(I believe we miss one rp in between here, one of my favorites which showed the serious side of jonn's personality (which became the only side of his personality over time) as he first goes off to Forland to fight the southern league. we catch up with him in Sir Woolston O'Deathh's camp on the eve of the massive and bloody battle of Thar Gortauth a couple campaigns later...)
Late was the hour, and the oil-lamps and campfires played at madness, sending shadows dancing in all directions. The encampment of the Damned United grumbled softly against the night, against the fervid silence of the eve of great battle. Far off in the distance, the intermittent winding of Dharan war-horns on the march, each soft-arriving blast a thunderbolt in the dark. A red day for the proud men of Luria, outnumbered and unyielding in their camps, come the sunrise.
The sudden approach of hooves sent a tremor through the camp. All noise ceased save the loosening of swords in their scabbards, the soft slap of wood on flesh as pikes were palmed. A surprise attack? Had the Dharans sent an advance force under cover of darkness, the far-off horns a ruse? The seconds stretched out into eternity.
At last a signal was given. A ripple of relief passed through the camp as the watchman gave the all-clear, and the palisade gates were thrown open to welcome the unannounced guests.
Eight riders materialized out of the gloom, their head clad in all black, hooded and cloaked. The encampment burst forth in a gale of cheer as the pair who flanked him came into view, for one bore a stark black banner, the sign of House Dodger and the Wolves of War, at whose side the United had fought in the skirmishes along the road to Thar Gortauth. Four riders followed these first three, soldiers all in black, and in the rear a man dressed in the grey vestments of a healer, riding a mule. These latter five bore great rucksacks to either side of their saddles.
The lead rider dismounted, followed closely by the two who had flanked him, and cast off his hood with a flourish. A tumble of long golden curls flowed forth, held back only by a slender circlet of spun truesilver, which glowed with a light uncast by moon or flame. Jonn Dodger, head of House Dodger of the Dark Isle, now Knight of Askileon, beamed as Lord Woolston O'Deathh of Niselur, now himself a foreign Knight of the Silver City, strode forth to greet his guest. They clasped forearms firmly, exchanging warm greetings as the usual pleasantries as the encampment once more burst into cheer; the rucksacks had been thrown open, and the riders began distributing their contents freely among the assembled men: smoked redfish, wrapped in grape leaves, and great loaves of black bread.
"Excuse the late hour of my coming, Sir Woolston," said Sir Jonn, clasping the Niselurian by the shoulder. "I would have availed myself of the hospitality of your camp before now, except that we found ourselves preoccupied with taking the region for the Realm, and once that deed was done, a brief fishing trip along the coast. Now I fear it may be our last chance to sup together in peace, as tomorrow brings us unwelcome guests to share our food and board, and I know not what kind of appetite these D'Haran lords possess. If you do not object, let us repair to your command tent, and we'll share a morsel; perhaps, if there is time, you might also share a tale of your realm that has been lost, for I am fascinated by this land of which I know so little."
Sir Woolston having no objection, he ushered Lord Jonn and his two companions to the command tent at the center of the camp; they were followed by the grey-clad healer, who brought with him the fifth rucksack in silence. This last one made ready to serve the others around Sir Woolston's austere table of undecorated wood as Sir Jonn introduced his companions. The banner-bearer, whose brown teeth never ceased to show for his incessant smiling, was Captain Oswald; the grim-looking man with the dark and foreign complexion was oddly named Thursday, which Sir Jonn mentioned as if nothing were amiss. "And this one," said Sir Jonn, indicating the healer, is Selmon of Askileon, a most competent healer, and more importantly, the best campfire cook I have encountered in all my travels." Selmon looked up briefly, blinking; he did not return Sir Woolston's nod of greeting, but demurely returned to his rucksack.
The conversation flowed as Selmon set forth course after course. A crusty white bread, baked with herbs, served with grapes and goat cheese; smoked redfish with capers (the capers reserved for the noblemen and their closest attendants, of course) upon leaves of spinach; and at last, jars of a curdled milk sweetened with honey. Sir Woolston raised an eyebrow to see such fare served on the eve of battle; he was unused to such luxury in the field. Sir Jonn laughed and sat back in his chair, patting his belly.
"I see you are unused to such things in war, Sir Woolston. You must forgive me; I fear I am a bit of an epicure, and an expert in procuring what sates my tastes. You see, I come from the Dark Isle, in the far-flung Far East. It is a land rich neither in resources nor gold; my people long ago learned that the fine things in life are taken by the sword. I am a descendant of bandit princes, and a bit of a privateer myself; in my youth I was known to predate upon the Southron merchants that braved the waters around my homeland, merchants being far too wealthy for commoners, and foreigners besides. I have found this region of Thar Gortauth quite hospitable for my tastes, and I and my men have availed ourselves of her hospitality quite liberally." He laughed again, and Sir Woolston could not help but laugh along.
"So come, my dear comrade-in-arms, and help me finish this meal; we have brought enough for breakfast as well, and if those maddening war-horns are any sign, our guests shall arrive with the sunrise. We have brought a different meal for them, a splendid feast; so let us enjoy these hours before dawn, and then we'll fete our foreign friends, and give them a taste of Lurian hospitality."
