*eyes the 39 days old box*
Ah, Shit. I have been dead for a month.
Heres the update.
There were a variety of ranks for knights in the Order of Seiros, from squires and scouts up to the ranks of calvary and mages. But, it was known that Rhea's personal guards, her Knight Commanders, were the best of the best. Catherine, the Thunderbrand, was the leader of her infantry and swordsmen, her blade and the source of her alias marking her skill. Alois had taken over the calvary in the decades since the Blade Breaker had vanished, while Gilbert was in charge of the heavy armor.
Among the Order, however, Shamir was nearly unique.
She wasn't, after all, a trained knight who had attended the monastery.
She had gotten her skills out in the world, working and fighting as a mercenary. She fought outside the classical rules and strictures of the Knights, but her skills put her in the same league as the Commanders. She, however, did not hold an actual rank. Instead, she was under Rhea's direct command most of the time, taking 'quiet' missions to track down and manage church interests.
Because of this, when the commanders and Rhea ventured forth, she was left to watch the antics of the knights and guardsmen left behind, unneeded for the classes and lessons.
The early evening had brought with it a handcart of kegs from the direction of the market, and a half dozen guardsmen venturing to the kitchen. The new cook there apparently ruled with passion, sending out half a dozen platters of spicy food that people could pick and eat without worrying about grace or decorum.
As guards and the faculty gathered, drinks were poured and food passed among the tables that had been dragged to the pavilion near the pond.
Shamir settled in on the stone crenelations near the kitchen, letting the scent of spiced food and good mead drift by her. She nursed her own tankard with measured grace, eyes drifting over the festivities below. She quirked an eyebrow at the fact that the usual games had already started appearing—a hay bale with a wooden board and target painted on it was being dragged into place against the edge of the water, a collection of mismatched throwing axes piled by it.
As the sun began to sink low, the cook himself joined the festivities, a glass bottle of a golden-colored spirit in his loose grip. Against the fairly consistent greens and browns of the knights and their armor and uniforms, the young newcomer stood out. His dark hair was tied back with blue cloth and his black work shirt was hanging loose, a deep muted purple shirt showing through. Shamir took her time dissecting his outfit from the black pants that seemed taken from the academy uniform to the well-worn boots. His stance was alert, but not quite in the same way that she saw off knights… it was familiar, in a strange way.
.
As the festivities wore on, she quirked a lip as a pair of knights began to needle the cook, gesturing to the target.
She leaned forward as he threw up his hands, walking over to the cleared area before the target and taking a pair of axes from a knight.
A moment passed, the cook shifting and swinging the axes loosely, before cocking his arm back and shifting his stance, lining up on the hay bale.
'Huh. Not the worst throwing stance… but it's not for axes… Hmmm.'
A thud echoed out, the ax embedding into the wooden target with a solid cut. A moment later, the second followed. Both axes were off-center, missing the bullseye by a few feet, but they were solid hits. The cheers of the knights and guards with the cook were clear even from her perch, but she quirked an eye. A memory came to her, of her partner, laughing as she learned to throw knives.
"Don't you know these aren't axes?"
"Oh, I know, I just like seeing you laugh at me."
The memory faded away, and she sighed at the familiar ache. She couldn't bring her back... But… Shoving off, she smirked as she headed to the armory.
'Let's see what you can do with your preferred weapon.'
Who knows. I might even get a laugh out of it.
Lorn smirked into his mug, looking over the top at the clearly tipsy Garren, who was scowling slightly.
"How are you not swaying, Looorrnnnn," the gatekeeper was flushed, and shook his head. "I'm barely keeping up!"
"I've worked in and out of taverns and bars since I could drink. This? This is the easy part." To make his point, Lorn gave a toast, before he raised the tankard up and drank it with slow easy gulps, head twisted to the side so he could clearly see the incandescent blush hit Garren's face at the sight. With a sigh, Lorn set the now empty tankard on the bench. "See? Easy."
Dorne and Jules, the two other guards who sat next to them, chuckled, while from behind them, Cassandra, one of the knights, let loose a low whistle. "That? That was sexy. How the fuck do you do that thing with your throat?"
Lorn laughed and winked. "If you grab me another tankard, I'll teach you."
A thud and the five looked to see a leather bundle at Lorns side. As the cook's eyes traced up from the leather pack, he blinked and felt his throat get quite a bit dryer. Dark leather, deep forest green cloth, knives, and arrows. Oh, and the curves.
Holy shit the curves.
Lorn would admit he had a few types of people he was attracted to. The woman leaning over him, stonefaced but with the slightest smirk, was a big one. And judging by the glint of humor in her amethyst eyes, she absolutely knew it.
"I saw you throw axes earlier. Can you throw knives?"
Swallowing slowly, Lorn let a smirk grow across his lips. "Better than axes."
She tapped the bundle. "Prove it."
Well. How could he refuse?
The crowd shouted as the thuds of knives rang out across the pavilion. Garren was shouting and grinning with his coworkers, seeing Lorn throw knives one-handed with confidence, while the other hand wrapped around his tankard held to his lips, adam's apple bobbing as he drained his third round of mead since he had started this little show. The last knife thudded home, clustered with the rest around the second ring of the target. Not amazing for a trained knight, but for the half-drunk cook? That was damned impressive.
The fact that Shamir, the Distant Archer herself, had asked to see his skill? It was very cool. As the crowd cheered, Shamir nodded and said something, before glancing over Lorn's shoulder at Garren. A shove sent the cook stumbling even as he laughed, right into Garren's arms.
As the two of them staggered off, the crowd turned towards the targets as two more knights stepped up with axes.
"Where did you learn to throw knives?"
"I'm a cook? I hold a knife more than most knights hold their axes." Lorn smiled, and Garren felt his cheeks blush hotter.
"Makes sense." As they both headed back to their seats, Garren glanced down at the leather bundle in Lorns hand. "The knives?"
"Hmmm, said she wants more people to use em. Most of you knights and guards prefer bigger weapons. Or bows." blinking, Lorn shook his head, the knot of his hair loosening and long locks hanging down past his eyes.
'Ah shit, why is he so cute?'
Instead of blushing any harder, Garren looked away and drank his ale.
"Hey, Garren?"
"Hmmm?"
"Thanks for inviting me."
Shamir leaned against the wall, having snuck away from the party. She reached down and slid a knife from her boot, and smiled softly at the names etched along the blade.
"I miss you…"
