Cambolton's Fall

Chapter Three

Since such a young age, he'd been taught that "violence of action" would win most fights before they were even able to start. This meant to act first, don't react. Do not hesitate and do not fear, training and instincts will allow a Wolveshire to not just survive but thrive. These things had allowed him to do just that. Despite never being defeated and being the Clan Champion... he had refused--he had too...right? After all, he had a life-debt to repay...

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Brin rolled over and groaned. It had been yet another fitful night of sleep. Brin flipped the sheets back from his torso, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting up in one swift movement. The cold air glided across his bare, toned torso and he groaned again as his feet touched the icy planks of his second story room. He rubbed his eyes, listening to the steps outside of his room, determining who was approaching before they were at the door by the gate and weight of step.

That would be Gavira.

A knock came at the door. "Come in." Brin called, as he rocked backward and then forward using the momentum to stand upright. He used his hand to push his black hair straight back and out of his eyes, only to have a few strands fall right back into place. The door opened behind him as he strode across the room towards the sink of water that was left over from last night.

"Oh my.." Gavira said under her breath, steps pausing inside of the door.

Brin chuckled, "Yes?" His broad shoulders and the muscles on his back flex as he leaned forward and scooped cold water from the basin, splashing it against his face in an attempt to wake up.

"You don't sleep in more clothes? It's freezing in here."

Brin turned, using the excess water dripping from his hands to slick back his hair. Satisfied that it it stayed the second time. Arms still raised, he faced Gavira. She was staring, almost open mouthed at his exposed body. In nothing more than a ragged pair of loose pants, he was quite bare. He couldn't tell if she was gaping at his defined chest and stomach or the intricate ink tattooed across his chest. The partially scarred spell-work started at his sternum, spiraling out; reaching upwards towards his collarbone and stopping halfway down his stomach. Either way, he was pleased to see the color rise to her cheeks as her eyes finally met his and she realized she was staring.

She stumbled on her words for a moment, and Brin chuckled again. He padded across the room then, to fetch a shirt from his bag. "Did you need something Gavira?"

The shirt slid over his head and the spell seemed to be broken, "Yes, I came to let you know that we're leaving for the castle in a quarter hour. You can't be late." She lifted her chin slightly, Brin grinned at her.

"No insults today Lady?"

"I'm not a Lady, stop calling me that." She fumed. As if on queue, she then commanded, "Put on some finer clothes than that, you barbarian. We are to have an audience with the King, not his gardener." Gavira rolled her eyes and left the room with that courtly grace that Brin was beginning to appreciate.

Since the group had been brought together just two nights ago, Brin had gotten a much better idea of who they were. Though Gavira could be a bit stuck up at times, he could tell it was an act for her. Naturally she wanted to be a nicer person but, in the capital it was so common for nice people to get walked over or used. He was still struggling with the old man though. Warrel was constantly drinking, yet somehow he never seemed to get completely intoxicated. Even when tension within the group got high, he was always jovial.

That last part seemed to be worrying the young bard quite a bit. He stressed several times for Warrel to keep quiet during their meeting with the king. Since Bard was the one with the plan, he was unofficially made the leader of their rag-tag team. Brin was still skeptical of this whole thing, but Bard promised more answers at the castle and even more soon after their departure.