“However, I suppose some honor is owed to your subordinates for fighting off my swords until my battle with you was over.”
“Grh! Don’t!”
I used my Unseen Hands to unclip his helmet and remove it, baring a rough face befouled by dirt and sweat. His goatee was well maintained, fashioned in the militaristic style favored by western Rhinians. His face was tanned but his unweathered features suggested he was no mere mercenary outfitted beyond his station for the sake of securing his patron’s objective. His hair was well-kept too, and tied into a battle-ready topknot. He wasn’t a rough-and-ready soldier—he was a knight.
He hadn’t observed the etiquette of the battlefield, to my consternation. If you worked for a long time under a noble, you learned their ways. Among these I had learned of a thing called knight’s makeup. When a person’s head was cut off, the blood quickly drained from it, causing it first to blanch, and then in time to turn a sickly shade of brown. Heads were a difficult thing to keep clean on the battlefield, and without salt or beeswax close at hand, they were nigh impossible to preserve.
To perhaps combat this, knights applied a thin layer of makeup to show their respect for their opponent who succeeded in vanquishing them. Not only that, preparing for death had a strange way of firming your resolve not to die. It was an honorable practice, and one that had made my heart flutter when I first learned of it. But...what a shame.
This knight’s virtuous mien, despite being sullied by dirt and sweat, showed no trace of rouge or anything. Whether he had never thought he would die or he didn’t think it was necessary to show respect in the event that he did, it didn’t make me feel good. Even I had managed to put a bit of lipstick on my lips despite the rush. I looked like an awful fool having readied my mind for the possibility of imminent death as I was applying the shade of pink that Margit had picked out for me.
Very well. I’d answer his desire not to die, then.
“What are...”
I used my Unseen Hands to remove the fallen soldiers’ armor while also tying a gag around this knight’s mouth. While making sure it was secure enough to prevent him from biting his own tongue, I tied up his hands and feet. I also tied two ropes together and wrapped it around his abdomen nice and tight, so that he wouldn’t be able to wriggle free if he dislocated his joints. Of course, a simple dagger would render all my effort worthless, so I needed to ensure he had nothing on him. It brought me no pleasure to body check a naked, angry man, but such was the job.
Oh! I needed to remove any rings and necklaces in case they were potential magic tools. There were specific tools that were designed to give you a peaceful death should you realize that an unbearable torture awaited.
This brought me back. In an old campaign of mine, I’d simply tied someone up, but they had ended up committing suicide. All of us PCs fell into chaos wondering what to do with the loss of such a major lead. I could still remember that GM and his evil smile as he said: “Right, you tied him up with rope. That’s all?”
Now then, there were still a few survivors. Most would probably die if they were left as is, but I thought I did a good job leaving them with injuries they could survive if they received treatment.
I wanted to raise a glass to their fealty and fighting spirit, but I didn’t have the time.
A piercing screech that didn’t leave me in total psychic agony indicated that the battle had satisfied the Craving Blade. It seemed pleased with my own satisfaction at subduing the enemy. It didn’t scream at me for not killing our foes; I suspected that this was the fruit of my explanation that a better sword would be able to bring my ability to not kill everything in sight to comparable heights as my talent for slaughter. But it wouldn’t want the average person to see this sword...
I turned around and saw my Fellows and the men of Mottenheim standing with their jaws on the floor.
Etan and Karsten had come back with the men from the group they were evacuating with weapons in hand, unwilling to leave me to die. They were an honest lot, having come despite me saying that I didn’t need their help. The expressions on their faces as they stood in a line told me that although they might not have seen the whole battle, they had seen enough.
I had chosen to reveal my magic, but, ugh, this didn’t feel great. That went doubly for when I had this cursed thing in my hand raising a fuss.
“Uh... Did you guys not hear what I said?” I said.
I laughed awkwardly to try and hide my guilt. Seeing them all stood there pin straight was just so odd that I couldn’t stop myself from laughing...
[Tips] War makeup is a part of knightly culture, and originated from the realization that a claimed head doesn’t look valiant if it is pale or ashen. It also arose from a desire to have one’s head look somewhat presentable when returned to the family of the deceased. Nowadays it is also used to show one’s respect to one’s opponent and treated as a ritual to settle one’s nerves before battle.
When Siegfried was a boy, he viewed the older ten-year-old boys as adults and realized that he too would one day become an adult.
When Siegfried turned ten and took charge of the younger kids in their games (he felt now that he was nothing more than the leader of a pack of unruly kids and wouldn’t flatter himself by saying that he looked after them), he viewed those older kids, even older now, as adults.
When he reached adulthood, he viewed those who had married and had children of their own as adults; he viewed those who had left Illfurth in order to become adventurers as adults as well.
With each stage of life, as he looked at his seniors, Siegfried believed that he would simply wake up one day and be an adult. However, even as the years passed, he felt that nothing had changed. Even after he turned eighteen, or after his first kill, he didn’t feel much different from that snot-nosed five-year-old he’d once been.
Siegfried’s thinking patterns, his hobbies, even his favorite foods hadn’t changed much over the course of his life. He’d been told that he’d develop a taste for ale when he grew up, but it still was far too bitter. He’d once tried a pipe, but felt it was far too harsh to take pleasure in it.
In the end, in Siegfried’s eyes, despite having gotten bigger, he didn’t feel like he’d become an adult yet.
“All right, you lot!” the hero-hopeful shouted. “None of you crap your pants now. Those arrows and projectiles won’t hit us. Believe in our herbalist!”
“Yeah!” came the resounding reply.
A wind blew from behind them. It was strong and gusted toward the enemy, robbing their arrows and stones of their strength. While these projectiles wouldn’t strike through their armor, they would still hurt, so it was still terrifying to stand with your back to them and give a speech.
Siegfried stood in front of a formation of fifteen—filled out slightly by some extra folk who were available. They were like a candle in the wind in the face of the enemy, who were more than double in number.
“Remember this! There may be a wall behind us, but there is none in front! If we don’t stop these bastards, then it’ll be the young’uns and the women who get pelted by the enemy!”
“Yeah!”