Midnight - Sorrel Darkfire and the next adventure

Some pain never heals. Some scars run too deep. You can search for peace in new lands, in friend’s protection or in lover’s hearts but in the cold dead hours of the night you fight your demons alone.

In the clearing stands a warrior. She is a killer by trade.

She carries the reminders of every blow that cut too deep and every foe that crept inside till she cried out in her anger and her shame: "I am leaving, I am leaving."

But for now, the fighter remains.

--

Sorrel Darkfire was getting restless. She had a long journey ahead. She didn’t know exactly when, or if she would survive it, but she knew she couldn’t make it alone.

She remembered the Eladrin horse master at the House in her third year of training. The slender fey had learned their craft in Zakhara and knew how to turn a horse whilst shooting with deadly accuracy.

“You can't start shooting until you’re attuned. You need to get her used to galloping under your control, not cutting corners at speed, turning to the right in with pressure from your left knee and vice-versa,” they’d said. “You’ll be using three shooting styles - across the mane, over the stirrup and the parthian shot to the rear.”

They’d paused. Sorrel was one of three trainees up on the high pastures where the House kept its light cavalry. She followed the Eladrin’s gaze and saw a detachment of mail clad guards way down in the valley below escorting a heavy-set woman in gleaming plate armour. Each warrior had a long bow slung over their back. The Eladrin snorted.

“In today's parade-grounds and tournaments, over the stirrup is sufficient. It’s a long bow shot. But on the battlefield, you need flexibility. If you can't switch shot, press with the left knee to get the horse to turn quickly, shoot down at a soldier aiming for your mount or up at airborne foes you might as well be on foot.”

Might as well be on foot. The Eladrin’s tone made contempt seem tender.

“Practicing with your horse is a matter of life or death,” they’d turned away from the valley view. “And use a short bow while you train with me.”

They surveyed their pupils.

“Or I will kill you.”

Sorrel wasn’t sure if this was a joke.

---

She was storm born, with a lightning heart and chaos in her bones. The horses knew her somehow and flowed with her rage and fury. When she was mounted it was like a centaur on the battlefield, some link between steed and warrior.

She missed that connection.

And so Sorrel approached Vulmon's Mounts. She walked casually, hiding her urgency, looking as if she was just passing and decided to pop her head in the door.

She caught a glimpse across the stable yard of an old… man? It was hard to tell his species. He was nut brown and gnarled like an ent or a troll.

She stepped around a pile of ordure and felt him spit at her effete ways. Before she could offer a pleasantry he sniffed and turned away, speaking rapidly out of the corner of his mouth so that she had to strain to hear him.

“We darn’t got no jennets or palfreys, you’m wasting your time,” and he turned away.

“Pardon, sir, it’s a warhorse I’m after,” Sorrel’s politeness cut into him like a blade.

He turned.

“You looking for a destrier or a courser?”

A test. 

The House stables did have some destriers, strong enough to carry a fully armoured knight at the charge and bred with aggression and power. If any showed a willingness to fight their trainer they were to be cherished. Such mounts were allies in the heat of battle. Mostly, however, the House preferred coursers - shorter, lighter and swifter. The first horse Sorrel ever rode was a courser from the distant shore that had trained her Eladrin tutor.

“I’m looking for a Zakharan mare,” she met his eyes and saw respect flicker there.

“Zakharan mares are hard to find,” he began.

“You have two over there,” Sorrel pointed. “Tell me about the black one. I haven’t seen its equal in some time.”

“Ah now she’s a fiery, agile thing,” his enthusiasm welled up. “There’s speed and endurance second to none and she has real intelligence. She’ll be a champion in time.”

“In time?”

“She’s not broken,” he spat. “She’s got too much spirit in her.”

Sorrel was already walking towards the mare as the beast tossed and stamped in the flimsy wooden stall. She let her breath find the horses rhythm, matching the in and the out breath as she murmured ancient words in soothing tones.

“This horse should not be in this stall,” she called out. “She is trapped and angry.”

Sorrel clambered slowly around the wooden panels, whispering softly and resting her hand on the heaving sable flank. The horse shivered, tossed its mane but waited.

Sorrel placed her forehead against the mare’s and sang a slow, deep melody – simple notes repeated in cascading cycles. She sang for what seemed like hours, then stepped back and opened the stall’s gate.

Vulmon started forward, alarmed, but the horse stepped placidly out a few steps and waited.

“I’ll take her,” Sorrel

“She’s not for sale,” he growled.

Sorrel cocked her head curiously.

“I’ll breed from her, maybe race her, but she’s mine,” his voice took on a soft lilt. “My midnight child, so wild none can touch her.”

“If I can ride her, can I buy her?” Sorrel pulled gold from her pocket. “I will stable her here, you can sire her as you please, but when I need her I will expect her to come.”

She held out two heavy bags of coins. “Here’s a thousand. All I need is an hour a day with her, every day.”

“A thousand? You’ll be asking me to cut my own throat next. She’s worth ten times that, you lousy grifter,” Vulmon snarled.

“My friend,” Sorrel stared him down. “I have wrestled gith in a flying city, rescued holy men from the depths of Hell, persuaded a god to relinquish ambitions of conquest and borne the darkness of the Shadowfell away from innocent men in the heart of my own poor soul. If it wasn’t for the likes of me, your stables would have burned down many times over and your skin would be nailed to the shields of monstrous warriors as they stamped your bones to dust.”

There was a pause.

“Well, perhaps I could see my way clear to some sort of discount…” Vulmon said eventually.

Sorrel jumped onto Midnight's back.