Told to hold down the fort (Open)

[Angrim]

The wind rushed and swirled around Angrim's face blowing his hair wildly as Hel dived straight to the earth below. The two had just created a hilltop and now the valley was fast approaching. "Okay!" He shouted and the beast threw its wings outward and with a lurch of its body leveled out gliding mere feet from the earth. "Let's take it faster! See if we can't get the maneuver down!"

Hel immediately began to gain altitude its shadow being cast at great lengths the higher they went. Preparing his Lance in hand Angrim stood shakily on the Wyvern's back. "Ready!? One... Two... Th-" he had not gotten the final word out when the beast threw him from its body sending him rocketing through the sky. Angrim tried to keep himself steady but had gotten the angle all wrong. Instead of becoming a torpedo of sorts his whole body was now flailing about at the mercy of nature.

"Hel! It's wrong!" He cried out as he was soon facing the sky, the earth, then the sky, and then... a mountain? Panic overtook him as he fast approached the mountain side. Even survival would be painful, death likely. "Hel!!!!" He yelled desperately. The beast had overtaken the gap only barely offering Angrim a chance to grab hold before crashing into the rocky wall. The two seemed to become one mess with the sheer cliff before they began to descend. "Ahhhh..." Angrim groaned nursing his arm. "We, need to work on that some more... But not now." Hel let out a shrill shriek of aggreance.

*

"Ohhh, if I were a rich man, it would be rich with love for you! Oh, all for you!"
"And iiiiiif iiiiii were a poor man I'd be poor in time away from you!"

Angrim was washing his clothing at a lakeside singing a tune he learned in the bar. He touched his side and hissed in pain. "Ah, that stings. Hey, Hel, you good?" The beast raised its head and snorted before lowering it and continuing to sleep. "I'll take that as a yes." Lying in the grass he stared at the sky wondering what the future would hold and if something exciting was on its way.

"If iiii were a strong man I'd be strong just to protect you!" He continued to sing ever softer before it trailed into a humming of the tune. He didn't know the whole song after all.

[Zarathustra]

"Zoroaster...what is this sound that reaches mine ears? Be it the sound of newlyweds as they dance with guests, or the sound of screaming children as they roast in the skillet? If it is the former, we will have found new ears into which we can insert our teachings, worming them in like an eel, sliding slippery and slimy down into the depths of their noggin. If it be the latter, then we will have found...lunch."

An odd figure rode at breakneck pace out of some trees, approaching the lake with great speed before halting suddenly a good distance away from Angrim and his Wyvern. The horse's rider dismounted, sort of flopping off the bare back onto his feet, and then sniffed the air and looked at the man with a good deal of curiosity and more than a little bewilderment.

"This is neither wedding nor feast of fattened child. I have been mistaken. Who, then, is this man, who rides upon a winged salamander? What cause has he to sing here at this lake? What does winged salamander taste of? Is it succulent and juicy, or savory and chewy?"

Zarathustra tottered over to Angrim, not saying a single word to the Wyvern Rider, but mumbling to himself often as he poked at the man with his stick and rifled through the clothing laying around.

"The man has no food, it seems, nor does he have a bride. What an unusual man, riding a winged salamander without clothes. Hast the man any knowledge of the teachings of Zarathustra? None at all it seems, not a single line. How unfortunate. The word of Zarathustra is most uplifting to the ear and most soothing to the heart."

Turning to face Angrim, the Troubadour bopped him on the head with his staff and spoke loudly, his eyes wide and eyebrows waggling.

"Thus speaketh Zarathustra! He who shares his lunch with the wandering prophet is blessed in many ways!"

[Angrim]

As Angrim hummed the warm sun upon his skin and a cool breeze blowing he began to nod off. His mind was swimming with visions unreal but pleasant and then he remembered little. His clothes were beside him and he was stripped to his pantaloons only as they dried and he slept.

An odd fellow happened upon his resting place and yet he continued to snooze lazily. Hel stirred and watched the odd fellow for a bit before getting to his feet and subtly, or as subtle as a large 'winged salamander' could be followed along. There was a deep growl from the beast, more of a rumbling really. When he poked the man Angrim seemed to stir before rolling over onto his gut and continuing to sleep.

Searching through Angrim's pack revealed little of worth, a water skin and some food. There was also a small flask full of alcohol. He was off duty after all. His dreams were reaching a high point when suddenly, thwack!!! Hel let out an ear splitting cry and took a combative stance as Angrim threw himself into a kneeling pose reaching for his Lance. He grimaced at the pain in his ribs when he noticed the man standing before him shouting.

"What the blazes is wrong with you? You decrepit old gopher!?" In his start he forgot, perhaps justified, his manners. He stood and realized he was hardly clothed. Grabbing up his things he began to dress and spoke, "You want food? You hit me in the face and ask for FOOD!!!?" Wait, prophet? "And prophet of what!?" He hopped on one foot a moment as he put on his trousers.

[Zarathustra]

The winged salamander screeched most loudly and cacophonously as Zarathustra's staff descended upon the sleeping man's head, and the man himself almost tied himself in knots in a combination of getting up, falling down, and trying to put clothes on. The initial words from the newly-wakened Wyvern Rider were quite caustic, though the hermit paid them no mind and instead sniffed at Hel, trying to see what the Wyvern smelled of. It wouldn't let him get close enough, but if it would have, the Troubadour would have licked it to see if it tasted pleasant.

"Not merely for food does Zarathustra awaken the sleeping man! No, no, if the prophet Zarathustra wanted simple food he would have taken the food of the bees and the bears, the bugs and the berries! Zarathustra wonders why a man sleeps with a winged salamander! Does the winged salamander taste juicy, like the berries of the bush, or savory, like the flesh of roasted fish, baked bear, or charred child?"

Zarathustra poked Angrim on the point of the nose with his finger, waggling his eyebrows and lifting up a flask of alcohol. It was not Angrim's - this was a clear glass container filled with some sort of dark, hazy liquid. It looked almost like swamp water, sand, and leaf litter all mushed together. Uncapping the container, letting loose a strong smell of rot and mold, and drinking from it with relish, Zarathustra spoke to the man's question with excitement in his eyes.

"Zarathustra is a prophet of great truth!"

The word truth was accentuated with a bang of his staff upon the ground and another swig of the foul-looking drink.

"Share your lunch with a wandering prophet and be blessed! I, Zarathustra, will impart my wisdom upon you. It enlightens the mind and gives the body new resolve!"

[Angrim]

Hel shied away from the odd man, he stepped back from him and retracted his head just to keep distance. Eventually the beast stood with its flank revealed and tried to swat him away with its wings.

"I would not know how it tastes as people do NOT eat wyverns!" Angrim was tailing the hermit and was beginning to wish he could simply restrain him, in fact this far out here he considered doing just that. He had only just begun to raise a hand to get his attention when his words of protest did not do and was met with a bony finger jabbed into his nose. He was one verbal boop away from flying off at this point.

Stopped in his tracks by the sheer oddity of this man he looked upon the liquid he carried. It was of a detestable color, never would he drink anything like it, not even the lowliest of taverns had something that bad. "What is-" He dry heaved the moment it came uncorked. He was hands to knees coughing. "My word! What!? What by the heavens is," He heaved and fought for the right word and it eluded him. "THING!!!?"

As the man slammed his staff to the ground drips of the 'drink' spilled out onto the ground and it looked just as bad there too. Now that he looked around where was Hel? The wyvern left him!? Disloyal jerk! Now at the old crow's mercy he ruefully allowed him to keep in his company.

"I was only out here to train so... I guess I can share some food..." He agitatedly dug through his bag and tossed him half a small bread cake. "So, great wise-man," his voice full of mockery, "Wisen me."

[Zarathustra]

"I would not know how it tastes as people do NOT eat wyverns!"

Hmm? And why not? Salamander was quite delightful, and winged salamander would most likely be even tastier. Sautéed over a fire, or grilled... Yum!

"My word! What!? What by the heavens is that THING!!!?"

The Troubadour cackled, his eyes shining with a mixture of glee and insanity as he held the liquid up to the light.

"This is a Meditation Drink! I make it myself! A little bit warms the mind, and a lot bit brings one close to ultimate truth. It leads to the most wonderful of meditations, and a most glorious of sleeps! It contains many parts, all of which are hard to find. I use brackish water that collects in the hollows of trees for the sweet, honey-like base, and add mashed maggots from rotting logs for the savoury component. Then I use squirrels' flesh, which I allow to sit out in the sun for at least half a moon, and the mush of mushy mushrooms! That is how you make a perfect Meditation Drink!"

"I was only out here to train so... I guess I can share some food... So, great wise-man, wisen me."

Zarathustra took the cake, voraciously devouring the meager morsel and smacking his lips in obvious satisfaction. It lacked the taste of flesh, but it filled the belly. Most delicious. He turned his attention to his drink, swallowing another generous swig, and then looked at Angrim, furrowing his brow and beginning to bestow wisdom upon him.

"All truth comes from within. You must find truth within yourself. But others may tell you of the truth you hold within yourself. It is your choice to believe or not to believe.

The way is steep and the path narrow, but there are arrows flying at you as you climb the mountain road. But where others fall, Zarathustra will remain, because inside he sees the truth of the arrows and so deflects their paths around him. So too can you stand firm, if you see the truth that the arrows are no more than leaves in the breeze.

Within you... I see uncertainty. Doubt. Self-loathing. All these must be removed if you seek to become truly wise."

Zarathustra raised his staff, and light shined out, red like an apple. The glow descended upon Angrim, healing the wound he had sustained while training with Hel. The Troubadour, however, said no more.

[Angrim]

Angrim was not convinced of the old man's wisdoms. They seemed far more akin to a cheap fortune teller saying the most common things possible to make a quick gold piece. All of that and to say nothing of his beverage and eating. With every smack of his dried old lips it took a great deal of effort for Angrim not to wince at the sound and the splay of biscuit crumbs.

"Find truth within myself eh? What a load of trash. That is just a cheap way of telling me to figure it the f*** out and now you've had my food." He looked at his side and patted it a mixture of irritation at the old crow and a bit of genuine gratitude. "Let's just say the food was in thanks for the healing. As for this uncertainty, doubt, and self loathing, please." He began to pack his camp and redress his arms with his loose bits of armor.

"No one knows what tomorrow brings, so of course there is uncertainty and doubt. Will I see tomorrow? Will I get offed by an angry bandit? Far too common an idea to convince me. I am no fool old man." He began to scan the skies for Hel, where did he fly off to? He should have found the old base they were to look over today. "Now, I do need to get a move on and find some bandit remnants. I hear tale that a group of around three are still operating. Not a threat but certainly a nuisance." He whistled a short and sharp sound and was met by a piercing cry.

"Unless you wish to, convert, and talk the ears off the local banditry I believe this is where we shall part path." Hel landed after spinning around the camp a few times with a soft thud. Angrim began to climb into the safdle and had some final advice for the man. "The water here is pure. I suggest you drink that instead of your bilge water filth."

[Zarathustra]

"Find truth within myself eh? What a load of trash. That is just a cheap way of telling me to figure it the f*** out and now you've had my food. Let's just say the food was in thanks for the healing. As for this uncertainty, doubt, and self loathing, please."

The Troubadour shook his head.

"No, no. The truth is already inside of you. You need not figure it out. It will come out! The more you think the more you will confuse yourself. You simply have to let wisdom spring from your breast, much like a child might spring from his mother and father's loins as they lie together at night. Be open so that the wisdom might enter, and be open so that it might come forth."

Zarathustra began to laugh uproariously as the man mentioned defeating some bandits. This man, with his winged salamander, would take on three ruffians? It would be most amusing to watch. Indeed, perhaps these men would see truth, and would become enlightened by the wisdom that he brought.

"Good, then. Lead the way and we shall see if they are as wise, or indeed, even wiser, than you. If they are wise, they will see what wisdom brings, and I shall have gained new disciples. If not, then you can attempt to feed them to your winged salamander. And if they defeat you, then Zarathustra will finally be able to taste the meat of winged salamander. A feast it shall be, to be sure. The flesh roasted over fire, crispier and more juicy than that of charred child. Ah, I hunger already. Lead on, you man with a skull thicker than rock, lead on. Let us find a new meal!"

[Angrim]

Angrim had a strained hand upon his face as he held back from strangling the old crow. His analogy was both unsettling and inappropriate. Wisdom and things done in the dark of the night should never be compared in the way he just had. "You are..." He no words for the man, for there were none that could possibly describe the disdain and distaste he felt for him and his wisdom or philosophy.

"They are bandits you old bat! If they had a shred of wisdom to begin with they would never had followed such a path. I do not need nor desire your aid upon my duty. I will bring them swift justice and be done with it." Naturally his refusal would not be heeded but he had at least made the effort to turn the madman away. "Gain deciples," he mocked derisively.

Upon the old man mentioning Angrim dying that he would eat Hel and at last taste and feast upon such a rare delicacy the patience he bore, as little as they truly were, had become spent in an instant. "You would so easily and readily write me off for dead!? You would eat my companion and friend!? Fool! Do you know with whom you speak and what I ride!? Hel would sooner tear you apart limb by limb and leave you nothing but a nugget raving in madness than let you close enough to try and feast upon him!" He did not know why the man made him so angry but he sure knew how to push his buttons.

"If you want to come with me so badly then just try and keep pace with a Wyvern in their element!" With a sharp whistle Hel spread his wings coiled back much like a spring and leapt into the sky at breakneck speeds." Angrim let out a soft breath as he looked back to hopefully see the man dazed and growing smaller in the distance.

[Zarathustra]

"They are bandits you old bat! If they had a shred of wisdom to begin with they would never had followed such a path. I do not need nor desire your aid upon my duty. I will bring them swift justice and be done with it."

"Hark, but what is justice? Is the taste of death for these who walk a different path their justice, or just your justice? Does not their path reflect their lot and their willingness and drive to survive, despite their poor throw of the dice of fate? They are doing what they can with what they have been given. What more should be expected of them?"

"You would so easily and readily write me off for dead!? You would eat my companion and friend!? Fool! Do you know with whom you speak and what I ride!? Hel would sooner tear you apart limb by limb and leave you nothing but a nugget raving in madness than let you close enough to try and feast upon him!"

"Hue hue hue... One day, I will feast upon the fattened flesh of winged salamander. I will rejoice in the juicy meat and succulent, savory flavor. If that day is not today, Zarathustra will wait. I am nothing if not patient in my quest to share wisdom."

"If you want to come with me so badly then just try and keep pace with a Wyvern in their element!"

As the Wyvern Rider shot into the air, Zarathustra spurred Zoroaster, and the two shot off in pursuit of the airborne Angrim. As they rode, not able to travel as quickly due to avoiding the occasional tree or fallen trunk, but certainly not left in the dust, Zarathustra sang loudly and jovially, seemingly unbothered or oblivious to the fact that he was traveling towards a nest of bandits with no weapon to speak of.

[Angrim]

To say Angrim was flustered, irritated, or even baffled and perplexed by the self proclaimed wiseman, Zarathustra was a gross understatement. More accurate words would be impossible to form and accurately portray his emotions. No, there was one word actually: disgust.

This disgust overpowered any sense of awe or impress at the old bat's dexterity and more than impressive steed. To actually keep pace with a wyvern was simply an incredible feat of a beast any knight would be grateful to have ownership of. Angrim may have been able to appreciate such a fine horse had it not been for one single key factor... the singing.

The old bat was boisterous and loud, his tone zealous in his pursuit. Perhaps old bat was not the right name for him. Yes, old crow seemed far more apt. If he was thinking properly about it the issue with the man singing his approach to an old bandit hideout would become apparent instantly, but he was not thinking about it and instead focused on his irritation.

"WOULD YOU SHUT UP!?" He began to shout when a sudden jerk from his wyvern threatened to toss him off. He was taken by surprise and had to adjust himself with all he had or be tossed away. He did not see the cause of the reaction but a whizzing noise and a well trained ear for a particular screech from Hel tolled him all he needed to know. They had an archer, and he knew they were there.

[Zarathustra]

“WOULD YOU SHUT UP?!”

Zarathustra looked up to see the wyvern twisting itself through the air. A beautiful spectacle. The winged salamander was performing delicate acrobatic stunts for his amusement. And then something shot by his head, embedding itself in a tree near him. The Troubadour stopped, turning and galloping to examine it. An arrow! So they must have approached the bandit hideout.

The mystic smiled, thrusting his staff aloft and then spurring Zoroaster towards the direction of the arrow.

As he approached, the man roared out in a voice that seemed far too loud and bold for his frame, proclaiming his wisdom without any sort of fear.

“Hear me, bandits of the countryside! I am Zarathustra, and I seek to impart upon you my wisdom! Thus speaks the Prophet Zarathustra: take up arms against tyranny! Fight against the constraints of the mind! Let yourself transcend your bodily limitations! Feel your oneness with the world, and you will be free!”

Another arrow shot by, but the crazed rider paid it no mind, gesticulating even more widely and wildly, barely maintaining his balance on his horse.

“Do not bind yourselves to the earthly plane of existence! Let yourself soak in the ethereal sphere and you will be conscious of the strands of true reality! You shall play them like a minstrel plays the lute, and the melody of peace will help you achieve true relaxation.”

An arrow lodged itself in the Troubadour’s arm. He looked at the protruding projectile with a bit of a strange, puzzled expression, and then ripped it from him, tossing it aside and then swinging his staff up. Zarathustra took a breath and then bopped his staff on his head, slamming the red gem into his forehead with surprising force.

Red energy crackled forth from the staff, flowing down onto his arm and surrounding the wound. Flesh reconstructed itself and the last slivers of wood fell from the wound before the puncture sealed, leaving a pink area of tender skin.

Through all of this, he had been riding steadily towards the source of the arrows, not at all fazed by the danger.