[center][color=Black][h3][b]The Blackfort[/b][/h3][/color][/center]
[hr]

Ser Byren had been invited by the prince and presumptive [i]king[/i] of Kedoren, though it sounded somehow like an invitation to fast by the man's tone. He was a northerner, through and through. All stone-faced and unflinching. He reminded Byren of his cousin Hamhands Hockor, who he hadn't seen smile in years. He paused for a moment to recollect on his cousin Hamhands' whereabouts, his mind drifting to the comfortable, familiar Edontian wetlands, before shaking himself out of his nostalgia. As if from a dream, he recalled the words of the knight [i]he[/i] had squired for, Ser Poe Caunie.

"Home clouds a man's mind, and a clouded mind gets a sword shoved through it. Think of home on the road leading to it."

His quarters were actually quite spacious and well-lit, with a [i]table[/i] for a table in lieu of the barrel tables and hay seats of Parhall's stablehouse, with several chairs backed with thick pelts, a goosefeather-stuffed mattress, and chest containing a chamberpot, a nightgown that had been nibbled at the neck by a moth, and a tin of smelling salts. It was the smelling salts that made him chuckle, as if he were some frill-cuffed nobleman visiting from Rhaetia.

At the end of the room, a long mirror hung, allowing Byren the first look at himself in days. He needed a shave, now growing a feint unsightly beard, though noticing it hid his aging features, he decided to leave it be. His oily skin clung to beads of sweat, and the days of travelling left him looking more tattered than ever. He pushed a few thin tendrils of black hair off of his forehead, which clung like snakes to his cool sweat, and wiped his face off with his sleeve. He hoped that Russal would be more presentable than himself.

He heard a sharp knock on the door -- one of the guards that had been stationed outside, surely -- signaling the prince's readiness for dinner, and the unspoken urgency for Byren to leave his quarters.

Byren made his way out, meeting the eyes of the Kedoren guard who motioned for him to follow, as Russal exited his room and followed the two as well. Within moments, the boy caught up with them, leaning closer to Byren than the guard.

"Why didn't you take nothin' offa that knight, Byren? The king said you could."

"The [i]prince[/i] said it was Kedoren custom, and I'm no Kedoren. Besides, it wouldn't be right."

"Why not? The prince said it was alright."

Byren nodded uneasily. "That's true, aye, but there's no honor found in taking a man's boots after you break his nose." He felt a sudden twinge of sympathy for his inexperienced squire, perhaps affected by his earlier recollections of being a squire himself, and tried to soften his words as he spoke. "Best to not make another enemy while we're away from home, wouldn't you say?"

Russal nodded, pondering his master's advice as the two rounded a corner through the hall, into a larger candlelit room. Unlike most of the corridors or the guest rooms, this one was decorated. A comfortable looking rug, in the black and green colours of House Tyndall, covered most of the stone floor. The black, otherwise barren walls, were lined with several tapestries, depicting various events. One of them, worn and old-looking, showed a crowned man, with a two headed-eagle on his breast, walking away from a younger man, whose eyes had been gouged out, leaving rivulets of blood flowing down his face. The most prominent tapestry, however, depicted three youths, hunters by the look of them, standing over a fearsome beast they had slain. It resembled a huge, white cat with stripes, but the fangs jutting out from its mouth brought to mind the tusks of a boar.
 
Moonlight shone from a small window on the right side of the room, under it a fireplace radiated gentle warmth. Opposite of the fireplace, a number of weapons were arrayed - swords, axes, pikes, crossbows - all polished to a shine. A suit of well-worn, undecorated armour, stood next to them and at its feet an equally worn-looking green shield was propped, displaying the two-headed golden eagle. All in all, it was obvious what sort of man inhabited this room. 
 
Rurik had already seated himself at the table in the centre of the chamber. The place was obviously not a feast hall and it was meant for smaller gatherings. Only three chairs were placed next to the rectangular table - the Prince occupied the one farthest away from the entrance, the other one was directly opposite of him and a smaller chair was situated on its right. He motioned for his guests to seat and nodded at a servant near the door. A moment later, half a dozen men and women wearing Tyndall livery entered the room, laying out food and drink on the table with a practiced precision. It was more than enough for three - a pot full of steaming vegetable soup, accompanied by salted meats and loaves of freshly-baked bread. Finally the head-servant placed a sweet-smelling roasted ice hog at the center of the table, then looked at Rurik. 
 
"That will be all, Rodrick. Leave us." the Prince told him. 
 
Rodrick nodded, then made for the exit, followed by the other servants, leaving behind the two guards flanking the door. 
 
"You too." Rurik gestured at them. 
 
The men saluted and withdrew, closing the door behind them. It seemed to be the only entrance to the room, apart from a smaller door behind Rurik, but that probably lead to his bedchamber. 
 
The Prince looked between Byren and his squire, though his gaze eventually fixed on the knight. 
 
"I trust you can pour your own ale, Ser Byren." he nodded at the door "I'd rather keep what is said here between us." 
 
Following his own advice, Rurik did just that, then took a sip from his finely crafted glass without waiting for the two. 
 
"I've been told food in Edontas is much different than ours, so I ordered the cooks to prepare something more to your liking, using what spices we have. It's probably not what you're used to, but at least it's freshly-cooked, the meat is tender and the vegetables were picked this morning." he took a carving knife and cut a few slices from the roasted hog, then waved the knife in their direction. "Make yourselves at home." 

Russal waited for Ser Byren to sit before seating himself, and stepped closer to the wall to examine the tapestry that hung atop the black stonework. It was the tapestry of the hunters. Russal had never been good at identifying historical figures, be it through tapestries, statues, or paintings, though as he began to examine it, he could at least be certain that [i]one[/i] of the three youths must have been Rurik, or perhaps a very young Mir Tyndall. He had dark, golden-yellow hair and gleaming green eyes that stood out in the tapestry's stitchwork. His face, as the rest of the faces were, seemed somewhat round and juvenile in its facial features and somber in its expression. He wore a circlet and braces of gold and wore the Tyndall colors on a cape, merging at the center with shades of dark green growing lighter at the bottom and darker at the top.

Next to him, in the left side of the tapestry, was a similarly sized youth in dark armor, with a wolf's pelt thrown over his shoulder. Though it seemed to be greatly softened in the tapestry, a scar ran from his eye to his lip, taking the form of a thin red line of thread. His boot was on the beast's side, with one leg raise atop triumphantly, as if to stake his claim on their kill. Finally, on the right-hand side of the Tyndall in the center of the tapestry, was the third hunter. He was pale, with long black hair and pale brown eyes, fair enough in features that Russal at first had assumed it was depicting a woman. This hunter wore a dark blue cape, and on his chest, wore a bat. Where the other two brandished swords, the dark-haired hunter on the right clasped the ridge of a longbow with both hands.

Russal looked around, and noticed that Byren had long since been seated. Quickly, Russal sat down as well, picking up his fork as if to show that he had been ready all along, giving Byren a sheepish smile before turning from the knight's glare to inspect his food.
 
Byren looked at his ale for a moment. It was a familiar red-brown malt color, topped with a thin layer of sandy brown foam. He took a sip, and his recognization was confirmed -- Edontian ale, as sure as the potatoes had been garnished with Edontian honeygrass and the ice hog glazed in peppery Edontian oil. He motioned to Russal, who eyed the food suspiciously, to begin eating, as he plunged a fork into the meat on is plate -- Like all of his countrymen, Byren could tell if he was walking into a trap. If the king meant to poison them, he would not have used tastes so familar. Russal took a gulp of his ale and gingerly gave the prince a word of thanks as well, who nodded in appreciation. After a few minutes of the three eating, Rurik looked up from his food and took another sip of ale. As he placed the glass back down on the table, he looked at the two foreigners and his features hardened.  
 
"Ser Byren," he began, "You strike me as a plain-speaking man, so I'll be blunt. I've known Oren Lugain since we were lads. I've known his parents for even longer. I was there when he dueled John Carnegie, and I was there when we protected Greenport from the pirates who set out to take it. I witnessed him pledging his loyalty to my father, when he became Captain of the Guard. Not once in all those years has King Valdemar expressed interest in his nephew, so why the sudden change?"

Ser Byren paused to swallow, raising his hand for a moment to signal that his pause was not out of picking his words. "Truth be told, m'lord," He began in an agreeable tone, "It's not my place to know. The Flittons are an odd lot. They have their wants and ways, and they change with the phases of the moons for all I know."

"So they sent you here with no knowledge of the man you are supposed to rescue and no inkling as to what they want with him?" the Prince's green eyes bored into the grizzled knight."Your King must consider you very able to send you on such a blind quest," he took a sip, "That, or he believes you to be untrustworthy." 

He waved a hand, brushing the matter aside. "At any rate, I care little for what King Valdemar thinks of his knights. What do you intend to do with Oren once he's free?" 

"The king finds everyone untrustworthy." Byren said, shifting to a more gravely look. "It's the only way to rule Edontas. Take it from an Edontian." His words were solemn, moreso than the dour knight usually grumbled. "As for what will happen once Oren is free," He began, his face softening, "I'll do what I was ordered to. Bring the lad back in one piece."

"Very well, though I'd be weary of passing through Lord Parhall's again, you might not enjoy the same hospitality." He gave them a knowing look, making it clear he was aware of their route, though it was hard to say when this knowledge had been gleamed. "Lugain is a northern name and not much liked in the Freeholds. Speaking of which, are you at all familiar with Oren Lugain's lineage?" 

Byren paused for a moment, taking another sip of his ale. He was a bit surprised, perhaps even a bit [i]shocked[/i], but not frightened -- few things seemed to frighten the knight at this age. Kings had eyes and ears everywhere, though Rurik was not yet a king, and this thought lingered in Byren's mind. "I know he's Valdemar's nephew, and that's all I've been told. Forgive me if I seem ignorant, m'lord. If you were as old as me and had half as many cousins as I, you'd forget faraway nobleman's bloodlines all the same."

At this, Rurik laughed. For the first time a genuine emotion was detectable in the stone-faced man, bringing to mind the image of the vigorous youth in the tapestry. It lasted for only a few moments, however, and before long he was back to his dour self. 

"Ser Byren...we're in Kedoren. I can name five-and-thirty cousins whom I've had the dubious pleasure of meeting this past month and that's only from my mother's side! In fact, you've already met one of them - you beat him bloody a while ago. The second you're about to meet - it's the man you've been sent here for."   

The Prince let those words hang in the air for a moment, studying his guests. He wanted these foreigners to understand the importance of bloodlines in Kedoren, so that they could better relay his message. When he spoke, it was in the all too familiar heavy voice. 

"Oren Lugain not only happens to be a distant relative, but he's also the son of Peter Lugain, and [i]he[/i] is the brother of Lord Oswald Lugain, the head of the family. The Lugains, as you may have heard, are an incredibly wealthy family, the wealthiest in Kedoren." Rurik kept his eyes on the two as he emptied his glass, which he roughly brought down on the table. "It's well known by now that my father, the King, is missing. These are uncertain times for Kedoren and after that show in the sky - for Ardacia as well. A perfect time for one lord to fall and another to rise....What a coincidence then, that King Valdemar decided to just now lay hands on his nephew, one of five heirs to Windhold." 

In a burst of motion Rurik twirled his carving knife and slammed it into the table with great anger, the blade sinking almost to the hilt.  A pulsing vein was clearly visible on his forehead, as he jabbed a finger at Byren. 

"Now you listen closely ser, for I have a message for your King." It didn't seem possible, but his voice took on an even graver tone. "Do not interfere in the affairs of [i]my[/i] kingdom. Kedoren and Edontas have always stayed out of each other's business and it will remain this way. Bats don't dare hunt where or when the eagle does." 

Rurik took a breath and steadied himself. The uncomfortable silence stretched for a while before he spoke again:

"Take Lugain and leave at first light tomorrow. Bring him to your master's caves and do with him as you wish, but remember my message." 

He clapped twice and the doors opened, a stream of servants moved in and started clearing out the table. 

"Enjoy your ride home, ser." 

[hr]

For the first time in weeks, Oren Lugain was stirred awake. He took a gasp of the frigid morning's air, pulling himself back a few feet into the corner of the bed, swiping blindly at his intruder before coming to his senses and his consciousness. It was the first human interaction he had had since his imprisonment -- Even his meals were delivered silently under the door -- and as such, adrenaline began to course through his tired veins. He opened his eyes, shielding them from the light for a moment with his raised fist, before realizing who had woken him up. He lowered his arm and coughed into his closed fist, nodding in apology to the wire-haired old guard at his bedside. His throat stung, and his sweat was now an unpleasantly cold dampness that had settled into the fabric of his nightclothes. Whether or not there was an intruder in his cell, there was little Oren was fit to do about it.
"Calm down, Lugain. Some pathy with a busted face is 'ere to rescue you." His guard chortled, turning to leave. "Dress yourself and make your way to the courtyard. Bertand will be 'alfway there. I trust you won't take after Mir and vanish in the meantime." Oren remained curled in his corner, trying to process the information, while pulling his blanket closer to himself for a moment, eyeing his barred window. Just as always, a cold breeze rolled through it steadily. [i]Hah.[/i] Oren thought to himself. [i]That was the last night that acursedly cold window will torment me[/i].
With a grunt of exertion, Oren rolled to his feet, planting his bare soles on the cold, black stone floor. He hastily made for the chest at the edge of his bed -- his surname had allowed him to take everything but his loyal beast to his imprisonment -- and opened it, rifling through layers of fabric. After a few moments of searching, Oren decided on a dark blue gambeson, and began to quickly change clothes, slipping on a pair of black boots and grey trousers, tightening the tunic at the waist with a brown leather belt. Satisfied, he made his way to the other end of the room to examine himself. His time in the cell made him paler and skinnier than he already was, and the lack of a razor had left him with a thin beard. His eyes had sunken slightly, surrounded by circles of darkened, tan skin, though that was not entirely out of ordinary for him. He turned to his bed, resolving to shave after he had been freed, and returned to the chest. He rifled through the contents before pulling a handful of items -- Namely, a leather falconer's glove and a matching bow and quiver, both stained a distinct purple-black ebony.

He shut the door of the chest, not bothering to lock it, knowing full well it would be searched immediately after his departure for evidence. [i]Let them search[/i], he thought to himself. Half of what he had written in his journals was false, half of it was hidden in codes, and half of it had likely been falsified [i]in[/i] code. His strange journals and their entries had always been a boyish habit of his, and one he hoped the Tyndall prince may well have forgotten, ever since a discovery that his father would read the entries in secret. Other than his journal, all the search party would find were his books, clothes, arrows, and scraps of the chest's mummified leathery interior. With his quiver slung over his shoulder and bow in his begloved hand, Oren made his way for the door and left the cell.

Making his way to Blackfort's courtyard, he turned a corner, meeting eyes with none other than his replacement as Captain of Guards, Ser Betrand Arren. The man stood as tall and proud as ever, though Oren could see that he had a purple crescent under each eye, yellowing at the corners. "Oren Lugain, Earl of Windhold," He began, "As a knight [i]sworn[/i] to the House of Tyndall," he said, emphasizing his words in a cutting tone, "I have been sent to escort you to the edge of the city with your party."

"I will not be leaving without Sunwise."

"In case of any possible beastmouth relations you might have with the [i]bat[/i], it will be kept here for Mage Toki's examination until further notice."

Oren paused for a moment, staring into Bertrand's bruised eyes with a quiet anger. "If I were a beastmouth, would that not make Sunwise my spy?"

"I have no time for your tricks, Oren. Come with me." He took a step forward, keeping one hand at the hilt of his sword.

"Give me the bat, Bertrand, and I'll make you glad you did."

"Is that a threat, [i]Captain?[/i]" He asked mockingly, pacing forward.
"I don't threaten people, I bribe them." Oren said with a coy smile, causing Bertrand to give pause in his slow march towards Oren. "My coinpurse will be discovered during the search through my cell, and the search party will either divide it amongst themselves a dozen ways or give it to Rurik."

Bertrand looked at him blankly, clenching his jaw in the same quiet anger Oren had displayed moments before. House Lugain was a rich house, and House Arren was simply [i]not[/i]. Whether he would have liked to admit it, this was a truth Oren knew as well as he.

Bertrand said nothing, staring at Oren bitterly through his swollen eyes, before giving a slow growl. "I will let Rurik know your wishes, for no reason than you once being a friend to these lands."

"I thank you for that, Ser Bertrand. You'll find the coins between the bust and it's helm, for no reason than your investigation, of course." He gave the knight a cheeky nod, who continued to do nothing but scowl at him.

Bertrand made his way past Oren, away from the courtyard and towards Rurik's quarters, and before Rurik's quarters, Oren's cell. Oren continued onward, satisfied with the negotiation.

[hr]

"Oren Lugain," Bertrand began again, this time leaving out Oren's dukehood. The sky was pale grey, threatening to begin raining at any moment, and the air had grown no warmer since Oren's awakening. "Under order of Prince Rurik, with the power given to me by House Tyndall and Eirtu Himself, I forbid your re-entry to these lands until further notice."

"Wossat mean, Byren?" a voice spoke up in a whisper.
"Long time. Hush up." Another voice slurred quietly.

"Before you leave, however," Bertrand continued, practically talking over the interruption, "I have been ordered by Prince Rurik to return to you your pet direbat, and a gift from the prince himself." One of the guards stepped forward with a cloth-covered cage, removing the cloth gingerly in the hopes of not awakening the creature underneath, to no avail. It screeched loudly, flapping it's wings for a moment, swinging from the bar it hung from. It was a direbat, surely, though certainly not of the infamous Flitton breed -- It was smaller, about the size of a dog, with thick brown hair and a short, hoglike snout. It continued to screech until being quieted by its master, who calmed his horse's reins with his free hand. The guard made his way to Oren, unclasping the cage doors and allowing the beast to crawl onto Oren's falconing glove's arm, still screeching wildly. as it covered its eyes with its wings, shielding itself from the daylight.

Bertrand stepped forward after the guard made his way back, reaching up to the duke and putting something into Oren's gloved hand. "Now leave, and do not return." Oren stared at him only for a moment, before turning and shaking the reins of his horse to leave. The bat screeched once more as the gates of Blackfort closed behind their trio, stretching and closing its leathery wings once more. Thunder boomed in the distance.