To Serve the Light (Part 4)

It was noon before they were released from their special drills. Normally, they'd have gate duty, or be given leave to return to their non-militia duties for the rest of the afternoon. But no, not for them. Sir Bernhardt had assigned them "special" duties for the duration of their punishment.

"Special" indeed. Such as mucking out the stables. With small flower-garden trowels. It was unpleasant work at the best of times, but now, in the rain... they also had to contend with fidgety and unhappy horses. It took forever to complete the job – by they time Sir Bernhardt deemed the cleaning passable, allowing them to make their way to the baths, the sun was well past setting.

The smell of wet hay, wet horse hair, and wet horse crap. While they could neither of them smell it any longer, both knew it clung to them. Even after all the scrubbing and soaking, it was like an unseen cloud of foulness hovering over them. As foul as the mood of the young dwarf.

She was still muttering as they made their way back home. Taylor finally told her crossly to stop griping. "We're in enough trouble, ye daft dwarf. Why ye want to get us into more with yer cursing the ole man out, eh?"

" 'Tis a bloody arse-rag he's bein, is why," she grumbled darkly, swinging her lantern with unnecessary violence. "An' fer wha? Fer tha' dirty, nae good Dun Modr scum? 'Tis a liar an' a cheat tha' one's bein, plaguin me brother fer money he's nae entitled ta."

Taylor nodded. "Yea, I know, Wyn. Ye told me before."

"Aye. An' 'twas HE tha' was startin all th' trouble, aye? Callin me a 'stupid whore's get pretendin ta pound metal,' an' offerin ta 'pound th' fiery bitch inta bliss' an' all tha' blather," she growled, face getting red again at the mere memory of the insults.

"Yea, I remember Wyn. Rude bastard he was, and grabby too." He frowned, unconsciously crackling his knuckles.

"Th' bloody, dirty pig," she growled as they continued walking. " 'Twas th' LEAST he was deservin, wha' he was getting! Th' disgustin bastard. 'Twas needed, teachin tha' bloody bastard ta be mindin his manners, an ta be respectin th' goodfolk o' Menethil."

They turned the corner, and nearly walked straight into a small group.

"Filthy dwarf, keep out of the path of your betters." Wyn was shoved, hard, and went sprawling.

Harsh, derisive laughter.

"Shaddup, Lars," Taylor warned, eyes hard as he helped her up.

As usual, Lars ignored the warning. Full of himself, was Lars - one of a handful survivors who escaped Lordaeron's fall. Some claimed he was some fancy paladin's son, born and bred for war. Others held him to be some street-born criminal's by-blow, raised in conflict and intrigue. No one knew for sure. In any case, his skill with the sword was better than most full Guards, much less his fellow militia. Only two had ever bested him - one of them sir Bernhardt himself.

Lars hated dwarves. All dwarves. But especially this upstart female.

"You shut up," Lars mocked. "Filthy dwarf-lover. Does her beard keep your balls warm while she… erk!"

Lars got no further. Taylor moved, driving his fist into the other man’s stomach. The lantern in his hand tumbled to the ground as he clutched his torso and gasped. As Lars struggled to catch his breath, the two others rushed forward, tackling Tay.

With a furious roar, Wyn scrambled up and joined the fray. In a blind rage she ignored everything else around her, focused only on the two enemies before her, intent on smashing their faces into the muddy earth.

As she grappled, something collided with her head.

The world faded away.