Foreword: This Lore Story contains mild gay themes and is roughly 14+, containing some affection moments, but nothing too non PG.
It was as if the shutters closed on a dark pantry maid's room and suddenly reopened just as quickly as the tenant forgot to remove the laundry from the line outside her house. Osric was not familiar with dreaming, his nights were simple and over in an instant, to wake as alert as going to bed, and to spare no idle thought, hope or ambition between the closing and the opening. The linens were soft, but the crates underneath hard. The contrast could easily have said something about his life in general, but merely produced cracks this time as it buckled under him while he slowly rose from his lying position. His feet kicked into another's, there was a moment of caution where the hairs in his neck jumped up like a cat tossed very suddenly into danger. As his gaze snapped to the left, however, he was comforted to find no deranged mercenary, no angry family member out for his blood, and no enemy brought down to strike him down. It was just what's-his-name, which was truly all Osric could come up with. He had no idea what his actual name was. Maybe he told him somewhere along the evening, maybe between the third and fourth pint, but it wasn't important enough to remember. His bouncy curls danced gently as Osric ran his hand through them, but even an act as simple as that didn't quite feel right. Someone could have stumbled into the tend then and there and made the conclusion that this was some sort of quiet moment between two lovers, to presume some serene fragility between them, but this was far from the truth. As his hand ran down the young lad's hair, it eventually brushed past his scruffy facial hair, ending at his neckline. Osric pressed the back of his index finger and middle finger firmly against the skin wall of his neck, feeling the gentle pumping of the artery beneath. In the crossing of that moment, it seemed so simple. He could snuff out the life of this young one by simply turning his hand around, and squeezing ever so gently. But that would be wrong, just as wrong as to assume that instead of nothingness, there was tenderness between him and the stranger. He pulled his hand away and proceeded to slide off the crates that were adorned with sheepskins and linens. Between the wrongness of snuffing out the young one's life and the wrongness of deserving affection, there was only Osric's indifference to both of them.
While dressing, the rustling of his pants and belts had somehow awoken aptly named what's-his-name, causing him to turn around and face Osric who was in the middle of belting up. He looked at him with a warm smile that contrasted Osric's scowl. No words were said between them, but the expressions of their eyes spoke louder than words. The young one no doubt experienced some sense of attachment Osric thought to himself, rationalizing that a single night of heated passion had given him some sort of more personal affection for his Mercenary Commander. After all, Osric was the leading Officer of the Silverwolves, the Howlester Mercenary Band in service of the war in the west. In Osric himself, there was only a sense of disgust. A sense of disgust at the fact that he had done his parents wrong again. Words failed to describe the depths of disappointment and disgust his parents had shown him for his affection of men, but he had procured some disgust of his own. The young lad was barely in his mid-twenties, while Osric himself was approaching his sixties. He was old enough to be his father, and some would even say, his grandfather. His lower lip trembled ever so slightly, settling further away from his upper lip, parting, and showing some of his teeth. It was as if he wanted to tell the young one to split and leave him be, yet was stopped by his inner desires. It was an issue he had struggled with at his core for decades, how to both desire and be revolted by something so profound, yet to suffer relapses without end. He could not bid him farewell. He could not send the lad out into the cold outside of the tent alone, for it would invite the cold in, both in the tent and his heart.
He chose to turn around, fumbling with his belt more than usual as thoughts raced through his mind like they always had. His instincts to savage things boiled up, but the contentedness of the scene made it hard for him to lash out. To care was to show weakness. The desire to be deserving of the tranquility of this moment kept circling in his head as he mutedly attempted to clasp the final belt, repeatedly missing the hole, pulling it back and trying again to no avail. His mind had drawn a blank, and a thousand yard stare at the ground had made him deaf to the approach of the young one from behind. His hands coursed past his sides, attaching themselves gently to his own hands as the faint bedroom smell soon found its way to his nostrils. For a moment he dared to tempt fate. He dared to do what he would normally not do, to see what would happen if he permitted the young one to do as he pleased. Body pressed to body, his hands guiding the belt in the right position and clasping it shut, followed by a tender kiss on the back of Osric's neck. An idle hand traced it's way past his sides again, gently brushing against a scar that he had received some years back from a knight that struck his sword through his shield. His daring of fate did not cause him to jolt, it did not cause his hairs to stand up straight, and it did not cause the always predictable turning of the stomach. Yet inversely, it also did not give him any feelings of warmth. Of closeness, of being wanted. The young one showed to him what he had witnessed from his brother William and his lovers countless times when they met, but it made him feel nothing. This was the second time he would feel the same thing that always dominated his entire thought process: indifference to it all.
His reaction to this realization was as automated as it always had been, as trained as a Qadir clockwork spider doing the same menial task day in day out without tiring. His body swiveled, his hand swinging to the young one's face, finally coming in contact with the back of his hand to clap what was moments before still a loving gaze away. There was a moment of silence before the youngling's enraged face turned to him. In his eyes were regret and fear. Osric was well aware he had just realized he was just another one of the recruits that Osric would occasionally take and dispose of, to be rejected so thoroughly after a few days of what seemed like a budding romance. Perhaps it was the coldness of Osric's response that mounted the young one's response to high heavens but Osric was, as always, indifferent.
No words were spoken. The young one just grabbed his things and sped out of the tent with tears welling in his eyes. Osric just raised a hand, brushing it through his silverback military buzz-cut hair, spending more idle thought over having to get his beard trimmed than what had just occurred between him and his most recent plaything. He shrugged once and continued dressing. Unhindered, uninhibited and no longer held back by feelings of confusion and ponderance of life. His mind has reverted back to the most basic of instinct that Osric possessed, preparation for battle and for life in the frontlines of war. When leaving the tent, he spotted a looting party making its way past his tent. He gave a single loud whistle to notify them of his presence, causing them to halt in their tracks effective immediately. Osric rested his thumbs behind his belt, meandering slowly to the looting cart as he disposed of excess spit to the side, eventually peering underneath the woolen blanket that had been used to cover the cart's contents.
There was nothing of personal value to him. A belt he already had, a sword that was too frail, a shield with too many details and a dress that was torn, covered in blood dirt and Spirit knew what else after the soldiers went to town on the conquered city. There was a plethora of sharp and crude objects, ragged edges, cracked surfaces and destroyed embellishments that had once meant the world to the people here but had now simply been taken as booty for war. To Osric, this was only natural, as natural as the mercenaries halted to a simple command of his, as natural as the soldiers bowing their heads in deference to him now as he browsed through the loot. As natural as his own strength given right to be the alpha wolf of the Silverwolves, even at his age.
And then there it was. It caught his eye by virtue of a single reflection, a small sparkle of light and beauty and fragility in the middle of damage, ruination and the remnant signs of death and loss that was sprayed on various objects. A single shining object, like a small faint candle of pure goodness in all this decay that remained clean and untainted by the spoils of war. Perhaps it had strung from a Prince's necklace or was worn by a tall Lady. The object seemed too large to be a piece of two earrings, yet too small to have adorned a brooch or necklace. Yet there it was, fragile and surrounded by shards of broken and singed pottery as if someone had attempted to hide it before the looters had come. He reached his large meaty hands inside, scratching and even drawing blood on his calloused fingers as he grazed past the shards of clay, to grab the small object and pull it out. He waved his hand for the cart to continue, and off they barged to the nearby tent where the loot would be picked at by the lower officers and mercenaries.
He opened his hand and was met with a fragile thing of beauty, a silver pendant encrusted with small light blue sapphires that reflected the morning sunlight and a beautiful radiant stag-like animal that sat center, its horns made out of small shards of dark blue sapphire and a single small diamond set in its eye. The stones were minuscule and had beautiful flowery swirls and embellishments carved into it, almost like a flower opening up for the first time and revealing the treasures held within. And it was perhaps in that moment that he, much as he had done to reach that small speck of beauty in a cart of nothing of value, reached into his own self to find a piece of him that cared, to cast away the indifference. Even if just for a moment.
He grabbed the nearest scribe, practically by the throat, and gave it very clear instructions: To deliver this piece with the greatest care to the smiths in the Sunspear Isles and to have the renowned silversmiths produce an earring piece to it. To then have it carefully wrapped again, and sent to Regalia, where the item should finally be delivered to Howlester Castle. Once inside, the Steward was to receive instructions not to give the item with the rest of the letters and parcels, but rather to wait until a morning with red sky hues would dawn in Regalia, to open the windows and curtains of the lord and lady Rodderick and Katrianne's bedroom, and to deliver the item unwrapped on a white velvet cloth to their bedside as they rose for the morning. The final instruction was to specifically have the gift be sent by the address of William Howlester and to have it presented for the lady of Castle Howlester to outshine every other lady of the city, and to bring pride in her husband like son does to his own father.
With a quick slap on the shoulder, the frightened scribe was sent on his way. Osric rested his hands on his sides, inhaled deeply through his nose before wandering off, quickly shutting his mind off again and preparing for the battles to come while the winds carried his gift away.
It was as if the shutters closed on a dark pantry maid's room and suddenly reopened just as quickly as the tenant forgot to remove the laundry from the line outside her house. Osric was not familiar with dreaming, his nights were simple and over in an instant, to wake as alert as going to bed, and to spare no idle thought, hope or ambition between the closing and the opening. The linens were soft, but the crates underneath hard. The contrast could easily have said something about his life in general, but merely produced cracks this time as it buckled under him while he slowly rose from his lying position. His feet kicked into another's, there was a moment of caution where the hairs in his neck jumped up like a cat tossed very suddenly into danger. As his gaze snapped to the left, however, he was comforted to find no deranged mercenary, no angry family member out for his blood, and no enemy brought down to strike him down. It was just what's-his-name, which was truly all Osric could come up with. He had no idea what his actual name was. Maybe he told him somewhere along the evening, maybe between the third and fourth pint, but it wasn't important enough to remember. His bouncy curls danced gently as Osric ran his hand through them, but even an act as simple as that didn't quite feel right. Someone could have stumbled into the tend then and there and made the conclusion that this was some sort of quiet moment between two lovers, to presume some serene fragility between them, but this was far from the truth. As his hand ran down the young lad's hair, it eventually brushed past his scruffy facial hair, ending at his neckline. Osric pressed the back of his index finger and middle finger firmly against the skin wall of his neck, feeling the gentle pumping of the artery beneath. In the crossing of that moment, it seemed so simple. He could snuff out the life of this young one by simply turning his hand around, and squeezing ever so gently. But that would be wrong, just as wrong as to assume that instead of nothingness, there was tenderness between him and the stranger. He pulled his hand away and proceeded to slide off the crates that were adorned with sheepskins and linens. Between the wrongness of snuffing out the young one's life and the wrongness of deserving affection, there was only Osric's indifference to both of them.
While dressing, the rustling of his pants and belts had somehow awoken aptly named what's-his-name, causing him to turn around and face Osric who was in the middle of belting up. He looked at him with a warm smile that contrasted Osric's scowl. No words were said between them, but the expressions of their eyes spoke louder than words. The young one no doubt experienced some sense of attachment Osric thought to himself, rationalizing that a single night of heated passion had given him some sort of more personal affection for his Mercenary Commander. After all, Osric was the leading Officer of the Silverwolves, the Howlester Mercenary Band in service of the war in the west. In Osric himself, there was only a sense of disgust. A sense of disgust at the fact that he had done his parents wrong again. Words failed to describe the depths of disappointment and disgust his parents had shown him for his affection of men, but he had procured some disgust of his own. The young lad was barely in his mid-twenties, while Osric himself was approaching his sixties. He was old enough to be his father, and some would even say, his grandfather. His lower lip trembled ever so slightly, settling further away from his upper lip, parting, and showing some of his teeth. It was as if he wanted to tell the young one to split and leave him be, yet was stopped by his inner desires. It was an issue he had struggled with at his core for decades, how to both desire and be revolted by something so profound, yet to suffer relapses without end. He could not bid him farewell. He could not send the lad out into the cold outside of the tent alone, for it would invite the cold in, both in the tent and his heart.
He chose to turn around, fumbling with his belt more than usual as thoughts raced through his mind like they always had. His instincts to savage things boiled up, but the contentedness of the scene made it hard for him to lash out. To care was to show weakness. The desire to be deserving of the tranquility of this moment kept circling in his head as he mutedly attempted to clasp the final belt, repeatedly missing the hole, pulling it back and trying again to no avail. His mind had drawn a blank, and a thousand yard stare at the ground had made him deaf to the approach of the young one from behind. His hands coursed past his sides, attaching themselves gently to his own hands as the faint bedroom smell soon found its way to his nostrils. For a moment he dared to tempt fate. He dared to do what he would normally not do, to see what would happen if he permitted the young one to do as he pleased. Body pressed to body, his hands guiding the belt in the right position and clasping it shut, followed by a tender kiss on the back of Osric's neck. An idle hand traced it's way past his sides again, gently brushing against a scar that he had received some years back from a knight that struck his sword through his shield. His daring of fate did not cause him to jolt, it did not cause his hairs to stand up straight, and it did not cause the always predictable turning of the stomach. Yet inversely, it also did not give him any feelings of warmth. Of closeness, of being wanted. The young one showed to him what he had witnessed from his brother William and his lovers countless times when they met, but it made him feel nothing. This was the second time he would feel the same thing that always dominated his entire thought process: indifference to it all.
His reaction to this realization was as automated as it always had been, as trained as a Qadir clockwork spider doing the same menial task day in day out without tiring. His body swiveled, his hand swinging to the young one's face, finally coming in contact with the back of his hand to clap what was moments before still a loving gaze away. There was a moment of silence before the youngling's enraged face turned to him. In his eyes were regret and fear. Osric was well aware he had just realized he was just another one of the recruits that Osric would occasionally take and dispose of, to be rejected so thoroughly after a few days of what seemed like a budding romance. Perhaps it was the coldness of Osric's response that mounted the young one's response to high heavens but Osric was, as always, indifferent.
No words were spoken. The young one just grabbed his things and sped out of the tent with tears welling in his eyes. Osric just raised a hand, brushing it through his silverback military buzz-cut hair, spending more idle thought over having to get his beard trimmed than what had just occurred between him and his most recent plaything. He shrugged once and continued dressing. Unhindered, uninhibited and no longer held back by feelings of confusion and ponderance of life. His mind has reverted back to the most basic of instinct that Osric possessed, preparation for battle and for life in the frontlines of war. When leaving the tent, he spotted a looting party making its way past his tent. He gave a single loud whistle to notify them of his presence, causing them to halt in their tracks effective immediately. Osric rested his thumbs behind his belt, meandering slowly to the looting cart as he disposed of excess spit to the side, eventually peering underneath the woolen blanket that had been used to cover the cart's contents.
There was nothing of personal value to him. A belt he already had, a sword that was too frail, a shield with too many details and a dress that was torn, covered in blood dirt and Spirit knew what else after the soldiers went to town on the conquered city. There was a plethora of sharp and crude objects, ragged edges, cracked surfaces and destroyed embellishments that had once meant the world to the people here but had now simply been taken as booty for war. To Osric, this was only natural, as natural as the mercenaries halted to a simple command of his, as natural as the soldiers bowing their heads in deference to him now as he browsed through the loot. As natural as his own strength given right to be the alpha wolf of the Silverwolves, even at his age.
And then there it was. It caught his eye by virtue of a single reflection, a small sparkle of light and beauty and fragility in the middle of damage, ruination and the remnant signs of death and loss that was sprayed on various objects. A single shining object, like a small faint candle of pure goodness in all this decay that remained clean and untainted by the spoils of war. Perhaps it had strung from a Prince's necklace or was worn by a tall Lady. The object seemed too large to be a piece of two earrings, yet too small to have adorned a brooch or necklace. Yet there it was, fragile and surrounded by shards of broken and singed pottery as if someone had attempted to hide it before the looters had come. He reached his large meaty hands inside, scratching and even drawing blood on his calloused fingers as he grazed past the shards of clay, to grab the small object and pull it out. He waved his hand for the cart to continue, and off they barged to the nearby tent where the loot would be picked at by the lower officers and mercenaries.
He opened his hand and was met with a fragile thing of beauty, a silver pendant encrusted with small light blue sapphires that reflected the morning sunlight and a beautiful radiant stag-like animal that sat center, its horns made out of small shards of dark blue sapphire and a single small diamond set in its eye. The stones were minuscule and had beautiful flowery swirls and embellishments carved into it, almost like a flower opening up for the first time and revealing the treasures held within. And it was perhaps in that moment that he, much as he had done to reach that small speck of beauty in a cart of nothing of value, reached into his own self to find a piece of him that cared, to cast away the indifference. Even if just for a moment.
He grabbed the nearest scribe, practically by the throat, and gave it very clear instructions: To deliver this piece with the greatest care to the smiths in the Sunspear Isles and to have the renowned silversmiths produce an earring piece to it. To then have it carefully wrapped again, and sent to Regalia, where the item should finally be delivered to Howlester Castle. Once inside, the Steward was to receive instructions not to give the item with the rest of the letters and parcels, but rather to wait until a morning with red sky hues would dawn in Regalia, to open the windows and curtains of the lord and lady Rodderick and Katrianne's bedroom, and to deliver the item unwrapped on a white velvet cloth to their bedside as they rose for the morning. The final instruction was to specifically have the gift be sent by the address of William Howlester and to have it presented for the lady of Castle Howlester to outshine every other lady of the city, and to bring pride in her husband like son does to his own father.
With a quick slap on the shoulder, the frightened scribe was sent on his way. Osric rested his hands on his sides, inhaled deeply through his nose before wandering off, quickly shutting his mind off again and preparing for the battles to come while the winds carried his gift away.
