In the Land of Hershel

     "Hah, Cappertown! I knew there was a smell o' tar to 'im!" Millian chortled, interrupting without care.

     "Quiet, you vat-pig!" Redd spoke out in anger. "I haven't even started, yet you see fit to bother me already?"

     Millian rolled his eyes. "Usin' Western insults as a retort. My, you are intimidatin'." He turned to his twin. "Mattus, you think Redd was born in the West? He 'as the look of a former slave."

     Mattus guffawed, and even kind Timmon tried to hide a smile. Redd's face turned purple, and he stomped a leather boot down on the dirt. "I have half-a-mind to draw on you Millian! Pray to the Gods that we're on the same side!"

     Millian, sporting a large toothy grin, waved his hand dismissively. "Go on youn' knight. I jest. Go on."

     Redd cleared his throat. "In Cappertown during November, I found myself wandering through the streets alone at night when—"

     "Ey Mattus, I reckon Redd here wanders alone quite often. Not a single woman would dare stroll wit'in ten meters of 'im!"

     The camp filled with laughter. Even Elric released a chuckle.

     "I am done! I won't share my story with you!" Redd steamed, jaw sticking out. He sat back on his mat and crossed his arms.

     Millian stood and walked to the fire, wrapping his hands in leather gloves. "Good! Ah was worried you'd chat mah ears off!"

     He grabbed the now hot tray. The bread was well toasted; the crust was dark yellow and gleaming. The cheese had softened but not fully melted and teased the knights with the scent of rosemary, oats, and spiced peppers. Millian took a knife and portioned the food, distributing the tray around the camp.

     "Well, we can't have the evening silent without a tale." Timmon said, accepting his share of the meal. His face was easy to read—he wished his portion had been bigger. The large knight bit down on the hot bread, scalding his tongue. He grimaced for a moment, then gave a satisfied smile. Sitting on a mat, the knight looked over to Elric.

     "Will you tell us a story, Sir?"

     The other knights watched Elric, eager eyes full of respect. The elder man licked his lips and grabbed a wineskin made from the bladder of a winter Roan-elk. He took a swig of cold water and stared at each of his men. They were rowdy, but loyal. He knew what story to tell them. His mind had been fixated on the memory of a dangerous quest. Why was it difficult for him to remember it? Had old age finally caught up? It took a moment for the thought to distill clearly. When it had, he looked about the grove. The night was still young, the fire warm, the food delicious, and the water fresh. A good night to spin yarn.

     "I shall," Elric said, much to the delight of his men.

     Each fidgeted and adjusted, settling in their positions. Millian flicked a small pebble at Redd and the young knight bared his teeth. Mattus continued to carve, eyes fixated on Elric's face. Timmon licked a finger and dabbed at a crumb on the metal tray. Putting it to his mouth, he made a sucking sound. Elric cleared his throat.

     "What are the traits of a true Lenovan knight?"

     The men were quiet, refraining from answering. They would rather hear it from the senior knight.

     "Bravery and pride—at least those are the traits that come to the minds of the common. But there are other traits as well that are just as important. Virtue and self-restraint, for example. Skill, determination, stubbornness, and sheer grit. But the most important trait? Obedience to an order. However blind it may be. It's that lack of questioning and blindness that keeps a knight moving forward when all others would falter. Now I ask, is that a good thing?"