John Furnival
24th Winter, 512 AV
"The worst part of patrolling is going to the places that are actually dangerous. Now, that doesn't mean the Great Bazaar, or the Bittern District, even when a band of silly squires beats somebody up, or even Winthrop Alley. No, danger is what goes on at the Docks. Although it is occasional, the violence that occurs at the border of Sylrias and the Suvan Sea still characterizes the location as one that is deadly."
"But this is not true!" John exclaimed to himself, throwing down the biography in disgust. The book hit the floor, its leather binding throwing up a cloud of dust that remained suspended in the air, floating down ever so slowly with no change in direction in the stuffy room which lay in the depths of the Stormhold Citadel. He shook his head, partly at the excerpt he had just read and partly at the notion of his lack of time to devote to cleaning his apartment. Not that it was dirty; it was just dusty. The Sylrian Knighthood doesn't hand out free time for cleaning. Maybe the low-life laborers at the bar are right; that's what wives are for; cleaning. He chuckled at the thought of having a wife, an unrealistic image despite his age. John Furnival stood up, his armor clean and shiny. At least he could keep his equipment tidy. He picked up the book, flattened the creased pages, and placed it upon a table, which was covered by a perfect sheet of dust. He stretched his arms, if it could be called stretching with his obstructive armor, even though it was only chainmail and set of shoulder and chest plate armor. He tightened the chin strap on his helmet, put the candle out with his gloved finger, and opened the door of his apartment.
Heading down from the far right of the Maiden District toward the Docks is a long trip, but only when everyone is bustling about which is in the morning. His cumbersome although necessary armor also contributes to the effort required to reach the docks. To keep himself from thinking about anything deep and getting himself into a bad mood, John stared down at the ground and avoided all of the cracks, taking large steps over each crevice and breakage in the stone. Although he glanced up every several seconds or so, there was still plenty of opportunity to bump into someone, such as the occurrence approximately halfway through the trip, when John's hand drifted onto a young lady's stomach. She quickly smacked his hand away and mumbled to her friend about knights taking advantage of their positions in the law to commit horrendous acts to women. He laughed; he didn't care about such trifling matters any more. These were things one thought about when they were adolescents, or maybe even somewhat into adulthood, but eventually, one either indeed turned to corruption, or they just stopped caring about many things in the world around them. Neither were very good, of course.
By the time he reached the docks, the sun was beginning to rise, its faint orange glow illuminating the sky, erasing the moon and the stars. Thick fog gave an ominous theme to the morning. John thought nothing of it. Deciding it was a good time to have a small break, he sat by a bench near the coast. The usual salty smell of the Suvan was hardly noticeable through the fog of the air and the steel of his helmet. The sea was barely visible, too, at such a dark hour. It was only this dark in the morning during the winter. John peacefully watched the sunrise as he relaxed to the rhythmic sound of the crashing waves, the only evidence of the ocean.
"The worst part of patrolling is going to the places that are actually dangerous. Now, that doesn't mean the Great Bazaar, or the Bittern District, even when a band of silly squires beats somebody up, or even Winthrop Alley. No, danger is what goes on at the Docks. Although it is occasional, the violence that occurs at the border of Sylrias and the Suvan Sea still characterizes the location as one that is deadly."
"But this is not true!" John exclaimed to himself, throwing down the biography in disgust. The book hit the floor, its leather binding throwing up a cloud of dust that remained suspended in the air, floating down ever so slowly with no change in direction in the stuffy room which lay in the depths of the Stormhold Citadel. He shook his head, partly at the excerpt he had just read and partly at the notion of his lack of time to devote to cleaning his apartment. Not that it was dirty; it was just dusty. The Sylrian Knighthood doesn't hand out free time for cleaning. Maybe the low-life laborers at the bar are right; that's what wives are for; cleaning. He chuckled at the thought of having a wife, an unrealistic image despite his age. John Furnival stood up, his armor clean and shiny. At least he could keep his equipment tidy. He picked up the book, flattened the creased pages, and placed it upon a table, which was covered by a perfect sheet of dust. He stretched his arms, if it could be called stretching with his obstructive armor, even though it was only chainmail and set of shoulder and chest plate armor. He tightened the chin strap on his helmet, put the candle out with his gloved finger, and opened the door of his apartment.
Heading down from the far right of the Maiden District toward the Docks is a long trip, but only when everyone is bustling about which is in the morning. His cumbersome although necessary armor also contributes to the effort required to reach the docks. To keep himself from thinking about anything deep and getting himself into a bad mood, John stared down at the ground and avoided all of the cracks, taking large steps over each crevice and breakage in the stone. Although he glanced up every several seconds or so, there was still plenty of opportunity to bump into someone, such as the occurrence approximately halfway through the trip, when John's hand drifted onto a young lady's stomach. She quickly smacked his hand away and mumbled to her friend about knights taking advantage of their positions in the law to commit horrendous acts to women. He laughed; he didn't care about such trifling matters any more. These were things one thought about when they were adolescents, or maybe even somewhat into adulthood, but eventually, one either indeed turned to corruption, or they just stopped caring about many things in the world around them. Neither were very good, of course.
By the time he reached the docks, the sun was beginning to rise, its faint orange glow illuminating the sky, erasing the moon and the stars. Thick fog gave an ominous theme to the morning. John thought nothing of it. Deciding it was a good time to have a small break, he sat by a bench near the coast. The usual salty smell of the Suvan was hardly noticeable through the fog of the air and the steel of his helmet. The sea was barely visible, too, at such a dark hour. It was only this dark in the morning during the winter. John peacefully watched the sunrise as he relaxed to the rhythmic sound of the crashing waves, the only evidence of the ocean.
Knights Hospitaller
