25 Days of Writing – Day 11

Day 11: What does your character do on a daily basis? What is their job? Do they have one? Write a scene from a normal day in your character’s life.

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Trey slipped his brigandine over his head, adding the final layer to his protective armor. The weight and tightness of layers gave him comfort, like a bear-hug that he could wear daily. He contorted his body slightly, to buckle the straps at his rib and waist. This would be easier with the assistance of a squire or one of the ladies, but he felt some pride to be able to prepare himself for battle, if ever needed.

He flipped his tabard, emblazoned with the herald of Herongarde, over his head. After straightening it, he affixed it in place by strapping his sword belt around his waist. His swords lay on the table near the fireplace, where he had left them after carefully polishing and sharpening them the night before. The long sword bore the results of years of wear. This sword was originally forged for his great-grandfather and had been the weapon of Trey’s brother until Rion’s untimely death. Trey ran his fingers across the Herongarde symbols raised upon the hilt and etched into the blade. Then he kissed the blade and slipped his long sword into the scabbard on his left hip. His short sword was given to him the day he earned his Mark. It too bore the symbols of Herongarde. He kissed this blade as well and slipped into the scabbard on his right hip.

He draped his mail coif over his head, and regarded himself momentarily in the polished steel mirror hanging on the wall. Though he was well into adulthood at thirty-three years, he still made faces at himself when he could see his reflection. A momentary smile crossed his face, followed by his usual expression of deep brooding. He stroked his beard in an effort to arrange the hairs in a more pleasant arrangement. Hopeless.

Another day, another patrol. Trey sighed.

He pushed the coif off to hang about his neck on on his shoulders. He would only need it in the case of true battle. But now, he was prepared to perform his daily duty to King and country.

He would ride toward Quilgar to ask the locals if they had observed any suspicious activity. He had found evidence that outriders of Falgarth had been in those woods recently, and it filled him with discomfort. His Majesty did not seem to take Trey’s concerns seriously, and Trey feared this would be the downfall of the King and of Herongarde. On this day, he hoped to find better evidence of the treachery of Falgarth.

His horse was ready when he arrived at the stables. He’d already made his morning rounds: to the King to announce is departure and intentions, to the kitchen for a few day’s supply of food, and to his mother for a farewell. The horse stomped impatiently as Trey filled the saddle bags with his travel necessities. When finally Trey mounted, the horse nearly bolted out the gate, eager to begin another long journey.

The road to Quilgar was empty. This was not surprising for the hour of the day, nor the day of the year. It was mid-Spring, and this morning carried the remembrance of the winter that had just ended. The breath of the horse and of Trey was visible in front of their faces.

As the sun rose higher, the frost burned off the tender new growth and people began to venture out of their homes to begin their day’s errands. Trey met some of these people as they scurried about their business and asked questions of them. Most of the commoners were terrified of him. Not only was he a man of the Mark, but he was Trey, heir to the throne of Herongarde and arguably the best swordsman of the land. Trey was known for his ill temper and quick steel. None wished to ever raise his ire. Questions were answered quickly and reverently and Trey continued on his way.

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