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Keeping it all in the family (on)


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#1 Guest_Ursula_*

Posted 03 May 2004 - 02:43 AM

Howdy! Squire Primkin's adventures continue. Hopefully relatively (haha pun intended!) Angst-free.

I suppose the quiz may change soon. If it does, maybe I'll pollute the next quiz w/ it. If not, well, whatever.

I hope it's to your liking. Again, if it isn't please feel free to let me know.

Take care, and thanks for reading. :wink:

DISCLAIMER: Bigot alert. Someone is *not* nice!


 

"--And when are you going to settle down and start a family?"

"Mother!" was shouted from one larynx, gasped from another.

It's funny; as squires we sometimes lose sight of our knight-trainers and -commanders as being "real" people with "real" family...and therefore "real" family problems. I suppose I tend to forget these things even more often than my peers, given my heritage. So I relish those instances where our superiors reveal themselves as mere flesh-and-blood like the rest of us.

Except...except I am not supposed to be witnessing any such intimacies: I was sent to deliver a message, not to eavesdrop on Knight Eric van Stratten and his folks. It's just that I didn't want to barge in on Sir Eric--he might have been engaged in some important business, or some delicate counseling with his squire--and consequently I thought I'd listen at the keyhole in order to make sure I wasn't interrupting at an inconvenient time.

Speaking of which, now seems as good a time as any. I rap upon the door.

"Enter." Am I mistaken, or does his tenor voice pitch even higher than normal?

I promptly obey. Within the somewhat crowded, uncomfortably warm office I see the Knight-Commander himself, flanked by an almost-elderly matron in an ample, grey silk gown (the putative mother), and a youngish--but still older than me--lady in a pale blue version of the same apparel (the apparent sister). Yet the richness of the women's garb isn't what draws my attention; rather, I find myself spellbound by the uncanny similarities between the three individuals. Even without my unauthorized knowledge, I should have intuited some familial relationship between the three from their eyes alone: where else have I seen eyes exactly that shape, exactly that aqua shade? They share other similarities, like facial features (especially the chin and those dimples), hair (all straight and thin, except that the sister's retains a youthfully golden hue, whereas Sir Eric's has begun to tinge red, and the matron's has become mostly grey with outposts of strident red).

The three identical sets of eyes fasten upon me simultaneously, but Sir Eric's definitely gleam their relief, and his are the only eyes that matter. "Squire Primkin, may I help you?" he asks with more eagerness than I ever recall having heard from him before...or at least when talking with me. This desperation jars me just a little: I have difficulty reconciling the puissant knight Sir Eric van Stratten with this nervous, cornered manchild.

I draw myself up straight. "Yes, sir. The Prelate asked to speak with you in the Council Chambers." I'm not sure whether to add this second part in front of strangers; they don't know Prelate Reirrac and therefore might misconstrue his words. Oh well, best be thorough. "He said it wasn't urgent, but--" I shrug. We both know that, no matter what the Prelate says, he still expects his underlings to comply instantly; it mystifies me that he bandies about the phrase "not urgent" so often, almost as though it were a code for something else.

The knight-commander has already risen from his chair before I complete my gesture. "Very well, squire; I'll be there at once."

Task completed, I spin on my heel so I can depart--"Squire, wait!"--but my luck runs sour, surprise-surprise. I sigh and continue my revolution until I face my knight-commander once again.

I ask, "Yes, sir?" I really don't have a good feeling about this.

"You will stay here until I return. Is that clear?"

Stay...here? With Sir Eric's kin? Alas, it's all very clear, too clear, painfully clear--and it's not fair at all. Life in an orphanage has precious few perks, true enough, but at least I never had to make small talk with someone else's family. Come to think of it, I didn't have to make small talk with my own family! Hmm...or make any talk whatsoever. There was a month towards the end of my stay when I did precisely that, said nothing at all, just to see whether anyone would notice. Nobody did.

Now I feel depressed.

Sir Eric stares expectantly at me. That smug bas--, er, man, knows I can't wiggle out of this! Grr! It won't do to display my pique, though, so I answer in a voice totally devoid of emotion, i.e., my "obediant squire" voice, "Yes, sir." Sir Eric has just earned himself some payback. I repress a sudden smirk. Yes, I'm sure Adv--, Antoniak and I can cobble some prank together. And who knows? Maybe van Stratten's mother, against all odds, is the doting kind and will provide embarrassing "remember when" Baby Eric stories. I hear that parents do that sort of thing. Of course, if his mother were prone to such stories, ten-to-one Sir Eric would never expose his family to me, despite the rudeness of leaving them unattended.

But then van Stratten gives me a relieved smile--what in Torm's name?!--and my resolution wobbles. He bids his mother and sister goodbye, then leaves.

It would've been nice for him to introduce us formally before leaving us alone together! Ah yes, this convenient (for him!) oversight has firmed up my resolve for vengeance. Except--well, I'll have to pray to Torm first. Is pranking in the name of payback a sin in Torm's sight?

All of this speculation engages me, but it does not resolve my current difficulties.

I feel torn. Can I get away with standing here like a golem and ignoring these women? Highly unlikely. The women would complain to Sir Eric, who in turn would make my life miserable for the next few tendays. There's nothing for it, then. Before the silence can overwhelm us, I pace towards the two elegant ladies, the elder of whom is regarding me as one might a louse. How delightful! I smile and introduce myself. "Hello. I am Squire Primkin." I offer my hand--

--and it's promptly ignored!

The older woman stares down her nose at me, never mind that she has to tilt her head upwards in order to do so. "Surely you have some first name other than 'squire,'" she sniffs.

I hesitate and say, "Yes I do." I remove my hand from her vicinity. Courtesy is one thing, but I won't give this stranger a chance to keep rejecting me.

"Well?" the matron demands.

Dreck! Oh well, no use trying to be too diplomatic, as she'll likely construe insult no matter what I say. Hmm. I might as well get some fun out of the situation. "No, that's not it," I smile once again. I try to replicate Squire Handke's patented vacant expression, but only Torm knows whether I've succeeded.

"I did not mean--ooh! This all most vexing!" the van Stratten matriarch grouses.

Much to my surprise, her younger cohort giggles. "Oh, mother! She's teasing you like Eric does."

For not the first time, I mentally curse the knight-commander. He's not here, and he still manages to ruin my fun! So much for playing the dolt.

"Hmph! Familiarity amongst the commons," the older woman complains. "Most irregular."

"Mother!" the blonde protests in horror, and then descends into a soft murmur. Even though she whispers into her dam's ear, I still comprehend her words; undead hunters must have accute hearing, after all. "I should imagine she's of the gentry at the very least. Her accent is quite refined."

Hah! Apparently those hours spent studying with the Deneirath did come in handy after all! I'll have to share this anecdote with the Glyphscribe; he'll surely get a kick out of it.

"Hmm, perhaps," the matron admits grudgingly. She, unlike her daughter, sees no cause to whisper. Her eyes glitter appraisingly. "Perhaps," she repeats with more enthusiasm. "Yes, yes; I thought that nose looked familiar."

My...nose? She's judging me on the basis of my nose? And my accent? What next? Shall I balance a set of tomes upon my head? (Hopefully none of the more worm-infested volumes!) Or will she have me open my mouth so she can examine my teeth?

Maybe she reads my mind, for the mother smiles and shows me all her teeth (including the fake ones) and extends her own hand, which I reluctantly accept. Although a corner of my mind savors the prospect of snubbing this haughty woman in turn--I am merely human, you know--paladins are supposed to suppress their more petty emotions like spite, and in any event I really don't want to wind up in trouble with Sir Eric!

"Good business," she proceeds in a crisp tone. "I am the Lady van Stratten, and this is my daughter, Miss van Stratten."

I bob a half-curtsy. Oh, how my tongue longs to repeat her barb about their having real first names! Only with my strictest discipline does my mouth form the socially acceptable response, which just happens to be an outright lie. "It's an honor to make your acquaintances my lady, my ladies," I amend. I idly wonder why Torm does not strike me down where I stand for my perfidy--

--Why do I hear laughter in my mind? Great, now I'm hearing voices.--

"Blancheflor," the more youthful woman murmurs, "but Eric just calls me Blanche."

Someone in the van Stratten palace must have enjoyed romantic classics. My guess is Lord van Stratten, as his helpmate seems much too genteel to bother with the horridly messy and fagging business of reading. My amusement at the outlandish, cliched name quickly transmutes into chagrin: now I have no excuse not to furnish my own name. Not that it should matter, of course. I don't expect to encounter these women ever again, and nor would they care to boast about our "acquaintance." "Prudence," I tell her. "Prudence Primkin." Now maybe they can just leave me alone, or even send me on my merry way?

Not a chance!

"Very well, Prudence," Lady van Stratten says. She pats the empty chair besides her. "Be a dear and have a seat, won't you?"

I don't know what scares me more: the old gal's rictus-grin, or her overly ebullient, not to mention sudden, concern for my person. I swallow a chuckle at the thought: good thing Knight Shentkull isn't here; as the Undead Hunter was becoming a bit unhinged (and no, training me has nothing to do with it, no matter what Blaie claims), he'd probably mistake her for a newly-raised corpse and then start in on her with his Special Stakes.

Sir Eric would not be pleased. Or maybe he would, but I wouldn't bet on it.

"Yes, milady." I reluctantly sit in Sir Eric's chair. The proximity of these two nobles would alone unnerve me, but I can scarcely bring myself to use Sir Eric's chair, for a different reason: it seems...wrong, disrespectful, almost as if I were to swipe his armor and wear it into combat. Hmm, considering some of the "meetings" he endures in his chair, this may not be an entirely inappropriate analogy.

"Prudence, eh?" Blanche van Stratten comments. "Let me guess: your father is a religious figure, a priest or the like."

"Yes," is my cautious response, but I volunteer nothing further. Maybe this admission will suffice to disenchant Lady van Stratten; one mustn't mix with penniless clergyfolk, na?

"Ooh!" The younger van Stratten's voice catches. She demurely grabs a wispy handkerchief from her bodice and dabs her eyes with it. "I see! Your mother married beneath her station, because she fell in love with a humble man of god. How--how romantic!" She gasps and apparently swallows a sob.

What in Torm's name...? I'd disabuse her of such a fanciful notion, but I don't know enough details of my mother's background to refute van Stratten's sister: momm--, mother died young, and father couldn't bear to talk of her, even (or is that especially?) to me. Then again...do I want to disabuse Sir Eric's sister? This could be a great deal of fun-- Well, of course I wouldn't want to lie or hurt her, intentionally or otherwise, but--

Oh, blast and bother!

I opt to humor her--more out of courtesy to her, rathen than for my own entertainment. She made an innocent error in my favor (at least in her eyes; I really don't care who my parents are, or were); why should I embarrass her for it? Nor will I string her along and create a false life story. She and her mother can believe what they want, since it won't hurt anyone. It's not as though I'll ever see them again anyway.

"Tosh! There's nothing remotely romantic about weakening the blood lines," the older woman declares. "'Marry for love'? Hmph! That sounds so very noble, but believe you me it is utter and sheer nonsense."

"Aw, mother!"

The lady reaches across me to clasp her daughter's hand. "I know, dear; it's difficult to discard the myths from our childhood, the tales about love conquering all, the princess who kisses a turtle and turns it into a prince," the mother's face screws up in confusion as she considers what she has just said, "and all that rubbish, but look who made them: a bunch of upstart, commoner bards, is who. Bronze through and through. Hmph!"

Interesting how only we commoners seem capable of creating enduring legends, though, huh? Oh wait; it's not my place to mouth off to my betters.

Sir Eric is going to pay for ordering my continued presence here!

Speaking of Sir Eric, how did he wind up so normal? Um...comparatively speaking, that is. Unless he silently harbors the same prejudices? Nah. Tyr wouldn't like that.

Now Sir Eric's mother lets go of her daughter and lays her flabby hand upon my shoulder. Ugh! No one touches me; no one! "The ones who pay the price for such follies are the children. What are we to do with the half-bloods? They're much too fine to consort with commoner rabble, but at the same time one cannot accept them as if they weren't...tainted, can one?"

Tainted? What a hoot! If anything, this woman's inbreeding seems to have caused her no little harm. If she keeps talking in my direction, she might become even more harmed--despite my best intentions! I pray to Lord Torm for patience.

"Mother! That's harsh!"

"Well, my dear, the truth often is." The old windbag sighs melodramatically. "Honestly, look at her!" She points at me with her free hand. "You can tell she has superior blood in her, can't you?" How can they tell anything about my blood when it's safely on my inside? "But she still has her defects." She squeezes my shoulder slightly. "Now, I'm not blaming you, hon; it's not your fault--you're the victim in this! You are the one who lives with the consequences of what was done to you."

Frankly I'm more peeved by something else that was done to me, namely being forced to endure her very insulting drivel.

"But for good or ill, blood will always tell. I can assure you this, that a pureblooded noblewoman would never, ever wear metal clothes and hack up other people with swords. But you probably can't help yourself, can you?" Another one of those phony, condescending smiles grace her face. "You can at least thank your superior half that you're able to control your more...excuse me, unwholesome impulses, and channel them into honorable combat."

This last contention riles me up! I find myself incapable of speech. Torm, why do you try my patience? Then I think: why should this fool's deluded ramblings bother me at all? She's just Sir Eric's mother; she isn't him. This woman could definitely learn from his example. I can only hope that her daughter hasn't been permanently warped by this noissome mindset. I can't tell; in her own way, Miss Blanche is as difficult to read as Sir Eric himself.

My composure slowly returns to me. I should just let Lady van Stratten continue her blood purity speech, but I will share some home truths with her first, Sir Eric's displeasure be damned!

"Firstly, my career choice owes nothing to my blood, or any base impulses. I follow Lord Torm. It is His call which leads me to the battlefield as opposed to," I pause and try to think of an appropriate domestic scene, "the loom or the parlor. I am honored to serve Him. I am nothing without my Lord." These words sound banal, too pat, but they're invariably true. If it weren't for Him, I'd be dead or Fallen. He is the only reason I continue, why I have the strength to continue. But these self-satisfied nobles in their silks, with their doting entourages and gay fests, they would never know.

"You sound just like Eric," the girl coos.

"Indeed." An odd note of grievance tinges the matron's response.

"Secondly, I do not wield a sword." At least not yet. "I use a quarterstaff in combat." Dead is still dead, whether death results from aerated innards, or a caved-in cranium. I don't expect these two women to understand, however.

"A...a what?" Lady van Stratten inquires.

"Mother! It's a big pole--"

"--I beg your pardon--oh! Not like the one--"

"Exactly like the one Lady Enid used to carry."

The hackles rise on my neck: Enid, a staff? A staff-wielding Enid? Nah, it couldn't be; it just couldn't be. It's a coincidence, is all. Ten to one there are dozens of women with that name, and the odds are pretty good that I'm apt to encounter more than one Enid who--who--

"You see!" The older woman enthusiastically buffets my shoulder with almost painful force. "Good blood will tell! Despite everything, you have taken up the most genteel of weaponry."

If she saw me in hand-to-hand combat with a bandit, she would eat her words--but only after she got through retching, swooning, or doing whatever it is "delicate" noblewomen are supposed to. Brains out the ears is probably one of the most sickening side-effects of a solid head blow. Blood out the eyeballs is another hideous consequence. The sound...the sound isn't pleasant either.

Genteel weaponry indeed!

The woman interrupts my thoughts once more. "Yes, you'll do nicely."

What the blazes does she mean?! "Excuse me, but what--"

Before I can continue, however, the door slams open. "My word!" Lady van Stratten barks with no little disapproval.

No, not her word; Bjornin's word! For none other than Knights Bjornin and Shentkull have arrived on the scene; and whereas Shentkull shuns most small talk, Bjornin has never encountered a conversation he hasn't tried to weasel his way into, and then subvert for his own verbal meanderings.

Both saviors, er, knights look about the office as though to apprise themselves of the situation. Shentkull unsurprisingly reacts first; hunting the undead tends to sharpen one's reflexes. The Helmite's eyes narrow as he reaches for his conveniently-located, hand-carved, consecrated-to-Helm Special Stakes. He takes one step forward...only to shake his head and return his stakes to their original locale.

Bjornin snorts, "I don't blame you, Serge--"

I'm continually surprised by my knight-sponsor. It's easy to underestimate him--Torm, I do it all the time!--because of his verbosity, friendliness and his totally different perspective of the Toril around us. And yet, he's still undoubtedly a paladin. He's much more observant than I've given him credit for. He only appears to become totally oblivious when he gets into "talking up a storm" mode, but as that is his normal MO...

Burning eyes turn upon the Lathanderite as Knight Shentkull snarls, "Don't call me Serge!"

"Oh, alright. Not in front of the womenfolk, eh?" Bjornin slaps Sir Sergeius on the back, which causes the latter to flinch away. My sponsor then swivels in our direction and executes a perfect bow. "Good day, er, business, madames. I am Knight Bjorn Bjornin, Paladin of Lathander, and my companion here is Knight Sergeius Shentkull, Undead Hunter of Helm. Who might you be?"

"It isn't your place for the likes of you to question me, peasant!"

Sir Bjorn's mouth gapes open while Sir Sergeius' twitches in his equivalent of a belly laugh. The Lathanderite's gaze flickers uncertainly from the irate noblelady, to Shentkull, to myself, but he doesn't quite know what to do or say to extricate himself.

To my surprise, the blonde rises from her chair and curtsies. "Hi. I am Blancheflor van Stratten--"

"--Dear! Don't you dare lower yourself by--"

Sir Bjorn beams once more. He reaches out for the youngest van Stratten's hand and kisses it, not merely perfunctorially, but with a flair of elegance. "Enchanted, milady." Shentkull nods curtly and grunts.

Blanche's hand lingers within Bjornin's grasp until the matron clears her throat, and then the sister jerks her hand away. "What are you doing here?" the van Stratten matriarch demands.

Bjornin continues to stare into the younger van Stratten's eyes and for once remains speechless. "Order business," Shentkull mutters. My specialization counselor folds his arms and regards the two women with quizzical contempt.

Lady van Stratten huffs, "Well, obviously! One of his blood would not otherwise associate with your ilk."

"Hmm?"

I wince. This prideful woman has no idea of the thin ice she has stranded herself upon. Sir Bjorn does, however. He awakens from his reverie and hurriedly intervenes, "Actually, we were looking for Eric," here the matriarch fumes and mutters something about a presumption, "to square away Squire Primkin's schedule for the next term."

My eyes bug. Torm, no! The last thing in Toril I need--or want!--is for Knight Bjornin to meddle with my schedule. "But you never participate--"

Bjornin waves his hand. "Well, no; I don't suppose I have until now, but that's just because things were simple before." He smiles. "I trust your and Eric's understanding of the core curriculum more than I trust my own, and that's why I used to skive out on your counseling sessions. What's the use in muddying the waters, as it were? Now, however," he gestures wide with his arms, "you're on the brink of your knighthood, and I want to make sure you don't shortchange yourself of the classes you need in order to become a happy, well-adjusted human being. Maybe you're a paladin and a squire, but you're a person first; remember that." Unshed ears glitter in his eyes.

I cannot doubt his sincerity, although his latest display of emotion unnerves me again. "Um, thank you, Sir Bjorn."

Blancheflor van Stratten clasps her hands against her bosom. "Oooh, that is so deep!"

Three sets of eyes glare upon her, but neither she nor Bjornin seem to notice. My knight-sponsor crooks a smile. "Thank you m'lady. Now, I was thinking about the self-actualization course--"

Oh no, not Keys to Self-Actualization; the knight-trainers relegate the so-called basket cases to that class! Not that I'm a great squire, but I'm not generally considered troubled or underachieving, either. Illington, on the other hand, has attended for the last three years, I believe on account of his lack of initiative. I wouldn't even know that this comprises one of his electives, except that his best friend Antoniak Adveras teases him about it, to which Illington quips that at least he never flunked Elementary Potions.

"Absolutely not!" Shentkull growls. "It conflicts with Introduction to Stealth Techniques--"

"--She's a paladin! We don't sneak up on anyone! Lathander, as though she could hide from anyone in that pretty armor of hers--"

My patience snaps. "Hey!" I protest. "Do not insult the Holy Tint!" The nerve of Mr. Pink Disk, making fun of my God's choice in colors.

"I wasn't! I was just saying--"

"Consider 'saying' less," Shentkull advises. "You get into less trouble that way."

Bjornin rubs at his beard. "You think so?" Shentkull nods. "Hmm, I'll have to think about it, then; discuss it perchance with Eric. He's very good spotting these things." Sir Bjorn clears his throat. "Just let me explain; I meant that she wears her tinted armor, whereas you have black, and I'd imagine that stealthing would prove more difficult for a lass in dark crimson than in black--Say! How did you manage that?"

Shentkull and I look at one another. Precisely whom does Sir Bjorn address?

"The black armor!" Bjornin explains. "I thought your god was awfully particular on His faithful having shining, bright armor."

Knight Shentkull radiates impatience. "He is. He gave me a special dispensation--"

"--I was thinking that," Sir Bjorn muses, "but that seems out of character for Him too, doesn't it? The rules are rules, and botheration for anyone who so much as squints at them."

"I will not have you impugn my Lord!"

Not good, not good at all! This tiff forces me to intervene, "Um, speaking of my classes--"

"I'm not, old chum. I just thought that Helm bending the rules for anyone, or anything, would be as miraculous as if my Lord decided to sleep in on tenth day--"

"He has not bent the rules," Shentkull whispers in a shocked tone. "I still maintain my armor with as much care as anyone with regular full plate." In truth, does this differ at all with the permission Helm granted His servant Knight Delryn to wear red dragon armor? Nor is this an idle favor. In a crypt, one needs all the advantages one can get.

The Undead Hunter's lips press thin, and he adds, "I would even warrant that I maintain my armor much better than some paladins with unadorned steel--"

Sir Bjorn blinks. "Er, was that an insult?"

"--so do not involve me in your petty blasphemies."

"I, a blasphemer? I say, that was an insult!"

I make inadvertant eye contact with Blanche, who giggles nervously. "Um, wouldn't this be a good time for a moment of silence," I recommend.

Lady van Stratten will have none of this, however. "Typical! Quarrelsome louts, commoners all."

"Mother!"

"This is none of your business--"

"Siaphore's Cup it isn't! You have intruded upon our genteel conversation--in my son's office, I might add--with your churlish little quarrel. I find your lack of basic courtesy and breeding offensive--"

"Mother!" The mortified young noble hides her face behind her hands. "Must you always embarrass me?"

"I'm sorry, dear, but a pretty face does not necessarily equal good breeding--"

"Excuse me, but do you always talk about people's supposed breeding in front of them?" Bjornin wants to know. I must admit I'm curious myself.

"Pretty much," Blanche admits.

"One might say that discussing breeding is bad breeding," Sir Bjorn asserts more forthrightly than previously.

At this comment, Blanche blushes further while her mother begins to shout her disagreement. Sir Sergeius, by contrast, looks quite diverted by the discussion and begins to beam openly at the discord, which awakens Blanche's ire. She smacks the undead hunter's cheek. "You are so...so insensitive!"

The clamor rages about me. I slump further in my, um Sir Eric's chair--drat the drecking dreckard!--and further, and then I come up with a great idea...

* * * * * * * * * *

Sir Eric van Stratten rubbed his forehead. He had an Abyss of a headache, although whether it devolved from his hectic schedule in general, or the events of today in particular, the knight hadn't a clue. He did not know how much longer he could continue to juggle his duties as a field operative, in addition to those as the knight-commander in charge of the squire program. Every day he held it all together was a minor miracle in his eyes. He definitely did not need any further difficulties.

His mother's visit certainly hadn't helped. Once more he found himself puzzling over his parents' marital union. Was it an arranged marriage? He could hardly imagine love spurring their union, for it was all too evident that connubial bliss had played a negligible role, at best, in their marriage's later years. His sire had been only too ready to enter that monastary and take vows of silence, and his mother had been only too willing to oblige him.

It was a pleasure to see Blanche again, though. She was looking well. Yes, she truly had blossomed over these past few months. Eric's face creased into a smile. It was even worth the hassle of enduring their mother's nonsensical bloodline purity rants to enjoy his sister's company. The cavalier frowned. But what horrible timing! His mother was just on the brink of winding down her diatribe, and vacating the Chapterhouse, when the Prelate's messenger had called Eric away. Now his mother would likely cycle through all her complaints once more from the very beginning, and at double the volume. He sighed.

Would to Tyr that Sir William had sent an Ult or Penult instead! Oh well. At least, of all the junior squires, the messenger had been Primkin. Van Stratten shuddered at the possible consequences of any other member of that particular class being sent. Adveras would likely become enraged by Lady van Stratten's tactless slurs and would undertake some mischievious (alright; malicious) pranks against her; he would never hear the end of that! His own squire, Anra Blaie, would fawn over both ladies and lap up their "bloodline superiority" chatter...and might even believe that he shared (and condoned) his mother's views. No, that simply would not do! It had taken him considerable effort to train this prejudice out of Blaie in the first place. Lady van Stratten would probably cow Illington--Tyr knew the youngster had enough life issues as it was, without adding the forceful matron to the mix. The intellectually-limited Handke would either offend or underwhelm the van Stratten women (Eric's lip twitched at the thought of the Helmite showing Lady van Stratten how to polish armor) to the extent where mother would renew her demands that Eric quit the Order. So Primkin really was the least of all evils.

Primkin wasn't happy with him and would make him pay somehow for her role as escort this afternoon. Childish? Yes, Understandable? Certainly. He would just play along. He pretty much had it coming, after all: if she had endured whatever abuse his mother had thrown her way, with a sardonic dig here and there as the only consequence (and his mother, he'd learned at an early age, was pretty much oblivious to sarcasm), then Eric could jolly well deal with whatever reprisals the squire could craft for him.

If only he'd had the nerve to leave his mother and sister alone in the office! He hadn't been able to quite put it past his mother to wander off on her own and unwittingly endanger herself, however. Tyr help her if she'd stumbled into Sergeius at an inopportune moment, or discovered the training salles during archery practice, or accidentally interrupted the potion brewing at a critical juncture, or found a sword and--and--and-- No, leaving them alone did not even bear consideration! He would not risk his mother's life out of convenience; he was certain he had chosen the correct action.

So why did his trepidation increase with step he took towards his office?

He was about a corridor away when he first heard the shouts. It didn't have to be his office, he argued. It could just be...be Donalus and Anomen "discussing" their views of Glymtuls. Or...or perhaps Sir Emil had caught Squire Adveras in mid-prank. Or maybe--

He turned the corner and could not deny it: the row definitely came from his office.

Damn!

A semi-circle of junior knights clustered about his office door, looking indecisively at one another, and then at the door, until one Helmite noticed his approach. "Sir Eric! We were--"

"Return to your previous stations," van Stratten bit out. "Your assistance is appreciated, but you are not needed here." He winced as a particularly shrill vituperation reverbrated in the corridor. But wait! Was that an answering growl in baritone?! What in Tyr's name was going on in there?

The other knights gratefully melted away.

Eric breathed deeply. What could have gone wrong? Oh well; waiting out here would not resolve matters. Onwards into the fray. He threw open the door.

His quivering, tomato-red mother was shrieking something unintelligible, save for the last word, "Bloodlines," which she directed at Bjornin--what the Abyss was Bjornin doing there?! Bjornin was turning a shade that would rival his holy symbol as he began his response. "Well, if you worried more about fostering new growth, instead wallowing around in this "blood superiority" rot--" Lady van Stratten would not allow him to continue, however, and issued some more definitive, derogatory pronouncements.

"Let go of me!" This was hissed by his sister, whose wrists were being held in Sir Sergeius' hand. Eric felt a wave of anger, until he noticed the considerable bruising on the undead hunter's otherwise pale cheek. This clue stayed the cavalier's tongue, at least until he could determine what occurred. Still, a swell of pride at Blanche's prowess almost made him smile.

"You attacked me first," Knight Shentkull said. "I am protecting myself."

"Let go!" Sir Eric definitely heard some desperation here. "You're hurting me."

"Promise not to do it again?"

Blanche sobbed while she nodded vigorously. Shentkull released her wrists and assumed a defensive position, which amused the knight-commander, as the undead hunter was wearing his suit of full plate and was probably as well-protected as possible, with the exception of his head.

The youngest van Stratten began to massage her right wrist. Then she looked up with teary eyes at the cautious Helmite. "You're mean! You were laughing at my mom, and then you hurt me!"

Shentkull, for his part, looked moderately abashed. "Madame, I pass my days in tombs hunting down the undead. Dealing with living people is hardly my forte."

"Obviously!" A dreamy smile momentarily touched her lips. "Your friend is a lot nicer."

"'My friend' isn't faring much better than I." Shentkull glanced pointedly towards where the Lathanderite and Lady van Stratten were shouting at one another.

The young lady made to retort, but Sir Eric had other ideas. "Enough!" he thundered.

Sudden silence. And then--

"Eric, son, I cannot believe the base ore you must comport with--"

"Mother, please!"

The matron fell silent once more, with a pout this time.

"I--I must have time to discuss these knights' behavior with them," he explained more gently. This wasn't the absolute truth, but it was close enough for his purposes.

"Oh, very well," she said in the manner of bestowing a great favor. The hint of a smug smile found its way to the noblewoman's lips. "I am shocked and appalled--shocked and appalled!--that holders of the most ancient bloodlines can be treated so ill by so-called paladins. This is a very sad day, indeed! And after I had found you a bride. She was almost worthy of you, too."

The surprised peep emanating from, from--well, Eric didn't precisely know where from--echoed Eric's own misgivings. Before he could inquire further, however, his mother sniffed and urged Blanche, "Come along, dear. Let us leave for more...civilized surroundings."

"Bye, Eric." The bleary-eyed youth then smiled at Bjornin--Bjornin?!--who promptly smiled back. She glared at Shentkull, then followed her mother out the door. The door slammed loudly behind her.

No one spoke immediately. Finally, when Bjornin inhaled deeply as though in preparation for speech, Sir Eric held his hand aloft. "Never mind. Just answer me this: you did have a reason for calling?" Damn, his voice squeaked!

Sir Bjorn nodded. "Yes, Eric; the best. We wanted to go over my squire's schedule with you. Serge and I--"

"--Don't call me Serge!--"

"--had a few disagreements, and-- I say; where is the lass, then?" All three knights' heads swiveled about the room. Nothing.

Shentkull grumbled, "So much for her not being able to hide in armor, wouldn't you say?" His eyes glittered with rare malice, which van Stratten couldn't understand. He was sure he'd find out soon enough, however. He always became privy to these petty tiffs, whether he wanted to or not.

"Well, I'd say that if she got past you, then she doesn't need really need that stealth class after all."

"But she's not that good," Shentkull contended with no little confusion.

"Are you insulting my squire? Maybe you're just not as observant--"

"Stop! Both of you! You will leave my office--now! We will discuss this further tomorrow." He walked the two knights to the doorway and locked the door after they left. Then he stood just inside the threshhold, closed his eyes, and held his hand against his forehead. He took several slow, deep breaths. Finally he reached a decision. He might as well take the rest of the day off and rest in his room. An early night's rest would do him more good than struggling with his endless paperwork. Before he could reach for the doorknob, however, a distinctive clattering noise assailed his ear. His hand strayed towards his hilt, and he waited.

Suddenly he saw it--or, rather, her: Squire Primkin on all fours, crawling out from underneath his desk. Then she looked up and made eye contact with him. She froze.

"Um, oops?"

The knight-commander sighed, closed his eyes, and prayed fervently to Tyr under his breath; during this interval, the squire did not move, as the armor didn't clank. With an exaggerated calm, he re-opened his eyes and inquired, "Do I even want to know what you were doing under there?"

Primkin cocked her head slightly, and her eyes widened. "Uh, no?" Her voiced pitched high above her usual range.

"Good answer," he approved. "Now leave!"

"Yes, Sir Eric. Right away, Sir Eric." The squire began to crawl hurriedly towards the door, hesitated, then stood and dashed to the door. She tried the knob once, twice, thrice, with no result, and then (and only then) stared beseechingly at the cavalier. Sir Eric finally remembered he'd withdrawn the key. With a sigh he produced the piece of wrought iron, twisted it into the lock, opened the door, and watched the squire lunge out the doorway and sprint down the hall. He shut the door once more, locked it, closed the drapes, and collapsed into his chair. He rested his arms upon his desk, and laid his forehead upon his right wrist. He expected the numbness to claim him, or for him to drift into slumber, but instead he succumbed to unexpected laughter, gales of it.

Thank Tyr he wasn't a squire!




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