[color=ed1c24]"Send a messenger to Nyhem."[/color] The Old Man, Giles Blackwell, said in his hard voice. He was, at present, in meditation; he was not a man who sat on thrones, but a man who strode across battlefields, and the stagnation of the past few years following the Dragon War had left him with little to do with his time. Thus, the man meditated and honed his body further. He was often found doing his meditations in the garden of Mercy, capital of Alenius; a sparse, empty, area that the Old Man had claimed as his personal area shortly after arriving. It was called a garden, but little grew there. Only the strongest of weeds penetrated the stone ground and brought life from the earth- and Giles never seemed to ever cultivate anything in the area. Vivian Blackwell was never far from her uncle, and upon his sudden speech the woman rose from her seated position at his back. [color=92278f]"Sending your regards to the dead king, eh?"[/color] the woman's smirk was felt through her words, as if the concept was highly amusing to her. [color=ed1c24]"No, a message to the regent."[/color] Vivian held very still for a few seconds, a wicked smile crossing her face, before walking briskly away from the meditating man. She liked where this was going, and was afraid that if she hesitated the Old Man might change his mind.... And as Vivian left, Giles rose up from the ground slowly. The Old Man turned from his 'garden' and walked steadily into his bedchamber, where a woman half his age lay slumbering in the early morning light. Rather than towards her, the man carefully moved across the stone floor to the wall adjacent the bed. [i][color=ed1c24]I've faced dragons and armies, yet my own wife's anger is to be more feared![/color][/i] he thought to himself dryly as he eyed the woman with a shake of his head. He lifted his hands up and grasped in them, from the wall where they had been hanging alone, the sheathes of two weapons; a long, thick bladed, dirk and the thick blade of a broadsword. It was when he was grasping these iconic weapons of his in his hands that Vivian returned, with a uniformed man at her heels. Her grin widened as she saw The Old Man bearing his weaponry once more. [color=92278f]"Uncle, I have brought a messenger. Shall I prepare a host?"[/color] she asked in a hushed tone, anticipation thick in her voice. [color=ed1c24]"Your services will be needed once more Vivian, not a host. Naomi, Beatrice, and yourself are to head to Nyhem in my stead. Drevala and Eli are to remain here with me. I have jobs for them."[/color] He turned to face the cloaked woman. [color=ed1c24]"I'll not have you whispering falseness into their ears, Vivian. You spoil for war, and I feel much the same, however there will be a time for us to strike; now we prepare ourselves."[/color] Vivian nodded sharply, a military salute following the jarring shake of the head. [color=92278f]"Why are we taking the girl?"[/color] [color=ed1c24]"It's high time she felt the tremendous weight of a king's death."[/color] --- [b]Nyhem, the King's Funeral[/b] Some time after the funeral precession was already under way, late to the point of having missed the actual service, an incredibly imposing figure entered the Grand Temple of Nyhem; Twas Beatrice Blackwell. The woman, despite her average stature, had an aura of power and strength that could be attested to by many of those present. Beatrice was a champion fighter, one who took part in tournaments and duels alike, and had traveled a great deal in order to uphold her reputation at the hands of those who challenged the famed Blackwell Champion. On a much more materialistic note, the veritable mass of iron regarded as a 'Greatsword' that the woman bore on her back was, perhaps, a much more real source of intimidation. She was wearing armor, as she was always found to be doing, but it was simple in comparison to the dragon scale plate she wore for battle; it was simply a tarnished breastplate bearing the Blackwell crest, and her clothes beneath the minimalistic armor were those of respectful mourning of a soldier; darkened greys and blacks. Despite the respectful mourning attire, Beatrice stood straight-backed and hard gazed. She was not here to cry or mourn; she was here as acting Champion. It was the girl behind her that was dressed in the true vestments of mourning; Naomi Blackwell, the youngest of the Blackwell family. She was grim faced, yet her youthful figure was hardly stooped and bent; she too was straight-backed, yet her gaze was soft and sympathetic rather than hard and daring. The sisters, realizing their lateness to the event, quietly bowed their heads and allowed the event to continue on without their interjection, but Naomi did step forward to enter in with the precession- prompting Beatrice to stick close behind her. The young girl's actions during the funeral reflected the Blackwell family as a whole, and because of this she was cautious and reserved with her behavior. When the small girl found it to be her turn to pay respects, she approached the casket slowly with her head bowed. She dropped to her knees and, in a manner most curious, prostrated herself before the casket as if asking it forgiveness. She held this position, in complete silence, for three long minutes, before lifting her head and planting a kiss on the wooden surface. [color=fff200]"We thank you, Remennot, for all you've done for us...Death shall know you as our friend, and will treat you as a guest. We will not forget you."[/color] the girl's voice intoned at barely a whisper to the coffin. She bowed her head once more and seemed to collapse in on herself all at once; the emotion of such an event was far too much for a girl as sheltered as she, and she broke into sobs as she concluded her small speech. She had not known the man personally, but she could feel the apprehension from all in the room, and the weight of such a death was far too great for her to comprehend. Beatrice placed a hand on the small girl's shoulder and gently brought her to her feet. What Beatrice did next was a stark contrast to the girl's gentleness; The great warrior gently brought the girl back away from the coffin, and lifted a single hand to the hilt of the greatsword upon her back. Drawing the blade was a single effortless thing for the woman, even singlehandedly. She brought the blade up into the air, then rotated it in her hand and, with a ferocious yell, drove the blade downward into the floor before the coffin- where the blade bit into the granite ground with a horrendous screech of stone on metal. The woman had embedded her sword halfway along the blade into the ground, then rose up stiffly and grabbed Naomi by the shoulder. The two girls then turned and, without a word edgewise to anyone else, made their way to the back of the temple to await the event's true conclusion. --- [b]???[/b] A missive, bearing the seal of the Blackwell Family and signed in the rough, skewed, lettering of Giles Blackwell had been delivered to the city of Nyhem, and was addressed to none other than the acting king regent; Duncan De Reimer. Through official means this letter would find its way to Duncan. The contents of the letter? Why, that was for his eyes only...