sir rictor cassul, korporal. (templars) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-01-31 21:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, heron shaw, rictor cassul |
now that we're lonely, now that we're so far from home.
Who: (Former) Fw Heron Shaw & Kpl Rictor Cassul.
What: A night out drinking with the mentor, plus bonus father figure feels.
Where: A pub.
When: This week.
Rating: Some language.
Status: Complete!
There weren’t many people out in the streets tonight, and for good reason: the brief respite from the cold snap around the new year had ended with a vengeance. Ice crystals sparkled in the fog of Heron’s breath, and he was reminded that the bones of his leg had been rendered into a sort of splintered barometer since he’d been cut down. The pale sodium glow of streetlamps illuminated his passage intermittently, breadcrumbs to a doorway he’d darkened for one reason or another more times than he could count. Ric was already stamping his feet at the door when Heron ascended, and grunted a familiar hello to his mentor and sometime commander. A soft thump signified their typical greeting, one hand clasped around the other’s forearm for the blink of an eye before, one huge cloaked figure after the other, they pushed through the doorway into the warmth and the light. The fire’s heat pushed like a wave crashing over their heads, and they were recognized by the slouching bartendress even before cloaks were drawn back from faces, a pair of mesomorphs more distinct and discernible by their bearing and their bodies than anything else. They were the same height and both cut from broad slabs of fighters’ muscle, one of them moving with that telltale limp while the other had his recognisable swagger. Even their drinks were foregone conclusions, and by the time they’d settled at their usual table, a pint of dark, frothy ale (Kerwonian, of course) and a double serving of whiskey from a country distillery had been clanked down with little fuss beyond the smiling crinkle of a star-shaped tattoo on their server’s cheekbone. Heron unhooked the heavy coat from around his neck with a shrug, and in turn hooked his cane on the back of slat-backed, age-polished chair. “Cold enough to castrate you, out there.” Rictor barked a laugh. The older man was less formal out here, removed from the solemn halls of the Cathedral and the weight of his responsibilities—not Feldwebel Shaw tonight, but simply Heron, and all that entailed. The knight readjusted his own chair as it screeched and whined over the creaking wooden floorboards. “I find myself complaining more and more each year,” Ric admitted, brushing the light dusting of snow off his collar and unwinding his scarf (a Faram’s Mass present) to sit crumpled on the table beside his beer. “But then I try to remind myself that I’ve handled worse before: this completely fucking pales in comparison to Bur-Omisace. My father would say that there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.” In the imitation (no matter how brief), Rictor’s voice still took on a loftier sound and stiffer enunciation as he channeled Lord Eriks Cassul, master of the keep. A smile jerked up the edge of Heron’s mouth at that; Ric was one of the only souls who could recognize the expression as practically a guffaw, by Shaw’s standards. The latter’s blue eyes were faintly bloodshot, and scanned the opposite side of the room without direction. “He’s not completely wrong.” The harsh rye split his lips again, his grimace the echo of a smile. “Recall he had a few pieces of advice for me the day I showed up to request custody of you.” Custody, so to speak. That particular choice of word made Rictor pause in the middle of lifting his flagon, but only for a moment. “When did you last see him?” “A while.” Ric tried to cast back through the memories, untangling the peculiar timeline of the Blades and all their engagements: his life was increasingly measured with blood spilled and holy magic cast, rather than calendar milestones. “Can’t have been last Faram’s Mass, since we missed that one – we were still in the field, on that six-month foray.” The man’s brow furrowed, realising the extent of the absence for the first time. “Shit. So it must’ve been late autumn 2012, last time I was back in Kerwon. Almost a year and a half.” A dull thud in his heart: the realisation sinking in, a peculiar sickness taking its place. He hadn’t even realised. Dismay unfurled across his face, and Heron’s gaze became less aimless. Ric, with his big hand at the bottom of his tankard and his eyes on the table, scrolling back across the years to family, painted a familiar picture. The life they’d chosen. After a long pause, Heron raised his glass to his lips again. “Imagine he understands, of all people.” Heron’s flock of sisters had forgiven him for the course he’d chosen, more or less, but he didn’t imagine their aging mother would ever afford him the same charity. Even then, forgiveness from his siblings felt like attrition, acceptance of an irremediable fact of life--like forgiving the sky for delivering hail. “Yeah. He’s proud.” ‘I think’ was the unspoken addition, barred by Rictor’s own stubbornness. To cover up the pause, he added, “Not like I’m the only bird to fly the nest and end up in Emillion, either. We’re all here, so at least there’s that.” Heron grunted, but refrained from making a joke about a family reunion being in order. The Cassul siblings and their respective paths were a topic Rictor rarely broached with anyone else, but it crept out here, a small glimmer of something behind the curtain. Per usual, however, the holy knight treated it as if it were nothing: settling back in his chair, affecting a lazy lounge, his attention rewired to his dark ale. “Happy new year, mate,” he said, tilting the pint towards Heron’s more modestly-sized whiskey. Despite the fact that the older man no longer wore the badge, some things would never change—there was the easy comfort of history between them, a sympathetic thread knotted tight with strings over the years. It was hard to open a chasm between men who’d literally stood back to back in the bloody fray, though Heron’s abrupt career change had done its best to sever his connection to his mentee. “And thank Faram the Mass fetes come but once a year.” Rictor gave a crooked grin. The trainer tilted his glass in return, and drained the contents after their casual toast was completed. Leaning back and lifting the empty vessel just a few degrees was enough to catch their server’s attention. He’d always liked this place. Weekends didn’t truly exist for members of their particular fold, but this had often been close enough for the pair of knights. Heron waited until the server had replaced his tumblr and headed back to the bar before continuing. “Ran into Ms. Lliryn at the event. Speaking of. Understand she’s a friend?” It was inevitable that this topic would have lurched up eventually. Rictor smiled into his glass before he managed to smooth it away (he would have to work on that poker face, just like Black had instructed), then raised his eyes to meet Heron’s gaze . “Oh?” he said—his reaction temporarily mirroring that of the girl being discussed, if only for a moment. “She is, yeah. Bit of a good friend. Why?” The last word turned cagey, Rictor’s emotions flickering across his face. Even for those who didn’t know him well, he was an open book; for Heron Shaw, the commanding officer might as well have written a dictionary on Rictor Cassul. He watched the Korporal’s face with just a faint quirk of his stony brow, as had long been their habit. “Had her sit in on a few classes. Teach a few practical starters for the squires.” He took a well-timed drink: for all his face was impassive, Heron’s mien wasn’t a total mystery to his long-term mentee, either. Transparency was always the high cost of trust, despite their disparate levels of inscrutability. “Was thinking of expanding her role.” “Luscini has been floating a similar idea, I think.” Rictor rolled the liquid around in the base of his glass, trying his best to sound unaffected, as if this particular topic didn’t concern him much at all (though it was so very, very relevant). After a pause: “She’s also not really sure what she wants to do.” That sentence alone was a giveaway: a revelation of how close they might be, and how much Rictor might know of Almalexia Lliryn’s personal dilemmas. It felt practically conclusive, but then Heron reminded himself it was possible Amos had turned Rictor’s ear on the subject as well. Perhaps in another time, perhaps with another girl, another situation, the commander would have asked after their relationship without a second thought. But, here they were. “Aye. Seems she’s at more than one crossroads. Hadn’t realized she never joined the guild--officially.” “Yeah. Though to be honest, I don’t even really know what the difference is between being in the guild or not. Was never really a question for me, after all: parents sent me off to squire, I joined the guild. Automatic.” Rictor readjusted his position in his seat, shifting like a schoolboy fidgeting at his desk under the eye of a teacher—though Heron Shaw had always been more than that, and more than the korporal liked acknowledging. “Connections. Facilities. Infrastructure, mentoring. Gil,” Heron added, matter of factly, pausing with his glass in the air before drinking, as if interrupting himself. “They’re unions. All-encompassing ones, at that. Frankly surprised she’s come so far without the affiliation.” The wooden pegs of his chair creaked as he leaned back, thoughtfully. For him, joining the Fighters Guild had been a foregone conclusion of a different sort: even if his family had thought to explore other options, their lack of connections meant the idea of the young carpenter’s son making his own way in the city was a fantasy at best. “Or perhaps not. Clearly takes the craft seriously.” “She takes almost everything seriously.” Rictor couldn’t help smiling against the side of his tankard, the fondness seeping inexorably into his words—before he managed to clear his throat, trying to muster up whatever remained of his walls and shell. He coughed. “Regardless. I hope you had some good holidays, sir, fete notwithstanding. Did you see your family?” It was an inelegant deflection, perhaps, but the best Ric could manage (and even so, it crept close to other vulnerable territory). Heron followed him into new waters readily; the ill-concealed affection on Ric’s face had sparked off a matrix of overlapping apprehension and goodwill on the younger man’s behalf, one he didn’t care to dissect just now. Not until there wasn’t a choice. “The sisters, for a spell.” Unsurprising news, to Rictor. Although their respective family histories were pockmarked and overstrained indeed, this was the sort of shared skeleton that, between them, they’d excavated long ago. Two men bricked in with a wall of sisters. “Still just the one nephew, but he’s big enough. Don’t think even I was that size at his age.” Heron took another draught of the burning drink, and refocused his gaze--and his intent. There was a certain sibling in the Cassul family he’d been toying with asking about, but it was hard to say whether either of them had had enough alcohol for that particular conversation. “Yourself? “The same. After everything that happened, well… it was good to just take some time to recuperate, get back to normal. Ruminate over things at Mass, and spend some more time with Aspel and Seloria.” Rictor took another sip of the ale, staring into the depths of the tankard as if it offered some answers. “At the risk of crossing an even more uncomfortable subject… honestly, Heron, I’m just ready as fuck to get back into the field.” A chuckle deep in Heron’s chest responded, a fire igniting and extinguishing at once. “Trust me,” he said, swinging his eyes to the iced-over window, the half-smile crinkling the wing of a cheekbone, “I know what you mean.” |