Vesian I
The aftermath of a battle was usually somber. However, on this day, Vesian found himself quite giddy. The battle had been quick. They had spied the orcish warband from afar while remaining hidden themselves, despite all their knightly splendor and heraldry. Aided by a woodsman, they had taken the orcs unaware and ridden them down as they panicked.
From his seat on a wooden fence, Vesian surveyed the carnage while running a hand through his fair hair. The orcs lay in heaps along the shaded road. Knights and the local peasants moved among the bodies, looting, and finishing off any wounded orcs left behind. Vesian laid his sword across his lap and breathed deep. The air was thick with the scent of blood and death, but beneath it he detected the scent of victory. The raiders would despoil the kingdom's wealth no more. Whatever remained of the warband was crawling its way home through the undergrowth even as knights roamed far from the battlefield in pursuit.
His superior, Sir Leoric de Toron, approached, leading a band of knights underneath his banner.
"Fine work today, Vesian," he cheered from the saddle. Vesian returned his greeting with a salute. "The Duke's men are pursuing the rest of the marauders, and he has released us from our contract."
"Well then," Vesian replied, "I have other affairs to see to." He rose from the fence and summoned his squire.
"We are heading north," Leoric went on, "the Comte de Montgrise claims to have seen griffons nesting near his keep. Will you join us?"
"I'm afraid not," Vesian replied, "I will return to Chateau Valeur and see to the recent happenings along the Verge."
"Good luck to you then," Sir Leoric spurred his horse and he and his knights went off down the road.
"The horses are ready," said Thibault, appearing at his master's side with the stallions in tow.
"A loyal squire as always," Vesian said, taking the reins from his squire. He swung into the saddle of a tall, white-haired courser named Zephyr.
"What is this trouble in the Verge?" Thibault inquired as he mounted own horse, a palfrey named Rascal. Behind him trailed their packhorse, Gotila, named for his former master he had born to the Temple of Kanaron.
"Nothing much. But I wish to avoid seeing the Comte after the ugliness at the tournament."
"Ah, that's who her uncle was," said Thibault as realization came to him at last. "Your discretion is wise. His temper is infamous."
"As is his swordarm. But come, there is a little inn to the south of here where we can spend the night before we head south again. Then who knows where we'll go? Perhaps to court?"
"Or to the Grotto Under the Hill again?"
"Or wherever the wind takes us!"
The sun was nearly set by the time they reached the Crooked Bough Inn. The old inn was slate roofed with glass windows, a stately building out of place in the far-flung reaches of the kingdom. Warm lights shone out its windows and from the lantern by the door. As Vesian and Thibault entered the palisaded courtyard, an old man in a bright green tunic stopped casting hay into the stable stalls and looked up at them.
"Good evening, sirs. Are you staying the night?"
"We are, sirrah." Vesian dismounted and handed the reins to Thibault. The squire then led their three horses to the stable and handed them over to the old man.
"It's two copper bits for each of them," the man told them, and Thibault handed over the money.
"Thank you, sirs. I'll have them watered and fed and ready to ride soon as the sun's up."
Inside, the room was lit by the warm glow of wrought iron chandelier studded with dozens of candles. The tables were sparsely occupied by humble merchants, the occasional pilgrim, and four sergeants. Vesian recognized the four of them as men who had ridden with the army earlier in the day. Two serving wenches attended their table, pouring wine. Both were pale and slender, one red-headed and the other blonde. The sergeants were making advances on them as they served. One man claimed he had a cock to put a stallion to shame and another grabbed a handful of the blonde girl's plump ass. She yelped and clutched her pitcher of ale to her bosom, some of the froth splashing out onto her bodice.
When the wenches saw Vesian enter, resplendent in his mail and surcoat, they quickly excused themselves from the boorish sergeants' table. The redheaded girl retreated into the kitchen while her companion crossed to the table that Vesian chose, even before he sat down. The sergeants called after them in disappointment as the wenches scurried away.
The blonde girl smiled sweetly at Vesian as he sat down, her eyes drawn to his blue surcoat emblazoned with a golden griffon on a white escutcheon and her little mouth crooked into a shy, anxious smile.
"How may I serve you, sir?" she asked, her voice high and sweet. She blushed as Vesian met her eyes. He removed his sword belt and leaned the scabbard against the table.
"A room for the night, and dinner for the both of us. We've already paid your stablehand."
"Of course, sir," the girl held out her hand and Vesian gave her the money for the room and board. She retreated to the kitchen, where the dour old innkeeper glowered at them from beneath his bushy eyebrows. She and the redheaded girl reemerged, the redhead was carrying a pair of pewter goblets filled with dark red wine while her blonde companion carrying two bowls of stew. They set the food and drinks down in front of their patrons and smiled.
"Good health to you, sirs," the redheaded girl bubbled. Vesian took a spoon from her apron for himself and another for Thibault.
"Thank you, girl," Vesian said as he dug into the stew. The wenches hovered anxiously over them, reluctant to leave.
"Those ruffians are looking at us," Thibault said quietly. Vesian slipped a look their way and found that his squire was right. The four men leaned forward over their table, flagons in front of them as they exchanged gruff looks and low voices. Vesian paid them no mind.
"They fought well today," Vesian replied.
"Did you fight in the battle today?" the blonde girl asked, taking a seat unprompted.
Vesian nodded, his spoon in his mouth.
"What was it like? Were the orcs as hideous as they say?" the redhead bubbled, taking a seat next to her companion and leaned so far forward she nearly pushed the blonde off the bench,
"It was exhilarating," Vesian replied, "the thrill of victory is unmatched by any other sensation."
"Is it?" the blonde girl asked, leaning in so that Vesian could see down her bodice. "How many other sensations have you experienced, sir knight?"
Vesian cracked a smile. "Quite a few of them, my dear. Are there any in particular you think I should experience?"
"We could show you a few things," the redheaded added, reaching across to put her hand on his.
"Well, that sounds intriguing. But let us finish eating first. It's been a hard day."
The blonde girl sat back, her lips in a pout. Vesian laughed.
"Once I've eaten, I'll have all night for war stories and... other pursuits." He reached out to pull her bodice down just an inch. She giggled and playfully slapped his hand away.
"I'm Juliette," the blonde said, bowing her head in deference. "This is Melisende. We're happy to be at your service, sir."
"I am Vesian de Surrac, a knight errant of the Order of the Griffon. This is my loyal squire Thibault."
Thibault grunted and nodded at them, still shoveling stew into his mouth.
"What is the life of a knight errant like?" Melisende wondered aloud. "It sounds wonderful, roaming from place to place without a care in the world."
"It can be," Vesian admitted, "Though there is often great danger in the life."
"It sounds so exciting," Juliette gasped, "Things around here are always so dull." Her pout returned.
Vesian finished his stew and launched into a tale of the army's exploits earlier in the day. Juliette and Melisende leaned in, enraptured, as he made a few changes for the benefit of the story. In his retelling, he moved himself and Thibault from the middle of the riding column to the forefront and took credit for the woodsman's shortcut for himself. Between himself and his squire, Vesian claimed they had slain forty of the orcs, who numbered not the thousand or so corpses that lay on the road, but instead a more impressive ten thousand.
Juliette, eyes wide in awe, ran her hand down his arm as his tale neared its end. But they were interrupted by the rowdy sergeants. Their leader, a broad-shouldered man with a thick black mustache, loomed over Thibault's back. Vesian looked up annoyed, only to see the sergeant returning his expression.
"We're waiting on our drinks over here, wench," the sergeant snapped. "What are we paying you for anyway?"
"Calm down and take a seat, sirrah," Vesian replied, "I was regaling these fine women with the tale of our victory earlier today."
"Yes, I heard," the sergeant growled, "Just like a knight, to come in and claim all the glory when we've done all the work."
