The woman looks at me and laughs.
"The Lion's March?" She digs the head of her axe into the ground and fairly doubles over in laughter. "Their Blade Master? We'll see if you can be half a Blade Master here, much less The Blade Master." With a grin from ear to ear she gestures vaguely. "Get a Smith to see those chains off. Let's see what an up-jumped sell-sword from the Lion's March can do." One of the other kingsmen, not Shorty, shoves my shoulder a bit.
"Get going then, ghost of a woman. If you want out of them chains that is. Ain't our concern no more." I wander a bit in the camp, following the Axe's vague pointing. I listen closely for the sound of hammers on anvils, of bellows and flame. I pass a row of polished tower shields and see my reflection for the first time since I was thrown into that dungeon. The armor they gave me was white, but you can see my blacks underneath leather and chain. I look a haggard mess, with a bloodied neck and uneven hair. My islander skin and dark hair hide the dust of travel only somewhat. The gaolers hadn't chopped my hair evenly at all, and it thus was growing raggedly. I am a beggar in a ghost's armor. At least I have a Blade Master's arms. My dagger and long knife are low on my back, a great axe slung too on my back, My sword on my hip, and a bladed gauntlet hanging loosely from my belt ready to be worn. But of course, there are still the chains. Hobbling me and preventing me from drawing any weapon whatsoever. I trudged past the shields and to the forges proper. Or as proper as camp forges can be...the only Smith attending the flames didn't fit the image of his taken name at all. A lean man, built like a dancing boy from across the eastern sea, he looks up as I approach. The chains have a good way of ruining any attempt at being quiet.
"Hail, Smith. Be a man of your name and get me out of these damnable things?" I shake the chains. "I'm from Kingshome, from the dungeon to a contract. Maybe." He regards me with bright green eyes and strokes his thin beard. He doesn't like the look of me. I can tell.
"Kingshome? All in white and ready to contract? Hail, ghost. What name do you take?" He crosses his arms.
"I'd be The Blade Master of this company, if The Steward will have me." At first, he only smirks in reply and beckons me closer.
"There'll be none of that. Can't have a Blade and Blade Master of same standing. The Blade ain't one to let any master her, less of all some ghost. What's your given name then, since by three hells and three heavens I ain't callin' you Blade Master." I try not to let myself get offended, but my slightly overlong nails dig into my palms as I hold myself still. I let out a deep breath and nod.
"I am Lexnia Guerrin-Blackshire." His eyes widen slightly as he hears the double name.
"Guerrin-Blackshire?" I nod.
"...I'm sorry, I hadn't realized...." He fumbles with his tools and brings out a small hammer, it glows slightly and I inwardly wince. I didn't reckon for a smith with an enchanted hammer. He swings and connects with the collar around my neck. The chains thud heavily to the ground, but I don't notice, I'm on knees in an effort to not cry out in pain.
The magic of a Smith isn't one that's kind against my skin. It sets me aflame, and I start repeating to myself that I should not strike down a Smith. His inquiries to my well-being sound distant at best, but as I get up the world comes back into focus, sounds come into proper volume. I hear his sharp intake of breath. My temporarily sensitized skin feels the slight change in the air. My muscles spasm slightly as I force myself to draw my long knife with my left hand, rising up into a shaky guard against the beautifully etched axe blade that strikes towards my head.
The Axe's weapon sparks along the long blade of my knife and I step back from the strike, allowing the larger woman past me, almost falling into the Smith's works. She stops abruptly and turns to face me. She's faster than her size would lead me to believe her as. I crouch into a guard, considering my options. She is The Axe of a company known for its strength. Honor, what little I have, dictates the weapon I draw next. The great axe is a double bladed brute and her more elegant weapon's brute brother. It is unsteady as I draw it with one hand. I refuse to give up the security my long knife's defense grants me. I choke my grip up close to the head of the axe, and brace the shaft of the large weapon against my arm. Instead of an arm, I have a weapon. I can't bend my elbow, but i can still strike faster than I'm hoping The Axe can. She has me on reach though, and knows it. She attacks relentlessly, each attack lending momentum to the next. Slowly she becomes a bladed whirlwind, and I find my speed advantage diminished. With my long knife and an aching shoulder, I reflect numerous blows, but several more strike true. White leather buckles if not split and while her axe can't bite past chain, chain rips tunic and embeds itself into flesh. Growling in pain, and half flailing with my arm turned axe I'm sure I've hit her at least once, but ineffectually. I realize that I'll have to take a large blow to give one. I flip the grip of my long knife as if readying to thrust, and dash into her whirlwind. As I feel the blade bite into my side, i move into it, feeling it actually sever links of chain, feel that blade actually bite flesh, I move past her blade and let it rip into me as my arm wraps between her grip. Pointing my knife at her her face, I wrench her as hard as I can. I jump into her and punch as hard as I can with the tightly gripped axe. Her light armor yields to my axe, but the victory is short-lived as her boot catches me in the chin. She throws me to the ground and seems about ready to cleave me in half. Bleeding and winded, I roll, but not fast enough. Her weapon embeds itself into my axe arm. I continue rolling and drop my long knife and draw my dagger. I hurl myself at The Axe and am able to bring her down with me, my blade at her throat.
She still has the grin, wide as ever.
"A Blade Master, eh?" While I catch my breath and take a mental note of my injuries, I feel myself grinning back.
"The Blade Master soon enough. A lesser one would have drawn sword on you, met your speed with faster still and a reach more delicate and sure. I drew an axe for The Axe." I hadn't moved my dagger from her throat, but I look around, for the first time noticing a small crowd. Then I notice a figure at least a head taller than many of the others easily part the crowd, and one of the most magnificent women I've ever seen fairly roars. A short sword in one hand, a scroll in the other.
"What in the three hells is going on here?"
She's tall, and lean, but not like the Smith. A power seems to radiate from her frame even as her golden eyes sweep angrily, taking in blood and battered warriors. Dressed in a woodsman's skins and leathers, I note that she has at least four daggers out of sight on her person, probably more. Her squared jaw is set firmly, framed by wood-dark hair. The Axe fairly shoves me off and manages a respecful bow as she gets up.
"Commandant. A recruit was sent from Kingshome and I decided to test her."
"Her arm is cut almost to bone. We don't break our new toys before sharing them, Axe." She looks at me as I regard her from the dusty ground. "And you...Blade Master Guerrin-Blackshire?" I startle slightly at both m taken and given names together.
"Yes...Commandant...?" I look at her with even gaze,then consider her with closed eyes. Golden eyes and unspoken power. Far I am from the Lion's March is further still from home, but I recognize her kind all the same and rise to one knee. Childhood habits are hard to break, and I feel more respect for this company simply by seeing such a Commandant. "Lady. I apologize for not recognizing immediately. I know what it may cost you to fight the mage-lords. Lady, if you are the Steward's Commandant, then I will more than make contract, I'll blood to it."
The elf, for that is what she is, only raises an eyebrow. "Blood to contract? Why not swear?"
"I am a Blade Master of Blackshire, and Shadow's Fall keeps to older ways than the King's Country. I'm sworn to the the weapons. I'll contract to whosoever needs me wield them."
"Very well." She grips my untorn arm and helps me up, nodding and handing me her scroll. "In The Steward's name, I, Commandant and Witness, will see you contracted into this company, which is sworn to the King's service. But I'll leave you to mark it yourself....perhaps after seeing The Mend?"
I sigh and nod as respectfully as wounds and weariness allow. A Mend's magics will be as painful as a Smith's, but there's nothing in my flesh that'll prevent it from working. I snort and almost smile as I drag myself to billowing blue tents.
"Magic. Damned King. Damned war. Damned mages. Damned Smith with his damned hammer. Now a damned Mend...damn me." I look up suddenly, wincing as a wound protests. There's a scent on the air that likely only I, maybe the Commandant, hopefully the Steward, wherever he was, could smell. High magic, unbound magic. magic against the King's laws, floated past my senses, then was gone. All I can smell is the safe slow burn of bound magic. A Mend's magic...thus reassured I let myself collapse.
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