You Don't Get To Slay Dragons Right Out Of The Gate (Kadrin and Candira)

And thus we see how, with a simple application of the Lores of Battle Magic, fifteen Night Goblins can become... no Night Goblins! And an unattractive red smear over the local area, mixed with spots of black from torn Goblin abovegrounder cloaks, and the occasional fragment of some hugely toxic mushroom. Well, the warrior woman might have helped, but Corten preferred the interpretation that said it was all him.

A tall man, but gangly; the walking had kept him fit, but there's not much to build muscle in carrying books and quills from one place to another. His clothes were simple and hardwearing, not so much out of any humility but because he really couldn't afford anything better; all of it was in the rich ultramarine of his old College, Mater Ruina Glorificus. He wore a tiny belt knife, more for utilitarian purposes than any defence; the load of scrolls he carried in his backpack, and the grimoire in the harness at his side, saw to that! Thanks to hefty leather boots and thick ultramarine gloves, the only exposed part of his pale skin was his face - aquiline and aristocratic, with narrow brown eyes and black hair in a pronounced widow's peak.

"Hundreds of years of studying that rite. You'd think by now they could have done something about the smell, right?" Corten said, artfully flicking an imaginary bit of grit from the sleeve of his tunic. "At least it's effective. Still, I'm calling first bath when we get to our next stopping point."

"Why not just use your powers to call some rain to take care of it?" Natasha said grumpily. "You know I hate it when you use that....a little more warning would have been nice, she said, wiping some goblin blood from her cheek. Her blue eyes scanned the area for life, but she was satisfied that nothing was left. With a sigh, she sheathed her twin swords and stood up straight. She cracked her back and inspected her clothes for any rips and tears to be repaired.

Natasha was fairly beautiful. Her hair was a light brown, and her eyes had a certain spell-binding quality, whether they were fierce or compassionate. Her body, however, was nothing to sneeze at either. Her chest looked a bit smaller than it was since she bound it in order to keep it from hurting her while she was in battle, but her breasts were just the perfect size for her slight and agile frame. All of her fighting and the constant walking kept her body in great shape. She, however, chose to show some of it off. Her pants were fairly tight and tucked into sturdy leather boots. Her belt had all sorts of herbs in pouches and bandages. Her shirt covered her completely, but it was also very form fitting.

The warrior sighed and let her hair free from the ponytail it was still half in and let it just flow loosely. "So then, how much further is it?"

"I don't do rain," Corten said, his amour propre offended. "Unless it's, you know, torrential rain, flooding, deluges, because I'm a battle mage, and it's just now occurring to me that you were probably being sarcastic."

It was certainly no secret that the two adventurers didn't have a perfect relationship.

Corten brushed down his sleeves again, reaching into a pocket of his backpack to pull out a crumpled, loosely-tied scroll. He unrolled it, settling on the nearest rock and kicking away one of the Goblins' spears. "Well, that depends," he said, tracing his finger. "We're here... this far along the Barren Road." For all his faults, Corten could read a map like nobody's business. "Boss Skiggla's camp, for all we've been told, is here... that's a few more miles west. We won't get there before nighttime, and I don't need to tell you that Night Goblins are a lot better at night. For obvious reasons. If we do what you warriors always seem to want to do and scrub off in dirty water before setting up a camp that won't keep out the rain, there's a river a few hundred metres to the south. But if we're actually going to sleep in beds, a little more walking to the northeast takes us to Hammerhold... it's a little dwarf fortress, but it's on a trading route, so they've got inns for humans, too. Hot water, feather beds, good dwarf ale and a big dinner of goat roasted to perfection that we won't even need to catch and skin ourselves! But, you know, if you'd rather have frog-on-a-stick, we could go south. I'd go with you. At great peril to my own peace of mind."

Corten didn't know the word "passive-aggressive". On a related note, fish don't know the word "water".

He rerolled the scroll, tied it with the string in a quick and easy knot, and stood easily, slipping it into the backpack again. While he didn't have Natasha's grace, he was fairly slick and agile himself, a dancer's reflexes. He'd never tell anyone that he studied ballet for two years at his College, though.

Natasha paid no mind the to the thinly veiled insults he threw at her and instead waited until he was finished before pushing him to the ground with a flick of her wrist. She smirked as he fell and couldn't help but feel satisfied. Sure, she could have used words, but where was the fun in that? It wasn't very "warrior-like" after all. She'd hate to disappoint him. "I'm getting the bath first for saving your ass while you prepared your little spell, mister 'I'm too good for rain.'" She smiled and started walking Northeast, ignoring any pleas for help he might have had.

She chuckled and walked along feeling quite liberated.

"There was a rock right there," Corten said to her back, picking himself up and brushing himself off again. "If you'd broken my brain, there wouldn't be any more battle magic for anyone." Still, knew what side his bread was buttered on, and more importantly, who swung the butter knife around at Night Goblins.

He caught up with her at a quick pace, holding on to the straps of his backpack and letting out a long breath when he slowed again. "I was going to say that you did nice work with your sword against those spider riders," he said, sounding huffy. "That jumping trick you did, and all, I was impressed. The way you fight reminds me of the way words spiral together into a spell, individual points of irrelevance that, all put together, become something truly beautiful. But now that you've pushed me over I'm not going to say that, and instead I'm going to point out that you've got goblin blood on your tights again."

As he finished his speech, he tilted his head back, looking up into the sudden mist of rain. "I'm taking credit for this," he said, with a sidelong glance to Natasha.

She chuckled. The warrior had to admit that he had a way with words, when he was thinking. "I'd probably have said that it was sweet of you, but now you're being a snarky little thing, and I'm not sure I like your tone." She smirked at him before noting the fine mist. "Well, you can take credit if you want, but it's pretty weak for someone who only summons 'flooding waters' and the like." Still she smiled and let the rain wash away the blood on her and felt the cool water take away the heat and sweat of battle. "Ah...that feels nice."

((Sorry it's so short, I'm a little distracted at the moment))

((No problem whatsoever! At your own pace, naturally.))

"It's not weak, it's subtle," Corten grumbled, out of his pathological need to have the last word. For his own part, he pulled his cloak out of his bedroll, and swathed himself in it, letting the rain fall onto the heavy wool and leather in place of Corten himself. He always had been a little addicted to comfort, which had never helped him on the adventurer's path.

On the plus side, when they reached Hammerhold, Corten's cloaked nature made him look all the more a wizard, and while the dwarves might not trust magic themselves, they respected the power of outsider magicians. The two adventurers were guided through the close streets, over dwarven-smoothed stone and past the many gated entrances to the underground, to a wood-and-stone building that seemed huge around the dwarf-sized cottages around it. Inside, the smell of roasting goat and stew was almost overpowering; the fire was warm without being oppressive, and huge kegs of good dwarf ale lined the walls. Corten removed his hood with a sigh of pleasure. "This," he said, observing, "is the life."

Natasha smiled and shook her head softly, wringing out her hair before stepping inside and steeping closer to the fire. The comfort suited her current mood, and she was glad, for once, that his attitude toward comfort had paid off. "Well, I have to say, Corten, that I am glad you persuaded me to come here instead of hiking off to a river and feasting on reptiles and amphibians. Goats are much better," she said with a little teasing grin. The tall warrior smiled at the dwarf maid who led her to a small table and poured her a bowl of stew and cut her a chunk of bread.

"Thank you," Natasha said before the maid bustled off to draw a bath for the two of them.

((It'll get better, I promise))

Corten slipped his cloak off, setting it over the back of his chair. "Well, there's more on a goat to eat," he says, rationally, "and I will point out again that the fact that we don't have to hunt them down personally is a great help." Strangely, the battlemage seemed wholly reluctant to kill anything smaller than a Goblin, and entirely appalled by the concept of hunting. Then again, likely that was reluctance to get his hands dirty.

He dipped his bread into the stew, chewing thoughtfully, and nodded. "You wouldn't think a people who lived underground would have such a good cuisine, would you?" he asked, as another maid brought over two tankards of dark ale, seemingly unprompted. "Practice, I'm sure. Well..." He raised his tankard, in a proposed toast. "To our battle with Skiggla on the morrow?"

Natasha was tempted to push over his chair, but she let it slide. After all, she had warm stew and soft bread to eat. He'd managed to do a good thing for once. She rolled her eyes as she toasted him, noting his clear obliviousness to her sense of humor. One day, he was going to get himself hurt because of that, and she wouldn't do a thing to stop it. "To the battle," she said. Then, she downed her ale and hungrily tore into her meal, though she didn't look completely unrefined. Dignity meant very little to an empty stomach. Once she was finished and full, she went with the first maid to the bath, taking her small pack from among Corten's large set. And left him to clean herself and warm up more.

((Sorry, but I'm wicked tired and I work from 3-6AM, so I need to get some sleep.))

Corten sat at the fire for some time, finishing his meal nearly as quickly as Natasha had. While he complained about many things, the truth was, travelling with her kept him from becoming bored, and for that if nothing else he was indebted to her, as he became bored very quickly. After speaking to a maid for ten minutes about the difficulty of the territory, their task to kill Skiggla, and how his tremendous talent was wasted here, he stood, and shook his head. Natasha, he reasoned, must have been finished with her bath by now, and it was past time he had his chance; he was, after all, all sweaty, and there was no reason why he should have to put up with that. Moving quickly, he headed up the stairs, and threw open the door to the room with the large stone bath.

((No problem whatsoever; I'll probably end up being slow myself most of the time. Sleep well, and pick up whenever you want to or can.))

Natasha had just started to dry herself off when the door came crashing open. She blinked out of shock, most of her glistening body visible to the gangly mage before her eyes narrowed. If hell truly existed and it had a fury, it was unleashed through Natasha, and she wasn't currently happy. Silently, and without much warning, she launched the tray of soaps right at his face, her aim strong and true. "Get out!" she yelled, covering herself with her towel. What was his game anyway? People can't just go around barging into bathrooms when the door is shut! It's indecent, not to mention dangerous. Corten was just lucky she hadn't had any of her knifes nearby.

She held the towel around her and slammed the door in his face. "Wait your turn!" she called through it. That said, she locked the door and, fuming, got back to drying herself off. "The nerve of some people....just because you can cast spells, suddenly you're the king of the universe..." she mumbled. Moments later, Natasha exited the bathroom, still glaring at the mage before she made her way to her bed. She was dressed in a simple white shift, though it was a bit shorter than most, and her hair had been toweled dry and combed. Really, she looked quite pretty, but the anger that was present in the room was enough to still make her look terribly scary.

Corten always had been more familiar with tactics than tact, but the similarity in the words often led to a similarity in their nature. For example, when he thought that he could dissipate her anger by pointing out "This kind of thing wouldn't happen if you didn't take so long in your bath", Corten didn't actually say it - not because his grip on tact told him that it would be phenomenally rude, but because his grip on tactics told him that it was not a plan cohesive to retaining his internal organs. So, instead, he spent his time haunting the outside of the bathroom door, carefully removing fragments of soap from his face while soothing the bruise he'd taken from one errant corner, and tried his best to dispel the thoughts that his comrade and guardian had a body that was beautiful beyond mortal measure.

It didn't work very well.

While he waited, the innkeeper passed him by with a load of blankets, looking him up and down from behind a thatch of thick red hair. "I think your woman's still in there, lad," he said, his dwarven brogue tempered by his years on the trading route.

"No, she's not!" Corten yipped, immediately. "I mean, yes, she is! I mean, she's, yes, she's, in the bath not being my woman. Or, um, she's not..."

Like Natasha, the innkeeper decided not to waste his time with Corten any longer, and went on to restock the rooms with their sheets and blankets, and a moment later Natasha came out, with her glare and her hair and more than a little thigh. Drawing on his fine command of the language, Corten said nothing. He slipped into the bathroom, drew some more hot water, and settled his lanky, lightly-scarred body into the bath. It was nearly too small for him - dwarven manufacture - but with a couple of twists, he managed to settle in, and begin to relax.

Physically, at least. The old war texts he'd studied at his college - within the last year, no matter how desperately he tried to pretend to veteranhood - were running through his mind at a thousand miles per hour. "If your enemy is secure at all points, be prepared for him. If he is in superior strength, evade him. If your opponent is temperamental, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. If he is taking his ease, give him no rest. If his forces are united, separate them. If sovereign and subject are in accord, put division between them. And if you have run into your (metaphorical) enemy before she has finished her bath and accidentally seen her naked..."

The horror. He'd have to do what the pride of a battlemage should never condone.

He'd have to... apologise.

Natasha was still muttering to herself, something about men and giant swords and fiery wrath. Finally, after he disappeared, she managed to calm herself. She wasted no time in waiting up for him. Instead, she made her bed and sat on top of it. Years of training told her that if one's mind was not focused and cleared before sleep...there would be little sleep at all. She sighed and crossed her legs over one another, showing just how flexible she could be. She made certain that her body was covered, lest she be interrupted yet again. Her eyes closed and she took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind of all annoyances.

Even as she tried to do so, however, she found herself wondering what he thought when he'd seen her. Stubbornly, she pushed the thought from her mind, forcing her body to be calm as she began to meditate.

When Corten was convinced that he was no longer sweat-slick and road-dirty, he put his plan into operation, and a dangerous plan it was, too. Firstly, of course, if he left via the door, he might be seen by an as-yet-unsweeted Natasha, and as such turned inside out and used as a handball. Thus it was that a passer-by on the road below saw the bathroom window kicked open, and a gangly (but very clean) battlemage rappeling down the side on a rope made of towels tied together. Years before Bond or MacGyver, people had to make their own secret agent fun.

When they'd been led to the inn, Corten had seen a jeweler along the road. He checked his coin purse, and made the exact same face he'd made in the anti-psychic training when they'd been taught how to undo the Nightmare spell... but preserving the partnership was worth bankruptcy. Besides, they'd been promised a very good sum by Baron of Ostenkeep for Skiggla's destruction. It would pay for itself, in the long run.

Walking the road, Corten acquired a bouquet of flowers, of the prettiest and least-trodden of the roadside. He bound them together with a leather thong, which he'd been wearing in his hair for the first week out of college - that had, of course, been before he learned how useful long hair was in battle, and decided to cut it clean. By the time he reached the jeweler's, he had a quite reasonable selection, which he sheltered carefully before he began pounding on the CLOSED FOR THE NIGHT sign with a berserker's strength.

After a cursory spot of negotiation ("You're hiding in there so that you don't have to show the world that your wares aren't even the equal of elf work!" "D'ye care tae say that t'me face, umgi?" and the like), Corten made a purchase of a small, white gold pendant, depicting a sword-wielding angel with a diamond set in her bodice, and dutifully paid the dwarf extra for awaking him while grumbling only a little about the hazards of greed and that money-grubbing would damn the world.

When he reached the inn, he re-entered via the lower door first, entering the lively common room. He made his way to the counter and negotiated, loudly, over the din of the drinkers, for a still-corked bottle of the establishment's finest wine - Zamil Guran, the grapes grown on pixie-blessed land, stamped down by dwarven maidens on the last day of the harvest, fermented in the bottle by ancient rites and aged for twelve years before being sold.

With the bottle tucked under his arm, the pendant in his coin purse, and the flowers between his teeth, Corten made a particularly dangerous ascent back up the rope of towels, pulling them back in and carefully hanging them up afterwards. (If anyone asked why one of them was road-dirty, Corten would whistle innocently.)

There was another thing the book of war had told him - "It is said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you will not be imperiled in a hundred battles." Or, in other words, flowers, wine, and jewelry was not enough; a true apology, drawn from a true understanding of where he had gone wrong, would be the only thing to seal this metaphorical spell.

It didn't help that Corten had severe difficulty in seeing his own faults. Still, practicing quietly (though, not that he knew it, not quite quietly enough not to be heard in the next room), he brought a speech together, recognising his impatience, his imprudence, how he'd been trained in the many Lores of Battle and always did best in the Lore of the Storm, his own personality being equally tempestuous. He went on to say that Natasha was a saint for tolerating him, and that though he so rarely showed it, he valued their partnership as much as he valued anything in this world. After a false start or two, he tied it all together: if she would be so kind as to give him forgiveness, he would do his best, in future, to prove worthy of it.

Naturally, when he came out to present them to her, the speech disintegrated into "I'm a storm and I'm sorry; do you want some flowers?"

Her eyes opened as the door did as well. Out came the reason she'd been in such a bad mood. But for some reason he hand flowers....and a bottle of wine. How did he smuggle those in? She raised an eyebrow as he came to her and gave his epic speech. "What?" She furrowed her brows and tried to make sense of what he'd said, though she could rarely do so anyway. Clearly he was not a storm, but the words, "I'm sorry" managed to cut through his metaphors. So he was apologizing to her? For Corten, the gesture in itself must have been near unbearable...but the fact that he'd clearly gone through trouble made her chuckle. She took the flowers from him, and said, "Thank you?"

Natasha unfolded her legs and stood up. "I'm not really sure that I'm going to forgive you, but it's a start," she said. She smiled softly and put the flowers on her dresser. After all, he'd seen her naked. No way was he getting off that easily. "So you're a storm? I don't quite follow."

Really, she'd heard his speech through the door, but what good did it do if she only heard him mumbling. He was going to have to spill the whole thing out if he wanted real, ungrudging forgiveness.

"Lores of Battle. Wait, I've got..." He handed her the bottle of wine, and fumbled through his sadly denuded coin purse, finally coming out with the pendant on its long chain. "This, too. I think it'd look nice on you. See, it's an angel with a sword, because, y'know, what I said about the fighting and such." He didn't add that it was a pendant because it would draw attention to her cleavage. Honestly, he hadn't known that himself, it was all very subconscious.

"Anyway." He took a seat, crossing his legs over one another. "Um. Lores of Battle. There's all kinds of different Lores of battle magic, and the true battlemage has to be able to work with all of them, but he always tends to embody one which is most like his personality. And I always worked best with the Lore of the Storm. Because I'm... fickle and tempestuous. But, most of the time, you manage to put up with that. Without killing me. And I'm..." He took a deep breath, and rushed through the end of the speech he'd composed. "I'm grateful beyond all odds and I value our partnership as much as I value anything in this world or outside of it and so I'm willing to cross great odds to preserve it and so if you can find it in yourself to grant me forgiveness I will go as best I can to prove myself worthy of it."

He nodded, having said it all now, and quietly earned himself extra points by not gesturing to the wine and asking "You gonna drink that?"

Natasha listened to him carefully, noting that he looked as though he were being painfully honest...and stretching quite a bit to do so. She had to admire the squirmy little thing for going through with his speech, and so she found herself more ready to forgive him than not. She looked at the pendant he'd given to her and smiled softly. He did have a way with words...when he wanted to. "Alright, I'll forgive you," she said. "Just...knock next time, okay?" She sighed and put the flowers down, the pendant as well. They were both gifts of beauty...they didn't seem to suit her...but she was touched that he would have thought of her. She would keep them proudly. "Well then...how about we drink this?" she asked holding up the bottle.

She knew he wouldn't have lasted much longer with the temptation of wine on his mind. Besides, she figured they'd both be in better humors with a little spirits in them.

"Yes please," Corten said, a little too quickly. He might have just spent some time in sober reflection of himself and the likelihood of him doing well out of continued arrogance, but that didn't mean he had become a completely different person; he still had the patience of a bull who'd been fed coca leaves. He produced two goblets from the dresser beside his own bed, setting them atop her bedside table, next to the flowers and the pendant. "Better here than in the common room, I thought," he said, shrugging, "down there it's a little... chaotic."

"What did you do?" she asked, clearly referring to the chaos downstairs. She may have forgiven him, but that didn't mean they were going to be instant best friends. She uncorked the bottle with relative ease, tossing it to him. She poured some wine for the both of them and handed him a glass, setting the bottle on the table. She sat back on her bed watching him carefully. Just what kind of mischief had be been up to in her absence?

"I didn't do anything," Corten protested, holding up his hands. "It's just... it's their rush time about now. Dwarf drinking contests and humans trying to outdrink them, which is a hiding to nothing, I know that from experience." He sipped the wine, shuddering for a moment; it truly did live up to its reputation.

"Oh. Wait. You meant how I knew? Um... secret power of a battlemage," he tried, before seeing in her face that he wasn't getting away with that. "I went out the window," he confessed, gesturing to the bathroom. "On a rope made of towels. That was when I got the flowers, and the pendant, and I picked up the wine downstairs before I came up. It's really difficult to rappel up with only one arm. I'm pretty impressed with myself for not dropping the bottle."

Natasha couldn't help it. She laughed, nearly choking on the fine wine. "Well, well. It appears as though I'm scarier than I thought." She shook her head and said, "Only you, Corten. Only you." She smiled and took a sip of wine, thinking that one glass would certainly be enough for the night. "I do appreciate the effort," she said softly. Then she looked down for a moment and sighed. "I don't mean to be quite so violent, you know? But I take so much everyday that I just can't help it. So I'm sorry if I scare you sometimes...but in my defense, you usually deserve it."

She sighed softly and watched him. It still bothered her that he'd seen her...but what agitated her even more was the fact that she had no idea what he thought when he saw her. She had no idea what he thought of her.

Corten shrugged, sipping his wine... and leaning forward to hide the smile on his face as she laughed, a strangely handsome, boyish gesture. He seemed to like the sound, at any rate. "It's no matter," he said, when she finished. "For a companion, I'm glad to have a powerful, scary warrior, rather than a keeper-nanny. After all, if you frighten me, in all my power and glory..." He said it with a perfectly straight face, only the slightest tilt of the corner of his lip revealing the hidden humour in it. "Then I can only imagine what Boss Skiggla will think tomorrow."

He stood, and stretched, setting his empty cup down. "My head spins already," he confessed. "A strong drink, that; not to be overdone, I think. The pendant, by the way... It wasn't just the angel. I thought the sparkle of the diamond would go nicely with the light of your eyes." He said that, too, matter-of-factly, as if adventurers the world over made a habit of examining and praising one another's eyes. "My bed's in the next room," he continued, "I should go sleep. Wake me if we're attacked in the night, though I'd wonder at any goblin who could break through a town full of Dwarves."

And with that, he headed out the door, to go sleep - though not for as long as he'd like. (He never got to sleep for as long as he'd like. When would adventurers the world over learn that battlemages needed fourteen hours a night to keep up their power?)

Natasha smiled softly at his reasoning and shook her head. He would always be the same person...but he had his shining moments. She finished her wine when he did but stayed on her bed until he was finished talking. She nodded in agreement about the wine, although hers was making her a wee bit more tired than usual. She set the glass on her table and started to get up when she heard, "I thought the diamond would go nicely with the light of your eyes." To be honest, Natasha had never heard anything remotely similar from anyone else...well, if you didn't count the drunken riffraff who managed to find her in every tavern. One might say she was stunned--mostly because she'd never heard her companion treat her like anything more than a blade for hire.

"If you're attacked at night," she said, regaining her wits, "it will most certainly mean that I am dead already." That said she gave him a soft smile before corking the bottle and climbing into bed for the night, blowing out the candle that kept her room full of light. "Good night, Corten," she said softly, her eyes closing.

She saw him leave, but thought little of it. Surely tomorrow he would be the same old Corten, whining about having to wake up, complaining about the quality of his breakfast, though there would not be anything wrong with it, and pestering Natasha about whether or not she was ready to go.

It was a beautiful night, really, made for lovers to look at the moon, for assignations in quiet forests, for truth and beauty in the midst of the stillness. It shouldn't have been for Corten to spend all of it slumped on his side, snoring quietly but constantly (not enough, fortunately for Natasha and for his own bodily integrity, to be heard through the walls) and drooling onto his pillow, but alas, life is not always fair.

When Natasha came in to wake him up the next day, he did indeed roll off the bed in a tangle of blanket and hit the floor with bad grace... but besides a little grumbling over the wonderful dream he'd been having where he was God, he was mostly quite well-behaved, and ate three plates of breakfast with an entire carafe of strong Dwarf coffee. Either he honestly had turned over a new leaf, or - much more likely - he just liked Dwarf cooking a lot better than most.