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Loot overheard the conversation a few lengths ahead of him. It filled him with a daring curiosity. He twisted the dappled mare's reigns in his hands, and began to steal glances over at the Death Faced.

Roark was riding abreast to the youth, his drawn face set to the horizon. His posture was keen and stiff. He seemed not to notice Loot's ducked head or darting eyes. Soon the stares were increasing steadily in frequency and bewilderment.

At last the bug of inquiry had to be sated. Loot cleared his throat, and spoke up in a hesitant, pinched tone, "Uh--Sir Roark?"

The youth took the Knight's silence as leave to continue.

"Where--" Loot felt exceedingly silly, "--Where's your glaive?"

There was a pause. Roark seemed to contemplate answering by tilting his head to the side. The glaive was his weapon of legend, yes. He had carved chunks into whole legions with it. It's six-foot poleshaft was so strong that it had cracked the skull of a particularly rowdy Mountain Troll; that was one truth in a sea of rumors. Another whisper about the weapon was more unfounded, and much more controversial.

Murmur had it that the business end of the glaive was double mounted like Ayian stock rather than Ilena's typical socket style. Of course, those close enough to the blade who could make such speculations rarely lived to investigate further.

The mysterious and compelling weapon was nowhere to be found. In fact, Roark was unarmed except for an undecorated short sword thrust into his belt.

"Don't remember." Roark grunted shortly, "Think I left it at Cairns. The Inn."

Loot was sure he misheard, "I'm sorry--you LEFT it there?"

Roark shrugged, "Long thing. Rather bulky. This was months ago. Was tracking someone. Would rather have, say, a crossbow."

"But--" Loot couldn't imagine leaving his lyre somewhere, and not immediately returning to fetch it, "--But it's your weapon!"

The black stallion seemed to skip a little bit in his stride and let out a laughing whinny. Roark spurred the beasts' side to chide him.

In his defense, the glaive was hard to carry. When mounted on a horse, the thing tucked under an arm made for a fine and noble sight, but when one was scrambling through a forest after someone wielding, say, throwing daggers it became nothing more than a hindrance. Roark felt no special attachment to the weapon, but the people of Ilena had been so quick and insistent to associate the glaive with the Death Faced.

Besides. Glaive rhymed with Brave!

Yes. Roark grunted at his private joke. People used to ask him what the name of his glaive was, and the Death Faced had considered telling them 'Ahmenscølja' which loosely meant 'To blazes with it, I don't feel like carrying this!' in Ayian. Smooshed together and muttered under one's breath, of course.

"Lucky we're passing by there." Roark finished, and lapsed into his usual silence again.

Avark threw back his head and laughed, a great hearty sound, coming from deep in his belly. His eyes blazed in the light of the sun or were they glinting in madness? It was hard to tell sometimes. Did the bear of a man really find the bold decoration that such a thin, flimsy blade had beaten much stronger swords funny or had the warped coils of insanity that drove the warriors of the north into such a blood-crazed frenzy affecting his brain at that moment? His stallion tossed it's head back and whinnied, almost copying his master with an equestrian version of laughter.

"I like you lassie" boomed the big knight, snapping his head forwards again and giving the lady knight a great clap on the shoulder with one, paw-like hand, "I like you a lot. Now I could boast on how I could make a mile marker on every road in Ilena topped with the skull I've liberated from a set of shoulders with my axe or how many pairs of boots I could have made with the cured intestines of foes I've gutted with my blade but such words may just as well fall on deaf ears or seem overly proud. I do hope we find some cocky brigands or have a good fight at the castle of the king of Ayia, so that we might make a game of our trying to out do one another. Skullcleaver against the Knitting Needle!"

The big knight clapped Lady de Volkan on the shoulder a second time and touched his heels to Bukkler's flanks, driving the big brute away from the mare and back into the head of the column. Laughter would abruptly burst out of him, like steam building up under the lid of a pot and every now and then get enough pressure to crack the lid open for a bit. Ah, what a grand way to start a quest.

"I will remember that" called Avark, over his shoulder, "Should I ever have to challange ye ta a duel."

The big man of course did not connect the claps he had place on the lady knight's shoulder to anything near a slap. A slap was delivered with all the force one could muster to someone's face (or back if they're choking on too much mead or choking on food but then again, that really wasn't something he would have considered a slap either), in a challenge. A friendly clap on the shoulder, was a far removed from a slap as the moon is from the sun. The ancestors themselves were probably laughing their heads off at the uptightness of the woman and the fun that was sure to come because of it.

The rest of the morning passed pleasantly, without any brigands to Avark's disappointment but several merchant trains had passed them by before the sun had reached it's zenith. A few fat pieces of silver from a pouch on the knight's waist gained a skin of (very sweet) wine, a bag of small loaves of bread and a half wheel of cheese for a meal on the ride. He carved the cheese into almost equal pieces, allotting a larger portion to the skinny waif that was fallowing Sir Roark and an extra loaf of bread. The wine on the other hand, had to be passed around between the travelers.

As the heat of the day started to bake the land, a small storm rolled over the traveling knights. Tiny droplets of rain fell upon them, lightly coating everything and cutting off any chance of road dust from rising to choke them. The squall passed almost as fast as it came, disappearing off into the north and west.

When the sun began to sink low in the sky, the knights reached the township of Cairns. It had been nearly nineteen years since Avark had visited this town (or been this far south at that, he had been spending most of his time fighting along the northern boarder) and the sight of the small town was comforting to him, as it had not change much. There was still but one inn, called The Red Dragon, located right on the road, in the center of the town. It was large, two story biulding, constructed of stone and heavy timber. The roof was covered in expensive red tiles, like some great reptile was hiding there but was too large and it's back had replaced the thatch roof (like every other building in the town, except for the blacksmith).

As they rode into the stable, three grooms came forward to take the horses. One reached for the reins of Blakker, which had been left hanging as his human dismounted and jumped back with a yelp, as the foul tempered beast smashed the poor boy's foot with a heavy hoof. Avark twisted his mount's ear again and led the horse into the stable with it, pressing a few gold coins into the groom's hand. An impressive feat, seeing as the boy was hopping up and down in pain. Once the horses were detacked and fed for the night, the big knight lead the way again, this time into the common room. The Innkeeper, a mostly thin man, with the only fat on him being a pot belly that was more from genetics then overeating, by the name of Tomas, greeted them himself with great cheer.

"Welcome noble knights" said the innkeeper, rubbing his hands on the slightly dirty white apron that all those of his profession wore, "To my humble inn. You will be taking your ease for the night?"

"And dinner" prompted Avark, "With a few tankards of ale."

"Of course" said Tomas, bowing slight and shooting the big knight heavily guarded looks that concealed something. Maybe it was just a little disgruntled feeling bubbling up from the innkeeper, over the knight making sure they were getting something to eat or was it something else? Anger over caught trying to charge them extra, like other, less then honest fellows in the profession? Who knows.

"Please take a seat" the innkeeper continued, "One of my girls will be out with the beef stew and ale shortly."

"Thank you my good man" said Avark, spotting an open table between the stairs leading up to the rooms and the big fireplace. He strolled over to it and pulled out a chair with gusto. A few minutes after his great form was settled into the strong if plainly made, wooden chair, a girl that couldn't have been too far from her eighteenth summer, come through the doorless opening to the kitchen.

Her robust figure made the tavern maid stand out. She stood at least a head over all the other girls, with a heart-shaped face framed in a mass of lovely brown curls. A generous bust filled out a spotless white blouse a little more then nicely, with broad hips just made for baring children covered in a loose green skirt. In her hands she held a five wooden bowls, with a practiced ease of doing this for ages upon ages. With a wink and smile, she laid out the bowls and just about bounced away back to the kitchen, after giving everyone a look over with familiar blue eyes (with more time spend on the big knight then anyone else).

She returned quickly, with the mugs of ale and laid them out before the traveling knights. For half a second, it looked like she was going to leave them again, to enjoy their meal but she giggled softly and promptly sat down in Avark's lap. The big knight grinned like a wolf, who had a deer sit down in front of him and started rubbing steaksauce upon itself. His big left arm started to wrap around her waist, as she giggled again and place a hand on his wrist to stop him.

"Hello pappy" she said, still smiling.

The grin on Avark's face disappeared faster then a lead brick dropped into the ocean, to be replaced with a look like that of an ox, that had been hit on the head with a sledgehammer, right before the slaughter. He blinked several times, staring at that pretty face with vacant eyes that slowly began to come back to reality.

"What" he whispered.

Roark's stew remained untouched. The Death Faced sat next to the Lady de Volkan with his arms crossed coolly over his chest. His hard gaze took in the scene that had unfolded; the eyes were devoid of pity. Although he could not guess exactly what the Lady was thinking, Roark was sure that the two were in the same frame of mind about this sudden happenstance.

No, Roark didn't need to hear any more of this. Collecting his bowl and spoon, he touched the Lady on the shoulder to get her attention, and gave her a polite wordless nod that he would be outside.

Loot was still collapsed in the clearing, face down on the ground where the grooms had left him. After the company had trotted into Cairns, Loot dismounted rather inelegantly, and found that his legs didn't want to support his weight anymore. The youth was so sore and unused to riding that he had elected to just lay outside than muster the strength to drag himself up where food, and possible paying listeners awaited.

The shadow of the Death Faced fell over the the miserable lad. Groaning, Loot rolled over.

"Tell mother I died fightin'...wait! Toadsfeet--I haven't got a mother..."

Roark set the beef stew down on the ground, "Eat. You will be much sorer later."

This made the youth nearly curl up and start to cry more. Of course, any movement below his spine and above his back felt like hot coals being pressed into his skin. He settled for just whimpering quietly.

Roark retreated back to the porch, and sat down on the steps. He reached behind his head to re-tie his scarf a little tighter, and then settled into an introspective position, chin on fist, elbow on knees.

"Hoy!" Loot filled his lungs, "Sir Roark! Aren't you going to eat anything?"

Predictably, Roark didn't answer. He drew in a few breaths and let them come out through the ratty white scarf.

Jasmine looked around at the scenery. The place was lovely. She couldn't be more impressed with herself for leaving the Palace and been here in the forest by herself. In fact, Jazz was really happy because of it. Being a princess, it was apparently too dangerous to be out and about without protection. Because of this, Jazz hadn't been out.

Smiling, she walked over to the stream from where Midnight was still drinking. Taking in the surrounding woodland, she listened to the natural noises - the crunching of sticks and leaves, the water flowing, the occasional bird. It was definitely relaxing and if she wasn't caught, she'd come out more often, definitely.

Getting to the stream, she bent down to dip her fingers in it. She wanted to feel the fresh water and see how cool it was, but just as she leant forward, she lost her footing on a few loose rocks at the side. Letting out a scream, she tried to grab Midnight, who moved out the way due to the scream. In she fell, getting herself getting herself soaked.

Quickly Jasmine tried to get herself out of the shallow stream, her hands stinging from where she'd grazed them in the water. How was she going to explain this one when she got back to the Palace?

Roark had watched the Lady de Volkan flash past him from the Inn, and go out past the stables. She did not storm with the demeanor of an angry woman, nor did she mosey along as though her spirit had wilted. One thing the Death Faced admired about the Lady was that she often held herself with more poise and more decency than the men around her.

She had presumably gone to find solace in the company of her mare, Rawnie. That was a good horse, if Roark knew any. Filled with sense. It wouldn't kill you in a moment like Avark's.

Even as the thought of that terrible stallion entered Miles' head, there was a great scream from the stables. It wasn't human, no, this was the battlecry of two proud male beasts ready to beat down a stable gate with their hooves. Those idiot grooms. Those idiot, idiot grooms...

No. This would not do at all.

Roark was up and across the clearing in one bound, stepping neatly over the prone form of the minstrel youth. He exploded through the doors and was upon the stables at once. He didn't wait for his eyes to adjust to the murky darkness. He was at the back of the stable at once where the stallions were kept. His own onyx steed was looking very smug and proud of itself, whereas Avark's beast was hardly in any state to be consoled.

He spoke no words to the horses. What could one say? It would be a waste of breath. Instead of useless dialogue, he snapped the gate open and seized hold of his horse's halter. He hauled the creature forward with no small amount of strength, and dragged the now shamed beast down to the other end of the stable between the dappled mare and the Lady's own Rawnie.

"Apologies." Miles spoke to the Lady Knight as he slammed the gate down and latched it. His stallion looked at him reproachfully, and it was now Avark's monstrosity that was chuckling to itself. Roark dusted his hands, shuffled back to the wall and glared at the beast, "He will behave himself, now."

He felt a bit strange in his certainty. The horse made quick work of turning so that it's rump faced Roark, and despite himself the Death Faced grinned behind his scarf. Yes, the onyx stallion would behave now. He had the dappled mare and Rawnie to keep him in line.

Roark turned and looked back to the Lady. Miles did not normally bother with complete sentences, but in the smelly stable with the Lady he felt it would be proper to address her in a semi-coherent fashion. His voice rasped from lack of use, and he cleared it again with difficulty. Yes, it hurt him to talk. Those scars and wounds were not just on the surface. He reached up and gingerly felt his chin behind the scarf, feeling the ridges and cruel valleys.

"Don't mean to trouble you." Roark inclined his head slightly. Words poured from him, it was a strange feeling. He paused to collect his breath, "If you were quietly introspecting, I shall leave you."

"...you are welcome to stay if you wish."

Strangely, Roark felt he would. The Death Faced hadn't had a proper conversation with someone in years. He often found people dull and boorish, flinging around their words in a careless fashion. Roark couldn't be bothered slaying time in such a way, but the Lady de Volkan was something new entirely. When asked a question she gave eloquent and articulate replies that were to the point and did not stray from their intended path. Someone with that sort of intellect could--at the drop of a hat--go off in some sort of long winded discussion, but not so with the Lady.

"Bad at small talk. I am." Roark corrected himself at the last second. He tightened the scarf around his face out of habit, and leaned against the stable wall, "Your horse. Why did you name her?"

The black mount shifted a bit, and seemed to stare over it's shoulder. There was an almost mocking quality in the beasts' eye, and it shook it's head while grinning. The creature seemed incredibly amused at these happenings.

"Well," Roark answered truthfully, "It never told me."

Any other man would have uttered the words and then flushed a bit. Roark knew them to be true, and there was nothing else that could be done about truth. The Death Faced shifted position slightly, and then felt he had overstayed his welcome. (if there had been any!) He nodded to the Lady and took his leave .

Avark lifted the paralyzing surprise from his brain with a mental shake. For a few moments, he stared at those blue eyes, that so closely matched his own (and missed the comment from Lady de Volkan, which might have been for the best, he could handle all manner of insults with a laugh but he could be a little more then prickly with matters of his family). It was looking into the polished brass mirror and seeing himself in female form. It was concerning yet comforting all at the same time to know that he was able to produce children but had failed to provide for her, even if she was a bastard.

Then he burst out laughing, as Tegwen's comment on his companion reached his mind. It was a great thing, coming from somewhere in the depths of his barrel-like chest, that just flowed through his being and spilled out into the room. Massive arms wrapped around the pretty tavern maid, as the bear-like knight wrapped his daughter up in a crushing hug to his rumbling chest.

"I'd name ye me child" Avark said in a hushed tone, as he released the girl and pushed her shapely bottom to rest on his knee (least her wiggling in his lap cause their embrace to become something not to be shared by father and daughter), "For just those words on a Lady de Volkan alone but nay, I can see me blood in thee. If I had known Cundrie had quicken with child all those years ago....."

"Ye still would have left" came the soft and bitter voice of Tomas, form where he had crept up behind the knight, "For the king commanded it. Although I wonder if ye would have dared to return to this town, knowing a love-blinded girl waited for you, with a babe on her knee. Ye might be a great knight and hero to the realm but ye're a lousy man."

The big northman turned his head and glared daggers at the innkeeper, grinding his teeth in rage but said nothing. He could stand before a host of bloody thirsty enemies and still laugh but....return to his own daughter.....he couldn't rightly say he would have. Fighting foes with the odds stack so high that his death was the only outcome, seemed a much more pleasant option. And he raged at himself mostly for it but the innkeeper proved to be a good place to focus his own self loathing.

The horse snorted, as though scoffing the gentle and motherly tone being used. Still, the onyx steed obliged and with only a few sidesteps and shuffles, turned himself so that his enormous rump was facing the wall instead of the Lady's fine face.

He lashed his tail and stamped a hoof, clearly saying that he would not take well to being stroked or petted. Ah, the beast was endlessly, endlessly proud! His dark eyes flashed with a strange sort of intelligence. He regarded the Lady and stared her straight back into her charming pools, waiting for her next move.

______________________________

Roark stepped from the stables in one powerful bound. He arrived so suddenly in the outside world that even the limp and ragged Loot mustered the energy for a strangled sort of yell.

"Must you always come and go that way?" The youth had managed to sit up, now. It had taken an ungodly amount of grunty pained effort, but the deed had been done. He now sat rigid with his eyebrows jerked together by an irate state of weariness, "By the Flame, Sir Roark. You're enough to give the Tempest itself a fright!"

Roark did not reply to this remark. He stood over the lad, and nodded once approvingly at the empty bowl of beef stew.

Loot followed the Knight's direct and unmistakeable stare. Yes, he had eaten. The smell of the freshly made stuff had been too much to ignore. Hunger pains had been shooting through his stomach, but it had taken at least a half hour nearly passed out on the musty ground before he could distinguish them from the rest of the pain in his body.

The youth found himself regretting his harsh and disrespectful words. If Roark was any other man, Loot knew he would be hurting from a beating at the moment. That was no way to speak to a Knight.

"Sorry, Roark. Sir Roark. Miles!" Loot tried again. He hesitantly rolled his shoulders, but alas! His aching muscles cried out there, too.

"Go inside." Roark ordered, slipping not only into his usual parade rest, but his usual clipped and irregular speech, "Wait. Will be in later tonight."

With that, the Death Faced crossed his arms over his chest and seemed to expect Loot to jump up instantly. Loot groaned aloud.

"Oh, larks Sir Roark! You can't be serious!"

"Up. You're stiff." Roark grunted, "Now."

There wasn't much else for it. Wishing he had a bit of linen to stuff in his mouth, Loot lurched over and tried valiantly to get to his feet. The pain was immense, mostly in his lower limbs. After being collapsed for a good hour or so, the muscles had well and truly seized up.

Loot would have benefited from walking off his pain right away; either that or rubbing out the tightly coiled muscles. Since he had done neither, the youth was just a trembling stick of resentful pain as he carefully--so carefully--straightened his spine and stood on two feet.

"There!" Loot counted it his own victory to stand before the Knight.

Roark's eyes flicked back down to the ground where the empty bowl and the well chewed spoon waited to be picked up.

"Oh, toadsfeet!"

Leaving the youth to suffer through bending over again, Roark smiled and walked away.

He took the west path from the red-roofed inn into a calm forest. The Oak and Elm trees were thick here, but widely spaced. Roark went in a good few hundred feet into the webbing of briar, but could still make out the bright red roof of the inn. This was good.

Roark was a quiet stepper in the worst of times, but with a soft loamy blanket of pine needles and earth his footsteps were perfectly masked. He compelled himself on further, deeper and deeper into the forest. He was sure that he was visible from the stable windows. This brought him back to thoughts of the Lady.

Her words echoed in his head. In his living memory, Roark couldn't remember the Lady speaking a true and earnest compliment to another human being. Her demeanor was prim and proper, speaking when spoken to and never giving more than what was asked of her. That she would pause in the moment and speak what she felt about him made his heart prick.

No matter.

The Death Faced paused in front of a tall and imposing elm. He reached out a hand and touched it's trunk, feeling the grooves where not too long ago he had stuck with his glaive, hoping to sever a head rather than damage bark.

The wound was healed up, mostly. Trees were a sturdy lot. Roark knew he was on the right track, though. He stepped to the side and found another similar telling mark. This time it was a dead tree keeled over in the woods, severed again where someone's neck should have been. A half year's worth of fallen leaves and aging had hidden the extremity of the chaos, but Roark pressed on.

No, he would have his glaive for the trip into Ayia. It might be the only thing to save him.