Alyndel the Gilded
The Room of the Inn
Day After the Fight
The Room of the Inn
Day After the Fight
They had won the battle. The enemy was driven off. Many lay dead, some captured, others on their way into the wilderness. Alyndel's sword was glued to his hand in sticky dry blood. His shield would need cleaning and some hammering, as well as his armor, but it would be easy to deal with. He could just give it to the armorer. He has several wounds upon him, including the one just above his hip. A healer was knelt down beside him, her hands over the wound healing it with magic. She was invaluable, and Alyndel thanked her when she was finished. Healers should be easier to find in these bloody years, but it only got harder to find one. The Red Gauntlet got a couple, since it had gained much prestige. His fellow mercenaries stalked the battlefield, giving their mercies to the irrevocably dying, and praying to Sokva. Alyndel turned around, inspecting his fallen comrades, eyeing Jerold, the boy that was felled just several minutes before. A healer was trying hard, but they needed their magical strength for those that could be saved. At this point it would only prolong the suffering of the dying inevitable. Alyndel walked over to Jerold, Leuen was holding the boy on his lap, his hands in Jerold's armpits, keeping him from rolling over. Jerold was pale in the face and shaking wildly, staring into the azure sky as clouds passed by. "Wars are for men, and sometimes women. Today, boy, there was scarce a way you could have done better. Let those anxious thoughts go. Today you are a man. We all wish there was another way for you to have earned your manhood, but we are proud of you," said Alyndel. He knew that Jerold wanted desperately to be grown-up. He could not deny the loss of innocence, especially not now. He wanted the boy to go to Sokva without fear.
Jerold tried to speak, but coughed, spitting up the blood leaking from his mouth. "Tell my mother that I regret leaving her, but I went forward and did what I thought was right. Tell her to keep Lorrie and Harren on the farm." Tears slid down from his eyes and his shaking grew stiller and stiller.
"I shall hold a sword to Darath's throat if I must, but we shall visit your mother. You have my word."
"And mine," said Darath, behind Alyndel, staring directly into Jarold's eyes, his jaw set and his eyes hard. The boy stopped shaking. "Alyndel," said Darath, still staring hard into Jerold's now lifeless eyes," I would like it if you did not think I was a lesser man." He walked away.
Alyndel woke up, his body sore. His head was less pained than he thought it would be. It seemed he could still see as well as ever. He looked about the room. His sword was propped against the wall. On the nightstand beside him was a note. He started to lift his arm but it was stiff. He kept lifting it, putting it out the side and rolling it around. When it could finally move relatively well, he grabbed the small piece of paper. It said how much needed to be paid to a healer named Assandra, and where he could submit his payment. He was in less pain than he ought to be so he would pay for services well-done. The stiffness would probably occur anyway, laying in bed for half a day, a night, and another half a day. The lord that had pummeled him...he had a few thoughts about that Nord, to say the least. The thoughts being what he could even remember at all. What he remembered was... well, admittedly pitiful. He had not had such an honest thought in a long time, not since before he had defeated that necromancer and received his high praises for a task much, much simpler than his liege's domain had thought it was.
Never before in his life had he even thought to push a beggar. When he was young, he had fought three older children when they began picking on an old beggar named Gil, short for something Alyndel could not remember. He had gotten his small ass kicked but they walked away afterward and never bothered Gil again. When he was young...he had not seen his family in about 120 years. Holy Shadowland, he had not seen his family in one-hundred and twenty years. There was no excuse for not doing so, not one. He could have visited them after the war, but he remained in the Red Gauntlet to fight and march, defeating bastions of resistance from the war. Darath did not need him, and he could return to the company after his journey. Then...oh lords, what had he been doing with himself? The faux-chivalry, the drunkenness, he had been wandering about with more than he could even afford. He was teetering on the very edge of ruin, of being an abject failure.
A memory from the war started to come into being in his mind, like rippling water becoming smooth. As it manifested Alyndel grappled the memory, remembering its outcome. It was a fortress. At least five hundred troops manned it. He was assaulting it, remembering the hail of arrows and stones, climbing the ladder to see a disorganized melee. He entered it and the battle on the walls became more organized, slaying the enemies upon the wall as enemy archers and slingers ran off the walls and shot their projectiles from the ground below. The battle would be surprisingly quick, and he had an arrow in the back of his lower leg, but he was fine.
Everything was sore, but Alyndel sat up eventually. He did his stretches, working everything out. Picking up the note again, he looked at the money he owed. Thirty coppers. He'd need to do a big job. He'd do it, because he needed to pay this, and he needed to visit whoever was left for him in Aarendell. His throat was dry. He grabbed his liquor container and stopped. Uncapping it, he drunk quickly and drunk enough to soothe his hoarse throat. Capping it, he set it back down on the table and put on his armor. He put his belt on and realized his sword would be dull after the Nord lord has threw it on the pavement. The whetstone was practically lost, but he found it under the night stand and sat down on the bed, remembering what the armorer of the Red Gauntlet had taught him all those decades ago. "Wet your blade. Oil and whetstone. If your sword was made well, then it will surely not fail you if you maintain it so." When he was finished Alyndel drew the sword across his finger, drawing blood, and he was satisfied. After cleaning the sword he picked up his shield and went out to his horse and prepared it to go.
There were several boards all across the city that the guards and those that needed aid used to post about quick, paying jobs. One was taking on a group of bandits at a outpost that they had built out of logs. It was interesting, and so he would take it up. It also paid fifty coppers. Alyndel drove his horse to a canter and made his way outside the city.
