Vignette I -- The Pony
Angry at Nanna for taking away your toy knights and expelling you outside, you declare to the skies above that you yourself will become a knight like father, then no one could take that away from you. Unlike what they did with your toys. Unlike what they did with father. You stride down to the training field, your little legs churning vigourously and purposefully through the mud. The barracks, the stables and the looming castle wall enclose the training area on three sides. The fourth side is bounded by a wooden rail fence, quite probably to keep children away. Two men are swatting lazily at each other with swords, another is running nimbly through a track full of barriers, nets and hoops. There's an unused quartain near the stables. But your attention is seized by the area near the barracks, where big round stones of various sizes are laid out in a row.
Thunk! With a strained grunt, a mountain of a man tosses a stone five times your size to the ground. You recognise and run toward him.
"Ludda! Ludda!"
Luther turns around, a question mark faintly written upon the impassive scarlet wall of his face. As usual, his response is a deep but soft rumble. "Milord, what are you doing here? You'll get your clothes muddy."
"I'm going to be a knight now! Where's my sword? Where are my horse and shield?"
The question mark is wiped away. The blank stone wall also crumbles. Luther booms out like the bell of Saint Theobald's, and the other trainees turn to observe. "Hoho! Your sword, horse, and shield! Hoho! In truth, I swore a vow to teach you arms, Milord, but... ah..." He looks around the field, at the men that have resumed beating each other, at the obstacle course, at the set of stone weights larger than you are. He shakes his head. "Right. Let's start with the horse then."
He leads you over to the stables and shows you the row of stalls housing the smaller ponies. "I want that one!" You point to a jumbled set of tarnished horse barding heaped in the corner of the stable. Any horse that could wear such an impressive armour would quite fit the bill of what you had running in your little mind.
"That was indeed a magnificent horse, Milord. Your father's destrier. One of the many that never came back from Mumsford Mound. Poor Anselm."
Luther selects a pony for you: a swayed-backed little jade that he leads outside and sets you atop. The pony ambles forward to nibble at a tuft of grass, and you promptly fall off and begin to cry. Luther scoops you up. "That was fine riding, Milord. Time to go back to Nanna." Your cries, more in fright than in pain, double in volume. "I can do it! I can do it!"
Hours later, your knees are scraped and bloody, and your left wrist feels a little sprained, but as your pony surges forward toward the quartain and as you strike it soundly with your lance, the pain and sacrifice today was all worth it. "Another pass! Another pass!" Luther whinnies and turns around, charging again at the quartain for the umpteenth time in the past hour, and you ride his back into battle. Your broomstick deals the target another satisfying knock. In the distance, the cook is ringing the dinner bell, and Luther knickers in relief. "Time to eat some provender, Milord."
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Topic: Heirship: A Suggestion Game (Read 30457 times)