10th of Summer, 514 AV
Isana Lin's world was a maelstrom of paperwork and wrist-ache. The knight rubbed her parchment-dry eyes, bleary pupils barely noticing the surrounding training ground. She didn't understand it. Paper was expensive. Time was expensive. Yet, the order seemed to have no difficulty consuming vast quantities of her supply of the latter with absolutely monumental deposits of the former.
Requisitions requests trundled across her desk like caravans navigating distant roads, guided to safety only by the liberal application of the appropriate signatures just so. 'Appropriate' in this case being someone to blame in the event that the requisitioned items mysteriously vanished. Of course. I must have forgotten how dearly I desired a half-dozen lances. Her quill darted across the page, scratching in another pledge she could not possibly afford to keep in writing that was little more than an exhausted scrawl. By her reckoning, come tomorrow she would be responsible for a good quarter of the order's training equipment.
Her wrist cracked as she pulled it back, working some of the stiffness from the overworked joint. The requisitions were not the worst of it. There were medical supplies to organise, to tend to the inevitable dullard too thick to yield a lost a bout. Tents and pavilions to seat contestants and observers alike. Horses for the mounted combats. Food and water for participants, oil for weapons. Most, mercifully, were now more or less prepared, if not by Isana than by one of the pages under her direction, or some other poor soul who had the audacity to admit to not wanting any part in bludgeoning another knight in the public eye.
Instead, she found herself handling registrations.
"It could be worse." A familiar mop of dirty blond hair bobbed out of the stairwell descending into Dyres district. Varner paused before the raised bench Isana had pressed into service as a desk, a steaming mug of something that smelt like a burning farmhouse cradled in one hand. He placed it down precariously close to her paperwork.
"Do describe how." It didn't make sense. The last time the pair had spoken the exchange had stopped just short of a full-blown row in the corridors. Now, here Varner was, all smiles. Isana didn't complain. She needed someone else fighting her like she needed a blade in the guts.
"You could be fighting me." Varner gave one of his characteristic winks and tapped the blank registration form, half-buried beneath a duty roster. "Name - well, I would hope you remember that, and -" He tapped the second column thoughtfully. "Let's say Blue Company, Gold Quadron of the Fighting First Regiment."
Isana's quill scrambled to catch up, a drop of ink seeping into the deep oak of the bench.
Requisitions requests trundled across her desk like caravans navigating distant roads, guided to safety only by the liberal application of the appropriate signatures just so. 'Appropriate' in this case being someone to blame in the event that the requisitioned items mysteriously vanished. Of course. I must have forgotten how dearly I desired a half-dozen lances. Her quill darted across the page, scratching in another pledge she could not possibly afford to keep in writing that was little more than an exhausted scrawl. By her reckoning, come tomorrow she would be responsible for a good quarter of the order's training equipment.
Her wrist cracked as she pulled it back, working some of the stiffness from the overworked joint. The requisitions were not the worst of it. There were medical supplies to organise, to tend to the inevitable dullard too thick to yield a lost a bout. Tents and pavilions to seat contestants and observers alike. Horses for the mounted combats. Food and water for participants, oil for weapons. Most, mercifully, were now more or less prepared, if not by Isana than by one of the pages under her direction, or some other poor soul who had the audacity to admit to not wanting any part in bludgeoning another knight in the public eye.
Instead, she found herself handling registrations.
"It could be worse." A familiar mop of dirty blond hair bobbed out of the stairwell descending into Dyres district. Varner paused before the raised bench Isana had pressed into service as a desk, a steaming mug of something that smelt like a burning farmhouse cradled in one hand. He placed it down precariously close to her paperwork.
"Do describe how." It didn't make sense. The last time the pair had spoken the exchange had stopped just short of a full-blown row in the corridors. Now, here Varner was, all smiles. Isana didn't complain. She needed someone else fighting her like she needed a blade in the guts.
"You could be fighting me." Varner gave one of his characteristic winks and tapped the blank registration form, half-buried beneath a duty roster. "Name - well, I would hope you remember that, and -" He tapped the second column thoughtfully. "Let's say Blue Company, Gold Quadron of the Fighting First Regiment."
Isana's quill scrambled to catch up, a drop of ink seeping into the deep oak of the bench.
Nicholas Varner - Blue Company, Gold Quadron, First Regiment
Once it stilled, she glanced up, eyebrow raised. "The Fighting First?"
"Yes, it has a certain ring to it, wouldn't you say? I had best practice to be worthy of the term." The knight grinned and ran a hand over the pommel at his waist. "Enjoy yourself, Isana." He said, tone suggesting that he knew exactly little she would. Varner grinned and it was Isana who broke eye contact first, gaze settling on the pungent mug still squatting on her desk.
"You forgot your-" Isana eyed the cup and realised she'd never seen its like before. "- drink." Varner just waved back.
"You keep it. You can owe me a coffee." His eyes darted back down the stairwell and the faint clinking of mail that drifted up the stone steps. "I suspect you'll need it more than I do." Varner vanished into the training ground's tiny grove, leaving her alone with the stinking drink, the clashing of blades, and the promise of a day's paperwork.
Yes. She winced and picked up the quill. I suspect you're right.
"Yes, it has a certain ring to it, wouldn't you say? I had best practice to be worthy of the term." The knight grinned and ran a hand over the pommel at his waist. "Enjoy yourself, Isana." He said, tone suggesting that he knew exactly little she would. Varner grinned and it was Isana who broke eye contact first, gaze settling on the pungent mug still squatting on her desk.
"You forgot your-" Isana eyed the cup and realised she'd never seen its like before. "- drink." Varner just waved back.
"You keep it. You can owe me a coffee." His eyes darted back down the stairwell and the faint clinking of mail that drifted up the stone steps. "I suspect you'll need it more than I do." Varner vanished into the training ground's tiny grove, leaving her alone with the stinking drink, the clashing of blades, and the promise of a day's paperwork.
Yes. She winced and picked up the quill. I suspect you're right.
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NoteThis thread doesn't register your character for the games OOC-ly. You'll need to see the stickied thread for that. Feel free to post even if you're not attending the games, though. Happy writing!
Ledger- 3 SM (One Cup, Common Coffee - From The Bean Menu.)
NoteThis thread doesn't register your character for the games OOC-ly. You'll need to see the stickied thread for that. Feel free to post even if you're not attending the games, though. Happy writing!
Ledger- 3 SM (One Cup, Common Coffee - From The Bean Menu.)
