A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

The swords leaned against the side of the cabin, waiting to be used.

Verdant noticed their approach. "Ah, Young Wolf, your timing is perfect. Allow me to introduce you to Peter, the student who runs this little Cabin of Advice with me. He's in his final year of the Academy at the moment, but he has wisdom, at times, that extends far beyond his years."

Peter gave a humble bow at the instruction. He had a thin face, and a thin body overall, with short cropped black hair, and a relaxed confident air about him. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Ser Patrick. The school is practically abuzz with tales of your exploits. I did not think I would have the opportunity to sit down with you so soon."

"Ah, well, I'm afraid we'll have to skip the sitting. I've made an agreement to see whether I can teach this pampered madam the sword, and I imagine if I neglect that duty, that fiery little retainer of hers is going to start biting my ankles like a rabid hound," Oliver said.

Peter raised his eyebrows at Oliver's odd remark, looking to Verdant for an explanation, but the priest merely shrugged with a smile, a smile which soon spread to Peter's face as well. "That is certainly one of the more interesting introductions I've had," he said. "I can't say I mind it. I would not dream of getting in the way of whatever business you have planned.

If you'd allow me to watch, though, I'd consider it a privilege."

"Of course, Peter," Oliver said, repeating his name in the lue of a proper introduction, after realizing that he'd forsaken the proper proceedings.

He'd expected Amelia to howl her indignation after his comment, but instead she was tightly bunching her fists together, going a bright red as she sought to hold in her rage. Apparently, even she had some sort of restraint around strangers… all strangers apart from Oliver, it would seem.

"Sword," Oliver said, picking one of the reasonably heavy weapons from the side of the cabin, and tossing it carelessly towards Blackthorn, without any regard for the proper proceedings.

Blackthorn raised an eyebrow at the gesture, but caught the sword nonetheless.

"My Lady, we had better take your jacket," Pauline said, sensing the anticipation in her Lady's movements. She was already raring to go, but she suffered Pauline's interjection with a brief nod, allowing her to lift the blue jacket from her shoulders, exposing the long sleeves of her jumper underneath.

"Oh, that was a jumper. I thought it was an interesting part of the dress," Oliver commented. Ever since the meal, his comments had been playful. Something had put him in a good mood. Of course, Blackthorn knew what that something was – the new addition of a noble retainer – but it did not stop her from finding fault with his statement.

It made her shudder for him to announce so openly that he'd been looking at her. Indeed, it was a black dress as Oliver had said, thick and warm, with its sleeves cut free, so that she could wear a white blouse underneath it, and a black wool jumper over the top of it, to keep herself as warm as she could be without being unfashionable.

She noted the ground beneath her feet, still covered in snow – an icy snow, after yesterday's layer had frozen in the early hours of the morning – and she drifted the top of her boots over the top of it. These were not the shoes that she would usually use for swordsmanship training. They had a wooden heel on them that made them feel cumbersome for the task, but she hadn't had a choice.

Oliver had insisted that they 'get this out the way' as he'd put it, and she'd been forced to oblige.

She was pleased that her footing wasn't too poor. Not like those areas where the snow had already been trodden down, and was less 'icy' and more just a pure sheet of ice. Here, there was at least some crunch.

"Are you ready?" Oliver asked her lazily.

"Are you not going to take your jacket off as well, Young Wolf?" Verdant asked. "I had thought you wouldn't want to get it dirty."

Oliver looked down at his jacket, as though only just remembering that he was wearing it. Then he frowned, recalling the bandages that had just recently been reapplied to his back. There was a stiffness that came with the wounds there. Blackthorn waited – doing her best to hide her impatience – as the priest came to take Oliver's jacket.

But he smiled, meeting his gaze, as though remembering something that had happened to him. "No, actually… I think I'll leave it on. It seems unlikely that she'll hit me anyway."

And now the priest was smiling too, a small smile, the sort that one might hide from a child. Blackthorn didn't like those looks. No one had said for them to begin yet, but she sprang off her back foot, her well-treaded boots finding good purchase in the snow. She went flying at him before he could even bring his sword up to defend herself.

'Let him try to defend this, then!' She declared inside her head. She saw that Pauline had the grace to be dismayed by her discourteous start, but Amelia was pumping her fist.

It was a habit of hers that she did her best to hide. That easily irritable side of herself. She was meant to be implacable, immoveable, an icy beauty to be seen and not felt.

Her sword neared his chest. It was a heavier blade than she was used to. She'd trained with rapiers far more than longswords. She wondered if Oliver had made the priest bring these weapons on purpose, or whether he was merely so thoughtless that he did not recall the weapon she had used on him yesterday.

"Got you—" she began to declare, heartily. Perhaps she wouldn't need his training after all. Then she wouldn't need to put up with his smug attitude, she wouldn't need to debase herself by putting the Blackthorn name in the company of a Patrick.