Who: Conan Deirgard, Storm Kapur, and an unwitting victim. What: You asked for it, Sir Finch. Where: Shieldwyrm. When: Today, after this. Rating: PG. Status: Complete.
Immediately after sending his last network comment, Conan dashed to the Shieldwyrm Hall kitchens to wait for his partner in crime to arrive from the Cathedral. Stealing from Sir Theodore Finch was no laughing matter, so the boy arrived early to prepare, a borrowed armory helm already masking his face.
Neck craning to see above the heads of fighters, the young Deirgard squire paced back and forth in search of his friend, squeezing in a spoonful or two of bisque as he waited. The wait went on longer than promised—Storm, too, had made a trip to the armory, arriving at the kitchens helmed and ready.
Or as ready as one could ever be on a suicide mission.
“Well?” said Storm, drawing Conan aside. Fortunately, they didn’t look so odd amidst the fighters who’d come straight from the training yard. “How does the situation look?”
“Nothing’s stopping us. It’s just there, practically begging,” he replied with a stifled laugh. “Let’s pretend to grab a bite and snag it then.”
And so the pair ventured into the kitchens, treading carefully around counters and islands and fighters, until at last they encountered Sir Finch’s pot, alone in its corner. Just as they were about to set their hands upon it, a hulking dragoon stole in from behind them. A dragon’s amulet, typical of a Rider, was hanging from a thin chain around his neck.
“Oi, fancy that,” the man said. He was peering into the pot and reaching for the ladle. “Still a fair bit left, after all!”
The pair of squires turned to each other. They couldn’t quite see to eye through the grills of their helms, but like they’d done this countless times (they had), Storm nodded. He began to skulk around the dragoon, grabbing a washcloth as if to clean the marble surface next to the pot.
Conan turned around to face the stranger, a mischievous smile flitting across his hidden face. “Aye,” he said in reply, faking a deeper voice and another’s speech patterns (Sir Finch was still on his mind). He gulped and changed tactics. Switching to a familiar tone, as if he was a contemporary, he began, “Tasted great, too. It’s a nice treat for us Rangers. We work so much harder than”—a pause as he fished for the proper address—“everyone else nowadays. Or so I hear.”
“You, a Ranger! Don’t be pulling my leg, lad. You’re a squire if I ever saw one.” Even so, the dragoon was setting down the ladle to look at Conan over his shoulder. “But what’s this you’re saying? Don’t think the Riders ‘ave been pulling their weight, eh?”
“Squire to a Ranger,” Conan clarified. This was more a dream than an outright lie. Shrugging, he continued, “It’s just what I’ve heard from ‘round here.”
“Feh. Nothing but hearsay, lad, believe you me.” Having said his piece, the dragoon was turning back to the pot. Storm, who had begun scrubbing at the tiles with more vigor than strictly necessary, cast a quick, frantic glance at Conan. Fortunately, the dragoon didn’t seem to notice.
Hastily trying to grab the dragoon’s attention again, Conan blurted out, “Oh yeah? Well, you’re just here on a break so, I mean.” With that, he shrugged again and leaned back onto the counter, like one with more confidence than who he was.
The dragoon didn’t turn away from the pot. The ladle was in his hands again. “Impertinence like that won’t get a squire nowhere. Man’s got to eat, like. You’d best be savin’ your cheek for someone who gives a damn.”
Shit. Conan straightened his back, a soldier readying himself for a battle formation. (This was his and Storm’s battlefield.) “If you say so,” he retorted, chest puffed out. “You dragoons are full of excuses.”
That certainly caught the man’s attention. “You’re nothing yet,” he said, putting the ladle down once more. “See here, you don’t got the foggiest about dragoons.” The dragoon took a step towards Conan, a step away from the pot. Still too close, Storm thought, banking on one last insult from his partner in crime.
“All I know is you’re here stuffing your face before you head off to fly around safe on your dragon.” The last jab flew out of Conan’s mouth without a second of hesitation. His fingers were crossed behind his back; insincere though the words were, Conan felt as though he was betraying Kiernan and Zacheus at once. A successful prank would make this worthwhile.
“You saying we’re not real fighters, lad?” the dragoon demanded. “You don’t think we put our necks on the line like everyone else?!” There was more to the tirade, but it droned on in the background as Storm watched the man’s feet. Just a little further—
Seizing his chance, Storm dropped the washcloth and grabbed the pot by the rim. The stove had been off a good while: the metal wasn’t hot. But no time was wasted, not even for a sigh of relief. The cast iron was heavy, but with a great heave and swing, the pot was hoisted into the air. The momentum drove Storm forward as he ran to Conan’s side.
“Quick!” Storm said. “Grab the other end!”
“You make a good point, Sir,” Conan called out to the dragoon as he ran in step with the other squire, supporting the other side of the pot. Together, they hobbled out of the kitchen. The dragoon yelled back in their wake, but it didn’t matter. Hurried footsteps echoed through the halls as Storm and Conan made their great escape.
Only when they were in the clear did they succumb to their breathless laughter.