Baine & Varis - Coda: Klaus Legacy

Baine wanders back into the compound some three days after the business with the dragon, looking like he took a beating and a half. Some of the flowers on his breastplate are gone, he's got an impressive collection of acid burns and bruises visible on his face and arms, but the grin is firmly in place and he doesn't seem bothered by his injuries.
He's got a burlap sack thrown over his shoulder and a spring in his step. Frankie must have recognised his gait and comes tearing out from the stables. Baine sets the sack down in favour of picking up his small, furry child and lets out a low, steady stream of nonsense.

"Have you been a good boy? Of course you have, you're the best boy. Who gave you this scarf huh? Looks good. Looks handsome. Are you a handsome boy, yes you are. Have they been taking good care of you? Huh?"
He breaks off to look around.
"Oi, Varis! You around?"

From the open frontage of the stable block emerges a slight, fair haired figure in thick riding breeches and a loose cotton shirt. She has a coarse brush in one hand and what appears to be a small twist of dried meat in the other. As she emerges, she looks around, clearly searching for something.
“Frankie! Fra-“
Sweet notices Baine, and the slight frown vanishes from her face, replaced with a long suffering amusement.

“Well, that explains it. He’s been in with me making a nuisance of himself all morning. I was wondering what had sent him off in such a rush.”
Sweet tucks the jerky into her breeches pocket and looks Baine over, taking in the acid burns and the bloody sack at his feet.
“So, the great dragon slayer returns. I have to admit I’m a little surprised you made it back in one piece. I’d have put my money on the wyrm.”
She gives a sweet, mocking smile, and flutters her eyelashes, though there seems to be genuine warmth in her demeanour.
“So, what’s in the bag new boy?”

Sweet looks at the bag with a raised eyebrow, then back at Baine.
He hefts Frankie securely in the crook of his arm and grins widely at Sweet, acknowledging and welcoming the sarcasm. A worthy sparring partner.
"Indeed, I have returned from my dangerous mission. Behold! My battle wounds are plenty but I was not defeated."
He makes a big show of carefully sitting down on a nearby bench without hurting himself.
"I can't believe you would bet against me. Have you no faith? You wound me, worse than the wyrm did."
He kicks his feet up on a barrel and leans back against a wall. Nods toward the sack on the ground.
"I brought you back most of the shopping. No organs though. The original dragon was dead, see - most of it was de-com-posed", another word handled with care, "but I grabbed what I could. You should have a good amount scales in there, claws and teeth and whatnot. Have at it."

He shields his eyes with his free hand and squints into the afternoon sun.
"D'you reckon Grits would let me have some ale if I asked him nicely?"

“The dragon was already dead? So what was it that knocked seven shades of shit out of you then? Actually, never mind. You better tell it to the boss. He’s in with Gretcha.”
She nods to the door in the south wall of the training yard, then gestures to the puppy squirming in Baine’s arms, attempting with moderate success to cover his owner in slobber.
“You can leave the furball with me if you like. Probably best not to have any distractions when you’re talking business with the boss. He can be...very focused when he’s working.”
“My dear, darling Sweet.” Baine shakes his head in a mocking, sage fashion, “there’s always a bigger, badder dragon waiting around the corner.”
He stands up and places Frankie in her waiting arms.
“Varis gets intense about work huh? I never would have guessed it.”

He picks up the bag again and saunters away with a lazy salute, looking for their fearless leader.
Sweet shakes her head at his retreating back and reaches into her pocket and retrieves the twist of dried meat, feeding it absently to Frankie as she turns and walks back toward the stables.

Baine knocks on the thick oak door, receiving a brusque acknowledgment from within, and pushes it open to enter the Grandmaster’s private room.
The space is well lit with lanterns hanging from the walls and a tall window in the east wall, un-shuttered to let in the morning sun. A narrow bed is pressed up against the far wall, and aside from a writing desk in the south west corner and a long table covered in maps, there is little else in the way of furnishings. A broad fireplace sits in the middle of the internal wall, above which hang several carefully cleaned and dressed skulls - two large dragon skulls, some kind of huge fiend and what can only be a hydra. Next to the bed is a stand where the Godslayer’s black and red steel plate glints, along with a narrow shield, a feather edged black silk cloak and a great bone-hafted axe.

As Baine enters, the two figures poring over the map table look up. The pale green eyes of the Grandmaster of the Order of the Crimson Fist flash warm recognition as they light upon the young half orc. Straightening, Varis brushes a strand of sandy hair from his face and beckons Baine to join them.

“Sweet was sure that motley crew of yours wouldn’t stand up to a stiff breeze, let alone a wyrmling.”
His eyes twinkle with mischief as he takes in the acid burns on Baine’s neck and shoulders, the damage to the previously ornate breastplate.
“I’m glad to see she was wrong.”

Baine receives this with a small smile and a nod, as the half elf turns to his companion, motioning toward the younger man.
“This is the one I was telling you about - Baine. Baine, this is Gretcha Coldiron, the Order’s Master at Arms. You can call her Red.”
The broad shouldered dwarvan Woman looks as though she could knock nails through granite with her forehead. She frowns.

“He can call me sir.”

Her voice has a deep, rich, timbre to it, and her eyes make a practised appraisal of the newcomer, seeming not to like what they find.
Baine’s confident stride and cocky smile are quickly replaced with hesitance. He seems acutely aware of the fact that he's covered in dust from the road and hasn't had a chance to wash. Stopping awkwardly in the middle of the room, he sets the bag down at his feet as Gretcha turns back to the maps that strew the table. Varis, seemingly unphased, motions again for Baine to join them.

“So, how did you get on?”
He eyes the burlap sack briefly.
“With the dragon and the other matter?”

Baine takes a moment, processing Gretcha and her obvious dismissal of him. He's been on the receiving end of that look a thousand times before; everyone from Aschenwald, from other parts of Faerûn, from the rich folk in Port Ffirst and Daring Heights alike, all of them looking at the too big, too tall, too loud half-orc and finding him to be little more than a nuisance. His eyes go cold and his jaw clenches, his chin tilting up just slightly in defiance. It's a testament to how far he's come from his childhood village that he keeps his mouth shut. He looks back at Varis taking a slow, deep breath before answering.

"We got on well, Sirs."
There is the slightest touch of sarcasm on the honorific. Varis’s eyebrow twitches, but he seems otherwise to ignore it.

"The young dragon was already dead when we reached the cave; it had been killed by an older dragon that decided it liked the look of the hoard and the lair, I reckon. We had some help though, and fought it off. I got a good hit in - right in the jugular. After that it ran away. We gathered what we could, most of the hoard had been moved already, and made out way back to the surface."
And then he very clearly hesitates and looks like there's more to the story.
He looks between Gretcha and Varis and bites his lip before the defiance rises up in him again. He steels himself and continues.

"The help we had were Drow. There was a small settlement of them and they had been run off from their camp by the larger dragon. We worked together for a little bit and clearly, on our way out we couldn't collapse the entrance because they were right there. We would have cut them off. So. We didn't."
He looks both like he's bracing for impact and like he's daring Varis to tell him he made the wrong choice, arms behind his back, chin raised.

From the moment he began speaking, the half elf’s eyes have been locked on him, a slight crease of concentration forming between his brows. As Baine finishes, clasping his hands behind his back, Varis looks down at the map, picking up a small token carved of yellow wood and replacing it with a red one. His eyes range over the collection of maps as he speaks, taking in the information they contain.

“So, Conrad was right. That makes four confirmed entrances. Have someone watch it - Tam, or Kallin perhaps? Watching only, Gretcha - they are to make no moves against the wyrm or the Drow until we’ve had a chance to scout the village, perhaps establish contact with their Matrons.”
He looks up, eyes like green fire meeting Baine’s with an almost physical force.

“You did well. Soldier.” The slightest echo of Baine’s own sarcasm, but no hint of a smile now.
“It would perhaps have been preferable to solve this problem without involving the Dhaer’Quess-“
Gretcha mutters what could be either curse or agreement
“But” Varis continues, looking pointedly at his second in command “I’m not in the habit of questioning the decisions of the man in the field.”
He turns to face Baine, straightening as he does.

“The Order will deal with the Drow encampment. It would be useful to have the names of those you spoke to there, and should you wish to accompany me when I visit them, you have certainly earned that right. However, it will be some time before I’m ready to make any kind of overture to the deep elves. In the meanwhile, I suggest you focus your efforts on tracking down the dragon. A mature wyrm, as you describe, is a proud and devious creature. You have bested it, and driven it from a hoard it deems it’s own. That is not a slight it will forget.”
The smile returns slowly to the half elf’s face.
“It is said you can tell more about a man by his enemies than by his friends. If so, it seems you might be a man worth knowing, Baine Cinderwood.”

He glances down at the bag again, then begins to move toward the door, gesturing for Baine to follow him.
Unseen by the Grandmaster, Baine supresses a flash of relief and pleasure in the praise for a job well done and the lack of reprimand for his decision. He looks like he wants to ask questions but looks at Red and thinks better of it.
“Come, let’s see what we can do with what you have brought us.”

As Varis makes for the door, Baine scrambles to once again pick up the sack, nods a simple "sir" to Red and follows the half-elf out into the yard.
He waits a full second for the door to close behind them before sighing heavily.

"So this is how it's gonna be?" he asks the ground, and Varis back. "Like, I understand you have rank and shit but I follow people who deserve to be followed, people who've earned my respect."
He stops in his tracks and gestures back to the quarters and Red.
"That there seemed personal to me, and if I'm gonna be treated like a shit then I want to do something to deserve it first."
He narrows his eyes, head tilting slightly to the side.
"And what the fuck do you mean you're going to deal with the Drow encampment?"

There is a moment of silence as Varis stops in the middle of the yard, a gentle breeze stirring his sandy blonde hair.
Baine feels a chill at the back of his neck as he realises his mistake a second too late.
Slowly, the half elf turns to face the younger man, eyes like green diamonds drilling into Baine’s skull as he closes the distance between them.

“In short? Yes, this is how it’s going to be. When Sunday first brought you to me, I offered you purpose, the chance to fight for something greater than yourself. It does not come without cost. Sometimes it means doing a thing you do not wish to. Often it means putting aside your pride.”
His tone is level, but the last word carries a staggering weight of condemnation as he gestures toward the door they have just come from.

“That woman is a better soldier than either of us will ever be. Not because she’s stronger, or faster, or smarter, but because she doesn’t give a fuck about glory, about whether she’s remembered or not. She cares about the man to either side of her, and the job at hand. Power, the kind of power you and I have, the kind I spoke of when first we met – that power destroys men. Not because it makes them wicked, but because it makes them proud.”

His eyes are falling stars now, the sunlight in the yard seeming to dim and the air almost to bend around him. Baine thinks back to Sweet’s warning, a pit of ice forming in his stomach. He wants to close his eyes, to look away, but he forces himself to stay. Black eyes meet green and Baine clenches his fists tight to not do anything monumentally stupid. He weathers the storm of Varis's undivided attention and wishes he was back in the cave with the dragon.

“You say you want to be treated as you deserve – you have been. Gretcha doesn’t know you; she hasn’t seen you fight, hasn’t shed blood with you or seen you sacrifice for those around you. Until you show her you’re more than a big mouth and a keen blade, you’re just another fool who might get her friends killed. But earn her respect, prove you’re worth fighting for, and that woman will tear down the nine hells for you. If you are too grand to live on those terms, to earn your keep and the sigil you wear, then there is no place for you here.”

Baine looks tired suddenly, and all caution leaves him in a flood of resignation.
"Do you know how many people I have tried to prove myself to? How many people I have tried to show my worth? My entire life I've tried to prove myself to people and it's been fucking useless ‘cause most people who look at me like Red just did? They don't give a shit. There's nothing I can do to prove myself ‘cause they've already written me off!"
His voice rises and his chest heaves a little but he looks steadily at Varis and makes a visible effort to calm himself down.

"Can you promise she'll give me a fair chance to show my worth? That's all I ask. I'm the only half orc around here from what I can see," he throws his arms wide and gestures to the compound around them, "and I don't know what that means for me."
He looks at Varis and there's a grief in his eyes, and rare vulnerability on his face.
"I really like it here. I like Sweet. I like Grits. I like you. None of you have made me feel like Red just did in there. And I can take it, I promise I can, if I know that it's not because of what I am."

Varis lets out a breath, and the air in the yard seems to settle, the sun brightening as though emerging from behind a cloud. Looking at the hard-packed earth of the training yard, he nods slowly, a sliver of sadness creeping into his voice.
“I am aware this may sound hollow Baine, but I have been where you are now. I was raised in a place not unlike this.”

He looks around, taking in the high stone walls, the ringing of hammer on steel from the forge and the sounds of horses being groomed in the stables.
“Older, yes; larger, certainly; richer” he gives a wry smile “but not unlike this. When I left, I lost the only home I had ever know, lost not only my sister and my mother, but the family that place had been for me. In desperation I sought my father’s people in the High Forest. But the Or’Quessir can be a prickly people. Distrustful of strangers, cold and haughty, especially when it comes to an A’Tel’Quessir like me. I was a child of two worlds, and welcome in none. I know what it is to be untethered in this life, adrift.”

His eyes meet Baine’s once more, and this time they are filled with a kind of quiet intensity, like the heat of a coal that does not flame, or a deep river current. He holds the younger man’s eye as he gestures to the open door to the forge.
“Gretcha does not hate you anymore than Ben hates the steel he works. He strikes a bar not to punish it, but to test it, to shape it. It is the same with Gretcha. She will not be gentle, but she sure as all hells will be fair. More than that I cannot promise you. But I will say this.”
Varis smiles at the half orc, reaching up to place a hand on Baine’s shoulder.

“You are here because Sunday believed in you, because I saw something in you, but mostly, you are here because you made a choice to be better than you were, to strive for more, to give your life to something greater than yourself. That choice gives you the right to be heard in this place. Use your voice wisely.”
He drops his hand, nodding as he reaches a decision.

“You did well today Baine. You fought with your head as much as you did with your blade. So, let me tell you what it is you fight for. When I say we will deal with the Dhaer’Quess, that is exactly what I mean. If I can resolve it without blood, you have my word that I will. But I will not shy from doing what must be done. Their village sits on a bridge between our world and the world below, what sages call the Underdark. This continent is littered with such crossings, and they make our city vulnerable. The Drow themselves are perhaps the least concerning denizens of that place – when next I travel to Vorsthold, you should accompany me. You will see what terrors that place is besieged by.”
He rubs a hand down his face, suddenly aging a decade, and Baine notices the dark circles under his eyes for the first time.

“But there is more to it than this. Some months ago, I travelled to the world below through a bridge in the Sunset Spine. My companions and I found a servant of Asmodeus commanding undead thralls deep within the tunnels. If the barriers between the Underdark and the Lower Planes are weakening enough to let their denizens pass freely, it will not be long before they spill out into this land. The Drow and the Grey Dwarves would make slaves of our people, the Eye Tyrants would keep them as playthings, the Illithid would devour their minds, but the forces of Hell, of the Abyss? They would consume their very souls. That is why I seek the crossings, the entrances to the world below, why I watch them and seek to close those I can. Am I wrong to do so? To protect my people? Our people?”

Baine nods as he listens to the explanation, looking resigned but agreeing, and a little like he's ashamed.
"No, 'course you're not wrong."
He rubs his face with a hand and sighs. Looks away from Varis and squints into the sunset again.
"I'm sorry. For…doubting your motivations or whatever."

Varis shakes his head firmly.
“No, you are right to question me. Blind obedience is the trait of slaves and animals. Loyalty is what I value, and with it comes the right to understand why we do what we do.”
He eyes the younger man, noticing again the fatigue in his eyes, the wounds he still bears.

“Come, I think I have kept you on your feet long enough. Let’s see what Grits has in store for us this evening. The forge can wait a while longer.”
Turning on his heel, he begins walking toward the mess, bloody burlap hanging from one hand as the sun sinks below the Sunset Spine, and another day in Kantas draws to a close.