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A final stroke splashes the hardened dirt of this well-traveled path with blood. Three men lay dead, greviously wounded by a singular blow. One remains alive, a somewhat young and ragged man wound in obscuring cheap cloth. An atypical bandit, if one wished to make assumptions. He's trembling, looking over his fallen friends, before hurling his cheap blade aside. "Yield! Yield!" The Summer Knight strides towards him, his expression somber and relentless. "I did no crime. We were merely resting in…"
"You intended to. You are vermin beyond redemption."
"I yielded!!" he states again, louder, as if this is supposed to be some kind of magical shield.
"So I heard." Nathan strikes, a nimble flash that removes head from shoulders. For a moment the stiff body remains upright, before thumping backwards limp. A cloth comes out to slowly clean along it. There is no redemption in these men. They abuse honor, they skirt laws, to remain in the system like parasites. There is only one way to break such a cycle of a career criminal with nothing to offer society, after all. Exsanguination. Of course what he just did is an affront to all a Knight stands for; his vigilante acts are no secret even to the queen, but few have the political sway or inclination to overtly challenge this fact until recently, which ended in his incarceration…
*
More often has he been out on these roads, laid down generations past by men who abided by the rule of law and settled it upon a somewhat lawless land with a firm fist. The people speak of them fondly for their infrastructure, the great roads and the solid bridges, made with a skill long since lost. Yet even those roads are perilous for travelers when they were calm and safe not so long ago. Intrepid bandits strike out at individual travelers as often as wagons guarded by paid blades. The ports teem with stories of camps overrun and vanished persons, ferries charging too much, and quiet whispers of dangers where peace long settled into valleys and dales.
It makes for busy work, little of which seems to afflict the court of Caerleon or the walled city. At a remove from the usual problems around the restive countryside and always permeable borders, they haven't seen the problems up close. As, now, the Summer Knight has. Just a few leagues from the city in the gentle hills, where crossroads lead to country markets, there are reasonably well armed men who would be soldiers in better times taking their wealth from the weakest, the most vulnerable. And now four of their number meet the pitiless blade of justice. These men are too well fed, too well dressed.
Beside them, their victims — peasants, travelers, traders — seem emaciated.
*
The Cursed Knight knows only too well the changing of the times. The ways of old, where men were good at heart and followed certain rules, is gone. He is gifted to see through the lies that many use to protect, but in the days of old, he could do nothing. Proclaiming a falsehood, only for them to deny it, leads nowhere. The noble born Knight had two choices. Lie himself, utilizing the force of his position, or to remove them. The former was no good. He would be found out eventually, and playing the game he tried to avoid left a sour taste in his mouth. Perhaps the history books would look more kindly on his acts, as a neccesary evil in a realm with no better options.
In this case, there are no witnesses. Often a peasant will, but they have no power beyond rumors that already fully exist. Returning to his large steed, Nathan mounts it with a muted grunt. A few moments are spent in pain; his damaged eye seeps blackness, like ink running down his skin, but with some effort it stops and then retracts. The curse is true, of course. But the power it grants him is needed, and if the only downside is his own lifeforce and the ruination of those he loves, who cares? He is a lone wolf, in the first place.
He makes his way once more down the path, heading towards Caerleon once more. He makes no particular haste… not quite a trot, yet not quite a walk.
*
The land dims in the cold shadows of a waning day, the night coming earlier than it ought to at this time of year. Though spring is fresh in the minting, it carries none of the bright glow that often accompanies an early break to winter. No flowers litter the forest floor, and the grass is still brown and flat, dappled by boggy patches. The rivers run too high, and the air brings a wicked chill after dark. Bad start of a season, where growing may be hard and the ground is still half frozen where usually the low-lying downs sparkle with dew drops every morning.
He can see a few weak lines of smoke snaking into the air, but these soon enough fade from sight as the clouds gather and drown out the watery light, throwing a somber pall. It suits, given who the man is; perhaps this rainy cloak draws his mood into the bleached landscape around him.
Yet his trodden path will continue to a fork, the dark crossroads thrown under the bare limbs of an elm. Branches nearly touch the tree on the other side of the path, and those offerings left by travelers form a tiny cairn. Upon that lies a dark hound, whimpering, the weak wag of its tail and the rising whine acknowledging him long before the knight reaches the handsome red creature. Whatever has done it ill is responsible for blood dripping to the stones, though its visible side isn't injured.
*
Onwards marches the steed, following a familiar path traveled many times before. Errant smoke does not distract him. He does not have the time to check on every possibility, with a list of ills and foul men at his fingertips. There are enough opportunistic knights, traveling here and there to only right what wrongs they encounter. Such is good for public appearance, if nothing else.
Reigns are pulled slightly at the sound of the hound, however. He comes to a stop a few meters away, glancing over the pile of offerings, then a quick glance at the surroundings as if that might somehow cast more light on the situation. A sacrificial offering would likely not still be alive. Dismounting, he approaches the hound with neither fear nor care, intent on circling to the other side and get a better look.
*
The hound whimpers again, its breathing clearly laboured in the weight of pain. The tail, tipped in red and brindled with white spots, wags in a faint shimmy. Determining if the hound is a given breed or another is difficult, given it doesn't correspond to the wolfhounds common to the wealthy nor the humble mutts down every alley in the city. The noble lines of its form are intended to run, sleek and graceful, though it has a deeper chest than any mere coursing dog. Floppy ears speak to domestication, and one is purely red, the other russet with another star on it in white. While he wanders around searching for proof of trouble, all the Knight is bound to see are the roads spotted in puddles and the few meager offerings of food. Mouldering grain and a few slabs of fatty meat, with less meat than burnt bits, are laid out. Its warm brown eye watches him, and it struggles to lift its head. Those great paws tread at the air, and the effort to lift itself up from the cairn where it apparently flopped over aren't so successful.
Another whine follows, and the horse stands resolute, unperturbed.
*
Everything about this seems strange to Nathan. The meat might explain why it has opted to roost atop the makeshift cairn, but for some reason he does not immediately turn and return to his horse. The fate of a random dog is hardly one that matters in the grand scheme of things. At best, a rare breed worth some coin. One who could afford it would be barely affected by it's loss, and the tears of the owner would dry. But still, he draws off his cloak and makes to wrap it about the dog, to lift it up with more roughness than gentility. He is already heading for the city. Perhaps a figure of some importance lost it. Any amount of favor, to the Cursed Knight, is valuable… especially when the cost in time is nearly nothing. Or so he thinks.
*
When he lifts the dog up, the truth of the injury becomes apparent: a metal bolt lodged in its shoulder, clearly broken off at the wooden haft. But the lozenge-shaped metal pierced the hound's hide, leaving fresh blood trailing down. It doesn't bite at him or bark when lifted, but say what he will, even for a big man, that's a hell of a heavy hound. Compact muscle and possibly bones made of alabaster or diorite under that smooth, sleek hide. The horse is well enough trained not to protest at blood, but it whickers and utters a steamy breath through its flared nostrils, eyeing the Summer Knight with one long-lashed eye. The hound gnaws at the edge of the cloak rather like a puppy might worry a bone.
*
A few moments are spent looking at the wound. He knows first aide rather well, as a rule. A consoling noise is given to the horse, before he sets his cloak on a somewhat dry area of road and rummages in his steed's pack. Coming up with a pouch of medical supplies, he kneels before the puppy. "Stay." he murmurs, before holding out his palm over the bolt. Things happen when he wills it; but this is the first time he's tried this power outside combat. Attempting to 'grasp' the bolt in his mind's eye, and draw it free… the intensity of such causing his eye to weep a single tear of black across his skin. This power is from his curse; as such he only tries to use it briefly…
*
The black tar clinging to the oddly shared bolt drips to the ground, rather as the blackened hollow in his eye bears the same strange substance in nearly echoing reflection. The fletched point probably belongs to an arrow, and the moment it is freed, the blood swishing across the open wound immediately falls on repairing flesh. The dog's tail thumps hard against the horse and it wriggles, landing a blow of a pay on a great wither. The horse flicks its tail and sidles a step to the side, then whuffs.
The hound lifts its head and stares at him with knowing brown eyes, tongue lolling from the side of its mouth. It wriggles again, still slung in the cloak, but gives a funny little baying noise.
*
There's some long moments spent after that, holding the bolt before finally tossing it aside. Is this some manner of mythical beast, then? Perhaps it was shot out of good cause. The brood of a monster, that limped away. But he can sense no evil or ill intent with it… yet that means little. Has he ever tried it on an animal? Can instinct even be properly judged? Some moments of decision, then he wraps the hound in his cloak and makes to mount once more, to resume his trek towards the walled city in the near distance…
*
No evil wraps around the creature. Concluding rapidly that the blanketing effect of the cloak does not have to totally restrict its movements, the hound pokes its brown nose out and pokes the Knight on the cheek, opposite his scarred and troubled eye. Then out comes the pink tongue, in that most canine of greetings. Once more settled upon the horse, it will be a fairly good companion, not that the horse is going to get terribly far. A league or two of travel through the heavy, enveloping rain and cumulus clouds making it a forgettable journey. The clop of hooves fades away to a gloomy echo. The path angles down a faint slope paralleling a subtle ridge, and as Sir Nathan treks back towards Caerleon, there lies another intersection with a path leading from a ferry up to another crossroads. Where it crosses the main path he is on, stands a figure in a roughspun cloak under a pair of spindly oaks still striving to grow to maturity. There remains that figure as the water pours down.
*
A dull grunt leaves Nathan when he gets licked by the hound. He doesn't admonish or turn away, merely leaving it to it's own devices. It's not particularly annoying, and it might still be in some manner of pain. Heavier rain causes minimal reaction, beyond the idle thought of how annoying armor maintenance in the evening is going to be. Slowing down upon sight of the figure, the Summer Knight does not immediately hail. Merely continuing his walk, eyes upon him, and mind keen on assessing his intent… Making sure said approach puts his left side facing the figure if they pass.
*
Dogs aren't smug. Those would be issues of a cat, whereas the canine is deftly proud of its exploits. One flopped ear listens to for matters, and the hopeful little nose rattling in its snout as it peers out from the cloak. For all its size, the half-grown creature has some manners. Another thump of its tail whacks Nathan.
The horse is not in a rush, and neither is the figure. Hand shading its face, the figure steps out and has the height and breadth of shoulders to be a youth or a woman. "Hail." The hoarse alto carries reasonably well in the gloom. "Ye have a moment, good sir?"
*
The horse finally slows down, although with a sense of grudgingness to how he pulls the reigns, and the hard lines of his aging features. "Hail." he responds, with a touch of distraction. "Perhaps. What is your concern?" The sooner he can promise to send another knight upon reaching town, the sooner he can leave and tend to his personal matters.
*
"The state of the world and mortal affairs," says the traveler. The rough cloak isn't much to speak of, plain grey, and falling around trousers peeking out beneath the nutmeg cloth. Shadow overlaps a fine-boned face that at least might be rooted in the feminine, but too androgynous to be entirely clear. Wearing a broad hood helps to maintain a measure of protection, though dark, bright eyes catch the dying daylight in a faint glimmer. The hound tail-thumps again. "Something you have an interest in, maybe?"
*
A mild blink at that, especially the term. Mortal. He glances down the path, considering the city proper. But he has nothing to do, there. Clean his armor. Fill his belly. Allow what sleep he does, in a day. And play the game of politics he so detests as a knight of the royal court. "Maybe." he finally says, turning back to look down. "What interest have you in such matters?"
*
Clean his armor. Tend his horse. Glare at people.
"Every interest, sir. I live here, as do you." The slightly colloquial, lower class manner of speech differs from the highborn members of the court. The traveler adjusts the hood so water doesn't drip on her nose, and then looks plainly at him. Her, for sake of calling the traveler something other than an it. "I dislike fields awash in the risen dead, and care little for beasts born of no animal, aquatic or earthly, prowling o'er this isle. I care not for dark spirits snatching babes from their swaddling. Mayhap you don't either."
*
"Mayhaps your tongue had best cease speaking so indirectly." Nathan snaps out then, staring down at the man. For someone of lesser station to so overtly petition him in the first place is unusual. Not because such isn't allowed, but most know the state of things in practice, as opposed to in theory. "I have no time for riddles. What is it you want of me? Speak clear, or I shall go on my way."
*
"Very well." It is more than possible to direct. "Go and give the strength of your arm to those who are fighting the source of that blight. It ought to banish the undead, the fell beasts, and the fallen spirits." She takes another step or two, and she taps her fingers against the heavy clothes holding back the rain. "Is that clear enough for you, Knight? Or should I tell you 'Go the bridge tonight, and bring a sword?' I prefer to ask. But I can command just as well."
*
"Watch your tongue." Nathan growls, when the woman grows a bit too insolent in her phrasing. "Direct me to those battling such things, then. Or is there a particular fight at this bridge, instead?" He settles his hand atop the mound of cloak-dog, idly. He's not sure why he does the motion. Perhaps on some level, his concern it is one of these 'fell beasts' remains.
*
Oh, petting, is it? The hound bumps its skull under the offered hand, and there may be no more nosing, but the velvet ears are almost impossibly soft to the touch.
"Very well. Go to the Roman bridge this very night. Others will wait there. Tell them you come to fight, and Rhiannon told you to. The fight isn't like to be at the bridge. Those shambling gaunts may be stupid, but not so stupid to line up where a man ahorse could mow them down like autumn grain. How I wish!" A smirk follows that declaration. "You'll do, for all your tongue ought to be nailed to a post. At least you like dogs. Most knights who are coarse are redeemable if they are kind to animals and children." An angled look and then she shrugs her shoulders. "The beasts come most oft by night, though not always. They're getting bolder. Others are mustering with sword and shield to fight. Now you can too."
*
Eyes narrow once more. Nathan is used to his position granting him a certain deferrance to others, with the primary benefit of him being left alone. He's not entirely sure how he feels about this woman's words, although many knights could likely take her head for inferring to apply one's tongue to a post. And to be commanded, like he were some base mercenary looking for coin…?! In the end, he just overlooks it with a grunt, wheeling his horse back down the path and marching off once more, faster this time to minimize parting words. He's not confirmed if he will come. Hopefully that small chafe will regain some dignity.
*
It may not help that when he wheels his horse around, the beast takes a great deal more care mincing around the road, dirt track that it is. The hound makes a whuffling sound and buries its face in the cloak, taking well enough to riding a horse, as odd as that has to be. More troubling, perhaps: if he checks the way past him, there is no one there, only an empty crossroads.
That in and of itself may give reason that his head is not securely mounted to his shoulders in the situation as he may have liked. One's office and authority only extend so far, after all…
*
Indeed, a glance backwards followed. He is keen enough in senses and thought to know the disappearance is unusual. Little of what the woman spoke was that of a citizen, from what he understood. If she has no respect for knights, then either she knew enough that he would not behead her, or is not long for this world. Alastain would have certainly dismembered her on the spot. "Hrmph." One hand on the dog to calm it, and he continues his trek back to the city, thoughts of the bridge still fresh on his mind.