[center][h3][color=black][b]Ser Byren Hockor[/b][/color][/h3][/center] Despite being part of the north, what Byren and Russal had seen of Kedoren's countryside had been quite pleasant. The freeholders, having a warmer land than their cousins across the windwall, were said to be a warmer people as a result, which the two travellers could not doubt. The previous night, Byren and Russal had taken shelter from a storm in the keep of Lord Parhall. Though they originally had meant to simply stand under a roof until the storm had passed, the lord of Greybarrow insisted on giving the two beds for the night in the loft of his stablehouse, reinvigorating them with thick northern stew and ale in exchange for a night of tales from Byren's travels in Edontas, or as Lord Parhall called it, the [i]south[/i]. Now miles from the hearty stew of Greybarrow and its lord's heartier laugh, the two were crossing through the city of Highcliff, meeting the eyes of a few gawking peasants murmuring at the unfamiliarity of the knight's shield. It was not before long that the two reached the gates of the Blackfort. True to its name, it was a dark, solemn castle, unpleasantly squat and shadowy in the light of day. Ser Byren dismounted his horse, taking a few steps to wave a greeting at the guard stationed at the top of the wall. "What business brings you here, ser?" The guardsman half-shouted and half-inquired from his wall. He was an old bearded man, the sort who Byren imagined had little patience to be shouting at a knight he had never met. Already, things were not as promising as he had hoped. "We do not come for business dealings, we are knights!" Russal enthusiastically shouted in response, turning to Byren with a cheeky grin as if he had said something particularly clever. The Edontian gave him a grave look, curling the side of his face not in a permanent slump, before craning his neck back up to the guard. "Excuse my squire. We've been sent by the King of Edontas to retrieve his nephew Oren." "Oren Lugain is being held in the Blackfort while he awaits trial for King Tyndall's disappearance. Do you mean to tell me you have come to aid his escape, fleeing from this trial?" The guard asked, winded and out of breath from shouting the long string of words. Ser Byren paused for a moment, realizing he had never actually been told why this Oren fellow needed someone to bring him from Kedoren. "In this matter, King Valdemar requests that his nephew await trial in Edontas." "His request has been denied. I wish you safe travels on your return to Edontas, ser." The guard shouted, before promptly turning and vanishing from Byren's sight. Byren pursed his lips together, almost physically chafing at the courtly pleasantries that came with a knight's speech. "Look here, mate." Byren shouted, cupping the side of his mouth to project his voice even further. "I've been on horseback watching this [i]green babe[/i] for three days. I don't intend to storm this bloody castle, but I don't intend to be turned away either. Is there a captain or commander of the guards I might have council with?" "Oren Lugain is the captain of the guards, ser." The faceless voice called back. "Then who commands the guards now?" Without warning, the porticulis began to creak and heave, slowly raising with loud clicks of a chain. In front of him stood the guards of the blackfort, lead by a tall, beardless man with short red hair and pale green eyes. He wore the two-headed eagle of Tyndall as a silver pin on his cloak, which gleamed visibly even from the distance between he and Byren. "I do." Byren nodded, taking three lumbering steps forward. "I am ser Byren Hockor of The Black Bog, and this is my squire, Russal Ecefrod." The captain nodded politely, tilting his head just far back enough to look down at the Edontian. "I am Ser Bertrand Arren, Captain of Blackfort's Guard. I have been told you mean to rescue my predecessor from bondage." He said, drawing his sword calmly. Byren took two steps back. "Well m'lord, no reason that means we have to kill each other." Bertrand nodded with a look on his face as if he were mulling over every option. "Of course we don't have to kill one another, though in Kedoren, demanding a prisoner's release is far from something you'd suggest over a cup of tea. What say you, Edontian?" He squared his shoulders eagerly, slowly wrapping his second hand around the blade Byren looked at Bertrand, and back to the many guards flanking them, and finally to the mouse-faced old man he had originally spoken to, who he realized was at Bertrand's side, smiling coyly. "I don't mean to get me or my squire killed. If it's a duel that you want, we'll settle that with terms, inside of the castle," Byren said, hoping to goad the hotheaded young man out of fighting him right there. "Besides, if we fight here your guards will have my guts the moment I lay a hand on you." There was another pause, until Bertrand sheathed his sword. "Very well. If you are to win, you may take our prisoner, and if I am to win, you'll join him. Is this agreeable?" He asked in a pompous tone. The guards behind him turned and entered the castle, and Byren motioned for Russal to take reigns of their horses and lead them inside. "Aye. I'll agree to that." [hr] Flanked by a duo of guards, Rurik walked briskly through the Blackfort's narrow corridors, frowning as usual. Flickering torches illuminated the darkened hallways and the sounds of his footsteps and those of his men was the only thing to be heard. Every day seemed to bring a new surprise and today had been no different. Some southern knight had arrived earlier today, demanding Oren's release. As a result, a duel was about to take place, between Betrand Arren and this Ser Byren. Truth be told, Rurik wouldn't mind if the duel had been to the death - he absolutely loathed Bartrand, but was pressured to appoint him as the new captain of the guard. He made his way outside, where a small crowd had already gathered. As was the custom, the duel would take place during the night, when the Moons could bear witness to what transpired in the mortal realm. Well there was only one Moon now, but Rurik was certain that Eirtu would still be interested in the favoured sons of his wife.There was a circle of brightly-burning torches in the centre of the courtyard, around which nobles and soldiers had gathered. Rurik couldn't help but notice that despite the strange knight's appearance, not [i]that[/i] many people were present. A lot of nobles from Mir's court had returned to their lands following the Godfall, leaving only those loyal to Rurik, mostly northern lords, in the Blackfort. Rurik's eyes glanced up at the dark walls, where he could barely make out the silhouettes of the guards lining them. A duel was a duel, but should anything unexpected occurr, they had their crossbows at the ready. Behind him, there was a balcony overlooking the grounds, which was normally the place where the King stood, but Rurik was not king yet, so he had to watch among the others. As he made his way closer to the crowd, the nobles parted and let him pass, so he could stand as close to the fighters as possible. Rurik said nothing, but surveyed the foreigners carefully, The knight seemed pale for a pathy, with a ghoulish face and cheap-looking leather in place of armor, while his squire had the look of an Aaldoren. Naturally, Rurik's gaze focused on the knight, whom he measured, surveying him from head to toe. He'd seen a lot of warriors in his life and this man had the look of an experienced swordsman, Betrand would have his hands full. The Edontian's shield bore three snarling black fish, covered in dozens of tiny streaks of darkness where the shield had been dented and the paint had chipped. Even at his distance, Rurik saw the short, shining remnants of an arrowhead embedded in the wood. Across from him, Bertrand's metal shield shone in the moonlight, with the crest of Arren; over a lake and on a field of green, two towers stood proud and undented, having been polished by his squire prior to the battle. Betrand was getting ready for the duel, seeminly confident in his abilities to see him through. Rurik hated the man, but he couldn't deny that he was skilled with the sword, it would be an interesting fight to watch for sure. A small smile crept across Rurik's face, watching that fool struggle would be a delight. He felt the eyes of the court on him. Rurik was not king yet, but as the Prince it fell to him to oversee this duel. He raised his hand to silence the crowd, drowning out the murmurs and hushed whispers. Rurik opened his mouth to speak, his booming voice carrying over the courtyard. "We are gathered tonight to bear witness to the duel between Ser Betrand Arren and.. " he trailed off for a moment, trying to recall the knight's name "Ser Byren Hockor. The stakes are the following: should Ser Byren win, Oren Lugain will be free to leave with him." Rurik paused, letting that sink in. He ground his teeth, Betrand was insolent to have made such an offer without first consulting him, the southern swine didn't respect his authority! It was done though, an offer had been made, it would be shameful to back out now. He continued: "On the other hand, should Ser Betrand win, Ser Byren and his squire will remain here as my guests for an unspecified period of time." Rurik motioned to his side "Sister Greta, under the light of the Moons, I entrust this duel to you." A grey-haired, stick-thin Black Sister made her way to the front, she looked frail, but walked with a dignified step. Rurik had known her since his time in Windhold and she had become a trusted advisor to him over the years. She was renowned for her wisdom and knowledge of Elonar's ways and as the eldest Sister in the Blackfort, she would act as Eirtu's witness. Rurik stepped back and let her speak. "Brave knights, please step forward." the woman said, her voice trembled, but she made an effort to be heard. Bertrand took his sword and shield from his squire, twirling the thin one-handed blade once to warm up his wrist in a flash of moonlight. The Edontian, who had been sitting as if he were waiting, then took his sword from his beckoning squire's scabbard, shaking his free mailed hand when the boy tried to hand him the shield, mumbling something into the blonde youth's ear. Once the knights were before her, Greta spoke "We stand under the watchful gaze of the Moons..." despite Elonar's disappearance, Greta wasn't willing to break with tradition "show yourselves worthy of them. Be brave, be strong and do not falter! No lives will be lost tonight, for the duel will continue until blood is drawn." The Black Sister uttered a short prayer amidst the silence, finishing by touching her left cheek, then her chest. The gesture, a common sign in Kedoren, was imitated by everyone in the crowd. With that out of the way, they were ready to proceed, Kedorians disliked ceremonies and by their standards this was already a [i]long[/i] one. "May Eirtu grant you his might! Begin!" Greta did her best to muster her voice, which managed to carry over the silent courtyard. Immediately, Bertrand began offensively, starting at the Edontian headfirst as if he intended to run him through at that very spot, bellowing out a loud warcry that caused Sister Greta, and most of the audience for that matter, to give a jump of surprise. Byren sidestepped, pacing backwards with all of the urgency as if he were backing up from a spreading pool of spilled wine to keep his slippers unspoiled, already seemingly tired of Bertrand's knightly theatricism. Betrand turned to Byren's gaze, spinning his blade in the moonlight once more, this time upwards and towards the Edontian's torso. Byren stepped back once again, parrying the sword with a whiplike slash, bouncing Bertrand's blade back down. He made a quick thrust at Bertrand's chest, though this only succeeded in making the northerner push back with his shield, visibly angered that he had been pushed into a defensive position, for all of his armor, by a shieldless man in leathers. The Edontian stepped a few more paces back, withdrawing a sheathed dagger from his belt and moving into a stiffer stance, aiming both weapons at Bertrand. If the crowd had been quiet before, it was [i]silent[/i] now. Bertrand made his way towards him, swiping widely to the left, swinging with both hands in an attempt to disarm his lighter-armed opponent, who danced backwards to avoid him yet again. Bertrand swung right, and again left, and [i]again[/i] right, and each time, Ser Hockor took another few steps curving backwards. "You afraid, [i]pathy[/i]?" Bertrand growled, raising his shield. Ser Byren said nothing. The northerner threw his shield on the ground with a huff, grasping the hilt of his blade and swiping upwards once more, this time with [i]both[/i] hands, narrowly missing the Edontian with the speed gained by his newfound lightness. With his opponent's sword now high in the air held by both hands, Byren dropped his dagger to the floor, and in a flash of motion, struck Bertrand in the throat with his mailed fist. Bertrand, who had intended to practically cleave Byren in two with his downswing, stepped back, instinctively dropping his sword to grab his throat with both hands. Byren threw his other sword down, and just as quickly as he had first hit the man, struck him in the nose with a vicious hook. Bertrand spun as he fell, making a crash as his heavy armor brought him to the floor rather than staggering backwards. His bloodied face was twisted in pain, and he grabbed his nose in a half-attempt at stopping the bleeding. "Under the light of the Moons, I declare Ser Byren Hockor as the winner!" the sister's voice broke the defeaning silence. Rurik grunted, a mix of emotions swirling through his head. He was both pleased at Arren humiliating himself, but angry that this beggarly knight had made a fool of the Blackfort's captain of the guard! Bertrand had qutie neatly fallen into the older man's trap, like some damned squire. This was the problem with Freeholders like Arren, they had grown soft and arrogant, forgetting the practicality a true Kedorian needed to possess. Ask any man who's been at war and they'd tell you [i]not[/i] to rush in blindly at an older, more experienced fighter! Alas, Bertrand and his ilk spent more time playing at war, in tourneys and duels, and didn't know this simple fact. He'd deal with them later. For now, he stepped towards the fighters. "Kedorians honour their deals. It was agreed that we'd release Oren Lugain and it shall be so!" his gaze fixed Ser Byren. "But the hour is late and we will deal with these matters in the morning. In the mean time, I invite you and your squire to sup with me." his voice made it sound more like a fact, rather than an invitation. Byren, who had been picking up his sword and dagger, gave the prince a nod. "It would be an honor, my lord." "Good." a wry smile crossed his face "We have a tradition here in Kedoren. Normally a duel ends when you take the life of your opponent, but since this one was until first blood, you may take something else of Ser Betrand. The choice is yours." he gestured at the bloodied knight, who was struggling to get up to his feet. Byren shook his head, giving an almost sympathetic glance to the duel's loser. "That won't be necessary m'lord. I've already taken the piss out of him." A few members of the court gave a laugh, none moreso than Russal. Rurik nodded, impassive. "As you wish." he gestured to some of the soldiers nearby "My men will escort you to your rooms, where you may leave your belongings. After that, we will talk." The Tyndall troops hurried to obey their lord's command, gathering around the two foreigners and politely, but firmly, insisting that they move along. Rurik turned around and walked back towards the keep, with the rest of the court following suit. The remaining guardsmen returned to their posts, while Ser Betrand was carried away by some of his men. Although he couldn't determine what exactly made him feel this way, Rurik was certain that [i]something[/i] was about to begin. [hider=Summary][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0dPKdgTQtjs[/youtube][/hider] [sub]Collab with [@Vor][/sub]