• Closed • [Venora] The Shield

[Jericho]

18th Cylus 717

Thrust. Swing. Thrust. Parry. The basic combination flowed from him, the stick he used as a substitute sword swishing through the twilight around him. He spun, pretending to defend from those on the other side of him, grunting as though he were actually taking blows. His feet shuffled back, giving space, then he launched forward, chopping down with his stick, delivering the final blow against the imaginary enemy. With a satisfied smile, he turned and looked at the Little Garden Orphanage. In the windows, some of the other inhabitants watched him, snickering. The younger ones thought he was funny, playing at war like only a lonely kid could.

They understood him, he realized. They had nothing, nobody, to rely on. They saw him practicing, and they saw what they could be. He was an inspiration to them, he knew it. Their smiles were of adoration and awe, not spite and derision. With a noble nod, he turned back to his training regiment. Leaning his makeshift sword against a tree, he grabbed a solid branch with both hands and began to lift himself, keeping his arms taut as he completed each pull-up.

He could feel the burn in his arms, a familiar and welcome feeling. He watched as the veins bulged beneath his pallid skin, blue snakes attempting to rip through his skin. Each repetition of the workout pushed them further out of his arm, causing his muscles to bulge with increased blood flow. After nearly twenty, he dropped back to the ground, lying in the cool grass with his aching arms behind his head. Tightening the muscles in his stomach, he began his sit-up regiment.

He could hear them before he saw them, boots stomping on hard ground. They were talking, yelling, heading towards the Little Garden. They carried sticks and stones, hefting them with each step. Something made gooseflesh raise all over his body, but he could not place it. The hair on his neck stood on end, and he pushed himself to his feet to get a better look. From behind him, though, Miss Maybella called to him. He couldn't hear her, though. Suddenly, the blood was rushing in his ears.

There were rumours of an strictly anti-nobility sentiment circulating through the villages. They were viciously attacking the nobility's holdings, including hospitals and, apparently, orphanages. He reached for the arming sword he'd bought, but realized he'd left it inside since he was just training. Cursing himself for not being prepared, he grabbed the solid stick he had been using to practice. He rested it on his shoulder, watching with trepidation as they drew closer. There were not many, four it seemed, but they were all older than he was. One of them, a man with a dense beard, carried a large broom-handle, solid oak, it seemed. To Jericho, though, it may have been a sword.

His adrenaline was pulsating through him, causing his heart to beat in his ears. If they stopped at the Little Garden, he would defend it to the best of his ability. Like every good knight, he would fall for his keep should he need to. Pale fingers turned red as he tightened his grip on the stick, squeezing the "hilt" with enough force to causing his fingers to ache. From behind him, Miss Maybella grabbed him, startling him.

"Get inside, Jericho! This is no place for a child!"

He turned to look at her, noticing the wavering in her voice. She was terrified, and he knew why. They were going to come to the orphanage. There was talk of the Noble House of Venora offering aid to the failing abode, and if the thugs got wind, they'd attack it. As he looked at her, a rock sailed over his shoulder and smashed into Maybella's forehead, sending her backwards with a cut where the rock hit. He spun on his heel, facing the attackers. They whooped and cackled at the aim of the assailant, a mousy man with brown hair and a weak chin. Glaring, Jericho stared the group down. They stopped and arranged themselves in a line, looking back at the defiant orphan with ire in their gazes.

"Go on inside, boy." The bearded man commanded him, but Jericho just took a step back, closing the gap between himself and Miss Maybella. He held the stick-sword out in front of him, brandishing it at the attackers. From his peripherals, he could see the other children of the orphanage in the windows, watching with mixed expressions. This was his chance to be the knight he knew he was in his heart.

"No." The defiance was evident, and he bent his knees, assuming a defensive posture. He was going to lose, but his honor demanded he stand his ground. He had to defend Miss Maybella. He had to defend the Little Garden.

[Alistair]

Alistair was on the move, mounted atop a horse, rather than a Drexion, so as to not draw too much attention to himself. The Little Garden wasn't far from Sabaissant, and he'd decided he would make a visit there now, especially considering his brother's interest in the maintenance of the orphanage. The House of Venora had been subsidizing this place for some time, keeping it afloat - and he knew that was as likely as anything to make them a target of these . . . uneducated barbarians. He'd already heard some wind of the attacks around Sabaissant - particularly in Masienne - targeting nobles and their businesses, and he would be damned if they ended up murdering children to prove their point. These rioters were out of control, and he knew that. There was no telling how far they'd go to "make their point".

And that was only proven. The first thing he saw, upon coming into view of the orphanage from atop the horse, was Maybella - the owner of the orphanage - being bashed in the forehead by a flung rock. He winced, and scanned the people around her. Before Maybella was a young looking man, with dark red hair and a fairly defined physique. He appeared to be protecting her from the four other individuals, who were wielding makeshift weapons of wood, and flinging rocks at the windows. One of them was pulling on the ivy outside of the building, attempting to tear it down. It seemed that they were attempting to deface the property rather than outright destroy it. Perhaps because it would look quite bad on their movement if they went burning down orphanages with children inside of them.

Although, from Alistair's perspective, their movement had already been irredeemable - it began in violence, and it would end in violence. The sort that they wouldn't like.

Stepping down from his horse, the man came up behind the four, though he did not utilize the opportunity to stealthily kill or maim them - instead, he decided he would try to resolve this civilly, if only to ensure he wasn't smeared as a result of some man losing a finger and claiming to the Gazette that Alistair Venora harmed him for peaceful protest.

"I am your liege Lord!" he yelled, quickly catching the attention of the four. The men all turned to Alistair and opened their mouths in surprise, though the bearded one grit and ground his teeth. "By the laws of this Duchy, and this Kingdom, I command you to cease your attack on this orphanage. These are bloody children you're terrorizing. That--"

One of the men threw a rock at him, the mage reactively dodging it and drawing his sword. Neither of the four had any real weaponry, so the look of fear in their eyes was clearly displayed when the mage drew steel to combat them. Even so, they continued in their insubordination, and one of them managed to break through the glass window before him. Alistair could hear children panicking in the building.

"Fuck the laws of this Kingdom, shitty-fuck Venora!" one cursed. Another rock. This time, it did hit the nobleman, though only along his armored vambrace. The bearded man charged him in a bull rush as he'd turned his head to look at the man throwing rocks. However, Alistair was not greatly distracted, and he turned and bashed the man's chest with the pommel of his sword as he grew closer, before utilizing his strength to further increase the weight of his blunt swing, pushing the man onto the floor. He drew in, beating the man upside the head twice with his armored fist, causing for blood to come from his nose and ears, his eyes closing shut. He was clearly unconscious.

Alistair wasn't a great warrior - not in martial combat at least - but these men were unarmored and untrained, as demonstrated by the fact that they weren't doing anything more clever than throwing rocks at orphan matrons and boys that didn't even seem to be of fathering age. And they continued that tempo, desperately seeking to cause as much havoc as they could before "Lord Venora" reined them in. One man approached the orphanage owner and the boy, wielding a large stick. He began to strike at Jericho, Maybella screaming and fleeing to Alistair for protection.

[Jericho]

Jericho watched as the men attacked the orphanage, still standing his ground over Maybella. He knew the men wouldn't make it inside the orphanage quickly, and the defense of the matron seemed more pertinent. But as he stood and watched, he could hear the terrified shrieks of his fellow orphans, and his courage tripled. He turned his head, shouting to the children fleeing the windows to a safer place further in the house.

"Go into the dining hall and barricade the doors! Do not come out until I come for you." As his command settled, he saw the Lord Venora ride up on a horse. The exchange between the assailants and the Lord unfolded in front of him, and he knew that it was going to end with more bloodshed.

When Lord Venora drew his sword, though, Jericho could feel his resolve bolstered. Though it did not seem to dissuade the men from attacking, he felt more comfortable knowing a true weapon was on the field of battle, and could decide the ending should it be necessary. But as the bearded man, the leader, attacked Lord Venora, Jericho knew that the time was swiftly approaching. The firstborn Venora put him down with a few blows to the head, nothing lethal, and the fracas was on.

One of the other assailants came in on him, and he braced himself for combat. Maybella, whom he wished would stay behind him, rushed to the armored lord for safety, leaving Jericho the freedom to move around the battlefield, an advantage he did not have previously. As the man swung the stick, he ducked the heavy swing, dodging around the man and coming out at his back. He spun to face Jericho, who stared at him, waiting for his next move.

The attacker, brash and brazen in his attacks, stalked in, stick at the ready. It was longer than Jericho's, and definitely heavier, but he swung it so slowly. Jericho anticipated his attacks, dodging the heavy blows as they came. The man was sweating in no time, and Jericho knew that he was tiring out quickly. His time was coming, all he had to do was take it.

As the man waded in once again, he swung high, hard enough to throw himself off balance with the weight of the swing. Jericho ducked the easy swing, slapping at his ankles with his sword, causing the attacker to trip over his own weight as he shifted from the painful slap. As he crashed to the ground, Jericho spun around and leaped on top of him, raining down blows with the stick-sword on his shoulders and head.

The man tried to defend himself with his arms, but Jericho just smashed through his defenses. Blow after blow landed on the man's upper torso and head, splitting him open above the left eye. Upon seeing the blood, Jericho stepped back and grabbed the man by his shirt, hoisting him to his feet. He dropped the stick, reared his arm back, and punched the ruffian directly in the nose, bursting warm blood all over his hand. He dropped the man, unconscious, to the ground and rushed to the man destroying the window.

"Stop what you're doing. They are children!" He growled at the man's back.

[Alistair]

"Who are they?" he asked the woman, as she came to his side to take assurance. Maybella shook her head rapidly, unsure; she nearly screamed when her mouth opened, terrified. She'd never experienced this level of violence before, and it was clear. "I don't know!" she yelped. "It must be more of those... anti-noble people. They've been springing up all over, recently. I didn't think they'd come here, though!"

Neither did he. This was Sabaissant - one of the most wealthy cities in the Kingdom. How could they possibly have become this brave? From the look of it, these men weren't even organized, or waving any banner. They were just radicals, content to destroy their lives over some uneducated belief.

And that was fine. Whether they were a part of some organized movement or not, it didn't matter. This anti-noble rhetoric had gone on long enough, and from his perspective, it was by a lack of the assertion of power. The power of the nobility far outweighed that of the citizenry, and yet they failed to utilize their generations of prestige and the acquisition of wealth to their benefit. Rynmere was one of the greatest places to live in, and yet men like these went rampant upon their society, angered not through knowledge but through envy. They saw only the palaces, the noble attire, and the wealthy establishments - they did not see the hard work, the lifetime of surrendering one's self to the whims of the people. Every society had rulers, and every society had a wealthy class.

Uneducated individuals such as these only infuriated him. They knew not the world outside.

"Bandits are bandits, no matter what cause they claim to champion," he said, stepping deliberately over the skull of the unconscious man as he stepped to intervene with the other men. He witnessed the red haired youth battling ferociously with one of them, and cleverly, he tired him out before getting him onto the floor with a swing to the ankles and pulverizing him. He fought passionately, and with wit and footwork that Alistair recognized. He was still somewhat sloppy, and he wasn't the most efficient in his movements - but he wasn't bad at all.

Even so, the Venora could not lose his focus. He decided to go after the man trying to break the windows. He gave the man ample opportunity to cease his actions, but as if unaware of the Lord creeping up on him, he continued to beat on the glass with rocks. Alistair reached him and pulled on the back of his shirt, tugging him away from the window and throwing him onto the ground. Raising his leg, he stomped on the man's skull as he did his companion, swiveling his feet so as to worsen the blunt damage to his head. He placed his sword back into its scabbard, and then proceeded to beat on the man's chest with the sheath, utilizing his medical knowledge to ensure he did as much damage as possible without lethally injuring him. Whenever he became conscious again, he'd be with several broken ribs, fractured bones and a concussion. Why? Because he deserved it, and he'd broken the law.

That's what this was about. Asserting power. The commoners could speak their demands in a way far less savage, Alistair fully believed that. If they acted like brutes, they'd get a brutal response. This was his proof.

The last one quickly ran for Maybella, considering Alistair had left her by the horse to pursue the man breaking down the windows. Glancing to his side to view Jericho - though he wasn't aware of his name - he gave the young man a clear and obvious look. It spelled one thing alone: protect her. The red-head would have to be hardened by experience, and this was a good opportunity to make a boy into a man. Alistair had no doubt that he could brutalize this ponce going for an unarmed woman in order to complete his tantrum.

[Jericho]

As Lord Venora beat the man breaking the windows of the orphanage, Jericho caught movement from the corner of his eye. One of the thugs, seeing Miss Maybella alone and weak, rushed to her. He had a good headstart on Jericho, but the young lad was spry and muscular, having trained multiple breaks a trial for arcs. He caught the Lord Venora's pointed stare, and without wasting another trill, spun and sprinted after the man.

As he ran, he realized the makeshift weapon in his hand was useless, and cast it aside with barely a thought. He could feel the blood surging through the muscles of his legs, arms pumping along next to his torso as he ran full speed behind the attacker. Miss Maybella screamed at the ruffian drew closer, trying to cower down and shield herself. There was equal distance between the attacker and Miss Maybella and Jericho and the attacker. All he had to do was get a bit closer, and he could dive and tackle the man. If he wrestled him to the ground, he could overpower him from the top.

A few more long strides brought him within reach, and with some agility, he dove at the man. However, he misjudged the distance, instead crashing hard into the ground with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. Keeping his wits about him, though, he swiped at the attacker, clipping his leg and tripping him. The thug went down, ass-over-teakettle, crashing in a heap on his upper back and skidding a few feet closer to Miss Maybella. Hastily, Jericho scrambled along the hard ground to climb atop the man's chest, eyes darkening with rage.

As Miss Maybella realized what had happened, she stood and ran again, going to the Lord Venora once more. With her safely out of harm, Jericho looked down at the man. A million thoughts ran through his head, but none of them were louder than one: "Punish". This man had attacked not only innocents, but children, and to him, that was the lowest of cowardice. He drew back a pale hand, clenching it hard into a fist. He could feel the warm blood beneath his skin, the veins bulging with half-Aukari fireblood. He needed to remain as calm as he could. While he was not likely to burst into flame, he did not want to take any chances. Instead, he stared at the man for another moment, the two sharing an understanding: The thug was reaping what he sowed.

And just like that, Jericho brought the hand down like a hammer, smashing it into the man's forehead. The thug's head rocked back and slammed into the hard ground, but he was not unconscious. Instead, Jericho shook him, keeping him on the brink of reality, as he slammed his hand down again. This time, the man's nose splattered under the force, spraying blood on the both of them. The man opened his mouth to scream and swallowed some of his own blood. Jericho moved his right hand to the man's throat, holding him in place as he rained more blows down on the attacker's face. Punch after punch landed, blackening his eye, busting his lip, splitting his eyebrow. Yet Jericho did not stop. He did not want to. He was going to punish this man for his transgressions. Attacking innocents could not... No, would not, be allowed.

Punch. Punch. Punch. Punch. His mind commanded him, until the man lie limp in his grasp. He leaned close and put his ear next to the man's bloodied face, sensing weak breathing from his mouth. Jericho examined his handiwork, looking at the man's pulverized features with apathy. He stood, yanking the man to his feet by his throat. He was essentially unconscious, but Jericho held him there, offering him to Lord Venora.

"My lord, I believe these men are lawbreakers." With that, he threw the man down at Alistair's feet and bowed his head. He'd met nobles before, but this was different. This noble could have ridden on and let the men attack the orphanage. Instead, he showed the same ideals that Jericho held. For that, he would get respect.

[Alistair]

The orphanage owner was quite the damsel. She clearly didn't carry the mentality necessary to engage in violence to protect oneself, which was a shame, as she'd left her protection in the hands of one of the children she was meant to protect. Jericho was strong, but he wasn't military-level. At any point, these men could have butchered him, or he could've lost his composure and gone awry. The mage was quite impressed that he did not, though ultimately, he believed some level of fault here laid on Maybella for not having the bravery to stick up for her children.

But he wouldn't say that. He would garner loyalty in his subjects, not fear. The woman seemed star-struck to have been saved by the Lord, and he smiled fondly at her, patting her on the back to reveal that all was well. Thing was, even as she felt safe and protected, not beyond their view one of her lads was beating one of the attackers to near-death. The man released hold of the matron, and moved towards Jericho, placing his arm on the boy's shoulder. He was beckoning him to stop. Saying - that's enough.

He'd seen far more gruesome a treatment before, but by the curiosity of the children, he could already see young boys leaning out the half-shattered windows and staring at the bloody pulps that were previously their tormentors. The children recovered quickly, for the most part, and Maybella ran quickly inside to console them. Outside, Alistair and Jericho were left alone, the orphan bowing his head at the Venora Lord.

"The crime of assault is a serious one, particularly in the case of children. For that, and for their destruction of property, they will be placed in the labor force of the Endor Mines." He was not in official capacity to dole out the punishment himself, but he would make contact with his father to fulfill the deed. The two could already see Knights riding down the hills to the orphanage, following the Lord's footsteps to ensure law and order were maintained. They could escort the prisoners back to the capital of Venora, where their official punishments would be determined.

As for the orphan? He posed an interesting question. What could one do with a man who displayed such bravery and skill? "Stand, please," he gestured in request, beckoning for the man to follow him. Alistair stepped through the doors of the Little Garden, witnessing Maybella console the children. He had something else in mind, however. "Maybella," he called the woman's name, "I think I've just found a squire of sorts. You have an excellent young man in your company, and I'd ask that I be allowed to take him off your hands. He seems a bit too old to be an orphan, anyway, doesn't he?"

Looking the man up and down, the man nodded to himself. He was nearly as tall as Alistair. The boy had to be at least sixteen, and likely older.

"Um..." Maybella lowered her eyes, "Do you mean you wish to adopt him? I suppose I could let you do that. I mean, you're obviously from a well-off family, so... this is an excellent home for him," the woman shuffled her feet, somewhat nervously. She was still quite clearly taken aback by all of this.

"Something like that," the man replied. Though he wasn't sure if he'd be calling Jericho his 'son' any time soon, and Alistair didn't really care for the scandal that would come with legitimizing an orphan as his child. He'd just play along well enough for her to give him offer. Of course, neither of them turned to ask Jericho quite what he wanted out of all of this. Alistair only assumed that a boy his age would very much like to leave a place like this, and explore, particularly with the sense of strength he'd determined by his display.

Leading Jericho over to the corner of the room as Maybella sought to formalize some documents, the Lord decided to ask him of his thoughts. "Would you like to leave the Little Garden, young soldier?" he asked. "I've seen few your age with such potential. I think, in an innocent way, I fell in love with the way you handled that situation. It was quite too gallant to be real," the man grinned, praising the young half-Aukari. "Now, that doesn't mean you need to serve my will, or any such thing. I'm but a man, not a God. I can't decide where you go. But I can provide an opportunity for you, if that's what you want. An opportunity to learn from the outside world." He realized he'd been talking too much himself, and deciding too many things.

He would allow the other to speak, and make whatever choice he liked.

[Jericho]

From the moment the Lord Venora ushered him inside the orphanage, the world took on a surreal quality. The colors seemed too lush, the movements too vivid, as if he were dreaming the whole situation. In fact, he had dreamed it, very often and for many arcs. But he never thought it would come true... He never thought he'd be offered a chance to become a squire.

With a strange half-smile, reacting to the praise, Jericho's eyes naturally fell to the floor again. The other children, who had ridiculed him and pitied him, were playing witness to his ascent, the one he told them he would have. It was all too fantastical to be real, and a part of him considered that the Lord Venora was merely toying with him, and would in fact dole out punishment for his beating of the man. As the thought occurred to him, fear welled inside him. He fidgeted nervously and cleared his throat, color rushing to his cheeks.

"Ser, er... My lord... I am honored by your praise and recognition. It would be very stupid of me to refuse your offer, if it truly is an offer. But I cannot help but feel it is not. I feel that it is made in jest, at my expense, and if it is, it is quite the cruel joke." He raised his eyes to meet Alistair's, fire burning behind them. He set his jaw, hoping to appear courageous, but the look in the Lord Venora's eyes told him that his anger was not necessary. He immediately softened, and his eyes fell back to the floor.

"My lord, being the oldest here, I took on much of the responsibilities. I would ask that, should I go with you, arrangements be made to make up for what I will no longer be here to do. If that is arranged, then..." He looked again at the Lord Venora, "I would be more than honored to accompany you."

Though he could not make demands of the noble, he knew that he must still attempt to take care of those around him. Though Maybella was not courageous, she was not a hard woman, and he felt a certain affection towards her. Mostly, though, his concern laid with the other children, who were obviously shaken by the events of the trial. From off to the side, one of the young boys, a Sev'ryn, brought to him his sword and shield, barely strong enough to lift them off the ground. He accepted them with a smile, nodding at the boy in admiration.

"Thank you, Tinsera." The boy meekly retreated, rushing behind the other children. With his sword and shield, Jericho realized he appeared more knightly, and stood at his full height, a slight smile on the edges of his mouth. He was going to fulfill his dreams, taking his first step this brightening, just six trials after his 17th day of birth. Everything was unfolding in front of him, and he could not believe they were happening at all.

"Shall I collect my things?"

[Alistair]

The man's reaction to his offer was... unique, to put it one way. He doubted the Lord's sincerity for a moment, which caused for Alistair's brow to raise, his lips pursing as he attempted to gather why the young man had questioned his words. Clearly, being from an orphanage, one was constantly surrounded by others with behavioral issues and a deficiency in adult care. It wasn't too far-fetched to assume that the young man had been played with at his expense, bullied - a variety of other things. But to think that a Lord played such games was . . . evidence of his lack of knowledge on the outside world. When a Lord approached someone in this capacity - official as it was - they meant business. Alistair, particularly, was not the most humorous individual. His jokes, subpar and uncommon, were not so laid out or deceptive.

The nobleman quickly shook his head. "No," he said. "It is not a jest at your expense. But it will be, if you decide you want to doubt my honest intentions a second time." He spoke firmly, despite how crass it may have sounded. He needed to let the orphan know, however, that a Lord was to be spoken to with respect - even if one doubted their sincerity, saying such a thing was beyond their station. Whether or not the noble caste was actually above the ones below them, they needed to present as being above, and maintain their authority. Alistair was a firm believer of that, despite his sympathies to the needs of the common people. A strong aristocracy was a strong Rynmere.

As for the future of this orphanage, the man could make no promises, as he did not have an unlimited supply of wealth and resources. He looked to Maybella, and stated his intentions, upon taking Jericho off with him. "I will petition my grandmother, the Duchess Ebony, to provide a stipend for this orphanage to make repairs and to hire an assistant caretaker. That should be sufficient, I believe, yes?" he asked. The matron nodded her head, before bowing to the apparent kindness of her liege.

Looking to Jericho, the Lord asked: "Is that sufficient for you, young man?" At which point, a young Sev'ryn boy handed him a sword and shield, practically dragging them across the ground as his small arms nearly gave in. Alistair smiled politely at the sight, though his focus was on the elder orphan before him, rather than the children surrounding the two. He watched every expression he made, seeking to gather his intentions. He seemed genuinely excited, though Alistair couldn't tell whether he was excited to serve the Lord, or his ideals. Either reality posed no issue, though he was expecting loyalty, and he acknowledged that if the boy was found lacking... he'd be dropped off back here, again.

Shall I collect my things? he asked. The Lord nodded. "Yes, that sounds appropriate," he said. "Now, your name...?" he asked the squire-aspirant. "Mine is Alistair, though I must ask you call me Lord Venora, particularly outside of a private setting. Part of being a squire is showing discipline, and respect for your superiors." Glancing to Maybella, his eyes inquired upon the progress of her documents. She nodded her head, asking the Lord for his signature. He read upon what he wrote, and smiled that she'd written Jericho as his assistant rather than as his son. That was a scandal, averted.

"Very well," he nodded, lightly. "There are servant's quarters in the Sabaissant palace that you could stay in, for now. We could inquire with the Iron Hand about accepting you as an official squire, in which case you'd live in the barracks on the east end of the city. Or, you could just stay with me. I have an extra room beside mine, since... my sister has passed away. You could stay there, I suppose. I'd have to ask my mother, though." He was all business, though only while they were in the presence of the matron. Alistair didn't wish to seem all too casual in such a public setting, as it was unsuitable of his position.

Eyes locked on Jericho, he waited for words of reaction, though he knew he'd given him a lot to consume.

[Jericho]

Jericho could feel the weight behind the Lord's words, carrying with them a threat that was all too real to the orphan boy. He knew his place, though not always where the line was, and he realized with embarrassment he had crossed it. Low-birth. He knew that is what the lord would assume, considering he knew not the ways of the outside world. Nonetheless, Jericho's posture became much more rigid, a soldier ready to heed command, should it be given.

And then it was. When asked his name, Jericho kept his eyes on Lord Venora's feet, but spoke with confidence. "I am Jericho, if it please my lord." He gave no surname because he'd never known one, and hoped that Jericho would suffice. Should it not, he supposed he could adopt a bastard's surname, though he did not wish to give any more reason for ridicule.

As the papers were drawn, Jericho took his leave to gather his meager belongings. He'd already had his sword and shield, but he donned his full set of chain armor and took a small knapsack of his other miscellaneous belongings. It took him a quarter of a break, especially with some of the other orphans racing around him, hooting and hollering like they were leaving.

It was endearing, he thought, that they should be so excited for him. Though they had to remain, they got to see one of their own, their brother of sorts, finally leave and expand his horizons. They saw what they could, one day, do as well. He became to them a beacon of strength and hope, which was another facet of his dream of knighthood. The trial was shaping up to be the best of his life.

As he returned to the parlor, small bag in tow, he knelt down to hug one of the other orphans. The girl, a small red-head, was crying quietly in the corner. Seva, she was called, and she looked up to Jericho in many ways. He held her close, whispering in her ear.

"This is not goodbye, little sister. Instead, this is a beginning. I shall not forget you, and shall return as often as I am allowed. Be strong, one day, you'll join me."

With that, he rose to his feet and rejoined the Lord Venora and Miss Maybella, his eyes once again naturally falling to Alistair's feet. He listened intently to the Lord's offer of housing, eyes darting up to ensure Alistair's sincerity, though he would not openly doubt him again.

"Whatever you see fit, my Lord Venora." His housing did not matter much to him. Should he be offered a room in the servant's quarters, it would certainly be nicer still than The Little Garden. Or the barracks of the Iron Hand. There, he would find comraderie and kinship, though likely not without its own shortcomings. Most interestingly, though, the Lord Venora had considered allowing the half-Aukari to stay in his own home. Though it may not have seemed important to Alistair, it was a courtesy the young squire-to-be had not expected, and one that instilled in him even more respect for the eldest Venora.

[Alistair]

He had to admit, he found the children to be sort of cute, all enthusiastic despite the fact that they'd had their windows broken in and their matron attacked. These kids could have been sold into slavery or butchered if things had gone differently, yet their spirits were high. He always had a fondness for the optimism of a child, and he made a mental note to himself to come back here - later - to inquire upon the fortunes of the Little Garden. There was nothing darkly or wrong with these kids. They did not deserve the fate they had, as they were subjected to this lifestyle not by their lack of merits, but by chance.

Jericho accepting his terms, the man gathered his belongings and said his goodbyes to the other fellows. Alistair waved at the children, and the matron, as the two of them began to leave. Whatever you see fit, Lord Venora, he said. Given that he had no strict preference, Alistair decided he'd likely be placed in the servant's quarters until given a proper position. He had a lot of inquiries to make in adding this fellow to his personal retinue, and many of those inquires would have to be laid about with his father, who was far from being trustworthy or anything akin to his son's advocate.

Still, this was an excellent day, as long as his estimations of Jericho's potential were not false. He had particular plans that needed someone like this man - such as the re-structuring of the Saintivelle to align with Alistair's interests - and if any of these ambitions became remotely possible with his service, then he was another step towards the crown. "It is a pleasure to gain your service, Jericho," he said. The man did not offer a last name, which made perfect sense, considering he was an orphan. It was likely that they were assigned their names by the fellows who adopted them.

He would not be made a Venora, but he could be made something. Alistair thought on it for a moment, inquiring within the scope of his mind as to historical houses within the region, and ancient words, no longer spoken today. Just then, the perfect word hit his mind: Bouclier, meaning Shield, in the tongue once spoken. It made sense, considering what Jericho would become. "Bouclier," he said. "That's your surname now, Jericho. It means Shield, Aegis, Bulwark; a protector. Wear it with pride." With that, and a nod of his head, he directed the young man to follow him towards Sabaissant, where he would introduce him to his new life.