The first time Jaune had laid eyes on Vale, he'd been up for the better part of the week's trip from Ansel to Vale. He hadn't stopped to eat or rest all the way, forcing the poor animals to the breaking point. He could barely move without something in him aching from too long on the wooden steering seat, and his stomach swam in jerky, dried fruit, and stale tasting water he could reach in the cart without having to stop and get up to get it.
Even so, bleary eyed and exhausted, he was able to see the glory of Vale.
Once, according to the Old Tales, the two towering mountains that rose up to either side of the great city had been the base of one, greater mountain. A mountain which climbed beyond the sky itself, to a place where the air was so thin a man could not breathe, and the sky was so dark that a man could not see the sky. Supposedly only Oz the Great, the first King of Vale, had ever climbed to its apex, where he met the True Gods. So surprised and awed to see him, they were moved to reward him for such an accomplishment as this. But how? None had even considered it possible for a man to reach them, so they had nothing of worth, in their eyes, to offer him.
So, they asked what he wished for.
'Home.' The stories say he answered, 'A home, where my people will be safe from the beasts of the land.'
Moved by his selflessness, the stories say the True Gods levied their power to grant his wish. From one mountain came two, parting like the sea and creating a great divide miles wide and miles long, with two relatively narrow mouths on either end. They made the land fertile and the mountains rich in metals and gems and stone worthy of construction, and taught Oz how to make use of each.
By their guidance and gifts, Great Oz raised up walls of dark granite a hundred feet tall, and thick enough that they were honey-combed by halls and rooms. Barracks, armories, offices and more filled the walls which they guarded against the darkness beyond them. Two of these he built, one at the northern mouth of the great valley and one at the southern, with the first and last stones laid by the King's own hands.
At the heart of the great, green valley the gods aided Oz the Great with one last gift - they raised from the earth the Tower. It was hewn of the same near-black granite as the wall, but climbed to twice its height where it was topped by Beacon - the throne room of the King of Vale, with a roof of tiled bronze and glass walls facing way but the eastern way, for that was where the throne sat.
Around it, Oz himself raised a smaller interior wall, only twenty feet tall and only thick enough to fight upon. Inside it he built his home, a dark stone keep that bloomed around Beacon in a perfectly measured square. Offices filled its lower levels, and the King's dwelling its upper. Around it, an orchard of apple trees had been planted, so that the King who loved them might always be able to reach them with ease.
Soon, the people heard of the King's God-given gifts, and flocked to him.
And by his light, Vale was built into the forebear of the Great Kingdom which lived today.
At least, such was the story of the Old Texts.
Such was the story…
XxX----XxX----XxX
"Ho!" A loud voice called as he trundled, exhausted, down the smooth brickwork of the winding highway. He looked up as a trio of lightly armored Knights rode up and came to flank in front of his horses, forcing them to stop. "We are the Brothers of the Emerald Path. What business have you with a carriage of the Preying Eagle, boy?"
"Emerald Path…" He blinked, groaning and massaging his bleary eyes.
Each of them were dressed less in armor and more in robes, with a simple steel breastplate and emerald-hued barbutes that left their faces visible. All carried lances and wore shields attached to the pauldron on their left sides, as well as smooth steel plate-greaves. But beyond that, and simple leather gloves, they and their horses were unarmored. Though, each wore a waist-pack on their hips with the unfurling silver Scroll insignia of their Order.
"Indeed, young man." The woman answered as she cantered around the horses and to the front of his cart. Leaning over, she inspected him and hummed, "Exhaustion… Are you alright, sir?"
"I-I'm fine." Or at least well enough. He straightened and said, "I-I am of the Preying Eagle. I joined- My f-father came to me, in Ansel, and I went with him on a Hunt. we expected Beowolves, and were set up-pon by Alphas."
"Alphas…" She murmured, eyeing him closely and leaning back to fish out a little pouch in her waist-pack. "You've water, yes?"
"I-I do…"
"Good." She poured the pouch into a small, round metal flask as big as her fist and held it out to him. "Mix and drink."
"B-But…"
"You are clearly fatigued, and as you are alone, I gather that your companions were killed as well. With them, your father. So, you are fatigued and traumatized." She rattled the words out clinically, as though she were speaking of something no greater than the time of day or the way of making bread, rather than the death of a company of Order soldiers. Holding the flask out still, she repeated, "Mix and drink."
This time, he didn't argue, bowing partially to her authority and to his own exhaustion.
The drink was sweet, but in a sickly sort of way, and grainy as well. Like soup, almost, but cold and swamped by that sickly sweet flavor. Still, he had tasted medicine before, and downed it all before he took the flask away from his mouth and coughed on the taste.
"Gods," he hacked, "what is that?"
"A stimulant and mental relaxant, made of a ground up herb grown in and around Vale." The woman explained, turning and ordering her companions. "The horses as well."
They nodded and one slippedd of his horse, drawing a pouch of oats from his horse-harness and opening a pouch of herbs into it. One at a time, he set about feeding the horses. While he did, Jaune felt his stamina suddenly coming back to him. And with it, a strange sense of ease and comfort that was so surreal and off-putting it nearly gave him a different kind of anxiety altogether.
"That's…"
"Better?"
"Yes, Ma'am." He nodded, relaxing back against the cart-bench. "Thank you…"
"Think nothing of it." She waved him off, "Now, you say your father brought you into the Preying Eagle?"
He nodded and explained, "Yes, ma'am. H-He didn't survive either."
"His name?"
"Lord Nicholas Arc."
"Lord Arc…" Suddenly, the woman leaned over and took his face in her hands, turning him this way and that. Inspecting him, like a man might a helmet, or an apple. Finally, she hummed, "You look enough like him, I suppose… Have you proof?"
He stood and turned, reaching down to retrieve Crocea Mors and his so-called father's ring. He held both out to her, and said, "He told me to present these to a man of the Preying Eagle. Oobleck. And to say I was the son of the 'Yellow Death'."
"The Yellow Death…" The woman was confused but, after a moment, nodded and turned her horse around. "We shall guide you to the Wayfarer. It is an inn, where you will rest by my authority and hospitality."
"But-"
"I will send word to the Second Marshal." She explained reassuringly, "Informing him of your words, and your place of rest. But if you speak true, you are the last of an ancient and holy line. You cannot push to breaking, Lord Arc."
"Alright…" He agreed begrudgingly, "Lead the way then."
XxX----XxX----XxX
The Wayward was an inn set across the wide, paved intersection from a tavern - the Weary - and shared the heart of a small village with it. Stores, warehouses and an Emerald Path dormitory his guides would presumably be using. Beyond these were houses and, in two cases, tall tenements that could fit maybe fifty of the poor that would flock to them. Tightly, admittedly, but a roof and walls would be enough for many. Which would have been enough for him, to be frank, but…
Instead, he had been given a room at the Wayward, paid for by his Emerald Path guide.
His room at the inn was on the third floor, and had been easily five times the size his room in Asnel had been. The bed took up one corner of the room, thrice as wide as his cot had been and covered in a thick, warm and soft blanket. It even had sheets, made of gentle cotton, and a well-stuffed mattress that sprang up when Jaune stood up from it. A table filled a large part of the rest of the room, tucked into a corner and surrounded by stools. And it'd even had its own stove, pressed against the outer wall and with a box of coal beside it for him to use alongside a collection of cookery.
It was a full six paces long, from door to wall, and five wide. So much space...
He'd thought that he'd walked into what nobility was like, his so-called father's sword hanging off his hip awkwardly and his eyes bleary and doubtless bloodshot from fatigue. He was sure he'd been starving, too, and dehydrated as well, but sleep and the wonders of his room had pushed that concern off.
A rickety iron stove, a bed that wasn't made of hay, and enough room to breathe, and he was a noble…
A barely modified blacksmith's hammer and a pilfered, painted shield and he'd been ready to be a soldier, too…
Such lofty ambitions, for a lowly, peasant blacksmith, no?
XxX----XxX----XxX
Jaune woke up the next morning with a pounding headache that throbbed in time with the knocking on his door. Standing, he shuffled to it and yanked it open, glowering tiredly at the young servant on the other side. She was a lithe, petite thing, with short brown hair cut in a bob that curled around the base of her skull. Her clothes were nothing special either, little more than a green dress and a pale apron.
Her name had been carved onto the bronze collar she wore, though, and he grumbled it, "Miss, uh, Hound?"
"A-Ah." The young Chastened squawked, eyes flicking down towards her collar before she met his gaze again and flushed, holding out her tray and stammering with a barely concealed, foreign accent, "Breakfast, mine Lord."
"Ah, thanks, miss." He took the plate and bowed his head gently, "G'mornin'."
"O-Of course." She flushed and flinched a bit, then turned and looked away nervously, hands curled into balls at her sides. Quietly and tensely, almost as if she were resigned to something, she asked, "Will that be all, Lord?"
"Uh, yeah." He blinked, then turned and shut the door behind him. As he sat down he murmured, "That was weird…"
The moment he lifted the bronze lid off of the rectangular tray, every bit of the weirdness was forgotten.
Venison steak, flanked by potatoes and diced carrots that looked like they'd been fried somehow, filled the room in a heady waft. A mug was set beside a small, silver, square thermos with the common-use symbol for 'mead' emblazoned on the front. And the true luxury, the apple, diced into quarters on a smaller platter beside the larger one, with something hot and brown in a tiny bowl beside it. It was sweet smelling, though, so he supposed that it was some kind of syrup.
"Gods…" He murmured, staring at it all with wide eyes and a watering mouth.
He didn't waste a moment longer before he grabbed the fine knife that the meal had come with and cut into the tender, fresh meat. It parted like butter, and came apart in his mouth like a festival of tenderness and juice. The meat had been salted, but then broiled in something spicy and warming that went so perfectly with the salt that it tasted like the Brothers themselves had made it for him.
The next, though, tasted like ash…
This is what Nicholas had given him - minus the potatoes and apple. Only hours before he'd died, and Jaune had been handed the mantle of 'Arc'. The mantle of 'Knight of the Preying Eagle' too, he was willing to wager. And here he was, slurring his good mornings and ripping into his breakfast like a man possessed…
And he had meat juice staining his shirt now.
"Damn it, Jaune." He grumbled, tossing his cutlery on the table and rubbing his face with his hands. "Nicholas trusted you, so… You're a noble now."
And nobles didn't pig out on their food.
He was pretty sure, at least…
Taking a breath, he picked up his knife and fork and took pains to slowly, evenly cut off a small piece that he put in his mouth. Then he picked up the cloth that had come with the food, folded up for the cutlery to sit on, and dabbed at his mouth the way he'd seen girls do when he was a child, and they pretended at being royalty. He felt like an absolute fool, a child even, but…
Well, it was the best idea he had at what nobles did. The girls' behavior had to at least be close to right, after all, or why would they all do it? So even if he felt ridiculous, he practiced, eating his breakfast like that and doing his best to emulate what he could of nobility.
He owed Nicholas that much, at least…
He finished his food about ten minutes later than he would have, but he felt like that practice was good. Unsure of what to do with it, Jaune just stuck the dishes under the tray and sat it on the floor in the hall. If that was wrong, he supposed, someone would just say something about it.
A knock on the door only a couple minutes later put his heart in his throat for that reason-
"U-Uh, hello?" He stammered, pulling open the door and expecting the young woman from before.
Instead, he was met by a wiry man in a simple mail hauberk with a thick blue tabard on over it, the clutching claw of the Preying Eagle burned on it in bright gold. His sleeves ended in thin leather vambraces, but his hands were bare. And he wore cloth trousers rather than armor as well, ending in simple looking boots. Startlingly blue eyes, bright and cold like frozen water, looked out from under a simple leather arming cap that a wild mess of long hair, green like the forest, stuck out from under.
"Bard Littlefinger, at your service, young Lord Arc." The man smiled, bowing his head gently. "A Knight of the Order, in the service of Grand Archivist Bartholomew Oobleck. I hope I have found you well this morning."
"Uh." Jaune blinked, tongue suddenly turning to cotton. Another knight! And as far as this one would know, Jaune was too - and a noble, at that. He had to make a good impression.
But how? Should he invite the man in? No, he hadn't even made his bed - that would be a terrible first impression! But he couldn't just make him stand out in the hall, could he? That couldn't possibly be-
"Not much of a morning person?" Bard interrupted his thoughts, smiling warmly when Jaune only grimaced and nodded, embarrassed.
Damn it…
"N-No, not really." Jaune murmured, pushing the door open a bit and standing straighter. "Sorry, I just-"
"I heard." Bard interrupted, sharp eyes narrowing on him in a way Jaune couldn't describe. "You met your father, and then watched him die. You've my condolences for that, and you needn't push yourself for my benefit on that note either."
"T-Thanks." He nodded gratefully, flicking a look to the floor and frowning. "That, uh, was my first time in a battle…"
"So I understand." Bard nodded sympathetically, and smiled with it too, when Jaune looked up to him. The lithe man clapped him on the shoulder and smiled, "All was in the letter, young Lord. And rest assured, we of the Preying Eagles care little for your bastard's birth. A son of the great Nicholas is a brother of ours."
"A-Ah." A bastard? That was right! He'd have to have been had out of wed-lock, which meant jaune didn't need to worry about knowing about all the noble mannerisms. Grateful, he leaned into that and smiled sheepishly, "Y-yeah, uh, I'm glad to hear that, Sir Bard."
"Please." The man smiled, "Just Bard."
"Alright." Movement caught his eyes and he turned, watching Miss Hound come up the hall with a stack of dishes from the other rooms. Dipping as she closed with them, he stood and placed his tray on top of the others and smiled. "Thank you, the food was grand."
"A-Ah, um, thank you, my Lord." She blinked, flushed, and then flicked a confused look to the other, amused looking man. After Jaune was out of her way, she lowered herself just a bit in a sort of curtsey and shuffled away.
"Do you fancy her?" Bard asked once she was out of ear-shot. He flinched and turned to him and the man shrugged, "She's fetching enough, as a Chastened. If you fancy her, you could have her. At least until we leave…"
"W-What?"
"It's normal." The man shrugged, eyes sharp and narrow, almost boring into him. "She likely expects it, too, if you've been so kind to her since last night."
"W-What?" The only Chastened at Ansel had been servants in the little church, so he'd not really encountered them or learned about them. Was that why she'd given him those odd looks? He shook his head and stammered, "N-No, I don't- I was just being polite!"
"Oh?" The man's brows rose, "There's nothing untoward about it, you know. And she's still near, if you'd like to take her to your-"
"No." He interrupted the man more firmly, shaking his head, "I'm not- I don't want that. Gods, I should apologise. If that's normal, I-I probably frightened her…"
"Oh, I doubt that." Bard chuckled, "More likely she was happy."
"Happy...?"
"Most would have demanded rather than charmed." He explained, chuckling quietly, "You truly did not know such was the way of things?"
"No."
"That's rather hard to believe." Bard murmured, "Surely, your village had plenty Chastened."
"Only those in the church's service." He explained, "I, uh, mostly kept to myself in Ansel."
"I see." Bard nodded, eyes flicking up and down his length in that strange way of his once more, "And knowing doesn't change your mind about her…?"
"No." What did that even mean? Jaune didn't know for the life of him. Shrugging, he said, "Can we, um, just go? Gods, I'm embarrassed…"
"Don't be, don't be. If anything, you're the better man for being so kind. ANd for such pure reasons, too? The Gods' mercy runs in you." Bard chuckled, turning and bobbing his head up the hall, towards the stairs. "Shall we?"
"Yes, please." Jaune nodded, looking up the hall at the servant when she came back around the corner. Her eyes met his and she flushed.
Then, she smiled, just a bit but very warmly, and curtsied again, dipping just a bit lower and leaning forward to show off an expanse of neck and chest. Flushing hotly, Jaune paid her a nervous nod and turned, following after the other knight.
Already, he was stepping in it…