Every occupation needs some form of "corner-cutting" to achieve a goal, whether it be exceptional strength, clever wit, or a certain intensity of optimism that can outshine the moon. For those who feel they possess no such abilities (or are merely vigilant enough to ask for insurance), there's always necessity's offspring: tools. Since I had previously used my- sorry, the occupation of the tactician as my example, allow me to continue with the "divulging" of the inner workings.
After much rigorous mentoring, the organization conducts a monthly, extensive evaluation of their students' skills; anyone who manages to succeed gets to enjoy a few days of relaxation before beginning the westward journey known as the "Shadow's Retreat"- the meaning behind that title, I will omit for now. During the festivities which honor the victorious- and believe me, the organization knows how to throw a party- the apprentice tacticians of the bunch, who have now earned that title, report to the Craftlord area to claim their gear.
Said place is interesting in its own right; the rooms are packed with shelves, which consequently are overflowing with books- tomes, schematics, accounts, and the like- crates are stacked from the floor to the second-story ceiling, and the only two items that definitely appear out-of-place are a large bed and a four-slotted rack of staves in the far corner. The bed displays an unusual design: the striped sheets, bordered in a light gold color, have only four actual stripes, each a shade of brown, blue, red, and green, respectively, and the pillows are aligned alongside them in both position and hue. The staves, color-coded in both shaft and jewel in the latter three shades, are arranged in the same order, fastened to the wall by metal rings, the same kind that allows spears to stand point-up and upright; for some reason, though the rack is designed to hold four staves, I've only seen it occupy three at most, and even then, the first spot had always been vacant. I've had the (mis)fortune of meeting the owners of those very weapons that apparently also sleep in that very bed- no, it's not what you think, so take your vile thoughts elsewhere. I, myself, wish they would see me in that light, though- oh, you meant that other thought, in which case, you're truly depraved.
The first Craftlord, the dutiful second-in-command known as Eria the Sapphire, has azure eyes and long hair of matching color that reaches her waist; thin pigtails, bound by small strings, branch from it as strands run down both sides of her face. She wears the Craftlords' signature thin, hooded light-brown jacket and wide matching sash over her vertically-striped, short-sleeved light-green blouse and short, pleated black skirt, fingerless brown gloves covering her hands.
Her younger sister and fellow Craftlord, the fiery, short-tempered Hiita the Ruby, has crimson eyes and short, wavy hair of matching color. Though she, too, wore the jacket and belt, the rest of her wear is quite different from her sister's; the short-sleeved white shirt over her seemingly-tight black skirt has many little buttons, but she chooses to close up only the first few from the bottom, exposing her bare abdomen. The only piece that keeps her chest from being exposed as well is the black brassiere she wears over the shirt. The pinkish stockings she has on only serves to add to her "daring" appearance.
The last Craftlord I know, their aloof youngest sister Wynn the Emerald, had clover-colored eyes and medium-length, slightly-unkempt fern-green hair, the backside tied into a nicely-made ponytail with a long, thin forest-green ribbon. She, too, wears the Craftlord attire, but her own clothes give off a (thankfully) more conservative look than that of Hiita's, with a second jacket- its own color complimenting her features- under the first and mostly covering her white sleeveless shirt and black skirt.
The reason I say misfortune is because, being the only ones responsible for (and capable of) handling the division, the trio is allowed almost complete control of their developments: materials, methods, and subjects- the last of which I say with disgust. Many a poor fool had been sent through those welcoming doors, only to flee in absolute fear after the appointment had been over and done with. I had become friends with them solely because I hadn't known any better and had come back out of respect; said escapades will be saved for a later time.
Unceremoniously handed to apprentice tacticians are: a forest-green cloak to symbolize their freelance status- this differs from the beige cloak given to apprentice strategists- a small pouch of warp powder for one-man transportation, a map of Elibe with the organization's location and a destination to reach already marked on it, a specially-crafted bottle of nigh-infinite ink for writing purposes, a feather quill acquired from the wing of a pegasus for basic writing needs as well as the acquisition of signatures, and last- but certainly not least- a leather-bound journal to remind them of the "Advisors' Code" and document the legacy they would soon make, all nicely packaged in a sufficiently-sized drawstring pouch for storage.
Last time, I had told you of the risk a tactician takes when accepting missions. The journal is the "physical evidence" of one's reputation which must regularly be reported to the organization. Failure to do so- whether the obstacle had been theft, arson, laziness, or any other rationalization- results in a ruined career, so the journal is an advisor's life; acquiring a replacement is not possible. On the inside covers and the first few pages are the general rules of conduct towards oneself and others, while the rest are a slew of blank pages for the tactician's own use: contracts, profiles, and day-to-day logs which must be documented. The only item needed to verify a contract is an appropriate signature by the willing contractor made with the feather quill, the functions behind the verification process all thanks to the Craftlords.
My intro seems to have gotten even longer, so I can only hope the ratio balances itself out somehow...
A Battlefield He'd Never Approach
"I, Tactician Mark Passant, do solemnly swear-" No, this isn't a wedding vow... The point of his quill periodically poked the surface of the liquid in his bottle. "The lady Lyndis has requested the aid of this-" Too formal... He stared absently towards the lit fireplace at the far wall. "On the evening of...! Of..." Wait, what was today's date? "Master Sain, what's today?" he asked as he turned to his brown-haired acquaintance, who was already chugging down a mug of ale.
The knight slammed his glass onto the counter before exhaling deeply. "Ah, what a good drink!" Noticing the stare of his new comrade, he added, "Sorry, did you say something?"
"Ah... never mind," he said as he waved a hand. I'll just write up the contract when my head's clearer... Sipping water from his cup, he bookmarked the supposed journal page of his contract with his now-dry quill before closing it.
It was the evening after the run-in in Bulgar between the wanderers, the Caelin knights, and the laughably-amateur assassins. After an improper first impression, a baseless threat, a temporary agreement, a quick battle, a startling revelation, and a revised vow, the quartet, exhausted from the clash, had decided to rest in the city before heading out the next day. Though Lyn and Kent had immediately retired for the night, Sain, knowing that they would leave first thing at dawn, had decided to woo the local ladies at the nearby tavern, dragging the advisor- whose worry for writing a proper record had been keeping him awake- along with him. Now, as the crashing of drinks rang out in celebration, chatter rose in volume, and the fireplace crackled with vigor, the duo found themselves spending a somewhat-pleasant evening with their empty glasses.
As a blonde-haired woman, with long flowing locks accentuating her fair face and a seductive figure, walked behind the counter and put away the dirty mugs her arms had been carrying, she noticed the empty glass near the knight. "More ale, good sir?"
"Why, yes, o gracious angel!" he exclaimed in his slightly-tipsy state. After she filled his glass almost to the brim with a nearby jug, the cavalier said, "A thousand graces upon thee, lovely maiden... though your presence alone has rejuvenated my spirit!"
She chuckled lightly. "Oh, you."
"I truly mean it! You are Elimine reborn, sent here to wash away others' weariness and capture their hearts- a dazzling spectacle to behold!"
She's enjoying this, Mark thought to himself as the tavern mistress gave his companion a content smile, though I can clearly do better.
"I have an idea, Sir Knight," she addressed Sain. "Let's play a game. If you win-" her tone now more sultry- "I'll let you compliment me all night long..."
Before his companion, whose eyes had already beamed with delight, could jump onto the offer, the tactician asked her, "And if you win, milady?"
"Hm..." She rubbed her chin. "Since I need to close up early, if I win... then loverboy here has to help me clean up for the night instead."
"I see..." Mark drummed his fingers on his journal. "Master Sain-"
"I accept your challenge!" he exclaimed almost immediately.
The tactician, now unable to warn his comrade of the risk, pulled his head back in mock-surprise before pulling the hood of his cloak over himself. "Ugh... Your funeral. Good luck," he meekly wished him.
"Alright, then!" She pulled out two other jugs and a small glass, all unused. "If I can finish my three jugs of ale before you can finish this one glass-" she shook the item in her right hand- "I win; otherwise, victory is yours."
"Sounds simple enough," Sain quipped. "Any rules before we begin?"
"Just three," she said as she began filling up the drinks. "First, the game will start after I finish one jug and place it on the counter because I like to enjoy my drink first. Second, until the game starts, you're not allowed to ready yourself by touching your own glass. Finally, we're not allowed to touch each other's drinks because I want to prevent distractions and I don't like wasting profit."
"That's fair," he spoke as he nodded in understanding.
Already noticing the shapes of the jugs and glass and the gaping loophole in the rules, Mark whispered to Sain, "This is a trap, foolish knight. I'm warning you- back out."
Though her ears were sharp enough to pick up the message, she pretended to ignore it. "Last chance, o courageous one. It's not too late to concede; I won't count it as a loss."
"A knight never breaks a vow!" he exclaimed.
"Wise words..." she uttered before bringing the first jug to her lips.
"I can't bear to watch this..." Mark moaned as he covered his eyes with his hand, though he was still peeking at the incoming disaster. That is, without laughing my head off.
Swig after swig, she gulped down her ale, which entranced her opponent (and was about to do the same to the bystander), until the last drop touched her lips. Then, as the true game was about to start, she gently placed her empty container onto the wooden counter's surface... upside-down and over her foe's.
Due to his dizzy state, it took the knight a few seconds to comprehend his situation as the woman continued drinking from her jugs. "Wait. Have I just been-"
"Swindled, yes," Mark finished, his hood covering his silent chuckling. "Horribly, at that. Tough luck, my good man. I warned you, but you had to bring up the golden rule of the knights. Good job."
Mouth agape and rendered speechless, the tricked knight could do nothing more than stare at his imprisoned glass- at his oh-so-close, yet oh-so-very-very-far-away reward- as the blonde finished her last jug.
"Phew! Nothing like a drink after- or, should I say, during- a victory." As she put away the empty containers, she asked her still-dumbfounded opponent, "A knight never breaks a vow, right?"
He gulped to rid himself of that unusual dry feeling in his throat. "Y-yes, mi-"
Neither stupefied Sain nor surprised Mark had expected what happened next: the tavern mistress had leaned over the counter and given the former a kiss- and when she had pulled back, the tactician could have sworn there was tongue involved. "A consolation prize for being a good sport," she said. "By the way, my name's Rita, loverboy," she added, winking at him before attending to her other customers.
Touching his lips, Sain uttered one word: "Wow..."
"Damn it, Master Sain," the tactician cursed, "I bet I've been swindled much more often than you have, and I've never gotten something like that!"
This snapped him out of his shock. "Wait, you think you've wooed more women than me?"
"Well, I know these triplets-"
Grabbing Mark's cloak with both hands, Sain whispered, "You must tell me about it!"
The rest of the night passed by quite quickly as the knight and his new "boon" companion talked about their experiences with women. Eventually...
"Well, loverboy," Rita yelled out after bidding her last group of customers a pleasant evening, "It's time to fulfill your end of the bargain!"
"-and then, she slapped me right in the cheek!" The knight pointed to the exact spot of his subject's rage before hearing the blonde. "As you command, Lady Rita!" he responded before starting to put away chairs.
"Bah, that's nothing compared to a three-point jab to the gut!" the tactician countered. "By the way, Lady Rita," he yelled to the owner, "do you mind if I help my friend out as well?"
"Do whatever you want," she replied.
Sain turned his head towards Mark. "Are you sure?"
As he tucked his journal into the inner folds of his cloak, the tactician answered, "What are friends for?" before hoisting up a chair. "Besides, I'm not done telling my stories!"
The next day, the refreshed knight and nomadic princess wondered why their two comrades acted so exhausted...
I'll never understand women; they're way too much of a hassle.