"And what do they call you?"
The question rang out from a pair of reddened, pursed lips. The woman sat upon a throne three times her own size, her left arm draped demurely over the armrest and her right folded angularly in to her lap. Her dark brown hair was in curls so voluminous that her pale, wrinkled face was nearly hidden. Ice-blue eyes stared down the knight that kneeled, head bowed, in front of her.

Gwendolyn Riffin tried to resist the shuddering that was racking her whole body. Fortunately, while inside of the enormous suit of armor, her shivering went--for the larger part--unnoticed. The Advisor to the Queen stood forebodingly beside the great chair, his face sneering as he watched the disguised lady shake. The entire court, even the Advisor with his eagle eyes, believed her to be the highest male knight in the land. A warrior in armor she was, but a man she was not. She stood before the Queen, now, as an answer to a request sent out to specific people in the country. An invitation to, interestingly enough, go on a hunt for some unknown and threatening object.

This cause was enough to bring un-asked-for knights from lands too distant to put on a map, farm boys that would have no reason to be anywhere near the castle ordinarily, and the high members of the court that could fight and track and still represent the Queen elegantly while performing these deeds. Gwen was a high-class, supremely respected knight that came from a lowly family just managing to stretch out of poverty.

Gwen's mind was still soaring, thinking about what might come of this hunt, when the royal woman before her cleared her throat, simultaneously casting the room in to figurative shadow. "What do they call you."

This time it was not a question, but a direct challenge. Miss Riffin could not say a thing, for her voice would give away all she had worked so hard for. One soprano note and she was done for--either her head would end up on the chopping block or she would be banished to one of those far-away lands that cheesy, faerietale princes always came from. So she shook her head, and tilted her neck up towards the Queen.

"Mute, are you. Fine, then. Jaslyn--give her a quill." The man standing and looking down upon Gwendolyn plucked a small dagger from his boot side, and advanced towards the girl kneeling. He grabbed her wrist, pulled off her glove, and stabbed her index finger. The only sign of pain she showed was a quick, deep intake of breath, before mobing her finger to the floor and drawing in large, bloodred letters upon the solid white marble 'They do not call me anything. But my name is Endol.' It took her so long to write this that the Queen began tapping her heeled shoe loudly upon the base of her throne, sneering, and crossed her arms.

Gwendolyn had taken the only part of her real name she could, not being able to come up with anything else, and instituted it as her knight's name. "Very good, very, very good. I believe you can go find yourself a horse, in the stables. I know you've not got one of your own; I watched you walk through the gates by foot. I wish you luck, Endol, for if you do not return with what I asked for in twenty-six months you'll not have a head to find it with."

Armor clanking, Gwen stood in her leather shoes. She made a roundabout, and as she exited through the oversized doors that led back out to the entrance hall, she wondered why she had come and offered herself up to be beheaded. On a two-year journey, she would have to reveal her femininity, most likely traveling only with men, since she was the only female knight she knew of (unless others were in hiding, so to speak) she felt endangered. In fights she could deal, she had the make-it or break-it kind of attitude, but sexual assault was something she would not handle well. And, if in the wilderness, she wouldn't be able to escape to anywhere.

Her feet had carried her to the all-too-familiar stables, as she fretted about what would occur. At least fifty horses stood silently watching her from their individual stables. There were dapples and paints, purebreds and mixes, stallions and mares. She chinked through the hay on the floor, reached up her bloody hand, and stroked a white mare's forehead without thinking about it. A red streak adorned the pristine, soft hair of the horse now, marking it untradeably as Gwen's. She scratched the creature's head and neck, clanking without much diress, and allowed her mind to wander once more.

In a small forest a ways off from the castle entrance, Jack Wicker rested on the bough of a thick oak branch. His legs and sword dangled next to hanging vines and moss as he held himself steady by gripping the rough bark of the tree with one hand, the other holding a small, half-eaten red apple, which he was in the slow process of eating. His keen brown eyes were gazing off into the distance, locked on the flow of traffic in and out of the castle gate 100 paces in front of him. He flicked his attention from face to face, prince to peasant, merchant to murderer as they passed through the gates, watching for someone, or rather, a type of someone. A type of person he'd dedicated his whole life to becoming. He was looking for a knight.

Below him, hidden from the view of the castle by a few thick hedges, his horse, Clock, nickered hungrily, smelling the apple. Dropping down the remains of the core to it, the beast quickly lipped it up from the dirt and crunched it in it's teeth, silent now as it waited for a follow up to this pitiful snack. Jack didn't respond to it's wordless request. This was partially because he was too engaged in keeping his gaze unmoved from the palace gates, and partially because he didn't have anything to give the horse anyway. The horse had been a gain of a theft nearly a year before, a young buck still too small to hold a man's weight. He'd looped a rope around it and led it off, hoping to fetch some gold for it on the market. The beast had walked beside him faithfully, and after a while began to nose at his hand. As the young boy he'd been at the time, he'd gotten attached and kept it rather than sold it, and lucky he was for it. Now it was a magnificent beast, a strong, proud stallion with strong, swift legs and blazing eyes, though in need of bit of a wash. Proper care for the creature came after food for it, and Jack's budget was limited, to say the least. Something he hoped to remedy with this venture.

In the streets, from the mouths of the people whose pockets he picked, and in the taverns, in the slurs of the men whose purses he cut, he'd heard tell of a movement within the army's knights. The queen's elite, as well as a few adventure seekers, were moving out, looking for something the queen wanted dearly. Something valuable, no doubt. So Jack had formulated a simple plan. Follow the most competent looking knight, and if they found the artifact, kill them and take it. In Clock's saddlebags, stolen supplies enough for a month were stored, along with means to procure more. It was a foolproof plan that had no repercussions so long as he wasn't stupid about it. Simple in beginning, execution, and ending. Simple.
His eyes scanned the crowd again.

Simple...

She wasn't nervous, per se.

'Nervous' might be a bit heavy for what she was feeling. Too sincere, too acute. Nay, this feeling was more of a vaguely pervasive feeling of...anticipation? Yes. Anticipation.

Nervous anticipation.

'No, no, not nervous,' the small girl reminded herself. 'Mother always said nervousness was simply excitement without air. Breathe, Kay. Just breathe.'

Kaysa Halsen, nineteen, took a deep breath as she contentedly kicked up small puffs of brown dust on her way to the Queen. Beside her, Wicker, or Wick for short, her black stallion (though at only fourteen hands, Wick was more pony than horse...a fact Kay, only a few inches taller than Wick, loved), delighted in the softness of the dirt, as compared to the cobblestone road they'd just passed over. Kay and Wick had been companions, as the 'runts' in their families, for nearly three years: Kay loved the white blaze that otherwise marked the pitchblack pony on a dark night in the stables; Wick loved Kay's fingers, almost always coated in honey for her equine companion to lap up in secret. And while Kay would visit Wick every day, and ride him whenever she wasn't training, she had never expected the three-year-old pony to be hers.

But when her family's landlord--the owner of the stables her older brother worked at, and Wick himself--had heard she was setting out to become a knight, they had surprised her not only by offering verbal support, but by giving her Wick to arrive on.

Her mother had scoffed at first, saying a small girl arriving on a smaller horse would only inspire laughter. Perhaps a less optimistic girl might have been inclined to believe and heed the warning. But Kay only insisted that a small girl on a big horse would make the former look foolish, and the latter like a beast, and so the matter, as was so common when Kay gesticulated in her bright and charming manner, was abruptly settled.

Kaysa had a talent for making herself understood, which was probably just as well, because while she was a decent writer (and tried to keep scraps of parshment and charcoal with her at all times), she lacked the patience necessary to write out all that she felt was necessary to get across. Her older brother had always described her as 'the most loquacious mute' he'd ever met. The words had never once failed to elicit a silent giggle from the girl, three years his junior.

Aidan had, he explained on the eve of her departure, worked extra hours and saved his pay to give her his farewell gift: a handsome leather saddle and embroidered bridle for Wick. He'd hugged her, pulled her close, and kissed the top of her head, like he'd done when they were very small children.

"You'll come back with all the Queen's following, I'm sure," he'd whispered, and she'd smiled, her the smile in his voice. "But you will come back. Promise."

She wished then she could speak more than ever; instead, she'd turned into his chest and inhaled the familiar scent of hay and fur. I promise.

Now, walking beside Wicker, his saddle and bridle thrown over his back, her quiver and bow thrown over hers, they could see the Queen's castle approaching in the distance. Without thinking, she wound calloused fingers through Wick's mane.

No turning back now.