Orimyr, Stalwart Lance of Anred Tirchanus

Deep in the heart of the Southern Reach jungle, in the sweltering heat and humidity, a man trained with his shortsword against a dummy. Its many arms were loaded with sandbags or nightsticks or simply wooden fists. Each blow he struck against it caused it to spin and respond, which in turn required another kind of block or counterattack. He proceeded through his form drills smoothly and without conscious thought, then suddenly straightened and stopped. He halted the dummy's spin with one hand before turning and rushing into the jungle. He'd sensed someone cross the surveillance perimeter. They were coming for the temple.
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The scrawny kid sat cross-eyed at the end of the fauchard. It's curved blade menaced a line from the tip of his spotted nose to his hairline, hovering a fraction of an inch from the skin. Cold sweat ran down his face and neck as his eyes refocused on the man holding the other end.
He was solidly built, six feet of pure muscle. He wore a leather kilt and sandals, but no tunic. His skin was a deep mahogany and shone with oil, and a pattern of dull emerald scales ran along his head and trailed down his arms. Though he had no hair like the Naga, his legs were as thick as tree trunks, and seemed to be planted just as firmly on the temple steps. He was turned to one side and held the polearm almost casually with one hand, with the other resting on the handle of a shortsword on his belt.
But it was the eyes that frightened the boy the most. They were the pale green of jade with a vertical pupil, and utterly cold.
"You're trespassing, kid."
His mouth formed words, but no sound came out. The boy became aware from a great ways off in his mind that he was forgetting to breathe.
The muscle-bound guard sighed and lifted his weapon, relaxing. Even if it was a ploy, and the kid was ten times as capable as he appeared, dispatching him wouldn't be an issue from this position. He gave him a few minutes to breathe and calm down. Surprisingly, he didn't run.
"Didn't you hear the stories?"
"Y-y-yes, sir. I d-did, sir!"
"Then what are you doing here?"
"Sir! M-m-my father trained with you sir! That is, he trained with Orimyr, sir. That's who you are, right? Orimyr, The Stalwart Lance?!"
Orimyr turned a more scrutinizing eye to the kid, who had picked himself up and was now straightening out his tunic. He was a Mask of mixed parentage and light coloring. His ashy grey hair was a long mane halfway down his back, tied into an unkempt tail. His long ears pointed down and his black eyes shone with frightened tears. It wasn't a strong resemblance but...
"You're Sik's son."
The boy bowed at the waist, and seemed to regain the rest of his composure. "Yes sir, my name is Murrus. My father spoke very highly of your character and your skill. It has been my dream to learn from you since I was small."
Orimyr cocked an eyebrow and swallowed a joke about how small Murrus still was. He guessed the boy was 15 years of age, at best. A poorly-nourished 15. "Your father should be training you now. He knows everything that I do, anyway."
"He did, sir. He... took ill."
"I see... A shame. He was a good man." He felt the cold sting enter his heart, but shrugged off the pain. Though he knew all his students would die before him, it was rare to hear direct word of it. Sik had been a good friend, but he was far from the first Orimyr had lost. There would be time to mourn later. "You are his eldest?"
"No sir, I had two elder brothers."
Had. He suddenly understood.
"I'm not exactly prepared to receive guests. Your welcoming feast will have to wait until we can go into town and get supplies."
"Does that mean-?" The boy's black eyes sparkled as a grin split his face into a perfect picture of innocence.
"Yes, I'll teach you, Rus. But it's not going to be easy."
"I'll work my hardest, sir!"
"Mother's eyes, stop calling me 'sir'!"
"Yes s-" he choked and slapped both hands over his mouth in horror.
"And let me make the one rule here crystal clear, right now. The temple," he gestured behind himself with a thumb, "is entirely off limits. I maintain it, and guard it, but it's a dangerous place and you're never to enter." He lowered his fauchard toward Murus again, this time at a greater distance so as to not scare the young man to death. "Understand?"
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The boy moved into Arynia's old room. That boded so very well for his development as a warrior. Perhaps that was being unkind to Ary; she had saved his skin more times than he could count. Had Sik chosen Ary's room, or Gwynfor's? His memories seemed jumbled into both places.
Rus seemed like a good kid. Orimyr wanted more details, like about just how far he'd come, and how, but those could wait until the Mask had filled his belly and slept somewhere he felt safe. Who knew how long it had been?
He knew that feeling: the weariness that etched itself into your bones like a tattoo. The quiet anxiety that you may wake up dead, or unable to get another mouthful of food. You learned to run as hard as you could to stay ahead of those feelings, because if they overtook you, you'd drown in them.
No kid should have to suffer it, but all streets were mean to the orphaned or abandoned. Orimyr knew from personal experience it was especially bad for Chimeara. If not for Anred he'd probably have lived his entire life on those streets, eventually killed in a gang war.
Rus would likely sleep through the next day entirely, as the exhaustion finally caught up with him. They'd go into town for more supplies the day after. There was plenty enough rice and smoked meat in the storerooms to feed the two of them til then.
So Orimyr cleaned and oiled his weapons, and began to plan how to build muscle on a boy who survived a plague, traveled a great distance, and hadn't eaten properly in quite some time.
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"That's the match."
Orimyr answered from flat on his back, looking up at metal cap on his friend's quarterstaff. "Indeed it is," he took the hand offered him and got back to his feet. "I'll beat you someday, Tirchanus."
"More like someday you'll stop letting me win."
"I only threw the one match, and it was for a good cause."
The two men shared a smile. They both knew, though it had never been said, that Orimyr had been using their sparring sessions to train Anred, and gave him openings he never would in serious combat. There was no way to tell who was really stronger anymore, but that wasn't the point- despite the former's insistence to the contrary. They headed back to camp, walking toward the campfire and smell of stew.
"Do you ever miss it?"
"Do you ever get tired of asking me that?
"I worry, is all. I did uproot you from your life there, just to follow me around the world."
"That life wasn't worth living all the way through at any rate." The way I see it you replanted me into richer soil.
"I believe all lives are worthwhile," Orimyr turned to look into his friend's face. Those big, dark eyes were gazing up, full of the stars. "Even, maybe especially, the hard ones. It makes the beauty in those lives all the brighter." That's how I feel about our friendship, Red. "Still, I wish I could relieve more of the suffering in this world. There's so much of it..." The philosopher turned and smiled. "Thank you, Ori. For coming with me, and helping to make this world a better place."
I'd follow you anywhere, Red. I'd help you achieve anything.

The hulking guard jerked awake. It had been awhile since he'd had that dream. Quietly, he rose and dressed and walked across to the temple. He cut through it's labyrinthine passages on memory, not really seeing the carvings or paintings. He solved the puzzles without trouble and came into the inner sanctum.
There, carved into the wall, was a great chimerical beast. It towered over whoever stood within the room. It stood on webbed hind feet, but its weight mostly rested on a long, flat tail pressed against the ground. It's back was round and hunched at the shoulders. Broad, flat scales covered it's back and tail, but it's belly was covered in short, coarse-looking fur. It's ears were small, but its slit-eyes seemed almost too large for it's long tapered face. A crown of horns stretched up to the ceiling, merging with the flat stone rather than coming to points.
It stood with it's forelimbs outstretched and its hands upright, as though to hold something. Each hand had five almost-human digits, all capped with a long claw. Orimyr said a silent prayer, as he always did when he saw it, that the fire pits in the palms of the beast's hands would never be lit again.
Then he crossed the room to the corner of an adjacent wall. Here there was an ugly, oily stain that neither he or his companions had ever had the heart to scrub away. It was the shadow of a man- all that remained of him in the Garden. At it's foot was a small incense altar, and Orimyr knelt to light a stick.
In the end, I can't follow you anywhere, Red.