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Die Shize

[QUEST] The Ghost of Hodenaufer

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The ghost of Hodenaufer is said to be lingering upon the olden battlefield. Find him, and find the purpose behind the golden grass circle's of Hodenaufer's Circle. 200vB Quest Reward.â

The Cinnamon Knight




He had been traveling far and wide, which wasn’t anything new for his line of work. It’s not that anyone had ordained Ser Matthew the Merry to venture across the face of Orisia offering his services to the local leaders. He didn’t have to be a hedge knight, particularly one that devoted his years in a cycle of service across the face of Orisia, but at some point a knight realized that there was a time to settle down, but the time was not now.

It was a gorgeous day across the hills and plains, sun yellow and grass green, with the beautiful scope of the Hodenaufer Range on the horizon, the sea put at the back. Matthew caught himself gazing up at the clouds with an arm held to the glare. There was a steady breeze blowing, a welcome feeling for free hair where a helmet did not interfere. He had taken it off where it was not needed, revealing the face of a young man and long, red hair. Beneath brown eyes was an outfit of brown leather, key parts reinforced with steel, and draping from his shoulders was a cloak colored cinnamon.  Without a horse to carry it, the knight had no banner to unfurl, and surcoats were never really his thing.

But the smell. Oh, the smell. The shield at his back, as well, with its coat of crossed longswords but sticks of cinnamon in place of blades. “The Cinnamon Knight”, they called him, and for good reason. Ser Matthew the Merry happened to permeate the scent of such spice, chewing on it like wheat, adding it to his tea. Without a pack and a kettle to come with, there would be no tea this morning. In the open air of the vicinity, that knight had awoken to the sight of a rider approaching from afar. It was no immediate reaction, but eventually, as the rider came ever closer, Matthew stopped staring and fastened his swordbelt on.

That’s a courser. You’d have to be something of a knight to own one, or else have stolen it. And I don’t think this fool is a knight, not by any standard. A warhorse was trained to deal with war, able to remain calm at the sight of blood and the sound of blade. Which will make this all the more easy. Besides, whenever whatever knight realized his horse had been taken found the fool that took it, Matthew realized that his would be a mercy. Then he realized that the outlaw probably didn’t care either way.

Bandits. He had dealt with their kind before, killed a few before, but his skills with a sword were never put to the test against bandits. They were many of them little more than armed thugs, though he had encountered the odd knight here and there, thrice so many times disfavored, so it seemed. They were more marauders, as if by default, no longer with order or purpose. Perhaps this man on a horse, approaching while guzzling from a wineskin, was one such knight in shame. He certainly sat tall enough, and it was no destrier beneath his arse.

A knight no longer. Without a code, no banner to fight for, a knight became drunk on his own skills, and he became vicious, or more so. Ferocity had yet proven to be the downfall of such opponents when Matthew had faced them. Too much ferocity with a sword in your hand had a tendency to keep a man from the finesse of brushing and stroking like a painter, and traded both for the fury of hacking and chopping like a butcher.

Matthew stood still beneath the sun as the rider looked him up and down with suspicion, clearly curious as to what valuables the footman might possess. The rider was armed, it was sure, a scabbard seen poking out beneath the horse’s belly. This is not the sort of gentleman who’s going to offer me to share his saddle. His own horse had since been bloodied and broken and was washing away in the river, and he needed a new one, no matter the cost. With his own sword in its own sheath, Matthew held his ground, letting the game play itself.

“A tail for a tale, I say! Give me your horse, fair rider, and I shall give you a story for the ages!”

That seemed to amuse the rider. Even from the fair distance, Matthew could swear that he could see wet lips as they smiled. “What good’s a fucking story? Does it have four hooves to get me where I need to go faster than my own two feet?”

Matthew could see how this was going to end. “Well that all depends, good man. A good story can take you further than any horse with four hooves. Indeed, you can sail the sky and fly through water on the tail of a tale, provided you have the imagination for it.”

The rider sipped from his skin again, this time wiping his lips. Matthew deduced that so much slobber was simply too much slobber. No longer looking so amused, the bandit’s face read signs of irritation before his words came out.

“Oh. Well, I don’t, so no, you can’t have my bloody horse. Now bugger off, before you find yourself beneath it and all four hooves that come with it.”

“That, my friend, might make for too bloody of a tale to tell.” Evidently, no manner of addressing this man as a decent companion was going to convince him to become one. “But that just means I won’t be able to tell it to the children after I ride home.” On your horse, after I claim it from you. Matthew slid his sword from its scabbard without removing his eyes from the rider, who smiled a challenge and unsheathed his own blade. Matthew’s helmet, a golden barbute held in arm, was secured atop head before anything.

The dance that followed involved less stepping and more galloping and rolling, and was one of the quickest dances that Matthew had been in, and he had been in a few. Alongside blindly raging, what also tended to hinder a warrior’s skill with a weapon was booze in the brain. The bandit, whoever he was, was on horseback, thus he held the height advantage, but his opponent was much more sober. The fool chuckled as he threw his wineskin to the ground before it rumbled beneath rapid hooves, four in all.

Matthew stood standing on his own two feet as he waited for his charger head-on. Standing still, he looked like a motionless moron, he knew, evidenced in the wicked guffaw of the bandit as he held his sword at a high angle, showing his opponent the expected and the obvious: the rider would seek to behead Matthew in one swing, and ride past his corpse, before riding back and claiming whatever was on it. That not-yet-a-corpse had other ideas. He held his place, ready, right hand on hilt, steady, blade’s point to the ground, waiting. He waited until the last moment, just when the rider’s own sword was swung from high to low, an attack that both men knew wouldn’t matter if it missed, for if not beheaded, ducking would only send steel sliding through torso.

That was when Matthew leaned into his roll just before it commenced. The blade missed, trailing short of its target as he rolled away, springing to his feet as soon as permitted. Back in stance, he smiled his most smug, provoking foe as he rounded his horse and charged with angry brows, a wicked grin and ten curses, the next cruder than the last. Only this time, the rider’s sword was held at saddle, arm braced against side, committing control to the speed of his steed. This time, the bandit, drunk in part that he was, sought to live up to his threat and trample his teaser.

Matthew stood still, a moment longer, and without his opponent’s sword to threaten him, he rolled, but not to his side. He rolled forward, toward the horse but at an angle away from it, swinging his sword low to high in a parallel of his enemy’s original attack. The rider’s roar was a feat, rivaling the gallop of hoof, though no curse came with it. Instead, the bandit could only scream, his horse whinnying as its rider let himself fall to the ground, an action that his lower leg had since undertaken after a blade had nearly cut it off, and the collapse of its owner had taken care of the rest.

Fortunately, this was a warhorse. It was hardened for battle. There was a saying among certain militants about warhorses, coursers and destriers in particular, that Matthew had learned out of passion: “A warhorse is as bred for war as the men who breed it.” It was a truth that always reminded him just how pitiless a species could be toward another, all for the sake of being pitiless.  

Turned out that the bandit hadn’t lost so much due to unchecked ferocity, but simply due to stupidity. To Matthew, he was dead all the same, and he wouldn’t be the last of his band, wherever the rest might be. He wasn’t immediately dead, as it were, instead writhing in the blood loss that would eventually lead to it, shrieking and cursing. And spitting. Matthew, in the end, had no pity either; not for scum like this. Wind blew gently against his cloak as he paced forward, in no rush, teeth closing over a stick of cinnamon.

“You bloody bastard!” The bandit cursed. “My fucking leg!” and worse. Matthew did not pity him. Well, he pitied him enough to grant him a mercy killing, at least. There were no words, save for the writhing man’s anguish, hands clawing the oozing stump where a leg was once whole. The death came quick, blade piercing the heart and keeping true. Wiping the blood off, Matthew sheathed his sword and turned away from the corpse, fingers curling around the black courser’s bridle, the fine horse having stood idly by as if there weren’t ever a man suffering beside it only moments ago. “As bred for war as the men who breed it.” Matthew thought about that for as long as it took to climb into the horse’s saddle, a final pat on the neck keeping the beast in check.

The Hodenaufer Range loomed in the distance, but having a horse made all the difference. Across the sprawling grassland that led to the mountains, Matthew would reach his destination, and he would start with a leisurely trot, desiring to rest up in whatever that building on the horizon was between the mountains and his horse, a stick of cinnamon between his teeth. Some paces and hooves later, Matthew halted horse, leaned down from saddle, and scooped up the fallen wineskin and what was left within it. It was a sour vintage in taste, and it smelled like someone had just died from it, but it would help some. The cinnamon helped the aftertaste, and as Matthew trotted onward in song, he was as much the Cinnamon Knight as he was Ser Matthew the Merry.

Edited by Die Shize

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Orisia Isle had been Anthony Garfield’s home for a large portion of his teenage, and early adult, life. He had always loved it there, the beautiful beaches, the culture.


And then there was Hirona. Hirona was his lover, his wife for a short time. He had fallen for her, and that love was only deepened when a week after their wedding, she revealed to him that she was with child. She intentionally dodged the word “pregnant,” because, as a Jityu, or Person of the Sea, she didn’t actually carry her children. Anthony had been surprised when she had told him, and the next morning, he had woke up to a small, shiny, slippery egg the size of an apple on the kitchen table. 4 weeks later, they had a son, named Ty for the tides of Orisia Isle. He found this little boy strange, how he had the slippery iridescent scales of the Jityu,and the fin-like hair, yet had Anthony’s dark green eyes.


But, like all in the world, all good had to come to an end. Anthony’s mother had a stroke, and became sick and frail. He couldn’t pay for her care, so he had to resort to stealing, and soon after buying her proficient care with his stolen loot, he found that stealing gave him a boost drugs couldn’t. Soon, he began pirating, and his son, then 12 years old, became hooked as well. Hirona was appalled by this, how Anthony just stole and felt no remorse, and soon kicked the both of them out.


Every once in a while, Anthony would come back down to the Isles with Ty, and caught up with her. He still very much loved her, and he could tell she still at least felt something for him, and this time, he planned on getting back together with her.


For good.


But, as he flew over a large sea of grass in his glider, it was obvious the gods had it out for him. The glider shivered, and soon began to drop in altitude. Anthony looked down at the gauges before him, and cursed silently as he noticed the dark needle that indicated fuel dropping to “E.”


To his right, Ty stirred, then completely woke. He yawned.


“Dad, what’s going on?”


Shit… Ty, we’ve run out of gas. We’re going to have to land.”


His son groaned and rolled his eyes. Anthony felt like doing the same. He could’ve sworn he’d filled the tank up all the way, but apparently that wasn’t the case. He shifted the glider down into the sea of grass, unbeknownst to him, the Hodenaufer Range. Soon, the hum of the engine began to become less and less audible. Before the engine completely died, Anthony pushed a button on the dash, and a slew of things became to happen at once. The wings and the tail of the glider began to fold in, making a mechanical whirring as they folded into the body. The body lifted itself off the ground and from its underside, 4 wheels unfolded. The doors on the side extended, and the grille on the front became bigger. Brake lamps on the back appeared, and on the inside, the glider wheel tucked into the dashboard and was replaced by a flat-bottom car steering wheel.


The small glider had converted itself to a small car in the matter of 45 seconds, and luckily, the engine had that much power in it before completely giving out. Anthony unbuckled himself from the driver’s seat and pushed open the door as Ty followed suit.


“This blows,” the boy muttered as he stepped out of the car and into the Range.


Watch your mouth, boy,” Anthony warned, taking his energy katana from the backseat and sliding it and its sheath onto his belt. “And make sure you get the Convincer, Ty.


His son nodded as he reached onto the floor of the passenger seat and pulled out the Convincer, a small sawed off shotgun that was loaded and only loaded with turbine slugs. It definitely convinced a lot of people in its day.


Ok, I think our best chance is for one of us to stay next to the glider, and another one walk to get some ga-


In the distance, Anthony was interrupted by cries of pain, and someone being called a bloody bastard. Ty opened his mouth to speak, but Anthony put up a finger to quiet him. Like that, the screams ended. Rather abruptly.


Someone had just been killed


Change of plans, boy. We may have to visit your mother another day; someone just died and I don’t think it was the wildlife. We both stay by the glider until I’m sure we’re safe. If we come across someone, we act natural and if they seem too suspect, we merk ‘em.


Ty nodded, and they both sat on the hood of the glider, waiting for someone to cross their path.

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That building, was it an inn? It had to be an inn. Matthew needed an inn. That bandit-fool hadn’t given him much of a fight, but rolling had its tiring feats. That second one had left him with a sore neck, nothing that rubbing seemed to avail. His other hand kept that wineskin squeezed, even as the last few drops were squeezed out. At this pace, no hands needed to hold the reins, and what measly make this measure of wine mattered had not left the horse’s rider in any way intoxicated. So I hope that bloody building is a bloody inn.

Trot. Trot. Trot. Onward, the trek went, till a stomach grumbled and Matthew fussed with himself as to obtaining the answer as to why he hadn’t turned trot into canter and canter into gallop. Wouldn’t it have taken him to that building in the distance quicker? Yet it would have robbed Ser Matthew of the joy of just sitting in saddle and swaying from side to side ('rider’s rock', some called it) with an empty wine skin and the lyrics that went with it.

The grass is as green as this morning’s wine!

Look how it floats back up my throat!

O merry was me yestereve, drinking wine!

Look how it flows up out my nose!


“ 'Hold off the water and fetch me more beer!'

O how I laughed in drunken joy!

Never could have known the man was not my dear!

He looked like a girl and she looked like a boy!


“Rolled over on my dear to my belly from my back!

She looked at me annoyed, said I had one too many drinks!

I gave her a wet kiss anyway, and her arse a little smack!

She looked at me annoyed, but gave me one too many—“


At that moment, Matthew drew out the last syllable of that last word as surely as he would have slowed his horse to less than a trot, had he hands on the reins to do so. He could only feel his head lift by its own accord, gaze winding upward to the skies above, to see ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ was.


It wouldn’t have answered his question. This was a different song being sung in that sky, though it wasn’t any song whose lyrics he had ever heard of, well, ever. Certainly not something you see every day. In the end, it was all Matthew could do to sit in saddle looking above and beyond himself, awestruck, as ‘it’ went down and down and further down, at a great speed no less, before the knight gripped gloved hands on the reins of his horse and prepared for the entire world to shake. It did not.

Instead, ‘it’ disappeared behind a hill in the distance, one of the number, large and small, that made up the expanse of grassland before the Hodenaufer Range. As it should for any knight, Matthew found confidence and bit back disbelief, resituating himself in his seat, before a sudden spur and a “Yah!” sent his new friend whinnying and shaking the ground in a different kind of way, four hooves and all.

‘It’ had fallen some ways off from the distant inn-if-that’s-what-it-was, but with his new gallop Matthew would reach the site of the fallen ‘something’ soon enough. Only, the knight wouldn’t discover for himself what monstrosity or wonder (or both?) would be waiting for him on the other side. No, that would be far too risky. He was a knight, an able knight, and he was confident on his courser, but whoever or whatever was in that construct from the sky, that flying ‘thing’, would probably outmatch him. Sitting in his saddle, just on the other side of that hill, Matthew felt his fingers curl even tighter around those reins, suddenly noticing the new rapidity to his breath as he gazed down at his hands. Capable hands, but who knows what the other hands are capable of. He realized, then, that despite the inherent risk, it was the inherent curiosity that made Ser Matthew journey to this blasted hill in the first place, and in turn, to begin rounding to its other side, at a trot no less. Any of their voices were heard before his own would be, coming into plain sight, hands on reins, sword in sheath. With a boomstick to greet me, it would seem. He could only stare, watch and listen.

“…Eck…Excuse me… One of us seems to be…lost.”

Assuming he hadn’t already been shot, Matthew sought confirmation of that by looking from one person to the other, then to the sky, then back at one person to the other, then at ‘it’.

“I must say, I share this world with many others, but I never thought I’d see a metal bird up close…”

It was all that and more, made of some silver-white something, and glass. A whole window on wings. If that truly was an inn in the distance, Matthew would have a merry tale to tell.

Edited by Die Shize

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Anthony hadn’t noticed the man on the horse until he was already staring them down, from atop a hil to the side of them. He had an awed look on his face as he looked down, not at Anthony and Ty, but rather, at the glider-turned-car. He could assume that according to the man’s clothing (a lot of leather and steel), his choice of transport (what seemed to be a warhorse), and his weapon (a sword in a sheath), he wasn’t used to gliders.


Anthony gave the man a friendly wave, and patted Ty on the shoulder to tell him to follow suit. The man now looked around in awe, as though he was surprised he even found people coming from the glider. From their point next to the glider, Anthony and Ty smelled something on the breeeze. It had a very spicy aroma, like cinnamon.


I must say, I share this world with many others, but I never thought I’d see a metal bird up close…” the man had said in awe, still staring down at the father and son.


Metal bird..? Oh, he must mean the glider…


This here is no metal bird, my friend,” Anthony said, putting on his nicest voice. “This fine piece of equipment is a glider, a small airplane that-” Anthony taps one of the tires,”-turns into a car.” He smiles and does a friendly little wave, one that says come on down.


Come see for yourself, friend. I’m sure this tech would blow your mind. And I never caught your name; mine is Anthony.


He smiles sweetly, all the while wondering if the man he was inviting to see his glider was the same one who killed that person back there.


Only time would tell.

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“No metal bird”? It had certainly changed its shape since, it was true, but it was as metal of a bird as a bird was ever going to get. “My friend”? That could only have been a good sign. On the other hand, as Matthew sat in his saddle chewing his cinnamon, staring dumbfounded at the trio of trespassers to all but normality in name, he recalled the last few occasions that people had called him ‘friend’, and the smell of their innards as they tumbled out. Trespassing was one thing, but trying to kill one’s supposed friend was quite another.

“As you say. Without a doubt, there are constructs from civilizations that dwarf mine own, and though I’ve heard your terms before, they’re about as useful to me as empty wineskins.”

Matthew slowly twisted the stick in his mouth, more biting down than biting off, chewing thoughts away as he gazed at the oddities before him. The two living ones appeared to be living enough, humanoid enough, human enough, whatever any of that meant, but the ‘metal bird’ was anything but human. At the offer of meeting the metal bird for himself, Matthew could only conceal his excitement, replacing it with a prolonged “hmmmmm” before slowly nodding his head.

“I must admit, your glider-plane-car does tickle the fancy…”

With that, Matthew dismounted his courser, letting the horse amble weight-free as he took two cautious steps forward. He figured that he would trust the two fine fellows for as long as it would take for them to call him ‘friend’ for a second time before stabbing him in his back. Ultimately, the one did have that boomstick, so it wasn’t like Matthew had much of a choice here. I wouldn’t get ten gallops in before that thing blew me off my horse. If he was going to die, then the Cinnamon Knight would die with a hand’s ungloved fingers skimming the surface of the glider-plane-car, a treasure that flew in from the realms beyond. He gave that metal beast the duration of an unblinking gaze, affording himself a sensation to sting his doubts as he began pacing down the length of the technological marvel.

“And to think how quickly the tables would turn and topple over one another if such capability were turned over to Orisia…” As musing of a thought as it is dangerous. “Matthew. Ser Matthew the Merry, though most call me the Cinnamon Knight.” Along with his smell, they would have had an idea as to why as he moved beyond them, so that they would have to turn to watch him and be treated to the two sword hilts and their cinnamon blades that blazoned his shield.

Edited by Die Shize

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Anthony and his son watched as the man with the red hair removed himself from the horse and took tentative steps towards the glider.


I must admit, your glider-plane-car does tickle the fancy…” he said, inspecting the vehicle, feasting upon it with his eyes and hands. Anthony smiled smugly, proud of his little vehicle. At his side, Ty holstered his weapon. Anthony had began to say something, but stopped himself. Did they really need to be so wary of this man?


If he just killed someone, yes, he told himself.


He’s harmless, he rebutted to himself.


And that’s what he stuck by. He walked over to the man, who gave off a mighty scent of cinnamon, and clasped his shoulder with his hand. Friendly gestures never hurt anyone, right?


The man gave his name, Ser Matthew the Merry. Anthony repressed a chuckle. They really were primitive over here. He’d forgotten how so since he’d left.


Well, Matt, what are ya’ over here for? Anything important? Me and Ty here kinda got a little stranded. Our glider ran out of gas.


Anthony takes his son by the arm and guides him over to Ser Matthew, and makes him introduce himself. The boy mutters under his breath, “I’m Ty.”


Hopefully, the man can point them to a gas station, or at least a place for them to sleep. Anthony opened his mouth to ask, but a sudden chill ran over him. By the way Ty shivered next to him, the boy also felt it. It wasn’t a necessarily a cold chill, but more of a chill you feel when someone…

Was watching you.

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The metal was cool to the touch and impeccably smooth, like the finest bottom man would ever find upon woman. Granted, Matthew liked his women warm, not as cold as cadavers, but this beauty before him was a beast in and of itself. He felt his smile come before it came, gazing with hunger as he halted his circle, staring down at the rear of the vehicle. As smooth as a woman’s bottom. In the future, Matthew could see himself trading horse for glider-plane-car in a heartbeat.

“Would love to give this darling a ride and squeeze—“ Matthew was cut off by his own accord as another man’s hand touched him on the shoulder. It didn’t matter what pauldron was upon it—the moment was awkward enough. Trading tracks, the knight defeated his own sentence before it was complete as he listened to his new host.

“Oh I’m just, you know, heading toward that mysterious building yonder.”

Just in case the outsider couldn’t see it, Matthew pointed at the mysterious building yonder. The distance was a little closer now, but only enough to credit the theory that it was indeed a tavern. And not some slaughterhouse where kittens go to die. He held his tongue and continued listening to Anthony, smiling down at the boy, who didn’t seem the least bit interested in knights in cinnamon armor.

“You’ve the name of a warrior, young one. “Tyosh” was a fierce commander within the forces of House Talus. He brought great glory to his liege in its wars with House Maver, its vicious archenemy.” He kept his smile even as he shrugged at his next words. “Both eradicated and obsolete houses, but a fierce commander nonetheless.”

Anthony’s words seemed to come back to Matthew after he finished with the boy, swinging a look over that read puzzlement.

“What kind of fuel, indeed gas, do you expect to find in Orisia?” He pointed to the perhaps-a-tavern again. “You’ll probably find plenty of lumber in that tavern yonder—which does me wonder where the smoke is if it’s a tavern—but probably close to nothing of what you call gas, I’m afraid.”

That revelation seemed to chill both poor souls to the bone. For what it was worth, Matthew took utterly no pleasure in breaking the news to Anthony and Ty that they were probably stuck in Orisia for a good while, and so stuck with Matthew, at least for as long as it would take to reach the perhaps-not-a-tavern-after-all. Which won’t make Matthew very merry at all.


Edited by Die Shize

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The revelation that Orisia didn’t contain gasoline made Anthony frown in frustration. How could they just not have gas anywhere? He hung his head and tsk-tsk’d all the way to the back of the car. Ser Matthew had said something about him going to what seemed to be a building off in the distance. Anthony surmised that it was some type of inn, where they could stay for a while and contact his prima manu, Faina.


Ty and I will accompany you to that… inn?” Anthony said, purposefully keeping his tone ambiguous. He decided to pop the trunk and get the clothes they packed. Once the trunk was open, he started grabbing things and setting them down. Something red caught the corner of Anthony’s eye, and he started towards it. He exhaustedly picked up a heavy bag, set it down, and came face to face with what he had seen.


A jerry can. A bright red container of fucking gasoline.


Anthony pumped a fist in the air and took the can from the trunk. Judging by its weight- or lack thereof- and the way its contents sloshed and jostled, there was maybe enough gas to get them to the inn.


He set the jerry can down and painstakingly put all their bags back. He shut the trunk and walked to the side of the car, jerry can in hand. He unscrewed the cap to the can, opened the gas tank lid, and poured the strong smelling fuel into the tank.


Hey, Matt, I found a splash of gasoline in my trunk. It should be enough to get my car to that inn in the distance. Would you like to ride with us?

Anthony smiled brightly, realizing that he was beginning to enjoy this man’s company; the way he looked at technology with the fascination of a toddler, his strange way of speaking, the cinnamon. He no longer thought of the man as an enemy, although whether trusting this man would be a good idea would be something Anthony would have to figure out.

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Matthew cocked a brow at the man’s manner. “Well, if it is an inn, in the end, yes. Unless you’d prefer waltzing your way up there just the two of you dressed in that.” He watched the outsider move about, busying himself with his strange contraption, doing who knew what beneath the metal flap that he had somehow released. The results came to be the items that were retrieved being spread out. Matthew stood with his arms crossed, staring quizzically, fighting with the idea to offer to help with the luggage but remembering that it could be carrying some foreign toxin that could travel through fingertips, as well as the gloves since placed back over them. Never trust an outsider, if only because of disease. When the red thing was revealed, he had no idea what to make of it, but Anthony’s enthusiasm showed that it could only have been something useful to an otherwise stranded fellow, whose words made the connection much clearer. Matthew just blinked.

“Ride with you?” He looked from Anthony to the car. “Ride you with you in that? Do I want to—“ He clapped his hands with a smile, pulling the cinnamon stick from his mouth with a lick of his lips. “Why, friend, you might as well ask me if I want two horns of ale or just one!”

Hopefully, Matthew had just matched Anthony’s enthusiasm with his own. He didn’t have a clue what he would do in this ‘car’, but he had a feeling that this was about to become a quite merry adventure. Never mind the people in the is-it-an-inn, the Cinnamon Knight would have a tale to tell across the whole of Orisia. Perhaps he wouldn’t be the first Orisian to ride in a car, but he would be the first among those he knew of. As he looked at this section and the other, that seat and this seat, the only question that bugged him was—

“Where are we going to put the horse?”

Edited by Die Shize

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The… the horse?


Anthony looked over to the warhorse Matt had rode in on. It was extremely large and defintely wouldn’t fit in the glider, at least not in one piece. Anthony scratched his head, confused as to they would do with the horse.


We could eat it,” Anthony jokingly said. “But seriously, we could probably leave the horse here. Let it graze. I’m sure it wouldn’t wander too far. And I think it’s smart enough not to let anyone steal it.


Anthony ducked into the driver’s seat, informing Ty to sit in the back and let Ser Matt sit up front. While they were being situated, Anthony started the car. It started with a smooth purr, and he smiled deeply. He buckled in and adjusted the internals so that it wasn’t so cold.

Well, are we ready?” Anthony asked, putting a hand on the wheel and shifting the car into drive.

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Matthew studied the stranger as though he had just now taken in how strange he truly was. There seemed be a certain truth in the man’s eyes as he spoke of eating horseflesh, and Matthew wasn’t any man unlearnt of certain peoples eating horseflesh, but it nonetheless quaked sanity. It was definitely an opportunity, riding in this car, one that probably wouldn’t back come around to him anytime soon. I’ve been to many places and done many things, but I’ve never been inside a car. It, however, wouldn’t be the first time he’d lost a horse, even twice in a row.

“You’re free, my friend.” Matthew knew they hadn’t been friends long, but he himself was probably the nicest friend the horse had encountered since being enslaved by a drunken bandit. Now a legless bandit rotting as a bandit corpse somewhere behind me. As the Cinnamon Knight beheld the beast of metal, the queer contraption of a world afar, he weighed his options amid the might-be-an-inn being an inn, and in the end having horses tethered to posts. Could always buy another. The legless-bandit-fool had a pouch of silver for all his bloody babbling, after all. Of course, he could always just steal one, too.

“Let’s do this.”

With that, Matthew gathered his belongings and climbed into the car, sitting adjacent from the car’s rider. “How long have you been riding cars?” The knight asked after getting situated, coming to terms with his own arse sitting in the seat of advancement, curiosity plastered all over his face, wonder in his eyes. He was excited to be in the car for the very first time in his life, but even more excited to discover whether the might-be-an-inn might, in fact, be an inn. “That circle-thing your hand’s on, is that like a horse’s reins?” He blinked. “Does it rain where you come from, strange Anthony?”

Edited by Die Shize

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