Completed [Rearing Stallion]The Raven in the Windoak(Oriah)

[Marrick Corvis]

The drink that his first dance partner returned with, seemed like his flagon of beer. Though he didn’t remember its fizzing contents tasting so strange. Yet, the grin the she gave him seemed seductively honest. Yes this truly was a night to remember. As he was about to lift the flagon to his mouth and polish off his beer he paused, and looked for Oriah. How had he gotten so lost? The little Raven felt as if something inside him was missing. Then like an infant child that needed helping, the woman tipped the flagon to his mouth. Marrick drank deeply, if only to avoid the embarrassment of spilling beer all over his clothes. Before he could even enjoy the flavour of his cool beverage once more, it was as if there was an angry dwarf in his belly kicking its way out to fight him face to face. The Kelvic thought he had finally over done it. In his blurred desperate glances to find a place to vomit he noticed that the woman who had fetched his flagon was smiling at him sweetly. Couldn’t she tell he was about to be sick?! “Oh dear! Are you feeling ok?” She asked with honeyed words spilling from her rosy lips. Marrick shook his head, even as he struggled to lift it. The room spun on its axis and he was on its edge. If the Kelvic didn’t know better he would have thought he was falling downhill. “Let me help you!” The woman said, her smile broadening as she slung the Kelvic’s arm over her shoulder. Gently she anchored one of his arms over her head and helped him out the side door to the alley, where she let him fall to his knees. With all eyes safely away and his reputation protected he let go of his tenuous hold on the contents of his stomach. The taste of vomit in his mouth was most unpleasant, though far worse was the exhausted feeling he had after every forceful heave. Yet somehow, something inside him felt awry. More than just how ill he felt. His animal instinct was shouting at him through the haze to run. It was only when he had at last leaned back against the loose field stone wall of the Rearing Stallion that he realized that the woman was talking to someone at the end of the alley. A man’s voice came echoing off of the stone in deep wrathful tones, followed subtly by the jingle of Mizas. Through bleary and unfocussed eyes Marrick saw the woman take a pouch of money from a man before they let her leave the alley way unmolested. He breathed heavily to try and gather himself, yet no comfort came. He felt as though he were a top at the end of its spin. He knew he was leaning against the wall, yet he felt as if the world were toppling over onto itself. As the man came into focus he realized that he was not alone. The Kelvic had thought it just his inebriated state that made the man seem like he wasn’t. He tried to count them through his blurred vision. Three, yes there were three. As they stood over him he struggled to try and get up, only to be held down by the heavy booted foot of one of his antagonists. “Is this the guy Darius? He looks gentle enough that my bastard little sister could take him on a bad day.” The man who held him down said with a sneer. ‘Darius?’ The name burst into a clear image in his head like flash paper. Darius was the name of the man who assaulted the masseuse at Soothing Waters earlier today. How did he get here?! The Kelvic wasn't crystalline in his understanding of Syliran law yet, but he could have sworn that an assault such as the one that he had carried out would have put him safely under the Careful eye of the Knights. As his foggy mind tumbled over itself in desperate contemplation the lamplight in the back alley guttered and he saw the glint of steel as it slid from its scabbard with the soft hiss of metal on metal. ‘Shyke’ the Kelvic thought to himself as he stopped struggling against the booted foot that pinned him and began to feel around on the ground for anything he could use. A loose stone was all he was asking for. Just something heavy that was good against knees and shins. “Yeah this is that meddlesome squire who arrested me earlier. The Knight Judicator sentenced me to two seasons in the mines, and levied four thousand gold mizas in fines. All for the bleeding of whore. He told me I was getting off light. Told me I'd have a place to stay and freedom to get around as needed." The murderously gleeful grin that split Darius's face left the Squire with a sinking sensation in his gut. "Oh, and I needed this."The scum chuckled darkly as he smiled down at the Kelvic. It was then that the little Raven found a loose field stone beneath him in the floor of the alleyway. It was almost as if someone had pushed it into his hands. Silently he mouthed a prayer to any gods that might be listening. “Deliver me.” “How do you like that Squire Marrick Corvis?” Darius snickered at him. "You get me sent me to hard labor, and they let me out to muck about and cause trouble for em." With all the charm of an eel the trader knelt down next to him and punched him hard in the gut. The blow made Marrick double over cradling his belly, as he coughed desperately for breath. With a disturbing eagerness in his laughter, the tradesman grabbed the turf of Marrick’s hair and lifted his head up so the scum could look him in the eyes. “Your little intervention was expensive my friend.” Darius said with a deforming sneer on his lips. “I think I’ll enjoy taking time and coin from your hide.” With a hard right hook, the tradesman struck Marrick across the face. His own teeth tore an angry gash in the inside of his cheek, and the Kelvic painfully spat blood to clear his mouth. “Easy Darius,” the scoundrel’s cohort said. “He’s bleeding all over my boots.” “Shut it Flint! I didn’t hire you to talk. Just hold him down!” Darius said scathingly. Marrick could taste the blood in his mouth, and on his ragged breath. In his mind he could see his cold dead body lying in the alley way for the next randy couple to find and ruin their night. He was already dead, and he tried to accept that fact. He gripped the stone in his hand tightly and smiled as best he could through the pain. “Darius.” He said soft as silk. “Eh, want a bit of mercy do yah?” the dead man snickered as he leaned in closely to hear Marricks whimpers for mercy. “Oi’m sorry Darius.” The Kelvic said his voice quiet and icy. “Eh?” Darius was now so close he could feel the heat of the man’s breath on his face. “Oi’m afraid Oi won’t be as lenient thes toime Darius.” Marrick’s jaw set and his eyes fixed on the man leaning over him. The adrenaline was pumping through his system. Almost as if the drunkenness he had experienced happened in another life. A homicidal look came over the typically calm features of his face and an icy cold gripped his chest. If he was going to die, he would not die alone. Darius was still laughing along with his toadies as Marrick took the rock to the side of his head. The sound the stone made when it met with Darius’ face was subtle, but familiar to the Kelvic, and he knew that unfortunately he had not killed the thug. Like frightened dogs his two toadies jumped to try and help Darius as he fell, releasing Marrick from Flint’s heavy booted foot, which pinned him to the wall. He held the stone firmly in his hand as one of Darius’ pets lunged for him, dagger in hand. The Kelvic wasn’t ready for the cut it made, and barely rolled out of the way. He heard the rip of his shirt as the dagger gouged a new air slit in the fabric. He didn’t have any time to recover as he heard the second of Darius pets, Flint, draw a sword. “Get him Jari.” Flint said to the thug with the knife. Marrick however did not hesitate. With a strong pitch, he lobbed the rock at Jari who like a fool tried to block it with his knife arm. The snapping sound the rock made when it came in contact foretold the man’s broken arm. The slender dagger flew to the side of the alley and Marrick rushed forward like the wind in a field of grass. He grabbed Jari’s broken arm and twisted him around, causing Jari to yelp like the dog he was. Marrick could imagine the pure agony that Jari must have felt as he held him there, and he almost felt sorry for him. Too bad Darius Pets had been set to kill him. “Stand down Flint.” The Kelvic said through bloodied teeth. Yet, Darius’ last murderous pet prowled with a strange gauging expression on his face, his long sword in hand. Marrick matched him step for step forcing Jari to move with him, keeping the threat of the long sword at bay. On the field stone floor of the alley, Darius began to stir with a groan. The Kelvic watched with baited breath as the odds were beginning to stack back up against him. If he didn’t do something clever soon he would lose the upper hand. Then without warning Flint lunged forward with his long sword and spitted Jari like a piece of meat. Marrick was barely able to bend out of the way as the blade slid through his human shield. With the muffled visceral sound of metal on bone, Jari’s yelps of pain became silent. Surprise showed openly on Marricks face as he let go of Jari’s corpse. Like a staccato note he felt the sting that only cruel cutting metal could bring. The Kelvic held his arm desperate to staunch the blood that flowed from a gash made by Flints blade when it went through. Marrick felt the icy caress of Dira as he retreated slowly away from Flint and his sword. He had nowhere to run. He could change into a Raven if he wanted to, but somewhere through the alcoholic haze of his brain he felt that it would only make him more vulnerable. As Flint advanced, the Kelvic kept his distance, until his back met with the end of the alleyway. “Whats the matter little squire?” Flint said with a maniacal laugh. “Nowhere left to run?” Awkwardly he felt the wall with his free hand, letting go of his wound. Marrick could feel himself unravelling. He breathed heavier than the Billows in a forge. He felt as though he was a tired stone. All he wanted to do was lie down and let go. “Alroight then Boyo.” Marrick said, an icy edge on his voice. “Quit bleetin loike a sheep, an’ Pechin end it.”

[Oriah]

The disappointment that came crashing over her usually upbeat exterior was deafening, knocking her completely off kilter. Where was Marrick? Had he really lost so soon? He was doing so well...

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Oriah noted that she had, in effect, won their bet. She didn't even need to participate in the final round. Bangors, paid for in full, fair and square. But, for some reason, the thought of a free meal failed to hold as much appeal or victory as it normally would. As the rules for the last dance were announced, she only half absorbed the explanations when she overhead a few people murmuring about how someone had fallen sick and was taken outside. They snickered good naturedly, noting how smooth of a strategy that was, feigning illness to get a pretty lady to offer you some kindly, "one on one" assistance.

Oriah's mouth set to a grim line. Now this was just the most suspicious, unlikely sort of rumor they could come up with. If anything, the squire would be the one being taken advantage of. He'd never been drunk before, and likely had had one too many flagons of ale before becoming genuinely sick.

Hopeful as she may be for the good of mankind, the Benshira was not delusional enough to believe that, even in a city like Syliras, someone wouldn't pass up the chance to rob a drunk man blind and get away clean.

She would have to check to be sure.

Oriah marched past the throng of onlookers, who watched her go in surprise. "Sorry, not feeling well," she smiled sheepishly, ducking her head to feign weakness. Several people patted her on the back as she made her exit, leaving the remaining contestants with a much simpler job of proceeding to the final round without having to eliminate one person.

"Kevith!" she beamed as she bumped into the bar once more, rifling quickly through her belongings before her hands finally found the familiar contours of her Hebrean sling and Tamos. "Have you seen the squire at all?"

The old bartender raised on eyebrow and shook his grizzly head. "Nope, haven't seen him since you whisked him off to the dance floor. Not bad company, I take it?"

Oriah, however, was gone before he could finish his last sentence, pushing through the crowd to get to the front doors. She was just about to burst through them when she thought better of it, backtracked, and went for a side door instead. She'd heard some people joking about friends stumbling through more discreet entrances to upend any disagreeable contents in their bellies. Likely, Marrick would be there, since--she hoped--he would not abandon her here and planned on returning at some point.

The girl squeezed past two burly men and pushed through a swinging door with quiet steps. As soon as she walked out, her breaths became puffs of white in the dropping, evening temperatures. She could hear angry words, scuffling, and what sounded like the last wheeze of a dying man.

Heart hammering against her ribs, Oriah looked frantically left and right. Judging on the direction of the noises, she guessed she was on the wrong side of the building. The dancer sucked in a breath, wedged the sling and Tamos in her belt, and hopped onto a stack of crates, making her way up to the roof with as much stealth as possible. She was no acrobat, but it was a one story building and her tipsy state had all but worn off with her growing alarm. Arms growing taught with strain and limbs hitting the tiles with less than silent grace, the girl began making slow, painful progress up the side of the roof. A few chimes later, she finally was able to peek over the steep of tiles and get a good look at what was happening.

This is foolish and crazy, she hissed in her own head. Yahal have mercy on me. But, she could not go back. Even if the victim in question was not Marrick, she was obligated by morality alone to aid however she could.

From her new vantage point, she could see a woman hurrying around a corner before she vanished from sight. Odd. What was one of the dancers from before doing out here in an alleyway? Then she looked over to where most of the commotion had erupted and understood.

Stars and stones. The Squire had been lured into a trap.

By the time Oriah reached the edge of the sooty roof, a man was already crumpled on the floor, bleeding, and Marrick had been cornered at a dead end. His enemy was wielding a sword and had cut the squire vividly across one arm. Another man was still making his way up with groggy groans, nursing a wound on his head.

Without hesitating, the Benshira got out her Hebrean sling, took a slow breath to steady her aim, and shot at the back of the armed man's head.

"What the petch?!" he shouted, holding a hand up to feel his scalp while his companion's eyes darted up at the sky. Taking advantage of their surprise, Oriah threw her still-sheathed Tamos down at Marrick's feet and dropped herself on top of the woozy fellow with the head wound. It was an awkward landing at best, but she went feet first and ended up more or less crouched on top of her target, knocking the wind out of him. Before he could react, she grabbed the sides of his head and smashed it against the cold, hard ground. Somewhere distantly in her mind, she felt sickened to the core at what she had just done. But it was not the first time she had killed, and it would likely not be her last. Granted, whether the man was dead or alive remained questionable, but she still felt nauseated at the resounding smack his head had made when it connected with the stones.

She turned back to the one with the sword. There was a moment of confusion flitting across his unpleasant face, and then his eyes narrowed and nostrils flared.

"What do you think you're doing, little bitch?" he seethed, knuckles white as they gripped his sword. He pointed the blade at her wide but determined gaze. "I'll have to teach you to mind your own petching business first before I off this useless filth of a squire."

"Try your best!" was all Oriah spat before she held up her sling again and shot him in the forehead. Blast. She missed, having aimed for his eye, but it distracted him enough for her to shove off the unconcious man and scramble backwards crablike through the narrow alleyway. He was even angrier now, face red as a beet, and stomped towards her with maniac glee, stepping over his fallen comrades without a hint of concern.

She tried to shoot him again, but he kicked the sling out of her hands. Oriah yelped in pain, holding her fingers tight against her chest as she continued shuffling backwards. He swung at her, but he was big and stupid, so she was able to pin herself flat against a wall to avoid his blade. Another swing, though, and she was done for.

Come on, squire, she silently prayed, get up and fight!

[Marrick Corvis]

Marrick glared defiantly into his murderers eyes. If he was going to die he would die on his feet as his father had in the arenas of Ravok. He would not blink, he would not flinch. Even as Flint raised his sword and aimed its point at the Kelvic’s heart, Marrick wanted to hold him with his rebellious glare. His soul was willing, while his flesh faltered. The blood loss, the alcohol, the hits to the head, and the drugs the dancer had given him were taking their toll on his focus. Marrick found himself blinking through the fog desperate to stay above the raging river of trauma trying to drag him into unconsciousness. As the thug’s eyes narrowed in preparation for the kill stroke, the Kelvic saw movement behind him in the darkness. It drew his eyes away from the deadly end of Flints blade, and suddenly like a bursting flame in the night, the silhouette of a woman was lit on the rooftop of the Rearing Stallion, as if by the opening of a great door. Almost in unison as Flint drew back before his thrust, Marrick watched as the silohuette slung and loosed a stone. He was so close to death, and yet there he was distracted by the spin of the rock as it flew into the back of the thugs head. Almost like the stone had eyes of its own. The thump sound was audible through flints open mouth. "What the petch?!" he shouted, his task forgotten like the stone had knocked the idea of murder out the other end of his head. Flint acted predictably, grasping at the back of his skull in pain. Then as casually as someone throwing him a chicken drumstick at a meal, the silhouetted figure threw something to him. Marrick flinched slightly bringing his uninjured arm up, to cover his face and block the light in an effort to see what it was. Ultimately, he looked down and away to protect his eyes, only to see an oddly carved baton fall with a clatter onto the field stone at his feet. He looked up to see his protector slide off of the roof only to land awkwardly on the alley floor. Flint obscured his view, but he could tell it was a woman. He hoped that someone had not been foolish enough to save his life, only to become a victim too. "What do you think you're doing, little bitch?" Flint growled like an angry dog as she knocked Darius unconscious again. "I'll have to teach you to mind your own petching business first before I off this useless filth of a squire." Slowly the Kelvic knelt down and picked the baton up from the ground, almost as if it were a snake ready to strike. His eyes flashed wildly from the baton, to Flint’s back, his rescuer and back again. His guardian Ethaefal gave him a stick, not fit for bludgeoning, but Marrick had made do with less. "Try your best!" his guardian said, and somewhere in the back of his mind Marrick heard words calling to him through the haze in his head. "Here, try some of my wine.” He heard Oriah’s sweet and tender voice. ‘Oh no, not Oriah!’ He thought to himself, now struggling with weakly renewed vigor. Marrick fought to get up, desperate to rise to his feet and defend his companion. He shook the fog from his head, his mind thick as mud. With clumsy hands he used the wall to steady himself as he rose. ‘Not Oriah!’ He thought as fear gripped his heart. Through blurred vision Marrick saw Flint glide toward Oriah’s shape, his sword casting a wide arc. Marrick couldn’t tell if it was the blood loss, the alcohol, or whatever it was the dancer had slipped into his drink, but the light was starting to go out. ‘Don’t let him!’ ‘Focus yah pechin Baird’ He said as he fought to keep his balance. With a desperate heart he stumbled forward through the alley. ‘Keep breathin!’ He thought to himself before he stumbled over Jari’s corpse and fell. His knees and hands met with the cold hard fieldstone as he struggled to recover. As he fought to lift his heavy body from the stones of the alley, he gasped, expelling pain induced drool. With hands that felt like they were coated in butter he dropped the Baton, only to see it break at the center. In the subtle lamplight of the alleyway, he saw the subtle sheen of steel shine in the gap. As he picked up the baton again he pulled it apart, exposing the blades hidden within. His head swam uncomfortably and he dropped one half of the two piece dagger. Though he felt more prepared to move forward, his whole body complained. Involuntarily he wiped his mouth with his wounded arm, which spread his own blood across his face in messy streaks. It hinted his tongue with the salty tang of his own blood as he rose and continued to shuffle forward, nearly blind. Somehow he found himself standing over Darius’ fat unconscious form lying in a heap and he leaned hard against the wall of the alley. ‘Stay awake! Save Oriah!’ The Squire thought to himself as he battled to keep the light on. ‘I’m not goin teh make it.’ He thought, his hope guttering like the lamplight of the alley way. Marrick blinked away the mist in his eyes, as he shambled onward. It was then that he heard Oriah cry out in pain, and it was almost like someone had cast a stone into the placid surface of a pond causing it to ripple uncontrollably. He could see Flint now, his sword arm raised for a killing blow. The little Kelvic felt his animal self and his human self, cry out in wrathful anger. The bellowing noise echoed off of the walls of the alleyway as he lunged forward at Flints back filling the Kelvics ears and shaking his very soul. The years in the street moved his arm and hand for him. Marrick wrapped his good arm around Flints sword controlling shoulder, like some monstrously strong tentacle. The Squires hand looped back behind the murderers neck, and grasped the hair at its scruff. The squire had bound the scums arm, just one thing left to do. “Pech yo-” Flint tried to say, before he gave a shout of pain of his own. Marricks wounded arm was unfit for making a killing stroke with the hidden blade Oriah had given him, yet he tried. His weak and wounded arm had not pushed the knife deeply enough, causing Flint to flail wildly with his free limbs. Doggedly, Marrick thrust again, this time pressing the blade deep into Flints ribs. Though the thug continued to struggle, the Kelvic held fast, and would not let go. Flint finally fell forward onto his knees, taking the squire with him, and his struggle slowed to a weak flopping of his free arm. Until, at last Marrick felt Flint gurgle one final bloody exhalation of breath. Uncertain, the Kelvic held the man a few moments more, before he let him fall to the bloody fieldstones of the alleyway. Wounded and weary he crawled on hands and knees to Oriah’s side, and rested his back against the alley wall. He shut his eyes and heaved great billows of steam into the cold night, as he tried to make sense of everything that just happened. Though, Marrick knew his mind was too muddled for clarity. ‘Prioritize yah pechin ejeet!’ He scolded himself. “Oriah.” He half gasped her name. “Oriah, are yeh alroight? Are yeh hart?” he said, the desperate concern obvious in his voice. ‘don’t be dead! Please don’t be dead!’

[Oriah]

Oriah pried in vain at the oaf's meaty, hairy paw. He was squeezing her neck tight enough to send black dots spotting her vision, having grown tired of her dodging and opting to hold her still by crushing her windpipe high up against the cold, stone wall. Her feet were no longer touching the ground and her vision was starting to darken. She kicked, she scratched, she twisted, but no amount of struggle could ease his iron grip.

Funny, that she should come all this way in life, only to be choked to her death by some meat headed thug in a nondescript alleyway. No, wait, scratch that. The man was lifting his sword now, a gruesome leer stretched to reveal his yellow, crooked teeth. Decapitated. That was how she was going to go.

Oriah watched the blade rise above her mottled face. This is it. This is the last thing she'll ever see before her untimely end.

Then an unmistakable, bellowed war cry filled her ears. The thug cursed, only to be cut short as he shouted in pain. With a final spurt of desperate effort, Oriah managed to rip free from his loosened fingers. She fell to the floor in heap, watched as Marrick thrust one half of her Tamo into the man again. The squire held him tight, until both of them collapsed on their knees and the enemy breathed one last, gurgling breath.

Then he was dead.

Oriah squinted with ragged breath as Marrick let go of the corpse and began crawling towards her. Gods, he looked a mess. Blood and bruises covered so much of him she could barely tell what he looked like anymore. She tried to get up as he sank against the wall beside her, but it was too hard. Her limbs felt like lead as her lungs hungered for more air.

The desperate tone in Marrick's voice, however, lent her the will to eventually prop herself up. Chest heaving, neck bruising, she turned to him. Well, more like she flopped from one side to the other, awkward as a fish out of water. Their foreheads bumped, one covered in sweat and the other in blood.

"I'm...not...dead..." Oriah panted. Then her body became wracked with coughs and she covered her face, falling back against the wall in exhaustion.

After a few ticks, she cracked open her eyes and took in the aftermath of their fight. The three men who had ganged up on the squire were all down, two dead for certain and one potentially unconscious. Catching sight of her sling and one of her Tamos, she got up woozily to her feet, leaning on the wall for support, and shuffled over to retrieve them. A bit of wobbled, stumbling about allowed her to locate the other Tamo. With a definitive click, she sheathed them and tucked both her weapons into her belt once more.

"Marrick," she wheezed, shuffling back to crouch before him. "You look...like seven different kinds of Hai."

Oriah couldn't help it. She broke out in mirth, her laughter bouncing off the chilled walls, punctuated now and then with a cough.

"I thank thee Yahal, for another day spared from an unrighteous death," she prayed to the air. Then the Benshira shook her head a little and focused her gaze on the wounded squire. "You're hurt, bad. We need to get you inside."

Oriah lifted his good arm over her shoulders, wincing a little as it jounced against her bruised neck. One, two, three! The girl grunted as she hauled him up to his feet. It was a tricky feat, to say the least, getting him to the other side of the building and through the side door. He was much heavier, severely wounded, and suffering a whole rainbow of ailments. It was a minor miracle that they made it inside at all, covered in blood and looking far drunker than they actually were.

"Kevith!" Oriah shouted as soon as they passed through the door. At that moment, her strength gave. The two of them collapsed onto the ground as the area around them suddenly went quiet. Someone ran to get the old bartender, who hobbled over as quick as he could.

"Goods be good," he exhaled, "what did the two of you do, take on a full grown Zith in the middle of the night?"

The girl could've wept at that point, awash with overwhelming relief at the sight of Kevith's hard eyed, grizzled face. "No, the squire...was attacked," she explained through labored breaths. "I...almost came...too late. They were about...to kill him."

"Where are they now?" he demanded, a look of wrath clouding his hawkish eyes.

"Dead, I think," she answered wearily. "Marrick killed two. The third might just be out cold."

Years of training and habit had not left the old veteran. He wasted no time, selecting two nimble footed boys out of the crowd, one to alert a knight and the other to find a doctor. In the mean time, he and a few other able bodied men helped carry the wounded squire and set him down on a long, wooden table hastily cleared of its contents--the best that they could do in such short notice. Some moved to lift Oriah as well but she swatted them away, claiming she was fine.

Several serious-faced women hustled over with warm water and cloths. They made quick work of cleaning the more shallow wounds and removing as much blood-encrusted clothing as possible with wickedly sharp scissors.

By the time the doctor arrived, Marrick looked a little less of a wreck. Ona was more of a midwife than surgeon, but she had six sons and knew her way around a cut or two. She and the rest of the women bustled like bees around the wounded squire, cleaning and bandaging and sewing and mending away in a buzz of activity. Kevith's wife managed to coax Oriah away from the room for a bit to inspect her bruises and fix up some hot tea.

When the Benshira returned, a fully armored knight stood in the center of the tavern, speaking in hushed tones with Kevith. The two men nodded politely in her direction as she emerged from the kitchens and approached, feeling more than a little worried. A few questions were exchanged, suspicions confirmed, and the mystery unraveled. Apparently, Marrick had arrested this Darius fellow for assaulting a masseus at Soothing Waters earlier that day. Seemed Darius got off lucky and came back with his buddies to exact a bit of sweet revenge.

"A good thing you intervened when you did, miss," the knight said. "Otherwise, our fresh recruit here would have served one of the briefest squireships yet."

Oriah shook her head. "It was the only thing I could have done. The right thing. He would have done the same, I'm sure."

The knight gave her a curious look, his helmet tucked neatly under one arm. "Oriah Azari, was it?"

The girl nodded.

"Not very many people who think that way these days," he spoke slowly, as if half lost in thought. "And if the two of you worked together...well, that would be something. If you ever think of testing your mettle for Knighthood, don't dismiss it Miss Azari. I get the feeling you might have what it takes."

With that, the knight nodded once to her, saluted to old Kevith, and marched out of the tavern without so much as another word. Oriah simply stared after him, stunned that she had received such a cryptic compliment and puzzled over his remark on their teamwork. They hadn't been that effective. In fact, it was a very near thing, both of them not dying. And the man hadn't even there to see how things unfolded...what on Miz was he really talking about?

It was no use. The Benshira was too tired to think. Someone questioned where they should take the squire so he could rest more comfortably.

"I have a room at the White Swan," she offered without hesitance. They didn't know where Marrick's quarters were and lacked the luxury of time to find out. Muttering amongst themselves, the tavern goers agreed to borrow someone's cart and escort the squire to the inn. Kevith volunteered as well, insisting it was the least he could do in case more of those thugs returned to finish the job. Once they arrived at the White Swan, the men unloaded Marrick's bandaged form and carried him up the stairs, trying their best not jostle him.

Oriah fumbled for her keys before unlocking the door and holding it open for them. They laid Marrick on her bed, with Jazmin the proprietor peeking over everyone to see what the commotion was all about. She wasn't just about to let a group of strangers toting a wounded squire walking into her inn all willy nilly, even if old Kevith was amongst their ranks.

A few more words of concern and gratitude exchanged with the volunteers, Jazmin, and Kevith and she was dragging her makeshift bedding next to Marrick, sinking in with little more than a sigh. At that moment, the floor felt like a thousand, whisper-soft goose feathers. Pulling a blanket to cover herself, Oriah gave the squire's hand a quick squeeze before she sank into much deserved oblivion. Whatever came tomorrow, came tomorrow.

For now, they were alive.

[Radiant]

njaa

Marrick :

Experience

Skill	XP Earned
Observation	+4 XP
Socialization	+3 XP
Rhetoric	+3 XP
Flirting	+1 XP
Dance	+2 XP
Endurance	+2 XP
Brawling	+1 XP
Wrestling	+1 XP
Weapon: Tamo Dagger	+1 XP

Lores

Lore Earned

Location: Rearing Stallion

Kevith Aargon: Former Knight, Owner of The Rearing Stallion

Oriah: Benshiran Acquaintance

Combat: Human Shield

Loots

+2 Shield Points

Oriah :

Experience

Skill	XP Earned
Observation	+4 XP
Socialization	+3 XP
Rhetoric	+2 XP
Flirting	+1 XP
Teaching	+1 XP
Dance	+1 XP
Weapon: Slingshot	+2 XP
Acrobatic	+1 XP
Brawling	+1 XP
Endurance	+2 XP

Lores

Lore Earned

Location: Rearing Stallion

Kevith: Owner of The Rearing Stallion

Marrick: Squire, Former Slave

Slingshot: Stunning Shot To The Back Of The Head

Loots

Notes :

Nice thread, Oriah, Marrick! I truly enjoyed the jolly and funny moments they shared, of course the intense combat too! Good job!

Marrick better go to the healers after this, or Oriah can call them from the Soothing Waters, since they can instantly heal his wounds through their gnosis, leaving no scars.

Marrick, regarding your grade request, we just need a short description on your requested skills and lore, not a very detailed lore-per-lore request. Please keep this in mind for your future grade requests.

My radiance is not bright enough?

If you have any questions or concerns regarding your grade, beam me a PM and we can work it out.