"The one thing I don't get how they keep goin' at it, back and forth, 'round and 'round. It looks downright monotonous if you ask me."

"No one asked you, you git."

"Just making a statement, 'tis all," the younger boy replies evenly to the older boy with a shrug of his shoulders.

"You're always 'just making a statement.' Can you ever just shut-up?" the older boy retorts. His dark eyes squint against the bright light of the afternoon as sweat pours down his brow, helped along by the warm metal of the breastplate of his young legionnaire's uniform. The fact that he stands at attention in the direct rays of the sun didn't help his situation, his pale skin starting to turn pink from the heat.

"Never really been one to take instruction well, now have I?" the younger boy counters. Absentmindedly spinning around an intricately carved dagger in one hand, his hazel colored eyes travel back forth between the two knights' skirmish in the large, dirt filled courtyard. It's the last skirmish of the day and the crowd is worked up, yelling and cheering every time of the fighters score a hit. The older knight is already on his guard, the other much younger knight rushing at him, his wooden and brass practice-sword held in the high guard of the offensive. The older knight stands his lower guard though, waiting for the inevitable mistake of his foe. But it doesn't come, for the younger knight feigns left, quickly sidestepping his own previous step, whipping around to the right and bringing his sword with him, slashing across the front of his practice partner. The other knight easily meets his opponent's sword, locking it with his own, though he misses the younger one's sidestep again, causing him to move slightly off-balance. It's enough of an opening for the younger knight to withdraw his sword and take another swipe across the older one's armored chest. It's not quite a direct hit, but close enough for the older knight to become alarmed, the younger knight's surefooted quickness being faster than initially expected.

"You see that?" the young legionnaire says excitedly. "He's fast, that one, the baby of the lot."

"He may be fast, but he doesn't keep a good guard," the younger one drawls. His lips curl into a knowing grin of satisfaction as the older knight almost scores a hit on the younger knight's shoulder, causing a murmur to run through the crowd. The younger one has barely a second to get away, but almost immediately he's moving again, easily ducking and dodging the strong blows of the older knight.

"He's slippery enough!" the young legionnaire retorts.

"Not quite up to par yet, though he'll be quite a sight to see in some years," his younger companion easily replies. "For now, he can only rely on attempting to let Peredur wear himself out. But Peredur's too smart for that."

"Eh, maybe. But still, the baby's wearing him out a hell of a lot more faster than expected."

"It's a farce…"

"My arse!"

"Must you two always argue!" Vanora spits out as she stands on the second rung of the wooden railing surrounds the courtyard. Suddenly, younger knight scores a ferocious hit on his opponent's leg, causing a few cheers to go up from the crowd. As the other one attempts a hit back while his opponent distractedly grins to the crowd's approval, the younger one suddenly sidesteps his move, scoring yet another hit on his opponent's back, causing Vanora to bring her fingers to mouth and give a piercing whistle of approval as she leans further over the railing. "He's certainly a sight to see, yeah?" she sighs, nodding at the younger knight, who's swiftly back on his guard again, his lanky body tense as he awaits the next move. Quickly pushing his longish black hair out of his crystal blue eyes, he grins a bit, his slightly freckled alabaster cheeks turning pink as he swings his sword downwards to defend against other knight moving towards him. While his opponent is older with his sixteen seasons, stationed at the wall for three years or so, this young one proves of the youngest of newly arrived company. Roughly only thirteen seasons or so, his astoundingly beautiful face still holds the tinge of alluring youth, only the dangerous glint in his eye hinting at a deeper maturity.

"Besides," Vanora continues, not bothering to turn around, eyes still watching the young knight. "Everyone knows Octavius is an idiot and Leonius talks too damn much…"

"Watch your mouth, little girl," Octavius growls, only causing Vanora to smile wickedly as Leonius rolls his eyes in exasperation.

"Least I'm not standin' here frying to death," she retorts, turning around and poking a finger into his metal breastplate, causing Octavius to roll his eyes and swat her away.

"God's curse! Why do I put up you!" he mumbles.

"'Cause you're my older brother..."

"In spirit, not blood."

"Doesn't matter. We're still both kinless."

"Whatever," Octavius mutters, suddenly going quiet when he sees Lot narrowing his eyes in his direction.

"See that?" Leonius says, pointing at Lot with his dagger, his eyes narrowing in annoyed disbelief. "I couldn't put up with that sort of thing, always having to take orders and follow directions. Octavius' barely got thirteen seasons to 'im and he's already runnin' scared. And it's only been a fortnight or so and Lot's already got half the new company scared shitless. As for the other half, well, they're too worn out from endless drills and such to even care now."

"So you'd rather make the weapons, yeah?" Maeve replies, dragging the waterbucket closer to rails before Leonius grabs her hand and hoists her up on the third rung next to him.

"It's what my father does. Why shouldn't I?" he replies, quickly putting a hand on her shoulder to steady her as her foot slips off one of rungs. "At least I won't have to follow orders. And I can make and do what I want. It's an honest, worthy trade."

"If you're this ornery at only ten seasons, how are you gonna be when you're old and boring like the rest of 'em?"

"A damned rebel, that's what."

"Talk like that can get a boy crucified!"

"Aw c'mon Maeve. You've got a little insurgent in you too…"

"I just keep mine quiet, unlike you!" she says, smacking him on the arm. "You could learn a lot from Honoratus. He never says a word."

"Or so you think. Father can get downright verbose when he's in the mood. Besides, mother talks enough for all of us…gah! What are you doing!" Leonius suddenly bursts out, hands going to his shaggy blonde hair as Maeve pulls it tight.

"It fell out," she replies, tightening the bind that holds it away from his face. "'Tis barely midday and it's already coming aloose," she continues, clucking her tongue.

"You're insane," he pouts though he lets her finish.

"And yer sloppy," she retorts.

"The better to balance out your insanity."

"Slag," she mutters under her breath.

"You wouldn't have it any other way, idiot," he returns. "Why I keep you around, I don't know," he says, cuffing her on the ear, causing her to yelp. A sudden cheer goes up from the crowd, signaling the match is done as Peredur hands his practice sword to his opponent, indicating that he yields.

"Because no one else is willing to listen to your ramblings," Maeve returns, tugging his hair and smiling with satisfaction when she hears him let out a cry of pain.

"Water, girl!" Peredur suddenly calls out from the middle of the circle as he stalks over to them, followed by a young, dark-haired page who has been shadowing his every move since he's been done. Maeve quickly disengages herself from the rungs of the rail, reaching down to grab the bucket, quickly sloshing water into the wooden cup and handing it to him.

"'Tis a damned bloody shame, my own wee cousin knockin' the stuffin' outta me!" he grumbles as he pours the water over his head, quickly shoving the cup back into her hand as she swiftly hands him another already filled cup.

"Color me surprised as well," Leonius replies with a shrug as the knight unbuckles his sword belt and hands it over to the boy.

"You 'n me both, son," he replies ruefuelly. "Tell yer father that'll need a new buckle. I'll drop over to 'im in a bit to give the coinage," he continues as he hands his practice sword over to the page. "And you," he says to him, "Make sure my real sword is ready for this afternoon. Apparently, I need some practice," he gurgles as he drinks all the contents from his second cup. "Well, at least it's cold," he continues, handing it back to Maeve.

"Aye sir," she replies distantly, watching as the younger knight from the previous skirmish saunters up behind Peredur. Vanora has apparently taken notice of his presence as well. All but falling over the top of the rails to get a good look at him, she's saved only by Octavius quickly reaching out and grabbing her cloak to snatch her back.

"Good show, Percival," he the young knight says gallantly, running his fingers through his hair again, eyes flashing in triumph as he reaches out a hand.

"It's 'Peredur,' you imp!" the older knight swears, grabbing the younger knight by the shoulders, spinning him around and attempting to put him in a head-lock. "Only the blasted Romans call me Percival. Bloody whores! Always attempting to Romanize everything in their path. You should know better, Galahad! By the gods, we're from the same village, boy, and not a soul there called me by that pansy 'Percival!'"

The young knight moves one way and then another, easily slipping out of Peredur's grasp with just as easy a laugh.

"'Tis only because you're so small!" Peredur replies, clapping Galahad on the back, almost causing him to stumble. "You'll loose some of that quickness once you get a bit taller and get some meat on those skinny bones 'o yours, what now."

"Ah, jealously rears its ugly head," Galahad replies. "I must say, it was quit an easy task defeating you and whatnot…"

"Liar!" Peredur says accusingly. "You're breathing hard as we speak!"

"You've caught me! I must say, I'm quite ready for a drink…"

"Hey!" Maeve calls out as Vanora snatches the cup from her hand and refills it, shoving it into Galahad's hands before he can even finish.

"Thanks, lass," he replies, flashing a smile at Vanora.

"T-Thank you," she says faintly, backing away as her eyes widen in awe, her cheeks quickly turning red. Octavius rolls his eyes with a loud sigh, relaxing against his spear as Leonius sniggers.

"However, boy," Peredur continues, throwing an arm around Galahad and leading him away from the ring. "If the archery is your strong point, as you've boasted so far, you'll be quite the force to reckon with if you keep on like this with the hand-to-hand things."

"I should only hope so," Galahad replies evenly, nodding to Vanora she shoves another cup into his hand while Maeve mutters under her breath. Lifting the empty waterbucket, she proceeds to follow Peredur and Galahad, Leonius and Vanora following suit after bidding goodbye to Octavius, who has other official duties to attend to.

"How'd you get to be so good, m'lord?" Leonius asks the younger knight as he slings Peredur's belt over his shoulder and takes the waterbucket out of Maeve's hands. She nods gratefully at him as she wrings her hands, happy to not carry the abrasive braided handle of the thing.

"Practice, young one!" Galahd replies easily. "When you grow up with many uncles, there's always someone running around willing to teach to you how to kill things. A grisly business gets to be normal after a while."

"Yer mum never minded?"

"'Twasn't around. She died giving birth to me."

"Oh, I'm sorry m'lord," Leonius replies quietly, a bit of shame in his voice.

"No need to be sorry," Galahad replies evenly, ruffling the boy's flaxen locks with his hand in reassurance. "'Tis the cycle of life. Besides, my stepmother took good care of me. She's quite a fierce one as well, never willing to let me fail and such. Ah, here we are!" he calls out as they stop in front of the blacksmith's shop.

Even through they're all standing a few feet away, they can still feel the heat of the bellows and hear the clangs of metal on metal emanating from the two story brick-roofed building. Standing outside of it is a short woman, a little older and a little plump. But she still remains handsome, in her prime, her blonde hair tied back from her round face. Dressed in a simple blue dress, her dark blue apron tied around her waist, the table in front of her is filled with daggers and knives of various sizes. Her hand held out, she balances a small knife on her fingers. Letting it come a standstill, she holds it there, eying it to determine whether its balance is acceptable. Mumbling to herself, she drops the knife into a small pile on the left side of the table. In the meantime, a small child of about four or so sits in a rough hewn chair on her right. In front of him on the same table lies a large heap of various stones, all different colors and cuts. His small, skinny fingers move over a handsome red stone at the top of pile and he drops it into a cup. Gurgling with joy, he picks up a blue stone, holding it up to the light, brown eyes sparkling as he gazes on it. Dropping it into another cup, he continues his sorting. Suddenly, the older woman looks up, hearing the group in front of her. Her deep brown eyes flashing in recognition, she gives a wave as the child next to her gets to his feet and runs out.

"'Nius!" he says, coming up to Leonius and holding out a hand.

"Livius," he replies with a grin, dropping the belt onto his little brother's shoulder. Looking at it oddly, the younger boy shrugs.

"Goes to father," Leonius says, pointing at the shop. Livius nods his head seriously, running back to the building and disappearing into the doorway.

"Hallo, Leonius," the woman calls.

"Mother," he nods.

"Oh, hallo Maeve. Vanora, Perciva…Peredur and Peredur's little friend. How are you? Ah, I see Peredur has seen fit to bring something else for my Honoratus to fix? Hope you have payment from the last time. No, no. No rush or anything just don't want you to fall behind. Oh good, so you do have pay. Leonius? I think your father'll be needing you. This new lot has seen fit to run through quite a bit and it looks like m'lord Constinian will be needing quite a bit more of things. Yes, that's okay, you can just go through the back. Eh, Vanora, would you like to join me for a bit of tea? Well, never mind, I'm sure you have other things to do. Besides, I think m'lady Ceridwen was lookin' for you earlier, as well as you Maeve…"

"Afternoon," Honoratus said, his voice a deep rumble. Nodding his head in greeting at the group as steps from the doorway, he wipes his hands on his apron. His large face is streaked with soot, his massive arms also covered with stuff. One of the tallest men of the citadel, he is almost a head and a half taller than his wife, Varinia. For what he has in size, he makes up for in a rather laconic nature. Not one for small talk, he simply says only what needs to said, barely bothering to do that usually.

"Oh, lovely to see you, dear," Varinia says in passing to her husband, patting him on the arm as he knowingly raises an eyebrow, attempting to following her chattering. "Peredur here is dropping off his belt," she continues without pause. "Apparently the buckle needs some repair and he has the coinage to pay for that job and the last one. I was going to invite the girls in for tea, but m'lady Ceridwen's looking for 'em and I don't want to be the cause of any trouble. By the way, Livius is almost done sorting the settings so you might want to find something else for 'im do, I need 'im to stay out of trouble and such. Oh, and Leonius will be right around, though I think he may be a little hungry, considering he hasn't eaten since the sun came up. Leonius? There's a bit of bread on the stove, as well as some ham from last night. We also have quite a bit of apple cider left as well…would you boys like to come in? Oh no, I guess not considering you've got some vittles back at the barracks. But that's usually terrible fare for the most part, so you can go ahead and take a couple of bottles 'o the cider we have. It was a pretty good harvest this year. Shame you weren't here, Peredur's friend, considering we always have extra and such…"

"See?" Leonius grumbles to Maeve, handing her back the waterbucket as Galahad looks on, eyes wide as he attempts to follow the conversation as Peredur nods his head knowingly while Vanora simply throws her hands up in resignation and directs her attention back to Galahad. "Told you, she talks enough for the lot of us," Leonius continues as Maeve stifles a snicker.

"It's rather charming," Peredur says a wink as he walks toward the door, Galahad following suit with Vanora running after him. "Cider you said, m'lady?" he says, voice dropping to a polite tone as he nods towards Honoratus, giving him the bag of coins. "I could never impose…"

"Go off and take it," Honoratus replies with a shrug, counting the coins. "We've plenty in the cellar." Walking back inside, he disappears into the back of the shop as Varinia continues.

"Well, I'll see you at supper, yeah?" Leonius says, turning back to Maeve, hopeful look on his tanned face as the sound of his mother's voice fills his ears. By this time, her noise has turned into a rather comfortable constant buzzing.

"Aye. I'll bring a bit of nana's boar. Gaius just slew it the other day, so it should be ready by tonight," she replies. "I've got to get back to the infirmary in the meantime."

"Alright. See you then," he replies. Spinning on his heel, he runs around the side of building just as Maeve spots another girl across the road. Giving a whistle, she catches her attention. Catching up to each other, they make their way to the infirmary.

Her hands are frantic as she grabs his homespun shirt, pulling him to her, desperate to feel his mouth on hers again. He laughs, the sound a low rumble in his chest as he obliges her actions, his lips on hers once more. He's gentle as per usual, though she is not. Greedily running her hands up to his neck, cupping his face in her hands, her fingers running along the dark stubble of his cheeks, she nips at his mouth, her breath coming in short bursts as his own hands tangle through her honey-colored locks. Picking out what bits of straw he can, he sighs against her mouth at the feel of her silky hair. It is one of his most treasured feelings, the sensation of those soft tresses (well, that and those times when they sleep together, their sweaty limbs entangled as she breathes steadily against him).

Years ago, when he was a silly little boy, before he took up the courage to speak to her or even look her in those bewitching green eyes, he would dream about touching her hair. Spun like gold, as though from some magical loom of the gods, it was the first thing he noticed about her when he initially set foot into the tavern, a few weeks after he'd arrived at the wall for training. She had laughed at him then, laughed at the way he stared at her across the room. But it was never a malicious laugh, one of derision or snobbery. It was the laugh of one who enjoyed life, who didn't mind entertaining the thought that this tall young man might be someone worthy to get to know a little better. His dark blue eyes would follow her every move as she deftly balanced the trays in her hands, sidestepping the increasingly drunk patrons who delighted in getting a little too familiar with the help. One time, he even threatened to flay the whole lot of them, simply on the principle that when a woman said "no," she meant it. She wasn't really worried about it at the time, what with her having some three older brothers at her beck and call, all legionnaires who wouldn't give killing a man a second thought. But it was his efforts that counted. The fact the he accorded what he at first thought was a simple barmaid some sense of respect. It made her take a bit more notice of him rather than her usual fleeting smile and occasional pat on the shoulder and brush of the hand. Still though, it had taken him over a year to wonder up the courage to hold an entire conversation with her. But from then on, they proved inseparable, save for the fact that her father still didn't know. Which is why they are here in the stables, he, picking the bits of straw out of her hair as his other hand drifts to her thigh, hitching up her skirts…

"You two ought to really look into rutting somewhere else. Not all the barracks are quite full yet, not to mention the hay can leave scratches. And I doubt she'd like that very much considering they'd probably show up on her pale skin."

She jumps at the sound of the intense voice, though her mind easily recognizes its usually clipped and quiet tones. Her lover stands there completely stationary, hands still threaded through her hair, entirely used to being caught by surprise by this one, as is his usual style. Though he sighs in exasperation, he can't help the silly grin that comes to his face.

"Tristan," he says evenly.

"Dagonet," the scout replies with a nod as she turns around to face him, forcing a smile onto her face. "Heraniae," Tristan continues coolly as she nods in reply. He's not smiling, which is not unusual. But she can swear she can see the beginnings of a grin starting to come to his face, though his dark eyes remain indecipherable, as usual.

"So…" she begins, moving out of Dagonet's arms, hands flying to her hair in an attempt to smooth back its curls. "Do you always find it so amusing to wander around like a wraith in the night, or is it just another one of your leisurely pursuits?" she says evenly, voice low as she tries to get a hold of her breath. Tristan doesn't reply, face remaining impassive, though his eyes flit down to her untied bodice and wrinkled, lifted skirts. Seeing this, she quickly curses and pulls them down as Dagonet clears his throat, straitening out her skirts from behind, his fingers moving up her back and attempting to smooth down her dress.

"I was actually quite loud," the scout replies evenly, causing her to arch an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Well, if that proves loud, you need to join the assassin's guild," she replies in an annoyed tone.

"Maybe I already have," he shrugs nonchalantly, turning away from her to attend to his horse in its box. Clucking his tongue and producing an apple from somewhere, Tristan coaxes the animal into taking it, patting its head as it eats out of his hand. As he silently moves around to its other side, unbuckling his saddle and taking off the blankets, the handsome grey charger snorts derision again. Tristan begins murmuring a song in his native tongue, the low tones of his voice rolling along, washing over them both. Almost immediately, as though by some strange, primeval enchantment, the proud animal relaxes, its ears pricking up at the familiar sound of his owner's unique voice. Then, the scout begins brushing the horse down, the motions of his hands moving in rhythm to his voice. It's like a meditation of sorts, man and horse letting the ancient tune of their shared ancestors sweep over them like a blessing, giving them strength to fight and live yet another day.

Heraniae watches the strange Easterner for a bit, after a while muttering something along the lines of "ruining the moment," while Dagonet simply chuckles, pulling her against him and wrapping an arm about her as he dips his head to her ear.

"Don't mind him," he murmurs, kissing her ear as they walk towards the double doors of the stables.

"To be honest, I don't" she mutters. "I simply mind the interruption, 'tis all."

"You know," he says, spinning her around so that she faces him, his finger under her chin, causing her to look up at him. "We could avoid all of this if you just told Sidonius the truth…"

"You know how father feels about knights in general. And then of course there is the fact that you cannot marry. Should anything happen to you while in service and if you should have children…"

"They will know that their father loved their mother wholly. No marriage papers can prove or disprove that."

"They will be bastards…"

"By Rome's standards, not mine. Or frankly any of the Britons either."

"But you forget that I am Roman."

"Hardly. So far up here to the North, the lines between Roman and Pict and Sarmatian start to blend."

"You are an idealist."

"And you have too little faith," he chuckles, leaning down and capturing her mouth with his. "But really, Heraniae," he continues, voice becoming serious. "Think on it. You have the support of your brothers should he be unhappy with you. Not to mention the inheritance of your mother, so the lack of protection serves no issue…"

"But I cannot bear to break his heart," she replies steadily. "I don't know what to do should I be the cause of such a thing. And he needs me at the tavern, dealing with the numbers and such," she mumbles.

Dagonet sighs as he pulls her closer to him. "May the gods grant me a daughter as dutiful and devoted as you," he murmurs, leaning down and blessing her cheek with a kiss.

"Should you have any daughters, you will be a whipped man. They will rule you and that soft heart of yours" she smirks, standing on her tiptoes and kissing him on the tip of his nose. "Which is why you should want sons."

"You forget; for us, the line is carried through the mother," he replies. "So essentially, one should be so lucky to have any children."

"That proves quite a fascinating concept," she says wrinkling her brow. "Pity I am not a Sarmatian."

"If you were, you would most likely have a sword in your hand, a bow on your back and a horse under your thighs, not that there proves anything wrong with that. But frankly, I prefer you as is, especially when it is me under your thighs…"

"I see!" she begins to laugh, only to be cut off by his mouth possessively on hers again. Withdrawing after a while, she moves to catch her breath as he leans down to whisper into her ear.

"Think on telling your father. I simply do not wish to mislead him. 'Tisn't right," he murmurs.

"I shall think about it," she replies evenly. "But now, I must go," she continues. "The night rush is about to begin."

"If you must," he sighs, releasing her. Regretfully disentangling herself from him, she moves again to check that her skirts are straight and that she looks decently presentable. Giving her a silent nod of affirmation as he starts towards the door, Dagonet nods goodbye to Tristan on the way, then glancing out the doors to ensure no one's about. As he walks out, she silently counts to one hundred and then begins to move towards the door, also nodding goodbye to Tristan. Suddenly, he looks up from what he's doing, observing her coolly, his steely gaze compelling her to come to a complete stop.

"Do not break his heart," the scout says suddenly after a while, breaking the heavy silence between them. It's a simple statement, said plainly and with little emotion, like everything else he says. But the brightness in his eyes belies something deeper and far more concerned. She returns his stare, swallowing her alarm and struggling to hold it, finally looking away after only a bit. Suddenly looking back at him, she bows slightly. Tristan tilts his head in what can only be called puzzlement, though she's never seen him in such a state, so she really doesn't know what to make of it.

"I would rather cut out my own heart out than see him suffer," she hears herself say. "That I would," she finishes, deciding to say no more. There is no point in using flowery words or elaborate terms with this one. Anything else proves unnecessary, especially when it is such a simple gut feeling that lies within her.

He does not respond, but his eyes remain bright as he gives a slight nod of affirmation. She can only hope it means he believes her, for trust is all she has to go on as well. Moving away from him after a while as the heavy silence settles between them again, she glances around the door that leads outside. Seeing no one of any concern is about, she leaves the stables, easily blending into the crowd who seems to be heading towards the taverns and dining halls as the sun dips below the horizon. Heading over to her father's tavern, she blocks out the chatter of the crowd and easily sidesteps the numerous soldiers crowded around various ongoing games of bones and dice. Giving an empty smile to a soldier who's drunkenly trying to ask her for another mug and attempting to slap her bottom in exchange for tossing some coins her way, she lets her mind wander back to a certain Sarmatian knight.

I would rather cut out my own heart out than see him suffer. May the Devil take her soul should she prove unworthy to live up to such an oath when it is called upon