#cavalry:chat

               THE  LAST  THING  HE  WANTS  is  to  be  shuffled  into  a  crowded  space  full  of  potentially  disease  ridden  people  .  had  it  been  his  own  desire  ,  perhaps  he  would  have  closed  the  gates  to  his  home  and  ridden  out  the  sickness  with  suggested  remedies  .  though  ,  gates  were  not  to  be  closed  in  aura  .  he  certainly  hates  to  uphold  appearances  at  a  time  like  this  .  with  an  aggressive  cough  the  morning  of  ,  his  panic  set  in  and  he  traveled  to  where  the  only  known  cure  was  rumored  to  be  .  now  ,  he  thinks  ,  he  would  have  rather  succumb  to  smallpox  .

                         IN  THE  BEST  DISGUISE  HE  CAN  MUSTER  ,  which  is  barely  anything  to  hide  him  at  all  ,  he  holds  a  handkerchief  to  his  mouth  and  makes  quick  to  step  away  from  those  that  come  too  close  .  in  his  opposite  hand  is  a  list  --  a  list  of  those  in  his  court  that  have  been  confirmed  to  be  sick  .  an  encouragement  ,  if  anything  ,  to  be  where  he  is  .  it’s  then  that  someone  sprinting  through  the  market  knocks  past  him  ,  causing  his  cloth  and  list  to  scatter  to  the  ground  .  with  a  panicked  gasp  ,  he  leaves  the  items  --  spinning  around  to  condemn  whoever  it  was  .  instead  ,  he’s  met  with  another  .

               ❝    leave  them  ,  they’re  not  important  .    ❞

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧:  solis,  front  of  the  lines.

“Slow, now,” Esker murmured, with a gentle pull on the reins; Zabetha, the mare under him and all the weaponry he was delivering, was the sturdiest draught horse the inn had to hand. A towering, broad beast, certainly - the only one in their stable who had any hope of carrying so much steel, so far, so fast. Serene as any angel, but. She’d never been to war. He could see her soft eyes widen and roll, ears pinned as the stink of the wounded and dead drifted from the sagging tents they passed. Shushing, softly, he gave a pat to her sweat-roughed neck, a stroke down the line of her mane. As they jogged towards the sturdier parts of the place, Esker unwound the heavy traveling - and hiding - scarf from around his head, shaking his hair out, glancing about the camp he’d been told to ride for. Far from the fighting, tail-end, as they said. There was livery and standards from all over the kingdoms, and soldiers of every caliber imaginable, milling across the trampled-down clearing, marching, limping. Losing. As far as he could see. As far as he’d heard. So the rebels hadn’t been lying about that much, certainly...

Clearing his throat, Esker let out a sharp whistle, turning heads. Not about to waste any damn time. “Evening, all. We’ve bushels of arms, here, fresh-forged at the Dark Destrier. Official order. Sharp edges. Pointy ends. Swords. Spearheads. Bolts. Where’s it all going to?” 

she moved towards the back wall, letting her weight rest against it. she shut her eyes, trying to erase the images of blood and pierced flesh that played over behind them. breathing out slowly, she started to relax after some time. 

she’d lost track of how many minutes had passed when the door of the shed slammed. her eyes snapped open, startled by the sudden intrusion, slightly concerned that she was about to be berated for abandoning her post. “ I’M SORRY — “ she started, squinting to make out the silhouette in the doorway, “ i was looking for something. “

while AURA was usually the swell of blankets and peace once promised to keep clive’s heart intact, anxieties are about as forgiving as a soggy boot adorned in the chill of winter. so, keeping busy felt necessary and relieving, trickling down with the buzz of the ceremony. an open space acted much like bandages to invisible wounds, clive was powdered and wandering. a little relentless! gaze falling over every tiny instance like drapes. it wasn’t until something bubbled up, maybe everything, sudden and choking, and they stop a stranger for solace. it’s not a guarantee of anything, not answers or kindness or something communal, but maybe something unexpected would be refreshing, should it arise as such. 

As she had fulfilled it and was going to the inn to wait for her company back to Eden Josslyn saw a beggar. He's just a child, she thought to herself seeing how poorly dressed he was, dirty and like he hadn't eaten for days. She pulled out her small pouch with a couple of gold and silver coins in it and was about to give him a silver piece, but suddenly someone ran up to her and grabbed the pouch. Her first instinct was to hold onto it stronger, which the thief wasn't expecting. 

The clatter of the heavy brass bell over the doors turned his head, and Esker set aside the steins he’d been racking, making his way to the bar. Fresh faces, these; fresh opportunities, potentially. With a warm smile, broad enough to fit his reputation, Esker prepared to serve a first impression. “Welcome to the Destrier, friend. What’ll it be, to make this fine evening all the better - beer, bread, or something with a touch more substance? Kitchen doesn’t close, tonight.” The cellar did, but that was more on an individual basis. A good tavernkeep knew when to stop pouring, after all. Lest they wind up with more to mop. “I’m pleased to provide suggestions, if you find yourself in need.”