not about being fair,” replied Sarek. “Life is about taking your responsibilities seriously, and tonight the militia needs you to take your turn on perimeter watch duty."

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“There hasn’t been anything interesting happen on perimeter watch since the goblins were marauding around, and that was over a year ago,” protested Hawkin.

‘And goblins are small and more pest and bandit than serious threat. It’s only if a few tribes band together that they can threaten villages. We would generally know about that long before they showed up at the town walls.’

“Are you advising me, as an officer of the Klydorian armed forces, and a ranking officer in the militia, that you do not believe we require a perimeter watch duty tonight?” asked Sarek, knowing full well there was always a need for the perimeter duty. The likelihood of attack was almost zero. But the consequences for not watching could be devastating if an attack did occur.

“No, of course not!” Hawkin replied indignantly. He had trained too long under his father to ever try to make that case.

“Then an officer must be there to lead and inspire the men,” reasoned Sarek.

Hawkin’s face contorted in frustration and rage. It was clear his thought on that last point was ‘But why does it have to be me’, but he held his tongue.

“I want you to conduct an afternoon weapons training drill with the militia who are on-duty, and grab any of the newer recruits if they are around. And then tonight you will watch the perimeter,” instructed Sarek. “Please take our guest, Peregrin Ellyrion, with you for your duties today.”

‘Why am I babysitting an elf?’

“May I know who our esteemed guest is?” asked Hawkin, his voice laced with scorn.

“He is the son of an old friend I fought with back in the day,” replied Sarek. “He is from the Llewyrr side of the forest, and he wishes to observe our customs to better understand us, and therefore the people that his people are allied to. Try not to embarrass or disappoint.”

“Mae govannen!” said Peregrin, in what appeared to be a formal elven greeting. When it was clear Hawkin did not know what that meant, rather than repeat it in common, the elf just smiled. An arrogant smile that implied superiority.

‘This is going to be a long day.’

PEREGRIN – MILITIA BARRACKS, GARET, KLYDOR

1ST CARLISHAE, EARLY SPRING, 845 PBM

“Don’t you wish you could just abandon everything, and live life on the road? Free to do whatever you want!” mused Hawkin Aranson, guiding Peregrin to a gathering of Garet's new guardsmen.

“No,” Peregrin responded succinctly.

Hawkin shot him a look, laden with emotion. Peregrin, still acclimating to human expressions, could only guess at its meaning: frustration, puzzlement, or perhaps hurt.

‘The boy is a fool who does not take his responsibilities seriously,' Peregrin reflected.

Observing Hawkin instruct the militia, Peregrin found it peculiar that only one amongst them took the time to stretch properly. Despite his father’s attempts to cover it up, the boy had essentially admitted to oversleeping and missing both the prayer ceremony and one of his own duties that day.

'He spoke of his night with pride, unable to fathom his father’s anger. Such a lack of discipline taints not just him but everyone responsible for his upbringing.'

In the next half an hour Hawkin moved through different exercises very quickly, and was teaching the militia a defensive stance and technique, including how to position their shield and their weapon to best advantage. As the training progressed, Peregrin noted that while Hawkin's maneuvers were passable, the young instructor seemed to rely more on brute strength than skill. This flaw was mirrored in his pupils, whose techniques were, in Peregrin's perspective, grievously lacking.

‘The problem is the boy is either a bad warrior himself, or a poor teacher, for he is letting basic mistakes go unrebuked. He is just moving onto the next phase of the training as though simply completing the exercises is the goal, as opposed to the participants actually learning anything.’

One trainee, however, the same who had stretched earlier and named ‘Mitchell,’ showed some promise. Peregrin couldn’t discern if Mitchell's competence won him Hawkin's attention or if they shared a bond outside the training ground. From his understanding of human culture, merit was not usually used to decide anything. So the favouritism could mean anything.

The session culminated in Hawkin asking his trainees to demonstrate their newfound skills against him. Peregrin watched, unimpressed, as the large Klydorian bashed and punished the militiamen. As expected they had learned little, and would likely have been of little value in a real fight.

‘Is this what the great Klydor is made up of? I see nothing here to warrant any of the Seers claims that the fate of the Llewyrr should be in anyway tied to the fate of this pathetic bunch.’

Memories of his early training mentors resonated in Peregrin's mind, their voices pointing out every mistake the trainees made. He kept waiting for Hawkin to actually instruct, but when that did not occur, eventually he was no longer able to just watch.

“Would you like me to help you?” Peregrin asked, already walking forwards as though they had said yes. “While I accept no Ala-Lie could use the full blade fighting techniques I have mastered, I do believe the basics must be the same. You should be able to learn the same basics as we teach adolescent boys.”

“You are an arrogant little thing, aren’t you?” scoffed Hawkin.

‘Careful Peregrine. Remember, humans can take statements of fact as arrogance. In his own mind, the boy likely thinks us peers in swordcraft. He is short lived, and does not know I have already spent 15 years dedicated to the art of blade-dancing.’

Hawkin snorted, “Confident, aren’t you?”

“I apologise. I did not mean for my simple comments of fact to upset you,” apologised Peregrin, not realising his superior and calm tone made it sound as though he was mocking Hawkin. “But I do believe I can assist these men in learning some more of the basics of swordcraft, which you either do not know, or are simply incapable of teaching.”

Judging from his face, he has not accepted my apology. These humans are very strange and illogical.

“How about we duel, and the guardsmen can learn from watching us,” dared Hawkin. “Then if they wish, they can choose to learn a few things from you, after you get back up out of the dirt.”

And now he has challenged me, a foe he knows nothing of. It is easy to see why this kind needs the help of the Llewyrr. Still yet to see what we get out of it.

“I am willing to show you some things too if you wish. In order to keep the learnings to things you can potentially emulate, would you prefer I keep to a single blade. I note dual wielding weapons is a lot less common amongst your kind. I suppose your inferior dexterity and co-ordination would make that more difficult.”

Hawkin scoffed again. “I am going to enjoy smacking some humility into you.”

It seems my offer to assist him has angered him further. I really do not understand human customs.

He was vaguely aware of an exchange between Mitchell and Hawkin. It appeared the smaller human was trying to warn the larger one about Blade-dancers. Peregrin grinned.

Peregrin approached the array of training weapons on the ground, and looked at them with some disdain.

‘Primitive things. While I can see they have been blunted to reduce injury, I suspect the weights and points of balance will be different from the real thing, negating much of the point in training with them.’

He selected two vaguely curved slender lumps of wood he assumed were supposed to be light blades such as a scimitar or sabre. He spun them around in his hands to get a feel for their balance.

‘They have none. No wonder their warriors have no grace.’

“These fallen tree branches are almost offensive to my Blade-dancer training,” professed Peregrin. “If you would be willing, I am happy to spar with our real weapons. I can assure you that you will not be harmed.”

“That goes against everything my father has ever said. But I guess I can make sure I don’t accidentally cut your frail little elf form in two,” jibed Hawkin. “So, sure.”

Peregrin eagerly tossed the two wooden weapons to the ground, and drew his two slender curved elven scimitars from their scabbards. He felt the comforting and familiar leather hand-grips of each blade, and as he twirled the weapons, he felt the reassuring balance of the two finely made blades as they spun around his hands.

Hawkin walked to the boundary of the training area and picked up his sword, which leaned against the wall. It was larger than the long swords of the Klydorian knights and the broadswords of the militia. Known as a bastard sword or hand-and-a-half sword, it was made for robust men to wield either single or double-handed, often paired with or without a shield, depending on the situation. Seeing Peregrin's twin blades whirling in a blur, Hawkin fetched a shield.

"Do you know what a Blade-Dancer is?" Peregrin inquired.

‘The boy should at least know what he is up against.’

He noted that Mitchell was nodding vigorously. Hawkin seemed nonplussed.

“An elf who is confused about whether he is in combat or performing ballet on a stage?” retorted Hawkin, his disdain evident.

‘Being disrespectful to an opponent. Another mistake in judgement. The lowliest blade can kill you. Perhaps the lessons of today are more for the teacher than the students.’

"There's no confusion. Battle, especially between two skilled warriors, is a dance. Each move by one of the participants triggers a countermove by the other. This rhythm of movement continues until the dance ends," Peregrin explained, in what he hoped would be educational for those watching.

“Yes. In this case I will hit, and your reaction will be you fall down.” With that final insult, Hawkin moved forwards quickly and aggressively.

‘Aggressive, but unbalanced, with too much weight forwards.’

Hawkin swung his big sword in a high, downward arcing slash, trying to leverage his momentum, and his blade’s longer reach. Peregrin did not parry or side-step as a lesser opponent might have. He stepped into his opponent and inside the most powerful part of the swing. He deflected the blade with his left scimitar, while ducking, before pivoting almost a full circle on his left foot and sweep kicking with his right leg, taking out the rapidly moving man’s legs.

Hawkin tripped and fell shield-first into the dirt.

A small round of applause broke out from the onlookers.

‘The numbers of observers are growing. This is good. More can learn my teachings.’

Peregrin took the moment to share wisdom. "Maintain balance and never overcommit to an attack. Worthy foes won't fall in one blow; always be ready to defend or counter."

Hawkin quickly gathered himself up from the dirt, brushed himself off, and came again.

‘Now you are angry. And even more aggressive and off-balance. Did you not hear what I said?’

Hawkin tucked in behind his shield and tried to charge right through the slender elf. Peregrin faked as if to move right, then pivoted left and spun around the big warrior and his shield. Hawkin was still slowing to change direction when Peregrin’s right scimitar slapped him on the back of the shoulder.

“It is important to keep your emotions under control. Rage, in particular, is as dangerous to the man wielding it as to those who face it,” educated Peregrin.

Without resetting for the next round, Hawkin bashed his shield into the unprepared elf as he finished talking. Peregrin stumbled significantly from the strength of the blow, and he only just managed to avoid falling over.

“It is also important to know when to fight versus when to talk. You fight until your opponent is defeated,” exclaimed Hawkin. “You drink and talk shit after.”

‘He cheated. But he has a point. I should have moved out of his reach before speaking to the students and onlookers.’

Peregrin returned to his combat stance and readied himself, both physically and mentally, making sure to clear his mind of emotion and just focus on his breathing and the combat. He briefly considered using his magick to further amplify his mental focus, but decided against it.

‘If I wish to teach these humans, then I must teach them things they could actually utilise. It is likely none of those here have the faintest hope of using magick.’

Hawkin came at him, but more cautiously and balanced this time. He still swung first, but it was a much more controlled attack, and he kept his shield ready to defend himself, and likely had enough balance to dodge if required. Peregrin deflected the attack with one of his blades, and stepped back, staying out of reach of another shield strike.

“When fighting against a larger or heavier weapon, you must angle your shield or weapon to deflect rather than block the blow,” taught Peregrin. “This…”

As he anticipated, Hawkin attacked him mid-speech.

“… will ensure the power of the blow does not knock you off balance and into a disadvantageous position,” Peregrin finished after he deflected a cross-swipe from his right to left.

Over the next minute Peregrin danced and evaded Hawkin’s blows, and called out instruction on what could be learned from the exchange.

“Keep your shield arm in tight against your body while attacking.”

“Try to keep the momentum of the blade from one swing to the next. It is more effective and less tiring.”

“Many times it is easier to dodge than it is to parry.”

To the big warrior’s credit, he kept his guard well in place and the best Peregrin could do using only the basic techniques a human might learn, was crack the 2nd scimitar across the shield a few times.

“Sometimes you must tire a warrior before you can defeat him.”

‘This is now an endurance event.’

Fighting is incredibly tiring. Far more exhausting than non-participants realise. Peregrin was focusing on making Hawkin expend more energy with each exchange than he did. This was made more difficult for Peregrin because elves, while slender and graceful, were not nearly as sturdy or durable as humans. They were optimised for quick and decisive battle.

“You are not that special,” panted Hawkin, as fatigue set in and his blows slowed in frequency and ferocity.

“I am not trying to be special. I am giving you an opponent you can fight and learn from,” puffed Peregrin in response. “In this case that is an adolescent Blade-dancer. You can learn almost nothing from fighting me with all my skills.”

‘Except perhaps humility. But I will not shame you in front of your men unless the lesson requires it.’

“Blade-dancers probably…” panted Hawkin, “…value honour a lot, right?”

“We do. You should treat any combat and any opponent with honour and respect. Much as I was taught your Knights do.”

‘Although you are a long way from being any kind of Knight from the stories. But perhaps legends overstate things. They usually do.’

Peregrin was preparing his next flourish when Hawkin dropped his weapon. He bent to retrieve it, and Peregrin stepped back and allowed him to do so.

‘Was that a test to see if I would attack him while he was unarmed?’

Hawkin moved back in to resume the engagement. He swung his blade down in a very basic and aggressive overhand swing.

‘You are fatigued. You are making skill errors. This will be over soon.’

HAWKIN – MILITIA BARRACKS, GARET, KLYDOR

‘Honour is important to a Knight. But Father always said it’s more important to win than be honourable.’

As Peregrin deftly parried Hawkin's strike, what he did not see was the handful of dirt Hawkin had scooped up and was now holding in his shield hand, which he flung squarely into the elf’s eyes.

‘Let’s see how the smart-arse elf fights when he cannot see.’

Peregrin's once graceful movements became disjointed and desperate. He tried both to defend himself from unseen blows and to rid his eyes of the grit, dropping one blade to hasten the process. Seizing the moment, Hawkin charged, tackling the disoriented elf to the ground. Upright, Peregrin’s agility might have countered Hawkin’s brute strength. But grounded and momentarily blinded, Peregrin had no chance. He tried as best he could to ward off the blows he could barely see, but Hawkin ensured he landed a punch square on Peregrin’s right eye before easing up.

“Final lesson for the moment. Always make sure to win the fight,” Hawkin proclaimed to the crowd, as he stood up. There was a mild applause from the crowd, but most were unsure how to react to the method used to win. Hawkin was grinning nonetheless, but he was also exhausted. He reached down and offered his hand to help the elf up.

“You are not what you appear,” said Peregrin, his voice calm and respectful.

What Hawkin found strange, was that it was not said with venom or disrespect as he might have expected. If anything, it almost sounded as a compliment.

“You are a really good dancer,” replied Hawkin. “I think my men could learn much from you. Would you be willing to stay a while and help me teach them.”

Peregrin nodded, feeling around his right eye that was now swelling significantly, and would almost certainly be a full-blown black eye in a few hours.

‘Yes. You will now carry my mark on your face for the next few days. Perhaps that will teach you some humility.’

MITCHELL – MILITIA BARRACKS, GARET, KLYDOR

1ST CARLISHAE, EARLY SPRING, 845 PBM

Mitchell made sure to arrive early at the militia barracks, allowing himself ample time for the preparations that Maragon had so often emphasised. He dedicated 15 minutes to meditation to clear his mind, echoing Maragon’s mantra, 'Distractions get a warrior killed.' Predominantly, Mitchell’s distractions revolved around his fatigue from helping set up the makeshift church, and the captivating sight of Alicia during those services.

Clearing his mind, he progressed through a series of stretches, targeting maximum flexibility and minimising injury risk. He couldn't help but examine his hands, particularly the right one he'd burned that morning. Though magick had healed most of the wound, an itch persisted and the skin bore faint scars.

‘Still, a lot better than it would be feeling or looking if Alicia had not been there.’

As he concluded his preparations, Hawkin approached with an unfamiliar elf. Mitchell observed the elf’s armour, comprised of lightweight metal scales. He recalled Maragon's words on such armour: not as protective as chainmail hauberk, but it was much lighter and allowed for a much greater freedom of movement. The dual curved scabbards and the emblematic yellow insignia of a sword over the breast of the armour caught his attention.

‘I do not know who you are, but I think I know what you are. You are at least half-way through your training to be a Blade-Dancer, an extremely arduous and difficult endeavour. Maragon insists your order is better than any other at wielding a blade. And as a named warrior of the Cthrag Merlo empire himself, that is both a stunning admission and a ringing endorsement.’

While Mitchell tried to focus on Hawkin’s instruction, he found himself wishing it was Sarek leading the session. Even if Sarek's methods were more direct and usually involved screaming and ranting, he was undeniably the better trainer. Still, Hawkin offered the occasional piece of valuable advice, in a much friendlier tone. As was usual if Hawkin ran the drills, it soon devolved into a general melee where the pretence was use the skills you had just learned, but really it just let Hawkin beat into everyone.

‘Just blend into the crowd. I am not good enough to beat Hawkin in a normal straight-up fight. And I know from experience that even if I use the others and time an attack right to score a hit, then Hawkin’s ego will be bruised and shortly thereafter so will much of my body.’

It wasn’t long before the elf volunteered to assist with the training. This excited Mitchell a lot.

‘I bet the Blade-dancer might even know a few moves that Maragon does not!’

Mitchell was disappointed that the exchange between the Hawkin and the elf did not seem to go well.

‘The elf is a Grey elf. But Hawkin does not seem to understand, and is taking offence.’

The Llewyrr elves consisted of two main sub-races: grey elves and wood elves. Grey elves made up about 20% of the elven population, but nearly all of the mystic Seers who guided the Queen were Grey. At some point in their past the Grey elves had ruled the elves as a noble caste, but that no longer was the case with the Llewyrr.

‘Maragon has warned me the cold logic of the Grey elves is often misunderstood, and the reason many think elves are arrogant. They can also be sticklers for rules and protocol. And Hawkin has taken offence, and now he might get himself hurt.’

Concerned, he approached Hawkin, cautioning, “Be careful! I believe this elf is a Blade-Dancer. Maragon speaks as though they are very good.”

Hawkin waved him away. “So am I! I am also bigger and stronger than he is.”

“I am not sure strength and size alone will beat this opponent, Hawkin,” warned Mitchell.

But Hawkin was no longer listening. Now he was agreeing to use real weapons.

‘Will the elf kill him? Will I have to step-in if he tries to? How in the Nine Hells did my day turn into this?’

Mitchell watched anxiously as the two warriors sparred. And his feelings of anxiety only grew with each encounter. He noted that the crowd of people watching seemed to be growing, and he could see others running to bring their friends.

‘Hawkin is outmatched. And he is getting angry. Maybe he makes a mistake and dies. Will the townsfolk try to lynch the elf. It is even possible Hawkin accidentally kills the elf. I hope he is not someone important. But why would he be here if he is not somebody special or important.’

He watched the rest of their fight with bated breath. If one of them were seriously injured he may have to break his vow to Maragon if it meant he could save them long enough for a healer to arrive.

Mitchell was disappointed when Hawkin cheated, and smacked the elf with his shield. He was then horrified when Hawkin used a handful of dirt to temporarily blind the elf and win the fight.

Maragon would be abhorred if I did something like that. I do not think Sarek would be too pleased either, being an old Knight himself.

But it seemed the elf had taken it quite well, or at least there was no visible sign of emotion at the way Hawkin had defeated him. It seemed he was now going to stay and help train the recruits.

Eagerly, Mitchell was the first to step forward, wanting to spar with the enigmatic elven warrior.

Expressing his gratitude, he said, “Thank you for this opportunity. It's an honour to train with a Blade-Master,” and gave Peregrin a respectful bow.

“Assume your usual stance and use your standard weapon. The pointers I wish to provide won’t make sense if you use that lump of wood you currently hold,” Peregrin instructed.

Mitchell complied, unsheathing his blade. Peregrin attentively studied its long, slender, single-edged curvature and the elongated hilt designed for one or two hands. It was more like an elven blade, but still quite different.

“That's not a typical Klydorian blade,” Peregrin observed. “I'm not familiar with its design.”

“Thank you. It was a gift from my mentor, on the advice of a Northman friend of ours,” replied Mitchell.

Peregrin seemed deep in thought, perhaps wanting to inquire further. However, noting the queue of waiting guardsmen, he progressed. “Attack me as you normally would,” he said.

Obliging, Mitchell began with a one-handed grip, switching to two hands when he realised he was forbidden from using any of his other hand’s usual tricks. A fleeting expression crossed Peregrin’s face, but if he deciphered Mitchell's intent, he remained silent.

The elf adeptly parried or evaded Mitchell's moves, offering invaluable feedback. This included techniques for maintaining a fluid blade transition from one action to the next, and some new tips on footwork and balance. Mitchell requested Peregrin demonstrate the highlighted techniques, and Mitchell practised them against an imaginary opponent.

“That is good,” said Peregrin, with a tone that suggested he meant it.

Not wanting to hog the Blade-Dancer’s time, Mitchell soon gestured for Peregrin to attend the next eager guardsman. “Thank you,” he said, bowing deeply.

In Elvish, Peregrin responded, “Mára mesta an ni véla tye ento, ya rato nea.” Mitchell internally translated: ‘Goodbye until our next meeting; I hope it's soon.’

A smile clearly came over Mitchell’s face at what he deemed to be a compliment.

“Mae govannen!” Mitchell replied. ‘Well met’

Returning the smile, Peregrin reciprocated the bow. Not nearly as deeply as Mitchell had bowed to him, but Mitchell did not take offence in anyway.

‘I wish Maragon could be here to see this.’

Mitchell continued to practice everything he had been shown today, particularly the things Peregrin had shown him. As he was doing so he noticed Alicia rush into the barracks grounds with several other townsfolk. She seemed to relax upon witnessing what now looked like far more traditional training.

‘If you came for the show, I am afraid you missed it.’

When she sat down on one of the benches, and it became clear she intended to stay and watch, Mitchell started to get nervous. He continued to practice, but he no longer attempted any of the more fancier footwork for fear of messing it up and perhaps falling over.

Once Peregrin had finished with the next two guardsmen he instructed the three of them, including Mitchell, to take turns sparring with each other, practising what he had just taught them. He instructed them to keep using their real weapons, and to be careful not to hurt each other.

Mitchell was a little unsure, but went with what he was told.

Stevran, a large, muscular dark-haired guardsman, had been taught how to better use his two-handed axe. While not the normal weapon for a militiaman, he was a logger and woodsman by trade, and his skills with large axes made the weapon something of a natural choice for him.

Mitchell prepared his stance.

“What is it you wish to practice?” he asked Stevran.

“Keeping the axe moving from one attack to the next, and using it’s greater reach to keep you at bay,” he replied. “You?”

“Turning defence into attack. You attack me first and I will try to defend. Then we will see how many more attacks you can make, before I can put you on the defensive.”

Stevran nodded his acceptance of the approach.

Stevran came forwards at Mitchell. He swung the axe, and Mitchell slid his feet and stepped back out of reach. Stevran, as taught, used the momentum he had and swung the axe back up and repeated the same overhead swing from the opposite side. Mitchell again slid back out of reach.

‘Ok. I can slide back all day, but at some point I need to step inside his reach so I can press an attack of my own. I have an idea.’

Stevran essentially repeated the step from before and now swung an overhead swipe on the original trajectory. Mitchell this time tried to emulate the move he saw Peregrin use against Hawkin, and he stepped inside the swing and tried to parry with his sword while executing the sweep kick.

Perhaps Stevran had expected Mitchell to just slide away again, or perhaps he just wasn’t skilled enough to pull the blow, but the impact of axe on sword was too much for Mitchell and the axe smashed through his attempt at defence. Because he had stepped closer, Mitchell mostly got hit by the heavy shaft of the weapon, but the bottom edge of the blade also caught him across his back and left a deep laceration that immediately drew blood in a long line. The thick shaft had also likely cracked his collarbone.

Pain surged as Mitchell staggered, before collapsing to his knees.

“Hawkin, Sir!” Stevran shouted in panic. “Mitchell's injured!”

“What in the Nine Hells have you done now?” an alarmed Hawkin yelled, rushing towards Mitchell.

ALICIA – MILITIA BARRACKS, GARET, KLYDOR

For the second time today, Alicia rushed to tender aid to her friend Mitchell.

She had rushed to the barracks when a story reached her that Hawkin was engaging in a duel with a strange elf in the barracks. It had not seemed the story could be right, but Alicia knew Hawkin well enough to know that nothing was out of the question.

Arriving at the scene, she had found a more routine training session in progress, involving both Hawkin and the unfamiliar elf. However, she hadn't realised until this moment that they were using actual weapons.

‘Why in hell were they using real weapons? Sarek would never have allowed such recklessness.’

Pushing aside the questions flooding her mind, she focussed on Mitchell, now wounded and bleeding.

“Remove his tunic,” she instructed urgently. “Mitchy, if you can't lift your arms, we'll cut the tunic off.”

Wincing with pain, Mitchell tried to lift his arms but found the movement agonising.

“I need a dagger,” she called out. A nearby guardsman quickly handed one over. She swiftly sliced the blood-soaked commoner’s tunic from his lean frame.

She had the other guardsmen hold Mitchell still, with him lying on his stomach but his injured side raised slightly off the ground. And for the second time today she recited her healing prayer.

As before, she felt the divine power build within her with each line of her prayer. As she concluded her prayer, glowing tendrils of light moved around his flesh, closing the laceration and stopping the bleeding. While she suspected as much, the fact the spell seemed to close the wound fully meant it was not life threatening. Had there been any internal bleeding or organ damage, the spell’s limited healing capability would have focused on that and ignored the laceration. The line of a scar remained where the laceration had been.

Alicia took a few seconds to compose herself as the magick of her God now washed out of her. She then looked to Mitchell who had now slumped to the ground, but was breathing normally. He looked to be shaken up, but otherwise likely would be fine.

She looked up at those now gathered around, and in particular she speared a look at Hawkin.

“Why are they using real weapons to train?” Alicia admonished him.

Hawkin seemed to freeze, momentarily lost for what to say.

“Because I over-estimated their abilities, and did not realise how much risk real weapons would pose to those with little skill or control,” intervened Peregrin. “My order trains almost exclusively with real weapons after our first season of training is completed. I realise now that would not work here.”

“And who might you be?” Alicia retorted, her tone still laced with hostility. “I presumed this was one of Hawkin's harebrained schemes.”

“It was,” Mitchell's feeble voice came from below, “or at least, it was partly his idea.”

“And when did you become so stupid as not to point out when Hawkin is doing something even more stupid,” she snapped back, making it clear she did not think Mitchell was exempt from blame in this. “You could have been killed.”

“I didn’t know Mitchell would suddenly decide he was some amazing sword-master and try some crazy-ass move,” defended Hawkin.

“Is that not what practice is for?” asked Peregrin. “Actually, his move was an excellent choice, and should be commended. His execution was lacking, which is why he needs to practice more. Of all your guardsmen I have seen, he is by far the one with the most potential.”

‘Mitchy… Good at something? That will be a first. I do like hearing this Peregrin stand up for him. Gets tiring being the only one who seems to do it. But…’

“You're all behaving like fools,” she chided. “Now, put away the real weapons and use the training ones. That's what they're for! I'll take Mitchell to the infirmary to further treat his injuries. The magic has done its part, but he is still injured and I can strap his arm to ease the pain.”

As she began guiding Mitchell towards the infirmary, he spoke up, “Will I be alright by tonight? I'd rather not spend my eighteenth birthday in a hospital bed.”

“You should be fine. But I may wound you some more to keep you in the infirmary, if I think that is what is best for you. I have never had to heal anyone twice in one day before. I do not want my God to feel I am being frivolous with his gifts.”

“I will endeavour to not need of your healing again,” Mitchell replied solemnly.