Battles Without Bloodshed (Kieran/Elske)

[Harbor]

Being of the opinion that jewelry was pointless and colors were tedious, and having carried that opinion for years, Elske no longer bothered to roll her eyes when others shook their heads over her attire. A loose white(ish) shirt, brown trousers, and a brown leather vest were plenty enough for her. Her only color was the off-red hair she kept bundled at the nape of her neck and the dusky blue bands of dye around her wrists, below the scars left over from her visit with the Wandering Tribes. The dye was a sparse remnant of the faraway city she’d been born near, and its customs. Chances were the people there didn’t even do it anymore, or they’d chosen a different color, but as with so many other things, Elske didn’t care.

Having some free time, Elske dropped the handles of her two hatchets through the sides of her belt and headed down toward the training yards with her overlarge hound, Fenir, trotting at her side. The knights and knights-in-training had their own private yard to practice in if they wished, but many came down here to spar with the palace and city guards and common soldiers. Elske supposed she was the only resident of the city who regularly practiced there—visitors were common enough—but the average man had an occupation not including the strange enjoyment of pitting oneself against strains and bruises and their opponents’ sweat. But Elske found it a welcome pastime, one of the few she had. She appreciated the practice, especially since it didn’t require her to shed any blood or crack any bones to make her point or correct whatever she had believed needed correcting.

Until recently, that had typically been her only source of practice. But unfortunately Lord Camarat disapproved of her assaulting her fellow citizens, even when she believed they deserved it. She had made a few exceptions—and he had grudgingly agreed that they were appropriate—but she’d been making the effort not to snap any minor ligaments in those who displeased her, these days. Working with such a powerful government official had invited a great deal of suspicion, which was fair, however she had found it excessive that certain people had felt the need to try to physically bully her into behaving, and had reacted accordingly.

At least, she thought she had.

A few of the people she regularly sparred with recognized her when she came around the palace’s stone wall to the swath of grass they’d claimed, and nodded. She twitched a hand in greeting, and when the men paused in their mock battle Fenir sauntered over to them for a more affectionate greeting of his own, and they gladly obliged. Elske caught up to him, hands in her pockets, and lifted her chin toward a particular fellow she’d noticed the moment she’d arrived. ”Visitor or relative?”

The fellow in question appeared to have paler skin than the average working man, so he could be a noble, but what noble bothered to spend time with them who wasn’t a knight or at least attired like one? The man’s fine tunic struck her as odd, when in his chosen endeavor it was guaranteed to be stained with sweat, if not marred by some other strike or bodily fluid. Only the foolish and the arrogant wore that kind of fabric in this part of the yard, at least in her opinion.  

What predominantly caught her attention, though, was the grace with which he fought. She’d heard a few old soldiers discussing the way a good fighter had the rhythm of a good dancer, but had never bothered to watch closely enough to notice. With this fellow, she couldn’t miss it. He had native talent and cultivated skill, and she appreciated the sight. Judging by those pausing their own practice to watch him, she wasn’t the only one.

The men she’d approached looked over their shoulders. ”Visitor,” one answered, ruffling Fenir’s ears. ”He’s a sight, eh?”

”He’s something,” she agreed, though not knowing enough to confirm just what. She lifted her hatchets and checked that their leather sheathes hadn’t yet worn through, as she did every time she sparred, since that was the only way to know she wasn’t about to accidentally open an artery (though broken fingers still happened on occasion, as they did with any weapon). ”Interested?”

They grinned, and Fenir loped off to observe from the shade edging the castle wall.

Less than a minute later Elske was embroiled in an impassioned battle between the two men, warding off a sword from one and pair of dirks from the other, repeatedly catching their blades in the hook of her hatchet and twisting them away or out of their hands, enjoying the pulse and pull of fighting without having to kill or maim, at least this time. Undoubtedly another time in which either of those options would be appropriate or necessary would return, but for the moment she was content to pretend she hadn’t recently been in prison for murder, among other things.



{Tried to get some history/context in there so you don’t have to read all of hers.}

[Starfyre]

(too late; I'd already read it awhile ago. Also Kieran isn't wearing black. He tries to seem more normal when engaged in any kind of infiltration)

Kieran couldn't keep the smile from his face, but at least he could prevent it from seeming malicious as it often was. Fighting just made him happy like that, wiping away all his thoughts and replacing them with the heartbeat of the dangerous dance. Unfortunately, sparring with people who were distinctly less... shall we say... professional... wasn't quite as good of a distraction. He was still aware enough to feel the green silk of his tunic rub against him with every move. He didn't mind the feeling but that he was somewhat unaccustomed to it. At least it helped him remember to act properly. He wore a black, sleeveless leather vest overtop, and still wore the black pants, but he wasn't wearing gloves. 
Just for fun, he purposefully gave his opponent the upper hand in the duel without losing his rhythm or control. There, that helped; it took more attention to regain command of the exchange of blows. It was still ridiculously easy, as easy as drills (if perhaps more entertaining, though not much less monotonous). He'd already determined (and given his word, but since when did that mean anything?) not to use magic while sparring - as if he'd ever have to! He'd only used magic to dull the edge of his sword. It was useful but displayed an irritating lack of foresight. He'd undo later and then get a different sword for sparring. Or he'd just use a quarterstaff, yes, that would work. He'd enjoy that too. Fight with a quarterstaff against someone with a sword, or maybe daggers... someone with a battleax would be fun, but no one around here seemed to use a battleax. Pity. They were fun.
Soon enough, Kieran's partner, panting with exhaustion and sweating like a dog too, ended the sparring bout by announcing he was too tired to keep fighting.
"You were kidding when you said no one'd hired you as a bodyguard or something, right?" the other man asked. "You're too good to be unemployed."
Kieran gave a low chuckle. "I've only just gotten here. Of course I haven't been hired yet. Besides, when did I ever say I wanted to work as a guard anywhere?" 
They shook hands, and Kieran leaned on his slender sword and looked for another hapless person to spar with. Actually, skilled would be better than hapless. He wanted a challenge. He wasn't even breathing hard. Scanning the duelers, he found his gaze resting on a woman fighting with hatchets. How intriguing. Perhaps she would spar with him. She even seemed decently good, judging by the fact she was comfortably holding her own against two men.
Kieran waited by a wall, watching her, learning how she fought, waiting for her spar with the other men to end. Carefully, he adjusted his impassive face to display mild curiosity. Seeming emotionless would not further his goals here.

(BTW going camping, won't be able to reply until Tues or later)

[Starfyre]

If I already said this, it didn't make it onto the thread: I just realized that Kieran and Elske are wearing practically the same thing but in different colors, which is funny because it was completely unintentional.

[Harbor]

Elske panted as she leaned to avoid the swing of one of her opponents and ducked beneath the other, swiping at the inside of the second’s knee and bruising it just enough to let him know she’d been there. They were smart about their fight, always trying to keep one of them on either side of her so her peripherals would be stretched and they’d stay out of each other’s way, but Elske was smart about getting out from between them when she wanted to. However beating them wasn’t the purpose—learning how to fight when she was at the disadvantage was. And constantly pushing them into each other kept her hand above theirs, so she didn’t often do it, even if it was fun to watch them stumble and grumble good-naturedly at one another.

”So Elske,” one of them gasped, both having been broken already from giving her any sort of title, even if her relatively recent occupation entitled her to it. ”You teach Fenir how to fight?”

Elske hooked the blade of one hatchet in his elbow and yanked it down, lurching sideways so his dirk fell toward his friend’s shoulder instead of hers. He adjusted to twist his arm around hers but she caught his arm with the other hatchet and dislodged him. Putting both her weapons to his attention had given his friend time to recover from the foot she’d put in his hip though, and he clipped her shirt as she turned, scraping against the vest and pulling a minor tear where the shirt fabric loosened over her hip. ”Careful,” she warned him. ”I’ll set my tailor on you.”
”Pretty sure a better threat would be for us to send him after you,” he grunted in reply.

Elske swung under his arm and came up behind him, letting them try to encircle her again, putting them on the learning side for a moment so she could catch her breath. ”Pretty sure that man is superstitious enough to still believe redheads are possessed,” she returned. ”You haven’t got enough money to convince him to interact with me.”

”Worth a shot,” one said.

”Might even try it just to see,” said the other, and Elske just shook her head.

They came for her again, and Elske tucked her shoulder under the belly of the first to throw him on his back behind her, straightening just in time to get inside the swing of the second and tap—gingerly—his forehead with her own, startling him, and swipe him across the collarbone with her leather-guarded hatchet blade. The one she’d dropped behind her regained his breath faster than she’d expected and dragged her down by an ankle. She twined her other foot around his wrist to yank his fingers off, kicked him away as he tried to rise over her, and had him pinned only moments later, faintly smiling.

”Work on it, lads,” she said, nodding. They were remembering moves she’d used before and anticipating them. The harder it was to beat them the happier she’d be, for a variety of reasons. She hadn’t come here to train the palace or city guards, but she visited so often and—having learned such a mismatched array of fighting skills over the decades—was so determined to provide herself with a challenge that the teaching of additional skills had become a side effect of her presence, as unwilling as it may have been.

Fenir trotted over to her now that he knew the fight was done, and Elske unbuttoned her vest to let some cooler air in, rubbing the overlarge hound’s back. Glancing up to the visitor—who had finished his own sparring match evidently—she gave him another brief appraisal more to give her a moment to transition her attention than because she ought to. He’d barely broken a sweat, if he had at all. Instinctively—in a city that was mostly human, but still saw its share of other races—her eyes flicked toward his ears, but if he was anything other than human she couldn’t tell. A bit tall for a human though.

”How do the yards here meet your standards?” she asked at last, ignoring the hand one of her opponents still offered to her despite her never having taken it, and stood. He looked intrigued, at the very least, though she wasn’t confident of what.

Someone called across the uneven lawn to the two she’d been grappling with, and with a quick farewell to her they sheathed their practice weapons and hastened over to their companion. Elske scraped stray hairs out of her face, eyeing the stranger.

[Starfyre]

Kieran actually smiled for a moment as a large dog trotted up to the woman who'd been sparring. That dog had to be half bear or something of the sort. He looked friendly too, and very loyal. The fact that the woman had a dog like that made him think she'd travelled a lot- certainly that would be a good reason to get a dog. Also a reason to learn how to fight. But perhaps that was not the case. How could he know? 

Unsurprised as he was when the woman looked up at him (he was, after all, watching her), Kieran couldn't help noticing how her eyes flickered suspiciously over his face, as if she was trying to identify something about him. Her suspicion didn't completely fade, but she seemed okay with whatever she'd noticed. Already I'm going to make a thousand judgments about her, Kieran thought. By now she's a traveler - probably a lone traveler - who's suspicious of new people for some reason. As he thought about it, Kieran wondered if she'd been trying to look at his ears. It made more and more sense as he thought about it- some people had an undeniably biased mistrust of elves, and she'd looked wary. But he knew she wouldn't have been able to see his ears well, so perhaps she didn't think him elfin yet. For a moment, he considered using magic to smooth out the points of his ears, but then he decided against it. So what if she didn't like him? Maybe she'd actually try to hurt him as they sparred (Kieran was nearly certain that they would spar soon), and that would be more interesting than otherwise. But either way, nothing about him really shouted "He's an elf!" or anything like that. His ears weren't nearly as pointed as most elves', for which he thought he was most likely half-elf. He didn't know for certain, because his magical ability made him think that he was more than half elf.

"How do the yards here meet your standards?" she asked, standing up and eyeing at him. There it was, that innate suspicion again. Kieran let a small, friendly smile grace his lips, but he was really smiling because she already amused him. How could someone who aced so much like she was a traveling thief be here, at the capital, even if she was only at the training yards?

"They're just fine," Kieran answered. "I like to see an open training area with nearly every skill level. One can learn a lot just by watching others fight." For instance, he thought without saying it aloud, how your trick to free your foot worked well but put you in a fairly vulnerable position balance-wise. "You may have noticed that I was watching you. You fight well. It seems like you're quite experienced for someone who looks as young as you do." Privately he was mildly curious as to exactly how much experience she had and where she'd learned to fight, but at this point asking that would be prying into a stranger's life.

[Harbor]

Fenir looked at Elske and whuffed; she raised an eyebrow at him. He looked back at the stranger. Mentally shrugging, she made the gesture inviting Fenir to approach the man to sniff him over, if the man was amicable to it. Not everyone was, with a hound the size of a small pony, but since the man didn’t appear to be eyeing Fenir with any degree of horror or tremulous anxiety, she assumed she had at least correctly guessed that the man was not afraid of said hound, if nothing more.

Fenir trotted over to the man, slowing as he approached—as Elske had trained him to do, particularly with armed individuals—in case the man showed signs of not wanting to make friends with him just now. He stood with shaggy ears raised, tail shallowly turning, threatening only by dint of his excessive mass. ”It is surprisingly productive to watch, but I find that people in certain areas or fields get ingrained in the way that they learned to fight, and aren’t always open to adjustments,” she replied. She still had to remind herself that to carry on normal, human conversations, like the somewhat-average-human she was trying to relearn how to be, one had to offer their own opinions and observations as well as listen to what others had to say. Having conversations lasting more than a minute not being an activity she’d engaged much in in the last few decades, the effort of even recognizing her own opinions was one that tended to wear on her, but eventually she’d get back in the habit.

To the compliment she just shrugged, not being in the habit of those either. Cruelty was easier to confront than courtesy. She understood it better, too. ”I’ve had the opportunity to visit a lot of yards and watch a lot of people,” she said, opting for a wry smile. The nature of her peculiar age wasn’t something she necessarily hid, but neither was it something she felt like sharing with a stranger. Very little of what Elske had done or experienced in her peculiar history was anything she felt the need to hide—what she generally wanted to hide were her feelings about said experiences. ”Besides,” she said at last, lifting her hatchets back out of their loops on her belt. ”Anyone here could say the same of you.” She whistled to get Fenir’s attention, and gestured again, differently, and Fenir ambled off back into the shade.

”Come on,” she said to the stranger, tipping the head of one hatchet toward the sword he was currently—to her eyes—paying little attention to. It didn’t look as heavy as some of the ones the soldiers here fought with, so perhaps it would be easier to tangle; easier for him to disentangle too though, probably. Particularly for someone of his experience.

Conversation was not her strong suit. People were not her strong suit. But fighting was an activity she was well-versed in; it was the only interaction with other people that didn’t inherently unnerve her.

Elske took a comfortable, angled stance with her left shoulder toward him, hatchets hanging loosely at her sides, wondering which one of them would leap forth first. Most of the people here had been too disconcerted by the prospect of fighting a woman to do so—at least until she broke them of that habit by them growing accustomed to the bruises she gave when she thought they weren’t fighting hard enough.

{Unless he doesn’t give his all or something bizarre happens, he’s got the advantage and I’m assuming he’ll win. Whether or not he does is up to you, but deciding the winner in a thread-fight is usually a trick, so I thought I’d throw my thoughts out there.}

[Harbor]

Fenir looked at Elske and whuffed; she raised an eyebrow at him. He looked back at the stranger. Mentally shrugging, she made the gesture inviting Fenir to approach the man to sniff him over, if the man was amicable to it. Not everyone was, with a hound the size of a small pony, but since the man didn’t appear to be eyeing Fenir with any degree of horror or tremulous anxiety, she assumed she had at least correctly guessed that the man was not afraid of said hound, if nothing more.

Fenir trotted over to the man, slowing as he approached—as Elske had trained him to do, particularly with armed individuals—in case the man showed signs of not wanting to make friends with him just now. He stood with shaggy ears raised, tail shallowly turning, threatening only by dint of his excessive mass. ”It is surprisingly productive to watch, but I find that people in certain areas or fields get ingrained in the way that they learned to fight, and aren’t always open to adjustments,” she replied. She still had to remind herself that to carry on normal, human conversations, like the somewhat-average-human she was trying to relearn how to be, one had to offer their own opinions and observations as well as listen to what others had to say. Having conversations lasting more than a minute not being an activity she’d engaged much in in the last few decades, the effort of even recognizing her own opinions was one that tended to wear on her, but eventually she’d get back in the habit.

To the compliment she just shrugged, not being in the habit of those either. Cruelty was easier to confront than courtesy. She understood it better, too. ”I’ve had the opportunity to visit a lot of yards and watch a lot of people,” she said, opting for a wry smile. The nature of her peculiar age wasn’t something she necessarily hid, but neither was it something she felt like sharing with a stranger. Very little of what Elske had done or experienced in her peculiar history was anything she felt the need to hide—what she generally wanted to hide were her feelings about said experiences. ”Besides,” she said at last, lifting her hatchets back out of their loops on her belt. ”Anyone here could say the same of you.” She whistled to get Fenir’s attention, and gestured again, differently, and Fenir ambled off back into the shade.

”Come on,” she said to the stranger, tipping the head of one hatchet toward the sword he was currently—to her eyes—paying little attention to. It didn’t look as heavy as some of the ones the soldiers here fought with, so perhaps it would be easier to tangle; easier for him to disentangle too though, probably. Particularly for someone of his experience.

Conversation was not her strong suit. People were not her strong suit. But fighting was an activity she was well-versed in; it was the only interaction with other people that didn’t inherently unnerve her.

Elske took a comfortable, angled stance with her left shoulder toward him, hatchets hanging loosely at her sides, wondering which one of them would leap forth first. Most of the people here had been too disconcerted by the prospect of fighting a woman to do so—at least until she broke them of that habit by them growing accustomed to the bruises she gave when she thought they weren’t fighting hard enough.

{Unless he doesn’t give his all or something bizarre happens, he’s got the advantage and I’m assuming he’ll win. Whether or not he does is up to you, but deciding the winner in a thread-fight is usually a trick, so I thought I’d throw my thoughts out there.}

[Starfyre]

Kieran knelt on one knee to greet the hound as it approached him. The half-bear's head was level if not higher than his in that position, but he knew he had little to fear save a face-full of slobber if the dog decided to lick him. It did not, for which Kieran was grateful. He roughed the hound's face a little bit when he knew that it wouldn't mind, and stood back up as he tousled its ears. A tail of that size should be considered a weapon, he thought as the dog's tail whipped back and forth in enthusiastic wagging. Privately, he felt satisfaction that animals still widely regarded him as trustworthy. He'd once met a man who swore on his horse's ability to judge character, but the horse had liked him as much as anyone else, including its master. Silly way to judge someone's character, but at least it had never hurt his case.

"I find that people aren't often open to adjustments at all, whether it be fighting methods or opinions," Kieran commented. Then, at the woman's reply to his compliment on her skill, he felt a real smile at how she turned his comment back on him. People amused him so much. This would be a good fight.

She took up a stance, and Kieran's fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword again. He barely kept a frown from his face as he realized that he'd forgotten to deactivate his wards- usually, no one came close enough to him in any sort of duel to even notice he had them, but this one could well be different, and it would be quite rude to have wards in a friendly spar. A thought word commanded the spells protecting him to sink below the surface of the physical world and be ready to spring back at his call. 

Kieran watched his opponent for another moment. She was relaxed, waiting, but her fingers rubbed ever so slightly up and down the handles of her hatchets, belying her patience. He closed his eyes. Smiled. Opened his eyes again. And lunged. The first lunge was a feint, same as the second. Each time, she had one hatchet ready to block him and the other ready to be used elsewhere. Kieran nodded to himself. This would indeed be a good fight. He didn't wait any longer; his heartbeat cried the rhythm and he was ready to dance.

For the first small while, they'd adopted a comfortable rhythm of blows and parries, but the woman obviously was not sparring for monotony. She quickly stepped in a different direction and wrapped a hatchet around his sword. While easily dodging a swipe from the other, Kieran jerked his sword with so much force that he would have snapped a poorly-made blade in two or launched a lesser opponent's weapon high into the sky. As soon as that had no effect, though, he slid the sword away. She'd have the greater leverage and he wasn't chancing that she could disarm him. 

He moved in closer, though more within reach of her weapons, and sliced at her shoulder. As he'd expected, she only used one hatchet to deflect his blow. He aimed a swift kick and connected solidly with her other hand and hatchet, and in the same fluid movement used the momentum of his sword's rebound to swing it around to attack her other side immediately after the kick.

(all right. I hope I didn't take too much liberty in narrating the first part of the fight. Go ahead and do whatever more you'd like (the rest would be great), or correct my assessment of Elske's fighting style. I think Kieran should win as well, but Elske could probably land a blow on him or something. True about the thread-fight. It'd also be irritating to do a play-by-play with replies (I hope no one's ever tried that). Also, your choice what effect the kick has on Elske).

[Harbor]

Elske was glad to have given him the opportunity to start—it gave her the opportunity to wonder why he closed his eyes just before doing so. Possibly just to engage his opponent’s thoughts elsewhere. No one ever said a physical battle wasn’t mental as well. And someone like him….she couldn’t touch the tongue of her thoughts to it, but he was different from the other fighters in some tangible way that she couldn’t identify, and she guessed he would be well competent in the act of using someone’s own mind against them in a fight, however he may accomplish that.

The man lunged in and she leaned back, avoiding his swing just enough and swirling up an arm to catch his sword. He yanked back, and Elske was glad to have both widened handles on her hatchets, helping to prevent losing her grip, and a strong grasp to begin with. He disentangled his sword and she tried to maintain her usual effort of waging two assaults at once—single-weaponed foes tended to fumble when met with someone who fought two-handed, such as her dirk opponent or someone who knew how to creatively utilize a shield. He had the longer weapon, which meant she had to wait for it to be out of the way to wage an assault on his person, but that was a common occurrence in her fights.

He landed a stiff foot to her hand and wrist and Elske only tightened her grip, though her fingers had gone numb and they’d be stiff and bruised tomorrow, but refused to relinquish her weapon, instead lifting the other to slam her head under his incoming sword and lift it away, dropping it as soon as she’d suitably changed her trajectory, and stepping close, where she’d interfere with his swing, and caught the tooth of the other hatchet on the back of his elbow. She’d lost some flexibility in that hand until it returned to its senses, but she could still snatch and yank. Elske slammed a foot down toward his instep, twice quickly, and thrust the blunt side of the head of the other hatchet up toward his stomach.

While being proficient at picking up tricks from watching other people do them, Elske was not necessarily proficient at gauging how much effort a skilled fighter gave to his battles; she guessed that their visitor wasn’t pushed to the edge of his gangplank by her fight, but that was all she could surmise. Elske’s defense was more necessary than it typically was in the training yards, but neither did she feel as though she fought for her life. In the end the superior strength and weight of a male opponent won out, as she’d inevitably believed it would, and she shoved him back—down to only the hatchet in her un-kicked hand—breathing hard, borderline smiling. He wasn’t as winded as she was, which prickled at her pride, but then she’d had a relatively inactive lifestyle for the last couple months. She ought to start sprinting laps around the city. Fenir would enjoy it.

Fenir brought Elske her stolen hatchet now that he saw their spar was over, and she wiped the handle on her pants before sliding it through its loop. ”You’re fun,” she said to the visitor, using an adjective she didn’t often have the opportunity for. ”What are you in town for?” Most would have shaken the hand of their opponent in recognition of a good fight, but never wanting to be touched outside of a fight, Elske didn’t, going to the water barrel instead and lifting the lid, unhooking the ladle. It would be good to have a regular challenge around, though she wasn’t sure she wanted his particular challenge. Elske hadn’t lost a fight against a single human, unless magic had been in use, in a decade. For the sake of her own cowardly comfort and because she knew how easily her expression fell into the lines of hate, she avoided thinking about what had likely aided in his win over her. She wanted him to have come by his victory honestly, not just by nature of what he was, though there was no denying him his gratuitous skill. Even so, she had too much experience to lose against someone of his age who was human.

Elske left the ladle back on the lip of the barrel and glanced to him, wondering if he wanted any of the water, before releasing the lid. Her one hand still felt like the bones were vibrating—a blow of appreciable force. ”Where’d you learn your fighting?”

[Starfyre]

After the sparring match was over, Kieran let his sword slide point-first into the trampled dirt. He lifted a hand and brushed his sweaty hair back from his forehead, absentmindedly tucking a piece behind one ear. Sweaty now, bruised tomorrow. He hadn't fought this hard in ages... funny how the only person who'd given him a real challenge was another female. But then again, she'd actually been capable of besting him, magic and all. He didn't have to use magic here. He pulled his sword out from the ground, briefly frowned at the dirty blade, and wiped it with the edge of his silk tunic. He imagined that people would think that odd indeed, but he wasn't wearing silk to be fancy (the dye job was proof enough of that). It was just a decently strong material that didn't feel too bad on him either. At a bad angle, an arrow wouldn't pierce the fabric. After finishing rubbing dirt off the blade, Kieran slipped it into a sheath at his side and thought the word to restore his wards.

Kieran shrugged when she asked her question. "I'm just here to check things out, mostly. I've never been to the capital before." He had some of the water as well before saying, "I take it you're from here? What do you do?" Of course he hadn't given the real answer to her question. He was here to see what the Varden was like, to see how easy it was to get on their good side, perhaps even see how deep into their councils he could get. Not that he was a spy, really, he didn't have any ultimate goal for the information- no matter what Lady Caelyn might think. Or maybe he would do something. Who knew? Mostly he was just trying to find something dangerous to do to entertain himself. Lying straight to the faces of Varden officials would be entertaining indeed, especially because people always assumed you couldn't deceive others while speaking in the ancient language. Though he still wanted to be careful- keeping that particular skill a secret was actually important.

She answered him and then asked where he learned his fighting- Kieran hesitated before answering, collecting his thoughts. What would he say? That he learned to fight on his own? That wasn't even completely true, as close to the truth as it was. "A few people taught me some things, but I guess I learned more because I had to. I was usually in trouble with Galbatorix's minions just for wanting to do my own thing, so it was fight well or die." After a moment, he tacked on, "A lot of time and experience helps too." By now her expression made it plain enough that she knew he was an elf. When she didn't immediately ask him another question, he asked, "What's your name? And what's his?" The second part of the question was about the huge hound, who'd come over to him again to be scratched.

[Harbor]

Lord Camarat would say she was making so much progress—she had met someone most likely of a race she openly despised and had not yet abruptly left or attempted any form of harm. Instead she stared out across the yards and the edges of the market beyond, mulling over things like prejudices and how they were earned.

She shook her head. ”I’m from north of here.” she opened the barrel back up for another drink as she considered how to answer his question. As an elf, she automatically didn’t trust him. She wanted him gone, even despite the mild enjoyment she got out of an actual challenge with a single opponent. He’d given her no reason not to trust him, other than that there were rarely any elves here, and he was here. But at last she mentally rolled her eyes. He could ask nearly anyone and find out what she did, and for whom—it wasn’t like she blended in. Not in trousers, and with the company she usually kept. ”I work with Lord Camarat. You?”

Elske snorted at his story—it sounded familiar, not that she wanted anything in common with one of his kind. ”Sounds about right. They weren’t the best at finding individuals.” She’d avoided them for decades….after they’d initially caught her and kept her for a few years. ”I learned the basics from my father, but after him was either spur of the moment or surreptitious observation.” She tugged a flat-folded bit of oiled leather out of one side of her vest and dipped it in the barrel before returning the traveling dish to the ground for Fenir to lap up. She tried to keep him trimmed in the spring and summer, but didn’t always do it consistently.

”Elske and Fenir,” she answered to his inquiry of names. ”Yours?”

Elske caught sight of one of the fellows who carried mail and missives between the city and the castle, and hurried quickly over to him. He recognized her as she approached, and frowned. ”Mistress Elske. Is Lord Camarat occupied?”

”Busy until four,” she replied, holding out a hand for whatever he’d meant to give him. Some mail for Camarat wasn’t authorized to sit on his desk without him sitting behind it, but she was authorized to hold it for him. This way the letter-carrier didn’t have to carry it with him until the wizard was free. Reluctantly—the man, like most here, didn’t trust her, and she didn’t care—the man fished a thick, folded parchment out of an inner pocket, a safer pocket than most others, and Elske tucked it away into one of her own safer places.

She could have just left, she supposed. At this distance she wouldn’t have to make her excuses—she could have received something vitally important that took her attention and her courtesies elsewhere. Besides, one of the people Elske sometimes sparred with appeared to be talking to him. But Elske’s behavior, as others consistently reminded her, reflected on the man who had taken her out of prison. She ought to do her best not to wantonly offend. Particularly not magic-users, like elves.

Suppressing the worst part of a grimace, Elske trotted back to the water barrel, refilling Fenir’s leather dish, as it was already empty. She ought to just shave the poor hound, but she wasn’t sure he’d survive the indignity.

{Wasn't sure what else to do, sorry.}

[Starfyre]

Lord Camarat? Kieran barely caught himself in time to hide the surprise he felt, but if he hadn't, an absurd smile would've been plastered across his face. She was amusing, no doubt about it. Where had Lord Camarat come by her? What do I do?... he thought, and then answered her question. "It's not an occupation really, but I'm a traveler. Sometimes I would raid Galbatorix's soldiers for supplies, but I've taken odd jobs in a bunch of places, and that's basically what I do now." Kieran frowned slightly. "Although, now that I can't go around raiding like that, I should probably find myself a real occupation."

Elske, so that was her name. Funny how sometimes names would describe people perfectly and horribly at the exact same time. "My name is Kieran."
Abruptly, Elske hurried after a mail carrier, and Kieran hadn't even time to think before a man who'd been waiting to speak to him stepped up. He was asking to spar with him and maybe get some tips, but Kieran said, "Later, sure. Do you happen to know where one should go to find somewhere to work, or at least who to ask about it?" The man shook his head as Elske returned to the water barrel, and Kieran gave a resigned nod. "Go find us a space," Kieran instructed the man. "I'll be with you in a few minutes."

He turned to Elske. "Do you happen to know of anywhere I could find work?" he asked her awkwardly, knowing that awkward made it seem like he didn't have any specific reason for asking her. 

"Will you be here tomorrow?" he asked after she answered his first question. "I'd be interested in sparring with you again. I'd like to see if I can hold up against you using some of my other weapons - I don't have nearly as much practice with them." 

Half a minute later, Kieran said, "I have to go now... I said I'd spar with someone else." he trailed off and bit his lip; he had something he wanted to say but he didn't know if he should. "I hope you don't mind my asking - do you have anything against me?" He did realize that he was assuming she had some dislike of elves, even if it did seem to be normal that she did not share the habit of shaking an opponent's hand. Kieran hoped she didn't take offense at the question. It was good to know many people when you were trying to gain confidence with the Varden. Elske would be a possibly more advantageous acquaintance. 

(sorry that my reply was later than usual... stuff happened, like always. Also I probably won't be able to reply for a week starting Sunday. Another thing- you probably assumed this but if Elske is finished talking she can leave or whatever she'd do)

[Harbor]

Anywhere to find work? Elske hung a hand on the back of her neck as she considered, glancing around the yards and visible feet of the castle as though she expected to see a sign. ”I suppose you could ask the men running the stables or training yards. I don’t know of anyone else who would know of availabilities beyond the housekeepers, but the work they’d have isn’t likely something you’re suited to.” Agile, fighting fellow like this would probably keel over if handed scrubbing salts or a screaming noblewoman’s child. Usually only the children were screaming, but sometimes the noblewomen too. They were peculiar creatures. She knew a few people with their ears to the floors who she could ask if she remembered, and felt like it, but introducing a stranger to someone she barely knew felt like taking responsibility for him, and that Elske was not in the mood to do.

To his inquiry, Elske nodded. ”Probably.” She came down most days, though at random times, often to either avoid someone Camarat was talking to or to work off internal pressure. ”Aye. There are an awful lot of swordsmen here.” A change of weaponry would be refreshing, even despite the blood running through the hands wielding said weapons.

This time Elske shook her head, making the effort to meet his eyes at least for a few seconds. Elves were the only ones whose gazes she tended to avoid—even she didn’t know why. ”It’s nothing you can change. I’m not overfond of people from specific areas.” And it wasn’t her right to tell others near enough to overhear what she thought he was, even if she was right. Living mainly in the castle, she was trying more these days to respect what she was more likely to discover about others than their peers were. ”But I also hate nearly everyone almost equally, so never fear, you’re not far beyond the general populace.” She allowed a dry smile, almost nothing more than a twist of her lips, but an acknowledgment of the prejudice in her absolute distaste—and sometimes outright hatred—for a specific race based on the actions of only one of them.

{No problem!}

[Starfyre]

Kieran tipped his head after Elske was done speaking. "Thank you. I will ask around, I'm sure. If you happen to be here any other day, chances are I'll be here- I don't know of many other places I'd be." Her answer to his last question elicited a small chuckle. There was no real reason to take offense at her dislike of him, although he almost wanted to protest it- he'd never been in Du Weldenvarden once in his life, and he'd be wary if not afraid of going. He knew next to nothing about the other members of his race, so even socializing with other elves was nerve-wracking. But Kieran didn't say any of that. Maybe in time he would have a better opportunity, or perhaps Elske would ask.
"Until next time, then," he said, and gave Fenir's ears one last ruffle as he walked away.

(so I don't know what to do now; if you've gotten any more ideas then go ahead. I'm trying to get another thread going with someone else that will most likely result in more specifics on Kieran's exact job when he gets one... so I'd probably revive this thread after that if not sooner)

[Harbor]

{Sounds like a plan. I'll just open a setting for a next meeting, and leave it until we can do something with it. Had an idea, so might as well.}

Contrary to popular belief, Elske did not drink. She'd drink the occasional ale, or hot mead in the winter, but didn't care for more than one or two at a time, and couldn't remember the last time she'd been drunk. All she remembered from whenever it had been was that she hadn't cared for the sensation. Honestly, a great deal of Elske's past had faded from her memory--a young body didn't necessarily bring a young mind with it. From what little she knew of others her age, her mind had indeed fared better than most of theirs, but she still lost years to dimness, remembering only what she had promised herself never to forget.

So, while others may not be surprised to see Elske up to her chin in ale, it was not a state in which she had ever expected to be again. Particularly when the ale dripped from her clothes as opposed to down the walls of her stomach.

Elske's entire skull seemed to vibrate from where it had bounced off the cobblestones. A wagon latch up the street had shattered, throwing its entire cargo of ale down the road. Several barrels had burst the second they fell out of the wagon, but the rest had bounced off the wood and bubbles and thundered down the incline, one of the steepest in the city. And Elske had picked up a goat around the middle and thrown it out of the way--forget the pedestrians, she typically didn't bother to care about them, though her opinion of the general sentient populace was slowly turning--and had therefore slowed enough for one of the barrels to catch her behind the legs, throwing her down, as one of the last barrels smashed against the pillar supporting the porch she'd fallen behind, completely immersing her.

Elske lifted her head with care, ensuring it was still attached, and glowered at the goat, who chose to stand, guileless, on a dry corner of the porch, jaw still rotating. Elske sighed.

A hand gripped her by the arm and dragged her off the ground, and at the contact her stomach rolled and she flinched, shaking ale out of her ears, and the shopkeeper who had hauled her out of the lake of alcohol had to repeat himself to be heard. "Mistress Elske, are you all right?"

She held up a wavering hand and upon it a single finger. "Enough with the 'Mistress'. I'm fine, thank you." She shook her head again, slicking her dripping hair back and wiping ale out of her eyes. "Bloody hell."

A woman standing nearby with her young son sniffed, and Elske rested an irritable gaze upon her. "Excuse me," she said with exaggerated courtesy. And, under her breath, she muttered, "Bloody fuck."

The shopkeeper hid a chuckle in his collar. "I'm glad to hear you're all right." And Elske was unnerved to hear the pleasantness creeping into his tone, which had begun merely distant. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

She shook her head, muttering as she regarded her soaked sleeves and didn't bother with fruitlessly shaking them out, "No, thank you. Good day, sir." She was trying to be human. Most days she did all right.

The wagon owner hurried down the street toward her, already apologizing, and Elske recoiled, speaking over him. "Things happen." And she had to tell him that several more times as he followed her up the street as she trudged, leaving a dripping trail, back up toward the castle. Eventually she had to tell him outright that leaving shattered barrels in the street was a hazard and that she'd report him for it if he didn't clean it up within the hour.

Working for the most powerful wizard anyone could remember aside from The Bastard Himself really had no perks, in her eyes. Most days she'd rather be a thief.

[Starfyre]

Kieran had spent the last four hours sitting in his room at an inn doing various magic-related tasks. The inn was fortunately a decently good, clean one, all the same, he didn't like the feeling of being cooped up. He just had to do things like this sometimes. The spell most imminently useful was a word he'd woven into his wards to temporarily suspend them- he'd modified that somewhat to make it more duel-friendly. A large number of his wards were solely counterspells that he'd prefer to keep in place, so he'd created another suspension word that would suspend only the physical wards that would affect a duel. The other thing he'd been doing with that was weaving in a fail-safe that would bring his wards back if his energy fell below a certain level. That was just in case somebody was trying to kill him. It never hurt to be safe. Then he'd been weaving together and improving his growing collection of weapons that he took to the training grounds daily, as well as fortifying the enchantments on his sword and depositing his daily amount of energy into various hidden gemstones he carried.

He was also in the process of working on a spell that he could put into a jewel which would absorb energy around it and add it directly to the stone's storage. At the moment, though, it wasn't discreet enough to be of any real use other than as a sign that said "hey, notice me! I'm stealing your energy!" or as an energy-absorbing bomb. Which, as he thought about the second one, could be useful. If you took a spell that drained enough energy from ordinary soldiers to kill them and attached it to a gemstone - or multiple... you could wipe out a sizable portion of an army that way. 

Not as if Kieran was planning on taking on any armies in even the remotely near future.

Finishing (for the time being) with his magical chores, Kieran donned his vest - it was his training armor, slightly enchanted to dull shock - and picked up his quarterstaff. Then, on second thought, he sat down on the edge of his bed and spent another chunk of time creating two twin staffs, more slender, but of sturdy hardwood. It would be interesting to fight with two long sticks instead of one. Already Kieran found himself assessing the advantages and disadvantages of using such weaponry in a fight.

Holding both staves in one hand, Kieran made his way out of the inn. As he passed through the common room, he nodded briefly to anyone who made eye contact with him. He realized that he was becoming somewhat well-known in the area. Maybe a bit more than well-known. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have wanted that, but local chatter to back him up couldn't hurt here. Kieran stepped out through the large inn doors, immediately feeling the sun's heat beat down on his dark-shaded garb even filtered through the dust of the street. Listening to the general chatter, he heard noise of a wagon whose load of ale had been spilled out all over the street- and onto several passerby. Casting his gaze ahead, Kieran found that Elske was walking up the street towards the castle, striding irritably, and without Fenir at least as far as Kieran could tell. 

Mildly curious, Kieran lengthened his stride and caught up with Elske after a minute or two. He glanced over at her from partway across the street. Even from there it was apparent that she was scowling - and soaking wet. He wove through the crowd closer to her. She probably wasn't in much of a good mood, but he could always try.

"Who'd you pick a fight with this time?" Kieran asked.

[Harbor]

{I am SO sorry for the wait.}

Elske had rude thoughts about the brisk wind slapping against her dripping clothes, but didn't bother to hunch her shoulders or swipe away the ale still seeping out of her hair. It wasn't as if she could make either phenomenon stop. At least she didn't have to shoulder her way through the many people wandering across and down the streets. Most people, when they saw the charred expression on her face, immediately made way for her to pass.

Thus she immediately noticed when someone else sidled up near her, but not too close. If she remembered correctly, this was the man she suspected of being an elf, and had fought with in the yards. She couldn't remember who had won that fight, but if he'd been putting effort into it, probably he had. Elske grimaced at his statement, but on any given day--today included--it was one that could readily be asked of her, and would have a reasonable answer. Reasonable to her, anyway.

She gave a short sigh, frustrated still. "A few bumbling barrels of ale." Or was she more irritated with the cheap wagon latch, or perhaps the oblivious goat? Hard to tell. Probably the wagon latch, and the people who had bought it, or those who had made it. Everyone was probably a better answer--she'd picked a fight with everyone. Decades ago. And thus far she didn't know who was winning, though she'd tell precious few if she didn't believe she was the stronger contender.

Elske stuck her hands in her sopping pockets, and continued her steady stroll up toward the castle. "Been back at the yards lately?" She hadn't once sought him out to spar with him again, her well-documented prejudice preventing her, but she generally kept track of those who participated in the fights there. She particularly kept track of the better fighters passing through--typically they were either knights wishing to lord their skills over those they perceived their underlings, the older guardsman and soldiers, or the odd mercenary who, naturally, would never confess to his true profession. Well no, she supposed caravan guards were fairly common as well. She enjoyed sparring with them--they had fewer formulaic methods, and were harder for her to predict.

{I'm also very sorry about the shortness.}

[Starfyre]

(No problem. I've had time to write more of an actual book, and long posts can be tedious. Short works just great.)

Kieran nodded at Elske's answer, not knowing of any other way to reply. "Yes, I'm at the yards nearly every day. I can't have seen you around there more than twice, though. Do you plan on sparring today?" To him, it looked as if she could use an outlet for frustration. Any typical person would be furious after being drenched in ale, and Elske certainly wasn't one of the few who'd take it well. 

As they walked back up towards the castle, Kieran had to control his urge to spin the staves in his hand. Long weapons always begged to be spun; unfortunately spinning weapons were not exactly crowded-street-friendly. If he wasn't careful he would start swinging them, though. Maybe it was an effect of the happier mood he'd been in lately. It was nice to not be everyone's enemy for once. After all, he wasn't yet. He was just a traveling warrior. Kieran tried to ignore the fact that soon he'd have to start his real business here. Not yet, though. He could enjoy a few more days of sparring before he had no excuse to be fighting his days away. 

Kieran and Elske were close enough to the castle now that he should be bearing around to the side, where the sparring grounds were. He dropped a pace or two behind Elske and switched to her other side. "Oh, where's Fenir? I would've thought you went everywhere with him." Fool. He was looking for an excuse to chitchat. Meaningless chatter. Why even bother? To get on people's good sides? Elske didn't seem to have a good side. Camarat's good side? Hopefully Camarat would not be a prominent figure in his near future. Although Kieran was more than confident in his abilities to survive, Camarat would scare anyone who had any sense. Although perhaps doing something that Camarat might strongly disapprove of was foolish to begin with. Wait, Elske was answering. Kieran with a sudden panic realized that he'd almost forgotten to pay attention to what she was saying, but fortunately he caught enough of the answer to make sense of it. Control your thoughts, fool. Focus.

[Harbor]

{Niiiice!}

Elske must have been trying not to see him then, or he hid better than she liked from one of his kind. "I'm not there consistently." Or at least not at consistent times. She came and went as her mood, time and frustration dictated. As far as today went, she regarded her dripping sleeves with distaste, and shook off her hands once again. "Later," she said, desiring dry clothes first. While she could fight wet, it was uncomfortable, distracting, and hindered movement more than most would expect.

Elske deeply inhaled, trying not to breathe quickly enough to feed the simmering embers in her belly. Distracted, she replied, "He's about. Left him to his own devices for a while." She'd had an errand to run, and when she ran that particular errand, as often as not, people attacked her for it. She hadn't wanted Fenir around. Just because he could fight didn't mean she wanted to knowingly put him in a situation where he had to do so. Besides, she thought it best that the people here knew she did not need her hound to defend her, and that she was under no circumstances to be trifled with.

"Did you end up finding work?" she asked, a vague memory reminding her that that had been an interest of his the last time they'd sparred. He didn't look at loose ends, nor did his clothes look like they needed a wash in a desperate way, but that didn't mean her assumptions were correct. Her clothes had never been nasty for long when she'd been between jobs, but perhaps her perception of 'in need of washing' were different from everyone else's, too. It said a lot for her endeavors in Uru'Baen that most of the castle staff no longer batted an eye when she came stomping through the halls splattered with mud, blood, or other filth. While being 'dirty' did not bother her, that others were accustomed to seeing her look the very part of the heathen irked her. Part of her objective in coming back to human civilization had been to attempt to return to being more human herself.

Thus far her endeavor did not appear to be working.

"Lady Elske!" someone called from the vicinity of the castle, and Elske didn't even bother looking to see who it was this time. While it frustrated her also that people felt they had the right to call out to her whenever they felt the need, at the same time it was gratifying that fewer people now shrunk from the idea of doing so than had when she'd arrived.

"Call me 'lady' again and I'll snap your neck," she warned, no malice in her tone, only bluntness. Since this was her version of an invitation to harry her, and the maid knew it, the maid nodded and continued on, finally coming level with them and turning to walk an arm's length off Elske's shoulder.

"My lord Arrian says he has a delivery for Lord Camarat that he's expecting this evening, but he can deliver it as soon as this afternoon. He needs a place to store it if he delivers it when he's not there though."

Elske suppressed a sigh, still trodding resolutely along. "Camarat is open to interruptions from now until about one O'clock, but after that you can knock. If I'm there, I'll make arrangements."

"What if you're not there, Elske?"

Elske grit her teeth, though it was a reasonable question. "Then send a runner ahead of time to get a better idea of when he's available," she replied.

"All right. Thank you." The woman bobbed a precise but vexing curtsy and hurried off again.

"Definitely going to be in the yards within the half hour," Elske muttered.

[Starfyre]

Elske would be sparring later. Wonderful. Kieran wondered if she realized exactly how irritating of an answer "later" was. Of course, he didn't actually care, but it was usually nice to know how soon 'later' would arrive. He'd already supposed that Elske would change her sopping (and generally reeking of ale) clothes before sparring - any sensible person would, and while Elske might seem unusual she wasn't lacking for sense. Later could mean that she was coming right after that, or it could be the next day, or even the next week if she so chose. As Kieran walked up the street, his thoughts simmering on this topic, he discovered that there was something that bothered him even more.
He was honestly becoming curious.
That, if anything, was what he did not want to be.

A few minutes later, Kieran was wondering exactly what leaving Fenir to his own devices would look like. Probably the big hound would do anything Elske said, including lay in one spot for a few hours, but every once in a while creatures of his sort would get into mischief. Would Elske have left him in the castle? Probably not, but who knew? It was wishful thinking, but an amusing little incident would brighten his day. Especially if some guards ended up in trouble for it; guards were always annoying and it was one of Kieran's pleasures in life to annoy them back as much as reasonably possible. Though, on the other hand, perhaps they didn't deserve it. Most of what being annoying entailed was getting between him and his more nefarious goals.

"Did you end up finding work?" Elske asked.

Kieran thought about it for about five steps. "I might have. I'm not sure. I've met with someone who might decide to employ me. I'm not looking too hard at the moment though," he said, almost guiltily. "I don't need money yet and I've been enjoying having no responsibilities. Nobody gives you a break in my line of work unless you quit." Kieran shrugged. "And sometimes quitting puts you on the blacklist." Just then a maid called for Elske and came up, initiating a brief conversation. 

Kieran bit back a grin as he watched the maid annoy Elske almost solely by existing. This is why he preferred the action-oriented roles in the art of causing trouble. Holding an powerful political position would bother him to no end. Even if he could become Galbatorix, he'd hate his job. Politics would be the death of him. Or if not politics, paperwork. But as long as he was causing trouble and using magic or a sword, he was happy. He didn't even care who he worked for. Even the Varden would be okay - not that that would ever happen. One, they'd never trust him (and they'd probably be right). Two - well, two, the Varden wasn't trying to cause trouble for people who weren't trying to cause trouble for it, which wasn't nearly as fun as causing trouble just for the sake of doing it.

Elske muttered something about being in the yards in half an hour, and Kieran smiled. She might duel him, then, knowing that she could hit him as hard as she liked and he'd most likely survive. Would survive, actually, but she wouldn't be certain of it. 

"Well, Elske," Kieran began. He'd debated saying 'Lady Elske' but had decided not to get his neck snapped. "I'm sure you'd love to chat more, but I'm off to the sparring yard." Hopefully she'd take sarcastic joking well. Kieran skipped backwards a pace and, to make up for not calling her 'lady', bowed smartly before striding off. "I'll see you when you get there, I hope," he tossed over his shoulder. His two staves thudded rhythmically into the packed dirt as he marched off to the tune of an inner song.