Princess Jern's Centaur Mentor

I

After an extended absence of many months, Princess Jern had at last returned to Malmhule: the northernmost island nation of Snjórland's capital city from where she had initially absconded without the King's leave in pursuit of challenges throughout the country by which she may appraise and improve her martial abilities which she was so passionate of perfecting. As was his natural reaction, her father - King Stål - at once decreed for search parties to be sent out in each direction of the kingdom to retrieve his wayward eldest heir afore she was befallen with serious injury, however, each and every one their efforts was successfully evaded by Jern by varying degrees of narrowness, and the princess had in fact returned to the capital alone and completely of her own free will after growing weary from exhausting the length and breadth of the country of all adventure she could discover, her unheralded homecoming setting off quite the stir by the time she had reach the palace gates that morning.

After her past self had simply handwaved the consequences of her flight as a problem for her future counterpart to face, Jern anticipated the admonishment of a lifetime to be waiting for her upon her readmission into the castle courtyard, though was fully ready to own up to her defiance. She was pleasantly relieved, in that case, when she was instead met with mostly praise from her father - who also remarked how more mature she had looked since when he saw her last on her eighteenth birthday - and an alleviated shedding of tears from her overwrought mother, with the majority of the expected spleen lying with the soldiers who had wasted weeks upon weeks needlessly scouring the nation for her; a grudge which persisted for many years after their eventual recall, yet they could do little about.

As it had turned out, news of Jern's exemplary exploits and the arising welfare had been spreading like wildfire throughout the whole kingdom and reached the royal ears within Malmhule Palace's walls. It was difficult to believe these tales possibly belonging to any other swordswoman who could coincidentally introduce themselves as 'Jern, daughter of Stål' when nearly every report, in spite of the varying distances between their origins, made explicit of the singular attributes ascribed to the handsome young woman who wandered as if from nowhere to achieve these heroic deeds, including that of her height that came close to spanning two whole metres, her brawny constitution, and the cropped hair that seemed to blaze with an uncommon orange colouration atop her pate, not to mention a rambunctious personality proportionate to her bulk that only seemed to be amplified whenever she had enough pints of ale in her.

For the remainder of that day right up until the brink of dawn on the next, Jern and Stål shared drinks by the fireplace in his private study as daughter regaled father with all that she had seen and accomplished during her gap away from Malmhule, consciously omitting mention only of encounters of a privately carnal kind which the healthily unchaste princess had experienced on a fair few occasions (the sensuous details of some which this author has fortunately chronicled elsewhere for posterity's casual perusal), and with her only lament coming at the very end of her discourse, when she proclaimed aloud that her quest had come to a close far more quickly than she would have otherwise liked, and how limited possibilities were for somebody of her ambition on their relatively small and peaceful island nation that lay isolated at the very northernmost verges of the known world, unsubtly dropping the hint at how there would doubtlessly be greater glories to be found on Occassus, the continental mainland, and her desire to explore its myriad of countries, hoping to appeal to the King's sympathies as a former warrior whose career took him abroad in the period prior to his marriage when he was not too much older than herself.

It was a lofty ask in any case, and took a few days consideration before King Stål could give an answer (with most of that time dedicated in conference with the caring but chary Queen), but eventually he acquiesced in Jern's desires at her earliest convenience, though his decision being reached partly knowing the princess would have likely defied him regardless and gained passage to the mainland by some other mode. Stål, however, had three major conditions for Jern to agree to: that she would only spend one year abroad maximum before returning home, she would never involve herself in anything obviously beyond her capabilities, and that she would write a letter at least once a week to keep her family in constant update on her circumstances. Jern, ecstatic and grateful to receive formal blessing, swore on her honour that she would adhere to them all, although knew full well she could not honestly promise one of these things, and would likely be rather slack in upholding the others.

During the interval leading to the day of her departure, Jern made and finalised thorough preparations for her first ever expedition overseas, now having learned the hard way from her previous ad-hoc experiences the detriments of being under-equipped at a journey's onset. It was also during this period that she gained a small sampler of her newfound national fame when admirers from all across the capital and a little bit beyond congregated outside the palace portcullis each day after hearing of her arrival back - whether it be those hoping to gain a glimpse of the redhead to confirm if she was truly as fair of face and fit of figure as hearsay claimed, or wannabe warriors wishing to be taken on as a squire despite most being older and more seasoned than the young woman - and it did not take long before the commoners to start hailing her as 'the Iron Princess' for her affinity for steel and her resilient mettle. All this adulation while still only at the tender(ish) age of eighteen did wonders in inflating Jern's already sizeable ego, leading her to think herself as near-invincible and able to comfortably conquer any trials which life would hurl her way, and in turn, Jern indulged the people's wishes, openly performing her daily exercises in the courtyard for all to freely observe and gain an insight into her aptitude, although not realising that most of the onlookers would not outwardly recognise her as the princess they sought due to her simple, pragmatic haircut and her spurning of wearing restrictive aristocratic garments.

The time of Jern's leaving arrived before long though, and the princess soon found herself standing at the aft of a longship bound for the Occassian country of Noregr, waving farewell to the family, friends and fans who had gathered on the piers of Malmhule Harbour to see her off, and touching down on the continent's coast by that same time the following day, uncertain exactly how long it would be before she saw Snjórland's shores again. Many months more had passed since then, and Jern was now a full year older than the night when she first stole out from the palace walls to start her expedition across Snjórland, although a few months still remained before the one-year term of her continental tour was expired, having grown a little wiser in that period, enough to realise what a proverbial big fish she had been splashing in the little metaphorical pond that was her remote homeland. Jern had set forth with a confident heart, but her optimism would be steadily ground down as the days and weeks in Occasus passed by.

For as popular as Jern had become in Snjórland, nobody she ever met on mainland had heard even so much as a whisper of the Iron Princess before. In fact, there were some to whom the kingdom of Snjórland itself was entirely unknown whenever she was asked of her country of origin, let alone able to point the island out on a map! The thrills and dangers she faced in her native land paled in comparison to those throughout the continent, where several of her foes exceeded even her six-and-a-half foot stature and conflict seemed to be as common as the borders it was typically found along, although this at least meant the princess never found herself short of opportunities for practice and pay as she took up a career as an independent sellsword, seeing as heroes unfortunately did not live on glory alone. And thus did Jern work herself through the length of Occassus, still doing decently well when it came to one-on-one exhibition duels, although often finding herself having to put in more exertion than what was average for her in Snjórland, and doubtlessly would have lost her life in those she was bested in had they been to the death rather than to disarmament.

However, partaking in larger-scale battles was something Jern was entirely unaccustomed with, and although she had spent no small amount of time in her youth in the self-schooling of field tactics, it was a different matter entirely when it came to the application of such intelligence: the princess struggled operating as part of a larger unit, oftentimes charging headlong into conflict without waiting for her comrades to catch up, and disregarding any preplanned strategy she deemed overly complicated (which seemed to be most) in favour of acting on her own gut impulses as she saw fit, leading to injuries suffered by the sides she served (not the least amount of which were on her own person) that could have otherwise been avoided, and it was only by sheerest luck so far that her insubordination had yet to be a direct cause for any allied casualties, that would have doubtlessly led to immediate disciplinary action being taken followed by dishonourable discharge had she been affiliated with a regular army. It was becoming increasingly apparent to Jern that she still had far more to learn about warfare than she had initially conceived, and that it was perhaps time to seek out a suitable trainer to coach her in the gaps of her knowledge.

Jern's treks eventually brought her to the Caligan Peninsula that extended far outwards from the southern edges of Occassus: a country with a climate far more muggy compared to what she was used to even during the balmiest of Snjórland's summers where she found temporary employment with a mercenary company, who not long afterwards were recruited to aid in the protracted siege of a fortress city in the Tallone Region which ended after several gruelling weeks in an anticlimactic victory via the enemy's early surrender just as the princess' excitement was starting to fire up during the final advance once the bulwarks had finally been breached. With the amount of action she saw in disproportion to the length of time she committed to the tedium of the job, Jern was left in dour spirits, although sharing 'celebratory' drinks with her fellow freelancers did help dull her disappointment.

In the two-star tavern where their function was being held, Jern shared her table and engaged in discussion with a dwarf minefighter and a lizardman dracoknight, her grasp on Occassus' lingua franca not quite as fluent as this non-human pair, although it had become a good deal less broken compared to when she first touched down on the mainland, being able to maintain and follow the exchange well enough without having to too often ask the others if they could repeat certain phrases slower. The topics of this tippling trio's talk at first recapitulate the outcome of their recent beleaguerment and their individual opinions there of, which inevitably developed into comparing their coup to past personal triumphs, each slyly trying to one-up one another's boasts over who had prevailed through the greatest perils whilst still attempting to seem externally humble (of which Jern was the least adept of the three at doing).

Their dialogue would eventually switch to a discourse regarding the champions throughout history of whom they respectively venerated, much in the same way how gallery goers would debate their favourite artists, or how theatre fanatics might confer on favourite actors held in high acclaim. The dwarf would briefly summarise the saga of a distant, revered ancestor of theirs whilst the lizardman recited a fable regarding a semi-mythical divine hero central to the oral traditions of their clan. Meanwhile, Jern divulged that her own personal idol was none other than Chiracles Piladius, a widely celebrated Caligan soldier of a more contemporary era compared to the other two examples given who also went by the nom de guerre of 'the Centurion Stallion' in regards to both his position and his heritage: being the first - and thus far only - centaur in his nation's recorded history to ever attain the rank. The Centurion Stallion's genius for combat and strategies had become textbook for every aspiring fighting man or woman in Occassus, so Jern felt no need to delve deep into the context encompassing him, and simply started expressing her admiration for one of his dedication, acumen and valour, how he was a hopeful beacon to his subordinates whose wellbeings he did not disregard for their inferiority in station, and how even the most vile villains he ever contended with could not help but respect the centaur's comportment and adroitness.

The princess made mention of how she diligently read any record of Piladius' campaigns she could get her hands on growing up, and had no shame admitting her attempts in emulating some of the techniques described in the 'Folio of Fighting for Four Legs and Two Arms' - a combat manual of the Centurion's own authorship - despite the disadvantage of herself being a biped. She let slip that she oft fantasised of being by the renowned centaur's side as his second-in-command, before drunkenly grieving over how she wished she could have met the man while he was still alive. Understandably, it came as a bombshell to the young woman not only when the dwarf made mention that Chiracles Piladius still likely very much remained on this mortal plane having merely retired a only few scants years prior to the present from the clerical duties he had been resigned to, but also when the lizardman revealed a rumour that the Stallion Centurion was living in seclusion within an area named Trotatorre Vale located only a couple dozen miles from where they were currently chatting!

Whether there was any truth to the claim or not, Jern concluded then and there that there was no way she could readily pass on the possibility meeting one of her lifelong inspirations in person, and perhaps even persuade him to part with some pointers in how to keep up with the increasingly exigent clashes of mainland Occassus. Surely he would be willing to help out such a big fan! The redhead stepped down from her mercenary service as soon as her latest earnings were received and briskly set out the very next morning on driven feet in the direction of Toratorre Vale, a single night's rest and having a fresh, clear goal in mind seeming to have done wonders in rejuvenating the princess of all her accumulated lethargy, however, this exuberance quickly changed upon her reaching of what she assumed to have been the aforementioned vale, or at least its general region. In her head, Jern had pictured the Vale to have merely been a modestly sized depression nestled between two hillocks, only for her to instead find a long, winding expanse enclosed by large, steep eminences on almost every side, and branched off into numerous byways. Toratorre Vale was a gorgeous, verdant vista largely untarnished by the hand of civilisation, where a wide variety of wild beasts roamed freely through, around and across its countless swards, slopes, groves and brooks, although Jern's wonderment of its natural splendour rapidly diminished after scouting its meandering length for a couple days to no avail in search of any sign of Stallion Centurion's potential habitat, having not come across another sapient soul in all that time who she could even ask general directions from, and all this on top of having to haul everything she owned in the world outside of distant Snjórland on her back in a large, hefty rucksack everywhere she traipsed; from weapons to armour to camping gear to souvenirs and more.

It was during the late afternoon of the third day of her traversal - just as she was considering the entire endeavour to have been a fool's folly and the rumours she was related were merely just that - after having trudged through an especially tricky thicket, she emerged into a rugged plain dotted with boulders and trees, with what seemed to be a solitary man-made structure in the distance which obtained her immediate notice, as this was the first she had seen of the sort since reaching the Vale, and with no others visible in the vicinity as far as she could perceive. Squinting her eyes from where she stood, the building appeared to be a bungalow from first sight, but upon approach, it appeared to be of a size and shape more akin to a stable, yet fashioned like a cottage complete with a front door manufactured from green planks, windows, cob walls painted white, a peaked, thatch roof, and a chimney. The atypical construction was comprised of two distinct, perpendicular sections of equal length which met together at a sharp right angle to form an L-shape if viewed from above, and nestled within the corner it created was a square of cultivated plot that was likely accessed via the rectangular, sliding side door on the further stretch of wall, with a tall, tattered scarecrow standing vigilant in its centre, and its unwalled sides partitioned by a low, gated fence formed of white posts and rails.

Unusual or not, Jern was not the sort to waste time standing about needlessly questioning why things were as they were, and walked straight up to its entrance without delay to make a quick but firm rap against its surface with her knuckles with the intention of asking whoever occupied this remote residence could provide even just a hint of Chiracles Piladius' location, though it was only after she did so that she took note the door's peculiar proportions: being nearly twice as tall her own imposing self, and wide enough for two humans of medium size to easily enter abreast without having to squeeze, and not to mention the doorknob being at an altitude level with her shoulders rather than her midsection. Jern would not be left wondering why this was for too terribly long, for her knocking was answered within the minute it was made, and in that same instant received far more than just a mere hint to the inquiry she was about to put forward.

The possibility that this oversized cottage could have belonged to the Stallion Centurion himself did not once cross Jern's thinking until the entryway was opened, and standing in its frame - and close to filling it completely - was a man; specifically a non-human of demibeast classification whose upper body was otherwise humanoid, but from the waist downwards possessed a large, long and sturdy trunk with short fur of a rich, chestnut colouration and ending with a black, brushy tail, and all supported by four lengthy, powerful legs extending from underneath and each ending in a keratin hoof. In short, he was a centaur! And while most people would have seen only the glare of a grizzled, middle-aged fellow louring down at them, for Jern, she now found herself suddenly face-to-face with a living legend! There were very few people in the world the princess had met whom she had to literally look up to, although there were slightly more who could awe the young woman into silence by presence alone.

Jern recognised the centaur's resemblance to the portraits of Piladius printed in too many chronicles to count, although no small amount of time has passed since those were painted, and even the most skilled artist in the world probably could not fully facsimile all the nuance of his noble details on canvas to convey how it felt for the princess to finally be in his company. His windswept, medium-length hair and full, bristly beard - both the same colour as the coat on his equine core, albeit starting to grey in patches - partially hid his tough, chiselled countenance, and his dark eyes, although wrinkled at the outer sides and slightly sagging from weariness underneath, possessed the unmistakably steely gaze of a veteran. The torso of his humanoid half was covered by a dirty, loose-fitting hemp shirt, although it was still obvious that upper portion was as broad as a barrel to keep in proportion with his lower horse half - which itself was covered to the thighs by a caparison of the same material and colour - though the garment's short sleeves made his arms were fully visible; each thickly covered with dark hairs, and their pronounced brawn indicating he kept regular exercise.