Fantasy A Tale Of Three Houses [Invite Only]

[Brookswho]

Act I
The EbonKeep
September 12, Year 576. Early Morning.
Kristopher Terryn
​

Kristopher leaned back in the shabby wooden chair, which creaked uncomfortably as he did so. Around the cozy stone office in which he sat in, worn shields of past generations decorated the walls. Those shields were used by his ancestors, and the most recent addition stared boldly at him. It was his father's. The metal on the edges of the escutcheon were bashed inward into the oak, making the thing look as if it had been used in a myriad of battles, when in reality, it had only seen a few instances of glory, the most prominent of those being the battle that flattened House Sanders at Norgard. There was also a single window in the room, which allowed for a hushed cool breeze and a muffled crashing of waves on rock. Kristopher always enjoyed the company of background noise when he was lost in thought.

Knock, Knock, KNOCK! He was so lost from the world of the living that he did not hear the commotion of the knocks until now. With a raspy and dry voice, Kristopher interrupted the irksome knocking. "Don't tell me you plan on doing that all morning. Come in, come in."

The door swung open. Standing on the other side was Maester Beric, a man that truly knew how to get tasks dealt with. Kristopher was thankful to have him in his transition to power. His father's death was so unexpected that it would have been nettlesome if the maester had not been there. The Maester strolled up to the immense rectangular desk, and took a seat across from Kristopher. "My lord, tonight is the night in which your father's funeral will occur," sighed the maester. "Most of the guests have already arrived, but we are expecting more to show before the service," he added.

Kristopher lowered his eyes to look at a copy of the letter he sent out two weeks prior. It was sent to all the noblemen, merchants, and wealthy individuals across the region. He started to read it again in his head.

Dark wings, dark words, I am afraid. Our protector, Lord Roderik Terryn, has passed away. The cause of his passing was due to a despicable illness, Jhorhia. On behalf of the new lord, Lord Kristopher Terryn, I hereby invite you to attend the funeral of our late lord. His renown was massive. He was the Bane of Traitors, the Protector of the Peace. His image will stay with all of us who cherished him. After the funeral, we will begin the festivities and commencement of Lord Kristopher's reign. The funeral will take place the night of September 12th within the Ebony Sept, which is located on main street just before you get to the EbonKeep. The festivities will start the morning after. We do hope to see you attend. -Sincerely, Maester Beric.

"My lord?" spoke up the maester, "Is there something on your mind?"

Kristopher raised his eyes so that they were level with Beric's before confessing, "My entire life has consisted of preparing for this role, preparing for my father's last breath, but now that it's finally come, I can't help but feel nothing but uncertainty." He grabbed the parchment and crumbled it.

"That's a good thing, my lord," replied the maester, "it shows that you aren't foolish." The maester reached his hand across the bulky table and took the crumbled parchment from Kristopher's hand. "As for this, those that do not show, will tell us the ones you must worry about," he smirked, "and if they try to contest your rule... well, we all know what your father did to House Sanders." And with that, he set the parchment on fire with one of the ornate candles sitting upon the table.

 

[Elephantom]

FIDORE
Early morn, Ebonkeep
Sept 12, Year 576​

Fidore twisted the nips of his finger, ridden anxious with the tides that bashed against his window, a tempest of both breadth and width. The grim veil of the greyed sky sheathed the lands in darkness — or was it the weather? Fidore knew not, for only a day had passed since his return, and the warmth of his previous abode still tantalized him. With the skies, ominous as it already was, the birds fluttered outside, their raw calls braying with the winds they were so harried by. The sole, few candles still standing within his room, having yet to melt, trembled. The wan light it cast flickered in bursts. The bare tapestry in his room, hanging slack on the wall that lay before the foot of his bed, too, sung in and out of focus. Fidore brought his attention to it, staring. It depicted brother Copsim, and Lord Godin of Ledengold, testing their martial skills against a serpentine creature. At least, Fidore viewed it as such. The tapestry was well faded, and on its way to perennial gloom — little could one make out of it, except for the dread it seemingly oozed.

The youth strung up from his bed, squirmed in his position, and sat down on a nearby chair. The fire attempted a single, ill contrived bleat in response. The throes of the fireplace had long since begun to shrivel, the room cold and damp. The effect melded harshly with the darkness. Fidore noticed it. Yet, sweat dribbled down his back. He scratched his head. Any, he had to do something. His eyes pried the room, stripping it all too subtly. The room didn't give a lot, didn't have any allegiance. Austere, with only the barest glamour, reserved only to preserve the integrity of nobility. Militant furnishings, Fidore recognized. A bed, a chest, a desk, chair, and a mirror. And that tapestry. Fidore perked up, strode across the room. Four paces. Men tended to notice the most minute of details at the oddest of times. Fidore closed the ajar door. The sound echoed through the hallway, reverberated against his head. Quiet days, ominous still. Fidore expected chaos, perhaps even anarchy. They were a prepared lot.

Fidore squinted, in pain or thought, he didn't know. His hands still gripped the knob. Fidore remembered clearly. The messenger hastening away, eyes withered, feet fleeting. How long was he crammed up here? A time quicker than he believed.

What would it entail for me? he thought. Try as he did, Fidore found himself unable to refrain from shaking his head over it. A personal malady — he ofttimes found it difficult to relax. The patriarch supported him with strenuous effort, had seen him like a near kinsman. Though, the man had suffered greatly from the criticism of others, first and foremost being his own extensive family, the patriarch strived to do Fidore good. Fidore's financial status didn't suffer any burdens, true, but its fruition came from the endeavours of the man himself. It was a furtive operation, perhaps even vinegary in nature, for the man could not give Fidore what he most desired, a life in his great keep, under his shadow. The intrigue that came part and parcel with court politics also brought danger, and though Fidore long wished to mingle as a fellow courtier, he knew the risks that belonged to such professions.

Though, the man's luck, despite his keen knowledge of the risks of the world, never strung out as much as he would've liked so. When Fidore came, with true an excuse and sallow news, the man died. Days before, or perhaps, even hours. Fidore cared little, yet he still cared. He knew the lithe unreliability of his luck. Questions, however, seldom didn't come to his mind. Restlessness, as time shoved by and his paranoia grew, became a stalwart companion. True, at hearing the patriarch's death, the first thought that came to his mind was of his own safety. Tears didn't come to him. They rarely came, and oft-repeatedly, only shame did. Shame that stemmed from his apathy, steeped in pathos. Fidore sighed, the breathe quivering as it folded out. His heart beat, more so than when he had heard the news. He wanted to strangle that messenger, he wanted to strangle anyone at all. Care came last, always, though still it came first. He didn't know.

Fidore took a breath, deep, still shaky from the wrath coursing through his head. He backed away from the door, and looked at the mirror. At himself. He was a mess. His skin had paled, from the sudden exposure to frigid temperatures which his skin was unused to, and his cheeks had shrunk, for he was greatly averse to the idea of ship travelling. Or travelling at all. He rubbed his jaws, hands brushing against his long beard. They hurt from an accident, just as he arrived. When had he shaved last?

Fidore shrugged. He smoothed over his disheveled, shoulder-length hair, tying it into a warrior's ponytail. He gave a last attempt at straightening his ill-conceived facial hair. He looked more composed now, if a little less for the dark circles beneath his eyes, and his hollow cheeks. Fidore took off to his chest. A sturdy, bronze-shaded trunk. He opened the latch, and picked for suitable clothes. Among the tussled clothes, lay a rune-engraved sheath, burnished, the flare of its sheen pleading for use. His sword. Neglecting it, he put on his coat, and his belts. It looked modest enough. He looked at his sword again, and brooding, he picked it up. It was a spatha, of the swords of the olden days, uglier than the fancier weapons used in the country now. Abhorrent and dry in appearance, but efficient. He drew it for a moment. Blackened by some sort of queer sorcery, still possessive of its fresh lustre. He put it back, and tugged the sheath on his belt, hiding it partially within his coat. The weight, light however, assured him greatly.

Fidore pried upon his eyes, in its half-squint, and scanned over the room. Nothing notable. He hurried off.


The smell of breads and worldly foods pulsed through the kitchen, accompanied by racks of noises, and the thrill of the morning rush, all of which spurred his need for food further. The cook, and his assistants, rushed to and fro, taking the breads out from the ovens, and preparing the numerous other recipes, their usual zeal unimpeded by the gloom of the weather and the abrupt news. Fidore hustled down the stairs, the light oscillating against his eyes after his time spent in darkness. He followed the smell to its root, and did so til ordinary stone replaced the marble tile — such luxuries, though Fidore viewed it as unnecessary, served only to be claimed by the higher class. Upon entering, Fidore frowned. A bulky man, in half-armour, sat in the centre of the room, upon a table near the cook's workplace. The man talked, his voice booming and further drawing attention to himself, seemingly invested in a one-sided conversation with the irritated cook. It could've only been White, with his jet black hair, ruddy, flush face, and warm smile. Death seemed to only humour the soldier.

“Nice day, eh, Fid?” White said as he spotted Fidore, bread crumbling down his lips. He had come for a quick snack, as evident by the sheepish curl of his lips, that much Fidore could discern. The cook rolled his eyes, before resuming his work.

“Try to respect the dead, White,” Fidore said, grumbling, as he sat down on a chair near one of the tables. Not close to the cook. He didn't care to disturb the easily flustered man.

White got off from his table, upon which he was sitting, and walked over to Fidore. He still held his bread, taking bites off from it every now and then. “Death's just part of a bigger cycle, Fidore, ain't nothing to be so miserable about,” he said, speech muffled and stunted by his relentless munching.

Fidore cursed to himself, mimicking the cook. He pilfered one of the ginger breads from a platter on the table. He liked those.

White raised one of his eyebrows. “Breakfast's coming soon, Fid, you needn't be in haste.”

“I'd rather eat here, White,” Fidore said, biting into his cake. The tender tang, which he was so used to, filled his mouth. Almost nostalgic.

White's lips broke into a lopsided grin. “Practicing humility, eh, Fid? Here I thought you went all kinds of spoiled mixing in with those-” he made a few motions with his hands, exaggerated royal gestures mostly.

Fidore sighed. “Nobles, yes,” he said, finishing for White. Fidore brushed off his crumb-covered hands on his jacket.

“Look, Fidore, saying it serious-like now, there's gonna be a whole lotta tussle these dark days,” White said, “who you going to support now?”

“I don't know.”

“You gotta do what's right.”

Fidore grabbed another one of those ginger cakes. “Coming from a bloodthirsty killer, that sounds near treacherous.”

“Depends on what you think is right, Fid.”

“Kristopher is the lesser of two evils, I see.”

White feigned a motion of surprising, wearing a face of exaggerated shock, hand on chest. “Well, Fid, it can't always be about you, is it?”

“Dark days are coming, White, you can't deny that. It's going to be a bloody feud, and I want to get out of it alive. Skin intact,” said Fidore, between his ginger cake munching. He uncannily resembled White now, he supposed.

“Always been a coward, eh, Fid?”

“Always been the smartest of the bunch.”

White made a mock, grandiose bow, head nigh touching the ground. Fidore cursed again, hastening away, as he brushed the crumbs off on his coat again. His stomach let out a growl. He was still hungry. Fuck.

 

[Brookswho]

EbonBrook
September 12, Year 576. Early Morning.
Nestor Farwyck
​

The streets were crowded to the brim, giving everyone in Nestor's company an itch of claustrophobia. They had been on the road for days, perhaps close to a week, in fact, and they were exhausted. His company contained each member of his direct family, fourteen knights, and fifty-four footmen. They had brought wagons with them to carry supplies, and for some of them to sleep in if they required rest. Also, he knew that his daughters may not have wanted to ride horseback the entire journey, so he allowed them to ride in the front wagon. The wagons were covered with tight elastic fabric, impervious to water in the cases of unfavorable weather. Those covers kept their food dry, and his daughters. As for the rest of them, they marched through mud and storm.

The variety of people they passed on the way were shocking to Nestor. He had not left Farwyck territory for years, and for things to be so different in that time was baffling to him. He was glad to see that there were still kind travelers willing to offer their hands, even if the number of those travelers were slim. As for the number of thieves, bandits, robber knights, and other scum, there seemed to be word of them all around. More-so than there used to be. That troubled Nestor. The transfer of lordship in the region had not occurred for more than thirty years, and the effects of that transfer were yet to be seen.

The clanking of hooves in mud got louder and louder. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Until they were right next to his left side. Glancing over, it was his son, Daniel, who was eager to make this trip and see the wonders of the capital. "Enjoying yourself yet, Daniel?" Nestor questioned sarcastically.

Daniel, who was kind of a mess from the last stretch of the journey, with mud covering his armor all the way up to his thighs, chuckled from his father's question. "How was I supposed to know that there would be a mud pocket in the exact spot I hopped off my horse?" Daniel blurted, "Besides, I really had to go take a piss."

"Looked like you really had to take a shit, instead," roared Nestor's second-born, Hans, who galloped his way up to the two of them.

Nestor couldn't help but smirk. The journey had been rough, but there was no lack of humor along the way. He loved both of his sons, and they kept him both busy and entertained. Daniel, his heir, he had to make sure that boy understood everything. Hans, on the other hand, he had trained excessively in the art of swordsmanship, though that boy was something else. It wasn't just his skill, no, he had the heart of a killer. That scared Nestor more than anything else, but there wasn't much he could do about it. He had already tried to quell Hans's blood-thirst, but to no avail.

With the EbonKeep in sight, and nearing, Nestor decided to lay down his demands for both of his sons, starting with Hans. "Hans, I want to make myself clear," Nestor started, "do not cause any scenes or start any conflicts with your petty--" Nestor twisted in his saddle to face his son. "-- Bullshit." Amused by his own intimidation, Nestor twisted back to his original position.

"Father, I would never-" Hans began, before being interrupted.

"We all know you, Hans, so keep your trap shut and do as I've told you," cautioned Nestor. "Now onto the next one," he announced, twisting to look at his heir. "You are my heir. My unmarried heir. Now, I don't want to hear anything about this 'love takes time to find.' I need you to do your duty, for your house. Now, I could have been the one to arrange a marriage for you to some ugly girl from a wealthy house, but instead, I'm allowing you to do this on your own, son. Prove to me you can arrange a marriage of worth, because I fear difficult times may be coming, and we need a strong alliance." After finishing, Nestor gave his son some room for talk.

"You can count on me, father. I will do my duty..." he hesitated, "...for our house."

Nestor gave his son a thumbs up, and twisted back to the front, horses stomping their way towards the EbonKeep. Grinning, he suggested, "I hear the Lady Lyra is still available, but I also hear she's a difficult one to please. It would certainly be an extremely valuable thing to have House Terryn as a direct ally, but... no pressure, son. I'm sure you'll find a lass that will be beneficial to us."

 

[Segue]

The EbonKeep
September 12, Year 576. Early Morning.
Saela Sanders​

​

The true nobility were still peacefully abed, dreaming of power or partners to be gained in the evening's festivities. It might be a funeral, but only his immediate family were like to truly grieve the death of Lord Roderik Terryn, the Hammer of the North. For the rest it would be a matter of keeping up appearances, depending on the expectation of their superiors and peers. For most of the guests some pro forma expression of sympathies and support would suffice if accompanied by rich enough gifts. For most of the House servants all that could reasonably be expected was drab mourning attire, solemn faces and their dedication to ensuring neither the Terryn family nor their guests need spare a thought for their own needs and comforts.

For Saela the bar was set rather higher; she must be seen to be foremost in mourning the murderer of her family, or else be branded a traitor in her own self. At the same time she was expected to be honest and loyal to the house she served, which meant not trying to deceive them in any particular. Lady Lyra was notably talented at seeing straight through aristocratic intrigues, but as her handmaiden Saela had earnt a degree of leeway and trust. Provided she did her best, Lady Lyra would not expect more from her than she could give.

Saela had been up since two hours before dawn, washed and brushed and in a plain brown gown with only a thin band of patterned grey trim at the hem to show her notional rank. She had supervised her lady's soiled garb going into the washhouse ahead of most others, and secured a fresh set of sheets scented with lavender. She had seen two of Lady Lyra's favourite gowns set out to be aired in an internal courtyard where they would neither be seen by guests nor spattered by mud from horses or coaches. Saela had tried without much success to find someone who would agree to protect the gowns only to be told again and again to "Do it yerself, Sanders!" Finally she had managed to corner one of the newest scullerymaids, Mae, a wide-eyed and undersized girl who could scarce be twelve. With a mixture of threats and promised favor she had managed to convince the girl to keep a close eye on the gowns until she could return to collect them.

She had been by the kitchens and successfully put together a collection of fresh-baked bread, jams and a little sliced fruit for her Lady's morning meal, and now at Lyra's accustomed waking time she returned to her rooms. The dark-haired girl knocked once softly at the chamber door then opened and slipped through the doorway to lay out her breakfast on a serving tray and ornament it with a small posy. She kept her movements quiet, yet would not be entirely surprised if they woke her mistress as they had many times before. Finally she came over to Lyra's bed with a grave expression and the tray in hand and addressed her once any semblance of wakefulness could be seen.

"Good morrow my lady. Did you rest well? I have a light meal to break your fast, if you would care to take it in bed or at your morning table?"

 

[Brookswho]

The EbonKeep
September 12, Year 576. Early Morning.
Lyra Terryn
​

Lyra stepped forward onto the slim stone steps that led out away from her boat. The ocean was roaring around her, the wind blowing rapidly at some points. She did not remember why she had come here, or even where "here" was. It seemed odd to her why she even exited her boat onto the slick rocks in the first place. Why was she even in a boat? Nothing really made sense to her. The blowing wind wasn't even giving her chills, and all she was wearing was her nightgown.

Suddenly, the ocean started to part ways and the stone steps led downwards to some eerie looking stone structure that was covered in barnacles. She followed those steps as if there was no choice in what she was doing. Lower and lower she went, until the watery walls of the ocean stood tall around her. Once she made it to the bottom, the door of the odd structure opened. She continued onward, even though she did not want to.

Once inside the structure, she found a sacrificial stone table in the center of the room. She felt a chill go through her bones like never before. Why was she down here? She was really concerned at this point and was sweating nervously. Out of no where, a voice called out to her, and a wrinkled old woman stepped into the light.

"Why hello, dear. Come back to visit, have you? Is it because you want to join the boy I cut up earlier? He needs a friend anyways." the old lady snickered.

Lyra could not handle herself any longer. She tried to turn back, but the stone door had closed. The old lady approached her, a wand in one hand and a decorated dagger in the other.

"Perhaps it's tim-to take it in bed or at your morning table?"

Lyra lunged forward and grabbed the old lady's wrist to find that it was Saela, her handmaiden. It appeared that everything was just a nightmare. She was in her room the entire time. Lyra slammed her head back onto the pillow and let out a few deep breaths. Her hair was a mess and anyone with even the worst of vision could tell she had a rough night. "Saela..." she managed, "sorry if I frightened you. I haven't been able to sleep well."

Lyra pulled the covers off of herself and stood up to stretch. After doing so, she slipped on her nightgown. "I will eat breakfast at my morning table by the window, thank you, Saela. I also would require your presence while I eat. I have some things to discuss with you about tonight and this week."

 

[Tom-Pen]

EbonBrook
September 12, Year 576. Mid Day
Fiona Stilts​

Fiona was, at last, in EbonBrook. She had dreamt of the great city many times, but no dream of hers had ever been so grand, or large. EbonBrook was massive - both high and wide - built atop the rising cliffs of the river, behind tall stone walls. Upon the walls, and before the gates, soldiers in fine armor stood diligent, guarding what Fiona perceived to be heaven on earth.

Fiona, accompanied by her brother Aron - and twenty of her father's soldiers - rode into the city around mid day.

"Well?" Aron asked as him and his sister came out from bellow the gate and onto the main street.

The city was alive. There were people everywhere, of all sorts, both familiar and strange. Merchants bartering their goods, peasants coming and going, soldiers, nobles, performers, and others still. The buildings were of a more grand architecture than the humble homes of HeartHill. Even the road itself was of a higher quality, it was no simple dirt path, but in fact a stone walkway that kept those who trudged about atop its surface free of dirt and mud. In one place a minstrel played a sweet melody on a lute, while in another place a man in robes stood atop an old crate, speaking loudly to a crowd about the love and anger of the divine gods. Fiona could not understand it all, it was so strange and different from anything she had seen, yet, fantastic for that very reason.

"It's... Wonderful." Fiona said in a whisper, her eyes gleaming with curious amazement. Aron laughed at his sister, then Fiona laughed herself, and then the two laughed together.

As they rode on (headed for the Ebony Sept) Aron told Fiona all he knew about the city, and the people, and what great sights were to come - such as the EbonKeep and the Sept, of which he had seen before.

 

[Segue]

The EbonKeep
September 12, Year 576. Early Morning.
Saela Sanders
​

Her lady tossed and turned in her four-poster bed, the draperies scarcely hiding her restless movement. Mistakenly deciding Lyra was awake Saela's careful approach seemed instead to trigger something in her dream and the tousle-haired maiden lunged out from her bedcoverings to grasp her companion's wrist. Fortunately for the disposition of her lady's breakfast she froze rather than leaping; nevertheless the crockery clinked together in that moment before Lyra recognized her visitor and slumped back into the bed.

"It," Saela swallowed to moisten her dry mouth. "It is no matter my Lady, though I would say that is an understatement." She offered Lyra a small smile of sympathy as she returned to the morning table and set out the plates and cutlery. "Still, it's scarcely a surprise if you are feeling under some strain these days. So much has changed so quickly, and your lord father..." Her voice trailed off and the dark-haired girl pulled back Lyra's chair before moving to the other side of the window embrasure, standing in sunlight. There was a breeze coming in off the river that bore a chill, but also the sound of the waterbirds as they foraged around the tidal flats. "Is there aught I can do to help you rest? I know you said you wished to rise early today, but surely none would blame you for making a late start if the sun's ease would banish your nightmares."

There was a dresser on that side of the room, and once Lyra had disposed herself Saela retrieved something from its top surface and returned to slide the morning table up to her lady's seat. Brush in hand she began to tend to Lyra's hair as she broke her fast, half her attention on her mistress' words. "Of course. I know much of what is planned for tonight, but not what my own role is to be with so many guests here. Please let me know how I should conduct myself thence, and also what remains to be done in the week ahead?" She wasn't aware anything was planned for the week beyond the usual giddy whirl of life in the noble house of Terryn, yet she supposed it was no surprise that the gathering of so many of the realm's nobility would bring about some kind of occasion, if only to mark the changing of the guard and a new lord's ascension. The young Lord Kristopher would be pressed by circumstance to show the kind of Lord he would be to those his House stood over. Mayhap some of that pressure would also extend to Lady Lyra; the foremost lady in the north until her brother wed. "I am, of course, at your service."

 

[Elephantom]

FIDORE
Early morn, Ebonkeep
Sept 12, Year 576​

He stood outside — yet within — the realms of Ebonkeep, staring at the cast-iron gates, the speckled walls, and the half-baked monopoly of flesh at its process. He hadn't the soul to suffer the mockery of his loutish companion, who he knew now roamed through each of the innards and all of the annals of the castle turrets in search of him, and where he had dwelt the previous morning. On that day, he remembered, he had been struck with an odd affinity for the mountains. The high terrains so common here, were an irregular sight back at the eastern lands, where small hills and dunes of the barren wastes ruled the geography. Here, in all its argent glory, the rocks raised high and bore love for the skies. After the morning — stricken with the a malady of cold, and a longing for the heat he was so used to — Fidore hated the mountains.

He hated the miserly manners of White too, but it scarcely gave him a reason to roam away from his abode. What drew him from the warmth, to this sea of freezing knives, again, was the sight, or more crudely, curiosity. Rows of horses and men barged into Ebonkeep's vast stables, dozens of rat-dogs making empty play near them, each burning with vigour in anticipation of the funeral. Not a lot, he could discern, but certainly more than Fidore had ever seen. His gaze took in the rough crackle of the walls, which had borne likely many unique incidents, and the iron gates seemingly spattered against their threshold, with the braying horses trotting by. Hooves danced with ashen mud, flaying them at angles, with odd men driving them. All sorts, most curious with their lacy frills and powdered faces, but he could see they were rich, draped in cloaks with gilded contours, and bearing dyed coats upon their shoulders, a leisure — of vanity — far too expensive for a commoner's hands. They accepted the message, and they carried with them allegiance for the rightful Lord, though Fidore doubted their mourning for the passed Lord had earnest intent, rather than modesty. Behind them, as they approached, rose the bleak lines of the towers, peeking over the horizon's peak, perhaps with even more surety than the mountains themselves. They loomed over the dry whispers of flesh that scuttled on the floors, darkening parts of the earthen bed in mottled shades.

An odd sight, thought Fidore. The world appeared whimsical to him, swirly and not as vast as he would've liked to believe. His head spun, he felt light-headed. He cursed, and scratched his beard half-mindedly. He'd expected to feel wondrous upon having his most wanton wish fulfilled. Had hoped to. But, scanning the place, he happened upon only emptiness, tinged with disappointment. Fidore took a breath, letting his eyes fall down on the ground. He leaned on the gossamer rails that separated the veranda from the short expanse of height. Fidore remembered the place not as it looked like today, but as befitting his youthful wishes. He uttered naught, his state resuming its banality.

“From the eastern lands, good sir? You're quite far-off.”

Fidore turned around to face the speaker. Woe to him. Blood tarnish my reputation, why as I was so clumsy to let my guard fall! The notion disturbed Fidore, who, though fazed, looked up wholly to examine the man. He was gangly, his head a few inches from clipping the doorframe, his cloak hanging sagging upon his shoulders. His pants hung like bags, held on his waist by a belt and a copper-green buckle, with two leather boots jutting out awkwardly. His skin lugged with itself a sallow palor, suited to the frigid lands, and meshing well with the other blue-bloods of the keep — as far as he had encountered. It contrasted against his dark short-coat, left open at the top to reveal a lavender pink silk tunic. For all the simplicity, the attire shrieked for attention — and made the man look far too thin than he was so. His hair swayed from his scalp by a good hand-span and a half, slicked away from his large forehead so as to reveal a reclining hairline. A pair of eyeglasses, held not too firmly by a wire frame, tipped on the edge of his nose. Scholarly pursuits, Fidore figured.

His cognition kicked in. Fidore, startled, replied with haste. “How do you know?”

“Well, you've a dusky shade, I've noticed,” the stranger lifted an index finger towards his right hand, “gloves don't cover all, I'm afraid. Fine thing you left from that abysmal country, though, good sir. I don't advocate conflict all that much by myself.”

“That wasn't the intent,” Fidore said. He knew he lied, for the war happened to be part of his reason in his escape. His tone came out a bit more icy than he had meant it to be. The stranger's lips still held its ghost of a smile, unhindered by Fidore's animosity.

“I assume you've, furthermore, been sick lately, and mayhap despise this land of ours,” continued the stranger, seemingly ignoring Fidore's statement.

Fidore raised an eyebrow.

“Well, you're skin, dark as it is, has paled quite a bit, and you look, frankly, emaciated, and you're suffering from a bout of cold sweat,” the stranger smiled, pausing, “not too good a malady for a fresh man.”

Fidore simply shrugged his shoulders. The stranger ignored it too.

“Enough of that, good sir, I believe I owe you my name. Remux, historian and scholar, and the provider of paper in this hold — as rare a thing as it can be. And also tutor to most children, sadly.”

Remux shoved forward his hands. Fidore gripped them. Freezing cold, and he could feel the bones. He shook hands, before putting it away soon. Fidore squinted at the man. Unnerving. Remux edged behind, perhaps pretending not to notice Fidore's discomfort, beaming glaringly and mock-fixing his coat. “In short, most people know me as Rem. You?”

“Fidore, guest.”

“Ah, the quiet type. Contrary to the livery we've got here,” Rem's eyes wavered off to the keep's courtyard, “what brings you to this sallow country?”

“Ill fortune,” Fidore gestured towards the view initially provided to him only, “which, as you can see, a lot have attended.”

“Not with so much dismay, no. A relative, are you? Or perhaps, connected to one of the families under Ebonbrook?”

“The former Terryn was my uncle,” said Fidore. He made care to let a bit of steel seep into his words. A good act.

“Well, a pleasure to meet you, sir, uh-”

“Fidore.”

“Pardon my misconduct, good man. On bright terms, I bid you good luck. I believe you're going to be around for a while, no?”

“Rightly so.”

Rem trotted off quickly, shoulders brushing hardly against door's sides. “Well, good luck and all, I would've chatted more-” he gave a yelp as his left shoulder clipped against the hardwood frame, though his respite did little to break his continuity, “had it not been for urgent business. Mayhap we'll meet again. Do give me a call if you need papers. I stay ar-” His voice trailed off into the distance.

Fidore went back to his quarter-hearted staring. “And, here they call me an unclean outcast, by the pits of hell,” he muttered to himself. He scratched his beard again. He was a magnet for all kinds of the weird, he supposed.


After three minutes of vague staring, Fidore began to realize his time had thinned. Though the veranda had begun to grow upon him — it offered a good view, and its build spoke of artisanal craft and elegance — he still held the cold disposition of a man unwilling to get attached. Even to a building, man-made materials as they happened to be. Such was his woe, however he loathed to admit it.

Fidore walked down the short flight of stairs that led to the main atrium, where the air had drowned to a stand-still amongst the isolation. Much to the surprise of Fidore himself. In spite of the number of visitors, Fidore suspected that the coming-and-going of the nobles, and peasants too, was much more a recent event than he thought so earlier. The fact did scarce little to mollify him.

Interconnected with the entrance, the atrium burst off into several parts. The simpler definitions — though littler hallways, and rooms, interspersed the keep — being the east and west wings, with the proper court on the highest part of the keep, lobbed upon a second floor and a third and many others, with a few underneath the ground. By what devilish sorcery they achieved this subterranean curiosity, Fidore didn't know, though he had read such tales — of caves, and caverns reformed into dungeons and habitats. Mostly by those who claimed to be djinn-blooded, with their furious tests of intelligence.

By the few windows across the atrium's sides — spans of tinted glass splitting the draught asunder — sunlight dribbled off into the floors. It deviated starkly from the deep shadows that flanked the pillars, and which towered around the atrium, given the burden of the keep's vast roof, which held the second floor. Each were a man's height in width, adorned with simple, romanic embellishments. Slants and such garnished the pillars, stalwart leaves embossed with great care on the topmost parts. Fidore bristled over the marble tiles, dark and skewbald, with black and shades of maroon ochre. They covered the entirety of the frontal atrium in a gossamer sheen. The youth saw no need in such extravagance, yet it looked stunning to a foreigner such as him — yet, he couldn't appreciate it to its fullest, for his mind remained glum.

The day appeared sordid, indeed.

 

[Brookswho]

The EbonKeep
September 12, Year 576. Early Morning.
Lyra Terryn
​

Lyra took her seat by the window as soon as Saela pulled it out. She listened to the young girl's words, which ended somewhat abruptly at the mention of Lyra's father. Lyra knew Saela must have hated Roderik for destroying her house, so some satisfaction must have been felt at his sudden departure from the land of the living. She couldn't blame the girl. Lyra would hate the guts of any man who killed her entire family, even if it was family she never knew. Hell, Lyra may have even tried to slit the throat of a man if he put her in a situation similar to Saela's, living a life of humiliation. All things considered, Saela was good at hiding her intentions and emotions, which impressed Lyra. It was one of the reasons she came to liking the girl.

"Thanks, Saela," Lyra started, "but I should really go ahead and get prepared for tonight." Lyra began to eat her breakfast, which contained bread and cheese with a small slab of ham. Every few moments, she would wash it down with water. The brushing of her hair while she ate was relaxing. "As you know, my brother has taken the seat of power. He plans to host games and feasts for the entire week after the funeral tonight, so things are going to be quite chaotic around the keep. I expect plots to arise in every crevice of this damned place."

Lyra finished eating her meal in minutes, and swallowed down the rest of her water before continuing. "If all the invitees attend the funeral, we can expect around 160 guests of significance. And that's excluding whomever they bring with them. Only those invited and their immediate family will be able to enter the sept, though. Now, Saela, we're talking about a lot of people with power and influence that will be here tonight. They all know of my father's achievements and are like to... make hurtful expressions towards your house. They may even take jabs at you. I need you to ignore them. You will be required to show some of our guests to their seats, and please do be courteous with them. You will have help from some of the other servants, of course."

Lyra looked out the window to her side and let the breeze tickle her face. "Saela, you must feel satisfied that the man who destroyed your house has finally passed. But, even with his passing, your house will not recover from a fall so steep. Do not worry, just don't show any satisfaction at the funeral or to anyone, in that matter. But if you have something to say, let it out now."

Lyra clasped her hands together and looked forward before resuming. "There will be a feast tomorrow night and Kristopher expects you to pour wine for our 'honored' guests."

 

[Elephantom]

JEAN
Midnight, Crown Palace
Feb 2, Year 574​

“You must understand, no, Jean?” said Corvus, pausing. The prince let out a sigh

Jean turned, wincing inwardly, and faced the prince. The wind howled outside, reeling, thrusting, with gusto — it rang through the hollow halls of the castle, everyone having long gone to sleep. The patter of the rain came in groups of deafening babel, water crashing upon water on the pavements and the rooftop botanical gardens, uttering fractions of monotonous madness. The botanical gardens, Jean mused; he figured it out simply through the rustle of leaves and branches that emanated from the lower rooftops that the tower, Corvus' room situated within, oversaw. He swore he heard a pot's demise cry out from the disfiguring rain.

Whether it did occur, or not, it still grated against Jean's ears. And, coupled with Corvus' quixotic tone, it tested the ends of his patience. “I must be boring you with my sorrow, no?” said Corvus.

Jean frowned. His grip on the sides of his coat, deliberately kept open, tightened. “Absolutely not, your highness,” he said as he shifted his gaze from his friend. The room did fit the prince, but remained a subject of mockery and ridicule within the court. None dared to confront the prince about it — his disdain for the luxuries of royalty went unabashed. Avarice, an obsession with gold and other worldly objects, were common in the circle of nobles — anything below had to be an aberration of thought. Certain people were meant for certain things, Jean supposed, and which his father taught him too. Of course, the man's memory came rarely to him, and if they did, flashed dimly. The man's face just appeared blurred in his reminisces, his dreams, a ghost of his buried past.

Jean broke out from his brooding, lifting his gaze to the actuality of the room.

The furnishings resembled that of a knightly tent. A soft-wood bed, draped in red cloths and interspersed with mismatched pillows laden with patchwork art of minimal intricacy, rested on the leftmost corner of the room. Beside the windows, opposite to the bed, strode the maroon-dyed curtains — to go along with the colour motif, Corvus said once. Jean believed his obsession of the colour red to have come from his nostalgia for war bleeding into his real life. Not a surprise — the man had always been a tact soldier, sometimes humorous, sometimes stoic. Not so much now. The quirk, the furnishings, resembled the eastern textile mannerisms. By coincidence, or otherwise, Corvus spent a good amount of his decades rousing activity in that certain region — in more ways than simply war. When news of Corvus' blunder, through his own mouth no less, came to him, Jean simply wavered it away with banal indifference. A raised eyebrow, perhaps — what he did know, is that he didn't weep with grief or shock, or even, utter a lapse in his expression. It would've been uncharacteristic, he told himself often.

The room smelled well of aged spice, tempered with a bit of sandalwood — and, perhaps, other herbs. Not cheap, he discerned. A hint of myrrh there, a trace of rosemary here. At the corner, and affecting the atmosphere in the most pithy manner, stood an underwhelming pot of incense. It was large enough to merit Jean's attention. The pot sputtered out smoke, along with the hearth, at irregular intervals. As is the case with Corvus, the pot appeared to be larger than the hearth itself. If Jean had to say anything, this had to be the actual aberration the nobles oft seemed to chatter about — Jean wasn't privy to such discussions, as his friendship to Corvus was as much a secret as Ludhome's sexual preference, but the man had his methods.

Jean tottered his gaze to and fro, peeking from the sides — he hated to give the impression of disassembling Corvus' room. Aside from the three antiquities, stood a cabinet, chair, and a desk. All three were designed carefully, teetering upon the line which separated hubris from humility — in spite of the arguments of the nobles that it leaned precariously on the latter — with curves and abstractions, not lacking in beauty, carved into ebony wood. The three flaunted their superiority simply through workmanship, lacking in any other tones — most others preferred embellishing their furniture with gold, silver, or at the very least, bronze. The sole exception being the chair, covered on the bottom with felt, again, in a shade of red.

Corvus sighed again. Jean never saw any man sigh twice in a single interval. The prince had shriveled to a hollow vessel of his once-youthful figure. Once a strong figure, embodiment of fit youth, now a shrunken goblin gifted with a lack of valour and various physical ailments. The furious soldier and brilliant tactician his mind and body resonated would never again come to be.

Still, it could've been blamed on age, but of course, Jean himself happened to be a parallel to Corvus's years. Jean aged well, most said. The same didn't go for Corvus, whose face cringed with wrinkles and deep lines, rendered incomprehensible due to his many scars, jagged and angled, ruining his facial contour — hair strung down, matted against his forehead, dry and brittle slivers of dirty yellow. Had he not been his friend, Jean would've pitied him, only so, or perhaps even sympathized with his situation. He felt anger, instead.

Jean's forehead furrowed, along with his brows, as his eyes tilted from the room itself to the prince.

“Again, your highness,” began Jean, though Corvus attempted to silence his usage of the royal terms. The spymaster lifted up his hand abruptly. Corvus ceased.

Jean exhaled. “Assign him to my care, I bid you. There's little choice besides, and such as it is, none will accept him in the court.”

Corvus flustered at the notion, his face regaining a sliver of its former colour. The prince's tawny hands forced upon the armrest of his chair. He belted out abruptly, “I don't seek to offend you, Jean, but it's a bloody farce of a job!”

Jean supposed the words were meant to bite, sharp and quick. They didn't, not because Jean had grown callous over the decades, and not because Corvus had from the beginning been a sallow courtier with little wits, but because they came from a tender mouth. Far too tender, far too soft. Jean's eyes fell upon the prince, scanning habitually for deficiencies. The prince wore a coat that went hand-in-hand with his attitude, a long coat held not by buttons but by belts, with a simple tunic underneath. His feet, and legs, were noticeably bare, giving him a sort of hermetic appearance — as is the case with grown men, hair veiled, unsuccessfully so, his visible shin. Corvus came out rarely from the these days, preferring to sit tight in his blasted tower, drinking soups and bitter teas. The man found delight in drowning himself with past nostalgia.

Jean replied, his face a blank portrait, unfazed, “had your boy been alive, now, you would've done as I said, perhaps even suggest this solution yourself. Your care for the boy only deepened after your family's loss.”

Corvus bowed his head in a mixture of shame and sadness. Jean could swore his eyes appeared glassy, misty. Quite pitiable. “The nature of a bastard- their mixed blood- chains them to a certain fate. You know well what it is. You may still be able to see him, your bastard, that is only if he is an 'apprentice' of mine, as you've said so yourself, once.” Jean didn't mean it to appear mocking, but he couldn't find any other term to refer to the boy as. He continued, “and it's better than being secluded in a half-arsed monastery, just waiting to get raided. These are dangerous times, Corvus, and though what I give him is no less dangerous, it is still worthwhile.”

Jean inched backwards. “The boy doesn't even have a name; I can give that to him.”

Corvus turned his gaze away from Jean to the window, his back arched in a sullen manner. “So, you say, and so I must agree.” the tone of his voice appeared to more indicate reluctant resignation rather than whole-hearted agreement, but Jean accepted it either way.

“It'll turn out good, that much I can ascertain,” Jean said. He slapped his hand on Corvus' shoulder. A good natured clap on the back. Gave it a tight grip. Corvus shrugged, before resuming his empty staring, and which Jean imitated, before striding out of the prince's room. He gave one last look at the room. The hearth glowed dim, shadows blurring with dying light. The winds gave one last attempt, howling within the crevices of the palace.

The leer of the sun had yet to come over the horizon, but serenity returned. The weeping of the gods ceased.

Jean shook his head. He went away with fleet, quiet feet.

 

[Elephantom]

WhiTe
Aug 4​

The mercenary shifted in his saddle, grumbling a curse. In all his years, he was never irked by the presence of one greater than him, as his nature as a mercenary gave him the boon of freedom. But, now, conscripted to a rogue military corps, and detained by extensive thin-writ, he suffered from the malady of terror. White was a coward. He didn't fear to admit it, though he feared much else everything. He may have been a good fighter, and took pride in his few valorous accomplishments, but most often, flight came easily. In subjects that avoided avarice and greed, that is. White was a mercenary, and it didn't shame him to flaunt it, nor did it to take a perchance glance at his captain.

Of feminine make, the captain — the rank bought within the usually loutish soldier a sense of discipline, and so the troika of troopers that surrounded him — distinguished herself remarkably from her male counterparts, both in terms of her ferocity, and her unique disposition. Captain wasn't even her rank, just a nickname born from nostalgia. She must've been so at one point, thought White, or how did she get such reputation? Unsavoury thoughts clouded his head, and which he could count off from the tally of his fingers. Fortunately, his intelligence, vast as it was, gave him a modicum of disposition. At least something that kept his anxieties subtle.

“Fine day, eh?”

The voice broke White from his spell, and which he replied with a confused, inaudible stammer. He jerked his eyes towards the evening star, with its glories colouring the ochre land even redder. “Most definitely so, captain,” said the mercenary, squinting.

The captain's half-smile gave way to a thin, stern expression. “I thought so. Reports.”

The mercenary straightened his back and pursed his lips. A thin groan, more an exhalation if anything, escaped his lips. It had been a long time since he had obeyed any form of hierarchy. “The 1st's up with the reserves in Hiltfort, 2nd's commenced their march up the westerfard hills, and the 3rd's done with their recruiting station. The 4th, well, they're reinforcing the cities Lods and Bredt,” the mercenary paused, scratching the end of his neck yet to be covered by his too-short helmet. The helmet came short, his hair swaying down the sides unopposed. Its hind scrapes against the nape of with sparse respite. “But, pray tell me, then, why am I required here, instead of out there?”

A shifty, knowing smile spread across the captain's lips. Her focus, however, remained fixed on the blinding horizon. “You've a squad, if I'm not mistaken?”

White scratched his cheeks, justly freed from its hair recently. “Right, captain.”

The captain turned to look at him, scrutinizing him with impunity. Unease trickled down the mercenary's spine. “You're a learned man, rookie, and that's a rarity around here.” The captain waved a hand towards the arid land that stretched beyond the pathway. A couple mounds of dried mud, with patches of wiry grass and gravel sitting atop, passed by the road as the captain pointed — compared to that, anything could pass off as valuable. “This is a savage world, rookie, all of it. I'm 'fraid to say so, but you've an air of value about you; you're an asset that I, not the filthy squadron you've commandeered, require.”

White cursed under his breathe, first in his mother tongue, and then in the accursed language this country had sprouted upon him. His bilingual intellect had led everyone to consider him a 'valuable' asset, a status which he loathed. If there was anything that destroyed soldier, a hazard fully detrimental to a coward's life, in this readily deadly game, it was attention. The last thing White wanted was attention, and often, he noted, he found himself getting what he least wanted or required.

The captain turned her head back towards the spear of the column, crawling slowly over the horizon's light that slathered the hill. “You're in my personal staff now, rookie.”

The mercenary cringed at the word. He retreated to the centre of his seat, his expression kept glum by deliberation, limp hands stretching taut on the reins. The late brother Geinmart had once called him a professional in the mercenary leagues, and he had survived — that, by itself, should've been testament to his prowess. He buckled his legs, and lent a portion of his back, the lower part, upon the beaked notch that served as the saddle's rudimentary back.

By the captain's side, rode two of the company's finest, elite soldiers, backed by a few auxiliaries. They draped themselves in black hoods, covering all but their eyes. A fair amount of skin peeked out from the peak of their face-masks, dusky skin paled with powders. The chest gave off a matte glint, courtesy to their burnished armour. It was the sort of hubris that was rarely granted to 'rookies' such as him. White was glad for it — attention was ever a great adversity to the integrity of his life.

As the group passed over the hills, clipped and blackened by a few arcanic sorceries from the before epoch, they bore witness to a wicked carnage that decorated the tinted grounds. The crimson of the blood matched eerily with the clay-faced ground and the reddish-blue light of the sundown scene, appearing almost ethereal. In the ethereal moment they spent basking in the shock of the sight, the stench rushed, even from the height, into the mercenary's restless lungs, overwhelming his cool. White ground his teeth. The atmosphere stirred itself into a self-serious parody of the dusty scape. What was mundane, simply became blatant.

Black ravens kowtowed on the pristine symbolism created by the body parts, fighting over scraps of meat. White grimaced at the sight. He was as much a stranger to violence as the captain — which is to say was about little to none — but the simple art the perpetrator revealed the bodies in disgusted the mercenary. Killing, to him, was a simple, occasionally enjoyable act — you cut somebody with a sword, anything capable of hammering or puncturing, and you take the fight out of that somebody. War wasn't a pleasure, but he got a kick out of it. And, now, systematic killing, he wasn't a fan of — much less, cult oppositions.

“You know, captain,” White contrived a dramatic pause, putting emphasis on his words. “This doesn't bode well for us.”

The mercenary inched forward on his horse, close enough to convey his message clearly. He continued. “I've seen such before, so have you. Remember corporal Alvarez? Died a grizzly death, he did.”

The captain faced him, steadily. “Offed them by a necktie party, sure,” said she, tact and brief. It was then, when White remembered a policy of their company — killing a member often bought the others upon you.

“What worries me is their severity. It isn't a single man, or even a couple others, it can't be that,” White mused. He scratched his jaw, near a small cut that came from a shaving accident about a few hours ago. “What if the Corvus orders us to prance about their necks again? Sorcery, any kind, troubles that man.”

“He won't.”

“He's attaching all the soldiers to the capital, a guarded retreat.”

“A good point,” the captain frowned. “Let's just not hope that happens.”

“It's a morale-killer, captain, to be frank.”

The captain didn't answer, but one of her guards nodded their head grimly, and in that one gesture, proved his point.

The captain ignored it. White frowned, but burdened his frustration and continued.