Welcome back. Today I bring you what I hope will be at least a small chain of rps. Guldor promised Nemean stories of old for every battle the young Noble participated in. Having done just that, Nemean's eager to claim his prize.
Collecting Tales
His very own tent. A round pavilion, the walls made of thick linnen and on the inside even lined with furs. Circled with shaped stones at the center sat a fire-pit. The evening before he had used the metal poker to carve a small horse on one of the stones. It didn't look as good as he'd wanted to but it felt good. A sturdy fieldbed decked with even more furs stood at the opposite side of the entrance. Next to it there was a proper weapon-stand. Gleaming daggers, two lances and again two swords nestled in its embrace.
Looking around the tent from his seated position behind his desk, a satisfied feeling settled over him. This was his now. His own. The smile that had formed upon his lips lessened a bit as he looked down at the letters that inhabited his desk. The latest of his replies only just being taken to the former Arbiter. Confidence surging, Nemean got up and finished off the last of the watered wine that remained in his cup.
Exiting the pavilion he was greeted with a curt ''Sir'' as the single guard acknowledged the young Noble. Nemean didn't regard the man, he was on a mission. The sun was out today its rays making everyone a little bit brighter. He still felt odd having the Nivemusians around. Something about them, their accent maybe. He wrinkled his nose as he caught sight of a group of their tribesmen but didn't linger. After a bit of a walk Nemean found what he had been looking for. Sir Guldor's standard.
The fabled warriors camp was situated just in front of a small brook. Allowing his bannermen prime access to fresh water, easy bathing and short trips for cooking water. Nemean envied the camp site but tried not to show it as one of Guldor's archers challenged him. ''Halt, who are you sir?'' The words polite but still firm. Standing a little taller Nemean indicated his embossed leather cuirass. ''I am Nemean of Houses JeVondair and Renodin. You don't recognize the Crest of the Xerarch?''
Regret would be an accurate description, relief another when Nemean simply passed the man by. The young man's stride brought him to Guldor's tent where he again was stopped. This time by two guards. Explaining his intend Nemean declared that he had come to visit the old warrior. To visit and to claim a reward.
