View source for Tales of the Good Soldier

Today the Soldier's Defense is bustling, just as it had been yesterday in fact. Of late the Soldier's Defense has seen an increase in the number of those in need of its aid and not only from the refugees. No there's more at foot here, as is clearly evidenced by the fact that there are just as many people hurrying their way out of the area as there are people in the rooms that they've been given. The effect of so much chaos has effectively for the moment at least, ruined the homey atmostphere that usually holds sway in the hospital.

Amid those going to and fro is an extremely tall sith-makar whos cloak has the hood thrown back today. This reveals his blue scales and the six horns which follow the curvature of his head in a gentle sway. He carries several scrolls with him in a neat little box which he holds in his right hand.

"One only wishes to settle the bill, ser." The lean sith-makar ducks his head at the attendant. A not-very sith-makar gesture, though the tail behind him is in contrast. It speaks volumes: tiredness, and perhaps, not-quite-truth.

The two stand near the back of the grand foyer, and near one of the frescos. Near some of the benches. They may be seen easily from either entrance--perhaps, this is intentional. Perhaps it's only placement, or a measure of the two of them standing aside, as more attendants bustle here and there.

The blue-scaled sith stops in his tracks as one such attendant comes and relieves him of his burden. He seems to relax slightly now that it is gone and with a blink at the retreating person with their package he heads toward where this other sith-makar stands. Politely he stands behind and slightly to the side. More than once he is required to step a little out of the way as someone comes rushing by with something important on their minds or in their hands. Even so he remains endlessly patient, moving back to his spot and waiting for... something.

There is no charge at this time. You can speak with one of the Hearthguards, of course. But with the current plague--" the attendant waves, or gestures rather, towards the multitude of cots behind the foyer.

Chay looks that way, and his inner lids flicker. Focus. Scent. He stops listening to the poor attendant and walks into the room. His muzzle is working quickly--deep breaths. Quick breaths. And then, someone walks by, and snaps him out of his focus.

"Excuse me," he says, underneath his breath. And then, catches sight of the other sith-makar. The tail goes down. Caution?

Fear? 

Chay tilts his head to the side. A flick of the eyes as he looks away. Is it some sort of trick? He eyes the cots, the people there. The...symbols of the Hearth Dragon, even if they've replaced Her with some two-legger.

"...ser," he says. He leans forward, and places his arms on his knees. Begins to count. One, two...to ten and then backwards again. Get to ten and forget to go back, and a person knows the brain has lost focus.

9, 8...7...

And Iolaire watches, waits, patient and calm and practically radiating mom-ness. And while all her instincts are tugging at her to put arms around him, she remembers the screaming in the field hospitals. She remembers the hurt looks. And most of all, remembers how none of it helped anyone.

This done, he dares the question. It takes a heartbeat, two, to craft it. "How long was I out, ser?" It comes out too quietly, but he /does/ ask. 

The blanket stays wadded up on the cot, like a leftover ghost.

"Better part of a day," Iolaire sighs. "It's why I was worried so. The last time my company had run across a trap like that, everyone was up and moving within minutes."

Her head tips to one side, a raptorial eye focusing on Chay completely for a moment. "To be honest... I'd guessed it wasn't the gas that sent you under."

A flick of the eyes. He looks away. "Perhaps one was simply stunned, sser. This one is not used to firearms." A lie. A lie, but his stomach growls. An uncuous gurgle that turns over on itself. 

He glances downwards at it, as though surprised. Takes a slow inbreath. "Perhaps one might purchase food ser, as a thank you? One--one recalls some ramen vendors, nearby. They offered a variety of dishes?"

"No noodles for me, sadly," Iolaire says, crest rising in humor. "Last I tried, I lost half the soup to my dress. But I know the stall, and they've plenty I can eat."

The smile is evident in her voice, if not visible upon an immobile beak. "And I'd be happy to accept, and thank you." He eye turn towards the door, then back, one eyeridge rising. "Would you rather I went first, or would you prefer?"

"..." Hsss. He stands, carefully so. "However you are comfortable, ser," he replies. Leaving the choice completely up to her.

"Then if you don't mind..." and with the creak of joints that have been beaten hard over the years, the silver-and-white gyrfalcon rises from her chair, wings fluttering and rearranging into a more comfortable position.

"I'll clear the way." The words are spoken with good humor, and her wings extend just a trifle as she opens the door to the room, providing cover in much a similar way as they did down in the sewers.

It's Ceriday, Eatonis 23 13:00:09 1021. The full moon is up. The tide is low and ebbing.

Fair weather clouds sail across the blue sky, propelled by light breezes from the west. It's warm in the sun, cool in the shade, and the air is clear and dry.

"Ser," the sith-makar replies. He stays where he is until she's settled. Then, follows quietly after.

Outside? It could not be a greater contrast. The clouds float past, as mere whisps against a blue expanse. Springtime is here in Alexandria and with it, the gorgeous weather of a coastal city. Of course, it means the streets are busy, as well.

Chay stops just outside, and blinks a few times.

The bird continues out the door for a couple steps, then pauses as she realizes her 'charge' has halted. Glancing over her shoulder, she drops her beak in a smile. "All right then, dearie?"

"One only en--notices the sunlight, sser," Chay replies. He hurries to catch up--long strides of a tall hunter. How do those rust-colored scales ever blend? 

He's reacquired his coat, and is in the process of slipping it back on. One can see the scars, there--well, they were visible inside the Defense. Just, not as well-lit. 

"Were there items you recommended aside from the noodles, ser? One has only mostly tried their soups and ramen."

"You'd be *amazed* what he can do with a bit of boiled octopus," Iolaire answers, her smile turning into a grin -- which, on a raptor, looks at least a little goofy, given that her lower beak is simply dropped wide open for a moment. "If you don't mind a bit of chewing, you'll likely adore it too."

Glancing over her shoulder once more, she seems to mull something over to herself. "And after, would you like to hear a story? I've a couple that come to mind, I think you may like to hear."

He fastens the buttons with care--the sort one might use for a long-lost friend. Tugs them straight, until the buttons form a neat line down the front. "Octopus, ser? It sounds interesting."

He follows after, at an easier stride. The crowd today seems to have had the same idea--to get out, and enjoy the beautiful weather. The two, an unlikely enough pair, get stares.

Now and then. Because of course they do.

"And one would be...if you are willing to tell them, ser, one would be pleased to listen." But ah, there's a touch of interest in his voice. One he has not managed to spirit away.

Announcement: BeagleFarts shouts, "Happy National Puppy Day, everyone!!! (And happy birfday, Calamity!!!) :D :D :D"

Even on the ground, Iolaire seems to glide through the crowds; a combination of wingspan and the 'I am going this way, what happens to you if you obstruct is your own lookout' gait commonly seen in veteran soldiers and adventurers clearing a comfortable pocket for Chay to follow in. The stall isn't terribly far, and the war-bird's beak drops as she catches the eye of the stall's proprietor. "Afternoon, Ren! You wouldn't happen to have those lovely octopus treats on hand of us, would you?"

The cook grins back, and in a flurry of showmanship assembles a pair of woven-grass baskets, each bearing a skewer full of fried brown balls of batter, with brown and white sauces dribbled haphazardly over the whole construction.

Chay's eyes widen. The sith-makar stays where he is for a moment, as the balls are tossed and coated. Yet, he watches them carefully, sharply, as the vendor prepares them.

Lays quietly, the coppers onto the counter. "They look good, sers," he says. The tail moves. Flicks side to side a few times. "How does one eat them?"

"No tricks at all," Iolaire chuckles, leading them a short distance away to a bench. "Just like so--"

And one of the skewers is lifted, her beak closes around the first one, and pulls it off the bit of stick entirely.

Sometimes it's almost a shave that birds don't chew. Some things should stay in the mouth longer.

Chay watches before he tries one, himself. He has a second basket that he holds cupped in one hand.

Lifts it. Eyes it. Bites into it.

Sweet Althea, the delicious gooey juice-stuff. It runs all the way down his muzzle, leading to a quick-sluuuuuuuuuuuuuurp.

"Good, isn't it?" Iolaire asks, laughing. "Apparently down south, they have stalls *just* for making those. I can only imagine..." Shaking her head, she chomps down another, almost managing to make that hooked beak look dainty.

Almost. Little sauce on the end, there.

"But I don't think I could ever be *that* far from home, myself."

Chay wipes at the juice. It only smears it, really. So, the sith-makar uses his species' long tongue to wipe away at it.

Check on the eyeballs, too, while we're out there.

"Home is...it is good, sser. Thank you for sharing it with me," he says to her. Flicks the tongue back in. Then, eyes the next one more carefully.

The thanks brings another kind of a chuckle. "Oh, I'm not home, here; home is rather a ways away, the better part of a couple days by airship. Here... You could call it an extended campaign, if you were military-minded. But I do love this city, and sometimes it's just... *nice* to be foreign."

"As you say, sser," he agrees. Chay pops the food into his mouth, continues chewing. And ah--ah! If he raises his muzzle just some, it prevents the drip-splosion.

Not that eyeballs aren't delicious.

Especially with octo-soss.

"One has found the city to be unusual, sser. In some ways, a breath of fresh air."

"That it is," Iolaire agrees, bobbing her head and making short work of her first skewer. "Also... I am terribly sorry, I've been inexcusably rude. All this time, and I've waited until after you've paid for lunch to introduce myself. Iolaire, is my name."

The sith-makar pauses, with the octo-blop in his muzzle. Blink.

Slow flicker of the inner lids.

"Chay, ser, of the hunter-caste," he says, his voice quiet. Understated. He removes the octo-blop from his muzzle slowly. Unfortunately, he's already bitten into it, and an embarrassing rope emerges, of goopy octo...glop. He catches some of it on his fingers and just...freezes. One might smell the fear.

"It's a pleasure to meet you properly, Hunter Chay," Iolaire says with slow, deliberate gentleness in answer to what looks suspiciously like fear. If perhaps Chay can hear in her voice the sound of a kind person trying to soothe the fear of a kicked puppy, well... That's not *completely* an inaccurate read.

Moms know panic too, after all.

Chay glances to the side and--flicks his claws that way. A misplaced piece of food could, then, spell disaster for the unfortunate who'd created it.

"As you say, ser," he responds, throat thick. "The pleasure is mine." Politeness, is almost automatic. The smoothing of the breath...

...one must always be mindful. "One apologizes he...this one is sorry I did not give a name, before. Perhaps the tunnels were confusing, sser?"

"We did have rather more immediate concerns on our minds," the war-bird answers with quiet humor. "What's most important, at the moment, is that you're all right. And I do suppose I owe you a story, as I offered?"

"Ser," the sith-makar responds. He is more mindful, more careful with the rest of the octo...blop. It is delicious. However, dangerously gloppy!

"Sadly I don't have many *pleasant* stories," Iolaire says, swiftly denuding her second skewer. "I was a mercenary, then a mother. Neither tends to collect stories one likes to tell to a crowd. But sometimes... Sometimes they're important stories to tell."

Her eyes lock onto the last two globs on her skewer, and she sighs gently. "Mercenary companies tend to take all kinds. There are as many reasons to sell one's sword-arm, as there are arms to sell. Corporal Landingham... Myrddion was his home, but he was a farmer's boy. He didn't know anything about politics or succession, and he didn't trust the captain of his local militia. He'd supposed, if he signed on with a company led by a good and honorable man, he'd find himself on the right side of the Crown Wars anyway."

The sith-makar looks her way, with quiet interest. Should she glance at it, he sharpens it--because of course, it is what the Charneth would expect.

To stand at attention.

To listen.

Of course, he really ''is'' listening, though that does not stop the...habit. "Yes, ser," he says.

The subtle standing-at-attention seems to trigger a memory, perhaps misinterpereted, and Iolaire's beak clacks once, quietly. "Something like that, yes... He wanted to be a Good Soldier, and there were times we had to remind him that downtime meant *downtime.* That rank didn't quite matter so much, when all the enlisted folk were crammed into a beer tent. But Landingham... Being A Soldier was everything to him. More important than his name. And he always pulled his weight, no matter how.... *keen* he was... But then came the assault at Fort Cyrnwn."
 
Drawing in a deep breath, the Egalrin pushes a whistling sigh through her nares. A lot of good people gave their lives to batter down the gates. Many more were gravely injured -- the defenders had a sorceror among them, of no small power -- and poor Landingham found himself on the wrong end of a thrown fireball." Tearing away another glob of octo-dough, Iolaire shakes her head. "He was mustered out, after that, and sent back to the base camp to heal. He was offered full retirement pay, but he wouldn't hear it. He'd be back in the fight the moment he healed up, because he *needed* to be a Good Soldier."

(TBC)

[[Category:Logs|Tales of the Good Soldier]]