7/3 Back to the Basics

A soft, coastal breeze blew across Ser Artaghh's face as quietly worked with delicacy on the stretch of fertile soil and land that he called his own, beads of muddy sweat trailing down the leathery, burn scarred flesh of his face as he worked away at the soil hoe in hand, sifting the damp dirt in preparation for a fresh ensemble of seeds as he quietly thought to himself.

A sense of malaise had overtaken the knight since his battle with Ashalle, a feeling that in spite of his determined efforts to improve himself in the face of Dawn's potential doom, he had in some manner failed to achieve the expectations he desired. Even his work towards his 'ultimate attack" had in truth only ended up being punching something really hard, and though the basis for a fine technique lay in the work he had put forth towards it, it was still but a skeleton of anything truly impressive.

Damn his peasant lack of creativity. He would need to do better!
(Artaghh)
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Ser Artaghh would sift idly through the soil as he briefly feel to his knee, lifting a clump of soil held together in an oblong, earthen amalgamation of pseudo-density as he hummed idly to himself, scanning the field for weeds or leftover roots as he parsed his mind for inspiration. Holding the ball of root bound soil within his palm, the knight would glance at it blankly for a time as his one eye hung upon the earthen mound, rolling it over once, twice, three times in his palm as muddy trails began to lurch down his arm.

With a light sigh, the commander would crush the clump of soil within his palm, feeling the now flowing dirt spill out from the sides of his hand as he glanced across the fields of the estate, reopening his palm to the fine, sifted soil hanging in a loose, easily shifted pile within his hand. Earth was incredibly malleable, as easily becoming the hardest of materials as it did the softest. The peasant knight supposed he'd never had time to think upon such things, too busy with the war and bloodshed to ever just smell the roses and farm.

It was nice, he could not deny.
(Artaghh)
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 Godfrey didn't have much to do in Dawn, so he quickly arrived at the fence to watch Artaghh do whatever it was he did on the day to day. He's at his farm now, and Godfrey watches for a few lingering seconds before speaking up. "Hello, sir!" He waves from afar, leaning on the little fence.

His mood had improved from last night, and there's less a focus on the whole fighting ordeal and more on just reading back up on notes he may have missed. This also includes having nice breaks to just say hello to those around. "What'cha doing?" Godfrey points to the dirt.
(Godfrey Vishkar)
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 Ser Artaghh would turn his head to young Godfrey, thoughts turned away from his introspective contemplation as he waved his muddy hand at the young Oscuri, having entirely forgotten that said hand had a bundle of soil within it as the payload of dirt proceeded to spill out upon his plate and cloak in a messy display of mud. Glancing at himself with a deadpan state, the knight commander would proceed to bark out in hearty laughter at his own foolishness as he proceeded to wave once more at Lady Nyphadora.

"Greetings young Godfrey, Lady Nyphadora! I'd like'ta say I was farmin', bu' it seems ma head was more stuck in'ta clouds than anythin'. Been workin' on developin' somethin', bu' I sorta hit a plateau wit' it. Go' a lot'a the groundwork covered, bu' I've lacked the inspiration'ta make it somethin' real special."

The knight would glance at the muddy stains upon his hand and cloak, humming lightly as a node of mild inspiration took root, a light hum emanating from the bald swordsman as he watched the muddy trails trace down his arm as if the roots of a tree overgrown. Perhaps...
(Artaghh)
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 Godfrey doesn't seem to mind that Artaghh was covered in mud. Godfrey -did- live in his house, or at least, the house right by his farm plot. He wasn't too sure on how that worked yet, but Freya had told him it was Artaghh's anyway. Whatever. He shakes his head and sneezes softly, pollen seemingly getting to his nose.

"Wow. When you say groundwork, you really meant it." Godfrey points to the muddy ground below. "The plot looks good, sir! It looks really good!" He starts to climb up on the wooden fence and positions himself in a sit so that he was higher up, a little closer to Artaghh, but not so close he'd soil the plot.

"Hey, sir Artaghh. Do you use the house very much?" Godfrey tilts his head to the side. "Momma and I always use boxes for chairs instead of chairs when we eat. I was thinking we should totally get some chairs." A wide smile accompanies this.
(Godfrey Vishkar)
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 Ser Artaghh would cross his mud coated, burn ridden arms against the black plate of his cuirass as he barked out once more in jolly laughter, Godfrey's very valid commentary on the sparce furnishing of the Vishkar manor in lieu of Artaghh's bacheloresque living conditions a genuinely amusing, if enlightening sentiment as the knight briefly glanced behind himself towards the homestead. It seemed that the man had genuinely not noticed, or perhaps that he was kept so busy that he simply never casually relaxed in his own home.

"Chairs, aye? Well if my great nephew desires places'ta sit, I'd be a certain criminal to nae assent."

The knight would glance down at the soil for a time, eye shifting between his mud stained palm and the stretch of fertile land as he continued to hum to himself in contemplation, rusty gears steadily turning in the commander's mind as a fleeting spark of inspiration trailed before his eyes, just barely out of reach for the knight as he tried aimlessly to grasp at it.

A creative, the swordsman was not.

"I used'ta spend time inside a lo' more when Alastor was alive an' Amelie hadn' left. My ol' post as a guardsman was a' tha' lamp righ' in front'a the manor on the o'er side, prepared'ta receive orders a' any time. I s'pose young Godfrey tha' this place has a lot'a ghosts for me, makes gettin' comfortable nae as easy."

The knight would snap finger guns at his great nephew, banishing the brief grimness of his tone.

"Bu' chairs dunnae have ghosts, or so I'm told. Aye, I can ge' some."
(Artaghh)


As Godfrey departed off on some whimsical adventure, delaying the conversation to a later time, Ser Artaghh's mind return to the soil beneath his knees, grasping a fresh bundle of soil between his hands, glancing upon it with a sense of painful nostalgia. Before he'd walked the path of energy, he'd been a novice earth magi who fought with mud on his skin and fearless peasant grit.

He'd barely understood much back then, brown in shirt and entirely void of knowledge, carefree and exuberant with the stubborn foolishness from his natural element. That of his humble origins in peasantry as a farmer, and how decades later as the commander of the legion he would only seem to take pleasure away from the stresses of command tending his own garden.

He'd resented it then, when it had been scraping a living for nothing. How foolishly arrogant and innocent he'd been to neglect it. He was born on Agartha's soil, and through tilling it he had lived. It to was his to command.

With a curious hum, the commander would begin to gather a bit of mystic energy within his palm, flowing it curiously through the mound of hoisted dirt without any true direction, the soil shaped, compressed, layers of spiritual energy tracing miniaturized mimicries of the ethereal knight's mana circuitry through the soil as he began to shape it idly while compressing it further and further. Storing it as he gazed thoughtfully off towards the distant, lapping coastline of Dawn.

So began Ser Artaghh's quest to invent ghost mud, and make his arm explode.
(Artaghh)