[h3]Lucien Delorano[/h3][hr]

Lucien stared at an old portrait. The ornate gold-lacquered frame seemed unfit for such a dark image, and in the flickering light of the candles and braziers, the boys expression seemed much darker. 

This one was of a boy no more than 10 or 12, unruly hair and a dark brooding expression. Leon Delorano stood beside him, handsome face and heavy hand resting on the boys shoulder. Rings of ruby, gold and silver crowded the Lords hand, set in stark contrast to the boys dark tunic. In the background was a seascape with white-foaming waves and a dozen masts raised in the distance. The sails were furled, the wind non-existent. The sun was a purple crescent swallowed by the sea. Lucien remembered the portrait had been staged right here in this very room-the background was either painted first or added later, Lucien did not care or know, But mother insisted all her children be 'immortalized' in painting. Lucien could not remember the painters name, but how he had hated it when he told him to stand still, quit fidgeting!. Lucien remember how his father had wordlessly placed a hand on his shoulder as if to hold him in place. 

Lucien looked away from the painting and turned to face his family. A lavish dinner upon an ornate table-nothing less would be expected at his fathers wake. The food sat mostly untouched, stomachs either too ill to eat or mouths shut in sullen silence. Lucien approached and hovered at his fathers chair. Lucien nodded mechanically as his aunt Fiona entered the chambers and seated herself beside her fathers chair. Still Lucien stood, arm rested on his fathers chair, staring at the open ledger of his last will and testament. 

Quiet conversations occasionally pierced the silence. Besides the shuffling feet of the servants, and the odd clank of glasses, the room was still and tense. Most talked in hushed tones among themselves. Deflated, Lucien took a seat beside the empty patriarchs chair, and searched his mind for something to talk about. He wondered where Nalia might be. He thought of the messenger he had beaten to a bloody pulp after delivering the horrible news of his fathers murder. Four simple words had shattered his world in an instant. Lucien had made the messenger pay, that was for sure. 

Words... The hushed conversations were unnerving to Lucien. He felt a stranger here, in his own home. He had not seen his family or friends for four years while he was studying at the University and he had become detached somehow. Yet the old memories were slowly trickling through the thick fog of disbelief and mostly rage that clouded his mind. 

Passing the strange healer Otto in the halls without a word. 

Pieter at the docks, watching for the guards that might catch him sneaking aboard the sailing ship the [i]Maid[/i]. 

Nalia in fathers study learning the family secrets. 

Lorenzo sneaking off with the kitchen girl to do gods knows what. 

Fiona, his aunt whispering in fathers ear at supper....and his mother.

Dying.

Pale and thin from the plague that took her in an instant. Or was it poison? His memories lied. Otto, at her bedside. Father pacing the halls. The memories fell like a flood, and Lucien discarded them for rage. 

[color=dimgray]"Any idea what we should do next?" said Pieter, sipping his wine.[/color]

Lucien shook himself from his revelry. He stared at the dead painters son. He smiled. 
He drew his rapier and threw it on the table with a loud clang, scattering grapes and nuts and spilling a pitcher of wine. A thick scarlet stain spread across the table cloth. 

"We can start with this!" shouted Lucien, pointing to his unsheathed dueling blade. His eyes were wide and furious.