IV. Sir Valcrist of Lenneth opened the doors of the Morrocan inn they have rented for the duration of their inspection of the desert city. The morning air, while still cool, was wrought with hints of unbearable heat later in the day. The Commander of the Sword of Valor nevertheless stretched and inhaled the crisp air that greeted him deeply. He then, with great flourish, turned to his company, who were either snoozing in seats by the dinner table or eating their breakfast hastily, and said:
“Alright, Sword of Valor! Step right up and inhale the fresh air of Morroc! This is a brand new day, my little munchkins. Another chance to prove to that pansy Sword of Virtue that they suck--”
“…eggs?” a ‘munchkin’ supplied helpfully. Another, who promptly spat part of his rushed egg-y breakfast as he heard the remark, brought his fist down on the helpful munchkin’s head hard.
“Shut up, Alric.” The offended ‘munchkin’ said, part of his spat-out peco egg breakfast flecking the edge of his lips.
“Yes, Alric!” Sir Valcrist crossed his arms and nodded solemnly in agreement. “Eggs! They suck eggs!” He then threw back his head and laughed heartily, as if he found the remark the most ludicrous. The rest of the Sword of Valor laughed, albeit feebly. They all knew that whenever Sir Valcrist felt misunderstood, he got into a bad mood. And a Sir Valcrist in a bad mood was never a good thing. In fact, A Sir Valcrist in a bad mood is never a good thing was their motto, with a significantly long story behind it. It involved the company using their commander’s moodiness to their advantage.
The Sword of Valor was a company comprised of a choice of new recruits who enlisted themselves into the Pronteran Chivalry’s service right after graduation from the Academy. The third of the three Schwarzwald Defense Elements, alongside the Sword of Guidance and the Sword of Virtue, the Sword of Valor was considered to be the black sheep. However, Sir Valcrist of Lenneth could be taken into account as one of the greatest in the Pronteran Chivalry. He retired from the King’s Army, though, and was the youngest to do so, and transferred into the Schwarzwald Defense Elements, the local police of Prontera. With his reputation, he was supposed to be assigned to the Sword of Virtue, to what was considered the best among the three. However, Sir Valcrist, the underdog lover that he was (not to mention that he thought the Sword of Virtue was gay), he picked the Sword of Valor, the reserve company of inexperienced recruits and idiot savants. He wanted to make a distinguished defense force from a group of lackeys. His dear, little munchkins, who will soon grow to be the best heroes of Prontera and even the whole of Rune Midgard.
He wanted to make something out of nothing.
There was, however, one little quirk within the Sword of Valor, among others. One thing he found truly unusual: the heartless within the Sword of Valor, Sevrin Astergarden.
She was there in the corner of the dining hall, having finished her breakfast ahead of the others, and was already sharpening her bastard sword. The swordswoman sat cross-legged on the floor, swiping the sharpening block across the glittering edge of her blade. As always, the lady was silent.
Sir Valcrist walked towards her, his steps growing quiet as he neared her. Sevrin exuded the aura of someone not to be disturbed, like a tiger or a lioness. She heard him approach, however, and looked up. She rewarded him with a small smile of greeting.
Rewarded him. A commander being rewarded by his subordinate? His grandfather was already turning on his grave at that moment.
“Good morning, Sevrin. Had a good night’s sleep? I’m afraid the Chonchons were too noisy last night for me to even dream properly. I assume you fared well…?”
Sevrin went back to her sharpening and nodded. “Mm. I guess I have gotten used to it, Commander.”
Sir Valcrist knelt beside her. “That’s enough sharpening, kid,” he said, pointing at the edge of the thinning blade. “Two-hand swords such as this one do not really need much sharpening; they rely on weight more than…hmm…the cut-factor. Yeah, that’s right,” he murmured, liking the improvised term.
“Master Silberhof told me that, himself,” Sevrin answered. “I learned it the hard way.”
“I see.” Sir Valcrist nodded. “I have heard that he was one of the greatest swordsmastery instructors in the Midgard Academy. No wonder you have gotten to be so good.”
“Yeah. I am so good, aren’t I…” Sevrin’s voice trailed off.
Sir Valcrist was about to remark on that but the doors to the inn banged open even more widely. A munchkin stood by the door, leaning on the frame to support himself as he caught his breath. He looked as if he saw a ghost.
“S-Sir Valcrist? It’s confirmed. The i-infestation? Northwest. The hole.”
