He dragged himself out of the pub long after midnight, hoping to find a girl to end the night with. Martyn was a knight, after all, and a young man too. Lots of small-folk girls loved him, and imagined him to be like a knight from the songs, with his fancy armor and his coat-of-arms, instead of the drunken second son of a minor noble, who was only knighted because his aunt was the lord's wife. But the Lord Aksel was dead, killed by a half-cooked ham, and now his eldest daughter was ruler of the country. He had seen the Lady Freja once, when he was at the Cliffs so he could be knighted. A fierce girl, he recalled, with hair the color of a sunset and eyes like ambers. But she wasn't beautiful, no, her face was permanently scowled and she had scars all over from battles.
Martyn thought he might like being in a battle. Then he truly would be like the songs, a brave knight fighting against the evil conquerors, defending the realm from raiders. Singers would sing tales of his glory, and maids would dream of him, and boys would fight, hoping that one day they'd be as brave as Sir Martyn the Strong. But all he did now was drink.
Stumbling down the street, he came to an Inn, as nice a place as one was like to get in a large city like Fisher's Rock. He barged in and nearly slammed into a small woman by the door, but she moved out of his way quick as anything. It was a woman of about Twenty, with hard, tanned skin and dirty hair the color of a mouse. The innkeeper, some part of him registered.
"A room!" The knight slurred, trying to sound commanding but failing awfully. The Inn-keep looked up at him, biting her rough lip and trying to decide whether putting up with the drunk was worth the silver. The girl sighed, having seen worse, and put out her hand.
"Six silver and you've got one", the girl said, counting out the coins the Knight dropped in her hands and biting each.
He went down the hallway, his feet pounding against the tarnished wooden floors. The walls were stone, cobbled mixes of grey and brown rocks held together by some clay mixture. The lanterns lining the walls cast the hall in an entirely too eerie way for Martyn. The ale, he reasoned, trying to convince himself.
The room was small, with a straw mattress upon a wooden frame, and a wooden chair and desk too, which appeared one use away from splintering into nothing. He removed his armor, the thick and plain silver plate being carefully placed on the desk as he pulled the letter out of his cracked leather boot, examining the yellowed parchment demanding his presence in the Lady Freja's court immediately. He had little knowledge of the woman's wants, and cared less. Martyn stretched across the bed, and slipped into a dreamless sleep.
In the morning, the knight woke and dressed, in grey small clothes and silver armor. He unsheathed his sword, a long sword so very plain but for the hilt, set with amethyst and onyx stones. The sword was his father's, originally. Nightfall, the man had named it, boasting out that in his hand, the sword would bring death upon any man. He practiced a few clumsy swings, flinching as he knocked over a candle, having to stomp on the growing flame to prevent a fire. He placed Nightfall back into the sheath, grabbed his small purse, and exited the room.
He embarked upon the trail, leaving behind the town as he slowly climbed the cliffs the castle was named for. The Silver Cliffs, they called it. The keep itself was small and rather unimpressive, but it was perched at the top of the cliffs, surrounded on one side by Fisher's Rock and the other by the ocean. The views from the top were beautiful, with a grey-green sea stretching into the sky.
When he arrived to the castle, Sir Martyn was lead into the great hall. His cousin sat in the middle, scowling as she took in the knight. Her chair was a throne, truly, a wonderfully carved to depict battles and beasts. Her gown was sea green and grey, with a bronze
corset over that made her look like a warrior. A crown lied at the top of her braided hair, silver and bronze swirling and glinting in the firelight, molded into a trident-like shape at the front, then circling her head.
Freja rose. "Martyn", she greeted him, her voice icy and steel, every word measured. The girl was tall, taller than almost any Lady he'd seen, and taller than a few knights. She stood perfectly tall, and still as stone.
"My lady," the drunken Knight bowed, in slight fear of the woman in front of him, "How may I be of assistance to you?"
The woman scowled, taking him in. He must have seemed entirely unimpressive, standing meekly and small before the queen.
"I need your sword", she said, smiling. It was eerie on her face, how a scowl looked so natural, so right, but a smile could haunt one for days. "Your family's military might, too. We are at war."
