A Blade and a Fire, First Verse [ Closed ]

[Barbatos]

The mark upon the Sellsword's life was indeed fresh.

So fresh, in fact, that a mere swig of freshly brewed stew did little to quell the budding storm within. Barbatos typically did a good job of focusing on the daily. It kept his mind and heart distracted from the gaping void in his life. If he was more occupied about his next job or finding another opportunity, then he would not remember the day he went searching in the broken city. He could bury and ignore the sight of his father when he finally unearthed him...or rather, what was left of the great man who had raised him.

But the conversation had taken a mallet to the effort of distraction. And as the ivory-haired woman focused upon him, Barbatos lowered his gaze. He willed his focus to settle upon the stew in his grasp. He attempted to suss out what each bit within the broth was. What was meat and what wasn't. What could he recognize? All in an attempt to keep the storm within at bay. It was hard, but he thought he could do it. All the while, the one called Faelora spoke again. Her tone was gentle as she began, acknowledging that she had heard about the destruction of his home.

As for his question, she offered her hand and Barbatos looked up. He saw her palm as she explained. Divination it was called. "I see." came his simple response. "And how did you come about this power?"

He asked in the hopes of steering the conversation away. But it was only fair that he answered the question that came immediately after. It was an obvious one, given the nature of the Calamity. Barbatos sighed and settled his gaze upon her face. "I was away from the city at the time. Was saved simply by being at the right place at right time." From thence, he finished off his own bowl of stew in a few hearty chugs.

.

[Faelora]

3rd day of Searing, 122

Perhaps it was her nomadic lifestyle, the nature of her culture as a Siltori, or some lack of social conditioning as a child, but Faelora did not appear to notice the inner turmoil her questions had caused in Barbatos. However, she did have the good sense to keep her lips closed at his answer to how he escaped the storm himself. Lucky for him, perhaps, although the witch new better than to say such. After all, Jael had once said something similar to how she had been lucky in her own disaster for the circumstances that had saved her, and she had not seen it that way. She still didn't.

"How does anyone learn anything?" The witch asked in return, "My mother taught me, and her mother taught her, and she was taught by hers, and back and back it goes."

As she spoke, her fingers moved to touch one of her talismans; a little triangular leather pouch with dangling beads and feathers hanging from her neck. The girl herself hardly seemed to be aware she was doing it at all.

From behind them, Azazoth interrupted with a huff and a grunt as he flicked his tail. The steed raised his head, ears tilted towards the pair as if to eavesdrop, then as Faelora met his gaze, he moved from one patch or grass to another, clearly ginger on his back foot. The elf narrowed her eyes at him.

"The gods won't tell me if he's just trying to play me." She grimaced to herself.

Her attention moved back to Barbatos, this time her attention was drawn to the sword at his hip. Well, her gaze had started at his hip, but something about him caught her attention. He was handsome. She had figured that she was safe from most of the good-looking folk out here as they typically kept to the cities, maybe that was why she had managed to go so long without noticing.

"How good are you with that?" She nodded towards the sword, pursing her lips, "I mean, I'm sure you are good with it, you're out here after all. I mean... Ugh, never mind."

Hastily, she stood, brushing herself down and walking with purpose towards her horse. Azazoth, at least, she didn't get flustered around.

[Barbatos]

At the very least, the ivory-haired woman was kind enough not to poke or prod further.

While it was fair to answer her question as she had gladly sated his own curiosity, the one called Faelora did not cause Barbatos any further turmoil. After the words left his lips, the Sellsword briefly distracted himself by reaching for the waterskin on his belt. Keeping his gaze averted, he uncorked the small vessel and poured a few refreshing swigs in his mouth. He kept his mind focused entirely on this task. In doing so, he could attempt to bury the storm once more. He could keep moving forward and keeping living.

After a few cool swallows, Barbatos lowered the waterskin. The one called Faelora began to answer his question about how she learned the art of Divination. She was taught in a tradition passed down from mother to daughter for generations. The sable-skinned man corked his beverage and returned it to his belt, offering a light nod. As his gaze returned to her face, he noticed that her fingertips graced the necklace which hung before her chest. It was unlike any of the jewelry one might find about the necks in the city, and so Barbatos asked.

"That's an interesting necklace. Passed down as well?" The smalltalk was simple, but punctuated by the antics of her steed. Barbatos chuckled lightly as she remarked about the silence of the gods on the matter of her horse. "Ah, the gods remain fickle. You can see so much of life, but not if your horse if messing with you." He shook his head, smirking for just a moment. The motion caused him to miss just how intently the ivory-haired woman was looking at him.

She then nodded towards his hips and asked asked a question that gave the man pause. His eyebrows briefly raised until she corrected herself, and Barbatos had to clear his throat lightly to kill the laugh that was brewing in his throat. He also had to fight the urge to ask which sword are you referring to as she stood. Instead, he simply called after her as she approached Azazoth.

"I'm a Sellsword by trade. I'm not master of the blade, but I'm competent enough to make a decent living. Why do you ask?"

He then rose to his feet, intent on making good his end of the deal. His strides were confident and bore him a few paces closer to where she stood. "We can see about his hoof whenever you're ready."

.

[Faelora]

3rd day of Searing, 122
The answer to the warrior's question came with a surprised "hm?" and a glance down, dropping her fingers, she nodded with a half-shrug, "Oh, I suppose. Although I've changed the neck cord, and I sat next to mother as she patched the leather, I don't imagine any of the original talisman still remains."

So, he was a sellsword, a mercenary. That made sense, although his demeanour was pleasant, polite, a man who had been raised to have respect. She considered opening her mouth to say so, but perhaps that wasn't a good idea. Barbatos stood and approached, as Faelora took a hold of Azazoth's bridle and watched the man.

Immediately she felt her cheeks grow warm. Oh he was tall. Had he originally been that tall? He moved with such easy confidence, seemingly entirely unfazed by the size of her equine companion. Catching herself watching for just a moment longer than was polite, the girl grimaced to herself and cleared her throat, forcing her attention onto stroking Azazoth's velvety nose.

"For the most part, my reputation keeps me safe enough out here," she answered him, keeping her eyes on the horse as he sniffed her hands curiously, "but there are those who don't understand our concept of reputation. I've considered for a while that I'd like to learn how to wield a blade. Sadly, not many who come this way seem willing to teach me."

As the man drew closer, Faelora kept one hand on Azazoth's bridle, her other extended to point at the back left hoof,

"It's that one, if you don't mind."

She then reached around to one of the pouches on her back hip, pulling out a small red apple. Holding it just out of reach of the stallion, she cooed to him,

"Ooh, what's this, big boy? You really want it, don't you?"

Although the enormous creature pushed his head against her, the Siltori was unbothered, planting her feet in the ground and hiding the apple behind her back,

"Oh you think I'm that easy? You're a tart, Azzie."

[Barbatos]

The Sellsword was slightly surprised to hear the tale of the woman's necklace.

Surprised, insofar as he had anticipated that its origin would be as "grand" as her tutelage in Divination. Yet, his question the matter was met with a simple shrug and a brief piece on how she had changed and repaired it overtime. Her mother had a hand in patching it up at some point, but nothing awe-inspiring. Barbatos nodded nonetheless before the ivory-haired woman asked him about his sword. And, as the sable-skinned man followed, he watched as the one called Faelora took ahold of the horse's bridle.

Barbatos was too busy eyeing Azazoth to catch the warmth spreading across the woman's cheeks. Rather, he placed his hands upon his hips and allowed a low whistle to pass through his lips. "Up close, Azazoth is a handsome one." He remarked, offering a smile to the steed once more. And then came the answer as to why she inquired about his skill with the blade. When the woman mentioned her reputation, the Sellsword's eyebrow cocked inquisitively.

Being that he was very new to the area, he did not know what reputation she had. But, if whatever repute she carried did not dissuade others...well, it didn't take a genius to know what happened to people alone in the wilds. Being a Sellsword exposed Barbatos to some of the uglier sides of society - so he offered an empathetic nod as she spoke. "I can understand the thought. I'm unaware of this reputation of yours, I'd imagine anyone surviving Zaichaer would be just as ignorant." he began. "Would...you mind telling me what that reputation is?"

She then pointed to the back, left hoof of the beast while Barbatos continued. "That being said, if you insist on staying outside of the city, then I'd be happy to teach you. Can't have you getting another mark on your hand." The Sellsword smirked at his own joke as he leaned over and gently took Azazoth's leg in his hands. Gingerly, he raised while the steed aided.

"Bet it feels good to be off the leg for a bit, ey?"

.

[Faelora]

3rd day of Searing, 122
The witch's smile was a warm, genuine one, a hum of agreement passing through her lips as Barbatos remarked on the horse. Azazoth was indeed a stately creature; far too nice to travel with the likes of Faelora, she figured. But his impressive size and somewhat mystical colouring were part of the reason she had bonded with him. That, then, came in as part of her answer when the mercenary asked about her reputation. Without thinking, Faelora tucked the apple into the back of the crescent-moon-shaped branch holding up her hair and swept her arm out wide to take in her camp. From the top of her tent hung a the skull of a stag, complete with his antlers, a rune painted onto his forehead. From a few of the low branches of the tree nearby hung strange constructs; twigs tied with twine.

Would...you mind telling me what that reputation is?

"Weird."

The answer was a singular word, but the implication was much stronger. It was the unknown that kept the girl safe. In truth, the rune on the stag's head was an old name, and the twig-charms were just random shapes. But the fact that no one knew their purpose, meant that their own imaginations worked in her favour.

"You can't be sure I don't wield the power to unmake you, I'm not worth the risk of finding out." She explained. Turning back to the horse himself, Faelora plucked the apple from her head and continued to distract him with it, "but we can't rely on that forever, can we, boy?" Once again, she seemed to be talking more to the horse than the man.

As for Azazoth himself, he did make good on Faelora's warning and as Barbatos lifted his leg, he held it for a moment, before slowly beginning to lean on him, letting the mercenary really test his strength to see how much of the stallion he could truly support.

[Barbatos]

The ivory-haired woman provided a simple answer to the Sellsword's question.

A single word, in fact, encompassed the reputation that she spoke of. Yet, before she shared the answer, her arm stretched forth and swept in the direction of the camp. Barbatos' eyes followed the motion, and soon he identified the trinkets that she was referring to. The skull of the stag with a rune painted on its forehead. Twigs twisted together, hanging from a tree. He was also reminded of what he spied when she wandered into her tent to retrieve the bowls - similar trinkets which were hanging about. Weird was the answer she provided.

Barbatos was not a man of the city. Though it was where he currently laid his head, it was not always his residence. Before the Dreadfall of Zaichaer, the Sellsword lived on the fringes of the city's embrace. Thus, his neighbors were people of the hills and of the mountains. Hardier than most. A touch eccentric in some regards. It was the reason he was not intimidated by the adornments of her camp. But he understood that, for a passerby, the unknown was certainly an ill omen. Caution would generally be advised - especially after seeing the skull.

"That's a fine deterrent." came his simple answer. "But, you are right. If a bold soul comes along, knowing how to defend yourself would be vital." The Sellsword paused and aided the steed in raising its leg. As the seconds pressed on, the beast laid more and more weight upon him. Barbatos released a heavy breath as his muscles strained, but he was able to bear the load. Ultimately, Azazoth's hoof came to rest across the sable-skinned man's thigh, affording him a glimpse at the underside.

Now, Barbatos was no expert in animal health. But, there was one glaring issue plaguing the steed. A stone, which could have been once shaped like an oval, was wedged firmly in the hoof. Instinctively, Barbatos reached for it and tugged - freeing the stone in one fluid motion. Azazoth stirred in response to the tug, and Barbatos was quick to release the steed's hoof at once. He then looked upon the stone and spied blood upon its "sharp" end. "Well, he ought to be able to walk better now." he began. "But I'd take him into the city to be looked at proper. Don't want that to get worse."

The Sellsword then pitched the stone over the tree before dusting off his hands.

"As for your lessons, perhaps we can come to an accord. That stew of yours was good eating and I could be tempted for more." Barbatos offered a smile as he spoke. While he did not seek monetary compensation, he knew that lessons would take time and effort. At the very least, he could leave with a full belly each time.

.

[Faelora]

3rd day of Searing, 122

Faelora nodded solemnly as the Sellsword agreed with her decision to seek out training. The fingers of her free hand fell to her belly, gently tracing over the long, jagged line beneath her tunic and belt. Her mother had told her not to obsess over it, not to worry about it, not to think about the what-ifs or what-could-have-beens. However, she couldn't help but wonder - for the thousandth time - if things had been different if she had been able to wield a weapon.

Of course not, their caravan had been flanked by armed guards and they had barely lasted the moments it took to realise what was happening. More than likely, brandishing a weapon would have only granted her the same fate. But still...

Her thoughts were snapped back to the present day by a soft jerk from Azazoth, as the dark-skinned man plucked something from his hoof. The stallion landed his hoof back on the dirt, shifting his weight a little and flicking his tail contentedly. With a smile, Faelora kissed his big velvety nose and finally released the apple to his grateful maw.

"Well, well, well" she cooed to the animal, stroking his cheek as he munched on his reward, "you really were having trouble, hm? Bet you feel better now, hey? You're a good boy."

The siltori let out a soft giggle, like one shared between lovers, and pressed her forehead to Azazoth's. He went still for a moment, before she pulled away to approach Barbatos.

Wrapping her hands in her skirts to wipe them off, she studied the sellsword,

"Thank you, Barbatos. I think I will. Besides, this road is light for travelers at the moment anyway."

At his offer, she quirked an eyebrow,

"What you and I shared was payment from my last visitor," The girl chuckled, "I don't often come into such spices and herbs. That being said, I know my way around a campfire, and I'd be happy to share what I have in exchange for your knowledge."

A playful smirk crept onto her lips,

"Also, if you ever wished to know what else is written in the tapestry of your existence..."

Letting the words hang in the air, she turned to walk back to the campfire. It needed tending, after all, and it had nothing to do with the fact that meeting that man's eyes made her heart race.

[Barbatos]

Once freed from the painful obstruction in his hoof, the brave steed received affection from his owner. Whilst the sweet words left the ivory-haired woman, Barbatos was reminded of something from long ago. His mother. It was hard not to recall her fondness for animals, especially the chickens she kept outside their dwelling. In the mornings, she would sing to them as she checked for eggs. And when it came to coop them for the evening, she would offer the same sweetness that Faelora offered Azazoth. The Sellsword quickly caught himself dwelling on the memory, not due to staring into the ether, but due to something sliding down his cheek.

He muttered about something flecking into his eye and turned away from the horse and the knife-eared woman, willing himself back together. This was certainly the hardest day in awhile, as he had been able to hold it previously. Most odd jobs he picked up did not vividly remind the Sellsword of what he lost. After drawing a deep breath, he shook his hands lightly and returned to the woman. His attention was on the lessons that he offered. More specifically, upon forming an accord between them.

When Barbatos suggested that she provide a stew like they had shared as payment for his lessons, she advised that this was a bounty from a previous customer. The Sellsword playfully snapped his fingers in defeat. "Curses." he began, willing himself to smile. "Though I'll certainly try your own stew..." His voice trailed slightly as she peered intently at him, a playful smirk upon her lips. He hadn't noticed her lips throughout their conversation, but now, as the firelight illuminated them.

He almost missed what she said. An offer to look further into the tapestry of his existence. Barbatos chuckled. "You make a tempting offer, Faelora." His words followed her towards the campfire as she moved. He followed without thinking and came to a halt only a few paces from the inferno.

"Let me see your arm." he said, out of the blue, with as much surety as she had regarding his palm.

.

[Faelora]

3rd day of Searing, 122
Her guest snapped his fingers with a playful smirk when she revealed she hadn't made the meal they'd shared. The witch's own smirk widened and she matched his tone,

"I see, just plying me for a favoured meal? You're not better than him," She tossed her head in Azazoth's general direction, "... men"

The elf chuckled, enjoying the playfulness and banter. In truth, it was easy to be around the man. At first she hadn't entirely been sure why, but now, it seemed a little more apparent. He was neither underhanded nor manipulative about his intentions. He was far from the first man who came to offer her trade, but unlike the others, there was - at least from what she could tell - no angle to his request. He was forthcoming, blunt, and playful about his intentions. It was refreshing.

Still, faux disappointment aside, he remarked on her offer. Faelora. By the gods, it was dangerous how nice her name sounded in his mouth. Blushing, she kept herself distracted by adding another log to the fire so that he would hopefully be unlikely to see. It had just been a while since she'd enjoyed conversation recently, that's all.

Then he asked to see her arm.

The request came as a surprise, and did exactly nothing to quell the rising warmth to her cheeks. Blinking, she turned to face him, glancing from the mercenary, to her arm, and back again. Then, obediently, she raised her dominant arm. Like her neck and her hair, several small woodland charms hung from it, wrapped around in leeather or twine, from wrist to elbow. Her tunic was short sleeved and peeking underneath the fabric and talismans, pale skin with runic tattoos.

"Now who shall read whom?" She chuckled, desperate to say anything to release the rising tension she had begun to feel.