Anthuria stands mute, horror-stricken by the patent images of a hellish plane of reality. Surely these are just the last tricks of a scheming wizard, simply an illusion. But she isn't so sure. She pinches her arm, aghast to find that the smell of brimstone lingers.
"No, we wouldn't. We couldn't ever be like that."
The girl extends an open hand, an invitation to receive the fireseed back from Lord Arizian. "Here, let me," she offers gently. .
"Vardak was wrong. We would not seek to conquer the Vale. It is a refuge, a friend, the mother to those who would reside within it. Some of us would even claim it that way, wouldn't we?" She thinks of a line from F.R. Merrymead's Curiosities and Perils of the Varisian Hinterlands, odd though that it strike her so suddenly.
"I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars, and the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven."
She looks to her friends with a smile.
"Dayandırmaq."
Staring at the figments with side eyes and then dumbly nodding along with Balthus's question. "I cannot believe that worked. Are we sure he was not lying?"
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"As it should be. The strong trample the weak, and in turn the strongest drives all. Fearsome for the pathetic...but to become a cobblestone, you must first lie in the road. And I have no intention of such - much like yourselves, it would seem. I wonder...are you saints and I truly so different as you think? Command the stone with the tongue of fire, and it will listen. "Dayandırmaq" to stop it...and "Başlamaq" to set it to life again. "
As the foul mists and images faded, and as the soundless cries from the Unholy Pit returned from whence they came, Percival found himself holding the red stone, standing before an empty corpse.
At first, his eyes were glassy.
The mind's journey.
"Take control of this Vale, and of the seed's power. With your newfound glory, you will be the absolute rulers of all you see...and absolute power corrupts absolutely."
Percival let out a small, strange sound--one that sounded like a mix between a laugh and a sob.
"Y--you," he breathed. "You...""Here, let me," she offers gently.
Percival turned his empty gaze to her, pausing.
Land, Gold, and Title!
"This place is a very different kind of wild than I am accustomed to.""Just when we think we've a handle on the Vale, it shows us just how precarious this situation is!""Well, life ain't fair, is it? You're actually lucky 'cause you're leaving here. Imagine all these people knowing that the gem can explode and kill them all at any time.""Watch us have to fight every part of this glade before it's done with us.""We're keeping these people safe, and making things better for the people back home. Is that not reason enough?""Coin and law speak clearly enough--only if everyone wants to listen."
As if parting with a dream, Percival let Anthuria take the gem.
He might as well ascend in the Unholy Pit... thought Percival darkly, withdrawing from the rest. The cycle of souls is...broken.
Suddenly feeling a pain at his heart, he reached for it--and his fingers landed on the silver symbol of Abadar. Gazing onto it, he said nothing, but thought of much. Does this order please you?
At Anthuria's soft word, the inner light of the gem subsides to a glow more heat than actual illumination, like a campfire fading to embers...like a rowdy child fading to the calm of sleep.
It's impossible to know for certain...but it looks as if the Bloodsworn Vale's greatest threat has been averted.
And as abruptly as it began, the terror is over. The army of friends and allies who rode on the charge cheer aloud as the now-dormant seed of fire is held forth. Horses are gathered from their hiding place further down the mountain, the wounded have their injuries dressed and bound, and travois-style litters are cobbled together to carry the honored fallen back for a proper burial. Leaving the mountain castle behind, the party sets off for a ride that proves to be uneventful, the mood among the riders equal parts celebratory, somber, and on-edge at what might await at the forest stronghold they've come to see as home.
Balthus was satisfied yet somewhat deflated by the prospect of going back to the fort. If their musing were correct then they had just defeated the menace of the Vale and the fort and roads could now be completed in peace.
That was good. Then why was he not totally happy?
He checked the saddle of his horse and asked his companions, "So what's your destination after this? I think me and Slasher will settle around here. Somewhere. Right boy?"
He looked at the others, "Can I count on you to be our neighbors?"
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"I am returning to Korvosa as soon as the vale is stable, but I will surely be around for a while to help set up businesses here and support the trade route to Nirmathas," said Perry. He paused and added, "But I don't know what to do about the gem. Korvosa isn't exactly in the best health, and I don't want it to fall into the wrong hands."
Jetta nods along approvingly as Perry declares his intentions. She thinks for a moment before talking about hers: while she had been thinking about what she was going to do after it was all over, the very real possibility of dying in the line of duty had kept her from making her plans too concrete.
"I would like to stay," she says finally. "But first, I'll have to report back to my superiors—and take care of some personal matters in Korvosa. The brass might see fit to send me somewhere else, but I'll definitely be asking for a permanent posting here. My experience here makes me more qualified to take command than most, so I'm confident they'll at least consider my request. The fortification Vardak was squatting in would make a great base of operations here in the Vale. Whether I'll be in command or not, that will be my order's reward for answering the call of the Crimson Throne."
Anthuria's breaths come slowly and deeply as they claim their horses and begin the ride back to Fort Thorn. Her hands are trembling, and she isn't sure why. She begins to chuckle softly, then laugh, and cry simultaneously, her fears and tensions from the day's ordeal releasing in a wave of near-hysteria.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" she says, regrouping herself and laughing once more. "It just seems to surreal, don't you think? One day the Fort is burning, the next we're fighting dragons and wizards and claiming powerful artifacts."
It was certainly a far cry from vegetable gardening.
"I've been thinking. It would be nice to stay on in the Vale. Certainly there will be a need for able bodies and willing minds, now more than ever. The inn will need rebuilding, additional housing and infrastructure, and certainly agriculture. We could even begin a school! Non-magical, of course.."
Mairen rides in silence for some time, listening to the others and smiling occasionally. She rides easily, like one who has spent most of her life on the saddle, and when eyes turn to her she inhales deeply and shakes her head.
"I believe I'll be moving on. We - especially you five - have done incredible work here. Old Dead Eye couldn't be more pleased. But now the work will be of a different kind. Building. Consolidation. Planning. I'll be moving on to some new challenge. Some new area where the forces of the wild are inimical to good people, and helping them find balance and a way to live free of fear and oppression."
Her smile is wry.
"Erastil has a little more work left for me before I hammer my blade into a plow. Of this I am sure."
Keeping quiet after Anthuria speaks the word that hopefully saves the Fort. Trailing behind the others on the way back to the horses. Smiling and resting his head on Pretty Girls neck before pulling himself up.
Pulling from his thoughts by Balthus, "I do not know."
"There are still a great many things that need to be done here. We still need to contend with the Dwarves." Glancing at Perry and then looking forward agian, "Depending on how Lord Arizian decides to leave will dictate if I leave with him as I am supposed to or if he wishes to travel alone again."
Sounding rather morose, "This would be a wondrous place to live though. But I have reports to give back in Korvosa."
As Fort Thorn draws into view, a clamor rises from the towers atop the palisade. Shouts ring across the Bloodsworn Vale...
...shouts of relief. Of victory. Of the dream of peace and prosperity for all who have invested money, blood, sweat, and tears into the Vale's taming.
Near the entire fort turns out to greet you, all clamoring to grasp at hands and clap shoulders in celebration. Above the courtyard, no tongue of flame menaces the sky; as you push your way through the crowd, Sir Tolgrith meets you, holding a tiny red gem out to you with equal parts reverence and trepidation. No one could take their eyes off it...even as we prepared to run, everyone had at least one eye on it every time they came outside. Then yesterday...it just...fell, right out of the sky, completely dark. No one would even walk near it, and the crowds parted when I walked through carrying it. It's strange that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing...but there it is. We're safe now...and it's thanks to you. He offers the gem forward, clearly not eager to keep it in hand. Come. I want to know everything.
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Come. I want to know everything.
Percival headed to the inside of the fort and Tolgrith's office.
It was strange--meeting here one more time.And having a good map of the vale was one other difference--besides conquering the vale for the Chelaxian throne.
Perhaps conquer was not the best term, thought Percival. Struck deals is more apt.
"We faced down Vardak, the half-elven sorcerer," said Percival, finding himself a chair. "Quite boastful, but his bark was worse than his bite. It was he who awakened the drakes from their eons-long slumber by casting their stone forms back into flesh, which I believe was a curse placed upon a Chelaxian military expedition."
He then placed Vardak's map on Tolgrith's table, and added, "We put him in his place and took the fort with no casualties, but a several are wounded. Due to its position in the north, it will guard against any possible orcish invasions from beyond the mountains--but that is beyond the scope of our job here."
He paused, and then coughed awkwardly, adding, "We picked up several of his artifacts. The gem with you right now has a master gem--if commanded, it will unleash a firestorm. What do you intend to do with it?"
"What do you intend to do with it?"
Ultimately, my accountability is to His Majesty the King; I was sent to head this endeavor in his name, after all, Tolgrith replies. Any treasures we came across I'd intended to return to His Majesty's vaults, as a return on the Crown's investment while the trade route becomes more established. The seed will perhaps be as safe there as anywhere - and there's no denying that such a thing could prove invaluable, should Korvosa's safety be threatened by an invading force. For a moment, he stares at the gem in his hand in fascination before starting out of his reverie. Don't take that to mean that you should have to relinquish any of the treasures you've come across in your adventuring, though! If there's anything that would prove useful to you, please, take it with my compliments. You've eliminated more than a few threats to this place in your time - in my book, you've earned anything you've come across, and more besides.
Speaking of which...with Vardak eliminated, I intend to send the road crews out again tomorrow. We are perhaps a fortnight away from completing the push to the pass toward Nirmathas, should fortune favor us - from there, the road cuts through tamer lands, and local guard companies should be adequate to handle what threats emerge. You all came to help bring the Vale under the Crimson Throne's dominion, and once the road meets the Nirmathas pass I consider that task complete, and far beyond my satisfaction. I intend to petition His Majesty to grant each of you a knighthood for your work, and to provide for that title's incomes with a portion of the Fort's takings and a plot of land in the Vale for you to do with as you will. Whether you intend to stay or not is your business...but know that should you decide to make the Vale your home, I will always be glad for your support and advice. The work you have done here has been truly remarkable.
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Sixteen days later, the Four Wheels Hall is packed to the rafters, and several cooking fires cross the courtyard between the Hall and the under-construction Dragon's Bones. Inside the Hall, trestle tables cross the warehouse's long floor, and stacks of darkwood logs and small bales of black ash bark are pushed in neat stacks against the walls to create space for the celebration. Orrend and his cousins scurry about the room seeing to final details of the gathering, and a few of the road laborers have volunteered themselves for the lifting the slight halflings aren't up to. Several barrels of dark ale and a few casks of rich, heady red wine are scattered between the stacks, and every table is burdened near to sagging with platters of simple, homey fare. The parallels to the Rose King's feast table are all too evident - but fortunately all the joints of meat are readily identifiable as pork and beef, instead of long pig.
At the head of the room, Sir Tolgrith sits with a jovial, heavy-set man dressed in a fine wool cape; he mops at his face frequently with a silk handkerchief, evidently quite enjoying the wine. His voice, already far from soft, grows louder with every glass - from your places at the table just below Tolgrith's, his every word is apparent. I said it - I shaid it! he shouts, pounding a round fist on the table. So many said thish place'd never get under control, but I said, I did, "well, you don't know Shir Tolgrith, then!" The work here'sh excellent - better than ever we could've exshpected! King Eodred will be thrilled at my report, and that young bride of hish too! What a wedding preshent for the happy couple!
Everyone, from the lowest to the highest, dines together, basking in the joy of the occasion. A representative from the Turessk tribe sits at the end of one of the tables, bolting down joint after joint of roast meat as one of the soldiers futilely attempts to match him bite for bite. Katsa the harrower is surrounded by a crowd of curious Varisian children, and her stories of dragons and evil conjurers send their eyes wide with wonder. Even Essiki the pixie hovers near one of the rafters, excitedly surveying the scene (though she stays next to an open window). Through setback after setback, the conquerors of the Bloodsworn Vale have prevailed, bringing order to chaos and facing down a threat beyond any they'd imagined; now, they celebrate together the satisfaction of a job well done.
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Percival observed the celebrations at a distance, munching on semi-sweet cookies.
"Can any agreement we strike today be anything but temporary?""I certainly don't wish to see the indigenous peoples here run out or worse. Korvosa's done quite enough of that against the Shoanti, and I would hope that history can teach us valuable lessons about responsible stewardship, assuming we're keen to learn them.""There are a lot of things wrong in Korvosa, and I have chance to make them right. That's what we're doing here, too. "
"I think that's a good idea," said Percival out loud.
Enrico approached the contemplative lord, and offered him a plateful of party food. "Deep in thought, are you?" asked the bard.
"I will ask King Arabasti to govern the vale," Percival announced.
"As Count Arizian?" Enrico frowned slightly, thinking.
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The rain patters against the window pane, and a gentle thunder rolls through the night sky. The air has grown chilly this evening, a prelude to autumn's coming concerto. Already the leaves have begun to turn, and a few are blown against the glass. The branches of the trees swish and shiver, huddling together against the storm. Inside, tucked away against the elements, the soft glow of a table lamp illuminates an unremarkable writing desk. Behind it, a small fire crackles in the hearth, the heady smoke swimming up the chimney, though the rich fragrance from the burning wood still manages to hang on to the air.
Anthuria sits at this desk, penning a final letter. Beside her, a small pile of folded parchments stands as a testament to her work this evening, and the ache in her fingers, another, still. Her scripts is quite elegant, practiced, though by the time she finishes this one the ache in her hand has compelled a degree of abandon in her characteristic flourishes and loops. Still, she sits back, admiring the long rows of inked characters, cherishing the simple beauty of hand-drawn script.
She had always loved such things.
But now the hour is late, and the last of her wood has begun to dwindle, fading to mere embers within the soot-stained hearth. Drawing her sleeping clothes around her, she stands and makes her way across the room, careful not to stub her toe (again) on the wooden rocking chair that she had stationed in the room. It was still unfamiliar to her, placed there just this morning at her request. But she knew her mother would be glad to see it when she arrived the following week. Advancing on in years, the woman took easily to chill, and so it would be important for her to have a place near the fire.
Anthuria smiles sadly at the thought, for though she cannot wait to see her mother, she hates to see her grow older, and the lines upon her face are reminders of the time that has already passed between them, time lost that an never be had again. But from the fertile fields of time grow memories, she knows, memories more splendid and more gracious than the most beautiful flowers she could ever grow. She places another log on the fire, wondering what time has in store for them.
A flash of lightning draws her attention to the window and back toward her desk where the finished letter now rests. She folds it closed, then, opening one of the desk’s slender draws, withdraws a white beeswax candle. She lights it by the flame of the lamp, allowing a moment for the wax to melt, then drips a bit of it onto the folded edge of the parchment. Blowing out the candle, she places it carefully to the side, then picks up her sterling silver locket, the one engraved with a bird of paradise. She carefully places it face-down upon the wax, then presses gently with her thumb. After a moment she withdraws the locket, leaving a perfect imprint of the bird within the wax, and sealing the parchment closed.
This last letter is her resignation from the college. And while she knows she is making the correct decision, it was perhaps the hardest to write. It will be an enormous step, moving herself and her mother to the Vale. But as her father had told her before he died, even as he lay sick and delirious with fever, ”a life isn’t lived by making easy choices. It’s only in the difficult ones that we find our purpose.” She repeats the line with relish, smiling absently as she conjures up his memory in her mind’s eye. She hadn’t a clue what he meant at the time, for she was practically still a child. But my, how she has lived since then. She thinks of her newfound friends, of the cantankerous Balthus and his loyal dog, of the swarthy Amund and his crazed fondness for the owlbears, of the stalwart Jetta and her loyalty to her ideals, of the wise Lord Arizian and his ambitions to bring order to the wilderness, and of the contemplative Mairen and the strength of her silence. And she thinks of herself, her own notions and ambitions, and how everything she thought she wanted in Korvosa now seems so trivial.
Indeed, she isn’t sure what she desires now, or where her path shall lead her, and yet that strikes her as being just fine.
She stands and turns out the lamp, making her way across the room by the light of the fire. Crawling into bed, she turns up the covers nearly to her ears, rolling onto her side to stare in the flames, imagining within their lights and shadows a play, a story of adventure. A telling of their journey as ambitious adventurers into the Vale, and of their paths onward, into the remainder of their lives, as friends.
The fire’s glow illuminates her locket, which now lies open upon the writing desk. Within it, a small portrait of a family rests. A small and gentle-looking man with pale skin and a dark, overgrown mustache like untended ivy, stands wearing a worn but neatly pressed suit jacket. Seated at his side is a freckled, matronly woman with vivid red hair pulled tightly back into a neat bun. And in her lap, a dark-skinned baby girl, only a few years old, clothed in a simple linen frock. Their smiles are broad, and bright, and proud, and something about the portrait exudes a greater warmth than all the fires in the Vale.
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The reunion between Jetta and her parents unfolds about as awkwardly as one might imagine: after running away from home and cutting all ties with them for years, there are many wounds that have never had the chance to heal. Yet, with Jetta's newfound perspective and maturity—and with Perry to smooth things over—the family is brought back together in reconciliation. For a full week, she stays at home and recounts her father and mother with tales of her various exploits, and is likewise brought back to speed on what has been happening at home. She walks the streets without her armour, refamiliarising herself with the city that she has sworn to protect. In the coming years, she makes sure to visit her parents as often as she possibly can, to make up for lost time—and they have chances to visit her as well. As it turns out, the new trade route eastwards proves quite lucrative for the old traders, who eventually come to appreciate their daughter's role in shaping the fate of Korvosa and its holdings.
Once she has made her way back to Citadel Vraid, Jetta reports back to her commanding officer and mentor, Maralictor Venn. Now outranking her only by a technicality, he hears her tale with his usual stolidness. Yet as she is relieved, there is a palpable sense of pride in his grizzled voice. There are no words of wisdom to send her on her way. Her training is long done.
Soon after a hearing with the general officers of the order, the young Field-Maralictor leads a full company of armigers and full-fledged Hellknights alike through the Mindspin Mountains into Bloodsworn Vale. No longer the haunt of a deranged mage but a bastion of order, the newly christened Citadel Rosarius stands ready to guard over the trade route to Nirmathas for decades to come. With her experience in the field—and her unusual capacity for cooperating with parties outside the order—she leads her troops capably. She keeps them from interfering with issues that fall outside their prime directive, earning a reputation for reasonability that is unheard of for the ruthless lawbringers. Not a force to be feared, but steadfast and unrelenting in their defense of the settlers, the Hellknights under her command grow to be a vital part of the Vale's infrastructure.
Perhaps in time, this development will herald the creation of a new order of Hellknights...
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[Music link]
It was a rainy, dreary day of Lamashan when Lord Percival Aldeferi Arizian was granted the writ of stewardship over the Domain of Bloodsworn Vale.
The proclamations have been made by criers in the city ringing bells, celebrating King Eodred the Second's annexation of the lawless borderland province, and the establishment of the first land route to cross the Mindspin Mountains (if discounting orc-country and the terror-haunted paths of Nidal).
The nobles spoke with gleeful tones, 'Korvosa had another edge over the other city-states of Varisia--a route to the trade-heavy Lake Encarthan'.
Count Percival himself paid little heed for the political maneuvers of city-states and their constant scheming--he had work to do.
"I think it's sweet that Henrietta is doing well. She always was a happy child," said Countess Emmalyn breathlessly, entering the carriage and looking at her husband. Her brown-blonde hair was held up in an elegant and practical knot, and the found-faced woman (now in her late thirties) wore riding clothes for the frontier. "Remember all the days in our summer home in Kintargo?"
Percival nodded, looking out the window, and then down at a map of the Vale (where he began sketching something). Emma's mare walked by the carriage, and Enrico's voice from outside said something about estimated time for the first station along the road.
"Countdom? This is good," she said, looking out the window. The sky was starting to clear up as they passed the mountain path leading to the vale. "It's really good," she repeated.
Percival didn't respond, busy as he was.
"Pear?" she spoke.
He looked up, sweeping his hair to the side of his head.
"Are you happy?"
Percival reached to a box, and presented it to his wife. Pausing, but accepting it, Emma opened it to reveal the delicate silver circlet of persuasion Percival faced down Vardak with, bedded in golden linen. The polished silver made the Eye of Aroden only more pronounced. If prophecy and destiny had a scent--it would be of the perfumed oils with which the circlet was polished.
"The Vale is a microcosm, Emma," he said, as he wife admired the circlet, and then put it on her brow on his gesture. "Prophecy died a hundred years ago, but here, it led us all to glory. Out of crumbling ruins, we rebuild and dig new paths over forgotten ones."
"The Fool Lives in the Moment. The Wise Live Forever," he murmured, citing the Arodenite aphorism, laying his hand over the map. To the side, the Abadarian Manual of City-Building was on its founding settlements chapter.
"You must've seen something disturbing here for you to start philosophizing," said the Countess slyly.
The circlet is already working, thought Percival, before he smiled. He then fell silent, as the carriage wheels sloshed over mud on the road, and the fresh and soil-filled scents of autumn and falling leaves began seeping through the carriage with the eastern winds. From the window, the pass began to open to the Vale, making way for the occasional ray of sunlight. Passing by an opening in the impenetrable Mindspin Mountains was a gap to the vale--a dizzying array of golds and reds amid green greeted the carriage that seemed to glow by itself. The far reaches of the vale were cradled (almost lovingly) by the slopes of high and powerful mountains, as if the earth just gave birth to life.
"This is...pretty good, Pear," whispered Emma, wiping a tear of awe. "It's beautiful. I'm very proud of you."
Percival nodded, and said, observing the map and the planned settlement on the western side of the Coldrun River--where the roads of Korvosa, Nirmathas, and the path to Skelt meet--the settlement that was built on friendship and comradrie and aided by divine assistance, and shaped by a mysterious mix of free will and destiny.
New emerges and old perishes - who will be blamed but the upstarts, the recent pieces laid on an ancient board?
"With the compassion, tenacity, and respect they share with one another and their committment towards their goals--it was no wonder that it was done in record time," said Emma once hearing of the accomplishment. Turning to his wife, he saw that she was still enthralled by the view.
"Yeah--it is pretty good," agreed he, as he remembered Enrico's comment, and the faces of his allies that fought alongside him. He reached for his wife's hand, placing something in, and holding on to it, and they observed the land outside. Emma looked down, and the radiant eternal fey-flower was there between their joined hands.
"I'm Jetta Stahle, a Hellknight of the Nail. I've been transferred here under the direct orders of Lictor Severs DiViri himself, effective immediately. He hopes that our order can aid you in your quest to return these lands to the Crimson Throne of Korvosa, and the just and lawful jurisdiction of the Empire of Cheliax."
"I am Mairen Roäc, paladin of Erastil and sworn through his service to clear paths and protect lands for our people to settle and thrive in. I offer my services so as to help clear the Bloodsworn Vale of all troubles."
"I don't need much reward for killing bugbears. I'll gladly bring you ears or scalps to bolster the morale in the fort."
"Greetings, Sir Tolgrith. I am Anthuria Wilano, envoy from Theumanexus College. I, er...And we are here to solve your problem."
"I am Amund Basurto of the Korvosan Guard. My Captain, Raymond Medina, has charged me with aiding you in securing this Vale."
"Up the stairs, turn left, second door on the right--Lord Perry Arizian at your service. I am willing to aid the efforts of Karvosa and her leadership to bring order and civility to these lands, gods bless."
As the carriage moved out of the shadow of the mountain and the lazy rays of the midday sun fell into the room, they fell on the map Percival penned. Under the triangular-shaped city was the name Count Percival decided--Providence, capital of Bloodsworn Vale. He smiled.
"--and it should be. After all, it's gold, land, and title."
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A year after the dust has settled and the sound of hammers on nails and the lowing of cattle are becoming common across the vale, an old tinker comes down the main road, a high pack balanced precariously on his shoulders.
He stops here and there to ask people the same question: "Directions to Master Balthus' home, miss?"
It's dark when he finally reaches the old man's home. He crosses over the newly built small bridge that arcs over the stream that marks the front of the property, letting out his age old cry, "Tinker hoy, tinker hoy!"
The sharp barks of a large hound stop him cold, and he grits his teeth, ready to flee, but the coarse shouts of the dog's owner saves him from being savaged. Bowing low, the ratty tinker introduces himself as Early Ostfaf, and promises his visit will be speedy; for once in his life he has come to deliver something, and not take away.
Over a cup of mulled wine, he pulls out a blade wrapped in oilcloth. It's been shattered in two. He hands it to Balthus, lower lip stuck out, and sits back as the old ranger reveals a familiar sight: Mairen's longsword. It's edge is pitted as if by acid, and one side of the guard is missing altogether.
"Aye, promised her I'd bring this to you. She weren't making much sense when I found her, poor thing, all torn up she was by the side of the road. Better shape than the road itself, though; the whole area was blasted black and the trees were still smoldering like a mass of cheroots."
Early Ostfaf sniffs and shrugs his shoulders. "I came close to have a gander, all terrified I was, I'll admit, and there she was, cut up bad and near her end. I didn't even know where to start patching her up. But she was alive, somehow, and she asked me to deliver a number of things to the closest shrine of Erastil - which I done right off - but bring her blade to you, Master Balthus. She said, let's see, he was a true companion in arms, or the like. My blade will know rest with him. She started to fade then, and I stayed by her side right till the end, though that wasn't far off. Aye. Sad thing that. I told the priest at the shrine and he sent for her body, promised to do all the proper rites and so forth."
Standing up, Early refuses all invites to stay. "Best be on my way. No, thank you, but that cup of wine was plenty. I'm right glad I found you, though your reputation surely did help. I'm sorry I wasn't able to do more for her, but this at least was some poor token. Good eve to you, Master Balthus, and Erastil watch over your waking hours."
That done, Early hoists his improbable pack back up on his bony shoulders, and steps back out into the gloaming, crosses the little bridge, and is gone.
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For the next few days Amund mostly sticks to himself and waits to see when Lord Arizian plans to leave. Ensuring that he leaves on the same day, just because Arizian arrived without him does not mean that he can leave without Amund. The cubs will be tended to and he has a place to return to so once Perry is ready to leave Amund silently follows.
The closer they get to Korvosa the tighter the knots in his stomach get. Fearful of resolution or forever never knowing. Once Amund has seen Lord Arizian home he lets Pretty Girl lead him home. The smell of the city nowhere as clean as the Vale seeps into him. The noise of the so many people milling about. Heading over to the stables and returning Pretty Girl to her stall. Leaning his head against her neck, "I promise it will not be long."
Swiftly walking back to the barracks and leaving his things and not bothering to fight Ursa on having to stay. Nodding to a few familiar faces but refusing to get caught up in conversation until he has had the one that really matters.
The walk to the captains office is so familiar but no longer exciting. There is no joy to be found in the noise of the city. Knocking and waiting to be told to enter. Looking down at Ursa, "Stay." Content that the dog will wait for him Amund heads in. Nodding to his captain, "You received my letters?"
Captain Medina waves a hand at the seat, "Sit down. And yes I got your letters. I hope those I sent were helpful."
Nodding and sitting rigidly while ignoring the pounding in his chest, "Yes Sir. I.. umm, I do not wish to waste your time Sir. I have completed what I was sent to do in the Vale. I believe Lord Arizain is going to be working closely with the Vale from here on out..." Sucking in a breath and refusing to drop his gaze, " I was knighted. Not what I expected out of this. My point being that I am grateful for everything you have done for me but I need.. No I am resigning from the guard. I want to take what I have learned here and apply it to the Vale." Well at least he does not look like he is going to scream at me.
Leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. Medina lets the silence stretch while watching Amund. Frowning when the younger man does not fidget or start talking again, "I would prefer you stay but it is your life. There was a reason that I did not want you. This life does not suit you Amund. Gather your things and say your goodbyes." Getting a nod from Amund and letting him stand before continuing, "If I am able I will send people your way and if I learn anything about what happened to Ursion I will send word."
Stopping as if just realizing something, "Sir. The horse that was issued to me. I would like to buy her. I will get you a replacement if need be."
The next two days are spent visiting with friends, saying goodbye, and finding a replacment horse for the guard. His third and final day Amund visits his parents. Whom are thrilled that he is no longer in the guard. "Dangerous work son."
Unsurprisingly they are less than thrilled at the idea that Amund is leaving Korvosa for the Vale, "If you give me time I am sure I could get a home for you there. Bakers are always needed." But he leaves alone. The gamble is far too much. Stubborn old people.
Finding a caravan to travel back to the Vale with feeling lighter, with a new sense of purpose. No longer needing to live up to the glory that he thought he saw in the guard but only needing to simply live. Feeling the knots in his stomach loosen when the Fort come back into view.