“Huh,” Clover says in surprise as he glances around the dark stormy forest, but finds no trace of the banshee, “Did we… did we do it?”

Clover isn’t sure exactly what happened or if they did anything at all to make it happen. The banshee was standing in front of them one moment and then gone the next. It was almost well-timed enough for Clover to think the helborne was listening to him, but that’s a rather ridiculous idea.

The knight’s gaze bores into Clover, not that Clover can blame him, he’s aware that he’s rather pretty with his freckles and lilac eyes, but this stare isn’t weighted with interest, this stare is evaluating, not desire but caution.

Clover suddenly feels very exposed, remembering rather suddenly that he’s standing in the middle of nowhere during a thunderstorm, drenched in his underclothes. Quietly he thanks his past self for having the forethought to not completely take everything off, that would have made all of this way more awkward than Clover could handle. At least he doesn’t think the knight is sizing him up to kill him, but Clover has been wrong about a lot of things tonight.

He tries not to fidget as the knight keeps staring. ‘How long is too long?’ he asks himself, ‘I should say something. It’s been like 2 minutes already!!! …Okay more like 30 seconds, but still—!! That’s enough time to mention it right???’

Despite his thoughts, Clover, in fact, does nothing.

It’s as if the human is getting his first real look at Clover and not just the silly bard he rescued. For the thousandth time Clover wishes he could see the man’s eyes and have some sort of clue what he’s thinking, but it’s just darkness behind the helmet. It’s hard to fight down the nagging feeling of being prey (maybe a side effect of the fact Clover full fey form is no bigger than a sparrow), and it’s weird being looked at for so long without him doing anything. Normally he likes the attention, but right now he feels like he’s suddenly been shoved on stage and told to perform in a language he doesn’t speak with zero practice—something that admittedly has happened before, but there was a considerable amount of ale involved for all parties and no one really remembered enough to be embarrassed after the fact.

Clover’s musings are broken as the knight steps closer, sword still gripped in his hand. Clover is unable to suppress his flinch, even though he does his best to cover it up quickly with a strained smile, but he knows the knight saw.

The human is still holding his blessed silver sword at least, meant for helborne not fey, it won’t kill Clover, but it will still hurt. Not to mention the blade is darkened with Hel ash and reflects the light strangely because of its divine enchantment; Clover really does not want to learn what Hel-rot or a divine curse feels like.

The knight pauses, armored boot raised to take another step and fully invade Clover’s space. Clover’s not sure what expression he’s making, probably an unattractive mix of fear, confusion, and exhaustion, but the knight doesn’t immediately try and gut him with his sword, so Clover must look normal enough that the man rethinks murdering him. Instead, the human sighs heavily and backs up, giving the Seelie fey his space.

Lowering his blade, the knight doesn’t bother with Clover anymore and shifts his gaze towards the tree line, scanning for more enemies.

And the first thing the mysterious knight says after all this weirdness and battle is — “You’re a fool, bard.”

“What—!” Clover squawks rounding on the templar, pointing his stick weapon at the human accusingly. “Me?! I just helped you!”

The knight doesn’t even respond to that very true statement, just scans the perimeter once more before fully turning to return to the cave, not once sparing Clover another glance. ‘Guess he must have already looked his fill huh? Should have charged him for it.’

“Hey, come on!” He complains. “You can’t just insult a bard and then walk away!” but the knight continues to do just that, heading for the flickering firelight of their cave shelter.

Clover jogs to catch up, nearly slipping in the mud before re-finding his balance and falling into step behind the knight. They have wondered further than Clover thought, the fire just a small flickering light in the downpour.

“Did we… kill her?” Clover asks, not sure what he wants the answer to be, but he has to ask, “Is that where she went?”

The knight pauses in his step, before shaking his head, “No. It—" the human pauses in both his words and step, grip tightening on his sword, before he continues onward, voice and stride slightly faster, “she became incorporeal.”

Clover’s not sure what that means but he nods, also lowering his stick weapon as he untenses (not that it was really doing him any good). If the knight isn’t on guard, then there’s no point in Clover trying to out act tough. “Are you going to chase her?”

The knight huffs, a sound Clover is starting to think is a mocking chuckle, “No.”

And Clover thinks that’s all he’s going to get out of the tight-lipped human as they arrive back at the cave and shuffle inside, but just as the silence starts to hit the unspoken “this conversation is over” territory, the knight speaks once more, “Not that you have the coin to pay for another contract.”

“Hey!” Clover defends, crossing his arms with a glare, “I never expected to run into any monsters, let alone sellswords out here, okay?! And I gave you everything I had!”

The knight doesn’t so much as even glance over at Clover, which ‘rude’, but Clover lets it slide as he glances out into the dark forest, a more concerning question on his tongue this time, “Will we… be okay with that banshee prowling around?” Cause even though Clover does feel bad for her, he also doesn’t want to end up her dinner.

“She will be stuck unseen and unable to affect Midgard until the next dusk, you are fine.”

Well despite the knight’s flat and semi-mocking tone, the words are reassuring. The human certainly seems to know what he’s talking about, Clover was only able to recognize the helborne on sight because banshees have been a crowd-favorite monster for all kinds of hero’s tales. He honestly wasn’t sure they existed, just a monster of fiction like mermaids (a fact Áine and Nor are always reminding him of whenever they catch him humming the Mermaid’s Heart. It’s not his fault it’s a catchy tune! And it’s also not his fault siren doesn’t sound as nearly as nice as mermaid in the lyrics.)

Ignoring the knight, Clover gets back to wringing out his outfit for the second time this evening, grumbling as he does. At least he now knows what a banshee sounds like, which will definitely help him rework some parts of the Bravery Ballad, that story does not do the awful sound justice and now he has some inspiration about swords in the rain, which is a wonderfully dramatic visual.

Clover also pointedly ignores the niggling thoughts in the back of his brain that are already starting to construct a basic outline for a new song about a woman loved in life but hated in death. He will revisit that idea later when he has the proper tools and time to sit down and do the story justice.

There’s a heavy clank of metal meeting stone and Clover glances over at his unwilling companion (not that Clover really wants to be stuck in a cave with him either). The knight is now sitting by the fire, not bothering to remove his soaking armor, as he digs through his bag for a cloth and begins carefully scrubbing the Hel ash off his silver blade. It’s strangely soothing to watch, even though it’s a slow process, but pieces of the shining blessed silver are beginning to shine through the foul black stain.

The words are already slipping from his mouth before he can think better of it, “What’s with the swords?”

The darkened helmet turns to him, but no words come from the darkness, just a judging stare Clover can feel not see. “I mean,” he clarifies, scrambling for something to say now that the wiggling feeling of being prey has returned. Clover had forgotten just what one of those other swords is. He wants to ask why the knight has a feyer blade, is even more curious about the blessed silver that according to the elaborate stories he hears are soul bound to the templars that use them, but he has a nagging feeling those would be bad things to ask, so he scrambles for a different question instead. “Why do you have three? Wouldn’t one be enough? And even if one’s an extra, why three? Don’t they get in the way?”

The knight leans back a little and to Clover’s surprise slips the other swords off his shoulder and into his lap, where he digs around his bag for a whetstone and another cloth.

“Blessed silver for the helborne,” he says lifting up the still stained blade. “Cursed iron for the fey” Yeah, Clover knows about the iron one, little hard not to know when his senses are in a scrambling panic at a blade stained with the blood of his kin. “And steel,” he finishes lifting the last and most unimpressive of his weapons, yet the man’s voice takes a tighter edge than with the other two. “Steel for… humans.”

Everything goes still for a moment as the words echo.

“Humans?” Clover repeats, mouth moving before his brain, a dark pit suddenly twisting in his stomach. Killing helborne is one thing, killing fey who have been at war with humans for centuries another but— “Do you… kill humans often?”

The man glances up, the darkness inside the helmet offers no answers, but thankfully the human does respond, “If I’m paid enough.”

Clover thinks it’s a joke. He really REALLY hopes it’s a joke. Clover isn’t human, but so far it doesn’t seem like the knight knows that, which means the man might just suddenly get the urge to stab and Clover is the only one here to be stabbed. Still, the bard forces a laugh, rocking on the balls of his feet as he looks away, suddenly far more on guard, “Well I’ll keep that in mind.”

The silence stretches and Clover realizes that he should really be saying something else here. ‘Quick brain!’ he thinks, ‘I’m a bard. You have to have something up there? Anything will do, just say something!’

“You kill a lot of fey?” Clover flinches at the words before they are even fully out of his mouth. ‘Wow,’ he mocks himself in his own thoughts, ‘I was trying to distract him from not wanting to kill me, not remind him I’m a fey! Real subtle Clover, really subtle.’

“I’ve killed a few.”

The ease and flippant nature of the response throws Clover for a loop and once more his own words are free and into the air before he can stop them, “Like a few meaning three or like a few dozen?”

‘Clover just shut the Hel up! Do you want the scary man to kill you? Cause he’s going to kill you!’

The man tilts his sword in the firelight, evaluating the shine. The action causes fragments of red-gold light to go scattering along the wall behind him. For a moment the man paints a haunting picture of an honorable warrior trapped on his quest. Face shadowed by the weight of his duty, just another weapon in a never-ending war. It is mildly inspiring and for a second Clover can feel himself like this human just a little bit—

And then the fearless and annoying knight makes another of those grunting huffs he seems to think are a suitable replacement for words and the image is totally shattered.

“Anyone ever told curiosity killed that cat?” the human asks when he seems to realize he won’t shake Clover with just one of his noises.

Clover tsks and crosses his arms. ““And satisfaction brought it back.” Yes, I know,” he quotes.

This is easier. Clover knows how to play the role of the offended bard. It’s much safer to be fake annoyed than genuinely sacred, “Just answer the question shining armor.”

The knight sighs but does speak, and the answer is far beyond what Clover could have imagined.

“I’ve killed enough to stop counting.”