Within the halls of the lord’s tower...
Torvous—adjusting his healed nose—marched through the stark halls of the south-east tower—better known as the Lord’s Tower. His mood was right foul after the events of the morning, and he found himself ever more craving a drink to blunt the day’s edge...
But no, the lord had summoned him to his study, and he was not fool enough to make that man wait.
Climbing the last of the spiraling stairs, Torvous spotted Til’ven standing before the daunting threshold to their master’s study. The old elf—dressed in a dark green vest with swirls of gold, fitted over a fine white tunic and matching green slacks—adopted a mask of composed calm, as he stood vigil before the closed oaken door.
The graying ven, no doubt awaiting Torvous’s arrival. Truthfully, Torvous envied such discipline. For as loyal as he was, he could not imagine serving so faithfully under the line of another—for near on two centuries.
“Arms-master,” greeted the steward as Torvous approached.
Shaking himself from his thought-ridden daze, Torvous’s mind returned to the task at hand. “Sorry, Til'ven. Got lost in my head for a bit.”
The prim elf raised a single brow. “Enough blows to the head will do that to you,” he quipped dryly, whilst knocking on the door of the lord’s study.
Torvous chuckled, about to offer his own scathing remark, but had to let it be, as Til'ven—while hiding a smirk—had opened the door. He couldn’t believe it; the aging elf had a sense of humor hidden underneath all that pomp-n-posture.
Shaking his head, he stepped in and was instantly stuck dumb by the sight of his lord and commander seated behind his large oak desk. The elf was unlike any of the high elves Torvous had met in his 50 years of life. The century-old na-ven was a strange contrast, very different from what one might imagine when describing a high elven lord, often only associated with beauty, grace, and love for the arts.
On one hand, he was the physical embodiment of what humans picture when thinking of high elven nobility. He was slim, tall, and lean, like most of his kind. And with that disgustingly handsome face, long blonde hair—and those sky-blue eyes—he was truly one to envy. The na-ven was more than a match for any of the elves that Torvous had had the displeasure of meeting, save for perhaps Lurian.
His demeanor, however, was more in line with that of an on-duty human general. His lord was strict, disciplined, unforgiving, and rigid to a fault. He had a harshness about him; he donned like a cloak—worn solely to keep others at bay.
Torvous took a look around the small chamber. A habit inherited from his days in Selarr. It being the case that it’s far easier to shank a champion outside the ring than face him in battle, the practice had saved him more than once, so he never bothered to correct it.
The lord’s study was much like the man himself: pretty yet practical, and efficient in function. The only vanity, a large rosewood timepiece that stood against the wall. It was the height of a man and was gilded with more gold than he had ever seen. Torvous thought it stuck out like a virgin in a whorehouse, almost offensively clashing with the rest of the chamber’s minimalistic décor.
Torvous’s gaze left the gordy clock and returned to lord Ven'nirous, who was still scribbling away at something on his desk. He didn’t think he would ever get used to the sight of his lord; his commander, seated at a desk, doing the work of a clerk.
He softly huffed; the mighty ‘na-ven belonged on the battlefield, not here, enduring a slow execution via quill and ink. It all seemed so wasteful; the elf was a living weapon; a decorated commander; not some scribe or noble fop.
“At ease, arms-master,” said lord Ven'nirous, sheathing his quill in its stand—and relaxing back into his plush, ornate throne. He gestured to Torvous’s side. “Take a seat; we have much to discuss, and my neck may tire if you continue to stand.”
‘Was that a joke?’ he thought, after noticing the lord’s mood. He could not recall a time his lord wore so-bright a countenance. It was in the little things: an upturned lip, a relaxed brow, a softening in the lines of his face.
‘He seems... almost jovial,’ he thought, his tense shoulders relaxing with the observation.
Holding in a relieved sigh, Torvous looked nervously at the seat before the lord's desk. As a rather big, unrefined brute, he didn’t feel particularly comfortable sitting in such an expensive-looking chair.
What if he broke the damn thing? It looked pretty fragile. But unfortunately, orders were orders.
“Aye, my lord,” he said, cautiously lowering himself into the offered chair.
Thankfully, the chair survived. He imagined he looked like a right fool with his back so straight and his large hairy hand stretched out, holding on to his knees; as if—without the anchor—he’d fly away if he let go. Visit novelping dot com for the full chapter.
His lordship clearly thought the sight humorous, because Torvous would swear on his life he heard the man chuckle. “No need to worry, arms-master,” he said—with the twitch of a smirk—lighting up his usually cold features. “The chair is far sturdier than it looks...”
“Now, as for why I summoned you. It has much to do with Lurian and the results of today’s bouts.” He tapped the desk and leaned back. “That child, he was impressive. Frankly, I was surprised by his showing. It would seem his training has been going well?”
“Yes—sir,” Torvous replied, his anxious features coming to life as he straightened in his seat. “The boy is pretty decent with most weapons. I’d say he’s a master of man-to-man fightin’ with all the standard human armaments, and from what I’ve heard from the few elven instructors ya got the boy, he’s at least the same again with the standard elven weaponry. Though... his man-to-beast fightin’ likely needs some work. He’s had little exposure ta the beasts of the wilds.”
The lord—resting on his elbow—cradled his chin with his fingers. “If it’s exposure he needs,” he pondered aloud, “It may be prudent to have him spend a few days in the Vel’larkie Woods under the care of some elven rangers... The experience may serve him well in the Tower.”
Nodding, Torvous eagerly added: “Aye, Mi’lord. It may interest sir to know that as good as the boy is with most weapons, his true talent lies with the sword and shield. I’ve never seen someone so young with such skill. With the boy's larger physique, I’d say he’s destined to be quite the Shielded Heavy.”
Torvous couldn’t hide the hint of pride that seeped into his words when speaking of the boy’s skill at arms. After a lifetime of failure and borrowed glory, teaching the boy sword and shield was one of the few accomplishments he could truly claim his own.
“Yes, he was indeed impressive,” the lord said, tapping his chin. The ven took a moment to consider, and then his gaze sharpened as he straightened. “But Arms-master, I will be very disappointed if after all this training all he amounts to is a brute with a shield. Know that-that’s not what I had in mind when I hired you to oversee his training.”
Torvous almost bristled at the remark, but caught the impulse before it could manifest. As one of those brutes with a shield, he was unhappy to hear one he respected demean his chosen path, but he knew his place and when to keep his mouth shut.
“Mi’lord, the boy’s got an equal talent for the arcane according ta his tutors’ reports; he’ll be no simple brute, of that ya can be sure,” he explained, hoping to placate the lord’s concerns.
“Yes, I’ve seen those same reports. For an unawakened, he is quite skilled by all accounts,” the lord said, a rare trace of approval creeping into his tone. “The child does have some mystic blood in him, so it comes as no surprise he has some talent for the arcane. I suppose it will all depend on what talents he manifests at the tower.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “Arms-master, you have two weeks. After those two weeks, he must be ready for the tower. Thankfully, with today’s showing, I managed to secure him a spot in a rather prestigious party. It saves us the tedium of arranging Vel’lon of his own.”
Torvous frowned. “But mi’lord, the boy’s still young, isn’t it a waste to send him so early?”
The lord dismissively waved his hand. “It shouldn’t be a problem. With the child’s skill and size, he could likely make quick work of other youths thrice his number, and as a vel’lon chosen by the line of Querkus, he won’t have to compete with the common rabble for his spot in the tower.”
“But mi’lord, there’s years left till he reaches the age he’d be barred from the tower. That’s years of training he’s missin’. He’s not re—”
“Enough!” The lord said, instantly silencing his protest. “The child will go this season; that is not up for debate. You are here merely to discuss the plan for the next few weeks of his training. Not to advise me on matters already decided. Your job is to ensure that the child is ready for anything the tower may throw his way, nothing more.”
Torvous shrank at the rebuke. Though he sought to understand why the lord was so adamant that the boy go this season, he had risked his lord’s ire once already, and would not do so again.
“Ye-yes, Mi’lord,” Torvous replied, dipping his head in submission. In a cold sweat, he thought on what the boy needed. “Then the best bet would be ta send him in ta the wilds an’ see how he fares. It’ll be easier ta judge what he needs, an’ we’ll see where he’s lackin’.”
“Good, I’ll send a runner to the southern clans. Perhaps the druids can loan us a few rangers; there is no way I’d trust his safety to those barely literate guardsmen the other lords have sent my way,” the elf said, not hiding his scorn.
“...In times like these, it is ill-advised for an unawakened to be outside the safety of the city walls,” he muttered, looking lost in thought.
“Times like these?” Torvous frowned. “Mi’lord, has somethin’ happened?”
“Yes,” he paused. “I received a missive this morning... an update on this summer’s campaign. Things are bleak; the offensive into the eastern wilds was shattered, and we lost three border forts and Cesslar Fortress—as a result of the Tide’s counter-attack. The council has put out a call, hoping any of the old retired veterans would return to active service.”
The lord continued with a harsh, sardonic smirk: “Honestly, it stinks of desperation. The council clearly never envisioned that the golden son of Fraxous would fail, and fail so spectacularly. The army was completely routed, and he lost two-thirds of his forces, leaving the entire east vulnerable to enemy raids.” He sighed; his features suddenly dark and weary. “All the villages and farmsteads in the eastern hinterlands are now completely exposed to the tide.”
Torvous frowned; this wasn’t good; the southeast was vulnerable and had little protecting it. “Ain’t we too far south ta see any of those blighted bastards?” Visit g.com for the full chapter.
“Who’s to say...”
The lord fell silent, tapping his finger atop his desk, his eyes affixed to the map of the known world hanging on the wall. “Regardless, I am not risking Lurian to the wilds without adequate protection. The clans owe fealty to me, as was their nominal lord. So I may as well put their skills to use in a manner that suits their talents. I am sure Len’turon’s rangers will enjoy babysitting a boy in the wilds a whole lot more than guarding merchant caravans en route to the capital.”
Torvous noticed that his lord seemed amused by the thought of the old druid’s reaction to the assigned task. He knew of the two elves' love-hate relationship, the pair seeming to delight in each other's suffering. He-himself thought it quite amusing; the century-old elves were such an odd pair, acting like squabbling fowl when together.
The lord snapped from his musings,and returned his attention to the matter at hand. “No matter, best to give the young man a break to heal up after today’s showing... I suspect for now that child will want as little to do with you as possible, so it may be prudent to give him the space he needs.”
The lord straightened. “In the meantime, return your attention to the town guard and the castle’s garrison. If the Elder Council doesn’t manage to stem the leak in the east, we may soon see those ‘blighted bastards’ down here as well.”
“Yes—Mi’lord. I’ll see it done,” Torvous responded, standing to attention, his right fist finding its way to his heart.
The lord frowned, a stern seriousness taking hold of his features. “At ease, Torvous. You have retired, and I am no longer your commander, merely your lord; there is no need for such a salute; know that a bow is far more appropriate.”
Torvous smiled. “Aye, Mi’lord, it be a hard habit ta-break.”
“Yes, I too find myself dropping back into old habits,” Fel’nar said, a forlorn look appearing for but a moment, before his lordly mask re-asserted itself. “You are dismissed, arms-master,” he said, with finality.
“Yes—Mi’lord.” Torvous held back a second salute and turned to leave.
His steps halted at the threshold.
“Oh? Something else?” Fel’nar inquired.
Torvous turned back. “You will always be my commander, sir. And know—if my dun-darie finds himself in need of my blade—he only need ask...”
Fel’nar frowned, only to smirk a moment later. “Let us pray things never become so dire. From what I saw in today’s bout, you’ve lost much of your edge.”
Torvous chuckled. “Aye, it ain’t nothin’ a little polishing won’t fix.” He gave the lord a wave over his shoulder—and left.
Off to do as his lord, his commander, his dun-darie bid...
“Loyalty is the currency of leadership. Fools spend it like copper taks, and the wise treasure it like one might a trinket forged of mystic gold. When judging a man’s ability to lead, do not look to the glory of his armies, for glory is naught but a fickle mistress; a fair-weather friend, not worth your time. Instead, look to the times of glory’s absence. For it is then you see the caliber of those that remain, and through them, judge your worthiness of leadership’s mantle.”
— Lord Fel’nar Ven'nirous, Dun-darie of the south