Author: ardenator2000, Posted: Thu Feb 8, 2018 8:35 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

Dark visions troubled Simon's rest. He dreamed that he was back at the Chateau, sitting the high seat in the great hall. Fires crackled in the hearths while laughter and song echoed off the rafters above as the merry feast proceeded below him. Smiling, Simon lifted a cup of wine to his lips, and glanced over to where his lady wife Serene sat beside him. The fair Atavian woman gave him an angelic smile, squeezing his thigh. All around him on the dais sat his family: his elder brother Perez and his wife Maria with her dark, smiling eyes. His stout cousin Ser Edgar, and his three children all talking and laughing as they shared in the meal. On the tables below he noticed the great men he'd had the pleasure of serving with throughout the years: windblown Captain Nemah, the sarcastic Limon, and the manful Ser Ryger among them. Each smiled and lifted a tankard in salute as he caught their eyes. In that moment Simon felt truly happy. 

Lightning flashed in the window, rumbling thunder following close behind. Ignoring the storm outside, Simon leaned over to kiss his wife. His eyes flicked open in surprise as he tasted her cold, corpsey lips. Horror turned his stomach as he beheld her sitting there stiff and pale, dead eyes staring out into the distance. He cried for help, and when he went to push off from the table he looked down to find his plate filled with moldy bread crawling with worms. Suddenly he noticed how quiet the hall had become. As he looked about he found corpses staring back at him. Their jaws hung slack, grey-green flesh sloughing off the bone. Their pale dead eyes looked up at him accusingly. You did this.

He looked toward his children. Freya and Raphael were nowhere to be found. Perez, his eldest, looked hale, but he stared unflinchingly at the foot of the hall. Simon followed his eyes just in time to witness the door fly open. An icy draft prickled his skin as a dark hooded figure crossed the threshold. Simon's stomach dropped. Moghedrin. He reached for his sword, but all the strength fled from him then. He could not even draw the blade from his scabbard. 

The distraught father looked on helplessly as the necromancer made a 'come hither' motion with his hand, and Perez slowly rosed and walked down the center of the hall. Tears filled his eyes and the necromancer cackled, turning to leave with a hand on his son's shoulder. A wolf howled outside as Simon fell to his knees. Tilting his head back, he let out a cry of anguish. All had been lost.

The cry turned to a yelp of pain as Simon was jarred from his slumber. The driver had shaken his hurt shoulder, making Simon wince and recoil as hot tendrils ran down his arm. For a moment Simon sat wide-eyed and gasping, not knowing where he was. Eventually realization dawned on him, and the dread of his nightmare slowly began to fade. He looked back at his wounded squire, not knowing whether to thank him for saving Simon from his nightmare or to cuff him for causing him so much pain. Every pebble the wagon went over sent a spike of agony through his shoulder. "What do you want, Olvar?"

Simon sighed at the question. "I decided to tame the beast. We fought nearly to the death. In the end I had to use silver to subdue you. That is why you are burned so." He winced as the wagon went over another bump. "In the end the wolf submitted, and cowered before me. I believe I was able to assert dominance over your wolf form, as you have asserted dominance over your warg. I found a queer warhorn in the tower, and when I blew it you seemed to respond. I believe the beast you become can be trained, used for good. We will find out on the next new moon. Until then, we must rest and heal. You never know when the next bandit attack will strike. Drink plenty of water, sleep, and disturb me no more. My shoulder is killing me. I need time to heal."

With that, Simon turned back ahead. With his good hand he uncorked a wineskin and quaffed eagerly, as much to drown the memory of his dream as to dull the pain. Eventually, after the skin was emptied, sleep came again. This time he was blessed to have no dreams. 

Author: BadMoonRising, Posted: Mon Jan 29, 2018 7:51 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

The wolf watched with clear suspicion as Simon moved about the tower, looting through any chest or box he found amongst the dust. When the man moved upstairs, the lupundra turned his attention to potential escape. He tested the door again, but with an open wound on his side, he could do little more than scratch at his with his claws. It held fast, but a shadow appeared at the thin gap beneath it, followed by the snuffling of a big nose. He bent to sniff back. A warg, somehow familiar, though he couldn’t place how. The creature outside whined, and there was the sound of a bulky body settling onto the ground.

Footsteps descending the stairs stole his attention again, and he turned from the door with a growl to put himself opposite the staircase. As Simon continued down into the cellar, the wolf stepped forward to peer curiously into the darkness, until the knight started out of the cold chamber and back to the main floor anyway. At that point he once again retreated with a warning growl, sitting with his back to the stone wall as he and the noble watched each other.

After what felt like an eternity of sitting and staring, the man stood once more, and flattened ears twitched nervously. The beast watched with narrowed eyes as Simon pulled out what looked like some sort of horn, then blew a sharp note. Sharp ears cupped forward curiously, then threatened to fall back again at the call. A small growl was his response to the gesture in his direction. He remained fixed to his spot, enduring the noise the knight seemed intent on creating.

When dawn grew near the wolf’s head turned suddenly to the east, as if even through the stone walls he could sense the light on the horizon. He was only half interested as Simon climbed out of the tower, more preoccupied with the change he knew was coming. Once alone, the lupundra left the wall with a growl, pacing unhappily back and forth until the instant the sun peeked at the blooming sky.

The reaction was immediate. A long whine, and the beast’s pace faltered. The transformation from wolf to human was equally painful to the opposite shift, the open wound on his side only aggravating it further. The injury smeared more blood onto the cold floor, and accompanied with the gashes his claws made during his writhing, made for a rather macabre scene. Where before a scream had become a howl, a howl now became a scream.

Olvar lay still for several minutes, breathing heavily and oozing blood from the puncture beneath his ribcage. His head was pounding in time with the throbbing wound, and it took him some time to regain his composure before he was able to sit up and glance about the room. They had made one hell of a mess. Hazel eyes swept the room for his gear, and while his armor was far too much for him to bear right now, he was able to drag himself over to pull on his trousers and tunic. He reached for one of his blades out of habit, but the steel weighed his hand to the floor.

Giving up on the fruitless venture, he instead allowed himself to collapse back in exhaustion. The shifter called weakly to Simon to inform him that the change was over, but he wasn’t sure if his mentor heard him or not before he faded out.

When next his eyes opened, he felt course fur beneath him, and a gentle rock from side to side. It took him a few seconds to recognize the warg beneath him. He scratched weakly at the beast’s shoulder, then closed his eyes again.

The young man didn’t wake again until the had made it back to the caravan. His weary gaze found first a wooden wall in front of him, and his brow furrowed. Other senses provided the sounds of idle chatter, the creaking of wheels, the smell of horse. Simon had gotten them back after all. Olvar shifted an arm beneath him in an attempt to sit up, but instantly bit back a cry of pain. Only then did the throbbing in his side resume, as if it had been resting along with him. Ginger fingers pulled his tunic out of the way, and he winced at the wound. Someone had wrapped it, but the bandaging had been bled through enough to see precisely where the puncture had occured. “What madness did I do last night?” he questioned quietly. Even the palms of his hands were somewhat tender, as if he’d gotten too close to a fire.

Searching behind the wagon revealed only more caravan, and his warg following alongside. “Ojuk,” he called softly, and the beast perked up. Where the name came from he hadn’t the foggiest idea, but it seemed to belong to his newly-acquired mount. “Ojuk,” he mumbled again, then strained to look over his shoulder. He could only just see a familiar figure, slumped beside the driver and sleeping hard. Simon must be truly exhausted to sleep while on the move. It would be rude to disturb him, but Olvar had to know what had happened to get him injured so badly–in a way that only silver could manage.

“Simon,” he called, still too sore to get up and wake the man himself. “Simon, get up!” The driver noticed his stubborn intent, and roused the knight with a wrinkled hand on his shoulder. He pointed back to the squire, then returned to his task of keeping the horses in proper step. Once the shifter had gotten his mentor’s attention, he lowered his voice to keep unwanted ears from eavesdropping. “What happened last night? Why am I burned and injured like this?” he asked, indicating the puncture wound, and the redness on his palms.

Author: ardenator2000, Posted: Mon Jan 29, 2018 12:14 AM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

Simon watched with intense curiosity as the wolf backed away from him. Ears low and lips drawn back, the animal was acting uncharacteristically skittish. When Simon approached it fled, tail tucked between its legs. Simon sighed in relief as it pressed itself against the door. Finally, he thought. The wolf had submitted. Though now he wasn't sure how to proceed. The wolf clearly wanted to be nowhere near him, and Simon wasn't exactly sure he could communicate with it, much less train the beast. For now let him lick his wounds. There will be other new moons. 

The Knight concerned himself with the tower instead. He had found this strange and wondrous shield here, perhaps there was more yet to be found. Simon spent much of the rest of the evening searching the towerhouse for valuables. From top floor to cellar he scoured, finding silver, tools, raw materials, and various other knickknacks. In the cellar he stumbled upon a false wall, and opened it into a small chamber with a strange altar on one side. Upon the altar he found a dagger-shaped crystal pendant, a wicked-looking warhorn, and a faded spellbook. He could make out one incantation and its description. Lead me to my darkest desire… he read. Could it be used to find Raphael? Simon put it in his pack for later, along with the other items. 

Late in the night he gathered his loot on the first floor and sat there watching the defeated werewolf. Suddenly an idea came to him. Picking up the warhorn, he stood up and faced the beast. Putting his lips to it, he trumpeted a short blast to get his attention. "Wolvar!" he called, gesturing toward the wolf. "Come! To me! To me!" he said, gesturing toward himself. He continued like that until dawn, attempting to associate the horn with his name and to teach him that first command. 

At daybreak he climbed back out of the tower the way he came, as much to avoid watching Olvar's painful transition back to human form as to get back to camp. He carried Olvar and their gear out, and was relieved to find Olvar's warg waiting outside. He set his wounded squire on it and trudged back beside them.

Steelshanks eyed them up and down when they arrived. "You call that training? Looks like you damn near killed the lad." 

"Bleed in training, so you don't bleed in the field. Besides, he got his in as well." Simon winced, favoring his shield arm. Breaking down their tent and packing up one-armed was extremely difficult, but in the end he managed to do it. Almost as soon as he jumped onto their wagon he was asleep, so exhausted was he from the night before. Luckily his driver had the grace to let him rest. New moons were always rough with Olvar, but it was going to take a while to recover from this one. 

Author: BadMoonRising, Posted: Sun Jan 28, 2018 10:53 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

The bite of the sword combined with the burn of the silver shield was simply too much. The wolf’s assault turned immediately into regret as he rapidly withdrew, putting as much distance as possible between he and the fallen knight. There was a brief moment in which he consider racing back in and attempting to grab the man by the head, but hesitation lost him the chance.

Switching from one front paw to the next to allow relief from the burns, he watched with flattened ears as the man stood and lifted his weapon. The lupundra’s teeth were bared instantly, but this time his lips were drawn back rather than pulled forward. The shouting was met with a low growl The wolf turned his head away, but kept his eyes on Simon, resulting in a flash of white around his wide eyes. Fear was an odd sensation for him, and not one that he was taking kindly to. But with his side still throbbing, and the newest sword injury taking its time to heal, he was in no position to jump back into a fight.

Slinking along the wall, the injured beast moved to lean against the nearest escape, in this case the door. Any approach sent him scampering to the opposite side of the tower, tail tucked and a growl thrown over his shoulder lest the man do more harm. Simon had done the impossible. The lupundra was no longer the alpha.

Author: ardenator2000, Posted: Sun Jan 28, 2018 10:36 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

Simon's blood curdled as the wolf scream, worried that he might have permanently injured his squire. The beast leaped back and eyed Simon warily. He watched the cut from his broadsword mend, but noticed that the wound from the shield strike did not. The wound seemed to have left to wolf unfazed, as it charged in again undeterred. Simon braced for impact with his shield before him, but the impact never came. Looking up, he noticed the wolf on the stairs an instant before it took to the air. 

A fresh Simon might have dodged one way or another. With the way his head swam it was all he could do to fall back onto his butt, holding shield and sword out before him as he braced himself against the ground. The wolf landed hard, the sword plunging into its flesh until it impacted the silver shield. "Oof!" The air rushed from Simon's lungs as he bore the full weight of a falling werewolf. Luckily the beast was off him in an instant, reeling back in agony. 

Simon fought his way to his feet and regarded the wolf coldly. It's time to end this. Lifting the broadsword, he pointed it at the wolf. "WOLVAR! NO! BAD WOLF! STAY!"

Author: BadMoonRising, Posted: Sun Jan 28, 2018 10:03 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

The wolf was shaking his head sluggishly, stumbling to one side or the other each time. His vision was drifting lazily from left to right, and he was having difficulty pinning it down again. A paw swiping over his eyes did little to aid him. He stood stiffly a moment, staring at the floor and panting lightly. In that moment, he could feel cracked bone mending, sealing the seams and strengthening the breaks. As he healed, his vision began to clear, and he let out a sigh of relief before remembering why he’d fallen in the first place.

The weight shifted forward on his toes, prepared to whip around and face Simon again. Before he could manage, an enormous pain speared into his side like lightning, piercing just behind his ribcage with ease. The wolf screamed, a horrid, bubbling shriek that would rattle most men to the core. Cold claws scraped at the floor as he scrambled sideways, trying to escape the upward swipe before the sword followed through, earning another yelp on top of the original cry. Once clear of the assault, the lupundra retreated to the far side of the room, steam rising from the wound as blood sizzled where silver had stung him.

Despite being injured in a way that would take days to fully heal, the beast had a bit more fight left in him. Golden eyes watched Simon’s every move, pupils constricted to hard black points. There was hesitation in his movements as he circled around the tower’s interior, unsure of whether or not another attack was worth the risk.

Finally, a decision was made.

In one last rush, the lupundra took off. He made straight for Simon, dancing out of the way just in time to avoid any other swipes from the shield. One good leap put him a short distance up the staircase, hackles rising as he turned to use the stairs as a launch platform. Adrenaline pulsed through his body, mixing into his blood and making the perfect cocktail for one last rampaging attack. The wolf lunged downward at the knight. His aim was to use his weight and his power to bring the man down and keep him there. If he planned properly, the only thing he would need after the take down would be a well-placed bite, perhaps to the belly, or preferably the throat. Then the noble would finally be out of his way, For good.

Author: ardenator2000, Posted: Sun Jan 28, 2018 9:27 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

And the tide turns, he thought with elation as the wolf recoiled in pain from his shield. It really was silver! He continued his onslaught unabated, not wanting to give the wolf any chance to recover. Step by difficult step it retreated, until it stood on the very edge of the landing. The beast lashed out and pulled Simon closer, and the Knight pressed the attack all the harder. Finally the wolf was driven back onto the stair, but as soon as it stepped down the stone gave out and the beast nearly slipped off the edge. Simon yowled as it dug its claws into one leg, tearing his woolen breeches. He made to cut at the wolf's arm, but suddenly they were falling.

Damn, I've done it now, he thought, as the wolf's jaws and the stone floor opened up to meet him. This is it. Right as the beast's jaws were about to close on his head there was a sudden impact. The wolf suddenly stopped, and Simon crashed into him shield-first so hard that he bounced off and tumbled a few feet away. Simon came to in a daze, breathless as stars swam in his vision once more. He scrambled onto hands and knee. Pain shot up his shield arm. The shoulder jumped its socket, he observed distantly. Scrambling in the sea of stars, his sword hand finally found his blade. The Knight managed to cut himself on the blade before he finally grasped the hilt. Wincing, he stood to his feet. Finally his vision cleared, and he sighted the Wolf walking by. It paid him no mind - apparently the fall had been as hard on him as it had been on Simon. This was his chance. Taking a few deep breaths, Simon willed himself to relax before suddenly throwing his left side forward. He cried out in pain as the shoulder reset. 

Tender, but I can still fight. The wolf seemed to be regaining his senses, it was now or never. Rushing in, Simon let out a scream that straddled the border between a war cry and a cry of agony as he punched with his shield arm. Unlike most kite shields this shield's grip was vertical, with his fist pointing up. That allowed him to still cover his body and bash using the shoulder, but he could also punch with the shield edge-on. The top even tapered into something of a point. Let's see how he takes silver with penetration, he thought as he struck, his sword already arcing up from the ground in a follow-up cut.

Author: BadMoonRising, Posted: Sun Jan 28, 2018 8:40 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

The instant his jaws locked around something solid, the wolf wrenched back and swung his head powerfully from side to side. Had a limb been caught instead of the shield it surely would have snapped, if any bones remained uncrushed after the initial crunch. His attack was relentless, and even when greeted with wooden splinters rather than blood splatters, only the bite of a blade broke his focus.

Golden eyes fixated on the fleeing figure, and the shield was promptly abandoned in favor of a heated pursuit. The instinctive drive to chase was like a catalyst for his anger, and the wolf went bounding up the stairs.

This was a man that the wolf remembered all too clearly. Over a year ago he had been free, raiding the countryside of his homeland and taking what he pleased. On that fateful night in the vineyards, with the Dead Sky overhead, a noble party of hunters had gathered to put an end to his reign. For too long he had haunted their vineyards and fields, and when it came right down to it, he had paid for his lazy complacency. After a chase that bounced between his or the hunters’ lead, he was finally injured to the point of retreat, but not before taking a few lives from the nobles’ party, the knight’s squire included. His freedom had been gone from the moment he returned to his weaker, human form.

Now was his chance to make the knight pay for what he’d done, one way or another.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, the hulking creature paused. His lips were pulled forward on his muzzle, forming a “C” shape as he bared his teeth. The lupundra leaned forward, ears swiveled toward the human as he slowly drew a rear paw one step higher, allowing him to stand at his full bipedal height. Every muscle practically quivered with tension. Hard eyes, shining like a dragon’s hoard, were fixed icily on his quarry. For a moment, everything suddenly went silent.

It ended just as quickly.

The noble let out a battle cry, and the wolf met it with a feral bellow. Both lunged forward, colliding harshly with teeth and claws scraping along a screaming metal shield. As soon as the pure silver found flesh, the wolf reeled back in alarm, baying like a wounded hound. It seared his skin like fire, and paired with cut after cut from a swinging sword it was enough to drive him back a step. Then another. Then another. Each time, he grew closer and closer to the stairs leading back down to the main floor of the tower. Several times the beast tried to duck in past the knight’s defense, but each effort was only met with the burn of silver, followed by a slash from the eager blade. The cuts were of little concern–they stitched themselves back up only a few moments after the injury occured. But they certainly hurt.

When one paw slipped down onto the first step, the lupundra let out a vicious snarl, hateful and raw. Enduring the burn, he threw out a claw and caught the edge of the shield, wrenching it–and Simon–closer to him. As he did so, the blade caught his other arm, and he retreated back another step. The old tower finally showed its age. Crumbling under the weight of a struggling wolf beast, the edge of the stair gave way. The lupundra dipped sharply to one side, releasing the shield in favor of seeking a hold as his other foot followed suit. Apart from cold stone, all he found was the human he battled. One set of claws scraped furrows into the step, the other found purchase in the knight’s leg.

He dangled off the edge of the stairway for what felt like minutes. Likely it was only seconds before his weight dragged him toward the ground, and the cursed beast dragged his opponent down with him. Even as he fell, his first focus was on Simon. A maw packed with crushing teeth stretched wide, the wolf dragging his prey closer with the hold he’d kept on one leg.

Unfortunately for the creature, they fell faster than he was able to bite. He hit hard, the impact cracking the floor and snapping his jaws together before he could get them around Simon. His iron grip loosened as he lay dazed, oblivious to the fact that he had broken his enemy’s fall. Speckles of light swam in front of his eyes. Reaching to one side, he searched for something solid to grab. Only the undamaged section of smooth flooring was to be found. With a rumbling groan, the monster rolled over, shaking out his fur once he’d recovered enough balance to do so. He stumbled past the knight, too busy trying to see straight to bother with the human noble.

Author: ardenator2000, Posted: Sun Jan 28, 2018 7:14 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

Everything after his jump was a blur of fur and pain. The wolf ran headlong into the door, then reared. Simon pitched forward and back, to the side… Claws scrabbled against his shoulder pauldron as he clung on for dear life. Grasping fistfuls of fur in his clenched hands, Simon held on tight as the wolf tried to fling him forward. So forceful was the wolf that Simon flipped forward, spurs slamming down on the wolf's face. He lost one of his grips as the wolf spun to the side, and nearly fell off the beast right there. The grizzled knight managed to regain his seat before being slammed bodily into the stone wall. Simon air left him with a grunt, stars swimming in his eyes. He felt the second blow less sharply, dazed as he was. In fact, it roused him from his momentary reverie. 

Suddenly aware, Simon saw the next move coming and hunkered down further: clenching with his knees as well as his hands this time. He held fast as the wolf ground him into the wall. The rough-hewn stone, though weathered, had no problem tearing his clothes and rubbing raw the flesh underneath. Simon screamed as the wolf drug him around the circumference of the holdfast. The pain was so great that when the wolf flipped over and slammed him onto the floor he lost his grip completely. In a haze of pain the Knight rolled back to his knees, lifting his shield just in time to block the wolf's grab. Its jaws clasped the shield, the wolf backing up and whipping its head to and fro once it had a grip. Simon might as well have been a rag doll in the wolf's jaws. Damn, he cursed as the shield was ripped from his grasp. He swiped at the wolf with his sword and he turned and bolted for the stair. Up and up he ran, until he made it to the Lord's chambers on the top floor. Above the mantle were two crossed swords below a silver shield accented with blue tourmaline. Silver. He hoped against hope that it wasn't just painted. 

The Knight rushed forward, leaping and lifting the shield off its hook in one smooth motion. He was able to bring it to bear just in the time to face the wolf as it barreled up the steps in his wake. Simon almost took a swing with his sword, then hesitated. The sword's not silvered, so it can't kill him, he thought. Suddenly realization dawned on him. I can't kill him. That means I can go as hard as I want on him. I can cut him to ribbons, and he'll heal presently. A feral smile grew on his face at the thought. With a battle cry he stepped into the beast, bashing hard with the shield again and following up with a series of cuts from multiple angles. On and on he came: stepping, bashing, and cutting in a bid to drive the wolf back down the stairs. Let's see what you've got, Wolvar. Simon chuckled at the name as he hacked and slashed. Olvar was going to love that one in the morning. 

Author: BadMoonRising, Posted: Sun Jan 28, 2018 5:37 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

The wolf was hurtling toward the door, prepared to throw his weight into the time-hardened wood and break through. His attempt, however, was interrupted. A cry from above barely had time to register in his mind before a heavy weight dropped onto his back. Claws as strong as stone bit into the tower floor, but momentum carried him forward, running him headfirst into the door. The beast bellowed in anger, rearing back onto his hind legs. His head whipped back and forth, pain throbbing across his abused muzzle. In his mad thrashing, he caught a familiar scent, and the fury in his belly blazed hotter than ever.

“Nebros hemnomilé!” he roared, reaching behind his head and attempting to snag the human knight. His claws clicked over what sounded like metal, but he couldn’t stretch far enough to catch the man himself. With his first idea proving futile, he suddenly swung forward and ducked his head to throw the noble. The motion was immediately followed by a quick spin to the right. He could feel the human’s fingers worming into his fur, clinging to him like an especially stubborn thistle. “Broska!”

The lupundra once again abandoned his current track, instead breaking into a sprint and dashing across the tower floor, straight for the wall. He reared back and turned at the last second, slamming his back against the hard stone. The instant his paws found purchase again he repeated the assault on the opposite wall, dust floating down after the impact. “Rokom!”

His breath was ragged, but it was not fatigue that caused the roughness, but anger. It fueled the beast, urging him on like the whip of a relentless master. Rage sent him tearing across the tower again, this time following the curve of the walls once he reached the other side. As he ran, his powerful shoulders shifted to the outside of his turn, and he attempted to scrape the nuisance off like filth from a boot. After nearly a full lap of such abuse, the wolf abruptly flipped over, slamming Simon down between the floor and his own bulk. Upon rising, the wolf whipped around with intent to grab anything he had knocked off.

Author: ardenator2000, Posted: Sun Jan 28, 2018 3:28 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

The knight trudged on toward the towerhouse, suddenly feeling old. He had barely seen more than thirty winters, yet he felt twice that age in that moment. This is going to be a long night. He opened the thick, heavy door of oak and iron before Olvar, and shut it behind him. It screeched on its old hinges as it shut in the werewolf for his night of torment. Simon dropped a heavy wooden beam across the door to bar it, then stepped back to survey his handiwork. "That should hold him." 

As darkness gather he could hear Olvar begin to grunt and whimper within. His change is upon him, he observed, time to move. The Knight hustled around to the other side of the tower, reached into the grooves between stones, and began to climb. He'd had a queer idea in the last few days, an idea had after observing Olvar with his captured warg. The boy outright growled at it sometimes, and rode it now too. The beast always backed off, acquiesced. Olvar had established dominance over it. It reminded Simon of a time long ago, when Olvar was particularly insolent while transitioning from prisoner to squire. The white knight had come to the end of his wits with the lad, and in a fury one evening pulled him into the boxing ring and forced him to put on the gloves. He'd beaten the tar out of the boy that night, and afterward he started to listen and obey, though he remained frustratingly sardonic. Simon had had to establish dominance over Olvar to get him to obey, just like Olvar had done with his warg. Could the same apply to his wolf form? Simon had to test his hypothesis. 

So he climbed up to the ruined roof of the towerhouse, wedging himself through a gap created by a fallen stone and dropping to the rafters within. The lad was late in the transformation now: his scream turning into a howl as he settled into his wolf form. Simon watched the wolf get up and inspect his surroundings. This is a bad idea. How do you even tame a wolf? he wondered as he watched it launch itself at the door. Well, I could start breaking him in just like a horse, the Knight supposed as he timed the wolf's gait on the second attempt. Now it backed up clear to the opposite wall of the keep. Here goes nothing, he thought as he stepped off the wooden beam.

"MONTEFORT!!!" he cried out of habit as he plunged onto the massive wolf's back. His hands scrabbled through fur, gripping and holding on for dear life. This is going to be one wild ride.

Author: BadMoonRising, Posted: Fri Jan 26, 2018 8:47 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

The smug shifter replied with a simple shrug. “His pack left him.” The warg’s beady eyes went from Olvar to Simon, then back. A reassuring pat on course fur reassured the beast. He wouldn’t be chased off if his new alpha had anything to say about it.

When the knight winced, his squire did little more than raise a brow. He’d seen his mentor in far worse shape, and before his eyes came the magic that had been called upon for every such injury. A pale flicker of light, and the wound was gone, like the enemy hadn’t even landed the hit in the first place. Olvar had a trick of his own, though his was more of a passive perk. With his curse came a healing ability unmatched outside of magical users. Already his nicks and bruises were repairing themselves, leaving little more than red stains on his garb.

With no healing to offer others, he went ahead and began scavenging from the dead. Any coins were instantly stashed away by a thief’s quick hand, gloved in leather to protect him from silver’s natural burn against his skin. The caravan knew nothing of his “condition”. Flinching back from coin purses as if burned by a candle may arouse suspicions however, for his mental stability if not his other half. Much of the rest was ignored though. Daggers were tossed aside, for he had his seax knife. Longer blades were brushed over, for he had his shortsword. Armor was rejected, for in his mind he had an excellent combination of speed and defense with his specially-made suit.

As the sun kissed the horizon, Olvar settled down to warm himself by the fire. Simon beside him was speaking at length about the battle with the rugged guardsman who had assigned them to wagon three, and he listened with an aloof pride as their victories over enemies were recalled. So he and Simon had led the battle in terms of numbers. It was an empowering feeling, but a shadow of shame led to embarrassment on his part. If he hadn’t frozen at the start, he was sure he could have matched Simon’s count, if not surpassed it. He leaned his back against the warg stretched behind him, a bare hand finding comfort in the warm fur.

The more he listened, the more his early freeze bothered him. He was sure he could have done better. Enough to prove himself as a true force in battle. Apparently that was not him, but his mentor. His surprise at Simon’s new command was betrayed by a widening of his eyes, but the young man was quick to divert his gaze to the firelight, flickers of green dancing across hazel. Olvar’s jaw tightened, fingers worrying at the knuckles of one of the warg’s toes. The beast huffed, tucking the paw safely beneath it and away from bothering.

Only when spoken to did his attention return to the noble beside him. Once he’d been slapped back to reality by Simon, he had enjoyed the battle, but now he was mostly annoyed at requiring such a check. As always, the knight seemed to read his mind. Olvar sighed, gaze dropping again. “I don’t know,” he began. “It was like I’d stepped out of myself, and was watching from someone else’s eyes. Sort of like when I’m… you know.” He dared not say it aloud. Anyone could be listening. “I knew what was happening around me–everything. I just couldn’t do anything about it. It was just like my first time going to battle.”

After recalling the rest of his experience to Simon, he finished the last of his ration and gave the scraps to the warg. He would have to name him soon. The beast remained with him as he slept, or attempted to anyway. He was restless, tossing and turning despite the immense weight on his eyelids. Sleep was always difficult in the week leading up to a shift. It was something he had been keeping track of, and likely an event also monitored by his mentor. What they would do being with the caravan he could only imagine, but part of him was alight with excitement. Nothing he had ever experienced could match the raw freedom he was able to feel on the night of the new moon. Did that make him a monster? Perhaps. Was he concerned? Monsters never are.

After another length of rest was interrupted by the commotion of Simon taking his shift as watchman, Olvar was finally able to find slumber. He clung to it well into the morning, and for once was not made to rise with the sun. The extra time was well appreciated, and when it came time to move on, he did so, almost contently, from the back of a warg.

A few days passed, and with each night the sliver of moon narrowed further. When called to follow, Olvar knew there was a plan in place to keep him away from the caravan, likely avoiding suspicion with a clever lie from his deceptively stealthy mentor. He traveled with Simon, insisting on taking his mount along. He would be exhausted tomorrow anyway. Having to walk all the way back would be hell.

Upon arriving at the chosen location of the knight’s makeshift cage, the younger man eyed the tower with a frown. Solid walls of vacant stone. Small windows. Olvar barely suppressed a scowl. He said nothing to Simon, only dismounted to examine the structure more closely. Being locked in had ruined almost every new moon he had endured under Simon’s watch. Once or twice he had escaped confinement, but never with much time left in the night, and he was left to go through the agonizing transformations with nothing to show for them.

As the evening wore thin, the lycan looked to the darkening sky, shy stars peering down at him. He looked not at Simon before starting toward the tower. Heavy paws began to follow, but he turned with a growl, the sound just ragged enough to teeter on the border of human. The warg stopped, one ear swiveling backward before he sat with a low whine.

Olvar entered slowly, nudging the door closed behind him with confidence that Simon would bar it from the outside. He took a slow breath to steady his skipping heart, then began stripping the armor from his body. By the time he finished, the sun had given way to darkness, and the blackened moon was clawing upwards into the endless expanse overhead.

It began with a pain that could only be likened to a stab in the gut with a hot knife. Sudden and unexpected, burning like hot coals. The man doubled over, the heat dragging him down to his knees where the cold stone sent shocks through his legs, up his spine. It crept through his bones, leaving sharp clusters like footprints in its wake. A violent shiver shook him to the core as bone scraped against bone, joints stretching and reforming. Muscle and fur was pulled over a writhing skeleton, twitching and trembling with every movement. It began at his toes, working its way up his body as bones reformed themselves to the proper shape and position just moments before. By the time the transformation reached his head, whimpers burst forth as a ragged scream. Even as it split the air, the sound warped into something more primal, like the cry of an animal being gutted alive.

Outside, the warg had disappeared into the trees, concerned for the leader he could hear, but not see, or perhaps spooked by whatever had awoken inside the tower. Either way, the night had fallen eerily silent from the previous cacophony of agony.

The wolf could hear a rhythmic pounding in his ears, rapid and panicked, like the hooves of a startled deer. He rumbled quietly. The pounding steadied. Golden eyes pierced the darkness, making out the faint shapes of a door… windows overhead. Too high to reach. On all fours he approached the only clear exit, pushing against it testingly. It held fast, and in that instant his temper flared.

With a hateful snarl, the lupundra threw his weight against the blockade, making dust float down from above. He retreated several steps for a running start and attempted the same thing, again catching only a haze from the aged tower. A beastly bellow erupted from the beast’s maw as he whipped around, now charging into the darkness. Upon finding the opposite wall he pushed off, barreling toward the barricade keeping him in. He had to escape. Had to run. Whoever ever had put him in here, trapped him in here, he would kill them. He would kill them!

Author: ardenator2000, Posted: Thu Jan 25, 2018 10:35 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

Simon looked up at Olvar, and frowned at the warg beside him. "That's not what I meant when I said to retrieve a mount from the battlefield."  The knight shook his head. He should have expected as much from a wolfman.

Suddenly he cringed as pain shot up his arm. Now that his blood was down, he was feeling every nick. Looking down, he saw blood running from his upper arm. He placed his other hand on the wound and began to murmur in the tongue of his homeland. A green light glowed underneath his hand, and when he removed it the cut was gone. Once he was hale Simon moved through the caravan, helping to heal the injured where he found them. It was only after he was sure that everyone was tended to that he went about scavenging from the corpses of those he had dispatched, and of a few fallen allies as well. Their equipment was not in good condition for the most part, but he found a fair amount of silver and some sturdy spiked leather shoulder pauldrons, along with a few other odds and ends. Once the looting was finished they set about tending to the dead. The plainsmen they heaped into one great pile and set alight, their smoke rising up in a thick black column. No doubt their tribesmen could see, wherever they were licking their wounds. As for the caravan men, they set about digging graves and giving them a proper burial. When finally the words were all said and the holes all filled, the sun was so low in the sky that the Captain determined they would break camp right there on the battle site. 

By sunset Simon was sitting by a campfire, watching the spit turn, meat sizzling and crackling. Tonight they would feast upon the fallen horses and wargs. The captain even determined that they would have thrice their daily ration of ale. Mean were drinking, eating, and laughing. Someone brought out a lute, and another a pipe. Soon half the camp was singing merrily. Simon smiled. "There's nothing like a little revelry after a hard-won fight." The warm meat in his belly did much for his mood, as did the music.

Around the campfire men began telling stories of their heroics in the battle. Swapping tales about the men they'd killed. Eventually, Steelshanks turned to Simon. "How many did you do for?" he asked. Simon thought a moment. "Thirteen, Sergeant. My squire saw to at least seven more." The grizzled guardsman whistled. 

"A score between you. I'll be damned. That's far and away the most of anyone. a couple of the archers came close to your squire's count, but none surpassed him. Perhaps you are a Knight after all."

"I'm glad we could prove our worth," Simon said with a smile, inclining his head and raising a cup.

Walton drank with him. "Aye, more than proved it. That was a clever tactic, taking out their archers while their horses were busy with the caravan. That brought us welcome relief, and a moment to prepare for the warg attack. If not for that, things might have gone the other way."

Simon nodded. "I saw the opening, and did not hesitate. I've seen what archers can do in the field." Visions of battlefields littered with feathered corpses danced in his head.

The Sergeant smiled. "Exactly. You have experience. A good head for battle, and the initiative to make a bold move without being told. That's why I'm giving you command of the unmounted guardsmen."

The Count's eyes widened. "Thank you sir, that is an honor," he replied, inclining his head once more, "I shall do my best to protect the goods, and keep them alive."

"I believe it. Rest well, Ser, you have the last watch." Steelshanks rose, and left Simon and Olvar to their corner of the fire.

"You did well," Simon said, turning to Olvar, "I'm not happy about you bringing a warg into our camp, but I'm proud of you all the same. How do you feel? Why do you think you froze up again out there?"

After he'd had his rations of ale the fatigue hit him, and it was all Simon could do to stumble into his tent before sleep took him. It was a deep slumber, heavy and oppressive, and filled with the cries of men and the clash of steel. The sentry had to slap him in order to wake him for his watch. He wandered the battlefield in the moonlight, avoiding the darker blots of bloodstained ground. Images from the battle came again, the faces of the men he killed, their cries as they died… Simon grimaced as he relived it all. They blended with memories of other battles across the years. He sighed as he thought about the dozens, maybe hundreds, that he had killed in his lifetime. How can I be good, when I have spilled so much blood? A sudden sadness came over him. How did I survive yet again? He saw the faces of the comrades he'd buried today. Killing was tough on a man, but he became used to it over time. For a warrior like Simon, it almost came second-nature. But losing brothers-in-arms, that was never easy. The men he served with now he'd only known about a month, but he'd grown fond of many of them nonetheless. It hurt to see them go. It also made him feel guilty, to have come out relatively unscathed, when so many had lost their lives or had been seriously injured in the fight. That had been happening for years now, and Simon still did not understand. There must be some reason. Some purpose the gods have assigned me.

The weary warrior looked up to the unfamiliar stars, lost for a moment in their beauty. His nose drank in the cool night air, savoring its sweet taste. He was glad to be alive. Somehow, that made him guilty all the more. Simon wondered if Raphael was out there somewhere, gazing up at this firmament. Gods protect you, son, I will find you. The crescent moon drew his eye. It is waning, soon the new moon will be upon us. And with that Olvar's change. The lad would be even more onery than usual: Simon would have to get him away from the caravan on that night.

Normally Simon would wake Olvar up early, so that they could train for a couple hours before it was time to break down camp. This morning he allowed Olvar to rest. Instead he paid a visit to Steelshanks. "Sergeant, I wanted to let you know that my squire and I will spend the night of the new moon away from camp. It is something of a tradition for us. We… practice unconventional combat, in total darkness."

The veteran regarded Simon a moment, then nodded. "I understand, you mustneeds train your squire. It is smart for him to learn to fight in total darkness. Truth be told I would ask you to bring along some of the men, if we hadn't taken so many losses yesterday."

Relief washed over Simon. For a moment he feared that the Sergeant would ask him to train others as well. 

A few days later Simon led Olvar away after they made camp, to a ruined old towerhouse they had passed by a couple hours before. "This is where we'll weather the night," Simon announced when they arrived. "We'll lock you in so you can't make a mess of things out here. I'll stand guard."

The sun was near the horizon then, the sky beginning to shine in hues of purple and orange. "Not much time now," he advised his squire, "best be quick about it lad." A pit grew in the veteran Knight's stomach. This was going to be an interesting night.

Author: BadMoonRising, Posted: Wed Jan 24, 2018 9:10 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

As the wave of wargs came barrelling down the hillside, Olvar couldn’t help but stare a moment. He’d never seen a warg before, only heard murmurings from towns after they were attacked by a beast in the night. Only ever speculations, of course. It was usually some sort of ghoul, or even a werewolf–sometimes Olvar himself. But that didn’t stop the name of the charging creatures from coming up. Now those creatures were coming up the rise of the hill toward him.

After a heartbeat too long of a pause, he turned to race after his mentor. Lighter armor meant he ran faster, but Simon had a head start, and the plainsmen were gaining rapidly. He dared not glance behind him for fear of seeing an open maw reaching for him, but he could hear the drop of heavy paws against the earth like an avalanche of stone rather than a stampede. It was growing ever closer, and the shifter realized in that moment that he wouldn’t make it to the shield line. He needed closer cover. His eyes scanned the approaching field, littered with fallen bodies of plainsmen and guard alike, and caught on the corpse of a dead horse. Hardly a shield wall, but better than nothing.

Olvar dove forward, arms thrown in front of him. He hit the ground hard on the far side of the horse’s middle, then pressed back against the still-warm body. Only a second later a warg sailed overhead, moving too quickly to stop and check every nook and cranny of the battlefield. The hidden lycan flipped his seax knife in his hand to brace it, then held the blade high. It caught the next warg in the chest, then dragged down its belly. The saddle cinch was sliced in the process, and the rider fell from his mount as it dropped only a few feet in front of Olvar. He’d counted only two rows of the beastly canines, and so checked over the edge of his cover before hurriedly standing and readying himself for battle once more.

The rider he’d dropped was only just recovering from the shock of the fall when a shortsword bit into the side of his neck, and he returned to the dirt, this time without chance of rising. Olvar hurriedly dispatched the injured warg as well, then went to provide support by picking off any stragglers. The majority of the battle was taking place on the shield wall, and with no way to safely get to the other side, the lycan kept his distance.

With every lone plainsman he put down, two more at the line seemed to fall. The caravan guard was making excellent progress in the battle, and it was clear. He wasn’t sure how many more losses the bandits would allow themselves to take, That moment, they called a retreat, and he saw a warg rear back to break from the line. Its rider was thrown, then promptly trampled as the beast turned and ran, shaking its head frantically from side to side. Olvar tried to rush out of the way, but the creature was acting as if its sight was gone, and it veered oddly to the same side. Upon impact, the lycan slammed the hilt of his sword down on the warg’s head, earning a yelp.

The stunned creature jerked to the left, tripping in the process. As Olvar scrambled back to his feet, the massive canine whipped back around with a snarl, oblivious to its packmates as they headed for the hills behind it. The thing looked as if it had caught a blade across its face, its own blood oozing into its eyes and rendering it nearly blinded. Gloved hands tightened around the hilts of blades stained with crimson, but the fighter held himself back. The huge canine was sniffing madly to accommodate the loss of vision, and seemed unsure about the wolven scent it was picking up. Pointed ears, small compared to the rest of the beast, flicked back, then forward again, unsure.

Olvar swallowed thickly, slowly kneeling to set his blades down on the ground. He hesitated a breath, then decided to keep his scramasax just in case. Leaving his shortsword at his feet, he watched as the warg blinked and rubbed huge paws over its face, trying to wipe away the blood. It was partially successful, but only grew more confused when the wolf appeared in every way to be a man. The creature growled, the corners of its mouth pulled to the back of its short muzzle. At that moment, it seemed surprised to look right and realize that there were no other wargs around to back it. It had been left behind. A course mane bristled into hackles from the peak of its high shoulders down the length of its spine. Its tail pressed close to one powerful hind leg.

The lycan watched carefully, standing a bit taller now. He did not growl back at the nervous beast, nor did he make any move toward it. Instead he dared to glance away, relaxing his shoulders and letting the long knife droop in his hand. When the warg stopped growling, Olvar took a slow breath, then casually knelt to retrieve his shortsword. He briefly cleaned the blade, then sheathed it along with his knife before turning his back and starting slowly toward the shield wall. Several meters were put behind him before he heard thick paws following in his wake, matching his pace. He walked on over the torn ground for ten paces more, then paused and simply held out a hand to one side. The steps behind him stopped. Breathe, he reminded himself.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out.

On the fourth exhale, the heavy steps resumed, slowly–hesitantly. A few seconds later he felt a puff of air at his exposed wrist as he was sniffed. He still smelled of wolf, and that was enough. The warg, abandoned by its pack, touched the top of its muzzle to Olvar’s hand, then stepped forward until the lycan’s palm rested squarely atop its head. They resumed their walk, the warg keeping pace perfectly, and Olvar tried to keep his excitement under control. As they approached the caravan again, the squire stepped in front of the beast as a shield in case of any overzealous guardsman, but kept a hand behind him to preserve contact with the animal. He couldn’t keep the cocky smile off of his face. He yelled ahead to answer his mentor’s call.

“I’m right here, Simon.”

Author: ardenator2000, Posted: Wed Jan 24, 2018 4:39 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

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.

Author: BadMoonRising, Posted: Tue Jan 23, 2018 10:37 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

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.

Author: ardenator2000, Posted: Tue Jan 23, 2018 9:09 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

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.

Author: BadMoonRising, Posted: Mon Jan 22, 2018 11:25 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

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.

Author: ardenator2000, Posted: Mon Jan 22, 2018 9:13 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

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?!"

Author: BadMoonRising, Posted: Sun Jan 21, 2018 11:21 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

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."

Author: ardenator2000, Posted: Sun Jan 21, 2018 10:23 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

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.

Author: BadMoonRising, Posted: Sun Jan 21, 2018 8:51 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

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?

Author: ardenator2000, Posted: Sun Jan 21, 2018 7:36 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

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?"

Author: BadMoonRising, Posted: Thu Jan 11, 2018 8:51 PM, Post Subject: The Hand That Feeds [P, R?]

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.