The sun had begun its descent in the sky, tinting the evening air with a brilliant amber glow. Its shine was a sharp contrast against the white city walls, and it illuminated every rooftop while leaving dusty shadows clustered between buildings. The mighty city of Adeluna failed to slow in even the slightest sense. If anything, the citizens moved around with more haste than before, eager to make use of the few hours of daylight remaining–not that night seemed to mean much to the other side of this population’s spectrum. While merchant and noble strutted through the sunshine like jeweled peacocks, it was thief and beggar who owned the streets after hours, straying into the light only for a particularly tempting target.

A murder of six crows clustered at the apex of a tavern roof, bickering back and forth for space. They yelled and squawked with cracking voices until the largest of them sent the other five scattering with a lunge, a feather lost in the panic falling the the cobblestone as a figure entered the tavern beneath the last remaining bird. The man was of slightly below average height, but a strong build. A dirty leather overcoat hid from view a shortsword at his belt, and a secondary blade at the small of his back. For the past three months he had been revelling in freedom that had been withheld from him in his homeland, and despite over a year of rigorous reform, Olvar was back to his old ways, and loving every moment of it.

He had committed a rash of minor thieveries over the past few days, and in a city this size there was never any warning for his victims. With this many people, there was just no good way for anyone but the guard to pass along consistent information. The shifter was just another face in the crowd. This tavern would be the beginning of yet another pickpocketing, but he had to bide his time. Choosing a target was often rushed through by amateur thieves, but Olvar had years of experience coming back to him. There had to be just the right factors for a perfect score: distraction, easy access to the desired valuable, opportunity… a little alcohol never hurt either.

For a little over an hour, Olvar would watch patrons come and go, searching for what he thought to be just the right balance. Once found, he was like a fox after a rabbit; relentless, and with more than a few tricks up his sleeve. His chosen victim looked to be a noble of some sort. Though he couldn’t be sure, they certainly held themself in a way suggesting it, and walked with what Olvar would describe as “a sense of entitlement”. With nobility came arrogance, and there was nothing better for a thief to find than arrogance. And–what perfect timing–this poor sap was leaving the tavern.

Olvar counted to seven once the stranger was out the door, then stood from his table. He left behind a solitary coin, barely covering the drink he’d only sipped. Out on the streets, he spotted his target right away, and at the perfect distance to be shadowed. The stars were aligning perfectly! His footsteps were soft and casual as he strode over the stone pathways of Adeluna, just another faceless figure out for a stroll in the cool evening air. For two blocks he trailed behind, catching only enough of a glimpse to discern that his target was a man of taller stature. Not a problem. If all went as well as the set-up had, there would barely be a word exchanged between them.

As the man turned again, Olvar mirrored the action from where he was down the street. Once safely around the corner he trotted ahead to cut off his target, easily slipping through an alley between houses to get into position. Slowing back to a walk, he moved smoothly around the corner, now on a collision course with the noble. Olvar took a breath to steady his excited nerves. His eyes darted to the side of the street and he startled a step further into the man’s path, as if surprised by a rat or other vermin. Their shoulders collided, and without slowing his pace, Olvar reached for his golden prize.

It had been weeks since he'd last seen Montefort, since that fateful day that his fleet had set sail. The shining fleet flying banners of navy blue and white, loaded with an army bound to retake the isles and the mines from the pirates who held them. Simon had sailed forth confident they would reach their destination - his ships had never failed to do so before. But on their fourth night at sea a gale overtook them like none the Duke had ever seen: the ship bounced back an forth, the hulls creaking with every massive crash of wave. He thought the hull might be torn apart, and prayed against hope that the ship would not be lost. Somehow the Chivalry survived the storm, but on the morn they went abovedecks and found themselves alone, with none of his other galleys in sight. The air felt different here: more humid, more cloying, and the very sea itself seemed different. It was a bright blue, with dolphins cutting the waves - a far cry from the grey choppy western seas with its massive humpbacked whales that Simon knew so well. They continued on, letting the wind take them, hoping that the evening would be clear enough to allow them to navigate by the stars. When night came the firmament shone with points of light - but none of them were in the places that they should be. Simon recognized none of the constellations, and none of it resembled what was in their charts. What strange magick is this? he wondered. They were sailing blind. 

On the seventh day they sighted land, and Simon ordered his Captain to make for it with all due haste. However these shores were foreign to his pilot, and that evening the ship floundered on the rocks a hundred yards from the beach. Simon woke to shouts and the sound of water filling his cabin. He broke out in a rush - grabbing this and that on his way above. He could hear men and horses trapped on the decks below, screaming and pounding for help, but to go down would mean to drown. Simon jumped ship and swam, far enough and fast enough to not be sucked down in the wake of the sinking vessel. He heard other crewmen and soldiers abandoning ship, heard them splashing and shouting as they made for shore. Soon, he heard screams too. Did someone just yell shark? Simon paddled in the moonlight, making not for the white beach like the rest but to a glint off to the side. In a moment he found himself scrabbling onto a large rock that thrust up from the water. He hauled himself up and sat there panting, listening to the sounds of the sea and of his men. Please gods, let them get to safety. But it seemed the Gods were not with him that night: as he listened he heard more and more shouts - many cut off by yelps and sudden splashing. Soon the night was quiet save for the lapping of water against stone. Simon sat there shivering, feeling completely alone. Is this really how it ends?

He awoke to a bright sun and a crisp breeze, seagulls calling lazily from above. When he looked to the shore he found it littered with dark objects, but none seemed to move. Dread filled him. Was he really the lone survivor? For three days he laid on that rock, unwilling the brave the water for fear of what lurked below. Lips chapped and face burned, it took every Simon had not to drink the seawater below him. Death was likely certain, but it would be much sooner if he caved in to his thirst. On that day he saw a white sail on the horizon. Rushing into motion, he lifted a long piece of driftwood with his tunic tied across it. Waving it over his head, he screamed at the top of his lungs for help. The ship continued on for what seemed like an eternity. Just as Simon was beginning to lose hope, he saw a flash from the ship. Another flash came, and another. A mirror, he realized, they see me.

The cog came within a few hundred yards of him before sending out a skiff. Upon it he found the ship's swarthy captain, a stout pinchfaced man who looked more merchant than sailor. As Simon came aboard he asked what happened, and Simon ragailed him with his background and the story. Well, m'lord, said the Captain, I've never heard of MoonCrest or Montefort, but if a southron noble you are I'll see you back to Adeluna where you belong. First let's see if any of your crew survived. While Simon ate, drank and rested the galley's crew combed the shore for survivors. They found none, but some equipment and supplies were recovered. Most Simon gave to the Captain to repay him for his help, the rest the merchant bought from him for around a hundred silver. The man was nice enough to allow Simon a personal cabin, with all the comforts they could provide. Their journey went far smoother than the Chivalry's, and within a week they found the great city on the horizon.

In many ways the capital of the Kingdom of Adeluna reminded Simon of MoonCrest: a sprawling human metropolis, walled to the north with a great port and airship tower to the south, all dominated by an ancient and massive castle. The style of dress and manner of speaking reminded him of home, but things were different in many ways as well. Accents, turns of phrase, fashionable colors, even the architecture was different. Simon felt at home and completely out of place all at the same time. What he left behind did not help much either. No one here had ever heard of Montefort, or MoonCrest, nor even Minya Amar or the world of Dae Luin. This was a place called Revaliir. It seemed everything he had ever known had been left behind. His flagship was sunk, his crew and soldiers dead… His son was missing too. Raphael had sailed on another ship. Was it sunk in the storm? Did it get sent to this strange land as well? Was he alive? The questions tore at him.

Simon felt naked and unmanned as he walked the streets of this new city. His platemail, and his lance had been left behind on the ship, as well as the mirror shield and the holy comet mace that had been handed down through the centuries of his House. Feroz, too, had been left below decks to drown. The fiery steed had bourne him through a hundred battles. He was like a brother to Simon, and his loss tore at his heart. What was a Knight without a horse? In ancient times, Knights had simply been cavalrymen. Mounted soldiers were so rare and valuable in those times that warlords offered them lands and riches to ride under their banners, and hence was feudalism and chivalry born. Without a horse or armor he was nothing. He did not even have a doublet to signal his station. In his roughspun woolen clothing, with kite shield and broadsword on his back, he looked nothing more than a common sellsword. Simon hated the way people spoke to him, with suspicion and lack of respect reflected in their tone and eyes. 

But sell his sword he must, for he had nothing else. The Duke went from tavern to tavern, looking for a merchant who's caravan he could attach himself too. Guarding a caravan would make him some more silver, and if it were attacked he might be able to find a horse in the ensuing battle. Once mounted, he could become a hedge knight and look to gain service with some lord. Besides, traveling the countryside might bring him word of what happened to the rest of his fleet.

In a smoky place near port called the Winking Mermaid he found a brusque merchant willing to bring him on for a journey north - provided he could keep up with the wagons. Business done, Simon walked up to the counter to pay for his drink. As he did, he felt eyes on him. Despite the cloak whose hood he kept over his head he noticed a familiar face staring at him out of the corner of his eyes. Smirking, Simon strode outside and made his way down the boulevard toward where his hostel lie. 

As expected, he heard the tavern door open and close behind him and footsteps trailing. They grew louder and louder, until finally the bump came that he'd been waiting for. His hand darted out, snatching with an iron grip the would-be pickpocket's wrist. Simon turned to his Squire, using his free hand to pull down his hood and reveal himself with a feral smile. "Back to your thieving ways, I see. Did I teach you nothing of honor?" he asked, cuffing the lad over the head. "Come, your thieving days are at an end once more. We have real work to do on the morn." He began leading his protege down the street once more.

"Tell me boy, how did you come to this land. I thought you lost on our stopover on the way to the Isles. Perhaps a deserter. Did you get caught in the same storm?"

Olvar’s fingers brushed over his prize, only to be caught short by an grip like steel. It honestly startled him to be caught so easily–had he lost his touch during his servitude back in DaeLuin? He took a breath to protest, stubbornly fighting against the hand holding him, but the words died before even crossing his lips. As his would-be victim faced him, a fiery gaze fell onto the man’s face, shadows chased away by lantern light as his hood was flung away. Hazel eyes widened, and the shifter’s jaw fell slack. Of all the faces he might see again so far from home, he had never once thought he would again be faced by the noble before him.

“Simon?” He grunted as a rough fist cuffed him over the head, snapping him out of the stunning recognition. A quick hand covered the spot that had been attacked in such a way so many times before, and the fierce glare returned to his eyes. In the time he’d been away from the Duke, his pride had flared back, and his morals had once again loosened, as Simon had clearly discovered.

After only two steps of following, Olvar dug in his heels. He gave his captured wrist a hard yank. “I was caught in no storm, I left the fleet during the stopover when Guillermo turned his back,” he spat. “Unhand me!” Though no longer armored or astride a mount, Simon’s strength remained, and after a brief attempt to break the hold, the lycan submitted to gripping his mentor’s wrist in return.

The journey had been a staggering series of rises and falls. Upon escaping the watch of the man trusted to keep him in line, his spirits soared. By feigning loyalty to Simon he had received training, education, and improved armor and weaponry. With freedom once again his, he had every opportunity to take what he pleased from whoever crossed him, and more than enough bite to back his bark. For a week he lived life as he wished, traveling the land on the back of a stolen mount and never staying put for more than a day. It was tiring, but he rested well with the freedom he had taken back.

It was on the eighth day that the rains came. Not the harsh downpour of a storm, but rather the gentle sprinkling of clouds that were just a touch too plump. The falling water was cool and refreshing, lasting throughout the day with brief pauses between showers. Olvar had just hoisted a saddle over his shoulder when the unexpected happened, throwing his life into chaos once again. What appeared to be a harmless puddle apparently hid a strange, nameless magic, because when Olvar stepped into it, he simply dropped. Not to the ground, as he would upon tripping, but rather straight through it.

The cool evening air had turned to a thick fog, and chilled air stole the breath from his mouth. He had barely time to make a sound before icy water swallowed him up from below. The direction of the sky escaped him, and his armor dragged at his body, threatening to anchor him to the gaping depths of the lake. An outstretched hand found cold mud. It oozed up between his fingers, but it gave him what he needed. Olvar was able to orient himself and get his feet below him, kicking off hard and struggling toward the surface. In all truth, he was lucky. His suit of armor was a hybrid between leather and metal, meaning the weight pulling against him was minimal. He managed to steal a breath before the waters reclaimed him.

It was an exhausting battle, but after what felt like an eternity he was able to stand with his head above the surface. His body trembled, and the instant he was able to he collapsed onto the bank of mud. His armor felt like a horse laying on his back, and he panted into the filth of the lakeshore. Where had that fall dropped him?
“How I got here is of no importance to you.” His eyes glanced quickly over his mentor. The simple clothing, the lack of any arms outside of his sword and shield. He looked like a commoner, which meant his arrival here had certainly not been planned. “You look as though you’ve been dragged to Hell and back, Simon. Did your stout-hearted crew make your great and mighty fleet lose its way in that storm you mentioned?” In all honesty, Olvar truly was curious to hear how Simon had ended up in this place. Had it been as unceremonious as his own arrival? And had anyone else made the trip with him?

Simon glared back at his Squire. "So you did desert! You cowardly knave, I should take this hand for that." He continued leading them down the street, toward the multi-tiered building where his room was located. They entered into a smoky common area on the first level. He chose an open table closest to the fire and sat down, waving a serving wench over. After ordering a glass of wine for himself and a pint of ale for his squire he sat back and regarded Olvar cooly. 

"I have been to hell and back. We sailed right into a gale after our stopover. The next morning the Chivalry was in strange waters, all alone. Eventually we sighted land, but as we made for shore we floundered against stones. The ship sank, and I lost everything: my mount, my weapons, my armor, most of the equipment and supplies… The men who escaped the wreck were devoured by sharks as they made for the beach." His eyes hardened. "Guillermo was among them. I made for a nearby rock instead, and was stranded there for days until a merchant cog found me. They took me here, and I've been trying to figure things out ever since."

The drinks came, and Simon paused to take a large gulp of wine. He ordered bread and stew for the two of them, then sat there sipping his wine while watching men dice by the fire. "There's a merchant caravan heading to Sularia and back, clear across the continent, with plenty of stops along the way. For our protection we'll get a cut of the silver from each market. It'll allow us to explore and get a feel for this land and its people. And during such a long journey there is a good chance that the wagon train will be attacked, likely more than once. We could gain much from defeated foes, such as mounts and armor."

Simon downed the rest of his drink with a sigh. He set the glass on the table and turned back to his squire. "And my son is out there somewhere Olvar, I can feel it. I don't know where, but he's out there somewhere. He might be alone, and we need to find him. Traveling around like this will allow me to look for him."

Eventually the food came, and Simon dug out a trencher in the bread and filled it with stew. As he set to his meal he wondered how Olvar would take all that. Likely with a sardonic comment, no doubt. Simon resisted the urge to preemptively cuff him. "Accompany me, and you'll make good coin for honest work. You'll get to see this new world, redeem your honor, and continue your training with me. Who knows, you might even be able to call yourself a good person by the end of it. What say you, rapscallion?" Simon met his eye, and waited for the wolfman's reply.

Once through the door, Olvar ran his eyes around the room, taking in faces and making sure none belonged to those who might recognize him. No one stood out, and he followed after Simon more willingly now, drawn by the warmth from the fire and the tempting scents he could pick up from the kitchen. They overpowered the collective sweat of the crowded room, the burn of the wood feeding the fire, and the musk of the dog sleeping at the foot of the stairway. The shifter sat across from his mentor, stomach grumbling as Simon ordered a set of drinks. As he met the other’s gaze, the firelight reflected an iridescent green in his eyes, easy to dismiss as a trick of the light for those who didn’t know better.

Apparently his suspicions had been correct: the Duke of Montefort had encountered troubles of his own in coming to this new land. Despite his efforts, the pack animal inside of him had grown accustomed to being in the company of the crew, as well as the others under Simon’s employ. Hearing of their fate, Olvar slid on a mask of indifference. His thoughts, however, were troubled as he imagined their screams, cut short as the sharks took them one by one. The man before him need not imagine, and for having to endure such torment, the shifter almost pitied him. The feeling of being so powerless was not one unfamiliar to him, and he would prefer to never encounter such torture again.

The arrival of the ale was a welcome distraction, and he matched the noble across from him as he enjoyed a hearty swig. With a meal on the way, Olvar settled in to his seat. The promise of food had always been a solid tactic for getting him to stay put, and now was no exception. His eyes followed Simon’s, glad to be out of the man’s immediate attention. As his mentor spoke, the shifter watched the men gamble, subduing a mild itch to join in. His focus drifted on and off what was being explained to him, no longer trained to the intent listening that had been insisted upon several months prior. What he did hear was enough to prod at his temper: Simon looping them together already as though he had leashed Olvar back to his hip. The thought of new weapons and armor was enticing though.

The lycan’s eyes, still shimmering when the fire danced just right, flicked back to his educator, only to roll in exasperation at the mention of his son. It was a persistent obsession of his mentor’s, and it always brought about a flare of annoyance from Olvar. He held his tongue on the matter, but only since he was within range of being cuffed again. Leaning back in his chair and out of arm’s reach, he tilted his head. “With the way you’re going on, you almost sound desperate for my help. Could it be that you know not what to do with yourself now that you’ve lost everything that makes you noble?” The shifter smirked. “Do you like being poor, Simon?”

With the arrival of their meals, he sat up to fill his belly and warm his insides. The stew was done away with in record time by the hungry drifter, and he used the bread to mop of the remains before beginning to wolf that down too. What Simon was offering he would be foolish to refuse. It was his offer from DaeLuin all over again. Food, shelter, training, and gear, all at minimal cost to Olvar, and while he was more than comfortable scraping by, he had taken a liking to the ease of lifestyle that came with working under a noble. He pondered a moment longer, then sat back to meet the other man’s gaze. “I’ll come along with you for training, and helping you defend this caravan, but I refuse to saddle whatever mount you find. Or polish your boots. Or take dictation. Or any other duties a squire would attend to. You have to be a knight to have a squire, Simon. Don't you agree?” He folded his arms comfortably behind his head. "As long as these points are clear, I'll help you."

Simon watched Olvar tear into his food with regard for little else around him. Like a hungry wolf, he observed, he remembers little of his lessons in etiquette. He's old enough to be knighted, but he still has a long way to go. Simon continued at his own meal at a measured pace. He was not yet half finished when Olvar had cleared his plate. "I have not lost everything that makes me noble," he said over his meal in an exasperated tone. Olvar had a way of needling right at the thing that gnawed at you. Simon determined not to allow his squire to see how close he had come to the mark. "I still have my family name, my upbringing, my prowess with shield and sword. I still have my honor. I still live by a code. I am merely bereft of the tools of my trade." The Count rolled his eyes at the next question. To be honest, it was embarrassing and stressful to be impoverished. He hated how others treated him, and how limited his options were. Yet there was a simplicity to it: with so few options his course was more clear. "There is a simple honor in poverty, Olvar," he said brusquely, then spooned some more stew into his mouth.Much to his disappointment Olvar continued on, unabated. It seemed that he always needed to use his mouth: if not for food, then for insolent discourse. Now he was making demands as a prerequisite to his help. Simon tolerated such talk, right up until he justified it by telling Simon that he was no longer a Knight. The Count slammed his fist onto the table so hard that the wood cracked. The room went silent, all eyes on them, but Simon's venomous gaze was reserved for Olvar alone. "I AM a Knight. I will DIE a Knight."He sat back then, remembering himself enough to lower his voice. "We Knights are a sworn brotherhood, a sacred order: our vows are sworn for life. I may be without coin nor steed, but I still have mine honor and my vows. I am a Knight, and you are my Squire, and on the morn we will ride with the caravan. That is that. Fortunately for you, I have no tent for you to set up, no bedsheets and linens for you to clean and change, no mail to scour, nor horse to brush and hobble. Your squirely duties will be greatly reduced. Hopefully that frees you up pay better attention to your lessons, which you seem to forget so well. Each morning and night at camp we will train in the martial arts, and along the road I will continue your lessons in letters, arithmetic, and etiquette. This journey to Sularia and back will take many months. If you train hard and listen well, you may even be able to pass for a nobleman upon our return."With that, Simon was ready to call it a night. He made arrangements for an adjoining room for Olvar, then made his way upstairs to his room. Sleep came quickly, for the straw bed was much more comfortable than a rock in the sea. Even so, his rest was tormented by visions of bloody water and screaming men. At dawn he dressed, woke Olvar, and went downstairs for a meal of poached eggs, bread, and bacon. Once done they trudged out to a nearby square, where they found a train of wagons hastily being packed. Simon passed the pinchfaced Caravan Captain, busy fretting over the wagon work, and made straight for the Guard Sergeant. He was a tall, weathered man who seemed to have a decade on Simon. He seemed similar to many of the soldiers Simon had served with over the years - no-nonsense, straightforward, and dependable. He was a man Simon felt comfortable serving under: unlike others he hadn't scoffed when Simon told him that he was a Knight. The man had served long enough to see many knights become impoverished or lose their horses. His name was Walton, but most called him Steelshanks for the greaves that he always wore. Simon stopped before him and put a fist to his chest. "Ser Simon de Montefort reporting in Sergeant, this is my squire Olvar Tyresus."The Sergeant looked over the lad with discerning eyes. "Looks like he can handle himself. You're on wagon three, over there." He pointed a finger down the line, and Simon stalked that way. The driver seemed amiable enough, a small eldery man with an easy smile. Simon swung into the seat beside him. "Olvar, you ride on the back."The journey through the Adeluna countryside was the most enjoyable Simon had had in some time. This was a verdant, temperate land of rolling fields and broad pastures. Farms and quaint little villages littered the countryside, with towerhouses and the odd castle sprinkled over. This was a good land, with good people, judging from the polite smiles and warm welcomes they received at each village along the way. As the weeks wore on the ground grew more hilly and wild as they wound their way north toward the Bohar Marches. Civilization was more sparse out here, with small communities of homesteaders usually near a fort. This would be good land for a new nobleman to stake out a claim. He saved that thought for a later day. A few days later, as he sat going over multiplication tables with Olvar, they heard a horn off to the east. "An outrider!" Simon leapt from the saddle, lifting his shield and drawing his sword. "Look alive!" he shouted at Olvar, "it came from the East!"Moments later a cloud of dust could be seen on the horizon, the ground rumbling with a cacophony of hoofbeats. Riders, dozens of them. Wild Bothar plainsmen screaming as they rushed in with axe and sword. The caravan guards scrambled to form up on that side of the wagon train, establishing a ragged shield wall while others jumped on the wagons with bows in hand. Bowstrings thrummed. A few riders fell, and a few more sent back a volley. Simon lifted his shield to the air, and soon an arrow was sprouting from it. "MONTEFORT!" He screamed as the wild men closed in. An axe bounced off his shield. Dropping to a knee, he swung his broadsword wide into the legs of his attacker's horse as it rushed by. The man jumped from the saddle, and managed to roll and bring his axe to bear before Montefort was upon him. The tribesman was a capable fighter, but he was on his heels and reacting to Simon's attack rhythym. Eventually he fell a half-beat behind and was staggered by an overhand shield bash."MONTEFORT!" he screamed again, bring the broadsword up in a long arcing cut from below. The man fell back, his entrails spilling from his body, as Simon leaped over him toward his next foe. The man was still mounted, stabbing with a short spear down toward a guard on his other side. Simon ran up to him and swung hard into his leg mid-stride. The sword clove clean through his leg and bit into the horse, send it flying off in a frenzy with its rider screaming atop it. Simon heard a shout, and turned in time to block a flying slash from a running tribesman. Whooping, the leatherclad warrior came at Simon. He weilded dirk and tomahawk, and his attack came in from all sides. Holding his shield before him, Simon stepped back, then bounced forward with a straight thrust. The charging tribesman impaled himself upon his blade. Simultaneously he thrust his shield forward and wrenched his sword back, clearing the foe from him. Turning, he looked through the din for his squire. "Olvar?!"

Each of Simon’s answered only served to feed Olvar’s amusement. “Of course. I met a smith the other day. He lacked hammer, forge, metal, and even an apron, but he was a smith. He said as much.” He let his mentor go on justifying himself, his situation, and his lack of authority, but it was made clear very quickly that the lycan had overstepped a boundary. The shift in attitude was as sudden as the fist that cracked the table. His shoulders stiffened, back finding the chair behind him as Simon loomed. Hazel eyes were locked on the floor, refusing to meet the icy gaze that cut straight through him like cold blades. What lasted only a moment seemed to drag on from one minute to the next, and Olvar drew not a breath until the knight had returned to a more reserved tone. A slow drink of ale dispelled his tension, though he met the other’s eyes only in brief passing as he was addressed.

Apparently freedom was not meant to be his, not at this point in his life anyway. It was gone as suddenly as it had come. Simon had not been requesting his help so much as explaining their next move, and he had little choice but to comply. Starting tomorrow, it was back to lessons and training for the younger shifter. At least he had a proper bed for the night.

Olvar did not immediately follow his mentor upstairs, but rather finished his drink first, and even eyed Simon’s plate in case he’d forgotten a scrap. Once his glass was empty, he glanced briefly at the door before ascending the stairs. His sleep that night was frail at best, and always in short bursts. He was unaccustomed to being surrounded by so much life after weeks of drifting the quiet roads. Every creaking floorboard was clear as a bell, and every voice seemed a bellow. Always at night did his senses become more of a burden than an asset.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but Simon waking him the next morning meant he must have drifted off at some point. After stretching stiff limbs, he dressed promptly rather than laze about–one of the few habits from his training that had stuck. The aroma of a hearty breakfast from downstairs certainly didn’t hurt his efficiency either. Little conversation passed between the two men as they ate, then headed out to meet the caravan.

The man in charge of the guards looked almost as weathered as some of the wagons they would be keeping watch over, and Olvar couldn’t help but wonder if he would struggle to keep pace when the inevitable defense was demanded. Simon seemed to respect him though, hardly surprising to Olvar. The man acted in every way like an aged copy of his mentor, from the tall posture to the no-nonsense gaze. The lycan lifted his chin when that gaze fell onto him, and as he followed after Simon, the Sergeant’s approval let him stand a little taller. That swell of pride withered the instant he was dismissed to the rear of the wagon. Dropping his hand from the edge of the driver’s seat, he stalked off to his designated spot and hopped easily onto the back.

As they traveled, the city slowly thinned, eventually stretching into rolling countryside. Only the occasional farmhouse broke up the landscape of field and pasture, the latter astonishingly similar to those of the ranch Olvar had called home only a decade ago. His life had certainly changed in such short time, and while he certainly wouldn’t go back, there were small stings whenever he discovered a skill lost. Horses, for example, now tended to shy away from him whenever they stopped to rest, where previously he had helped raise them from foals.

True to his word, Simon used much of their time in camp for training. The squire had retained a good amount of his teachings regarding weaponry and the proper use of it, but he dared not let himself grow cocky against his teacher. Still fresh in his mind was the unfortunate day when he allowed his mouth to run a little too freely. The matter was brought to the training ring, and settled when Olvar was sent to the ground the second time. Simon stood tall, having taken less than a half dozen strikes, and the lycan stayed down, spitting dust and the broken pieces of his pride.

During the day, as the caravan creaked on through the hills, the shifter was subjected to various mental lessons. Etiquette proved as difficult now as it had months before, and letters were tedious, but manageable. Arithmetic came the most naturally to him, possibly due to his use of it back on the farm without his realizing. Horses were coming and going from the herd all the time, and they had to be kept track of. Multiplication and division proved challenging, but Olvar found himself enjoying his smooth progress with them. His lessons became the least of his focus when the horn from the east sounded over the hills, however.

He turned to stare at the hills like a dog spotted a rabbit, and excitement thrilled through his veins. Finally something to break the monotony. Olvar adjusted his armor and tightened it for battle as the riders came tearing over the hills. He leapt from the back of the wagon, bearing no shield with his shortsword, but instead pulling a second blade from the small of his back. An archer instantly took the spot he’d abandoned, and an arrow flew forward above his head, joined by over a dozen others. He knelt as the enemy retaliated, making use of the shield wall before rising again to meet the riders with the rest of the guard. The name of “Montefort” was smothered on his lips as he started forward.

Metal screeched off to his left, giving him pause. A cry to the right was instantly followed by the scream of a horse somewhere ahead of him. His grip on each weapon tightened. His heart fluttered against his ribcage like a trapped bird. Narrowed eyes darted from one point to the next at random, trying to find order in the chaos unfolding in front of him. The drumbeat of each arrow being released became irritatingly clear, tapping at his mind and stealing his focus. His jaw tightened, arms practically trembling with tension. A horseman went roaring by, but his gaze didn’t seem to focus on it so much as trail weakly behind. The cacophony was unbearable, the writhing mass of motion utter chaos, and the sharp scent of blood on steel an assault on his sense of smell.

A figure from the madness emerged, charging toward him. He knew to swing, and the action from a seemingly stunned enemy was apparently enough to catch the plainsman off guard. Olvar followed through with a clumsy second attack with his seax knife, and the man dropped. It was instinct and sheer luck that had kept him from being injured, but luck would not preserve him through an entire battle. Already his arms were beginning to feel heavy from the strain of his single defense. He stepped back, eyes closing tightly as he shook his head, as if trying to shake away the weight on his heightened senses. When that failed, his already unsteady breathing quickened. It was like his first battle all over again: too overwhelmed to do anything but stand there, stiff as a statue, sensing everything but perceiving nothing.

Simon looked this way and that, searching for his squire in the fog of war. At last the Count sighted him, about twenty yards down the caravan from the shield wall. The lad was standing over a dead tribesman, shortsword and longknife in his hands. The Florentine style, or dual-wielding as some called it, was not commonly seen in battle. Among the upper classes, it was most often utilized by master duelists wielding rapier and dagger. It was more common among the urban lower class and the criminal element. It was beneficial for close quarters combat where one might be outnumbered, as was often the case in the streets and alleyways of a slum. However those street situations involved relatively few combatants, much less than a battle such as this. The style offered no protection from arrow or javelin, and had a difficult time against spears and longer weapons. Simon had of course told this to Olvar, but the squire was steadfast in his desire to stick to the technique. You can take the snipe out of the gutter… The Knight had agreed to allow Olvar to use the style in his training but had hammered home the points that in order for it to be battlefield effective he would have to do two things: constantly move in order to avoid ranged and long-hafted weapons, and maintain situational awareness so that he was not caught unawares, since he had no shield and heavy armor to protect him from an unseen blow.

Olvar, however, was doing neither of those things. Simon had seen men panic in battle before. Most often they turn and ran, or hid, or played dead, but Olvar merely stood there dumbfounded. He seemed unaware of anything going on around him. This had happened before, in their first battle together. The Knight had chalked it up to first-battle jitters, but apparently this issue ran deeper. Is he craven? The boy ought to at least have a shield so that he could at least catch an arrow if one chanced his way… With a curse Simon ran toward him.

On the way he spotted another unhorsed tribesman, whooping as he ran toward Olvar with Tomahawk in hand. Simon sprinted toward him, managing to catch up and thrust his broadsword through the attacker's back a few feet before his squire. "Olvar!" Simon shouted as the man fell to his knees, "snap out of it!" Turning, he found two more tribesman coming in from either side, one with an ax overhead and one couching a spear. The Count positioned himself so that he could slap the ax aside with his sword while the spearpoint scrabbled off his shield. His counter cut sliced across the axeman's arm and shoulder. He allowed the momentum of the cut to carry, turning into the spearman and past the point of his spear. The broadsword came down into the spearman's lead wrist in an arcing cut, while the axeman's follow-up crosscut bit into his kite shield. The spearman stumbled back onto the ground, clutching the stump of his arm as he screamed. Simon turned back toward the axeman, bringing his broadsword down into his opponent's skull as he wrenched his ax free. The man collapsed in a twitching heap. Simon stalked over to the fallen spearman, switching his grip and thrusting his sword down into the man to end his suffering. 

As soon as he did so he looked around to gauge the battle. Eyes widening, he rushed back toward Olvar. "Watch out!" he shouted, leaping in front of him with shield upraised. There was a dull thud, and suddenly an arrow wa sprouting from his kite shield. "Snap out of it!" he screamed, smacking Olvar in the side of the head with the flat of his blade. "Do you want to die today? Look, archers, there and there." He pointed with his sword.

"Stay on my back, leap out on my mark," he ordered, moving toward the first group of archers with shield held out before him. It was time to take out their fire support.

Sounds were beginning to clash against each other. Every scream, and whinny, and clash of metal was heard, but it was as if Olvar’s mind was attempting to separate them from each other. It was an impossible task, and the effort was only making his focus hop sporadically from one point to another until everything began phasing together like a dream. The arrows were drumming again.

From the haze came a blur of movement. The shifter stared blankly at the charging plainsman. He saw the man brandishing his weapon, saw the murderous intent in his eyes, but some unseen force kept Olvar from raising a blade in defense. He watched as his attacker barreled ever closer, only to stiffen and drop to the ground at his feet. The shifter blinked hard, attention wandering up to the armored man before him. …Simon. Yes, Simon. The name bounced around his skull a moment before dropping away into the rest of the din. The arrows were drumming again.

A flurry of movement made the lycan step back a pace. There was a startling clang of metal, and the ragged protest of the deflected spearhead. The sharp tang of blood in the air sent a thrill through his veins, though at this point he could scarcely tell fear from fervor. There was another wave of the scent that slapped him in the face, then a third, and a final fourth that lingered in the air like a macabre smokescreen. The arrows were drumming again.

His gaze wandered, hazel eyes like those of a panicked animal as they scanned the rapidly unfolding battlefield. Again he was startled back, this time by a figure rushing in front of him. Simon. Like before, the name bounced back and forth in his mind before fading out again to make room for more information. The next bit of information gathered was very clear: pain. Olvar hunched his shoulders as cold steel slapped across his cheek, leaving behind a silhouette of blood collected from fallen foes. The shifter sucked in a sharp breath, wide eyes fixing quickly on his mentor. “What..?” The heat of battle pressed in on him from all sides, but he fixed his attention on the man standing tall before him. Archers? He followed the indications, and sure enough, two groups of ranged support sent volley after volley at the caravan's defenders. Olvar's hands tightened around the hilts of his weapons. He gave a curt nod. "On your mark," he confirmed.

With each step, his senses threatened to betray him again, kept at bay only by the undivided attention given to the clusters of archers. Focus on the target, he thought to himself. Simon had his back. He needed only reach the plainsmans’ supporting forces, and then he could let instinct take over.

As promised, his mentor got them in close. He waited until the attackers had loosed their arrows uselessly into Simon's shield before heeding the given order to move in. Olvar stayed low, moving quickly between the men as he'd been taught to do when bearing a weapon in each hand. The wounds left in his wake were small, but meaningful: the insides of joints, or unprotected soft tissue. Just enough damage for him to take them easily on his way back through, or to hold them still for Simon to practically cleave in half. Whichever came first. The first group was cleared out with little trouble, leaving one more bunch in the nearby vicinity. The squire fell back into place behind his knight, ready to perform the same maneuver again when the time came. In the madness of the battle, their next targets were likely oblivious to the fates of their brothers in arms, at least for now. It sent a confident rush through Olvar's bones to know that they would soon share the same fate.

As they moved through the fray, the overwhelming tidal wave of input seemed to ebb, and he found himself more and more able to focus productively. Smells were less intrusive, the rapid movement of the chaos was less distracting, and the sound of clashing metal no longer made him flinch. And if that didn’t feel good.

The second batch of archers fell just as easily as the first, unable to break through Simon’s defense, or draw secondary weapons fast enough to counter Olvar’s initial attack. The shifter was surprised to find several sizeable scratches on his armor however, and made a note to himself to remember his limits. His wolven senses certainly weren’t meant for this type of environment. Still, he stood tall, pride swelling in his chest. If anyone had questioned his and Simon’s value to the guard, the pair of foreigners now had full rights to tell the doubters to stuff it.

With an excited grin on his face, the lycan turned to search for his next foe, the rush of battle lifting his spirits and urging him on. That rush of courage faltered though when he spotted huge, bulky figures lining the crest of a nearby hill. More plainsmen, but they certainly weren’t on horseback. The warhorn from the east repeated its bellow from what felt like an age earlier. “Simon?” Even as Olvar called to his mentor, the first of the shapes dipped down the hill. The others all raced to follow the leader, and the boisterous barking of the pack grew nearer.

Simon stalked toward the small hill, crouched behind his upraised shield. He could not see the cluster of archers on the hill, but he could feel their handiwork. Thunk. His shield reverberated with the impact of the arrow. That was three now. Two more had whizzed by overhead. There are five of them, he figured. It was a short moment before more flew their way. Simon trudged on behind his shield, weathering the storm. Eventually the land rose, and he knew they were coming up the hill. "With me!" he told Olvar as he started to run. The hill crested, and from behind the shield he heard shuffling and voices. Simon pointed the shield that way, blocking more arrows as he broke into a sprint. "NOW!" He shouted, bashing into an archer so fiercely that it knocked him to the grass. He stabbed down into the man's gullet as Olvar dashed out in a whir of blades. Archers cried out as he fell in among them. Simon turned the other way, stepping toward an archer attempting to back up and knock an arrow to his string at the same time. As he fumbled with his weapon Simon rushed in, coming down on him with a vicious overhanded swing. The bandit raised his longbow in an attempt to block the blow, but the sharp sword clove clean through the longbow and bit into him between shoulder and neck, stopping just pass the collarbone. Simon had to put a boot on him to wrench the broadsword free. Looking around, he found that Olvar had done in for the other three. Death by a thousand cuts. Or near enough. It was good that the boy was blooded, now he had no more cause to worry about him in this battle.

With the hilltop clear, Simon had Olvar form up behind him and made for the second archer position. Fortunately for them the archers on this hill seemed not to have noticed the sortie against their comrades, so focused were they on the battle at the wagon train. Arrows didn't fly their way until it was already too late. As Olvar flitted among them with his blades Simon followed behind, hacking down one after the other as they fumbled with their bows and the swords at their hips. "Well done," he told his squire when their grisly work was finished. "That will provide great relief to the front. It's best we get back presently to mop up the remainder of the foe."

That was when he heard the warhorn. Looking to the east, he sighted a group of tribesmen riding down a further hill. "I see them," he replied to Olvar, eyes growing wide at the sight of their mounts. "To the shield wall! Run!"

Simon broke out in a dead sprint, rushing down the archer hill toward where the ragged line of guardsman stood fighting the plainsmen remaining from the first charge. Puffing, Simon urged his legs onward as the din of barking, snarling, and war whoops rose behind him. The Knight blew past enemy plainsmen, ignoring them entirely in his headlong rush for his allies. 

He made it to the shield wall just in time to turn and lift his shield against the oncoming attack. A warg leaped at him, jaws tearing at his shield as it bowled him over. His back smacked the dirt, but with a yell he managed a strong upward thrust into the warg as it came down on him. The beast cried like a whipped cur and rolled off him, tongue lolling from his jaws. Simon stood and came on, leaping over the dying beast and chopping down into the rider as he fought to free a leg from beneath the saddle. 

The Count looked over to find a warg rider spearing down at a guard as his mount lashed out at another. Looping around the blind side, Simon reached up and caught the bandit by the shoulder pauldron. With a hard yank he dismounted the foe. Stepping over him, he brought his broadsword down hard into te back of the warg's neck. The beast died instantly. Turning back, he found the bandit back on his feat. The fight took longer than it should have, for Simon was tired and breathless from all the fighting and running before, and the spear's reach was long. He was jabbed in the leg as he tried to close in, but managed to hack an arm and then the rest of the man after that. 

"Reform the line!" Steelshanks was shouting, "Turtle up! Reform the shield wall!" 

Heeding his Sergeant's orders, Simon rushed back to group up with the rest. The chaos after the warg charge began to reform into order again, as the surviving guards clustered up and locked their shields together. The Count had men on either side of him, and behind him lifting a shield overhead. They stood their ground and held firm, as man and horse and warg slammed into them again and again. Whenever an enemy came near Simon stabbed out with his broadsword, never daring to cut or slash for fear of creating an opening in their defensive formation. The battle continued on for what seemed like hours, though for all he knew it might have been moments. At long last, the surviving plainsmen broke and galloped for the hills, the archers on the wagons continuing to pepper them with arrows as they went. A ragged cheer went up amongst the men. Finally, the day is ours.

Suddenly Simon gave a start, eyes widening as realization dawned on him. "Olvar?!" he called, casting about. The lad hadn't a shield, so he could not have been part of the line. Had he managed to get behind it in time, or perhaps get to a wagon? Simon had to find out.