(C1, Racksom) The Making of Men (12th Board)

Subject: (C1, Racksom) The Making of Men (12th Board) Sun Oct 16, 2011 6:43 pm

It's been just a day since Lord Straten dismissed the barbarian and the 'Commoner'. The barbarian, Andyr, has been put in charge of the Commoner, Vannelson. In addition, he's been told, by Lord Straten, to report to the Guard HQ in order to trial for a sword's specialist cohort.

Upon arrival at the Guard HQ, Andyr was tested for both physical fitness and skill. Sufficed to say, he passed with flying colors. Now all Andyr has to worry about is the 'Vann-son'. It's not enough for Andyr to prove himself worthy of fighting in the army. He has to prove he can handle responsibility.

Andyr has ambitions.

Setting: The Stables nearest to the Guard HQ.
The weather is mild. The sky is clear, it's dark out.

The time is 11 am.

This Roleplay is private, no others may join unless given the expressed permission of those already participating.

Andyr had been disappointed at the living quarters for the men. They were poorly constructed, yet the stables were in perfect order. So, it was only right that Andyr decided to room with the horses, invariably dragging Vann with him. Unfortunately, it seemed like the Suhranians didn't have much in the way of cavalry, and therefore didn't put horses as a priority. After asking around, and much gesturing and confusion, Andyr was provided with shovels, the whereabouts of clean hay, pitchforks, buckets of water and brushes.

"Vann-son. We clean stables. We bed with horses." he said and thrust a shovel into his hands. "Beast keep us warm. We keep them clean. After we clean stable, we go to discipline... eh..." he said and squinted, trying to find the word. He shouted in frustration and slammed his palm against the beam. "Discipline Office. Office... Office-ar..." he finally managed. "Wodan jävla detta språk. Det är så svårt att säga. Orden är skräp." he snarled under his breath as he led the horse out of his stable. He calmed the animal by stroking it's nose and murmuring nonsense words to it. He tied it to the post and grabbed a shovel.

"Come. We work now" he said.

He didn't really know what he wanted to do about Vann, he didn't know much about him, but the man had potential to be a Man. He could be something great, but he wasn't sure about who Vann was. If he worked hard. If he had a soft heart. If he had the drive to pull himself up out of the mud he'd lain in.

translation: *Wodan damn this language. It is so difficult to speak. The words are garbage.

For the most part, Vann's first day playing the part of the pet of the huge barbarian consisted of a lot of shoving. None on his part, of course. Vann was entirely too afraid of shoving back on account of the fact that Andyr could pick him up and snap him in half with hardly a thought. Of course, the Voice had any number of things to remark on when it came to the barbarian, comparing him to a myriad of things that ranged from a pine needle to a duck and something slightly more practical and clear like a river. Through all of the meandering streams of thought (Vann had come to the decision that the Voice wasn't so much talking as thinking since he was the only one who could hear it), there was one constant moral: never be content to judge by what was on the surface. With that in mind, he spent most of their search for a place to spend the night simply watching Andyr, studying him like he would study a book.

The man was exceedingly proud, and not without good reason. It was easy to lump him in with the lumbering meat-heads that were only good for cutting things, but the more time that Vann spent with him, the more he began to see the intelligence that was hiding behind his clumsy use of their language. Even without being able to communicate properly he got what he wanted in the end in relatively good time, and so equipped for stable cleaning, Vann was ordered to muck the stalls. Not like he wasn't used to the task. As an apprentice at the monastery he'd don't plenty of it, and bent to the task without having to be asked twice.

'A simple substance trod underfoot. Never a second glance it is given, yet look what it grows! Mighty beasts would yet fall were this simplicity taken too for granted. How strange should it be that the mightiest of animals prey upon the most benign of prey, and in turn themselves become benign? Ripped and plucked from their homes in the field, it is forgotten and disposed of, but even in its final form should it be useful yet. And so upon the bones of the old generation fuel the bones of the new, an endless cycle of death and un-death that turns as idly as the sun.'

Andyr's exclamation in his own language startled him a bit, because it was the first time he'd ever heard the barbarian use the language. The fit of frustration seemed to pass soon enough, and after a little bit of shoveling hay, Vann had finally felt safe enough to speak up a little, for conversation's sake more than anything, though the side effect of drowning out the Voice's abstract description of the task at hand was a definite bonus. "Where did you learn our language?" He asked, scraping a bit of wet and soggy foul-smelling hay out of a particularly bad corner. "I can't imagine it was easy, if you weren't taught in your homeland. Learning a second language was hard for me, and I had mentors there to put my nose in a book and point out my errors."

Andyr was working beside Vann. His brows furrowed as the man spoke and he grunted in irritation, slapping the man's shoulder. "I hardly know language. Speak slower" he informed the man, but he'd already deciphered what the other had asked. "My home, we speak different, never have contact with outsiders. Outsiders no survive in our lands." when he said this, he grinned fiercely. He was quiet for a moment as he thought about the wording of his next sentence. "I learn... language on road. From people in Southlands. To get by. First word was "No" and second word was "Where"... It was long way here from Ice Plains" he said.

He set aside the shovel, after they completely mucked out the stall, and dragged the buckets close to the stall, handing Vann a brush. "Scrub. I take this out" he said, indicating the wheelbarrow full of horseshit. He bent at the knees, straightened limbered up his arms and grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow, grunting as he lifted it. His muscles strained as he carefully walked the wheelbarrow out. That poor gods damned horse had been standing in about... a weeks worth of its own shit. The wheelbarrow was gods awful heavy.

When Andyr came back, he dragged the other bucket near and began to scrub down the walls of the stalls.

"We have to clean horse. It is dirty. We have to sleep next to it" he said.

Andyr didn't know Vann very well, but he believed the man wouldn't want to sleep next to a beast that stank like shit. There was silence for a while as they scrubbed the stall. "You teach me Common?" he asked.

Vann nearly jumped out of his skin when he was suddenly smacked in the side, knowing without even having to look that he'd probably have a bruise there later. The man was definitely hands-on, and probably used to working with people more his own size. Even standing as straight as he could, Vann was still nearly a full foot shorter than the tall barbarian and probably only weighed a third of him in muscle mass alone. The short disjointed tale of how Andyr had gotten here in the first place only proved to confirm his suspicions about the underlying intelligence of the man. Picking things up on the road would have been a vital skill, but no easier. Brush in hand, he bent to the task of getting the walls to a slightly more standable degree of unkemptness, the repetitiveness of the task giving him plenty of time to consider his options.

He could always try running. But in the heart of Racksom, where would he run to? He knew very little of the political situation, other than he was completely surrounded on all sides by Surahinians that probably wouldn't think twice about gutting him. Then there was the option of just staying put. Bodily harm seemed like an unavoidable thing, but at the very least Andyr didn't seem outright malicious, so as long as he didn't make the man overly angry there wouldn't be a problem.

'Rub the wood against its grain and only splinters will remain. But sand it strong with weather and wear to see in the end the ragged edges repaired. But in the end when all is settled a beam is only what it is told to be. Do you have the skill to be the carpenter?'

Sighing loudly, Vann scrubbed harder. "If you're going to speak, you might as well make sense…" He grumbled under his breath, though quickly shut up when he noticed Andyr coming back. People who talked out loud to themselves were often considered crazy, and he was willing to bet that those from the ice plains thought the same. He nodded to the assessment of the state of the horse, looking it up and down. They would probably have to clean out its hooves or the beast might go lame. And if they really were sleeping in the stables, then he really didn't want to have to sleep with a dirty horse. Clean ones smelled enough on their own. At least it seemed like a mild-manner creature. "Of course." Pausing in his brushing, Vann decided to revise his answer, in the event that Andyr might not understand and feel the need to hit him again. "Yes. I will teach you common. As best as I can." He pronounced every word with care, hoping that the man would be able to understand at least that much. He seemed to have a fairly good grasp on the language, even if he couldn't quiet emulate it. "How do you say your name?"

Andyr was pleased by the Vann-son's answer. The fact that the man wished to pronounce his name correctly told Andyr that the man had some sense alright. Lord Straten had also taken pains to pronounce his name as near to correctly as possible. "You say Ahn-dee-er Hilled" he said. "Is very important that you not stress r's in name of mine. Stress the core name" he told Vann. He grabbed their buckets. "Up, come refill these" he said, nudging Vann. He handed the man a bucket, still filled with the dirty water and led him to the well.

"What I want know first, grammar. This language... very ass backward" he said as he dumped the water out. He drew up water from the well, refilled his bucket and sent the bucket back down, drawing some more water. "Come" he said, holding up the drawn water.

"Why are you Vann-son? What you do? Ah... earn name?" he asked. He might as well start getting to know the Vann-son better. It would do to start building a profile of this jakthund in order to best compile a trial in which he would become a Man. Unlike his tribe, he couldn't just put Vann through the Frost. The Frost in the Southlands were like summer in the Ice Plains. He had to figure out what would be the Vann-son's perfect Frost. The trial had to test him physically, emotionally and mentally.

"Ahn-dee-er Hilled…" Vann repeated cautiously, getting his tongue around the strange collection of sounds as he took the bucket from the much larger man and followed him out of the stables to the dump point, listening to the details of how to get his name right. He almost chuckled at the very lack of grammar, but held back by the skin of his teeth, reducing it to a small smile and waited for his bucket to be refilled with clean water. Vaguely he wondered if there would be time to bathe later, or at least wash his shirt. He was covered head to toe in sweat, dirt and blood, a particularly bad patch of rusted brown covering the entire front from when he'd awoken at the end of the battle a week ago. He'd long since managed to get rid of the blood that had been crusted onto his skin from whoever had managed to leak such a large amount all over his front only to uncover a thin newly healed scar that ran across the whole front of his throat. However, he had no answers as to how it had gotten there, the wound having occurred in the fuzzy black patch of his memory that spanned from the moment of his waking to the night of his initiation so many years ago. Added to all of that was the new patches of gunk from the horse stables, so no doubt he probably smelled as pleasant as the unwashed horse right about now.

Though there was one good spot. At least Andyr already knew what grammar was, and that he lacked it. That would cut out a whole mess of trying to explain what the word "grammar" actually meant, and hopefully some shoulder slapping when he attempted to correct the ice plains native. The question about his own name however had him a little confused, and so took a bit to sort out what Andyr was trying to get at. "My given name is Vannelson. Vann. It is… common, like Andyr. Everyone can know it. The name was given when I was born, not earned." He made sure to speak slowly, the difference between naming conventions in their culture immediately becoming extremely obvious to him. "I have a family name as well. Sel-Dakovhen. Sell-dah-co-ven. The name is given by my father to all his children. My name is where I come from, not what I do."

Andyr dumped the water in Vann's bucket and dropped the bucket back into the well. It was obvious that what Vann had said bothered him. He took a couple steps closer to the man and leaned down so they were eye to eye. "I earned name. Had no name when I was whelp. Given first name for merits as jakthundar. Given second name after I finish trial for Manhood. My name mean.... Warrior Sword. Before I was 'Little Blond' then 'Big Blond'." he said in a low tone. His eyes were hard, his mouth a grim line. "I not call you by name. You not earn it. A Man earn all he has" he said and turned, heading back to the stable.

"Come" he barked.

By the time they'd come back, the stall had dried out. Andyr put the bucket of water down near the side of the stable and grabbed a pitch fork. He ignored Vann as he came back and headed toward the clean hay. When he came back with a pitchfork full of hay and scattered it on the ground in the stall, it was evident that he hadn't left Vann by his lonesome. He still intended to work with him, he was just displeased with him and instead of punishing him through violence, he decided he'd let the man slide on this one.

Andyr knew that the Southlanders were soft. He knew that customs would be different, but he was deeply disturbed that he'd suffered to earn a name that people just gave willy nilly in the Southlands. Andyr was not a common name in his tribe either. Few were named warrior, and few were named Warrior Sword, in that order.

Last edited by Aero on Mon Oct 17, 2011 3:38 am; edited 1 time in total

At first he wasn't entirely sure what had set Andyr off, and definitely didn't know what a 'jakthundar' was, but if it was being said with such a terrifying scowl, then it couldn't have been anything good. At the end of the little speech Vann had two whole thoughts in his head. One, that he had somehow come out of the confrontation un-slapped, and two, that he had just lost the rights to his name. Which, all in all, was more bewildering than receiving no bodily harm for obviously giving the barbarian great offense. Not wanting to anger him further, he didn't hesitate to follow him back to the stables at a reasonably safe distance.

'And so it was that the spindle looses its thread. For what point is one without the other? A spindle cannot conceive a new purpose for itself, it must wait and watch and think on its fate while it waits imperturbably for more thread to come along so that its wheel may gyrate endlessly on. With purpose, with stride, and yet without a sense of being exceptional. Be the weaver or the woven, in the end what is remembered is the ramification. To be the instrument that crafts the resplendence, or to be the hands that fashion it? Suffering the loss of stability is half the battle. Devising the course anew is where the victory reposes.'

Vann very nearly drove his pitchfork through his foot just to see what the Voice had to say about that particular event but only stopped because it would bloody his shoe, and he certainly didn't need to be more bloody than he already was. After bailing out a few forks full of hay and spreading them around evenly to the back of the stall first, he finally had enough of the Voice making commentary on how spreading hay was like spreading the seeds of theology and turned to Andyr, trying to keep his annoyance at the constant stream of inner prose to a minimum when talking to the barbarian. He wasn't particularly annoyed at him. "I'm sorry for offending you. I didn't know about your culture, and assumed wrongly. Please forgive me." He bowed his head slightly as a show of respect, pitchfork still in hand, and carried on, figuring that he might as well figure out what he was to do now that he'd earned the barbarian's displeasure. "What are you going to call me now, if not my name?"

Andyr looked down his nose at the former Vann-son. "I say mean thing if I knew how" he admitted and cuffed the man. "You have no name. That name not yours. You not earn it. I call you 'Little Blond. It is whelp name. When you get merit as jakthund, I give you first name. Second name I give you after you become Man" he said and propped the pitchfork up against the outside of the stable. He got the brushes and the water and told Vann to start rinsing down the horse. Andyr left to search for soap, a stool and a trowel of sorts. By the end of the day, they'd have all the stalls clean, and the horses washed and fed, but Andyr thought it best that Little Blond was kept in the dark about the work Andyr had in store for him.

He wanted to work him before he sent him to the Disciplinary Officers. He, of course, would send him to the Officers once the stables were cleaned and the horses washed and fed. One always took care of one's home before one took care of one's job. If you had no clean place to return to and all the inhabitants were dirty and unhappy, no job would make one feel accomplished or bring in enough money to make the home and the inhabitants happy.

He came back in short order, knowing that Little Blond wouldn't run because he hadn't run the first time Andyr had left him by his lonesome. He had enough soap for just the one horse, a stool and a trowel. He would continue to leave and come back, until Little Blond caught on. But by then, they'd probably be halfway through the stables. He was quick, but Little Blond seemed as though he was distracted, which would distract him from the continuous nature of their labor.

He began to soap up the horse's hide, working it in with his fingers. "Terrible. I want make those jakthundar stand in shit for days" he murmured. Andyr was not sentimental, but he did not advocate the abuse of animals. Animals were gifts of the Gods and to abuse them would be to spit on the gifts one had been given to make one's life easier.

Well, there went the lack of bodily harm. Vann didn't feel quite as repentant after that, and wondered if teaching him a few insults would cut back on the amount of bruises he was going to earn, but severely doubted it. Rubbing the new sore spot briefly, he held his tongue when the urge to argue his way out of a new name rose and succeeded, occupying himself instead with brushing down the horse. "By the time this is over, you're going to be cleaner than me." He told the animal, scrubbing its chest where mud had flecked up from running then down to its forelegs which were very nearly black with dirt and its own crap. As he has suspected, the hooves were in bad shape and one of the times that Andyr had made himself scarce Vann took it upon himself to find a pick and start cleaning out the dirt and rocks that were no doubt embedded. The horse was unhappy to have someone messing with its feet, but after a couple of tries he got the creature to quit jerking its foot away before he could secure it for cleaning and all the while got a very impassioned lecture about mud and how it somehow related to the physical makeup of the sun and was therefore responsible for all life on earth. He didn't understand that bit and told the Voice as much to which simply it replied; 'That is because you do not understand yourself.'

Which was true enough. He didn't understand how he'd gotten here, or what he was supposed to be doing other than following Andyr's every order. When the big man returned again to start cleaning the other half of the horse, muttering to himself about the poor state of the creature, he decided to risk speaking again. Honestly, if he didn't have an annoying voice in his head constantly remarking on every little thing, he probably would have remained silent the whole day and been content to examine his own thoughts in the peace of his mind. But, seeing as there was no peace to be had even in mind-numbing repetition, then there was only talking. "What is jackthoonder?" He asked, trying his best at pronounced the word and knowing that he had failed miserably. This wasn't the first time he'd heard Andyr say it, and was curious of its meaning. "Is it an insult? Uh, mean word?"

Andyr laughed at the man's pronunciation and stopped scrubbing the horse to look at Little Blond. "That was wrong. So wrong" he said and shook his head. "Say like yakt-hoond-er" he corrected. "And it's not mean thing. It is not yet Man. Mean 'hunting hound'. Is what I was before Man. Hunt with Father, do as he say. Sleep and eat with hounds. Not whelp. No more women work" he said and went back to scrubbing. "That is many. The single is yakt-hoond." he said. Andyr hadn't talked this much since coming down from the Ice Plains. He was glad for it, though, because it gave him a chance to try and work out his grammar problems. He knew his sentences were choppy.

"Go fetch water, Little Blond" he said and took to lathering the other side of the horses body. The chestnut mare looked white now, and she seemed to enjoy the scrubbing. "Fill both buckets. You can handle that. Have big arms, put to use" he said, not exactly to Vann so much as at him. He didn't face him, after all. When Little Blond was gone, Andyr started to try and figure what the man's crest should be. What represented Little Blond? He'd have to find out before the man's trial.

Making a mental note to try and make an equivalent word in common to replace this "yakt-hoond-er" with so that he could communicate more effectively, Vann carried the buckets as was asked. They spent a good few hours cleaning out the stables, the smell of the place improving drastically as more of the sullied hay was disposed of and the poor animals washed and cleaned. However, the longer that he spent cleaning, the more that the Voice continued to elaborate on the double and triple meanings of literally everything in the barn, comparing them to the most outrageous of things. Eventually, he just got tired of it.

'And 'lo how the water swirls, bearing down with the weight of the world, but is unable to sill its sorrow for the metal snare that entraps what should be a free form of beauty and grace-'

"SHUT UP!" Vann dropped both buckets and halted abruptly mid-stride, standing between two horse stalls. Both animals snorted nervously, stamping in their pens at the sudden outburst. "I am tired of all this nonsense! What do you want from me? Huh? Are you outside me head, or in it? Because I SWEAR if I find out whoever is messing around in my head, I WILL KILL YOU!" The horses were quite frightened by now, one of them screeching and kicking that the door. The old wood, rotten now from years of misuse simply fell away when it was kicked. Now free, the horse ran out of the barn, others struggling against their doors and trying to make a similar break for freedom.

"Are you happy now!?" He yelled at the sky, gesturing wildly to the panicking horses. "There's plenty of chaos to dribble on about now! Where's your insightful remarks to this, huh? WHERE ARE THEY?!"

Andyr was not quick enough to prevent disaster. He'd have punched Little Blond right in the mouth to shut him up, but the horse had broken through its stalls and others were trying. It was either shut Little Blond up now, or secure the horses. As the horses were much more dangerous than the idiot shouting at air, Andyr went for the horses.

And people wondered why outsiders learned cusswords first.

"Fuck!" he snarled as he grabbed horses' leads, tying them to the much thicker beams. He had no time to calm them. Another two horses made a break for it, and one nearly ran Andyr over. It was an amusing thing to see Andyr body check a horse. Once he'd gotten the rest of the horses firmly secured, he rounded on Little Blond and punched him square in the gut. "Stay" he growled, then ran out of the barn to retrieve the two horses that'd bolted. He could tell where they were by the shouts of panic. Apparently people didn't know how to wrangle horses here.

Andyr knew how to wrangle elk. He assumed most hoofed creatures were similar.

It took him about thirty minutes to get both horses back.

He was sweating, dirtier than before and had bruises on his shoulder and ribs.

He said nothing to Little Blond as he tied the horses to their beams. He said nothing as he found an extra lead and looped the rope in his hands.

"Come here, Little Blond" he said, tone curiously calm.

For whatever reason, the Voice really didn't have anything to say. Nor did it have anything to say when Vann was suddenly punched in the gut and immediately collapsed on the ground, thoroughly winded and gagging when his muscles spazamed wildly from the punch. He had no choice but to stay, because it couldn't get up, which made following Andyr's instructions just that much easier. When he couldn't move, couldn't speak, and could hardly even think for lack of air and overabundance of shock, the Voice spoke up again.

'Calling wildly into the sky is not where your destiny lies. Do not fight or flee, but strive simply to be. In order to master you must understand, for below all of this madness there is a plan.'

"I don't… get it…" He mumbled weakly, then slowly managed to pick himself up with the aid of a nearby wall, getting to his feet with some difficulty. Andyr was outside tackling horses, an interesting sight to say the least, and he took the moment to survey the damage done. At least two stalls were damaged and would need some serious repair. A third would still hold, but he wouldn't trust the hinges. They would need replacing too before long.

Though the barbarian was calm, Vann was anything but at ease about the situation. He was entirely too calm for having just chased down three mad horses, and the rope in his hands wasn't an encouraging sight either. However, he didn't have the strength to try and run away and knew that Andyr could probably catch him and tackle him to the ground with no problem. So he did the only thing he could do, just walked forward and awaited whatever fate was about to befall him.

He was obedient, that was good, but Andyr wondered if he was obeying for the right reasons. His spirit seemed to be defeated. That was no way to become a Man. If one gave up because things were difficult or seemed hopeless, then one could not call oneself a Man. Little Blond should have obeyed because he knew his actions deserved consequence, not because he felt like he had no choice. When Little Blond stepped, forward, he looped the rope around the man's wrist, then around his other wrist and drew the rope tight. He tested it by tugging on the lead, and when Little Blond jerked forward, he nodded and stepped up on the stool. The poor thing creaked under Andyr's weight. He looped the rope around the sturdy bracing beam and jumped down, pulling the rope until Little Blond's feet were just barely able to touch the ground. He wrapped the rest of the rope around the man's waist and the beam, tying him so that he was splayed against the beam, helpless.

"I do not have oar." he said as though this would matter to Little Blond, who was likely wondering what the hell was going on.

He left the stable, letting Little Blond hang there a bit, with only his thoughts to keep him company before Andyr came back. He had a thick belt around his waist, where two swords hung against either thigh. He drew one from its scabbard and swung it. It was just a practice swing. Andyr limbered up his shoulders, stood to the side of the strung up man and grabbed the hilt of his sword with both hands.

He swung again, and the broad side of his blade connected with Little Blond's abdomen. Andyr didn't give him time to recover. He kept swinging, bringing the sword against his chest, his stomach, his thighs and occasionally his arms.

Last edited by Aero on Tue Oct 18, 2011 1:07 am; edited 1 time in total

Great. So he was probably going to be lead away for beheading, right? A dark sadistic corner of his mind laughed at that. It would make sense. They had just cleaned the floors. Getting everything messy again (or messier, as the case was since the horses had tracked out some hay in their desperate bid for freedom) would totally defeat the purpose of their hours of work already put into making the place decent. Absently he watched Andyr set the whole thing up, and immediately became both curious and concerned with the other end of his rope was thrown around the beam above. What was going on…?

And then he was back to oaring. Immediately, Vann started to silently panic. What was he going to do without access to oars? When Andyr left he was consumed with imagining any number of horrible tortures being inflicted by any number of different object, some more practical than others, but when the barbarian came back with only his swords, his fear nearly consumed him. He was going to get chopped to pieces. There really was no way around it. Andyr was huge, made of nothing but muscle and fight, and strung up like this Vann couldn't even pretend at attempting to fight back. He should have run, impending tackle or not.

The momentary shock of realizing that no, Andyr was not in fact going to cut him straight in half was abruptly eclipsed by the burst of pain when the sword hit him. He would have given a pained cry, but his breath left him at the impact and could only manage a startled exhale, the spot where he'd been punched throbbing in double time now. He was barely aware of the beating after a while, his whole body gone numb in an effort to try and pretend that he wasn't in excruciating pain. Though through it he felt the steady pressure of something else in his mind, watching the goings on silently.

'Your folly is your blindness.' The Voice whispered when it seemed like Andyr was satisfied with turning his whole front an angry red that would probably develop into the loveliest patchwork of purple and sickly green given some time. 'To be so willfully assured that what your eyes may tell you is right is in itself your greatest folly. To listen, to touch, to understand. Open your mind to banish the shroud that clogs your thoughts, for it is only when one can shrug off the shackles of conception that one is free. You will learn.'

Andyr was panting by the time he was done. He slid his sword home and dragged the buckets of water they hadn't yet touched close to the stool. He began to undress, leaving Little Blond to hang, and grabbed a bucket. He sighed as the cold water doused his skin, flattening his hair to his skull. He took the horse soap and began to scrub, starting with his hair. He washed thoroughly, seemingly uncaring that he was abusing his skin with his harsh circular scrubbing and the soap meant for horseflesh. The second bucket was emptied over his head and he shook his head, sighing again. Still naked, he left to get two more buckets.

He came back after a while, thoroughly cleaned. Apparently he'd continued his bath near the well.

He set the buckets down, belted on his fur kilt and swords, put his animal skin boots on, then let Little Blond down. He untied him and propped him up on the stool. "Try stay up" he said and pulled the man's shirt off. "I ask for clothes for you. They come. You wash" he said and dumped the first bucket of cold water over Little Blond's head. He knew that the man wouldn't have the strength to bathe, so although Andyr had told him he had to wash, he was working the soap into the other's dirty hair and skin. Of course, Andyr didn't draw lines at pants.

He dragged the stool over to one of the sturdier stalls, and let Little Blond rest back on it. "Get rid of... eh... leg clothes" he said. He had no word for 'pants' in his language. His people wore fur kilts, which varied in length depending on the weather. The boots also got longer, usually stopping at the knee in heavy winter weather. When Little Blond didn't move fast enough, Andyr roughly tugged them off, and his boots as well. He roughly lathered the man's skin, not at all showing care that his skin just might peel the hell off, how bruised it was.

He left to fetch water and repeated the dreaded scrubbing and rinsing process at least twice.

When he was clean enough for Andyr, the man left him alone. The stables were mostly clean and all the horses were clean. Andyr would send for some extra hands to take care of the stable. So his plans were disrupted, it wasn't a big deal.

The young man that had come with clothes for both Andyr and Little Blond couldn't help but gawk up at the big barbarian, then to the side of him, where Little Blond lay wet and naked against the door of a stall. He turned a shade of red and dumped the clothes into Andyr's arms before running as fast as his legs could take him.

Andyr raised his brows and shook his head, heading back to Little Blond.

It seemed an eternity that Vann was left hanging there, trying to catch his breath and struggling with the seemingly simple act of breathing, his hands going numb and shoulders burning from supporting his weight. Perhaps he slipped out of consciousness once or twice, his thoughts not entirely coherent enough to determine whether or not he was actually awake or dreaming that he was awake. Blessedly, the Voice remained silent, apparently content with its warning that Vann was entirely too inept to prevent this sort of thing anyway. Or maybe it just felt like sitting back and watching the man suffer. That was entirely possible too.

He only noticed Andyr come back when the binding around his wrists slackened and the blood rushed back into his fingers, causing them to sting and tingle like being pricked with needles all over. Vann flexed his hands, grateful that they were still attached at all, and moved to roll his aching shoulders, but even trying caused the rest of his body to twinge in pain, so he stopped with stars in his eyes and took a deep breath. Then his shirt was over his head, and all of his senses were woken when a bucket of cold water was thrown over his head, shivering and teeth chattering and very nearly fell over off the stool when the barbarian roughly started bathing him. In all honesty, if he were so battered and exhausted he would have been embarrassed by the whole process, but as it was there really wasn't any choice in the matter.

"Pants." He mumbled after figuring out what Andyr was getting at with the leg-clothes thing, though still didn't move to take them off. "They're called pants-" And then he didn't have them either, which was just a whole other world of embarrassing. Obviously the man had no shame, and probably expected Vann to be the same away. It wouldn't be so bad if he were bathing himself instead of the current set up. When it was all over, Vann shivered, glad that at least he didn't have to concentrate so hard on sitting up anymore now that his back was against something steady. Looking up blankly at the ceiling, he twitched his fingers again, just to reassure himself that he was alive. 'It's like being born.' He thought absently, and didn't see the stable boy staring at the two very naked men parading around in the stables before running off. 'Or more like being re-born. Even my name is new.' Deep in his chest he felt a warmth that exhumed a quiet sense of approval.

Looking down, he saw Andyr with clothes and struggled to sit up straight, seemingly every bone and muscle protesting the action, but he gritted his teeth and managed it, slipping off the stool and managing to stand in order to face Andyr.

In Andyr's defense, it was really warm in the Southlands, so he went without a top. The barbarian was technically half naked on a daily basis. Poor stable boy, his mind was too imaginative.

When Andyr saw Little Blond rise, a fierce pride welled in his chest and he grinned wide, baring his teeth, the canines a tad longer and pointier than those of the Southlanders and Surahnians. He'd spent most of his youth as a hound, maybe it was just an evolutionary thing. His people spent a lot of time eating fish and meat, after all.

"Good" he said and braced the man, gently helping him to sit. "Very good. But very hurt, so move little." he said as he differentiated the clothing. They'd sent him two pairs of trousers, two shirts and two pairs of boots, the sizes radically different; enormous for Andyr, a little bigger than average for Little Blond. Carefully Andyr helped Little Blond into his clothes, figuring out the pants rather quickly.

"I wear pants too. No shirt. Very hot here" he murmured to himself, leaving the shirt on Little Blond's lap as he dressed. In short order, the kilt was gone, and although it'd bared his legs from the calves down, the pants left little to be desired. His massive thighs stretched the legs and he had a dip in his back that curved into an impressive backside. There wasn't an inch of him that wasn't on display now, and he was uncomfortable for a bit. He laced up the front, kicked off his boots and put on the new pair. Whoever had sent him the clothes had been astute enough to guesstimate the proper size shoe for both men. Little Blond's might have been a half size too big, but Andyr's fit perfectly. He vaguely wondered if they had had a giant from the north once before.

Once he was dressed, he helped Little Blond up and took him to the stable, laying him down in a soft patch of hay. "Sleep. In morning, lot of work to do" he said and led in the mare, laying her down by Little Blond to keep him warm.

Andyr left him to go recruit some help in cleaning and fixing the stables. He would also find help to see to the horses.

ooc. if it's alright with Zay, you can sort of skip to later that day (like night time) or the next day. in which case, Andyr would either be eating a meal outside of the stable, or be sleeping on the other side of the horse.

It felt good to be clothed again, and even though the new material itched at his scoured skin but at least he wasn't shivering anymore. Vann- no, Little Blond was bewildered that Andyr could honestly say that he was warm in this weather. It was perfectly fine outside… if one were wearing clothes. And yet the barbarian was perfectly content to wander around shirtless. Whatever. He wasn't going to argue. The cold weather of his homeland had probably tempered his body to dealing with the coldness, so the manageable weather this far south was probably an annoyance. The clothes given were a bit floppy, but he was beyond the point of caring, and when he was ushered away to a stable to be put down the night, he couldn't help the small smile that twitched at the corner of his lips. He really was like a child to the big barbarian, wasn't he? Being reborn indeed…

With no urging, Little Blond was asleep in moments, unconsciousness providing a safe haven from the pain inflicted that day.

--------------------

He was running, but from what he didn't know. There was just the urgent animalistic sense to stay away from whatever was coming for him, so he kept running, breath catching painfully in a dry throat and chest burning from breathing so hard. Panicking, he knew that he couldn't run any longer and spun to face whatever was coming after him, a sudden weight appearing his his hand that felt like a sword.

Steel clashed, there was pressure, and he braced himself against the blow, locking swords with his opponent. The face was a black nothing, leering at him glowing eyes like will-o-the-wisps from the hole as black as night, then the mask shifted. It wasn't just one face, it was many faces. Some angry, some defiant, some splattered with blood and twisting with agony and pure horror. A chorus of screams assaulted him, and the face solidified for a second. His own. Grinning back at him with blood in his teeth, hair matted with red and delighted about the carnage.

"Remember this."

He stumbled backward, the ground under his feet suddenly turning to mush, then he fell through it, red covering his vision as he choked for air, drowning in a sea of blood.

Little Blond woke with a startled cry, thrashing away from the side of the horse until his back was pressed solidly against the side of the stall, his heart racing and a cold sweat on his brow. To his half-asleep mind, he still saw the blood running down the walls, the horse flayed open, and looked down to his hands, coated in red. Then he blinked, and the illusion was gone and he became aware that he had startled the horse, the animal starting to stir and try to get up. "Shh, shh, it's alright." He whispered with a shaking voice, his heart still in his throat when he put his hands on the creature's neck, stroking it until the beast calmed again, the whites in its eyes disappearing.

He quietly ran his hands over the mare, the action calming himself as much as it did the horse and started to take in his surroundings. It was early morning still, the soft light from the rising dawn filtering through the cracks in the sides of the stables, lighting up the particles of dust from the hay as they danced through the air. And then there was Andyr.

"Shit." Little Blond cursed, stilling and hoping that the startled horse hadn't kicked the man. He'd already been beaten up once for causing the big man distress, he really didn't want to do that again. Glancing down, he noticed that the bruises on the sides of his arms that had been struck were showing now, huge purple splotches having appeared during the night and he didn't even dare look at his chest. It hurt enough without knowing what it looked like, his sides stinging because of his hunched over position over the horse's neck.

Andyr was bestowed with the gift of being able to sleep under any conditions. He was also bestowed with the gift of waking if danger seemed present. Little Blond's shout woke him and he pushed himself up to his hands and knees. The mare had started to panic but was already being soothed. Sitting back on his haunches, Andyr rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He looked over the mare's bulk for Little Blond and upon spotting him, calmed considerably. Leaning on the mare, he looked at Little Blond, concerned. "What woke you?" he asked. His voice was hoarse, having just awoken and he cleared his throat.

Andyr had been dreaming as well and the dream itself was incomprehensible. Too many symbols and motifs, people known and unknown for him to think about it with clarity. He would end up forgetting most of his dream by the time Little Blond finished telling him what had startled him out of sleep.

He sunk down against the mare, arms encircling as much of her girth as possible and looked at Little Blond with heavy lidded eyes. "Stable is clean, also. We eat and train. I decide I keep you for longer before I take you to Discipline Officers" he informed the other man before he could speak up.

The specifics of the dream were slipping away even as he contemplated answering Andyr, but the pressing sense of terror remained with him, buried in his chest like a thorn that refused to be plucked out. The words of his bloodied dream-self still haunted him. 'Remember this.' Remember what? Nagging, his instincts told him that it must have something to do with the eight years of blackness that bridged the past and the present, but he was too afraid to search for those memories now, not of the dream was simply a precursor to what finding those memories again would be like. Glossing over the silence, Andyr simply announced that they'd be together for a while yet, and was surprisingly relieved. Little Blond had no idea what going to the Discipline Officers would mean, but at least here with the icelander he knew what he was in for and was actually looking forward to training. Had he done any training the past eight years, or had he let his weapon expertise slip during the yawning blank years? He supposed he would find out soon enough.

Threading his hands through the mare's mane one last time, Little Blond sat back and put his shoulders against the stall wall again, making himself as comfortable as he was able with his bruised and battered rib cage. "I look forward to training." He said earnestly, not having to lie or muster false enthusiasm at all at the prospect, though supposed the he'd be in for a rough time. "It was a… bad dream. I'm sorry for waking you and startling the horse." Bad seemed like such a sad representation, but he wasn't sure if Andyr would understand the concept of horrifying. He had a lingering suspicion that the big man knew very little of fear.

'Never has the foundation been strong. Crumbling and weak, fracturing and frail. When the slate is wiped anew, the score reset, it is then that a new destiny can be forged among the skies.'

Oh. This again. He had almost forgotten about the Voice, it had been silent for so long. Couldn't it have at least remained silently brooding in whatever corner it inhabited until breathing wasn't a pain?

'No.'

He blinked, surprised at the immediate answer to his wandering thoughts, never having managed to engage the Voice in a conversation before, no matter how many times he told it to shut up. So even if that was a fragment of his lost memory, was it telling him to ignore it?

'The past is an onus. One can not move forward without fathoming what was left behind, for the follies of one's forefathers become the follies of the children when given in to ignorance. And yet it is a stigma, a thorn in the curve of enlightenment on the path to illustriousness. Your wings are yet clipped, and you do not have the strength to carry this burden. Only learning will bring remembrance.'

Andyr nodded. "Soul is not at rest. Conscience sits uneasy. I will work you so mind of yours cannot even think" he said and yawned. He laid his head against the mare's flank and sighed. "Time for getting up" he murmured dreadfully and rose. He swiped at his skin, batting at clinging hay and headed for the stable door. "Come" he said, and lumbered off. He went somewhere behind the stable to urinate, then walked through the stable to the well.

He drew a bucket of water, splashed his face and and sucked in his breath out of shock. He washed his face, and left the bucket for Little Blond to wash his face as well. A jakthund always waited for his Father before attempting anything. Andyr gestured for the other to wash his face and leaned back on the well, observing the Surahnians and the Natives.

He was quite sure that he was a spectacle, what with Little Blond tagging along with him, but he'd soon whip the other into shape. Then he'd allow him to be part of the DIsciplinary force around here, and after that, he'd give him a name, devise a trial and send him off to his own personal Frost. If he came back hale and whole, he'd get his last name.

"Lead. We eat first, then train" he said when Little Blond was done.

Andyr couldn't possibly know just how true his statement was. Patting the horse one last time, Little Blond got to his feet and allowed himself a quiet chuckle. If only being overly exhausted was a cure for silencing the Voice. It seemed that it had a literal mind of its own and spoke whenever it felt like, entirely independent of how Little Blond was feeling at the moment. Once the simple morning business stuff was taken care of, he was a little surprised to be given the task of leading Andyr around. He had for some reason assumed that the big man already knew where everything was, and quickly recalled the recent lecture about assuming things, to which the Voice seemed content enough that he remember to not add to that particular string of rhetoric.

He only knew where the mess hall was because he'd had to clean it once, his second day spent as a slave. Or captive. Or hard working citizen. Whatever the Surahinians wanted to call their captured labor force. Actually taking a meal there was a whole other animal. There was lots of staring, and Little Blond would not be ashamed to admit that he was a little amused by how the soldiers in their armor stared so openly at the bare-chested barbarian, half of them forgetting to eat while watching the man. Even he hadn't been so openly dumbstruck by Andyr's physical appearance, and he'd been bound at the wrists and on his knees at their first introduction. Then again, the probability of dying looming large in his mind had probably dwarfed the shock of his size. As it was, the soldiers kept a good distance away like they were afraid of him attacking and let the two eat in relative peace.

Finding where the soldiers trained was much easier. All one had to do was follow the general flow of traffic from the mess hall, which lead to a where a good number of the soldiers were gathered for their daily discipline and drills. It was an impressive sight for Little Blond, who had only ever heard of armies in ancient history books that had been accumulating dust for far longer than he was live. He paused some distance away, simply looking over what was no doubt only a portion of the entirety of the Surahinian forces, and knew instantly that the battle for Dragons Cove was undoubtedly in their favor. The natives had nothing like this, nothing even close. They had probably all forgotten how to wage war, the likely hood of that theory present in how Racksom had fallen into enemy hands.

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