Locker Room Talk

"There's a mess hall near the barracks," Erica answered before Moira could. "I'll take you there. You too, Dell."

"I believe I will join the soldiers for dinner today," Moira said. "I will see you there, after you wash up, of course."

Moira left without waiting for any acknowledgement of her statement. Her posture was perfect, but her steps were stiff, almost robotic. It seemed off to John, even for Moira, and the grimace Erica was hiding from the Paladin confirmed his suspicions.

"Why is that a bad thing?" John whispered once he was sure Moira was out of earshot.

"Because Moira usually only eats with the rank and file when she's in a bad mood," she replied. "She always says that it's to boost troop morale, and sometimes it really is, but mostly it's because she's mad at her dad."

"Moira has 'good' moods?" John quipped. He earned a gasp from Adelle and a punch in the shoulder from Erica.

"You're going to get yourself into trouble if you keep talking like that," she said. John noted that Erica's comment hadn't been an admonishment or a refusal.

"The thought of someone in the Order insulting their Warden, unbelievable." Adelle recoiled with obvious disgust. "In Germany, you would lose rank for such disrespect, maybe even your sword!"

"Whoa there." John backed up. "It was just a joke. Besides, I'm not in the Order, I'm on contract."

"Even so," Adelle's expression softened but still showed distinct disapproval, "she is the Shield Warden of the Golden Rose! She deserves respect, especially from those she hires."

"Yeaaaah." John scratched his head. With attitudes like this, it was no wonder Moira acted the way she did. "I definitely wouldn't fit in here."

"Just keep your jokes to a minimum and no one is going to report you to Big Brother," Erica said with a pointed glance to Adelle. "Big Sister, in this case."

"Look, for what it's worth, I meant no offense by it," John swallowed his pride and decided to smooth things over. In truth, he thought Adelle was being unreasonably uptight, but it was better to make friends than enemies at this stage of the game. "This whole deal with Wardens and Knights and sacred orders is brand new to me. Until yesterday, Moira was just a schoolmate. Pretty much all I know about her comes from school, and she's always so salty there."

"I understand, a little." Adelle was taken aback. "But why is the Warden covered in salt?"

"It's an expression." Erica rolled her eyes but smiled. "I'll explain on the way, so get up; I'm hungry too."

John laughed. He might be surrounded by sticks in the mud, but at least Erica was there to appreciate his humor. Now that he thought about it, it was an odd feeling. He watched her explain the term to Adelle as they walked. Specifically, guiltily, his eyes followed her ass swaying back and forth. She looked about his age and had already gotten closer to him than any other woman in his life, save Nazrinn. Plus, she was strong, and could give Vanessa a run for her money in a contest of sex appeal.

So why don't I feel so anxious around her?

The journey to the mess hall led John in through one of the manor's rear entrances, down a long hallway, and through a heavy, wooden door to a flight of stone stairs. They passed no one on the way, and John wondered if that represented how empty the manor was all of the time. He didn't recall seeing any servants aside from Reginald and Cornelius during his first visit. Anwyn, the maid from earlier, made three, but surely the maintenance of such a large building required a much larger staff. He mused on how much magic was involved in the day to day upkeep as they descended the stairs, daydreaming of animated mops and floating tableware.

The instant shift from the mostly Elizabethan interior design of the ground level to the absolutely medieval architecture of the basement dragged John back to the present. Gone were the hardwood floors, finely crafted furnishings, and crystalline light pieces. In their place were stone floors and stone walls adorned only by the occasional subdued tapestry and hollows in which sat iron braziers. Upon closer inspection, the fires within produced no smoke; they burned without source. The only thing keeping the hallway from feeling like a veritable dungeon was the fact that it was impeccably clean. No dust or dirt sullied the floors, nor did cobwebs litter the ceiling. Even the damp, musty smell that John had always assumed filled dungeon halls was missing. The air was a bit cooler than upstairs, but every bit as clean and crisp.

"I have to hand it to them, the Brightons really know how to pull off an aesthetic," John said.

"It's not all like this," Erica said. "From what I hear, this was part of the original construction. As far as I know, this is the only sublevel lifted right out of ye olden days."

"Literally, apparently," John sighed.

"Yup."

"I like it," Adelle said. Of the three of them, she was clearly the most relaxed, despite their environment. "I grew up in a castle. It was renovated, but very old. This floor reminds me of home."

"Of course you grew up in a castle." John slapped his forehead. "Why am I surprised?"

"Is that a problem?"

"I know how it looks," Erica laughed, "but the Order is more modern than you think. As much as they love tradition and antiquity, don't assume they're going to bring a knife to a gunfight. We've got firearms designed specifically for Abyssal threats down here, and as much modern, tactical body armor as plate-and-chain, if not more. Speaking of…"

The trio paused at the midpoint of a T-junction. For the first time since entering the undercroft, John could see other people milling about both adjoining passages. He could see only a handful, but the indistinct chatter that echoed down the stone halls suggested that many more were just out of sight. While several were dressed in garb befitting their locale: tunics, doublets, and plain breeches, most wore ordinary, everyday clothes. Passing knights wore T-shirts, jeans, blouses, capris, sneakers, and more, all things John might see around town. The occasional passerby shot a 'Hey' to Erica, but the group was otherwise left alone.

Erica directed them to a pair of archways set across from each other down the right hand bend. John couldn't see in either, thanks to a wall running parallel to each entrance only a few feet in, but wooden signs overhead labeled them as locker rooms. Erica pointed him to the men's room, along the far wall.

"You can clean yourself up in there," she said. "If anyone bugs you, just say you're with me."

"I could do that." John glanced at the entrance and pulled up his menu. He switched out his sparring equipment for his school clothes, minus the blazer, and turned back to Erica with a grin. "Or I could just do that."

"Smartass." Erica glowered at him with obvious mirth. "Go wash up, you still look like you've been gardening with your face. We'll be out in a few minutes."

John gave her a thumbs up and turned to enter the men's locker room. It was an odd mix of old and new. The antique construction had been retrofitted with fluorescent lights, metal lockers, and modern plumbing. Clearly well worn wooden benches ran down four aisles of freshly polished steel lockers where men of all ages changed into or out of their equipment. Unsurprisingly, the heavy scent of male musk overpowered the blend of various deodorants that tried to keep it in check, resulting in a vaguely noxious potpourri. To the Order's credit, the smell was far less pungent than the locker room at Ashcroft.

The lockers led down to what John assumed were showers at the far end, if the steam wafting in from the sides was any indication, and short rows of industrial sinks lined the walls to his immediate right and left. Not even remotely comfortable with the idea of stripping down and showering in front of a group of strangers, John headed for the sinks. Frank and the like had taught John through his school years that the showers were nothing but a place of torment for guys like him, and no amount of righteous piety from the Order would be enough to shake off that lesson any time soon.

"Neat trick," said a voice from John's right. He looked over to see an older man, approaching his fifties, standing at the sink next to his. The man wasn't quite as tall as John, but he was by all means the larger of the two; his muscles were impossible to miss beneath the tight, plain white shirt he wore. His warm smile emphasized the faint lines of age that creased his face, partially hidden by his short but dense gray beard.

"Huh?" John stumbled, as socially graceful as ever. "Oh, my equipment? Yeah, it's pretty handy."

"I'll bet," the man replied. "The name's Christopher. Are you new? I haven't seen you around before."

"I'm on contract as of yesterday," John said after a splash of soapy water. "I just started training with Erica. Uh, Erica Carpenter, that is. Oh, and my name is John, by the way."

"Erica, hmm?" Christopher dried his hands off on the towel around his neck while he gave John a look over. "She'll kick your ass, but she'll do good by you in doing it."

"Yeah," John flexed one of the still sore muscles in his shoulder, "I think I've figured that part out already. So what about you? Have you been with the Order long?"

"Most of my life," Christopher said with a smile. "And hopefully for the rest of it, however long that is."

"So, wait," John said. "Does that mean you knew Moira when she was a little kid?"

"Oh no," Christopher laughed, "you won't be getting any stories about the young Lady Brighton out of me that easily. Not without a few drinks at least."

"I'm only 18." John frowned. Christopher reached into his bag and pulled something out of it before clasping John's shoulder with his other hand.

"There is no drinking age in the Abyss, John," he said. The older man reached down and lifted the younger's arm by the wrist and slapped whatever he had retrieved into John's open palm. "Anyway, take this. Your friends will appreciate it."

"Uh, thanks?" John said before he could check the item in his hands. It was a travel-sized stick of deodorant, unopened. By the time he looked up, Christopher had gathered his things and was set to depart. "I guess I'll see you around?"

"I hope so," Christopher replied. "We could use some young blood around here! Keep your head above the ground, alright?"

"Uh, yeah." John offered his best attempt at copying Christopher's charismatic smile. "You too."

John stood in silent incomprehension as Christopher raised his arm to chest level and held out his fist. After a brief moment of rewiring, John's brain recognized the signal and reciprocated the fistbump as smoothly as possible, which was frankly not very smooth at all. Christopher shot off a wink and set off out the archway, out of sight.

"What a cool dude…"

A quick face scrub and application of fresh deodorant later, John was leaning against the wall outside the men's locker room. Unsurprisingly, his cell signal was thoroughly blocked by layers of stone and earth, cutting him off from the most reliable avenue to alleviate his boredom. For lack of internet access, John spent his time idly throwing Observes at random knights. The results weren't all that interesting, but it kept him from blatantly ogling the sports bras of all of the lady knights around. He used it one last time when a familiar face exited the women's locker room.

-
Adelle Kingston
[Die Zwielichtklinge]
Level 9 Human Landsknecht
Born to an English father and a German mother, Adelle has spent most of her life in Abyssal Germany due to her mother's rank within the Sword branch of the Order of the Golden Rose. As such, she is a prodigy of swordplay who has mastered several styles of combat, but is a little out of touch with mundane society. She is unsure if her recent transfer to the Shield branch is an opportunity or a punishment, but intends to make the most of it.
RP: 23
-

I'm going to need to learn German, aren't I? Still, this is interesting. I didn't know that the Order had branches. I wonder how many there are?

"John? Are you okay?" Adelle asked. She was sans armor and dressed down in a cyan tunic similar to the one she had on earlier. John made a deliberate effort not to take the opportunity to assess his partner's breasts and focused instead on her face. Dampness had sapped the volume from Adelle's freshly braided hair, but tinted it a lovely golden brown in exchange.

"Oh!" John's face relaxed. He realized that he must have been outwardly pensive. "Just lost in thought. Still digesting a lot, you know?"

"That or he was squinting to get a better look at a nice pair of tits." Erica appeared at Adelle's side with an increasingly familiar smirk on her face. Contrary to her apprentice, Erica was dressed in modern casual. She wore blue nylon pants that hugged her legs like a second skin and a plain black t-shirt with the words 'MUSIC ϟ BAND' distended sideways by the fabric stretched tight over her chest. The feathers in her hair were also noticeably absent.

"I- you," John stammered. "Shut up, I'm innocent!"

This time.

"Dude, you are almost as easy to rile up as Moira." Erica laughed. Adelle's only addition to the conversation was a silent blush.

"Yeah, yeah, you're hilarious," John griped. "Now feed me."

"But of course. Right this way, monsieur." Erica bowed and extended her arms to direct John back towards the hallway junction. He allowed himself to be escorted across the intersection and a short ways towards the growing din of dozens of people in conversation. The scent of food reached John before they had even arrived at the doorway. The pungent aroma of roasting meat and fresh bread was enough to have him salivating. It was a far cry from the cafeteria at school, that was for sure.

The mess hall was not the orderly rows of tables and benches John had assumed it to be. Instead, he stood at the threshold of a hall half the size of a football field that glowed with the light of roughly a dozen cartwheel chandeliers and a pair of cooking pits at the far end. Two great wooden tables spanned the entire length of both walls, lined on all sides by tall chairs arranged however haphazardly their occupants desired. The center space was likewise filled with a number of round tables encircled by stools and piled high with food and drink. There was no organization to be had among them; some were shoved together into clusters, others pushed far away for some semblance of privacy, and some packed so tightly that it was impossible not to bump elbows with every move.

Members of the Order filled the room with far more good cheer and boisterous energy than John would have ever expected from a band of righteous warriors out to slay evil and enforce their lofty ideals. The eclectic mix of modern and period garb made the scene all the stranger, as men in baseball t-shirts clinked pewter mugs with women still in armor and surcoats, all feasting on food that looked as good as it smelled. The air was as thick with mirth as it was with warmth. Save for one space, that was…

The midpoint of the lengthy table to John's right was conspicuously empty. A single individual sat at the epicenter of the strange void of people, partially armored in polished plate that reflected the flames of countless candles. Warden Moira Brighton sat and watched her knights dine with an inscrutable expression on her face, all but ignoring her own food.