Vashbav

Background
Born 20 years ago in the land of Dalriada I was out cast from my birth city the moment I came screaming from the womb. My mother had come to the town as a refugee of some war some where else. My mother blamed me for the ridicule we received. And surely it is my fault for I am Half Orc. She was a Bard herself, a woman of great ability with her song and dance. That is how she came to be pregnant with me.

She was hired' by the forces that apposed mankind. Rumor has it she inspired' the troops freely in more then one way. One night, before a raid upon a merchant caravan she laid with the chief of the band. From there supposedly I was conceived. I doubt her story, as I know my mother is subject to lies and deceit rather easily. Although chieftains of those Clans are little more then the strongest male at the time so her words may ring true. Either way I care not really.

I was taught the bardic arts at a young age. Though true to my choatic nature I added a bit more of flavor to it then my human mother. By the age of 8 I was playing the lute as carefully as my human side would allow, and the drums as violently as my orcish might enrage me to. By this age, My mother and I were moving from town to town never really having a place to call my own. It didn't help that my mother was never what you would call friendly' to others outside of her performances.

By the age of 12 I was something of a bully. Other girls, were learning to be little ladies, I was beating the Mod out of their brothers. Some would call me a thief, but never once did I rip the money from their hands. It was always freely given before they ran.

At the age of 14 I grew to my full height at 6 foot I towered over even my mother and caused more people to fear me. It was about this time that my bardic talents developed into a magic. The first spell I ever cast was ghost sounds. Pounding so far on my drums, they seemed to echo after words. It was this time, My mother, who still had not given up her ways as a "muse" for many others took me under her tutelage in the magic arts.

By the time I was 16, I had a rather developed understanding of my craft and profession. Leaving my mother behind I started out on my own trek. As chance would have it I came across the same band that my mother had 16 years prior. It was here that I meet my father. The brute of a man was war ravished, and weary from his life, finding that he sired one off spring he became rejuvenated and blood thirsty again. Never one to turn away his blood, I was taught how to fight. I was a bit of pride to him that I never had felt before and I craved in my life. Learning to fight in battle was a past time I did not want. Rather it pleased him and so I didn't take to it as much as I had my mother's craft but my familiarity with the Orc's Double Axe provided to be an a bonus.

It was during this time the Orcs where waging a war with the tribes of Men. I saw a few battles, serving as inspiration for my Orc side. I gained no prestige during this, nor did I crave any. I was a barbarian, not by class but by acquaintance, that didn't rage in some's eyes and I did not care. I stayed with them for three years. Leaving a the age of 19 when they started to pressure me to find a valid male and line his bed for his pleasure. My father gave me a war horse that was spoils from an attack on a farming community. I spent the next year wandering from place to place trying to find a society that would allow me at least a night of acceptance. Many closed their doors to the Half Orc woman that rode horse back with her drums upon her mount. Less were inclined to listen to my music, but those that did accept me allowed me to earn a few coppers.

Bj joins the Skolkrig
The tall curtain wall wraps around a large yard on the edge of the fjord, enclosing it, and marking it off. Here is the true heart of the War School, this assembly yard large enough for hundreds to gather in at once. The outer wall rises some thirty feet high, thick stone barrier, each one squared, then laid stone upon stone and bound together. As the wall edges to the sea it shifts, rising another few feet, the outer face of it sloping to break high waves that might flood onto the land. A walk lines the upper interior of the wall, space to patrol, space to man the siege weapons mounted up there, and space to fight if need be, the first line for defenders to hold.

Down in the yard itself is where the day to day activities take place. Lining the seaside wall are three sunken and staked off areas. Not deep enough to be called pits, just two feet lower than the rest of the grounds, these are the practice yards, two meant for no more than ten or so at a time, the third meant for larger groups. A small outbuilding is nestled near them, storage for the practice weapons. Built against the opposite wall is a long, low building, made of the same sturdy stone. A small warehouse that melds into a small forge and smithy, and next to that the stables. A taller building melds into the inner wall, barracks for students and soldiers, stone walls and slate roof keeping the quarters proof against the biting winds. A final building has been erected next to the inner gate, obviously a place of worship, a warrior's temple, the lines clean, sharp, and austere.

Snow flurries drift silently down from the pale grey sky. The air is damp and cold, and there is little wind. Vash is currently standing in the training yard with her furs wrapped around her person tightly. A soft frown is on her face as she attempts to just relax a bit. There is a group of men currently working out in the pits. A soft sigh comes to her lips as her shoulders heave.

Bjorand walks through the Main Gate, his cloak pulled tightly around himself. A thick scarf has been wrapped around his face, protecting it from the snow and wind. Walking toward Vashbav, "Greetings," He says, his voice muffled and soft. "Are you the one known as Vashbav?" He asks, turning his face away from a particularly brutal gust of wind.

Vash turns to look at the man and dips her head slowly, “I am Vash Bav the Rose.” her voice states behind the furs “How can I aide you?” She wonders and looks the man over slowly, a frown coming to her face as the chill of the day seems to bite into her harder.

Bjorand clears his throat, bringing mittened hands up to cover his mouth politely, even though it is covered by a scarf. "I am Bjorand Guuteschwart, aspiring swordsman." He says, bowing slightly. "I seek employment, and the opprotunity to hone my abilities. I understand that this," He looks around, "This place does train many in the martial ways. Though I am already a competent swordsman, I humble myself before your institution, in hopes that I might learn techniques and philosophies yet unknown to me." It's hard to tell. but his words are precisely clipped, and almost erudite. Not at all like a normal sword-swinger.

Vash raises an eyebrow and then looks around, “I think we can accommodate you.” she remarks and motions towards the Inner gate.” She turns slowly, and with practiced steps over the frozen ground, the half orc makes her way towards the inner gates. “There should be a fire…” she calls over her shoulder, “So you don’t catch a cold.”

Inner walls here soar up fifteen feet higher than the outer ones, the massive stone blocks placed with incredible precision. A smaller courtyard, perhaps fifty paces by fifty, the area flagged with flat stones, instead of packed earth. A small stable built against the inner wall, a kennel as well, but they seem almost after thoughts. Rising high before the gate is the central keep, it's main entrance offset from the gate, facing towards the seaside wall. The austerity of the castle is a touch broken here, carvings surrounding the keep entrance, worked into the tall door frame. A large room, large enough to be called a great hall for such a castle. Fifty paces on a side, and the ceiling more than four paces high, built of tightly fitted stones. Long tables are laid out in row after row, benches along either side of them, seating enough for hundreds if need be. A wide door opens into a kitchen beyond, glimpsed from in here. The walls are hung with long tapestries, the symbols of Vintermor, of the War School lining them. At the far end is a walk in hearth eight feet tall, and at least two paces deep, space enough to roast an ox or smelt soft metals. The stone around the hearth is the only worked stone in the room, scenes etched into it all the way around. A tower falling, a beheaded dragon laying at its base. A pack of dogs and man fight against a giant, wooly rhino. Dog headed creatures attack a small group. A rapier melts into a dragon's head. Formations are lead against a distant army. A lightning bolt strikes from the heavens. Reminders of the Dragonclaw's years together.

Bjorand follows obediently, unwrapping the scarf from his face, and removing his thick woolen mittens when he has arrived somewhere warm. Rubbing his bare hands together, he smiles to Vashbav, "Thank you for this." He says, his mannerisms and body language speaking volumes about him. His utter politeness, straight-backed uprightness, and educated tone indicate someone of principle, but there is no outward sign of the overwhelming righteousness of a Paladin or Cleric. "I look forward to training."

Vash shrugs, “I am just the caretaker for now, I have not the experience for the leadership of this place. I watch it over while I await for my husband to return to me.” She moves to place a log onto the fire and gives a glance over her shoulder to Bjorand, “I am sure we can train tyou though, You will have to spend time in the pits, and with men not so polite as you.”

Bjorand smiles, taking a seat, folding his hands in his lap. "My skin is thick. I shall weather such conditions as they arise." He smiles. "Like the cold, the attitudes of those around you are something you can only insulate yourself against, for Man has no method to prevent it." He dips his head politely. "I do submit myself to the wisdom of my Teacher, whomever this might be."

Vash Bav nods slowly at this and smiles quietly. “Alright, I will write you a missive to allow you to train with the troups.” She offers quietly and slides down by the fire before warming her hands at the fire. “What type of sword play would you like to learn?” she asks, “Any specific weapon?”

Bjorand reaches over, pulling his cloak from where it drapes over his sword. An absolutely master-crafted broadsword hangs at his side, the signs extreme care evident as it gleams and shines. The leather on the grip is tight and clean, even the sheath polished to a sheen. "I specialize in the hand-and-a-half, yet I am far from a Master in it's use, though fluent in the principles of defense and offense, and the uses therein. I have only a limited amount of experience against users of other blades, so I seek to gain much more experience in that regard." Covering his sword once again, "I am capable with almost every other blade, mace, and polearm as well."

Vash nods slowly, “I shall tell the teachers of this.” She chuckles, “Not many come out this way, What makes you so serious of the use with the sword.” She tilts her head. “so many mean to just…whack everything they can as hard as they can.”

Bjorand nods his head, letting her know he shall answer her. "I believe that the Sword is a tool, like any other. Capable of great deeds; to shape Fate in the same way a Sculptor does carve a great work of stone or marble. Like the Sculptor, the Swordsman may use his tool to create great, wonderful works, or to create works of utter depravity and destruction. I wish to explore this balance, and further develop my Philosophy of the Truest Sword." He explains.

Vash looks him over, “You speak like an Evighet follower.” She comments, “Does he happen to be your patron?”