Two Hermits
Xandar's week was going great! He'd woken up today filled with joy at being alive, and he'd gotten Teacher to explain the Ainur to him. The young man raised his clenched fist to the sky in a gesture of triumph, like that little green fairy Sister Summers used to tell him about.
He'd never managed to find it, which was a shame.
But enough of past failures and bad thoughts. Today he was going to head out and find his other teacher and convince him to join his Teacher. That would keep 'them' away. Whoever 'they' were.
Of course thinking that and doing it were entirely different matters. His old teacher, no that's already getting confusing, he'll call him Herman. Herman liked to move about a lot, apparently 'they' are trying to find him. Probably because he'd run away from the Circle too.
Xandar stands in the clearing where he first met Herman. It's an idyllic place, rather unlike the dark nest of Sylvans that he'd first run into. There's even a patch of flowers growing in that little break in the treetops. Unfortunately, there's no tent or old campfire. It's not really a surprise but Xandar had hoped that he'd bump into the old man anyway.
The old man loomed over a younger Xandar as the Sylvan fled from the sorcerous fire. "Oh? What's this? Is it a morsel to eat? Is it one of them? Question for a question, answer for an answer. Yes. I love trade!"
"Xandar. I'm, I'm an apostate." He'd replied nervously.
"Oh? Not one of them, no that much is clear. Hmmm, but mages are cheating, yes they are." The old man cackled menacingly. "Now, it gets a question, yes it does."
Wide eyes had flicked from fleeing Sylvans to the old man and back again. Old stories, memories of m- Sister Summers talking of clever children tricking ancient spirits. A sudden surge of resolve overcame the young man.
"How do I make fire?" He asked the mad apostate.
In hindsight he should have asked Anneth earlier. Herman is avoiding their patrols but between them and the Dalish there are only so many places he could go. The face that none of them have seen him meant he's moved away, which meant going further north.
Even far away from Endataurëo, the forest is much changed. No longer quite so idyllic, instead darker and heavier but no longer unnaturally so. Merely the darkness of deep forest, and the choking competition among plants that is natural in such places.
This serves Xandar's purpose, as the denser greenery makes it harder to find places to camp. Also, since he is far away from anyone making smoke, it is easy to follow the smell of it. Now that he thinks about it, Herman isn't very good at hiding from people.
He found a clearing with a single tent, a cooking pot and a stove, but no Herman. Xandar wanders into the clearing calling out his name, until suddenly there was a puff of smoke and Herman springs out of it.
"Who is it? Is it hunting us, is it with them?" He asks. "Speak and quickly!"
"Hi, sorry I forgot your name, but it's me Xandar!" Xandar replies, flinging his arms out for a hug. "It's so good to see you again!"
Herman frowns. "Does it know me? Is it a trick? They must be behind it!"
"No, no, no, no, no." Xandar protests, waving his hands in front of his face. "I'm an apostate like you, I'm not working with the Templars. Remember, you taught me magic, I left nearly a year ago?"
The frown deepens. "Is it? Oh yes, morsel it's you. Excellent. I have a problem I need you to take care of. Oh yes. Heh heh heh."
"Sure!" Xandar replies, raising his fists to show determination. "We can trade! I fix your problem and then you can do something for me!"
Herman's face lights up in a wide grin. "Oh yes, a trade. Trade is fun. I can do many things, one thing for another yes."
Xandar makes a gesture of triumph, causing Herman to laugh. "Excellent! What do you want me to do?"
"The trees are talking." Herman mutters, glancing around. "They're stalking me. I know they are! It's all because of that stupid tree! Kill it! Kill it dead!"
Xandar blinks in surprise. "Really? I mean, I guess cutting down a tree is killing it but that's a bit of a strange way to describe it."
"No! It's not any normal tree. It speaks! It rhymes!" Herman shrieks, wringing his hands. "Calls itself the Grand Oak, yes it does. Speaks in rhymes, but don't listen to it. Burn it, break it, hack it to pieces, I don't care. Just kill it!"
"Got it! Kill the talking tree and then you do a favour for me." Xandar turns to leave only to pause and look back. "Um, actually, before I leave, what's your name?"
"Hmmm? Why do you want to know?" The mad hermit twitches, eyes wide. "Did They send you? Have They gotten to you? I knew the light was a trick, oh yes I did, but did it listen? No, of course not."
"Sorry, if it's a secret you don't have to tell me." Xandar says, bowing at the waist.
"Hmmmm. A question for an answer." Not-Herman scratches at his beard. "Tell me, where were you born?"
Xandar's face falls. "I don't actually know. I thought I was an orphan, but it actually turns out that I was the result of a secret affair between a Templar and a Chantry sister. So, I don't actually know where I was born."
"I knew it!" The old man shrieks. "You won't take me!"
With a wide gesture he vanishes into a puff of blue smoke.
"Um, I grew up in Cailcombe though." Xandar finishes into the seemingly empty clearing. "Hello? Teacher?"
Xandar waits patiently for Herman to return, but he doesn't. With a shrug, Xandar heads off to find the Grand Oak. He makes sure to wave goodbye to Mr. Stump first of course, it's nice to see Mr. Stump is still following Herman around.
Finding the Grand Oak was surprisingly easy. Suspiciously so in fact.
"Can you move?" Xandar asks the talking tree that he had found in the next clearing over.
"If a tree can talk, why can't it walk?" The Grand Oak asks.
Xandar frowns. "I mean, I guess that makes sense. Sylvans do walk around I guess."
With a creaking of wood, the Grand Oak extended arm like branches towards Xandar. "It is good you are so unafraid, for I had hoped to ask for your aid."
"Well, that's just a little bit awkward, because my teacher and old friend kind of asked me to kill you." Xandar admits awkwardly.
"I have but one desire, to solve a matter very dire. As I slept one early morn, a thief did come to steal an acorn." The Grand Oak replies. "The friend of whom you speak is he who made my future bleak."
"Ok, so Herman stole your acorn and you want it back." Xandar thinks aloud. "But he still wants you dead, and I want to bring him on side with Teacher, so I don't really see how it relates."
"The hermit hopes that I decease, because I will not grant him peace. Should you return what he took, his days shall be calm as a babbling brook." The tree creaks.
"Um, thing is I don't actually know if that's what he wants, he specifically said to kill you. So I don't know if that would work." Xandar replies.
"Then you must decide who you believe, a tree to slay or a seed to retrieve." The tree says sadly. "It is no grand thing to ask, bring me my acorn, it is a simple task."
Xandar wrings his hands nervously. What's he going to do? He doesn't want to kill the tree, especially not after his talk with Teacher earlier today. The last thing he wants to say is that, after finding out that some trees can walk and talk, he immediately decided to kill one. But he's already agreed to help Herman. Should he tell him he's changed his mind?
Yes! That's what he'll do. He'll just go to Herman and convince him that the nice tree just needs his acorn back and then Herman will be left alone. It's a foolproof plan! Although, the last time he'd tried to convince him of something hadn't gone very well…
"Teacher! Wake up!" Xandar cried, shaking his mentor awake.
"What? Is it Them? Have they found us?" The old man shrieked.
"No! It's great news!" Xandar exclaimed, waving his hands above his head. "It happened again! I saw the light in my dreams."
"I already told you, dreams in the Fade are deceptive." Herman (though Xandar hadn't called him Herman at the time) grumbled. "Light doesn't mean anything in particular."
"I know! This time was different." Xandar gushed. "I saw something this time! It has to be a sign!"
The apostate snorted. "Or a demon is tricking you, or worse THEM!"
"No." Xandar said quietly. "I saw it. I was flying high, higher than I ever thought possible. Then I saw two trees, one of gold, the other silver shining as though they were lit from within. They grew between a great mountain and a city all of white."
Xandar's voice turned wistful as he tried to put the emotions he'd felt into words. "The seas turned to silver and the shores to pearls. From coast to coast I saw grass greener than anything I ever imagined, and forests of trees so tall and ancient that it seemed as though they had stood since the beginning of the world. Then a voice spoke from high above me 'Behold, my son, Watchtower]. It has been my home for many centuries, now it is yours. Welcome.'. It has to be a sign from the Maker. We need to go to it, quickly. We need to find the white city!"
"Bah. The Maker is just one of THEIR tools. He doesn't really exist. Don't go chasing fairy stories boy, you'll regret it. Go back to bed." The old man said, voice dark and bitter.
Nothing he said back then had convinced Herman. Even though he was right! He found the white city, saw the mural of the two trees on the wall and he'd even gotten to meet his parents! Herman hadn't believed him then, could he convince him now?
Hmm, what would Teacher do in this situation? Well, Teacher is good at convincing people of things, and now that he thinks about it, if Teacher knows about talking trees and Ents he probably wouldn't have agreed to kill a tree in the first place. Ok, so what about Merrill? She'd probably have known more going in, she was a Dalish and they knew all about forests.
Urrrgh! Why did none of his teachers have the same skills as him? Even Herman probably would have just stolen the acorn back…
Oh. That would work.
Xandar peaks out from behind a tree into the seemingly empty clearing. He can't see Herman, but he's pretty sure that he has alarms in place. Mr Stump definitely had one, and that should be where the acorn is.
Frankly only a few months ago he'd have been completely helpless to avoid the alarms. As he'd found out during the conversation about protecting Gladesville, most people did not have as advanced alarm spells as Herman. Fortunately, the paranoid old hermit had taught Xandar most of his tricks.
Xandar had worked out the rest sneaking away to meet Teacher.
Slowly, carefully Xandar begins to unpick the magical trigger. Not the working itself, that has another alarm that will go off if it's disrupted. Instead, he just needs to add himself as an exception into the spell. Much easier said than done.
Working on live spells is, according to Merrill, 'a knife's edge between brilliance and suicide'. Which is a fancy way of saying it's really hard and you have to be careful. She's as bad as Teacher with talking strangely sometimes. People should use more hand gestures, they're clearer.
In this case, Xandar is in luck. When he'd been staying with Herman he'd had an exception to most of the alarms, since Herman had gotten sick of showing up in the clearing only to find that Xandar had just wandered in and out. He hasn't removed the parts of the spell that allow it, merely turned them off. Reactivating them and linking it to the spell on Mr Stump is much easier than adding them in.
After that, it's simple to walk in, pick up the acorn and leave again. The Grand Oak is overjoyed to have its acorn back.
The alarms reset now, Xandar walks into the clearing again. Herman reappears in a puff of smoke. Xandar claps politely.
"Well. Is it dead yet?" The old man asks wildly.
"Yep." Xandar says with a wide smile.
Herman gives him a long considering look. Xandar holds the smile as best he can, sweat running down his face. Herman gets really close to him, staring deep into his eyes.
"Prove it." He says.
"What?" Xandar replies.
"Prove you killed it!" Herman shrieks.
"I can't prove a negative." Xandar replies reflexively.
"What?" Herman snarls.
"I mean, I can't prove that it's dead because there isn't a body." Xandar hurries to lie. "It's, or it was, a tree. I just set it on fire and then it turned to ash. I didn't pick any up and I can't just go to where it is and say, 'look here the tree isn't."
Herman glares at him. "Then how am I supposed to know if you held up your end of the bargain."
As Xandar desperately wracks his brains, he suddenly has an idea. "Wait."
"What?" Herman asks.
"Just wait." Xandar says, nodding to himself as he works it out. "If the tree isn't dead won't it start bothering you again?"
"True." Herman says slowly. "Go away. I will wait."
Herman will arrive at Endataurëo next week with a scowl. Xandar will spin on the spot and thrust his arm into the air in success. Nobody will know what is happening and they will both get very strange looks.
A Rising Legend
There is a certain momentum to training. Much like a boulder rolling down a hill it is difficult to start, but once it is then it tends to keep going under its own power. For that reason you have done your best to carve out time between visiting Gladesville and the Teyrn to try to continue mastering the blade.
Or rather, ascending your mastery to a level truly unequalled.
The question of course is how. Admittedly, you have learned a great deal from your last venture into the Deep Roads, but it is not enough. There was certainly something there, efficiency, momentum and the importance of keeping and maintaining initiative.
Which is not to say that you did not know these things, either intellectually or instinctively. You are, without boasting, more experienced than almost any warrior alive. You were there for the first outbreak of violence among the Noldor, and you fought until near the end of the War of Wrath.
One day you will have to look back on your experience during the First Age for lessons now that you think on it. There is no point in experience if one does not reflect on the lessons contained within the experience.
However, you have journey to undertake and so you cannot take the time required to do so. Perhaps if Loghaine proves in the mood to discuss war stories. For now, you must consider your options.
Naturally you cannot do what you have already done. Partly because you would likely learn nothing new from it and partly because you simply cannot risk death or serious injury before your meeting with the Teyrn. It would be incredibly rude to inform him that you could not come as promised due to life threatening injuries.
Perhaps the most helpful matter to consider is what you lack as a warrior. There is obviously a gap in your use of shields, and two handed weapons. You are, admittedly, no longer at a deficit from long disuse of your right hand, but still lacking in experience. That is something worth considering.
Then there is the heavy armour favoured by the locals of Thedas. You have little experience with plates of armour, either wearing it or fighting against those who have it. It might not be the most immediately relevant, but you had noticed darkspawn wearing similar garb. It might not be wise to continue to rely on your brother's steel's ability to cut through lesser iron.
If there is one aspect you remain confident in, it is your ability to fight from horseback. Perhaps you have no particular deeds of valour that are recorded in song on the matter, but you have done so again and again. Still, it might be worth revisiting especially since it seems likely you will be one of very few who can count on their horse not to bolt beneath him.
If you really want a deed worthy of legend, and to be honest if you wish to improve you need one, then it should probably be something that encompasses all these aspects. Somewhat annoyingly, Ferelden does not have as strong of a heavy cavalry tradition as Orlais. At least according to Ranger, who is your best source on the matter.
Still, the title of knight remains in use, and there are definitely those who ride to battle ahorse in heavy armour. You could challenge them, it would even be on your way. A single lightly armour horseman riding across a countryside defeating every single knight along the way sounds like a feat of legend. You could even do it on the way to the Teyrn, which would be convenient.
Alternatively, you could lean into something your father would approve of. Ferelden has a history of fighting against heavily armoured knights, using warriors equipped with shields. To learn all they have to learn in what is, according to the sun and your understanding of how long it will take to reach Denerim, approximately a day would be quite the feat. Something worthy of your father.
Then again both of these options are, extreme. Appropriate given what you are attempting, perhaps, but possibly unwise given
There is a part of you that wants to challenge Teyrn Loghaine to single combat. He is said to be a warrior of great skill, and thoughts of potentially leveraging your victory to some end are tempting.
Ultimately you put such thoughts aside. The whole venture seems more motivated by spite and a desire for ease than a true challenge. There are humans who can truly challenge you, and you could always stack the odds against yourself in one way or another, but it would make learning any lessons more difficult than necessary.
Instead, the option that seems to be the most sensible is to challenge every knight between yourself and the Teyrn. It will prolong the journey somewhat, but you have the time set aside to do so.
The ride to the nearest knight is not particularly far. As a matter of fact there is one on the road to Denerim. It takes maybe an hour at most to reach the manor of the knight who rules Brynwich.
Orundómë turns his head towards the dwelling and you prepare to speak with those that dwell within.
You cannot believe what you are currently dealing with. You knew that humans had a tendency to let power go to their heads, but this seems extreme.
"All I ask is that you take a message, or tell me that the knight is absent." You repeat with forced calm.
"I tire of explaining that the madam does not have time for every two copper vagabond and adventurer." The officious man in Sir Vivian's livery responds.
Deep breaths Nelyafinwë. You are a model of calm and reason, and strangling impudent mortals never helps anything.
"My name is Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol, lord of Brecilian Forest." You state slowly. "I wish to ask a brief favour of Sir Vivian."
"A likely story." The man sniffs. "Be off, before I set the dogs on you."
Internally, you sigh. You have the document proclaiming you a lord, due to possessing basic pattern recognition. However, going and fetching it feels like surrendering and allowing the human to win. Irrational? Yes, but a persistent feeling nonetheless.
A jingle of harness and thudding of hooves alerts you to another option.
"Then let us ask Sir Vivian herself." You say, turning to see the woman in the distance, approaching ahorse.
The man sighs behind you. "I am not going to wait however long it takes the madam to return…"
The knight pulls up before you and blinks in surprise.
"Lord Russandol? I was not expecting you. Is something the matter? Have the Dalish made some movement?" She asks, swinging down from her saddle.
"Not at all Sir Vivian." You reply with a smile. "In truth I have come hoping for a small favour, if you would be willing?"
"Well, I'll hear you out at least. Francis, drinks for both of us. Oh, and take Thunder to the stables for me." She commands offhandedly.
The man glances at you in alarm and bows "At once madam."
Sir Vivian's sitting room is, plain. There is a shield hanging on the wall with her arms and the chairs are decent wood and a nice fireplace, but it is clear she has no great wealth to her name.
"So, what's this favour you're looking for?" The knight asks.
"Well, I was hoping to prevail upon you for a spar of sorts." You propose.
"A spar?" She asks, eyebrow raised.
"Is that not the correct term?" You ask. "A practice fight, one with no intention of harming each other but primarily aimed at improving our skills."
"I see." Sir Vivian replies thoughtfully. "Spar is the correct term, I suppose. Tell me, what would this spar look like?"
"Well in that I defer somewhat to your expertise in your style of fighting, but I had hoped to test each other's skills at mounted combat with the weapons we are each most familiar with." You explain.
At your words the knight exclaims. "Oh, a joust! Yes, absolutely."
Sir Vivian's armour is rather forgettable in design. As interesting as you find the metal plates she supplements her mail with, beyond that there is almost nothing of interest. She wears no cloak and the only arms she bears are on her shield. Even her helmet is neither plumed, nor engraved, little more than a steel cap on her head.
She had led you a small ways off from her home to a strip of flattened dirt where a number of wooden dummies had been set up. The two of you have led your horses to a horizontal wooden pole raised to around chest height.
She briefly explains the rules (you fight until one is unhorsed, each contestant must stay on their side of the pole and a few other minutiae) and the two of you mount.
"Are you ready?" She calls.
"As I will ever be." You reply.
"Then on the count of three." She calls.
"One."
You draw your sword and Orundómë paws at the ground.
"Two"
Sir Vivian tightens the straps of her shield and steadies her lance.
"Three!"
Two steeds surge forward. Of the two horses, yours is swifter, both in top speed and acceleration, and you expect to meet closer to her side than yours. Sir Vivian is clearly taken aback and struggles to lower her lance in time.
For your part, your sword darts out to meet the tip of said lance with the flat. Leverage on your side, you push it away leaving Sir Vivian with no meaningful weapon against you.
A quick thinking foe might have dropped the lance in favour of the axe at her side, but she does not do so. Thus, it is easy for you to slam your pommel into the side of her helmet as you ride past, sending her crashing into the ground.
Orundómë busies himself with retrieving Thunder for Sir Vivian while you check to see if she is injured.
"Sir Vivian? Can you hear me?" You ask to a groggy nod. "I will remove your helm now, let me know if you feel any pain."
Carefully, slowly, you remove the dented metal cap. Fortunately the cloth armour she wore beneath has absorbed much of the force of your blow, and she landed well. Her eyes are focused and there is no obvious sign of internal damage, though she remains somewhat dazed.
"Wow." She says dizzily. "You must have been hell in the rebellion."
"I did not fight in Ferelden's rebellion." You remind her. "In truth, this is the first time I have faced a mounted foe. Well, a foe mounted on a horse anyway."
Sir Vivian's eyes sharpen and she looks at you as though for the first time.
"Really?" She asks thoughtfully. "Ok. Let me teach you how to properly challenge a knight. Also, do you want to borrow a lance or a shield?"
In the end you accept the shield but decline the lance. You have little experience with the fighting styles of Ferelden's knights, while you have significant second hand experience with wielding a shield from horseback. It will, if nothing else, enable you to practice using a shield in your right hand, which you have never done before.
"Very well." Sir Vivian says seriously. "I will have someone bring me a blank, so that you are not mistaken as one of my men at arms. While we wait I will briefly cover the protocol for challenges so that you can avoid the difficulties you encountered here."
Said protocols are at once simple, yet strange. For example, the manner of the knight from Orlais is actually largely correct for a 'joust'. Ride up to the residence, visibly armed, proclaim the challenge aloud along with the reasons why. Then, while the challenged is technically free to refuse, honour compels most to accept.
In truth it sounds more akin to madness than anything else to you, yet you are willing to make an attempt. Sir Vivian even goes so far as to point you in the direction of a nearby knight who would be a good place to start your tour. Sir Peter is a former champion of the joust, a fair bit past his prime, he remains a skilled foe willing to take on any challenger.
"Are you certain that is wise." You ask. "I would not be accused, nor do I wish, to attack those who are no longer able to defend themselves to artificially prop up my reputation."
"No, no." Vivian quickly assures you, waving her hands in front of her. "That's what the whole 'reasons for challenge is for'. Say something like 'let us test our lances against each other that I might learn the art of the joust' and everyone will understand. He's an old dog, but there's still fight left in him."
You nod, but internally you resolve to double check before you challenge the old knight.
"I must admit young man, uh elf, I was not expecting such an unusual challenge." Sir Peter laughs, his bushy moustache waggling wildly.
"I was told that you were a knight who could help me on my path towards mastery." You state simply. "However, I was also told that you are no longer so great a knight as you once were, and I have no interest in engaging in self aggrandisement at the expense of others."
A calculating gleam appears in the old man's eyes and he booms out. "What is this? Such an insult under my own roof cannot be born sirrah! I will see you upon the jousting field."
Before you can protest he winks and grins at you, before heading off to fetch his kit.
You shake your head at the strangeness of humans.
"Are you ready, sirrah?" Sir Peter cries.
"A moment, please!" You call back, fiddling with the shield straps.
Truly you are far too out of practice. The shield on your arm has been throwing you off ever since you mounted. You find yourself frequently expecting to have a hand free to balance or correct your seat, yet it is occupied by the shield.
"Strap it higher, young man!" Sir Peter advises. "Fix it over your shoulder!"
Doing so would prevent you from manoeuvring it, so you do not do so. However, you do find success in binding it to your forearm, rather than holding it in your hand. That it had the ability to do so was already a departure from the shields of your memory.
"I am ready!" You call.
"Are you sure sirrah?" Peter replies.
"I am!" You reassure him.
"Then on your count sir." He says, flipping his visor closed.
The moment the word three leaves your lips, both horses begin to thunder towards each other. You ready your sword, expecting a similar outcome to your fight with Vivian. However, the moment before your blade makes contact with the lance, in an impressive display of skill and strength the long pole of wood and iron whips around in a disengage.
Seeing the iron point now centred on your shield, you throw yourself to the side, hanging off Orundómë by a single leg. The lance passes above you harmlessly, and you turn for another pass.
This second time, you delay longer and successfully deflect the lance point with your blade, however Sir Peter catches your blade on his shield as he passes. He wobbles in the saddle somewhat, but he stays ahorse.
The third pass plays out much the same, but the knight calls "Your shield lad!" as he passes.
During the fourth pass you pay close attention to how Sir Peter uses his shield. He holds it on an angle, and when he blocks he pushes out, not against your strike but with it. Really it is a parry but with the shield rather than the sword.
Inspired, you take a pause to move your shield to your hand once more. It is somewhat precarious and it takes you a few passes to get your seat as solid as it once was, but when you are used to it, you spring your trap.
On the next pass, number seven by your count, you drive the edge of your shield into the lance as it approaches. Then, with your blade extended like a lance, you bait him into parrying. Sir Peter relaxes, believing himself safe, but a sword is not a lance.
Your pommel slams into his shoulder and he finally hits the dirt.
The old man moves slowly to a sitting position. His breath comes in great heaves and you are genuinely concerned for his health.
Though you rush to his side intent on giving aid, he extends a hand and waves you off. After several minutes he finally regains his composure and manages to speak.
"Well. I must admit, I'm not sure what to say at this point." He admits. "You don't fight the way I expected. Generally, young men are too aggressive, but not you. I almost thought you had the opposite problem, like us old men, you seemed a bit too cautious. Then that sudden burst of aggression out of nowhere took me completely by surprise."
Sir Peter chuckles to himself. "Usually this would be where I talk about listening to your horse and really moving with it, but I don't think I need to talk to you about that. Maybe consider getting a saddle."
"Why would I need a saddle?" You ask. "I am more than capable of riding without one, and the horse prefers it."
"If you say so, young man." The old man slowly rises to his feet. "Now if you don't mind, I'm going to go have a lie down."
Compared to Sir Peter, the knights you face over the next day or so are lacking. Much as he said, the young knights are too reckless, allowing you to defeat them as you did Vivan. On the other hand, older, cannier knights are too hesitant to commit to the attack, allowing you to surprise them after you pass lance range.
Nearly a dozen knights, all equally unimportant, are defeated in turn. There are some notable events during this time, one young knight tries to barge into Orundómë, apparently entirely unaware that horses are quite agile. Then again, his was weighed down by chainmail, so perhaps he has never faced one unencumbered.
Yet, the main event of note is that people start to expect you. Challenging so many knights is slowing you down, which means that your trip ends up taking far more than the day and a half it usually takes to reach Denerim. Thus, after two nights on the road, knights start to meet you in gambeson, with horses ready. Eventually they even start to come looking for you.
"Hark! Are you Sir Russandol?" Asks the knight on the road.
You look in confusion at the fully kitted knight with a plain black shield. "I am no knight, save perhaps by courtesy, but I am Lord Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol, eldest son of Fëanaro. Whom am I addressing?"
"My name is unimportant." The knight responds, voice more muffled than even a full face helmet should allow. "What is important is if you are the Russandol who is challenging Ferelden's finest knights?"
"I am challenging every knight I can." You correct. "Not merely the finest. I wish to test myself and grow with mount and blade. Hopefully, so too will my opponents."
"Then I accept your challenge! Have at you!" The knight's horse surges forth at a prick of the spurs.
Orundómë dances back without conscious prompting, which costs your chance to engage immediately. The black shielded knight surges past in the time it takes to draw your sword. By the time you are ready the knight has returned, lance lowered.
You manage to deflect the lance with your shield, but in a feat of impressive horse-elfship the knight manages to ride out of range of your return attack, horse almost swivelling in place to escape.
Unfortunately this proves a mistake, for Orundómë is the faster horse by far. The knight realises this quickly and turns to face you, dropping the lance in favour of a sword. However in this regard you are by far superior. Between your connection to Orundómë allowing you to substitute his footwork for yours, and your far superior bladework the knight with a black shield soon hits the ground.
You ride on annoyed by the ambush, but accepting that such things tend to happen when you make a point of challenging an established military power.
Behind you Sir Vandrien Dorn, reigning joust champion three years running, basks in the glow of knowing that there are hills yet to climb.
You had thought that when you reached Denerim you would be past all the knights worth fighting. Certainly, there would be knights within, but they would be either engaged in guarding the king or other duties, or simply city knights with little practical experience. Hence, receiving a note at the gates of the castle demanding a meeting at the jousting grounds.
Said grounds are technically within the city walls, but that is not to say they are part of the city. There is an area somewhat behind the castle that has been very obviously cleared out of what was there before. It is also strangely deserted.
The only person there is an armoured woman and her horse.
"Ferelden does not have a particularly strong mounted tradition." She says as you approach. "Orlais has always favoured mounted combat, and their lands are better suited to it. Don't get me wrong, we have some good horsemen, and any knight worth their salt can fight from horseback, but it is not our strength."
"Interesting." You reply calmly. "Such was once true in my homeland. Though we are famed for our cavalry these days, our warriors began almost exclusively as infantry."
"Is that so?" The woman asks. "Then perhaps you will understand if I insist on a battle that will prove the might of Ferelden's arms."
"I am more than happy to spar ahorse or afoot. I have fought as both in my time." You state.
The woman nods. "I am Sir Cauthrien, in the service of Teyrn Loghaine Mac Tir. I challenge you, not to a joust, but a true duel. From the moment I call begin, we will fight ahorse or afoot until one yields."
"First blood or yield." You insist. "I am not here to aid in suicide, nor to be assassinated."
"These terms are acceptable." Sir Cauthrien states.
She swings into the saddle and waits until you too are mounted before she calls, "Begin."
Almost immediately she surges forward, lance lowered. She is rather unskilled with it to tell the truth and you swiftly shatter it with your shield. To your surprise, she hurls the broken pole at you, and uses the cover provided to draw a longsword.
Though said weapon is unwieldy when swung with a single hand, she proves once again the strength of humans when she manages to use it, if clumsily. However, your skill again proves superior and she is soon unhorsed.
However, unlike your other foes, she does not hit the ground. She manages to twist her body and land on her feet. She takes a stance with her two handed blade and calls, "Dismount!"
"Why should I?" You ask. "From where I sit, I hold all the advantages, why should I surrender them?"
"Do you wish to lose your horse?" She asks. "You would not be the first mounted warrior I have faced afoot. None have yet triumphed."
The corner of your lip quirks upward, amused by the bravado more than anything else. Still, unwilling to risk Orundómë, however confident he is of avoiding her strike, you dismount. No sooner has your foot touched the ground than Sir Cauthrien is upon you.
If she is expecting a quick victory she is soon disappointed. You do not even need to use your shield to avoid her attacks, now on familiar ground. Still, the goal of this exercise is to learn, and you make a conscious effort to do so.
Many of the lessons learned on Orundómë are now applied in a new context. Shield and sword work in tandem, never facing the two handed weapon directly, for between its size and weight and Sir Cauthrien's obvious strength, it would be folly.
Faster your two blades whirl, you with the advantage in speed, she in strength. You have skill, she has range. For a short time you are stalemated, but slowly, surely, your greater skill begins to show.
The end, when it comes, is sudden. Two handed weapons were rare in your day, even spears were more commonly wielded one handed in partnership with shields. However, a sword is a sword, and it is not long before you put together the principles by which it is wielded.
A feint with the shield to draw her in, a dart with the blade, a sudden twist and she holds the blade only in her left hand. Then a sharp strike with the centre of your shield drives it into the dirt.
Standing there, chest heaving, Sir Cauthrien slowly bends her head and, sounding as though being forced at sword point, she grits out, "Yield."
In years to come, the story will grow in the telling. A single knight fighting his way to Denerim will become a weeklong odyssey across Ferelden, challenging every single knight on the way. It will become a legend.
For you, here and now, it is a potent, final, lesson.