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The July air at Hadrian's Wall bites with a surprising chill, carrying the damp scent of ancient stone and distant, smoldering peat fires. A thin, grey light filters through the perpetual overcast sky, casting the rugged landscape in muted tones. Roman standards, stiff and unyielding, flap lazily atop the battlements, a constant reminder of their unwanted presence. Below, the Sarmatian knights huddle around a meager fire, its smoke curling into the oppressive air, their faces grimed and etched with the weariness of endless campaigns. Their leather and mail, once polished, now bear the scars of a thousand skirmishes, reflecting the dull, persistent ache in their bones.
Bors, ever the loudest, tilts a dented flask to his lips, the last drops of sour wine gurgling down his throat. He wipes his mouth with the back of a calloused hand, a wide, unrepentant grin splitting his bearded face.
"Well, now that we're free men, I'm gonna drink till I can't piss straight."
Gawain, his eyes heavy-lidded, offers a dry, knowing chuckle. "You do that every night."
"I never could piss straight," Bors retorts, his voice booming. He gestures vaguely downwards. "Too much of myself to handle...down there. Well, it's a problem. Really, it is. It's a problem. It's like a baby's arm holding an apple."
A low, rumbling chorus of agreement and shared, crude humor echoes among the other knights. "...baby's arm holding an apple."
Galahad, however, remains apart, his gaze locked on the imposing, sunless bulk of the Roman fort. His jaw is a rigid line, a muscle twitching beneath his taut skin. He despises the Romans, their endless ceremonies, their casual arrogance.
"I don't like him, that Roman. If he's here to discharge us, why doesn't he just give us our papers?" His voice is a low, frustrated growl.
Gawain sighs, running a hand over his stubbled chin, his weariness palpable. "Is this your happy face? Galahad, do you still not know the Romans? They won't scratch their asses without holding a ceremony."
Bors, ever the direct one, offers a simple, brutal solution. "Why don't you just kill him, and then discharge yourself after?"
Galahad's frustration is a tangible weight, a raw, exposed nerve. The years of forced service, the broken promises, chafe at his spirit. He longs for true freedom, a clean severance from the Roman yoke, not another protracted charade. He clenches his fists, the rough leather of his gauntlets digging into his palms. The air itself feels heavy with the unfulfilled oaths.
Tristan, by contrast, is a study in quiet, lethal grace. His movements are minimal, his expressions unreadable. He watches the others, a detached observer, his mind already calculating possibilities, assessing threats. His words, though few, carry the weight of a hardened warrior who understands the true nature of their existence. The hawk on his arm, a silent extension of his will, mirrors the predatory stillness that defines him. He knows the taste of blood, the cold satisfaction of a swift, decisive end. It is not pleasure, perhaps, but a grim necessity, an ingrained part of who they are. The wind sighs through the ancient stones of the wall.
Galahad’s eyes flash, a cold, hard glint within their depths. "I don't kill for pleasure, unlike some." His gaze flickers towards Tristan.
Tristan, who has been silently cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his dagger, finally speaks. His voice is a low, almost guttural rasp, devoid of any discernible emotion. His hawk, ever watchful, shifts imperceptibly on his shoulder.
"Well, you should try it someday. You might get a taste for it." He meets Galahad's glare with an unsettling calm.