Raffael squinted against the red setting sun which fractured and poured
in as a figure stepped into the vacant infirmary. He greeted the Brother
with a smile.
"You're still here," the stocky man in black said proceeding into the hall, his long robe rustling.
Raffael rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. His fingers were stained with ink. "Almost finished."
"Go home, Raffe." His voice echoed against the stone walls before disappeared into the far room. "Did not your associates come earlier to invite you to an outing?"
"For drinks. You approve of these activities?"
Jariel laughed. "I made the oath of abstinence, not you." He re-emerged with a tray of tonics in vials, leaves and dressings. The Lacewurt treatment.
"Brother Jari," he said pushing his palms against the table to stand. "I said I would care for the old man. His bed wounds are quite severe. He's developed ague and redness around the -"
"I've watched you enough times to know what to do. Besides, there's nothing else a Hospitaller can do for him."
Raffe gave a tentative look, but could not deny the strain in the back of his neck which crawled up into his head and causing a small ache over his brows. The muscles in his shoulders were also taut. He unconsciously raised his hand to the back of his neck.
Jari paused before him. "Go."
He shifted his weight.
"I'll write you a detailed report." When Raffe didn't speak, Jari reached out and gave him an affirming grip on his arm and disappeared into the blinding sunset.
He wiped his hands on the stained cloth on the arm rest of his wooden chair before he gathered his papers and slid them in his boiled leather bag. With his bag and white emblazoned tabard in hand, he walked to the public house.
The city had come alive with the remaining light of the sun. Shop owners and vendors spilled water onto the streets to wash the debris which had accumulated during the day into the troughs at the sides of the wide streets. Shoppers, who waited until sunset, snuck in the last purchases of the day at a cheaper price. The noise of their bartering were no less abrasive than the yelps of scavengers. It was not until all of such activities ceased did he reach the Riceiu Tavern.
He was welcomed by enthusiastic waves and alcohol redden faces of three individuals at the far end of the room.
Safi was a pale haired Tibestian - or a dark haired Onranian. His mother was a pureblood Onranian with blanch hair and even paler skin. His father was only half Tibestian, so they produced the much admired specimen who greeted him with an embrace. "We weren't sure you were coming," he called over the din of the tavern. "We've already called for food."
Raffe shook his head with a smile.
Rao, born and raised in Rougefort, thrusted rolled leaves between his teeth and slapped Raffe's back. His neglected thick, dark curls jostled as he did. His long lashes was the target of many jokes pertaining to his masculinity.
The meek Soren, from a village north of Adino, had not a single interesting feature about him. It was only when he opened his mouth to speak, his voice, which he hid behind quiet humbleness, did he capture the interest of many.
When they were thirteen, they were his classmates. Four years later, they became his associates - Hospitallers of the Weal Wyrtha. Then, after two uneventful years serving their duties for the Court, they became his friends when they rejoined in Rougefort. He and Safi in the Ousbert Abbey, Rao and Soren in the Esbert Abbey.
Raffe had not expected any visitors, and so he did not leave the tavern with this tabard pulled against his frame until the moon was at its apex. When he reached his cottage at the northeastern edge of Rougefort, a carriage stood idle beside the lean-to. On the rear panel, an insignia overlaid with the word Beodas, the Law.
Raffe entered the cottage through the lean-to door and kicked off his boots. Stacked along the table and floor before the hearth were a dozen or so crates. Beside them, plates of half eaten food and an unfinished bottle of wine.
The bedroom door was left ajar and soft snoring announced the presence of the person who occupied his bed. Light from the dwindling hearth fire seeped into the room to reveal a sun-drenched back and disheveled, short cropped hair.
"You're still here," the stocky man in black said proceeding into the hall, his long robe rustling.
Raffael rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. His fingers were stained with ink. "Almost finished."
"Go home, Raffe." His voice echoed against the stone walls before disappeared into the far room. "Did not your associates come earlier to invite you to an outing?"
"For drinks. You approve of these activities?"
Jariel laughed. "I made the oath of abstinence, not you." He re-emerged with a tray of tonics in vials, leaves and dressings. The Lacewurt treatment.
"Brother Jari," he said pushing his palms against the table to stand. "I said I would care for the old man. His bed wounds are quite severe. He's developed ague and redness around the -"
"I've watched you enough times to know what to do. Besides, there's nothing else a Hospitaller can do for him."
Raffe gave a tentative look, but could not deny the strain in the back of his neck which crawled up into his head and causing a small ache over his brows. The muscles in his shoulders were also taut. He unconsciously raised his hand to the back of his neck.
Jari paused before him. "Go."
He shifted his weight.
"I'll write you a detailed report." When Raffe didn't speak, Jari reached out and gave him an affirming grip on his arm and disappeared into the blinding sunset.
He wiped his hands on the stained cloth on the arm rest of his wooden chair before he gathered his papers and slid them in his boiled leather bag. With his bag and white emblazoned tabard in hand, he walked to the public house.
The city had come alive with the remaining light of the sun. Shop owners and vendors spilled water onto the streets to wash the debris which had accumulated during the day into the troughs at the sides of the wide streets. Shoppers, who waited until sunset, snuck in the last purchases of the day at a cheaper price. The noise of their bartering were no less abrasive than the yelps of scavengers. It was not until all of such activities ceased did he reach the Riceiu Tavern.
He was welcomed by enthusiastic waves and alcohol redden faces of three individuals at the far end of the room.
Safi was a pale haired Tibestian - or a dark haired Onranian. His mother was a pureblood Onranian with blanch hair and even paler skin. His father was only half Tibestian, so they produced the much admired specimen who greeted him with an embrace. "We weren't sure you were coming," he called over the din of the tavern. "We've already called for food."
Raffe shook his head with a smile.
Rao, born and raised in Rougefort, thrusted rolled leaves between his teeth and slapped Raffe's back. His neglected thick, dark curls jostled as he did. His long lashes was the target of many jokes pertaining to his masculinity.
The meek Soren, from a village north of Adino, had not a single interesting feature about him. It was only when he opened his mouth to speak, his voice, which he hid behind quiet humbleness, did he capture the interest of many.
When they were thirteen, they were his classmates. Four years later, they became his associates - Hospitallers of the Weal Wyrtha. Then, after two uneventful years serving their duties for the Court, they became his friends when they rejoined in Rougefort. He and Safi in the Ousbert Abbey, Rao and Soren in the Esbert Abbey.
Raffe had not expected any visitors, and so he did not leave the tavern with this tabard pulled against his frame until the moon was at its apex. When he reached his cottage at the northeastern edge of Rougefort, a carriage stood idle beside the lean-to. On the rear panel, an insignia overlaid with the word Beodas, the Law.
Raffe entered the cottage through the lean-to door and kicked off his boots. Stacked along the table and floor before the hearth were a dozen or so crates. Beside them, plates of half eaten food and an unfinished bottle of wine.
The bedroom door was left ajar and soft snoring announced the presence of the person who occupied his bed. Light from the dwindling hearth fire seeped into the room to reveal a sun-drenched back and disheveled, short cropped hair.
by Jade Saelee
Read the complete version here: The Hospitaller
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