Though I can appreciate the nuance and differences in the two of us and your talents alike, I tell you this plainly now; an option that consigns innocents to death to ease our own shortcomings is no option at all. We overcome, or we fail.
[ his kingdom for a NORMAL scry cast tbh ]
Likely not without risking ourselves further in travel. Setting a campsite would be safer.
Our betters are ever eager to trade lives for some amorphous idea of a greater good. Personally, I have no illusions. But good on you, I'll take conviction over dawdling.
[ Her proposal is informed by expedience before ethics; she belongs to neither of the aforementioned schools of thought and whether that makes her a person of low character is somebody else's business. ]
Praise be! I'd petition you to carry me before braving another rolling hill, seeing how brazenly uninconvenienced you are by physical labour.
[ The young woman is really gaunt and short of breath and yet surprisingly tenacious despite her difficulty keeping up, as if propelled forwards by her spite. As they set camp Samarie walks the perimeter, tracing a circle around their refuge with a crooked stick while muttering indiscernible grievances to herself. ]
[ Just in case she was starting to feel that his conviction's a one-way road.
And he leaves the conversation at that, for the moment. He settles into work without being asked; as she's already observed, he's ready for it, both by training and abundance of physical endurance. Godfrey shoulders the work himself of gathering wood, preparing their fire, and pitching both tents, with not a word of complaint and all of the precision of a soldier out of training. He asks her for nothing - not because of any fear or lacking trust, but simply because of the stark differences in their physicalities. Godfrey is strong, and taller, and hardly winded by the road they've walked - not so for her.
Besides... whatever she's doing has some import, maybe.
He isn't sure. He knows little about this worship; they're a secretive group. Godfrey has tried always to bear in mind his own lack of knowledge whilst dealing with Samarie, but-- well, it would be a lie to say that he has not felt himself hold his breath a little in her presence, and he swore an Oath.
For the time being, Godfrey - free of his heavy plate - squats by the fire. He cuts carrots from his pack into a hot iron pot, currently perched over the flame, driving the blade through the root and against his thumb.
Godfrey doesn't disturb her - but he watches her, as he might any idle curiosity. ]
[ His solitary attendance to the physical labours of establishing a camp would be par for the course were she a woman of status in the company of her knight, but from Samarie's standpoint, she is no different from the spawn of "cow shit," to use the verbiage of the gentry in reference to peasants, and therefore she ought to contribute like a dirty little peasant girl should. Well, she'd probably fumble the pitching of the tent and his pre-emptive intervention in the matter spares her the indignity of asking, but she is in fact playing her part in securing their sleep. The seemingly aimless scribble the dark priest etches into the dirt is in service of thwarting an ambush, a necessary precaution in enemy territory.
Godfrey is cutting carrots when, apropos of nothing, Samarie suddenly explodes: ]
Kaa! Do you think I'm some feckless rube? I studied sorcery at Fiend Petr's Basilica!
[ Before he can so much as part his lips, the young woman whips out a blade and opens her outstretched forearm with the end of the knife. Blood runs hot from the gash and speckles the grass and soil at her feet. A burst of flame casts shadows upon the their faces as fire travels the circumference of their camp like the lit fuse of a dynamite before vanishing into the darkness from which it came, leaving a ring of evaporating smoke about the camp. The tell-tale signature of blood magic: self-mutilation. ]
N-no need to trade shifts... Gro-goroth will protect us.
[ Samarie sits on an incline and stares pointedly into the heart of the fire. The blood on her arm has yet to clot and slithers from the cut. It's not fatal, but there. The worked up sorcerer pays no heed to the wound. ]
[ If Godfrey thinks she ought contribute to the making of their camp, he doesn't let it on.
Just as he doesn't let on if he knew to expect this sudden eruption from her. His knife stops, mid-rasp, on its way through this most recent round.
Godfrey witnesses it all in silence - the blade driving into her arm, the flash of fire carving through the grass, penning them in with a sharp, bright burning. The brief, black deafness that falls across them, as though the air grew too full for sound for a slim moment. The deathly exhalation. The overbearing heat.
The campfire stirs. Godfrey remains seated, and his knife travels no further through the vegetable in his hand.
The moment eases. The arcing fire dies to cinders, forming around them a black perimeter. The air smells hot, as Godfrey suspects it will for the night's remainder - beyond, perhaps. He is no expert on these teachings, but he knows enough to recognize what he's seen here; and though he can appreciate her effort, the livid pain she still appears blind to, he would have happily stood vigil instead of invited His presence to their campfire.
He lets the knife pass the rest of the way. The orange round drops into the pot. Godfrey thinks on her - her teachings, her age. She's young - no child, Gods willing. But she is no older than he, or so Godfrey feels assured. What must her life be comprised by, to come into such knowledge; worse, to take not even a moment to resort to it?
He cuts to the carrot's stem and drops it to the soil. Godfrey climbs to his feet and steps away in silence. He cleans his hands.
Shoulders a bag from his tent and walks toward Samarie's incline, lowering himself on one knee next to her, her wounded arm between them. ]
I don't know that you'll wish me to close the wound - though you need only ask if you do. But we ought at least see it cleaned and covered.
No trouble at all. You shall know they've arrived when you hear me rap the door.
[ Very, very gently, of course. ]
If I've anything that may help clear this morning fog, trust that it will arrive as companions to your broth and sweetmint. Worry yourself not with tithe if you do not speak in jest.
I will try my utmost to make myself presentable, but please forgive my lack of polish, if you will.
[ The gesture will certainly be appreciated. Elves have rather sensitive hearing, after all. ]
My friend, I may not be the most pious of knights, but I would never deign to jest in the face of your own piety. Truly, your good works have been invaluable to our team, and I feel I ought to repay your kindness in some small way.
[ A high elf cannot help but put on airs, Godfrey. Why do you think they are called such?
Julien doesn't bother with reading the message, their ears already pricked to the sound of gentle knocking at their door.
The latch clicks, the door swings open partway, and Julien peers around the frame, blue eyes squinting through their lashes against the brightness streaming through the windows. Their fiery hair hangs loose about their face, unkempt and bristling with unruly curls. Their face bears no hint of powder, nor makeup, though their eyes are shadowed from poor sleep. An old blanket is draped over their shoulders, giving them the unfortunate appearance of a vagrant begging for alms.
They catch sight of Godfrey's broad shoulder turning from them, his blond hair catching the light, turning it to burnished gold.
He's a saint, truly, for aiding them in their hour of need. ]
A moment, friend. [ Julien's gaze drops to the offerings laid by the door, then quickly shifts toward the interior of their room. ] ...would you like some tea?
And I am unsure as to how my Lord might feel about my... pot-stirring, besides. In the conventional definition. I have been one tasked to create and foster unions, not to unsettle them.
No, bully you: appropriate space between rp and life having ass, healthy boundary having ass
More for me, then. I’ll say not all unions are worth the work: I had one couple who would have a row about the wife’s mother all the time, so of course I went to meet this lady on my own time and she and I became good friends. Come to find out, the mother refused to see them because the husband had first married the wife’s cousin, gave her a child and then broke things off to take up with the wife. So armed with this, the next time they get to fighting I get between them and tell them about what a lovely birthday his child had just had. The looks on their faces, Gwilym, I’ll never forget.
You know, that's perfectly fair. There are some things we are just not meant to know. I can appreciate the courage to be open about it, but I don't want to discover it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tfln overflow......2
@sangwhine
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1/whatever sorry to your inbox
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ok thats it
I suppose I've no real choice but to be completely honest with you, my friend, however much dishonour it may bring.
My immediate assumption has been that you've been saying these things to mock me.
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hello hi sorry life ate me
@radiatingsoul
Though I can appreciate the nuance and differences in the two of us and your talents alike, I tell you this plainly now; an option that consigns innocents to death to ease our own shortcomings is no option at all. We overcome, or we fail.
[ his kingdom for a NORMAL scry cast tbh ]
Likely not without risking ourselves further in travel. Setting a campsite would be safer.
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[ Her proposal is informed by expedience before ethics; she belongs to neither of the aforementioned schools of thought and whether that makes her a person of low character is somebody else's business. ]
Praise be! I'd petition you to carry me before braving another rolling hill, seeing how brazenly uninconvenienced you are by physical labour.
[ The young woman is really gaunt and short of breath and yet surprisingly tenacious despite her difficulty keeping up, as if propelled forwards by her spite. As they set camp Samarie walks the perimeter, tracing a circle around their refuge with a crooked stick while muttering indiscernible grievances to herself. ]
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[ Just in case she was starting to feel that his conviction's a one-way road.
And he leaves the conversation at that, for the moment. He settles into work without being asked; as she's already observed, he's ready for it, both by training and abundance of physical endurance. Godfrey shoulders the work himself of gathering wood, preparing their fire, and pitching both tents, with not a word of complaint and all of the precision of a soldier out of training. He asks her for nothing - not because of any fear or lacking trust, but simply because of the stark differences in their physicalities. Godfrey is strong, and taller, and hardly winded by the road they've walked - not so for her.
Besides... whatever she's doing has some import, maybe.
He isn't sure. He knows little about this worship; they're a secretive group. Godfrey has tried always to bear in mind his own lack of knowledge whilst dealing with Samarie, but-- well, it would be a lie to say that he has not felt himself hold his breath a little in her presence, and he swore an Oath.
For the time being, Godfrey - free of his heavy plate - squats by the fire. He cuts carrots from his pack into a hot iron pot, currently perched over the flame, driving the blade through the root and against his thumb.
Godfrey doesn't disturb her - but he watches her, as he might any idle curiosity. ]
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Godfrey is cutting carrots when, apropos of nothing, Samarie suddenly explodes: ]
Kaa! Do you think I'm some feckless rube? I studied sorcery at Fiend Petr's Basilica!
[ Before he can so much as part his lips, the young woman whips out a blade and opens her outstretched forearm with the end of the knife. Blood runs hot from the gash and speckles the grass and soil at her feet. A burst of flame casts shadows upon the their faces as fire travels the circumference of their camp like the lit fuse of a dynamite before vanishing into the darkness from which it came, leaving a ring of evaporating smoke about the camp. The tell-tale signature of blood magic: self-mutilation. ]
N-no need to trade shifts... Gro-goroth will protect us.
[ Samarie sits on an incline and stares pointedly into the heart of the fire. The blood on her arm has yet to clot and slithers from the cut. It's not fatal, but there. The worked up sorcerer pays no heed to the wound. ]
meant to get to this way earlier, apologies....
Just as he doesn't let on if he knew to expect this sudden eruption from her. His knife stops, mid-rasp, on its way through this most recent round.
Godfrey witnesses it all in silence - the blade driving into her arm, the flash of fire carving through the grass, penning them in with a sharp, bright burning. The brief, black deafness that falls across them, as though the air grew too full for sound for a slim moment. The deathly exhalation. The overbearing heat.
The campfire stirs. Godfrey remains seated, and his knife travels no further through the vegetable in his hand.
The moment eases. The arcing fire dies to cinders, forming around them a black perimeter. The air smells hot, as Godfrey suspects it will for the night's remainder - beyond, perhaps. He is no expert on these teachings, but he knows enough to recognize what he's seen here; and though he can appreciate her effort, the livid pain she still appears blind to, he would have happily stood vigil instead of invited His presence to their campfire.
He lets the knife pass the rest of the way. The orange round drops into the pot. Godfrey thinks on her - her teachings, her age. She's young - no child, Gods willing. But she is no older than he, or so Godfrey feels assured. What must her life be comprised by, to come into such knowledge; worse, to take not even a moment to resort to it?
He cuts to the carrot's stem and drops it to the soil. Godfrey climbs to his feet and steps away in silence. He cleans his hands.
Shoulders a bag from his tent and walks toward Samarie's incline, lowering himself on one knee next to her, her wounded arm between them. ]
I don't know that you'll wish me to close the wound - though you need only ask if you do. But we ought at least see it cleaned and covered.
@elfenritter
No trouble at all. You shall know they've arrived when you hear me rap the door.
[ Very, very gently, of course. ]
If I've anything that may help clear this morning fog, trust that it will arrive as companions to your broth and sweetmint. Worry yourself not with tithe if you do not speak in jest.
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[ The gesture will certainly be appreciated. Elves have rather sensitive hearing, after all. ]
My friend, I may not be the most pious of knights, but I would never deign to jest in the face of your own piety. Truly, your good works have been invaluable to our team, and I feel I ought to repay your kindness in some small way.
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I meant no insult, to you nor myself. I meant only to say that you need not feel obliged to compensate His tithe for my aid. I offer it freely.
[ Speaking of; three very gentle knocks at the door, beyond it waiting a mug of bone broth, sweetmint sprigs, and some jarred pickles. ]
I just knocked. I hope you heard me.
I've left some things outside for you. Trouble yourself not with seeing me - you ought be in rest, not putting on airs.
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Julien doesn't bother with reading the message, their ears already pricked to the sound of gentle knocking at their door.
The latch clicks, the door swings open partway, and Julien peers around the frame, blue eyes squinting through their lashes against the brightness streaming through the windows. Their fiery hair hangs loose about their face, unkempt and bristling with unruly curls. Their face bears no hint of powder, nor makeup, though their eyes are shadowed from poor sleep. An old blanket is draped over their shoulders, giving them the unfortunate appearance of a vagrant begging for alms.
They catch sight of Godfrey's broad shoulder turning from them, his blond hair catching the light, turning it to burnished gold.
He's a saint, truly, for aiding them in their hour of need. ]
A moment, friend. [ Julien's gaze drops to the offerings laid by the door, then quickly shifts toward the interior of their room. ] ...would you like some tea?
@forrestertailor
I am the sort who has but one spoon, I fear.
And I am unsure as to how my Lord might feel about my... pot-stirring, besides. In the conventional definition. I have been one tasked to create and foster unions, not to unsettle them.
No, bully you: appropriate space between rp and life having ass, healthy boundary having ass
So armed with this, the next time they get to fighting I get between them and tell them about what a lovely birthday his child had just had. The looks on their faces, Gwilym, I’ll never forget.
@divinestrike
There is value in what you say.
But I do fail to see the greater path waiting to be revealed by throwing open a set of barn doors to reveal them in the act of coitus, purely in jest.
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The point of objection was not the sight itself, Lady.
It was the needless fight that broke out afterward. They were both quite furious.
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Well. Maybe a really good bard might be able to.
Why were they interrupted to begin with?
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