The sun was nearly down and the kitchen became painfully cold. Nora’s back ached and the cold made her muscles stiff. She fervently prayed as she pushed herself to work harder. Finally she gave up cleaning and returned to her station by the stove where soup was cooking. She was famished and looked bitterly at the soup and realized she missed the convent. True, she had been equally starved there, but at least she had the comfort of the nuns, however silent they were. Here there were few warm faces to greet her, and she was pained to find the irreverence demonstrated by so many of those around her. She gazed into the boiling soup, trying to recite several lessons she had been given by the nuns. There wasn’t much point in wasting energy to remember the things she had been taught before, she would never be required to have any intelligence here, but she was determined. She didn’t think God would favor people any more or less depending on whether or not they were educated, but there was merit in striving for perfection in all things. The sound of footsteps behind her woke her and she realized she had been half asleep against a wall and the soup was almost burning.

With war imminent any day now, the Garrison was busier than a hive of swarming bees. And as a Sergeant, Evander Kincade had been on his feet and on the move every minute of the day since before the sun had risen. First had been Mochrie's private training, then drills, then a meeting of the infantry officers, then a debriefing by some pompous cavalry idiot, then more drilling, the dressing down of several recruits who had been late for the morning's drills, then finally, a long bout of arguing with the quartermaster over equipping his troop with proper armor.

And in the thick of it all, he'd missed supper, finding the doors to the mess closed when he'd finally arrived. Peeved, tired, and more than a little hungry, Kincade had made his way back to the kitchens, prepared to give some unfortunate cook the same treatment the taciturn quartermaster had received.

When he pushed open the back door, however, the kitchens proved largely empty, save for a slip of a girl standing at the stove with her back to him. She jumped at the sound of his arrival, and Kincade felt a bit of guilt, the anger subsiding. Simply because he'd had a miserable day didn't mean he ought to pass it on to some poor servant girl. He cleared his throat.

"I don't suppose I could trouble you fer' a bowl o' that?" He asked, gesturing towards the simmering pot of soup.

Nora spun around to face the sergeant. After the initial immobilizing shock of seeing him had subsided, her expression became for the most part composed. She knew he was feared throughout the camp, but her fear went beyond this. The only man she had been acquainted with in her life was her drunken father. True, the nuns had told her not all men were like that, but most of them had been in the convent all their lives, any claims they had in that matter had little credibility. She did not think this man was like her father, but his potential evil made her anxious.

The Sergeant had spoken kindly to her, and this gave her comfort. Now she found herself filled with a sort of awe and shyness, making it difficult for her to speak. “Of Course, Sir.” Was what she managed to say as she began to move again, taking two bowls from the kitchen counter. Since the soup had been intended for servants, there was not much more than soup broth. She filled the small bowl with some broth and set it on the counter, she was somewhat disheartened that her supper would be so little, but she did not let herself dwell on the matter. Then she poured the rest into the larger bowl that she carried over to the table next to the sergeant.

She retreated a few steps away and stood hugging herself with one arm and with the other clinging nervously to the crucifix that hung around her neck. She began feeling painfully emaciated once again, but she dared not eat while the Sergeant was there. She gazed up at him quietly.

“I’m afraid that’s not very much for you, Sir. Would you like anything else with it?”

The smell of the broth was enticing, and the steam wafting up from it was warm. Assorted cruel winters and prolonged campaigns when supply caravans had been caught off had taught Kincade to appreciate all nourishment, however meager.

“I’m afraid that’s not very much for you, Sir. Would you like anything else with it?”

"A bit of company wouldn't go amiss," he replied with a thin-lipped smile, voice soft and slightly hoarse from yelling at recruits all day. Kincade hated being waited upon, and having the girl stand there watching him in painful shyness would make it all but impossible to eat without each mouthful tasting of guilt. "Come now. You won't find yourself in trouble, I'll see to it." Far be it from his intention to put this girl in the head cook's ill-favor. "Now 'ave a seat. What's your name?"

Nora faltered and stared incredulously, she was being spoken to and even considered to be company. The sisters at the convent had treated her with civility and often kindness, but even there she had been a poor orphan whose life was indebted to them. Most thought she was a nuisance and at best a good helper. She had not been entitled to have their attention and few bestowed it upon her.

Nora slowly seated herself at the table across from him. She relaxed a little in the seat, the pain in her muscles lessened. “Thank you, Sir. Although I’m sure you could find more desirable company.” She said with small grateful smile. “My name in Nora Swift.“

Kincade lifted the bowl to his lips and drank the brothy soup directly from it. It was warm and filled with flavor, with tiny chunks of what he presumed to be chicken floating in among chopped herbs. Lowering it, he looked at her squarely. "Not 'Sir,'" he told her, firmly but not unkindly. Sir was a title given to knights, and while, as the son of a Thane, Kincade could potentially lay claim to the title, he made a clear point of scorning it. He wasn't some pansy of a cavalryman. He was infantry, through and through – blood and dirt and solid grit.

"It's sergeant, if you insist on titles. But seeing as you aren't a soldier, Mistress Swift, you are at liberty to call me Evander." There weren't many who called him by his Christian name. He had few acquaintances outside the military, and those mostly referred to him by his surname. He watched her carefully, dark eyes observing each detail of her composure. There was surprise, incredulity, and a painfully prevalent timidity. She was definitely out of place here at the garrisons. Most of the women in the camp were either as tough as the men and holding their own, or made their living as ladies of the night. Nora Swift did not appear to fit either of these categories, and that made her an enigma.

And that made her interesting.

“Oh.” Nora said, embarrassed of what little knowledge she had of the world. She hadn’t had the liberty of addressing men before and knew little of the etiquette of it. She couldn’t even recall how others addressed her father, most people she had seen with him were also drunk and unintelligible.

“But I thought servants were never to call anyone their Christian name.” She said quietly, looking up at him shyly. She couldn’t understand why he even acknowledged her existence, let alone speak with her, and it filled her with a deep joy. She was accustomed to solitude and never despaired because of it, but another's company was one of the few and greatest comforts she had.

As Nora was aware of his gaze, she looked down and blushed. She could not be certain, but she asumed he watched her out of distrust; most people seemed to suppose servants were evil and deceitful. But he didn’t appear to have any characteristics of the paranoid nuns who were always suspicous of her. He even seemed to be genuinely kind to her, and she realized that she wanted him to have a good opinion of her. Of course, this was foolish, for she was of no importance to anyone. She clasped her crucifix and glanced up at him.

“But I thought servants were never to call anyone their Christian name.”

Kincade snorted derisively into his soup. Civilians and soldiers were apples and oranges in his eyes, and trying to align social hierarchies with military ranks seemed a pointless exercise. He expected reverential respect from his men simply as a matter of military discipline. From civilians, though, he couldn't care less.

"We're both servants to the king, way I see it, which puts us on an even footing" he replied, wiping his mouth off on his frayed sleeve. "You're a few leagues too far south for propriety to matter much anyhow," he added, noting the way her hand nervously fingered the cross she wore at her neck. He found himself unconsciously mimicking the gesture, hand going to the place on his chest where his medallion dangled beneath the fabric of his tunic. The symbol he wore was older than the cross, though. His people had adopted Christianity generations back, but they'd never quite let go of the old folk ways.

"What is it you're doing here anyhow?" he queried softly, expression characteristically blank.

Nora smiled, she was begining to feel more at ease and confident, although she still felt minusqule in his presence. She didn't understand how a Sergeant could honestly believe a servant was his equal, she sincerely doubted that any other soldiers shared that viewpoint. When she saw his hand making the same gesture, she automatically lowered hers, but returned it quickly out of habit.

Nora paused, unsure how to answer his question since she understood it very little herself. "I recently left the convent where I lived; I believed I have a vocation of service, not holy orders. I hope I wasn't mistaken.." She explained and sighed, making a sweeping glance across the room. "This place isn't quite like how I thought it would be, but I had such little understanding of the world, I scarcely put faith into my expectations. I have not been entirely disappointed, I am able to do more for God here than at the convent."

A convent? Evander's brows both rose in mild surprise. He'd expected her to claim she was some young milkmaid following her lover-boy to war, or some victim of a bizarre misfortune. Both of these were feasible in his mind. But his preconceived notions of nuns did not include any of Nora's description. She was... well, pretty,he would have to say, if asked to be frank about it. It would prove quite a shame to conceal her under some musty habit.

"... I have not been entirely disappointed, I am able to do more for God here than at the convent."

"I'd imagine so," he remarked dryly. "Plenty of dead to pray over," he added in a mutter, draining the last of the soup. He heard the Lord's name in vain more often than he heard the Lord's Prayer, and the tent set up as the garrison's chapel drew far less attendance than the brothels did. But then it struck him that his words might sting to ears as naive as hers, and he forced a faint, apologetic smile. "I must ask you t'forgive a jaded old soldier. I meant no offense."

"Plenty of dead to pray over,"

Nora's countenance had not dramatically altered but now held a slightly more perplexed and earnest expression. He had not offended her but she was taken aback, realizing that perhaps even the kindest men were not necessarily devout Catholics, she hoped this was not the case with him. Most soldiers around the garrisons were obviously irreverent and the ones she saw seemed to be ruthless and callous men, she had made the conclusion that the malicious were impious and the kind were devout.

“I must ask you t'forgive a jaded old soldier. I meant no offense."

She smiled warmly, awed by his courtesy; it was unnecessary for him to ask pardon of any words he spoke with her. “You are too kind; it is nothing, I assure you..” She said quietly, looking into his eyes thoughtfully, if eyes were really the windows to the soul, then she would be certain that he was truly a very good man, of course it could not be so simple. "Does it get much worse here in the winter?" She asked as a draft reminded her how very cold she was, even in the summer.

"Hah. I'd hardly call what they 'ave down here 'winter,'" Kincade replied, a touch of derision in his voice. Back north, they'd had proper winters, with blizzards so fierce you'd be snowed in for days, huddled in the dark up against smoldering coals, and when the storm abated, you'd have to hack your way out through the layers of snow and ice. "I honestly 'aven't been this far south long enough to know for sure, but all I've heard says it's mostly rain and mud. Maybe the occasional frost, but more or less mild. Reckon it's a touch colder long' the western coast, but I couldn't tell ye for sure." He shrugged, then frowned —

"—Ye're not cold, are you?" Kincade found it nigh impossible to feel cold in the balmy climate of Thiasa, but that was largely a product of his upbringing and heritage – Kincade could be hard pressed to shiver knee-deep in snow. But now that he gave it some thought, he could see how the ventilation of the kitchen could cause drafts, and how the stonework would insulate the structure from the summer heat.

"Yeah," Nora admitted, realizing it must not have been in the least bit cold for the Sergeant or probably anyone else. "I've always become easily cold; my mother was like that too." Her voice lowered as she mentioned her mother, holding a grave expression for a brief moment; the nuns had made few attempts to console her about her mother's death, thinking time and prayer would be as good of a cure, but she still found herself on the brink of tears whenever she thought of her mother.

She sighed and looked back cheerfully and asked, "Where are you from?" Since she had never traveled before, she knew very little about the other regions in the world; she had often tried to ask the nuns to tell her about places she had heard of in history lessons, but they thought it was a foolish waste of time to dwell on such nonsense. Then her spirits dropped as she noticed his soup was finished, expecting him to leave any moment. Her countanence hadn't changed and she looked up at him intently, hoping he would stay for a little longer.

Evander wished he had his cloak, that he might offer it to her. As it was, he was dressed simply for the hot Thiasan summer. Although...

As she spoke he stood and crossed over to the pot of soup, and the small bowl that sat beside it, still steaming. This he picked up and placed before Nora. "Drink while it's hot. It'll warm you from the inside," he instructed, returning to his seat. "I'm from Scalia. The nor'-western edge, in the highlands 'tween Duain an' Viking lands – region by th' name o' Scotia." He'd gotten used to answering this question. His accent already marked him as a foreigner, as well as certain other characteristics and habits he'd not yet abandoned. "'Course," he remarked thoughtfully, stroking his neatly-trimmed beard, "I 'aven't been in so long, I reckon you could say I'm from near about everywhere."

Nora watched him with a smile saying, "Thank you." She somewhat reluctantly obeyed, feeling guilty for eating in his presence, but he had told her to. She took the bowl of soup and slowly drank the broth. Warmth immediately filled her head and stomach, and it slowly spread throughout her body. Soon the pang of emptiness in her stomach subsided and even her feet hurt less. Some energy had returned and she felt much better. "What was it like there?" She asked eagerly. After she had finished her soup she asked, "Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"What was it like there?"

Kincade smiled faintly, noticing her shy demeanor had all but dissipated. He didn't normally put people at ease... but normally he didn't try. Before his soldiers, he had to be made of iron – cold, hard, and unresisting. Before his superiors, he had to be professional, practical, and tactically minded – unemotional to the point of being wood. If he acted like a man made of flesh and blood... well, he'd hardly be a sergeant. Respect and discipline were the keystones of a successful fighting force. He could not afford to lose either. Making men uneasy kept them on their toes – kept them thinking and kept them sharp.

But here was a civilian – and if anything, her fear and respect had been too much. Here was a person he wasn't responsible to or for on the field of battle. She would not set foot in the fray, where her life would be in his hands. Before her... he could be just a man. A man with a home and the capacity to smile now and then.

"Cool. Green. A bit damp. Not nearly so much sun... a good deal of mist and wind. Sometimes, it could make you feel like you were on an island suspended in th'clouds. Tho' it could be brutal in the winter." He shrugged. "An' everyone was always fightin' over land an' sheep an' other things. Sometimes I reckon they'd just fight on account of havin' something to do.... Not much like a convent, I reckon."

"No, the convent had absolute peace. Your people would probably hate it there." Nora said with a smile. Few in the convent spoke, everything was silent and none ever fought. Their lives were focused on God in holy adoration, their entire life was an unchanging series of prayer. Nora was awed by them and she frequently wished that staying and becoming a nun had been her vocation, she had loved it there. Some novices who entered that convent were bored stiff and soon despised the nuns and eventually even God.

"It sounds like a beautiful place- except the cold. I can't imagine everyone fighting for the sake of it, it must be dreadful for them." She said, she thought there must be a lot of people like her father in that place. "Do you have a family there?" She thought that he would probably have a wife and children there, as well as a fair number of brothers and sisters.

"Hah," Evander chuckled. "More family an' you can shake a stick at." He leaned back, stretching sore muscles. He'd been driving himself hard in the practice rings to make sure he could still out do all the recruits, though many of them were near ten years younger than he. "They're called clans," he explained. "Large extended families what all live together. 'Nuff of each clan to be its own town. Clan Kincade's one o' the bigger ones too. I 'ad me seven brothers an' sisters, growing up."

He furrowed his brow thoughtfully, then smirked. "Can't say I can see any of 'em in a convent. Or a monastery. Except for Marìe maybe." He shrugged. "An' you?"

"I always wished I could've had a large family, did you enjoy growing up with so many siblings?" Nora asked, she wondered if she had had more siblings if that would have changed her father at all.

At the convent there were many nuns but she couldn't consider them as her family, they were her superiors and their lives were dedicated to Christ, she was only an orphan- if she had been a novice they would have accepted her as one of them. They did teach her Latin and how to read and write, as they taught the novices; they thought she might eventually become a nun in which case she would have to learn that stuff anyways. They were disappointed when she left, although very grateful they hadn't made any attachment to her.

Nora shook her head, and then- with some difficulty- continued in her regular tone, "Not really. I was taken to the convent as an orphan, after my mom was-" She paused, blanching a little; she had been about to say 'killed', it would’ve been improper to unnecessarily burden the Sergeant with her woes. She corrected herself, her voice shaky, "After she died.” It had been her father who had killed her mother, and, God forgive her, she still felt she hated him for it, although she did pray for him frequently.

“My father is still alive, although I suppose he might've died by now. I haven't seen him since I was seven." She talked in an unusually cold and uncaring tone as she spoke about her father, and it frightened her as she realized that she almost hoped her father was dead.

"They were very kind at the convent, but I wasn’t a novice, I was an orphan, so it wasn’t quite the same as it would’ve been.” She said, then smiled, "If they had known I was never going to become a nun they probably wouldn't even have schooled me. How lucky I was."

“Did you leave because of the war?” She asked.

Kincade snorted. Leave war-wracked Scalia for the armer borders of Thiasa? It made as much sense as leaping from the skillet to the fire. If you didn't like fire, at any rate.

"You might say that. Not nearly enough of a war back there, if'n you ask me. Much more interestin' one down 'ere. An' better payin'." He smiled sardonically. Mercenary work had been decent enough back north, but the armies had been peopled with fanatics and officers of the old-school. Thiasa had proved much more receptive to new tactics and new plans. Lt. Tremaine had been proof of that open-mindedness, listening to Kincade's suggestions instead of merely dismissing them as the mad notions of some half-cocked foreigner.

"I'm sorry 'bout your mother," he added, a bit more somberly. There had been members of his family he too had sadly watched lowered into the grave. Then again, there were some he'd have happily gotten down and shoveled graves out for if it meant they'd be occupying them any sooner. Like that two-faced coward Ramsay...

He realized his hands had balled into fists. He loosened them, noting the dark crevices his fingernails had bored into the callused flesh of his palms.

Nora looked at him perplexed, "But isn't all war miserble? Are there degrees of entertainment one can extract from them?" Her tone didn't contain a childish confusion, nor a coldness, but more the desire to understand reality. She had thought only madmen who murdered for the thrill could enjoy war even in the slightest, but he could not be a madman. Perhaps all men found some excitement in war, it could have been built into them as part of their desire to do their duty and good for the world.

"I'm sorry 'bout your mother,"

She sighed and made a slight smile, "It was long ago. Most people are not fortunate enough to have tragedies happen at young ages, before their memories properly function." Although some did say even the earlier tragedies could alter personalities completely, and it had affected her but not so dramatically as it had affected others. Her memories of her youth were more clear than the average adult's, and she remembered events when she was six and seven more vividly than when she was ten, but it was not half as bad as it would've been had it been recent.

"Way I see it, sowin' and threshin' grain is all sorts of misery. Yet I've seen men walk a thousand miles for a few acres of land what to call their own." He shrugged. "Some men are farmers. Some are smiths. Some are sailors. Me... I'm a soldier. I fight because it's what I know how to do. S'what I've always done. An' it's what I'm good at." This wasn't a boast so much as a statement of fact. He wasn't being proud – merely honest. "I reckon one of the only joys a man can 'ave is to do somethin' he's good at."

He paused, and his expression changed imperceptibly. "That," he added, something smoldering behind his eyes, "And there's nothing like squaring off with death and staring the bugger in the face to make you realize what it is to be alive." Seeing one's own blood, feeling pain... feeling the adrenaline and blood lust in your veins like flame. There was passion, and power, and at the same time, an understanding of how fragile life was... how fleeting and short and potent it could be!

Nora percieved something in his words and expression that conveyed that there was more to war than just sorrow, but she lacked knowledge and understanding to conceive how much. She was suddenly aware that something in his eyes and expression that reminded her of her father. She shivered, looking into his eyes aghast, surely this man was not cruel nor unkind.

The thoughts of her father that followed were bewidlering and she began to speak quickly in a more earnest, fearful tone, "But isn't there an imense horror? To take a life of another, their soul possibly damned for eternity- placed there with the aid of your sword. To face the chance of your judgement at any moment.. How can you be sure you're ready?" She paused, realizing how violently she feared death; hers as well as the death of others. "You have been given a new and greater appreciation for life, at what cost? When it does end, will it have been worth it? Achilles chose to die young to be immortal in the minds of men, are all soldiers given that choice?"

Then she realized what she was saying and how foolish and unkind she must have sounded; she understood nothing of what soldiers endured. She looked up at him blankly with a deep feeling of dread and guilt. "I'm sorry." She said, half expecting him to become irate, strike her, and leave; she didn't know how any man would react except her father.

Kincade simply raised a brow at her. A nerve, it would appear, had been struck. While he was every bit a war hawk, it would appear that she was a dove. Not that it should come as all that much of a surprise, given her background.

"I reckon that's merely a matter of perspective. I was raised to prize courage an' valor more than anythin' else. My father believed there was nothin' nobler than to die bravely on the battlefield. That's the way me brother Malcolm went, an' frankly, it's not a death I'd mind myself. When the Lord reckons it's my time, well – there's wont I'll be able to do about it." He shrugged. "There will always be wars, so long as men walk the earth. And so long as there are wars, there will be need for men to fight them. Men who fight willingly and know the risks. Men who die for a cause, rather 'an wasting away in misery. I reckon' there's worse things in life than taking a sword to the chest."

He watched her face pensively while awaiting her reaction.

Nora was amazed at his calmness; he didn’t fear death, even though there had been death and war in his country and family. And she only had the death of her mother. He didn’t seem to be in the least offended by her words, and she was grateful as well as embarrassed; she expected him to be like her father, and he was even calmer than she. She looked up at him with an earnest expression which was softer than before.

"I've read tales of great heroes and I understand that there is great virtue in a warrior, and valor and courage is honorable. And they truly are the best of men. Which is why it’s so dreadful when they die, on either side.” She said, though she knew many of the soldiers were wicked men, there must have also been men like him who had heroic virtue. “But I didn’t think it was enjoying for them, to kill another.”

She sighed, “How are you able to accept death so readily? To die on the battlefield, leaving everyone else behind. What if they can’t survive without you?”

He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out beneath the table. "I'm not sayin' it's something what gives me buckets o' pleasure or anythin' of that like. It's just what I do, an' I haven't any particular aversion to it on any sort o' philosophical grounds."

“How are you able to accept death so readily? To die on the battlefield, leaving everyone else behind. What if they can’t survive without you?” He glanced at her, and noted the earnest expression in her eyes. Life and death were subjects soldiers tended to live with, but not speak of. It was a slightly strange experience to have to put his thoughts and feelings on the matter into words.

"I train my men to know who to take orders from on the field of battle if their officer goes down. An' how to keep themselves alive." He shrugged nonchalantly. "Side from them, t'ain't anyone what needs me much."

"I'm not sayin' it's something what gives me buckets o' pleasure or anythin' of that like. It's just what I do, an' I haven't any particular aversion to it on any sort o' philosophical grounds."

Nora smiled a little, "I suppose that's a good sign; not all men are psychotic in that respect. There is hope." She spoke lightly, as if unaware of what she was referring to. After speaking, she began to hope that he would not read into her words, she didn't particularly want him to know what her father was like.

"I train my men to know who to take orders from on the field of battle if their officer goes down. An' how to keep themselves alive. Side from them, t'ain't anyone what needs me much."

She looked at him with pity, wondering if he lived in solitude. Of course, she was not needed by anyone, but she was nobody; she accepted that. Her unimportance in the world didn't bother her, but she did dislike the loneliness. And considering he had sought her company, she thought he must either be very lonely or extraordinarily kind.

"So, what do you do here when you're not off in battle?" She asked.

"Run drills, train the men. Practice. Talk tactics with the Lieutenant. Eat and sleep, on rare occasion." He forced a dry grin, but something inside him cringed at the way she looked at him. Pity. Kincade was never pitied. Feared, yes. Hated, certainly. Respected, as much as he could be. But pity... he felt a small ball of anger deep in his gut, not burning brightly, but slowly smoldering. So he was a solitary creature. There was plenty to be said for solitude! He was reflective, objective, and free of distractions. And, as he'd just explained, he had no one to worry about. Unlike Digby, who treated every soldier as his own son, Kincade kept a reasonable distance. He'd do his best to prepare them, but when the clarion horns rang out, they'd have to keep themselves alive on the field of battle.

"'An you?" he changed the subject and stamped out the ball of anger – let it burn another day. "I don't reckon you spend all your time prayin' an' serving dinner to Sergeants who missed the mess."

Nora had always imagined that the higher ranks had a more leisurely life, but apparently no one had it very good there. She wondered if he actually liked it there. She only enjoyed it in the sense the Saints enjoyed and prayed for suffering and persecution, to bring them closer to God. She was there to help and offered the suffering up as a penance, she had figured that's what most people did.

"'An you? I don't reckon you spend all your time prayin' an' serving dinner to Sergeants who missed the mess."

"If only. Alas, I'm not quite so fortunate as that. At least I have the ability to increase the amount of praying I do; it is theoretically possible that someday I could pray all day, though highly unlikely I should develop such discipline." She admitted with a smile. She had tried to pray while she did work, but there were frequent times when she was completely unable to concentrate. "And for serving dinner to Sergeants, this is the first opportunity I've had, and it is an activity that I am not at liberty to choose. Do Sergeants frequently miss mess?" She asked hopefully.

"When there's no work to be done, I read and go over the lessons I was taught; I can't risk forgetting them." She said, she had invested practically all her self worth in her knowledge and her relationship with God. She hadn't anything else; no wealth or power, and whatever personality she had was unnoticed. She hadn't considered beauty, the nuns were strict upon vanity- they didn't even have any mirrors. "Although it's near impossible to find books here."

The corner of his mouth twisted upwards. "This particular Sergeant has been known to be tardy to meals on occasion," he replied to her question, a hint of amusement in his voice.

He listened to her mention of books. Reading, eh? Kincade was only semi-literate himself. Reading had not been seen as an important skill in rural Scalia. He had learned the rudiments of letters and numbers from a monk under his protection, back when he'd been doing mercenary guard-work several years back. He could read a bit with effort and concentration, and write a small amount, but both were considered work in his mind more than a pleasurable activity. Though being able to sign one's name with more than just an X did have its merits...

Somewhere, a bell rang, and a sentry called out the hour, though the time was muted by the stone walls. Kincade grimaced, the sounds of militant life pulling him away from this civilian conversation. "I ought t'return to the barracks. I'm workin' one-on-one with Private Mochrie in the mornin'." He pushed his chair back, the wood grating against the stone floor as he stood...

Bernard walked down the corridors toward the Kitchen. He held his knife tightly and his face changed constantly between glee and anger. He couldn't be patient any longer; he was going to kill her. He listened hard at the door and heard a man's voice- someone was in there. This made him anxious, between excitement and fear. Maybe she had turned into a prostitute, or maybe he would defend her- but maybe he would assist his torture as entertainment. He hid the knife in his sleeve and waited, he could hear her voice now and it sent shivers through his spine. He could barely resist the urge to burst through the door and attack, but he had to wait and plan. Impatience turned into anger and in a fit of rage he grabbed a jar that had been sitting by the door and smashed it against the floor.


"This particular Sergeant has been known to be tardy to meals on occasion,"

Nora smiled, it was kind of him to give her some hope of seeing him again, although she doubted she would. Her smile faded slightly as he spoke of leaving. "Ought you?" She repeated quietly, she wished he could stay a little longer, but it wasn't in her place to beg for him to stay. Anyways, it was foolish of her to expect him to lose precious sleep in order to continue talking with her. "Enjoy the training." She said more cheerfully, standing to see him off. She jumped as she heard something shatter outside, it wasn't very loud from the kitchen but night had been so quite.

When the crash sounded in the hall, Kincade's fighters' instincts took over. He hand was on the hilt of his sword and he had the blade half out of the scabbard within the space of a heartbeat. Then he remembered himself and took a breath. This was a kitchen. He was not being ambushed. Someone merely dropped a piece of crockery.

Still.

Nerves still twitching, he crossed over to the door in a few curt strides then pulled it open, revealing a man standing in the corridor. Kincade looked him up and down. There was something mildly familiar about him. The Sergeant was fairly sure he'd seen him on the training grounds the day before. A new recruit then.

"Can I help you, Private?" The relaxed manner he'd slipped into with Nora had vanished without a trace. His posture was ramrod strait once more, and his face had settled into the perpetual bland scowl he wore before nearly all the men.

Nora didn't see who it was, she assumed it was military business. She watched the Sergeant as she moved toward the soup pot and began scrubbing it. She couldn't hear the private, but she could see Evander's expression which had grown much more stern. She wondered how he could change so much with an adustment of his audience.

Sergeant Kincade, Bernard hadn’t expected this. He rapidly stepped several paces back away from the Sergeant and the door, he couldn’t let Nora see him. "I’m here because she’s my.. niece, Sergeant. It’s going to be a wonderful surprise for her to see me. I'd rather our reunion be private though, would you mind if I went in alone for a few minutes?” He asked innocently. He couldn’t admit to being her father in case she had told the Sergeant about him.

He could've stopped there, but he was impelled to keep talking by the desire to impress and boast about his past accomplishments. So he continued in a soft, solemn tone, skillfully acting the part of a loving uncle. It was difficult for him and at times he could hardly restrain from laughing. “She hasn’t seen me in so long.. Not since the tragedy- I suppose she told you all about her mother’s – my sister’s- tragic murder. She never should’ve married that wicked man, but when you’ve got a bastard child on your hands, what else are you to do but marry the father? Of course after being beaten so often and witnessing such a violent brutal murder, I wanted to raise her myself; she’d have at least one good man in her life- her mother would've perferred that.. Unfortunately I had no money to support a child and she was sent to the convent.” Internally he rejoiced, he was just so clever.

“How is she? Has she healed from the trama? Is she good?” He asked anxiously, the expression on his face had honest concern and interest, although it was unnaturally strained to an obsessive level. He needed to hear that she was emotionally scarred, a murderer, a prostitute, a broken nothing that only existed to suffer. As he contemplated this he realized it would almost be a shame to kill it. Maybe he would make her suffering last for years before he ended her.

Kincade felt the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders loosen as the man prattled on harmlessly, yammering on about family matters Kincade considered to be very little of his business. One word did stick in his mind, though. Murdered? Nora had said her mother had died, but Kincade had assumed illness or other natural causes. Exposure to such brutality certainly explained the girl’s almost excruciating shyness, as well as her strong aversion to violence. He felt a tiny pang of guilt for his insensitivity during their conversation but moments ago.

He also noted, with slight curiosity, the way the man backed away from the doorframe, as if he did not wish to be seen.

“She is well,” Kincade replied flatly, voice emotionless, expression quietly stern. “As you may see for yourself, Private…?” While he waited for the man to supply a name, Kincade turned his head slightly to one side, though his eyes remained glued to the man. “Mistress Swift? It would appear you ‘ave yourself a visitor.”

"Rook." Bernard replied after a short pause, he had nearly forgotten his wife's maiden name. She is well. Those words stung in his ears, she couldn't be. He was growing very angry, but he smiled calmly. "She'll be so happy now. I'll just be a few minutes.." He said with a chuckle, pushing past the Sergeant into the kitchen and closing the door quickly behind him and putting a chair propped up against it. Then he turned to Nora and lunged forward, beginning to choke her so she could neither scream nor breath. His heart was racing, he couldn't believe this was finally happening. He grinned insanely. "I've missed you. I couldn't bare the thought of you living without you're mother. Tell me, are you afraid?" He said coldly, placing his knife to her back. He lessened his grip on her throat, "Explain to me how much you fear me and how much you've missed me."

“Mistress Swift? It would appear you ‘ave yourself a visitor.”

Nora put down the pot and turned with a confused expression, she didn't know anyone. When the man entered, she saw him prop the chair against the door, but she only recognized him when a moment later he was running toward her. She tried to avoid him and get to the door, but his hands were already around her neck. Everything was blurred with memories swimming in her mind, she was deathly afraid. She was close to passing out, but when he loosened his grip she managed to sum up the strength to scream, "Evander!"

Bernard began to beat her ruthlessly with his fists, speaking with wrath, most likely too loudly. "You are nothing, no one cares about you. No one can help you, you are alone! Just like me. You will suffer just like I did!"

He had little time to respond before the private pushed past him brusquely and swiftly shut the kitchen door. Kincade paused for a moment, then turned and began hid way down to the barracks. He'd only taken a few steps though, before stopping.

The way he hid in the hall.
The lengthy pause before he said his name.
The fact that there was no Rook on the roster for his troop.

Kincade turned, and found all his fears confirmed by the sound of a muffled scream.

"Evander!"

The sergeant swore, then slammed against the door – only something was barring it shut. With a snarl he threw his shoulder against it, repeatedly hurling the entire weight of his body against the door. He could hear "Rook"'s voice, speaking cruelly, sounds of a struggle... the fleshy impact of meat on meat, and Nora's sounds of distress...

The tiny ball of fury that always smoldered out of sight within Evander kindled into brightly burning rage. With an inarticulate roar, he flung himself against the door once more. Something splintered and broke - presumably the latch on the other side – and the door fell open to reveal Nora and her so-called-'uncle.' Kincade fell on the man immediately and soundlessly, his features contorted in anger. He grabbed his opponent by the back of the collar, then slammed a fist up into his jaw, knocking his head back with stunning force.

Bernard held his jaw, writhing in pain, blood dripping down. The shock, this wasn’t possible! Why would anyone defend her? He was a coward, hesitating to strike back, but he was also insane. He grinned, looking down at his daughter lying on the floor. “It was you’re fault she died..” He said mockingly. Then suddenly he burst with rage, “You can’t stop me from beating my own worthless daughter!” He growled, thrusting his knife toward the Sergeant’s chest.

Nora was lay on the floor, weeping bitterly. She saw Evander, he had stopped her father. She couldn’t believe it, she was grateful and in awe, his fierce strength also frightened her. She slowly dragged herself to a nearby corner of the room and hugged herself, watching with immobile fear.

If Kincade had been wearing his armor, as was his custom, the knife would have skittered off the tiny metal plates sewn in between the leather layers of his brigantine. But the summer heat had compelled him to remove the armor and strip down to his tunic between visiting the quartermaster and heading to the kitchens.

This was a choice he cursed within his mind as his opponent lunged at him, the flash of a blade in his hand. Kincade twisted aside enough so that the knife caught more of his shirt than anything else, but he still felt a sting as the edge grazed his ribs. Clenching his teeth, he grabbed Swift's arm and twisted it, letting the man's momentum apply a reverse force until something snapped ominously. Then he swung the man around and lifted one knee, burying it in his gut, driving away his breath. "Watch me," he replied, voice oddly guttural, lips curling back, giving him a wolfish look.

Bernard let out a cry, his arm was in searing pain, and the impact at his gut made him limp. He made a few gurgling noises and gasped for air. “She isn’t anything to anyone- I’m all she’s got. I’m all she’ll ever have.” He sneered. “You can fight me all you want, but that won’t accomplish anything.” Unless the Sergeant kill him, she’d never be safe. He tried to punch the Sergeant and break free from his grip, but it seemed pointless. “What do you want? Let me go damnit! You can do whatever you want with her, I don’t care. Why won’t you let me hit her?!” He screamed with anger.

The man was mad. Kincade knew reasonable men who gave into the rage of a berserker in the heat of a battle. He himself thrived on battle-lust when he was on the field. But even in reckless rage, he retained enough sense to survive, and to know which enemy was worth fighting.

This man was completely and utterly insane. Not to mention despicable. There was a rush to be had to challenge an equal opponent, to feel true risk and danger. But Kincade would never stoop to tear apart an innocent without reason.

"Why won’t you let me hit her?!”

Kincade didn't even deign him with an answer. It wouldn't be worth the breath. Instead he balled one hand into a fist and slammed it into Swift's temple. And again. And again, until the man went limp. He released his grip and let the man fall to the cobbles. Breathing heavily, vaguely aware that his knuckles were bloody. Slowly the red crept back from the edges of his vision, and his heart slowed to a normal rate. He turned to where Nora lay huddled on the ground in fear.

"Y'alright?" he asked, voice suddenly quieter, though still a bit raspy.