1629, Fire Season, Death Week, Godsday
Context
Nayale feels responsible for bringing Ornkarth into the group, and guards him. Session S5-O-6.
Events
Dawn is not yet more than a glint in Ernalda’s eye when something wakes Nayale. About now, the wife of all is bringing Yelm and Orlanth together.
Whatever it was, she is awake now.
Nayale rolls off her sleeping hide quickly and quietly. She hadn’t bothered to cover herself when she went to sleep because it was too warm and she’d not meant to sleep long anyway. And she’s awake early enough that dew has not dampened anything yet. Fortunate.
She’d intended to be watching the Lunar. She slept too long. Finding her sword belt, she buckles it into place over the patched and stained padding she wears daily. With the comfort of her sword at her hip, she pauses long enough to buckle her sandals before going hunting for Ornkarth.
There is the sound again. It was a sound. A whistle. Someone is whistling as they stir up yesterday’s fire and push together the parts that will still burn.
It is the Lunar. Ornkarth is at the fire.
Nayale glares suspiciously at him, watching from the relative darkness beyond the small fire’s reach.
He takes the wood and piles it up neatly, then uses a tinder box and some kind of spark-maker to start the fire. He has shaved a bit of wood into a neat pile, and he fans it with the folded padding from his helmet. But for the fact he is dressed in gleaming enchanted iron, he could be any guard, anywhere.
With a scimitar.
The scimitar is, of course, close by him.
Nayale continues to lurk in silence.
Time passes. Her bladder may get a vote soon.
The fire starts to grow as the sun starts to think about rising.
The young woman watches patiently. Guarding the camp against the threat from within.
All he does is build a fire. It seems to take most of his attention, although sometimes he glances at the guard out patrolling, or takes a sip from his water flask. The threat from within is grey-haired, with a neat beard and the callouses of a life spent wearing a helmet. He is also, apparently, getting ready to cook breakfast.
Nayale slips away. She knows where he is and what he’s doing and that satisfies her for the moment. When she returns, she does so openly, buckling her vambraces into place as she arrives to the fire. She is now fully armoured.1CON roll suggests the bladder gets a vote.
He has managed to make porridge in that time. His cooking pot should not have managed to heat so fast, and yet there it is, bubbling away.
“Good morning.” The threat’s accent is Tarshite.
“Good morning,” she replies with a touch of surliness. “What’d you put in that?”
“Water, oats, a little maize, and a pinch of salt,” he replies. “It is the same as you have already had, but what it lacks in originality it makes up for in being hot. Will you have some?”
Before she can make up her mind, her stomach answers for her. Again. Despite her blush, Nayale nods. She’s giving him a really odd look. “Thank you. Why’s a Sword… Scimitar cooking in a Sartarite camp?” she blurts suddenly.
“Because otherwise he will have to wait for breakfast,” Ornkarth replies. “One might as well be useful while being loathed. I have had a lot of practice.”
“You’d be less loathed if you stopped invading Sartar,” she points out before fetching her bowl and spoon. Both are made of wood, highly polished from years of use. She holds her bowl out for the food.
“Oh, Sartar? Yes, I suppose that counts too.” He has a folding spoon made out of a yellow-looking bronze, and he doles out two big scoops when she returns. “Tell me again how this is Sartar?” He glances around at the grazelands.
“You know what I mean,” she growls. “If the Lunar armies stayed put behind your borders, we’d not be at war. Still.”
“Except with each other, tribe and clan?” he suggests with a smile. “Or is that merely high spirits if you are foreign?”
“We don’t consort with demons or Chaos.”
“Telmori,” is his reply. “You call them Telmori.” It is absolutely instant, like the word was already on his tongue.
She glares. “Hardly the same as the Crimson Bat.”
“Have you faced either, that you judge me? I saw the mess that was left of the Maboder tribe.” He shrugs, and starts eating, as if the conversation is of little import to him.
She glares sullenly, stabbing at her porridge with her spoon.
“You do not have to eat it,” Ornkarth says generously after a while.
She takes a bite of her now cooled porridge and makes a face.
“It’s better with honey, and even better with friends.” Ornkarth gives Nayale a smile. “We will have to just make do.”
“Honey is for people who are indulgent,” she tells him. “What were you planning on doing to Maalira?”
“Honey is good for the teeth, and goes well in trail rations,” he says. “Do you really want me to answer your second question? You might not like it.”
“Were you planning to harm her?”
Ornkarth gives Nayale a disappointed look. “Is that what you think of the honour of Yanafal Tarnils?”
“The betrayer of Humakt?”
“Betrayer? The Hero challenged the god openly.” Ornkarth smiles. “Of course, you don’t get told that bit.”
She taps her Truth rune. “We learn the Truth.”
“Oh?” He looks down at his own armour, and his tattoos. “And how do you test that it is the Truth, or do you simply trust what you hear?”
The young Humakti frowns. “Humakt tells us. And the High Sword. We learn how to know from our teachers.”
Prominent on him are Truth, the Moon, and Death. “Mmm. Tell me of your High Sword then.”
She opens her mouth to start talking, then snaps it shut. “No. If you want to know about the High Sword, you can ask his priest. She decides what the enemy needs to know. Not me.”
“Oh, so in some circumstances Humakti do not reveal the Truth?” Ornkarth seems to be busy cleaning his spoon, but a tilt of the head says he is watching.
“That’s not what I said,” she snaps. “You’re twisting my words.”
Ornkarth seems almost but not quite genuinely curious. “How can I, if they are true? You are protecting someone, and therefore you do not say a thing. Is that the Humakti way, or is it merely wisdom?”
There’s an answering glower. “I… you…” She makes an inarticulate sound of frustration, then turns on her heel and leaves.
Ornkarth goes back to whistling, as the camp starts to wake up.
Nayale returns a short while later, her bowl now empty. “Humakt knows the Truth, but knowing it and revealing it to the enemy are different. I am only a Sword Sib and it is not my place to speak for my High Sword or his priest.”
Ornkarth nods, serious for a very brief moment. “Sword Sib. That’s… cute. How old are you?”
“18,” she says defensively.
That gets another nod, and he seems to approve. “Old enough. Have you seen action yet?”
“I have killed, if that’s what you mean. And protected those I love.” She scowls, rubbing her Truth rune. “But if you’re talking about the battlefield, then no.”
“Oh, I’ve seen enough courtierly life to know you do not have to be in battle to kill. It’s almost called for, in Glamour.” Ornkarth is back to his mocking tone again.
“You’re making fun of me. And you never did answer my question about Maalira. If you weren’t planning to harm her,” the young woman’s suggests she doesn’t believe he wasn’t, “the what were you planning?”
“You did not answer whether you really wanted to hear the truth.” Ornkarth has packed away just about everything, although it is still not fully light. Now there is a fire for other people to use, and a pot of still-hot porridge.
“I do.” Her scowl deepens. ““”I have to protect her.”
“Then – nothing save to find out who else was here. I recognised the name and if it was the same Maalira, I wanted to meet with Varannis and the rest of that group.” He gets the accent wrong on the name.
“You’re not Vareena’s type. She doesn’t consort with Lunars. Neither does Lady Berra. You’re only here because caravan master Irillo thinks you have something of value to him.”
“Oh, I hardly consort, at my age. Besides, I’m a Scimitar of a Death God. Do try to keep up.” Ornkarth winces like someone just made a childish error.
Nayale attempts to both glare and roll her eyes. “Not fuck. Ally with. You interpreted that wrong.”
“Oh, of course. To be sure – are you certain that there was no alliance when Varanis and Berra stopped the … perhaps they have not told you that.” He smirks. “One does not have to be in bed with an ally to be marching alongside them each morning.”
It takes her a moment to untangle that. “What do you mean?” she demands, her eyes narrowing.
Ornkarth looks up and around, and picks out Berra, who is standing ruffle-haired as the dawn rises. “They rode into the glowline last year, with an aim in mind. How do you think they did what they wanted?”
She follows his gaze to Berra, then stares back at him. “Are you implying what I think you are?”
“I’m telling you that you are wrong, if that is what you want to know. But again, do you really want to know?” Ornkath takes another glance around. “Irillo was there too. You could ask him.”
“Var…” She pauses, considering. “Berra wouldn’t.”
“You could ask her too. I’d be very interested to know what really happened.” He perks up a little at that idea.
“You’re playing games with me. Trying to get into my head. Won’t work. Just… stay away from Maalira. And don’t try to hurt any of these people.”
As if she could do anything to stop him.
“You are really not worth the effort I would have to put in,” Ornkarth notes. “But I do teach concepts of Truth, and I like to make sure people do not accidentally speak a thing they believe that is not the case. As an officer, I like to rely on decent information.”
“I don’t intend to give you any information.”
He quirks a brow. “I already know your loyalties, your sense of duty, and your pride. What more do I need?”
She opens her mouth to argue, then once again snaps it shut. Her eyes speak plenty. 2((Insight: She’s floundering. She knows it. And she’s finally accepted that this is a losing battle. Her only option is to shut up now. ))
Ornkarth delivers her a bland smile. “And your frustrations,” he adds.
She does not reply.
He gestures her away, gently. His voice is almost caring as he says, “Off you go.”
For a moment, she seems torn, but then she shakes her head. “My fault you’re here. I’ll stay.”
“Fault? Did you send an unknown number of magical traps down towards Esrolia to cover up for your inability to move something quietly?” He might be just checking that.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I came here from Lady Berra’s lands in… I came direct from Sartar. No. My fault because I met you up on that hill and brought you back to camp.”
“When you could indeed have waited for me to ride down. Of course.” He accepts that with his tone even as he rejects it with his words.
She falls back into the safety of silence.
Ornkarth takes another sip of water.
Nayale maintains her self-imposed guard over him.3((And would continue to make a nuisance of herself that way unless Berra or Irillo order her elsewhere.))
For the morning, Nayale is told to be out on the right flank, on horseback.
She looks like she wants to argue, but then does what she’s told.
- 1CON roll suggests the bladder gets a vote.
- 2((Insight: She’s floundering. She knows it. And she’s finally accepted that this is a losing battle. Her only option is to shut up now. ))
- 3((And would continue to make a nuisance of herself that way unless Berra or Irillo order her elsewhere.))
