Black bread and 'brown stew', with what must've been either rat meat or boot leather.
There was ale, plenty enough to go around, and Carl gifted him with not one, but two kegs. He ran through one by himself, alone on the outskirts of both fireborne and gold eagle camp.
Smoke filled the sky, bodies still being put to flame.
Shadows danced every so often, but no sign of any fanged bastards of Marryvia.
Marryvia that shit hole, and he was drunk beyond care to curse himself for ever returning to such a cursed place. Though a wasted ordeal, Nathan gone to gods' knew where, he enjoyed his time on the battlefield more than anything else.
A little over halfway through his barrel, pouring himself another mug, Al snuck up on him.
He was wondering when she'd arrive, offer some pretty advice, and maybe entertain the idea of riding him behind the nearest rotted tree.
She poured a mug for herself, then another, and another.
She confessed to haven drank more than at any other point within the last several years, and didn't plan on stopping until the barrels were empty.
"Tonight, we drink," she slurred, leaning into his chest. "Tomorrow…we ride for Eldreth."
Glistened with bonfire light, his flail was yet another beautiful sight.
How strong was strong enough? Would he leave a dent in her like las time?
"Since when did you start worrying so much?" She muttered, looking into his eyes.
His fingers stiffened round his mug. "Never had to worry about dying. And Nathan. The lad's a cursed wretch too."
Whistles echoed, the nearest sentries.
Some reached for their weapons, he and Al staggering to their feet. Yet it was only a few fireborne riders, Carl's sister Marys with a host of three white knights and a priest, all covered in dark heavy cloaks.
Dany made her way over to the priest, and Al gasped, William removing his hood.
No longer a boy, but still a young man, the young father's face had a light brown stubble. His eyes were heavy, but his smile was still warm, and he embraced Dany before waving to he and Al.
Marys Pyr however scowled them, then cursed her brother for allowing soulless wretches into the camp.
"First you imprison our brother, now this?" She hissed. "Have you no shame?"
Carl shrugged, shoving her away. "These lot saved our lives, yet again, the death god keepin' an eye open for me."
She unsheathed her short sword.
A good swing, for a noble woman so small, yet Carl slipped out a dagger to block it. Locked in steel for a moment, the Pyr siblings scolded one another.
"Enough of this!" Sir Royce snarled, not a drop of ale on his breath. "Knight of The Order or not, we lost too many good men today, and we are in the presence of her majesty."
Marys ripped away her sword, keeping it out as Carl snickered.
Her majesty of Wayfork strode up to the commotion, a pair of knights with eagle wings across a full helms brow joining her. She was tall, at least a head over both Pyrs, and her skin was fair, long brown hair tied in a tail down to her waist. On her left hip was a short sword, and on the right a black-steel scimitar with a white-gold trimmed hilt.
"My dear children," Rallyvor said, almost in a taunting manner, with a bored look, "it seems the Pyr fury's as famous as the birds say."
"Birds?" Carl murmured. "What fucking birds?"
Marys rolled her eyes, sighing, "The great golden eagles, iron head! Eyes and ears better than any wood elf, can fly fast as any wyvern, go days without sleep?"
Carl shrugged. "That supposed to frighten me? What good have her eagles done her, in the same hell we've been in for many pointless years."
Rallyvor turned to him, Al, and the rest. "The Embers. The fools who believed themselves capable of slaying a god, and said god's been ravaging the battlefields, defiling the dead, and raising blood drunken armies. Even her fellow vampyre lords and paladins believe her mad, trifling in these old lands."
William frowned, his voice a bit deeper. "Your majesty, she means to destroy all life, something she'd have done one way or another."
Rallyvor smiled, a wicked smile above a fearless William. "Young father, it doesn't excuse the fact these are soulless monsters. They are no different from she of the First Sword, they do not deserve to live, much less make camp with us."
"Then leave," Carl spat. "Ya' have had no issue with it so far on the night, by all means, begone by the morrow."
Her majesty laughed. "Just keep them on your side of the camp. I'd rather not have an infestation of shabby grave humping wretches too close."
She strode away, her knights behind her as though they were here children.
Marys muttered, "Cunt! As if she's not as blood thirsty as the hungriest Eldreth horde."
"M-my lady," William said, wide eyed. "That's no way to s-."
Marys scowled the young father, who turned red as wine.
While the Pyr siblings made their way to a small tent, arguing on and off throughout the night, the Embers and young father enjoyed one another once more. Arthur was deep within Marryvia, haven sent a messenger crow to William days before riding out with lady Pyr.
"He believes Quarrath's stronger than ever before, but," the young father said, examining Larosa. "Eldreth's in disarray. Some of her lords and sages are more obsessed with controlling the abundance of bodies on the battlefield. There may be an attempt to overthrow her."
Dany shook her head. "Every sage I've slain doesn't even come close to a fraction of her power."
"She still needs a source of blood," William pointed out. "If they start hording all the rejuvenators for themselves, she'd have no choice but to either leave Eldreth's walls, where she'd lose a significant amount of her strength, or she'd slowly starve."
"Even at half her strength, she'd still be as powerful as she was three years ago," Dany argued, flexing her sword fingers. "The longer we wait, the stronger she'll be whenever we do face her."
Shivers took the young father's spine.
He then turned to he and Al. "I, can't put it into words. You two, especially you sir. There's something different about you."
Al frowned. "Well, are you in love with him ya lil' shit?"
William's face reddened. "I was just-gods, you haven't changed at all, I just meant it's no mere coincidence the fabled slayer of fallen angels returns yet again from the Swamp of Sahallzier."
He raised an eyebrow.
A long fabled woodland, William explained, once home to the worshippers of the Ninth Lord, the fallen lord. It was where all soulless who were either mischievous or cursed with misfortune in their past lives awakened. Rare enough to make it out at all, to fight all the way back a second time, stripped of all power, was a one in a thousand year event.
"The last soulless to do so challenged the gods," William concluded, waving a hand over their small fire. "He was, the Ninth's Chosen Soul."
He spat, cursing for a moment, a quick glimpse at Larosa. "Songs, tales, gods, titles, none of that shit matters! I live for the hunt, and it's made a mess of other folks lives, you understand boy?"
"I was just…yes," William said, lowering his head.
Al put a hand on the young father, giving him a quick glare. "We're just tired. He's a crude iron bastard, that's all. You rest now too, ok?"
William shook his head, looking towards the fireborne tent, Marys and Carl still cursing at one another. "I know the Pyrs care little about him, especially the lady, but I just need a moment. Just a hand, and I'll be able to ease some of her grip on him."
Larosa's eyes lit up. "I've everything I need to drain the infection."
Wiliam shook his head. "No disrespect Master, but it's more than just a bite, it's a full-blown possession. He needs a proper priest a-."
"Yes, of course, but it's still a magic rooted with blood, something that's scientific in nature," Larosa blurted out, hands trembling. "Please, let me help you."
Hesitant, William nodded, and Larosa was to go wherever the Embers desired.
The decision was left with him; either hunt down and free Nathan from Quarrath's bite, or make for Marryvia at day break and storm Eldreth's walls. He gave himself until the morrow, not a wink of sleep, still finishing his keg.
Al slept beside him, on the outskirts of camp, long before he drank the last drop of ale.
His mind was made up. There'd be no more blood for Quarrath.
Carl was out and about, kicking rocks, a good distance from the camp. Sentries waved his majesty back, though he cursed them away, flinging around a horn of wine.
He made his way to the drunken fireborne king, the sentries stepping aside with a quick bow.
Carl grunted. "Fuck you want? Here to curse the name of the true fireborne ruler?"
He said nothing.
Were he to kill him right there and then, there'd be little but Parcales to send him back to the inn. The feather sword was nowhere to be seen, as likely to be instructed, but he knew the Phoenix was watching.
"I'm putting him to a holy noose," Pyr muttered. "The Turd Lord some call him. He's the reason *hic* we're all going to die out here!"
Leaning closer to him, he asked, "You have the stones to kill your own brother?"
Stiffness took Carl's body, as if he'd spoken some ominous curse.
Pale, wide eyed, and a growing fury, Carl threw the horn of wine, spilling some on himself, far as he could. As the horn knocked against moist rock, his majesty glared at him with veins throbbing along his forehead.
"He is not, my brother!" The king hissed.
With the help of a sentry, Carl stumbled back to camp.
He returned to Al, uncaring for the Pyr brothers any longer.
Let the lot sort themselves out, for the better of all fireborne fathers, sons, and brothers.