Esfelt had listened to her story, and thought it was well condensed. He wasn't without a heart, but it was hardly the worst he'd heard. He'd never fought for much other than glory and his life, so he supposed Shy was better than him in that regard. It was meaningful that the boy spilled this, and Esfelt didn't back down from asking usually, because he needed to know the origin of his men's bravery. With this one, though, as from the beginning, Esfelt couldn't know his own motives, which could have dirtied the question a bit. There was sympathy for Shy for that, at least.<br/><br/>Esfelt, her commander, listened to the tart tone about the serious question, and turned to look her in they eye and nodded calmly. He could complicate it for himself, with how he'd brought up fighting, and the grueling training that made him a contraption better suited for laying bodies than their tar-loaded catapults, but Shy had done him a courtesy, so he extended it back. It was accurate enough, after all. He was born to Bredven and Silverum blood, therefor he was riding with the king's confidence to kill the enemy of the lands today. "Yes. Inevitable." He was proud, but there was no pride in his answer. There is little emotions needed when confirming facts.<br/><br/>Their exchange of truths - he had no reason to doubt Shy - did not excuse the boy from hardship by his hand. He thought it was more appropriate actually. While he was impressed by her foresight, it didn't buy her any reprieve from the initial plan. His brows were raised at the maneuver he was treated to, and he wasn't above waving his arm outward and nodding his head so the others would know it was alright to marvel. A few ohhs and huffs was the result. Esfelt only disliked the boy for his own reasons, he didn't think Shy was a bad fit for this campaign.<br/><br/>"Talk to Elmir." he said. There was usually a leader's place in these camps, and he would always make do, but sometimes Elmir had opinions on these things, and sometimes it would be inspiring to see the commander closest to the enemy. It depended on his mood whether he wanted decadence or efficiency. Years ago, when his warring limbs had been weak and his fucking limb had been strong, he'd pit them equally. Lately he could be seen sleeping under the stars by the fence often. Selin hadn't promised him immortality, but with a sword close Esfelt couldn't even imagine his own demise. Sometimes he wondered if he'd get to have some slick in the hereafter if he fell. Better not have the answer, or he'd simply dive onto the next spear he saw.<br/><br/>Esfelt wouldn't have minded some sparring right away, also, but he had to sit down with the schemers to see what was missing in the report he'd been given. He'd never assume recountings that traveled far were solid, and some people here could tell him droves despite not having an education. He needed to knock on tents and look at injuries and make small talk, too. It was labor, but he'd rather base his supposed invincibility on sound groundwork than simply trusting to the gossip about him. The Coldmen didn't care about the Silverum legend.<br/><br/>He had a feel for the enemy a few hours later. His celebrity helped loosen tongues. It was unfair to use interrogation techniques in the small-talk, but he didn't apply the painful tricks. If he left a bag of wine, they were in a good mood when he left. He had to argue with a general with a particularly polisher armor about loot, which soured him. Esfelt didn't need the coin, but the king liked to measure success in metals, and the bright knight pressed his family name - big contributors - on the matter. In the end Esfelt left the tent, wooden sword in hand.<br/><br/>The men were merry when he stepped in, but one of the cheerers was met with the dull of his training weapon. When his friend reacted instinctively, there was a match with fast refills of opponents for the Silverum son. He was having a good time soon. It was in fighting he found freedom from this curse. It had been the reason for it all, to begin. His unfettered arms and his darting muscles. The north was colder, but he'd still just worn a tunic an a leather vest, fast dripping now. Meditation in chaos.<br/><br/>The men were happy to see the fireworks of what they'd heard. He wasn't some monster who disappeared with speed, or could lift a horse by its belly, but no one was able to touch him, either. Sometimes his dodging was lazy, and sometimes he got rid of a running body simply by tripping it out of the ring, but there was an intelligence in his conservation of strength, and a creativity to his viciousness.<br/><br/>Elmir had kept close to the boy by coincidence, tent and horse, and was rolling gauze around his hands when he stood by Shy now, as the men were inspired to train harder by the continued fight among them. He nodded to the circle. "Ser's always in shape if you want to take a swing at him." The boy Shy should have reason enough by now. "Any minute now." He said and pointed just as Esfelt tossed his splintering weapon at the next man. Silverum had confidence in his hands and legs, too. Elmir clapped the boy's shoulder. "Don't trust that his focus will be down, but he gets tired like anyone else."