Wrymlung the Decayed

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Wrymlung hisses with pain as he awakens, his many bruises and sore muscles screaming out to him. He tries to stretch only to be met with a chorus of agony, everything down to his very sinew aching terribly with every movement he takes. Rolling out of bed, he steadies himself on the bedpost and catches himself in the floor-length mirror afforded him by her ladyship. Wrymlung stares into the eyes of his reflection made hollow by exhaustion with heavy, dark shadows sunk beneath them. Sighing, he makes his way to his wash basin, stripping off the clothes he had fallen asleep in as he treads over the cold stone. He pours out the water from the nearby pitcher into the basin and pushes out a breath through his nose, finding it to be as frigid as ice. Nevertheless, he dips his calloused hands into the clear water and washes his face. Taking a rough cloth, he dunks it into the basin and runs it over his scarred flesh, not caring about the small puddle forming at his feet from the rivulets of water tracing paths down his form. Once done, he sets the cloth aside and stares at his warped reflection in the water of the brass basin. The sounds of the world disappear once his head is fully submerged in the water where he lets it sit for a moment, relishing the chill. He runs his hands through his hair which is now far too long, creating a sea of black around him in the basin.

He gasps for air when his mouth breaks from the water when he finally drags himself out of the basin, his hair like a wet curtain over his eyes. The cold morning air rips his throat open and makes him cough while he slides his hair back to have him come face to face with his waterlogged form. Combing and tying up his hair, he dresses in his dark green garb before armoring himself, cursing at the straps of his gauntlets. Finally ready, he takes up his sword, buckling the belt about his plackart, and steps out of his room to greet the useless maid standing at the ready by his door.

"Lestoidea."

"Ser Wrymlung."

The young human woman holds up a tray in offering to him, baring a meager meal of a tankard of cider and a sausage roll. She doesn't look up at him, keeping her tired eyes upon her worn shoes, still refusing to wear the ones he bought for her. He takes the roll and bites a chunk out of it, observing her, still taken aback by how eerily stone-like she remains.

"I have told you many a time, Lestoidea, you need only leave the tray in my quarters and leave."

"It is my duty and honor to serve you, Ser Wrymlung. I shall wait upon you as is my position as your maid," Lestoidea replies in practiced rhythm.

Wrymlung finishes off the roll and dusts his chest of crumbs.

"Then, perhaps, if you are waiting each morn' till I wake, you might aid me with my armor."

"I dare not touch such prized items, Ser Wrymlung. The armor you wear was gifted to you by her ladyship, Giovanetta Mediti herself, and is therefore unfit for my common hands," Lestoidea recites her piece calmly, still not looking at him.

"Then there is no need for you to waste so much of the morning simply waiting for me to rise..."

"It is my honor-"

"Enough," he interrupts her and picks up the tankard, downing it all before replacing it upon the tray, "Be well, Lestoidea."

"May you conquer," Lestoidea bows to him as he walks away silently.

Wrymlung trudges through the halls, thinking of the play he watched at her ladyship's side just three days ago and imagining how it could have ended. Did the knight slay the terrible beast? Did she ever discover that it was her very own father who had been transformed? Alas, business had called them away and he heard the troupe had already moved on to head to the next city. Damn smugglers.

His path is well-worn by now, well enough that the servants barely have to think to avoid him as he walks, lost in thought. Taking the reins handed to him automatically, he swings onto the usual black horse assigned to him, pressing his legs down to urge the horse into a walk, lining up with the awaiting train just behind the carriage to wait. His thoughts rifle through all that he'll need to attend to once they return: drills, checking the stables, oiling his sword... He sighs at the list, his breath creating a faint mist in the air, which is the very moment Lady Giovanetta appears, shrouded in emerald wool. She steps into the carriage with the aid of her most trusted servant, Alda without sparing a glance to anyone.

Once Alda settles in, Wrymlung raises his hand and slings it forward, shouting, "Advance!"

Hooves and armored feet pound the earth as they all begin to march from the grounds of the fief to the main road. It's a sluggish and frustratingly slow journey with how the roads have become soaked from the rain that fell just the night before but Wrymlung cares very little, happy to spend the time in his mind. He breathes in the chilly air as he looks around at the surrounding fields now brown with the coming fall. Barley hangs heavy along the roadside that quickly loses its head whenever there is enough of a delay for the horses to meander and nip at the grass.

It's jarring once they make it into the city proper, the cobblestone roads making the horses bump and shudder uncomfortably for the riders while the carriage rolls along smoothly. The crowd parts for them all, some even going so far as to show deference once they see the banners flying from the poles the bannermen carry. Wrymlung shakes himself back to the present, eyeing the crowd as they trundle along and taking in the peddlers and green grocers with passing interest. He promptly ignores the risque paintings of Venena Mediti once he spots them, a faint flush dusting his neck. Pointedly turning his gaze away, he searches the crowd once more only for time to seem to slow down as he watches an elvenkind man whip out a blade with a furious burn in his eyes that are locked onto the carriage.

Wrymlung slips off of his mount, his sabatons chipping cobble upon his landing but he doesn't slow for a moment, rushing into the path of the assailant. With a single blow to the gut, Wrymlung has the man stumbling in a daze, still keeping a firm grip on his blade. Tearing the short sword from the man in the clothes of a smith, Wrymlung grabs him by the scruff of his neck to slam him into the road, battering him bloody. Sound returns to him once his heart has slowed enough to quell the blood rushing in his ears and he can hear the commotion around him. People scream at the sight of the smith as Wrymlung drags him up to face the now-stopped carriage, his nose broken and bleeding with his chipped teeth grit in pain and fury as he eyes Wrymlung with pure malice.

A shuffle happens inside the carriage and Alda pulls back the curtain to allow her ladyship to look down upon her would-be killer.

Lady Mediti remains impassive as she leers at the two of them for a moment before ordering, "Kill him."

The man struggles and shouts curses at Lady Giovanetta even as the curtain falls back into place. A chill runs down Wrymlung's spine, his vision becoming unfocused as he unsheathes his blade, lining it up with the smith's throat without looking, his eyes twitching at the man's shouts that quickly turn into cries for mercy. He begs Wrymlung to not take his life. He has a family.

Wrymlung's blade easily slides through the delicate flesh of the smith's throat, turning the pleas into gurgles until the man goes limp. Not looking down at the corpse that now lies limp on the ground, Wrymlung stands to his feet, taking out a cloth to clean his blade before sheathing it.

"Someone take that away," Wrymlung orders, tossing the cloth to the side as he mounts his horse, "Do not let it sully her ladyship's sight."

Wrymlung eyes train firmly forward, murmuring, "A sharp blade is a kind blade."