An excerpt from the journal of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight-
Oh dearest journal, that some things change while others stay the same is the oldest and most banal lesson we are 'er taught, but one which lands crushingly every time we are reminded. I write nursing a flagon of dwarven ale, with battle again looming 'or us a few hours hence. Such things remain the same. As for the differences...
Shall I write of the wild abandon with which celebrations were had last night? Shall I write of the novel heady mix of alcohol and risk and lust in which I indulged for the first time? Yes! For such memories should not be lost. But first let me speak of the woman more respected than any other in this army, whose knowledge and magic were welcomed into the highest councils. Whose skill with a sword, whose armor and steed of shadows both paint her as a Knight of the Grey Wind...
Dame Mathilde is a Ranaldite!
That sneaky, skeevy God of liars and thieves! The no-good god of men who forget their place and would murder their betters in their beds, no more reliable or loyal than the dice his two-faced followers roll... And whence the foremost knight of our host, a landed Dame of the county of Stirland, when she stood tall in front of our bachannal? With a wink and crossed fingers and a cheeky grin she announced a night of gambling! What's worse were the dwarves, those longbeards the very image of honesty and propriety, nodding along next to her! I could not have felt such shock more clearly if a Grail Knight were to eat a babe before my very eyes.
Dear diary, I know I wrote of wishing to indulge desires previously forbidden, but to be seated suddenly in a Ranaldian gambling hall- temptation delivered in the form of silver coin by a woman who I admit (though only to you!) has already half-captured my dreams- not three hours later was sorely testing.
...Lady forgive me but I lined up for my share of tokens with the rest.
And Ranald, well, I must have mightily amused him that night! For he saw fit to bless me. I know not whether to laugh or cry.
...
You know me well, dearest diary, for oft have I agonized in your pages 'or worries of scorn and dismissal, should notice fall to my bust, my hips, or my hairless chin. How often I looked upon the fairest of my brother knights and smiled, but then twisted the words on my tongue such that all was heard were sighs over goldenhaired maidens or willowy elfmaids. How mine own grip on my lips choked me, and how I despaired when I mourned over choosing a sacrifice: my honor, carried as a testament to my parents and brother, or my hopes of love, for so long lashed and mastered as weakness. You know the solomn sense of doomed duty with which I affirmed my choice anew each night, till cruel fate laughed in my face and dyed me with those colors I had taught myself to despise.
But, though I flatter myself when I think I am one whose path the Lady would guide, I think I begin to learn the lesson such sharp loss was meant to teach. Honesty is the root of honor. How then was I meant to have honor as a knight if to strive for such meant I could not be honest?
Such thoughts I once pushed down, for then the only path I could see in them was to abandon knighthood, abandon honor, in order to save it. (I wonder sometimes, at those who must have known but looked discretely aside, did I have honor in their eyes?)
I have learned well of defiance. I SHALL be honest AND honorable, a Knight of Renown, and be well wed to a man of Noble bearing ere my time comes to an end. I defy thine narrow fate- no part of what I reach for shall I abandon! This vow I throw in the teeth of those who would crush me, be they false friend or raging orc.
In service to that, last night I put aside my armor and long blade, unbound my hair and washed the dust and blood from my brow. Some women of the halflings were willing to assist when asked, and with skillful fingers painted eyes and lips. (Though the whole time, they chattered of how much I resembles a maid from the book one was reading. Such was my confusion that it was shortly pressed upon me, to be read and traded later for another. I confess that I may well keep this "Arturia and Lancelot" in the end. I knew of many whose stories start as mine did, a hairless chin in armor, but to find that such was almost a genre unto itself?)
Shall I recount my entrance, like some Estallian debutante shown to society for the first time? Nay, for though I move in her direction I know not what such things really mean... Put simply I wore skirts of red and a dagger upon my hip, with my heart pounding near to ripping its way from my chest.
i must ask though, how many Estallian debutantes are greeted with rowdy cheers and money changing hands? Francesco, once I had made my way to him (and the table of other officers in our position) quietly informed me that a betting pool had begun almost as soon as I had been given my first command. He went on to inform me that I had lost him fifteen silvers by not continuing with breeches and tabard till after the expedition was called concluded!
Such, dear diary, is the caliber of men amongst which I find myself, having now prompted them to think of me as a woman as well as a knight. Oswald is true steel to be sure, though only as a friend for I look not upon him with lust. Francesco is a rock and pleasing to the eye for an older man, but I suspect another betting pool held (but I get ahead of myself!) a purse he wished back, for he refrained from showing new interest despite my awkward attempts at eyes.
I pause here for my blushes to burn back. Diary, I am in pain remembering such things- bury me under rock and collapse the mine behind you, I beg!
The ale began it, for we were all well towards being drunk when the grey-robed Magister casually broke a keystone of my world. Then we lined up to sign for our share of, well, silver rooster coins, but was that the phrase to pass through a single grimy pair of lips that night? No! I swear to the Lady and that laughing miscreant that an evening stuffed full of puns on male members was the LAST thing I expected to face when I dressed myself for the party.
So at this point in the story, dear diary, we were all drunk, raunchy, and loud. (Of course I joined in! Such humor is half at least of what you hear growing as a squire, so in my cups I forgot to care about changed circumstances.) Wagers were being made. Thanks the Lady I kept my head through that, but such prudence was not to last. Wagers were being made, and then a fighting ring was drawn.
Francesco was holding court in a corner, the long story of his journey east unspooling as breathless listeners plyed him with beer. Oswald was running a book, taking bets on what seemed to be a strange form of duels- two stood on a bench with flagons on their heads, and tried to rock the bench such that the beer spilled and soaked their opponent.
So when the Magister marked the center of the rope circle and opened it to challenges, I had no trusted comrades about me to fortify my resolve.
This, finally, was the temptation upon which I'd wager my hard-earned pay, for with the ale in my head I was certain I knew the moment any two stepped in the ring who was the stronger.
And did I not? Dear diary, do you think I lied earlier of Ranald's smirking attention?
Thrice running I named the loser of the fight afore the first punch was thrown, and thrice my coin returned to me doubled. Alas, my tongue grew bold and cruel, and the fourth bout was a challenge to me direct, a friend of the previous loser who took offense to my laughter upon his inglorious defeat.
The challenger's manner was crude, his proposal of a wager cruder, I take pride that I was in the ring (dress or no!) before his stupid mouth shut.
The fight was quick, for he was laughing and I was not. A clumsy grab from his right hand was caught by mine, and a pull forwards with a trip stretched him out. The left hand to bounce his face off the floor may, perchance, have been a bit petty.
The response from the crowd (for my erstewhile opponent lay senseless) was raucous. Shouting, screaming- one Ulrican with arms wrapped round friends threw back his head and howled.
And Oh! His visage struck me, as he looked down again and smiled. Black curls falling 'gainst a strong nose, with bright laughing eyes. The torchlight danced in them as his grin turned from me as I straightened in the center of the ring, to the pushing, shouting boys round the edge, struggling to be the one to challenge me.
Quick as a cat he lept in to join me, my guard halfway up before he turned to address those ringside, suddenly quiet.
"The Lady Knight's proven herself, we all saw. But you! You have not proven worthy to face her! I challenge all who'd challenge her- beat me first if you think yourself worth her time!"
He looked back to me and asked, "If my lady will grant me the ring?"
Oh diary, he knew exactly what he was doing. And as he looked at me with his roughish grin and laughing eyes, I knew what he was doing. And he knew that I knew, so how else could I respond?
"Certainly my lord."
And with that it was his show, and a delicious show did he prepare. Sir Oskar, or so his friends quickly informed me (though only after adopting me with much boisterous laughter) was quite obviously showing off. There was no need for him to pull off his shirt! No need for the blatantly stylistic swirls and flourishes and even less for him to begin taking his opponents two and three at a time. But by then I knew this show was just for me, as he danced through dozens.
There very much was a need for the bookrunners to pull him from the circle when none could be found to bet the odds against him.
So he strode out, champion by acclaim, back to me where I laughed surrounded by knights of the wolf God. Ah Lady, what more could I ask for than I have already been given! The very day I find glory, that night I find one such as him?
We left together, finding his wolf lounging next to the door as if he knew he would be needed. Sir Oskar mounted, swept me up ahead of him and wrapped his thick cloak around us both as his wolf, Rolf, carried us up the slopes of Karag Nar.
There, oh diary, with soft words and gentle laughter under the stars, did I first truely know a man. We lay there late as the heavens wheeled about us, and when cold grew teeth Rolf carried us down, dropping me off near where I was to sleep.
This may have been be the best day I ever have in my entire life.
Noon promises battle a'new. Wish me luck, dear diary.