Whew, coming in late with this one. This entry marks the end of our opening RPs. I conducted each individually over pbp, and they were, I thought, a pretty fun way of getting into the swing of things. Next we get to deal with the dratted GM NPCs in the party. (I'm still surprised that, so far, no one has decided to ditch the patrol and strike out for glory.)
*****
The ride back to his family's manor was a quiet affair; Mikealus passed a few farmers on their way to Ceteran, and a one traveling lmerchant on his way further east. The latter spared Mikealus no time, and the two former merely greeted him with silent bows, steering their foot-wagons to the side of the road to let him pass. The rice paddies were full, and birds sang. The very freshest of green had come to the land after winter's passing. The roads east of Ceteran were only partly paved; a day out, they were muck.
By midday on the second day, he was passing the fields where his family's good fortunes grazed. A youth in the field, working a mare, didn't notice the paladin's passing. Ahead was the old stone manor, its wooden shutters thrown open to sunlight. The air was heavy with the scent of wet grass and stables.
It was good to be home. Even Harrow seemed to be glad to be back, if only temporarily. It would be nice for both to see the rooms (or stables) they'd slept in and been raised in - to be around the familiar smells and places. The rains from the last tenday had undoubtedly kept father indoors. Hopefully there would be enough sun that Mikealus could go for a walk with him before heading back to Ceteran. He had little time to tarry, sad to say. At least all was fresh and green. The young paladin did not even have to stop at the gates - Lawson, whose family had kept Hel-Halmar in good order since it was only Halmar, recognized him by miles, and had them flung wide open. Harrow was quickly taken, and Mikealus spoke pleasantly with the older man as they walked towards the manor.
No doubt Sayyid was in the fields. He would at least have mother and father waiting for him.
The manor was a touch stuffy; the shutters had been flung open, the doors as well, to let the spring air sweep away the bad humors and malevolent spirits cloistered inside all winter. Just inside, as expected, waited Mikealus's mother, along with a lady in waiting--in reality, just a village girl of no relation. His mother smiled warmly and reached to embrace him.
"Mikealus! One of the boys told me you'd come--your father's in the field, but he should be back soon. Will you be here for dinner?" In other words,
how long?
Father was in the field?! Well! It looked like the warmer weather was agreeing with him after all! The news was cheering. "Yes, Mother. I'll be here for dinner, but I must not stay much later." He smiled up at the woman, knowing that even now, she saw her little boy, hopefully venturing out for approval. ...that was something he'd never be able to change in her eyes... so he'd best just ignore it. It was exciting, though: A real commission from the Order. He'd tell them all about it when Father came... but she probably knew already.
"You're looking well. How have you been?"
"Well enough." She whisked her son indoors and toward a small reading room he knew quite well--it was from here that his mother arranged the affairs of the house, while the boys, as she called them, took care of the business. "Your father is feeling restless; the spring, you know--the rains always make him a little," she whisked her hand in the air by her head. "The villagers have begun planting now that the Thaw has passed. We had to prune back some of the cinnamon grove--the last freeze was very hard on them. The druids assure us that that means we will have an extra large harvest this year. I look forward to bushels of bushels of apricots, in that case--and given last year's harvest, we should certainly have a bumper crop of limes. Your brothers are also tying up a deal with the Ymir clan for breeding rights for the season... They're working on a line of rose-colored walking horses. They'll likely be a hit among the ladies at court. I wouldn't be surprised if the Imperial capital makes an order."
There was a plain table with four chairs around, and a couple extra to either side of a pair of bookshelves which held a wealth of knowledge--most of the books were quite old, practically treasures in and of themselves. Carina had read many of these books to him as a child--all of those dealing with myths, legends, faith, and the arts of war. Scrolls and ledgers also had their place, and were far less dusty than the tomes Carina had put aside when Mikealus came of age.
The room was otherwise quite spotless; sunlight danced in a wayward dust mote. Here, too, the shutters were open on the eastern window. A cup of coffee had been left to turn cold; a closed ledger of accounts waited beside it, along with quill and inkwell. As she directed him to take a seat, a servant entered with a board with sliced cheese and cold sausage, along with crusty bread. "I'm sure you're hungry! It's quite a ride." Carina beamed at Mikealus. "So, what brings you home, son?"
"Well I thought it proper to visit, that's all." The man returned, glad to see both much-welcomed food and his mother's ebullience. "I've been given a commission by the Order of the Silver Horn. Not mere page work like before. I'll be part of a patrol with Houshang al'Pacem and some initiates. I'm effectively second-in-command, I think - and was promised this might be the beginning of something greater."
Mikealus could imagine the conflict in his mother's heart. Concern for his well-being... but still, a certain twisted excitement - whether she knew it or not, she had bred him for this. He felt a thrill in his heart that she had first planted there. It was a bond forged between them he thanked her for deeply, and never wanted her to regret having put there in the first place. He entertained the sausage, chewing thoughtfully. "The Order thought it right I have time to inform you before I left. I could not agree more." he said, finally, his eyes still bright upon the woman.
Carina's eyes gleamed. "I'm glad--I admit, I'm relieved, even." She put the ledger in its place on the shelf. "Ina," she said to the girl, "Coffee, please."
She drew Mikealus out on the details of the assignment as they waited on his father. Ina returned with two hot mugs and a carafe on a carved tray and left it between them, disappearing shortly after. Carina was visibly proud of her boy, practically glowing as she beamed at him. In the background, Mikealus could hear his father's heavy footsteps coming near and then fading. A while after, his mother still pleasantly chattering, Halmar stepped in.
"Hm! I see our warrior has returned." He smiled slightly, sitting heavily in the seat across from Carina.
She lifted her chin. "He's staying the evening, so the cook is preparing."
"Well--good." The elder Halmar regarded the younger. "Your brothers are out today; it's unlikely you'll see them. So, tell me what brings you? Feels like it's been an age, boy."
"It has nearly been two months," Mikealus agreed. He'd last been here for The Equinox, deep in the death throes of the Frost - the horses blanketed, fires roaring, and his oldest brother already griping, over wine, how the Ymir would try to gouge him come Thaw. "I'm bound for the Village of Reeds for Weaving Most Excellent Mats with the Order - second under Houshang al'Pacem - and hopefully to something greater than that after."
Carina glowed as Mikealus described his newest commission. She seemed more excited than she had when his father had declared that her youngest was officially of age. Mikealus's father seemed pleased as well, but was more reserved in his praise, as was his habit. Still, he sat a bit more upright. As they passed the time with talk, the shadows slowly stretched longer, fleeing as the sun moved in its eternal campaign against the moon.
Mikealus had privately bemoaned his lack of direction to his family before. He was honest enough with himself to know that no God had called to him - none required his service, and so he had little choice but to privately serve them all as best he could. Without direction or inspiration, he knew, he stood little chance of progressing beyond the Silver Horn as quickly as he wanted to. Direct intervention could not come from himself without seeming impetuous, and willful: the young paladin knew that patience and humility were required, but perhaps the time for such virtues was now over.
He sized up his father, then. The intense labor he'd performed in his youth, and the high breeding of the man had combined quite nobly with the burden of age. He was every inch the wearying patrician, his skin beginning to wrinkle and sag, yes, but fighting hard before backpedaling every step. It was not that his gut was overlarge, merely that his bones were weary - he sat too heavily to appear brittle, but moved to slowly to seem spry, these days. To exert great effort would be a magnificent sight: fading strength guided by great experience - but would take a definite toll, as well. Mother's cool determination served Father well, now, as she and brother Sayyid ran a bit more of the household each year. "Any word from my sisters? I've not seen Muna in town these past months. Nor had a single letter from Naddiya."
The former was more surprising than the latter, actually. Muna had always been good about keeping in touch, but because they both lived in Ceteran, communication needed no formality. Naddiya's vile husband made it seem more like she lived a prison sentence. Mikealus was almost regretting asking for her at all.
His mother smiled a little and fluttered her hands. "Muna is well. She's gone with her husband and his entourage off to the coast--I imagine they're not yet halfway there. Naddiya..." She shook her head.
His father cleared his throat. "Mmm... Yes, Naddiya. Well, the roads are poor this time of year. We have received no letters, either." He shifted in his seat and looked out the window beyond Mikealus.
The awkward silence was banished by the appearance of the manor's cook. "Dinner is prepared; I've sent for the others." The Hal-Helmars were not so high that they ate separately from their servants, who after their long service to the families were practically family themselves.
At that, his parents rose and he trailed them to the old high dining room, a drafty affair draped in faded tapestries. Dinner was a simple but hearty affair. Afterwards, the elder Halmar disappeared for a time, leaving Mikealus and his mother and staff to their small talk. He returned with a long, wrapped burden in his arms and set it in the cleared space on the table before his son.
"But in truth, the novice was just-"
"You should have this," Halmar interrupted.
Mikealus stopped. He would have to tell Jans the rest of the joke later... this had some gravity to it. His eyes considered the long bundle, and his father's expression. "...Father?" The length of the object, the weight it must have had, considering the ease that came to his father's shoulders when he lowered it. That could only be one thing. It was instantly a treasure... and to have his father offer it to him was...
Staggering.
He lifted the oilcloth which served as a last layer, and a familiar metallic scent approached. He did not unwrap the weapon in its entirety. He kept his eyes on the small bit he'd unearthed from the cloths, cradled the weapon underneath his hands, lifted it slightly, to accept the weight.
"I. Father..." Mikealus looked between his parents, over at the servant, and back, with near befuddlement. Here, sitting down with the scents of dinner on his breath and the world perfectly at ease, he was suddenly given something like this? "A sword..." Was this weapon a part of his office? Of his land, his title? He knew his father to not be a man of war - trained in the art a bit, perhaps, but no solider. "...is this yours?" But still he asked those three words reverently - there could be no greater honor than to carry his father's blade to glory.
The sheathed sword was easily the length of any practice blade Mikealus had ever wielded. The clothes which wrapped it were dusty, and the indigo embroidered silk covering the scabbard, faded. One of the cloths appeared to be a tattered standard--that of the Halmar clan. The sword was quite long and slightly curved, with an end weighted more heavily. In some ways, it resembled a cavalry sword. Unsheathing it slightly revealed that it had a single edge.
"This was passed to me," his father admitted. "It has not seen light, let alone use, in decades; not since this place was well-settled, and our holdings much greater than now. The name no longer is in our records." But the hand-guard, an intricately formed iron disk, revealed that it was a sword of honor. The design was a spiraling bird, perhaps a phoenix or crane. "It is water-steel; it will never rust, though it perhaps needs sharpened. At the time it was forged, it was, I believe, worth a prince's ransom."
"I... I will do it honor." Mikealus assured him. The metal was not dull, but instead suspiciously dim. It seemed to his fancy that it almost glowed, some energy hidden beneath layers of well-folded metal. Water-steel indeed - it would fit well in his hand, and would flow where he willed it to. He hoped.
The young paladin's thumb ran along the corner of a silhouetted horse - just an edge of the Halmar standard. "....thank you Father." He nodded with deep gratitude, his eyes still shining a bit with the electric joy of his new possession. "And... if... if I may be bold enough..." a momentary hesitation, "I would ask for a steed worthy enough to ride upon, while such a weapon hangs at my side." The warhorses of Hel-Halmar were still known throughout the land, and there was no doubt Mikealus would both be proud to serve - and do his family a great deal of glory - to be a true warrior of Hel-Halmar.
His eyes wandered along the design again. What was this blade's name, he wondered - what was that bird, once, when it was first born of the forge?
"Indeed," his father exhaled. "You should have a solid mount. You may leave your hunter here; take Khongordsol." It meant thistle in the old tongue. The horse could not calve, yet her form and temperament had charmed the Halmar men, and she had not been culled. Carina clasped her hands together over the table, as if to hold in some burst of joy. The contrast between the two was stark; the resigned father, the mother in glory.
What more could a son ask but a sword--the ancient symbol of independence and fealty, of power and submission? A grand steed--the blessing of his father--and, one hoped, accolades to be won.
What more indeed?
It weighed on Mikealus' heart that he could not revel with his parents all through the night, to be granted such honors. He knew that his resolve had been redoubled by their generosity, and their presence would ride with him into battle, that it would give him support and comfort.
All the Thrones seemed to smile upon him today. As he prepared for the long ride back, he knew it would be a good thing: the long silence atop Khongordsol would cool his blood, and help him to reflect on the reality of the situation. This was not some wild war he was riding into. It was a mission for the Silver Horn - no amazing deeds, not yet. But also it was the first sign of his parents' absolute faith in his path, the time when they'd given him these tools, and shown they too wished for him to complete great deeds. That, in truth, was more valuable than either the objects themselves, or the fantasies he could weave for himself of what honor he'd gain, and good he would do.
Still, Mikealus had lingered as long as he'd dared, to do right by Sayyid and Carina Hel-Halmar. They spoke until the hours seemed to grow shorter, and the young Paladin had to acknowledge his schedule. The time he would need to rest, to travel, to prepare. They parted with few enough tears, and a smile on the young initiate's lips, as he proudly rode off to whatever the Gods deemed right.