[Story] [I.1.i] Scabbard of Iron, Interrupted

[Aethera]

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A force the size of the Imperial Army could never remain in the city itself, but the officers core and special units had training grounds in the outer quarter behind the Palace of War. Being quartered in the guest house there placed the heroes in close proximity to a number of training grounds, enclosed and outdoors, and their status as the heroes of Aerilon made any potential objections unlikely. For Scabbard of Iron to seek out a quiet place to practice his evening exercises was surprisingly easy; the servant that was assigned to him by their host was able to point him in the proper direction (the first useful thing he had really been able to do since bringing the monk a pitcher of water upon their arrival) and he could just walk down the side street until he came to a grassy area surrounding a packed dirt field with nothing but a pole at one end to hang any number of targets on. Where the targets might be was anyone's guess, but likely they had been stacked neatly in some nearby shed for the next time the squad needed some practice.

The night was already well along by the time the monk got to the practice field, and apart from a couple lanterns spaced at intervals along the side street for the safety of people passing by, and torchlight spilling from a window partway down the field. It was enough light to see by with the waxing gibbous moon hanging large in the night sky. Not that Scabbard of Iron needed to see to perform his katas, of course. But he had his choice of locations, and even the large post that was formerly the trunk of a small tree, probably a foot across at the widest point, could be a stand in if he chose. It would not be the first time he'd practiced in the dirt, but there was maybe enough room to enjoy the grass beneath his feet.

GM How's this suit you? If you don't like it, feel free to narrate a change in scenery, I can run with pretty much whatever you want to do here. I'll bring in the evangelist once you've had a chance to tell me how his evening has gone. Assume the party was about dinner time, and you probably managed to get out of there within an hour or two, depending on how long you all gab in with the Emperor, or after he leaves. It might be a little past eight o'clock, dark but not completely black yet.

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[GrandCommander13]

Scabbard of Iron Sweeping kick. Strong punch. Weave to the right and kick with left leg. In the morning he would depart in the company of an Imperial Princess, an Imperial advisor, and two heroes caught up in it all. It might be the end of an age, it might not be. But it better be. Pivot left, strike with elbow. Side kick. Lift leg, axe kick. A monk, now intimately entangled with the Empire. Was he expected to be heartless? Clever words are the first resort of the wicked, but the needy always cry out for help as well. Chop to the neck. Punch to the neck. Grapple, throw to the ground. Perhaps he should simply returned home. Levi and Emak would surely need him, though. Whatever was happening, they couldn't escape. He owed it to them to watch their backs, make sure Destiny played fair. Punch to the ground. Turn, block. Shove, palm strike.

[Aethera]

The fluid motions of the monk's exercises were a bit jerkier than usual as he worked through his mental turmoil. Leaving now would divest him of anything even remotely Imperial, but it did sound like the princess was in danger, and his demon-fighting companions definitely would be soon. On the upside, he would be traveling to Santa Cora, and it was a sight worth seeing, even if only the once. His path would have brought him there eventually, if he walked the entire loop of the Midland Sea as some of his brothers-at-arms had done. Would it hurt to continue on, but with company? Maelona and Bazziox couldn't exactly reveal their Imperial ties to anyone this side of Santa Cora.

When he turned and lunged mid sequence he caught sight of something orange in the corner of his eye. Not exactly a common color to see, especially at night, so his head turned almost of its own accord. At the grass' edge stood a man in a dirty orange robe, marked with grass stains and the dust of one who traveled solely by his own two feet, leaning on a tall staff. His robe was styled much like a friar's in one of the many religions, but the unkempt hair and scraggly beard was not how one in the hierarchy of any religion would look. He was not well lit, so it was hard to read his expression, but the silhouette alone was enough to warn Scabbard of Iron of something amiss. That he had approached so close without notice was potentially possible because of his bare feet, but most men made small noises, even if only their breath gave them away. That his did not indicated intention for secrecy, or someone who ought not be judged by his appearance alone. Scabbard could continue on with his routine, but he'd seen him now. That left only what to do about it.

[GrandCommander13]

Scabbard of Iron Upon seeing that he was being observed by an outsider Scabbard of Iron abruptly ceased his exercises. He gracefully brought himself to a stable stance from which it would be common to bow, but instead of making the gesture of respect towards an imaginary master he turned towards the man who had approached him. Looking him over at a distance revealed a holy man, but the eyes were the window to the soul and at this distance the man's eyes were well hidden. Also, that he had been able to approach so closely without the monk detecting him was quite unusual. Was he an assassin? Then why approach so slowly? Why just stand there? Could he be a fighter, looking to test his skill? The man's stance did not seem ready for battle—at least not one of a physical nature. As he seemed, then: a traveling holy man—but perhaps one whose devotion had caused his attention to personal care to suffer. To use the word "mad" was tempting, though his ability to move unheard indicated a retained focus on the ways of the world when it suited him. It was very likely that as Scabbard of Iron took the man's measure the man measured him in turn. He had seen at least some of his kata, one of the heavier routines he knew; a skilled practitioner of the martial arts might be able to make out the skill and the distraction both on display, but a man fully dedicated to the spiritual would have a far harder time reading such details. Neither had spoken thus far, each having his reason to hold his tongue—some mix of observation, contemplation, and so many other possible motives. It would be at about this time that an enemy monk would have attacked, after having their intentions made clear from their stance, their gaze, and that brief circling as two fighters found their preferred angle from which to begin the battle. It would be the perfect place for such a test of strength, already leveled for training and clear of any who might interfere—whoever came out the victor would do so because he was the strongest. This man did not seem to want to demonstrate strength—again, at least not physically. Whatever he wished he had done nothing to deliberately attract Scabbard of Iron's attention, beyond perhaps positioning himself where he would eventually be seen. The monk watched, waiting for the man to signal his intentions.

[Aethera]

The old man robed in orange stood silently as Scabbard of Iron's kata came to an abrupt end, and he did not seem to want to break the silence or make the first move. At the distance they were currently at, it was hard to read his face, or his eyes, but the reverse was true as well, he probably had limited ability to read anything other than the monk's overall body language, his posture and focus. It seemed a long time before he moved, but it was likely only a few moments of studied introspection on both sides. The potentially holy man nodded, one hand leaving his staff and making a tiny gesture of 'empty hand' as it returned to his side and he took a single step forward. "As the pillar requires the pedestal, they will need you. Surely you can see that." It was not a conversation starter, not truly. He spoke more as someone continuing a conversation for all they had never met before. The beginning of the discussion, however, had been in the monk's head alone. Could the strange newcomer read his thoughts? Probably not. But to interpret all that he had, either his powers of insight were beyond the pale, or he had some other sense of what went on, both in Scabb's head and in the secret quest laid upon the shoulders of the motley company of heroes. It was anyone's guess, but having spoken the thought aloud, he had laid it upon Scabbard of Iron to determine whether his insight labeled him friend or foe.

The old man moved across the grass boundary of the training field and stopped again, bringing him closer but not so much as to be threatening physically. The hand remaining on his staff held it loosely, but enough that it aided his movements. Did he require such a prop? It was unclear. Did he intend to use it as a weapon? If it truly was as it appeared, a prop, it was unlikely it could serve both purposes simultaneously. "Did you think you knew your future? That is a massive assumption I would not have thought you naive enough to make." At this distance his expression was more clear, but all he could see was an occasional flash of steely gray eyes. "Nay, you're not fool enough to believe it," he answered himself. "But if so, what has you considering other paths? I tell you truly, without you they may well fail, to the ruin of all." His words certainly fit the image of traveling holy man, speaking in riddles was one of the requirements for the role. Yet these words pried at Scabb, cutting through his earlier trains of thought to leave little behind. They seemingly served as both reprimand and approval, making the unkempt man's purpose even less clear.

[GrandCommander13]

Scabbard of Iron In approaching closer the strange man had made himself easier to read physically, but in speaking he had managed to make himself far more enigmatic. Scabbard of Iron was no stranger to lessons hidden in enigmatic, seemingly contradictory phrases, but such teaching methods required an element of trust towards one's master. If this man wished for Scabbard of Iron to prove himself as a potential student by deciphering his riddles then it would be very presumptuous behavior for someone who had appeared unbidden. It was, of course, always possible that this man was in fact sent by the Emperor to urge him on with his given task – as the old man seemed intent on doing – since the monk had displayed no great commitment to it in the meeting, but such theatrics would result in still another knowing of their mission; whether the Emperor meant good or ill with his request, it would be best for as few to know about it as possible. That left the monk contemplating the man before him as being genuinely what he appeared to be: one who had appeared unbidden. How he knew of his task, of his fears for the future, had just become very interesting. His interest in the matter was less perplexing, as on its face their success could safeguard much of the empire from the reckoning of the end of the age if the Princess could keep Imperial armies in the field. His immediate concerns decided, Scabbard of Iron spoke. "Few are cursed to know the future," he said, meeting the holy man's eyes. "The rest of us must chart a course on stormy waters, reacting to any harbor or maelstroms we think we see in the distance." If this man had come of his own accord then his sight must be quite gifted—perhaps even cursed. "What maelstrom have you seen that troubles you so, to come all this way?"

[Aethera]

The robed man waited quite patiently, not seeming to expect the conversation to go swiftly. Whether that was because he was in no rush or just didn't expect Scabbard of Iron to make any sudden moves, it was anyone's guess. The night was young, relatively speaking, and though the man was unexpected in his arrival, he lacked any of the micro-expression cues that would tell the monk he was impatient, or wanted to be somewhere else. It was almost like it was completely normal for a monk and a traveling beggar to meet at the edge of a practice field in the middle of the Imperial capitol city and talk in the gathering gloom. Who knows, maybe to the old man this was normal.

"Ah, lad, perhaps it would be a curse to know the entire future. But a large storm can start from the smallest changes in the atmosphere. Knowing a few stones that will cause ripples only invites a desire to see them thrown accurately and well. I am a watcher, not an actor. That will be the fate of others." He shrugged, smiling even though his eyes were far distant, seeing something else. "Of course, who am I to know the precise landslide? Perhaps my watching has a purpose I do not yet know. It is always hard to guess at our own fates. Far easier to read the lay of the land and know who is most likely to traverse the dangerous terrain safely. And, perhaps, who might be needed to ensure it."

His gaze returned to Scabbard of Iron, but still his eyes looked through him. "It is also hard to know who threw the first stone when the avalanche is nearly upon you. Bias might point to one suspect, but it is not always so. Indeed, many are only reacting to the spreading ripples around them." His eyes were almost kind when they refocused on the monk's face. There was definitely something there, but what it was, when he chose to speak in metaphor, would be hard to figure out.

[GrandCommander13]

Scabbard of Iron Both the water and the land? And then both a landslide and an avalanche? The man was mixing his metaphors. Perhaps he had not carefully plotted out the exact course the conversation would take; perhaps the particulars of the metaphor were irrelevant to the point he was trying to make. Regardless of that, he suspected that the most important point was the last, not cloaked in metaphor at all: a clear warning against rushing to judgment. As their mission would be purely reactive it hardly seemed necessary, however: what were the odds that they would find the chance to put things right on their journey? It dawned on Scabbard of Iron that the man had not stated whose failure he foresaw should the monk fail to accept his mission. Such ambiguity was an expected part of the dance they were engaged in at the moment – or at least he believed they were engaged in – but it was crucial to keep in mind. Seeing past the obvious was an important part of the higher wisdom monks aspired to, in addition to their aspirations to higher combat prowess, and from the path their conversation had taken so far this man must value it as well. That was not the only ambiguity that Scabbard of Iron had noticed, however. It wasn't even the one that mattered. That the old man wished for the salvation of the other heroes of Aerilon could be assumed without touching upon the philosophy that they were discussing, and in practical terms Scabbard of Iron had already made up his mind to help before the old man had arrived. The man, this holy man, however, was far too humble for what he was attempting to do. "You are no mere watcher," the monk said. "You act as well, marking a path for another to take. What ripples are you reacting to, then?" He watched closely for the man's reaction to what he said next: "If you seek to affect the future, why do you do so without knowing your purpose?"

[Aethera]

The robed man sighed and shook his head. "No, lad, I've tried to affect the outcome before. I failed. It is mine to watch, as it is yours to protect. If I come and say 'pay attention', is that something you would not have done without meeting me? My words are less of a prompt and more of a reminder. Your own subconscious might have prompted you such, I just preempted the possibility. Little is of value in my ramblings you did not already know."

He shifted his weight and turned partway away from Scabbard of Iron, moving slowly as if to leave. "If I saw something that made me react, would it not be 'meddling' to tell you what it had been? My lady would not approve. No, I'll continue on as I am, and if my impotence offends you, I'll be off. My purpose is no more obvious than your own. Sometimes there are things you just know are deciding moments. Usually the choice is made before you even realize it to be such. If not, you tend to be on the course of one or the other before you realized there was such a choice to choose." He chuckled, and there was a bit more of the potentially crazy person in the titter at the end. Whatever he found funny, though, it wasn't said quite so clearly.

"My apologies for interrupting your exercise with my foolishness. I'll find myself somewhere else to tell people things they don't need me to say." The look in his eyes had less wisdom behind it now, and there was either a universal joke being played on Scabb, or the man's sanity could be suspect. Perhaps both. "I'll be seeing you," he said by way of farewell, and walked away, leaving little sign of his actually having been present except in Scabbard of Iron's memory.