[RAW Edit] Tristan, Prologue.

Title: Tristan, Prologue.
by, Black-Haired Girl

Tristan didn’t know which bothered him more. Was it the soreness of his backside from the weeklong ride to the Western Shores, or the gloomy weather that greeted him when he got there? He had heard that the west was a dark and rainy place; quite different from the sunshine and warm breezes of the Eastern Coasts he had once called home. The differences were stark and it didn’t help his already sour mood when large, cold raindrops began to splatter the neck of his horse.

One of the men at the front of the line called out loudly and pointed to the grey hills looming just ahead. Faint orange flickers of light could be made out through the dense fog from the lookout pyres that glowed weakly in front of the massive outer gates of Caldor, Tristan’s new home.

The sight made him curse quietly and spit a bit of his hatred onto the mushy soil of his new domain.

As the rain began to descend upon them the line of travelers quickened their pace as the last leg of the long voyage passed effortlessly beneath them. As they approached the gates Tristan’s first impression was that they were run down and rotten looking. The massive wooden doors looked just as soggy and pathetic as the guards who stood atop them. A few words were exchanged near the front of the line and soon after the gates creaked open just enough to allow them to pass through single file.

As expected the inside of the gates looked just as drab and uninteresting as the outside had, and Tristan resisted the urge to laugh bitterly. For a week he had trekked across the countryside for this. He didn’t know what he had expected. He had been told that the Westerners weren’t as extravagant about their knights, but the least they could have done was announce them. A call of trumpets or something! Instead there wasn’t a soul to be seen in the open, muddy courtyard. Tristan cast a doubtful glance at his new squire Arthur who, despite his uninspired surroundings, was seated straight and proud on the back of his pony as if he were being marched into the presence of the King himself.

Tristan only wished he could have a fraction of Arthur’s enthusiasm. He dismounted from his horse with a loud squelch of his boots in the mud, grunted angrily and trudged across the rainy field towards the shelter of the great hall. He could hear the other knights squishing along heavily behind him. The doors to the hall thundered open to reveal a space hardly any more dry than the downpour outside.

The Great Hall was far from great in Tristan’s opinion. It was a long, rectangular space made of stone with square stone pillars holding up a vaulted ceiling. Streams of water poured like translucent tattered curtains from the smoke catches between the beams, falling into massive drainage holes designed to catch the water and tunnel it to the outside. It smelled musty and moldy. The air was heavy with smoke from a dwindling fire sizzling from the center of the massive room. At the farthest end of the hall, seemingly hidden beneath the constant waterfall from the roof was the throne. It was a stone seat, bare of its master. Instead there were two knights with hair dampened against their heads standing guard. Their eyes bore into Tristan and his entourage as they entered the hall and approached through shallow puddles, leaving trails of mud and dung behind them.

“Hail, the hall of Lord Hartford,” the tired looking knight to the right of the throne said, lifting his hand in a semi-formal greeting. “Greetings from our Lord. I am Sir Acklebach and this is Sir Ja’hul.”

Tristan stopped a respectable distance away, ungloved his now damp hand and raised it in greeting. “Tristan, former Knight of Chantilly. I am here to serve Sir Gerhart at the request of my former master.” Tristan let his eyes search the throne area and the surrounding doorways.

“I am afraid Sir Gerhart is on a quest at present with our Lord. We have been told to greet you and to provide any arrangements you will need in the meantime. Welcome to Caldor. It pleases me to meet a brother in arms,” Sir Acklebach said politely. Despite his haggard appearance Tristan detected a spark of excitement in his voice. He was beginning to suspect this place didn’t see many visitors. Sir Ja’hul bowed slightly in greeting. From the corner of his eye Tristan saw Arthur, arms brimming with Tristan’s belongings, bowing deeply back. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“We are tired from our journey,” Tristan spoke up, his voice as hard and cold as the wet walls that surrounded them. “It would please us to take a rest while your Lord is gone. Thank you for your welcome.”

Sir Acklebach nodded and motioned towards a doorway to the left of the throne. Tristan followed wearily as the elder knight led him to his chambers. They were as he expected: cold, damp and with a fire barely alive in the hearth. He immediately went to work stoking the fire while Arthur flitted about the room eagerly unpacking their belongings. The boy was a quick learner and always busy with something or another. Tristan couldn’t accuse him of not doing his duties and then some. He supposed Arthur was the one lucky thing that came of this entire situation. He may have lost his Master but in turn he became the master to another. He supposed it should give him some sort of satisfaction to rule over someone, but it didn’t.

Once he finished poking the fire into submission he flopped down heavily into a threadbare chair beside it and immediately wished he hadn’t.

“I’ll go tend to the horse, Sire…” the boy squeaked from the doorway.

“Wait. No need to bother with that. I am sure even Lord Hartford has men to do that. I am bone tired. I know you must be as well. Take a break, boy.” Tristan didn’t know why he took to calling Arthur “boy”. He supposed it was something he had learned from when he was a squire. It was just part of the chain of command, wasn’t it? Still, it felt strange calling someone only four years his junior “boy”.

“But… Sire, do you really …” Arthur began to sputter but stopped short at Tristan’s disapproving glance.

“I’m sure they will be okay,” Tristan replied coolly before reaching down to unfasten his armor. Arthur hurried over and began to fumble with the ties. With each failed attempt Tristan’s temper began to mount.

“Look, just… “ Tristan bat the clumsy hands away and scowled. “Stop fiddling with me you dolt! Get out of here! Go see to my horse!”

The moment Arthur scurried from the room Tristan regretted his outburst. He didn’t mean to take it out on the boy. He was merely irritated, tired, sore and wet. He wanted nothing more than to rid his weary shoulders of the weight of this blasted armor. He could sleep for days after such a trip. In fact he had every intention to.

After a half an hour’s struggle he had managed to wriggle out of the wet chain mail and breastplate. Ten minutes later his cloak and boots were neatly draped in front of the now crackling blaze in the hearth. He had wrapped his shivering body in a delightfully warm fur skin and had curled up on the straw mattress he had dragged from the bed towards the heat of the fire. His skin was hot from the flames but inside he still felt chilled.

He already hated it here. What a miserable first impression.