“You should be able to swing your sword again in a few suns.â€
Roen withdrew her hand from the torn armored sleeve, her eyes squinting to study the wound that was still visible beneath the knight's shredded chain links. The broken bone had been mended and now a jagged pink scar remained where once there was a mess of torn flesh and muscle. The tingling at her fingertips faded as the call of aether ended, but the paladin was satisfied that her limited conjury was enough to aid the knight.
“My thanks to you.†Ser Marshall dipped his head in gratitude, before slowly testing the movement of his arm and fingers. The Midlander glanced to the others that were injured, those that were now being tended to by robed Ishgardians near the tents and wagons of the Convictory. “I think the rest of us are being well cared for now by our chirurgeons. Why don’t you take part in the festivities?â€
She glanced over her shoulder to the center of the encampment, where they had built a bigger bonfire with the broken wooden stakes. Many soldiers--knights and sellswords alike--stood around the roaring fire with a bowl or a steel cup in hand. The tension of the conflict had dissipated, and there was an ease of camaraderie that filled the air as they exchanged drinks, toasts, and tales of the battle that they had just won. She frowned, her gaze flitted from one face to the other; she could see the awe in the younger faces, for this had been their first contest against a true dragon. And in the eyes of the more aged soldiers, she could see the relief--the weary cheer at their fortune, glad to be simply alive. None seemed to hold any true arrogance nor any outward display of superiority against the enemies they had just faced, at least… none except for Ser Vaillancourt.
The dragoon’s mannerisms were nonchalant, that she could nearly mistake it for conceit. Or was it just unwavering confidence? Surely the dragoon had faced other dragons in his lifetime, and the fact that he was standing here at all was testimony in itself of his successful career thus far. Having witnessed his most impressive display with her own eyes, she could not deny his extraordinary skill. Even as she watched him smile and laugh with the other knights, a part of her wondered what strength of character it would take to face that kind of a foe sun in and sun out. Was it not what all dragoons were trained for after all? What they have dedicated their lives to?
It was clear the respect the rest of the Convictory knights had for Ser Vaillancourt; it was as if they all took comfort in the Elezen’s fearlessness. And after the defeat of the dragon, that hint of perpetual weight and tension that always seemed to pervade the Ishgardian soldiery seemed to lift, at least for a passing bell or two, while they celebrated their triumph. Steel cups clanged against each other and laughter rang through the air.
Roen wanted no part of it.
“Are you certain the chirurgeons do not need my assistance?†The paladin turned her back to the rest of the camp, her gaze seeking out other injured soldiers. “I am trained in conjury, albeit limited but--â€
“Nay, not necessary, Ser Deneith.†Ser Marshall stood from his seat, holding his arm protectively to his chest. He tilted his head towards her, giving her a quiet smile. “I am thankful for a paladin’s assistance. But our healers have things well in hand. And forgive me for saying so, but many of our soldiers prefer a familiar physician’s hand to that of a sellsword. No matter how gifted an outsider may be.†He seemed earnestly apologetic.
Roen shook her head. “No need for apologies,†she muttered distractedly.
Ser Marshall paused with a small furrow to his brow. But he just bowed and turned to make his way to the tents, seeing to the rest of the men.
The paladin gave his retreating back an idle glance. She knew her words sounded more terse than she had intended, even though she took no umbrage at his sentiment. She glanced instead back to the celebration at hand, crossing her arms. The wood creaked in protest as she leaned her back against the wagon, electing to stay on the outskirts of the milling crowd. She was no longer able to ignore the aching in her arms; the toll of the battle fought and the channeling of the aether had left her more weary than she was willing to acknowledge until now.
Roen let out a tired sigh, scanning the crowd. She had lost track of Khadai while she had been attending to the hurt soldiers. When she saw the dragoon congratulate the warrior, the paladin fell back from him, seeking out the wounded instead. She was not sure why she had done so, for when the dragon fell she too felt the exhilaration of the hunt and the swell of joy in the victory. The elated cries echoing throughout the canyon had brought about an exhalation of relief. But when she looked for the Xaela, he was already set upon by Ser Vaillancourt, and had attracted the attention of a few other knights--this time with looks of approval. On their return back to the camp, she did her best to stay towards the back with the wounded, rather than joining in with the ranks of the more lively men, their spirits lifted. And at least a couple of them had felt at ease enough to walk next to the Au Ra warrior who had fought alongside them.
Roen was content to let Khadai be.
Was that why she was staying away from the throng of soldiers near the bonfire now? The paladin could not say. She thought she could glimpse the tall frame of the Au Ra across the camp, although through the fire and the smoke, she could not make him out clearly. Perhaps Ser Vaillancourt was right, she thought. Camaraderie breeds familiarity. Roen slid down to a seat on the wooden steps that lead up to the door of the wagon, setting her shield next to her.
From the corner of her eyes, the paladin spotted Bellows and Stray Oak seated closer to the fire, drinking from their own cups. Bellows had his arms bandaged and he seemed to be casually conversing with the other men he had arrived with. Roen did not recognize any of the others, even though she had fought with the men under Ser Tournes for many moons. It was then that she realized that she knew little to nothing of them, nor they of her.
Roen took out a piece of cloth and began to clean her hands, stained with blood during the tending of Ser Marshall’s wounds. Even as the sounds of laughter drifted from those gathered by the fire, the paladin remained where she sat, continuing to wipe dried blood from her hands.
I did not come here seeking kinship. The paladin was quick to reminded herself. That is not why I am here. She glanced once more across the camp, her eyes squinting as she tried to make out the Xaela’s form through the smoke. But all she saw was merriment abound amongst the faces of men, which only deepened her frown even more. Roen tore her gaze away, her fingers tightening their grip around the cloth pressed against her stained palm.
Khadai is the one that needs the familiarity. She shoved the cloth into her belt pouch as she chided herself. Not I. The paladin let out a long sigh as she slid the gauntlet back onto her naked hand. She arched her neck, her head coming to rest against the wooden door of the wagon. But before she knew it, Roen found her gaze drifting once more toward the fire and the soldiers gathered there, even though she did not know why.
Roen withdrew her hand from the torn armored sleeve, her eyes squinting to study the wound that was still visible beneath the knight's shredded chain links. The broken bone had been mended and now a jagged pink scar remained where once there was a mess of torn flesh and muscle. The tingling at her fingertips faded as the call of aether ended, but the paladin was satisfied that her limited conjury was enough to aid the knight.
“My thanks to you.†Ser Marshall dipped his head in gratitude, before slowly testing the movement of his arm and fingers. The Midlander glanced to the others that were injured, those that were now being tended to by robed Ishgardians near the tents and wagons of the Convictory. “I think the rest of us are being well cared for now by our chirurgeons. Why don’t you take part in the festivities?â€
She glanced over her shoulder to the center of the encampment, where they had built a bigger bonfire with the broken wooden stakes. Many soldiers--knights and sellswords alike--stood around the roaring fire with a bowl or a steel cup in hand. The tension of the conflict had dissipated, and there was an ease of camaraderie that filled the air as they exchanged drinks, toasts, and tales of the battle that they had just won. She frowned, her gaze flitted from one face to the other; she could see the awe in the younger faces, for this had been their first contest against a true dragon. And in the eyes of the more aged soldiers, she could see the relief--the weary cheer at their fortune, glad to be simply alive. None seemed to hold any true arrogance nor any outward display of superiority against the enemies they had just faced, at least… none except for Ser Vaillancourt.
The dragoon’s mannerisms were nonchalant, that she could nearly mistake it for conceit. Or was it just unwavering confidence? Surely the dragoon had faced other dragons in his lifetime, and the fact that he was standing here at all was testimony in itself of his successful career thus far. Having witnessed his most impressive display with her own eyes, she could not deny his extraordinary skill. Even as she watched him smile and laugh with the other knights, a part of her wondered what strength of character it would take to face that kind of a foe sun in and sun out. Was it not what all dragoons were trained for after all? What they have dedicated their lives to?
It was clear the respect the rest of the Convictory knights had for Ser Vaillancourt; it was as if they all took comfort in the Elezen’s fearlessness. And after the defeat of the dragon, that hint of perpetual weight and tension that always seemed to pervade the Ishgardian soldiery seemed to lift, at least for a passing bell or two, while they celebrated their triumph. Steel cups clanged against each other and laughter rang through the air.
Roen wanted no part of it.
“Are you certain the chirurgeons do not need my assistance?†The paladin turned her back to the rest of the camp, her gaze seeking out other injured soldiers. “I am trained in conjury, albeit limited but--â€
“Nay, not necessary, Ser Deneith.†Ser Marshall stood from his seat, holding his arm protectively to his chest. He tilted his head towards her, giving her a quiet smile. “I am thankful for a paladin’s assistance. But our healers have things well in hand. And forgive me for saying so, but many of our soldiers prefer a familiar physician’s hand to that of a sellsword. No matter how gifted an outsider may be.†He seemed earnestly apologetic.
Roen shook her head. “No need for apologies,†she muttered distractedly.
Ser Marshall paused with a small furrow to his brow. But he just bowed and turned to make his way to the tents, seeing to the rest of the men.
The paladin gave his retreating back an idle glance. She knew her words sounded more terse than she had intended, even though she took no umbrage at his sentiment. She glanced instead back to the celebration at hand, crossing her arms. The wood creaked in protest as she leaned her back against the wagon, electing to stay on the outskirts of the milling crowd. She was no longer able to ignore the aching in her arms; the toll of the battle fought and the channeling of the aether had left her more weary than she was willing to acknowledge until now.
Roen let out a tired sigh, scanning the crowd. She had lost track of Khadai while she had been attending to the hurt soldiers. When she saw the dragoon congratulate the warrior, the paladin fell back from him, seeking out the wounded instead. She was not sure why she had done so, for when the dragon fell she too felt the exhilaration of the hunt and the swell of joy in the victory. The elated cries echoing throughout the canyon had brought about an exhalation of relief. But when she looked for the Xaela, he was already set upon by Ser Vaillancourt, and had attracted the attention of a few other knights--this time with looks of approval. On their return back to the camp, she did her best to stay towards the back with the wounded, rather than joining in with the ranks of the more lively men, their spirits lifted. And at least a couple of them had felt at ease enough to walk next to the Au Ra warrior who had fought alongside them.
Roen was content to let Khadai be.
Was that why she was staying away from the throng of soldiers near the bonfire now? The paladin could not say. She thought she could glimpse the tall frame of the Au Ra across the camp, although through the fire and the smoke, she could not make him out clearly. Perhaps Ser Vaillancourt was right, she thought. Camaraderie breeds familiarity. Roen slid down to a seat on the wooden steps that lead up to the door of the wagon, setting her shield next to her.
From the corner of her eyes, the paladin spotted Bellows and Stray Oak seated closer to the fire, drinking from their own cups. Bellows had his arms bandaged and he seemed to be casually conversing with the other men he had arrived with. Roen did not recognize any of the others, even though she had fought with the men under Ser Tournes for many moons. It was then that she realized that she knew little to nothing of them, nor they of her.
Roen took out a piece of cloth and began to clean her hands, stained with blood during the tending of Ser Marshall’s wounds. Even as the sounds of laughter drifted from those gathered by the fire, the paladin remained where she sat, continuing to wipe dried blood from her hands.
I did not come here seeking kinship. The paladin was quick to reminded herself. That is not why I am here. She glanced once more across the camp, her eyes squinting as she tried to make out the Xaela’s form through the smoke. But all she saw was merriment abound amongst the faces of men, which only deepened her frown even more. Roen tore her gaze away, her fingers tightening their grip around the cloth pressed against her stained palm.
Khadai is the one that needs the familiarity. She shoved the cloth into her belt pouch as she chided herself. Not I. The paladin let out a long sigh as she slid the gauntlet back onto her naked hand. She arched her neck, her head coming to rest against the wooden door of the wagon. But before she knew it, Roen found her gaze drifting once more toward the fire and the soldiers gathered there, even though she did not know why.
