Closed Traitor's Lies (Wrenmae)

[Imass]

TS: TBD

A group of Knights huddle on sandy clearing before the tributary ridge of a mountain range to their south. They had been riding along the northern face of the ridge for some time now. Just over the saddle of two mountains ran a cleft that ran all the way down to the valley. It was an odd attribute, but none-the-less expected in the post-Valterrian torn world of Mizahar. This was of great hindrance to the group, for they needed to spend almost half a day journeys north in order to cross it. This cleft was not described to them before; perhaps they were off course a little. None the less, they could see their next vantage point so it didn’t matter how off they were from the path. They would lose only time in this confusion of judgment.

Ser Imass the Zealot stood clad in full armor; he wore padded armor under chain huebark, with chestplate, pauldrons, gardbrace, vambraces, gauntlets, cuisses, poleynes, greaves, and solarets. He wore a full helm with a closed visor. Every part of his body was covered in the dull gray armor. It was knotted and full of smithy work; it was apparent that Ser Imass has seen it to good use. The Knight wore a heavy white cloak that hung to his boots where the ends where frayed and soiled with blood and mud. He wore a tabard with the Windoak coat of arms emblazoned on his chest. His sword was sheathed at his side, along with his Lakan at his belt. His shield hung motionless from his left arm. Through the eye slits in the visor, one could see fierce golden eyes. With all the armor on Imass looked like a giant metal bear with spurs.

Huddled around the Akalak in full plate, were several other Knights of similar rank and ambition. Ser Lothor Winegarden stood dressed in full battle plate. He came from a rich family, but needed to climb the ranks just like everyone else. He wore similar armaments as Imass, but his were dark rich green in color, with reinforced trimming to help deflect blows. He wore no helm as golden locks of hair tumbled down to his side. His face was pretty, except for a single scar that left him cleft lipped. It was apparent he came from an affluent family somewhere, but none-the-less Ser Lothor found himself standing around this motley group of Knights. Ser Winegarden was no doubt seeking glory on this trip and would involve himself in all matters of honor intrinsically.

Ser Galthar Hedgemond stood next to Lothor. He was a tall mixed blood with armor in similar quality to Ser Imass, but he wore no helm or cloak. His thin cheeks sported a grizzly beard. His wool like hair was combed uniformly backwards and his eyes were beady and cold. It was hard to know what emotion this man was feeling. His face was pasty and pale in color in the autumn gloom. His mixed blood must have been a melting pot indeed. He was a hedge knight from old Denval and rarely spoke about his past. He rarely spoke anyways, but none the less his presence was always there during important decisions. He looked strong enough in stance and his pommel was well worn from fighting. His body was built toughly, but ugly. He was a hard man from a hard place.

The fourth man in motley was a human sellsword that had joined the expedition to Sahova. The lowborn man was average height and face, but none could deny his skills in hunting and swordplay. He was bald and sported a trimmed black beard. His face was grubby and constantly dirty, but his sun tanned skin hid this fact well. He had big black eyes that shined in fire light and he face was covered in pox. His teeth were rotting from a life time of neglect and nervous clenching. The man was draped from head to do in boiled leather armor over chain. He wore a cloak of animal skins which he tied close to his body. He looked like a big bundle of armored fur. He wore a cutlass and rapier at his side and a thick metal cap. Despite his mountain man appearance, the man’s intentions were clear: he wanted to fight for money. The Knights let him on this trip because he was an honest sell-sword. Despite his cause being for money, he was loyal to the group and did his job without question.

Lying on the floor in front of all four of them was a man in chain. He was wet, shivering, and bound behind his hands and feet. His face looked wretched and full of disease. His tongue was long and ugly. His skin was pale and clammy. His eyes were wide and hollow. He looked vile. Black streams of oily hair covered his face. He was clothed in faded black rags over leather armor. He had visible weapons on him, except for a sword that had been cast away from him.

As these three knights, one sell sword, and prisoner took center stage, other people gathered around them too. Squires, camp followers, passing knights, pages, sellswords, mages, and whoever else wished to watch on. There were at the most a dozen in the audience, but Ser Imass made very little notice of them. They were merely the audience, they did not decide the outcome of what was about to come. That being said, any man or woman may come forward and speak at the parley. The Knights had nothing to hide.

The Sellsword spoke in a harsh accent with a tingle of crispiness, “He is mine, I found him, what concern do the Knights have?”

Ser Lorthor chuckled under his breath, “He is the Syliran Knight’s now. You may have captured him, but you work for us. We must deal with him not you.”

“What is he to you? You do not benefit from this man, no do you lose from not having him, why can’t I have him?” the Sellsword responded with frustration in his voice.

“It is our Duty to bring justice to this man,” the mixed-blood Knight Hedgemond said to everyone and no one.

“What could this man bring to you anyways 3 gold mizahs? Maybe 4? He isn’t even worth the armor on his back and the armor on his back is worth more than his rusty old sword. There is no point in keeping him, plus like good Hedgemond says, it is our Duty!” Ser Lorthor responded to the Sellsword, staring at him

“Aye!” Imass agreed with Hedgemond’s statement under a closed helm.

“Better three mizahs than a head on a spike,” the Sellsword rebuked, “Please, I have been loyal all this time, I want him!”

“We do not take slaves,” Hedgemond said

Ser Imass exclaimed loudly, “He must pay for his crimes,”

The Sellsword jumped in, “Make him work for us, have him help me! I need a good body to hold the kennel with me. I am good with a whip.”

“Hard labor seems appropriate,” Imass remarked.

Ser Lorthor jumped in again, “We do not have time to drag this one back to the Tank half a year’s ride away so he may be judged. We must make the judgment ourselves and not listen to this Sellsword. Execute the man, I says,” the affluent Knight put his hand on the pommel of his sword. It was obvious he wanted to do the deed.

“What about justice? Is it truly just to kill this man when he can serve the group? Is that justice for OURSELVES? Why make life harder?” the Sellsword would not give up. He pleaded with prodding questions and an innocent look on his face.

“Maybe it is better to kill him,” Ser Imass said to himself, deep in thought.

“Our duty calls for swiftness, we must decide and not falter,” Ser Hedgemond reminded them.

Lorthor spat and looked at Imass for some words, but the Akalak was still thinking under his visored helm. The audience murmured quietly.

[Wrenmae]

New days felt like delicate fingers on his skin. Whole once more, Wrenmae walked along the camp in his Waveguard uniform with little concern. Around him the sick would begin to get sicker, the entirety of this contrived plot into the wilderness and the bastion of the nuit would limp aboard a boat and crawl into port.

And he would be uncomfortable for none of it.

Beside him, a blonde haired, blue eyed man of similar build walked alongside him. Wearing one of Wren's other outfits, Zan marveled at the experiences his new shape afforded him. He touched what he should not, he breathed deeply, and then again, and more than once Wrenmae had to knock dirt or pine cones from his hands that were making a swift journey to his mouth.

They found themselves bobbing on a crowd of curious to where a man stood trial for the theft of a horse. Wrenmae hung back, observing the knights and the sellsword arguing their positions. In truth, he favored the sellsword...any work to be done was easier with bound hands, but the Knights were collected and firm on their idea of martial justice.

Before he knew what was going on, Zan had wandered to the front of the crowd and walked into the middle of the proceedings.

"Halt." Ser Lothar commanded, holding out a hand, "Step no farther. You are intruding on our trial."

"Trial for who?"

"For this thief."

Zan cocked his head and stared at the bound man, blinking, his expression trouble.

"What did he steal?"

"My horse." He gestured at the horse beside the trial.

"But it's right there."

There was a silence.

Wren slowly raised his palm to his face, but said nothing. Let the familiar work out his own situations.

"What is your name, young man?" Sir Hedgemond asked.

"Zan," Zan said, "And if it pleases the court...I found this guy's horse. Theft averted."