A Warrior's Hands

She slips into the smoky room, pausing a moment to lean on the doorway and admire for perhaps the thousandth time the strange beauty of the scene before her. Amidst the soot-stained tools and crackling flames, a tall Human toils tirelessly at a well-used anvil. Despite the heat and strenuous work, his silver-streaked hair is neatly tied back in an impeccable ponytail which brushes his muscular shoulders as he works, moving back and forth between anvil and forge fires with well-rehearsed movements. As he finishes the piece he is currently mending, she can resist temptation no longer and quickly crosses the room, slipping her arms around his waist and planting a series of soft kisses along the side of his neck.

He shivers slightly, almost dropping the freshly repaired tool. "I need to put a bell on you. Hello, beloved." Samsaren reaches for Sendithu, drawing her close for an embrace and then releases her with a wince, eyeing his clothes critically. "I should get cleaned up before I ruin that dress."

The Elven woman laughs softly and gives his ponytail an affectionate tug. "Ruin it, arn sanbabest, I do not care. I will buy another, it is just a dress." With complete disregard for the scattered bits of metal littering the area, she seats herself atop the anvil, crossing her legs and arranging the plum-tinted firesilk neatly around her. "So, just getting started or wrapping things up for the day?"

He grins at her, taking a moment to appreciate the view. "I could be persuaded either way. What's on your agenda today?"

"I had not decided yet." She shifts slightly, picking at a non-existent piece of lint on her dress.

Samsaren smiles at her, taking her hand in his and brushing his lips across her knuckles just to make her blush. It always works, and they share an amused grin.  He stretches, rolling his shoulders, before methodically taking out his forging tools one by one and carefully inspecting each for any sign of damage. Sendithu pulls a small ball of yarn out of her cloak pocket and casually begins knitting,  humming quietly to herself. They work in comfortable silence for a time, her knitting needles clicking in time to his wire brush as he repairs his tools, until he glances over and notices that her work has gone awry and she doesn't seem to be paying attention to it. "Something on your mind?"

Sticks and Stones, Continued

Moving swiftly, longbow held close to his body, Maltris continued to backtrack the incoming forces.  Staying to the shadows and cover of the wilderness, the Elf keeps a wary eye on the slowly tapering advance.  After some time, and a few close calls the Ranger finally arrives at the source.

Well away from the city, hidden deep in the woods a large ritual circle glows with a sullen inner light.  Moving carefully around the clearing, Maltris examines the runes from afar, sticking to the cover lest the caster or casters return.  As a careful, but distant examination yields little result, the Elf carefully notches an arrow, preparing to move closer.

Before he can move closer, a feminine voice behind him asks in Ilithic “Runes are dull, any thoughts?”  Leaping in the air in surprise, Maltris lands with an oath on his lips, arrow half drawn in his bow.  Casually pushing the arrow aside with the her blade, Sendithu looks past Maltris to another unnoticed Elven figure.  “Jumpy, isn’t he?”.

Clad in nightmare black leathers, and hidden in a shadowsilk cloak, longbow in hand, the second Ranger glances at the pair “To be fair, I imagine we managed to slip up on him.”  Eyes shifting to the clearing he points a gloved hand before shifting deeper into cover. “We’ve company.”

Sticks and Stones

The rhythmic hammering of shaping steel echos through the forge as two humans work the slowly yielding metal.  The larger, older human lands blow after blow, while the younger, less stout man holds the piece in place with a set of heavy tongs.  The work pauses as the albredine rings on both of their hands flash briefly with an inner light.  An outside voice imposes itself upon both their thoughts, “Gents, could use a hand here, it’s getting ugly faster than the Half Pint Inn on ‘Tog appreciation night.”

 Snorting loudly Samsaren quickly hangs his forging hammer on the wall. “Send a thought to our friend about a gate, I’ve a beacon.”  Eckan nods quickly, his thumb lingering a moment on his ring, before he starts buckling on armor.  Samsaren grabs his shield, fastening the weapon harness as he steps out of the forging society.

 Reaching into his longcoat he pulls forth a ruby red crystal shard.  Raising it the shard skyward, it flashes into a beam of red light that slowly fades from view.  Moments later a red-gold fountain erupts, as a moongate appears before the men.  Stepping through, the warriors find themselves just inside the Western gate of Crossing.

 Nodding a quick thank you to the Magi, Samsaren turns to the gate guard. “Open the gate.”  The guard pales before stammering, “B-b-b-ut,m’lord, the monsters!”  Sighing, Samsaren launches himself up the stairs to the battlements,  uncoiling a heavy rope as he ascends the steps three at a time.  Tossing the loop over one of protrusions he launches himself over the wall.  Eckan meanwhile grins at the guard, “Gee thanks, get him all wound up BEFORE a fight!” before chasing off after his patron, using the rope to descend.

I don't like making titles, you pick one

Sunset draws brilliant colors from the evening sky, pink and purple swirl across the horizon, bashing into the edge of storm clouds forming on the horizon. The battle for the sky reflected back by the restless surface of the sea.

An Elven woman stands on the beach, stripped off armor and packs tossed to the side, she holds a conical gwererest shell up to her ear, concentration etching lines across her face. Slipping off her boots, she drops them in the sand before stepping into the waters edge.  Cool waves wash over the top of her feet wetting the hem of her skirt. There, she stands and waits, whispering into the shell and listening for some sort of reply.

Time passes slowly and tension builds, her body becomes rigid as she glares out at the horizon, hurt and anger lining her features. She charges further out into the water as if attacking the sea, an angry scream ripping from some where deep in her chest as she hurls the shell into the deep water.

Fists flailing and feet kicking she lashes out, pushing forward against the tide, punching and ripping at the air in front of her in a violent dance, a fight against nothing and everything. She throws herself deeper into the water, the waves pushing back as she slams into it, coral cutting her feet as she marches forward, eyes flashing, feeling nothing but rage.

Storm clouds and color battle for the sky above her, lightning flashing in the distance, the rumble of thunder drowned out by the sounds of the sea.  Her strength fades, her flailing arms weaken and she collapses into the unrelenting waves, slipping below the surface. Her lungs feels as if they are on fire, she arches her back and pushes against the water but it only pulls her farther in. The world falls silent, colors muted as the current pulls her deeper, her body relents unable to fight, she watches as the surface fades from view.

Lending out a Squire

High above the west gate of Shard, two figures stand close together, gazing over the parapets as the sun sets over the Wyvern mountain range. Sighing contentedly, the shorter of the pair snuggles in closer and her companion tightens his arm around her waist in response. As much as she enjoys the rush of the hunt, this quiet time together is something she treasures. "What's on your mind?" he asked, brushing his lips against her ear.

She shivers slightly and smiles, twisting around in his arms to lean against the wall and look up at him through the dark veil of her eyelashes. "What makes you say that?"

Chuckling softly, he tilts her chin upward with his knuckle. "Dearest, I know you. There's -always- something. Now, what's on your mind?"

She flashes a crooked grin at him, marveling for the thousandth time at having finally found a partner as direct and unflinching as she. "Eckan," she replies after a moment.

He arches an eyebrow at her in surprise. "Thinking of trading me in for a younger model, then?"

She smirks and gives his chest an affectionate shove. "Yes, you absolutely bore me to tears and I feel like I could do better." His grey eyes crinkling in amusement, he pulls her even closer in a tight hug and then releases her, leaning back to gaze into her eyes patiently. "No, you lovely fool," she continues. "I was thinking about that offhand comment at that badge quest thing the other night, about sending Eckan off for some additional training. Protecting someone, Mistanna perhaps, like we mentioned. I think it would do him some good to be around...well, people, and she is more tolerable than most. It would be good for him."

"I don't disagree," Samsaren begins thoughtfully. "The lad has always been a bit...skittish around people. Spending all his time in the field is great for his martial skills, but you're right, rounding him out a bit isn't a bad idea. Would you mind making the arrangements? You're better at finding the proper words for such."

She reaches up and gives his carefully arranged ponytail a playful tug, drawing an amused chuckle from him. "Paperwork? Hmph. I suppose I could be persuaded..." Suddenly he leans in and captures her lips with his, and whatever she was about to say is lost in the night air.

---

The next day in Rivercrossings, an Elven Trader glances at a pressed sheet of pale blue paper before sealing it with a blob of dark purple tinted wax stamped with a lily and sending it off with a courier.

"Mistanna,

I hope this letter finds you well. Straight to the point, we have been giving the matter of Eckan some thought, and we feel it would round out his training to have some practical experience in a more social setting. Martially, the boy is quite capable, but he suffers a bit with anxiety in some situations and could use a bit of polish. With your experience and good nature, we think you would be perfect if you are willing to take him on as a bodyguard. As he is still Samsaren's squire, you naturally would not need to provide a salary. Consider it more of a temporary fostering. Mull it over, and let us know.

~S"

Kattena: A Lady's Story

Night falls bringing relief from the summer heat, as the moons trek across the star speckled sky.  Strings of gaethzen orbs weave between the branches of towering trees, casting a soft glow on the forest floor below. Lengths of filmy grey mistsilk are draped across sturdy tables set in a half circle amongst the trees, cascading bouquets of rich champagne Lion's Mane irises and exquisite teal roses fill polished vases of hammered silver serving as centerpieces. An arch woven from olive branches serves as a backdrop for a small podium bearing the crest of the Paladin guild. A gentle breeze coaxes a melody from crystal chimes greeting guests as they arrive. 

As men and women filter in from all directions, an Elven Trader whispers a greeting and directs them to tables. Disgruntled looking hirelings carry trays of appetizers and glasses of wine, their furrowed brows and muttered complaints lost in the din of quiet conversation. 

A raven haired Elven woman slips into a seat next to an armored Paladin, batting him with is ponytail before giving the Trader a slight nod.  

"My benefactor tells me they are close," the Trader announces softly. "Please quiet down, we don't want her running off before she even gets here."

A few stifled giggles roll through the group as they fall silent, only the soft chimes and distant chirping of grasshoppers disturbing the peace. 

The Fete of Banishment

“Our Goal will be killing one thousand Undead.”  Leucius’ words seem to echo as the small group moves through the mist into a black granite stairway.  At the fore, leading the group into the darkness steps a tall, powerfully built Paladin.  Pavise shield held firmly in his hand and jaalmin longcoat hiding the promise of the heaviest of armor underneath, Samsaren strides forward, eyes alert for resistance from the undead.  Moving gracefully at his side is a beautiful blue-black haired Elven woman, her violet eyes eyes catching every movement in the shadows.

  Traveling behind the Paladin is a second elf, her auburn hair carefully tucked into a helmet, and the hint of a giggle stirring behind mirth filled eyes.  Bringing up, and protecting the group's rear is another Paladin.  Slightly smaller in stature and height, the other human moves carefully, constantly checking behind the group, expression as serious as the grip on his spetum.

  As the group moves down a second stairwell inside the Temple the light from the hidden door above beings to rapidly fade.  Gently, the lead Paladin calls behind him “Eckan”, prompting the second Paladin to trace a complicated glyph in the air.  After a brief moment and nothing happening, Eckan looks dejected.  With a glance carrying only the barest hint of reproach the older Paladin traces the same pattern murmuring quietly “daily prayers lad” as a series of orbs of light spring into existence and settle into a revolving pattern around him.

Patron and Squire, Forging Again (Courtesy of Samsaren)

A steady summer rain falls on the cobblestones, giving everything a slick shine in the torchlight.  The flames of the torches themselves gutter and spit in protest as the weather slowly turns worse.  Clad in a rain-soaked cloak, an older Paladin approaches the Forging Society Building, exposed bits of armor gleaming wetly in the limited light.

Heading deeper into the forge, guided by the unmistakable sound of hammer on steel, the Paladin arrives finally in one of the forges.  A quick glance around the gaethzen lit room shows a rack thoughtfully set near the forges heat for drying wet clothes.  With a grateful sigh the man, now very much the younger of the two in spite of his own hard earned age, sets his cloak to dry.  “Thanks,” he says, turning to the smith.

“Oh sure, I had a feeling you’d drop by, we’re due as it were”, Samsaren replies with a smile, turning the piece over on the anvil with his tongs.  A few careful pounds to finish shaping the metal, and he dunks the piece into the quenching tub, which gives an evil hiss and sets the water bubbling briefly.  “I take it you got my note then?”

A Night in Ain Ghazal

It had been a long morning in the black spire, but culling the throngs of Dragon Priests was one of her preferred ways of passing time, especially when a certain Paladin was with her. Normally the pair would retire to the forge or their apartment in Shard after completing the day's hunt but today Sendithu had something better in mind, starting with a glass of the Chateau's finest red wine and a long, hard earned soak in the mineral baths high atop Ain Ghazal. She tilted her glass slightly, letting the candlelight play off the blood red liquid within, her thoughts starting to drift as she eases into the steamy water. This place, this island, was one of the very few places where she ever felt truly safe. Her reputation preceded her, especially here, and the Sisters ran a very tight ship and brooked no mischief. Being able to relax her guard for these few hours was precious to her and she intended to share that with Sam today. A polite tap at the crystal door shakes her from her reverie just before the attendant sweeps into the room, proffering a sumptuous bathrobe with downcast eyes. She emerges from the water and dresses quickly, draining her glass before striding up the staircase towards the sana'ati doors leading to the Palace Suite at the top of the Chateau.

The raven-haired Elf runs a critical eye over the room, but everything was perfect as usual. Even the amaranthine bedding was the perfect shade to compliment her eyes. She tossed a platinum coin to the attendant and gave a slight nod as the girl bowed her way out of the room, closing the doors behind her. A slight smile crept across her lips as she gazed into the armoire. She enjoyed this part, choosing her attire was always amusing but dressing for him was something else entirely. Time slipped by as she debated the finer points of several gowns, but finally as she stood in front of the mirror and made the final adjustments, there was a polite series of taps at the door. He had arrived.

Samsaren and his squire (Courtesy of Samsaren)

The heavy rhythmic ringing of forge hammers echo dully as an older human warrior stands in a side room of a smithy examining his armor. As he runs roughened hands across his shield, noting the wear and tear of battle, another human strides into the room. Plate clad, with honey hair still tussled from a helmet the new arrival is clearly fresh from the field.

“Looking a little worse for wear Sir, what dinged up the armor this time,” asks the new arrival as he sets his helmet down and looks carefully at the pavise shield currently under repair.

With a deep sigh the older human adjusts the grip on his forging hammer, “Its Sam, just plain old Sam, Eckan.” Glancing up from his work he gives the young man a wry smile, “When I took you on as a squire, that was the deal, remember?”

Chuckling, Samsaren runs his free hand across a dent in the shield, “To answer your question, this dent is an Arkarm’s khuj, and I’m fairly sure this one is from his helmeted head.”

Clearing his throat, he lays his tools down before turning to the other Paladin. “The reason I called you in was to pass along warning. It looks like War is coming to our lands again, and I wanted to make sure you’re prepared.Spare weapons, or shields,” he says sparing a quick glance at the anvil for emphasis. “If you need it, just hollar.”

Resting his hands on his belt Eckan looks thoughtful for a moment, “What about the Militias, I understand the Therengians are offering assistance”.

Samsaren gives a quick nod. “I’ve heard the same, and the folks in Zoluren are gearing up as well. More interesting to me is the Arkarm’s have offered to lend assistance. I’m sure there’s a price, but as long as its reasonable, well, they ARE a formidable force.”

Eckan gazes at Samsaren on the verge of disbelief, “But Sam, I thought you fought them, not…”

Sam sighs, “Oh yes, I stand against them. I don’t hunt them indiscriminately, its not my way, but if they look to cause trouble I’ll take up arms against them. That, however, is also my point, they’re potent enough that it requires a great deal of effort of some of the more powerful folks around to put a dent in them. I’d really not want a force like that opening another front when I’m fully engaged against Alret and his ilk.”

“I understand your point, though I’m betting that you get some resistance on that theory,” Eckan says, nodding slowly. “I shall prepare myself for the troubles ahead.”

Samsaren smiles, nodding to Eckan, “Good. You’re welcome to fight at my side when things come to a head, the faster we can end things, the less the land and people suffer under the burden of conflict.”

Samsaren picks his tools back up, and begins to examine the shield again, “Until then however, don’t neglect your studies. And if you can spare a moment, Pray. We can use all the help we can get.”

Nodding to the forge, Samsaren smiles briefly, “Say, mind stoking the fire? Once I finish this, we’ll take a look at your gear as well.” The Paladins then settle into the work of forging, and the clear ringing sound of a hammer upon steel again fills the room.

A Meeting of Great Helms (Courtesy of Synamon)

The sounds of clanging armor and scraping chairs fill the room, as somber looking paladins file in and take their seats around a heavy oak table laden with platters of pastries and steins of mead. The men and women shift uncomfortably in their seats as they gaze at one another, waiting from some one to begin.

“You all know why we are here, I suppose we should just get to it.” With a look of grim determination, a man stands and addresses his fellow guild members. “It is becoming a problem, and gives us all a bad name. Now, he has taken on a squire. Something must be done.”

“You would have him removed from the guild for forgetting to cover his mouth when he coughed,” a striking woman, dressed an elegant gown, begins. “Perhaps you are not the one to lead this meeting.”

“And you are? Where is your armor? You are barely a paladin.”

Laughing, the woman shakes her head and smoothes the bodice of her gown. “Armor does not make the paladin, heart does. You will never learn that lesson, which is another reason for someone else to lead.”