Ashan 58, 717
Awake with the rising dawn, Vakhanor spent the early hours of the morning assisting Oberyk’s family in their daily chores. Following the master smith’s death, Oberyk’s wife Hilda had her hands full trying to raise four children. As he predicted the last of the rebel Alliance came to burn down Vakhanor’s home. After several hours of describing the faces and names of these people to the city guards, a few of the members had been captured while others fled the city.
Omelettes were all the rage in this little cottage. Vakhanor was not a great cook, but Hilda tried to teach him little by little, it was just a case of mixing and egg, cutting some other bits of whatever they had and throwing it in there then waiting for it to harden. Careful not to make too much noise Vakh made Hilda bed in breakfast before the kids woke up “I'm going to see a friend,” he muttered setting the meal next to her bedside “I'll be back soon.”
Weary Hilda rubbed her eyes “Thank you,” she muttered drowsily, looking at him bewildered as she sat up in the bed starring at the meal “how in Idalos don't you have a woman Vakh?”
The Smith blinked at the question, nobody had asked him that before “dunno,” he replied.
Hilda rose a bow “you're not a sword swallower are you?”
Disgust entered Vakh’s features as he gave her a sharp “No.” The boy Fethryn had once pretended to be his boyfriend in a pub a very long time ago. Had Hilda caught wind of that conversation? “Not met the right lady.”
“What about that one Oberyk said you were always around. The one with the dark hair?” By the immortals the woman was nosey, maybe he should have skipped giving her breakfast.
“She's a friend. Nothing more,” Vakh explained turning away toward the door.
“Ah, okay.” Vakhanor could feel the woman's shit eating grin beaming from behind him. Shaking his head the smith relented with a smile “Goodbye Hilda.”
“Bye Vakh. For god sakes find yourself a woman. You're too good to rot.” He closed the door, he'd had just about enough of that nonsense. Putting on his boots, the smith wandered out the door and hijacked a market wagon to the district Elyna’s new house was in. Andaris in the morning was as beautiful as it was a nightmare, people were rushing around readying for a days work. Ovens started to fire and the smell of the bread freshly cooked from the bakers battled the pungent aroma of the buckets of shit sprawled out of windows. Everywhere there was life.
Twenty bits passed before Vakhanor finally reached the large two story thatched house and knocked quietly on the door, careful to try not to wake Elsie.
Last edited by Vakhanor on Fri May 05, 2017 10:33 am, edited 1 time in total. word count: 484
The young woman hadn’t slept. Left staring at the blank wall and listening to the sound of movement in the street below. The rumble of carts over the cobbles and then eventually, after what felt like an age, the crow of the cockerels in the distance. She wondered about the horses on the farm, and the chickens in her parents’ home. They were safer in the city. She wondered about the woman Malcolm had lain with. Was she beautiful? Had he freed her from slavery or bought what he had taken? It wasn’t his style…what was? How had they…when and…was it more than once? Elyna had always been a jealous lover. Even the night before, irritation had stirred at the mere sight of a beautiful blonde in her home. The Lady Warricks’ intentions and actions had also done little to endear here to the Burhan. Violet Warrick she could be angry at, she could struggle against. What could she do against a faceless slave? An unknown stranger? Then…how could she compete with Violet Warrick? She, Elyna was round as a barrel and as big as a whale.
Perhaps she dozed, because she definitely woke and moved around the room, dressing in yesterday’s clothes and pulling her hair up, into a pony-tail. It was getting too long. It was too much of a target for Elsie’s insistent fingers. The baby was still asleep, curled up in her new bed with the blanket wrapped around her feet. Elyna tucked her in, the child was exhausted after the late night, and it would be better for everyone if she slept.
The door sounded and Elyna drifted down the stairs, peered through the window and opened the portal.
“Vakh?” She summoned a smile, “good morning.”
Hungover from the night before Vakhanor could still feel some of the alcohol running through his system and grimaced when Elyna answered the door. Fat with a baby in her belly, an untidy ponytail and a casual outfit the smith just nodded slowly, furrowing his brow in confusion as to what in the world had made him think Elyna was attractive. He looked at her again. Maybe once a long time ago when she didn't look like the life was drained out of her, or looked like a bloated whale. Or on the other hand before all of the shit they went through together and the frustration they caused each other.
The smith had not forgotten his spat with the warden, neither did he intend to reignite that. Still uneasy Vakhanor kept a measurable distance between himself and the skyrider. He didn't want to hug her, not even in greeting. "Hi Ely," he greeted with a forced smile "is Malcolm around?"
During the dinner the night before Malcolm had taken Vakh aside to talk over dinner, mentioning something about getting him involved with some kind of knighthood. Once discarded to the smith as a childhood dream, the idea of running about on a horse saving people was not something the half-blood thought suited to who he was. Whatever the case, the smith sought to at least indulge Malcolm in the thought of trying to get his sorry ass to actually sit on an animal for longer than ten trills and stupidly agreed to go along the next morning.
Almost guilt ridden Vakhanor bowed his head to stare at the stone pavement and stepped back a few paces "I'll wait out here."
Malcolm too had heard the knock at the door, but busy in his study, had let Elyna answer, sure it was for her anyway. He listened to his lover greet a man and when Vakhanor’s familiar tone replied, Malcolm got to his feet; so the man had decided to show up after all.
Malcolm went to the front door and nodded, confirming that he was home and ready to set off for the morning. He put one hand on Elyna’s shoulder, the other over her hands and kissed her on the cheek.
“I'll make sure he stays in one piece,” Malcolm winked and left the house with the smith in tow.
He looked over his shoulder and raised a hand to wave to Elyna part way down the street, and then rounded the corner with the man.
“You came,” Malcolm stated, surprised. He didn't know Vakhanor and therefore couldn't pretend to understand the way his mind worked. “I figured we would take a carriage to the docks? Only way we are getting back to the city is on foot or the back of a horse,” he challenged, lips turned up at the edges in a wicked grin.
He climbed into one of the carriages waiting to take people to and from the city, and held his arm out as the thing rocked when he sat down. It had been a while since Malcolm had rode in one of these. They were joined by four other people, a man and wife, and two burly men who looked like trouble.
Malcolm, not wearing his colours or uniform, adjusted the belt that kept his tunic tucked in, and made sure his sheathed dagger was sitting front and centre. Mess with me, the gesture seemed to suggest, I dare you.
On que Malcolm stepped out the doorway and spared Vakhanor a long bout of awkward silence or worse a conversation. Ever since the warden smacked him the night before every bone in his body warned him away from Elyna, and to top it off he was disappointed in her for trying to make excuses for him as if they made up for the disrespect he had committed toward that knight. "Malcolm," a friendlier warmth entered the smiths face "Yeah, I'm a bit early. Hope I didn't wake the little one."
Honesty was a fine thing and if he were to be truthful to himself even the concept of riding a horse was a terrible idea, much less riding one with experience and a hangover. "Carriage is fine. Don't know how to ride horse," Vakh grinned in protest to the challenge with a fire in his eyes, he might just get away with it "Got in scraps with the last animal I rode. " An Immortal cursed Lizard he'd left somewhere in the pit of Sirothelle. Every day for over Ashan he'd tried to bond with the bloody animal and the creature used to try to scratch him, even if he had taken his father's employee, Oathryn's advice.
"Have a good one E," the smith addressed, looking back at Ely one last time. A touch too tall to stand in the carriage Vakhanor bent his knees and unbuckled the long-sword at his waist as he tried to come up with something to say. Conversation wasn't an art that he was good at, usually he said what he needed to and that was that. Nothing came to him. Defeated by the mere concept of trying to talk to somebody about anything that had no relevance or made no difference to anybody was a chore. Instead the smith sat down and followed the direction of Malcolm's uncertainty that lingered on the two burly looking men.
Harmless at first glance Vakhanor was unafraid of antics and didn't make a point at looking at the two of them for long. A thug that wanted to mind his own business was often a thug left alone, unless they were out for something and there were no sudden movements. Vulnerability was when the underworld struck and two men in the back of a carriage left very little space for movement and if push came to shove Vakhanor had never been good at keeping the innocent alive.
"Humour me. What's the deal with Knighthood?" he finally asked transfixing his gaze on the mortalborn with a large grin "you've probably chosen the worst candidate for squire in Andaris."
“You look a bit long in the tooth to be a squire,” the woman across from him smiled, charming enough.
“I wouldn't put you though that,” Malcolm told him. As much as he would like to have the man the mother of his children was in lust with, polishing his boots and shovelling horse shit, Vakhanor was more valuable to him as a sword arm, or whatever weapon it was he used.
Curious, Malcolm inquired. “What is your weapon of choice?” This followed by the promise to pick one up from the barracks if and once Vakhanor chose to join them.
“A knighthood is just a formal declaration to serve king and country, though I suppose you have served him already for many arcs, in tax and in labour,” he added. What Malcolm was really saying, was that it was nothing more than a title in truth, knight.
“My friend Benjamin says it's a bit like a license to hunt, only you get to kill good for nothing scumbags in the name of peace.”
“In the name of Cassander,” the woman’s husband piped up.
Malcolm looked at Vakhanor and lifted a brow. “I would give reply, but a sworn knight isn't permitted to make jokes about royalty,” he winked.
“Politics,” the lady scoffed, “who's going to tell?”
“Isn't a case of telling miss, but one of honour. I am a man of my word.”
He thought of Elyna then, had he been?
Once they reached the docks, Malcolm got out of the carriage after everyone else and paid the driver a silver piece. He strolled over to the stockyards with the smith then, and leaned against the fence, watching the horses.
“This is a shipment from Nashaki,” he told the man. “The horses there are known for their stamina. You looking for something wild or already trained? I warn you, there is a large difference in price.”
An unbroken horse would set Vakhanor back fifty gold, and a trained mount would cost him double that.
“I need a new project,” he smiled. “Think I've buy a couple of wildlings.”
Vakhanor watched the conversation between Malcolm and the couple with avid curiosity, ever aware of the company the other two men held. Men of the same breed the smith knew their delight of listening to a conversation about knighthood and politics was next to none. Not like Malcolm. A man of his word the knight had called himself, a man of honour and yet once considered a murderer in the eyes of the king.
"My taskmaster trained me in using longswords when I was a boy," he replied presenting Malcolm with the weapon in his lap "I've had this for years. Was the first one I made with him."
The young woman had the audacity to call him old. Only thirty four arcs and less than two decades left before he would die a natural death, the smith frowned "Long in the tooth indeed," he agreed. Malcolm had been kind enough to offer to spare him the trouble of going through training, it was the horses at the end of the journey that made the smith nervous. Sparse of coin Vakh stood beside Malcolm, wincing at the over sized animals prancing around the paddock. Animals were not his strong suit.
None of that mattered. There was no reason for Malcolm to help him, entertain him as an individual or even accept him as a friend in his life. The man might not have been family, he might not have been his spark back in Sirothelle but he was the husband of a girl who shared his pain. Vakh's mind went back to the day when he had first seen Malcolm at the arena, charged for treason against the crown for the death of his wife. Even on their wedding day he had been apprehensive of the union, until now.
"That day, the arena. You were on trial for killing your wife," the red-head's gaze transfixed upon a spotted white mare bullying one of the other horses "you didn't do it did you?" A killer knew a killer when he saw one, as much as a killer knew when a person was not one. And although he had no doubt that Malcolm had killed men before, the noble did not hold the look of guilt for the death he had been charged with.
Malcolm was a private man, and so when the question fell, his silence hung in the air between them, electric. Vaughn was the only one who could vouch for him, Vaughn and Elyna, for she too had seen the woman before her natural death. Malcolm picked his foot up to rest it on the wooden fence that stood between them and the yard of restless horses.
“No,” he finally answered, “but she has passed.” He had seen her grave in Warrick, and wept.
“I loved Vanessa, with all my heart.”
He would say no more on the matter, nor try to convince the smith that he had been a loyal husband, that his relationship with Vanessa had been long and devoted. What had happened with Elyna, and the events that had followed, were fate, he believed that.
Talk of the arena stirred up old feelings, and Malcolm stared aimlessly at the stock in front of them for a time, it had all seemed so long ago.
“That one,” he pointed to the mare Vakhanor had been watching for a while. “Short in the body and straight in the leg, she stands high on her hooves, and she doesn't have any mud fever,” which he only now realised, a lot of them did.
Malcolm had his eye on a mare next to her, dappled, but with a light chestnut coat rather than grey. “They are both nice,” he whispered to Vakhanor and waved the salesman over to tag both horses as sold. If Vakhanor didn't want the grey, Malcolm wouldn't let it go to waste.
“Come, I want to look at a gift for my son.”
Last edited by Malcolm on Sat May 13, 2017 5:05 am, edited 1 time in total. word count: 278
Dropped like an anchor cast out into the sea, the mood of the conversation drifted down into what Vakhanor recognised as sorrow from the Knight. An old sorrow filled the greying man's eyes and in that split second the smith understood that the warden had indeed loved his wife. Vakhanor had little interest in prying further in a subject.
"Okay. She's one of the nicer looking ones. Don't know what mud fever is" he mused, misunderstanding the relevancy of the sickness to the quality of the horse. Starting along behind Malcolm Vakh casually wandered with him to meet the salesman. A sly man with beading eyes and a smile that the smith wanted to punch, the merchant casually wandered over to the two "Ay! Ye been lookin at mah 'orses," the man grinned, offering his 'and "Twiln is m' name. I see ye b' eyein' the mare, Irony. If y' want 'er ye be lookin' at a hundred and fifty gold Nel."
Not an expert on haggling horses Vakh winced at the price of her. Was a horse really that much or was the man over charging because of whatever this fever that was going about was losing him a price on the horses? Through all of his years of smithing Vakhanor knew more than enough about the quality of worn out horse shoes, but the horses themselves? He was completely clueless. "If all the other ones are sick then I guess that I need to," Vakh grumbled digging through his pouch for the coin "What ya getting your son Mal?"
“Not interested,” Malcolm told the merchant, and pulled Vakhanor aside, giving the man a look that seemed to suggest he should leave his coin where it was. The merchant followed them, sure he was onto a winner.
“Good strong legs,” he said. “Worth one fifty, but for you, I be kind. One twenty.”
“No,” Malcolm spat, and raised a hand as his waving a fly away.
“Good to ride,” the merchant persisted.
“No thank you,” Malcolm replied, and moved to another yard to check out the horses there.
A pair of stallions ran back and forth in their fenced off area of the yard, one of them painted gold by the sun, with sky blue eyes. His nose was a soft pink colour, not too desirable in the horse world, but subtle enough that he was still a very attractive horse.
“Something like that.” Malcolm pointed. “I heard Vaughn talking at dinner to lady Warrick, something about horses.” He hadn't been able to listen too closely. “You and Violet,” Malcolm made mention, “are you serious about her?”
Another merchant approached them, trying to measure their interest in his animals. “You like the desert horses?” he asked, “beautiful no?”
“We are just looking,” Malcolm told him, “not buying today.”
“A shame if you miss out,” came the man's quick retort. “Lots of competition.”
“Thanks,” Malcolm excused the man with a single word, and turned his eye on Vakhanor once more. “It's a art,” he smiled, “negotiation, try not to seem to eager.”
