“You were right,” she admits, “If I am to serve with them, I should get to know them and let them get to know me.”
“They’re a good lot,” Benger grins, “You’ll see.” The two sit and chat for a while until Benger sees one of his friends walk in. Benger lets out a short, low whistle and waves, “Saris, over here.” Emlyn looks to the doorway and spots Saris when he waves back to Benger. Immediately, she begins to assess him to form her opinion of him. If this is to be her cohort, then its vital she gets to know them.
Saris stands in the doorway, his crisp tabard freshly stitched with the sigil of the Order of the Storm Crow. Conviction and faith practically radiate from him. His sandy brown hair is tousled from removing his helmet and a certain amount of youthful carelessness. His bright blue eyes are as open as a summer sky-unclouded, earnest, and occasionally a bit too readable. There’s a newness to his armor, a quiet pride in his posture, and a habit of squaring his shoulders before every challenge, even the small ones, which he does before he approaches Emlyn.
“Saris, can you stay with her and watch for the others while I go fetch her tray?” Benger says as Saris approaches.
Saris nods, “So this is your mysterious morning task, I take it?” Chuckling Benger makes the introduction, “Nia, this is Saris. Saris, go easy with her. She’s still recovering, but she’ll be taking her oaths soon enough.” Saris turns to face her and gives her a friendly smile.
“That is the plan, or at least what I promised the Goddess,” Emlyn says. Benger leaves to get Emlyn’s tray, and Saris eyes her speculatively.
“What exactly do you mean by that?” Saris asks her.
“The Goddess herself brought me here,” Emlyn says, “Wherever here is. You’re all human, like me, but not like anyone I know. Even the neighboring kingdoms would have known what my tattoo meant, but here… No one does. Your kingdom isn’t one I have ever heard of. The customs aren’t familiar, the clothing isn’t familiar here, and even the trade language is different here.”
Saris signals to another man at the door, ‘Hiltar, we’re over here today.” Emlyn takes in his dark blue eyes and neatly trimmed brown hair. There’s something in his gaze that hints to her that he might see what others overlook. Emlyn files this away for later testing. She knows someone with a similar knack, and it’s proven helpful in the past. His tabard, immaculate as always, bears the same sigil as his peers. Emlyn senses a solemnity from him that she hasn’t picked up from Benger or Saris. There is pride there, but also something more, perhaps duty or history. He also seems to be hanging back a moment, weighing her just as much as she’s weighing him. It doesn’t appear to be fear or uncertainty, but calculation or perhaps precision.
As Hiltar approaches, Saris introduces him to Emlyn, “Hiltar, this is Benger’s protégé, Nia. Nia, this is Hiltar.”
“Where’s Benger?” Hiltar asks.
“He said something about going to get her lunch,” Saris tells him, “Apparently, she’s on a special diet, in addition to being a very long way from home.” Before Emlyn can answer, Saris says, “Let’s wait for Garmer, Urlin, and Robis to get here so she only has to tell her story once. I don’t know if Falnor or Madil will be able to get off duty in time.” Saris spots Garmer and Urlin and calls them over just as Benger returns with her tray.
The group exchanges idle gossip about various Temple functions until Garmer and Urlin arrive at the table. Garmer is tall and solidly built. His skin is warm-toned, his voice low and composed, like distant thunder over still water. Thick, dark hair is swept back neatly, and his deep-set eyes—almost black—seem to see beyond surface truths. When Garmer starts to walk toward them, he carries himself with a quiet dignity, the kind that doesn’t demand attention but earns it nonetheless. His movements are precise, and even when he stops for a moment at another table to greet someone, it’s evident that every gesture is considered, every word weighed. His tabard bears the symbol of their order, but his is marked with subtle embellishments from his homeland—intricate threadwork near the hem, a prayer charm tucked beneath the folds. “Hmmm… a family faith perhaps,” Emlyn thinks.
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Standing next to Saris is Urlin, and Emlyn turns to size up Urlin next. Towering and broad-shouldered, he carries his great sword like it’s part of him, slung with ease over one shoulder as if daring the world to give him a reason to use it. His brown hair is tousled, and his dark eyes flash with mischief. “Ah… the joker… every group needs one,” Emlyn thinks. Suppose his ever-so-slightly rumpled appearance is any indication of his internal state. In that case, there’s an element of chaos to Urlin that likely means he thrives in the thick of the fight, not for a love of violence or brutality, but because it brings a stillness, peace, and an inner calm to him that he finds nowhere else. Emlyn watches as he trades some friendly jabs with other tables on his way to theirs. There’s some bravado there, but given the ease with which he wears his sword, it’s likely backed up by a fair amount of skill.
Hiltar gets a whiff of her lunch and grouses, “Where do I sign up to get on your meal plan? That smells about a thousand times better than what we get.”
Chuckling, Benger says, “Arrive here about as cooked as her bison fillet and then let the healers try to get you healed up, reassembled, and at least capable of taking your oaths as a paladin.”
Eyes wide, Garmer looks at Emlyn, “You’re the one that the Goddess herself brought in. The one that kept screaming for so long…”
“I suppose that I am,” Emlyn shrugs, “I’m sorry if I was…troublesome.”
“Troublesome?” Urlin snorts, “We’re all shocked you’re still on this side of the veil. I saw you when the Goddess arrived with you. I’ll be honest. None of us thought you would make it. If that’s what it takes to get your meals, I think I’ll pass.”
“I don’t blame you,” Emlyn sighs, “I would have passed on it if I could have, but there wasn’t much of an alternative. I wasn’t ready to die godless.”
“She was a paladin before,” Benger fills in, “but her old god died during The Great Conflict. I’m just guessing, but I think your family died too.”
“How did you know?” Emlyn asks.
“Because,” Benger shrugs, “You never asked me to send word to anyone, and no one has come here looking for you. If anyone was left, either they’d have been looking for you or you for them. That leads me to think that there isn’t anyone left.” Benger looks up to see Robis, Falnor, and Madil scanning the room and waves at them.
Emlyn looks to see who Benger is waving over now. If this is to be her cohort, she wants to try to understand them. Robis is average in height but broad-shouldered. His blond hair is cropped short, his features neat and composed, and his pale gray eyes betray an analytical mind constantly at work. He moves with careful precision, and in Emlyn’s experience, this means that he also thinks with the same cautious precision and probably fights with it, as well. This will make him more about finesse than brute strength. The look on his face as he spots Emlyn is thoughtful, more so than curious. His tabard, kept impeccably clean, bears the sigil of their order alongside a personal emblem —a minor, stitched glyph signifying truth. “I wonder how much time he spends in the library, reading theology?” Emlyn wonders.
Falnor is standing next to Robis and is slightly taller. Falnor strikes her as lanky, but still strong. Falnor seems to have a bit of a rough edge. His nose has been broken, more than once. His dark green eyes are wary, sharp, and deeply human, full of empathy. His short brown hair is a bit tousled, and there’s a hint of stubble along his jaw. As he moves toward the table, there’s a tension in him, a hint of wariness that says he’s not likely to be caught off guard by much of anything. Falnor doesn’t look like the type to quote doctrine or deliver speeches, but he seems like he’d be good to have beside you when the fighting is thick and hot.
The third one in this grouping, Madil, is striking in appearance. His hair—a vivid cascade of coppery red—catches the light like flame, is bound in a tight braid that falls just below his shoulders. His eyes are unusual, an unnervingly transparent, vivid violet. They roam constantly, scanning and perceptive. Madil is tall and wiry. If Emlyn had to guess, he’d favor speed and precision over strength—swift footwork, clever angles, and a blade that flashes like lightning. He carries himself confidently, almost arrogantly, as he walks toward the table. His tabard fits perfectly, consistently crisp, as if daring others to match his discipline.
The new group joins the rest of the cohort, and more introductions are made. Now the discussion turns back to her, with the cohort all present.
Saris eyes her speculatively again, “Not only do you find yourself far from home, but no home left to go back to.”
“And barely out of pig tails,” Benger adds helpfully.
“That sounds…tough,” Robis says as he sits with the group.
“Why are you so insistent about taking your vows?” Falnor asks, “I know Benger said you had been a paladin to another god.”
- Emlyn learns she is considered “still a child” by Cymry standards—cue internal cultural whiplash.
- Benger distracts her with the world’s most chaotic social surprise: lunch with the lads.
- Emlyn pushes herself farther than ever before—walking through pain, frustration, and stubborn determination.
- She requests a swimming option (Boltir approves), but alas… fast rivers and sacred fish ruin everything.
- The high priest’s chef takes over her meals, making culinary magic.
- Emlyn is introduced to Saris, Hiltar, Garmer, and Urlin—each with distinct personalities and bearing.
- She silently assesses all of them like a military examiner disguised as a fragile patient.
- New friendships take root.
- The Order begins to realize exactly who—and what—they’re dealing with.
- And last but not least: the lads gossip about her trauma, her arrival, and her survival with heartfelt awe.
Coins:
Last total: 303 coppers
- 8 coppers for social development, great food, and new characters well-introduced
New Total: 311 coppers
Random Object:
A tiny embroidered scrap from Saris’s immaculate tabard—dropped during introductions and now claimed by Snips as a prized treasure.
Snips the Crab:
Snips scuttles in sporting:
- A miniature paladin tabard (Order of the Storm Crow insignia scribbled on crookedly)
- A toy greatsword that he drags behind him with pride
- A smudge of orange pulp on his shell from “helping” with fruit tasting
He is ready—READY—to join the lads.
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