o hay an update within an actually reasonable amount of time.
[x] Write-in: Stop them. Even if dividing forces may be the best idea, you still need a way to signal each other in case something goes wrong, and decide on a place and time to regroup if no signal is sent.
[x] Write-in: Safe extraction should be prioritized over fighting the bandits until you have the information from the sheriff.
There are times in your life where you can physically see an opportunity passing you by. A thing you want to say, an action you want to take. Such it is now, while Stephanie and Elizabeth - an uneasy sort of team composition on the former's part - begin to leave. No one even thinking to look to you for leadership in terms of actual decision-making. You can see, now, that that's how it's going to be. No one ever taking your position seriously unless you make them, somehow. All the things that Elizabeth has ever said to you about self-betterment go through your head in a disorganised jumble as you leave Sieglinde's side, scurrying after the two of them as fast as your short legs can carry you.
"W-Wait," you call out, slipping past the two of them to block their path to the door. You resist the urge to physically throw your arms out to either side in front of them, instead doing your very best impression of someone confident and not at all excruciatingly nervous. Finding their passage blocked, the two of them stare at you, briefly united by identical expressions of surprise on their very different faces.
Elizabeth recovers first, cocking her head at you in a fetching, amused way that makes your face burn. "You have an objection, Squad Leader Neianne?" she asks.
"Y-Yes. I mean no! I mean, y-yes, but, um..." you trail off, momentarily helpless, before steeling yourself. "I won't object if you want to s-split our squad in two, but we need to figure out how to signal each other if there's trouble, o-or at least a place to regroup if we can't c-contact each other."
A brief moment elapses, wherein you think you would very much have liked to be swallowed up by the floorboards. Eventually, Stephanie speaks up, a note of very faint relief in her voice. You suppose because you're not actually trying to stop her; splitting up was her idea to begin with. "Edge of the woods is probably a decent choice," she offers. "There's a part of the woodlands that is closest the corresponding gate. It'll probably be a good place to rendezvous if we can't communicate for whatever reason."
You find yourself very faintly impressed. It's true that you've all had the run of the surrounding area when not in training for some time now, but you hadn't realized Stephanie knew the surrounding wilderness quite so well. There's not time to voice this, however. "And signaling?" Sieglinde asks, stepping forward to join the impromptu huddle.
A streak of lightning going straight up into the ceiling causes a number of you to jump back, startled. The bolt bursts in a haze of eye-catching sparks before it reaches the roof beams. "Y-You enjoyed that!" you accuse Elizabeth without thinking after you've recovered your wits. Stephanie seems similarly disgruntled. As usual, Sieglinde - and your assigned instructor, now that you've noticed - seems impassive. Sergeant Aethla, for her part, seems mildly annoyed at what was essentially a miniature thunderbolt indoors with plenty of combustibles nearby.
The tiny elf slowly, lazily lowers the hand that she had thrust up into the air a moment before, using it to cover a dainty yawn. "I'm being a team player," she drawls. "Isn't that meant to feel rewarding, our fearless leader?" Elizabeth gives you such a charming, guileless smile that you can only pout at her in return. You can feel the eyes of your two remaining squadmates lingering on you, taking quiet note of the exchange. Stephanie has already made her feelings on your friendship clear, but you're uneasily aware that you still don't know quite what Sieglinde thinks.
"W-We can't throw lightning, though," you note, glancing up at Sieglinde.
Nodding, the tall, dark-haired elf brings her fingers to her mouth, producing a long, piercing whistle, which seems a little bit of an unnecessarily loud demonstration indoors and catches yet another mildly annoyed look from Sergeant Aethla, albeit not one as pronounced as before. "There are less dramatic ways," Sieglinde says, dryly.
"Less effectual too," Elizabeth replies, dangerously sweet.
"Less conspicuous."
"I'm sorry, Ravenhill, are signals for help meant to be easy to miss?"
"Th-That works, then!" you say, cutting off the argument by physically interposing yourself between Sieglinde and Elizabeth. Sieglinde sighs, but relents.
As you reach the gates of Faulkren - more ornamental than a defensive structure - your instructor visibly glances between the two groups, as if mentally weighing which of you most requires her immediate attention. You expect to be accompanied by her silent presence; after all, looking for a caravan guard who has run off after the bandits has the potential to be the more dangerous of the two tasks. Instead, however, the instructor's gaze lingers on both Elizabeth and Stephanie in a way that isn't quite suspicious, so much as it is slightly doubtful. Without a word, she falls in behind them as the two groups separate.
You wonder, briefly, if the instructor is worried that Elizabeth will take the opportunity to make Stephanie do all the work while she naps, sheltered from the rain under the foliage of a tree. You don't feel like that's likely - Elizabeth is taking this as seriously as she takes anything, as far as you can tell - but her reputation does proceed her.
This leaves the two of you to hunt down the wayward caravan guard on your own, you keeping watch while Sieglinde periodically scrutinizes the ground for traces of the guard's trail, made both easier and harder by the continued, annoying rain. The ground is soft in many places and anyone travelling through the woods leaves deep footprints in the marshy, sucking mud. You are aware, however, that these traces are temporary, meaning that time is of the essence.
"You and Zabanya have become rather familiar," Sieglinde notes, as she straightens up from her examination of mud at the foot of a tree. With the rain striking leaves and branches, effectively swallowing up the sound of your voices, she probably feels like there's a measure of privacy in carrying on this conversation. Pale eyes assess you from under her hood like shards of ice, carrying a trace of that alarming remoteness you saw before.
"W-We're n-not...we..." you strammer glumly, feeling a tad defensive. You're a little tired, you suppose, of justifying your choice of friends to everyone. After a moment of hesitation, you say with a surprisingly steady note in your voice, "We are."
Sieglinde strides ahead, her height allowing her to resolutely trudge through the mud with considerably less inconvenience. "Your choice invokes no small amount of curiosity."
"Sh-She can be nice," you say. Sieglinde swivels her head around and tilts it slightly to the side to give you a silently inquisitive stare that, to your mixed annoyance and relief, you can read as very slightly incredulous. "She c-can be!" you insist. "Or, she has been. To me."
Sieglinde's look at you is held for another moment before she gives a small nod and refocuses her attention ahead. A silence stretches on then, awkward rather than companionable as you hope Sieglinde has something more to add instead of just quiet.
"Why does this b-bother you?" you ask.
"What makes you say it bothers me?"
"I c-can usually tell what you're feeling. Mostly. N-Not when you talk about this, though." You look at the back of her cloaked form. She's rendered even more remote than usual by the garment.
"Mm." You wonder if that's going to be the end of it, before she says, speaking with slow, deliberate caution, with almost a hint of awkwardness: "I suppose I'm concerned."
"About wh-what?"
Sieglinde gives a small sigh. "About the kind of influence she might have on you. I...hadn't thought you'd be the kind of person who would enjoy being around someone like her."
That stings. Probably more than Sieglinde intends it to. Her opinion of you matters, and this feels unfair. You find yourself wanting Sieglinde, at least, to understand. "Sh-She makes me feel like I could be...better."
You can practically hear the tiny creasing of her brow in her flat voice, even if you can't see it. "Better."
"Be smarter! Know more, be br-braver. She treats me like I can...l-like I can learn. Like I'm worth her time." When so few people are, you don't add.
Sieglinde nods slowly, although she's still quiet. After a moment, she asks, "Do you think being like her is the best way to achieve those things?"
You shake your head. "N-No. She doesn't...want me to be like her. Sh-She doesn't even w-want me to agree with her, on things. Just to...kn-know I thought things through. I like listening to her."
You wonder if you can perceive a slight relaxation in the set of Sieglinde's shoulders. Maybe this answer doesn't displease her. "I see."
"I l-like talking with you too!" you add hurriedly.
She makes a slight sound that sounds like a mixture of mild surprise and amusement. "I see I come across as jealous to you."
"No!" you say, face heating unseen beneath your hood. "I j-just want you to know, you're my friend too."
She's quiet for a long, almost worrisome moment, then. When she finally speaks, though, it's not discouraging. "You're very kind to say so."
"I'm gl-glad you came back this year," you add, feeling that you should have said this earlier.
"I am too," she agrees. She glances up at slate-gray sky overhead, through the tree cover. "It's nice to be away from Lindholm's weather. So much rain at home."
You smile at that, in spite of everything.
Conversation is less awkward and more amicable after that, even as time passes in your search for the caravan guard. Like Elizabeth, Sieglinde is still a friend who has a lot of informed insights, and you enjoy listening from her. But further conversation is eventually cut short by the sounds of conflict, and the two of you quickly head towards the source.
You arrive at a small clearing by the time you find anyone else, a congregation of eight people in different modes of attire. Most eye-catching among them is an elven woman who is only beginning to reach middle-age, dressed in straight-line robes and a sword in hand. Given her position relative to the other seven occupants of this clearing, you very strongly suspect that - almost miraculously - this is the caravan guard that you have been informed about, and everyone else bandits.
Three of these outlaws - not yet noticing the presence of both you and Sieglinde - charge simultaneously at this one woman with a sword, and you are instantly gripped with a sense of urgency, you begin to charge forward in defense of the caravan guard, trying to balance the odds.
Except you never manage to make it in time. You have scarcely taken your second step when the caravan guard suddenly moves in an odd manner, blindingly swift yet strangely lethargic at the same time, and a split-second later, all three bandits crumple to the ground with clean, bloody gashes where their vital organs are.
You stop in your tracks, blinking. Your instincts as a Caldran mercenary apprentice tell you that the caravan guard has struck with her sword, has swung them in such a manner that it instantly eliminated all three of her assailants at once. Certainly, with the sword in one arm now stretched out to the side, the guard looks like she has just completed a single slashing motion. But even with your sharp reflexes - finely honed by a year of instruction and training - you couldn't entirely perceive what just happened, never mind process it.
The four other bandits stand, stunned, staring, uncertain of what happened and what to do next, uncertain whether they should try to gang up on the caravan guard with cautious aggression or if they should flee.
The caravan guard, however, does not wait for them to come to a decision. She sprints ahead, and in spite of her speed, there is an eerie sense of balance to her steps, a remarkably stability to her body that reminds you a bit of Aphelia in battle, as if she's a dancer gliding across a stage rather than a swordswoman running towards an opponent. The bandit is not entirely caught off guard, even as she barely manages to raise her axe in time for a downward swing, but the guard begins to spin slightly to the side, and like a knife through butter her sword slips under the bandit's axe, into the ribcage, through the heart...and a split second later, the guard's spin brings her behind that first bandit and the former's sword out of the latter's chest just as quickly as it entered. It is almost as if the guard slipped past the bandit with a twirl, seemingly ignoring her completely...save for the fatal wound she inflicted upon the bandit. The sword, too, did its deadly work in a trajectory that almost seems like a lazy afterthought, so smooth and casual was its journey in and out with a spin.
But already the guard continues to move. No, she has never stopped moving in the first place, nor did she seem like she has ever slowed down or broke her momentum. She is already closing in on the second bandit before the first's knees even bent enough to hit the ground. Still perplexed, panicking a little, but determined to put up more of a fight, taking a more cautious stance with her spear outstretched as she backs up, giving the superior reach of her weapon more time to defend against this guard. But even as the guard closes the distance, her sword flicks here and there with minimum effort to deflect attacks and work their way to the vitals of her opponent. Her movements almost seem to be background noise to your sense of sight, something ambient in the peripheral of your vision that you otherwise do not consciously register. There is an exceedingly simple style to her movements, to her attacks and defense, that seems to encourage no wasted movements, seeming so mind-bogglingly efficient, as if there is some kind of minimalistic that defies understanding.
Her movements swift, the guard catches up to her opponent, and she simply guides her sword along the shaft of her opponent's spear before she swings her arms, and the bandit's head is instantly dislodged. Most astounding to you is not how she has defeated her opponent, but by the fact that this guard seems to have so thorough an understanding of the length of her own blade that she has managed to decapitate her opponent from the maximum viable distance; the blade, now that you stare at it, is only bloodied at the very tip, stretching for only as long as a neck's width.
The remaining two bandits, realizing that they are utterly outmatched, flee beyond the guard's ability to pursue, even as she sheathes her sword. And that is when you realize the caravan guard is, in fact, no caravan guard at all.
Four centuries ago, after the Tenereian Civil War and the Rose Revolution, but before it officially went from imperial province to independent confederacy, Caldrein was the destination of the great exodus made by the old guard, the survivors of the Empire, the conservatives. Among their number were the people who could not abide by the new Tenereian Union and the Atrium Coalition that held its leash, could not abide by - perhaps more importantly - how those whose power in the old regime would've marked them as threats by the new.
In the early decades, as this haven of refugees and exiles slowly transformed into a confederacy of five sovereign regions - when they were still considered rebels against the new powers in Brycott instead of outright secessionists trying to create a new nation - a major issue concerned what to do about military personnel and, perhaps more importantly, how to fight back should the Tenereians send armies to hunt down their political foes. Two well-known institutions would rise from the stopgap solutions these secessionists provided. Local leaders were able to transform defecting military personnel into local feudal armies, putting them at the head of a levy system that became the precursor to the conventional forces fielded by each Caldran countess. Meanwhile, with the absence of centralized leadership, an intrepid mixture of veterans and mercenaries eschewed pledging loyalty to self-styled local leaders still trying to weather an unstable political situation, instead forming autonomous warbands specializing in asymmetrical warfare; decades after the founding of the Confederacy, they would become the famed Caldran mercenaries.
But there is a third, lesser-known institution that was founded in the lead-up to the creation of the confederacy. A small number of the Empire's martial aristocracy and the Conceptualist priesthood saw their fall from grace as a changing of the times. Or perhaps they found a moral lesson to their fall and decided to serve penance. Or perhaps they just wanted little to do with the Confederacy experiment. Whatever else, they took what wealth they had smuggled out of the Empire and retreated into the mountains across Caldrein, atop which they built secluded monasteries.
Largely isolated from the rest of Caldran society, their interaction with the rest of the Confederacy is largely mercantile in nature, selling luxury goods produced from the their monasteries such as wine and arms, just enough to sustain themselves. Despite this seclusion, it is known - at least in vague terms - that their semi-monastic lifestyles are centered around the mastery of different weapons, each monastery taking the old and rich Imperial Tenereian martial traditions and transforming them into their own secret, powerful, and unique skills and techniques. Its exiled military-religious founders and their followers and their children have spent their entire lives devoted to the perfection of their discipline for centuries, occasionally taking apprentices from the world under the mountains. It is said that their skill at arms is so finely honed, even a Caldran mercenary is no match for them in a duel...if a Caldran mercenary can be found to fight in fair duels as opposed to engaging in acts of sabotage and asymmetrical warfare when outclassed in the field.
They are the knight orders of Caldrein. And the woman standing before you is a knight.
The knight orders would've been a great boon to the Confederacy's war efforts, except every monastery has long since declared that they have no intentions of fighting in a "mortal war", just as they have been completely absent in politics since the Confederacy was founded. There is irony in that members of the old imperial aristocracy who fled from the Union would now refuse to lift a finger to fight Teneriean invaders, but insofar as anyone knew, the knights kept to themselves, seeking a transcendent form of perfection in their martial arts as if it is the path to their salvation. The countesses, so far as you know, see any attempt to force the knight orders to partake in the war effort as something that is likely to end in disaster. They aren't actively sabotaging the political foundations of the Confederacy, after all, and the countesses have largely decided to leave sleeping dogs be.
Attitudes towards the knight orders are mixed. Some are deeply frustrated that their extensive acumen at the martial arts are not being applied to a cause that will save the Confederacy. And having been born in a dryad commune, you are peripherally aware of the detached respect woodland dryads have towards communities isolated from the general public. You yourself....
[x] ...share similar frustrations over how the knight orders can turn a blind eye while the Confederacy is under threat.
[x] ...share the view of woodland dryads in their respect for societies that cannot yet fully integrate with the broader Caldran public.
[x] ...don't really know what you feel about the knight orders.
[x] Write-in.
I use the word "knighthood", but that's mostly because it sounds cooler in English than "monk". Really, the institution is inspired much more by a mix between Shaolin Temple (at least as it is portrayed in wuxia) and Japanese dojo (at least as it is portrayed in manga).
