"How many."
It was the question Wilvamair had asked more than once, so far. A short, bald man with enough pride for the both of them- in no small part because of the ludicrously long tapestry behind him, he was sure. Its weaving told a proud tale of silver men, clad with shield and spear. A tale he was likely to find in ample quantity, even in this sleepy town.
Tapestries were a useful thing, Wilvamair knew. Rare were there opportunities in the Archipelago for one man to know the entire history of another, from one piece of woven cloth. And in Kintyr, one rarely fell far from their forebears. Farmers stayed farmers, and soldiers stayed soldiers. For the most part. Once in a while, there came exceptions. Exceptions like the esteemed 'Townmaster' Rodane before him. But even that seemed to be accounted for on the tapestry, as the honour of silver fell away to the trappings of gold. A change in the Townmaster's tone snapped him out of his musings.
"Admiring the tapestry, eh?"
Admiring was overstating it. But the man had clearly been waiting to speak on the topic. The Knight inclined his head toward the Townmaster after a moment, and nodded. Rodane practically leapt at the opportunity.
"Ah! You are not the first. Chainmen, my ancestors- all of them. As you can see. Soldiers. Bodyguards to the finest kings! If you would believe it."
Wilvamair did not. But he wasn't one to question a man's heraldry to his face. The Knight gave his best attempt at a smile, before giving a quiet reply.
"From bodyguard to alderman. Quite the shift."
"Townmaster, good sir. The titleage is important. But yes, yes. Soldier to Townmaster. More of a legacy to be made that way, anyhow."
"Apologies. Townmaster." he replied. He made no comment to the latter part of that sentence.
Rodane was seemingly satisfied by that, sweeping a final gaze over the tapestry behind him before turning his gaze back to the Knight. Puffy eyes narrowed as his face turned to a sly smile, leaning over the polished oak desk and shaking a pointed index finger up and down towards Wilvamair.
"Speaking of which. I recognise that rune on your neck. Cousin's one of yours."
The Knight raised a brow, at that. "One of mine?"
"Ward of Fae. Fae Knight. What do I call you?"
That was topical. It was Wilvamair's turn to smile as he replied, quiet as ever.
"Depends who you ask, Townmaster. Heretic, to some. Hoarder, to others."
"Hunter, I've been told lately. Is that a title you gave to yourselves?"
The Knight chuckled quietly, at that one. A title more fit for a Darkwald, but one he'd heard before. He looked the short man directly in the eyes as he replied.
"No. Is Townmaster?"
Rodane took his meaning, well and truly. Puffy eyes narrowed once more, and he reclined in his seat.
"Watch your words, hunter. I could send for Great Oaks and Rangers to fulfill this contract just as well."
Wilvamair's gaze narrowed in turn. Eyes of silver and grey moved from the puffy man towards the window. Thick with glass, and barred on both sides.
"But you haven't."
A quiet grumble of admission left the Townmaster, and the Knight's gaze was torn from the window.
"Aye. Damn you. I haven't. You read the bounty?" the man said as he slid the parchment forward. Identical to the one he had read nailed to a tree as he entered Brilonde, albeit in better condition.
"Yes." Wilvamair replied, simply. Else he wouldn't be here.
"Villains most foul, I believe it reads. You'll forgive my theatrics. It was needed, you see. Nasty business. Best to dress it up in fantasy."
Wilvamair shook his head. He leaned forwards, tapping a gloved finger over one of the words. "Not villains. Beasts. I have some questions."
"Beasts.. Yes. Beasts. Ask your questions, hunter."
"The first question, I have already asked. How many."
"A dozen, perhaps."
"Which brings me to my second question. This bounty speaks of highway robbery. Murder. A dozen of what."
"Who, not what. Beasts of men. Not–." the townmaster trailed off, shooting a furtive glance toward the window. That explained the bars.
"Not?"
"Not ordinary men. The kind a Ranger might pursue. I know only what my guards tell me. And what rumours I hear."
"And what do you hear?"
The short man tapped the poster once, then twice. There was a moment of silence, then a response.
"Blurs of purple. Screeching. Three times we have sent mercenaries into those woods. "
No further elaboration was needed, on the fates of the mercenaries. "Magical, then. I see." Wilvamair replied evenly, hands folding on the surface of the desk. "Why has the count not intervened?"
"The count is slow to act, in recent months. You undoubtedly saw the destroyed fields and burned towns on your journey here, did you not?"
"I did."
"And you know of Sendras. Plenty of Breizh went south. Plenty failed to return. Those that did- the fighting men. They've seen enough foul magic to be reluctant to march into the woods in pursuit of it. And so the count does not command it of them. Safer for his position, that way."
"Hence your bounty. Alright. A dozen screeching men. Where?"
"Three miles, to the south. Somewhere in the pines by the main road. I don't know any more than that."
"It's enough."
Wilvamair offered the townmaster a nod, before smoothly pulling to a stand. Not quick enough. The townmaster repeated his early smug gesture, with a turned smile and a waggle of his index finger. The Knight pretended not to see it. It almost got him to the door.
"Your friends outside said something, hunter. It's why I met with you personally, instead of a delegate."
A delegate. As if he were a king, and not the bureaucrat of a barley village in Brilonde. The Knight turned slowly, adjusting his gloved left hand. Wilvamair's silence invited the broadening of the smile.
"I am slow to believe the rumours of foreigner Nelfin in my town. Troublemakers. Saw all I needed to see in the Moors. But curiosity drives us learned men forward."
The temptation crept in to correct the townmaster on his ignorance- to point out her Alaanh, and her nature as a Solvaan born in Carentot. But he doubted the distinction would matter to the man. And he doubted most of all that Rodane had ever stepped foot in the Moors- especially for battle. Wilvamair's response came only in the faintest scrutinising narrowing of his gaze. The short man, oblivious, continued.
"Yes, yes. Hedyn. Allegedly. I have seen more than a few who claim to be of your kind, in my time. Dressed in white. Looking for food and a warm bed. You are cloaked and dressed in black, and asking for neither."
"The Altalar does not follow our faith. Perhaps you misheard."
"Maybe I did. If the Breizhman beside them had not confirmed it, perhaps I'd believe it. Makes no difference what you're pretending to be or not be, in my view. I'll ensure a hero's welcome, when you're done with your bounty."
"I'd prefer if you didn't."
"Good. I was lying. Off with you, hunter. Ensure you've left my town before the week is up. Dark cloaks make folk uneasy, and ease is worth more than gold in this county."
The Knight was happy to oblige.
"You need to stop telling people that I am Hedyn." The Knight spoke abruptly, as the sun began to light the gloom. The Breizh to his right offered a half-startled grunt, near dropping his cup of water in the dying fire. The Solvaan was unfazed as ever, idle flattening of her Alaanh not pausing for even a moment. The Breizhman spoke first.
"Thought you'd fallen asleep. Felmennor thought you had."
The Solvaan folded their Alaanh, before setting it down beside them as if it were an infant. Battle would be coming soon.
"Taking things you have said and saying I said them does not get more amusing the more you do it, Ceastyr."
The Knight turned his gaze up from the fire then to peer towards the man. When lit by the orange glow of the flames, he was the picture-perfect bounty hunter amongst them. Rusted pauldrons and shoddy brigandine, with twin spiked maces on either hip. The round-faced, coif wearing man was no bandit. But he certainly dressed like one.
"Joke enforcement isn't funny, either." replied Ceastyr.
"I was not trying to be funny."
"Oh. So you were trying to be mean."
Wilvamair sighed quietly, at the exchange. Ceastyr and Felmennor turned their heads toward him in turn, and the scaled mail plates that covered the Solvaan from shoulder to hip briefly glimmered in the light, before vanishing back into their linen concealment.
"My nature as Hedyn is not the business of every stranger from here to Drixagh. We're here to help fix things. Not make a name for ourselves."
Felmennor merely nodded her agreement, and went back to folding the Alaanh with near-obsessive detail. Ceastyr spoke, after a moment of evident pondering.
"Why the bounty hunting and the hedge knighting, instead of artifacts?"
"Any bounty that talks of beasts is cause for concern. And we've seen a dozen different bounties with that phrasing since we arrived in Kintyr. Misuse of magic is spreading."
That was enough explanation, it seemed. The fire faded before long, and the three set out towards the pines.
The imminent breaking of dawn was enough light for him to see where he went, in flight. Cool wind whipped against his face as he glided, gaze cast down between the spindly pines. Dull orange illuminated a barren clearing only a few hundred feet from the treeline, and the Knight knew he'd found his mark. Silence was the response to his landing beside Ceastyr and Felmennor, and silence followed as they crept through the pines toward the camp. It was the Breizhman who drew his ugly maces first, then the Solvaan and her halberd of nightsilver, glimmering faintly in the still air of the forest. The Knight's hands remained free of his weapon. No sound of sentry or camp could be heard as they crept towards the very edge of the camp. Yet, the sun was rising. Why was it silent?
His question was soon answered by the faintest shimmer of light at the corner of his eye, like rays of sun through temple glass. "Back!" he hissed under his breath to the two of them, but it was already too late. The illusion shattered like a falling chandelier, and nine pairs of burning golden eyes rushed forwards in a frenzy of movement. Felmennor was the first to act, dropping a hand to the earth and vanishing all at once into a conjured mist. Ceastyr followed, diving for cover towards a burnt stump.
Air whistled against his ears as Wilvamair moved to follow, the mist carrying him leftward with unnatural speed. A dance he had performed before, but never one he quite acclimated to. Spells whizzed overhead as he moved between the trees, and the beginning of screeching beckoned the drawing of swords. The stars were his scabbard as he lifted his right hand skyward, and drew a longsword cast of cosmic flame. The appearance of the weapon startled the bandits for only a moment, before they were back on their hunt. True to the Townmaster's word, three of the nine morphed into near-imperceptible clouds of voidal purple, burning the ground beneath their path before appearing no more than five paces away from Wilvamair.
"Watch the ground." he grunted out, turning just in time to avoid the swipe of a bandit's hatchet for his arm. The attacker faded back into purple as abruptly as he had appeared, and his friend was not far behind. A sense of danger carried him in an evasive clockwise pivot, and a hard horizontal slice aimed preemptively for the cloud. Silver clashed with purple, and the bandit stopped in their tracks, knocked to the ground.
The Knight took his time then, turning his head back towards where he'd seen Caestyr last. A resounding crack filled the air as he swung the mace, evidently watching the paths burned into the ground. One sorcerer dropped, then another. Felmennor appeared beside him, and cleaved a man near enough in two with the nightsilver. Back she went into the mist. Someone screeched. He couldn't tell who. Ceastyr was knocked off his feet, forced back ten paces by a blast of sorcery from his left.
Sword morphed and twisted into a winged spear, flying through the air to meet the caster's side. Faster than he could run. Another screech. His spear flew back to hand. The sense of danger returned, but his balance was off. A sorcerer's boot found his side, and knocked him squarely into the dirt.
Felmennor was knocked from her mist-dance, and sank into the ground through some puddle of deep purple. Ceastyr fared no better, jaggedly moving from tree to tree as air-burning sorcery was flung in his direction. Misses, but drawing closer to their mark.
The sorcerer above him screeched. Ears rang, and his eyes burned. He was losing his composure. A yell of his own left his lips, and a torrent of abrupt silver flame left his hand, driving a hole through the sorcerer with a nasty hissing noise. The screeching stopped. He hated using that spell.
Felmennor's halberd was gone, her hands raised overhead as a cone of greyed mist defended her against the axe blows of her attacker. The purple puddle faded as the sorcerer's stamina waned. All at once the Solvaan was mid-tackle, driving the gangly axeman to the ground. Dull thud after dull thud followed. Altalar cursing. Ceastyr was inspecting his maces. Took one look towards Felmennor, before wisely deciding to shut his mouth. His opponent was nowhere to be seen.
Silence reigned. Felmennor stood, after smoothing out their armour with typical obsessive zeal. The three hunters swept the camp, and his footsteps were silent as he drew up the flap of the largest tent.
"Still slinking around." spoke out a voice from the darkness. Smooth and slow, but with an edge of menace that stood his hairs on end.
"Show yourself." the Knight replied, grip tightening on the silvered sword. Sure enough, the voice did. Burnt and tattered teal jacket, beneath a tattooed neck. Blackened, pupil-less eyes. Malice.
"Killed my men, then." spoke the figure.
"They attacked first."
"By sword, or by rope. Not much of a choice."
"They made their choice when they killed those travellers."
The figure simply smiled, and took a step closer. Wilvamair raised his sword in warning.
"Killers. Judging killers. Those travellers shouldn't have run to the guard after seeing us leave the temple."
"I don't kill the innocent."
"Not directly, no. How many might be saved with free use of the objects you protect?"
"The objects /we/ protect. You swore the same oath."
"Long since forsaken."
"Why."
"There is no Arthair, you idiot. No Galatyr. No holy mission."
"You've been deceived. Cursed."
"Or shown."
The figure gave no chance for him to respond, taking a single sweeping step forward and wrapping an accursed hand around the blade. His arm locked in place. Silver flames danced desperately around the hand. The silver sheen was replaced almost effortlessly by the creeping onset of a crystalline, onyx black. A black that mirrored the figure's eyes. The darkness crept up the length of the blade. He dropped it with a grunt before it could contact his hand. The figure stepped back, grip held against the sword.
"You'll see. In time. And you'll put me to shame."
Wilvamair made no attempt to conceal the frown that spread to his features. "What did you say?"
"You heard me. I choose the sword, Hedyn. Fae brother. Ithanian. Deluded."
The figure knelt. He retrieved his sword.
"You could have killed me, in this tent. Why didn't you?"
He already suspected the answer, as he prepared to bring the sword down.
"I would have, were you anyone else. But. Duties. You understand. Mine is to let your kind fall."
Wilvamair said nothing.
The Townmaster kept his word, almost surprisingly. Both on the coin from the bounty, and his warning that the three hunters should be gone before the week's end. They were happy to oblige. It was a long and quiet road to Carentot, where the necklace of the man who had once been a Ward of Fae would find its final rest, many miles away from its owner. Ceastyr kept a wide berth from Felmennor- a choice which only added to the silence, and detracted from the Knight's mood. Through town, field, forest and river the three hunters journeyed. And rumour of screeching in the woods followed their trail.
(TL;DR : A grim Hedyn, A callous Solvaan, and a Breizh comedian in training pursue tales of rogue sorcerers, and corrupted men.)
(Any Breizh might reasonably hear of their hunt through rumour, if anyone wants to bring up the events of this story ICly.)
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