Chapter 4: Training in the Stables
John Stark gripped the pitchfork's rough wooden handle, the splintered edges digging into his calloused palms, each thrust into the damp, straw-laced muck of Rohan's stables sending a jolt up his tired arms. The air hung heavy, thick with the pungent, earthy reek of horse sweat and the sharp bite of fresh hay, coating his throat with every labored breath. The system's low hum pulsed in his skull, a relentless metronome he buried beneath a grimace, its faint glow masked as he shoveled near Éowyn, her spear flashing in the dim light seeping through the slatted walls. Sweat trickled down his spine, soaking his tunic, and he fought to keep his focus on the task, not the HUD flickering at the edge of his mind.
"This is basically a medieval gym session, but with worse smells," he thought, his gaze darting to her pale gold braid swaying with each precise thrust, a rhythm that mocked his clumsy effort.
She caught him staring, her spear tip dipping, a faint smirk curling her lips.
"Your eyes linger, Stark. Are you here to work or to gawk?"
He leaned on the pitchfork, forcing a lazy, genuine grin, the wood creaking under his weight.
"You know, Éowyn, you're like a fencing coach with better hair."
She scoffed, the sound quick and light, slicing through the stable's quiet like a sparrow's chirp.
"Your compliments are as dull as your blade, Stark. Come. You need this more than the stable needs mucking."
He tossed the pitchfork aside, the metal clanging against the stone floor with a dull echo, and grabbed his new, slightly rusty sword, its hilt cool and gritty against his palm. They stepped into the open yard, straw crunching under their boots like brittle bones, the sun casting long, jagged shadows across the packed earth. Éowyn's technique was a blur of elegance, her blade flashing with professional speed, each strike a lesson in precision that made his chest tighten with inadequacy. John, bolstered by his Level 2 Sword Mastery, parried with surprising resilience—his blocks were clean, his strikes powerful yet unrefined, sweat stinging his eyes like salt in a wound, his lungs burning with every ragged gasp.
He met her hardest thrust, the clash of steel ringing like a struck bell, a surge of strength from the system coursing through his arms, masked as sheer grit. His muscles ached, a deep throb in his shoulders, but he pushed forward, his movements a desperate bid to prove himself. In a sudden, clumsy move, he tangled his sword in her guard, disarming her with a triumphant grunt, the blade skittering across the straw with a soft scrape.
"See? Told you I was getting better," he gasped, leaning on his sword like a weary traveler, his chest heaving, the taste of dust coating his tongue.
Éowyn retrieved her blade, her eyes narrowing—not with anger, but with a worry that etched faint lines into her brow, her breath visible in the cool air.
"You improve quickly, John Stark. It is a necessary skill. My uncle's will is weak. The whispers of war and the shadow of the East will soon be upon us. War looms."
Her voice was low and tight, a vow carved from stone, and the word "war" hit John like a physical blow, the playful jest dying on his lips, his mouth dry as sand. He stepped back, wiping sweat from his eyes with a trembling hand, the system's hum a faint reminder of the stakes pressing against his skull.
"This isn't a game anymore—it's a prelude to the endgame," he thought, his scarred fingers flexing nervously as he nodded, the weight of her words settling into his bones like a cold iron chain.
Later, he turned to a large, skittish brown horse, its hide warm and muscled under his brushing hand, the rhythmic schick-schick of the bristles a soothing counterpoint to the system's sudden, high-pitched chime that stabbed into his ears. The HUD flared in his mind, a blinding burst of starlight, and a new text box materialized, jittering slightly at the edges.
[SYSTEM: Riding Mastery: Lv. 1. Don't fall off, cowboy. The war tests all who are unprepared.]
Excitement shot through him, sharp and electric, a jolt that made his heart skip, but he forced it down, pressing his lips into a tight frown—a mask of concentration as he focused on the horse, his fingers trembling against its flank.
"Riding Mastery? That's fantastic. I'm gonna need it here. But what's with the constant warnings?"
The system's hum sharpened, a demanding vibration that seemed to echo Éowyn's grim prophecy, its foresight a heavy burden he wrestled with silently, his neck prickling with unease. He ran his hand down the horse's flank, pretending to soothe the animal, while the internal snark continued, a mocking whisper in his head.
"Horseman now? Don't break your neck," it quipped, and John's grimace deepened, his mind a battlefield of exhaustion and reluctant resolve, the ache in his back a dull reminder of his mortal limits.
As the afternoon waned, the stable grew quieter, the low light filtering through the open door casting golden beams across the hay-strewn floor, motes of dust dancing like tiny stars. John and Éowyn worked side by side, grooming horses, the soft snorts of the animals and the gentle swirl of hay dust creating a bubble of peace that wrapped around him like a fragile shield. Their laughter was soft, intimate, a rare respite from the looming threats, as they spoke of the land, the village's quiet strength, and the horses' stubborn spirits, her voice a warm contrast to the cold steel of her earlier words.
He felt the system's subtle update and let his gaze drift upward, pretending to daydream at the rafters, the wood warped and dark with age, his mind scrolling through the brief text with a flicker of pride.
[SYSTEM: Charisma: +0.5. Don't blush, Stark. This is getting sappy.]
He rubbed his chin to hide a self-conscious smile, the warmth of the moment a stark contrast to the Soul Wear's cold chill seeping into his chest, his fingers brushing stubble he hadn't noticed growing.
Reaching for a bucket of water, his hand brushed hers, a fleeting, electric contact that sent a surge of warmth through him, her skin soft against his rough palm. Éowyn didn't pull away immediately, and for a long beat, they locked eyes, the silence enveloping them like a cloak, the scent of hay and leather filling his lungs.
"I'm falling for her, hard—this is the most un-gamer-like thing I've done," he thought, his expression earnest and vulnerable, the normalcy of the touch grounding him against the system's alien presence, his heart thudding unevenly.
She eventually withdrew, returning to the horse, her resolve hardening once more, her jaw tightening as she adjusted the bridle with precise movements.
"The raiders will return, Stark. The Dunlendings are a persistent poison. They see weakness, and they attack. We must be ready."
John didn't need the system to sense the truth in her words, the bond they'd forged a fragile anchor to his fading humanity, the ache in his legs a reminder of the day's labor. He looked out the stable door toward the western plains, the horizon a jagged line of green and gold, a new resolve hardening in his chest like forged steel.
"Bring on the Dunlendings. I've got a training montage under my belt and a system that won't let me stay dead," he thought, his smile a quiet defiance as he prepared for the fight ahead, the taste of hay dust lingering on his tongue.
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