33rd of Ash, Year 118
"Renfier," Taelian called to the Halamire-Knight.
"Yes, Taelian?" The other man regarded him. His helmet was off, for once; it appeared by all metrics that he had begun to warm to the quiet Silver Elf, often smiling as he spoke to him and beginning to relax among his presence. He was a man perhaps forty years of age -- which for humans, was halfway 'there'. He had chiseled features, a strong jaw and a moderately developed beard, though to Taelian it was a rather impressive one. Siltori did not often grow beards of any length, after all.
His hair color was a light, almost greying brown, comparable to a shade of taupe. His eyes were brown - flat in color - and he sported a fairly rugged complexion, with scars upon his cheeks to boot. He was handsome, though. Young and virginal Taelian -- having encountered a human he did not dislike or feel neutral to for the first time -- found the man's exotic appeal attractive. He was, admittedly, crushing... though he didn't state as much or allow it to affect his behavior. All too greatly, at least.
"What causes one to become a Halamire-Knight?" he asked.
"Causes?" the soldier replied, quirking his brow. "Choice, I suppose, yes? You... go to one of the military academies and enlist. I enlisted right in the heart of Ciseperant, around when Lady Lorraine was only the Montese-Regent. Before her son abdicated to her. It was a very different time, back then."
Taelian's brow also quirked, largely because he wondered why the other man had gone into such an obscure - if brief - tangent. "Okay..." he quietly replied. "But -- what were the circumstances that led you to that decision? I guess it's... perhaps, different, in Sil-Elaine. We join the Ebon Knighthood because we have no other choice. Often... grief, the loss of our most beloved to the Dranoch. There has to be some reason you took your vows?"
"Money. A charming estate in the Hinterland. Two young wives and a husband, all half my age, to fuck as I please. The 'band's an Elfie like you. He is also very dodgy and meek, but loves my--"
"Okay," Taelian violently shook his head. "Got it. Does this have anything to do with why you rescued me, then? Some sort of predilection for young Elves? I'm really not particularly drawn to that idea," he said, half-scowling. His face was mired in a look of disgust; utter protestation. Though it was, if anything, forged.
"Maybe," he grinned. "I'm a Knight-Captain, you know. You would live a good life. Much better than what you got in shit-bog Sil-Elaine."
"...Ah, I'm good," the Elf blushed, waving the other man away. "Besides, I'd be a terrible 'band', as you call it. Half the time I'm drenched in bloodleech-gore. You fancy licking that off?" Taelian teased.
The other man, genuinely, laughed. "You're a coy one, Rannoch. Wait 'til you see my esta--"
He stopped, and gestured for Taelian to halt. "Wait. Over that dune," he spoke lowly, pointing forward, his armored digit leading toward an indiscernible black mound over the sandy hill. From it, a large man burst, the black merely the tattered coat covering his deformed, hunchbacked body. His jaw was twisted and corrupted with fleshy bulbs, his face mired in the filth of Dread Mist corruption.
Taelian grimaced. And so it began.